To Be or Not to Be

David Foster Wallace starts his short story "Good Old Neon" with, "My whole life I've been a fraud. I'm not exaggerating. Pretty much all I've ever done all the time is try to create a certain impression of me in other people. Mostly to be liked or admired. It's a little more complicated than that, maybe. But when you come right down to it it's to be liked, loved. Admired, approved of, applauded, whatever. You get the idea."

Sadly or just honestly, I would have to say that this has also been an accurate description of at least part of my life. But could one not say that this describes most people's lives. Our basic instinct is to be liked, loved, cared about.

Within recent years, it seems that I have grown less preoccupied with what impression others have of me. At least that is the self-talk that I have engaged in. Maybe it's my way of dealing with the fact that as I grow older I care even more about other's thoughts of me. It is indeed more complicated. Why else would my first post of this blog wonder if anyone would ever remember who I am or what I say.

As Walt Whitman said, "Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes." ("Song of Myself")

Compare and Contrast

First of all, you should know that I, as a rule, don’t talk about religion or spirituality with many people and especially not in the workplace. If someone wants to talk about it, I will listen, but I will generally not bring the subject up. But in the instance that brought about this post, I have no idea how the subject came up. I was talking with a colleague about a case and suddenly she’s talking about the movie “The Passion of the Christ” and the crucifixion sequence. I don’t know if I fell asleep or just how it happened but there it was. Thinking about that conversation lead me to this…

I did see the movie, “The Passion”, in the theater. I remember sitting there in the dark theater (with no popcorn…somehow it didn’t seem right to munch on popcorn in this movie…but I digress). I remember watching the beating and crucifixion scenes and listening to the people around me sniffing, sobbing, and outright weeping. The images of what Christ went through were physically graphic and bloody. I remember not being moved by these scenes at all, thinking people are this brutal to other people all the time, everyday…even worse. Now before you rise in protest and label me a heretic, read the next bit.

Now compare this to the scenes in “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe”. C.S. Lewis’ novel has always been compared to the crucifixion. In the movie they show the death of Aslan. The movie shows Aslan trading his life for the life of Edmund, walking to the Stone Table with a heavy heart, willing turning himself over to the enemy, suffering the humiliation of being sheared, and being killed. This sequence brought me to tears and does every time I see it. There was no blood and gore to distract me from the truth of the sacrifice. This movie made it very personal…one innocent life for the life a one sinner. I need that personal context.

To me, the crucifixion of Christ is not about the brutality as shown in the “Passion”. It is about the emotional surrender and sacrifice that Christ made for each single person. This makes much more of an impact on me than showing the brutality that is replayed every day.

Valentine's Writing Challenge

This is my first post on Writer’s Digest. The assignment was to write a love letter. Here is my humble submission.

His hands began to shake when he saw the neat, even, and petite print. It could only be hers. The envelope popped open without effort, the glue having dried and yellowed with time. His heart slowed, to the point he wondered if he would live. He gently pulled the paper from inside. Unfolding it his hands began to tremble to the point that he couldn’t read what she had written. Or it may have been the tears that had crowded into his eyes.

February 14, 2004

My Beloved,

I didn’t know I could miss you this much. We have only been apart for a week, but it feels like it has been forever. How am I supposed to survive a year, maybe more. Even though you have called me and I hear the smile in your voice. I need to see it. Need to see you. I need to see the light in your eyes when you laugh. I need to feel the warmth of your breath when you take me in your arms. I need to lean into your body and feel the strength that sustains me. Please be safe and I will see you soon.

Forever yours,

Tears fell now, creating perfect circles on the words. He carefully folded the paper along the creases and slid the paper back in the envelope. Returning it to its place on top of her uniform, beside her dog tags and next to the medals, he replaced the lid to the box and wept.

My favorite fairy tale

If you hadn't noticed, I'm somewhat a Disney fan. So it wouldn't be a far fetched idea that my favorite fairy tale would also be a Disney movie. Take a guess...what do you think it is?

Cinderella....nope
Snow White....nah
Fantasia....(snicker-snicker) NO, not a fairy tale silly.

My favorite fairy tale is Beauty and the Beast. Now I will admit that this is a newer Disney movie, but Beauty and the Beast has always been my favorite tale from even before the movie. Something about the story appealed to me. An unlovable, ugly, angry creature who is transformed by the beauty of true love. It's a story of hope and redemption. That's what I want to hold on to for my life.

Tomorrow the TV series Beauty and the Beast season 1 will be released. I will bring the Beast home.

So what character am I? Read this poem that I wrote in '94.

He comes to my window
quietly seeking love and warmth
A creature from the outside
desiring only to belong
In fear I draw away
finding the window a mirror
And the beast my own

Show Stopper

Let me set the scene. My sister, Steph, and I are at friends' (Jeff and Becky) house playing cards. This particular weekend, Jeff's mother was visiting and had joined in on the game. During the game, Jeff's mother asked my sister where she worked. Steph told her about working at the local Sheriffs department. After 5 or 10 minutes of lively conversation, Jeff's mother turned to me and asked what I did for a living.

"I work with children who have been sexually abused." I replied without hesitation, not even looking up from my cards.

Now I will usually sensor myself and say "I'm a victim advocate" or "I work with kids" or something less striking, if you will. But not this night. As the sound of the words I had spoken dissipated into the atmosphere there was total, complete, and abject silence. Not even the obligatory cricket dared to chirp.

After a few longer than normal seconds, I looked up at Jeff's mother and simply stated "Well, I know how to shut the conversation up, huh." At that point everyone just kinda did the uncomfortable now-what-do-I- do chuckle and life continued.

Now it isn't like my sister, Jeff, and Becky don't know what I do for a living. We have talked about it before. But for some reason, this night, it was different, maybe because Jeff's mom was there.

There shouldn't be secrecy about what I do for a living...I work with kids who have been hurt, most of them by someone they know, love, and trust. I work with families who have been blown apart by the selfish, egotistical, and inexcusable actions of one person. I work with them, I cry for them, and I...

...I want it to stop. So I will talk about it more. I won't hesitate in telling people what I do... "I work with people who have been sexually abuse, raped, and hurt." If they stop talking, maybe they will think. If they keep talking, maybe the will ask questions and learn.

Rape is a problem. A problem we can talk about. (KASAP campaign)

About me... the early years

Have you ever had to write a biography of yourself...for a psych class or creative writing class? It is always hard to figure out where to start. Do you start with your earliest memory or like a classic novel..."It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

I was born in Bitburg, West Germany. For the first 4 1/2 years of my life I was an Air Force brat. We moved from W. Germany to North Dakota, to Illinois, then to California. I can remember a snapshot of all those places, except W. Germany.

I got my first dog in N. Dakota. His name was Tippy and he got to come into the house because it was so cold up there.

Tippy got killed on the highway when we moved to Illinois. I remember when my grandparents called to tell me it happened. I also remember being so afraid of this kid who had one of those retainer that was worn on your head...very scary...I ran home crying.

In California, we lived in a apartment complex across from a fire station. At the time there was a television show called Emergency One about a fire department in California. I was convinced that the fire station across the road was where my man, Gage, worked. That was also when I had my first trip to Disneyland.

All these experiences along with many others have shaped my life. I love my pets and grieve when they die. I still think that a lot of people are scary, but I don't tend to run away from them now. I'm a sucker for a man in uniform... not just any uniform (forget UPS...another story for another day), but a military man or law enforcement. And Disneyworld/land is my Never never land.

So where did your blog name come from?

I'm glad you asked. It's actually a funny story...I guess or maybe you had to be there.

During my last year of college, I shared an apartment off-campus with 3 other girls (and their boyfriends at times). The apartment was half of a two story house. 2 two girls had rooms upstairs. Me and the other had rooms downstairs. It was an old house with lots of rattles and squeaks. We always laughed and said that the place was haunted, especially when we would hear the couple next door "getting it on" (walls were thin to say the least).

One night we were all (all being the four of us girls and two of the boyfriends) studying in one of the rooms upstairs when we heard a noise downstairs. It sounded like someone walking around and moving chairs in the kitchen. Then there was a sound that was something like someone saying something we couldn't understand.

Now you have to understand, this was about 2 a.m. and we had been studying for almost six hours...non-stop. We all looked from one to another and were saying "Did you hear that?", "What was that?", "Did you lock the door?". The two males got up, macho men that they were, and headed down the stairs to take care of whatever was down there...mortal or not. A few minutes later they came back up, shaking there heads, and saying that there was nothing to be found. No human or ectoplasm in sight. I turned to the other girls and boldly stated "It must have been a fig newton of our imagration." We all just look at each other and started laughing, uncontrollably. We decided it was time to quit studying and go to Murrays (another story for another time).


So, that's how my catch phrase was created....not with alcohol...just brain drain from studying to much. "A fig newton of my imagration" is a fig newton of my imagration.

The First Time

So here I go. I have been thinking about doing this for over a year now. Creating a blog and writing with a purpose. So...now what. Thinking about doing it and doing it are two different things. Do I even have anything to say? Well, yes...I guess.

I have fancied myself an aspiring writer for some time...starting 3 stories that have yet to be finished and one short story, the manuscript of which is now lost. But I find that a lot of people fancy themselves to be something they aren't...just turn on American Idol. I guess the lesson to be learned is that you are what you think you are and if you think you're good enough, you will put it all on the line and let someone else judge you.

I often wonder "Will anyone ever remember anything I say?" and "Do I ever say anything that's important enough for anyone to remember?" Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm going to put it on the line and let you, whoever you are, judge. Then I will choose to accept or reject your judgement.

So here I go.