Old School Southern Racism and the New Southern Shame

Any Caucasian, born in the 50's or 60's to a southern household who reports he or she has never heard or stated the "N" word is telling an untruth. The south was still segregated during these times.  Even into the 70's there were parts of small southern towns deemed as the nigger quarters. Get real folks and lets talk real about this subject.  If we demonize all of these individuals we would be demonizing an entire culture.   However, we were taught not to use the "N" word as it was insulting and hurtful. 

When riding through a small town to visit our family, in the rural south where my daddy was raised, while he was on leave, my sister questioned a sign she saw on the local laundry mat.  The sign read, "Whites Only."   My sister asked where people washed their colored clothes.  Our dad laughed then started explaining the ways of the south.  He also told us there was such a thing as the concept of white niggers.  To my dad this word did not define a race but a type of person.  Being raised on small military bases we never felt race.  Daddy had friends of all colors and nationalities and so did we.  We might have four different races in one stairwell of six families.  One of my neighbors, who happened to be a soul brother told me that if we could put all my freckles on one arm, I could be a soul sister.  I felt no insult by the remark. 

My daddy's father was of Scottish descent and his mother was half Creek Indian.  His daddy was from northwest Florida and his mother's ancestry were from tribes in Georgia removed and relocated to Southeast Alabama under the Indian Removal Act.  My family lineage knows a little something about prejudice.  Perhaps there is something in the DNA that helps with the empathy factor depending on ancestry life experience.  However, my education leads me to believe life experience is more apt to shape empathy or prejudice.  I have always had empathy for others and I am one racially mixed up individual.  Once, while in an undergraduate sociology class a professor informed me I could never understand the social injustice done to African Americans.  I considered that a great personal insult to my American Indian roots and my African American roots that he could not see and I felt no need to explain.  My great great grandfather is listed in the African Americans of Robeson County North Carolina.  

It is high time that race gets out of the closet just like sexual preference. There would be a lot less profiling if it were a subject we did not tiptoe around. I moved to the south in the 70s and was in severe culture shock for me personally. The youth of America need to feel free to discuss their feelings without persecution.  Why can't people simply try a little harder to understand one another?  I do not get it.  Why can't a white person understand the fear a young black man expresses or the frustration of his father?

While watching CNN Headline News, I happened upon a report by Ryan Smith.  At the time of this writing he was conducting interviews with three fathers and sons concerning their feelings about the George Zimmerman Second Degree Murder Trial.  One of the father/son pairs was black, one was Hispanic, and one was white.  (He will continue to interview these three fathers and sons during the entire trial which is just under way and is expected to last several weeks.)  Out of the three, the white father seemed utterly clueless concerning racial issues.

For example, one statement was made concerning the black man's fear for his sons future.  He was raising his son with the knowledge that  would have to work harder than a white man to get as far as a white man in life.  The white man asked why since we now have a black president did he not feel that pressure was gone?  Wow, one half black, half white, raised in Hawaii, Harvard Educated man made it to President of the United States has now leveled the playing fields between these two races of blacks and whites.  Isn't that nice.  If this is a representative sample of our nation, I am just as sickened by this attitude as I was by the black professor who felt I could not understand, empathize, relate, or in any way speculate what another race felt when persecuted because I did not share that color of skin.

Websters online dictionary defines empathy as

the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts, and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner; also : the capacity for this

If humans have the capacity for empathy, then it must be assumed, that we can understand the actions of George Zimmerman have increased the fear of profiling for young black men.  In my opinion, it may not be the traditional Paula Dean's of the south that would do harm to these hoodie wearers, but the newer settlers to the south; the new racists.  Tell it like it is.  There are racists of all skin tones but the majority may not be Caucasian any more.  When he, Mr. Zimmerman, was talking on his phone to the 911 operator he defines Trayvon Martin as a black male in his late teens.  The transcripts of this discussion can be found at http://www.documentcloud.org/documents/326700-full-transcript-zimmerman.html There are many derogatory statements made towards the young man in my opinion, Travon, was responding like an animal being tracked by a hound.  

Mr. Zimmerman's handgun made him feel a little stronger than he actually was.  He took on a younger man that was physically stronger than him.  Trayvon would have won a natural fight.  Trayvon was not in a position to go after the gun or see the gun as reported by Zimmerman.  George did not forget he had a gun as he suggests.  Trayvon was murdered plain and simple because George in a fit of wanna-be-cop, little-man, macho man, racists stupidity, he took on this younger and stronger boy and also took this young man's life. 

As I stated previously, there is a new racist in town and and may not originate from the deep south.   That is not to say that racists do not remain here either.  The world is full of these racists both the old and new and they are not to be eradicated any time soon without serious intervention. 

I am a board certified behavior analyst.  I believe that the science of behavior analysis can be used to battle these unwanted behaviors and change the world in which we live. 
(Cynthia Boyd, M.S., B.C.B.A)

Calling Sembach AFB Brats 1968-70 age 10 through 13

Some of my favorite memories were left behind on a small military base in Germany.  It was there I got my first kiss.  Met my first really sweet boyfriend and left that puppy love behind.  It was while stationed on this base my Father became the true Mr. Mom as he moved all five kids to this base without their mother.  She chose to stay behind to do her thing.  She was a go-go dancer.  She preferred the night life to mother hood.  It is my honest belief that some women do not have a mother gene; they simply do not have the maternal gene that connects them to their baby.  That is another story for another time.  Moving from base to base can be hard on military children and they often start in new schools every two to three years.  This system may have changed since my childhood, however back in the day, we moved every or three two years.

By the time my father retired, I had attended six schools by the age of 15 on 6 different bases or towns depending on whether my dad got base housing or if we were waiting on base housing and were given base housing in the middle of a school year or lost base housing due to siblings leaving to marry or deciding to live with mother.  The only life long friends I had were my family and even this was off and on.  Friends were made and lost.  This again is another story for another time.  While in Germany, we were five children and a Daddy.  Dad took us to the NCO (non commissioned officers club) club for dancing, skeet shooting, eating out, and just about any event that was being held.  Dad would sometimes have a bit too much to drink and get in a fight from time to time.  Sometimes these fights were at the club, sometimes at a party held at a private home, sometimes at our home.  Parties or drinking became an event to be feared.  He was not a pleasant drinker; stay out of dad's way when he had too many.  He would pick a fight with a saint on Christmas day if full of Spirits. Dad was a binge drinker.  Once he started he would not stop until he passed out.  However, he never missed a days work due to drinking.  Once Dad and all several friends had one to many and cut each others hair.  They did not take their hats off for a long time.  Dad got the best cut out of that deal.  Dad was always working on deals. 

Dad bought a sewing machine and started fixing our clothes.  My younger sisters and I joined the girl scouts.  My younger sister was a Brownie.  When she went to her meeting, the leader asked her who fixed her uniform.  My daddy had hemmed her uniform with a zigzag stitch.  Both of them were so proud of his accomplishment.  The zigzag was his favorite stitch and he used it for everything.  My sister told this lady her daddy had fixed it.  When this same lady then inquired where her mother was, my sister told her that her mother had died.  The lady continued to be nosy.  She asked her from what her mother had died?  My sister told her she died of a divorce.  This is what the seven year old mind concocted at the time.  Divorce was almost unheard of back then, and being a single father raising five children drew open mouth stares.

We were unsupervised and constantly getting Dad into trouble because we made too much notice in our apartment which was on the second floor.   The "stairwell" leader was always getting us for some kind of infraction.  There was one particular rule that got us into trouble all the time.  In order to go into the basement to do laundry a person had to be over 16.  This meant that Dad was the only one that could legally do the laundry for six people.  My brother and I would often sneak down to start the laundry, move it to the driers, then run it upstairs trying not to get caught.  But more often than not, some dogooder would tell on us and our daddy would get in trouble because his perfectly capable children were trying to help him.  I was only eleven and he would have been thirteen.  We were daddy's helpers.  But being daddy's helpers got daddy into trouble.  Being without guidance did lead to some habits that I would have preferred not to have developed.  I followed my older siblings lead and started smoking.

I developed one special friendship.  All I can remember is she was blond, had one sister, and a mother and father.  I was able to spend time with their family.  They invited me to go off base with them on holiday one weekend and I went them.  This was my first experience with what a typical family might look like and act like I developed a migraine.  I was impressed and longed to be in a family like that.  When her mother found out I smoked, she was no longer allowed to be my friend.  While I understood her mother's intention, I disagree strongly with her reaction.  This family had such an impact on me I think they could have influenced me in a more positive direction.   This mom should have talked to me directly and explained to me the reasons why smoking was bad rather than simply telling her daughter she could not be my friend if I continued to smoke.  I perceived myself to not be good enough for her family, it had nothing to do with the smoking.  I would love to meet this family now.  I don't smoke and I am surely good enough. 

Winter in Germany was a wonderland.  We would build igloos and have snowball wars.  Some how we never got cold.  I cannot imagine how we survived.  We each had sleds and would play all day every day we were not in school.  Christmas time was amazing.  Lights and colors everywhere.  Picture windows painted with amazing scenes.  The first year we bought a kit to paint our window.  It turned out beautiful.  The second year be used the same template and bought the paint.  It ran down the first time we had to turn on the heat.  We bought the wrong kind of paint.  Oh, the mess we had to clean up.  Our balcony was covered in that slimy paint.

I started to develop an interest in boys while in Germany.  My first boyfriends name was Tommy.  He was so cute, sweet, and just a straight up good guy.  When we left Germany I left this puppy love behind.  His daddy was an officer.  I wonder where he is now.  I bet he joined the military and was an officer himself.  So, if while your parents were stationed in Germany and you happened to know an awkward girl that went by the name Cindy Harrison or one of her siblings Connie, Mike, Kay, Sharri, or her Daddy Master Sergeant Hurtis King Harrison.  Give us a Shout out.  Let's reminisce, or if you were there and just want to share memories of Sembach back in the day that's fine too. There was no better place to be a teen!

One Old Gal, Small Tools, and a lot of Will

My dad cut his lawn on a near daily basis.  When he would cut my Aunt Myrtle's lawn she would yell, "Hurt, don't you cut any of my flowers," and she would watch him with bated breath ready to come to aide her prized possessions should they lose life or limb under the blades of that push mower under the power of my father.  However, dad was careful, and never that I saw, took the life of any of her loved ones.  My father and my aunt had pride in their yards and took care of the land.  Dad had about a half acre across the street from my aunts two acres.  Dad had originally bought that half acre for his mother and had her a house moved onto it.  You would never find trash, limbs, or anything out of place in these yards.  The grass was always neatly trimmed, the azaleas pruned, the rose bushes and other flowering trees cleared of dead or wilting blooms.  They passed down this trait to me. 

My Daddy's Mother Carley Jackson Harrison and Me Cindy Harrison

Aunt Myrle's yard was full of flowers, mostly Azaleas.  Most of the tall pines were taken out by a freak snow storm in 1973.  I swear that snow followed us from South Dakota to welcome us to the south.  My father had been stationed there prior to his retirement which brought us to his home in Opp, Alabama.  Oh what a culture shock.  Aunt Myrtle affectionately called us that motherless bunch. We consisted of three girls, a blond, a brunette, and one with silk black hair.  Quite the trio we were.  Not a one of us favored a bit.  But, at that time we were sisters and family.  That is another story for another time.  Throughout our childhood when Dad could take leave, he would bring us to visit Aunt Myrtle and she would dote on us.  She fed us boiled peanuts, fresh preserves, tomato gravy, homemade biscuits, and I loved her cooking.  I loved her. I loved visiting her, she made me feel special.  She would send me a small present or a card with a dollar on my birthday.  She was that one person that I knew loved me.

(It is a fact that if a child raised under extreme circumstances has one person that believes in him or her and that child feels the love or support from that person, that child has a better chance of overcoming the odds and turning out alright.  I can chalk my success to my Aunt Myrtle.  I know, as a child when I felt no one else cared, she loved me.)

My Aunt myrtle suffered what we thought was a stroke in the fall of 1975.  It turned out to be brain cancer.  After surgery and rehab, she died in the summer of 1976.  I took care of her until that day.  I was pregnant with my first child and was with her when she took her last breath.  That was the first death I had ever witnessed first hand.  The elder women in the area said I had marked my unborn child.  To this day, I wonder if that were true. Yet again, another story for another time.  Dad inherited her land,  house, and all possessions.  My dad died in 1993.  He also had brain cancer, lung cancer, pancreatic cancer, bone cancer, etc. I had by that time moved out of Alabama.  Dad had decided to stay with me when his cancer was deemed incurable and all treatment was stopped.  He only lived about two weeks after the doctors stopped treatment.  It was a sad time. 

Daddy had a will written.  He willed his one half acre and his house to my son.  He split Myrtles land and house between the five children.  Before he slipped into the diabetic coma from which he did not emerge, he told me he did not mind dying but he did not want to leave me and Brandon.  You see, I have a disabled son.  Brandon was run over by a drunk driver, and I had been unable to work after his accident due to his care and the way medicaid was structured at that time.  My dad helped me financially and emotionally.  He also helped me with my daughters.  He loved them like a rock.  He made them feel special.  He is the reason for their success.  I loved my Daddy.  He was at ease in my home and chose to live and die there with me because he had trust in me.

My brother, who was raised by my mother had decided to move to daddy's town as an adult after his divorce and then decided to take charge of everything and let the land go to hell.  Him and my sister went through everything my Daddy owned and the only thing I received was my childhood passport.  My father's house burned down at some point.  I was never told.  Aunt Myrtles barn is no where to be found.  Her house is falling down.  My brother and one sister, who was not my father's biological child destroyed the will and claimed there was none.  They have held the land in probate all these years.  They think they deserve something for nothing. My brother was born a Jr. and changed his name.  After a DUI he went by his original birth certificate to get a drivers license in another state.  This was before states shared info on DUI's.  He did not want my fathers name.  And he wonders why Daddy did not bring out that fatted cow.  Plus the fact he helped mom steal his babes.  Oh, yet another story for another time.  He spews venom at me to ease his own guilt.   I did not choose to live in this small town.  I moved away in 1985.  But the land called me back. 

I hold a Masters Degree in Psychology with an Emphasis in Behavior Analysis I am a behavior analyst.  In 2009 and 2010 I suffered strokes and at the present time cannot work due to my medical conditions left by the stroke and my blood disorder that caused the stroke.  So, I had to leave Maui and my children behind and return to my daddy's land.  Upon returning I discovered the land in this chaos.

My brother, it turns out was a slum lord.  He rented to people without providing adequate upkeep of the house.  It is my belief the landlord should provide certain things like garbage pickup.  It is my belief the landlord should also check on the property at regular intervals.  My brother did not.  The people that rented or stayed in my Aunt Myrtles home destroyed not only the house but the entire land it resides upon.  There is not one square yard that does not contain some part of a car, piece of glass, a tin can, a brick or some other piece of trash that has to be picked up or dug up out of the land. Hole after hole contains burn pits where these idiots burned their trash including items that would not burn such as glass jars and tin cans when one hole would fill up they would just move to another one. 

Bricks, are everywhere for no reason.  just thrown randomly throughout the property.  Could not explain that until one day I was working on the back of Myrtle's house and realized they had removed her double chimney.  All these bricks must be the remnants of that that chimney.  Why they are all over the land is another mystery which may never be solved.  I have never seen such disregard for property in my life.  A simple monthly check on the land could have prevented this atrocity.

My brother's wife claims we owe him over ten-thousand dollars for the money he has put into the estate, mostly Aunt Myrtles house.  I think he owes the estate for the missing barn, the gutting of Aunt Myrtles house, the entire house of my fathers.  Plus the money he received in rent over the years.  And the fact that the entire three acres is over grown with weeds, unwanted trees, and vines.  So my dear brother, if you happen upon this page, you need to repay the estate for the misuse of our father's estate under your care.  

My father and I used to work the land together.  It became therapy.  We would dig up the ground and plant a winter flower garden in October.  This is not hard to do in Northwest Florida.  At that time I lived in Crestview, Florida.  We might plant a tree, or ornamental shrubs, or cabbage, but we would do something to take our minds off of the month that hurt us so deeply.  No one understood the bond between me and my Dad.  Especially my brother. 

My brother owned a hardware store in which he would hire my Dad to work.  However, he would not pay him any wages for fear he might give me some of his earnings.  Dad would tell me he did not feel comfortable taking a soda from the cooler.  My brother was an ass.  I really hope he wakes up and becomes a better man one day.  Daddy was not always a good man.  But he became a great man.  My children only knew a great man.  They thought their grand father could walk on water.  Unfortunately not all my siblings got to know this great man.  My Dad would spend the night at my brother's house but end up sleeping in his truck.  Dad told me that my brother's wife got onto him for cutting the butter on the wrong end.  Who knew butter had a correct end.  My poor Daddy.  He could not win for losing.  He just wanted us all to get along. 

The week before his health went down hill he said it broke his heart to see himself in his son.  The drinking and the meanness.  He told me that he told my big brother to be good to me because he might need me one day.  Boy howdy, that went in one ear and out the other.   No matter.  If he will just leave me alone.  Let me and my son live out our days on this land all will be well.  My children, as far as I know, have no desire for it.  I don't know about my grand children, that is yet to be determined. 

From the day I reluctantly came from Maui and stepped foot on this land I have felt at home.  Not that I would not rather be back in Maui but being here is not so bad if this is where I must be.  Aunt Myrtle talks to me, or I talk to her.  She makes me smile.  I told her to go get Daddy cause I think I left him in Crestview. 

Entire Property is overgrown.  Cannot even see where a house once stood.  SAD.  

When I was cleaning up his fence row, he came to me in a song.  It was a song by Richie Havens I was fighting with vines I am sure had roots straight to hell the lyrics are:
We all know now that somewhere
The weather is something that is right
Someone there that keeps all from knowing
We all feel that some day we will finally win this fight
For today is the day that the mighty wind is blowing
You are not to blame for anything you did not do
We all know the scoundrels have our numbers
And you are not responsible for everything they did to you
Today is the day that we will learn more truth
Talk about, giving
Talk about, living
Talk about, giving now
You cannot hide from anyone who is staring in your eyes
We all know the scoundrels are through the roofs
And will not stand inside the stampede of their lies
For todays the today we all come up from under

I was blown away.  I felt his presence.  I knew he understood how hard I was working to get things right with the land and the family.  And I also knew there were some things that were just not possible.  I was simply not responsible for anything I did not do.  

I have small tools, I have improving but poor health, I have a great will to make this place beautiful.  I have found two azaleas, two camellias, and three rose bushes in all the overgrowth.  I have cut down tons (may be an exaggeration) of overgrowth with much more to go.  It may take the rest of my life, but it is a worthwhile goal.  My son enjoys picking up the sticks the wind blows out of the trees.  He is a true and faithful helper!  My body and mind will not let me be what I was, but I can be what I am! 

First of the two azaleas found!

First of two Camillias found!

My feelings and insight are what I remember to be true.  Others may not see things as I do and they are entitled to their point of view.  However, they are not entitled to rewrite history to clear their conscience.  

My Helper!  Always wanting to do a Job!

Finally See The Road!

Clearing the Overgrowth. 

Always working together

Happy Birthday Mom

My Mother turned 80 on June 4th of this year. My mom was in her late 20s when I was born. I am the third of seven children by three men and two marriages of which both occurred during the same time frame.  Quite talented back in the day.  One thing my mom did not and does not have a talent for is loving  me.  It is as if I have some great character flaw or physical attribute that is or was unlovable. Perhaps it is my over-sized feet or forehead or my excess weight which she constantly mentions. Regardless, at the age of 55, she recently reminded me on the phone, after an apology for saying hurtful things, that she owed me nothing!  No shit  Sherlock!

When I was eight years old, I overheard her telling my Daddy "take these kids and get them the hell out of my hair,"  what a clue.  Hell, she even gave him her bastard she had conceived while he was on temporarily duty in Japan.  Yes, she was and is a piece of work both then and now.  She threw us away and the only person in the world that cared about us caught us with open arms.  However, she also taught some of us that it is ok to throw children away.  Way to go mom!

Daddy was not perfect.  What parent is? She accused him of everything under the son to make herself  feel better. Yes, he was an alcoholic, so were her parents, so her children carry a double risk.   Daddy died years ago, he was my rock.  My children loved him. They tolerate my mother because I love her.  Why I love her I do not know.  I think I am emotionally stunted still trying to win her love which will never happen.

She has already informed me that my youngest  half-sister will inherit everything because she is the only child that chose to stay with her.  Well, I think the most appropriate statement would be that she is the only child that had no where else to go.

So here's to my mom in her 80th year. May she somehow learn to forgive and love her children equally.  She brought them into this world each helpless and expecting nothing. To this day I expect nothing, but I am far from helpless.  I really love you mom. 

Small town USA: Mistakes and Retakes?

 

The following is a condensed version of a part of my life from 1975 to current.  Some names are changed to protect the guilty.  My son and I are who we are.  I have added pictures of the two of us.  Current events have led me to write this blog.  I hope both humor and sarcasm can be found in this writing.



When I was 18, I had my first child.  I was young and alone.  An unwed mother in small town USA.   Labeled by some a whore; even the father.  According to the father, "she slept with so many I don't know who the father is."  This was quoted to me by the social worker assigned to  my case as I was getting state funds to pay for the deliver my child.  Even in the 70's the state would attempt to get the biological father to pay child support.  When I heard these words my world shattered.  Never, in my young 18 years did I expect to hear these words.  Had I expected that response, I would not have given his name, I would have claimed ignorance and given myself the label rather than have him give it to me.   I was in love with the man that had given me that label and now those words were written in permanent files in state records.  Lovely.  Hideous.  Hurtful.  Searing Pain.  I had never been hurt so deeply in my young adult life.  This story gets worse.  Trust me.  much worse.

I was raised by my dad.  He was the original Mr. Mom and "sex" was taboo in our household.  I only had one real date and after that I was never allowed to date again.  Nothing went wrong.  The date was GREAT.  Thanks T.E.  may you R.I.P.  Dad just freaked out and dates were then outlawed so I had to sneak out on all future dates.  Yep, the world of sneaking officially began.   During the fall of 1975 my dad's older sister, Aunt Myrtle, was diagnosed with Brain cancer.  She was sent to a hospital about two hours away and I was elected to stay with her.  Every thing was fine between me and sperm donor name caller (from here on out to be referred to as Name Caller).  At this point I must remind my readers that there were no cell phones back then and long distance rates were outlandish so there was simply no communication during emergencies like this, when you were dating a jerk, but this is hind site speaking, I was in love. I digress.  From November to January, I spent most of my time in Pensacola Florida.  I did not hear a word from Mr. Name Caller in all of December or January.

In January I started getting so sick, I racked it up to stress due to driving back and forth to Pensacola and the stress of Aunt Myrtle's brain surgery and lack of sleep.  I had not bothered to realize I had skipped a couple of periods.  Well, I soon realized I was pregnant.  And soon after discovered that my beloved had returned to his ex who was also pregnant.  BOMBSHELL.  Had to tell daddy.

Daddy did not take the news so well.  He was crushed and I could not stand the disappointment I saw in his face.  I moved to my mother's home in Louisiana.  While living with my mom, I received a letter from Name Caller.  He indicated we could work out our relationship and he wanted the child.  I returned to my Daddy's home.  Things did not work out with Name Caller as I recall by the time I got back he had another girl friend or had went back to the same one again.  This guy had no problem jumping from girl to girl.  I wanted to save the letter as proof for my child that he was not conceived in a one night stand but my future husband found it years later and destroyed it.  What makes men so stupid?  I guess that is an over generalization.  What makes most men so stupid?   My daddy (PaPa) received me back into his home with open arms and the idea of being a grandparent appealed to him.  I love my dad.  He passed away in 1993.  He was my rock.  He supported me in all ways.   In fact, while in the hospital after giving birth to my son, he told me he was proud of the way I held my head up throughout my pregnancy.  He was the greatest grandfather too.  My grown children are convinced he walked on water. 

So back to the Name Caller.  I took my son to see him after he was born to let him see that he looked just like him.  I soon married a good man.  A man that took my son for his own.  After I married,  Name Caller decided he would accept my son as his own, but I had not listed him on the birth certificate, I put, "father unknown," just as had reported himself.  So there was no proof of paternity.  I asked the social worker what I could do to stop him.  She said my husband could adopt.  So lickity-split, my then husband adopted him and it was a sealed adoption.  If the father is not known, there is no one to contest.  It was done.  His daddy was now known.  I was no longer a whore and Brandon was legitimate.  There you go! 

Forward several years:

I now had three children Brandon and his two sisters.  Happy little family.  I had a strong desire to get my son away from all half siblings running around the county.  Brandon and his sisters had been raised knowing that he was adopted by daddy.  They knew they had the same mommie but different daddy.  Enough said.  I read somewhere that one should give children just enough information to satisfy.  Name Caller by now had married again and had a daughter.  I did not want to have a disaster of my son falling in love with a sister he did not know existed or something terrible like that.  So he had two brothers and a sister he had no idea existed because Name Caller denied him before birth and I can't get over it!  And I still secretly pined over Name Caller.  But I liked my life and LOVED my children.  So a move out of state was made after I attained a college degree and a job was secured. 

While making the move into a new home.  PaPa was watching the children, my husband was hunting, I was unpacking our  new home out of state, wait my husband made a change in plans, he visited the kids, he sent them outside to play, PaPa was cooking.  Brandon was run down by a drunk driver.  The girls witnessed.  Lives were ruined.  Divorce was inevitable.  PaPa was guilt-ridden the rest of his life.

Fast Forward several years:

In 1991:  Things were rocky between me and my husband.  The accident had reeked havoc on the marriage and entire family in general.  My oldest daughter fought with her dad all the time.  She was so close to her brother and blamed her father for the accident.  Our family had been in and out of counseling.  He could not discuss it with her, nor could he take any responsibility for the events of that horrific day.  She saw it markedly different.  The accident left Brandon severely disabled.  He suffered global brain damage.  Thus he was left with balance, speech, memory, digestive, and learning problems.  On one particular day my oldest daughter was angry with her dad and spouted, "I would like to meet my real dad," then Brandon stated with his difficult to understand speech, "me too." And, he began to hound me to let him meet his real dad.  This began a daily request.  Sometimes hourly.  I sent this request to parties in Alabama that could fulfill this request for Brandon. 

From 1975 to 1991 the pain was tamped down.  I had not gotten over the hurt and rejection.  My son did not know he had been rejected and I will never tell him.  When my son was in ICU and comatose a nurse asked me what I intended to do with him.  I looked at her with a confused look, as I had been by his side for weeks, and stated, "I took responsibility at conception." I then told her to never ask me that question again.  Brandon is mine.  I want the world to love him.  But the world is not kind.  I want him to have friends.  I want him to have a life that is worth living.  I don't want him rejected......again.  One day Mr. Caller should have the decency to apologize to me for putting me through the embarrassment of being told those unkind and hurtful words by that social worker. 

A meeting was arranged.  The donor Name Caller was there, his wife, a half sister, a couple of half brothers my daughters and some mutual friends.  One brother refused to meet Brandon stating he was not his real Brother.  He brought Brandon a few small gifts which included a small photo album. They took photos together including one of his youngest half brother was just a setting on his lap.  Brandon has not asked about the Name Caller again.  His curiosity was satisfied.  He looks at the album, which is falling apart, from time to time.  He knows Mr. Caller's real name.  He does not know he has brothers or a sister.  I have no idea how many more may be out there.   You see, Brandon has short term memory problems and in order for anything to be stored into long term memory it must be repetitive. 

Fast Forward:

Two years ago we moved back to small town USA from Maui Hawaii due to my health issues. By now I had attained a Masters Degree in Psychology with and emphasis in Behavior Analysis.  My specialty is Autism and Developmental delays.   Life had been pretty good to Brandon in Maui.  Life back in small town USA not so much.  Nothing to do.  My physical therapist mentioned a Miracle league baseball team was starting up and suggested we try this for him.  Wow, it has been wonderful, the past six weeks he has had something to look forward to.  We have had a subject matter worth talking about.  On the last regular game of the spring season a woman came up to Brandon and started talking to him.  She asked him if he remember her.  People always assume he will remember, and he acts like he does.  He is a good actor.  Brandon is 36 now.  He loves baseball and he is a pretty good player.  So, she looked at me and said, "He looks more like him than any of the other boys."

I was stunned.  I didn't remember her.  Having been away for so long I don't possess many memories for the people of this area.   I don't even remember much of my relationship with Name Caller.  But I do remember the pain.  I remember it took 20 years to get over the rejection.  I remember it took me 20 years to be able to hold my head up in this small town USA.  I never could tell my daddy I was faking it.  Now I know I was just stupid.   I digress.  This sweet, concerned lady,  it turned out was the then wife, now ex wife, of the Name Caller.  She goes on to tell me that the baby sitting in Brandon's lap is her son, and he has been to the games to watch his nephew and has seen Brandon. 

Now decisions must be made.  Brandon needs people in his life.  He has one cousin that lives nearby but is too busy raising his own children to have time for him.  Brandon's sisters live in Orlando and Maui.  What if I invite this person into Brandon's life and he refuses.  What if he comes into his life and then leaves?  Is it worth any hurt that may come his way?  Can I handle the pain it might cause him?  Can I handle another rejection?  It won't really be my rejection but can I handle it?  Will it open old wounds.  Surely, I am no longer the girl of 18 or 28 or 38 and I am strong enough to handle what this may bring.  I have been over Name Caller for a long time now.  I am much more educated and secure in myself. 

So, I have invited the child that once sat in his lap to meet Brandon, but we must discuss details.  Will we tell Brandon they are brothers?  Time will tell.  Will he actually show up?  Brandon won't develop memories on the first meeting or two or five so let's wait and see.  How bout that?  There you go!

Mother's Day Flowers

For anyone rushing to place judgment may I suggest that you walk ten minutes in these shoes first.   Just ten of the worst minutes.  It is not easy being me.  This story gets worse.  Trust me.  much worse.  Which chapter do you want?

Chillin'

Honestly, I would not trade my life for another.  I have lived a life like no other.  I have experienced natural highs so blissful that can only be experienced when your lows have taken you past the dept of what can only be imagined as the extreme depths of hell. 

Life at 55: this is not what it is supposed to be

Sun light woke me about 5AM.  As usual the bladder would not let me lay in my trusty rusty recliner any longer, so I had to get my pug, Susie, to let me get up so I could get my large frame out of the rickety recliner which is in itself quite a feat and should be considered exercise this early in the morning.  Having neuropathy in both feet makes this an even more thrilling adventure first thing in the morning as my feet don't like the pressure of my body.  Oh well, most mornings start off just like this.  Recap:  Sun light, full bladder, sleepy dog, hurting feet prolonged agony until the day must begin and I must put feet to carpet and begin the day by making my trip to the bathroom.  Return to trusty rusty recliner, move Susie slightly, sit, recline, grab phone, scan facebook, begin first game of the day.  Take my first pill.  Ah, this is the life.  NOT

I want a meaningful life.  I want to go to work like most 55 year old people.  I went to college to be able to work until I choose to retire.  These strokes and other illnesses have really pulled a number on me.  All of you out there that criticize those of us that are on social security and medicare at an early age need to stop and at least wonder what put us here.  For most of us it is not by choice.  For me it was an undiagnosed blood disorder.  This neuropathy has me where some days I cannot walk without excruciating pain in my feet and legs , in fact all days I walk like the penguin on Batman.  WTF.  I did not sign up to play that role. 

I signed up to be a behavior analyst, and by most I was considered to be quite good at my job.  However at the age of 50 my first stroke hit.  It was blamed on smoking.  I quit.  The second stroke hit at 52.  This one had no reason, so tests were run and it was discovered that I have APS, antiphospolipid syndrome.  According to the Mayo Clinic, Antiphospholipid syndrome is a disorder in which your immune system mistakenly produces antibodies against certain normal proteins in your blood. Antiphospholipid syndrome can cause blood clots to form within your arteries or veins as well as pregnancy complications, such as miscarriages and stillbirths.  http://www.mayoclinic.com/health Another symptom of this disorder is migraines. 

I had migraines from the time I was seven.  In fact they were so bad that I was on disability for the first time at the age of 40.  My doctors finally got me on medications where I could return to work.  Had they only done a simple blood test the strokes I have suffered which have turned my life upside down could have been prevented. 

The side effect since both strokes are short term memory deficits, balance issues, spelling problems, math problems, mild aphasia, can't control appetite, anger issues, over emotional, and double vision.  Given these issues I am unable to continue my work with the developmentally delayed population.  However, I am in therapy to work towards fixing the aforementioned issues and I continue to maintain my credentials with the hopes of one day being able to work with this population again.  

There is no greater joy that helping an autistic child learn to communicate his or her needs or teaching a developmentally delayed adult that there is a better way to ask for something than banging his or her head.  I long for the day that I can be of service once again.

Stroke has robbed me of my life and livelihood.  Stroke has robbed my community of a great behavior analyst.  Everyone that has unexplained migraine should have this test for this syndrome.  It should also be noted that different labs give different results.  Depending on where you live you can be tested positive or negative.  On the east coast I am negative, on the west coast I am positive.   I'm trusting the west coast labs.  When I had to go off my blood thinner for a recent surgery, it took three days for my blood to go below a normal humans level and over a month, on blood thinners, to get it up to a normal humans level, and I have to be at least two times that to prevent stroke.  So, I know I have thick blood, and so do my doctors.  There are other disorders that cause thick blood as well, have them all ruled out! 

Ah, now it's time to take that second set of pills, life is good.  NOT

Jody Arias Brings out the Worst in Most of Us: In my humble opinion

Wow, with so much publicity circling around the Jody Arias trial, I figured I should add my two cents: as if anybody really cares.  As an ordinary citizen with no connection to this trial I did not know it existed until my sister innocently asked me if I had been watching. 

I still have not returned to work since my second stroke. ( I have since had a GI bleed, spent time in ICU, had a complete repair of my rotator cuff due to the fall from fainting from the GI bleed, ah life is so good to me, and I can now cut my lawn again with the assist of a self propelled mower.  YEAH.) Since my second stroke I have such ADD symptoms that I usually have about 15 projects going on at one time and I accomplish one, maybe.  So with nothing better to do, I turned to HLN (head line news) and watched the trial.  I was totally lost.  Did not have a clue what was going on.  Jody, from here on out with be referred to as, it, was on the stand and I could not follow her.  I could not figure out if it was her or me (hello stroke) so I figured maybe I could understand better if I watched the trial from the beginning. 

Over the next several weeks I watched each and every day of the trial on YouTube until I was caught up to the current day which by now had some doctor attempting to claim it was suffering from PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder), a syndrome I happen to have due to several life threatening events concerning my children.  (Her symptoms were certainly not like mine.  Oh how I would like to forget.  Oh how I would like to get a good night sleeps.  Hello ADD, Hello Stroke, Hello PTSD, wait, I digress.)  I am now caught up with the rest of society and feel vindicated. 

What actually brings me to this write this little diddy is what I see in social media concerning the trial and social media in general.  What happened to Travis Alexander was Horrific.  As far as I am concerned, and I realize my opinion means absolutely nothing, he was totally innocent, he did none of the things accused of him in the trial.  And the things he did were justified.  What I do not understand about the majority of today's society is the need to use profanity to express themselves.

 I think the use of words that were once considered taboo have gone viral and it sickens me.  To me, it shows the true state of the nation, or at least social media.  When a man or woman can't make a statement without the use of such sickening vicious words, there is something wrong with how we have raised this society.  My father would have blushed with bemusement.  My mother would, to this day, scold me on this very social media, on which I write.  Whether you support it or not, whether you want it to be put to death or not, I think that most of us can be a little more articulate with our choice of words.   While you need not think that I am a prude, I have been accused of having a trash mouth, and I am ashamed that I taught my children some choice words I would rather they had learned from someone else.  I am only stating that we should learn to self edit when and where we use these words.

Even after two strokes and having my speech taken twice, I have enough respect for myself and others to choose not to enter into a diatribe of curse words that may offend my readers.  While we await yet another verdict that will not heal the family of Travis Alexander, I hope a blanket of peace will cover them and shield them from the inarticulate yet well meaning world of social media.