The Bucking Jenny

Bernie or Bust? Why Hillary's A Must.

2015-12-30T12:57:00.001-08:00

I have been thinking about it, and I think that perhaps my first blog for the New Year should be about why I am so dedicated to voting for Hillary Clinton and not Bernie Sanders. I think that there are a lot of important factors that people who are voting for Bernie are not considering.

First of all, when Bernie goes on a national stage and flat out admits that he is a socialist, this is bad. If he wins the nomination, and he is running against Donald Trump, this puts us in a very divisive place. We have a very conservative, divisive person, running against a self proclaimed socialist. When you think about our last election, where we debated firing Big Bird, this seems like this is a dangerous scenario. Especially when there are many who proclaim that if Hillary doesn't win the ticket, they won't vote at all.

I am concerned that Bernie has no real plan. When he is asked how he will push through his grand ideas, he says that he will rely on the masses to rise up and have a revolution. This doesn't make sense to me. This isn't how we get things done in America. We don't just have protests and revolt, that's not the whole process. What about what happens next? We still have to make new laws and actually change things. He is too divisive, he won't be able to work with the Republicans in congress and get anything done. He doesn't know how to do that and he has no desire to do that. I don't see anything he promises actually coming to pass.

I am also concerned that Bernie has no experience. He simply does not have the resume that Hillary does. He has not had the opportunity to meet with and develop the relationships with the overseas leaders that Hillary has, and he does not have the intricate knowledge of their relationships with each other that she does. As Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton developed and maintained these relationships and has key knowledge that Bernie simply does not have. In a world teetering on the edge of possible world wars... this knowledge is too good to pass up.

In 2008, I was disappointed when Barrack Obama won the election, because I felt that too many times women like Hillary Clinton have been passed over for jobs that they were well qualified for, by men who were younger and less qualified. I was eventually won over by Barrack Obama, and happy to have him as my president... but I am just as happy right now to have Hillary as my candidate right now in 2016.

I feel that Hillary has the best resume, the most experience, the best chance of passing the most effective legislation while acting as president, and the best chance of getting reelected. When she was asked about how she felt about Bernie's stance on socialism she said that she respected it but that she believed that she supported capitalism and finding ways to support small business in America. I think that that is the right answer. That is the smart answer. That is the answer that can beat Donald Trump. That is the answer that can follow an election where they debated whether we should fire Big Bird, and win.

When Hillary is asked how she will get things done, she says she will work with both sides of the aisle to enact legislation that works. That sounds like an impossible thing to do. And in very nearly is, but I believe that if anyone can do it, she can. I also believe that this is the right answer. It is better than Donald Trump's bullying. It's better than Bernie's revolution. It's the way we get things done in America.

Hillary's experience and resume top every candidate running across the board. Nobody can beat her. She has been a First Lady, a Senator, and a Secretary of State to list a few of her many accomplishments. Her experiences have prepared her in a very unique way for the presidency. She can bring to the White House what no one else can, first hand knowledge of the White House, knowledge of the Senate, and knowledge of the Secretary of State's office and the art of diplomacy. We certainly need someone versed in the art of diplomacy right now.

When you also consider issues like women's rights, and the fact that Hillary will work tirelessly to close gun show loopholes, I cannot help but stand by my candidate. Of course, I know that not voting for Bernie, should he win the nomination, is essentially voting for the Republican nominee. So, should he win the nomination, I will vote for Bernie. I highly encourage every Democrat to seriously think about this as well. If your candidate does not win the nomination, you should still vote for the other candidate, because not voting is like choosing to vote for the Republican - and nobody wants that.

Helen Wilson - A Eulogy

2015-07-04T10:03:00.001-07:00

My Granny, Helen L. Wilson, born Helen Lucille Dickson, in Red Cloud Nebraska on September 12, 1930 passed away July 24th. She was 84 years old. In her time here on earth she showed herself to be a very dynamic woman, traveling the world nearly sixty times while raising a family.
On August 5, 1949, Granny married the love of her life, Tom Wilson, whom I call Grampy. In 1951 their first child, my Aunt Marsha, was born, followed in 1958 by my Dad, Tom Lee Jr.
In 1964 Granny and Grampy purchased a ranch outside Ft. Laramie, Wyoming. Throughout the family's world travels over the following decades this would serve as a beacon of home, though it would take many years to build their final ranch house, corral and ranch that it is today.
In 1966 Grampy got a job for US AID that would lead them on their world travels. Their first stop was Kunduz, Afghanistan, where Granny homeschooled Dad in second grade. Dad remembers this fondly. He gives this as proof that she was a dynamic woman, "she taught me Greek mythology in Kunduz, Afghanistan when I was in the second grade, she was amazing."

Front door of ranch house, with list of places Granny has lived, Kabul, Saigon, Taipei, Katmandu, Vientiane, Washington DC, Columbo and Dhaka... as well as their latitude, longitude, and miles from home.

Granny went on to live in Kabul, Saigon, Taipei, Katmandu, Vientiane, Washington DC, Columbo, And Dhaka... And that's just the official list. Dad says that wherever they lived Granny always joined the local women's organizations, checked in with the local orphanages to see what they needed, and otherwise oversaw the local communities to see that she did whatever she could to help. Dad chuckles as he remembers that she always gave away his toys to the orphanages when they moved, and that he learned to pack his toys in his suitcase.
He recalls many dinners where she was hostess to people who were in the Peace Corp in the area, those who were homesick and wanted a hot meal that reminded them of home. Granny, ever the hostess, was happy to oblige. Dad said he had many meals of hot goat and rice with these men. He remembers how she always smiled.
Granny wasn't always a hostess. Sometimes she was a nurse. Dad recalls that one time a boy had a contusion on his head and Granny stitched him right up. Though I cannot remember the specifics of any of the stories well enough to recount them here I have heard other tales of her doctoring locals. I know that she has helped women with sick and starving babies, some who died. She has helped with all kinds of things like that, she was very kind.
While her family traveled, it was often split up. With the kids in school in one place or another, Grampy working hard, sometimes in places Granny could not go. This left often Granny in another place, holding down the fort. It amazes me that a small town girl from Fort Laramie, Wyoming in that time, was able to cope with the wonders and horrors of the third world. She did it while managing a family, and she often did it alone.
In the late seventies and early eighties my aunt and dad came home to the states to go to school. The met their spouses. They got married. They graduated from college. Granny was the most traveled member of our family because she always found a way to make it to the important events in people's lives. She traveled the world to ensure she was at her children's graduations and weddings.
At Mom and Dad's wedding, Granny did not smile much. Mom though maybe she was unhappy. For decades she thought this. Thirty four years later, when my Mom got her dentures, Mom was talking about them and Granny mentioned that she did not like her teeth either. She said that that's why she did not fully smile in photographs, including the ones at Mom and Dad's wedding. This was sad because Granny had a beautiful smile. She always struck me as a woman who knew what was what, and had all the confidence in the world, so learning that she had this bit of vanity surprised me. It showed me that yes, my Granny was human just like everybody else.
Speaking of knowing "what was what," - that was a family saying because of Granny. When Dad was in preschool he had a truck he took to school to play with. He did not want to share it. The teacher complained. Granny said, well he knew what was what. Ever since that has been a saying in our family. It has been used to encourage individuals in our family to stand up for ourselves, to never back down, to always remember that we know what is what. This is an example of how she always stood up for her kids, and her family.

This was a special photo because Laura was in it. She was not in Wyoming often.

With both children she developed a special relationship. Granny was so personable that she got along with everybody. She even got along with her children's friends. In her fifties she visited Dad in his frat house and got along with all his "brothers." In her eighties she went to New Mexico and hung out with Marsha and her friends at the bar and fit right in. Granny was so pleasant that she made friends with all of Dad and Marsha's friends.
Well, not always - sometimes she spoke her mind and got on their nerves. The first time she ever met my mother, Mom was dating someone else. They came to visit Dad at his frat house while Granny was there and brought beer. Granny nagged them about the beer. It got on Mom's nerves and Mom said, "I don't even listen to my own mom while I am in college, why should I listen to you?" Mom remembers this moment very clearly as a moment she wishes she could take back. She wishes she had said something else as her first thing to her future mother in law... But I think it is a classic moment for them, as they butted heads for decades. That is why it was so special when nearly thirty years later Mom was crying over a fight with her step mom and Granny said that Mom would always be welcome at the ranch because she was family. Earning the status of family in Granny's eyes was a big deal. Only she, Craig and those born to the family by blood ever accomplished this feet.
In 1983 I was born. When I was five months old, we traveled to where she was staying in Virginia for Christmas. She had a little playpen where I learned to pull myself up. Dad said I was a force of nature. He said I get that from my Granny. I don't remember the first time I met my Granny, but Dad says she has always loved me and I believe him.
In 1985 Grampy was officially moved stateside and retired. My sister Laura was also born. I believe that they were there for Laura's birth. This was the year that Granny and Grampy moved back to the ranch and began building the ranch house. Granny put in her share of blood sweat and tears into that ranch house, digging fence post holes and working alongside everyone else.
Laura and I have many special memories of Granny too. We remember her breaking out all the old dolls and other toys from storage for us and playing alongside us. We remember the smell of a new box of crayons that she bought special each summer for us. We remember the time that Laura got bit by a horsefly and we both sat screaming unsure of what to do and Granny came from the house with a magazine, killed it, and went back in to the house without a word.
To me, it seemed that Granny always knew what to do like that. She was very matter of fact, very knowledgable, very quick on her feet. On matters important to her, she was well informed, carefully researched, and highly opinionated. She read two or three newspapers every day, watched the news often, and worked hard to keep herself informed. She was funny, when she would pish posh at a senator or politician she did not like. She was a devoted democrat. She donated to the party, and voted "D" down the line, religiously, but when you talked to her you would find out that she really was not very liberal. She was complicated like that.

The pillow with the fishes on it.

Laura's memories also include waking up early on summer mornings to the smell of breakfast cooking and hearing Granny speaking softly to Rexy saying, "Well, come along now." She remembers the intimate, quiet, gentle, voice she used with Rex and all her animals. She also remembers riding in the backseat of Granny's green Lincoln, and how we used to cuddle with her green pillow with the fishes on it and dig through her purse for candy. Granny always had a tin of little fruit flavored mints or a roll of Worther's original caramels tucked away.
One of Granny's favorite things in the world to do was shop. In Virginia, there were big department stores, and she really loved to peruse them. Here in Wyoming she seemed to really like to go to the thrift shops and seek out the best deals. All of my life Granny has sent care packages with her thrift shop deals, specially hand picked for me and Laura inside. This tradition has continued. One of the last things she ever did was buy a few snap button western cut shirts for my sons from the local thrift shop. I bawled like a baby when Mom gave them to me, knowing that these were my last care package from her, I stuck my nose in the bag smelling them, knowing exactly what they would smell like, as Granny has always used the same detergent, and everything from her house has the slight scent of mothballs. It will be hard to even take these shirts out of the bag and allow the kids to use them, as I have the urge to just keep them in the bag and smell them forever.


Here I am with Granny and Laura, dressed in a full Tommy				outfit.

I remember when I was perhaps, 18, Granny drove me all the way into town to Cheyenne. She took me to Dillard's and told me I could have whatever I wanted and we spent the afternoon shopping together. I remember that I picked two pairs of jeans, one with a cherry patterned belt, the other a pair of Tommy Hilfiger pants. The brand was a special one for us. It was popular at my school in middle school when Granny, who always bought the brand name of things at the thrift shop, bought me a pair of jeans when I was perhaps 13. I hopped up and down and paraded through the ranch house singing about my new Tommy Hilfiger jeans. She spent the rest of her life sending me every Tommy product she found at a thrift shop, remembering that it made me happy.
That's how she was, she liked to make people happy. I remember that one summer she was late doing her grocery shopping when we came to visit. I went with her to Torrington as she picked up the few items she felt she needed if we were going to be there. She picked up Laura and Mom's favorite Dorothy Lynch salad dressing. She got Dad coffee. And she got me pickles and bologna. She bought these things even though she normally does not keep them on hand in her kitchen, to be sure that we each had our favorite things while we visited. She wanted us to be happy.
Laura recalls that Granny wasn't just that way with people. When she took her table scraps out to the animals, she always remembered which scrap which animal liked best. She remembered that the llama might like the cantaloupe rinds best, while the horse likes the carrots for example.
While Granny liked to make others happy, it wasn't often that you caught her laughing or smiling. She had a hard shell. I remember vividly the first time she laughed out loud in front of me. Dad was driving the Lincoln. He rolled down her window as we approached a sprinkler on her side of the car and made it so that she got sprayed by the water. She laughed and hollered, "Oh, Tom Lee!" It was very funny.
While I always pictured Granny as a stoic person, she proved herself to me as someone who had many emotions. In 1998, or perhaps 1999, the corral burned down, killing many of the sheep and destroying the property. Granny, while taking this in stride, was obviously devastated. She has always been the one to take care of the lambs, to bottle feed them around the clock, to ensure they come in at dark, ect... And she secretly loved them all. I was very proud of the way Granny and Grampy rebuilt the corral and the flock. It took time and investment and heart.
When it comes to things that take time and investment and heart, Granny was always good at that. I think this is most clearly shown in her relationship with her children who were both absolutely devoted to her. I think that it could be said that Granny was Marsha's best friend. They worked and traveled and shopped and did everything together. They spoke every day, they shared everything. They were very close, as was Dad who often spoke to Granny near daily and shared nearly everything with her.

Granny loved getting family photographs like this taken. At almost every family gathering, we took one.

I myself had had a strange relationship with Granny. As with all my relationships as a teenager, my relationship with Granny in my teenage years was volatile. While it was hard for me to understand and get along with her, there was always effort on her part. We still had some very special and endearing times. Still, It took years to repair my being a teenager. I feel that in the last five years or so, Granny and I have become very close. I have particularly enjoyed sharing the experience of being a mother with her. I have watched her interact with my sons, and that has been special. She has told me she loves me and is proud of me. I will always treasure and hold on to that.
To speak of Granny in the past tense is a difficult thing. Perhaps the most difficult thing of all is imagining the head of her table empty she has always been the hostess, Mother, Granny, the head of the table. The one who set the pace for all of us. The one who put breakfast on the table, and Grampy's meds, and Dad's coffee and Daniel's syrup and of course... The fruit. How will we start our day without the fruit? It seems impossible to imagine navigating this life without Granny at the helm, at the head of the table, right there to tell me what to do. I can only hope that I have gathered enough of her with me, that I can carry her with me always, that I have the ability to serve her memory justly... That I can always remember the things she taught me and the times we had together and that I pass these things on to my children correctly.
In Granny's adult life, there were were 7 of us, Tom, Tom Lee, Tammie, Marsha, Craig, Me, and Laura... We were her inner circle. We were the people who mattered to her. We were the people she let into her heart.

As with all our family photos, there is always someone missing, because someone has to hold the camera, in this case, it's Mom. but it's nice that this photo has Craig in it.

Beyond that, it was difficult for Granny to reach out to people. See, Granny was a tough old bird. Breaking through her shell was difficult. She did not love easily, she did not trust easily, she did not let people in with ease. The last moments of her life were difficult, but she is free now. Free to hug Aunt Bertha's neck, and walk with her, and be at peace. I think that Granny was seeking peace in her own way for a long time, and I am so grateful that her spirit has found that now. I believe that she is now able to love and have no fear. If there can be anything for us to aspire to, it can be that - true love. Love without fear. Absolute love. And that's where Granny is now. Wrapped in the arms of her Aunt Bertha, experiencing true, absolute love without fear and I can be at peace with that until I see her on the other side.

Wyoming GOP Sells Out Kid's Education To Big Oil Profit

2015-01-28T14:53:00.002-08:00

Last night as I read the evening paper I found myself in a full on fit. I was waving my arms, spitting and cussing and my poor husband sat there in disbelief, wondering what on earth had set me off because I was so upset that I wasn't making any sense in my rantings. Finally, I slowed down and explained that the Wyoming Tribune Eagle had an article, "Science Standards Get Second Chance" which describes how the state GOP is working against setting science standards or even allowing them to be debated by the State Board of Education. House Bill 23, will create a Next Generation Science Standard for the state and will advance to state Senate where it will have to clear a vote in committee and three votes on the floor before it can pass the legislature. It was infuriating that Rep. Scott Clem opposed climate change and evolution as "junk science." It was absolutely disgraceful that he also said the standards are "flawed" because they state that climate change is caused by humans. But I took all that in stride. What I couldn't take came from Minority Floor Leader Rep. Mary Throne. She said, "I don't think it's a killer to our energy industry to allow a discussion to proceed, and I think it's fair to say that we can trust our state board to tweak the language that many of us find objectionable in the proposed standards." Mary hit the nail on the head. The reason that nobody wants to teach our kids science in Wyoming is because they are afraid it will threaten our energy industry. If our kids learn science, if they learn the truth, they might not bow down to the gods of oil, gas and coal. If they learn the truth they might call us out. They might choose a different path. Dear lord, don't teach them science. Don't tell them the truth. Don't give them the facts. How freakin' messed up is that? How low are the GOP's standards? They would rather keep our children in the dark, give them false information, misinformation, and let them live with a lack of information than educate them and face the consequences. They don't want our children to know that climate change exists. They don't want them to know that humans cause it. They don't want them to know that we can stop it. They don't want them to know because it would threaten the energy industry. It would threaten it's very core because kids are smart. Kids care. When kids see a wrong they want to make it right and the GOP knows it. I have an eleven year old who had to write an "I have A Dream" speech last week at school. His dream was that there would be no pollution, that there would be no animals facing extinction and that all animals would be fed and have homes. When I teach him about climate change he is concerned. He worries about the polar bears. He worries about the people who face hurricanes and other natural disasters. He asks me what he can do. Together we work to reduce our carbon footprint, and in that he feels he has made a difference and is proud. He found out about climate change, and he changed his behavior. If climate science were taught in schools, each child would have the opportunity to use his own critical thinking skills to decide how he will respond to the facts he is given. Not all of them will choose to react like my son did. Plenty will stick to drill baby drill. But some might find it in their hearts to shut off the lights when they aren't using them, walking when they can instead of driving and all the little things that add up. It's the kids' own free will as to what they do with the information. But it's our responsibility as adults to give them the information; withholding it just because we are afraid it might cut into the profit of a dirty enterprise is just shameful.

Wyoming GOP's Gay Vendetta Has Unintended Consequences

2015-01-20T11:06:00.000-08:00

Wyoming recently joined the ranks of many other states and began issuing marriage licenses for same sex couples. This didn't sit well with the bigots in our state who began inundating local newspapers with hateful letters to the editor that local heterosexual marriages were at risk and that in general our state was going to hell in a hand basket. It isn't surprising that republican lawmakers in the state have retaliated against the new law with attempts to undermine it. The most startling manifestation of the GOP's vendetta against the LGBTQ community in Wyoming is House Bill 83, also known as the Religious Freedom Restoration Act. This bill would essentially legalize discrimination of all types in the state of Wyoming. The bill authorizes “defenses against governmental action that burden religious freedom.” And it states that anyone will a “sincerely held religious belief" cannot be punished in any way for refusing to perform an act unless it is “essential to further a compelling government interest.” The idea is that a photographer or wedding cake baker cannot be held liable for their discriminatory behavior if they refuse to serve a gay couple if the solicit services for a wedding on the grounds that the photographer or baker is morally compelled to decline the services due to their religion. This is shameful piss poor behavior that should not be tolerated. I cannot believe that my state is considering making this law. There is the obvious issue at hand, the shameful discrimination against the LBGTQ community encoded into law, which cannot be ignored but there are also unintended consequences. What if a doctor feels morally obligated to refuse a woman's abortion? Or a man's vasectomy? Or a child's vaccinations? What if a pharmacist refuses to dispense birth control? What if a teacher refuses to teach evolution or climate science or sexual education? What if a landlord refuses a home to someone because he's Muslim? What if a Muslim land lord evicts someone because he's Christian? Where does it end? In the rural communities of Wyoming you can't always go to another doctor, or find another pharmacist or a new teacher. There may only be one and if you are denied services you may be out of luck. Discrimination is a serious issue with serious consequences. Making it legal and giving it rights is absurd and shameful. Real people will pay real really high prices for this and for what? To protect the feelings of a bigot? To make it easier for them to hate? I say no. Not in my state. Not in the equality state. Here we treat everybody decently. Here we live by the code of the west, we look everybody in the eye and say, "Hey, I know you may be different than me but I also know that where it counts we're the same and so I am going to treat you like I would treat myself." That's how cowboys do it. They don't hide behind God as an excuse to treat other human beings badly. They don't tolerate rude behavior in each other. There is a code to the west and people who want to use God as a false sword and shield are a pitiful example of what our state stands for. We are bigger and better than that.

Talking About Sex - Let 'em Be Little

2015-01-20T11:04:00.001-08:00

When I was in fifth grade, my friends were talking about sex. One friend was curious about oral sex and spoke about it in pretty vulgar terms on the school bus regularly. Another friend wanted to practice sex positions on a pillow at sleepovers. Remembering this, I started to get nervous as my son's first sleepover outside our home approached. I began to think that maybe it was time for him to have "the talk." I talked to my husband who adamantly insisted that our son was too young, and tried to convince him that kids these days were talking to their parents about these things from an early age nowadays. All I could do was get his blessing to continue on my mission to educate our son myself. Slightly overwhelmed, I started asking for advice. I started with my sister who laughed with me as we remembered how our own mother had attempted this Herculean task by being as straightforward as she could; even though her own mother hadn't spoken to her at all on the subject. Next I turned to my friends online who offered a host of advice ranging from "make it a part of frequent, every day conversations" to "Cover the basics of intercourse, aka how babies are made, buy him a book that tells him all the rest." The best advice I got was to,"tell him as much as you think he needs to know at this time; this should get as far as the part about safe and protected sex. Indicate that he can ask questions any time and then call it a time for ice cream." One friend pointed me toward a video online from the eighties. That seemed like an option, if my son seemed uncomfortable talking directly with me. Armed with the proper vocabulary, with my video waiting on cue on my iPad and my speech all scripted out in my head, I called my son upstairs to talk to me. I started out just like I had been advised... "So, I wanted to talk to you about sex and I thought maybe we could start by you telling me what you know about it." "Nothing" he grunted. "Are you embarrassed?" I asked, noticing he had already shut down. "No." "Do you want me to tell you what sex is?" "No. I am not worried about it right now." Not ready for this, I stumble a little bit. "Because you don't have to talk to me about it. If you want I have a video you can watch in private." "It's okay mom." "Alright. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. But I would prefer if you don't learn from your friends or the internet, so when you are ready please come to me or your daddy. If you want, you can talk to your granddad. Do you understand?" "Yeah. My friends aren't talking about it." "If they were, you wouldn't be in trouble. I just want you to have the facts. Would you be more comfortable if I got a book and you could just look at it when you were ready?" "Yes." "Ok, then that's what we'll do. Go play." And that was it. It was over almost as fast as it had begun and I never had to say the word penis. My son had led the way. He wasn't ready. It was as simple as that. I had pushed my own experiences on him and refused to see what my husband had seen all along, that my son was not me. His friends were not my friends. His experiences are not mine. Just because the kids I grew up with were shockingly advanced for their age, doesn't mean that my kid is growing up in that same world. And thank goodness for that. My son is eleven and he is still worried about video games and basketball. Oh be still my beating heart. My eyes well with tears as I am filled with gratitude and I am reminded of another piece of good advice I have been given. My dad told me long ago to let my children be little. They are only that way for a little while. You blink and suddenly they are grown. Yes, it is important to educate our children. It's important to give them the right words and the facts. It's important to give them the morals that go with those facts that will keep them well in life. But it's okay to let them be little too. It's okay to follow their lead and let them tell you when they aren't ready. There's no rush here. They have plenty of time to figure these things out without the adults in their lives hurrying things along. Let them be little for as long as they'll let you, because one day you'll be wishing that all your kid was worried about was video games and basketball.

The Angel Tree

2015-01-20T11:02:00.002-08:00

As a mother who struggles to get by month to month, I always dread Christmas because I know that I cannot provide the gifts my children want and expect. Every year, I have to find a way to put presents under the tree with little or no resources to do so. I have successfully met the needs and wants of my children each year by utilizing the Salvation Army Angel Tree program.
This year I have tried to encourage my Facebook friends to adopt people like me from the Angel Tree program, and I was surprised to learn that many of them had an issue with the Salvation Army. There is a pervasive rumor that the Salvation Army is cruel and prejudiced in its dealings with the LGBTQ community.
When I asked Leslee Rodgers of the Las Vegas Salvation Army about that, she was outraged. She said that no matter what, their office served every need that they possibly could, without asking about sexual orientation. She was very upset that this rumor was still circulating, and said that it was just that, a rumor. The Salvation Army works to meet the needs of all people, including the LGBTQ community, with love and devotion. “We don’t ask about sexual orientation, we just ask what your needs are and work to meet those needs.”
Leslee’s office was one of the first in the nation to disperse the Angel Tree gifts this year, and they did it in a unique way. Instead of giving each family a plastic garbage bag full of gifts that may or may not be what they need and want, Leslee set up a store like setting where the parents could each come in and pick out the toys that their child would like for Christmas. She still gave away enough toys for 1,600 families (or 5,000 children), but this way each child got exactly what they wanted.
I spoke to other Angel Tree programs in Laramie Wyoming, where they will be helping 400 families, and in Denver where one of 36 Salvation Army offices will be serving 800 families, (one can only imagine how many children that multiplies out to in the city of Denver.) It is clear that there is a need for this program, and that the people who need this program are tiny people, innocent people, people who have been taught that if they wake up on Christmas morning and the tree is bare – it’s because they’ve been bad.
Yesterday, I made my annual pilgrimage to the Salvation Army to pick up my bags of gifts. With hope in my heart, I prayed that my childrens’ needs and wants were met. When I arrived I gave my name to a woman behind a desk who asked for my ID. She checked the list, and sure enough, there I was next to two boys, one 8, one 11. She ferried me through the masses of bags till she found two with our numbers on them, and I was pleased that they were nice and plump. She offered to help me carry them out and I was happy that I indeed needed help with my treasure.
Waiting on the curb for my mother, I explained that the Explorer that pulled up in front of us was not mine. I did not want her to think we were too well off. Knowingly she assured me that it was ok as she helped me load my bags in the back.
When I arrived home I carefully went through the bags. There were clothes, shoes, gloves, a winter coat, snow pants, two toys each… Yes! This will make a nice Christmas. All I have left to provide is stocking stuffers and perhaps, if I can afford it, another pair of gloves.
But wait… a little card. I opened it carefully. Inside was a hundred dollars and a note. The note was to my son. It said that he should use the money to Christmas shop for his family because the true gift of Christmas is in giving.
I waited patiently for school to let out. The hundred dollars and note burning a hole in my pocket. I could not wait for Daniel to come home from school. All the efforts of the Angel Tree program had built up to this moment. It did not matter what rumors swelled about the Salvation Army, nor whether they were true or untrue. It did not matter what politics surround the poverty-stricken people of America at Christmastime. What mattered was that my son’s true Christmas wish was about to come true.
Daniel walked through the door all bundled up and noisy. He presented me with his daily homework and papers. Finally, the moment came and I explained that I had something for him and where it came from. He took the note from me, and the money fell out. His eyebrows shot up. “For me?” he asked. “Kind of.” I said. “Read the note.” And he did. “Wow.” He said after a long pause. “I know exactly what I’m gonna get you Mom.”

Wyoming's State Director UniteWomen.org Writes Her State Representative

2012-11-19T14:39:00.002-08:00

Dear Cynthia Lummis,

I am a domestic violence survivor. I am a Wyoming citizen. I am a wife a mother, a sister, and a daughter.

I am concerned with your choice in the vote for the HouseViolence Against Women Act. The House's version of this bill is watered down from the Senate's. The House version does not protect many women in Wyoming that are just as worthy of safety as I am as a straight, white, citizen. It does not protect lesbians, it does not protect Native American Women, nor does it protect illegal immigrants. The Senate version protects everyone and I cannot fathom why you would not vote for it.

I think of a dear friend, Jackie. She is also a mother, daughter, sister and grandmother who lives here in your state and deserves the same protections from the law that I get. Should it matter that she is a lesbian? I don't understand. Why do you vote for laws that imply that it is ok to rape or beat her?

I live in Laramie. I pass the site of Matthew Shepard's death weekly. I think about him and others like him and I tell myself that Laramie and Wyoming both learned a lesson from his loss that we promised to never forget.

Then, you make a vote like this, and I wonder if you have forgotten.

Let me remind you. We are done with hate here. We no longer choose to participate in the most vile aspect of hatred - the tolerance of injustice. You may not be aware of it, having spent so much time in Washington, but we do not tolerate violence against anyone in Wyoming. Not even against people who love others of the same gender. Not even illegal immigrants. Not even Native Americans.

As a former victim of domestic violence, rape, sexual harassment and abuse I can tell you that the common thread in these crimes is Power. When a woman believes that no one can or will help her, she is trapped not by her abuser but the society that implicitly condones his behavior.

The reason that I must stand up, and speak out against your vote here is simple. Choosing a law that gives power to abusers over their victims is always wrong, no matter what. To seperate any group, for any reason, as unworthy of the protection of the law is offensive to a nation that knows that all of us are created equal. It is beneath the creed of our Equality State. It is a betrayal of women. It is an assault on justice.

Miss Lummis, I understand that your party pressures you to make absurd votes like this. I understand that our system doesn't always make it easy to do the right thing. The fact is that you have to stop and ask yourself what motivation you have to vote against the Senate version of the Violence Against Women Act. Are you afraid of stepping away from the party line?

You should be afraid of the rapist who finds that he can rape as often as he wants so long as he picks victims not protected by law. You should be afraid of the husband who beats his wife and tells her she has to take it because no one will protect her. You should be afraid of seeing my name beside yours on the next ballot. You should be afraid of Saint Peter and that moment, as you stare longingly at pearly white gates, when he asks you to explain why you didn't protect the women you were responsible for.

The validity of a woman's rape, or broken nose, or terrifying abuse has nothing to do with what gender she loves, what country she was born in, or what color her skin is. Next time you get a chance to vote on an issue that protects women, please make sure that you choose to protect all of us.

Sincerely
Sarah Zacharias
Wyoming State Director UniteWomen.org

Send Jenny Some Love

2012-11-14T10:38:00.001-08:00

Do you enjoy my posts on LiberalsUnite and The Bucking Jenny's Facebook and Blogspot?

If you do, be sure to donate if and when you can. Thank you for supporting my efforts at providing a progressive voice from the Rockies. ~ Sarah

Dear Mr. President

2012-11-05T17:58:00.000-08:00

Some of you may remember my viral letter to Mitt Romney, (which you can view at this link, http://www.dailykos.com/story/2012/09/20/1134324/-Amazing-Open-Letter-to-Romney). This time, I thought I would drop a line to our president. Here it is.

Dear Mr. President,
On the eve of your re-election, I thought I would send you a very special thank you. Thank you for being such a fine leader and admirable human being.
When you gave hope to our nation in 2008, you inoculated us against a second great depression. When you bet on America with an 8 billion dollar stimulus, you wagered on America's middle class. When you did that, you reminded us of our fundamental values, and encouraged us toward a great future.
My love affair with your message is intense. I suspect that I am not alone. I remember that, when you appeared on scene, you changed America. I would go so far as to say that when we met you, you made us want to be a better nation. Thank you for that.
I have watched you, every day for these past four years, and I see a man who loves us. I see a man who has the audacity to hope for the best for all Americans, the 100% of us! (You never leave Americans behind, not even the 47% of us that your opponent dismisses with malice.)
When I look at you, I see a man who judges Americans, not by the color of their skin, or the contents of their wallets, or the language they speak or the gender of the person they love... But by their love for their neighbor and country, and if they are their brother's keeper, and if they are willing to improve our nation by leaving spite and greed behind.
Thank you. Your presidency has reminded us, of the great lessons of our history. You reminded us of Jeffersonian liberty, and Washingtonian honesty. You reminded us of Abraham Lincoln's unity and FDR's New Deal security.
Mr. Obama, you are the embodiment of Martin Luther King's dream. You are the stone of hope that rolled from a mountain of despair. Each night, when I tuck my sons in to sleep, from a house of poverty and a home built on struggle, I do so knowing that your mother did the same.
Each evening, when I encourage them to work at their studies, I promise them an America where any child with a dream has a chance and because of you... I believe my own promise. Mr. President, you are proof that I speak the truth in your very existence.
I am proud, this fifth of November, to be an American citizen who will be blessed with the opportunity to vote for you tomorrow. I am thrilled, Mr. president, to know that when I vote for You, I am voting for Myself, My Sons and My America! When I mark the ballot next to your name, I am certain I will weep with gratitude that I live in this exact moment in history, and that I am able to lend my voice your chorus.
I know that you will give my family the ability to survive in spite of tough odds in return for my vote. You will give us access to affordable healthcare and education, you will move our nation onward still toward our dreams of equality, you will work tirelessly for national economic stability, you will ensure international safety and you will be a leader who fights for the little people... Like me and mine.
Mr. Obama, thank you, for devoting yourself to us. Thank you for fighting for my son's opportunities. Thank you for sticking up for me and my rights to my body. Thank you, for supporting marriage equality for my gay family members. Thank you for bringing my childhood friends home from war. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, for Obamare, which protects so many that I love.
Mr. President, thank you for your audacity, your tenacity and your loving determination. You have pulled our nation forward toward a bright future.
I hope... Nay, I know that come Wednesday I will add my voice to the multitudes in offering you congratulations on a second term, until then Sir, keep up the good work.
Sincerely,
American Voter, Mother, Sister, Daughter, Wife, Writer and Friend,
Sarah Zacharias

Credit Due For Chris Christie

2012-11-01T16:03:00.000-07:00

In September of 2001 when our president, George W. Bush, spoke about the terrible tragedy of the eleventh, I was very moved. I watched him stand there, with a grieved face holding that fireman's badge up for all of us to see, and I felt that bond of being fellow Americans, which supersedes party lines. My blue heart wept alongside the president's red one.
It has been more than a decade now, and twittertentionspans have become an epidemic. We have forgotten the unity of September 12th which we had vowed to remember always. We have forgotten that when tragedy strikes Americans, we bleed not blue, we weep not red, we stand not divided. When tragedy strikes Americans we stand united.
I have spent the better part of my life following my liberal values, and developing a personal belief system which is based left of mainstream. I am proud of this. I see absolutely no deviation from my values in supporting George W. Bush and his tear filled eyes on September 12th 2001. In fact, I feel pride for standing with my nation and its leader. Just as I feel pride today, in standing with Chris Christie.
Last month, Gov. Christie spewed a load of nonsense laced with hate with a sick passion at the RNC as the Keynote speaker. Nearly all of his rhetoric was directed at our fine President Barack Obama. I was incensed by Christie's words. In fact, in response I flamed him in my own way, roasted slowly in front of hundreds of thousands on the Internet.
I suspect that if asked in a setting where he could be genuine, Christie would admit to holding every word he said in that speech as true in his heart to this day. His politics have not changed any more than G.W. Bush's did when the towers fell.
All the same, it doesn't look like that right now, today, as we watch Christie slap the President on the back, greet him warmly, and sing his praises. In fact, to the GOP it must look like Christie is betraying them, and in the last moments of the election at that! They have, to my knowledge, berated him for working with the President on at least three FOX, one ABC, and 2 CNN newscasts.
For shame.
It should be wildly apparent to anybody watching the travesty of Hurricane Sandy's wake that now is not the time to fall divided, split by loyalties to party lines. Now is the time to stand united. Now is not the time to be Republicans and Democrats. Now is the time to be Americans.
It is not Gov. Christie's Jersey Shore in ruins. It is America's Jersey Shore in ruins.
When I watched the devastation of the East Coast, I felt much like I did in September of 2001. In both cases I felt a lot of things, but partisanship wasn't one of them.
Just as Mr. Christie would most likely stand by his political RNC speech, I stand by every word I have ever said about that man and his rotten politics. Unlike the GOP, I will give him the highest praise for one thing he has done, for which he deserves respect; he loves New Jersey more than he hates Barack Obama.
The GOP obviously doesn't - else they'd give credit to Christie, where credit is due. Because they choose not to praise his hard work and devotion to his people, the GOP and their leader, Mitt Romney show their true colors, and I tell you what, they ain't red white and blue.

Why I Am Pro Choice ~ A Statment from WY State Director of UniteWomen.org

2012-10-25T15:32:00.003-07:00

Since I accepted the position as Wyoming's State Director for UniteWomen.org I have been thinking a lot about abortion law in the US. I am not the only one, it's all over the TV and the political candidates and pundits keep arguing about it.
Few of them seem to acknowledge that the actual law of these United States, as determined by Roe v. Wade, states that under the 14th amendment women have a right to privacy which includes the right to make their own private medical decisions.
The 1st amendment states that we also have a right to freedom of religion, which clearly includes a freedom to decide on issues of faith personally and privately. Nobody, has any scientific idea of when a soul enters a body. Nobody. This is an issue of faith and as such it is protected by constitutional law.
I can't help but ask, why there is a movement to outlaw or at least make abortions less accessible? Does anybody really believe that making abortion illegal will make it go away? Have we forgotten bloody coat hangers in back alleys?
More to the point, does anybody really think that making abortion more accessible would make women start having unprotected and promiscuous sex while planning on using abortion as their sole form of birth control?
Seriously, let's stop and just be frank for a moment. Let's assume, for the sake of argument, that we tried the polar opposite of the GOP plan.
What would happen if we made abortions and birth control legal, accessible, free, and put a clinic on every corner? Would women suddenly say, "Wow, I think I'll go have more abortions."? What if we gave away a free TV set or a new car with every procedure? Would you carelessly get pregnant and go have an abortion? What if we had a policy of ensuring that anybody who had an abortion got a tax cut? How about then...does that make you wanna abort a child? What about anybody else you know, would they do that? How big with the tax cut have to be?
This is absurd. We are fighting over a right that was put in place for difficult circumstances. We are not talking about limiting an enjoyable experience. For instance, if we were talking about the new law in New York which limits the sizes of sodas vendors can sell:
What would happen if we made sodas accessible, and free and put venders on every corner? Almost everyone would say, "Wow, I think I'll drink more soda." What if we gave away a free tv set or a new car with every soda? Would you go get yours? What if we had a policy of giving tax cuts to soda drinkers? Does that make you thirsty?
Do you see, how absurd this is? There is a difference between limiting enjoyable but harmful behavior and helping to ensure the safety and accessibility of a terrible choice.
I like to think of that difference as demand. The demand for soda, is obviously more fickle, and dependent of factors like thirst and associated offers for televisions or money. The demand for abortion is based on life circumstances known only to each individual woman.
History has proven that the choice to have an abortion is so desperate that we can't legislate it away. On the other hand, we have also learned that we can make it safe and provide other real, workable alternatives ranging from prevention of abortion (aka birth control) to adoption.
I don't know about you, but I don't know anybody who would say, "Yes, stick a vacuum inside my vagina and suck the very life out of me please." No matter what mythology you may have heard, abortions are not easy or painless. Abortion is painful, it is confusing, it is scary, it is risky, and it is a terrible experience.
Current GOP mythology talks about women who have abortions because they are too lazy to take birth control, or too selfish to consider the unborn. Meanwhile they simultaneously make access to birth control more difficult and less affordable - forcing women into terrible situations.
They tell lies about women making up or somehow exaggerating rapes to get abortions, even though the only circumstance under which a woman would have to do such a thing, would be if abortion were made illegal except in the case of rape.
The GOP imply that there is a priority in their faith over all else. But they forget that their faith is not everyone's faith. The women of America are free to operate within the confines of their own religions, not the religion of their bosses, or their congressmen. Folks, this is the noble thing about America. We are all free.
Our freedoms end only when they overlap and eliminate the freedoms of other citizens. As Oliver Wendall Homes said, "My right to swing my fist ends at your nose." That means that your right to practice your religion ends at my uterus.
The fact is that using shame and misplaced laws to regulate abortion is ineffective. If we don't want abortions, we should wise up. We should teach actual, science based, family planning from an early age. We should provide easy and affordable access to all forms of contraception. We should provide choice and opportunity and education to young women, because the most effective way to reduce abortion is to give women power and confidence and financial security.
We should also recognize that unwanted pregnancy is not a women's issue. It is a human issue. It is a sexual health issue that applies to both genders. We must put as much pressure for sexual responsibility on young men as we do young women. We should teach both our sons and our daughters that they are valued; that love and sex are not interchangeable; and that they can find ways to have safe, happy, healthy relationships that are valuable to both parties beyond the bedroom.
The bottom line is that laws that shame women, by implying that choosing their own path, their own spirituality an their own method of family planning is somehow sinful are crushing the spirits of the women in our nation. They teach us to hurt ourselves, disrespect ourselves, and settle for less than what we deserve. When this happens to the women of our nation... this happens to our whole nation.
I understand and wholeheartedly support the choice to have a child, planned or unplanned. In fact, I find motherhood and all it's struggles to be even more beautiful when I consider that the mother chose that destiny. Wiping poopy diapers, scolding teenagers, loving grown adult children and worrying every night before you fall asleep for the rest of your life is a beautiful gift from a mother to a child. Doing all of that, when you didn't have to, is even more grand.
I remember that one of the most heroically loving things I have ever seen was when I watched a dear friend give her son a complete family when she gave him up for adoption because she was not ready to raise him. Both she and I count the days till he is an adult and ready to meet us. Few people hold more honor in my mind than women who are strong enough to give the adoptive parents and more importantly the child such a fine gift.
I have also seen another young woman who faced an unwanted pregnancy after date rape as a teenager... She said she knew instantly that she was not strong enough to give a baby up for adoption. If she carried the pregnancy to term, she knew she would want to keep it and she knew that was the wrong choice for her. She felt that giving any child that particular rapist for a daddy or an unprepared teenaged mom for a mommy was more despicable than having an abortion.
No one was capable of judging that but her. Nobody but her has to carry the weight of this burden, so nobody but her should decide if she should shoulder it.
Choice, is a two sided coin. I stand up for not just the heads or the tails flip, but the whole coin when I proudly proclaim that I am pro-choice. No woman should ever be forced to carry or abort a child against her own free will. Nobody should be shamed for examining their own spirit and determining their own destiny. That isn't what America is about.
America is about choice and opportunity. Freedom of choice is implicitly preserved in our constitution and explicitly protected by Roe V Wade. We are a great people, and we know that at least 51% of the reason for that comes from the women that we should trust with their own bodies, minds, and destinies.
I know that I would trust my mother, my sisters, my daughters, my nieces, my aunts and myself with these decisions. I trust us to know when and with whom we are prepared to have a child. I place my bet on the integrity and morality of American women over shame any day.

Eli

2012-10-24T18:39:00.000-07:00

Meet the Gibson Family, in this photo they eagerly anticipate Eli's birth.

Most of my posts take me mere minutes. I simply, as one writer put it, set down to the keyboard, slit my wrists and bleed into it. Some, are much harder. Usually, these are research pieces which require less heart and more numbers.

That is why the story of little Eli was surprising to me, his struggle struck me speechless. See, fromthe moment I heard about his battle with life threatening, rare, and serious birth defects, I have been moved. I am a mother of sons. Stories about hurt baby boys are easy for me to identify with.

Then, I went back and followed his mother Jen on her journey from celebrating a much loved and anticipated pregnancy... to realizing that her child would be born deathly ill.
I am disabled. I bitch about it regularly.
I complain to my family, friends... my readers too.
But this is something different. Any parent knows what I mean. For instance, when I am laying in a dark hospital room, weeping in pain and despair, the one light in my heart and soul is knowing that my children are healthy and safe. The suffering of a parent who has an ill child... that is something worse even than actually physically suffering themselves.
I have tried to write an article, with pay-pal links to Jen's blog so that we could all rally around her like so many have rallied around me in my tough times... but for some reason, I have had a block.
I cannot find the right words to compile to explain why my political readers should stop and care about this infant we've never met. But dammit, you should.

This is Baby Eli and his big sister. What a pair of troopers.

Each time that I read a status update or blogpost about his most imminent struggle, I am struck with a strange fear. I find myself afraid that I took to long, afraid that I made a grave mistake in waiting for perfection before I shared Baby Eli's story. I just got news that little Eli is in for another rough night.
The fact is that my fear is nothing but grief for a whole family who loves this boy very much. My fear comes from wishing, like his mother must with every fiber of her being, that I could wave my wand and give this infant a healthy body for his beautiful soul to reside in. My fear comes from the unknown, from not understanding my own purpose, let alone the purpose of the suffering of such a child. The fact is.. this is something none of us can understand, justify or fix. Prayers are all we have and on this occasion, I pray for peace and understanding.
Of course, praying for peace is nice, but it doesn't make it come to be. If praying were enough... well, we know how different this world would be. It's time... no it is past time, to take action for little Eli and his family.
The financial strain of this illness and tragedy is huge. The struggle of this sick child is enough. This family should not bear the burden of financial strife at this time too.
I cannot hug this mom from my many hundreds of miles away. I cannot bring her children hot meals. I cannot sit up with her sick baby while she sleeps. I cannot make sure her husband has lunch at work. I can only offer my voice, and the knowledge of my fine readership. I am certain that you will hear this story and want to help. Here is a link. Donate freely.

Red State - Blue Heart, Musings Of A Liberal Wyomerican

2012-10-20T18:47:00.002-07:00

There is a certain amount of bullying and intolerance that comes from being a liberal in the Rocky Mountain West. It has been a difficult for me, an avid environmentalist, women's right's advocate, and progressive voter to acclimate myself to the political climate of South West Wyoming. In 2009, shortly after President Obama's inauguration, I was literally disowned by one of my Wyoming raised cousins after a weeklong Facebook debate on the meaning of the word socialism and the unrealistic rumor that Mr. Obama was a closet Kenyan Muslim. We parted ways after I shouted into the phone one day, "If you think that the Hawaiian government forged Obama's birth certificate and news announcement back in the 60's you are the victim of the greatest Jedi mind-trick ever perpetrated on mankind!" and hung up on him.

In a state where we dedicate international studies buildings at our public university to Dick Cheney and have not one, but two strains of the republican party (The Rhino and Crow) which bicker over just who is the reddest of the red... I am often blown away by the rhetoric. When I moved from Olympia, WA to Laramie, WY in 2008 - I was often asked if I was aware that I was in Wyoming, whenever I expressed an opinion.

I remember that I once I asked an Wyoming History and Economics professor why we don't tax our oil and gas exports at least at the higher level approved by Gov. Palin in Alaska. He said, "I am sorry, but it is the Wyoming Way," as if I was unaware of the fact that my geographic location was an excuse for settling for something less than sub-par GOP behavior. Often, a right-wing Wyomingite will retort to sound liberal logic, "This is Wyoming, Love it or Leave it." Of course, this is a moment in which they deny the truth of the Wyoming Way. The truth of the Wyoming Way has nothing to do with giving up or leaving.

I think about this a lot. I know the Wyoming Way. My ancestors defined it. They plowed this earth, they dug the canals, they built the road to Yellowstone. They broke the ponies, laid the rail, and maintained the homesteads. I can tell you this right now... Nobody left when things got tough.

I will tell you something else I know. The Wyoming Way, is not the way of rich cattle barons who rule their aristocracy from afar. The Wyoming Way, is the way of free-grazing cattlemen, who labor and bleed to feed their families and pay meager taxes. Think of sweat and blood and dirt and tears, think of hard winters and hot summers and people like me who live a mile and a half high in the sky.

When you think Wyoming, think not of the Cattle Baron, but the Cowboy. Think of strength and character and hard effort and righteous deeds. Think not of profit gained by soft manicured hands and manipulation over effort. When you think of America, think Wyoming. Think of a woman raising two children in a little house on the prairie. Think of her husband and his bent back. Think of us walking through blizzards to pursue education. Think of us, traversing mountain passes and deserts for medical care. Think of us, and our humble lives, living little bitty, living on love and not much else.

Now ask yourself, very honestly - Which candidates on your ballot will represent us best? Which candidates are the cattle barons? Which are the cowboys? The Wyoming Way is the honest, hardworking, righteous way. I know it because it runs five generations back in my blood.

I know the Wyoming Way, as well as I know my own child's voice... I know the American Way as I know his heartbeat... And I will give you a hint, regardless of the cognitive dissonance in our majority vote - the Wyoming Way does not in the slightest resemble the platform of today's GOP. In spite of the insistence in their squawking, FOX News is not the American Way.

I am a Wyomerican Cowgirl. I couldn't be more proud. I have worn hands, and tired feet. I have sleepy children with full bellies. I have my own piece of green grass, and a roof between me and the stars. I have an open heart, and a thinking brain. I am grateful. I am proud. I am ready to pay it forward... starting with my vote.

I am proud of this image, showing the democratic delegates at the DNC. I am proud of my fellow Wyoming Democrats. We may not be the squeaky wheels on the wagon, but the last I checked, the three quiet wheels are just as important when it is time to get rolling

Please, vote thoughtfully and progressively this election. Remind your friends, your neighbors, your spouse. It is important and your voices count.

Boom-Bust Is Not For Us

2012-10-18T11:05:00.002-07:00

These are the Grand Tetons as viewed from the historic Elk Ranch. I took this picture while visiting them to work on a historic preservation project with The University of Wyoming in 2010.
This is where my soul resides.
My spirit splashes amongst sage and river rock in the Hoback Canyon.

Mitt Romney says that our president has made a mistake, in refusing to allow drilling on federal land. He points at the fact that the private sector growth in drilling has improved under Obama's administration and says, this is not enough - we should drill on federal land too.
70 miles south of where this picture was taken, is Sublette County, Wyoming. They have been heavily drilling there since 2000. In the last ten years, 40% of the local mule deer have died. A continental winter migration route for antelope and other animals was interrupted by drilling, causing a disruption to the Yellowstone ecosystem. The air quality in that region, with less than 5,000 residents, is worse than that of LA.
For the moment, the residents of Sublette County have jobs, but when the natural gas is gone, so are the jobs. Before drilling came, the residents of Sublette County also had jobs, they worked as guides to the hunting grounds around them, they catered to a strong tourist industry. They were among the most well off in the nation, with the least crime and a pristine environment. Now, they battle with the methamphetamine brought to the area by roughnecks. When the oil boom leaves, they'll not have the pristine wilderness to fall back on anymore. I worry what will happen then. As a Wyoming citizen, I have seen that the history of boom-bust economy that comes with depending on natural resource extraction is dangerous. It does not last. It is not a solution.
Is our president wrong to protect our most precious resources, and our most valuable public lands? Is he wrong for wanting to invest is something better than a boom-bust economy? Is he wrong to want the very best for us? I think not.
Does no one else see the irony in a man who demands that the US gov't stop subsidizing Big Bird and start subsidizing big oil drills on federal lands? He says it is shameful, that PBS can't stand on it's own, without federal support. He calls that socialism. Then, he demands that we allot more resources from our national reserve, to the private oil industry, and calls it capitalism.
In this I see someone who will say anything to make a profit. He will mislead us all, to gain power. I see a guy who says, "I love Big Bird" and then threatens his very existence and I remember, he also says that he loves us.

~For more of my work please be sure to check my blog, my Facebook Page, my Twitter Feed, and my publication archives at OpenSalon.com and AddictingInfo.org. Also, the days are counting down - Don't forget to VOTE! The Bucking Jenny proudly supports Obama/Biden 2012.

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Dear Readers ~ Love Is All We Need

2012-10-17T23:28:00.001-07:00

On Monday, I had one of my most difficult days ever in battling neurological illness. It was painful, frustrating, scary and I felt alone because my doctors weren't listening.
I haven't been able to post almost anything since... all I can think of is the struggle sometimes.
But then, I remembered two strangers people who made a positive difference in my day on Monday.
Amid the emotions of my parents and I struggling to define, treat and understand my illness...I almost succumbed to believing the ugliest things I could about humanity.
But - There was a serviceman in full uniform. He was walking from the exit of the hospital, and saw my mom trying to find a parking spot as I struggled not to throw up in the passenger's seat. My mom, was muttering that I should hold on, she was doing her best. She cited a study she'd read, that said that when a person is leaving a parking spot, they take 15 to 20 seconds longer if they see someone else is waiting for the spot.... When we saw the man in uniform wave at us and signal that he was preparing to get into a car in a particular spot, near the door. He wanted to make sure we saw him, and got it.
In the midst of feeling just awful, I still had a moment of reassurance about humanity, about the people who are representing our nation at this young man's simple act of kindness.

The second, came after my doctors had told me there was nothing to do, and just leave. While my mother continued to plead and beg... I sat on the floor in the hallway and wept. Other doctors, nurses and staff simply stepped over me. None even asked if I was ok. But then, an elderly woman got off the elevator. She stood for a moment watching me cry, and then said, "Excuse me, I know it's none of my business, but are you ok?"
I said, "NO! I think I am going to die and the doctors don't believe me."
She put her hand on my shoulder. She told me that it isn't my time. And then she said something, I haven't heard, except in family folklore, since just before my grandma had her stroke and could no longer speak.
She said, "You can do this, if you do your best, but it will take your best." Those were the exact words my grandmother had always used to encourage me. (Later, when I remembered what the woman had said, and recounted to my mom, her eyes filled with tears, knowing the meaning of this phrase... My father sat listening, doing a double take as I spoke, apparently pondering it as well.)
That woman stood with me, hand on my shoulder, until my mother came and then she went on her way.
Everyone else walked by, but she stopped for me. She assured me of another day. When the hospital staff stepped over me, she called them out, "Shame on you, aren't you a doctor?" The doctors walked by, as if they didn't see or hear either one of us.
I share this because the message of these two people is important. With the simplest of actions, a wave and a hand on my shoulder, I was shown the redemption of the human spirit when I was at my lowest point. The value of simple human integrity and empathy knows no bounds. I am truly grateful to have witnessed this, and to share it with you.
I would also like to take this moment to thank Ivinson Memorial Hospital of Laramie, Wyoming. When my parents rushed me over the pass to your care from this frightful experience, we knew we would be treated with empathy. In my depth of pain and despair, I knew that the ER doc who knows my name and my illness, was there working for me and others. I did not mind my wait, for the baby who needed a life-flight to get care first. I did however, muchly appreciate the loving care with which my nurse, Maria (whom I promised a blog nod) gently provided not one but two warm blankets, prompt nausea medicine... And a pillow! These small comforts were much needed. Thank you, to my care givers, to my family, to my readers, to my hometown docs... I know you'll get me through this. Love is all we need.

Goodnight Progressives

2012-10-17T22:59:00.001-07:00

A Pragmatic Progressive reminded me of this quote, on a thread about compassion and goodness in the human spirit.
This is a profound thought really.
This is my kind of spirituality.
If you think about it, it fits any religion, or lack thereof. It speaks to the idea that we are here, to love and guide each other as best we can. It gives purpose, and reason, and responsibility all at once.
It is my new mantra.

It will guide me in the moments when I slip from the eightfold path and forget wisdom and compassion.
It will be for the times when I forget the value of one sheep lost among 99. It will remind me to love my neighbor.
It will be for the days when I have completely forsaken the possible existence of God or an afterlife... as a reminder of the importance of love and empathy in any given moment on earth - regardless of my faith.
As we edge closer and closer to the next election and tempers get more and more heated, let us all remember why we care so much about November's election. Let us all remember what we value, who we love, what is important.
We are not here to gather possessions and belongings. Caskets don't have storage bins. Life is not a for profit enterprise.
We are here to walk each other home.
We are all just passing through.
We are, as our loving president constantly reminds us, our brother's keepers.
This is not a plight, this is not a burden. This is an honor. This is a privilege. This is a delight.
Goodnight Progressives.

When A Man Loves A Woman

2012-10-17T19:17:00.005-07:00

I have been thinking about Ann Romney. I hate her politics. I hate the way she thinks about women, and poor people and I could go on... BUT - I think she is the missing, but all important, link to our understanding of Mitt Romney. No debate question or answer shows us as clearly, as his treatment of his own wife, how he feels toward women.
My grandma had MS. I see the strain of that kind of pain and distress on Ann's face regularly. I think of all the things my middle class family did to try to help my ailing grandma, when she was sick. I remember that when she died, there were scores of pairs of shoes in her closet and attic. Over the decades she had collected all kinds, in an effort to aid her in walking.

My grandfather, during the last years of her life, took off work early, every day, to be home with her for an early meal so that she could go to bed. He never once complained about the loss of pay or power.
She was a tough lady, she didn't let life hold her back from the things she wanted to do. Before her illness got really bad, I remember her shooing moose and dear from her garden with a broom. I also remember how Papa helped her with her love of arrowhead hunting, by pushing her wheelchair across the Red Desert.
Even when Grandma could no longer talk, I remember her insistence, that the humming bird feeders be filled. She waved her good arm, and repeated that one word she could say - over and over... till Grandpa finally understood that they were empty. I helped him mix his special ratio of sugar, water and red food coloring, then watched as he hung them in front of the window where she could see them.
She never asked to hold him back.. but then, he never put her in the position where she had to. He simply stayed with her. She never asked him to take care of her, or work less hours, or give up anything. I doubt anybody could have gotten her to do that. Luckily, she never had to. He just did it. Without a word. With love.
He wiped her colostomy bag. He used a special lift to dress her and put her in a chair or car or bed. He gave much of his extra income to nurses to keep her company while he worked. On his vacations, he called hotel managers weeks in advance, and asked them if they had beds that he could use Grandma's lift on. He found casinos with the handles on the slot machines positioned so she could reach them with her good hand. He convinced the local hair stylist to come to their home and fix her hair as often as she liked, because it was important to her. In the early mornings, before he left for work, he'd check that her lipstick was straight, and that the elastic on her socks wasn't too tight. That, is how you love a sick wife.
Mitt Romney's wife is ill too. It's a kind of illness that is difficult to see, but requires empathy and love and a life with minimal stress. It is not the kind of illness that would provoke a man who adores his wife to reasonably say, "Hey, honey, I know you don't feel great, but how do you feel about being First Lady?"
No, a rich man who has a wife with MS, he doesn't haul her to a white house. He hauls her to a white beach. He pours her cool drinks. He bathes her forehead with wet cloths. He holds her shaking hands. He spends his money on the best medical care available, and he makes sure she doesn't suffer the stress of bright lights or public scrutiny. He makes her as comfortable and relaxed as he can, and prays for her comfort.
I am sorry, but in watching Ann's pained face at the second presidential debate, I felt nothing but empathy. She should have been home, in a cool bubble bath, with a loving husband ensuring she had a square meal. Instead, she was under hot lights on TV watching her husband selfishly (and fruitlessly) fight for power. She shouldn't have to ask for his care, and attention. Her husband should think of the priority of his devotion. He should remember his the vows he has already taken, before he considers another oath.

This is not a matter of people who love their nation, selflessly sacrificing for it. The Romneys have enough money to save our nation any number of other ways. Imagine how many children could be fed, if they'd only pay a fair tax rate? This is a matter of a power hungry man, who uses phrases like, "If we are going to have women working..." and suggests that single moms are sub-par while denying all women the right of reproductive freedom.

Y'all can clamor over comments about women in binders... but I saw a woman bound in that chair at that debate. Ann Romney says a whole lot to me. She says that even the woman Mitt claims to love the most isn't as important as the power of the presidency to Mitt Romney. If he won't help her, he won't do a damn thing for me... Or you.
If Romney can't love the most important woman in his life dutifully, he certainly won't care for the rest of America's women either. I guess that makes the 51% of our nation, which happens to be female, just another group that Mr. Romney isn't concerned with in his quest for power.
~For more of my work please be sure to check my blog, my Facebook Page, my Twitter Feed, and my publication archives at OpenSalon.com and AddictingInfo.org. Also, the days are counting down - Don't forget to VOTE! The Bucking Jenny proudly supports Obama/Biden 2012.

If you enjoy my blog, the donate button is in the column at right ;)

An Open Letter to Candidate Romney:

2012-09-18T06:58:00.001-07:00

Dear Candidate Romney,

I saw you. I saw your video.
I saw you speaking candidly and off the cuff about me. Don’t get me wrong, I know that you didn’t mention me by name or anything, but we both know you were talking about me.

When you were talking of 47% of the population that is never going to vote for you because we are dependent victims who lazily live on government programs like food stamps, I can’t help but take personal offense. In fact, once you decided to lump in in anybody who is never going to vote for you, you weren’t just talking about me, but many people I love, and about 90% of the people I know.

My children eat because of food stamps, Mr. Romney. Now sir, I want you to picture a Wyoming cowgirl, a mother, a fighter, a righteous, determined, god loving woman; a Rocky Mountain Grizzly Bear Mamma that would make Sarah Palin’s makeup wearing pit bull shudder. Picture me staring you in the eyes as I ask you, “What business have you got talking about me and mine like that?”

I am watching you run your Richie-rich mouth on TV right now, with your little flag lapel pin over your heart. You brag that you will bring “12 million new jobs and rising take home pay.” Quite frankly, I have no reason to believe you or your failures in arithmetic. Even if you did manage such a feat, I’d point to the 4.5 million job head start you had thanks to President Obama saving the nation from the failed GOP policies you use as a platform, which nearly caused a second great depression.

You said that you think that 47% of Americans “think they are victims” and you even said it wasn’t your job to worry about us.

First, I must argue you. I am not a victim. I have been beaten. I have been bullied. I have been raped. I have been addicted. I have been alone. I have been poor. I have been homeless. I have been sick and broken. I have chosen each and every single time to stand up and pull myself and my family out of those circumstances. I beat every one of them without any riches to aid me. I did that without any inheritance, any gifted stocks or bonds, any loans, any rich family, or any elevators for my cars. I did it because, I am not a victim. I am an American. I am the Mom in Chief of my house and nothing less than the very best that I can provide will do. I am the product of women who forded rivers to fetch the mail after working a hard day’s labor on the Laramie high plains. I am a force to be reckoned with.

If you don’t believe me, you could ask the doctor who has to take fluid from my spine on a regular basis to preserve my ability to see due to a rare disease. If you don’t believe me you can ask our Ambassador to China, Gary Locke, who personally invited me to a bill signing when I helped Washington State legislate protection for children in schools against bullying by sharing my own experiences. If you don’t believe me, you can ask my children who have seen me struggle but always, always, provide for them. Any one of these people will tell you, that this American is not a victim.

You call me entitled. I devote every day of my life to bettering the planet I live in with no hope of profit. I am sorry sir, but you calling me entitled is like the pot calling the dove black. That isn’t going to work. I challenge you to stand at my side and let the American public judge, which of us is entitled. I spend every dime of mine and my husband’s earned income as quickly as it comes in, right here in my town. Every dime I earn and spend stays in America. I am the ultimate in job creator. Who are you to challenge me?

You call me entitled. Every year on April 15^th I am certain that I have shown every cent that went through my pocket honestly. I dream of a day when I am well enough off to pay taxes. I fantasize of the flourish with which I will write my first check to the IRS. I would give any earthly belonging I have to be self-sufficient enough to be able to pay it forward to the society that I love. No, you cannot challenge me Mitt Romney. I challenge you- where are your tax returns?

I fought, I graduated at the top of my class in college, and I pursued graduate studies. I took loans against myself, believing that this would pay off, but then in 2009 something happened.

No, it wasn’t Barack Obama’s inauguration; it was a sudden injury to my spine that ended up revealing not one but two severe spinal diseases. . Since then I have been unable to finish my studies or work. I’d like to know, Mr. Romney; how many months of physical therapy, how many of my surgeries, how many of my scars must I share to prove my devotion to wanting to be better? How many of my efforts must I submit before you’ll see me, an American Citizen, as worthy of your worry? When you tell me to take responsibility for myself, I ask you, what after that?

This evening, when you justified your awful video, you said that you had said what you did because you were reassuring your donators that you could win this election. I’m sorry that you have to pander to your base like that. You seem to have sold out your soul. You have forgotten the eye of the needle with that wealth you’ve got. You’ve left behind Matthew 24:50. I hate to be the one to tell ya buddy but -you are not the promised one. The promised one understands that the 47% that you are talking about, they’re more than low wage workers and elderly people who worked their whole lives and paid into the system, they are the 100% that your God is concerned with when he said “Love thy neighbor.” You may pay a tithe with your wallet, but it’s obvious you’ve neglected to tithe your heart.

My husband left for work at 7 am. It is now 9 pm and he won’t be home again for two more hours from his second job today. I spent yesterday at the emergency room; I have been waiting for two years for social security. I do not understand. How much more do we have to work to show you that your call for jobs isn’t enough? You must also be concerned for the whole nation, and whether we eat, and whether we have medicine. You must care if a hardworking, devoted family like mine is unable to survive after investing their best efforts. How many jobs do you expect every American to take? 3? 4?

You simply must stop and consider those you dismiss as beneath you or you cannot be our leader. It is an unwritten but widely understood rule of the presidency. I don’t know what they taught you, when you were out there scalping businesses hard won on the backs of people like that 47% you so rudely kick around, but in the real world – we care when Americans suffer. We care when you forget the young men and women who serve our nation by sacrificing their lives. We care when Americans go hungry. We care when Americans jobs are sent overseas and rich men hide societal resources in offshore accounts. We care that we are being ripped off, even if you find profit and power in our suffering, we still exist, we still care, and we will still stand up.

See? You called me a victim, you called me entitled, you called me a lot of other things in that video, but on every count - you are wrong. Just by writing you this letter, I’ve proven I am not your victim. Just by living my life of hard and dutiful effort I have proven that I am not entitled. In fact, I consider it a duty as a citizen of this Great United States to shout loudly and proudly - “Mitt Romney is not and never will be my president!”

I warn you Mr. Romney, the one thing that I have not, and will not ever lose, is my voice. I will sound it each and every one of these 50 days until Barack Obama is reelected, we will vote with Compassion and Wisdom, and Empathy and you sir, can keep your spite and your hate and your rhetoric and see your way out.

Sincerely, Sarah Zacharias aka The Bucking Jenny

~For more of my work please be sure to check my blog, my Facebook Page, my Twitter Feed, and my publication archives at OpenSalon.com and AddictingInfo.org. Also, the days are counting down, click here to register to vote in your area. The Bucking Jenny proudly supports Obama/Biden 2012.

I Am My Sister's Keeper

2012-09-17T16:01:00.001-07:00

Having run this blog now, for about six months, I have been very fortunate to have developed a loving fan base. Unlike my life before the blog, I am thrilled that I have friends and fans to support me and find value in me in my darkest moments. Today, I am having a very tough time, so I am reaching out to you again and I am confident in your response.
Today is particularly difficult to me, because my little sister is suffering. Contrary to the belief she's held since we were six and eight and I whipped her with the vaccumn cleaner cord, I don't actually like to see my little sister suffer. It was very difficult to leave her alone in Olympia when my husband, children and I left Washington state in 2008. We followed my parents who had left in 2007. All six of us now live in south eastern Wyoming, while my little sister chose to stay in Olympia. It is hard, because for our whole lives, my sister and I stuck together. When I was bullied in high school, she was one of the only people who ever took the whitness stand and stood up for me with the truth.
Laura is only two years my junior. She is twenty six, she has nearly waist length brown hair, a freckled face, a movie star body, and blue eyes that remind me of a New York September sky… so bright, so beautiful, so blue, and yet so melancholy.
Laura and I grew up under the cherry trees of Olympia’s suburbia. We used to play he-man and she-ra in the yard amongst the dogwoods and dahlias. We had a huge playroom in our attic, filled with toys ranging from Legos to Barbie dolls. Laura was both tomboy and princess she played with the tough guy stuff, like plastic swords and superhero costumes before falling asleep under a pink lace comforter with a teddy bear.
I have never forgotten a particular moment on our back porch when she had one handful of skittles and one handful of potato bugs. The face she made when she wrongly popped ten or twenty potato bugs in her mouth has never been forgotten.
My sister was spunky. She climbed to the tallest points, she ran the fastest, she carried the heaviest loads, she beat every boy in her class at dodge ball and four square, and she did it all in red cowgirl boots. I remember that when she moved out of the family home, all of us were awed as we watched her detach the hundreds of dried roses she’d received from hopeful suitors during high school, which she had hung, one after another, from her ceiling till they covered the whole thing and crowded each other such that it was nearly impossible to discern the posters and paint pinned under them.
When she was 5 a co-worker of my father was so impressed with Laura that she framed an excerpt from a conversation between them and gave it to our family as a gift that still hangs on my parent’s wall, it reads:
“I guess just from my gut.” – Laura Wilson’s reply to “Why are you so smart?”
I include these anecdotes because they are key aspects of who my sister is. My sister is strong, courageous, intense, beautiful, smart and she guesses from her gut.
As a preteen Laura regularly attended a local church (even though she had to go alone because no one else in our family shared that particular aspect of faith with her.) She used to take poster board that was printed blue with clouds on it and write prayers on them that she’d hang on her bedroom walls.
She very much enjoyed a yearly retreat to a local religious horse camp for a week or two. It was ideal for my faithful, animal loving sister. From an early age it was always assumed that Laura would work with animals. She loved horses, dogs, cats, hedgehogs, chickens, cows, sheep, pigs, lizards, birds, bugs, and everything else she came in contact with. Animals felt her love for them and would often find themselves in her care. During middle school she would ride her bike a fair distance to the local animal shelter where she would volunteer until Mom and Dad suggested she quit because they were tired of making the trip to the place to explain why we couldn’t take in any given creature that she wanted to rescue.
In high school, Laura took vet tech classes at the local technical school. When she graduated from high school, Laura’s future seemed ultra-bright. She had good grades, she had family support for college, she had a job, and a car.
Up until then I had much disdain for my goody two shoes little sister and her Backstreet Boys C.d.s . I felt it was almost inhuman of her to not have made more mistakes growing up. She never really smoked, or did drugs, or chased boys, or stayed out late, or broke the rules or even got the cops called on her and after the crazy life I’d had I just couldn’t figure her out. I would almost wish tough times on her so she’s stop being so darned perfect.
Now I wish I hadn’t done that.
From my disadvantaged viewpoint as her older sister, I am not sure what happened. I just know that toward the end of high school she stopped going to church, she stopped wearing pink, she stopped telling anyone who loved her about her life, and she changed her group of friends from yuppie college bound kids to the kids who bummed smokes on the corner downtown instead of going to class. I am certain that this progression must have been gradual and maybe even obvious to others, but for me it was shocking and instantaneous. One day she was my sweet innocent annoying little sister, the next day… well she was still annoying.
I now know that at this time in her life that my sister met and lost her first love, a bad boy that I know little about. I suspect that, as with all of us, losing her first love seriously impacted her ability to judge her second. Within only a few weeks of her graduation, my little sister met a new guy, whom we’ll refer to as Chuck. Chuck and Laura fell instantaneously into a dangerous kind of love that only those who are the outside can see clearly. I was disgusted with this kid. He encouraged her to skip college and just get a job. He would belittle and bully her if she didn’t bring enough money home, he hated to be uncomfortable and was very spoiled, but I knew she loved him so I tried to be nice.
I wish I hadn’t done that.
I wish I had never wasted any effort on that guy and I think my sister does too. It’s been something like 8 or 9 years since Chuck entered our lives. Since then she tried making an impossible relationship work because she loved him. Her love ignored terrible selfishness – like buying her an engagement ring, making her make the payments on it, then taking it away hurtfully on numerous occasions. Her love ignored violence like fists through doors, screaming, name calling and to my estimation – much worse. Her love ignored his refusal to get mental health treatment, his bullying her over money, and even sleeping with her best friend while she was in the hospital.
Although my sister lost many, many, pieces of her spirit to this guy, she never gave up. She never gave up her most powerful aspect of her soul - her ability and willingness to love. For years, my sister and I have fought over this guy. One time we actually ended up fist fighting each other when, in a moment of sheer desperation, I tried to grab her and shake her and make her remember who she was before Chuck came around and we melted into a mess of hurt and anger.
It was been hard to watch her hurt herself for someone else. It has been hard to not be able to offer support for bad ideas when all I want to do is support my little sister. But over time, Laura and Chuck sort of evened out. I almost, almost, chalked the past up to growing pains and considered a new opinion.
This was after my family left Laura behind with him, and moved to Wyoming. From a thousand miles away at least, it seemed that maybe Laura and Chuck had gotten things together because they didn’t seem to fight, or suffer such profound moments of desperation anymore. I suppose one might call that the silence before the storm.
It wasn’t long before Laura called one day upset; she and Chuck had been fighting about money. My little sister was sick, she had a immune disorder and a deadly disease known as MERSA, and she had been unable to work enough hours to equally contribute to their living situation, so Chuck was enraged. He refused to feed the puppy he had gotten Laura for her birthday. This argument culminated in a desperate weekend where somehow Chuck ended up shooting his gun out of a moving car in a neighborhood during some kind of deal in an attempt to make money.
Laura called me and for the first time in many years I recognized her voice. It was strong. It was resolute. She was done. She was done being with a man who was so volatile, and dangerous, and domineering. She didn’t at that time reveal the entirety of her reason, she only told me parts of the story – just enough that I understood that it might be time before she could move on physically as well as emotionally.
Two days later I was shocked and grieved to answer the phone, to the broken Laura. I learned the whole story about Chuck's crime as she hysterically she told me that the police had come and trashed her home searching it and arresting Chuck for the shooting. Although she had done nothing to help him shoot his gun or commit his crime, she helped him pay his price.
She lost her job for being late to work that day. The apartment evicted her for the disturbance, Chuck went to prison for several years, where he was fed and sheltered, but Laura was homeless with their two dogs, and two cats for months and months and months. For the entirety of Chuck’s prison term, Laura stuck by him. She would never really explain to me why she had reversed on her resolve to move on. She was once again secretive and independent. She and her pets somehow subsisted without home, without job, without hope, visiting Chuck in prison regularly, catering to his demanding and abusive family in exchange for rides to see him. She still loved him, she loved her pets, and through that love, Laura survived on nothing but sheer willpower, and the grace of small income here and there through occasional employment.
Last July, while I battled homelessness, my sister was finally able to see past that. She got a job as a vet tech, she got a small apartment of her own, she rescued her belongings from his mother’s home, and she fixed her car. She started to rebuild herself in the form of the woman I always knew she'd become someday.
Then, Chuck got out on work release. He had his phone installed in her house for jail check ins. One night, in mid-July my sister me called again. She whispered quietly, “I’m getting a divorce.” I didn’t hesitate to step out of earshot from the rest of the family in response.
I asked her when they’d gotten married and learned that it was sometime between his arrest and his imprisonment. I asked why he wanted a divorce and found it was because she had accepted financial help from a male high school friend in order to keep her belongings and pets while Chuck was in prison. I asked if she wanted a divorce too. She said yes. So, I did what any sister would do, I told my parents and advised them to find help for her so this guy wouldn’t take her for any further ride. I turned it over to them and my godfather – a lawyer. I thought that that should have been enough to protect Laura. I thought that if Chuck wanted a divorce and Laura was finally willing to walk away, that all they’d have to do was sign those papers and move on.
But I was wrong.
A bully like Chuck doesn’t go away so easy. He served Laura with annulment papers that guaranteed him with nearly every possession that she’d so carefully paid storage fees, and moved, and cared for while he was in prison – including their dog, Brinks. Laura knows that she cannot give up Brinks. For his entire life, she has been his owner. When she and Chuck would fight, Brinks always intervened on Laura’s side. For six years she has given her own food to him, her own chance at a home was lost more than once in favor of keeping him, she’d walk to work so he could see the vet. At night he was the one, not Chuck, who kept her warm and safe, and so she couldn’t sign the annulment, she has to seek a divorce.

The stress of this heartache and worry has again drained my strong sister. She has been sick since the week after Chuck returned to her life on work release. While she scrimped change to save for enough money to afford anti-biotic, he came and cleared her house out of all the furniture, electronics and other belongings she’d maintained while he was in prison, calling them his own. Laura didn’t fight. She let him have it all because he left the dog.
Ten days ago Laura lost her beloved vet tech job because she was too sick to maintain employment. She used her last paycheck to buy the dog food and pay rent, and then she had nothing with which to feed herself or see a doctor. I have no idea how she has managed to live and yet she has survived. I suspect that the freedom she has experienced, for the first time since she was a young high school girl, has led her to a better place.
She stopped coughing so badly on Thursday last week. She had several job interviews too. I can only hope that she is able to find employment before next month’s rent is due. On Saturday my sister called me. She was giddy. A boy we’ve known since grade school has returned from war. He has asked Laura to the zoo. Laura, said yes.
I have rarely, if ever, been so happy for my sibling. She was laughing, she was hoping, she was happy – and that made me very happy. Think of this; Laura went from a marriage that she couldn't tell her family about to a fresh start that she could brag about. That is something to celebrate.
But in Laura's life, celebration doesn't last long enough.
Yesterday, Laura called again. Chuck found out about her new friend. Chuck was angry and jealous. Chuck did what Chuck always does; he abused her with his power over her by walking into her home and taking Brinks from her.
Yesterday almost broke Laura.
I think that my sister can survive just about any injustice. I think that she can be broken and remade stronger than before. I think that her future is ultra-bright and hopeful. But I think she needs Brinks. I think Chuck knows it. I know Laura knows it. Something must be done.
I am the big sister. It is my job to make sure my little sister has what she needs. I cannot protect her from Chuck. I cannot guarantee that the neighborhood warrior who is with her at the zoo this moment will not hurt her. I cannot force a judge to return Brinks. I cannot force change or hope into my sister’s life.
I can ask for help in a simpler mission, and that is why I write today. When I was homeless, and hopeless, and at risk of losing my cats, you helped me.
I am asking for help again, this time for my sister. She only needs $250 to file for divorce and properly, legally, seek ownership of Brinks. The other choice is to sign him away to an abuser who has beaten him before. I cannot stand by and let my furry, four legged, nephew be taken by this hateful man. I think that my sister deserves the right to ask for a real divorce, properly adjudicated, and fairly considered.
Brinks deserves a fighting chance and so does Laura. If she signs the free annulment papers Chuck has provided, Brinks and a piece of Laura that can never be replaced are gone forever. If she stands up for herself, and her beloved pet, I think we have a chance at seeing that little girl, with courage and red cowgirl boots again.
I don’t know how to express to you, my desperatation to get my sister back from this terrible abuser, or what rescuing her dog or even giving her the feeling that she can fight for her dog will help. These things are related, and I miss that girl with a whole heart, and unbroken spirit. I miss my little sister.
Please, help me. I want to send her $250 so she can file for divorce. I want to offer her a chance at a fair, just, and immediate fresh start. She is unemployed and alone, and she doesn’t have it. You know my story. I spent every cent you sent me on school clothes and housing as promised. So, what do you say, have we got 10 people with $25 bucks to give my sister the awesome gift of a fighting chance at getting her dog back?

How about 5 people with $50?
Doesn’t Brinks deserve Laura too?
C’mon folks, let’s rally around one of the most loving and determine women I’ve ever known… my little sister, Laura. To help her and her beloved Brinks I have set up a temporary Pay-Pal account in her name. To donate for her divorce, and maybe if we surpass $250 - her rent, her medicine, her freedom, and her chance at a new life, please use this Pay-Pal button. Thank you for helping me, help her. ~ Sarah

Forward

2012-09-11T14:58:00.005-07:00

This is the wagon wheel that carried my Great Grandma Letty's parents to Wyoming. The horseshoes were recovered by plow in the dirt of the family farm in Ft. Laramie. The dark flint stone is an ancient artifact from Native Americans who made tools out of it. The large white stone to the right is a piece of the Oregon Trail ruts from near Independence Rock, where my sister and I have traced America’s ancestor's names with our fingers. I look at this and I remember that I am the humble product of those who came before me. I am the echoing voice of women who rode ponies on this prairie before the doctor's and banks came.

When I smell rain on sage, and the hills rumble with thunder, my heart skips a beat with the lightening. Like the bolt of electricity that must reach, at once up to the heaven and down to the earth, I am grounded.
If I close my eyes I can smell the sweat and blood that built America. I stand in the ruts of the Oregon Trail, knee deep more than a century after the last wagon passed, and I know that we built this together.

Sink or swim, we are all in this together. We are a nation of thundering hearts and echoing laughter. Like the rutted and bloodstained road that brought wheels like this to from sea to shining sea, our destiny connects us.

Our shores, a continent apart, were once joined by that simple trail and divided by civil war. A century and more later, the war that divided us has faded, while the road that unites us has not. We have learned that we fall when divided. We stand united. We remember our legacy in live it by paying it forward. Forward, as FDR urged us, “With strong and active faith.”

Let's Roll

2012-09-11T08:48:00.001-07:00

My eldest son will be nine years old next week. This morning, as he and his little brother prepared for school, I closed my bathroom door, sat on my bath tub ledge and I cried at my memories of 9/11. I cried the kind of tears that show on your face even after they're gone - the kind of tears that worry the people who love you when they see your pained face.
When I emerged - my son stood quietly on his side of the door waiting for an explanation and I was forced to tell him and his little brother what today means.

Again, tears rolled down my face as I tried to explain what it meant to be attacked like that, on an idle Tuesday with bright skies. I tried to explain the messages of love we received from those fallen. I tried to tell them of the heroism of the fire and rescue workers. I tried to reassure them with Osama Bin Laden's death. I tried to explain that my tears were my heart's way of honoring those lost.
They tried to understand.
Now, breakfast is consumed. Shoes are tied. They play in the driveway with laughter as they wait for their bus. They live in a world where Osama Bin Laden is dead. They live in a world that has proven that we can survive 9/11. They live in a world where the heroism and strength of that horrific day, and their mother's tears, are all that remain of tragedy.
My sons cannot fathom the terror. They cannot dream the loss.
We all remember the moment that we learned the value of each other. We all remember life in two segments. Before 9/11 and After. We all carry a scar within us for the loss of that day... except those born since. For them, there is only After 9/11. For them there isn't any fear in a low flying Jet. For them, America exists much as it did for you and I on September 10th 2001. This is a sign that we are moving forward. Forward though it aches. Forward.
That day, a hero uttered the words, "Let's Roll."
I have done my best in every moment since to follow that creed of moving forward with bravery and sacrifice for my fellow man. I believe that the bright eyes of my sons are a sign that I... that We are healing. We will survive, though we won't ever forget.

The Eleventh of September

2012-09-11T08:38:00.003-07:00

I mourn Tuesday
the loss
the blackened sky
the dust
the confusion

A decade gone
my grief still raw
I crave Monday’s innocence
and Wednesday’s unity

A decade and more
And still I pray
I cry
I offer my heart
to two pillars of smoke

I humbly remember
those who rushed in
while all others rushed out

I kneel
I light a candle
I ring a bell
I wave my flag

I hold my children close

I bow my head
I raise my glass
I give moments of silence

I remember the blue sky
of an idle Tuesday

A decade gone
a war not done
a fight not won

Too many still not home

I crave Monday’s innocence
And Wednesday’s unity

My grief is still raw
My heart’s still broken
I mourn Tuesday

~ Sarah

What do Jesus, Rage Against The Machine and Ayn Rand Have In Common? Paul Ryan Doesn't Understand Them.

2012-09-10T19:44:00.000-07:00

Paul Ryan Says that Rage Against The Machine is one of his favorite bands. I wonder if he could accurately describe the message of any given song or album. When asked about this, he offered a muddled response much like when he couldn’t remember his marathon time, he said that he “likes Rage’s sound but not the lyrics.” These are mistakes only true Rage fans or marathon runners recognize, but one that they cannot miss. Paul Ryan isn’t a fan or a runner. He’s a poser.

Last month Rolling Stone Magazine published a scathing article written by Rage Against The Machine band member Tom Morello in which he compares Ryan being a fan of his music to Charles Manson being a fan of the Beatles, or Governor Chris Christie being a fan of Bruce Springsteen – “he doesn’t understand them.”
After marveling at what Ryan’s favorite song must be Morello also brilliantly relates a reason why Ryan might think that he identifies with RATM’s music, “Don’t mistake me, I clearly see that Ryan has a whole lotta “rage “in him; A rage against women, a rage against immigrants, a rage against workers, a rage against gays, a rage against the poor, a rage against the environment. Basically, the only thing he’s not raging against is the privileged elite he’s groveling in front of for campaign contributions.” Finally, Morello responds to Ryan’s claim that he likes the music but not the lyrics by saying perhaps, “Ryan was moshing when he should have been listening.”
With a response like that from Ryan’s favorite band, I can’t help but wonder what Jesus or Ayn Rand might say if they were to have such a chance to respond to Mr. Ryan.
What if Paul Ryan were to present the Ryan Budget to Jesus? Does he really expect that Jesus would be any more approving than Barack Obama has? Would Jesus look at cuts to Medicaid and feel pride at his disciple Paul Ryan? I think not. In fact, Nuns on the Bus spokeswoman Sister Simone Campbell addressed this issue at the Democratic National Convention last week. She looked us in the cameras, our nation’s digital eyes, and said, “Paul Ryan claims his budget reflects the principles of our shared Catholic faith. But the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops stated that the Ryan budget failed a basic moral test, because it would harm families living in poverty.”
Sister Simone clearly follows the teachings of Jesus and she loves America. This was clear when she closed by explaining the movement of which she is a part, Nuns on the Bus,” We care for the 100 percent, and that will secure the blessings of liberty for our nation. So join us as we nuns and all of us drive for faith, family and fairness.” I suspect that were Jesus around to hear her speech, he might applaud with us at her fine words. He might see his inspiration in her. He might even recall a Bible verse or two. Perhaps Matthew 25:40? I’d suggest that maybe Paul Ryan look that one up and consider it again before he calls Jesus Christ his friend to the faithful of this nation.
What of Ayn Rand? We all know that she wrote those books arguing against the New Deal and creating a false universe in which poverty and weakness are somehow deserved penance for some prior bad act or heinous lack of motivation. We also know that in spite of her rhetoric against progressive ideals, she lived her old age out by accepting money from the New Deal program known as Social Security. In truth the real Ayn Rand, not the created fabrication born of her nonfiction novels but the real person, lived a life in which she depended on the government until she died.
I can’t help but ask. When Paul Ryan says that he makes non-fiction Ayn Rand novels required reading for all his interns - does he also tell them how the writer spent her old age drawing from Social Security? When he says he admires her and follows her as a mentor, does that mean the real person or one of her created characters? Auspiciously left out of his devotion to Rand is her anthem of atheism. Does Paul love Jesus while simultaneously believing that he doesn’t exist? Perhaps he is a good fit for the GOP – a party that simultaneously believes that Barack Obama is both a Muslim and a Socialist.
Paul Ryan says he likes to listen to Rage Against The Machine. He ignores that he is the machine against which we rage. Paul Ryan says that he likes Jesus Christ. He ignores the primary teachings of love, charity, forgiveness, and caring for the poor, the hungry, sinful and the destitute which Jesus and his followers bring to our lives. Paul Ryan says he likes Ayn Rand. He ignores the reality of her life, the dissonance of her lessons, and the fact that the part of her legacy in which he believes is the part of her legacy that is shelved with other fiction novels like Animal Farm and Lord Of The Flies while the truth of her legacy is in the wise plan known as the New Deal.
As a bloggess, I might post certain quotes from cultural phenomena like a Bible verse, a song lyric, a famous quote, or a movie comeback and often my fans respond with instant recognition. They feel they have found something to identify and link themselves with me. Having something in common gives them a feeling of friendship even if we’ve never met.
This is nothing new or unique.
Paul Ryan has figured out the value of having people identify with him like this too. Therefore, he walks around professing to love Jesus and Ayn Rand and Rage Against The Machine without ever considering what a person who truly adored those people and their ideology might do, say, or think - because he doesn’t care. He just wants people who like Ayn and Jesus and RATM to like him by association, and give him their vote. His personal opinion or relationship with these ideas has little to do with his motivation for sharing these preferences with us. He just wants our vote so he can sell us out to his rich friends in December.
Paul Ryan says a lot of things to get us to feel like he understands us, that he cares for us, and that he wants the same things we want. I am worried. If he can’t appreciate his own idols, his own favorite bands and religious leaders, how is he ever going to appreciate us? If he doesn’t listen to the lyrics of his favorite songs, will he ever listen to us and represent us?
The fact is, Paul Ryan is just like his boss. Both have a paper thin constitution that flip flops in the wind of public favor. Neither has a spine, a firm belief in morality, or any grasp of just how dumb they look when they try to identify with real, hardworking, Americans like us. They can conjure up all the pop culture rhetoric and religious grandiosity that they wish and it won’t mean a thing. We all know that Paul doesn’t get Rage Against The Machine any more than Mitt Romney understands my husband’s anthem; Kenny Chesney’s “Shift Work.” These are things that only people with worn hands, tired feet, and pure hearts understand; which explains exactly why the Romney/Ryan ticket struggles in their efforts to manipulate them.

~For more of my work please be sure to check my blog, my Facebook Page, my Twitter Feed, and my publication archives at OpenSalon.com and AddictingInfo.org. Also, the days until the election are counting down, click here to register to vote in your area. The Bucking Jenny proudly supports Obama/Biden 2012.

Bathtime Epiphany on Wyoming's 1%, The Johnson County War, and Liz Cheney

2012-08-18T15:32:00.000-07:00

Cheyenne Cattle Barons and Gunmen Arrested in Johnson County War

In my parent’s basement bathroom, across from the windowless room my sons and father refer to as “The Man Cave” such that I’ve been denied entry and cannot describe except to say that it smells like mothballs, is a large leather bound book about gunfighters of the old west on display near the tub and toilet presumably for ready reading. I am not sure what provoked me to pick up this book, or what made me forget that apparently a score of years ago I picked it up before and colored all over the inside. Still, I’ve been reading it, during my occasional time spent hiding in bath time bubbles from hellion children who’ve found safari hats and cowboy things in the cave across the hall while staying with the grandparents.
While reading this book, I’ve become a little more in tune with the history of America’s cowboy culture. I mean, it’s not just about any given block buster in the theater right now… I won’t even bother to name one. It’s about every one of those cowboys we all remember from the fictional Adam Cartwright to the very real Billy the Kid. Those guys literally shaped America with their revolvers. Some of them were heroes, but more often than not, even ‘lawmen’ like Wyatt Earp were nothing but regular human beings with both good and bad traits, with shady and honorably history.
I remember the story my grandmother tells of her grandmother going to school in Deadwood South Dakota during a time when Calamity Jane walked the boardwalks and dusty streets. Having grown up with a pair of pink pearl handled cap gun revolvers, I expected a fabulous tale about this rowdy woman, but all I got, a hundred years give or take a score, down the line was that she wore long black dresses and she spoke crudly so my Great Grandmother, then a school girl, was told to avoid her. That’s it. The infamous Calamity Jane wore black and may have cussed. That’s all I’ve got to report, and you, my faithful reader had better be thankful I twenty questioned my Granny for that much.
The Wild West, I think, was both more and less wild than we imagine. In all cases it was a struggle for survival and independence and sanity in a place where there was nothing defined. A man like Wyatt Earp might be both lawman and criminal. A woman like Jane might be both calamity and lady.
These things were among those that I pieced together while reading that leather bound book in the tub across from the man cave, but they weren’t the most important to me. It wasn’t till I reached the last chapter that I hit the full on state of euphoric epiphany.
The final chapter, my friends, was about an event that up till now I’ve regarded as nothing more than my least favorite western movie, The Johnson County War. Until I read about that war, I didn’t really understand what it meant, and since you’ve come along with me this far I’m going to explain it to you. See in the late 1800’s in Wyoming, we weren’t even a state yet, and we had these rich men in Cheyenne who had figured out that if they let a whole bunch of cows out on the range and then gathered them up later after they had babies and got fat eating prairie, they could ship them back east on trains and make all kinds of money on selling steak. It was a great plan.
The problem is that a few years in they started to figure out that the cows weren’t getting fatter and sometimes the cows died in the fierce blizzards or droughts. Of course, by then, folks back east had become big fans of hamburger and steak and easy profit. So had the men in Cheyenne who didn’t want to take responsibility for the fact that it was going to take more work to keep cows alive in Wyoming than they thought.
The solution was to form a closed group called The Wyoming Stock Growers Association that ignored the problem of tough terrain and climate and instead made the assumption that sheep were either stealing the food from the mouths of the cattle or that small ranchers were stealing cattle from the association. They made it so that any cowboy who worked hard and got enough together to own his own cattle was automatically an assumed thief. They called all independent ranchers of this type “Rustlers”.
So, eventually we’ve got a group of hardworking citizenry who can’t live or survive through hard work because the very definition of that hard work has been defined by this group of rich barons in Cheyenne as thievery. We’ve got rich barons who are desperate to stay that way and hate the regular hard working folk for making a go of it by actually investing labor and time and energy and sweat and blood. In Wyoming, from my personal observation, it seems to me that the cattle barons could have saved us all a lot of heartache had they stopped right here and learned something. More cows live if you invest time and labor and energy and sweat and blood than if you turn them loose on the prairie. It’s just how the hamburger crumbles.
But the Barons didn’t figure that out. Instead they blamed the sheepherders and the cowboys, whom they called Rustlers. They hired men to kill accused rustlers under vague titles like Stock Detectives. In Johnson County, small ranchers formed a rival organization – the Northern Wyoming Farmer’s and Stock Growers Association which challenged the Wyoming Stock Grower’s Association’s rules in a flat out rebellion.

I was shocked as I read the description of the plan the Cheyenne Barons came up with to exterminate the Rustlers.:

“It was at this point that the members of the Cheyenne Club fashioned their plot. Over their Cuban cigars and Rum St. Cruz, they determined to wipe out the competing organization and exterminate the “rustlers.” Their plan was simple, but drastic. First, recruit a force of gunfighters from outside the state to descend on Johnson County. Next, cut all telegraph wires that linked the county to the rest of the state, thus isolating the citizenry when the invasion got underway. Next, take over the town of Buffalo – the county seat- and assassinate the sheriff, his deputies, and the three county commissioners, thereby stripping the populace of leadership. And finally, dispose of all the men on a “dead list” drawn up by WSGA’s cattle detectives – a list that, by one estimate included 70 names.”

The book detailed the process right down to the way the whole charade was paid for:

“While the gunfighter’s were gathering, two stockmen left Cheyenne for Colorado to buy horses for the expedition lest suspicion be aroused by a roundup of too many horses from their own ranches. In Cheyenne, other cattlemen bought three heavy freight wagons and placed orders for tents, bedding, guns, pistols, and ammunition. To cover the mounting costs, 100 members of the WSGA put up $1000 each. On April 5, 1892, a special Pullman car at Denver, with the Texas gunfighters aboard, started for Cheyenne. The $100,000 invasion was launched.”

After a good start killing several men, the cattle barons soon found themselves surrounded by the sheriff and his men. During several days of fighting, both sides found it advantageous for them to cut the telegraph wires, but late on the second day word reached the Governor from the citizenry of Buffalo stating that an illegal armed force had invaded Johnson county and that the invaders had killed two settlers and were resisting arrest by the sheriff who requested troops from Fort McKinney “to assist in putting down rebellion.” Barber did not answer these pleas for help.
He waited for word from his friends, the cattle barons. When later that day a telegram got through from a rider who slipped through the sheriff’s barricade and rode 100 miles to the next county, Barber immediately wired the President asking for troops to quell an “insurrection.” By the next morning troops were on the way and soon thereafter the cattlemen agreed to surrender to the military, whereupon the cattlemen and their gunfighters from Texas were placed under military arrest and led back to Fort McKinney.
I think that this moment, when the federal government took custody of those men is a turning point in the minds of many in Wyoming. Think of how it felt to be those hardworking families in Johnson County. You were just attacked and nearly killed by the rich barons of Cheyenne, and rescued by the federal government. Your son or brother or husband might be dead and if he is, he died for trying to labor to feed his family. When you watch those soldiers haul off with the offenders of this grave injustice, you’ve got a lot of hurt and righteous anger in your heart and you are trusting the federal government to make it right.
But that isn’t what happened.
The men who were arrested that day went to Fort McKinney and then on to a change of venue to Cheyenne where for 10 weeks the prisoners were held at Fort Russell. The Johnson County treasury was billed 100 dollars per day for the confinement of each man till it went bankrupt. Eventually a judge turned every man loose without bond and later still the Johnson County authorities dropped the charges against the stockmen and their hired guns. Justice was never served on a single one of the rich barons of Cheyenne or the gunmen that they hired from Texas.

Still, think of it from their wrong but righteous feeling perspectives. They were held for 70 days in federal prison and never convicted. For a rich man this is a scar that he will never forget. He will never forgive the federal government for holding him in barracks with regular hired hands.
Now, a century and more later, we’ve got this strange thing that happens in Wyoming. The rich hate the poor with thinly veiled “free grazer” mentality. The poor feel a shame they have not earned. Both parties hate the federal government.
Nothing has changed.
The injustice of what happened in Johnson County was never resolved and it hangs like a foul stench in the air. It makes rich men like Dick Cheney remember tried and true techniques. They go to Texas and find dummies that they can pay and boss around to shoot up places they’ve never been. In 1892 it was Johnson County. In 2002 it was Iraq. What’s the difference?
Liz Cheney is on that faux news channel everyday spouting her mouth off about “free loaders” and I am just about sick of it. I watch my husband leave every morning before it gets light, and return every night after dark and I cannot imagine he’s a whole lot different than those first “free grazers” who worked day and night to make something of nothing with labor and work and effort and blood and sweat in Johnson County. Nor do I see a whole lot of difference between her or her husband and those men who sat only a few blocks from where I sit at this moment, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking fine rum while plotting to snub people like me and mine out - for profit.
The Johnson County War ain’t over. Justice is a long time coming, but as far as I can see it, so long as a man and a woman can’t survive through hard work and righteous effort in Wyoming, it ain’t over and I’m not done fighting and you shouldn’t be either.

(quotes are excerpts from: The Gunfighters by the Editors of Time Life Books with text by Paul Trachtman copywrite 1976)

What's Chronic Illness Got To Do With Homelessness?

2012-08-11T21:00:00.002-07:00

A month ago, when my husband and I drove away from that storage unit with our family’s meager belongings stowed carefully inside, I comforted myself with knowing how lucky I am in the fine gift I have in the health and happiness of my husband and sons.
Still, as a professional bloggess who shares the intimate details of my life with a daily audience of thousands, I feel a certain nakedness that I cannot shake as I continue to relate the shameful burn of poverty and chronic illness in my daily posts. I feel a responsibility to explain how things got this way, as though there should be some reason that makes sense for our poverty or my illness. I feel urgency in those who respond to the plight of my homeless family of four, they are just like me, we all want a resolution to our problems to reveal themselves immediately.
Trying to dig one's self out of poverty feels like trying to drill for oil through concrete with a plastic spoon. The irony of the fact that a person cannot actually physically pull themselves up by their own bootstrap is never lost on me. In fact, it is like an infuriating thorn in the sole of my shoe, an ever present painful jab, a reminder of the fight I cannot, no matter my efforts, seem to win.
Of particular frustration to our family has been the battle with lost time, energy, resources, and opportunity that comes with my disability and illness. I have a recently diagnosed rare disorder known as psuedotumor cerebri, it triggers my existing diagnosed chronic migraines, and agitates other illnesses like my ulcers, back injury, and personality disorder. It is a painful, chronic condition that randomly interrupts all of our daily lives with upsetting symptoms. When I am at my worst, I cannot see well, I cannot hear, I can’t feel my hands, I can’t talk, I am vomiting, I am in severe pain, and I am confused. These episodes happen several times a week. They scare my kids. They embarrass me.
Being poor and suffering chronic pain is perhaps the worst thing I can think of. In my state, politics tend to be so conservative that doctors, dentists, and mental health providers will deny Medicaid patients because they have some kind of political issue with us. When combined with the nationwide struggle with narcotic policy and chronic pain management, I have found that it is difficult if not impossible to find empathetic and effective care at all. The only place required by law to not turn me away is the ER and they are tired of seeing me because they know that if I were given good care by a primary doctor working closely with specialists I could manage my health far better. My mother, who is often the one charged with escorting me to the ER is just as ragged and worn as I from the doctor's nagging us to simply find some better way. It seems almost daily that we're filled with exasperation as my mother and I struggle to explain how very much we would love to find a better way of manage my illness. Finding a specialist for a rare disease, that requires chronic pain management, for a patient on Medicaid in a red state like mine has taken me 7 solid months of work and I’ve been unsuccessful as yet. In the process I’ve met some mean doctors. One ER doctor, after being ordered by a superior (unbeknownst to me) to treat my pain, came into my room and said that if I wanted pain medication I had to submit to a rectal exam to confirm my nervous system was okay and I wasn’t having a stroke first. Terrified of a stroke and in terrible pain, I consented for the uneeded test at the hand of the resentful, power hungry doctor. I’ve been accused of seeking narcotics while voluntarily using alternative drugs till I damaged my heart in an effort to avoid them. I’ve been belittled by doctors who diagnose me with “chronic intractable migraine and degenerative disc disease” on the same form as they propose “yoga and water” as a treatment plan. I’ve been through spinal taps, CAT scans, MRIs, blood tests and more. I call specialists, neurologists, opthomologists, endocrinologists and more trying to find answers and options.
I do all this while trying to pretend not to be broken for my children’s sake. I do it while scanning the classifieds and craigslists. I do it while jotting a note or two about poverty on the internet. I do it until my eyes jiggle in their sockets at night and tears of frustration roll down my cheeks.
I hear the dialogue occurring in the political arena around me about people like me who are disabled and homeless. I know that there are those who think me nothing more than a mooch. I also know how hard I fight every day that our lives might be better tomorrow, and I know that I got here by the fall of fate’s dice.

I know that I am sick and disabled and broken and poor but I cannot give up. I know the sheer irony in trying pull myself up by my own bootstraps and I know the impossibility of it. Yet, just as if I were drowning in a rip tide, I fight the current because my life depends on it. My sons and the four brown eyes that count on me even when they are closed in restful sleep depend on it.
They depend on me. So I type till my fingers tremble and I send whispers out over the internet… hoping that my voice is heard. Hoping that I am not alone in my struggle to weave stronger bootstraps from nothingness, there is some comfort in knowing that I am most certainly heard and not alone. Some comfort in knowing that the echo of my words might change something, somewhere, for somebody… if only by offering a reason to remember empathy. I believe that maybe Thoreau said it best when he asked, “Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eye for an instant?”
If you look, for a moment, through the desperate mist of my eyes at any given moment, through it all you’ll still see hope, always hope.

Till next time