The Least of These

Lately my mind has been occupied by a ghost of decades past. I didn't particularly love my first year of college, in fact l, it was one of the worst experiences of my life, but it creeps back into my memory from time to time.

Just like my older sisters, after college I set out for pursuit of a university education at a school far from home. It was an exciting adventure I had been looking forward to my whole life where I'd be able to go away to the edge of the world and see first-hand the expanding universe. I was excited to study art, history, political science, literature, and so many other subjects beyond the realm of my earliest education. I was excited, but my excitement didn't last forever.

I moved into the Honors dorms because my sister told me I'd want to he with the "smart people." Most of the people in my dorms were enrolled in the university's Honors program. Many were on scholarship. All appeared to be high achievers.

Much of the conversation, especially at first, seemed to revolve around telling what scholarships everyone was on and how many AP credits people had under their belt. Some people were already college sophomores without ever setting foot in a college classroom.

I guess I was from Hicksville because I don't remember AP credits ever being a thing at my high school. Maybe it was, and I was just considered too dumb to be included in the conversation. In hindsight, I'm not sure that's entirely a bad thing.

All I'd ever wanted to do in life was be an artist, write, and read lots of books. I'd been told I was smart, but I've never been what you'd call cut-throat about anything. I'm certainly no Type A personality. I could make good grades in school, but I was also interested in being a balanced person. There's more to life than being a super achiever. I guess this is the part where I should have amscrayed it out of there and moved to the regular dorms, but I was no quitter either.

My sisters had always told about how fun college was and all of the social activities. They seemed to have lots of friends and get invited to go do things. That wasn't my experience at all. I don't really remember ever being included much. One time I was sitting in a room with several other girls. Someone invited everyone in the room except for me to go do something so I just kind of wandered off alone to my dorm room. Yay exciting Friday night!

The closest thing to social interaction I ever had with my new "friends" was when I'd run into someone in the hall and they'd tell me how stressed they were that they were doing so poorly in their classes and only had a 3.9 GPA. I'd think to myself, "Gee, you should probably pack up and go home. You're a lost cause."

I get that we were in school and the point of school is to study and get good grades, but at what price? Over and over I saw a lack of concern for others. I witnessed people who couldn't have a conversation about anything that didn't include regurgitating whatever material a professor would one day ask as a test question. Ask someone to put away their textbooks and talk about anything real, anything that was going to matter in five, ten, maybe even twenty years from now would have been met with blank stares or an excuse to need to run off to study.

The apex came late one night when I overheard a conversation that I wasn't supposed to overhear. One of the girls in the dorms had attempted suicide. Fortunately she survived. I don't know all of the details, but I do remember that she was far from home, away from friends and family, in a less than hospital environment where everyone seemed to only be concernedabout one thing, and that one thing did not include a sensitive, introverted, soft-spoken girl who really needed a friend.

As I listened to the surreptitious conversation in the room next to me, I watched down the hall at the others continue about their usual business. I began to think about the importance of what is happening in our lives. Yes, doing homework while in school is important, but at what cost? Is it more important than the value of a human life? If you graduate with Honors, earn a PhD, marry the perfect spouse, have lots of money, perfect kids, and live in a Mansion, what worth does it have if you neglected the one who needed your help the very most?

I knew then that I was seeing people for who they truly were at that moment. Most importantly, I knew who I wanted to be and what I valued most. This was a life changing moment that has stayed with me ever since.

So many years have passed that I have forgotten the name of my neighbor who was in crisis all of those years ago. But I can see her face clear as day and I think of her story fairly often, almost daily. Her story has stayed with me longer than anything I ever learned in a classroom.

Once in a while I think of the others who passed through my life during that first year in college. A time or two I have been tempted to call some of them up and ask them how things worked out for them.

"Hey, do you still think accolades are more important than the value of a human life? Do you ever think about the most vulnerable people around you? Or are you still consumed by your own self-interest? How's that working out for you?"

Maybe I need to go look up some phone numbers.

How Many of Y'all Need Bigger Fat Pants? And a dose of motivation?

Obviously I haven't posted in a LONG time. In fact it had been so long that I couldn't even find my blog and once I found it, I couldn't figure out how to adjust the font size. From my screen it looks like I've selected a 48 pt. So whatever. That's how life is rolling for me these days.

I waa up late doing some housework, but after a taking the trash out I decided that I REALLY needed to repost all of my Facebook memories and then after that the world was practically going to end if I didn't write a blog post. So here I am. The neighbor kitty Leo dropped by a short while ago. After taking a look at the rest of the trash bags and Amazon boxes that need to go out, he gave me the stink eye of disgust and demanded to be let out at once. Like he couldn't help take out the trash since he's going out anyway. As usual, I have to do everything around here.

Just like everyone else, I've spent the Coronapocalypse doing letting else than lounging around the house and eating everything in sight. No matter what anyone tells you, yoga pants aren't your friend. I'm going to need to start running marathons before I am forced to buy a bigger size of fat pants.

Like most of y'all, I had big plans for my life, but then the Rona hit, I'm getting old and tired, and pretty much everything hurts. Is wasting my time on Facebook a career? Can I get paid for this? I guess really, the bigger question is, with my liberal arts degree, can I get paid for ANYTHING out there? Especially during the middle of a pandemic?

It's nearly 4am. I'm wide awake and getting nothing done. Still. I need incentive. How about someone send over a chocolate cupcake for every trip I make out to the dumpster? Exercise AND housecleaning in one. Score!

Felice Cumpleaños. Or Something.

Today is my birthday. Woot. I know, right? You're excited. For once I'm not dreading this day and silently praying that it will pass as quickly as possible without notice so I can get on with my life until the next horrible holiday comes along. More about that later. Came back sometime between Halloween and New Year's Day for a completely dark and depressing view of life. But today it's sunny weather and I'm not hating living through another April 14.

A couple of years ago the sweetest, most handsome orange kitty ran up to me on the street like we were BFFs then welcomed himself into my home like he lives here. He's been coming back for frequent visits ever since. 

At first people kept telling me, "You can't steal someone else's pet." He had a collar and appeared well cared for so it was obvious that someone out their considered him theirs. Or at least someone was paying vet bills and getting his annual shots as was evident by the up-to-date tags on his color.

I was pretty sure Neighbor Kitty was starving to death upon each visit so I started feeding him tuna or ham when he stopped by. We had our routine established pretty early on in the relationship. Neighbor Kitty would go to the back door off of my bedroom and meow. I'd let him in, feed him, we'd visit, maybe play with a string or the fishing pole you I bought him at the dollar store (I wasn't investing top dollar in a cat that doesn't technically belong to me). Sometimes I'd take bad cell phone photos for Instagram to make my life seem as exciting as it really is and to give ample court evidence of my crimes in the event that I was ever charged with cat theft. 

Turns out that Neighbor Kitty was running the same racket with half the neighborhood. He was using his handsome orange kitty charm to work all of us into giving him treats and whatever else he could finagle out of us. Every one I talked to on my block seemed to know Neighbor Kitty. He didn't seem picky about whose home he was inclined to enter. Mostly his visits seemed to be short, lasting maybe five minutes or so, then he'd be off to hoodwink the next human for treats and chin scratches. Until he started taking naps at my house. Sometimes for hours at a time.

Eventually I discovered that Neighbor Kitty is actually named Leo when I happened to run into the human who pays his vet bills. She said he's supposed to be an indoor cat but he runs outside whenever she opens the door no matter how much she tries to avert his escapes. I don't know why none of this surprises me at all. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I've been secretly trying to win Leo's affections with tuna and ham for many months. Ignorance is bliss I figure.

So tonight, only minutes after the stroke of midnight marking the official day of my birth, I heard the familiar sweet kitty voice at my back door. It's as if he knew that his visit would be one of the best birthday presents ever and he came by to help celebrate my big day by conning a can of tuna out of me then falling asleep at the foot of my bed while I update the masses on my raucous celebratory night/early morning. Leo and me. We really know how to par-tay.

A part of me wants a big party with chocolate cake, ice cream, lots of presents, and a piñata. Then I remember I don't have enough friends to invite to make it a big party. Just between you and me, I'd be OK if I could just register online for stuff I want and everyone could have everything sent to my house. 

I admit to contemplating the level of tacky involved in registering online for birthday presents just because I want a bunch a free stuff. A part of me is equal parts white trash and shameless enough to do such a thing. For some reason I've never managed to go through with it so maybe there's an ounce of inner dignity deep inside the innermost depths of my soul somewhere. 

I have at least one birthday social engagement, not involving a cat, later today. Unfortunately I have reason to believe a piñata won't be included. The event may be salvageable anyway. For now, there's an orange kitty, who doesn't technically live here, vying for my birthday attention before I go to bed. Afterall, I have a big day ahead.

Darkness Visible, Light Illuminated

"Flowers grow out of dark moments."

--Corita Kent

                               -

This morning my thoughts were consumed with memories of my dad. He left us in Just of 2000. It seems almost unfathomable that it's been almost 20 years. He left us in the middle of the summer when the warmth and glow of the sun's rays illuminated the days. His passing was so long ago, and yet it was yesterday. 

As I was preparing to leave the house this morning, just as the birds were waking, I began thinking of all of the times he shared his humanity with the broken, grief stricken, lonely, impoverished, and desperate souls who seemed to cross his path in a never-ending stream of suffering. Dad had a soft spot for the marginalized and suffering folks 

My mind wandered back to the family who lost a teenage son in a car-jacking. The time an elderly neighbor dropped dead at the dinner table in a public restaurant. All of the times he provided Christmas presents to people who otherwise wouldn't have had a Christmas. I recalled the day Dad got home from work, sat down to rest by reading the local newspaper only to find that a family we knew had lost their home and everything they owned in a house fire a couple of nights before. He immediately got up to go check on the family and offer any assistance he could. There were people he let stay at his house for free, visits to the lonely, medicines or other necessities purchased, visits to friends in jail, dinners served, lawns mowed, houses cleaned, and deaths grieved. Always, ALWAYS, there was compassion and empathy. Decades later I still get messages from people telling me about how much Dad meant to them. 

Over a year ago an orange cat ran up to me in the street as if we were great friends and he knew me well. He rubbed against my legs and nearly walked under my feet as he followed me into the house as if he lived there. Later I would find out his name is Leo and there is a human down the street who thinks he belongs to her. Yet for over a year my great kitty friend has been visiting me on a regular basis. Sometimes I can tell he's hungry so I feed him tuna or ham. We play with yarn. He sleeps on my chest and purrs the loudest purr I have ever heard. 

Leo knows to come to the back door just off my bedroom when he visits. He meows to alert me of his arrival. I let him in. We visit. I pet him. He sleeps or eats or gets into my belongings. When he's ready to leave, Leo goes to the door and gives me the signal and I let him out. This ritual of friendship might happen several times in a week or maybe less. Sometimes I can feel when Leo is about to stop by. He always knows when it's a good time for a kitty hug. 

The other night, when the temperature had dropped to 10 degrees, I heard my feline friend at the back door. I had a sense that he was hungry so I opened a can of tuna. He was famished and quickly gobbled down the feast as if he hadn't eaten in a few days, but I know he is better taken care of by his other human. As Leo was eating then sleeping on my bed, I reflected on the fact that I must be an okay person if my kitty friend knows he can show up at my house anytime, when he is tired or hungry or cold, and I will let him and and take care of whatever he needs. Nobody forces him to come. I have no idea why he chose me as his friend, but he did. Some people say that you can tell a lot about a person by how animals react to them. 

As I was taking a moment to pat myself on the back for my humanitarian achievements I had an epiphany. This is exactly what it's all about. Every one of us should open our door, poor out our blessings, and lift the spirits of those around us. It is our job to tend to our neighbors in whatever way we can. Just like Dad did for all of those countless people over nearly 7 decades of his life. 

When I turn on the news every day I don't always see people reaching out and caring for those in need. I sometimes, no, OFTEN see people demonize the poor, turn their backs on those with a different color skin or religion, or nationality. I see people judge and spread hate and criticize. Yet what I should see, if people lifting others like my dad lifted so many who crossed his path. 

I cannot begin to count the numbers of times Dad said that he did something just because it needed to be done. He understood that some people don't have the same advantages as everyone else. He saw those who needed a friend and offered his hand. He walked through the darkest shadows with people because he understand what it was to be engulfed by the demon black dog of depression and despair. He never judged. He befriended the poorest of the poor and those who had vast material blessings. 

When my dad was 36 years-old my mother died suddenly from an aneurysm. Dad was left to raise three little girls under the age of four. I don't know how we all made it through that dark tunnel, but we not only survived, some would say we thrived. Despite everything, my sisters had a certain amount of charmed life amidst all of the struggle and hardship. 

Dad was born in the middle of the Great Depression. He always said his family was so poor that they had to eat butter instead of margarine because margarine was more expensive. Poor people had to churn their own butter. Then the was came along with the rations. People had money, but they couldn't buy anything because all of the goods were diverted to the war effort. Both of Dad's beloved grandmothers died, one when he was in 5th grade and the other when he was drafted into the Korean War. I don't know all of the burdens Dad carried from everything that happened in his life, but I know he lightened his load every time he helped someone else carry their burdens. 

I can't begin to document all of the humanity Dad brought to the world. I am so tired even thinking about it. I guess I'm lazy because I don't feel like I have done a great job of carrying forward Dad's relief efforts. Except there is that one kitty who knows he can come to my back door whenever he is cold or hungry or tired and I'll let him in to tend to his needs. So that counts for something, right?   

Silly Nonsense, Adderall, and Uncooperative Technology

I've got a million things I should be doing today. I'm working on my resume to apply to a new job which should pay really well and present new and exciting challenges. Mostly, it pays well. I've got art to work on. I have projects I need to get done for friends and paintings to sell. I need to clean out the fridge, take a shower, empty the trash, clean my room, write in my journal, visit the museum today for an exhibit which closes today. It's 10 am and frankly I'm shocked that I have been up since 7 am being functional and checking items off of my list. I don't know what has gotten into me. 

Of course I can't get the printer to work. I'm sitting alone in a room with a plethora of technology and I can't get a single one of the devices to do all that I want and need it to do. The desktop computer to my right seems to have become disconnected from the network. It worked fine a moment ago, but I had to move the monitor and now the computer is completely useless. I have no idea what is wrong with it. It won't connect to the network now. I checked all of the cables and settings. It was working fine a few minutes ago and then BAM! I'm getting error messages and the program which is supposed to detect and fix the problems can't fix the internet issue. 

My laptop is connected to the Wi-Fi so that's awesome. I just can't get a document in an email attachment to go to any of the various word processing programs so I can edit it. And yes, I have multiple word processing documents on my computer because the other day I decided to check out the free programs on the internet. I'll let you know how they work if I can ever get that far in my efforts. 

My phone sits on the table next to me. No problems there, except I'm trying to ignore the phone so I don't get on social media or start chatting with whatever random friend is logged in and available. 

So I'm resigned to the lack of printing ability. I'll print my documents when I get home. I bought a fancy printer-scanner-copier machine several months ago. Of course I researched and got the one that had the most bells and whistles in the price range. Some friends who are designers recommended an even better model which prints graphics beautifully and even has a large format printing capability. As painful of a decision as it was, I opted not to buy it right now due to the much higher price. I'm trying to reign in my spending on creative materials, which is unfortunately a complete failure. Ask me later about the $100 I spent on yearn so I can make scarves for the homeless or yarn bomb my entire neighborhood. 

Um...what was I talking about? This is the problem with ADD and memory lapses. I go into the other room to get something, but by the time I get there, I can't remember what I'm looking for. 

So back to that resume that isn't getting written. Come on Adderall! Do your thing. I have a problem because every resume turns out to be crap and I feel like I need to write a Pulitzer winning resume. Then again, I look back at some of my former co-workers and I think as long as I can use halfway decent grammar and spell most words correctly I should be golden. Someday, remind me to tell you about the time I worked in the telecommunications industry and my co-worker used to tell customers that the industry is heavily regulated by the FAA. I wanted to correct her, but that's an awkward conversation. How do you tell someone they don't have the basic functionality to work in the corporate world? 

Anyway, I'm missing the Women's March right now. I thought about going, but hiking up the side of a very steep mountain to get to the state capital is not on my agenda today. That is one STEEP climb. I don't know why hiking up that hill always has to be an integral part of every march or protest in this city. 

So here I am. Avoiding pressing items on my agenda and battling a plethora of technology to put words on a single piece of paper so I can get a great paying job which I may or may not hate once I am actively employed. Okay, deep breath. Time to get to work. 

P.S. I didn't even proofread this word salad. Don't judge if there are typos and atrocious grammar problems. 

A Million Miles Away

If I could just get in the car and drive a million miles away to a place where nobody knows me and I don't know anyone, I would have done it a long time ago. I reckon everyone wants to run away from home at some point in their life. For me, that time is now.

The period from Halloween to New Year's is always a bad time for me. I would give anything if I didn't have to endure the holiday season. So many people seem to love this time of year and think the holidays are full of joy and happiness. For me, this is a time of loneliness, grief, and darkness. There is no joy in this time others view as celebration. I have so much to say about this, but I don't have the time to write it all down and you wouldn't have the time or desire to read it. 

My earliest holiday memories were times of idyllic happiness, family, and presents. Santa always brought me something I wanted. There were happy times and good food with cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Then the procession of funerals began as I watched my grandmothers, great aunts and uncles, and then my grandfather leave this world. 

Suddenly, there was no reason to go back to the town of my roots where generations of family had been born, lived, and died. Cousins and siblings went off to college far away. The year of the last death, I followed in the footsteps of my sisters to a school far away. This was the year when the holidays turned cold.

My mother had died the year of my first holiday season. My dad followed her 32 years later when my sisters and I held our father's hand as his spirit slipped from his mortal tabernacle of clay to receive his eternal reward.

These days I live in a place, far from family, where the cold and darkness of the winter months comes from a source other than just the climate. I never feel at home. There is a distance between me and the people around me. I don't feel like I have a good support system and lately I've decided that I need to find a new circle of friends.

There are those who never respond to text messages or initiate contact. Some are quick to inform me of my wrongdoings, but are incredulous that they might do anything to offend or hurt. Some have become too busy for everyone of their past social circle, so I know it's not just me. Others may be friendly enough, but I always have to make the contact.

This holiday season was worse than any of recent years. When I confided to a close "friend" that my doctor had mentioned the importance of having a support system, she merely shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "Good luck with that." 

I spent Christmas Day alone in bed this year. I decided that sleeping might help a bad day pass faster. No one seemed concerned that I was home alone because I had no other place to go. I didn't bother putting up decorations and tried not to think of the childhood holidays with family, good food, presents from Santa, love, and even some laughter.

I have an acquaintance who shares openly every detail of her life on social media. I've read her posts about all of the adversity in her life only to realize later that so much of my situation is worse. She has repeatedly talked about devoted friends who have repeatedly come to her aid, held her hand, or lent a shoulder to cry on in her darkest hours. Meanwhile, I can't get anyone to reply to a text message.

I sometimes wonder what would happen if I had an accident or health emergency at home. How long would it take for someone to notice the body? Would anyone even notice or care that I was gone? If past experience is any indication, I would have a length wait.

For Christmas this year, I had a list of people who I had planned to give some of my artwork. It gave me a purpose and made me feel like I was giving a personal gift that couldn't be bought at any Big Box store. 

For some odd reason, giving a gift of my art made me happy, perhaps because this is the type of gift I would like most to receive. Then I remembered how alone and lonely I was then. Why should I give a part of myself to people who don't seem to care? So I put away my art supplies and scrapped that idea.

I decided this week that I need to make new friends and forget about the people who do nothing but make me feel like a burden and an inconvenience. I had a conversation with someone today about how to find new friends, a new life. I began making plans, got out the map, and filled up the gas tank to begin that journey of driving a million miles away to some other place.

UnThanksgiving

This morning as I prepared to go to a friend's house for Thanksgiving celebrations, I found myself in an online conversation with a person I do not know well about how indigenous people are treated in the state where we both reside.

This person told me that in Utah (a state which ironically derives it's name from the local indigenous Ute tribe) indigenous people are continually treated with disrespect, derision, and further marginalized. She went on to describe how local and state leaders are disinterested in becoming informed on the issues which affect the indigenous community or to implement effective change to address these issues.

It doesn't take an expert to notice that after being subjected to 500 years of atrocities, the indigenous community is in crisis. While some erroneously blame the various problems affecting the indigenous community as character flaws or even a lack of initiative, the truth goes much deeper. Generational trauma, broken treaties, oppression (to name only a few) are in fact the true cause of the problems.

For decades, indigenous children were ripped from the arms of their parents to be put up for adoption to white families without the consent or even knowledge of the parents.

Beginning in the 1800s, government and church authorities forcibly removed Native children from their parents, culture, and communities to attend boarding schools where the children had their hair cut, were required to wear the white man's clothing, and prevented from speaking their language or having any connection with their culture. It was at these so-called schools that these most vulnerable children endured all manners of horrific abuse and degradation. Many children never made it out alive. Those who survived have lived with the residual effects of this trauma for the rest of their lives.

Today, hundreds, if not thousands, of indigenous women throughout the U.S. and Canada are either missing or murdered. Law enforcement agencies seem slow, or completely unwilling, to search for these women. Laws affecting tribal lands often prevent prosecution of crimes against indigenous people committed by outsiders. It is said that every person in the indigenous community either has a family members or acquaintance who makes up these numbers of missing and murdered women.

When oil companies move into areas near indigenous communities, and set up temporary housing for oil field workers called man camps, violence against, and human trafficking of, indigenous women skyrockets.

Mortality rates of indigenous people are much higher than that if non-indigenous peoples. Suicide rates, particularly among young people, within the indigenous community are if epidemic proportions. Addiction, poverty, diabetes, high school drop-out, unemployment, homelessness, hopelessness and despair are both caused by, and help fuel the ongoing problems which affect Indian Country. I don't have the time or space here to give a full detail of the complete situation.

It shouldn't be a surprise that the Thanksgiving holiday, with it's accompanying fictional folklore, is not wildly popular among the first inhabitants of this land.

In indigenous culture, a person's status in society would traditionally be improved, not by the wealth accumulated, but by how much was given away. Unlike in Western society, the prevailing belief was that what we have belongs to all of us. If someone was homeless, he or she would be given a place to live. If someone was hungry, he would be fed. If someone needed clothing, she would be provided with that as well.

Hoarding of wealth or material goods would be treated with suspicion. If a person had an excess of food, material goods, or housing someone might ask, "This person is homeless (or hungry or naked), yet you have so much."

The Lakota name for the white man is Wasicu, which I am told directly translates as "the one who takes the fattest piece of meat" because when they first encountered the white man and shared their meat, the white man always took the fattest, or most desirable piece of meat for himself. Today, this term is widely used by all indigenous people throughout the U.S. and Canada because it is viewed as such an apt description of the white invaders who came to this land so many years ago.

Today, as I sit down with friends to celebrate the traditional Thanksgiving feast, my thoughts are not centered on the false narrative of Pilgrims and Indians that was taught to me in grade school and still celebrated by so many. Instead, I will find myself mourning the tragedy of what has happened to the first inhabitants of this land who, after being subjected to 500 years of atrocities, are still finding it impossible to have their voices heard or their urgent needs addressed.