I have been meaning to write another entry for quite some time. My work schedule has been even more crazy that usual. Tonight finds me home alone. I've wrapped presents while watching "Elf", indulged in wine and pizza, and now have settled down with my thoughts. Since it's The End of the World as We Know it, it just so happens I have a childhood story for you.
Growing up I was surrounded by religion. My Grandmother was a devout Christian. I have memories upon memories of her singing hymns, reading the bible, and watching her write in her bible. I loved my Grandmother deeply. She was and is my musical inspiration. It is no surprise that I wanted to go to church with her. I remember her taking me to bible school as a small child, no more than four. We would sing and make crafts. I loved church. Grandma even gave me a pocket-sized Old Testament of my very own.
I learned to read at an early age and Grandma liked to read stories from the bible to me. My favorite was about Lazarus, because he was poor just like me. I can remember praying to God and thinking about Lazarus. And maybe if I prayed hard enough and if I was good enough he would help my mom and I too.
My Grandmother was a Baptist. I was "saved" at four years old. That's right. A four-year old little red haired girl walked up the aisle, kneeled at the alter, and asked Jesus into her heart. Do you know why? Because I was so scared that Jesus hated me and would send me to hell if I didn't.
Fast-forward a few years...
We had a Baptist church right around the corner from our trailer. My best-friend was a member of the church. I stopped going to church with Grandma and started going to church with my bestie. We were in a group called G.A.s. I know we went to church at least twice a week.
If my Grandma was a devout Christian, my friend and her family were on the path to sainthood. It was intense. I can remember being told that I was a horrible sinner and that if I didn't ask Jesus into my heart every Sunday I would go to hell.
Every Sunday a red-haired girl would walk up the aisle, kneel at the alter, and ask Jesus into her heart. Every. Sunday.
I thought I only had to do it once. That's what Grandma said but she was old, so I didn't question the ritual.
Fast Forward...
In my lifetime I have been a Baptist, a Presbyterian, a Methodist, Agnostic, and now a Buddhist.
In my life organized religion has only made me hate myself and fear that every decision, every action I performed was a sin...and even if I prayed for forgiveness, I would ultimately go to hell.
December 21st is suppose to be the end of the world. Do you know even though I have grown and logically told myself that this is a bunch of hoopla I'm still scared? I still see the pastor, the congregation, and my friends' eyes on me...telling me to walk to the alter to ask forgiveness of my sins. I'm afraid that even though I know in my heart of hearts I am a good person, it just won't be enough.
I know that I am good person and the feeling of being judged by "God" just isn't right. Everyone makes mistakes. Are mine really so horrible that I should die or have a horrible afterlife due to them?
This is what attracted to me to my current practice of Buddhism. When I chant I chant for my well-being and the well-being of others. There are no guilt feelings...no pain...no fear. I practice alone. There is no one telling me I am a horrible sinner. I just am. I am me. I have wants, desires, needs, and a will for the best of life. Not only that but I wish it for those around me.
If being myself and doing the good in my heart is not good enough for God, who is this God anyway? It's good enough for me. I'm so angry at times with all the guilt and fear that was instilled in myself by organized religion. It hurts. At times I just can't let it go.
I really believe the world would be a better place if people just kept religion to themselves. I don't care what you practice. I care if you are good, and kind, and fair.
Isn't that what is most important? Love? Acceptance?
And now do yourself a favor and listen to Imagine by John Lennon.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Who?
I remember when the first Nintendo came out.
Well...after just checking a few sources it says that the Nintendo came to the US in October of 1985. I was four. So maybe I remember when it became popular in my little corn country Ohio town.
My memory is at around the age of nine. Mario Brothers was THE game. Everyone was trying to save the Princess. My best friends family were first to get a console. I can remember playing for hours on end. Not just Mario. My favorite was some cave man game where you could throw people around be the hair. I also quite enjoyed beach volleyball but make no mistake, Mario was my ultimate favorite.
I wanted my own Nintendo so bad. I put a magic spell on my dad and did get one that Christmas. The only game I had was Mario but that was A OK with me! I still have never saved the Princess. I know, right? Never saving the Princess makes sense because I remember friends getting Mario 2...and then Super Nintendo and my favorite game of all time, Mario 3.
I loved being that damn flying raccoon.
Also Tetris and in my much older days, drunk Tetris. We still have a original Nintendo, jealous?
What prompted me to write about Nintendo is the current ideal that gamers are geeks. I keep seeing all of this Nintendo and gaming stuff on Pinterest in the Geek category. (Geek category is the first place a look thank you.)
How is it that back in the late 80s early 90s everyone was playing Mario and it was cool. Now it's a geek almost hipster thing? Please. It's not like you have to be smart to play video games. Or a geek. Or a dude. Or anything.
My husband and I were chatting in the living room yesterday and I was telling him about my endocrinologist appointment.
I guess in this blog post you get a glimpse of who I am now.
I have been waiting to go to this appointment for two months. That is how long it took to get in to see this guy. I have been dealing with trying to find the proper treatment of hashimotos thyroiditis. I was diagnosed in the fall of 2007. It's a constant battle and right now it seems that my hashi's may be switching to grave's disease. Case in point why I am now at a specialist.
I digress...
Back to the living room. I was telling the hubs how my appointment went. My doctor asked what I do for fun. I said yoga and "Oh! My husband and I are really into Doctor Who right now." Which gave him a good laugh for about a minute. I hope that meant he's a Whovian.
So Jon the husband gets all philosophical with me as I am sitting on the arm of the couch.
"...Being a fitness director and liking Doctor Who isn't a typical combination. People who are into sports are typically into nerdy things...P.T.I makes fun of Lord of the Rings...why can't I like sports and like Lord of the Rings?..."
Which brings me to the fact that I can't wrap around my head that gaming is a geek thing. And why can't I like sports too? Why does it have to be a nerdy thing to do to watch Doctor Who, Lord of the Rings, or the like? They are all quite fantastic.
It really bothers me that having a brain in this society makes you a geek. But being 16 and pregnant makes you a star on MTV. Our Nation really needs to get its priorities straight. In fact, I bet if more people did "nerdy" things, our society would reap the benefits because it actually makes you think. I guess that is...if you know how to think.
Well...after just checking a few sources it says that the Nintendo came to the US in October of 1985. I was four. So maybe I remember when it became popular in my little corn country Ohio town.
My memory is at around the age of nine. Mario Brothers was THE game. Everyone was trying to save the Princess. My best friends family were first to get a console. I can remember playing for hours on end. Not just Mario. My favorite was some cave man game where you could throw people around be the hair. I also quite enjoyed beach volleyball but make no mistake, Mario was my ultimate favorite.
I wanted my own Nintendo so bad. I put a magic spell on my dad and did get one that Christmas. The only game I had was Mario but that was A OK with me! I still have never saved the Princess. I know, right? Never saving the Princess makes sense because I remember friends getting Mario 2...and then Super Nintendo and my favorite game of all time, Mario 3.
I loved being that damn flying raccoon.
Also Tetris and in my much older days, drunk Tetris. We still have a original Nintendo, jealous?
What prompted me to write about Nintendo is the current ideal that gamers are geeks. I keep seeing all of this Nintendo and gaming stuff on Pinterest in the Geek category. (Geek category is the first place a look thank you.)
How is it that back in the late 80s early 90s everyone was playing Mario and it was cool. Now it's a geek almost hipster thing? Please. It's not like you have to be smart to play video games. Or a geek. Or a dude. Or anything.
My husband and I were chatting in the living room yesterday and I was telling him about my endocrinologist appointment.
I guess in this blog post you get a glimpse of who I am now.
I have been waiting to go to this appointment for two months. That is how long it took to get in to see this guy. I have been dealing with trying to find the proper treatment of hashimotos thyroiditis. I was diagnosed in the fall of 2007. It's a constant battle and right now it seems that my hashi's may be switching to grave's disease. Case in point why I am now at a specialist.
I digress...
Back to the living room. I was telling the hubs how my appointment went. My doctor asked what I do for fun. I said yoga and "Oh! My husband and I are really into Doctor Who right now." Which gave him a good laugh for about a minute. I hope that meant he's a Whovian.
So Jon the husband gets all philosophical with me as I am sitting on the arm of the couch.
"...Being a fitness director and liking Doctor Who isn't a typical combination. People who are into sports are typically into nerdy things...P.T.I makes fun of Lord of the Rings...why can't I like sports and like Lord of the Rings?..."
Which brings me to the fact that I can't wrap around my head that gaming is a geek thing. And why can't I like sports too? Why does it have to be a nerdy thing to do to watch Doctor Who, Lord of the Rings, or the like? They are all quite fantastic.
It really bothers me that having a brain in this society makes you a geek. But being 16 and pregnant makes you a star on MTV. Our Nation really needs to get its priorities straight. In fact, I bet if more people did "nerdy" things, our society would reap the benefits because it actually makes you think. I guess that is...if you know how to think.
Friday, July 20, 2012
It's Just a Number
I was eight years old the first time I thought I was fat. Third Grade.
In kindergarten I was voted the smallest kid in class. I seemed to always be one of the smallest kids in class. In third grade I did put on some weight to get ready for a growth spurt. Almost every kid goes through that stage. Kids are cruel. I was no longer the smallest kid in class. I was a fat kid.
I really wasn't fat. I was completely normal. How an eight year old gets the idea in their head that they are fat. I really can't tell you that. I just remember feeling bad about myself. Being ashamed of my body. Wanting to hide in the back of groups. The outgoing redheaded girl started to back far away from the limelight.
In fourth grade my body awareness grew. In fifth grade I hated my body. I hated gym class. I tried to stay home from school the day we had to get weighed in gym class. I was going through puberty. Of course I was going to start to grow hips and breasts. I hated it. I felt ugly. Fat. Unlovable. All the other girls were getting their first boyfriends. I didn't think a boy could even stand to look at me without being disgusted.
On to sixth grade and more of the same...although I did start trying to do more in gym. I was beginning to find out I was pretty coordinated. I even managed not to get picked last for teams during gym. I held secret crushes and cried myself to sleep wishing I was thin and popular.
In seventh grade I tried out for cheerleading and when I didn't make the squad I tried out for volleyball and basketball...I didn't make either team. For some reason that game me a lot of motivation. I practiced my cheering everyday, sometimes for hours.
In eight grade my dream of becoming a cheerleader came true. All my hard work paid off. I wasn't even the biggest girl on the team. I felt great...until basketball season. They didn't have a skirt that would fit me. I had to have mine made. I can't even tell you the hurt and the tears over a skirt. Why I couldn't have just really thought about it...every body is different. They just never had a cheerleader that was my size before. It wasn't a big deal. Nonetheless my pool self-esteem and self-image continued to drop lower and lower.
I went to High School and made the Frosh squad. Little chubby me...I really was the best jumper and cheerer on the squad. I had so much heart, dedication, and passion. I practiced outside of practice. I loved being a cheerleader and the slight confidence boost it gave me. Then the Varsity Homecoming game happened. (Which you can ready about in a previous post.)
The summer going into my Sophomore year I began to run. I would run/walk my way from our apartment to the Junior High where there was a gravel track. I would run lap after lap, not stopping until I could finally run an entire lap without stopping. I practiced my jumps every night. I purchased a MTV Grind dance video and would do the routines over and over.
I lost 40 pounds that summer. I was so proud of myself! I fit into a JV skirt! I was feeling so amazing...until school started. What I wanted more than anything in the world was for someone to say to me "you look, great, or WOW you've really lost a lot of weight." But no one said anything to me. So I thought I looked the exact same. So my exercise habit became an addiction. And I could never truly see myself in a mirror.
To this very day I think of myself as a fat, ugly girl. I place a lot of my self worth on my pants size. I struggle with my self worth due to the number I see on the scale. Everything I do in my job, helping people to lose weight an accept themselves, I can't do for myself. I constantly am reminding people to forget the scale, set goals that deal with accomplishments not associated with weight, and to remember that health and fitness is about having HEALTH not wearing a certain size. I BELIEVE every one of those words. I PREACH every one of the words to people. Yet I still cannot take my own advice. When I finish teaching a Zumba class, my number one thought is how I looked in the mirror. I beat myself up with thinking that my participants have to wonder why I'm so fat. To this very day, I can't eat anything without feeling some for of guilt, ugliness, or fatness.
Yes I've gone to therapy, yes being more positive and nicer to myself is something I work on every day. Some days are good, some are just ok, some are down right awful. Even though this is something I wish dearly I could change about myself, this is part of who I am. I believe it makes me more sensitive to others. I think it makes me a better fitness professional. It give me empathy and compassion. I have been super overweight. I have been so sickly thin. I do have a lovely curves and a few extra pounds. Even though I struggle with accepting my body, I can honestly tell you that where I am right now is the happiest I have been all my life. Why?
I have a husband that loves me unconditionally. I have parents that love me unconditionally. I have a job where every day I get to make a difference. I have great health. I can move and do anything I set my mind to. I have a home. I have the best pet in the world. I have supportive co-workers. I have chosen friends that bring me up instead of bringing me down. All of this has NOTHING to do with how much I weight or what size I wear. All of this has to do with LIFE. I am able to have a happy life because I have health. That is my message.
It will never be about the number of the scale. It will never be about the clothes you wear. It will always be about the life you make.
(***I would like to take a moment to say to all those girls that made fun of me during Junior High and High School, if you have children, I encourage you to make sure your kids do not repeat your same mistakes. Your comments and actions haunt me to this day. Even thought I can never forget, I forgive each of you and I truly hope that you are able to see how your actions effected other. I hope that you have the sight and self-examination to be sure your children rise above bullying.)
In kindergarten I was voted the smallest kid in class. I seemed to always be one of the smallest kids in class. In third grade I did put on some weight to get ready for a growth spurt. Almost every kid goes through that stage. Kids are cruel. I was no longer the smallest kid in class. I was a fat kid.
I really wasn't fat. I was completely normal. How an eight year old gets the idea in their head that they are fat. I really can't tell you that. I just remember feeling bad about myself. Being ashamed of my body. Wanting to hide in the back of groups. The outgoing redheaded girl started to back far away from the limelight.
In fourth grade my body awareness grew. In fifth grade I hated my body. I hated gym class. I tried to stay home from school the day we had to get weighed in gym class. I was going through puberty. Of course I was going to start to grow hips and breasts. I hated it. I felt ugly. Fat. Unlovable. All the other girls were getting their first boyfriends. I didn't think a boy could even stand to look at me without being disgusted.
On to sixth grade and more of the same...although I did start trying to do more in gym. I was beginning to find out I was pretty coordinated. I even managed not to get picked last for teams during gym. I held secret crushes and cried myself to sleep wishing I was thin and popular.
In seventh grade I tried out for cheerleading and when I didn't make the squad I tried out for volleyball and basketball...I didn't make either team. For some reason that game me a lot of motivation. I practiced my cheering everyday, sometimes for hours.
In eight grade my dream of becoming a cheerleader came true. All my hard work paid off. I wasn't even the biggest girl on the team. I felt great...until basketball season. They didn't have a skirt that would fit me. I had to have mine made. I can't even tell you the hurt and the tears over a skirt. Why I couldn't have just really thought about it...every body is different. They just never had a cheerleader that was my size before. It wasn't a big deal. Nonetheless my pool self-esteem and self-image continued to drop lower and lower.
I went to High School and made the Frosh squad. Little chubby me...I really was the best jumper and cheerer on the squad. I had so much heart, dedication, and passion. I practiced outside of practice. I loved being a cheerleader and the slight confidence boost it gave me. Then the Varsity Homecoming game happened. (Which you can ready about in a previous post.)
The summer going into my Sophomore year I began to run. I would run/walk my way from our apartment to the Junior High where there was a gravel track. I would run lap after lap, not stopping until I could finally run an entire lap without stopping. I practiced my jumps every night. I purchased a MTV Grind dance video and would do the routines over and over.
I lost 40 pounds that summer. I was so proud of myself! I fit into a JV skirt! I was feeling so amazing...until school started. What I wanted more than anything in the world was for someone to say to me "you look, great, or WOW you've really lost a lot of weight." But no one said anything to me. So I thought I looked the exact same. So my exercise habit became an addiction. And I could never truly see myself in a mirror.
To this very day I think of myself as a fat, ugly girl. I place a lot of my self worth on my pants size. I struggle with my self worth due to the number I see on the scale. Everything I do in my job, helping people to lose weight an accept themselves, I can't do for myself. I constantly am reminding people to forget the scale, set goals that deal with accomplishments not associated with weight, and to remember that health and fitness is about having HEALTH not wearing a certain size. I BELIEVE every one of those words. I PREACH every one of the words to people. Yet I still cannot take my own advice. When I finish teaching a Zumba class, my number one thought is how I looked in the mirror. I beat myself up with thinking that my participants have to wonder why I'm so fat. To this very day, I can't eat anything without feeling some for of guilt, ugliness, or fatness.
Yes I've gone to therapy, yes being more positive and nicer to myself is something I work on every day. Some days are good, some are just ok, some are down right awful. Even though this is something I wish dearly I could change about myself, this is part of who I am. I believe it makes me more sensitive to others. I think it makes me a better fitness professional. It give me empathy and compassion. I have been super overweight. I have been so sickly thin. I do have a lovely curves and a few extra pounds. Even though I struggle with accepting my body, I can honestly tell you that where I am right now is the happiest I have been all my life. Why?
I have a husband that loves me unconditionally. I have parents that love me unconditionally. I have a job where every day I get to make a difference. I have great health. I can move and do anything I set my mind to. I have a home. I have the best pet in the world. I have supportive co-workers. I have chosen friends that bring me up instead of bringing me down. All of this has NOTHING to do with how much I weight or what size I wear. All of this has to do with LIFE. I am able to have a happy life because I have health. That is my message.
It will never be about the number of the scale. It will never be about the clothes you wear. It will always be about the life you make.
(***I would like to take a moment to say to all those girls that made fun of me during Junior High and High School, if you have children, I encourage you to make sure your kids do not repeat your same mistakes. Your comments and actions haunt me to this day. Even thought I can never forget, I forgive each of you and I truly hope that you are able to see how your actions effected other. I hope that you have the sight and self-examination to be sure your children rise above bullying.)
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Hoopty-Hoo
The Ford Pinto. That is the car I can remember Mom and I having growing up. When the Pinto died we had a nice long stretch with no car. But the Pinto is the car I associate with my childhood.
I'm not sure what year it was. It was a lovely shade of faded red. It founded my love of the hatchback. It was a stick shift. And I thought it was the best car ever. I dreamed of the day I would drive it.
I can remember my Mom having many a car issue with the Pinto. One winter it was so cold it wouldn't start regularly, so my Dad put a boat battery in it. Needless to say, we never had a starting issue with it after the upgrade. (Which I still wonder, was that even safe? Good thing we never blew up.) Oh yeah...also the muffler fell off. It had a boat battery. Every start sounded like we were blasting off.
With everything else my Mom and I had, the Pinto was not in the best shape. The floor boards had rusted through holes, and I do not know the story, but for some reason the trunk had maggots.
I guess there are people that forget they should try not to hit another car, even if it is a hoopty. Why should someone with a raggedy-ass car care if it gets another ding. Because people with an old beat up car can totally afford a new one, right? So don't try to avoid it, just go ahead and smash right into it. Monster Truck Mash it up, brother! Yep, that happened to our little Red Pinto. One day a person decided to back into it, leave a giant dent, and drive away. Adding to it's oh so evident charm. Damn thing was a tank. Even though the dent was very close to the gas cap, it didn't miss a beat.
I don't remember what exactly the cause of death of the Red Pinto, I do know I was sad to see it go. Mom let me shift for her. I helped drive and I thought that kicked ass. Moreover, the end of the Red Pinto meant no car for mom and I for a long time.
We had two other hoopties after the Red Pinto. A Pontiac of some sort that I can't really remember (aka it didn't last long) and then the Blue Ford Escort with a Red Door. A Red Door that we try to spray paint blue...yeah...I'll just let your imagination go wild with that one. The Escort came to us during my Junior High years and I was so embarrassed that we had a blue car with one red door. It was like the Scarlet Poor Door.
You probably are thinking Brandi has pulled herself up from poverty, she probably has a Cadillac now. Nope. I have a 1999 Pontiac with almost 170,000 miles, no air conditioning, two+ dents, and lots of rust. I still have a hoopty. The time for a better car is drawing near and I'm not sure how I will react or feel! A nice car? What's that? Getting a new car every 4 years? What? I've had my beloved Snow Bitch for ten years.
Morale of the story? Be nice to hoopties, someone loves and needs them.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Glenda the Good Witch
I am going to tell you a little secret about me. I am deathly afraid of thunderstorms. I have been since I was a wee lass. Because let me tell you, you have never truly experienced the horror of a big thunderstorm until you have done so in a trailer.
There was an entire summer growing up that ruined me from ever enjoying a storm, as I know some people do; and that I cannot fathom. It was a drought summer and I am not kidding when I say it stormed every day. Every. Day. The days were filled of hellish hot and the afternoons/evening with fearing for my life during the storms.
A thunderstorm in a trailer is way more of an experience than virtual reality. When you're in a nice house sure it's loud and you can hear the rain BUT you house isn't swaying. In a trailer, you know only hear the power of a storm, you feel it.
My mom and I would sit together, huddle up, crying and praying during many a storm. I cried A LOT that summer thinking my mom and I were going to die. That we two and the trailer were going up in the air Oz style.
It's not something I like to remember and I certainly feel blessed that I own a brick house. However the past few days have brought some big storms to Ohio and I find myself think about how a trailer sways in the wind like a boat does on the sea during a storm.
This is also the particular summer that I became addicted to The Weather Channel. I would watch and watch just waiting for a storm to be approaching so I could freak the fuck out even more. It's a wonder I didn't give myself an ulcer. (How did we have the weather channel? My sister Stephanie lived in our neighborhood during this summer, in a trailer, BUT with cable. Score.) (Another note, she also had found this grey kitten and fed it butter. It's belly dragged on the floor when it walked. That cat was cute as shit.)
There are three things key things that happened this summer (not to mention the hundred storms that went with it) that sealed the deal for me when it comes to thunderstorms=death:
1. During one storm the tornado sirens went off. My mom and I had to go and take cover in a ditch. Try and beat that on the I think I am going to die scale meter.
2. During another storm some of our neighbor friends, my mom, and I went to someone's house with a basement. I saw a tree get uprooted and land on a house and I saw more trees than I ever care to see again that were bent sideways from the wind. It looked like Armageddon to a young kid.
3. During yet another storm, my mom and I were with her friend Judy. We were on a country road and a storm just came out of nowhere. I shit you not, a TORNADO was heading towards us, picked UP the car OFF THE GROUND, and miraculously sat it down so we could pull into a driveway, beat on their door, and scramble inside. The tornado was coming RIGHT TOWARDS the house and they were all watching it out the patio door as they had no basement; I was in the bathroom. 100 feet before it came it the house, it went back into the sky. Shit your pants? So did I.
Coming from a place where I KNOW a storm can kill you, I don't understand why people do not take them into account. Most of the time people treat storms as if they are no big deal, which yes, they often tend to be. But that one time that it IS a big deal...
I am the person that wants to take cover when there is a thunderstorm warning because I don't like to mess around with storms. I think that is why too many people die from storms, they don't take them seriously. I would just like to make PA:
If it is storming do not go outside. Do not go to the store or another destination. Do not call places and see if they are open. Stay home. Take cover. Be safe.
There was an entire summer growing up that ruined me from ever enjoying a storm, as I know some people do; and that I cannot fathom. It was a drought summer and I am not kidding when I say it stormed every day. Every. Day. The days were filled of hellish hot and the afternoons/evening with fearing for my life during the storms.
A thunderstorm in a trailer is way more of an experience than virtual reality. When you're in a nice house sure it's loud and you can hear the rain BUT you house isn't swaying. In a trailer, you know only hear the power of a storm, you feel it.
My mom and I would sit together, huddle up, crying and praying during many a storm. I cried A LOT that summer thinking my mom and I were going to die. That we two and the trailer were going up in the air Oz style.
It's not something I like to remember and I certainly feel blessed that I own a brick house. However the past few days have brought some big storms to Ohio and I find myself think about how a trailer sways in the wind like a boat does on the sea during a storm.
This is also the particular summer that I became addicted to The Weather Channel. I would watch and watch just waiting for a storm to be approaching so I could freak the fuck out even more. It's a wonder I didn't give myself an ulcer. (How did we have the weather channel? My sister Stephanie lived in our neighborhood during this summer, in a trailer, BUT with cable. Score.) (Another note, she also had found this grey kitten and fed it butter. It's belly dragged on the floor when it walked. That cat was cute as shit.)
There are three things key things that happened this summer (not to mention the hundred storms that went with it) that sealed the deal for me when it comes to thunderstorms=death:
1. During one storm the tornado sirens went off. My mom and I had to go and take cover in a ditch. Try and beat that on the I think I am going to die scale meter.
2. During another storm some of our neighbor friends, my mom, and I went to someone's house with a basement. I saw a tree get uprooted and land on a house and I saw more trees than I ever care to see again that were bent sideways from the wind. It looked like Armageddon to a young kid.
3. During yet another storm, my mom and I were with her friend Judy. We were on a country road and a storm just came out of nowhere. I shit you not, a TORNADO was heading towards us, picked UP the car OFF THE GROUND, and miraculously sat it down so we could pull into a driveway, beat on their door, and scramble inside. The tornado was coming RIGHT TOWARDS the house and they were all watching it out the patio door as they had no basement; I was in the bathroom. 100 feet before it came it the house, it went back into the sky. Shit your pants? So did I.
Coming from a place where I KNOW a storm can kill you, I don't understand why people do not take them into account. Most of the time people treat storms as if they are no big deal, which yes, they often tend to be. But that one time that it IS a big deal...
I am the person that wants to take cover when there is a thunderstorm warning because I don't like to mess around with storms. I think that is why too many people die from storms, they don't take them seriously. I would just like to make PA:
If it is storming do not go outside. Do not go to the store or another destination. Do not call places and see if they are open. Stay home. Take cover. Be safe.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Creative Cat
When it gets really hot outside I often think of the trailer days. It's going to be a high of 103 today. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to be inside at work in air conditioning and will go home to a delightfully cool house. However I spent my childhood with fans, cold showers, and ice water.
Growing up in a hot trailer made me a night person. At night I could be play and not feel like I was going to die or be blinded from sweat in my eyes. Of course being up at night meant that my mom let me watch late night TV with her.
I will always remember the night we watched Cat's Eye. It was hot, of course. The fan was blowing the curtains with hot air. How hot air can feel good, I don't know, but it did. We had a velvet paisley couch to make matters worse. For more than one reason. Our TV was a 19' black and white, complete with antennas wrapped in foil. Surprisingly, foil really does help picture clarity.
But I digress.
It was a hot summer night. No school in the morning of course. Here I am with my mom watching a tiny, ugly, troll monster climb up a blanket, crawl up this little girls body to steal her breath, and kill her. Thank God for the black cat that saved her life! (Must of also been the night I feel in love with cats). With that really being all I can remember from the movie, that was also the night that I became extremely scared of the dark.
From that moment on I was convinced that tiny, ugly troll monster was going to come into my bedroom, climb up my blanket, and kill me. But I had a plan. Of yes. Tiny, ugly troll monster could not climb and kill me if he couldn't get a hold of my blanket. So I tucked my blankets under me as tight as they would go and I would sleep with the blanket over my heat. That is the only way you are totally safe. When you live in a trailer that is 90 degrees at night...sleeping with a blanket over your head takes dedication. Stupid movie.
Another movie my mom let me watch; which let me take a moment and say my mom did not do anything wrong by letting me watch this stuff; was Child's Play.
Mother of Zeus Chucky is one scary doll. AND not to mention he has red hair which really pissed me off. Just in case you we not aware, not all redheaded children are the devil. For example, I was only Satan's spawn through my fourth year.
So yes, I watched Child's Play and promptly decided to get rid of all my dolls because DUH they were going to come to live when I fell asleep and kill me. I already had my blanket disguise for tiny, ugly troll monster but my dolls were different. They could use a knife or something.
So I put all my dolls in a trash bag. I would totally know if they tried to escape because I would see the holes. Oh yeah. And then I put the trash bag in the mushroom room.
The mushroom room was the bedroom next to mine that somehow got really wet, not to mention mildew, and mushrooms started to grow. I shit you not. Real, normally grows in the forest, mushrooms. Not only was it the mushroom, stinky room, it was also the junk room. Take that evil dolls.
I will have to say, I threw away some really cool dolls I wish I had to this day. Well...I take that back. They could still come alive and kill me.
One thing I will be forever grateful for growing up in a trailer park is my wildly awesome imagination.
Growing up in a hot trailer made me a night person. At night I could be play and not feel like I was going to die or be blinded from sweat in my eyes. Of course being up at night meant that my mom let me watch late night TV with her.
I will always remember the night we watched Cat's Eye. It was hot, of course. The fan was blowing the curtains with hot air. How hot air can feel good, I don't know, but it did. We had a velvet paisley couch to make matters worse. For more than one reason. Our TV was a 19' black and white, complete with antennas wrapped in foil. Surprisingly, foil really does help picture clarity.
But I digress.
It was a hot summer night. No school in the morning of course. Here I am with my mom watching a tiny, ugly, troll monster climb up a blanket, crawl up this little girls body to steal her breath, and kill her. Thank God for the black cat that saved her life! (Must of also been the night I feel in love with cats). With that really being all I can remember from the movie, that was also the night that I became extremely scared of the dark.
From that moment on I was convinced that tiny, ugly troll monster was going to come into my bedroom, climb up my blanket, and kill me. But I had a plan. Of yes. Tiny, ugly troll monster could not climb and kill me if he couldn't get a hold of my blanket. So I tucked my blankets under me as tight as they would go and I would sleep with the blanket over my heat. That is the only way you are totally safe. When you live in a trailer that is 90 degrees at night...sleeping with a blanket over your head takes dedication. Stupid movie.
Another movie my mom let me watch; which let me take a moment and say my mom did not do anything wrong by letting me watch this stuff; was Child's Play.
Mother of Zeus Chucky is one scary doll. AND not to mention he has red hair which really pissed me off. Just in case you we not aware, not all redheaded children are the devil. For example, I was only Satan's spawn through my fourth year.
So yes, I watched Child's Play and promptly decided to get rid of all my dolls because DUH they were going to come to live when I fell asleep and kill me. I already had my blanket disguise for tiny, ugly troll monster but my dolls were different. They could use a knife or something.
So I put all my dolls in a trash bag. I would totally know if they tried to escape because I would see the holes. Oh yeah. And then I put the trash bag in the mushroom room.
The mushroom room was the bedroom next to mine that somehow got really wet, not to mention mildew, and mushrooms started to grow. I shit you not. Real, normally grows in the forest, mushrooms. Not only was it the mushroom, stinky room, it was also the junk room. Take that evil dolls.
I will have to say, I threw away some really cool dolls I wish I had to this day. Well...I take that back. They could still come alive and kill me.
One thing I will be forever grateful for growing up in a trailer park is my wildly awesome imagination.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
A Vicious Cycle
When I was in graduate school I was able to take a family food and nutrition class. In that class I was finally able to put a name to something that my mom and I struggled with while I was growing up, food security.
Having food security means that you have food available, food access, and food use. Food availability is having enough food. Food access is having resources, both economic and physical, to obtain appropriate foods for a nutritious diet. Food use is the appropriate use based on knowledge of basic nutrition and care, as well as adequate water and sanitation.
Food security can further be defined for a household. A household has food security when all members at all times to enough food for an active, healthy life. Food security also includes the availability of nutritionally adequate and safe foods as well as being able to receive food from socially acceptable ways; that is without resorting to emergency food supplies, scavenging, stealing, or other coping strategies.
When I think back to the days when it was just Mom and I, I am positive we did not have food security. There were times all we had left to eat were a few cans of vegetables and powdered milk. I know my mom would go hungry so I could eat all the time. There was more often than not, no way to get to the store besides the long walk. In terms of nutrition it's hard to explain...
I have always been a fruit and vegetable lover. My mom as well. It's not that we never had fruits or vegetables, we did, but they were always canned; because that is what we could afford. Canned vegetables aren't too bad for you but canned fruit in sugar syrup? Yeah...Not to mention when all you have had to eat for a week is canned peas the first item on the grocery list is not usually canned peas.
Since Mom and I never had enough money, not even enough money to eat, when we did have money or food stamps we got a lot of food.
A trip to the grocery store the first of the month my mom loaded our cart. I can remember being so excited to be at the store and my mom let me put in the cart whatever I wanted...which was, come on, junk food. When we had extra money we always went to McDonald's and so our food insecurity turned food into a reward.
My relationship with food has never been normal. I grew up a trailer park kid who's refrigerator was never really full. I grew up with binging on delicious food because I didn't know when I would eat so well again. I grew up going to bed hungry at times because there was nothing to eat. Is it really any surprise that I would eventually develop an eating disorder?
When I look at pictures of myself from childhood I looked like a normal kid. Yet I started to believe I was fat in the third grade. Due to food insecurity and nutritionally availability I was a few pounds overweight but never anything I saw in my mind. My ED started to manifest my freshman year of High School.
Due to hard work, I was a slightly chubby cheerleader and let me tell you, this girl can jump. My skinny friends on the team could barely get off the ground while my toe touches were a source of pride. It happened when I was cheering with all the other cheerleaders at Varsity Homecoming. A group of boys in the crowd started cheering to me "You're Fat *clap clap*, Lose Weight." I plastered on a smile and did the best damn toe touch I could muster. A tiny blip of pride was deep in my heart when they all then said "Wow! You're really good!" But it was too late. The damage was done.
I was 14. I was 14 and I began to develop an overexercise addiction. I began to run everyday. Sometimes twice a day. In the summer if I overate, I made myself throw up. I lost about 40lbs that summer. I was wearing a size 10. I was so proud! If only anyone had noticed...no one said to me great job, or you look great! So I thought I must still be fat...and my downward spiral began.
Now I can look back and connect my food insecurity as a young girl with my eating disorder as a teen. The drive to prove that I just wasn't a trailer park kid but a smart and successful kid became the drive to compulsively exercise and binge and purge. My hate for normal people became the burn in my stomach when I starved myself.
I would never wish for anyone to feel about food the way that I still do. Food at times is still a reward, a source of guilt, a pleasure, a punishment...
Is there really any reason for any child to grow up without adequate food? Is it really so bad that some of our tax dollars go towards allowing a child to be able to have food? Is it fair that there are still millions of children that have never had food security a day in their life? Is it right for society to convince children they are fat?
Sometimes, I really hate the world we live in.
Having food security means that you have food available, food access, and food use. Food availability is having enough food. Food access is having resources, both economic and physical, to obtain appropriate foods for a nutritious diet. Food use is the appropriate use based on knowledge of basic nutrition and care, as well as adequate water and sanitation.
Food security can further be defined for a household. A household has food security when all members at all times to enough food for an active, healthy life. Food security also includes the availability of nutritionally adequate and safe foods as well as being able to receive food from socially acceptable ways; that is without resorting to emergency food supplies, scavenging, stealing, or other coping strategies.
When I think back to the days when it was just Mom and I, I am positive we did not have food security. There were times all we had left to eat were a few cans of vegetables and powdered milk. I know my mom would go hungry so I could eat all the time. There was more often than not, no way to get to the store besides the long walk. In terms of nutrition it's hard to explain...
I have always been a fruit and vegetable lover. My mom as well. It's not that we never had fruits or vegetables, we did, but they were always canned; because that is what we could afford. Canned vegetables aren't too bad for you but canned fruit in sugar syrup? Yeah...Not to mention when all you have had to eat for a week is canned peas the first item on the grocery list is not usually canned peas.
Since Mom and I never had enough money, not even enough money to eat, when we did have money or food stamps we got a lot of food.
A trip to the grocery store the first of the month my mom loaded our cart. I can remember being so excited to be at the store and my mom let me put in the cart whatever I wanted...which was, come on, junk food. When we had extra money we always went to McDonald's and so our food insecurity turned food into a reward.
My relationship with food has never been normal. I grew up a trailer park kid who's refrigerator was never really full. I grew up with binging on delicious food because I didn't know when I would eat so well again. I grew up going to bed hungry at times because there was nothing to eat. Is it really any surprise that I would eventually develop an eating disorder?
When I look at pictures of myself from childhood I looked like a normal kid. Yet I started to believe I was fat in the third grade. Due to food insecurity and nutritionally availability I was a few pounds overweight but never anything I saw in my mind. My ED started to manifest my freshman year of High School.
Due to hard work, I was a slightly chubby cheerleader and let me tell you, this girl can jump. My skinny friends on the team could barely get off the ground while my toe touches were a source of pride. It happened when I was cheering with all the other cheerleaders at Varsity Homecoming. A group of boys in the crowd started cheering to me "You're Fat *clap clap*, Lose Weight." I plastered on a smile and did the best damn toe touch I could muster. A tiny blip of pride was deep in my heart when they all then said "Wow! You're really good!" But it was too late. The damage was done.
I was 14. I was 14 and I began to develop an overexercise addiction. I began to run everyday. Sometimes twice a day. In the summer if I overate, I made myself throw up. I lost about 40lbs that summer. I was wearing a size 10. I was so proud! If only anyone had noticed...no one said to me great job, or you look great! So I thought I must still be fat...and my downward spiral began.
Now I can look back and connect my food insecurity as a young girl with my eating disorder as a teen. The drive to prove that I just wasn't a trailer park kid but a smart and successful kid became the drive to compulsively exercise and binge and purge. My hate for normal people became the burn in my stomach when I starved myself.
I would never wish for anyone to feel about food the way that I still do. Food at times is still a reward, a source of guilt, a pleasure, a punishment...
Is there really any reason for any child to grow up without adequate food? Is it really so bad that some of our tax dollars go towards allowing a child to be able to have food? Is it fair that there are still millions of children that have never had food security a day in their life? Is it right for society to convince children they are fat?
Sometimes, I really hate the world we live in.
Monday, June 18, 2012
The Other Redhead
When you grow up in a trailer park and are surrounded by poverty there are certain things you are exposed to at a young age. Many of the things I have seen at an early age many people will never experience, let alone believe actually exist. The one thing I have plenty of experience with, that is a blessing and a curse, is addiction.
Addiction is serious. It's not just something people can turn off or stop doing with a snap of their fingers. Addiction is everywhere. Not only did I see it in my playmates parents, I saw the evidence of the bruises on my playmates arms. I saw it in their eyes when they asked for food. I heard it in their voice when they never wanted to go home. Not only did I see it in other families, I saw it happen in my own.
When my Dad married for the first time he had my brother Chuck and sisters Jodi and Stephanie with his wife. My Dad's first wife killed herself and my siblings found her. I have always thought this is why all three of these sibling began to deal with drug and addictions issues. Ever since I can remember I have know what drugs are and what they do to people.
My sister Jodi was the worst off. I cannot remember a time where she was sober. I never understood why. She was so beautiful. When I see old pictures, I favor her, but she had the skinny Wyant body that unfortunately passed me by.
I remember my mom wanting to go and visit Jodi. (Even though she and my Dad were long divorced, she was very bonded to Chuck, Jodi, and Steph.) There were times no one knew where Jodi was. I suspect due to being involved with drugs she had to move a lot. She never had any money. Her children were taken from her...yet it always seemed to me that my parents and sibling supported her. They always wanted to find her, give her money, try to get her to stop. That is something I will always struggle with. My family watched her snort her life up her nose. Why didn't they take a tougher approach? Did she ever go to rehab (not to my knowledge)? Because what ended up happening is this: my stepmother found her dead in her apartment.
My entire life I knew that Jodi did drugs. I knew she was an addict. My family did not tiptoe around it; my mom knew I was aware of what was really happening. You know what, I am glad they didn't sugar-coat it because I have never in my life wanted to try drugs. It hurts to know that due to addiction my Dad lost a daughter, my siblings a sister, her children their mother.
I have two nieces that I have never met somewhere in this world. Addiction took them apart. Addiction took their mother.
There are people in this world that do not understand what addiction means. They think that the people who deal with drugs and alcohol are faking and are weak. Maybe that's even harder to understand. I can't be mad at my family for trying so hard with Jodi, can I? I do find it hard not to be mad at Jodi. She had people begging to help her and she constantly threw it away.
I think the reason why I have never in my life wanted to experience drugs is because from an early age I saw it around me and in my family to know what happens with addiction. I never had to wonder what would happen if I tried drugs because I knew. I knew that I didn't want to be starving. I knew that I didn't want to move from town to town. I knew I didn't want to be beaten. I knew that I didn't want die.
I wish Jodi was still here so she could tell her story.
Addiction is serious. It's not just something people can turn off or stop doing with a snap of their fingers. Addiction is everywhere. Not only did I see it in my playmates parents, I saw the evidence of the bruises on my playmates arms. I saw it in their eyes when they asked for food. I heard it in their voice when they never wanted to go home. Not only did I see it in other families, I saw it happen in my own.
When my Dad married for the first time he had my brother Chuck and sisters Jodi and Stephanie with his wife. My Dad's first wife killed herself and my siblings found her. I have always thought this is why all three of these sibling began to deal with drug and addictions issues. Ever since I can remember I have know what drugs are and what they do to people.
My sister Jodi was the worst off. I cannot remember a time where she was sober. I never understood why. She was so beautiful. When I see old pictures, I favor her, but she had the skinny Wyant body that unfortunately passed me by.
I remember my mom wanting to go and visit Jodi. (Even though she and my Dad were long divorced, she was very bonded to Chuck, Jodi, and Steph.) There were times no one knew where Jodi was. I suspect due to being involved with drugs she had to move a lot. She never had any money. Her children were taken from her...yet it always seemed to me that my parents and sibling supported her. They always wanted to find her, give her money, try to get her to stop. That is something I will always struggle with. My family watched her snort her life up her nose. Why didn't they take a tougher approach? Did she ever go to rehab (not to my knowledge)? Because what ended up happening is this: my stepmother found her dead in her apartment.
My entire life I knew that Jodi did drugs. I knew she was an addict. My family did not tiptoe around it; my mom knew I was aware of what was really happening. You know what, I am glad they didn't sugar-coat it because I have never in my life wanted to try drugs. It hurts to know that due to addiction my Dad lost a daughter, my siblings a sister, her children their mother.
I have two nieces that I have never met somewhere in this world. Addiction took them apart. Addiction took their mother.
There are people in this world that do not understand what addiction means. They think that the people who deal with drugs and alcohol are faking and are weak. Maybe that's even harder to understand. I can't be mad at my family for trying so hard with Jodi, can I? I do find it hard not to be mad at Jodi. She had people begging to help her and she constantly threw it away.
I think the reason why I have never in my life wanted to experience drugs is because from an early age I saw it around me and in my family to know what happens with addiction. I never had to wonder what would happen if I tried drugs because I knew. I knew that I didn't want to be starving. I knew that I didn't want to move from town to town. I knew I didn't want to be beaten. I knew that I didn't want die.
I wish Jodi was still here so she could tell her story.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Cook Your Rat and Eat It Too
There are two very important life lessons I learned early on from growing up in a trailer park. The importance of loyalty and true friendship.
Most of the time, if you live in a trailer park, you are going through similar situations as your neighbors. Usually the parents are overworked and the kids are left to fend for themselves. What that usually means is that the kids in the trailer park create a bond like no other bond. It's a bond of understanding. It's a bond of loyalty. And even if are not truly "friends" with everyone, there is a bond of friendship.
I can tell you this. Trailer park kids know how to have fun.
I believe my imagination and creative side came from being a trailer park kid. We were always inventing new games to play...even if we didn't exactly have the right equipment.
One thing that we did everyday was ride bikes. I didn't have a bike to join in for a long time until my grandparents gave me one for a birthday. I'll never forget that bike because I hated it. It was a white and yellow huffy with a big yellow banana seat. How dare I have a banana seat bike and not a coveted 10-speed. I looked like I was riding a banana! But a bike is a bike...so I rode it all the same. (I must admit, I wish I still had that bike.)
I'll never forget my best friend Misty and I loved playing with our dolls (we pretended they were cabbage patches). One summer day we decided we wanted to take our dolls for a bike ride. So we did.
We took a laundry basket from my house, her brother's skateboard, and tied them together using a jump rope. We then used another jump rope to attach the skateboard to one of our bikes. In went a blanket. In went the dolls and we were off. When I look back on that memory, how happy, carefree, and proud we were of our invention...how we pulled those dolls taking turns with our bikes until the sun went down...I have to wonder...would we have done that if our situations were different? What if we had a wagon? What if we lived in a real neighborhood? I still feel like we were the only two kids to ever figure out such a contraption.
If you have ever been to a trailer park, you have probably seen some crazy unsafe things just hanging around. At ours we had an big empty metal tank. I just did a Google search and I cannot find what in the world this thing was...which tells me us playing on it was probably really dumb. But man was it fun.
It was pretty high off the ground from my memory. We would climb up, sit, and it became our very own imagination station. We loved the sound it made when we would clang our feet against the metal. It did kind of smell like gas come to think of it...I'm glad we didn't turn into a real rocket ship.
During the days of bike rides and climbing on the imagination station when the sun would start to go down, were weren't done playing. I remember me, Misty, her little brother, and other trailer park kids sitting around in a circle on the grass. I can still feel the soft grass. It was longer than most grass; it was like sitting on a pillow. We would sit there and sing. One of our favorites was "God Bless the U.S.A." by Lee Greenwood. I remember feeling proud and free during those days on the grass in between our trailers. I don't think I have felt that sense of pride and unity sense. That something special that we all shared living in the trailer park.
I have one more story for today that involves my friends Caren and Nick when I would go to her trailer park.
Her trailer park was much bigger than mine. They had a big field with a pond, a "forest", and blackberry trees. Caren, Nick, and I would adventure in the forest for hours and end our quest by picking and eating the blackberries. I have never had a berry so sweet and juicy in my life. We would head back to Caren's house with dirty feet, grass-stained knees, and berry stained lips and fingers. Caren's mom was like my mom. She was very cool. We didn't get in trouble for coming home dirty. We just had to wash-up for dinner.
Caren's mom was a good cook. I think I had Chinese food with them for the very first time. Caren was always a joker and she told me the chicken was rat. She was my best friend, of course I believe her. I was horrified. But the joke was on me. Before you knew it there was laughter and trailer full of kids singing about eating rat. Kenny, Barb, Caren, and me...life really couldn't have been any better.
Most of the time, if you live in a trailer park, you are going through similar situations as your neighbors. Usually the parents are overworked and the kids are left to fend for themselves. What that usually means is that the kids in the trailer park create a bond like no other bond. It's a bond of understanding. It's a bond of loyalty. And even if are not truly "friends" with everyone, there is a bond of friendship.
I can tell you this. Trailer park kids know how to have fun.
I believe my imagination and creative side came from being a trailer park kid. We were always inventing new games to play...even if we didn't exactly have the right equipment.
One thing that we did everyday was ride bikes. I didn't have a bike to join in for a long time until my grandparents gave me one for a birthday. I'll never forget that bike because I hated it. It was a white and yellow huffy with a big yellow banana seat. How dare I have a banana seat bike and not a coveted 10-speed. I looked like I was riding a banana! But a bike is a bike...so I rode it all the same. (I must admit, I wish I still had that bike.)
I'll never forget my best friend Misty and I loved playing with our dolls (we pretended they were cabbage patches). One summer day we decided we wanted to take our dolls for a bike ride. So we did.
We took a laundry basket from my house, her brother's skateboard, and tied them together using a jump rope. We then used another jump rope to attach the skateboard to one of our bikes. In went a blanket. In went the dolls and we were off. When I look back on that memory, how happy, carefree, and proud we were of our invention...how we pulled those dolls taking turns with our bikes until the sun went down...I have to wonder...would we have done that if our situations were different? What if we had a wagon? What if we lived in a real neighborhood? I still feel like we were the only two kids to ever figure out such a contraption.
If you have ever been to a trailer park, you have probably seen some crazy unsafe things just hanging around. At ours we had an big empty metal tank. I just did a Google search and I cannot find what in the world this thing was...which tells me us playing on it was probably really dumb. But man was it fun.
It was pretty high off the ground from my memory. We would climb up, sit, and it became our very own imagination station. We loved the sound it made when we would clang our feet against the metal. It did kind of smell like gas come to think of it...I'm glad we didn't turn into a real rocket ship.
During the days of bike rides and climbing on the imagination station when the sun would start to go down, were weren't done playing. I remember me, Misty, her little brother, and other trailer park kids sitting around in a circle on the grass. I can still feel the soft grass. It was longer than most grass; it was like sitting on a pillow. We would sit there and sing. One of our favorites was "God Bless the U.S.A." by Lee Greenwood. I remember feeling proud and free during those days on the grass in between our trailers. I don't think I have felt that sense of pride and unity sense. That something special that we all shared living in the trailer park.
I have one more story for today that involves my friends Caren and Nick when I would go to her trailer park.
Her trailer park was much bigger than mine. They had a big field with a pond, a "forest", and blackberry trees. Caren, Nick, and I would adventure in the forest for hours and end our quest by picking and eating the blackberries. I have never had a berry so sweet and juicy in my life. We would head back to Caren's house with dirty feet, grass-stained knees, and berry stained lips and fingers. Caren's mom was like my mom. She was very cool. We didn't get in trouble for coming home dirty. We just had to wash-up for dinner.
Caren's mom was a good cook. I think I had Chinese food with them for the very first time. Caren was always a joker and she told me the chicken was rat. She was my best friend, of course I believe her. I was horrified. But the joke was on me. Before you knew it there was laughter and trailer full of kids singing about eating rat. Kenny, Barb, Caren, and me...life really couldn't have been any better.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Playing Opossum
Today I want to tell you a little bit about being on welfare and what poor looked like for my mom and me.
My mom and I received food stamps. I can't tell you how much. All I know is we could only go grocery shopping once per month. My mom made sure we had lots of staples. I can remember when it was the end of the month because dinner was often creamed peas made with instant milk. If you have never had instant milk, take it from me, it's not very good.
We also couldn't afford a car. That meant that almost all of our grocery trips (unless one of my mom's friends took us) we did on foot. We lived about 2-miles from the grocery...well...maybe more...and we would walk there and walk home with bags upon bags. In the cold. In the heat. But that is not what I remember. What I remember most is the fun my mom and I had on those adventures. My mom knew how to talk to me and she knew how to make anything fun. Believe when you don't have any money you find ways to make things that do not cost any money fun.
One of my most favorite things we use to do for fun during the fall was walk to the park and collect nature items for our cornucopia. Even though our cornucopia was on a plate it is one of the things I remember most. My mom would keep it on display on the kitchen table as long as possible. I can still feel the warm breeze and smell the sweet grass and pungent fallen walnuts. We never had anything fancy but we did have a lot of fun making memories.
The other part of being poor is that you can't afford repairs. Our trailer was in bad shape. The ceiling tiles would fill with water and then collapse...and there was a hole in our bathroom floor...oh yeah and mushrooms growing in the spare room. I never had friends over because I was too embarrassed. But it was what we could afford and it was home.
Oh the hole in the bathroom floor. I'll never forget my sister Stephanie had come to visit and she and my mom were coloring their hair. I've always loved the smell of hair color. I was playing in my room when I heard them shriek. It seemed that the hole in the floor was a really big deal...because a opossum came on up and into our bathroom. I remember peering in and seeing it stare back at us with it's ugly, beady eyes. And I remember I couldn't go to the bathroom until it left. That took a while.
No we didn't call the exterminator. We just waited for it to leave which it eventually did. Then my mom, my sister, and I all had a good laugh. Because that is something I learned early on, make the best of every situation and always look for the humor life brings. Who else ever had a opossum in their bathroom?
My mom and I received food stamps. I can't tell you how much. All I know is we could only go grocery shopping once per month. My mom made sure we had lots of staples. I can remember when it was the end of the month because dinner was often creamed peas made with instant milk. If you have never had instant milk, take it from me, it's not very good.
We also couldn't afford a car. That meant that almost all of our grocery trips (unless one of my mom's friends took us) we did on foot. We lived about 2-miles from the grocery...well...maybe more...and we would walk there and walk home with bags upon bags. In the cold. In the heat. But that is not what I remember. What I remember most is the fun my mom and I had on those adventures. My mom knew how to talk to me and she knew how to make anything fun. Believe when you don't have any money you find ways to make things that do not cost any money fun.
One of my most favorite things we use to do for fun during the fall was walk to the park and collect nature items for our cornucopia. Even though our cornucopia was on a plate it is one of the things I remember most. My mom would keep it on display on the kitchen table as long as possible. I can still feel the warm breeze and smell the sweet grass and pungent fallen walnuts. We never had anything fancy but we did have a lot of fun making memories.
The other part of being poor is that you can't afford repairs. Our trailer was in bad shape. The ceiling tiles would fill with water and then collapse...and there was a hole in our bathroom floor...oh yeah and mushrooms growing in the spare room. I never had friends over because I was too embarrassed. But it was what we could afford and it was home.
Oh the hole in the bathroom floor. I'll never forget my sister Stephanie had come to visit and she and my mom were coloring their hair. I've always loved the smell of hair color. I was playing in my room when I heard them shriek. It seemed that the hole in the floor was a really big deal...because a opossum came on up and into our bathroom. I remember peering in and seeing it stare back at us with it's ugly, beady eyes. And I remember I couldn't go to the bathroom until it left. That took a while.
No we didn't call the exterminator. We just waited for it to leave which it eventually did. Then my mom, my sister, and I all had a good laugh. Because that is something I learned early on, make the best of every situation and always look for the humor life brings. Who else ever had a opossum in their bathroom?
What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger
I have been thinking about sharing my story for quite some time hoping that I can help others. I have had a very non-traditional road of growing up. I have experienced a lot of different things that most people will never experience. I have forged through a rocky trail...and while many of the things I want to write about were really hard, they have all made me a better person and have made me who I am today.
Today I feel like telling you a bit about my youngest years...years that I really cannot remember.
My Mom and Dad welcomed me into the world when she was 27 and he was 38. I am mother's first and only child, my dads sixth and final child. When I was born I lived with my mom, dad, sister Jodi, sister Stephanie, and brother Chuck. On the weekends my brothers Matt and Mark stayed. The house was full with an infant, toddlers, children, and teenagers. I think to myself if I was 27 with six kids that spanned several years...well it's safe to say I don't know how my parents did it. Not only were their six kids my dad was building his own construction business. I wish I could remember us all being together...but that is something I would never experience as my parents divorced when I was one and I grew up with my mom.
It's safe to say I had a non-traditional childhood...well it was the 80s..so now it's not so non-traditional. I lived with my mom and saw my dad on the weekends. My mom and I lived in a trailer. We were on welfare.
Yep. I grew up on welfare. This is really where I hope to inspire people because I believe with my heart of hearts that I would not be where I am today if my mom did not have that assistance. Where am I today? Well...I have a bachelor's degree and a Master's degree. I also have a pretty sweet job and I own my own home. Not bad for a welfare reject, huh?
When I say a grew up with my mom, I mean it. She stayed home with me. She cooked what we could afford. She taught me how to the read, taking me to the library daily. She made sure I was clean. She made sure I shared with other kids. She made sure I did my homework. She made sure I stayed out of trouble and so much more. I am so glad she was there for me. I am so glad she could be there for me. Where would I be if I was another government latchkey kid?
My mom did work...before any of you get your panties in a ruffle. She had to work in order for us to keep our assistance. She worked at one of our area schools as a janitor. When I look back to those years, just her and me, proud of my mom for working at the school, they are my most favorite memories. Even though we were very poor and the government was taking care of us, my mom made sure we never took advantage. That is something that could not be more evident than where I am today. My mom always wanted better for me and she did her best to give me everything she could. There are not many mom's today that are that selfless. She sacrificed a lot and made sure I learned lessons so I could get out of poverty. So that I could be educated. So that I would rise above.
This is my foundation. Being the poor kid. Being the kid that never had birthday parties. The kid that never took a family vacation. The kid that received free school lunch. The kid that washed her clothes in the bathtub. But this kid preserved. And that is what my story is all about.
Today I feel like telling you a bit about my youngest years...years that I really cannot remember.
My Mom and Dad welcomed me into the world when she was 27 and he was 38. I am mother's first and only child, my dads sixth and final child. When I was born I lived with my mom, dad, sister Jodi, sister Stephanie, and brother Chuck. On the weekends my brothers Matt and Mark stayed. The house was full with an infant, toddlers, children, and teenagers. I think to myself if I was 27 with six kids that spanned several years...well it's safe to say I don't know how my parents did it. Not only were their six kids my dad was building his own construction business. I wish I could remember us all being together...but that is something I would never experience as my parents divorced when I was one and I grew up with my mom.
It's safe to say I had a non-traditional childhood...well it was the 80s..so now it's not so non-traditional. I lived with my mom and saw my dad on the weekends. My mom and I lived in a trailer. We were on welfare.
Yep. I grew up on welfare. This is really where I hope to inspire people because I believe with my heart of hearts that I would not be where I am today if my mom did not have that assistance. Where am I today? Well...I have a bachelor's degree and a Master's degree. I also have a pretty sweet job and I own my own home. Not bad for a welfare reject, huh?
When I say a grew up with my mom, I mean it. She stayed home with me. She cooked what we could afford. She taught me how to the read, taking me to the library daily. She made sure I was clean. She made sure I shared with other kids. She made sure I did my homework. She made sure I stayed out of trouble and so much more. I am so glad she was there for me. I am so glad she could be there for me. Where would I be if I was another government latchkey kid?
My mom did work...before any of you get your panties in a ruffle. She had to work in order for us to keep our assistance. She worked at one of our area schools as a janitor. When I look back to those years, just her and me, proud of my mom for working at the school, they are my most favorite memories. Even though we were very poor and the government was taking care of us, my mom made sure we never took advantage. That is something that could not be more evident than where I am today. My mom always wanted better for me and she did her best to give me everything she could. There are not many mom's today that are that selfless. She sacrificed a lot and made sure I learned lessons so I could get out of poverty. So that I could be educated. So that I would rise above.
This is my foundation. Being the poor kid. Being the kid that never had birthday parties. The kid that never took a family vacation. The kid that received free school lunch. The kid that washed her clothes in the bathtub. But this kid preserved. And that is what my story is all about.
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