watch paint dry? Watch grass grow? Watch a slug slime its way across a sidewalk?
Welcome to my new job.
Oh sure, I have a big fancy assed title. Check it...Medical Affairs Nurse/Case Manager. Sounds impressive, no? You would think I had a ton of shit to do there. No. I don't. I manage about 4 patients right now. That takes a fat half hour. The rest of the day I am staring at the clock, begging it to move just a little faster so I can get the fuck out of that cubicle.
Why is God punishing me so?
I love dressing up for work. I am so stylish it is painful. On Fridays, it is casual Friday. Cool. I throw on a pair of dark jeans, some cute heels and a blouse. These other fuckers? They are in shorts and flip flops. When precisely did flip flops become acceptable office attire. It's CASUAL Friday, not "Let's hit the beach" Friday.
I begged the director of nursing to let me do some of her lame ass secretarial work because I am sooooooooooo fucking bored. I get paid a nice chunk of change, mind you, but to be so bored, I hardly think it's worth it. Hotband says, "I know a million people who would love to be bored for what you make."
Good. Let them have this job. It blows. It blows hard. It blows so hard it makes dicks shrivel for miles.
I can't stand being bored. I would rather light my fat ass on fire and run around screaming looking for a bucket of water to dunk it in than be bored. Funny, because at my last job, I was overwhelmed for a fraction of the pay. Now, I'm starting to think that this was a bad decision. Clipping ones toenails is more exciting and stimulating than this job.
Is anyone else out there suffering from boredom on the job, or is it just me? Would you rather be busy for less money or bored for an assload of it?
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Daddy.
Today is the day my father died. Stephen Samuel Roberts, born February 11th 1941...and died today, 21 years ago to be exact.
Stephen was a poor father. He wasn't a good friend. He was nothing you would wish upon a child. He was self centered, narcissistic and self-absorbed. He did what he wanted to when he wanted and never gave his kids a second thought.
In 1970, I was four years old. We went to a beach, my parents and I. We had a German Shepherd named Brutus. He chased a frisbee that my father threw into the ocean. He brought it back to Stephen, dropping it at his feet, over and over again. I recall playing in the sand close by. I remember being scared that Brutus was going to drown in the depths of the ocean. I cried. It never stopped Stephen from throwing that frisbee into the water, over and over. I was in a pink bikini with a yellow hat with daisies. My mother was in a black swimsuit, cut low in the front...she was doused in sun tan oil and holding a reflector under her face. I cried some more. No one answered my cries.
I sat alone with my sandcastle of mud.
It was always this way. Never in my life do I recall a time when I felt I had both my parents together the way most children do. Birthdays were a regimen. Smile for the camera while baby blows out her candles. And then, it's over.
It stayed this way until I was seven years old. Stephen walked out for good, after a number of infidelities and indiscretions. He was gone. Esther was happier than I had ever seen her. It almost appeared like she wanted him gone. I confess...I did too. All they ever did was fight. She would curl up into my bed when I was four years old and just cry. I never understood why she was crying. It confused me. I would pretend to be asleep, just listening to her cry and eventually, fall asleep alongside me. Stephen would be gone at these times, all hours of the night. When he would come back, all they would do is scream. Scream. Scream over and again until my little ears bled. He would flip over furniture. She would scream at him. He would punch holes in the wall. She would tell him to get the fuck out. He would throw things across the room. She would break things.
And I would stay in my room, pretending not to hear a thing.
Sometimes, when bravery would encompass me, I would sneak out of my room and go across the room to where my brother slept. He was just a baby, only a year old or so. He would sleep through these tumultuous times. I would stick my hand between the bars of his crib and touch his hand, pet it lightly and hope he would wake up. I wanted him to wake up so I didn't have to be afraid alone. I wanted him to wake up so that perhaps the sound of his tears would make them stop.
He would never wake up. Not once.
The last time Stephen left, it was for good. He never looked back. Never dawned on him to keep a relationship with his kids. I am more forgiving of my mother, for at very least, she stayed. She didn't abandon us. In some ways, I think I gave her a hard time. I felt she was the one who made Stephen leave. If she would only just shut up...shut up once in awhile. Stop screaming. Just stop...he never would have left us all alone.
I realize that is a childs notion. I don't fault her. I place the blame firmly on his shoulders.
It's twenty years later, and I am still struggling to forgive the man who was crushed on I-95 by a tractor trailer. More than likely, the accident was Stephen's fault. I would bet on that fact. He was a compulsive drug addict. I always thanked God that the man in the truck didn't die at the hands of my fathers addiction. I remember when the toxicology report came back. Death by Heart Attack Induced by Cocaine.
No shit there. No shit.
I was 20 years old. A man I scarcely knew died, and yet, I felt the loss more deeply than the rest of my family. My mother is remarried, has been for 26 years now. My brother? He never really knew my parents as a family. He only knew Stephen from weekend visitation...that is, if he showed up.
But I remembered him.
I remembered going to the zoo and him taking pictures of a seven year old me next to the ferocious bengal tigers in Central Park. I remember him showing up late to my sixth grade graduation. I had on a gauzy white dress with delicate pink and blue ribbons. My first pair of heels, white of course. I even had a little white clutch purse. My father showed up just as it was ending. I was grateful he had even made an appearance at all. I remember, he wore a pink button down shirt, blue jeans and sneakers. His thick black hair was brushed back. His full beard and moustache were neatly kept. I remember thinking he was the most handsome man I had ever seen.
But I also knew, I would never want a boyfriend like dear old dad.
He brought me a bouquet of daisies, my favorite flower back then. They were in different colors, blues, pinks yellows and whites. The white daisies were my favorite ones. They seemed so happy with their yellow centers and their sunshiney faces. I don't remember what happened after that, I just recall not seeing him again for a very long time.
12 years to be exact.
When I saw Stephen again, I was in a mall in Fort Lauderdale in June, partying with friends during spring break. We passed in the corridor where Macy's was. He looked at me. I looked at him. I didn't recognize him. He recognized me. I was a spitting image of my mother, with his features. When he approached me, he asked me if my mothers name was Esther. I said it was. He told me who he was...and for the next week, we were an inseparable entity. In that one week, I got to understand who Stephen Roberts was. Yes, he was self-absorbed, but I had grown up to be the same way. The only thing that mattered to me is how I felt. No one else made a difference in my life. I saw this in myself while spending time with Stephen. He was a partier. So was I. I had developed a nasty cocaine habit as well and felt I could relate to him on this level. Here was a parent who didn't mind what I snorted, what I smoked, who I slept with. He didn't judge me. He just let me be me.
And I think I accepted him for the first time since I was seven years old.
We made plans to see one another again in November. As I made the plans, I had a feeling they would never pan out. Stephen didn't treasure me. He didn't love me the way my stepfather did. But, he understood me and for me, at that time, it was what I wanted.
Stephen died on September 27th, 1986, a casualty of an accident.
I go back to that area in Florida quite often. I pass there everytime I go to see my grandmother in Miami. Every time I drive that stretch of road, I wonder where he died. I keep hoping to see something left of his red BMW. I keep hoping to find something of his on the side of the road. He left nothing behind for my brother and I. Nothing. We didn't exist in his world even after death. Stephen was cremated by his common law wife, Patty. I don't know where she is...where his ashes are. I don't know where his gravestone was erected.
I guess you can say that I know as much about his death as I did about his life.
But, I search nevertheless. I look into news archives and try to find an article about that day. I call funeral parlors. I call graveyards. I feel like I can't rest without finding out where he finally decided to grow some roots. It's the only place that I know I would find him. He can't walk away from there. He can't leave.
And I can't find him.
But unlike him, I think about him. I give him consideration. I wonder if he is proud of me now...now that he has no option but to look at me. I wonder if he regrets not being there, a subject I didn't dare approach when we saw one another 20 years ago. I was afraid of the answer.
I remember the day he died and treat it with more honor than I do the day he was born. The day Stephen was born ruined my life. It created me and inevitably, forced me to live a life without him. The day he died, I knew he wanted to see me again. He made plans, arrangements for me to visit again. He was looking forward to it and in some nasty ironic twist of fate, that was stolen from me once again.
Just another promise that Stephen couldn't keep.
Stephen was a poor father. He wasn't a good friend. He was nothing you would wish upon a child. He was self centered, narcissistic and self-absorbed. He did what he wanted to when he wanted and never gave his kids a second thought.
In 1970, I was four years old. We went to a beach, my parents and I. We had a German Shepherd named Brutus. He chased a frisbee that my father threw into the ocean. He brought it back to Stephen, dropping it at his feet, over and over again. I recall playing in the sand close by. I remember being scared that Brutus was going to drown in the depths of the ocean. I cried. It never stopped Stephen from throwing that frisbee into the water, over and over. I was in a pink bikini with a yellow hat with daisies. My mother was in a black swimsuit, cut low in the front...she was doused in sun tan oil and holding a reflector under her face. I cried some more. No one answered my cries.
I sat alone with my sandcastle of mud.
It was always this way. Never in my life do I recall a time when I felt I had both my parents together the way most children do. Birthdays were a regimen. Smile for the camera while baby blows out her candles. And then, it's over.
It stayed this way until I was seven years old. Stephen walked out for good, after a number of infidelities and indiscretions. He was gone. Esther was happier than I had ever seen her. It almost appeared like she wanted him gone. I confess...I did too. All they ever did was fight. She would curl up into my bed when I was four years old and just cry. I never understood why she was crying. It confused me. I would pretend to be asleep, just listening to her cry and eventually, fall asleep alongside me. Stephen would be gone at these times, all hours of the night. When he would come back, all they would do is scream. Scream. Scream over and again until my little ears bled. He would flip over furniture. She would scream at him. He would punch holes in the wall. She would tell him to get the fuck out. He would throw things across the room. She would break things.
And I would stay in my room, pretending not to hear a thing.
Sometimes, when bravery would encompass me, I would sneak out of my room and go across the room to where my brother slept. He was just a baby, only a year old or so. He would sleep through these tumultuous times. I would stick my hand between the bars of his crib and touch his hand, pet it lightly and hope he would wake up. I wanted him to wake up so I didn't have to be afraid alone. I wanted him to wake up so that perhaps the sound of his tears would make them stop.
He would never wake up. Not once.
The last time Stephen left, it was for good. He never looked back. Never dawned on him to keep a relationship with his kids. I am more forgiving of my mother, for at very least, she stayed. She didn't abandon us. In some ways, I think I gave her a hard time. I felt she was the one who made Stephen leave. If she would only just shut up...shut up once in awhile. Stop screaming. Just stop...he never would have left us all alone.
I realize that is a childs notion. I don't fault her. I place the blame firmly on his shoulders.
It's twenty years later, and I am still struggling to forgive the man who was crushed on I-95 by a tractor trailer. More than likely, the accident was Stephen's fault. I would bet on that fact. He was a compulsive drug addict. I always thanked God that the man in the truck didn't die at the hands of my fathers addiction. I remember when the toxicology report came back. Death by Heart Attack Induced by Cocaine.
No shit there. No shit.
I was 20 years old. A man I scarcely knew died, and yet, I felt the loss more deeply than the rest of my family. My mother is remarried, has been for 26 years now. My brother? He never really knew my parents as a family. He only knew Stephen from weekend visitation...that is, if he showed up.
But I remembered him.
I remembered going to the zoo and him taking pictures of a seven year old me next to the ferocious bengal tigers in Central Park. I remember him showing up late to my sixth grade graduation. I had on a gauzy white dress with delicate pink and blue ribbons. My first pair of heels, white of course. I even had a little white clutch purse. My father showed up just as it was ending. I was grateful he had even made an appearance at all. I remember, he wore a pink button down shirt, blue jeans and sneakers. His thick black hair was brushed back. His full beard and moustache were neatly kept. I remember thinking he was the most handsome man I had ever seen.
But I also knew, I would never want a boyfriend like dear old dad.
He brought me a bouquet of daisies, my favorite flower back then. They were in different colors, blues, pinks yellows and whites. The white daisies were my favorite ones. They seemed so happy with their yellow centers and their sunshiney faces. I don't remember what happened after that, I just recall not seeing him again for a very long time.
12 years to be exact.
When I saw Stephen again, I was in a mall in Fort Lauderdale in June, partying with friends during spring break. We passed in the corridor where Macy's was. He looked at me. I looked at him. I didn't recognize him. He recognized me. I was a spitting image of my mother, with his features. When he approached me, he asked me if my mothers name was Esther. I said it was. He told me who he was...and for the next week, we were an inseparable entity. In that one week, I got to understand who Stephen Roberts was. Yes, he was self-absorbed, but I had grown up to be the same way. The only thing that mattered to me is how I felt. No one else made a difference in my life. I saw this in myself while spending time with Stephen. He was a partier. So was I. I had developed a nasty cocaine habit as well and felt I could relate to him on this level. Here was a parent who didn't mind what I snorted, what I smoked, who I slept with. He didn't judge me. He just let me be me.
And I think I accepted him for the first time since I was seven years old.
We made plans to see one another again in November. As I made the plans, I had a feeling they would never pan out. Stephen didn't treasure me. He didn't love me the way my stepfather did. But, he understood me and for me, at that time, it was what I wanted.
Stephen died on September 27th, 1986, a casualty of an accident.
I go back to that area in Florida quite often. I pass there everytime I go to see my grandmother in Miami. Every time I drive that stretch of road, I wonder where he died. I keep hoping to see something left of his red BMW. I keep hoping to find something of his on the side of the road. He left nothing behind for my brother and I. Nothing. We didn't exist in his world even after death. Stephen was cremated by his common law wife, Patty. I don't know where she is...where his ashes are. I don't know where his gravestone was erected.
I guess you can say that I know as much about his death as I did about his life.
But, I search nevertheless. I look into news archives and try to find an article about that day. I call funeral parlors. I call graveyards. I feel like I can't rest without finding out where he finally decided to grow some roots. It's the only place that I know I would find him. He can't walk away from there. He can't leave.
And I can't find him.
But unlike him, I think about him. I give him consideration. I wonder if he is proud of me now...now that he has no option but to look at me. I wonder if he regrets not being there, a subject I didn't dare approach when we saw one another 20 years ago. I was afraid of the answer.
I remember the day he died and treat it with more honor than I do the day he was born. The day Stephen was born ruined my life. It created me and inevitably, forced me to live a life without him. The day he died, I knew he wanted to see me again. He made plans, arrangements for me to visit again. He was looking forward to it and in some nasty ironic twist of fate, that was stolen from me once again.
Just another promise that Stephen couldn't keep.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Clots of Luck...and other period puns.
I am sick of it.
Sick and tired. Of what, you ask?
Day 2.
Don't even lie. All you girlies know what the hell I mean. Day 2. The most evil day of the month. Yeah sure. Periods last for 5 to 7 days. Great. I can live with that. But why, why oh why was day 2 invented? Is it to test my patience?
Every month since I am 11 years old, I have gotten my periods on the 15th day of every single month without fail. I was very fortunate. You could set your watch to my cycle it was that regular and predictable. No cramps. No headaches. No bloating. No nausea. No mood swings (at least, none that were period induced) and I am happy to say that PMS was for Perfectly Menstruating Sistah. I never had problems. Never. And I got away with that for 25 wonderfully maxi padded years.
In the year 2000, I discovered I had uterine cancer. Nothing huge. Required some surgery and some radiation and some horrible medication for a short period of time. I consider myself very fortunate and have been cancer free ever since.
Don't pity party me. It's ancient history.
Now, since then, my periods have been hectic, scattered, irregular and sometimes, downright frustrating...like a houseguest that overstays their welcome. They are heavy, thick, dark and worst of all, they are unpredictable. Anytime. Anywhere. My body shows me no mercy any longer. I bloat. I get cramps. I get migraines that make it feel like someone is driving a dump truck through my skull. Backaches are now commonplace.
And the mood swings? Scary at best. I cry at dog food commercials now.
But I digress. I am speaking of Day 2, the deepest place in hell for a woman who has her "friend". (Who the fuck started calling it that anyway? Had to be a MAN). Are ya with me? And for those of you who use "Always" pads, what the fuck is with the "Have a Happy Period" slogan on the wrappers? Can you HAVE a happy period? I think the only time we are ever happy to get our periods is when faced with the consequences of NOT getting one. No period? Knocked up.
I could continue with this tirade on tampons, this pontoon of period pandering, this crimson tide of a discussion...hell, I could even "pad" with a few puns.
But I won't.
Cause I'm pissy.
I have my period. Day 2.
Don't fuck with me.
Sick and tired. Of what, you ask?
Day 2.
Don't even lie. All you girlies know what the hell I mean. Day 2. The most evil day of the month. Yeah sure. Periods last for 5 to 7 days. Great. I can live with that. But why, why oh why was day 2 invented? Is it to test my patience?
Every month since I am 11 years old, I have gotten my periods on the 15th day of every single month without fail. I was very fortunate. You could set your watch to my cycle it was that regular and predictable. No cramps. No headaches. No bloating. No nausea. No mood swings (at least, none that were period induced) and I am happy to say that PMS was for Perfectly Menstruating Sistah. I never had problems. Never. And I got away with that for 25 wonderfully maxi padded years.
In the year 2000, I discovered I had uterine cancer. Nothing huge. Required some surgery and some radiation and some horrible medication for a short period of time. I consider myself very fortunate and have been cancer free ever since.
Don't pity party me. It's ancient history.
Now, since then, my periods have been hectic, scattered, irregular and sometimes, downright frustrating...like a houseguest that overstays their welcome. They are heavy, thick, dark and worst of all, they are unpredictable. Anytime. Anywhere. My body shows me no mercy any longer. I bloat. I get cramps. I get migraines that make it feel like someone is driving a dump truck through my skull. Backaches are now commonplace.
And the mood swings? Scary at best. I cry at dog food commercials now.
But I digress. I am speaking of Day 2, the deepest place in hell for a woman who has her "friend". (Who the fuck started calling it that anyway? Had to be a MAN). Are ya with me? And for those of you who use "Always" pads, what the fuck is with the "Have a Happy Period" slogan on the wrappers? Can you HAVE a happy period? I think the only time we are ever happy to get our periods is when faced with the consequences of NOT getting one. No period? Knocked up.
I could continue with this tirade on tampons, this pontoon of period pandering, this crimson tide of a discussion...hell, I could even "pad" with a few puns.
But I won't.
Cause I'm pissy.
I have my period. Day 2.
Don't fuck with me.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Where were you...
on September 11th, 2001?
Perhaps you were home, getting ready for work. Maybe taking the kids to school? Or, like me, were you already at work?
I think there are very few people in the United States that cannot remember where they were on that fateful day. Some of you were actually in New York City when the atrocity took place. Others, like myself, call New York City home despite living 1200 miles away. I grew up in New York City, born and raised in Queens and Manhattan. I lived on 14th street and Riverside Drive, right across the street from the park. It was an amazing place to live, rich with culture and excitement.
When I was just 8 years old, my biological father, Stephen, took me to the World Trade Center, shortly after they were erected. He had an office there. I helped him paint the walls of his office at the stock brokerage firm where he worked. And while I made more of a mess than I did help, it was a memory that was locked in time and preserved within the walls of the Trade Center. It was always a part of me, long after my father was killed in a car accident. It was a place I could return to that made me remember that innocent time of my childhood.
That place is gone forever.
I remember getting up and having the hotband drive me to work that morning. I worked in Downtown Tampa at the time. I was in the middle of a surgery when my husband called the office where I worked. He said it was urgent. My heart pounded rapidly, thinking there was something wrong with the kids.
"Babe," he said. "I'm at Best Buy. Something terrible has happened."
"What? What happened? Are the kids okay?"
"The kids are fine. The Twin Towers are under attack. Airplanes. They used airplanes to crash into the building. The north tower, I think."
"Oh my God, honey," he said. "Another plane went into the second building. Babe, we are being attacked. Someone is attacking New York!"
I held my breath. My parents. My brother. My aunts and uncles. They all live in close proximity to the city. My uncle was on 2nd avenue with a view of the Towers from his window. Are they safe? My mind was racing.
"The tower, babe," he continued. "It collapsed! It's laying in a heap on the ground. Baby, people are throwing themselves out of windows from the 74th floor!"
Time stood still. How could that building collapse? I didn't understand. Even if a plane crashed into it, how could that mighty structure fall to the ground? I was confused, shaken. People choosing to fall to their death rather than succumbing to the blazing fires. I was sickened.
"Come back, baby," I pleaded. "Come back to my office. Please!"
I ran into the surgical room and told the Doctor what was going on. He instructed us to turn on the television that was in the room. We turned it on just in time to see the second tower collapsing. I turned pale, ran into the bathroom and threw my guts up. This is when we started hearing about the other planes. Flight 93 that crashed into a field somewhere up North...the other plane that rammed into the Pentagon. The details were sketchy at the time, but one thing was for sure.
This was no coincidence. We were at war. We were under attack.
For the next 72 hours, I was glued to the telvision set. I couldn't reach my family in New York. Phone lines were down or busy due to a heavy congestion of calls. I cried so much in those 72 hours. I remember the husband and I fall asleep in front of the television, waking up only moments later to be met with those horrific photos and live film of the airplanes hitting the towers. No one knew what the death toll was at that point, but it was believed to be in the thousands. The buildings were too volatile to start a rescue mission. At this point, it would be a recovery mission. Every time another person was found, it made CNN. We would rejoice, another life spared. I still couldn't reach my family. They were still unaccounted for.
Two people close to me were found to be dead. The devastation reached my home in Florida and was brought right to my front door. It was now inside my home and there was nothing I could do about it. Helpless. That was the feeling that loomed in my heart and mind. I was helpless to do anything about this. We waited for our President to decide what would be done in retaliation, to find out who was responsible for this heinous crime. We looked to Mayor Giuliani to guide us through this tragic event. What do we do? Where do we begin?
It took a years time, perhaps longer for the wreckage to be cleared. My husband and I went to Ground Zero and paid our respects to those who were lost on that fateful day. I cried, heavily and mourned the loss not only of those I knew, but of all the lost souls in the buildings, on the planes and for all the families who had been destroyed. I loved that fact that everywhere you looked, there were American flags being raised. People had them on the cars, on the houses, in the windows of their stores. It said "We will never forget" and it made my heart swell with pride. We were rebounding in the face of tragedy. We were coming together as one. One community, no more racial lines or distinctions. We were all Americans going through this together.
It is six years later.
The flags are gone. 9/11 is just another day for most people now. Sure, it's sad in retrospect, but what can we do? Life has to go on. We have work, school and the rigors of daily life to distract us. Sure, we think about the day and recall it, perhaps even reflect upon it. Some don't remember it at all. Just another day.
It begs the question, are we alright now? Have we healed? Are we safer now, or simply biding our time until the next attack? Are we still holding our breath with wonder or has time resolved it for us?
In my heart, in my head, there will never be enough healing. The people responsible for this transgression have yet to be caught. Instead, we have taken out our aggression and frustration on another country. We are engaged in a pointless and senseless war, bringing more frustration to the American people and more devastation to a country that didn't ask for our help. We needed to lash out at someone and Iraq was just as good a place as any. We felt good about it at first. Yes, retribution for the crimes committed upon us. But now, do we still feel so good about it? Why are we still there? Saddam Hussein is dead and our children are still overseas, fighting a battle that was won a long time ago.
We are still losing children in the name of September 11th, 2001.
This is why the memory cannot fade. We are not finished yet. It won't be over until our men and women come home. The point has been made. We will not tolerate terrorism in any form ever again. This is the last time these acts will be perpetrated upon us. There will be no more retaliation or retribution. We are Americans and we are tired of the battle. Weary, in fact.
In essence, we are over it.
Still, I imagine that there isn't a soul alive who cannot remember where they were and what they were doing on that fateful Tuesday morning. I recall it as clearly as I recall the birth of my two children. I cannot forget. I won't forget. We can't forget. Not ever.
I ask each of you to take the time to reflect upon that day and know that those people did not die in vain. The flags have gone away. The memories must survive. They were heros, all of them...the survivors as well as the victims.
They don't deserve to be forgotten. Ever.
Perhaps you were home, getting ready for work. Maybe taking the kids to school? Or, like me, were you already at work?
I think there are very few people in the United States that cannot remember where they were on that fateful day. Some of you were actually in New York City when the atrocity took place. Others, like myself, call New York City home despite living 1200 miles away. I grew up in New York City, born and raised in Queens and Manhattan. I lived on 14th street and Riverside Drive, right across the street from the park. It was an amazing place to live, rich with culture and excitement.
When I was just 8 years old, my biological father, Stephen, took me to the World Trade Center, shortly after they were erected. He had an office there. I helped him paint the walls of his office at the stock brokerage firm where he worked. And while I made more of a mess than I did help, it was a memory that was locked in time and preserved within the walls of the Trade Center. It was always a part of me, long after my father was killed in a car accident. It was a place I could return to that made me remember that innocent time of my childhood.
That place is gone forever.
I remember getting up and having the hotband drive me to work that morning. I worked in Downtown Tampa at the time. I was in the middle of a surgery when my husband called the office where I worked. He said it was urgent. My heart pounded rapidly, thinking there was something wrong with the kids.
"Babe," he said. "I'm at Best Buy. Something terrible has happened."
"What? What happened? Are the kids okay?"
"The kids are fine. The Twin Towers are under attack. Airplanes. They used airplanes to crash into the building. The north tower, I think."
"Oh my God, honey," he said. "Another plane went into the second building. Babe, we are being attacked. Someone is attacking New York!"
I held my breath. My parents. My brother. My aunts and uncles. They all live in close proximity to the city. My uncle was on 2nd avenue with a view of the Towers from his window. Are they safe? My mind was racing.
"The tower, babe," he continued. "It collapsed! It's laying in a heap on the ground. Baby, people are throwing themselves out of windows from the 74th floor!"
Time stood still. How could that building collapse? I didn't understand. Even if a plane crashed into it, how could that mighty structure fall to the ground? I was confused, shaken. People choosing to fall to their death rather than succumbing to the blazing fires. I was sickened.
"Come back, baby," I pleaded. "Come back to my office. Please!"
I ran into the surgical room and told the Doctor what was going on. He instructed us to turn on the television that was in the room. We turned it on just in time to see the second tower collapsing. I turned pale, ran into the bathroom and threw my guts up. This is when we started hearing about the other planes. Flight 93 that crashed into a field somewhere up North...the other plane that rammed into the Pentagon. The details were sketchy at the time, but one thing was for sure.
This was no coincidence. We were at war. We were under attack.
For the next 72 hours, I was glued to the telvision set. I couldn't reach my family in New York. Phone lines were down or busy due to a heavy congestion of calls. I cried so much in those 72 hours. I remember the husband and I fall asleep in front of the television, waking up only moments later to be met with those horrific photos and live film of the airplanes hitting the towers. No one knew what the death toll was at that point, but it was believed to be in the thousands. The buildings were too volatile to start a rescue mission. At this point, it would be a recovery mission. Every time another person was found, it made CNN. We would rejoice, another life spared. I still couldn't reach my family. They were still unaccounted for.
Two people close to me were found to be dead. The devastation reached my home in Florida and was brought right to my front door. It was now inside my home and there was nothing I could do about it. Helpless. That was the feeling that loomed in my heart and mind. I was helpless to do anything about this. We waited for our President to decide what would be done in retaliation, to find out who was responsible for this heinous crime. We looked to Mayor Giuliani to guide us through this tragic event. What do we do? Where do we begin?
It took a years time, perhaps longer for the wreckage to be cleared. My husband and I went to Ground Zero and paid our respects to those who were lost on that fateful day. I cried, heavily and mourned the loss not only of those I knew, but of all the lost souls in the buildings, on the planes and for all the families who had been destroyed. I loved that fact that everywhere you looked, there were American flags being raised. People had them on the cars, on the houses, in the windows of their stores. It said "We will never forget" and it made my heart swell with pride. We were rebounding in the face of tragedy. We were coming together as one. One community, no more racial lines or distinctions. We were all Americans going through this together.
It is six years later.
The flags are gone. 9/11 is just another day for most people now. Sure, it's sad in retrospect, but what can we do? Life has to go on. We have work, school and the rigors of daily life to distract us. Sure, we think about the day and recall it, perhaps even reflect upon it. Some don't remember it at all. Just another day.
It begs the question, are we alright now? Have we healed? Are we safer now, or simply biding our time until the next attack? Are we still holding our breath with wonder or has time resolved it for us?
In my heart, in my head, there will never be enough healing. The people responsible for this transgression have yet to be caught. Instead, we have taken out our aggression and frustration on another country. We are engaged in a pointless and senseless war, bringing more frustration to the American people and more devastation to a country that didn't ask for our help. We needed to lash out at someone and Iraq was just as good a place as any. We felt good about it at first. Yes, retribution for the crimes committed upon us. But now, do we still feel so good about it? Why are we still there? Saddam Hussein is dead and our children are still overseas, fighting a battle that was won a long time ago.
We are still losing children in the name of September 11th, 2001.
This is why the memory cannot fade. We are not finished yet. It won't be over until our men and women come home. The point has been made. We will not tolerate terrorism in any form ever again. This is the last time these acts will be perpetrated upon us. There will be no more retaliation or retribution. We are Americans and we are tired of the battle. Weary, in fact.
In essence, we are over it.
Still, I imagine that there isn't a soul alive who cannot remember where they were and what they were doing on that fateful Tuesday morning. I recall it as clearly as I recall the birth of my two children. I cannot forget. I won't forget. We can't forget. Not ever.
I ask each of you to take the time to reflect upon that day and know that those people did not die in vain. The flags have gone away. The memories must survive. They were heros, all of them...the survivors as well as the victims.
They don't deserve to be forgotten. Ever.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Racial Profiling...
I have a story for you.
Everytime my husband flies, he gets pulled to the side for profiling. They pull him ahead of all the security lines, make him go through that thing that puffs air all over you (to detect explosives) and get as close to disrobed without strip searching him. Why?
My husband is middle eastern. He's tall, dark (and handsome) with a bald head, dark goatee and apparently, some pretty shifty eyes.
Hotband takes it with a grain of salt. No big deal, he says. Just doing it to protect us, he says. I understand his thought process, though it angers me to the umpteenth degree. He feels that at least they take the time to profile someone who may look suspicious to them. To me, the hotband is the portrait of beautiful, not terrorism, so it frustrates me. He is a patient, kind and wonderful man who allows this inconvenience. He even makes light of it.
"At least I get to go to the front of the security line," he says.
Last week, my husband was on a plane bound from Chicago, where he is presently working, back to Florida. He was coming home for my birthday. In the airport, to pass the time, he used his wireless connection to call his mother in Israel. He used Skype. And of course, he was speaking his native tongue, Hebrew.
Apparently, the woman (white and uptight) next to him became quite alarmed that this middle eastern man was on the phone in the airport talking in this strange language that she did not understand. She went to security. My husband doesn't know what she said, but it was enough for security to come over to him, ask to see his boarding pass, his ID and question him about his whereabouts. He watched the woman walk back to another seat, far away from him, while this interrogation continued. He was thanked by security for his willingness to answer questions and his cooperation.
As he boarded the plane, he passed the woman. He attempted to make eye contact with her, to let her see that he was not the criminal she made him out to be. She was not human enough to make eye contact with him in return. She put her head down as he walked by, possibly in prayer that this terrorist of a husband of mine would not blow the plane to bits.
He said nothing to her. She said nothing to him.
Me? I would have leaned over and said, "Allah praise you. See you on the other side," but that's just me. I'm a tad more spiteful than my airport challenged husband.
The hotband? He feels bad about scaring her. He feels badly that the way he looks causes people to think poorly of him. He is far more understanding and tolerant than I am. Don't get me wrong, when he relayed this story to me, he did refer to her as "bitch", which I think he was entitled to.
I have mixed feelings about this issue. On one hand, I can understand that our country needs to profile certain people based on a pre-conceived notion that all middle easterners are a threat to this country. This is being very narrow, of course, because we are allies of Israel. If I were the one getting on the plane with some suspicious looking person, I would want them checked out too...I think. But, on the other hand, this is something that the hotband has to endure everytime he flies. He feels it is warranted, their suspicions of him, due to past transgressions of other middle easterners. Yet, I can't help but be protective of a man who releases spiders outdoors instead of killing them.
Who is to say that the next national or international disaster won't be commited by a person of Asian descent? White? Black? Brown? What about women? Is everyone who speaks another language going to be suspect or is it simply those who speak a language we don't readily recognize?
I guess the question is, what defines "suspicious"?
I imagine since Hebrew has a lot of "ach" and gagging noises that it could be mistaken for arabic. The languages are very similar. They both sound like someone coughing up hairballs. But is that enough to profile someone? Is that enough to pull someone to the side and investigate their whereabouts? And truly, if he were some terrorist, wouldn't he be ready for that sort of questioning? Wouldn't he expect it, play it cool and get away with it? All they asked him for was his boarding pass, license and an explanation of where he was going. If someone who masterminded the 9/11 tragedy, for example, can't get past this simple line of questioning, I don't know who can.
Do I feel safer that they pull my husband out of line? I suppose in some ways, I am being overly sensitive to the issue because it is my husband. In other ways, I am glad to know that airport security is taking things seriously enough to warrant these searches. But, the liberal side of me is in flux. While I understand that this is for safety issues, I don't feel comfortable with people who fit their neat little package of what a terrorist should look like into fluffy little boxes. Why are middle easterners the only ones who are speculated upon? How do they know I am not sporting something of destruction in my big, ol' bra? I've never been pulled to the side in an airport. Never reprimanded for having more than 3 ounces of liquid on my person. I have never been questioned or interrogated, yet I could be a player for the other team just as well as anybody else.
My husband relays these stories to me and sighs. For me, it is something that makes me angry because I can't rectify it in my own mind. For me, it is akin to stopping a black kid in a white neighborhood to ask what he is doing there. It's bullshit. How often do you see a white kid stopped for being in a black neighborhood? It's akin to stopping middle easterners in airports.
In the interim, my husband will continue to cooperate with airport security any time they feel it is warranted. That is how he is. I know not everyone is so cooperative and patient. Those are the people who will miss their flights. My husband is careful not to allow his annoyance to creep into his voice, because this could be the barrier between he and I. He needs to get home to his family at any cost. Me? I will continue to allow this to frustate me and play with my sensibilities of right and wrong.
Evil comes in many shapes and forms and I would hate to think we were letting the bad guys go by because we are too busy looking for a certain shade of skin.
Everytime my husband flies, he gets pulled to the side for profiling. They pull him ahead of all the security lines, make him go through that thing that puffs air all over you (to detect explosives) and get as close to disrobed without strip searching him. Why?
My husband is middle eastern. He's tall, dark (and handsome) with a bald head, dark goatee and apparently, some pretty shifty eyes.
Hotband takes it with a grain of salt. No big deal, he says. Just doing it to protect us, he says. I understand his thought process, though it angers me to the umpteenth degree. He feels that at least they take the time to profile someone who may look suspicious to them. To me, the hotband is the portrait of beautiful, not terrorism, so it frustrates me. He is a patient, kind and wonderful man who allows this inconvenience. He even makes light of it.
"At least I get to go to the front of the security line," he says.
Last week, my husband was on a plane bound from Chicago, where he is presently working, back to Florida. He was coming home for my birthday. In the airport, to pass the time, he used his wireless connection to call his mother in Israel. He used Skype. And of course, he was speaking his native tongue, Hebrew.
Apparently, the woman (white and uptight) next to him became quite alarmed that this middle eastern man was on the phone in the airport talking in this strange language that she did not understand. She went to security. My husband doesn't know what she said, but it was enough for security to come over to him, ask to see his boarding pass, his ID and question him about his whereabouts. He watched the woman walk back to another seat, far away from him, while this interrogation continued. He was thanked by security for his willingness to answer questions and his cooperation.
As he boarded the plane, he passed the woman. He attempted to make eye contact with her, to let her see that he was not the criminal she made him out to be. She was not human enough to make eye contact with him in return. She put her head down as he walked by, possibly in prayer that this terrorist of a husband of mine would not blow the plane to bits.
He said nothing to her. She said nothing to him.
Me? I would have leaned over and said, "Allah praise you. See you on the other side," but that's just me. I'm a tad more spiteful than my airport challenged husband.
The hotband? He feels bad about scaring her. He feels badly that the way he looks causes people to think poorly of him. He is far more understanding and tolerant than I am. Don't get me wrong, when he relayed this story to me, he did refer to her as "bitch", which I think he was entitled to.
I have mixed feelings about this issue. On one hand, I can understand that our country needs to profile certain people based on a pre-conceived notion that all middle easterners are a threat to this country. This is being very narrow, of course, because we are allies of Israel. If I were the one getting on the plane with some suspicious looking person, I would want them checked out too...I think. But, on the other hand, this is something that the hotband has to endure everytime he flies. He feels it is warranted, their suspicions of him, due to past transgressions of other middle easterners. Yet, I can't help but be protective of a man who releases spiders outdoors instead of killing them.
Who is to say that the next national or international disaster won't be commited by a person of Asian descent? White? Black? Brown? What about women? Is everyone who speaks another language going to be suspect or is it simply those who speak a language we don't readily recognize?
I guess the question is, what defines "suspicious"?
I imagine since Hebrew has a lot of "ach" and gagging noises that it could be mistaken for arabic. The languages are very similar. They both sound like someone coughing up hairballs. But is that enough to profile someone? Is that enough to pull someone to the side and investigate their whereabouts? And truly, if he were some terrorist, wouldn't he be ready for that sort of questioning? Wouldn't he expect it, play it cool and get away with it? All they asked him for was his boarding pass, license and an explanation of where he was going. If someone who masterminded the 9/11 tragedy, for example, can't get past this simple line of questioning, I don't know who can.
Do I feel safer that they pull my husband out of line? I suppose in some ways, I am being overly sensitive to the issue because it is my husband. In other ways, I am glad to know that airport security is taking things seriously enough to warrant these searches. But, the liberal side of me is in flux. While I understand that this is for safety issues, I don't feel comfortable with people who fit their neat little package of what a terrorist should look like into fluffy little boxes. Why are middle easterners the only ones who are speculated upon? How do they know I am not sporting something of destruction in my big, ol' bra? I've never been pulled to the side in an airport. Never reprimanded for having more than 3 ounces of liquid on my person. I have never been questioned or interrogated, yet I could be a player for the other team just as well as anybody else.
My husband relays these stories to me and sighs. For me, it is something that makes me angry because I can't rectify it in my own mind. For me, it is akin to stopping a black kid in a white neighborhood to ask what he is doing there. It's bullshit. How often do you see a white kid stopped for being in a black neighborhood? It's akin to stopping middle easterners in airports.
In the interim, my husband will continue to cooperate with airport security any time they feel it is warranted. That is how he is. I know not everyone is so cooperative and patient. Those are the people who will miss their flights. My husband is careful not to allow his annoyance to creep into his voice, because this could be the barrier between he and I. He needs to get home to his family at any cost. Me? I will continue to allow this to frustate me and play with my sensibilities of right and wrong.
Evil comes in many shapes and forms and I would hate to think we were letting the bad guys go by because we are too busy looking for a certain shade of skin.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
I gots me a job, y'all!
And it isn't with my former company. They eventually called me back, by the way, telling me it would be okay for me to come back.
"Not necessary," I replied. "I got offered the job of nurse administrator of a large insurance company...but thanks anyway!"
Said with a shit-eating grin, I might add.
So, check this title...ready?
I am a Nurse Administrator in Quality Assurance. Sweet, huh? No, I don't know what the fuck it means either but it requires me to dress professionally (yay! no more scrubs!), gives me my own office (okay, cubicle...but this is my moment so let me have it), and allows me to utilize my paralegal background into my nursing position.
Basically, what I do is review cases for insurance companies to find out if something could be pre-approved, needs prior authorization or is substantiated for coverage by our health insurance company.
Yes. I am the girl that most nurses hate. I am the source of their frustration because I am the reason their patient keeps harassing them..."where the hell is my medicine???" I am the reason for the hold up. I didn't approve it yet.
Yay me.
Now, being a nurse, I think it will bring a lot to this job. I will be able to empathize with the frustration of the nurses and patients who I speak with. But, I will also have to be a bit more hard nosed than I usually am and deliver, on occasion, very disappointing news to nurses and patients alike. Since the job involves a lot of research and reading, my experiences as a paralegal (12 years before becoming a nurse) will come in very handy. I am a master at research online and in case files.
The doctor who owns this company hired me on the spot.
"CP, we want you on board," he said.
"Hm. Well, I'm going to have to give my present employer some notice," I counter.
(Yes, I know I quit my job 2 weeks ago. It's called playing hard to get. If more of you would do that, there would be less whorish behavior in the world. So there.)
"That's fine," he says. "I completely respect your work ethic."
*snicker*
So, that's where I am at. This is what I got for my birthday. A faboo new job with a lot of perks and none of the heartache I got from shoving pills down throats all day long. I confessed to the doctor who hired me that I was "burnt out" from the job because I felt it didn't (get this...) "utilize my talents and skills to their fullest potential."
Yes. I did say that. I can get very verbose when I need to be.
I will be starting my new position on September 11th.
For now, I will stick to my old position. Laying on the couch with a bag of doritos between my legs, flipping around on the remote and watching everyone else leave for their respective jobs.
Admire my work ethic? I didn't think so.
"Not necessary," I replied. "I got offered the job of nurse administrator of a large insurance company...but thanks anyway!"
Said with a shit-eating grin, I might add.
So, check this title...ready?
I am a Nurse Administrator in Quality Assurance. Sweet, huh? No, I don't know what the fuck it means either but it requires me to dress professionally (yay! no more scrubs!), gives me my own office (okay, cubicle...but this is my moment so let me have it), and allows me to utilize my paralegal background into my nursing position.
Basically, what I do is review cases for insurance companies to find out if something could be pre-approved, needs prior authorization or is substantiated for coverage by our health insurance company.
Yes. I am the girl that most nurses hate. I am the source of their frustration because I am the reason their patient keeps harassing them..."where the hell is my medicine???" I am the reason for the hold up. I didn't approve it yet.
Yay me.
Now, being a nurse, I think it will bring a lot to this job. I will be able to empathize with the frustration of the nurses and patients who I speak with. But, I will also have to be a bit more hard nosed than I usually am and deliver, on occasion, very disappointing news to nurses and patients alike. Since the job involves a lot of research and reading, my experiences as a paralegal (12 years before becoming a nurse) will come in very handy. I am a master at research online and in case files.
The doctor who owns this company hired me on the spot.
"CP, we want you on board," he said.
"Hm. Well, I'm going to have to give my present employer some notice," I counter.
(Yes, I know I quit my job 2 weeks ago. It's called playing hard to get. If more of you would do that, there would be less whorish behavior in the world. So there.)
"That's fine," he says. "I completely respect your work ethic."
*snicker*
So, that's where I am at. This is what I got for my birthday. A faboo new job with a lot of perks and none of the heartache I got from shoving pills down throats all day long. I confessed to the doctor who hired me that I was "burnt out" from the job because I felt it didn't (get this...) "utilize my talents and skills to their fullest potential."
Yes. I did say that. I can get very verbose when I need to be.
I will be starting my new position on September 11th.
For now, I will stick to my old position. Laying on the couch with a bag of doritos between my legs, flipping around on the remote and watching everyone else leave for their respective jobs.
Admire my work ethic? I didn't think so.
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