Worth of Wealth

There were complications.

Like with anyone, my history is full of them. It began with my mother. She was born into a small town family in Corinth, MS. She was the last of three kids (the first two, boys) and was the light of her mother’s life.

They were your typical upstanding southern family. Poor, but they loved each other enough to make up for what was missing. That all changed when she turned two years old. Her mother’s life ended suddenly when she developed Cancer, and after a tough battle, lost. My mother’s father found her as a reminder of the partner that he loved so dearly, and since he had no idea what to do with a young girl, he sent her to live with her aunts and grandmother.

As a child, my mother grew up in a home with cracks in the floor so large that you could see the chickens pecking the ground underneath. During the winter, they would layer five or six hand sewn blankets over the beds to keep warm.

Her grandmother would fold the blankets down as she climbed quickly into bed. The draft from the floor was cold on her child sized feet, and she didn’t have extra socks to wear. When her grandmother tucked her in, the blankets settled around her like a mold. Her body stayed in one position the entire night through, unable to move from the weight of the covers.

When she would awaken the next morning, there would be a thin layer of snow across her blanket and the floor, carried in from a flurry the night before. She would wiggle her body back and forth until she managed to break free from the heavy restraint.

Around the age of seven my mother went back to live with her father. He remarried, and it was about that age that most young women in the south began to help take care of the household. She would help his new wife with the cleaning and cooking. They also picked cotton for local farmers to put food on the table. She would pick from 5 a.m until noon, and then her step-mother would let her take a nap on the rough burlap bag full of cotton that she drug along behind her in the fields for an hour or so. Whe she awoke she would help pick until nearly dark.

His new wife was a sweet woman, however his angst and sadness kept him from letting her get close with his children. Although my mother longed for the love and adoration of a female figure, what she got was relief from the full weight of household chores.

As a young girl, she had to wear clothes that her step-mother made out of large flour sacks. They were cloth, and often had prints of stripes or flowers on them. People often used them for their Sunday’s best.

During her teenage years she began to feel restless, so when she graduated early from high school she sprinted for the county line. She considered college, but got a wild hair and ran off to Myrtle Beach where she tasted freedom for the first time. She was a woman born under a wandering star and that is exactly how she acted. Traveling place to place, paycheck to paycheck she experienced a life that she never knew existed.

She worked as a desk clerk at a hotel, and on her lunch hour she would run across the street to the beach, her bikini on underneath her uniform just to watch the waves crash onto the sand. That same hotel is where she met Patrick Swayze. That same town is where she danced with the lead singer of Alabama.

In her early twenties her father became sick. Although she had a passion for adventure and travel, she also had a calling for care giving and a dedication to family. As a child when she would find stray animals with wounds and injuries, she would bring them home to her grandmother who would help her patch them up and nurse them back to health. They did this despite the fact they could barely afford to support themselves.

Her father told her constantly that she should become a nurse, but she had other plans. Those plans were disrupted when she received the call to come home. He might not make it. When she returned, the town was as small as ever before. She was wild and restless. Although she took care of her father, she also made her rounds through the few local bars, enjoying herself along the way. I always saw my mother growing up as a saint, one who cared for everyone and always knew the right things to say. I knew nothing of the woman, who bar hopped until 2 am before she landed herself at a local diner for a sobering cup of coffee. This woman was foreign to me, but there she was. At age twenty-two my mother sat in a small booth, her high heels on the table yelling back at the cook.

“Carol, make me two eggs and some bacon.” She would say, with her feet kicked up in the seat beside her, flexing her toes that had been stuffed into make-shift dancing shoes minutes before.

Two county officers walked into the diner and sat a few feet away from her. After a few minutes of listening to my mother recap her evening of betting the local football players she could out-drink them, and winning, one of the officers approached her.

“Evening ma’am.”

“Morning.” She replied.

“That your car outside?”

“Sure is.”

“And you’re driving it?”

At this point most people would be sweating profusely, certain of their mistake and soon to be doom. Not my mother.

“That’s usually what I do with a car. Yes.”

Wow, mom. Wow.

“Little Lady, It just so happens I have a place for you to spend the night.”

I would have been in tears.

“No Sir. I’m not going to jail.”

Let’s take a second to recap. My mother, check. Police Officer, check. Driving after drinking, check.

The Police Officer looked at her, and patted the gun on his hip.

“As long as I have this, you’ll go wherever I tell you to.”

His partner was sitting in the booth behind him amused at my mother’s sassy attitude. I’m sure they didn’t run into many young women like her. She was a free spirit with a Devil-May-Care attitude. Like a flash my mother reached out and snatched the officer’s gun from his holster. In one swift motion she had it in her hand, dangling it in front of his face. His eyes huge.

“But officer, you don’t have it. I do.”

In this day and age the officers would have tackled her to the ground. Arrested her, and probably charged her with a felony if not beat her with everything in sight. The consequences have to be pretty heavy for taking an officer’s gun. Instead, his partner busted out laughing. The Officer’s cheeks grew a deep shade of red, as he took the gun back from her grasp.

“I’ll tell you what, young lady. I’ll follow you out of town, and if you swerve even once, I’m taking you in.”

Her response?

“I’ll tell YOU what. I’ll follow YOU out of town, and if you don’t swerve, I won’t.”

The Police escorted her to the county line. She made it safely home, and while she is the first to tell you that driving that night was the worst mistake she could have made (because she, nor I condone drinking and driving) it has helped her understand that we don’t always make the best decisions.

I think that’s one of the reasons that she is so open to my wandering heart. I’m a little wild. A little reckless. In college I didn’t always make the best decisions, but my mother loved me unconditionally. She knew that I was young, and over time I would learn my own lessons.

After her father died, my mother entered nursing school. Ironic isn’t it? She waited until he was gone to do the thing he told her to all along. By that time she had been married once and divorced, and it was also around that time that she met my father. She clung to him during her emotional instability. She had a very difficult time with her father’s death, and found comfort in the arms of my dad. Unfortunately he was probably the last man her father would want her to be with.

He was young and wild as well. A skinny man with long dark hair. A crooked smile, and charm for days. They loved hard, and fought harder. Not just petty arguments, but with anger so strong that it hurt. They were a terrible pair, but the passion was intense. At this point he already had my sister by another woman, and was fighting for custody. My mother married him to help facilitate that battle.

Long story short she became pregnant. She was still in nursing school, and now preparing for her first born child as well. The fights became worse. My father was a wanderer, and stepped out a time or twelve. They fought day in and day out. He even often picked fights before big test days, just to watch her fail.

Three months before graduation, she went into labor.

Since she had been doing her clinicals and such at the local hospital, she knew all of the staff. They opened up two delivery rooms, just so they could hold all of the people who came to my grand entrance to this world. In my first few moments of life, I would be a local celebrity.

The only person who wasn’t there, was the one who ought to be. My father walked out of the delivery room hours before I was born leaving my mother to go through labor alone. According to my mother he ran off to Alabama with another woman. He got a job down there in construction “to support the family” leaving my sister and I behind.

 My “grandmother” (the one who now has Alzheimer’s) and her husband were there. My mother’s friends . All of the hospital staff. Someone even videotaped the whole thing (but the tape burned years later in a fire). As it came closer to time for her to give birth, the doctor noticed that there was… a complication. As I said. My life has been full of them. The umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck cutting off the circulation to my brain. The doctor would have to do an emergency C-section. After 36 hours of labor, my mother’s life was at risk as well.

During the C-section, the doctors knife slipped, cutting to deep. It went into the back of my skull, leaving an inch long scar for me to remember him by. Within my first few seconds of life on earth, I was in critical care getting stitches. It was just a preview of many years to come.

We both survived. My mother carried me every day to class (she was back in school three days after labor). My first three months alive, I spent going to school. My mother thinks this is why I have such a passion for learning. I think that I just get bored.

She graduated, and a week later was in her first nursing position. My father sent home twenty-five dollars a week. That was supposed to care for both my sister and I, my mom, and provide gas as well as pay the bills. One hundred dollars a month…

I didn’t find this out until I was nearly grown. I had no idea why my mother hated him so much. Why they weren’t together. I couldn’t understand why we couldn’t all be a happy family. My mother couldn’t afford to take care of us. She made the hardest decision of her life. I still cry when I think about it.

She took my sister to live with her grandmother on her birth-mother’s side. My mother says to this day that it’s the worst decision she ever made. She relives that moment over and over trying to think of other ways that she could have kept us both and survived. She’s still trying to figure it out.

Friends and family members would drop off old cans of vegetables that they weren’t using, so my mother’s dinner usually consisted of half a can of beans. She would save the other half for the next day. Living off of one meal a day, and still trying to feed me was nearly impossible. There is no way she could have fed my sister as well.

I feel guilty sometimes. I feel as if it’s my fault. If I hadn’t come along my mother could have kept my sister. She could have had a different life. Instead she was dropped off; much like my mother had been, at an early age.

It took me a long time to realize the struggles that my mother faced. The hardships that she endured. I am amazed at what an incredibly strong woman she is, and blessed to have her in my life. I still don’t know everything that she went through. How could I? I wasn’t there. I’m sure that there is a lot that she still hasn’t told me to protect me from the guilt and pain. It’s something you might want to think about before you assume that your parents or family don’t “understand” what you’re going through. You might not really understand what they went through either.

I’m certain that there isn’t a person on this planet whose mother loved them more than mine does. We obviously survived. My parent’s separated. My father stayed gone for the first two years. It was my mother and I against the world. Maybe that’s why she is so supportive now. It’s always been the two of us, and we faced whatever came our way. I wish I could say I’ve helped her as much as she’s helped me, but I’ll never be able to repay her.

My father came to my first birthday party. He was there long enough to rub cake in my face, which caused a severe allergic reaction. Apparently I was allergic to eggs. Great start right? We didn’t really see him again until I was around two years old.

Now my father isn’t a bad guy. So far everything you’ve heard has been from my mother’s perspective, and while I’m sure it’s all true to some extent, again I wasn’t there (well I was for part of it, but an 11 month old has a limited perspective). I know that both of my parents were stubborn and very, very proud. My mother says that my father didn’t want the responsibility, and my father and I have never really talked about it. I haven’t been able to face that conversation. I suppose I’m afraid of the answer I’ll find. It became so easy to hate him. It made sense. My mother was my rock, and he hurt her. He hurt me. However, the older I get, the more I learn and the less black and white I see it as. As far as the opinions f others, this is one of those things that I can be as angry with him as I want, but if anyone else says anything bad about him I become very defensive. I know that he loves me. And he and I have even begun to work on our relationship.

My sister told me recently that my father tried to see me occasionally, but my mother wouldn’t let him since he left us. When I was two, he began seeing another woman. Usually most people see this new lady as a bad thing, however she was the best thing that ever happened to my father. She encouraged him to take care of my sister, and to make me a part of his life. She would make him pick me up every other weekend to spend time with me. If he was working, then she would pick me up so I could spend time with my sister. I don’t remember much about that time in my life, but I do remember this.

My father had an apartment in Corinth. I was there with my sister. She didn’t really like his new girlfriend yet, so she gave her a hard time. I did everything my sister did because she was my idol, so I was sort of a brat myself.

We wanted to skate in our new roller blades, but it was raining outside so we were sitting in the apartment complaining about nothing to do. During that time we didn’t have I-Pads, Facebook, Angry Birds or Twitter to consume our time. We had to do things the old-fashioned way. Playing in dirt, rough housing with the dog or drawing was about the extent of our possible activities.

 My dad’s girlfriend (we can call her Kim) wanted what every woman in her position wanted; which was for the kids to like her. She did the unmentionable. She broke our fathers rule of “No skating in the house” so she could be the “fun girlfriend”.

As we skated room to room, she chased after us with a wet washcloth scrubbing up the black marks we left behind on the tile. After having babysat many times, and knowing the effort that goes into an activity like that, I now realize what a saint she was. There’s no way I would do that for my little brothers, and I’m the “fun sister” who breaks rules that my parents won’t. I do it because of Kim. I do it because I know that when they’re older, there is a possibility that it’s something they just might remember. That they might have a fond memory of me.

She really was the “fun girlfriend.” In fact she was also the “long term girlfriend.” She was with my father until I was sixteen. I still refer to her as my step-mom, because that’s what she was to me, even though they never married.

He never really grew up while they were together and made a series of mistakes. She finally left him, which I can understand. I actually wanted her to… But that’s a story for another day.

I was born partially deaf in my left ear. I have hearing loss in my right ear from numerous earaches as well, but the right ear isn’t nearly as bad. It actually comes and goes, depending on whether or not I have fluid built up behind my eardrum. I have had tubes in my ears since I was around the age of two. I am also legally blind in my left eye. I can see large sections of color, but can’t register definition. I can’t read with it or tell you how many fingers you are holding up. When my right eye is closed, the world is a big colorful blur. Despite those hindrances (they are not disabilities, I have managed just fine) I was smart for a child. I held adult conversations. I was very creative, and imaginative. I was also very sensitive. My heart was bigger than my body. Everything affected me. I “felt” emotions that most adults couldn’t grasp. I understood things well beyond my years. I loved unconditionally. This would get me in a lot of trouble as I got older.

I have had a lot of close calls… One of those came around the age of five. I was riding my bicycle, complete with training wheels through the apartment parking lot with my sister. Since she was so much older, she raced ahead on a ten-speed. We turned the corner behind our house and I got off balance. We weren’t exactly in the prime living area of Corinth, and there was trash and litter on the side of the road. Despite my training wheel assistance, I tipped over. When my tender wrists connected with a large beer bottle it slit it open, gashing them nearly to the bone. It took my sister a few minutes to realize where the screams were coming from. They were coming from me.

She ran to me. Barely fifty pounds, she drug me to our doorstep, banging on the door for Kim to open up. I laid there in a pool of my own blood. The entrance was stained for years.

When Kim came to the door, she nearly fainted. She carried me to the bathroom and laid me in the bathtub. I can actually still remember brief seconds, like photographs stamped into my brain of her hovering over me. Tears streaming down her face she called 911. When she called my father, he was closer than the ambulance, so he came home and lifted me in to the back seat. It’s a miracle I survived. There was so much blood.

I made it to the hospital, and they stitched me up. I was back to normal in a matter of days, but to this day when people see the scars across my wrist they stare…

I’m sure many people assume that I tried to kill myself. They sit in the perfect spot and reflect each other, but the truth is I have never felt that hopeless. At least not hopeless enough to try. It has crossed my mind… But again, a story for another day. I love life far to much to end my own. My heart aches for those who consider suicide a realistic possibility.

When my mother remarried, I longed for a father who loved me as much as I loved him. Someone who was proud of me. Who wanted me. Instead, I got Jake. He is a good man, but a had a lot of growing to do.

Understand that as I write this all, it is difficult. I know that it is possible that at some point the people I write about will see the words I’ve written. My biggest concern is that I will hurt them with what I’ve said. That is never my intention. My intention is to relate to someone else hoping I can help. Not only am I putting these words in print, but I’m sharing them with the world. On one hand it makes me feel a little nauseous. Absolutely vulnerable.

 The only thing that helps me put them on paper is that I feel like once I do, it will help me move on. That, and if even one person relates and finds comfort in feeling a little less alone, it will be worth whatever I face in the future.

 I’ll admit that I’m still angry. I’m no saint. The things that I have been through hurt like hell, and I often found them to be unfair. I’ve also made my share of mistakes that I plan to share. The truth is though, that everyone, everywhere is going through something, and maybe the reason I’ve dealt with so much, is because “God” is preparing me for something much bigger. He is making me tough. I can only appreciate his preparation, and trust that there is a reason.

Jake was a “Good Ol’ Southern Boy”. Opposite from my father in almost every way. Their size and shape are fairly relative, but the similarities stop there. Jake and my mother met in the E.R. My mom helped care for his mother, who had open heart surgery. As his family sat and waited to hear that she would be ok, my mother said she felt a connection. It wasn’t immediate, but he asked her to share a cigarette with him and they sat outside talking. (Ironic considering smoking is horrible for your heart. We still argue about this dirty habit. They both smoke like a chimney and I hate it.) He was sweet, and kind. He made her smile, and ultimately he was ok with children. In fact he had two of his own.

A family. That is what my mother saw. A chance for me to have a father, and be a part of a real family. What she didn’t know is that the family we were getting into had some serious problems of it’s own.

They married after a few short months. The changes started taking place almost immediately. The man who once helped do the dishes, and cook dinner then became the man who would refuse to eat his dinner if it was on the table a few minutes late.

My mother fried chicken once, and he told her he wouldn’t eat it. He wanted hamburgers instead. After all, his mother made him whatever he wanted. In fact his mother did everything for him, and every other person in the family. That was a woman’s job. (They wondered why she was having heart trouble to begin with.) Well. If you recall the woman that my mother is, she told him that he could kiss her ass and threw the frying pan out the back door. If he wanted dinner he could cook it himself.

In a lot of ways he tamed her, but in others she opened his eyes. After all, he had never eaten at a restaurant by the time she came along, and had never been outside a 75 mile radius. His parents didn’t even have indoor plumbing and that was in 1994. They were what I like to call “The Original Hillbillies”, only there was nothing Beverly about them.

I was different from them. Especially the children.  I consistently had a book in my hands. I loved to learn. I loved school. What I didn’t love was his children. I tried, Lord knows I did.

His daughter Jamie, was a year and a half older than me, and my polar opposite. She was blonde haired and blue eyed. Chubby cheeked, and significantly larger. She liked watching television and eating anything fried with ketchup. From as early as I can remember, she was boy crazy. My step-father made jokes as early as age nine that I was a lesbian, because I didn’t share her obsession. We had a severe love hate relationship. Mainly she loved to hate me.

She and her brother didn’t want me there. For a short time, she lived with her mother (who was known for her addiction and involvement with drugs) and when my mother realized what was going on, she demanded that Jake take her full time. That was one more thing that Jamie resented my mother for. Derek, the boy who was about six years older than me lived with Jake already, and soon our single wide trailer in Olivehill became very crowded.

Like I said. I was different. I spoke differently. I dressed nicely. I hated to be dirty, unless it was on my own accord. I loved being outside, but didn’t like to be incessantly filthy. The two of them often looked like they were afraid of water. Getting them to bathe was like pulling teeth. The boy especially.

He was much larger as well. Three helpings at dinner time was an average, and something he had been accustomed to since an early age. Their lifestyle prior to my mother, would easily be considered as neglect, despite the fact that their father did love them. Like I said, he left the childcare to his mother, and worked at the lumberyard. When he came home he went hunting or toyed around on his tractor. Whatever manly activity he felt like doing at the time. His mother had a lot of responsibility, and frankly they just didn’t understand the importance of hygiene. They had never been taught to. They were also left in the hands of his sister.

She deserves a chapter of her own, but I’ll give you a brief synopsis. Even as I say these words, I flinch. Janice is the type of woman, who would actually consider killing me if she read them. I wish that I was exaggerating, but I’ll try to paint you a realistic picture. She is a very large woman with a fear of bathing as well. She has no teeth, a flattened mullet and a less than cheery disposition. Her activities include sitting on the front porch, eating and playing video games. She has only held one job for as long as I can remember and it lasted for less than a few months. She has two children of her own (both by distant cousins). They did manage to step into the world of technology after my mother encouraged a bathroom into the home, but that was through a check from the state. She still lives with her parents (granny passed away February of last year, rest her soul. She was a good woman. Simple, but good.) And overall, she is considered the head of the household. She cares about no one but herself, but doesn’t even really care for herself or she would strive for a better life.

Let me take a moment and tell you again that this is difficult for me. On one hand, I’m nervous about the reactions that I’ll get from my readers. I’m nervous about the people who will see. I’m nervous. But I’m no longer ashamed. Where I come from is not necessarily who I am. While I have learned from all of my experiences, it has been mostly that I have learned who and how I don’t want to be. There are a lot of very sad people in this world. Sad people of different sorts. There are people like Jakes family who are poor and while they might not be able to afford to live better, they don’t care, and their lives reflect that. They are poor, and uneducated. They don’t try to get out of the vicious cycle of poverty. They choose to spend their money on things like cigarettes and playstations, when they could as easily invest in an associate’s degree.

The truth is they don’t want to. They are content living off of welfare or disability. They are content being poor and lazy, versus actually applying effort towards a better life. Jake is not one of them. He is a very hardworking man. His father worked too, up until the point of his disability and his mother cared for everyone and everything. If anything she died from exhaustion. The others however, are capable of doing better and simply refuse. Jamie is following in the same footsteps. Janice’s daughter, while she is going to school is turning out much like her mother. In a matter of days she will have her first child. She has no intentions of getting out. Life is far to easy when you don’t have to try, despite the outcome. I hope she changes. I hope she offers her child more than that life.

There is also another type of “sad people” that I will cover more about at a later date. These are people who are wealthy, and have everything materialistic that their heart could ever desire, but emotionally they will never be content.

The goal of life isn’t to be wealthy, or to be poor. The goal is to be happy. If you are broke, and suffer daily because you can’t afford the necessities, then you’re not happy. Your route to happiness is likely through a passion. What drives you? What are you good at? What do you love and how do you make it work for you? Does your happiness involve an education or a tech school? Some sort of training or professional guidance? Likely.

Here’s the point. If you want a better life, you have to MAKE ONE. Don’t expect things to happen just because you want them to, or think they should. Good things don’t come to those who wait. Good things come to those who work for them and chase after them persistently.

It isn’t selfish to want a better life than the one that you have if you want it for the right reasons. My mother wanted a better life for me than she had as a child, and despite some of the things I went through, in many ways she gave me that. I never went hungry, I never had to wear a bag to school. I was able to play sports, and go to college. She helped me pursue my dreams. She gave me life. On day, I will do the same for a child of my own.

I hope that this post has a point for you. I hope that you find something in it. I went a little deeper than I expected to honestly. As I sit here quietly at my kitchen table, I read this post and I can see the direction in which my blog is going. I’m scared. This is my life. These are the intimate details of my childhood that I am laying bare for the world to see. I feel that it is only fair to share the bad with the good. It would be wrong of me to tell you all of the wonderful stories about my mothers support without telling you some of her struggle. To tell you about how great everything has gotten, without telling you how bad that it has been. The truth is no one is perfect. We all have flaws. While I am now a confident and empowered young woman, I was once a weak and helpless child, trapped by my own guilt and fear. In many ways I still am. I am trying to correct that now.

I refuse to continue to carry the secrets of others. I refuse to be shamed by my own secrets. I have nothing to hide. I have nothing to be ashamed of, because this is life. We live and we learn. We laugh, we cry, we feel love and pain. We grasp for the acceptance of others, when really all we need is to accept ourselves. You’re the one that has to look at yourself in the mirror each day, and as long as you can do that then you are wealthier than most people will ever know. Sadly there are people in this world who despise themselves. They despise what they feel, who they are and what they’ve done.

It is time to forgive yourself. It’s time to forgive others, and learn to love again. Start with yourself. So many people search for someone to love them, but you will never find a relationship based on secrets that is successful. You will never find someone to love you if you cannot love yourself.

Finally, nothing is ever as it seems. Don’t ever assume. When you can, show compassion. Share love. As badly as you hurt, and as difficult as the pain is that you feel you never know who is going through the same thing, or something far worse. All the days that you long for a kind word, a hug or a friendly smile just remember that someone out there is probably wishing for the exact same thing. Please extend your happiness. Share with them the love that you long to feel. If everyone practiced this method, then you too would be on the receiving end, and one day just might be.

Until then,

Remember Me, I’m Tennessee. <3

I Will

The sun rises slowly, peeking through the blinds.

I take a breath, uncertain of my surroundings.

I am safe. I am home.

Home is where the heart is and my heart is on my sleeve.

Home is wherever I rest my head.

Born beneath a wandering star, I stay until I’m gone.

I long to try, but try too long and then it’s over.

I wash my face, rinsing the night from my eyes.

Cleansing away the nightmares that linger.

The tears that are dried to my cheeks.

I stare into the mirror.

I see who I’ve been. I see who I am. I see who I’ll become.

I start the coffee.

It drips into the pot like experiences in my life.

One by one.

Filling me up. At maximum capacity I’ll pour them out.

Only to enjoy them for the moment and start over. Fresh.

I take a breath.

Happy to be alive inside.

Happy to be free.

Happy to be.

My heart still aches.

Something is still missing.

I fear that I’ll never find it.

Then I remind myself how silly that is.

You don’t find your purpose.

You create it.

I’m a very creative person.

All I need is to decide.

Whatever I want, it lies at the tips of my fingers.

Tangible.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt this.

So long since I’ve felt.

It’s been so long.

But here I am.

Alive.

Happy.

Me.

Here I am. A product of my own faith.

Absolutely certain that I will be whatever I’m supposed to be.

Whatever I want to be.

Wherever I want to be.

I have only a few stipulations.

I will be honest.

I will be kind.

I will be happy.

I will be me.

There are no exceptions.

I will settle for nothing less.

Nothing less than what I deserve.

I would expect nothing less than that from those who I love.

If loving me does not fall under those categories, I would expect we would not love.

Another day in which I go out and live fully.

Filling this life with fantastical hopes, dreams, memories and miracles.

I expect they’ll all come true.

And when I lay down tonight, I will dream a sweet dream.

A sweet dream of today.

Because in my days, I find bliss.

Only the night is dark.

Regardless… I’ll shine.

You + She = Me

Light peeks in under the edge of the doorway.

Heat resonates around my eyes.

The tears that spill softly,

I’m certain are near a boil.

My heart.

It beats slowly.

And echoes the truth that is still, you’re gone.

That simple smile.

Those dark brown eyes.

You used to be so happy. 

You used to be so… you.

Always laughing.

Always.

And now she replaces you…

This girl.

Those same brown eyes, darker though.

Deeper.

They have seen pain.

They’ve seen the things that made you so naïve.

She is still good.

I still love her.

But there are things about you that I miss.

Like how your love was effortless.

How your heart was pure.

I miss your enchantment with the world.

Are you still out there?

Are you ok?

Is it possible that maybe I’ve overlooked you?

Occasionally she reminds me of you.

I hear you in her voice.

It almost sounds the same.

There’s a slight quiver that tells me she’s different.

Your confidence never shook.

Certain.

So sure.

But maybe she will get there.

Maybe she will learn.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

She tries.

I see it in the way she moves.

She struggles to fill your shoes.

She struggles to be who I want her to be.

The truth is that she is me.

You are me.

We have been jaded,

But we’re learning to walk again.

We’re learning to love.

We’re learning to share this body once more.

So I pick us all up off the floor.

And I place one foot in front of the other.

Help me remind her who she is.

What she is capable of.

Help me love myself again.

The way I did before.

Like words on a page...

I’m scared.

I’m at that point. You know, the one that teenagers think doesn’t exist, and adults have warned you about since you were a kid. That point where you get the wind knocked out of you by this little thing called life. I’ve grown so much since I was in college even.

I can remember sleeping through half of World Cinema, because I stayed out so late the night before. My breath reeked like a brewery, and my clothes were the same as the night before (which often luckily consisted of sweatpants and a hoodie). We would throw huge Lesbian block parties at my friend Kate’s on any night that ended in y, and most of the time I would end up so smashed that I’d spend the night there, my body mangled into some obtuse shape across the sofa.

I loved it. I drank like a sailor, and partied like Snooki. That is if Snooki called all her friends Bro, and slept with women.

It took me a lot of hangovers and unforgivable mistakes before I realized “I can’t do it.” I can’t be that unpredictable. All of the external factors in my life make my head spin with anxiety. Why would I add to the list?

I’m obnoxious. I black out. I piss people off. I lose things. I get angry. I drunk text. I get stuck unable to drive and miss appointments. I do things wrong and then don’t remember how or why I did them. The list goes on and on.

The entire time I was in undergrad I used the excuse, “It’s not being an alcoholic when you’re in college. It’s called having fun.” Now looking back I realize that I missed so much. I could have applied myself harder. Learned more. Connected better. There are talents that I could have honed in on that I just let slip away. I had ample opportunity to seize one of the finest educations in the country, and I dropped the ball.

Did I learn? Yes. I even learned a lot, but had I have been sober more than drunk I could have learned a lot more. I remember sitting in The Dean of Student Service’s office. She looked at me solemnly and said “When someone approaches me in the future and asks about you, what is it that you want me to say?” Now I certainly wasn’t all bad, but that conversation did follow this particular time that I hung a 12ft x 12ft tarpaulin on the front of my dorm with a message to my roommate.

“Jamie,

I have your undies.

Happy Birthday.

Bros before Hoes.

Love Casey”

The Dean wasn’t thrilled, however after my very convincing argument that “really the tarp was just my freedom of speech in an artistic form of protest for the celebration of my friend’s birthday” she actually let me hang it back up. She shook her head as I left. She would never recommend me for anything, except maybe the debate team.

Looking back now I want to kick myself. I had no idea what real life was like. That kids do things like that. I wanted people so badly to treat me like an adult, but I was still acting like a child. Since graduation I’ve had a few reality checks. Life comes. Whether you’re ready or not it sweeps in. If you’re not prepared, not holding on to your gatherings, it sweeps you off of your feet.

It makes me appreciate the hard work of my parents more. It makes me admire my best friend. She’s been doing this for years. It makes me look closely at the miracles that have been my life. I could sit for days and tell you the insane stories, eventually I might, but you wouldn’t believe them. Looking back, I hardly believe them.

Life is like a book. This very moment you are writing a page in your own book about the time you sat for however many minutes and stared at a computer screen. Taking in all of the words and processing them to determine whether or not you agree with their concept. When you’re done you’ll write another paragraph about the thing you do next.

Ask yourself. Do you like your story? If not then change it. This is all we have. When we’re gone there’s a high chance we will be forgotten. Leave your legacy. Make that change. Stamp you heart on the page of life.

Be the person you want to be remembered as.

I’m packing up my car on September 2^nd. It will be my last day in Columbia. My last day protected by the umbrella of “Stars”. (Alma Mater reference.) It will be the last day of the chapter that has been “College”. Even though I’ve been graduated for a year, working there has only reiterated to me that it’s time to move on. I’m an Alumna. Stephens prides itself on having some of the most amazing alums in the world. Now it’s time for me to attempt to be one of them.

I’ll drive home for a few days to say my goodbyes to the family that I’ve actually gotten closer to over the last five months. I’ll take a deep breath and then I’ll drive from Memphis to Los Angeles. I’m making the trip alone, but fully intend to live it up. I’ve done this trip before but haven’t really experienced it. I drove right through. This time I plan to make a few stops. I want to see things. Meet people. This time, I’m going to write my story. I want it to be filled with beautiful moments that only fate can produce. From this point forward, every day will be a recollection of a beautiful thing called life. 

And I fully tend to keep you informed. It’s been really incredible. Since I’ve begun to write this blog I have gotten the most amazing feedback. Genuine compliments from beautiful people. It’s invigorating really. I’ve since gotten to speak to a few really great and interesting souls, and it has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my LIFE. Thank you.

So here it is. I’m a month and a half away from the next chapter. And right now, this part of the chapter was where I wrote another blog to whoever will lend an ear. It is so incredibly nice to connect with you.  

Small town girl takes that leap out to L.A. Meets a few good friends, laughs, cries, and hopefully one day paints a beautiful recollection of the things that she experienced which were far more incredible than she could ever convey.

Until Sunday.

Remember me,

I’m Tennessee. 

She Gets It

We're anything but a typical family.

I was raised predominately by my mother, and my half-sister, by my father. So our relationship has always been a little different. We didn’t live together full time. In fact we didn’t live together three-fourths of the time.

Like I said before. My mother remarried when I was 5, and we relocated to Tennessee. My father (who I only saw every other weekend) lived 45 minutes away in Mississippi with my sister.

I have so many memories of us. The time we were riding our bicycles and I tipped over onto a glass bottle. I busted it open with my wrist and nearly bled to death. She saved my life. I can remember her telling me that I had to hide in the backseat when we road down the strip because it was embarrassing to “cruise” with her kid sister in the car. I remember the time she promised me a quarter if I bit into a raw onion, and the time she and her best friend let me make a drink out of everything in our refrigerator cabinet. She was even kind enough to let me be the first taste-tester.   

-__-

She was your typical older sister. She got easily annoyed by me, but defended me to a fault. I can remember one of the first times she was ever around when my step-dads kids began to pick on me. I was 50 pounds soaking wet, with glasses and buckteeth. I didn’t help myself by the fact that I didn’t just have an imaginary best friend, but an entire imaginary crew. Including twin characters. (I’ve always had an over active imagination.)

The step-siblings were older than me. The girl by a year and a half. The boy by five. They despised me. They also were boring blobs of duddiness, and had no imagination what-so-ever. I can’t tell you how many times it took me to realize that when they tried to squash my imaginary friends, I could “pretend” that they moved. You have no idea how long I cried before I figured it out. I’m a little sensitive. (Not “cried during Steel Magnolia’s” sensitive. I mean “cried during the trailer of Charlotte’s Web”- and not even the cartoon version- sensitive.) Since I was a kid, my heart has been bigger than my body.

When it was just me with them, I was always the center of harassment. When my sister came around however, the game changed. I can’t tell you how nice it was to finally have someone on my side. They knew better than to pick on me when she was around. She protected me.

When I was harassed at school by the office staff, my sister was the first one to suggest that we sue them. Of course I was scared. I used to hate drawing attention to myself, and I knew that battle wasn’t anywhere close to being won. I was wrong. I should have listened to her. I should have stood up for myself.

Still, we never actually lived together. Not until this past January. For one month. We lived together. Imagine the most horrible experience you can conjure, and then visualize the opposite. It was great. We sat up late talking, she told me stories about when we were younger that I no longer remembered (she’s six years older than me), and I even shared with her stories about who I dated/ was dating in college… girls.  She was fine with the “lesbian” thing. She had plenty of friends in high school who were gay. In fact. She introduced me to my first lesbian community when I was 16 years old.

Segue: Here’s what I suggest to all lesbians. Network. Every lesbian knows a lesbian who knows a lesbian. Okay? You meet one of us, and you meet thirty. I can’t tell you how many parties I went to in college that had 4 or even 5 sets of exes there. Some of them were exes more than once (those girls were usually making out with someone else in the corner on the couch.) We build our own lesbian dynasty in every community. You just have to break into it. It’s harder for the baby dyke’s. You usually aren’t old enough to have a community yet. It will pick up around age 21. If you need company immediately I’ve got two words for you. Travel softball.

You’d be amazed at how soon you’ll find a friend.

Any way. I drove home this weekend. The entire 7 hours. My sister called and asked for help babysitting my little brothers. My mom had surgery Friday, so she was baby sitting. Going gave me a chance to see my mother as well. I went and it was just like living together again. We sat and talked about hilarious stories. One that she reminded me of was how often I performed as a child. I was a one man show. I would attempt to sing and dance, do stand up comedy, etc. She said that I was always the center of attention. It kind of faded as I got older. When I was fourteen I began to hide. I didn’t want anyone to see me. To figure me out. I stayed hidden through high school. Our drama program was a bunch of kids sitting in a class reading plays from a book.

When I got to college, I sort of found myself. I got degree in film, and in the process found my passion for story telling. I had always been a writer. Since I was young. But now I knew what to do with it.

In September I’m moving back out to California. Hollywood in fact. I just want to write. To inspire. I want to tell the stories of the voices that have been silenced. I want to tell my story. I want to touch someone.

I’m excited. I’m also a little nervous. My sister won’t be there. Or my mom. I won’t be able to go home on the weekends even if I wanted to. That drive is a two day trip minimum, or a $700 plane ticket, and while writing is fun... it won’t pay for much right away. I'm going to miss them terribly.

I’ll make it though… and I’ll love every minute of it. Because I’m taking a chance. Chasing my passion. I’m finding my voice. My sister would be proud.

<3 Remember Me. I’m Tennessee. 

Already Home

Lauren Gray has been in the United States since she was four years old. Her parents brought her and her year old sister from England when their grandmother lost her leg in a farming accident.

Ian and Alison Gray came into the U.S on an E2 visa to work, and took over a small restaurant and hotel in Trenton, Missouri to support the entire family. Lauren and her sister Gemma were allowed to live under their parents as dependents. Her grandparents began in 2003 to apply for Lauren, Gemma, and their parent's citizenship. Lauren attended elementary, middle, and high school in the United States. When it came time to choose a college, she followed her dreams of becoming a classical dancer to Stephens College, in Columbia Missouri even though she didn't qualify for federal aid in the United States. Even though Lauren has waited for almost a decade for her citizenship, she is still living under her parents visa so she can't work legally in the U.S and can't help her parents pay for her education or support herself upon graduation.

On August 8th, when she turns twenty-one Lauren will no longer be allowed to be a dependent on her parents visa's. She will be forced to leave the place that she calls home, and deported to a country that is very "foreign" to her.  Her family, friends and everything she knows and loves are all here in the United States. In many eyes, Lauren is already an upstanding citizen.

Obama recently announced the DREAM Act which will allow illegal immigrants under 35, who came to the United States as minors, a temporary work visa. If they serve two years in the military or complete two years of higher education they are also granted six years of temporary residency. Lauren meets every qualification for Obama's DREAM Act, except she has done one thing wrong. She did everything right. Since Lauren is here as a legal immigrant, and her parents have patiently worked with the United States government since 2003 to legalize all members of their family, the DREAM ACT will not honor her.

In four more years her sister Gemma will go through the same thing. Their grandparents are now legal citizens, and her parents will remain here in the United States on their E2 visa's, to continue the fight for the family's citizenship.

Please sign the petition below and tell President Obama to allow legal immigrants who meet the same qualifications, the same same benefits offered to DREAM Act recipients so Lauren can remain in the U.S while she waits for her legal citizenship to be approved.

http://www.change.org/petitions/president-obama-allow-legal-immigrants-to-qualify-for-the-dream-act


http://fox4kc.com/2012/07/04/deporting-a-legal-immigrant/

God is Love, and Gay is Okay.

It happens.

You think you know someone, and then out of nowhere, you realize you’ve been very wrong. I can’t even complain really. All the signs were there, I just chose to ignore them. I feel like I do that a lot.

When I was a child I was raised Southern Baptist. I went to church every Sunday and Wednesday for half of my life. The church van would pick me up in front of my house, and my sister and I would climb aboard with all of the other less fortunate kids whose parents didn’t attend.

Don’t get me wrong. My mother is a very religious woman. She’s just very sick with a lot of responsibility, so she would wash our faces, comb our hair, have dinner ready by 5:30 and then we were out the door.

My first summer camp was a religious camp. I can remember being so inspired by the love that surrounded us. Everyone there loved God. This figure that they had never seen before, only heard about through pages of the Bible. We sang. We danced. We shared stories. And all of it came back to celebration of him.

I was no more than 12 years old. I can remember the transition at that time. I was growing up. Other girls my age were beginning to find interest in things like make-up, hair and boys. I didn’t understand this new process. I loved what I had always loved, which was science, poetry, basketball and around that time a newly developed interest in music.

I couldn’t relate to the increasingly longer conversations revolving around Justin Timberlake’s smooth voice or the obviously necessary rivalry between N’Sync and Backstreet Boys. I didn’t care “who was cuter.” However I did have a strange fascination with Sporty Spice…

I joined the Fellowship of Christian Athletes in Middle School, “dated” (sat next to) a few boys from church, and hung out with guys after school (they were the best companions to play Grand Theft Auto with). My daily attire of sneakers, ball shorts and t-shirts was common among all athletes, however my friends began straightening their hair, and buying each other body spray and panties for Christmas. Victoria’s Secret was a mystery to me, and I was dying for someone to let me in on it.

My world was changing, but I couldn’t keep up. I had no idea what to do with a flat iron, didn’t care if I wore black with navy blue and the thought of some guy’s tongue down my throat made me want to vomit. That’s when it happened. My freshman year I met a girl. She was a rebel from a Christian High School, and I knew the first time that we spoke that something about her felt familiar.

She was gay.

Obviously at a Christian School in the south, she was despised. It didn’t help that one of the girls she “Converted” was the principal’s youngest daughter. When we started dating I heard it from every direction. She got in trouble nearly every day at school for her attire or flirtatious behavior towards women. Her mother reprimanded her when she got home for her involvement at school. Even though I lived an hour and a half away, the new girl at my school knew my then girlfriend’s mother, so my secret leaked quickly.

The whispers leaked up and down the hallways, and pretty soon even though I still hadn’t kissed a girl everyone knew about my recent development in my sexuality. They took every approach. Some asked me to quit the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, others wanted to save me.

I went to a Christian Basketball camp in high school. The other girls from my high school were going, but it was an unspoken agreement to not discuss my sexuality. During my first year, I met a counselor who would change my life forever. She was just like me. She played basketball in college, always wore a pair of ball shorts, her hair was in a ponytail and her t-shirts were cut-offs. I knew she was gay. We never spoke of it, but I knew.

We stayed in touch. I went to that camp a total of three years, and seeing her every year just reminded me that one day I’d be older, and could be myself. Just like her. As I got older though, I began to notice that she wasn’t like me at all. She was very religious. Religious to the point that she devotes every action in her day to the lord and firmly believes that the Bible is her guide to life.

When I finally came out at home my mother clung to her bible for days, and my step father screamed to me that I was going to hell. I had received this reaction before at school. When I was around sixteen I gave up on religion, just as it had given up on me. A preacher commented on my sexuality and told me that it would be the death of me. He threw the bible at me, and I never went back. I dropped out of every religiously affiliated activity aside from Basketball camp. There I had a secret, and I could live normally in their eyes for one week.

I could see her. She wouldn’t judge me.

I almost went to her college (a Christian school) but instead chose Stephens. Thank God? I finally came out to her. Her reaction was completely unexpected. She was appalled. She told me repeatedly that it was a sin, and that God doesn’t condone that behavior. She reminded me that I wouldn’t be able to “join the Lord in heaven, unless I changed my sinful ways”. I was shocked.

Here is this college educated, strong and independent woman who doesn’t realize it, but is blatantly a lesbian yet she is telling me that I am going to hell because I love women. I ran even further from faith. Why would a god make me this way, and then condemn me for it? It’s like telling someone of a different race that they’re going to hell for their ethnicity. Whoops.

She admitted later that she had feelings for a woman, but it was just God’s test to her faith and strength so she withheld. I’m sorry. What? God isn’t sending love to your door step in the form of a same-sex relationship just so he can push you to hell’s fiery damnation. He’s sending you love because you’re obviously not interested in a relationship with Men and he wants you to be happy.

It’s scary how much of our lives are based on the impact of religion. Political Parties are basing their entire campaigns on what the bible says. If I do recall, Lot tried to prostitute his daughter to protect his guests (who were angels), Animal Sacrifices were a part of everyday life (PETA would be livid), and women were to carry two doves to the alter after the last day of her period to “cleanse her body and purity.”

The bible was written BY MAN. It has been translated so many times we can’t count (BY MEN) and along the way parts have gotten lost or been left out. King James had the bible translated in its most common version and had to approve it before it was released. What if Obama translated the bible? I bet a lot would change.

I’m not saying that I don’t believe in God, or that I disagree with all religions. I believe that it is important to maintain faith in something, because it’s that faith that allows us inner peace and comfort. What I don’t believe is that “God” hates gay people. I don’t believe he expects us to slaughter animals on his behalf, or avoid shellfish. I think that people who claim that they “Know God’s word”, are unbelievably proud and naive. Who are you to claim that you know and understand the inner thoughts of the most powerful being in the history of mankind? The capacity of mankind’s brain function cannot facilitate the thoughts of the “God” I believe in. I believe we are here to love and be loved, anyone and everyone. I have found spirituality over time. A belief in a higher power. I do not affiliate myself with any specific religion, but I have my own set of beliefs. I have based it solely off of what I know, what I feel and what I think.

That same woman who has mentored me for many years asked me a strange question the other night. She asked me if I founds her attractive. Apparently she thought that dating women might be easier. Here is my thought on this.

If you can’t handle being straight, you’re sure as hell not strong enough to be gay.

She became defensive when I shared my thoughts with her. I told her that I always thought that she might finally find contentment and happiness in her life if she went with her instincts and let herself experience the life and love that she so deeply craves. That I believed God did have a plan for her, but that due to her upbringing she turned her head at the opportunity presented to her.

She asked me if I was really prepared to go to hell for my lifestyle, and I told her that I am… If that’s what being gay means then yes. I never made a choice to be gay. I chose to be happy. I am who God made me. I’m a good person with solid morals and values. I love everyone and trust that he didn’t make a mistake when he gave me the fight and passion that he did.

I’m afraid that we will never speak again and it kills me inside…

I really hope that she finds herself, whatever self that may be. I hope she finds happiness and peace within her mind and heart. I will forever love this dear friend, but I simply cannot be reprimanded and brought down because of her beliefs. She in return cannot condone mine, so we are at a standstill… one that might destroy a friendship.

I believe that “God” has a special place in “Heaven” for all Gay people for the hatred and ignorance we have had to endure. I believe that when he sees the intolerance and the discrimination of this world  that he weeps. This is not the way that my God wants his children to behave.

God is Love….  And Gay is Okay.

 Remember me, I’m Tennessee.

The Pursuit of Happiness

I had an interview this week to continue the job I’m in right now. It’s interesting, because on the one hand, I like my job and want to stay. On the other, I really miss California. I miss my friends. I miss the waves. I miss walking down the street and just feeling small.

Keep that feeling in mind because I will address it later.

I really think I just miss the possibilities. After leaving my previous employers, I tucked my tail and got the hell out of Dodge. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I wasn’t sure how to continue. Instead, I followed safety back to Tennessee. That lead me safely to Missouri, where I remain.

Los Angeles, when you look at the big picture, is a big step. The city lights. Everyone is trying to make it. When you begin to break it down, it’s a series of communities pushed together, rows of apartments, and in each one is someone different with a story. When I think about my friends alone, I realize that 2 are on a reality tv show, one is working with Chelsea Handler, one is designing lingerie for an independent label, and then two couples are going through all the same arguing and petty bullshit that the rest of us face on a daily basis. It’s all pretty normal except that their careers are just a little more.. “unreal”. However they’re all amazing and absolutely normal. They’re great at what they do. They followed their passion and that’s where their passion took them. It makes me wonder where I would be right now if I just driven the two short hours to LA and couch crashed until I found a job.

What would I be doing? Would I be happy? I’m happy now, but about different things. It’s unreal how one decision can change our lives in such drastic ways. East or West. That’s all I asked myself, and here I am.

I met up with two of my good friends from College last night. Girls that I met Freshman year, and that I remained close with throughout. The one thing we talked about was the thing that’s been on all of our minds. Adulthood.

Lo is a television broadcast reporter in Texas. While she enjoys her job, she is missing something. Sam just got an amazing opportunity to move to L.A. She is going to work on a feature film and help edit another on the side to kick start her already existing career in film and television. However, she too is missing something. So am I. So is Rachel in the Ukraine, and so many other young women I went to school with.

We’re missing each other. In school we argued over who had to walk across the quad to the other one’s dorm. We complained about climbing three sets of stairs to hang out. I would climb a set of stairs all day to have us back together again. When we don’t know what we have, we take it for granted. That’s why I encourage each of you to assess what it is that you have in life, and everything that you want. Appreciate what you’ve been given and how many experiences you’ve been able to enjoy.

I mentioned on twitter “You spilled your coffee? Got Toothpaste on your pants? Your scarf got caught in the car door? Wow. You’re blessed. You can afford coffee, toothpaste, and a car.” We have to look past all of the disappointments in life and put a positive spin on them. Our attitudes are the attitudes that will be adapted by the next generation. We have the capability of making a difference in the future, with as little effort as a positive outlook. You have to experience life as long as you’re living, so why not enjoy it?

If we started that mindset early on then we would be much more productive. I truly believe that a person’s demeanor is a reflection on how successful they can become. (Not how successful they are, and not in every case.) Some people with terrible attitudes, get really lucky and become extremely wealthy, but it’s rarely an emotional success. Others become monetarily and emotionally successful, but are then jaded by the industry they perform in. Some people however, dream. They dream big. They smile, and they work hard, they love and they grow. These people are the ones that I suggest we emulate. What you’ll find, is that these are the happy people. Even if you’re never as wealthy as Oprah, what is wealth if you don’t enjoy it. I had rather be emotionally blessed than rich. I want to be happy.

Belief, understanding, and everything in between.

New York. 1970. Hippies. Peace. Love. Living life based on a dream, and a no bull shit. Don’t care. Live my life attitude. The thought of it literally takes my breath away. Can you imagine? It’s difficult for me sometimes to understand how I can miss something that I’ve never experienced. I yearn to be a part of history, and the shaping of our world. Technically I suppose I am, but who wants to be a part of their nation’s demise?

Families are starving, the cost of education has skyrocketed, the rich are richer and the poor… Well.. The poor are scrambling to survive. It reminds me in a way of the movie “In Time”. Will we reach a point where people just pass in their homes, dying of starvation? It’s happened before in this country. It’s interesting to me that we are supposed to be one of the most successful and influential countries in the world yet we are slowly digging our own graves. We have become greedy for wealth and power, and now both are slipping from our grasp.

 Wednesday night I sat with two lovely ladies over dinner and they rehashed for me their experiences in life. They WERE a part of the NYC movement. They lived out the 70’s in a time where camaraderie and happiness went hand in hand. A time where people were less afraid of each other, and more afraid of the authority. They told me tales of floating job to job, supporting themselves, but living to find or experience their passion. One was a musical theater dancer/ actress on Broadway, the other tried her hand at marketing before she ventured out to find herself in something new.

 When I asked the second if she ever really found herself out there she replied, “For a long time I was ashamed to tell people that I wstill hadn't settled into one position. I never reached that acceptable level of success determined by society. I didn’t have a high level corporate job on the “right track”. What I found eventually was that I could measure my own success in a different way. I started measuring it based on what type of person I was. Whether or not I had done any good in the world that day or that week.” How many people can say that they genuinely like the person that they are, or the way they portray themselves? I’m not saying that they must like the way that other people perceive them. That’s an opinion, and frankly in the words of my mother “Opinions are like assholes. Everyone has one.” Not the most profound statement, but true none the less.

I think it’s important to have an opinion, because it means that you’re thinking. It means that you feel something. I don’t think however that you should base what you feel about yourself on what someone else thinks. Who cares if you don’t have a 6-figure corporate job in engineering or economics. You’re a pottery painter? Perfect do you love it? Great. Do you apply yourself to your craft and strive to develop it in an original way? If you can say yes, then isn’t that successful in it’s own right? You are making the most of life and THAT is what’s important.

 My mother became a nurse the year I was born. It was 1989 and our economy was picking up. She said that she could remember the first time she sat down in a nursing class. The professor told them that very few of them would have what it took to graduate. The number of hours they would have to apply to studying was minimal compared to the hours they would be putting in when they actually got into the field. The medical field is an industry that never slows down. You never have time to catch up. There is always an epidemic or tragedy. Someone is always sick or hurt. She had a career where people’s lives were literally in her hands and she loved it. She has always been a caretaker, and she was passionate about helping people.

She told me that at that time you found more often than not, most of the people in that field were there because they loved it. They wanted to be the best at it. There were a few who did it for the paycheck, but the work was so hard that they could find something easier for more money.

 My grandmother just moved into a nursing home. Her Alzheimer’s has become unmanageable. My mother has been retired for many years, but still does what she can for the family when needed. She went with my grandmother to move her in, and she was horrified at what she found. The young women filling the position that she once filled were astonishing. There was lack of friendliness, lack of protocol. Often they would be late on her pain medication, and never once offered to fluff her pillows. The common courtesy that one human being offers another when they are being paid to care was out the window. My mother sat and cried because she wanted so badly to shake them and tell them “this isn’t how it’s supposed to be done. How can you care so little and be so cruel?” Of course if my mother shook someone there would be a lawsuit to support that need for instant gratification and entitlement that I have spoken of before.

It’s fine for employees to mistreat those that they care for, but if a patient complains then they’re labeled as “problematic” and overlooked. It’s sad. How do we care so little? How is the best interest of EVERYONE not the common practice?

I'll never understand.

Remember me, I'm Tennnessee

Greater than existence.

As a child we are sheltered by our parents and/ or the government. Until the age of 18-21 we are directed by an existing plan devised to help us “succeed”. We are monitored in high school. Required to attend a number of days. Legal actions have to be taken to “opt out” of that pre-devised plan. Most parents encourage you to follow a series of rules to guide you from point A (kindergarten) to point B- graduation (high school and/ or college). During this time, most of us complain that we want more freedom. There is a steady uneasiness during that age to be out on our own. To grow up. The last few weeks before graduation a rumble settles in to your stomach. When you cross that stage to adult hood, reality settles in like a haze, lingering above our independent minds. Some of us at that point have used our scheduled lives to determine the future. We know, by our structured existence “this is what we want to do”. What most of us still don’t understand is how expensive rent is, what it’s like to fill out all of our own paperwork, how to adjust our time in a schedule that we have to come up with to accommodate our newly self-managed life. Long story short…

 Life is hard, and no one baby’s you in the real world. I think I first realized this when upon graduation I was swooped up and taken in by my previous internship employers. I lived in their home during my stay, and while they backed me financially, I was required to do all of the groundwork. Not long after, I began managing their lives as well. It quickly hit me that this was it. The end of my childhood. However I still wasn’t “in charge”. They told me where to go. What to do. How to act. How to speak. On one hand I know that they were simply giving me a crash course on how to pursue the career that at the time, I believed I wanted. I had this idea that I was going to live a fantastical life amongst celebrities and be envied by all, but when I achieved that, I realized all I really wanted was to figure it out on my own.

Now I’m about to contradict myself. Yes, I wanted to figure it out on my own, but as I sit here now I often wish that life were simple again. That somewhere out there, someone would look out for my best interest and tell me how to live my life in order to maximize on all it has to offer. I long for that imposed structure. I think we all feel that at some point or another. Many of my friends are going through the very same thing. Teetering on the edge of adulthood. What I’ve found is that the difference between childhood and adulthood (besides the obvious) is that with adulthood you can have mentors who offer guidance that you can still choose to ignore. More than not, I wind up following that guidance, yet it’s nice to have the option. The freedom…

I’ve been very lucky. I can easily count at least 5 successful women who to this day would set aside an hour or two to discuss with me the options of my future. One of which did just that yesterday at lunch. We sat down at my favorite restaurant here in Columbia. Bleu at the tavern. It became my favorite by default. My best friend is the daytime bartender, so on my bad days, off days, or just days when I don’t have anything else to do I will go there to sit and chat with her. Yesterday was all business however, so my mentor and I were guided to a table by the window and slowly, but surely devised a formula for my success. I’m not saying that after one conversation with her I am going to uproot my life and hang on her every word, but I must admit that with everything I gave her to work with she came up with a pretty good plan. All of my likes and dislikes were calculated alongside the facts. All of the factors of my life each played a small role in the abyss, until out of nowhere sprang a tangible plan.

“What is it?” you’re wondering. Well unfortunately I’m not quite prepared to divulge that information. I still have a few more meetings, a lot of research and deep contemplation before I decide to chase that dream. And it is just that. A dream. If I chose to follow this path it would be the hardest, yet most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. Which is the real point of this post.

What makes you tick. What is your passion? Are you settling for a life or career just because it is “realistic” or have you thrown common sense out the window and said to yourself “Why not?” Why can’t you be great? Why can’t you be the best? You can. Not everyone is big city bound. Not everyone wants to change the world. I get that. But even if you are sitting on a box stool day after day making soap, is it because you have to? Or because it pays the bills? Or do you REALLY just love making soap. The way that it smells. The looks on the faces of the consumers as they rummage bar after bar through your extensive selection.

 What makes you tick? Without passion there would be no rumble in your stomach. The good and the bad would blend recklessly together until you were void of emotion. To exist isn’t enough. The definition of existing is “To have life.” Do you want to just have it? Or do you want to LIVE it to the height of your ability. We’re all in this together, and that is something that is so untouchably incredible. We’re here. So let’s live.

Remember me. I’m Tennessee.

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are...

I have known all week what this post would be about. I also knew that it might be my most difficult post thus far. As a lesbian (one who has a lot of Lesbian followers) I have decided to cover a very disturbing issue. It is something that most of us go through at some point or another. When I did it, it proved to be the most difficult time of my entire life: Coming Out. Specifically I want to cover coming out to family members. I know that I have skimmed over this issue in previous posts, but now I would like to go in depth, because recently a friend of mine has been going through the same thing and I am trying my best to help her through it.

We will call her Macy. Macy went to a concert with her father this past weekend. She is fairly close with her parents, so occasionally they will come into town for special events or activities. Usually, at some point her girlfriend tags along even though until this point they had been told that she was her “best friend”. Macy has been with said girlfriend for a little over a year now. They are undeniably the most stable relationship, gay or straight, I have ever seen. Their compatibility is incredible, communication skills admirable, and their overall outlook on life and love is astonishingly ideal. For this event however, the girlfriend stayed home. Macy went to the concert. Her ex boyfriend (this is her first “lesbian” relationship) was there. He called her several times, her father as well, and after a while her dad told her that he was really glad she was no longer with that guy. The next morning the two of them went to breakfast and he asked her that awfully dreaded question. “Are you dating a girl?” (Specifically her girlfriend.) Being the incredibly honest and exceptional person she is, she told the truth. “Yes.” Dad was silent for a moment, and then replied with the most well-put response I’ve ever heard. “I accept you. I don’t want you to think that means that I accept the wrong thing you’re doing because it isn’t wrong. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m glad that you are happy.” She was relieved.

 When she arrived home she told her girlfriend about her father’s response. The two of them embraced for what seemed like forever. I congratulated her on coming out. I have been there and I know how much courage it takes to even contemplate telling people, much less your parents. The source of your comfort and love. The ultimate expectations which people spend most of their lives trying to live up to. I was astonished. The next day I went over to check on the two of them. When I walked in, I immediately knew something was wrong. Her girlfriend sat at the kitchen table with a perplexed look on her face. Macy was outside on the sidewalk crying on the phone. Her girlfriend put her head in her hands. “It’s all my fault.” I could not imagine at this time what might be her fault. Did they wreck a vehicle? Spill something on the carpet, and wouldn’t get their housing deposit back? Maybe she deleted Macy’s undergraduate thesis by accident. “What is wrong?” She then told me that when the father got home, he shared his new found information with Macy’s mother who (nothing short of) went off the deep end.

 She couldn’t accept this type of “behavior” from her daughter. It must be in the water where we live. Better yet, it’s because they let Macy go to college. The type of liberal education she received OBVIOUSLY brainwashed her. That’s it. It’s a mental disorder. They would get her help. All of a sudden dad began to “see the light”. Mom was right. Their daughter was sick and they needed to help.

Take a minute to breathe. Not every case in coming out is this back and forth or extreme. Some are better, some unfortunately are worse. If you are reading this post, the last thing I want you to do is think that you can’t come out now for fear of rejection. I simply want to educate you on the possibilities and hopefully help you cope with the reactions that you might experience. Much like I am trying to do with Macy right now. She is a mess. She hates that she has disappointed her parents, and hates even more that they think she is sick.

 Her mother “outed” her to her 17 year old sister as well as her grandmother, both of whom are taking it surprisingly better than the parents. While Macy is angry about this, I warn you that sometimes this is to be expected. When people have fear of something, they often counteract that fear by triggering what you fear most. You made them uncomfortable, so now they’ll do the same to you. By telling her family members, I believe her mother was trying to make Macy so uncomfortable that she would “take it back” or “change her mind” about what she was doing so no one else would find out.

When I came out at age 15, my mother and I were in a very similar situation. We had been driving to a tanning salon when I got that same dreaded question. (Yes I tan. Yes I know it causes skin cancer. Yes I know many people believe that allowing your underage child to tan should result in losing custody, however if that is something you want to discuss further, leave a comment and we will debate it at another time.) I, much like Macy, couldn’t stand the thought of lying to my mother. She was my closest friend. I knew without a doubt that she loved me and believed that our relationship could endure anything. “Yes. I have a girlfriend.” I even took it one step further. “I’m a lesbian.” She sat stunned for a moment, and unlike Macy’s father, burst into tears. Now immediately I went into hyper-panic mode. For a brief second I wanted to take it all back, however releasing those words from my lips was much like deflating a balloon. All of that built up pressure came bursting out of my heart and for a second I felt like I could breathe.

 I quickly snapped back into reality. “You’re not allowed to see her. Do you hear me?” Those were the first words to come from her mouth. Wait a minute. This isn’t right. I was honest. I told the truth. I trusted her. Isn’t that type of behavior supposed to strengthen a parent-child relationship? Isn’t there some unspoken parental guidance law that states if you have a good kid, you should treat them well in return? She cried for the next three days. I had trouble looking at her. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but I had hurt for so long hiding who I was. I just wanted help understanding what I was going through, and all I received instead was hate and a lack of acceptance.  I didn’t even attempt at the time to tell my step-father. She told me that I wasn’t “allowed” to be a lesbian. I quietly stepped back into “the closest” and kept my pain and frustration to myself.

A few months later my friend Allison and I made a grave mistake. We had been keeping a journal that we exchanged back and forth between classes. She was older than me so we only saw each other in the halls, and while she was straight, she was also very open-minded. I had come out to most of my close friends, but for fear of the same rejection I experienced that day with my mother, chose not to tell everyone. After all, the last thing I wanted was for one of my cousins to find out, or for someone to tell my dad. Allison and I were on our way back from a field trip, and sat in separate seats. However half way during our trip, we put both of our bags in one seat and moved to the other so we could talk during our bus ride. High School is often a mean and unforgiving place for some people, so when  bags are left unattended, there seems to be no respect for one’s privacy.  A young man, (who ironically came out to me later) pulled my notebook from our belongings and hunkered down in the seat to read it aloud to his friends. That’s all it took. A few journal entries later, and I had been outed. They knew who, where, and for how long. The emotional roller coaster I had been shoved onto was teetering on the edge of disaster.

When I walked down the hallway that day I heard whispering from nearly everyone I passed. The stares and the giggles followed. Finally one kid yelled out “Hey Dyke. That’s what you are isn’t it? A big fucking Dyke?” I wanted to puke. The anxiety clumped in my chest like a lodged apple core. I was choking on fear and humiliation. This was it. This was the end of my life as I knew it. What I didn’t know at the time was it was also the beginning. Unfortunately in BFE Tennessee we didn’t have a queer straight alliance, there was no “It gets better” campaign for me to research. I had no one to turn to, and nowhere to go… except home.

When I walked in that day, I saw the look of recognition on my mother’s face. She knew I was hurting, and she had guessed why. Although she didn’t understand, the last thing she wanted was for me to hurt. I told her what happened and she sat there in tears again. I told her that it was time I told my father. She protested at first, but decided it was better he hear it from me than someone else. When he got home I asked him to sit down. When I told him I was gay he got a confused look on his face. He had joked that I was a lesbian since I was 9 years old and I yelled out gleefully from the back seat of the car “Chase ‘em down Dad!” about a car full of girls my brother had been gawking at. I hated how they had teased me, and even began to see being gay as a huge negative. I was raised to believe it was wrong.

When he spoke, I expected a similar reaction to my mothers. What I got was much worse… “I might be going to hell but at least it isn’t for sucking dick. No kid of mine’s gonna be a queer.” Had I heard him correctly? Yes. He stormed out of the house, and stood on our front porch. My mother followed him. By this point I knew that there was no turning back, and I’m really an all or nothing kind of gal. I was right on their heels. “One of your kids is a queer. That queer is me.” My mother asked me again to wait until I was 18 to make that decision. It wasn’t a decision. I didn’t wake up one day and say “I think today I’ll be a lesbian”, like some young women decide to change their hair color. The only decision I made was to be true to myself, and honest to my family.

It took my parents a while to come around. My mother started to understand that the only thing that had changed was her opinion. Not the person who I was. I had stayed the same sweet girl I had always been, I just loved differently than she did. Once she grasped that concept, it became easier for her to accept. She is now one of my biggest supporters and an advocate for LGBTQ equality. My father and I bonded over a Carrie Underwood music video. (We both have an appreciation for toned legs.) He too realized that who I loved didn’t change how he loved me. My life began to develop normalcy. I had contemplated changing schools, but decided not to. I wasn’t going to run. I had never ran from anything in my life and I wasn’t about to start then. I held my head up when I walked through the hallway, and whether they accepted me or not, people had to at least tolerate me. It was by no means easy, but as I got older I moved away and found peace and structure as well as love and acceptance. Columbia Missouri has been a great place to grow, which is why I wasn’t shocked that Macy’s parents blamed it for her liberal “condition”. The only thing she “caught” here was freedom and individuality.

Ultimately I believe myself to be lucky. Some people never find that acceptance. Others never learn to cope with the hate. We’re reminded of this every time another gay suicide occurs. All I can offer are my thoughts. All we can do is continue to educate. I was presented with a few articles by some friends of mine that I would like to share with you. Hopefully they will help you along your journey.

I’m Christian Unless You’re Gay- http://www.danoah.com/2011/11/im-christian-unless-youre-gay.html/3/

A Teen’s Brave Response to “I’m Christian, Unless You’re Gay”-

http://www.danoah.com/2012/04/a-teens-brave-response-to-im-christian-unless-youre-gay.html  

A special Thank You to Linda at PFLAG of Mid-Missouri for sharing the following information with me as well.  

PFLAG "Coming Out" PDF- https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&pid=gmail&attid=0.1&thid=137a9227b2de6ac4&mt=application/pdf&url=https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui%3D2%26ik%3D5e5e03d601%26view%3Datt%26th%3D137a9227b2de6ac4%26attid%3D0.1%26disp%3Dsafe%26zw&sig=AHIEtbRGd2jheKUIcKtivG6zLtOKHdHcOA&pli=1

PFLAG "Coming Out to Your Parents" PDF-
https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&pid=gmail&attid=0.2&thid=137a9227b2de6ac4&mt=application/pdf&url=https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui%3D2%26ik%3D5e5e03d601%26view%3Datt%26th%3D137a9227b2de6ac4%26attid%3D0.2%26disp%3Dsafe%26zw&sig=AHIEtbSn98ggDvIob2nLm4qQF16L2xYE0w

Sexual Orientation Is Not A Choice-
https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&pid=gmail&attid=0.3&thid=137a9227b2de6ac4&mt=application/pdf&url=https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui%3D2%26ik%3D5e5e03d601%26view%3Datt%26th%3D137a9227b2de6ac4%26attid%3D0.3%26disp%3Dsafe%26zw&sig=AHIEtbR-4r2YLUOYtwP5TJOOk-plOKwHYw

Our Sons and Daughters-
https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&pid=gmail&attid=0.4&thid=137a9227b2de6ac4&mt=application/pdf&url=https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui%3D2%26ik%3D5e5e03d601%26view%3Datt%26th%3D137a9227b2de6ac4%26attid%3D0.4%26disp%3Dsafe%26zw&sig=AHIEtbShS5_buDdUDCsxXy2hwxZw9ZlL5A

I wish you all the best of luck. If you aren’t going through this, but know someone who is feel free to pass along my blog and/or these articles. Finally, I am also willing to back it up. If you have any other questions or comments, or just need someone to talk to who understands what you’re going through, feel free to email me at caseyriannamartin@gmail.com.  

Remember me, I’m Tennessee.