Word has gotten back to me recently about some things that have allegedly been said about me by some family members. However, it's not the usual "she's a Satan worshiping banshee" gossip I'm used to this time. For once, this family gossip has me as the subject of something I would consider rather complimentary.
Last year, when my paternal grandmother died, I saw family members that I hadn't seen in decades. Most of us stayed and spent some time together even after the service was over, lingering after the potluck dinner was long finished so that we could catch up and get reacquainted.
There was some conversation that left me feeling singled out, but I told myself that I was just being paranoid, and tried to give the instigator the benefit of the doubt. After all, it wasn't going to do me any good to get upset about it whether it was intentional or not, so why even acknowledge to myself that there might be an intentional insult in the form of conversational topics?
Now, more than a year later, I've been told by more than one person that another person in the family whom I have MUCH respect for told someone else (you know how gossip works) that "So-and-so was really trying to get Angela all riled up and she wasn't going for it."
Perhaps sometimes I'm a bit too motivated to give the benefit of the doubt, as I'm very good at convincing myself that I'm not being wronged when others declare to me that I'm a fool for not seeing it. Self-deception has come in very handy to me in my life, with so many situations much easier to deal with by remaining in denial. People can be cruel, and it seems pointless to allow oneself to experience deep pain at the hands of the heartless when all one has to do is choose not to acknowledge the behavior, which pretty much makes the cruelty pointless and unrewarding for the perpetrator. What better justice?
The only drawback to this is that I seem to suffer from more self-doubt than I otherwise might. After all, you can only hear that your impressions are wrong so many times before you lose faith in your judgment, even if it's your own self telling you that your impressions are wrong.
(Wow. I just had a moment and realized that I didn't understand the above statement until just now. See how beneficial blogging can be? Explaining things to others who don't know the situation and require more information than I would put in a private journal is very effective at getting ME to understand the situation better. Coolness!)
So anyway, this very mature, wise person for whom I have much respect had seen that someone was trying to push my buttons, and the fact that someone else - especially this person - had noticed what was going on and discussed it with others as an obvious event validated the reality of what was going on.
I'm aware that I have matured somewhat over the past couple of decades, but as someone who has gone through life mostly misunderstood (Thank you, Howard Stern! You are not alone!) it is a very rare event for someone to "get" what I'm really about.
But it happened, if only once, a little more than a year ago; and I'm so glad it got back to me. I'm savoring it.
A.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
My Big Fat Non-Greek Non-Fat Future Grandmother's Wedding
Just a little over 24 hours after learning of my best friend's mother's death (who was also my friend), my grandfather called from MA to tell me that my future step-grandmother was having surgery here in Tennessee to clear an obstruction in her small intestine.
She ended up not having surgery yet, because her sodium levels were too low. We're hoping she'll be able to have surgery by Monday so that she will hopefully be able to recover in time to go to MA for her wedding next month.
While my grandfather and I were on the phone, he talked to me for the first time about how deep his feelings are for his soon-to-be bride. I suppose I had a picture in my mind of a sweet love between two lifelong friends born of mutual loneliness and a desire for companionship. Oh, but was I ever wrong!!!
The love these two share turns out not to be that type of love at all. My grandfather's voice now exudes the energy of pure joy that only a combination of infatuation, true love, and a bit of lust mixed in can bring. He talked about how they've known one another for 38 years, her and her late husband and he and my late grandmother enjoying games of bridge and conversations full of insightful debate. He says she has taught him so many things over the years, despite the fact that she is 15 years younger than he, and that he was so lonely after my grandmother died and how grateful he is to have her in his life now. It was clear to me that this man is deeply in love with his future bride.
Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what I encountered when I arrived at the hospital to check on my future step-grandmother.
I sat down, intending to stay for only a few minutes. More than two hours later, I finally left as she was about to fall asleep from the sedative they'd given her, but not before I had heard two hours worth of the most heartwarming love story ever. And lots of gushing...
This woman is every bit as much in love with my grandfather as he is with her. She spoke of the awkwardness they experienced after beginning to get reacquainted. My grandparents moved to MA when my grandmother developed dementia. Jean and my grandfather hadn't spoken a lot and had drifted a bit over the past decade due to the distance between them, but when her husband died two months after my grandmother's death and my grandfather called with his condolences, she said she felt something stir within her.
My grandfather apparently has had designs on Jean for a while, perhaps since the day he met her 38 years ago, but definitely he has had a flame burning for her since last year. He didn't think she would be interested in a man one-and-a-half decades older than she, but it turns out that love doesn't really consider age differences.
My grandfather made many attempts to get closer to her, even inviting her to Florida in February. (She said no, although she now says if she'd known then what she knows now, she would have gone in a heartbeat.)
In April, he stopped by on his way back to MA and she and he and some other friends spent some time together. It wasn't until it was time to take her home that the two would-be love birds were alone together for the first time. It didn't go well.
It was awkward. She was concerned about him finding his way back on unfamiliar roads in the dark, and she told him that he needn't walk her to the door, that she was capable of finding her way into her house on her own. He mistook this for rudeness and a clear signal that she was NOT interested. She felt empty and disappointed after he left.
It turns out that these two share the same birthday, (different years, of course). He invited her to come up to MA in May for his birthday party, but she wasn't able to make it.
By then, they had both been nurturing a flame in their hearts for one another, but hadn't yet found the right kindling to set up camp and start the eternal flame burning.
Finally, Jean invited my grandfather to come and visit her here in TN. He said he'd like to, but he didn't have a place to stay. (Of course, he could have stayed with friends, but that's beside the point.)
It wasn't until she (and he) heard the words "You can stay with me." come out of her mouth that the love erupted from a persistent spark to a lit candle. My grandfather said he almost fell off the chair when she said that, and she couldn't quite believe she said it herself!
He called her the next day and said he had his plane ticket. She asked him how he managed to make arrangements for the trip so quickly. He said his son (my uncle) had taken care of it. Yes, he answered, his son was fine with him going to visit Jean.
On June 5, 2010, Jean picked my grandfather up from the airport. He had intended to stay a week. He ended up staying two.
By the end of his two-week long visit, the two were engaged.
Although the couple had originally planned to have a simple wedding, my grandfather seems to have turned into quite the wedding planner, calling to find out what color his bride's dress is so he can have the baker at the retirement home make a cake with flowers to match her dress. The retirement home is hosting the entire event, and it sounds like there will be quite a feast, including stuffed mushrooms and fried oysters (my grandfather's favorite).
Jean said she felt bad that he was doing all of the work. "Usually, it's the bride that does all of that." she said. My grandfather told her, "All you have to do is show up."
I have NEVER seen my grandfather so excited in all of my almost 41 years. Jean is just as excited, bubbling with joy and talking about how she just loves to hear his voice and pausing for a moment to say "Oh! I could just squeeze him to pieces!"
Wow.
What's more, Jean is the grandmother I always wanted. My own grandmother was somewhat of a jealous type, and seemed to view me as a competitor for the attention she was used to getting when I came along. I never quite felt that I measured up, being a bit of a tomboy and not the ballerina daughter my grandmother had always wanted. Now she had a granddaughter, and even that didn't turn out the way she'd hoped.
More than once, Jean told me how pretty I looked and how special she thought I was. Even if she was just saying it to be nice and make me feel good, it meant more to me than she will ever know. I honestly can't remember my late grandmother ever telling me those things.
I told Jean that I have wondered over the past few weeks what it might have been like to have her for a grandmother growing up, but that I'm glad I'm going to have her as my grandmother now. We've even figured out what I will call her. (Grandma Gee-Gee.)
I welcomed her to the family, and she clearly is as happy to have me as a granddaughter as I am to have her as a grandmother. I'm not going to bother with the whole "step-grandmother" thing, because she's more of a grandmother to me than I've ever had.
My mother's mother died when my mother was two, so neither of us knew her. I had a step-grandmother that I thought was really cool, but she lived in Indiana and I only saw her during the summer. When my maternal grandfather died (I was 8 then), we pretty much drifted apart.
Right before I left the hospital last night, and as she was getting drowsy from her medication, she said to me in her soft-spoken yet determined voice "We're going to be a FAMILY, and we're going to be SOLID."
I've always heard that sometimes the best things come later in life, but I never thought I'd have the unexpected pleasure of a grandmother that made me feel so genuinely loved and whom I felt so comfortable being around when I was 40.
And the best part? She'll love me whether I wear a dress to the wedding, or whether I show up in blue jeans. What could be better than that?
A.
She ended up not having surgery yet, because her sodium levels were too low. We're hoping she'll be able to have surgery by Monday so that she will hopefully be able to recover in time to go to MA for her wedding next month.
While my grandfather and I were on the phone, he talked to me for the first time about how deep his feelings are for his soon-to-be bride. I suppose I had a picture in my mind of a sweet love between two lifelong friends born of mutual loneliness and a desire for companionship. Oh, but was I ever wrong!!!
The love these two share turns out not to be that type of love at all. My grandfather's voice now exudes the energy of pure joy that only a combination of infatuation, true love, and a bit of lust mixed in can bring. He talked about how they've known one another for 38 years, her and her late husband and he and my late grandmother enjoying games of bridge and conversations full of insightful debate. He says she has taught him so many things over the years, despite the fact that she is 15 years younger than he, and that he was so lonely after my grandmother died and how grateful he is to have her in his life now. It was clear to me that this man is deeply in love with his future bride.
Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what I encountered when I arrived at the hospital to check on my future step-grandmother.
I sat down, intending to stay for only a few minutes. More than two hours later, I finally left as she was about to fall asleep from the sedative they'd given her, but not before I had heard two hours worth of the most heartwarming love story ever. And lots of gushing...
This woman is every bit as much in love with my grandfather as he is with her. She spoke of the awkwardness they experienced after beginning to get reacquainted. My grandparents moved to MA when my grandmother developed dementia. Jean and my grandfather hadn't spoken a lot and had drifted a bit over the past decade due to the distance between them, but when her husband died two months after my grandmother's death and my grandfather called with his condolences, she said she felt something stir within her.
My grandfather apparently has had designs on Jean for a while, perhaps since the day he met her 38 years ago, but definitely he has had a flame burning for her since last year. He didn't think she would be interested in a man one-and-a-half decades older than she, but it turns out that love doesn't really consider age differences.
My grandfather made many attempts to get closer to her, even inviting her to Florida in February. (She said no, although she now says if she'd known then what she knows now, she would have gone in a heartbeat.)
In April, he stopped by on his way back to MA and she and he and some other friends spent some time together. It wasn't until it was time to take her home that the two would-be love birds were alone together for the first time. It didn't go well.
It was awkward. She was concerned about him finding his way back on unfamiliar roads in the dark, and she told him that he needn't walk her to the door, that she was capable of finding her way into her house on her own. He mistook this for rudeness and a clear signal that she was NOT interested. She felt empty and disappointed after he left.
It turns out that these two share the same birthday, (different years, of course). He invited her to come up to MA in May for his birthday party, but she wasn't able to make it.
By then, they had both been nurturing a flame in their hearts for one another, but hadn't yet found the right kindling to set up camp and start the eternal flame burning.
Finally, Jean invited my grandfather to come and visit her here in TN. He said he'd like to, but he didn't have a place to stay. (Of course, he could have stayed with friends, but that's beside the point.)
It wasn't until she (and he) heard the words "You can stay with me." come out of her mouth that the love erupted from a persistent spark to a lit candle. My grandfather said he almost fell off the chair when she said that, and she couldn't quite believe she said it herself!
He called her the next day and said he had his plane ticket. She asked him how he managed to make arrangements for the trip so quickly. He said his son (my uncle) had taken care of it. Yes, he answered, his son was fine with him going to visit Jean.
On June 5, 2010, Jean picked my grandfather up from the airport. He had intended to stay a week. He ended up staying two.
By the end of his two-week long visit, the two were engaged.
Although the couple had originally planned to have a simple wedding, my grandfather seems to have turned into quite the wedding planner, calling to find out what color his bride's dress is so he can have the baker at the retirement home make a cake with flowers to match her dress. The retirement home is hosting the entire event, and it sounds like there will be quite a feast, including stuffed mushrooms and fried oysters (my grandfather's favorite).
Jean said she felt bad that he was doing all of the work. "Usually, it's the bride that does all of that." she said. My grandfather told her, "All you have to do is show up."
I have NEVER seen my grandfather so excited in all of my almost 41 years. Jean is just as excited, bubbling with joy and talking about how she just loves to hear his voice and pausing for a moment to say "Oh! I could just squeeze him to pieces!"
Wow.
What's more, Jean is the grandmother I always wanted. My own grandmother was somewhat of a jealous type, and seemed to view me as a competitor for the attention she was used to getting when I came along. I never quite felt that I measured up, being a bit of a tomboy and not the ballerina daughter my grandmother had always wanted. Now she had a granddaughter, and even that didn't turn out the way she'd hoped.
More than once, Jean told me how pretty I looked and how special she thought I was. Even if she was just saying it to be nice and make me feel good, it meant more to me than she will ever know. I honestly can't remember my late grandmother ever telling me those things.
I told Jean that I have wondered over the past few weeks what it might have been like to have her for a grandmother growing up, but that I'm glad I'm going to have her as my grandmother now. We've even figured out what I will call her. (Grandma Gee-Gee.)
I welcomed her to the family, and she clearly is as happy to have me as a granddaughter as I am to have her as a grandmother. I'm not going to bother with the whole "step-grandmother" thing, because she's more of a grandmother to me than I've ever had.
My mother's mother died when my mother was two, so neither of us knew her. I had a step-grandmother that I thought was really cool, but she lived in Indiana and I only saw her during the summer. When my maternal grandfather died (I was 8 then), we pretty much drifted apart.
Right before I left the hospital last night, and as she was getting drowsy from her medication, she said to me in her soft-spoken yet determined voice "We're going to be a FAMILY, and we're going to be SOLID."
I've always heard that sometimes the best things come later in life, but I never thought I'd have the unexpected pleasure of a grandmother that made me feel so genuinely loved and whom I felt so comfortable being around when I was 40.
And the best part? She'll love me whether I wear a dress to the wedding, or whether I show up in blue jeans. What could be better than that?
A.
Goodbye Judy, Hello, Julie.
My best friend's mother died Friday, July 16, 2010 at 5:43 a.m. She had been living in a hospital bed in Julie's living room for the better part of two years, save for the many times she was in the hospital dying and being revived.
She clung to life as long as she possibly could. Even as it became evident that she would never walk again, and eventually, even as it was clear that she was in a vegetative state, she still fought to stay alive.
Judy was in there somewhere still. You wouldn't know it unless you were there to see her reaction each time her daughter would tell her she loved her, then instruct her to blink twice if she loved her back. Judy would then blink over and over and over as hard as she could to make sure that she was seen answering her daughter.
The rest of the time, she seemed to stare off into nothingness. I hope that means that she was peacefully drifting in the clouds, enjoying the background noise of life in her daughter's household. I hope she wasn't in pain. If she was, she had no way of letting us know towards the end.
My friend Julie has had more than her share of heartache lately. Two months ago, the same day that she was asked to make a decision on whether to take her mother off of life support, she had just learned that her daughter's unborn baby was dead. It was going to be a boy.
The decision was eventually made to take her mother off of life support. Much to everyone's surprise, she kept on breathing. By then, it was clear that it was only a matter of prolonging her suffering, but Julie, being the ever-dutiful daughter brought her mother home and cared for her just as she has for the past two years.
I spent some time with Julie Friday, and even though I'm sure she's ready to have her life back once the funeral is over, even though I'm sure sleeping on the couch for the past two years so she can respond to the IV and oxygen alarms going off throughout the night has taken its toll, nobody is ever ready to lose their parents.
Julie is clearly in shock. She says she's fine, acts as though she deals with this sort of thing on a daily basis, and yet, her eyes tell a different story. Her pupils are the pupils of someone who is frozen still. The rest of her behaves as though it's just another ordinary day. Clearly, she's on autopilot. Cracking jokes, she does the laundry and cleans out her mother's medicine drawer. She hands me several bottles of insulin to take to my housemate, who also has diabetes. (Diabeetus. @ScottFilmCritic, that was for you! ;-)
Julie is an amazing human being. If I were a religious person of the Catholic persuasion, I would do everything I could in my power to get her nominated for Saint status. At any given time, there are up to eleven different people hanging out, spending the night, or temporarily living in her home. Relatives and friends deposit their children with her when they are unable to take care of them. Somehow, they know Julie will find room for them.
At less than two months shy of turning 41, Julie has three grown children, two of which have a child/children of their own. She also has a grown adopted son, and a four-year-old girl belonging to a friend of the family whom she has raised since she was an infant.
Julie will tell you that various people she's discussing are her cousin, brother, son, daughter, or various other relatives. The truth is, very few of these people are actually related to her in any way other than the fact that she claims them as part of her family.
I don't think I've ever heard her say one judgmental thing about anyone the entire time I've known her. She might make fun of them with her wisecracking ways, but she doesn't judge them, nor does she seem to think she's better than them.
Julie has never been to jail, but she knows many people who have been. She's been known to keep someone's kids for them while they serve a few days ironing out an assault charge or two. She doesn't get asked to do so, it just sort of happens. She takes it in stride, though it clearly takes its toll. I worry about her.
Perhaps the only reason she's still alive and possesses any level of sanity is that she's hilarious. She keeps herself and others amused with her quick wit and fearless spoofing of the very people and situations that keep her teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Somehow, she makes it work while making it appear effortless.
I remember one instance in particular. Last year, I told her I thought she would make a great comedian. She could easily give Roseanne a run for her money simply by having a camera installed in her home to capture her spontaneous wisecracks. It was then that she informed me that I would have to be the dummy that sits on her lap. A ventriloquist's, dummy, that is.
I asked her if that meant that she'd be sticking her hand up my ass to make me talk. Her mother suddenly began laughing uncontrollably, and the three of us enjoyed an evening of lighthearted fun, Julie and I on the couch, Judy lying in the same hospital bed in her daughter's living room where she would die less than a year later.
I will miss Judy. But I am happy to have my friend back.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Racism, Interrupted
Several of my Twitter buddies are blogging about racism, and it inspired me to blog about the topic myself.
I was born in Bloomington, Indiana, and grew up mostly in Tennessee and Georgia, where sadly, racism is even still today quite rampant. My maternal grandfather was Cherokee, and my maternal grandmother Irish. My grandmother's family basically disowned her for "marrying an Indian".
One might think this would mean that my grandfather would be very sensitive to the fact that racism is painful, but he was quite racist against black folks himself. As a result, my mother almost became an "accidental racist", not knowing that there was any other word to refer to a black person other than "nigger" when she was a toddler, having heard her father say it many times.
She told me that she thought black babies were the cutest babies as a child, and when she was asked what she wanted for Christmas one year, she said "I want a nigga baby!" She was only a few years old, so one can understand and excuse her use of the word then. Luckily, she learned better as she grew up.
My mother spent her early years in Euclid, Ohio. She told me that there was a little black girl at school that she was very good friends with and enjoyed playing together on the playground during recess, until, that is, the school personnel realized what was going on. My mother told me with sadness in her voice how she had been forbidden to play with her friend, or any other black children, by the powers-that-be at her school. I learned all of this after my own mistake at four years old using the "n" word.
We grew up in what I would call a lower middle-class neighborhood. There was a kid named Scotty in the apartment next door to us, and he and I played together every chance we got. Scotty was a few years older than me, so I trusted and looked up to him. He frequently used the word nigger, and at four years old, the topic of racism hadn't come up in our household yet.
One day, Scotty asked me if I wanted a booger. I didn't know what a booger was yet, and I trusted that it must be a good thing if Scotty was offering it to me, so I said yes. He told me to hold out my arm, as he pulled a disgustingly snotty booger out of his nose and put it on my arm.
At first, I was repulsed, but then I decided that maybe it was some kind of worm or something, and marveled at the thought that a living thing might live in my nose as well. Suddenly, I was proud of the booger on my arm, and I wanted to show my mother.
In my excitement, I ran into the house and, as children often do, got my words mixed up. "Mommy! Look!" I said. "Scotty gave me a nigger on my arm!"
My mother's gasp and shriek could be heard across the nation that day as she immediately began washing my arm under scalding hot water. However, it wasn't the booger that had upset my mother so much as the fact that the word "nigger" had come out of her four-year-old daughter's mouth.
I got a lecture on what the word meant, that it was a hateful word that I should never ever use, and that's when she educated me on how painful it is to be discriminated against based on the color of your skin, and how my own grandfather had been looked down on by my grandmother's family because he was Cherokee. Picturing my mother as a child not being able to play with her friend on the playground because of the color of her skin broke my heart, and from that day on, I have fought against racism at every opportunity.
Actually, though, there is another aspect of racism that my mother hadn't mentioned, and that aspect is the fear of other races, which is at the seat of the hatred that spawns racism to begin with.
Later that year, the first actual real live black people I had ever seen were knife fighting in the parking lot of our apartment complex. I was terrified! My parents opened the door and told them they were calling the police, hoping to get them to stop before they killed one another.
I had never seen any fighting in my life at that age, and the fact that the first real-life violence I had ever seen involved black people created an irrational fear of all black people in both my brother and I for several years, even though my parents didn't know this.
We moved to the larger apartment complex across the street a year later (movin' on over, as opposed to movin' on up), and there were a couple of black kids that lived in one apartment. We stayed away from them, and if one of us wanted the other to play hide-and-seek and the other didn't want to, we would threaten the other by saying "If you don't, I'm going to go play with those black people." The other would immediately acquiesce out of fear that harm might come to the other sibling.
My parents discovered what was going on and explained to us that not all black people are violent, just like not all white people are non-violent. This helped, but we were still fearful until we started school.
There was one black teacher at our elementary school. My father taught music at the same elementary school, and he introduced me to Mrs. Hardy, a very nice lady. Finally I was able to interact with a real live black person, and she was just like everyone else at the school. She didn't pull a knife out and try to cut me. Whew!
In the third grade, the first black student entered our school. Her name was Tara. She was accepted with hesitation by the other kids in our class until Mrs. Freund, my third-grade teacher, educated everyone on the fact that racism is wrong and that treating Tara any differently than any other child would simply NOT be tolerated. Thank goodness we had made some progress by then compared to when my mother was in school!
In junior high school, there was a black kid named George Mitchell. I believe he lived with his grandmother, and he was the kindest, most gentle, well-spoken, talented kid at the school. I remember him sharing his poetry with me in American History class. I miss him.
When I was nine, my parents divorced after eleven years of marriage because my father decided he was gay. While homophobia isn't based on race, it's another form of bigotry, and I experienced the pain of being made fun of at school because of my father's suspected homosexuality. (Other kids knew he was gay before I did, apparently, just based on their gaydar.)
My mother fell in love with a black Episcopal priest from our church who was twice her age. They had quite the on-again off-again affair for years, but both of their personalities were too fiery for the relationship to ever develop into more than that. Still, I would say that it was the most exciting relationship with a man my mother had ever had, in that she never seemed as obsessed with anyone else as much as she was with him, except for maybe Johnny Mathis. (To this day, I can't think back to my childhood without hearing Johnny Mathis singing "Chances Are" in my head.)
I grew up and began working in radio. I was seduced by and fell head-over-heels in love with a fellow air personality from a country station who happened to be black. Unfortunately, it turned out that he was already married and hadn't bothered to tell me that. Luckily, I had matured enough at that point that I didn't hold his behavior against all black men.
I remember that I had been dating a white man who was divorced with children for a while before I began dating a black man, and my paternal grandmother had expressed concern to my Uncle Greg about the fact that I might be having a serious relationship with a black man. My uncle Greg ever-so-poignantly pointed out that he was more concerned about me dating a white man who was divorced with children than he was me dating a single, never-married black man.
In 1989, I was offered almost twice as much pay at an urban contemporary radio station (what most people called the "black" radio station) as I was making at an adult contemporary radio station. When I made the change, I was asked by my attorney why I had "taken a step down" in the radio world. "They must have offered you a lot of money." His assumption was that I had gone to work at a station of less popularity because it was not music he liked. It was "black" music. In actuality, I had been working at the number seven radio station in Chattanooga, and the "black" station was the number three, as in "top three" radio station. I got rid of that attorney.
I was (and still am) a very bold human being most of the time. I had a racist Uncle Paul who would use the word nigger often and every time I heard him do it while I was growing up I would launch into a tirade about how he shouldn't use that word. It didn't matter to me if I was a guest in his house or not. He didn't have the right to say that word in my presence because it was wrong. Period.
Today, I don't get angry when I see racism as much as I am saddened by it. It is clearly born of ignorance, and anything born of ignorance in our society is sad to me. Ignorance is so unnecessary. We should know better by now. We should have been able to overcome this by now.
I once wrote a paper on how racism is born of fear, and how that fear is born of our natural reaction to people who are different than us. The limbic system kicks into high gear in order to protect us from possible danger when we encounter someone different than us, but we haven't quite developed an awareness that this is where the fear comes from and when it isn't actually serving a purpose to protect us as much as confusing us into thinking there may be danger where there is none.
As an adult, I have experienced racism from black people. Even though I have Cherokee blood in me and used to be quite dark, the Irish apparently took over as I grew up and I'm now a fluorescent glow-in-the dark white.
As someone with O.C.D. and anxiety issues, I don't do well in crowds. Once in a hotel and presented with an elevator full of people, I said "I'll just take the stairs." The problem: the elevator was full of black people who made it clear that they thought I was afraid to get on the elevator with them because they were black. I could feel the hate, and I was angered by their assumption. Still, it's understandable, given the amount of racism still so prevalent not only in this area, but all over the world.
I know many people who have great friendships with people of different races, but the first time a disagreement comes up, racism seems to become an accusation in some way, regardless of whether the disagreement had anything to do with race or not.
Unfortunately, I think that human nature is such that there will always be racism to some degree. However, we can continue making progress if the authority figures in our lives will speak up and correct irrational fears and behaviors when they present themselves in children. Parents, teachers and others can all play a role in interrupting the destructive thought patterns that give birth to such ugly lies as racism is based on, and the responsibility for doing so belongs to all of us.
-A.M.
I was born in Bloomington, Indiana, and grew up mostly in Tennessee and Georgia, where sadly, racism is even still today quite rampant. My maternal grandfather was Cherokee, and my maternal grandmother Irish. My grandmother's family basically disowned her for "marrying an Indian".
One might think this would mean that my grandfather would be very sensitive to the fact that racism is painful, but he was quite racist against black folks himself. As a result, my mother almost became an "accidental racist", not knowing that there was any other word to refer to a black person other than "nigger" when she was a toddler, having heard her father say it many times.
She told me that she thought black babies were the cutest babies as a child, and when she was asked what she wanted for Christmas one year, she said "I want a nigga baby!" She was only a few years old, so one can understand and excuse her use of the word then. Luckily, she learned better as she grew up.
My mother spent her early years in Euclid, Ohio. She told me that there was a little black girl at school that she was very good friends with and enjoyed playing together on the playground during recess, until, that is, the school personnel realized what was going on. My mother told me with sadness in her voice how she had been forbidden to play with her friend, or any other black children, by the powers-that-be at her school. I learned all of this after my own mistake at four years old using the "n" word.
We grew up in what I would call a lower middle-class neighborhood. There was a kid named Scotty in the apartment next door to us, and he and I played together every chance we got. Scotty was a few years older than me, so I trusted and looked up to him. He frequently used the word nigger, and at four years old, the topic of racism hadn't come up in our household yet.
One day, Scotty asked me if I wanted a booger. I didn't know what a booger was yet, and I trusted that it must be a good thing if Scotty was offering it to me, so I said yes. He told me to hold out my arm, as he pulled a disgustingly snotty booger out of his nose and put it on my arm.
At first, I was repulsed, but then I decided that maybe it was some kind of worm or something, and marveled at the thought that a living thing might live in my nose as well. Suddenly, I was proud of the booger on my arm, and I wanted to show my mother.
In my excitement, I ran into the house and, as children often do, got my words mixed up. "Mommy! Look!" I said. "Scotty gave me a nigger on my arm!"
My mother's gasp and shriek could be heard across the nation that day as she immediately began washing my arm under scalding hot water. However, it wasn't the booger that had upset my mother so much as the fact that the word "nigger" had come out of her four-year-old daughter's mouth.
I got a lecture on what the word meant, that it was a hateful word that I should never ever use, and that's when she educated me on how painful it is to be discriminated against based on the color of your skin, and how my own grandfather had been looked down on by my grandmother's family because he was Cherokee. Picturing my mother as a child not being able to play with her friend on the playground because of the color of her skin broke my heart, and from that day on, I have fought against racism at every opportunity.
Actually, though, there is another aspect of racism that my mother hadn't mentioned, and that aspect is the fear of other races, which is at the seat of the hatred that spawns racism to begin with.
Later that year, the first actual real live black people I had ever seen were knife fighting in the parking lot of our apartment complex. I was terrified! My parents opened the door and told them they were calling the police, hoping to get them to stop before they killed one another.
I had never seen any fighting in my life at that age, and the fact that the first real-life violence I had ever seen involved black people created an irrational fear of all black people in both my brother and I for several years, even though my parents didn't know this.
We moved to the larger apartment complex across the street a year later (movin' on over, as opposed to movin' on up), and there were a couple of black kids that lived in one apartment. We stayed away from them, and if one of us wanted the other to play hide-and-seek and the other didn't want to, we would threaten the other by saying "If you don't, I'm going to go play with those black people." The other would immediately acquiesce out of fear that harm might come to the other sibling.
My parents discovered what was going on and explained to us that not all black people are violent, just like not all white people are non-violent. This helped, but we were still fearful until we started school.
There was one black teacher at our elementary school. My father taught music at the same elementary school, and he introduced me to Mrs. Hardy, a very nice lady. Finally I was able to interact with a real live black person, and she was just like everyone else at the school. She didn't pull a knife out and try to cut me. Whew!
In the third grade, the first black student entered our school. Her name was Tara. She was accepted with hesitation by the other kids in our class until Mrs. Freund, my third-grade teacher, educated everyone on the fact that racism is wrong and that treating Tara any differently than any other child would simply NOT be tolerated. Thank goodness we had made some progress by then compared to when my mother was in school!
In junior high school, there was a black kid named George Mitchell. I believe he lived with his grandmother, and he was the kindest, most gentle, well-spoken, talented kid at the school. I remember him sharing his poetry with me in American History class. I miss him.
When I was nine, my parents divorced after eleven years of marriage because my father decided he was gay. While homophobia isn't based on race, it's another form of bigotry, and I experienced the pain of being made fun of at school because of my father's suspected homosexuality. (Other kids knew he was gay before I did, apparently, just based on their gaydar.)
My mother fell in love with a black Episcopal priest from our church who was twice her age. They had quite the on-again off-again affair for years, but both of their personalities were too fiery for the relationship to ever develop into more than that. Still, I would say that it was the most exciting relationship with a man my mother had ever had, in that she never seemed as obsessed with anyone else as much as she was with him, except for maybe Johnny Mathis. (To this day, I can't think back to my childhood without hearing Johnny Mathis singing "Chances Are" in my head.)
I grew up and began working in radio. I was seduced by and fell head-over-heels in love with a fellow air personality from a country station who happened to be black. Unfortunately, it turned out that he was already married and hadn't bothered to tell me that. Luckily, I had matured enough at that point that I didn't hold his behavior against all black men.
I remember that I had been dating a white man who was divorced with children for a while before I began dating a black man, and my paternal grandmother had expressed concern to my Uncle Greg about the fact that I might be having a serious relationship with a black man. My uncle Greg ever-so-poignantly pointed out that he was more concerned about me dating a white man who was divorced with children than he was me dating a single, never-married black man.
In 1989, I was offered almost twice as much pay at an urban contemporary radio station (what most people called the "black" radio station) as I was making at an adult contemporary radio station. When I made the change, I was asked by my attorney why I had "taken a step down" in the radio world. "They must have offered you a lot of money." His assumption was that I had gone to work at a station of less popularity because it was not music he liked. It was "black" music. In actuality, I had been working at the number seven radio station in Chattanooga, and the "black" station was the number three, as in "top three" radio station. I got rid of that attorney.
I was (and still am) a very bold human being most of the time. I had a racist Uncle Paul who would use the word nigger often and every time I heard him do it while I was growing up I would launch into a tirade about how he shouldn't use that word. It didn't matter to me if I was a guest in his house or not. He didn't have the right to say that word in my presence because it was wrong. Period.
Today, I don't get angry when I see racism as much as I am saddened by it. It is clearly born of ignorance, and anything born of ignorance in our society is sad to me. Ignorance is so unnecessary. We should know better by now. We should have been able to overcome this by now.
I once wrote a paper on how racism is born of fear, and how that fear is born of our natural reaction to people who are different than us. The limbic system kicks into high gear in order to protect us from possible danger when we encounter someone different than us, but we haven't quite developed an awareness that this is where the fear comes from and when it isn't actually serving a purpose to protect us as much as confusing us into thinking there may be danger where there is none.
As an adult, I have experienced racism from black people. Even though I have Cherokee blood in me and used to be quite dark, the Irish apparently took over as I grew up and I'm now a fluorescent glow-in-the dark white.
As someone with O.C.D. and anxiety issues, I don't do well in crowds. Once in a hotel and presented with an elevator full of people, I said "I'll just take the stairs." The problem: the elevator was full of black people who made it clear that they thought I was afraid to get on the elevator with them because they were black. I could feel the hate, and I was angered by their assumption. Still, it's understandable, given the amount of racism still so prevalent not only in this area, but all over the world.
I know many people who have great friendships with people of different races, but the first time a disagreement comes up, racism seems to become an accusation in some way, regardless of whether the disagreement had anything to do with race or not.
Unfortunately, I think that human nature is such that there will always be racism to some degree. However, we can continue making progress if the authority figures in our lives will speak up and correct irrational fears and behaviors when they present themselves in children. Parents, teachers and others can all play a role in interrupting the destructive thought patterns that give birth to such ugly lies as racism is based on, and the responsibility for doing so belongs to all of us.
-A.M.
Copyright Arguments
Someone I follow on Twitter (@adamsavage) Tweeted a link to an articulate discussion between a teen-aged girl and a copyright owner (James Robert Brown) of some sheet music she was sharing without his permission:
(http://www.jasonrobertbrown.com/weblog/2010/06/fighting_with_teenagers_a_copy.php)
What is so interesting to me about this is that I, the convicted felon presumably without morals, have frequently argued over the past ten years that the fact that people can't afford to pay for music they are downloading illegally and therefore would not reduce the amount of revenue the copyright owner would receive by doing so, does not make it okay.
There is also much relentless (there's that word again) arguing on both sides of the issue, and it is quite refreshing to see two people go at it in such an articulate way. I view such brain-sharpening activity as its own reward, regardless of whether either side concedes defeat. In fact, I have often strengthened my understanding of an issue by thinking about it intensely while making arguments to state my case, and I'd say others have experienced the same result.
There are some aspects of the issue that I'm not decided on, such as how long a copyright should be effective, as in the case of family members of the deceased creator of the copyrighted material claiming ownership for decades after the creator's death and similar issues.
There is also a great "Penn Says" episode on the subject, which also demonstrates how emotional (and irrational) some people become when discussing the subject. (Penn Jillette's wife, Emily, apparently received some nasty threats after rationally bringing up the fact that it might be illegal to rip the music from CD's for personal use and then send the CD's to the military. A "good cause", but still illegal.) You can view that episode here:
http://www.crackle.com/c/Penn_Says/Sending_Cds_To_the_Military/2397145
It's amazing how quickly self-righteously moral people can become self-righteously immoral when it comes to something illegal or immoral they've decided they should be allowed to do because it's "for a good cause" or because it's "so common".
I've long thought that drunk driving and speeding should be felonies, since they actually put lives at risk. But alas, you'll do more time for tax evasion than you'll ever do for engaging in an irresponsible behavior that could take someone's life.
In the grand scheme of things, I suppose it might not seem like a big deal that so many artists and content creators' work gets "shared" without payment, especially since it was money they weren't going to make anyway from poor people and fellow "starving artists" who couldn't afford to own it any other way than stealing it. But the truth is, the sense of entitlement it creates will ultimately destroy what little respect remains for other people's property, be it physical or intellectual.
And if you value America and what America stands for, you should recognize that this is but one more very dangerous step towards socialism. The idea that anyone who can't afford what you have can take it without your permission without providing anything in return is even worse than taxing citizens for government programs they didn't vote for. You may not have voted for it, but at least it's something tangible (however wasteful and/or socialistic) that comes from the exchange.
"Sharers" of copyrighted material provide nothing to the copyright owner but arrogance, and that's a form of payment most of us would prefer never to clear our bank.
-A.M.
(http://www.jasonrobertbrown.com/weblog/2010/06/fighting_with_teenagers_a_copy.php)
What is so interesting to me about this is that I, the convicted felon presumably without morals, have frequently argued over the past ten years that the fact that people can't afford to pay for music they are downloading illegally and therefore would not reduce the amount of revenue the copyright owner would receive by doing so, does not make it okay.
There is also much relentless (there's that word again) arguing on both sides of the issue, and it is quite refreshing to see two people go at it in such an articulate way. I view such brain-sharpening activity as its own reward, regardless of whether either side concedes defeat. In fact, I have often strengthened my understanding of an issue by thinking about it intensely while making arguments to state my case, and I'd say others have experienced the same result.
There are some aspects of the issue that I'm not decided on, such as how long a copyright should be effective, as in the case of family members of the deceased creator of the copyrighted material claiming ownership for decades after the creator's death and similar issues.
There is also a great "Penn Says" episode on the subject, which also demonstrates how emotional (and irrational) some people become when discussing the subject. (Penn Jillette's wife, Emily, apparently received some nasty threats after rationally bringing up the fact that it might be illegal to rip the music from CD's for personal use and then send the CD's to the military. A "good cause", but still illegal.) You can view that episode here:
http://www.crackle.com/c/Penn_Says/Sending_Cds_To_the_Military/2397145
It's amazing how quickly self-righteously moral people can become self-righteously immoral when it comes to something illegal or immoral they've decided they should be allowed to do because it's "for a good cause" or because it's "so common".
I've long thought that drunk driving and speeding should be felonies, since they actually put lives at risk. But alas, you'll do more time for tax evasion than you'll ever do for engaging in an irresponsible behavior that could take someone's life.
In the grand scheme of things, I suppose it might not seem like a big deal that so many artists and content creators' work gets "shared" without payment, especially since it was money they weren't going to make anyway from poor people and fellow "starving artists" who couldn't afford to own it any other way than stealing it. But the truth is, the sense of entitlement it creates will ultimately destroy what little respect remains for other people's property, be it physical or intellectual.
And if you value America and what America stands for, you should recognize that this is but one more very dangerous step towards socialism. The idea that anyone who can't afford what you have can take it without your permission without providing anything in return is even worse than taxing citizens for government programs they didn't vote for. You may not have voted for it, but at least it's something tangible (however wasteful and/or socialistic) that comes from the exchange.
"Sharers" of copyrighted material provide nothing to the copyright owner but arrogance, and that's a form of payment most of us would prefer never to clear our bank.
-A.M.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Karate Kid - Revisited
Yes, I know, I seem to be doing a lot of revisiting lately. But hey, that can be a good thing.
About a week ago I saw Karate Kid, starring Jaden Smith and Jackie Chan. First, it was really cool to see Will Smith's son starring in a movie and remember back to the days when he himself was a kid, like me back then, listening to his "Parents Just Don't Understand" and "Nightmare On My Street" blasting out of the speakers of my Nissan Sentra as I cruised down the road on a Friday night.
What made the movie even more worthwhile, is that Jackie Chan turns out to be an Oscar-worthy actor. All I'd seen him do previously was the "funny Asian guy out of his element in America" act, but it turns out it was because those were the parts he was given to play, not because that's all he can do.
Let me say it this way: Jackie Chan kicked that role's ass!!!
Said yet another way: Jackie Chan has a black belt in acting.
The movie itself will surprise you, because it's not just a remade movie. There are variations on the "wax on, wax off" theme, and just when you're wondering when the teacher is going to have the student wax the car, you're blind-sided with the realization that there was a different reason for having Jaden's character remove his jacket, drop it on the ground, pick it up, and hang it up repeatedly than you originally thought. (Ok, so you might have figured it out, but it's a really cool variation nonetheless.)
The scenery in the film gave it a realistic and genuine quality that is difficult to describe. I felt as though I was in China while watching this movie, and became quite immersed. The fact that there were so many things in the movie I could relate to only intensified that effect.
When Jackie Chan's character had his breakdown and destroyed the car on the anniversary of his personal tragedy, it was a mirror of my own experience with a devastating house fire many years ago. The futile attempt to gain control over an uncontrollable situation by obsessing over the details of it, the self-blame for things which one is not at fault, the intense pain of reliving it, all were things that grabbed me and pulled me through the silver screen and into the story.
Jackie Chan nailed the part so well, I was convinced that he had actually lived through something terribly tragic in his own life. I couldn't believe this was the same actor who played opposite Chris Tucker in so many comedies. Surely this must be Jackie Chan's twin, the intense one completely opposite from the funny one?
Backtracking to the beginning of the movie a bit, Jackie Chan manages to convey his character's state of mind without any spoken words at all. Facial expressions, his general appearance, the way he moves, all tell the story of a man who is worn down by something that just won't give him any peace.
Of course, if you read my post on relentlessness revisited, you know that the end of the movie was especially inspiring and also something I could relate to. It was just another whisper in my ear of the theme of the week: "You're not random. You're relentless."
I totally understand those who might scoff at the idea of a remake of a movie like this one. I suspect many might see it simply because they're Jackie Chan fans, and many may be tempted to skip it if they aren't. Go see it anyway. And if you don't become a Jackie Chan fan after seeing it, I want you to write to me and tell me how much of the movie you slept through, because that will be the only possible way you will manage to leave the theater without a newfound appreciation for the great Jackie Chan.
-A.M.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Relentlessness Revisited
Ever have one of those weeks when there seems to be a very obvious theme to everything that occurs? Everything you do, even seemingly unrelated things, seem to link together with a subtle (and somehow very strong) message, whispering something in your ear.
About six years ago, I had a friend who expressed admiration of my tenaciousness. We were both frequent posters on a message board and frequently found ourselves arguing with people who held irrational views on everything from politics and religion to, well, just about anything the a-skeptical mind can come up with.
One of the marks of an obsessive-compulsive is that, when in a debate and the other side insists on coming up with irrational, poorly-thought-out responses arguing their side out of pure stubbornness and any sane person would let it drop, the obsessive-compulsive will not quit until every single inaccuracy has been addressed.
I don't know that there is always any meaningful purpose in that, but there were times when I actually would win people over with my logic, and even had some people re-examining their views and allowing themselves to explore the possibility that there might be more to know than what they had been spoon-fed since birth about politics and religion.
My friend commented that I was relentless, and then proceeded to tell me that the difficult things I was dealing with I could easily overcome, because "the world is random, and random things will always happen to trip you up, but you're not random, you're relentless, and relentlessness will always win out in the end."
I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it.
Throughout the past six years, and throughout my ordeal with the feds, her voice echoed in my mind. "You're not random. You're relentless." That got me through a lot of things.
I was reminded of her words once again last month when a friend I've known for a little over a year told me that he just couldn't get over how I remained persistent over the past year with quite a few unbelievable difficulties I had dealt with, and how I didn't give up, as time after time, I found new ways to overcome obstacles that appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.
Some of us just seem to have lives like that, and I think it's easy, when you're caught up in day-to-day survival, to overlook the fact that you are, in fact, kicking life's ass back just as hard as it's going at yours.
But then, there's always the observant friend who doesn't have a life like that, who doesn't overlook the fact that you're kicking life's ass, and expresses awe over it.
Seeing oneself through the eyes of that person is an incredible experience. I'm very hard on myself, and I usually view myself as inadequate. I frequently don't feel up to the tasks I'm faced with, and perhaps the only reason I'm able to meet the challenges in my life is that I'm on autopilot, following instincts and allowing my subconscious to direct me where my conscious mind has no clue to go, or how to get there. That's an ironic mode for a logician, I know, but that's just how it is.
So, when I'm presented with comments that someone is impressed with my persistence, it often catches me off guard. Imagine searching for change in your couch, only to have your best friend tell you that you've got a million dollars in your mattress that you forgot you had. It really is that dramatic of a jolt sometimes.
It's as though I'm the Cowardly Lion, only to discover that I've had courage all along. What a wonderful feeling!
So, thank you friends, for reflecting that strength back at me so that I can see it. Friends are like mirrors, you can't really see who you are with out them.
-A.M.
About six years ago, I had a friend who expressed admiration of my tenaciousness. We were both frequent posters on a message board and frequently found ourselves arguing with people who held irrational views on everything from politics and religion to, well, just about anything the a-skeptical mind can come up with.
One of the marks of an obsessive-compulsive is that, when in a debate and the other side insists on coming up with irrational, poorly-thought-out responses arguing their side out of pure stubbornness and any sane person would let it drop, the obsessive-compulsive will not quit until every single inaccuracy has been addressed.
I don't know that there is always any meaningful purpose in that, but there were times when I actually would win people over with my logic, and even had some people re-examining their views and allowing themselves to explore the possibility that there might be more to know than what they had been spoon-fed since birth about politics and religion.
My friend commented that I was relentless, and then proceeded to tell me that the difficult things I was dealing with I could easily overcome, because "the world is random, and random things will always happen to trip you up, but you're not random, you're relentless, and relentlessness will always win out in the end."
I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it.
Throughout the past six years, and throughout my ordeal with the feds, her voice echoed in my mind. "You're not random. You're relentless." That got me through a lot of things.
I was reminded of her words once again last month when a friend I've known for a little over a year told me that he just couldn't get over how I remained persistent over the past year with quite a few unbelievable difficulties I had dealt with, and how I didn't give up, as time after time, I found new ways to overcome obstacles that appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.
Some of us just seem to have lives like that, and I think it's easy, when you're caught up in day-to-day survival, to overlook the fact that you are, in fact, kicking life's ass back just as hard as it's going at yours.
But then, there's always the observant friend who doesn't have a life like that, who doesn't overlook the fact that you're kicking life's ass, and expresses awe over it.
Seeing oneself through the eyes of that person is an incredible experience. I'm very hard on myself, and I usually view myself as inadequate. I frequently don't feel up to the tasks I'm faced with, and perhaps the only reason I'm able to meet the challenges in my life is that I'm on autopilot, following instincts and allowing my subconscious to direct me where my conscious mind has no clue to go, or how to get there. That's an ironic mode for a logician, I know, but that's just how it is.
So, when I'm presented with comments that someone is impressed with my persistence, it often catches me off guard. Imagine searching for change in your couch, only to have your best friend tell you that you've got a million dollars in your mattress that you forgot you had. It really is that dramatic of a jolt sometimes.
It's as though I'm the Cowardly Lion, only to discover that I've had courage all along. What a wonderful feeling!
So, thank you friends, for reflecting that strength back at me so that I can see it. Friends are like mirrors, you can't really see who you are with out them.
-A.M.
Friday, July 2, 2010
A word of gratitude!
Wow. I expected that the people I'm closest to would be kind after reading my first blog post in more than five years, but I had no idea the response would be as intense as the post itself! So many of you have sent me kudos, both direct messages and public. But what amazes me is the people I don't even know that well (whom I didn't even realize were followers) writing to say they were inspired.
One of my Twitter buddies even wrote to say that he "likes me even more now". That reminded me of a poem my father wrote:
"I hope my children will grow up healthy and strong... not in spite of my mistakes, but because of them."
I could say something similar:
"I hope people will like what they see in me, not in spite of my mistakes, but because of them."
My period of "supervised release" ended in February, a little over four months ago. However, it wasn't until I wrote my first blog post and received such positive feedback yesterday that I actually was free of the shackles.
Ahh... free at last!
-A.M.
One of my Twitter buddies even wrote to say that he "likes me even more now". That reminded me of a poem my father wrote:
"I hope my children will grow up healthy and strong... not in spite of my mistakes, but because of them."
I could say something similar:
"I hope people will like what they see in me, not in spite of my mistakes, but because of them."
My period of "supervised release" ended in February, a little over four months ago. However, it wasn't until I wrote my first blog post and received such positive feedback yesterday that I actually was free of the shackles.
Ahh... free at last!
-A.M.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
And so it begins again...
My last official blog post was on March 7, 2005. That's more than five years ago.
I've written a few articles since then that I've published online, but no official blogging.
Back in 2005, I had thousands of readers, many of whom would get upset if my daily blog post didn't show up on time. I have no idea where they are now, or if they even remember me. I'm sure most of them don't have a clue why I disappeared.
There's a reason why I haven't blogged in more than five years, and it's a very sad story. Interesting. Adventurous. Exciting, even. But the root of it is, regardless, quite sad.
Those I've become close to over the past five years keep telling me that I need to tell my story. I agree. However, it's a bit overwhelming to sit down and relive the past five years, even if it is for the sake of blogging it.
I've decided the best approach (for my own sake) is to summarize and then begin blogging from the present. As time allows (and as I feel I'm able) I will probably discuss the past in more detail on the internet radio show set to begin next month.
I once owned a business. I had a silent partner. The business was successful for several years, and then it tanked. It tanked for a variety of reasons. Some of them were my fault for not having enough capital and not having more reliable suppliers. Some were the fault of my business partner.
After a lifetime of struggling with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorders (which became worse after almost dying in a fire in 1996) and some post-traumatic stress issues, the stress of the failing business was more than I could bear. I was in denial that it was as bad as it was, and I was all too happy to allow my partner to take over, although I should have wondered why one would be so eager to take over a failing business.
Meanwhile, I was struggling to meet basic expenses. I started doing think tank work, and was grateful for the travel that physically removed me from the situation, allowing me to more easily mentally remove myself from it as well.
Not even my closest friends knew what was going on. I'm a very private person with a history of working in think tanks that require me to keep secrets, and I usually keep my problems (especially my failures) to myself. I'm told that's part of the whole "anxiety/O.C.D./P.T.S.D." package. Nonetheless, I suppose my friends were baffled when they learned what had been going on. Some were, understandably, insulted that I hadn't confided in them. I wasn't able to convey to them that my reasoning for not doing so stemmed from a fear that they would abandon me should they learn that I was not perfect and that I had allowed such a mess to develop in my life.
Sadly, that fear was validated when many of those closest to me did just that; and, while it worsened my already severe trust issues, I can't say that I blame them, given the sense of betrayal they must have felt from being kept in the dark about such major things going on in my life.
There was more than $100,000 in debt owed to various companies and individuals when it was all said and done. The company was bankrupt. I was bankrupt. But the bookkeeping was very messy. The feds decided to make it a criminal case. I was charged with six counts of wire fraud totaling $12,000. (Because my business involved the internet, it was under federal jurisdiction, and any case related in any way, shape, or form, to the internet is charged as "wire fraud". You might say it's a "catch-all" or "trash can" charge.)
Ultimately, I was the one (and the ONLY one) held responsible. Despite the fact that I was not guilty of the accusations against me, I WAS the person responsible for allowing the situation that gave birth to the charges to occur. Everything that mattered was in my name. On paper, it didn't look good for me. I learned the hard way that how things look on paper is all that matters in a federal case. There isn't a "no contest" plea in the federal system like there is in state and local courts. You can't just take responsibility for the situation without also nodding that everything happened exactly like the feds say it did and that you are 100% guilty of everything they have accused you of doing, for exactly the reasons they accuse you of doing it.
If you use a pen name (I had a book scheduled to be released in 2005 before this all came about) you're "using an alias". If a business check written to an office supply store on an account you opened ten years ago bounces, you opened that account ten years ago with the intent to bounce a check ten years later. According to the feds, every defendant is diabolically planning their every move far into the future. Nothing just happens or spirals out of control. It's all part of a massive conspiracy designed to break the law and "get away" with something. (Nevermind that after the business tanked I was living in a $16,000 motor home and driving a $1,000 minivan. What on earth was I getting away with?)
Since I had no money, I was appointed a public defender. He was a very nice man who explained to me that if I didn't go along with what the feds wanted me to do, I would get five years in prison instead of the two years I would get if I did.
I wanted to fight. He kept advising me that it wasn't a good idea. I didn't care if I got five years. I didn't want to lie on myself and say that I was guilty of things I wasn't... that I had intentions of committing crimes that I never had.
Having trouble understanding why someone would plead guilty to something they didn't do? Until you have been put through what the feds put you through before you even get to court for a bond hearing, until you've lived through the intense feeling of duress one experiences in that situation, you can't possibly justify judging someone for doing such a thing. Believe this: If you put on a pair of my shoes, you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd have to do.
Ultimately, I was reminded that Martha Stewart, who had gazillions of dollars, fame, and a dream team of attorneys, couldn't even win HER case. How on earth was I going to win mine? Martha Stewart got a year (six months in prison, six months on house arrest) for a very minor conviction of lying to the feds. (As if they don't lie to us every day...) How on earth did I think I was going to do any better?
To make matters worse, I had isolated myself from my family for years, partially due to my internal struggles with various issues, and partially due to emotional abuse at the hands of several family members sustained not only by me, but others in the family. In my mind, not even my family could be trusted with knowledge of my inner-torment, and anyway, how do you explain to anyone, family, friend, or otherwise, that you sometimes spend upwards of twelve hours per day lost in various rituals and useless activities that serve no other purpose but to help give you the illusion that you have some control over the world around you?
I finally gave in. I took the plea. I was sent to prison for more than two years for my first offense. That's right. I, who had never even smoked pot, never put someone's life at risk by drinking and driving, or driving wrecklessly... I, who had NEVER EVEN HAD A TRAFFIC TICKET, was sent to federal prison for more than two years for my first offense, an offense that was deemed a financial crime. I was doing more time than someone in a state case who commits rape or, in some cases, even murder.
Once I took the plea, the few people I had let know what was going on ceased all contact with me. Occasionally I would get a letter from my mother, I had one friend who got in touch toward the end of my sentence, and there was one aunt who sent letters, but that was it. I told myself that it was just too difficult for those who had been close to me to deal with the fact that I was going to be in prison for two years. (I got no letters from my business partner.) Some say I'm being far too generous in extending the benefit of the doubt in that way, but I suppose it's easier for me to believe that than to believe that I was so inconsequential as to be so easily dismissed upon the discovery of my predicament. I will, however, say this:
There were drug addicts who had cost their famies everything they owned... their homes, vehicles, livelihoods, even their health in the case of manufacturing methamphetamine. They still got visits and letters and phone calls and moral support. I'll end my discussion on that subject there.
The two years I spent in custody were not quite like you might picture them... definitely not like they show on television or in the movies. (There is, by the way, no such thing as club fed. Federal prisons are, for the most part in my experience, filthy, dilapidated, unhealthy facilities.) Nonetheless, there were not many "rough" people there. There were a lot of grandmothers who were there for ridiculous things. Maybe their grandsons were dealing pot out of the basement and the feds decided they were guilty as well. Maybe they cashed a few social security checks belonging to their husband after he died to help cover funeral costs.
And then there was the nun. She was there for six months for protesting the Iraqi war on federal property. Americans could, for six months, sleep more soundly at night knowing that at least one less nun would be putting her foot on taxpayer-owned property in protest of a war funded by taxpayer money, regardless of the taxpayer's wishes. Who cares that we owe trillions of dollars in debt. We can always spare $25,000 or so of taxpayer money to lock up a peace-loving, non-violent nun!
America. Fuck, Yeah.
Two years is a relatively short sentence compared to those serving ten years or more for drug or gun crimes, yet I was completely unable to handle the outside world when I was first released.
There was no one there to pick me up. I was given a one-way ticket on a Greyhound bus to the city where I was to serve three years on federal supervision. I was theoretically free, but in reality, not free at all.
Somehow, I managed to get through it. During that time, I made new friends, saved a man's life, happened upon the nun as she was protesting the war again (though this time she was careful where she let her foot land) and then a few months later I got robbed at gunpoint working the only job I could find as a newly-released convicted felon.
Score:
Anxiety/O.C.D./P.T.S.D. = 1,000
Me: = minus 13
Lest you think I'm made of nothing but doom and gloom, you should know that I found a lot of humor in my circumstances. While I was imprisoned I created comic strips for the entertainment of my fellow inmates, and once released I developed a stand-up routine based on prison life. If you can't live well, laughter is the best revenge.
I don't look at my prison experience as something to be ashamed of. I wear it like a badge of honor... that anyone can survive so many horrific experiences at the hands of "power-trippin' trash", (government employees devoid of ethics to the point that others who work with them end up quitting in disgust), says a lot about my strength of character, regardless of what documents are contrived to tell a different story.
I try not to be bitter. I tell myself the feds and all involved had good intentions, that they truly believed they were doing the right thing. That's what I tell myself.
Some who will read this will discover my "secret" for the first time in doing so. It's not that I feel the need to hide this very potent part of my past, but "coming out" is something I haven't quite mastered yet. Of course, now, I can just point everyone to my blog. That's much easier than trying to figure out how to tell someone "Oh, by the way, I'm a convicted felon who did two years in federal prison, but I promise, I won't shank you!"
Yes. I love the humor in it all. There is hope in humor.
I also find hope in the fact that my 88-year-old grandfather, who was widowed last year, is getting remarried. My uncle finally was able to marry his lifelong partner, Jim, after 20+ years together. (They live in Massachusetts.) I now have a two-year old nephew. Life goes on.
And now, I'm finally blogging again. Oh, dear blog. How I have missed you!
"Don't trust anyone who tells you not to look back. That's where most of your lessons are!" --Angie Max
I've written a few articles since then that I've published online, but no official blogging.
Back in 2005, I had thousands of readers, many of whom would get upset if my daily blog post didn't show up on time. I have no idea where they are now, or if they even remember me. I'm sure most of them don't have a clue why I disappeared.
There's a reason why I haven't blogged in more than five years, and it's a very sad story. Interesting. Adventurous. Exciting, even. But the root of it is, regardless, quite sad.
Those I've become close to over the past five years keep telling me that I need to tell my story. I agree. However, it's a bit overwhelming to sit down and relive the past five years, even if it is for the sake of blogging it.
I've decided the best approach (for my own sake) is to summarize and then begin blogging from the present. As time allows (and as I feel I'm able) I will probably discuss the past in more detail on the internet radio show set to begin next month.
I once owned a business. I had a silent partner. The business was successful for several years, and then it tanked. It tanked for a variety of reasons. Some of them were my fault for not having enough capital and not having more reliable suppliers. Some were the fault of my business partner.
After a lifetime of struggling with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorders (which became worse after almost dying in a fire in 1996) and some post-traumatic stress issues, the stress of the failing business was more than I could bear. I was in denial that it was as bad as it was, and I was all too happy to allow my partner to take over, although I should have wondered why one would be so eager to take over a failing business.
Meanwhile, I was struggling to meet basic expenses. I started doing think tank work, and was grateful for the travel that physically removed me from the situation, allowing me to more easily mentally remove myself from it as well.
Not even my closest friends knew what was going on. I'm a very private person with a history of working in think tanks that require me to keep secrets, and I usually keep my problems (especially my failures) to myself. I'm told that's part of the whole "anxiety/O.C.D./P.T.S.D." package. Nonetheless, I suppose my friends were baffled when they learned what had been going on. Some were, understandably, insulted that I hadn't confided in them. I wasn't able to convey to them that my reasoning for not doing so stemmed from a fear that they would abandon me should they learn that I was not perfect and that I had allowed such a mess to develop in my life.
Sadly, that fear was validated when many of those closest to me did just that; and, while it worsened my already severe trust issues, I can't say that I blame them, given the sense of betrayal they must have felt from being kept in the dark about such major things going on in my life.
There was more than $100,000 in debt owed to various companies and individuals when it was all said and done. The company was bankrupt. I was bankrupt. But the bookkeeping was very messy. The feds decided to make it a criminal case. I was charged with six counts of wire fraud totaling $12,000. (Because my business involved the internet, it was under federal jurisdiction, and any case related in any way, shape, or form, to the internet is charged as "wire fraud". You might say it's a "catch-all" or "trash can" charge.)
Ultimately, I was the one (and the ONLY one) held responsible. Despite the fact that I was not guilty of the accusations against me, I WAS the person responsible for allowing the situation that gave birth to the charges to occur. Everything that mattered was in my name. On paper, it didn't look good for me. I learned the hard way that how things look on paper is all that matters in a federal case. There isn't a "no contest" plea in the federal system like there is in state and local courts. You can't just take responsibility for the situation without also nodding that everything happened exactly like the feds say it did and that you are 100% guilty of everything they have accused you of doing, for exactly the reasons they accuse you of doing it.
If you use a pen name (I had a book scheduled to be released in 2005 before this all came about) you're "using an alias". If a business check written to an office supply store on an account you opened ten years ago bounces, you opened that account ten years ago with the intent to bounce a check ten years later. According to the feds, every defendant is diabolically planning their every move far into the future. Nothing just happens or spirals out of control. It's all part of a massive conspiracy designed to break the law and "get away" with something. (Nevermind that after the business tanked I was living in a $16,000 motor home and driving a $1,000 minivan. What on earth was I getting away with?)
Since I had no money, I was appointed a public defender. He was a very nice man who explained to me that if I didn't go along with what the feds wanted me to do, I would get five years in prison instead of the two years I would get if I did.
I wanted to fight. He kept advising me that it wasn't a good idea. I didn't care if I got five years. I didn't want to lie on myself and say that I was guilty of things I wasn't... that I had intentions of committing crimes that I never had.
Having trouble understanding why someone would plead guilty to something they didn't do? Until you have been put through what the feds put you through before you even get to court for a bond hearing, until you've lived through the intense feeling of duress one experiences in that situation, you can't possibly justify judging someone for doing such a thing. Believe this: If you put on a pair of my shoes, you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd have to do.
Ultimately, I was reminded that Martha Stewart, who had gazillions of dollars, fame, and a dream team of attorneys, couldn't even win HER case. How on earth was I going to win mine? Martha Stewart got a year (six months in prison, six months on house arrest) for a very minor conviction of lying to the feds. (As if they don't lie to us every day...) How on earth did I think I was going to do any better?
To make matters worse, I had isolated myself from my family for years, partially due to my internal struggles with various issues, and partially due to emotional abuse at the hands of several family members sustained not only by me, but others in the family. In my mind, not even my family could be trusted with knowledge of my inner-torment, and anyway, how do you explain to anyone, family, friend, or otherwise, that you sometimes spend upwards of twelve hours per day lost in various rituals and useless activities that serve no other purpose but to help give you the illusion that you have some control over the world around you?
I finally gave in. I took the plea. I was sent to prison for more than two years for my first offense. That's right. I, who had never even smoked pot, never put someone's life at risk by drinking and driving, or driving wrecklessly... I, who had NEVER EVEN HAD A TRAFFIC TICKET, was sent to federal prison for more than two years for my first offense, an offense that was deemed a financial crime. I was doing more time than someone in a state case who commits rape or, in some cases, even murder.
Once I took the plea, the few people I had let know what was going on ceased all contact with me. Occasionally I would get a letter from my mother, I had one friend who got in touch toward the end of my sentence, and there was one aunt who sent letters, but that was it. I told myself that it was just too difficult for those who had been close to me to deal with the fact that I was going to be in prison for two years. (I got no letters from my business partner.) Some say I'm being far too generous in extending the benefit of the doubt in that way, but I suppose it's easier for me to believe that than to believe that I was so inconsequential as to be so easily dismissed upon the discovery of my predicament. I will, however, say this:
There were drug addicts who had cost their famies everything they owned... their homes, vehicles, livelihoods, even their health in the case of manufacturing methamphetamine. They still got visits and letters and phone calls and moral support. I'll end my discussion on that subject there.
The two years I spent in custody were not quite like you might picture them... definitely not like they show on television or in the movies. (There is, by the way, no such thing as club fed. Federal prisons are, for the most part in my experience, filthy, dilapidated, unhealthy facilities.) Nonetheless, there were not many "rough" people there. There were a lot of grandmothers who were there for ridiculous things. Maybe their grandsons were dealing pot out of the basement and the feds decided they were guilty as well. Maybe they cashed a few social security checks belonging to their husband after he died to help cover funeral costs.
And then there was the nun. She was there for six months for protesting the Iraqi war on federal property. Americans could, for six months, sleep more soundly at night knowing that at least one less nun would be putting her foot on taxpayer-owned property in protest of a war funded by taxpayer money, regardless of the taxpayer's wishes. Who cares that we owe trillions of dollars in debt. We can always spare $25,000 or so of taxpayer money to lock up a peace-loving, non-violent nun!
America. Fuck, Yeah.
Two years is a relatively short sentence compared to those serving ten years or more for drug or gun crimes, yet I was completely unable to handle the outside world when I was first released.
There was no one there to pick me up. I was given a one-way ticket on a Greyhound bus to the city where I was to serve three years on federal supervision. I was theoretically free, but in reality, not free at all.
Somehow, I managed to get through it. During that time, I made new friends, saved a man's life, happened upon the nun as she was protesting the war again (though this time she was careful where she let her foot land) and then a few months later I got robbed at gunpoint working the only job I could find as a newly-released convicted felon.
Score:
Anxiety/O.C.D./P.T.S.D. = 1,000
Me: = minus 13
Lest you think I'm made of nothing but doom and gloom, you should know that I found a lot of humor in my circumstances. While I was imprisoned I created comic strips for the entertainment of my fellow inmates, and once released I developed a stand-up routine based on prison life. If you can't live well, laughter is the best revenge.
I don't look at my prison experience as something to be ashamed of. I wear it like a badge of honor... that anyone can survive so many horrific experiences at the hands of "power-trippin' trash", (government employees devoid of ethics to the point that others who work with them end up quitting in disgust), says a lot about my strength of character, regardless of what documents are contrived to tell a different story.
I try not to be bitter. I tell myself the feds and all involved had good intentions, that they truly believed they were doing the right thing. That's what I tell myself.
Some who will read this will discover my "secret" for the first time in doing so. It's not that I feel the need to hide this very potent part of my past, but "coming out" is something I haven't quite mastered yet. Of course, now, I can just point everyone to my blog. That's much easier than trying to figure out how to tell someone "Oh, by the way, I'm a convicted felon who did two years in federal prison, but I promise, I won't shank you!"
Yes. I love the humor in it all. There is hope in humor.
I also find hope in the fact that my 88-year-old grandfather, who was widowed last year, is getting remarried. My uncle finally was able to marry his lifelong partner, Jim, after 20+ years together. (They live in Massachusetts.) I now have a two-year old nephew. Life goes on.
And now, I'm finally blogging again. Oh, dear blog. How I have missed you!
"Don't trust anyone who tells you not to look back. That's where most of your lessons are!" --Angie Max
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