Monthly Archives: May 2010

The Pink Moon

The suspect was wanted on two theft warrants out of Fort Worth. I was standing on his front porch with him, about to relate the bad news. We were meeting because his wife felt the need to call 911 after he bounced her head off of the refrigerator.

My back-up was walking up the sidewalk as I told him to turn around and put his hands behind his back. The suspect turned and in one motion ran right through the front screen door of the house…with me right behind him. He was running towards his kitchen and the back door to the house. I always hated standing around kitchens…too many knives and other sharp utensils. Yeah buddy, keep running!! We both crashed through the back door and were racing to a chain link fence on the west side of the suspect’s backyard.

You find out early on as a cop…chain link fences can hurt you! They have sharp points at the top that extend above the top bar. The suspect vaulted over the fence like Carl Lewis and then it was my turn.
My hands hit the top of the fence and the points entered my palms and I swung both legs …or at least that was the plan…over the top. I had seen the move on Starsky and Hutch, it looked like a good move. Starsky always had on jeans and sneakers though…I had on my full uniform, duty belt, and bullet proof vest with metal shock plate. My point being…..I didn’t bend well at all and my legs didn’t make it clear of the sharp pointy things at the top of the fence.

My pant leg caught and I heard an extremely loud rip as I fell on the other side of the fence. I felt instant pain in my palms and a slight breeze in the region of my crotch. My back-up had smartly ran around a neighbor’s house and was waiting to greet the suspect as he ran toward the adjacent street. I walked up to the other officer and assisted him in cuffing the guy. We were walking back to a patrol car when the other officer said, “is that pink flowers on those granny panties?”

I got the wise guy to take my prisoner and I was going to zip to the station to retrieve another pair of pants. I generally kept a second uniform in my locker at the station just in case. The need had arisen before, but it was usually when you got blood on your shirt or some drunk puked on you….this was my first pair of ripped pants.

I was working for a suburban department at the time and we usually were short-handed. The citizens would have been shocked if they knew just how few units were on the streets at any given point. We compensated by doing a lot of driving….to be seen by as many people as possible on your beat. This night was no different…before I could pull my unit into the department’s parking lot, the dispatcher was giving me another call. If it had not been urgent, I could have ran in and switched pants….but, you guessed it…the 911 operator dispatched me hot to a possible burglary in progress. The rip started on the inside of my left pant leg at about my knee and went all the way up north to…well….Canada.

Darkness was falling, but not fast enough for me. I was speeding towards a western wear store that was approximately 3 miles from the police department. The store was in a small strip shopping center that was nestled beside a residential area. I noticed 2 guys working on a car in a driveway as I pulled up and parked on a residential street about 200 feet from the shopping center and out of sight of anyone that might be in the western store.

It was about 8:00 pm and all the businesses in the strip center were closed…I was very relieved when I saw an empty parking lot. It was going to be a full moon that night, but not as full as the big pink moon that was hanging out the back side of my dark blue uniform.

I exited my unit and started to walk away from the driveway mechanics and toward the store. I heard a whistle and then the laughter came…I waived at the men. I probably gave them a story to tell to their buddies for a while. I checked the perimeter of the store, established it was a false alarm and asked the dispatcher if the owner had been notified. He had and was en-route to my location to reset his alarm, requesting that I stay to meet him.

The owner arrived and thanked me for my response. He unlocked the front door and I told him to wait as I checked the inside and motioned all clear. I turned to see the store owner blushing the same color as my ass. He said, “you know I can help you out.” I nodded in appreciation and soon after left the store wearing a new pair of Levi’s.

I finally did get back to the station that night to get my second pair of uniform pants. But for sometime after that I would catch people looking my way and pointing….giggling even. It was a small town and evidently the two mechanics had big mouths or lots of friends. And my fellow officers? Well, cops are the absolute worst with pranks and harassing other officers.

For seven days after “the rip heard round the town”….I had a different pair of pink granny panties tied to the radio antenna of my unit waiting on me. The moral of this story is: You will never be a bad-ass cop modeling your moves after a 1970s TV actor, especially while wearing panties your mother gave you for Christmas. And to answer your question: they are white, low rise, sport brief cut.

Streets of Grief

On October 8, 2004 Linda and I found ourselves in the Moran Theater in Jacksonville, Florida. We were attending a “Vote for Change” concert that included Sheryl Crow and Bonnie Raitt, among others. I had booked the trip 2 months earlier as a short getaway for us and the fact that it was a political fundraiser only served to justify the cost to me. Rationalizing the spending of money on fun is something I do all the time….I felt good about this trip after about one hour of rationalizing.

My mother died unexpectedly on October 1st and the funeral was on the 4th. I sat down on the steps of my back-porch on the night of the 5th…drowning in my grief. I thought about the task ahead of me, handling her estate. I thought about how my life would forever be changed….but mostly I just cried.

The trip to Florida was already paid for…I thought I could get a refund on the hotel and other things I had booked, but the airfare would probably be lost, I had not bought cancellation insurance. It was a short trip, Friday thru Sunday….the rationalizations began again in my head. My grief would board the plane with me, I acknowledged that fact in my head first. I felt so foreign already, I decided to go off to a location that was foreign to me….a respite to get my mind around what had happened in the preceding week. Linda agreed that we were both wounded people, but we could do the trip…see some different landscapes and make a political donation for the greater good.

At the moment I decided to make the Florida trip after all, I also contemplated the emotions welling inside of me…the emotions I felt were about to blow like a volcano at any minute…could I suck it up and appear normal in public settings…in Florida? My mother had been infuriated at what had happened in Florida during the 2000 election and that became my determining factor. Jewel would have wanted me to make the trip, to go see the concert…to help the great state of Florida get it right in the 2004 election. It had only been six days earlier that I had sat in a hospital room with my mother and watched the Presidential debate. I wanted to pick up the phone and call her. I layed down on the concrete porch as my body was racked with convulsing sobs. We left for Florida on the 7th of October.

Standing and clapping inside the theater that night was my body, my physical presence…but my mind was on Jewel. Tears streamed down my cheeks at just about every song Bonnie Raitt sang…she is such an emotional singer…the lyrics didn’t matter, the raw energy was palpable. Listening to her voice was a catharsis to me, the melodies were soothing to me….speaking to me. The concert was a beautiful mix of politics and darn good music.

The next day was a Saturday and we decided to rent a car and take a road trip to St. Augustine, Florida…the oldest port in America. Linda and I got the car, and were driving around Jacksonville before heading down the highway to St. Augustine. Driving aimlessly really, just checking out the town. The people of Jacksonville had been somewhat rude. I went expecting southern hospitality and got displaced Yankee attitude. One of the things Texas spoils people with is the friendliness…chatting up the cashier at the grocery store, etc. The people of Jacksonville that Linda and I encountered were not looking to engage in conversation with this Texan. They were curt and strictly business types..we were hoping the change to the smaller town would bring more smiles our way.

As I drove the town and we inspected some historical residential neighborhoods I began to notice a pattern. The street names were all familiar to me…or rather “familial” to me.
We were on Walton Street….one of my sister’s last name and turned onto Herschel Lane…my mother’s brother’s name. Now I realize coincidences happen, but as we traveled to St. Augustine it just kept happening. Linda and I either passed or drove on 9 different streets with names that were in my family. I joked to Linda that it was like my mother was talking to me….trying to make a point with the street names.

The pattern crazily continued as we progressed in our adventure. We saw a James Street, my father’s name…and we crossed a Mary Ann Avenue…my mother’s sister…that made 11 streets total. Now, I will admit that my mind was polluted with grief and family was on my mind. But if my mother wanted to say something to me, this would be the way to do it. Since I was a ex-cop, I am very cognizent of street names and my surroundings when I drive. I don’t miss anything…it is just like I am still on patrol, over a decade after I gave up the profession. It would be an excellent way to speak to me…I would hear this form of communication more loudly than the melodies that had spoken to me on the previous night.

We crossed into the city limits of St. Augustine as Linda and I were discussing the freakish coincidences. We were discussing our theories on the dead speaking to the living. Linda is a Christian, but my Atheist ears were openly listening to her viewpoints on the subject. My grief was actually driving the car that day…I was shaken and willing to listen to anything that was speaking to me…including street signs.

I told Linda that IF my mother was truly trying to say something to me, shouldn’t we have passed a street with her name on it …or at least a _________. I hadn’t even finished my sentence when we passed by a street named St. Juline Circle. Juline was my mother’s birth name…she had legally changed it to Jewel before entering the WAC during WWII. Juline is not a common or popular name…that about flabbergasted us!

I was explaining to Linda that my mother’s given name was Juline when she was born in 1921. I slowly pulled up to a traffic light as Linda asked to confirm what my mother’s maiden name had been? King, I responded….as we both looked up at the intersecting street sign. We were at the intersection of the Highway 5 with KING Street.

I have told you that blogging about my mother, Jewel, would be a running theme in this endeavor when I started writing in December of 2009. I think about her everyday, but was really feeling her this morning as I dressed in my closet. I looked over at the pair of shoes that I keep of Jewel’s on the shelf. I picked one up and yep, it was still there…the piece of gum stuck to the bottom with the one blade of grass stuck, in turn, to the gum…one small blade of St. Augustine grass.

Coffee Talk

So here I sit in my office with 30 minutes to kill before my next client comes in for a consult. Thought I would sit down and pound out today’s blog while I enjoy my non-fat latte. I hope you are relaxed and enjoying a beverage as you read this….let’s make a veritable, virtual coffee talk, shall we?

The client that is coming in is accused of Medicaid Fraud. He committed the heinous crime of letting his 3 kids stay on Medicaid for a short while after he got a new job. It seems he couldn’t quite afford the cost and was coasting until he recovered after 8 months without a job. He knew he was doing something wrong because he no longer qualified for the benefit, but he wanted his kids covered. Now the State of Texas is going after him with criminal charges…nice.

I was listening to talk radio yesterday…the righteous right talk radio. I like to hear what the other side is yammering about and boy did I get an earful on the Sean Hannity show. He and Newt Gingrich were going after what they call Obama-Care/Socialistic Medicine. They repeatedly used Obama’s name in the same sentence as Stalin and Hitler…then they would try and explain that they were just making political points..not comparing the men actually. The damage is done idiots!! Your listeners hear you spew your insanity everyday and repeatedly hear Obama’s name right along side Hitler’s….verbal conditioning is what I call it. These people are drones anyway and believe anything these hate-mongers espouse. Newt Gingrich actually said that Obama’s healthcare plan is the most dangerous thing to the United States and it’s unity since the Civil War!! Oh My!

Grow up people, we in the United States already have socialized medicine. It is called Medicaid and Medicare. Yes, there is fraud and disorganization…but overall the programs cover millions and do tremendous good every day. Obama’s plan covers approximately 30 million people that slip through the cracks. Not yet eligible for Medicare…..and making just a little too much money to qualify for Medicaid….like the client I am about to meet.

The hate in the air in my beloved country sickens me on a daily basis. I write some fiction on this blog, i.e. The Slippery Slope, and days like yesterday make the pieces seem more like non-fiction…more like foreshadowing. I am scared for America. In my whole life I have never even thought those words, let alone have I expressed them in a public forum….but I am truly scared for us. The hate and hate speech has to stop.

I took my Bimmer for a service and a new set of tires two weeks ago at the local BMW dealership. They have drivers there that will take you back to your office and come back to pick you up when your car is ready. I dropped off my car and got into the courtesy car with a older gentleman that was about 75 years old…we will call him Ed.

Ed and I started to chat about cars and other stuff…he seemed like a nice old dude. I hadn’t had time to get my caffeine fix that morning so I told him to go through the drive-thru of the Starbucks on the way back to my office and I would buy him a coffee. Ed pulled up to the speaker and admitted to me that he had NEVER been to a Starbucks before…which made me chuckle. I laughed even harder when he tried to say to the young girl that he wanted to order a Caramel Macchiato! Ed pronounced the drink KARA-Meal Machi-Tatta. It was a priceless moment! I explained to Ed what he had just ordered, then watched as he thoroughly enjoyed it.

The rest of the way to my office was filled with me giving Ed some free legal advice. He asked what I did for a living…and as often happens…the legal questions followed. I gave Ed some sound legal advice and we parted until I would see him again when he returned to pick me up.

Four hours passed and there was Ed again sitting in the parking lot of my office, back to drive me to the dealership and my car. I got into the 5 series he was driving and noticed he was listening to talk radio. He turned it off quickly and we were on our way. Ed seemed agitated, different from the morning drive. He looked at me and asked me, “so how do you like living with a socialist as President?” Ed followed that up with, “and you know he wasn’t even born in this country, don’t you?” Ed had let the radio program get him all into a lather and he continued on with his diatribe for a couple of more miles…I let him speak. Ed’s biggest concern was Obama-Care and what Ed perceived as socialized medicine.

I am sure the dealership doesn’t want the old guys that are the courtesy drivers talking politics and such when carting customers about….but Ed just couldn’t help himself. Ed told me that he was, in fact, a wealthy man. He had worked as an engineer for 40 years and with smart investments had over a million dollars in savings and stocks. Ed told me he worked for the dealership on days he wasn’t at the golf course, his wife liked him out of the house!

We pulled into the dealership and I told Ed that a lefty liberal had just bought him his first Macchiato that morning. I asked Ed if he was covered by Medicare? Ed responded, “why sure, that is my right.” Like my spouse Linda tells me all the time….you cannot argue with crazy. I told Ed to keep his radio off and he would live longer, perhaps keep his blood pressure down. I thanked him and wished him a good day.

What are the differences between my client and Ed? You can probably think of quite a few. But let’s zero in on the similarities….they are both hard-working men…both family men…both tax paying citizens. Both have the right to have their own political opinions and even to rant about them at inappropriate moments. I am even willing to bet you that given the same circumstances, Ed might have coasted for several months when he knew his kids were no longer eligible for Medicaid.

Whether you agree with me or not. Think about Ed and my client today….think about America. Think about that old adage….walk a mile in another man’s shoes. I don’t want to be scared for America anymore. I want another latte! Good day to you all.

Truth, Lift, and Separate

It occurred to me this week that women really search for just two things in this life: validation and a good fitting bra. Out of the two, I think the bra is the more eluding, but to be truly validated is a quest that many women only dream about, few of those dreams reach fruition.

Now understand, this is one woman’s opinion…you can agree or disagree. But to be seen for what you are worth, to watch as someone’s full potential is met…and then to acknowledge that accomplishment…well, I see women every day yearning for that. There are women that have remarkable partners and that have a symbiosis of understanding and acknowledgement between the pairing. But let’s face it, 50 percent of marriages end in divorce….my hypothesis is that the ending comes from lack of validation. Even if gay marriage is legalized, I don’t see the stats changing, we are all human and share the same foibles.

You see examples of my argument on TV all of the time. Women willing to do just about everything short of setting themselves on fire to be SEEN….to be HEARD. I feel pity for them, I wish they had been instilled with enough self confidence to overcome this societal deficiency, but it seems that women need that second person..that validation. You can be the most fully evolved female in America, but until someone sees the real you and confirms that you are a VALUED human being….well, then you are hollow…you become invisible.

It reminds me of that song in the musical CHICAGO, Mr. Cellophane. You can look right through me, walk right past me…and never know I am here. Validation folks…..better than a soft foam cup and no under-wire.

Why do these young women I keep reading about on MSNBC continue to hook-up with these violent young men….stay with them after early signs that he is abusive..then wind up a headline…another tragic death…another promising life snuffed out at an early age?

One recent college senior, beaten to death by her boyfriend, was a top student athlete. She had what seemed to be an incredibly successful life right in front of her…just reach out and grab the brass ring sister…then it was all over, violently…suddenly. I couldn’t help wondering when I read the story that she was looking for a different type of validation and somehow thought he was the person to really SEE her.

You can help this situation starting today by how you relate to others in your life. It doesn’t have to be a love interest to participate in validation. You can walk up to another human being and totally make their day with a few words of acknowledgment and respect. If you are reading this…promise me you will do it at least one time today.
Look at the waitress that serves you lunch today and say something like this, “you know we have watched you work today and you are really good at what you do, thanks.” Not so hard really…to reach out and let someone know that you see and you notice. Sounds corny, but if I saw you today and eased a validation of you into our conversation…I bet it would make you feel better.

Now for bras….did you know that 70% of women are wearing bras that don’t fit correctly? I know this because I am one of them. For my women readers, think about how hard it is to shop for bras, it is almost an impossible task! If the straps feel good, the cup is an ill fit….or vice versa..you know what I am talking about!!

It is all an evil plot by the bra manufacturers..which are probably all men! They either want us uncomfortable in a Victoria’ Secret lacy thing….or pushed up and out with wire!
Guys out there, can you imagine wearing something on your junk that includes wire??
Bras are NEVER 100% comfortable so we go out and buy MORE in search of the perfect fit….which is NEVER going to happen!!

I bought a bra the other day with reinforced straps and SIX hooks on the back! I put it on and thought I was suiting up to play left tackle for the Cowboys. My chest enters a room a full five seconds before the rest of me does. Anyone in a 2 foot circumference of my body better be careful, these things could black out an eye! It supports, lifts and separates…and is miserably uncomfortable. I am going shopping again today…the pursuit never ends!

My quest to be a fulfilled American woman continues. I am validated by someone who I love on a daily basis…it makes me so happy and thankful. I hope all of you find validation in your life. I hope you also find soft foam, with 2-4 hooks, cushioned straps, and available in four different colors. My truth as I go off today will be to find lift and separation without discomfort. Hmmm….funny, I just realized validation is like that. Lift someone up so that they can separate knowing that they are truly seen and valued as a person. Sorry, I know that is a stretch, but not nearly as stretched as the straps will be today in the dressing room of my local chunky chick store.

The Slippery Slope (part 2)

please read The Slippery Slope (part 1) before proceeding

Her name was Isabella, but everyone that knew her just called her Izzie. She had a girlfriend up until late last year, it didn’t end well. Izzie had other things to worry about now and had put her love life on the back-burner. She was graduating from high school in three days, the class of 2078. Being a teenager in the 70s had brought her many memories, she would hold them close as she walked the stage to collect her diploma. Growing up as an IP in America Izzie’s life was just beginning and she had vowed to make her life something special, to be somebody.

Her graduation gift from her parents was more than Izzie could have ever expected. She sat on her bed and sobbed. What a bittersweet gift to give your child, the gift of living a life of freedom. A gift her parents understood would mean saying goodbye to their daughter forever. Izzie’s parents, Rico and Babs, had been wading through a myriad of paperwork for six months to enable their IP daughter safe passage to live in New California. They had been saving money for the associated fees and bribes for Izzie’s passage since she turned 13 and was processed as an IP. They knew they did not want their daughter living in America as an Inferior Person for the rest of her life. It was a tremendous sacrifice on their part. Could a heart be full and broken at the same time?

Izzie had read about New California in school, a country established in 2035 after a great cultural war in the former United States of America. Former U.S. states California, Oregon, and Washington had seceded from the Union and had melded into a new country, a safe haven for all people deemed as Inferior People or IPs by the Americans. Most IPs born in America all had dreams of one day living in either New California or the other country of freedom on America’s eastern border, New Liberia. Some though, could not gather the money together to do it, or bare to part with friends and relatives. It was a trade-off at the highest level of human existence. The American government really didn’t care if the IP numbers went down, it made for a more homogenic society. They did though make the process very costly and time-consuming. Approximately 75 percent of IPs left America at some point in their lives. The remaining IPs that chose to stay accepted their fate and made the best of a life as a second-class citizen.

New Liberia, was named by its people and came from their belief that they were seeking a new kind of liberty, bearing no false prophets or leaders. The land mass that was now the new country extended from the tip of Maine, down to the northern border of North Carolina. New Liberia’s western border stopped at Lake Michigan. The line between New Liberia and America extended down from the lake to the northern border of Tennessee.

America now had its western border at Nevada and consisted of the remaining mid-west states and the deep south of the old republic, save for Texas. Texas had seceded and was now its own country. The rules and leadership of America had become too liberal for the Lone Star state. Taking a cue from its own history and realizing that they had the resources to truly stand-alone, the country of Texas was established in 2032. Texas was a “white only” country. The President of Texas was Prescott Herbert Bush III.

Izzie lived with her parents in Phoenix, Arizona. She chose New California over New Liberia for one reason, the Pacific Ocean. Izzie longed to live with a view of the ocean…and to be a first-class citizen. Both New California and New Liberia only opened up it’s borders to people that had been classified as an Inferior Person by the American Citizen Council. Allowing family members that standing alone, did not classify as an IP would result in an overwhelming population problem and shortages of food products. For four years Izzie’s parents had endured IP status too, but once Izzie was removed from the census as their child, they could re-claim their first-class citizenship once again. The fact that they had a gay child would be removed from their history, it would be as if she had never existed.

Izzie’s parents had set her down at the kitchen table yesterday and her mother nervously slid an information cell across the table towards her. They told her of a dream they had long ago of having a successful child…..a happy, free child. Rico told his daughter that her dreams and her life waited for her elsewhere, he started to weep. Izzie scanned the information cell which consisted of her exit papers from America and all the codes necessary to enter into her IP-pod to ensure herself a safe journey. The cell also contained all the American credits that her parents had managed to save, 100,000. Izzie could convert the credits to New California credits as soon as she crossed the border, the number would balloon to 250,000.
Izzie and her parents stood and embraced. She never wanted to let them go, but knew that she had to do it. Izzie felt she was destined to somehow make a difference and she could not do it in America.

Izzie stood there at the IP school auditorium, waiting for her name to be called. She had given all of her possessions to friends except for essentials that now filled her back-pack that was waiting hidden in the bushes at the front entrance to the school. She felt as if she may vomit. The speaker called out “Isabella Ann Parker” and her legs relunctantly started to carry her towards him in the starched blue robe with a pink triangle sewn on the left shoulder. She reached out and took the information cell containing her entire academic record and diploma from the IP Principal. Izzie turned to her left and glanced one last time at her beloved parents, the pain she felt was almost unbearable.

She retrieved her back-pack and tossed her robe into the nearest trash can. Soon, very soon she would rip all the pink triangles from her clothing. Izzie loaded her graduation cell into her IP-pod and walked toward the setting sun, not once turning around to look back at the school where she had spent the last 12 years. Vowing to make her parents proud, Izzie forged on…hoping to one day see their faces again.

My Mother’s Shoes

The genesis of this blog was all about mental catharsis. Readers will bear witness to my purging all types of thoughts right out of my head. I apologize, up front, if I get on a sad streak one week and get just darn silly the next. The blogs will flow as they flow, with minimal self-editing.

A psychologist once told me it was one of the best things you could do after a trauma…sit down and start writing it out. The blog is free, the shrink was $175.00 an hour….so here is my next blog entry.

Aristotle first used the word “catharsis” in his work, Poetics. He thought it applied to what would happen to the actors and audience after a tragic play production. The literal purging of emotion…catharsis.

One of the topics that might become repetitive to this blog is my relationship with my mother. You cannot create a blog about growing up and beyond without talking about your mother. Maternal relationships will abound as this blog also hopes to give birth to a book.

After my mother died, the family gathered at her house, after about two weeks, to divide up her personal property. I was her executor, I know at this point, she won’t mind my breach of attorney/client privilege.

There were no specific bequests in her Will, so we tried to go with conversations she had had with her kids about certain items going to this child or another. No blood was shed, although it was a day in which I felt as if I aged 10 years.

In the end, the house no longer resembled what I thought of as “home base.” The smell lingered though, that mix of Estee Lauder perfume and cornbread that identified Jewel’s domain to me.

I called my mother by her first name, Jewel. My siblings thought it was weird, but it was fine to my mother. She knew that as an adult, I looked at her differently. She was my best buddy and you called your buddies by their first name….she got it. I always thought it was funny to see my older siblings calling someone “mama”…maybe I am weird.

The sun was setting that day as the last truck pulled out of the driveway. We had done the dirty work, hugged and parted. I knew at that moment that Jewel’s seven kids would probably not be in the same room together ever again. That should have added to the grief, but let’s just say, it did not.

The trunk of my car was open and I stood there observing what I had chosen to take out of the house. There were no photographs, no brick-a-brack, and no appliances. There in the trunk sat one pair of white old lady shoes.

You know the type, Easy Spirit SAS lace ups? The shoes were well worn. Upon inspection, a piece of pink gum was stuck under the right one, with one blade of St. Augustine grass from her yard, in turn, stuck to it.

Jewel had called my house two weeks earlier, not feeling well, and asked me to come take her to the hospital. Don’t call an ambulance, she said, “I want you to drive me.” I picked her up and drove her to the ER entrance, she walked into the hospital and never walked out.

I stayed with her for two nights. We watched the 2004 Presidential debate and shared smuggled pizza. At one point, my mother “crashed” as they say, right in front of me. I was shaking her, holding her up, and struggling unsuccessfully to reach the panic button.

The nurse ran into the room, with help following. I asked her later on how she knew I needed her? I couldn’t reach the panic button. The nurse responded, “I could hear you shouting. You were yelling Mama, Mama!”

It seems in that pivotal moment, I called her something I had not uttered in 24 years. I was pleading not for my best friend to stay, but for my mama, my home base.

Her last steps were taken in those old lady shoes. She laced them up that day not knowing it was the last time. I think of that every day as I lace up my own. Carpe diem, right?

A white pair of old lady shoes sit on a shelf in my closet, amongst all of my sneakers…..a reminder of the wealth my mama left to me.

The Slippery Slope

The young girl with the loaf of bread and carton of milk stands patiently waiting for help. She watches the other patrons being checked out in the first aisle with expedient courtesy. She harbors no envy or anger as she waits in aisle two, for she is only 17 and knows no different world. She is standing under a sign with symbols in various colors and shapes. Since she was 13 and “processed” she has understood her place in society. You couldn’t tell by her outward appearance or by the clothes she wore…but the pink triangle sewn onto the left shoulder of her sweater did the trick. It told the world she was queer and a second-class citizen….she wore it proudly.

She couldn’t even imagine herself being an American, as the chosen ones were called. Even before she was processed her status had been in limbo as the local American Citizen council refused to give anyone their American papers until after they went through puberty. Unless of course your parents had been in prison, then you were made to wear a black letter “P” which signified a deviant gene-pool. Hispanics that had parents that were born in country were branded with a green patch that looked like a Poblano pepper. Hispanics that had parents that were born out of the country, but they themselves were born in country, wore a yellow patch that looked like the setting sun. They were usually sad people because they had been placed into orphanages as children after their parents were deported back to Mexico. The cashier still had not stepped over to aisle two, even though there were eight people now waiting in line behind her. They remained patient as the cashier finished chatting to an American and wished her a good day. She and the others were standing under a sign with 25 different symbols, they were standing on American soil.

She paid the cashier for the milk and bread and exited the store. Walking home she kept her head down and walked with determination….and did not dare make eye contact with an American. Queers always walked because they were not allowed a driver’s license. The Americans had passed a law that stated, in part, that if you had been identified as an “inferior person” or IP, you had very few rights. The IPs were composed of 25 distinguished groups. Not allowing them to drive had totally alleviated the congested traffic problems of years gone by and reduced pollution in a drastic fashion. The greater good of the Americans was reason enough to put any handicap on the IPs.

The SS officer was walking toward her and she instantly reached for the small device resembling a Blackberry in her pocket. The Security Service officers were stationed on every block and it was their job to make sure order was constantly maintained. They also had the duty to service the cameras that were positioned every 50 feet throughout the town. She did not look up but was now staring down at the shiny black leather boots of the officer. She handed him the device called an IP-pod (Inferior Person Papers on Demand) and remained silent. The officer entered his security code and posted that he had checked the papers of an IP Queer at 300 Main Street at 3pm. The officer thrust the IP-pod back in her face, she put it quickly into her pocket and continued on her walk back to her home.

She was a senior at the IP high school on 5th street and she had just two months until graduation. Her parents were so proud of her because she had received the top grade in her class for her senior thesis. She had taken over six weeks to write about a specific time in American history. Teachers and administrators at all the IP schools were also IPs so she had no fear of the subject matter of her paper. The paper was about April 23, 2010, a single day. People around the world marked that date as the day that lady liberty died, the day that the 21st century, Arizona governor signed the infamous immigration bill into law.

Once looked upon as the leader of the free world, America and that date was now looked upon as the flash-point for the hate-filled atrocities that had happened since. Like dominoes in a line, countries had fell in behind the new order rules of society that the Americans had layed down as law. The girl had written of how hatred and discrimination flowed much faster than anyone could imagine, faster than the fire of an atomic bomb. The world looked on as diversity and individual rights were snuffed out, they complied….the slippery slope.

The infamous date was not even a part of the history books of the Americans. Events and people who did not progress the greater good were simply omitted from existence. The local American school board had even omitted a past president of the United States, Obama. The American children could not fathom an IP of ever being their leader…that was illegal.

The girl arrived back at her home and was warmly greeted by her parents. The trip for bread and milk had only taken 2 hours, it was truly a good day.