Monthly Archives: March 2018

March for Our Lives-FW

 

Marching was the last thing I wanted to do today. But I did it anyway. I joined the March for Our Lives protest in Fort Worth. I was tired, burned out from work, and would have much rather have slept in. But, after years of trying, and failing, to get people to care, now that people are finally giving a damn I can’t in good conscious sit at home and do nothing.

I graduated high school in the much hyped year of 2000. And I wanted to change the world. I wanted to organize for feminist causes. I wrote letters to my representatives, lamented that there were no organizations of like minded individuals in my school. Aside from me, no one seemed to care. Even in college, when the US invaded Iraq, I went to a peace rally that had a grand total of maybe thirty students. Even getting my fellow college students, who would complain about the campus housing constantly (there was only one campus housing complex on my campus, and they took full advantage of that)  to just sign a petition to have more than one option for campus housing was pulling nails, and this was something that impacted us directly! It felt like I was the only one who cared about anything, and trying to get other people to care and organized just got me branded as a nuisance. To this day I just accept that I’m going to speak out alone because no one will stand beside me. It’s lonely, but I can’t in good conscious stay quiet.

I know these movements come in waves. The 90s were a quiet decade to grow up in. I often feel like I was born at the wrong time. Now I have two small children and it is hard for me to join protests and be as active as I would like because of it. And it also feels like it’s never been more important to do so, because the changes I make now can benefit my kids in the future. Consequently, if we DON’T do something about gun violence, global warming, getting Trump out of the White House, etc, then my children are going to suffer greatly.

Yesterday I had a client in crisis, which as any mental health professional will say, is extremely emotionally draining. But the upcoming generation is doing something that people of my generation failed to do: give a damn. So I made a crappy poster even though I was exhausted last night. I put a lot of thought into the words but obviously, not the design. When I woke up I found my son had added his signature on the bottom, which is charming in it’s own way. He’s part of the reason I’m marching, so it was good to have his endorsement. It’s not the prettiest sign, but what matters is that I was there.

And so were thousands of others. Crowd estimates were between 7,000-8,000. There was one counterprotestor, spewing bile on a megaphone he did not have a permit for. While one of the students who organized the march (Lillian Scott) read the names of the Parkland students who were murdered and observed a moment of silence, he kept talking. When Lillian Scott started speaking, she raised her voice to drown him out, and we clapped. He was another example of right wing hypocrisy that will hopefully soon go extinct. The people leading the march are the future.

I used to be proud and excited to be class of 2000. We were supposed to lead the way and usher in an astounding new millennium. We haven’t. Right now I would have traded the empty prestige that came with being the class of 2000 to join a generation that is actually making a difference. I wish I were a part of this new and upcoming generation. Because when I read the multitude of scary headlines the plague our news, reading about them gives me hope that maybe, just maybe, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

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But I’m the One Going to Hell

I was five when I was first told I was going to Hell. A friend’s mom said it to me. A grown woman said that to my five year old self because my parents had recently explained atheism and that they were atheists to me. Let’s just say, I was completely unprepared for the vehemence and hatred with which people would respond when I answered their questions about my belief system.

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Of Wounds and Scars

For the past 4 years I have been angry. Raising a child who is disabled has forced me to confront a lot of the traumas I faced growing up while disabled, and then if that wasn’t enough, the 2016 elections happened, which were triggering for me on a whole different level. I was bullied in elementary school, and some people who worked in the schools told my parents it was the worse case of school bullying they had ever seen. Because of this, I never thought of Trump as a joke, I found him triggering and terrifying. And that anyone could vote for him, let alone millions, has brought a lot of trauma to the surface. Basically the message everyone who voted for him sent was that it was okay for him to bully and degrade people, and that so many people in the United States believe that and that I walk among those people has been disillusioning. For the past 4 years I have been angrier than I have ever been, and I’ve had good reasons to be angry. But it is not a natural or a normal state for me, and it’s not how I like to live.

They say write from a scar rather than a wound. And I’ve been writing from wounds until the point where I couldn’t anymore, especially as I don’t think I am terribly effective when writing from a wound, and also because doing so is so painful. Still, time goes on, scars form. I’m still attending protests, voting, and calling my representatives, doing what I can to fight the most dangerous administration I have seen rise to power in my life time. But the anger I feel is no longer as strong. It’s faded to a grim resolve. On the one hand I am horrified that I am no longer furious, because it means that something atrocious has become normalized. On the other hand, anger was consuming me.

I’m a long way from wanting to build bridges, especially as harmful people are in power, people who only care about the rights of rich, white, evangelical men. When people in power want to take away the rights of people who don’t have it, bridge building isn’t going to happen. There are still a lot of fights coming up. I am marching next week against gun violence. I will be voting for leaders who reign in a dangerous despot rather than enable him. And I’m at the point where I can write from a scar.

Either Inspiration or Failure, and Never Normal

The death of Stephen Hawking stirred up some things for me. Seeing him described as so inspirational because of what he did while disabled struck a nerve. Like Hawking, I am disabled, but in a very different way. I am autistic and I have several learning disabilities. Unlike Hawking, I am not a brilliant scientist and I haven’t contributed something amazing to the world.

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What I Learned About DNRs

My paternal grandpa died late Thursday night. He was 91. The past 8 days have been a roller coaster. My grandma had gone into the hospital for a blood transfusion, and he’d gone with her because he was too frail to be left on his own. I’d gone to pick them up from the hospital and watch over them for a bit at their assisted living community. When I got to the hospital I noticed my grandpa sitting oddly in a chair and that he couldn’t talk or move. He’d had a massive stroke.

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