Compassion, Realism & The Random Nature of Life

There is a homeless woman who started writing a blog to keep herself sane as she manages the reality of her situation. Most bloggers probably know about her because the media found her and interviewed her. Following the media coverage, hoardes of people looked at the site. There was quite a reaction from some who believed it to be a hoax. The details of her humiliation, however, seem genuine, and her writing is compelling. She goes by the moniker "Wandering Scribe," and she lives in her car, in the UK.

At some point she had serious emotional problems and that contributed to her disconnection from people and general society. It is both humbling and bizarre to read the site and the comments. At one point she wrote about feeling overwhelmed. People have so much well-meaning advice. I find myself checking the blog, and worrying about her, as she seems so sensitive. Yet the Ball & Chain works with homeless people, and they are more remote to me, even though I see them frequently. When I have met people who are homeless, I have not been struck by their resilience, or their ability to persevere. They have been people going through a hard time. Certainly not heroic for being hurt: just hurt. The Wandering Scribe could be me, without the family, the medications, and the friends.

Why did Ball & Chain stay with me when I was breaking apart years ago? Life is random in many ways: who can have children, who can have money, who walks, who stays. Many people with mental illness have written to Wandering Scribe to tell her that they, too, have been in a bad way. I very much hope and want to fully believe that she is there, and she is genuine. And every time I write an encouraging comment to her, I wonder if I am an idiot, if I will be exposed as one of the many who fell for a con artist interested in manipulating people. Then I am mortified.

My Parenting Spirit Guides

Remember when Mork & Mindy had a little baby boy and it was Jonathan Winters, a big, middle-aged, wise-cracking comedian? At the time I didn't appreciate the brilliance behind that casting choice. Why choose some everybaby, spawn of a crazed still-lactating stage mother, when an articulate bratty adult was available? And could his parents control him? Understand him? They gave him advice and he sorta listened, but he was already wizened by years in show biz.

My little tiny baby boy, Jude, is now a mammoth and upon return from 5-day school trip has absolutely no interest in any acknowledgement that I exist. I think perhaps I'll refer to him as a symbol - ! - meaning: the kid formerly known as my son and now parading around as a slacker/smartass. At first I thought, how quaint, his expression resembles that of the cat who's swallowed a few dozen canaries. After all, he shared a room with 3 other teenage boys, and teenage boys seem to be fundamentally deranged. A while later, I asked about whether he'd ever read Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. The sarcastic, or rather, patronizing, response was delivered with such lack of affect I was taken aback. When did he get to be so utterly obnoxious? A friend of mine had simply wanted to give him a copy of the book. I now want to smack him with a hardcover copy of the book.

Similarly, he disdains any questions about anything involving the trip, unless Rugelah asks. He bought her a postcard and wrote her a note on it. I know all about this. ! indoctrinates the second child so that she loathes me even earlier than he does. They stop arguing because they figure out that united, they can leave Ball & Chain & me in the dust. We'll just stand there, a coupla dorks, or Morks, as it were.

Of course, some of this is premature. ! doesn't drive yet, and he doesn't have a job. Therefore, I am still the Ruling Witch and he cannot just grab keys and go. Mindy never could do bossy as well as I can. When he gets to be of driving age, we are not the type of parents to buy the kid a vehicle. He'll need to buy his own if he wants one. Still, he'll be able to call another ! and get a lift outta here. Rugelah will be yelling that she hates me, and by that time, my good looks may not be enough to carry me through every emotional crisis.

The lesson here is to be careful not to get too attached to one's children. Think of them as temporary houseguests, or middle-aged comedians with a paunch - if you must - and think of yourself as bolted down to a floor. Any freedom is an illusion. When they need you, be there, and when they reject you, you're stuck there anyway. Teach them to be respectful, have compassion, and to be true to themselves. Then watch them treat you like shit as they figure it all out. If I follow my own advice, I may be able to go the way of Mork, and head back to my own planet some day. Either way, I am warmed by the knowledge that crappy television characters from years gone by are still guiding my moral center. Who needs parenting books?

Don't Say That Shit

Coincidentally, or maybe not, if you're into phases of the moon and what's your sign and all that crap, both Sage and Kloe are writing about the cuss words in blogs. Some asshole academic-type wrote somewhere that using swear-words is somehow indicative of a person's ability to articulate, or perhaps just the general quality of on'e writing. So in sisterhood with Sage and Kloe, but also in defense of the art of hurling bad words around, I am expressing my absolute outrage at the idea that the use of a word like fuck, for example, is offensive. Hardly. It's actually rather expressive, and it has many uses as a verb, noun and an adjective. Because of the sharp ending it is highly satisfying to use when you are insanely pissed off, or simply pissed, in the British sense (a wee bit tipsy), and you want to say "fuck it." Excellent with the artificial British accent. Similarly, when referring to other drivers - a let-off-steam exercise - the use of words like "dumbass," "bastard," "fuckwad," "dipshit," and, of course, "asshole," can be both satisfying and a great relaxant for the fast-paced pulse.

Ya know, if some shithead wants to write drivel about profanity, he oughtta try using some himself before he judges me. If he's too prim to give it a whirl, how does he know how good it really feels? I'm grateful to live in this proud country because I can say whattever the hell I want to, and every time I think of my dear mom - still the model of elegance - telling me to be ladylike, I can be content with the knowledge that I know a lotta great ladies who can swear a blue streak.

Don't Be Stupid

This is going to be a wee bit political. Nevuh-the-less, as the granddaughter of immigrants, I do have my proverbial two cents. Is there a reason to be dogmatic? Must people say shit about sending them all back? Isn't that kinda retarded, in the true sense of the word (slow)? Illegal immigration is a complex issue, obviously, but nothing rankles me more than hearing or reading simplistic crap related to a topic that other people are debating, researching, and writing books about. Ya don't hafta write a book to have an opinion, but I don't think everyone coming north is an opportunistic sociopath looking to steal our jobs. They probably are not all Mother Theresa wannabes, either. I do have a suspicion, however, that some of them are children. Some of them are families that I actually used to work with, and they would eventually tell me about their situation.

The situation in one family was that Mom had seen murder and rape of family members in El Salvador and so left, and Auntie and kids followed. They all lived in 3 rooms (six of them), and visitors were welcome to stay. Mom cleaned houses and Auntie watched the kids. So that's probably a story you've heard before, but those were people I got to know very well. Auntie laughed at my bad Spanish. Years before, she had gone off by herself to have all of her own babies alone in the woods. They were all grown now. Two of the kids in this apartment had apparently eaten lead from the windows. The landlord was like shut up or leave. I took Mom to see a lawyer and she was so nervous, as if she hoped that if she stayed in her back apartment people wouldn't quite figure she was there. When I left the job, she couldn't understand why we wouldn't still be friends. It felt random - I wasn't her therapist - but it was also a relief. She was really stuck, and it scared me.

I liked it way back when George's daddy talked about a "kinder, gentler" nation, or some shit like that. It sounded so good, like we could just all have milk and cookies. So, along those lines, when I read this crap about they can all go home, I think read a goddamn book, asshole and/or if you had any cookies, I would take them from you. If you're informed, then speak up, right? Say Something. Agree or disagree. You can choose ignorance, but don't advertise, for crissake.