Two out of three dogs just got sucked through a culvert in the irrigation ditch.
Agustus Glooped.
Nearly gave me a heart attack.
We are all home and safe now.
Month: June 2020
My daily disclaimer:
I am new to this and will probably unintentionally say the wrong thing and offend or piss someone off, so I apologize in advance
Today’s issue:
Addressing racism (Covid-19, masks, immigration, LGBTQ, poverty, education, etc., etc., etc.) in a small community.
Since the world imploded, everyone has an opinion. And everyone seems to be airing those opinions publically. Then everyone else feels the need to comment/discuss/criticize, also publically. Anger flares. People are offended. Friendships ended.
“I am more community-minded than you.”
“I am less racist than you.”
“I’m more ‘woke’ than you.”
More.
Less.
Comparisons that divide rather than unite.
It’s all over social media. Everyone’s doing it. But it’s a whole different ball game when those comparisons and judgments are, at least in part, based on already-established biases based on previous personal interactions with the individuals who are speaking.
I know that I am guilty of it. I was in full force judgment mode last night.
A community member posted something recently that I happened to think was ridiculous, but she didn’t. As is her right.
The reactions were firey, critical, and personal.
I kept my mouth shut, mostly because it seemed like the rest of the community had enough to say without me adding my two cents.
If someone I didn’t know had created the post (which, by the way, I had seen before, so someone I don’t know did put it out there first) I would have scrolled right past, dismissing it as worthless, (which is what I did the first time I saw it.)
But, because I knew the post-er, I read the entire thing and each and every comment.
And I judged. I thought, “Really? You? Come on – I expected more.”
But still, trying to avoid adding to the shitstorm, I kept my mouth shut.
In a small town, there is no way to take a person at face value, to hear what they have to say on really, any issue, without incorporating what we already know or think we know about that person.
Well, you send your child to a different school than I do so I can’t agree with you on anything regarding education.
I’ve seen you be brutally selfish and self-serving so how can I believe that you are thinking about anyone’s best interests other than your own.
I saw you in the grocery store without a mask so don’t talk to me about being a caring community member.
Etc.
It can’t be avoided in a town this size.
We have opinions of each other, good or bad, right or wrong, that will color our perception of anything coming out of a person’s mouth to the point of detriment.
How can I listen to what someone has to say when I’m too busy thinking, “You are the most egotistical human being I’ve ever known so you can’t possibly care about this issue as much as I do, and therefore I won’t take seriously anything that you say”?
And suddenly some stupid shit on your wall is that much more laughable.
Or offensive.
And conversely, I like what you said at the School Board meeting last month so I am going to blindly agree with your recent post about Black Lives Matter.
I saw you at the hardware store without your mask so obviously, you’re a bigot.
It’s fucking mayhem out there.
These conversations quickly become chaotic. A discussion about whether or not the CDC has been upfront with the world about Covid-19, leaps from accusations of fascism into “White people should just listen to indigenous people.”
It’s all over the map. Everything is connected; race is, unfortunately, an underlying piece of every issue we address. The coronavirus overshadows all aspects of daily life. I get that it’s hard to keep things separated because it is all intertwined, but I also think that it is easier to mix it all up and make a conversation a muddled mess when we know each other.
We are talking about taking our biases out of The Conversation. The Conversation itself is about removing biases – biases about race or religion or sexual orientation – but that is really challenging when it’s your neighbor against (or with) whom you have a personal preconceived notion.
I know that I am more prone to jump on or off a bandwagon based on my prior interactions with the bandwagon driver.
I’m fired up about members of my community who I “used to respect.” There are certain people who I avoid at the post office or coffee shop because I can’t agree with their stance on masks.
In some ways maybe it’s a good thing – neighbors calling out neighbors on their bullshit.
But on the other hand, are we allowing issues to become more personal and more offensive, based on who is addressing those issues?
Is familiarity breeding contempt?
Ignorant White Girl
I am white. I was raised in a very white, very comfortable, privileged world. I knew no people of color until I went to my elite private school – and even there, there were a limited few of my classmates who weren’t raised in the same white world as I.
My mother is from the South. My father’s mother told me not to sit “next to the darkies” on the bus in New York City.
At some point in my life I began to see the world outside of my insulated one, realizing that it is very bigoted and hateful. I became aware that I didn’t want to be part of the problem.
With all that is happening in our country with racism and cruelty and violence and hatred, I understand that I am still a part of the problem.
But my heart is in the right place.
I want to learn more, understand more, change my role in perpetuating this plague.
I don’t want to be shamed. Shaming others does not solve the problem(s).
I hesitate to write because while I don’t know much about being a person of color, I know enough to be aware that my words may offend someone.
Unintentionally.
My heart is in the right place.
So I am going to take a chance here and address something that I’m seeing that feels, to me, pretty fucking racist.
If I offend, piss off, or hurt someone with my words, if whatever I say reeks of entitlement, I apologize. I am a white gal trying to understand.
My heart is in the right place.
If I don’t bring this up, if I don’t try to understand, then I continue to be a part of the problem, so I will risk sounding like an idiot so that maybe next time, I don’t.
What is currently bothering me at the moment feels like an undercurrent of superiority, judgment, and white shaming…
by white people.
I want to learn. I want to be educated. I want to be a part of the solution.
I don’t want to be shamed.
I especially don’t want to be shamed by white folks doing something that I see as “reverse racism.”
Maybe I just coined a new term, but I doubt it.
There are people out there, white ones, being quite vocal on the issues of race; folks who, because they have a connection with a BIPoC, act superior, more “woke.”
Dumbest fucking word in today’s lexicon.
Maybe some are more evolved, knowledgable and compassionate, but I am also seeing, feeling, hearing words and actions of superiority that bleed over into what I perceive as cultural appropriation.
If you are white, you are white. Period. And no matter where your heart is, you are not a person of color. No matter who your neighbors are, your partner is, your child’s best friend is, it doesn’t change your skin color.
Preaching, speaking out, damning, criticizing, judging…all of it…it often seems to communicate the misguided and wrong message of “I was white, but now I’m not anymore.”
Seems pretty damn racist.
And hypocritical.
We must speak out. We must act. We must do everything in our power to bring awareness to and then eradicate this hateful treatment of others.
Is there a way to do this without acting better than, more evolved? Without taking on another’s culture as our own? Without disdain for that white person who married another white person and maybe even gave birth to white kids; a person who fell in love with another’s soul, not their skin color?
Currently in my family – my children, their partners, their roommates – two white boys, a blond-haired blue-eyed Mormon gal, an African-American girl, and three Mexicans, one of whom is a DACA kid.
Does this make me “not white”?
Certainly not – it actually makes me feel even more ignorant in understanding the ways in which these members of my family have experienced life.
I am thankful that my family is more diverse than the entire county in which I was raised. I am proud of my children for not letting race differences determine who they love.
The reality is, I love my family – each and every one of them.
But, I am not more evolved, less ignorant, or simply better than because we have a wide-ish range of skin color under my roof. And I am fully aware that I am not black, I am not an undocumented worker from south of the border, I am not a foster kid desperate to connect with his Mexican heritage.
Can you imagine if I tried to “get my Mexican on,” like my son does? I’d be ridiculous. Learning to make my own tamales does not change my upbringing. And having a brown child does not make me brown.
It makes me a white mother who really needs to educate herself.
I am rambling here. I am trying to speak in generalizations (somewhat) so as not to point fingers.
Not to shame.
But I see a level of self-righteousness that offends me because I feel that the idolization of one culture over another, even if it’s a historically oppressed culture, is the SAME FUCKING PROBLEM.
Especially when it has a hint (or more) of cultural appropriation because it’s coming from the WASP’s among us.
(WASP – White Anglo Saxon Protestant.)
It feels like a lack of honest humility and oozes self-importance.
Teach me. I want to learn.
Show me how to help.
Explain to me what I am doing to perpetuate the problem.
Share with me your experiences. I want to hear.
I want to see change.
In the era of systemic racism that has been going on in our country for generations, I am a relative newcomer to understanding the depth and danger of our system.
I have a long way to go.
But, my heart is in the right place.
I am an ignorant white girl
I am white. I was raised in a very white, very comfortable, privileged world. I knew no people of color until I went to my elite private school – and even there, there were a limited few of my classmates who weren’t raised in the same white world as I.
My mother is from the South. My father’s mother told me not to sit “next to the darkies” on the bus in New York City.
At some point in my life I began to see the world outside of my insulated one, realizing that it is very bigoted and hateful. I became aware that I didn’t want to be part of the problem.
With all that is happening in our country with racism and cruelty and violence and hatred, I understand that I am still a part of the problem.
But my heart is in the right place.
I want to learn more, understand more, change my role in perpetuating this plague.
I don’t want to be shamed. Shaming others does not solve the problem(s).
I hesitate to write because while I don’t know much about being a person of color, I know enough to be aware that my words may offend someone.
Unintentionally.
My heart is in the right place.
So I am going to take a chance here and address something that I’m seeing that feels, to me, pretty fucking racist.
If I offend, piss off, or hurt someone with my words, if whatever I say reeks of entitlement, I apologize. I am a white gal trying to understand.
My heart is in the right place.
If I don’t bring this up, if I don’t try to understand, then I continue to be a part of the problem, so I will risk sounding like an idiot so that maybe next time, I don’t.
What is currently bothering me at the moment feels like an undercurrent of superiority, judgment, and white shaming…
by white people.
I want to learn. I want to be educated. I want to be a part of the solution.
I don’t want to be shamed.
I especially don’t want to be shamed by white folks doing something that I see as “reverse racism.”
Maybe I just coined a new term, but I doubt it.
There are people out there, white ones, being quite vocal on the issues of race; folks who, because they have a connection with a BIPoC, act superior, more “woke.”
Dumbest fucking word in today’s lexicon.
Maybe some are more loved, knowledgable and compassionate, but I am also seeing, feeling, hearing words and actions of superiority that bleed over into what I perceive as cultural appropriation.
If you are white, you are white. Period. And no matter where your heart is, you are not a person of color. No matter who your neighbors are, your partner is, your child’s best friend is, it doesn’t exchange your skin color.
Preaching, speaking out, damning, criticizing, judging…all of it…it often seems to communicate the mis-guided and wrong message of “I was white, but now I’m not anymore.”
Seems pretty damn racist.
And hypocritical.
We must speak out. We must act. We must do everything in our power to bring awareness to and then eradicate this hateful treatment of others.
Is there a way to do this without acting better than, more evolved? Without taking on another’s culture as our own? Without disdain for that white person who married another white person and maybe even gave birth to white kids; a person who fell in love with another’s soul, not their skin color?
Currently in my family – my children, their partners, their roommates – two white boys, a blond-haired blue eyed Mormon gal, an African-American girl, and three Mexicans, one of whom is a DACA kid.
Does this make me “not white”?
Certainly not – it actually makes me feel even more ignorant in understanding the ways in which these members of my family have experienced life.
I am thankful that my family is more diverse than the entire county in which I was raised. I am proud of my children for not letting race differences determine who they love.
The reality is, I love my family – each and every one of them.
But, I am not more evolved, less ignorant, or simply better than because we have a wide-ish range of skin color under my roof. And I am fully aware that I am not black, I am not an undocumented worker from south of the border, I am not a foster kid desperate to connect with his Mexican heritage.
Can you imagine if I tried to “get my Mexican on,” like my son does? I’d be ridiculous. Learning to make my own tamales does not change my upbringing. And having a brown child does not make me brown.
It makes me a white mother who really needs to educate herself.
I am rambling here. I am trying to speak in generalizations (somewhat) so as not to point fingers.
Not to shame.
But I see a level of self-righteousness that offends me because I feel that the idolization of one culture over another, even if it’s a historically oppressed culture, is the SAME FUCKING PROBLEM.
Especially when it has a hint (or more) of cultural appropriation because it’s coming from the WASP’s among us.
(WASP – White Anglo Saxon Protestant.)
It feels like a lack of honest humility and oozes self-importance.
Teach me. I want to learn.
Show me how to help.
Explain to me what I am doing to perpetuate the problem.
Share with me your experiences. I want to hear.
I want to see change.
In the era of systemic racism that has been going on in our country for generations, I am a relative newcomer to understanding the depth and danger of our system.
I have a long way to go.
But, my heart is in the right place.
I wear…
cowgirl boots
cowboy boots
cowX boots
does that make the boots gender-neutral,
or the cows??
rethinking every thought (or, being a great beauty in an ugly world)
This photo was in my FB newsfeed this morning.
The caption was: Nyakim Gatwech, a South Sudanese model, may have the darkest skin in the world.
My first thought was, “I wonder what it would be like to go through life being that beautiful.”
I often have that thought. There used to be a model in the Sundance catalog who had the most incredible green eyes and outrageous, wild, free-range hair; I imagined waking up and looking in the mirror and having those eyes look back at me. I would ask myself, “Would my life be so much better if I had that hair?”
Yes, actually, it would.
She probably has her “fat days” and “ugly days” just like the rest of us. Maybe even gets a zit or two, but I still can’t fathom being that stunning.
While I can admit that I am fairly attractive, I am certainly not jaw-dropping gorgeous.
“She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me.”
Unlike the great beauty, Ms. Gatwech, with her flawless skin and mile-long legs…
and her youth.
Okay, not everyone reads the morning newspaper in a black strappy dress, heels, with a glass of wine, casually seated on the 8,000-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.
I certainly don’t.
I don’t even read the paper.
I usually prefer coffee or tequila instead of wine first thing in the morning.
Anyway, I have the thought about being so stunning and what life must be like, etc., and then, reality kicks in, and I think,
Her striking looks, her incomparable beauty, her forever legs that aren’t mottled with cellulite and scars – these things that I struggle to imagine having myself – these things don’t change the fact that she is black.
In America.
And while I understand that I will never experience life as a gorgeous head-turner, what I really will never experience is being a black woman in this country.
And unfortunately, If I am going to be truly honest, I am shamefully grateful for this reality.
#blacklivesmatter
#whiteprivilege
#checkyourracisimatthedoor
Holy Shit
Half of me is in denial, half of me is preparing for the Hunger Games.
Global pandemic.
Millions of people dying horrific, lonely, torturous deaths.
Even John Prine wasn’t spared.
Quarantine.
Fighting. Riots. Looting. Murders.
Lynchings.
Police brutality. Bringing in the military to control the restless masses.
Leaders inciting violence.
In-fighting amongst the people.
Fear. Distrust. Anger. Hatred.
Global warming.
And today’s headline:
Wildfire Season Starts In Southwest Colorado
Say His Name
My tiny town hosted a vigil today for George Floyd.
I almost didn’t go – errands, introversion, desire to be home in the Canyon, crowd, people, pandemic.
Then I thought, “That’s really fucking lame, HDD.”
In some ways it was kind of weird. Everyone was masked and most wore some sort of hat so it was a gathering of faceless bodies. It was surreal and creepy and dystopian. Small children with masks. No smiles. No one touching. No hugs.
Conversations are brief. It’s too hard to carry on a conversation with a flap of fabric over your nose and mouth. No one wants to shoot the shit because the shit sucks.
Anyway. We have a minister, he’s the minister in town. Plenty of our residents don’t attend his church, including me. Plenty of folks attend other churches with their own Priests, Figureheads, Elders. Yet, this man is at the very heart of the community, so, of course he was the man leading this vigil with sadness and compassion and love.
I looked around at the pain in people’s eyes. So much grief. And it really hit home that this is happening in the middle of a pandemic.
The world is really going to shit right now. It is frightening. It is crushing.
A young teen spoke to the crowd about her experience of being the only African American girl in the entire school. She was eloquent and honest. The crowd hung on her every word. Her Mamas must have been so proud.
And then, 8 mins and 46 seconds of silence.
Stand, Sit, Lie down with your arms pinned behind your back. Whatever you want to do.
I was sitting with that powerful young lady and the minister’s wife, and just as I was about to get prone, the gal says, “I can’t do that. That’s too traumatic.” In solidarity, I sat.
My point in telling you that is to say that for the next almost-9 minutes I was sitting comfortably, not prostrate with my face against asphalt and my arms twisting out of their sockets.
As I sat I thought, “I don’t have a full-grown man on my back. I’m with friends. I’m in the park. It is silent, peaceful. I am safe. I am not in fear for my life. I will walk away from this.
I. Can. Breathe.”
That 8 minutes and 46 seconds was hellacious. It went on and on and on. I kept thinking that the watch had broken or the preacher passed out.
It is a very long time during which I tried so hard to put myself in George Floyd’s shoes, tried to imagine his experience during those moments. His last.
It was too much. I couldn’t do it. It is too horrific.
And yet, this is what we all need to do. Sit. For 8 minutes and 46 seconds. See what a huge amount of time that really is. Try to imagine George Floyd’s last reality. His physical pain. His fear.
Not only must we educate ourselves on all things racism but we must also attempt to understand the feelings that result from these skewed inconsistencies of the value of individual lives.
And I don’t know, I’m just a white girl but, I believe that if something that is being inflicted upon our fellow human beings by our fellow human beings is too awful to contemplate, then it must stop. Immediately. Period.
hurting hearts
A boy from our community took his own life.
He was a teenager, still in high school, with his entire life about to open up for him, and he chose to make it stop.
I’ve never had a conversation with this boy (not from a lack of trying) but I feel as if I knew him.
See, we lived in the same neighborhood, our tiny little mismatched subdivision of cabins and fancy homes. 3 roads in one direction, two in the other; a square with a line through the center, each side about a quarter of a mile long.
I had a deck. This boy had a bike. I sat on my deck and watched this boy ride laps around the neighborhood, around and around, again and again, often for hours. It was so constant that he became part of the backdrop of my world.
I had the neighbor who growls at his dog in his weird aggressive way. And, the Atmos guy who comes home on time for dinner with his family each evening – his truck signaling to me that it was time for my evening meal.
The hundreds of little unidentified birds that crowd the powerlines to watch the sunset. The woman who walks with her umbrella and phone, loudly sharing her conversation with anyone wanting to eavesdrop.
When you camp out on the deck like I did for so many years, you get to know the neighbors by observation. And if you observe closely, you learn a lot.
This boy had something sad about him. Something dark. His monotonous peddling made it obvious that he was trying to work something out in that head and heart of his. I’ve done that; the miles that I have walked in attempts to find some peace would take me all the way back to New Jersey.
I often wondered if I could be friends with him, at least connect with him, break through the shell. I like teenagers, especially the brooding ones. I wasn’t necessarily a brooder, but dark thoughts accompanied me everywhere when I was his age.
I said hi to him whenever I saw him at the mailboxes. He grunted in response, never looking me in the eye. I was determined to get a smile from him.
My friends with whom I shared deck dates knew him, had watched him, wondered about him. My dear friend R and I regularly speculated what the boy’s life must be like – never knowing if we even came close.
My sense was that this boy was loved. That someone’s heart has broken, irreparably, over his senseless death.
I want to call R, to tell him the sad news, but R too is gone. He died last year. The fact that I can’t tell him makes this death that much more poignant.
I had so hoped for some relief for this child. I thought that one of these days I would see him smile, maybe even get a “hello” out of him.
I was unaware of the boy’s name until yesterday when I called my son to ask if I knew him. My son said, “Not to sound insensitive, but it’s not that much of a surprise.” Then he added, “He’s the kid who rode around your neighborhood.”
And as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. This child was lost.
There was a time in our home when one of my children was so angry, so miserable, so unhappy, that I worried about him attempting to end it all. I constantly reminded him that suicide is not an option, that there is always, always, a way out – a way short of death.
I prayed that he heard me.
My child turned to drinking and drugs which led to near death, but he is still alive, the self-destruction seems to be a thing of the past. Most of all, he’s happy.
I am so eternally grateful that I can still wrap my arms around him, get into arguments with him, I can still worry about him like any mom wants to do.
My soul aches for this neighbor boy, for his family, for our community. A child should never feel that there is no other way out than to take his own life.
How could we have possibly let this one slip through the cracks?
musings on the ex
MXB is leaving town.
Something I wanted him to do years ago to make my life easier, but now that it irrelevant to me, it’s happening.
I know very few details of why he is going – it doesn’t matter – but it’s a planned move, not spontaneous or hurried.
So he has plenty of time to tie up loose ends.
I have no interest in speculating on his decisions, his current life choices, reasoning, the company he’s keeping, or anything along those lines. His choices do not concern me and I know that my opinion does not concern him.
But, what does hold my interest is this:
We never had a breakup talk. He moved out without telling me. He moved on regardless of me. There were very serious issues that were never addressed. There was significant information that came out after we broke up that should have come out during our relationship that I asked him about and he never answered.
In other words, no closure.
Believe me, I tried. Over and over – to the point of deep humiliation. I stopped trying out of self-preservation. I didn’t want to lose any more of my dignity.
I know no one gets the closure that they really need, but I got nothing. And with all that has come to me about him, about us, since the breakup, I deserve for him to look me in the eye and at least provide some explanation.
Some answers.
Maybe a tad bit of respect.
I won’t hold out hope for an apology.
Obviously, it still pains me or I wouldn’t be bringing it up today.
I know that if I were in his shoes and about to leave town, maybe for good, I would want to clean up any messes before I went. I also know that if it were me, I wouldn’t be able to move on in any healthy way – in a relationship, in life – if I had blown through my world like a tornado, causing destruction and pain – without trying to make amends…
Especially to someone with whom I had shared my life and whose children I had helped raise.
Maybe I sound like a bitter old hag who can’t let go and should. I have moved on. My life is incredible and a huge piece of that is because I struggled through the pain and loss and agony and isolation and loneliness and rejection and grief and anger, and I dealt with my shit because…
I was so broken I had no choice but to deal.
So I am not bitter. Not pining. Not missing him.
But almost 4 years later I am still grieving. I continue to want him to tell me that I didn’t deserve what he did. That my family didn’t deserve it.
Judge me for caring if you want. Ridicule me for wanting anything from him. Yes, it’s been four years – get over it HDD.
But no. After 7 years of deeply loving this man and allowing him into my family, I deserve at least a nod in the direction of our relationship.
From where I sit, he could care less. He’s made no effort to prove me wrong on that one.
A year, or two, or three, ago, I would have been embarrassed to admit that I still want something from him, from the breakup. But now, I am strong enough to 1) not feel any shame and 2) know that I fucking deserve better than radio silence.
So the question is, will he have the courage and/or integrity, to finally say something, anything (?) to me, about us?
Or will I continue to question if he ever, for even a minute, cared about me and my family?
My bet, after almost 4 silent years, that he will slide right on out the door without a peep.
high desert darlin' 