Glimpses

I caught a glimpse tonight, watching a children’s movie of all things.

I just glanced over at my daughter, who was casually sprawled on the top part of the couch drinking out of a cup.

I could see her. She was a teen. A full-fledged, young woman. Her features were so pronounced. High cheek bones, long dark hair. Those big, dark eyes.

She was sitting on the couch chatting with her with her friend who is here for a sleep over, only I was looking at grown women for that fleeting moment. I was in awe and terrified at the same time.

She was stunning and witty and she still did that thing with her hair that she does now at 8 years old  where she pulls a strand over, pulls it against her cheek leaving a line, and then releases it over and over.

She’s becoming a woman before my eyes and there isn’t a single thing I can do about it.

There are so many things I want her to know. So many things I’m trying to teach her as she grows older.

She still gives me that look of shock when I tell her women are not treated the same as men. Not paid as much. Not listened to in a board room, not given the raises, promotions, or even the venture capital to become successful entrepreneurs. It’s as if I’m telling her fairy tales and she’s awaiting the heroine to swoop in and whisk away all the bad guys and insert a world where all women code, are encouraged to do math,  and are treated equally. She truly doesn’t believe me. Or doesn’t want to believe me.

It’s as if she was blocking it out. She didn’t want to know just yet. She wanted to stay innocent just a little while longer.

#allhailhala

But something tells me that glimpse of a woman I saw on the couch knew. And with any luck, was working with the rest of us to help change the ratio.

Who am I kidding, Hala already has.

A Little Rebellion is a Good Thing

Sometimes I totally forget we’re a bit different around here.

Honestly.

And it doesn’t even occur to me until we’re in a situation where we’re surrounded by those who aren’t like us. (i.e. recent trip to North Carolina)

Let me give you a few examples so as to better paint a picture:

I currently have pink hair.

Mama's hair

My husband just spent his Sunday getting two tattoos.

Inked!!!!

I have eight tattoos (only one is visible to the public).

My husband does not wear a suit and tie to work, or carry a briefcase. He doesn’t even wear a button down shirt. We’re talking jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops or Chucks.

We are atheists and/or agnostic (at least I am) at very best.

We discuss the human body, sexuality, private parts,  politics, current events, issues that require deep thought and even global crisis in age-appropriate ways with the children.

We have no trouble pointing out the evils of the world and the injustice and encourage our children to stand up for what they believe in LOUDLY and with real action behind their words. (Our kids have raised substantial amounts of money for causes they believe in- like $1500 for Sea Turtle Relief during the gulf oil spill)

So as my son and I lounged around on a hot summer’s day, he asked me why teenagers are always mean and weird on tv shows. He wanted to know why they fought with their parents or were always ‘grounded.’ I then launched into a rather bad explanation of rebellion. And how we all feel the need at some point in life to show our independence and rebel against our parents.

He cocked his head and looked at me really funny.

Well, how do you think you will rebel when you’re a teen?

What do you mean?

I mean, what do you think you will do to rebel against your Dad and I?

Why would I do that?

Well I’m not sure, let just pretend…

I don’t know…I don’t want to rebel.

Well you don’t HAVE to, I’m just wondering how you might…

This went on and on and on. Until we realized our children would have to be rather over the top to rebel against us. And it’s true. I mean, look at us. We’re 40 or pushing 40 and tattooed, weird haired freaks. Right? Or so some would say.

So I took the same question to my daughter.

How do you think you will rebel?

I just think I’ll be mad at you because I’ll want to go be with my friends and you’ll want me to go somewhere with you. 

But will you DO anything, like shave your head or dye your hair purple (her hair is currently purple and pink) or get at a tattoo because you are mad?

Definitely not. Why would I do that? I can do that NOW and just for fun.

…touche’ my dear.

Which leaves me taking a long hard look at myself and my body. My hair. My tattoos. And you know what? I love it. I love them. I love that my husband and I could care less what the world thinks and we show our children that daily. We are living life on our terms.

He has found an industry that pays him well and supports his family and allows him to stroll into work daily in a t-shirt and jeans. He didn’t have to conform to the suit and tie rat race to ‘make it’ in this world. THAT makes me happy as hell for HIM.

I’ve always marked important milestones in my life with body art (I got my first tattoo on my 18th birthday, right after I registered to vote). I’ve still managed to be a guest at the White House four times and interview everyone from celebrities to politicians, simply because I can easily change outfits and you’d never know what was underneath. I have made a career based on hard work and damn good work. When I was a professional journalist I investigated, I worked my sources, I climbed my way to the top. As a blogger and non-traditional journalist I’d like to think I became influential and did the same. Even disabled and sick I’ve managed to keep my influence and use my voice to work hard for the things I believe in.

I hope our children take away that they can be who they are and not compromise. They can follow their dreams and not worry about sacrificing their sense of self. They don’t have to fit in a box- anyone’s box- in order to be successful.

And if they really want to rebel, they can just give us heart attacks by voting Republican.

 

 

Detroit Guilt

When news broke that Detroit would be filing for bankruptcy I braced myself for the incoming artillery.

There would be the usual Detroit jokes. The usual bashing and photos of abandoned buildings. All of the things I have come to expect whenever Detroit or Michigan are in the news.

I have yet to unclench my teeth. You guys keep bashing and now Washington is in on the act.

This is what happens when Democrats run your town for decades! 

This is what happens when UNIONS are in charge! 

My jaw is now locked so hard it hurts.

I can’t do this anymore. This fight over the place I was born and raised is now on my weekend morning shows while I sit in Los Angeles, my adopted home. That’s right, I live in Los Angeles.

Yes, let me have it. I left.

I left Detroit.

I abandoned the city and state like so many others. I suppose it doesn’t matter the reason. My husband works in the entertainment industry. His job is LA-centric and that’s just how it goes.

The House I Grew Up In
The house I grew up in.

But what you may not understand is that if I could go back, I would. If I could find a way to be part of the solution, I would. In fact, I am and I have. But none of that matters when you have Detroit Guilt the size of the Detroit River because you live in Los Angeles and can not be a practical, present part of the solution.

We ex-Detroiters…we are a hearty bunch. We find each other in states from California to Florida and band together. My husband laughs. He calls us the ‘Michigan Mafia’ because no matter where we go, inevitably I find someone from Michigan and we bond over our home state.

Detroit Guilt.

We bond over whatever reason we left and we feel the need to defend and remember. Remember all the things we love and all the things we want to help fix. The people. The food. The culture.

We may be Democrats or Republicans but when we talk about the fall of the city we talk about corruption. Something neither party can escape. And something this lifelong Dem always assumed was rampant in big city politics – especially Detroit’s. I never associated my party with the city’s leaders because the city’s leaders were always in trouble. Corruption, unfortunately, has been a mainstay since my childhood in Detroit’s City Hall.

Luckily, good ideas and smart people have always been a mainstay too. Just enough to show me the potential and the glorious past. Just enough to always leave me with hope things will get better.

That hope has never left. Not then. Not now.

We can argue if you think it’s the union’s fault if you want. I find that pointless and an attack on workers. Hard workers. People who, like my grandfather, needed the unions to make sure he could provide for his children and collect a pension. Yes, that word – pension- that has all of DC in a tizzy. The pension that all workers bargained for and received and were promised. I don’t care if times are tough and hard decisions must be made. Promises were made many, many decades ago and I don’t see millions being taken from executive pay. This is just one more way to screw the worker. And now they are finding ways to do it DECADES later. From the very people who kept Detroit going. From the very people who stayed and worked and raised families and poured money into the local bakeries and boutiques and bars. From the very people who gave to your kids’ fundraisers even when times were tough and brought a six-pack when they wanted to bring an expensive bottle of wine. Because that is what Detroiters DO. What hard workers DO.

They also honor their word.

Maybe that’s what all of this comes down to…it’s the people of Michigan. The ones that haunt my dreams and call me back.

Detroit Guilt.

There are abandoned homes and cities and areas all over this country. There are bad parts of town in every major metropolitan area. We hear about them in passing on the news every single night from shootings, to stabbings, to press conferences about revitalization. What is it about my hometown that makes me feel responsible even after leaving so long ago? People move all the time. In this day and age, people move and move and move some more. How many of them still pine for their ‘home’ and still slip and call it ‘home’ when home is clearly 3,000 miles on another coast?

Detroit isn’t a punchline. It isn’t some Democrat or Republican legislative hole where bad ideas go to thrive and good ideas are abandoned. There is certainly plenty of blame to go around and there has been for many years. I know where I place much of the blame and it has nothing to do with political party and much more to do with fear of the ‘other.’

How many of you can tell me right now where the line is back ‘home?’ And you know exactly which line I’m talking about.

When I lived in Metro-Detroit it was right around Beaconsfield. Maybe a street or two over. One side of the street looked beautiful. The other in a constant state of disrepair. Just around the corner is where the liqueur stores and pawn shops and iron bars on the windows began. Just around the other corner you had to squint to find the start of a pothole…even in winter.

When white flight completely emptied the city of a race, it also took many of the jobs. Did you know Detroit’s suburbs are some of the richest in the US?

“Oakland County, for example, is the fourth wealthiest county in the United States, of counties with a million or more residents. Greater Detroit — which includes the suburbs — is among the nation’s top five financial centers, the top four centers of high-technology employment, and the second-biggest source of engineering and architectural talent.” -Robert B. Reich, Chancellor’s Professor of Public Policy at the University of California at Berkeley, Secretary of Labor in the Clinton administration.

Not hard to believe when everyone I know moved out of the city and into the suburbs, my father and mother’s families included, and my family keep moving further north. By the time I moved out of Michigan my parents were near Port Huron. They are now in Florida. The remainder of my family in Michigan are all in suburbs and have been for decades.

So who remains? That line tells the story. It always has. The line between black and white.

They want to say it comes down to pensions. Unions. Republican Governors. 8-years of a Republican President. Decades of Democrat Mayors. No. I say it comes down to what is always comes down to: that line.

Detroit Guilt.

I watched as a kid as our school just over that line got more money than the other. We heard on the news about textbook shortages. About preschool being non-existent for the poor kids because their parents had to work two jobs and still couldn’t afford the extra it would cost. I remember getting involved, by way of working on student newspapers, at places like Focus:HOPE. I remember having a very hard time understanding why the funding was always there for crisp, white, new football uniforms at some of these schools yet not a dime for much-needed classroom materials.

That line was a tricky one. It hurt to realize you grew up in one of the most segregated regions in the country.

It’s one of the rare things I despise about the city I love.

Detroit Guilt. 

There are some big messes that need cleaning in Motown. Really big. But nothing is going to get fixed if all the nation has are jokes and punch lines or the ludicrous idea that my grandfather, as he lays in his nursing home on the West Side (of Detroit) should suffer a deduction in his pension. And yes, I said ‘the nation.’ Because while I am happy to leave many things up to a state and it’s locals…Detroit is bigger than us all.

Even if I throw away the guilt of leaving, and add in helping, this Detroit mess will take innovation and tech and creativity and well.. you get the idea. So I don’t think limiting the pool of talent is wise or advisable if we are truly serious about getting the job done.

Not to mention, showing the city off as an example when different people can reach across the aisle.

And I think I realize why all this Detroit Guilt after all: it’s because Detroit really is about the people – making Detroit like family. Nothing making you more angry, or more proud than family. And nothing makes you feel more guilty.

Family also beckons you home. You may not be able to live with them any longer, but you certainly don’t leave them abandoned. You also may not visit as much as you’d like either, but you make sure you keep up with, at the very least, the latest news through relatives.

Detroit is family. And family is forever.

Kinfolk Vacation

Vacation with family in the South day #1:

My son learned to whittle with a pocket knife (and loved every second of it, making all three of his cousins Harry Potter wands and making his grandfather very happy).

My son is in the country for sure. He just widdled whiddled widdled ? A wand

My daughter baked and played Barbies.

And #allhailhala is baking

She also avoided, like the plague, the baby that came to visit. She really does not like babies.
We’re ok with this. We hope this helps come her teen years.

My body is tired but holding up. North Carolina is wet and has large mosquitoes and Moral Monday, which I really wish I was here to attend. But again, family first.

BlogHer ’13: Why You Will Make the Most of it…for ME

It’s no secret I’m proud of BlogHer.

It is my community. It is my employer.

It is that safe space I retreat to online when I need my virtual fix of inspiration and motivation.

This will be only the second time I’ve had to miss the annual conference (in person…my virtual self WILL BE THERE VIA SKYPE!) and I’m doing my best to not be seething with jealousy or pangs in my belly whenever I see the tweets or posts or photos of what a great time everyone is having and the rock stars they are running into in the hallways.

But to be brutally honest after last year’s triumphant return to the annual conference I really thought by this time THIS year I’d be working again. I thought you would barely see me at BlogHer ’13 because I’d be knee-deep in some amazing project, wrangling politicians as they came to address our community, executive producing an on-the-spot campaign for one of our clients and somewhere in the midst of it all finding time to say hello and network.

Instead I found myself faced with a choice: speak, in person, at my HealthMinder panel on Thursday and stay to enjoy the majority of the conference and then (after having flown from LA to Chicago) fly from Chicago to North Carolina to meet up with family.

You see, back over the holidays we had to cancel our family trip to North Carolina because I was too ill to get on a plane. It was too dangerous.

But back to the choice(s). The other choice was to stay home, rest up, and fly with my family to North Carolina. And a third choice was to fly to Chicago and back and then let my husband take the kids to North Carolina while I stayed home.

I knew the third choice wasn’t an option. So really, what it came down to, was if my body could handle jet-setting like it used to. Hopping on a flight from LA to Chicago and making the rounds at BlogHer ’13, then hopping a flight to North Carolina to meet up with family and making the rounds there. Then, making it back to LA.

And who are we kidding. A stomach bug hospitalized me for the 4th of July. I really did not want to give up BlogHer ’13. I really wanted another hot dog in Chicago.

I really hate that I’m not yet well enough to be capable of doing ALL THE THINGS that make me happy.

Part of this journey I am on…this path lined with tacks that seem to all stick straight up into my feet…is learning I now have limits. I might not later. They may get worse before they get better (again) and they may even get better and possibly GO THE HELL AWAY. But for better or worse my body has limits.

If you could hear me say ‘limits’ in my head as I type it you’d laugh. It’s this high-pitched whine really. LiMiTs. I have LIMITS!!!!!!!.

Travel takes very careful planning. In order to go to DC we left several days early so I could rest and rest and rest before we had to be at the White House.

In fact, we visited the White House the day before we LEFT FOR HOME. So I knew I couldn’t just jump on a plane and jet my way over to the Windy City for BlogHer ’13 and then hop another to Fort Bragg and then hop another back home to LA…all in the span of less than a week. It was a recipe for another stay at hotel hospital. Or worse, I’d get stuck in a hospital in Chicago. Or North Carolina. Or even worse, I’d have to cancel on family for a second time and once again let down people I love.

It’s true what they say about BlogHer’s annual conference, by the way; it’s totally what you make of it. It can be all parties and hugs and squees or it can be hardcore networking for that big gig you’ve been hoping for, or it can be your coming out party, of sorts. Where you decide to take that leap of faith and go meet those people you talk to daily through that screen on your lap. You know…the ones who make you laugh and cry and think.

The ones who’ve been there for you each and every time you mouthed off about breastfeeding or Pampered Chef parties or politics. They’ve been there from the moment you started to feel unwell, and were there for the first surgery. The second. The third. They sent cards and flowers and unicorn poop cookies. They sent hats and spoons. Some sent gnomes. Books. Silly postcards. Amazing jewelry. Inspirational works of art. Simple notes that made you cry like a child.

And last year they made you feel like a goddess when you were at your most vulnerable.

photo by @craftyb

You even listen to a certain voicemail on your phone, a full year later, when you are once again feeling down and stuck in treatment or a hospital bed or you simply can’t fit into a pair of pants that fit last week before they upped your steroids again.

They wrapped you in so much love that you can’t imagine life without the wonderful women and men on the other side of the screen.

I have come a long way in this battle. I still have a long way to go. Know that each of you have helped me in your own quirky way and I can’t thank you enough. I thought thanking you meant I HAD TO BE IN CHICAGO personally. But practicing what I preach, family must come first. Instead my family will be flying to North Carolina to make up for that trip Lupus canceled over the holidays.

Here is hoping during BlogHer ’14 I will wrap each of you in so much love that you can feel in the hug I give you just how important you are to me. That you can’t imagine life without the wonderful women and men on the other side of the screen. Or better yet, that I’m just a blur during the conference because I’m so busy working we barely had time to chat…but we did have that amazing but brief moment where we embraced and looked at each other knowingly, because we had made it.

Because dammit, I WILL make it.

Trayvon’s Heart Missing for White, Mom Jury

I think we need to talk about the other elephant in the room regarding the Trayvon Martin case:

this jury of predominantly white “Moms”- or so I keep hearing.

As if, magically, this will take away any issues of race or privilege or any other issues…simply because all these jurors were mothers and female.

I’ll just go ahead and say it and take the heat: some of the biggest people with racial issues I know are white feminists. Mind you I did not say every, I did not say ALL, I said some. Simply…some.

I found out first hand when I was the first blogger to publicly ask former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton to step down from her run so then Senator Barack Obama could claim the nomination for President. 99% of my hate mail came from white feminists who were shocked and appalled I dared ask a woman to get out-of-the-way for a man. They accused me of being at traitor to my gender. They accused me of being a N-gger lover, out to “impress” the “other” minorities, while ignoring my own. They also told me women needed this more than people of color and I should know that because I AM a woman. How dare I fail to understand their struggle and how dare I put those of color’s struggle above women’s struggles?

So when I heard the jury was made up of a bevy of white females, I did not feel any better for the prosecution’s chances. Even if they were liberal, white, females. I knew all too well the history of racism some of these women carried in their hearts and I knew some believed their plight was far worse than any other minority’s plight. I also knew, deep down, some may be harboring some very racist views.

It was the age-old “but our struggle is harder than your struggle” fight that I’ve watched play out over blogs over the years. Even on my own.

But hey, maybe I was way off base. Maybe my gut feeling was totally wrong and these were enlightened, totally biased free women. Sure they might have the usual issues anyone would have with race and gender and class, but perhaps they were smart enough to put all that aside for the trial and move forward like rational humans.

And then came Anderson Cooper’s interview with one of the jurors. My stomach churned and sadly, I felt like my initial thoughts just might be true. I certainly didn’t feel any better about my theory as to the panel composed of George Zimmerman’s peers. Juror B37 said she had no doubt Zimmerman was “afraid” – my question…how afraid can you be if you take your gun and pursue the person you are allegedly afraid of? But what caught my attention most was juror B37’s comments on witness Rachael Jeantel. “A lot of the times she was using phrases I have never heard before and what they meant…that’s way they talk…” (emphasis mine)

Does she means the way teens talk? Doubtful. I think considering she was discussing her “communication skills” she was speaking directly to race. Directly. Go ahead and click on the link to her discussion of Jeantel. How she felt bad for her. How she felt she was uneducated. Really? She was speaking about her being a teen then? Juror B37 sure tried not to say it, but it was clear to me she was speaking about race.

And to Jeantel’s credit, she was respectful of the juror’s comments, even saying her parents helped her calm down and she was raised to not cuss and respect her elders.

Certainly doesn’t sound like someone who was ashamed of herself or her education to me there Juror B37. In fact, Ms. Jeantel out-classed you and showed her education far better than you did on national television.

So where does that leave us? With a generation gap or a racial gap? Or does that just leave us with those who are upset at the verdict and those who are not?

I’ve been told I’m race-baiting by even bringing up black witnesses and white jurors in this case. But an unarmed black teenager was killed, he was considered suspicious for walking through a neighborhood in the rain, carrying candy and tea. SO VERY SUSPICIOUS that George Zimmerman felt it necessary to follow Trayvon with a loaded gun.

I can’t think of any teen or man who wouldn’t confront Zimmerman if they were being followed. And there sits this jury of predominantly white women actually thinking it’s Zimmerman that was scared. The man with the gun. The man who did the following. SO SCARED HE FOLLOWED TRAYVON. If you are scared and afraid for your life, do you chase after the person who you are afraid of? I’m just asking here. And if you are a white woman sitting on that jury -are you the typical stepford-wife thinking Mr. Zimmerman was oh so brave for following that thug of a black boy daring to traipse through their neighborhood?

Nevermind it was Trayvon’s neighborhood too. Because I get the distinct feeling neither George Zimmerman nor the white, female jurors thought of that neighborhood as Trayvon’s either. Even though it was.

Tie in Juror B37’s comments on Ms. Jeantel and I see exactly how this went in their minds. Yes, I am a mind reader. (That’s sarcasm, people…I’m giving you my own theories here, not fact).

And to say race didn’t come into play is either total denial on the jury’s part or just another sad chapter in the long history of white, sometimes very feminist, women denying the plight of people of color in favor of their own struggles.

This isn’t a competition. We are not post-racial and we are not post-gender and we are not post-patriarchy.

Imagine what we could do together if we could only see the other’s fight and help. See the other’s pain and history and empathize instead of compare.

If we could only see the facts surrounding the death of a young man and not let things like our prejudice of a black woman’s “education” get in the way of her account of that fateful night.

And if only Juror B37 could have seen into Trayvon’s heart the way she claims she could see into Zimmerman’s. The man who pulled the trigger. Why is it she knew Zimmerman’s heartfelt intentions yet she couldn’t fathom Trayvon’s intentions and heart? Even after the witnesses and those who told of his unarmed walk home. His entirely legal, unarmed, entirely NON-suspicious walk home. But B37 couldn’t find any heart there…

and I can only come up with one reason why…

Meanwhile THIS white, feminist Mom has nothing but a broken heart for Trayvon and his parents. I can’t imagine their pain. I can’t imagine how they must feel after a jury of women couldn’t find reason under the law to put the killer of their son behind bars. I can not speak to the racism they may feel due to this case or the fallout regarding race sweeping through the nation. I can only speak to what I know. and I know white women. I am a white woman.

Sadly I had hoped they would see into the heart of a young boy before they saw into the heart of a shooter.

We Blend, Trayvon Did Not

My Dad walked into the living room and said “Not guilty.”

I inhaled.

He didn’t have to say anymore. I knew what he was talking about, I knew what he meant. My head swirled.

My 10-year old instinctively clung to my left arm. Began petting me. He didn’t understand. He asked question after question.

But how could he just shoot him and not go to jail? How is that ok? Why would he be not guilty? He shot him. You can’t shoot people, right? 

#relayforlife

I had shielded as much of the Trayvon Martin case as I could from the kids, but my son enjoys watching the news with me and truly enjoys discussing the news with me. So many mornings are spent with the two of us talking over current events. I keep things as age appropriate as possible. With Trayvon it was hard from day one. This was a teenager gunned down for doing nothing more than walking home, being stalked by the local neighborhood watch guy, and when Trayvon confronted George Zimmerman, a fight ensued and Zimmerman shot and killed the teen.

Now Zimmerman walks free and all over my twitter feed under certain hashtags like #tcot and others, people were celebrating. On my Facebook page there were exclamations of ‘What a great day for America!’ and so on.

While my son shook with anger and tears rolled down his face. While my daughter did her best to play her game and not pay attention, yet clearly was listening and upset. While I struggled to come up with the words to tell them justice would prevail…silence permeatited throughout our home.

Silence.

Because there were no words.

There was nothing I could say that would make sense or make this right.

The verdict went against everything we had taught them about our judicial system and it went against everything we taught them about how justice was supposed to be served in the end.

My husband talked about how sometimes, justice does not win. We all did our best to explain away the unexplainable.

But the kids clearly did not understand. Hell, the adults didn’t understand.

Later on in the evening my son asked me how we could make it better. My sweet, sweet baby boy wanted to know what he could do to change the verdict, racism, and the world- and he was very serious.

Again, I had no answer for him. My only answer was that he continue to be a great person. And that hopefully, it would be contagious.

This wasn’t good enough for him.

So I told him about a petition to get the Justice Department to open a civil rights case against George Zimmerman to try, once again, to put him behind bars.

He was unimpressed. And I have to say, while I think the petition and case could be worthwhile…Zimmerman walks free while Trayvon is dead. I see no justice there and I see no reason to get excited over the possibility of another trial.

Something my son said keeps repeating over and over in my mind as I think about the verdict:

Mom, what if I walked to go get Hala some candy and you always drink tea…what if I went to get you tea…and that happened to me? But it wouldn’t though, would it? They think I blend in here, don’t they? They don’t understand I’m not on their side…they don’t understand we’re on the kids like Trayvon’s side. That means I can sneak into their talks and find out what is going on and then I can tell everyone and everyone will be safe. They will never know because I blend in. They will think I am one of them, but really I am like a ninja and I will bring all the information back to everyone like Trayvon and US and everyone will be SAFE forever!

I love my son’s big heart more than I can say. In his 10-year old imagination that’s all it takes. Him acting like a superhero of sorts to come save the day for all. Or at the very least, him acting like a super, secret, spy-ninja who can get rid of racism and the bad guys all in one night.

How I wish this were one of those times his imagination’s amazing ideas worked. And it were all just that simple.

That a 10-year old boy’s dreams and ideas could come true and some of this pain and confusion could be erased with good and innocence.

If nothing else, may the world know if there must be sides to take, my son has signed us up to be on Trayvon’s and people ‘like’ Trayvon’s. That means those of color and those who do not ‘blend’ in ‘our’ neighborhood.

Jack has decided we don’t blend. And I’m glad. I don’t want to blend if it means we are anything like the Zimmermans of the world. We’ll happily be just like Trayvon in spirit.

Forever.

From Exercise-Fiend to Vegan: Moving Forward

I spent the better part of the day trying to figure out how to change.

Should I go vegan? Vegetarian?

Should I try getting up at 5am every morning and walk to the end of the block again? Then in a week around the corner? Then in two weeks around the block? Or should I try to get in the pool daily and swim?

Should I cut out dairy? Maybe carbs.

My doctor gave me the ok to try whatever I wanted and gently reminded me nothing would really make a huge difference until I was off all these steroids saving my life.

…off all these steroids saving my life.

I’m not sure about the saving my life part. Sure they are saving my organs, but what life are they leaving me with?

There has to be a happy medium here. I’ve been trying to find it for a long time now and I’m at my wit’s end. I have to LIVE.

I want to enjoy myself not just stay alive. And my situation is not so desperate where I can’t think about doing these things, even my doctor agrees. It’s why he has no trouble with me flying again at the end of the month to see family (so long as my lab results and body are doing well) and it’s why he won’t stop me if I want to try new things.

The question is…what? I know I’m limited. I know I won’t put my body in danger, it has to stay here and healthy for those I love. But I need to have A LIFE. A life that includes romance and outings and friends and socializing and fun.

I feel like drastic changes are needed in order to take control of this situation. I know I can’t take control of Lupus, but maybe I can change enough of my habits and my lifestyle that Lupus will have less of a chance of seeping into every part of my life…as it has.

Right now, post hospital stay, it’s all-consuming and all around us and all a little too much. I can’t push it out of my mind or shield the family because there is too much aftermath to deal with. Hopefully that portion will be over with soon. Then I can go about life for them without mentioning the “L” word for a while.

In the meantime I will formulate a plan to move forward, again. Thus far I will begin school again in the Fall. Enough to keep my brain going so it doesn’t go numb and I work towards a goal.

Physically it’s harder. I have limits to what my body can do, but they aren’t so great that I can’t overcome them and they aren’t so great that every so often I can’t get off my duff and move. It won’t be easy. It will take time. But change has to come.

I can’t live like this. Ideas are welcome.