Is There a "Diva" Chromosome?

I went to a funeral today, and, I shamefully admit, I was glad that I was not one who had to sit in the "reserved" section. The dearly departed was the ex-wife of my mother's first cousin. Though I am saddened by her loss, I was far enough removed from the spectacle that I was able to sit towards the back and watch the family. She had suffered from chronic medical issues and this was the time, expected but not expected, when she didn't get to leave the hospital and go home with her family. I arrived just over an hour before the services, with time for visitation with the family. No family was present, except for her grandson, my fourth cousin, who unsurprisingly, has not had much experience with funeral home customs, and he stood out in the hall chatting with all the men-folk as they came in. No one was in the visitation room but visitors until a half-hour before the service. Finally, my male cousin arrived and did his duty meeting and greeting and making small talk until time for the service. As the time rolled around to begin, the daughter still had not arrived, and her brother started talking about her need for "everything to be about her." Apparently, between coordinating schedules, doses of Dutch courage, and a heaping helping of Xanax, she found time to be more fluid than the rest of us do, and had, um, sort of not been on time for either the visitation the night before or the funeral services that were scheduled to begin. Thirty minutes after the pastor had seated the immediate family to begin the funeral, the daughter arrived with her father, my second cousin, and ex-husband to the dearly departed, among much jollity among the male funeral goers about getting lost on the way (they had been there the night before).

 
This was a difficult moment, because I am a firm believer that no one should judge the bereaved in the way they do (or don't) handle their grief. Yet, I'll admit, the conventional part of me, the part of me that thinks that everyone should put away those white shoes after Labor Day, go to the Fourth of July Parade, and BE ON TIME FOR YOUR MOTHER'S FUNERAL, was scandalized. Not even in the gossipy, "OMIGOD, Becky, look at her butt. It is so big" way, but in the "This just ain't right" way. I try hard not to be judgmental, but, I judged. I judged. Even during the service, she was so overcome by Sarah McLachlan's "Angel," her son had to leave his row with the pall bearers and support her in her DFO moment (Done Fell Out) while I watched and wondered if anyone else was visualizing pitiful dogs and cats from the ASPCA commercial. Even in the recessional, her son and daughter-in-law had to prop her up as she lolled across their strong and sympathetic arms out to the waiting limousine.

I don't make people wait for me to be ready. I am always the one catching the DFO, and have never, never, never made a scene in public, except for the Terms of Endearment moment I had at the hospital when they were failing to provide adequate hospice care to my mother. Even then, it wasn't for my sake, but for my mother - a world class attention getter - who was absolutely worth making a scene for if it would make her more comfortable in her last days. I have always been that way. When I was two and in the hospital, when they told me to be brave and hold still for the IV, I did. I don't try to top others when describing my pain, physical or psychic, as if loss and despair could somehow be ranked. I try to reassure wait-staff if they make a mistake with my order. I try to be absolutely invisible in every circumstance, never calling attention to myself in social settings. Anyone who has ever seen me teach or talk in faculty meeting would scoff at this, but it is absolutely true. Where is my Diva gene? Do I want one? Maybe a little bit of one?

And This Old Dog Is Still Learning

The old part of town, with a sign
in case you can't tell.

Warning - history teacher reflecting on a learning day coming right up. I took a road trip today. This narrative is really long, too, because I had the whole trip back to think about it. What better idea than to go somewhere I've never been when violent thunderstorms are predicted for the afternoon? I have never been to (only through) Corinth, MS, and decided I wanted to see the Civil War cemetery there. I didn't turn on Google Maps on the phone; I like to explore old towns by riding up and down the streets. The methodology for finding any ball field at any school has its own set of rules, but I'll give you the cemetery rules now. Ball field rules some other time, but they both have the same first rule. First rule - find the water tower. That's easy to spot and always close to the middle of town. Second - find the old part of town, which usually is right off the square. If there's not a square, head for the area that doesn't have sidewalks. Third - look for the First Baptist Church. EVERY town in the south has a First Baptist Church, and it's usually in the oldest part of town. Fourth - look for the cemetery. It always works. Not today. I got as far as #3, smack in the oldest part of town, and then...nothing. 

Battle of Shiloh Interactive Center

I started looking for higher ground (in the old part of town), knowing that cemeteries are usually placed on high spots. I started a cruising pattern, and, lo and behold, I found Shiloh Street. Knowing that the retreating Confederate Army from Shiloh regrouped in the already heavily fortified city of Corinth, I made a mental bet that the road probably came close to the path both armies followed as they marched south from Shiloh and then I realized Shiloh Road follows the railroad tracks. (Well, duh. "And it's one, two, three, what are we fighting for?") I saw a sign for the Corinth Battlefield  Unit of the Shiloh National Military Park Interactive Center (it was a big sign). It wasn't on Shiloh Road, but I could get to it from there. It is a lovely place, despite its history, and is sited, appropriately, on a hill overlooking the railroad - certainly a spot to make a stand. The visitors' center is a very modern, low built facility, and I appreciate that choice, because it allows the natural terrain and features to be the dominant landscape so that visitors can get a tiny glimpse into the hills, if not the mud, guts, weeds, and blood that would have covered the original scene. I didn't go into the center, though, because I only had an hour or so and I wanted to see the cemetery. 

In Vicksburg, the Confederate 
dead got a few more embellishments 
than the simple marble maker,

I don't mean to seem ghoulish, but I like visiting cemeteries, particularly historic cemeteries. There are an endless variety of headstones carved with florid sentimentality, simple stones with only names and dates, and, often, with the old cemeteries, markers with no names at all. Speaking of cemeteries, where was the Corinth battlefield cemetery? Is there a cemetery? Holly Springs, Oxford, and Vicksburg all have their town cemeteries (in the old part of town and close to the churches), and the Confederate dead lie not far from the Union soldiers. In every case, however, the Confederate section is far more ornate and significant in looks, but the Union soldiers are all decently placed, with markers indicating as much information as the Quartermaster's Office would have had at the time. I'm not surprised that the Confederate sections are so ornate. Johnny Reb has had a long time to stew over it all and isn't over it yet. More important to me, though, is that they lie together sharing in death the land they would not yield in life.

To my shame, I had run out of ideas on how to find the cemetery now that the usual tried and true method of dead reckoning had failed. If it wasn't by the churches and it wasn't by the battlefield, where could it be? I pulled into the McDonald's parking lot and noticed I not only couldn't get a WiFi signal (at McDonald's?), but I only had 3G service. The National Weather Alert that sounds like a drum and bugle corps was working just fine, though. I got at least five alerts, just in the time I was parked. Of course, I checked Facebook in case something Really Important had happened on my feed, and had a post from a friend with a video of Aretha Franklin's performance of Rolling in the Deep (from her new album) on David Letterman. I was thrilled, because I had heard the studio version, and though I think it's better than brilliant, I thought it was overproduced and was anxious to hear it performed live. But I only had 3G service. This meant that I could not get to that song until I got out of Corinth, or maybe even Mississippi. I opened Google Maps and asked for the location of the Civil War Cemetery . It wasn't anywhere close to where I was. As a matter of fact, it was on the other side of the tracks (cue foreshadowing). I had to go back to the main highway and start over. Believe me, my pride can take it. I started into the area where the cemetery was marked by Google Maps and immediately noticed it was not in the affluent part of town. As a matter of fact, I was in the poorest part of town I'd seen yet. I'm not talking about a fancy neighborhood that has gone downhill. This neighborhood has always had little plots of land, little houses, mostly wooden, and dirt driveways. This part of town has always been the poor part of town. Not a lot of people were out. I don't know why - it was close to four o'clock and school was out. It was strange that I didn't see many people around, although the area clearly was inhabited. Then I passed the giveaway.  

Corinth, MS Black History Museum

I passed the Black History Museum, beautifully maintained, but small, and in the historic "black part of town." Again, I made the decision to bypass the museum and head for the cemetery. And why was I heading for a Civil War cemetery in this place? Believe me, the irony of where I was, what I was doing, and the fact that I was still wanting to hear Aretha Franklin sing did not pass me by. Frankly, I also was thinking a lot about what Nina Simone had to say about Mississippi right about then. So, there in a part of town with small, neat, unimposing houses was a National Cemetery. I realized right away it wasn't just a Civil War cemetery, but, literally, the National Cemetery for the city of Corinth and the final resting place of its soldiers, known and unknown since the Civil War. I never did see that fancy stuff I expected to see around the Confederate part, but I did see markers dating back to the Civil War, a few with names, but the vast majority were 6"x 6" plain stubs of marble placed in the ground to mark the places of unknown soldiers. I saw the sections with soldiers from Korea, from World War II, Vietnam, and, finally, at the northern end (I have no idea if that was intended). the Union dead. No Confederates. Only Union markers, most of them anonymous. 

National Cemetery, Corinth, MS

I don't know if you can see the detail on the photo to the right in this picture, but it is marked , "4058, Mary Waters and Child."  I always enter a cemetery with a proper attitude of sincere respect, but that marker made me weak at the knees. The only explanation is that they were camp followers, probably with her husband, on his campaign, and had lost their lives. Once I got home and was simultaneously writing and researching this piece, I read that typhoid and dysentery were as common as bullets for causing deaths in the Corinth campaign. 

Unfortunately, I have become a walking barometer, so with a storm front coming in (and those crazy alerts screaming on my phone via 3G), I was out of breath and aching, and unable to go past the second row of any section. It was time to head home. The storm was coming and I wanted to get home before it became a dark as well as stormy night. On my way out, I found the marker that explained the origins of that National Cemetery. After the war, the U.S. government had to bury its dead properly (note that there was no Confederate government any longer, so the plans didn't include those dead).

Corinth battlefield cemetery
 immediately after the engagement
and then after they were relocated
 to Corinth National Cemetery

It established fourteen National Cemeteries to be built to provide a final resting places for the Union dead. Soldiers who had died in West Tennessee and Northern Mississippi were disinterred from their original burial ground and reburied in Corinth in land purchased by the U.S. Government. As I was writing this narrative, trying to find a bit more background information, I saw that there are only three Confederate dead in that cemetery. There were nearly 6000 people buried there by 1870. The marker went on the say that in the 1870s, all of the National Cemeteries were redefined to provide burial places for any honorably discharged members of the military.

This railroad crossroads had strategic
value second only to Richmond, VA

I never did find where the Confederate soldiers were buried. I did find out that there were two campaigns in Corinth. The first was after Shiloh, when the Confederate army scampered through and were able to scamper out, leaving the Union command believing they had the town and surviving soldiers surrounded. When they entered the city in 1862, the fortifications were there, but most of the citizens. as well as those experienced rebel soldiers, had left. It became a Union stronghold. Of course, the Confederates had to have Corinth back. It wasn't just a stop on a single railroad line, it was the crossroads of two major rail lines, critical lifelines of communication and transportation. In 1864, the Confederate army launched an offensive to regain the city, but, outnumbered 2-1, were defeated.

My brain is still spinning.  I still don't know where the Confederate soldiers of Corinth are buried. I don't know if the black community grew around the cemetery or if the cemetery was placed in the area of the old slave quarters, but I do know that if I had had the good sense to stop at the Battlefield Interactive Center or the Black History Museum, I would know more and these questions would not be haunting me. As I turned out of the cemetery, I noticed the old street marker said that I was on "Cemetary Road." That misspelling gave me something else to ponder, and wish that I had taken the time and care to stop and ask about. As if that wasn't enough, as I was researching images to supplement the photos I had taken, I discovered a historica marker for something called the Contraband Camp.

Statue commemorating the
Contraband Camp

It seems that escaped slaves seeking asylum would head to Corinth, since it was held securely by the Union Army.They were put to work, but they also were given arms and organized a black army unit of 1000 soldiers. Before today I had never heard the words "Contraband Camp," much less known what it was. And I'm still mostly ignorant of everything but its name. I'm sure I can do a Google search and find out a lot more, but there is no photograph, no narrative, no animated guide that comes close to touching my heart the way the real place does. The part of history that I'm passionate about is not the story of grand armies and the idea that "history is written by the victors," even though all of that is crucial. What touches my soul is when I think how personal it can become: knowing how to find the First Baptist Church in any small town in the south; the little misspelled street sign; the hand lettered sign for the Black History Museum; and a small marble stone that says "Mary Waters and Child."

Those men, women, and children belonged to someone, no matter how poor or how unimportant, and they deserve every bit of the recognition and regard that is given to the generals of those great armies. For the most part, today was filled with new lessons, but an old lesson still proves true. With his typical wit and wisdom, William Faulkner said, "The past is never dead; it isn't even past." I will go back, and it won't be just for sightseeing. I'll start earlier in the day and plan to learn a lot more.

And the beat goes on. And on. And on.

     Time for that "because there is no other human in my world right now, I have to write it down for strangers" overshare. Any time I think I have hit rock bottom, I find that I have sunk even deeper. I have not received unemployment benefits since June, and, after repeatedly calling the regular phone number (your case is still pending), writing emails, and finally finding the "secret" phone number they only answer on Thursdays and Fridays, I received a call that their ruling was put in the mail this morning (so no info before Monday). She wouldn't even give a hint what the ruling is. Looks like my measly $1000 a month total income is about to go away. 

     I met with a headhunter who said she would revise my resume from an education to business resume and send me an exemplar of a perfect cover letter - that was over two weeks ago. Along with that, she said that teachers rarely get a placement in the business world and if I was LUCKY, I might be hired through networking, but never by application.   I suppose that's just not her job since she met me as a favor to a friend and I don't count as a real client. I think can find my own resources for that, though. There are a ton of sleazy employment websites itching to show me the perfect resume. 

With God as my witness the surprise of my life will be if someone ever keeps a promise. I promise my company will coordinate the clean up of your house and contract with cleaners and restorers. I promise my company will assist you with cleaning your ruined house to prepare for an estate sale. I promise I will help you pack for an estate sale. I promise I will help you out with your resume and cover letter. I promise I will get back to you about that legal issue. I promise I will stay in touch with you about the felony burglary of your house. I promise I will call you back. I promise I can find guys to haul away the junk from your ruined house.  

Anyone with the Blue Cross S plan knows what has hit the fan in the past week, so the only doctors and hospital I can use are Methodist (you know, the ones that neglected my mother until she had bedsores, rotating  hospitalists, not one of whom saw my mother twice, and a hospice group that took vacation simultaneously - were you there for the live reenactment from Terms of Endearment?). Did I mention property taxes to the tune of $2400 or so? Finally, I think my entire inflammatory system has gone into shock. GERD like I've never taken Prilosec ever, pounding heart, flamethrowers being fired inside me, and when I bent over to brush my teeth my back went out on vacation. Every freaking muscle in my back is either in spasm (lower back) or knotting into trigger points (upper back). Waiting for eye tics and drooling to come next. I am so, so sorry for those of you whose day is ruined because you have to drive in heavy traffic or that someone at work gave you some attitude. I will trade you gratefully and with no complaints.

If you're happy and you know it, skip this post.

Okay, this one is a downer. That being said, if you're happy and you know it, skip this post.  I went to Memorial Gardens today to visit my mother's gravesite. It was a splendid day, a light breeze was blowing, and songbirds were singing in every tree. The grounds were beautiful, and there were several families there to visit their loved ones. Many, many graves had small American flags blowing gently in the breeze over them. As soon as I got to my  mother's grave, I plopped down next to her (on her left side - my side) and burst into tears. I wish they had been tears of grief or sadness for her loss or gratitude for her peace, but they were tears of shame and recrimination and helplessness for feeling that I had failed her so badly in her last weeks and that I have since made such a cock up of the life she worked so hard to help me make. I have no doubt she is not a peace - she is one seriously pissed off mama. She was not one to forget or forgive, so unlike a good Catholic who can visit the priest for the Sacrament of Confession, I left my confessions at the grave, but departed with only a sense of unending penances. No absolution. Maybe some of you wonder why I articulate something this personal in a public forum. The reason is that there is no difference between thinking it or writing it down in a journal or a blog if there is no one to read or hear it. Sometimes nothing will do but to indulge in Whitman's "barbaric yawp" just to confirm that I am still here. "Hello? Hello? Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at home?" Damn you for giving it a name, angst, Søren Kierkegaard. I couldn't go to Greenfield or Trezevant to visit the rest of my family because I'm afraid to take a trip with the giant crack in my windshield. I think I will feel better when I go, though, because they were more likely to seek solutions than find fault. Maybe I'll gain some insight from them. Here's hoping I have an epiphany - preferably not one that blinds me while I'm on the road.

Why does a good word like "rumination" have to be spoiled by association with a cow chewing its cud?

I have faked my way into the age of technology pretty well up until now, but I am stumped.

Where does one find liner notes in the digital age?

The Allman Brothers "Live at the Fillmore East"

Back when artists actually released LPs, there was always that big old album cover and often an insert that contained not only information about all the composers, session musicians, back up singers, and guests, but also told wonderful anecdotes about the writing and recording of the songs. If you were really lucky, you listened to an FM station with a DJ that shared even more anecdotes, the history of the artist(s), and probably some freaky gossip like the time Duane Allman swallowed an entire bottle of Coricidin D while pulling an all-nighter working out a cover of Statesboro Blues. Not gossip, BTW.

Now, performers (I hesitate to use the words "singers," "musicians," or even "artists") barely release a CD because almost everyone just downloads singles. Is there anything on those CDs except credits?

Is there any place online to find that old school information? If I want to know who is singing backup to Kanye West on "Gold Digger," I can go to You Tube and recognize Jamie Foxx. If I really want to know who is singing "Lover Man" with Duke Ellington and it's not on You Tube, I'm SOL and even if it were, I wouldn't want to bet money on knowing a songstress from the 1930s who doesn't get her own credit on the track title. You can bet your sweet bippy that if Ella Fitzgerald sang with Duke Ellington, her name was right there next to his. AND JUST WHO IS BACKING UP LES PAUL ON CARAVAN? That bassist probably went home complaining, "I've got blisters on me fingers!" See? If you had a great FM DJ or had read the liner notes, you would have just gotten that joke about the blisters.

This is what Google has made of me: an instant gratification information junkie. My friend AJG has just taught me a new tech-acronym: GTS. I had to Google it. Thankfully, it is the perfect expression for that compulsive need to get to Google NOW.

Sunday evening coming down, with apologies to Kris Kristofferson

Stay with me here. It's a bit of a meander - just like my drive this afternoon. It's been almost twenty years since I last went to my father's house in Tipton County, and, with the sun out in a blue sky, I decided to make my Sunday afternoon drive that way. I have been listening to a lot of post/pending apocalypse zombie/Cthulu type audiobooks lately, so I thought I would listen to something to cheer me up. I chose the Blind Boys of Alabama album, Higher Ground, which is a gospel-crossover album that I love because they cover a lot of soul and R&B classics. I started off with "People Get Ready." Nothing better. I took the turn to the house that I thought was right and reminisced about the few years that my father hosted an entire afternoon and evening of potluck, socializing, 4-wheeling fun for the Craigmont faculty. He never understood why I begged him to change the name of this annual faculty picnic, which he called "The Bush Bash." I was smiling to myself and enjoying the memories and thanking my father's father who passed on to me his sense of direction, because I drove straight to the house. Just as I passed the house and continued to the tiny Clopton United Methodist Church, Jimmy Cliff's "Too Many Rivers to Cross" was playing:

Many rivers to cross
But I can't seem to find my way over
Wandering I am lost
As I travel along the white cliffs of Dover

Many rivers to cross
And it's only my will that keeps me alive
I've been licked, washed up for years
And I merely survive because of my pride

And this loneliness won't leave me alone
It's such a drag to be on your own
My woman left me and she didn't say why
Well, I guess I'll have to cry

Many rivers to cross
But just where to begin I'm playing for time
There have been times I find myself
Thinking of committing some dreadful crime

Yes, I've got many rivers to cross
But I can't seem to find my way over
Wandering, I am lost
As I travel along the white cliffs of Dover

Yes, I've got many rivers to cross
And I merely survive because of my will

Okay, now the sun was setting, the clouds were covering the skies and I could barely see the road for the tears. Just about the time I worked my way back to Austin Peay Highway and turned south, the Blind Boys, Ben Harper, and Ben Harper's wah wah pedal came out to send me home to "Higher Ground."

Thank you God, for all our blessings, but today is a day for Psalm 100: "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with a song."

What would I do without other people's words?

Better Out than In?

    In this post, I have taken Raymond Chandler's advice to "Throw up in your typewriter every morning. Clean up every noon." I just picked another time of day.  This is appropriately in a blog, even though it started as a Facebook post. It is that long and that narcissistic, so here's fair warning: if you read on, it's going to be a real bummer. Also, if you continue to read, I want you to understand that this contains highly charged emotional and political statements. I won’t say it’s a manifesto because I have a lot more to say than what I will write here. I certainly will not unfriend you if we disagree. I hope I can expect the same from you. Surely, the point of our trying to establish a society in which we can live peacefully is that we can disagree and still continue to respect the other person’s point of view and continue to work together to solve problems. 
      I have always considered myself one of the American middle class:  college education, stable job, well-insured, guaranteed pension, and although my income taxes, insurance premiums and social security took a gouge, I was repaid by the safety of my neighborhood, the quality of the schools, clean food and water, the protection of police, fire, and emergency services, decent roads, reasonable laws, quality health care and guaranteed income in my retirement years through my pension, Medicare, and Social Security. I am a sole head of household, so the few shekels that were left at the end of the month went into a tax-sheltered annuity, with the idea that the money wouldn't be taxed until I retired and was in a lower tax bracket. That was my world and I was five years away from full retirement. 

      One day, whatever part of my brain that controls good judgment and decision making short-circuited, and I resigned my very nice job at a very nice school and got a job at a small school in a small community and a much smaller salary. I thought it was charming. My new principal was often confrontational and irritable, but I put it down to an "act" that he thought would give the semblance of power and control. You all know the story by now of how I had the best scores and evaluations of the 8th grade teachers but, because I was "untenured," had no job security. Yep, that principal with a total of seven years in education (four of them in elementary) was able to take away not only my job, but my insurance, my contribution to the TN Retirement System that will cost me $1500 a month for the rest of my life, and left a black mark on a resumé that had taken 25 years to build, and is otherwise pristine, if I say so myself. For the rest of my life, I will have to mark "yes" to the question, "Have you ever failed to have a contract renewed or been released from any contract?"  And he didn’t have to give one damn reason why. 

      Those of you who have kept up with this drama know all this and you know how I have worked so hard all summer to apply for teaching positions in public and private schools in five counties in three states. Thank you for all your support. It has meant the world. I have applied while I was watching news stories of school employees who were cheaters, liars, thieves, and even pederasts. Surely, the schools could use someone with my credentials and my spotless record!  Hah. They are advertising nationally for economics teachers! I'm a shoe in! Hah. These days, I am teaching myself Excel so that I might get lucky and hired as a front desk receptionist somewhere. It's okay - I understand that despite my cum laude B.A. from Rhodes, my Kappa Delta Pi honors for my M.A.T. from the University of Memphis, my self-taught use of personal and professional technology, fifteen years of conducting teacher professional development sessions, and the same fifteen years of writing school improvement plans, and chairing state accreditation reports that I am not considered qualified for today’s job market in technical writing or staff training. I don’t understand how writing a technical report on how to apply hemorrhoid ointment needs 5-7 years’ experience before I can be considered competent for hiring, but, hey the employer wants what the employer wants.  I have been searching job sites in both the public and private sector for weeks and weeks, and there literally are thousands of jobs going begging – particularly for health care workers for the Veterans’ Administration. Who is the person; where is the place; when will the time come that will link so many of us who are unemployed with these idiot employers who don’t understand that two weeks of on the job training costs less than going without a position’s being filled for months and months? 

     Did I mention that I had to dissolve my tax shelter retirement fund to pay for catastrophic water damage to my house that occurred when I was the sole caretaker for my  mother and living at her house? Funny thing about insurances. They don’t pay out when the house is unoccupied. I had to pay 20% of the total as a penalty for early withdrawal and pay another 10% in income taxes, and the pittance I have left is all I have to live on until and unless I get a job. If I run out of that money, my house and all of its contents will sit on the street corner until the bank comes to get it, may they all die from some grim lung disorder that ends in “-osis.” 

     God must have decided it is too much for me to get one little ray of sunshine in my life after letting me get a job interview scheduled today.  He let me schedule a doctor’s appointment. “Oops,” they said,” Blue Cross is denying you.” “Yes,” I whispered. “I am on COBRA now and I have paid the first of my $508 a month premiums so that I can have continuous coverage.” “Well,” they said nicely, “You go on and have your appointment and we will figure it out.”  Later today, I went to Walgreens to pick up a prescription that I have to take as a cancer preventative. It has to be taken ON SCHEDULE every three months. “Sorry, you are no longer covered,” said the bubble gum popping flibbertigibbet at the window.  I explained again about the whole COBRA thing, including the fact that even without COBRA, Blue Cross is supposed to extend my coverage an additional 60 days after the contract ends. “Sorry.”  So, off I drove, feeling those little cancer cells fornicating in my innards and preparing for a population explosion. It's not just the cancer zygotes that had an explosion. I hit a virtual brick wall just as devastating as a real one could ever be. That's it. Like Van Morrison says, "I don't have nothing, except no more."

     So that is the story of why I am writing this overlong and overly personal vomitous harangue. I am a regular person and for whatever reason, karma has decided to test my endurance. So far, the only things missing are the boils.

As I listen to all the nattering nabobs (look it up) in this election season, I have the overwhelming desire to let fly:

• Gays have nothing to do with your health, education, and welfare and that of your family. Let it go. If you use the words “Biblical tradition” to contradict me, let me remind you that slavery, taint of blood, women as chattel, strict dietary laws, and forbidding wearing blended fabrics were traditions, too. Not all Biblical traditions are right and you know it. That has about as much justification as Muslims today who want to institute Sharia law. So put that on your ham and cheese sammich and eat it.
• Abortion has nothing to do with your health, education, and welfare and that of your family. Let it go. If a man could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament.
• Before you even use the words “Socialism” or “Communism” again, you better go look them up and compare them to the word “Fascism.” If you are using those words improperly because you are parroting the taking heads, shame on you. If  you ever have had to or plan to draw Social Security, Medicare, food stamps, workman's compensation, or unemployment, double shame on you.
• Speaking of talking heads: if Al Franken offered to double Rush Limbaugh’s salary to “go to the dark side,” Rush would do it in a second. These guys are entertainers and radio personalities, not educated policy makers who can explain both sides of a difficult issue. Their entire reason for existence is to rile up listeners who will bring in more listeners. 
• So many people have gotten disillusioned by government and politics that they have opted out. You know who that leaves? FUCKTARDS WHO THINK THAT WOMEN CAN REABSORB BABIES CONCEIVED BY RAPE.  It used to be that we knew that all politicians are crooks. Now, they not only are crooks, they are Darwin Award candidates as well. To quote Mark Twain, “He is an idiot of the 33rd degree; he is the scion from a line of ancestors tracing back to the Missing Link.” These extremists not only are off target about the issues that affect Americans, they are damn idiots, too. What other policies are being made by people who are so incompetent and uneducated they think they are qualified to run for Vice-President without knowing the effect of the Versailles Treaty on the politics of the 20th century?  These people literally have been voted into office as judges, senators, and other high ranking members in state and national office. These are no longer the “wing nuts.” These are the regular members of the Republican party now. Mitt Romney is considered too “moderate” for any former Republican candidate to even show up to his nomination. How sick is that? Since when is being a MODERATE a bad thing? The signal I’m getting here is not “Yay, Romney,” but “No, Obama.” Is this a case where someone could nominate the corpse of Ronald Reagan and it would be elected just so Obama would not be?  Please tell me when delegates for a presidential nominee thought it was a good idea to start throwing peanuts at black people, saying, “This is how  we feed your kind?” Of course they were thrown out of the convention and there were apologies galore from the RNC. Nevertheless, they were people who were representing YOU and a candidate for president.  Are you okay with that? I swear, if Richard Nixon were to run for president, I truly think I would vote for him.
• If your number one reason for choosing a candidate has to do with “inherent qualities”  - between the sensation-seeking, arrogant opportunist (you know who that is) and the out-of-touch, blithering idiot who has the visceral fortitude of Gumby and cannot answer a question without a script (you know who that is, too), which one would you choose? Really? Or does it have more to do with the fact that Paul Ryan makes your libido go into overdrive? If you do not believe your candidate will uphold Harry Truman’s dictum, “The Buck Stops Here,” FIND ANOTHER CANDIDATE. Never, never, never vote against a candidate. Only FOR a candidate. It is better to abstain than to choose the "anybody but" candidate. We found out how that worked in Germany in 1933.
• This is the crux of the political question, and Obama said it in his nomination acceptance speech: “Who do you trust  – government or private industry?” The answer to that guides every single political stance you have.  I’ve said it before but I love saying it again, I trust government regulation of my health care ten thousand times more than I do than that of private businesses that make a financial gain in denying my health care. The same is true of voucher schools, which receive $5300 per child in Tennessee for enrollment, but so far have not had to produce any accountability in order to keep their contracts.  Guess what? Nation-wide, K12.com has a 30% drop out rate and a 70% failure rate. If this were a public school, the state would have taken over long ago. Instead, the state continues to give them tax dollars that do NOT go to the public school systems and the legislators say it is worth it because it gives families more choices. In the meantime, I will proudly wear my pink Eugene V. Debs for President t-shirt until it wears out.                         
• Have you ever heard of the Fairness Doctrine?  It used to be that radio and TV broadcasters would have to broadcast equally on opposing points of view. In 1987, the FCC decided that with the proliferation of the internet, cable TV, radio, and social media, people would be exposed to many, many points of view, so the Fairness Doctrine was abolished. Now, your information is determined by the formula, "How much Doctrine can we afford to smother you with?" No fairness there. 
• Forget the internet as your forum for political statements. Call, write, picket, whatever it takes to look your candidates in the eyes and tell them what you think. Also, signing your name at the bottom of an email and forwarding it to ten people is not a legal petition. Sucker. Also, don't let this week's Entertainment Weekly star give you political advice. Nicki Minaj should not be the voice of the vote for you. I think she is pretty clueless about ____ (fill in the blank with anything you can think of and it will be right).

    All this has been written while big, salty tears have rolled down my face as I sit in the parking lot at Panera Bread to piggyback off their wi-fi. The reason I am typing in the parking lot is that the store is closed and I can’t go home until it cools off because I don’t have any air conditioning. I hope I have a job before it gets cold so the cats don’t freeze.  There is nothing left to take away from me – not my pride, not my job, not my money, not my self-esteem, not my hope, and certainly not my faith. The only thing I fear now is a fire or tornado and I cannot rescue my furballs. I have friends, lots of friends, but, my darlings,I love you all and sympathy and friendship are really nice, but the fact is that I still would be happy to exchange places with a raindrop (it has a purpose – a short one, but a meaningful one). I can’t get to sleep before six in the morning and then I dream about unsuccessful job interviews (usually getting lost in the building and being late to the interview), sneaking through an empty house that used to be mine, my parents always walking away from me while I’m screaming in rage for someone to come back (that one’s not too hard to figure out), taking field trips and getting lost from the students, and, my personal favorite – dying in a car that plunges off a tall bridge into the ocean. I see it coming the whole long way. This is every night. Every night. Every night. I can’t remember ever having a pleasant dream. Is there a trick to it? I have tried playing music while I sleep. Nice music. Calming music. Nope. I have tried having the TV on all night playing a beloved movie over and over – Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban or Raiders of the Lost Ark. Nope. Total silence. Other than the tinnitus that makes my head throb, I can’t tell a difference there, either.There is no way I am going to open a bottle of liquor or look into a pill bottle. I know where that road will lead. If I can't stop eating McDonald's french fries, there is no way I am trying anything I know is even more addicting. Nothing helps. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to commit suicide. I want to fight. I want to scream and struggle and curse and find anyone who will listen. I want a job. There it is. I am defined by my job. Teaching is not what I do. It is who I am. My identity has been taken away and I don’t know how to get it back. I am a non-person.
     Every time I walk past the school supplies in Target, I get an anxious feeling. One time, I even bought 2 dozen black pens to put in the Care and Share – just in case. Then there’s the whole part about not having a pot to piss in, too. Whatever anchors were keeping me in place are all gone now, and the challenge is to right myself and hold fast – without an instruction manual, ropes, or chunks of iron. I do not know what to do. There are times when then only reason I go home is because the cats have to be fed. I try to be positive, to get dressed every day, to go out and interact with people, to drive around West Tennessee trying to find anything beautiful in God’s creation that will make me smile. The only one of those that has worked well has been the nature trips.

      God forbid you or anyone in your family have to go through a personal or financial crisis, but if  you are one of the lucky ones who can pay the rent/mortgage, the groceries, insure your property and your loved ones, and have all the “things” you think that make your life meaningful, give thanks, not only to the grace of God, but also to your grandparents and great-grandparents who were willing to walk miles to boycott the buses, to stand in picket lines for days without pay to get decent working conditions and benefits, and who came to this country and were willing to work for pennies and sacrifice whatever it took for the success of their children. We are their legacy, and I wonder if we deserve the sacrifices they made for us?  Is there any person or any thing or any issue you would do that for? For years, I would ask students that question, and to a child, they would all say, “Naw, man.” They were children then. I wonder of that attitude has changed. I also always asked, “What was Dr. King’s dream?” You know, the only person in all these years who could answer it was some little 8th grade boy this past year. “Our teacher made us memorize that whole speech when we were in the 4th grade.”
     If you were at school one famous day in 2006, you heard someone on the intercom say, “If Dr. King were alive today, he would be rolling in his grave.” It was an honest mistake, said during a time of great crisis, but it is true statement nonetheless.  Dr. King, Susan B. Anthony, George Washington Carver, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Theodore Roosevelt have to be spinning right now, or at least trying to cram some more grave dirt in their zombified ears so that they can’t hear what’s going on. Andrew Jackson is probably trying to dig his way up from his spot in hell just to whoop our asses right now. I wish Satan would let him out.  On the other hand, Alexander Hamilton is reclining, enjoying an after-dinner port, reading a good book, and saying, “I told you so.” If you care at all, please look up the people whose politics you don’t know so that you will understand my references.
     Back to Eleanor Roosevelt, whose soul must be one of the greatest ever to grace this earth. She said, “It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.”  Well, Confucius may have said it, too. There are conflicting references. I have cursed, boy have I cursed the darkness, but I am going to try to get my little light to shine. Somewhere there is a corner that is darker than mine.

     This is only the third time since I lost my job that I have come apart at the seams. Thanks to a friend who shared a wonderful letter written by Stephen Fry, I know my mood is like the weather. Sometimes it is sunny and glorious, and sometimes it is rainy and stormy. I will try to carry my umbrella and wait it out, because I know the weather will change. Right now, I’m thinking of a rainy forecast for several days. Just wait it out. Just wait it out.

The self-serving part, the part in which I try to explain my virtues:

     I have never knowingly killed anything but insects, one catfish, and one frog (too young to understand proper dissection). I actually save spiders.  I have never knowingly blackballed another person for a job or membership in any organization, although I did give zero ratings on National Honor Society ballots for cheaters.  I have never taken credit for work or writing I did not do myself (geez, look at the accreditations I have given throughout this missive). I have never cheated at trivia, at cards, or at school (well, except the one time we had a take home test and I opened the book for one answer). I do cheat with Big Fish Games, though. I have never hit another person, although I do regret calling others “ignorant slut,” and “spastic retard.”  For one friend in particular, I want you to know that no matter what, not only have I never said the N-word, I have never thought it, despite the fact that you think everyone in the W-Club does. If calling someone a stupid S-O-B in traffic counts, I am guilty of that.  I probably have, but never meant to humiliate or demean any person (unless that person was being a bully, and then all bets are off). I have tried to teach so that I don't bore students to death and yet get them to absorb something useful. I know for a fact I am responsible for the passing grades in many a college freshman social studies class because my students knew all their countries and capitals.

So here’s the check list for the deadly sins:

• Pride – yep – guilty of that one. Proud of my work. Proud of my students. Proud of my school. Proud of my friends (and their kids).
• Sloth – no more than most.
• Gluttony – moving on...
• Lust – whatever libido I ever had went away after the first dose of Paxil. Don’t even miss it.
• Greed - only for Merrell shoes.
• Envy – nope. I learned this one in a powerful way. As my father lay dying in the hospital, a minister came to visit with the story of a high school baseball player who had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, but, through miracle or medicine, God’s work, and/or prayer (that’s why they call it a miracle), he was cured.  The minister was trying to bring good cheer and hope. I knew that, but I listened to that man tell this story to my dying father, a skeletal figure who didn’t have enough body mass to make a wrinkle in the sheet and I was angry. I was envious that someone lived when my father was going to die. I was envious of every minute I had with my father and that a stranger presumed to come in and interrupt my time. I was unhappy with envy. Then, my father held out his hand and said, “Could we please give a prayer of thanksgiving for his continued good health?” That may have been the day the earth broke open for me to reveal the real face of compassion and empathy. Every evil, begrudging thought I had literally fell away. I even found a quote (of course I did). Socrates said, “Be kind, for everyone is fighting a hard battle.” Good news is good news, no matter what my situation is, and it is flat out wrong to begrudge another person’s success or happiness. In fact, begrudging anything, I have learned, is one of the most poisonous and most misery-inducing actions that anyone can indulge in. In contrast, my mother never learned that lesson, so the last four years of her life, while I was the sole caretaker, I was the recipient of a lot of that vitriol. Yes, I killed the baby Jesus. I deliberately stole her pills so she would suffer all night. I wanted to put her in the nursing home and throw her to the curb so I could sell her house and move to Colorado (with my step-family).  I hated her - she heard me say it, she said. She never put my name on her bank account or on the deed to the house because I was going to rob her blind and run away. In her mind, there was no other reason I would stick around. All of this reflected her greatest fear – being sick, old, and alone.  On the last night of her life, I let the hospice staff remove her heart monitor, so we had no clue how quickly she was failing. I went home like it was any other night. By this point in her care, it was only a matter of time, so my only goal was to hold her hand when she died, because even though she was in a morphine-induced stupor, she had enough reflex to hold my hand and I knew she would know.  At 2:30 in the morning, I got the call she had died. Alone.  I went to the hospital anyways. The staff had washed her, removed all the traces of medical paraphernalia, put her in a clean gown, and pulled the sheet up as if she were sleeping. All I could do was hold her hand until the mortician came. There will never be enough time, enough drugs, enough happy memories, enough encouraging words, or reassurances to take away this pain. Is this the sin I am paying for now?
• Anger - now I come to this one. I had written it earlier with very little comment, because I truly feel that I carry no anger except at any form of injustice and at people who are mean to other people. I have had time to reflect on it, though, and realize that anger is right up there warring with grief and anxiety. I am angry at myself for blaming myself for losing a job when it wasn't my fault. I am angry that, like some sort of rape or physical abuse victim, I have not followed due process for reporting that abuse because I am so ashamed. I am angry at myself because I could not be with my mother in her last hours (multiply that one by a google or two). I am angry that I have allowed myself to get into a paralysis of inertia. I cannot clean the house. I cannot pick up. I cannot do anything about preparing two houses for sale and consolidating those last resources for my last chance at future security. I am angry that I hate to go to parties of any kind because I am so afraid. I am supposed to go to a party Sunday night and I am already sick to my stomach. This party has no strangers, only friends that I see every week at trivia, who have been nothing but friendly and cheerful to me. I am angry that I don't trust my judgment. I am just angry. Dammit. While we're on the subject, does resentment come under anger or envy?  I have a lot of that, too. I will confess that I am resentful. I am resentful that people with ambition take advantage of anyone any time and never look back. I resent the network of friends/relations/fraternity-sorority/church/athletic connections of people who all have each other on speed dial and create a system of incestuous nepotism instead of a meritocracy. I may as well get over that. As it was in the beginning, now and ever shall be, world without end. I resent voice mail. I don’t even have to describe that, except to say that I really, really resent the voice mail that remains unanswered - like the voice mail at certain education staffing offices. This next resentment is really petty, and probably counts as envy, but it is pretty big for me. I wish I were creative in the arts - music, literature, painting, sculpture. Any of it. As it is, all I can do is write about how wonderful artistic achievement is. I am happy, though, that I can write coherently and correctly, if not concisely.

 Remember the line from the Jack Nicholson movie, "Is this as good as it gets?"