Dear Hearts,
It’s gently snowing out. The world is covered in white. It’s so calm and beautiful.
Enough of that shit.
We were going to meet a realtor at My House today, but the weather cancelled plans. She is a bitch anyway. Seriously. I’ve already decided not to go with her and her gravelly New York City accent.
A realtor for My House.
Not gonna go there right now.
I was reminded of a rather ugly incident the other day—but in the process of being reminded of that incident, I am re-connecting with an Advisor I had in Grad School. Richie. We have been totally disagreeing, but dialoguing about politics on Facebook.
I can’t defend what Trump is doing right now. But, I also can’t bring myself to care. I can’t take on that worry too. I can’t feel for all those refugees who are suffering. I know I should, but I can’t. I don’t have any energy to give them. Mom calls it psychic energy. I already have enough rabbit holes that I am going down.
Anyway, Richie is published author, writer, teacher, and caring liberal. He’s a good man.
Through no fault of his own he reminded me of when I was in grad school and had a situation with another Writer Advisor there. Let’s call him…Havana. I took a class with Havana (who is not Cuban), and we read this dreadful story by Melville about a father, son, and dog that went out on a boat and drowned.
I made the comment in class that I didn’t necessarily feel sorry for the father and son, but the dog didn’t need to die.
“That’s what’s wrong with you fucking Americans. You care more about whales and dogs than people.” Yup, that’s me. I don’t care who dies in the movie or story—but don’t kill an animal, especially a cat or dog.
A year later I was sitting with Havana at a round table outside the main dining hall. I don’t remember how I got there with him—it wouldn’t have been by choice. We were sitting with this woman (another student)—Gigi. Gigi thought it was so fun when all the refugees from the Katrina Hurricane came to Texas. It was just fun to meet all those people! Yeah, fun and Hurricane Katrina.
Gigi and Havana were talking about Cuba and pronouncing the city Havana like Ha-bon-uh. Whatever. Havana was entitled to go to Cuba because he wasn’t an American citizen and W. (the president at the time) was the Anti-Christ. EYE ROLL.
At some point, I re-introduced myself to Havana and reminded him of the comment I made about the dog in his class. He remembered. He then went on to call me a stupid fucking White American who was perpetuating genocide by teaching about Indians in public high school. I still don’t get that. But, that’s what he thought.
A note on Havana: I will not speak ill of the dead but he was beloved by students and advisors at Grad School. I was the odd man out with my distaste for him.
Now, I was a stupid fucking White American but he loved my legs and tits—he said they were really nice and he’d love to take me out for a steak dinner. Also, I need a good fucking by my husband or someone—and I had to have babies—so I wouldn’t turn out looking like Laura Bush. And, Havana knew I was flirting with him because I had my bare legs (in 80-degree weather) crossed. I needed a good fucking. The stupid White American needed a good fucking. He was in his 60s. I was in my late 20s. Ew.
I literally hid behind trees to avoid him. I felt angry about what he said, but there was no fucking way I was going to tell anybody in the School about it. Yeah, okay. Sure. The White girl will make an accusation against the beloved Black man and there won’t be any repercussions. Writers are an incestuous lot and a reputation can make or break you in other people being willing to help you.
It wasn’t until I talked to Mom and my therapist that I realized how way out of line he was. It was sexual harassment. But, I kept my mouth shut. Asshole asked me what I had done to provoke his behavior.
I haven’t thought of that incident in a long time.
But, it’s the story of my life—taking it (all that IT includes) from other kids, bosses, boyfriends, friends, professors, colleagues…
I told Richie what happened between Havana and me. We had been talking on Facebook about politics—and Richie brought up his dear friend, Havana as someone who was targeted and treated unfairly because of his skin color. It probably had more to do with his attitude of entitlement. But, Richie said that I (me) knew and respected this man. I didn’t want that idea out there—that I respected Havana.
For a few days, I struggled with whether or not tell Richie the truth in a private message. I did. His reaction was compassion. I told Richie that in part I was telling him about Havana because I had swallowed too much in my life to make other people feel better.
Do I give off “bully me, please—easy target” pheromones?
I told Richie not only about Havana, but also my life since then in brief form.
What Havana said to me that day paled in comparison to what Asshole and T. said to me. I like “stupid fucking White American” better than “fucking retard,” “fucking bitch, or “fucking cunt.”
I felt like I was the “odd man out” in Grad School, because I was a fierce W. supporter and I heard Writing Advisors publically declaring how ashamed they were to be Americans. That made me sick. But, I FELT that I should keep my mouth shut and play nice in the political game.
I silenced my voice not only with Havana, but with everyone, because I didn’t want to be disliked.
See. Fuck it. That’s the fucking problem. I need to shout to the fucking treetops! I have a voice and it is worthy of being heard.
Do I really believe that? I hope so. You, dear readers, know I rarely feel worthy. But, I am tired of playing nice and pleasing everyone.
That’s why I love this blog—because I can YAWP MY TRUTH!
Fuck man, I couldn’t even tell my ex-husband to get off his lazy ass and get a job.
YAWP! YAWP! YAWP! YAWP! YAWP! YAWP! YAWP! YAWP! YAWP! YAWP!
Maybe someday I can use my real name and YAWP! at the same time.
Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless
In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.
PS: I am so ready for my first cigarette and coffee of the day.
PPS: My parents are fighting like they used to when I was a kid. I hate it. No, it’s not your fault Mom!
Mom just asked Dad, “where do you want me to feed the cat.”
Wherever the fuck she wants to feed the cat. That’s the answer to that question.
PPPS: Richie—thank you for being willing to be a part of my life. I am grateful to you for that.
PPPPS: If this is the first post you read Richie—Asshole is my ex-husband and T. is the Listerine drunk I left. And, I don’t proof read these posts. I just cough them up. For now.
