Destiny Allison's Blog

We Can’t Control the Outcome

I drove home alone Friday night. Sunset raged crimson, gold, and violent – flames  licking the sky – and mountains faded to silhouettes against the blazing horizon. In the back seat, the dog panted quietly. I gripped the wheel with both hands as if the car was sliding, but the road was straight and dry. There were no cars in front of me and none behind. Still, dread chewed at my insides. I wanted to pull over, scream at the world, and just once stop the incessant tick of time. Instead, I continued to drive.

The house was dark when I arrived. I turned on the lights, set the kettle to boil, and built a fire. The dog barked. Headlights lit the trees outside the window. The front door opened and my husband burst through it with a phone to his ear and a bag of groceries cradled to his side. A gust of wind followed him, chasing a few dead leaves across the tile floor. He looked at me and smiled.

I checked one worry off my list. There had been no horrible accident and he was fine. We made dinner, sipped tea, and threw the backgammon dice – all the while chatting about the small events that comprise our daily lives.

While we talked, the dread gnawed a hollow in my chest, would not be tamed by tea or touch or tenderness, and when the phone rang and I saw the caller ID I was not surprised. “This,” I thought, “is the day my son dies.”

The voice on the other end of the line informed me my son had been drinking, was contemplating suicide, and had not been seen or heard from in some time. I checked his phone log online and confirmed there had been no calls or texts for more than eight hours. The story, though familiar, left me terrified.

With police help, we found him – unharmed, but drunk out of his mind – and I breathed a sigh of relief. The inevitable wouldn’t come tonight. There would be more time.

Seven years ago, the disease stole my son and replaced him with someone I seldom recognize. Since then, I’ve wrestled with a demon named failure. I’ve argued, pleaded, and prayed. I’ve tried tough love and compromise. I have been furious, hopeful, determined, and desperate, but my will cannot combat my son’s lies. My nurture cannot make him sober. My love cannot force him to stay alive. According to all the standards by which society measures us, I have failed as a mother. I didn’t raise my son right. I can’t save him, make him better, or coax him to health. Shame and guilt still torture me in the wee hours of the night, but, according to popular mythology, they shouldn’t.

These days, failure is a prize. In conference rooms and universities across the country, inspirational speakers laud this demon as a necessary obstacle on the path to success. It is an essential part of the hero’s journey, the thing that teaches him what he needs to know, gives him courage, and makes him strong.

They glorify this demon and recount their battles with it like old soldiers. Rejection letters, divorce, money lost, and opportunities squandered are feathers in the cap, notches on the belt, stripes of paint on the belly of a plane. They are the marks of a warrior, the canonization of his struggle, the hallmark of wrong made right. Failure is the enemy, but it is also the process through which the warrior becomes a knight.

I have failed countless times – failed in marriage, failed to get the job I wanted, failed to keep a job I needed, failed to save, failed to spend wisely, failed to get the coveted publishing contract with one of the big guys. I have failed at keeping my skin youthful and my figure perfect because I failed to eat the right foods and exercise. If the inspiration gurus are right, I’m headed for a glorious future.

We all want to believe in a silver lining. There should be a purpose, a reason for the events that drop us to our knees and leave us screaming. At times, we want to control the outcome, make a difference, and be heard. At others, we just want to stop the bleeding. Crushed, broken, and powerless, we’ll believe almost anything that will get us through another day. That is why the statement, “Failure paves the way to success,” is so popular. Unfortunately, it is also a lie.

The root of the word failure is deficiency. It suggests that we are flawed and had we been good enough the terrible event would not have transpired. Though failure is our fault, we can use it to further our goals. The heroine on her journey is supposed to learn from her past failures, glean wisdom from the battles, and turn her weaknesses into strengths so the next time failure raises its ugly head she can slay it before real damage is done. Then, the writer will be published, the entrepreneur will make a fortune, the marriage will last forever, and the mother will never have to utter, “My remaining sons.”

I used to believe failure wasn’t an option. Then I believed failure was a necessary evil I would eventually overcome. In my writing, relationships, and business endeavors I tried to learn from the past so I could correct my deficiencies and avoid repeating mistakes. Then, despite all efforts, a circumstance outside my control would throw a wrench in my careful maneuvering and surface a new deficiency. This happened again and again.

Now, with a slew of successes and failures behind me, I am watching my son wrestle with a terrible disease. I desperately want him to live. I want this more than anything, but I cannot control what he does. Perhaps the real lesson lies here. It is his choice to live or die, not my failure.

In this instance, as in most, I must throw the whole concept of failure to the wind. The only thing I control is what I give. This is a brutal truth. I can’t run or hide. I can’t bury myself under my covers for days at a time. All I can do – all any of us can do, really – is show up, bear witness, and love.

 

 

The Romance Diet Took First Place in the 2016 Journey Awards!

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I’m honored and thrilled to announce that The Romance Diet: Body Image and the Wars We Wage on Ourselves took first place in the 2016 Journey Awards competition for Narrative Non-fiction.

This competition attracts some excellent writers and I’m couldn’t be more excited.

 

Failure Doesn’t Lead to Success

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I am cold this morning. Outside my window, the sky spits snow that doesn’t stick. Wind screams. Trees dance. Ravens catch the air drifts. Inside, a chill numbs my hands and makes me long to be anywhere else, but Tuesdays are the days I write in spite of myself.

My most recent book, the one I’ve been writing for months, isn’t good. I tried a new format and failed. The editing feels onerous, like I’m forcing something that refuses to work, and I’m having a crisis of confidence.

Yet here I am, writing again, because showing up matters.

Despite popular conviction, failure does not lead to success.

Work leads to success.

Diligence keeps the creative juice flowing.

Commitment opens the door to possibility.

There are no shortcuts.

There are good days and bad days and days that plod slowly from sunrise to sunset. Days when everything I write gets erased, days when it flows like some greater being is speaking through me and I am just a conduit.

We cannot control an outcome or make a masterpiece from desire alone. We can only control what we give to the process.

Show up.

Do the work.

Eventually, the words we seek will make themselves known.

The Romance Diet Made the Short List

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Very proud to announce that The Romance Diet made the Chanticleer Book Awards short list. It’s now competing for first place. If you haven’t read it, the book deals with all the ways women beat themselves up, how culture impacts even the best relationships, and how we can heal from trauma. Check it out if you get a chance.

 

Shock and Awe

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Last night, feeling overwhelmed yet again by the constant barrage of OMG news coming out of Washington, I had an epiphany. The onslaught of executive orders, appalling cabinet picks, the gagging of Federal agencies, and the use of “alternative facts” to distort and destabilize an exhausted public are deliberate. We are under attack.

Shock and awe is a military tactic based on the use of overwhelming power and spectacular displays of force to paralyze the enemy’s perception of the battlefield and destroy its will to fight. As Naomi Klien pointed out, shock and awe tactics have been applied by economists and politicians worldwide to overwhelm an unsuspecting public until it buckles, grasping at anything that promises stability and normalcy.

These tactics were used in South America, in Poland, in Africa, and even in the USA after Hurricane Katrina and they are effective. Very effective.

As I scan my Facebook feed, talk with customers in my store, and read the news, I am certain that these tactics are being used against the American people right now. Realizing it, I found myself able to think and to breathe.

Trump’s executive orders are not law. Most require congressional action and will take time to be implemented if, indeed, they are implemented at all. A gag order on the EPA is terrifying, but not fatal at this point. There is cause for deep concern, but we’re not drowning yet.

Shock and awe is designed to force a population to react. We don’t have to do that. We can, instead, respond. And respond we will, with discipline, commitment, and clear sighted, fact-checked reason.

If we allow ourselves to be victims of a tactic that is mostly bluster at this point, Trump and his crew will succeed in mounting the most successful, non-violent coup in history and our democracy will fail. If, however, we recognize the tactics and respond accordingly, democracy will prevail.

The Women’s March in DC

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Wednesday: On my way to work, suitcase packed and eager, a murder of crows descended on the frontage road – stopping traffic and waking smart phones. I scanned the asphalt, dull skies, and attending automobiles and found them bare of blood, carcass, garbage, or bones.

The crows strutted on the pavement and swooped low, their black bodies like pepper against clouds heavy, gray, and cold. Out of place, out of time, and orderly, they didn’t belong to the norm. What they were doing there? Why didn’t they go?

Thursday: A glimpse of dawn through burning eyes, then an airport, lines, and rules. I shuffled through them chugging cheap coffee and joined the detritus of sleep deprived passengers at the gate. Suitcases and backpacks littered the floor like a deluge of debris washed ashore after a storm.

Later, dressed in black lace and borrowed pink pearls, I attended the Peace Ball with my love. We danced, listened to heroes, and cheered with the crowd. Finally a man forced us up from our bold seats on the floor in front of the security tape and we went back to an Airbnb condo tastefully furnished and pleasantly warm.

At this point, still, I was numb.

Friday: Fried clams, cold beer, and talk of politics closer to home.

I woke early Saturday morning to a light drizzle. It had been days since I’d seen the sun. All the way across the nation, the skies reflected my despair as if they had been hand picked for a film. We were extras at a funeral unanticipated and heavily mourned.

We didn’t have pink hats. Instead, anticipating violence, our pockets bulged with swim goggles, filtered masks, rain gear, sharpies, tissues, gloves, and a little bit of cash. Anxiety made my legs heavy, my heart fast. I am terrified of crowds. I’m afraid to defy and resist. I have never been an activist. So that morning, driving to the Metro where we would catch a train to the Women’s March, I couldn’t help but think of those crows. What was I doing here? Why did I go?

Of course I knew. Knew in the way old bones know there’s going to be rain, knew in the way a mother knows her child is hungry or in pain. I had no words beyond the slapdash propaganda of which I read too much. Instead, I had a gnawing that nuzzled against my numb and occasionally caught my breath.

At the entrance to the Metro, small clusters of women carrying signs and wearing pink colored the drab morning with hope. As we moved toward them, my eyes filled and a ball of something warm and alive welled solid in my throat. The clusters of people became a stream. The stream became a river. The river became a flood.

The Metro station was packed. So packed that security opened the gates and let us through without charging our cards. The flood surged in waves as trains cleared platforms. Everywhere, the press of people and pink and cheering hordes.

Afraid of being separated, my love and I held hands. Trains passed, car after car crammed with smiling people. They waved to us as they went by and rallying cries of solidarity rang loud off curved, concrete walls.

Bundled in coats and hats, the crowd grew warm. The air, heavy with rain and sweat and breath, hung thick and wet in the tunnel. It was worse on the train, but instead of complaining, the crowd told jokes and laughed.

Outside, the crowds thinned for an instant and our hearts leapt with the freedom of movement, the excitement of the moment, the love we shared not just with each other but with all the people present. Two beaming women thrust hastily sewn, pink felt hats towards us and we donned them – he over matted hair, me over a Bourbon Street baseball cap. The sky lifted, though it remained overcast, and we joined the throng.

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Signs humorous and serious bobbed through the crowd. It grew bigger, rivulets and streams feeding the flood from every direction until everywhere I looked there were people in pink hats, people of every color, people young and old, in wheelchairs and pushing strollers, and with babies strapped to their backs. Massive video screens loomed over us, the feed from the stage sometimes blurred and at odds with the sound stream that bellowed through speaker towers erected in the streets. Like Moses parting the red sea, a line of police cruisers parted the crowd. One of the officers sported his own pink hat and the crowd roared as he passed.

“Medic,” someone cried and the call was bounced like a life raft until it reached its destination and a team of nurses weaved past us like fish through a shoal – calm and steadfast.

We moved, compelled to get as close to the stage as possible, and found ourselves stuck about three blocks away. Close to a speaker and video screen, we planted ourselves and stayed. For three hours we remained in one place. My legs cramped. My back ached. Yet, riveted by the people on stage, these were scarcely worthy of complaint.

The signs bobbed, rising in unison as a presenter made a poignant point, then sank again like buoys on waves. RISE. WOMEN ARE THE WALL. NORMALIZE THIS! LOVE TRUMPS HATE!

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My fear of crowds forgotten, despair dissipated and I came awake. “Yes!” my heart screamed. “Yes!”

As I chanted and whooped and cheered, the numbness fell away and I felt the stir of possibility where dread had set up shop and would have remained. But here was humanity on full display. Here was hope riding dreams and hurtling through loudspeakers and conversations in the streets. The voices of the marginalized, the empowered, and everyone in between cried together and cried for change. Yes. Yes. Yes. We are not beaten. We are no longer ashamed! Yes. Yes. Yes. We have come here to claim our rightful place. We are the crows in the road. We are the rivers rising above the flood plain. We are trees rooted deep and dancing in the wind. We are women. We are united and we will never be silenced again.

Everywhere I looked, as far as I could see, down every street and across every intersection, people in pink.

After awhile, a too long while, the presentation began to drone. Impatient, little trickles of people pushed backward through the crowd. The crowd began to chant, “March! March! March!” The mood shifted. Joy floated away like a balloon untethered. In its place, a surge of discontent. Bodies pressed too close, shifting and shuffling without anywhere to go. I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t quell the sudden shaking in my limbs, couldn’t focus my eyes as panic set in. “March! March! March!”

There was no room to move in any direction. A woman sat small in a wheelchair that bumped continuously against my husband’s shin. He held my gaze. Talked me down. “Look at me. You’re okay. We’re okay.” The crowd surged, wobbled, surged again. He fought his way sideways, pulling me along, until he got my back against a solid sign that would withstand a stampede if there was one. “March! March! March” Louder and louder, the chant drowned out the speakers. The air filled with complaints. The stage seemed to spontaneously birth a new non-profit that needed representation every two minutes and inspiring speeches morphed into anger and hate. “March! March! March!”

“You have the power!” someone proclaimed over the loud speaker and we laughed in spite of ourselves because they had the power. We could not march until they released us. We waited for that permission for over an hour until finally they rerouted us and we slowly scattered. Down every side street, through parking lots, and over walls we poured with relief. Someone caught the balloon. Hope again was in our grasp. We were free.

There were only four calls to police during the event. All were medical emergencies. More than half a million people converged on one place, stayed for more than seven hours, put up with overflowing port-a-potties, chilling temperatures, an over programmed presentation, and a barrage of noise, emotion, and desire without any violence.

At sunset, we left. Long lines stood in front of food trucks, hungry for sausage, pretzels, any form of sustenance. The air was jubilant. Stomachs rumbling, we headed for the nearest Metro and found it near Trump Tower where thousands were dropping their protest signs as a concrete message to our new president.

On the flight home, reading the news and learning about “alternative facts,” the vanishing White House web pages, and more, we wondered if the Women’s March would be able to help cement lasting change. Would people go home to their lives and return to complacency, or would they continue to rise and contribute loudly to our democracy?

That remains to be seen, but witnessing what I did in Washington DC, I now believe. Yes, we can. Yes, we will. Yes, women, rise. It’s our time and we are the change.

New Project: Chapter 29

Chapter 29

 

Wind and water are onslaughts. Each gust or wave takes a little bit more.  If I am mountain or shore, I am consumed with erosion. If I am ocean or wind, I am consumed with motion, not more.

This morning, over tea, Steve asked me, “How’s your heart?” We check in with each other by asking this question, creating a safe space for an honest answer and ensuring our communication and marriage stay strong.

I told him I felt adrift, powerless, and without a target for the emotions elicited by Trump’s election. I let him know that these feelings were affecting every part of my life and my insecurities were rearing loud and strong.

He said, “That’s because nothing’s happened yet. You’re like a tidal wave moving across the ocean. As it moves, it’s only a foot high. When it comes in contact with the shore, it’s sixty feet high and powerful beyond measure. Just wait. When you see land, you’ll know where to put your energy.”

He was right, of course. Still, I told him not to try to solve my problem. I just wanted him to know what I felt. That, in turn, made him feel insecure about us. Men fix. It’s what they’ve been trained to do. If he can’t fix me, he feels powerless. We both know this now, but that doesn’t make our reality less challenging. It just means we have more room for each other and the mistakes we inevitably make.

Later, having coffee with a new friend, I thought about the power of wind and wave, thought about what it might feel like to stop trying to be solid ground. We’ve been taught to hold on, to keep change at bay, to cement ourselves to our worlds. Perhaps this is wrong. After all, solid ground is also an illusion.

I began this book at a campfire. My husband slept in a chair, a glass of whiskey tilted precariously in his hand. I fed the fire, watched a full moon rise over a dark lake, and listened to the wind. At the time, I knew I loved him beyond words and trusted him completely, but didn’t know if I could continue to live with him. It seemed our marriage was at odds with who I needed to be.

Then I had an epiphany. I thought back on all the ways he tried to be what I needed and realized that his efforts were enough and maybe the problem was me.

At first, I worried. It’s all too common for women to assume responsibility in moments of conflict because if the problem is their fault, they can change themselves and thus elicit some “control” over the situation. I’ve done this so many times I’ve lost count and was deeply afraid that my epiphany was more of the same, but there was a blot of hope on the edge of my consciousness that suggested a new way of thinking.

Now, as this book draws to a close, I realize I have spent my life weathering a storm. This storm is all around me and every onslaught erodes part of my whole. I live in a society that says (via pop culture, religious teachings, and legal battles not yet won) that I do not belong. My gender, behavior, intelligence, sensitivity, and sexuality are at odds with the person society says I am supposed to be. I am not alone in this experience. To a degree, every single person is under assault by someone or something and we are, collectively, weathering a common storm.

We hold onto structures, norms, as though clinging to them will render us solid, immutable, intact, and whole. But we are not mountain or shore. When we understand that we are wind or wave, we realize our power lies not in remaining the same, but in changing, growing, becoming our own storm. Our calm is a caress should we choose to give it. Our righteous anger is a tidal wave forming above an unsuspecting shore.

We control only what we give; to ourselves, our loved ones, and our communities. Through creativity, generosity, and deep care, we can erode the cultural norms. To feed the fire of my love of self, husband, family, and community, I had to abdicate what I’d known and embrace something different; a quiet revolution that started like a breeze and spread through the deepest recesses of my soul.

Reject toxic love. Take responsibility for liberty and use it. Develop empathy, but realize that giving to others without understanding motives can backfire and hurt everyone involved. Know that the system is constructed with an ideology that works for all, but policies that work against the majority for the benefit of those at the top. Recognize that lack of action against those policies renders us complicit in them. Know that change happens slowly and equality begins at home.

I leave you with this: Amazing Grace is more than a song or prayer. It is a state, an experience, an act of love. Individually, we are drops of water integral to ourselves and already whole. Together, we feed the oceans that reshape shores. We tunnel through granite, carve canyons, and fell trees. It is our fluidity – not rigidity – that makes the change we seek and lets us be the people and peoples we were meant to be.

 

I once was lost.

But now am found.

Was blind

But now I see.

 

With love to you. December 26, 2016.

New Project: Chapter 28

Twenty Eight

 

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed. The task seems daunting – impossible even. How do we change a culture? How do we combat the insidious nature of mass media, corporate control, clandestine government, fundamentalist religion, and all the mechanisms designed to ensure we police ourselves into compliancy with everything that is against our own interests and that of most of the world?

It’s easier to abdicate, medicate, and be entertained. Easier to be numb than experience first shock, then pain. And yet, once seen, the enemy of human decency and social welfare cannot be unseen. The genie won’t go back in the bottle. Knowledge is first a weapon, then the tool necessary for change.

There is no way to take down the corporate elite en masse. Conventional revolution won’t secure our common interests or ensure the needs of the many. No amount of violence, protest, or boycott is enough to stem the evil that is neoliberalism and make the world okay.

But there is a path. Knowledge and generosity can build on the existing framework, creep over it like vines until it ceases to be itself. The moment we decide to stop giving corporations, government, and the wealthy elite power over us, we empower ourselves and each other. Equality – liberty, empathy, and economic independence – is only possible through a focus on collective well being.

Some will call me a socialist or communist. I am neither. I believe in democracy with my whole being, but the democracy I envision is one where popular vote matters and where social responsibility is inherent to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. No one is immune to tragedy. Innate intelligence, talent, and skills cannot protect us from illness, the death of a loved one, or a job lost to cheap labor in foreign countries. Rugged individualism is anathema to our self interests. It ensures continued loneliness, hopelessness, and despair and remains the greatest threat to our planet. If we could all just pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, we would have done it long ago. Hillary Clinton said, “It takes a village to raise a child.” More, it takes a village to sustain itself.

Homogenization – via food and discount chains, national banks and big box stores – destroys local culture and economy while robbing us of our common humanity. Cheap is an unsustainable illusion, possible only through tax breaks for wealthy corporations, commodity subsidies, and social welfare for underpaid employees.  We pay these hidden costs and we pay dearly. While they impact our wallets, they also diminish our spirits and render us slaves to a system designed only to profit from us.

Corporations don’t care. People do. Most successful small business owners understand that business, to survive, must be relevant to the community it serves. Because of that, small businesses are vested in community endeavors, local non-profits, and local culture. Their prices may be a little higher than their corporate competitors, but that is because their costs are real. They are not subsidized by government. They have little access to low interest loans and can’t sell shares to raise cash. In addition, they can’t buy the quantities necessary to lower their cost of goods.

When we buy from them, we pay fairly for the goods and services we receive and keep tax dollars and wealth in our local communities. Big box stores seldom sponsor the little league team, local museum, homeless shelter, or food bank. They might have a charity component that gives a fraction of their income to education or research, but they’re not focused on building vibrant communities through personal involvement. Instead, they kill small businesses, divest us of our sense of community, and siphon profit away from local economies.

Government, regardless of who is elected, can’t stop them, but we can. After the 2016 election, national non-profits saw an unprecedented surge in donations. The ACLU, which raised twenty seven thousand dollars after the 2012 election, received 7.2 million in just eight days. In a rush to create a safety net against policies that might be enacted under a Trump administration, people gave what they could.

What if they had chosen to give locally instead? Could that influx of cash invigorate a stagnant local economy or provide for the underserved in local communities? Many liberals are quick to recognize need elsewhere, but fear to recognize it at home. While they pat themselves on the back and feel proud of their efforts to help the underserved, marginalized, and discriminated against, they ignore realities staring them in the face. Poverty is rampant in this country and it’s getting worse. Wealth and accompanying social services are concentrated in urban areas while rural populations are in dire need of healthcare, mental health programs, food security, and jobs. Travel the blue roads in any state and you will find shuttered downtowns, abandoned buildings, and faded signs from businesses long gone. In these communities, depression, drug abuse, alcoholism, and suicide are all too common. In fact, in rural areas child and teen suicide rates are more than double their urban counterparts, yet we continue to give our money to national agencies that concentrate their efforts in urban areas and buy from corporate giants rather than local stores.

In his article, How Half of America Lost Its F**king mind, David Wong said, “The recession pounded rural communities, but all the recovery went to the cities. The rate of new businesses opening in rural areas has utterly collapsed.

See, rural jobs used to be based around one big local business – a factory, a coal mine, etc. When it dies, the town dies. Where I grew up, it was an oil refinery closing that did us in. I was raised in the hollowed-out shell of what the town had once been. The roof of our high school leaked when it rained. Cities can make up for the loss of manufacturing jobs with service jobs – small towns cannot. That model doesn’t work below a certain population density.”

The loss of manufacturing jobs has certainly contributed to the destruction of rural economies. So have big box corporations. When a Walmart is allowed to open in a small town, it kills local business. Then, once local business is dead and there are no jobs, and no tax base with which to create them, and no income with which to support its business, Walmart does what’s in its best interest. It leaves and the town is destroyed. Every time we become dependent on one large entity for our well-being, we give away all the power we had to create and sustain local economies.

There are complex economic problems, to be sure, and I am not going to attempt to solve them here. However, we can take responsibility for much of what happens in our local economies. We can block big box stores from opening in our neighborhoods. We can raise funds to provide emergency relief and low-interest micro-loans to people facing temporary crisis. We can create spaces for local artists and crafts people to show their wares and revitalize declining business districts through those efforts. We can support local businesses that invest in the community and buy food from local farmers. Time banks are a way to trade goods and services without relying on credit or cash. There are many models that have been proven to work. Not all of them work in all locations and some towns may never recover from the damage done by big business and neoliberal policy, but we can make a difference if we start giving to each other instead of worrying about what we do or don’t get.

When I became head administrator for a local non-profit childcare agency, the organization was bleeding heavily. It operated after school programs at four elementary schools and couldn’t cover its expenses. The existing policy demanded that fundraising efforts finance all scholarships and lower tier employees be paid minimum wage. Turnover was high. Program quality was low. Enrollment was below subsistence level.

Immediately, I gave all employees a significant raise. Turnover slowed. I instituted a sliding scale payment plan and advertised heavily that no child would be turned away due to a family’s inability to pay. Enrollment went up drastically. As enrollment increased, I dedicated more time to training my staff. Turnover stopped. Enrollment hit peak capacity at the four schools and we opened additional programs at eight others. In a year, the organization’s revenue quadrupled and it operated soundly in the black. The math was simple. Instead of nine children paying $200 per week, I had twenty paying an average of $150 and increased revenue by $600 at each location. After the wage adjustment and a slight increase in cost of goods to support the additional children (but no additional labor), each site netted $400 per week and the organization netted $249,600. That allowed us to provide more financial support for those in need, open more locations, pay better wages, give free childcare to our employees, improve the quality of our product, and ensure the organization’s fiscal health.

This is not rocket science. It’s taking care of people. When we care in ways that matter, we are rewarded for our efforts. When we give people dignity and respect, they give us loyalty and support.

But efforts to support local businesses and non-profit organizations do more than improve local economies; they bolster spirits and create hope. When community comes together, individuals within that community feel less isolated and more empowered. The desperation so many feel is lessened when we share our strengths and vulnerabilities. As we build relationships, we create understanding and empathy, strengthen our ability to communicate, and develop trust. This, in turn, promotes a greater willingness to invest time, energy, and money where they matter most. When we give locally, we change local culture and become models for other communities. Little by little, neighborhood by neighborhood, our efforts creep like vines and improve the world.

New Project: Chapter 27

Twenty Seven

 

Economics are difficult. Emotions are more so. After the election, Trump surrogates postulated that in an information age there are no such things as facts. People believe what they choose to believe and facts, in this context, are irrelevant. This is terrifying. Orwell’s 1984 posited the same thing. The Ministry of Peace was all about war. The Ministry of Truth was all about propaganda. Duck Speak was a way to minimize vocabulary to ensure a limitation of thought. Orwell was brilliant and a savant, but only because he was a student of human nature.

In a recent blog post, Seth Godin said, “The other person is always right. Always right about feelings.

About the day he just experienced.

About the fears (appropriate and ill founded) in his life.

About the narrative going on, unspoken, in his head.

About what he likes and what he dislikes.

You’ll need to travel to this place of ‘right’ before you have any chance at all of actual communication.”

Godin hits the nail on the head. I am right and so are you. Right, in spite of facts, is right. Emotional logic is far more powerful than reasoned logic. Most people, tired of hurting, will believe anything or anyone who promises to take the hurt away – even when they’re factually wrong, even when their “right” compounds the hurt.

We see this in relationships all the time. Most fights, on the surface, are stupid. But when we look deeper, they are about desire, the responsibility it entails, and the difficulty with honesty. I hurt. Something happened that triggered a response I didn’t intend and now, faced with confronting or denying it, I string together a litany of “truths” that have no basis in objective reality, but support the “feeling” I have that you injured me. The last thing I want to do is inflict more hurt. There’s enough of it in the world, but I can’t help myself. My pain screams louder than yours.

Those that would manipulate us for their own gain understand this. They feed it, dishing out tasty lumps of outrage, impotence, and “empathy” at just the right moments to ensure the outcome they desire. We eat them up, cope in all the ways we can, and believe their promises will save us because we cannot save ourselves. Their promises are shields against our fears and we believe them when they say wages will go up, jobs will be abundant, and the bank will not foreclose. Once we’ve elected them, or allowed the big box into our community, the family will get food, medicine, education, and standing in this world.

Governments and corporations play us using language that evokes emotional convictions about morality. We buy into their promise that after the event (be it corporate or governmental) the noise and lightening and wind will abate and we will finally do more than merely survive. The sky will clear and hope will loom bright as the sun. Unfortunately, the weather always changes and it is only a matter of time until the next despot, demagogue, or corporate interest decides our worth is less than theirs.

Neoliberalism is a method through which the emotional convictions of a populace are manipulated against their own interests to secure the financial interests of a wealthy minority. NAFTA was supposed to be a gem of international policy that would result in hundreds of thousands of jobs. Instead, it ensured the wealthiest fifteen percent of Mexican elites reap more than half of Mexico’s annual GDP.

Stabilization policies in Latin America – Brazil, Nicaragua, and others –were supposed to usher in democratic governments and expanding markets that would lift people out of poverty and warfare. Instead, they led to rapidly declining wages, food scarcity, and the loss of decades of social progress for the masses while securing outrageous profits for those nations’ elite and American corporations.

Under the pretense of democracy and the free market, the United States (along with other industrialized nations) has coerced, bullied, and illegally interfered with other nations to secure corporate interests on a global scale. Globalization and the pursuit of democracy, though touted as good and fundamentally necessary to secure better prospects for the world’s population, has in fact destroyed the prospects of most. We are sold a story about the free market which is fundamentally untrue. For much of the last hundred years, the free market has been controlled by governments through regulation, bail outs, and subsidies to benefit corporate interests at the expense of the working classes.

According to Noam Chomsky, since NAFTA was enacted the number of impoverished people living in rural Mexico increased by a third and, “Half the population lacks resources to meet basic needs, a dramatic increase since 1980.”

Truth matters, but it is arbitrary because it depends on one’s perspective. You and I are sitting at a table. Between us is a vase filled with roses. From my perspective, the vase has an inscription etched into the glass. There are three blooms, one fading a little, and a host of little white flowers that compliment the spray.

You tell me there is no inscription because, from your perspective, there is none. You also see four roses and a lot of green leaves. What you and I see are different. Both are real. Both are valid. I can move to your side, see what you see, and remember what I saw, but I can never see both sides at once. Neither can you. This is where empathy comes in, where it becomes essential. I must trust that what you see and describe is true. You must do the same because we are both right. The fact is, there is a vase filled with roses, little white flowers, and green stuff on the table. How each of us chooses to interpret what we see is different, equally valid, and only part of the whole. What I choose to believe about your “truth” is rooted not in observable fact, but on my emotional and physical need to trust you.

In the aftermath of the election, a group of women began to organize a million women march on Washington, D.C. There were cries for solidarity, a collective relief that something was being done, and a lot of unanswered questions. The organizers, in their rush and enthusiasm, initially called the event “The March on Washington.” Then, after some negative feedback, they changed the name. This engendered another attack by women of color who felt both names hijacked work already done by people of color for people of color.

Outrage ensued on both sides and the vitriol threatened the entire event. The name was changed, yet again, to satisfy those who felt their history absconded. Too little, too late. The damage, though unintentional, had been done. In this instance, as in most, a little ignorance and a lot of emotion caused well-intentioned people to miss important historical references. They didn’t do it on purpose, and perhaps even named the march in unconscious tribute to those who had gone before, yet they unwillingly let emotional urgency interfere with their goal.

We consistently miss historical references and the facts they reveal because emotions outweigh personal and collective experience. Solidarity and common morality trump (to use a word that is both relevant and repulsive) memory and facts. To our detriment, we would rather our fears be assuaged than face reality because we have learned to focus on what we get rather than what we give.

We are told democracy depends on compromise, that if we give a little we’ll get enough, that human rights are important, but economics matter more. After all, in a free market, all things are self-correcting. If the money flows, we’ll be all right.

The money, however, doesn’t flow, the market isn’t free, and democracy today is designed to protect property over social welfare and human rights. While we battle over American idealism and biblical reference, big government and small, rural morality and urban sophistication, we miss the crucial truth that those who make policy do so in their own best interests. The system we’re taught to revere is a golden calf. Collectively, we worship in folly at its feet, largely ignoring F. Scott Fitzgerald’s proclamation that, “The rich are different from you and me,” and voting with emotion instead of fact.

New Project: Chapter 26

Twenty Six

 

I dropped out of college after my freshman year and came home. Washington D.C. was not the glamorous metropolis for which I’d hoped. College was less and more and too much. At sixteen, still grieving and totally broke, I was ill equipped to deal with its offerings.

I wore Levi’s and flannel shirts. My roommates wore Gap and perfume and radiant hope. They had allowances, bedding, and parents who didn’t refuse when they called collect. I played Billie Holiday and Janis Joplin. They played Bruce Springsteen and Billy Joel. My world collided with theirs.

I couldn’t reconcile what I had read and believed with the homeless men and women who lined the streets. Metro escalators descended, futuristic and whistle clean, into tunnels that felt overwhelming and mildly obscene. Automatic doors on brightly lit trains slid open like mouths waiting to eat me. Whoosh of air and screech of brakes frightened me like the eyes of transient government employees who arrived quickly and worried about leaving. I drank. I smoked. I slept with boys. In the wee hours of the mornings, I climbed trees.

When I left – broken, disillusioned, and defensive – I vowed to work on a ranch, to be a woman full and free. I applied for the job on a June morning. I hadn’t saddled a horse by myself ever, so I lied to the property owner. He smiled and tucked his laugh behind a cough when I saddled the horse backward. Then he offered me the position – head wrangler at a dude ranch ten miles north of Pecos, New Mexico.

Hugh, the owner, had fled New Jersey to be a cowboy. Maybe, in my eyes, he recognized his dream. He couldn’t control the economy, the drought that dried up business and streams, or the way his wife looked at him while she sucked a candy and cleaned. He could control what he gave to me.

That job changed me. I learned to ride, to train precocious horses, to mend and care for tack. I got a puppy, a blue heeler, who helped me in the mornings when cold lay in the valley. At that hour, the horses snorted steam, pranced and ran, not wanting to get caught. I wore, again, comfortable jeans, got strong, tan, and muscled, and learned to two-step to country songs. Then, as summer waned and fall crept into the canyon, something happened.

One evening, returning from a long ride, I spotted a mare – my barnyard nemesis – lying ghost-like on the ground. Her pale, white coat glowed softly in the twilight. She was thirty, had cancer, and was spoiled rotten because my boss had raised her from a colt. She was the first horse he broke and I think she broke him, too. Something about that mare made him soften.

She wouldn’t get up. She couldn’t get up. I put a harness on her and attached a rope. I pulled, tugged, cajoled, but all she could do was roll her eyes and thrash a bit. I got my boss. He took a look, sighed heavily, and pulled a pistol from its holster on his hip. “You do it,” he said, handing me the gun.

“Do what?”

“Do it,” he hissed through tight lips. “I can’t.”

He strode away, bowlegged and limp, and I watched him until the oncoming dark blurred him into a myth. Then I looked at the mare. I hefted the heavy gun, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger, hitting her in the head. The shot shattered the stillness like a clap of thunder. Gun smoke muddied the clean scent of pine and creek and manure. A fountain of blood spurted crimson across her white coat and pooled dark and thick in the dirt.

She screamed – horses do scream — and tried to get up. Her head flailed in every direction and I knew I’d failed them both. I shot again, aiming carefully because my fingers were trembling, and missed. Tears fell down my cheeks and I let them. The mare’s movements gradually slowed. Finally, as dusk swallowed the last of the light, they stopped.

Numb, I staggered to the ranch house and handed my boss the gun. He put a bottle of tequila in my hand. The only words he spoke were, “Go home.” Not long after, he let me go. Winter in the mountains is tough and money is quickly gone.

For thirty odd years, I have loved that man. I loved him for giving me a chance when most wouldn’t and I loved him for trusting me to give to him. Ending the mare’s life was brutal and merciful all at once. It stayed with me and I’ve known since that all suffering comes to an end. I’ve also known what giving is.

After I left the ranch, I worked a variety of jobs. At every one, someone wanted something from me that I was loath to give. Finally, after showing up for work on a cold, February afternoon to find the doors chain locked and owners who had fled without issuing my last paycheck, I knew hungry again. It is hard to find work in a tourist town at that time of year. My mother, broke herself and overwhelmed, couldn’t help. There was no safety net. I had no car, no savings, no degree and no prospects. I rationed pancakes and jelly – all I had in my fridge. Finally I found a job, wore an apron, and served burritos to high school kids. Minimum wage and very few tips.

When spring came, I found a better job working as an underage cocktail waitress. The men patted my ass, tried to pull me in their laps, and made crude comments to their friends. They did, however, tip. Generously. The tighter my clothes, the better I did. I met a man one night I thought was cute and he asked me out. Lonely and thrilling to his attention, I accepted. We left the bar where I worked and he said he needed to stop by his apartment real quick. I followed him upstairs, waited while he unlocked the door, and stepped inside. As I did, he bent me over the back of his couch, pulled down my pants, and took me without consent. There was porn playing on a large TV, the only décor in a beige bland room, and I knew in an instant that this was a setup. I laughed it off, made it okay for him, because I had been stupid and thought I deserved what he did to me.

The next year, it happened again, but worse, and I agreed to marry the man who rescued me from the resulting alcohol-fueled oblivion. He was my hero, but it turns out, heroes need victims.

These are confessions. Like you, I have more of them. I’m telling you because my life as it unfolded should never have been. At nineteen, I was the dangling comma of young sexuality, poverty, lack of formal higher education, and an ill-timed father’s death. And yet…

Here I am. I made it through okay. I achieved some things and have most of what I want. I took privilege. I clawed my way out. More importantly, at the most desperate moments, I had help.

Hugh, the ranch owner, was first. Then came Jim, the foundry owner who took pity and offered me an apprenticeship. I am the product of kindness. My life is what it is because of the generosity of good men and women who gave when they didn’t have to and weren’t trying to get. A landlord gifted me equity in a house I rented, helped me buy it, and ensured a stable future for my kids. When I lost my job after 9/11, a friend showed me how to start an art business. When my son needed private school and I had to use my savings, Steve – who I had just started dating – bought me the tool I had been saving for and thought I would have to forego. That tool made me a better artist and helped my business grow.

There are countless people in my life who gave when they could have taken, believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself, made possible opportunities when I asked, and continued to affirm my hope. Collectively, they instilled a conviction that defied the conventional narrative. I pulled myself up by my bootstraps because others believed I could and were willing to help. We’re in this together. It is not a competition or race to the top. Tragedy befalls every single person and we’re all each other have.

When push comes to shove, politics don’t matter. Instead, the dreams we share, achieve, or lose are what bind us to each other. When we focus on them, we reveal our common humanity and, as a result, survive or even thrive. Neoliberal policies would have us negate this truth. They would have us turn our attention to special interests, global concerns, and the ways in which each of us are not good enough. But, when we stick together and give to each other, we define our worth. Then we have the energy, confidence, and compassion necessary to build a better social/economic construct and save this beautiful earth.