“You’re bangable…”

Posted: July 29, 2013 in Self-esteem, self-respect
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“Here’s to all of us!” Cheryl said and raised her glass to toast us.

Us. The four of us women who had somehow formed a friendship over the years. As our glasses clinked and as we continued to laugh, I felt happy. For a moment, all was right with the world.

I had known Cheryl for a long time. We had met at a business convention many years before. We each worked for a small business and began networking with each other. Soon we were helping each other and a friendship had formed over respect, hard work and a similar sick and twisted sense of humor.

I was there when she got divorced. I was there when she had to fight for child custody. I was there when she began to date again and I was there when it would all fall apart.

Kim was a woman I had met via Cheryl. She was her administrative assistant, but I always called her “Cheryl’s secretary” or “Cheryl’s bitch” just to annoy her and get her to laugh. She was younger than the two of us, single with two toddlers and worked as hard as Cheryl and I. I was often her comic relief for the day.

I had just recently met Lindsay a few months earlier. She had applied for a job at our office but we weren’t hiring at the time. She looked scared and desperate. I took her application and talked with her for a while and found out Cheryl had sent her our way. I felt bad that we didn’t have anything for her, but she accepted the rejection gracefully.

We were celebrating tonight. As hard as our lives had become, we decided it was time to get away from everyone and have some fun. We were all overdue for a girl’s night out and I felt my spirits lift as soon as I sat down to dinner with them. I had been the last one to arrive, so I sat back and sipped my wine while they all got me caught-up on the latest gossip and shenanigans.

When it was time to leave, we all regretted having to go back to our lives but knew it was a necessary evil. But being able to step off the planet for a few hours had done us all a world of good.

As we were walking down the street towards the parking lot, two young men were walking towards us. We were still talking and laughing. I wasn’t paying any attention until Cheryl stopped.

They were blocking our way. I looked up and stopped. I thought maybe Cheryl knew them.

“You!” said the man on the left as he pointed to Cheryl. “You, I’d do in a hear beat,” he said. His friend laughed.

He looked at the rest of us. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but before I could figure it out, he pointed to me and said “You’re the second one I’d do, so you’re passable. You’re totally fuckable.”

We were confused and looked at each other. I felt my face turn red and my hackles rise. I pulled on Cheryl’s arm and motioned for the other two to follow.

As we walked past, he pointed to Kim and said “You’re not very pretty, but if I was drunk enough, I don’t think I’d mind.”

Kim stopped for a moment. I reached over and grabbed her hand and pulled her away. It was late and the street was dark and deserted. We had a block to walk before getting to the parking lot.

As Lindsay walked past, he stopped her. His friend just chuckled the entire time, nodding his head up and down in agreement.

“You’d I’d throw back. You’re fat, ugly and I bet you haven’t gotten laid in years,” he said and laughed harder.

That did it. Both Cheryl and I looked at each other. For a brief nano-second, we understood each other. We both walked over to Lindsay. I grabbed her hand and pulled her away. I saw the tears in her eyes. As I was walking away, Cheryl pulled her pepper spray out of her purse and sprayed it on the man’s face.

The screaming was a pleasant sound. So was the sound of his friend running down the street.

Cheryl calmly put her pepper spray back in her purse and walked away. We followed.

When we got to our cars, we weren’t sure whether or not to laugh or cry. I was shaking and decided if anyone asked me about it, I would play dumb. “I don’t know nuthin ’bout no pepper spray” was going to be my story if anyone asked.

Lindsay was crying. His words hurt her badly. She was sensitive about her weight.

But we were celebrating the weight she had gained because she had survived cancer. She was well again, eating and for the first time in a year, not only had she stopped losing weight, she was putting it back on.

We tried to lift each others spirits, attributed the cruelty to the meanness of some people, but no matter how hard we tried to talk ourselves out of it, the severe judgement of one mans opinion of our looks and sexual appeal cut deep.

Yes, I admit it cut deep for a moment and that pissed me off. Who was this stranger, this nobody, that thought he had the right to arrogantly decide that our value was based on our sex appeal?

He was nobody, that’s what he was.

There are plenty of nobody’s around. Every article that tells you how to be. Every ad that shows you what else you need do or buy to be more appealing. Every TV show that shoves “the ideal woman” in your face. Every movie that has the beautiful woman in high heels, saving the planet and still able to keep her make-up smudge free.

These are all written by nobody’s and as long as you say they are correct….they are.

I disagree completely.

We are all good enough just as we are.

I started carrying pepper spray after that…

The truck driver who saved my life

Posted: July 24, 2013 in Uncategorized
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“No! No, this isn’t happening,” I said out loud as my car suddenly lost all power and everything went dark. I felt myself start to panic and quickly talked myself out of it as I managed to pull over onto the shoulder. My car cruised for a few moments and then stopped.

I put it in park and tried to start it again. Nothing. Not a sound, not even the click of a dead battery. I had just filled up the tank about an hour ago but I checked again. It was pointless. There was no power and no lights.

I was in the middle on nowhere on my way to Los Angeles at 11:00 at night. I was 300 miles from home on a stretch of highway that was in the middle of thousands and thousands of acres of farmland. It was a long and lonely drive through flat land and fields of produce.

If I was lucky, the closest house would be down some road that went on for miles. But because it was night, there was no way to even find a road.

I sat back and tried not to cry. I hit the steering wheel with my hand a few times and tried to squelch the panic that kept slamming my chest.

This was years before cell phones or call boxes. I mentally calculated where the gas station was that I had used. If it had been an hour ago and I was cruising at 80 MPH, that meant I was totally screwed.

I looked out the windows and saw nothing but blackness. Every so often a car would speed by. I tried to turn on my flashers, but they didn’t work. I got out of the car and raised the hood. I knew to stay in the car and wait. I would be safer in case someone hit the car or tried to hurt me.

I cursed myself for reading so many Stephen King books and also for having recently watched “Night of the Living Dead.” Every time I looked around, I saw zombies, vampires and werewolves coming for me. I quickly jumped back in my car. I checked the glove compartment for a flashlight. I ran my hand through it several times and then remembered it was in the trunk. I slammed my hand on the steering wheel again.

I didn’t want to get out of the car and I didn’t want to stay in it. I wanted to be home in my bed where I would be safe. I took a deep breath, took the keys out of the ignition, opened the driver’s door and walked to the rear of my car.

Cars continued to speed by. They gave me a few brief seconds of light to find my way around. Once they passed, I couldn’t even see my feet.

I was in complete darkness and silence. I was terrified that someone would come to help and at the same time, scared that no one would.

I opened the trunk and rummaged around, trying to feel anything that could be a flashlight. I finally found it and tried to turn it on.

It was dead. I clicked the switch over and over, hoping that I could magically get it to work.

Suddenly there were lights behind me as a car pulled up.

My heart stopped.

I could hear banjos and immediately thought of Burt Reynolds and Ned Beatty.

I looked up. The lights were blinding. I put my hand up to shield my eyes and stood still. I heard a car door open and someone walking towards me.

“Looks like you need some help,” a man said. He walked up to me.

He was tall and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He was about my age and good-looking and clean-cut.

“Yes, thanks. I’m not sure what happened, but my car just stopped suddenly and won’t start…”

He came closer. Too close. I stepped back.

“Well, let’s take a look, shall we?” he asked and smiled again.

“Oh, OK. Yeah, I appreciate it,” I said. I looked at his car as he walked by. “My flashlight isn’t working,” I said. I was starting to babble.

I always babble when I’m nervous.

He was alone. I was hoping to see a family in his car.

He went back to his car and found one. He looked under the hood. “You all alone?” he asked and looked up. He was still smiling.

My mind raced. What difference did it make if I was alone or not?

“Well, are you?” he asked. The smile had left his face and the way his headlights shined on us gave everything an even eerier feeling.

I began to sweat even though it was only 55 degrees. My mouth felt dry and my hands began to shake. Whatever was going on, my instinct was to run but I had nowhere to run to.

He slammed the hood down and came around the car. “I can’t imagine anyone letting you out of their sights,” he said and chuckled.

“Yeah, well…go figure. Anyway, I appreciate you stopping, but someone is on their way. They should be here any minute,” I said and opened the driver door.

He came around to my side quickly. “No need to be scared, little lady. I’ll drive you to the next gas station. You shouldn’t be alone on the side of the road. You never know who might come along,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

“I’ll be fine…” I said.

“Get in the car,” he said and moved closer.

“This is the day I die,” I thought. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. I still had so much to do. It wasn’t my time. It couldn’t be my time and not like this.

“No, I don’t want to…” I said.

He stopped. “If your car won’t start, then you’re going to be stuck out here all night. At least let me drive you somewhere. There’s no need to be afraid,” he said. But I was.

Bright lights shone on us again as a semitrailer was pulling over to the side of the road in front of us. We both watched as it slowed down and stopped. Once again I heard a car door slam and someone walking towards me.

Would this night ever end? Now I was about to get butchered by two men.

“Everything OK?” I heard a man ask.

“Yes.”

“No,” I said and walked towards the voice. Standing there was a man around my father’s age, wearing a baseball cap. He had a few days growth of  beard on his face and his hair was windblown and gray.

He looked at me for a moment and then at the man. The man was looking down at the ground.

“You need help, ma’am?” the truck driver asked me.

I nodded my head. He smiled and walked over towards the man.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked him.

“Her car died. I was just going to give her a ride to the nearest gas station, so you don’t need to worry,” he said.

“Uh huh,” the truck driver said and walked back over to me. He didn’t even bother to look at the car.

“You want to go with him?” he asked me.

“No!” I said.

“Didn’t think so,” he said. “Grab your things and I’ll drive you.”

I grabbed my suitcase and purse out of my car. I thanked the man for stopping. He grunted, got into his car and speed away. He was pissed.

“I’m Bill” he said and shook my hand.

“I’m Susan,” I said. He took my suitcase and put it in his truck. He helped me up into the cab and fastened my seat belt for me. I figured the odds of two serial killers coming after me was one-in-a-million. I was still shaking and scared.

He got in and pulled onto the highway.

“I’m so glad you came when you did and I really appreciate you doing this and I pray to God you don’t kill me,” I said.

“No plans to,” he said.

The way he said it made me laugh.

“I drove past before and saw you were alone and came back. I’m glad I did.”

He had seen me as he drove past, went up to the next exit, turned around and came back.

“You can just drop me off at the nearest gas station. I’ll call my husband and he can come get me,” I said.

“How long will it take him to get here?” he asked.

It would take him a couple of hours, IF I could find him. That’s a whole other story for another time.

“A few hours,” I said. I don’t know why I told him the truth. I was still scared, but he was having a calming effect on me.

“It’s late and I don’t think you sitting at a gas station, in the middle of the night AND in the middle of nowhere is a good idea. If you were my daughter, I would not want that,” he said.

“I don’t want you to worry…”

“Well, I do. If you don’t mind going a little further, I can find a safe place for you to wait.”

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. We were driving down the road at a steady pace. It was pitch black out and I couldn’t see any lights. At least I was off the road and no longer felt like sitting prey.

“Well, that would be good,” I said.

“OK, then we’re agreed,” he said. He turned on the radio and we listened to jazz as his truck took me to somewhere. I had no idea of my ending point, but there I was, going down the highway with a stranger who had rescued me from another stranger.

About an hour later, I could see the lights of a city. As we got closer, I could see gas stations and fast food restaurants. My stomach growled. I felt relieved that I could sit in McDonald’s and eat cheeseburgers and drink Coke while waiting for my husband to arrive at some point.

He pulled in front of a motel and got out. “You wait right here and I’ll be right back,” he said as he locked his door and walked away.

There were lights everywhere. I saw people and cars. I wasn’t going to die. I was alive and I wanted to cry.

He came back and opened my door. He helped me out and took my suitcase. He held my hand as we crossed the street. His hand was warm and rough and comforting.

He walked me up to a room in the motel and put my suitcase down. He handed me a key. “I got this room for you. You get some sleep and the next time you decide to hit the road, make sure your car is in working order,” he said and started to walk away.

“Wait Bill!” I said. He stopped and turned around.

“You don’t have to do this. Let me pay you for it,” I said.

He held up his hand. “No, no need to. I’m happy to do it. I just wish someone had been there for my daughter when she needed it,” he said and walked away.

A sadness filled me as I watched him get into his truck and drive away.

He never looked back at me.

“What did you just say to me?”

Posted: July 1, 2013 in Self-esteem, self-respect
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This morning I stopped by the neighborhood convenience store to get some coffee. Over the years of doing this, I’ve gotten to know the owner and the people who work there. As soon as I walk in, they start ringing up my purchase. We usually spend a minute or two, chatting and laughing.

The last few days have been unbearably hot. Temperatures in the high 90’s to low 100’s. It is very unusual for the area. I don’t have air conditioning and was feeling tired from the lack of sleep. It was already warm at 8:00 this morning. I put on a summer dress, pulled my hair back and slipped on a pair of sandals for work.

Not that what I was wearing was important to me, but apparently it was to the men in the parking lot.

I have had a few people approach me when walking into the store. Panhandlers for the most part. Usually a quick “Sorry, I can’t help you” is sufficient. One time, someone called me a bitch when I said no. I ignored him and walked into the store. I mentioned it to the owner and before I knew what had happened, he rushed outside and yelled at the man. “Don’t you EVER talk to her like that! Go away! Get off my property!”

The man cursed under his breath, but he left. The owner didn’t come back inside until the man had gone around the corner.

I was surprised and pleased by what he had done and told him so. He blushed and apologized. He liked to run a clean and hassle-free store.

I fell a little in love with him that day.

So this morning when I pulled up and saw all the city workers in the parking lot, I gave them almost no attention. The city was digging up water lines and the workers were everywhere.

I parked and got out of my car. As I was walking into the store, I heard a bunch of cat calls.

“Whoa! Hey there! What’s your name?”

“Where you going, sugar?” someone said. All 5 of them laughed.

I had the door open.

I turned around to see who they were talking to.

They were all staring at me, laughing and slapping each other on the back.

I let go of the door.

I turned around and walked towards them.

They quickly stopped laughing as I got closer.

When I was a few feet away from them, I stopped.

Suddenly, they weren’t so brave. Suddenly things weren’t so funny anymore.

“What did you say to me?” I asked. I was calm but my heart was racing.

“Oh, nothing…” one of them said. The pavement had all of their attention.

“No, really…what did you say to me?” I asked. “I didn’t quite hear it.”

No one would answer me. I looked at their trucks. They worked for the city.

“Those your trucks?” I asked.

“Oh, hey now, we didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that you look…”

“How do I look? Huh? You think it’s OK to talk to women like that? You think it’s OK to scare us or make us feel unsafe TO WALK INTO A STORE? Is that it? Can I get my brothers to talk to your Mom’s or daughters or wives that way? Would that be alright with you?” I asked and waited.

“Don’t be so sensitive,” one said. The other 4 looked at him and cringed.

“What’s your name? All of your names?” I asked. I reached into my purse and took out my notebook and pen and waited. It didn’t matter if they told me or not. I wrote down the license plate numbers.

They protested and rambled about how sorry they were.

“So, you guys work for the city. I pay taxes so that means you work for me. Now, since you work for me, you have to put up with me being ‘sensitive’ because you know what? I can now get all of you fired. You might want to think about that the next time a woman, ANY woman, walks by. We have every right to live our lives without being harassed,” I said and walked away.

I didn’t hear one word as I walked away, nor did I when I came out of the store and got into my car. They had driven off in their trucks that I paid for.

I called the city as soon as I got into work and gave them all the information I had. The woman who took my call apologized several times. She was upset and shocked and thanked me for reporting it.

For what it’s worth, I’m 58 years old and haven’t cared what a man thought about me or my looks since I was 16 and tried to get a boyfriend. And even then, he had to reach my mind before he got anywhere near me.

Now, anyone else wanna mess with me?

Didn’t think so….

Letter from Death Row

Posted: June 19, 2013 in jail
Tags: , ,

“Hey you! Long time since we’ve talked,” I said when my phone rang and I saw it was Tammy. I had not talked to her in a few years.

“Hi Susan. How are you?” she asked.

We spent a few minutes getting caught-up. I had met Tammy 20 years earlier when we were both working our program in jail. She had moved to Texas and continued her work as a volunteer. Somehow years had passed, but hearing her voice again, it felt as if I had just talked to her the week before.

“I needed someone to talk to. I hope it’s OK that I called…”

“Of course it is!” I said. “Funny you should call right now while I’m grading lessons. I just took on a bunch of inmates and getting them going. Kind of cosmic, you know? Besides, what else am I going to do on a Friday night except correspond with inmates?”

That thought made me laugh and cringe at the same time.

“Well, I just got a letter from one of my guys and I didn’t expect it. Not now. Not after everything that happened. It shook me up and I didn’t know what to do or who to call, so I called you,” she said.

Her voice was starting to waver. She was holding back tears.

“What did the letter say? Who is it from?” I asked. I sat back and waited.

She sniffled, cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “It’s from Kamal and…” she said and started to cry.

I didn’t know why she was crying. I vaguely remembered hearing about him from a long time ago. He was some young man in prison that Tammy was working with. Just one of many. His name meant nothing to me.

“Anyway, I got his letter today and I didn’t expect it since he’s dead,” she said.

“He’s dead? Oh I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“He was executed. I was a witness,” she said and the sobbing began.

I didn’t understand but I kept quiet while she cried. She was a witness? She watched this?

My head began to spin. I took the phone outside and lit a cigarette. My hands were shaking and I was nauseous.

“You OK?” I asked. It was a stupid question but I had to say something. I couldn’t listen to it any more without saying something. Anything to stop the deep and overwhelming grief she was feeling.

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

She took a couple of deep breaths. “I started working with him years ago. He was on death row and wanted to do anything and everything to make things right, be a better person and he had no one to talk to.”

“Yes, I understand,” I said.

“So one letter turned into hundreds over the years. He worked hard on his lessons and every time he was done with one program, he requested another. Over time…”

“Over time, you got to know him…”

“Yeah. That,” she said.

“He wrote about his crimes and what he had done. He talked about his appeal, his attorney and anything that was on his mind. He always had hope that it would all work out, that someone would listen to him and see that he hadn’t done all the terrible things they said he did. But he was poor. He had no money and no family or friends…”

“Except you, right? You were his friend,” I said. Tears were starting to burn my eyes.

“Yeah, just me. Me, who won’t ever see him or meet him. Me, who has a good life and who lacks for nothing. Just me,” she said.

“And suddenly one day, you realize how important you are to another human being and you never meant for that to happen,” I said.

“Yeah, that,” she said.

“When I got his letter that the execution was on, I didn’t believe it. How could this happen? I mean, I know I don’t know much about it except what he told me, but I felt like I was losing my dear friend.”

“That’s because you were. They were putting him down, just like we do with our pets,” I said. Flashes of too many death walks to the vet flashed through my mind. I had no concept of what that was like to watch a human being be put down. Did they comfort him? Did they soothe him and hold his hand? Did they speak in hushed voices? Did they show him any compassion and forgiveness or was he treated roughly? How do you look into someone’s eyes and then flip the switch or inject them?

My tears started to flow as I grieved for my friend and Kamal.

“He asked me to be a witness. I was the only friend he had and he didn’t want to die alone with only strangers staring at him. He didn’t want hate to be the last thing he saw before he died…” she said and the sobbing began again.

She didn’t want to go and yet couldn’t say no. She knew she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t go. She held her chin up and worked to get the necessary clearance and approval. She drove for a day and arrived at the prison. She drove through the gate after an intense security check. She drove by the protesters who were divided between wishing Kamal an eternity in hell and those wanting to stop it. There were only a few. It struck her as a hobby for all of them.

She was ushered into a room and waited. Only a few people were in attendance. They did not speak or look at each other. Curtains opened and he was brought in. The two had never met and didn’t know what each other looked like. He scanned the room, saw her and smiled. She smiled back.

That was all she could tell me. It was more than enough.

“That was a few weeks ago. Then I got his letter today. His letter to me that he asked to be mailed after he died,” she said.

“Go ahead and read it,” I said.

Dear Tammy,

If you are reading this, then it means I’m dead. I don’t know if you were there to say good-bye, but if you were, I know it was hard for you. If you weren’t then it’s still OK.

Thank you for your friendship. Thank you for always being there when I wrote you. I’m not good at putting all these crazy thoughts into words. My time is coming soon. I’m scared but I’m tired too. I am not wanted as a human being anymore. I hope it doesn’t hurt.

You made my existence worth something. You are a faceless angel that floats around out there until I call you. Then you arrive and listen and float away when I’m done. Thank you for forgiving me and never going away and leaving me alone. Whether you come or not, I won’t be alone because of you.

I can’t write anymore but I have one thing I have to say. I love you.

See you later and don’t cry. Keep helping people like me. It matters.

Kamal

We spent the rest of the day talking. I could only imagine how she felt. I felt dead inside and though I never met Kamal or knew much about him, his death affected my life in ways I could never have imagined in the coming years.

Us people of good will only ask to be left alone to do our work. Either help us or get out of our way. Do not harm us. Do not impede us on what we need to do. Let us get on with it and ask nothing of us. We give willingly and easily. We only ask that you not hurt us.

“Well, as long as you had your reasons for betraying me, then I guess it’s OK, right?”

Posted: June 11, 2013 in Self-esteem, self-respect
Tags: ,

I read the words on my monitor and all I could think of was that it wasn’t real. I must have nodded off on the couch this Sunday afternoon and was dreaming. I just needed to wake-up and the horror would be gone and the memory would only be that of a nightmare.

I blinked several times and knew that I was awake. Of course I knew that, but when betrayal hits, you can’t fathom it. It doesn’t make sense. You have no warning. Being a native of California, I was quite familiar with earthquakes. One moment everything is as it should be; the next moment, everything was moving. It always takes a few seconds to figure out why you are suddenly dizzy and why a book jumped off the shelf.

But the words were real. I had written them. I had sent them privately to a friend whom I had known for years and years. I had been troubled for a long time. She was my confidant and was one of the few people who I could let my guard down with, talk things out and know all would be better once I did.

The email was written to repair a transgression I had committed months before. This was not uncommon for me to admit when I was wrong and had erred. I had not harmed her but I needed help and advice, so I told her all about it.

Everything I had done, felt and thought was in that email. I had revealed my sins in great detail and was seeking forgiveness and comfort.

Instead she copied and posted my email on her blog.

For 7 billion people to read and comment.

The trolls arrived in full force. I was ridiculed, trashed, mocked and dragged through the mud from people who didn’t even know me. People flocked to it and then began to email me.

I was judged for being human who had made a mistake and was trying to rectify it. I had committed a reprehensible and unforgivable sin – I had been honest.

She had also given them my email and then sent another one to everyone I knew. It was 3 pages long and she trashed me once again. Hundreds of my friends received it.

My friend had done this to me and to this day, I do not know why.

And then an amazing thing happened before I could even think about what was going on.

My friends circled the wagons around me. They did it quietly and quickly.

Not one of them mentioned it to me or brought it up. Not one word was written or spoken, but random text messages came with smiles, goofy faces and funny jokes.

Wherever I went, I was given random hugs and kisses on my forehead with no words spoken.

Just a deep understanding and acceptance of who I am and who I am NOT.

Out of the madness, grace and beauty arrived in the form of smiles and laughter. I had the wonderful and exhilarating freedom of the entire planet knowing my deepest and darkest secrets and I didn’t care.

I realized I didn’t care what people knew about me or what they thought.

The betrayal had set me free and to this day, I’m glad it happened because I was lucky enough to find out who my friends are and who has my back.

And I refused to stop trusting people because that is who I am. The only one that can hurt me is me. No one else has that power over me.

Those that bash, mock and betray others are in their own prison that they made for themselves.

Let them stay there and should you walk by them once in a while, throw them a piece of raw meat. It’s fun to watch them scamper for it and stomp over each other to get it.

And as you walk away, smile and be grateful that you know who you are and who your friends are.

And never stop being you. Don’t let it change you in a negative way, for that is the true loss you shall suffer. Not the betrayal but the giving up of yourself because of it. You are the only one that can give away your integrity. No one can take it from you.

No. Hold your head up high and say “Yep, I did that and that and that. So what?”

Because what people accuse you of tells you what they have been up to.

You need not look further.

It’s on them and let them have it with a great big smile on your face.

“But I’m not broken.”

Posted: May 20, 2013 in jail
Tags: ,

“Sure you are. Everyone is.”

“Only a broken person would say that,” I said. I was not enjoying the turn of our conversation.

He shook his head, moved his spaghetti around on his plate with his fork and sighed. I sat back and watched. I didn’t want this meeting but had agreed to it. It was the best way to get some business done when phones weren’t constantly ringing and the running into the dreaded voicemail everyday. At least this way we could figure everything out and move onto the next step, whatever that was.

He looked up and took a sip of his water. “Is that why you want referrals from me? You think you can really help these people?”

“No, I think I can harm them greatly. You found me out…” I said.

“You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?”

“Very. Of course I think I can help them. No, strike that. I know I can,” I said and reached into my briefcase and pulled out several letters from judges all praising my program. I pushed them towards him.

“I’ve seen these. You faxed them over, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. So let’s cut to the chase. Why did you want to meet?”

He leaned forward and looked at me for a moment. “Because I wanted to put a face with the voice and see who you are.”

“Well, here I am and I’m not broken,” I said and stared back.

“But most people who do the work you do are. I mean, that’s why they do it. To help themselves, really. You know, to keep themselves straight by talking to others. You sure you don’t have a record or been in jail before? Any stints in rehab or anything like that?”

“Look, I’ve had my security clearance for years. I’ve been run through the system many times. You can find that out anytime you want, so you asking me that just doesn’t make any sense. You’re a probation officer. You know better than I how the system works. You have the option of sending your parolee’s to me or not. It’s very simple. It’s not rocket science and unfortunately, I can find plenty of clients without you, so where are you going with this?”

“I guess I just don’t buy your premise these guys can be helped. Nobody can be, really,” he said.

That made me sad. “It’s too bad you feel that way. Ever thought of getting out of your line of business and into something else?” I asked. “Maybe work at McDonald’s or Wendy’s?”

He laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, so you think people can be helped?”

“Most, yes,” I said and sipped my iced tea. “But you have to know what you are doing.”

“And you do?”

“Yep.”

He shook his head, smiled and looked out the window. “Are you usually this confident?”

“Yep.”

“Are you going to keep saying ‘Yep’?”

“Yep and you walked right into that one,” I said.

He looked sad and worn out. His food had gotten cold as we talked.

“What can I help you with? What is it that is troubling your soul?” I asked.

For the next 1.5 hours, I listened and occasionally said something. He poured out his soul to me.

When he was done, he wiped his eyes.

“I can’t believe I told you all of that,” he said. He seemed embarrassed. I was used to that.

“So, you still think help isn’t possible?” I asked.

A sheepish smile crossed his face. “Well…maybe…”

I picked-up a dinner roll and threw it at him. My aim was perfect. It hit his forehead and bounced onto his spaghetti.

“Wow, so very immature of you,” he said.

“Very.”

He brushed the crumbs off of his forehead and threw the dinner roll back at me. His aim was perfect also. I now had crumbs in my bangs.

“So let’s get to work on you,” I said.

“How so?”

I reached back into my briefcase and pulled out a binder. I slid it across the table to him. “Here. You are now officially enrolled on my program. Please read the first 5 pages and then call me when you are done,” I said and got up. “Oh, and by the way, you’re paying for lunch.”

“But I’m not a criminal. Why do your program?” he asked.

“Because it’s never been, or ever will be about criminals.”

“It’s not?” he asked and began to flip through the pages.

“No. It’s about broken people, like you. It’s about good people who have lost their way, some of which got caught and some did not. You in?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Help is not betrayal,” I said.

One month later, I had a happy and cheerful person who had quit quitting on himself.

I love helping the helpers.

“Oh no! The black people are a-coming! The black people are a-coming!”

Posted: May 13, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

“What?” “What the hell is she talking about now?” was all I could think.

I looked up from the glass shelf I was cleaning. The manager of the store was suddenly jumping up from the stool she was sitting on behind the register. She briskly walked to the front of the little boutique I was working in and stared out into the parking lot through the glass where the mannequins were modeling our latest fashions for the season.

Yes. There were black people approaching the store.

There were 6 of them.

It was an entire herd of black people heading for our front door!

Two other employees looked up and then at each other. None of us knew why the manager was in such a tizzy. Granted, she was a lot older than us and moved a bit slower, but now she was acting as if she was Scarlet O’Hara and had just spotted Yankees on the front porch of Tara. I’d never seen her move so fast.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. She was wringing her hands as she watched them come closer and closer.

She started to say something and then stopped. I still wasn’t sure I had heard her right.

“We need to keep an eye on them!” she whispered as the door opened and in they walked.

Black people. Right in front of me. At Stanford Shopping Center where all the “right” people shopped, including but not limited to celebrities, the wives and children of famous Stanford professors (who were some of the biggest shoplifters I had ever seen) and people who were too rich to shop so sent in their assistants to lower themselves to actually talk to the help, such as myself.

I said hello and smiled at them. There were 3 men and 3 women. They were dressed impeccably. They all smiled and walked over and each of them shook my hand.

“What can I do for you?” I asked as the manager gave them a tight smile and walked over and stood guard over the jewelry case.

“For Gods sake, it’s locked!” I thought.

“We are all going on a trip and since the ladies here love this store, we thought we would stop in here first and see what you have. They all need new clothes for the trip, so here we are,” said one of the men. The other two men nodded and rolled their eyes at their wives. The ladies were already looking around, pulling the clothes off the rack and commenting.

“OK, fair enough. Tell you guys what; sit down, be quiet and we’ll take care of them,” I said and started laughing.

“That’s what we’re afraid of,” one of them said and grinned. They did as they were told and soon we were all running in and out of the dressing rooms with clothes. Some were kept, some were discarded and some were put in a pile to be determined later.

It was one of the best afternoons could recall since working there. The shopping center was very prestigious, but to me it was just a job to make the money to pay my rent. I would leave every evening, walk across the expressway (in shoes that were amazing and I couldn’t afford but had to “look” the part) and sit in the dark and wait for the bus. I didn’t have a car and I had bills to pay. I learned how hard retail people work for the money they make.

I learned that too many people thought they were better than others because they made more money than them. I learned that people who don’t earn their money, don’t appreciate it or those who work hard for what they earn. I learned that some women thought themselves too good to have their delicate and precious bare feet touch the carpet in the dressing room and required that I find tissue to place on the floor for them to step on.

But these women had me in stitches. They were gracious and appreciative of all the hard work we were doing. They helped us haul the clothes in and out, place them back on the hangar and not throw them on the floor for us to pick-up. They hugged me, constantly thanked me and made all of us feel as if we were important.

The men sat quietly and waited. One nodded off but the manager never stopped watching them.

They were well aware of her and never said a word. They just smiled.

They were nicer than I would have been if the positions had been reversed.

By the end of the day, they had each purchased several outfits and many pieces of jewelry. The manager helped them with the jewelry. Her smile was false, her tone was clipped and she actually kept her glasses perched on her nose and looked down at them.

When it came time to pay, one of the gentlemen handed the manager his credit card. She checked it against the log (the Internet hadn’t arrived yet) and spent a long time checking and double checking his account. We all stood by and waited.

She asked him for some ID.

He smiled and handed it to her.

She inspected it for a few minutes and handed it back to him.

She asked for another piece of ID. He handed it to her and she again inspected it.

Our policy was to only ask for one valid form of ID. I looked at him. He smiled and shrugged and winked.

She hesitated as she handed it back to him. We had packed all of their clothes perfectly. We made sure they weren’t wrinkled. I asked them if they wanted hangars for a few of the pieces.

“No, we don’t give out hangars,” the manager said.

This was not true.

I looked at her for a moment. I wasn’t going to argue the point.

“We do now,” I said and began hanging up their clothes for them. The other employees pitched in. The manager glared at us and didn’t lift a finger to help.

I asked if they wanted help out to their car. They looked as if they had purchased the entire store.

“That would be great, but let me go get the car, OK?” one of the men asked. He left the store. We stood and chatted with them until he pulled up.

It was a gorgeous car. We all took an armful and placed everything in the trunk. They hugged us and waved as they drove away.

We walked back into the store. It looked like there had been a war, but it was fun. We started to clean-up and put things away. The women had offered but we wouldn’t let them. They had been kind enough.

“Why did you give them those hangars?” the manager asked me.

The room got quiet. I thought about it for a moment.

“Because I’m not a racist bitch like you,” I said. I figured I was about to get fired and couldn’t afford to lose my job, but the words just came out and there they were.

She turned around, grabbed her purse and left for the day.

I leaned against the counter. I felt sick and worried. The other employees came over and hugged me.

Three days later I got another job and quit. The manager never said a word to me when I gave her my notice.

One of the happiest moments of my life was when I walked out of there and never looked back.

“But I AM entitled!”

Posted: May 2, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: ,

Have you ever wondered what would happen if you just…lost it?

I don’t mean in a bad way, such as physically harming someone or being cruel.

I mean what would happen if you just looked people in the eye and told them EXACTLY how you felt and what you thought?

Pure and complete honesty without any concern for the fallout.

Well, I tried that experiment recently and it was liberating.

There is a bit of a back story (of course) that lead up to this.

It all began with getting a phone call from a friend who had, once again, gotten into a fight with her boyfriend. They have been going at it for as long as I can remember. Each time she would call, I would listen patiently and tenderly. “She’s my friend and I’m always there for my friends” is my train of thought.

“Well, come over here if you want,” I said one day. I have said this a few times before.

“No I can’t because of blah blah blah….”

“OK then. How about we go out to dinner…?”

“No, because of blah blah blah…”

“Where is he now?” I asked. He had quite a temper but had never hit her. He yells and throws things around. She yells back, runs out of the house, calls me and/or her mom, goes back to him, etc.

I realized that no matter what solution I came up with, she would reject it.

The light bulb went on.

She likes this problem.

“He’s in the living room, watching TV. He’s being such a dick tonight…”

“That’s because you let him,” I said. Enough was enough.

“WHAT?” she said. “What do you mean I let him?”

I had just finished a 7-day work week along with 15 hours of volunteer work. I had also worked with 25 inmates, listened and counselled them and did the best I could. I had dealt with a difficult client, been slammed by a few sales prospects here and there for good measure and had received some bad news about the health of a friend.

Not once, during the week or for months prior to that, did I ever raise my voice.

I never once remained anything other than professional and interested.

Never once did I complain even though I was dead tired and wanted to cry at night when I still had to write in order to hit a deadline.

Have you ever tried to write when your brain was mush? If not, you haven’t lived until you’ve done so.

I dealt with the trolls as best as possible online when I would get slammed for posting something positive or blogged something that I thought was great. What the hell was I thinking?

I looked at the phone in my hand and thought for a moment.

“You let him because….I don’t know why and I don’t care anymore! Do I LOOK like your whipping post? No? Didn’t think so…”

“Whoa Suz, are you OK?” she asked.

“I’m fine, but you know what?”

“What?” she asked very quietly.

“I AM entitled to a bad day! I God damn DESERVE A BAD DAY!” I said.

God that felt good. So good.

“I am sick and tired of remaining cool, calm and collected and dealing with crap, but you know why I do?”

Silence.

“I can’t HEAR you if you are shaking your head!” I said.

“No! No, I don’t know why,” she said rather quickly.

“Because I don’t run my life thinking I am ENTITLED to not pay my bills or not fulfill my responsibilities. It has never entered my mind that I am ENTITLED to break my word or not be there for someone. I am NOT ENTITLED to rip people off or do a lousy job.”

“No, of course not…”

“Stop talking. For once in your life, just shut-up,” I said.

“OK,” she said.

“From now on, you are going to start acting like an adult. I don’t give a rats ass if you two yell and scream at each other. It is no longer my problem. You need to start being accountable for your relationships and not me,” I said.

Silence again.

“I love you but I’m hanging-up and I don’t want to hear anymore of your whining. Buck-up, buttercup and start acting like an adult,” I said and hung-up.

Her complaining to me stopped. Life was better again. She likes the drama so she can keep it to herself. She later thanked me for being so…blunt.

I didn’t do it for her.

I did it for me.

Finally.

You ARE entitled to your emotions and if someone doesn’t like them, so what?

Who died and left them in charge of you?

The eyes of a murderer

Posted: April 27, 2013 in jail
Tags:

They were soft and amber. I had never seen amber eyes before. They had small flecks of gold that you could only see when the light hit his eyes just right.

His face was smooth and flawless. I envied his skin as it seemed pore less. His hair was thick, pure black and cut short. His build was slight but strong.

He sat quietly and listened as I spoke to him. He was calm and I found myself relaxing as I talked. He nodded at the appropriate times and once in a while a slight smile would cross his face. He was a sponge and was trying to absorb every piece of information and advice that I could give him.

Looking at him, I began to realize that my words carried a great deal of weight with him. I found that realization unsettling and a bit disturbing.

I could not recall anyone listening to me so intently and politely before.

I cleared my throat and stopped talking. If my words were going to mean so much to him, then I needed to take more care in what I said.

“Does that make sense what I just went over?” I asked. The room was noisy as the other students worked and talked with each other. I would get to them soon enough, but right now Jose had my attention.

He nodded and smiled. His teeth were white and perfect. “Yes Ms. Susan, that does make sense to me. I appreciate you taking the time to help me,” he said.

I smiled back. “No problem. Now, let’s get back to this point right here…” I said as I turned the book around for him to read. I pointed to a paragraph.

He looked down. His eyes scanned the page and he nodded and looked up. “Yes, I understand,” he said.

“OK, then tell me what it means to you, in your own words,” I said and waited.

His brow furrowed and he sat back and put his hands in his pockets. He looked around and then back at me.

His calmness was gone and was replaced by a slight degree of annoyance. The smile disappeared and then suddenly reappeared.

“No, that’s fine. I got it,” he said and smiled.

A perfect smile. On a perfect face.

How could anyone look at that face and not believe what he said?

I thought for a moment about what to say.

“Can’t we just go onto the next part?” he asked. He began tapping his leg under the table.

I knew what was wrong.

“No, we can’t,” I said. “It’s very important that you understand this book in your own way. Not the way I say it is. Not the way you THINK you should. You need to understand this for YOU. Not me. So, tell me what you think about what you just read,” I said and sat back.

He was being held, without bail, for first degree murder. He had been incarcerated for over a year. He wanted to learn and had signed-up for the class.

For a brief moment, I saw rage and hate cross his face and then he caught it and looked away. He was agitated and nervous. He began looking around the room as if he needed to escape. His calmness was gone.

“What’s wrong Jose?” I asked. “Do you want to tell me what is really going on?”

His head snapped back at me. He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “Nah, it’s OK. I just don’t feel like reading tonight.”

“You can’t read, can you?” I asked as quietly as possible. It was a whisper that only he could hear.

Shame crossed his face. He rubbed his eyes and leaned forward. I leaned towards him until our noses were almost touching.

“Please don’t tell anyone. Please,” he said and leaned back. His eyes were pleading.

“I won’t,” I said. I realized that up until now, he had been gliding along in the lectures and this was the first time I had sat down with him and asked him to read.

And so began my adventure of tutoring someone to teach them how to read. I had never done it before, but we learned together. I bought children’s books and we struggled together quietly while the other students worked with my staff.

It was our little secret.

One night I showed up and he was gone. I knew his trial was coming up. He had been moved to another facility to hold him during his trial for his safety.

I knew I would never see him again.

That murderer was eventually convicted and sent away.

That face that I grew to know and like belonged to a murderer. The person that I tutored and mentored was now gone.

That face belonged to a 13-year old kid.

“Oh, so you think rape is funny? Interesting…”

Posted: April 13, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: ,

“You said that to him?” I asked. My drink stopped midway to my mouth.

I was proud of her.

“Yes I did. And you know what happened after that?” Nancy asked.

I raised up my hand to tell her not to tell me yet. I needed another sip of my gin-and-tonic. I took a large sip, put it back down on the table and motioned for her that I was ready now.

“He looked at me as if there was something wrong with ME! As if I’M the one without a sense of humor!”

I shook my head. Yes, I had heard that too many times to count. I heard it when I told someone I didn’t think it was funny. I heard it when I cringed at racial slurs and then had it explained, in great detail, why it wasn’t really a slur and I just misunderstood them. I heard it when I had been told to “lighten up” about human trafficking.

I had also been told I was on my period or suffering from PMS.

Yes, of course, it’s always MY fault when I call out an asshole.

I know this and I’ll never get used to it.

“Then he said ‘What do you say to a woman who has two black eyes.?’”

I waited.

“Nothing. Some man has already talked to her,” she said and then chuckled. “He actually said that and laughed.”

“I am assuming you left the date right about that time?” I asked and gave her a stern look.

“You KNOW I did, so lighten up. You must be on your period,” she said and started laughing.

It was good to hear her laugh. After all she had been through, to hear her laugh was beautiful

She had survived a gang rape by 6 men as a 13-year-old girl. She knew one of her attackers. He was a friend of her brothers. When he showed up at her house with 5 other boys, she let them in. She was home alone and he said her brother told them to come over.

Before she knew what was happening, a gun was pulled out and placed against her forehead. They dragged her into her bedroom and took turns for an hour. Over and over, they raped her, laughed at her, spit on her, ridiculed her and kicked her anytime she made a sound.

Fortunately her father came home. He heard them and peeked into her bedroom. When he saw what was happening, he grabbed his shotgun and busted into the bedroom.

Let’s just say, he handled it and she got out alive.

The judicial process was another gang rape for her, 6 more times.

Now sitting across from her, knowing how much that must have hurt to hear someone laugh about it, made me teary eyed and proud.

Her scars would never be gone and she knew that. But she dealt with it graciously and effectively. She would talk to me about it and I listened.

“Right! Every time a woman doesn’t laugh about rape or prostitution or a number of other crimes against us, it’s because we have no sense of humor or are on our periods. I forgot that scientifically proven fact,” I said.

She got quiet and I let the silence lay there and nibbled on the stale bar pretzels and looked around. It was a very nice bar in a beautiful hotel. Nancy and I would meet here every few months to catch-up and relax before going home from work. It was convenient and in a nice part of town.

We had attracted some degree of attention from the men, but it was as if we put up a shield around us that said “Approach at your own risk.” We were just two women who wanted to sit back and have a drink together. The fact that we were dressed conservatively didn’t seem to matter.

I made sure not to make any eye contact with anyone but our waitress. It shouldn’t have to be that way, but that was the reality of some. Two women in a bar = looking to get laid.

“I still hear them almost every morning as I wake-up,” she said.

“I know.” The same was true for me. The man who had attacked me was long gone but his face and voice was always in my mind. He seemed to appear between being asleep and starting to wake-up. I called it the “Twilight Zone.” That seemed to be my most mentally vulnerable time. Not quite asleep and not quite awake and disoriented.

“Their voices I can hear. But you know the worse part than their voices?”

“Their laughter,” I said.

“Yes, the laughter,” she said.

I reached over and squeezed her hand.

“I have a theory. It’s just a theory and may not be true, but I think it is for the most part. Want to hear it?”

“As if I could stop you,” she said and squeezed my hand.

“I think that men that joke about rape and hurting women have either done it in the past, and maybe continue to do so in the present, or want to do it.”

She thought about it for a moment. “It’s a good theory,” she said. “You might be right.”

“I don’t know if I’m right or not, but I’ll tell you this. Let them joke and be defensive when we call them out. Let them say whatever horrible things they want to say about us. It shines a light on them and then we know. We know and knowledge is power.”

“Knowledge IS power. You’re right,” she said.

“And you know what else I know?” I asked.

She shook her head.

” I KNOW we need more gin.”

She laughed. It was music to my ears

“Lewis, when you’re right, you’re right!” she said and called the waitress back over.

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