Morning Walk...

Here's a little bit I wrote while living in Upstate NY last spring... Enjoy! :)

I'm up early this morning- I take the dog for a walk
We move through the neighborhood at a healthy pace 
The streets lined with manicured lawns Driveways bear the delighful witness to children's imagination through sweet colors of faded chalk 

I smile.

We stop at the park 
I feel the warm sun on my face 
My dog lifts his leg 
My mind quickly invaded with thoughts of bills and budgets and deadlines and datapoints and meetings to be had... 

Barraged by the mundane. 

A sudden breeze picks up 
Trees dance, leaves whistle, my hair falls in my face. 
A permeating scent of pine floods my senses. 

I smile again. 

T'was a lovely interruption.

He's the Only Brother You'll Ever Have

That's what Mom would say to me all of the time.

"Be good to your brother. He's the only brother you'll ever have."

She was right.

I do only have one brother. He's six years younger and the best guy anyone could meet. He's intelligent, a talented artist, great coach and mentor, HILARIOUS, and can sure play some mean ball. And, damn do I miss him. We live a few states apart and I haven't seen him in a while, but not a day goes by when I don't think about him.

The other day, while I was sitting on the train on my ride into work, I was thinking back to one summer day at Grama's house on the beach. She lived in the Puget Sound area, right on the bay, and one summer when I was 15 and my brother was 9, we spent 3 weeks there. We had such a great time! We played hide and seek on the beautifully lush property, picked green beans from the garden, swam in the bay (man, it was COLD), watched the tide roll in and out, roasted marshmallows on the fire pit, searched for silver dollars, chased little tiny crabs around the beach, and had the best summer two kids from a small dusty town in South Texas could ask for.

And on one of those days that summer--I was not good to my little brother.

It was a pivotal day in our relationship. One that we joke about now, but one that brought us closer together despite everything that happened that day.

It started out as a quiet and typical day at Grama's house. She was in the kitchen preparing some sort of meal out of a box or can and serving it on her finest china and cut glass she found at the local dusty antique shop. Her husband was sitting in his green easy chair sleeping to his prized satellite TV. It was a quiet mid-afternoon of old people's routines and little kids' longing for...something, anything.

I was playing my Grama's groovy sounding organ in other room. I used to play that thing for hours on end...I was never really good at it, but boy was I determined to pound out a few tunes. It was also relaxing for me. I was a pretty stressed out kid and music soothed me like nothing else could. I would play song after song in Grama's massively huge "Fake" book, losing myself in thought and in almost another world, another time.

It was wonderful.

As I was lost somewhere between 'All My Loving' and 'Greensleeves' my little brother tapped ever so lightly on my shoulder, careful not to startle me out of my almost trance. I think he asked me something, but I don't remember now. I shrugged his little hand off my shoulder and probably barked something like, "Leave me alooooooone."

Poor kid. He was probably bored out of his gourd. Yearning to be outside in the sea air, ready to dig in the sand and play...with his sister. But his sister was a teenager, and she was obviously not in the mood to play.

I think he must've asked me a few more times to please, puuuuurty please play with him. But I ignored him, and the next thing I remember was this horrible sound of dissonant chords breaking all of my concentration. The sound pierced my ears as though fingernails were scratching slowly and purposely down an old chalkboard.

It was my brother. He decided that he would get my attention by pounding on the lower keys to get me to stop playing on that damn silly organ, and play with him instead. He was lonely. Afterall, there were no other children for...who knows how many miles. I was his only hope in having a fun afternoon of childhood play.

So, his desperate times called for desperate measures.... And he payed dearly.

I remember feeling an instant rage of anger. Anger like I had never felt before. Anger that I had no idea I could even feel. Anger at this little boy for daring to pull me away from something I loved so dear. Pure raging anger.

I was pissed.

Now...before I tell you what happened next, I must confess something. I've only told this story a few times because I still feel horrible, all of these years later, about how poorly I treated my little brother on that day. But those few times I've told the story I've always offered the disclaimer that I reacted the way I did because my boyfriend told me to. See, I had an older boyfriend during that time. In fact, he was my boyfriend for many years and he witnessed many occasions of my little brother pestering me. My boyfriend also had much experience with his own sisters and younger cousins pestering. I swear that I remember my boyfriend telling me that the next time my brother pesters me I should...I should... Well. I just remember that he told me to do it. But when I think back now, I wonder. I wonder if I offered that disclaimer because that's really what happened--my boyfriend told me to do it...or if I merely created that excuse in my mind...Having such a disclaimer was the only way I could possibly excuse what I did.

I punched my little 9 year old brother square in the face.

Fist and all.

I'm devastated even writing about it now.

I remember watching his face in horror after my hard fist left his soft full cheeks. His face grew bright red and the birthmark he had between his eyes almost glowed, flushed with the rage that was burning inside of him. I was worried that he'd be hurt or would start crying...but instead he grew angry...

And promptly began pounding on me with his fists.



It seemed like he had been punching my back forever and I couldn't manage to get away! But we both distinctly remember one thing...as we were fighting we both saw Grama walk from the kitchen into the living room. When we caught a glimpse of her we immediately froze in action--like the Tom & Jerry cartoons- while she walked by without giving us much notice. Then, once she was out of sight, we were back at it--back to the violence. Maybe that happened...or maybe my brother and I created that moment in our minds as our way of saving ourselves from the pain with humor--like we usually did as kids.

I somehow managed to get away and ran upstairs to my room, slammed the door, locked it, and slid down the door to my bottom drowning in my tears. I sobbed and sobbed for what seemed like hours. I sobbed in pain, but mostly I sobbed in shame. It felt absolutely terrible that I had treated my little brother, the only brother I'll ever have, so badly.

It's something I'll never forget.

After a while, I finally had the courage to come out of my room. No, I was not afraid of my brother hitting me again, nor was I even afraid of being in BIG trouble...I was so ashamed that I was afraid to see his sweet face...fearful that my heart would break instantly in his glare.

I don't remember the exact details of all that happened next, but I do remember that my brother had gone to the beach, collected some sea shells in a little jar with sand and a tiny little flower.

He made me a present.

I don't remember our conversation or what words were said between us, but I know we made up. We also didn't tell anyone what happened that afternoon. In fact, I don't think we even talked about that day until my first semester in college. I was missing him one night and wrote about this day for my English composition class. I got an 'A' and I sent him my paper. I missed him so much then...just like I do now.

And, like after I wrote the story in college, our mom will probably lecture me for being a rotten sister after reading this post, but oh well. It was an important day in my brother's and my relationship. It brought us closer. And it's important to me that I tell this story again...because I need to tell my little brother, "I'm sorry."

Of course we fought many times after this, we're only human. And we're siblings, so it's only normal and expected that we fight. But we NEVER went to blows like we did on that day.

I miss my little brother.

And I love him dearly.

Afterall....he's the only brother I'll ever have.

Women's Independence...Have We Overcome?

Ugh. I'm home sick. And that means, I'm down for the count. But it also means that I get to be HOME and spend time with my daughter, even if from bed. And it means I get to be a part of her world of homework, lunches to make, and school projects.

So, this week my daughter finished a school project she's been working on and talking about for the past several weeks. And yesterday, I was able to view her final product.

I am in awe.

Not only do I have to brag as a mother...yes, she did a great job on her video documentary, but she really opened my eyes to something I knew little about. She opened my eyes to the struggle for Women's Independence during the Gilded Age at the turn of the nineteenth century. I learned about the Gibson Girl, Bloomers, Victorian Fashion Reform, the dawn of the bicycle, what the heck crinoline is, and more...I learned about the fight for Women's Suffrage.

And I am moved.

It never dawned on me that, as women, we once had little freedom in this country. It never dawned on me that the women of the turn of the century had to literally fight society for the freedom to vote, and more. It never dawned on me that society looked down on those women who were intelligent, bold, and who desired more for themselves than to be adorned as nothing more than a cake topper or trophy. It never dawned on me the suffering at the hand of men, mainstream thinking women, and society in general that these women steadfastly endured.

It just never dawned on me. I take the freedoms I have today for granted.

It also makes me think, as I watch her video and take in the visuals of women being beaten by the police, ridiculed by men, and outcast by other women...

If I had lived in those days, what would have I done?

Would I have marched on Capitol Hill in support of Women's Suffrage? Would I have thrown away my corsette and boldly worn the forbidden bloomers to make a point that women don't have to follow the mainstream? Would I have broken away from my traditional role and ventured out, alone, on a bicycle therefore asserting my need for freedom and independence?

Would I have stood up for my beliefs and risked reputation, family, and even endured physical ridicule for the freedom to have my voice heard through my vote?

Would I?

I hope that I would. But I don't know. I really don't.

I say this because I don't do anything NOW.

No, there are no marches on Capitol Hill for the sake of Women's Independence like in the turn of the century or even the 60's or 70's... but I can stand up for my rights even in the seemingly insignificant happenings of my everyday. And I don't do even that.

For example: I work in IT. Yes, Information Technology is a world of and for men. There are few women in my field. And often, the men will actually tell me how little I must know about technology. I end up having to prove myself on every project that I know what a SQL server is and I know how to analyze a technical portfolio and I know how to do regression testing on an Oracle rules engine.

On one of my previous assignments, there were six of us analysts: 3 men and 3 women. We all had similar experience with technology. My boss broke us up into two groups and even sat us apart: the girls and the boys. Then he gave the boys access to one of the business modeling tools. The girls were left to do the writing and other non-technical aspects of our project, while the boys were off learning new technology. The boys were charged with analyzing the technical pieces of the project of which they had zero experience with in human services and the girls had TONS.

Our boss rarely spoke to the girls and rarely came into our workspace. Yet, he was often found in the boys workspace cracking jokes as though they all belonged to a fraternity. When the girls would offer advice on using a new piece of technology to make our jobs easier, our boss quickly dismissed the idea. However, when the boys put together a horrific and painstakingly difficult spreadsheet to pull requirements (rather than the tool a girl recommended), he was elated.

We, as women, soon gave up. We even joked about the situation. But, we sat back in our roles as 'girls' and did the tidings of the non-technical. We word-smithed, created charts and graphs, and settled into mostly administrative roles.

And what did I do? I was sneaky. I took one of the licenses to the boy's tool. I learned how to use it and created a model for one of the team leads. But that's it.

I passively protested. I did nothing more.

I didn't stand up to the obvious prejudice nor did I even confront my boss. I merely sat back. I didn't protest the obvious gender bigotry nor did I stand up for what I knew was right. I simply fell into the mainstream and did what I was told. Why? For the sake of my job? For the sake of my role on the project? For the sake of not rocking the boat or upsetting the status quo?

And that makes me sad. And that makes me feel shame.

No longer will I sit back. No longer will I contribute to women's oppression by quietly accepting what I know is less than what I can give. The Suffragettes paved the way so that I can have the freedoms I take for granted...and I will never take those freedoms for granted again.

Never again.



I am grateful for their courage.

I am grateful for their strength, conviction, and drive to fight for what they knew was right.

I am forever indebted and moved. For they risked it all so that the world would know...

I am woman...

Hear me roar.

No Regrets...Just Lessons Learned

Yet once again I had a great conversation with my teenage daughter a few nights back...This time the topic was that of regrets. She asked what, if any, regrets did I have in my life. 

I looked up in thought as I quickly scanned my memories of my past. What did I regret? I've made many mistakes in my life. Some severe. Some not so much so. Some silly. Some sad. But as I thought and thought and thought, I came up with nothing. 

I looked at her and told her that I can honestly and safely say that I have NO regrets in my life. But, I have many, yes MANY lessons learned. 

And, I'm sure that there are many books written about this sort of thing, and I probably even had this same conversation in therapy: to live life with regret is a sad thing, for every mistake we make only helps us become better and wiser and closer to the warm sunshine of love & happiness. 

This is the same schpiel I gave my daughter. 

She didn't buy it. 

There HAD to be something I regretted...and regretted deeply. 

Ok...there was one thing. One moment in my life that I WISH I could reverse the hand of time and have a 'do over.' One moment that still makes me cringe in frustration. One moment that I can remember how my face felt hot with emotion. 

One moment that I don't necessarily regret...but I CERTAINLY learned from it. Oh yeah. I learned. 

With this thought I smiled my sly little smile, looked her in the eye with 'that' look...she knew she was gonna hear it. She sat back and deep into the couch and propped herself up to listen intently as I told my story of regret…Err, Lesson Learned. ;)  

And my story goes like this: 

I was in the fifth grade in Catholic school. Fifth grade was such an awkward time for me. Oh, gosh! How awkward it was! I was this tiny little thing who could hardly kick a ball two feet, had zero motor skills, was completely into losing myself in books or my Casio keyboard, and well...just a little nerd. I was shy and quiet (although not with my closest girlfriends). And, well, to be honest...I just never felt like I fit in. I never felt like I was good enough or smart enough or special enough. 

Long story (and several hours in therapy later) as to why...but for now-- I just did. I just didn't feel adequate. 

So. Back to the point. Regret...Err, Lesson learned. 

Fifth grade. Catholic school. Miss Gonzales' class. 

Our little town's theater got the movie 'Gandhi' and our school decided that it would be quite the educational experience for the fifth and sixth graders to join the public school kids in seeing this LOOOOOOONG movie. So, one hot afternoon, to the Garmon Theater we marched in our blue plaid uniforms, single file, to see 'Gandhi.' No one was particularly excited about the movie itself. We didn't see what the fuss was all about. But it seemed like most kids were excited about getting out of school to see a movie during the day! Fun! And I was REALLY excited at the possible notion that I might catch a glimpse of my mom. She taught at the public school and was taking her sixth grade class to watch the same movie that day. Maybe I'd get to see my mom! That was exciting for sure. 

Once we reached the theater, we took refuge in the cool building and found our seats in the old style theater. As the lights dimmed the children’s chatter quieted into a few sparse giggles as the movie began. 

Now, I have to admit that I don't remember much of the movie. But I do remember two things about it: the beginning and the end. The opening scene was flash-forward of Gandhi’s fatal assassination and the ending was a repeat of that same opening scene. I’m sure there’s an actual term for that directorial effect, but I don’t know what it is even now. But I do know what I saw. In fact, I distinctly remember thinking that having the flash-forward, then telling the story and repeating the opening scene at the end was quite powerful. It must have been! I remember it still after all of these years! 

After the movie we walked back to our school in our single file line (no I didn't see my mom) and all the way back I remember walking in silence and just thinking about the powerful movie I had just experienced. Gandhi was quite the example. He was about peace and love. He was about humility and patience. And wow, why would anyone want to kill him? 

When we arrived back to our classroom, we all took our seats. I remember my assigned seat in fifth grade—I sat behind Johnnie ALL the way in the very back of the classroom. Why Miss Gonzales ever sat me in the BACK of the class, I'll never understand since I was the shortest kid in the class...but alas, she did. I was in the back. Most days I don't think it ever mattered...but on this afternoon, it did. 

Lesson Learned: Don’t accept or take a back seat.

Miss Gonzales waited until we all stopped our chit-chatting before she asked the class about what they thought about the movie. 

The next thing I remember was the question being asked...THE question. The very question that makes me shudder even to this very day. The question that I yearned to answer. And I don't even know who asked the question, but it still rings clearly in my memory…

"Miss! Miss! Was there two Gandhi’s?"

Whuh? .... WHAT??!!?!

Two Gandhi’s? Haha. What a silly question, I thought. Surely, Miss Gonzales would quickly clear this one up and move on. Then I remember looking up and seeing several hands in the air. And then discussion ensued. In fact, I remember a LENGTHY discussion ensued about whether there were two Gandhi's... not about much else. And it seemed to last forever! 

Was I really hearing this correctly? Even Miss Gonzales was asking the question and joining in the discussion. The class AND my teacher questioned the dramatic effect of the movie's flash-forward. 

Two Gandhi’s? Really? 

I eagerly raised my hand. I knew the answer! I wanted so much to explain what the director did with repeating Gandhi’s shooting and how the director used different time references to make his point and Gandhi’s death all the more paramount. 

It was a flash forward, people!! 

I raised my hand, but no one saw it. I propped my left palm under my right elbow to keep my hand raised—it was getting tired. Miss Gonzales never called on me. The question was never answered that day in class. It was never answered at all in Miss Gonzales’ class.

And I felt awful that I hadn't the courage to be heard. I cowered and remained silent. I was too scared to speak up. I was too timid. 

And for those who know me now... Obviously I am timid no longer. And I CERTAINLY speak up. 

Lesson Learned: Don’t be afraid to be heard.

After I finished my story, my daughter and I sat in silence. It was the very first time I had every told that story out loud. And almost thirty years later, it is still one of the most significant days of my life.

Yes, it took a few more years for me to learn the lessons I took away from that day, but that day was the pinnacle for me. A turning point.

But, not a day goes by that I feel regret.

No.

But I learned. Boy, did I learn.

Now people can’t shut me up.

Oh…and what’s even funnier…when I got home on that paramount day in the fifth grade, my mom asked me the question…

“Were there two Gandhi’s?”

Lesson learned: Even our parents whom we as children believe have all of the answers—don’t always.

Afterall, we’re only human.

Lesson learned.

:)