Poetry Thursday

The sages do not consider

that making no mistakes is a blessing.

They believe, rather, that the great virtue of man

has in his ability to correct mistakes

and continually make a new man of himself.

~W. Yang-Ming

Monie

Many years ago, about ninety, a little girl was born to my great uncle (my father's mother's brother) and my great aunt (my father's father's niece).  This was way before there was even a twinkle in my grandfather's eye as he and my grandmother had not yet met.  Several years later, when my grandfather and grandmother married and had children, that little girl would be my father's first cousin -- the only one he had on my grandmother's side though there were many, many others on his father's side.  She was his double cousin and one of his earliest playmates.

She had a hard life, and that is only the part we know about.  That is probably the understatement of the century.

Monie's mom, Dora, died in childbirth with her second child.  My great uncle Pete, a young widower who was orphaned himself at the age of 12, understood too well the pain his child would feel.  Eventually, he made his way to California with his little toddler in tow.  I am sure he loved her as best he could.  I am not sure what he remembered of his mother or father's care.

I can't say I got to know him too well.  We visited him often.  Though my father had many paternal uncles who he loved, he was especially attached to his maternal uncle.  I was afraid of Uncle Pete.  He was a quiet man who had lost an eye at some point in his life.  Everyone who knew him remembers him as a teddy bear of man.  I remember him as cautious, quiet and stoic.  I probably read stoic as stern as a child.


When he remarried in California, I am sure he thought he was doing the best thing for Monie, giving her a mother.  And maybe that woman tried, it should have been in her genes to be sweet and lovable.  (Of course, in the tangle of my family tree, she is also related by marriage to my father's paternal side -- her brother was married to my grandfather's youngest sister.)  Her brother, my tio Mariano, was one of the sweetest people I have ever known.  I loved him like a grandfather.

But she was odd, nervous, fast talking and unfailingly fake.  You just never knew what to believe about what she said, that is if you could understand it.  My Spanish was not so good at that time, there is little of her rapid-fire, mumbled Spanish that I understood.  She was my aunt, but I never really cared for her.  

By the time there was a me, there wasn't a Monie around, just her children.  I knew them, and I sort of understood that they were Uncle Pete's grandchildren.  Her daughter, Tuti, was a bit of a recluse, but I remember her as sweet and stout with long black hair in a braid.  It is odd to have such a clear memory of her since she passed away when I was three years old.  Monie's son was a handsome guy whose children were my playmates.

My mom and dad kept Monie's memory alive by always insisting on calling those two her children even though my great aunt acted like they were her children.  He still refers to my great aunt as his mom, though she was no relation to him except by marriage.

To make my family tree all that more complicated, my mom's family is implicated in this story, too.  My grandfathers had been great friends when they were alive, so my parents have known each other since they were about seven or eight (maybe earlier).  They grew up together.  When my mother's father died, my father's father took her under her wing.  When she wanted to work in the city, her family allowed her to stay at my uncle Pete's house during the week.

We visited my great aunt long after my uncle Pete was gone because my father is faithful in that way.  She sank slowly into dementia.   My dad even visited her at the rest home long after she could remember who he or anyone else was.  My mother, who knows as much as my dad about his side of the family, probably would claim that my great aunt's dementia was karma for all she had done to Monie. 

All my life, my mom has insisted that my great aunt drove Monie crazy.  I know that she spent a long time in the state hospital, and that the family lost track of her after Reagan shut down those institutions.  Those are the facts, she was sent away and never came back.  My father remembers a visit with her at my grandmother's house, but my mother swears it never happened.  I never knew Monie; if I ever met her, I don't have any memory of it.

What really happened to Monie will forever remain a mystery now.  Among the papers my father found in the garage from uncle Pete were commitment papers.  It says that she was afraid that someone was trying to hurt her.  It does not list a diagnosis, but it says that her parents called to have the police get her.  And another letter says that my uncle had to pay for her care in the institution.

My heart breaks for both of them.  I cannot imagine what my uncle went through not being able to help her, having to have her committed.  And I cannot imagine the betrayal she must have felt at being sent away.  Did she feel like an orphan again.  According to the papers, she was only 18 years old when this happened.

It is one thing to hear that she was at the state hospital, and another to read it in the commitment papers.

Maybe she really was mentally ill.  I have no idea what she was like.  Maybe it was just postpartum depression.  What did they know about such things at that time?  If she was so ill, how could they have let her out of the hospital?  Where did she go?  How did she live?  Maybe they got her on the right cocktail of meds at some point so that she could have normalcy.  Why didn't she ever come back to the family or look for her children?  Maybe she did.

My father asked me to look for her several times since I turned 18.  It hits me now that I was the same age as she was... and I had very few resources.  I didn't know how to find her case worker.  I didn't even know which agency to go to.

About six month ago, my dad asked me again to look for her.

I found a friend of his on the internet many years ago -- he had a very unique name, and the phone number and address listed for him was right.  It was a great reunion, and they continue to keep in touch.  Consequently, my dad thinks I can find anything on the internet.

I am an excellent internet sleuth, that is true.  But there are some searches that don't work.

When I sat down to look for her, with all the resources I have now from many years of family tree searching, I found her.  That is to say, I found out that she died in 2011.  We assumed that her son had buried her somewhere and not told us.  We talked about requesting a death certificate for her.  My dad wanted to know where she was buried so he could visit her.  In all the other crises and chaos, that request fell by the way side.


About a month ago, I was reading the newspaper online and I found this story.  It is not the first time I had read about the burying of the unclaimed souls.  But this time, the date struck me.  I wondered, what if R. didn't claim her body?  As I continued to read about these abandoned souls, those searching for their lost loved ones, and those who could not claim the bodies, I found the link to the searchable database.  Here was a search asking to be done. So I entered her name and sure enough, there she was.

I decided I needed to tell my dad, and see if he wanted to claim her ashes.  It was an extremely sad and uncomfortable conversation.  It was a loss we had already assimilated, or so it seemed.  In a few years of so much loss, this one had come and gone in an instant, in the quick search of the social security database. But faced with her being consigned to a mass grave with no marker than the unclaimed souls of 2011, the wound reopened -- not just of her death, but of her loss to the family as a young woman, of her pain at the separation and god knows what other horrors.

At first, my dad wondered how we could know it was really her.  I had wondered that, too, and if they would let me claim her ashes -- not a next of kin.  My dad, he seems so small when he is sad, told me to go ahead and find out how to claim her ashes.  The twists and turns of that process were not easy, but I was finally able to get it done the Monday before Thanksgiving.

Now her ashes are sitting on the altar, with the bit of ashes of my sister that my mom kept, as we decide whether to scatter them at sea, in the mountains or to buy her a burial plot.  There will be more twists and turns -- do we tell her son?  And how will we honor her memory? Does anyone have a picture of her?

Today, at 9:30am, the unclaimed souls will be buried in Los Angeles, minus Monie.  Say a prayer for them, and their loved ones, near and far, and may they all rest in peace.

The line

From the plane:

I have been thinking about blogging but not writing, anything. 

I will be back tomorrow. And maybe writing other stuff, too, finally. 

I loved this view of the mountains because it shows where the foliage changes. On one side the trees and the other only arid land. It is hard to believe that the dry side is the San Joaquin Valley where so much agriculture is grown. 

Of course, mostly what I see here are the dinos hiding from Chevron. 

Beach walk

The beach is returning a little more every week. 

Today at low tide we found starfish, mussels and crabs on the pier's pilings. 

We even found live sandollars. We watched their pelitos (it's a technical term) moving in the water. 

I picked up some beautiful stones too. 

Poetry Thursday, for Uncle Sal

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightening they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

~Dylan Thomas 

Since my other computer made a mad dash for the junkyard, I am without many of my pics.  But I found this one.  Here is Uncle Sal looking hale.  As we prepare to say goodbye to his body, I am remembering the many times he told me how proud he was of me.  Maybe he said it to everyone, but he was one of few who always made a point to tell me.  We all need to hear those words as much as we need to hear I love you.  And Uncle Sal, human and flawed like all of us, was really good at sharing love and pride.  I hope you are driving around in heaven, eating whatever you like, riding horses and dancing a jig.  Now you are free of the body that was limiting you... and I know your spirit is soaring.

Hurry up and wait

After several twists and turns, I am back in SoCal but still not "home".

So it was a good thing to get to the airport early. I caught that plane that was theoretically full into the airport of my choice. I am just two hours early. 

Now I wait in the airport til the train from LA is coming down the tracks to stay out of the elements. 

Good thing I always travel with plenty of work. 

Rain...

And wind and pretty leaves and petals on the street in Emeryville

This...

...is what is wrong with so much of what happened in Ferguson and happens in so many other cities and towns around the United States:

"I know that there are those that will say that these players are simply exercising their 1st Amendment rights," Roorda said in the statement. "Well I've got news for people who think that way, cops have 1st Amendment rights too, and we plan to exercise ours. I'd remind the NFL and their players that it is not the violent thugs burning down buildings that buy their advertiser's products. It's cops and the good people of St. Louis and other NFL towns that do."

 [You can find the rest of the article here.]

Where to start?
Let's see, the fact that the St. Louis Police Assn believes that the first amendment rights of the organization or its constituent members is more important than the first amendment rights of anyone else.

Second, that they believe that the players on the Rams are their sovereign subjects.  Has the SLPA noticed that many of those players are Black?  Does this mean that the SLPA believes that the city of St. Louise OWNS those players?  YIKES!

Third, that the SLPA believes that white, non-protesting dollars have more rights than Black, protesting dollars.

Yeah, there is so much here, but the bottom line is for all of you who do not understand what we call "white privilege" looks like, here is a textbook definition.  Anyone who believes that they can come forward to say whose rights are inherently more important, who intimates that Black athletes are the property of a city or anyone else, or that suggest that white dollars are more valuable than those spent by anyone else.

Someone should get them a media consultant.  I hope that people around the country will jump on this statement instead of trying to shame some people who were merely expressing their horror at a series of events.  Raising your hands in protest is hardly like looting ... and can we ever have a conversation about the "narrative" that the police were trying to convey when they didn't use the national guard to protect businesses after the power that be decided to wait until the evening to release the grand jury findings.

All of these actions have reactions ... all actions have reactions ... and none of these actions are blameless... none. 

Pink morning

On the platform at station stop Moorpark.

I have seen a few too many 2am starry skies and sunrises in the past few days. 

Since it could not be helped I tried to at least appreciate the beauty.

NRU super mish mash

Jailing (and killing) innocent people is not only immoral, it's expensive.  Not all of those who were wrongly imprisoned will get compensated ... but the costs to society as well as to the person are undeniable.  I wish that prosecutors (and law enforcement) would learn to be as careful with all suspects as they are when the suspect is someone well-known.

If you still haven't tuned in to Serial, you should ... and I am not the only one that thinks so... apparently they are being streamed by millions.  I sure do enjoy it ... and yes, I have questions that haven't been answered yet.  But as a long-time fan of the serial drama, I enjoy the suspense and the weaving.  I am sad that it is a true story that affects the lives of real people, but I am glad that the issues about evidence, witnesses and lawyering are getting air time.  I like it so much, I even donated when asked this week.  I know... I love free things on the internet, and I haven't donated to my local NPR since I have been in graduate school. I couldn't resist.  Call it my impulse buy for the holiday season.

Just to prove that this news round up is truly mishy and mashy and not about Thanksgiving at all... here is a story about some countries banning entry to a crazy asshole who has been making money all over by claiming he can teach men how to be Don Juan rapists ... there is the side of me that thinks, wow, good for them for banning his ass; then there is the side of me that thinks, in what way is this better than talking about one of those girls whose last names start with a K?  Honestly, I say actually put the ass in jail, let him rot there and don't talk about it.  And somebody get those K girls some self respect or meds that can help them with their need to be the center of prurient attention.

I have blogged many times about Oren and his battle with lung cancer, but I thought I would share this article he was featured in last weekend to remind us to be more aware of our blessings.  May we all acknowledge abundance.

It seems like loss is all around me these days.  As I struggle to come to terms with it, I have been drawn to stories of others doing just that.  This is a bittersweet piece about a young basketball fan connecting with his idol and celebrating the mother who he lost to cancer this year.

Poetry Thursday

Might have already used this one... but I thought it was apt for Thanksgiving -- or any holiday at this point in my life.

The soul is nourished

by living and loving

without defensive armor

and by approaching death and loss

with openness, courage

and compassion.

~Froma Walsh

Loaded for Bear and Being Nice

I have been told more than once that you can get more bees with honey than vinegar.  It’s not that I doubt that might be true for some, but it has not always worked for me, especially in the most tense situations.  Perhaps the issue is that I am not looking to attract bees, just to tame them.

Full disclosure:  I use what I call “little girl voice” whenever necessary to get what I need.  It works with those who want to “save” you – or those who are susceptible to helping.  And, to be honest, it works with those who need to be the stronger, more powerful one.  It is not exactly “baby bird” who behaves as though she were completely defenseless.  Of course, if I tried to do baby bird with anyone who already knows me, I would be laughed off the planet.  It is not a huge difference, but little girl just admits her needs, not that she needs all.

So, there I was in the second IEP with the usual suspects plus the regular teachers who had been put on notice that I wasn’t letting them off the hook.  I was nice - to a point, that is to say, nice but firm.  I wasn’t impolite – just direct, attentive and relentless.

 

I would feel bad about holding their feet to the fire if 1) the psychologist had bothered to learn my niece’s name; and 2) she had not brought the photocopy of “the law” complete with yellow highlights to back up her defense of the school district’s fuck up so many years ago.  MAYBE ... that is, maybe I would feel bad if...

Yeah, I’m not afraid to be strong and smart and if that means not nice, so be it.

Vinegar forever.

I am loaded for bear, so they are on notice.

[In case you didn't notice, these photos are largely unrelated.  I took them while walking around downtown LA, that's the only tie in.  But I enjoyed the juxtaposition of the news headlines with the evangelizing headlines!]

Just Another Day, Commuting Adventure

Union Station, November 10th

On my way to Q’s second IEP battle, I thought I would have brunch with a friend and run some errands (more on that later) in downtown Los Angeles, traveling by train, so I also had a lot of work with me. 

As it turns out, that was a key move because at the second stop the conductor informed us that there had been “an incident.” She went on to say “if you are a regular, you know that means we’ll be here for a while.”

Incident, in this case, means someone had been struck by a train, probably due to jumping in front of it.  When the train hits something, it is a collision, but when someone/something hits the train, it’s an incident.

I was clear that it was most likely suicide that caused this delay.  However, I found myself making up stories that would make it an accident.  It is not unheard of for someone with headphones on to not hear a train coming down the track.  My new friend, Max, from Holland looked at me incredulously, but then he played along.  He suggested that it was odd that the train only sounded its horn when it was very close to a crossing.

The sign on the platform, that I got to stare at for an hour, initially reported the incident as a person hit struck by the train.  Later it was strictly referred to as “incident” perhaps in deference to the deceased. 

We waited.  Max and I chatted.  For some reason, all the folks on the train thought that I had some secret answers, and asked me what was happening, how long we might be there, etc.  People who were trying to get to the airport called a taxi.  The conductor made an announcement looking for a third person to share the taxi.  Some people called others to get picked up.  Some people changed plans and went back to their cars. 

We were stuck, first in Moorpark for an hour and then in Simi Valley for another.  No buses to take, no people to call.  The meeting I was going to wouldn’t start until 2:30pm and we would be there in plenty of time.

Max asked me if he could get a refund. I laughed.

I fretted some for the new forever family I had met on the platform in Oxnard.  They were on their way to Legoland to celebrate the adoption.  They even invited me to come along.  They seemed in good spirits as I departed the train in Los Angeles. 

I had just enough time to rush to Grand Central Market for a pastrami sandwich.  I don’t know if it was an off day for them, or if I was just not in the right mood, but it was not as tasty as the first time.

Brunch and errands would have to wait as I prepared for battle…

THAT IS MY PRESIDENT!

I have been waiting for years for Barry to flex this muscle.

The fact is that the Republicans have no intention of doing anything ... any governing... at all.

They have made a career out of doing nothing but talking shit about other people, particularly President Obama.

So, there has been no reason at all to try to work with them, or not rock the boat lest some chicken shit Democrats might not get elected.

Yeah, so in case you have not met him, THIS is MY president.

Work it, Barry.  Shower them with executive orders, take them to the carpet, dare them to alienate the fastest growing ethnic group in the nation.  Just like that.

I knew you could do it.

Quote Thursday

You love like a coward.

Don't take no steps at all.

Just stand around and hope 

for things to happen out right.

Unthankful 

and unknowing

like a hog under an acorn tree.

Eating and grunting with your ears

hanging over your eyes,

and never even looking up

to see where the acorns

are coming from.

~Z. N. Hurston

from Their Eyes Were Watching God

I am not sure that Zora didn't mean that to be a poem.  It jumped out of the book at me many, many years ago.

Poetry Thursday

The Dream That Must Be Interpreted

This place is a dream.

Only a sleeper considers it real.

Then death comes like dawn,

and you wake up laughing

at what you thought was your grief.

But there's a difference with this dream.

Everything cruel and unconscious

done in the illusion of the present world,

all that does not fade away at the death-waking.

It stays,

and it must be interpreted.

All the mean laughing,

all the quick, sexual wanting,

those torn coats of Joseph,

they change into powerful wolves

that you must face.

The retaliation that sometimes comes now,

the swift, payback hit,

is just a boy's game

to what the other will be.

You know about circumcision here.

It's full castration there!

And this groggy time we live,

this is what it's like:

A man goes to sleep in the town

where he has always lived, 
and he dreams he's living

in another town.

In the dream, he doesn't remember

the town he's sleeping in his bed in.  
He believes the reality of the dream town.

The world is that kind of sleep.

The dust of many crumbled cities

settles over us like a forgetful doze,

but we are older than those cities.

                                                    
We began as a mineral.  

We emerged into plant life

and into the animal state, 
and then into being human,

and always we have forgotten our former states,

except in early spring 
when we slightly recall being green again.

                             
That's how a young person turns

toward a teacher.  That's how a baby leans

toward the breast, without knowing the secret

of its desire, yet turning instinctively.

Humankind is being led along an evolving course,

through this migration of intelligences,

and though we seem to be sleeping,

there is an inner wakefulness

that directs the dream,

and that will eventually startle us back

to the truth of who we are.

From Essential Rumi

translated by Coleman Barks

NRU mishy and mashy

[wrote this one a bit ago ... and put it in the drafts folder]
Maybe several someones having been saying this ... but someone really needed to. In fact, I think it ought to run in a loop to counter all the crazy that is running on all the purported media outlets on television.  I have heard some good and some questionable on the radio (read NPR because I don't listen to talk radio), but to allow folks to talk about quarantine for ebola (why is it capitalized? do we capitalize flu?) is patently ridiculous.  I don't care -- every call in show in the world ought to be setting the crazy straight not allowing it to rage.  It is unconscionable that we are worrying about this when how many law enforcement officers have been murdered by gun violence in the past month?  We have some diseases running through our country, and we protect our "right" to keep it going.  Ebola (beginning of a sentence) is not one of those disease rampaging through our country.

And I would also like to give a shout out to the nurse in Maine -- she is super right to be whacking back at the wackos with the law and logic.  However, I would also like to point out that if she had not been white, she might not have taken it to this level -- take some basic rights away from a white person and they notice.  Just saying ... good on her, no doubt ... we should all feel that way about basic rights being taken away, like the right to be a person of color and walk the street without being shot down by a cop.
----
I am not sure what is says about Denton (Texas) and Santa Barbara (CA) that Denton passed its fracking ban and Santa Barbara did not ... but hoping that others will follow Denton's lead and build bridges with unlikely allies in order to make some sense out of this issue.  I wish that those reporting about the swarms of earthquakes would speculate more about how we are disturbing tectonics with the fracking industry.  I wish that we could take a step back and look at the economics of the situation, too.  Is it really a good idea to flood the market with oil and natural gas?  And at what price?  In the long run, will we be paying for fracking longer than conventional wells?  Ugh... so much to think about here, my head hurts, but we can't act like Ostriches.  So, back to the top -- way to go, DENTON!

For those that still do not believe there is a problem with football (yes, you are similar to those who still don't believe in climate change), here is a story for you.  Fascinating and heartbreaking ... and it may just make you feel respectful of lawyers ... they do get badmouthed a lot - not always deservedly.

Goods and Odds

"The odds were good, but the goods were odd," Seattle Underground Tour Guide

I love the underground Seattle tour -- in fact, it might be the best part of Seattle.  I have only been in Seattle twice and mostly saw the same things both times.  I guess if you had time to explore, you might find lots of other great things.

However, the line delivered by our super funny tour guide sums up several parts of our college tour of the Pacific Northwest.

My long train trips (read: overnight) have always been to Albuquerque -- you leave in the evening and arrive mid morning the next day.  Each time, I enjoyed the trips -- and, yes, I have always  met interesting, and sometimes odd, travelers, but nothing like this time.

There just isn't time on the Southwest Chief to get into a lot of trouble.

Not so the Coast Starlight past Oakland.  Wow...

On the way up to Portland, we spent quite a bit of time in the observation car -- getting to know the way some men cannot participate in conversations -- only throw in "facts" sometimes without any foundation and then throw banter back and forth.

I felt as if I were discovering a strange breed for the first time.

I am all about being friendly and talking to strangers.  But these guys were those men who must be entertained at all times -- and do so by engaging anyone, everyone in this little "did you know..." talk.

Super annoying.  One thing is sitting at a bar with your friend and getting interrupted a few times ... another is being trapped in a train for over 24 hours with these guys.

Ouch.

Had I been alone, I would have just put in my earphones.  Instead, I watched and winced as my mom, niece and nephew participated in the crazy talk.

I am not saying it wasn't at times entertaining ... but only for about five minutes.

That was the ride up ... and it was tame in comparison with the ride back.

There were no less than two large, loud and drunk parties that got on in Seattle and off in Portland. OK, they were funny because they were getting off pretty soon.

For the rest of the trip, over another 24 hours, the conductors made many, many announcements about drinking, being drunk in public and being thrown off the train.  If that gives you any sense of what the train ride was like. 

Let's just say that I spent more time at my seat, headphones in.  I got off the train on longer stops to let my nephew run, helping to keep his need to be entertained down.

Next time, I will buy the sleeping compartment, if only to get access to the other parlor car.

There were other adventures... when there is more time, I will share.

NRU cute, fun and entertaining

If this little gal doesn't melt your heart, then you probably don't have one.  Super cute -- so glad they were able to rescue her and nurse her back to health. Not sure I am so glad she is moving to Chicago.

I wish I had a whole posting worth of cute baby otter pictures.

Alas... I do not.  And there is too much bad news around crowding out anything fun,

I did find this though -- it has more promise than substance.  I could see myself following these leads - and making up anything that I didn't find out.  In fact, it is my plan for my grandmother's story -- you know the one where I have found more questions than answers.  In any case, it is fun enough that I am looking forward to hearing the rest.

If you want more true stories that are fun ... you can look here -- I am always happy to catch an episode, usually when I am on my way to pick up my nephew from school on a Tuesday afternoon.

Quote Thursday, oldie but goodie (snippet)

...be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, 

no less than the trees and the stars. 

...

In the noisy confusion of life, 

keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, 

it is still a beautiful world. 

Be careful. 

Strive to be happy.

From Desiderata

-Max Ehrmann