Barnmaven

Survivor

 

 

A few years back, my sister Vicki sent me a draft copy of what was meant to be the beginnings of a book.  She's spent a good number of years exorcising her demons, and she knew that the act of telling her story would be a valuable tool in the healing process.

In all honesty, the first time I read through her account of what happened to her as a child, I threw up.  I cried.  I raged.  I HATED.  Vicki and I have talked so much over the years, usually into the wee hours of the morning and well into several bottles of wine (mine) and whiskey (hers) about what she and my other birth siblings endured, the impact it has had on her life, her relationships, how to deal with it in ways that were useful.  I've expressed to her the survivor's guilt that gnaws at the core of me, the guilt of having escaped what happened to the rest of my siblings.  We've talked about these stories, about how to tell them.  i know that one day she and I are going to sit down together and the entire story will be told.  We'll write the book and we'll get it to a publisher.  For now, its mostly in her head and partially on paper.  Several months ago I reread some of what I had edited for her and decided to at least get the beginnings of it out there.

My sister has survived things the weight of which would crumple most people.  Much of what she has endured is practically unspeakable.  It is the kind of abuse you never want to imagine happens to children, the stuff of nightmare and denial.  It is the kind of abuse that once exposed to the light causes you to never look at another human being in the same way again, because you realize that people who walk around looking like normal men and women very well could be, in the privacy of their own homes, horrible monsters.

The first step to publicising Vicki's story was published today at Violence Unsilenced. 

It is graphic.  It is true.  It is one reason among many that I choose to have no relationship with my birthmother.

Please honor my sister.  Read her story, leave a comment over at VU.  Thank her for being a voice for other survivors, for being courageous enough to let her personal truth be public in hopes that it will encourage other victims of violence to speak up.  To know that they do not suffer alone, that there are people out there who understand, who have been there or are there right now, people who want to help.

If you or anyone you know is a victim of domestic violence or abuse, I encourage you to call your local domestic violence hotline or call the national hotline at 1−800−799−SAFE(7233) or TTY 1−800−787−3224.

 

Soapbox: Preserving Adoptee Rights in Oregon

 

 

 

A brief history:

In 1864, the state of Oregon enacted its first adoption law.  This law severed the ties of birth parents to a child,  declaring selfsame child to belong to the adoptive parents.  Until 1921, though, all name changes - for adoption or otherwise - were published annually and made available to the general public.  In essence, an adopted person - or anyone else, for that matter, had access to adoption records.

In 1921 the practice of publishing name changes ended in Oregon, but it wasn't until 1939 when Oregon followed many other states in actually sealing some of paperwork involved in the adoption process, though those records could be accessed by court order.  In 1941, the Oregon legislature provided for an altered birth certificate to be issued upon the adoption.  The 1941 laws did not, however, provide for secrecy or identity protection for birthparents.

In 1957, the original birth certificate became a sealed record in Oregon, available only by court order. It was in 1979 that all adoption - related records, including agency files, were sealed as well.

Until 1957, the state of Oregon provided an original birth certificate to every citizen who requested one.   There was nothing in any Oregon law which prevented an adult adoptee from asking for and obtaining her birth certificate.  After 1957, however, adoptees in Oregon had a most basic right taken away, the right to view official documents recording their birth.

In 1998 I had the immense privilege to support Helen Hill, Oregon adoptees and birthparents, and Bastard Nation in the campaign to gather enough signatures to place Measure 58 on the Oregon ballot that year.

We wrote letters to the editor.  We collected signatures.  We did interviews and outreach.  We spoke out and acted out and marched ourselves bloody. 

On November 3, 1998, Oregon voters agreed that adult adoptees in Oregon should be able to access their own birth certificate.  It took two more years of wrangling in court, however, for the Measure to finally take effect.  On May 30, 2000, the stalling and the appeals (remember the Jane Doe's?) and the drama were finally put to rest,and Oregon adoptees were finally able to go to their Department of Records and request a copy of their original birth certificate, just like any other non-adopted citizen in Oregon.

This brief narrative does NO JUSTICE to the amount of money, time, effort, sweat-equity and dedication that went in to making Measure 58 a reality. 

Now someone wants to change that.

Representative Dave Hunt (D) has introduced 2843, a law that would repeal Measure 58.  Under HB 2843, adoptees would only be able to access their birth certificate if a birth mother provided written consent.

I don't want to rehash hours and pages of birthmother testimony here, but its out there and its compelling.  Over 500 birthmothers paid for a full page ad in the Oregonian in support of Measure 58. 

No other citizen requires the permission of another adult to access the original record of their birth.  A birth certificate records the birth of a person and unless all birth certificates become accessible only under parental permission, the birth certificate of an adopted person should by the same token be available to the person whose birth it records.  Period.

I pay the same taxes as you do.  I vote.  I drive.  I am old enough to drink.  I have two children and a full time job.  Why on earth should my birthmother dictate whether or not I have the right to the document that records MY OWN BIRTH?

Ron Morgan will be chronicling the fight against HB2843 here.

Join us.

Don't let this happen.

 

 

 

I shouldn't post today

But I'm gonna anyway. 

Never fight when you're mad.

Never drink when you're mad.

Never, EVER blog when you're mad.

Instead?  Wait a few hours until the hot fire of mad dulls down to icy rage, reconsider doing all of the above, sleep on it and mull it over a bit longer until the icy rage melts down to a sad understanding that you've been played, the same way you've been played for years  by someone with control issues, and resolve that the last vestiges of the codependent crap you've continued to foster must - simply must - go.

If the last year or so has taught me nothing else, it has taught me that I can be my own person.  I don't need permission to make decisions for myself.  I don't need someone's approval or agreement to know when I'm doing the right thing.  Yes, I'm going to make mistakes.  I'm going to make decisions I'll look back on someday and wonder which cues I missed, how I failed to see the outcome.  That's my right as a human being, a right we all share.  But I have children.  Smalls who depend on me, and, the ripples I make when that decision hits the water overlap lives other than mine, so I'd better be careful and I'd better be right.  And I'd better not make decisions in anger.

I know, this is cryptic.  I'm sorry.  One of the purposes of this blog is to provide a way for me to understand my own thoughts and feelings. Its serving that purpose right now, as the words flow from my brain to my fingers to the screen.  I compose, I consider, I erase, rewrite, reword, rethink.  I begin to understand.  And after that's all said and done, people toss their comments in the mix, and those often give me yet more perspective. 

Still, I have to be careful what I say here, in this public space.  My words affect others, but most importantly my words have the ability to affect the two most important people in my life.  Being angry with their father isn't a good enough reason to hurt my kids by writing unkind things about him here.  But know that were I not restrained by those self-imposed rules, this post?  Particularly if I'd written it yesterday?  Searing epistle of rage. 

I guess its human nature to think that we are different from everyone else.  We are special.  We often don't recognize when we excuse ourselves from the expectations we carefully thread around others.  We all do it.  I do it.  And maybe we don't like it when people point it out to us.  Who knows? 

Another thing that is natural for people is the need to be heard, to be listened to.  To have our feelings acknowledged.  One of the biggest challenges of my life as a young girl was living with a father who was equally as emotional - maybe even more so - than I am.  And my dad, when he would get upset at something, he'd go silent.  I suspect now that he was burning, icy hot, and couldn't bring himself to talk about what was making him mad or didn't want to talk about it for fear of saying something he'd regret, but quiet he would go.  And when he was mad at me, that quiet was unnerving.  Nothing I did or said could make him talk to me about it until he was ready.  That was his way of handling it - and his right to do so - but the residue of that within me is a sense of utter desperation when I need someone to hear and acknowledge me and they refuse.  Its usually followed by blinding rage at being ignored. 

Some people know that about me.  And I think when they don't like something I've done, they use it against me.  Or maybe I'm giving too much credit - maybe not acknowledging me is simply the way they handle conflict and its a simple accident of fate that I somehow managed to marry the one person who could evoke that helpless rage of my childhood.  However, whatever.  Somehow in my recovery the one lesson I still need to improve on is the ability to sense when I'm too emotional about something, when I need to let go of having expectations of others, when I need to release myself from the expectations others put on me,  when I need to remember that nobody is responsible for how I feel and what I do but ME. 

I'm deep in that right now, and its uncomfortable as hell. 

I have some decisions to make.  I can't make them lightly.  They affect my kids too, and therefore every move I make must center around how to make a bad situation as good as it can possibly be FOR THEM. 

And while I strive to protect them as much as I can, I still have to honor myself.  I have to stand up for myself.

And so I type and read and erase and reword and backspace, go back and reread, and I ponder.

Its hard to understand how we go from the harmony and ease of the holidays to the current state, but here we are.  One thing changed, I met someone, and I suspect that's the biggest factor affecting the events of the last few days.  Never underestimate how hard it is for your ex to see you move on, even if they already started dating months ago. 

Remembering to breathe

Tomorrow morning we have the first meeting of C''s team at school to discuss the results of his IEP testing and to hear the recommendations the school will make.  To find out whether they agree that he qualifies for services.  IF he qualifies for services, what interventions they will put in place.  And I'm really anxiety-laden about it.  The stomach-in-knots and sweaty palms kind of anxious.

When we had A's testing done, she had already been in an intervention program.  Instead of going into the mainstream kindergarten class, she went instead to a small classroom for kids from K to 2nd grade who had behavioral issues/learning disorders. The school was able to place her there because she had an IEP from New Jersey with diagnoses and recommendations for interventions.  But between some maturing, the help she got in her classroom, the medications and the therapies, she was doing much better by the time the school got around to doing their own testing on her.  So she wasn't qualified for an IEP by the school.  They didn't feel that she needed formal interventions to function, that her issues didn't provide a significant impairment to her ability to learn and to receive an appropriate education. 

I was new to the process, and I acquiesced. Caved to the "experts."  I wrote up a 504 plan for her, to provide her accommodations in the event that she did have issues, and so far things have gone well - but still, I wish I'd fought a little harder.  She's doing fine, really, but I think there would be tremendous benefit to her having learning assistance, extra tutoring, OT, additional help with behavioral adjustments.  She has difficulty focusing in school even with medication, and I know that she's not even close to living up to her learning potential.  But because there is no IEP, its up to me to provide all that she needs.  And I simply don't have the resources, financially, or time-wise to get OT, private tutors, etc.  Her meds wear off by dinnertime, and I'm not giving her more stimulants at night -- so homework just doesn't happen.  Its either a knock-down, drag-out fight to get her to do it -- or she does it, but she's all over the place and I know she's not getting anything out of it.  

Please don't take any of this to mean that I feel she's not an amazing, smart, talented, loving, creative and unique child.  Because she is all of those things, and more.  Every day I am blown away by my daughter, by her thoughts, her beauty, her maturity, everything about her.  I love her with every fiber of my being.  And I wish I could do more for her.

So tomorrow, I am already anticipating the worst.  I know, there's no reason that I should, but its one of those things I do.  I plan for the worst, hope for the best, and then if the worst should happen, I'm prepared.  Except when it comes to my children, when it comes to the one thing in the world I care the most about, I lose rationality.  I desperately want my son to get the things he needs, all the things he needs, not just the things I am able to provide him.  I need the school for that.  I know how impaired his functioning is in the classroom because of his issues.  He's not cognitively impaired, not by any means -- but without interventions, I fear he'll be one of those gifted children who end up dropping out of high school and climbing into that hell-bound handbasket, because he never got help to function in the school environment.  So I know more now than I did before, I am armed with better resources and information.  And I know which words to use and what to ask for.  What my rights are for appeal if we don't agree on what he needs.

I'm working hard to prepare myself to be calm, logical and rational.  Calm.  Logical.  Rational.  I can do that.  I can do that.  Now all I need is an infusion of optimism.  Tell me that its going to go well.  PROMISE me.  That all my anxiety and fear amounts to nothing.  Can you do that?

If you're the praying type, send a few up for my boy tomorrow.  If you're not, just spare him some good thoughts. 

Thanks.  I owe you.

 

Honor thyself

It is fifteen degrees out this morning.  As I type this, three horses lean up against the pasture fence, blowing steam from their nostrils, wondering why I haven't shown up with armfuls of hay yet.  Hang on boys, I'll get to you in a minute.  I have something to say first.

There are lots of things I don't write about in detail on this blog.  They're off limits.  And I really don't like it when people are coy and they tell you they're writing about something they can't really talk about.  And now I'm a hypocrite because that's sort of what I'm going to do right now.

You see, I've changed.  I'm not the person I was ten years ago.  I'm not the person I was five years ago.  I changed, and yesterday I proved it to myself.

One of the biggest problems with being codependent is an frightening tenacity when it comes to hanging on to something even when its totally not okay, and sometimes even when its literally destroying you.  I have hung on to people and situations in my life so hard that by the time they finally exploded, there were pieces of shrapnel and body parts found hundreds of miles away.  And of course, in that kind of aftermath, I'd be simply unable to function for weeks and months.

I am so proud of myself today, and so grateful for my recovery.  I know I still have a very long way to go, but when I am able to look at a situation in my life and say "this isn't the right situation for me" and simply step out of it, without anger and without blame, I can honestly say that I've made progress. And yesterday, I did just that.  I was sad, and it hurt, but for once the fear of dealing with my feelings didn't stop me from making the right decision for me.  For me and me alone.

Today, while we celebrate the things we are thankful for, this is going to be pretty damned near the top of my list. The top slots are reserved for the usual sappy things, my children, my family, all those things in life that I am so fortunate to have and should never take for granted.  Somewhere floating around in that list,though, is a box next to the phrase "One step farther away from bat-shit crazy."  And it is checked.

 

 

 

Conundrum at Amazon **UPDATED**

I was going to take a break from blogging today.  Actually, I was going to be at work, starting early, and wasn't going to have time for blogging today, but my poor sitter is in the ER after having a bad reaction to a new medication, and so I'm here with my kids, praying that she recovers quickly (and not just for selfish reasons).

Watching the sun turn the clouds pink in a deep blue early morning sky while I drink my coffee, I am chewing over yesterday's plethora of tweets and posts regarding Amazon's listing of a book written by a pedophile that apparently provides "advice" for other pedophiles on having (this really turns my stomach) "better" relationships with their victims and how to avoid being caught.  I say "apparently," because I am not going to read the book to see exactly what the author says, and I am not going to link to the page for the book because I don't wish to drive any more traffic to this guy, and I'm not even linking Amazon here, because I don't feel like sending them any more page hits today.  (They should be sending ME page hits in thanks for all the money I've thrown at them over the years, really.)

However.

This is one of those times where my morals and my convictions have a little tug of war with one another, and right now I'm not certain who is winning.

Background and context, for starters.  I've written about my birthmother and family.  I've actually submitted a piece to Violence Unsilenced that I compiled interjecting my own narrative with chunks of a manuscript that my sister Vicki sent me several years ago.  It is her own story of growing up with a stepfather who is a pedophile. At some point in the future, I hope, that piece will be published.

I have five siblings.  Four living.  I was given up for adoption, the rest of them were raised (using the term very loosely) by my birthmother. My sister was raped by her stepfather for the first time when she was around five years old. 

Here is what happened when she told her mother, in her own words:

She slapped me so hard across the face that I was knocked several feet backwards and fell to the floor.  She screamed at me, that I was a liar and sent me to my room.  I sobbed, hurting from the pain in my bottom and the pain in my heart, knowing that I was going to die.  He was going to kill me.  There was no one to stop him.  So I did what all good Christian girls did:  I prayed to God that I would die in my sleep before morning.

That was the longest night of my life.  Somewhere in the night I fell asleep.  When I woke up, the Monster was smiling down at me once more.  My heart was racing and I knew I was about to die and he just kept smiling.  He puts one hand on either side of my head holding me down by my long brown hair, and smiling the whole time, he said, ‘She didn’t believe you, she never will and if you ever try to tell again I will kill you.’  Then, like nothing ever happened, he walks to the door, opens it, and calmly says, ‘Breakfast is ready when you are.'

I had a younger brother.  I never met him.  He called me once, a few years ago and asked if we could meet. He was just out of prison and was looking for someone to give him a hand in getting back up on his feet. It was the only conversation I ever had with my brother. 

"I wish I could meet you, wish I could offer you some help, but I can't.  I have children."

He went to prison for raping a little girl.  While in prison he contracted HIV.  Look, I'm not stupid.  Statistically, the recidivism rate for men who molest boys is twice as high as for men who molest girls, but those statistics are based on convictions and not the actual number of crimes being committed, and who in hell could know what those statistics are? Who's to say my brother hadn't also molested boys?  And honestly, did it really matter?  I wasn't exposing my children to a convicted pedophile.  Period. 

Two years later, he died of complications from AIDS.  As sad as I feel for never having met my sibling, I still stand by my decision to protect my family.

Remember the incident back in 1993, when Ellie Nesler shot David Driver in the courtroom as he was being tried for raping her son?  She was my hero, then and now.  If anyone and I do mean ANYONE hurt one of my children, it would take more than a legal system to keep me from hurting that person.  I have no doubt whatsoever that I would kill to protect my kids.  As much as I believe in second chances, in following the law, in respecting our legal system, none of that reason could override the animal instinct that raises its head in me when I consider what I would do to someone who hurt my child.  I think I would be capable of just about anything, including violent murder.

So that's where I stand on pedophiles. Reason and logic don't apply.  Look, I know most pedophiles offend because someone hurt them when they were children.  I know they are mentally ill.  AND I DON'T CARE.  My reaction is visceral.  I am being as honest as I can here. 

As a mother, as a human being who believes that the death penalty is a suitable punishment for people who rape children, I want that book GONE.  OFF THE SHELVES.  I don't want to give Amazon another dime of my money so long as they will carry that kind of filth on their website. 

And then there's the other thing.  The part where I believe in the constitution and the right of free speech.  If Amazon can carry a book that teaches people how to make bombs, if I believe that our constitution also protects that kind of speech, then I have to agree that so long as that vile piece of filth that passes for a book contains nothing that falls within the legally defined boundary of child pornography, so long as it contains no evidence of someone actually committing a crime in its pages, so long as it is theory and not practice, then it may be published and sold.  We can't call for it to be burned or banned or torn into little tiny shreds and stomped on with manure-covered jackboots.

Can we?

I don't know.

I'm torn.

I was so proud when Google said they were going to pull out of China because China's policy on free speech was in direct opposition to the company's values and to the principles of democracy and freedom.  So disappointed when they caved in to the almighty dollar.

Should I be proud of Amazon if they take the logical and legal position that free speech is a protected right and that as a seller of books, they take no position on whether a book ought to be listed so long as it doesn't violate the boundaries of the law?

Or should I be proud of Amazon if, after reviewing the situation, decides that they will concede to the majority opinion of their customers (and the weight of the consumer dollar) and pull the book?

You tell me.  What do you think is the right thing for Amazon to do?

 **UPDATE**

Amazon has removed the book from their online catalog.  Good choice.

Two things to add. 

First:  My friend Drew shared a quote with me on FB that is now being added to my favorite quotes list:  “I have always been among those who believed that the greatest freedom of speech was the greatest safety, because if a man is a fool, the best thing to do is to encourage him to advertise the fact by speaking”
~Woodrow T. Wilson

Second:  There is a great discussion going on in the comments over at Adam Avitable's blog about this issues.   Come join in.

 

When helping isn't helping

I think its a given that dysfunctional relationships breed dysfunction.  Personality and past have a lot to do with the level of bad juju you start a relationship with, but the dynamics of the relationship develop over time and create lasting habits.

I wasn't always codependent.  There were years and relationships in my life where I didn't take responsibility for another human being's happiness or discontent, success or failure.  It occurs to me those relationships might not have been the healthiest or best, and so they ended eventually.  I can only remember one relationship in my past, though, where the mutual level of dysfunction matched the last 10 years of my life.  In my memory it seems to have been a very long term relationship, but in reality it was probably not that long at all, a few months or a year.  The habits I picked up from it have caused a lot of hurt to me and to other people, though.  It was when I met someone who was also codependent that those issues blew up into something worse than unmanageable.

(Interesting side note, I discovered last week that the man I dated for a short while back in the 1980's is still the #1 most wanted deadbeat parent in the state of New Jersey.  He owes over $54,000 in child support.  How awful is THAT?  Hey, at least I can say "I dated a guy who was Number One!")

One of the most harmful things I have done in my relationships is to continually try to "help" people.  In reality, what I did was enable people to be doing things that really weren't healthy or good for them.  I tried to fix things for them instead of letting them fix things themselves, thereby teaching them to be helpless.  I remember offering to be the stand-in for my ex and his ex because dealing with her was so upsetting to him.  It seemed like the right thing to do at the time -- I thought it would help him be less angry and upset, thereby killing two birds with one stone.  I would help him and myself at the same time.  How silly it was of me to presume to make decisions for him regarding his son, or to insert myself into a relationship that I had no business being part of.  I wasn't my stepson's parent, and I didn't have the right to be his father's voice in dealings with his mother.  I also hurt my ex by not allowing him to work through his issues in that relationship on his own; by helping him avoid the problem, I helped prolong and worsen it.  In short, I messed up, royally.

As I continue to recover I am trying to learn how to hear other people's problems without trying to fix them.  At first it seems cruel to let someone suffer, but over time it begins to feel more natural.  I can let somebody vent, let them know I hear how they are feeling, have empathy for what they are going through, but recognize that they are capable of managing their own lives and problems.  Its something I'm also trying to learn to do as a parent.

There are times when our children need something from us, something we ought to give them, and that is when it is helpful to them for us to provide assistance.   When they are babies, they need everything from us - without loving hands to feed, clothe, bathe and transport them, they would wither and die.  As they grow older, though, they need to learn how to do things for themselves.  It starts with simple things and over time encompasses the most complex decisions about who they are, what they believe, how they should handle their own affairs.

Today I got a call from my son's school.  He was in the nurse's office, crying inconsolably.  His sensory issues had kicked in and he couldn't stand the feel of his feet or his socks.  Rather than just take them off, he was having a downright fit about them.  He does this at home a lot.  Sometimes its the shoes or socks, other times its his pants or his shirt or his hair.   He'll be sitting doing something, and suddenly he'll begin shrieking and tearing at whatever item is causing the offense.  Its hard to know how to respond to these outbursts.  There's a big part of me that wants to do anything, anything at all to help him feel better.  Over time, though, I've seen that there's not a whole lot I CAN do.  If I try to help him with something he'll scream at me.  If I get upset because he's upset, I simply escalate him further.

I think the school nurse was really taken aback when I suggested to her that she simply leave him alone.  I can hear the thoughts spinning now, "Is she really that cold-hearted?  How could she suggest I ignore her son's crying?  How mean!"  The truth is, leaving him alone is the best thing I can do for him.  Because his issues aren't caused by the actual item of clothing in question but instead by his neurological response to stress and the smallest discomfort, I'm not helping him by sitting and cuddling him while he screams or even asking him what I can do for him, or trying to get him different socks or different pants.  What he needs is to be left alone, without any pressure from me, so that he can calm down and start to feel better.

I discovered this by accident on a day when I was busy getting ready for work.  He started flipping out about his hair, and I was so late that I couldn't do anything for him.  Didn't have time.  And so I just said as calmly and lovingly as I could, "I can't help you now.  You'll have to figure this out for yourself."  And eventually, he did.  My mother has seen the same thing happen at her house.  He'll start yanking on his shirt and screaming and she'll see if he's okay, and then say "Okay, that's enough,"  and walk away.  Sometimes it takes him longer than others, but eventually, he gets to feeling better and less anxious, and he pulls himself together.  The more we let him do this on his own, the better he gets at it.  I'm not going to lie and say that there are days when I'm already stressed out about other things that he goes off on a shriek bender that I don't feel like I'm losing my mind right along with my will to live, that there aren't days when I snap at him to please quit it right now fortheloveofgod!  Of course there are.   But he's getting better at it and so am I.  And so I learn, that sometimes the best way of helping someone is to not help them at all.  My son, he teaches me that.

In Sync

I used to row.

I did my college rowing at the University of Washington, Jan Harville was my novice coach and Bob Ernst was my varsity coach, back before he moved over to coach the men. (I hear he's coaching the women again now). 

After I graduated from college I took a couple of years' break from being a jock to invest more of my time into being a wastrel.  Inevitably, that too palled, and so I returned again to the world where your backsplash, your puddle, and your swing were all that mattered. 

Swing.

Swing is the sweet spot.  Its the orgasm of rowing.  Its where all rowers in the boat, all eight or four or two of them, hit the same rhythm on the slide, they come forward, drop oar, push back and finish each stroke simultaneously.  When swing happens, the boat just picks up out of the water and grows wings.  If you've felt swing, you'll never forget it.  One year at Seattle Rowing Club we entered both the eight and the fours at a four mile race in Fremont.  Our eight had some rigging problems before the start, and by the time we had the spacers set correctly, the field was twenty or better lengths ahead of us.  We rolled into the start and sort of simultaneously thought "screw it, we're behind, we've got nothing to lose, let's just row the shit out of this thing."  We just went with it.  By the third mile, we hit it.  SWING.  Before long, we were passing boats.  Leaving boats in the dust.  Swinging.  Flying.  We flew up the canal and by God we WON that race by open water. 

An hour later we did it again, in the fours.  We split the eight up into two boats.  The first four, with our stroke and all heavyweights, was heavily favored.  They got to use our club boat.  For the second four, it was me and three lightweights.  Our club didn't own a second four, so we borrowed one from another club, a heavy old wooden behemoth of a boat.  The four of us looked at each other and kind of laughed.  We had no expectation for this race.  We'd already poured our hearts out on a four mile race.  We were just hoping to have enough left in us to finish.

Inexplicably, it happened again. 

Swing.

Somewhere in that race we found the sweet spot and we flew home.  We won again. 

I don't remember too many details about the rest of that day, or anything else.  I just remember the swing.

***

When you ride, there's a thing you look for.  Its like swing, but I'm not even sure there's a word for it.  Its what happens when you start working together as one.  You have a thought in your head of what it is you want to accomplish, you transmit that thought through your hands and your seat and your legs, and your horse, all his muscle and his brain and his nerves, they act out your thought completely willingly.  Its as if he's an extension of your will, not because he's forced to, but because he wants to.

Yeah.

Saturday we took a horrendously awful never-to-be-repeated drive up mountain roads (just thinking about the dropoff right on the other side of the truck door gets my heart pounding in abject fear) to do an orienteering ride.

The night before, T-Bone smashed my nose with his head as he was jumping up on my bed.  I was up past 11 with ice and a towel trying to stop the bleeding and minimize the swelling.  I was up again at 4:30 with a headache and a painful face, trying to will myself to even want to go on this ride.

After we reached the trailhead (and I pried my fingernails out of the truck door), I wasn't expecting much.  I was exhausted but ramped up on anxiety and adrenaline (amazing how worrying about falling down a thousand-foot cliff will do that to you), my nose hurt, and you know when you feel miserable you typically transmit that straight through to your horse.

I took some time to relax and calm down, to put the drive up behind me.  To groom and saddle Bugs and walk him around a bit to loosen the long, bumpy ride out of his legs.  Belatedly I realized he'd thrown a shoe sometime in the week prior, but I was able to borrow a hoof boot from another rider. 

We started down the long initial trail.  It had rained the night before and where the dirt was hard-packed, the horses slipped and slid on their hind legs, trying to find a grip in the earth.  We made it through the first three objectives, and got to the fourth.  It was a camp area and as we were separating to check our orientation points to find the plate, Bugs started to get antsy about being even a few feet apart from his riding pal.  I took him and circled him a few times, let him move his legs and get his brain back into the game.  We finished the objective and headed off down the trail. Where it was not rocky, we trotted and loped to make up some time.  The last ride we'd done this, and Bugs had it in his head that he was in a big fat hurry.  I spent the last hour of that ride fighting him to stay collected and not go barging off into the sunset. 

But Saturday, even with challenges, we found our sync. He was collected.  He was patient.  He went where I asked him, he stayed where I asked him. He moved off the leg like a dream, he didn't spook or get scared even when we ran into four hunters on atv's.  He enjoyed the hell out of himself, and so did I.  We found the sweet spot that makes you want to get up on the horse again, over and over again, so you can get that all-over amazing feeling that comes when you have swing.

I guess I'm not done talking about this (Newt Gingrich sucks. Hard.)

A friend sent me an email this morning, one that I have declined to answer or forward. It contains a statement from Newt Gingrich from July of this year. 

Newt Gingrich's  statement reads, "There should be no mosque near Ground Zero in New York so long as there are no churches or synagogues in Saudi Arabia . "  It goes on to impute evil intent to the builders and supporters of the mosque and to imply that it is being built to create inroads in America for Muslim extremism.  For jihad.

Dear Newt Gingrich:  Of course there are no churches or synagogues in Saudi Arabia.  Saudia Arabia is not America.  We?  you and I?  We live in a democracy based on freedom and liberty.  We don't operate like Saudi Arabia because we are NOT Saudi Arabia.

We have a constitution that guarantees us freedom to practice (or not practice) any religion we choose.  In fact, Mr. Newton Leroy Gingrich, your own website, on the page devoted to Religious Liberty, states:

"Religious liberty in America is under assault. The secular socialist left – who hates the idea of an authority higher than the government - has used its domination of academia, the courts, and the media to twist the meaning of the first amendment from a right that protects religious liberty to prohibition on religious expression in the public square. The consequence of this campaign is that people of faith have been systematically marginalized in America through a sustained effort by the left to change our common culture and give secular values the authority of law."

Let me see if I understand this, Newt Gingrich.  You are implying here that the government should be protecting our First Amendment right to religious freedom.  And yet, your statement regarding a Muslim cultural center and Mosque at Ground Zero implies that you do not believe Muslim Americans are entitled to the same First Amendment rights as you and I. 

The moment you request that any local or federal government block the building of a mosque in America, you are in effect demanding that we violate the First Amendment. 

What happened on 9/11 was horrific, unbelievable, tragic.  The people who were in those towers were of every race and religion.  I'm not sure if people are even aware than in the Twin Towers, on the 17th floor of the South Tower, there was a room set aside as a prayer room for Muslims.  That's right, a prayer room for Muslims.  Observant Muslims, not jihadists, who happened to be in the towers going about their work just like everyone else, who died or managed to escape with their lives when the terrorists attacked and the towers fell.

I was in the final weeks of my first pregnancy on  September 11th.  I was working for an insurance company in Neptune, NJ, and my manager's husband was on the 104th floor of the South Tower.  She did not know until after 3PM on that terrible day whether he had lived or died.  He survived, though many did not.  J was also working for the same company, and until the company released us to go home, I spent most of the day going back and forth between my floor and his, to see if Kim had heard anything about her husband and then going to give and receive hugs from my husband because I could. 

I hate the terrorists who planned and carried out the attacks in New York and Washington DC on September 11th.  I cannot understand the mind and thinking of any person who hates another person or a group of persons so much that they would give their own lives to see them dead.  But whether I hate them, whether I believe they were wrong, whether I think that anyone who carries out a terrorist act should die for their crimes (I do), I am still capable of separating jihadists from peaceful Muslims.  Just as I am capable separating Catholics from people like Timothy McVeigh, Christians from people like James Kopp, Scott Roeder and others like them. 

The anti-Muslim rhetoric in this country has risen to a terrible screech.  It calls to mind the McCarthyism of the late 1940's and 1950's:

Remember our treatment of Japanese Americans during WWII?  We are still making reparations for that. 

Hate rhetoric is disabling this country piece by piece.  There is no logical, lawful reason for it, and yet it continues.  If it is not toned down, if the people who are spreading this hate like a black poisonous cloud over our airwaves and on our street corners do not stop, I fear it will take root and rise up like some awful, tentacled Beast from hell, taking what is left of our humanity right along with it. 

I have not responded, cannot respond to the email I received this morning.  The person who sent it to me is someone I care for, she is the close relative of someone I care for even more.  I don't want to have this argument with her.  It is heartbreaking to think that someone I know and like can even think about participating in this campaign of hate and lies.  But there it is.  People I know, people I even like, they may think this way.  I could weed them out of my life, but would I just be closing my eyes and ears to what exists?  Or is there some way that I can reach out to them, not in anger but in love, not in the arrogant belief that I can change them, but in the hopeful optimism that the God I believe in, who loves us all, who cares for each and every person in His creation as if they were his own child, that maybe He can reach them, even if I can't?  Maybe.

I keep wondering when God is going to come and save us from ourselves.  Soon, please.

Reparations

"I don't want to spend my whole life down on my knees

Just fixing what I've broke."

- Hem, The Pills Stopped Working from Funnel Cloud, 2006

What are your regrets in life? What are the things you did in your past that hurt another person that they either never forgave you for or for which you never made amends?  You know, the unresolved ones.

When I left my first husband there was no awful thing that he'd done wrong, no infidelity (on his part), no lying, no abuse, nothing.  I went through a lifequake of epic proportions when I found my birthfamily and pretty much fell off a cliff.  I didn't want anything to do with anyone, didn't want to work, didn't want to be married, didn't want to have majored in English, wanted my whole life back so I could do it over and be who I finally thought that I was.  The best I could do was end what I came to realize was a marriage of incompatible people and try again. 

In retrospect, I was incredibly selfish and immature.  Maybe we *were* incompatible, but how would I know?  I didn't try.  I believe he will never forgive me for it.  I don't believe he has to.  Its not a requirement.  And I also believe there is nothing in this world that I can do to make amends for shattering his life.  I can apologize.  I can say it was all my fault, that he did nothing wrong.  But I can never, ever fix it.

Should I have to?

12 years later, he sends me an email to let me know the dog we had together has passed away, as he did last year when one of the cats died.  And I let him know about a mutual friend who passed.  We are polite, we don't ask questions or talk of personal things, but at least we are polite.  There is no meanness, no need to dredge up painful pasts.  I'm comfortable with that.

I remember a friend I had, she was a very needy friend and very controlling.  We had entered a contest together, the Milk Carton Derby during Seafair.  We didn't win the judging, but we did win a random drawing for two tickets on Continental Airlines, anywhere they flew domestically.  For me, it was great timing.  I was planning on going to Boston with my rowing club to compete in the Head of the Charles.  I wasn't sure how I would be able to afford to get there, so this ticket was like a gift straight from God.  My friend, though, thought that we should use our tickets to go somewhere TOGETHER.  I offered a compromise, I would take extra vacation days while in Boston and after the race was over, she and I could do some touring around New England.  It would be in the fall, the best time of year to be in the Northeast. 

My mother's cousin's widow lived in Boston, in a very fine old neighborhood, in an enormous house.  It was three full stories with a basement, she came from old money.  She very generously offered her home to me and any of the other rowers who needed a place to stay. 

My friend wasn't interested in this shared housing, and she tried to find herself a hotel room in Boston.  She could not find any hotel that wasn't already booked.  She called me, angry and demanding a solution.  I said I hadn't realized that so many people would be in town for the race, maybe she wanted to change her mind and stay at my relative's house?  She SHRIEKED at me.  "People aren't in town for your FUCKING RACE, you idiot, they're there for a convention.  Your stupid race isn't that important!!  And no, I don't want to stay at your cousin's house with a BUNCH OF FUCKING DYKES!!!!"  And hung up on me.

She never spoke to me again.  I left her a couple of half-hearted messages, hoping to patch things up, but she never returned my calls, and frankly it was a relief.  (And just for the record, I had a WONDERFUL time in Boston.  We took a silver medal in the women's 8, and a couple of us rented a car and drove to Vermont and did a bunch of sightseeing and had a wonderful vacation. SO THERE.)

I have wondered about her since then, whether she still hates me.  What she would say if we just randomly ran into one another at the grocery store or at a restaurant.

Would she expect me to fall on my knees and apologize?  Would I want to?  

I wouldn't expect it of her, even though I thought her behavior was horribly rude and selfish.  She probably thought that I was the one being selfish.  And rude.  I think where the disconnect happened was that she had very high expectations of me, expectations I wasn't going to fulfill.  That was the beginning of a painful breach that has never healed.

Another person comes to mind, a man who, though I didn't date him for long, was a big part of creating the codependent monster I eventually became.  He was an alcoholic, much older than me.  In the months that we were together, I became unbalanced as I tried to fix him, control him.  The relationship was one of the worst in my life.  He was always at the bar, drinking.  He never came home when he said he would.   He would pick on me for my clothing or my weight or my hair.  I was never good enough.  He cheated on me.  He gave me an STD.  After I finally grew the ovaries to throw all of his belongings in black plastic garbage bags and put them in his car, I spent years being furious with him.  I wanted him to SEE how wrong he had been.  To acknowledge it.  TO GROVEL ON THE GROUND AND BEG MY FORGIVENESS.  To change. 

The things that went wrong with J and I, for a while I did the same thing.  And even when he owned his part in things, I still felt unsatisfied.  I was still angry and I wanted someone to PAY.  To grovel.  To fix what they had broken.

As time passes, I realize that I do not have that right.  A person can only apologize for what they own as a wrong.  If there are reparations to be made, if they have the ability to make them, ok.  But most often, in friendships and interpersonal relationships, there is nothing the other person is going to be able to do that makes you feel better.  That part, the getting over the anger part, that's up to ME.  And damn, that's harder than hell to do.  To stop expecting people to fix the broken thing in me.   Its happening, though.  I think I'm starting to understand the concept of accepting responsibility for my own repair.  At the same time, learning to stop being endlessly angry with the people I feel have hurt me.  Being mad isn't going to make them admit their offenses.  Being mad isn't going to make them sorry.  I need to let it go, write it on a piece of paper and burn it in the fireplace.  Cry my tears and let the river flow away, taking my pain and anger and hurt with it.

Because I too would like the forgiveness of others.  I dont' want to, cannot, spend my whole life groveling for forgiveness, trying to fix the broken parts of other people.  Its not my job.

Someday, I think, if I work on this hard enough, I really will know peace.  Someday.