November 2, 2016

Still Hanging On


Funny how we hang onto relationships, habits, things…one-sided conversations when words spoken tumble through the air and waft like a feather into un-hearing.

That’s how I feel about you. I’m hanging onto you.

I throw stray thoughts – some spoken, some unspoken – in your direction. You know what I’m talking about: the thoughts and mumblings that pop up on birthdays, holidays and the in between spaces. And you respond with annoying silence and a comforting steadiness.

I imagine the stories you could tell about the nervous first-time mother who picked you – you specifically – just because you were you.

Nearly sixty years ago, that first-time mother picked you because you didn’t have sharp corners. She’d later say you were perfect because you were just the right height to support little people who’d be liable to fall at any moment and gentle enough to break the inevitable falls without damage.

Three babies followed the first and I wonder what conversations you heard that mom having with her husband about the other babies, with the other babies…and with herself. You still bear stains from shoe polish the last baby found, and unattended for a brief moment, opened and spilled.

In your 57 years, you’ve lived at the center of four different living rooms. You’ve known family who I scrape my memory to remember or even identify from pictures. You know the sound, tenor, timbre, pitch and rasp of their voices.

Now you’re in the center of my living room, my life. I know you’ve seen the ebb and flow of life. Its losses, joy, indifference, passion and silence. I know you could probably predict the phase I’m in right now as if it’s a predictable B-movie you’ve seen a thousand times before.

Because you have seen it before at least a thousand times over. Just with different people with slightly different paths. And I’m sure you’d tell me that if you could only talk.

Doesn't matter. I'm still hanging onto you because I can't let you go.

You know way too much.

The coffee table my mom bought 57 years ago, now in my living room with leftover Halloween goodies.





NaBloPoMo November 2016

July 30, 2016

This Year's Check-Up

The clock’s minute hand in the doctor’s office echoes as I wait clad in those flimsy paper gowns hastily designed for privacy. My feet swing back and forth nervously off the examination table's side.

Soon enough there is a courtesy knock, a Hello and the doctor emerges. Just a few family history questions, says the doctor glancing at my chart.

I see here you have a daughter. I nod and smile. What I’m about to ask isn’t just for our records, but for your daughter too – there may be hereditary conditions of which she should be aware.

That hits me hard, and I volunteer information in rapid succession: Well, my mom, grandmother and great aunt died of cancer. I’m also realizing my mom dealt with depression, sometimes I struggle too. I make sure to watch what I eat – kind of – because people are overweight in my…STOP. STOP NOW the doctor interrupts.

My feet haven’t stopped their nervous swing, and I shrink into a ball of bewilderment and irritation.

The doctor continues, This is too much – cancer, depression, weight issues. Ms. Fritsch, think about it: this is absolutely frightening! Is there anything uplifting – or at least not so dramatic -- in your family history? My mind swims so fast with outrage and confusion that I can’t even spit out a word. All I can think is:

Dude, you’re supposed to be helping me – and by extension – helping my daughter. You asked for my family history, and it happens to include cancer, depression and weight issues. You think I like owning up to all of these risk factors that could put my daughter in peril? Help me help her so I can act sooner rather than later.

Settle down. That whole conversation never happened.

Although a form of that very conversation is happening right before our eyes, and it has been happening for generations.

Every four years, our nation gets a check-up. Flag pins, flag hats, flag cakes everything flag and patriotic is waved by folks vying for political office. We, the people, stop for a moment and test the nation’s blood pressure, heart rate and other vitals.

If there are odd growths, we take a biopsy or x-ray in hopes they aren’t malignant or metastasizing. Sometimes we demonstrate, or protest, or work with our elected officials to excise the abnormality.

Sometimes someone speaks to draw attention to a risk factor, and like every MDA telethon, they reassure us that while progress has been made, there is still work to do to eradicate the disease. Which is what FLOTUS did so eloquently when she said this:


She was acknowledging a risk factor within the nation’s history, but at the same time, pointing to progress on beating the collective illness.

Yet there were cries of Slavery wasn’t so bad or Move on and that’s just history.

Seriously.

And that’s the point. It is history. Our history.
From The Trail of Tears, to Jim Crow, to five thousand lives lost to lynching, to chattel slavery so horrific and entrenched, the only way I can trace my lineage is to refer to the will of the man who owned my family; to housing restrictions, to a segregated military up until the mid-1940s, to resettlement of Japanese Americans after Pearl Harbor, to voting restrictions -- y’all, our risk factors are HIGH. 

It's crazy to glaze over risk factors in your family like cancer, depression, obesity, 
alcoholism or any other disease, and brush off the possibility it might be passed down.

It's just as crazy to glaze over, gloss up or ignore the frightening part of our nation’s history in political conversations, blogs like this one or, for heaven’s sakes – our kids’ history books -- in hopes it will erase these risk factors altogether.

The real question is whether we address our national risk factors during this year’s doctor visit, or let them remain unattended and a potential full-blown disease for the next generation.

July 15, 2016

Seven Days


Dear Citizens of the World:

The past couple weeks have been a lot. Really.

I’m not here to shake a finger in your face and tsk-tsk you, but geez, folks, I need air. AIR.

Can we please have seven straight days of no mass shootings, no public executions, no drone strikes and no conversations dominated by deafness and shouting?

Please. It’s just. Seven. Days.

We don’t have to hold hands and sing Kum-ba-yah. We don’t have to like the same music or even pray to the same God. Really we don’t.

But can we please see each other as human beings?

If we can do that, just think of the possibilities:

Maybe the hungry might not be so hungry for a week because we’ll feed them; and we'll feed them because we’ll see them as starving human beings instead of The Hungry.

Maybe we’ll rally around the homeless, give them shelter, and help them reclaim their God-given dignity because we'll see them as human beings who are homeless instead of seeing them as The Homeless.

Or, maybe our words and actions will finally spring from a font of understanding that we are all traveling a common journey as human beings, instead of our doings and sayings being rooted in fears, biases and insecurities.

Maybe.

Maybe it could happen.

Then again, maybe it won’t happen. Not even for seven days.

But that won’t stop me from dreaming about it.

Sincerely,

je suis epuise’
(translated: I Am Exhausted)


July 11, 2016

Enough Fireworks, Already

From shoulder to floor, he stands a little less than two feet tall. He is small, cuddly and a bit insecure. He is our fur-baby, Charley.

Charley is no fan of fireworks, so Fourth of July weekend was traumatic for him, as it always is. I do what I can to ease the anxiety from periodically checking on him during our backyard cookouts, to letting him use our basement as a bunker, to closing all windows and doors, to just holding him when he naps.

Because I'm THAT person.
The weeks following official fireworks are somewhat easier on the poor little guy, but not completely. Neighborhood kids and adults occasionally let off bottle rockets, firecrackers and fireworks that briefly light up the night sky.

Charley tattles on the pyrotechnic amateurs with a strange, guttural growl and a quick bark. I then repeat the shuttering, closing and holding until peace reigns again.

Lately my fur-baby, however, actually meanders into the very rooms where I've left windows open. It's as if he's waiting for the pops and crackles whose sounds are larger than his tiny body. He gets upset just the same and I lead him away from the noise and back into the quiet.

We repeat the drill over and over. Silly precious little dog.

I mean, WHY? Why go into a room where it is loud, menacing and more than you can handle?

The past week taught me that I can be a lot like Charley.

As much as social media has an outpouring of support for #BlackLivesMatter and the latest victims of public executions, it also harbors counter-sentiments, justifications and outright bigotry.

These sentiments cross my timeline every now and then, and each time I read them, I leave deflated and sometimes disappointed in these thoughts lurking in the minds and hearts of some people within my social media circles.

And I guess those same people are probably disappointed in me too.

Either way, I've decided I'm smarter than my Charley. Until I'm stronger in heart and mind, I'm making a conscious effort to stay out spaces that drain and deplete; and, to live in blissful ignorance of -- well, the blissful, willful ignorance of people.

If you're feeling like I'm feeling, I encourage you to hop over to my friend Alexandra's blog and read her piece Because We Need to do Better. Her piece isn't about hand-wringing, it's about taking steps forward and problem-solving. It's really good: READ IT.

Charley's right about one thing though: sometimes the fireworks are just too much.