My husband and I were expecting our second baby on December 26, 2019. On June 14th, 2019 - just shy of 13 weeks - we lost our baby, for unknown reasons.
I knew when it began. I knew what was happening, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I couldn't help but imagine the fear and pain my unborn child may have been experiencing. The loss of a baby is all encompassing. There is no comparison I can find. I feel robbed. It has been two weeks, and we have reflected, healed, loved, prayed and mended. But the loss will be forever. Permanent. While we remain in awe of Mother Nature's unspeakable wisdom, and her graces that will never be fully understood, the scars will never completely fade. And that is okay. For we never want to forget. We have named our baby, Amari Noel Karpe, and this is my letter - my promise - to him/her. ~~~ Amari, In a single heartbeat, you turned a sunset into a sunrise. You were my special secret - you brought me joy in moments no one else could know of. All while so small, hidden, quiet and voiceless. Your Dada and I were overwhelmed and excited and so lucky to have two children under two! But you left almost as quickly as you came. Your brevity of existence has reminded us of both the strength and also the fragility of life. You reminded us to cherish what is most sacred - and let go of all the rest. I can't claim I know what happens after our hearts stop beating and our bodies return to the Earth. But I know you were a part of me. We were together, you and I, every waking moment and ever sleeping night. And although I have been robbed in a very real sense, I also know you are with me - in me. And in some other sense, I know that a part of you shall forever reside with me. Through me, so long as I live, I will pour out your love, your strength and your courage - ravishingly, fully - onto your brother and daddy and this big, big world. With so much love, Mama
3 Comments
After over an hour of seemingly futile pushing, alas, we finally meet! I gazed down at my new wriggling gift awkwardly fumbling to place him comfortably on my chest. No one ever told me how to do this! But before I could overthink a thing, I got lost in him.
Minutes felt like seconds. He tilted his head toward the voices of mama and dada – our familiar tones were more clear, more visceral than ever before. With courageous might, he lifted his head and tried to open his eyes. But they were swollen and heavy. At last, he rested his head on my chest and warmth overcame us. And then, like I’ve always imagined, he latched! Wow, I thought, it’s just working how it’s supposed to work! After the post-delivery adrenaline faded, there’s happiness and exhaustion. But rather than snooze and snuggle, we were checked by a nurse. And then another nurse. Then we were greeted by a midwife. Then a doctor came to visit, and another. Then more nurses. And, then, came the lactation consultant... She was well educated and approachable, but spoke quickly and told us many things that are nearly impossible for a drowsy brain to secure. I tried desperately to heed the consultant’s advice… If he’s sleepy, rub the tip of your nipple under his nose so he smells the colostrum. Really?? Make a squeezing-rubbing motion to extract some of the colostrum and rub it on his lips. But I’ve never even milked a cow? How am I supposed to milk me? Place one hand behind his neck and head, and the other on your breast while guiding his mouth onto the nipple. Don’t let him suck too shallowly, though, or you’ll be sorry! Ok, that's just... terrifying… The best, of course, was this: Sock him in the mouth! I tried again and again, while becoming increasingly sore and discouraged. I held my baby who was frustrated and crying. He preferred a shallow latch. I was told, "Don't let him!" I felt like crying too... I knew then why so many new moms give up on breastfeeding. Back at home with a new, tiny creature. A creature who was hungry! And, still, all I had to give was colostrum. Tiny droplets of protein-packed liquid. But no milk. My nipples cracked and bled. Once, my little one spit up blood - my blood! I was so sore that I winced in agony if the shower water sprayed anywhere on my chest. [By the way, thanks be to whomever invented those little round silicone nipple things - the only invention that provided modest relief in those early days.] After much self-doubt and worry, at the end of day three, my milk – seemingly out of nowhere – started to flow! And with the milk also came the tears of joy! I was thrilled to see my little one’s cheeks, chin and forehead get doused with fresh mama’s milk while I stumbled to ‘sock him in the mouth’! Thankfully, the first few weeks of the breastfeeding roller coaster came to a welcomed plateau. Just like my mom always said, my breasts did “toughen up”. [Coincidentally, this was shortly after I opened my last stash of the silicone nipple thingies!] And what magic it is to be able to provide nourishment to your child at virtually any moment of need. No need to factor in the time to clean and prepare a bottle, heat it to its proper temperature, or ensure the nipple size is adequate. It’s just there. But because breastfeeding mothers can feed virtually on demand – and feeding on demand is exactly what the docs recommend in those first few weeks – new moms are physically bound to their new bundles, and often, they are housebound. It felt so lonely sometimes. There were days when my husband left the house and returned several hours later to find me and the baby in the same position, same location, staring up at the same wall silently willing for him to "SAVE ME!" You do adapt. You acclimate. You learn to keep a few good reads next to the rocking chair, and also a full canteen of water – with a straw (there’s no way you’re unscrewing a lid). And after a while, you and baby get on a schedule! Never before had such a mundane term been so lovely!!! A SCHEDULE! What magnificence?! Aside from growth spurts, I began feeding the little one about every three hours! *Eat*Play*Sleep*Repeat* And after feeding, burping, changing and playing with him, I sometimes even had an hour to do something... for me! The journey of breastfeeding continued to evolve; a new roller coaster of ups and downs took the place of the old. There were moments of sheer doubt as I wondered, ‘Is he getting enough?’ ‘Is he growing according to the charts?’ I become an expert at poop analysis. If the hubby changed the diaper, he was not allowed to dispose of it before I had the opportunity to peer at the output! There was exhaustion, frustration and even anger when my seemingly innocent babe (who would literally die without our care!) clenched his little jaw and bit down firmly. Even without teeth, that freaking hurts! If you stick through it after this, sister you are brave. Also, if you stick through it, you’ll be rewarded with the accomplishment of teaching your tiny human that we don’t bite mama! Let us make note that even babies are capable of learning. Like most of us moms these days, at least those here in the U.S., I eventually had to return to work. For those of us who choose to continue breastfeeding, we have a new four-letter word that becomes both our best friend and our worst enemy. The PUMP. It can provide the needed relief when your one-hour meeting goes late and you get trapped in a hallway discussion and you can think of nothing else besides ‘Please don’t let-down yet…’ Yet you begin to loathe having to meticulously scrub and sanitize each tiny particle of the pump every single day, and truck it back and forth between work and home. Still, I am so grateful for a work environment that not only fosters but encourages working-nursing mothers to leave 3+ times a day… for 30+ minutes… to pump. But what one often doesn’t realize is there are certain phenomena that come with the use of a dedicated lactation room. Working mamas suddenly become excruciatingly aware of their milk supply. It is only natural to reminisce and share stories with fellow working-pumping mothers who share the space, but quickly the comparisons between supplies can fodder moments of sheer pride and self-doubt from one day to the next. There were many an evening, after the little one was tucked into bed, I lamented to my husband, “I don’t think I’m going to make it, babe!" Alas, I managed to chug along trying to make it at least halfway to my one-year goal. And around when the not-so-tiny-anymore human turned 6 months, nursing also turned... into a feat of acrobatics. Hold. Still. Child! There were days I could hardly get the squirmy sucker to remain on my lap long enough to drain half of my milk. During this phase, I had to manually pump the remaining milk after each session – every last drop – to ensure my ‘supply’ was not adversely affected. Still, I chugged along. Then, after about 8-9 months, the roller coaster took a surprisingly pleasant turn! Nursing evolved into a peaceful, quiet time where mom and babe gazed at each other. Sessions were long, and slow. The time together was just that – time together. The milk was no longer baby’s lifeblood. Instead, he yearned for the connection. I especially loved our mornings together. No matter how hurried I was to get to work, this time was for us. Twenty or more uninterrupted minutes to be slow together. And now, here we are at 12 months and seven days. I was inflicted by a whopper of a virus at 11 months, and since then my milk has slowly been declining. I can’t be sure if it was the virus or just my own body’s mystical way of “knowing” that it’s time to be done. My gut tells me it’s the latter. Although I’m saddened at a future that doesn't include our special mornings together, I am so thankful to have accumulated over 365 days of them. They have amassed into an even bigger love than that which I felt when the nurses first placed him on my chest. Since becoming a Mom, I've concertedly decided to refrain from spewing advice. Advice should really be sought and delivered minimally and with much care. Too much can lead to self-doubt. Parenting, being one of the most important roles you may ever take on, requires a certain closeness between you and your family. And YOU know what's best. With that said, I conclude with two small points. First, breastfeeding is HARD. It’s also beautiful and magical and all those things. But it is extremely hard – not just in the beginning but throughout. Don’t let me or anyone else make you feel badly for choosing formula. Or maybe you try breastfeeding for one day, or one month, or heck! Maybe two years?! Or maybe you decide to exclusively pump your milk and bottle feed your baby due to other factors not mentioned here. It is your choice. You will make the right decision for you, your baby, your family and your unique circumstances. Secondly, to any new mamas out there, please remember that you are a human being, not a machine. Your body grew your baby from a pile of cells to a kicking, hiccuping fetus. And if breastfeeding is your choice, place trust in your body. So long as you are taking good care of yourself, trust that your body will produce the exact amount and type of nourishment for your growing baby. And if you have low-supply days here and there, that’s okay. Your milk supply can ebb and flow, just like us, depending on various factors (e.g., how much you have slept, your natural hormonal shifts, etc.). Try not to focus on the ounce. Trust in your body and your baby. Thanks for reading. Better, thanks for allowing me this catharsis; to express some of my thoughts on one of the most enlightening of life's experiences. I can safely say, I get it now... When I was a little girl, I got to go to the grocery store with my mom. And it was great! Not because my sister and I got treats, or even that we’d get to pick out our own cereal. But because I was the youngest, and my mom would scoop me up, and place me into the perch of the shopping cart. And I’d get to ride!
The four small wheels of the cart would hurriedly spin along in attempt to keep up with the comparatively large vessel. We meandered through the warehouse-sized store—gliding along bounties of fresh and shiny and perfectly red apples, through the brightly lit bakery where the aroma of fresh baked bread entranced one’s nostrils, and then up and down each isle as we checked off my mom’s list, which, of course, was expertly crafted to match the layout and design of the superstore for the greatest of expediency. As my sister and I got older, we were able to help out more with the weekly errand. My mom began to teach us things like not just to look at the sticker prices, but also to read the small print where one could compare the price per ounce and the total number of ounces per item. She also instilled in us that you could get twice as much “Kix” or “Fruity Pebbles” if they were packaged in a bag at the bottom shelf as opposed to the flashy name-brand box, which was, conveniently, within arm’s reach of the average kiddo. The lessons didn’t cease once we left the grocery store. In her perfectly unique and charming ways, my mom taught us the tangible meaning behind the proverb, ‘Waste not, want not’. Now, since I had inherited my father’s allergic reaction to ‘ragweed’, I was rather accustomed to carrying an ample supply of tissue with me all through the months of August and September. I remember, one day, my mom brusquely halting me as I blew my nose into a tissue and proceeded to throw it away. “Use the whole thing before you throw it in the garbage!” she proclaimed. Apparently, there were three other corners of that same tissue that were perfectly viable! Fast forward to today. 2017. As I wrestle with the art—often a messy and tangled process—of extracting the thoughts and ideas out of my head and into the computer, I hear a distant but familiar sound that leaches into the background of NPR I have streaming on the radio. To locate the approaching ruckus, I pull back the curtain from the window—the window that overlooks the alley to my dwelling. This is a dwelling, by the way, that edges along the historic Baker neighborhood of Denver—an area known for its well-preserved, charming 100+ year-old homes and a rich history dating back to the mid-1860s, when a man named Thomas Skerritt literally paved the way for the first “Broad Way” by dragging a large log behind his wagon! Being positioned at the edge of this neighborhood presents a merging of the wonderfully rich history of Denver, and the glaringly oppositional ‘modernity’ of 1970s and 80s architecture—buildings that were swiftly built, but without a scotch of charm or flavor. At first glance, I quickly identify the sound emerging from outside the window. For it is, none other, than the shopping cart. Now, however, it is not navigating the smooth linoleum flooring of a massive shopping center. This time, the vessel is being pushed over gritty, uneven asphalt. Displaced from its home, the shopping cart, and its four wheels, face some added resistance. Although significantly augmented, the resulting sound is still the same, familiar gearing, grinding screech that I always remembered. The driver of the out of place shopping cart is not a young and ambitious mother teaching her children how to wisely and economically shop for key household items, and then conserve their utility to the max. Instead, I observe a middle-aged, scruffy-looking, heavily dressed man who is thrusting the cart along the alleyway. The cart appears as if it is overflowing with items—unidentifiable and innumerable. I quickly surmise that the man must be homeless. Witnessing a homeless person as he or she traipses through my alleyway, or up and down any number of streets in Denver, is certainly not uncommon. The acoustics of a displaced shopping cart in the middle of the city are also no surprise. Rather, the incredulity of it all, I think, is how we’ve become so numb to this. Numb, that is, because it has become rather normal—a norm in our modern day, city-dwelling culture. It’s funny how culture is shaped. The changes are often so slow, quiet, incremental and imperceptible that the process is just… rather mysterious. But the truth to the matter is that, in comparison to 100 years ago, things are pretty different. Did the shopping cart even exist 100 years ago? Will it cease to exist in another 100? Is it as ephemeral as the latest fashion trends? Or will the vessel’s essential purpose simply transform? The original purpose of the shopping cart was, of course, to pack, purchase and transport a significant amount of goods for a single family or individual. Perhaps, as we enter a new culture—maybe one with greater care and consideration for our earth and taking care of it for future generations—perhaps we’ll move away from this need. Maybe such an obnoxiously large cart will seem outlandishly excessive. So the cart, instead, will primarily be used for what? The homeless? What if this were the case? What if this was our future? What if we could learn and grow together as a community to buy and use only what we need—what our bodies and minds and souls really need? With all the money and leftover time, perhaps we could address some of our community’s other needs, like homelessness. Think! Could we retire the notions of “consumerism” and “materialism” and replace them with ideals of community and global health. Maybe we could pick back up on Mr. Skerritt’s creation of a “broad way” that led all the way through the city of Denver, and expand upon it for the next frontier. I close my eyes and see a city of green dashed with natural color; where one can breathe deep and take in the scents of lavender, clovers and wild mint; where it is easy to walk and bike to one’s destination, and the journey along the way is actually pleasant! A city where all life is trumpeted. Where we talk about homelessness as a thing of the past. While immobile and when neatly tucked in line with dozens others, the shopping cart can seem completely in place—in regimented, straight-line order precisely in suit with its compatriots. But there’s also the opposite. A shopping cart on its own—strayed from its familiar counterparts and dislodged from its concrete home—is rather unfitting, perhaps even uncomfortable. A lone cart left alongside a city highway or an overgrown part of town is a visceral retaking of the wild that was once dominant and will dominate one day again. Let us take note of the slow, quiet, incremental and imperceptible changes that are taking place all around us. And let us think, feel and act in the pursuit of purpose and in recognition of all that this Earth has gifted. --- “If you listen closely you will hear the spirits sigh a lesson lost on humans; an enchanting lullaby: Mercy lies in nature’s hands and bound to it we grow. Of the earth we came to be and of the earth we’ll go.” ― Nicoline Evans, Hall of Mosses It’s really no secret. The bulk of my writing tends to be borne from feelings of sadness, confusion, frustration, fear and even anger. Too often, I find myself unable to sleep with the insurmountable and unstoppable thoughts penetrating my brain—they come so fast and furiously that they interrupt one another and it’s hard to make sense of them all. I yearn for an ‘off’ button placed on my left temple that, when turned, will put my mind on mute. But, to date, my best recourse to the plaguing insomnia is just to give in. No matter the hour, I end up getting up, I open the laptop, and I start typing. But today? Today is a bit different. Today happens to be… my birthday. Weirdly, I kind of kept forgetting this day was approaching so quickly. Even this morning I had to be reminded when a certain someone barged into the bathroom during my morning duties to declare, “I can’t wait any more………………….HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!” This sort of forgetfulness is a truly strange phenomenon for someone like me. I’m rather organized, in case you didn’t know! I keep a daily planner and ‘to do’ list at arms length. I know where ever single thing is located in our apartment. Every thing—every tool, every gadget, every lock and key—has a home in this home. Related story: I just couldn’t help myself the other day when that same “certain someone” decided he was going to play a practical joke on me by (get THIS!) by hiding something in our apartment! Said “thing” was a dime-sized, purple pellet that he went out of his way to bring home and stash away for the opportunity to “toss” it into the tub the next time I decided to take a bath! Apparently, upon contact with the water, it would then magically change the color of the water in a flash of a second! Crazy! I had never heard of such a thing before. But I suppose if you have kids, you may be familiar with the bath-time trend? Anyway, so here’s the best part. My guy actually forgot where he hid the pellet! And instead, weeks later, I (like, ME!!) end up finding the gem……… while dusting the shelf!!! Ha! Nice try guy! You can’t hide things from me… not in this apartment! ;-)
Ok, so let’s get back on track. Now, normally, on my birthday, I kind of just wish I could crawl under a rock and hide—for the whole hooplah of the day. And then, I’d get to come out of the rock and suddenly it would be the next day! And the “pressure” of that silly “special” day would be over and everything would go back to normal! In fact, maybe the next day would be someone else’s birthday! I love other people’s birthdays! Those are great! But… what’s totally bizarre about today as opposed to normal years... is this year I didn’t feel any of that angst and dread I’m accustomed to on this annual mandatory celebration. None at all. Not even a bit! I guess, maybe, you could attribute this to the fact that I’ve been hugely overwhelmed with the job front the past month (good, bad and everything in between). Or it could also be that I’m just getting older, more mature. That last statement is, in fact, a fact. Despite the urge to tell everyone I’m 29, I am, in fact, yet another year older. But honestly, I don’t think it’s any of that. Warning: the next section might get a little cheesy… I really believe, instead, I’m just so dang content! On November 14, 2016, I married my best friend. That “certain someone”, who makes me feel as giddy as a schoolgirl, asked me to marry him! That special guy, who makes me feel gorgeous when I first wake up—without a stitch of makeup and an untamed mass of hair—wants to make a LIFE with me. That mate—who fills my soul with tangible JOY—is my partner in crime for LIFE. And I just feel………… good! I feel… content. Sure, there’s going to be ups and downs; there’s going to be job insecurity, raises and promotions; there’s going to be new births and lives lost; there’s going to be hardships and good times. But all in all, there’s going to be my guy. My love. Our love. Period. Tonight, I need nothing. I have everything. Happy birthday to me! (No crying by the way, despite the title ;)) Like any good addict who’s on the mend, I am forcing my hand; I am forcefully removing my drug of choice. Freeing myself! It didn’t start like this, of course. It was all fun and games in the beginning. But more recently, I’ve found it to be a very unhealthy substance, and I imagine it will be no better in the next few months to come. Facebook. I will with all my might stay far away from this social media tool in the name of my health and happiness. This decision to take a Facebook Sabbatical, if you will, was surprisingly not a very hard one to make. Conversations like this, and so many more, made it remarkably clear. But, I won’t get ahead of myself. Let’s take it one day at a time, right?!
I want to say, before saying anything more, thank you. Thank you all for engaging in the discussions – those of you who are kind, reasonable, and respectful that is. I do so appreciate that. The conversation I started was not intended to change anyone’s minds. It was one of genuine curiosity (and, well, perhaps a little dismay). I’ll admit, I still struggle so much with (A) where we’ve found ourselves as a country, but more importantly (B), how we’re going to one day explain any of this to our children, our grandchildren?! And then there’s (C) the painful internal struggle I deal with knowing the people who taught me to be good, who taught me right from wrong, are now in support of a political candidate who I can only describe as horribly wrong. This is a person who has consistently – over years and decades – degraded his fellow humanity. A person who has engaged in disgraceful practices that no good businessperson would call business. A person who’s behavior says he’ll go to any length – no matter who he has to lie to or cheat or ruin – to better himself. A person who will skirt paying taxes to build himself an empire. A person who lies – blatantly lies! A person who is recorded saying X one day, and the next day has the audacity to say he did not say X! And perhaps most horrifying, a person who does not care for this planet, our home. Instead, he believes it’s for the taking – his taking. Please! Let me be crystal clear. I am not talking about any other candidate. I am talking about one person and you know whom it is. Just him. It bothers me just a little (no, it bothers me a lot) that the conversation I started (perhaps shouldn’t have) and most of the politico pundits’ discussions, as well, all end up falling apart. Folks on all sides end up resorting to attacking the other candidate rather than staying on subject. This is just one of many fallacious argument tactics I continuously see, rather than the use of proper logic. So, I had to really dust off the part of my brain that houses my lessons from Philosophy 101: Logics that I took second semester of freshmen year… But I believe what’s happening in these discussions falls into the category of Ethics Fallacies, Myths, Distortions and Rationalizations. I had mentioned this once before in another FB conversation (maybe I’m a complete masochist or something… ha!), but the evidence I’m seeing and hearing time and time again all point to a phenomenon called cognitive dissonance. This is something we all have the power to do. It often takes place when a person (let’s call this Person A) admires another person (Person B), but Person B engages in behavior that Person A actually finds disgusting. This causes internal conflict! There is a huge gulf between the Person A’s admiration for Person B (a positive attitude) and Person A’s objection of Person B’s actions (a negative attitude). The positive and the negative do not attract like magnets! Instead, they have to be reconciled. So how does Person A do this? Well, if Person A rejects Person B’s behavior, then Person A will have to reject Person B. But what if Person A doesn’t want to do that? There’s a few ways around that. Most often, Person A simply decides to reduce the level of his or her disapproval of Person B’s behavior. That simple! “It’s not really that bad.” “It’s not that bad to lie, and cheat, and hurt others.” “It’s not really that bad to not pay your fair share of taxes.” “It’s not really that bad to objectify women and determine their worth based on their breast size.” HA! I mean, isn’t it amazing? The power of our psyches! I swear, if I could have learned to sleep at night AND continue to work with psychologically messed in the head people, you’d be calling me Dr. Schoenecker by now. Alas… Anyway. I joke. But the result of cognitive dissonance is scary, especially when it happens on a large scale (Ever heard of groupthink? Ever heard of the Holocaust?). This validation of unethical behavior creates a downward shift in our basic and most important societal norms and values. What’s next? Public torture? I believe we had that, right? Salem Witch… or something like that?! Guys, I dated a narcissist. I was dragged down, hurt and drained by this person. So, I guess maybe I have the ability to see one when it comes around. Narcissism is an ugly disease. You might think you can’t really compare mental disorders? But ohhhh yes you can! The same way you can compare drug addicts. Marijuana addicts might be lazy, and stupid, and even downright mean if they can’t get their high. But meth heads become evil. They lose their humanity. They will run over anything or anyone to get their drug. In the same vein, people who suffer from bipolar disorder (or manic depression) might like their ups, but they certainly do not enjoy their downs. Do you think schizophrenics enjoy hearing voices that they cannot tell are real? Do you think they like feeling crazy? Depressed people might try to find their cure in the bottom of a bottle, or sometimes, by taking their own lives. What I’m saying is these mental disorders tend to make people search for an answer. A way out! A way to feel normal and so they can regain a sense of community! Narcissism. Narcissism actually thresholds and feeds and grows its victims. So much so that the “victim” is no longer a victim. The narcissist is, itself, its own horrible entity that runs over anything in its way; that uses and abuses any living thing in its path; that lies and manipulates and then takes and destroys. And what’s worst, the narcissist never feels an ounce of remorse! Rather, the despicable acts are only fuel for the fodder. I expect one of you reading this is in a relationship with a very controlled person. Almost a machine. That relationship can seem so one-sided, and so unfair. And sometimes you want more. You yearn for more. I see that. But, at the end of the day, at least that “machine” is still human. And once in a while he does show he loves you. I imagine another one of you reading this is in a relationship with a person who has wronged you so many times and in so many ways, that there’s no way to even count. But your amazing ability to forgive (and perhaps some other factors) has brought you back together. But that’s not it. It’s not just you – it’s him! He had to become vulnerable. He had to admit to his wrongs. He has to live every subsequent day trying to make up for those wrongs, knowing that they will never be forgotten but hopefully most will find it in their hearts to forgive – like you have. I see relationships that are, perhaps not great, but are rarely futile. Engaging with a narcissist – no matter the type or level of engagement – is, in my opinion, a lost cause. Thank goodness, for me, I got out of my relationship with a narcissist. Escape. And after a bit of healing, I found myself in a new relationship. One that is so healthy, so beautiful, that it really ought not to even be mentioned amongst such subjects. It ought to be placed far away from this – in its very own category. For it is a relationship founded on ultimate respect for one another. It is one of dignity. It is so bursting with unconditional love that strangers can literally see and feel it! It is, I believe, what every good person deserves to find – every one of you reading this. I will conclude with my lessons in engaging in healthy discussions; to use “I feel” statements that are free from blame, negativity or demands. To my friends and family whom I love so much: When you say you support an unethical person, I feel hurt. When you justify immoral acts, I feel sad. When you have the individual right to stand up against wrongful and hurtful things in this world, and choose not to, I feel ashamed. Thank you for reading. And, I guess, thank you for inspiring me to write if nothing else! It’s been a while. She is clothed with strength and dignity and laughs without fear of the future - Proverbs 31:25 At the gym on an otherwise standard Sunday. Unknowingly, however, I just so happened to choose the elliptical that just so happens to be placed directly in front of one of the dozen or so television sets placed throughout the giant warehouse of grunts, sweat, testosterone and insecurity. CNN, June 12, 2016. The media updates are scrolling incessantly smack dab in front of me. Unavoidable. The caption on the bottom of the screen remains fixed, however: “50 dead, 53 wounded in worst mass shooting in U.S. history.” Although the total fatalities has been reduced now to 49, this event still goes down as the Worst. Mass. Shooting… in United States history. Visible images of an intangible concept: Hatred. Watching this makes us see hate. And the sick irony is that all this media hype is it's exactly what the sicko shooter probably wanted. What amazing fodder we willingly and liberally provide for his fifteen minutes of fame. Crocodile tears well up in my eyes and my throat swiftly begins to swell. And then I remember where I am. I swiftly stuff those feelings away. This is familiar territory; every time I feel the unrelenting need to cry – but my stubborn side forces the feelings down, down, down – my throat begins to inflame, transforming the unconscious act of breathing into a painful chore. I vividly recall the first time this happened: I was just a little girl, at the movie theater. My dad took me to the movies! And the movie we carefully selected? My Girl. You remember: the mood ring; the bond of a childhood friendship; the bee stings; the sudden death. The boy’s death was so unfair. So sad. And I desperately wanted to relieve the pain in my throat -- the golf ball that refused to be swallowed -- by sobbing on my Daddy’s shoulder. But I refused myself this relief, as I also wanted to be Strong in front of my Father. Silly, I suppose. Nonetheless, on the twelfth of June in the year 2016, I swallowed the lump in the throat, once again. I usually refrain from talking lavishly about my beliefs regarding a God, there really is no secret. I refrain simply because these are details that may open the door to potential questioning and judgment. In short, I possess an uncertainty regarding the existence of a God. I tend to lean toward science, reason and logic. I like to have proof (or at least contestable proof). I like knowing things exist because they can be explained, proven. I enjoy the calculations of life, the things you can rely on and look forward to each and every day. Also, I wrestle with the knowledge that there are people who proclaim to be immensely faithful in a “great” and “wonderful” “higher being,” yet sometimes, some of these people do some of the most destructive, horrible, and gruesome acts. I tell myself these are probably people who have been tremendously hurt. People who have never known unconditional love, perhaps. People who were, at one time, children too; innocent children who might have suffered in ways no child ever deserves. Perhaps these children become grown adults who were born witnesses to despicable acts or abuse. Maybe these grown children were then forced to participate in such acts. And, perhaps, these are people, who just, finally, lost all hope. Although I try to make sense of it, I can’t help but to say events like Orlando make me ashamed, not of my own race or ethnicity, but of my species. So shameful, we are. It’s almost ironic, too. We’re so far “evolved” from the majority of living species. I mean, we created FIRE! We created TOOLS! We’ve got these big brains that can conceive of “symbols” – a thing to represent another thing! We can act in ways that are symbolic too! We can be passive aggressive to our loved ones – a way of telling them what we want to really say without really saying it with the added bonus of being horribly cruel and confusing! Oh but that’s not it! We can profess dignity, righteousness, morals and values, love and compassion… and at the same time, we kill one another. What is this? Is this life? Is this living? I don’t know. I don’t know what comes of this world after my body weakens and withers, when the synapses in my brain fail to reach, and after I begin shitting my own pants. Whether or not there’s a God beckoning us from behind some beautiful pearly gates, there is one constant. Mother Earth. Let us not forget. Mother Earth brings us a twirling, whirling maze of life and death; disastrous weather and the most breathtaking skies; she warns us with her thorns and poisons, and draws us near with her floral aromas and blossoms of indescribable color; she brings sunshine and rain; she feeds us with supple and juicy fruit, yet she exposes us to infections and viruses; she provides ointments and cures, and she allows us, above all, to live, and then pass. We pass on our physical bodies… back to her, all that she is, has been, and will be. This is a magnanimous cycle that goes on shyly, imperceptibly, in the background. Yet without this cycle, or worse, with the slightest disruption to this cycle, every, single species, suddenly, is at stake. Mother Nature is not a God. “She” is the “personification of nature that focuses on the life-giving and nurturing aspects of nature by embodying it, in the form of the mother.” But “she” is a constant. Look around. Look beyond the concrete. YOU!! You are one of the members of the tippy tippy top of the food chain that our Mother Nature has fostered. They say that the ultimate driver of every living species is to procreate and facilitate an environment for passing on one’s own genes. Given this, how does it feel to know that your own species is killing one another? And for what? For food? For shelter? For survival? Nope. Out of ignorance. Out of hatred. Out of ugly. I refuse to engage in the ugly. Can’t do it. I am no kind of perfect, and I am surely stained. But I want nothing to do with the ugly. Can’t. Won't. So instead, I went to church. On June 12, 2016, I went to church. There, at church, made small and humble as I sat in silence at the former Jewish synagogue. There, I was reminded that, although it’s easy to be crushed by the weight of these gruesome and media-grabbing stories, let us not forget to tell the other stories. The story of a man who helped his fellow man by buying him a meal when he was alone and hungry. Or the way soft, sweet murmurs of three baby kittens, newly born and perfectly precious, make a heart melt. Or when two friends, friends since childhood, who live nearly a thousand miles apart, come back together as if not a single moment has been missed. The church pastor reminded us on Sunday, to not give up. Don’t become skeptical. Don’t be skeptical. Don’t succumb to the evil that, yes, does exist, and even feels rampant, but that which does not deserve to win.
A skeptical person stands by – fails to lift a finger. A hopeful person checks in, engages. A skeptical person is a guilty as the person holding the gun. A hopeful person sees this life both for what it is, and what it can be. Love is more powerful than hate. And believe it or not, love is all around – much more so than its counterpart. So, hey! How about turning off the TV? Put your phone away; disconnect; unplug; and, connect with your fellow humanity. I shall conclude by borrowing a quote from a great movie, "Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinions starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around." ~Love Actually Matthew Peter Karpe, babes, can you believe it’s been two years?? Two years! 730 days. 17,520 hours. 1,051,200 minutes. Apparently… you have sticking power… like Gorilla Glue ;-) Do you remember that night, our second (well, second, third and fourth) date? We were at Jeanna and Mike’s wedding ceremony, nibbling on some Asian-chicken-something-or-other, and exchanging a few tales of our past relationships. I remember feeling just a slight bit perturbed by something you said. You inferred that because of the length of my past relationships, they were somehow less significant. I felt both offended (that someone whom I had only recently met could make such an assumption), and also, I felt vulnerable (that someone whom I had only recently met was seeing me, really seeing me). It’s like you saw right through my white, paisley sleeveless dress and peered into my heart. And that was just the beginning. When we were in France, I was faced with a huge challenge: to conjure up the teachings and memories of a language in which I was, at one point, nearly fluent, but that which was layered in dust and cobwebs after fifteen years of vacancy. Alas, I did some preparation and I took the plunge! I told you so long as you learn how to say “Please”, “Thank you” and “Do you speak English?” en francais, than I would do all the heavy lifting. And I did! But it was scary. After all, my potential misstatements or misinterpretations could not only get me lost or in trouble, but I’d be taking you down with me! Now, on our second leg of the journey, when we said adieu to Lyon to make our way south to Nice, I was challenged yet again. Gare de Lyon was fluttering with people; people going and coming from here and to there. The station felt dauntingly huge; two stories; incredibly tall, echoing ceilings; newsstands and quick-service boulangeries everywhere; and so, so many people! Our tickets were unclear as to where we were supposed to board our train. And the time was rapidly ticking by. I found a manned informational booth and asked for assistance. I restated the directions I was provided to you immediately in English (after all, we know how forgetful I can be at times…). And we hurriedly scooted our butts over to the area where trains were departing. And, according to the directions provided, we went to the exact lane with the proper number indicated above it. I sighed a huge breath of relieve (yay! We didn’t miss it!), and gratefully relieved my shoulders from my backpack. “Here,” I said, “it’s this one.” For some reason, though, you didn’t set your bag down. You kept looking around. You meandered back around the other trains. And you swiftly and conclusively decided that that wasn’t, in fact, our train, and instead, it was a different one several lanes up that was currently boarding passengers!! Turns out, you were right. The ticket person was not. You followed your intuition. And I trusted you (well, I had to trust you; after we were in this together). You showed me incredible trust during that trip by relying on me to communicate for the both of us. And that day at Gare de Lyon, you showed me how to trust you – your sense of intuition, your sense of place, and your willingness to take care of me. This last story is one of my least favorites. Um, what? Yeah, least. Because, well, I looked like crap! And you saw me look like crap! You remember. It was the day I had some sort of strange allergic reaction to a combination of things (dust, nuts, mold, who knows?!). The effect was that which is extremely rare for me (thank goodness): My face ballooned up into a Star Trek character! Horrible! Hate it. It started out slowly (these things sneak up on you) so I decided to quickly get some Benadryl in me, let time do its thing, and bike to the gym. Upon arriving to the gym, however, I thought maybe I better do a quick mirror check. I walked into the women’s restroom and lowered my sunglasses just enough… to gasp! Better was it NOT. Worse. Much worse. I was in no shape for the gym (let alone to work the next day where I would certainly frighten all the small children). So. I did what any normal person would do. I promptly returned home, cried in the shower, and locked myself in the bathroom so you wouldn’t see me – the disaster – when you returned from your softball game. Return you did. You were filled with concern since we never lock the bathroom door. After several of your pleas, I finally opened the door (a towel held over my face) and, in between sobs, explained to you what had happened. You lowered my towel, and looked at me. You looked at me with kindness, and above all, logic. You said, “Let’s get some ice on that.” You comforted me. You comforted me with your words, your kindness, your pragmatism! That day you made me realize this wasn’t, in fact, a deal breaker. Rather than my handicapped face sending you straight out the door, you pulled me in. And, now I know! I could have a hamster for a face and you’d still love me ;-) It’s taken two years. But these two years have taught me that you see me – you really see me. You want to take care of me, and you do such a good job. And you love me for so much more than my exterior. You love all of me. And I trust that. Thank you for an amazing two years. Cheers to the next many! I joined my local chapter of Citizens’ Climate Lobby a couple months ago. This group is amazing on many fronts, but perhaps most prominently (for me) because I am made to feel exuberantly young, strikingly vibrant, and best, super tech-savvy (yes, me). You see, the mean age of the CCL Denver chapter’s member is about 60 – folks who are well into retirement! Clearly for me this offers a rather favorable comparison ;-) But all jokes aside, my short time in teaming up with this organization – these people – has easily provided me with more than I have given in return, perhaps more than I ever could. These are some of the coolest, kindest, intelligent, non-judgmental listeners and doers when it comes to engaging our community and our political leaders to act on climate change. They are teaching me subtle – and sometimes not-so-subtle – lessons on how to work with our political system (a ‘system’ to which I more commonly refer to as a ‘game’). They also know how locate the ‘wins’ from our efforts – no matter how far or few in between. These are wins that often pop up amongst a series of pitfalls, pushbacks and being blatantly ignored or overshadowed by big money and even bigger oil. One of these small wins was a recent op-ed written (and published) by one of our own. By the way, if you’re not familiar with this process, when it comes to pieces that are ‘Opposite the Editorial Page’ or ‘Letters to the Editor’, the writing process is its very own beast. You see, there’s math involved. And the math goes a bit like this: for every couple hundred well-written pieces, maybe a small handful will generate a response from the publication’s editing point of contact (that is, if you’re smart, shrewd, hyper-aware of current issues, and ready to appeal to the exact tastes of the particular publication’s editor in chief and the targeted distribution). Then, for every couple dozen of those pieces that generate a response, you’re lucky if one of the submissions is actually published. Thus, 200 > 12 > 1 (and that’s if you’re lucky!) So, I read the lucky article. Found it well-written. Factual. Brief. The author has a clear bias towards the positives of the revenue-neutral tax, but was not at all ‘sales-ey’. But the details of the piece are of less importance when it comes to writing this blog; it’s what ensued that matters. And here is where my lesson begins. This girl – or perhaps the inner, secret masochist version of this girl – decided to read on. Read beyond the letter. And read on she did. Without passing go and without collected $200, she entered… the Comments Section. Call this action a bit naïve. But, in my defense, guys, I write blogs. I am thrilled and beyond-words-excited when I get comments on my own writing!! So, well, I guess when I saw that there were nearly 50 comments (today over 100) to this single op-ed, I figured, wow, there’s got to be some good stuff in there! Or at least some healthy debate? Right?! Yeah?!?! Yeaaaaaaah no. Those who know me, know that I try to live my life and treat my fellow man with respect, fairness, honestly, and above all, I try to be kind. Left/right, conservative/liberal, republican/democrat, tree-hugger/oil-rigger… all of that aside, what I read in those comments made me sad. Sad for humanity. And face-punched with the proliferate amount of ignorance and cruelty. You’re all baited now. And what kind of twenty-first century millennial would I be if I did not give you at least a small fish of reality TV (er… reality blogging)? So without further adieu, below are some screen shots. Actual comments. From actual people, starting with an oh-so-pleasant fella named “Buzz Leapyear2”… [Apparently the first Buzz Leapyear was already taken] I don’t have much to say about this, mostly because my mouth is so gapingly aghast that words cannot be formed. But the fear that enters my heart shivers down my spine. For, “Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.” ~ Martin Luther King Jr. Take a look at the next comment whose author is, miraculously, able to recall the temperatures from quite a few years ago – 800-1400 AD to be exact! Wow! How does he do it? So, I had never heard such a statement before. Me: A gal who’s worked pretty dang hard to educate herself with facts and data regarding the environment and climate. But, hey! I thought, maybe this somehow got missed during all my studies. So I did some research. And you know what? The Medieval Warm Period did happen! It’s true! But… (of course, there would be a ‘but’) like most things in life, it’s complicated. I’ve looked at publications from the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), and from New Scientist to Skeptical Scientist. The layman’s conclusion from these organizations (from the heavily data-driven to the historical and contextual perspectives) is this: Yes, parts of the world were warmer than what we’re experiencing today. However there were other parts of the world that were cooler than average, leading to a global average temperature that was still significantly below the increases we have seen in the last couple hundred years. Ah complication. So hard to understand, and so easy to ignore. “Living is Easy with Eyes Closed” – John Lennon And then we have Bruce. Increased. Solar. Activity! [Must. Restrain. Against. Using. Sarcasm. Hold back, Vanessa. Restrain!!] Hmph…….. I worked so hard already with the explanation for Mr. Miller’s blunder. Must I do it again? Perhaps, instead, I’ll let Mister Ratiocination handle it this time. For, in general, he seems to remain intellectually calm and respectively on-point (and the others really seem to enjoy engaging him). But unfortunately, Bruce is too busy to pay proper regard to Raciocination…. [Must. Refrain. From. Correcting. Grammar. Blunder. Ahhhhhhhh!] “Ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge: it is those who know little, not those who know much, who so positively assert that this or that problem will never be solved by science.” ~ Charles Darwin SIGH So. What is this?? What does one do with this information?? Maybe we just burn some leaves... or buy a big diesel truck… or empty an old can of CFC hairspray…? Nope. That’s not going to work for me. So, here’s what I did. Via email, I sought guidance from my older, wiser cohorts of the CCL Denver Chapter. “Goodness gracious,” I wrote, “Has anyone else read some of the comments to the Bloomberg View OP Ed? It's almost scary how unkind and immature some are...” [You can almost hear the Minnesotan in there, right? Yep. That’s me.] Mere moments had passed before I quickly received three unique responses… Nelson: Personal policy: DON’T read comments. Betsey: Yes, it IS scary! And it can get very personal when the comments are in response to a letter to the editor. I learned not to read the comments after the responses to my first letter to the editor. Makes you realize some of the ignorance and hot-headedness we are up against! Dick: It's why I don't watch or listen to commercial news as well Venessa (cute! Look how he spelled my name!) So, I guess my decision to read the comments was naïve. It clearly did more harm than good for a person like me. But…….. if we don’t read, then what??? We just take these misunderstandings and false assumptions to be… okay? Just chalk them up to… what? An ongoing phenomenon? An idealism, perhaps? That’s what some people are doing. And they’re calling it Climate Denialism. [Spell check is very unhappy with me, by the way, for ignoring its squiggly red warnings about “denialism” being a non-word/made-up word/perhaps-soon-to-be-hot-button-part-of-a-phrase) . The claim: Climate denialism is an ideology. i·de·ol·o·gy ˌīdēˈäləjē,ˌidēˈäləjē noun A system of ideas and ideals, especially one that forms the basis of economic or political theory and policy. Hmm. Politics. Interesting. Climate change has absolutely nothing to do with politics. Period. It’s science. It’s facts and data that can be dug up and understood, oftentimes, to explain a lot of things in our natural world that just don’t seem the same as they used to. It affects all life on Earth. It has nothing – I repeat nothing – to do with the way we humans have organized our leadership and governance systems. Nothing. So why politics? According to a recent article in Ney York Times, the majority of these attacks are being proposed by extreme libertarians or conservatives who are afraid of their ways of life being ripped apart by the policies proposed to fight universal global warming (e.g., Clean Air Act). Instead of working with the system, however, to renegotiate or even engage the major decision makers about the proposed policies, climate change deniers’ tactic is to create myths onto which similar-minded, equally fearful folks can glom. myth miTH noun A widely held but false belief or idea. One of the most prominent cases of climate denialism is the story that the NINETY-SEVEN PERCENT of scientists AROUND THE WORLD – who have dedicated their education and their careers to SCIENCE – are actually engaged in some extraordinarily secretive, Pinky and the Brain-esque hoax to take over the world!! I’ll admit, that would be quite the astonishing feat! But… I’m not sure I’m ready to give scientists that much credit ;-) I mean, we’re talking geeks in lab coats, right? Not keen-eyed, savvy, gangster, underground street fighters!
“So, Vanessa”, you’re all wondering, “What’s your conclusion and when is it coming?” I really don’t know. I believe in the goodness of humankind. Yes, of course, there will be the very rare exception – perhaps a serial killer sociopath that makes all the news. But the majority of us are good. We want good. So this is why I masochistically read comments that pang my heart. But I don’t know that I can ever stop. For they are comments that come from humans. And it is my duty to treat all with respect and dignity, and to engage them with the utmost humility. By the way, they say ignorance is bliss. And maybe this is just my own perception, but those comments were pretty negative. Not happy. Far from blissful. I leave you with one final quote. This quote is also a challenge. And I challenge YOU to take it. Good night my readers. --- “It's a fact--everyone is ignorant in some way or another. Ignorance is our deepest secret. And it is one of the scariest things out there, because those of us who are most ignorant are also the ones who often don't know it or don't want to admit it. Here is a quick test: If you have never changed your mind about some fundamental tenet of your belief, if you have never questioned the basics, and if you have no wish to do so, then you are likely ignorant. Before it is too late, go out there and find someone who, in your opinion, believes, assumes, or considers certain things very strongly and very differently from you, and just have a basic honest conversation. It will do both of you good.” - Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration HOLY. Shit.
I mean…WHAT……… the…. HELL? I’m awake. 5:57 a.m. Tomorrow is my one day off of the week. Should be sleeping. No. Should be sleeping in (most especially since we drank like fish last night). The heat from the floorboard drums as it futilely tries to augment the chill of the room. Each second --- Tick. Tick. Tick. --- is neatly recorded by the clock hanging on the wall in front of me. The silence is deafening. NPR. Let’s get some NPR streaming. Better. But… then… then the story repeats. I glance down at my event sheet; the ‘what’, ‘when’, ‘who’, ‘how’, ‘expected number of guests’. My introductory and welcome notes to the ‘crowd’ mock me. Oh good. There’s a smudge on the table -- another thing to clean – another distraction. Some words are just… too hard to write, I suppose. The dissembled apartment from a hurried evening has been fully mopped up. Dishes, done. Jackets, hung. Event items – tablecloth, swag giveaways, AV/tech equipment, sign in sheet – all neatly reorganized and tucked away. Now. Time to face this. Time to write. Readers, I must ask, what is wrong with this world? Can anybody provide an answer? Anyone? We live in a world where innocent people are attacked – murdered, beheaded, gunned down – pretty much every day. It’s in the news nearly. Every. Day!!! And… for… what??? I had a beautiful event planned last night. An event where people could get together and learn about climate change -- The science. The facts. The accounts. The evidence. An event where people could eat, drink and be merry with other people from across the isle. I hoped they would meet and learn from one another – with one another. I envisioned an event where people could avoid the feelings of despair and denial, and instead, be uplifted and ready for action. And then 4:57 p.m. happened. Fifty-seven minutes after the set-up of the event; three minutes prior to my own arrival. Dear Watch Party Hosts, Given the recent tragic events in our host city, we’re suspending the broadcast in solidarity with the City of Paris. We would also ask that you discontinue any promotion of our event at this time on social media. We are sure you understand this decision and hope you join us in sending thoughts and prayers to the French people at this time. We are incredibly appreciative of your willingness to participate in 24 Hours and Live Earth: The World is Watching and will be in touch soon about continuing our work together. This word, “solidarity” repeats in my mind. Solidarity. ‘In solidarity we stand.’ A unity or agreement of a shared feeling or action; a unity among individuals with a common interest, mission or purpose; support; mutual support of members of a group… or………….. a group of terrorists? I mean isn’t that what they are? A unified, solid group of human beings all dedicated to the ‘mission’ of issuing terror upon people whose names and souls are unknown to them? No real cause for the wrath. No motive. Simply, terror. So what value is held in a word like “solidarity”? Where’s the value, when it can be used both for good… and for evil? What’s the point? Shortly after the 4:57 p.m. email sent out last night, I received another email, this one from a fellow Climate Reality Leader in Colorado. In the email she expressed her sorrow for the events in Paris, and that she would postpone her attendance until it could be rescheduled. Makes sense. Makes sense why our event sheet had zero signees. So. We drank. I suppose… we drowned our sorrows. But I awoke far earlier than my body desired. For my mind was wracked, and my heart was heavy. I responded to that fellow Coloradan CR Leader. In that response I admitted to her that, sometimes, the events of this world make me wonder… wonder why we – people like she and I – even care so much to save it… Why? Why even bother? But… when I woke up this morning – before the sun even peaked over the horizon, before the clouds were tinted pink, before the birds began to sing – I looked to my left to adore my sleeping love. I stroked his hair and moved close to his face. I whispered in his ear… and told him to never… never go away. “Never, never” he repeated. Pretty silly, right? But we agreed. It's a compact! ;-) I don't know guys. I guess... maybe instead of asking what is wrong the world, I ought to ask, what is right? Until you – or Pope Francis, or Francois Hollande, or Al Gore – can provide a different answer, that’s what I’ll go with. And that’s pretty damn good. 6:59 a.m. The sun is beginning to crescent. And I’m going back to bed. The other night, we celebrated the birth of a very amazing human. [Of course, I was late to the birthday train, and, admittedly, this is not atypical for me (or anyone with that wildly good Chavie blood).] If I may say, I made a pretty stellar dinner. *wink* We’re talking wild caught cod tacos atop artisanal corn tortillas. A home made wasabi-hinted cabbage slaw to layer the flakey, perfectly cooked fish. And a quinoa-corn-black-bean-cilantro salad to accessorize the tacos. And the kicker! Those margaritas from this bar keep. Boy did they slip down easily! So, we dined. We dined, well.
With full and happy tummies, we elected to pin dessert for a night out. After all, the night was young, the birthday girl was wearing the most fabulous stilettos, and we were all in good spirits! So we mosey on down the road to a local speakeasy. Upon entry, we are enshrined with a majestic table filled with shiny, sparkly objects: bedazzled pasties and nipple rings!!! (Yeah. Like... what?) So we take our seat at the bar whose bar tend resembles something of a late-century newsie who’s so anti his own generation (perhaps century) that he comes across as exhausted and annoyed when asked to do his job. That or he’s just a secret serial killer by day. Either way, we proceed to order ‘speakeasy’ style drinks that are delivered to us in less than two jiffies by someone other than our bartender [yeah, go ahead and stroke your chin. This author was also a bit suspect… but to be fair, she was no less thirsty). Lo and behold, we entered this bar during the last half of a burlesque show! Disappointingly, however, we were only able to observe the audio component; the visual involved an extra ‘fee’ that apparently our group wasn’t keen on paying. But as we sipped our intoxicatingly smooth drinks, trust me, soon enough we got our show! The post-burlesque audience and entertainers began to infiltrate the bar. And, guys, I’ll tell ya. It’s amazing what a 50+ year old woman can do with a good deal of makeup, spanks, and an astute ability at making eye contact (to the point that you are the one who ends up feeling a little… ‘naughty’)! What a show, we thought, as we left the bar! Little did we know that this was just the beginning. So, we traipse our way back home. Step, step, stiletto, step step… Alas, before home could be reached, another show was before us. *Oh boy* How to describe this? How to describe a young man, in the prime of his age, acting beyond belligerently – to entertain a belligerent crowd? Well, here’s my best go at it. A severely drunk young man (likely flying high on something or some things as well) was being beat and dragged by another man (whom we could only assume was a manager or bouncer of a neighboring bar). “Where are the cops,” we wondered? I mean, the manager/bouncer of whatever bar must have called, right? They must be on their way… The drunken man was put into a sleeper hold by the bouncer/manager. He awakened though. Angrier still. Flailing and waving his arms, he then flooded the street. Broadway, mind you, is a three-lane, one-way street lined with restaurants, shops and BARS on both sides. On a Friday or Saturday night, the sidewalks are populated with pedestrians and the road is densely driven. Cars screeched to a halt to avoid hitting the man. Not only did the man not move out the way, he went right up to one of the cars – he even pressed his torso onto the hood of the vehicle! His yelling was mostly nonsense and inaudible. But the confusion and the fear of the driver of that vehicle were palpable. I proceeded to call 911. Screw it, I thought! Better have multiple calls in to the police than none. After what seemed like endless moments with the man pressing his body against a heap of metal that could have crushed his body and bones in mere seconds, the bouncer/manager returned to the scene. Again, he beat the furious drunk and dragged him, this time, to the other side of the street. The bouncer/manager (who we later learned, by the way, was just an average Joe; a ‘good’ Samaritan, some may say) asked for help to hold the unruly, drunken man down. So, three solid men pressed their entire body weights onto the ‘scene’, one of them being my boyfriend. It was described to me later that, although the guy was thin, he had superhuman strength. And this went on. The three men held him down for not moments, but minutes. “Where. Are. The POLICE?” I ask in complete bewilderment. As the minutes and seconds dragged on, the crowd began to multiply. Normal foot traffic heading from one bar to the next began to slow, halt and then huddle at the scene. Everyone wanted a piece of the action. The pinned man was angry and clearly wanted to instill anger in others; he shouted profanities, over and over, to an African American gentleman. He enraged a Middle Eastern man wearing a traditional head garb. After a while, his anger began to diffuse into a grave sorrow moan as he called out, repeatedly, for someone named Carlos. As I answered the police dispatcher’s questions – which become more irritating as the minutes went on without the arrival of a single officer – I noticed countless bystanders were actually creating video recordings of the whole hoopla on their cell phones!! “Oh lovely”, I think, “I’m going to be on YouTube tomorrow.” Several of the bystanders were even trying to interact with the restrained man! “Polo!” they shouted out, following each of the man’s calls for “Carlos”. What was this, to them? Just a joke? I urged people to move on. “Go to your bars, please!” I said. “This isn’t helping anyone” Some agreed. No one budged. Finally. Finally, law enforcement arrived. Not in the form of police, however. An ambulance and fire truck – lights ablaze – came buzzing down Broadway and relieved the three men of their holding positions. This whole ordeal left me with a flurry of thoughts, and even more questions. Where were the police officers that night? While this was all going down, two other squad cars whizzed by, completely ignoring our pitiful waves for help. What was this man going through? And what was he ON? How could have that situation been deescalated instead of painfully inflated? And perhaps most importantly, what in the hell is wrong with his fellow humanity? How can so many people passively observe such a scene? And worse, how can some of them actually prod and poke the situation by laughing and joking and taking videos with their smart phones? *Sigh* I guess… it’s all about the entertainment factor, right? Everyone wants a piece of the action. Everyone wants a SHOW. Even at the sacrifice of human decency. Alcohol. Sex. Drugs. Money. Power. Noise. Distraction. But this happens all the time. Every day. Let’s think about this as tonight many of us watch the second Republican national debates. We fully expect Donald Trump to provide a wildly entertaining evening, even amongst the most tired and vanilla of his counterparts. Even if you don’t get into politics in America, people know, this debate is bound to serve up a big ole plate of delicious crazy. Constant entertainment seems to be the modern human narrative. Think about it! It’s like... what we’re all about! But why? Why is this our story? I wonder… what if that outrageously drunk and high, emotionally enraged man was all alone? What if he were by himself in the middle of an old forest? Who would be there to hold him down? Would he need to be held down? What’s the worst that could happen? There’s no one else he could hurt. Sure, he could punch a tree. But I think his hand would hurt enough the first time to prevent him from going at it again. Frankly, I don’t want this to be our narrative. It saddens me. Living life for a constant show or endless entertainment is not really living at all. And when we face the challenges we face today – yet distract ourselves with constant entertainment – not only is this sad, it ought to be illegal. We’ve got to slow down. We’ve got to get our heads out of our cell phones and get quiet. I think we could all use a healthy dose of Mother Nature – even when she’s having a crabby day. And we definitely – definitely – need to find some compassion and let it enter our hearts through and through. When we can understand that we’re all humans and we’re all in this together – together, with our Earth and with all the Earth’s many beautiful ecosystems and living organisms – maybe we can do something worthy of the history books. But man! The time is now. It aint gonna get any easier. So hey! Let’s decide, together, to not be a part of the show. Just say no ;) Thanks for those of you who read this blog. Reading, I think, is a great way of ‘getting quiet’. |
AuthorVanessa Ann, a writer and environmentalist. She possesses a Master of Applied Science in Environmental Policy & Management from the University of Denver. Her writing, at times, can be... a little sarcastic with just a dash of snarky. Archives
June 2019
CategoriesWant more?
Vanessa is also a long-time contributing author (and former President) for the Sustainability Alliance of the University of Denver. Check out her published newsletters here: Some Say the Debate is Over. Yet the Heat Won’t Seem to Go Away, November 2016 Corn. It’s In Everything & It’s No Bueno for the Environment, February 2016 The Pursuit of Sustainability, August 2015 |
Proudly powered by Weebly