My cracked crumbling heart that’s been delapidated and falling to pieces for two decades. It’s about my kids. Their father permanently spirited my two oldest daughters away to Mexico. They were two and four. So, they didn’t get to have a mother. My youngest daughter is with me, but she’s with out her father or sisters. That was after my baby son died. So, he’s okay. But I was never quite.
And here I was year after year trying to compensate for all the love, attention and things, this, my one kid left, has been missing out on. While at the same time, I’ve consistently missed my exiled daughters. Then, of course, there’s that ache where a baby is suppose to be. That doesn’t improve matters.
It’s twenty years later. My two Mexico girls grew up. Without me. We got in touch, after all these years. They are okay. However, they’re totally convinced that I abandoned them. So, all the abandonment, loneliness, and other miseries they suffered are totally my fault. Every bit of it. I won’t go into just how totally innocent their father is right now. For my part. Rather than helping this, my one kid left, to focus on growing strong, overcoming, and going after what she needs and and doesn’t have, I focused on protecting her. So, I am pretty responsible for some of the stuff she blames me for.
So, right now, only my son isn’t pissed at me for Mother’s Day.
Now that I recognize my same-old-crap behavior patterns from my shitty-old-relationship, I notice that my kids are on the same direct course to where I’ve been. It’s terrifying to witness. Yet. Do I regret my life? No. They probably won’t regret theirs either.
“I don’t understand hate.”
“I will never understand hate.”
“Yeah me either.”
“Just don’t get how people can hurt other people”.
I found this deadly conversation on Facebook by artists authors thought leaders the ones who are entrusted to know better. Sadly our short collective memory blanks out how very close to yesterday back in our church days if you were one of many of the popular American religions you were taught to believe homosexuality led to Sodom and Gomorrah being destroyed. A whole two cities devoured by holy flalmes for tolerating that abomination.
It’s all interpreted right there in both Christina and Muslim religion’s holy writings. So, it’s something way different from the catch-all phrase “hate” that is causing so much pain and death discrimination and hurt.
For a minister at least one in this case the one in California to stand up and celebrate someone finally doing God’s will is pretty natural. It’s part of being “right”.
I’m reminding myself that my ancestors and my culture up till now have been violent. We wage justified wars that are still going on. We lynched black folks and have disrespected and rejected “sodomites” for centuries now.
Not long ago it was legit to kill Catholics then in turn Protestants for being Catholic or being Protestant then both killing Muslims. I’m pretty sure my ancestors being faithful and devout men and woman participated in all the holy killings back then because they continued right up to very close to the present being devout and holy killers. Being faithful and devout myself, I thought the “right” half of that crap was all good.
Holy killings. Fighting for whats right. Soldiers for freedom. We still do it. At least we can do is admit we do understand “hate”. That we are it. Whatever that word has come to mean. We do it. We have been doing it together.
I have. I understand “hate”. I have lived and continue to live hate.
My passion she –
She chose her Way
Hardness or Harness-A story
My baby might not live she whispers; hollow calm lands on my stunned disbelief.
I’m staring at nothing, holding my breath mind goes blank. It’s about the phone. How did I get a call here?
This is a clinic. I’m at a clinic for my pre-natal. No one is that interested in my baby or my check up. It’s just us now. Who would call here for me or care how my check up went? When I walked out of the exam room, The nurse blankly informs me I have a phone call. Before I can protest, some confusion, she qualifies.
You are Jessica LeBaron right?
She leads me to the front desk. Confused shock has me when the receptionist staring at the file cabinet hands me the phone.
I didn’t give anyone this number.
Shock didn’t know which to choose, Eva’s unexpected voice and those words. What do they mean? How did I get any call at a midwives’ office.
Eva knows I would be at a clinic on Ben White. That’s it. She is seeing her doctor today too. We were going to talk about our maternity checkups when we got home. Our random appointments ended up being on the same day. This serendipity delights us. Not as much as finding our we are due within the same two weeks though. We thought of riding together to our appointments, but it hadn’t worked out. Our appointments were at almost the same time like our babies, at opposite ends of town.
We were room mates after I got separated, till she got married. We are best friends. We are having babies together. We are excited. We both laugh a lot-till now.
I lose control of my jaw.
Did you hear what I said: My baby isn’t going to live.
She is quiet till I grasp and gasp.
Oh, Eva! I whisper into the receiver.
My baby is not going to live, she repeats with stunned emotion.
Oh. All I can do is sigh.
I’m calling you first because I know you would understand. Would you come over?
Yes, I’ll be right over. I’ll be right there.
We hang up.
I turn around and rush back to the midwife.
Please help me! My throat clenches tears in my eyes. My friend. She just found out her baby may not live. What do I do? How do I help her?
I don’t feel like I can do her any good.
They tell me how to just be there, to listen and allow her to grieve. I can help then, I figure.
We were going to meet at my apartment. But I go to hers, now. She is on the couch wrapped up in her arms staring into space. She turns and stares at me. Just stares. We stare at each other. The emotional territory was to expansive and explosive to enter. Everything is numb and blank and hurt.
I’m going to a specialist for another sonogram. The doctor is sure of what he sees, or doesn’t see, but he sent me to a specialist. I can’t believe he knows what he is talking about.
I need to calm down. I need to call mom and dad. I still have to tell Jon. How do I tell Jon? I can’t tell Jon!
Jon is out-of-town for another few weeks on in-between job training for the new one. Eva’s parents live in Arizona. She asked me to come. We go to the second appointment together. It’s scheduled around my classes. It was the quickest appointment she could get. Either way I was going.
Five happy moms smile contented almost cooing rubbing their bellies or reading baby magazines in the comfortable deep cushions of the waiting room. I try to do none of those things. We only glance at each other, hoping not to convey despair to the blessed. We don’t talk or leaf through baby magazines or act blessed however. We fidget till we are called back into the brightly lit sonogram room.
The sonogram technician had a softness about her gentle way. Eva lies on the table. I sit in the chair next to her. After she introduces herself and settles Eva she squeezes warmed gel into Eva’s hand then waits for her to rub it around her belly with hopeful stokes. Eva wanted to apply it herself. She places the ultra sound device on Eva’s belly. We all turn to the screen.
First we hear it. A familiar heartbeat. Everything good and normal so far! Eva sighs, fights back tears, stays calm.
We follow the image watching intently as the tech labels and describes the sonogram in a matter of fact way.
The amniotic fluid is very low. There is almost none.
This is the heart here. It’s located on the right side.
Here are the lungs. They under-developed.
Kidneys should be here. Pause.
All of this could be good or at least okay or remedial, we are hoping. We look at each other with another flashing spark of hope. Get some synthetic amniotic fluid inject it, no problem, or something like that.
So what is the problem then? So everything is really okay?!
Well, kidneys are not visible.
What does that mean?
I assume she will just keep on looking till she finds them.
I am not finding kidneys.
What does that mean?
Kidneys manufacture and filter the amniotic fluid. The amniotic fluid gets breathed into the lungs. It is how lungs develop. There is not enough amniotic fluid to develop the lungs. Kidneys are not producing it. There is only one and it is small.
Can that be fixed? Can one be added or something? I could give one.
Even if we could fix that. This shows that the heart is on the right side instead of the left.
Lungs this small won’t catch up in time to breathe at birth, or ever.
Eva whimpers and hides her face.
This small kidney here. Too small to filter enough blood. No kidney visible here…
Stop stop! Stop it! Please stop telling me wrong things about my baby! Don’t tell me! Don’t tell me anymore. She breaks down sobbing shaking, just contained urgent wailing trapped in her not catching her breath.
Tech leans forward pats her and lets her cry.
I understand how hard this is for you. I am sorry.
When she recovers her voice after a while, the tech asked if we were ready to see what the doctor had to say. She Tech led us to the waiting doctor.
His gentleness let her fall apart, again.
She wept then cried out: Why? Why did this happen?
There is no reason. No cause that we know of.
So this just happened to my baby for no reason? She demands.
I’m sorry there is nothing I can do to make this easier, but yes. It’s sad that someone like you who really wants a baby doesn’t get one when I’ve seen babies survive a whole bottle of Drain-O, just fine.
We look at each other horrified.. How could someone not want a baby?
We know the stories, yet we are incredulous. Unfairness is deep.
When you are ready, we can talk about what you want to do next. Come back as soon as you are ready to consider what course of action you want to take.
This is a great loss for you. You and your husband must have been very excited about the arrival of your first child. Take a day. Come back in a day or two. After you talk to your husband, to discuss what you want to do. Be back within two days, I’ll see you whenever you come. He soft smiled warm reassurance then he got up and left.
Like what? What we can do, didn’t hit us till we got home.
Next appointment is about risks and options.
Should I go full term or terminate and start the healing process?
The child can’t breath. It will never breath. It won’t ever function or live. It will suffocate as soon as it’s born, if it doesn’t die during the stress of birth or even before then. It could die at any time.
You could decide to carry to term. If you decide to go full term you need to be seen every week in case the fetus expires and labor doesn’t start. That could lead to blood poisoning, a risk. Otherwise, you can go into labor at any time. There is no way to predict an outcome.
Then in the middle of bewildered not, letting go while not wanting to hold on, or prolong anguish, and wondering, he drops another bomb:
If you are going to choose to end it, he pauses with a sigh of frustration, you have three days to decide. In three days third trimester, anti-abortion laws come into effect. If you don’t choose to terminate in the next three days, after the three days, we can no longer assist you in termination. You must either go into labor, or your life be in danger for the pregnancy to be terminated.
I have to decide now?
You must decide, if you want to take action, yes, within three days. After that there is nothing we can do. Our hands are tied. The law is clear. No exceptions. No third trimester procedures. Third trimester starts in three days.
We sit on her couch staring into space and crying. Her crying makes me cry. I feel the loss of my son all over, plus her loss. By heart about bursts. It has been five years, but when I found out in the middle of getting divorced that I was pregnant, I considered not going through with it, just to be responsible to myself.
I’m in the middle of school with two kids to keep and figure out how to support without a partner. I’m still not able to describe what is going on, but the idea of losing a baby on accident or on purpose both add up the same in my feelings. The idea of adopting my baby out to someone else is unthinkable. We may have no stable future, but in the world I exist in now, I have no other choice. In about a week I love the baby as I knew I would. It would be stupid for me to put my heart up for adoption, or to end the relationship. Even if it’s not responsible to have a child without support, I surrender to being a single mother and feeling happy with Eva.
Her parents arrive. I go back to school grieving indignant, and remembering.
While I volunteered for Campus Crusade for Christ and attended the meetings that rallied Christians and got Bush elected in the early nineties I was into the anti-abortion campaign, especially no third trimester abortions. Now something is happening. It’s not black and white anymore.
I can’t just not be pregnant anymore just like that Eva steady wails! The kids at school…the other teachers..the girls they pat my tummy lined up on the way out of class.
If someone asks me if it’s a boy or a girl when I get back I don’t know what I’ll do. Everyone will ask.
Have you got a name yet Miss?
How are you Miss?
How is that baby?
I couldn’t keep explaining there is no baby, her voice cracks, for another three months…but it will be right here…
For three more months. I couldn’t work this way. I couldn’t explain it either. I will just bust out crying, for the next three months. I couldn’t work this way. I’d just be knowing the baby is not going to live or already dead. I don’t know what to do!
I could stay home and be with the baby. It’s to soon to make this choice. I wish Jon could come back and be here. He can’t take off till the end of the week. We have till tomorrow to decide.
Now, I’m in this government class writing a paper about laws. I have allot to say about how stupid this anti-abortion law is. It’s taking Eva to a whole new level of misery, like insult on injury.
My government teacher read only my outrage essays to the class while I skipped it. I went to the hospital with Eva to celebrate the sacred death and birth of her son. Jon couldn’t get back in time. The law couldn’t wait.
We were into our babies.
If she had not been into her baby there would be noting to cry about.
Abortion is like a break up with the baby when this relationship just isn’t working both ways, before you marry…When I’m just not into you.
A shaman woman I know, went into a sacred meditation to talk to the child when she discovered their relationship. She talked to it and listened. She acknowledged their relationship.
I’m thankful you like me she told him. It was a boy. You chose me to be your mother. So I am. Yet, it’s not a good time for me to be in this relationship. Would you try again later?
She got a “sure”.
Next day she started bleeding and thanked her child for honoring her choice.
Wonderful woman I know made their choices to not be mothers when they were not ready. That choice did not include being an oven to bake a child for nine months then give it to someone else.
The adoption choice works good for some people, which is cool.
Me? No way is my body gonna be forced to make a lonely baby whom I’m not attached to. No way would I choose to be sick for months, throw up constantly, gain forty lbs, go through labor delivery blood spouting major surgery that takes weeks to recover from, while everyone is wondering, family asking as I’m to wiped out to take care of myself, with no support just to give some one a baby for free.
Pretty dumb all around, if you ask me.
There is nothing wrong with adopting out. I’m personally not into it-at all.
It’s defiantly not the only valid response to birth-control malfunctions. There are as innumerable appropriate valid responses to unplanned pregnancy. As many as there are woman and situations.
The relationship between mother and child is what it is to me. I am in or I’m not. Just like any other relationship.
I can break up. A possible child need not force me.
Babies don’t force me to become their mother. Nor does a baby need to endure a horrible non-wanted toxic environment. It’s a crappy co-dependent relationship that way.
I choose if I want to invite a spirit into a body with my body, into my life. I choose if I want to help someone else by baking a baby for them. I am a free woman. I have lots of choices! Perhaps unborn spirits have choices we don’t know about.
Wouldn’t put it past them. I bet, babies would choose to be happy and mom be happy, too.
It wasn’t the crush, or a temptation. Her shape and bright color captivated me. But more than that, and deeper. The choice is already made. Discovered this the first time I lay eyes on my iMac.
What is this?
The sales guy gave me the info to back up my preference. The colors enchanted me and fueled mysterious passion. It was so hard to pick one. The Steve Jobs story of exile and come-back woke my asleep. The sudden reinvigorating of the market and turn of share. When I stood close that wind of change, stands my hair on end. I feel it blow. Right there in Best Buy, in the isle, next to the iMac display it blows.
Should have known by then, that choices click into place without explanation. Logic is not banished. It just lives in the other world. I invite her blindly back, slow, by comparing prices and waiting three days to bring my love home with me.
I wanted blueberry. Strawberry was the only refurbished model at Best Buy. That was back, way back before the Apple Store or the Apple Story. In the days of three-point-something-percent market share Apple. When Apple still allowed Best Buy to carry her precious babies. More than the sum of its parts, love at first sight, experienced not described. Love got me. A love story told me.
To compromise with my wallet, I bought a refurbished strawberry iMac rev C. It was three hundred dollars higher than a way-more-options PC, even so.
After I brought Strawberry ShortMac home, two sample chapters of a Steve Job’s story found me. Couldn’t afford the book. That was all I needed.
I received a blueberry printer cover in the mail after ordering a strawberry one from Epson. My taste for blueberry, satisfied. Having two printer covers is luxury endowed. What else can I upgrade with?
I download anything Mac compatible that did anything I might want, and didn’t have. install, try, it. The thing was a lemon. It had issues. I fixed it or called tech support, or both every week. Finally the tech support dude, asked me what I was doing to my computer. Strider wasn’t always there, but I always asked for him, cuz he led you through a Lord of the Rings quest as Malady till your iMac worked again. The guys back at support finally asked why I installed all those patches when the machine was working fine. They were mystified. I wasn’t satisfied.
The software it came with was all good but, I was swept away with upgrading. I wanted it to do things. To do something I didn’t know what, but it was irresistible, to try to find out. That and surfing the net. My computer is the bomb. I love it. I play Nanosaur and Bugdom. My kid and I bought Bugdom before it came with all rev D iMacs. Then, we upgraded Nanosaur.
Chat rooms I discovered are dangerous. After three days achat, I vow to never return.
I love iMac so much, sometimes I just stare at her.
When I sat and just look, at this pink form, noticing it, pink love and wavy feelings bubble up then spout like pink gold, Texas tea. I noticed this and sometimes just sat on the bed staring at my iMac for the joy of the delicious feelings that came up. She was my first computer. I’d been hurt-bored by the sea of old sandstone hardware. She though, is gleeful to behold.
Sometimes I’d look at other beautiful things. The angles of my rustic pinewood chair, just so in the light were I’d set it to sweep the dining nook. It’s beauty makes everything soft, the world shimmer. Swept air tastes me, time stands still, the feeling delivers me to the glory my iMac feels of. The floor is clean, a vast place to sit and be eternally swept away. So there I sit and let it. My iMac is happy. I’m happy, and there will there be upgrades for her, that really do stuff. The thought feels like a first encounter. Yes!
Again, pointless love at first sight thought. Feeling rushes crashes on me like the surf. New cool upgrades! I wonder what they will be. I sit in that meditation while a love for something that I want, that feels human, maps a place in me that has always been there. Steve Jobs and Apple are making something I can’t live without. When I checked out the newest stuff though, it was not there… There was noting I couldn’t live without. I was pretty happy with my Mac and printer, anyway.
This kept happening.
Meditation gets intense: iMac, Steve Jobs, Apple, making something for me surges up like candy ocean. When I stay there in the feeling intensity billows like clouds of light making it with lightning. They turn into a river of gratitude for this thing I want that Apple is making for me. It about bursts my chest, till I let it strike me, while I focus on Steve Jobs making this, and flow it to him. Then just like that chaos storm turns river. Washed through intense emotions of rushing light serene flowing, a delicious river in an artery of gratitude to the guy, who is making something for me.
Almost every time I meditate it happens. The feeling, this delight about the new something. It tumbles my feelings into explosive gratitude firing up water turbines, shooting a six-foot cable of light at me. I focus it on Steve Jobs and Apple. Like focusing on the feeling of being in love, with delicious electric current flowing fast as light yet still. A pre-emptive strike of ferocious gratitude. I sit with it till the fireworks turn off.
Multi-colored iMacs thrill me. I kept the folded pictures in my school bag. I can look at it when I want. Not because I need a new computer. The picture induces idolatrous transports like porn.
For a months this happened a few times a week. Then less. After a while I could look at my iMac and focus and nothing would happen.
Other things came up and turned into tornadoes and reflected different places. None felt like a heavenly river of light though. And every year even after the years of the experience dwindled, I’d check out what the hell I was expecting and still don’t find anything earthshaking at Apple.
Bought my second iMac. Nothing special Apple is making for me happened. She is my friend. And I figure she chose to come home with me. She and I bond and enjoy each others company. My new mac is my friend, too.
Then, last year, I got an android smart phone. Blasphemy. I wanted an iPhone. This phone fell into my lap just when I needed it bad and had no other way.
A few weeks later, I’m out with my phone in hand walking in a fascinating wood feeling connected to the world in a friendly intimate way by my phone. A whisper from the Earth’s every voice resonates low in me. Wonder strikes my inner, deeper echo place. Not lightning struck, voice of the world deep rock struck.
Oh, so this is it.
Hmmh no wonder!
It makes no sense.
It makes perfect sense!
Ha! This is what all that advance gratitude was about!
Oh, I love my android, and the World it holds in the webbed palm of my hand.
I love my friend, my phone. I smile when I think of Steve Jobs.
I never met, never saw him. Never wrote and mailed, or talked to him.
One day though, my heart broke in an instant as I raked last years leaves in midsummer Texas heat. Grief torrents and whips me like a blizzard without provocation. Sinking to a log on the ground I weep like a child. My parter thinks I’m crazy for suddenly putting down the rake in subdued grief. Sitting, there, I cry bitter tears for half an hour. Something about my iMac and a dear friend has died. I can’t explain it.
I’m so wanting to believe in people-including the weaker sex. The tits-bated weaker sex. The devoid of reason and control by tits, lured to their death by mermaids, trapable weaker sex. I’m wanting to believe they are not a mistake. Girls-next-door, church lady or stripper, it’s a continual, universal wonder. What’s up with men and tits, woman or whatever?
I’m wondering. Wondering and asking for four years now. I always get answers. So what then? What?
Looking at my breasts in the mirror, to me, is about as enchanting as looking at my hands without a manicure. At least done nails thrill me like adorable outfits. I love looking at my outfits, any outfits. Fashion, outfits, hair, makeup, yummy costumes captivate me, but not bare tits. Tits in lift up lace or leather? Hell yeah. It’s the leather. Trust me, it’s the design, the angles, the style shaped around the tits, tits in a bodice not tits themselves. For sure, not my pretty tits. Not mine, not anyone’s. But really, much less my own. Breasts are for decoration, as far as visual pleasure. That’s it for me.
Breasts and feminine beauty make me feel lovely and captivating when I see them. I never want to touch them. Except maybe out of curiosity, or the softness of the fabric they are tightly laced up in. When I see it, it makes me feel: That is for me! I am this beautiful. Same reason I love romances. It’s how it makes me feel about me. It’s about me. It’s how I feel romanced, loved, worshiped, adored. Tits have almost nothing to do with it, except the feeling seeing them gives me that mine are beautiful. That I am all this beautiful.
Men though, they go retarded instantly over any pair of tits.
Yeah, I don’t trust men.
There is just something sinister in their weakness for tits.
Not only chaste wifely woman think so.
Why do guys always try to get a twenty-dollar dance for ten?
Oh, I so hate that!
It’s so insulting.
I know. It’s belittling.
I just turn around and walk away. I won’t even deal with that kind of customer.
I know, it just brings you down. It devalues us as dancers.
Yeah, it makes me so mad. How would he feel it he wasn’t paid for his work? When ever I go for that stupid deal, I just feel not worth full price.
Yep, ruins your whole night. They keep insulting us with stupid offers.
Grabby guys and ten-dollar guys, the worst!
I don’t know, but what’s up with men in general?
A tits-switch flips their brain cells off.
Just like that. You can’t trust it.
I want to. But.
Oh, god, I know!
I buy into Michelle O’Donnell’s view that God or Allah, or Universal Evolutionary Impulse, or Whatever, did not make the obvious mistake. I mean didn’t make a mistake (even the obvious one) when men were created or wired or whatever, wrong. Wrong. A mistake. But Life doesn’t make mistakes so….?
I mean when I love someone, any other flexed biceps are irrelevant. There is actually only one man in the world. This wonderful utopia doesn’t seem to apply to men. Even when they sing about it, cuz it’s what the stronger sex wants to hear. Or something. I don’t get it.
This question had a lot of chances to be asked.
Wow, this guy is not asking me to have sex for money!
Wait, he is. Who or what do you think I am? Pause. I defer to the mind of “God” on this matter. I understand there is a bigger truth I do not see. I defiantly do not see it!. I trust men are created right, for a reason and not a mistake. Takes deep breath. Sighs. I need help.
No thanks for your kind offer. I dance. That’s all. I only dance and the laws apply.
The question burns like the bright incandescent lamp that always goes out.
My wtf idea of men, is not the truth about men. But I don’t know what the truth is. I really don’t. It’s super annoying.
No, you can’t touch.
Little Tommy, you can’t touch Little Betty that way…
But that day, that one day, everything changed.
It was a normal day. The ten dollars left in my left fitted jeans’ pocket feel good. I had paid my bills and paid off all that debt. I’m ten dollars ahead and ready to start saving. Yeah.
I’m in the zone dressing to go out running when a glance up at my topless reflection in the bedroom mirror captivates me.
I glance, in passing, in the mirror its my tits.
Tits! It’s a instinctual wild animal reaction. My whole body shouts out rippling joy. Joy’s crashing waves of smashing euphoria irresistible pleasure.
The mirror’s treasure, edible bliss! I must have. I must touch, now. Reaching where no does not exist. Water after dry days in desert intensity, this cool waterfall of deliciousness palm trees shade smiles all for me to swim in taste, feel with my whole body, tongue electrified, lightning stricken mind, on divine fire, missile target smitten emotions lunge at all this satisfaction just for me. For me!
Oh wait, I better something… as I leap, one arm reaching grasping for heaven, the other reaches for the bill in my pocket. Here! Take it! I must touch! It’s all I have! Take it, please!
If I had 500, I would say the same thing. Or a thousand. Or five thousand. Or whatever…
The earthshaking pleasure, in a river of chocolate I taste with every pore of my body, and the vast space of tasted mind, the ease the universal delight of dessert, tastable delights walking around everywhere in my whole world vanishes.
I don’t’ know how anyone can live, or not live, like that.
No words suffice for the world men live.
Goddam God! No mistake made! Question answered. Got it. Okay.
The intense rushing cascades of joy from just seeing and feeling, wanting to touch!
Never felt anything even remotely like it. There are no words. Nothing comes close. My emotions are just as intense and delightful, but its even the same taste bud. Indescribable heaven of physical desire.
I don’t even understand how men handle this so exceptionally well. I, I couldn’t handle it. I’d go around tasting everything, begging, borrowing and stealing, more, more! What a wonderful world! Wow God. You knew what you were doing. What a sexy world!
I understand now why a man would feel like he is hungry and being deprived of all this amazing food. It sits there wasted while he starves. He steals it, of course! What starved person wouldn’t. It’s stupid like: “A mans steals a loaf of bread and shit goes down.” I might even have just taken it in that moment. No handle on restraint, no practice, no understanding of the harm it could cause to the wonder of beauty dessert.
Hopefully “she” would have been a big enough slut to accept my ten.
Porque yo no respondo!
Because I can’t be held responsible for what I might have done!
Remember we thought we ‘d get lost if we walked over there behind those trees?
We were so dumb!
Remember when we were dumb?
We used to be so dumb. Every year. Then, the next year we were smart.
One of my sisters or I would inevitably pop the question. We laugh at our old dumb selves. Then start remembering something even dumber.
Remember when we used to fight for Roundy?
Yeah! That was so dumb!
No it wasn’t! Food actually tastes better when you eat it with the one-and-only round spoon!
Remember when Sandra decided to just keep the dang thing in her pocket all day? She could instantly win the fight to eat supper with Roundy?
Well that was smart. Till it fell out of her pocket into the outhouse.
Remember how mad I was at her? She was so dumb! I chased her all over to get her to stop and listen to how mad I was, and how dumb that was. When I caught her I punched her. Wow. She slapped me back. So I had to chase her to hit her back. I was so dumb!
We were thirteen when it dawned on us that we were always going to have been dumb.
What are we going to think is just dumb?
What are we going to know was really dumb?
What is gonna be really, really dumb and what will be, cringe, so, soooooo dumb?
Remember when we used to believe snakes and scorpions would chase you as soon as they look at you? Remember we used to practice out-running snakes?
Remember we thought scorpions were gonna be as big as squirrels. They were going to chase us with their stinging squirrel tails curled forward to jab us to death with that one deadly poison sting.
We were so dumb!
We could try to avoid some of those.
It hasn’t worked.
I can still sit and ask my sisters this same question and get the same kind of answers. Still makes me cringe. Still embarrassing. Still unthinkable. Still nothing we can do about being so dumb.
Remember when we thought “bad people” were all going to hell?
Yeah, and we really felt dark skin was inferior, too.
Yeah. Don’t remind me!
Remember black people just were never going to add-up?
It’s to soon to remember that one. I don’t want to remember when we were dumb.
Well, we really did believe that.
I know we did! But it’s so embarrassing. I’d rather remember squirrel tailed scorpions. Remember we argued whether scorpions were furry like squirrels or reptilian like lizards?
Remember when I found a lizard that curled up it’s tail when it raced by? I ran like hell. It was a baby scorpion and had a momma scorpion, like a mamma bear, near by.
Yeah and I took you to find that lizard to prove that scorpions were lizardy not squirrelly. Remember we figured hunting a dragon. We crept into a dragon’s lair, over there between that cactus and those two bushes. Glad we practiced running like hell. This scorpion might attacked us.
I was so going to prove to you that scorpions were more dragon-lizard than vicious-squirrel. I had already practiced my acceptance speech.
Remember a tiny scorpion. The stare in disbelief at the puny thing after we shook, ran just from the name? Just a weird insect thingy. After we named it we ran for our lives. Deadly!
Remember we thought gay was an abomination, condemned?
Would you please shut up!
I’m not listening!
Okay remember when we puffed our bangs up into that big forward arch? Remember we thought that was tho only pretty way to do bangs?
I try not to!
Oh, but even worse, we thought there was one right way to heaven and we were on it. All ten of us, while everyone else was going to hell. That wasn’t the worst part though. Everyone else was going to hell unless we showed them the right way.
Yeah, okay, I remember, unfortunately… See ya the hell later. I’m getting out of here. Want anything from the store?
Competition is god. Sometimes though, we stand up to god. We can pick how we want to worship. We get to say what games we want to play. Vote with our feet.
The game where a few smart and amazingly talented people beat the rest of the world at the Monopoly is not fun. The point of a game is fun right? Fun on both sides. When the game is over, it stops. Or when we say it’s over, it stops. It’s a game. We made the rules, remember?
Play a new game.
Tug of war is no longer fun when it’s people against a machine. Maybe this game got dropped from the Olympics for good reason.
Give us bread lest we die.
It’s that old story. Growing up I always thought the protagonists that the God in the Bible Stories helped were the good guys.
But Joseph Sold Into Egypt he was more like a Red Ocean dreamer of dreams. So, like Warren Buffet, he could tell what the economy was going to do. We get the story that his prognostication was fair and based on the weather. Maybe so. In that case, so is the economic climate: There was going to be an inflation then a drop. So he invested and bought up all the corn. Yeah, people ate nothing but corn.
The people spent all their money on food the first year of the seven-year famine, Great Depression.
Second and third years people traded their cattle for food.
Next years their land.
Then the clincher: Give us bread else we die!
So, our righteous Joseph-Sold-into-Egypt accepted the lives of everyone in the kingdom in exchange for feeding them. Viola!
He was the king’s deputy. Kings are servants of their people. Not the other way around. They got their jobs backwards.
I don’t know if a God did or didn’t give him the heads up or the vision of patterns and the wisdom to save the world from starvation. Enslaving everyone was not necessary, though. Or was it? It was four hundred years later that, well surprise, Joseph’s own descendants are enslaved to the system that he started when he might have just served.
They wanted out of slavery and vicious miracles got them out in our Exodus Bible story.
Key to being enslaved is both sides play the game.
Oh, so you want just you and the Pharaoh to be left alive then?
You lose us, you lose your kingdom. Ayn Rand glorifies this outcome. In her popular novel Atlas Shrugged, just a Pharaoh and a Joseph and a mighty girl are left after they didn’t help the people. Try and get dumber than that. No one else was worth it. Some folks do seem to think that is a great story. (Note: I was one of them. People change.)
“Give us liberty or give us death!”
It’s just an attitude, as opposed to:
“Give us bread else we die!”
People are more important than game rules. Rules and games are for people. People matter. Public servants are for people. Smart ones are great gifts to all of us. Smart people matter just as much as not-smart-in-that-way, people.
Joseph and Warren Buffet can serve and care and offer their gifts how their hearts desire.
We have hearts, too. We can dictate what we experience and believe by consciously making choices.
We don’t have to sacrifice liberty to live. We don’t have to kill anyone, or die.
My childhood hero Joseph Sold into Egypt no longer impresses me.