RAWR.
Monday’s post (“JUDGERNAUT: Ba.D. on Survivor & my less sensitive side“) was originally written as the preface to a guest post by my honey, Ba.D., about his experiences on Survivor. I edited the entry to be a standalone so Ba.D. could write his entry in his own time. He is, after all, doing me a favor!
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I flew on 9/11. I admit to being a little apprehensive, an apprehension that grew when everyone froze for an unspecified ”breach” while I stood in the security line at PDX. By and large, I recognized my apprehension ought not be confused with objective truth that something scary was apt or likely to happen.
I was horrified, then, to read the aptly titled “Some real Shock and Awe: Racially profiled and cuffed in Detroit,” which described one woman passenger’s 9/11 detention on the basis (presumably) of another passenger’s complaint.
As the mother to a biracial son, I understand my son may someday be subject to discrimination based not on who he is but how he seems to a stranger. This fills me with equal parts rage and sadness, but I am as prepared now as I ever can or will be for this eventuality.
just as innocuous as could be
As I type this, I think of an exercise performed by my Evidence professor in law school. He handed out copies of a composite of sixteen sketches of an affable looking, fairly attractive white man and asked his 100+ students how many men were represented by those sixteen sketches.
If I recall correctly, the answers ranged from “four” to “twelve.” Neither extreme (“one” or “sixteen”) was represented.
The real answer?
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. . . finally getting my hair cut after nine months, because I know it’ll be cut right.
Go Ducks!
. . . visiting Honeyman State Park, recalling all the joy it brought me in childhood and seeing that joy extended another generation.
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Ré (Sparks in Shadow) describes herself as having “never met a contradiction without wanting to give it some study.” Her blog reflects this rejection of “just because” as an adequate answer, revealing a contemplative, assertive soul striving to create music from the hubbub and struggles of life.
Recommended post: Can Anything From Donald Trump Teach Us About Empathy?
One of the Things I’m Grateful For
I’m grateful for a body that responds extremely well to exercise. All I have to do is give it what it really wants, and it rewards me with sinew, limber fluidity, and glorious strength. Of course, that’s the rub. How does one find the will to begin one more time, when the darkness of the past gives way once more to light, and accents just how much the body has been ignored? For me, it helps that I’m lucky and I know it. After an inevitable period of adjustment, a couple of weeks of waning discomfort (not injury, just my muscles beginning their work– standing up and taking notice) my body craves the movement. It calls out sharply if it senses within me the notion to skip a few days. When I stay true to this course, my body looks forward to new challenges with hand weights, holds yoga poses longer, wants to increase repetitions within exercises, and gives me the gift of being able to run a block to catch a bus without being winded afterward.
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A month ago, I wrote about my long journey with depression: Depression, imma kick you in the junk.
This morning, my friend John–who long volunteered at a suicide hotline, and who urged me to start a WordPress blog–posted about a coworker who committed suicide. I wanted to share his important words here:
If anybody reading this is ever feeling [suicidal], PLEASE call 1-800-SUICIDE / 1-800-784-2433 or 1-800-273-TALK / 1-800-273-8255 (or just get in touch with me). You are loved, and you would be missed.
I stand by what I said last month: “You may not know it, or feel it right now, but you, too, have made someone’s life better through your presence in it.”
Please, please, make the call. If you can’t find the right words for a phone call, please don’t waste time trying to find them. Send someone you love this link with the subject, “Help.”
It’s such a hard word to say, but it’s harder still to suffer in silence.
You are not alone.
long beach in the a.m.
everything's safer with mommy
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Eighteen months ago today, my mother breathed her last breath.
Twelve months ago today, I wanted to make sure I was remembering her living spirit instead of her death. I left work early and took my son to the Santa Monica Pier, where my mom, my youngest sister and I had once shared both a Ferris wheel ride and amazement at the sunlight glinting off miles of coastline either way.
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one year (click picture to play)
