Outside of work and travel, you have daily tasks. They may include taking care of a family with kids, or just a spouse and/or animals. Or as I knew until I was 41, just myself kept me busy. What to eat and cook? Run errands, clean, bathe, maybe some downtime to read or watch TV. Who can forget adding in the time to sleep?
I was once told I needed hobbies when I was single so I was accomplishing something. I tried. Sure, I had many ‘interests’ and I put them on my ‘to do’ list. Guess what? That made it unfun, like a chore. I needed to relearn my clarinet and maybe sign language! Should I get back into painting? What did I feel passionate about? By the time I gave this thought, I had the phone or remote in my hand.
What I have found is that I was thinking about my personal interests as a job, not as something I not only wanted to learn more about, but engage with. I ended up asking myself two questions:
What did I care enough about to carve out time for?
Was there something I wanted to invest time in for life-long learning?
I still want to relearn the clarinet, try painting and photography again and learn an new language. I’ll get to that. This time I let it come to me. I tinker with gardening and more than anything, I always thought about a cut flower garden. The kind with zinnias and dahlias and all the flowers that bees and butterflies love. What would it take for me to dedicate my time? I need to learn more – I need to know more about the clay soil we have and how to prepare it for bulbs and spring seedlings. One day as I drove past an Episcopalian church near our home, I noticed a path to a beautiful garden. I looked them up online and saw that they had a group of volunteers that maintained the grounds. I emailed and asked if I could join and I expected nothing in return but to learn. Guess what, I am the head dead-header of the flower garden! And as an extra bonus, they give me bulbs and seeds to plant. I am learning about weeds and plants and soil and transplanting and watering. Yes, there is a way to water! It’s hard work but it’s also brain, body and soul rewarding. I dedicate one morning a week to helping out and have made new friends.
I used to look to my job to learn. I love to discover and I was fortunate enough to travel and learn about new medical technologies along the way. At some point, I realized I wasn’t learning anything new. There was plenty to learn, but it wasn’t a lifelong learning passion.
President Harry S. Truman had a sign on his desk with ‘The buck stops here’ inscribed on it. This was meant to indicate that he didn’t ‘pass the buck ‘ to anyone else but accepted personal responsibility for the way the country was governed. Truman didn’t originate the phrase, although it isn’t likely that we would ever have heard of it had he not adopted it.
I want to start writing with ‘Damn Donald Trump!’ but that sounds like I have a human emotion. An angry emotion. The Trump follower may throw the new F&ck My Feelings flag at me. Tell me, Trump follower: is this the new confederate flag or the new American flag? Is it also about your identity—not a statement of political support, but who you are?
Not just a flag! A kids t-shirt!
Let’s assume being a Trump follower is one of your ‘labels’ – like wife, mother, husband, aunt, father, lover ofTrump. I get it, I like to add humorist to my labels. Or should I add the new one that Trump followers love? Libtards. But am I? You tell me: A libtard is an insult usually used by conservatives to characterize liberals as stupid. For the record, I am actually a democrat who believes in democracy. But what do words matter?
What do words matter?
Words can be beautiful, hurtful, truthful, lies. Words form sentences that are put out into the world in order to inform, educate, provoke an action or emotion.
When an elder, teacher or person of authority (a clergy, minister or government official) speaks to you, what do you expect to hear? Answers may vary on what we expect to hear, but collectively, can we all agree on what we don’t expect to hear?
Lies. Divisiveness. Meanness. Blame.
According to a study in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, blaming others is socially contagious. Just watching someone pawn their failures off on another can make others do the same to protect your self-image. The result can be detrimental to everyone involved.
When an individual is pointing to external reasons for their mistakes or lies, it hinders their ability to learn and become more effective. Scientists have proven certain personality traits are part of the puzzle of why we blame, with optimistic people being less likely than pessimists to blame and narcissists more likely to ditch responsibility.
Blame is socially contagious.
Does the buck stop here matter anymore? Or can we simply blame others for our behavior and actions? Do we blame others by spewing lies, meanness and divisiveness? I don’t think we do. I think Donald Trump does.
Dear Trump follower, what is it about him that gets a pass for blaming others for situations he promised Americans he would fix–or issues that arise that he’s responsible for–and instead, he passes the buck?
Growing up in the south, we were taught that you had accountability for your actions and that you owned your mistakes and fibs. If you blamed others when you may have only been part of the problem, you better hide. It was not tolerated.
So to the family members, educators, ministers and others in authority positions that taught me ‘right from wrong’, how do you turn your head when Trump plays the blame game? Is it because there’s a long game you have your heart set on?
I know I will lose many of you on my arguments against him on how he’s lied to all Americans about healthcare, education, systemic racism, immigration, voting rights, foreign policy, misogyny, terrorist groups, religion, tariffs and jobs, and even his own government departments, including our incredible military, so today I will refrain. But I am not keeping quiet about Covid-19.
“This is deadly stuff.” – February 7, 2020.
President Trump was recorded talking about Covid-19. He has blamed China. He blamed the Democrats. He blamed American scientists and researchers, including the CDC. He lied about PPE and testing. He threw everyone under the bus in his ‘blame game’.
His priority as a public servant in the highest office in the leading country in the world is to protect Americans above all else. HE KNEW and BELIEVED that the disease was not the flu and it could kill up to five times more than the 20-30,000 that died each year from the flu.
President Trump did understand, at an early date, the public severity of Covid-19. We thought he just didn’t get it or take it seriously, which is bad enough. Let me repeat that his words are recorded. He chose to pass the buck on the truth because he.does.not.care.
He did know it would kill more than 150,000 Americans and he chose to deliberately lie to each of us. Maybe he didn’t lie to his Republican Senators as several bought stocks in pharma companies after visiting the CDC.
If at the very, very least we could have expected him to tell everyone to wear a mask, then that alone would have saved so many American lives. He held the power to help us live because his words matter. Why didn’t he say: Wear a mask, folks. Let’s do it together! Let’s help our loved ones live. Let’s protect all the tough Americans on the front line. Instead, he makes fun of people for wearing a mask and Trump followers ‘follow his words’.
The words from a scientific study that I shared earlier in the article are worth repeating: Just watching someone pawn their failures off on another can make you do the same to protect your self-image. The result can be detrimental to everyone involved.
It’s your choice if you defend him because of the economy, because people have rights to not be constrained in a mask or because most of the people dying are old anyway. But we are Americans first and that means being tough and making a few sacrifices, taking care of each other and expecting the truth. We can handle the truth and you know that. Don’t forget we pulled together as Americans after 9/11 when there was a Republican president.
What if President Trump would have told us on February 7 that this was a novel/new disease and to buckle up for a few months until the experts figured out how it was spreading and to help the people on the front lines and our loved ones, wear a mask. Imagine if he didn’t pass the buck and play the blame game. Imagine the country coming together because his words matter.
Donald Trump had a choice. He chose to lie to all Americans.
Have you met a person at your job that literally can’t stop working? If so, is it a coworker or your boss? Is it YOU? If so, why the extra time spent working? Simple questions but the answers aren’t so simple.
Let’s say you have what people call a ‘9-5’ job, five days a week. There are many scenarios and there are perks, such as you may be able to work from home, work various hours each day or get to play ping pong at lunch. But by Sunday, let’s say on an average week you have put in an extra 15 hours over five evenings and over 10 hours on the weekend. You worked 65 hours and are paid for a 40-hour salary.
Can you answer these questions:
Why did you work so many extra hours?
How did you feel at the end of the week by working extra hours?
What did you miss out on by working extra hours? What did you gain, if anything?
If you google ‘Am I overworked?’ or ‘What to do about being overworked?’ you will find many articles on tips about how to talk to your manager, the human resources team or to make sure you take ‘mental breaks’ at lunch to clear your mind. Let’s say you take some of the advice and you take a walk outside during the workday or you meet with other colleagues to discuss how to deal with burdening work hours, which most likely turns into a bitch fest. All of this may bring temporary sanity, but at the end of the day you will go home and open your laptop on your couch or if not, go to bed and wake up stressed from being even more behind the next day.
Listen, there is a truth that in working out, talking to friends, talking to your manager and human resources or other types of mind/body/spirit therapies to figure out how to cope or change your workload. But unless the actual demands of the workload go away, you will still spend less time with your family and living your life outside of work.
This article isn’t going to give you advice on how to manage long hours from a company that is guilty of encouraging the culture of overwork. What it is going to tell you is that if your company has a culture of overworking its employees, the company is an asshole.
Whoa! Can you call a company an asshole? Yes, you can.
It doesn’t mean it’s the worst place in the world or has the worst people, it means the company needs to rethink working hard versus working smarter. I don’t care if it’s a company that is launching a new product or has intense demands from investors to grow globally and ‘do more with less’ – it’s not acceptable.
Working long hours damages our health, productivity, and family life. Somewhere along the way, working more has been confused with working smart.
Read that again. And again. The problem with most guidance on how to navigate a burned-out work environment is that its a temporary solution to an ongoing problem. I cannot tell you how many times I have heard ‘it’s just a period of time we have to work harder/longer and it will get better soon’. It’s no different than a partner telling you they only cheated once, it will never happen again.
We have to demand better and not judge across all factors, including marital or single status or whether people are caregivers for children or parents or not. It doesn’t matter how busy people are outside of work, we all need to stand together.
So how do we get back to our lives outside of work really being ‘outside of work’? Here are some suggestions.
It starts and ends at the top, so get their attention. AT a previous job, I met with my human resources person to discuss guidance on how to speak to my manager about my workload. I was told to expect a reply that others received: it’s just the way it is going to be because my manager and their manager worked the same hours. This is unacceptable and squarely on the shoulders of all executives and leaders of the company. What can you do when HR has depressing advice?
Be honest on the employee survey or ask human resources to consider a confidential survey if there isn’t one.
There’s safety in numbers, talk to managers with a group of colleagues about real-life situations. It may work out better to have an intellectual conversation in a group so the managers understand it’s a company culture problem, not just an individual.
If you are worried about bringing up the issue, email your manager and cc: HR and give specific examples If you are working at home until 11pm three nights a week, it’s ok to go into detail by giving an example of your workday. If you have 3.5 hours of meetings, answer emails for two hours, you end up with only 2.5 hours a day to actually work.
If your manager(s) want to commiserate, no matter the avenue you take to talk about the workload, get them back on track to your situation so they have to address a problem with a solution. Do not end up feeling sorry for them, it is up to them to address their issues with their managers.
2. Stop feeling chained to work 24/7. Work is now accessible on your hip, in your purse, on your couch – yes, your emails demand attention on your phone, especially if you work in a global environment.
WIP…set expectations. Don’t answer emails after work hours. Easier said than done, but you may only have repeat offenders, so stop answering those people, just reply to your boss only if she/he needs something. talk about priorities, more with less work mentality doesn’t work as it’s always MORE. Work with management to convince that you can do three things really good and that’s it. Demand a good manager that supports this way of working. If your boss is constantly behind, cancels meetings, etc. – that’s a problem and part of the asshole mentality. Everything you do, think: does this help the customer? If not, how can you cut it out? Are there things that are done because ‘it’s always been this way’? Will the company allow interns?
3. Don’t assume working more hours will get you [fill in the blank: the raise, the title, the recognition you deserve]. After all, your job is your career choice. You reluctantly or willingly stretch your workday hours, assuming you are building your career with hard work.
WIP…talk about getting wrapped up in the i can do it all mentality, including networking, building my brand, etc. Talk about weighing the downfalls and keeping it simple and focused on what’s important to you: more money (this still doesn’t mean more money means more working hours, it should mean working even smarter for you and your direct reports!) or industry awards…what does it really take to get what you want and are you doing it for you or others? be careful if you are proving yourself because you are a woman, etc.
4. Be careful by telling yourself it’s ok, it’s for a good cause. You have a passion for your job because it’s ‘doing good’ and you feel you are helping the world.
WIP…Make sure it’s from the heart and you ‘see’ a difference in people’s lives but just as your own family, you can only help others if you are in a healthy place, etc.
5. Don’t make excuses for working long hours and assume it will get better. You tell yourself you are fortunate to have a job with great benefits and long hours is part of the company, it’s growing and fast-paced and you are in good company with everyone else working the same hours.
WIP…We are messing up our health and family and social lives, while putting everything else, except work, on the back burner. Talk about how to demand a difference. A company doesn’t want to be an asshole and there are nice ways to let them know, such as…
Wow, if that’s not the most boring title ever. I would never ever read an article with that title. But I am going to write one. I turned 50 in March of 2017. I have not given it much thought, not the deep thought one assumes you would.
I have been purging through dreams and that’s not so pleasant. Everything I regret has been coming up in dreams. Mainly bad people I allowed in my life. To be more specific, ex-boyfriends. In my dreams, they are causing me stress and guilt and I can’t seem to get away from the situation. Dreams should be fun or even scary, but not a replica of real life.
I did decide I would do an activity each month that I haven’t done before or something I want to do. So far, it’s been spot on.
January – I walked in the D.C. Women’s March. It was crowded and not much walking was done, but the action of standing with that many people to prove a point – I am so glad I did it. And what I love is that it was deemed a ‘one-day protest’ but it’s turned into action huddle groups around the U.S. – and the world – that are making a huge difference.
February – I met one of my idols. And no, the person wasn’t a rock star. Shane and I spent the night in Americus, GA at a historic hotel and woke up at 5:00 am to drive the 15 minutes it takes to get to former President Jimmy Carter’s small Baptist church for Sunday School service. It is a two-hour process from car to sitting in the church, but worth it. Yes, he teaches and he calls on you! To get a picture with him, you stay for church service also and after, that’s when he and Rosslyn are available for pictures. We also visited his boyhood home and had fried chicken at the local cafeteria.
March – I threw my own hoe-down birthday party with the help of Shane, family and friends. I got to dance to ‘Dixieland Delight’ with my 94-year old great uncle. I had a lot of fun and got to see many cousins I never really get to hang out with. Someone threw up as we saw it the next day when we went back to clean up. Yesss, always the sign of a good party.
What’s next? Wait and see! But for my walking advice? As I did build this story around going for a walk!
I woke up on the most beautiful Sunday morning with cramps. YES, ‘those’ cramps. Doesn’t it seem like there should be a cut-off date for that? Especially when you have only one ovary left? Nope. Going strong!
I really try to not show PMS, you know – keep it inside like a bad, evil secret. Why lash out at the only other person that lives in my home that is not only a very nice and fun person but cooks my meals? That would be…not nice. I was all set up on the couch with coffee, cozy with dogs and the paper. What do I possibly have to ‘PMS’ about?
The dogs were barking at every new movement in the yard. I decided I wanted to have brunch instead of lunch and Shane didn’t read my mind. My coffee was cold and I had already reheated twice. So, I thought – I am 50. Instead of the crankiness against the family, I made myself step it off the couch, put on workout clothes and go for a walk. Without the guilt of walking by myself. No pulling of the leash by dogs, no pressure of a workout – just a steady pace and listening to the birds and looking at the sky and flowers. I said hi to neighbors walking their dogs. Nice.
Then finally, I did think: Shane and the dogs would enjoy this walk. I would like to be on this walk with them. So I cut it short and walked back to get them. They were waiting and we all four went together. Sometimes alone is good and sometimes, you need your family. And at 50, I can tell you that you can have both on the same day, back to back. No need to choose or compromise.
And maybe this is my April new experience – giving advice as a 50-year-old.
I wrote this before #MeToo and have revisited to update to address current events.
Friday before an American holiday to kick off summer, I grab Esquire magazine from the mailbox, pour some white wine and make myself comfortable on the back yard deck. I have always loved reading men’s magazines. Yes, interesting stories! The first one I came across was a Q&A with Woody Allen. I enjoy his interviews. He is fresh, funny and makes sure to solidify his hypochondriac behaviors which is always a joy for me to see in others.
As I begin chuckling at the Woody Allen interview, I abruptly stop reading.
Even if a court cannot prove he had wrongdoing, he married his step-daughter that was very young.
As it happens, today the celebrity gossip news is abuzz with Johhny Depp’s wife, Amber Heard. Not only is she filing for divorce during the week of his mother’s death (right there – how insensitive, we think!), but she also files a restraint on her husband based on verbal and physical abuse with evidence.
And people share: was he driven to insanity because she’s younger, dated women, his equal and he couldn’t handle it? Let’s make this clear: NO ONE deserves abuse or fear. After more of the story has come out and he lost in court regardless of his publicists and lawyers that attempted to cover up his well-known drug and alcohol abuse because he is so adored, I am truly repulsed that it is in our nature to assume and judge. Bottom line: the ‘only’ business we have is to feel sympathy for the person abused and stop reading the gossip that makes money. We may or may not find out the truth that one or the other is lying or there is something in the middle but if anyone is physically, mentally or verbally excused, there is ground-zero excuses.
Back to Woody Allen. Everyone knows he is eccentric and that is what is so great about his movies. Anyone that makes us laugh has to have redeeming qualities, right? I admit, as I former clarinet player, I thought about going to see his show at Elaine’s in NYC.
We have all heard the stories. Not only did he marry his wife’s child, which can maybe be explained over time considering the marriage has lasted but now we hear his daughter has told her story over and over that he physically abused her. Do we simply ignore? Do we take the stance that he hasn’t been convicted, so until proven otherwise in court we will not judge?
And there is Chris Brown. Didn’t Rhianna take him back after the restraining order was lifted? Was that a green light for other musicians and singers to collaborate with him? He was young and had personal issues, it was a one-off, right? Then why has he been arrested time and time again? Hey, I am just asking the questions.
And what none of us want to address: Michael Jackson. I would say 99.99% of the world population that knows his music and life history would say yes to this question: Do you think Michal Jackson was a bit odd? But then subsets of that question are where we potentially lie to ourselves and others to feel better when we get up and dance when ‘Rock with You’ comes on. We justify the facts and balance our actions with Well, that was the old Michael Jackson. Way before the [fill in the blanks] ruined him. I have read interviews with his children who you would love to believe as they stand by their father’s side. I then acknowledge in my head that he may have done very bad things but maybe his children really knew him? This is a losing case in my head.
And then there is Bill Cosby. Maybe this is where we collectively came to the conclusion that he isn’t a good man. We did NOT want to believe he could drug all these women and take advantage of them sexually, but as each woman came forward to tell their story, the consistency and trauma were real. Why did we need really take the stories seriously until many women came forth? Safety in numbers?
Would we need 30+ women to come out against Woody Allen to take that situation seriously?
Artists make us happy. The accusations on some, I don’t know if they had bad intentions from childhood or if fame made them invincible. All I know is that I want to believe what I believe is the best in each person so I feel good when I enjoy their art, but the fact is – I don’t know. I am in public relations and know the stories that can be presented to make the worst person look like America’s sweetheart.
So when it comes to people in the public that have been linked with some type of assault on others, is it their likability’ they bring into our life – their music, movies, words – that make us, if only a tiny bit, justify some over others? If an artist or leader inspires us, makes us laugh, educates us, helps us feel in the good way and forget our problems – and you find out they are a fundamentally terrible person, what do you feel? I think what we do comes after what you feel.
What is my role in punishing these people if they were in the wrong? And can I make a collective difference in society? Or are these the wrong questions to even ask?
God tells us not to judge – but we know we shouldn’t support bad behavior, especially if it brings fear and pain and humiliation to others. And by support, I mean – do we refuse to listen to music, watch movies, view art or read books by these people who have wronged others?
What is our duty to ourselves, society and the search for truth?
We hate terrorists that blow up people. Instantly we hate them and know they are in the wrong. We don’t need testimonies or a court to tell us they are bad. We have visual proof of pain.
Is that the problem we have? If we don’t have visual proof, do we instantly need to know what led up to the ‘abuse event’ and think we need to know how we feel or react or what side to take in an instant? So under pressure, we give our opinion and we feel we can’t change our minds? Can we blame the media for confusing us so much that we can’t possible know the truth and ‘take sides’?
That’s basically what it comes down to – taking sides. Having an opinion and sticking with what’s right in our mind if we feel that person has wronged others.
All I know for sure is this: when a Chris Brown song comes on the radio, I instantly turn the station. And I feel good about myself.
When I visit ‘home’, I still sleep in the same bedroom I slept as a baby. That baffles my husband, who moved as many times as he ages. Which, by the way, I have slowed that down. Not his aging, but moving.
The mile-long road we lived on killed our animals-mainly dogs, some cats. It is where the bus stop started in the mornings and ended in the evenings. It hosts trailers, houses, barns and even one bar.
The last names of the homes said it all. Those so-and-so’s, who knows whose kid belongs to who – there’s so many. Some of the neighbors intrigued me, some scared me.
I used to go to school high in first grade. Just that one sentence spoken to my mom will send her into a tizzy, straight up rage. You tell stories! That is not true. Why do you have to make THAT up? Well, I am here to tell you it is true. It wasn’t by my choice. What six year old wants to be the first child shivering on a cold bus and smell the wafts of joints join you down the aisle of hell? By the time I arrived at school, my stomach was churning and my big brown eyes had devil red in them.
I get it though. Nothing speaks to an early morning wake up call as smoking a joint in your denim jacket-waiting on the bus. It made the wait – off and on the bus – tolerable. It made me much calmer when fistfights broke out between the female bus driver and her son. I surrendered to death quietly when a spider bit me on the chest. Instead of panicking, I just stared out the window waiting to die peacefully. I also endured tobacco juice in my face, spit out by a kid a few seats in front of me, with a calmness that had to be some type of zen before I even knew what that meant. Two hours with the bus stuck in the ditch in ninety-five-degree weather? I stared out the window with a tiny smile on my face.
Where was I? I have wondered this since childhood.
Oh, picking pot. The pot teens lived between my house and another family that had four children. These four were the smart kids and took it in stride as we would pass their father peek out of the county dumpster and wave at us. No one made fun, we knew he was one smart cookie. Brilliant actually, he made his own plane and would fly over all our houses. I can’t say my dad was happy about that, but I saw the positive in everything – to make a plane out of garbage and actually FLY it! wow!
One of the pot teens would help my dad clean his barn and my chihuahua had it out for him, a huge disdain for pot smoking. I witnessed her chew his ankle off and as fast as he could grab her (not very fast) he bunts her the length of the barn. Needless to say, I lost my ever-loving shit on his stoned ass.
His other brothers, uncles, sons – who knew who was who – that I befriended out of fear, had asked us to help pick butter beans in the woods behind their variety of homes on their compound. Myself and the smart kid that was my age obliged. It was fun, picking leaves with pods of beans. We felt cool and part of something bigger than our one-mile long road.
On a good picking day, the animals stayed in the ditch on the walk down. No one was injured and the shade of the woods and steps through the bog to get to the field of butter beans was an absolute adventure. We would talk and talk, pick and pick.
Later on, the smart kid told me we were picking marijuana leaves. I was stunned but didn’t feel like I had been a fool. I felt worldly. I felt ahead of the times. I felt like I had been illegal – in more ways than one.
This post is written from the perspective of listening to several unnamed female relatives. I have combined their personal experiences into a fictitious character.
Dear Becky, Faith and Laura,
I am typing about current events and what my voice has been wanting to say for the last 50 years. I want to tell y’all in person but considering none of you seem to want to hear it IN PERSON, I have been given no other choice.
Yes, I was the pretty one.
And not just pretty on the outside, but pretty on the inside too. That, sometimes, seems to be too much for each of you, my three sisters, to comprehend. But that doesn’t mean I deserved fat sausage fingers from Uncle Renn on my bottom! Y’all know that and instead of taking up for me when I secretly shared, you blamed it on ‘my pretty’.
Which leads me to this which may hurt. You need to know what people were REALLY saying when they exclaimed what a pretty personality each of you had. It meant you better make the most of how you act. And I haven’t experienced ANY pretty personality with none of you back then nor now if I continue with my honest approach.
I never did and still don’t have a stomach roll that could have been mistaken for an extra set of titties and my butt (yes, both cheeks!) still fit nicely in size 2 jeans (the skinny legs from Macy’s!). I realize that’s a bitter pill to swallow but it doesn’t mean I deserved what happened to me. I expected better from each of you. Sisters stick together!
I was just starting to bloom when Uncle Renn laid his hands on me. And I told you all then, in sworn secrecy, that terrible man wasn’t acting like he talked up in church. Or around Aunt Jenna or at his dinner table visits. Each of you turned on me as if I deserved bad things for being pretty. And years later I told you about his tipsy visit where he tried to get me vertical on the carpet and I got away and what did YOU Laura, mother of my niece Trina, say? That I had been married three times and who would believe me. Don’t even try to deny.
And now it’s happened all over again with your daughter, Laura! Uncle Renn may be slower in the gait but his fat fingers are still finding the young flesh. And now you are u-p-s-e-t because not even believes Trina. Those Renn followers say she is a tiny fibber over her social sites, telling boys in Denmark she lives in New York City and vacations in the Caribbean. Yes, we know she hasn’t ever put her tiny pink toes in any beach sand other than Panama City but shame on each of you for letting the county folk poke holes in her truth to the authorities.
Nothing is going to hold my roar inside me any longer, it’s pure-gold destiny to support her in court, in front of the jury, judge, county and maybe, just maybe, the world! And that, my sisters, is the truth of the matter.
As Zsa Zsa Gabor exclaimed: people only rain on your parade because they’re jealous of your sun and tired of your shade. Let it be known that Trina is helping me with this letter. Her Aunt Gail will be taking her to the Caribbean after this trial, no matter the outcome. That’s one less fib for her to check off her vanity list, if that’s how it’s being judged.
Truth be known, the hens have come to roost. Trina is a new generation that will make him pay for his sins. Y’all should all be proud. And for the record, as your sister, I thought y’all were pretty on the inside and outside. I saw the shine in and on each of you. I just wish you could see it for yourselves.
Being real with family,
Diana (Dirty Diana if you have your brains-washed!)
Papa and I used to sneak up on the Indians and the beavers ‘down in the field’. Problem was the overgrown chihuahua that was my sidekick since the day she walked up in the yard, made it impossible to sneak up on anything. That didn’t stop us from trying day in and day out.
My papa told me how this one Indian was all that was left. And he didn’t get left behind, he chose to stay behind and protect our land. I understood the comfort in that, but I always asked why he would protect our land when he was on it first.
That was when the conversation turned to the beavers. Unlike the lonely Indian that I tried so hard to see – standing on the edge of the swamp – I knew those beavers were within reach. I fished on their banks, I stared down at the chewed trees, I heard the splash into the water as my chihuahua ran before me.
Once, I caught a glimpse of the beaver. I thought I saw two. Papa would laugh and seem just as excited. His excitement would diminish when he realized no fish were left to be caught because of those no-good beavers.
Our favorite third topic were cousins who, as legend would have it, robbed a train and stole the gold. It was buried on our land and we were going to find it. The best invention at the time was the metal detector, so we walked those fields in search of the gold. I imagined all sorts of ways we would discover the gold. Beneath the big pecan trees by the old well. Under the half-fallen wooden house where the horses were fed. Surely it was in the tobacco barn. I wanted it to be in a brown paper sack in a wooden box.
Years later, after my papa had left this earth, my father took up a renewed interest in finding the gold. We invested in a brand new metal detector and one evening before dusk, I set out alone to find the gold. To my surprise, the buzzing went off and I began to dig. Sandy dirt digging, on my knees and with my hands, fast and feverish. As I pulled a rusty, red-brown scrap of metal out of the ground, most likely from farm equipment long-gone, I looked up and realized within an instant, it was pitch black dark. The kind of dark where you don’t even see your body parts in front of you.
A chill went down my spine. I didn’t move, a bit too scared to stand up and start walking. I knew the walk would turn into a full-out sprint with a pounding heartbeat so whatever loomed behind me couldn’t catch me.
Then I felt something different than the chill. The Indian’s cautious gaze on my back; my obtuse chihuahua waiting for my reaction to define hers; and my papa looking down on me knowing that I would always believe his stories.
Of moon and marsh 