The Golden Rule & A Lesson Learned

Facebook once again reminded me of an event in my past via their “memories” feature and that was the car accident I was in exactly four years ago…

A Righteous Revival

The sickening sound of crunching metal and breaking glass was deafening, sending David and I into a minor shock as our brand new Mazda 3 went spinning at a ninety-degree angle before coming to a complete stop in the middle of Ocean Avenue’s three-lane traffic.  Sitting in the passenger seat, I had already braced myself for the impending impact by hanging on tightly to the handle of the roof’s interior as I saw the Taxi SUV coming.  Unfortunately, David had not seen it coming when he went to make a U-turn.

It was the night before our cross-country move to Los Angeles.  We had just picked up our brand new car in the Bronx, at David’s sister’s house, where we had parked it the last couple of weeks after purchasing it.  With merely sixty miles on its odometer, we drove up our street in Brooklyn.  We both excitedly saw a…

View original post 1,329 more words

#ICANTKEEPQUIET

My face was half an inch from a gentleman’s armpit as two Italian nationals used me as their subway pole and the entire car sang “Three little Birds” by Bob Marley. We were on the red line from North Hollywood to Pershing Square, the starting point for Saturday’s Women’s March in Los Angeles and we were packed in like sardines, reminiscent of my New York City commuter days during rush hour.

It’s moments like this I wish I was taller,” I commented to my friend who began singing Skee-Lo’s one hit wonder as the unusually tall man behind her chuckled. Bob Marley turned into “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen and a young man standing near the doors began feeling faint. Strangers all around him started fanning him with their makeshift signs, offering him water, and making certain of his wellbeing.

When we finally reached Pershing Square and the peaceful crowd exited the train, this man escaped onto the less crowded platform, making his way to a bench where he could breathe a little deeper. My friend and I approached him to ensure that he wasn’t alone and that he didn’t need anything. His friend arrived shortly thereafter.

Upon exiting the subway, we were greeted by a large chunk of the Los Angeles population – 750,000 strong, we marched through the streets of downtown Los Angeles chanting, “My body, my choice” while the men responded, “Her body, her choice!” Creative signs and costumes abound from a colorful drawing of the vagina with the words, “GET vagucated” to “Make the White House black again” to simpler and more to the point signage including one of my favorites: “EQUALITY is better than great!” I have never been more proud to be an Angeleno or a woman than I was this past Saturday. The positive energy and motivation was palpable and it instilled in me the kind of hope that I needed after the last couple of months of this tumultuous, political climate.

20170121_11314320170121_112223

My friend and I walked a mile each way to and from the subway that day. We stood on the train platform for an hour and a half before cozying up really close to perfect strangers, and we trudged through an excessively muddy lawn in Grand Park along with thousands of other human beings that day. We conversed with eighty-year-old Herb from New York and his wife who used to actively work for the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) during the civil rights movement. She felt very passionate about defending what she fought so hard for decades ago.

20170121_091409

The following day, I called Paul Ryan’s office to profess my opposition to the repeal of the Affordable Care Act (ACA) only to be met with an automated “this mailbox is full” message and I proudly donated to the ACLU. This is only the beginning and just as Bob wrote so many years ago, “Rise up this mornin’ / Smiled with the risin’ sun… / Don’t worry about a thing / ‘Cause every little thing gonna be alright…”

If you want to call Paul Ryan’s office and declare your opinion regarding ACA, call either (202) 225-3031 or (202) 225-0600 or if you’d like to donate to the ACLU, please click on the link below.

https://action.aclu.org/secure/make-tax-deductible-gift-aclu-foundation-0

And I’d like to leave you with this performance that took place at Washington D.C.’s women’s march organized and written by Los Angeles based artist, MILCK. #icantkeepquiet

http://www.npr.org/sections/allsongs/2017/01/23/511186649/a-flash-mob-choir-at-the-womens-march-turned-this-unknown-song-into-an-anthem

Imaginary Friends, Pt. V – The Birds and the Bullets

My neighbor shot me in the back three times with a BB gun when I was about eight years old. I was standing on the corner of our front lawn with Hitler’s wet dream and the strange chick from a few houses down. We were using our imaginations, probably playing some version of what the Midwest kids called, “house.”

The first shot hurt badly and I remember continuing whatever make-believe I was in the midst of. After the second shot, which hit me directly in the same place as the first, I began to imagine there must be a bird pecking at my back. I have no idea what brought this imagery to mind. Perhaps it was the simple fact that I’d never experienced this kind of pain before or that I’d just finished watching Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds with my mother and a bullet was the furthest thing from my young mind. I still didn’t move or tell my friends what was happening, though by the third shot that hit, again, in the same spot, they could see the discomfort on my face. They asked what was wrong as I began to cry. I bolted inside, seeking my parents.

“My back, my back,” I was shouting in between sobs and trying to reach the wound, twisting my dominant right arm behind my back, unsuccessfully.

Both my mother and father were telling me to calm down as they sat me on their bedroom floor and lifted up my shirt to investigate. I began retelling the situation and it didn’t take more than five seconds before my dad quickly stood up, muttering angry f-bombs as he stormed out into the warm, summer air.

“Rick! Where are you going,” my mother yelled after him. My dad didn’t stop, but responded, “Call the police! This motherfucker shot her with a BB gun!” By “this motherfucker,” he meant the neighbor boy across the street that we’ll call David because, well, that was his name.

By the time my mother had dialed 9-1-1, my dad was already pounding on David’s parent’s front door, demanding, audibly from our home, “Open the fuckin’ door you son of a bitch before I break it down.” He could be seen pacing from the door to the living room window while continually shouting his demands. Obviously, the parents weren’t home and there was no way David had the balls to open that door.

I am uncertain how my dad was so certain that it was the juvenile delinquent neighbor or that he knew it was a BB gun I had been shot with. David must have made his character evident prior to shooting me and my dad was an army brat, after all.

All of us were relieved that the police showed up before my dad got his wish and got inside. It may very well had been my dad in handcuffs in the back of the cop car instead of David had my dad broken down the door. I recall my dad even saying, “I have no idea what I was gonna do if they’d opened the door.” My dad wanted blood that day and that may be one of the more telling moments in my young life where I could see how much my dad loved me and how far he was willing to go to protect me.

The three BB gun bullets broke the skin, but thankfully, because it was from far range, they did not penetrate. I don’t even have a physical scar. My parents didn’t press charges, but David was required to personally apologize for his actions in front of the police and my parents. When questioned on the reasoning behind his actions, his response was, “Because I wanted to see what would happen if I shot a living thing.” My brother became friends with my attacker some time after the incident, which didn’t last long as David was later arrested and sent to juvenile hall for beating up a handicapped kid.

This is the part where I’m supposed to talk about how it made me feel that my brother would befriend the person who had shot his sister. Like shit. The end.

Imaginary Friends, Pt. IV – Sara

When I was about ten years old, I had little girl, big dreams of one day modeling. One of the only girls near my age in the neighborhood who lived a few houses down from my parent’s told me that there’s no way I could ever model with all of the cuts, bruises, and scars I had all over my slender, tanned legs. She was blonde haired, blue-eyed, taller and skinnier than I – basically had the kind of looks my mother would deem Hitler’s wet dream. Mama had jokes.

This girl, who we’ll call Sara, and I spent quite a lot of time together but none of that time ever went by without her telling me how she was better than me in some way or how much of a crush she had on my brother. *rolls eyes* She already had an agent and if I wanted even a slim chance at modeling, I’d have to strive for unblemished, shaven legs like hers. She would remind me of this while running her manicured hand up and down her pale, smooth leg, even insisting I touch them once or twice. I don’t even think I was shaving yet.

“Uh huh, okay Sara,” I would repeat and nod my head, often trying to change the subject but nonetheless, feeling poorly about the many bicycle and skateboarding accidents that were visible upon my inferior limbs.

After my mother took me to a local modeling agency and I was told I was too short for anything aside from catalog, I decided dancing was more up my ally anyway and those slender legs were no more! From there, I became a cheerleader and practiced both for six years. To this day, I have scars from some of the more severe accidents I had as a child, playing outdoors, I have curves and strong muscles in places I never would have known existed had I not become a dancer, and I wouldn’t change a single thing about any of it. Okay, that’s not true, but my thigh cellulite is irrelevant to this story.

I have no idea what became of Sara – the only thing I know is that she became a mother at a very young age, but we had lost touch by then. I recall my mother often asking why I hung out with her. She probably smelled the bad news from five houses down whereas I know I smelled it but I just wanted to hang out with someone aside from the strange chick three houses down or Memo, Tebo, and Julie at that point.

Imaginary Friends Pt. III

Memo, Tebo, and Julie eventually became my best friends. Sure, I had actual, tangible friends – I wasn’t really a loner at school or in other social situations, but at home, I definitely was.

Between my mother’s understandable desire for “adult time” and my brother’s obvious disdain for his younger sister’s presence, Memo, Tebo, and Julie were really my only choice. Of course, there was also Barbie and Ken. The thing about Barbie, though, was that I had nothing in common with her, nor did I ever have some warped sense of “I need to look like her.” My mother was very good at making me feel good about my external beauty, as well as my internal, but even when the world and my peers were telling me there was something wrong with me, some sort of flaw or imperfection unfit for a fashion magazine or even a third grade yearbook photo, my mother was there assuring me otherwise. She was instilling the confidence I’d need to navigate a society that constantly tells an impressionable young woman what she should strive to attain in terms of outward beauty. Most of the time, these impositions are unrealistic.

In the third grade, the teacher placed our yearbook photos face up on our desks as I had gotten up to grab my belongings at the coat rack. As I spun around to return to my desk, a crowd of students had gathered around my desk, their stubby, little eight-year-old fingers pointing down at what was obviously my yearbook photo, their childish snickers audible from across the room. I reluctantly approached to see what the fuss was and there I was – buck-toothed and shut-eyed, smiling from ear to ear against a wicker backdrop, resembling a beaver more than ever before – the rodent my brother had likened me to at every chance he got.

The hot tears instantly reared their wet, ugly heads in the corners of my eyes as I pushed my way through the mean-spirited crowd, quickly flipping the photo over, and becoming angry with the teacher for placing them face up. My third-grade self needed someone to be angry with and I’d found the culprit as fast as the camera had found my Bugs Bunny smile.

My brother spent much of my single digit youth reminding me of the animal I most closely resembled and attempting to break me down. He was admittedly jealous of me his entire life and his deliberate insults were most likely a product of this complex emotion. At such an early age, though, I couldn’t piece those correlations together quite yet, so my brother’s affection and approval was continually sought even after he would chuck a basketball at my chest so hard, it would knock the wind out of me. His cute friend scolding him for throwing it so aggressively was a nice solace in a moment of such direct disapproval from someone I desperately looked up to.

It took me exactly thirty-two years to fully realize that behavior is more telling in matters of family than blood. And for thirty-two years, my brother’s behavior has told me that he doesn’t want me to be a part of his life. Perhaps the ultimate telling of this revelation was this past Christmas, my thirty-second birthday, when he failed to wish me a happy birthday. I was in Peru, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt as I’ve done so many times in the past, and thought I’d surely come home to a greeting card. I didn’t. My first thought was that for thirty-one years, he was always the first one to wish me a “Happy Birthday” in my immediate family. My second thought was that I should have realized the first time he called me beaver he wasn’t someone I should be looking up to.