Katie's Blog

Betrayal

2016-11-25T14:34:00.000-08:00

I’ve had a lot of betrayal in my life--- and I suppose I have committed my share of betrayal too. It’s an end of the world feeling if you’re on the receiving end. You think to yourself you will never be the same and how can I go on? But we do.

The worst betrayal in the world is not your spouse or lover cheating on you, or a good friend sleeping with your husband or wife… the worst betrayal is when your own country betrays you. Since the election of Donald Trump, I have felt a deep betrayal. And yes – life will go on. Not like before though. Not for me.

This country has turned its collective back on everything good about it – and jumped into the cesspool with the Machiavellian Trump. The people that chose to believe Trump’s nonsensical blabbering about everything-- over the 30 years of cleared investigations into Hillary Clinton's life—both public and private, betrayed their own country.

His appointees tell the whole story. Mirroring himself, he’s appointed people that are racists, bigots and in fact, fascists. The neo-Nazi idolize Trump because he basically made it okay to for them to hate blacks, Mexican’s, Muslims, Jews, LGBT, and pretty much anyone that is not of white Anglo-Saxon origin, and made it okay to commit crimes against these people.

His appointees want to take the great open lands of this country and destroy them for profit. (Mostly oil, coal and construction.)

His appointees want to dismantle the education system so the poor and marginalized will truly have no chance.

His appointees want to end the ACA, Medicare, and Social Security. (That would include your disability checks for those of you collecting.)

His appointees think it’s okay to torture the enemy even though the most knowledgeable generals say it does not work.

His appointees want give massive tax benefits to the top 1% -- and almost nothing to the middle class. Let them eat cake.

His appointees collective experience in the fields they are being chosen for is almost nil.

One (or more) of his appointees is mentally ill.

Donald Trump has no regard for women—he is, in fact the purest definition of a misogynist.

He is a bully; he is a spoiled, rich asshole. He is the kind of guy that makes waiters want to spit in his food. He may not drink, but he has all the earmarks of an abusive alcoholic—right down to the memory impairments and the inability to own his shortcomings.

Donald Trump has mentioned detention camps for Muslims, and mass deportations. Of course he’s back peddled because someone probably told him that would be against the law. I’m sure though, they advised him to change the law first.

He does not comprehend the Constitution of the United States, the Bill of Rights, the Articles of War and the myriad of active treaties we have with other nations and what ending them would mean.

Donald Trump is a professional bull-shitter. He duped half the country into thinking he’s smart, when clearly he is learning impaired at the least, and downright stupid at most. He is a pathological liar—and I have experience with that personality type and I can tell you my alarms went off with Donald Trump in 2004 when he had that ridiculous television show. It took me maybe a minute to size him up. Maybe less.

I can’t turn off my ideologies to make peace with the less than half of the country that voted for him. I can’t make myself respect the thought process that led some to believe fake news and a big bag of wind. I cannot and will not support a racist, misogynist, a con artist, a fraud, and possibly a rapist.

He has aligned himself with the American Taliban – and the White Nationalist Nazi Party, elite right wing billionaires and Vladimir Putin. He is by all definitions a fascist. And if news reporters would do their job, I'm sure someone could dig up something heinous in his past-- or present.

I can’t force myself to say it’s just 4 years because it will take 20 years to unfuck everything he and his team of pond scum destroy. I don’t think he will make it one year – I think he will be impeached. But that leaves us with a disgusting man who made the women in his state look at scans of their dead babies and have funerals for their miscarriages and abortions. That is not Christian by the way—that is cruel and unusual and more in keeping the with Sharia Law. And by the way-- why is he trying to keep his emails secret?

The personal betrayal to me is nothing compared to the far reaching and over-all effect this presidency will have on the world. It’s already caused fear, the likes of which has not been seen since Hitler started his movement to ethnically cleanse Germany. The whole world is watching-- and America just blinked.

We are a Nation of Freedom. We are a Nation of Laws. We are the Nation of Hope that we share world-wide.Until now, other nations took their lead from us.These are the ideals our troops have fought and died for...they didn't sacrifice their lives, lose limbs, sight, sound and for many their ability to live any kind of normal life, so that the rich could get richer. Now we are showing the world the worst side of us... and what happens when capitalism is controlled by just a few elite and not the people.

We are the home to Lady Liberty at whose feet Emma Lazarus’ poem boldly states:

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

This is the one betrayal in my life I don’t think I’ll forget. I may move on (to protest) - but I will never forget. History will never forget.

Finding HOPE in a Depressed State of Affairs

2016-10-01T19:26:00.000-07:00

HOPE

Almost every morning, before my eyes are opened or my hearing aids are in, I can hear the ding from my phone alerting me to a message from my grandsons mom. She sends me pictures of him almost every day—and so I wake up filled with joy and love of life. I see his little face and his beautiful eyes and amazing, almost always smile and I melt. I’m a proud Nonnie, to be sure. But I also count my blessings. I’m lucky to have his mom. We’ve grown close these last 2 years and she checks on me as much as I check on her and the baby.

Every day, as I look at the pictures of the baby I feel peace and happiness. Even though I can’t hug and kiss my little guy, I am happy to see his pictures and have an occasional Facetime kiss. By bedtime though, my whole body hurts—including my heart. Sometimes I get a night time picture too- and that is the best medicine of all.

Lately my days don’t stay happy. Besides my own heartbreak of not seeing my son or knowing where he is or how he’s doing, which leaves a giant hole in my heart—I won’t lie about that—besides that, the daily news wears me out. The daily insanity of Donald Trump, the daily killings of black people, the daily killings of police, the 22 veteran suicides a day, the daily killings of children by their parents (or with their parent’s weapons). The daily racism, the daily homeless issues, the daily wars in the Middle East and Africa. More than 140,000 people, over 7,000 of them children, have been killed in Syria's uprising-turned-civil war. How is that okay? There’s more- I just can’t get it all out with causing my head to explode.

The daily commentaries from the morons of America – spewing more hatred than I can imagine—that stuff has worn me out. The lack of basic knowledge of the US Constitution, the Bill of Rights; basic US History, not to mention World History, all make a nice setting for Donald Trump – he plays to that audience. He knows they won’t pick up a book and check anything. Oh, maybe they’ll google – that’s his source too.

Of course, I have to hang in there. People need me, I have a job to do, I have a couple of jobs, a house to sell, ads to get out every day, I don’t have the luxury of drinking my problems away, or going to bed for a month, I have to remain present and be able to function—knowing I can’t help anyone if I don’t take care of myself. But, I am tired lately.

I am tired of arguing with people about politics. I am tired of trying to make an ignorant nation wake the fuck up and see Donald Trump for the fraud that he is. He’s a misogynist, a racist, a bigot and frankly – his biggest fault in my book—he is stupid, and too stupid to know it. You can be all those other things and learn different—but he is not teachable. His narcissistic personality disorder assures us of that. Oh, and he has NO VALUES. None- nada. Why can't people see that?

He would start more wars that we can’t finish. He would send more young men to war who, if lucky enough to come home alive – may commit suicide in the next 10 years. He wants to save money by ending military bureaucracy before he even knows what that bureaucracy is for. He does not understand the military at all. And oh- by the way—the Generals for Trump- none of the signatories of that letter was a service chief or led a major combat command. They were (all retired) the bureaucratic, pencil pushers who we taxpayers now support.

I’m kept going by that baby and his mom. I’m kept going by a few friends that understand the pain of not being able to help my son—or see him or hear his voice. I’m grateful he is not one of the 22. That’s what I hang on to—that and the hope I can make a difference for future troops and future veterans, and sufferers of combat PTSD. I’m kept going by a few friends that have shared my joy of being a Nonnie – albeit long distance. I’m kept going by amazing friends and family who love me. I’m kept going by beauty and art and my dog, Toshi. I am kept going by my never give up, stubborn, personality that compels me to get up every day and keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter what. I hold back tears, and push through the pain so I can be there for those who rely on me—and even those who don’t. I want to be there for people in worse shape than me, people who stay quiet in their pain while it chips away at their soul. For people who have lost much more than me. And for the people that have always been there for me. That is my goal.

I hope when this election is over – some of the hatred will subside. I suspect it will linger though, no matter who wins. Donald Trump revealed a lot about this great nation – that it’s full of racist and bigots—and many of them are gunslingers. If he does not win- he will call upon them – I’m just guessing of course. Let’s hope I’m wrong -- but let's hope he does not win.

I am kept going because I want to see Hillary become President-- no matter what, that is a vote I intend to make.

Why I'm Voting for Hillary Clinton

2016-05-30T14:37:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure if I can write about the upcoming Presidential Race without offending someone, but I hope I don’t. The mention of Donald Trump sends my hackles up – and maybe the mention of Hillary Clinton sends your hackles up. So – I’m going to try to explain – much like I did when I decided to vote for President Obama in 2012, why. I don't expect to change one mind- so this is not a debate- this is me- sharing my logic.

The divisiveness is enough for me. It’s not like I can’t see Hillary’s faults. She’s a Pitbull. If you get to close too her face she may bite you. Then say it’s your fault – but, if we are honest here – if you get too close to a Pitbull and it bites you it IS your fault.

She has been investigated for everything under the sun – and yet never indicted for anything. The emails… are a stupid witch hunt. Colin Powell, Condi Rice’s staff used personal severs, and LATER the emails were deemed Secret or Top Secret but not at the time they were received or replied to – exactly the same as Hillary Clinton’s.

After 11 hours of grilling- of which I watched at least 10 hours of – I am convinced beyond a doubt that Hillary Clinton is not lying about Benghazi. If you are not convinced you might want to check your motives and re-watch the tape- if, indeed, you ever watched it. If you’re still not convinced, then nothing I say or do will change your mind – (and that’s fine).

Republicans have been gunning for her as long as I can recall. When she was the First Lady and proposed a new health care system they came unglued. And she’s been in their sights ever since. (and was before – by simply being married to Bill Clinton)

She’s been called a liar, a murderer, a suicide facilitator. She’s been called a feminist, she’s been called anti-feminist, she’s been called about every name in the book – and honestly 8 years ago I did not vote for her. I was a one issue voter and because I was so afraid that the Democrats did not know how to run a war – I voted for John McCain (and I’m still embarrassed about that) – but the minute President Obama won- I got behind him. I hoped his lack of experience would be made up for with intellect – and the 2^nd time around I got behind him with my vote.

Since 2003, when my son joined the Marine Corps, I have come full circle. I started out a Democrat and here I am again. Because I wanted my son to be safe in a war zone – I wanted to make sure the tax dollars would not be taken away from him- (they were anyway) I wasn’t thinking down the line- I wasn’t thinking about the VA and its hurdles. I wasn’t thinking about other parts of government that could use some tax dollars- I was selfishly focused on my kid—and his buddies- and the sons and daughters of my friends. I went against my own intuition- and my son’s wishes.

But even at my most “right” thinking – I have always at heart leaned left. I lean left because I believe in humanity. I believe in helping others. I don’t think helping people hinders them. Otherwise we would call it hindering. Here, let me hinder you with that door.

For me- still today Foreign Policy is a huge factor. I am convinced beyond a doubt that Donald Trump would lead us into a war bigger than we could handle – just to be able to say his hoo-hoo is bigger.

He is an unfiltered mouth unattached to a lame brain. I’ve heard that a number of military and military families are behind him- he seems to know the hot spots to get people fired up – like today, when he spoke about the VA and our veterans being treated – “worse that illegal immigrants.” (a total lie) I hear, because he speaks their language… but – is their language hate? Is their language more war? I find that hard to believe. Most of the families I know – are still trying to cope with the fallout from the Middle East wars. Most of the people I know would not wish another war on another mother or father. Not to mention all the spouses, and children. And sure the VA is a bit of a mess- it’s been broken since WW1 –it needs to be revamped 100%- but NOT privatized.

I think – the best gift we could give our veterans is no war. Imagine that. And for all the kids that are running to the recruiter’s office ready to go out and have a shootout, or save the world- go to the VA first – and take a look at what war does.

I’m not anti-Military – we need our military because we are the arbiters of peace around the world. Much to the chagrin of many- it’s who we are. We need our military because ISIL and the Taliban are not imaginary enemies. And that nut in North Korea needs constant monitoring. But we need to be smart about it.

I have seen, up close and very personal what war does to people; to our veterans, and their families. The invisible wounds are endless and relentless in their ability to decimate life. Some can’t recover. The real fatality numbers from OIF and OEF is much higher if you count the suicides during and after.

I am not an impressionable person- in fact, I have no super heroes. I have my son – who has been my hero since long before he became a Marine—because he saved my life. He’s not perfect either—far from it actually. I don’t expect people to be perfect. I do expect them to be as smart as they can be.

I honestly can’t get a handle on why people like Donald Trump. He’s crass, he’s a braggart, he’s horribly misinformed about history, the Constitution, the Senate, Congress and well, just about everything that involves the United States- not to mention Europe, Asia, the Middle East and outer space. He proposes things that could never happen—and he doesn’t even know why they could not.

He attracts the basest human beings. Anti- everything people. And then a handful of people that are worried about taxes- and I can tell you right now – most of them don’t make enough money to worry about it. Maybe what he says about keeping Mexicans out, and keeping Muslims out is provocative to some people who have known no other cultures. I don’t know what to say to that since this is a global world in business and economy- and you can learn about any other culture by reading some books.

Hillary is not stupid. She’s had more hands on experience regarding running the United States of America than any other person running (and not running). She defends women’s rights, she is pro health care and will not pull the plug on ACA and turn our country into a laughing stock of the health care world. She’s not too shy to strike if a strike is needed – she’s no knee-jerk though. She won’t be challenging Putin to a “whose is bigger” contest. But she won’t back down from his rhetoric either.

And Bernie… I got nothing for Bernie – He does not have Foreign Policy experience. In my opinion he’s too old – he’s patriarchal—and I find that in itself annoying. Bernie has some good ideas, some not so great – and would never see the light of day. I don’t think he’s the nominee- but he’ll go back to the Senate with more gravitas and do some good there – which frankly we really need him there.

Anyway –In case you have not guessed, I’m voting for Hillary. I think at 64 I will finally vote for a woman but not just because she’s a woman – but because she’s smart – my #1 requirement these days. She’s a mom and a grandmother, and she has been to every country in the world and she has mixed it up with some real bad asses and lived to tell the story. She knows some stuff and I am not embarrassed to vote for her.

Happy New Year 2016-- Finally

2016-01-02T20:12:00.002-08:00

I was all ready to write this great New Year’s blog. I usually write in my head for a couple of days before I commit to paper so I was ready to dazzle everyone with my profundity. I was going to write about how not to drag all the crap of the last year into the new year. How to just take the good stuff and leave the rest. How to turn grief into sorrow and ultimately into sorrow lite. How to let go of anger and don’t even think about revenge—such a fool’s game.

I wanted to write about how important forgiveness is, and that in order to have a heart at peace you must forgive and mean it. I was ready to admit that my dislike (ok, hate) of Donald Trump and the rest of those Bozo’s in the GOP have made me somewhat bitter in the last few months but I have tried- I mean with all my heart, to keep an open mind and try to understand Freedom means different things to different people. But...

I keep reading about the Syrian refugees, the people I was saying we should help three years ago, and seeing comments that exude hatred beyond my comprehension. Really, I could not hate that much. I guess I always try to put myself in other people’s shoes. Or I try to figure out how they got the way they are. I wanted to write about that and say- stop it. Just stop being mean.

How to make a monster? Beat a child, starve a child of love, of food, of clothing or a place to live or a place to even poop. Let them see their mother raped, and their father blown up and their siblings beaten into submission. Fill his head with shit until it explodes. (And takes a few people with him.) The kids of the middle east have dealt with all of the above. Not just Syria, but Iraq, Afghanistan, Africa, Palestine – anywhere there is poverty, there are people there to take advantage of it. There will be more terrorist-- because the root cause is not being addressed. And hey people-- the root cause is not Islam.

So for anyone that does not understand that—let me assure you – we have been making monsters in the Middle East and a few here too. There is a reason why ISIL targets poor blacks looking for recruits. Who in this country is more susceptible than poor people, with not enough food, living in overcrowded project housing, with rats for household pets. If I were looking for recruits that were already angry—I’d look in the segregated (yeah it really is segregated) parts of the country where education is almost nonexistent, where drugs are more available than food, where families have been torn apart by guns and drugs and poverty.

And then mental illness. What some call evil. Back in the old days – the 1960s for my mom, mental illness was treated with shock therapy that fried your brain and left you vegetable. Oops, sorry about that, you’re not crazy or evil after all, it’s just menopause.

All these mentally ill people that shot up movie theaters and shopping centers and schools—all sick. And sure it’s hard to have compassion for the people that cause so much death and destruction, but do people hear themselves? The comments online are actually crazier than the person that caused them.

“We” didn’t make them you say? Well you’re wrong. We most certainly did. We made them here and we made them in the Middle East too. Because we chose to spend trillions on wars instead of helping people. We chose oil. We decided to take a generation of troops and ruin many of their lives for oil, for greed and our complete inability to understand Islamic countries.

We chose to not spend money researching mental illness and preventing it. We chose to see mental illness as an evil apparition instead of a brain malfunction or undetected injury. We chose to see it as something we should pray about because that works. Ridiculous.

We choose to elect officials who are led by their pocket books and only think what people with money (the NRA, Koch Brothers) tell them to think.

For Example: Totally misinterpreting the 2^nd Amendment, and blowing by the word MILITIA and what that is exactly.

noun: militia; plural noun: militias

1. a military force that is raised from the civil population to supplement a regular army in an emergency.

2. a military force that engages in rebel or terrorist activities, typically in opposition to a regular army.

3. all able-bodied civilians eligible by law for military service.

So take a look at these graphs I stole from CNN. Interesting right? – no wait. The word is embarrassing.

And then there is Trump who, if elected, would have us all nuked in about 20 minutes. His friend Putin might do the job, or maybe China, or Pakistan or our little, very mentally ill buddy in North Korea.

I wanted to write about all that. Maybe offer a few answers, or quote Mother Teresa or Walt Disney. “It’s a Small World After All.”

But let me take a deep breath here.

Because yesterday I got a text from my grandson’s mom that he was in the hospital. He’s got a virus, he’ll be fine. But it was a big smack in the head for me. It immediately changed my perspective from the now—to the future. I really want to leave this world better for him. I don’t think I can blog my way there. I don’t know how to leave him a world without war or gunslingers or torture or famine or air to breathe. I want him to be able to grow up in a world that accepts single moms without condemnation, that excepts gay and trans people. I don’t want him to be afraid of people that don’t look like him. I want him to have the best health care, the best schools and have it all without being told it’s a burden on his family or his country. I want him to not know the kind of fear that terrorism provokes.

I can write about it and I can vote. But there should be more.

I guess I’ll figure it out. Whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing, I always do.

Happy PEACEFUL New Year

My Manic 2015

2015-12-27T19:32:00.005-08:00

It was a hard year and my best year too. A manic year really. My highest high and my lowest low came simultaneously. As one life was entering –another was slipping away, and I did a balancing act that would rival Philippe Petit, while helping others not fall off their rope. Take my hand. Take my hand. Take my hand.

I felt completely alone, battling demons that were taking away the love of my life—the air in my lungs. And suddenly 30 or so of my best friends and family surrounded me, lifted me up and supported me through the following months, so I could help the people that needed me.

Then my light arrived. My little love arrived with healing powers, the likes of which are for fairytales only—not real life. Certainly not my life.

He arrived in the spring, bringing hope, like all new things in spring. A ray of light, a purpose, a cause to keep not just me moving forward but others too. More than a few of us needed him. I cried tears of joy and then set out to do the impossible—and did it with the help of my friends.

It’s always like this—every year, losses and gains. People pass away, babies are born. It’s the way of the world. But this year was different. It was a massive rescue mission, headed by old friends—some of whom are Marine Moms, others who have known me 40+ years and others who have known me fewer years, but immediately understood the urgency—the life or death of everything.

The best was going to Europe to meet my grandson thanks to my friends—and then having he and his mom stay with me for almost 3 months. No- wait. The best was my son coming back from the edge. Or maybe it was all of us together for the best Thanksgiving ever. Or maybe it was realizing what amazing friends and family I have. It’s hard to say what part of wonderful is the most wonderful.

I can say this, I am grateful.

Because I am so grateful, I plan on spending 2016 raising awareness for what I have deemed the crime of the century. PTS. Post-Traumatic Stress—specifically combat related. And Veteran Suicide as a direct result of PTS and other injuries. If you follow me on Facebook you’ll see many posts from me regarding missing veterans, at risk veterans, homeless veterans, and their families and caretakers who suffer secondary PTS due to living in crisis mode 24/7.

I learned first hand in this last year that emotional support for families of veterans is crucial. I want all the families to be able to ask for help if they need it. Doing this alone should not even be an option.

Veteran issues are not and should never be viewed as political. We have an all-volunteer military from all walks of life, who have risked life and limb and a variety of illnesses, so we—civilians, didn’t have to go to war. We owe them. So, no matter what side of the political fence you are on—I hope you have an interest in helping me help them. If you can help spread needed information, and resources for vets and families—I will be forever grateful to you.

May the New Year bring us peace around the world. A lofty wish, I know. But if enough people really want that- it will happen. I learned this year—you can change the tide; you just need the right people to help you.

Below are some helpful links if you are in need of help.

www.facebook.com/TrevorGouldMemorial

www.heartstowardhome.com

www.veteranscrisisline.net

I Forgive You

2015-08-08T21:47:00.000-07:00

He sat in my kitchen, in a chair with one leg pulled up to his chest, and his chin on his knee, watching me cook. I was cooking and talking to the dog, and bantering back and forth with our 12-year-old son, when I said something that made him laugh. And because I like it when people think I’m funny, I stopped and smiled at him—you know the smile? The one that says, see, I’ve still got it. He was smiling back.

“What?” I asked.

“I don’t hate you anymore. He said.

“Ha! I don’t hate you anymore either.”

It was mostly true for both of us.

The 12-year cold war. Over just like that. Except for a few skirmishes.

As the years went by, I imagined, as we got older, and his parents did too, I would help him take care of them. I imagined that someday we would be roommates, with separate rooms, with him beating me at Scrabble, and us arguing over politics or something equally arguable. I imagined we would be grandparents together, both vying for top spot on the grandparent roll call.

On December 31^st. 2010, I called him to say Happy New Year. And I meant it with all my heart. He said Happy New Year back to me—and I could tell he meant it too. Six days later my son called me telling me his dad had just died. 2011 was not a happy year at all. I cried for days. I cry still. That grandchild I imagined is here now but he won’t get to know him. So many moments lost.

That day in my kitchen was the closest either one of us ever got to an apology. Neither of us ever said I forgive you—but I’m sure we both meant that. I meant that. I guess I can’t put words in his mouth now.

My life changed that day. A big dark cloud disappeared but I didn’t notice it until later. I can say now… that when all that hurt and anger left, I started breathing. My brain started working better and my life started falling into place.

If I have learned nothing else in my life, I’ve learned to forgive. Even when we don’t want to. Even when we think that is that last thing we will ever do-- it’s what we should do to free ourselves from the hate that devours our heart and spirit. It’s a gift to yourself to forgive—and maybe a gift to the other person too, but that’s okay, because you just never know.

Burnt Toast

2015-07-12T19:03:00.002-07:00

How many times have you burned toast in your life? Me… I have burned loaves.

I remember when I was little, and if you knew me, you’ll remember too, I was the kind of kid that would throw a fit over burned toast. A real fit, an end of the world fit, the kind where you have to restrain the child because they are flailing and may well hurt themselves kind of fit. Yep, that was me.

Somehow, my mother survived that. “No problem” she might have said, as she scraped that toast with a knife, and the darkest crumbs fell into sink or the garbage. But you could not ever convince me that toast was not ruined. It was ruined, and I would never eat it no matter what.

Then my mom would say, “Okay, I’ll make you new toast.” And proceed to give me my old toast after pretending to make new toast—and voila, I was happy. At least for the moment. I didn’t realize then of course, and maybe not until this morning, that much of my life has been burnt toast. I have scraped the burn off of many a'slice.

I’ve scraped it off my broken heart, my fragile ego, and my frail and dusty brain. Sometimes, I had to throw a fit first. Sometimes, I just wanted to throw myself away and give up … piece of shit toast. I’m toast. I’m not worth saving. But then… I would scrape myself off.

Burned toast is temporary. It’s fixable. No, not without some scars… there will be spots visible to the naked eye. Everyone will see them, but they’ll think – wow… good for you toast—you saved yourself and you look pretty damn good. And toast will look in the mirror and say… “yep.”

I’ve had the opportunity, recently, to review my life a bit. I usually try not to dwell on the past, I have made so many mistakes that thinking about the past undoubtedly brings up some remorse, some regrets, and often some embarrassment. But when I look at is as a whole… my mistakes made me who I am. My successes did not. My burnt toast made me a better cook. My burnt toast taught me how to fix things that are broken and still use them. They are still good. They are not broken. I am not broken. YOU are not broken.

We are just burnt toast.

POST TRAUMATIC STRESS AWARENESS 2015

2015-06-07T20:40:00.001-07:00

JUNE IS NATIONAL PTSD AWARENESS MONTH

I always focus on Combat PTSD because that is what I have studied. I usually write something about it. I usually explain what it is. Everyone should know these two things by now. If you don’t know—look it up. Google it, google it with my name you’ll find several articles and one radio piece.

So this year I am including a different angle of PTSD. This year I’m writing about how these soldiers, sailors, Marines & airmen who were once hailed as heroes by the general public, are often treated with disdain when they suffer from PTSD. I say suffer… I mean suffer. They suffer, their families suffer, their friends suffer, but most of the people who reaped the benefits of their service and sacrifice, they don’t suffer at all. Some of them don’t even have the decency to vote. The whole freedom thing-- shat upon.

TO FULLY UNDERSTAND...

PTSD you have to live it. Not necessarily have it—but live it. If you have a loved one who has PTSD (also called PTS) then you know about the anxiety attacks, the anger issues, the nightmares, the confusion, the depression, the total lack of giving a shit, and the inability for some to function without caretakers. The drinking and drugs are mostly by-products, but surely part of the problem. And, sadly- the most sad of all, is that sometimes they give up and commit suicide. 22 Veterans commit suicide a day. 22 A DAY.

Trips to the VA are too confusing for some. Go to this office for this paper and that office for that paper and go see this guy in that building or this lady in this building and then when you’re through come back to this building but don’t see me see Dr. So & So … and so on and so forth. If you are not suicidal before going there – you may well be afterwards. People, us civilians, do not know that.

People ask why did you join the service in the first place? There are as many answers for that as there are people in the service. After 9-11, a lot of them joined. Even though most of them grew up with Vietnam War Vets in their family, and Korean Conflict vets too, they heard stories, they knew Uncle Joe was never the same after Vietnam. They knew the story of Aunt Peggy who was a nurse in Vietnam then came home and drank herself to death. But, they joined. Some of them, joined for noble reasons, some were running away from what they were in, some were thinking of their future, some wanted the free education, most of them—did not think they would die. Most of them did not think they would lose arms and legs and eyes, and hearing and skin, and I bet none of them thought they would lose their minds.

I have studied PTSD now for about 9 years. Before it walked through my door, it walked through the doors of people I knew. When I heard them talk about their loved ones, sometimes it was with anger or confusion and sometimes it was with an abundance of empathy and love. Sometimes – all of the above. That made me realize that I needed to fully understand the complexities before I wrote about it or met it head on.

PTS has become pervasive among our troops. We managed to turn a blind eye to the Vietnam veterans that came home with it. We called them drug addicts (and baby killers) and threw them away. But things are different now. Some people know better, and those people spend every waking hour doing something about it by educating everyone they meet—PTS is not a made up condition. It’s not a weakness. It’s a wound. It’s a scar. It’s a war within.

STOP BLAMING THE WARRIORS...

They were mostly 18 years old when they joined. They had no idea what death and destruction would do to them. (And most of their parents had no idea either.) Even those that thought they might know--- thought they were smarter than everyone else—they didn’t know either. So instead of blaming the warriors or even the wars that have already taken place, start finding ways to make peace in the world. Start finding common dominators instead differences. Stop using religion to hate. Stop voting for war. And sure—the bad guys are the bad guys, and they have to be dealt with—but don’t sign up our troops until all other avenues are exhausted. Don’t be a knee jerk. Don’t hate just because. Try to figure out why.

Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI), and PTS are the signature wounds of the Middle East wars. Studies show that 14-20 % of Veterans from Iraq (OIF) and Afghanistan (OEF) have PTSD. 50% of those with PTSD do not seek treatment. Out of the half that seek treatment, only half of them get "minimally adequate" treatment (RAND study) 19% of veterans may have traumatic brain injury (TBI) Over 260,000 veterans from OIF and OEF so far have been diagnosed with TBI. Traumatic brain injury is much more common in the general population than previously thought: according to the CDC, over 1,700,000 Americans have a traumatic brain injury each year; in Canada 20% of teens had TBI resulting in hospital admission or that involved over 5 minutes of unconsciousness (VA surgeon reporting in BBC News) 7% of veterans have both post-traumatic stress disorder and traumatic brain injury. The rates of post-traumatic stress are greater for these wars than prior conflicts.

HOW CAN WE HELP?

I’m glad you asked. First- have compassion. Don’t assume someone is a bum or a drug addict or a loser because their life isn’t going the way you think it should. Families and loved ones need to educate themselves as much as possible. And if needed, get your own counseling to help you navigate the difficult days.

Clearly, it’s best to let the professionals deal with such a delicate issue. But it’s good to understand some of the triggers and help the Vet avoid them if you have the opportunity. Check the link for more information.

You can donate to organizations that help veterans with PTS and /or TBI. (see below)

You can volunteer to help navigate the VA process (there is training available)

Just Listen – don’t ask any questions if you are not a combat veteran. Empathy does not extend to knowledge.

A safe way to check in without being intrusive is ask on a scale of 1-10 how are you doing? You’ll be surprised how many of them will tell you the truth.

If you know a vet that you suspect has PTSD, carry the VA Hotline number and offer it to him/her.

FOR MORE INFORMATION

National Center For PTSD

Donate to: (vetted)

Hearts Toward Home International

The Pathway Home

Wounded Warriors

A Lesson Revisited

2015-04-26T21:17:00.001-07:00

In 1978, in Sausalito, a party of four, two men and two women, walked into the bar I was waitressing in. I can tell you what I was wearing. It was a tweedy wool designer dress with short sleeves but I had a turtle neck underneath, and high black boots. It wasn’t waiteressy as dress goes but it was winter and I was cold. I had short hair and wore minimal make up, just like now. When I wasn’t waiting on people I sat on the fireplace hearth and kept my back warm. It was a slow night- a Monday I think. There were a few regulars sitting at the bar but all was quiet and serene. Billie Holiday or Nina Simone records probably played in the background, but not loud. We were a drinking man’s bar. No loud dice, no fights. The craziest we ever got was when the ferry landed on a Sunday afternoon or a busy Friday night when the whole town seemed to be out and thirsty. But this was Monday night.

They were raucous and wound up, but I took the order and delivered their drinks quickly—like I said we weren’t busy.

I can still tell you what they ordered. Two Mexicans, a Venetian and Irish coffees and a Calistoga. I don’t remember any conversation, but based on conversations later they told me to smile. I always resent being told to smile. You will get good, no great service from me, but I don’t smile for dollars. I serve drinks or do what I do but smiles are from my heart. Well – then anyway. Later when I got my teeth capped, I smiled more, but still, not for dollars.

As they got louder and more obnoxious, I decided they had had enough to drink. I was lucky to work in a place where I could make that call. My boss was way ahead of his time. So when they ordered another round I said whatever we used to say. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight.” Or, something along those lines. And I walked away. When you walk away that allows people to leave nicely.

But that wasn’t what happened. Instead, one of the women walked out with a drink, (a huge no, no in Sausalito back then) and when I went out after the glass, she turned around and broke it across my face cutting my cheek. So I slugged her. Then suddenly, I was in a choke -hold and her boyfriend was trying to put my head through a window while choking me at the same time. A double paned, beveled glass window. My last thought before a few people came to my rescue was of Mary Queen of Scotland, being decapitated. My boss was a Scot- maybe that was why I thought of her.

It took three big guys to pull that man off of me.

The police were called, pictures were taken, reports were taken, my boss rushed to the bar from his home and word spread to every bar in town within minutes. That guy wasn’t going to be drinking in Sausalito for a while. My boss made sure of that. And Sally Stanford, our Sausalito Mayor, came to see me the next night after hearing what happened. She assured me word was on the street.

The incident changed my life. I ended up suing him and settling out of court because my brother was dying and I couldn’t deal with the stress. The concussion and the incident itself left me a mess and my boss, coworkers, roommate and boyfriend all tried to help me but I was emotionally unstable for a long time afterwards. I didn’t realize until much, much later that my stress was a direct result of that horrible incident.

During the deposition, the man told my attorney that they didn’t like my demeanor. “Excuse me?” My attorney said, not quite believing his ears. “We just didn’t think she was friendly enough.” They said. I watched my attorney’s face tighten up and the vein in his forehead throb. I could see he wouldn’t have minded taking a crack at this guy.

For years, I shook if customers were nasty to me. My bartenders took care of me- no one would hurt me on their watch again. Later, I got out of the business and stopped drinking. I took a silent vow that I would not put up with abuse. Not from customers, not from boyfriends, not from bosses not from anyone.

This last month I spent working on a real estate transaction with people who abusively bullied me and were nasty to the point that I had to get my broker involved. Then they tried to bully him. After a month, I was physically ill, I developed ulcers, the stress in my back was extremely painful and then finally at the 11^th hour they canceled the contract about two minutes before I was going to call my broker and ask him to remove me from the transaction. My broker – God bless him, said I could fire them too if I wanted, it was my call.

My integrity is intact. I can’t be bought. I’m not a slave and I refuse to be a victim. My health slipped – but I was vulnerable due to other issues in my life. I forgot, for just a second about my beautiful nieces and great- nieces, who I want to show that they can get through life without being a doormat. Without being abused. I forgot about my son who has always been proud of me for sticking up for myself. I forgot my promise to myself way back when. I won’t be bought. I won’t be abused.

So here I am – feeling 100 pounds lighter. Ready to start a new week tomorrow. I feel smarter and stronger and healthier than I did Friday morning.

Every single time someone allows abuse, it sends the message that abuse is okay. It’s not okay. Identify it—and crush it. Let’s get rid of these horrible people.

The Joy of Parenting

2014-12-26T19:11:00.000-08:00

The mistakes are endless. If you think you haven’t made any, or that none were made while raising you, you are wrong.

I was older when I had Nick, in my 30s. Still, I made a ton of mistakes. We all do. And of course everyone jumps right in with their corrections.

“How could you let him roll off the bed?”

“Um, I didn’t let him… it just happened. It was without my permission.”

I knew about babies. I had babysat most of my life and people used to call me a natural mom when my little sister was born and I hovered over her every little move. Once when my mom yelled at her for something like spilling milk, I looked at my mom sternly and said, “She’s just a baby.” That was a bold move to make with my mother, but she retreated.

When Nick was a few days old I asked the hospital nurse to bring me a bath for him, and she said, “Yes, we will have someone show you how to bathe him.”

I said, “No that’s okay, I know how to bathe him, I don’t need a lesson.” They stood there and watched me anyway. Then ooh'd and aah'd when I didn’t drop or drown him.

I made big mistakes though. I fought with his dad in front of him. I drank and had hangovers and was cranky for no discernible reason. I smoked around him—a lot. When his grandparents treated him like the Prince of Japan, I over corrected and always knocked him down a peg. “No you are not the smartest kid in the world. You’re just very smart.”

When he mowed the lawn, instead of thanking him I would say, “You missed a spot.” It was thoughtless really. I wasn’t always thinking about self-esteem or self love--or loathing. I just wanted the lawn mowed or the bed made.

“Take your stinky shoes off outside please.”

Ding

Please don’t bleed on the carpet, I’ll bring you a Band-Aid outside.

Ding

“I’m too tired to play Nick.”

Ding Ding

I quit drinking and smoking by the time he was 4 and 5 respectively. It helped some, but not for everything. I was less cranky, but still tired. A single mom is always tired, I guess. There are no breaks. There is no, “Go ask daddy to read you a book.”

Once when we were driving down the street I saw a woman in the car with four kids, none of whom were in car seats or seatbelt, and all of whom were hanging out windows. At the stoplight I rolled down my window and yelled at her. “Put those kids in car seats or I’m calling the police!”

“Sorry, if I embarrassed you, Nick.”

“No problem. Actually mom, I’m proud of you.”

That was the first time I thought, maybe I’m doing this right.

When he was about 3 years old his dad and I took him to a fair and we got him a churro. He had to go potty so I told him I would hold it for him while daddy took him.

“Promise me you won’t eat my churro mom.” He knew me well.

“I promise.”

Then I ate it.

Ding Ding Ding

We bought him a new one of course. But, he still tells that story, almost 27 years later. Ooops.

As the years went by, I made a million more mistakes and did a few things right.

Last night when he was here for Christmas dinner he told me, he just told his friend a story of when one time when he was about 8 years old we were at the bank and found some money at the ATM machine. He told his friend, “It must have been so hard for my mom who was dead broke back then to walk me inside the bank and have me give it to the lady that worked there.”

Jackpot

Parenting is moment by moment. You can have a grand plan but chances are each kid will be different and each response will fit the moment. The day I walked him into the bank I was broker than broke. I’m sure I thought, if just for a second, about the pair of shoes I needed, or the coat he needed, or maybe some groceries. The fact that he not only remembers the day, but also recounted it to a friend means it was a parenting moment success. A rare pearl.

Recently, my son informed me he is going to be a dad. I know he will be a good dad and he will also make some mistakes, like I said, we all do. But, I have faith that he has a few pearls of wisdom he can share with his son (or daughter) to make up for the days when he’s tired or cranky or just says something stupid.

I know he remembers the time when he was 8 years old and I woke him up at midnight to go to Madrone Canyon and watch the meteor shower. Or when he was about 11 and I took him to San Francisco's Ocean Beach to watch the waves crash over the wall and the cliffs. Or the time we found a place called Skylonda and laughed so hard saying "I live in Skylonda man" like a stoned out hippie. Little pearls. I can't wait for him to have this joy.

I hope my skills as a grandparent are better than I was as a parent. Perhaps I’ll be the one to make him feel like he’s the Prince of Japan, and his mom will get him home and say, “We don’t have princes in this country but you’re the Prince of your Room.”

It's Good to Hear a Thank You

2014-12-07T19:17:00.000-08:00

As a writer, I try to bring as much attention to myself as possible. Writers want to be read. Which is not quite the same as agreed with though I like that too. When I get a thumbs up, or a thatta girl, or more rarely someone that tells me they love what I wrote, I am always pleased. I always say I write for myself, and I do because I have to write—it’s what I do. It’s how I communicate, and it’s how I release the pent up everything that I walk around with every day. Believe me, you would rather have me write than the crazy lady alternative, but people liking what I write- really makes me feel good.

But, on a work level, at my job, I try to fly under the radar. I try to not make mistakes. I’m fairly sequestered after the first two years of trying to do my job and support an office full of agents too. The bosses put me in an office on the 3^rd floor in the Novato office, that I share with a couple of other women (agents) who get me, and understand my job requires concentration most of the time.

My job, is the Marketing Coordinator for Bradley Real Estate. We have about 450 agents and 13 offices in Marin, Sonoma and Napa. When I started, we had 9 offices and 250 agents. It’s a hands-on, detail-oriented job, which does not really come natural for me. Anyone that has ever worked with me knows I am a big picture thinker and usually leave the details to people who are better suited to that work. The Bradley’s gave me a job when there were no jobs though, so I was determined to not just do the job but also find better ways to do it.

On heavy advertising weeks I can build up to 12-13 pages of ads (in 3 days), which could be up to 125 ads. In addition to building the ads for four newspapers, I write copy, I proofread, I correct images—or reject them if needed. Occasionally I talk to agents about different aspects of their marketing. I also read every MLS listing and correct any issues they may have that could get the agent fined, or Bradley Real Estate hauled into court. (As well as spelling and grammar errors.)

What I like best about my job is that my bosses let me do it. They give me guidance when I need it of course. They trust me to make good decisions and they trust me to be there. Because they have this trust in me, I try to not let them down. In almost 5 years, I have called in sick twice, both times for no more than two days. Once when my shoulder froze and another time when I had a terrible virus. I’ve left early a few times, but only if all my work is done.

Anyway, last night at the Bradley Holiday Party—a swanky affair at the Marin Country Club, I was awarded Employee of the Year. I have to say that I was surprised because I really try to fly under the radar. They brought me up on a stage with glaring lights in my face to announce this news and all I could think was – boy they sure keep a good secret. So I pretend slugged my boss, Jason, in the arm.

It really is nice to be thanked for working hard. It’s nice to be noticed since many of those 450 agents never see me and don’t know who I am when they are looking right at me. I try not to make a big noise, so I am generally forgettable from holiday party to holiday party I find myself saying, “Oh no, we’ve met a few times.”

If anyone out there is an employer, you should take a lesson from mine. Let people do their jobs, and say an occasional thank you in one form or another. A good employer lets people build on their strengths and lets them innovate to keep up with the growth.

Rob, Melissa & Jason

So, I want to thank my employers, Rob and Melissa Bradley and Jason Lytz for letting me be me, with my less than round edges, and my forthrightness, and my guard-dog personality. I appreciate them too.

Black Lives Matter

2014-12-03T19:42:00.000-08:00

My credentials:

Daughter of a police officer, great-grand-daughter of a police officer.
Have dated or been friends with many police officers.
Mother of mixed race (adult) child former member of USMC who served in Iraq.
Aunt of mixed race children.
Caucasian
Champion of freedom and human rights in all countries.
Witness to passive and overt racism, oppression, segregation and bigotry every single day.
Human Being

HUGE DISCLAIMER: I do not hate the police- in addition to family members, I have had several friends in law enforcement. But I don’t put anyone on a pedestal. I have known plenty of bad police. Plenty of police that thought nothing of beating the crap out of someone with a Billy Club, or molesting hookers because they were hookers. So I’m not in denial about the black community and crime and I’m not in denial about the white racist police.

I bet a few of you have been waiting for me to weigh in on this subject. I needed to wait until I had more information and until I could no longer stand what I was reading in the news and on social networks. Until I could write without anger.

Upfront: Looting is NOT protesting. Protesting is legal and an American right. Looting is illegal and stupid… mass hysteria never helps anything.

I know people (I’m sorry to say) that say “black” like I say “child molester”. To them being black is a disease, an inferior disease that thank God they weren’t born with. God… thank GOD because we all know he didn’t intend to make anyone black. Having a black president has unfortunately widened the divide and increased the hate 10 fold. No one ever says, the President is half white. Never. People seem to embrace their racism, and own it—“I hate blacks” they say. They call black people stupid and lazy, monkeys and apes, and of course they are all on welfare-- and don’t they know about birth control? They should all be spayed, like cats and dogs. I mean seriously, if you are dirt fucking poor why would you keep having kids? They keep playing the race card, when will they get over the whole slavery thing? We haven’t had slaves for over 200 years. (That would be incorrect.) Or, I’m not racist but if they act like animals…

So, I decided to tackle some of these statements. And, I know- going in, I will not change one stupid racist mind. But, this is for my son, my grandchildren, my nieces and nephews and anyone who would like to support the fact that we all bleed red and the color of our skin should not matter. And if we don’t wake up—and start treating people right, we are no better than any other country who subjects their citizens to various forms of tyranny. We might as well be the Middle East.

I read an article called How Often are Unarmed Black Men Gunned Down by Police? in the Daily Kos that was mind boggling. I’ll recap a bit here for you—but you should read the whole thing.

One source, in a report called "Operation Ghetto Storm" says that in 2012 that of the 739 "Justified" shootings shown above from 2012, 313 of them were Black. 44% of them or 136, were unarmed. 27% of them (83) were claimed by Law Enforcement to have gun at the time of the shooting, but that could not be later confirmed or the "gun" was in fact, a toy or other non-lethal object. 20% of them (62) were confirmed to have been armed with a gun, knife or cutting tool.

This report, which was gathered by searching media reports, obituaries and even facebook pages of deceased persons includes the following table as an example.

The report goes into much further detail- but here is where I want to interject my own thoughts.

I have a feeling that Officer Wilson was afraid of black people when he shot Michael Brown. I say that because of statements he made during his Grand Jury testimony—and well, his actions on that fateful day. But also because I see it in everyday life. I walk a lot. And I noticed that when white people see a group of black teens or Hispanic teens walking, they cross the street. But not if it’s a group of white teens. Personally, I think all teens have obnoxious potential, but when I stay on the same side of the street, this is what I hear almost all of the time. “Cute dog. Can I pet your dog?” Scary right? Big bad black teens. Or they say nothing. They keep their heads down and have no eye contact, because that’s what they have been taught. Don’t even look at white people… it makes them mad. Now if you think I’m exaggerating let me tell you that many years ago I heard someone say when talking about black men, “You should see how they look at my daughter.” The truth is- everyone looked at her daughter that way because she was a looker, and she turned heads. That is a whole different problem—for another day. The difference though, when a police officer a “peace officer,” is afraid, the dynamic changes. Scared policemen are one of two things, they are either bullies, or nervous Nellies. Neither one is going to make them better at their job.

I’ve written before that I don’t think it’s always about race. And while I still think that is true I understand a little more now than I did at the time I wrote that and now I see how racism has permeated just about every walk of life. So it’s no wonder things come to a boiling point—and spill over from time to time. How could it not? Even if it doesn’t appear to be about race- I can see where it would almost always feel like it is.

I keep seeing this stupid meme floating around the internet about how white people didn’t protest when OJ Simpson got off. But the truth is there were marches, non-violent protests and certainly grand disappointment through-out Nicole Browns and Ron Goodman’s communities. The case was divided racially, and sadly, it’s because of that, that I believe justice was not served. How these racial divides started is history. Our American history that we often sweep under the carpet and try to sugar coat. I’m particularly appalled by the following things I’ve heard people say. “Not all slaves were treated poorly. Or “Slavery ended 129 years ago, get over it.” People have this “Gone with the Wind” view of slavery and the white folks loving their slaves (though whipping them if needed) and said slaves loving their white folk. Fictional half-wits, feet shuffling, numb-skulled, down right stupid black people. How would we feel if almost every portrayal of white people was like that? For 100 years – for 200 years? Mark Twain (Samuel Clemmons) wrote Huckleberry Finn and created a black character with honor and wisdom and heart. While the era he was writing about used words which we no longer find acceptable, his intent was not to demean when he used those terms. His intent was to enlighten his generation of bigots. He took some heat for that.

Bigotry isn’t just about black people. I see the same issues happening with Hispanic immigrants, and indeed, some Hispanics who were born here—since unless you ask for a birth certificate, like they did with President Obama, you really have no idea where someone is born. Interesting enough, this never happens with white immigrants. There are 1000s of Russian and Irish immigrants (some illegal) in San Francisco; I’ve never heard a soul complain or request a birth certificate.

In the historical, semi-guide book “The Cool Gray City of Love” Gary Kamiya speaks of the hatred towards the Chinese “in 1877 when more than 500 [white] men stormed San Francisco’s Chinatown from two directions and were beaten back by two phalanxes of policeman, one on Pine and one on Broadway.”

Five years after that episode the first significant immigration law, the Chinese Exclusion Act was enacted severely limiting Chinese Immigration. An expression used at the time went like this: “We hate the Negroes because they are citizens and we hate the Chinese because they won’t be.” (Early Chinese settlers had no desire to be American Citizens.)

Earlier this year, over 200 white protesters stopped busses full of Illegal immigrants (mostly children) who were being transported for processing to be deported. These unaccompanied illegal immigrants, predominantly from Central American countries, such as Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala were fleeing their country for one reason—they didn’t want to die. While the protests were non-violent, the anger was evident to me. The protesters didn’t even want the deportation process to be in their city because they were positive they would be over-run by illegal children.

People have been using the term “White Privilege” and many whites go into defensive mode when they hear that but its origins are legitimate. Common replies to that “accusation” are “I have worked hard all my life.” “I have never asked for a handout” – the point is being missed. White privilege is not about how hard anyone works. White privilege is about the fact that white skin is valued more than black skin. White schools are better, white kids have more opportunities; fewer whites are arrested for the same crimes as blacks. And it goes farther than that—but that is a different article too.

When I lived in North Carolina it took me a while to realize why there was a private school on every corner (across from the church on every opposite corner). That was how the South initially (and in my opinion, still) got around desegregation. I worked with a black woman who had a college degree and was married to a banker, lived in a good neighborhood and wanted her kids to go to the predominantly white school because that’s where the better teachers worked, and that was where the most money was spent on education. This was a big topic of conversation on talk radio when I lived in North Carolina. A very heated topic because whites did not want blacks in their schools.

A week after Michael Brown was shot to death my son posted this on his facebook page. It made me proud.

Racism is a plague. It’s so deeply rooted that many of us don’t even know we are being racist. I said black person to someone once, and there was a black person within ear-shot and the person I was talking to shushed me. So let me be clear. You can say black to a black person. It will be another at least 100 years before we are color blind. If you can’t start talking to black people and Hispanic people and Asian people, things will never change.

This is not about Ferguson, this is not about Michael Brown. This is about disproportionate statistics and reality regarding crime and people of color.

From a ProPublica article by by Ryan Gabrielson, Ryann Grochowski Jones and Eric Sagara : The 1,217 deadly police shootings from 2010 to 2012 captured in the federal data show that blacks, age 15 to 19, were killed at a rate of 31.17 per million, while just 1.47 per million white males in that age range died at the hands of police.

And finally- today’s news from the New York Grand Jury to not prosecute a white policeman, who put an illegal chokehold on a black man for illegally selling cigarettes. It’s starting to look like it’s okay to kill people for stealing cigars or selling contraband, it’s starting to look like it’s okay to kill a kid in a hoodie that looks scary. Even resisting arrest—should not be an excuse to shoot someone when there are several other options to knock him or her on their ass. It’s starting to look like white Americans would rather shoot someone than use the legal system to punish them for their crimes.

When my son was here last week he taught me how to say hi in Chinese. I was so excited I couldn’t wait to try it. I couldn’t believe I never knew, growing up in San Francisco. He picked up Arabic when he was in Iraq, and speaks it fairly well. Whenever he hears people speaking Arabic and it’s not a private conversation, he always says hello and a few pleasantries. Nice right? Bridging the gap—making friends. He has friends from all walks of life, and I’m so glad that both his dad and I were able to surround him with many different cultures and let him learn—we all bleed red.

I am calling out racists. I’ve been doing it for a few years. It’s not right to judge people by the color of their skin – whether you are morally guided by a religion or intellectually guided you should know for a fact that racism in any fashion is wrong.

Do you think you are a racist?

Veterans Day 2014 ~ Let's Do Something

2014-10-23T13:37:00.000-07:00

AMERICAN VETERANS

I'm posting this a little early this year. My niece asked me yesterday to help her with an essay about why we appreciate our veterans. I started out by renaming it "Why We Should Appreciate our Veterans." And I explained to her that not everyone does appreciate them. I wasn’t going to write about Veteran’s Day this year at all, because I feel like I’m beating a dead horse and most of the people that read my blog agree with me anyway. But then I happened across an article in the Washington Times that made me realize I can’t speak up enough when it comes to our veterans.

The article I’m referring to was about Marin County’s radical, conservative talk show personality Michael Savage. Savage was quoted as saying:

“I am so sick and tired of everyone with their complaints about PTSD, depression. Everyone wants their hand held, and a check -- a government check. What are you, the only generation that had PTSD? The only generation that's depressed? I'm sick of it. I can't take the celebration of weakness and depression.

See, I was raised a little differently. I was raised to fight weakness. I was raised to fight pain. I was raised to fight depression. Not to give into it. Not to cave into it and cry like a little baby in bed. "Boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo." Everyone has depression in their life. Everyone has sickness and sadness and disease. And loss of relatives. And loss of career. Everyone has depression in their life. But if the whole nation is told, "boo-hoo-hoo, come and get a medication, come and get treatment, talk about mental illness." You know what you wind up with? You wind up with Obama in the White House and liars in every phase of the government. That's what you wind up with. It's a weak, sick, nation. A weak, sick, broken nation. And you need men like me to save the country. You need men to stand up and say stop crying like a baby over everything. Stand up already. Stop telling me how sick you are and sad you are. Talk about the good things in your life.

When have you last heard that? Oh, everyone's holding their hand. "Oh, welcome to Good Morning America, sir. You almost committed suicide, how interesting. Please tell us your story." Maybe a young child who's on the edge can commit suicide. What a country. No wonder we're being laughed at around the world. No wonder ISIS can defeat our military. Take a look at that. Take a look at that, why people aren't even getting married anymore to have children. They don't even have the guts to raise a child. The men are so weak, and so narcissistic, all they want to do is have fun. Bunch of losers. Just go have a brewski and look at the 49ers, you idiot, you. They won't even get married, won't have a child, it takes too much of a man to do that. What a country. You're not a man, you're a dog. A dog raises babies better than most American men do.”

I was so disgusted by his remarks I had to walk away from my computer for the evening. Granted—he is mentally ill. Granted—he is a hate monger, a bigot and an all-around creep, who has never served a day of his life in the military. Who has never seen combat and who has lived a very cushy life with his two Marin County homes, one San Francisco home, private security and oh yeah, lots of money. He’s such a despicable human being that I am embarrassed he lives in Marin or even the Bay Area—but he does.

Savage often makes ridiculous claims, such as: “99% of autism cases, it’s a brat who hasn’t been told to cut the act out.”

In 2009 Savage was banned from the UK on May 5, 2009, then-Home Secretary Jacqui Smith announced that Savage was on a list of individuals banned from entering the United Kingdom as he is "considered to be engaging in unacceptable behavior by seeking to provoke others to serious criminal acts and fostering hatred which might lead to inter-community violence.”

I just want to tell him one thing. All those veterans, from all those wars, paved the way for your rotten mouth to spew your homophobic, xenophobic, bigoted, ignorant, vile and utterly ridiculous thoughts on our airways. And to the people who listen to Savage—shame on you.

Originally named Soldiers Heart (Civil War 1861-1865) and also known as Shell Shock, Combat Fatigue, PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) and finally PTS (Post Traumatic Stress), dropping the “disorder” to help end the stigma. PTS is nothing new, and nothing to scoff about. It can be mild or severe and as debilitating as loss of limb. Getting out of bed can be a struggle, remembering to take your meds, or go to the VA Hospital next to impossible. Families are torn apart from lack of support or understanding. This is not a pull yourself up by your bootstraps kind of thing. No one wants to live in this hell and that is why so many with PTS have committed suicide.

Twenty-two veterans a day, one every 80 minutes, commits suicide. Studies (National Center for PTSD Vol.20) indicate that “10-18% of combat troops serving in OEF/OIF have PTSD following deployment, and the prevalence does not diminish over time.”

If you care about our veterans you’ll stop the blame game and do something to help a veteran. Politicians may have made this mess, but the American people have the ability to fix it. Be the solution. Show your appreciation to those who have sacrificed not only years of their lives, but for some their limbs, their sight, and for so many their own peace of mind. Don’t just thank them for their service, show them you care.

Here are some ways you can help in Marin and the greater Bay Area, by donating, volunteering or guiding a veteran to any of the following:

Marin Health and Human Services -- Veterans Services

Homeward Bound of Marin – Homeless Veterans Services

College of Marin Veteran Services

Marin Employment Connection for Veterans

The Pathway Home (OEF, OIF Veterans with PTS and TBI)

The Veterans Home –Yountville

The Veterans of Foreign Wars

*If you are outside of the Bay Area a simple Google search of “veteran’s resources” in your area will bring up several website.s Check them first to make sure they are legit- if you are not sure- feel free to send me the link and I’ll research it for you.

Don't Just Sit There

2014-08-31T15:05:00.001-07:00

Have you ever tried to raise money for a good cause? It’s tough right? People don’t want to see pictures of starving children, children with flies on them, bald children, women with breast cancer scars, people in wheelchairs, veterans with missing limbs, veterans with burn scars so bad they are unrecognizable, or homeless people, or mentally ill people. You can barely get people to give up a NEW toy at Christmas for Toys for Tots… I know, I’ve tried!

When my son joined the Marine Corps, I became deeply involved with an organization called MarineParents.com. Marine Parents raised money through a variety of ways, but it was always a struggle. The founder and many of us volunteers worked day and night to be able to send care packages to deployed Marines, help the wounded warriors and their families, provide support and much needed information to families of all Marines from boot camp through veteran status and provide support for Gold Star Families—you know who they are, right?

When asked to join the Board of Directors and head the fundraising and development aspect of the organization, I learned real fast how quickly people can forget to call you back, not respond to your emails or letters or just flat out say no. Support for the troops does not necessarily equate to SUPPORT for the troops. All that flag waving… is meaningless unless we take care of our troops.

When the recent ALS Ice Bucket Challenge appeared on the horizon, I could not have been more thrilled. A little understood, fatal, hideous disease, which hasn’t received much attention since Lou Gehrig was “struck out” with it in 1939 and subsequently died in 1941, at the young age of 37. It killed my dad in 1991 too.

So little is understood about this disease that they really don’t know how or why people get it. What they do know is that military veterans are twice as likely to develop ALS. There is no single test for diagnosis, and at this time, there is only one drug, that may prolong life by a few months. At the time my dad was diagnosed with ALS, there was no drug. In 23 years, they have created one drug that might give someone an extra two months.

For a few weeks the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge took Facebook, YouTube and Twitter by storm and managed to raise an unprecedented 100 million dollars. And it did so because it was different—something almost anyone could do, and it was something people who couldn’t afford to donate, could do to help raise awareness. Wouldn’t everyone want to participate? Well, some people don’t want to help-- some people who care less about humanity and more about their own lives. Some people who are too lazy to do their homework before they decided something isn’t worth their time. I know of one person that called the ALS campaign “crap.” (She was promptly unfriended.) Some people started posting untrue tax records for the ALS organization trying to debunk the organization and the Ice Bucket Campaign.

Across the board—not just ALS, but with Childhood Cancer, Breast Cancer, Lung Cancer, Ovarian Cancer, Cancer of the Prostrate, Colon Cancer… and that is just some of the cancers not even all the diseases. For everything we don’t understand—for everything we don’t have a cure for we need funding.

There is no shortage of causes for people to participate in and if something isn’t your cause- I get it- I really do—but don’t slam other causes or all causes because it makes you feel better about not giving a shit.

A couple of things I learned while I was fund raising on a grand scale was corporations are interested in numbers. They want to know how much traffic your website gets, how much money you get from grants, how you plan to raise the next 10,000 and then the next 10,000. They want to see official tax records and they want to know the percentage of money spent on administrative services. In the case of medical charities, we would want to know the percentage that goes to actual research. So if you are going to go after an organization for a large grant- have your ducks lined up. These aren’t bad things for us to understand either—in order to get the maximum bang for our buck or our sweat.

I also learned that people run from scary stuff. People didn’t want to hear about troops with missing limbs or blinded or brain damaged… because if they thought about it, they would have to admit that it might happen to their loved one. Cancer is scary, MS is scary, homeless people are really scary… And, the mentally ill… forget it, no one wants to even think about them. But, we have to—because our society is becoming immune to humanity and human frailty. What people say and what they do, don’t match. We are not doing enough for each other. The days of feeding a stranger are no more- yet fifty years ago, that was the norm. Now if a hungry person knocks on our door they are likely to be shot.

The ALS Ice Bucket campaign may have seemed like a gimmick to you- but gimmicks work better than guilt. And gimmicks work better then screaming. Sadly- many people don’t want to confront reality. They want everything to be pretty (or fun) so their denial can’t be broken. The ice bucket challenge was a huge success. It may not be long term, like some of the walks or runs, but as far as awareness goes—it got everyone between the ages of 13 and 80 to think about ALS and I would call that a successful campaign.

If you think there is nothing you can do, you couldn’t be more wrong. Here is a list of a few different way to raise funds for a good cause. If you can come up with something new, that isn’t dangerous then explore it as an option. Check your charity in one of the charity watchdog websites provided at the end of this article.

· Walk/Run-a-thon

· Ride -a-thon

· Bowl-a-thon

· Golf Tournament

· Bazaar

· Spaghetti Feed

· Crab Feed

· Sidewalk Sale

· Casino Night

· Bake Sale

If you are stuck for worthy causes, just open your eyes. September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. You are going to see pictures of bald children, children with tubes, and dark circles and maybe even some children that have passed away. Don’t look away. Don’t pretend that if you don’t look it doesn’t exist. It does – and they need all the help they can get. Do something.

Helpful Links:

www.curesearch.org

http://www.charitynavigator.org/

http://www.charitywatch.org/

http://www.stbaldricks.org

www.alsa.org

Robin's Flight From Earth

2014-08-12T21:57:00.001-07:00

He was part of our identity—all of Marin really, but mostly those of us that went to school with him. I went to school with him but we weren’t friends or buddies. He was friends with my friends and I knew who he was because I knew who everyone was; he might have known who I was—we never talked about it later. And later he worked with my boyfriend in Sausalito, and after that I became a good friend of his brother Todd. We knew each other. He was Toads little brother and I was Cable Car Katie, a name Todd gave me since that was my usual mode of transportation. We didn’t hang out unless we were both visiting Todd at his bar on Chestnut Street in the Marina. And then, we were quiet, polite, and probably thirsty. I waited on him when I was a waitress in Sausalito. I left him alone- and he appreciated it. He was an introvert when he wasn’t being an extrovert.

I was in a management class about 20 years ago in Livermore, California. I might as well have been a 1000 miles away from Marin it was so different there. The terrain, the people, the smell… nothing was the same. The man who was facilitating the class asked all of us to write down something that most people didn’t know about us. I never write anything of consequence when asked to do this because if people don’t know things about you they probably shouldn’t—so I wrote down I WENT TO SCHOOL WITH ROBIN WILLIAMS.

When we read them aloud, the facilitator’s head snapped to me… and he said, “That’s what I wrote too.”

He had gone to College of Marin with Robin; I had gone to Redwood High with him.

Marin County has had many stars, a lot of favorite sons and daughters. Some spent only a short time here and we claim them anyway… like greedy little grubbers who want all the credit for other people’s success. Writers, musicians and actors often find Marin County amenable to their needs. We don’t chase after them or ask for autographs, sometimes we nod, but mostly we let them alone and maybe that is the attraction.

Robin always had a melancholy layer just below the surface. If you ever met him, you would know that. And like many people that suffer from depression, reason escaped him, logical thought was stuck in some deep dark pocket of his brain and what surfaced was the last resort, the last decision he would ever have to make.

He was part of our identity—in some weird subconscious way. So the fallout of his demise – his purposeful leap to the next world, has been hard. It’s taken a toll on so many people – some that never met him but loved him for his art. And those of us that knew him, though not well, we are left with an empty feeling, and ask, “How could you leave this soon?”

He’ll be part of the Redwood High Memorial Wall now, a wall I was just reading all the names on last week. I was thinking I should add my little brother and now there is one more, and College of Marin’s Memorial Wall too. Maybe they’ll have a plaque at some bar he went to once or twice, and the along the Dipsea Trail. He won't be forgotten anytime soon-- but what killed him will be, it always is.

I wish, I know we all do, that he would have picked up a phone.

MARIN SUICIDE HOTLINE

While I Was Walking...

2014-08-03T17:35:00.000-07:00

Life is strange sometimes. I could have easily– no, more than easily-- it was almost a given--turned out to be a bitter old woman. I might have been the lovely Miss Haversham, cobwebs and all. Instead, due to some fluke, some twist of fate and perhaps a bump on the head, I have become more compassionate in my mature years. This surprised me, so I had to do some double checking to make sure I hadn’t turned into a Marin County left wing, hippy dippy who has lost touch with all reality. When the two completely different subjects I wanted to write about converged, I took it as a sign from Buddha or my late mother, who keeps an eye on things, (okay that's dippy) that I should sit down and try to explain to everyone what I was thinking about all year long, and why I couldn't focus their conversations about vacation locations or new TV shows.

Cyberbullies and Homeless People

Sometime last year or maybe the year before I made the mistake of starting to read the comment sections on public blogs and newspaper articles. I was stunned at how vile people could be. Most of whom use an alias but some, so sure that their responses are acceptable behavior, use their real names. Some people are just bullies who would never say anything to anyone’s face, but feel safe doing so in cyberspace. The attacks shocked me and I am not easily shocked… in fact I can be frightfully candid when the situation calls for it… but some of these situations did not call for anything other than compassion. I wanted to write to these publications and blast these bullies for being bullies… but that didn’t seem right either. I knew I couldn’t shame them, so I just sat on it for a while, waiting for the urge (to verbally smack them upside the head and make them see how puny their brains were), to dissipate. I tried not reading the comments, but when the two issues converged, when the hideous comments written were about the one other thing I was feeling passionate about and writing about—well, I had to act.

But, let me digress for just a minute here--I started walking around my little town sometime in April of 2013. First a mile, then two and then three, four, five and six miles some days. Around July 2013, I ran into an old friend, my old roommate from the 70s who I hadn’t seen for over 30 years and we started walking together with our dogs and talking about everything including our shared shock of how people view other peoples misfortunes with such disdain. I realized then, that if I was out of step with the world so was she, so at least there were two of us. My wheels started turning.

It was on my alone walks though, with just my dog, that I started noticing a lot more homeless people than ever before. They were camping out in public instead of the open space areas. Small areas of trees next to shopping centers, or schools or churches, usually near a creek but always near foot traffic. Some of them had carts full of their belongings, some had only backpacks, some had built lean-tos, some looked spaced out, and some looked drunk, some looked crazy; some looked depressed (Who wouldn’t be?). A few had dogs. One lady hung out at the laundry mat in the afternoon until it closed, one guy parked his cart and his collection of I don’t know what on one of the main streets and greeted everyone that walked by like he was the mayor. Their faces were dirty and wrinkled beyond their ages and most of them were missing some or all of their teeth. Their hair was matted and yes, they smelled bad. I didn’t see one person who could have gone and gotten a job that day. They needed more help than that.

During those first few months of walking, the weather was still warm. I found myself looking for them though, making sure everyone made it through the night. A seed was planting.

While all that was happening, a debate started hitting the town council meetings, the bloggersphere and newspapers about affordable housing. From what I read, the majority of people in Marin County were not pro affordable housing. Some cited valid reasons like high density and traffic and others plain and simple said if you can’t afford to live here you should not live here. Others still, said they didn’t want the riff-raft in their neighborhoods. They didn’t want blacks or Mexicans moving in from other blighted areas (Like Vallejo). Wait a minute I told myself… I can’t afford to live here! I barely get by and I have 2.5 jobs. I don’t smoke or drink or take vacations. How can these folks ever get back on their feet without some help?

As I watched the debates unfold, I started making mental notes of things that sounded off to me. The issue was three fold or four fold and the information was one fold. My confusion was compounded by the fact that many people I know and respect were coming down on the anti-affordable housing side and I couldn’t figure out why exactly. I knew two things. 1. Marin has an abundance of homeless people (many people with children) and 2. Marin and the Bay Area in general has an extreme shortage of apartments and homes for rent. (At any price.) The rental market, which I am very familiar with because one of my 2.5 jobs is a licensed Realtor, is off the charts this year. I leased one three-bedroom two-bath home in San Rafael for over $3,200 in one week. Another, in Novato, in less than two weeks.

I started digging for facts. What I found online was not surprising since it backed up what I saw while I was out walking. But, what I saw while walking was worse than reading about it. It was real, it was human. It was inhumane. We care more about homeless animals than people in this county. That’s what I saw. That is what I see every day.

The First Fold:

According to a report by the Marin Independent Journal, the homeless biennial count in January of 2013 was 933, which was down from the previous years. However, the precariously housed, people that may be facing eviction, or are living in overcrowded homes or couch surfing, numbers have increased to 4,388, up from 4,179 in 2011.

The report continued. “Diane Linn, director of Ritter Center in San Rafael, which provides services to the homeless and working poor, said that number continues to rise because of economic pressures and a lack of local affordable housing.

We are sorely short of affordable housing options. There are no single-room housing occupancy options," Linn said. "It's bad for the working poor out there. It's getting harder and harder."

(*Linn is no longer the director. Peter Lee has been the director since 2014)

The Second Fold: Plan Bay Area, ABAG, and SB375:

Plan Bay Area is a state mandated, long-range housing and transportation plan designed to reduce pollution and greenhouse gasses.

ABAG: Formed in 1961, the Association of Bay Area Governments is the comprehensive regional planning agency and Council of Governments (COG) for the nine counties and 101 cities and towns of the San Francisco Bay region. ABAG has limited statutory authority and requires major city and county votes for action. The concern of ABAG is long-term growth, big picture, sustainability and conservation.

Signed into law by Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, SB375 is the Sustainable Communities and Climate Protection Act of 2008; a State of California law targeting greenhouse gas emissions from passenger vehicles. The Global Warming Solutions Act of 2006 (AB 32) sets goals for the reduction of statewide greenhouse gas emissions. Passenger vehicles are the single largest source of greenhouse gas emissions statewide, accounting for 30% of total emissions. SB 375 therefore provides key support to achieve the goals of AB 32.

The Third Fold -Citizen Marin: Citizen Marin is comprised of the leaders of neighborhood and community groups from throughout Marin County who are wrestling with the demands of the Sustainable Communities Strategies and SB375. They struggle with the concept of overbuilding Marin County with affordable housing like high-density buildings in otherwise single-family home neighborhoods. They cite issues like crime, traffic and simply maintaining “our small town quaintness”.

Citizens Marin group disagree with the scientific conclusions and contend that the density mandate of 30 units per square acre is too high (20 is acceptable) and that affordable housing (apartment complexes) will increase the crime rate.

I could go on and on here about the debate—but I’m really only interested in the human element of the whole situation. If I have learned nothing else in my 62 years, it’s that you have to care about other human beings. I see homeless people and want to help, but I’m not sure how. I give them money; sometimes I buy blankets and distribute them. I have made sandwiches and brought them to people, but all the little things I do does nothing to answer the greater problem.

To help me understand the greater problems regarding affordable housing I made an appointment to talk to Mary Kay Sweeney, the Executive Director of Homeward Bound of Marin. Homeward Bound is Marin County’s chief provider of shelter and residential services for homeless families and individuals, serving approximately 1,400 people per year in 14 inter-related residential programs. No one understands homeless and the working poor better than Mary Kay Sweeney and the people that work tirelessly at Homeward Bound of Marin.

Mary Kay Sweeney replied to my email request to meet and was gracious enough to spend more than an hour with me explaining the homeless issue in Marin and answering some of the questions I had regarding affordable housing. Many of my questions were based on citizen responses to online blogs and hearsay information from colleagues. I wanted to confirm my suspicions that some of the facts people were sharing in cyberspace (and over lunches) were complete or partial fabrications.

One of the responses I read on the Novato Patch –replying to an article on affordable housing was this one by someone who calls himself/herself Bubbasixpack. (I’m sure he/she means beer and not abs)

Bubbasixpack July 09, 2013 at 04:33 PM

There are lot of empty houses in Richmond, but they're empty because they moved here when invited by the developers who couldn't fill the places they built in Novato. Fill up the empty housing before we build more. Don't like where you live? Too bad. Stay in school and out of jail. It worked for me.

I asked Mary Kay – specifically if she was importing people from other cities to fill affordable housing units. She shook her head slowly- adamantly no. I felt she had heard that question before- and she was weary of it. “No”, she said, “in fact, it’s the other way around; since there is little or no affordable housing here we sometimes look in neighboring counties for our transitional people.”

Bubba’s comment was one of the milder ones.

I read everything I could get my hands on regarding this issue- but the most important research I did was right on the street. I started putting dollars bills in my fanny pack that I use when walking the dog. As Toshi and I walked around town and ran into homeless people, I started looking them in the eye and saying hi. Just hi. They all wanted to pet Toshi. No one asked me for a dime. A few times, I made sandwiches and delivered them but mostly I just started giving them a buck or two when I could. The most important thing was that I said hello. They were no longer invisible-- to me. Or scary. Or crazy. Did they need baths? Yes. Did they need meds? Some did. Would they spend my lousy dollar on cigarettes or booze? Maybe. All of them, every single one of them thanked me and said God bless you. Some told me their story. Some didn't want to talk but all were polite. All of them pet Toshi and got some Toshi love.

Homelessness is a costly issue. There are multitudes of problems that arise from the homeless people including wild fires started at encampments, defecating and urinating in streams (or in Open Space areas) littering near streams where many of them camp out. Transporting to hospitals due to exposure to weather extremes or overdoses (on an already unhealthy body), hospital expenses, arrests for loitering, illegal camping, etc. I’m not sure but I think there has to be a better way to manage this issue.

You might think that everyone that is homeless is a junkie or drunk or someone who refuses to take their meds—but you would be wrong. Many people just like you and I are just one or two paychecks away from homelessness. Anyone with a minimum wage job or even slightly above would be in real trouble if they lost a week of work due to illness. Many low-income people work three jobs to stay alive in Marin. If you lose your job and your home, getting into a one-bedroom one-bath apartment in Marin County (providing you have excellent credit) can easily cost 5000.00. In order to afford the least expensive studio in Marin you need to make over $20.00 per hour.

Many argue, why wouldn’t people go where they can afford to live? There are several reasons. Many of Marin’s homeless are from Marin- some from one time affluent families in Tiburon or Ross. They stay because their families are here, and occasionally some help them out, and because they are familiar with the terrain. I can’t imagine being homeless and camping out and having to go to a strange town where I didn’t know the safe places to go.

About 9% of the homeless in Marin County are veterans. Some suffer from PTSD or TBI. Many suffer from drug and alcohol addiction. I’ve run into to a few of these vets while walking Toshi, when I am wearing my USMC sweatshirt. They always ask me if I was a Marine. No, I tell them. My son is. They tell me then, that they were Navy or Army or they just say Semper Fi and I know the rest. “Thank him for his service,” they say. Then I guiltily thank them for theirs—because clearly, our whole country did not.

As the weather turned bitterly cold, I found myself driving around in the morning and taking inventory of the homeless people I knew. They had their regular spots and if there weren’t where they were supposed to be I worried. I knew some wouldn’t make it through winter. That was a sad fact.

In this 2013 report on homelessness in Marin County – the statistics are eye opening. In one of the wealthiest counties in the nation—we have a ridiculous number of homeless and almost five times that precariously housed individuals.

I’m not sure when Marin became so full of itself. Marin was originally inhabited by the Miwok Indians and built on the backs of ranchers, fishermen and blue-collar workers. In the early 1900s, Tiburon, one of this country’s wealthiest cities, was a blue-collar railroad town, with cargo trains running daily. The wealthy people that did live here were largely philanthropic and donated to a variety of causes without fanfare. Most of us that grew up here, most, not at all wealthy, but some who grew up in wealthy families too, find this snobbery and lack of compassion disgusting.

I certainly don’t have all the answers. I do believe if there were more people like Mary Kay Sweeny of Homeward Bound in the world, that this problem could be solved tout de suite. She seems to have compassion, ability to solve problems and implement processes for long-term success. Why city leaders across Marin wouldn’t want to help her expand or copy her methodology (without quid pro quo) I don’t know. Politicians it appears are only in it for their votes and don’t really care about anyone who isn’t making it to the polls.

I can’t do anything about the bullies. They are stupid. They are not worth my time. The only thing I can do because I am not a millionaire, is help the organizations that actually are doing something, by either spreading the truth about homelessness thereby changing the way some people think of the homeless or donating my time and money to places like Homeward Bound or Ritter House and teaming with other organizations that raise money for homeless veterans. Some people want to stay angry, I won't waste my time on them.

Across the nation, there are homeless people who need help and across the nation, there are not enough facilities to help them. Every year- every damn year, we find homeless people frozen to death or somehow killed by the elements. It seems like a no-brainer to me. If it’s fear it could be you… all the more reason to do something. I don’t know where the anger towards these folks comes from. Oh yeah… your tax dollars. Well- in that case remember the veterans… the ones we owe EVERYTHING to. Remember the sweat of all the underpaid workers in the country that keep food on your table, watch your kids, clean your houses, change your oil, rotate your tires, cut your lawns, make your fast food, work at your favorite retail outlet, or work at any one of a million restaurants or bars you frequent. Because when they lose their jobs, (or even lose work due to illness), they are in jeopardy of losing their homes.

I’m still walking. I’m still handing out dollars or sandwiches and in the winter I’ll go to Goodwill and other places and buy blankets to give away. It’s not enough. People have to care or this problem will not go away.

Helpful Links:

HOMEWARD BOUND OF MARIN

RITTER CENTER

NATIONAL CALL CENTER HOMELESS VETERANS

NATIONAL ALLIANCE TO END HOMELESSNESS

A Giant Step Backward

2014-07-06T17:20:00.001-07:00

My mother used to say I was the first “Women’s Libber” she ever met. I wasn’t though. I was much too selfish to worry about any other woman and her equality issues. And honestly, it never occurred to me there was a problem. I was never led to believe that I couldn’t do a certain thing because I was a woman—none of my parents, all three of them, ever said, oh no, that’s just for boys. So I played with a hammer and nails when I was little, I helped my dad paint houses and later I got jobs that only men had (though unbeknownst to me I was paid less, much less.)

I was one of the first female liquor “salesman” in Northern California – and the only one that had not inherited the job from their husband. I was twenty-one years old at the time. Later, I had other jobs that were predominantly male, but I never thought about it. I just did what I wanted. If I bulldozed my way, it was only to get the job, never realizing I was competing with men.

My Great –Grandmother was my role model. Though married, she was self –sufficient. She came to the United States from Germany in 1906, on her own at age 17 and with the help of her brother secured a job, and took care of herself. She married my Great –Grandfather and still worked at Sutro Baths giving swim lessons, saved her money and opened her own general store/bakery in San Francisco. Later, after he cheated on her, she divorced him—in a time when divorce was not usually an option, she chose to go it alone. She later remarried, a sweet man and together they bought a small chicken farm in Santa Rosa. I don’t recall in my life ever seeing him do anything but sit in the kitchen and play solitaire (often with me in his lap) – my Great-Grandmother did everything from chopping wood, to mending fences, to planning and planting flower and vegetable gardens and sharpening her ax on the stone pedal sharpener. She cooked, she cleaned, she sewed, she farmed, she worked and she owned her own business—so why would I ever think that as a woman, I could not do what I wanted?

Physically, I was extremely strong when I was younger. My Dad used to call me a powerhouse. I’m not big, no taller than 5’3” and at my physical prime 110-120 pounds. (Much more now.) I was just strong. As a liquor salesman and later a bar manager I could pick up boxes of booze and move them around the storeroom with ease, or change a beer keg (160 lbs) with no sweat.

I never minded a man opening a car door for me (and still don’t mind) but any boyfriend that tried to run my life soon became an ex- boyfriend and I didn’t feel the need to marry because it was expected of me. I never married because I never found the right person for me. I have nothing against other people’s marriages. I just couldn’t imagine a caucus over car purchases or dinner or anything. For the most part, when I was young—that is what married people did. Someone was always in charge of the money—and that seemed weird to me. I work for it—I’ll spend it. In retrospect—maybe I could have used a partner with better money sense—or maybe just a good accountant.

I was not intentionally a women’s libber and I may have misunderstood the movement in its infancy– if not then though- I will call myself one now.

Now that I’m a little less selfish, I feel like I should help the next generation and the ones after that too, understand how hard fought (and not quite won) the right to be an independent woman was and is. I didn’t even know I was fighting it—but of course, I was and now I am again. I have a son, and nieces and nephews and I feel obligated to make sure that the girls know they can do anything they want to do—and they can do it for the same amount of money the boys make. And, I want the boys to know that while they are in charge in their “spaceship” the girls are in charge of their own. I want them all to know, that it’s brains, not brawn and not feminine wiles that will help you succeed in life and indomitable fortitude, that will keep your head above water when everyone else is drowning.

The political conservative viewpoint is chipping away at the strides women have made in the last 50 years because we relaxed. We thought it was all good… we thought we won – even though women by and large still don’t make the same salaries as men, even though women are still abused, without appropriate recourse, even though, we don’t vote for women because if they are tough minded they are bitches—but their male counterparts are smart.

We still have some work to do.

The Supreme Court’s Hobby Lobby decision was a good smack in the head for those of us who care about equality. Those of us that care about our daughters, and our nieces and our granddaughters and all the women to follow. The ruling undermined a woman’s choice—the very foundation of the woman’s movement—the very foundation of our independence and equality. We can argue about the separation of church and state all we want and it's a great argument and one I believe in—and we can argue that a corporation cannot have a religion – but the fundamental flaw with this ruling is that it removed a woman’s right to be able to make their own choice without interference from a patriarchal employer, or anyone other than their own physician. The ruling- in essence made someone else’s religion more important than the federal law or me as a person. (Quitting your job and going to work somewhere else, as some have suggested, is not a choice it’s an ultimatum.)

Any one of the numerous precedents that Justice Ginsberg cited in her descent should have been enough to change the outcome of this ruling-- now we have taken a giant step backward and it will take years to fix it.

You don’t have a choice—if the choices are taken off the table. You don’t have a choice if someone is making it for you.

I want my girls, the girls in my life and the girls in their lives, to have choices. I hope they don’t have to make some of these choices… but if they do, I sure as hell want them to be available.

You can be socially or politically conservative and choose to not use contraception—but you cannot be a liberal woman and choose to use it if it’s not available—that is where the flaw is. That’s where equality goes out the window and we catapult back to the patriarchal dark ages.

I’m going to be keeping an eye on this and other issues that chip away at our freedom to be independent, self -sufficient women. I hope the younger generations will join me in making sure we don’t slip farther back and do leap forward.

Miami 1973

The Best Advise I Never Got

2014-06-21T16:51:00.000-07:00

Don Figone

We had the big send-off for my dad on Thursday. There was no religious ceremony for my step dad, just a nice party at the St. Francis Yacht Club. I’ve been calling it his Bon Voyage. His wife, Rebecca said everyone had to check their tears at the door, and so we did. The room was full of Frank Sinatra music and a montage of images from dad’s life—from childhood through his 86 years of life. It was perfect really.

He became my step-father when I was four years old, so he’s the dad I identify with more of the two. I loved them both of course, but hour for hour-- I spent much more time with my step dad. I worked for him on and off for years. He got all the crap stuff too—the pre-adolescent mood swings, the teenage insanity, the depressed 20s the fucked up 30s. And he bailed me out, literally and figuratively of many jams.

The party was exactly what he would have wanted—I guess, at least if he were alive he would go to this kind of party. People told funny stories, and save for some laughing through the tears from his closest relatives; it was not a depressing day at all.

Several people got up to speak and tell funny stories about our dad. I had written a little something but left it in my car, I knew I wouldn’t be able to say anything without crying—and I promised him two months earlier—I would be cool, I would not fall apart during or after. I didn’t want him to have to worry about me while he was dying. It seemed like the most unselfish thing I could do for him… some small payback for the years of support and bailouts.

One man that he knew from Lake Merced Golf Club got up to speak and it didn’t immediately seem like it was going to be funny. Nice- but not funny. He talked of how my dad was always willing to help everyone, and that was true-- and how gracious and generous he was. Also, true. Then he proceeded to tell us a story of how my dad was helping him with his (golf) swing. He said. “And Don told me just stand with your feet apart and your head down, and hit that ball like you don’t give a shit.”

“Just hit that ball like you don’t give a shit.” And it hit me like a golf ball between the eyes. That is the best advice my dad never gave me.

I’ve been stuck in my writing lately. Besides emotionally drained from the last few months, I have been trying to figure out how to write nicer. Not better… nicer. And it crippled me. I haven’t been able to write a word that matters.

So, Dad, of all the advice you gave me over the last 58 years this is the best. I’m going to write like I don’t give a shit. I’m not going to worry who likes what I have to say. I have to say what I need to say. I’ve been worried about upsetting people and as a result, my silence has turned itself on me and made me sick.

I have a great niece, Jasmin, who is a writer too. She always sends me words of encouragement and tells me what a great writer she thinks I am, so I owe it to her to continue to write—so that she will continue to write. If you’re a writer, you have to write and if you have a particular voice you have to use it. It’s not an option or a hobby, it’s a compulsion and an obsession that can’t be controlled by self-will or the opinions of others. We write, because we have to.

So Jasmin my dearest, write like you don’t give a shit. Write for yourself—just keep writing.

A Lesson from My Mom

2014-05-11T11:16:00.000-07:00

Mom Approx. 50 Years Old

My mother used to proudly tell people, including her children, that she was part black, or whatever term she used back in the day, probably colored, maybe negro. She said she was a direct descendant of Haile Selassie, the Emperor of Ethiopia. She explained this by telling us it happened during Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia in the early 1930s, which was when she was born—but in San Francisco. Not Ethiopia, not Italy.

I don’t know why she told us this. I like to think it was to teach us a lesson. I like to think that she was as appalled by racism as I am, but I really don’t know. Maybe she just liked messing with people’s minds. Closed minds, small minds. Her prejudice was for stupid. Like me, she was guilty of her own stupidity, but had little tolerance for the stupidity of others.

It could have been a believable tale. She had big brown eyes and beautiful full lips. Her auburn hair wasn’t curly but had a lot of natural wave. Her skin, naturally olive, would turn chocolate brown in the sun.

My mother never blinked when I introduced her to my Japanese boyfriend, and later, when she found out I was going to have his baby, she was thrilled. She never mentioned mixed race, or any of the issues that might come up-- that did come up, due to crossing some line that some people drew. Her own kids looked like the League of Nations and she often said so. My older sister is dark with a Latin appearance, like my mother’s Southern Italian ancestors, I’m a blue eyed blonde like my father’s German grandmother, my little brother was more olive and Italian like my mother, (She was French and Irish on her mother’s side and Italian on her dad’s.) then later my little sister, who is a nice blend of Northern Italian from her dad and Southern Italian from my mom. For a short time when I was very little, we had two Korean foster children—my auburn haired mother turned many curious heads when we were all with her.

When I was pregnant with my son, people I knew asked me what I was going to do as a single mom with a mixed race child. That was such a crazy question to me. I just thought of him as my baby, not a race. It never occurred to me there would be any issues. And for me… there were no issues until bigotry crept into my life. When people would stare at us on the bus or in the store and shake their heads in disgust, or ask, “Did you adopt?” No, I’d tell them, I have the scar to prove he’s mine. And while that question alone is not overtly bigoted, the implication is. This was in the melting pot Bay Area. I could only imagine what it was like in different parts of the country. The thought scared me.

Since 9/11/1, I have seen the same kind of hate for the Muslim religion and /or anyone that may look like they are of Arab descent. Never mind that most people don’t know the difference between a Sikh (not Arab) and a Muslim (maybe Arab maybe not), don’t know the difference between an Afghani, Iraqi or Iranian, don’t know the difference between Farsi and Arabic, everyone that looked like they were from any part of the Middle East became an instant suspect. People who had immigrated to the US to flee their war torn countries, to have religious freedom, to have human rights, were shunned because of the way they dressed or talked. It hasn’t gotten much better 13 years later.

With the recent events surrounding the racial intolerance of the Clippers Basketball Team owner Mr. Sterling and the crazy cowboy in Utah, Mr. Bundy, I have to wonder how far we have come as a country in regards to racial equality—since the Civil War. Not far at all, I’m afraid.

I am sensitive to it because I see it through my son’s eyes. I’m sensitive to it because my niece has three little girls that are half Mexican. I’m sensitive to it because my mother, in her infinite wisdom, or maybe unknowingly made me aware of the ignorance many people have regarding race and cultural sensitivity.

Trying to have a frank conversation about race relations, religious freedoms, and sexual orientation freedom is difficult. Sometimes I think the freedoms my son went to war for are nonexistent. He came back from Iraq with a better understanding of freedom and of the cost of freedom, but to a country that didn’t get it.

I read a great essay Pretending Racism Doesn’t Exist Doesn’t Make it Go Away the other day written by Jeff Yang. The last two paragraphs wrap it up nicely; the whole essay is worth reading more than once.

“But denying racism doesn’t delete it. It simply allows it to live on in obscurity, drifting in the shadowy margins or lurking beneath the polished surface of polite society, where it can erode our most cherished shared values in secret, or erupt in fits of dark and terrible rage.

As Cliven Bundy and Don Sterling have demonstrated, as much as we claim that something is “not racist,” the “but…” continues to trail on behind it, keeping a foot in the door for the things we’d rather keep hidden.”

· I’m not racist BUT, a black president, no thanks.

· I’m not intolerant of any religion, BUT this country was founded on Christian beliefs we should not allow Mosques to be built here.

· I’m not a bigot BUT, two men should not get married to each other.

· I’m not a bigot BUT, I don’t want Mexicans living in my neighborhood.

· I’m not a bigot BUT… FILL IN THE BLANK.

I wish my mom were here so I could talk to her about this. I would ask her why she told everyone she was part black and why sometimes she wore a Star of David even though, she was baptized Catholic. I would ask her if she thought she was ahead of her time in bringing these issues to the forefront, or did she just like to mess with minds of stupid people? Either way, I have to say, she is my hero for this lesson. I hope I’m living up to her expectations as a human being and a daughter—I certainly am trying.

My mother, if she were still alive, would be the grandmother of seven, one is one-half Japanese, the others are a mixed bag of nuts, like me, a little bit of everything, and great grandmother to four, three of whom are half Mexican girls. She would have loved all of them and they would have loved her.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom, I miss your beautiful brain.

This is How You Live

2014-02-17T19:56:00.000-08:00

Last week my best friend of 46 years lost her mom, Elsie. Elsie was the epitome of everything I think is wonderful and cool… and she passed those amazing qualities to her daughter—who put the last 1.5 years of her life on hold, to take exquisite care of her mother.

Elsie didn’t like me much when we first met in 1968. She thought I was too fast for Renee, and she was right. I was. It didn’t take her long though, to see that I tried to keep Renee out of trouble, rather than lead her astray. I spent every day at their house. They fed me, and treated me like family. (Yelling at me when deemed necessary.) They welcomed my sister and later even my mother into the family fold. I have never met a family like them since—a family that gave so much and asked for nothing in return.

Elsie was dignified. A proud American woman of Mexican and Irish heritage who was always a lady, and handled life—and all the horrors that come with it, with more class than anyone I have ever met.

When her grandson tragically passed away at 4 years old, I heard Elsie cry. It was a primal cry, and one I’ll never forget. It was a cry from the most broken soul and I thought for sure she would never recover from that loss. But, she did and, she laughed again eventually and loved more grandchildren and a few great–grandchildren. Later she lost her beloved husband, the love of her life, and shortly after him her oldest daughter – both to cancer. And dotted here and there the loss of friends and family. Life was not particularly kind to Elsie, but her dignity prevailed. Her witty humor prevailed. Her passion for life prevailed.

She could be sweet or tough, and quite candid with a few of us. None of us liked being on the receiving end of those tough conversations, but I see now that she was trying to toughen us up—so we could get through life and not cop out to this problem or that problem, to not say life is too hard I don’t want to do it. .

Elsie was a bastion of strength, dignity and generosity. We won’t ever forget her and I am going to do my best to follow her lead when it comes to dealing with whatever life hands me. I’m going to try to pay forward the love and generosity so freely given to me all these years—and try to be someone Elsie would be proud of.

Adios Madre xox

This is how you live… Elsie Style.

The Grief of December

2013-11-23T19:36:00.003-08:00

Grief never feels good. If you ever lost a loved one, you know this. It could be a year ago or 40 years ago; it changes sometimes, the pain less sharp and sometimes more. It’s an injury without blood, a gaping wound that never really heals.

Most of us learn to live with it-- the missing piece to our psychic puzzle. There is always a feeling of something missing. Someone missing. Some of us try to fill the hole with medication or new shoes, or booze. It doesn’t work.

Years after my mom died, I picked up the phone to call her. I realized I couldn’t remember her number and then realized why and embarrassed at myself for such a ridiculous fopaux, (Seriously, how can you forget your mom has died?) hung up the phone. I can’t remember if I cried—or cleaned house. One of the two, I have no doubt.

My 27-year-old brother died December 19^th 1982 from complications due to injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident that occurred a little over 100 days prior. My 53-year-old mother died two years later on December 9^th. The holiday season has proven to be my most difficult season to get through and the list of people I grieve for has grown substantially since my brother and mother died. But, there is always a holiday, or a hallmark of some kind, birthdays, death days, the last time you talked. Any month can be the bad one but for me it’s always December.

I know there are the seven stages of grief, but the truth is there are no rules for how to do it, or how long, or how sad you should be, or how much you should cry, or if you should cry at all. Everyone grieves how he or she grieves and if you become expert—through experience, how sad for you.

It comes in waves. It doesn’t matter how long ago someone left this world, it can feel like yesterday or it can feel like a long time ago and you wonder how you could be so sad for so damn long. For me, sometimes just smelling something like bubblegum will remind me of my brother and the endless baseball card bubblegum he shared with me when he was little. Earlier this year his best friend sent some pictures of my brother when he was young, and a few shortly before he died. I cried because I missed him… and I cried for what he is missing. A beautiful daughter he never met and three amazing granddaughters that would have owned him. He missed the best part of my life and his.

The “no rules” grief also applies for whom we are grieving. My sister just lost her horse after 21 years, and was devastated. When my son’s 14-year-old dog was put down, I watched his grief pour out in heavy sobs, he was beyond consoling. It was then I realized he was also grieving for the friends he lost in the war, the ones he never had time to cry for—and maybe his own innocence, left in the sands of Iraq. Postponed grief is the stuff that will kill you.

We walk around with a cloud of sadness. Not everyone sees it. Some people are oblivious to our teary eyes and our ability to skirt a subject that is sure to make the wave of sadness rush in. Some of us want to talk about it, some of us cannot.

Sometimes, grief can surprise us. When my son’s dad died unexpectedly two years ago, I was floored with grief and I woke up crying every day for weeks—still sometimes, I can’t think about this loss without tearing up. I never expected to feel that way, but I never expected him to die at 53 either.

My grief is always just below the surface. I don’t wear it like a badge—I don’t share it with strangers, or even all my friends. It’s just there and that is how grief works.

For me, grief is a reminder to live well, to be kind because we really don’t know what other people are going through and we really don’t know if someone won’t be here tomorrow. I do put one foot in front of the other but I understand that isn’t always possible for everyone. When my son’s dad died, his grandmother understandably got a little crazy. When I asked my son (in an uncharitable moment) how he could put up with that he reminded me that losing your child trumps losing your father. His grief—made him smarter. His grandparents carry on; their strength is admirable their Japanese Buddhist durability intact, and I try my best to mimic them.

I know more than a few people hurting from grief right now. It always seems worse around the holidays. The empty seat syndrome, the missing piece of your heart, the special ornament with their name on it, more reminders than our hearts can bare—but bare we must.

This holiday season don’t be afraid to share stories about your departed loved ones with people that knew them or know you. Often you will find yourself laughing through a story instead of crying through the silence.

For all of you feeling the loss of a loved one please know this… you are not alone. Many people are grieving over someone. We may not all wear it the same way—but we wear it.

If you are suffering from severe depression due to grief, please seek counseling -- while I don't think there are rules-- I do think some people benefit from help with the grieving process.

see this link:

http://www.hopehospice.com/lossgrief.html

Just a few of my missing pieces...Mom, Johnny, Dad, Jon, Johnny, Jon, Noodle & Smokie

VETERANS DAY 2013

2013-11-10T17:00:00.000-08:00

Iraq 2006

Every year, since 2007, when my own son became a veteran, I have written something for Veterans Day. My theme changes slightly, usually depending on the reflection I am seeing through my son’s eyes.

This year, the reflection from his eyes is a good one. At least for today, at least for this moment—he is in a good place and time. If he is dogged by nightmares, he’s not saying. I notice he keeps himself busy, like my dad used to do. Always tinkering with something—the opposite of depression sleeping. Busy hands, calm mind. Calmer mind. (**note 2017 this is no longer the case- severe PTSD anxiety attacks, withdrawal from family and friends)

If he is in a better place- than, so too am I. But, now my focus has shifted from him to the bigger picture. A picture whose existence I have been peripherally aware of, but until now, until my own son was in the clear, walking towards peace of mind instead of down Crazyville Street, I could not focus on anything but him.

The picture I am seeing is a horrific one. It’s the stuff nightmares are made of. It’s full of suicide, depression, PTSD, diagnosed and undiagnosed brain injuries, the inability to reach the people that need us most—that deserve help the most. And, worst of all—apathy. Apathy on the part of the American people, the very people who have benefited from the missing limbs, the burned skin, the inability to think straight, the lack of attention span, the shakes, the nightmares, the alcoholism, the suicides—they could not care less.

Lately there is advertising showing buffed soldiers or Marine veterans missing body parts, modeling underwear or whatever. This is good. Maybe, Americans will be able to look these people in the eye someday and say…what? Thank you for your sacrifice. Thank you for losing that leg, arm, eye, life as you knew it. Thank you just isn’t enough.

The latest DOD data on suicide amongst veterans is an estimated 22 Veterans will commit suicide DAILY.

According to the report: “Among cases where history of U.S. military service was reported, Veterans comprised approximately 22.2% of all suicides reported during the project period. If this prevalence estimate is assumed to be constant across all U.S. states, an estimated 22 Veterans will have died from suicide each day in the calendar year 2010.”

I suspect the actual number is really higher. They won’t classify death from alcohol or drug overdose as suicide—but for many veterans (and civilians too) that is exactly what it is. I call it slow suicide.

This report notes the following: During the Iraq War, 4,475 U.S. service members were killed and 32,220 were wounded; in Afghanistan, 2,165 have been killed and 18,230 wounded through Feb. 5, 2013. Among service members deployed in these conflicts, 103,792 were diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) over the period 2002 to December 2012. Over that same period, 253,330 service members were diagnosed with a Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) of some kind. As a result of battle injuries in the Iraq War, 991 service members received wounds that required amputations; 797 lost major limbs, such as a leg. In Afghanistan, 724 have had to undergo amputations, with 696 losing a major limb. -

See more at: http://journalistsresource.org/studies/government/security-military/us-military-casualty-statistics-costs-war-iraq-afghanistan-post-911#

According to information obtained through the VA, there were 62,619 homeless veterans in the United States in January 2012. I’m willing to bet there were more then and there are many more now. This is disgraceful and unacceptable. And, please don’t tell me some of them want to live this way. If that is what you want to tell yourself to make yourself feel better then great—but please don’t expect me or anyone else with a brain to believe it.

Here are some facts from the not for profit Greendoors, based in Texas.

The number of homeless female veterans is on the rise: in 2006, there were 150 homeless female veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars; in 2011, there were 1,700. That same year, 18% of homeless veterans assisted by the VA were women. Comparison studies conducted by HUD show that female veterans are two to three times more likely to be homeless than any other group in the US adult population.
Veterans between the ages of 18 and 30 are twice as likely as adults in the general population to be homeless, and the risk of homelessness increases significantly among young veterans who are poor.
Roughly 56% of all homeless veterans are African-American or Hispanic, despite only accounting for 12.8% and 15.4% of the U.S. population respectively.
About 53% of individual homeless veterans have disabilities, compared with 41%of homeless non-veteran individuals.

Half suffer from mental illness; two-thirds suffer from substance abuse problems; and many from dual diagnosis (which is defined as a person struggling with both mental illness and a substance abuse problem).

Homeless veterans tend to experience homelessness longer than their non-veteran peers: Veterans spend an average of nearly six years homeless, compared to four years reported among non-veterans

There are programs all over the country trying to help homeless veterans. But, they need our help. The VA is overwhelmed with veterans right now. If you think your 2-3 hour wait at Kaiser or your local clinic is too long… try going to the VA. Now try it with PTSD and a little bit of TBI. Try filling out reams of forms and then turning them in and waiting 6 -9 months for a reply to tell you if you qualify for disability, when you are positive that you were blown off a rooftop in Iraq and hurt your head-- bad.

Volunteering at the VA is one way you and I can help. But there are other ways. You can help on a local level by finding out what resources there are for veterans in your area and asking them what you can do.

Learn how to talk to veterans. If you never served, you need to understand that you don’t really understand. Acknowledge that, and you will at least gain some respect from the veteran. Don’t ask stupid questions. (Like, did you ever kill anyone?) A veteran will tell you what he wants to tell you.

If you know a veteran in need of assistance make a call 877-4AID-VET

If you know a veteran who may be contemplating suicide: Veterans and their loved ones can call 1-800-273-8255 and Press 1, chat online at www.VeteransCrisisLine.net*, or send a text message to 838255 to receive free, confidential support 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, even if they are not registered with VA or enrolled in VA health care. VA also provides support for Service members through the Military Crisis Line. Service members and their families and friends can call and text the Veterans Crisis Line numbers and can chat online at www.MilitaryCrisisLine.net.

There are so many things we civilians can do to help today’s veterans and the veterans from previous wars, who have served our country, and made it possible for us to live in the free world that we live in.

Most of us can’t write a big old fat check to our favorite charity. But there are still ways to help raise funds for these not for profit organizations that truly help our veterans. Be sure you investigate the organization thoroughly before donating time or money.

If you can’t volunteer, then just do this. Next time you see someone wearing a USMC hat, or a Navy hat, or an Army jacket. Ask them if they are a veteran. If they say yes—shake their hand. Look them in the eye and shake their hand-- and then say thank you, and mean it.

Resources for veterans and their loved ones:

PTSD/ SUICIDE

Hearts Toward Home International – Dr. Bridgett Cantrell

The Veterans Administration

National Intrepid Center of Excellence

HOMELESS

National Veterans Foundation

Department of Veterans Affairs

CAL VET

Homeward Bound- Marin

Greendoors -Texas

***You can find more and local resources by googling key words and adding your city.

If Only People Cared

2013-09-02T20:42:00.000-07:00

If only people cared. I hear that a lot. I say it a lot. The truth is people do care. They do what they can. There is plenty of bad news in this world for each and every one of us to care about. And that is the problem. We are all on cause overload. I am on cause overload.

My Marine Mom friend has a 2.5 -year-old granddaughter, Sophie who has cancer and has been undergoing treatments for about 15 months now. Many of us have followed Sophie’s progress, her good days and bad days, her absolute courage, on Facebook and on her CaringBridge page. Her family has been courageous too. And on a mission, to help bring to the forefront the fact that childhood cancer is not funded like it should be and to raise awareness. The American Cancer Society only gives one cent of every dollar to Pediatric Cancer research and no one can figure out why this is so.

Approximately 7-9 kids die a day of cancer. (Statistics are all over the map- I guestimated based on several different reports.)

September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month

I have another Marine Mom friend whose sister died of breast cancer and she has been on a tireless mission to raise money for breast cancer research. The projected statistics for breast cancer-for 2013- though greatly improved over years past, are daunting still.

· About 232,340 new cases of invasive breast cancer will be diagnosed in women.

About 64,640 new cases of carcinoma in situ (CIS) will be diagnosed (CIS is non-invasive and is the earliest form of breast cancer).
About 39,620 women will die from breast cancer
Breast cancer is the second leading cause of cancer death in women, exceeded only by lung cancer. (in 2013)

My own personal cause has some big numbers too. Veterans with PTSD and Active Duty/ Veteran Suicides are at an all-time high. I have screamed this from the mountain-top with only those in my shoes taking notice. And maybe some of them found me to be too loud, too crazy, too driven.

According to this 2012 VA report 22 Veterans commit suicide daily. That is one every 80 minutes. Paul Riekhoff, the founder of IAVA (Iraq Afghanistan Veterans of America, stated "The country should be outraged that we are allowing this tragedy to continue. The trends are headed in the wrong direction,” As veterans, we at IAVA understand the spectrum of challenges facing veterans transitioning home, including the struggle with invisible wounds. One thing is clear; we need more research and more collaboration.”

PTSD awareness is sorely lacking – according to the Center for Ethical Solutions, nearly one soldier in five, or about 300,000 of the 1.6 million soldiers who have served in Iraq or Afghanistan, has post-traumatic stress disorder (“PTSD”) or major depression. My son has suffered from it, which brought it to the forefront for me. It is an invisible wound.

During my son’s time in the Marine Corps, I spent time as a volunteer for a Marine parent’s web- based group. We were an all-volunteer group of moms and dads that worked – we thought, tirelessly for our cause, which was supporting one another and our Marines. Our founder, worked even harder—sometimes around the clock. The message received from her, was that what we did was never enough. Never mind that most of us had jobs, never mind that most of us had families to take care of or that we put anywhere from 5 to 35 hours a week in on top of all that.

I understand now, she was frustrated. She wanted more for our guys and gals in harm’s way. Like Sophie’s GrandMo is frustrated, Like Jill W. is frustrated, like I am frustrated over the lack of concern for what we think are monumental causes. What she (the founder of the group) didn’t realize then—but may have come to realize at some point was that everyone was just doing the best they could with what they had. It wasn’t ignorance, or apathy that kept them (us) from giving more. We just had no more to give. And who can judge what is too little?

Children are a precious gift—even the older ones. Everyone is somebodies baby. And that gives everything equal importance, in my mind at least.

We need to knock on the doors of corporations and government officials and stop berating our fellow sufferers. Finesse donations, don’t scream for them. Be grateful to those who can give time or money and try to understand those who can’t.

All of us just want to help people we love. That is what it all boils down to. There is nothing stronger in this world than love and maybe sometimes it makes us crazy. But I am willing to do what I can for my causes, and my friends causes—because that is what it’s all about.

If any of the above causes ring your bell, please feel free to donate your time or money or hold a fundraiser on behalf. Or if you have a cause you would like to share about please do. Let’s start looking at these things like we are helping friends, because that is what friends do.

To Donate to Pediatric Cancer:

http://www.curesearch.org/

To Donate to Breast Cancer Research

http://ww5.komen.org/

To Donate for PTSD/ TBI and the Prevention of Suicide for Veterans

Hearts Toward Home International

The Veterans PTSD Project

Or any local VA VFW center.

Syria

2013-08-30T13:10:00.000-07:00

I’ve been wondering for quite some time- along with the rest of the country- (I hope) if we are going to be dragged into this Syrian rebellion. I didn’t want us to. I didn’t want to see one more American life lost, over yet again another Middle Eastern conflict, rebellion, uprising, whatever.

This last week shifted my thinking though. I thought about Hitler’s reign of terror and the Holocaust and how long it took the United States to act during that time. The holocaust began in 1938 and ended in 1945 when the American Army stumbled upon Ohrdruf Concentration Camp where there were hundreds of starved, frail prisoners who had managed to survive though many would die in the following weeks, as well as over 3000 corpses.

General Patton- when he arrived at the camp was physically sickened and refused to look at further carnage. Reportedly, General Eisenhower, turned white, but he said, “I made myself look at every nook and cranny” [of the camp.] “We are told that the American soldier does not know what he was fighting for, now; at least he will know what he is fighting against."

According to the Jewish Virtual Library, the United States press, at the time, had grossly underreported what was happening to the Jews in Germany. Eisenhower called on the US press and the press corps to visit the concentration camps. Joseph Pulitzer, whom it was said had a suspicious frame of mind concerning what he thought, were exaggerated rumors; when he saw Ohrdruf, Pulitzer said. “The reports were understatements.”

The current Syrian Civil War is part of the Arab Spring. A general dissatisfaction of the people with their government and lack of human rights. Once again, like in Iraq; it is Sunni versus Shi’ite and once again a leader is using sarin Gas on his own people.

The President of Syria, Bashar al-Assad, has removed all political parties other than (his) Ba'ath Syrian Regional Branch--leaving Syria a one-party state without free elections. He has chipped away or failed to improve any human rights issues in his country. And, now we hear--and I do believe--that he is using sarin Gas. In 1983 the United States was aware (top secret reports released) of Saddam Hussein using chemical weapons on his own people (The Kurds) and under President Reagan’s leadership chose at that time to do nothing. We all know how that worked out.

The US is now backing the armed rebels fighting the al-Assad regime. (The same rebels arrested by US Marines on the border of Syria and Iraq for gun smuggling in 2006-7.)

Because we have so little understanding of the Arab world and the Muslim conflicts, at least until recently, we have flip flopped on support over the years, seemingly picking sides randomly- taking what looks to me like -- if Russia is for it we must be against it approach. We have to stop looking at the politics and start looking at the human condition.

I hate war. I hate what Operation Iraqi Freedom did to so many of our own troops. I hate what it did to my son. I don’t want to see one more US troop’s life lost over Middle East religious wars. (You may call them oil wars- but I don’t). BUT- this is a human concern. We have a moral obligation to prevent another holocaust. We have already waited too long, because of politics and politicians. According to the United Nations, over 100,000 men women and children have died in Syria since 2011. Hundreds of thousands have fled to Iraq.

I know the US is war weary- though so few actually have skin in the game- so few have cared about the troops and what happens to them after they get home-- after they are out of uniform. But, the truth is, this is not politics. This is being human. And I can’t personally use the Christian card because I don’t think of myself as a Christian, but wouldn’t anyone’s God want to prevent another Holocaust? Wouldn’t anyone’s God want to not see civilians killed for being some religion that some other people don’t like?

Syrian children after the sarin gas attack

I checked in with my son last night before I wrote this – I’ve been wanting to write about this subject for a week but I thought I better just check in with someone that has a better perspective on the Middle East than me- and make sure I’m not crazy. But, he- who has fought in a war-(who helped arrest those gun smugglers) and who is not pro war for much- who is genuinely war weary- believes that we have to help the people of Syria too.

No- I do not want to see another US troop killed for nothing. I know though, there is no way I can turn my head and not see this holocaust in the making.

Moving The Glacier

2013-08-18T10:31:00.001-07:00

Hubbard Glacier

Sometime in April or May I hit bottom- or maybe I should say top- with my weight. I was painfully aware long before I actually decided to do something about it though. My feet hurt when standing, my hips hurt when lying down, my back hurt all the time, sitting, standing or lying. I was lumbering. Those of you who know me- have known me for many years know that I used to be a fast walker, and some of you might even remember when I could run. Now I was lumbering.

I hadn’t weighed myself in many months because I didn’t want to see the truth. Obesity. I knew it; I just didn’t want to see it. Then one day, I felt sick. I was scared that maybe I was becoming diabetic and with no insurance, I realized the only thing I could do was try to change the way I eat and start getting some exercise. My main goal- amazingly unselfish of me – was to stay alive for my son. Oh sure, me too, but mostly him, because he already lost one parent and I saw the toll that took on him. I wouldn’t do that to him if I could do anything to prevent it. And I was hoping I could.

I have been to Jenny Craig before with good results, so I picked up the phone and made an appointment. I had not forgotten how much I hate the appointments though. I hate being asked how my week was. I hate being asked if I got any exercise. I hate being asked about things that make me overeat. I hate the pop psychology of it all. I made the appointment anyway.

I weighed in. 197. Well, I told myself, at least it wasn’t 200. I bought my food and started my diet.

I knew that I had to start walking more and faster. I already walked a mile a day- most days. Now, I had to step it up. I started coming home for lunch and walking a mile at lunch and a mile after work if I had an ounce of energy left to do anything.
On weekends, I try to take a longer walk or a nice hike in open space. A couple of times I walked so far the dog had to rest. Once I walked too far and got the shakes and I thought of how mad I would be if I were one of those people that dropped dead getting some fresh air and exercise. (Remember to hydrate my Marine son would say.)

Losing weight in your 60s is not like losing weight in your 40s or 50s, which was hard enough. Losing weight in your 60s is like trying to move a massive glacier with a snowplow. It’s not easy, it’s not fun, and sometimes it’s downright depressing.

Eventually though, people start to notice, your baggy pants, your thinner face, your increased energy and that gives you the little push you need to get through the next plateau. And plateaus are aplenty.

I stopped going to Jenny Craig after two months. Mostly because I couldn’t afford it. Partly because I really am annoyed by the same questions every week. I have a stressful job; sometimes it makes me want to eat the universe. I do the best I can. I push myself to make smarter food choices- but once in a while, I am going to have a box of Good & Plenty. Trust me Jenny Craig- I won’t blame you for my failure.

On June 27th, I downloaded an app called Runtastic. Runtastic let me keep track of my miles and calories burned. It shows a map of my walk, and gives me my miles per hour. You can upload your session to Facebook and your friends can see you are moving. You are trying. You are on a mission.

Since June 27^th, I have walked 46 times, a distance of 68.29 miles (todays walk yet to be) and I burned 7713 calories. Now the thing about calories is that you keep burning them all day long, so 7713 is only what I have burned during my walks. I like being able to see my progress and eventually upgraded my Runtastic app to the paid version. That is all the psychology I need- evidence that I have pushed myself yet one more day.

Today I weighed in at 180. 17 pounds. Picture 17 pounds of butter. That is how much fat I have lost. Still I have a way to go. At least another 20 pounds. I don’t expect to ever be skinny. I’ll be happy with healthy and clothes that fit. Finally- I can buy some pants without an elastic waist!