Healthcare is a basic human right

I've seen far too many sick kids in my lifetime; I've visited far too many hospital rooms. Working at a nonprofit that granted wishes meant that my job was to bring a smile to the face of a child who had overcome or was currently facing a life-threatening illness. While we were there to bring joy, I knew there were other moments we didn't see that were less joyful.

With the latest GOP push to change access to healthcare, I keep thinking of the hundreds of children and families I've met during a health crisis. Some parents had traveled from other countries to seek out the best care for their child in the US; some children were born here to undocumented parents. Some parents served as chauffeur to daily hospital appointments while others relied on hospital-provided transportation or housing near the hospital. I met single parents, step-parents, grandparents, and foster parents. I was always surprised to find out some of our parents were younger than me--no matter how much older I got!

Every parent had one thing in common, though: hope. Whether their child had recently been diagnosed or had been undergoing treatment for years, each parent I met had the belief that their child would get better. They were surrounded by a team of medical professionals--doctors, nurses, therapists, social workers, and more--who helped them keep believing. That hope fueled every attempt to get the best care.

Healthcare is more than insurance; it is more than a capitalistic market exchange. Healthcare is a system of medical professionals, as overworked and weary as they may be. Healthcare is the nurse who shows you how to change your child's feeding tube or check her oxygen levels.

Healthcare is what my aunt deserved--but did not receive--when she saw a spot on her lungs, years before she was officially diagnosed with the cancer that would kill her at age 45. It's the belief that a child with poor parents should not suffer in a waiting room and that people should not die in our streets from treatable conditions (although many homeless individuals still do). Healthcare is the system that has saved me after a life-threatening car accident without bankrupting my mother. It's the safety net that provided mental healthcare for me and for those I love despite preexisting conditions or status as an abuse survivor.

Healthcare is a basic human right; it's hope.

Wherever I Go

This week, I've been walking around the lake at the nearby state park. As I start my walk each day, I'm weighed down by the emotional work I've been doing since I quit my job and moved across the country; I'm weighed down by pain and anxiety and shame I've been processing for the past five years and, truly, my entire life.

Wherever I go, there I am: Arkansas, Los Angeles, Nashville. And, so it is, that today, I'm on this specific trail.

This trail must be tended often, because it's safe and clear. Except for a few stumps and signs with arrows, it's hard to see human intervention. I crunch over brown leaves and small sticks, and I step around roots of trees that refuse to be tamed. The only sign of a ranger is in the things not found on the trail. Larger trunks lay at the side felled by nature and moved a safe distance away. In the chill of winter or the slog after a rain, I can imagine a ranger making his way around the lake. Then, every night, nature tries to take those same trails back as animals build their homes and winds wash over the lake.

I walk farther today than I've gone before, tracing the beginning of the route I had already traversed as it meets the path unknown to me. In that moment, my physical path matches my emotional journey; I have been treading paths I thought I'd conquered to get to a new place I've never seen. I've been cleaning out branches and leaves. I've been lugging the same old logs to move them aside. Again. I've been clearing paths in my emotional life only for them to be taken back over in the night. And it's been exhausting. And unfair. And hard. Pain and grief and shame don't really disappear. Trauma from my childhood doesn't go away because I found a way to get through it and live my life today. I have to do the work tomorrow. And the next day. For the rest of my life.

Some days, I get farther down the path than before. Often, I have to sit in the pain without making much ground. Other days, I wake up, and I am at the beginning. The path I made yesterday has been overrun with the debris of my hurt and feelings of failure and unworthiness, and I have to clear a new way around the roots.

When I feel defeated, starting at the beginning of pain I thought I had processed or stumbling over an emotional hurdle I tell myself I should have seen coming, I try to remind myself that the most important part is showing up to do the work--especially when my biggest instinct is to shut down, to turn around, to run.

But, today, I lace up my shoes, and I show up.

On Fathers' Day

This third Sunday of June, I remember
my friends, like me, who have no father.
Resolution does not grant me the ability to forget.

Another friend has lost her father,
and there are those whose fathers have lost them
Through actions, through words.
What treasure they have lost.

Seeing my friends become great fathers is a wonder I never expected to behold,
so, I remember
friends who want that opportunity still.
And friends who are not dads, but imprint young souls each day
in their work, in their service.
I am struck by my good fortune to know them.

Reading the handwriting of a girl whose number one wish was to see her dad,
still, I remember
I am no longer her.
What treasure has he lost.

I am left
with this idea
that the fatherless,
we will be patched-up,
together.

What treasure we have gained.

Forgotten magic

When you've had a harsh reminder that magic doesn't always last in real life, the movies do not disappoint. If you think I'm about to opine about Paul Walker and Furious 7 on Good Friday, you are right.

There's no denying that the Fast and Furious franchise is big and bold. The soundtrack is my guilty pleasure, and I want the team to be as unbreakable as they seem. Of course, I cringed at the women used as accessories to cars, I rolled my eyes at the vocabulary, and I laughed out loud multiple times at the ludicrous scenes. And at Ludacris. The movie started out too loud, and I was anxious most of the time. From fighting scene to unbelievable car chase to fighting scene, I kept waiting for the moment when I would remember why this movie was delayed a year. Why not every actor in the movie would see the finished product. I kept waiting to see how they closed the loop of Paul Walker's character.

About a half-dozen times, the movie magic was obvious. But the rest of the time, I couldn't tell that Paul Walker's brothers stood in for many of the scenes. Honestly, it was like a trip back to 2001. The first Fast and Furious meant youth: laughing with old friends, driving my first car, cruising between Sonic and the junior high.

It was hard to say goodbye to all of that.

It's been a long day without you my friend/
And I'll tell you all about it when I see you again

Friend

I was going to send flowers,
but then I decided to give you something else:
this empty vessel to fill.
This used, passed over, chipped,
and re-gifted space --clear as dawn.
This vase
to house the bright moments that will come.
This home for small beauties and treasures.

The sorrow, we know, is that you don't always
foresee what tomorrow will bring.
You open the door
to brief joy
or drowning grief.
You feel strange,
even to yourself.
And what was certain yesterday
is no longer certain
today.

Steady,
this vase,
to house small,
beautiful moments in time
for as long as we can keep them.

Steady,
even empty,
to remind you of the big, bright tomorrow
it cannot possibly contain.
Those bright days are the kind we wish for
in the seconds before dreaming
and the moment we awake.

This vase,
open clarity
that we miss in our own mind and soul, at times.
But, open clarity, we will see again.
This vase, tomorrow, maybe
filled with wildflowers that grow where they aren't supposed to:
joy that peaks around unseen corners when it was long lost.

We deserve more than flighty joy and dying flowers,
but we can fill this vase with anything we want.
And wait for the sun to rise,
light shining through the glass to fill the empty space.

LA, CA (9/22/14)

Distance

Two Arkansas summers ago,
I thought I knew a lot of things.
Where I wanted to be
and who I wanted to leave
Most
likely it was a deep burn that I felt.
I sought freedom from this life,
straight and narrow.

One Arkansas winter ago,
and a birthday in between,
I packed every small and big thing
and headed west
into some multi-colored sunset.
Last
feeling when I boarded that plane
was not knowing
--and I liked it.

Weeks of sleepless nights ago,
I gave up safe and easy.
I gave up the things I knew:
how my heart didn't fit his,
and how my words clanged against church walls,
and how my story struggled to be born.

Eighteen months ago
lives no closer to a happy ending
than today.
And I was no farther.

Truth, a moving target.
Happiness, a ghost.
They danced two summers ago.
And now.

LA, CA (9/10/14)

Weak

The pain you caused is still there,
deep.
It stings when certain words are applied.
It curses you when it's pressed.

You, who meant nothing in all honesty,
managed to hit that soft spot,
under my armor.
And it hurt.
It still hurts.

Time has little chance with this,
because time, before you,
is what made it so

weak.

LA, CA (6/21/14)

On Wild and Windy Nights

On wild and windy nights,
this city will give you a peek.
You can see underneath.
Electric lights with no direction.
Rush, rush.

Cool breeze and
too-direct sun.
Sand in the floorboard
is the only beach you'll see today.

And then...
tall black hats line the sidewalk
and laughter fills the night.
The best music and movies
always visit.

So, you remember...
the sweet watermelon drink
and bright pink trees
that trumpet the spring.
That long spring-summer that never thaws.

Never home
but maybe
just right
now.

LA, CA (4/29/14)

Landmarks

The mountains on all sides
and the sky forever.
They make me feel
small,
less clumsy.

The mass of people
and metal
help me disappear,
but I'm not invisible.
I stand out.

That big, bold sign
that beckons others
guides me to where I sleep,
but it's not home.

Those domed lights on the hill
are a comfort,
a place away from
this.

When I need reminders
of the good,
I look up.

LA, CA (12/2013)

Observe

The gray sky is alight with new ideas.
My mind, the same.
LA winter is gray, I'm told.
I understand.
I get winter.

There are moments where the truths in this adventure wash over me,
gray sky to light.

They are fewer than I'd like, but I try.

I wouldn't change the moment
or the sky.

(LA, CA: 11/16/13)

We are [not] rock and roll

My college friend, Brad, played across town with his band last week. They’ve just been signed to an independent label, and they are on a 40-city tour. Those are words I never thought I’d write at 30-years-old. Then again, I never thought I’d be living in the largest city on the West Coast to greet him either.

For the better part of 12 years, I’ve been following one band or another across the south. In college, I would drive hours to see screamers and punk and emo and acoustic sounds echo out of hole-in-the-wall venues or church fellowship halls. My closet was a line of black t-shirts. Back then, I could stand for more than thirty minutes in one place, and I could survive on five hours of sleep. Every week was planned around who was playing where and which friend was joining me. Twelve years ago, we were all unmarried, my friends were unsigned, and a midnight trip to IHOP was as sure as the sun setting.

Recently, I read another musician reminisce about former glory days while adding how natural it felt now to have his bandmate’s child running around their feet. We're parents now, and aunts, and taxpayers. We have 401k accounts and desk jobs.

Over hot tea and decaffeinated coffee in a pristine, hipster coffee place, the guys talked about trying to eat healthy on the road. They denied any tantrums, and each texted their wives at least once in the hour. This is rock and roll?

The truth set in; we're no longer 21. I’ve known Brad for almost ten years, which seems impossible. He was the first musician who I knew as a friend before I supported his music. We were both writers, and we knew that the chances we had to create art and share it were limited. After all, I’d been watching these guys play music since college, through all the phases that people and music transpire. In our late twenties, we were both offered opportunities to change course. The call came, years after we thought it would, and we bought the ticket. We took the ride. I moved to L.A., not to write but to venture out from the only state I had called home. He quit his job and hopped in a tour van with three other guys, leaving his wife and career. 

That night I talked with Brad about the challenges of living surrounded in concrete, which is my favorite topic after being 18-months deep in this city. At this point, any conversation I have dissolves into the SNL skit about taking the 101 to the 405 to the 10. On a Friday night, I left early because I had to move my car by 11 p.m. Talking for a few last minutes by my dirty Prius, it was settled. We are no longer rock and roll.

But, what does the rebellion of rock and roll signify if not taking risks, stepping off ledges and not knowing one damn thing about how the story ends?

No matter how it ends, I think this is going to be a good chapter.

When Words Don't Come

As someone who likes to connect through words and stories, I get really frustrated when I cannot find words for a situation. In all honesty, I like for words to fix things. I struggled in college with ending my personal essays in neat endings, a metaphorical bow. Stories don't always have neat endings or any resolution at all.

Today, knowing that my friends are suffering an unthinkable loss, I can't find words that make sense let alone words that make anything better. I'm ill prepared for death, but death still comes.

In place of my words, I found a few that comfort me when I don't have answers.

----
Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks
Jane Kenyon

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found gain after two hundred years....

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper....

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me....

I am food on the prisoner's plate....

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills....

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden....

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge....

I am the heart contracted by joy...
the longest hair, white
before the rest....

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow....

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit....

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name....

August: Osage County

(In case it's not obvious, there will be spoilers ahead.)

"Suffering is the fire that melts the glass of the person you must leave behind."-Umhair Haque

When friends told me that the movie August: Osage County was dark and I read reviews that it was depressing, I was drawn to it still. I drift on the melancholy side, after all. Leaving the theater, though, I felt more like I'd seen an alternate version of my childhood play out. My mother wasn't a pill addict, and my father wasn't a pensive alcoholic. But I know how abuse wrecks a person and a family. I know how the hurt is often poured, like the wine, at each meal and sits in the corner like a watchful friend.

The sisters in August: Osage County could be crudely described, if you didn't look too deeply. Barb is tough and shades of that toughness reflect her mother. Ivy is quiet and unassuming, almost broken by the torment of being her mother's physically closest child. Karen is removed, seemingly delusional about the reality of her family but happy about it. If I got to choose, I'd choose tough every time. Then again, maybe we don't get the choice.

Barb, like her mother before her, was the guardian. She took control when her parents did not. When you see the scene at the table where all hell breaks lose, you see a child acting as the mother and a mother acting as the child. I know that scene. My sister does; my friends do. When Barbara screams that she's in charge, her bravery created a rush of adrenaline in me. Others saw a lunatic, but I saw a hero.

It might stun you when you realize the person you had to become in order to survive.  

Who can predict what a tumultuous childhood will produce? Living the hell caused by my mother's marriage to an alcoholic man, who perpetuated a cycle of abuse she'd known for her entire lifetime, has made me who I am. When you are raised by imperfect people, and we all are, it's likely to shape and mold you beyond your control. Even still, when you are raised by someone who has themselves been the victim of abuse, their influence may turn you into someone you don't recognize. I realize there is still the possibility of happiness, if you come from a broken home. There is still joy to be had and love to be made. My love, though, may be quite different than yours. How I experience life has changed.

Broken people often do break other people; I've been guilty with my words and my carelessness. I'm not excusing abusers who have themselves been abused, but I am being honest about how we carry physical, mental, and emotional abuse into our future. Maybe, in truth, I do excuse the anger and bitterness you feel emanating from so many of the characters who've suffered. The very visceral and ugly things that happened to my mother hurt her so deeply that they are in my bones. Before I knew the words and before she told me, I knew them. I came from her, so I carry them.

You tell yourself to be strong enough until you're not, until you can't be. We break. We bruise. What you see in August: Osage County are variations of how abuse distorts each member of the family, but in different ways. We don't see Barb be physically or verbally abusive to her family, except once in a moment of stunned anger when she slaps her daughter. However, she is stunted by the abuse she suffered. She's hardened by the life she lived. When she confirms with her husband that he's never coming back after they've separated, she tells him, "I'll never know why, will I?" He agrees. This ignorance of self is something I understand. I may never know all the ways that living with abuse has shaped me. Mental health care, as I've discovered in the past year, is necessary but it will not give me all the answers or cure my past. To be bold, I can never go back to who I would have been without the abuse. I can't hate who I am; becoming this person is what helped me to survive. That is part of processing trauma. The bubble has burst, and you are left to clean up the mess.

Suffering from abuse is not the life I'd choose for you, or God help me, for the children who will come to be mine, born to other parents. However, bearing witness to my own abuse has allowed me to better understand a community of people who, like me, are hurt. My sister knows my past in the way that only Barb can know the pain Ivy and Karen feel. Truthfully, the fact that Ivy connects with Little Charles in such a deep way is not so shocking to me given that they are both one of a few witnesses to their traumatic, shared childhood. Ivy understands the bullying that has made Little Charles timid and almost paralyzed with doubt, but she also understands that he is more than the abuse he suffered. I believe that, beyond what it seems Little Charles can understand, he sees the same for Ivy. She is more than the shadow of her mother and sisters. Despite convention, I was convinced to let them have each other. In fact, at the end of the movie, I wasn't worried about where Barb was headed. I knew she'd be okay. I wasn't worried about Violet in her haze of drugs and abandonment. She had Johnna. Even Karen had the handsome pedophile with a nice car. Ivy was the sister I wanted to follow. She wasn't tough; she felt every blow, and it showed.
 
One thing the filmmakers highlighted in images and dialogue is how the roads go on forever in the Plains. You can't see what's at the end.

We try to be tough, until we can't be. And when we break and bruise, we wait to see how the bone sets. In healing, we begin to see --and maybe even start to forgive-- the person we'll become.

Unstuck

My fear was being stuck. When I had lost the weight, I gained some perspective, I gained confidence. Make no mistake, I had those companions before, but they were magnified now. For me, the gain I needed most necessitated that loss. When I had seen these beautiful, strong parts of me amplified, I could imagine being the girl who wore sleeveless shirts, the girl who expected to be noticed in a good way, the girl who could be considered…sexy! That girl, re-imagined, could have another life than the straight line I had drawn in front of me.

She deserved it.
She craved it.

Even after the gain of weight in the past year that I’d kicked ass at losing over 18 months, I knew there was no going back to that old girl. I had dreamed of college in New York once. Did you know? I did. I dreamed of writing my own words to share with the world. So, maybe the re-imagined was only reclaimed.

My fear was believing the lies the world told about me. I had briefly believed the lies boys stamped onto me, the lies some in the church stamped onto me; they stained my skin. God forbid I not follow their straight line. If I kept believing their lies, it was easier to get stuck. If I paired with some lover who didn’t love every inch of my brain, every centimeter of my skin, who would prop me up and remind me of my own strength? Who would help me stand when the world went dark?

For my grandmother who worked after high school in the 1950’s, before scholarships and loans, planning her journey into college, I couldn’t get stuck.

For my mother who is smarter than me, I figure, but never had someone to push her off the straight line of doing for others at her own great expense, I couldn’t get stuck.

For reclaimed me and my grandmother and my mother and everyone else who dreamed they could have a different life, for YOU, I couldn’t get stuck.

So, I moved off the straight line. That required significant change for me; maybe it won’t for you. I moved to a city where I never dreamed of living. Honestly, I sometimes think the ways of this city are the exact opposite of my intentions in moving here. Many are racing to blend in while I am fighting my instincts to step out of my comfort zone.

Oh, well.
I moved.
I’m still moving.

And maybe, that lover who sees in me what I am clawing to reclaim for myself won’t be here. Maybe the line will veer somewhere else, sooner or later.

But that girl --the one who imagined that in any mental, physical and emotional shape, she was worth a damn-- that girl lives here.

I'm New Here

You'll be happy to know that I made it to L.A. in one piece, minus a lamp and laundry basket! Good riddance, movers. If you ever want to move across the country, I recommend you hiring a coordinator for that type of thing. I will not be applying.

In lieu of anything of real substance, here are a few of my observations that I feel you should know about L.A.:

If the weather here is as good as you think (it is), the traffic is as bad. Yes, we had great weather this week, just like last week (sorry, Arkansas!). This is spring, I think, but I don't even wear a sweater most days. It's sunny and bright until 7 or later, but there have been some random foggy and hazy days. No major temperature changes, though, which is really nice!

Traffic is a mess. My first weekend, it took me 2 hours and 45 minutes to get six miles from work, to a gas station with a free pump, to a grocery store where I could park about 3 miles away and back home. Now, it takes about an hour give or take to get the six miles to work. SIX MILES. I basically zig-zag across town on the half dozen street names I recognize.

One of the sayings I've heard about L.A. is that it takes "about 20 minutes to get anywhere, give or take an hour." I've also heard that a red light means turn left. Tell me about it! This is the city of left turns. I'm pretty sure one of those red light cams flashed at me the other day. Oops! This is also the city that hates pedestrians. Being that I have to walk across a very busy four-lane road, I get it, I really do. You have to cross the street. But pedestrians are everywhere. Now, I used to be a pedestrian downtown, perusing about the culture and stuff. Now that I live in such a high-traffic tourist area, I have really started to despise people in crosswalks.

If you add up all the time I've spent figuring out parking in the past month, it would equal an entire day, I bet. I circle around a store or restaurant for half an hour trying to get the hang of it. Just last Sunday, I wanted Mexican, but I could not find a parking lot I liked so I just cruised forever. A lot of restaurants, even small ones, valet because it's so difficult to find street parking. Even if you find a spot on the street, there are approximately three rules on every parking sign to follow. Depending on the day and time, you can get a ticket or towed (see picture below). Remember when we used to complain about parking in the RiverMarket and dammit if you had to pay?! Well, you have to pay to go to Target in L.A. Or Trader Joe's. Or Walgreens. For instance, I recently had the joy of getting my parking validated to drive through a McDonald's. Did not park, at all. I miss drive-thru, man. It's tough around my neighborhood to find one. And none of the Starbucks are drive-thru. What's up, friends?!

 

(Figure that out, please.)

Prime time TV starts at 8 p.m., which is a problem, but cable comes with the apartment so that will be nice for the time being.

Plastic bags are out around here. You'll pay for paper. Take notice. 

Just like you'd expect in such an art center, the visual advertisements are everywhere. Huge, colorful billboards on every major corner and every building's side is a new ad. The houses and buildings themselves are so visually stunning. Forget about the hills; the regular everyday stuff is pretty nice to look at.

Speaking of, everyone here is in the business or connected to the business. It's a city of beautiful people and I mostly feel white and unfashionable. HOWEVER, it is also a city of such beautiful diversity. On weekends, I hear no less than three or four languages when I go out. There are huge sections of the city with different communities such as traditional Jewish neighborhoods, Latino neighborhoods and gay neighborhoods. The amount of rainbow flags is awesome, even on churches. I used to think I'd want my kids to grow up in a small town, because it's so warm. But what if we all grew up with various types of people around us? Would we realize more quickly that maybe we are more alike than different and maybe no one is "right?"

And all of those communities are full of workaholics. People work. A lot. My usual day is not much longer than in Arkansas (9 a.m. - 6 p.m.) but my coworkers usually work 8 - 4:30 p.m. I stay longer because a) I require a one-hour lunch to de-stress and b) work is a beast! Fridays we do close early, and they were super flexible with my moving, so I'm not too worried about becoming that "L.A." with the work hours. At work, there is no end in sight of things to do, but the positive is that I know how to do the job. I rather think I do it kind of well! I'm optimistic about the potential of the program, and the volunteers are great. They are really eager and take initiative on projects.

You can't run errands or go out at lunch, because it takes so long to get your car from the garage and then get around town (see "traffic" above). There are a lot of places within walking distance, but I've yet to venture out on my own for fear I'll get lost and have to use my GPS like a goober. There is a Starbucks in the building, which I, surprisingly, haven't abused too much and a cafeteria. The cafeteria seems really efficient, until you try the food and realize it is, after all, a cafeteria. No gourmet.

I haven't ventured out into the city much on my own, to be honest, but I am volunteering at the literary festival in April. I'm also helping with a fundraising walk in May.

Note to self: Must. Meet. People.

I've already gotten real mail from friends (thank you!). And bills. I've switched all my addresses. I unpacked my real silverware and ran my first load of dishes.

I think I'm home.

My Things

I'm not sure how he did it, but Tyler Perry's version of "For Colored Girls" was heartbreaking, staggering and beautiful all at the same time. I'm developing more words, but for now:

"It was a lover I made too much room for, almost ran away with all my stuff.
And the one running with it, don’t know he got it.
I am shouting, 'This is mine!' And he don’t even know he got it.
My stuff is the anonymous ripped off treasure of the year.
Did you know that somebody almost ran off with me?
Me, in a plastic bag under his arm.
Somebody, almost ran away with all my stuff…"

-Adapted from Ntozake Shange's original choreopoem