The Girl in the Red Prelude

Today I was going through some old photos and found the one above in a random stack. I was immediately taken back to a very long time ago. To anyone else looking at it, it’s the photo of a happy teenage girl about to head off to school. But this picture for me is something so much deeper; a piercing reminder of a very dark time in my life. As I gazed at this photograph from all those years ago I was haunted by all that was going on behind such a bright smile. I was so stricken with emotions from the past that I stopped what I was doing and went directly to my laptop to pen this piece.

I remember that day so well. A random morning of my Junior Year of high school. My Daddy had just bought me a cherry red Honda Prelude. It was a stick shift and had a coveted sunroof. Daddy had taken me to a neighborhood down the street where he patiently taught me how to drive it. I probably gave him a low level of whiplash with my repeated stalling and jerking gear changes. But I quickly got the hang of this now antiquated skill.

The morning this picture was taken Mama had walked us out to the car with her Kodak 110 camera - a vintage treasure nowadays. (You can Google it.) My younger sister was in the passenger seat and we were headed the 16 miles away to the arts high school we both attended. I was a theater major and a dance minor and Rachael was a vocalist. The car was a necessity as there was no bus service where we lived. It gave my sister and I the freedom to attend Douglas Anderson without burdening my parents with the responsibility of transporting us back and forth everyday.

I was so proud of that car. I can still remember the feelings it stirred in me. It was one of the few things that gave me subtle bursts of joy and a temporary way to escape a suffocating reality.

I can still see the early morning fog that was covering the lake we lived on. I can smell the air around me and hear the morning birds chirping. I remember the brown leather sandals I was wearing, the tucked in striped shirt paired perfectly with a matching leather belt. And those amazing tortoise shell sunglasses. (If only I knew what had happened to them.)

My dog Skippy in my lap along with Sandy, Pokey and Frisky, all wishing they could go along…

An image so basic. So normal. Contented and full of hope. So innocent.

Who could have guessed that only months before two boys from a neighboring high school, had sexually assaulted me when I had called them for help. Two “friends” that I had grown up with whom I trusted had held me down on a dank wet mattress in the woods and used me to fulfill their unapologetic desires. Terrified to report and threatened that no one would believe me I moved forward in a daze of shame and denial. Anger and fear. Determination and ignorance. A broken compass with no direction but down.

But I’ve written that story.

This piece is about a photograph. A picture that reminds me of the beginning of what was a soul splitting struggle to stay afloat. A smiling school girl who appeared full of life yet was slowly rotting inside, lonely and isolated from anyone who she thought could understand her pain. An illusion that no one saw through.

Those days, the best acting I ever did was outside of the school walls.

Sadly, I’m acutely aware that there is nothing new to see here. I understand that. I am one of countless, the numberless who were all alone on the front lines of life. Too young and lacking the wisdom or self preservation needed to empower themselves. Desperately clawing their way out of the black hole sucking them downward. Many didn’t make it. I was one of the lucky ones. There are pages and pages needed to explain how that occurred. How it continues to occur.

Another time perhaps.

I see this photo of myself, sometime in 1992, courageously trying to keep it together for the sake of everyone around me. Pretending that everything was okay. Ashamed to admit otherwise. I can feel the torment, the hopeless anguish. I cannot lie, there is a speck of agony that still exists within me. As I look intently at the girl in this photo I understand more and less. I want to cry, punch a wall, throw up a high five and cheer. But mostly I want to jump into this photo, throw my arms around myself and say “You’re not alone. It’s going to be okay. Don’t let them take any more than they have.” The dichotomy of these feelings could be overwhelming if I allowed them to take residence for too long.

So I focus on today. 30 years after this photo was captured in time. I focus on all of the growth. All of the wins. All of the accomplishments. All of the blessings.

And if I look very close, instead of seeing myself in a pretense of happiness, broken and weak…I recognize the quiet yet ravenous strength of a survivor.

I see the reflection of a 46 year old badass who could not be kept down or quieted.

I see me.

The Quiet Power of Saying Nothing

One of the many benefits of therapy for me is that a lot of what I end up writing about comes from my weekly sessions. After I make what I think is just a random statement regarding the topic at hand my therapist will respond with “This is good stuff. You should write about this.” Then the lightbulb flips on and I stop, scroll to the “Forty and Full of It” section on my notes app and jot down what it is I need to remember to think about creating. Last week was another example of this unexpected inspiration.

Those who know me well, know that expressing myself and especially standing up for myself in certain situations has always been vital to me. My outspoken and often over the top need to defend myself and others from threatening behaviors has been both a gift and a curse. Luckily in my early twenties I began therapy for anxiety and other traumas from my past. I have learned that the origin of this intense need stems from the inability to constructively communicate with my parents when I was young, years of being bullied by my peers, and a sexual assault that I was strongly “persuaded” to keep silent about. 

Never receiving justice from my assault was a catalyst for many of my future behaviors. And one of those behaviors became thus - to have someone misrepresent me, misjudge me, misunderstand me or take advantage of me became unacceptable. And tolerating it took a mental toll that would often send me into an emotionally verbal tailspin. Once I was there I would see red. I would go right to “that place.” You know, the one you aren’t supposed to ever go to. The rage filled, “how dare you” place where you can’t even hear the words coming out of your mouth because they are erupting with such force and thoughtless declaration. Yeah, that used to be me more times than I care to admit. 

Now let me be clear, it’s not like I walked around picking fights or was difficult to be around. These incidents have most often been with the same handful of people. People that take pleasure in conflict and know just how to trigger their prey. The “Bear Pokers.” The ones that don’t let up until you have your little meltdown and then they stand there in feigned shock saying “Wow, can you see yourself right now? What is wrong with you? Look how you’re acting!” Which of course only intensifies the reaction and generously gifts them with exactly what they had been looking for…all the power and a feeling of self-importance. 

But, after many years of emotional altercations, hours of back and forth emails, Facebook rebuttals, and text messages with whomever I had allowed to lure me in, I realized how futile it all was. I was tired. This need to defend myself, my character, my opinion…It was all so draining. And most importantly, completely unproductive and wasteful of my valuable time. It was time for deep self-reflection. It was time to understand myself and where my reactions were coming from. It was time to learn a new way. A much quieter one. 

This painstakingly learned trick? I focus on the other person’s behavior in that moment. I remind myself of their intentions. Their goal. I focus on the fact that I hold ALL the power to either provide or deny them with the conflict they are seeking. I zen myself and my thoughts. I breathe in and out slowly. I think of ocean waves and warm fragrant breezes. I think of kindness and empathy and sometimes even pity. I watch them from what seems a far a way foreign place. I think about grace. 

I realize that no longer bearing the brunt of other people’s unresolved issues is my choice. 

Through the repeated practice of this social experiment I began to understand the quiet strength it took to just stay silent. To not react. To refuse the bait. I discovered that what I always considered a weakness I now found empowering. I held the keys. I was in the driver’s seat. 

Now, more often than not, when faced with a situation that I can see is escalating or has the potential, I am armed with a tactical ability to deflect. I keep my breathing even. I hold my hands calmly in my lap. My mind may still be racing with a million retorts. So many things I want to hurl out of my mouth. But neither my physical appearance nor my emotional reactions change. I am the pilot, the captain and director of the situation.  

The reality is that 95% of the time we are faced with individuals who are looking to clash in some manner, they themselves either do not have the self-awareness or the therapeutic tools necessary to change their behavior. So it is left to us. We must change our responses to their unaddressed issues. 20 years in therapy has taught me that those of us in therapy are often in there to learn how to deal with people who won’t go to therapy. 

Some may think a book or a podcast here and there is the answer to their personal growth but the reality is that it won’t help them long term any more than reading books about working out will give them a six-pack. We have to actually use the tools in the real world. We have to do the work to see real results.

And doing the “work” is work. Which is why many avoid it. 

My truth where this practice is concerned…I won’t always succeed. I’m not Gandhi or Buddha. I’m still me. I’m flawed and imperfect. I’m often a hot-tempered Southern Girl who isn’t afraid to be bold and speak her mind even at the wrong time. But if I’m getting it right more than I’m not then I’m better than I was. There is much to find value in. I’m grateful for self-awareness. I’m grateful for the deep desire to evolve from behavior that I can confirm was not my best attempt at being awesome. I’m grateful to be accessing all the powerful tools that therapy has given me. I fully expect to fail from time to time but I won’t be ashamed of that. If I neglect the changes that I need to make, if I ever forget that I am a student of life and not the teacher, then shame should be my shadow. 

Life is one lesson after another. And the lessons never stop coming. Some we breeze through and some take a true desire and commitment to learn. For me, one of the most powerful lessons I’ve learned is to take back my power and my ability to control what I can. I remember the words of the great Emily Dickinson,“Saying nothing sometimes says the most.” My behavior and my reactions are 100% mine to control. 

At the end of the day the personal gain, the goal, is that no one will have the ability to define me but me. 

So may I recommend a communal “Shhhhhhh” in response to the Lords of Conflict? Let’s try to be silent when we want to be the opposite. Let’s try to be calm when the storm wants to rage. I wonder how different our world would be if our egos and our need to be heard took a backseat to our desire to project peace and quiet? 

As aways, thank you for reading. 

- Forty and Full of It 

Station Fly

Do you ever watch Law and Order? I mean like night after night, episode after episode? Well I do. And whenever I see an episode about statutory rape or drugged and drunk young girls I wonder where Officers Benson and Stabler were in my hometown back in the 90’s. 

When I was a teenager growing up in Florida, there was no better place to be on the weekends than the beach. As soon as the salty air and warm sand hit your senses you knew it was going to be a good day. The girls rocking their Aqua East bikinis and bronzed skin and the boys with zinc on their noses barreling in to the surf with their boards at their sides. All of this steps away from the big white station house that stood proudly where the cement met the sand. 

The Lifeguard Station was where it was at. And the girls gathered there each Saturday flirting, giggling, pretending they had just happened by with the hopeful intent of capturing the attention of one of the many male lifeguards who worked there. But the main goal, the mission for the day, was to get an invite to the weekly keg party. This was the end all be all of parties at the beach. Being there gave one the illusion of being special. Chosen. Charmingly, the lifeguards called these girls - the ones who showed up every week ravenously yearning for an invitation - “Station Flies.” 

Becoming a lifeguard in my hometown was a big deal. It was a coveted position that came with status and rewards. The tryouts were rigorous and challenging. And all the athletic prowess in the world did not guarantee you a spot. They didn’t accept just anyone. And they never accepted girls. 

I remember a conversation I had once with one of the lifeguards that I fancied myself “in love” with. I asked him how come girls weren’t allowed. He told me they were welcome to try out but no matter how well they did they would be blackballed in the end. You see each member was given a white marble and a black marble. A bag would be passed around and they would place the white one in the bag if they wanted you to join and the black one if they didn’t. Blondie went on to tell me that they would decide ahead of time which guy would deposit the black marble assuring that the hopeful female was prevented from making the squad. I cannot 100% verify that this story is true as I never personally saw this ritual take place but what I can attest to is that we girls learned quickly what our value was at the station house - what our use to them was. And it had nothing to do with rushing into the ocean prepared to save a life. 

Like good little girls, no one complained. The Saturday ritual was accepted by those of us who wanted to be accepted in return. The anticipation of the party, waiting to find out where it was going to be and who was going to be there was a thrilling and nerve wracking experience for young girls like me. And once you were given the address for Saturday night’s party it was like a Golden Ticket to the Chocolate Factory. The only thing was, you were the candy. 

The lifeguards ranged in age from late teens to late 20’s. Maybe a few in their 30’s even. A vast majority of the girls attending the party were underaged, myself included. I attended my first “Lifeguard Party” when I was 16. The boy I was smitten with was 19, one of the younger of the guards who was always kind to me. He was different than most. I remember the feeling of crushing disappointment if he didn’t show up to the party. But then other lifeguards waiting in the wings would make their move. When you’re 16, desperate for validation from the opposite sex and 3 sheets to the wind, you become easy prey. And that is what the girls were to many of these expert players. Every weekend was a sporting event for these “men” who were regarded as The Beaches’ Finest. 

I can remember vividly so many different parties. I remember the houses, the furniture, the music, even the clothes that some people were wearing. I remember watching bedroom doors revolve with one underage girl after another. Lifeguards laughing and high-fiving each other after a conquest. I remember consoling friends who had found out the lifeguard they had just hooked up with was now outside wooing another object of his desire. I remember the cops showing up and making everyone leave if they had gotten a complaint. But what I don’t remember…I don’t remember anyone doing anything to ever stop these parties which resulted in the ravaging of girls who were too young to be there and often too drunk to walk much less drive home at the end of the night.

As I reflect on this time so many years ago I cannot imagine that the beach community didn’t know what was going on. That the police weren’t aware that these parties were a cesspool of statutory rape. There were pregnancies, STD’s, drugs slipped into drinks and even actions by some men that were forced, eh hem, “strongly encouraged” if girls asked to stop. There was little to no regard for our safety. There was little to no regard that we were anything more than pleasure factories. 

How this went unnoticed for the years it did is not only alarming but quite suspicious. Was there an overlooking of this behavior because these brave young men were saving lives in the riptide? Was it the “boys will be boys” mentality? Do these lifeguards who are now Fathers look back and cringe? Do they recognize their damaging and dangerous actions? I wonder. 

When I was in my late teens I was arrested. The one and only time to date. I was sitting with some kids on the beach at night smoking pot when two men dressed in casual clothes approached us. They were undercover cops. They took us all to jail for possessing a tiny bowl of marijuana. This was paramount to the local police department? This is where they found importance in placing their resources? Taking a bunch of kids to jail for such a small infraction while week after week young girls were molested by lifeguards and often left too intoxicated to even know what had happened to them?

The vision of these young girls, of myself, stumbling cluelessly, the smell of vomit on our breath, headed home once again with the empty feeling of unfilled desire. With the dual realization of the wrongness of what had happened yet the sad naivety of hope that next weekend will be different. Better.  

The crimes that were committed by lifeguards from that house in the 90’s were significant. And those are only the ones I am aware of. I know there are hundreds of other stories out there. I don’t know who was in charge back then but they failed to protect so many of us from these predators and from our own ignorance and inexperience. As a mother these memories often haunt me. I am assailed with fear that this could happen to my daughter one day. Will I be able to teach her better? Will I be able to protect her? Will she grow into someone who is too confident to fall prey like her Mama did? Will the community she lives in have an intolerance for things of this nature? Will things be different for her? 

The big white station house still stands proudly guarding the beach today. I see it every single time I’m home. There have been changes. It now allows and encourages girls to join. Times for women have evolved a great deal in the last 25 years. We still aren’t quite there but at least we have been much more empowered than in my day. Empowered to demand more and recognize how much we deserve it. Empowered to have self worth that cannot be so easily manipulated with a Solo Cup of Hunch Punch and a sexy wink. 

I pray what was normal back then is now a thing of the past in my hometown and others. I hope we are demanding better from our sons and for our daughters. But just in case, I’ll be over here warning my kid of the trials of my past. I’ll be doing everything in my power to make sure she never falls prey to the mentality that existed back when I was just a damaged girl without a clue. Back when I was a “Station Fly.” 

As Always, Thank You For Reading!  

Deconstructing My Racism

I’ve been sitting here for awhile just staring at a blank page on my screen. Little curser thingy blinking. Condensation gathering on my glass of chardonnay. The words I want to write have to be perfect. They have to come across just the way I mean them. This is not a topic one can flub on. 

Especially when you are a white woman writing on racism. 

I want to begin by saying this is not a piece intent on shaming the white community or instilling white guilt on those reading this. It’s a piece based on my own perspectives from living all over this country for the last 25 years. It’s a piece with the hopeful intention to educate, enlighten and create compassion based on my own journey and personal research.

I was born 44 years ago in Jacksonville, Florida. Many would call that the deep South, I would agree for the most part. Lots of church and fried food, Country music and confederate flags. Plenty of racism. In some areas, not much has changed. I have now lived all over this country and what I can tell you is racism is thriving. Sure it seems to get better for periods of time. We are momentarily lulled into a sense of “Look we are doing the right thing.” But it’s like a flowering plant that is dormant in winter. It’s always there ready to sprout its leaves of destruction when the time comes. It’s a living breathing thing and the only ones who protest this truth are the ones that will not accept that their race continues to play a part in the why. 

I knew very few black people as a child. Not for any other reason than we lived way out in the sticks and there just weren’t many living in our community. My Mam-Maw lived in town and she had a black housekeeper named Carrie for most of my childhood. I adored Carrie and she adored me. She had a big beautiful smile and the most jolly laugh. She would shake really hard when she laughed, which made me giggle more. My grandmother was very good to Carrie but there was still an underlying understanding that Carrie was different than us. I never realized what that meant until I was older. I just saw this amazingly wonderful human who loved me. 

As life progressed so did my interactions with people of color. My Daddy had the most wonderful man Mr. Loomis who worked for him. Mr. Loomis would pull up to our house on random Saturday afternoons and leave us a pie. He was always bringing us a pie. I remember he would bring pumpkin pie often. I love pumpkin pie. I can only vaguely see his facial features in my aging mind but I remember he always wore a hat, it was like a straw fedora. Mr. Loomis was kind, and funny and warm. I remember his warmth. 

I remember well the day my younger sister and I got into a car accident. My older sister had been driving. Before the police or our parents arrived, there was a lovely man who came to our rescue. He got us all out of the car and onto the curb. He was calming and so reassuring. I remember my sister was freaking out about the wrecked car and he said “Baby, your Mama can get another car, she can’t get another you!” He reminded me of Mr. Loomis.  I was maybe 10. He was wearing overalls. I remember when my Mama got there someone said to her “That nice n***** over there helped them.” I remember the horrified look on my Mother’s face. I remember her thanking him over and over. I remember her talking about how awful she felt that he may have heard the racial slur. I wasn’t fully aware of the word but I knew it was not a good one. 

It was not long after that that I became acutely aware that there were people who considered black Americans as second class citizens. I became aware every time I heard someone bad mouth them. I became aware in news stories. I witnessed things in my own neighborhood including a burning cross one night. I remember my church saying that blacks and whites were not to marry. I had been taught that God loved everyone the same so this was confusing for me. 

After awhile as a child you just adapt to what you see and hear. You figure it must be true right? We whites were special. We were just better somehow. Though I never became someone who was actively racist I absolutely had racist thoughts and assumptions. It had been ingrained in me. I had been programmed by society to think something completely contrary to every experience I had had with black people thus far. Why? 

When I started high school at a very diverse and inclusive arts school everything changed. I was introduced to so many eclectic unique souls. No one cared about the color of your skin, your ethnic background, your financial status, who your father or mother was or your sexual orientation. I made friends fast. One night I asked my Daddy if my friend Jennifer could come sleepover. I remember feeling obligated to tell him she was black. I remember his pause. He was unsure. He had also been programmed since the 30’s when whites and blacks were more than segregated. But Daddy agreed. Do you know what happened? My Father loved Jennifer. He liked her better than any of my school friends. I remember him telling her “Youngin, you come back anytime you want!” That moment for me resonates because I saw my Father, who was not unkind to the black community but had been taught to be wary...open his eyes. I saw him change his stance and it spawned hope that if my “set in his ways” Daddy could do it then anyone could.

After high school and through the years since then my growth and deprogramming continued at different stages. I thought I was good to go until a party I threw in Los Angeles in 2011. I was in charge of throwing the end of year theme parties for my kickball league. I always threw great parties with themes that everyone loved...except the year I threw a “White Trash Party.” Everyone was dressed up in cut-off jean shorts and mullets, John Deer Hats and overalls. I was having a great time, until I saw my black friend Roger. Roger was dressed in a black suit and tie and he had something to tell me. He told me that my “White Trash Party” made him feel excluded. He didn’t really feel invited. He told me that the title of my party especially made him feel that way. It was like having ice cold water thrown on me. My lack of education and understanding was abruptly brought to the surface.

I was stunned. It had not occurred to me. That was so not my intent! I vehemently defended myself. I told him we were making fun of white people. He went on to explain that the type of people we were representing that night were often those who were extremely racist against blacks. The thing was, Roger wasn’t trying to shame me, or punish me, he was trying to educate me. And what I didn’t realize in that moment that I have come to realize now is it didn’t matter what I thought or what my intentions were. My friend whose race had been judged and cruelly abused for a century felt a certain way and I wasn’t listening.

I’m grateful for my friend Roger for having the tenacity to confront me. Because of that I understand more. I am able to not just listen but hear. It saddens me to think of the masses of people of color who probably have been taught to just put their head down and accept it. Society has done that. Over decades and decades an institution was created against a group of people that were considered inferior.  

I have spent the last 20 plus years in New York City, Minnesota, Jacksonville, Los Angeles and now back to New York City. I currently live in Harlem. Is there crime? Yes there is. Do we have shootings? Yep. But so does every community in every place I have ever lived and these are committed by every color that makes up the human race. I always find it interesting when people bring up black crime rates. I’ve seen this defense tactic used many times. Those same people aren’t interested in Googling white crimes. 

Statistically I am just as likely to be sexually assaulted by a white man as a black man. I actually was sexually assaulted when I was 16...by two males, both white. Children are more than double likely to be molested by a white male. Once again the chance that I will be killed by a white serial killer is more than double than a black serial killer. I am also far more likely to have my investments or life savings stolen by a white male. All horrific and life altering crimes. How come we never speak on these things or against the race of people who are the majority holder of their existence? How come every time I see a white man with a mustache and a van I don’t call the police? 

Okay okay, I know what some people are going to say, “There are far more white people than black people in the country so of course their numbers will be higher.” But at best the numbers are equal. Which makes the white community just as capable and culpable of crime and danger as any other race on the planet. The difference is the white community gets away with it more often.

Here is what I have learned and know in my soul to be true; Every race has people who are bad, people who are lazy, people who just want to take advantage, people who aren’t contributing. Every race has people who do wrong, ugly, despicable, unforgivable things. But what every race does not have is this never-ending battle to prove themselves; to beg and plead for the same rights and consideration as others. What other races don’t have, is being consistently held accountable and having their every action and intention scrutinized and judged. 

Our black Americans have been forced for more than a century to prove their worth to society, often with little credit. I saw a woman of color post today on Facebook that nothing has changed in 30 years since Rodney King. She expressed hopelessness that our current climate won’t change anything either. As I cannot relate to her hopelessness, her despair touched me. My heart hurt for her. I wanted to reach out and somehow magically fix all of her deep sadness. 

What I have truly come to understand in my 44 years of living all over this country is this: 

Racism is living large whether we acknowledge it or not. It might be veiled better in some ways or places. Many people hide theirs behind what has been determined as PC and handle their business behind closed doors. Many feel like as long as they smile and are polite they are doing their part. Many believe they aren’t racist because they don’t use the “N” word or they have black friends. None of this is enough. 

Sadly there will always be groups of people who aren’t interested in relating to or understanding those who are different from them. There are those who will always pull out some statistic or a story they heard once to define an entire population. There will be those with cork in their ears refusing to listen. There will continue to be those only interested in relating to our citizens of color if they conduct themselves in a manner that has been deemed acceptable. This continues to be the reality of our country. If we look back over the last century, it’s undeniable. The facts cannot be packed away into Pandora’s Box though the attempt has been made many times. 

Our Indigenous people were first, then the slaves from Africa, the Chinese workers who were paid less and treated poorly building our railroads, next the Japanese citizens during WWII, the Jewish have had no easy road here, and we have most recently added Hispanics and Asians once again since COVID-19. The open racism and disgust from so many is beyond comprehension. Where did so many white people get this entitlement? Who told us we were supreme? 

At the end of the day the thing that stands out most prominently for me is through all of the aforementioned times the black community has suffered and endured unimaginable hatred and abuse. And yet all they continue to ask for is someone to hear them. In the US they have endured the worst and for the longest. They have been continually oppressed and marginalized in some way or another for over 100 years. The idea that they are beneath us, that they must work twice as hard to prove themselves, and aren’t afforded the same leniency we provide the white community daily is heartbreaking.   

We use opportunity after opportunity to point out their flaws, while neatly tucking ours away. We throw in their faces any person, struggling community or crime that gives us fuel to continue to beat them down. We say “Well yeah but...” when they repeatedly prove their vital contributions to our society. We diminish crimes committed against them because it’s easier to assume a black person’s guilt than a white’s. We for decades in small and large ways have made sure that they know their place in our hearts and minds.  

And then we stand here in awe when they rise up in anger and pain and despair. Like every oppressed group of people have done throughout the history of time.  

Can you imagine if we did the exact opposite? Can you imagine a country where our fellow Americans of color were accepted and encouraged the same way as the white Americans have been? Can you imagine a country where they are uplifted and applauded by everyone for their undeniable contributions and successes? A place were they were given grace and understanding for their human short-comings? Can you imagine a country where they truly in their souls felt equal and welcomed? Can you imagine what we would see happen? I can. 

I know there will be masses who disagree with me on this. I’m certain I will be shunned by some and shamed by others for writing this piece. But I can honestly say I couldn’t care less. I know there are thousands who will never see themselves as racist or admit they ever were but I am happy knowing I will no longer be a part of that group. 

I still have much to learn and evolution to be had but my eyes are open. I am grateful to feel at peace with the track I am headed down with God as my guide. And I am committed to honoring the opportunity to raise my daughter with love and acceptance in her heart for all of mankind. 

As Always, Thank You for Reading. 

Oh City, My City!

I wanted to write about my city today. My wonderful, amazing, heartbeat of the world city. My city where most of the incredible things that have ever happened to me took place. My city that has spawned some of the most fulfilling and vital relationships and experiences in my 44 years. My now bruised, disabled, and hurting city.  

 Since the Coronvirus’s unwelcome arrival I have struggled with so many feelings. Having an anxiety disorder during a pandemic is bad enough but having one whilst being quarantined often feels unbearable. All the what ifs and the what nows can bring on a shower of fear and uncertainty that can feel inescapable. And one of those fears that is always persistent is for My City.

So many places and communities have not been enveloped with the devastating effects from The Coronavirus like New York. I'm grateful for that. I pray daily that it stays that way. But as I look at my poor crippled city I hurt. When I look at my friends who have lost their jobs and their homes, their businesses and their life savings...their hope, I feel helpless and scared. 

This virus is like an ocean that has thousands of off-springing rivers, lakes, creeks and brooks that have over taken all of our lives in some manner. Every single one of us no matter how financially stable or healthy we remain has had something valuable and possibly irreplaceable taken from us during this crisis. Some days seem too dark to see any skyscrapers left. 

When I think about the multitude of my favorite places, places that have brought so much joy to so many being closed and gone forever I shudder. When I consider all of the crushed dreams of so many who have worked so hard, I cry out in protest. As I listen to my friends say they are moving out of the city for good I am confronted with how different life is going look going forward. When I speak to those whose stories and experiences during this time highlight just how far my beloved town has fallen I think...How can NYC survive this? 

And then I remember what city I am lamenting for. I remember what I have always known about the place I chose to call my home. I remember that nothing has been able to stop it’s recovery. Not debilitating fires, not a depression, not hurricanes or riots and certainly not terrorist attacks. NYC will do as it has always done. It will prevail. 

It will rise up and its heartbeat will once again be loud and strong. The people will return. The restaurants will once again open. The businesses will thrive. Broadway will be brighter than ever. The sounds and smells (good and bad) will permeate the air. That electric all consuming energy that no other city in the world can replicate will return. I cannot tell you when. I cannot tell you how. But I can tell you my city, New York City, will once again stand tall and proud. 

New Yorkers and their unbreakable resilience will abound. Those of us dedicated, committed, and enthralled with all that is our city will make it so. The ones whose souls have always been united with this town will see to it. And that belief is what soothes my fears. That deep-rooted understanding that I live in a city that has always inspired hope through it’s continual survival is what calms my anxiety. 

New York City will return to it’s former glory. Just like it has time and time again! 

As Always, Thank You For Reading! 

Taking Christianity Back

When you think of Christianity what is the first thing you think of? Do you think of Christ’s love and sacrifice or do you think of fear and retribution for not following God’s commands to a T? Do you think of loving, giving, grace filled people willing to love others unconditionally or do you think of someone with a score card reminding you every time you get it wrong? Do you think of peace filled understanding with welcoming open arms or do you think of judgmental entitlement standing on a soapbox? 

What I think now and what I thought many years ago are very different. And I am beyond grateful for that. 

I was born in the 70’s in the South. I was raised Southern Baptist. It never occurred to me that my biblical upbringing was not perfectly accurate and just as God had intended. Everything that I remember from a very young age was that the church had the answers. Should women be allowed to wear pants to church? Well thankfully all the male deacons approved culottes. Should kids be allowed to see a movie that was rated PG? Frowned upon to be sure! Rock and Roll? Well that was the Devil’s Music. Burn those records immediately! Boys and girls being separated at summer camp during swim time? Well because...you know. 

I remember so many things, every day things that should have been between only parents and their kids. The family unit. But the church infiltrated their opinions and control over so much of it. This all seemed totally normal to me as an adolescent. It was our way of life. Wasn’t it everyone’s? 

After living all over this country I have experienced how many other Christians practice their faith. It was not only eye-opening but life-changing. It has taken me the last 20 years to dismantle the way I used to think and to develop a real and authentic relationship with God. How I live out my faith and practice it now is how I believe God intended for me.

I remember a conversation I had with my Daddy years ago. He was a Godly man and I loved and trusted his guidance. I wanted to talk to him about about drinking alcohol. It had always been strictly forbidden within the Baptist faith. It had been determined a sin. Those that did it hid it. For shame! Now don’t get me wrong, I understand that alcohol can be a very dangerous and destructive addiction for some. It certainly is not good for a lot of people. But so can many other things. I just use this particular subject as an example. 

What I found interesting was that most of the other Christian faiths in all of the places I had lived never said you couldn’t have a cold beer after work or a glass of wine with dinner. Not in the Midwest or the Southwest, not on the Northeastern coast or the Western coast had any bible-preaching church I’d attended ever indicated this as their belief. They of course taught the commands that are clearly stated: “Don’t be of MUCH wine,” “Don’t be a drunkard,” “Don’t have any idols before me.” Not one of them disputed that Jesus had turned the water into actual wine instead of “grape juice” as I had been taught. So one day I asked Daddy how it was that all these other practicing Christian faiths thought one way, and our denomination seemed to be one of the only to have interpreted God’s word in this manner? 

I shall never forget his answer -- “I don’t know Baby, it’s just what I was raised to believe.” It was as simple as that. It was what the church had told him to think. 

My Daddy was a good Christian man. He loved God and was very dedicated to Him up until his last breath. But he never hid the fact that he had made mistakes in life. Even though he had repented for these mistakes he still felt fear at facing God one day. He mentioned it many times. Had he forgotten the book of Jeremiah where it clearly says that once asked, God forgives your sins and remembers them no more? Or was God’s forgiveness and grace not emphasized over his years in the church? Either way it made me realize how much my fear of God instead of my love for God had directed my life and even my emotional health. 

This answer along with a ton of therapy really started me thinking on my own. And because of that I can now see how controlling, constrictive, and fear-based my personal experience with the church was. 

It became clear that I had been programmed from a very young age to fear our creator. Retribution, Hell, Consequences, Death...these were things that tormented my young brain. They were at the forefront of the teachings I had ingested. I’ll never forget the Halloween that our church held a “Fall Festival” in lieu of the Devil’s holiday. They had two houses for us to go into. One was all white with cotton clouds, bright lights, and Angels singing. The other was Hell as it had been explained to me. There was fire on the walls, people screaming and gnashing their teeth while simulating burning for eternity. There was someone saying “Is this where you want to end up?” in a horrible forceful voice. I think I was 9 maybe 10 years old. No Vampire, Witch, or Werewolf anywhere could have scared me more than that. 

Another memory that haunted me for years was the time our church showed the junior high youth group a movie about the Tribulation. I remember it followed the story of a young woman who had been left behind after Christ’s return. She became a believer shortly after. When it came time to accept the sign of the devil she refused. The punishment for this was to be beheaded. She fearfully accepted this and walked slowly to the guillotine. But while lying under a dark stormy sky staring at a thick sharp blade that gleamed from a random ray of light she changed her mind. She screams “I’ll take the sign, I’ll take the sign” signaling the guards to withdraw. At that moment there was an earthquake and the guillotine fell loose and took her head anyway. It is assumed that she went to Hell. I’m almost 44 years old and can still remember the overwhelming, breath-taking fear watching this caused me. Is this how God wanted me to become a believer? To be manipulated by fear? 

The truth is that I don’t believe my church or those practicing this way are trying to hurt anyone. I think they have been taught from those before them who were taught by those before them that this is the best way to make sure people become believers. Scare them into Heaven.

It’s not that I don’t have really wonderful memories from my life in the church as a child. I do. There were many experiences that I truly value to this day. But looking back on my childhood and early teen years I just remember always being afraid of God. I remember feeling like He was always watching, but it never felt like He was watching protectively or lovingly. It felt like He was watching like a warden, waiting for me to mess up so He could send down that bolt of lightning. My growing anxiety and inability to live perfectly eventually led me to rebel. I was 14 when I started to smoke pot. I had a severe anxiety disorder even though I didn’t know it, and the marijuana was my way to self-medicate.

It wasn’t until I turned 20 and stopped smoking that my anxiety kicked back in, this time with hurricane force and panic symptoms to boot. I still had no clue what was going on. I thought I was going crazy. I thought I was dying. So I started going to church again. I was hoping for some help and solace from God but my anxiety spawned so much guilt and fear for my sins of the past that I was unable to trust in His forgiveness. So I reverted back to what I remembered. I did everything I could to please Him. I tried to earn His Grace. I was in church every time the doors were open. I read the entire Bible from front to back. I prayed and sang and swayed. I cried out to Him with my hands up and professed my love. I passed out tracts to everyone I encountered. I put Christian bumper stickers on my car and wore t-shirts with Biblical quotes on them. I was desperately trying to prove to Him I had changed and that I was worthy. But I lived in constant fear. There was no peace to be found. 

“Why?” you ask. Because the reality was that none of my actions were truly for Him. None of it was based on Love. I was doing it to save myself. I was doing it because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. And THAT, people, ain’t love. THAT is self-preservation. Why would God want that kind of selfish commitment? I cannot believe that service and dedication out of obligation and fear can be what God wants from his believers. 

The sad truth is that in many ways the Christian faith has been distorted, bastardized, and falsified. Free will has been removed. Rules are enforced with human-dealt consequences. People have been policed to the point that many of them live like robots not even realizing they are living that way. We have judged them and condemned them when that is the LAST job God ever assigned to us. We don’t even know who some of them truly are because we have boxed them into a human created ideal that they spend their lives pretending to achieve. No wonder why we have so much hypocrisy in the church. So many places have set their own standards for people above God’s. And even though most of us can’t live up to them we learn how to pretend to please the church. 

The result? We are missing out on so much of what God intended for us and our lives. And worse, thousands are deciding that this way can’t be right, and ultimately turn away completely. I know many people who have chosen this path. I’ve spent time talking with them in depth. Those who used to be youth pastors or Sunday school teachers. Those who would have been known as “Jesus Freaks” when we were kids. Their faith is gone and I understand how they got to to this place. The damage has been done...and it wasn’t rock music, rated R movies, or the Devil that caused it. 

Please don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating for some free for all Christianity where God doesn’t have expectations and requirements of us. Just like our own parents had, there are plenty. But like any parent who makes rules for their child they are intended for the good. They come from a place of love. People, whether they are religious or not, follow many Biblical dictates innately because they are founded on basic humanity. 

The problem as I see it are the rules and dictates that we won’t find in the Bible. The ones that some churches have made up. The ones we have been convinced are there. Those that allow them to elevate their own self-importance and control people, those that remove freewill and shame believers repeatedly, those that allow money and power to be used in self-serving ways, and those that have believers serving out of fear all in the name of God’s will. The churches who have done this have driven thousands upon thousands of people away from their faith. The overall effect has dealt the Christian religion a powerful blow. 

I have been asked many times over the years how I ended up with my faith in God intact. There are so many ways to answer. There are unexplainable experiences that have filled me with His presence. There are years of studying His word, along with the guidance from Pastors whose direction I believe to be the faithful way God intended. I just feel Him with me. My faith has transformed me. 

Paul says in Romans that as a Christian I am to have a renewed mind and a transformed life and the central focus is to be love. As a Christian my job is to love first and foremost. Above all things I am to LOVE -- Love Jesus, love my neighbor and love my enemy. By loving, I will show a nature that is compassionate, giving, empathetic, forgiving, accepting, non-judgmental...All qualities of Christ. My understanding within my true Christian faith is that I am to spend my life attempting to be as Christlike as possible. The clearest demonstration of a Christlike life is a Christlike love. 

Jesus is love. Everything he has ever done has been based from love. 

Do I still make mistakes that I know are not God’s will for me? Of course, every day! Do I still believe I must go to him and ask for forgiveness and direction? Absolutely! But I am no longer afraid of Him. I am in awe of His grace and power. My reverence for Him is sincere. My choice to serve Him is rooted in so many authentic reasons. It’s based on his unconditional acceptance of me, for all he has allowed me to doubt, fail at, learn, and accomplish. And most of all it’s based on His patience while I figured it out! 

I believe I have finally begun to see Him the way I am supposed to - the way I saw my own Daddy - as Abba Father, my protector and giver of life. The one who wants what is best for me. The one who wants to see me fulfilled and full of joy. The one who provides all I need. The one who corrects me when I am wrong and lovingly guides and directs me. Will there be hard times? I’m counting on it. Will I struggle with doubts and questions? Yep. Will I ever get it exactly right? Not a chance. But I no longer try to hide or feel guilt over not following some protocol that wasn’t set for me by my God. 

Going forward I’m going to live by faith, not fear. I’m going to wake up every day God gives me and strive to do better than the day I did before. I’m going to be ready to love, listen and provide what I can to help those who need it. I will pray for my loved ones as well as strangers and I will do my very best to turn from judgements of others and show welcoming acceptance to all. 

I will also recognize and be okay with my imperfect nature. I will acknowledge within myself that I will never be perfect in my faith and that God already knows that. I will always seek growth and learning. I will shelter in my heart the knowledge that God does not expect me to live a life stressfully trying to prove myself worthy. I will rest in the deep trust of his love and guidance. I will allow his support and acceptance of me to resonate. I will foster the knowledge that He sees my constant efforts, my love, and my belief in his Son. I will never forget that He knows my heart to the fullest. My truth. 

Any finally, I will raise my daughter to know God the way I now know Him. I will let her love originate from His saving grace and glory, and not from fear. 

I am taking my Christianity back and I’m not letting it go again. I hope it will inspire others who have walked in my shoes to do the same. 

As always,

Thank you for reading. 

Land of the Free...Home of the Fortunate

When I began writing this it was meant to be a quick rant. It wasn’t meant to be a piece. But as often happens, my blurb takes on a life of its own and becomes something bigger. So here I go, opening Pandora’s Box...again. 

Facebook can be a curse and a blessing. My feelings on it vary from day to day. But one of the hardest things about Facebook is reading the posts of those who are so blinded by ignorance that actually researching what they are talking about is beyond them. It’s especially frustrating when applying this ignorance to their fellow man. But many have a skewed idea of who their fellow men actually are. It’s become an elite club I assure you. Those who don’t recognize this are most definitely in the club. 

There are so many things that leave me searching for understanding and clarity but one topic that particularly has me frustrated right now are these “damned illegals.” I’m honestly at the place where if I see one more post from someone who has zero frame of reference other than what they have heard is going on with these “alien criminals who just want a free ride,” I’m going to have to extinguish our social media connection. Otherwise I shall say something really off-putting. 

Don’t get me wrong. I believe we are all free to have our own opinion, but I believe that understanding what we are basing our opinion on is vital. When the stance we take has life-changing effects on others how can we not make it necessary to educate ourselves as much as we can? And then maybe apply a little perspective and empathy?

I know that immigration is a tough subject. Completely open borders with no care as to who comes and goes isn’t something that would work. I understand that America as a whole has done and continues to do so much for many other countries. I also understand that our immigration process is much more lenient than many other countries. But there is still room for improvement. 

And we can start by not demonizing and degrading groups of people who for the most part are searching for nothing more than what we wake up to each day. Freedom and a sense of safety.

I am 43 years old and have spent the last 20 plus years living between New York City and Los Angeles. These two cities are massively populated with those who many say are here to take advantage of our great country, to live for free and collect what they can. Well, let me tell you what I know based from my experience. Not what I read. Not what my president told me. Not what my insane news outlets tried to brainwash me into thinking. My opinion is based on personal experience and a tangible reality. 

These people, the ones who look down at the cherub faces of their innocent children wanting nothing but a better life for them, are up at dawn while many of us are still asleep. They are at the Home Depot or the corner of a popular intersection not begging, not asking for something for free, but tragically hopeful that those of us in a much better place may have something, ANYTHING for them to do for a day’s wage. There are so many of them...just wanting and willing to work for it.

“Oh but they’re dangerous! They’re drug dealers, rapists, murders!” Whelp, maybe some are. Just like every race in every country and like many of our own citizens. The two boys who sexually assaulted me when I was 16 were both white citizens. The man who kicked my husband’s face in and almost killed him was a white American citizen as well.. A black man broke into our house once. An Asian kid held my Niece up at gunpoint and stole her purse and the car she was in. Bad eggs are everywhere no matter what race or ethnicity you are. 

But back to these “freeloaders” south of us...

When my husband and I moved to LA we bought a home that needed a lot of work. Some jobs were necessary for a contractor but a lot of them were perfect for those who just needed work. So we hired them. Often. They showed up, did the job, were kind, respectful, hard working and never at one point did any of the dozens of them make me feel the least bit unsafe. They were grateful to have the work. And we felt good about providing it to them. Often we paid them more than they would ask because we felt they were asking too little just to get the work. How many of us have ever lived in that kind of desperation? These are regular people doing regular things, hoping to live a regular life. Did they follow the rules to get in? Most did not. Am I excusing that? No. But having met them and gotten to know so many of them I cannot see them as the lawless criminals some would try to convince me they are. They are parents like me and my husband and children like my daughter, the only difference is they were not fortunate enough to be born here.

These unwelcome perpetrators so many are complaining about are spending their days trying to find work. The hundreds I’ve encountered want to earn the money they are given. They are not lazy. They are happy to pay taxes. They want to immigrate. They are not out to steal our jobs. In fact most will do the jobs we would never deign to do and their goals are much more humble: a future with hope, a country that values and protects them, and opportunity for their children. In my extensive experience with those south of our borders they are not here to live off of our government like many of our own citizens do, they are here for the dream of more and they are willing to work for it. 

After 6 years of living in LA, my husband and I moved back to New York City. It’s been 5 years now. The homeless or financially needy are something we sadly see everyday here. The majority are just asking for money - a handout as some would see it. Many are young and have run away, many are Veterans fallen on hard times and some are the elderly who have nothing left. There are those who have untreated mental illnesses, and of course there are those who are addicts and are looking for enough cash to get their next dose of poison, whatever that may be. They stick their hands out for our money offering nothing in return but maybe a smile and a “thank you.” For whatever their reasons, most I encounter are our own citizens, not illegals infiltrating our country for a free ride. 

It is easy to dismiss them, these nameless trespassers. It’s not our responsibility and out of our hands. We are kind to our neighbors. We always have an egg or a cup of sugar on hand.  We are happy to change that flat tire for old Ms. So and So. Maybe we donate money to certain charities. We convince ourselves we are doing enough while letting fear and American entitlement infuse our souls. We refuse to recognize the struggles they have faced, the desperation that led them to flee and how far they have travelled only for a life that was given to most of us at our first breath. Many of us only encounter their reality while watching our 60 inch televisions. We ignore their crying children who don’t understand the depths of what they have been born into or why. We cover our eyes and ears from the truth and tell ourselves we are only protecting what is our right to protect.

We are the chosen ones. So be it. 

We may not be able to help them or assist with the public policy that would but we don’t have to fear them, make fun of them, or degrade them.

I know it’s not black and white. I understand we have to have protocols. There has to be a system. And laws need to be followed. But the system and laws need to be more accessible and more humane and they need to be for the betterment of mankind - not just Americans. We were built on the backbreaking work of immigrants and not all came here the right way. We have touted our willingness to help and provide for those less fortunate and in need for centuries and yet now we seem to treat many of those seeking a better future like second class humans. We are the popular kids and we shun those who don’t “fit in” to what many have deemed worthy. I’ve always wondered if these were immigrants fleeing Ireland or Scotland or Germany if our opinions would vary.

So here is my challenge, my wish for thought and introspection:

Tonight when those of us who are fortunate are filling our bellies, enjoying our 300 channels of television and safely tucking our children into bed...lets try to imagine if the tables were turned. What would we be willing to do to live our only chance at life somewhere like America? Somewhere that gave our children hope for a real future. Can any one of us say that we would look into the innocent eyes of our child and say “oh well, it is what it is, there’s nothing to be done?” Would an invisible line in the sand that was decided on eons ago put a stop to our journey? Would we look into the mirror of humanity and feel less deserving of those just North of us? 

I can say without any uncertainty there isn’t a border I wouldn’t cross to give my daughter a life worth living. 

We don’t have to agree on all things political. We don’t have to agree on all things spiritual but can’t we at least agree that we here in America were fortunate enough to have won the cultural lottery? Shouldn’t we be consistently aware and grateful for that fortune? Can we not agree that even though we must have border control and laws we can still show empathy to those less fortunate? We can still follow the rules of our land while refraining from turning these people into memes that we pass around Facebook for a laugh. Making fun of their circumstances and belittling them as humans is beneath us. While we enjoy and benefit from all we have claimed must we forget that we are the lucky ones while lacking compassion for those who aren’t?

It’s been this way since the beginning of time. The haves and the have nots. 

You wanna “Make America Great Again?” 

Then let’s find a better way...for everyone. 

As always, thank you for reading. 

Worst Year Ever

Most people who know me know that I am not a person to wallow in sorrow or complain much. I have never seen the value in dwelling on what I cannot change. And if I’m honest with myself I’m often uncomfortable with the emotions attached to the dwelling. But this last year, the worst year of my life, has made my ritualistic process of dealing with the inescapable very difficult. 

My writing mission has always been about using my own life experiences to try and inspire or spread hope in others. So I had to find a way to use this last year in the same capacity and to find that ever existing silver lining. 

So here’s what I now know...

Losing a parent sucks. The day my Dad died was a mixture of pure devastation and also a sense of relief. He’d been declining for months and always felt like crap. He was falling all the time and began to no longer take pleasure in some of his favorite things. We all knew he felt like a burden. Watching this giant, strong, capable, retired police officer that everyone knew as “Big Jack” need help with everything was heart-wrenching. But the feelings of relief were fleeting. I miss him. My Dad dying was an eventuality that I thought about many, many times over the years. I actually thought I was somewhat ahead of the game with emotional preparation. What I now understand is there is no amount of preparation that can ease the aching loss of a parent. The person who without their existence yours would be void. This sadness is something you cannot explain or prepare anyone for. You understand it only the moment that it happens to you. And I now live with a new companion - Mr. Heavy Chest. It’s a distinct weight that I will forever carry. Those who have known this weight longer than me have assured me that after time it will seem lighter. But that’s the illusion. It will “seem” lighter because after time you forget what it was like to live without it. It’s a chronic pain that becomes your new normal. It is what it is. 

Building true friendships can happen no matter how old you are.  At this later point in my life I am often awe-struck at the unexpected friendships I have developed. I knew that I would meet people along the way that I enjoyed spending time with, but the incredible humans who have come in to my life in the last few years have truly been a blessing and a surprise. I kinda knew they were special but their grace, thoughtfulness, generosity, and genuine kindness have been revealed so clearly this last year. They have shown up for me in more ways than I can possibly count. I find qualities in each of them that I want to emulate - qualities that inspire me to be a better person. They are an incredible addition to the amazing friendships I have had for decades. I am grateful for them all! This year especially, my fortune has truly resonated. 

Just because you share blood or a last name doesn’t make someone your family. This was shown to me in several arenas unfortunately. Many people feel there is a familial obligation that is non-negotiable and will allow harmful and damaging behaviors to taint all things around them. They live this way as if they have no choice. I have been guilty of this in my life. But not anymore. I’m almost 43 years old and what I have learned is that the people you surround yourself with should be loyal, honest, supportive and they should stick up for you. They should want to protect you like you want to protect them. And if not then there should be consequences not blind acceptance. It’s okay to love yourself more in this scenario. It’s okay to say “No! I deserve better!” And it’s absolutely essential to protect your children from growing up in abusive and unhealthy relationships no matter who it is. 

It’s okay to ask for help. This year I’ve learned a new level of humility. I have often found myself in the position to help others. This year I have needed help and I struggled to ask for it. People have often described me as being strong and supportive. I didn’t realize that I had taken a level of pride in that. I was surprised how hard it was for me to admit that this year I needed strength and support from others. I didn’t realize that they truly wanted to give it. I incorrectly assumed it weakened my character if I found myself in need. But what I now know is that part of being strong means knowing when it’s okay to be weak. And asking for help takes strength and accepting it makes you stronger. 

Finally, God isn’t going away. Without my love and trust in him I would not have made it this far. He has been with me for as long as I can remember. I have felt him in my darkest moments and in my highest highs. I have turned from him so many times in my life and he stays. I have doubted and questioned so many things but there he is. He continues to reassure me and strengthen my faith. He shows me his presence in small and big ways each and every day. He guides me and comforts me and never gives up. His tireless companionship is all I need. Knowing that makes all the difference in this life that can so often feel overwhelming and impossible.

I know this next year will bring more needed enlightenment and lessons. There will be new mistakes and old ones. I am prepared for challenges and failures. There will be painful times and dark moments. But as I learned this year, the worst year of my life, that as long as there is breath in my body there will also be times of great joy, there will be successful accomplishments, acceptance, kindness, love, a conquering spirit and laughter. Always laughter! My only resolutions will continue to be - to grow and evolve, to try and become a better version of myself, to show love and compassion, to listen, to learn from others, and to relish in all that I am given from above. 

I hope and pray for all of my readers and supporters great wonder, inspiration, and happiness for this next year and beyond! 

As Always, thank you for reading and Happy New Year! 

A Woman's Plight

Remember that scene from "Back to the Future" when Biff is sexually assaulting Lorraine at the dance? How about in "Revenge of The Nerds" when Lewis performs oral sex on Betty while she is under the impression it's Ted, her boyfriend? Betty is then so overcome with his performance that she dumps Ted and runs off with Lewis. In "St. Elmo's Fire" Billy gropes and fondles an unwilling Jules in her Jeep and yet it's brushed off as if to say "That's just Billy being drunk and stupid.”  

"Grease", "Tootsie", "Sixteen Candles", "The Goonies", “9 to 5”- some of our all time favorite movies all making light of sexual harassment or assault against women. Sadly the list goes on and on. And more sadly, nothing has changed at all. 

It’s 2018 and though there are more laws, procedures, and protection for women against sexual assault and harassment we really haven’t come that far. Though the majority of men may have never or would never participate in these vile behaviors many of them still feel a “certain way” regarding women. 

Why are we still struggling to receive the respect and value that we deserve? Because women for centuries have been conditioned to accept these behaviors as “just the way it is.” And since the beginning of time men have been conditioned to think we are the lesser sex. We are undeserving of equality which in turn entitles some men to this behavior. Furthermore many of them don’t recognize it as a serious enough offense unless it’s actually rape. This is a fallacy that allows them to sleep at night. 

How many of us women have men in our lives who have made unwanted advancements, touched us inappropriately, or made sexual comments that make us uncomfortable? A friend's husband? Your husband's boss? A stranger in a bar? I can claim all three of these examples more than once and have never said a word. Why? 

Well, we don't want to upset our friend and possibly damage the friendship. What if she doesn't believe us? Better for everyone to just let it slide. 

The Boss...well we certainly can't risk our husband getting fired if we turn around and shove his boss when he grabs our ass at the work Christmas Party. Better to just ignore it. 

And a stranger in a bar is the most terrifying as they might do something unpredictable and physically harmful. Can't risk that. Better to just stay silent. 

But who is this actually better for? 

We have become silent sufferers of behaviors and assaults that make our skin crawl and suck our dignity away like a vacuum. And all the while these types of men are emboldened. And every time we say nothing another woman will endure the same. 

More alarmingly, many of the men who I personally have tolerated this behavior from are members of the same party who shows such disdain for our current administration’s lack of respect and support for women. It has often left me dumbfounded. They don't seem to see their own actions or participation as being the same. They appear to be lacking any personal culpability at all. How can this be? 

Since the nature of this behavior towards women has been ingrained in the male culture from generations long ago, it appears to go unnoticed by them. What’s been sold? Women are for men's pleasure. That's our first and foremost value. Sure we have other attributes but at the end of the day sex is the best thing we offer. The good ole Caveman Concept. Just grab us by the hair and drag us to your cave. We are yours for the taking. 

When I wrote my five part series “They Called Me Backseat Becky” this past Spring I thought I was revealing a haunting and shocking part of my adolescence to the world. I expected unwanted pity and sort of a bombshell effect. Instead, I found out how common my story was. It wasn’t anything new or unique at all. Female after female reached out to me and shared their stories with courage. I was the one in shock. There were so many of us. And the most common denominator? We never told. 

Countless men ask “Why?” The fact that a woman could go decades keeping a secret like this or go years continuing to endure unwanted harassment seems to leave them completely perplexed and doubtful of our honesty. “How could we not speak out?”

The answer? Embarrassment, shame, denial, fear of not being believed, fear of retaliation, or just the need to try and forget it. We shove it away and keep it buried deep within hoping that years, people, experiences, life, anything will layer on top of it until it is no longer locatable. 

This false sense of “recovery” is like an undetectable disease. A quiet infection with symptoms that manifest in often untraceable ways. In turn, whether we realize it or not we often become perfect targets for this unwanted behavior over and over again. Some of us even akin it to being desired and wanted and therefore convince ourselves that it’s okay. This then perpetuates the ongoing “sweeping it under the rug” and the snowball continues down the hill. 

Well I for one am done. As a sexual assault survivor who stayed silent for 26 years and the mother to a little girl, I am no longer willing to allow these behaviors to be excused. 

We as women must stand together in a unity of NO tolerance. No more laughing off unwanted sexual innuendos or advancements. No more pretending it’s okay so as not to rock the boat. No more keeping it to ourselves and letting it go. We can lead the charge. We have a responsibility to change the future for our daughters and those that will come after them. To be the ones who will not tolerate these demeaning and humiliating actions. To be the ones who will stand up in the crowd and loudly proclaim their truth with no shame or fear of retribution. Let's raise young men who value woman for all they are and not only for what stirs them sexually. Let's raise them to look at women with respect and appreciation. And let’s raise daughters who won’t settle for anything less. 

 We are the only ones who can truly stop this archaic cycle. 

Tomorrow starts today. 

As always thank you for reading. 

Remember Not To Forget

I wanted to take a few days to write about this past September 11th. Many of you know how connected to 9/11 I am. Even though I wasn’t here and I didn’t know anyone who was murdered, by fate and design I became irreversibly part of this unimaginable day. And because of that I feel a deep rooted responsibility to continue to encourage others to never forget and to seek true understanding no matter how uncomfortable that is. 

I have been regularly attending the 9/11 ceremony since 2006. This annual experience is the most moving and heart-wrenching thing I have ever seen. The moment I step onto the mall I am overwhelmed with the unity of devastation, sadness and quiet grief. It truly transcends any other feelings I have ever felt. For so much of the world it’s just one day a year to honor these victims. The reality is that those who lost their lives are not the only victims. 

I stand very still while name after name pours into my ears. I watch helplessly as readers walk off the stage on wobbly legs and throw themselves into the arms of a loved one. They shake and sob like 9/11 happened yesterday. This irreparable pain is still so present for them. And this day happens to them over and over every year; yet they submit to it to honor those who were so brutally taken. 

After I wait until Andrea’s name is called I then walk slowly to the museum. I spend the next few hours reliving the day as best I can having not been here. I spend a great deal of time in the victims room. A room with 4 floor to ceiling walls of photographs; photographs of each person who perished. Each time I see new faces and names and wonder what their lives were like, who they left behind, and what they went through. I then step over to the station where one can look up each person and read more about them and see photos from their life. Some even have personal accounted recordings from loved ones. I always choose those I’ve never read before. For me I want to know who these people were. They are not just part of a large number of humans no longer here. They are not just faces on a wall. They deserve more than that. 

On September 11th every year while people are off to work, enjoying a coffee, laughing with a friend, and posting funny meme’s on Facebook there are thousands of people who can barely breathe thru the tragic reminder of the horror that this day represents. Losing a loved one is awful and leaves a hole in your soul forever but this is different. It’s not the same as losing someone to cancer or a car accident. This is everywhere. It’s on TV, the newspaper, magazines, social media....for these people it is inescapable. For those who were here it’s inescapable. 

This year I met someone new. His name is Mike. He is in a wheel chair and on oxygen. As a medic he was a first responder and on the search and rescue team. Mike recovered over 500 victims in some way or another, including Andrea. This year he was honored with a flag that flew on 9/11. He told me he hadn’t slept in 17 years. He now has a pace maker and defibrillator, blood poisoning, and cancer. This man hit the ground running without any hesitation to help a country in crisis. This kind of bravery and true human spirit go beyond. I don’t know if I could have endured it. Yet thousands and thousands of volunteers did. Do we think of these people? Those who put themselves through indescribable images and conditions for complete strangers? Those who are slowly being taken because of 9/11 and their sacrifice in the days that followed?

I have had more than a handful of people tell me over the years that going to the memorial and especially the museum is just too emotionally hard on them. Well I completely challenge that. I believe every person who wasn’t here that fateful day, especially Americans should have to spend one day experiencing this. These people should be honored and mourned. They should be visited and understood. Nothing a person will feel in the few hours they are inside the museum could ever come close to the horror and destruction that our victims experienced or what these loved ones bear within themselves forever. 

As I scrolled through Facebook this year I was saddened to see far fewer postings for 9/11 than last year. People have either started to forget or think that since it’s been 17 years it’s just not important anymore. What a sad shame. It has been said so many times how unfortunate it was that something like 9/11 had to occur to generate the amazing love, acceptance, and human kindness that occurred in this world after that tragic day. It lasted for while but it slowly faded away. We are back to being at each others throats politically, socially, and personally. We are back to putting ourselves first and caring not for the nameless face next to us. I can hear these people begging through those 2,996 photos for us not to forget them. And to please not let their deaths be for nothing. 

I ask that you all please take a moment and remember. Remember these people. Remember them more than one day a year. Get to know them. 

We are better than what we have become. And they are pleading with us to see that. 

As Always Thank You For Reading... 

Life Minus Daddy

When you lose a parent it is a life-changing and soul-crushing experience. It’s also one of those things that there is absolutely no way to understand or empathize with unless it has happened to you. Sadly I know that now. Having had many friends lose a Mom or Dad I always felt so bad for them and thought I was able to be truly sympathetic. I was not. 

My sweet Daddy has been gone for 2 months, 15 days, and 4 hours. I miss him so much. And in so many ways I still can’t believe he’s gone. I knew this day would come. I have been dreading it for more than a decade. I used to try and imagine my life with him no longer here and it seemed impossible that would ever be the case. And then, he’s just not here. 

The first few months there was so much going on that I found myself able to stay busy and not focus too much on his passing. Since we have a strong faith and firmly believe we will be reunited once again in Heaven it’s been easier to think of him there, healthy and happy. But the last few weeks have been something new. I of course have been told that the grieving process is ever changing and one can’t predict how they may feel from week to week. I’m sure everyone has different stages and ways they move through it. I have started doing something that seems almost uncontrollable. 

Places, people, things all now occur to me as “The last time I did this Daddy was alive.”“The last time I ate this Daddy was still here.” It can be the smallest or most mundane of things and I can’t stop myself from the association. I went to see a Broadway show a few weeks ago with some friends who were visiting us in NYC. It was the 6th time I had been to this particular show. Some of the songs took on new meaning for me and I found myself silently crying as it occurred to me that the last time I had seen “Wicked” Daddy wasn’t gone. 

The strong girl in me who doesn’t like to wallow tried to ignore that feeling and move past it as fast as possible. But it has been persistent. 

Last week, Ryan, Rilyn and I left New York City with our dog Daisy to drive to our cabin in North Carolina. We bought the cabin a few years ago from my Mom and Dad. They owned it since 1987. My childhood and adolescence are as connected to this place as they are anywhere else. Having anyone else own it felt wrong and I wanted our daughter to grow up coming to these beautiful mountains. 

As we were in our last hour of driving I found myself dreading the arrival instead of my usual feelings of excitement. I knew that Dad’s blue chair that he loved to sit in would be on the porch. I knew the couch downstairs where we watched a movie last summer together would be there empty. I knew I would never sit at the picnic table and eat dinner with him again. That same picnic table that I took one of my favorite pictures with my Dad 20 years ago. I suddenly didn’t want to come. 

The last time I was here...Daddy was alive. 

The memories here with my Dad are thick and heavy. Even the times we have come without him, he seemed everywhere. Calling him to let him know we made it in okay was the first thing I ever did. He would worry about his kids when they were on the road. And once here, he wanted to hear from us the whole trip. He was always curious where we had gone or what we had done. And every action I have completed since we arrived are now actions that the last time I did them, Daddy was still here. 

Eating my first bowl of boiled peanuts was almost painful. I couldn’t stop thinking about the ones in my parents’ freezer that Daddy made last year. Should we ever eat them or just keep them forever? Daddy was known for his peanuts. He loved making them and eating them more than anyone I have ever known. Those peanuts in the freezer are the last he’ll ever make. They almost seem sacred. The sad reality is that a boiled peanut for the rest of my life will always make me miss my Dad. I will never be able to enjoy them the way I did before. 

Throughout this last week, all the places we’ve gone and people we have seen, the same drives through the mountains that Daddy always took us on, the waterfalls we’ve stopped at, it’s become jarringly clear that the reasons I love this place so much are all wrapped up in the memories of my life here with my Dad. Decades of memories. There will never be new ones with him. 

Right now, honestly, it’s more painful to relish them than to try and push them away. I know it won’t always be like this. And I looked forward to the day when I can marinate in all the amazing and fulfilling times I spent with my Dad. But it’s going to be a minute. My world just feels off with him gone. And the reality I must accept is that life from here on out will be seen as before and after Daddy. That’s just the way it is. There is no way to avoid this kind of loss if you live long enough. There is also no way to prepare yourself for the process. 

My heart now understands what so many have experienced before me. But because of that I also have hope that one day it will be better. That I will evolve to a new place of understanding and acceptance that I am unable to see right now. 

Until then, I’m going to take the deep breaths that push the lump out of my throat and silently thank Daddy for the reason we are here, at our cozy cabin, making new memories with so many of our beloved family and friends. This is exactly what Daddy would want!

As always, Thank you for reading! 

They Called Me "Backseat Becky" - Part 5

I could feel the sweat slowly coursing down the center of my back. It must have been a sweet draw for the mosquitoes who were not missing dinner like I was. The humid air was thick and filled with the sounds and smells of Florida in July. Then the dogs started to bark. Faint but hearty. I could easily tell they were of a large breed. As I sat in the lush green thicket watching nightfall approach I begin to worry they were hunting me. In my naive youthful state I actually thought they may have called the dogs to sniff me out. I could picture the police leading them through the surrounding neighborhoods ready to burst through my safe haven at any moment. I began to panic. I needed to move. I needed to find somewhere else to take refuge. But I was frozen in fear. Maybe I wanted them to find me? This had clearly gone in such a terrible direction and home sounded really good. But there I stayed for the next 3 hours. 

Around midnight I decided to walk to the closest street and figure out my next move. Maybe I could find a phone. There were a few people I could think of to call. As I crossed the intersection to the adjoining neighborhood more large dogs began to bark. I had a personal fear of large dogs that stemmed from my childhood. As I bolted back in the direction I had come from I lost one of my sandals. I stood stock still. Not knowing if I should go back for the shoe or just move on with the one I had left. As I stood there contemplating and mustering the courage of what I knew was the right decision a car tuned onto the street. It slowed down and the passenger window rolled down. Two Boys around my age looked out. 

“Are you okay?” Do I engage? Talk to strangers in the middle of the night on a dark street? “Can we give you a ride somewhere?”

I was exhausted, covered in sweat, and at a loss. “I actually don’t have anywhere to go. I ran away from home.” 

The driver immediately said “Well, I got take my buddy home but then you can crash at my place if you want. Call someone in the morning?” 

“Your parents won’t care?” I asked. 

“You can come right in my window. They leave for work early.” he replied. Every single thing I had ever been taught evaporated with the thought of lying in a bed and sleeping. I quickly ran to grab my missing shoe and hopped in the backseat. 

Just as promised, I was easily escorted through an open window to this boy’s bedroom. He snuck me down the hall to use the restroom and then back to his room. I remember lying as still as possible. Desperately ready for sleep but also awaiting some sort of expected payment for my rescue. Eventually, my exhaustion overpowered my concern. My eyes fluttered closed and I was out. My knight slept quietly beside me, not at any point trying to take advantage of his unexpected guest. When I woke in the morning, I was actually surprised. I hadn’t had much interaction with the opposite sex that had allowed me to walk away unscathed. When I met him in his living room he said “Good Morning” with a hint of a Southern accent. He asked if I wanted something to eat. I was then handed a cordless phone so that I could call for reinforcements. Calling the older boy who took me to prom was the first person I could think of. If only I had called anyone else...

I knew the way he had treated me for not sleeping with him after prom was crappy. But we had known each other for so long and we had had some really good times. I made excuses for his behavior. I tried to justify it as understandable. His Mom had just died so tragically and unexpectedly. He was older and more experienced than me. He was popular. I had originally agreed to the deal. And at the end of the day, he had a car, and not really anyone to answer to so I thought he was my best option for assistance. The phone rang, he answered. I explained my plight and he said he was on his way to pick me up. In that moment he redeemed himself. I needed help and he was on the way. I thanked the boy whose name to this day I can’t remember and hopped into that faded red car the moment it pulled into the driveway. 

I felt optimistic. I was on the move, headed back to my neck of the woods and was going to figure it out! Older boy explained to me that another friend my age was home alone for the weekend. His parents had gone out of town so I could stay there until Sunday. He then told me about a party that night in Ponte Vedra that we would be going to. It all sounded heavenly after my last 24 hours. When we arrived at younger boy’s house I was immediately offered a shower and a change of clothes. His older sister wasn’t home so he raided her closet for me. As the hot soothing water rushed over my skin I began to think of my good fortune to have two good friends who wanted to help me. They were both being so nice and really making me feel taken care of. Relaxed, I relished washing away the stench and sweat from the night before. I think I stayed in the shower for over half an hour. I can still clearly remember drying off and putting on the clean clothes, feeling refreshed and renewed. 

When I walked into the living room the boys were both at the wet bar having a drink. And would you believe they already had one waiting on me? How thoughtful. We stayed there drinking who knows what for the next couple of hours. I began to feel dizzy and could tell my words were slurring. Then older boy said it was “Time to Bolt.” I can still hear him saying it. It was the last time I would ever hear his voice that it wouldn’t make me want to crawl inside myself and die. I had to lay across the backseat. I didn’t have enough experience at 16 with drinking liquor. I was worried I might throw up and began taking deep heaving breaths. I assumed we were on the way to Ponte Vedra so when I began to feel the car going down a dirt road and saw all the flashes of green that were clearly the overhang of many trees I was confused. Were we going to the lakes? The parties here were always late at night. It was still daylight outside. 

When the back door opened, I spoke in a thin voice that I couldn’t get up. Older boy willingly assisted me. He dragged me out by both of my arms. A recent summer thunderstorm had just passed through and had left its rain-soaked evidence all around. Then younger boy came to help and they carried me over to a wet, dirty, mattress that had been tossed on top of one of the fire pits for eventual burning. I knew the mattress. It was older boy’s dead Mother’s. He had told me weeks prior that he had dumped it there. I remember feeling so sorry and sad for him. Not anymore. As the cold wetness from the mattress began to soak thru my fresh clothes I thought “I was so clean. Now I’m going to need another shower.” I still don’t think what was about to happen had sunk in...until my shorts were removed. 

When younger boy crawled on top of me clarity was a slap in the face. I was immediately blasted by his invading presence, alcohol infused breath and bumbling hands. I began to cry and chant “No, please don’t” but his mission continued. He wasn’t listening to me and older boy was cheering him on. For as long as I live I will never be able to expunge the image of opening my eyes and seeing older boy hovering over me. This 18 year old boy who I thought cared about me at least a little was standing proudly,  holding his penis in his hand. He began hungrily stroking himself while instructing younger boy to “Hurry up, I’m want a turn. Hurry up man, I’m next!” I closed my eyes. 

The shame, disillusionment, and humiliation while lying there wet, too drunk to defend myself, and in broad daylight was the perfect parallel of suffocation and numbness. I just existed there, quietly crying, while being used like a worthless rag doll. Hot tears were running into my ears. I felt myself disappearing into somewhere far away. Then, younger boy actually began to feel bad. He started saying “This isn’t right. We shouldn’t be doing this. She’s crying.” In that moment right or wrong I knew that he had been talked into this by older boy. There was a small amount of relief knowing that he had felt remorse. Older boy felt nothing. He wanted his prom payment, no matter how he got it. 

Then, the nightmare ended. Younger boy’s conscience took over. He wouldn’t allow older boy to “finish” and he demanded it end. It’s so bizarre that all these years later I have felt less anger and hurt towards younger boy than I do older boy. The majority of my disgust and loathing has always been for older boy. He was the ringleader to my pain and suffering. Older boy was the one who felt no remorse. He was the one whose betrayal was the most significant. I have always felt truly and throughly raped by him. 

Once I was on my feet again I had to throw up. They allowed it before slinging me back into the backseat. The car started and bumped its way through the dirt path back out to the main road. We were headed to the beach, to the party in Ponte Vedra. I can’t remember anyone talking. I just closed my eyes and pretended to be peacefully asleep. Which immediately reminded me of the night before. I had gone home with a complete stranger, a person who in common circumstances might have been the one to have abused me so deeply. Instead, he turned out to be a lovely gentleman coming to the aid of a girl in distress. My new reality, it was a person close to me, someone I had known most of my life, an evil wolf in sheep’s clothing that was the true culprit of my debasement. In these past 26 years the irony has never been lost on me. 

I was barely coherent by the time we arrived at our destination. I remember hearing older boy say “Just leave her in the car.” And that’s what they did. Time passed, it began to get dark. I laid there, half passed out, half in shock, and drowning in disgrace, degradation and discomfort. I had no idea what I was supposed to do next. Did I go inside? Should I just run? It never even occurred to me to call the police. I knew a crime had been committed. But the thought of my parents finding out was paralyzing. The shame of it was too much and I was a runaway. What if they thought I had brought it on myself? Somehow deserved it? The car door opened. 

A girl who I had considered a friend and her boyfriend got into the car. They asked if I was okay. They had clearly been told I was drunk and passed out in the back of older boy’s car. They explained they were going to the store and were borrowing the car. I could just stay in the backseat they said. Only that’s not where we went. As we pulled into a local fish camp parking lot I saw my parents van. Another betrayal. I scrambled as fast as I could to get out of the car. I began to run. In my state I was no match for the boyfriend, my birkenstocks, and gravel made from crushed seashells. I could feel them cutting into me, slicing my knees when I was tackled to the ground. It was over. I was being dragged into the van by my angry parents desperate to take me home. All I could do was sob. Sob for all my mistakes. Sob for who everyone thought I was. Sob for all that I had endured. Sob because I was going home. Sob for the parents I needed that they didn’t know how to be. Sob for what I thought was surely my soul splitting in two. 

I’ve decided to keep the details of what happened when I got home that night in our private family vault. But suffice it to say...I survived and Mom and Dad still loved me. They were glad I was home and I guess we were all happy that it was over. The brightish side for me; Mom and Dad were never great at follow through with grounding me. So in a short time I was back in my car and free to see my friends. I was still splitting time between my Art School friends and those from my past. I played the part of fun, carefree girl to those who didn’t know better. It became my greatest acting role to date. I was lucky that I had an alternate universe to escape from. It was my saving grace. 

To my great chagrin, shortly after the night I was brought back home, I mentioned to two girlfriends from my old school about what older boy and younger boy had done. I needed to say it out loud to someone. They seemed shocked and angry. There was still no mention of calling the police. I’m not sure if I expected it or not. But I think I was hoping someone would feel indignant enough on my behalf to push me in any direction that empowered me to standup for myself. Soon what I found out was that they did decide to mention my painful experience to someone...other kids. I guess it was just too juicy a tidbit to tuck away. 

A few weeks later I was out with some friends at another person’s house. It was a small gathering and I felt safe as none of my old tormenters were present. Until older boy walked inside. My skin began to crawl, my heart raced, and my breathing was labored. I immediately grabbed my purse and told my friends that I was going to go home. As I walked to my car, older boy came after me. “Hey, Becky hold up.” I stopped. He grabbed my arm and spun me around. The sound of his voice was immobilizing. “What’s this I hear about me and younger boy raping you?!” He said with a sardonic smile. I looked at the ground. “I really hope you aren’t telling people that, look at me.” I looked at him. “You should keep your mouth shut before you make yourself look even worse. No one is going to believe you anyway, “Backseat Becky.” He winked, gave a half smile and headed back to the house. I realized then that I could never talk about what they did to me again. He was right. No one would believe me. The people in the house had clearly heard what had happened. And worse, someone had told him I was there so he could come and confront me over my “lies.” There was no one left to trust or count on. 

Something happened inside of me in that moment. My newfound comprehension of the web of ugliness, disloyalty, and calculated enjoyment being taken by these kids shattered what was left of my innocence. I understood everything and nothing. But I knew that this was the last time I would let them hurt me. I would leave broken and scarred but not destroyed. On unstable legs I walked to my car like a battered warrior. I was deeply wounded but my recent grasp of who these people were made my purpose resolute. They would never know the damage they had inflicted and they would never see me cry again. I wasn’t sure how I would get through it alone. But I was determined to forget them all and what they had done to me.

At only 16 years old, I could have never anticipated how tumultuous the journey ahead was going to be. Honestly gnarly at times. But I made it. It wasn’t easy, but I survived and I excelled. They didn’t win. I did. My life is full of wonderful family members, amazing friendships, a devoted and loving husband and a daughter I could have never imagined could exist. There are constant opportunities and experiences I never thought possible. Those years in my adolescence, as painfully tragic as they were, pale in comparison to the bright future that was waiting on me. 

I thank God every day that “Backseat Becky” jumped in the front seat, took hold of the wheel, and drove off into the sunset.

And this is where I leave you...For Now. 

Postscript: 

When I started “They Called Me Backseat Becky” I truly thought it was a story for my blog. But as I began to write it I knew I would not be able to share the whole story here. At the advice of numerous friends and colleagues along with the loving encouragement of my husband, partner, and editor, I have decided to write a book. There is so much more to tell and I hope and pray for it to be an encouraging story that helps young people struggling with the abuse of bullying and sexual assault as well as adults who are survivors or parents who need to find a way to reach or understand their children. 

Thank you to all of you who have given me such love and support through this difficult and unveiling process. You are all contributors to the evolution of “Backseat Becky”. I am grateful. 

Stay Tuned...

As always...Thank you for reading! 

They Called Me "Backseat Becky" - Part Four

They Called Me “Backseat Becky” 

Part Four 

On a warm sunny Florida day a few weeks after prom, my Mom picked me up from school. We stopped off at the mall to do a little shopping. I remember exactly what I was wearing and how I had done my hair. An adorable floral cotton jumper with pearl buttons up the front, my beloved Birkenstocks, and barrettes on each side of my head holding up my long dark hair. I guess the day you almost take your own life stays vividly etched in your memory. 

My Mom had wandered off, probably to whatever store was having the biggest sale and I was on my way to find her. I was running up the escalator when my right sandal caught one of the steps. My big toe shot out and became an instant meal for the teeth of the stairs. As I made it to the landing I was bleeding badly. I remember limping through the store with a pool of blood that had collected in my shoe, searching for my Mom. She was a nurse and I knew she would know what to do. 

As predicted she had me cleaned up and bandaged in no time from supplies in her trunk. The skin on my toe was more mangled than cut so stitches wouldn’t have helped.  As we pulled into our driveway I was happy to be home and was looking forward to putting my foot up and letting my Mom give me some TLC. It wasn’t long after that there was a knock on our front door. 

I could hear her voice. The syrupy sweet sound had an ominous undertone that was hard to miss. Mama called me out of my room and said some friends had come to see me. As I walked into our kitchen there she was. Her crystal blue eyes sparkled with confidence and a smug power that filled me with dread. She had introduced herself to my Mom, and though they had never met, Mama knew who she was. Aside from being pretty, popular, and rich, Mean Girl #1 had a very well-known father in our community. She complimented my Mother on our home and Mama’s reaction was about the same as if the Queen herself had delivered the praise.  

I knew whatever Mean Girl #1 was here for wasn’t something I wanted Mama to know about. So, I suggested we hang out in the front yard. “Bye, Mrs. Wilcox. It was soooooo nice to meet you.” I almost threw up. The contrived sing-song lilt of her voice was an invasion in my home. My safe place. MY home. With my heart racing, my brain spinning and my foot throbbing...I limped out my front door to face the troop who had come to our little cove to exact their vengeance. 

The calculated payment they expected for my crimes was like choosing a knife or poison. They had planned this for who knows how long. They were unified and not one of them showed an ounce of compassion. “So here’s the deal” said the leader as she she stood in front of her pristine white Volvo that was comfortably parked in my driveway. “You have two choices, you can come with us to the woods where we will beat the shit out of you, OR I’m going to go back inside your house and tell your Mom what a slut of a daughter she has. After meeting her, I bet she won’t be too happy to hear that her daughter is nothing but a boyfriend stealing whore.” 

Sweat started to gather everywhere. A slight dizziness. How had my life come to this? My chest began to tighten. Breathing was labored. This was a choice? My strict Christian upbringing wasn’t lost on anyone. They knew very well that being beaten was the only viable option I had. I pathetically tried to buy time. They were insistent. I told them I needed to go inside and ask my Mom if I could go off for a while. They gleamed with joy. This was the choice they had come for. Violence was what they wanted. I was no longer a person. I was a punching bag who deserved every painful blow. I was nothing.

The moment I stepped back inside Mama said “I can’t believe blankety blank’s daughter thinks my house is beautiful. Her home must be 10 times nicer than ours.” Mama had been sold. I knew she would believe whatever Mean Girl #1 told her. But I also knew that I couldn’t live in a world where they had won. I just needed time. Furiously combing every inch of my brain for anything to tell them I limped back outside. “Mama said I can go, but I just need to finish my chores. If you come back in 30 minutes I’ll be ready.” They all scoffed, “Well, gee, not sure, what should we do ladies?” “She’ll still be a slut who deserves a beating in 30 minutes, lets just come back.” Giggling laughter erupted as they all hopped into the Volvo. “See you soon Backseat Becky!” 

I was in a state of absolute panic but a 30 minute postponement felt like a week. There had to be something I could do. Then I saw Daddy’s brief case. I knew what was inside. He was a retired police officer and traveled a lot. He was allowed to carry a pistol. I knew the code on each spinning lock. I had never shot a gun but I knew enough to figure it out. I took the gun to my room and sat on my denim colored carpet staring around at all the things that were mine. The cordless phone rang. I answered it. “We’re down the street slut, we’re coming back. You better be ready.” I hung up but not before I heard all the girls laughing and taunting me in the background. I even knew where they were. They were at a girl’s house who I had grown up with. I thought she was my friend. 

What was the point? No matter what I did they weren’t going to leave me alone. If Mama and Daddy found out what was being said the shame would kill me anyway so why not just take care of it myself, on my terms? I must admit I felt a sense of personal control that I had been lacking for so long. If I was a blown away bloody mess none of them could hurt me anymore. They would have to find someone else to feed their vampire need to suck away life. I would win...right? 

I sat on my floor trembling and hopeless, holding my Daddy’s .38 Special. So many contradicting thoughts and feelings, aching pain, self-doubt and shame. Christmas at Mam-Maw’s surrounded by my family, Nat King Cole, and Hershey’s Kisses. Crying at night so hard I thought my heart would stop. Laughing with my amazing art school friends who lifted me up in a way I had never known. Constant fear of what would happen next. Being on stage and experiencing the life-breathing electricity that made me feel alive. Facing my parents if they found out. 

With a hand that felt like cement, I lifted the gun. God would understand. 

My younger sister NEVER knocked. We had shared a room until I was 11 and I assumed that privacy was a given after that. But barging in unannounced was her jam. And because of that I’ll always thank the Big Guy upstairs for nosey, annoying, little sisters.  “What are you doing Becky?” “ Nothing, what are you talking about?” Holding the gun behind my back. “On my God, what is wrong?” Uncontrollable tears, gulping for air, incoherent explanations. 

The phone rang. She was 14, but she stepped up like a Boss. “You will leave my sister alone. I would hate to have to tell my Father what you’ve done.  He’s a retired police officer and knows every cop and judge in this town. You come here again and just see what happens.” I sat transfixed. She put the phone down, turned to me and simply said “They aren’t coming back.” 

Staring at this sprite of a child through a kaleidoscope of tears I savored my reprieve like a starving man with his first bite of food. My soul filled with a tiny hope. Maybe, just maybe...

The girls didn’t come back. I knew they were still out there along with all the other haters. But for the time being I was allowed to remain intact. School was out and summer had begun. My family always went to St. Augustine for one week each summer. Being 16 and having my own car made the trip much better than years prior. I felt so grown up cruising the beach. I didn’t have to worry as much about running into those who would see me damned. But I still couldn’t stay out of trouble with my parents. I was such an emotionally twisted mess that acting out became the only way I could release the pressure that was my constant companion. And deep down, I blamed them. 

If only I had made it home for curfew that night. As I snuck my way through the pool area, hoping my parents were long asleep, I saw my Mother leaning over the 4th floor balcony calling for me. She was angry. I knew I was in trouble. So I did what I did best in that scenario. I ran. With the clothes on my back, a half a tank of gas and a few dollars in my purse, I drove off into the night. I went to a friend’s house where I knew I could stay the night. I would figure it out in the morning. Now was all that mattered. I got high, hung out, and crashed. 

When morning came I realized that the damage was done. I knew how worried my folks must have been but I couldn’t go home. Looking back, it all seems so simple. Just go and say you’re sorry. Give them your car keys and take your lumps. But I was terrified. I wasn’t any of the things I knew they wanted me to be. I felt their disapproval and disappointment like the burning heat of summer. I loved them and hated them at the same time. I felt like a stranger. I felt like they would never accept me the way I was.  Pretending to be a person they could be proud of was an acting job I didn’t want. I just wasn’t that talented. 

I have 6 sisters total. 5 are much older than me. I decided my best chance was to go to the one I thought my parents would least expect me to go to. I was hungry and tired and scared, and I thought she would help me. Now please don’t get me wrong, I love my sister to this day and this part of my story isn’t a condemnation of her. It was a long time ago and I guess she did what she thought was right at the time. But if I’m to tell this story with purity I have to tell it all. 

She welcomed me in. Homemade spaghetti and a glass of sweet tea was like heaven on a TV tray. Two bites in and there was a knock at the door. There he was, a tall handsome officer of the law, his sunglasses reflecting my Sisters face. “You have a reported runaway here Ma’am?” My eyes darted to the table by the front door. My keys were gone. She set me up! It was like an explosion happened inside my soul. Betrayed again. 

I lost all sense of composure or ability to control what came out of my mouth. I became a screaming banshee with the most colorfully vile vocabulary one can imagine. Mirrored sunglasses man intervened. Clearly underestimating me, he asked me to sit out front and calm down while he talked to my sister. What an amateur move. I didn’t need a car. Both my legs still worked. So in my ragged jean shorts, faded mauve t-shirt and Birkenstocks, I tore off. Down the front steps of the apartment complex, through the parking lot, over a chain link fence and into a thicket of woods. I remember thinking “I’ll show them. How funny when they open the front door and I’m gone.” 

There I huddled, sweating beneath the bushes, night falling, mosquitoes biting, heart breaking, thinking of that plate of spaghetti and perfectly sweetened tea, sitting barely touched. 

In that moment I couldn’t imagine things getting much worse. But I was mistaken once again...

Please stay tuned for my 5th installment coming soon. 

As always, Thank You for reading. 

They Called Me "Backseat Becky" Part Three

Part Three 

Boys, boys, boys. They made my head spin. A simple compliment and any dating tactics that I had heard of went out the window. It was like tipping a cow. Just a small push and I fell over into a puddle of bliss. They wanted me. So who was I to say no? Wouldn’t they like me even more if I gave them what they wanted? That seemed accurate. Wrong. Wrong. And wrong. But the first boy to escort me into what was to come had charm and convincing charisma that mirrored a politician. It was the start of my Sophomore year and I was 15. I met him at a party that another boy I liked was having while his parents were out town. 

There was zero chance I would be allowed to go to the party but I went anyway. After staying way too late I was afraid to go home. So I didn’t. I always had this unexplainable need to live in the moment. Consequences were coming and I knew it, but I’d deal with that tomorrow. The moment was all that mattered. There he was, this adorable, much older boy who I had never met. He was talking to me like I was the most beautiful, desirable girl he had ever met. It was like watering a dying plant in the desert and I was helplessly inept at resisting his game. He seemed like a knight in shining armor to my adolescent ignorance. And so the night progressed. Though we did not have sex, I’ll spare you the details and just say we crossed some bases. I was new to this. I felt like I was proving how acceptable I was. I thought this was something that would make me standout. And it did...just not in the way I imagined. And so it began...

The next day the knight left in his big shiny truck. This was long before cell phones or social media so hearing from him was unlikely. I still had an innocent hope but he disappeared, not to return. I DID hear from a troupe of persecutors that were his girlfriend’s defenders. Apparently he was dating one of the most popular girls at my old school. She was also in 10th grade and though I wasn’t friends with her, I knew who she was. It became clear very quickly that even though I no longer attended her school and couldn’t possibly have had any knowledge of who she was dating, it was my responsibility to keep myself abreast of the comings and goings of the “In Crowd.” For this grave injustice, they deemed me a slutty, boyfriend stealing, homewrecker. The irony...I was still a virgin while many of these girls had kissed that title goodbye long ago. 

Apparently this was not enough punishment for my unforgivable crimes. When the story was spread that I had lined all the males in the house that night up against a wall and performed oral sex on them one by one, it became gospel to anyone who had heard it. I can still remember the reactions: shock and disgust. But if I thought the boys wanted to hang out with me before, they were swarming now. My tormentors made certain that any and every boy at my old school was off limits. If I hung out with one who had hung out with another girl the weekend before, I was accused of trying to steal her man. If I had any physical contact with a boy, it became a tall tale that would make Paul Bunyan blush. Destroying me and any chance of having a respectable reputation was their mission, and they were relentless. 

By the the Spring of my 10th grade year I was smoking pot, drinking, and in trouble with my parents all the time. My need to mask my sadness was unquenchable. And the twisted part was the attention from the opposite sex continued to feed me in a reckless way that I was powerless to stop. My defiant refusal to run off with my tail between my legs drove me onward. If a boy I liked gave me attention I rewarded him with my fervent favors. But even with my virginity remaining intact it only took one encounter in a car to forever brand me as “Backseat Becky.” The sad thing...the first time I heard it I was barely fazed. I was so used to clever nicknames and overly embellished ridicule that surprise never even occurred to me. But the night in the VW bus changed that. 

He was so hot, like James Dean, Jim Morrison, Jerry Garcia and Ronnie Van Zant had been fused together. He came across deep and cool but elusive at the same time. He drove a Volkswagon Bus which added to his appeal. I was attracted to him like a mosquito to flesh. We also had something in common. We smoked a lot of pot and he was impressed with my ability to clear the chamber of a 2 foot bong like no girl anyone knew. I prided myself in that. I felt it was in some way an asset. And any asset that took focus away from the unwarranted rumors being spread about me was welcome. 

One night not long after we met we were hanging out in his bus getting high. A unique characteristic of his vehicle was that it only had the 2 front seats, and he let people write all over the walls and roof of the empty back. There was self-expression everywhere you looked. While chilling in the back relishing all the comments and looking at the pictures, my eyes caught something right above the sliding door: “Backseat Becky Was Here.” It was like someone had doused me in water from the arctic ocean. I had never been in this bus. I had never as much as touched this boy. And yet those cruel words made a liar out of me. It was in that moment that I realized my ability to fill my lungs with toxic smoke had zero to do with why he was hanging out with me. He wanted me to authenticate the validity of his bus “art.” Now it was true. I was there. I left that night physically untouched and yet emotionally pierced in a way that my 16 years could not process. 

Things at The School of The Arts were going well. I had flourishing friendships and was growing in my craft. I was dancing and acting and finding myself. When I was on stage no one could touch me. I got to be anyone but myself and those moments were valuable. But my life was fragmented. With my artsy friends I was fun, confidant, and uninhibited. I needed the persona I showed them to contradict what seemed like an inescapable rabbit hole of despair. No one knew that I was living a totally different existence once the school bell rang.  

As far as I knew I maintained a few friends from the old school who still seemed to like me. One guy specifically. He was a senior. He lived down the street from me and we had known each other since early childhood. His Mom had just died suddenly at 35 years old. I remember the day we sat in his car out at the lakes where all the kids would party on the weekends. He cried his eyes out and I comforted him as best as my 16 years had prepared me too. 

A few weeks later he mentioned he didn’t have a date to the Prom yet. Going to Prom as a Sophomore was a coveted experience and in my naivety I agreed to a “payout” for the honor. It didn’t occurred to me that a real friend would have never required me to agree to such a deal. I remember thinking that if I walked into the room with him on my arm that people would think I was more than “Backseat Becky.” What an unfortunate misconception. 

My Mom was so proud that she lent him our Lincoln Town Car to take me in. I’ll never forget the doilies she placed on the dash board to “fancy up” our experience. She had no idea the struggles I was enduring. Her finding out was the worst thing I could have imagined. The shell that I presented on the outside had very little resemblance to what I looked like on the inside and I was determined to keep it that way. 

From what I remember, prom was fun. We got our pictures taken, made the obligatory rounds, then headed to a party at a hotel at the beach. The time had come to pay up but I just didn’t want to do it. I thought if I explained to him why, he would be understanding. Dumb. He called me a tease and said that being a tease was worse than putting out. I left the hotel in tears. While sitting on the beach in my black sequin halter dress, a boy from my class who had not been at the prom came to comfort me. I had known him for many years. He was cute with beautiful clear blue eyes. He was charming, convincing, and to my shame I gave into his advances. 

Would you believe he had a girlfriend too? Would you believe she was in the same group of girls as before? 

The next week the “Mean Girls” were back and they came for me with a blood thirst that almost ended my existence.  

More to come soon...Thank you for reading.  

They Called Me "Backseat Becky" - Part Two

They Called Me “Backseat Becky”

Part Two 

Mouth of The South. It’s what my teachers used to call me in elementary school. They would say it in front of the whole class. They would write it to my parents on my progress reports. I’m sure they delighted in their cleverness having no thought that pinning me with that nickname was in fact bullying a 7 year old child. I never thought it was funny. I felt embarrassed and reluctant yet often not able to control my boisterous personality. That was the very first time I was given an unflattering nickname. I’d be a very different person had it been the last. 

Being raised in the South with strict religious values and a Southern etiquette that was expected of young women made growing up difficult. Especially for those of us who had a burning need to fit it. From the start of 5th grade the pressures to keep up with the crowd began to materialize quickly. What to wear, how to wear it. Who to like, who to kiss...these decisions and choices from that time on were rarely my own. 

By the end of sixth grade I found myself in the principal’s office. The school had found out that over the weekend at a party where parents weren’t home, I had gotten my first “french kiss.” I remember the moment like it was last weekend. The sad thing was I didn’t even want to do it. I only liked the boy as a friend. But everyone was french kissing and I was falling behind. He asked, I said okay. It didn’t occur to me that Monday morning I would be the talk of the cafeteria. I was so confused. I had done what I was supposed to do, right? 

Junior high came fast and furiously. Our school was combined with the high school which made it the perfect recipe for social failure. The rules of fitting in were ever shifting and morphing and seemed to only benefit the ones making them. I was not one of those fortunate beings. Even though I was in the popular crowd I was a hopeless follower; desperately seeking approval and validation. I was a clueless kid, forced to confront experiences and swift life advancements at a pace I was not close to prepared for. I began to make choices with the same lack of understanding as a small child wandering into traffic. I remember my first cigarette at 12 years old. Attending varsity football games while 6 kids shared one beer someone swiped from their Dad was pretty normal for a Friday night. We all thought we were grown before we knew the definition of the word. 

It wasn’t long after the start of 7th grade that my new persona evolved. I was a late bloomer. The perky little A cups that my friends were rocking after the summer remained a coveted wish for me. I lied about getting my period but there wasn’t much I could do about these breasts that seemed to have gotten lost on their way to my chest. So “Two-Backed Becky” I became. I remember walking down the aisle of the bus almost everyday and hearing the announcement that I had arrived. Not Becky of course but “Two-Backed Becky.” The boys especially thought it was hilarious. I was some kind of mutant to them because my tits were missing. And with no tits...no boys were interested in anything but making sure I knew how undesirable I was. I’ll never forget a school dance where me and another girl in our crew were the only ones left who had not been asked to dance. As a boy walked over I know we were both filled with hope. Then I heard him say loudly to my friend “I guess I’ll dance with you, you’re the only decent one left.” 28 years later I can remember this painful moment like it was yesterday.

By 8th grade I still didn’t need a bra but wore one anyway because there was no chance I would risk not having something for the boys to pop off when they came up behind me in the hallway. The idea that fitting in required being able to participate in a pastime that was insulting and basically harassment makes my stomach churn. Oh how I wish I could go back in time and empower that desperate, embarrassed little girl to turn around and put her knee into their tiny, insignificant balls. But alas, that little girl only became more determined to be accepted and liked. 

The summer before 9th Grade an amazing opportunity presented itself. A friend from my church told me she was going to audition for The School of The Arts. I had been dancing since I was 5 and had also been in drama classes during junior high. The auditions were the very next day. I begged my Mom to let me tryout and even though the school was far away and would require me being driven to and from everyday she agreed. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t even know any monologues. I spent that night writing my own. It was about a new kid in school who just wanted to sit at the cool table in the cafeteria. It obviously mirrored my current life status and it worked! I pulled it off. Someone thought I was talented. They thought I was good enough. Too bad I didn’t see what they saw. 

After my Freshman year began I was quickly making new friends. The school was diverse and accepting. I felt free. I had a whole new chance to be a whole new me. But I still tried to maintain the friendships from my old life. I had known them all since elementary school and deep down, if I’m honest, I still wanted to prove something to them. Something else had also changed other than my school that summer. “Two-Backed Becky” was a thing of the past. All those exercises I’d learned from “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret” had paid off. These flattering and much appreciated physical enhancements I had prayed for had finally emerged and I felt complete. 

My new found confidence also seemed to make the boys come calling. Those boys who had plagued me so with their twisted need to make me feel worthless now wanted to hang out with me. I thought I had somehow won a prize. Problem is...my lack of experience and misguided inclination was about to prove me terribly wrong. 

To Be Continued...

They Called Me "Backseat Becky"

PART ONE 

When I was a young child I remember feeling lucky to have friends. I have loads of fun memories of the shenanigans, creativity, and laughter that I shared with these kids who made me feel content. In my innocence though, I had no idea the reality of what was to come. I also could have never imagined that some of those valued compadres would grow up to be my tormentors only a few years later. 

I have struggled with the shame, embarrassment, and hopelessness of childhood bullying for the last 28 years. This reality, my truth, burns in my soul like an eternal flame. I live quietly with it, although at times it sucks the breath from my chest if I think about it for too long. Many times I have wanted to leave it in my past and continue on with my fulfilling life. I’m okay. I made it through that very dark period and came out on the other side a winner. In fact, I have been able to keep many people close to me from ever knowing what I suffered. So many of those people think I’m strong, always positive, and full of life. How can I show them my weaknesses? How can I take the chance of disillusioning them?

About 10 years ago, when kids began killing themselves regularly because of bullying, I began to feel an emotional nudge each time I heard another tragic story. “You need to share your story, Becky. Tell them how capable they are of getting through it. Tell them that no matter how pitch black it gets they will see the sun shine again.” This quickening in my spirit began to manifest itself everywhere I turned. But no matter how much it consumed my thoughts, I just didn’t know how to speak out or even if I could. I didn’t understand the dynamics of pouring out your soul this way. I didn’t understand that the time to do it would choose me. I could not choose the time. 

I had no idea 10 years ago, that I would become a writer. I didn’t imagine that I’d have my own platform to share the darkness and the triumph of this experience. But I knew from the day I started “Forty and Full of It” over 2 years ago that this story would be told. I had no idea how I would tell it, what I would call it, or when it would happen. All I knew was that I wanted the timing and the process to feel organic. That time came this past February 2nd on my 42nd Birthday. 

I’m a sucker for a theme party. This year was Disco themed and I had a smoking outfit and fabulous 70’s hair. On my way out to my party I posted a photo of myself on Instagram and Facebook. Lots of complimentary and flattering comments started coming in and I have to say they made me feel great! A few hours later as I was enjoying all the revelry I noticed a new comment notification. As soon as I read it it was like someone had slapped me. “Backseat Becky” that was all he wrote. I was instantly transported back to that damaged and broken 16 year old kid who wanted to disappear from life. It had struck me like a bolt of lightening. My heart began to race and my hands trembled as I quickly deleted that cruel and painful name that I had not heard in so long.  

Now I’m sure you’re asking “Why are you Facebook friends with anyone who would post something like that on your page?” I had grown up with this kid. He was one of my brother’s closest childhood friends. I could not assimilate what was more stunning to me. Was it that my “reputation” had filtered down to a kid 4 years my junior? Was it the fact that people still thought of me as "Backseat Becky" over 20 years later? Or was it that this now grown man must have had no idea what that name and all the terrifying and violent bullying that accompanied it had done to me? I knew in that moment the time had come. I was finally ready to publicly relive the pain, aching loneliness, and disdain that I lived with but ultimately was freed from. 

How the hell did I become “Backseat Becky”? How did I survive that awful persona? How do I wake up everyday and think of that hopeless despair and smile at myself in the mirror? How did I forgive them even though today they probably have no idea what they did to me? Well, I’m about to tell you. 

Stay Tuned, cuz Mama needs a glass of Chardonnay for this one...

Look For The Love

Look For The Love

I began writing this a year ago. Right as I thought I knew exactly what I wanted to say I couldn’t find the words to finish. My husband and I were approaching our ten year wedding anniversary and I felt like I had learned so much but was still clueless. The articulation that this topic deserved wouldn’t progress. So I deposited it in my little file folder on my desktop and there it has been sitting. Until now...

This April Twenty-first Ryan and I will have been married for eleven years. It’s hard to imagine that much time has come and gone so quickly. Some moments seem like they were just a few weeks ago while others seem like a lifetime ago as I try and remember them. Ryan and I had quite the love story those first few years. I often miss those days but sometimes I relish exactly where we are now. Life for the thirteen years we have been together has been pretty incredible. We’ve been gifted with times of sheer bliss and also have been dealt some Rocky Balboa blows. But through all of this I often still find myself yearning for more from my relationship. And so this story emerged.

Hello, My name is Rebecca and I am a “Honeymoon Stage” Addict. 

Kinda embarrassing to admit. I have girlfriends who could care less about romance and all that it entails. But I also have many friends who feel exactly like I do. This is for them.  

Like many women, I still desire compliments, flowers, romantic gestures and moments that allow you to feel frozen in time. All that crap. If I had to guess where these romantic fascinations evolved from I would admit there are a few contributors. When I was young I spent hours watching soap operas with both my grandmothers and older sisters. The angst, desperation, love and heartbreak became something tangible for me as teen. There is also the fact that I became an actress. I have spent countless hours watching or participating in movies and TV shows that sedate us with a false reality of what love and relationships are really like. And (under my breath) I also had a stint with romance novels. I was voracious in my reading of them for many years. 

But setting these things aside, I have always been a person who feels deeply. It has at times been to my own detriment. On occasion I allow my emotions to get the best of me; something I know my husband would wipe away like the plague if he could. I know it burdens him that I still want the white knight romance from time to time, and if I’m honest, it burdens me too. To Ry, it probably feels like another job or obligation that is time consuming and annoying. To me it feels like water for my wilting emotional leaves. 

In the beginning Ryan really excelled in the romance novel courtship. I think a lot of men think it’s what’s expected of them at first, but not so necessary after they’ve gotten the girl. This can be quite frustrating for some of us ladies. It has certainly been an on-going issue with Ry and me. I refer to it as the “Bait and Switch”. He rolls his eyes. It’s not that he doesn’t kinda try and I know that he loves me but it often feels like he just doesn’t get it or just doesn’t care. I hear this so often from other woman. They feel like ornaments on the Christmas Tree of life. 

There are many times I have allowed this to trouble me to a state of deep sadness. All that Ryan does and provides gets mentally stored on a shelf and I’m still here...wanting more. Something had to give. I knew that ultimately I was responsible for my own happiness.  So after years of allowing myself to be absorbed by this fanciful notion, I decided to do some serious soul searching. It was time to peel back the layers of my relationship and to confront my own accountability, lack of perspective, and honestly...appreciation of my husband. 

The mission to turn the tables on my mind’s counter-productive evaluation of how my husband loved me had begun. I started to deconstruct our years together and look behind the scenes at those glaringly obvious anecdotes of love that movies and books sell us on. The secret love messages that I had been overlooking for so long began to rise to the surface more quickly than I could ignore. The proof was in the invisible pudding. 

As an aspiring actress, for many years I had a job that payed the bills while I was waiting to hook the big gig. Having a full-time job while trying to take class and audition was of course challenging. Shortly after Ryan and I moved into our first apartment I was offered a coveted advertising sales position at the much loved Village Voice in New York City. I was good in sales and it was the biggest job I had been offered to date. Before I accepted, Ryan came to me and asked me if I wanted to take the job or if I wanted to focus on acting. He said he would take care of us while I pursued my lifelong dream. In a way I was torn. We hadn’t been together for that long and I didn’t want to feel like a deadbeat, but on the other hand this was an opportunity I had never been afforded. I took his generous offer back in 2005 and he has yet to waiver in his complete support of this more costly than lucrative dream of mine. 

Let’s move on to the first week of February every year. This is always a very busy week for us. Not only is it my Birthday as well as Super Bowl but it’s Legal Tech here in New York. Ryan has been attending the 4 days of Legal Tech every year since before we met. He usually has meetings all day and events most evenings. The six years that we lived in Los Angeles were no different. Since Legal Tech always falls on my birthday week we would travel to NYC together. This elated me as I missed my city so much while we were away and there was no place else I wanted to spend my birthday. 

Now here’s where the 411 began to reveal itself...

For many of Ryan’s colleagues Legal Tech is a week they get to leave their spouses and kids back home and enjoy the big city. The late night events and later night “pub crawling” is a happy respite from their daily lives. Of course I get that all couples need a break to do their own thing from time to time but over the years I have seen many of these “family men” indulge in much more than just a few days away from home. 

One might wonder why have I seen this. The most direct answer? Because my husband always seems to want me around. I have always been invited to meet him out at these evening events. Even after our daughter was born and we moved back to the City he would recommend a sitter so I could attend. This got me to thinking about all of those colleagues whom I had spent so much time with over the years yet never met their wives. The ones who travel every week from Chicago, Los Angeles or Boston while my husband’s trips were so much fewer and far between. I remember the time I asked him why he didn’t travel as much as they did. He answered simply, “They choose to travel that much.”  I mean if you think about it, how would I know the difference if Ryan told me he had to travel all the time for his job? I wouldn’t. My gratitude at having THIS man for a husband began to expand. 

My next epiphany, my very large and sometimes overwhelming family. There are many of us all with varying personalities, disagreements and challenges. While my husband may not bombard me with praise and compliments, he has also never told me no when I rush to help or assist a family member in need. He has gone above and beyond for my family and my friends as well. All of them, more times than I could count. If they hurt, I hurt and if I hurt, Ryan wants to make it better. If there is a need, he helps me to help them. He has embraced them as his own family from day one. This is another clear demonstration of the love that I irresponsibly allowed to be overshadowed. 

When I think about the six years we struggled to have a child I am stunned at the love and support that Ryan provided me. He must have been filled with his own pain and disappointment but he never allowed me to see anything but unfaltering positivity and genuine care for my well-being. Watching him now with our five year old daughter fills me with realization. Ryan has become a true and valued partner in everything. He brings things to the table that I have taken for granted and often dismissed as not enough. I fear I have been quite foolish. 

Finally, if I ever start to doubt these symbolic and often overlooked indications of his love and commitment I can reach into my bedside table. There, I can pull out the words he has carefully penned in all of the Birthday, Anniversary and Valentine’s cards that I have collected. The words that he has such a difficult time saying out loud seem to flow easily from his pen. They are his way to reassure me and leave a lasting imprint of his tenderness and ardor. These are the words of a man who loves his wife. 

After relishing all of this evidence I began to feel like a bit of a brat. I have been spoiled with love and devotion for over a decade and didn’t fully comprehend it.

What I have learned through this little investigation is that love isn’t a recipe that must be followed to a T. There are different ingredients and sometimes those ingredients change as quickly as our appetite. Love is messy, and unpredictable. It can be angry and joyful. Love is demanding and prideful, self-sacrificing and life-saving. It’s filled with ups and downs and ins and outs. Sadly, it’s in most of our natures as humans to feel less than fulfilled, to want more than we have or something different entirely. Once we become focused on what we don’t have or think we need we begin to miss out on all that is right in front of us. 

In only the last year did I really open my eyes and begin to see my fortune. The cornerstone of Ryan’s love for me is ME! All of the sacrifices, understanding, laughter, giving, dedication, forgiveness, intimacy, patience and tolerance is more than anyone could ask for of a partner. 

My NEW reality? Since that first date on July 15, 2005 the love has always been here. I just had to look for it. 

As Always Thank You For Reading!!! 

#08109126

The topic of the prison system is not something I ever thought I would know much about personally. I’ve always been a law abiding citizen as has most of my family. I was mindless and honestly clueless. I was also guilty of assuming, as many of us do, that if you found yourself behind the cold bars of justice then you probably deserved to be there. In fact, until two years ago, I only knew one person in prison. He committed murder and so I had little pity for his life-long sentence or the circumstances of his life thereafter. 

Life has a fascinating way of changing your perspective over night. 

Two years ago my Niece (who is more like my daughter) was arrested with some people after they had committed a home invasion. Even though she was not with them during the invasion or even at the scene of the crime she was charged with the same crimes they were and was facing twenty years in prison. Now there is zero argument that she knew she was in the presence of people who were bad. No one disputes she was headed down a dark path but twenty years in prison? 

Fortunately, my Niece has a supportive family and we banded together and got her an attorney. The alternative was to leave her in the careless hands of the local public defender whose reputation was to work with the prosecution to get his clients to just roll over. After months of crushingly unethical blows divvied out from the District Attorney’s office as well as the County Jail we were able to come to a plea we could all live with. She is now two years in to a five year sentence. 

Maybe five years is what she deserves for being so negligent about the company she kept, maybe not. But the most disheartening part, she is no longer an individual. She is now just a number. A soulless being not worthy of redemption in the eyes of “justice”. She is now an animal where human rights no longer apply. She is the same as the rapist, or the cellmate who beat her three year old to death. She is poked and prodded and almost encouraged to fail. Her story, the circumstances which lead her to the life she has, is irrelevant. In the eyes of the law she no longer matters. 

Now I know what you may be thinking, “Everyone has a story, we’ve all had bad things happen to us and we don’t end up in prison.” I actually agree. But here’s the quandary, rehabilitation should be the core of what the prison system is about. We should be assessing these “animals” to discover who is a viable candidate to return to the outside. We should be discovering who has the best chance of becoming a contributing member of society and then we should be doing everything we are capable of to empower them to succeed. 

The reality, while you’re in, many of these institutions seem to do all they can to breed the hurt and damage that helped lead to your incarceration in the first place. If you enter through those barbed-wire gates with any self-worth left they dismantle it faster than a buttered bullet. Your dignity, your humanity, all stripped from you while depriving you of the basic levels of human kindness. This all from people who are so clearly imperfect themselves they are just feeding a sick need to seek a twisted revenge? Maybe...but then that's a lot of twisted people seeking revenge. 

I fear it is something far more sinister. A business perhaps? A calculated effort to insure that the ones who do have a chance have been properly set up for failure? Within the first year of release more than 50% of prisoners are arrested again, within the first five years 75% are. Now sure, prisons offer programs, schooling, opportunities for “advancement”, some better than others. But it doesn’t take a college degree to recognize the oxymoron of consistently dehumanizing someone while offering them the benefit of betterment. 

If the majority of prisoners are repeat offenders and we truly began re-habilitating them then there would be a lot of prisons going “out of business”. You can’t make money if you don’t have customers. Luckily, our Niece sees the diabolic plot for the rampant plague it is. She will hold her head up, focus on the future, and be constantly reminded by her loved ones of her individuality and her potential. She will persevere. But so very many will not. The ones who could be salvaged, who could soar with just a touch of support and generosity of spirit will instead have their wings clipped to keep them in their cage. 

To say my perspective has changed regarding many of those who have landed in the slammer would be an understatement. They are no longer faceless law breakers who don’t matter. They are someone’s daughter or son, Mom or Dad, Brother or Sister....someone’s Niece. They are people. They have hopes and dreams. They have potential. They have names not numbers. They matter.  

As always, Thank You for reading!