I’m standing in a long line at King Soopers. I’m so hungry I am feeling light headed and I am doing everything I can to stay in this line because my instinct is to abandon this cart and instead drive through Starbucks or order something from my husband who has pretty much been my caretaker in all things food for the last several years. I have gotten out of the habit of being the kind of mom I started out as. The kind of mom who shopped and cooked and baked and was truly on top of all the things. THAT kind of mom. I am desperately trying to get back to being THAT kind of mom. I do know why it’s so difficult and I’m not ashamed to name the reasons, but I don’t have time for that anymore. And it won’t help me with the fact that I’m hungry most of the time and I do need some help if I’m to be the kind of mom my kids need me to be. The kind of mom I was so good at before…..my paid job got in the way.
It’s the getting the help that is the most difficult part. People don’t come out of the woodwork to run your errands or make meals or help you clean your house unless they are in it with you. Even friends and family have their OWN lives and professionals need to make a living wage.
And then there’s the lawyers and consultants REQUIRED to help you fight for your child’s right to equal access to a basic public education. Publicly traded private schools are taking over our public school system and private schools are a privilege that a majority of US cannot afford. The whole thing is horrifying for children.
When I was in my thirties and my children were young I became very ill. I looked fine to most people, but I didn’t feel fine at all. I battled insomnia hard for about seven years. I was exhausted and severely fatigued. I ran on adrenaline most of the time. At the height of my illness I once went 23 days with only a few hours of rest each night, induced by Ambien. The pain was almost unbearable. My kids saved my life. Being here for them kept me going.
2008 photo by Kathy Nemeth Kayne
While chasing down my symptoms I ended up with several diagnoses. Fibromyalgia, Epstein Barr virus, Insomnia, Sleep Apnea, and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome are the main ones that have stuck with me. Now I have learned that I am under the umbrella of conditions called dysautonomia. It took me a while, but I had enough doctors ask me about my level of stress and push prescriptions at me to understand that I just needed to biohack my body so that’s what I did. At some point I realized that my body had stopped sweating altogether. I found this to be more alarming than the extreme sweating I had been doing throughout my heart palpitating fitful nights for the few years before. Not sweating didn’t feel right at all. So I went back to the hot yoga my mom introduced me to when I was in college. It took me a few months of just going into the hot room and laying on my yoga mat three times a week before I finally broke a sweat again. I never really discussed it with anyone, but I knew that it was something important. Our bodies are made to hold and release water. I’ve realized through my biohacking that my body doesn’t always do that very easily on its own. I wonder why.
I’m the same way with crying. I just don’t do it very often. It is something I should probably start tracking because it can’t be good for me. I’m certain it’s as important for my health as being well hydrated or sleeping. I wonder if the sweating and the crying are part of my same wiring? What I know is that the sweating was something new that happened when I was sick and was never an issue before. But I’ve never been a crier. I’ve always been stoic. Sort of unflappable. I’ve become curious about the meaning of this part of my human design.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a robot. It’s not that I never cry or that I don’t feel things deeply. I absolutely do. I cry uncontrollably sometimes. Just not very often. During my sickness I experienced a kind of crying breakthrough. I remember being at a museum with my kids and our friends. It was winter break and we had a good time with our friends. I had nothing particular on my mind as I was driving us home and then out of nowhere the tears just came. There was no reason I could think of, but it became clear that my body just couldn’t hold whatever it was in any longer and the water was coming out in buckets. As it turned out, I did release a bunch of emotions that I had stuffed deep down. My thoughts about feelings I had over the years that I didn’t even recall at all came spewing out of my mouth in what felt like projectile verbal vomit all over my now ex-husband. It felt like a kind of out of body experience for me and an unwitting assault on him.
I think back on the few times I have cried hard like this because I wonder how the tears sometimes feel like they rush in with such intensity and without control and then other times not at all. I have experienced a lot of pain. Anyone who really knows me can see this. But the things is that I don’t feel like crying. Why? Recently I began wondering if there is a specific therapy that would release me from this human design feature that just feels wrong. Surely, I have enough pain stored up for a few weeks of uninterrupted bawling. But nothing until about a month ago when suddently every day for a few weeks I had tears running out of the corners of my eyes all day long. It was strange and annoying. Enough so that that I thought about chasing down the symptom. But then it stopped as suddenly as it had started. Fascinating. I interpreted this symptom as my body telling me that I better get more water out even if I wouldn’t cry. I haven’t found cry therapy, so back to hot yoga I go. It’s so good to sweat.
Today I sat with one of my teenagers as they wailed at the world that has been so cruel to them, especially the last few years. I listened and I loved my beautiful child struggling and I wept beside them. My heart ached as I listened to them wail about how humanity is lost. How they wish the world was just different. Given all we’ve been through over the last few years, I wish the same thing. What we have experienced and witnessed over and over again can make you lose faith in humanity. At least some of the time. I’ve been there. For me, I really just try to remain focused on the more immediate human problem rather than all of humanity.
What I see right now is that our school system is lacking humanity. So I pray for all of humanity that the adult human beings who are in charge of our schools will bring their focus back to the young human beings we are supposed to be educating. That’s all it really takes. Focus on the kids instead of the adults. In the meantime, I’m going to do everything I can to change it because there are just so many kids getting hurt. I know because I’ve got three of those kids myself.
I have faith that we can change the world if we can just focus on humanity.
1m3s = PEACE in the written code for my deaf language✌🏼
I don’t actually recall if anyone has said it to my face, but I know that some people think that it’s my own fault that I have so many problems. It’s impossible not to see that I have a lot of problems if you’re paying attention. And who doesn’t have a lot of problems? I’ve found that life comes with an endless supply. Some are more difficult than others and there are always solutions.
A numerologist called Lisa E. recently explained to me that I have five karmic corrections. I don’t exactly understand that, but it does give me some relielf. My life is a lot. Now I know that it’s in the stars. Karmic corrections. It’s a tangible reason. Otherwise, it looks like a choice or it looks like it is my fault. And I always knew that it is not. Even if others don’t see it that way.
Sometimes I know that people assume that I make my life harder than it needs to be. I guess that is theoretically true and maybe even actually true, based on my own abilities and inabilities. I am not perfect. But what people are really thinking is, do I really have to fight so hard? Yes, I do. It’s my life and I don’t see giving up as a choice. I’m pretty sure now that my soul might just end up with a sixth karmic correction if I don’t fight when I know that I can. I am responsible. The truth is that not fighting is not something I would ever consider. It’s my responsibility. I am also intentional about always trying to do what I think is right. It is my foundation. And I was born this way. Strong. A fighter. I feel fortunate to be this way. And I am very aware that not everyone is able to fight the school system like I do. Not everyone can afford to. They can’t make the time. They don’t have the money. They don’t have the skills. They don’t know the law. Not everyone knows their rights. Someone has to do it. It’s the only way that change is made for others. It’s why I became a civil rights lawyer in the first place.
The truth is that my life looks like a mess because I’m open about it. I’ve never really been afraid to talk about it, but I am aware that sometimes it makes other people feel scared so until recently I have tried to keep it close. Only those closest to me know what is going on in my life. This is still true. I have a lot of people in my life who really don’t know anything about me. They see as much as they want to see. It’s just not always comfortable. I certainly haven’t often written or spoken about my experience until now, but I wish I had. Maybe I wouldn’t be so isolated. Maybe the trauma my family has endured wouldn’t have been so intense if we had more people who understood what we have going on and what we have been through. The truth is that is the reason I started writing and speaking. People need to know.
My friend Susan says that now I’m living out loud. I guess that’s true, but it doesn’t feel loud to me. I just wasn’t born to be loud. I’ve always been quiet and observant. Stoic. And I have learned a lot. That’s what living a hard life does for you. I am grateful for this wisdom. My life is a master class I am here to share. Now I can’t seem to get my story out far enough or fast enough or wide enough. Or loud enough.
Because I am a well-educated, middle class white woman living in a good neighborhood, I live in a circle of people who can often afford private services, private therapists, private evalutators, private schools, private whatever their kids need. I’m not criticizing this. I can afford some of those things. I am fortunate. These things have become necessities that many people cannot afford. That’s why they suffer. I also live in a circle of people who were raised in a privileged environment themselves. They were fortunate in that way, but that has not been my experience. I know what it’s like in the public school system and so do my kids. Sometimes I imagine how nice that protective bubble must feel. I don’t have time for envy. I have to keep moving and fighting. Sometimes it feels like I’m treading water or running in circles. And I am known to take others’ hands along the way because I know they need the support. It is a lot and it is a choice, but I know that’s what I’m here for and I believe that we are all in this together. Privilege is irrelevant to me.
Here are the facts. The education and health care system data reports show that problems like my family is experiencing (i.e., trauma, illness, truancy, dropout) affects only those who come from challenging circumstances like poverty, homelessness, and addiction. I’m here to tell you that this is not true and that these reports give people a false sense of security. It makes people think that they are not susceptible to such unfathomable things. It makes people think that these things are only challenging for people who have always struggled with these things. People who are not white or middle class. People who are not privileged.
I’m here to tell you that no one is immune to these problems. I know that this is just part of life at the moment because I am living it. I know this because I haven’t met a parent with a school age kid in quite a while, particularly those in our public school system, who doesn’t have problems similar to mine. Perhaps I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, but I want to make sure you do so I’m saying it out loud. Our systems are failing us and it’s because they have not been built to serve our needs and because they are only focused on money and not on people. Our public systems are not focused on you or me. This is the same world we are all living in together.
That’s all the time I have today. I need to get back to it. Be safe and take good care of yourselves.
I have not been paying much attention to the impeachment hearings. I know to some people that probably makes me seem like I am out of touch and maybe I am, but I know myself well enough by now to realize that I don’t need the impeachment hearings running through my head every day. Besides, my husband is deeply into it and he is a human being who is designed pretty much like a megaphone crossed with a tuning fork. That means that I am really not missing out on much and it still stresses me out. It also stresses him out, but he’s not as protective of himself as I have learned to be. I just hope it’s all over soon.
I don’t blame my husband for his curiosity. Back in the day I myself was devoted to following the OJ Simpson trial and I got caught up in the news scrum after the 2016 election for a few months, so I definitely understand the entertainment value. For the most part I have never really watched the news. It’s just not for me. I prefer to read my news. I just don’t have that kind of bandwidth.
transparency.org
But I do have a lot of respect for the whistleblower and for the civil servants who have been testifying this last week. I’ve heard the term whistleblower a lot lately, but I don’t know if there is much attention being given to who a whistleblower really is. The legal definition of a whistleblower is “an employee who brings wrongdoing by an employer or other employees to the attention of a government or law enforcement agency and who is commonly vested by statute with rights and remedies for retaliation.” This is what I found when I looked it up just now in the the Merriam-Webster.com Legal Dictionary. Merriam-Webster Inc., https://www.merriam-Webster.com/legal/whistleblower. Accessed 23 November 2019.
What I think is that a whistleblower is simply someone who is willing to shine a light on something that they know to be wrong. Someone who is willing to put what they know on the record. What I know is that it takes an enormous amount of courage. I’ve heard enough of the impeachment hearings on NPR while I’m driving around town to know that these courageous people are being portrayed as hateful. I just don’t see them that way at all. From my perspective, these people have been called to action from a place of love, out of duty and honor.
There is also one thing about these impeachment hearings that is a constant reminder for me. It is something that has come up for me over the years whenever Rudy Guiliani is in the news cycle. You see, I was one of Guiliani’s lawyers.
This really isn’t a big deal. I defended the City of New York under Guiliani’s administration for a hot minute almost twenty years ago. I was just a baby lawyer trying to figure out how to practice law. Truth be told, my 29 year old self didn’t even think very much about my boss and I never even met the person. But over the years whenever it has come up that I was a lawyer under Mayor Guiliani’s administration it has felt awkward. There is something about revealing this truth that makes me brace myself for the person’s reaction. Just a smidge. It’s because I never know what kind of an assumption a person might make about me based on this professional association. Especially now that everyone is learning so much about him.
Oy. Guiliani really is a hot mess.
I realize now having worked under other administrations that my connection to Guiliani has always felt surreal to me only because he has such a high public profile and I am just the opposite. It is in my nature to fly under the radar. What I know is that everyone is connected a lot more closely than any of us usually stops to realize. I am one degree of separation from Donald Trump. If you know me, that means that you have only two degrees of separation. This is the kind of stuff that blows my mind.
Wikimedia.org
The degrees of separation between human beings has long been fascinating to me. Pretty much ever since I saw the movie Six Degrees of Separation when I was still in high school. The theory of six degrees of separation is that any person on the planet can be connected to any other person on the planet through a chain of acquaintances that has no more than five intermediaries.
What I’ve come to understand about this is pretty simple. Our connections to people, no matter how distant they may seem, do mean something. The closeness of my connection to Guiliani and now Trump is a reminder to me that what I do does affect other people. It does matter. No matter how much you think it doesn’t, it does. We are all connected and we are all responsible for one another.
I just learned through a website about an organization called Transparency International and that June 23rd is World Whistleblower Day. Who knew?
I’m proud to be among the people who are called whistleblowers.
Anniversaries are a funny thing. Truthfully, I hadn’t even thought about the date today until a dear old friend posted a comment on my Facebook. Adam and I practiced law together in New York City and he is the one who reminded me of today’s anniversary. He is the one who reminded me to think about my own story from that day. Thank you, Adam.
Truth be told, I have not often told even my closest friends or family about my experience with 9/11. Some people don’t even know that I lived in New York City at that time. There were other people in my life who had stories that seemed so much more important or interesting than my own. My boyfriend turned husband now ex-husband was the 9/11 story that I was living and I am a person who reaches out to help rather than for help, so after 9/11 I quite naturally disregarded my own feelings and quickly, without a moment of thought, stuffed them down somewhere deep. That’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done. I know it’s not healthy. That’s why I write.
The truth is it took me a decade to finally begin to think my own 9/11 experience. And it required therapy. My therapist did not even realize I had been impacted by 9/11 because I had so much regard for his story that I disregarded my feelings about the experience completely. I had “not being there” guilt. My therapist called it survivor guilt.
His story really was powerful and it is also only his story to share. And at the time there were people in international media who thought the world wanted to know about his story. I can still recall hearing the voices of Katie Couric and Oprah on our answering machine at the other end of the line. They both called our home phone in Brooklyn in the hours and days after the 9/11 attack. Maybe that’s one of the reasons it has taken me a long time to process my own experience.
Fortunately for me, when the plane hit the World Trade Center tower I was still lazing in bed in our brownstone apartment in Brooklyn. That’s one reason why I thought my story was no story. I wasn’t actually even there at the scene. I wasn’t one of the people running away from a burning building, running through ash and smoke and chaos like he did, like my friends and my colleagues at the New York City Law Department did. And I wasn’t one of the people trapped underneath the World Trade Center, which is where I most likely would have been if I had gone into work that morning as I had planned to do. That was where I was pretty much every morning when I went to work in Manhattan. The subway underneath the World Trade Center was where I started and ended my commute to work.
I had been on a plane myself on September 10th. I had taken a sabbatical from the stress of my job as a defense attorney for the City of New York and I had rented an apartment in Paris by myself and spent a few weeks traveling with friends and then came back to the states where he and I vacationed with my parents in Hawaii. He went to work that morning, but I did not have immediate work to get back to so I was taking my time getting up. All of my active cases had been reassigned before I left and I had planned to go back into my office that morning to talk to Georgia, my department chief. So when the tower was hit, I was still blissfully unaware.
I was alerted to the tower being hit by my landlord, Alba, who is a sweet and kind hearted woman from Colombia who lived downstairs. She owned the brownstone with her late husband, Stanley. He and I rented the apartment, which was the top two floors. A small closet in the hallway of our apartment provided the only access to the roof. I was finally roused by Alba pounding on my door so she could get up to the roof. She told me the tower had been hit and she wanted to see it with her own eyes. I did not.
Everything about that day is a little blurry and always has been. I turned on the tv as soon as Alba told me what had happened. What I could see immediately was that the tower was leaning and it looked to me like it was going to break apart and fall over. I was worried because he worked in the World Financial Center across the street from the tower. He called me twice shortly after and these quick phone calls reassured me that he was okay even though the tower had not come down yet. People had not started evacuating other buildings at that point. But I had heard his voice and in my mind that meant that he was fine. It led me to the conclusion in my own mind that he was alive all day that day. As much as that made no sense at all that’s how I felt and what I thought as I moved through that day. He was okay. Everything would be okay.
I remember talking to a few people on the phone. His sister. My mother. Instinctively somehow I knew that I was never going back to my law office. There was no reason for me to think this so it must have been from somewhere inside. I remember wandering around Brooklyn on foot. I remember going to an office store to buy a fax machine because I was going to be looking for a job. I remember lugging that fax machine home somehow. I don’t remember how, but I didn’t have a car. All I know now is that I felt sure that day that my life was going to be different. I had no idea then how much.
I did talk to him again toward the end of the day, so I had been right that he was alive. He was trying to figure out how to get home. We talked about people he could contact. Places he could stay that night if necessary. I didn’t know then if he was coming home that night. Ultimately, he walked home and walked right through the door looking as he always did after work. That surprised me. He didn’t look disheveled or dirty and he appeared calm. The only difference was that he had walked, that he was not wearing a tie, and that he had quite a story to share. And I just felt numb.
What I remember now about the days following was that it felt as if someone close to me had died, but there was no process for the death. No funeral. No sitting shivah. No mourning or grieving process that I could recognize. I knew a lot of people who were there that day. Of course, there were a lot of people who died, but I didn’t know any of those dead people. All of my friends and colleagues survived that day.
Those first few days after 9/11 there were people calling trying to get in touch with him. Important people wanted him to tell his story. He said he didn’t want to discuss it with anyone. He just wanted it all to go away. He began having nightmares. Neither of us was going in to work because our offices had been damaged so badly. And we really weren’t talking about it much at all. We weren’t talking about anything. I think we probably just wanted everything to go back to normal. What was normal?
I wonder now if the death that I was feeling was a piece of myself that died during that time. I couldn’t talk about my own feelings because I didn’t feel like my feelings mattered. My only story was his story. And he didn’t even want to talk about it with me. I wonder now if the death that I was feeling was also a part of us that died, him and me together.
There were real, tangible ways that my life changed after 9/11. At least, in my mind they were direct results of my 9/11 experience. Most importantly, the unexpected conception of our identical twins and later, our youngest child. I have no doubt that they would not have been here but for 9/11. For them, I am eternally grateful for that day.
God bless us and unite us all. Please.
Photograph of my three children made by Kathy Kayne, New Jersey, 2008
Hope has been on my mind a lot over the last week as I think about what it must feel like to be my 16 year old. Despite everything that has happened over the last few years at school, they have practiced forgiveness and patience and have continued to hold out hope that people will do what they promise and what is right. I have always been patient and I realize that I tend to be a hopeful person, too. I think I’ve always been that way and maybe that has rubbed off or maybe we were both just born that way. I don’t really know how that works. What I do know is that we are both people who can be patient and who look for hope. The way I see it, these are qualities that weigh heavily in our favor.
People are very curious about my child, but they don’t always seem interested in the ways we need them to be. Right now they’re more interested in my child’s gender identity. It’s the question I am most often asked. Even when I am in the middle of a conversation about what is most important in school. Deafness. I get it. Not everyone has a transgender person in the family and it must seem like the biggest deal in the world to a lot of people. I guess it is a big deal, but not to me. Not right now. My child is almost 17 years old. I’ve known that they didn’t fit quite right into the gender role that was assigned at birth since they were as young as six years old and I found them in one of my formal dresses adoring themself in a full length mirror in my bathroom. I have a whole photo shoot of that moment. I need to find those images on my computer. They felt beautiful and they still are beautiful. The labels are irrelevant to me. They are the same exact person they have always been. I’m not here to tell them who to be and I never would. People praise me for this attitude and tell me how lucky they are to have me as a mother. I appreciate that and I know that is true because I know that not everyone accepts their children for who they are. I just feel like their mother. I feel so lucky to have this child.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad that there are people who are curious who support them and accept them, but what I truly wish is that people would take an interest in the fact that they are Deaf and they are being discriminated against. It’s a big deal. It makes them really expensive to educate because they need an educational interpreter at school. They are entitled to it under the law, but we have to fight for it ourselves. The discrimination against my child as a Deaf person permeates every single crevice of our lives. We have been traumatized. It hurts every person in our family. It’s hard when hope falls out from under you and you feel hopeless. It wipes you out and makes you feel depressed. That’s just what hopelessness does. That’s why hope is so important to me.
They wrote something the other day about what it feels like to be discriminated against. I read it. Yesterday they asked me if I know what it feels like. I don’t. But I know what it feels like to be the mother of someone who has been discriminated against. It is hurting me deeply. I can only imagine what it feels like to be them. Now at a time when they are most vulnerable, they have been betrayed again by the same people who have been hurting them all along. We just hoped they would fix the problem. It stands to reason since that’s their job. So far hope and patience haven’t worked out in this situation at all. Not for either of us. My child has been an educational refugee all year because they don’t have an educational interpreter. It is a struggle to find any benefit for them at all in our schools. And I know that we are certainly not alone. The people who have hurt my child were supposed to teach them. It turns out the child is doing the teaching. They speak up for themself. My child doesn’t hesitate to speak publicly about how they have been mistreated because they are deaf. They want to call the police. My child cannot understand how discrimination, especially against a child, isn’t a criminal offense. Why doesn’t the law work that way? My child filed their own complaint about how they have been discriminated against by the school system because it’s just plain wrong. The complaint was ignored because they are a child.
I was texting with my child the other day and they said that they are glad that it was happening to them instead of someone else. I actually know that’s not exactly true. I’m certain that there are other Deaf kids who are suffering in the same way, but I didn’t say that to them. They feel like the only one right now. Instead I asked them why they were glad it was them. They said that it has to happen to someone for things to change and that they know that not everyone can handle it. They said they knows they can because they have become so used to it. It felt like an arrow was shot straight into my heart. I am raising a leader and only a few of us can see that. My child knows it though. That’s the only thing that really matters.
I am amazed at their resiliency and so thankful for them. I wish to god they didn’t have to be this strong. I thank god that they are. They hugged me and thanked me yesterday for always being their rock. I am thankful that I am strong and that they know that, too. But it is the kids who are going to have to lead us out of this mess because the adults are just failing. We live in an adult world where we have to navigate through lawyers. I am in awe of my child’s simplistic power.
And there it is again. There is always more hope when I look for it. I love that about hope.
Before I became a lawyer I worked at several different places and one of my first paid gigs was teaching tennis to younger kids at public tennis courts for the City of Denver Department of Parks and Recreation. I think I was turning 15 the first summer I taught tennis at Crestmoor Park. Looking back, I was terrified most of the time because I had no idea what I was doing there. I was a 15 year old competitive tennis player. It was never my plan to teach, but I’m a yes person and I said yes when I was offered the opportunity that summer. The truth is I felt not at all prepared and like a fish out of water teaching and that has always felt a bit awkward to admit, but when I think back to those times that’s what I felt like. Awkward. Plus fortunate to be a natural athlete and a talented tennis player. That summer was challenging and a little gut wrenching and it was the summer I feel like I started to learn how to wing it. It turns out that tennis and winging it are both very valuable skills. Thank you for the lessons, Brent.
After spending what feels like a complete lifetime building a different career, I have been forced to my knees. Not literally. But it means figuring out what to do next. Homebound is where I have been. Maybe I need to be home. That’s probably it. I need to be home because I am a responsible homemaker and it is where my heart really is almost all of the time. That’s the truth.
And I also need to play tennis. For fun.
I started working back in the tennis business in November, stringing and selling racquets. I love tennis. Thank god I still love tennis. I am grateful for that job. It reintroduced me to my passion for tennis.
When my husband and I first got together over a decade ago he was playing league tennis at Crestmoor (the club not the public courts). I didn’t play, but he kept telling me he wanted me to play mixed doubles with him. I didn’t have the energy for it then. Now I do, but I’m injured by the stringing job.
I just took another tennis business job at a beautiful new tennis training facility started by Randy Ross where I don’t have to string racquets and I can train and recover from my stringing injury so that I can play tennis. The place is across from the Denver Broncos Training Facility in Englewood, Colorado. My man and I are gearing up to play mixed doubles there. Ten years later than he wanted, but I am ready here and now. I hope we will make a killer couple.
I haven’t played doubles in years without hitting someone. And my forehand was completely absent when I checked in on it. And I still have a few weeks of PT and another business to get started for SGD.
How many times have you uttered these words to someone who worries about you? I really can’t say that I’ve said them too much. But I have said it. And I regretted it after the fact. I have my reasons. And I’m trying to make sense of these reasons. Right now I’m thinking about my ancestry + worrying.hmmm🤨 That’s something to ruminate.
Here’s the thing. A few weeks ago my cousin Brian L. Bensen and I had lunch at Tessa, a delicatessen on E. Colfax. 🈁🈶🈂🈚️🈺🈴🈹🉑🉐㊗️🈯️🈸🈷㊙️🈵🈳🈲😶✌🏼🌻🎶🌈💋🤟🏼🤨 Our food was delish and you must go there as soon as possible and try it. Seriously. I had the (4m.5c6s.5m) 🥓🥬🍅🥪, which was 😋🌈🤨 He + I discussed worrying + ancestry + 📚. Interestingly, he informed me that our paternal great-grandfather O.D. Wilson died at the young age of 56 from worrying. It was a sad story + 🤨 + it was during the time of The Great Depression in the 🇺🇸 (8c.5c3s.of 5c5t.)🍀🤞🏼🧧😉🇺🇸✏️
Peace is the understanding that though we are each one different, we are all made of the same exquisite stuff. My kids taught me this. OzShalom 1:54
I’m listening to higher love. Today is Martin Luther King, Jr’s birthday. This day always resonates with me, so I’m celebrating it privately. By singing and dancing and writing. Privately.
I am thinking about housework and the people who do this kind of work. I was recently hired as a homemaker to help out someone who needs homemaking in my own family. And then I was very quickly let go, which is a longer story. It’s disappointing that I am not allowed to be the one who is employed as the homemaker, but I’m letting that go today. That’s not the point. That’s not what I’m thinking about. What I’m thinking about is equality and freedom and justice. Can I get an amen? 🙂
I have been happily homemaking for my family since I started a family in 2002. I am 100% happy to make a nice home for my family. I have never ever said or thought otherwise. Of that, I am certain. All I want is a happy home life. What I am not happy about is how little my personal value is is to our larger society. What I am not happy about is how my role as a homemaker is so belittled and demeaned as a non-job. It’s incredible how little progress has been made in my lifetime. For domestic workers. For women. For mothers. For wives. For me. ✌🏼
When my children were very young, I lived in luxurious homes. First in a beautiful brownstone in Brooklyn, New York and then in a historic turn of the century summer mansion in South Orange, New Jersey, and then eventually in Lone Tree, Colorado. My ex-husband and I hired seven domestic workers who were immigrants from Mexico, Tibet, and countries in South America + one young American from Long Island. 🙂 Their names were Mary, Dora, Laura, Iliana, Patricia, and Claudia. These women were all well educated and as brilliant and talented as I am (if not more so). They cleaned my house and cared for my children and they became my teachers and my friends. All of them.
I recall one day when I had hired a new domestic worker in New Jersey and I didn’t actually have any plans to do anything while they were working. This woman urged me to leave the house so that I could have some time away for myself. She seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being, at a time when no one else in my life really seemed to be. I left and went grocery shopping just to kill the time that day. I really had nothing that I wanted to do with my spare time. I was so used to taking care of my children and my home and having no independent life. The next time she came over I made a plan for myself. I had decided that I was going to read a book someplace outside of the house. It was what I wanted to do most, but I was too embarrassed to tell her what I had done when I came home, so I just made up some little white lie about shopping so that she wouldn’t ask me what I was doing. I spent 2 or 3 hours that day reading a novel from cover to cover. It was heaven. I felt guilty. ✌🏼
I can’t help but think about how common my experience really is. How underpaid and overworked those women were. How underpaid and overworked I have been. How I am okay despite my circumstances because I started out this family path as a very wealthy housewife; and how lucky I am to have started out from that fortunate position. Thank God.
That’s all. I’m going to go take a walk with my husband and our dogs now.
I’ll end with these lyrics that James Taylor wrote because I went to sleep with them playing in my head and I woke up with them playing in my head. I love this song. I hope the words will touch your heart and raise your vibration the way that they raise mine. I like to sing it to myself.
Oh, let us turn our thoughts today To Martin Luther King And recognize that there are ties between us All men and women living on the Earth Ties of hope and love Sister and brotherhood
That we are bound together In our desire to see the world Become a place in which our children Can grow free and strong
We are bound together by the task That stands before us And the road that lies ahead We are bound, and we are bound
There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist There is a hunger in the center of the chest There is a passage through the darkness and the mist And though the body sleeps The heart will never rest
Shed a little light, oh Lord (shed a little light, oh Lord) So that we can see, oh yeah Just a little light, oh Lord. (just a little light, oh Lord) Want to stand it on up Stand it on up, oh Lord (stand it on up, Lord) Want to walk it on down Gonna shed a little light, oh Lord (shed a little light, oh Lord)
Can’t get no light from a dollar bill (Don’t see me no light from a dollar bill) Don’t give me no light from a TV screen, oh no, no When I open my eyes, I want to drink my fill From the well on the hill I know you know what I mean
Shed a little light, oh Lord (shed a little light, oh Lord) So that we can see, oh yeah Just a little light, oh Lord (just a little light, oh Lord) Want to stand it on up Stand it on up, oh Lord (stand it on up, oh Lord) Stand on up, Lord Want to walk it on down Gonna shed a little light, oh Lord (shed a little light, oh Lord) Shed a little light, Lord
There’s a feeling like the clenching of a fist There is a hunger in the center of the chest, oh yes There is a passage through the darkness and the mist And though the body sleeps The heart will never rest
Oh, Let us turn our thoughts today To Martin Luther King And recognize that there are ties between us All men and women living on the Earth Ties of hope and love Sister and brotherhood
Last night I had a dream. I only remember the very last part.
Everything is energy and that is all there is to it. Match the frequency of the reality you want and you cannot help but get that reality. It can be no other way. This is not philosophy. This is physics. Albert Einstein
I was standing on a high bridge over a high river that was not completely unfamiliar to me. The river did not frighten me except that I was high above it and my circumstances were less than ideal, to say the least. I was pregnant and in labor and was talking on the phone with my mother who couldn’t hear me very well. I was trying to tell her that I needed to get off the phone because I was about to give birth when the baby dropped out of me and fell into the river. I dropped the phone and jumped into the river where the baby was floating. The baby looked exactly like all my babies looked to me when they were newborn in real life; beautiful and alert. I felt relieved that the baby was safe with me and I held it in the water and put kisses all over their little soft face and said, “You are very strong.”
I am cueing. ✌🏼REMEMBER THIS. YOU ARE VERY STRONG.✌🏼 + I am not voicing. I hope you enjoy this 🎶
Yesterday a new label hit me smack in the face so I’m going to own it. Here it is. Yesterday I became officially employed as a Homemaker. That’s right. For the first time ever I am being paid by the hour to do what I’ve been doing for free since 2002. It kind of blows my woman-mind if I’m being completely honest. I am now a bona fide homemaker because my new employer informed me that was my job title. Yesterday a home care service representative sat at my dining room table with a folder full of paperwork and hired me on to be a homemaker in my own home for 10 hours per week. I have a time sheet to submit in person on the 15th and 30th of every month and a fancy app on my phone so that I can punch in three days a week at two o’clock in the afternoon. One of my own children is going to have to sign my timesheets. I think that’s incredibly awkward, but it is what it is. I’m doing the job whether they sign my timesheet or not.
Here are the assigned tasks on my time sheet. I’m going to put a * next to the tasks that I’ve already performed this morning since I’m writing this first thing.
Dishwashing *
Dusting & Vacuuming
Sweeping & Mopping
Bed Making *
Trash Removing *
Laundry *
Shopping
Meal Preparation *
I’m not clocking my Homemaker hours today though. Tuesday is not one of my paid days. I am only paid for three hours on Monday and Wednesday afternoons and four hours on Friday afternoons. Mind you, I am already a full time Homemaker, so I’m getting paid for only a fraction of the time I actually perform my job. The thing is that Colorado’s medicaid system will only authorize 10 hours of homemaking even though full time homemaking is needed. And get this, I’m making less than minimum wage. $16.50/hour is what I’m being paid to stay home and work. I’m checking into whether or not I can be bumped up so that I’m at least equal to the other lowest paid workers in Denver, Colorado where the minimum wage was just raised by 8.94%. So the other lowest paid workers in Denver are making 79 cents more than I am. This makes me feel sad and angry for homemakers and children on so many levels, but I’m choosing to focus on the happy because I am, in fact, a Happy Homemaker.
Do you want to know what makes me really happy? Taking care of my family. Plus I saw one of my kids walk out of the house wearing a shirt that said the word love on the front and on the back. And I saw my other kid wearing a shirt with a happy face on it. That is plenty payment for me.
It’s a rich man’s game. No matter what they call it.
OZshalom is the name that Cole chose for his Hebrew name when he became a bar mitzvah. He gave it a tremendous amount of deep thinking, as was his way with everything. OzShalom means peaceful warrior in Hebrew.
Blessed are you, Adonai our God, Sovereign of all worlds, who girds me with courage.
Blessed are you, Adonai our God, sovereign of all worlds, who guide my steps.
These blessings speak to me, as I have experienced these things, and have chosen to walk down a path. I am a quiet person. I am not a ‘people’ person. It takes courage to be this way, as our society encourages people to be outgoing and I am not naturally that way. Our society does not seem to allow people to have time alone with the time to think. Our society does not seem allow breathing space. Because of this, people like me can seem odd or different, particularly at this age. We are known as outsiders because we are different in our society. We cling to each other for comfort. That is how we make friends. That is our social life. That is how we live.
But then sometimes we need the courage to leap into the unknown, to be a part of larger society. We stand together to fight the coming onslaught. I had a personal experience when I had to do this. Bravery is a big part of this too. Anyone can be brave. But it’s hard to be brave a just the right moment, when you NEED it. That’s why we have each other. One of us rises up, all of us follow.
When I was in the 5th grade I experienced a conflict with my friend Ryan. I was friends with another kid named Ethan. But Ryan and Ethan always had a bit of a rivalry. They would always get into fights and would fight about petty things. They would try to convince me to try and stay friends with only ONE of them. I would say no. The reasons I befriended these two was because I was the new kid at this school and I was always a lone wolf. An ‘outsider’. The kids at this school didn’t treat me like one, but I felt like one because I prefer to be alone. Being alone is… quiet. Ryan and Ethan were also lone wolves. The thing is, lone wolves like being close to people who’ve been through the same problems as them.
I became friends with Ethan first. He was a troublemaker, and was actually really funny if you took the time to think about it, but the other kids didn’t seem to think so. They didn’t like him. Ethan and I were good friends. We trusted each other. Then, along came Ryan. He was kind of rash and mean to the other kids. He was nice though, to me. I mellowed him a bit. Not much, but enough to prevent him from yelling so much. He then became quiet, and stopped being so mean. It was us, the quiet one, the troublemaker, and the rash one. But then, Ethan and Ryan changed, when they met each other. Ethan told me they didn’t like each other. They got into a lot more fights. I either got called over to stop the fight, or I went over there myself. Ryan told me that he hated me. That was the day I told myself, “I’m done with him”. I disconnected from him.
Then one day, Ryan was getting harassed by our whole class AND two teachers, homeroom and music. It was because he forgot his recorder and was whining about it. After class, Ryan was at the back of the line, silently crying. Everyone was harassing him. I noticed that a few weren’t, like Ethan. But the sight of everyone against him, and no one defending him made my anger reach my limit. I snapped. I yelled at them like my lungs were not there and I could breathe forever. Everyone seemed shocked. Like I said, I was always the quiet one, and never really spoke much. Then, something SERIOUSLY weird happened. They all CONGRATULATED ME. Then the homeroom teacher took us to our room, and we had a class meeting about what happened. This was near the end of school. When school ended, I successfully was still friends with Ethan, even greater than before. But then I saw Ryan. He smiled at me, like I had redeemed myself in his eyes. Then he walked away, still smiling. And right then I knew, we were still friends. He accepted that I was still friends with Ethan. And that there, is a good ending.
So I can relate to the story where Jacob finds that his brother is sending 400 men to attack the village. He helped his family and his flock get away in time. Then he stayed behind. He wrestled what was apparently one of the soldiers. Through a whole day, he did not break him. Then the soldier said basically, “ You have struggled long and hard. That is enough struggling”. What this represents is someone fighting for a certain goal, and then recieving it. My story with Ethan and Ryan describes bravery, common sense, and loneliness. That is my definition of a lone wolf. You have to be brave enough to stand alone, but wise enough to stand together.
Jacob was fighting for a worthy cause. And I was too. What my interpretation of the meaning of life is, is that there is no particular path of life. We made those paths over time, with our footprints etched in the soil. The roads were always completed. What I understand is that there is always a goal to work toward, as long as you believe it is worthy.
By the time I was 13, I understood this. I think that becoming a bar mitzvah, is the act of understanding, and then pursuing those goals, to do something great in the world.
My Bar Mitzvah
by Cole Tucker
You endow the human being with the power to know. You teach a person understanding. May You provide me now with intelligence, understanding and wisdom. Blessed are You, Life Unfolding, who graces me with knowing.
This blessing makes me think about all of the people who I am grateful to. I am grateful to my parents, for giving me a sense of right and wrong. I am grateful to my teachers (both past and present) for giving me skills in math and common sense (but mostly math). I am grateful to my friends for lightening the load on my shoulders, and making me happy. And I am grateful to my siblings, for teaching me how you have to take the good with the bad sometimes and that your family is always there for you.
Thank you for being here with me to celebrate this truly special day.
Please try to remember that what you’re reading is about me, not about you (unless you see your name here). I’m all filled up with anger and I really have got to find a different container for it because my body is unable to handle it any longer. Don’t read it if you don’t want to know what’s eating me up from the inside. Thank you, kindly and go FUCTUATE.🖕🏼✌🏼
I woke up in the middle of the night with an alarming question ringing in my head. It felt to me exactly like a fire alarm going off and I needed to grab my stuff and run out of the house. It kept me awake almost all night so I’m really operating on only a few hours sleep, but I feel okay so far. Just edgy. I put on some Jack Johnson looking for Good People ASAP, which always helps, but I’m sure I’ll crash at some point. I’ll have to remember to count my spoons (https://health.clevelandclinic.org/spoon-theory-chronic-illness/#:~:text=%E2%80%9CThe%20spoon%20theory%20is%20a,spoons%20in%20their%20daily%20activity.%E2%80%9D) right after I write this and eat my challah french toast with bonne maman raspberry preserves that I just made myself for breakfast. Thank you, French angels and fresh berries.🎶
This morning I’ve decided that it is truly in my own best interest to exorcise this demon that woke me up and then got stuck in my heart and is now stuck in my bra. Smirk. As you can see by the screen shot of my text communication with my darling husband this morning that I included above, I am up and dressed. Karen style. That’s a fresh selfie I took to prove to myself that I can pull myself together even though from approximately 2 a.m. until I got myself out of bed at 6:30 a.m. there were times when my heart was pounding so hard you would think that someone was standing at the foot of my bed with a hammer ready to slaughter me. Horror story style. Waking up like that is hard to handle. I can finally relate to the more desperate people I’ve know so well. those are the people I will name in this list. Not all of them, but some. Desperation can lead to all sorts of shenanigans. That’s the truth.
The thoughts that woke me up made me furious and the truth is it’s probably in no one’s best interest that I direct my anger at the people who I was thinking about. To be honest expressing hate is fairly unusual for me. In fact, I avoid it. Over the last few years I do that by intentionally correcting myself when I use the word hate and then turn it into an opposite love statement to balance that shit out. I intentionally developed this habit so suffice it to say I have a strong tendency to stuff negative thoughts inside and then stew in it like the good American girl I was raised to be. Non confrontational. Conflict avoidant. Try not to make a scene. Keep your mouth shut. Grin and bear it no matter how bad it really is. What a load of crap. Hate needs to be expressed and flushed somehow or it just eats yourself alive.
I think that I am probably best known outside of my safe little circle as someone who speaks truth OR spreads love and peace. At least I hope so because that’s primarily what I do publicly these past few years. That’s why I became so “popular” on my social media. That’s the message I put out on the social media platforms. The truth is now I’ve slowed that way down because it is painfully obvious to me that my message on those platforms mostly just brings out the takers who become aware that I am a great giver. Inevitably, they turn into people who use me up and then I resent them. And I certainly don’t need to grow any more resentment. And I’m done being used and abused. Back off. It’s the persons who used me and my children (and their own children!) that I hate. They don’t even have the decency to try to make amends. That’s how they became 💯 trash. Karma is going to be a bitch for them. It takes twice as long to build bridges you burn.
When I was in law school in New York I had a study group friend named Andy Crouppen who had a list posted up on his refrigerator titled “People Who Are Fucked”. I thought it was hysterical then and I’ve thought about it often when I think about Andy. Now I just think it’s brillyent so I’m taking my cue from him. Today I am starting to purge my hate Andy Crouppon-style. I may even print it out and put it on my refrigerator.
So here it goes in no particular order and I will keep adding to this list as needed. Feel free to comment. Maybe I’ll be able to process your hate, too. Maybe I’ll give you that. I won’t make you any promises.
In solidarity and peace always. Please try to remember that the moral arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice. MLK Jr said that. Amen to that.🙏🏽✌🏼⚕️🇾🇹
I HATE:
Infidelity.
Insecurity.
Misophonia.
Audism.
Ableism.
Hate.
Filing health insurance claims.
154.
Holding onto resentments.
Bad habits that are really hard to break..
When people hurt animals with no good reason.
That communication has to be so complicated.
Crooks and cons. Liars.
That so many kids have to be sent out of our state to get a decent quality education or rehab. And that most kids don’t actually have that privilege and become desperate.
That my son is dead and there aren’t more people who are furious about this injustice and that I feel so alone digging us out of this rut we got forced into by our public school system.
That my brother and my parents and all of my kids don’t live close to me.
That people relatives are the same as family. They can be, but they are not always one and the same
That I know so many people who know better and still won’t invest themselves to actually do better.
That people are so insensitive.
That adults expect kids to control their use of their technology without being able to control it ourselves. Stop expecting kids to be your technology teachers or to be at your beck and call by phone + not to be on their phone. Talk about STUPID. Oy.
Relatives who intentionally split up families by inviting only some members of a household and not others to family events like Thanksgiving. Every year. What is wrong with people?
Parents who abuse their children. People who disrespect children. People who shame children. People who blame children.
People who blame Disabled people for being Disabled. What the hell is wrong with you? Do you think people choose to be Disabled? Learn about ableism. Maybe you can start here. https://www.accessliving.org/newsroom/blog/ableism-101/
People who don’t even try to protect their children.
People who abuse animals.
Teachers who neglect their students.
People who work for agencies that profit off of the blood, sweat and tears of people with disabilities.
People who knowingly spread lies.
People who use other people for their own gain, especially when they use their own friends or children.
People who put their own shame on other people, especially their children.
People who are so full of themselves that they can’t apologize to people they have hurt.
Bosses who discriminate against people. Cowards.
People who think that children are political pawns or simply a means to build a business for profit. You disgust me.
People who uphold systems of oppression.
People who are two faced and exclusive. I think those people are the losers.
Medical professionals who uphold the inhumane standards dictated by their industry to the obvious detriment of people’s lives. I don’t even know how these people can live with themselves and they certainly should choose a different industry.
People who make fun of other peoples preferences, tastes, religions, identities, etc.
People who make false promises and create false hope.
Assumptions. It makes an ass out of you and me. Learn that.
Restrictive traditions and values that are now meaningless.
Criminals who don’t confess.
Unsolicited advice.
When people tell me to take out my earbuds or stop reading.
When people obviously feel sorry for me. I despise your pity. It’s the truth.
Feeling helpless, hopeful, powerless, and alone.
Hate.
People who perpetuate the myths that sign language stunts language development or that Cued Speech is threatening or harmful to anyone. It’s absolute bullshit.
Non profits that started for good and end up perpetuating the very problems that they said they wanted to resolve. Shameful.
The obvious truth that most people don’t actually respect or care enough about children to focus on them. It’s destroying our present and future. Advice. Practice visualizing children as trees. Then hug them.
That I had to send my own children away to protect them.
Jared Polis for being in a position of power and influence over my whole state and he is giving advice that is only useful for affluent families like his own while most Colorado kids are being forced to endure hardships in schools that are inhumane.
The idea that ruthlessness is being perpetuated as a admirable quality. And that it is associated with Ruth Bader Ginsburg who was not ruthless at all. She was ruthful and relentless. Get your words right, people. Focus!
Violence.
The persistent and unrelenting stigma associated with mental illness. WTF?!!
Injustice.
Myself. Sometimes.
My inadequacies as a mother. Ugh!
That I have to share this to get it out of my system.
Greed and financial insecurity.
Hostile environments of any kind.
Feeling like a nag.
Complaining.
Traffic jams.
Mean people.
Having blood drawn.
Being sick.
Crying.
Loud noises.
Crowded places.
Public speaking.
The sound of my own voice. Sometimes.
Snobs.
Cigarette smoke.
Fighting.
Being excluded.
When people think they’re right. All the time.
Being a warrior.
Children being victimized.
That there is such a huge gap for children in access justice for their rights to public schooling. I wish I could fix this, but I can’t.
That I really don’t know where all the good people go. I’m trying like hell to find the yellow brick road.👠
When people encourage children to drink alcohol or use illegal drugs. I’m here to tell you it’s not cool and it’s not okay. Grow up.
The fact that “special ed” attorneys in Colorado are charging families $750 an hour and maybe 1% of families can afford that.
The fact that there
Talking while wearing a mask.
Telephone hold music.
Parking lots.
Banking.
Liver and onions.
My phone.
Dropping my phone.
Being dragged onto a dance floor against my will.
Hurting other people.
Talking on the phone most of the time.
School trauma.
That I will never be able to spend time with Cole again. I miss everything about him. OzShalom
Crowds and large events.
Crying.
Yelling.
Having to always be so strong.
The expectation that kids need to go straight to complete independence at 18. I couldn’t have done that!
When people pressure sick people to get to work.
But people expect me to grieve differently.
When people try to shame me for eating Chick-fil-A. 🏳️🌈
When people shame others for having addictions.
Dealing with health insurance companies and their stupid red tape.
Nagging.
When I feel too tired to take a shower or shave my legs.
Worrying.
Football.
When I can’t remember the dream I just had.
That kids are generally no longer encouraged to read for pure enjoyment.
When people I love just disappear without an explanation.
How people actually think that they get to determine someone else’s value. That’s all bullshit.
That “partying” seems synonymous with getting drunk or high. Why did that have to happen?
That sometimes I can’t stop myself from thinking in codes.
That half of my motherhood seems like it was wasted fighting for my kids.
That some people assume that I choose to fight. I never choose to fight if there’s an alternative. Seriously. What kind of a mother do you think chooses to fight a whole school system just because she can?!! It’s the law to educate your kid and our schools aren’t doing that at all.
That there are so many adults who weren’t raised properly.
To all of the people who fall into the numbered categories above I say fuck you and shame on you and may god have mercy on your souls. Stay away from me and stay away from my kids. I don’t want to know you anymore unless you are actually going to apologize + correct your behavior.
I know I’ll be back soon to keep building this hateful list because I know that I have to do it or I might actually die sooner rather than later. I’ve learned that the hard way now. Too many times. I think some people know it as burning in hell. I experience it as medical conditions called chronic fatigue syndrome, insomnia, fibromyalgia, anxiety, depression, and misophonia. These are some of the unwelcome gifts I’ve received as a neurodivergent and highly gifted human being with a tendency toward being too ruthful (that means filled with compassion).
I’m going to sign off with a Mike Tyson quote that I’ve been stuck on for a few weeks now. “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.” Think about that for a moment.
Lisa A. Weiss-Rudofsky 93 Million Miles from the Sun
P.S. My heart is pounding as I write this. Just like it did when I wrote my metoo story years ago. That’s how I know it’s the right thing for me to do. I hope it helps.✌🏽
www.instagram.com/stuckinmybra
Book of Lisa 1:54 