Freedom of Speaking My Mind

When I was in 5th grade, there was a speech competition focused on freedom, I think. Or maybe it was inventions. Either way, I'm pretty sure one of my classmates, Karalyne or Katherine won with their speech about trains.

I went a less straight-forward route. I wrote about the telephone.

We were still in the midst of the 1980s bit of the Cold War, and tapped phone lines were part of the vernacular of the time. It was a prevalent theme in movies, along with bugging various objects in any given space a person might occupy.

I found the speech several years ago, although I have no clue where it is now, while going through stuff at my parents' house, or in some box Mom shipped off while on a cleaning spree. It was simple and complex, big-picture and small potatoes. It was the rambling of a child who has a warped idea of a country portrayed as out-to-get-us, fed by movies and television shows and the nightly news.

It was also fueled by living 30 miles from Oak Ridge and the knowledge that nuclear weapons were being built there...and that it was a serious possibility that our city would be wiped out early if nuclear war were to break out. (Note: this was a time when we would regularly have bomb drills where we would crouch under our desks, arms and hands covering our heads...like that would help at all in the case of a blast or fallout.)

Back to the speech. I remember lamenting the Russians ability to speak freely. The horror of having to watch what you say. The inability to criticize the government, or a neighbor, for fear of retribution and being locked in a gulag in Siberia.

Doctor Zhivago (1965)

Fast forward to my college days. I was a fierce advocate for the Free Burma movement. I regularly gathered hundreds of signatures in a matter of hours, sent them to Halliburton, Total, Texaco and a handful of other multi-national corporations, asking them to divest from business in Burma and to stop supporting the military junta in power (The State Law and Order Restoration Council--SLORC at the time) which was inflicting human rights abuses and forcibly relocating dozens of ethnic minority groups throughout the country, and in particular, those in the paths of the pipelines these companies were working to build.

I became convinced that my phone was tapped. I heard clicks while interviewing a member of the Pogues for my college paper. I heard clicks while speaking with my friends. I was a little paranoid the the FBI had a file on me, and that Dick Cheney (then at Halliburton) was out to get me. Of course, I have no proof. And, it stopped eventually.

In light of the apparent return of the Cold War within our most recent presidential election, I can't help but think back to that 5th grade speech competition. Today, I used my freedom telephone to call a whole bunch of US Senators to ask them to oppose a cabinet nominee who I believe to be grossly unqualified for the position, and whom I believe would dismantle public education, something I benefited from in elementary, middle and high school.

I believe in our freedom to speak truth to power and am grateful to have had the time and energy to do so today.

Truth, Justice and the American Way

This afternoon I had the privilege of being an audience member at Nashville's Writers Resist: Voices for Social Justice, hosted by The Porch Writers' Collective, located at Scarritt Bennett. We were given a writing prompt during the intermission, and I was inspired. The poets and songwriters who performed their own and others' works were moving and got my creative juices flowing. At the end of the scheduled program, the event closed with an open mic for those who wished to share what they wrote during the intermission. After several people read their beautiful poems, my heart began to beat out of my chest and I lumbered down the steps to the front of the room and the podium. With tears in my eyes and flowing down my cheeks, I read the following poem.

Truth, Justice and the American Way

 

"Hey, Jew," said the 7th grader passing me in the hall between classes, 

a swastika on the back of his jacket in masking tape. 

Another that he tossed onto my lunch table, 

folded into a paper note, 

the black lines wrapping around themselves, 

taunting me,

making me feel smaller than my 13 year old body.

The adults didn't know, didn't see. 

I tell my brother, the scrawny older sibling who confronts my bully 

surrounded by his linebacker high school friends. 

"Don't look at my sister, 

don't talk to her. 

Stay away from her."

Not the last time I felt the burden of ignorance 

forcing shame upon me for my ancestry. 

Fear builds in my belly, 

my ire sparked, 

I want to lash out, 

share my people's strength, resilience and 

hold my head up high 

while crushing stereotypes and prejudice. 

I find solidarity in just pursuits.

Hillel's words lead me to righteous deeds 

and occasional righteous indignation. 

"If not now, when?"

Tzedek, tzedek tir dof. 

Justice, justice I shall pursue. 

These words of my ancestors are my truth.

Sabbatical

I have been writing this blog for six months.

It dawned on me recently that I've been spending precious time writing that I could use doing things like hanging out with friends and family, swimming, gardening, meeting the man of my dreams, finding my dream job or doing any of the other numerous things on my list of daily tasks that I have a bad habit of ignoring.

With that, I leave you, dear readers, until I get the urge to write to you again.

A long day's journey into night

I work too much.

A lot of people say that, but I've been living it for the past three years.

 First, I worked for a catering company. It was my first foray into the for-profit sector in a decade. I ended up working about 80-100 hours per week. Needless to say, that did not last long. Longer than I expected, but not long.

Since then, I picked up one job, then two, then three, then four. All of them part time. Two are very part time (teaching Sunday school 1-2 hours per week during the school year, and working as an election official to help people use the voting machines--three times this year for a total of about 45 hour).

My grant-funded, non-profit job in my field is ending July 17. I have loved the work, and value the relationships I've gained, the conversations had, and the accomplishments made. The work is not yet over, as so much of the non-profit work I've done in the past has been left. That is not to say that I feel it is incomplete. I have been able to do more than I expected, and reached and then exceeded every goal set out for me. And yet, there is more work to be done. There is always more work to be done.

The job that provides my benefits will increase in hours in order to make up for some of the loss of my non-profit job. I will likely struggle a bit with the loss of income. The upcoming semi-annual raise should help defray that struggle.

The bright side is the time I will have on my hands. I will gain 5-10 additional hours per week. To garden, to see friends, to meet new friends, to date. The possibilities are endless.

I will happily live on beans and rice (and my CSA share) in order to have time to relax, time to practice the ukelele, time to write letters, time to read books, time to swim and lounge at the pool, time to visit with Grandma, time to cook, time to plan a party, time to clean the house, time to make art, time to volunteer, time to do nothing if that is what I choose.

I look forward to having time.

Fine print

In January I started taking a medication that resulted in some adverse side effects.

Six months later, I told the doctor who prescribed it that I needed her help to get off of it, knowing that additional side effects could result from stopping the medication without further instruction. Unfortunately, the doctor's recommendations resulted in nausea, dizziness, eye issues, headaches and blood pressure so low I started to black out. Not awesome.

After suggesting it might be an inner ear infection, the doctor recommended an alternative way to get off the medication. This week I started getting the side effects again. Cannot wait for this to be over. Also cannot wait to find a new doctor...who takes me seriously.

Ask your doctor questions. Ask your pharmacist more questions. Do your research. Make sure you know what will happen if you stop taking a medication and hopefully you will avoid feeling miserable.

Looking forward for this to be over and getting back to "normal."

Old skool

Yesterday I saw a white Camaro.

I immediately broke into the only song I know with the song Camaro in it. By the Dead Milkmen.

If you know that song, you should be smiling by now.

Gone to seed

My garden is in full swing.

The green beans are prolific, the melons, acorn squash and zucchinis are teasing with their tiny fruits, and the radishes have gone to seed.

I see the radish flowers adding a splash of white to my otherwise green garden, and think of the little seeds I want to collect from them when they are ready. I've never collected seeds from spent flowers before, so this is going to be a new adventure. Hopefully, I'll catch some before they fall to the ground or get eaten by the numerous birds that call my yard and trees home.

Labor of love...love of spicy radishes.