Eating Disorders

Of all of my household chores, I hate going to the grocery store the most.  For me, grocery shopping is a tedious, agonizing, and stressful experience.  I usually don’t go to the store until I have absolutely nothing edible left in my kitchen.  I will gladly dust the furniture, mop the floors, and scrub the toilets, but I normally have to psyche myself up to go grocery shopping.  I actually don’t “shop.”  I refuse to walk up and down every aisle and look at all the shelves packed full of cans, small boxes, and plastic bags.  I basically race through a limited number of aisles and only grab the items I absolutely need.  I usually refuse to use a large shopping cart.  I limit myself to one of the handheld baskets.  Once that is full, I’m done even if I did forget the bread, milk, or eggs.  It’s too late…the basket is already full…time to go.  I drag myself through the grocery-shopping task while I internally whine and complain like a bored four-year-old child.  Believe me, I whined all around the grocery store last Monday as I picked up a few staple foods.  Promising myself that I would be in and out of the store within fifteen minutes, I walked in the door, grabbed a small basket, and started to race for the bread section.  I grabbed a loaf of wheat bread and then headed towards the produce department.  After grabbing a few apples and bananas, I added fresh broccoli and a bag of baby carrots to the basket.  Due to the close proximity, I decided to dash over to the Health and Beauty/Pharmacy section next to grab some shower gel.  I just needed to grab the shower gel, shampoo, maybe a box of crackers…and I would be finished.  Another successful grocery shopping adventure completed.

However, something unexpected suddenly brought me to a complete stop…

I reached up to grab a bottle of shower gel and as I pulled it from the shelf, I saw a small square box fall to the floor and land between my feet.  I bent down quickly and picked it up.  I was shocked at what I now held in my hands.  It was a small, thin cardboard box of laxatives.  The box, however, was empty.  The container had been opened and the laxatives had been removed.  I looked quickly around the shelves but didn’t see the actual product anywhere.  I sighed heavily as I stared at the empty box.  I knew exactly what this meant.  The behavior of stealing laxatives from stores is a known habit of anorexics.  Believe me, I know….

Now, I never reached the point where I actually stole laxatives from grocery stores.  However, I do admit that my unhealthy habit began by pilfering laxatives from my mother’s medicine cabinet.  I started out by just taking two a day.  I didn’t think Mom would notice if just two small squares were missing from the pack.  However, after a few months, the routine became worse.  I began to take the whole box out of the cabinet and hide it in the top drawer of my dresser.  At the beginning, I carefully rationed out the small chocolaty squares.  At this point, I was taking about six laxative squares a day.  It wasn’t until I moved into my own apartment that my actions began to get a little weird.  Some days when I even asked myself how I had reached this point as I made a meal out of a full box of laxatives.  I would eat the entire box in one setting.  I would ask myself how I came to have this behavior.

This is what I can say: I was a fat child who was teased and ridiculed a lot by my friends, siblings, and classmates.  My mother continually put me on diets by secretly giving me smaller portions of food.  I never really noticed that she was cutting back on my dietary intake.  Her system seemed to work, though.  I remember glowing with pride at the age of twelve when several of my friends commented on my surprising weight loss.

Unfortunately, though, mom’s method didn’t always work.  My weight continued to yo-yo until I was in high school and reached my all time high of 150 pounds.  Did the weight fall back off again?  No, this time, it just seemed to sit on my body like a 50-pound fleshy ball and chain.  I was unpopular in high school, depressed, and stressed, and the fat seemed to take full advantage.  I just couldn’t seem to shake the weight off.

Once I graduated from high school and started working my first job, I decided that something needed to be done.  I was tired of being bullied and tormented over my size.  I was tired of looking at pictures of myself and seeing fat rolls and multiple chins.  I was tired of not being able to wear the beautiful, frilly dresses that my sisters were wearing.  I was still trapped in large, unfashionable, ugly tents that seemed to just enhance my large size.

Besides the constant jokes about my bulk, there was a deeper, darker reason why weight loss had become so important to me.  Like most young women who are molested at an early age, I thought all of the incidents were my fault.  I needed to be punished.  What better way to punish myself than to take away the very thing I needed to survive.  I had no right to food.  I had no right to eat.  I not only needed to be punished, but I also wanted to make sure that I did not develop breasts or hips.  I needed to destroy my very feminine sexuality in order to survive…something needed to be done…something very DRASTICALLY needed to change…

I started trying to make myself throw up after every meal and snack.  I would kneel over the toilet in the bathroom with my finger down my throat trying to force the nasty food to work itself back up and out of my body.  I was only successful with this activity a few times.  Though I really wanted to vomit and clear my system of all the junk I had just shoved into it, puking was just disgusting to me.  I couldn’t stand the aftertaste of the bile and the way it seemed to coat my teeth and tongue even after I would brush and use mouthwash.  I seemed to have a mental block that stopped me from throwing up everything I ate.  That didn’t stop me though from spending many hours sitting in the bathroom with a spoon shoved down my throat.  Without much success, I realized there had to be a better way.

That’s when I discovered laxatives.  Laxatives would certainly be an easier avenue to weight loss, I reasoned.  All I had to do was eat a few small squares of chocolate and all the nasty food with its hideous little calories would come flooding out of my body.  What could be easier than that?  But it wasn’t so easy.  Many times I would miss important lecture information in my college classes or time at work because I could not leave the bathroom.  The constant laxative use created endless diarrhea, gas, and severe stomach cramps…but if I was losing weight, if I was losing a lot of disgusting fat, wouldn’t that be healthy, too?  I reasoned.  Besides, my body would now be flat-chested without hips or a bottom…and I would be safe.  The weight loss absolutely needed to happen and I was willing to go to any lengths to protect myself from the teasing and the agony of molestation.

Laxatives, I began to realize, were not enough.  Maybe I needed to stop the food from even entering my body.  I began to practice the ole “chew and spit” routine.  For all of my meals, I would place a small plate of food and an empty cup on the table.  I would place the food into my mouth, chew for a moment and then, instead of swallowing, I would spit the chewed food into the cup.  I perfected this custom.  Take a bite, chew, spit, wipe my mouth, take a bite, chew, spit, wipe my mouth, take a bite…

However, I wasn’t losing weight as quickly as I had hoped.  Maybe I just wasn’t moving around enough.  I became fanatical about exercising.  I would exercise for two hours every day…running, walking, jogging, endless calisthenics.

Ugh….it just wasn’t working!  I was 5’6” and still weighted 110 pounds.  A 110 pounds!  Really?  I couldn’t believe it.  I would cry every time I stepped on the scale which I did every two to three hours.  I wanted to be a hundred pounds.  My mother was an attractive woman.  She was small and delicate.  She was barely 5 foot and weighed around 89 pounds.  Everyone seemed to think her tiny size was cute and adorable.  I thought she was beautiful.  I wanted to be cute and beautiful just like my mother.  Not even considering our height difference, I believed that for me to be attractive, I had to be less than 100 pounds.  The last ten pounds that hung around my body and stopped me from reaching my goal caused endless stress and anger in me.  What was I going to do?  I had to lose those last 10 pounds in order to be loved.  I had to reach that goal.

I had to stop eating.

I would “fast” for a two or three days at a time.  I called it “fasting” when the truth is I just refused to eat.  When I did decide to eat, I would feast at the “Sam’s Club Buffet.”  My mother had given me one of her Sam’s Club membership cards.  On days that I thought I deserved to eat, I would go into Sam’s Club and partake from their sample carts.  One piece of each sample would go into my body.  That would be my food intake on a good day.

I was no longer living at my parent’s home, so I don’t think Mom exactly knew what I was doing, but she did seem to worry about me.  “If you get any smaller…” she would say as she whacked me on my non-existent rear end even though I believed I could feel my glut muscles jiggling endlessly from her gentle slap.  Mom began bringing food to my apartment every couple of days.  She would bring over bread, milk, eggs, bacon, lunchmeats, crackers, and soup.  The food would sit in my refrigerator and cabinets for a few days while I furiously exercise and swallowed laxatives to lose a few pounds.  If my weight remained the same, I would package up all of the food in trash bags and throw it into the dumpster.  Actually, I think I threw away the food regardless…I still had not reached the goal of a hundred pounds.

Friends, relatives, and even strangers began to make weird and unusual comments to me.  I could never figure out what they meant.  For example, one afternoon, I had gone into a video store to rent some DVDs.  I selected two DVDs and placed them on the front counter.  I thought the DVDs were two dollars each so I casually laid out four dollars on the countertop.  The heavyset, female clerk looked at the money for a moment and then picked up two of the bills.  “These are just a dollar each,” she said cheerily.  But then as she handed me back the money, she looked me up and down and then sneered, “Now, I guess you can go buy yourself a sandwich.”  I grabbed my money and the DVDs and walked out of the store in a daze.  Why would she say that to me?  I wondered.  In my mind, I assumed she was commenting that I was fat and would now have money for more food.  I cried all the way home.

One day, I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen for a while.  We chatted happily for a few minutes before he suddenly said to me, “Well, you seem in a much better mood.  Are you eating now?”  I stared at him in completely confusion.  Honestly, he was not the only person who would ask me that question.  Am I eating now?  Of course, I was eating!  I had the Sam’s Club Buffet a few days a week.  Plus, I would choke down a few pieces of fruit and vegetables whenever I couldn’t stop from giving in to my hunger pangs…and then, I would exercise for two hours while crying and cussing myself for giving into my weakness.

I realize now my behavior was odd and terrifying and it didn’t stop there.  I would develop endless panic and anxiety attacks.  I would have days when I wouldn’t stop crying for hours.  I would be short tempered and cruel.  It wouldn’t take much for someone to suddenly be ripped apart by my viciously snapping tongue and rolling eyes over some minor, unimportant action.  I had read once in a book on eating disorders, that many anorexics and bulimics develop OCD habits and anxiety due to the lack of nutrients and fluids getting to the brain.  Maybe that’s where my OCD habits began…I don’t know…that couldn’t be right though…because at the time I was developing anxiety and OCD habits, I was still snacking on fruits and vegetables occasionally.  I certainly didn’t have an eating disorder.  In fact, I believed at the time I couldn’t stop overeating… and that lead to more punishment.  There would be additional exercising.  I allowed the numbers on the scale to tell me if I could eat or not.  If the numbers were low, I could have an additional broccoli floret.  If the numbers were high, not a single bit of food would go into my body.  Unfortunately, I also allowed the scale to regulate my moods.  If the numbers were low, I was going to have a great day.  If the numbers were high, I was going to have a horrible day.  I’m writing “numbers” because I would weigh myself multiple times throughout the day.  I actually weighed myself any time I saw a scale…at home, at the gym, in a friend’s bathroom…I would carefully analyze the numbers and determine if it was going to be a good or bad day.

Twenty years later, two things still continue to determine my food intake: 1) my current weight and 2) the kind of day I’m having.  If my weight is down and I’m enjoying my life, I will eat.  Yes, I am eating now.  I eat regular meals.  No more Sam’s Club Buffets.  My life is better and, as I’ve grown older, I feel better about myself.  My laxative use is under control.  Though I still feel the urge to use laxatives for weight control, I haven’t eaten any of the little chocolate squares in over a year.  My anxiety attacks and OCD continue to be a problem no matter what or how I eat.  I wonder sometimes if I’ve done lasting, permanent damage to myself.  My digestive track is a complicated mess.  I have to be careful with gastric reflux.  I still feel bile rising up in my throat with many of the things I eat or drink.  I’m usually sick to my stomach and suffer from sharp abdominal pain.  My hair turned prematurely gray and has thinned.  I’m just so thrilled it didn’t all fall out.

However, I still cannot stand to look at, touch, prepare, or shop for food.  Seeing pictures of people’s food posted on Facebook makes me gag and I immediately have to delete the post.  I don’t like anyone to touch or talk about my food.  Grocery stores are still a nightmare for me.  I can’t stand to look at all of that food and think that I will be eating some of it.  I can’t put one single item in my basket without fully reading the nutrition label and checking the calorie and fat intake.

One day last year, I ventured into a local grocery store thinking my food issues were all behind me.  I was really feeling good and healthy as I filled up a shopping cart (not a just basket!) with fruits and vegetables and other non-fat, threatening foods.  As I waited in the checkout lane, an elderly woman standing behind me suddenly commented, “You are moving awfully slow putting your things on the counter.  Here let me do it.”  She suddenly reached into my cart and grabbed a few of my yogurt cups and bread.  “No, stop!”  I told her as I took the items from her hands.  “Please, stop!”  She looked at me for a moment as if I was crazy before moving to the next checkout lane.  And God, maybe I am crazy.  I could not bring myself to buy and eat the food the woman had touched.  I had to set the food far off on the other side of the counter, refusing to let those items near my other groceries.

One day, I was on my lunch break at work.  I had purchased a ham and cheese sandwich from the grocery store next door.  I sat on an outside bench at my workplace to consume the sandwich.  I don’t like to be in the break room where my coworkers can watch me eat.  As I started to nibble on the sandwich, an elderly gentleman and his wife walked by me.  The man looked at me for a moment before saying, “Are we in time for lunch?”  He chuckled and then said, “What are you eating?  Do you have more for us?  What is it?”  I had no response other than to stand up and throw the sandwich in the nearest trashcan.  I couldn’t eat anything for the rest of the day.

I cannot discuss food.  I don’t want to talk about what I eat.  If I go to a banquet or a luncheon, I cringe whenever anyone ask me what was served.  I just can’t find the words to talk about food.  I don’t want to tell people what I had for lunch.  I don’t want to discuss what I will have for dinner.  Yes, I am eating now but please don’t ask me what my favorite foods are.  I don’t want to talk about it.

But I will say this…my life has gotten better.  I am more comfortable in my body now than I have ever been.  I do eat good meals now, though I still go to the gym five times a week and check the food labels on all products before I buy them.  I enjoy my life so I’m beginning to enjoy some favorite foods.  But please don’t ask me what they are.  I really can’t talk about food without feeling nauseous.

Now, I slowly placed the empty laxative box back on the shelf and grabbed the rest of my groceries while drifting through the store on autopilot.  I know I have to eat.  I do want to stay alive.  I just still can’t appreciate food.  Feeling anxious, I quickly grabbed the rest of the items I needed and headed up to the register.  I didn’t feel any relief until I had paid for my things and left the store.  Once I was home and all the groceries were hidden away in the cabinets and out of my view, I was finally able to take deep breaths again.\

…Oh, and whoever stole the laxatives and left behind the empty carton….Please know you are not alone…So many of us know how you feel…please reach out to someone…I continue to pray for you…

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Childless Parenthood

Like many people, for the majority of my life, I’ve had to fend for myself.  I’ve had to fight for my dignity, my way of life, my beliefs, and my personal philosophies.  I don’t fit into society but it doesn’t bother mer.  I have become my own person and created my own life.  I don’t go looking for trouble, but I have learned to fight for the things I need and want.  I’ve learned to stand strong in my personal thinking.  I have been proud of my strength and my convictions…

But then…

Just a few weeks ago in Las Vegas, I had the opportunity to defend someone who could not effectively defend herself…and I didn’t do anything! I am embarrassed to admit I did nothing when someone could have benefitted from my assistance.

Even now, days later…and I’m still ashamed.  I think of all the things I could have done.  I rehearse monologues in my head of the words I could have said.  I know it doesn’t do any good now.  The imagined scenarios don’t make me feel any better…I still feel cruel and mean.  My musings only make me feel more ashamed.  My thoughts only remind me that I just sat by and did nothing when someone was suffering…

This is my confession…

A few weeks ago, my friend, Sharon, and I decided to meet in Las Vegas.  We had a great morning together as we walked the strip.  Around 1 pm, hungry, thirsty, and tired, we decided to stop at one of the many fast food restaurants located on South Las Vegas Boulevard.  We were seated at an outside table, chatting happily as we enjoyed salads, hamburgers, French fries, and soft drinks.  The food was fun.  The conversation was interesting.  Sharon and I hadn’t seen each other for over a year and were enjoying a pleasant reunion.

“SHUT UP!”

A loud, deep voice caused both of us to jump as it shattered the delightfulness of the afternoon.

“SHUT UP!”

The voice shouted again and my head automatically snapped to the right as my attention focused on a large, stocky man with a bald head and full red beard.  He was dressed in a green T-shirt and denim shorts.  His face was beginning to turn as red as his beard as he continued to scream.  “What’s wrong with you?  SHUT UP!”

A second voice was screeching back at the man.  This voice was high and thin.  It was reedy and shallow.  “OWIE!” The small voice cried.  “OWIE!”

I looked at the source of the second voice.  A child was sitting in a large, blue stroller.  She was dressed in a pink sunsuit and white sandals.  Her straight blond hair hung loosely around her tear-streaked face.  She pointed to her left arm and continued to cry.  “OWIE!” The child twisted and turned in her seat.  She would lean forward and then throw herself backwards as she continued to scream.  Her small feet kicked at the bottom strap of the stroller.  The little girl couldn’t have been more than two-years-old.

After shouting “SHUT UP!” for a while and not getting any positive results, the man finally changed tactics.  He tried unsuccessfully to reason with the child.  “Oh, for God’s sake,” the man shouted, “are you going to act this way when you’re 40!?”  The argument he raised did no good.  The child had no concept of 40 and continued to cry.

Getting nowhere with this logic, the man returned to his original strategy.  “SHUT UP!”

Above all of the crying and shouting, I suddnely heard Sharon’s voice.  “Take a deep breath.  Relax,” she whispered to me.  “You are aobut to snap!”

“I’m breathing…I’m breathing…” I whispered back, not realizing until that moment that I had been holding my breath.  “I’m relaxing…but if he puts one hand on that little girl, I’m in this!”  I warned her.

“I think most people here feel the same way,” Sharon answered back.  “We are all keeping an eye on him.”

I looked around at the other diners.  A 60-ish-year-old man was sitting stiffly in his chair at the next table.  His body was pitched forward as if he was about to spring up at any moment.  A group of five middle-aged women were sitting around a table closest to the child in the stroller.  The women shifted awkwardly in their seats and glanced around uncomfortably.  An older security guard approached the red-bearded man but only engaged him in friendly conversation.  The subtle influence didn’t help though.  The father continually interrupted the conversation to scream “SHUT UP!” at the crying child.  He refused to comfort her; he refused to hold her.  The man came up with an entirely new and different method of dealing with the little girl.

As the child continued to howl and scream “OWIE!” the man grabbed her left arm, looked at the spot where the child pointed, and then dumped some of the sticky soda he was holding in a paper cup over the child’s skin.

The security guard just continued to smile and talk.  The five women cringed and looked nervously away.  The elderly gentleman at the next table sat up straighter in his seat.  Sharon grabbed my arm as I leaned forward…but not a single one of us interfered with the man’s actions.

Finally, the red-bearded man began to push the stroller with the screaming child down the sidewalk as he continued to shout “SHUT UP! What’s wrong with you?  You always do this!  YOU’RE THE PROBLEM!  Every day you create some drama!  Every day! I swear you are gonna be doing this when you’re 35.”  The child’s screams slowly faded away as the father and daughter continued down the street.

After a tense silent moment, everyone at the restaurant finally relaxed and began to breathe deeply.  Conversations began to buzz again as people turned their attention back to their pleasant lunches.  Sharon and I finished our meals and stood up from the table.  We left the restaurant and continued walking down the street, but the excitement of that morning had diminished as I thought about the little girl in the stroller.

Weeks later, and I’m still thinking about that child in Vegas.  I wonder what happened to her and where she is now.  I still feel the shame of not saying or doing anything.  I’m still confused by the whole event.  Do I have the right to interfere with someone else’s parenting, especially when I have never had children?  I don’t know how to raise children.  I’ve never been a parent.  I just know how it feels to be a child who needs love, attention, and acceptance…

Edmund Burke once said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”  How good am I really if I defend myself but let others, especially children, suffer?  People don’t always regret the things they do.  They regret the things they don’t do.  I sincerely regret the times I saw abuse occur and I did nothing.

I should have done something that day…Yeah, I really should have done something.

Tolerance and Hope

For a quiet moment, I stared anxiously at the beautiful black and white photo that was printed on the small plastic white card I held reverently in my right hand.  I couldn’t stop staring at the face of 13-year-old Helen “Potyo” Katz.  I couldn’t seem to turn away from the haunted look in her large dark eyes.

“Bring your card over here,” I suddenly heard the young museum docent say to me.  “If you place the card into one of the computers, you’ll get a print out about your child.”

I smiled and followed the young woman over to one of the computers that was lined up against the far wall.  I placed the card into the slot on the front of the computer.  A few second later, I picked up the single sheet of paper that had seeped out of a nearby printer.

Helen “Potyo” Katz

The same black and whiter photo of the young girl with the large dark eyes stared up at me from the page.  I quickly read through the text that was printed on the pure white paper.  I suddenly found myself choking back tears as I read the last two paragraphs.

“Potyo and her mother were immediately separated from her brother and sisters, and they were murdered.  Potyo was 13-years-old.”

“Potyo was one of 1.5 million Jewish children murdered by the Germans and their collaborators during the Holocaust.”

I took a deep breath and looked at the three tall card dispensers that were stationed at the front of the room. Each dispenser held stacks of white plastic cards.  Each card presented a picture and name of a child murdered during the Holocaust…

1.5 million children…

Looking at the stacks of cards I still couldn’t seem to wrap my head or my heart around that number.  I was still contemplating this fact when my friend, Allison, walked up beside me and asked if I wanted to go downstairs and attend the presentation by the guest speaker. Affirmatively shaking my head, I quickly followed Allison to the elevators and we rode in silence down to the lower level.

Allison and I had decided to tour the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles, California, because we both have a huge interest in the Holocaust, World War II and the events of the 1940s.  The exhibits at this museum were beautifully and respectfully designed to honor the people of the Holocaust.  I was pleased to see though that the museum also paid tribute to all people who were targets of hate crimes. All minorities that have suffered violence and discrimination are respectfully honored at the Museum of Tolerance.  Looking at the displays was a sobering and profound experience.

Allison and I took our seats in the large back room on the second floor that had been set aside for presentations.  As I sat comfortably in the plastic seat on the end of the third aisle and waited patiently for the presentation to begin, I glanced anxiously around the room.  I was pleased to see that the audience contained many young people.  A large majority of them were with a school group.  Others were sitting next to their parents.

A few minutes later, a short, slender man with dark hair walked up to the front of the room.  He introduced himself as Michael though he was known to his family as Miki.  For the next hour, I sat riveted to the presentation as Miki spoke of his experiences in the Auschwitz concentration camp during the Holocaust.  I found myself swept away as he talked about the separation of his family, the condition of the concentration camps, and the brutality he witnessed on a daily basis.  Listening to Miki’s words, I couldn’t keep the tears from flowing down my face.  I wanted to scream.  I wanted to cry out loud at the details of Miki’s horrific life story.  I had to continually turn my head to the open space on my left and forcibly breathe out to keep myself from screeching.

I was not alone in this grief.  Miki’s story was so intensely horrific that the audience reacted in shock and despair.  I looked around the room and saw many people in tears.  I struggled to hold in my sobs as I noticed a young blond boy gripping his mother’s hand and patting her arm as tears ran down both their faces.

When his hour was over, Miki still had not completed his entire story.  As terrifying as the story was, I didn’t want Miki to stop talking.  This moment was so incredibly enriching to my soul, I didn’t want it to be over.  I have read many books about the Holocaust, but hearing a first-hand account made the events more personal and realistic.  I wanted to remain connected to the people in that room, who were joined together to honor the tragedy and awesome courage of another person’s life.

When Miki had to end his presentation, Allison and I stood in the line of people walking to the front of the room to thank Miki for telling his story.  Allison and I patiently stood by as we watched audience members move up to Miki one at a time.  Now, I didn’t fight back my tears as I watched the young blond boy and his mother approach Miki.  Miki asked the boy how old he was to which the boy responded “Thirteen.”

“Thirteen!” Miki repeated.  “Aaahhh…that’s the age I was when I was sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp.”

Now the boy and the man stood staring at each other for a moment of profound silence.  Then, the boy suddenly threw his arms around Miki and held him in a long embrace.  I watched as the two generations held onto each other, trying to find some peace and understanding in life’s atrocities.  When the two separated again, I watched in awe as other young kids—13-, 15-, 17-year-olds—each took a turn to shake hands or hug Miki while thanking him for sharing his story.  I watched as one young girl with long dark hair offered her hand to Miki.  Her chin quivered violently as she tried to hold back the tears that were swimming in her eyes.  Miki took her hand looked into her eyes and said, “It’s okay to cry.”  He paused and then added, “And it’s okay to laugh.  We are all just human.”  The young girl’s tears now spilled down her cheeks as she embraced Miki quickly and then ran from the room.

Allison and I were the last in line and now we stood in front of Miki.  As Allison talked to him, I addressed the short, dark haired, elderly woman standing beside him.  Miki’s wife and I stared at each other for a second before embracing.  As we held onto each other, words just slipped out of my mouth.  I whispered to her, “You are beautiful.”

The woman pulled away and stared at me for a minute.  “Oh, no, not me,” she now said with a gentle laugh as a sweet blush eased across her cheeks.  Her suddenly rosy face and shy smile gripped my heart.  “Of course, you are,” I answered as the woman embraced me again.

I turned then to Miki and choked on my words as I said to him, “It was an absolute privilege to hear your story.”  Miki and I shared a gentle hug.

As I pulled away and turned towards Allison, I suddenly heard Miki’s wife excitedly say to him, “Did you hear what she said to me?  Did you hear what she said?!”

I turned back around to find the woman beaming joyfully at me as she stood next to her husband.  She seemed to be waiting anxiously for me to repeat the words.  “I told her she was beautiful,” I said even though my tears caused me to choke on the last word as the woman’s smile suddenly radiated out around the room.  I wanted to run back to her, take off the big white sunglasses she was wearing, stare into her eyes and ask, “Hasn’t anyone ever said that to you before?”  The woman seemed so pleased to be addressed in such a manner.  I suddenly realized that it was not ego that made her want my words repeated, but a deep aching need that we all have to be acknowledged and humanized.

I turned around then and followed Allison out the door and down the hallway to the bathroom.  I stepped into one of the stalls, leaned my head against the wall, and cried.  I don’t think I’ve wept that hard in a long time.  After a few minutes, I stepped out of my stall at the same time Allison came out of hers.  For a moment, we stood staring at each other as we noted our tears…

And then suddenly we smiled…

And then we started to laugh.

Because it really is okay to cry…

And it is okay to laugh.

Allison and I walked out of the bathroom and back into the main hallway.  We looked at a few more exhibits until the museum closed at 5 pm.  I didn’t want to leave.  I loved being at the Museum of Tolerance.  I certainly wouldn’t say it is the place that make me the happiest.  I certainly wouldn’t say it is the place that makes me feel the most alive.

The Museum of Tolerance, instead, is the place that makes me feel the most human…

I was always concerned that in years to come people would forget about the Holocaust, that it would simply over time just fade away into the pages of dusty old history books.  I think about the evil that people continue to do to each other.  I worry about the disrespect we, including myself, demonstrate to each other on a daily basis…

….but then I think about all of those young people who cried, and laughed, and honored a Holocaust survivor…

And I know there’s hope for the next generation.  Oh, yes, there is tremendous hope for the generations to come.

Mother’s Day

“A queen is wise.  She has earned her serenity, not having had it bestowed on her but having passed her tests.  She has suffered and grown more beautiful because of it.  She has proved she can hold her kingdom together.  She has become its vision.  She cares deeply about something bigger than herself.  She rules with authentic power.” –Marianne Williamson

My mother has always been my best friend.  Maybe because we saw the world in a way that other people around us didn’t understand.  Mom and I shared visions and predictions.  We would get into long conversations about spirits, reincarnation, out of body experiences, and angels.  My mother would grip my hands, stare into my eyes, and say, “I can’t talk to anyone else the way that I can talk to you.”

You see, my mother was a seer, a psychic, a sensitive, a traveler, a seeker…and, for her, it was a horrible burden.  She would continually be misunderstand, mocked, and criticized.  She would suffer through 40 years of domestic abuse that left her depressed, bitter, and broken.  She would only regain her spirit after my father passed and my mother suddenly found herself alone and free to be the woman she was meant to be.  She began to reclaim her life.  She would then tell me the most amazing stories about God and the universe and I was always so eager to hear and to understand.

I share my mother’s gift.  I carry the same burden.  It was a tremendous relief for me when my mother finally found the strength to reveal her true self, even though there were still days that it left her lonely and confused.  Her visions and intuition had caused her to be lonely and isolated.  Being a sensitive, my mother was always aware of the thoughts and feelings of the people around her.

One night, I was with my mother in a hotel room in Atlantic City.  We had just spent a long week traveling through the northeast together, exploring Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, and Niagara Falls.  I don’t know if it was exhaustion or exhilaration from our 8-week wander through America, but my mother sat on the bed with her legs tucked up under her.  She started to talk about her life, her visions, and the suffering she endured.  She began to say to me, “I know people don’t like me.  I know most people laugh at me.  But I can only be who I am.  I can only be me.”  Though her voice was strong and her declaration clear, the tears running down her face were breaking my heart.  I sat down on the bed beside her and wrapped my arms around my mother and together we shared tears and strength and visions until mom became silent and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, mom was up early.  She was dressed, packed, and ready to continue our journey through America.  I was so happy that I was able to share this adventure with her.  I was so glad I got to live with her every day for the last nine months of her life.  Though my mother always doubted herself, she taught me to be strong; she taught me to be proud of my visions; she taught me to enjoy all of the wonders of the universe, both on earth and in heaven.  And this I can say with deep love in my heart and joy in my soul: My Mother was the greatest woman no one ever knew.

Happy Mother’s Day, Momma.  I love you.  I miss you every day.

And to all of the mother’s, all over the world, who love their children, who teach their children respect and kindness, who hold their children close to their breast and even closer to their hearts, who give their children strength to stand on their own two feet and yet pick them up when they fall…

To all the mothers who give of themselves without asking for anything in return; who stay in the shadows and allow their children to shine…

To all the mothers who are proud of their children even when sing off-key, miss a dance step, or strike out every time they are up at bat…

I know who you are…

I had a mother just like you…

And though it may not always be said, you are always loved and honored…if not by family, if not by neighbors, if not by friends…

You are held in the greatest admiration of God and the Blessed Virgin…

They see your suffering; they know your heart; they understand your deepest intentions and listen to your continuous prayers….

Giving birth was a blessed event and a blessing event…

You are honored…

I wish you all a very Happy Loving Mother’s Day….

Hummingbird

One night, I was leaving work around 10 pm.  Though I was exhausted, I didn’t want to go right home.  There was one place I wanted to go before I drove back to my apartment complex.  Though in my head, I knew that my plan wasn’t a great idea, my heart kept telling me that I needed to go.

I had been living in Antioch, Tennessee, a suburb of Nashville, for about two years.  I loved to listen to the radio every morning as I drove to work.  It was rather strange though to hear beautiful music mixed in with the horrible crimes that  were described in the morning news reports.  I was surprised by all the violent stories that were reported on the radio as I drove to work every morning.  Throughout the day, I would contemplate the stories I had heard.  Sometimes, I would have to fight back tears.  I just couldn’t understand how people could be so vicious to each other.  I cried when I heard about the young pregnant woman who was walking down the street and was almost run over by a truck.  The driver was afraid the young woman would report the incident so he shot her to death.  Another story focused on a young man who had moved to Nashville to pursue a music career.  While showing his visiting family around the city one day, he was shot to death in front of his mother and aunt when he had stopped to ask for directions.  Every morning, while driving to work, I would hear stories of more brutality and deaths.  I continually felt overwhelmed and distressed by the violence in an otherwise amazing city like Nashville, Tennessee.

One morning,  as I drove to work, I listened to the news reporter tell the story of a young 18-year-old girl who was raped and strangled to death in the bathroom of a local Laundromat.  The story sent chills through me for several different reasons.  It was so sad that the woman was so incredibly young and died so terribly.  However, I was also disturbed that the Laundromat was located just a block away from where I lived.  The Laundromat was just on the corner of my street.  I thought about the situation throughout the day.  Finally, I decided that on my way home from work that night I would stop by the Laundromat.  I didn’t mean to be morbid.  I didn’t want to go inside.  I didn’t want to see the actual setting of the young woman’s death.  I just wanted to sit for a moment in my car in the Laundromat parking lot and offer up a prayer, a blessing, to the young woman who had lost her life so tragically and so close to home.  I just didn’t want the young woman to feel so alone in her tragedy.

I left work that night and drove to the Laundromat in quiet contemplation.  I had been to this Laundromat before.  I knew it well.  The bathroom where the crime occurred was directly across from the entrance.  A wall of dryers lined both sides of the bathroom door.  Three rows of washers sat in the center of the large room.  Folding tables were along the front by the big plate glass windows.  Though the Laundromat was opened 24-hours, I didn’t expect anyone else to be around that night.

I turned off the highway and drove down the street to the Laundromat.  I took a deep breath and pulled into the parking lot.  I parked in a space up front…and caught my breath.

Oh, my gosh…I was surprised to see that there were a lot of people in the Laundromat.  They weren’t there to investigate or to morbidly view the crime scene.  The people were actually doing their laundry.  I sat in my car and watched through the large front window as three women chatted and laughed as they busily folded their underwear and linens at the front tables.  Two young men were in the back pulling clothes out of the dryers.  Several other people were leaning up against washing machines quietly sipping out of Starbuck’s cups.  The only evidence of the young girl’s passing was yellow crime scene tape that was plastered over the bathroom door in the back of the room.  I stared at the people and felt the urge to scream out at them.  “Don’t you know a young woman just lost her life here?”  I had to consider that maybe they didn’t know.  Maybe they didn’t listen to the news or pay attention to current events.  Maybe these people, who were busily folding their sheets and sipping their coffee, just didn’t care.  Maybe having clean underwear was more important than the death of a beautiful young girl.  Maybe…but I just didn’t understand how clean clothes could be so incredibly important at that moment.  Yeah, a young woman died…but life goes on…and we all need clean underwear.

I said my prayer for the safe passage of the young woman and then started my car.  I drove home in awkward silence even though I was the only one in the car.  My exhausted mind was twisting with confusion as I pulled into the lot, parked my vehicle, and went inside my apartment.  I walked into my living room and turned on the news.  A picture of a young woman suddenly appeared on the screen.  She has spiky red hair.  Green inky tattoos graced her bare arms.  I stared at her face as the reporter announced that the young woman who had died at the Laundromat had been identified.  I don’t remember her name.  I just remember her beautiful wide green eyes staring up at me from the television screen.  I went to bed that night and cried myself to sleep.

That incident happened about 10 years ago, and yet I have been thinking a lot about it over the last few weeks for some reason.  I think, as I age another year, I become more aware of the preciousness of life and how fragile all of us are.  Life is too short…It goes too fast…and I don’t think I want to spend my final years worrying about doing laundry or chores or anything that doesn’t provide me with bliss and joy.  I’ve become selfish with my time.

Several months ago, I asked a friend if he wanted to go out to lunch with me.  He responded, “I can’t.  I have a lot of laundry to do.”  I told him the laundry would still be there when he got home.  He still, however, refused.  I took myself out to lunch.

I know that on my deathbed I will have lots of regrets.  But I guarantee, I will not be lying there thinking, “Damn, I should have done more laundry.”

Life does go on…we just need to determine how we are going to spend the precious time we are given.  We just have to determine when life itself becomes more important than our mundane existence.

I don’t have all the answers.  I struggle, too, with procrastination, indecision, anxiety…

But I do know this…as I am writing now about the death of this beautiful young woman I noticed something fluttering to the right side of my face.  I turned and glanced out my window…and looking right into my eyes was a tiny sweet humming bird.  It is the first one I have seen this season and I’m surprised that it came right up to my window.  The small bird stared at me for a while through the thick glass before doing a quick spin and then flying away….

Oh, yes, sweetheart, I got your message….you can rest in peace.

True Justice

Sometimes, it can be hard to teach a basic reading class to college students who don’t like to read.  Most of the young students I have in my class are more interested in their cell phones and social media.  They prefer to play video games than to finish the assigned readings from their textbooks.  It’s nothing my students are actually doing wrong.  It’s just the way things are today.  Very few people enjoy opening up a book.

So before the start of the new term, I read through all of the stories in the basic reading textbook and choose the ones that I think the students would find the most interesting.  Most of the students are in the Criminal Justice program, so I concentrate on the stories that reflect their field of study.  I assigned several of the true crime and short story murder mysteries for the students to read.  This strategy worked very well.  The students were reading the stories and coming into every class ready to discuss the information.  I really love it when students are excited to discuss the readings because it provides me with tremendous insight and amazing observations about the work and the students themselves.

So, last Monday, when the students were settled into their seats, we began to discuss the reading assignment for that day.  The essay focused on the true story of Eric Clark, a teenager who is imprisoned for shooting and killing a police officer.  Many people, including Eric’s mother, claim that Eric is schizophrenic.  Eric believed that the city is full of aliens and the only way to stop them is with bullets.  The essay considers if Eric is really troubled or if he is a cold blooded killer.

I was pleased that the students had a lot of different opinions about this situation and the discussion became very exciting as students continued to debate if Eric was mentally ill or guilty of his actions.  This is what really brings me alive as an instructor.  I love and encourage my students to give their opinions.  Many of them are highly intelligent, some of them are hysterically funny, and others…well, just need to go back and read the assignment again.  But as an instructor, I love it when students feel free and safe to share their independent thoughts and opinions.

After discussing Eric Clark for a while, the students began to discuss other cases that had been in the news.  Jody Arias, George Zimmerman, Amanda Knox, even OJ Simpson all came up in the discussion.  The students became very excited about who they thought was guilty or innocent.  The students discussed who they thought should have gotten life or the death penalty and why.

Other than every now and then guiding the discussion and throwing in the few points of law I knew, I refrained from sharing my personal opinion.  I wanted the students to think for themselves without being influenced by their instructor.  Many students believed in the death penalty.  I refrained from telling my thoughts on this.  I don’t agree with the death penalty.  Why not?  Because I think it is too easy.  I think that when people commit a crime, they should live out the rest of their days contemplating the evil act that they did.  I remember hearing about one judge who ordered a convicted killer to write out and send a sympathy card to the family every year on the anniversary of his victim’s death.  The judge believed it was a way to remind the convict of what he did.  I agree.  Instead of the death penalty, criminals who commit crimes should have some reminder every day of the crime that they committed and the people that they hurt.

I was influenced in my thinking by the book The First Man In Rome by Colleen McCullough.  I love this book which details the start of the Roman Senate.  The book stressed the punishments for criminals in ancient Rome.  Instead of going to jail or being put to death, criminals were made outcast in society.  The criminals were shunned.  They lived in society but could not be a part of it.  They could not get married, vote, own any property, hold jobs, have children.  Criminals could not be talked to or acknowledged by the rest of society.  The ancient Romans believed that this was the worst punishment that a citizen could endure.  The enforced isolation caused the criminals to more away from the town or commit suicide.

I was thinking about this situation when one of my students suddenly exclaimed, “Casey Anthony was at the Palm Desert mall a few weeks ago.  Yeah, the woman who got away with killing her kid, she was here in town and she was shopping at the mall.”

Several of the students turned to look at the woman who had spoken and asked her for details.  “How do you know?  Were you there?”

“No,” the first student answered, “but my sister works there.  She suddenly saw this huge crowd of people in front of Charlotte Russe and was wondering what was going on.  She walked over and found that people were circling around Casey Anthony.”

“Well, what happened?” Students all suddenly started talking at once.  “God, what did they do?  Man, she is so evil.  Did your sister talk to her?”

“Oh, no,” the student responded. “It was really bad.  People were gathered all around her, totally blocking her on all sides.  They had her completely surrounded.  Of course, some people were taking pictures.  But the majority of the people were dumping their soft drinks on her and throwing food and other stuff at her.  Everybody was swearing at her and, man, people were spitting on her.  It was really gross.  Just really nasty spit.”

“Was Casey upset?” someone asked.

“No, in fact, she actually stood there just laughing at everyone.  It was a really nasty laugh.  But people wouldn’t let her go.  They kept surrounding her and trapping her.  They were right in her face, screaming at her.  Security finally had to be called to get her out of there.”

As I listened to the student’s story, I suddenly felt a chill go through my body.  I suddenly felt myself in Casey Anthony’s place.  For most of my life, I have been bullied and felt like a real outsider.  It used to be a very painful situation.  Fortunately, I like myself now, but I know many young people commit suicide for being bullied and targeted.   I shivered as I thought of Casey Anthony being held up to public humiliation.  What would it feel like to be trapped in a mob of people who surround you, scream at you, ridicule you, spit on you.  Yes, Casey may have laughed, but we are all social creatures.  Some part of Casey, some human part, has to be slowly dying inside.  I suddenly felt like I was going to be sick.  What could be more devastating than to be publicly hated?  I’m not saying Casey Anthony didn’t deserve it.  No, I’m saying, I think the Roman Senate had it right.

My Mother’s Dream

My mom and I would sit side by side on the small square concrete porch in the back yard on hot summer evenings in Kansas.  Our small house had no central air conditioning and there was nowhere else to go to escape the humid heat of the day.  We would just sit together and watch the day slowly disappear as we told each other our dreams.  My 10-year-old self talked about castles, princesses, movies, music, poems, and Donny Osmond. I would weave complicated future lives for myself of success and fortune.  My mother would just listen.  She never took a side.  She didn’t encourage nor discourage my dreams.  She would take a neutral position believing that would keep us both safe.

My mother was a woman of simple dreams.  She didn’t wish for large houses or fancy cars.  She didn’t want stylish clothes or expensive jewelry.  That summer, the only thing my mother dreamed of was an apple tree.

My mother sat on the porch one lazy evening.  In the glow of the setting sun, she stared out at our large fenced-in backyard.  I followed her gaze but couldn’t figure out what was so fascinating about the brown grass that was slowly decaying under the pressure of the hot summer sun.  I looked at the patches of dry, dusty, balding earth that pushed up sporadically through the grass.  My father had continually screamed at his four children to stop running, sliding, playing, and wrestling on the lawn.  But without video games, DVD players, cell phones, and stereos, there was really nothing more to do.  My siblings and I continually played outdoors.  One of our favorite games was to chase each other up the high hill that was part of our backyard.  We would tackle and then drag each other down the hill by the arm or the leg.  It was always more fun after a rainstorm.  We would pull and push each other down the hill and into the small puddles of mud that formed on the flat land that lead up to our back porch.

My mother’s eyes, however, saw something completely different as she stared into the distance.  “I want an apple tree,” my mother stated in the strongest, most determined voice I had ever heard her use.  “I want an apple tree to plant in this back yard.  Wouldn’t it be amazing, Jamie?” she asked, trying to draw me into her fantasy.  “Can you imagine just walking out our back door and pulling apples right off of our very own tree in our very own backyard?”  Her voice grew lighter as her eyes sparkled.  “I can make fresh apple pies for us.  I can make apple fritters and turnovers.  We would be cooler, too.  We could sit under the shade of the tree and get out of the heat for a while.”

I just smiled at my mother and didn’t say a word.  I was just a child and couldn’t see her vision.  I just saw a dry, dusty yard; the earth cracking apart from the heat.  My mother’s apple tree dream didn’t inspire me.

But Mom was determined.  The next day, she searched through the plants, flowers, and trees in the garden shop at our local K-mart.  This isn’t the first time Mom had browsed through the garden section.  Mom loved plants and had been successful with small gardens she had created in the back yard.  She grew roses, marigolds, tomatoes, and green beans.  Why not an apple tree, too?

Mom carefully looked through all of the trees and finally held one up triumphantly.  “Look at this one, Jamie,” she shrilled.  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

I silently stared at the 3-foot stick Mom held in front of her.  That’s all it was.  It was just a long stick with the far end encased in a plastic-wrapped wad of soil.  Mom lovingly placed the apple stick in her basket and carefully pushed it over to the check-out.

I watched as Mom opened up her small wallet and warily counted out four dollars.  She hesitated for just a moment as she held the money tightly in her hands.  She looked at the stick for a moment and then down at her money.  She glanced back at the stick and then down at me.  Then she slowly handed the money over to the cashier.  Even at a young age, I knew how much my mother had to scrimp and save just to have those four dollars.  She rarely spent any money on herself.

“We’ll have fresh apples, Jamie.  The whole family will enjoy the fruit from this tree.  We’ll make all kinds of pies and tarts.  This is going to be a great investment.”  On the way home, Mom talked on as she tried hard to justify her purchase.  I think part of her felt guilty about spending the money on something she really wanted.  Thinking she could share it with her children and that the family would benefit was the only way Mom could ever spend money on herself.

When we got back home, Mom proudly carried the apple stick out to the back yard.  At the base of the hill on the right side of the yard, my mother dug a hole about two feet deep.  She carefully stuck the now-unwrapped soiled end of the stick down into the hole.  She quickly maneuvered the dirt around the base.  Mom smiled then as she slowly backed away.  Suddenly she jumped forward quickly as the apple stick began to tilt to the left.  Mom quickly righted the stick and packed the dirt a little tighter on the left side.  My mother then sat back on the ground and smiled.  She lay back on the grass just staring up at the stick for a few minutes.  I’m sure she was seeing the tree as if it were already full grown and looming over the backyard.  I’m sure she was imaging the tree blooming, the apples growing, and the shadow of the tree hiding her from the sun.

Over the next several days, my mother tended loving to her apple stick.  It wasn’t an easy task with four energetic, rambunctious children, who had nothing to do on a lonely summer day, running around.  My siblings and I continued to play in the back yard.  Mom would run out of the back door every few minutes as she saw her beloved tree tilting dangerously to one side.  “Be careful,” she would scream to us.  “Watch out for a tree!”  All four of us would stare at Mom in surprise.  A tree would be easy to see and avoid.  It proved to be a little more difficult to sidestep a stick.  My siblings and I continually and accidentally ran and stumbled over Mom’s apple tree.

My mother kept a close eye on her tree over the next few days.  She constantly shouted to her children to be carefully when we were running, playing, and dragging each other around.  Over time, we became use to the tree sticking straight up from the ground.  However, the stick was hard to see in the dark.

One hot June night, with her children and a few neighbor kids playing tag in the backyard, Mom finally allowed herself to join in the fun.  In the dark, she whooped and cheered and laughed as she chased the kids around the yard.  Mom was having so much fun being a child again, she wasn’t paying any attention to where she was going.  Suddenly, all of the kids froze as we heard a crack, snap, and then a sad anguished cry.

My brother ran into the house and flipped on the back porch lit.  Now, the yellowish glow revealed the source of the strange noises.  My mother sat sprawled on the ground.  Her beautiful apple tree was now lying across her legs.  My mother reached down and picked up the stick.  The single stick of my mother’s apple tree had cracked and split right off at the roots.  I just remember the sadness in my mother’s eyes as she looked up at me. Anguish creased her face as she struggled to hold back the tears.

“Momma…”  I said slowly.

“It’s okay,” she answered as she brushed her hands over her face.  She pulled herself slowly up from the ground, still holding her apple tree in her hands.  “It’s okay,” she said.  Then she chuckled sarcastically, “I did it myself.  I killed the tree myself.”

Mom then slowly walked toward the house as her kids followed her like little ducklings.  We were all silent as we climbed into bed and went to sleep.

My mother was in the back yard early the next morning.  I watched through the bedroom window as she slowly dug up  the ground and pulled out the last remnants of her destroyed dream.  I watched my mother refill the hole with dirty as tears rolled down her face.  My mother’s tree was gone. My mother’s dreams were gone.  I’m sure she grieved, too, over her hard-earned money.  She had felt so guilty spending on herself in the first place.  Now, it felt like such a waste when she could have used the money for her children.  I watched my mother carry the roots of the tree over to the trash.  She paused before she dumped the bundle inside the large garbage can.  I swear I saw her pray over the tree before she let the roots drop from her hands.  She looked down at her dirty palms as tears again rolled down her face.  Then, she wiped her hands in the grass, took a deep breath, and smiled as she walked in the house to awake her children for the morning.

My mother kept her dreams private after that.  She never asked for anything more.  We would sit together on the back porch on summer evenings.  We were silent as we would sit side by side and watch the sun go down.

Christmas Eve 2014

I woke up early on Wednesday, December 24, 2014, Christmas Eve.  I had no plans for today…or tomorrow, for that matter.  I am single with no children.  My sisters and brother are in Kansas while I’m in California.  My close friends are celebrating with their own families.  I don’t have a tree or lights or presents.  I wasn’t concerned, though.  Many of my Christmases have been spent this way. Though I dream of some day celebrating Christmas in all of its traditional glory, this Christmas Eve began as just an ordinary day.  I decided to start my day with my usual diet coke at the local McDonald’s.

I walked up to the counter and the clerk smiled at me.  “Large diet coke again this morning?” he says as he greets me.  They know me here.  I work at the trade school in the same commerce area.  I come here to decompress in between classes.

“Yes,” I answered, “but I think I’ll have breakfast this morning, too.  I’ll also have a Sausage McMuffin.”

“Good,” the clerk smiles as he punches a button on the register.  “That will be $1.29.”  I look at him in bewilderment for just a moment.  The man just continues to smile.  “The drink is on me this morning.  Happy Holidays!”

I smile and thank him profusely as I hand him my money.  I get my food and drink and sit at a booth in the back.  I take out my book and eat as I read.  I linger for a while even after I have finished my meal.  It’s nice to relax and read without having to hurry back to my students this morning.

Suddenly, my mind was dragged away from my book as I heard a loud booming voice.  “Not what is expected,” the strong bass voice sang out. I watch as a heavy set, bearded, dark haired man in a dirty, black t-shirt and jeans sits down a few booths away from me.  I think for a moment that he is listening to music.  I thought he was singing out to music on an iPod, and for a moment, I am jealous.  I have always wanted to sing in public places.  But I never can.  I immediately choke on the notes as soon as I hear the sound of my own singing voice.  So now, I watched the man intently as he continues to sing and suddenly I realize that he wasn’t listening to any music.  There were no devices around him providing sound.  And now he has begun to shout instead of sing.  “Not what is expected,” is no longer a tune but a deep menacing demand.  I suddenly thought that maybe I should leave now.  Being a woman alone, I feel intimidated in situations like this.  But I couldn’t stop watching this man as I wondered to myself, why do I sometimes confuse different with danger?.  I don’t get up from the table; I don’t leave.  Instead of being afraid, I am mesmerized today.  I listen to the man as he continues to sing/shout, completely oblivious to the people around him.

Suddenly the man got up from his table and walked over to my booth.  He suddenly stopped and looked at me.  “Do you have some change?” he asked.  “I need some food.”

I stared at the man for a moment, and then I opened my purse.  I kept the contents shielded from his view as I pulled out a few crumpled dollars.  “I don’t have any more than this to give you,” I told him and he was grateful. He smiled and accepted the money.  He thanked me and walked away.  I watched as he walked over to another table and asked a woman with two small kids for a few dollars.  She, too, opened her purse and handed him some money.

As the man walked away from the woman, an elderly gentleman who was sitting a table away from me suddenly called out to an employee who was cleaning tables in the dining room.  “You always let people like that in here?” the elderly gentleman demanded.

His question triggered my own.  “How would you define ‘people like that’?  What does that mean?”  I wanted to ask him.  But I didn’t confront the gentleman.  Instead, I wanted to laugh.  Here I was sitting in McDonald’s with my large bag full of books and journals.  I wore no makeup, did not fix my hair.  I was wearing my old gray sweats and a large oversized pullover.  I smiled as I thought, That guy could be talking about me!  People like that….

I felt tears burn my eyes then as I sipped my free drink.  I considered the man in the dirty, black t-shirt.  I considered this day, Christmas Eve.    Someone had given to me in my unkempt, messy, unattractive state…and I had given to someone else.  And so it goes…Christmas Eve…and I suddenly understood the meaning of Christmas better this year than I ever had before.

A few minutes later, I decided to leave.  I grabbed my bag and headed for the exit.  A small girl was leaning on the door holding it open for the customers.  I smiled at the child who couldn’t have been more than 7-years-old.  “Are you holding the door for everyone today?” I asked her and the child looked up at me as she smiled and shook her head.  “That’s very nice of you,” I said.  “Thank you so much.”  Her only response was another big smile.  I know I have been blessed today…And so it goes…on and on…the innocent giving….the glory of the Christmas season.

Differences

I had been sitting at a small table in the back of McDonald’s for about twenty minutes when a large group of handicapped adults and three caretakers came into the restaurant.  They sat at four tables not far from mine.  I tried not to stare but I was fascinated with the caretakers as they efficiently attended to their clients.  I have to admit that I never would have had that much patience.

I picked up my pen and looked back at my notebook just as I heard extremely loud, barking noises coming from one of the handicapped adults.  I have to admit the sounds actually unnerved me at first.  I looked up but I couldn’t see who was making the noises.  A wall blocked my view of the whole group of handicapped adults.  I looked away but could not stop hearing the loud guttural growling sounds.  The thought went through my head that maybe I should leave, but I really didn’t want to.  I was relaxed and happy and enjoying my morning.

The noise continued however, as a memory flooded into my brain.  When Mom and I were traveling through the southern states several years ago, we stopped at a place in Cullman, Alabama, called the Ava Maria Grotto.  Known as “Jerusalem in Miniature,” the grotto is a four-acre park that displays 125 miniature replicas of well-known historic landmarks, which were created by Brother Joseph Zoettl, a Benedictine monk.  Brother Joseph used many materials, from stones and concrete to clips and buttons, to create his designs.

Mom and I roamed through the grotto looking at the beautiful reproductions of cathedrals and basilicas.  We ended our journey in the small gift shop.  As we were looking around, Mom and I noticed a bus pulling up in the parking lot.  The bus was decorated with the name of a local school for handicapped adults.  Several of the people getting off the bus were adults who appeared to have some sort of medical condition.  Some people were in wheelchairs; others were being guided by the attendants who led them into the shop.  I was standing on the opposite side of the room.  I was across from the front door, Mom, and the adults who just came into the shop.  One of them was a middle-aged man.  He was extremely tall, well over six feet, and very thin.  He wore jeans, a red windbreaker, and a blue baseball cap.  He lumbered towards Mom and loomed over her.  My tiny mother only came up to the middle of his chest.  She had to crank her head way back on her neck to look up at his face as he stood before her.  Nervously, I started towards them and felt a slight panic as the man suddenly lifted his hands, gently laid them on Mom’s shoulders, and stared into her eyes. Then he gently said, “God bless you, my child.”  He pulled his hands away then and lumbered off with the rest of his party.  I finally made it over to Mom’s side, where she stood looking stunned.  She didn’t move at all; she just stood staring straight ahead.

“Mom?  Mom, are you okay?” I asked her as I touched her arms gently.  She turned slowly to look at me.

“Did you see his eyes?” she asked me.  “They were glowing.  They were so golden.”  Then she smiled a slow sweet smile.  “I was just touched by an angel,” she whispered.

We didn’t talk at all as we walked outside, climbed into the truck, and drove away from the grotto.  In fact, we didn’t talk for a while after that.  Mom seemed lost in the experience for a while.  I don’t really know what exactly happened, but Mom was quiet and peaceful as she leaned back in her seat, just watching the scenery roll by as we headed towards Mississippi.

Suddenly, the memory faded as I looked up.   One of the patients in McDonalds walked over to the trashcan that was close to my table.  Then he abruptly turned and was standing right next to me.  He was about 5’6” tall and very thin.  His straight black hair hung down over his plastic glasses.  The thick glasses emphasized the way his eyes crossed uncontrollably.  His hands flapped in an agitated gesture and his feet took turns tapping against the floor.  Then suddenly he smiled a radiant smile that displayed crooked, broken teeth.  “Hi,” he shouted to me.

“Hi,” I answered back and the most amazing sense of calm came over me as I talked him.  “How are you today?” I asked him.

“Great,” he answered a little too enthusiastically as his hands continually clapped together.  “How are you?” he asked.

“Great,” I told him.

He smiled again, “Okay…bye.”

“Bye,” I said and waved to him.  As he waved back, I suddenly felt incredibly peaceful.  Is this what Mom had felt at the grotto?  However, I didn’t feel that I was touched by an angel.  I felt instead touched by a human being.  I felt touched by another person and that touch lead to a connection with God and the universe.

As the attendants began to lead the handicapped adults out of the restaurant, I started thinking about all the times I came home from school in tears.  I remember my mom hugging me as I cried on her shoulder, “Mommy, what’s wrong with me?”  She had no answer for me mainly because she didn’t believe anything was wrong.  However, I had always felt different from other people.  I have never seemed to fit in anywhere.  Because of the bullying I had experienced, for most of my childhood, I thought it was wrong to be different.   As a result, I found myself shying away from people who are considered different, unpredictable, or unstable.  Now, I know better though.  As I watched the attendants lead their clients out of the restaurant, I felt  a sense of belonging I hadn’t ever known before.  People are not angels.  There are just people who can touch others in an angelic way and our differences are a reflection of the many facets of a loving God.

Fast Food Lessons

I admit that I was a little aggravated last Friday as I stood in line to place my order at McDonald’s in Indio, California. I had stopped by the fast food restaurant on my way to Laughlin, Nevada, which is about a three-hour drive from my home in Palm Desert, California. I had a simple plan. I would leave my apartment at 8 am and be in Laughlin around 11:30. I decided to stop for breakfast along the way.

Instead of sitting in the long line at the drive-thru, I decided to go inside the restaurant. I was third in line behind a family of five and two elderly gentlemen. I didn’t think this would be a problem. It shouldn’t take me long to get my food and then I could be on my way. There were a few problems though. First, the three children in the family couldn’t decide what they wanted to eat. I tried to keep myself calm but I couldn’t help emitting a few dramatic sighs. My right foot began to tap in a steady loud beat upon the floor. After a few minutes of deliberation, the family finally came to an agreement and placed their order.

Finally, the two elderly men stepped up to the counter. The cashier, who looked to be about seventeen-years-old, took their order and then told the men the price of their meal. “That’s not right,” one of the men started screaming. “You’re over charging me. There’s no way in hell that can be more than 10 dollars.” When my rolling eyes finally settled back down into my face, I looked at the young clerk, and suddenly felt tears threatening to fall. I watched the young girl’s hands shake and heard her voice quiver as she went back over the order with the two men. It all became rather confusing as the two men continued to yell and berate the young woman as she tried to help them.

I suddenly saw myself so many years ago. My first job was at a McDonald’s in Kansas City, Kansas. I remember days when I went home in tears because of the vicious words and hateful attitudes of some of the customers. Now, my heart was breaking for this young woman who was just trying to do her job. I felt really ashamed of my own impatience then and took deep breaths to adjust my own attitude as I watched the young cashier bravely try to work with the two men. Finally, one of the managers came up to help and the situation was settled.

I walked up to the counter then and said hello before placing my order. Then as I paid for my food, I whispered to the cashier that she was doing a great job. She smiled at me for just a moment and then bit her lip as shook her head. I stepped away then and stood off to the side as I waited for my food to arrive.

The two elderly men’s order was ready first. I watched as they stepped back up to the counter and then yelled at the young clerk because the order wasn’t correct. The two men laughed to each other and whispered loudly words like “idiot” and “stupid.”

As one of the men walked by me, he stated, “Stupid people here don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Well, you could have a better attitude!” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I had shocked myself by answering back to him.

“What did you say?” the man suddenly leaned towards me menacingly. “What did you say to me?”

And I said it again. “You could have a better attitude!”

He stared at me for just a moment before shouting, “You try standing in line for 15 minutes and see how you feel.”

He turned to walk away from me as I stated, “I just did. I was standing behind you! I heard every mean word you said. You didn’t have to be so hateful!”

I don’t know if he had heard me because he was already walking to a table as I stepped up to the counter to get my order. I grabbed the bag, said thank you to the clerk, and walked away. I had to pass by the table where the two elderly men were sitting to get to the door. As I walked by I heard one of them muttering, “Damn stupid woman telling me I should have a better attitude.”

I didn’t say anything then, but I walked out of the restaurant with my head held high. A strange sort of energy suddenly filled me. In the past, I never would have said anything to anyone who was so abusive. I would have kept my head down. I would have run for cover. But, now…I am happy that I am beginning to find my own voice…not just for myself but for other people.