Diary of an Arizona Girl is musings from an infamous artist, writer, zealous activist and admitted Crazy Girl. Columnist at FeminineCollective.com. I want a pony for my birthday.
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Letter from Birmingham Jail
~Martin Luther King, Jr.
King’s famous “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” published in The Atlantic as “The Negro Is Your Brother,” was written in response to a public statement of concern and caution issued by eight white religious leaders of the South. It stands as one of the classic documents of the civil rights movement.
I share with you this excerpt:
“While confined here in the Birmingham city jail, I came across your recent statement calling our present activities “unwise and untimely.” Seldom, if ever, do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas. If I sought to answer all of the criticisms that cross my desk, my secretaries would be engaged in little else in the course of the day, and I would have no time for constructive work. But since I feel that you are men of genuine good will and your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I would like to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms.
I think I should give the reason for my being in Birmingham, since you have been influenced by the argument of “outsiders coming in”
I am in Birmingham because injustice is here …I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial “outside agitator” idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider…
We have waited for more than three hundred and forty years for our God-given and constitutional rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward the goal of political independence, and we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward the gaining of a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. I guess it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say “wait.” But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick, brutalize, and even kill your black brothers and sisters with impunity; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she cannot go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her little eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see the depressing clouds of inferiority begin to form in her little mental sky, and see her begin to distort her little personality by unconsciously developing a bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son asking in agonizing pathos, “Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross-country drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger” and your middle name becomes “boy” (however old you are) and your last name becomes “John,” and when your wife and mother are never given the respected title “Mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodyness”–then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over and men are no longer willing to be plunged into an abyss of injustice where they experience the bleakness of corroding despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience…
Now, what is the difference between the two? How does one determine when a law is just or unjust? A just law is a man-made code that squares with the moral law, or the law of God. An unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law. To put it in the terms of St. Thomas Aquinas, an unjust law is a human law that is not rooted in eternal and natural law. Any law that uplifts human personality is just. Any law that degrades human personality is unjust. All segregation statutes are unjust because segregation distorts the soul and damages the personality…
There are some instances when a law is just on its face and unjust in its application. For instance, I was arrested Friday on a charge of parading without a permit. Now, there is nothing wrong with an ordinance which requires a permit for a parade, but when the ordinance is used to preserve segregation and to deny citizens the First Amendment privilege of peaceful assembly and peaceful protest, then it becomes unjust.
Of course, there is nothing new about this kind of civil disobedience. It was seen sublimely in the refusal of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego to obey the laws of Nebuchadnezzar because a higher moral law was involved. It was practiced superbly by the early Christians, who were willing to face hungry lions and the excruciating pain of chopping blocks before submitting to certain unjust laws of the Roman Empire. To a degree, academic freedom is a reality today because Socrates practiced civil disobedience.
We can never forget that everything Hitler did in Germany was “legal” and everything the Hungarian freedom fighters did in Hungary was “illegal.” It was “illegal” to aid and comfort a Jew in Hitler’s Germany. But I am sure that if I had lived in Germany during that time, I would have aided and comforted my Jewish brothers even though it was illegal. If I lived in a Communist country today where certain principles dear to the Christian faith are suppressed, I believe I would openly advocate disobeying these anti-religious laws…
I have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in Birmingham, even if our motives are presently misunderstood. We will reach the goal of freedom in Birmingham and all over the nation, because the goal of America is freedom. Abused and scorned though we may be, our destiny is tied up with the destiny of America. Before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, we were here. Before the pen of Jefferson scratched across the pages of history the majestic word of the Declaration of Independence, we were here …If the inexpressible cruelties of slavery could not stop us, the opposition we now face will surely fail. We will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of God are embodied in our echoing demands…
Never before have I written a letter this long–or should I say a book? I’m afraid that it is much too long to take your precious time. I can assure you that it would have been much shorter if I had been writing from a comfortable desk, but what else is there to do when you are alone for days in the dull monotony of a narrow jail cell other than write long letters, think strange thoughts, and pray long prayers?
If I have said anything in this letter that is an understatement of the truth and is indicative of an unreasonable impatience, I beg you to forgive me. If I have said anything in this letter that is an overstatement of the truth and is indicative of my having a patience that makes me patient with anything less than brotherhood, I beg God to forgive me.“
Yours for the cause of Peace and Brotherhood,
MARTIN LUTHER KING, Jr.
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Letter from Birmingham Jail
~Martin Luther King, Jr.
King’s famous “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” published in The Atlantic as “The Negro Is Your Brother,” was written in response to a public statement of concern and caution issued by eight white religious leaders of the South. It stands as one of the classic documents of the civil rights movement.
I share with you this excerpt:
“While confined here in the Birmingham city jail, I came across your recent statement calling our present activities “unwise and untimely.” Seldom, if ever, do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas. If I sought to answer all of the criticisms that cross my desk, my secretaries would be engaged in little else in the course of the day, and I would have no time for constructive work. But since I feel that you are men of genuine good will and your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I would like to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms.
I think I should give the reason for my being in Birmingham, since you have been influenced by the argument of “outsiders coming in”
I am in Birmingham because injustice is here …I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial “outside agitator” idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider…
We have waited for more than three hundred and forty years for our God-given and constitutional rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward the goal of political independence, and we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward the gaining of a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. I guess it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say “wait.” But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick, brutalize, and even kill your black brothers and sisters with impunity; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she cannot go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her little eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see the depressing clouds of inferiority begin to form in her little mental sky, and see her begin to distort her little personality by unconsciously developing a bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son asking in agonizing pathos, “Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross-country drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger” and your middle name becomes “boy” (however old you are) and your last name becomes “John,” and when your wife and mother are never given the respected title “Mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodyness”–then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over and men are no longer willing to be plunged into an abyss of injustice where they experience the bleakness of corroding despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience…
Now, what is the difference between the two? How does one determine when a law is just or unjust? A just law is a man-made code that squares with the moral law, or the law of God. An unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law. To put it in the terms of St. Thomas Aquinas, an unjust law is a human law that is not rooted in eternal and natural law. Any law that uplifts human personality is just. Any law that degrades human personality is unjust. All segregation statutes are unjust because segregation distorts the soul and damages the personality…
There are some instances when a law is just on its face and unjust in its application. For instance, I was arrested Friday on a charge of parading without a permit. Now, there is nothing wrong with an ordinance which requires a permit for a parade, but when the ordinance is used to preserve segregation and to deny citizens the First Amendment privilege of peaceful assembly and peaceful protest, then it becomes unjust.
Of course, there is nothing new about this kind of civil disobedience. It was seen sublimely in the refusal of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego to obey the laws of Nebuchadnezzar because a higher moral law was involved. It was practiced superbly by the early Christians, who were willing to face hungry lions and the excruciating pain of chopping blocks before submitting to certain unjust laws of the Roman Empire. To a degree, academic freedom is a reality today because Socrates practiced civil disobedience.
We can never forget that everything Hitler did in Germany was “legal” and everything the Hungarian freedom fighters did in Hungary was “illegal.” It was “illegal” to aid and comfort a Jew in Hitler’s Germany. But I am sure that if I had lived in Germany during that time, I would have aided and comforted my Jewish brothers even though it was illegal. If I lived in a Communist country today where certain principles dear to the Christian faith are suppressed, I believe I would openly advocate disobeying these anti-religious laws…
I have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in Birmingham, even if our motives are presently misunderstood. We will reach the goal of freedom in Birmingham and all over the nation, because the goal of America is freedom. Abused and scorned though we may be, our destiny is tied up with the destiny of America. Before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, we were here. Before the pen of Jefferson scratched across the pages of history the majestic word of the Declaration of Independence, we were here …If the inexpressible cruelties of slavery could not stop us, the opposition we now face will surely fail. We will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of God are embodied in our echoing demands…
Never before have I written a letter this long–or should I say a book? I’m afraid that it is much too long to take your precious time. I can assure you that it would have been much shorter if I had been writing from a comfortable desk, but what else is there to do when you are alone for days in the dull monotony of a narrow jail cell other than write long letters, think strange thoughts, and pray long prayers?
If I have said anything in this letter that is an understatement of the truth and is indicative of an unreasonable impatience, I beg you to forgive me. If I have said anything in this letter that is an overstatement of the truth and is indicative of my having a patience that makes me patient with anything less than brotherhood, I beg God to forgive me.“
Yours for the cause of Peace and Brotherhood,
MARTIN LUTHER KING, Jr.
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I FEAR FATHER’S DAY CARDS
A ubiquitous reminder
my father is gone.
A silent reminder
one parent truly cared.
Shooting darts
straight to my heart.
Who has a father
as an unlikely
best friend?
I did.
He was my reward
for a crazy, yes really
crazy mother
who bragged she
never wanted children.
His love was my respite.
He cared for animals.
St. Francis of Assisi.
I did pray he went
to dog heaven.
He was much too good
for anonymous heaven.
On the day he died
I knew my life would
forever change.
I don’t know where
to look for him.
Now.
Never will I forget
my gratitude
for a perfect father.
But it doesn’t ease the pain
of not having one.
Anymore.
Emotional survival.
Walking away
from Hallmark reminders.
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I AM JODI ARIAS’S MOTHER
Sandra Dee Allen was born in 1958 in a small Northern California town. I love to call her Sandy Dee. It fits, somehow. I met Sandy at Jodi Arias's sentencing trial, in September 2014. She is the fourth of seven children and the identical twin of her sister Susan. They are so identical, including hairstyles, I find it difficult to tell them apart. But looks are where it ends. Sandy is painfully shy and her sister is unfiltered and outgoing.
Sandy married Bill Arias when she was 22 and they had four children together. Two sons and two daughters. Jodi Ann was her first child. There are many versions of Jodi's childhood, including Jodi's own, a version told at her two trials, and many versions written in books about Jodi. Sandy describes Jodi's childhood as normal, happy, and her closest playmate was her brother Carl, who is two years younger.
Jodi left home at 17 in a typical teenage rebellion phase and moved in for a short time with a boyfriend. She began working at what was to be a series of jobs over the next few years. She was ambitious and highly motivated to be financially independent. She continued to live in different Northern California cities for several years. Jodi relocated to Southern California in mid-2000 and in 2007 she moved to Arizona.
During these years, Sandy's relationship with Jodi was strained as Jodi struggled to find her identity and her place in the world. Jodi's communication with Sandy was sporadic, and fairly typical of of a twenty-something out exploring the world. Sandy also had two younger children at home to take care of, who were eleven years younger than Jodi, and needed Sandy's attention.
Sandy knew that Jodi had a boyfriend when she moved to Arizona, but knew very few details of their relationship. At one point, when Jodi and her boyfriend were not getting along, Sandy drove down to Mesa to help Jodi move back home. By the time she arrived, the pair had reconciled. Not long afterward, Jodi moved back home on her own in 2008 and moved in with her grandparents. To this day, she remains very close to her grandmother.
When Jodi left on the fateful trip back to Arizona, her family was not surprised as she often traveled for the company where she was employed. About one week later, Jodi returned home.
Sandy first heard of Jodi's arrest when she received a call at work from her son Joey telling her that their home was surrounded by police cars. She then called her mother, where Jodi was living, and was told that Jodi had been arrested.
This interview is the first time Sandy Arias has spoken publicly about her daughter Jodi Arias.
Question:
How is your life going after dedicating a year and a half to attending two trials every day over 1,000 miles from your home?
Sandy:
I'm very glad to be back with my family. I've been trying to get our lives back on track. I just take life day-by-day. I gave up my job of 17 years and left my family for long periods of time to support my daughter during her trials. Since I've been home, I recently started a new job in the same field. Everything still feels very unreal to me. I don't believe our lives will ever be the same again. As I've said many times, "Don't ever say this can't happen to me."
Question:
Have you been able to visit Jodi at Perryville Prison? How is her attitude?
Sandy:
Yes, I've visited her twice at Perryville Prison. On the first visit I brought her 82 year old grandmother to see her--someone Jodi is very close to. It was a bittersweet visit because my mother has terminal cancer and probably won't see Jodi again.
Jodi is always happy to see us. She is the type of person who is constantly cheerful. She has many projects going on--all at the same time. Currently, she is organizing a library for the unit she's housed in and is busy asking all of her friends for books to help her stock up the library for her fellow inmates in the Lumley Unit.
Question:
Has your family suffered any shaming or difficulties as a result of the crime or trials?
Sandy:
Our friends and family have supported us and have been there for us from the beginning. The only shaming we know of has occurred indirectly online from people who do not know us.
Question:
How has Jodi's notoriety affected your three other children?
Sandy:
My daughter Angela has really been affected the most. She has been bullied online, but she's headstrong and stands up to anyone to defend her sister. Angela was very close to Jodi. She was her go-to person when she had a problem or needed to talk. Now, she's not there for her. This has been really difficult for her to lose her older sister and confidant. Jodi was not present for Angela's important life events--her wedding and the birth of her daughter. It's been difficult for the sisters to rebuild their closeness and maintain a relationship.
With her brothers, it's different. Her younger brother Joey was 16 and Jodi had already left home when she was arrested. He was not very close to Jodi as he was so much younger. With Carl, who is two years younger than Jodi, at first he felt Jodi created her own problem and was responsible for her own actions. He wasn't emotionally involved compared to Angela.
Question:
How did you deal with all of the public attention you received, especially with people saying negative things about your daughter in the media?
Sandy:
I am naturally a very shy person and uncomfortable with attention. I never responded to any requests from the media for interviews. I felt it was inappropriate and also might be interpreted as disrespectful to everyone involved, including the victim's family. In the end, there were many victims as a result of this tragedy, including the loss of my daughter. I dealt with the attention by the comfort and support of my family and friends.
Question:
Do you believe there is justice and mercy in the judicial system process?
Sandy:
Unless you have been through a trial, you don't really know or understand the complexities involved. Many of the stages we knew nothing about, and because we were dependent on public defenders, often parts of the trial were not explained to us, including motions, jury selection, and alleged prosecutorial misconduct. Some days we learned more from Jodi's mitigation specialist than her lead public defender. I do believe in mercy, but I do not believe it is always applied fairly in the judicial system.
Question:
Do you have any advice to mothers who may have a child in jail or prison?
Sandy:
I would encourage mothers, or any family members, to be supportive and let them know that you care about them. No matter what. I believe that love should be unconditional. For me, this experience has been the ultimate test of mother love.
Question:
In closing, is there anything you would like to say?
Sandy:
I am a mom--just like any other mom. I did the best job I could raising my children. My mother once said to me that parenting ends at a certain age, and beyond that, children act of their own accord. I do not feel responsible for Jodi's actions, but that doesn't mean she does not have my complete love and support. Always, unconditionally, for the rest of her life.
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10 REASONS TO LOVE OR NOT LOVE ON VALENTINE’S DAY
“Why is it no one sent me yet one perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get one perfect rose.”
―Dorothy Parker
IF YOU ARE SINGLE
Lucky you.
1.
You do not have to worry or fret about finding that perfect Valentine's Day gift.
2.
You may suffer a twinge of jealousy when your friends with boyfriends or married friends are lavished with gifts or have romantic date nights. Don't. There was likely much worrying and sometimes last minute frantic planning to pull off what appeared to be easy.
3.
A personal assistant sometimes buys the boss's wife or girlfriend a gift and makes dinner reservations. Is this really what you want―a Valentine's Day that is delegated to an employee?
Singletons, on February 14, put on your jammies, order a pizza and watch 27 Dresses on Netflix. You will be with your favorite, easy-to-get-along-with date...yourself.
THE BOYFRIEND
Complicated.
4.
This is tricky. You will have to calculate your status. Are you newly together or have you been dating for years? Herein lies a separate problem altogether. This is important because it will determine the value of your gift and the depth of your celebration.
5.
The most challenging Valentine is the newly dating. Do not think it is just you. He is trying to decide how to meet your expectations as well. Here are a few suggested guidelines for the newly dating:
6.
Three Months or Less:
A card. At the very most, a small gift of no obvious value, for example a small teddy bear, or a sleeve of golf balls if he's a golfer. The worst scenario is if you overdo it with an expensive gift and he does not reciprocate. One of you might be quite uncomfortable. Play it safe.
7.
Six Months to One Year
At this stage, you can expect as well as give, a gift of more substance. If you are closer to the one year mark, hopefully you are comfortable discussing Valentine's Day and are able to make mutually agreeable plans together. This is the honeymoon phase of dating where couple's massages, a weekend getaway, even a dinner at a special restaurant are exciting and romantic. If your plans are NOT romantic at this point, perhaps you may want to spend some time reflecting on your goals for this relationship. If marriage is your end run―stop, in the name of love.
THE SMUG MARRIEDS
A delightful reference from Bridget Jones's Diary.
8.
From the outside looking in, perhaps you may think, "Oh, Valentine's Day must be so simple for them." A built-in date, easy to buy a gift, and sending flowers guarantees the perfect day.
Au contraire.
In the beginning, a bar is set higher and higher each year, when expectations can run as high as emotions. Proof of love exists in material signs of the perfect card, roses sent to work (who would see them at home?), and the just so perfect gift. Oh, please let it be jewelry. Giant bummer that the price of red roses is doubled on Valentine's Day. Could my lover just want tulips? Men, here is my absolute favorite gift. Write her a love letter. On real paper. With a real pen. Say all the words. Express all of your feelings. Deep sigh. Quote Emily Dickinson and you will own her heart.
9.
I can recall a Valentine's Day when I was actually upset with my husband for sending me red roses (at home, he didn't get many things) for his lack of originality after 16 years of marriage. Really? Is that the best you've got? There is a large, flashing warning sign on the couples who have been together a fairly long time. Two scenarios. First, like me, I was still looking for validation in love and wanted to see proof. Second, when the more mature couples (unlike me) who know each other so well, their love is true and proven to the degree even a card is superfluous.
Somehow I never made it to that stage. Thus explaining my singleton status.
THE SWEETEST GIFT OF ALL ON VALENTINE'S DAY
10.
My last advice for you is to not forget the people in your life whose Valentine's Day would become a special, unforgettable day with a Valentine from you. These people will likely not receive any Valentine's cards and your thoughtfulness becomes a special act of kindness.
Think of:
💓Your mother, father, parents
💓Single grown children
💓Small children
💓Unmarried or single brothers and sisters
💓Senior neighbors
💓Unmarried or single friends
💓Bring a batch of children's boxed Valentine's signed, "Your friend," to a senior home, or the children's ward of your local hospital.
“Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.
Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse.”
―Dorothy Parker
Happy Valentine's Day
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THE FIRST TIME I SAW MY BABY SLEEPING
The first time I saw my baby sleeping was on Highway 89 halfway between Lake Tahoe and Truckee. His head was slightly tipped back and he was breathing so quietly I had to strain to catch every breath. My view of him was from the front seat of my Jeep through the rear view mirror. Every sigh and sleep noise he made brought me tearful happiness.
It is important in life to take mental snapshots of moments such as these to assure that a perfect memory will be preserved forever. Sometimes I pull up this memory from my mind and smile as I remember and relive every detail.
He was bundled up for the freezing winter weather which had gone down several degrees as the winter afternoon carefully turned to dusk. Even in the warm car I could still feel a chill.
My love for him was so immense at that instant, I drank in every part of him as I snuck glances in the mirror speeding through the snow-laden pines. A lack of cars on the highway gave me permission to maneuver the road while I admired the fine boy I had made. A perfect boy. I am certain if there was a way he could listen to my maternal gushing his grownup self would roll his eyes.
He looks as though he was conceived in a genetic tumbler. He has my nose and eyes and his face shape favors his father’s. I never tire of examining his feet, his hands, and wonder at the beauty of his being. His hands are a mirror image of my own. Never stopping my stare-fest, I examined him from every possible angle.
In the Jeep a Led Zeppelin song played on the radio. Son, I thought, this will always be one of life’s great debates. Which is better—Led Zeppelin I or Led Zeppelin II?
If you are truly my clone you will love my humor and repartee. Of course we will share a love of classic rock. And books. We will read books together. In coffee shops. Drinking coffee and reading. Deep sigh.
Soon we will be home in Reno and this perfect day will end. You will wake up and I will no longer be able to gaze on your peaceful, sleeping face. I have burned these moments into memories and stored them deep away. For days in the future when my thoughts turn to you.
The first time I saw my baby sleeping he was 26 years old.
On adoptee reunion:
“The most powerful ties are the ones with the people who
gave us birth...it hardly seems to matter
how many years have passed.”
—Anthony Brandt
No I would not give you false hope
On this strange and mournful day
But the mother and child reunion
Is only a motion away, oh, little darling of mine*
For when he was born, I never had the chance to watch him sleep. I never had the chance to watch anything because he was raised by adoptive parents. I did not even know his name. I was not sure if I would see him again, but when he was older I pursued, searched and found him. Eventually.
I can't for the life of me
Remember a sadder day
I know they say let it be
But it just don't work out that way*
Nothing will stop me from reclaiming the moments and memories that should have been mine. Days at the lake, a backseat nap, reading books, and debating the merits of classic rock albums. I make the memories whenever I am able.
No I would not give you false hope
On this strange and mournful day
But the mother and child reunion
Is only a motion away, oh, little darling of mine*
Always will I remember the first time I saw my baby sleeping.
*Paul Simon, “Mother and Child Reunion”
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HAPPY WOMEN’S HERSTORY MONTH
This is the month that we celebrate strong, independent women. It's a special month because women are special. They are women of history, women of science, women of mathematics, suffragettes, feminists, and women who refused to ride at the back of the bus.
These women are you.
These women are me.
We are so fortunate to live in historical times where women are now being celebrated for their contributions to the arts, humanities, science, mathematics, the right to vote, the right to make decisions about our own bodies, and even to run for president.
Look up at the stars. Because this is beyond where the glass ceiling crashed and the new limit has risen.
We are astronauts, all of us, flying high and breaking free of any past perceptions that women were limited to a small number of "appropriate" careers. When my mother grew up, her father told her she could become a teacher or a nurse. She chose a teaching career, but added activist to that role and picketed, marched, and raised holy hell until the NEA teacher's union was formed in our state. I was given no boundaries and majored with a math-heavy logistics management degree and added an MBA--just like my father.
Anything is possible to those who work hard and seek their passions. We all have the potential to be happy, strong, independent women.
I recently wrote a story called Girls Who Write Code. Included in this story was one of the first women who wrote code, long before computers did this work. Her name is Katherine G. Johnson, a NASA mathematician who calculated flight trajectories for one of the first manned space flights at NASA’s Langley Research Center in Virginia. This was during the Jim Crow era in the south, when deep segregation existed. She could calculate flight trajectories, but she had to use the "colored girls" bathroom.
How far these women have brought us to where we are now.
My last thought for you is something that is very important to me. The first wave of feminism shamed women who stayed home to raise their children and did not seek a career outside of the home. Now, as we enter the third wave of feminism, these women are honored for their outstanding career of choosing to take care of our most important assets—our children.
So, Happy WOMEN’S HERSTORY MONTH to you...may the stars be the limit for everyone!
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LET’S GIVE DRUG DEALERS THE DEATH PENALTY
Well, let’s not. Because actually we can’t.
I am not outspoken about all things Trump. Everything is so ridiculous to me that my only thoughts are about guessing when the nightmare will end. All of you people who have ever made fun of government policy wonks—don’t you wish they were in charge again?
A few thoughts on this very blustery statement.
Case law, through years of cases related to capital punishment argued before The Supreme Court (48 as of 2016), has narrowed and specifically defined when and how capital punishment can be applied. Capital punishment, or the death penalty, may only be sentenced for capital crimes. These crimes are defined as espionage, treason, and death resulting from aircraft hijacking.
HOWEVER. Capital crimes consist of the offense of murder. such as murder committed during a drug-related drive-by shooting, murder during a kidnapping, murder for hire, and genocide.
Simply stated, capital punishment is primarily sentenced for murder.
Not drug dealers. The misguided, speak-before-thinking, President does not understand, nor seek legal counsel, on the rule of law, case law, or the Constitution. Trump’s thinking is that drug dealers kill people therefore they should get the death penalty (paraphrased).
Flawed logic.
If this logic was true, then DUI manslaughter offenders should get the death penalty because they kill people. If a surgeon made a fatal error during a procedure, the surgeon killed someone and the death penalty would apply. If a domestic violence victim kills his or her’s abuser, they should be sentenced with capital punishment.
State and Federal courts are so backlogged with cases now, can you imagine the log-jam when courts are tasked with redefining how capital punishment is applied?
It’s absurd.
And so is the notion of sentencing drug dealers with capital punishment.
More Americans died of drug overdoses in 2016 than died in the entirety of the Vietnam War—the result of the U.S.’s opioid epidemic, according to Vox.com. I do not profess to know the answer to the very complex and horrific opioid addiction epidemic, although I imagine that the answer lies somewhere within a partnership of physicians, rehabilitation programs vs. incarceration, Big Pharma, and every other stakeholder in this uphill battle.
But this I do know. Empty threats made by the President of the United States, made in public or on Twitter, made specifically for the purpose of attention-grabbing attempts to change the news cycle away from him and an adult film star, well...
...talk to your lawyers. Being his own counsel and firing everyone in his way worked so well for President Nixon. History will tell how well it works for you.
Sources:
Wikipedia List of United States Supreme Court decisions on capital punishment.
Death penalty offenses. ProCon.org.
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#InStarbucksWhileBlack
#InStarbucksWhileBlack
Enough.
Just enough.
Last week’s news of two African American men being arrested at a Philadelphia Starbucks for the heinous crime of waiting for friends is bringing race, bias, and #BlackLivesMatter to a sickening new low.
If you haven’t heard the story, this is what happened. A zealous Starbucks manager called Philadelphia police about two Black men waiting for friends at a Starbucks as she perceived them as a threat. One of the young men asked for the key code to the restroom and was told he had to purchase something first. Witnesses say other patrons were given the restroom code without making purchases.
Starbucks, which touts its coffee shop as a place for people to gather, had become an avatar for the Philadelphia area’s gentrification. Enough so that the two black men became victims of “out-of-place” policing, whereby people who don’t appear to fit into the area, were perceived by the Starbucks manager as a threat.
Six Philadelphia police officers responded to the call (overkill on the number of responders) and asked the two men to leave with no reason given. After three refusals, the men were handcuffed and arrested for trespassing. The two men were released nine hours (a full work day) later after the Philadelphia District Attorney’s Office decided they had not broken any laws.
I think I would have gone crazy sitting in a jail cell waiting for an outcome when I KNEW I hadn’t committed a crime. But here’s the rub. I ooze White Privilege looking at my appearance and this would NEVER have happened to me. I have no qualms that the restroom code would have been offered to me, without ordering first, and no questions asked.
It is beyond enough.
Starbucks CEO Kevin Johnson has ordered “unconscious bias,” whatever this means, training for store managers. Johnson has apologized for, in his words, reprehensible circumstances leading to the arrest.
But is this enough?
Racial profiling training has not made a dent in the systemic societal bias Americans cannot seem to overcome. Even after high profile cases of Trayvon Martin, Eric Harris, and Walter Scott, slayings of unarmed black men showcase a culture of police violence.
Clearly, racial profiling and bias are not only limited to local police departments. The Starbucks incident has magnified one of the inherent reasons that #BlackLivesMatter came into existence.
Race and bias training will not change the fact, as Americans, that we have chosen to discriminate against people who do not look like our vision of a homogeneous white society.
This same racial bias is not limited to African Americans. It’s shared among Muslim American, Mexican American, Native American, and an unconscionable number of other nonwhite communities.
Minority majority cities are on an upward trend, especially in urban areas. My prediction is that the tilting point for a decrease in racial discrimination will begin to occur as the White population becomes the minority. Well, indulge me in hoping that a day comes in the future, regardless of the reason, that mothers do not have to educate their minority children on blending in, and that a different set of rules applies to them with police interactions.
This will be enough.
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN FEMININECOLLECTIVE.COM
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ON MENTAL HEALTH AWARENESS MONTH
On Mental Health Awareness Month
Music sweet music,
I wish I could caress, caress, caress,
manic depression’s a frustrating mess.
—Jimi Hendrix, Manic Depression
Please allow me to introduce myself. I am not a serial killer. I have never been a character on Criminal Minds. All I really am is just a girl with a mood disorder. My diagnosis of bipolar disorder explained so much to me about my life. But it left me with even more questions. My friends read The New York Times bestsellers. I read The Bell Jar. Is everyone else light and only me dark?
Madness.
I live in The Very Dark Place, but my mask is firmly seated. I look just like you—but inside of my mind lives a girl trapped in a chaotic, maelstrom of mood. As a bipolar once said, I am not the girl in the attic. I am the attic. Only the most loyal of my friends have remained with me. I wonder why they stay. I do not even want to stay when my self-loathing overcomes me. My sudden spurts of creativity, where my painting and writing come brilliantly alive, have amazed many. But when the darkness consumes me again, nobody understands why I suddenly cannot paint or write and remain alone in my house for great periods of time. It is an endless cycle of mania to depression. Depression to mania.
Madness.
Using a pseudonym, as I sometimes do, is a scion of the mental illness stigma, especially the more maligned ones like bipolar disorder. Only a few trusted friends, immediate family and my confidential support group know that I am an unfortunate girl chained to chaotic moods. Colleagues never knew of it, nor do many of my wider circles of friends. I am sure that some suspect, or have even guessed, by my erratic and impulsive behavior. I am typically described as, “Quirky, with an edge.”
Madness.
What overwhelms me, and most of my bipolar comrades, are three facts.
This is an invisible illness. You can see cancer. You can see the ravaging effects of multiple sclerosis. You can see someone bleeding out onto the sidewalk. A mind, though? No, minds are ethereal and invisible. All you can hope to glimpse is the madness’ results; results that can be equally as devastating as any physical illness.
There is no cure. I will be tossed around this stormy sea for the rest of my life.
Through introspection, I am beginning to discover my limits and boundaries. I must constantly surround myself with what support I can manage. I seek psychiatrists who are able to keep me on an effective med buffet; I seek therapy and learn cognitive skills; and I seek support from my fellow bipolars. Eating well, exercise, and sleep are priorities.
Stability is not a right or guarantee. Through no fault of my own I occasionally find myself treading water in the Deep End of the Pool. As a survivor of past episodes, I know they will not last and eventually I’ll return to stability by summoning up my skills, reaching out for support, and with great fortitude I wait them out.
Perhaps one day I will completely out myself as bipolar. But not just yet. Until then, I hide behind my mask and pray no one sees the madness inside my mind.
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON FEMININECOLLECTIVE.COM
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DEAR HARVEY
Dear Harvey,
you weren’t the one
who wronged me.
The real life boss who stole
my self-worth,
my dignity,
and put strain on
my marriage
with your 2 am
oh-this-is-about-work
phone calls.
My stomach turns
that anyone would
ever think
I wanted your
attention,
or god forbid, that
it was consensual.
The worst
was the night you
called me a bitch
in front of your colleagues
at an out-of-town dinner.
My grimaced face
masked my horror
and embarrassment.
Calling at 2 am
(yet again, is this your magic hour?)
with a drunken apology
only disgusted me.
Later, I tried to get
the room’s phone records.
Just. In. Case.
Everyone saw how you were.
The board, your bosses,
did nothing but
stay complicit in
your harassment crime.
Yes, it was a crime.
Against the law.
Against all moral and ethics codes.
But given no intervention
you grew omnipotent
and feared no one.
Because yes, your behavior
was criminal
and you should have
done the time.
Let the world see
what a pathetic fool you are.
I wish I was the one
who took you down,
lord knows enough people
begged me.
But small towns
meant few jobs
and it was before
the enlightenment
when men like you
were tried and went to prison.
My silence
protected me.
Not you.
I had to survive.
I had to heal.
Somehow I believe
that you did pay.
I don’t know how or when
but the karma train
ran you down
kicking and screaming,
claiming your innocence.
As you
claimed my reputation.
So, Dear Harvey,
you weren’t the one
yet you are the one
who has become the
de facto poster boy
for the revolution
which gave strength
to all of us to speak out.
Finally.
Time’s up.
Tell the world.
Me, too.
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN FEMININECOLLECTIVE.COM
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You're a very tempting man
but I think I'm going to
turn you down this time.
You see my heart is
far away with someone
who doesn't
even know it's there.
I suppose that gives us
a commonality of sorts
two souls empty-handed
in things of love.
It would be so easy
to say yes
I understand
your compelling why not
argument completely.
But you are not me
the morning after
when my fingers
smell of you and
my heart aches for him.
It's just not worth
my time
my pretense
my disgust
my vow to say no next time.
You're a very tempting man
but I think I'm going to
turn you down this time.
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN SUDDEN DENOUEMENT
YOU’RE A VERY TEMPTING MAN
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Dear Steven,
I know I owe you some kind of response
but I have such a loss of words.
Yeah, me. Wordless.
I left our conversation without answering
because I was
just. so. blown. away.
And this is why.
You were a first love.
A part of me will always love you.
Yes, reconnecting has, well,
reminded me of, yeah,
our attraction, hah
a polite word.
We do have uninhibited in common
we were always so wild
it was easy to slide into
a virtual banter
of lovely inappropriate
teases
I did look
I really did
But in retrospect I think I saw
what I wanted to see.
You were not free
to talk nasty with me.
I swear I saw the word
divorce.
I swear I did.
And you know I am free.
You know that I dream
about you
You know that I want you.
If I was a different person
I would be on a plane
so fast
to fight for your heart.
But I am not that person
now.
Your heart sports a
no vacancy sign.
But I did look today.
Stalking your Facebook
for clues on what I
must have missed.
Yes.
In A Relationship.
I missed that. Maybe. Or ignored it.
It could have been a girlfriend. Maybe.
About.
A Hammer in bed?
Such hubris.
For the record, hammer is not capitalized.
Unless you are MC Hammer.
And you're not.
Most of all
I'm so deeply embarrassed that I nearly
Skype sexted with you.
Why?
Not because I'm shy, oh no.
I went first, as you recall.
It was the mortification when a few days later
you said two words that
stopped me cold.
That made me
angry
upset
guilty
and remembering too many things
I'd wanted never to think about.
Ever.
My wife.
What
the
fuck.
Your WIFE?
Of two husbands,
two cheated on me.
Yes, it's such a tawdry word.
But it is what it is.
Cheating.
Brought me to my knees
like an unexpected sucker punch
deep in my gut.
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KITTYGATE: A True Crime Story
THE CRIME
It all began on a warm autumn day. Summer stays around for a long time here in Arizona and it was over 90 degrees before noon that day.
That morning, to be precise.
I awaken slowly in the morning. I'd had a few cups of coffee, played on Twitter, and I really don't remember why I decided to walk outside of the back of my house where I have a small patio and a carport.
The patio is fenced in and I could see a plastic storage bin tipped on its side on the other side of my gate, with its top tightly in place. It was clear plastic with a white top. The type of container you might pack Christmas decorations in. I could see fabric, blankets, something that had fallen to the bottom when the bin was placed on its side.
“What the holy hell?"
I opened the gate, righted the tub, and pulled off the lid. What happened next sent me through so many emotions at one time that I decided I would first just scream and then sort things out afterward.
Inside the storage bin were 11 kittens. Later I would find out that they were two different litters. Seven two-week old and four four-week old kittens. The bin was swelteringly hot and the kittens were limp from the heat and no air. At this point I had stopped screaming and was now crying while hiccuping nonstop oh-my-Gods.
I knew, that if I had walked out my back door—perhaps five minutes later--this story would have a very different ending and I would never be telling you about it because I refuse to listen to or tell sad animal stories.
With all the commotion I was making, my across the alley neighbor, Gladys Kravitz, came running over to find out what was up for her bulletin reports to the neighborhood. Little did she know I was going to feed her enough info for a newsletter throughout the weekend.
As I mentioned, I was overcome with so many emotions. Fear, not understanding, confusion, maternal tugs, and looming above all others was a big grey cloud was an anger that stayed for days over this outrageous animal cruelty.
As I began to gather clues and witnesses for later reference for Kittygate, I noticed a note inside the bin which read:
"Dear friend,
Thank you so much for agreeing to take these kittens. We know you are the perfect person to take care of them."
Unsigned, of course.
THE SUSPECTS
Interestingly, my first suspect, Gladys Kravitz, who in addition to being the block gossip, is also known as The Cat Lady because she takes in the pregnant abandoned cats in our condos and finds homes for the kittens. A worthy deed. Indeed.
I knew.
I absolutely, unequivocally knew.
That the bin of kittens was accidentally left on my carport instead of Gladys's.
And so did she.
The proof was in her disappearing immediately. I could not believe it. All those litters she raised and no offer of help? My anger cloud grew, loomed and seethed. But I had no time to make a small doll and stick pins in it. I had 11 new children and not a clue of what to do with them.
There is also an older red-headed woman (a man I know says red hair is a sign from God) who is quite nosy, complains about the abandoned cats, and frequently walks by my house. Suspect number two.
THE CARE & FEEDING OF ROGUE KITTENS
I didn't know much about kittens but I did know they had to be in a safe, cool, place and must be fed. I make a 911 call to my sister-in-law, also a Cat Lady but much younger and nicer, to help me with these poor babies. She was over in 10 minutes. We corralled them in their first temporary home--a pillow fort in my bedroom. Cross that off your list as a good place for kittens. The older kittens immediately found delight in climbing over the pillow barriers and scampered all over the bedroom. Apparently the cooler air gave them a second wind. The smaller ones just piled on top of each other and slept.
My sister-in-law, who knows about all things feline, sent me off to a feed store for kitten formula and a stop by CVS, to get teeny plungers to feed them with. When I came home, my very wise sis-in-law had moved them to the bathtub where the porcelain walls made escape impossible. She asked if I had anything soft to put down on the bottom so I ran to raid my closet.
I returned with nearly all of my cashmere sweaters and scarves. I had just moved back to Arizona from California. A tank top and flip-flops are winter wear here. Sigh. I knew I'd never wear cashmere here. Might as well donate them to kittens in need.
As it turns out, kittens require nourishment every two hours. Thoughts of newborns did cross my mind. Especially thinking of waking every two hours and the idea of lack of sleep. Fortunately, my sister-in-law is a bonafide card-carrying Cat Lady. She not only feeds her own cats, but every stray within blocks of her home. She has a heart of gold and is one of my favorite relatives. Her daughter, Sara, is a Cat Lady-in-training, and was soon called in to action to join Kittygate. Between the three of us, we turned my bathroom into the perfect kitten feeding station.
YOU’RE ALL ON NOTICE AND I KNOW WHO YOU ARE
I took the note taped to the kitten’s bin and spewed venom all over a large note and pinned it to the back wall of my condo. Well, it might even qualify as a sign, I suppose. I accuse whoever left the kittens that they had left them at the wrong house, I was not their “friend,” and furthermore they nearly killed the kittens locked in an airless bin. Outraged I was. I wrote that I was going door to door (not really) to find the perpetrator.
ANIMAL CONTROL
This was a strange plot twist, but the next day Animal Control left an unsolicited note on my front door wanting details of Kittygate. Did I know that whoever left the kittens had committed the crime of animal cruelty? Hah. You bet I did. A copy of the Animal Control note was pinned to the ever expanding, okay it is a sign, on my back wall. Jail. I wanted jail time for these murderous fiends. I contacted Animal Control and told them what little information I knew. They even wanted the bin the kittens were left in, as well as the note. My kind of bureaucrats.
DAY THREE
By now, the four older kittens had figured out how to scale the Mt. Everest bathtub wall and were wandering around the toilet area. Kitty dorm had now became two separate areas. Which, in a way, was good because the older ones were now eating soft kitten food.
I have a cat, but have never had a kitten. I assumed they were born knowing how to use a cat box. Um, no. They were very adept at pooping next to the shoe box top litter boxes I made, but never quite hit the target.
It was time to find a place for the kittens to go—as much as I wanted 11 new pets. Of course, my sister-in-law had called every cat rescue in town. Cats are impossible to find homes for, and if you bring them to the city shelter…well, it's not good news.
THE HAPPILY EVER AFTER
BUT. Wonderful sis-in-law found a shelter in Phoenix that would take all 11 kittens if I would pay for foster families to care for them until they were six weeks old—an adoptable age. And the very best part, they were a no kill shelter.
So we bundled them up in cashmere-lined boxes and drove to Phoenix from where I live in suburban Mesa. Only when the intake person made up cards for each kitten did I truly believe there was really going to be a happily ever after for my precious kittens.
I made my final entry on the Kittygate sign and left it up for one more week before I took it down.
Total cost, kaching = $256.00 you heartless (x-rated words)
SOLVING THE CASE
A bright spot to come out of this whole debacle is that most of my neighbors are now afraid of me and no one talks to me. As I prefer. My brother Danny claims that everyone is afraid of me due to an incident with my mother's gardener. I rather like it this way. Fear me. Even Gladys Kravitz returned her spare key to my house. A guilt offering, no doubt.
I suppose I'll never find out who left the kittens at my door, upended my life for three days, and cost me the $256 I really didn't have to spare. But I can tell you this much…
My neighbors now all believe I'm BADASS.
_________________
This true story is dedicated to Allison Pecallier.
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WEST OF THE DEUCE
I saw you in the casino bar
looking so fine
in those skin tight 509s
and your Tony Lama boots
Oh you looked so good
I can't believe you walked over to me
The town was Show Low
named for a poker hand
way up in the White Mountains
of wild western Arizona
how very ironic
we met in a poker room
at the Dancing Eagle
I saw your hand
and knew
I wanted just you
You said,
come meet me
West of the Deuce
West of the Deuce of Clubs Boulevard
I can't believe I did
A night I won't soon forget
Cowboy,
I can't even remember your name
The next morning as
I made the walk of shame
past Tony's Guns and Ammo
and Lone Horse Bar & Grill
I left a little bit
of my heart right there
in your tight 509s
and Tony Lamas
just West of the Deuce.
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MONSOON SEASON: A Memoir
In Phoenix, it seems as if you can see forever on the desert floor without mountains to block the view. The flat geography provides a perfect vista to watch summer dust storms arrive. The storms arrive in a slow crawl, picking up momentum in a snail-like fashion. They appear to be a giant wave of dust slowly crashing onto the desert beach, darkening the skies by blocking the sun. It is a wondrous sight to see this giant tsunami make its way across the valley.
Dust storms are created during the humid monsoon season in July and August. They announce themselves with a spectacular show of lightning all over the valley accompanied by resounding thunder background music. Dust storms often bring rain to the parched desert. A strange dichotomy.
From a distance, the dust seems harmless, like a light brown dusting coming in to settle. In reality, the storm has the power to black out highways and cause car after car after car to crash while drivers blindly try to find the road's edge. The aftermath, if the storm is large, can bring power outages, topple trees, and fill iconic desert swimming pools with mounds of dirt at the bottom.
My fascination of the monsoon season came from my father. Nothing thrilled him more than a huge dust storm blowing in. I would either be dragged outside to watch it roll in, or in later years after I moved away, given full reports by phone.
“Oh, you missed a good one last night."
My father died 14 years ago on a hot summer night during monsoon season. When the hospice van came to pick him up from the hospital, he was lying on a stretcher too low to see out the windows. Just as the van pulled out of the hospital parking lot, we both heard the familiar thunder after a crack of lightning that lit the sky. Dust storm!
As we rode from Scottsdale to the Tempe hospice, I described every detail of what I saw to him. The blowing winds, the whirling dust, and where the lightning strikes were coming from. I was happy he could hear the magnificent cacophony of thunder that followed. We laughed at our good fortune over the timing of the storm.
My father didn't really understand where he was going and I had long ago said goodbye to the real man who meant everything to me. We were now going through the automatic motions of the business of death.
I remember my father during the monsoon season. On summer nights, I carry on our tradition of running out to catch a bit of the show and I think how fortunate I am to be the daughter of someone who never lost his childlike awe of the magic and wonder of nature.
“Dust storm!”
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COBRA
Crack.
Like a cobra she
rapid fire attacks.
Tongue flicking
never losing sight
of her victim.
No matter
the attack may not
be justified.
She stands by her own
moral code.
Leaving
mystified victims
paralyzed
by her venom.
And wondering why.
She crawls alone
back into
her den
wondering why
the loneliness
never leaves her.
But this is
the life she knows
the life she chose.
No room
for allies
only foes.
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