tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71574964625243838552024-03-06T00:18:47.204-06:00A Novel ApproachAward-winning author Genta Sebastian's ruminations on life.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.comBlogger110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-1494800212117562272016-06-14T21:01:00.001-05:002016-06-15T09:39:58.282-05:00RAINBOW AT HALF-MAST<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWV5p_Ny4_FD_IGypP0WMhSspZnSZLZgd0tnlFWsgEQIW3A1-Xhj7sdVNTb6-ozOnsPvyD6_8lhJGqhkqEtX0_6SdWSYcZkaol7unElG5LSXzXHhgh3daWZ82j-EAyEqJPn4ScaZc8sAh/s1600/rainbowflaghalfmast.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWV5p_Ny4_FD_IGypP0WMhSspZnSZLZgd0tnlFWsgEQIW3A1-Xhj7sdVNTb6-ozOnsPvyD6_8lhJGqhkqEtX0_6SdWSYcZkaol7unElG5LSXzXHhgh3daWZ82j-EAyEqJPn4ScaZc8sAh/s320/rainbowflaghalfmast.jpg" width="320" /></a>It's been a hard couple of days, I won't lie.<br />
<br />
There are the inevitable questions: <a href="http://www.orlandosentinel.com/news/pulse-orlando-nightclub-shooting/victims/os-pulse-nightclub-orlando-shooting-victims-htmlstory.html" target="_blank">Why there and then</a>? Who was really behind it all? What made him do it? And while there are answers, they won't satisfy, because there are no answers good enough to make up for the sickening horror, pain, and devastation.<br />
<br />
Time does strange things when you're grieving. Two days can seem like a week, and hours can disappear in the blink of an eye. The heaviness I carry around makes me tired without having done anything. Fighting despair is apparently exhausting.<br />
<br />
Friends have put up heart-warming posts on Facebook telling me that it's okay to grieve and feel bad, passing along celebrity reactions to the horror, wise and witty memes to distract, and doing what we ALWAYS do when attacked as a group; bucking each other up. Even one of my white, straight, cis-gendered male friend (35 years my junior to boot) reached out to tell me he valued me as a person and a friend. My mother sent me a text telling me she thought the massacre was horrific.<br />
<br />
And although all of that helps, none of it makes the fear go away. It's easy to say that we must answer hate with love, that our Pride counters his cowardice, and that just keeping on keeping on is enough. But it's a lot harder to ignore the gut-gnawing fear that swam into my belly as I realized that I'm suffering a kind of PTSD, born of the many times I've reacted to the number of attacks in our history. There have been so many, too many, over the years and like an overstretched rubber band I'm finding it hard to bounce back.<br />
<br />
Still, Barack Obama, George Takei, and dozens of others have soothed my ragged nerves some with their balm of rational concern. It will take time (which may pass quickly, or not, depending), but eventually I will carry on again, if not calmly, at least with hope for a better future.<br />
<br />
The bastard may have scared me, but not witless. As long as I have a brain, and I can express myself through words, I win.<br />
<br />
#Pride #NoHoldingMeDown #AmWriting #PTSDAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-18904335321928691742016-04-14T22:34:00.000-05:002016-04-14T22:34:32.294-05:00Bariatric Surgery Success!<br />
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Today it will have been exactly four months since my Roux en Y or gastric bypass surgery. Next week will make it a year since I started this amazing journey.<br />
<br />
I've lost fifty-two pounds. My blood pressure is lower, my arthritis less painful, and my triglycerides are behaving themselves. I no longer use the C-PAP machine, or take medicine for gout. I haven't had a bout of Plantar's fasciitis or bone bruises for months.<br />
<br />
Has it been easy? Hell, no. I spent a month (2 weeks before and 2 weeks after surgery) on a completely liquid diet. When you look forward to some sugar-free applesauce so you'll at least have something to kinda chew, that's hard. And, of course, my surgery was scheduled for mid-December, completely eclipsing the usual Christmas celebrations. And as much as I wanted the surgery, I hated how it tied my family and friends up in knots, making them tip-toe around me, not eating things they wanted, afraid to tempt me to do something to spoil my plans. As often as I reminded them that I'd CHOSEN to do this, and they should eat normally, they saw the liquids and mushed up food and felt bad for me. I kept telling them that next year I'd be eating with them, just much smaller portions and they should enjoy themselves.<br />
<br />
Their support meant so much to me, however. They watched me go to endless doctors appointments and be tested for everything under the sun from breast cancer, to sleep apnea, to a colonoscopy. I was examined inside and out. I still laugh about how shocked I was when a doctor first lifted the folded over part of my belly to examine the skin underneath. It felt like such an invasion of privacy... LOL Little did I know what was in store.<br />
<br />
I went through a plethora of emotions and was surprised by their vehemence. Hope warred with despair, anger fought with appreciation, and through it all, I held the deep conviction that I would fail yet again. My wife was terrified of the actual surgery but repeated several times that she supported whatever decision I made. She survived the four-hour wait during the surgery, and hers was the first face I saw when I woke.<br />
<br />
I've handled the healing phase well. The wounds are all scarred and have lost their purplish hue. Although I've had to deal with excessive gas (and the resultant hours of walking) when experimenting with raw vegetables, I've managed to escape - knock on wood - the 'dumping' I'd been warned about. I needed to travel only a few short weeks following the surgery, but even that went well. The flight crew weren't happy about my rising and walking the length of the plane every half-hour, but they preferred that to blood clots.<br />
<br />
Because I was so busy for the first month and a half, it came as an almost sudden surprise when my entire wardrobe stopped fitting me. I sorted out those I could still get away with, and bagged up the rest. When it came to donating them to charity, though, I just couldn't do it. Part of me still expects to gain back the weight, just like I have after every single diet in my life. They're upstairs in the attic, but I may put them out for a spring yardsale... maybe.<br />
<br />
I've learned a lot about myself, and I'm still learning. I've also learned an awful lot about other people and the way they treat people based on stereotypes. But more about that, next time...<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-80554647730524493102016-01-11T22:24:00.000-06:002016-01-11T22:39:15.802-06:00You're Doing It Right Now<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHgb-2osu7lPkglYGBbFo8hqS9Dw4ot1dTVbOUlYiGXla-TGpVF3al_aNjELDucIzCte3h9uXDbk_YRH0XNKMhFvDYtp72cq1B_wzg6fXIdvEAD4AHWSu7evFeTMG2mR7gsUYzXHeZF7P/s1600/money.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHgb-2osu7lPkglYGBbFo8hqS9Dw4ot1dTVbOUlYiGXla-TGpVF3al_aNjELDucIzCte3h9uXDbk_YRH0XNKMhFvDYtp72cq1B_wzg6fXIdvEAD4AHWSu7evFeTMG2mR7gsUYzXHeZF7P/s320/money.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Or you will be once you finish reading this. If you're within reach of a PowerBall lottery ticket, you're dreaming of what you could possibly do with over $6,000,000 dollars. That's the lump sum payout for a single winner.<br />
<br />
My wife and I just spent a pleasant hour discussing the possibilities, those we'd help, how we'd help, what kind of dreams we could make possible, what responsibilities we'd like to shoulder. A retirement village for low-income LGBTQIA+ seniors was mentioned, free operations for kids born with cleft palates whose parents struggle financially, a writer's retreat for authors struggling to find their voices, and, of course, the house purchases for those we love.<br />
<br />
Everyone's doing it - dreaming of the possibilities of great wealth. It's the new American dream, that you win enough money to be independent for the rest of your life, and enough left over to provide for those who are the most important in your life.<br />
<br />
And then there are the little digs that would be possible. One grandson suggested he would buy his grandmother anything she wanted, but that his own father would be gifted with a small, one bedroom house. "And no maid," he added. "He'd have to clean it himself."<br />
<br />
It's human nature to dream, and a uniquely American quality to dream BIG. So buy a lottery ticket, and dream out loud, sharing your thoughts with others and ask them about their own.<br />
<br />
Lottery dreaming is more fun than even planning for Christmas because the boundaries are unlimited. And all you have to do is buy a ticket. Lottery chance means you have the same chance that a millionaire has, ticket for ticket. It's the great equalizer, but if you win it leads to joining the top level of American icons, leaving the common people behind.<br />
<br />
But then the doubts set in. Strangers will come out of the woodworks claiming to be friends or long lost family. Others will ask for donations to one or a million worthy charities. Friends will stop valuing you for your inner qualities, instead courting you for your help and assistance. Everyone is suspect, and the temptations placed before you and your spouse can lead to disaster.<br />
<br />
So you decide not to tell anyone, let a lawyer accept the prize and keep your anonymity as best you can. (If you live in a state that even allows you anonymity) You know that won't work, that someone you know will begin to notice the new cars, and houses and travels to corners of the world you didn't know existed before - before you got rich. And of course, all the new people you meet would know you were rich, so that blows the secret right there.<br />
<br />
But still you dream - dream of impossible deeds and unexpected assistance. Of all the big and little things having lots of money can do for you, for yours, and for the world at large.<br />
<br />
And all of this can be yours, <i>yours </i>mind you, for a mere $2.00. The dreaming alone is worth the cost of entry.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-12598524850734307182015-12-13T15:06:00.000-06:002015-12-13T15:06:01.547-06:00Young Adults... Great Models for Moving Literature<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuW-hLcyC-VjtYNjre2vuDuxUM-6ZQz3tJIeQHpMD99G19xy21JfPbVkLmf-_4M56q-wtigW7a1y98tOI3z6vcP2Bjo-oe95d6lQbHw_gGw5gSU5xKMi5U0nJgEKoBr8V_IQXVVckPxq36/s1600/%2527At%2527s+my+girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuW-hLcyC-VjtYNjre2vuDuxUM-6ZQz3tJIeQHpMD99G19xy21JfPbVkLmf-_4M56q-wtigW7a1y98tOI3z6vcP2Bjo-oe95d6lQbHw_gGw5gSU5xKMi5U0nJgEKoBr8V_IQXVVckPxq36/s200/%2527At%2527s+my+girl.jpg" width="181" /></a></div>
This is the beautiful face of my favorite young adult. She lives near me, visiting when she can. Smart, suspicious, silly, sensitive, and strong... and that's just the S's. Of course I love her, who wouldn't? But I'm also, in the interest of full disclosure, her nana. My wife is her maternal grandmother.<br />
<br />
But I'm not only impressed with who she is as a young adult, after all I've known the special person, "M", since she was born, and she was a freakin' awesome baby/toddler/big girl/pre-teen before. No, I'm also impressed by her group of friends, and so many like them around the world.<br />
<br />
Young adults these days are rockin'. They embody many ideals, tempered with a world-weary acknowledgement of the commercialism of their learning environments. They know social media is self-serving, and have learned the hard way that many messages are commercials disguised as truth. Young adult these days, however, are savvy. They question, not just values, but power. They are demanding answers, and when those aren't forthcoming they dive headlong into research.<br />
<br />
World-wide, nearly instant research. The world is much smaller than it's ever been before. With the proliferation of videos, kids are finding out that people are much more the same, than they are different.<br />
<br />
Which is great, because the next older generation is getting that all wrong, accepting wide divides between people and being prodded into conflicts which settle nothing, but greatly stir dissatisfaction and inflame passions.<br />
<br />
Personally - and remember you heard it here first, folks - I believe that a new '60's type revolution is on the brink of exploding. I think today's young adults are watching the posturing and posing of their elders, and are about to do what another group of young adults, who have been neatly categorized and dismissively labeled as 'hippies', did fifty years ago.<br />
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Their music tells stories of rebels, and vigilantes. The depths of despair are appearing in their art work across genres, as are the heights offered by hope. They are demanding better educations, and holding their educators to ever rising standards. They are remembering what so many of their elders have forgotten:<br />
<br />
Love Conquers All.<br />
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Yep, young adults these days totally rock. "M" and her friends - here's to you! Go get 'em, kiddos.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-64753976575908532832015-12-12T10:41:00.000-06:002015-12-12T10:41:38.494-06:00The Moment of Truth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'll use this for my before picture. It was taken in early 2015, after I'd begun the journey to get to this point. An interesting thing was happening to me at the time. I'd begun to say good-bye to foods, as if I'd never see them again. I binged on pizza, chocolate, and french fries. This photo was actually taken at a local pizza parlor!<br />
<br />
Okay - let's get down to it: I started this journey because the last straw was heaped on the donkey's back. Yes, I'm borderline diabetic, have high blood pressure, and sleep apnea. My health has been going downhill even though I try to stay healthy. Yes, my back, legs, and feet were no longer willingly supporting my body. I hobbled places, or worse, waddled. That happened only once, and after that I walked as slowly as it took to never again sway side to side.<br />
<br />
But if I'm honest, there were other reasons, ones involving self-esteem and issues of embarrassment. I had an experience that showed me if I fell and couldn't get up, my loved ones would need help to get me up. I'm tired of being squeezed from all sides when traveling on a plane, and dealing with people who fat shame with glances. My feelings get hurt when my family discusses my size/eating habits/weight in normal everyday conversation. And I avoid looking at my own reflection in a mirror, narrowing my vision to a single area that needs work, teeth, hair, and more and more recently, my neck.<br />
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I've managed to be a normal weight at least six times in my life. None of those experiences lasted. I blew past 100 pounds sometime during 4th grade and never saw it again. I don't know any other way to be than overweight, or losing weight. Maintaining a normal body weight will be a whole new experience for me.<br />
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And I'm afraid of failing. Again. A failure. Again.<br />
<br />
But then again, everything good that's ever happened to me started with me taking a chance. I've managed to do some relatively extraordinary things: travel the US in an RV, write an award-winning novel, performed before large audiences AND received standing ovations. So if the woman who achieved all that decides to put her effort into creating a new food/eating reality, she'll make it.<br />
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I'll make it. I can do it. I've done hard things before and succeeded. I've got this. It's extreme - but then, I can be extreme. *deep breath* I will do this!<br />
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.<br />
.<br />
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And I've still got two days more to change my mind and run back to the world of comfort I know so well if I chicken out.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-63488668107704372962015-12-09T12:11:00.000-06:002015-12-09T12:11:53.574-06:00Fist Pump - Throat Lump<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0GTA1JmK0jQtOhMSNDmvRUO48nqVWPUBqk0sBYNqpK-l262apbuADnEjZ2PS45mClKTrPu4EFFJzf9QdS0rdDUqkBu4rKGVn-JdNtashZUPNf6r-PTHfN7oK0kOvyCyxxPalpb-cwatug/s1600/happy-weight-loss1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0GTA1JmK0jQtOhMSNDmvRUO48nqVWPUBqk0sBYNqpK-l262apbuADnEjZ2PS45mClKTrPu4EFFJzf9QdS0rdDUqkBu4rKGVn-JdNtashZUPNf6r-PTHfN7oK0kOvyCyxxPalpb-cwatug/s320/happy-weight-loss1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<h3>
<span style="color: magenta;">The fist pump! Yeah! I've done it, did it just the other week. Will probably do it again.</span></h3>
<h3>
</h3>
When I started out on this journey over a year ago, I wasn't sure it was going to end up on the surgeon's table. I went to an info meeting, but still wasn't convinced. This is a really big, irrevocable decision, and I had failed so many times before I no longer had faith in the weight loss process.<br />
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I have some issues with the way the bariatric surgery group I'm with handled things. I was made to jump through innumerable hoops to get here, including many medical procedures and exams. I've been sleep studied, x-rayed, EKGed, palpated, weighed, measured, and charted. I have listened, asked, been handed numerous handouts and a 3-ring binder to hold them all, and support grouped along. And I was forced to lose weight to continue the process. Without going into actual numbers (which are not for publication) from my first weigh-in until the pre-op two week liquid diet started, in seven months I'd lost a grand total of eight pounds. <b><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">yippee </span></span></b><br />
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Then I started the liquid diet and stayed on it. A few days in I got sick. Because of med changes I dealt with dizziness. But I stayed on the diet, and it's now less than a week away from the surgery. I weighed myself on my bathroom scale, which is probably at least several pounds off of the bariatric one, and to my shock found in the first week I'd lost another nine pounds. (BTW - I only weigh once a week at most. I learned that lesson the hard way during my first twenty diets...) That's a total of seventeen pounds, and there's already a change in the way my clothes fit. FIST PUMP!<br />
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But there's also this lump in my throat, a recognition of all the times in the past when I've successfully lost weight, and ALWAYS gained it back again. The fear is there, the ever present anxiety of failure. After all, I've successfully fought the battle many, many times, but never won the war of sustained weight loss.<br />
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Apparently I've dieted and then regained the weight so many times I've created a Pavlovian response in myself. Feelings of success are immediately damped by forebodings of failure. I'm my own psychological lab rat. My conditioned response is excitement tempered with sorrow. And the really bitter taste to it all is that it's become a very familiar response. How many times have I started diets, knowing that the results of all that pain and hard work would never last?<br />
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I'm trying to let myself feel successful, recognizing and paying respect to the times I've failed before, but this time won't be the same <i>(already I hear the razzberry being given by my own psyche)</i>, because this time I'm changing the circumstances. This weight loss journey is different than any other I've taken. I'm changing the rules. After the hard work of losing weight has gotten me where I'm going, my stomach will have healed into a much smaller pouch, and the craving centers will have been excised. I hope that the desire for food will never again supplant my need for nourishment. <br />
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Here is my promise to my future self: I will still enjoy food, in moderation the way it was meant to be. I will savor the flavor, and feel the heal. No longer will I waste the taste, or need the greed. I will be an informed, and intelligent consumer. And I will be healthier for it.<br />
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<h2>
<span style="color: blue;">FIST PUMP!</span></h2>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-20990179010877712072015-12-08T12:53:00.000-06:002015-12-08T12:53:30.996-06:00When the Schmecken Beckons...<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKNc_wiX2ZvwKNj_bAbI4PQlbZ5R4mJO_ukfMUaIlueKFBvJGe3Y1AOevA-4PNwXhCn6LAQc1R3YbEUxrj3gHto41szxgUN0cxoM_rW5ZzS-088KmhFukGCZfHb2Jw6DFJVdW672BNXc-v/s1600/HelpScale4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKNc_wiX2ZvwKNj_bAbI4PQlbZ5R4mJO_ukfMUaIlueKFBvJGe3Y1AOevA-4PNwXhCn6LAQc1R3YbEUxrj3gHto41szxgUN0cxoM_rW5ZzS-088KmhFukGCZfHb2Jw6DFJVdW672BNXc-v/s200/HelpScale4.jpg" width="200" /></a>GUILTY PLEASURES Day 8 of the liquid pre-op diet started out with thoughts of watching
television cooking shows. What? Talk about putting temptation in your
own way. But I enjoy watching the Christmas cooking competitions every
year, and I guess I'm missing that.</div>
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<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbDKGnQ7M5I8DPtVpNitAy-LevDW9KRXWyM2-lm7mOQ2eu6MNdF_Mdo00Yc9LrleGr7SP0Y5e29DO-lT49jAXb_kgbweh3hnaUNXu89VKZ281ZRX8tUQpS4PPPp4nLlVyBrgXzs4p8EcgM/s1600/northfield-gingerbread-men-in-bakery-window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbDKGnQ7M5I8DPtVpNitAy-LevDW9KRXWyM2-lm7mOQ2eu6MNdF_Mdo00Yc9LrleGr7SP0Y5e29DO-lT49jAXb_kgbweh3hnaUNXu89VKZ281ZRX8tUQpS4PPPp4nLlVyBrgXzs4p8EcgM/s320/northfield-gingerbread-men-in-bakery-window.jpg" width="320" /></a>And, I won't lie, I feel a little sad as I move through the stores and see the plenty - all the deliciousness I'm turning away from this season. Gingerbread cookies stand up on the bakery shelves and shout my name, as I wander past trying not to look them in the eye. Yule Log cakes with their promises of rolled up jelly cakes beckon with their frosting covered branches. Pies of many flavors try to toss themselves, like fattening frisbees, into my artfully dodging cart. Eggnog cartons line up like soldiers in the dairy aisle, saluting my resolute determination not to blow my chances for surgery a week from today. Although weight gain (or lack of loss) might be the least of my worries now.<br />
<br />
I'm still dizzy. This is day five of being dizzy and I've been in contact with both the bariatric center and my primary care physician about possible reasons. I stopped in at our local fire station for a blood pressure check yesterday, and my numbers were 140 over 114. Not good. My blood pressure meds have been changed a couple of times lately, and clearly the new combination wasn't making it. So I contacted my primary care physician, who added another med to the mix. Last night I wasn't dizzy at all, and I was so hopeful. But today I'm once again swaying on my feet. I will have my blood pressure checked on Friday morning, and hopefully by then all this dizziness will be over once and for all. The irony is, of course, that after I've lost some weight, my blood pressure should regain normal levels without medication.<br />
<br />
I'm still ignoring the big question - and I am stating it in words here because I want to commit myself to asking it. Am I doing this surgery primarily for my health, or primarily to finally achieve the life-long goal of a slender (i.e. beautiful) body?<br />
<br />
Time is getting short - and I need to make absolutely sure that I really want this irreversible change to my body, and all that entails. Thanks for keeping me company as I try to figure it all out, watching snippets of baking competitions and weaving through the shopping with my pre-op blinders on. There is, after all, next year. And hopefully by that time I'll have learned how to handle my new body and new appetite. By then the Gingerbread Man will be my friend once more, although I'll probably never enjoy his company as much as I have in years past.<br />
<br />
Oh well, there's always Pumpkin Spice Greek yogurt...<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-19361996310910517262015-12-05T09:02:00.001-06:002015-12-05T09:04:01.026-06:00VERTIGO-GO<a href="http://www.wikihow.com/Get-a-Sick-Day-off-from-School-Without-Going-to-the-Doctor" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="http://www.wikihow.com/Get-a-Sick-Day-off-from-School-Without-Going-to-the-Doctor" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3bfYfiXZh4IeuKySuaH3gxL6LNWpiQvBqSO2jaHQ_xHeWsAL8KqcswqTDC1hLk163MqomcjcriM89CXJM-CRtG62yN2lqCBtCcS3CY6v-s3NwcAIdbG5cedAuxatJep2RyE9VM_BC1R-M/s320/Get-a-Sick-Day-off-from-School-Without-Going-to-the-Doctor-Step-4.jpg" width="320" /></a>So I'm cruising along on day 3, feeling hungry, but eating what I need to when I need to. I even had some delicious homemade soup to look forward to for dinner. Squash, carrot, and celery soup, pureed into a warm, pumpkiny color. I enjoyed it thoroughly, so grateful to not have to resort to cream of anything...<br />
<br />
Unfortunately I got sick about ten minutes after eating. I mean SICK. I was dizzy, nauseated, belching, and began throwing up. This is no small thing for a person with a Nissan fundiplication. Throwing up is not nearly as easy when you have one, but I managed. Six, eight, fourteen times during the following evening and morning. Then I stopped throwing up, but even the thought of water would make me nauseated again.<br />
<br />
I crawled into bed and stayed there for 27 hours. If I stayed down, I wasn't as dizzy, which meant I wasn't as nauseated. Every time I belched I'd slow my breathing until it stopped. I existed, floating on a miasma of quashed misery, knowing the moment I sat up I was going to feel horrible once more.<br />
<br />
Of course I wondered if this had anything to do with:<br />
<ol>
<li>the soup</li>
<li>the diet</li>
<li>the flu that has been going around town </li>
</ol>
The soup had all fresh ingredients and was prepared by someone who knows how to make great soups. So I ruled food-poisoning out.<br />
<br />
The diet, while monotonous and unsatisfying, didn't seem bad enough to make me that sick. I grudgingly put it aside, even as I realized that I didn't want anything to do with a protein shake at that moment, but might have accepted a piece of dried toast. I did not indulge in the toast, but neither would I drink the shake.<br />
<br />
So I was left with the idea that it is a flu bug - one that will hopefully disappear on its own by the end of the weekend. However, I wanted medical corroboration and advice. So I phoned the Bariatric surgery center of the hospital.<br />
<br />
At 4:30 in the afternoon on a Friday only weeks before Christmas.<br />
<br />
Not too surprisingly, they were closed. A robo-voice advised me to hang up and dial 911 if it was a real medical emergency, but they also offered a number for 'urgent' situations. I called it.<br />
<br />
The secretary asked about my situation, I described it. She went looking for a nurse and apparently found one who felt no need to speak to me directly. She wanted to know if I'd phoned my primary care doctor. I said no, and she suggested I do so. It was now 4:45 and the sun had set.<br />
<br />
My doctor's office was closed, but they had a triage nurse on staff who agreed to phone the doctor on call, who just happened to be my primary care physician. By 6 o'clock I'd been advised that as long as I was able to keep water down I should probably stay home, otherwise I should report to an ER to avoid dehydration. By 9 o'clock I'd gotten 12 oz. of water down, and while still dizzy and lying down, I felt some better. I sat up from 10 to midnight... a victory!<br />
<br />
Here it is, day five. I lost a day and a half, more or less, to whatever that was. I obviously feel better because even thinking about this post made me dizzy just hours ago. But I'm still not 100%, so I'm eating a yogurt, drinking 8oz. of water, and going back to bed.<br />
<br />
No one takes photos of themselves when they feel this sick... that's my story and I'm sticking to it. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-78628908857730530522015-12-02T12:30:00.000-06:002015-12-02T12:30:26.401-06:00In Vain, or Insane?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8GbPa7-TAHqfqICgXKRZ9VgUj-ZsnceAgLJEU12r7QQCMyCSunM6i_Vr7NCam84kw98IJMa3_W2SClN7x2LfTtoyDqP24w2T3QUYYKCx1KEydqOv0VfCTUW0PLgoHPwwUeo1bZDHxm43/s1600/fat+silhouette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8GbPa7-TAHqfqICgXKRZ9VgUj-ZsnceAgLJEU12r7QQCMyCSunM6i_Vr7NCam84kw98IJMa3_W2SClN7x2LfTtoyDqP24w2T3QUYYKCx1KEydqOv0VfCTUW0PLgoHPwwUeo1bZDHxm43/s1600/fat+silhouette.jpg" /></a>So the best part of day 2 on a liquid diet is that day 1 is over.<br />
<br />
Although I grazed through the day with<br />
<ul>
<li>7 8oz cups of water</li>
<li>3 protein drinks, </li>
<li>2 cups of cream of broccoli soup (eww!), </li>
<li>1/2 cup of Malt-o-Meal (yeah, they still make it and it still tastes the same...), </li>
<li>one 4oz container of applesauce (no sugar added), </li>
<li>one 4oz container of non-fat pudding, </li>
<li>and one truly bitter container of yogurt, </li>
</ul>
<br />
somehow I was hungry pretty much every minute of the day.<br />
<br />
Okay, in the interest of total disclosure, there were about 10-15 minutes following the protein shakes where I wasn't actively hungry, but it roared back within the hour.<br />
<br />
However, I'm one day closer to my goal, and THAT is pretty cool.<br />
<br />
So day 2 started off with me wondering if I should take some photos of myself at the beginning of the journey. After I stopped quivering, I tried once more to talk myself into it. Same visceral reaction.<br />
<br />
I learned a long time ago that you can't be in the photos if you're the one taking the picture. So I became the family photographer. There are still enough photos of me to make sure I get my face on at least 10 out of 12 months of the Christmas calendar (<a href="http://www.mixbook.com/" target="_blank">Mixbook.com</a>), but I make sure they're head shots. I shudder whenever someone takes a photo of my whole body, and usually crop it out of the photo as soon as possible.<br />
<br />
I also avoid seeing my whole reflection in mirrors, focusing on whatever body part I'm dealing with (usually face, teeth, hair...). When I'm walking by large store windows I focus on the models within, rather than my image reflected from the glass. I never try new clothes on in dressing rooms before buying - I just return them after I've tried them on at home. In that way I have happily maintained my own ignorance of the true size of my body.<br />
<br />
Except that's not true. When asked to estimate my own weight I'm usually within 10 pounds, startling the hell out of health professionals who uniformly believe overweight people have no true understanding of their situation. Although I routinely refused to be weighed when being seen by doctors (that public humiliation thing I covered yesterday), I have lived with this body my whole life and am aware of what wearing various sizes mean in terms of total weight.<br />
<br />
In other words, I know how big I am but avoid like the plague seeing the proof of the pudding, as it were, with my own two eyes. Kind of the way I want the world to deal with me too. You can know I'm a plump (fat), middle-aged (old), charmer (woman), just don't see me that way. I'd rather you 'saw' me as my young, beautiful, healthy self in my eighteen year old body.<br />
<br />
Of course, doesn't everybody?<br />
<br />
I don't know if I'm going to talk myself into a 'before' photo or not. I'll let you know tomorrow.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-65663975892846039352015-12-01T11:55:00.001-06:002015-12-01T22:39:41.897-06:00Vanity, or Sanity?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7yXRuNcuoCwd3zgE2TL1wEOgoL-3OTNvHB0yKACOP_CANAH19tCNoxVI7sNSEpXbSdsGhn9FP8FXPdUlcuYKt8bTxjDfZHJ2kKOSOcBMS8mnqO2MuWepxnBwjxq5jNPkuIEtHsmKIDlFN/s1600/HelpScale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7yXRuNcuoCwd3zgE2TL1wEOgoL-3OTNvHB0yKACOP_CANAH19tCNoxVI7sNSEpXbSdsGhn9FP8FXPdUlcuYKt8bTxjDfZHJ2kKOSOcBMS8mnqO2MuWepxnBwjxq5jNPkuIEtHsmKIDlFN/s320/HelpScale.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
QUESTIONING BARIATRIC SURGERY<br />
<br />
I used to walk into my doctor's office with my hand raised defensively. "Let's just start with the assumption that I need to lose weight, and move on from there." She would laugh, and we'd begin discussing my reason for being there.<br />
<br />
I have long held the opinion that doctor offices psychologically attack patients to ensure a greater adherence to medical advice. They do it by stopping in the hallway, invariably full of foot traffic, to weigh and measure you on a full-sized scale. Textbook perfect Public Humiliation 101.<br />
<br />
I've never known what it's like to maintain a healthy weight. It's been a continuing issue for freakin' forever. Diets and exercise programs have been intermittent interruptions throughout my life. Sometimes they are a resounding backdrop to other memories, like when I sucked in my tummy so hard my diaper fell off. <br />
<br />
My self-esteem took the expected plummet, relieved only during the most successful stages of dieting episodes. I've never received so many compliments and/or so much praise as I have when I've lost weight. So many, in fact, it made me resentful.<br />
<br />
Why didn't I get compliments like that for other achievements? I have been a storyteller for decades, performing before groups large and small, done community theater, been an award winning teacher, written an award winning novel, and yet the only time my friends and family seem proud of me was when I was thinner. Which never lasted long. (By the way, I know this is only my perception and that my friends, and some of my family, are very proud of me and my accomplishments. But knowing, and feeling, can be two vastly different experiences.)<br />
<br />
Sometime in the second or third month following a successful weight loss diet an overwhelming craving would crash over me. If you've never felt it you won't understand this, but it is an absolute imperative that you eat. Your mind focuses on food, and only food. You find yourself wandering in and out of the kitchen, grabbing a taste of this, or a handful of that. You hate yourself for losing control, and yet the body grabs you by the throat and screams in your face, "No more starving!" Then it gets your belly to emphasize the point with a lot of uncomfortable roiling and loud rumbling.<br />
<br />
I've yo-yo'd up and down so many times I've lost count. I've been a size 11 and I've been a size 26. One time I bought a size 32, but I think that was sheer frustration that I couldn't find anything to make me look attractive and bought something three sizes too big in a flood of self-loathing. I've done Weight Watchers (twice), the egg and grapefruit diet, Phen-phen, low-carb, 7-day diet, oatmeal and apples diet, etc., etc., etc. I counted points, collected cards, and plotted food charts. <br />
<br />
Any diet will work, as long as you stick to it fiercely. In my experience that means a combination of severe self-loathing, determination, and acceptance of pain. It takes a lot of hurting to make you turn away from food while you're still hungry. To refuse yourself a feeling of satiation involves embracing discomfort, and to continue that unpleasant feeling for days, weeks, and months requires (from me, at least) a hatred for my fat self. It's not enough to want to be thin - I have to hate to be fat.<br />
<br />
I beat myself up (dieted) regularly for the first thirty years of my life, and over the following twenty-eight still do so, but with longer and longer intervals between. The last two diets I started with reluctance, knowing I would succeed, be happy with myself for a few months at least, and then begin the inevitable regaining of the weight and accompanying self-loathing. I did, two for two.<br />
<br />
I've lost all faith in low calorie, nonfat, low self-esteem diets. How many times do I have to repeat the cycle before I admit it doesn't work? Apparently, this many times.<br />
<br />
I am scheduled for a Roux en-y operation on December 15th. It's taken me over a year to get to this place, but I've finally arrived at the starting gate. Today I have begun the two week liquid diet required before surgery. I'm already hungry, but hopeful that at the end of this journey I'll be able to lose - and keep off - the baggage I've been lugging around my entire life. I'm ready to cut away more than half my stomach to control my eating.<br />
<br />
People say to me, "As long as it's for the right reasons..." meaning it should be a health only decision. Mine is, and isn't, but more about that later. Being me I need to chronicle this journey. I'll let you know how it goes.<br />
<br />
Wish me luck.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-26825923319693644862015-09-27T14:50:00.000-05:002015-09-27T14:50:31.316-05:00Wicked Lover or Death Disguised?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ZYi3fnJneGUtc1gJdYKqVr60PLIv0nQuQD75GgtLjXwdjJIfK1xQBhCUnep0XkEmmbMzkfNpYE3UrWgrKt2pdvkKV8JX1Yx2E9ygpkwXR_cEuWNYtSvf_9Z9ghQj8rW-dGPsAeSvU5Aj/s1600/PICT0746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ZYi3fnJneGUtc1gJdYKqVr60PLIv0nQuQD75GgtLjXwdjJIfK1xQBhCUnep0XkEmmbMzkfNpYE3UrWgrKt2pdvkKV8JX1Yx2E9ygpkwXR_cEuWNYtSvf_9Z9ghQj8rW-dGPsAeSvU5Aj/s320/PICT0746.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<h2>
<span style="color: orange;">SOMETHING AUTUMN THIS WAY COMES</span></h2>
<br />
It's the end of September and the seasons are changing. The days of summer are over, and autumn has begun. It's that time of year when I look for my favorite blanket to put on the bed, pull out long sleeve shirts and hoodies, and enjoy the warmth of my favorite socks.<br />
<br />
I see bats and skeletons everywhere, and deal with pumpkin-flavored everything. I bake banana bread and chicken pot pie. The last of my wife's garden become fried green tomatoes. Apple Pie and Cinnamon candles fill our living room with the scents of the season.<br />
<br />
The biggest sign I've given over to autumn are my favorite pair of earrings, hand painted ceramic pumpkins I bought in Pismo Beach about 30 years ago. I love them. They are pretty, heavy, and large. People comment on them every year, and I love it. I wear them with the brown, wine, and gold colors I only wear during this time of year.<br />
<br />
Winding into, through, and around the cities are the scents of dusty leaves, plowed under fields, ripe apple orchards, and chilling lakes. My wife rakes the yard, beds the roses, and cleans out her garage in preparation for the inevitable snow. My granddaughter begins to seriously consider Halloween costumes, which she will decide upon with the help of her best friends so they can coordinate. I pull out my well worn, tattered, and beloved Ray Bradbury classic, The October Country, and Poe's Telltale Heart, and read them aloud in an empty room simply for the love of the words.<br />
<br />
The prompts I bring to writing groups take on a decidedly spooky tone.<br />
<br />
When people talk about the changing of the seasons they mean weather and over all temperature, but to me it means much more. For my wife, who thrives during spring and summer, it's the inevitable end of good times in the garden and sun. She mourns in autumn. I, on the other hand, come vibrantly alive.<br />
<br />
I thrill to the changing colors, encourage the struggle of each leaf to last as long as possible, await the rising of large harvest moons, and watch the night sky for shooting stars. I look forward to preparing for Halloween, NANO, and Thanksgiving. Most of all, I look forward to being cool for the brief time in Minnesota between blistering heat, and freezing snow.<br />
<br />
So here's to autumn, and all those who love her.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-20329756218258750652015-08-19T15:05:00.000-05:002015-08-19T15:05:11.629-05:00Pretty Weird<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzykvSXuTBrXaPGr2qvHyRzipf4xX1VDJoNe5J0NMc_HHoqkgHKOlhn02WTi8UFM5bNQ05er7wWl64Xg2OTj_hS_Y47KgQnikJeJ5s4noOm54z36xPPveq5QN38xY96OE0sBVD0UoCbJA/s1600/GentaSebastianLogo2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzykvSXuTBrXaPGr2qvHyRzipf4xX1VDJoNe5J0NMc_HHoqkgHKOlhn02WTi8UFM5bNQ05er7wWl64Xg2OTj_hS_Y47KgQnikJeJ5s4noOm54z36xPPveq5QN38xY96OE0sBVD0UoCbJA/s320/GentaSebastianLogo2.png" width="320" /></a></div>
Writing books for middle graders, teens, and young adults growing up in families headed by same-sex parents is a wonderful experience. I meet a lot of great people, hear a lot of fantastic stories, and every now and then I get to make a difference in someone's life.<br />
<br />
When young people see their own type of families reflected in the literature they read, lives can be changed. It provides a sense of self-esteem that even the most loving, caring, and supportive parents cannot.<br />
<br />
We hear about the kids who get bullied because they are, or are perceived to be, LGBTQI themselves. But it's not too often that we hear about the kids being raised by LGBTQI parents being harassed at school and on the internet, <i><b>which also happens every single day of the year.</b></i><br />
<br />
These kids often feel especially picked on because if they were growing up with hetero/cisgendered parents they would not be subjected to this type of harassment. Of course, that's not to say that they wouldn't still be bullied. We all know that bullies will identify whatever you are sensitive about to torment you. (And if you didn't know that, take my word for it.)<br />
<br />
But when kids see their own rainbow families represented in fiction it validates their homes as being just as normal as anyone else's. Unless, of course, your house has been painted in rainbow colors, because, well, that's pretty weird. Pretty and weird, and wouldn't I love to have one!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-69413406128201446022015-07-29T21:58:00.001-05:002015-07-29T21:58:09.349-05:00Rita Mae Brown, Dorothy Allison, Lee Lynch, and I Walked Into A Ballroom....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg6taWRFKOd33n3ZpPZb4zo2z0Fq5gQEN8PxS3yqt3HiRmcdEKM5aqGFhYu9fxDRWm28eLRtaStstoqeU8SMPumHUCwCz_t01lBN5tk5XFZ5kbz5uHR1BU02dufcOmezmHMKToiEPmoFVy/s1600/photo.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/AVvXsEjg6taWRFKOd33n3ZpPZb4zo2z0Fq5gQEN8PxS3yqt3HiRmcdEKM5aqGFhYu9fxDRWm28eLRtaStstoqeU8SMPumHUCwCz_t01lBN5tk5XFZ5kbz5uHR1BU02dufcOmezmHMKToiEPmoFVy/s320/photo.JPG" width="206" /></a></div>
I spent last week far away from wife and home in New Orleans, Louisiana. I did it because my book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00XLTZHSW/" target="_blank"><i>Riding the Rainbow</i></a>, was a finalist in the 2015 Golden Crown Literary Award in the YA category.<br />
<br />
Due to situations beyond our control, our income is limited. I had not planned on attending when I first found out about <i>Riding</i> making it to the finalist short list. I was disappointed, but what can you do? Kids need feeding, the mortgage needs paying, etc.. ad nauseam. I figure I'd prepare an acceptance speech, just in case, and ask a friend to accept for me if the long shot paid off.<br />
<br />
I didn't expect to win. There are some very high profile lesbian authors whose books were also on the finalist list, all of them from publishing companies like <a href="http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com/" target="_blank">Bold Stroke Books</a>, <a href="https://www.sapphirebooks.com/" target="_blank">Sapphire Books</a>, <a href="http://www.bellabooks.com/" target="_blank">Bella Books</a>, and other notable publishers. At the time it was nominated, <i>Riding the Rainbow</i> was self-published. I figured among the glittering lesbian literati my little book would be lost.<br />
<br />Then I was contacted by GCLS and offered a last minute scholarship because someone else had dropped out. I talked it over with my wife, we checked the piggy bank, and off I went on a wish and a prayer.<br />
<br />
I had a marvelous time attending panels and giving a short reading from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0692474382/" target="_blank">A Man's Man</a>, my newest YA release. I was stunned to tears by the power of Dorothy Allison's reading from her classic, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0452297753/" target="_blank">Bastard Out of Carolina</a>. I was impressed by the friendliness of the conference board members, and enjoyed meeting and making new friends. One night another author treated me to dinner at Muriel's, a notoriously haunted restaurant, followed by paranormal authors reading from their work. I looked for ghosties, but couldn't find any. I was so entertained I didn't worry about the award, at least until Friday night.<br />
<br />
That night I tossed and turned, fighting off an unnamed fear. I couldn't sleep, and dragged my way through the morning, fighting off tears I couldn't explain. I was afraid of losing, sure. But I also seemed to be afraid of winning. Friends tried to buck me up, but no matter what words they used, how hard or long they hugged me, I couldn't shake a feeling of paralyzing fear. I was so tense, that only an hour and a half before the Awards Presentation began I lifted something too heavy for me and twisted my back.<br />
<br />
I struggled through a shower I couldn't stand straight in, and lay down on the bed to wait for the Advil I took to kick in. I phoned my wife, who soothed my ragged nerves and reminded me that in her eyes I've always been a winner. By the time I hung up my back was looser, I was calmer, and I could dress in my special outfit carefully chosen for the occasion.<br />
<br />
I sat at a table with new friends, enjoying the festivities. My heart beat loudly in my chest as the YA category neared, but I'd prepared myself to graciously lose. I drank a glass of wine, prepped my cell phone's camera to capture the screen shot of my book's cover when it was announced, and surreptitiously crossed my fingers under the table.<br />
<br />
When the presenters in my category announced, "...Riding the Rainbow by Genta Sebastian!" my table erupted with cheers and everyone jumped up from their seats. I stumbled up to the stage and realized that seated directly in front of me sat - are you ready for this? <a href="http://www.ritamaebrownbooks.com/" target="_blank">RITA MAE BROWN</a>, <a href="http://www.dorothyallison.net/" target="_blank">DOROTHY ALLISON</a>, and <a href="http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com/Author-Lee-Lynch.html" target="_blank">LEE LYNCH</a>. If I hadn't already been as nervous as it is possible for me to be short of fainting, I would have lost my voice then and there. Thank goodness I didn't.<br />
<br />
I gave my acceptance speech, stumbled off stage with my very heavy award, and made my way back to my table of friends. The rest of the evening was a surreal experience.<br />
<br />
It was a night I will never forget. And I learned some very important things from all of this:<br />
<br />
1. My wife is my rock, my center, and my strength, no matter how many miles separate us.<br />
2. The fear of winning is almost as powerful as the fear of losing.<br />
<br />
and 3. Winning awards is totally addicting.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-22237605007231474032015-07-19T20:41:00.002-05:002015-07-19T20:45:34.707-05:00My Very First Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibwwAZPXA4v7R6hRZBXl4Tcai3GhcRNPK2AP6xM3wGQTT4u8o9Y_1uC3FNB9HG-WQEE3jF1abmVRtonHCVyMA0kebhKY3kEwEbADyeWmlrLz6H0lIDxGRV0SSlaqX8YliUrhwoPOpIYc-q/s1600/RtRcover350pixilsGoldieFinalist.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibwwAZPXA4v7R6hRZBXl4Tcai3GhcRNPK2AP6xM3wGQTT4u8o9Y_1uC3FNB9HG-WQEE3jF1abmVRtonHCVyMA0kebhKY3kEwEbADyeWmlrLz6H0lIDxGRV0SSlaqX8YliUrhwoPOpIYc-q/s200/RtRcover350pixilsGoldieFinalist.JPG" width="125" /></a></div>
Everyone has a first time. The nervous anticipation, the gnawing fear, the worry that you won't be up to standards, much less excel. Let's face it folks, virginity can be a problem. Arggh! It's enough to make you speak like a pirate! (Which would be another first time, but I digress...)<br />
<br />
This week I set off on one of the grand adventures of my life. I recognize it for what it is, even before it's begun. This will be something I will remember for a long time, and hopefully bring memories to cherish.<br />
<br />
On Monday I set off on a cross country road trip with two other women, both also virgins. On Tuesday we will arrive in New Orleans, a big first for me right there, but no, that's not the culmination of the grand adventure. Although it's on my Bucket List, and therefore significant to me, The Big Easy is only the first leg of this fantastic journey.<br />
<br />
I'm going to take you with me. We'll barge the gates of the GCLS (Golden Crown Literary Society) Convention 2015. I will take pictures and share them here, first covering the country from Wisconsin to Louisiana, and then the convention itself. I will share some of my fabulous experiences, in and out of the Hilton hotel, through various panels, hopefully to a haunted reading, a masquerade karaoke party, and the grand finale: the Awards dinner where my Riding the Rainbow might just win a coveted Goldie.<br />
<br />
So c'mon along on my magic carpet ride. I'll take you, koo koo ka-choo, through the looking glass of a GCLS Con Virgin, and safely out the other side... maybe.<br />
<br />
There is that haunted house in the French Quarter... buwahahahaha!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-56003772613600643062015-07-01T16:01:00.000-05:002015-07-06T11:34:03.112-05:00Rainbow Families - What Are They?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkTFzdjWza5fNU3u3e0h89-sDdSR-zux1LVKIfqGOubseeICMmZrDjzwmbeN2TL2dgqh9uQ6Muf-R4_oacC7JUp8wgL8A-F8nDnMA_hYPi4i3pF2SCoZGfCy6xutE1-LekXcE8KHhRfnRN/s1600/logo9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkTFzdjWza5fNU3u3e0h89-sDdSR-zux1LVKIfqGOubseeICMmZrDjzwmbeN2TL2dgqh9uQ6Muf-R4_oacC7JUp8wgL8A-F8nDnMA_hYPi4i3pF2SCoZGfCy6xutE1-LekXcE8KHhRfnRN/s200/logo9.JPG" width="193" /></a>Mine is a Rainbow Family, which means that my wife and I have children and grandchildren who grew up with same-sex (grand)parents. Since writing <a href="http://smile.amazon.com/dp/B007WZHCH0/" target="_blank"><i>The Boxer Shorts Rebellion</i></a>, I have expanded my definition of Rainbow Families to include straight parents who love and support their gay children as they grow up.<br />
<br />
When my granddaughter was born, and my grandsons were young, I was happy to have <i><a href="http://smile.amazon.com/dp/0689878451/" target="_blank">And Tango Makes Three</a></i> and <i><a href="http://smile.amazon.com/dp/1582460612/" target="_blank">King and King</a></i>. Soon there were a whole slew of picture books but as the kids grew older and began reading for pleasure the literature reflecting their family grew fewer.<br />
<br />
One day I was watching Rosie O'Donnell on television talking about her then ten-year-old son and the questions he was asking about living in a same-sex parented family.<i> Why are you gay? Does that mean I'm gay? Do you have to be gay?</i><br />
<br />
My personal muse lit a fire and I began to write.<br />
<br />
For the better part of the last ten years my writing has involved certain types of families - what I call Rainbow Families. First I wrote <a href="http://shadoepublishing.com/?page_id=1286" target="_blank"><i>Riding the Rainbow</i></a> (for ages 8-12) quickly followed by <a href="http://shadoepublishing.com/?page_id=1317" target="_blank"><i>A Man's Man</i></a> (for ages 12-16). I compare the two to each other in much the same way Mark Twain did his <a href="http://smile.amazon.com/dp/1503215679/" target="_blank"><i>Tom Sawyer</i></a> to his <a href="http://smile.amazon.com/dp/0486280616/" target="_blank"><i>Huckleberry Finn</i></a>. They both tell basically the same story, that of fitting in to a family that isn't like other people's families. <i>Riding the Rainbow</i> is more innocent and sweet, while <i>A Man's Man</i> deals with more adult issues.<br />
<br />
Of course, those two were followed up with The Boxer Shorts Rebellion, a read for much more mature teens. Loosely based on the suicide contagion zone that tragically occurred in Minnesota a few years back, it centers around a family struggling to come to grips with a son who may, or may not, be gay and the bullying that surrounds him. The language is crude and the story blunt, without apology as it treats the subject as brutally in fiction as it is in real life.<br />
<br />
So when people ask me what a Rainbow Family is, I answer that it's any family with one or more gay members. It is that simple.<br />
<br />
So, are you in a Rainbow Family?<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-73333033717903871912015-06-26T22:30:00.000-05:002015-06-27T07:27:36.368-05:00LET THE WEDDING BELLS RING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9s3Lt6aa4seCPqBF-GTQPbJ5vHulFC2kvc9AjnwHP472582Df7BvqRuqxrQvys75FtsRM9j0QEbgC2zW575QfKh6cjaSiDJZxgEXI_qS-rksHBt3jH3OZoN5A80hTAciWWQo4q02eDZR7/s1600/0900631b811f3468M.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/AVvXsEg9s3Lt6aa4seCPqBF-GTQPbJ5vHulFC2kvc9AjnwHP472582Df7BvqRuqxrQvys75FtsRM9j0QEbgC2zW575QfKh6cjaSiDJZxgEXI_qS-rksHBt3jH3OZoN5A80hTAciWWQo4q02eDZR7/s320/0900631b811f3468M.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Congratulations, America!<br />
<br />
I've worked a long time for this, and it's been a bumpy ride along the way.<br />
<br />
I remember the very first time I heard the phrase, "Gay Marriage". It was the last weekend in June 2002, and I was registering voters for a mid-term election at Twin Cities Pride. It was a good crowd that year, full of high spirits. As I was cajoling passersby to sign up, a young woman shook me off because she was already registered, then turned around and said, "But I won't vote for anyone who won't vote for gay marriage."<br />
<br />
It was one of those moments when time changed, everything slowed down as I tried to reconcile her words to the world I knew. Her companion, who I don't remember clearly at all, added something to the effect that until we could marry, we'd never be equal.<br />
<br />
My mind went blank. It was a true paradigm shift. My world tilted to the side and shook cobwebs from my brain. I had never thought of it before, why would I? We were barely tolerated as couples. The idea of gay marriage was completely out of my realm of conscious thought. But the seed was planted.<br />
<br />
It took root because my sweetheart/partner/special friend (as we were labeled) had developed heart disease earlier that year in a medical event that included a smug clerk safe behind a shield of glass telling me that since I wasn't 'family' I would not be allowed to see her in the ER. Once I knew my sweetheart was going to survive I realized the depth of anger in my heart towards my own country. I'd been terrified, and the witch behind the counter had taken a cruel delight in adding to my torture. That was one reason I was so politically active at Pride that year, an event I'd always enjoyed as a casual participant.<br />
<br />
We also had a beautiful granddaughter born that year who quickly became the light of our lives. The idea she might know me not as her grandmother's 'special friend' but rather her wife filled me with hope. The idea wouldn't stop playing in my mind. What if? <i>What if?</i><br />
<br />
On Thursday, February 12, 2004 I turned 47. (I see you doing the math, there.) My Beloved and I were in Fresno, CA visiting my mother. During the news that night we saw the funniest thing; a beautiful couple of elderly women had been legally married in San Francisco. <i>How quixotic</i> I thought. <i>Talk about tilting at windmills.</i><br />
<br />
When the marriages were still taking place two days later we looked at each other and said, "Let's do it." It <i>was</i> Valentine's Day after all. So we quickly packed an overnight bag with the nicest clothes we'd brought with us and took off.<br />
<br />
A very long story later (ask me nicely and I'll tell you all about it) we'd weathered the Phelpsians, two days of waiting in lines, a nasty night outside in a raging Pacific storm, and stood on the San Francisco Courthouse steps, waving our brand new marriage certificate at a crowd of cheering strangers.<br />
<br />
They invalidated us six months later (not even the dignity of an annulment), but we'd known the thrill of being legitimately married in one place in our country, if only for a handful of days. When our home state of Minnesota legalized Gay Marriage, followed swiftly by recognition by the Federal government, we were finally married in 2013, surrounded by our daughters and grandchildren. It a transcendental day.<br />
<br />
But the fear of finding ourselves facing an emergency in a hostile state that would not recognize our marriage haunted us. We travel a lot, and some of the local governments of some of our favorite places would have happily added to our anxiety and grief during an emergency. I carried a photo copy of our marriage certificate with us everywhere.<br />
<br />
Today I finally took it out of my purse. I won't need it anymore. My family is now recognized in every state in the Union, and I'm no longer at war with my own country. <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-6523016909402108272015-06-21T23:54:00.000-05:002015-06-21T23:54:26.212-05:00A Whole New Form of Literature<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbP1CnvQJXXg7vezhSK5sRQfAEcHfEZpolGzqI8-C1bRNUmcusDp7pGPzlpjvkf6P1oaKrKcole2fRxUU0MJP2d3TTgwBQwI31FC1arwF9eMdue2JobvSnexH0cmHRvv1r1K2mT7nwxJiF/s1600/AMMCoverWhiteBlueLettering.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/AVvXsEgbP1CnvQJXXg7vezhSK5sRQfAEcHfEZpolGzqI8-C1bRNUmcusDp7pGPzlpjvkf6P1oaKrKcole2fRxUU0MJP2d3TTgwBQwI31FC1arwF9eMdue2JobvSnexH0cmHRvv1r1K2mT7nwxJiF/s320/AMMCoverWhiteBlueLettering.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am proud to announce the publication of A Man's Man, the second of my Rainbow Family novels for kids being raised in same-sex families. Except for picture books for the pre-reader, and YA novels for teens and older students, there are no (correct me if I'm wrong, but I've looked long and hard) books written about growing up with same-sex parents for middle readers. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If you are a Rainbow parent or grandparent, this book is for your kid. If you know Rainbow parents, this book would make an excellent present for their kid. If you don't know any Rainbow parents or their kids, buy a copy and donate it to your local library. These kids deserve to see themselves represented in fiction.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After the sudden death of his mother, RJ, a thirteen-year-old eighth
grader must go live with his gay father and his boyfriend Stephen. RJ
longs for the days when his father was living with him and his mom, so
he devises a complicated plan to change his father from gay to straight.
The resulting scandal has unintended consequences, forcing RJ to come
to grips with just what makes A Man's Man.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Read the first chapter here, then follow the link to buy your very own copy. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A MAN'S MAN</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></h2>
<h3>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Chapter 1 - <span style="font-family: inherit;">On The Fa<span style="font-family: inherit;">rm</span></span> </span></span></h3>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s
like this, see. My dad’s a fag, his boyfriend’s queer, and I think I might be
gay. I mean, I think it’s catching or something. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I never
used to think about it back when I lived with Mom. But now she’s dead and I
have no one to live with except Dad and Stephen. Everyone knows that kids
raised in faggot families turn out all messed up. I figure it’s just a matter
of time before I start prancing around, or my wrist goes limp, or I start
speaking with a lisp. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I tried
to talk to my Dad about it once but all he said was, “RJ! Those things don’t
really happen!” and then he changed the subject. I guess he doesn’t see it as a
problem if I grow up to be a homo, but to me it’s a death sentence. I think
I’ll have to kill myself if I start liking guys. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Back
when Mom was alive things were easier. She could talk to me about anything and
I’d understand. If I didn’t understand at first, she’d take her time and talk
it out with me until I did. Now I don’t understand anything. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Damned
drunk driver! How come he’s still walking around right as rain, and she’s in a
box six feet under? Explain that to me. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mom
never liked it when I swear, but now she’s not around to remind me, words slip
out without my even knowing I’ve said them, mostly. She never liked it when I
called Dad a fag, or queer, or homo, but that’s what he is, so what’s wrong
with saying so? It’s not my fault he’s not normal. But it’ll be his fault if
I’m not. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s
rude,” Mom would tell me. She said I should just think of him as Dad, which I
did. My faggot father. My queer dad. My homo pop. Ha, ha. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s been two months since we buried Mom, and school is starting next Monday after
Labor Day. I’m so not looking forward to it. As if it’s not bad enough to be
known as the new kid in school, I’m also the kid who’s Mom died. And when they
find out, I’ll be the new motherless boy with two dads, which is totally untrue
because Stephen is not, and never will be, a father to me. But once the kids
know, the damage will be done. Eighth grade is so going to suck. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Which
is totally unfair, too, because I was way popular back in my old school in San
Diego. I was good at sports, I got good grades, and I had lots of friends.
They’d come over to my place to play, or I’d head over to one of their
apartments. It was fun. We’d play outside almost all year long, and swimming at
the public pool was my favorite thing to do. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Out
here in Minnesota no one knows me, and there’s no one to hang with nearby. I
live on a farm, now, of all things. Can you believe it? I left sunny, warm San
Diego and now I’m stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, with only two other
farms in sight. I miss the sounds of traffic in the night. I miss the sound of
voices everywhere. I miss Mom’s voice. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m
afraid I’m forgetting it, but once in a while I think I hear her call my name.
I always look around before I remember she’s dead. Dead, it’s an ugly word. I
didn’t know what it meant before. It’s being alone, all the time. It’s never
seeing her again, or talking to her about things that matter, and things that
don’t. I’ll never hear her voice again. Never hear her call, “RJ!” in just that
way.</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m
forgetting what she sounded like, and even sometimes what she looked like. When
that happens, I panic. I get out my pictures, and a CD she made of stories to
put me to sleep from when I was little and visited Dad in the summers. I listen
to it as I look at all the pictures of Mom and me. I’ll remember her always,
even if I have to look at them every single day for the rest of my life. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dad
grows corn and milks all the cows twice a day, and Stephen cares for the rest
of the stock and takes care of the house and garden. They think I’m going to do
some healing or some such, just by helping out with the animals. Well I’ve got
news for them. I’m not a farmer, and I’m never going to be. They can milk their
own cows and feed their own chickens, and don't even start with me on the goat.
As soon as I’m old enough, I’m lighting out of here. I’ve got plans, and they
don’t include Minnesota. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Being
thirteen is better than being twelve, but only by a little. I’ve still got
eighth grade ahead of me, before I’ll finally be in High School, where you
start to grow up. Everyone still treats me like a little kid, and now that
Mom’s gone there’s no one who really understands me. I feel like a desert
island, and I’m the only survivor. I want her. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She was
like sunlight. I know I’m remembering her maybe better than she really was, but
so what? She’s gone, and I’ll never have her again, and if I want to remember
her as wonderful, what’s wrong with that? And she was like sunlight, all blond
and fair. Her blue eyes were the color of a cloudless sky, and she had tiny
little freckles sprinkled all over her nose and her knees, which probably no
one ever noticed but me. When she smiled, the whole world smiled with her, me
most of all. She could always make me feel better, no matter what the trouble.
But she can’t help me with the trouble I have now, ‘cause she left me. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I get
so angry at her sometimes, I just want to hit something, or yell until I don’t
have a voice anymore, or just lie down and die myself. She promised me once,
when I was real little and scared by a storm or something that she’d never die.
She lied. She might not have meant to die, but she did, and now I’m alone. It’s
not fair, and I want to yell at her and call her a liar, and then she’ll
apologize and call me Little Man like she used to, and I’d do anything to see her
smile once more. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But
instead I’m imprisoned out on some cow palace in the middle of nowhere, with no
kids in sight, much less any boys my age. I’m hoping to meet some guys to play
sports with when school starts, but you never know. I’ve never been the new kid
in school before, though I’ve seen plenty of them. Never looked like much fun
to me. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t
think I’ll have trouble with the school work. If I was at the top of my class
in San Diego, I doubt if these country bumpkins will be able to keep up with me.
The teachers better be decent. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m
going to be a doctor when I grow up. Mom and me, I mean I, planned it all out,
and I’m going to make it happen. The first step is getting all A's on my report
cards. That I’ve been doing since first grade. The second step is playing team
sports, so I can earn a scholarship. This was going to be the year that Mom
signed me up for every sport, starting with football in the fall. She promised
she’d be at every game and every practice too. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yeah.
Well. She lied. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve
already told Dad that I want to go for sports, and he sees nothing wrong with
it. Good thing, because I would have done it anyway. I mean, imagine me letting
a pansy stop me from doing sports? No way. Good thing he didn’t push me on it. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I guess
I get my height from my Dad, because he seems kind of short to me. Stephen is
at least a head taller, and with blond hair and blue eyes, a lot better
looking, too. Dad looks like me, a homely little guy with dark brown hair and
gray eyes. He’s not handsome and never will be. That’s all you can say for him,
with his deep lined face and eyes all squinted up from working in the sun. But
even if he is small, he’s got some pretty good muscle on him. I watched him
slinging hay around in the barn one day, and later when no one was around I
tried it. Boy, it was a lot heavier than it looked! </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now
Stephen, he’s just a fairy, a tinker bell, a poof. He waltzes around here like
he’s dancing everywhere. I had to look, one time, to make sure his feet were
still on the floor and he hadn’t started flying. He’s very excitable, and it
doesn’t take much for him to raise his voice, unlike Dad who hardly speaks at
all. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I gotta
hand it to Stephen, though. For a poof, he’s pretty handy to have around. Since
I’ve been here he’s already done a tune up on the tractor, delivered a litter
of puppies, and made a batch of strawberry preserves, which he put up in glass
jars now lining the pantry shelf. Pretty tasty, too. He’s repairing a window
pane I accidentally busted when practicing my throwing yesterday. He said I
could help him this morning, if I want to. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So I
wander over to the front yard, and sure enough, there’s Stephen, shirtless in a
pair of old overalls, wearing thick gloves and pulling the broken shards free
from the window pane. He’s slender, but with his shirt off you can see he’s got
some muscle. It looks strange on him. I keep expecting to see him in an apron
or something. He looks up and sees me, then waves for me to come join him. I
walk up closer, but keep my distance. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Want
to hand me that hair dryer, RJ?” he asks, and since it’s close to hand, I do
it. I laugh. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“What
you gonna do with that, Stephen?” I ask, all cocky. “Your inner hairdresser
straining to come out?” I put my hand to my ear, pretending to hear someone.
“Oh, there’s RuPaul’s Drag Race phoning.” </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He just
laughs at me, and plugs the hair dryer in to a thick extension cord he’s got
coming through the window from inside. Then he aims it at the window pane and
turns it on. “This’ll heat up the putty,” he explains. “Soften it up so it’s
easier to take out.” </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Well
this I’ve got to see, so I wander on over to take a better look. Sure enough,
that cracked old putty is loosening up and we start to work it with our
fingers. Pretty soon we’re pulling most of it down. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Now we
scrape,” says Stephen, and picks up something that looks kind of like a really
wide, flat screw driver. “This is a putty knife,” he says, and starts shoving
it gently against the putty that hasn’t pulled free. It scrapes up nice and
clean. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Now
hand me some of that linseed oil, and we’ll prepare the wood for our new pane,”
he says to me. I cast around looking and find a tin can on the ground with a
clean rag sitting on top of it. Stephen pours some smelly oil on the rag, and
begins wiping down the wood of the window pane. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When
that’s done he has me look the new pane over to decide which side is the “out”
side, beveled he calls it. Then he gives me a piece of fresh putty and I roll
it in my hands until it’s a little thinner than a pencil. He takes it from me
and shows me how to fit it into the bare window pane. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He
takes the glass and sets it in real careful, making sure the beveled part is
facing outside. Stephen hands me these pieces of metal, kind of like large
staples, and tells me to wedge them into the putty every few inches, tapping
them in gently with the butt of the screwdriver. Those will help hold the glass
in place while it dries. Then we take a little extra putty and press it around
the corners. Finally he shows me how to use the edge of the knife to wipe away
the extra. When it’s all done it looks just like the other panes of glass
except for the color of the wood. Stephen says it will dry for a couple of days
before we paint it real carefully so it’ll match. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Good
job, RJ,” says Stephen, but I try not to take it too much to heart. After all,
what a poof thinks of you doesn’t count for much. But I tell him thanks anyway,
then go sit on a big tractor tire they’ve got hanging from a tree in the front
yard, missing Mom again. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Why
don’t you go down to the lake, and see if you can catch yourself a turtle for a
pet?” calls Stephen as he gathers up the stuff to put away. More of a command
than a suggestion, but it sounds like as good a plan as any, so I thrust my
hands deep in my jeans pockets and start walking down the road.</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s
hot, already August, and there’re millions of gnats singing in the air. They
swarm around my head, and I bat at them, but it only drives them away for a
minute and then they’re right back at me. I remember something Dad told me a
long time ago, and I start humming with as deep a voice as I can muster. Sure
enough, those gnats must not like my singing, because they float away and
decide to go bedevil something else, most likely the cows. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can
smell the manure just hanging on the hot air as I pass the holding pen outside
the milking barn. Dad’s out there shoveling away what’s left from this
morning’s crowd of milling cows, and he looks up and waves as I go by. I
pretend not to see him, kicking up dirt clods like it was the most important
thing on the Earth to accomplish. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t
know why I’m so mad at him, besides the fact that he’s a queer and ruining my
life, I mean. It’s not like they kept it a secret from me. After all I came
here to visit for a month every summer, back in first and second grade. But he
wasn’t really gay because he didn’t have a boyfriend. It was just us, then, and
he was just my Dad. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then he
wrote Mom a letter and told her about Stephen, and she decided I shouldn’t go
out to visit anymore. Probably didn’t want me seeing them kissing and stuff.
Not that they do that around me, but still, it would gross me out, make me
hurl. So I haven’t been up here on the farm since I started third grade. I
guess that’s too long, because everything seems different to me now. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I used
to enjoy feeding the chickens, but now I just want to kick them in the face. I
hate the way they crowd around me, trying to get the food before I toss it to
the ground. Greedy guts, that’s what they are. I told Stephen I don’t want to
do it anymore, and he said that’s all right, he’s used to doing it. So good, I
figure. Let him. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
remember how big everything used to be, but I guess that was just because I was
so little. It seems to me Dad looked so tall once, he could reach up and touch
the sky with his bare hand, but now I just see him as short. And the corn used
to taste so sweet it was almost like candy. Now it tastes like the dust
covering my shoes. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I get
to the big tree sitting at the corner of the dirt path that will take me down
to Silver Lake. Our land butts up to it, but it’s a lot quicker to go by this
worn down path, probably first walked by Indians a thousand years ago, and
maybe even cavemen thousands of years before that. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Stepping
off into the woods it’s easy to feel like I’m traveling back in time.
Everything is so dark and cool beneath the heavy headed trees nodding in the
summer breeze. Huge mosquitoes buzz around my ears, and I know I’ll be covered
in itchy bites, but I just don’t care. In here, where no one can see me, is where
I cry what tears I’ve got left. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This
morning I wait for some to come squeezing out, but there doesn’t seem to be any
need, so I just stomp on down the path. When it suddenly opens onto Silver Lake
I stop and stare, just like the first time I saw it all those years ago. This
is the one thing that hasn’t changed. The lake is always beautiful, ringed with
tall trees and grasses, about a hundred different greens. Even now, when the
nights are starting to cool, the leaves are still green. In a few weeks they’ll
turn red, gold, orange, all the colors of autumn. But right now, everything is
its own shade of green. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When
Dad first left us, I was only four years old, too young even for school. He and
Mom gave me some lie; I don’t even remember what it was now, about why he had
to go to a place called Minnesota. When I asked where the mini soda was, he’d
burst out laughing and crying at the same time and told me it was far away from
San Diego, but that he’d visit me, and I’d visit him. I don’t think he knew he
was lying about visiting me, I just don’t think he figured how much work goes
into a farm, though he should have, having been raised on one. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When
Dad was married to Mom, he was a banker, and we had a big house, with a lawn
and a backyard to play in. Then there was some trouble, it had something to do
with him finding out he was queer. Someone else found out too, and made trouble
for him at his bank. Mom always said it wasn’t fair that they fired him.
Anyway, we had to move into a small apartment, and suddenly Dad wasn’t a banker
anymore. He wasn’t anything at all for a while. Except sad, maybe. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then
Grandpa died and left him the farm and that’s when he decided he didn’t want to
live in a city anymore, or be married to Mom and me anymore. He divorced us,
and went back to his roots. When I was young and dumb, I thought that meant the
roots of his corn but I found out it meant he wanted to go back to where he
grew up. So my roots are in San Diego, where I lived with Mom. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dad
might have thought he was going back to something, but from where I stood in
San Diego, it sure looked a lot like running away to me. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I kick
off my shoes and settle my hot feet in the cool water lapping up on the shore.
Away off in the distance I can see a motor boat, but it’s not moving so I
figure someone’s out there fishing, probably some straight dad who took the
time to show his boy the manly arts. Dad and I used to go out on a rented boat
to fish, before Stephen. I enjoyed it, even if we didn’t catch enough to eat.
Just being out on the lake alone with Dad was enough. We don’t fish anymore.
Stephen. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
search the bank for baby turtles, but don’t find any. They’re probably almost
grown by now, or waiting to start school, like me. Maybe they feel the same way
about it I do, partly wanting to go just to have something to do, and also
wanting not to go, because I know there’s going to be trouble. If I had a shell
maybe I’d just crawl inside and wait everyone out until I was grown up and
could make up my own mind about stuff. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
coolness of the water feels good against my hot dry skin, and I think about jumping
in to swim. But besides the harmless box kind you can keep for pets, there are
snapping turtles in that water, and I’m a little afraid of getting chomped. Dad
showed me once how they latch on to what they bite, and won’t let go, by
teasing one with a broomstick. We finally had to throw the whole thing in the
lake for the snapper to let go, and wait for the broom to float back to shore.
The bite mark it left on the broom handle convinced me I don’t want one
fastened on any part of me. No way, I’m not that stupid. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">No
sense in getting myself bit. Best to stay as far away from unseen dangers as
possible. You never can tell what’s out there, going bump in the night, or
hiding below the surface to bite. Or driving drunk on a dark and lonely street.
</span>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-48222847982288838422015-06-16T10:38:00.000-05:002015-06-16T10:38:25.998-05:00IT'S NOT MY FAULT IF HE'S NOT NORMAL. BUT IT'LL BE HIS FAULT IF I'M NOT. <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3zHr8vlqRo1J7io6ktQZGRtpEw3ZSIQxGa32Hs1F1oOAqVEcTRSW1BYPyYVALoO853N-66RJysgiZnrPcaATQhqF_ilsVcpjCE1qJKs3R8gkVWzW274G_FYPH-l-T0wTeKi3PGqePHK5h/s1600/AMMCoverWhiteBlueLettering.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3zHr8vlqRo1J7io6ktQZGRtpEw3ZSIQxGa32Hs1F1oOAqVEcTRSW1BYPyYVALoO853N-66RJysgiZnrPcaATQhqF_ilsVcpjCE1qJKs3R8gkVWzW274G_FYPH-l-T0wTeKi3PGqePHK5h/s400/AMMCoverWhiteBlueLettering.jpg" width="250" /></a>After the sudden death of his mother, RJ, a thirteen-year-old eighth
grader must go live with his gay father and his boyfriend Stephen. RJ
longs for the days when his father was living with him and his mom, so
he devises a complicated plan to change his father from gay to straight.
The resulting scandal has unintended consequences, forcing RJ to come
to grips with just what makes A Man's Man.<br />
<br />
Read an excerpt below the line. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9LKPwEs9HaBI8rK5WBfy8SVSLmzJNiEKRJ31Zi0uE1es9v_DnCBGGXSMNYMBPGW1HGwxFig82yHiu-FsO3aA2OKZKzd4_29lYFp8ZnQzHl-olcSfQC80vWLq_V9D_LV8zUJiRsP-K2Nq/s1600/animated+rainbow+separator+line.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="8" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9LKPwEs9HaBI8rK5WBfy8SVSLmzJNiEKRJ31Zi0uE1es9v_DnCBGGXSMNYMBPGW1HGwxFig82yHiu-FsO3aA2OKZKzd4_29lYFp8ZnQzHl-olcSfQC80vWLq_V9D_LV8zUJiRsP-K2Nq/s320/animated+rainbow+separator+line.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
It’s like this, see. My dad’s a fag, his boyfriend’s queer,
and I think I might be gay. I mean, I think it’s catching or something.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
I never used to think about it, back when I lived
with Mom. But now she’s dead and I have no one to live with except Dad and
Stephen. Everyone knows that kids raised in faggot families turn out all messed
up. I figure it’s just a matter of time before I start prancing around, or my
wrist goes limp, or I start speaking with a lisp. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
I tried to talk to my Dad about it once, but all he
said was, “RJ! Those things don’t really happen!” and then he changed the
subject. I guess he doesn’t see it as a problem if I grow up to be a homo, but
to me it’s a death sentence. I think I’ll have to kill myself if I start liking
guys. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
Back when Mom was alive, things were easier. She
could talk to me about anything and I’d understand. If I didn’t understand at
first, she’d take her time and talk it out with me until I did. Now I don’t
understand anything. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
Damned drunk driver! How come he’s still walking
around right as rain, and she’s in a box six feet under? Explain that to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
Mom never liked it when I swear, but now she’s not
around to remind me, words slip out without my even knowing I’ve said them,
mostly. She never liked it when I called Dad a fag, or queer, or homo, but
that’s what he is, so what’s wrong with saying so? It’s not my fault he’s not
normal. But it’ll be his fault if I’m not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“It’s rude,” Mom would tell me. She said I should
just think of him as Dad, which I did. My faggot father. My queer dad. My homo pop.
Ha, ha. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
It’s been two months since we buried Mom, and school
is starting next Monday after Labor Day. I’m so not looking forward to it. As
if it’s not bad enough to be known as the new kid in school, I’m also the kid
who’s Mom died. And when they find out, I’ll be the new motherless boy with two
dads, which is totally untrue because Stephen is not, and never will be, a
father to me. But once the kids know, the damage will be done. Eighth grade is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> going to suck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9LKPwEs9HaBI8rK5WBfy8SVSLmzJNiEKRJ31Zi0uE1es9v_DnCBGGXSMNYMBPGW1HGwxFig82yHiu-FsO3aA2OKZKzd4_29lYFp8ZnQzHl-olcSfQC80vWLq_V9D_LV8zUJiRsP-K2Nq/s1600/animated+rainbow+separator+line.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-63801411036180698432015-06-11T17:02:00.000-05:002015-06-12T01:10:15.269-05:00A Sneak Peek at A Man's Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuogGeq-5nXjo_Cuy2f5qXOLBJwq_GI5D4HYhyphenhyphenOr4omR0u5cv-L2hIfanPjxpKITmD8MrNF6DEJ7_fIcFGrlKDnytT2Xp5OHyzialZ74HyBSZe5wtmGlO4tZ1y91c2UZ5ks9JDQvXpTZ0/s1600/AMMCover+8.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/AVvXsEhzuogGeq-5nXjo_Cuy2f5qXOLBJwq_GI5D4HYhyphenhyphenOr4omR0u5cv-L2hIfanPjxpKITmD8MrNF6DEJ7_fIcFGrlKDnytT2Xp5OHyzialZ74HyBSZe5wtmGlO4tZ1y91c2UZ5ks9JDQvXpTZ0/s320/AMMCover+8.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I needed to expand my YA novel,<i> A Man's Man</i>, to 50,000 words. So today I wrote a dream sequence for the protagonist, RJ, who is determined to turn his gay father straight by driving away his boyfriend. In honor of the novel's near release, I'm sharing the chapter with you.<br />
<br />
<center>
CHAPTER 9 <br />
<h2>
To Sleep, To Dream</h2>
</center>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
Sometimes I think of Mom. I talk to her picture, but
it’s not the same. When I talk she never answers but once in a while I hear
her speaking in my head, mostly when I’m just drifting off or beginning to wake
up.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
Of course, her voice is only a memory now and I’m not
even sure it really is hers. Maybe I’m just pretending I remember what she
sounded like. I’m glad I have that one old tape though, because without those
bedtime stories I’d forget the sound of her.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
The tape has just clicked off and I’m lying in bed
watching the moon move across the sky through my window when I see her clear as
day.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“RJ,” she says, and I recognize her voice right away.
I’m flooded with happiness that she’s back, that it was all some terrible mix
up, a horrible joke.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“Mom,” I shout, jumping through the window and
landing on a cloud beside her. I grab her and hug her so tight she’ll never get
loose. She doesn’t try to, just stands still and hugs me back. Finally, I let
go of her. Then I look down and shriek. Our farm is far beneath me, a swatch of
white outlined by the roads that surround it.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“No worries, Little Man. You won’t fall.” She takes
my hand and we stroll through the clouds which feel oddly like the sand dunes
on the beach in San Diego. We climb up to the top where the moon is shining
brightly. His old face beams, just as glad to see me with my mom as I am to be
with her.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“Why did you leave?” I ask her the one question I
really want answered. “Why didn’t you live?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“Well, it wasn’t my choice, baby. There are some
things you cannot control,” she says conversationally, pulling me down to sit
beside her on the cloud. A shooting star falls in the distance. She wraps an
arm around me, hugging me close. “That’s something you will have to understand
sometime, soon I hope.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“If it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i>
been your choice you’d have stayed, right Mom?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
She kisses my forehead, leaving a warm spot like the
imprint of lipstick. “I wouldn’t part with you for anything in heaven or hell,”
she reassures me. “Nothing could have split us apart short of death. I’m so
sorry, RJ, so very sorry I’m not there with you now. But I left you in very
good hands. Your father loves you every bit as much as I do. I’m so very glad you
love him back and want him to be happy.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
I suddenly feel disloyal. “Yeah, I do Mom, but not in
the same way I loved you.” I’m trying not to cry but first one tear escapes,
and then another. They float off into space to become twinkling stars.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“That’s the wonder of love, Little Man. You can love
more than one person with all you’ve got because your heart will always make
room. You can never love too many, or too deeply. Of course,” she says using
her mommy voice, “you marry only one at a time and you bring respect and trust to that
union as well as love. That’s what makes a family. Like you, your dad, and
Stephen.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“You know about him?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“Oh sure, honey. Your dad and I talked and texted
back and forth every week. I always consulted him when making big decisions
about you and often took his advice. If it’d been up to me, you’d have been
studying music rather than playing sports to earn a scholarship.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“That was Dad?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“Yes it was. He needed to be part of your life even
if he didn’t want to shock you with his lifestyle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sent him pictures of you as you grew, and
he sent me photos of life here on the farm.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“When he found Stephen something changed. He’d always
loved you, and me, but a part of his heart he’d always kept closed opened up.
We had decided you were old enough to deal with his having a boyfriend and were
going to start sending you back to the farm more often so you could meet
Stephen and see how happy they are together, but then fate took a hand. I
understand they’re going to get married. They must be very happy.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
I focus on the face of the moon rather than look at
Mom directly. “They were,” I answer, “but I fixed that. I helped Dad see the
light.” The moon in front of me dims. “He’s straight again now.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“Oh no, I thought you wanted him to be happy?” Her
voice and body fade away and I’m left sitting on a cloud all alone.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“What do you mean, Mom?” She doesn’t answer. The moon
goes dark like a total eclipse, and the cloud beneath me starts to shift like
drifting sand. “Mom!” I call for her as loud as I can but she’s gone. Again.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
What did Mom mean when she said she thought I wanted Dad
to be happy? I do want him to be happy. Happy and straight. No one who is gay
can be happy. She must not understand, I think, and then laugh at myself
because she’s nothing but dust to dust, ashes to ashes. She can’t understand,
or misunderstand, anything now.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
The cloud sand beneath me opens up and I start
falling back to Earth. I try to scream, but suddenly my mouth seals shut. It
won’t open, so I try flapping my arms like I’m a bird. I know it’s foolish but
I’m desperate. And it works.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
My pajama sleeves turn in to wings and I find I can
soar. It’s a joyous feeling, better than Christmas or sinking the winning ball
in a game, even better than getting straight A’s. I fly high, high, as high as
I can go to see if I can find Mom among the clouds again.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
This time the clouds feel like spider webs, sticky, light, and
creepy. They clutch at my wing sleeves, slowing me down, but I shake them off
and continue upward.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
It’s not the moon that greets me because the sun has
risen. Golden rays spread out from its surface to warm my face. When I look
straight at it I’m blinded for a moment and lose control. I’m falling and my
sleeve wings burn away, but a huge hand catches me in its palm. I try to follow
the hand to the arm and up to the face of my rescuer, but the light is too
bright. I’m blinded by its brilliance, so I focus on the hand.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
Standing beside me is a boy about my age. His clothes
are strange to me, a swirling cloak of many colors. He’s playing a stringed
instrument I’ve never seen before and starts to sing: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
“There was a boy, a very strange enchanted boy,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 2.35pt; text-indent: 1.8pt;">
And while we
spoke of many things, fools and kings, This he said to me: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 2.35pt; text-indent: 1.8pt;">
The greatest
thing you’ll ever learn</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 2.35pt; text-indent: 1.8pt;">
Is just to
love, and be loved in return.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 2.35pt; text-indent: 1.8pt;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Listening to him fills me with a
feeling of safety. When he finishes, I say, “My mom used to play that song on
the piano. Do you know where she is? Who are you?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes, I know where she is and she’s
safe. As for who I am, I have a million names. The one I want you to use is
Friend.” His eyes, dark with understanding, gaze into mine.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“How did I get here? How will I get
home?” I ask him.<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You came here searching for something.
You’ll go home when you find it.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I think that over and say, “Sounds like
a lot of books and movies, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord of the
Rings</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Indiana Jones</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Wrinkle in Time</i>. Can’t you give me a
bigger hint than that?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
His face lights up with mischief.
“Ultimately we all search for the truth.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“But that’s as vague as the first hint.”
He shrugs. “Listen, Friend,” I try, “how about if I ask questions? Will you
answer them?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Suddenly he’s standing in front of a
large and colorful game board. On it are ten spaces leading from the first one,
marked Confusion, to the last one, labeled Understanding. Above it hangs a
flashing sign that reads: WHAT AM I SEARCHING FOR? A marker with my face on it
stands smack in the middle of Confusion, ready to go.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I’m standing behind a contestant’s
pulpit with bright lights in my eyes, and somewhere behind them is an unseen
audience applauding. They quiet down and Friend says to them, “Welcome,
welcome, welcome to the game of…”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
pauses and the audience shouts back, “…What Am I Searching For?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
His teeth gleam white in the
spotlights. “That’s right. Our contestant today is RJ, age thirteen. He loves
sports and academics, any competition really, but as we all know his only opponent
today is himself.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Friend turns to me. “Good luck, RJ. You
may ask me any question you’d like but I’ll only answer with one word, ‘Yes’, ‘No’,
or ‘Partially’ so consider your questions carefully.” Among fresh applause he
calls out, “So if you’re ready we’ll let the game begin.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
My first question is easy. “Am I
searching for something I can touch?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“No.” Friend moves my image one step
along the path of the game board.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Am I searching for myself?” I realize
it’s a throwaway question as soon as I say it.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes.” He turns around and raises his
arms as if conducting an orchestra. As his hands fall the invisible audience choruses
with one voice, “We all are.” My icon moves another step.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Twenty percent of the way across
already. I’ve got to think of better questions. I take a moment before asking
the third. “Okay, it’s not something I can touch, but it is, in some way, a
search for myself. Am I searching for love?” It seems to me that’s a crazy
question, but so many people online post about looking for love I think it’s
worth a shot.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Partially.” That mischievous look is
back on Friend’s face. That makes me think of Jessica.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Uh, why? Where did that come from? But
it does make me think of another question. “Am I searching for ability?” Like
in sports, or medicine…<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Partially,” but this time as my piece
moves Friend’s face darkens, and the unseen audience shifts nervously in their
seats.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Question number five will take me half
way across the board and I am no closer to finding out what I was searching for
than I was before the game. I plan my words before I speak. “Will I be a better
person when I’ve found it?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
The audience breaks into spontaneous
applause, my piece jumps happily to the next spot on the board, and Friend looks
relieved as he answers, “Yes.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
As the applause fades the lights dim
and a team of people come flocking out of the dark. They swarm Friend blanketing him from
sight and I hear him protest good-naturedly. One woman pulls herself away from
the pile and looks at me standing behind my podium. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She walks over to me with a smile jumping from
her lips to her eyes.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Taking a towel from a pocket she begins
dabbing at my face. I realize I’ve been sweating heavily, but she pats me dry
quickly and applies a little clear powder too my face. “You’re doing just fine,
honey,” she says as she works. “Most of ‘em give up by this point, but you
scored a big one just now.” She looks around and leans in conspiratorially. “Figure
out the difference between that question and the ones before. It’ll make things
clearer.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I refresh my memory. “My last question
started with ‘will I’ rather than an ‘am I’. Does that make a difference?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
She dips into another pocket and
produces a glass of cold water, which she hands me. The lights come back up and
she along with the other flock of people begin streaming out. But she pauses
long enough to look over her shoulder and nod before disappearing with the
others back into the dark.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Friend is standing in front of the game
board just where I’d seen him last. He’s spruced up and looking good, his robe
is cleaned and adjusted, his face patted and powdered. Even his smile seems brighter.
He turns to face the unseen audience.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Welcome back to the second half of our
game. As you will remember, RJ has made it halfway across the board and has
five more questions to ask to discover…” He raises one eyebrow expectantly.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“What He’s Searching For,” answers the
audience on cue.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Turning back to me Friend asks, “Are
you ready, Friend?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I know he’s speaking to me, but I can’t
help asking the obvious. “You told me to call you Friend and now <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you’re</i> calling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> Friend?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I call lots of people Friend, with a
capital letter and without,” he says. “I’ve always found it a nice way to keep relationships
peaceful. It’s hard to get mad at someone you call friend.” The audience
applauds. “Now,” he says to me again, “are you ready?<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
When I nod my head he asks, “What is
your sixth question?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“As it’s something that will make me a
better person when I find it,” I muse aloud, “involving love and ability, I
think I’ll ask this: “Is it difficult to find?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
The mischievous light is back in Friend’s
eyes as he says succinctly, “Yes.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Watching my game piece move another
step forward I say, “Mom always used to tell me that the hardest things to
achieve are the most rewarding.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Friend’s compassionate gaze doesn’t
irritate me as so many others have. He says, “She said many wise things during
her short life on Earth.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Is there any way I can bring her back?”
I cross my fingers hoping he’ll say ‘Yes’. If there is, I’ll do anything and
everything it takes.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I hear the audience’s collective sigh
of disappointment. “No,” says Friend with a touch of sadness, “which you knew
already but couldn’t stop yourself from asking, huh?” He knows me pretty well for
meeting so short a time ago. My icon moves forward and there are only three
spaces left. I have to make them count.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Which is why I’m shocked to hear myself
blurt out, “Is it something I have to learn the hard way?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes,” nods Friend firmly. The game
piece with my face on it moves forward on the board.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Well, now I have some clues with which to
work. A difficult to find lesson I have to learn the hard way which will make
me a better person, involving ability, and love. Lots of wriggle room there. I’ve
got to narrow the field.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Only two questions left,” announces
Friend to the audience as he holds up two fingers. “Will RJ finally get his
answer to the question...,” He waits.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“What Am I Searching For?” This time my
voice alone can be heard. The audience is silent.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, RJ. What is your ninth question?”
I see hope on his face and realize he’s been rooting for me all along.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Does this have anything to do with my
plan, Courageous Change?” I ask.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“YES,” Friend shouts, and again my game
marker skips happily to the next space. “You’ve got one more question. Can you
figure it out, RJ?” He’s nearly jumping up and down he’s so excited for me. I
hear a chattering among the unseen audience. They’re pulling for me too, I can
feel it.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
A lesson learned the hard way involving
Courageous Change. It will be difficult to find but will make me a better
person. Ability and love will play a role. And suddenly I know.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I am searching for something that will
make my dad happy and straight!” I announce. “That’s it, isn’t it?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Just as Friend opens his mouth to answer
a loud bell interrupts him. The huge golden hand in which this has all taken
place tilts. While I slide down Friend floats up. He shouts the answer to me
but the bright light of the sun shining through my bedroom window distracts me
and the ringing alarm clock blocks my hearing. It’s time to get up. I have to
feed the dogs, chickens, and Nanny before the school bus gets here.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
As I stumble to the bathroom I hear Dad
going out through the mud porch. Morning starts pretty early for a farmer
working a piece of land the size of ours, and his workload has doubled. When I finish
my chores and get to the kitchen for my own breakfast I find only a cold cup of
coffee at his place.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I’m not stupid, I watch TV. I can see Dad
is suffering from a broken heart but the afternoon talk show hosts say those
eventually mend. A lost soul is a lot harder to fix. I have to stick to the
plan.<br />
<br />
Courageous Change is for the greater good and soon Dad and I will be
happy, living as a straight family like everyone else.<br />
<br />
<br />
Still, I watch Dad moping around here when he thinks
I’m not looking and wonder when the happy part is going to kick in. Maybe he
needs to date a woman.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .25pt; margin-left: -.75pt; margin-right: 2.35pt; margin-top: 0in;">
I set about figuring out who that should be.<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-51865691942917656732015-05-14T01:41:00.000-05:002015-05-14T03:17:11.553-05:00Today's Press Release<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg42D6L5eyCQ1jA8bo7R6YpMDMoBUu-5O6dihqouxIvintobpJMe3TnFpO1woSC53hTvIdu3FqWsHDe3pX7OlpheN2BDtsMlw8eNt0kKdLgwf1qweXTh3R4tA-Zgt_RuaeDNDrKNO25_u/s1600/AShadoeRtRcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg42D6L5eyCQ1jA8bo7R6YpMDMoBUu-5O6dihqouxIvintobpJMe3TnFpO1woSC53hTvIdu3FqWsHDe3pX7OlpheN2BDtsMlw8eNt0kKdLgwf1qweXTh3R4tA-Zgt_RuaeDNDrKNO25_u/s200/AShadoeRtRcover.jpg" width="125" /></a><b> </b><b>A family that’s different, just like mine.</b><br />
<b> </b> <br />
<i>Middle-grade readers with two same-sex parents cannot find literature
reflecting their own families. Twin Cities author Genta Sebastian has answered
that need with her newly released Riding the Rainbow. </i><br />
<br />
<b>Saint Paul, Minnesota – May 14, 2015</b> – Breaking new ground,
author Genta Sebastian has written an adventure story for middle-grade readers (3<sup>rd</sup>-6<sup>th</sup>
grades) about living in a rainbow family. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riding
the Rainbow</i> is available on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Riding-Rainbow-Genta-Sebastian-ebook/dp/B00XLTZHSW/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1431571357&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Amazon.com</a> and bookstores
worldwide on Thursday, May 14, 2015 from <a href="http://shadoepublishing.com/?page_id=1286" target="_blank">Shadoe Publishing</a>.<br />
<br />
Tweeners growing up in rainbow families have been ignored in literature. Kids
who live with two same-sex parents have no representation reflecting their life
experiences. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riding the Rainbow</i> will
fill the gap between picture books for toddlers/emerging readers (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heather has Two Mommies</i>), and
coming-of-age tales for teens (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oranges
Are Not the Only Fruit</i>).<br />
<br />
Kids in this age group struggle with hard questions. “Why are you gay? Does
that mean I will be gay, too? What do I do when I’m bullied?” With gay marriage
a front-page issue, many middle-grade students find themselves in alternative households.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riding the Rainbow</i> reassures them their
families are as real as any other.<br />
<br />
<b>About Genta Sebastian </b><br />
<br />
Genta Sebastian, a retired elementary school teacher and storyteller, uses
her unique perspectives as a lesbian and author to provide answers to these and
other questions in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riding the Rainbow</i>.
“I wrote the book the year my youngest grandchild was born,” she said. “By that
time I’d been through it with my two daughters, and three older grandchildren.
I recognized a need.” Children in rainbow families will be glad she did.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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</xml><![endif]-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-10318221078841904362015-04-18T19:31:00.000-05:002015-04-18T19:35:53.658-05:00LILY AND CLARA AGREE: "YIPPEE!"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Riding-Rainbow-Genta-Sebastian-ebook/dp/B00K3HADU2/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1399351700&sr=1-2&keywords=Riding+the+Rainbow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Currently available by clicking here." border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtvALBvvtxHGaK3BPhu3rdqCP4BhKOZEV1xZP3pH0W2ZGnuRDDfiR_4iFwumAwNl9nQhhQIHI1qsh936UGtRBbCbsqI60ia2OqWNvuiLmBb2aa0MYo-s5PMyS6uHmbYQKec6e5TShJFDPU/s1600/RtRcoverSmall.jpg" height="200" width="124" /></a></div>
<i>Riding the Rainbow</i> has been selected as a <a href="http://www.goldencrown.org/2015_Finalists" target="_blank">finalist in the Golden Crown Literary Society's 2015 Goldie awards</a>, YA lit category. Winners will be announced at the GCLS conference to be held during July in New Orleans. <br />
<br />
I'm doubly proud because this book was originally self-published (although it has since been signed to <a href="http://shadoepublishing.com/" target="_blank">Shadoe Publishing</a>, an independent LGBT press). It's up against some of the best writers in the genre, an honor I cherish.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-78607541293997441232015-02-14T05:00:00.000-06:002015-02-14T05:00:02.099-06:00All Hail Sadie Hawkins!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rWp6g-gBkxBAhzi9mY97_-9PQ-KjX0Xo3croH08ppiRPFyyL8hr98uuu2VyvwVZ1cc5iyhMqVMYPR1pDngYitUcXZ7JR2T3S_cm0FuOqcPZaasnEaBcTz7tXLwt4FRmBOHqS8nsZYMo_/s1600/SadieHawkins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rWp6g-gBkxBAhzi9mY97_-9PQ-KjX0Xo3croH08ppiRPFyyL8hr98uuu2VyvwVZ1cc5iyhMqVMYPR1pDngYitUcXZ7JR2T3S_cm0FuOqcPZaasnEaBcTz7tXLwt4FRmBOHqS8nsZYMo_/s1600/SadieHawkins.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sadie Hawkins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
First of all – HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!
I hope you and yours are celebrating in style. I’ll be curled up all
day at home with my wife, snug and warm, safe from the arctic winds
howling around our house. We will feast on fresh strawberries, cake, and
a bottle of Vin Verde, the green wine of Portugal.<br />
<br />
Now on to the topic of the day. If you have ever read the comic strip
by Al Capp called L’il Abner (1934–1978), you’ll have heard of Sadie
Hawkins. Known as the ‘homeliest gal in all them hills’ Sadie’s father,
Hekzebiah Hawkins, knew he had to do something to get her hitched,
because (gasp) heaven forbid a woman should not be married. He gathered
up all the eligible bachelor’s in the area, gave them a head start and
then let loose his daughter. Whichever man she caught would be her
husband. There’s no real mention as to why, exactly, the caught bachelor
<em>had</em> to marry Sadie, but that’s the way the tradition started.
In 1937, according to the cartoonist, the other unmarried women thought
this wasn’t such a bad idea, because (gasp) heaven help them if they
didn’t catch themselves a husband. Every November, all the eligible
young men from Dogpatch and the surrounding hills would be chased by all
the unmarried young women. Any gal that could catch her man and drag
him across the finish line by sundown was guaranteed to be a bride.
Presented in the satirical voice of Al Capp, the unheard of role
reversal released some deeply held desire of the repressed women of the
time to take charge of their own lives, to make decisions concerning who
they would spend time with, and to be unashamedly interested in
beginning a relationship with the man of her choosing. Daring thoughts
for the time.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Z0WAYM-DmG54WNB83p5mesncOq_7oEjWVmwzMp6lziGgSMImo0P2Zw6zpCM56sG4w7OjOxlcLxusaR9d47_lwodl9ojBV81YafRYR6XZN-UMoFOo51Q5UCCfvaLBRhpKA9TGT8oNLoJn/s1600/lil-abner1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Z0WAYM-DmG54WNB83p5mesncOq_7oEjWVmwzMp6lziGgSMImo0P2Zw6zpCM56sG4w7OjOxlcLxusaR9d47_lwodl9ojBV81YafRYR6XZN-UMoFOo51Q5UCCfvaLBRhpKA9TGT8oNLoJn/s1600/lil-abner1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daisy Mae chasing L'il Abner on Sadie Hawkins Day</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
By 1939, only two years after the ladies of Dogpatch declared their
independence (if only for one day a year), the idea had caught fire in
the imagination of America’s youth. Al Capp had intended it as a plot
device, but the ideas popularity had brought him an abundance of fan
letters asking that he make it a yearly event. By the early 1940s the
November event in his comic became a phenomenon, eventually taking on a
life of its own. Colleges and high schools began holding campus Sadie
Hawkins races, which eventually became more sedate dances. At the height
of its popularity in the mid 1950’s, Sadie Hawkins Day was celebrated
at forty thousand known locations.<br />
<br />
After tasting the forbidden fruits of freedom, it’s no wonder the
women’s liberation front of the 1960’s and ’70’s centered around women’s
demand for self-sovereignty. Women who had grown up with the yearly
celebration of bucking convention were eager to take the dating reins in
their own hands. Of course, the advent of the birth control pill
started an entire sexual revolution, but don’t discount Sadie Hawkins’
contribution.<br />
<br />
Comic strips have led the way to social change since the ink first
dried. Although L’il Abner’s Sadie Hawkins race was framed in the
language of women desperate to marry to avoid a life of spinsterhood and
shame, and equally desperate men racing to avoid marriage to a strong
minded woman, a fate worse than death, Al Capp accidentally fueled the
idea that the sexual repression of women during the ’30’s and 40’s was
as unfair as say, a footrace to determine a spouse.<br />
<br />
I will confess to inviting a boy to one in the mid 1970’s myself, but
I don’t think Sadie Hawkin’s Day dances are held anymore. At least, I
never hear of them. Girls and women are free to ask boys and men out on
dates these days, or even, as our editor-in-chief Lindsey demonstrated
earlier this year, to propose marriage.<br />
<br />
We’ve come a long way, baby, and Sadie Hawkins helped lead the charge.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-26318775822985091132015-01-14T11:55:00.001-06:002015-01-14T11:57:20.666-06:005 self-publishing truths few authors talk about<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzraOSzzOP5KaIIQxyKckpeEV7doJHm8JWR2jc2DRv8hkn5CVlO8uXMsOG5GUSf0-Hj-gaI82theJZZhxOHqZLwHQYu-TKP4_XHeNynui-mS1IaJlCvMZ1Vb7N1n0rQiM00pUBtRu0q2qv/s1600/StipulaEtruriaRainbowGroupPostedSpread2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzraOSzzOP5KaIIQxyKckpeEV7doJHm8JWR2jc2DRv8hkn5CVlO8uXMsOG5GUSf0-Hj-gaI82theJZZhxOHqZLwHQYu-TKP4_XHeNynui-mS1IaJlCvMZ1Vb7N1n0rQiM00pUBtRu0q2qv/s1600/StipulaEtruriaRainbowGroupPostedSpread2.jpg" height="161" width="200" /></a></div>
Reblogged from <a href="https://authordylanhearn.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Suffolk Scribblings</a> with thanks to author Dylan Hearn:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;">One of the hardest thing to watch on social media is an author,
usually a debut author, getting excited about their upcoming book launch
and knowing they are about to get hit around the head with a hard dose
of reality.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">They’ve done the right things, built up a twitter or Facebook
following, blogged about the book, sent copies out for review, told all
their friends about the upcoming launch, pulled together a promo video
and graphic, maybe taken out some adverts. The first few days after
launch are filled with excited tweets, mentions of early positive
reviews and chart rankings. Then, after a few days, maybe a few weeks,
the positive tweets stop and an air of desperation sets in as the
reality of life as an indie author hits home.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Part of the problem is that the authors most vocal on social media
are those that have already seen self-publishing success. They got in
early, made names for themselves through talent, hard-work and
persistence, and are happy to spread the gospel of the new
self-publishing utopia. They are telling the truth, from their
perspective, but for the vast majority of authors the picture is very
different. This doesn’t mean it’s impossible to find success with your
debut novel, just that it’s rare – and with changes in the market,
becoming ever more so.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">In order to provide some balance, below are 5 truths I, and many
other self-published authors, have experienced. This hasn’t put me off
from a writing career, and shouldn’t put you off either, but at least
you will be going in with your eyes open.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<h3>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>1 You need talent to succeed but it’s no guarantee</b></span></h3>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />The days of being able to publish an average story with an OK cover
and finding success are over. There are many, many talented writers out
there producing fantastic books who are struggling to find an audience. I
know so many brilliant authors struggling to get themselves heard. An
excellent story, professionally edited, well presented and with an
enticing blurb is the bare minimum entry criteria, and just because you
meet it, it doesn’t mean you will be successful.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<h3>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>2 After your initial launch, you book will either take off or bomb – probably the latter</b></span></h3>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">If you have worked very hard and prepped enough people, your book
will sell a number of copies on launch. This number will not be as large
as you expect as of the people you prepped, some will buy immediately,
some when they are ready – no matter how often you’ve explained the
importance of a good launch – and some will forget. Repeatedly. If you
are lucky – and you have selected your categories wisely – your book
will chart making it visible to millions of readers. It’s at this point
your book could take off. If so, congratulations, enjoy the ride. More
realistically your book will gradually slip down the charts and
disappear from view. From then on in, expect sales of only a handful of
copies per month, if that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<h3>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>3 You are unlikely to sell thousands of books in your first year</b></span></h3>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />I’ve yet to find the source of this statistic but it’s said the
average ebook sells 100 copies. Not at launch, not in the first year,
but over its whole lifetime. Now within that total sample you will get
million sellers and zero sellers and your book could be anywhere on this
spectrum but the reality is, despite excellent reviews and lots of
promotion, your book will probably just tick along at best. Unless you
manage to gain a promotion slot on a service like BookBub – especially
difficult these days since the big publishing houses have started using
their service – or you manage to generate great word of mouth – even
more difficult, your sales won’t return to that initial launch peak for a
long time, if at all.</span></blockquote>
</blockquote>
<br />
Continue reading this excellent article here: <a href="https://authordylanhearn.wordpress.com/2015/01/05/5-self-publishing-truths-few-authors-talk-about/" target="_blank">Suffolk Scribblings</a> I especially enjoyed reading the comments, which became a conversation. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-6663529149628037042014-12-29T21:01:00.000-06:002014-12-29T22:15:32.778-06:00Robin Williams and I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWb5Iaw2h8A3gdoa4ZkGGYGfjarfU4VhLl2M0vER6C2heR7_HAuDroeR3clqfGYgi-sqbDa9fgn_jhL0Jjmgzxw1gOcbnLT1Lxi1ZXeFtzH9N-D8v7Y07TLkkDsJ2eJc7qrLvrDSPAPTW9/s1600/Robin-Williams-as-Mork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWb5Iaw2h8A3gdoa4ZkGGYGfjarfU4VhLl2M0vER6C2heR7_HAuDroeR3clqfGYgi-sqbDa9fgn_jhL0Jjmgzxw1gOcbnLT1Lxi1ZXeFtzH9N-D8v7Y07TLkkDsJ2eJc7qrLvrDSPAPTW9/s1600/Robin-Williams-as-Mork.jpg" height="191" width="320" /></a></div>
<h3>
<span style="color: blue;">2014 was a year of mourning great talents. </span></h3>
<br />
Lauren Bacall. Pete Seeger. Dr. Maya Angelou. James Garner. Ruby Dee. Philip Seymour Hoffman. Sid Caesar. Shirley Temple. Mike Nichols. Mickey Rooney. Richard Attenborough. Eli Wallach, Tom Magliozzi, Harold Ramis, Ann B. Davis, Menshach Taylor, Elaine Stritch, and more have all died during the last 363 days.<br />
<br />
But on August 11, 2014 the world lost Robin Williams, a man who was a legend in his own time, a tormented creative talent, and a great humanitarian. His death was deeply personal to me. At the time I had no
words to express my grief, my memories, my love for this special man.<br />
<br />
I, like so many other people in the world, found Robin Williams to be a genius at humor and heartfelt pathos. His movies made me laugh, and cry. The first time I saw him perform, his TV character Mork literally had me falling off the couch in hysterical laughter. In that moment I began a lifetime of looking forward to his next project, whatever it might be.<br />
<br />
I remember the first Comic Relief show in 1986, when Robin (by then I loved him so thoroughly I'd promoted our relationship to a first name basis), Billy Crystal, and Whoopie Goldberg hosted 47 comics telling jokes and being funny to raise money for the homeless. I was working then, and donated what I could, that year and for years after. The laughter was good medicine for what ailed me, and touched the heart in a way completely new to charity. Laughter was the great equalizer - no matter how much or how little you have, when a joke is funny you laugh.<br />
<br />
I began to notice little things about Robin's behavior when he was being interviewed and supposedly 'off'. I recognized a pattern of behavior that came too close to some of my own, uncomfortably close. A particular interview soon following his father's death still stands out to me. In him I found a mirror of some of my own torments, a kindred spirit, an understanding soul.<br />
<br />
I followed his career closely, enjoying as many performances as I could. I loved some more than others. Popeye, first, where I was not surprised one bit at his sense of comedic timing and delivery, and then The World According to Garp, which stunned me with his ability to play a straight role. The Fisher King, Aladdin, What Dreams May Come, Hook, Jumanji, Happy Feet, and The Birdcage, I've watched each of them a dozen times. He made me laugh, he made me cry, he creeped me out (remember One Hour Photo and Insomnia?), and he always made me relate to his character. His career made me happy. I hope it made him happy, too.<br />
<br />
When the internet was new and celebrities as inexperienced on it as anyone else, I found a relatively private address for Robin in San Francisco. Thereafter, I sent him a Christmas card every once in a while. I loved picturing him reading my card, so I'd fill it with bits and pieces of things going on in my life, things I couldn't/wouldn't tell other people. Looking at it written down, I can see how that might seem a little odd to people, but it was a dearly held (tenuous though it might be) contact with someone I thought of as a friend.<br />
<br />
I didn't hear back from him but that didn't stop me from shooting my arrows into the darkness, hoping they would strike their target and ultimately be read by him. Since none of my cards were ever returned, I was fairly sure they were being delivered somewhere. That was enough to keep me going.<br />
<br />
When I'd been writing for a couple of years, I produced my first YA novel, The Boxer Rebellion. A coming-of-age story about bullying gay kids, it is brutally honest which makes it a challenging read. I sent Robin a copy and asked if he thought it was too harsh, too painful for readers to enjoy. For the first time, I got a response, an acknowledgement that I'd been making contact all along, just one direction.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBEuYJkmzN72Y7qNObzEPyzhO33sfZ4vD0w-6bFSSokSVK1787krKKXkfJKvqLAFv_MBdXfClW5kgRkPjmM-rGnRm6fGpote7PWKJ3LsliftHXpOImTNvqQ5D6jTOFzkILhm8rfoH6d8vJ/s1600/RobinWilliamWriteOn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBEuYJkmzN72Y7qNObzEPyzhO33sfZ4vD0w-6bFSSokSVK1787krKKXkfJKvqLAFv_MBdXfClW5kgRkPjmM-rGnRm6fGpote7PWKJ3LsliftHXpOImTNvqQ5D6jTOFzkILhm8rfoH6d8vJ/s1600/RobinWilliamWriteOn.jpg" height="232" width="320" /></a>He sent me a photo of himself dressed as Mrs. Doubtfire and signed it: To Genta, Write On.<br />
<br />
Robin Williams told me to keep writing. That private message between us was enough to keep me pushing that book until it finally found a home and began gathering reviews. I imagine him holding my book in his hands while he read. I like to think of him laughing at the funny parts, fuming at the injustice, and ultimately joining <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Boxer-Rebellion-ebook/dp/B007WZHCH0/ref=sr_1_6?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1342213950&sr=1-6&keywords=the+boxer+rebellion" target="_blank">The Boxer Rebellion</a> to fight bullying in schools and on the internet. The photo is framed and hangs over my computer to remind me that Robin Williams believed in me enough to encourage me when I was down.<br />
<br />
As we start a new year, in his memory I say to you, "Write on, my friend." Please remember
that the emotional struggles of the truly talented can often be masked
behind achievement and praise, written away as fiction. Be gentle with yourself, today and every day of the rest of your life. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7157496462524383855.post-3322153982814865732014-12-28T11:37:00.000-06:002014-12-28T11:37:45.291-06:00 My Ridiculously Over-Simplified View of American Politics<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZKCuw5L8N7bz6BYfRS80fWv8C6429auHT1N6GpVxtQfAbEMXycQ-0ojePl52YV2tsk9bd-h5TUEafoghW7WZ4X_E5rGXy1BaEM7PMQh20DnYEEaiZbqwDa01m_TnkkC-HpiIqvEmXCHF-/s1600/Politics.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZKCuw5L8N7bz6BYfRS80fWv8C6429auHT1N6GpVxtQfAbEMXycQ-0ojePl52YV2tsk9bd-h5TUEafoghW7WZ4X_E5rGXy1BaEM7PMQh20DnYEEaiZbqwDa01m_TnkkC-HpiIqvEmXCHF-/s1600/Politics.JPG" height="160" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Politics are pendulums. Everything swings one
direction for a while, as it did from the early '60's into the mid '70's with
liberalism. Oh, what wonderful years those were. Expansion everywhere with
support and inclusivity. Civil rights were understood and fought for with a passing understanding of Constitutional guarantees.
Creativity was rewarded and encouraged. Idealists thrived, and even got
government subsidies and grants. What a wonderful time that was. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ever since, there's been a slow and steady
resurgence of conservatism. The first I noticed it was when it became important for a
significant number of neighbors to be identified with the local churches. That
devoted religiosity led directly to inflated patriotism, which in turn led to conservative
politics. We're here now, firmly gripped by the grinning jaws of the Tea Party,
held hostage by Wall Street, and left out of socially acceptable ways to rise
by our own bootstraps, such as college, internships, and sheer hard work. We're busy giving the Koch brothers the biggest {excuse the expression} orgasms
of their lives. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">America is almost to the tipping point. People, and by that I mean the vast majority of Americans, are feeling economically oppressed. Questions about civil equality are leading to conversations. It's becoming more and more obvious that we are a culture divided deeply into the Haves and the Have-nots. And American Have-nots have a long history of rising up and being heard. Think Selma, Alabama, the vineyards of central California, and Matewan, New Jersey. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Be
ready, because the long swing back to liberalism is about to begin, indeed, is
already beginning. LGBT folk can marry. Marijuana is being quickly legalized.
Black Lives Matter. Soon, those who consider themselves conservative will find themselves questioning their values and choices. Moral weights and measures will change from the rigid, nearly impossible to attain definitions of the 1% for the other 99%, to an expansive understanding of human frailties, realities, and opportunities sooner, rather than later.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So that's my two cents worth of philosophy for today. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17279588694168790497noreply@blogger.com0