Rebellious Mama https://rebelliousmama.com Going against the grain with the wind at my back. Tue, 21 Jan 2025 11:57:55 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.8.1 https://i0.wp.com/rebelliousmama.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/image.jpg?fit=32%2C32&ssl=1 Rebellious Mama https://rebelliousmama.com 32 32 175487414 The Willow Tree https://rebelliousmama.com/2025/01/21/the-willow-tree/ https://rebelliousmama.com/2025/01/21/the-willow-tree/#comments Tue, 21 Jan 2025 11:55:27 +0000 https://rebelliousmama.com/?p=1045

Introduction: “The Willow Tree” is a heartfelt, yet apoplectic, follow-up to “The Road Less Traveled.”  The important conversation relating to the topic of bullying rages on.  Bullying:  the diabolical and relentless attempt by an insecure person (or persons) to willfully humiliate, hurt, and dehumanize another person (or persons) in order to feel a sense of empowerment.  A gaping and infected wound in our society that has metastasized due to the inaction, and intrinsic participation, of those who have voluntarily signed up and are charged with preventing its spread.  We are going in deep to explore why this pernicious issue is purportedly beyond anyone’s control, specifically in schools, and why it continues to worsen rather than improve even with all that is allegedly being done to mitigate both its short-and-long-term damage.  I have a few unpopular, yet compellingly irrefutable, ideas.  

 

 As a general self-imposed rule and disclaimer, I try to not curse in my writing. In my daily life, I am unabashedly fluent in the use of some of the more scurrilous and indelicate wordcraft; but you would never know that because in my writing I consciously resist the strong urge to throw down mud-slinging trash talk to make a point.  (And, by the way, with my high level of fluency, that restraint and self-control is not as easy to do as you might think.)  However, the issue of bullying absolutely incenses me, and I find it nearly impossible to not drop a few unseemly words here or there. Either way, if a simple, yet offputtingly thuggish, word offends you, try to imagine for a moment how recipients of bullying feel as they are verbally, emotionally, and physically assaulted.  Lastly, I am not, nor have I ever professed to be, an expert in behavioral science or social psychology.   Truth and provable facts, common sense, basic humanity, and an overall expected societal code of conduct are non-negotiables for me. Whether you choose to embrace them or not is entirely up to you.  With that being said, consider this a friendly reminder of the fundamental Golden Rule that we – adults and children alike – should all know by now: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”  

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“……or, we can disentangle ourselves from the fray and break free.”  Those were the last words of “The Road Less Traveled.”  An essay written from a mother’s perspective – my perspective – about bullying in schools which, as was the case with my family, resulted in having to transfer my daughter in her 7th grade year from the only school she ever knew into a different, much bigger, local school where we had hoped that she would get a fresh start.  A clean slate, so to speak.  An opportunity for her to break away and become free from the children who bullied, mocked, and ostracized her.  Children who openly and persistently made every effort to humiliate and diminish her without consequence.  Children who, even though she had been removed from the school and their daily view, in no uncertain terms, let her know that they were still thinking about her and that they were not done with her just yet.  So, they poisoned the proverbial well, all but ensuring that the experience at her new school would be a continuation and replication of the exclusion and maltreatment that she had, by force and through no fault of her own, grown accustomed to. She became acutely aware, because it was made abundantly clear, that she would have no friends at the new school either.  This was no aberration or misunderstanding of any kind.  This was a premeditated, calculated, and coordinated act of pure cruelty that included groups of simpleminded tween girls from not one, but two schools who, unpredictably, knew each other from extracurricular activities outside of school.  Ill-natured and insolent young girls who were decidedly and collectively hellbent on making my daughter feel outcasted and unwelcome. Common words like “children,” “school,” and “consequence” are going to be used a lot here because apparently, they need to be underscored and highlighted to garner attention.  Children inside, and outside, schools who bully others for one reason and one reason only – because they can.   Their behaviors are elusive to school officials, evidently, which is why there are no consequences thereby compounding and worsening the impact of bullying over time.  School officials who spend an inordinate amount of time ‘gaslighting’ children, along with parents, in their ongoing efforts to remain off their state education department’s radar.  Time that would undoubtedly be much better spent regulating and curbing bullying rather than making excuses for it.  Even still, when the focus becomes exclusively about the recipients of bullying and excusing the devious and cunning misdeeds of the now emboldened children who lean into their role as a bully, it would appear that the adults who allow it to happen are afforded a pass.   An unspoken and favorable adjudication that allows them to continue to hide in the ‘gray area’ seemingly protected by irreproachability, ambiguity, and substandard policies.  Some of those underdeveloped and short-sighted policies, coincidentally, relate to “HIB” (which stands for Harassment, Intimidation, and Bullying) and have turned out to be nothing more than vague wordsmithing, written by a team of lawyers, intentionally designed to create more confusion rather than conflict resolution.  

 

Note:  Yes, I am fully aware that a large percentage of bullying happens outside of school.  With an easy to use, always accessible, and dynamic electronic extension of their hand, the present-day weapon of choice, commonly referred to as a ‘cellphone’ or ‘smartphone,’ has easily become the most expedient and effective form of verbal (and non-verbal) discord vis-à-vis cyberbullying.  Wielding atrocities and uncurbed cruelty, bullies hide behind a small, protective glass screen as they freely communicate in strings of thoughtless words that are exchanged via text, instant and direct messaging, or any other nefarious means availed to them on unsupervised social media platforms.  Unencumbered by appropriate rules of engagement and apparently guided by their lack of moral principles, they torment, ridicule, and objectify their chosen target.   There is a lot that can be learned from this easy, far-from-kind, and cowardly, method of bullying that I will not be addressing today because this is about my family’s personal experience which is very specific to bullying inside school, not out.  An unfortunate, yet true, account of a brazen group of insecure, angsty, and deeply mean-spirited young girls who have demonstrated that their bullying knows no bounds, in person or otherwise. Even a monkey could figure out that my daughter is bullied outside of school as well, however, what we do not know cannot hurt us.  And we know enough without having to add more fuel to this already uncontained fire.  The writing has been boldly written on the wall; therefore, my daughter is kept far away from all forms of social media making access to her outside of school difficult.  That means that everything that we know and everything that she experiences with bullying is happening inside the school’s walls right under the nose of the adults, who signed up and are tasked with protecting her.  A disappointing by-product of 21st Century academia, among many other disappointments this current Century has produced, is the absence of integrity, empathy, and common sense, which in schools can only be described as an inexcusable offense.  Whittling that further down to the studs, it is the systemic deterioration and dysfunction of the education institutions, commonly referred to as ‘schools,’ under the guise of ‘safety’ and robust policies surrounding bullying and conduct that has found itself fully entangled in my crosshairs which, I’m told and based on all accounts, is not a pleasant place to be.

 

As you can well imagine, changing schools is a process that involves paperwork, acceptances, coordination between schools to share transcripts which includes grades and medical documentation; and then there is the issue of transportation, which, at least at schools in our community at the elementary and middle school levels, is usually not provided in which case families are responsible for ensuring that their child gets to and from school every day.  (And good luck getting reimbursed for gas and mileage from the resident school district.)   Nothing can ever be easy or simple because as a society, apparently, we are not satisfied until we are fully embroiled in chaos.  Because of all of the work involved in changing schools, assuming schools participate in what is called a “school choice program,” it should go without saying, it is neither an easy process nor is it an easy decision to make.  There are several obvious variables and considerations that have nothing to do with the onerous process itself (and no, homeschooling is not an option for our family.)  While the primary focus becomes about completing required paperwork and deadlines on time, it is easy to forget what it is really about, what is at stake, and why you started the process in the first place.  And then before you know it, the change is upon you and it is just as difficult to retract your decision once the process has begun.  As a family who recently went through it, allow me to remind you what is at stake and what it is really about.  But let us first start by dispelling all suggestions to the contrary and accept the fact that parents do not move their children from one school to another for no reason.   There is always a reason just not one that those who sit in judgment and opposition could possibly comprehend. (By the way, those people who sit in judgment and opposition are oftentimes parents who can be credited with raising bullies.  But I digress.)  It is about children who have been intolerably and mercilessly hurt and harmed by other children, and it is about the adults who are all culpable – the teachers, school officials, coaches, and yes, parents of bullies and even parents of non-bullies – who not only allow it to happen, but it is completely plausible that they choose to not address the problem that is literally right in front of them perhaps for reasons that are as egregious as their denials.  Confronting the issue of bullying would require them to look in the mirror and consider their own dereliction, indifference, and lack of oversight.  Because the truth is, bullying is a problem that actually has a simple solution.  A solution that is, by and large, unpopular because it requires self-reflection and change that the majority of people will not undertake; therefore, they remain silent as they keep their heads down to avoid making eye contact with those who see them clearly.  But their silence is louder than their indiscreet avoidance which just means that the now exacerbated problem will continue to further its reach, spread, and remain unsolved.  While it might appear that it is the bullies who are the low-hanging fruit, the truth is it is the alleged adults who have actually emerged as the bigger problem.  And they sit comfortably in ‘The Gray Area’ which is where they hide behind ambiguous policies that are weaponized and used as a shield against their own negligence. 

 

The Gray Area

 

We know that bullying is a deliberate, cold-hearted, and remorseless act of abuse that has the ability to change its form which is why it is sometimes difficult to detect thereby making it nebulous and ‘gray.’  But that wasn’t always the case, not to mention the obvious fact that bullying is not new.  With the help of technology, social media, and a general lack of quality adult supervision, over the years, bullying, has become a catalyst that has caused a debilitating and inevitable splintering inside schools and society as a whole.  The ‘act’ of bullying is often and easily misconstrued and unmanageable because, like every other nasty contagion that mutates, it moves quickly to non-antidotal and widespread proportions.  I can remember a time, not too long ago, when bullying was handled after school at the playground.  It was an organized physical brawl between two (or more) people who had some things to sort out and together decided that the only way to resolve their differences was to beat the ever-loving shit out of one another.  Excitement mounted during the school day as everyone prepared to either participate in or watch this meticulously planned spectacle that some might say needed to happen in order to clear the air.   Surrounded by friends and classmates who came out in droves to support with cheers and jeers until a school official or teacher showed up and broke up the fight.  These fights usually resulted in bloodshed, bruising, and more than likely a temporary suspension from school for all involved.  Injuries that were the visible result of both rage-release and self-defense.  Injuries that were considered to be badges of honor that were earned when a clash of views crossed over a Rubicon and reached a moment of truth.

 

Present day, bullying is different because it has become less of a bloody and bruising physical encounter and more of a ruthless game of mind-fuckery.  A senseless game that causes the kind of hurt that cannot be seen because it is deeply felt in the heart and psyche of the person who, in most cases, neither solicited nor instigated the maltreatment.  It is a game where truth doesn’t exist.  The recipient of bullying is unwittingly forced into a state of submission and is oftentimes rendered defenseless.  So, instead, they retreat, isolate, and become introverted because they do not wish to be lured into a meaningless game that they never asked to play; a game, nonetheless, where they have inadvertently become the target.  A game that has turned out to be an exercise in futility because when school officials who are in a position to stop bullies and restore order look for reasons and proof, they are misguided because the truth is there is no real reason, and because bullying is a game of mind-fuckery, there is likely no proof.   No proof other than the fact that the school officials were informed by the recipients of bullying, and their parents in most cases, but chose to do nothing.  No proof other than a child sitting alone at a lunch table or at a far corner of the playground where they can put some distance between themselves and those who wish to harm them. Unforgiveable and repeated errors of judgment and an overall lack of observation and oversight have dire consequences because it allows bullies to remain unaccountable for their evildoings.  This is the gray area.  A deep chasm where people of all ages come to hide.  It is a place of divisions.  A place where the water between us is muddy and the impenetrable walls that separate us are constructed in a way that repels truth, facts, and evidence.

 

Because the gray area is where lies slowly cast a dark shadow over truths subsequently creating a false reality.  It is becoming a common theme both inside and outside schools which means it is being accepted as normal behavior.  Normalizing these false realities and behaviors while concurrently muddying the truth knows no bounds, age, or circumstance.  And no matter the age or circumstance, it causes further suffering to those who have already been harmed while emboldening their aggressors, the entitled, righteous, and defiant among us, who find joy in tormenting others who they have deemed to be either inferior or just an easy target.  In direct contrast to what school officials, predominantly at the middle school level, would like us to believe, bullying is not a state of mind.  It is not confusing, it is not imagined, and no, it does not actually need to be seen by them in order to be believed or investigated.  The notion that when confronted, a bully will admit to their wrongdoing is ridiculously ignorant.  That sort of naïve and uneducated thinking, from none other than educators, is unsettling and unprincipled as it does nothing more than create yet another opportunity for the recipient of bullying to be humiliated and cast aside.  Because it is in these critical and defining moments that recipients of bullying are, in effect, accused of being dishonest and overly-sensitive attention seekers who are mischaracterized as intellectually impaired and incapable of understanding or reading social cues from others, therefore, their cries for help are not taken seriously.  Which proves to be, of course, a continuation of the maltreatment and pain that is now inflicted upon them by the people who are supposed to protect them.  Because they are not effectively doing their jobs – the jobs, by the way, that they voluntarily signed up to do – they become untrustworthy and unreliable authorities on the matter of bullying.  In schools, these people are represented by teachers, counselors, and high-ranking school officials who take up residence in the gray area.  It seems like a safe place for them to hide.   A ‘smoke and mirrors’ sort of arrangement where they enjoy the autonomy and lack of accountability inside a broken system that creates more problems and distress for those, like my daughter, who are already suffering.  An unreasonable and structurally-flawed system that continues to fail cannot be trusted to know what is right let alone take appropriate action against what is wrong.   A system that once-upon-a-time had a detailed roadmap and mission for success; however, those who are currently in command decidedly squander their position by going off the reservation, and off-record in many cases only officially documenting their opinion rather than facts, thereby covering their tracks in order to avoid unwanted scrutiny and/or backlash.  These are the same people who are quick to elevate themselves high up on a stack of certifications, qualifications, and unrealistic policies that are oftentimes, and have proven to be, constructed entirely of paper lies.  They are motivated only by their own not-so-hidden agenda and goals and will not let something like bullying on their watch stand in their way.  Becoming quintessential ‘gaslighters’ and ‘box checkers’ fully aware of what looks good and what is expected on paper, but because they lack substance and experience in a self-made environment of hardhearted and impervious people, they do not possess competence which, ipso facto, make them unsuitable and unworthy of the important job of judiciously and forcefully curtailing bullying.   The undeniable truth and reminder that corrupt, weak, and narcissistic leadership is a breeding ground for evil-doers and immorality.  We see it playing out on the world stage in politics; we see it in workplaces everywhere; and yes, we see it firsthand in homes and schools where vulnerable children become collateral damage for negligent, egotistical, and self-indulgent adults.

 

All that being said, along with the undeniable fact that bullying is not a state of mind, it turns out that the ‘gray area’ is.  If we can imagine the ‘gray area’ as an actual place, then we can also imagine that its occupants are likely overstimulated people who are pushing and shoving their way inside.    For parents, the ‘gray area’ is a place of comfort, validation, and fellowship as they find themselves shoulder-to-shoulder with other likeminded and equally distracted parents who busy themselves with everything except parenting.  Parents who have been tasked with childrearing and releasing out into the world people who, at the time of their release, should be capable of playing well with others.  While the focus is on the shiny object, which is represented by bullied children and negligent school personnel, the part of the conversation that gets the least amount of attention is the parents of bullies who are hiding themselves away in the gray area.  Present day, the children who can be categorized as bullies – you know the ones, the mean kids – didn’t invent shitty behavior, and truth be told, they aren’t really even that clever or good at it.  In fact, one could make a pretty strong argument that they come by their behaviors honestly having been taught by their first teachers – their parents.  It is not exactly Rocket Science or a complex challenge to connect these dots.  It is, of course, a long-told and well-established tale:  the Apples and Trees Theory.

 

Apples and Trees Theory

 

The Apples and Trees Theory is a tale as old as time.  It is a theory that has yet to be debunked or proven to lack merit or truth.  For those who are unfamiliar with it or have forgotten, it is the not-so-subtle illustration of parents, who represent the apple tree and their children who are the apples that grow, develop, and eventually fall off the tree.  The saying ‘apples do not fall far from the tree’ is a reference to the fact that children, no matter where they go or what they do, are still products of that tree and the roots from whence they came.  Which just means, in simple terms and at their core, children are, more often than not, identical replicas of the people who raise them.  As a parent, we constantly hear and see stories about other people’s parenting practices.  Sometimes we applaud their efforts because that is what we are told we are supposed to do; however, some of us outliers find ourselves cringing because we are horrified and appalled at what we see and hear.   Notwithstanding the fact that we have been conditioned and reminded to be a supportive member of this ‘village’ that we keep hearing so much about, some of us frequently find ourselves internalizing our disgust and disapproval.  Which then evolves into an uncomfortable and isolating situation because we feel guilty for judging others who are outwardly insisting that they are benevolent and active village people who are just trying to do their level best to keep their head above water.  Call me a skeptic, but I just don’t buy what everyone is trying to sell.  With bullying running rampant and gaining momentum with each passing day, it would be to no avail to try to convince me that everyone is as altruistic and tenderhearted as they claim to be.  That being said, it is safe to say that I neither subscribe to nor do I believe in the alleged propriety, equity, or virtuousness of the village.  And this is the part where parents, self-described village people, are going to cry foul because it hits a sensitive nerve that no one wants touched.   But, suffice it say, I’ve reached the threshold of the gray area, am crossing the line, and I am not only touching that nerve, but I am pressing down hard because enough is enough.  ‘It’s not my kid’ is a commonly overused phrase that has become popular for a reason.  It is used almost every time a parent is confronted with the fact that their child did something that was deemed inappropriate or off-putting by those in a position to mildly intervene.   But statistics, along with your vehement denials, betray you because reports and cases of bullying are on the rise which means that the odds of it being your kid are staggeringly high.  So, if that’s true, then I have to ask – if it’s not your kid, then, pray tell, whose kid is it who is wreaking havoc and terrorizing other people’s children?  At first, I believed that the parents who came out strongly and aggressively in defense of their child were acting on a natural instinct to protect their child’s virtue and reputation.  But then I realized that the defense was flawed and misleading because the truth is parents will never be able to see wrong with behaviors exhibited by their children when those behaviors mimic their own.   Apples and Trees and all that.   Two ideas that cannot co-exist and are not mutually exclusive is the notion that defending bad and unacceptable behavior is somehow equivalent to being protective.  Because the truth is, if we really want to get to the bottom of the problem and stem the damage bullying is bringing to bear on society as a whole, then we have to begin at the root and branch of that apple tree.  And that would be you and your example.  Words, actions, thoughts, and misdeeds are seeds that are planted inside homes and they influence your children’s behaviors outside of the home.  It is your words, actions, thoughts, and misdeeds that go with your children to school which is where they practice what you preach.

 

Oak or Willow

 

A year has gone by, and my daughter is well into her 8th, and final year of this level of Hell, otherwise known as Middle School.  Maybe you are wondering how she is doing.  While we embarked on the change of schools with high hopes and optimism, we learned rather quickly that what was a dumpster fire at the small school was a full-blown inferno of bullying at the big school.  Even with all that we thought we knew up until this point, somehow, we were insufficiently prepared, and it didn’t take very long for us to be set back on our heels and lose our footing.  The combination of shamefully ambivalent school officials, who have presumably decided that if they do not acknowledge bad behavior then they are not required to thwart it, along with ungovernable, entitled, and toxic middle school-aged girls, is a recipe for permissible lawlessness. That being said and even with the best of intentions, our plan to improve our daughter’s middle school experience obviously backfired in a spectacular fashion.  We had a decision to make and ultimately determined that, while both evil, the smaller school was the lesser of the two, therefore, she has been transferred back to her original school where all of the bullying started.  At a minimum, the smaller school is a familiar environment, and there is comfort in familiarity even for kids who are bullied.  You know what you are going to get and, for the most part, who you are going to be getting it from.  Sadly, the girls who bullied, and continue to ostracize and bully my daughter, experienced no maturity or emotional growth in a year’s time.  And because they have never been required to face any consequences for their bad behaviors, they have only improved upon them.   

 

There is a resonant quote from The Fires of Heaven which is in Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time series. “The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived.”  It raises questions about how we perceive the structurally inherent differences between strength and survival.  On one hand, and at first blush, an oak tree is considered to be tall, stoic, and strong.  But when viewed more closely, it’s true nature is less about strength and more about stubbornness.  It stands tall, but refuses to budge in which case it can snap and break with one strong gust of wind.  A willow, on the other hand, is flexible and willing to bend with the wind allowing it to remain in one piece when the wind passes.  That is my daughter.  She is the embodiment of a willow tree that bends and swerves with the wind, not against it.  She makes a conscious choice every day to not allow it to break her.  An inherent characteristic deeply steeped in patience, courage, and true strength that few people possess.  Indeed, there is a simple solution to combat bullying.  There is an antidote, an effective counteracting agent and quick fix that can stop the spread of this contagious and fast-moving societal affliction. It is a choice that we can all make.  It’s called kindness which, as it turns out, is not just a word in the dictionary rather it is a voluntarily mindful and meaningful way of life.  I will leave this with one last thought from James M. Barrie who authored Peter Pan.  “Shall we make a new rule of life from tonight: always to try to be a little kinder than is necessary?”  Oh, Mr. Barrie, what a different world it could be if we all chose a little more kindness.

 

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The Road Less Traveled https://rebelliousmama.com/2023/12/27/the-road-less-traveled/ https://rebelliousmama.com/2023/12/27/the-road-less-traveled/#respond Wed, 27 Dec 2023 12:49:53 +0000 https://rebelliousmama.com/?p=909

I did something I never thought I would ever do.  In the spirit of transparency, I have to admit that I judged others for doing it which must make me an unreliable hypocrite whose word cannot be trusted.  And that strange and unexpected plot twist would be very possible without the benefit of evidentiary and justifiable reasoning. It is not lost on me that from the outside it probably just looks like quitting.  Or running away.  However, on the inside, and coming from someone who admittedly seems to be hellbent on learning things the hard way, it can only be described as a desperate act of resignation with a heavy dose of anger thrown in for good measure.  Maybe there is some truth to the whole “desperate times call for desperate measures” decree that is liberally dropped in and out of circulation more often than previously thought.  Even with the understanding that acting out of desperation is oftentimes a provisional sideshow, an otherwise manufactured distraction, that we call upon when we need time to reflect on our situation from a safe distance while concurrently taking a much-needed breath.  Or in my case, maybe that wasn’t it at all.  Maybe the universe just got bored or tired of watching me flail around aimlessly with my hackles up, so it stepped in and forced the change upon me leaving no room to challenge its decision and in no uncertain terms.  Having said that, as someone who doesn’t normally resist change, it was no easy task for me to relinquish control to the universe and accept its forceful intervention.   The change that was, in all likelihood, inevitable flew directly in the face of my strong belief system that has been hardwired since, well, since I was born.  I was raised to believe that quitting, also known as starting something and then stopping before it has been sufficiently completed, broadly implies a lack of motivation from an unambitious poor sport with a lazy attitude.  Notwithstanding the fact that I am slightly OCD, have a nonsensical need for symmetry, and generally dislike loose ends, the idea of quitting and not finishing what I started just goes against my grain and natural instinct to cross the finish line.   Scathed or unscathed.  These types of arm-twisting changes, that are propelled by the universe, are often misinterpreted, usually by people who shouldn’t matter, as the cowardly acts of underachievers who allegedly take the easy way out, quit, run away and/or sulk when they are not getting their way or winning.  But the truth is, I am the antithesis of competitive which takes the idea of needing to ‘win’ completely out of the equation; not to mention the fact that I have never thought of myself as a coward or a sulker or an underachiever for that matter.   

Rather, I am just someone who is playing a hardcore game against my will and better judgment.  It is a game where the rules appear to be undefined, although, I’m not entirely convinced that there are any rules at all, and to be clear, there are no winners.  An otherwise ruleless and unwinnable game that you cannot walk away from or quit when it becomes overwhelming and insufferable.  This is called the Parent Game so, like it or not, the choice to quit or stop playing is not really a viable option that any parent worth their salt, or at a minimum those who are committed to the long game, can live with.   So, given the unpredictable, combative, protective, and territorial nature of this game, we all put on our big girl and big boy underpants, roll up our sleeves, sharpen our tongues, strap ourselves in, and we play.   No matter how we choose to play, or not play, we are undoubtedly going to be the subject of someone else’s ire and judgment.  Whether that is right or fair is barely the point because it is an unconditional fact; and facts, much to everyone’s surprise, ordinarily do not care if they are believed nor do they require a consensus of approval.  And as Eleanor Roosevelt put it, “Do what you feel in your heart to be right – for you’ll be criticized anyway.”  Oh, Mrs. Roosevelt, if you only knew the lengths that the current members of present-day society will go to prove you right.   By this point maybe you are wondering what I did that I never thought I would ever do that required a not-so-gentle nudge from the universe. As a result of relentless mistreatment, rejection, exclusion, and an overall reprehensible display of unkindness by her classmates and peers, along with their parents and even a teacher or two, I made the difficult decision to unceremoniously extract my 12-year-old daughter in her 7th grade year from the only school she has ever known.  Choosing instead to take the road less traveled, which for us, meant moving her to a new school where she could, fingers crossed, wipe her slate clean and get a fresh start on a larger-scale playing field of complete strangers.

However, taking the high road, which by the way, is usually the one that is far less traveled, is not for the faint of heart.  Forging ahead on a new and unfamiliar path is isolating and lonely which invariably leads to self-conscious feelings of doubt as you ultimately question your ability to make sound decisions.  Let’s   start with getting the giant elephant that is sitting in the middle of the small room out of the way so that we can see each other more clearly.  I know what you’re thinking because once upon a time I thought it too.  And I was wrong.  You are probably thinking that I am just another helicopter parent who is raising a bunch of fragile snowflakes.  Maybe you are thinking that I am a weak and spineless quitter who is actively teaching my children that “when the going gets tough, the tough get going.”  Whatever that even means.  Or, my personal favorite, maybe I am a bulldozer parent who rolls over anyone who tries to get anywhere near my children who are presumably swaddled in bubble-wrap.  Insulated from harm’s way as they walk a primrose path that has been cleared of everything from thornbushes that could scratch their thin, delicate skin to roots and rocks on the ground that could trip them and make them fall down. Perhaps you think that my parenting is painfully flawed because it appears to encourage my offspring to run away from adversities and difficult people rather than face them head on which, in my experience, doesn’t do much more than wage an unwinnable war on people who are not worth the trouble.  And if you are, in fact, thinking any of those things, then you would be wrong.  As a society, we like to make things easy because difficult is too much work.  And the way that we do that is by compartmentalizing, oversimplifying, and labeling both things and people just by virtue of the fact that we don’t agree with them.  A tried-and-true practice that has become a cultural and societal nightmare where there is no in between even in the middle and with or without a mammoth-sized elephant obstructing our view.  

During this dubious oversimplification and labeling process, we conveniently distort and muddle basic human codes of conduct in an effort to normalize bad behaviors.  This blatant perversion and twisting of facts align with our false narratives and unnatural love of opposition in our ongoing quest to win.  And in order to secure the illusion of a win, we must endeavor to dim someone else’s light.  We enjoy playing this tedious game because it appeals to our worst instincts as we spend an inordinate amount of our time targeting others who we can inflict torment and hurt upon, regardless of their age and, for the most part, because we feel threatened by them in some way. Oftentimes, we don’t even have or need a reason.  With premeditation and malice, we badger and poke our chosen target until their spirits have been sufficiently crushed and their once bright light dimmed to a mere flicker.  And then when they have had enough and can take no more, they leave, while their aggressors waste no time at all finding a new target.  And that cruel by-product of persistent bullying that is not neutralized and produces no actual consequences, only worsens thereby gaining strength and momentum with each victim.  Right, wrong, or indifferent, like it or not, and agree or disagree, that is the sad truth about our society and what it has systematically whittled itself down to; and as long as the target is on someone else’s back, we become lulled into a false sense of security.  Until the inevitable happens, and the fast-moving target eventually finds its way to us. 

Too many individuals with big mouths but small minds who talk too much but never seem to listen.  Remember what Eleanor Roosevelt famously said?  “Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.”  And that is possibly truer today than when she is quoted as having said it.  For us, this wasn’t our first rodeo with bullying, and sadly it will probably not be our last, but this time had a stronger sense of urgency that required a swift and permanent solution.  Removing my 12-year-old daughter from her Middle School at the beginning of this school year, her 7th grade year, was an attempt to salve the gaping wound that was gifted to her courtesy of her peers through repeated acts of unkindness.  A collection of cunning and entitled children who made every effort, both openly and underhandedly, to snuff out my daughter’s undeniable spark.  Cut right to the quick with a direct and targeted blow to her unsuspecting psyche and vulnerable heart.  Her heart that just a year or two ago was still untarnished by the cruelties that the world gives all too freely and, more often than not, without solicitation.  It turns out these were not her friends after all. “Friends” who instead proved themselves to be nothing more than walking and talking exhibits of everything that is wrong with a society that has wittingly sold itself out.  Cogs in a recklessly built machine that is insistent on pressuring children to grow up before they are physically, mentally, and emotionally ready.  Infatuated by the demand for conformity that is now revered over individuality’s previously staked claim. These are the children who are indeed bullies in every sense of the word.  Children who are protected by their disillusioned and oblivious mentors, otherwise known as their parents, who are shamelessly “busy” as they hide behind the now popular and ever-growing phrase that has become their battle cry – ‘It’s not my kid.’   The parents who hide behind that widespread mantra are usually posers who conveniently use their oversized houses and cars, school Board of Education tables, white coats and stethoscopes and, and even collared cloaks and stained-glass windows as their shields to further protect their children’s menacing behaviors that they continuously insist do not exist.  But.   They do exist and, by the way, I can still see you. 

Because the truth is, it is not about me and believe it or not, it’s not even about my daughter.   Not entirely.  It’s about the culture that has been created and cultivated by parents, school officials, teachers, and coaches that allows and excuses bad behaviors.  And we continue to see that doing nothing, wishing it away, and pretending it’s not happening with dismissive claims like ‘this too shall pass,’ ‘kids will be kids,’ and ‘it’s not my kid’ – serves no other productive purpose than to embolden and empower children who should hold no such power.  Toxic behaviors that have spread like wildfire because they have not been contained.  Ne’er-do-wells and bullies who are now making up the majority, rather than the minority, and are outnumbering and overshadowing any good that was once previously present.  And sadly, the majority’s parents who consist of naysayers and deniers are a pretty boisterous and rowdy group who have successfully drowned out the minority whose cry for help is becoming harder to hear.  And can we please, for the love of all that is holy, desist from saying ‘it’s not my kid?’  It is ignorant and foolish at this point and no one who is paying attention believes you anyway.  It is your kid because it is, ipso facto, you.  Common sensibilities tell us that no one can teach or preach kindness and inclusion if they do not subscribe to that practice themselves.  Children are learning at home how to bully and exclude others.  And that is one lesson that they have been learning very well.  Parenting in a paradoxical, insidious, and predominantly self-indulgent society is strange and overwhelmingly taxing.  If a child is good, parents are quick to credit themselves; but if they are bad, well, they must have learned that somewhere else.  Stop it. 

Our discomforting story, that is about the ripple effect of persistent and unchecked bullying, is not a tale untold.  In fact, it is a tale that is playing out in schools and communities everywhere.  The question is not whether or not it is happening, because trust me, it is happening, the question is what is being done about it?  The answer should not require the victims of bullying to leave familiar environments while licking their wounds with their heads hung low having to reconcile the fact that they cannot safely stay where they are not wanted.  This time it was my daughter who was the target of unsolicited maltreatment; next time, maybe it will be yours.  For us, the writing was boldly written on the wall underscoring the fact that my daughter’s situation was not going to improve.  In fact, all signs were pointing to it worsening.  When we found ourselves in the precarious state of fight or flight, having to choose to stay or leave no longer felt like much of a choice at all.  Maybe you are wondering how my daughter is doing, and to be honest, her situation is not all that different.  You see, consumed by anger and desperation with a deeply-rooted, fierce and instinctual need to protect her, I became tunnel-visioned and was not seeing clearly the forest for the trees while forgetting the most basic rule of logic.  If the majority of society is being overrun by bullies, then the unfortunate reality is there is probably no easy, long-term way of escaping them.  Leaving one school for another only exposed my daughter to a different group of bullies with axes to grind and wells to poison.

A common misnomer is that weak people walk away from challenges and difficult people rather than sticking around to fight, however, I disagree and believe that the truth lies in the contrary.  It is the strong among us who know when to confidently cut losses and make the uncomfortable decision to leave rather than continue to participate in otherwise onerous and futile efforts to fit in.  And while I admire Eleanor Roosevelt and find her quotes like “no one can make you feel inferior without your consent” illuminating, under the circumstances and since we are talking about a 12-year-old girl – my 12-year-old girl – I’m going to have to stick with Dr. Seuss on this one, “Why fit in when you were born to stand out?”    Over time and with enough reinforcement, we can either become exactly what someone else’s broad brushstroke brought into existence; or, we can disentangle ourselves from the fray and break free. 

A note from RM:  I’m just getting started on the topic of bullying.  Next up is The Poisoned Well – stay tuned.

DISCLAIMER:  All quotes were found on quotefancy.com and are understood to be true statements referenced for the purpose of illustrating a point.  Quotes have been bolded and italicized to provide a delineation from the author’s perspective.

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The Devil I Know https://rebelliousmama.com/2023/04/30/the-devil-i-know/ https://rebelliousmama.com/2023/04/30/the-devil-i-know/#comments Sun, 30 Apr 2023 11:09:29 +0000 https://rebelliousmama.com/?p=872

Maybe you have had days like this.  Days when you open your eyes after a long and involuntarily restless night and are immediately confused because you cannot seem to recall how or when you finally fell asleep.  When the earsplitting sound of your alarm rips you from whatever sleep you had managed to find.  You instinctively reach your arm out to make the startling noise of the persistent alarm stop only to realize that you cannot because your arm feels heavy and numb.  During your unpeaceful slumber you must have unwittingly slept on it, therefore, grabbing the phone to stop the unsettling noise proves to be a challenge unto itself.  When you finally shake off the pins and needles and are able to get a grip on your phone to register the time, the numbers are blurry and out of focus.  You bring the phone close to your face and squint your eyes because the time it is displaying must be a mistake.  In a state of denial and disbelief and as you lay your head back down onto the pillow, you begin to rationalize that, yes, it must be a mistake or a trick that is being played on you because how could it already be time to wake up when you are not entirely convinced that you slept?   And yet whether it is an unamusing trick, a sobering mistake or otherwise, like it or not it would seem that it is time to get up and seize the day.  At least your version of seizing a day after an emotionally-charged night that was consumed with anxiety and sleep deprivation.  Optimists would probably call every new day an opportunity. Those bewildering and unrelatable people who allegedly have a healthy relationship with the normal nightly ritual of sleeping.  The same people who claim to wake up with a power that is of their own free will and sans the relentless urging of a bossy alarm clock.  But you have never considered yourself to be an optimist.   On this particular day, that resembles many others, you are torn between a groggy acknowledgement of the time, in which case you must get up, or if you are up for a quick game of Chance.  The risky game that you often find yourself playing after you have been abruptly awakened, impulsively deactivate the phone’s pre-set ‘snooze’ feature, and with little-to-no concern for the self-imposed consequences that are sure to follow, you turn off the alarm clock entirely.  Then, to raise the stakes of this fate-tempting game even higher, you shut your eyes for just a few extra minutes to ‘rest’ only to frantically re-open them to the predictable outcome of this game which is that you have been ‘resting’ for at least another hour.  Game over.  However, while you are still horizontal and drifting somewhere between foggy slumber and lucidity, you realize that it is at this exact moment when the day starts to unravel. 

It is never a good sign that before your feet have even been given the opportunity to touch the floor, you have already started these onerous and time-thieving negotiations that are designed explicitly for the purpose of delaying the inevitable.   You are bothered that you do not know exactly how or when you finally found sleep, assuming you slept at all.  While that might seem exceptionally trivial to the restful sleepers among us, for those who struggle with nighttime sleeplessness that can often be accompanied by a debilitating panic attack, it is a critically important detail.  You are consciously irritable because although you don’t like it and find it crushingly unfair, you know that you must begin the task of getting yourself up.  An all-too-familiar and tedious morning routine that can only be accomplished by taking one little baby step at a time.  Step 1:  Rollover onto your back.  Step 2:  Sit up. Your head, at this pivotal point, should be forced to separate from the pillow. Step 3:  Carefully remove the gift of sand that the Sandman customarily leaves in the corners of your eyes while you are sleeping.  On occasion you note that there is no sand – it is a known fact that Mr. Sandman only visits those who are sleeping which can mean only one of two things:  either your initial assessment was right and you didn’t sleep at all last night or Mr. Sandman has forsaken you.  Step 4:  Remove blanket from legs and feet – everyone knows that warmth and comfort travel from the bottom to the top, not the other way around.  Step 5:   Slowly swing now-cold legs off of the bed and let them hang there for an undetermined period of time.  Step 6:  Stand up.  Step 7:  Take a small step forward not allowing the backs of your knees to have any further contact whatsoever with your bed.  It turns out that your bed is both a problem and a solution which depends on the time of day and your state of mind.  In the morning, it is a problem and will silently beckon you to get back in, therefore, the further you get away from it, the better.  You must make a choice and standing in that spot close to your bed all day is not one of them.  Therefore, you immediately start walking away from your bed and begin the short journey to the bathroom.  Your first stop is the mirror.  You cannot help but stare at the reflection of the stranger who is exhaustedly looking back at you.  Under your eyes is the accessory that you received during the overnight hours.  The undisguised dark circles that you must now wear as an inglorious badge throughout the day. A visibly cruel reminder, as if you weren’t already aware, that you are tired.

cause and effect. 

To be clear, you fully understand the nightly assignment which is fairly straightforward and unambiguous at this point in your life.  It is the time that is carved out of the allotted 24-hours of each day that is meant to be spent sleeping and recharging your battery.  An inability to sleep represents the residual effects of the day that is letting you know, in no uncertain terms, that it is not done with you just yet.  But what is less clear is the cause and exactly what it is that happened.  If it’s true that some days are worse than others, then it stands to reason that nighttime will draw its inspiration from our daytime experiences and no day looks exactly like the ones that preceded it.   What was it this time that caused the disruption to your sleep and riddled your dreams with the fears that you had managed to stave off during normal waking hours?  Fears and deeply-seated anxieties that you have conditioned yourself to hide away only for them to unceremoniously resurface anyway to claim your undivided attention when the sun goes down and the moon steps in as its nighttime placeholder.  For it is, of course, at this time when you no longer have the strength to hold up the heavy and impenetrable walls that you have carefully built.  It is when you are tired, in a mentally and emotionally weakened condition and at your most vulnerable, that your mind and your imagination become free to wander.  You resign yourself to the harsh reality that this is going to be a very long night. From the outside, you would appear to be someone who is just trying to get a good night’s sleep. On the inside, however, you are struggling to sort through the memories of your day, calm the voices in your head that are now vying for your attention and locate the proverbial needle in the haystack, also commonly referred to as ‘the cause.’  A troubled mind that is hard at work and now in overdrive when it is really in desperate need of rest.  But the day’s memories are erratic and not well-organized.  Every moment appears to be somehow magnified and garishly overstated when it is recycled through the large lens of our memories.   Like untrained detectives, we search for clues within the memories that will, fingers crossed, bring this night to an early conclusion that hopefully includes sleep in one form or the other.  Clues that could include something that happened ten minutes, ten hours, ten days or ten months before you found your bed on this night or it could even be the post trauma and residual aftereffects of something that happened a full decade ago because as it turns out, at night and in the darkness, nothing is off the table and everything is fair game.  The truth is there are too many memories that have compounded over time, therefore, trying to sift through and peel each of the layers away to get to the root cause is a nearly impossible and overwhelming task.  You know what happens next.  In the darkness and with your senses now fully heightened, the familiar slow burning sensation in your chest and precipitous increase of your heartbeat is the only warning you will get.  You are about to go on a very bumpy and involuntary ride that your subconscious mind wants to take you on.  Rather than having visions of sugar plums dancing in your head or counting a large herd of fluffy white sheep, whose woolen hair, incidentally, you are allergic to, you are instead desperately trying to put out a blazing fire. A panic attack that does not require your prior consent or permission. 

The fire.

You do not need to be an expert camper to know how to start a fire.  Imagine for a moment the kindling.  A few tiny sticks or twigs that you collect and place in a small pile.  Without really knowing how big the fire will become, and quite literally throwing caution to the wind, you slowly rub two of the small sticks together creating friction.  You know that with enough determination, sooner or later, you will eventually produce a small, but purposeful, spark.  And that little spark is really all you need, but you must be careful what you wish for.  That intentional little spark that you worked tirelessly to create will subsequently become a flame.  Then, before you know it and with help provided courtesy of the wind, the flame will reach out and touch every twig and stick in the small pile that was collected.  As time goes by, the small twigs and sticks are replaced with large logs that are meant to keep the fire going until it is burning everything around it quickly becoming an uncontainable wildfire.  That is what a panic attack feels like only the burning blaze is happening inside your chest.  At the onset of the attack, you are convinced that you are having a heart attack and dying.  While your chest tightens and contracts, your heart feels as if it is spinning around in circles at a dangerously warped speed.  You cannot seem to catch your breath or control the racing of your heart.  Your first instinct is to call for help, but other than the loud voices inside your head, the house is silent and still.  Considering the fact that this is probably not your first panic attack or visit from a demonic nighttime visitor who is hellbent on ensuring that you remain awake, you hunker down, clench your fist to your chest and you let it swallow you whole.   On this night, the demon wins.  With your troubled mind now mentally and emotionally frayed and with peaceful slumber nothing more than pipe dream, you relinquish your much-needed sleep to the devilishly cunning demon who is distorting and twisting your memories until you are no longer sure what is real and what is not.  As you try to slow your heart’s pace, you decide that the only way to separate fact from fiction at this ungodly hour, is to just try to work your way through each moment of the previous days until you have identified the cause; the reason why your peace and tranquility has been exchanged for a blazing fire inside your chest.  Again.

The devil you know.

But it turns out that replaying the previous day, and the ones that preceded it, in the middle of the night when you are tired and already in the throes of a panic attack is a fool’s errand and an exercise in futility.   This exercise that is meant to reveal the cause of unrest does not always bear fruit, in fact, oftentimes it is the opposite that happens.  Sometimes the best you can do is endeavor to mitigate its blunt impact and control the damage.  Suppressed daily stressors and anxieties can remain dormant for only so long.  Sooner or later, they will show up unexpectedly to reclaim your attention with some kind of life lesson in hand that you probably ignored the first time or simply weren’t ready to receive.  Prolific poet Charles Bukowski is quoted as having said, “Don’t fight your demons.  Your demons are here to teach you lessons.”  Maybe, but a lesson at 2:00 in the morning seems a bit harsh even by demon standards.  At the end of the day, panic attacks are your body and subconscious mind coming together, albeit when it is least convenient and in fiercely dramatic fashion, to force you to confront something that you would otherwise prefer to forget.  Regardless of whether it is a lesson or not, it feels like the work of the devil, only this is the devil you know.  It is you putting yourself through this painstakingly next-level poetic injustice.   A self-inflicted and tenuous vicious cycle that we knowingly subject ourselves to when we allow problems to remain unresolved, give open wounds time to fester rather than heal and when our body’s coping system that is built on reasoning and rational thinking by day reaches capacity and malfunctions at night.   You are your own worst enemy, therefore, in order to make peace with your deeply-rooted fears, daily stress and anxiety, and yes, even scary panic attacks, you must first make peace with yourself. 

Disclaimer and personal note from Rebellious Mama: 

Disclaimer first:  Charles Bukowski quote was found on https://quotefancy.com/charles-bukowski-quotes and is referenced exclusively for the purpose of illustrating a point. 

A personal note from RM:  As a writer with no formal training who spends a lot of time working on improving her craft, it has become clear to me that to write convincingly, you must write about what you know and from personal experience.  To that end, as a sufferer of anxiety, a self-described ‘worrywart,’ and survivor of some breathtaking panic attacks, the narratives and representations provided are mine and mine alone.  Anxiety is a devil who I know very well.  But it looks different for everyone.  Nothing here is meant to replace or substitute medical advice and/or intervention.  Anxiety is no joke and panic attacks can be incredibly isolating and scary.  For whatever reason and as illustrated above, my panic attacks visit me at night.  In fact, I cannot recall ever experiencing one during normal daylight hours.  I’m not sure if that is weird or normal and frankly, it’s probably best that I don’t know.  I sort of fly by the seat of my pants and hope for the best, therefore, it would be disingenuous of me to try to offer advice on something that I have not yet figured out myself.  The only thing I will offer that helps me is to remember to breathe and there is a great power in distraction.  Write it down, draw it, whatever you need to do to validate your feelings – do that.  Close your eyes and count backwards from a thousand and before you know it, you will be fast asleep or you won’t and will instead soon be having a battle of wits with a relentlessly bossy alarm clock.

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Never the Twain Shall Meet https://rebelliousmama.com/2022/08/28/never-the-twain-shall-meet/ https://rebelliousmama.com/2022/08/28/never-the-twain-shall-meet/#comments Sun, 28 Aug 2022 16:33:52 +0000 https://rebelliousmama.com/?p=793

Pastel-colored flowers painted on a delicate porcelain teacup that sits atop its companion saucer made of equal fragility.  Alongside the dainty duo lies a single, untarnished silver spoon.  The spoon rests next to a napkin that has been starched and bleached within an inch of its life so that it can, for all intents and purposes, appear new and unsullied.  And for good measure, it has been artfully transformed into a swan with the more stubborn stains discreetly hidden beneath a carefully folded wing.  The numbered tables are round, each draped with a meticulously embroidered white cloth where, at the center, a candle nestles snuggly inside an ornate and polished silver candlestick.  The candle brings life to each table as the flickering pulse of its flame melts the unscented wax beneath it.   Tiered silver trays filled with tea cakes and finger-sized sandwiches are displayed on each table and available for the taking by the stylishly-dressed, well-groomed and, by all appearances, refined patrons.  The otherwise modest room is paradoxical as the candle-lit tables radiate warmth and intimacy against the backdrop of garishly overstated and bold floral-papered walls that are stacked high with the fragile china and fragrant tea.  Exotic teas that are served by the uniformed and white-gloved baristas who feverishly conjure and steep the hot, aromatic elixirs into liquid perfection.  The enchanting shoppe is serene, seemingly under a celestial spell that is summoned by hushed and polite conversations, soft string music, and the muffled clinking sound of stirring silver spoons submerged inside their teacups.  The gentle sounds work in harmony with the fragrant, hot tea to create a hypnotic atmosphere that illustrates a façade of peace and tranquility. However, when viewed at a closer range, it is revealed to be not much more than an exclusive meeting place that is as pretentious as the clientele who frequent it. 

 

Oops. 

 

Maybe that is unfair and sounds a bit harsh.  But as Samuel Langhorne Clemens, otherwise known as Mark Twain, pointed out with tongue in cheek, “There are no people who are quite so vulgar as the over-refined.”  We are agreed, unfair or not.  It is generally the over-refined who come in droves to these quaint, yet gilded, little tea shoppes where the more highbrowed among us feel right at home.  That being said, there are usually two or more sides to any story worth telling.  Stories that examine glaring societal disparities where we regularly speak in contradictions as we endeavor to build, not break down, impenetrable walls and further deepen, rather than connect, unbridgeable chasms amidst pervasive opposition, righteousness and futile misunderstandings.  And at its root is the familiar anger that we have become conditioned to expect, but not necessarily accept unconditionally.  It is no surprise that the proverbial ‘twain’ in these all-too-common stories never get a chance to meet, and even if they do meet, it is under the strain of already bitter circumstances.  Notwithstanding the fact that ‘never’ is a very long time.  The quaint little tea shoppe is located on a corner of a busy and bustling Main Street.  In the spirit of competition, just down the street on the opposite corner sits another type of establishment that appears to happily lack the refinement of its long-standing and, in this case, hubristic rival.  And that is the bar.

 

The bar, as you can well imagine, looks and sounds a little different than the tea shoppe.  Even from a distance.  Differences that become more obvious and unambiguous as you begin to stroll along the sidewalk away from the tea shoppe and towards the bar.  Your ignited senses become heightened as you are seduced by the faint rhythm of a drumbeat’s vibrations.  Like a slow-rising crescendo, beckoning you towards it, the sound becomes more intense the closer you get.   Before you know it, the music quickly seeps into the pores of your body until it makes direct contact with your soul.  In your periphery, you vaguely notice the passersby who are watching you shake and shimmy down the street as you have now given over the controls of your body to the music which is, incidentally, leading you directly to the bar.  And then you reach your destination and find yourself standing at its entrance door.  Forming binoculars with your hands, you put your face to the glass door and peek inside. 

 

Yes. 

 

This place looks and sounds more like it.   Without further ado, you swing open the door and are pulled into the uninhibited and welcoming embrace of the bar whose cadenced pulse can be felt beneath your feet.  Once inside, the music borders on deafening and is in strong competition with the wall-to-wall people who can be seen yelling at each other in order to be heard. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that the spirits served here have the ability to break down those otherwise indestructible barriers, loosening lips and hips as singing and dancing is a well-known side effect of the specialized and made-to-order elixirs.  Sweet, complex and bitter concoctions made from distilled and fermented fruits now being mixed, shaken and stirred by the bartenders who energetically serve them to the throng of fully-galvanized revelers in different sized and shaped glasses.  Proving that the size or shape of the glass doesn’t matter, what matters is what is inside. Like a flame to a candle, the longer the imbibers stay at the bar, the more convivial and festive they become.  A taste of the forbidden fruit, as it were, leaves you wanting more not less, therefore, you plant your feet to the floor that is now sticky from fallen drinks until the last round is called just before closing time.  While you are admittedly tired, you are not ready to leave just yet.  This was fun.  The kind of fun that makes you momentarily pause with your half-full glass suspended in midair as you consider whether or not this level of fun tips the scale and leans heavily into the land of the forbidden.  And as Mark Twain said, “The more things are forbidden, the more popular they become.” Unsurprisingly, that accounts for the large crowd.  Similar to the tea shoppe, the bar is a meeting place, albeit less exclusive, where people congregate in large numbers both with and sans the judgment that has become culturally normalized. No matter where or what you decide to drink.  Or the vessel from which it is served.   But it does beg the question that manages to find its way to the tip of many thirsty tongues and that is, is that it?  Are those presumably different watering holes our only two options and are they really all that different? 

 

While seemingly simple, it is arguably an inconsequential question to be asking because technically we already know the answer.  Serving as another decoy to distract us, drawing ridiculous comparisons of tea shoppes and bars is only mildly entertaining until it is not really very funny at all.  Highlighting the exaggerated extremes of two establishments, that are allegedly different, lays bare unsuccessful attempts at disguising the harsh reality of an otherwise overindulgent society that, over the course of a couple of decades, has wittingly dissected itself.  Indisputably making the collective society far worse than anyone could have ever predicted.  The reasons for the decline are hardly groundbreaking.  The truth is there are no longer any real discernible differences between those who frequent the tea shoppe and those who electric slide into the bar.  They are nothing more than historical, society-made extremes that have evolved into a fragmentation of its dysfunctional members who have become weakened by their instability. New generations, who have been passed the baton by older generations, easily becoming the maladjusted poster children for irrational and unreasonable behaviors.  Suggesting anything to the contrary, while marginally optimistic, is an improbable and insincere ruse that lacks believability because while it sounds good and garners applause, it is repeatedly proven to be nothing more than a poorly conceived and elaborate lie.  And if Mark Twain was right when he said, “A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes” then the chance of the truth catching up, and meant to be believed, is practically utopian.  Because indelible lines have been markedly drawn, push has come to shove and the truth and facts have become blurred by anger and narcissism that has been carelessly built through nefarious means.   Consequently, one is no longer easily distinguishable from the other.

 

As many from older generations might attest, including yours truly, the current state of the societal decline is a difficult sip to swallow whether you are slow-sipping tea from a fragile teacup painted with pastel flowers or fast-guzzling a fruity concoction out of a tall glass with a colorful paper umbrella sticking out of the top.  It hits us harder because we know what a social media-free society looks like and it was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, better.  There is a high probability that social media may very well be the leading contributor towards society’s rapid downward spiral, the straw that stirs the drink, so to speak.  Along with its reliable accomplice, the compact and convenient handheld device, also known as a ‘smartphone’, that packs its own strong punch purely based on its ease in accessibility and addictive power of distraction.   Although labeling it ‘smart’ might have been an inherent bridge too far.  Having become our primary means of communication that is disseminated vis-à-vis a small device that travels with us everywhere we go and fits perfectly inside our back pocket when it is not in our hands or charging for optimal performance.   Like human magnets, we have unabatingly gravitated towards the one thing that has given us permission to remove any remaining filters or sensibilities that may or may not have ever existed in the first place.   We take comfort in the lack of any real consequence for the often toxic and largely disingenuous words that we bravely spew from behind the safety of a protective glass screen.  With unadulterated recklessness, we say all of those things that we doubtlessly would not have the courage to say if we were speaking to our ‘friends’, and vastly unknown followers, face-to-face.   Deeply-rooted, and now also technologically advanced, anger has taken flight making it easier to spread its wings and further expand its reach.  And yet even with that understanding, social media remains merely a catalyst that has successfully managed to accelerate and exacerbate the decomposition of a society that was already pretty angry and volatile to begin with.  Mark Twain said, “Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.”  And, heaven knows, we are in no short supply of anger.  With too much consumption over an undetermined period of time, the raw emotional, mental and even physical effects of social media have undeniably become permanent contaminants that are eroding and rotting its users from the inside out.  Whether you frequent a prototypical watering hole, otherwise known as the bar, or the tea shoppe, which is essentially a watering hole for the quasi-elite, is not really the point.  One by one and in countless numbers, older generations are abandoning what was previously considered to be within accepted bounds and are instead venturing to the dark side, also known as none other than social media.  It is the older generations who will remember a time when relationships – good, bad or indifferent – were genuine and, to a large degree, unpretentious.  They are the last generations in existence that can teach by example and from personal experience what living in a handheld device and social media-free world looks like because they know full well the freedom and benefits of being autonomous and less connected.   “Connected” being possibly the most misappropriated word used in present day society.

 

Because in relatively short order, communication has been abdicated, exchanged and outsourced to what we know today to be an artificially intelligent intermediary that habitually autocorrects and further twists our already unfiltered words.  As a result, older generations have become nothing more than simulated versions of who they once were with the younger generations heedlessly reduced to a fraction of who they were meant to be.  A society that has always flirted with darkness has managed to dim its own light.   Mark Twain said, “Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.”  Today that is not exactly true and could very well be something he said that has not stood the test of time.   Never fully satisfied and indoctrinated from a very young age to challenge previously sound theories, today’s society members have seemingly proven Mr. Twain to be wrong because in truth, the unrelenting dark side of our collective moons has cast an everlasting shadow over our former light and it means to stay.  Due to circumstances both with and without anyone’s ability to control, we have become a collection of unchecked society members with an axe to grind who now must reap what has been sown.  There does not appear to be a particular bottom to this manufactured chaos because there have been no significant measures of prevention adopted to diffuse and minimize the proven long-term damage that it is causing.  And yet, we continuously claim that the solution to this problem is a mystery that cannot be easily solved.  However, that assertion is, on its face, fallacious because there is nothing elusive about a question whose transparently conclusive answers are right in front of us.  The real reason why we do nothing about the egregious overuse and abuse of social media, even with all that we know about the widespread damage that it is causing among those who should know better, as well as those who should be taught better, is because we don’t want to.  

 

And there it is.

 

The stain.  Unlike the lily-white napkin in the tea shoppe that has been starched, bleached and carefully folded into a swan, the stain of social media could not stay hidden for long.  Having managed to successfully camouflage the true nature of its fundamentally flawed framework, it has been revealed to be not as altruistic is it would like its users to believe.  Because what has been theorized and touted as a great connector has been systematically separating us.  And if that is true, then maybe the tea shoppe and bar comparison is not so farfetched after all.  Maybe those allegedly different, historically-made watering holes have simply been reimagined and relocated to social media platforms that expand their presence and continue to evolve while the people using them do not. 

 

It could be said that for some the bloom of social media is off the rose.  While others seem to have a stronger tolerance for the disproportionate truths, half-truths, lies and general tomfoolery that revolve in real time with no intermissions thereby granting the bloom permission to remain.  Either way, with too much information sharing and availability, we have normalized, and even worse rationalized, being unable to differentiate what is real and what is not having knowingly exchanged authenticity for entertainment and truths for lies.  The time for shock and surprise has unceremoniously passed as we now find ourselves faced with a troubling quandary and that is the undeniable negative impact social media is having on the youngest among us, our children.  It is our children who are actively attempting to navigate social media, which we already know is wholly unregulated, while lacking basic guidance from those who are charged with their safety and wellbeing, often referred to as ‘parents’ or ‘caregivers’ or a trusted member of this ‘village’ that we keep hearing so much about.   While we are spending our time speaking to one another in subliminal hieroglyphics and contradictions, on and off social media, our youth is openly demonstrating deplorable degrees of bullying not kindheartedness, exclusion not inclusion, and generally unseemly rather than suitable or appropriate behaviors, with an infallible confidence that usually surfaces when governance, authority and supervision are absent.  We have become desensitized magpies who talk too much and listen too little.   As now multiple generations of people underwhelmingly depreciate themselves with society, as a whole, slowly collapsing under the weight and unsustainable pressure of the superficiality and pretense that is of its own creation.  Rather than participating in the tea shoppe vs. bar debate, perhaps our time would be better spent considering our own social media utilization and the impact it is having on our children. Because the real question that many will not ask themselves is whether or not it is even plausible that one can effectively manage their children’s social media presence, when they cannot manage their own.  Whether or not they can, in fact, practice what they allege to preach.  And until that happens, there is no visible top, the bottom will deepen, there is no in between in the middle and the twain shall never meet.

**A note from Rebellious Mama.  Stay tuned for ‘New Dogs, Old Tricks’ which is coming soon and will further explore social media’s contribution towards the widespread, troublesome behaviors of our youth.  -RM

DISCLAIMER:  All quotes were on found on quoteambition.com and are understood to be true statements referenced for the purpose of illustrating a point.  Quotes have been bolded and italicized to provide a delineation from the author’s perspective.

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Look Up https://rebelliousmama.com/2022/06/13/look-up/ https://rebelliousmama.com/2022/06/13/look-up/#comments Mon, 13 Jun 2022 19:56:28 +0000 https://rebelliousmama.com/?p=779

A Letter to My Firstborn

 

Dear Firstborn:

 

Life is sometimes compared to a roller coaster, among other things, because whether or not you want to get on and go for the ride is rarely ever the point or always a choice that is yours to make.  Either way you will inevitably be loosely buckled in and taken on a crazy and bumpy ride with or without your consent.  Everyone is on their own roller coaster and, while some other rides may seem similar, they are not the same.  Through various stages of life, rides can be so smooth that they might even be described as boring or pleasantly monotonous.  While other times the ride is unpredictable, filled with chaos and uncertainty.  It is that part of the ride that can feel overwhelming as you will realize that you have no control over the unforeseen, and, let’s face it, mostly involuntary, dizzying twists and turns or ups and downs.  Even when you have had enough and beg for it stop so that you can get off and regain your footing on steady ground, somehow you will find the courage to stay on.  After all, the only thing about the ride that you are controlling is how you react and respond to it.  As parents, we are on an endless roller coaster ride.  It’s interesting because it is not something that is necessarily discussed or overly considered before we bring home our adorable little bundles of pure joy and innocence.  Parents are dreamers who are seemingly suspended in a temporary state of delirious bliss when their children are babies.  At least that was my experience.  Truth be told, and especially during the early days, parents are not exactly forward thinkers when it comes to their children.  For many, you are just so happy to have a baby in your arms that you don’t often think about how life is going to look in 5, 10 or even 15 years.  The days somehow move slower, one bleeding into the next.  You buy a special book so that you can memorialize all of your baby’s firsts – the first smile, the first time they roll over from back to belly, their first spoonful of solid food, their first word, their first step unassisted, and the list of firsts goes on and on. Those are the years when you follow a chart that breaks down each common milestone and an expected age by which it should be met, and if it is not, you grab your keys and your precious baby and hightail it to the doctor to find out what is wrong with them.  You are frequently reminded to ‘live in the moment’, that ‘the days are long, but the years are short’, and ‘don’t worry, it’s just a phase’.  And all of those things are true.   But you don’t realize how true they are until each of those moments or phases passes by in the blink of an eye and you find yourself nostalgically looking back on them with a wide-range of raw emotions. Those are the moments that you would like to freeze in time.  When you find yourself on your knees begging time to stand still, or at least slow down for a little while, to give you a chance to adjust to the changes that are happening all too quickly and seem to move at a warped speed the older your children get.  Each stage stealthily appears out of nowhere, and then just as suddenly as it arrived, it is gone leaving in its wake nothing more than a memory.  Time is uncooperative like that, and stops for no one.  You know that your child will never be these ages again and you want to hold them there as long as possible.  Because no matter what and come what may, they will always be your baby regardless of how big they get or how quickly they move through each one of life’s stages.

 

You are reaching an important milestone in the coming days.  Middle school graduation, and then you will head to high school in just a few short months.  I don’t know exactly how we got here, but nevertheless, here we are.  Saying that I’m proud of you is simply not enough as it woefully understates the depth of love and admiration that I have for you.  I started this last year of your time in middle school with no particular expectations.  The beginning of the year felt like any other school year getting you and your siblings back into the routine of waking up earlier and prepared for the academic workload and extracurricular activities.  As usual, our days filled up quickly with the constant movement and scheduling that consumes our minds giving us little, if any, time to pause or reflect.   And then it happened.  It was at the end of November, I think, when I received an email from the school asking for a baby picture of you for the yearbook.  That email was immediately followed up by another notice requesting that I write a letter to you which would go in the yearbook next to your baby picture.  As a writer, this task should not have overwhelmed me to the degree that it did.  I prefer to take the time that I need to consider my words carefully before I am comfortable making them available for eyes other than my own.  The pressure began to mount as I was feeling rushed to summon to the surface the feelings and emotions that I was not yet prepared to face, all the while knowing that the one person who I needed to reach and who would feel the depth of my words the most would be you.  And as Mark Twain said, “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter.  ‘Tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”  Truer words have never been spoken and are words to live by, but with the weight of a deadline looming over me, and in my haste, I invariably misread the assignment.  I thought the letter could not exceed 700 words but when I re-read the instructions, it actually said 700 characters.  That is a big difference.  Maybe not as big as the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning, but big enough to cause a panic attack.  Everything that I had said and had painstakingly pulled directly from my heart now required a significant amount of editing.  To a mere 700 characters which obviously wasn’t nearly enough room next to your baby picture for me to say what I wanted to say.  But let’s be honest, no amount of space on a single page in a yearbook, with or without a baby picture, was ever going to be enough anyway. 

 

As a first-time mother, and you my firstborn, my first test as a parent, I did all of those things that I thought mothers are supposed to do.  The minutiae (look it up in your Thesaurus App). The things that are outlined in great detail in the multitude of baby books that I collected and referred to often to make sure that I was doing everything right.  I became a professional baby tracker and monitor as I watched every move you made, measured every morsel of food that went into your mouth and every sound that you uttered that got you closer to your first word, which incidentally was not ‘mama’.  The onesie that you wore when we first brought you home from the hospital, the very first clipping of your beautiful dirty blonde lock of wavy hair after your first haircut, and your first tooth.  All of your firsts are saved inside a single blue box that holds all of the treasured memories of you that I never want to forget.   As you have gotten older and our family has grown, I no longer save material things as much as I used to.  I don’t know why that happens.  I suppose I could refer to a book to tell me, but it turns out that those reference books are nothing more than a collection of suggestions and anecdotes that are based on other people’s personal experiences.  And knowing that everyone is on their own roller coaster forced me to learn how to navigate the twists and turns on my own without relying on the soap-boxed experiences of others.  At a certain pivotal point in parenting, you somehow gain enough confidence to throw away the books and trust your own instincts.  And that is true of parenting and life in general, even when your roller coaster goes rogue.  And it will.   As you get older, milestones are often referred to as achievements and they are not always memorialized in a special book or curated in a box.   Successes and accomplishments are not automatically or routinely rewarded with a trophy or a certificate that bears your name.  For parents, as their children get older, the tests somehow seem to accelerate and become more challenging with volatile and unpredictable levels of difficulty. Sometimes even finding themselves having to run alongside their child and dragging them over the finish line to achieve a particular milestone so that they can move on to the next stage in their life.

 

I have watched you grow through it all.  You are now moving on to high school, which means that you have successfully met the challenges that come with middle school and all of the social and academic years that preceded it.  Middle school is complex and enlightening at the same time.  It is during those formative years that you slowly emerge and begin to reveal to the world who you are.  You get to know yourself both with and without your parents.  The string of the kite that attaches you to them begins to get longer as they release just enough string to give you the freedom to fly, but not so much that they can’t pull back when you need them.  You learn who is, and who is not, worthy of your time and friendship.  You know that recognition for achievements can only be earned or deserved after hard work and dedication and should not be handed out freely.  You have, and will continue, to do all of that and so much more.  I know it.  For me, as a parent, your mother, my greatest achievement, and what I am most proud of, is you.  From the moment you were born, I was no longer me without you just as you are not you without me.  While firsts are inherently bittersweet, they will, nonetheless, continue for both of us.  Once you achieve a milestone and reach the top of one mountain, you will find yourself standing at the bottom of a new mountain that you must journey up.  But today, take a moment and enjoy the view from the summit of the mountain that you have reached with all of your hard work.  Then tomorrow, look up towards the top of your next mountain and climb.  I will be watching you soar with everlasting support, pride, and love.  Always.

 

I love you.

Mom

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Flying Monkeys – Chapter 4 https://rebelliousmama.com/2022/03/12/flying-monkeys/ https://rebelliousmama.com/2022/03/12/flying-monkeys/#comments Sat, 12 Mar 2022 16:39:37 +0000 https://rebelliousmama.com/?p=745

We all have a story.  A story that is uniquely our own and is what makes us different.  And even while knowing our unique differences, we still resolve to conform to others because that gives us a false sense of belonging.  There is comfort in that.  When we can find those manufactured similarities, it helps us to momentarily feel that we are being understood and that we are not alone.  Sometimes we give ourselves permission to share our stories with others in our ongoing pursuit to forge connections amidst the perception of commonality. While other times, we choose to singlehandedly carry the weight of our stories because, if given the chance, they will doubtlessly reveal the fundamental things about who we really are and the past experiences that forced us to deviate from our life’s path.  Those fundamental things that generally constitute the secrets that we choose to lock tightly away inside our memory banks and throw away the key with the primary purpose of forgetting.  Because like Pandora, we know that once we open the box and give voice to our secret stories, it will be difficult to put those memories back.  Deliberate efforts designed to not unearth the memories that we know will cause us pain.  Memories that can transport us back to a place and a period of time that will unmercifully challenge our hard-fought development and growth.  In many cases, those are oftentimes the beginning chapters of our life story that occurred at a time when it was someone else who was controlling our pen.   Because even while we try to convince ourselves that we have always been the author writing and memorializing our stories, deep down inside we know that is not true.   The real question is not whether everyone has a secret story, rather it is whether or not they choose to tell it.  The objectionable stories that will have indelibly altered our view of the world and all the things in it.  Profound tales that prove that it is possible to be broken and built at the same time.  All the while knowing if we could find the courage to give a voice to our stories, maybe then we would be set free.   Learning the lessons taught to us, products of our environment, becoming human puzzles that others will try to solve.   Until suddenly, without warning or consent, something happens.  A flashback, which can come in the form of a sound or a particular smell, that cunningly and surreptitiously lures those memories from their hiding place.  Unsubtle reminders, echoes of the past, that somehow manage to sharply pull you into a torrential tornado where you are forced to watch from inside as your memories twist and turn in slow motion all around you.  So slow that you could reach out and touch them if you tried.  At least that has been Jenny’s experience with her first rebellious memory that visits her in unsolicited, and wholly unwelcome, flashbacks of the Wolf……

 

For Jenny, it is difficult to describe with any degree of certitude when it was that she began to separate, compartmentalize and conceal traumatic childhood experiences.  With some of the more insufferable moments decidedly locked away indefinitely deep inside her carefully curated memory bank.  On one hand was the Wolf with his belligerence and overall instability that proved to be largely unpredictable at best.  At first, he discharged his arsenal of red flags with a subtlety that made them practically undetectable.  Once he had become settled and more comfortable in his new environment, the red flags began to fly with reckless abandon, until one day, they stopped flying altogether.  That was obviously a problem for Jenny and her family.  Those red flags had become a precursor, a reliable warning signal indicating that he had been triggered in some way and that an unreasonable, and usually violent, eruption was likely impending.  Absent the red flags, there were no forewarnings.  In retrospect, and if she had to make a choice, Jenny would choose those flying red flags over the impulsive and immediate escalation of the Wolf’s wrath any day.   It didn’t take them too long to come to the realization that they had a monster living in their midst.  The Wolf had officially arrived.

 

On the other hand, for Jenny, her brother, Michael, and their mother, walking a tightrope of uncertainty and fear became the vocation they could have never imagined for themselves and, frankly, would have preferred to do without.  The Wolf’s arrival meant that they were no longer in control of the human temperature in the house and soon became burdened by the wounds that were a direct result of the perpetual manifestation of his volatile and explosive temper. The harrowing memories of having been subjected to the trifecta of physically, emotionally and mentally terrifying experiences turned out to be quite stubborn with the subconscious aftershocks reverberating long after the Wolf was gone.  Because when the recipient of unprovoked cruelty and torment does not have a reliable outlet or internal mechanism by which they can cope, they inevitably become an easy, and generally unarmed, target.  The kind of experiences and feelings that those of the younger variety, like Jenny, should be spared.  But alas, we know that they are not and therefore, those people, in some cases children, must figure out how to navigate and rationalize difficult feelings on their own.  Remember, it was after all the 70’s when discussing one’s feelings and emotions, with either a trusted adult or a stranger, was not a standard practice like it is today.  Especially when you have something that you are trying to hide along with a support system that is in short supply.   And statistics, regardless of the decade, would likely corroborate the fact that recipients of wrongdoing often walk themselves through a series of unsettling mental calculations and presumptions that stem from a fear of foreseeable consequences.  Undeniable repercussions that might include, but are not limited to, the very real possibility of retaliation, embarrassment, and judgment.  Therefore, rather than taking any chances or worsening an already volatile situation, they make the calculated decision to keep the wrongdoing to themselves where it invariably becomes their secret.  For Jenny, learning how to keep her feelings suppressed, while remaining under the radar and keeping her family secret tightly under wraps, became an essential means of managing the untimely violence and chaos.  Having developed, strictly due to her involuntary circumstance, the ability to mentally detach from frighteningly tumultuous situations with the primary purpose of self-preservation becoming second nature.  Although she was, admittedly, too young to understand or put her feelings into words or really know what she was doing at all at the time.  And truth be told, she was unaware that allowing herself to go crazy was even an option.   That is, by definition, survival, is it not?  By all accounts, it was Jenny’s retreat that is what ultimately ignited her imagination.  A learned coping skill, that evolved and improved under duress, which allowed her mind to wander far away from reality.  Detachment becoming her primal means of weathering the tornadic storm that was brought to her and her family courtesy of the Wolf. However, in doing so, Jenny’s imagination oftentimes got the better of her.  She spent a good amount of her time creating a world of her own that was located inside her mind where she was seemingly insulated and protected.  A safe harbor that was built behind an impenetrable iron curtain that she frequently inhabited and where she controlled who, if anyone, had visitation privileges.  It was a world where she wrote the script, chose the location and props, and got to decide who had permission of access.  It was an imaginary world that was not entirely fictional, yet it was a world that was all her own where only she held the key that unlocked the secrets inside.  Even with safeguards in place, it was a world that could be unscrupulous at times and played tricks on her, and yet, coincidentally and in all likelihood, it is also probably what saved her. 

 

You see, in her earlier years, in particular, when Jenny hid herself away, she was not always alone.  With her imagination fully charged at this point, Jenny oftentimes escaped into stories where there were usually young girls like herself who were on precarious and unplanned journeys.  Journeys that mostly took place while they slept, when their imaginations were hard at work.  Whereas Jenny did not need to be asleep for her imagination to be awakened.  Even still, Jenny felt an immediate connection and befriended some of those young girls who were not imaginary at all, rather they were recognizable and well-known fictional characters who were created and brought to life in the stories that she had read.  Theirs were often stories of adventure that were consumed with the complexities of fear and confusion, and yes, lessons in survival.  How-to guidebooks, as it were, on presumably emerging from untenable situations physically, emotionally, and mentally intact. These were the stories that Jenny referred to and used as her personal survival guides.  Think about it.  If the fictional characters from the stories that she knew by heart could get out of the challenging situations that they found themselves in, if she just followed their lead, then Jenny too had a fighting chance.  What is it about being lost in a forest with only the clothes on your back while conversing exclusively with a wide-range of woodland animals, that becomes the only thing that feels real and makes the most sense to you?  When the unbelievable becomes your lifeline and the one thing that you truly believe.  Jenny would run to her bedroom where she could close the door and allow herself to breathe again.  This is where she felt the safest.  When the   door closed, she would turn around and scan her room making sure that her dolls and stuffed animals were exactly where she left them lined up like soldiers on her bed.   They would all be in their place facing the door awaiting her arrival.  Sometimes Jenny would excitedly enter the room and scoop them up to play ‘school’ or ‘house’.  Or, she would tap into her natural musical proclivities and spin her Annie soundtrack on the record player, grab a hairbrush which would obviously serve as her microphone, and perform an impromptu duet alongside her good friend, Little Orphan Annie herself, as they sang It’s a Hard Knock Life or The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow. But those good days were in sharp contrast to the bad ones.  The days when the Wolf’s mood was particularly dark and Jenny would enter the room shaking from the trauma and fear that she had just fled. On those days, she would distraughtly enter the room, close the door and tightly grip the handle as she visibly attempted to slow her breath and compose herself before turning around to face her beloved friends.   Until something inside her mind switched, and Jenny went somewhere else.  It was only in those moments of retreat that Jenny’s mind became free to wander.   At the end of the movie The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy famously said, “There’s no place like home.”  And while that is a warm sentiment, it may or may not be entirely true for some people.  Depends on the home and the people who are living inside.

 

Now.  Jenny didn’t wear a cornflower-blue checkered dress.  After all, if was the 70’s, not the 30’s, and everyone knows that if you are going on an adventure, you need to dress the part which means you don’t head out into the forest wearing your Sunday best.  Even if that adventure is taking place in your mind and you can technically wear whatever you want.  She didn’t own a pair of magical ruby red sequined shoes that had the ability to transport her somewhere else if she clicked the heels together three times.  And her mother would have never settled for having just one small dog.  They always had a menagerie of pets to keep them company with one dog in particular who stood out as their companion adventurer. He went by the name of Tux.  Tux frequently, and faithfully, followed Jenny and Michael into the forest behind their house serving as their primary pack protector.  For Jenny, it was the story of Dorothy that had the most significant impact.  Of course, there were other influential stories that she kept close.  Well-worn books from The Secret Garden to Harriet the Spy that showed all the signs of having been read over and over again with specific pages earmarked so that she could refer back to them when she needed guidance.  But the story of Dorothy was different.  She never read the book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.  Jenny only saw the movie which, in those days, came out once a year on Thanksgiving.  And television was weird and barbaric in the 70’s.  There was only a handful of channels with reception that depended entirely upon a pair of metal bunny rabbit ears that had to be manually moved around just right in order to see clearly the image on the screen.  But the Wizard of Oz and Dorothy, along with the unlikely friends that she collected as she skipped and sang her way down the infamous Yellow Brick Road, were as much a part of Jenny’s Thanksgiving each year as turkey and her grandma’s sponge cake.  And the television screen was never more vivid than any time there was a close-up of the Wicked Witch.  Jenny convinced herself that the Witch was going to reach her green hand through the television and grab her, pull her inside and take her to the tower where she would kill her along with Dorothy.  Yet year after year, Jenny would watch the movie – albeit at a safe distance away from the television to avoid being grabbed and mostly peeking through the holes of a loosely knitted blanket – knowing that her dreams would undoubtedly evolve into nightmares all thanks, of course, to the Wicked Witch and her loyal flock of flying monkeys.  But unlike Dorothy, Jenny didn’t hit her head and wasn’t knocked unconscious only to wake up and find herself in the middle of a tornado.  A swirling and powerful tornado that would eventually drop her in a technicolor land that can only be found when one travels, in a strange twist of fate, over a rainbow.  Dorothy followed a perfectly paved path made of yellow bricks, and alleged good intentions, with the promise that it would take her home.  All she had to do was click those ruby red sequined shoes together three times and it would all be over.  In Jenny’s case, there were neither magical shoes nor friends who would help her or whom she could trust.  She had no one to talk to or a shoulder to cry on when she was feeling frightened or overwhelmed.  Not to mention the obvious fact that she was already home and had never left.  And her hostile adversary wasn’t a Witch who flew around with an army of winged monkeys who she would encounter once a year on Thanksgiving, rather it was the Wolf, who was a permanent, year-round resident living in her house.

 

We all have a story.  A story that, when the hardened layers are peeled away, reveal someone who often found themselves off-road as they traveled down a darkened path or it is a story that uncovers someone whose path has been well-lit and paved for them with good intentions.  Maybe it is a story with hidden secrets that serve no real purpose other than a haunting reminder of someone or something that you would otherwise prefer to forget.  Even with carefully contrived and organized efforts put in place to control the potential long-term damage that they can cause, oftentimes the secrets themselves rebel and have other ideas.  Regardless of the fierce determination that is required to suppress them, they will unceremoniously arrive either way with or without an invitation. The question that remains is not whether everyone has a story that is meant to be a secret, rather it is whether or not they choose to tell it and in doing so, does the telling of a secret really set you free?  Maybe it does and maybe it doesn’t.  The truth is that might just be a fallacy because it is a question that only the keeper of the secret can really answer.  With what we know so far about Jenny, the Wolf is barely the point.  And while Jenny’s story obviously did not begin when the Wolf entered her life, there is no doubt that his presence cast an everlasting shadow that darkened her path.  A path where she was frequently sidetracked and detoured as she tripped over the collected memories that spanned a full spectrum of emotions.  Memories about feeling lost and never really being found; naive yet enlightened; and finding courage even amidst deeply-rooted fear.  While Jenny cannot recall any words that were spoken to her when she was a child, she can unambiguously remember how she felt as a result of them.  And that is a feeling that time would not abate for her.  The rational mind knows that children often attach a feeling to an idea when they do not yet have the words to define it.   Jenny did not know what fate was, however, through intuition, or maybe just a preservationist’s instinct, she felt that her mother marrying that Wolf would be a terrible mistake.  And the Wolf’s eventual fate, in due time, would prove that she was right.  It was on a consequential day during one summer that the Wolf’s fate and time with Jenny’s family would be sealed and stamped with an expiration date.  It was the beginning of the end for the Wolf.

To be continued…

Disclaimer:  All quotes were found on wisdomquotes.com and are understood to be true statements, fictional or otherwise, referenced for the sole purpose of illustrating a point.  Quotes have been bolded and italicized to provide a delineation from the author’s perspective.

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Eye of the Storm https://rebelliousmama.com/2021/11/07/eye-of-the-storm/ https://rebelliousmama.com/2021/11/07/eye-of-the-storm/#comments Sun, 07 Nov 2021 12:17:37 +0000 https://rebelliousmama.com/?p=699

Seasons.  There are four of them, and depending upon where you live, maybe you experience all of them in a single day. Or, perhaps there is one season that refuses to leave, in which case, you may have never had the opportunity to experience the annual quarterly event widely known as the ‘changing of the seasons.’   But if you happen to find yourself in the Northeast corridor of the USA, particularly in the September to October time period, you know.  Notwithstanding the fiery debate surrounding Global Warming and Climate Change, and the fact that the weather, which was at one time considered to be a signal of those changing seasons, has now become erratic, not to mention a highly contentious subject among both believers and naysayers alike.  And everyone else in between.   While the calendar still reliably provides the precise date that one season leaves and a new one marches in, the weather itself is no longer exactly in agreement.  If, however, the weather decides to cooperate and square with the calendar, and when the seasonal baton changes hands, the difference from one season to the next is unmistakable. For some, it is the season changes from Summer to Fall and Winter to Spring that are the most celebrated as we bid a not-so-fond farewell to those unpredictable extremes in anticipation of peace and uneventful calm.  Even if it only lasts for a little while.  Notably, from Summer to Fall, after having spent so many days enduring the oppressive humidity and blistering heat to unceremoniously wake up one day to cool, crisp air is a long-awaited relief.  When you open your door on no particular day and walk outside, all doubts are erased as the cool wind kisses your cheeks and causes the hair on your arms and neck to stand upright as your body adjusts to the change in the temperature.  Fall has arrived.  Soon we will see the color of the leaves, once previously green, become vibrant in varying shades of gold and red until they drop off of their tree only to dry out, becoming dull and lifeless.  The trees themselves will eventually become devoid of all color as they brace for a cold Winter that is historically, and in accordance with the calendar, soon to follow. 

Unless, of course, Climate Change and Global Warming are not real in which case ‘cold’ is interpretive while the climate finds itself stuck in the crosshairs of heated negotiations.  Nevertheless, the calendar serves as an outsourced conduit, reliable or not, between Mother Nature and us.  As many have come to realize that the calendar really has only one job which is to report each year holidays, season changes and the phases of the Moon.  Even though it is generally viewed as not much more than a universal baseline guide with pictures and very small print that sells on average for about $14.95.  And thanks to Climate Change, Mother Nature’s seasonal credibility has really become just a perennial footnote on a piece of cheap cardstock that hangs on walls everywhere.  While we have become a modern-day, insufferable society who choose to squander an inordinate amount of precious time complaining and denying the damage, that we are solely responsible for, while we defiantly shift the blame to Mother Nature, an obvious scapegoat.  Henry David Thoreau said, “As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.”  And the truth is, regardless of how far we cast the long line of blame, it is not really Mother Nature who has reneged on her promises in more ways than we can count.  Pollution, as we know it, is defined as deterioration, contamination and a general misuse of the environment to the point that it becomes irreversibly damaged and unsalvageable in many places.  We know that Global Warming is a by-product, an unfortunate side effect of the changes in the climate that are due in large part to human activities.   Now that idea is wildly unpopular among some even though it is neither a new revelation nor is it in any way based on presumption.  Really, it is just another example of common sense that is heavily disputed and wholly ignored by the naysayers, otherwise known as ‘those who choose to ignore and/or dispute proven facts.’  The environmental deterioration that we are all bearing witness to is undeniably a direct result of cause and effect.  That is to say that it is our behaviors and mistreatment of the planet that have been the cause, and the effect is Global Warming.  And if that uncomplicated fact is true, then Henry David Thoreau had it right when he said, “Things do not change; we change.”  With the result of those changes proving to be catastrophic.  But we also know that pollution can take many forms, some that you can see clearly while others are elusive and not as obvious to the naked eye.  Because it is human activities and behaviors that, over time, have become the pollutant and have disrupted and compromised the survival of all living and non-living things which can be summarized as pretty much everything.  We can simplify all of the damage and give it the label of ‘pollution’ that has been formed by garbage, or we can just call it what it is which is a gross deficiency in human behavior.  And unless that changes, nothing will change while optimism is waning almost as quickly as the climate and changing weather patterns.

Because as a collective society we have proven that we cannot have nice things, and we can corrupt and pollute just about anything.  Are we the destroyed or the destroyers, the victims or the perpetrators, the advocates or the accomplices?  The problem is, like the calendar to the weather, our claims do not square with our actions.  Henry David Thoreau is quoted as having said, “The question is not what you look at, but what you see.”  And that is exactly the point.  Even while evidence generally always points to the truth, what is there and what you see are oftentimes not the same thing.  Global Warming is one of those things primarily due in large part to personal political preferences.  We do not need to be told explicitly what someone’s political preference is.  All we need to know is where they stand on Global Warming, mask-wearing, or vaccines, to name a few, to know which political party flag flies within their heart.  Mask wearing, for example, shouldn’t really be a political hot potato, but it is.  When given the chance and if we try hard enough, we can find many ways to pollute the environment, blur reality and muddy the water.   While we endeavor to complicate simple things in our ongoing quests to be right, the only thing that we repeatedly prove is that we are wrong.  It is convenient and interesting how mask-wearing, in particular, quickly went from being a life-saving, protective piece of fabric that covers the mouth and a nose to being an obstructive nuisance that serves no real purpose other than apparent oxygen deprivation.   We like to throw into the dogpile a blend of misunderstood, centuries-old Constitutional Rights, along with their companion and seemingly malleable amendments, that are allegedly being violated when, in reality, we just skimmed through them in a quick internet search, cherrypicked the parts that suit our current narrative and then regurgitate them because they will undoubtedly make us sound informed and knowledgeable on social media.  And who knows, at this rate maybe we can pick up a few more followers along the way.  Because pollution impacts the environment in more ways than one.  It starts at the point of incubation in our minds and festers like a bad infection until it has nowhere else to go but out and into the universe where it spreads like wildfire or maybe even an uncontained pandemic-like disease.  And those behaviors, like the weather, have not improved, rather they have worsened, throughout the years.  Warnings be damned.   Henry David Thoreau said, “Live your beliefs and you can turn the world around.”  And right, wrong or with indifference, we have certainly lived our beliefs and have turned the world around and upside down, only not necessarily in a good way because we are not right, rather we are righteous, and have purposefully chosen to not heed the many warnings, literal smoke signals and waving red flags.

But it takes time to see the effects of what long-term neglect and contamination look like.  The results of those behaviors are subtle and do not always appear immediately, and yet when they do appear, they are undeniable.  We don’t need to see images of polar bears walking around on dry dirt in the Arctic, unmasked people at a crowded store or garbage on the side of the road to know that is true. If pollution is generally caused by contamination, deterioration and misuse, then it is logical to deduce that those same corrosive effects can be found in any environment that provides a safe harbor for a willing host.  Generationally, and over time, we have become the source, the human pollutants, the willing hosts who have mutated while we continuously pass down ill-conceived behaviors that spread faster than an uncontained forest fire.  And through it all, there is one thing to which we can all probably agree, and that is that we will likely never be able to agree.  That’s not pessimism, rather, it is reality and it is true.  Whether or not we choose to admit it is about as much of the point as using the contents of someone’s glass as a useful or significant measurement of their mental and/or emotional state.  A half-full or half-empty glass is barely an objective barometer, yet it is an overused and preferred means of summarizing those with whom we disagree.  As we are hard at work deepening, rather than fusing, already wide and ever-present polarities, creating irreparable chasms that may have started off separating differing ideas but have evolved into an apoplectic and disconcerting existence.   

Because we know that pollution goes well beyond scattered garbage and poor air quality, and we stopped recycling any optimistic ancestral behaviors years ago.  Periods of time gone by when opening one’s mouth to speak wasn’t always considered to be a leading contributor towards the bad quality of the air.  When the strength of the human chain was built out of a stronger substance thereby making it harder to break.  And yet, the years gone by and the present day do have one thing in common and that is that we have always only been as strong as our weakest links.  In knowing all of that and assuming it to be true, then it must also be true that we cannot remedy the whole chain until the faulty parts are made to be more durable and not so easily breakable.   As the collective society, we represent the weakened and now fragile links of what was previously considered to be a strong and proud human chain.  And some, who are on a fool’s errand, will claim to want to fix the chain even while knowing that the manufactured parts are defective, and you cannot mend something that thrives on being broken.  In anger and righteousness, we are knowingly creating the untethered chaos and the disturbances that are fueling the once previously contained fire as we intentionally continue to break, not mend, the chain.   And we know that nothing creates chaos, separates us further and exposes our ever-present weaknesses more than when we find ourselves in the throes of another kind of season and that is election season.

Elections are no longer about a single day rather they are now considered to be a whole season because they never seem to end.  The current election season that we find ourselves in is consumed with all of the same turbulence that we have come to expect when there is a heightened strain of opposition afoot.  However, this one has an added twister, a far-reaching, tornado-like storm that is widespread and overwhelmingly stretches from coast to coast while simultaneously remaining extraordinarily localized.  Tensions are high and continue to rise while deeply-rooted emotions have reached the surface and are boiling over.  There is an eye to this particular storm that is bringing out large groups of people in droves to add their voice to the noise that is currently at a shrilled decibel.   Of course, elections are always combative, that is not new.  What is new are the current issues at stake that impact a very specific segment of the voting population on a visceral level, exposing their most vulnerable nerve, and that is their children.  Consequently, unlike a forecasted and predicted weather disturbance, the eye of this storm has landed in the most unpredictable of places and that is schools everywhere making these elections much more personal for many people.  Members of Boards of Education are elected officials who make decisions that relate to school budgets, curriculum, and the health and safety of all of the children and staff who walk through the halls of the schools which invariably impacts the community as a whole.   And herein lies the problem and what separates this election season from others.  Because like most things, while the complexities of the issues are debatable with answers that clearly lie within the hearts and eyes of their beholder, in national elections, the average person does not personally know the candidates.  However, elections involving Board of Education candidates means that we will be voting for people who we do know.  During this highly contentious battle for a literal seat at the Board of Education table, inevitable sparring will ensue among friends, neighbors and the parents of our children’s classmates.  Parents who we will later probably find ourselves standing next to at a school sporting event or dodging in the supermarket where we will all play an impromptu game of hide and seek.  Because just by giving voice to our opinions, we have either knowingly or unwittingly put on full display our political views which is, right, wrong or indifferent, a measured referendum on who we really are and what we believe in.   As a result, and while we are hiding behind a carefully constructed pyramid of toilet paper at the supermarket, we quickly come to an unspoken and mutual understanding.  We simply cannot be friends with anyone whose views are so vastly unaligned with our own, preferring to attach ourselves to those more likeminded people who agree with us. 

Seasons.  Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall.  Maybe you experience any or all of them during our continual trips around the Sun.  Maybe you have a favorite season and maybe you don’t.  Either way, we know that seasons represent changes that will come with or without our consent.  As each season stops, a new one begins, and that’s how the story goes.  Henry David Thoreau said, “So simplify the problem of life, distinguish the necessary and the real. Probe the earth to see where your main roots run.”  And maybe that’s the reckoning that we desperately need.  Because for all the changes that seasons bring, the one thing that continuously proves to be unchanging is our minds.  With vengeful convictions and with closed minds, the chasm of defiance and righteousness will only expand.  As we embrace conformity, rather than autonomy, in the midst of opposition while we confuse opportunities and rights with freedom and privilege.  In the end, we know that Global Warming and Climate Change are not really about the weather.  We know that mask-wearing and vaccines are not a plot designed to violate any rights that have been outlined within the pages of the Constitution, elections are not about one person and seasons do not begin and end on a single day just because the calendar tells us so.  And while our glasses may be full or empty or reach an arbitrary midway point that could go either way, it is ultimately about us.  We can continue to be the unabating and relentless land storms that leave a path of destruction in our wake, or we can open our ears and eyes and endeavor to not just hear, but listen and to not just look, but see.  Only when we understand that there is a difference between those distinctly unequal ideas will we find our way back to the path that leads to peace and uneventful calm.


DISCLAIMER:  All quotes were found on everydaypower.com and are understood to be true statements referenced for the purpose of illustrating a point.  Quotes have been bolded and italicized to provide a delineation from the author’s perspective.

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Under the Big Top https://rebelliousmama.com/2021/09/05/under-the-big-top/ https://rebelliousmama.com/2021/09/05/under-the-big-top/#respond Sun, 05 Sep 2021 13:28:29 +0000 https://rebelliousmama.com/?p=679

Clowns.  Caricatures brought to life with exaggerated smiles painted on their faces whilst wearing colorfully oversized costumes.  Literal sideshow animations who outwardly project humor while performing comical antics and stunts that are meant to make others laugh, meanwhile inwardly they themselves may or may not be laughing.  Aerialists who swing through the air and balance on highwires while bravely performing death-dying acts, sometimes even with no net to catch them if they fall.  Wild safari animals, who have been trained to walk around in circles on their hind legs and leap through rings of fire all while being whipped into submission and compliance as they are goaded and provoked by their daring handlers.  The dazzling and bewildering sleight of hand of magicians who pull tricks out of hats and then, to both the horror and delight of the audience, stunningly split their scantily-clad assistant in half at the torso with a large saw, or just make her disappear altogether.  And in the center, the ringleader who vociferously introduces the sometimes shocking, but always spectacular, acts to a crowd of eager spectators.  All together providing approximately two hours of entertainment on a round stage inside a large tent.  Welcome to the circus.  Or at least that’s what the circus used to look like.  Over time it has come under fire for various reasons, not the least of which being the gross mistreatment and cruelty towards animals.  Now when we capture wildlife, we just entrap them inside large enclosures, create stages that mimic their natural habitats, and we call that the zoo.  Millions of tickets sold each year to see wild animals wandering around behind protective glass in an otherwise unnatural setting for the purpose of providing entertainment to children of all ages.  Entertainment.  Over a long expanse of time and years, it would seem that many things have changed, while one thing has remained decidedly steadfast, and that is a profound need to be endlessly entertained.


Today we don’t really need to bother going to the zoo and buy tickets to see wild animals as they pace and perform inside protected enclosures.  In fact, we no longer need to leave our homes at all because we now have the internet and ‘social media’ which does not necessarily involve purchasing a ticket to witness never-ending performances, but, as we have quickly learned, it does come at a cost.  Nothing is free while it would seem that cheap is doubtlessly expensive.  William Shakespeare famously said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”   And no truer words have ever been spoken, however, those who graced the world stage in the 16th century likely could have never imagined how far and wide that stage really stretches.  Enter the main act, social media, who completely infiltrated a stage that has no visible exit points allowing it a permanent role in all current and future performances.   All the world is now literally just one big giant stage and there are a lot of players.    Ironically, and with the common goal to stand out and be different, all of the players have become exactly the same.   As we shapeshift and transform ourselves into as many different characters as needed in order to earn the globally-recognized signal of reinforcement which is a happy face or a thumbs-up or maybe even a heart if we really like something.  It would seem that the circus train, otherwise known as social media, has arrived with no scheduled date of departure.    As Shakespeare said, “What’s done cannot be undone.”

 

So, if that’s true and it cannot be undone, then what actually constitutes entertainment these days?  The answer has to be everything, while ‘anything goes’ has taken on an entirely new meaning.  Some social media platforms are obviously more popular than others, but they all generally serve similar purposes.  Purposes that are inherently misnomers due in large part to the inarguable fact that the distribution content is more often than not a perpetuation of lies and false representations.   Through no fault of his own, Shakespeare’s “We have seen better days” is an absolute underestimation that doesn’t even skim the surface.  With participation at an all-time high, and increasing exponentially, we are no longer merely spectators who are in the audience watching revolving performances unfold, because we are all now storming the stage and ruthlessly competing for the lead role.  Social media has quickly become equivalent to rubbernecking as we slowly drive by a car accident to see something that we know we will later try to unsee, but we look anyway.  As we cover our eyes with our hands and peek through our spread fingers so as not to miss any part of the spellbinding show, while we impatiently wait for an opportunity to jump out from behind our unveiled curtain and participate.  As we fabricate our personal stories in order to create the plot twists and cliffhangers that keep our audience (also referred to as our ‘friends’ and ‘followers’) interested, leaving them no choice but to come back for more.  Shakespeare said, “The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.”  With the benefit of a limitless stage, in our own right, we have all seamlessly become actors, authors and playwrights creating fictional characters as we unabashedly participate in our own manufactured realities.  21st century purveyors of willful fraud, lies and tomfoolery conducted primarily behind the safety of a small protective glass screen.


Shakespeare said, “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”  Which might actually be better tolerated and more palatable if we were talking about just an hour of strutting and fretting upon the stage.  But it has become abundantly clear that we are not talking about a single hour.  We can confirm, however, that much of what we see does, in fact, signify a whole lot of nothing.   While cellphone cameras and videos everywhere are capturing reportedly candid personal tales with an objective of spontaneously memorializing reality, we quickly discover that it is an intentional ruse that illustrates nothing more than a self-serving and choreographed lie.  Generations now finding comfort, and an odd sense of inclusivity, only when they are performing in front of carefully positioned cellphone cameras having become a society where mirrors, cropping, lighting and filters are more valuable than the actual content that is portrayed within the mass distributions.  Oh, yes.  There is, indeed, a cost for everything, begging an obvious question, and that what is the price tag that we are really willing to place on a lie?  


The truth is we are willing to pay through the nose in order to see our name, or social media handle, in print on something other than a monthly invoice from a credit card company or utility bill.  Social media has managed to become a multi-ring circus in its own right as it serves as not much more than a continuously evolving distraction.  A vacuous escape from our own realities.  Speaking of vacuous, enter from stage left the ‘Influencers’.  Have you heard of them?  They are everywhere and with enough shopping, product-testing, ‘selfies’ and self-described expertise on anything from Global Warming to frizz-control shampoo, they could be well on their way to their 30 seconds of fame before they know it.  This flourishing career does not appear to need much of an introduction and seems to be fairly straightforward requiring no particular training or education.  As a matter of fact, if you play your cards right, the education that your parents paid for will never need to be put to use.  But don’t tell them that.  Having a cellphone camera and can-do attitude is all it takes to do the job.   That’s it.  Grab your phone, a friend and anything in your closet or medicine cabinet, and you are all set.   The entire world is literally your canvas.  Influencers are always prepared and ready to smile and spin for the camera and will use any opportunity to simulate improvisational moments that are meant to appear to be totally unplanned and unexpected.  They just happened to find themselves frolicking on a beach midday happily playing with the waves or picnicking on the sand while fully clothed in an outfit whose retailer is conveniently tagged in the subtext.  Or maybe they are cruising on a bicycle with a large arrangement of flowers in the basket as they slowly glide past a perfectly graffitied building which serves as a conveniently coordinated backdrop.  Without the sales pitch and companion hashtags beneath that image, it might be difficult to know what it is that the influencer is actually promoting.  It could be a shirt, the bike, the building that looks like a work of art or, for all you know, it could even be hemorrhoid cream that you can’t see unless you scroll through the carousel of dumped photos.  And last, but definitely not least, there are those more adventurous, over-the-top influencers, who we hear about because they may find themselves dead after trying to take a never-before-seen photo while standing on the edge of a cliff and evidently, they overestimated their multi-tasking skills.  Successfully balancing themselves while simultaneously holding a selfie stick and smiling was a big ask which is why some influencers now bring along a friend to serve as their unpaid photographer.  If they do manage to survive and make it off the mountain alive with the photographic and choreographed evidence of their excursion intact, and if luck continues to be on their side, they could achieve their goal of being dropped and clicked on social media newsfeeds everywhere.  After all, it is in the picture which, as we have been told, is worth at least a thousand words.  And it better be worth something because it is oftentimes a single image that we will rely upon to tell an entire story.


Because besides parenting, social media is the closest we have come to being a chaotic and never-ending collection of surreal-time circus acts that run continuously, with no scheduled intermissions, all in the name of entertainment.  Performances that are generally predictable, yet not quite believable because they do not, no matter who is behind the curtain or lens, come from a place of authenticity and truth.  Whether it is an influencer who has mastered the art of the ‘selfie’, the verified reviewer who gets paid in discounts to provide ‘honest’ reviews on anything that requires market circulation, down to the celebrity faction whose constant need for love from a large assortment of virtual strangers and fans becomes a shameless attention grab as they plunder and steal the attention away from the lesser-known influencer and reviewer.  And we just keep going around and around in circles chasing after our own tails, or tales, tall or otherwise.   It is not difficult to surmise that we have become relentless in our ongoing quests for attention.  As we doggedly become masters of nuance and convenient stagecraft, over time the art of deception and smoke and mirrors becomes diabolically easy.  The transition between truth and a lie or real and unreal is now practically undetectable.  While we waste the valuable commodity of time scrolling through our newsfeeds, it is hard to not wonder when this societal shift really took hold and managed, in very short order, to become mainstreamed and normalized while forever altering the landscape of acceptable behavior.   With standards and expectations that are unimpressively low as we realize that they have now become deeply rooted beneath the surface.  Even knowing that Shakespeare said many centuries ago, “Expectation is the root of all heartache”, he could have in no way predicted that when we estrange ourselves from having any expectations or standards at all, we become nothing more than circus clowns who spend their time promulgating meaningless nonsense all for a cheap laugh or a rousing thumbs-up.


Because social media has given people courage that they likely would not otherwise have sans their easily penetrable armor that has been built out of nothing more than a small protective glass screen, a camera and a keyboard.  Courage to say words, not through their mouths but through their fingers, that will last long after they have been spoken.   Words that fester until wounds, given to us courtesy of another, become infected and spread like wildfire through our hearts and psyches because the truth is words, against all odds, have never ceased being our bond.  However, those same words that were once previously considered to be a sacred representation of our truth now fall woefully short lacking luster and authenticity.  Because now, thanks to social media, our words, that are mostly shot from the hip and impertinent, are preserved on our newsfeeds where they will be curated forevermore while becoming a gift that keeps on giving.  It was not so long ago that we had higher expectations of ourselves, and others as well, as we endeavored to raise the proverbial bar rather than lower it.  It was a time when oversharing was not commonplace and when too much information was often referred to as gossip with its primary source of distribution being word of mouth.  When words were typically spoken or handwritten with pen and paper, because absent an instantaneous ‘send’ option, heartfelt sentiments and messages inherently took longer to reach their intended recipient.  Today we speak in code with memes, hashtags, abbreviations, acronyms and emojis, which are really just a present-day form of prehistoric hieroglyphics.  We aren’t writing important messages on the walls of caves that will be unearthed in 1,000 years.  Rather, we are currently writing on a different sort of wall that is much more far-reaching as we exploit our most condensed and simplistic perspectives in real time for the primary purpose of attention and in the spirit of competition among both friend and stranger alike.  ‘Anything you can do I can do better’ is the unspoken mantra that is shared by the masses, and we will spend an inordinate amount of our precious time proving it. As we become comfortable with innuendo while skillfully contradicting ourselves because although we generally want to give away the store, we still like the idea of remaining mysteriously elusive at the same time.  Shakespeare said, “If we are true to ourselves, we cannot be false to anyone.”  If only.


In the end, it would seem that we are due for a reckoning that will likely never come.  The undeniable truth is that with the help of social media, we have simultaneously become both the circus acts and the spectators performing inside this massive tent beneath a big top.    Yet unlike a circus that comes with a program of events with a beginning and an end, this current, production has no particular set of guidelines, no intermissions and no finale.  And while we struggle to differentiate individuality from conformity, sense from nonsensical and fact from fiction, we collectively become nothing more than just sideshows who have found comfort in exploiting their natural instincts, along with their worst impulses, in never-ending performances that are conducted behind a small protective glass screen in our natural habitats all in the name of entertainment.  That is social media, so welcome to the circus.


DISCLAIMER:  All quotes were found on parade.com and are understood to be true statements referenced for the purpose of illustrating a point.  Quotes have been bolded and italicized to provide a delineation from the author’s perspective.

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A Wolf in Wolf’s Clothing – Chapter 3 https://rebelliousmama.com/2021/07/11/a-wolf-in-wolfs-clothing/ https://rebelliousmama.com/2021/07/11/a-wolf-in-wolfs-clothing/#respond Sun, 11 Jul 2021 13:08:17 +0000 https://rebelliousmama.com/?p=655

It is a hot summer in New Jersey in 1976.  Although simply describing it as hot doesn’t really do it justice.  Stifling and oppressive sounds a lot more like it.  But being just six years old, with the majority of your time spent jumping through oscillating sprinklers and into a pool, you don’t really notice the heat all that much anyway.  The heat cannot touch you when you are endlessly wet on the outside while practically frozen on the inside from the constant flow and steady diet of ice cream and popsicles.  Frozen treats that you more than likely bought from a man driving a musical truck with a rainbow-sprinkled ice cream cone painted on the side.  And you appreciate those frozen treats even more when you climb up to the top of the playground slide and then proceed to feel the burn in spades as you slowly inch your way down the hot, dry metal.   So, with your now burned red bottom, you quickly move to the swing and pick up where you left off the day before in your ongoing pursuit to touch an actual real-life cloud with the tip of your finger.  But, alas, no matter how far you stretch your arm, you can’t seem to reach it just yet.  You spend some time sulking in disappointment as you consider the possibility that it might have something to do with your height.  Maybe next year when you are taller and your arms are longer, you will finally be able to touch it.   Maybe you just need to be more patient.  Or at least that is what you have been told.  Having given it a good go, you begin to steady your legs in order to bring yourself back down to Earth and out of the vast blue sky that is filled with those fluffy white and misshapen clouds that you so desperately want to touch.   As the swing now gently rocks back and forth, lulling you to sleep like a baby inside its cradle, you lean backwards while holding on tightly to the chains that the swing is fastened to.  And with a peaceful feeling of pure tranquility, you instinctively close your eyes.  When you reopen them and look up at the sky, you notice that the clouds are changing and slowly beginning to take shape.  Like a dream that the universe brings to life in moving performances beneath the shining sun amid a clear blue sky.   Becoming imperfect and animated images of those familiar things that are usually found illustrated in a children’s picture book.  Like a giant whale swimming through the sky with a monkey on his back who appears to be waving to you.  Or a dinosaur standing beside a tall castle of equal measure.  Or a pack of snarling wolves on the prowl circling above you from their aerial view.  In fact, it is those wolves that jolt you from your sense of calm.  You quickly snap out of it and hurriedly get off the swing, daring yourself to look back up to see if the wolves are still watching you.  You look around to see if anyone else sees that the wolves are about to attack, but no one else seems to see them.  And as you fearfully glance back up towards the sky, it is clear that they are not only watching you, they are following you.  It’s time to go inside. 

 

A child, who just ran for her life away from a pack of snarling wolves that were seemingly created exclusively for her by the clouds, cannot be easily convinced that they were not real.  Running away with a vivid imagination in tow that is as wild as the wolves she was so feverishly trying to escape.  Of course, at six years old your perspective can oftentimes seem to be outrageously distorted, but that is only because you are still in possession of a wonderfully overactive imagination.   You can’t help yourself.  Yet even while your young mind can wander to unreasonable depths and you are fairly certain that the wolves who were formed by the clouds cannot really harm you, you are still keenly aware of the fact that wolves are far from fictitious.  Being well-versed in Little Red Riding Hood’s scary encounter, you know that wolves don’t always disguise themselves in your grandma’s nightgown or shroud themselves in the clothing of a sheep.  You also know that wolves are not really found in the clouds where they can magically transform into a harmless puppy with one strong gust of wind.  Being young and impressionable, however, it is sometimes difficult to separate literal from theoretical, fact from fiction or real versus make believe.  It is through these imaginary episodes that you begin to understand the difference between what is real and what is not.  For a child, it is pretty straightforward and simple:  either people who you already know well or those who you briefly come in contact with make you feel safe and protected, or they don’t.  As Maya Angelou said, “If someone shows you who they really are, believe them.”  And the same can be said about wolves, fictitious or otherwise.  Sometimes people show you exactly who they are which could very well be a wolf in wolf’s clothing.  They are not always compelled to hide or pretend to be someone or something else.  They do not watch you from a distance or secretly follow you home.  They do not need to sneak into your house through a small crack in a window because they live there and have a key to the front door. 

 

Being six years old in the year 1976 is a significant part of Jenny’s story.  It is the year that she first came face-to-face with a real-life wolf.  One of many memories that will not be easily forgotten and will haunt her for years to come.  Like seeing wolves made of clouds in the sky while the day is bright and the sun is shining.  When she frequently needed to remind herself that it was just the voice inside her head that was playing tricks on her.  The same voice that repeatedly tried to convince her each night that her favorite stuffed animals were really disguised monsters who would only come out in the dark.   Adored dolls and stuffed bears by day who worked in harmony with the moon at night to create oversized shadows that danced upon her bedroom walls daring her to fall asleep.  But no wolf in the sky or shadow on her wall could compete with those things that she did not need to imagine at all.  Because they were real.  

 

It has been said that children and dogs have a strangely accurate intuition about people.  Like an internal alarm that is activated when they encounter someone who causes the hair on their arms to stand straight up while a bolt of lightning simultaneously makes its way slowly down their spine putting them on high alert. Jenny’s intuition was extraordinarily heightened from a very young age.  And that’s a good thing, because her survival depended on it.  You see, Jenny was accustomed, and had accepted, a life that did not include a father.    From the moment she was born, it was all that she knew.  But even though Jenny did not have a father to speak of, she still had her brother, Michael, along with their mother.  Up until this point, Michael, who was less than two years Jenny’s senior, bore the heavy burden and responsibility of being the man of the house.  He was just seven years old at the time.   By default, he became the only male figure that Jenny was able to study up close.  And through no fault of his own, he was a terribly unrealistic example, because, truth be told, he was far too good.  For Jenny, measuring others against her beloved brother proved to be an impossible task because no one could ever measure up to his genuinely pure and unadulterated goodness.   Michael always found the fun in every situation and saw good in people, even when they were not deserving of his kindness.  And in those early days, the brother and sister duo were inseparable.  Whether they were forming a rock and roll band that only performed while roller-skating under a strobe light in the basement or building a fort made of snow on the sidewalk, they were always together like peanut butter and jelly.  Having pogo sticks, stilts and a unicycle on hand meant that they could practice longer to become a new brother-sister circus act who, with their motivation and talent, would inevitably land them in the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus Hall of Fame.   And as they performed a homemade scripted and musical Christmas Spectacular each year for their mother, they could undoubtedly have given Donny and Marie or the Carpenter siblings a solid gold run for their money.  They developed a surreptitious and covert language that only they understood which required the one shared wall that faced their separate bedrooms along with two flashlights.  A silent means of communication that can best be described as Morse Code, only with light rather than dots or sound. Unbeknownst to them at the time, it would be that unspoken code and those flashlights that would save them. 

 

Their mother, for her part, vacillated between extremes of being both tough and jubilantly spontaneous.  She was as tough as nails and strict, because, really, what other choice did she have?  Remember she too was abandoned by the man who never became her children’s father.  Left alone to raise two small children, thrust into the role of both mother and father having literally been stripped of choices.  Having to quickly pick up the scattered pieces of her own life and decide if she wanted to endure a life of lemons or if she was going to learn, and teach her children, how to make the very best lemonade.   And so, to balance out her strictness, Jenny’s mother was also full of surprises and had an unparalleled knack for fun and spontaneity.  She was never one who could look the other way when she saw a basket full of puppies or kittens outside the supermarket to the sheer delight of her children when she unexpectedly brought one home.  And she would never hesitate to pack her kids and a few of their belongings in the car in the middle of the night and go on a long, cross country road trip so that she could show her children that there were many more sights to see than just the views from their own backyard.  Maya Angelou was quoted as having said, “You can’t know where you are going until you know where you have been”.  And that is true in any context no matter which direction a packed, wood-paneled station wagon, or life, takes you.  And yet, some people’s stories are too personal and not necessarily meant for public consumption because those are the stories that are not for others to tell.  No matter where they went together as a family, with their mutually shared experiences and destinations, Jenny, Michael and their mother likely had different memories and perspectives that were doubtlessly unique to each of them. 

 

Jenny remembers that her mother rarely complained out loud, choosing instead to suffer in silence and alone.  She often watched and observed her fatherless children adapt to life without the presence of someone big and strong to protect them as only a fictional and stereotypical father figure can.  She wanted more for them, and in truth, for herself as well.  And like anything else, we know that when we see a foundational crack or gaping void of any kind, our natural impulse is to try to fill it.  So, Jenny’s mother decided to hire a babysitter and endeavored to fill that hole with a father for her children, all the while optimistically taking a gamble on the scientifically-proven theory that lightning would not dare strike the same family twice.  She should have taken a different bet or just stuck with the lemon theory instead because this is when Jenny’s mother first came across a wayward wolf and decided to bring him home.

 

The wolf seemed suitable enough at first with no real noticeable red flags to speak of.  He was a semi-talented musician who Jenny’s mother happened to stumble upon while out with friends, and she enjoyed music, so he instantly had that going for him and checked that particular box.  Jenny’s mother had a very intense and serious job, therefore, meeting someone less serious and intense, who encouraged her to tap into her more fun and less reserved side, was naturally appealing.   It would be for anyone who was given an opportunity to relax and let their hair, along with their guard, down.  What Jenny and her family did not know right away, but would later learn, was that he had also previously been an amateur boxer.  Having been a boxer might lead one to believe that he had the tools necessary to provide protection to this otherwise unprotected small family, and that earned him another checked box.  In appearance, he looked like someone who was ordinary with no specific marks or identifying physical traits that stood out.  He would have probably described himself as a mashup of Elvis Presley and Jake LaMotta in both his looks as well as his demeanor.  In particular, the Elvis image from the mid-70’s that we all remember when he was already addicted to prescription drugs and became visibly dazed, confused and puffy; in combination with Jake LaMotta, otherwise known as ‘The Raging Bull’, when he was many years past his prime, but still angry and violently temperamental.   A real-life wolf in sheep’s clothing had entered the lives of Jenny and her unsuspecting family.  Jenny didn’t care for him from the very start and had a strong sense that there was fraudulence afoot.  She knew because her intuition told her so.  And that was the first red flag.  Over time, more red flags were unearthed as he began to slowly shed more articles of the sheep’s clothing until there was nothing left to see except a terrifying and angry wolf.

 

Meanwhile, Jenny’s mother, having not seen enough of the wolf’s slow reveal just yet, decided to marry him.  Michael was delighted to now have a father of his very own.  Someone who he envisioned would play catch with him and teach him how to fix the chain on his bike.  Someone who would magically and instantly transform himself into the role of a good father.  Jenny’s mother now didn’t need to go it all alone.  Like a good marriage is purported to be, she genuinely believed that she would have a life partner in every way by filling that empty space of loneliness with what was presumed to be a blissful union built on love and companionship. Someone who would help her to raise her children and ensure that they had what was perceived to be the benefits that can allegedly only be found in a two-parent household.  These, of course, were lies that they told to themselves because they were blinded by wants and needs that overshadowed any innate ability to sense danger.  Jenny sensed the danger but being just six years old, she was unanimously outvoted.  So, the wolf moved in with them, and it didn’t take him too long to begin to unpack the red flags right along with his clothes.

 

To be continued…..

 

 

 

Disclaimer:  All quotes were found on wisdomquotes.com and are understood to be true statements, fictional or otherwise, referenced for the sole purpose of illustrating a point.  Quotes have been bolded and italicized to provide a delineation from the author’s perspective.

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A Turtle’s Retreat – Chapter 2 https://rebelliousmama.com/2021/06/20/a-turtles-retreat/ https://rebelliousmama.com/2021/06/20/a-turtles-retreat/#respond Mon, 21 Jun 2021 00:09:05 +0000 https://rebelliousmama.com/?p=608

By this time, maybe you are wondering who the girl is.  Her name is Jenny.  Although, you can probably guess that is not her real name.  It is the surreptitious alias that she and her brother devised one day when they were bored.  Yes.  It might come as a surprise to you to learn that Jenny is not an only child.  She has an older brother whose name is Michael.  And no, that is not actually his real name either.  While through the years and over time Jenny managed to blend in, she has never been able to fully immerse herself into what society’s universally recognized and mostly superficial standards are presumed to be.  But that doesn’t mean she didn’t try often enough.  Yet, every time she determined to fit in and follow the pack, so to speak, her efforts proved to be in vain.  Awkwardness overcame her as she inevitably found herself to be no different than a floundering fish out of water.  Discovering that typical social situations were generally uncomfortable and tedious, finding real solace only when she was secluded and back in the solitude and privacy of her home’s embrace.  Admittedly the irony of her own manufactured paradox is not entirely lost on her, as she spent some of her time seeking the companionship of others to combat loneliness only to instantly regret it, and instead long to be alone. 

 

 

It was during those prehistoric, formative years, when settling for one’s own thoughts as your constant companion was oftentimes your only choice anyway.   Remember, we are talking about the 70’s with handheld devices and social media still being just mere figments of someone else’s imagination. But Jenny didn’t really mind.  In fact, she preferred it that way.  However, unfortunately for Jenny, flashbacks of her youth have proven to be particularly and unapologetically fickle.  Allowing her to dig deep into her memory bank only to retrieve those subconscious memories that have bitterly tormented her no matter how hard she has tried to decidedly push them far out of reach in an effort to suppress them.  Cringeworthy excerpts from her past that can still manage to bring her to her knees, having singularly defined her ever-present weaknesses even while simultaneously calling to action her equally persistent strength and willfulness.  John Steinbeck said, “Nearly everyone has his box of secret pain.”   A commonly ill-conceived fallacy is that over time memories fade.  That is not necessarily true for many people.  Memories do not fade or disappear, rather they simply become dormant and resurface when least expected.  And, like an uninvited houseguest, usually with little time to prepare for their inconvenient and unannounced arrival.

 

The history of the 70’s has been commemorated in movies and books with recollections of what is now considered to be a beguiling bohemian era.  Snapshots of a point in history that typically include the timeless music that people listened to and the clothes that they wore while symbolically illustrating a spirited rebellion that has been as garishly promulgated as strobe lights, bell-bottom pants and platform shoes.  But as we all know time is mercilessly persistent and yields unimaginable changes that can make the end of any era appear to look and sound nothing like its alleged humble beginning.   Notwithstanding all that must have transpired in between.  John Steinbeck said, “Time is the only critic without ambition.” For Jenny, even with time serving as a reliable wedge, flashbacks are as unpredictable as a raging storm swirling in the middle of the sea.  Flashbacks that wash over her and force her to be reluctantly brought back to a time, and particular moments, that she would otherwise prefer to forget. Jenny grew up in New Jersey in the 70’s.  To the outside world, she was no different than any other young girl growing up at the same time.  A time when being inconspicuous and keeping secrets was generally a standard practice, and by all accounts, not hard to do.  Compared to today’s unruly world where the opposite is true and sharing too much information has become normalized and commonplace.  Jenny can recall hearing somewhere that a story told is a life lived.  And it is John Steinbeck who reminds us that, “To be alive at all is to have scars.”  For Jenny, managing to successfully conceal her fragile scars has proven to be an isolating and deeply inhibited lifelong war that she has waged against herself.  Determined to find someone with whom she can relate, only to be confronted with the realization that there is no such person.  As it turned out for Jenny mimicking the behaviors of a turtle was much easier as it permitted her to remain peripherally unobtrusive.  The box turtle, in particular, is a curious creature as it hides its head and limbs within the safety and confines of its hard shell when it senses danger.  The shell serves as the turtle’s protective armor against its predators.  Naturally retreating within itself is the instinctive safety measure that is doubtlessly responsible for its very survival.  Over time, with enough uncertainty, and for her own protection, Jenny unwittingly became like a turtle.

 

 

You see, being born fatherless was just the beginning of Jenny’s story.  From a purely observational and practical perspective, it would appear that a father’s role to his children, especially his daughter, is to be her first example of love.  Naturally it would seem that it is his responsibility to set the bar and provide the foundation of what is acceptable and how she should expect to be treated.   Having been rejected and abandoned by the man who never became her father, Jenny had no choice but to figure it all out on her own.  Perhaps she was better off, or maybe some would even say fortunate, that he left at the very start of her life’s journey.  Growing up one could scarcely know what they were missing if they never had it to begin with which, depending on the person, may or may not be comforting.  It could also be assumed, and has been said, that what you do not know cannot hurt you.  That, of course, is not true.  In fact, it is a fool who came up with that ridiculous concept.  Oftentimes it is what people don’t know that becomes the bane of their existence and can be the very thing that incites and causes them the most harm.  And as we see evidenced time and time again, bad decisions and choices do not often stand still and become transfixed or frozen in time just because we wish them to.  Instead, and more often than not, they become a chain reaction that triggers the behavioral patterns that we learned along the way that ultimately result in inevitable, yet preventable, eventualities.  And still, sometimes, we are not necessarily bound by our own choices, rather, it is the choices that others make on our behalf that we are left to contend with and sift through.  Oftentimes all that we have is the bed that someone else made for us leaving us to decide whether we should change the sheets or if we should leave and find a new bed where we can make our own choices and have no one else to blame but ourselves.  John Steinbeck said, “So many old and lovely things are stored in the world’s attic because we don’t want them around us and we don’t dare throw them out.”  Those old, yet not necessarily always lovely, things are called memories.  While some memories are captured in photographs that are carefully curated atop a mantle above a burning hearth for all to see, there are other collected memories, intangible souvenirs from the past that are privately stored on a dusty mantle deep inside your mind’s attic where they are hidden away and never meant to be seen.

 

For Jenny, however, remaining autonomous and adapting to the behaviors of a turtle by hiding herself away inside her hardened shell was simply not sustainable.  John Steinbeck is quoted as having said, “It’s a hard thing to leave any deeply routine life, even if you hate it.”  Jenny was fully aware that although she was not responsible for her father’s abandonment, she knew that coming out of her shell and leaving behind life as she knew it would be her only chance at ensuring that history did not repeat itself.  She knew that she needed to change and become integrated into society with its superficial standards that she disliked and the people whom she distrusted.    John Steinbeck said, “Men do change and change comes like a little wind that ruffles the curtains at dawn, and it comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass.”  It is those subtle changes that are undetectable yet unmistakable at the same time.  And Jenny knew that while her reclusiveness permitted her to survive, it did not allow her to live.  Conditionally resigning herself to the realization that the two ideas were not interchangeable and could not co-exist.  Having accepted the unabridged version of her reality, Jenny was left with two choices.  She could remain the puddle that is left behind after a torrential storm that others step over and avoid.  Or.   She could become the storm.  By this time, you can probably guess which one she chose.  And that is where Jenny’s story really begins.

 

It was a hot summer day in New Jersey in the year 1976…..

 

Disclaimer:  All quotes were found on bookroo.com and are understood to be true statements, fictional or otherwise, referenced for the sole purpose of illustrating a point.   Quotes have been bolded and italicized to provide a delineation from the author’s perspective.

 

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