Grateful?

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I am not enamored of people who tell me to be grateful for what I have every day because if those people came and lived with me for, oh, three months, they would probably be stark raving mad after 90 days. What my mother and I go through to live a semi-normal life is exhausting mentally and physically. I’m right now thinking back over the year for things that make me feel gratitude. Here we go.

  • I’ve made new real friends this year, both online and IRL. I’m going to meet one online friend in person, hopefully next week, because we realized we live about 20 minutes apart.
  • I’m still freelancing, so I’m still working. Freelancing is feast or famine. I’m in a famine period right now, but based on the last couple of years, I believe my work will pick up again after the New Year.
  • My mom. Boy, my mom. We butt heads hard as I assume more authority over the household, but she’s still Mom, giving me hell. I would worry if she stopped giving me hell. We have spent many hours talking out old issues. May we not have to do that next year, may we put the past in the past is my prayer.
  • Speaking of prayer, I have fully accepted that my spiritual place is in the pagan world, in the traditions of my ancestors from Scotland and Ireland.
  • I’ve come to terms with my father’s abuse of me as a child and his death. I’m re-embracing my Native American heritage that came to me through both of his parents.
  • I’m actually reading the books I buy. I know that sounds bizarre for a writer, but I wasn’t allowed to read when I was married unless my ex-husband was at work. So fuck him, I read whenever I want now, whatever I want, whenever I want.
  • I’ve worked very hard not just on gardening this year, but also on creating a wild space like I had at my house on Long Island, and I did it. Well, not really, Mother Nature did it. She gave me a place outside that I can go and be at peace. I care for that place, I protect it, and I feed the wild creatures that inhabit the trees and bushes. It’s a place to go even in winter, when the garden is sleeping.
  • I gained the courage to be a political activist even in this miserable town. I gained the courage to be a political activist online even if it turns people off. Like so many others, I got a gut-punch this year that rearranged my priorities.
  • My cats are healthy. Kumo, my oldest cat, doesn’t have congestive heart failure after all. He’s developed a condition that makes it difficult to digest dry food. All he needed was a vet visit and a switch to wet food.
  • I have some hope of getting health insurance starting in January.
  • I’m beating my insomnia, which is a big deal because it started a little over five years ago. I could go to bed and fall asleep right now if I wanted to.
  • My cousin’s daughter who was born premature with severe physical disabilities is learning to speak and swallow. That wasn’t in the prognosis. It’s kind of a miracle. I put that last because I knew writing about her would make me tear up.

And I live in a house, imperfect, but a house, and we can pay our bills. Last year we got severely financially messed up, but people online came through for us, and we’ve been paying it forward this year.

Damn. I have way more to be grateful for than I thought.

-Robin

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The World We’ve Created

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We made it on our own.

Over two dozen people, including the pastor’s young teen daughter, were murdered by a domestic terrorist in church Sunday morning. Other parishioners were shot, including a five-year-old boy, and a two-year-old girl.

Another man with a gun–or two men, the details are still confused–chased the terrorist down and “stopped” him.

People started talking about gun control. Other people started talking about their sacred “hobby” of collecting guns and hunting and target shooting.

A photo started to circulate of a trophy hunter, a person with more money than sense or morals, with a dead snow leopard draped around his shoulders.

I work remotely and avoid “regular” people as much as possible because I don’t understand their world. My vampire characters in my series make more sense and have a greater system of morality than the majority of the people out there.

I was going to give up freelancing and return to the outside work world . . . retail, secretarial work, temp work because tis the season, although it feels like nothing, really, just warm and chilly days and nights, leaves falling, crows calling, an owl that has settled in somewhere nearby and hunts at night.

The owl hunts because it has to. A lot of people where I live rely on hunting for food. They’re not the guy with the dead snow leopard hanging around his unworthy shoulders. They are concerned about their guns, I’m sure, but believing in gun control doesn’t make one anti-gun. I’m not anti-gun. I’m anti AR-15s in the hands of men with grudges, violent men who’ve lost their easy targets of rage, their wives or girlfriends.

I don’t like to think that shooting is a relaxing hobby and accepted in American society. It seems like emptying a lot of rage instead of doing anything productive. “There is more skill in photographing an animal than using a rifle.” –https://twitter.com/SeymoreBobbyRay/status/927439684539645952  This Twitter user is 100% correct. Why is using an object meant to kill now a way to “work out” one’s frustrations? Take up martial arts. Take up boxing. Take it out on a heavy bag. Get freaking counseling.

People mock me for collecting dolls. It’s not a “grown-up” hobby. Dear Goddess, let me never have a grown-up hobby. People mock my religion as not a “real” religion while “real” religious leaders say . . . bring guns to church.

What we know about the terrorist who murdered at least 26 people in church yesterday morning is that he was young, had been married, had at least one child, assaulted his wife and child, and was dishonorably discharged from the Air Force, court-martialed for his abuse of his family.

Another angry young white man who, as so many women said on Twitter, went from domestic violence to mass murder.

I ultimately left my abusive ex-husband because of the gun in the bedroom.

I have no desire to be out in the world that breeds all those mindsets, and that world doesn’t want me. I see growing hostility and suppressed anger when I go beyond my little town to a town with department stores. I don’t carry a gun, I don’t advertise my politics. But I don’t get out of the way of aggressive men or women. I confront them. I don’t like it. I don’t like having a trip to the grocery store turn into an argument with a pushy person in line who has a red face and clenched fists.

I’ll just be at home, taking care of my mother and cats, writing, and building my doll collection. And voting. One thing I can do to fight back against those people with clenched fists and guns is vote.

I’m a contented stereotype in the world I’ve created. That world outside is devolving. I don’t want to be in it as it dies.

Let Down

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Why is depression killing some of the boldest, most influential voices of my generation?

We lost Chester Bennington yesterday. It’s been just barely over two months since we lost Chris Cornell.

They were rock stars. They moved in the same circles. They performed together. They had “rock star issues.”

But the “rock star issues” seem to be pounding the life out of my generation, most visibly in the musical community.

What fucked us all up so bad? We seem to opt out in our forties and early fifties. Could it have anything to do with looking at the future and not seeing one as our parents did?

I don’t fucking know.

And the tears fall like rain
Down my face again
Oh the words you wouldn’t say
And the games you played
With my unfoolish heart
Oh I should have known this from the start

Oh the winter and spring
Going in hand in hand
Just like my love and pain
How the thought of you cuts deep within the vein
Oh this brand new skin stretched across scared terrain

I don’t want to be let down
I don’t want to live my life again
Don’t want to be lead down the same old road
So I don’t want to be let down
I don’t want to live my lies again
Don’t want to be lead down the same old road

All those years down the drain
Love was not enough when you want everything
What I gave to you and now the end must start
Oh I should have listened to my heart

‘Cause I don’t want to be let down
I don’t want to live my life again
Don’t want to be lead down the same old road
So I don’t want to be let down
I don’t want to live my lies again
Don’t want to be lead down the same old road

Oh

I don’t want to be let down
I don’t want to live my life again
Don’t want to be lead down the same old road
(I don’t want too be let down)
So I don’t want to be let down
I don’t want to live my lies again
Don’t want to be lead down the same old road
(I don’t want to be let down)
Don’t want to be lead down the same old road
(I don’t want to be let down)
Don’t want to be lead down the same old road
(I don’t want to be let down)
Don’t want to be lead down the same old road
(I don’t want to be let down)
Don’t want to be lead down the same old road
(I don’t want too be let down)
Be lead down the same old road

Dead By Sunrise – Let Down

I listened to this song over and over after I gave my ex-husband the second chance and he blew it. It is so hard to accept that this person who expressed my emotions better than I could myself suffered from the same mental illness that still tries to pull me down every single day.

The future is bleak.

The Surprising Emotions Evoked by Wonder Woman

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I expected to feel excitement and “female empowerment” when I finally saw Wonder Woman. Instead, I watched the movie in silence, crying, and hoping no one would notice. My mother and sister were also mostly silent. Some people around us were laughing and gasping, but it seemed that most of the women in the theater were struck by the same sense of awe as I was.

When I was buying our tickets, a women in her fifties asked me if I had seen the movie yet. She had also bought tickets to Wonder Woman. When I said no, she looked as if she wanted to say something, but she just shook her head. I realize now she must have been there for a repeat viewing.

I’m 44. My mother is 69. My sister is 37. None of us have ever seen a movie with so many powerful women. Honestly, the whole movie could have consisted of life on Themyscira and it would have made me happy. My mother is a retired police officer and said she physically felt the blows the Amazons dealt to the invading Germans.

The thrill during that sequence wasn’t about seeing women beating up men. It was from seeing women defending themselves, each other, their home, their way of life, and winning . . . but of course in a situation like that, the loss of life obscures the win. In many movies, a group of people like the Amazons would have celebrated the win and mourned their dead as heroes. The Amazons didn’t celebrate. They knew that something sacred had come to an end.

Hippolyta’s “you may never return” was heartbreaking and ambiguous. Diana’s resolve was also heartbreaking, but unavoidable. At some points, her bull-headed insistence on DOING IT RIGHT NOW made me want to shake her even though I thought she was on the right track. Until the end.

The scene where she is floating in the air absorbing everything that Ares throws at her is fixed in my mind. And then she threw it back.

I, and I am sure every woman, knows that feeling of wanting to throw it all back at someone. I’m not a proponent of that forgive and move on crap. I’m a proponent of throwing it all back at them, whoever they are.

I was shaken as I left the movie. So was my sister. She said she was going to ask her boyfriend to buy her a Wonder Woman doll. I thought hell, no, and we went to Walmart and I showed her all the dolls and bought the one she liked best.

I put up my Wonder Woman posters last night. They are a bit jarring in my room, which is traditionally feminine . . . but what is more traditionally feminine than an Amazon? Strong, passionate, nurturing, a woman who will die defending her family.

Today, I was depressed. I got on Twitter and read the news, the depressed tweets, the angry tweets, the tweets that divide us, I thought about our enemy, our common enemy, enemy to all women even if they don’t see him that way, and I thought that to set things to rights, we all have to be Wonder Woman. We all have to care more about what’s best for others than we care about ourselves. We all have to be willing to sacrifice everything for people we don’t even know, refugees, people dying for lack of someone willing to help.

I don’t see that. I see bickering and infighting and separation. I don’t see the obstinacy that characterized the young Diana: I will do this no matter the risk to myself because it is the right thing to do, and I will see the humanity in everyone.

So this is what I took away from Wonder Woman. The movie opened my eyes to things that I hadn’t fully comprehended before. It made me feel responsible for things happening in the world that I had not considered my responsibility.

It’s more than a superhero movie. It is the perfect movie for our time.

Failure Does Not Make You Stronger

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Since so many people feel free to throw around a blanket statement like “failure makes you stronger,” I’m going to throw my own blanket out there for those who think that’s a colossal load of horseshit.

Failure may make some people stronger. Or maybe it makes them more determined. Or angry enough to attack their problem and crush it.

Failure also destroys dreams, costs people their life savings, demoralizes them, causes them to fall into deep depressions that never lift, makes them simply give up. No, it’s not a case of blame the victim for their response to the situation. It is the situation that brings on the emotions that break a person.

There have been many people who have gotten back up after failures and become heroes, and I admire those people. But there are many more people who “failed” and lost their motivation, their way, even their will to live. Those people are not one iota less than any other person who has ever walked the face of the earth. They deserve our empathy and our help and our support.

Not one single person in the world has the exact personality and strength as another. We are all snowflakes. The way that we respond to all the stones life throws at us is a combination of nurture and circumstance. The cruelest thing someone ever said to me was a friend (it’s always a friend) who, when I was very down (I have chronic untreated depression because I can’t afford the healthcare I need) said, “You want to hear about a real problem? My first son was stillborn.”

I knew about that, she told me about it earlier in our friendship, and it broke my heart that her baby didn’t live, that she is still so obviously tormented by it after more than twenty years and four living, extraordinary sons. Pregnancy, the deaths of infants, stillbirths, and infertility affect me in a different way than “normal” people because I’m infertile. I cried for my friend.

I have seen her through so many problems, and I don’t consider a stillbirth a “problem.” I consider it a tragedy. I’ve seen her through problems large and small. I’ve seen many people through problems large and small. I’ve never said, “You want to hear about a real problem? I got pregnant once, when I was 20, had a miscarriage, and had to have a hysterectomy when I was 32.”

Every single person deals with tragedies and problems differently. We’re beaten with the “tragedy/failure/whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” myth until we feel like failures if our failures don’t make us stronger. My tragedy didn’t make me stronger. Am I a failure? My marriage failed. I don’t feel that made me stronger. Smarter, maybe, wary, cynical, suspicious, cautious, guarded, reliant on my intuition, mistrustful of my heart. But mostly it made me feel like I hurt my stepdaughter by not bearing up under the abuse for four more years, until she turned 18, and then I could have somehow bowed out gracefully.

That’s the mindset evoked for some of us by “failure makes you stronger.”

If it doesn’t make you stronger either, you’re not weak. You, like me, lack the ability to rebound from deep personal tragedy or disappointment in a way that inspires others.

It’s not my damn job to be an inspiration.

We’re not heroes in the conventional sense. We’re heroes because we’re alive. Like my friend, who lived through a tragedy and kept going.

We need to stop celebrating the myth of strength through failure and start celebrating the fact that we got up  today and took care of our families and/or went to work or put in another job application or planted a garden or adopted a pet or saw another human being through the fallout of a failure. Failing doesn’t have to mean you lose your dreams. It would be a lot more productive and humane if we all saw ourselves as part of a support system and helped each other regain our strength after a failure or a loss.

Not Enough to Go Around

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I read a book a few years ago that said something to the effect that greed and the belief that there’s not enough to go around keeps people poor. I don’t agree with that; there are so many factors that keep people in poverty. And yes, many of them are beyond their control. I live in a poor neighborhood. Prejudice, poor physical health, mental and emotional issues left untreated because the county Social Services can only meet basic needs, the ridiculous yearly vehicle tax that you have to pay for your car to be street legal, landlords who have to be sued to get them to perform basic maintenance, a truly awful police department with officers who will destroy a life by arresting someone for a petty misdemeanor and pass half-a-dozen known drug houses on their way to the jail, hostile neighbors who move in across the street from black families and call the cops over and over for nuisance calls and even VIDEOTAPE people arguing. How would you like to have an argument with a family member, make up, forget about it . . . until the police show up at your house with a video of your argument?

Last summer, a family of Nazis came up from the next block intent on BEATING UP A BLACK BOY IN THE FOURTH GRADE because he “said something” to one of their children. Luckily, his mother takes no shit and sent them back to their bunker with their tails between their legs. This kid is big for his age, yes, but the kid he argued with and the kid’s family know very well how old he is if he’s on the elementary school bus, FFS.

My neighbor’s oldest son thought he had a full football scholarship and planned to go to a local college. It turned out that his guidance counselor had not fully informed him about the tuition and the fact that the scholarship would not cover all of his tuition, even with him living at home. He decided to forego starting college that fall and instead worked a full-time job in an attempt to save the money for the rest of the tuition. He also looked at colleges in other states. Now he’s enrolled part-time in the local college. Not his dream, not what he worked so hard for all through high school, and now his mother is distrustful of the people scouting her younger son for football because of what happened to his brother.

There is a grocery store, two dollar stores, a fast-food restaurant, a barbecue joint, a Subway, and a convenience store in this town. Even the town’s only bank closed. The town’s only store with a pharmacy closed. The only jobs are a bus ride away in a larger town with no industry. The only jobs there are retail, food service, and office jobs that you may as well forget about because once someone gets one, they don’t leave until they die.

The county isn’t hiring.

The city isn’t hiring.

The library isn’t hiring, and the county commissioners, in their infinite wisdom, cut library hours and positions.

Maybe the police department or fire department or hospital is hiring. I’m not qualified for the first two and I’d have to go back to school for two years to get a job at the hospital, which has a terrible reputation for patient care and patient relations. People who have injuries more serious than a broken arm are airlifted to another hospital. People who have more than a simple fracture are airlifted to another hospital.

I know several people who work in nursing homes, but I’d have to go to school for at least two years for that.

I’d have to go back to school to be a beautician.

People need jobs NOW. They can’t wait for two years and then MAYBE find a job.

We don’t go to movies because we can’t afford it. We don’t go out to eat. Our cookouts aren’t that fun because the cops are always cruising by, looking for an excuse to shut them down.

Winter is terrible. We stay in our houses. The depression really sets in. We don’t have the motivation to even visit each other.

Summer is better. My neighbor and I are avid gardeners. We have that to occupy our time and to talk about. We exchange seeds and plants.

I work at home as a freelance writer. My neighbor has four children. She cares for her grandchildren almost every day. She also babysits. Her husband has a job as a cook in a restaurant that’s a step up from fast food.

We’re not lazy. Stupid people who live hours away in big cities with lots of opportunities tell us that we are. If you’re tempted to ask “Why don’t you move?” please don’t. My neighbor doesn’t want to take her sons out of school and put the in a new school district. My mother and I live in her childhood home. The property value has gone down drastically through no fault of our own. Why don’t you pay me the value of the property when we moved into the house in 2001?

We are damned depressed. All of the things I’ve described here grind away at you until you hurt all over and you’re exhausted but you can’t sleep and don’t even get me started on the way that doctors behave towards you when you don’t have insurance. I go to the doctor twice a year to get prescriptions for my inhalers so I don’t die.

I had a lot of work the last three months. I paid for a plumber, two new (used) tires for our car, the oil change, inspection, tag, vehicle tax, and various other household bills. I paid for my doctor visit out of pocket. I paid for my prescriptions out of pocket, and asthma inhalers ain’t cheap.

You’re not allowed to have anything when you’re poor. Someone right now is thinking, “how does she afford the Internet and a computer and her camera and her iPod?” Well, let me explain it to you. I switched Internet/phone/cable providers to lower the bill. Then when the promotion ended and the bill went up, I called the company and negotiated another promotion. I also dropped some unnecessary services. I don’t need their fastest Internet. I cut every dollar that I could. They worked with me because I managed to pay that bill on time every month. I’m a good customer.

I bought my laptop in 2014 when I had a temp job. I bought the iPod at the same time. I’m a writer. I had a 2008 Sony Vaio. I have to have a computer to work, and I earned that money, and no one has the right to question me regarding my computer and my iPod. Notice I did not say iPhone. That’s out of my reach.

My camera is seven years old. It’s a Canon. I highly recommend Canons. I bought it when I was married to a man who made over $100,000 a year. He also abused me, and when I left him, female relatives told me I should have just put up with the abuse and cheating for the financial security.

When my main client sends me a month’s worth of orders, I buy something for myself. Clothes. Shoes. Used books. I replace worn-out bedding. I have one purse. I always have one purse. I carry it until it’s worn out. I go to an independent salon and get dry haircuts. I have the back of my hair and my bangs trimmed. Looking decent makes me feel better. I don’t get services I want, like hair color. Just the minimum to keep my hair in some sort of style.

And I’m white, and I know that my story doesn’t even begin to address the problems that my black neighbor has to deal with. I’m glad I don’t have children. I can’t imagine being a black woman with four sons. I’ve seen with my own eyes the way that the police treat her and her family. They treat me as a nuisance. They are absolutely hostile towards her and treat her and her children as threats. The white man across the street who videotapes everyone and the white man from South African can tell any lie about her, even lies that I can debunk, and the police believe them.

I do believe that there is more than enough to go around. I do believe that the money for healthcare and a living wage is there. I do believe that, if employers like Walmart would stop getting by with a skeleton staff, there would be many more jobs. I believe that we can afford a higher minimum wage. I believe that we can keep the library open. I believe that we can pay teachers more. I do believe that the state Utilities Commission could step in and make sure we’re paying only what we owe. I do believe that the money is there for food stamps and Medicaid expansion. I do believe that they money is there for free community college. I believe that a healthy, well-educated populace would dramatically improve the economy and reduce the need for social safety nets. I believe that we can have people working and getting affordable healthcare and no longer in need of food stamps, no longer walking into the ER for something that could be dealt with by a primary care physician.

I know who is preventing all of those things from happening: the revoltingly greedy 1%, and the poor whites they have deceived in order to maintain their own lifestyle.

There’s a meanness, a viciousness, a “you won’t get anything from me” mentality among poor whites. And there’s a suspicion of education that takes the form of mocking “elites.” And it doesn’t help when “elites” mock people in “flyover country.”

Nothing is going to change unless people stop disparaging charity. Charity is more than a donation to an organization. It’s knowing you have the means to help people who are hurting AND DOING SO.

And taxes, my god, I am so tired of hearing “I DON’T WANT MY TAX MONEY USED FOR…” Well, suck it up, Buttercup. I don’t want my taxes used to pay the salaries of politicians whose values conflict with mine. I don’t want my taxes used to pay the salaries of police officers who KILL PEOPLE, who ignore drug houses, don’t arrest people who commit assault, but harass someone who had an argument with a family member and forgot about it until the cops showed up with the recording made by the neighbor across the street.

I don’t want to hear about anyone’s taxes.

There IS enough to go around. It’s being hoarded by the 1% and it’s not even getting to the people who vote for the politicians they groom and back.

There is enough to go around. Don’t believe anyone who tells you that there isn’t. There is enough money for Duke Energy to clean up their coal ash ponds and offer affected families acceptable compensation. There is enough money for Flint to have clean water. There is enough money to reroute the Dakota Access Pipeline. There is enough money to retrain police officers. There is enough money to raise the minimum wage. There is enough money for healthcare for everyone.

The money is there. It is our tax money: federal, state, and sales taxes. It is the money we spend at Walmart. It is the obscene amounts of interest we pay when we take out a mortgage. It is being hoarded by the 1% but IT IS OUR MONEY.

Now think about that the next time someone tells you “we just don’t have enough money for….” and know that person is a liar.

No One Walks Away From This Battle

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Stevie Nicks was so sure, like the rest of us, that Hillary Clinton would win the 2016 presidential election, that she planned to sing “Landslide” at Mrs. Clinton’s inaugural address. I think that her song “Battle of the Dragon,” copyrighted in 1985, released on the “American Anthem” soundtrack, sums up these dark days.

No one walks away from this battle

From the power

It’s so strong

Like a fury

Keep that fury deep inside you

And wish it to end

And when your friends start asking you why

You just say nothing

Stevie has always spoken her mind. I cannot comprehend taking on the responsibility of being a writer and remaining “neutral” for the sake of one’s sales and career and the slight possibility of finding an agent. I did not choose to write so that I could become a mealy-mouthed promoter of my own work in times of crisis. I did not choose to write so that I could sit on the fence and swing my legs and nod and smile to everyone who passed my way.

Muslims are still suffering under trump’s unconstitutional religious ban because despite the fact that a federal judge ruled against it, lawless members of various U.S. government departments, specifically the CBP, have refused to obey the law and have chosen to back an illegitimate president’s illegitimate laws.

I had hoped that this year might be the year I met one of my “online friends” IRL, but she lives in Canada, and as things stand now she would be required to surrender her phone to the CBP for inspection AND answer invasive questions about her country of origin and the websites she visits. I can’t ask that of anyone, and I can’t cross the border into Canada with the confidence that I won’t receive the same illegal treatment from the CBP.

I am not a refugee. I am re-reading The Diary of a Young Girl. I’m dealing with petty discomforts and unfulfilled wishes. Every day I read new horror tales from people of Middle Eastern descent, and POC in this flung to the winds country. I tell myself “but I’m poor too,” and then I tell myself to shut up.

This thing had to happen during my lifetime. I don’t have any clever quotes to follow that statement. This thing that has been wrought upon our country demands that I use my voice and stand up and add what I have to give to the blacks and the Muslims and the gays and the trans people, breaking it down into simplistic terminology that even my sister’s boyfriend who voted for Trump can understand.

Allow me, please, to inject a little humor into my post: this fucker dating my sister is dumb as a sack of dirt and twice as heavy.

I’m not carrying his burden.

As a spiritual person, I reject his burden, I will not aid him, I will save my strength for the people he would harm. He has to give account to his god. I’m glad I won’t have to witness that.

I am here in the world. My religion does not teach the convenient release of Heaven after death. I will remain in the world and return to the world. I believe that I will meet the people close to me in new incarnations in the future. I believe that I may be asked at some point, “Where did you stand?”

I stood with the many hundreds of thousands of people who lived in fear of deportation or internment camps. I stood with them.

I was very tired and angry when I wrote this post. I’d like to revise one paragraph here while leaving the original paragraph as is:

“This thing had to happen during my lifetime. I don’t have any clever quotes to follow that statement. This thing that has been wrought upon our country demands that I use my voice and stand up and add whatever I have to give in support to black people and Muslims and LGBT people and trans people in particular since my state’s new governor is still fighting to repeal HB2. I have learned from listening to Muslims and POC and LGBT people who take their personal time to break it down so that even my sister’s boyfriend who voted for Trump can understand, if they choose. He does not choose.”

Also, my intent was absolutely not to fat-shame my sister’s boyfriend. I’m fat. I hate him because he’s abusive, he’s a bully, he’s threatened me, and he’s turned my sister and my nephew against me because I am a Democrat.

So if anyone was or is offended by anything in my original post, I am so sorry, and I’ve attempted to express myself more coherently. Thank you.