Whatever is good

This morning I was disheartened to see a news story posted by someone on Facebook.  The photograph highlighting the article is of a pretty blonde woman with a battered face sitting  on a hospital bed. Her hair and face are soaked with blood. The title of the article reads:

Couple beaten with chains by Muslims on Christmas Eve.

According to the news source, the incident happened in Copenhagen, Denmark. The article has been shared 52,000 times on Facebook from this one site alone. It is featured on numerous sites. Most of them clearly sensationalist, exceptionally fundamentalist christian or simply anti-muslim.  Here are some red flags regarding the story's accuracy.

1. The boy mentioned as the initial attacker is said to be muslim. There is no information confirming this. Why?
2. The attackers are named as "Somali" youth, but no one was caught. How is it known they were Somalians? Do Somalians have some sort of distinguishing marks?
3. The couple, Nanna and Mads, were on their way home with his family. Nothing is mentioned about anyone in the family defending the boyfriend or getting attacked.  No one in the family is interviewed about what occurred. What did they do, stand and watch or run away?
4. The attacker was on a bicycle, but got off, somehow got a bottle and hit the boyfriend. Then "Suddenly several came up from a basement". Weren't they outside on the street? Where was this basement? Under a manhole?
5. The report was given by the bloodied woman to Ekstra Bladet. Who is this? A reporter in Copenhagen committed to truth and justice? Nope. It's the name of a sensationalist tabloid in Denmark. Sort of like The Star here. A hallmark of the tabloid is a naked woman on page 9 of every issue. A tradition since 1979. High brow news source right here.

    The human mind has deciphered DNA, navigated to the moon and back, and eradicated deadly diseases. It has incredible power of reasoning, the ability to analyze the most complex ideas and make sense of them. Skills most people are too effing lazy to use! The fact that people read stuff like this, suck in a shocked gasp and without hesitating, hit "share", infuriates and distresses me. False reporters carelessly spread the slop of hate and fear and all the hungry hogs run and suck it all up. Every little rancid morsel. Gorging themselves so fast they don't even realize how much shit and dirt they swallowed along with all. 

In order to get to truth, one must question. We ask Who, What, Where, When and How? But not many pigs at the trough are going to look at the farmer and say, "Did you get this at Whole Foods or are you giving us garbage again?" The main reason? They have an appetite for garbage. Filth and rot is what they crave. They're nourishing their minds with excrement. Because they like it that way.

The comments left by people under this article give me a feeling of hopelessness. They are mean, hateful, ignorant, violent. 

"Far cry from a peaceful religion....The goal of a Muslim is either you become Muslim or you die!"

"TIME for another religious war Europe stand against these Muslim dogs ..fight fire with fire where are the men of europe your people are being attacked by sand dwellers hell bent on destroying your civilization..FIGHT BACK."

Reply · Like · 278

"As long as you continue to let these muslim cockroaches live in your country and do as they please, this will always happen, exterminate them all"

Reply · Like · 18 

"The joys of diversity. Thank you politicians. It's just a shame though that more such joys aren't visited upon the politicians who made the choice to subject us to multiculturalism."

"They all need to face either mandatory deportation or summary execution; they will never change..."

"Reply · Like · 27 · 

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  "pffftttt for mandatory deportation.. they should know the consequences of this violent religious hate crime before they cross our borders. I don't want to pay to send them "home", i'd pull the trigger on an execution for free..."

  Reply · Like · 23 · 

  a

I want to believe we are getting better at accepting and loving one another. I want to believe we are striving to find our common humanity. I know many are, but reading these folks words makes me realize how far we have to go. Ironically, many of the people making these nasty comments claim to be christians. Christians whose Bible tells them in Philippians 4:9, Therefore, my brethren, those things that are true, those that are honorable, those that are righteous, those things that are pure, those things that are precious, those things that are praiseworthy, deeds of glory and of praise, meditate on these things.

Supposedly, the Copenhagen police confirmed the attack. If this was big news in the city on Christmas Eve, it stands to reason there would be reports in every Copenhagen news source for the next several days. I could not find it in any of the reputable papers. Out of the 13 I searched, it showed up in only one other than the tabloid above. The other paper, the Jyllands-Posten, is the same one that printed the cartoons making fun of Muhammed in 2005, causing a tremendous uproar. It is described as a popular paper with inserts tabloid-like in nature. It has a history littered with anti-immigrant and anti-muslim commentary.

I don't know what happened to Nanna and Mads. I wasn't there. I don't know who provoked what nor what followed. I have no idea who hurt them. But it doesn't seem anyone else does either. We have only one person's account of the incident. I'm sorry it happened. It's a terrible thing for anyone to commit violence against anyone. However, speculating and spreading false information fuels the flames of racism and bigotry, breathing new life into fires we've been fighting to put out for decades. 
While searching the newspapers, I tried many words in the search bars. I wanted to be as thorough as possible in getting the story straight.  Nanna, Mads, attack, Christmas Eve, Muslim, Somali. I found the story only once. In one of the more respected Copenhagen newspapers I also found this:

Muslim's Christmas invitation goes viral

Honorable. Precious. Praiseworthy.

When should we begin to meditate on these things?

Chicken of the Dark

On an early morning walk I was startled by a chicken. I was taking the driveway toward the river when the silence was shattered by a loudly squawking, erratically running mass of feathers with legs. Zig zagging and darting, flinging the dead leaves behind it, it was making a frantic attempt to escape a coyote. The coyote was so intent on its prey it didn't notice me. It caught the chicken in its mouth, clamping right over the bird's back. Then it saw me and stood stock still for a second. The chicken was still too, shocked and terrified, its legs sticking out stiff as sticks. I am the kind of person that catches flies in my hand to let them out of the house. I have compassion for the smallest of bugs. I even have compassion for the ones that sting and bite. I abhor killing and suffering. If something is in distress I'm going to rescue it. But on this morning, my desire for a dramatic photo suddenly overrode my compassion. I went against my nature and instead of attempting to save the chicken, I took pictures of its demise.

 I still feel guilty because I didn't attempt to save the chicken. It's possible I could have. I saved a chipmunk from a cat once. When I ran at the cat and screamed NO! loudly, the cat dropped the chipmunk and ran off. I held the chipmunk in my hands and thought it was dead, but it was only in shock. After a while, held against my warm chest, it revived and scampered into the woods. Recently, in the middle of the highway, a robin was standing on the dividing yellow lines. It had it's mouth open but wasn't moving. I think it must have flown into a car or been struck somehow. The traffic was bumper to bumper. I opened the door, picked up the bird and drove home with it in my lap wrapped in the lower portion of my sweatshirt. At home I gave it some water and held it like I did the chipmunk. Half an hour later it sang and flew from my hand into the sky. I have saved many creatures. I once brought a frog back from the dead. No lie. You can ask my son. He was there. The feeling of rescuing something is buoying. Like being a miracle worker. I could have at least tried for the chicken. Instead, I, savior of the helpless, became the opportunist throwing compassion to the wayside. I snapped the photos and the coyote bolted toward the woods to devour the poor bird. The pictures aren't masterpieces. They're morbid. You can see the chicken in the death grip and you can see its feathers flying off as it tries to free itself. I hate those pictures. They make me feel bad.

I realize this is ridiculous. It's the NATURE of things. The coyote's gotta eat too. I get it. I still hate it.

I eat chickens all the time. I just don't kill them myself. My hands don't wring any necks. I haven't been anywhere near a Tyson plant. I am not guilty. I am a kind, compassionate person dammit! All I do is buy a featherless, skinless, boneless, piece of white protein nicely packaged on white styrofoam. In that package at the grocery store, it doesn't resemble the animal it is, the sentient being it was. Not at all. I can tell myself it had as much of a life as a potato. I don't want to think it lived in a cage, force fed. I don't want to think it had babies that it cared for, perhaps loved. (Do chickens love? Dogs do. Can't chickens? I have a friend who had a pet turkey. It would run excitedly to the car when she got home, just like a dog. Anyone who knew her and the turkey's relationship would say it loved her.)
Had the nameless thing on the styrofoam tray suffered? Had it felt fear or pain? I'm certain the coyote's chicken was afraid. I saw it in it's eyes.

The reality, whether I like it or not, is I participate in the mass murder of chickens every day because I buy and eat them all the time, fueling supply and demand. Even if I'd saved that chicken, I've participated in the demise of thousands. My ideas of being the good savior would be lies. If I spent an hour in a chicken processing plant I'd probably never eat it again. But I'll never do this. I don't want to see what it's like in there because I'm sure it's horrific. So I comfort myself with the delusional potato theory, because fried chicken is the best thing to eat on this whole freakin' planet.

 I am aware most people's brains don't bang at these things so hard, but it brings me to think about things we rationalize the same way. We want what we want, even if it's at the expense of something or someone. The unfair treatment of something or someone we consider less than ourselves is fine as long as we are getting something we desire out of it. The way we do this, this rationalizing that pushes our discomfort of the reality of things to the far back recesses of our consciousness, this bothers the hell out of me. The truth that I possess these traits and know it should be enough to make me change it. What shames me is my weakness and lack of will power to just do the right thing.

 Similarly, every social injustice has, at its core, selfishness and a lack of empathy. A refusal to look into the darkness.
Slavery. Segregation. Sexism. Inequality. Inhumane treatment of any living thing.

Billionaires with 4 mansions and a private leer jet don't want to share the money they earned with the homeless and hungry. Because they've never known the darkness of being homeless or hungry.

Americans who earned their right to live here because their mother's vagina was in the right place at the right time, tell poor, fearful immigrants to take their kids and get out of our country. Because they've never known the darkness of being a poor, fearful immigrant.

Those who can afford a private concierge doctor, (yes, that is a real thing) aren't worried if others can't afford health care. Because they've never known the darkness of being sick without health care.

Those who will rape and wound our forests, mountains and rivers for profit. Because they do not know the darkness of a place stripped of its beauty and healing powers.

On and on and on and on. We don't see real change because we don't want to think about and understand the dark things. If we had to spend a day living as the one's we take advantage of, the world would be new the very next morning.

I wrote this post this morning. Mostly to work out things in my own head, not so much for others. As providence would have it, as soon as I finished I saw the video featured in the post in my news feed and added it. The story was on the front page of the NY Times today.

On the way home from visiting my grandmother in rural South Carolina this summer, a truck delivering chickens (I assume to the slaughterhouse) stopped next to me at a light. I was forced to look. And smell. Their condition was sickening. The undersides looked like the one's in the Perdue farmer's hen house.
I think it is time we all dare to start looking at things harder than we want to.

In retrospect, I think the chicken killed by the coyote lived a far better existence than the ones pictured below.

Radical Soul Food (Because post annihilation appetites are a bitch.)

   

Friends, I have wonderful news! Our biggest problems, 1) what to give our family and friends for Christmas and 2)how to survive the coming zombie apocalypse, have been solved!
We, the one's with sound minds anyway, are fully aware that while Kim Kardashian is distracting the universe with her giant butt and full frontal nudity, Obama is hard at work creating Ebola riddled zombies deep in the center of Mt. Ararat. Using Noah's Ark as a make shift lab, he is single handedly plotting the world's annihilation. Day and night Kenyans patrol the perimeter protecting not only these evil doings, but also his birth certificate. How can people just stand around talking about health care, homelessness, global warming and fracking for God's sake?? Fracking? What the fricking frick is fracking anyway? Just another liberal scare tactic that's what! Same as global warming! Stupid tree huggers. Trees were made for making guns, gun cabinets and baseball bats, not oxygen! Why are we wasting time yakking about clean air and water and the microscopic genes in corn kernels! Stop talking about GMO's idiots! We need all the corn we can store up! Grow it as fast as you can and fill the storehouses! The end is coming and when it does, I for one am going to be needing a lot of mother fucking nachos!
Speaking of end times and food, prepare to be amazed by the perfect gift for those who have everything. This year all of my loved ones are getting the Times of Trouble food supply tote designed by Jim Bakker, master of intelligence and creator of gastronomic specialties of biblical proportions. 
                                                   
 Jim knows what's going down right now and he's looking out for us, because you know, he loves us and the tote sells for $3,000. That's a bargain though, because it's five years worth of food! Five years I said! In one bright green plastic crate made in China are all the delicacies you need to eat like a king. Peel off the sticker, use a sharpie to label it "Christmas Ornaments", and put it in your basement. No one will know the difference! Disguising it will keep you from having to share with those people who were too little, too late. I know, I know, Jesus said share and love your neighbor .....blah blah blah. Look, it sucks for them, but in the End Times all the rules are gonna be different. Read Revelations if you don't believe me, or watch The Walking Dead. Think about this; zombies gotta eat too. If we're going to expect the reward of getting to stab them through the eye sockets and slice off their rotting limbs, we're going to have to make some sacrifices. I, for one, do not want to miss out on that. When this happens you're gonna need food. Thankfully, the Lord has provided. 


Not only does the Times of Trouble Tote come with 273 desserts, it is perfected with such delights as Tammy Sue's Fudge Brownies, Fern & Raleigh's Pancakes and End of the World Biscuits you can smother in...wait for it... End of the World Gravy! All we'll need is a little boiled squirrel and we'll have Heaven on Earth! All the stupid people, those who don't watch wealthy backwoods televangelists spouting doom, along with most of the liberals (because they have no guns), will be dead. God won't even have to deal with all the work of that tiresome Rapture thingy, he can just sit back, relax and enjoy watching us slay the undead! And we'll have enough nachos to share with him!

Refreshingly, there's no mention of GMO's, high fructose corn syrup or gluten in these meals. Don't you just get sick of hearing that nonsense? Time to celebrate and sing Halelujah!!!
 The best part of this plastic treasure chest of life giving goodness is, even if that stupid global warming stuff had any science behind it, the ice cream never melts! NEVER! I don't know how they created this stuff, but I'm thinking if you cubed old dish sponges and saturated them in Elmer's glue flavored with Kool Aide, you might be close. Pure, plastiky, gummy deliciousness, like the film on top of an old can of latex paint. Nom Nom!! Astronauts thought they were advanced, but their meals can't hold a candle to the culinary perfection Jim Bakker learned in the prison dining hall. Please be forewarned, there is already an 8 to 12 week wait time because of high volume sales right now. Get online and buy this before, as Jim solemnly tells us, "Do it while there's yet time." Waste nary another moment, in a twinkling of an eye that gravy could be ate up and gone! Get your bangin' End Times party box now!

Jim's other survival items for sale include a canteen kit, clothing and even enemas! Nobody needs their corpse killin' mojo hampered by slow plumbing, am I right? The man has thought of everything! However, if you buy Jim's special Black Bean Burger Buckets, I'm thinking you can probably bypass the enema.

Now y'all don't pussyfoot around! Catch up on all the ways to kill zombies in this dope video by Carl Poppa before the grid goes down! (Extra long screw drivers make excellent stocking stuffers, wink wink ;) 
Down there in our dank, sunless bunkers, free from zombies, big government, common core and mandatory childhood vaccines, we'll be safe and sound reveling in glory and delicious munchies! Not a thing to worry about! Except maybe, diabetes.

Merry Christmas and God Bless!

Bittersweet

     Target has six aisles of Halloween costumes and decor out already. I don't need a thing from that section of the store, but I found myself wandering through it anyhow. It drew me in with lights and glitter and battery operated doormats that scream when you step on them. I wasn't the only one. Walking down the costume aisle was a girl of about nine years old. She had her hands clasped together and tucked under under her chin, dreamily gazing at the tulle and polyester princess gowns. My kids remind me all the time that I am not supposed to talk to other people's children. "Mom, you're a stranger. Kids are not supposed to talk to strangers." I do it anyway. It's too hard for me not to. "Do you know what you want to be for Halloween?", I said. She looked up and smiled. "Oh, yes. I'm going to be the mean queen from Snow White and the Huntsman. I have my dress already. It's black and has gold sparkles all over. It's so pretty! Now I'm just looking for a crown."
"That sounds great", I told her. "Sometimes the evil queen is not very pretty. But that one is. You'll be perfect!" She gave me a big smile and then said, "Do you have children?" "What will they be for Halloween?". "Well, they are mostly too big for trick or treating. They are not little anymore." She looked sad for me, which made me sad for myself. I hate saying those words. I feel as if there is a stone in my stomach whenever I say them.  There is such finality in them. It's over. You will never see them like that again. They are not little anymore.
     When they were little I didn't think they would ever be grown. Some days seemed so long. I was always tired, always pregnant or nursing, always pulling someone off the counter top or table, always finding a sippy cup under the sofa with coagulated stinky milk, always trying to get home before the toddler fell asleep in the car seat and got just enough rest to keep him from taking the 2 hour nap I needed him to take, always in the kitchen, in carpool, in the doctor's office, in the grocery store, or the laundry room.  I fell into bed most nights only to have to get up for someone during the night. In public places people often asked, "Are they all yours?" Yes, they were all mine. And then, "Enjoy them. They grow up too fast." Older women told me that all the time. I didn't believe them. It felt to me it was going to take forever for them to be independent. But at some point time picked up speed. We got busier or distracted. Change crept up on us like a cat in the grass. Sometimes I feel like Rip Van Winkle. I haven't been asleep, but it feels as if I just tucked them in bed smelling of baby lotion and warm skin and they came down the stairs in the morning men and women. To be honest the younger two are not men yet. But they are not little. I am trying hard to not to treat the youngest as if he is a baby. All his siblings say I do. But it is slipping like oil through my hands. He is the last one and now I am painfully aware that it happens when we are least expecting it. That cat in the grass. This time last year his older brother was just a boy. In a few months time he got braces, facial hair and grew 4 inches. He is taller than me. His voice is changing. It is deeper with intermittent squeaks of the surrendering child breaking through in mid conversation. In a few months he gets his driving permit.
The baby does not have long before the same metamorphosis occurs. None of us can stop it. The stone in my stomach feels heavier.
     I wonder to myself why it is so hard. Do I feel I did a poor job? Do I wish I could have a do-over?
Yes. Sometimes. But only if I could get one with the knowledge I have now. I am happy with the people my children have grown to be. They are funny, smart, compassionate and tough. I like them. I enjoy my three adult daughter's company. We have a blast doing things together. The boys are sweet to me most of the time and make me laugh with the things they talk about. They have become comfortable  talking about all matters of things. I like the conversations, their ideas and thoughts about the world. I feel the kids are close and will take care of one another as the years pass. That's my greatest comfort, if something should happen to me, by which I mean death of course. There's a lot to be happy about.
Still. I'd like to have another day just to hold them, give them a bath. Snuggle up and read a favorite story. The ones that have been in the attic for years now. I'd gladly play Barbies or Legos or Candy Land. I have more time for that now, ya know? I'd look them in the eye and tell them what wonderful people they are going to grow up to be.  We could watch Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin and go trick or treating. And they would give me all the candy with nuts, because that was before they discovered nuts were good, and especially delicious covered in caramel and chocolate.

'Save: to stop (someone or something) from dying or being hurt, damaged, or lost

When I was 13 I saved a life. My father usually got one week of the year off work and he took it in summer when we were out of school so we could see my mom's parents in Arkansas. Comfortably crammed into an orange VW van with pom pom fringed curtains, were my mom, dad, younger brother and sister, our two German Shepherds, our luggage and a cooler of sandwiches and drinks.  A fourteen hour pilgrimage to the tune of  Jimi Hendrix, the Allman Brothers and Lynard Skynard on 8 track. The ritual began with my dad getting us all up around 3 or 4 in the morning. Groggily we stumbled to the van with our pillows and blankets and fell back asleep rumbling down the highway in darkness. Even though staying overnight in a motel half way through would have made the trip much more tolerable, they were not willing to waste a day of that precious week, nor the money to do so, so they always drove straight through. The summer of 1979 was an exception.

I can't remember if it was car trouble or my dad was tired, but for whatever the reason, he decided to split the trip in half and pulled into a Holiday Inn. The motel had a pool and we were excited. We didn't have a neighborhood pool at home at it wasn't very often we went swimming in one. It was still sunny and warm even though it was late in the day. The pool was packed. Kids were everywhere and moms and dads were lounging in the chairs with books and magazines. There was a diving board with kids lined up dripping and shivering, waiting for their next turn. I remember the laughter. So much loud laughter.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was blue and the pool was clear and clean. The splashes made by canon balls, illuminated in the late afternoon light, exploded like bursting golden fireworks. The board made its reverberating 'boy yoi yoing' as if it were giggling along with the kids. I was waist deep, getting used to the cold of the water when I saw him, or rather, part of him. I could see the top of his head, just a small clump of pale blonde hair at the crown. His arms were flailing around above him and the clump of hair thrashed back and forth in the water like reeds at the edge of a flooded river.
Was he playing? The jerking was unnatural. He moved like a marionette operated by a 2 year old. I felt a sharpness in my chest that I did not recognize yet, because I was young. Now, I know that sharpness as Fear. The specific Fear that is married with Confusion. Together they produce Panic which is often the predecessor of Despair. The sharpness is inside you but caused by what is outside you, and it tells you something terrible is happening before you are sure what it is. There were people all around but no one seemed to see him but me. He didn't come up for air. He had been under too long. I had been moving toward him while expecting to see a mother or father come near. Someone had to be watching him. Someone. He was little. His arms moved slower, then weakened and dropped. First one, then the other. He sank slowly, his little arms crossed crookedly across the top of his head.

 I got to him as fast as I could. I was still no deeper than my chest. I hooked my hands under his armpits  and was not prepared for his weight. I had to use all my strength to pull him up. Then in an act of hopeful desperation he jolted underneath me and clamored and clawed up my torso nearly dragging us both back under. Water is what I see when I think of the moment he came to the surface. Water flooded out of his mouth and nose. He vomited what seemed like gallons and gallons of water. His legs wrapped around me and his arms squeezed my neck. His fingernails dug into my shoulders. He was literally holding on for dear life. He coughed and gagged a long time, his face splotchy with jagged purple patches. And then he cried. He cried the most horrible gut wrenching sobs. I felt his terror in my bones. Not one person seemed to notice. No one came over to see if he was okay. No one claimed him. He was not more than 4 years of age. I whispered in his ear comforting words. It's okay. It's okay now. I walked out of the pool with this convulsing boy clinging to me, sucking in each breath as painfully as if the air itself were riddled with tiny pieces of shrapnel. I took him to my mother. She tried to help but he would not let go of me. We asked him questions. "Honey, is your mommy out here?" Can you show me your mommy or your daddy?" He couldn't answer. He just sobbed. I don't know if he was in shock but he couldn't talk. While I held him my mom walked around the pool asking people, "Do you know that little boy over there?" Finally in the line of giggling children at the diving board a couple of kids claimed him as their little brother. "Who is watching him?" my mother asked. "We are." She asked where their parents were and the oldest girl, about ten years old I guess, gave her the motel room number. They didn't even get out of the line. We walked through the pool area and parking lot and took stairs up to the second level of the motel. I never put him down. We found the door and knocked. Then we knocked some more. And then some more. Finally a big man answered the door with a woman standing behind him. She stared at us over his shoulder. Neither of them smiled nor greeted us. They seemed torpid. Almost empty. My mom asked "Is this your little boy?" The man sort of nodded. She told him what happened. Neither of his parents showed any emotion nor did they say a word. Someone took him from me. I don't know why I can't remember which one it was. I just remember the separating of him and me. He screamed. They shut the door without saying thank you or anything. My mom was disturbed, but I wanted to call the police. She told me we had done all we could. He would be fine. Some people are just strange she said.

That night I lay awake because I knew I had not really saved him. If I was truly going to save him I was going to have to steal him from his wretched family. Who was going to take care of him? Who would watch him the next time he went swimming? Or played too near the street?  Who would comfort him when he was hurt or sick? Who would be there when he was desperate? I spent the night hours deceiving myself that I could hide him in the back of our van. No one would notice him in the lumpy pile of dogs and blankets.

We left early in the morning as usual. It was dark. I was exhausted and I was afraid. I knew there was nothing I could do but I felt guilty for leaving him. Out the van window I could see their motel door on the second floor. As we drove away I watched for him to come out. Something made me think he might come running after me. I watched until I could no longer see the hotel lights.

From time to time I think of him and wonder. I wonder if he is alive and happy or if being neglected made him mean and miserable like it does to so many. I wonder if he remembers being pulled from the water. I wonder if he was afraid of water after that. I wonder why it was me, out of all those people, to be the only one who saw him drowning. And I wonder why the drowning can't always have that one person who's there to save them.