Category Archives: dreams

"I was born a poor black child"

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Sometimes I’m grateful that my attention span is equivalent to that of a golden retriever. It leads me places I never expected to go. Today, I was reading about legal issues involving lawyers accessing sensitive information from their iPads, smartphones, etc and I got sidetracked, thus stumbling on this gem of an opinion piece from Gene Marks in Forbes.

Marks spends two pages talking about how he’s a lucky white man in his mid-40s, reaping the benefits of his white privilege, and then he decides to posit that black kids from the inner cities are going to be fine if they just learn how to read, and learn how to write code, and somehow stumble on the right answers and the right direction. 
He gets points for freely admitting that it’s circumstance that places kids on such separate paths from birth – the circumstances of color and economic standing. But he fails so hard at realizing that what he’s trying to get across – this idea of the self-made man, the epitome of the American Dream – is just that, a pipe dream. 
He starts out just fine here:

The President’s speech got me thinking.  My kids are no smarter than similar kids their age from the inner city.  My kids have it much easier than their counterparts from West Philadelphia.  The world is not fair to those kids mainly because they had the misfortune of being born two miles away into a more difficult part of the world and with a skin color that makes realizing the opportunities that the President spoke about that much harder.  This is a fact.  In 2011.
I am not a poor black kid.  I am a middle aged white guy who comes from a middle class white background.  So life was easier for me.  But that doesn’t mean that the prospects are impossible for those kids from the inner city.  It doesn’t mean that there are no opportunities for them.   Or that the 1% control the world and the rest of us have to fight over the scraps left behind.  I don’t believe that.  I believe that everyone in this country has a chance to succeed.  Still.  In 2011.  Even a poor black kid in West Philadelphia.

But that’s also where he starts to go wrong. Sort of. I’m not wowed by the fact that of course it’s the poor black kids in these inner-city neighborhoods – I realize that to make his point he has to give an example that’s stereotypical enough to make sense to a wide variety of readers, but then again, he’s just reinforcing the lack of expectations that we have for our black citizens. He’s unintentionally setting “poor black kids” up for failure based solely on their color. This annoys me – there are a ton of white kids who come from wealthy neighborhoods who somehow manage to never make anything of themselves, just as there are a ton of kids of all colors who do the same. Just like there are a ton of motivated, successful, intelligent people who come from diverse backgrounds. 
But his article ends without ever really exploring the real obstacles to success.  Marks completely ignores entire segments of life that can’t be forgotten when trying to figure out why inner-city kids are so screwed. 

President Obama was right in his speech last week.  The division between rich and poor is a national problem.  But the biggest challenge we face isn’t inequality.   It’s ignorance.  So many kids from West Philadelphia don’t even know these opportunities exist for them.  Many come from single-parent families whose mom or dad (or in many cases their grand mom) is working two jobs to survive and are just (understandably) too plain tired to do anything else in the few short hours they’re home.  Many have teachers who are overburdened and too stressed to find the time to help every kid that needs it.  Many of these kids don’t have the brains to figure this out themselves – like my kids.  Except that my kids are just lucky enough to have parents and a well-funded school system around to push them in the right direction.
Technology can help these kids.  But only if the kids want to be helped.  Yes, there is much inequality.  But the opportunity is still there in this country for those that are smart enough to go for it.

Marks touches on the sociological impact that the neighborhoods these kids are growing up in has on them, but he doesn’t explore it, and that’s where I find the most fault with this article. He’s looking at his “poor black kid” self without realizing that there’s a lot more to it than desire. There’s a lot more to it than drive, than ignorance. I mean, yeah, not knowing what’s out there can really hurt you. But Skype-ing with other students in your school who want to succeed just like you do is a dumb suggestion.

That’s never going to fly. Why is that? Because of the expectations of masculinity that we place on our boys. We’ve been hearing all about how black men are falling behind black women as black women become more and more educated; we hear about the decline of the black family, caused by the decline in marriage. We put this on the black women, some of whom don’t want to marry a black man based on the fact that she’s out-earning him and that she’s far more successful. We have completely forgotten about our black men. We don’t want them to be super nerdy, we don’t want them to be thugs, we don’t value them if they don’t conform to the white elite’s expectations of what a black man should be.

But all of that starts at a much younger age. These black kids – who grow up to be black men – are receiving mixed messages. They’re watching the glorification of gangsters in pop music, in pop culture, in movies and tv shows. They’re watching their friends and relatives go to prison (the odds are that 1 in 5 that a black man will go to prison at some point in his life). But more than that is the fact that to fit in and thrive in this social environment – the entirely socially constructed idea of “black”, they must mirror the actions and behaviors of their peers as a way to earn respect. This is where the problem of black being equal to ghetto becomes problematic. There is no need for such associations, and yet we all make them. And kids grow up thinking that to own their identity is to engage is behaviors that correspond with the perceptions of what that identity is.

White people – men, specifically – don’t have to work for that respect as hard because they have it. Their power is less tangible. It’s in their jobs. It’s in their suits. It’s in their bank accounts. But for a black man, one who is going to be targeted and profiled by police and just about everyone he’ll meet in his life, power and respect have to be earned in a more physical way. This is where the violence begins. To be super brainy and black in an inner city school isn’t going to make you friends. And the kind of bullying that goes on there is much different than the kind of bullying we are seeing at upper-class white middle schools.

Kids who are smart and well-read are still going to fall through the cracks, even if they have the support systems that Marks assumes they lack. He’s correct in bringing up that they may not have the family backing – but he seems to be negating the importance of familial expectations and involvement. There is no way that a 10 year old kid who has to make sure his siblings have dinner, get baths, and get into bed on time is going to have time to seek out extracurricular scholastic help. And he’s not going to find leadership and mentors through sports programs – the gear and economic involvement required to be a part of the team can’t possibly be met by a struggling family.

So let’s not assume that Skype, EverNote, etc. are going to be the tools that launch this hypothetical “poor black” Marks into the 1%. He talks about private school scholarships and how black kids just need to get on the internet and let these elite school boards know how they can improve the appearance of diversity for only the cost of reduced tuition. Wow. Let’s talk about devaluing personhood for a second.
No poor black kid should have the self-awareness to use that angle. No kid should have to use their skin color as a bargaining chip. By doing so, they are saying that they are not worth the same amount that those rich white kids are. That’s already the message that the white elite is hammering home, let’s not force kids to have to de-value themselves in order to get a better education.

We haven’t even covered college yet. But wait, Marks does. Just for a second.

There is financial aid available. There are programs available. And no matter what he or she majors in that person will have opportunities. They will find jobs in a country of business owners like me who are starved for smart, skilled people. They will succeed.

Oh, how could we have forgotten? Financial aid. The magical salve that heals all and makes dreams come true. I’m calling shenanigans. Financial aid and programs aren’t going to send you to the Ivy League school of your dreams, the ones those “poor black kids” might be reading about on their low-cost computers that they manged to buy (how, again?). Even if you end up at your local community college, your success is in no way guaranteed. Financial aid only gets you so far. And then you have travel expenses. And then you have books. And pens. And those stupid class projects that require the purchasing of dumb materials. And then there’s eating. And oh, wait, not again – that whole fitting in thing. Being a poor kid at a rich school is not a cakewalk.

Having a college degree doesn’t make you successful. Wanting something better for yourself doesn’t guarantee that you’ll find it. Yeah, the dream is alive. But that doesn’t meant that we should assume that it’s attainable. It’s not just as simple as, “Oh, I want to go to college and learn stuff so I can get a great job!” and pow! Holy shit, that’s one successful middle-aged black dude right there.

There’s a lot more to it. Being white and assuming that everyone will be afforded the same luxuries as you isn’t helping anything. Being white and segregating isn’t helping either. You’re putting black kids into a box that it’s really hard to get out of. You’re making nasty assumptions. You’re fostering racist attitudes that have perpetuated social and racial problems in the US for too long.

This isn’t about the 1%, or the American Dream. This is a sad excuse for technology-based journalism.

(By the way, most of the commenters didn’t take too kindly to the article either.)

Source: Forbes 

On #OccupyDenver, #OccupyWallSt

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It started here yesterday, a show of solidarity with those who have been gathered in New York for 12 days, protesting nearly everything, but agreeing on only one thing: We are the 99% vs the 1%. 


(Read this for more information: 

https://occupywallst.org/

and read this just because: 

http://wearethe99percent.tumblr.com/  )


I love the idea of protests. I think that we haven’t done enough of them in last twenty years. I think that a lot of hope can be fostered, and a lot of information can be spread. 


That said, I agree that protesters are often ill-informed and easily distracted away from their original purpose. 

I haven’t decided where I stand on these protests – I’m not sure that they’re focused enough to actually be making specific demands, but it seems like they’ve gotten only more organized since they started. I like that they’ve got the resolve to stick it out, and I fully support a more vocal movement from the citizens of the US. So I guess I’m behind it.


If you’re on twitter, check out #occupydenver or #occupywallst for up to date information on what’s going on. 


And as always, if you’re protesting, write a lawyer’s number somewhere on your body, drink plenty of water, and do nothing to disrespect or disrupt the marches/protests. Be respectful, peaceful, and wise.  



Occupy Wall Street Protest: 12 Days and Little Sign of Slowing Down

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Michael Nagle / Getty Images

A protestor looks in his bag in Zuccotti Park, where demonstrators against the economic system have been gathering since September 17
Michael Nagle / Getty Images
Nearly two weeks ago, an estimated 3,000 people assembled at Battery Park with the intention of occupying Wall Street. They were an eclectic group, mostly young, some with beards and tattoos, other dressed in shorts and sneakers; a few even wore suits for the occasion. But nearly everyone was angry at what they saw as a culture of out-of-control greed. They didn’t succeed — at least not geographically, forgoing Wall Street for nearby Zuccotti Park, just around the corner from Ground Zero.
News outlets put the crowd there at several thousand, but that seemed to overestimate its true numbers. When I visited the park on Sept. 17, I counted backpacks and sleeping bags, trying to differentiate the tourists and casual marchers from those who were in it for the long haul. I came up with about 200 people.
Over the past 12 days, however, those numbers have grown. On a late-night visit to Zuccotti Park on Tuesday, the fecklessness and disorganization reported earlier in the New York Times seemed largely absent. A protest that began in utter dysfunction has given way to a fairly organized movement with a base camp for its most stalwart members, now numbering more than 300 people, who have slept in the park for 12 nights straight–and who say they intend to stay.
Perhaps no incident galvanized the protesters more than their march north to Union Square on Sept. 24. Police arrested nearly 80 people whom they say were blocking traffic, and video of a penned-in female protester being pepper sprayed by a police officer went viral on the web. The protesters have posted the video on their website and a picture of the woman adorns the board at the entrance to the park, at what’s now become the groups quasi-official information booth. At small table, posterboards lay out the schedule for the day, which includes marches down to Wall Street for the stock exchange’s opening and closing bells, each followed by a “General Assembly” where the various groups gather to discuss their goals, their current status and what might come next.
The park has become a semi-permanent home, complete with a medical station and a distribution point for food and water. The protesters have organized themselves into committees to remove the garbage, roam the camp to enforce a ban on open flames (an evictable offense in the eyes of the NYPD) and engage with the people in the area. A couple of pizza joints, a Burger King and a deli have let the protesters use their bathrooms; some have even donated food. In the middle of the park is a media center where protesters send out Twitter updates and live-stream the latest news on their website. At 1 am Wednesday, more than 3,000 people were sending in questions while a young woman in a yellow poncho answered them on a live feed.
But while “Occupy Wall Street” has become more organized, its demands haven’t coalesced into a coherent message. The only thing its various constituent groups appear to have in common is a deep-seated anger at inequality in this country. For them Wall Street symbolizes that unfairness, but the groups have other concerns as well. Many want to redistribute wealth; others want to enlarge government social programs. Some are protesting against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Daniel Levine, a journalism student from upstate New York, said he was taking a stand against the controversial method of natural gas extraction known as hydrofracking in his hometown – but also noted that the practice can bring jobs to economically disadvantaged regions.
Just as it lacks a single message, the “Occupy Wall Street” movement has been defined by the absence of a clear leader. Participants say that is by design, and point to the committees that have sprung up to tend to the daily needs of those camped in Zuccotti Park. It isn’t clear that they want a single leader, and many think the movement is better of without one. “It’s kind of cool how it’s growing organically,” one said. “People just need to give it time and it’ll come together.”
Assuming organizers can keep the protest on the good side of the law, all indications are that it will continue for a long time. A sign by the information booth held a wish list: hats, gloves, tarps, and warm clothing. On live streams on the website, organizers answered questions about what supporters could bring or send. If last weekend is any indication, the numbers could swell this Saturday as supporters come in from out of town. For those who eventually leave again, Levine hopes that they take the skills they’ve learned back to their communities to continue to protest for whatever cause they support. “Every person who’s been here more than three days can completely organize a protest in their hometowns,” Levine says. “This is the most productive homelessness I’ve ever seen.”

Read more:http://newsfeed.time.com/2011/09/29/occupy-wall-street-12-days-and-little-sign-of-slowing-down/#ixzz1ZNxdcB2p

The Weekend Wrap Up: Nightmares and Expectations

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The twins that I babysit for always use “sleeps” as a way to countdown to things, like the next time you’ll see someone.

Two sleeps until S comes! I’ve been out of sorts (and in my head) about this whole ordeal for the past few days, and it will be nice to reset all of that.
Ready for last night’s real live nightmare?
I was at G and G’s house – but it was all dark, just like you’d imagine a dungeon. And M, Dad, and I were all sitting stiffly at the table. I had my hands clenched in my lap.
We were talking to G and G and there were Christmas decorations everywhere.
Then, she told us the reason she’d invited us. She spread her arm out, bent at the elbow, sweeping toward the living room.
Our heads turned in unison.
There, in the living room, were the scattered remains of their Christmas celebration. Papers, boxes, plates of food, all glinting under the eerily twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. She’d invited us over to clean it up.
I woke up breathing heavily, convincing myself it wasn’t real.
It’s not real.
It’s oddly telling, though.
I wish my brain could stop chewing on it, though, and just swallow it so I don’t have to taste my own bitterness every day.
*breathes deeply, thinks inner peace*
On a positive note, I went to IKEA this weekend! Emily and I woke up early on Sunday and headed out there before they opened (good call – no lines, parking, etc.). We went into the cafe to have $1.99 breakfast and .50c coffee, then somehow ended up going through IKEA backwards. But it was lovely. I got a new duvet – white with gray flowers on it – and new gray sheets. I also picked up wineglasses so I won’t have to serve guests in my everyday drinking glasses anymore.
It was fun and busy.
I really enjoy all of their odds and ends and kitchen things more than I enjoy anything else.
$5 for 6 wineglasses will get me every time.
I was at Mom’s house yesterday doing my 1800 loads of laundry for the week, and we were chatting. It’s nice to have someone so wizened to bounce ideas off of. I came away from our conversation reminding myself that I’m 23. I think I forget that sometimes. It’s not so much that I’d like to be older, it’s that I measure myself against people who have five or ten years on me and wonder why I don’t match up. So for today, I am trying to embrace 23, however one embraces something intangible like that.
I also came away from our conversation very curious about what other G has to say about S.
But let’s save that for after his visit – I can only imagine how this going to go. He’s meeting Dad and J on Wednesday, and I haven’t told him that yet. And then he’s meeting Mom on Thursday. Ah, well, surprise surprise!

Dreams

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It’s been one of those weeks where your dreams are too real. I am living in those moments, making conscious decisions, and ultimately, freely thinking my own thoughts.

That’s the weirdest part for me. The thoughts.
I woke up startled, not quite terrified, on Thursday morning. I’d just had a pregnancy-labor dream. I realize I’ve probably just been reading too much of NPR’s Baby Project (it’s sort of cute; if you’re into that sort of thing, you should check it out).
In my dream, I was in labor, at the hospital, walking around with my mom and wearing one of those horrible hospital gowns. But the strangest part of the dream was that I kept thinking how I was only x amount of time into labor and already bored.
I sincerely hope that someday, my worst fear for childbirth is how bored I am. I reached down and felt my flat stomach and breathed a sigh of relief. Carlos meowed as he usually does when I bother him too early in the morning, and then came up to snuggle me, and I fell back asleep just as the sunlight was starting to creep through the trees that shelter my window from the street.
And last night, again. But nothing like babies this time. Last night I was an assassin. Don’t ask – it was one of those vivid, shifting dreams where it’s suddenly winter and you’re in Minnesota and then you’re creeping around a house/building/warehouse and you’re killing people. I went down a faux-grass (astroturf) slide like a fish and killed a Japanese guy with crazy hair and a nice suit who happened to be a better at imitating fish movements than me.
That was probably really weird for you, so: Imagine a dark room with a giant, twisty slide that’s not a slide at all, but rather an astroturf covered ramp, and in order to get down it with your gun in your hand, you have to flop like a fish. (I’m not even graceful in my dreams. Great.)
This is the prime example of why I’ll never work for the CIA. I’m not graceful, I’m bad at stealthily fish-flopping, and I have a conscience.
Usually, these wild dreams mean I have a lot on my mind and that I’m overtired. Surprise! Guess what? Both are correct.
The Chicago trip was so worth it, but it nearly killed me, even though I got to spend most of Monday asleep on the couch (as much as I hated missing work, it was so nice to veg out and watch bad television).
Anyway, I’m hoping to get caught up on my sleep this weekend. Babysitting means I’m usually exhausted by the time I get done, so there’s little chance I’ll want to go out dancing (which so bums me out – I haven’t had one of those wild, reckless and possible regrettable [just kidding] nights in ages). Which means sleep – definitely necessary since I have to work essentially a full day tomorrow. The 9-5 hours I missed on Monday and then more babysitting!
Maybe I’ll be able to get to the park before I babysit on Sunday. Or maybe I’ll get to work and log more hours! (That’s ambitious – it won’t really happen and we all know it. I’ll sleep, I’ll probably make some pasta, I’ll be slow to get going – and by then, my weekend will be over.)
But I’m excited for real work tomorrow because I am in creativity mode and thus more prone to devoting my attention to the task of brochure creation. We’ll see how it actually turns out.

Wikileaks: Or, How My Nuclear/Extended Family Fell Apart

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It’s been awhile since you’ve been party to an angry rant directed at someone you’re familiar with, so get ready:

Preface: I understand that the airing of “dirty laundry” in the internet is frowned upon. I thought about that for a long time before I did this. It’s all based on the lack of transparency. I don’t want anyone to question where I’m coming from or think that I’m neglecting my duties.

I don’t have a solution to the problem below. I’m just thinking thoughts. I do my thinking when I’m typing. I like to record bouts of emotional turmoil for reflection and later, growth.

I love everyone in this post. I’ve taken out names. I want the same things they want. A husband, a family, a full life.

I have a very full life. I am very loved. Don’t question that for a minute.

So what if I like “alternative” culture? We can’t all live in polo shirts in plaid (it makes my thighs look fat). Black is much more slimming. And the vampire look is all the rage these days. (Ew)

Of course, this is very personal. But it involves me, too. And yes, it’s incredibly self-centered. It’s how I feel. This is my space. I can write about whatever I want, and that’s what I’ve chosen to do.

I’m pissed, so this might lack the eloquence I’d usually try to use to cloak the emotions I’m feeling.

I don’t sleep well; I have dreams about this situation all the time; I’m generally annoyed.

For once, I’m at a loss for words. I’ve let an email reply sit out there on the interwebs for more than two months because I literally cannot think of a suitable reply to that reply. I’m stumped by the inability to respond without losing my dignity by accepting a weak excuse, or without burning a bridge, or grovelling. And if there’s one thing I don’t do, it’s grovel.

It’s been a long time coming.

It started long ago. It’s part of who Dad is. Weird.

I get that, and I understand that sometimes it’s hard to be around him. But my argument against that is thus: You’re his family. You can stand to be around him for four hours at a time, like four times a year. It’s much harder to be his daughter than to be his brother, or his sister, or his mother.

Your counter-argument: But, our children!

I counter like this: He’s not a sexual predator. He’s not on drugs. He’s not a drunk. Yes, he’s a completely degenerate bum, but he’s not (at heart) a bad man. Your kids will have to learn how to interact with people who aren’t as affluent or as socially graceful as you someday, they might as well start now.

I’ve been talking to Mom about this for awhile now, trying to puzzle out why we’re so often excluded from Barry family events.

And then Christmas happened.

The text message came in just before 7pm Christmas Eve. “We now have other plans tomorrow. Hope to see you soon.”

Burn. Well played, Uncle [redacted]. The smoothest dis-invite I’ve ever had, without any admission of the actual invite ever existing. (Actually, the only one. I don’t think I’ve ever been dis-invited from anything.)

Here’s the email I sent:

Hello,
I hope you’re all having a good start to the year.
Now that all the holiday rush has died down, I just wanted to drop you
a note to let you know how incredibly disappointed I was in the way
that Christmas was handled this year, and in the way that many
family/holiday events are often handled.
In the future, if you choose to renege on invitations at 6 o’clock the
night before a major holiday, please just don’t bother inviting me at
all.
I can’t speak for [redacted], so I won’t, but I am incredibly hurt. It’s not
that I minded crying a little bit, but even worse was having to listen
to [redacted] cry on the other end of the phone the day after Christmas.
While I hope that I am correct in assuming that you didn’t want to
have any contact with [redacted], I also hope you understand that [redacted] and I
are both independent adults who are capable of social interaction
without him. We haven’t lived with him on any consistent basis since
we were 16 and have displayed none of his odd social proclivities.
If that’s not the case, and there’s something wrong with the two of us
or with me personally, I’d prefer to address it now rather than be
continually excluded from Barry family events.
Sincerely,
Katie

However, it turns out that I was incorrect. I spent hour agonizing over the text of that email. I consulted. I edited. I won’t post the entire response, because I consider myself to be not that much of an asshole, but here are specific excerpts that relate to my post today. And I don’t consider them privileged.

My text the night before was to make sure nothing was
“assumed” even though we hadn’t discussed anything firm and to get [redacted]’s
number. The only way this was triggered was that [redacted] had begun to leave
several messages indicating he wanted to come over.
Another point that disappoints us is that you make no mention of the
numerous holiday events over the years in which you were included.
Often times those events were adjusted to fit your schedule with your
Mom’s side of the family. We were happy to do this, but to be told that
we’ve “continuously excluded” you confuses us.
You mention [redacted] in your note. Right or wrong, holidays and family
events have certainly been impacted due to [redacted]’s behavior. For all of
his great qualities, it’s no secret that his behavior can often times
add stress, drama, etc. I really hate pointing this out since he is
your Dad, but I want to be fair to you and as an “adult.” I don’t think
you’d find this surprising. Unfortunately, his impact has played a role
in not spending more time with you and [redacted] over the years. For so long
it was always a “package deal.” I’m truly sorry that you’ve been
“caught in the middle” in so many instances. Thanks for pointing out
(right or wrong) that it’s no longer the case.


I cried when I read this email.
But then I got mad. That’s why I haven’t been able to respond. I have nothing to say. I do, but I can’t say it. I don’t know. And now it’s just too late to say anything.

RENEGE! (I’m not going to respond to that bit. I’m biting my tongue.)
I don’t talk to Dad. I see him maybe once every couple of months. I’m not a pipeline of Barry family information that goes directly to him. I’m not inviting him to events. 
I was a child when they rearranged all of their schedules. I’m not the one who made up that horrible divorce custody schedule; I’m just the one who got dragged along for the ride.
You do realize I hate Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, etc? The only consolation is that divorce brought double the Thanksgiving dinners and two distinct styles of cranberries. I’m pro-divorce as far as Thanksgiving goes, and very thankful for them.
And I’m also thankful for all the rough rearranging that was done, but I apologize for it. If I had known it was such a problem, I guess I could have….wait a minute, done nothing. I was twelve. I don’t want to hear about it.
Now, of course, complain. If we were demanding change now, you shouldn’t have to acquiese. Don’t rearrange anything for us. We’re autonomous adults (“adults” is a term of debate for another day, but we’re self-sufficient, theoretically productive members of society, which in today’s world, qualifies us as adult). We are capable of handling ourselves in public, in private, wherever. We are capable of managing a schedule. I recently synced my Outlook calendar with my phone calendar and began actually logging dates in there. I’m legit. (Small step for me, large eye-roll for the rest of you.)
I don’t manage Dad! It’s not my fault he calls you!
I would also like to address the part where (you don’t get to read that part) Uncle [redacted] says that he’d like me to list family events that I’ve been excluded from.
Let’s start now.
The day after Christmas I’m housesitting. I get a call from [redacted]. She’s nonchalant. We talk. She asks me how yesterday went, we’re both tip-toeing around what we know is about to come up. She tells me that it was nice, they opened presents, they did this and that and the kids played with this and that. Pretty soon, we’re both crying. I have to hang up because this is bullshit.

[Redacted] and I are both pretty chill people. We don’t expect big dinners. I’ll host! I’ll cook (badly). [Redacted] will cook (better). We’ll put on the dinner, we’ll have a cold cut and cheese platter. I don’t want to see you for your food, I want to see you for you. I love pajamas. I own a bunch, for all occasions, even Christmas.

I cry. That’s when I know everything is really broken.
It’s a Tuesday. I have dinner plans with Mom. I get a call from Aunt [redacted] saying that they’re in town and want to have dinner. I call Mom and cancel.
At dinner, [redacted: cousin] asks me if I’m going to California. I ask, why? She tells me they’re all going to see [redacted: other cousin] graduate from high school. Oh, I say, I’m sorry, I have to work. Inside, I’m thinking, huh, definitely wasn’t invited to that.
Throughout the meal, Aunt [redacted] is constantly saying how nice it is that we’re so flexible, and blathering on about how it’s so nice that we can just be spontaneous. It’s all for Dad’s benefit, because he’s complaining and pressing them for details.
I get that.
Then I find out that they’ve been in town since Friday. Then I find out that we both went to the parade downtown on Saturday. I would have liked to have seen them. I was sober.
I bring that up because I believe that my father’s side of the family has not received the most accurate information about me since I stopped living with my father. He’s got a set of assumptions about my behavior that are entirely incorrect.
Yes, I drink. Yes, I go out.
Yes, I’m 22, and I have a full-time job and I babysit on the side. I have responsibilities and I’m not neglecting any of them. I have a cat-son and a dilapidated car that I love. I get regular oil changes. I vote. I can pretend to be Catholic when necessary. I’m spiritual. I believe in a g-d. I’ve never been arrested. I’m going to stop. This is getting weird.
(I don’t know, what makes a person a good role model?)
Those are two recent examples, but I can dig further if necessary. I’d prefer not to, though.
I would like to have a good relationship with my younger cousins, but it’s very difficult. I was really excited about this summer, when I had the opportunity to drive through the state where some of them live (most awkward attempt to talk around that ever) and stay with them. I had hoped that I was able to leave a positive impression and set a good example for my cousins. I talked with my Aunt and Uncle and was grateful for their hospitality and their generosity.
The base of the problem here is that I wouldn’t be so upset if I didn’t genuinely care. These people are my family, and just because I’m now mostly estranged from my father (for my own personal sanity), I don’t understand why I’ve been shut out as well.
When I was a teenager, and just starting to have problems with my dad, I spent nearly every weekend at [redacted]’s house. She really saved me, and those are some really nice memories. We would go get our toes done, or we’d cook dinner, or we’d run errands together. I cherish those times and am eternally grateful to have had somewhere else to go when things weren’t great. She never said anything about it, but I respect her for understanding that I needed somewhere to go.
When we didn’t have any furniture or good sheets, she took me out and we bought flannel sheets, a comforter, and a rug for Christmas one year. I still have all of that (except the comforter). I still remember how excited I was to decorate my rom.

That same year, in what I now know was an attempt to pull my struggling self-esteem up, she and Aunt [redacted] took me to buy makeup. Oh my g-d, I still have dreams about that stuff. I was so genuinely happy. And I am still genuinely grateful. I love my Mom but she’s not great at super girly stuff that like, and I really looked up to Aunt [redacted] because to me, she was epitome of what a woman should be. She was funny, smart, happy. I wanted all of that, too.
But now I realize that I’m not exactly like them. I have literally been racking my brain for months (years, really) to try and figure out what it is about me that doesn’t jive.
I honestly don’t know.
I think it’s that sometimes I forget to send out thank you notes. I really do write them. Every time I move, I find a bunch of thank you notes that have been addressed, sealed, the whole works, just not sent. I’m sorry about that.
Or maybe it’s that I don’t send enough gifts. I want to blame Dad on this one, but here I am trying to assert my independence, so obviously that’s not going to work. I’ll try harder.
Or maybe it’s that I’m not Catholic. But I went to Catholic grade schools, a Catholic high school, a Catholic university. I graduated. I did what they wanted. I’m not a heathen, I’m just not a Christian. But I don’t tell their kids that. I answer their questions honestly but sometimes I do lie just to protect their upbringings. I know Catholicism in and out. I’m good.
Once, when I was like fifteen, Uncle [redacted] and Aunt [redacted] found a lighter at their house. At that time, I had just become a black-cotton-clad child and was expressing my inner rage, so naturally, they thought it was mine. I denied it, because it wasn’t. I later found out it belonged to [redacted] but he was too scared to say anything. Maybe that was where it all started to go wrong. I’m sorry. I didn’t lie.
I don’t lie. I don’t cheat. I don’t steal.
(That’s my life philosophy. It’s not that hard to do, really. I feel like aiming for those goals is good. From there, you can expand yourself into the best person you can be.)
Anyway, those are my theories. I’m sorry my father is a nut. It’s not all his fault. It’s the [redacted] syndrome. It affects him socially. Granted, even after the mitigating circumstances, he’s still a lot to handle, but a lot of that is also generated when the people who are supposed to love him unconditionally get irritated. (I’m guilty of being the ultimate hypocrite here, I realize that. But seriously, if there’s a group, four hours doesn’t seem so bad, does it? I manage dinners, coffees, whatever. It’s not going to kill you.)
I’m not invited to Easter, go figure.
Let’s just all be estranged and call it good.
I will at least say that my mom’s side of the family is always willing to rearrange things for us as necessary. And sometimes they even go out of their way to see us. It’s nice. I know that if I call Aunt [redacted] for something, a favor, or a plan, or an activity, she’ll respond. In a timely manner. Who’d have thought?
I guess it comes down to this: you can’t choose your family (even when you’re adopted), but you can choose to interact for the better or the worst. Some people love me for who I am, even if I’m not following their idea of the perfect life path. Some don’t, I guess. It hurts. I’m not good at conflict; I’m not good at trying to figure out why I don’t belong. But I guess this is a chance for me to get better at it.
Ugh, Easter. People wonder why I get so agitated around the holiday season. Wouldn’t you?