Our Stories: Fearless Forgiveness

According to the Department of Justice, about a third of all girls and a seventh of all boys are molested before they reach the age of 18. A third of that group is under 12. Consider that it’s thought that only 35% of abuse is ever even reported - that makes for some grim statistics.

I don’t know too many women who got through their young lives without being victim to molestation at the hands of family, acquaintance, or a stranger. I’m one of them, having been assaulted by an teenage acquaintance when I was 6.

I’d like to introduce you to Kim who writes with an incredibly powerful voice. I had contributed at her former blog, The Peace Tree. She’s just getting back into the groove on her new blog, A World of Progress. I had the honor of having her hang out with me summer before last after we met through blogging. And, my hope is to walk her down the aisle when she marries her lovely other half, M. Her enthusiasm even made me pretty giddy. I count her on my short list of life and heart friends.

When I asked to her to interview, we both knew what I wanted her to talk about without having to speak it.

Kim, you’re 47 – and a long way from where you started. Tell us a little about that start.

I was born in Dallas, Texas. My biological father split before I was one year old and I lived there with my mom and maternal grandparents, off and on through my mom’s second marriage that only lasted about a year, until I was 6 years old. My granddad was a master carpenter and my most influential role model. I followed him everywhere and my mom still says to this day I walk just like him. His giant carpenter’s tool box was my toy box and I am pretty sure that is where I got my love of all things “tools.” My mom worked all the time and my grandparents were actually more like my parents. They were wonderful, and bought me all the cap six-shooters, bows and arrows, baseball bats, cowboy boots and hats I wanted at the Five&Dime. My natural tendency to climb trees was never ridiculed and I was only forced into the dress and patent leather shoes on Easter-for about 45 minutes.


Then, a big change rocked your world – what was that?

My mom met and married the man she is still married to today when I was six years old and we moved to New Orleans. He was a career Navy man.


After five years of living in run-down apartments, I began to have a lot of problems with my schoolwork and never could quite deal with the ongoing racial problems I encountered there as well as some pretty awful things that were happening to me at the hands of my stepfather, which my mom did not know about at the time. All this contributed to my failing the seventh grade. My mom decided to send me back to live with my grandparents, who had since left the city and moved to a rural east Texas town. I believe that decision saved my life.


You see, my stepfather started sexually molesting me when I was 8 years old until I left New Orleans when I was 12.


Things fell into a happier groove when you returned to your grandparents. What was next?

Growing up in East Texas with my grandparents was wonderful. I have always been a gifted athlete and while I was lost in the shuffle of a big city school, my natural ability on the tennis court and the softball field were noticed and celebrated in my new hometown. There, I was able to enjoy a sense of worth, accomplishment and camaraderie with others that I had never known before.


My stepfather retired from the Navy in 1976 and they moved back to east Texas as well, but not to the same town I was currently living in. So, I had to change schools again in my junior year and lost my superstar athlete status. Someone else held that title at my new school already. I learned a valuable lesson there, and that was sometimes just being the better player is not enough in life. Sometimes you have to prove yourself over and over again. It took a number of years before I finally figured out that the only person I needed to prove anything to was myself.


Tell me a little about where your life has taken you career-wise.

I wanted to be a professional tennis player. Even though I got a scholarship to play in college it did not take long for me to realize even though I was good, I was never going to be good enough to play professionally. I was pretty devastated by that realization and I did not much care about what I would do with my life for a while after that.


I stayed in school (they actually had a program to become a teaching pro and run a tennis club) but I lost interest when I started to realize that there were other people like me in the world (lesbians). I kicked around doing weird jobs like putting roofs on trailer houses and working in my parents’ country store but mainly I was interested in one thing for the next few years and that was girls.


At 25, I had a very serious car accident and all the docs agreed it was nothing short of a miracle I was not killed. Discovering my own mortality gave me a new perspective. I decided to get the hell out of dodge and joined the Air Force.


Say what you will about the military, but I found a path that served me well when I became a paramedic. I left the Air Force and found myself working in a series of increasingly responsible positions in the medical field. I seemed to have a knack. For example, being a tissue harvester made for interesting first date conversation. After years of hard work in various patient care positions and making myself useful at every possible turn in those jobs, the powers on high I found myself sitting in the board room with the rest of the power players, as their equal. My part of the kingdom was Training and Development. Seemed I also had a knack for motivating people to do better for themselves.


My partner at the time worked for Enron and we were living a life quite apart from our humble beginnings of practically living on love. My company took a nose dive shortly after my rise to the top and you all know what happened at Enron. When the companies folded, we took my golden parachute and our equity and jumped to the simple life. We bought 5 acres on the top of a mountain on the border of East Tennessee and Western North Carolina.


You aren’t with that woman anymore. Didn’t you take some time off to reflect after you both moved and then split up?

Before the whole idea of leaving it all behind came to be my partner and I became lost in the quest to become successful, materially speaking. We started with nothing and ended up with it all: the big house, the dream car and all the trappings of success and when we decided to leave it all behind what we found on the mountaintop was that we had lost “us” somewhere along the journey. She moved out of the little cabin on the mountain within six months of our arrival.


Blessed with enough money in the bank to not have to start working immediately, I had the incredible gift of a year sabbatical to sit alone on the top of a mountain and focus only on my new goal, to find and communicate with my Soul. I studied meditation and sought in earnest to find inner peace until I actually found it. No one was going to do that for me but me. Even now I’m back among civilization, those lessons are there for me when I need them Learning to trust what I know is right for me has been an incredible discovery.


What’s your current relationship status?

After a number of relationships lasting about five years each I have finally come to a place in life where I was able to be fearlessly open and maintain some discernment in the process. The result was meeting the love of my life and finding out that a relationship can be all that I ever imagined it could be. For us, that means an engine from which we generate our best selves and explore what trust and love are all about.


She is amazing. So, you still love me for encouraging you to get over your shyness and get that second date and first kiss, right?

I owe you big time.


Tell me about that family of yours?

I am an only child of an only child. I guess that probably made me naturally inclined to be self-referenced. It took a long time before I stopped trying to be what I thought others wanted me to be and settled into my own identity. My mom was married twice before I was six and her third husband turned out to be a child molester. He started abusing me when I was 8 and it continued off and on until I finally left home and moved in with my first girlfriend at 17.


Did you tell your mother about the abuse or did she suspect? How did you deal with her reaction when you told her?

I really believed that if I told my mom about what had been happening to me my step-father would kill us and then kill himself. I saw this happen to some kids I hung out with right after my mom married him and it always stuck in my mind after the abuse started. Their dad came to pick them up and I saw them pull away in his car. They never came back. He took them to a hotel room and shot them in the head and then shot himself. Since my step-father always left it to my imagination what would happen to me if I ever told anyone that was the thing that always came to my mind.

He was a sick man and probably would rather have shot himself and us as well rather than have to face the ridicule of others for his crimes. He not a very bright guy and he has a problem with trying to be a know-it-all in defense of his ignorance. I use the present tense because my mom is still married to him to this day. I might never have told her except that he was inappropriate with a girlfriend of mine and I completely lost it. I told my mom what had been happening all those years and her response was one for the books. “So, that’s why whenever he was in a room with you you were always on the other side of it.” Yep, Mom, that was it.


What have been the biggest obstacles in life for you?

Being sexually abused as a kid had a great deal to do with a low self-esteem. That, more than anything else, was my greatest obstacle and contributed to my late arrival to my own party.


I spent a number of years searching for my own sense of identity and I feel like even though it took awhile it was worth the wait. I may even appreciate myself more now than I might have if my way to finding myself had been easier.


Where did you start seeing the breakthroughs?

I owe a great deal of thanks for the emotional healing I have achieved to the women I have loved and have loved me over the years. Even though it’s true there is a big old tomboy in me, now I know how much I totally hid behind a persona to compensate for my inability to let another person touch me in a healthy reciprocal sexual way. I wanted to be “normal” and let go sexually but my partners were asked to be satisfied without that in our relationship.


I guess it was a sort of post traumatic stress syndrome that caused me to have a severe panic attack if I felt any kind of sexual aggressiveness toward me -even when I wanted it to be welcome and it should have been.


I recently wrote a post over at my blog about 9/11. Most people might not see a correlation between sexual abuse and 9/11 but what ended up saving me and giving me the ability to participate in a healthy two-way sexual relationship was finding a way to forgiveness regarding what happened to me. I see a lot of the, “We will never forget,” and every time I see it I wonder for how many people that also means, “We will never forgive?”


Yep, that is a hard one. I get the feeling some folks can’t even go there at all. I understand that. Some things are just so terrible it can make you feel like you want to carry that hate forever. Like your hate is the only justice that it will ever meet. I felt that way about being sexually abused as a child. I carried that delicious hatred for the person who did that to me for a very, very long time. It was all I thought I had because they never suffered any official punishment. I realized over time that the hate I carried with me was now what crippled me and allowed those things to continue hurting me long after I had grown up and stood up to my abuser and exposed what he was and what he had done to an innocent child.


I think talking to other people who were hurting as a result of sexual abuse was self-help for me as well because eventually what I was saying to them sunk in to my own psyche: that forgiveness frees the victim but it does not change the fact the perpetrator will live with their crime forever nor does it condone their actions in any way. That is Universal justice and it cannot be escaped no matter how hard they try.


When you see your stepfather now, what is it like?

When people ask me this the only thing that comes to mind is I tolerate him. I love my mom and I understand why she has gone into denial about this and I suppose it is how she maintains her sanity in a place of not enough self confidence to leave him. I don’t really know how she feels about it because she lives in a state of denial about it. As for me, I don’t see her much because of him. She made a choice and I guess it is the best choice for her. I have learned to take responsibility for my own life and let her have hers in whatever manner she wishes.




Kim, what would you say to someone else in this situation who hasn’t found a way out of the darkness?


Keep living and keep loving, in whatever capacity you have in this moment and then the next. Try to be as kind to yourself as you can about the damage you carry and above all else talk about it when the opportunity presents itself. Talking to others is talking to yourself and you might find some incredible knowledge for your own use in your words. Over the past 30 years I have spoken to a number of other women who were abused and I always told them in order to be free from the abuse you have to find a way to forgive although I know it is not and easy thing to do.


When I was in the Air Force, I had a long late night conversation in the ER on night with a second lieutenant I was working with who was a few years younger than I. Her step-father had sexually abused her too. I asked her to think about how forgiving might help her move beyond it. I found a little note, folded up and stuck through the vents of my locker a couple of days later. It just said “Thanks, you were right.” I guess no one had suggested that to her before. I felt like the world was a little better place because she was going to be able to start to heal herself now.


If you’re being abused, you’re not alone - abusers use your fear to protect themselves. You can start by going here and here and calling the hotline.

If you’re an adult survivor of abuse, it’s not too late to receive help. You can start here. Or, look online for therapists who specialize in abuse recovery. Don’t have enough money? Your state and local mental health departments can offer services on a sliding scale.

Hahn at Home

Singing In My Sleep

Many of my friends think of me as the world’s most fabulous DJ. Of course, these are mostly middle-aged lesbians, so frame of reference, please. Recently, I mentioned to Viv that I made my first mix tape when I was like 15 or 16 and had bought my first Radio Shack portable cassette/FM. I’d record off the radio. Once in a while, I’d accidentally catch a little radio DJ talk on the end of a song. Still, these were the most fabulous tapes. In my mind. One started out with “Scarborough Fair” and segued into “Play That Funky Music White Boy.” Did I know how to set a mood, or what? Those six tapes I made back in the mid-70s were with me for many, many years. I seemed to pull them out when I needed to feel good and remember a simpler time.

Music is almost always tied to memory for me. When I hear the Bee Gees “1941 Mining Disaster” I think of the last time my parents took us somewhere before their divorce. When I think of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” I think of cruising with Darlys and Darren in Darren’s red Vega. When I think of Ray Price’s “For the Good Times,” I think of hanging out in the kitchen of the restaurant my mom worked at on weekend nights when my dad wouldn’t or couldn’t watch us. They had the best jukebox. When I heard The Knack’s “Good Girls Don’t, But I Do” I thought of…well, that I did by then.

I’ve put a lot of years under my belt now and it’s becoming difficult to listen to many songs without having to take a trip down memory lane. No music is safe, except perhaps my growing collection of hip hop (I know, but hey, some of it’s pretty good). But, I’ve loved and been loved and cared for by some pretty spectacular women, so I figure…yeah, it’s good to be reminded.Life went on and there I was, in my 30s, maintaining an email/phone relationship with someone I wanted to meet badly. We’d send each other mix tapes trying to outdo each other. In the lyrics, I began to see that she felt the same way. We called it smarming each other. Music was an integral part of the relationship, but more importantly, the songs themselves were tied inextricably to the feelings associated with her. The song that transport me are Aretha Franklin’s, “Until You Come Back to Me,” and Blondie’s, “Night Wind Sent.”

Over the years, I made mix CDs for various important women in my life. Songs that I knew they’d like or to describe how I feel. I don’t talk much if I don’t know you well, so I need these crutches. When I’d hear those songs later, I would invariably be transported back to the time when I felt the way I felt the first time I heard the song and invariably, the woman.

Enjoy this…if you've ever made or received a mix tape, you will get what I mean.

Dona Nobis Pacem: My Selfish Reasons Revealed

This was published on Blogblast for Peace Day, June 4th. And, please understand, I am a veteran of two services and come from a long line of people who have been honored to serve.


Dear Members of Congress,

A call was received one fall day over 17 years ago from the executive director of the Nebraska Childrens Home Society, that maybe, just maybe, there was a birthmother who may want us to adopt her child. It was a boy. He was five weeks old. On the off chance the birthmother decided I was to be a mom, the director told us to buy a car seat, so we did.

She was 16. The birthfather was 17. She was a good student in her little high school. She decided adoption was her best route to give them both what they needed. She had dreams of college and escape from her little bit of nothing town. She wanted more for her child. The birthfather and she were no longer together, but he remained by her side as she made this journey.

We stashed the family photos in the back seat so the birthmother could see what the boy would be in for. How there were cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents to love her son. We ticked through names again, just in case he didn’t look like the name we’d so carefully selected. Clothes were hastily packed and tossed in the trunk. The plan was to leave in disappointment, but we hoped for the best outcome.

The six hour drive across I-80 and the three driven north beyond that was of little of interest and was mostly spent just contemplating what might happen. After traveling for hours through buttes and mesas, we arrived. That night, we stayed at the Sleep Is Futile Lodge.

In the morning, we trekked over to the appointed meeting place. The western office of NCHS was a beat up old mobile home that sat forlornly in the middle of a square plot of Nebraska desert dust edged with a white picket fence. The old woman who answered the door had social worker written all over her. She asked how our drive was and told us they’d be here soon. Before long, a beat up old red pickup truck with a bag of Pampers in the back showed up.

A thin, handsome young Mexican man with a whispy teenager mustache and cowboy boots stepped out of the driver’s side. A cute brunette, who looked such a child herself, stepped out of the passenger side, holding the child. They tentatively approached the door and knocked.

At that moment, I found myself shaking uncontrollably. Would she like me? Would I be the one she could see rocking her child to sleep every night? The fate of my dream to be a mother was in the hands of two who were children themselves.

Hours later, after thousands of questions had been asked and answered in both directions, they stepped outside to speak to each other in private. A few minutes later, they came back in.

She walked up to me. She slowly lifted her eyes from the shining eyes of the boy in her arms to mine and said quietly, “What will you name him?” I told her.

She handed me their child. She handed me her child. She handed him to me. I was holding my child.

She kissed him goodbye. He rubbed the boy’s head.

They cried and held each other. Then they left.

Suddenly, despite all of our preparation, we had no idea what to do with this thing, this human being who had been so ceremoniously handed to us. Would I be a good mom? Would I love him enough? Would I do it unconditionally?

The boy turns 18 in four months. I’ve had 17 and 2/3 years to love this boy. To love him so much that every time he makes a mistake, I ache for him. That every time he has a triumph, I cheer for him. That every time he has a sniffle, I wish I’d started that medical degree. That every time he pulls away on his way to growing up, I cry for me.

He is my first child. He’s the one I had hours and hours to spend holding up in the air as I lay on my back, slowly bringing him and his cute little protruding ears down to my chest as he giggled with glee at the ride he had somehow ended up on.

He’s the one I have hundreds of photographs of as he made his way from formula through 52 flavors of Gerber’s as though he was the first child ever to master strained carrots and peas. This boy who still faints at the site of blood or needles.

He wants to join the Marines. He has some idea that it is heroic or valiant or he will somehow make a statement about who he is or what he can do if he does this. There is nothing heroic about the war in Iraq. We are the invader.

No amount of counsel has thus far made a difference. And, in four months, it’s out of our hands. He knows that.

My son will be a teenage man-child, far from prepared for the horror of battle and the scars that will eventually come later, if he’s gets that far. Just like so many others who came before him. Many of whom never came home. He doesn’t understand that his sense of immortality is a false god to rely upon. Or the permanence of death and what it leaves in its wake.

I don’t want that for my son. My son with the big empathetic heart and the dimples in his cheeks and cleft in his chin. He is destined for something else, not this, not this war.

The war needs to stop. I don’t want to lose my son. There, I said it. I’m selfish. I think I’ve finally earned that right. I want the chance to someday hold his child up in the air as I lay on my back, slowly bringing him and his cute little protruding ears down to my chest to giggle with glee. And, I don’t want any more mothers or fathers to lose their child to this nonsense–not on either side.

Tell me you can make that happen, Ladies and Gentlemen, tell me you can. Tell me you’ll do it now. Before my son turns 18 and does what teenage boys do – not listen to his parents just because he can. What a stupid reason to become a Marine.

Stop the War Now.

Never More Sincere About Anything,

HAH

To The Lovely Couple, Whoever You Are

Hard to believe, but my baby brother (half-brother) is turning 30 this year. I don’t really know him. I was 17 when I left home and he was a mere babe in arms, literally. For many years, he lived in a garage apartment at my dad’s until he moved into his shared apartment with his fiancée. Until then, his mom cooked and did his laundry.

Last weekend, they got married. She’s a chiropractor. Sounds good? Her new practice is in rural Arkansas. I’d shoot myself. He’s not a city boy exactly, he’s a suburbs boy. You know, where you can get to a major league baseball game in under an hour. What’s he thinking? Oh, yeah, lurve.

They knew I wasn’t coming to the wedding. The place in Arkansas is not on a direct route to anywhere and it would have been too expensive.donkey3_1.jpg

They registered at Target. I viewed the Target items and most had been spoken for or required me to have a clue about their taste and current possessions, except the Playstation. There was no way I was going to secure a premature place for them on the judicial divorce calendar before the marriage had even started by buying them a Playstation. So, I decided upon a check. Can’t go wrong there, right?

I go out and buy a very beautiful card with a lovely sentiment for Cory and his lovely bride Kari. I glance at the invitation to make sure I spell the girl’s name properly. I write out the check in their married name—Cory & Kari. I craft a beautiful sentiment about married life in the card. I pop the card into the mail and pat myself on the back for not waiting until the first anniversary to get around to it.

So, I’m talking to my sister last night and she says, “I can’t believe it, but the thank you note already arrived from Becky.”

I’m thinking I missed something. “Becky who?” I said.

“Cory’s new wife, Becky.”

Uh, oh.

I wondered why Kari didn’t sound right as I wrote it out. But, I thought it must be her given name.

Then, I realized that I had pulled out the invitation for the other wedding I’ve got coming up. Wrong bride.

I spent time last night crafting a menopausal-centric apology to my new sister-in-law and mailed it off. I hope she has a good sense of humor. She’s going to need it in this family.

The Loving Lovings

There was this girl, back in 1958, who fell in love with a boy and the boy fell in love with the girl. They had to cross state lines to marry, but marry they did. Shortly after returning home, they were arrested. Were they interstate bank robbers? Child molesters? Murderers? Drug runners? No. The girl, Mildred Jeter, was black, and the boy, Richard Loving, was white. And, in Virginia, it was against the law for blacks and whites to intermarry. They were convicted of crimes against the state of Virginia and averted a year prison time by agreeing to leave the state.

In 1967, the Supreme Court heard their case, forever changing the face of marriage in the United States. The ruling overturned laws in seventeen different states regarding such marriages. Seventeen states. Imagine that - in the 1960s - in my lifetime.

Many of those same people and their descendants who felt that the marriage between black and white was wrong also believe that gay marriage is wrong. Twenty-seven states have passed state constitutional amendments barring the marriage of other than one man and one woman. I wonder how long it will be before our case is heard and we win the right for our relationships to be treated with equity, dignity, and respect?

She rarely gave interviews, but last year, on the 40th anniversary of the landmark decision, Mildred made this statement:

“I am still not a political person, but I am proud that Richard’s and my name is on a court case that can help reinforce the love, the commitment, the fairness, and the family that so many people, black or white, young or old, gay or straight seek in life. I support the freedom to marry for all. That’s what Loving, and loving, are all about.”

Mildred Jeter Loving died the other day, at the age of 68, following Richard, who died in 1975 in an accident caused by a drunk driver. She never thought she was doing something for the greater good – she was just in love with a boy. The only way she could do that and go home, where she belonged, was to fight it all the way to the top. It’s really that simple, isn’t it?

Read a very poignant story about the impact the Lovings had here.

I Was So Hot In Bed

Vaguely, I recall the book I was reading slipping out of my hands onto the floor as I drifted off to sleep in a stolen Saturday afternoon nap. I promised myself I’d only sleep an hour.

A mere twenty minutes later, annoyed, I awoke, feeling as though I was suddenly in the midst of a blazing inferno. I ripped off the comforter, leaped out of bed and picked up the power fan, holding it in front of my chest. Immediately, I started to cool down. I scowled as I looked over at the comforter. It was no longer my friend now the temperatures in Sacramento had crept up to near 90. We would have to part ways immediately and it would be a most definite acrimonious parting.

I slipped on my sneakers and a pair of shorts, not even bothering with socks – no time to spare – and grabbed my car keys. I drove quickly and with purpose, darting in and out of the clearly non-menopausal on the road until I zipped into the parking lot at Target, careening into the parking spot. I sprang out and darted in – it would be air conditioned, I thought—a definite bonus.

Up and down the bedding aisles I stalked until I came up my solution – a lightweight quilt in the right color range. I held it up and contemplated. Damn, no sheets to match. I went to the sheet aisle and voilả – sheets on sale and one in a good color. I added it to the pile. I headed to the register, walking past the framed art – I stopped – two caught my eye. Well, if I was going to get a new quilt, I’d need something to complement it on the wall behind the bed, right? Tossing them into the cart, I headed out.

As I was loading the car, I realized that the gigantic ferocious tiger that hung on the wall in my bedroom would no longer go in the room. Hmm. My eye spied Linens-n-Things. They had air conditioning too, perhaps I’d just walk around for a bit and be nice and cool.

Ah, that wicker laundry basket I’d always wanted was on deep discount. I better get a cart, I thought. Oh, look at that mirror up on the wall – wouldn’t that go perfectly where the tiger was? It barely fit in the cart. Well, if I put that mirror up – that lamp on the dresser just has to go. I found a lamp and shade and tossed it in.

Later, exhausted but much cooler, I looked in horror at the floor beside my desk, where I’d stacked the evidence of my menopausal shopping spree: a comforter, sheets, artwork, mirror, laundry basket, and lamp. All because I was so hot in bed. I shook my head. It was clear – menopause was going to be very expensive.

A Boy's Life, A Girl's Life

Ann, of Salvageable asked me, “What was the best advice ever given to me?” I had no idea how it would manifest, but it was, “Remember, Lori, sometimes it’s not about you.” What? Not all about me? You must be kidding, right?

He was born yellow and came out crying and stayed that way for a long time. Jaundice, colic, and a little problem with his heart and lungs figuring out the proper beat to life. He spent his first five weeks in neonatal intensive care unit, starting out in the safety of the very back of the big room full of tiny little fragile dreams and futures full of questions. His bottom was clothed in a diaper so small it fit comfortably on a Cabbage Patch doll. He sat nameless and without visitors, except for the volunteer grandmothers who came by and sat in the rocking chair and wrapped him lovingly in a quilt, rocking him and cooing him to give his rigid body, racked with pain, some comfort. To give him a sense of belonging to the world he had not chosen, and entered far too soon. For months he had laid safely inside the body of his birthmother, instinctively shielding from harm the other delicate and even smaller form growing there. The scarily tiny girl was covered with a fine dark hair who if you happened to get a mere glimpse of, you might think she rather resembled a baby monkey clinging tenaciously to her tenuous existence. Like a good big brother, he came out three minutes ahead of her just to make sure all would be well for her.

Eventually, after weeks passed and no one came to visit, the nurses named them Jason and Janey. Just to have something to call them as they poked and prodded them, restarted their breathing, inserted tubes, and soothed the crying. Day by day, their strength grew and they moved closer and closer to the double-wide swinging doors that led from NICU to the rest of the hospital. It was a right of passage. They would survive.

After scrubbing for what seemed like hours and covering myself in crisp, sterile clothing, head cover, and mask, I walked into the large room full of the sounds of unsatisfied babies speaking in the only voice they had. I heard the voices of parents frantic with worry, voices full of resignation, and watched nurses who moved with determination from baby to baby, ensuring vitals were checked, tubes adjusted or feedings completed.

With trepidation, I looked into the first incubator and saw this furry little lump of sassiness. Her lower lip jutted out and I could see it written all over her face, “Oh yeah, says you.” She was scrawny, but she was a fighter. It was as though I could see through her to the future - she’d be okay somehow, no matter what. Her fingers were the tiniest things I’d ever seen. Her belly button stuck out a mile – a hernia, I was told. She had dark spots all over her back – Mongolian Spots, I was told. I saw bright, undeveloped eyes taking in all the fuzzy view she could. She made me smile.

I then looked down at this boy, with a deep yellow pallor and wearing a little yellow cap to match, mittens and boots, covered in a foster grandma’s homemade quilt. Much larger than his sister, he did not look pleased at all to be here, and less pleased to be disturbed. What I saw was a child who would need my help. This child would need more to find his way. He was me – he, like his breathing, would have its own erratic beat.

The doctor looked down and said, “These types of children can have any number of problems ranging from mild to severe, and we don’t know what that will mean. They could have brain damage, there is a possibility they will not develop fully, we don’t have health history, we don’t know much.” His academic uncertainty and the certainty in which he stated what he thought the obvious astounded me.

I picked each up and held them, terrified they might break from even my gentlest touch. In that moment, they picked me. I felt it.

They’d not take their first steps until 18 months. They’d not say their first words until months after most babies. Their fingers wouldn’t work right, movement was clumsy and uncoordinated. They couldn’t hold scissors like their preschool classmates or race around the playground. Their speech was impaired. Their eyesight was impaired. There would be epilepsy and Guillan Barre to deal with, setting them back even further. I would be told that if I was lucky, Em would maybe someday be able to wipe tables at McDonalds.

There would be good teachers and bad teachers. Fights with school systems to get the maximum special education services. Teachers to be reminded of educational goals and that I was there to make sure they remembered. Teachers who had trouble remembering they had the quiet, painfully shy students in their class. Teachers who would move mountains to stretch them even an inch more. Patience when they had gone as far as they could for the moment. Doctors to prod to advocate on their behalf. Appeals to be won, logistics to be resolved. The cruelty of children to be cried through.

Em (no longer Janey) and I were driving in the car after her IEP (special education plan) review on Thursday. I had just heard from all of her teachers that they love Em. No one tries harder, no one smiles more, and no one is sweeter—but the girl has an edge. I love an edge. Her progress is still very slow, but she makes progress every year. She gets along well with her classmates and the teachers. They all want a class full of Em’s. She has a wide range of friends, some of whom joined her for a birthday sleepover Saturday. It wasn’t always that way, she went years having no one to play with but her brothers. Her bright eyes still shine and that jutting lip is still present in moments, but more often, it’s replaced with a prize-winning smile and laughter that saves me from the sometimes dull rote of life. She’s funny and observant and loves sculpting and painting and reading and fuzzy puppies and small children. She’s loving and empathetic – her art teacher has a terrible class – and Friday, they made the teacher cry. Em related that she waited until after class and, as is her custom, helped her teacher clean her classroom, but not before giving her a hug and telling her everything would be okay. I almost cried, because I cry over everything. And, for Em, it will be okay.

The other night, I picked up J-Man (no longer Jason) at a party. I have never seen him so happy. Not ever. He was laughing and silly. Carefree. My boy finally found carefree. He’s trained himself to be a friend – despite his inclination to hold people at bay. His friends of many years hang together because, I think, they get that we all have our quirks. J-Man, despite his innate discomfort with people, has a longing to be part of what people have to offer and who will accept him for all that he is, just as he accepts them in the born-an-old-man way he has about him. I almost cried, but then, I cry over everything. He’s a writer, a thinker, a runner, a dreamer. He’s logical and pragmatic. He’s both contradictory and predictable. He’s still got his own beat.

This week they celebrate their 15th birthday. They stand tall, healthy, and beautiful. They have friends, they have dreams, they have their own vision of their life and how they are going to get there. They are survivors.

I keep remembering, even today, that it’s not all about me. Never was.

Happy Birthday babies.

I'm A Writer, Not A Fighter

Remember 8-track tapes? I was thinking about those today. I had like, five of them when I was young. I didn’t have an 8-track player, of course, but my buddy Debbie did. Debbie also had a 1968 Ford Galaxy 500 convertible. It was red.

I remember the music as it’s etched indelibly with a time and place of joy and unfettered freedom: Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “I’m A Writer, Not A Fighter,” John Denver’s, “Annie’s Song,” Johnny Winter, “Live,” Beatles, “Live at the Hollywood Bowl,” and Glenn Miller, “Greatest Hits.” Yes, I’m a freak who can’t pick a genre. Debbie didn’t seem to mind.

We’d play those 8-tracks as we tooled down the road, my long, wavy hair flowing in the wind behind me, on our way to trouble. We’d wait tensely for the inevitable break in the music we knew was coming, as it clunkily switched from track to track interrupting the perfect moment of being everything and nothing at all.

In Cedar Falls, Iowa, trouble usually consisted of starting the “cruise” up and down University Avenue, which stretched for about 7 or 8 miles through the entire length of both Cedar Falls, the university town, and Waterloo, the working man’s town next door.

Even though this was allegedly also Highway 218, there was a stop light every few hundred feet. For much of the night, we’d drive up and down the strip, stopping at the lights and visiting with all the other cruisers and pull extreme stunts like the dangerous Chinese Fire Drill, where the driver jumped out and ran around the car before the light turned green—sometimes even switching drivers. I never understood why it was called a Chinese Fire Drill, but I’m sure it wasn’t a compliment, knowing the politically incorrect nature of the time and place. Sometimes, we’d see how many lights we could get through without stopping. Debbie used to like to come to abrupt halts once in a while, just to make sure I was paying attention.

We used to carry squirt guns to squirt unsuspecting, law-abiding citizens at the stop lights should they be so foolish as to leave their windows open, until that fateful day when the man jumped out of his truck and leaped into the convertible in his attempt to confiscate our weapons. Never squirt a guy with a clean pickup out on a date.

Trips to McDonalds or the new kid in town, Burger King, peppered our night. The parking lot became an extension of our social cliques, with the jocks in one corner of the lot and the other groups in theirs. Hanging with friends and laughing until we hurt, gossiping about who was going with whom and who broke up that week. If we were feeling particularly wild, we’d cruise along dark and forbidding Airline Highway to the union hall, where we’d invariably invade the den of inequity, also known as a kegger. We’d pay our fee and down a couple brews and go back out to cruise, emboldened by our frothy friend. Sometimes, we’d go our separate ways briefly to enjoy the company of someone who wanted to further our experiments in kissing, only to meet back up later and fly home, exhilarated by our night of decadence.

Somehow, by curfew, I’d be safely deposited at my back door, stepping inside—knowing my dad was awake, waiting for me to come through the door. I’d slam the door a little, so he wouldn’t question whether I was in fact home and get up to check, then take two steps to the stairs and race down to my basement bachelor pad and climb into bed, wondering how being grown up could ever beat this.

Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world. ~ Sylvia Plath

Good Memories of a Father

Lazy summer days, where we’d be gone as soon as breakfast was shoveled in and return for various bouts of eating, until “last call,” that twilight time when the street lights began to flicker and hum louder than the mosquitoes that perpetually gnawed on me summer long. Dad would invariably be found, reclining in his chair, watching our 19” black & white television when we came in.

Hopping on the Stingray boy’s bicycle my dad had built from an old bike body and turned into the coolest custom ride I’d ever seen. Being the coolest in the neighborhood x10 when he then built a tandem bike and painted it red and put white seats on it. It always seemed safer riding a bike that my dad built than riding in the car he drove as he seemed to have a penchant for driving up on sidewalks after squirrels.

Standing out on the front lawn on the occasional stormy evening when the sky would suddenly turn a unique shade of pea green/yellow which meant tornado coming. Winds blowing–suddenly–they’d stop–even the birds somehow knew what was looming and stopped their incessant chatter. I’d stand out on the lawn with my dad, scared, but also invigorated because I was living life on the edge for those few minutes before dad would say, “let’s go in the basement.”

Hiding out the cubby hole in the back of dad’s 1965 VW Beetle after church and convincing my sister that she should go along with me in our trickery. He always knew I was there, but would pretend he’d “lost” me.

Dad, my sister, and I would ride the two or three minutes from church to grandma’s for lunch. My cousins would usually be there too. We’d hit the road, running all over the neighborhood through back yards and up alleys. There were no fences then, but there was the occasional very sharp, thorny row of bushes. I liked to visit on Saturday better when the penny candy store was open around the corner. I don’t remember ever having anything besides fried chicken at grandma’s, but I’m sure we did at some point.

Watching as my dad created a finely crafted wood and metal weather vane for my 4th grade science project. It stacked up more than nicely against the construction paper, 2-dimensional weather vanes the other kids did. I didn’t get the best grade on that project since all he had let me do was use sandpaper on it after he was done building it. I always thought he would have been happier being a carpenter.

Sitting out on the front steps with just a jar and a lot of patience as we’d fill the jar with as many fireflies as we could find. I wonder what happened to all the fireflies, haven’t seen one in years.

Lori Trivia

1. What is your occupation? I just accepted a new management position with a major publishing firm - start in about 12 days.
2. What color are your socks right now? Black
3. What are you listening to right now? The grinding of my brain gears to the exclusion of the din outside of my office, where many other people find their gears grinding too.
4. What was the last thing that you ate? Turkey.
5. Can you drive a stick shift? Yep.
6. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Indigo.
7. Last person you spoke to on the phone? A former colleague
8. Do you like the person who sent this to you? So far, so good!
9. Favorite drink? 20-year-old Port
10. What is your favorite sport to watch? Women’s professional basketball (but that’s not saying much, televised sports puts me to sleep)
11. Have you ever dyed your hair? Yes, to hide the gray. Not anymore though. Gray and proud.
12. Pet, Pets names? Gina & Daisy, Smooth Collies
13. Favorite food? Seafood – especially snow crab and sea scallops
14. Last movie you watched? Little Children
15. Favorite Day of the year? Bastille Day
16. What do you do to vent anger? Formulate letters in my mind that I usually do not send to people who really tick me off or pace around.
17. What was your favorite toy as a child? A monkey & a clown
18. What is your favorite, fall or spring? Spring.
19. Hugs or kisses? Kissing, and lots of it with the right kisser.
20. What kind of pie? Salt, not sweet.
21. Do you want your friends to email you back? Yes, unless it would be like my oldest son responds: “Yes. No. Yes. Maybe.”
22. Who is most likely to respond? It’s longer than I would send to most people (who share my short attention span).
23. Who is least likely to respond? To what? See, short attention-span.
24. Living arrangements? Me and my kids – 2 boys, 1 girl – all hormonal all the time
25. When was the last time you cried? Sunday, when I realized I was truly loved by the one I love.
26. What is on the floor of your closet? Shoes and an electronic thingie I have no idea what to do with
27. Who is the Friend, Friends you have had the longest that you are sending this to? I probably won't send it to anyone.
28. The Friend, Friends you have known the shortest amount of time that you are sending this to? Again, probably won't send, most of them are non-bloggers and get cranky about tags.
29. Favorite smell? Magical Samantha lingering on my sheets.
30. What inspires you? My lover, my children, my friends, and the stars I’m fortunate enough to see when I look up at night.
31. What are you afraid of? Running out of toilet paper.
32. Plain, cheese or spicy hamburgers? Cheese.
33. Favorite car? 1963 Aston Martin DB 5
34. Favorite pet breed? Collie
35. Number of keys on your key ring? 14
36. How many years at your current job? 4 years until next week – then movin’ on
37. Favorite day of the week? Saturday.
38. How many provinces/states have you lived in? 6 states, 2 countries
39. How many countries have you been to? Germany, The Netherlands, England, Belgium, Luxemborg, East Germany, Scotland, Canada.
Next?

Vote for Lori

Jos stopped by my place today and suggested I mention that I am a finalist for The Lesbian Lifestyle Lesbian Blogger of the Year. This is my second year in the running. For those of you who took time out to nominate me during the last month, I thank you. Plus, picking me is much easier than weeding through the myriad of candidates preparing for the US political elections. If you’d like to vote, you can do so here: Vote for Lori

Only So Much

Ya’ know, Madonna and Angelina didn’t have to travel all the way to Africa to adopt. In 2005, there were 513,000 children “in care” in the formal foster care system. This does not include all of the informal family foster situations that existed. That number is probably close to the same. So, that’s a lot of kids, right?

So, what happens to those kids who ended up “in care?” Their chances, statistically, are pretty grim. They are more likely to have suffered severe abuse, are more likely to drop out of school, live in poverty, go without adequate healthcare, become drug/alcohol addicted, suffer from mental illness, and become pregnant themselves. Once parental rights are terminated, after sometimes years of reunification attempts, these children are often placed up for adoption.

Here’s the really hard part. All over the country, human services and private adoption agencies who assist the states and counties placing these children in adoptive homes, have to find a way to “market” these children to prospective parents. Among other methods, there are adoption picnics (which potential parents and kids both attend), professional photography sessions (where the kids’ natural beauty is revealed in B&W), and by information via website descriptions that are often accompanied by a very cute picture of a single child.

What they often haven’t told you is that even those children classified as having “minor” problems are going to be tough on the average parent. And, that single child is often part of a sibling group they hope to place together. To make the children attractive, substantive facts are often left out and parents end up walking into something ill-equipped or uninformed. The State has kids—they need to place them—what are they going to do?

I was a foster parent–and I wanted to adopt more eventually. My adoption experiences and the problems those children experienced made me feel quite competent to take the next step. After going through the training and orientation, consulting foster mentors, and after having poured over mountains of information to prepare myself, I was still unprepared for what happened. I ended up with two siblings—one following the other a couple of months later—and had to coordinate visits with yet another sibling located in another foster home. My parental exuberance knew no bounds at this point.

Details of their tenure in my home aren’t really important. I did my job—getting them through a myriad of issues, struggling to find resources within an overworked, understaffed agency, and helping them finally receive the termination of parental rights they needed to start life anew. But, it was a job—and a hard one. I never had a social worker come to my home, never received additional training or information once some significant issues were identified, and pretty much ended up in a heap of blubbering goo the day they were moved to therapeutic care, which took me months of advocacy to get for them. They system is broken.

The other day, an acquaintance asked my advice about fostering/adopting older kids. Even now, after all the years have passed since my experience, I still remember the pain etched in their faces and the pain that wracked my entire body when they left. I sat down with this acquaintance, I laid out the potential scenarios, and I showed her how to identify the buzzwords in the website descriptions so she’d know what questions to ask. I spoke to her about the courts, the social workers, the adjustment problems and inability many of the children have to attach. I gave her a list of books to read and recommended foster support folks with whom to speak. Mostly, I let her know that far from being “easier than having another baby,” it was going to be an experience that would test the strength of her marriage and her family in untold and unpredictable ways.

I don’t regret my tour of duty. In fact, once mine are grown and gone, I’d be open to fostering queer teens who might need some help transitioning to adulthood.

My fervent desire would be that instead of pouring kajillions into the war machine in Iraq, perhaps we could just take a teeny, tiny portion of that tax money and expand the ability for our weary old social services system to ensure its charges and the foster/adoptive parents receive and continue to receive the services and support needed to create the best chance for ultimate success for these kids. Increase pay for social workers to identify and investigate abuse and monitor placements, hire more of them, create more therapeutic facilities and staff them appropriately with the medical and psychiatric professionals it needs, provide mandatory ongoing training and respite services for foster parents, and provide a solid way to help teen foster kids who are going to “age out” of the system set themselves up for success. Maybe, we can stop this endless cycle dead in its tracks, once and for all. Now, wouldn’t that be a good way spend our tax dollars? Building our future.

Favorite Post: You Know You're Middle-Aged When...

I had an idea—a brilliant idea to reduce my stress and shake up my routine—an event to anticipate with relish. I was going out. Really—outside of my actual house to a place that doesn’t have the name of the company I work for on the door. An establishment that serves adult beverages and only lets adults inside. Or if not actual adults, people who have an ID that states they are over 21. Where nubile young women would be dancing and enjoying some frivolity.

Two of my dear friends, both slightly younger than myself, and I went to dinner Saturday night at a place that had a surprisingly good menu considering its outward appearance. We enjoyed watching the gay men gather at the bar, the transgendered folks out on a “girl’s night out,” and various other hip and trendy habitués of mid town. The laughter built to a fever pitch before we headed first to the sex toy shop on K.

We were casually perusing the product line when the young man at the counter asked if he could help. Then, as though we were his mother (hell, I was probably older than his mother), he asked, “Do you think I need braces? All my friends say I should get braces.” Like we’d know. Of course, we all had to provide an opinion. Then, we were off to the new club, “Badlands,” which I kept referring to as “Batman” for some reason.

I was heartened to see that the early crowd (post 8 pm, but well before any actual partying occurs, just how I like it) was much the same age as the three of us. There were pleasant conversations occurring at various comfortably appointed seating areas and bar service was immediate. Interestingly, one of my friends knew some of the fellow geriatric club crowd from 10 years ago when she lived in another place. My other friend and I tried our best to drown out the “thump, thump, thump” of the dance music with our version of “It’s a Small World,” to no avail.

As time went on, the music increased in volume, and the conversations diminished. The crowds started to stream in, each person successively younger than the next. I decided to order a drink. But, it appeared as though I’d forgotten how. I had no idea what to order. As it would be my only drink of the evening, I wanted to make it count. The bartender rolled through various drink names which caused my brain cells to start smoldering on overload. I’d not heard of any of them. I finally opted for a Margarita, predictably less than exciting.

“Oh, look,” one of my friends said, “There are some middle-aged women!” We all eagerly craned our necks to the right. Well, nice try—it turned out to be a couple, dressed as bookends, with hair to match and a very ugly drag queen. I forgot that Lesbians usually travel in pairs. So much for sightseeing.

Later—much, much later…hey, we’re talking about 9:30 pm now, my friends and I started looking at each other. One said to the other, “We should all go to your house and play with the puppy.” Now, mind you, this is the same woman I used to stay up dancing with until sunrise only a few short years ago.

We all happily and anxiously nodded, finished our drinks, and went to play with a puppy. I was home well before 11 but was anticipating with enthusiasm my latest brilliant idea: slipping on my reading glasses, my comfie PJs, and reading a couple of chapters of my book while stretched out in my very own bed.

Middle age is when you’re sitting at home on a Saturday night and the telephone rings and you hope it isn’t for you. ~Ogden Nash

Smiles: My Living Will

Okay, I never do this, but I interrupted my Saturday morning slavedriver routine in getting the kids to do their chores to read this:

Last night my sister and I were sitting in the den and I said to her, "I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle to keep me alive. That would be no quality of life at all. If that ever happens, just pull the plug."

So she got up, unplugged the computer, and threw out my wine.

She's such a bitch.

The Road Less Traveled

T’weren’t a B&B, it was a watertower. Yup. A watertower. Long story, but back in the OLDEN days (back when you were young, I reckon…heh) every home and business had to have its own watertower. So, we turned right at the ocean off of Highway 1, and we follow these directions and go down this barely two-land road marked, “Not a through road.” We travel down that road for about 4 miles or so, knowing full well there are houses somewhere back off the road, because we see smoke coming from this chimney and that, but we can’t see the forest through the trees or something like that and then we turn right past the big watertower that provides the water for their fire station, such as it is, and go down another road, through a darker forest. The road slowly narrows, sometimes down to one lane, barely, because there are two Redwoods in the way – one on each side of the place they made the road. We see a sign that says, “Slow down,” which seems kind of fortuitous on a number of levels, and then the road becomes dirt (or mud in this case). Choosing which of the three roads that forked in front of us, we decided to take the one less traveled. We coasted through a gate and into a meadow in the midst of which was our watertower. I’ll post pictures tomorrow, but it was incredible – what, besides the honeymoon being over in one way, but just starting in another and – out one side of the house we looked at majestic Redwood forest and the other, a pasture with goats and a meadow where all the sun seemed finally able to focus – it had to find its place - it sure wasn’t getting through those Redwoods.

I fell in love this weekend.

© Lori Hahn, 2008

J-Man Has A Girlfriend

Intelligence reports started coming in on Tuesday. J-Man, it was reported, had officially declared he had his first girlfriend. I could feel the gray hairs meeting on the top of my head, reminding each other that they’d be having new neighbors really soon.

Now, I would have loved to talk to him about it, but I wanted him to tell me first. And, I didn’t want to be too snoopy, at least not this soon.

This morning, we are driving to school and he says, “I know you know.”

We went round and round about what I knew and when I knew it for a while. Then, I unloaded his bike from the back of the car. I said, “I was waiting for you to tell me.” He said, “You didn’t ask.” I forgot about the requisite parental privacy invasion clause in my contract.

After many half-ass attempts to talk to these kids over the years, I’ve hit upon a couple of sure-fire methods. With the boys it’s go for a ride in the car. They don’t have to look at you, but are in proximity, so they got the “Mom loves you vibe.”

With Em, the best method is to sit right across from each other, maybe even holding hands—or touching in some way, like having my arms draped over her with foreheads touching.

I sensed he wanted to talk about it, but didn’t see that we’d be alone in the car anytime soon, so I did a J-Man. He likes to talk by e-mailing me from six feet above me in the loft. So, what did I do? I called him on the phone. He called me doing so, “random.” I had all kinds of things running through my head.

HAH: So, do you want to tell me about this girlfriend? [Please, don’t let her be 35 and one of your teachers]

J-Man: Her name is *Suzy* [Ah, a name I recognize—one of his GATE friends]

HAH: She was at the basketball game Saturday?

J-Man: Yup. [You seemed a little eager to spend an entire afternoon with just sweaty teenage boys]

HAH: So, what does it mean to be a boyfriend? [Don’t you dare say you hope to get your own stable going to make a little spending money.]

J-Man: What do you mean? It means what you think it means. [Son, you don’t know what I think it could mean]

HAH: It means all kinds of things to different people, how does it look to you?

J-Man: I dunno. [Long, close, slow dances and liplocks have no place in there, right?]

HAH: Will you be going out on dates, just the two of you?

J-Man: No, her parents are strict; I don’t think they’ll let her. [Thank you parents of *Suzy*]

HAH: So, you’ll be doing the group get-together thing? [Damn right!]

J-Man: Yes.

HAH: I think we’ll be revisiting the safe sex talk though, okay?

J-Man: Yes. [At least he didn’t say, “too late.”]

We talk about sex frequently – the physiological mechanics, the emotional consequences, and the way to behave and treat your partner if you do decide you’re going to have sex. I don’t condone having sex young. I’d like them to wait. They know that too. If you ask any of them when they are allowed to get married or make me a grandma, they’ll, by rote, say, “I’ll be at least 25 years old and have an education and a j-o-b.” Kind of a family joke, but the idea behind it is sincerely and deeply meant. I want them to get a start in life and not be tied down by the aftermath of having sex early or starting a family or being forced to make a choice about abortion or adoption. There are more condoms laying around all over this house than in some 3^rd world nations.

But, I also know that ultimately, it won’t be my choice – and I won’t know when it happens. My parents didn’t. I’m pretty sure it will shock me too. I want them to be armed with as much information as they can load into their brain despite that it retracts in proportion with the growing strength of their hormones and urge to procreate.

I know, I’m making some leaps from first group-date girlfriend to me getting an appliquéd sweatshirt from Wal-Mart with “World’s Best Grandma,” but jeez. How did we get here so fast?

© Lori Hahn, 2008

C'mon, I Should Get An Award For Being A Lesbian

Long about a year ago, I ran across a little community blog called The Lesbian Lifestyle. There, I found a whole bevy of Lesbians blogging their little hearts out in one place. It was like finding the girl bar of the Internet! Good thing, too, because I don't go to bars and can't stay up past 10 pm when the music starts.

About the same time, it was running its first-ever Lesbian Blog of the Year Award. I thought, “Heck, why not?” And, sure enough, thanks to handful of devoted readers, I came in the top 5 and was a finalist. I even won—technically—but withdrew because I’m pretty sure I didn’t get 100 actual legitimate votes in 2 hours at the tail end of the competition--I doubted I had 100 readers at the time. Curly McDimple over at Ham & Cheese on Wry was awarded the prize—right on Curly! Fabulous Tina-cious was also finalist and I read her all the time.

Over the course of the last year, I did some posting over there at TLL. I read some great posts too. I hope you'll visit my daily blog, and if you like it, please go vote for the 2007 Lesbian Blog of the Year.

I mean, what’s the point of being a Lesbian if you can’t get an award for it? Can't get married, can't have equal protections under the law, but by golly, maybe I can win that beautiful pink award--hope you'll help!

Only So Much

I was very surprised to get the invitation from Gracie Belle to join the talented writers here. I'm Lori from Hahn at Home. I live in Sacramento, CA, but have lived all over the world. I was raised in a college town in Iowa, and I still consider myself an Iowa girl at heart. I adopted three kids--all now teens--and we are a multi-racial family. Oh, and I'm a lesbian. I write about my life, my kids, and my causes.

Though I am one busy single-mom, I still find time to contribute at The Rising Blogger and The Lesbian Lifestyle. Before the ownership of The Peace Tree changed, I contributed there. By way of introduction, here is a piece I wrote for that blog:

Every day, I go to work past the Loaves & Fishes and the Salvation Army—where the homeless can get a meal and maybe even find a job. It’s in a rough warehouse area. Not inviting at all to the city’s residents as a whole. Men in wheelchairs, women on bikes, people walking with their shopping carts or bags full of their life’s belonging form an endless stream of people running from the river banks from one direction to the bushes and alleys downtown from the other, all converging at this point because breakfast is about to be served. There is no progression through Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs here—it’s pure survival, baby.

I take frequent trips around the block at the office, mostly to clear my head, but sometimes just to see what’s going on outside the confines of the space I share with smart, sane, college-educated folks that may worry about where they might find a good happy hour after work but haven’t known a hungry night or the felt the indifference of others. I’ve come to recognize many of the folks on the street and have spoken to more than a few…mostly to tell them I have neither change nor a smoke for them. Some hope for the largesse of the capitol employee-set to put a couple bucks in their pocket, one quarter at a time. Some rage in scary ways if you dare look their way—and have self-medicated that day with drugs or alcohol. Most don’t take their legal medication, if they can get medication at all. But, they’ve created their own community; one in which they are understood and accepted, and where they form friendships based on security and a strength-in-numbers outlook. Many of them will spend tonight in jail or will be rousted from their box by the riverbank, where they share camp with other lost souls.

I just keep thinking of the guy who was probably 40, now haggard and hunched over in his wrinkled, dirty fatigue jacket as he stood outside of the store I popped into. I’d seen him before, at the same corner, kickboxing an imaginary opponent. I told him I had no change as I went in but said to him on the way out, “I had no change, but now I do, here.” As he looked into his palm at the 78 cents, he said, “Thanks, have a wonderful day, young lady.” I said, “You, too.” He broke out into a great snaggle-toothed smile, and said, “Thanks, that made my day more than this money,” rubbing the coins together and sliding them into his pocket.

These days, I have more questions than answers regarding what I believe are the pressing social issues of my community. Where do we begin to help? Our lack of humanity as a species of thinking humans makes me feel a little helpless sometimes. I could carry on about how Reagan’s policies of the 80s shut off many avenues for long-term assistance for the mentally ill and how general hospitals, nursing homes, and jails and prisons have become the new, but ill-equipped solution, but it really doesn’t matter anymore. We need to rethink this issue now and provide tangible solutions that allow them their personal dignity while providing safety for themselves and for the greater community. Please visit the National Resource Center on Homelessness and Mental Illness to learn more.

Give me your tired, your poor,/ Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,/ The wretched refuse of your teeming shore./ Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,/ I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
~ Emma Lazarus

© Text, by Lori Hahn 2007