humanity
Humanity begins at home.
The Envelope
Joe was a lonely, broken man, walking cold wet streets late one Christmas Eve. He wore, contrastingly, the jolliest of outfits, clad in the uniform of his latest job a mall Santa Claus. He was a poor imitation of St. Nick, sad, slumping, looking thin and depleted, despite a mound of stuffing around his middle. He oozed the odor of Jack Daniels, and walked as only a drunk could walk. He staggered down the street, thinking of family he never saw anymore. He was alone and angry. He hated Christmas. In fact, the only reason he kept his Santa job was because he felt it fitting to collect on this awful day any way he could.
By George Beighey7 years ago in Families
Life as a Daughter of Agent Orange, Pt. 1
I honestly do not know where to even begin telling my story. I remember growing up, at least to the age of 10, life was pretty normal and decent. Mom worked and Dad stayed home with my little sister and I. I recall my dad being strict, but that was nothing compared to what was about to start in late 1999.
By Elizabeth Adolphi7 years ago in Families
The Gifts and Curses of Time
Fridays couldn’t come any quicker. The entire week, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and so on are spent anticipating Friday. Typically, Friday evenings are spent at my friend Kaylin’s house, congregating around the TV for Full House reruns; 7:30 marathons couldn’t start any sooner! Amidst Stephanie Tanner’s “how rude” schpeal, the unknown number that has already called three times that day calls for the fourth. I excuse myself during the next commercial break, to deal with the “anonymous caller.” I hold the phone to my chest, allowing it to ring until I can answer it in the bathroom. A familiar voice states, “This is a prepaid call, you will not be charged for this call, this call is from…” I mouthed my father’s name and correctional facility. This is the second time I’ve spoken to my dad this week, on account of his “good conduct” with the other inmates. My excitement for the weekend, the TV marathons, and free time with my friends overshadowed my reality. Putting on a brave face and improvising excuse after excuse was already easy: “Just another guy prank calling me.” Today, my dad only had enough change to call for five minutes. Tomorrow, the next day, and so on, my friends and I will recall the joke for years to come. Today, my dad has five out of his ten years left.
By desiree nicole7 years ago in Families
Mortality's a Bitch
So, in a previous post, I said mortality's a bitch, talking about my best friend, Noe; a friendship that started in the 3rd grade to his death in ’91 and my brother’s, Joey, death in ‘00. Another friend commented about missing Noe and missing out on the end. It's not the first time I'd been asked. I'd only given the bare bones answers partly, because I didn’t know this friend and it hurt, and partly, because I didn’t know what exactly happened after the ambulance left his place. I do know now and it chills me to think he went through that alone…on purpose, so the rest of us wouldn’t have that as the last memories of him.
By Jason Rhode7 years ago in Families
The Effects of Growing Up With Bottled Emotions
July 26, 2017, attempted to end @3:58 AM. Sometimes I still fall victim to the hardness that I once knew. I catch myself being cold when I feel as if I’m witnessing weakness. It’s sad really, where that comes from. Just now I noticed that I had banned my dog from my bed and had been cross with her because she was shaking from fear of the occurring thunderstorm. Making jokes to myself, I said aloud, “I didn’t put a quarter in the bed” and, “I love you but I also love to sleep!”
By Jessica Bateman7 years ago in Families
Behind the Scenes
My mom walked toward me in a solicitous was as I was stretched out on my grandmother's apple green couch. I remember how much I hated those couches when I had first moved down to Greasy Hill Loop, they were always so damn uncomfortable. I grew to love them, up until they had became a self-proclaimed throne of mine. My mom smacked my leg as she asked for paper, more specifically graphed paper. I didn't have to answer her at all, she already knew I did. From the many years I spent doodling, and hoarding sketchbook after sketchbook, I had accumulated stacks of paper of many different varieties. I ran off to my side of my grandmother's bedroom and searched for graphed paper, tossing everything aside, I was anxious to know what she had needed it for. I took the papers into the kitchen, and placed them neatly on the dining table. Surrounding the oval dining table was the three women of the house, the fourth slowly made her way down the hall. My mom, Evelyn, sat at the end with a pencil handy, and the papers laid in front of her. My sister, Earla, sat adjacent to her, this was her usual spot at the table. To the side of her sat my grandmother, Evangeline, she was silent and gazed off into the distance. Their demeanor and silence had made me anxious and curious. I turned and stepped into the kitchen, just as my grandmother Floria had eased herself into her chair. I opened the fridge and glanced over at the table, they were all seated so still, and not one spoke a single word. The TV was the only noise filling the empty space between all of us. I grabbed the nearly-ancient pitcher of iced tea and headed for the counter. I stood there as I examined the pitcher, and wondered just how old it was. I reached upwards into the cabinet for a glass, I could not take the dead silence any longer. I spoke. "Why are you all so serious? It is freaking me out."
By Kyra Kallestewa7 years ago in Families
Kiss of Colors
Since I was forced from my mother's body (damaging her beyond repair she claims every year on my birthday), I had always loved colors. Every year my favorite colors will switch between greens, blues and purples. Even at the tender age of twenty plus years old, I still cannot decide what color is my favorite. Colors are not just little lights dancing in front of us. They are tools to help retain information, memories and emotions. Colors are not just about the rainbow, but in personality and in skin. Color means more than just lights. For years my journey in finding a favorite color has come to a standstill. My new goal is to find a color that I can call my own favorite like normal people.
By Savannah McCain7 years ago in Families
Halloween Cancelled at Public School Because of Liberal Beliefs
Halloween, All Hallow's Eve, is the wonderful Pagan holiday celebrated every October 31st where children are able to dress up in costumes and pretend to be anything they wish to be. The kids go door-to-door and knock saying, "Trick or treat?" and then are handed candy which they usually throw into a pillow case or Halloween decorated bucket and go on to the next house.
By Beth Gibbons7 years ago in Families
Raising a Family in a System of Division
I don't want to talk about the things that affect me or hurt me for others to say things like I'm so sorry you're going through this or you are so inspirational to me. When I speak about the hard topics I speak about them in hopes to provoke change. To provoke a new way of thinking and a new approach that will not only benefit me but benefit those around me also affected by the hard topics. I am not looking for sympathy. I'm not looking for a hand out. I am simply telling it as it is. I've heard things like what do you expect, you decided to subject yourself to discrimination by living in boonie town. Well my response to that is this; I have experienced discrimination in boney town and in very diverse populations. It makes no difference where I live, the discrimination will always be there because my skin will always be brown. I have had coffee thrown at me while being told go back to where you came from while driving in Toronto, Ontario, a very diverse area and plenty of people of color. I have had someone stop their car, come out just to throw racial slurs at me out of the blue, me just minding my own business, oblivious of this attack. I have been told I was: a coon, a monkey, a nigger, a drug addict, all in a very culturally populated area. I have had smoke blown into my face while standing in a bus shelter and told that the welfare system is corrupted because of people like me and the other niggers who don't pay taxes (Wasn't even on the system and paid my taxes). I chose not to have my children be subjected to racial slurs and tensions by removing myself from this area. The incidents happened more frequent than I could wrap my head around them. I wanted my children to have the same or similar advantages of the average Canadian child. Not the average black child but the average Canadian child. So I moved to the boonies. In the boonies my kids have been able to utilize the extras the inner city schools won't get, like a decent education, access to music, sports, technology that they wouldn't otherwise had gotten in an inner city environment. I raised my kids to be the best them they can be, not to be the best black kid they can be. Race has been such a big issue lately that it causes some uproar of conversations at my dinner table. It causes tension within my own household because of the varying responses towards it. I have been silent for a long time while I mend the hurt feelings of my kids from being told they couldn't possibly have done an A plus job on an assignment because people of your color cannot possibly have the understanding to complete such complex things. I have had to simmer rage between siblings who have varying views on how a racial incident should be addressed. The unequal treatment of black males verse black females. I have had to deal with unresolved feelings from my children when called niggers, monkeys or pretty for a black girl. My kids have triggered this post because I have always said I will protect my children no matter what and help them be the best they can be. I write this with feelings of disservice to my children for not teaching them how to be black while growing up. My eldest said to me that she was happy to not be taught to be different because it allowed her to see herself for who she is and what she is capable of rather than a black girl plus whatever the title is that may be added. She believes that because she is able to see herself for her and not limited by her skin she is able to fight through the labels and barricades that society tries to place on her. My children are thriving despite the racial attacks whether passively or aggressively thrown their way. Why do I write this then some may ask. I write this because the first insult/swear words that my youngest has ever dealt with is being told she's a nigger. I write this because instead of the typical conversation of counseling my child on why people say hurtful things I have to add racism to the hurtful things. I write this because my kids cannot go anywhere without me knowing where they are for fear that them being late or unaccounted for could mean they were lynched or arrested (yes I worry about that in Canada). I write this because they fight. We fight for everything and or paths are constantly blocked. I feel defeated most days. I don't know how many different ways I have tried to be of comfort to my kids through everything they go through. I feel broken most days but I still have to build them up. I don't know how to continue to do this for them, my heart is hurting and I feel broken. When I advocate for my kids or I expect policies to be followed, our human rights to be granted, I have been told you're asking the right questions and these are the questions that needs to be answered. So who is going to answer the questions that mothers and fathers of color have about the injustice they experience and now their children experience. How can we stop talking about change and actually change something. Report and statistics will not change the emotional damage racism has on our entire society. This is not a black problem this is an everyone problem. I'm going to just end this by quoting one of my favorite quotes: "Be the change you want to see in the world".
By Trish Nala7 years ago in Families