A New Hope (not Star-Wars-related)

I'd really forgotten a lot.

It was likely a self-preservation tactic my subconscious exercised on my behalf.

In preparing for an interview, I went back and for the first time read through the blog posts I made during 2010-2012. 

I have a few thoughts, and they're all over the place. So in no particular order:

1) Holy cow, I cringed so hard so many times. The things I said as a youngster (pre-40s, but barely)! Your girl has changed A LOT in 15 years, and that's, to borrow a probably-copyrighted phrase from Martha Stewart, a good thing. If you read my blog back then, and you rolled your eyes or gasped at anything I said ("Thanks, Feminism," I'm looking at you), WE ARE IN AGREEMENT. And I'm so sorry. It's bad. It was very, very bad and re-exposing myself to... myself (not in a dirty way, perverts) created quite a rip in the time-space continuum of who I know myself to be.

2) It's easy to believe the people can't or won't change. Good gravy, have I ever changed in the past decade. I like to think it's for the better. I do probably cuss more than I used to. But getting off of social media was a huge improvement. I feel like I am much more accepting and less judgmental than I was back in the day. I definitely don't obsess over my body or my hair or anything the way that I did 14-15 years ago. I'm pretty sure I am NOT maturing, though, so don't worry about that.

3) It was a complete surprise to me to learn that I kept two concurrent blogs during 2011-2012??! I had "Trailer Trash and Proud" for fun stuff like reviews, things we did, stuff I baked, etc. and I kept my older one for all of my angst and preaching and Deep Thoughts™. That one is very barfy and I only read it to make sure that I was remembering timelines and events correctly. But it was a painful read. Bleh. The stuff about my cool pancakes and all of the chocolate I bought in Dallas was a lot more on-brand and enjoyable.

4) After all of the stuff happened in the early 2010s, it was like I was running out of a burning building and didn't have the energy or desire to look back. Now that I have, I feel a lot less... well, just a lot less about it. The feelings aren't a big deal. I'm over it. Things didn't go the way they would have if they'd happened the way I wanted, and apart from my self-esteem taking a huge hit (but refusing to stay down, which actually would have made it easier), it was all really fine. Better in the long run, in fact. Much better.

5) Things I should have done differently: a) Immediately left my church. b) Moved to Austin a year before I did. c) Been more proactive in helping D deal with the huge changes I, too, was finding difficult. It SUCKS as a parent to be barely treading water and therefore not fully notice that your kid is struggling probably worse than you are. A lot of the issues D has had are because I was not thinking properly and didn't notice or realize things I should have noticed and realized. We both have a lot more perspective on this as adults, but it doesn't change that I messed up. I missed a lot. And I can't redo any of it.

6) That said, reading about where I was back then really makes me more hopeful in this part of my life! I was worried about the same things: finding a job, having enough money to make it, where would I end up if I couldn't afford where I was living anymore? Etc. At the time, I had a friend who compared it to swinging on a trapeze and how, for the trapeze to work, sometimes you have to let go and fly and trust that the other trapeze will be there to meet you when you get there. Right now, I have a whole other adult in this with me, and we have more resources than I did at the time. So it helped kind of jolt me out of some doldrums and I appreciate that a lot!

In 12 years, none of us has aged, including the kid. Which is weird. ;)

Nine-Eleven, and looking back

Someone on the "Ask Old People" subreddit asked this morning: "What was the internet like during 9/11?" They were wondering whether people were on chat boards talking about it or looking for news. One response said that except for universities, people didn't use the internet much at that time. I had to divest them of that notion by pointing out that by September 11, 2001, I had been "blogging" for half a year. 

This made me curious about what I'd written regarding the event (which I downplayed a lot; I guess because I wasn't trying to be a news blogger but just talk about my own personal experiences). I looked, and here's some of it:

"I left work in a snit...

"Ken was already gone when I got home and I promptly managed to over-turn a McDonald's sack, spilling my half of the French fries (which Kaley was more than happy to clean up). After eating a no-longer-on-sale cheeseburger, I went out back to trim some severely over-grown and most likely dead shrubs.

"Having just talked to my sister about our husbands trying to work our part-time employment into the immediate post-delivery future, I was already starting to get defensive. Ken hasn't played the 'you have to; we can't afford this' card yet, but I could clearly envision the future conversation. Mowing down vast quantities of deer grass, I practiced my eventual breakdown: 'You agreed to this before we ever decided to have a baby!' Then I wondered if I was talking to Ken or to God. We involved God in our plans to have a child. So I started wondering where God was and why He wasn't just fixing this situation for us.

"Back and forth... I thought about my cousin who lost a baby earlier this week. I'm sure she'd gladly eat dirt if it meant she could hold her child. But that didn't make me feel much more fortunate. I've been healthy all of my life and through this pregnancy. I realize I take it for granted. I probably am being a brat. But I want Ken and me to be able to be COMPLETELY happy about the nearing delivery of our child instead of having to harp on how we're going to provide for her. And I was mad that all of our efforts seemed for naught and that God couldn't just intervene in the way I wanted him to so we could enjoy the rest of this pregnancy...

"You may remember a few months ago, I wrote that something had happened that I felt completely redefined our relationship... I wasn't sure if it was the hormones or if it really was a huge shift. Now I realize it was the latter. And, though it took some getting used to, it has completely changed my married life for the better.

"I decided to go finish the front yard, a considerably smaller task, then take a cool bath, and write... in my journal briefly before settling in to watch some TV before bed...

"Instead of indulging in a long bath, I took a quick, cool shower and headed into the computer room to relay the events of the evening. Mid-way through doing that, though, I happened to run across something that made me really mad at Ken. I mean furious. So I couldn't even finish what I was writing...

"I waited up for Ken. He got home a bit after 11:30, at which time I found out that the whole rampage-causing irritant was just a misunderstanding. We talked until a bit after midnight and then went to sleep.

"So, even though I did get up a couple of times during the night, I pretty much slept when I was in the bed.

"And after all of my histrionics yesterday, we get up this morning and see on the news that the Pentagon had been attacked by a hijacked airplane, then it cut back to coverage of the World Trade Towers... Suddenly makes my not-yet-serious concerns seem really petty.

"A special church service has been called for tonight; I'd imagine it's going to be a prayer session. So this evening, I really AM going to be thankful for my blessings while asking God to be with these peoples' families and the rescue workers."

Meh.

I went back and read through quite a bit of my first year (and then the 7th year) blogging. A couple of things:

1) My marriage was hard from basically the get-go. Ken floated the idea of separation or divorce when D was 1, but I rejected it because I didn't want to have to put D in daycare so I could work again, and because I'd already been divorced once. The stigma toward divorce was still very strong then, especially within the church.

2) I was a much more uptight and judgmental person two decades ago. I make myself tired. I can't read too much because it's so cringe-y and terrible. I'm sorry to anyone who read my original online journal.

 

Spilling Some Tea (it's old, but it's still hot)

This morning, I remembered something that unlocked a deep resentment I'd forgotten about, and it is just another thing I look back on and wish I'd done differently.

First, I have MANY regrets about how I treated people, and I know I owe a lot of people apologies. If you're one of those people, please feel free to reach out to me. I am not reaching out to some folks because I don't want to reopen wounds that might have healed. But believe me, I know a lot of the junk from my life is my doing.

THIS EXAMPLE is not, and I regret so much that I did not stand up for myself at the time.

I filed for divorce on March 14, 2011. At the time, I was going to Sherman (TX) Bible Church. They found out almost immediately and pulled me off of a project I'd been working on for the Easter service. I had written a script and was supposed to be in the film for the weekend. The church said that they were giving me "time off to concentrate on your marriage" (they pulled my ex-husband off of his weekend camera service, too) but it was really because I had been too visible to be allowed to continue while going down the path of leaving my husband.

I'm going to address what I wish I'd done here in a moment, but I have to tell you the part that REALLY bothers me:

The short film that the team produced was based on something that really happened to the pastor of the church at the time (Dennis Henderson, who is currently serving in a support ministry role to his son's church, which just happens to be a few miles from here) who had been a police officer in Dallas and had sort of "befriended" a woman he'd arrested multiple times for prostitution. He and his family had welcomed her into their home and really extended the love of Christ to her. She kept telling him that she was going to leave her pimp and live a "clean" life, but in the end, she was murdered before she could get out.

Obviously, the Easter story didn't include the part about her killing. He wanted it to show that Christians could win people over just by loving them, no matter who the person was. Not a bad message, and honestly we should just extend love to people regardless of whether they ever believe in a god or not. But our task was to create a 15-minute video that would be shown at the Easter services.

At the time, the church did quite a lot of video production and live "skits" during church. I had been on arts planning teams for about a decade at this time. The arts minister; a lady I thought was my friend until my life got too "messy" for her; and I came up with an outline to the story we wanted to produce, and I went home and wrote it.

Not including listening to Dennis's story and collaborating with the arts team, I spent probably 20 hours at home working on and polishing up the script, then editing it after feedback.

Fast-forward to the part where I get kicked out of the process. They started filming it on a night when I was out of town with my kid at a gymnastics meet, anyway. I was texting with a friend who was involved in the filming and it sounded typical of shoots: fun. But not for me.

In the end, the project was completed and shown on Easter weekend, and people loved it. They made CDs of it available and gave them to the people who had been involved. Someone who was truly a friend, Randy Sedlacek, made sure that I got my copy, and he even invited me to the party the church was hosting to distribute the copies of the video. I couldn't bring myself to go, even though he encouraged me to ("you earned it!") because he's a solid guy. I'll always remember him fondly.

Here's the kicker: I found out that when people would ask Dennis who wrote the script, his answer was, "It wrote itself... it was a true story."

Now, if you're my mom and you're reading this, maybe close it out. Because I'm about to use a very un-Christian phrase: That dude can go fuck himself because what did he mean "the script wrote itself"?? Even if he DICTATED IT to someone, it had to be typed up and formatted. But he didn't. He gave us an idea and a partial story-line, and we turned it into something. Using my words. I was the conduit that took his words and stories and translated them into a film-able format. That is an art and a skill, and the absolute lack of respect for it and for me is astounding.

I'm literally shaking right now, just thinking about it. This guy who told me to stay in a doomed marriage because "what if Jesus is going to save your marriage tomorrow and you gave up one day too soon" wanted so badly for me to disappear when I didn't submit to the benevolent and wise male leadership of that church that he actually made me invisible. I wasn't someone who contributed heavily to the aesthetic appeal of that church for years. No. The stuff just wrote itself.

WHAT I DID: Nothing. I mean, I complained to close friends who were in the know. But at that point, I'd already been made to sign a thing that I wouldn't blog about what was going on between me and the church vis-à-vis my divorce. And I wanted them to realize that I was still the exact same person I'd always been and approve of me and accept me SO MUCH that I tried my absolute most sincerely to comply. To kowtow. To crawl through every single hoop they put in front of me to prove my worthiness of continued participation in the church. UGH. I did basically NOTHING. And they were still very angry with me about it.

WHAT I WISH I'D DONE: Revoked my permission for them to use my script. At that point, they probably already had it. But I wish I'd written certified letters to every member of leadership demanding that they write another script and not use mine because if they didn't want me involved, that was the only honorable thing to do. That they would use my work that was invisible while making sure my face didn't show up anywhere is vile. 

I don't think it would have changed anything, but I wish I'd expressed my anger and wish to be absolutely removed from everything. And then when they used it anyway, I wish I'd written about THAT. I wish I'd written about EVERYTHING in REAL TIME. I wish I'd had the strength to say,"If you don't like what I'm making public, then maybe don't do it in private."

They were a bunch of bullies who genuinely thought they were shepherding me in God's will. This is one reason that I will never EVER spiritually submit myself to another human as long as I live. It's one thing to make stupid decisions for yourself and get hurt, but to think that you can try to persuade someone else to made bad choices because YOU feel like there's some edict from above that it's your calling to enforce? No. I'm sorry. Not this lady. Never again.

A Random Encounter a Decade Later

You didn't even recognize me. I mean, it's been exactly ten years, but we were kind of involved.

You once sat across a table from me and asked me, "What if God is just about to do a miracle, and you give up now?" You invested a lot of your time and effort in keeping me from leaving an unhealthy marriage because it was what god wanted me to do, and it was your job to hold me to this personal holiness. The church that you lead called men with whom they saw me talking and asked if I were involved in a sexual relationship with them. You pulled me off of my ministry of writing and film production "not as a punishment, but so you can focus on your marriage." As if that wasn't all I had done for the better part of the previous decade.

And then you just went on with your life and I slipped from your memory altogether. How nice for you.

Believe me, I know that you had good intentions. I worked with you for more than six years, and I saw your heart for people, and for unity. I know how much you worked, and how you put your whole heart into everything. I admired how you reached across denominations and cultures and wanted to gather everyone together. You even stood up for me the first time you met with my ex-husband and me. After I'd told my side of the story, you asked, "What is wrong with you, man? Don't you have any balls?"

But then you expected me to stay the course, as this was the first you'd heard of it, completely disregarding the fact that both I and a whole other church had been trying to fix things for years. I had changed so much, and given up so much of my truest self, trying to placate a person who demanded more than it was possible for me to give. It was never enough. I was always too much or too loud or too involved with my larger family or too fat or too out of control.

"I just wish you guys had come to [the church] earlier. Now we're at this precipice, and we could have helped."

I'm not sure what else I could have done. Literally everyone else knew. My ministry team, especially your staff member with whom I worked the closest, knew about the strain in my marriage. My writing partner once commiserated with me saying, "When they know you won't leave, it's like permission for them to treat you like shit." She's a better person than I am, I suppose, because... I left. I did not deserve to be treated like shit.

Exactly one year before, I had written an Easter segment for "The Bridge" about a marriage that was falling apart. My ex-husband, who was on the camera team that week, told his ministry team that the script was taken directly from our marriage.

I hadn't meant for it to be a cry for help, but maybe it was? Or maybe it was wish fulfillment? At the end of the service, it became clear that the husband had drastically changed tack and the couple ended up having a long, loving marriage. One of the choir members cried as he prayed before service, saying, "Let people hear this and be encouraged; there are a lot of people whose marriages are on life support, and they need to know that there's hope."

I mean, four months or so after that, there was a HUGE incident that several people witnessed, and it bothered one of them enough to reach out to church leadership. You met with us then, and... what? Like just assumed that because we went quiet again that this incident wasn't important? 

There was one other time, toward the end, that I saw a spark of compassion from you. After many meeting with elders, you were in one and perked up when I mentioned a mental disorder. I know what you've been through with your daughter. I know you understand that there are things you can't love someone enough to fix. You said, "You've never mentioned that before." And then you were never in later meetings. I assumed it was because you were at risk of being "too empathetic," which was a charge lain on one more friend who asked to sit in an elder's meeting with me as an advocate, and who broke down crying as a bunch of men came down on me and made me sign an agreement not to share any of what I was going through on social media.

Sir, there were people from your church who followed me on social media and read my blog just to make sure that I didn't speak a word of anything. When other church members called you because they knew me and saw what was happening, I was accused of being "divisive." 

I was in an emotionally abusive relationship, and you all cared more about saving my marriage than saving me. I was pushed out of the church home I'd had for six years, after working so closely with everyone who was making that decision.

Maybe you guys thought that I was being a jerk. I probably was. Another former preacher, Kevin Odor, used to say, "Hurt people hurt people." I'm sorry about my part in those things. Maybe, as one friend expressed concern, you were trying to make an example of me, to let everyone else know that marriage was so important, you couldn't tolerate its dissolution. I know you genuinely believe that you were trying to keep me on the straight and narrow.

Writing about these times brings everything back to the fore for me. And you clearly could not place me, even when I pulled my mask down, and said I'd been in Sherman when you were there.

You said, "Oh, things have changed since then..." then you told me about the church you'd pastored after the one I attended, and how now you're here, in my back yard, on staff with your son's congregation. I introduced you to my husband, and my child. I said, "He looks a lot like D at this age." Of course, you didn't know D as "D." And you probably wouldn't remember them, either.

"My wife's around here somewhere," you told me. I said I'd keep an eye out for her. And I did. When I saw her, I made sure my mask was up, and I averted my eyes. I could be polite and chatty with you, but not her. She said two of the worst things anyone said to me during my divorce, and I don't believe that the second one is forgivable, frankly.

The first thing: "Well, he's not hitting you, and he's not cheating, so you're kind of stuck." No, I was not. The law doesn't care why I wanted out; I was free to go. And if there is a god who expects women to tolerate every single thing that is not hitting or cheating, then that is not a god I am interested in following. I didn't have the guts to say it then, but I do now. I do not believe that. I absolutely do not.

The second, worst thing she said, though, after telling some anecdotes, was, "And, you know, most people are pretty miserable, anyway, so..."

What kind of "Christian" advice is this? Your marriage sucks? Well, guess what? NO ONE IS HAPPY so just give up dreaming! I mean, is Jesus supposed to make up for this? "Sure, your life sucks but one day, you'll die and be in heaven as long as you stay in these parameters!"

I'm not talking to her.

Anyway, my mood tanked for much of the event, because it was quite a surprise to see someone I thought was way back in the rear-view mirror. But, I have to tell you, as hard a time as I had, and as much as I struggled with the loss of my church family and friends, I probably should have thanked you.

"Oh, do you go to church here?" you asked about the congregation that hosted the event. I told you no, that I go to church in Leander.

What I didn't tell you was that I would never go to that church, and that was before I knew your son pastored it or that you worked there.

The reason is largely because of what I learned in my experience with your old church. My old church.

As I mentioned, I have no doubt that you and most of the men involved in pushing back on my divorce meant well. As you saw it, God demanded that divorce not happen, and therefore divorce is sin, and it was your responsibility to prevent my sinning if it were within your power.

The same thing happened, though less dramatically, with the church I attended here, when I was engaged to James, an "unbeliever," and the leadership stepped in to discourage me from marrying him. When I said I was going to go on with it, the preacher told me, "If you can't submit yourself to leadership in this way, then I don't really know what we have for you." I told him that wasn't the first time I'd been asked to leave a church, and that it's very demoralizing. We're still on okay terms. But what the hell, man?

Writing this, I think one might, perhaps rightfully, be tempted to say, "They were all right, and you're just a rebellious freak." I mean, maybe I am.

But I happen to believe that rebellious freaks also deserve to feel loved and accepted by their creator (if there is one, and in the context of the church, there is).

I have absolute confidence that the "church discipline" I received was done in genuine love.

And IT SUCKED. It felt awful. It felt invalidating, and humiliating, and made me feel like a problem child. Even knowing I was loved.

If this hadn't happened to me, I might not have thought about that in the context of the LGBTQ+ community. I'm embarrassed to admit that, but it's true. I've gone to church with gay people who were welcomed to the congregation but not allowed to serve in positions of leadership. I've also gone to churches where a gay member would have to keep the gay part on the down-low.

Because of my personal experience, I know that being loved and also seen as a problem doesn't feel like love. It's very "othering." It's condescending. It denies a part of who you are as being unseemly or sinful.

I never want anyone who steps into a church to feel that rejection, and because of that, I'll never attend a church that isn't open and affirming. I might not have come to this decision if it weren't for the way you cornered me and tried to shove me into a mould that I could not inhabit anymore.

So, really, thanks. Thanks for making me a more compassionate person.

If I happen to see you at the store or local events in the future, I'll keep my distance. And I won't let it ruin my day. 

I'd love it if you and your wife could know that you were wrong, though. Sure, there are days in my life that are stressful or monotonous. However, I'm happy. It's attainable, and I hope you guys aren't settling for "pretty miserable." But if you are, it's not my problem. And I'm not yours.

Ulu knives and optometry school

I don't have a great history with sharp objects.

I remember being on a long road trip, visiting some wood carver, and getting a lecture about how the only proper way to sharpen a pencil is with a knife. We purchased one of those knives. I remember it as something basically like a modern box knife with a nasty hooked blade that you could unscrew and protect inside the handle.

I remember doing a lot of whittling with that knife. I feel like I produced a couple of passible vaguely bird-shaped things. That's probably wishful thinking on my part.

I don't remember when my parents got my first wood-carving kit

We were doing a lot of arts and crafts stuff in the early 1980s. I remember spending a lot of time around one store in particular.

I think this was when Mom started doing pottery figurines.

Someone involved with that store carved beautiful bas-relief sculptures of buildings out of wood rounds.

I fell in love with that and wanted to learn how to do it myself. Mom arranged for me to get some lessons.

We had a swimming pool back then. I remember that it was a major investment, and my dad monitored the chemistry constantly when he was in town.

One night, I'd been more interested in whatever carving project I was doing than in going outside to swim.

I hung out in the amorphous room between our garage and kitchen that  got transformed from dining room into office.

I was deeply engrossed in gouging out the background behind some random building when the knife slipped. I'm sure I'd heard the safety rule about "always cut away from your parts," but when has a kid ever paid attention to that sort of thing without an object lesson?

I got the object lesson that day, but I didn't learn it.

I gashed open my own belly. It barely cut into the fat layer, and the adults got the bleeding stopped pretty quickly. I don't even see the scar any more, but I still feel pretty panicked at the memory.

At some point, I vaguely remember getting in trouble for something. I was supposed to do the dishes by hand for a while as punishment, even though we had a dishwasher.

I managed to drop something, then reach to grab it as it shattered. I gashed my hand open and got a reprieve.

Later, around junior high, I carried a pocket knife to my girlfriend's birthday party.

Her best friend decided it would be funny to wrap her present in a couple of layers of Scotch tape.

I decided to be all manly and cut through all the nonsense.

Instead, I sliced really deeply into the tip of my left index finger.

I wound up in the ER and got 8 stitches. 

Back then, my guitar was basically my life. I couldn't play for 2 or 3 months, and it was mentally and emotionally agonizing.

My fingertip died, fell, off, and regrew. These days, the nerves mostly report what's going on correctly. But there are still times when I'll grip something and get a jolt of...it isn't pain. It's just a sensation of wrongness.

We went back to that restaurant a few years ago (it was probably 20, so call it 15 years later), and we could all still see my blood stains in the carpet.

By the time I turned into a roommate with Khrys and Melissa, we just all accepted a basic fact: I could not be trusted around sharp objects.

A few years ago, he spent some time in Alaska to finish up his practical optometry training.

It sounds very much as if it's just a different country. I'm in awe of the experiences he had up there, living in a world where the sun never sets.

One of the cool things about living in a "different country" like that (who could have known that Alaska is part of the US?) is bringing back cool tourist swag for your friends and family.

He brought back Ulu knives for pretty much everyone except me.

I couldn't be trusted near a sharp object, so I got a bear hugging a shot glass.

I had not consciously thought about this in years. Well, scars aren't something you forget. But my memories of the energy that Khrys put into protecting me from my own clumsiness had faded a bit.

I've spent a lot of time and money lately arranging to get a bunch of sharp edges for working with wood. And doing things like learning how to make them sharper and actually using them safely.

I'm spending a lot of time (and, let's be honest, money) on ebay, looking for vintage tools that you just cannot buy new these days.

I was drooling over an amazing hunting knife blade made from hand-forged Damascus steel, fantasizing about ways to make this even more awesome by adding a handle, when I saw a link to an ulu knife for sale.

This really slammed the irony of where I am now versus where I was then.

A huge part of what I'm doing in my spare time is focused on ways to make edges sharper. The sharper the knife is, the less likely it is to slip.

I'm spending at least that much effort into making sure no one has body parts in places that might get sliced when that knife slips anyway.

I'm still not doing that great a job at keeping myself safe.

My wrists are still healing up from when my plane skips over nasty, gnarly wood.

But I think I'm getting better.

And, really, isn't that the point?

The Way We Were

"Mem'ries light the corner of my mind... misty, water-color memories of the way we were."

James and I had a series of discussions once about whether having access to a smartphone makes our memories worse, in terms of just knowing that you can look up anything you might need to know, so why bother trying to remember it? One article I read said that, as a species, we've operated in outsourced memories forever. They gave the example of having shared experiences, like when within your family you can say, "Remember that movie with that guy who was in that musical?" and someone responds with, "Yeah! He did that pickle commercial, too..." and then eventually someone comes up with the name that everyone immediately recognizes (or says, "Huh, I wouldn't have ever landed on that.")

What I've found interesting about my life and the way I've lived it is that I simply do not remember much about my young adult life. I know I went to college(s), but beyond a dozen or so highlights, I have very few recollection of those years.

I can't recall what I ate when I lived by myself in that apartment right off campus. I do remember working for an incompetent lady who shouldn't have owned a boutique kids' clothes shop... but how did I get that job there? Why did I? Did I have any real friends in the theater department? I remember not being lonely (as I'd been at the first college I attended), but... what was I doing?

I know I lived in Eureka Springs for a year or so, but cannot remember what I did with my time except for that once I gave blood at a college campus a mile away, walking both ways, and then passed out when I got home; or the time I put all of my ponytail-holders in my hair and ended up with a single horn on top of my head. I guess I also remember helping with VBS at a church, and working out with some friends' kids. But that's almost all I have for an entire year.

Then in Las Vegas, I had a job at Sam's Club, and I volunteered for Greyhound Pets of America... but I don't know how I found GPA. Except for two notable examples, I don't remember where I went out to eat. I don't remember what the library looked like. I couldn't navigate The Lakes without GPS, though I used to walk the area almost every day. What did I do at Sam's Club before I fell in with a guy there? Who were my work buddies?

Once I had kids, the memories stay in place more securely. I think a good part of that is that I have digital pictures starting in 2001, so I come across things that jog my memory and act as an electronic life partner. But it's weird having vague recollections like that someone gave me a box of Forrest Gump chocolates once, and I remember the candy and the living room I was sitting in but do not know at all what the context was or who the people were. (Although my parents might be able to come up with that one, since I think they were there, too.)

Sometimes I'm tempted to wish that James and I had gotten together in high school, but he insists we probably wouldn't be together anymore because of how much he's changed since then... obviously, I have, too. And in the few years we have been together, I know that he jogs my memory or even challenges it quite often. He also takes copious notes about things that happened, so if I wonder, "When did Mal stop needing diapers?" it's just a matter of his looking up a key word and he can come up with it in a few minutes.

Now, thanks to Google Photos, here are some memories from this day, October 29, in history... the past 18 years, anyway.

Ethical Ramifications of the "Indian Card"?

James got his Cherokee Tribe cards in the mail last week. They certify that he is 1/64 Cherokee. Since he has his, the next logical step is to get Mal's. Mal would be 1/128 Cherokee, since I have no Native blood.

There was a girl at D's gym who ended up going to college for free in Oklahoma because she had her Indian card. At the time, I thought that was a pretty cool deal.

I am no so sure about that anymore.

My son is white. He is physically white. He is culturally white. He has every conceivable advantage in the USA right out of the gate, including economic security, a stable home life, relative safety, and a level of freedom from suspicion that many people also born and raised around here just do not have. No one will make assumptions about his potential, capabilities, criminal proclivity, predisposition to diabetes or heart disease.

Doors will likely be easy for Mal to open.

I don't think we should "use" the Indian Nation certification for anything but to remind Mal who he is. He doesn't need any extra advantages.

If something happens to James or we end up destitute and in desperate need, I might change my tune and go back to the "grab whatever you can" mentality I have definitely had during leaner times in my life.

In the meantime, especially as we head into July 4th and I've been trying to figure out how to explain the USA to my 4-year-old, I'm going to be thinking a lot about how to contribute TO the tribe from which my husband's ancestors hailed, as well as the Tonkawa Tribe and Comanche Nation, whose land we now live on. (Also, I think about reparations a lot, as my ancestors benefitted from owning slaves. But that's another post.)

If anyone has any ideas, let me know.

I don't want my child growing up with a myth of what our country is. It makes July 4th difficult to "celebrate." I found a years-old article today that explains a portion of why: The Dilemma of the Fourth of July.

I hope Mal will grow up recognizing the inherent value of all people, as well as the ability to listen and do right by others. D did, and did most of that research and emotional labor alone. So there's hope.

Anyway, my point I guess is that we don't have to exploit every available "opportunity" when we have so many thrown at our feet. I want us to pass opportunities on to others who might not be the "default target demographic."