Fat White Royal Wally

I don’t know about you, but I didn’t sleep much last night.  More dead black men killed by police officers.  Children traumatized for life.   Five dead police officers.  Our beloved America feels like a dark, somber, hopeless place.  Now that these killings are on social media, no one can deny the problem.  Systemic racism is not new.  Overuse of deadly force against black men is not new.  The killing of police officers is not new, either.  Now we watch it happen.

While I do not begrudge anyone their personal faith, believe it or not, praying for peace is not enough.  Thoughts and prayers are not enough; not while people bleed to death on sidewalks.  Praying for peace serves one purpose:  to make yourself feel better and there is nothing wrong with that.  We would probably all like to feel better right now.  Send thoughts and prayers; by all means, do that.  And then get off your fat, white, royal wally and do something about it, because we have no right to relax.  I am speaking to myself here as much as anyone.  I have not lifted a finger to involve myself in this struggle beyond sharing stuff I didn’t write on Facebook, aka lip service.  I mean, I hardly ever even see black people in my white corner of town.  I see cops; they park outside the coffee shop in the park where I run and I feel safe and protected in case a seagull tries to snatch my hat.  Let’s be clear:  racism is a WHITE problem and will not change until white people like myself give enough of a crap to put down our phones and get to work in our communities.  It means getting uncomfortable.  It means getting political.  It means doing something.

As Trevor Noah so succinctly put it, we can, indeed we MUST, be both pro-law enforcement AND pro-black people.    It is not the job of black people to stop racism.  It is the job of white people.  In the same way that rape culture will never disappear without the direct involvement of men, racism will never be squelched without the direct involvement of white people.  It is not the job of the black community to tell us how, either, yet someone has graciously done so.   So what’s a sheltered fat-assed white woman to do?

What You Can Do Right Now About Police Brutality

15 Things Your City Can Do Right Now to End Police Brutality

I am still working my way through these.  Let’s get to work because I read somewhere that faith without works is dead.

Bob has no food.


Ode to Broken Commitments

I came across this blog post on good ol’ Facebook and it stopped me in my tracks.  So many of my own experiences and those I grew up around are piercingly described here, as is the truth their effect on young lives.  Please take a few minutes to follow the link below and read.


Yes To Hope

Yesterday while driving around town I spotted a sign outside a business that said, “There is no hope in logic.”

This sentence jumped into my brain and ran around in circles. What the heck does that even mean?  I wondered.  In the interest of full disclosure, this business’ sign often has clearly christian perspective.  But this I pondered.

The belief that there is no hope in logic is a perspective I find remarkably sad and, let me just say it, wrong.  Logic gives us a path to follow, clear actions to take. Logic gives us power and direction.  When we can see connections between our own actions and their effects or, on a larger scale, between public policies and statistics, then we can make positive changes.  Changes can be made immediately and with intent, no waiting.  The ability to make changes gives us every reason to hope for a better future whether we are talking about our own life or the future of our country or our planet. Reliance on hope, also known as wishing, gives us an excuse to sit back and let things happen.

Life can be overwhelming at times, with stresses and worries that are difficult to shoulder.  Sometimes there is no fix.  It is necessary to take the time to listen to the still, small voice, to let go of the things that are out of our control.  It is also necessary to get up again, put one foot in front of the other, do the work before us according to the logic of our abilities and priorities.  It is possible that is where true hope lies, in our own efforts to make things better and in knowing we have worked hard and done all we can do.  Then sit back, have a beer and hope for the best.

There is no hope without logic.


Close Call

Another new city, another new state, the third one in high school alone.  My sister had tickets to Hawaii and was taking my mother along for a vacation.  Preacher Dad took them to the airport in San Francisco, a couple of hours away.  He wouldn’t let me come along and then stayed overnight, doing whatever it was closeted gay men did in the 1980s.  That is how I found myself home alone on my 18th birthday, six weeks into a new place, knowing no one.  I had a car, a bright orange Pinto wagon that ran most of the time, and I remembered the way to the Casa Maria restaurant and bar. I was damned if I was going to sit in that house by myself, staring at the walls. Also I hadn’t had sex in three years.  I drove to the restaurant and walked in.  The bartender saw me, but before he could ask for ID, the only guy sitting at the bar said, “Come here.”  The bartender wouldn’t serve me.  We walked out together moments later, tried another bar, but I got carded again, so we cut to the chase.  We climbed in the back of the Pinto wagon, and he fucked me doggy style right there in the parking lot.  Afterwards, as I pulled myself together, he peed on the ground.  I watched the steam of urine flow underneath my shoe, a beige net peep-toe flat with a bow on the toe.  Terribly ugly.  He hopped into his sports car and drove off with Prince’s “1999” blaring through the window.  I went home to stare at the walls; the whole thing didn’t even take an hour, but I was pregnant anyway.

Back in those days, pregnancy tests were only available at doctor’s offices or clinics, nothing of the kind was sold over the counter.  The yellow pages and accompanying maps were a mystery to me.  I had no idea how to get to the free clinics in downtown Sacramento.  There was an ad for a free pregnancy test at a church nearby, so I made an appointment for 1:00 in the afternoon.  Told my mother I wasn’t feeling well, stayed home from school.  Feeling remarkably better at 12:45 as planned, I headed out to the “library.”  As I raised the garage door, I heard a voice behind me.  Turning, I saw a heavily made-up Asian woman standing on the sidewalk.  She said, “You know what means the word slut?”

“No” I responded, got in and shut the door as fast as I could; pulled the car out. She was gone.  Not on the sidewalk, not in a neighboring yard.  Vanished.  Hallucination?  Maybe.

I found the church, handed over my pee cup and was told that in exchange for the information I sought, I was required to watch an ant-abortion film.  When it started, I realized I had seen it before.  Off the hook!  My test results were negative, however it was too soon to really know for sure, she said.  I could still be pregnant and I knew it was true.  Knew that I was.

Days later, leaning against the church’s bathroom cubicle wall, twisting cramps contorting my body, I slid down the cold metal to a squat.   After catching my breath, I drove home and went to bed only to wake hours later with violent abdominal cramps.  PD was out of town. Mom called him, wondering what to do and PD instructed her to take me to the emergency room.  No questions, no exams, no x-rays later, I was sent home with possible pneumonia.

A day or so later, the cramps began again with terrifying force.  I called PD at work, “Come get me.” And he did.  We went to the nearest walk-in clinic.  There were questions this time.  The doctor said to go to the emergency room right now.  We did, I in my enormous lime green sweats that I wore to bed.  I knew this had something to do with being pregnant, but had no idea what.  While waiting for a turn in the ER changing room, Dad asked if this was the first time I had had sex.  I told him about my first boyfriend.  He didn’t say anything.

In the changing room, my head started to spin and I had to sit down, unable to undress.  The ultrasound technician came in to see if I was ready, but I could no longer stand.  She helped me onto the ultrasound table; turned the machine on.  Instantly she was on the phone, urgency in her voice; words I could not decipher.

Wheeling down the hall, operating room, bright lights, lime green sweats shredded with scissors, masked faces, count backwards.

Recovery room.  Slide from the gurney to the bed.  Really?  So far away.

Someone explained later that I had an ectopic pregnancy and my fallopian tube had ruptured.  I was lucky to be alive.  The ultrasound technician came to visit, stood at the foot of my bed, still pale and shaken, surprised I had survived.  I remember the metal staples across my lower abdomen, a sponge bath, snarky birth control comment from the nurse.  PD stopped by to read bible verses.  My sister came to see me, but not Mom.  No conversation, just a big fat Holy Shit atmosphere.  Silence.  I found out years later that PD did not tell my mother why I was hospitalized; would not allow her to see me.  He told her she didn’t need to know and forbid her to talk to me about it. I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up; I knew how ashamed they were of me.  And how angry.

Six weeks home from senior year, no one noticed when I went back. I had been a new face, anyway.

Nothing was ever said to me about what happened, except when the insurance bill came.  I needed to make monthly payments to dad for the $3000.00 deductible.  They barely got the new health insurance paperwork filed in time.  It was a close call.

Later, I asked PD why he didn’t sue the first hospital for negligence.  He said he would have if something had happened.

Lost Years

Preacher Dad was persona non grata at Jackson College of Ministries, so we up and moved all the way across the country to Conqueror’s Bible College in Portland, OR.  The day we pulled into the parking lot, after a five day cross country road trip, my sister looked at the empty brick building that was to become our home and started to cry.  We moved into the circular complex of offices, classrooms, dormitories and apartments, next to the Port of Portland, into a three bedroom apartment right off the main hallway.   It was surreal and empty and silent.  Preacher Dad went to work and I went 9th grade in an inner city high school in the middle of downtown Portland.  Wee bit of culture shock.  When I registered, they asked for my parent’s employer and I said Conquerors’ Bible College.  They wrote down Conkers Bible College.  I didn’t correct them.  I could see how silly it was.  I had no idea how to explain who I was, why I was there or even where I lived.  You live by the dock where they unload the new Toyotas?  I didn’t know there were any houses down there.  There weren’t.  Awkward.

And, oh boy, church was different; no trumpet sections, no thumping bass, no black gospel influence.  It was church without the show; soft, mellow, snoozy church.  When everyone around you appears to be swept away by a sappy kind of emotionalism, feeling something that you aren’t feeling, it’s a lot like being the only sober one in the room.  Being forced to sing (or mouth the words-I never could carry a tune) sedating hymns with lyrics of false truths based on intangibles that utterly escaped me, rage began to grow. Rage at being forced to sit, forced to pretend, to never be heard, to never have a voice.  The only acceptability was compliance, of going along, playing the part, only now it was boring.  I hated it all, with the white-hot contempt of a teenager.

Roosevelt High School may as well have been Mars, it was so different from anything that I had ever experienced.  I did meet a few nice girls there that somehow accepted me and were willing to be friends.  It was amazing.  I asked if I could go to school five minutes early in the morning so I could talk to them in the hall, and was told no.  The request had to be submitted to Preacher Dad and the verdict handed down through Mom. No, they did not want me to hang out there, did not want me to associate with those people or to have those friends. I was forbidden from having friends.  There was nowhere else to hang out, no one else to be friends with.  It was odd.  It was lonely.  Surreal.

So I got a part time job at a nursing home around the corner, doing dishes.  I was kind of happy there, comfortable, even though it was just mopping up after incontinent old people and cleaning up their tables. They were lovely.  They loved me and I loved them in return.  But it was just a job and I was desperate for connection anywhere.  Then I met a boy from out of town.   I was nuts for that guy.  PD had an orange and green striped velour couch in his office (it was the seventies) and that is where I lost my virginity, in another bout of 15 year old fuck you, actual this time.  Someone I know recently heard this story for the first time and paled.  Turns out they still have that very couch.  I am uncertain of its current fate.  Perhaps it has been burned.

I’ll ever forget the last time I had sex with that boyfriend.  I had snuck into his dorm room in the circle building; heard the outer door slam, PD’s pissed off footsteps echoed down the hall; he was looking for me.  His anger was palpable through the walls and my heart pounded against my chest.  As soon as the next door slammed, I ran like hell back to the apartment, ripped off my clothes and jumped into bed beside my sister.  Boyfriend’s visiting parents were sleeping in my room and thank goodness for that.  PD, foiled and furious, came into the room and in his low hiss said, “If we didn’t have company I would drag you out of this bed and beat the hell out of you.”  I had no doubt about that.

Tensions grew.  Things were going very badly for PD at that point.  He arrived in a place he considered home, to be among lifelong friends, only to find himself in a religious/political fight for his career.   He was alone and scared and hurt, I think.  His desire to change things, to allow some free thought into this closed religious system whose basic tenant was to forbid free thought, was a big mistake; his efforts misguided.  At the time, I didn’t know what was going on.  No one talked to me about any of it or talked about it in front of me.  Or maybe they did, it’s entirely possible I wasn’t listening.  All I knew is that PD’s temper had a hair trigger now. Mom all but vanished and I withdrew.  My only interest was my relationship, which I clung to with the love-struck insanity only a hormonal teenage girl can muster.  The subsequent demise of that relationship left me near suicidal.  That is not an unusual thing in an adolescent, however, coupled with the underlying belief that I was now damaged goods and going to hell, I sunk into a depression that went unrecognized.  The problem was my attitude, of course.  Considering PD’s situation and my attitude, I am pretty sure I was a liability.

We moved across the river to an actual house in Vancouver, WA, with the bible school housed in a strip mall and the church sublet from some other church. Things deteriorated from there until PD was forced out of the UPC, to my great relief, because I thought that would be the fast track to cutting my hair and wearing make-up, maybe even blue jeans. Maybe I could finally be normal!  It didn’t work that way, of course.  Normalcy was not in the cards.  So I went to my second high school in another state, knowing no one, starting over again and withdrew further.  Went to school, did my work, at least the parts that were easy, I snuck a book into the hard classes and tuned out.  This would be why I still don’t know anything about physics.  Living in silence, working at Baskin-Robbins for $3.35 an hour, getting fat.

One night a guy came in to Baskin-Robbins with his dick completely out and ordered a Rocky Road cone.  I did not react at all, just handed him his cone and took his money.  It strikes me as very odd now, that lack of reaction.   My own daughters would ridicule him, kick his ass, berate him with a feminist rant and call the police.  Probably in that order.

Right around about this time PD started stealing my money.  I saved almost everything I made, always plotting an escape.  His name was on my bank account and one day my money was just gone, almost a thousand dollars.  I asked him about it and he said he needed it, but would pay me back.  What did I want him to do, take a loan out from a bank and pay interest to some Catholic or some Jew?  I didn’t say anything, just went to the bank and opened a new account, without his name on it.  He figured it out the next time he tried to steal from me.  He was super mad.

It was a confusing time.  The college closed and the church soon after.  PD took a position at a church in Sacramento and we moved again.  Those three years are difficult to define and yet they set the stage for the next period of my life.  I wanted nothing more than to be rescued from that place, but no one came.  Eventually, I figured out that the only person who was going to rescue me was me.

Silence and the Stage

Preacher Dad decided he needed to be around more.  My mom had been a good mother in our early childhood but it was time for him to take over.  Her usefulness as a parent had been served and she could step aside, he told her.  He took a job as the vice-president of Jackson College of Ministries in Jackson, MS.  This small church college was owned and operated by the local UPC pastor, Brother Thomas Craft.  If you have ever seen the movie The Apostle with Robert Duval, that’s the man.  If Mr. Duval did not study Brother Craft with a microscope in preparation for that movie, I will eat my hat and yours.

We arrived in the Deep South on a pedestal.  Big announcements were made, public introductions, etc.; PD went to work and I went to fourth grade.  Socializing at school was not allowed.  All other kids were sinners from sinner families and had to be kept at arms’ length.  I was, however, allowed to witness to them or invite them to church so that they, too, could be saved.  Knee length dresses with sleeves were required at all times; my uncut hair hung to my knees.   Television and movies were strictly forbidden.  There was no secular information of any kind in our home.  I lived in Jackson, MS in the mid-1970s and knew nothing of the civil rights movement or of Martin Luther King Jr.  A classmate made a diorama of the solar system for their science fair project; I didn’t know what it was.  Any acknowledgement offered to me at school was refused on my behalf.  When my teacher chose me to be hall monitor, an honor given to responsible kids, my mother wrote a note refusing because it would make me too bossy.  My personality just wasn’t good enough.  To be fair, mom probably did me a favor.  When the teacher told the girls in class (me) to leave our little dresses at home and wear blue jeans the next day for field day, mom wrote another letter explaining that because of religious beliefs that wasn’t gonna happen.  The music teacher asked who had seen Star Wars and everyone raise their hands.  Nope, no idea.  I had seen stars outside at night… but that wasn’t what she meant… I kept my nose in a book as much as possible.

Social ostracism deepened as my parents’ need for control grew. They were strict even by churchy standards.  Free time before and after services was to be spent on my knees in the prayer room.  Other church girls had sleepovers.  I wasn’t old enough.  Sunday afternoon play-dates between church services?  Sometimes. The only place I had any freedom was the college campus, so I hung out with the college kids.  I learned titillating things, heard scandalous gossip and wore padded bras and high heels. Made out with 18 year old boys.   It was pretty fun.  At least there people would talk to me and I learned to kiss. Well.

Dad’s explosive temper grew; triggered by any little thing.  It was always there like a scary movie soundtrack, setting the scene in the background.  I remember him yanking my sister off the couch onto her back because he didn’t like her tone of voice.  And the shocking smack of his hand on my face, again for tone of voice.  I just couldn’t see it coming because I never stepped out of line on purpose.  He had a low Slytherin-like way of reaming your ass in a pants-wetting hiss.  This was back in the days of 45 records.  My sisters had Andy Gibb, Rita Coolidge, Climax, Debbie Boone, John Denver. (Don’t you just remember every word to every song?  They’re embedded.)  So on a rare outing to the local mall I purchased, for $1, a 45 of the song A Little Bit of Soap, by Nigel Olsson.  Dad found it and made me play it in front of the entire family, then proceeded to give me a humiliating lecture on the evils of secular music and my personal shortcomings for listening to such unholy crap.  When I found the courage to speak up, I pointed out that my sisters had records, too (yes, I sold them out; yes, they were mad). Any perceived rebellion (a breath that sounded like a sigh), sitting when we were told to stand (the man of god told you to stand up), suspicion of promiscuity (being out of sight for a moment), asking a question that put him on the spot (can I go over to so-and-so’s house?), cheeks flushed with humiliation (scrub check for makeup) resulted in his seething rage.  Endless lectures on my shortcomings, which I received silently, constant fear of dad’s wrath, disdain and dismissal of my needs and feelings, evolved into my almost complete withdrawal.  To be seen and not heard, while never actually put in those terms, was the rule.   This did not go well later on.

Scrutiny was the name of the game at church also, and invisibility at school; hours of primping before Sunday night service and oddball denim skirt-centered frump on the bus left me swinging between two worlds, silence and the stage.  It is impossible to underestimate the warped nature of my development during those years.  Appearances were paramount; skirt length measured by fractions, hair length was glorified and uneven, uncut split ends were mandatory.  Any female whose hair had an even bottom edge had clearly sinned with scissors.  (A few years later, I clipped some long bangs around my face in a 15 year old bout of fuck you and was told that I had ruined my dad’s career.  The sick thing is, it really was a nail in the coffin.  Dad was an asshole but he wasn’t making it up.) Teenage girls rubbed Vaseline onto eyelashes and eyelids in lieu of mascara and eye-shadow.  Clear lip gloss was allowed, but not clear nail polish and oddly placed Vaseline was pushing it.  The youth pastor’s wife spoke against the use of Vaseline during a girls’ only service.  I asked why it was okay to put shiny stuff on your lips but not on your eyelids. She openly mocked me, but didn’t answer.  I also asked why we were not allowed to go to baseball games. (A hot new guy came to church and rumor had it he played; thus my interest.  I hadn’t heard about Title 9.) Sister Youth Pastor told me not ask dumb questions and never answered.  Maybe she didn’t know, but I never found out.  Brother Youth Pastor wouldn’t let me get off of the choir bus with everyone else because he could see my bra strap through the cap sleeve of my shirt.  He cornered me, placing full blame for my promiscuous clothing choice squarely on my inadequately covered shoulders.  I was 14.

Many years later, after Dad died, I had a series of nightmares about him that left me terrified.  I would wake up shaking, my heart pounding and sick.  I do not remember the details of those dreams.  Then one night, I stood up to him.  I faced him and, with voice quivering and knees buckling, told him what I really thought of him, how I really felt.  I never dreamed about him again.

Missionaries In The Basement

When I was growing up we had missionaries in the basement.  They came and went with their stories and pictures; invading my play space and filling my head with images of other people and places.

Preacher Dad was employed by “Headquarters,”  the very big and important administrative center for the United Pentecostal Church.  He was in charge of the foreign missions department.  I have no idea what he did, really, other than travel a lot.   I do know that my parents converted our basement into a private bedroom and bath for missionaries on furlough.  Furlough happened every four years for those missionaries assigned to other countries.  They came home for one year to see family and raise funds for their next four years.  Their first stop was Headquarters, where I assume there was some sort of debriefing process. All I know is they stayed in our basement.

A few of them stood out.

The Herdmans had spent many years in Africa.  They actually spoke Swahili, which they would use if I encroached into their space with my big listening ears.  It was a fascinating language to hear, like music with kissing sounds thrown in.  Brother Herdman had a big wide face and a smile to match, Sister Herdman was a bit stern but not unkind.  They taught the African women to cover their bodies; to dress the way American Jesus said you were supposed to.  The African women put on the requisite white tee shirts they handed out and promptly cut holes in them for their breasts to hang through, so that their children could nurse.  I guessed they missed the point.  The Herdmans clearly loved Africa and the people there, despite the fact that they went there to save them from themselves.  There was always a slideshow, sweating black men in long sleeved shirts, ties and trousers, faces glistening in the sun, standing in front of a barren churchyard and cement block church sporting a UPC sign.  I always thought they had taken something interesting and made it not.

Then there was Brother Johns, a missionary to the Philippines.  He had a big personality, a natural entertainer and storyteller.  He would play our piano with gusto and joy, making up songs as he went.  If he made up a verse about me, the warmth of his personal spotlight created a glow that only faded when his attention moved to one of my sisters.  We all got a turn, Brother Johns was cool that way.  He brought beautiful Philippine dolls in beaded dresses with shining black hair made of thread.  And he couldn’t ever drink orange soda because once, on a very hot and thirsty trip in the heart of the Philippines, he bought an orange soda from a roadside stand and got very sick.

There was a constant flow of visitors and souvenirs, and while my personal world was so small that I wasn’t allowed in the neighbors’ houses, there was a sense of adventure and awareness of other cultures that broadened my perspective.  My father came home from trips abroad smelling like smoke from the airplane and my sisters and I would attack him for the gifts he always brought, most long since lost:  wooden carvings from Africa, glass from Israel, copper from Rhodesia, china from England, crystal from Germany.  I didn’t know it then, but he had several life insurance policies in case he was killed during his travels.  It was a volatile time and he was realistic about the odds.

So he traveled and he preached, with an interpreter.  During my ninth summer, the family went along on a six week trip to South America.  Our first stop was Ecuador.  We traveled by truck, through the jungle and high into the mountains to a camp where church services were held with Preacher Dad as the guest speaker.  The open air revival tent was filled with native Ecuadorean highlanders in beautifully woven garments, beaded necklaces piled from shoulder to chin and loose tops for nursing children of all ages.  That was the first time I ever saw a breast; a small child walked up to his mother, took her breast out and suckled while she calmly continued peeling an orange.  This blew my mind.  I lived in a home with four females and had literally never seen a nipple other than my own.  Some adults were my size at age eight.  The babies were so beautiful it hurt.  So were the young men; brown skin, brown eyes, black hair, easy smiles… I was lust-struck.  There were communal tents for the families that came to the revival and in one, a baby was born.  He was named Donald after my dad.

Locusts the size of ballpoint pens were everywhere.  Revivalists were fed soup out of a huge metal barrel, black liquid with unknown substances floating in it.  I was relieved to know that we were not allowed to eat it.  I questioned why the Ecuadorean women were allowed to wear jewelry and was told something along the lines of “they didn’t know any better.”  It’s so hard to justify black and white rules to an eight year old.

In Argentina we stayed at the home of the Richardsons, missionaries in Buenos Aires.  One evening the adults went to a church service, leaving the children from both families home.  During the evening, we heard booming, explosions.  The next day we drove along the street and saw bombed out buildings.  It was 1974.

In Brazil, we saw voodoo shops, which struck terror into my heart.  My parents snuck into a sacred park area to watch a “witch” go into a trance and cast a “spell.”  They returned shaken and stirred.  People who protested the presence of the missionaries left chicken feathers on their doorstep.  This was solid evidence of the work of Satan.

Missionaries were not there to understand another culture, but to spread the word of god.  Their belief in their mission was very real and I believe they were well-intentioned and good-hearted people, if misguided in their religious arrogance.  Certainly, they were brave.  Despite my perspective on the concept of missions now, I am forever grateful for their stories that shed such light into the sequestration of my childhood.

*Names have been changed to avoid anything that might happen if I don’t.