tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66479707943134707442024-02-19T17:48:22.340-08:00Moments I Got Backbecause I'm scared of missing it.Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.comBlogger199125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-46074840128369164792021-01-12T23:01:00.003-08:002021-01-13T14:33:55.288-08:00My Sister's Birthday<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; text-align: justify; white-space: pre-wrap;">On New Year's Day while chopping scallions for brunch for my family, I also chopped the tip of my finger. I don't handle cuts or blood well at all, a trait inherited from my father who passed out once while getting his finger pricked (he later severed an index finger completely off at the top knuckle with a table saw, one of my earliest memories as a child.). This might have something to do with why I get queasy and lightheaded at the sight of my own blood.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-21802161-7fff-6394-860f-1e5975fa6bf1"><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 11pt 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My sister Tara is someone who handles blood just fine. Like our mother, she became a nurse who can handle almost all bodily fluids and functions. I say "almost all" because I know how much she hates spit, even from animals. Our old dog Gus Gus urped/spit in her purse one time while carsick, and I had never seen my steely sister struggle for composure so much.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 11pt 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I chopped my finger on New Year's Day, I made sure to show the injury to her before the day was out, partly to see if I needed stitches (I did but never got them) and partly for the sympathy I knew I'd get from her. She showed me how to bandage it after cleaning it and gave medical advice on taking care of it.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 11pt 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My sister has been in a state over the last few weeks of claiming to hate everyone. Anytime we're together, she tells me stories about how badly she's handling people in public places. I think it's the pandemic getting to her. On her first day off about a month ago after a long stretch, I rode with her to her hospital so she could deliver Christmas decorations to a long-stretch patient who doesn't have family. That's what she did with her first day off.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 11pt 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Right after that, we stopped in a thrift store where she bought a beat-up old dresser that matches what she has in her basement. I helped her move some furniture down there recently, two middle-aged sisters scooting bulky furniture down narrow stairs and across a concrete floor. Tara said she didn't care, that she likes the furniture, “ It's kinda worn in and banged up, like me.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 11pt 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My sister and I are both in therapy to help us make some sense of the religious bullshit we endured in our youth. Not all of it was bad, but a fair amount was, to the point that those closest to us hear our stories and wonder how we've turned out pretty okay. We are still finding therapy useful though. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 11pt 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After settling in to Portland in my house when she first moved here, she bought her own home a few miles away so that she'd have a place for her kids to land. It's a cute 100-year old Portland home that quickly filled with young people needing a house and a mama. That's why Tara moved to the basement. She converted it to a cozy apartment space that she can live in, giving the space upstairs (and even the camper parked in the driveway) to the young folks. She's currently got four there now. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 11pt 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is some of the sense she's making here in the second half of her life. I don't want to air our family's dirty laundry, so it's hopefully enough to say that it's deeply redemptive for me to see the abundant love spilling out at my sister's house right now. She's a middle-aged night nurse sharing her home with twenty-somethings who are LGBTQ, who greet me in the yard with "hello my fellow anti-fascist warrior," who have heated arguments but always end with love, who cook sophisticated meals for each other, who make fires in the backyard pit and help take care of the yard. One just bought a bidet for the household and another installed it. It's a place where they are free to cry, to process their own traumas, to sit and play Animal Crossing.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 11pt 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tara's house is a garden where young people are putting down roots and creating their own chosen family. I'm so proud of the life she's made here in Portland. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 11pt 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today is her birthday, and I want her to know that she's probably the best person I know. She still gives more generously than anyone but has learned to stand her own ground too and not take shit from bozos. She is the person who makes huge pots of taco soup and cheese grits on her days off for the household. She goes thrift shopping with me and tells me when something I'm eyeing is ugly. She answers all the questions about sex my kids have. She's my "ride or die" forever. My very best friend. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 11pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There's no one else I'd rather ride out a pandemic with. This was taken last week, her first dose of the vaccine. Better days are ahead, but even if they aren't, we'll make our way together.</span></p><div><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Happy birthday Big Sister.</span></div></span><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeuZuULQmSjdMTlLw10s3QSxIHRPOo4e77QsFfD9W37GZo8dE70spvIejkteKV2dEHaoU3_quAYL4vmyummHqLkZFjojCNeVT61sxlk8aVxq2-1Uy_JiqO6xhX2h9Y3BwcFyht1nQD37Q/s2016/IMG_4158.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeuZuULQmSjdMTlLw10s3QSxIHRPOo4e77QsFfD9W37GZo8dE70spvIejkteKV2dEHaoU3_quAYL4vmyummHqLkZFjojCNeVT61sxlk8aVxq2-1Uy_JiqO6xhX2h9Y3BwcFyht1nQD37Q/s320/IMG_4158.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-36580371739862638092020-07-30T13:11:00.002-07:002020-07-30T13:14:10.244-07:00Lions<div><span style="font-family: times;">When our son was a baby, my soulful friend Carolee sent me a cd of songs for that beautiful season of life. I listened to "Wondering Where the Lions Are" over and over, thinking about the lions as the arduous process of becoming a family. I'd watch this baby jumping in a johnny jump up in our living room or sitting up on the back deck in airplane pajamas as daffodils bloomed around him. The lions were gone. Some kind of ecstasy got a hold of me.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">This baby is now a 13 year old boy who declared last night that no one likes him. He had to be forced to go to a family gathering (outside, spread out, distanced) and could not be convinced that his two cousins very much wanted to see him, had in fact rushed through their own algebra lessons in the hope of seeing him. He sat red-faced and seething in the front seat of the car, refusing to speak, furious with the particular grief of being this age where in the span of three seconds it can feel that everyone you've ever known your whole life is against you, that you will never find your place, that the party is happening without you and the revelers are happier with you locked outside the door.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">These are the years that we are in the trenches of parenting. Add to it the pandemic, the ongoing brutalization of black bodies, a fascist commander-in-chief, the occupation of our city by uninvited federal paramilitary forces, and every-day burdens of living like the loss of a friend's toddler, the hospice of another friend's dying father, etc. Life is feeling heavy, so having a surly teen in my front seat is par for the course I guess. With all these things swimming around in my head, I noticed a gentle guitar riff through the car speakers, one I hadn't heard in probably ten years. Then I heard Bruce Cockburn's voice, and I was pulled back to that spring season with the baby and daffodils and johnny jump-ups.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><i>Sun's up, mm-hmm, looks okay</i></span></span></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">The world survives into another day</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And I'm thinking 'bout eternity</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Some kinda ecstasy got a hold on me</span></i></span></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span>I had another dream about lions at the door</span><br /><span>They weren't half as frightening as they were before</span><br /><span>But I'm thinking 'bout eternity</span><br /><span>Some kinda ecstasy got a hold on me</span></i></span></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span>Walls, windows, trees, waves coming through</span><br /><span>You be in me and I'll be in you</span><br /><span>Together in eternity</span><br /><span>Some kinda ecstasy got a hold on me</span></i></span></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span>Up among the firs where it smells so sweet</span><br /><span>Or down in the valley where the river used to be</span><br /><span>I got my mind on eternity</span><br /><span>Some kinda ecstasy got a hold on me</span></i></span></div></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px;"><span><span style="font-family: times;"><div class="ujudUb xpdxpnd" style="line-height: 1.58; margin-bottom: 12px; max-height: 88px; overflow: hidden; transition: max-height 0.3s ease 0s;"><i><span>Huge orange flying boat rises off a lake</span><br /><span>Thousand year old petroglyphs doing a double take</span><br /><span>Pointing a finger at eternity</span><br /><span>I'm sitting in the middle of this ecstasy</span></i></div></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">He was miserable. We arrived at the family's house we were visiting and he refused to get out of the car, saying he would spend the whole time listening to music. I made him listen to a brief spiel about his feelings in that moment not being the full story of what is true. As I told him about the eagerness of his cousins to see him, one of them sailed past on his bike, waving at us. The tiniest glimmer of smile came to the tiniest corner of Abe's mouth. He followed me out of the car, mumbling, "Great, now I guess I'll go fake being happy again."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">We met the new kitten our family had found and claimed from a negligent neighbor. Holding that baby helped fill my own cup. The adults sat spread out in the front yard, and though I'd been hoping for a break from the topic, it was impossible not to cover what all is happening in downtown Portland with the Feds. One of my relatives had been gassed four times in front of the Federal building, standing her ground for 45 minutes. I was blown away by her bravery. I hadn't known. She's a teacher, a mom, a lady talented at making crafts and who takes on the neighbor's cats. Not a single one of us are what you would think are "Anti fascist warriors" but here we are, talking about strategies, gas masks, medic tents, coronavirus on a balmy summer night. I thought about how I'm surrounded by the good guys.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">As we walked back to the car, Abe told us we were right. He was glad we'd made him come. His fake happiness became real while surrounded by the good guys.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">This morning our neighbor came knocking on our door to talk to us. Ted and I were both nervous, assuming it was a complaint about noise or parking. He'd actually come to tell us that he had watched Abe walk past his house with the dog, notice a $5 bill on the pavement, pick it up and take it to their house. He placed it in one of their bike helmets, assuming they'd dropped it. He told us that if his kid grows up and shows such honestly that he'd hope that someone would tell him.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">As I sit here writing this, my daughter Beti came quietly knocking on the door. She'd heard me say something about coffee so made me one, an iced one with vanilla and cinammon, complete with metal straw. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">Things are still not easy in life right now. The lions are at the door, in combat gear downtown and in an invisible virus hanging in the air. But my daughter bringing me a coffee felt like a spring daffodil. My son returning a dropped $5 to our neighbor is pointing me to eternity. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">Some kind of ecstasy got a hold of me. </span></div>Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-5277203681443176052020-07-28T21:45:00.000-07:002020-07-28T21:45:36.229-07:00Residual trauma and ongoing goodness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I need to run my favorite pandemic facemask through the wash after it being covered in tear gas.<br />
<br />
Those are the kinds of thoughts I have now. The sort of thought that jolts me awake in disbelief since Friday. It's the way that I felt for weeks after witnessing the school shooting in my hometown in 1997. I could get to sleep but then would jolt awake in shock that this thing happened, this terrible thing that has made my brain turn flips, not knowing how to scaffold this thing into my memory. Cause the human brain shouldn't have a memory bank for such trauma like shootings and war crimes. Yet here we are.<br />
<br />
Around noon today I was making four ham and cheese sandwiches for four teenagers I was planning to take to get wet in a river. I was crying as I spread the mustard, dipped the knife into the mayo. I'd had to research and ask friends from the area which dipping holes are safe for POC, away from 45-supporters. One friend who lives about 45 minutes north in a beautiful area of Washington state texted back, "Sadly, none." Another friend took her family up there earlier in July and turned right back around, realizing what she wasn't willing to put her family through. My daughter showed me a swimming hole south of here in our research, and I pointed out the closest town; she shook her head, knowing we can't go. It's where her "big sister" lived for years facing a shocking level of racism at her school. It's where we marched in support of her last month, being confronted by a white supremacist shouting "white power" at our small group on the corner.<br />
<br />
We decided on a place we went last summer in Oregon, about an hour drive. There were brown families there, non-English speakers. It felt safe.<br />
<br />
So while making food to take, I couldn't stop the heaviness in my chest. A friend had also texted to say that her sweet father was quietly dying today. He would flip off the nurses but kiss her mom's hand. He's in end-stage dementia, and it's been brutal. I couldn't stop thinking of her.<br />
<br />
My best friend, Protest Gnome, texted to ask how I'm doing. I don't feel like I am very okay. But I have an appointment with a therapist, one I had begun seeing before going to Mexico. What a different set of issues the world has presented between then and now.<br />
<br />
Some good things.<br />
<br />
My kid who is still struggling to finish pre-algebra has had two good days with his tutor and is getting to watch a movie right now after a day at the river...with his tutor, sister, and another friend.<br />
<br />
My friend (tutor's mom) handed me down a pair of Papillio shoes this afternoon when I dropped off her kid. Beti said they look like "mom shoes," so perfect.<br />
<br />
A new puppy came to the neighborhood, a 8-week-old lab/shepherd named Emmitt and he snuggled on my shoulder and gave me kisses right on the mouth.<br />
<br />
My daughter and her best friend settled their beef and camped outside together last night in the backyard. When I finally woke up today, they were making waffles.<br />
<br />
My 89-year-old granny called to tell me a happy anniversary. She said maybe five or six times in our half-hour conversation, "those years sure do roll by, don't they, dear?"<br />
<br />
I told the kids they couldn't change the radio station, so I listened to exactly what I wanted on our trip to the river today, and I didn't feel bad about it.<br />
<br />
Our car has such dark tinted windows that I was able to change clothes after the river in privacy, didn't even put a bra back on.<br />
<br />
Such tender space in my heart these days for my adopted city of Portland. I complain about it sometimes, didn't want to come back. I get annoyed by some of the culture like the naked bike ride and drum circles and white people with dreadlocks and artisan everything, but damn, it's like when the bully picks on your annoying little cousin at school, and you rush to kick the bully's ass (not that anything like this has every happened to me, but it has in movies). That's how I feel about Portland. Portland folk just wanna be enjoying our summer, doing those annoying things in the one season we won't get waterlogged, but instead people are showing up to fight fascism...what? That's a thing? Yeah, I guess it's a thing. <br />
<br />
Portland, I love you. I'm sorry for complaining about you. I see now that I belong here, and I'll stand by you through this nightmare. You're really amazing. </div>
Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-63599677054938616542020-07-25T23:00:00.002-07:002020-07-25T23:00:35.372-07:00July 24 Protest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My teenage daughter is rubbing my shoulders and neck as I write this, having no idea how healing this feels to me right now after last night's events. We haven't told her what happened and prefer neither of our kids know for now since I plan to go back down, albeit in a different role I hope.<br />
<br />
Our plan since the Feds arrived has been to be present and bear witness to this moment in our city. That's it. Bear witness. It was our anniversary and going for dinner didn't feel right when peaceful protesters standing for Black lives are being targeted every night downtown. We decided to celebrate our anniversary by joining the protest. I joined as a Mom, my husband as Dad, my sister as Health Care Worker and my tiny best friend as Protest Gnome.<br />
<br />
Ted and I parked on SW 9th and Salmon, walking east towards the river past people out shopping and eating fancy dinners al fresco. Downtown is as quiet and peaceful as can be during a pandemic, despite what certain national news outlets want the rest of the country to believe.<br />
<br />
We arrived to the park and talked to some enterprising people selling protest t-shirts, one saying "White Allies Lives Matter" which I passed on.<br />
<br />
We continued on to Salmon Street Fountain, the meeting place of the Moms and the Health Care workers. A call had been made for drummers to show up, so the noise was quite loud with drumming. A large group of people were dancing in the middle of the park. The crowd felt to me to be about double the one on the 22nd. I could barely make it into the park. Protest Gnome stood on a bench to see better. My husband and I took an anniversary photo here. The Waterfront Mariott where we spent our honeymoon is right down the street. The Federal goons are being housed there currently.<br />
<br />
Maybe it was because of the much larger crowd along with the noise of the drumming, but things felt more chaotic this time. It was difficult to hear the organizers, and at one point, those leading the march from the back of a truck were calling for extra bullhorns and C batteries so they could be heard. They went ahead without them.<br />
<br />
We marched up Salmon Street and past the Federal building. The already full crowd that had gathered there made room for us to come through. I noticed a lot of people taking photos of the Federal building, the scene of most of the violence that is happening every night. I found this odd.<br />
<br />
We stopped at the same staging area in front of the Justice Center being used for speakers. JoAnn Hardesty was there to speak, among others. An image of George Floyd was projected on the side of the JC. Chants started about "Who's got your back? I've got your back" and "I ain't scared! Portland? You scared?" I found it disingenuous to chant this, as it actually felt a bit scary.<br />
<br />
My sister, her friend, and Protest Gnome decided to leave at 10:30. They met my nephew and his partner to get them to the car. At this point it was me and my husband waiting with the moms. The leaders of the Wall of Moms began an attempt to organize us to link arms, with the instructions to make a perimeter around the park. With thousands of people there, making this happen was a challenge. I found myself linked up with moms on the east side of the park facing the federal building. This was when the surreal aspect of the night began.<br />
<br />
I did not know personally the moms I was linked with at this point. I noticed a few strange/alarming conversations happening. One white woman to my left was trying to get the line to move in front of the Federal building, though the black organizers had told us to move around the park. I couldn't hear well, as this woman was about four or five women down from me, but at one point, a black mom with a gas mask talked to her directly and she seemed to relent for a time with trying to move the line to the Federal building. She was making me quite uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
We stood like this for 15-20 minutes, I am guessing. Just standing while press and protesters paced in front of us taking video and photos. I caught sight of my friend from Bend who had some for the day to participate. She was walking past with her group to link arms further down along the perimeter of the park. I heard my name called and caught eyes with my nephew who was between the line I was in and the Federal building. A few minutes later I caught eyes with his partner. I broke the line as he came close and we hugged tighter than usual. It's hard to describe what this hug felt like. Maybe it's that I'm not hugging anyone outside my family during the pandemic but this tight hold on my nephew's partner who was suited up in full combat gear felt...necessary. I think I told him I loved him? I can't remember. It's what I felt though. I'm incredibly proud of this generation of young people who have been showing up night after night after night, whether there are cameras or not. They are doing it because it's right, and I wanted to communicate that pride through this hug. Then I went back to the line of moms.<br />
<br />
Things then began to get chaotic. Women began moving towards the Federal building, and I couldn't tell who was giving instructions for this. I refused to go, telling the women around me that it wasn't safe to go to the fence as protesters were beginning to shake the fence, throw fireworks, etc. I have very mixed feelings about these tactics. I admit to not understanding the full realm of the protest experience, so I am only speaking for myself here. As a mom of two kids who have already lost their first families, I'm not willing personally right now to put myself in direct harm's way. So at this point, I bowed out. As I wished them well, I heard one woman say, "We're going to the fence?! Exciting!" I had feelings about this statement but rather than share them here, I'll stick to recounting what happened next.<br />
<br />
Ted and I backed away from the fence and linked up with my nephew, his partner, their friends. We stood near the north wall of the Justice Center with sights on the Federal building. We were chatting about what was going on, things were peaceful with the exclusion of a couple of protesters pulling on the Federal building fence. Hundreds of the moms were directly in front of the fence. Fireworks and their smoke were going off. <br />
<br />
The next moments are pure...... unsure of the word. I felt Ted grab my hand and pull. It was starting. I saw some smoke but wasn't understanding what was happening. But then I felt it. With no warning, and apparently in response to people shaking the fence, the Federal agents began their first rounds of tear gas...into a group of protesters who were, at this point, mostly mothers. It hit my eyes first. Imagine someone pouring habenero pepper into your eyes, nose, down your throat into your lungs. It was like that, but not like that too. I'm finding it hard to describe. My nephew's partner texted me later that night to say that what we were gassed with was "DIFFERENT," that it made its way through his gas mask and that even with their gear, they were affected. <br />
<br />
Ted and I only had on fabric face masks. We held hands and tried to make our way east on Main, away from the clouds of gas. Unfortunately, the crowd we were in hit a blockade of moms who were blocking the street from the potential of cars coming through. So the crowd was getting thick. I was telling Ted not to run, but to walk, a lesson I'd learned at the July 22nd protest. So with searing pain in our eyes, noses, throats and tears pouring, we were blindly trying to make our way out of the cloud. I was finding it very hard to breathe, both fro the pain in my throat and the adrenaline that had me hyperventilating. We went around the Justice Center and back into the park where we found a medic van. They calmly had us kneel down, tilt back our heads, poured saline (Target brand) into our eyes. They were a much-needed calming presence.<br />
<br />
We walked back to our car 8 blocks away. Passed people finishing their dinners in nice restaurants. I couldn't stop shaking. We sat in the car and drove home. <br />
<br />
I was awake until after 2am, unable to calm down. I woke again at 6am with thoughts swirling. I got online again and read news, looked at photos of the event.<br />
<br />
This is where I insert my own half-baked opinion. First of all, I felt uncomfortable with some of the vibe among the moms, the ones eager to get to the fence despite the instructions of the black leaders. It's not "exciting" to put yourself in direct harm's way of evil Federal agents who care nothing of your humanity. It's not a game. But whatever.<br />
<br />
The big thing is this: the president of the United States caused physical harm to me. It was physically painful. I had to come home and strip out of our clothes because the residual chemicals can damage skin. This happened with zero warning. I was standing on the street peacefully talking to my family when chemical weapons were thrown my direction. This, by the immoral president of the United States. Fascism is not on the rise. It's here already.<br />
<br />
I took today to walk, do crossword puzzles, sit outside with my husband, talk to our friend staying in our garage apartment, call my mother to cry because I was scared last night. I'm going back down there. I'm figuring out my role of how to support these brave protesters. I can't be on the front line. Last night proved that to me. But I can still bear witness, I can show up and be an observer. I can learn how to flush eyes and do basic first aid. I can give rides. I can make donations. I can encourage my friends and neighbors to jump in the fight. </div>
Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-9963227435786694122020-07-23T20:55:00.000-07:002020-07-23T23:23:56.605-07:00July 22 Protest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have listened to the Malcolm Gladwell podcast episode about memory, “Free Brian Williams” so know to write all this down before too much time elapses:</span></span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-77f1b3dd-7fff-1a80-a1d0-06d1d0603ad2" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m not a journalist so take this for what it’s worth: a middle-aged Portland mom’s experience with protesting racial injustice in the presence of Federal agents.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I rode with my nephew “Jo” and his friend “Peach,” both of whom have been active in the protests over the last fifty+ days and know the lay of the land. I would not have wanted to go without them with me. We parked at 6th and Taylor and walked to the Salmon Street fountain to meet up with the Wall of Moms. We arrived at 8:45 to a large crowd of several hundred people, many wearing the requisite yellow shirts and geared up with bike helmets, face masks, goggles, respirators. I was handed a yellow peace sign to wave, a common item in the crowd. Joe pointed out my favorite live-streamer, Sol Luna, standing about 30 feet away since I’d mentioned how much I’d been following him from the beginning. I approached him to say hello and thank him for the work he’s been doing. As expected, he was gracious and lovely.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The organizers of the Wall of Moms went over a few “rules of protesting” including not talking to the police (the first rule), avoid talking to the press, amplify black voices, reminder that are here for black lives not just anti-feds, don’t make it about the Moms so no chanting anything but what the black leaders say, and to “stay together, stay tight, we do this every night.” With that, we headed up Salmon Street to turn left at the Justice Center. This is when the intensity of the night truly began, not letting up for a moment.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Upon arriving at the Justice Center, the protesters brought the Moms to the front, so I found myself very close to the staging area used by the speakers. Joe and Peach didn’t want to take space for the moms so made sure I was cool with leaving our group and went to the back. The next 1.5 to 2 hours included the following (probably out of order because of my memory):</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">*I was surrounded by gray-haired grandmas with sunflowers stuck out of their backpacks, a husband checking in with them and my passing messages between.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">*I’d linked up with a mom who had come alone, so she was by my right the whole time. This was her first protest and she’d come way more prepared than I was. All I had was a bike helmet and water bottle. She had full gear including gas mask. We ended up walking her to her car at around 11pm, exchanging numbers, and today she texted offering some of her home-made soaps to my nephew and me.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">*I don’t feel like I can possibly summarize what the speakers were talking about. It included calls for police reform, the history of Black Portland, the role of the mayor, the role of the Feds (get out), calls for peace, calls for justice, song, chants, outrage, naming the fallen. Projected behind them was a list of the reforms being asked for. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">*When the mayor came: </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We all knew that the mayor had said he would come, so when word got out that he was in the crowd, chanting began to send the mayor over. It’s no secret that Ted Wheeler is not a favorite among the protesters so when chanting began to “F*ck Ted Wheeler,” the leader requested this stop so that the mayor would actually come. He did. He somehow made his way through the packed crowd and stood with bullhorn. No one could hear him, so he was brought up onto the staging area to be better seen and heard. It was still very difficult to hear him. The protest leaders encouraged everyone to try to give him respect.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">After maybe 30-45 min of time given the mayor, I noticed a man next to me shouting quite loudly about this being “pandering” to allow the mayor to speak. He and several others were very angry about the mayor being given so much time to address the crowd, as this is the first time he had done so (and only after the Feds came and never to a crowd of black moms...lots of criticism of his seeming to respond to a majority white crowd of moms). Soon after, the mayor descended from the ledge and the man in the crowd ascended but was not given a mic. People shouted for him to be given a mic. Eventually he was given a bullhorn. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Simultaneously, a group of black mothers started calling for all the black mothers to join them to go approach the mayor, as he was standing nearby in front of the Justice Center. This was about 15 feet from where I was standing, and at this point, the crowd became even more packed as everyone tried to get the black mothers to where the mayor was. I witnessed a spotlight on the mayor as several black women spoke with him. I could not hear what they were saying. I saw him nodding a lot. This went on for quite some time. The press began getting close, and I moved north to give space. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">*This, for me, was the most chaotic portion of the night. At the same time, I was able to look slightly right to see the organizers still on the staging area. Slightly to my left, maybe 20-25 feet away was the group the mayor. Further left was the Federal building where people had begun to climb the fence, throw fireworks, light fires. It was an utterly surreal moment in time, standing in the midst of all of this. By 11pm, one of the Wall of Moms organizers started telling the moms to go home, that things at this point might get unsafe. The crowd began to slowly move towards the park. At this point, I linked back up with Joe and Peach to walk the mom back to her car.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">*11pm-12pm. The main activity had shifted at this point to the Federal building, though it was hard for me to see. Neither Peach nor I had gas masks, so we were not planing to go very close. We kept ourselves near the Fallen Elk area and near Riot Ribs. The goal was to bear witness and be a physical presence. I witnessed many things during this hour. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The tear gas had started in earnest at this point. The crowd has learned not to run, but to walk away from it, get help from medics, flush out their eyes, go back to the fence. There was a slow movement of the crowd back and forth in between being gassed. I saw medics calmly offering help to those affected, pouring water and saline in eyes. People were saying “it’s getting spicy,” and I learned why first-hand. My eyes got quite itchy and I felt like I had a bee in my right nostril, moving up and down all the way to the back of my eyes. It kept making me sneeze. My throat was itchy. The doses I got were so small that it was not even painful, only annoying a bit. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The smell of the place was strong: a mix of burning sage, munitions, fireworks, Riot Rib food.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">People were thanking me and the moms for being there. It was lovely.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the distance through the park, I could see little of what was happening at the fence. I could mostly see flashes of fireworks and lights from the fires and floodlights, along with the crowd blocking my view.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The worst part for me during this time was the noise of “flash bangs” and fireworks, a back and forth between the feds and the protesters. I don't have sufficient words for how very loud and scary this is, at least for me. At random moments, it’s an incredibly loud BOOM that is disorienting and frightening. It took my breath away every time.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">While texting my husband, I suddenly heard Joe and Peach start yelling at the mayor. He and his entourage were making their way through the park to leave, a gathering crowd of people surrounding them yelling. They passed right by us. We found out later that this is right after the mayor had himself been tear-gassed. He decided then that it was time to leave.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We made our way to the north end of the park and could see the door the feds come out of open up again. At this point it was midnight and my entire body was aching, a mix of “museum legs,” stress and being old. I needed to leave, so we did.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">*A word about my nephew and his friend (and their friends who have been consistently down there since the beginning):</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m always proud of my family, but this night made me swell in pride for the hard work and perseverance of so many of these protesters. They are prepared. They are kind to each other. They take care of the houseless in the area. They are intent on keeping the focus on Black Lives. They respect the moms. They know what to do and never panic or react. When I heard the first BOOM, everyone around me jumped as I did. Joe texted immediately to reassure me that it was just a firework. I told the others around me, settling some nerves. When I needed to get out of the crowd, I texted Joe and he told me to pump my peace sign up and down. He immediately texted back “I got eyes on you.” We’d found each other within seconds. When the suburban mom needed to get back to her car, it was never a question of whether she would go alone or not. We all went with her. As Joe pointed out, “Proud Boys are grabbing people off the streets, as have the Feds. We stick together.” As I walked through the darkness of the park, Joe kept watching my walk, making sure I didn’t trip on anything. They let me lead the way, doing as much as I felt comfortable with. I am so proud. This generation knows what they’re doing.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I got home not long after midnight and had a long struggle of winding down to get to sleep. It took a very long time. My whole body ached, and I felt exhausted, but I couldn’t turn off my brain. I dreamed about Proud Boys, unwashed dishes, my old church basement, protests. I woke up tired and dizzy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don't feel qualified to speak to the varied protest tactics used in Portland and don't want to stir up controversy. What I can say for sure is that Portland is not under siege by anyone except Federal goons who no one wants here. Downtown is not a war zone. The fact is that in a 3-4 block radius near the Justice Center and Federal building between the hours of about 11pm-early morning, it's volatile. I would not go unprepared or without someone like Joe, but my fear resides only in the Portland police and now these Federal agents. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">That's my story. Today I have been taking it easy, eating green smoothies and french fries for dinner, tending to the strange soreness in my body, parenting my kids, and getting rested up for tomorrow. I'll be back out there.</span></div>
Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-5791886839704361572020-06-04T12:24:00.001-07:002020-06-04T12:24:18.840-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
December of 2009 I was sitting in a cupcake shop in Manhattan the first time I heard the term "systemic racism." I have an out-of-focus photo of that day, my toddler son eating frosting with my friend who had used the word next to him. <br />
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She is a white woman with two kids, one from her marriage to her black husband and the other adopted from Ethiopia like my son in the photo. She used the word with an ease that made me twitch uneasily, unsure if it was safe to admit to her my ignorance. I am so glad I did.<br />
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Her eyes could have bugged out at me, a white woman from Mississippi in her mid-30's, for not knowing the term. She could have shaken her head in disbelief at my ignorance. I wouldn't have blamed her if she had, but she didn't. Instead, she took a moment to explain it, and I calmly nodded in understanding but was screaming on the inside in frustration that I had not known this concept.<br />
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Waking up to the reality of American history can be slow for some of us, me included.<br />
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Just a few years prior to this meeting in the cupcake shop, I remember having a late-night argument with my husband after he returned from the weekly Monday night meeting at the small theater company he was a member of in Los Angeles. The theater was primarily white but had a few black members who had expressed their frustration that night for being treated as second-class, being passed over for roles and not being given a stronger voice in choosing each season's shows. My husband recounted that night that he had stood beside them, making his voice heard that the black members were correct, that their voices should take precedence over those of the white members in an attempt to balance the scales. By the end of the meeting, at least one of the members quit the company.<br />
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I had no sympathy for them. I remember telling my husband that line about how slavery and injustice was "back then," "not this generation," that the black members were too sensitive and just using race to get what they wanted personally as artists. I thought that night that my husband was too soft, was even allowing himself to be manipulated.<br />
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I am ashamed of that person I was that night.<br />
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It wasn't until I became the parent to a black child that the shift began for me. I am ashamed of this as well. I see so many white friends with hearts that stand for justice for our black community on the basis of it simply being the right thing to do. That was not me. For my stubborn heart, it took something more, and for this I am ashamed.<br />
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My children have turned my heart of stone to one of flesh, and for this I am indebted to them for the rest of my life. It's not right. It should not have taken me so long.<br />
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Everyone now who stands for justice has a role to play. Many are out marching, protesting, confronting the police on the front lines in the middle of this pandemic, evidence of the potency of this particular moment in history. It's a double-whammy of putting their lives on the line, and my heart swells at their bravery. Others are donating their fortunes and estates, whether large or small, to bail-funds and organizations on the front lines. Others are literally opening up their homes to shelter those on the front lines. "Influencers" (what a very 2020 term) are using their high profiles to shout for justice.<br />
<br />
You know what I am doing? <br />
<br />
I am sitting with that person I was in 2005 who argued with my justice-loving husband. I am trying to forgive her for her willful ignorance. <br />
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After daily offering and accepting forgiveness, I am moving on to that person I was in 2009 in a cupcake shop who still knew so little but wanted to know more. I do this by listening to black voices, by reading the words of black writers, by shutting my white mouth and accepting but not excusing my ignorance.<br />
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Then I channel my friend, the one who chose grace over judgment when she so easily could have gotten up and walked out of that shop in Manhattan. When I think on her for more than three seconds, I experience a crushing weight in my heart of gratitude for her.<br />
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I want to be her. I have encountered people who, like me, need explanations for what "systemic racism" or basic terms like "POC" mean. I simply explain, knowing that there is a willingness in them to learn. These are better people than I was; they have recognized their isolation and are confused by what's happening outside of their bubble. Their hearts are good and they want to learn more. They are part of how change can be made. They have their own estates, their own voices, their own ticket at the ballot box. <br />
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I hope they feel comfortable talking to me because they see themselves in me. I hope I can be that person in their life who offers grace over judgment. I know some people are frustrated at them because yeah, it's 2020 and we should all know better. But I have to believe that no one is beyond hope of change. <br />
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We are at a tipping point, right on the precipice. This is my hope. And I feel like my role in this is to find those people who are almost there and give them a nudge in the right direction. History is being made, and it brings peace to my troubled spirit to know that my small role might just be offering my hand to my former selves and pulling us along towards the path of justice. <br />
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No judgment. Just come along. I'll explain as we go.<br />
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Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-58002689111144234462020-04-13T12:43:00.001-07:002020-04-13T12:43:31.224-07:00Hodels, Easter, Books<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This morning while I was making egg sandwiches for the kids, Beti asked me who that Carol woman was. I knew she was talking about the woman from Tiger King, since it's impossible to avoid that show. The day my dog died, my sister came over since she loved him too and took care of him while we were in Mexico. She suggested we watch the first episode of Tiger King, as a way to take my mind off my grief. I couldn't tolerate it. That's what I told Beti this morning about the show, that it represents the worst of what humans have to offer the world and that I'm not interested in that during this time.<br />
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I flipped the eggs and realized immediately that I needed to get off my high horse since all last week I was deep diving into the podcast Root of Evil about the family of the likely Black Dahlia killer. I was googling all the family members so I could see what they look like. I found on zillow and street-view the Sowden house and studied the surrounding area in Los Feliz to see that I had likely driven past it many times during our years living in L.A. At one point last week, Beti asked me a question about the story, and I said, "Do you really want to know about it?" Her eyes lit up and she nodded. I said, "Oh yay, I have been dying to talk to someone about it, come on" and we went to my bedroom so I could tell her some of the story where her brother couldn't hear. For the next two days, she was jumpy. It's how I felt too. I was relishing in hearing David Lynch sing on the opening and close of each episode. <br />
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Why do I avoid Tiger King but obsess over the Hodel family? I even found out in my searching online that I have two mutual friends with one of George Hodel's great-grandaughters who lives in Portland. I was imagining what I would say if I met her. Would "I loved the podcast" be appropriate? "So sorry about your family?" My rationale to my husband about my obsession with this story is some convoluted thing about the choices we make in life to live in either dark or light. George Hodel's descendants, at least the ones interviewed in the podcast, have chosen love and light. They're the angel come to rescue Laura Palmer.<br />
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Ted is banging now in the basement, I suppose starting the project to put a shower in before the June renters get here. Other than that, the house is quiet. Abe has taken my phone up the hill to the bench near Roxy the dog's house to make his daily phone call to a relative. Today he chose Granny. Beti is in the living room writing or doing math, I'm not sure. <br />
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The New York Times published an article today in their Smarter Living section about why we should be keeping a coronavirus journal. I keep thinking about how we are living a period of history now that is going to be analyzed and written about for generations. So these posts here are my attempt to add my voice. This blog started out as a way to slow down time, to recapture the moments we lose by not recording them. Maybe no one will read it besides my own kids, which is just fine. I'm a wallflower anyway, always have been.<br />
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So I will not make much attempt for cohesive thought. For now, and maybe for good, this will just be a recording of the details of this time.<br />
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I think Beti is now facetiming with her cousin Layne. I love Layne's voice. She is talking about cross-stitching.<br />
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Yesterday I finished the book How to Stop Time which is going to eventually be made into a movie with Benedict Cumberbatch. I gave it 3 stars, not the greatest book but fitting for now. <br />
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One of my favorite times of day lately is when the sun has gone down and Beti and I retreat to my bed with its fuzzy blue blanket and our shows. I will watch I Am the Night or Little Fires Everywhere while she scrolls tik-tok or watches youtube videos about young women who are surviving prison, some trying to keep their babies there. Sometimes we watch Mixtish or The Fosters together. <br />
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We had no plan for Easter, none at all. I woke up yesterday morning and realized that we could take food to Bend to share with Steve and Carol from a safe distance. Beti and I made scalloped potatoes using yukon golds, a stick and a half of butter, half and half, shredded cheese blend. It made the house and car smell like Granny's house on Easter Sunday. It was amazing. I also made a slaw/salad made with red cabbage, green peas, orange carrots, so colorful, so pretty. The dressing had honey, red thai paste, vinegar, olive oil, salt, pepper. While chopping it all, Beti and I were listening to a podcast called Sick about a fertility doctor in the 80s who used his own sperm to impregnate his patients. Super gross. Super sick. I have to say that it's fun having a kid going into high school, old enough to listen to stuff like this with me. <br />
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That's it for today. Or for now. The days are one long stretch.</div>
Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-75315056591962151872020-04-08T12:29:00.000-07:002020-04-08T12:29:04.060-07:00Gandalf and John Prine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It feels like nothing is happening, but so much is happening.</div>
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John Prine died yesterday. My family is collectively grieving on behalf of my dad. I felt a degree of anger/frustration last night about how little I knew of him until 2018 on that day when my dad turned on "When I Get to Heaven" and drove me around Granny's neighborhood in Pearl so that I could listen to it all the way through. I think it's the first time he'd said "listen to this" even though music has always been playing when Daddy is around. I was devastated for him last night when Tara told me. Fuck this virus. My sister-in-law Margaret texted to say she wished we were drinking vodka and ginger-ales together. My brother-in-law reminded her in a comment on FB that, though we are all crying, we should remember that John is fishing with Doug while smoking a nine mile cigarette and that we should all visit him at the tree of forgiveness. My sister, my niece, my nephew, my dad all just kept posting their favorite of his songs, all night long last night. I would have listened to them all but my own family was watching The Fellowship of the Ring for the first time, and I want to protect my kids as much as possible from all this sadness.</div>
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"Did you actually kill someone today? You could be sick right now and not even know it. As yourself, do I want to kill someone today? Stay home, save lives." This is the PSA playing on spotify constantly. It's the new soundtrack to my kids' lives right now. </div>
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You know what's a better soundtrack? John Prine and Gandalf.</div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;">“I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.</span></i></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><i>"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Even Beti, who is not typically drawn to stories like Lord of the Rings, was engaged in the movie and admitted that she liked it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Currently, I'm sitting on my bed, the california king in the bedroom in Sisters, with Beti on the bed next to me doing a math app for practice. John Prine just sang "I was walking down the road, man, just looking at my shoes, when God sent me an angel just to chase away my blues."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">I could do this all day: look up John Prine lyrics. The frustration I feel of not having known more of him, but I can't focus on that. There's no changing the past. Here I am now listening to the mix of Ted trying to convince Abe not to give up trying the algebra problems on the docket for today with this song overlapping "My Darlin' Hometown."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Beti continues practicing math facts. Edith the cat runs about inside the house. Later, we are going to track down some boulders that only locals know about. Our neighbor down the road told us about them yesterday. He's a fire-fighter and knows all the nooks and crannies around here.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Leftover Ethiopian lasagna for dinner. The sun is out. It's warm enough for no jacket in the sun. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>If I came home, would you let me in?</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Fry me some pork chops and forgive my sin?</i></span></span></div>
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Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-24562249879374947062020-04-04T12:37:00.002-07:002020-04-04T12:37:15.692-07:00Brain dump during a quarantine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I found Splash on Disney+ last night so I made the kids watch it. I asked about halfway through if they wanted to switch to something else, and neither of them answered, so we watched the whole thing. Beti told me at the end that she thinks Tom Hanks is ugly. I have always though his kind eyes and funny looking chin were sexy. <br />
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My last dream before waking up was about two of the three pets we have lost since October. I found both of them. They hadn't died; we had just misplaced them. Buddy the cat was under a table cleaning himself. Gus Gus was wanting a walk. He bounded ahead of me to play with our neighbor's dog Frances, his old friend. <br />
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We have Edith the cat with us, our last pet, and I am terrified of her getting outside as we quarantine ourselves here in Central Oregon. She would be a delicious dinner for coyotes or even owls. She's with me on the bed now as I type this. <br />
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My sister is working on the covid19 floor at her job, and I'm terrified. I have no way of helping besides offering our house in Portland to her on the days she works so that she doesn't have to be in and out of her own house where her kids and their friends live. It's easier for her to isolate herself there. This is all I can do. Last night I posted on fb about her going to work on the front lines and I shared too much. I took it down in the middle of the night, and I have felt like shit since. I am so proud of her. I am so scared for her. I hate feeling helpless.<br />
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How many generations of humans throughout history have lived and endured their lives with undiagnosed PTSD? <br />
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I can hear Ted teaching pre-algebra to the kids in the dining room. <br />
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Abe just finished reading Lord of the Flies this morning. He said it's sad about Piggy. I should reread it myself, but reading his become nearly impossible for me lately. I read 270 pages of The Water Dancer by Ta-Nahesi Coates and gave up yesterday. I'd been reading it since Mexico and am simply stuck. I'm making our kids read at least an hour every day books approved by me that will challenge their minds, but what if I can't manage the same for myself. It might not be a bad idea to let them choose books for me.<br />
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Our neighbor here in Sisters is my one friend in town. We haven't seen each other in the three days our family has been here. I saw her kids walking down the street delivering something. When I remarked to them about how much older they both seem, her son did a spin and declared that it's because he is now 9. She left me a gift, a mug that says "You are exactly where you are supposed to be." She also loaned us two oil diffusers to help rid the house of smoke smell from the previous renters. We have been texting each other coronavirus memes every day.<br />
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I'm tired of hearing people go on about the silver linings of this pandemic. It's a pandemic. Nothing is good about it. People are sick, dying, isolated from each other, from their jobs and livelihoods. I'm glad that some people are being forced to figure out that their worth as a human being doesn't come from their schedules. I'm glad that some people are being forced to look inward and acquaint themselves with an inner life. I'm glad that elk are walking on the sand in Cannon Beach and that the fish have returned to the canals of Venice. I hear that global pollution is down. <br />
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I woke up today feeling like everything is bleak. Ted is strumming the guitar in the other room, Nirvana's "All Apologies," the same short riff over and over. Beti hasn't taken off her sleep cap and is making eggs with chorizo at 12:36pm. Abe just went outside with my phone to talk to his best friend Oliver. Edith is still beside me on the bed. My hands are so cold. It might snow later.<br />
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Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-68269104667019346432020-04-03T12:27:00.000-07:002020-04-03T12:27:03.213-07:00Letter to the Principal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Hi Dr. Clark,</span><br />
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We don't want to just disappear from the radar, so this is the Rooney family surfacing for a minute.</div>
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We drove back from Mexico in four days of driving. We went ten hours a day, stopping once to explore Arches National Park for two hours. It was open, free, virtually empty. </div>
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We unpacked in Portland, put our beloved dog to sleep (an unexpected and heartbreaking event), and got our house ready for my sister who is a nurse working at Good Sam with Covid19 patients. She will be staying there to quarantine herself from her own kids who live with her. We then drove to Sisters to the rental cabin we have here and were greeted to the place having been trashed by the previous renters, complete with the reek of cigarette smoke and piles of garbage too unseemly to mention in polite company. Twenty loads of laundry and a full container of bleach later, we have moved in for the next month and made a schedule for our family of activities to keep us occupied and healthy during the quarantine.</div>
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We are going to be keeping Abe up to speed on literature, writing, math and history. He has to write at least a page every day using prompts. He read everything for LitComp while in Mexico and is now reading novels approved by me; currently, he's reading Lord of the Flies and moving on to Animal Farm after, both unfortunately pertinent and close to home in this historical period we are living. Ted is working together with both Abe and Beti in math, using the Pre-Algebra book from Mr. Willard. </div>
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We are also making sure all of us take care of our mental and physical health by doing chores, being creative (baking, organizing, learning music, etc), exercising at least an hour, and every day calling or facetiming at least one relative and one friend. </div>
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That is the update from us. Abe misses everyone at school very much. We are all hoping for better times come September, and we promise not to let Abe turn completely feral in the meantime. Lord of the Flies is hopefully an effective cautionary tale for him.</div>
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Love to everyone at Trinity,</div>
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Ted and Lori Rooney</div>
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Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-2212967879570454272020-03-27T11:37:00.003-07:002020-03-27T11:37:59.118-07:00Abuela Pamela<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj36y3Et89WrYKEF0GvGtCUNWZzLtMcbEBK_f0fjLQgdrbOqN7gh9E73w6EM4077SVtciN8EAo4S9ZSCTtweqvG90tP9hX-cAKMVixVfN_4pSUByIhzm3wCGlvMjdiUOurRZ25KktTYE4g/s1600/IMG_9888.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj36y3Et89WrYKEF0GvGtCUNWZzLtMcbEBK_f0fjLQgdrbOqN7gh9E73w6EM4077SVtciN8EAo4S9ZSCTtweqvG90tP9hX-cAKMVixVfN_4pSUByIhzm3wCGlvMjdiUOurRZ25KktTYE4g/s320/IMG_9888.jpeg" width="240" /></a>At this point, the world is completely different, and it's hard to know how to write about not only our last two weeks in Mexico but also the global pandemic that forced us to come back to Oregon on only a week's notice. We have been back now for two full days, and it goes without saying that these are the most surreal days any of us have ever lived. We have unpacked our car, done laundry, learned how to disinfect our grocery purchases, and are now trying to take life day-by-day like everyone else.<br />
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Part of unpacking meant distributing the gifts we bought for friends and delivering a few of those today. The kids and I drove around Portland's nearly empty streets to my sister's house and our friends' house who helped take care of our dog while we were gone. Their nephew tried on the luche libre mask we brought and showed our kids some skateboard tricks he's learned. All the time outside visiting from at least six-feet away gave me the chills, so I came home and crawled into bed to warm up. I fell asleep, something very rare for me, and woke up to a text from our friend whose house I had just left.<br />
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She was expressing how much she liked the pottery that Beti and I had picked out for her, going so far as to say that "this goes to the core of my aesthetic nostalgia" and represents something she'd wanted in her "adult version of a home" from before she was married. She has the heart of a poet, and communicating with her often feels like listening to music. Hearing how much the gift resonated with her made me realize that, while I will likely never be able to encapsulate our time in Mexico the way it deserves, I can at least write about certain experiences that deserve to live on, such as the experience of finding Britney's pottery.<br />
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An entire post could be dedicated to the challenges of our landlady in Guanajato, but for now, she fits into this story because her stubbornness meant that we had an unexpected extra full day in the city. We were packed, ready to drive away at 7am, but stuck in a dispute putting us past the window of time that would safely get us across the border before dark. The kids were surprisingly excited about the extra day, brain-storming on all the people they could see one more time, including our Spanish tutor's new litter of puppies (all of whom were born dead, turns out, a fact we didn't know until arriving at our tutor's house).<br />
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Beti and I walked down the steep cobblestone street leading to the quarter-mile Santa Fe tunnel that takes us through one of Guanajato's hills into the heart of the town. We made sure to keep our distance from others while making our way into the museum gift shops and other artisan stores we'd gotten familiar with over the last month. Top of my list was to stop in the gift shop at the Museo Iconografico del Quijote for a Man of La Mancha souvenir. Guanajato is the center of the Don Quijote world, a fact proclaimed on its "Welcome to Guanajato" signs as you enter the city. <br />
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Beti and I entered Jardin Union at Teatro Juarez, the heart of the city via Plaza de la Paz. Both of us remarked on how it seemed that the square was about half-filled as usual, though the cheesecake lady was still out selling from her basket and the Callejones singers were still trying to drum up business for their nightly tours of the city's most famous alleyways. We continued past Teatro Juarez along the pedestrian street that leads to the museum. We noticed ahead of us to our right a stooped elderly woman standing in the middle of the street asking people to come into her shop. She approached us as well, almost begging us to come in, but I've never responded to pleas to like this, so I turned her down and continued on. We got only a few paces on when something nagged inside of me to turn around.<br />
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She was still watching us when we turned around so it was easy to catch her eye. Her face lit up and her tiny body did a little jump as she led us into her shop. It was only her and her husband in the store. This is prime Guanajato real estate in the heart of the city, and the shop is beautiful, full of artisan pottery she was eager to tell us about in a tiny abuela version of Spanglish that we had no trouble understanding. She led us from display to display, showing us the intricate patterns of each piece and explaining what she uses each shape for, from green tea to red wine before bed to pen-holders should a person not need a tequila shot glass. I found myself slightly bristling as she continued to talk to us and show us pieces, but I quickly realized that it was only us and one Japanese tourist in the shop so I needed to let go of that thing inside myself that wants to be left alone by shop keepers. I leaned into her Spanglish and let her guide me around. I am so glad I did.<br />
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I realized quickly that while the pieces were not as cheap as what we found at the pottery shop in our neighborhood, they were also incredibly more intricate. I began setting pieces aside I wanted to buy. I ended up with a small collection of different sized pieces, all following a similar color scheme with blues and oranges. She went to her counter and began meticulously wrapping each piece for our journey home. Her tiny husband stood at his laptop near the door of the shop tallying our purchases. I don't think he said a single word the whole time. <br />
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As she was finishing up the wrapping, she pulled out two small rectangular pieces and offered them to us as gifts. I started to turn her down, but she insisted, telling us that we were her first customers of the day and it was well into the afternoon. Across the street from her shop is a bank that had a run of patrons for some reason. She explained that there was a crowd there earlier in the day for hours with people blocking the street and congregating on her stoop. No one could get into her shop until the crowd dissipated. This was the reason for her hanging out in the street asking passers-by like us to come in and look around. She was desperate for business, knowing that the tourists were leaving and unsure of what the future would hold. <br />
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Around this time, Ted and Abe appeared at the door to the shop. I introduced them to Pamela, our new abuela friend. This was my favorite moment that day. She remarked on how much Ted looks like Don Quijote, and when she found out that he is an actor who has played him in a professional stage production of Man of la Mancha, her eyes bugged out and she launched into "Impossible Dream" in Spanish. Ted joined in her song, in English, taking a minute to lament not completing his effort to learn it in Spanish. He'd been growing out his beard for the last month in hopes of joining the Willy Wonka and Avengers Groot buskers in Plaza de la Paz on the weekends. He is truly the spitting image of Don Quijote and thought it would be fun to see what he could do on the weekend nights dressed as the famous knight, charging 20 pesos for a photo for mezcal money.<br />
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The duet was shaky but beautiful to me. I think that the Man of la Mancha would have approved of the transformation of Pamela's stoop from a place swarmed by panicked bank patrons for hours in the morning to an intergenerational, multilingual song in the street by a Mexican grandma and an Oregon actor with his Mississippi wife and two Ethiopian kids.<br />
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She gave another piece of pottery to Abe at the finish of the song, thanked us for being her first and only customers of the day, and insisted on photos together. We continued to the Don Quijote Museum down the street but bought nothing but chocolate ice cream from the nearby vendor. <br />
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El soñar.... el sueño imposible</div>
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Pelear... el enemigo invencible</div>
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Soportar ... con dolor insoportable</div>
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Para correr ... donde el valiente no se atreve a ir</div>
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Hacer el bien... al imposible mal</div>
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El amor ... puro y casto de lejos</div>
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Intentarlo ... cuando tus brazos están muy cansados</div>
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Para alcanzar ... la estrella inalcanzable</div>
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Esta es mi búsqueda, seguir esa estrella</div>
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No importa qué tan desesperado, no importa lo lejos</div>
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Para luchar por el derecho, sin duda ni pausa</div>
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Estar dispuesto a marchar al infierno por una causa celestial</div>
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Y sé que si sólo voy a ser cierto, a esta búsqueda gloriosa,</div>
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Que mi corazón se encuentre pacífico y tranquilo,</div>
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Cuando me acueste a descansar</div>
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Y el mundo será mejor para esto:</div>
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Que un hombre, despreciado y lleno de cicatrices,</div>
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Aun se empeñaba, con su última gota de valor,</div>
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<div class="ll-0-19" style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">To dream the impossible dream</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">To fight the unbeatable foe</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">To bear with unbearable sorrow</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">And to run where</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The brave dare not go</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">To right the unrightable wrong</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">And to love pure and chaste from afar</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">To try when your arms are too weary</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">To reach the unreachable star</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">This is my quest</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">To follow that star</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">No matter how hopeless</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">No matter how far</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">To fight for the right</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Without question or pause</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">To be willing to march,</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">March into hell</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">For that heavenly cause</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">And I know</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">If I'll only be true</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">To this glorious quest</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">That my heart</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Will lie peaceful and calm</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">When I'm laid to my rest</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">And the world will be</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">…</span></div>
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<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Better for this</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">That one man, scorned</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">And covered with scars,</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Still strove with his last</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Ounce of courage</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">To reach the unreachable,</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The unreachable,</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The unreachable star</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">And I'll always dream</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The impossible dream</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Yes, and I'll reach</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The unreachable star</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj955bSWTW1ruZG4S-IMy_94JssuYntt-hoZcvTMl2BmN13KNsi2yhXmoCPcvvFvhndBu2aA5GnG_ZIHgE9m1epcE0jx_DXCval36dr3KLzdus4NUPDx7PaPU2enDC14Tl1cA5gCUBCADE/s1600/IMG_9887.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj955bSWTW1ruZG4S-IMy_94JssuYntt-hoZcvTMl2BmN13KNsi2yhXmoCPcvvFvhndBu2aA5GnG_ZIHgE9m1epcE0jx_DXCval36dr3KLzdus4NUPDx7PaPU2enDC14Tl1cA5gCUBCADE/s320/IMG_9887.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When the world goes back to something resembling what it was, here is where you can find Abuela Pamela.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"></span></div>
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Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-13985548907741569852020-03-09T10:27:00.002-07:002020-03-09T10:35:19.667-07:00Not Quite a Storybook Yet<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ1_6DHuIJEMa2ExxrNm3s_fRNv0h4GagBILx7GV-8P0CyQUExBpgV4EvlcDeu9oenJ-7o7Pd8bvznRfSMQtrZvQ-9kg3txQnL49eUkiNmlL312-cFhyBm7bYPq-rhRlKgNpSd_K6nXsM/s1600/IMG_9561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ1_6DHuIJEMa2ExxrNm3s_fRNv0h4GagBILx7GV-8P0CyQUExBpgV4EvlcDeu9oenJ-7o7Pd8bvznRfSMQtrZvQ-9kg3txQnL49eUkiNmlL312-cFhyBm7bYPq-rhRlKgNpSd_K6nXsM/s320/IMG_9561.JPG" width="240" /></a>A friend told me tonight in response to the photo I sent of feral kitten letting me pet her: "Your life seriously looks like a storybook." It got me thinking about the reality of our time here and how much it is <i>not</i> storybook.<br />
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We have been in a fight with our landlord for two days about the broken hot water heater. We have all had to take cold showers, splash off the important body parts, and get only semi-clean laundry.</div>
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We came home with moldy cheese from the grocery store today, which none of us noticed until Beti made a melted cheese torta with it and gagged on the first bite.</div>
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On Saturday night at Beti's out-of-town basketball game, the need arose to speak expeditiously and seriously to Abe. I called him away to a rocky area with scraggly trees next to an outdoor concrete stage where a group had been lip-synching scenes from <i>Jesus Christ, Superstar</i> earlier. I stood next to the rock wall, motioning him to come, but he held up both hands and said with urgency, "Mom! Mom! Before you say anything, can I please tell you something?" I almost didn't let him but am so glad I did.</div>
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"Mom! This place is swarming with cockroaches. Look down and move away quickly." He was right. I hate roaches as much as Beti hates rodents.<br />
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After our talk, he said, "Can I squish them with rocks now?" </div>
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Ted and I got in an argument while Abe was discovering the satisfying crunch of smashing roaches with rocks, and I walked out to a bench near our car for a breather. I stared straight ahead, upset, but noticed something moving to my right. More cockroaches on the ground. It was a fiesta de las cucarachas.</div>
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Thankfully I've not seen any roaches in Guanajato.</div>
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There are, however, these large, rust-colored, waspy things that float around like helicopters and sometimes fly lopsided into your head. </div>
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One of our kids is so homesick that we are getting daily pleas to go back to Oregon. </div>
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Three of us have gotten mild food poisoning resulting in bouts of projectile diaringus (Steve Brule fans know what I'm talking about...at least no one's "pants filled up with brown").</div>
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Speaking of toilets, the plumbing of ours is so ancient that you have to hold down the handle for a count of ten and even then it doesn't always flush properly. So we've left the top of the toilet open so we can watch as it flushes to make sure all the parts end up where they belong to avoid constant running.</div>
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The landlady peso-pinches so much that she complains when we turn on the porch light to avoid tumbling down the flight of hard stone steps outside the house. Somebody is gonna break something navigating that in the dark. And when the hot water heater does work, she wants us to keep it turned off until 30 minutes before a shower, which we don't do. The knives are so dull that it's only a matter of time before someone chops a finger off from the force required to slice anything.<br />
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The idyllic little creek separating this hacienda from the rest of the neighborhood smells like sewage 99% of the time. </div>
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A plumber was banging away for almost two hours early Friday morning on the apartment above our house so loudly that it sounded like it was happening in our bathroom and bedroom. This came with no warning and when I complained, was told it was "a quick job." </div>
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I have, at times, been so lonesome that the highlight of my day is going out to the neighborhood dumpster when the sun starts going down to give scraps to Dumpster Cat and Feral Kitten. Today, Dumpster Cat didn't show up because she was cornered under a car with an asshole dog barking at her. So I ran the dog off twice.</div>
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Speaking of dogs, the scraggly one down the street from my last post is in such bad shape that a local friend (one of my very few) told me that they call these types of matted dogs "trapeador" (mop).</div>
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I haven't washed my hair since Thursday night.<br />
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I know that what we are experiencing are the textbook stages of culture shock. Three months is a very strange amount of time to live in a place. I even hesitate to use the verb "live," as "visit" seems more appropriate. We have all definitely moved past the honeymoon stage in which we were eager to go on walks to take in the vibrant colors of the city and observe with awe the embrace of nightlife even in the middle of a work-week. Now, I feel that we are taking in the differences as frustrations, which is just making the homesickness worse.<br />
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Both Ted and I have gone through this adjustment as adults living abroad in our 20s and come out the other side to the stage of acceptance. I know that two of the biggest hurdles we need to face are making friends and being more at ease with the language. These two things take time, patience, and persistence, so hopefully we will get there.<br />
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And for now, there's an exciting week ahead but more on that later...<br />
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Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-83306732102215390572020-03-04T20:21:00.001-08:002020-03-04T20:21:11.144-08:00Los Animales de GuanajatoSome of these are pets. Some are street animals. Some are feral. One is on display at the university. I love the animals of Guanajato.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUlTiD_UoGM5StqKRBhDUAvqOMNfJY4UDGAheFjOfpmMypqWMM3_9fcUANKmpxWIlunh2v1jCZ32doanHH3qBuzt4_R_pB3dSlhpZLk1kk6OTJWOfSrHtpJcPvgszAbZ7Jht1fuDmzDI/s1600/IMG_8475.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUlTiD_UoGM5StqKRBhDUAvqOMNfJY4UDGAheFjOfpmMypqWMM3_9fcUANKmpxWIlunh2v1jCZ32doanHH3qBuzt4_R_pB3dSlhpZLk1kk6OTJWOfSrHtpJcPvgszAbZ7Jht1fuDmzDI/s320/IMG_8475.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This cat lives in a cat family in a scraggly lot behind a metal fence. She was my first animal friend in Guanajato. We met the first full day spent here. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9LDG5FJhL1VGcfnbUFWSF03RENSOv1hqgrkv70CMuDgzpysktosh9aUzejN76RWFphe6xND7DLKDmrT0MKmQEcAY4OkUoyJnjNxyF0QgnrnGf19Z691eMasggXhvZGl0Q-PsiBay57c/s1600/IMG_8548.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9LDG5FJhL1VGcfnbUFWSF03RENSOv1hqgrkv70CMuDgzpysktosh9aUzejN76RWFphe6xND7DLKDmrT0MKmQEcAY4OkUoyJnjNxyF0QgnrnGf19Z691eMasggXhvZGl0Q-PsiBay57c/s320/IMG_8548.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scientist who preserved this sweet calf is called the Audubon of Mexico. Also on display in a jar is a two-faced kitten and a human baby.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijC0xhxI6ZswgP3_BM2h_FswlzvJYqGJjJ3rrvCHd8X0qR8Izf_Rbw7vNwNcntLMXS0H8i_xrSSgAZ6mYZR6WGKXfkZ1Ep11dpe1AnpiNtRTHnIKtnn6lUYOdn69q1syX1ZJAjs6F2zcc/s1600/IMG_8601.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijC0xhxI6ZswgP3_BM2h_FswlzvJYqGJjJ3rrvCHd8X0qR8Izf_Rbw7vNwNcntLMXS0H8i_xrSSgAZ6mYZR6WGKXfkZ1Ep11dpe1AnpiNtRTHnIKtnn6lUYOdn69q1syX1ZJAjs6F2zcc/s320/IMG_8601.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The owner of this two-month-old pug was kind to let us snuggle the baby.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWrcmL7oRHpI8G9Zx-RHtQ5dz2t4Q-XQcNKM7tzGL_LmMAbnY9hSHi4Ylo_EUhQ-YAYfbKbDZ6BFPgOovrb8Si1ckiExbjD2QdtbwKGOrobwEsj6KsCnjtXlTmJGYo_TsW5sCeLBst7E/s1600/IMG_8684.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1203" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWrcmL7oRHpI8G9Zx-RHtQ5dz2t4Q-XQcNKM7tzGL_LmMAbnY9hSHi4Ylo_EUhQ-YAYfbKbDZ6BFPgOovrb8Si1ckiExbjD2QdtbwKGOrobwEsj6KsCnjtXlTmJGYo_TsW5sCeLBst7E/s320/IMG_8684.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Bongo, black lab belonging to our first airbnb host. Bongo was my first dog friend here.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqM74_CUovhjARFezu_XOk7Eu-8QKHajVijt0s81KTPK88nROSSi395y4l015cW42VLSNOXPtPv7FRCZ_Fvt_4jH8MOn0LuAw23Ae5BqlZ1Q0h2ucb5sLQcvA73HdS8odgXyD3zWhZmAA/s1600/IMG_8805.mov" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqM74_CUovhjARFezu_XOk7Eu-8QKHajVijt0s81KTPK88nROSSi395y4l015cW42VLSNOXPtPv7FRCZ_Fvt_4jH8MOn0LuAw23Ae5BqlZ1Q0h2ucb5sLQcvA73HdS8odgXyD3zWhZmAA/s320/IMG_8805.mov" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This little door is for the kitchen garbage residing outside. I was in the shower when I heard the screaming from my kids.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfy2Ao0yWgY80PH2b9Bx8S2JG4h8vlV3JzcqhDtCPZ73WFVZ_rh4MGuSCLOuX6jsgCAMZo63ZGKlaJeAYwhtZfZQ4cYevFZz5LzSRnPAn5lm3gtA8J5LZUgtX1UWA7zxg-NAqtc6sP9UI/s1600/IMG_8893.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfy2Ao0yWgY80PH2b9Bx8S2JG4h8vlV3JzcqhDtCPZ73WFVZ_rh4MGuSCLOuX6jsgCAMZo63ZGKlaJeAYwhtZfZQ4cYevFZz5LzSRnPAn5lm3gtA8J5LZUgtX1UWA7zxg-NAqtc6sP9UI/s320/IMG_8893.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Dumpster Cat's tiny buddy who is likely completely feral. She has a tiny mew she now greets me with after I have patiently brought her treats for several days. Today, she even came running when she heard my voice and took a piece of lunch meat out of my hand. I've only been able to touch her for half a second though.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08kmg9wKQnG5BBUpg1g4PmzICeUFDV5T3iN87yI564C-q9mW51b5sVqaKYjo2nNLW2llsY49O08OyEQprcE25mJB-6CyuPJ-om6pxYM41ZSjz1En7A-wFWN0a93ANCh1PcK87RTyEKyI/s1600/JZPD6120.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08kmg9wKQnG5BBUpg1g4PmzICeUFDV5T3iN87yI564C-q9mW51b5sVqaKYjo2nNLW2llsY49O08OyEQprcE25mJB-6CyuPJ-om6pxYM41ZSjz1En7A-wFWN0a93ANCh1PcK87RTyEKyI/s320/JZPD6120.jpeg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This nursing mama stared at me like this at an outdoor bar until I gave her crackers. She is not pretty but she has those soulful eyes I couldn't ignore.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqNVjTCspEIFVtiHpGkV4bUbVtSVXxsbioxWVWTnSDe4yzN0NzzbJ21MQwibwK1vRvh6MKz9VgOlatrVvh7D9qmYxlyM6dlsFUpvIMssMfs3kapIBrnV8UABegJ2hPx5Nord0NlLXiW8/s1600/KCPU1085.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1594" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqNVjTCspEIFVtiHpGkV4bUbVtSVXxsbioxWVWTnSDe4yzN0NzzbJ21MQwibwK1vRvh6MKz9VgOlatrVvh7D9qmYxlyM6dlsFUpvIMssMfs3kapIBrnV8UABegJ2hPx5Nord0NlLXiW8/s320/KCPU1085.jpeg" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This huge reptile was this fella's Valentine.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr2ajMm1aisH1lWLGO3Dk3Lc-J5oCztihZmzvgXbSuu4VxJK3jnFLtVo-6h46l3Gw_z1K2Wgba9ewm5GG8Ex63aTism_O9myXwRAnpElyEMc-aoxpJR22oT0Zwqy88_0TBQezD2QQy46Y/s1600/KLIB5923.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr2ajMm1aisH1lWLGO3Dk3Lc-J5oCztihZmzvgXbSuu4VxJK3jnFLtVo-6h46l3Gw_z1K2Wgba9ewm5GG8Ex63aTism_O9myXwRAnpElyEMc-aoxpJR22oT0Zwqy88_0TBQezD2QQy46Y/s320/KLIB5923.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just a sweet baby behind chicken wire.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqmAqggLuvOj87-3_ky6-a_vrCIH61NZZrVtniw6tKrRUrn8OpnDPIdDbYrkIE8e12oMGSqv9k0cLmcmnQ4fChoYZ5w7oOOLvbQzqHfEVl32K4Vpyww5UJ788k5we43SmxNS7WVX0mJKg/s1600/KXYH0001.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqmAqggLuvOj87-3_ky6-a_vrCIH61NZZrVtniw6tKrRUrn8OpnDPIdDbYrkIE8e12oMGSqv9k0cLmcmnQ4fChoYZ5w7oOOLvbQzqHfEVl32K4Vpyww5UJ788k5we43SmxNS7WVX0mJKg/s320/KXYH0001.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our first night in Guanajato, we met the son of our airbnb host while he was on the garage roof begging his parents to keep this cat he'd found. His parents are dog-people, so I walked them through the basics of cat ownership and now Mateo has a cat. He tried leash training her, didn't work. Now when I come visit, she comes running, and I can pick her up and have her immediately purr and nestle her little face in my neck. I love her. Her name is "dust" in Spanish. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSlx4bhErjEpWa4mgae_dySQrPuEb9VWjdJ9iasEJBnj1kw26Kd-sAd8CPknGk-UWK_5-fyuf6D8IOMhpmX-RUKc_scEn-NM9QZsQayG0yqi0mCpzx5jIvQdjGj7rV6bAe7Olp5ZWP3wY/s1600/WEFX6012.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSlx4bhErjEpWa4mgae_dySQrPuEb9VWjdJ9iasEJBnj1kw26Kd-sAd8CPknGk-UWK_5-fyuf6D8IOMhpmX-RUKc_scEn-NM9QZsQayG0yqi0mCpzx5jIvQdjGj7rV6bAe7Olp5ZWP3wY/s320/WEFX6012.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am never sure if dogs like this on the street belong to anyone or not. I need to figure a way to tell because my kids ask to keep them all.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8hxe1lwkU2ycsjMC6EZT0lnoQ8j-bewRDPWuTjhD_Pa4KSX7-B9yyK5i8wyDlN5Yw3rEb0MUNpyZ6A8sYnnIGHwJsG-T4jDIJ8LJDB9Z1pWgwzidBlYrIqH3kSP-pAGb5jAhXKvfxJMo/s1600/TCGU0089.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8hxe1lwkU2ycsjMC6EZT0lnoQ8j-bewRDPWuTjhD_Pa4KSX7-B9yyK5i8wyDlN5Yw3rEb0MUNpyZ6A8sYnnIGHwJsG-T4jDIJ8LJDB9Z1pWgwzidBlYrIqH3kSP-pAGb5jAhXKvfxJMo/s320/TCGU0089.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This pup was at a house we were thinking of renting. Abe called him "my dog" for several hours but we haven't seen him since.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPACwbMn62IyZY09zzs5jkDmluU6WvJdNfid7Dmky3RFG54oZdjyS2eSiSB6CjglwKHDUjRQlXYDYhCvalU-Ih2yrsbemYq2G9f6uytBxmmtfJX3DlSbT7AMeG5LnK2sqxoGkGfhMmuko/s1600/SAGO2596.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPACwbMn62IyZY09zzs5jkDmluU6WvJdNfid7Dmky3RFG54oZdjyS2eSiSB6CjglwKHDUjRQlXYDYhCvalU-Ih2yrsbemYq2G9f6uytBxmmtfJX3DlSbT7AMeG5LnK2sqxoGkGfhMmuko/s320/SAGO2596.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Behold the roof dogs of Guanajato. Because the city is so hilly and built into a bowl, many houses have terraces used for outdoor space rather than yards. Hence, the roof dogs. Some are friendly, some bark protectively, some sneer at you from above, like this guy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3JFncBw6Vtm2aLIv2wV3623N-YlZ9f7rxqR_wC3oHMEVu_REzD-SJjU1FNWcCMaJi3Mx2S25Fo9-9MoqRStuwvjV7qLdlrCfKoIHbVfPeoNIlB4DQcecSy2Yz5c1i0a_KBDT5A8s6pM8/s1600/OASH8804.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3JFncBw6Vtm2aLIv2wV3623N-YlZ9f7rxqR_wC3oHMEVu_REzD-SJjU1FNWcCMaJi3Mx2S25Fo9-9MoqRStuwvjV7qLdlrCfKoIHbVfPeoNIlB4DQcecSy2Yz5c1i0a_KBDT5A8s6pM8/s320/OASH8804.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Dumpster Cat. We are getting to know each other well now. She sleeps during the day in an empty lot and comes to the dumpster every dusk with her feral kitten friend to see what is her dinner. I have started bringing her scraps most evenings from our own dinner, and now she and feral kitten know me and run to see what I've brought. Sometimes she smacks feral kitten in the face, but I like her anyway. If I tried to bring any animal with me to Oregon, it might be Dumpster-cat. We know each other best.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9AbiTR-y3rMpDRXEMDoI_dW3RGamM7pzQ9RAJAOgjJfnHLS2dFlh0PBUJqAUirN8yNMtUY_1N34FnuzkbpxmEuQUKgWq9wzi7K7QSRpkmOYguX59mJKSEz1sS63sSVoivR4IU7MIgDa0/s1600/FWSE8423.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9AbiTR-y3rMpDRXEMDoI_dW3RGamM7pzQ9RAJAOgjJfnHLS2dFlh0PBUJqAUirN8yNMtUY_1N34FnuzkbpxmEuQUKgWq9wzi7K7QSRpkmOYguX59mJKSEz1sS63sSVoivR4IU7MIgDa0/s320/FWSE8423.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He is so dear and so protective of his house along the creek. I can never get near. Good boy, doing your job.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXiqdVi6iqb2w-hWIKYRFL2Acc0nhqHSmsjmNkGexB8Vhyphenhyphenohem8D61LZ9qcsC4uZQFbYRBEWIE4PgQ7slKJG-L7RWDWYCSagvRmVTQZ0HdCI0Jheio3_LWTRuRm58iRqYil6068AWCHBU/s1600/OMXD0214.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXiqdVi6iqb2w-hWIKYRFL2Acc0nhqHSmsjmNkGexB8Vhyphenhyphenohem8D61LZ9qcsC4uZQFbYRBEWIE4PgQ7slKJG-L7RWDWYCSagvRmVTQZ0HdCI0Jheio3_LWTRuRm58iRqYil6068AWCHBU/s320/OMXD0214.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I even don't mind bugs if they are cool and interesting like this guy.<br /></td></tr>
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Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-42166091884330839452020-02-29T16:38:00.005-08:002020-02-29T22:15:55.646-08:00Did You Notice I Didn't Make Myself Small?Homesickness hit me this week. While it's a good thing that this week has meant the resumption of a schedule, with Ted teaching online classes two nights a week and the kids both in school every day from 8am-3pm, it has also meant for me the deepening understanding that we are actually here and not going back to Oregon anytime soon. Now that things are more settled than they've been, the luster of the new place has faded some, and I have to figure out what to do with myself. Then when I started to dig into answering that question, the need for acute parenting presented itself in unexpected ways that left me emotionally spaced out for a couple days. I'm needing to be purposely vague for the sake of my kids' privacy, so the takeaway is that the week had unexpected revelations that left a physical burden in my shoulders, my back, my stomach. And I've realized that I'm very lonely.<br />
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I have always craved solitude, but this town is providing it in doses that even I could do less of. A couple of weeks ago, I made a friend who is the cousin of my friend Susan, the one who was our L.A. housemate and who traveled with me to Ethiopia in 2013 to meet Beti. She put me in touch with her cousin who is in Guanajato too. Well, who <i>was</i> in Guanajato. After two weeks herself of too much solitude in an apartment she disliked, she decided to try Mexico City for a month. So as soon as I made the type of friend who would text me random and funny things, want to meet up for coffee at a moment's notice, would come into our house and just start eating what was out, never judged me (out loud) about my atrocious Spanish, and who would periodically reveal shocking and hilarious things about herself, she left. We are storing some of stuff during her Mexico City weeks, so I know I'll see her again, but sigh. </div>
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I also miss my pets. I didn't realize until being here without my own "mascota" just how much my mental health is buoyed by consistent attention from animals. I miss my dog staring at me while I eat popcorn. I miss headbutts from my daughter's cat. I miss my heart getting all wobbly when I watch them snuggle beside each other in front of a fire. I have tried to make friends with our neighbor's rescue cat, and even I go visit her sometimes. I save our scraps to feed to "dumpster cat" every evening, and I even got her to follow me one evening to the terrace of our house for milk. But it's not the same. I miss my own mascots.</div>
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I should have been studying Spanish harder this week, making my way through the bin of books we brought from Oregon, or familiarizing myself with the plethora of inexpensive but wonderful museums that the city offers. Instead, I was feeling the drag of depression pulling me into an inability to focus on anything, difficulty sleeping, aimless staring. Thank God for friends I've been able to reach out to for phone calls. You know who you are, and it's helped.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The last 24 hours had a couple of things happen that lifted me up and reminded me that things are gonna be alright. My new friend April came by to drop off the things that we are storing for her. Beti has joined a very competitive basketball team, but after a week of sickness, she was resisting going to the 8pm Friday night game. It took a lot of deal-making and convincing to get her out the door, but I was proud of her for giving it a try. I told Abe to stay home and wait for Ted to get home since "he'll be right back," so that April and I could go into the city on our own. I put my phone away and didn't look at it again until we were finishing up tacos and flan on the terrace of a restaurant in town. It was dark by this time. I pulled out my phone when the check came and noticed several notifications, one a series of texts from my sister about our pets (more on that later) and another from Ted who had ended up driving the entire group players to their game an hour away. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
While we are not worried about safety within the city, it's a solid rule of thumb not to be out driving past sundown outside of the city. So besides this worry about my husband, daughter, and five Mexican teens out after dark to a town an hour away for a game, I realized quickly that I had told Abe that his dad would be right back, and it was now an hour and a half later. I texted a neighbor to see if she could check on him, but she didn't answer, so April and I took off towards my house. We made our way through the Santa Fe tunnel, the one that leads to the steep hills taking us to our house. We passed the tunnel taco stand, walked past the catholic school, turned the corner going up and there appeared Abe with a skinny stick in his hand. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was relieved to see him, hugged him a few times, asked him what he'd been doing. His answer, "Well, I was paranoid for about ten minutes after dad didn't come back, but then I finished reading <i>Tom Sawyer</i> and then grabbed my stick and came out here to look for you." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Why didn't you call me?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Cause I'm grounded from technology."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Oh, Abe, you know you could have used it to call me!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Honestly, I forgot once I started reading, and then I got my stick. It helps me feel safe."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He even told me that he thought to lock our door <i>and</i> hide the key in case anyone else came home and needed to get in.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In that moment, I hugged him again, thankful for his honesty, bravery, resourcefulness. I was thankful for this glimpse into his future, that he's gonna be okay. We ran into another neighbor who reassured me that the road Ted and the team were traveling was safe and then we got April into an uber home. I asked Abe if he wanted "heartburn in a bag" from the street vendor down at Dos Rios who has an incredibly elaborate system of adding toppings onto open bags of chips. We walked down, Abe swinging his stick the whole time and talking nonstop, stood in line for five minutes before Abe chickened out, saying "another time, Mom. Let's just get tacos from Beti's taco guy."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So we walked back to the tunnel and ordered three tacos to share between us, two chorizo, one 'bifsteak' todos con cebollas y cilantro. We sat together on some steps across the street sharing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMybABj2cHgcvejoQxGDI6CFhfpuvvNL1Ft9mcdEk8ND6eej5pDXXJUq7-D-Q8dfmwr4TNe9-kuDL59LWxQuplJwg51Grpk8Xp-XvxwHwd7SeXzKJsAVLeEpZUbpUo5Wm7gJavlj2629M/s1600/IMG_9368.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMybABj2cHgcvejoQxGDI6CFhfpuvvNL1Ft9mcdEk8ND6eej5pDXXJUq7-D-Q8dfmwr4TNe9-kuDL59LWxQuplJwg51Grpk8Xp-XvxwHwd7SeXzKJsAVLeEpZUbpUo5Wm7gJavlj2629M/s320/IMG_9368.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abe, looking shockingly old after eating street tacos.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Before midnight, Abe fell asleep on the couch while Ted and Beti were having their own adventure post-game at the restaurant owned by one of the players. Not only had the road been safe, but they had been traveling in a caravan of other parents, one of whom treated the whole group to a midnight dinner of <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Tortijas and toting chips with four kinds of salsa and big chunks of hot sauce covered pork and bread with spices white soft cheese and a soup that tastes seafoody"(in a text from Ted).</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'm never really able to sleep until all the chicks have come home to roost, so I finally made it to sleep by 1:30. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This morning the second reassuring and funny thing happened. Ted has joined an "old man" basketball team that plays sometimes at the university gym and sometimes at our local sports complex, "Torres Landa Deportiva." This morning his game was at 11, and Abe has plans to meet a new school friend there for her game at 10:30. I was home doing laundry and catching up with my dad on the phone when I got this series of texts from Ted:</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrMNoL6FmB4FPVNrDhXz5VEZEs9d6NEQltR6-MxHlK4ImyCR324wkZ0Pga66BlLXRbq2xNXvK4PvYdyh03-kSC3vCH2m4SZaQM3e1VQgquwB6UXaX2liqGovjjA5bxXwFI-YCBN-b9KU/s1600/IMG_9379.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrMNoL6FmB4FPVNrDhXz5VEZEs9d6NEQltR6-MxHlK4ImyCR324wkZ0Pga66BlLXRbq2xNXvK4PvYdyh03-kSC3vCH2m4SZaQM3e1VQgquwB6UXaX2liqGovjjA5bxXwFI-YCBN-b9KU/s320/IMG_9379.png" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjAEoTDxsP7j2Rmy29d2vVLAMusxEs1jqi8thYcv71v_oHM5-y69y6Fo3qWvFOD6N7ieJUFoomXnMUCuXogchEFxs-pydRnJ_4DpyJjYhy4PFv-jooFnDcdlk2RTbCOMRT1bL8ITGsng/s1600/IMG_9377.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjAEoTDxsP7j2Rmy29d2vVLAMusxEs1jqi8thYcv71v_oHM5-y69y6Fo3qWvFOD6N7ieJUFoomXnMUCuXogchEFxs-pydRnJ_4DpyJjYhy4PFv-jooFnDcdlk2RTbCOMRT1bL8ITGsng/s320/IMG_9377.png" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKi-xA7O67r2Bi_9GgKZr54AABBzKQHWEccL4VJQH1Xu8MyeQKLYzHR8210Wu06eZMKJ0T_crTIIZ5TTdE6kuJ4opHfU2D5LKkHG_drejxPUA100miocZgnHWEmfU9Q6hcz1O_JIOI5dc/s1600/IMG_9378.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKi-xA7O67r2Bi_9GgKZr54AABBzKQHWEccL4VJQH1Xu8MyeQKLYzHR8210Wu06eZMKJ0T_crTIIZ5TTdE6kuJ4opHfU2D5LKkHG_drejxPUA100miocZgnHWEmfU9Q6hcz1O_JIOI5dc/s320/IMG_9378.png" width="180" /></a></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The video shows Abe standing under the basketball hoop to toss the ball to the next girl in line. He had a group of 9 females from his age up to my age! Ted reported that Abe's team was paying close attention to his pointing, his demonstrations, his instructions. They ended up divided into teams to even play a full game. Abe was the tenth player.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">At one point during a break, he came up to Ted and told him how much fun this was. Abe has played on teams before and has, like in most things in his life, not been the most linear player, not the most aggressive, tending to hide from the ball and at the scrimmaging at times. This time, no. He was now the coach, the dude showing these brand-new players what to do, so he was standing taller, making his movements bigger and running towards the scrimmage rather than away. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He said, "Dad, did you notice I didn't make myself small?" </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Ted had noticed. Abe is wanting to turn this into a standing gig. I posted on the Rooney family fb group about it, remembering that Abe's grandpa was a welll-known Portland basketball coach who took his team to the state championship in 1969. His uncle is also an incredible basketball coach. It's a Rooney family "thing," and how cool to have our kid get a taste of it here on this sojourn.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What we've wanted out of this time here is a stripping away of what's expected in normal middle-class American life so that all of us can get down to the meat of who we are, what inspires us, what causes us to be excited about the now and tomorrow. Who knows if Abe will follow in his grandpa and uncle's footsteps to become a coach? What mostly matters is what Ted said about the experience Abe had today: where else but in a small city in Central Mexico would a group of brand-new and eager basketball learners latch on to a 12-year-old boy to show them what to do? </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Abe didn't make himself small. He ran towards the experience, both last night and today at the gym. And I'm realizing this very second that I ought to do the same for myself. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>(for the record, Ted was joking about Abe charging the players for his coaching services).</i></span></div>
Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-9558805535022545452020-02-27T21:40:00.000-08:002020-02-29T10:06:28.671-08:00What I wish I'd broughtWe have more than we need here. Any of us can even walk down the road to the little corner market built into the side of a house for candy (most frequent purchase), dairy items, bread, tortillas, detergent. There's even a friendly cat to pet who lives there. We lack for nothing really.<br />
<br />
That being said, there are a few things I wish we had brought.<br />
<br />
Grits. Why, oh why, didn't I toss a couple five-pound bag of grits in the car? My friends from the South marvel that I can find grits so readily in the Pacific Northwest, but Mexico? Nope. Only hominy, and yeah....no.<br />
<br />
Hair products for myself. My kids are covered. I stocked up on shea moisture shampoo, conditioner, curl cream in a huge tub right before we left. But for myself, I brought off-brand shampoo and conditioner, the end. The lack of anything extra is making me feel unkempt and old. Why didn't I bring a curling iron?<br />
<br />
Berbere. Our last trip to Ethiopia in 2019 resulted in enough berbere for at least two years, plus enough to give away to friends. I use it in so many things, especially lasagna and gasp...grits.<br />
<br />
My dog. He was diagnosed right before we left with a condition that will shorten his life without a $5,000 surgery. In Mexico, this surgery might be a fraction. We thought long and hard about bringing him but were swayed against it by another dog-owner who said that having him with us would limit our choices of accommodation. We have found this not really to be true. Everyone here has a dog, and I wish very much mine was here with me getting an affordable surgery. Anyone coming to Mexico? Could you bring my dog?<br />
<br />
Fitbit chargers. We all managed to travel from Oregon through Texas and south to Guanajato without losing anything. Then we had to move for one week to "dead abuela house" half a football field away and managed to lose both a car key and my fitbit charger in that tiny move. Now I'm having to sleep without any record of how much in each stage and walk around the city with no step credit due to my dead fitbit.<br />
<br />
Next day:<br />
<br />
Extra bluetooth keyboard. Last night, this one died after I wrote that last paragraph. Actually Ted is the one who forgot his, so everyone in the family is using mine. So that too.<br />
<br />
Perfume. It's not like I stink, but I just smell like nothing. I miss my perfumes.<br />
<br />
Strong black tea. Most afternoons, Ted and I drink a cup of Irish Barry's or English. PGTips. I haven't yet been able to find strong black tea in Mexico and I miss it.<br />
<br />
<br />Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-30633922051496632402020-02-25T10:33:00.002-08:002020-02-25T10:53:48.058-08:00What Inspired UsI have twenty minutes before our Spanish tutor arrives for my first solo lesson. Until now, it's been him with our kids. I have been learning on my own and have a collection of questions for him. I am trying not to be nervous. A man I know through the adoption community turned me on to some new ideas about language acquisition from one of his communities: the polyglots. Last week, I watched a video of a Slovak woman speaking about what polyglots do differently. It was hugely inspiring. I have sent it to several people, one of whom is a new friend in Guanajuato who immediately canceled her Spanish classes in lieu of learning on her own.<br />
<br />
The polyglot video was inspiring and freeing, as have been a couple of other things as Ted and I worked to prepare for this trip. And it was a ton of work. We made the decision to go in November and didn't hit the road until January 21. Ted's hope was that we would be on the road by the time the kids were out of school for winter break, but that didn't happen, and then the days and the chores just kept coming at us relentlessly. On December 22nd, I realized that we wouldn't be on the road by Christmas, so Beti and I threw together a Portland Christmas. We got a small tree and she helped me pull out the easiest-to-access Christmas decorations. I wrapped up a few presents, very few, and we invited my best Portland friend and her family for our seventh annual gathering on Christmas afternoon, this time with a thrown-together attempt at "international" food. I made Ethiopian lasagna. Lisa's mom made Jewish knudel. Andy made some Asian inspired black-eyed peas. Lisa made her yeast rolls for Beti, who had been dramatically disappointed by their absence at Thanksgiving. Despite the delay in leaving, it felt nice to be home for Christmas.<br />
<br />
After Christmas is when life got weird. Really weird. I started keeping my online journal "brain dump" (or "morning pages" as encouraged in The Artist's Way), which I just scanned, a reminder of how truly weird life became in those days between Christmas and hitting the road well into January. The bulk of the work to get us out of Oregon involved maximizing our rental income to keep us afloat financially.<br />
<br />
The work involved a few bodily hits with the bulk going to Ted. All that happened to me really was tripping over an ill-placed piece of lumber in the pitch dark of a rainy Portland night, falling onto a pile of lumber and bruising myself in several places. I tried not to cry but I did anyway. Ted nearly severed a finger with a table saw, cutting himself to the bone and doctoring it himself with no stitches. Looking at it now, a month into healing, still makes me queasy. Another injury he got is almost unbelievable. A year ago, he cracked a rib while playing basketball. At the beginning of January, he was called in to do a brief acting job for a project that will be out later in the year. The job involved laying on his stomach on the edge of a table for CGI "swimming" underwater. He put full effort into it, and at the last shot, felt (and heard!) the same rib crack on the edge of the table. He also fell out of a loft onto a hard concrete floor due to the faulty set-up of a ladder. Somehow, nothing broke that time.<br />
<br />
As for me and the kids, we were living in a strange limbo, just waiting to be able to leave. I tried to fill our days with normalcy, but it was tough with no solid end-date. Because our plan was to drive, our departure was flexible. And despite working as hard as we could, the list of chores seemed to keep multiplying, at times feeling like they would never really end.<br />
<br />
One evening I was in Ted's workspace, noticing that he had started a chore that wasn't top of the list of the ones essential to get us out of Oregon. As we were talking about how to prioritize the chores, I realized that the song playing was the hit "We Gotta Get Out of this Place" by The Animals, one of Ted's favorite songs growing up. The lyrics hit me in that moment, which I pointed out to Ted. I always know what will make him cry, and this did it. We paused in our work and listened:<br />
<br />
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>In this dirty old part of the city</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Where the sun refused to shine</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>People tell me there ain't no use in tryin'</i></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Now my girl you're so young and pretty</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>And one thing I know is true</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>You'll be dead before your time is due, I know</i></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Watch my daddy in bed a-dyin'</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Watched his hair been turnin' grey</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>He's been workin' and slavin' his life away</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Oh yes I know it</i></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>(Yeah!) He's been workin' so hard</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>(Yeah!) I've been workin' too, baby</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>(Yeah!) Every night and day</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>(Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!)</i></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>We gotta get out of this place</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>If it's the last thing we ever do</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>We gotta get out of this place</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>'cause girl, there's a better life for me and you</i></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Now my girl you're so young and pretty</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>And one thing I know is true, yeah</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>You'll be dead before your time is due, I know it</i></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Watch my daddy in bed a-dyin'</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Watched his hair been turnin' grey, yeah</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>He's been workin' and slavin' his life away</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>I know he's been workin' so hard</i></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>(Yeah!) I've been workin' too, baby</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>(Yeah!) Every day baby</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>(Yeah!) Whoa!</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>(Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!)</i></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>We gotta get out of this place</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>If it's the last thing we ever do</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>We gotta get out of this place</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Girl, there's a better life for me and you</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Somewhere baby, somehow I know it</i></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb WRZytc" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>We gotta get out of this place</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>If it's the last thing we ever do</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>We gotta get out of this place</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Girl, there's a better life for me and you</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Believe me baby</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>I know it baby</i></span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>You know it too</i></span></div>
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This song became Ted's inspiration. I began hearing it several times daily, blasting from his workspace, his voice shouting along. He played it while when we finally drove away. He played it every morning along our route south as we worked to get a few more miles between us and Oregon. He wanted to blast it as we crossed the border from Laredo into Nuevo Laredo through the red "do not go here" territory issued by the US State Department, but I was too nervous to let him. We played it several hours into our first Mexican morning instead, safely out of the red zone.<br />
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What became my inspiration started as a clipped poem by Martha Medeiros circulating on social media falsely attributed to Pablo Neruda. Our brother Duoshun posted it at first, and it hit me just as hard as The Animals hit Ted. I began reading it every day as a meditation. I printed copies to hang up around the house with one to tuck into my suitcase in an envelope with a card from my dad.<br />
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As I sit here attempting to finish this post, Beti is braiding my hair into tiny braids while Ted is asking for my input in handling a minor conflict with our landlady who doesn't want to provide items like sharp knives, garbage bags, cleaning supplies. Abe is at school for his second day but Beti is home with a lingering cough. Ted taught his first online class last night until 11:30pm while I laid for two and a half hours next to Abe who couldn't sleep. Beti and I are going to attempt banana bread soon. We have interviews this afternoon at the kids' schools. I'm working to get the kids' registration requirements in to their school. Ted is talking to the propane guy outside right now so that we can resume warm showers this week. We are fitting the kids for their school uniforms, complete with bows and knee socks for Beti. A lot about life here feels 'normal'.<br />
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It's not normal though. We worked our asses off, especially Ted, to fulfill the dream of a season abroad with our family. We are in the midst of it now and not fully aware of which of our daily experiences are going to "stick" in our psyches. It's why I'm forcing my kids to write at least twice a week in their blogs. It's why I've resurrected this one, forcing myself to carve out time on our shared computer that sits in the center of this rental house, surrounded by the noise of our household plus the noises of outside, of neighbors, of car stereos, of kids calling at our gate for Abe to come out and play, of cats every evening at dusk fighting/mating, of fireworks being thrown on the ground every day at the church up the hill by the old mine sounding just like gunfire.<br />
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It's yet to be seen or felt exactly how this is going to shape us. We've purposely turned things topsy-turvy, and my personal struggle is in learning to find grace in myself. This poem is my mantra, my blueprint, my inspiration for what our family is doing. And it's not by a man but a woman.<br />
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<strong><em>A poem: Die slowly by Martha Medeiros</em></strong><br />
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He who becomes the slave of habit,<br />
who follows the same routines every day,<br />
who never changes brand,<br />
who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,<br />
who does not talk to people he doesn’t know<br />
dies slowly.<br />
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He who makes television his guru<br />
dies slowly.<br />
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He or she who shuns passion,<br />
who prefers black on white,<br />
and the dots on the "i" to a whirlpool of emotions,<br />
precisely those that recover the gleam of the eyes,<br />
smiles from the yawns,<br />
hearts from the stumbling and feelings<br />
dies slowly.<br />
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He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy,<br />
who is unhappy at work,<br />
who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,<br />
to thus follow a dream,<br />
those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives,<br />
die slowly.<br />
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He who does not travel,<br />
who does not read,<br />
who can not hear music,<br />
who does not find grace in himself,<br />
dies slowly.<br />
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He who slowly destroys his self love,<br />
who does not allow himself to be helped,<br />
who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck,<br />
about the rain that never stops,<br />
dies slowly.<br />
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He or she who abandon a project before starting it,<br />
who fail to ask questions on subjects he doesn't know,<br />
he or she who don't reply when they are asked something they do know,<br />
die slowly.<br />
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Let's avoid death in small doses,<br />
reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing.<br />
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Only a burning patience will lead<br />
to the attainment of a splendid happiness.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This moment of forgoing sound advice happened in Arizona.</td></tr>
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<br />Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-70711649179453059762020-02-23T10:19:00.002-08:002020-02-23T10:20:28.125-08:00A Pitch and a Resurrection<div style="font-family: "helvetica neue", helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Anxiety about "putting it out there" is real, but here I am doing it anyway despite the knot in my stomach as I type these words after sending my family to the local "deportiva" (sports complex) to cheer on Beti's basketball team. I have used the excuse of "taking care of my family" for too long to stop myself from writing in a forum that people can actually see. </div>
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A few friends who remember the old blog that I kept from 2006-2013 have been pushing me for years to resurrect it, or at least to re-enter the world of writers, something I have not known how to do now that blogger isn't as much of a "thing" as it used to be. It's what I know, what I remember, where I found a community that has stuck with me so many years later. So I'm back to it. I'm too dumb to figure out wordpress (believe me, I tried), so until someone more tech-savvy can teach me, here I am back at blogger, resurrecting not the original blog, but the one that came after, the one that I used sporadically and then eventually ditched altogether.</div>
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So enough about the reasons I haven't been writing. Life is short and I'm getting old, so I'm just doing it. I'm even making my kids keep blogs, so I've been feeling like a hypocrite not having one myself. In January, I even submitted a pitch to a magazine seeking proposals for something like "unique pilgrimages" resulting in my first official rejection letter. Anyone want to read my pitch? Here it is:</div>
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I am new to giving pitches for my writing and have tried to keep it short and sweet. Here are the answers to your questions. Let me know if you would like to hear more. </div>
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1. The narrative arc of the pilgrimage, in a nutshell:<br />
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A transracial family in Oregon abandons the hope of the American dream for their two Ethiopian children by sojourning to Central Mexico for the last few months before their daughter enters high school.<br />
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2. The transformation that occurs on this trip:<br />
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This is as yet to be known, as we are one week in to the journey. Our hope, besides the obvious of cultural immersion and Spanish language acquisition, is a shake-up in the consciousness of our family about what gives value to a life.<br />
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3. Why is this story different than other similar-seeming pilgrimages?<br />
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When the last of our daughter's friends without a smart phone got one for her birthday, we heard some moaning at home. My response to her was that while it is difficult having parents who make unconventional choices, the upside is that she is the only one who gets to ditch the bullshit of a toxic eighth grade to sojourn in a foreign country for months.<br />
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Linked below are two writing samples from blogs I used to keep. Our Own was my adoption/family blog from 2007-2013. The next, Moments I Got Back, had a much smaller following, as I advertised it hardly at all. </div>
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<a href="http://ourownrooney.blogspot.com/2010/08/neighbor.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://ourownrooney.blogspot.com/2010/08/neighbor.html</a></div>
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<a class="enhancr_card_2682246724" href="http://momentsigotback.blogspot.com/2012/12/for-when-you-find-out.html#comment-form" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">For When You Find Out</a><br />
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For When You Find Out</h2>
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My friend Julie wrote something today that explained well my feelings. Here is my own letter to my children. ...</div>
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Thank you for considering what I have to offer.</div>
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(I'm okay with being rejected because knowing that an honest-to-god writer friend who makes honest-to-god money from her writing pushed me to write the pitch in the first place felt like a boost I'd been needing for a long time. At her house that same week, a talented and funny friend of hers with a very famous relative told me about a writing forum where your readers pay a subscription to access what you write. Again, this felt like another boost, that this accomplished person with famous family members thought people would pay to read my writing. Proof that I am a tightly-wound ball of self-doubt is that it's been a month and not only have I not joined this subscription platform, but I am just now getting around to writing in any place outside of my secret, encrypted online journal that is a dumping ground for my brain. I just wrote that I was going to stop writing about why I haven't written but here I am doing it again... get it together, geez, thanks for reading this far.)</div>
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I will end this, my first official post of a resurrected blog, with the "pitch" we sent to our friends and family regarding our family's decision to take off mid-schoolyear for Central Mexico. This was mostly written by me but with a few sentences/key phrases added by husband Ted (side note: for the last two weeks in Mexico, I have been referring to Ted as "mi hermoso" rather than "mi esposo," like Golum referring to his ring as "my pretty." I'm leading by example to my kids about using the little you have and sometimes looking like a dumbass with kind strangers who tend to nod and smile rather than correct). </div>
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Thank you for reading, my old friends who have asked, encouraged, prodded me to start writing again. Here it is. Now it's out there, despite the pounding heart in my chest as I push "publish." For those of you who have read and followed my kids' blogs about our time in Mexico, thank you! Now you have my version as well. More to come...</div>
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"If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together."--African proverb</div>
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For many years now, Ted and I have dreamed of living abroad for a season with our kids. We were both born with a pull towards exploring the world, which we did before meeting each other, with Ted in Germany and Lori in Slovakia. Those years for us separately were transformative, helping us both wake up to the idea of being global citizens by experiencing different ways of existing on this planet. We have very much wanted to instill into our kids this value, not just through travel but through planting ourselves for a season and living alongside a culture different from our own.</div>
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Time passes though, kids get older and more tightly woven into the fabric of their communities with school, classes, sports, and friends. Every six months or so, Ted and I would look at each other and ask "Now? Can we go now?" But it never seemed to be the "right" time. And before we knew it, the middle-school window seemed to be closing with Beti in eighth grade and Abe in seventh. We have both been wistful, wondering if the chance had passed us by.</div>
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This fall, life circumstances helped us realize that no, it's not too late. We can still make it happen. Truly, middle school is one of the most challenging stages of life, which has proven to be true in our family. After a lot of prayer, soul-searching, and conversations with our kids, we've decided to make it happen, to fulfill the dream of not just traveling with our kids, but experiencing the daily rhythms of life by soaking in the language and culture of somewhere new (to us).</div>
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Our plan is to travel south to visit the Texas Rooneys (hi, guys!), maybe join in some butterfly sanctuary protests along the proposed "wall" and continue on south to Central Mexico for the next few months. Ted has spent time in the area and we have several friends/relatives who have lived there and are helping us with tips. The towns we are drawn towards are Guanajato, Cuernavaca, and Taxco. We hope to find a simple place to rent, get everyone signed up for Spanish classes, find a community church, and hopefully make some friends. Beti, in particular, has been eager to learn Spanish, so one goal is for her to be able to start ninth grade with a strong grasp of the language. Abe goes to a classical school and has been learning Latin for the last year and a half, so gaining proficiency in Spanish will likely give him a boost in Latin.</div>
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More than anything, we hope that this adventure abroad will shake things up for our family in the best ways possible: get us out of the day-to-day rut, lessen that ol' materialistic pull, and give us a less self-centered outlook. As individuals and as "United Statesens" we open ourselves up to that reminder that comes from living abroad of "oh yeah, they are human here too!" We hope to live by example that taking wise risks and making unconventional (read: adventurous) life choices is nothing to be afraid of. Ted thought of that Dolores Rooney adage: if you do what you love and love what you do, things will be just fine. </div>
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We are very aware of the privilege that allows us to make such a choice, and how un-earned it is. We truly are blessed in ways beyond what is deserved. </div>
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Our plan is to leave as soon as we can get our Portland house in order. Lori's sister, Tara, will be staying in the house to take care of the animals. Our likely return will be Spring Break. Though not the full year abroad that we dreamed of, we hope it is enough time to have its positive effects on all of us. And who knows - if things are going well and we can afford it, we may even stay until the end of the school year. </div>
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Many of you have asked about the kids' school situation. The principal of Abe's school has made a plan for his core teachers to send assignments via email/Skype in math, grammar, literature, and ancient history so that he does not fall behind. He's a smart kid, and no one is too worried about that happening, including his teachers. Beti is ready for high school as is with her curiosity, work ethic, moral compass and drive to succeed. She's rightfully proud of her 3.8 GPA (as are we!). She is going to finish her eighth-grade year officially "homeschooled" in Mexico. Ted will keep her math skills up to make sure she's ready for 9th grade Algebra 1, and Lori will be reading novels with her the way we read To Kill a Mockingbird together this fall. Both kids will likely be keeping blogs/journals, so if you are interested in seeing our adventure through their eyes, we can send you the links once it's all set up.</div>
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Thank you to everyone who has cheered us on! We are excited to finally be fulfilling a dream that we've held for a long time, let go of, and now come back to. </div>
Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-84913670193001094822019-02-12T12:19:00.003-08:002019-02-12T12:28:08.303-08:00Jolene<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Wednesday night last week I was sitting in the armchair by the fire doing some reading when two messages popped up on my ipad with a few seconds of each other. Two friends from the adoption community, one in L.A. and the other in Chicago, reached out with the news that Jolene was gone. My seventh grade daughter began asking me for details about plans we were formulating to take her friend roller-skating, but I sat stunned, placing my hand over my mouth, unable to answer her. She stared at me, confused, and I told her I needed a minute, that I just got sad news that someone I knew had died unexpectedly. She shook her head and said, "What is it with people dying?! Kelly's friend just died too!" She took her book and moved to the dining room to read, giving me quiet for the next half hour to text my two friends, a young teen's version of empathy.<br />
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I really didn't know Jolene very well at all. Our families were part of the wave of Ethiopian adoptions that happened around the years 2006-2012 or so. A network of us got to know each other through our blogs, reading and commenting and eventually calling and then meeting in person as we ended up in each other's cities. That's how I met Jolene the first time, in 2009 at the Riverside Church in Harlem at an Ethiopian community event. I was there with my son and she was there with hers, both boys about the same age. I have a photo from that day of us, along with our friend Kristine who now lives in Chicago, the one who first reached out with the news last week.<br />
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I met up with her again two years later on a remarkably hot day in New York. My son and I were in the city for a few days while my husband was working on the show Boardwalk Empire. The adoption of our second child had been approved by the Ethiopian government a few weeks prior, but the issuing of our new daughter's US visa was getting hung up at the American embassy in a newly heightened sense of scrutiny by the two governments about the ethics in these many adoptions. The system was overloaded, oversight was being sacrificed, and eventually the program was shut down, rightfully so. That day in Central Park, I was fielding stressful phone calls from our agency about this subject, trying to understand what it meant that we were the legal parents of a daughter on the other side of the world but that the US embassy was requesting further efforts of due diligence to prove that she was, in fact, eligible to become a US citizen by becoming part of our family. It was a lot to take in, a "glitch" we didn't experience with the adoption of our son, and I was attempting to figure it out while keeping up with my excitable four-year-old in the middle of New York City on one of the hottest days of the year.<br />
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This is when Jolene and her husband Mike stepped in. A group of us had spent the morning together at The Strand bookstore and then riding the bus uptown to the park. When we arrived to the park, I was taking these calls from our agency while also trying to communicate with my husband the updates. I was stressed. Mike and Jolene swooped in and took my son for me. Mike invited Abe to go boulder climbing. He kept Abe and a gaggle of seven young kids occupied on Central Park boulders so that I could make sense of what was happening on the other side of the world. In the midst of this, we got an email with a photo of our new daughter holding the photo album I had left for her a few months earlier on the first trip I took to meet her. My friend Julie had an iphone, so she let me log in to my email to access my daughter's smiling face holding a gift I had given her. It was a serendipitous moment of reassurance that things would work out, made possible by Mike and Jolene who were tending to my boulder-climbing son.<br />
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These are my memories of Mike and Jolene. It isn't much. That is what makes it remarkable though. How many people do we have relatively short encounters like this with in the course of our lives who end up being forgotten entirely? I've explained the adoption community to people with the comparison of summer camp, the kind of late nights playing capture-the-flag, getting lost in the woods and making it out safely, relieved and giddy by the experience. It's not a perfect comparison of course, but most of us have those friends we've bonded with via an emotionally exhaustive shared experience.<br />
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Julie, Christine, Kristine, Mike, and Jolene were all there together with me on a confusing day in our adoption journey. Jolene had a calm warmth about her that stood out. I will never forget her kindness and offering of friendship though we only tangentially existed in each other's orbits. I wish I had known her better. She had the sort of quiet depth that drew people in and I know, if we had lived closer, I would have wanted to be closer friends.<br />
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Last Wednesday I sat in that armchair talking to Kristine and Julie, remembering Jolene, trying to understand. I couldn't. I haven't been able to stop thinking of Mike and her kids. I keep seeing this photo of Mike, holding their baby and entertaining all of our kids like the pied piper. I wish I knew what to do, how to help in practical ways as they figure out their life without Jolene. She was only 39. From what I read in the obituary, she accomplished much in that short time and was loved by many. The family asked that donations be made in her name to Worldwide Orphans (www.wwo.org).<br />
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I have felt compelled to reach out to my loved ones this week to hear their voices. I have felt compelled to offer small acts of kindness, to pay closer attention to the heart longings of those in my orbit, whether tangential or not, and work to meet that need. That's what Mike and Jolene did for me one day at the park. They climbed a boulder with my son. Mike, I hold you, Ash, and Helen close to my heart. You guys have proven that you know how to live well. Thank you for letting me know Jolene, even in a small way. Our summer camp wraps our collective arms around you.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5XuC-PFbd73X_obcCxpg3M1M5LPbraePP2TpSDIHkYJ0AGbo3QKGsK50K3OqWCl9yTuKBrzo2FmLqaA3TrBWK5EUXGfUmCOQAPSQFh-1OzSajDHgEQAzO3fL-f8ZWD7wTkgClxE0ICw/s1600/51373683_259739334923378_4220070045679616000_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5XuC-PFbd73X_obcCxpg3M1M5LPbraePP2TpSDIHkYJ0AGbo3QKGsK50K3OqWCl9yTuKBrzo2FmLqaA3TrBWK5EUXGfUmCOQAPSQFh-1OzSajDHgEQAzO3fL-f8ZWD7wTkgClxE0ICw/s320/51373683_259739334923378_4220070045679616000_n.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mike and Abe</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PqWYllxUX58E92fUR5xOLhWfJSTX56qqYg3eZkLm0v3wj-y2HmsPvyVF_GZH8mAaamDY6WNlS3Acf1a2b16LbtemKFvpqyVjdSJZEu4yppOnCEh52i309K_G3w6-XKRFSdBOU2q4Vp0/s1600/51528049_311707616195619_8283385849618366464_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PqWYllxUX58E92fUR5xOLhWfJSTX56qqYg3eZkLm0v3wj-y2HmsPvyVF_GZH8mAaamDY6WNlS3Acf1a2b16LbtemKFvpqyVjdSJZEu4yppOnCEh52i309K_G3w6-XKRFSdBOU2q4Vp0/s320/51528049_311707616195619_8283385849618366464_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How did I end up in this company of women?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzgKQLlR_FZca3p0pbJjaB3Kn0cak6TUBPaVhcpUgEjRlOV97sQ4MRA8_iiYZ-25JXUUDjX10MZei2EJFQw4C3FC8sopiGkra0Hnn8GqIwSh_MEDjiQb-_agyWtHFyQPH9VuJ5WwApSQ/s1600/51543319_582499588932458_3709194749656170496_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzgKQLlR_FZca3p0pbJjaB3Kn0cak6TUBPaVhcpUgEjRlOV97sQ4MRA8_iiYZ-25JXUUDjX10MZei2EJFQw4C3FC8sopiGkra0Hnn8GqIwSh_MEDjiQb-_agyWtHFyQPH9VuJ5WwApSQ/s320/51543319_582499588932458_3709194749656170496_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pied Piper Mike</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-48816931467930245922017-04-11T11:12:00.000-07:002017-04-11T11:12:01.482-07:00Trail blazer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In the big group photo the parents were trying to grab as the fourth grade was about to get onto the yellow school bus taking them to an "Oregon Trail" overnight camp, some kids were hanging on each other, or arms slung around shoulders, or triumphant fists in the air, or some splayed out in the front on their sides. <br />
<br />
My kid was hiding in the back.<br />
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He let his serious, furrowed browed face appear in one that I caught but in the rest, he purposely stood in the back where no one could see him.<br />
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A few minutes before, the cabin groups were called out. There are a lot of athletic boys in this class, and two groups in particular let out loud cheers and fist pumps and high-fives when they found out they'd be together in a cabin with one of their dads. It was all very bro-tastic. Funny how that starts as early as fourth grade. That herd mentality. That thing of the strong and loud grouping together to the exclusion of the quiet watchers.<br />
<br />
When my son's cabin was announced, it was just quiet. All the boys in his group like each other but they are definitely not "bros" at all. They are not the team sport guys, though a couple of them are on teams. My son is in a friendship rut with one of the boys in his cabin, and he looked at me in frustration when the announcement was made. Another kid in their cabin is a good friend of his but also a mama's boy who is nervous about this first overnight away from home.<br />
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I watched some of the parents drop their kids off, wish the chaperones well, laugh about the chaos, barely tell their kids goodbye since their kids were the confident ones who had either already done overnight camps or were at the center of the fist-pumping bro culture of fourth grade. Their kids are the winners. The ones with no worries. The ones who climb into bed at night and just fall asleep.<br />
<br />
That's not my kid. My kid lays in bed and night and wants me to lay next to him. He sprays his stuffed elephant with "peaceful sleep" essential oil spray to help him calm his nerves. As I lay next to him every night, he asks multiple times what we are going to do the next day. Sometimes he talks about his recent dreams. But he never just gets into bed and falls asleep. Not ever. Going on an overnight is a huge deal for him. It's not easy. <br />
<br />
I was the same way as a kid, and as I stood there this morning beside the school bus taking my baby away to overnight camp, all the memories of being an outsider in my private school came flooding back. I was not one of the winners. I was not one either that just fell asleep at night. I always stood on the edge of school activities, quietly judging these loud winners and trying to convince myself that I didn't want to be one of them. I always wished that these events were easy for me the way they were for some kids.<br />
<br />
It's not easy for my son. I know exactly how he feels and managed to hold my tears in until I got into my car. I had to resist the urge to jump onto the school bus so I could see who he was sitting with for the ride to camp. He did stand up to wave at me, which I was grateful for. <br />
<br />
I came home and started looking through videos of when he first started walking. My heart is beating hard in my chest, hoping this toddling baby is confident with his other quiet friend who also likes to sleep next to his mom at night. I hope the two boys build each other up instead of feed into each other's anxiety. <br />
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Momming is scary and hard at the best of times, and when you let them go for 36 hours...oy...<br />
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We will make it.</div>
Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-22713337181975077972016-10-26T19:30:00.001-07:002016-10-26T19:30:11.795-07:00A lesson in bias<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In one of the first photos we saw of our son as an infant, he looked presidential. People commented on the seriousness in his expression. In his passport photo at seven months, my husband said, "This looks like his first grade photo." First grade rolls around, and he was right.<div>
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This look of his has led to his being sought out at times for photo shoots. When he was three, he did an ad for a local store that ran in the Sunday paper. His hands were in his khaki-pants pockets, an easy smile on his face. He ended up being bored by the process and never asked to do another ad, so we let it drop for a few years.</div>
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Last month though, the parent of a friend mentioned a guy she knows who wrote a childrens book about science who needed child models for the book. So our son and two of his friends have spent three sessions doing photo shoots for the book. It was a fun process for them because they got to do science experiments and have good snacks plus just be togther as friends.</div>
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Today was the last session, and as the photographer/author was writing my son his payment check, he started to compliment my son. He talked about how easy he was to work with and how photogenic. As he attempted to elaborate, I watched in what seemed like slow motion these words come out of his mouth: "Your son has an intelligent look about him that most African American kids don't have."</div>
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Yes, he said the words. I was stunned. I blinked hard and turned it back on him, offering him a way out with, "What do you mean by that?"</div>
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"Well, I just mean that he has a serious look about him. His friend has a look of wonder that is really captured on camera. Your son has something different that most kids don't have."</div>
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I replied, "I know what you mean, and we have always heard this about him since he was an infant. But I find it interesting that you said what you did about African American children. I doubt you would have said this to me if I were black, right?"</div>
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He sorta laughed, "Well, no probably not."</div>
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"So do you think that African American children are not intelligent?"</div>
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"Oh no, that's not at all what I meant!"</div>
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"But you agree that this is what you said. You said that my son is different from most African American children, speficially how you see him as having an intelligent look."</div>
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"Well I mean that all children have unique looks and....blah blah blah...." as he tried to cover his ass.</div>
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"I encourage you to think before you speak because what you said was extremely offensive and not true."</div>
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I thanked him for giving the boys a good experience, got the check, and left. </div>
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At home I talked to our kids about what the man said. I brought it up with them because they need to know that many people out there will judge them differently based on their dark skin. We talked about the complexities of internal hidden biases. We talked about how all people have them. My daughter has a bias against nature documentaries; she assumes she will not like any of them before ever experiencing one. My son has a bias against cheese; when encountering anything that is not orange cheddar, he turns his nose up. All people have biases, even nice really nice people. They both talked about how nice this photographer was but that he had a hidden bias against people of color. He never said the words, "I think black people are less intelligent than white people" but this is exactly what he revealed about himself by his "compliment" to my son.</div>
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I encouraged our kids to speak up when they encounter a person revealing their hidden bias. In the spirit of treating people with kindness, a gentle confrontation can actually help the person.</div>
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I may send a follow-up email to the guy, letting him know the value of looking inward and that despite having a great experience, we will not be working with him again.</div>
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And hopefully our kids will speak up.</div>
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Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-77544106427257676312016-06-28T10:14:00.000-07:002016-06-28T10:14:42.902-07:00Neskowin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This morning there was a dog, a big brown lab, splashing around in the creek that runs by the hotel. It was pretty loud actually. He had a frisbee in his mouth, and his owner was frustratedly following him at a distance, trying to get him to come. It wasn't happening. He kept running away, always out of reach. As I write these words, another family with another big brown lab is walking to the beach via this creek. This dog just run through the creek in the same way but stopped to poop. Everyone let out a "aw man" and stood deciding what to do. The father of the group looked around, apparently to see if anyone saw who might complain, and they kept going. Now there's big brown lab turds in the little creek. Dogs are gross.<br />
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Yesterday I ate salmon tacos at $5.50 a pop in Pacific City, the little surfer town 15 min up the road where big trucks get to drive on the beach. They were tasty. Not a place I felt like hanging out though so I headed back to Neskowin and headed to this beach, avoiding the way via the creek. I prefer to walk through the neighborhood with the cute but empty beach houses. It was cloudy, so I had my jacket on. I set up a spot with my towel leaning against rocks in view up Proposal Rock, the big one I've yet to figure out how to climb (though my husband and dog did last year). I started reading Saba, by Jane Kurtz until I got so sleepy that I had to lay on my side, jacket as a pillow on the rocks, and fall asleep. A nap on the beach is a wonderful thing.<br />
<br />
I've been doing a lot of sitting around staring at waves, like a big cliche of what one is supposed to do while alone for two days at the beach. I've been hoping it would be a 'reset' button for me for living life well. My faith has been in shambles for well over a year, and one thought that came to me was about how I owe it to the people who raised me in faith to at least read through the Holy Book from start to finish, the way my friend R has done numerous times. He's now an atheist.<br />
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Another thought that came to me while pressing 'reset' is something about how I've always been led and how I'll continue to be led and how our kids will be led too. It was a deep knowing, I think more than just my own dumb thoughts. Am I saying I'm tapping into the divine? Does this make me crazy? If so, a lot of other folks are as welll, so at least I'm in good company. It gives me peace at any rate, and this has its value right?<br />
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That father with the dog came back and picked up that big brown lab's turd from the creek. Good for him.<br />
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There's a fair amount of noise in this condo, despite there being so few people here. I found myself needing to go to bed when I noticed the little girl next door having gone to bed since they'd be up earlier than I care to. She's cute though. She keeps appearing at the balcony where I am, her little face peering at me saying 'hi' when I notice her. I'm reading a memoir about a childhood in Prague, and she reminds me of the girl in this book. I don't mind her little voice even though yesterday she kept yelling "quit it!" over and over. <br />
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Embrace all of it. Throw your arms around your world. If you believe you're being led, then what's in front of you? Embrace it. Whatever it is. <br />
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Check out isn't for a couple more hours, but I'm going to head out and drive up the coast. The long road back home. There are more waves to stare at before heading inland.<br />
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Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-15820938754825137432016-06-26T15:04:00.001-07:002016-06-26T15:04:25.154-07:00For Jill, while at the beach by myself<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I just "unfriended" my first Donald Trump supporter for telling me I "drank the cool-aid" and "must be pro-death." She used a lot of "U" instead of "you" which was probably reason enough for the unfriending, nevermind the scary political rhetoric. She'd been the only person in my list of social media friends who has been actively posting pro-Trump stuff, and I'd kept her around out of curiosity. But then James Dobson went and said that Trump "got saved" and that we should all pray for him, and I pointed out on a mutual friend's post about this that it's funny how no mention was made of praying for Clinton or Sanders and how convenient was the timing of this newfound rebirth. So I have indeed drunk the cool-ade of rational thought. <br />
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This condo is 1970's creeptastic with olive-colored kitchen counters and a smell of disinfectant. Not many people seem to be here, but somewhere nearby there is the thumping of a kid's footsteps, which may not bode well for insonmiac me.<br />
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I wish I had my dog here. Neskowin seems to be the sort of beach that folks don't mind if they're off leash. As a matter of fact, a little terrier is running along the stream outside the balcony.<br />
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My friend Susan is on a writer's retreat currently in California, and I might feel the same if I had anything to say besides a recording of this balcony.<br />
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Fresh cherry pits spit off the balcony, a cup of Irish tea with sugar and cream, good wi-fi, a charge to my phone, cheese and crackers and a glass of wine for later, a memoir of a childhood in Prague, and the question of a solo hike. I don't miss my family yet, but I've only been here an hour. The shadow of clouds moving across the sand and the barking of a dog.</div>
Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-67993057282739851212016-06-08T22:45:00.000-07:002016-06-08T22:56:00.890-07:00Momming<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday after managing to rein in my impatience at two dramatic eruptions of childish dissatisfaction, A came outside to the porch where I was sitting reading. He sat down on the rocking chair to pick at the healing cut on the bottom of his big toe (achieved at the beach in Lincoln City two weekends ago). <br />
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"Mom, you're really good at momming."<br />
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"I don't feel that way a lot of the time. What made you say that?"<br />
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"I don't know. You're just good at momming."<br />
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These words are a blessing I will hold dear for a long time.<br />
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Tonight, he and his best friend O walked with me to the library. O is, thus far, less of a reader than A who devoured all seven Harry Potter novels in less than six months. On the walk back home, A walked and read while O picked at plants and flowers, tasting most of them. I told A that he should put the book away since his friend was with him, but O's response was, "Why? We went on a walk to the library and now he's reading. I don't care." These two boys get each other.<br />
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We stopped by the cherry tree I knew about that was in full production. O scampered up and shook branches to get the fruit to fall down. I stood in the street to guard my son from passing cars as he collected the cherries that fell, but what happened was the opposite. A grabbed my wrist and said, "Mom, watch out, there's cars" and pulled me rather forcefully towards the curb. He felt grown. He held on to my wrist and continued leaning down to pick up over-ripe cherries, making sure I didn't wander again into the street.<br />
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I caught a glimpse of the future, the way future, my kid taking care to keep me safe. It was weird and endearing and a comfort. Apparently he too is good at momming.</div>
Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-47889055023295884412016-02-01T22:30:00.001-08:002016-02-01T22:30:15.948-08:00Love Thyself<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A beautiful woman we know from our years in Los Angeles has a 'secret' FB group for women. She is skinny and very thin. She posted a video of herself, her "real" self to, I think, jump start a core strengthening video or something. I'm all for being strong and fit, but the way she lifted her shirt to show her belly pooch and jiggle her ass rubbed me the wrong way. So after sitting on this for a few hours, I had a glass of savignon blanc and sent this response:<br />
<blockquote style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" type="cite">
This may very well be Lori Rooney overthinking things in that annoying way she does but Imma express myself anyways. I went through about five years of being hungry. My goal every day was to keep the hunger at a manageable twitch in my gut because I knew when I woke up the next morning, my stomach would be flatter, my clothes a little looser. I was not healthy.</blockquote>
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But here's the thing. I'm now 41 and am 15 pounds heavier than those days. I now treat my hunger pangs with real nourishment. My children snuggle in to my soft sides and call it lovely. </blockquote>
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A few nights ago, my kids ran across a picture of me hosting a party at our house in Los Angeles, and my daughter literally gasped at how thin I was. This was right at the end of the hungry-years. She expressed how terrible she felt I looked and how thankful she is now for my current body. My son came to see and echoed her sentiment.</blockquote>
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You beautiful mamas out there who have endured pregnancies and childbirths and the pangs of living this magical life, please know: if your body fits within the 'normal' range on the BMI scale at your doctor's office, you are good. You may be flabby. Your tummy may jiggle. You may have some muffin top and prefer to wear some loose tops. But goddamit, life that life. LIVE YOUR LIFE.</blockquote>
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Your children love your body. They love the acceptance you offer to them day in and day out as you nourish them with food and love. I am certain your husbands would jump straight into the sack with you with one wink, no matter your BMI range. Men are like that. </blockquote>
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If you want to make your body leaner to be strong and fit, go for it. Just make sure you reflect every moment of each workout and turned-down glass of wine or slice of beautiful cake that you are a creation loved by those in your orbit. just as you are. Honor yourself. Peace and love.</blockquote>
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Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6647970794313470744.post-33124103062145654472015-12-29T22:55:00.005-08:002015-12-29T22:55:45.762-08:00Africa in Portland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A full day.<br />
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I got to take an elder to the Humane Society for their Tuesday "free pet" day for seniors. She picked out a 9-year-old white with orange splotches cat named Lola who had been given up by her previous people for pissing and pooping with wild abandon. The intake paperwork actually said "I'm at my breaking point." My client is not functionally literate, so I made sure to explain this to her. She's willing to take Lola on. Lola sorta stunk of piss.<br />
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At work, a young woman from Gambia who volunteers at reception gave me a full home-cooked by her traditional Gambian dinner, enough to feed my whole family. This evening, I opened the two containers to find some foods I'd never seen before but happily tried. A whole fish, cut in three parts. Head, middle, tail. Alongside it, two carrots, a white tubular root, a boiled okra, a long purple vegetable (I think an eggplant), and the hottest little orange pepper I ever did try. My mouth burned for half an hour from one nibble from the end. Another container of spiced rice, I'm guessing that was cooked in the fish broth. A small container of spicy, vinegary, green sauce to put on it all.<br />
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An elder from Somalia brought his nephew to see where he spends his Tuesdays. His nephew lives in South Dakota, and I got to tell him about how respected his uncle is, how funny and mischevious, how everyone likes him, everyone. This elder had wrapped up in a plastic grocery bag a container of six muffins to take home for my children. He passes on gum, candy, granola bars for them at times. They each ate one tonight after the Gambian dinner. (to be honest, the kids tried the Gambian food but were a bit put off by the fish head in it so they ate mostly Christmas Eve leftovers and quesadillas they made for themselves).<br />
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My daughter had her first real haircut and flat-iron tonight. It was a Christmas gift. While we definitely make sure she knows how much her naturally curly hair is a beautiful wonder capable of braids and twists, she had been longing to experience straight hair for the first time in her life, if for nothing else to see how long her hair had grown since it was shaved off when she was four years old (almost five probably). The stylist I had hoped to get was overbooked so we were given another one I didn't know anything about. As we were chatting about the history of my daughter's hair, and Ethiopia came up, the stylist turned and said, "I'm from there!" I had no idea. She's from Shashamene where many of my clients are from. Turns out her best friend's grandmother is one of my clients that I had just spent time with today. She also goes to the same church as my most favorite coworker, a dear friend I say I wish were my life coach. Truly. Small world.<br />
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My daughter has worn the following: free afro, yarn twists, box braids, flat twists, box rope twists, box braids with extensions, cornrows with extentions. These were all beautiful and all had her looking like a little girl. But today as her flat-iron started to take shape, I looked at her in the mirror and saw her as a teenager, and I was not ready. I had to choke back tears. I had to look away. I was not ready for her to be this beautifully grown-up. For now, this style makes her happy. She swings her hair around. She protects her head so vigilantly from even a drop of rain, knowing it would ruin the flat-iron. She will take care of this style to hold it as long as possible.<br />
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I love seeing her so happy, and I also look forward to taking her for cornrows in a couple weeks. I'll do the beads myself.<br />
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Lorihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15553145979283388517noreply@blogger.com0