tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61594142727464897082024-03-06T04:11:18.757-05:00Adult Children: Raising Them, Being Them Musings about being a mother, having a mother, and mourning while making a marriage work. And books, because where would we be without them?Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-69481319054785668582023-12-26T18:40:00.001-05:002023-12-26T18:40:19.357-05:00Here are my favorite novels for 2023, with links to my reviews!<p>Here are my favorite 23 novels from 2023: </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2yLbavfBJzyNMhESsT08NygfoyQZeaYqWsQyz6mrX-kqDW_yqKHzVKZZc2y8k_v5ZcF6Ow-ss021HW4Z4DaaGTRESKMeskukkPuAdDIbNUDHA9b3R4yTOWFS3c9HI3srKGFB_qUCCoVU75zzB8vkS5P9D72EKA3fRHqTTk0eEsQcqCQyBeUB5TZ5-JwO7" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="242" data-original-width="162" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2yLbavfBJzyNMhESsT08NygfoyQZeaYqWsQyz6mrX-kqDW_yqKHzVKZZc2y8k_v5ZcF6Ow-ss021HW4Z4DaaGTRESKMeskukkPuAdDIbNUDHA9b3R4yTOWFS3c9HI3srKGFB_qUCCoVU75zzB8vkS5P9D72EKA3fRHqTTk0eEsQcqCQyBeUB5TZ5-JwO7" width="161" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;">Count The Ways</i><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;">is an extraordinarily moving, heartfelt, epic novel about a woman's life, loves, and losses as a mother of three. One of my favorite novels of all time -- and a sequel is coming this year!</span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5274614857"></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5274614857">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5274614857</a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNOH904HS5OqkBWPEswVH9dctg5yekY3Yj76OwzbSPM7XqrgMv_L0uhU55qlMVY5SZLEKxVFBut0dPXEtqdquhaSeEZELL7BKWvTZpvmkBKUCrPDIhp9_Ef3VJqCKyL90Khh0o7MO1rFMt2B1Uk_MEX2FYztEAeNHBH34RUE7AXqXg0V1v2GsmZs4Ve2F-" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="369" data-original-width="239" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNOH904HS5OqkBWPEswVH9dctg5yekY3Yj76OwzbSPM7XqrgMv_L0uhU55qlMVY5SZLEKxVFBut0dPXEtqdquhaSeEZELL7BKWvTZpvmkBKUCrPDIhp9_Ef3VJqCKyL90Khh0o7MO1rFMt2B1Uk_MEX2FYztEAeNHBH34RUE7AXqXg0V1v2GsmZs4Ve2F-" width="155" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Cara Romero is one of the greatest characters of all time, and I highly recommend you get to know her via the audiobook version of this fantastic novel, as whoever does her voice does it with humor and pathos in a way that avoids mockery. So, so good!<br /><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5063556967">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5063556967</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVeNrOfyjFovADdMpMNVfZhrmzYgm7URkUrEREYfL6x9nP2nCW1Qk1s_1pyPNqAalk8pbd30_stuIM8DBgEe2libM-bcSDYjaTRBuexUF6nW-ReSMuZtemdRXIjEQJkCi-nsGgD5E-d1tBOMJMDjQDN6gljj2Kj9isNIGYlrjmgR_SHjkR47eA4UouEvuP" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="176" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVeNrOfyjFovADdMpMNVfZhrmzYgm7URkUrEREYfL6x9nP2nCW1Qk1s_1pyPNqAalk8pbd30_stuIM8DBgEe2libM-bcSDYjaTRBuexUF6nW-ReSMuZtemdRXIjEQJkCi-nsGgD5E-d1tBOMJMDjQDN6gljj2Kj9isNIGYlrjmgR_SHjkR47eA4UouEvuP" width="165" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">I listened to the audiobook version of this gorgeous family novel, which is magnificently read by Meryl Streep, who starts off telling a story about the one who got away, but winds up telling us about the more meaningful loves that endure and sustain us.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5480792046">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5480792046</a></span></span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgoNDMkw1bXNJ0tWac_oLihejCYPZ-DENuapBQgauh75KLa2EzSk3RWdhlqG--06djjmpixaO_uD9S8L3RjSOpws335Z3ZTfLy2_uz1l0llGhTtYtyvNeu1yEMxabS01CLc8dXq082x9j8D4RMvtL9Lf9QktjrD5-467H_EJjxQz41vnW0RW3Pu-uY5TMJ8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="238" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgoNDMkw1bXNJ0tWac_oLihejCYPZ-DENuapBQgauh75KLa2EzSk3RWdhlqG--06djjmpixaO_uD9S8L3RjSOpws335Z3ZTfLy2_uz1l0llGhTtYtyvNeu1yEMxabS01CLc8dXq082x9j8D4RMvtL9Lf9QktjrD5-467H_EJjxQz41vnW0RW3Pu-uY5TMJ8" width="157" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">This was my first Dennis Lehane book, but it certainly won't be my last. It's a mob story with a little bit more violence than I like, but it's also a mother's story about figuring out what matters and fighting to protect your children. I especially recommend this as an audiobook for the pitch-perfect Boston accents, but it's an extraordinary novel however you consume it. </span></span><br /><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5695316052">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5695316052</a></span></span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0SU3gdiD8KT4DIgWvuCyC2uRaO8Iavnv_A3KWZJr4TLEU1aBgQZSdlqncvA3lbGfe3cQRbRQXlCBHTS6wpCpMJbY_pyHAoBLTbXIuh49frNUfrtoO49gJmIGil6DXevsT86qeDP827O9j9_1z46Z1JqqLi2qWQRGb0-xtKX8Y8E22KiTppZXEiywt0gA_" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="169" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0SU3gdiD8KT4DIgWvuCyC2uRaO8Iavnv_A3KWZJr4TLEU1aBgQZSdlqncvA3lbGfe3cQRbRQXlCBHTS6wpCpMJbY_pyHAoBLTbXIuh49frNUfrtoO49gJmIGil6DXevsT86qeDP827O9j9_1z46Z1JqqLi2qWQRGb0-xtKX8Y8E22KiTppZXEiywt0gA_" width="161" /></a></div>I loved this book! Both a historical novel and a critique of racism in the rarified halls of classical music, this is also a suspenseful, gripping mystery that will keep you turning the pages.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5368008863">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5368008863</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiE0JtZweXNi-JBv6yOXLHzunzRN7d-NgYlFJbjVV0rGm5rbni4Ps2-UbM6aVN5QiXosXNwFfshRaiR3TL3lbTMgcMR3L_22LvMDoneTH94ickZMznU8MceEeUHUXdhzCVINLV8DG2roZjaiV7Jv_hK5F7Tc0kBtTZKYe7jW5KWI6iIE9B9tFPL07Zc5DGA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="247" data-original-width="166" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiE0JtZweXNi-JBv6yOXLHzunzRN7d-NgYlFJbjVV0rGm5rbni4Ps2-UbM6aVN5QiXosXNwFfshRaiR3TL3lbTMgcMR3L_22LvMDoneTH94ickZMznU8MceEeUHUXdhzCVINLV8DG2roZjaiV7Jv_hK5F7Tc0kBtTZKYe7jW5KWI6iIE9B9tFPL07Zc5DGA" width="161" /></a></div>What a sensational novel-- so funny and delightful and feminist, with a main character I adored who is raising a spunky, spirited daughter I loved even more.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4809468527">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4809468527</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbB1rlQUy1BuUNj6aD2I4RGAcJsNtaDmYNYLfB8FYbdDOpnTLtdmvfs6H5-zyowTlFJMzGTHEqGfSIsssk0ayBE2y5Rg0BLmfuJubJnX-AU9HIJvvzE1lsYebTcMNZ38OB_Nj8CMdmqN13Z1Y4bWs3m4DXSE5wfJjsuqNUfKVihRJ5NR8CElKjtOfV-_Si" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="180" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbB1rlQUy1BuUNj6aD2I4RGAcJsNtaDmYNYLfB8FYbdDOpnTLtdmvfs6H5-zyowTlFJMzGTHEqGfSIsssk0ayBE2y5Rg0BLmfuJubJnX-AU9HIJvvzE1lsYebTcMNZ38OB_Nj8CMdmqN13Z1Y4bWs3m4DXSE5wfJjsuqNUfKVihRJ5NR8CElKjtOfV-_Si" width="170" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>This is somehow the third, five-star book I read this year about children of WWII taken from their homes and placed with other families (the first two being <i>The Nightingale </i>by Kristen Hannah and <i>Beyond That, The Sea, </i>also reviewed here), but it's a tribute to the author that everything about her novel felt fresh, immediate, and deeply moving. This book was the only one of the three told from the Jewish children's perspective, and it's powerful, poignant, and thought-provoking. </div><div><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5428193285">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5428193285</a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibz9bbtxbqvmQu-Y-Sb2CJKD2q4ZiSS9m-XN8QWXeFDeLbVRXooO_AOOtl3DmlMxiu-D-R2qqBI-4i0DrMFgckF3GQh_s6tVtUXo3HwIQ6TwkWALsf-dgR7P_ZaTjkxMOQlQsgKL4Hov5mKruNh7IgzxDpbU4-ZFpNY0umflPf7vxYCztQmpNPh1Q-lOgE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="247" data-original-width="164" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibz9bbtxbqvmQu-Y-Sb2CJKD2q4ZiSS9m-XN8QWXeFDeLbVRXooO_AOOtl3DmlMxiu-D-R2qqBI-4i0DrMFgckF3GQh_s6tVtUXo3HwIQ6TwkWALsf-dgR7P_ZaTjkxMOQlQsgKL4Hov5mKruNh7IgzxDpbU4-ZFpNY0umflPf7vxYCztQmpNPh1Q-lOgE" width="159" /></a></div>Whoo, what a wild ride! I love that this book drew me in by seeming to be historical fiction about a black woman laying claim to territory in the West at a time when doing so was one of the few paths allowed to Black women trying to achieve financial independence. And THEN the novel turns out to be a horror story rich with metaphors about love and family acceptance. I don't love horror as a genre, but this was a great book.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5025238223">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5025238223</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJYkyJGC3g3El3MfCN8frVwQ71xq81qLEYhDn8hzBD7kmaEqTcP0OZjaqA6K-sQyKv9XBEiovznafbgZJe9ExViyJac6DK7HRkXxFE-HSMdlrz10Wx4t8Q1xNqN8qh9NCIZq4e3rq_bq5eed7-nH4_Wl5-iL7Veh0hNcYqXSDD7_Se9kW8Lzf-0kGlGLsY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="174" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJYkyJGC3g3El3MfCN8frVwQ71xq81qLEYhDn8hzBD7kmaEqTcP0OZjaqA6K-sQyKv9XBEiovznafbgZJe9ExViyJac6DK7HRkXxFE-HSMdlrz10Wx4t8Q1xNqN8qh9NCIZq4e3rq_bq5eed7-nH4_Wl5-iL7Veh0hNcYqXSDD7_Se9kW8Lzf-0kGlGLsY" width="166" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">Absolutely brilliant, heart-wrenching novel about a Black, enslaved jockey captured in an oil painting that becomes an object of scholarship and study in the 21st century. The novel moves back and forth in time between then and now, when a black academic finds himself reluctantly falling for a white woman who's been studying this painting. The obvious and subtle ways racism constricts Black lives runs like a poison thread through both stories, and the novel's operatic climax haunts me still, six months after I finished the book. The writing is extraordinary; Brooks is a genius. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4799927258">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4799927258</a></span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZ4ckEKEilX20HRIgBf1I8mhaQjWbtvKIK1NHyTGMDmKEfwRZ_LBNqEEG1LGj3WSCf585bp8ud2HL-uyDyF9GpYUZ66kpS78MgscJCm5yuWFctUBQRM9euy7ke_ESYQcH8Fg5UY-k3fQtQrnYj0jq3udUWI6Q8nA5uOf18RS-T0EHAGI1YHe2KYvgz155G" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="169" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZ4ckEKEilX20HRIgBf1I8mhaQjWbtvKIK1NHyTGMDmKEfwRZ_LBNqEEG1LGj3WSCf585bp8ud2HL-uyDyF9GpYUZ66kpS78MgscJCm5yuWFctUBQRM9euy7ke_ESYQcH8Fg5UY-k3fQtQrnYj0jq3udUWI6Q8nA5uOf18RS-T0EHAGI1YHe2KYvgz155G" width="163" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify;">I can't
believe I used to think I didn't like historical fiction! (Anyone else who
feels that way should read some Kristin Hannah.) </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify;">Beyond that, The
Sea </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify;">is a lovely, moving story about a London girl sent to live
with an American family to protect her from the bombs falling during WWII. This
engrossing novel explores how the complicated feelings this raises for everyone
affects the rest of all their lives. <br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><u style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5413621048">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5413621048</a></span></u></div></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_WrWz8P6m1JuqS5PRBP9ikD7iNDe8tsnR5RmpQd_wpJTaAOepAPy5TaBPm7HOoQHwStTM-KKGhQuNgaFnjn8g88H2xIqQYwHPEohSsRL3aayMnztnF3ya0qm0rNBXtCc6Ddox9_9gXKZ6sa15d2780fCOS_jIA9j2lSFAyrfLu-uDfQUNO5G9OhIt4Dqk" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="171" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_WrWz8P6m1JuqS5PRBP9ikD7iNDe8tsnR5RmpQd_wpJTaAOepAPy5TaBPm7HOoQHwStTM-KKGhQuNgaFnjn8g88H2xIqQYwHPEohSsRL3aayMnztnF3ya0qm0rNBXtCc6Ddox9_9gXKZ6sa15d2780fCOS_jIA9j2lSFAyrfLu-uDfQUNO5G9OhIt4Dqk" width="162" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;">This is a late-bloomer, coming-of-age story in which Maddy, raised in London by Ghanaian parents, must learn to be less mature and responsible to find her own voice. I love how particular and yet universal Maddy's story is. Obviously I am not a young, Black, English woman struggling to get a foothold in my career, dealing with a disabled father, dating for the first time--yet I thoroughly related to Maddy's guilt, anxiety, inner critical voice, work frustrations, and sexual yearnings--while at the same time feeling grateful I was being given a window into a life so different from my own. Maddy is a vulnerable human you cannot help but root for--a bit like Bridget Jones but with Google and deeper thoughts. <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5266916355">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5266916355</a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIglm6e3wVMsNbvbWv7D3rXIK028Ml33OMV23wjumfDZZwzdBR-6RS8PZ8xuqTtvuNfiMk1RUvJOkSGurft5X6i388cJyX20nzic9tfmajMzUGjcTHpwv-65hkd8EVKfKrKwsQgUr-1wppLbcUpgI4SSKvQqlc7Zh18DOFreYw0Xekpex2hdn2srkxvUbp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="168" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIglm6e3wVMsNbvbWv7D3rXIK028Ml33OMV23wjumfDZZwzdBR-6RS8PZ8xuqTtvuNfiMk1RUvJOkSGurft5X6i388cJyX20nzic9tfmajMzUGjcTHpwv-65hkd8EVKfKrKwsQgUr-1wppLbcUpgI4SSKvQqlc7Zh18DOFreYw0Xekpex2hdn2srkxvUbp" width="161" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The smartest romance I've ever read. Razor sharp in its wittiness, deeply affecting in its portrayal of the protagonist, a bit biting in its revelations about celebrity culture. I couldn't believe the writer wasn't a former comedy writer for <i>SNL; </i>she nails the backstage humor of working on a show like that hilariously well. When you need something fun, pick this book up. </div><div><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5844406032">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5844406032</a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-9VceipYqkfBnaPrwqwFPIgVsvY7Nb4gMbM27zxz-x7uvEGjdzk_nKALWJgHl4oldME9ZV-p8TH7TX2WSktA4Q2Ku1eNNJ2wJSB2HygaV3rIEVd5-DZwtAcD9EP13L5flU-Kxewk92Y0TVQdSCuDYcIz1WdCykTk13XMTzuQGEOXrW2slb10ep-xOkh7o" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="168" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-9VceipYqkfBnaPrwqwFPIgVsvY7Nb4gMbM27zxz-x7uvEGjdzk_nKALWJgHl4oldME9ZV-p8TH7TX2WSktA4Q2Ku1eNNJ2wJSB2HygaV3rIEVd5-DZwtAcD9EP13L5flU-Kxewk92Y0TVQdSCuDYcIz1WdCykTk13XMTzuQGEOXrW2slb10ep-xOkh7o" width="163" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I love speculative fiction, and this is a great showcase of why. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;"> A</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;"> mother witnesses something horrible happen to her only child -- and then, miraculously, wakes up the next day and discovers it's the day before, and the horrible thing hasn't happened yet.</span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"> I loved following this character back in time, and so will you.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4909328519" style="text-align: left;">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4909328519</a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNypZrOvjxSXYQTUmJJZUMMn_t1F4SaQE3er6uidtu1YZR2snLu6y1pTq6NBx3MX7xZtEURPtkjdXHx3IPFLT2qVFF49RRbE9r4b78uoTH4KgU75aRTDgEZ3G9lowt4NX7GGsqLm3Fl8lv9V46igP6jkE0MttMbww8mryp2_mJ8MJ_jhopwCk9kcibJDue" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="169" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNypZrOvjxSXYQTUmJJZUMMn_t1F4SaQE3er6uidtu1YZR2snLu6y1pTq6NBx3MX7xZtEURPtkjdXHx3IPFLT2qVFF49RRbE9r4b78uoTH4KgU75aRTDgEZ3G9lowt4NX7GGsqLm3Fl8lv9V46igP6jkE0MttMbww8mryp2_mJ8MJ_jhopwCk9kcibJDue" width="157" /></a></div><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;">Every woman who has (or ever will have) turned 30 will laugh, cry and feel more self-compassion after reading this novel, which I cannot recommend highly enough. I gave this as a gift to several young women in my life, and please let my rave review encourage you to gift this to yourself. <br /></span></span><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5038392885">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5038392885</a><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnsoQDgiwvU1rjsO88J9vKXnWkVIwNwMCCWjcpAOiA4ZsEbuv21OG2QVdk0-4T4cnnxubcH7OIg-7ak8HFxfXz85OimnSEWnk88AuPyC62CsDX28R2Yi34n2D0q3YN_A6MGGdK4F1EILFUwStOrcmqO1wy4wvkcZAjzgTlazTSncTNyJvJJiLlgNhEperM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="162" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnsoQDgiwvU1rjsO88J9vKXnWkVIwNwMCCWjcpAOiA4ZsEbuv21OG2QVdk0-4T4cnnxubcH7OIg-7ak8HFxfXz85OimnSEWnk88AuPyC62CsDX28R2Yi34n2D0q3YN_A6MGGdK4F1EILFUwStOrcmqO1wy4wvkcZAjzgTlazTSncTNyJvJJiLlgNhEperM" width="157" /></a></div>This is an incredible novel about an almost unbelievable (but tragically true) horror story. In New York, The Willowbrook State School, meant to provide education and enrichment to children with developmental disabilities, instead became an overcrowded hellscape of abuse and terror. This novel imagines twin sisters, one of whom is committed to the "school," and the other of whom is mistaken for her sister when she tries to find her there. I would have found this novel gripping and deeply disturbing even if my younger sister hadn't died in Willowbrook, but knowing how true-to-life this book was broke my heart. The story is fast-paced and gripping, too. </div><div><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5018906101">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5018906101</a></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_g93KYwOcMAx4q2oZNIte-ReKniR99m2STAqywaU_GfgtXCx2lDn9uSQrLIrI6F11jPhJYeFOBYg1wbS3z3M7FSGLWUUnolS4VuTlI91A6z4VLl_SYj4Ipd9M7u2Vo4P_E3eEobAt_EaJVCmK_FMr2Ccdz8dB5A52xDSWkTUDqF3v4WtBT-WfwRHQ1pih" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="167" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_g93KYwOcMAx4q2oZNIte-ReKniR99m2STAqywaU_GfgtXCx2lDn9uSQrLIrI6F11jPhJYeFOBYg1wbS3z3M7FSGLWUUnolS4VuTlI91A6z4VLl_SYj4Ipd9M7u2Vo4P_E3eEobAt_EaJVCmK_FMr2Ccdz8dB5A52xDSWkTUDqF3v4WtBT-WfwRHQ1pih" width="160" /></a></div>What starts as a humorous romance turns out to be a fantastic, complex story that will give you an education about the history of Puerto Rico. The central character is a high-end wedding planner with (of course) no interest in getting married herself. Her gay brother is a politician being blackmailed into voting against his conscience. Their addict father is dead, and their political activist mother ran away when they were young. These main characters are joined by many entertaining side characters in an ambitious novel that is so entertaining, you may not even realize you are being educated about the U.S. role in Puerto Rico's colonization as you read it. </div><div><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4790638012">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4790638012</a> </div><div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhe7Y7qG1ya7wq-yiHhHsXqGuPlxAqHh09mH2usgaZzpKuVl4CxiZ5jq_Xc8e7lWmyGuGpRd4WaVUyoGdrcfWjiRmBCnq4WbNatpvQwN3U09DL3rNkc-PGzKY3ADNBPvTaUG5OUbEdXt2nNN4AOWG7gfVrRTVhJfcnoFjxk8LMcPTWJ0woV_MSB5po0VGKW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="167" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhe7Y7qG1ya7wq-yiHhHsXqGuPlxAqHh09mH2usgaZzpKuVl4CxiZ5jq_Xc8e7lWmyGuGpRd4WaVUyoGdrcfWjiRmBCnq4WbNatpvQwN3U09DL3rNkc-PGzKY3ADNBPvTaUG5OUbEdXt2nNN4AOWG7gfVrRTVhJfcnoFjxk8LMcPTWJ0woV_MSB5po0VGKW" width="163" /></a></div></div><div>This is a beautiful novel about women sent to a Catholic home for unwed mothers and forced to sign away their babies in the early 1960s. This book deserves a wide readership, but I think the not-great title and cover art might have doomed it. The story tackles lots of hard issues (racism, sexual assault) while telling an engaging, heart-wrenching story involving richly drawn, authentic characters. Please read it!<br /><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4595991190">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4595991190</a></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMAbWs5Qv09mkgBQodhZtQQUTs52DGkPXcj6JlxiBaHuJmpkLonnRjRsjR2VyY-V0VadqObgSGsIMog3SC8r0oDzzErohf2kDd0Nx-HaqXBAAgDmpGe4GFJs6iEP2OdVkdnF_15Q0_ysi91GbM71ccpTXfOhTcXkl_al8NogQb3WT3wLOgG6GDeyvyJz16" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="252" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMAbWs5Qv09mkgBQodhZtQQUTs52DGkPXcj6JlxiBaHuJmpkLonnRjRsjR2VyY-V0VadqObgSGsIMog3SC8r0oDzzErohf2kDd0Nx-HaqXBAAgDmpGe4GFJs6iEP2OdVkdnF_15Q0_ysi91GbM71ccpTXfOhTcXkl_al8NogQb3WT3wLOgG6GDeyvyJz16" width="163" /></a></div>This is a multi-layered family story about a wealthy man who makes a terrible mistake in his youth, which convinces him he never deserves love or happiness, and the hapless woman who tries to emotionally rescue him. This doomed couple have triplets, and their engaging story is told by a mystery narrator whose relationship to everyone is revealed in the book's final third. I found the novel nuanced and haunting and fantastically well-written.<br /><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4750762024">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4750762024</a></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEju4nE5B6qI83ENLH9sTEiSbpHdP6TH2dKqXZfQHlypZBNsYKIjaA6KOssVE-N58HcMwqkRbJgpHe0gUDu1E4ag5NiIOV3vDoO3kRQFr2tuXrwwTc19RbI3nvrjLYUv-J3aP97GxwtATK-8KX5utWidiCqYcAYB9xZNjBKkK9t59g7yxnjiQ3rh1jwqO0eX" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="168" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEju4nE5B6qI83ENLH9sTEiSbpHdP6TH2dKqXZfQHlypZBNsYKIjaA6KOssVE-N58HcMwqkRbJgpHe0gUDu1E4ag5NiIOV3vDoO3kRQFr2tuXrwwTc19RbI3nvrjLYUv-J3aP97GxwtATK-8KX5utWidiCqYcAYB9xZNjBKkK9t59g7yxnjiQ3rh1jwqO0eX" width="159" /></a></div>This dystopian novel is set in a horrifying but all too realistic near-future when anti-Asian sentiment and an economic crisis has left society in chaos and allowed for the formation of a police state. A "patriotic" bill strips citizens of many rights and allows for children to be removed from parents considered "anti-American." Our protagonist is an Asian-American mom labeled a subversive when one of her poems is used in a protest. She runs away to avoid her child being taken--and this lyrical, fairy-tale-like novel begins several years later when her son tries to find her. I found the whole book terrifying and the ending deeply moving. <br /><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5304505883">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5304505883</a></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEih2QE7cWCSrvw4wOkG1Y-XioKxOQU1d0oNFckT8PI6bL9xQJKZEIma8qfSDtJCZdxNtMpXp9mRLRNOCuSoWDdMUTqM7MSxkziTCKkrZidCKPPsnjDGLV2cIk1MoWFCu0mBwamindYha4-kLWspCnwWXFvfOcssjjz2WVPn-4X87WlhpbxhhYu3QG85Zgmd" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="159" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEih2QE7cWCSrvw4wOkG1Y-XioKxOQU1d0oNFckT8PI6bL9xQJKZEIma8qfSDtJCZdxNtMpXp9mRLRNOCuSoWDdMUTqM7MSxkziTCKkrZidCKPPsnjDGLV2cIk1MoWFCu0mBwamindYha4-kLWspCnwWXFvfOcssjjz2WVPn-4X87WlhpbxhhYu3QG85Zgmd" width="151" /></a></div>We are all lucky this book found its way to print. This is a first-hand account of life inside Angola Prison told from the perspective of a young inmate sentenced to life there. How he finds meaning in a life behind bars, how any of the men there do, is a story worth hearing. I recommend the audiobook, as reading the Black dialect in print makes for a slow read, but the voices will move and transport you.</div><div><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4740771165">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4740771165</a></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSQrUsHm2fdKpTpmVZXk-Gfd6Ta7D2lsz6Z6UBXHa_u9xfqsec4wvZep2g-NlAsehEx18ngs7rXWSNG4VqDDom84n-3BIcKZq6phQ44bvvvEfs_R0pVjVfc1iNrwcGR_M06aQijMQpNJjXfhhi_9T8PC2TL8tZyZiy6QAs19d4S5DdF6OYUY0nOnyqCt7E" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="166" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSQrUsHm2fdKpTpmVZXk-Gfd6Ta7D2lsz6Z6UBXHa_u9xfqsec4wvZep2g-NlAsehEx18ngs7rXWSNG4VqDDom84n-3BIcKZq6phQ44bvvvEfs_R0pVjVfc1iNrwcGR_M06aQijMQpNJjXfhhi_9T8PC2TL8tZyZiy6QAs19d4S5DdF6OYUY0nOnyqCt7E" width="159" /></a></div>OMG, if this novel doesn't turn you on, see a doctor. A divorced 40-something mom takes her teen daughter and her daughter's friends to see a boy band, and one of the boys in the band falls hard for the mom, a slim, youthful-looking art-gallery owner. Of course she resists him; she cannot have an affair with a 20-year-old! But this 20 yo is unbelievably mature and smooth and HOT and he slowly, so deliciously slowly, wins her over. The book is full of exquisite sex scenes that revolve entirely around the woman's pleasure. The whole book is one long, languorous, yearning buildup. Five throbbing stars! </div><div><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4707097221">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4707097221</a></div><div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj7rA6OZZ8GFVw_okrxySczWKhJh8lhmzhtn_kxW0oXPikKSg6ChkAdatUQ4WIj3M1bQjN8Cr9boGnvN40o_XlrTLZ3EtW7fNG1ROsJjbjHPVdfGZAvf-dwfTVj_cwuehLp-pWyUEuD6KzRLlv7uUFdZcGwWXDkAkUMKDO4ofgZpu-SznMgMImldx5nbF06" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="167" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj7rA6OZZ8GFVw_okrxySczWKhJh8lhmzhtn_kxW0oXPikKSg6ChkAdatUQ4WIj3M1bQjN8Cr9boGnvN40o_XlrTLZ3EtW7fNG1ROsJjbjHPVdfGZAvf-dwfTVj_cwuehLp-pWyUEuD6KzRLlv7uUFdZcGwWXDkAkUMKDO4ofgZpu-SznMgMImldx5nbF06" width="160" /></a></div>What a unique, sweet, touching, intelligent book. The main character (the one who helps connect all the others) is an octopus imprisoned in an aquarium. <span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">The novel is full of quirky small-town characters who all long for or show love in unusual ways, and by novel's end, you will be rooting for all of them to find it.<br /></span></span></span><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4850667205" style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4850667205</a><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtRoRf8Nt7iz5YO15V6GHJYVskPqmw8GWp2VmQiakrkvu7NJT0dYG2djlIn9PhbK6CgCnrrKOZTDPEMAtbOAUm90OqDktjiPg-Yz6WxteTh6t09LZlcrS9uihRqqgvSjJQjNEOuEUVBz9qsJpUNtl1hZlx_17O1imPIH9UP8xd6EP48jZqMmBZjCwwUx9L" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="162" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtRoRf8Nt7iz5YO15V6GHJYVskPqmw8GWp2VmQiakrkvu7NJT0dYG2djlIn9PhbK6CgCnrrKOZTDPEMAtbOAUm90OqDktjiPg-Yz6WxteTh6t09LZlcrS9uihRqqgvSjJQjNEOuEUVBz9qsJpUNtl1hZlx_17O1imPIH9UP8xd6EP48jZqMmBZjCwwUx9L" width="157" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Some books deserve more than five stars, and this book is one of them. It's a rarity to have a novelist who can weave together language that reads like poetry *and* write a compelling story *and* create characters in whom the reader feels deeply invested *and* write a book so damned good you never want it to end (yet also so good you can't stop turning the pages). This novel is all those things. Do not let its length deter you. </span><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5776703086" style="text-align: left;">https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/5776703086</a></div></div></div></div>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-81376372485383643742022-02-28T12:45:00.005-05:002023-12-19T12:10:22.815-05:00Have you got family issues? Join me in this series of workshops <p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Updated for 2023:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">In my relative youth, I focused on how to have more fun. But over the past year or two, I’ve been focusing my energy on how to be a better person, studying psychological theories, family dynamics, my own behaviors, spiritual principles, and how to fit all these elements together to feel, be and do better each day. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I've come to realize being kinder and more self-aware will lead me to greater peace and contentment than any amount of fun will (not that there’s anything wrong with fun; I try to incorporate plenty of that in my life, too, as evidenced by this shot of me and my mother going to a live show of The Price is Right!).</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJPz8QLqpUxMSNPlHgc27dNzqxM3m82wUbqs-tzLJE9qqCx-ZHeYCLnGZTRRS1S_LZU_SnN_PmOVK7bmP9YQbMMHSELGZeUtU1e6HfuCtPiQI4DwUYtNXtSJRE9ylArUaTtzofjDRk6YAixnOm9Lo91sjJQvUkRVlNtuREoS1wSMgoskE-IE80jMopKg=s578" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="344" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJPz8QLqpUxMSNPlHgc27dNzqxM3m82wUbqs-tzLJE9qqCx-ZHeYCLnGZTRRS1S_LZU_SnN_PmOVK7bmP9YQbMMHSELGZeUtU1e6HfuCtPiQI4DwUYtNXtSJRE9ylArUaTtzofjDRk6YAixnOm9Lo91sjJQvUkRVlNtuREoS1wSMgoskE-IE80jMopKg=s320" width="190" /></a></div><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiO-8wFRwqheFXk2Ulciyih6mm2GnDfeEMtcGkJ2eWYTRKDqSPIhcsFumQwMDCbIO_qGpSsqjl2GjIwvaRmbxmugZzLStn1ZNldM5D784bp-qRE2GzxM98Bnz7PfjGdLczklCtwiykQ9iCmaGJ7R426iNWgyb7fpOWHj8T0PWfUA5l1tzw-W6dSEkFq0w=s578" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="578" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiO-8wFRwqheFXk2Ulciyih6mm2GnDfeEMtcGkJ2eWYTRKDqSPIhcsFumQwMDCbIO_qGpSsqjl2GjIwvaRmbxmugZzLStn1ZNldM5D784bp-qRE2GzxM98Bnz7PfjGdLczklCtwiykQ9iCmaGJ7R426iNWgyb7fpOWHj8T0PWfUA5l1tzw-W6dSEkFq0w=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">But this is the first time in my life when I have actively sought out and studied tools to help me be more present, more self-aware, more open, less judgmental, softer, more patient. I had family therapy with my daughter. I saw my own personal therapist. My wife and I took a 40-day meditation challenge together. I joined online support groups. My mother and I are taking a 10-week intuition and spirituality course together. And I’ve taken several online courses on how to cope with family estrangement as I continue to figure out how to live with my grief over losing my son and then having my granddaughter (above right) disappeared from my life.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Next month, there’s a free, four-day summit of 30 workshops being offered for those whose family relationships are causing them pain: "Moving Beyond Family Struggles." The workshops start airing each day at noon EST. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">You can learn more about or register for this event here:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><a href="https://www.2022movingbeyondfamilystruggles.com/optin1639589974846?utm_content=13389089&utm_medium=Email&utm_name=Id&utm_source=Actionetics&utm_term=Email" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">https://www.2023movingbeyondfamilystruggles.com/optin1689531961350</a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The catch to it being free is that you have only 24 hours to watch all the presentations each day – though for the early bird price of $97, you can have lifetime access to all these workshops plus audio files, meditations, and other healing tools. I might be more skeptical of these offerings, but I have already taken and benefited from online courses from several of the presenters, so I know this is a high-quality group.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Since my wife and I rearranged our budget to allow me to stay home, I have a finite amount of discretionary income, $200 a month for what we call my “fun money.” So when I see an offering like this, I have to decide if it’s worth spending half my fun money on it. In this case, I think it might be. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ve read the book The Rules of Estrangement by the first presenter, Dr. Josh Coleman and have taken a helpful eight-week set of workshops with him. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHKUQ7ffJ2KakyidoVKVrexg6MB-eZxY40WrXVhhs-BJ9y3COfwAUug_GvEjkoVO7pi61cf2U3RupKghTeVg4a-456vUfhl5glvyKzGUAdmAfgI_dPo59zkX_yJB_5xjfhQ_2yG774HuTr2nF2y_Ekso4U6UwEqD5G6h2H9Xx46gMZeSqWEmb4QqVDNg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHKUQ7ffJ2KakyidoVKVrexg6MB-eZxY40WrXVhhs-BJ9y3COfwAUug_GvEjkoVO7pi61cf2U3RupKghTeVg4a-456vUfhl5glvyKzGUAdmAfgI_dPo59zkX_yJB_5xjfhQ_2yG774HuTr2nF2y_Ekso4U6UwEqD5G6h2H9Xx46gMZeSqWEmb4QqVDNg=w143-h200" width="143" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">A mentee of his, Barbra Drizin (<a href="https://barbradrizin.com/">https://barbradrizin.com/</a>), leads her own workshops, which I’ve enjoyed even more, in which she brilliantly breaks down into bite-sized lessons big concepts on everything from attachment theory to coping with emotional triggers (and then delightfully delivers these lessons in a New-York accented voice that reminds me of Fran Drescher in The Nanny.) Barbra's down-to-earth encouragement greatly enhances the lessons she offers. </p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">And Laura Davis, whose most recent memoir The Burning Light of Two Stars: A Mother Daughter Story is being given away free to all participants, is a brilliant writer whose work I have long admired.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I learn better when I am learning with someone, though, rather than on my own, so I am hoping some of you will go through this program with me. (I am happy to have persuaded my grown foster daughter Amy to take one of Barbra’s courses with me, a weekly Wednesday life-enrichment program that we started last week.) </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Are there any of you out there who’d like to sign up to discuss some of these concepts with me? Although the workshop focuses on family estrangement and how to live your best life in spite of it, there are also courses on co-dependency, anxiety, divorce, communication, trauma, and a host of other issues that affect most of us, particularly in this historical moment. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ll be trying to watch the workshops at warp speed but will then sign up if, as seems likely, I can't watch them all within one day. I hope I hear from some of you that you’ve joined me. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Discussions deepen learning, so I hope there are at least a few of you who will do this work and have these conversations with me.</span></p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-42339901207123621722022-01-18T13:01:00.001-05:002022-01-18T13:01:44.700-05:00I doubled my reading! Here are the books I loved during the pandemic. <p>Like <a href="https://readingagency.org.uk/news/media/new-survey-says-reading-connects-a-nation-in-lockdown.html">many of us</a>, I’ve found the pandemic greatly enhanced my reading life, allowing me to attend many more online book groups and author readings than I ever could have in person and to read more than 200 books over the past two years, with more and more of them being “read” as audiobooks. Some of these books were so fantastic I wanted to take a moment to recommend them. And I wanted to share what I’ve learned about my reading habits and how I hope that will affect my reading goals for 2022.</p><p>I counted up and categorized everything I read by genre and author, by gender and race and topic, and discovered, no surprise, that I read mostly literary fiction and thrillers by white women – but few, if any, of those books made my list of favorites. So I was happy to see that I’ve increased the number of books I read by Black authors and other POC by 5 percent over the past two years from 24 percent in 2020 to 29 percent in 2021, and I hope to continue hitting about a 70/30 split in my reading this year. Having this as a goal can help guide my choices as I’m deciding between two books. Since I’ve now joined Netgalley, become a regular user of my library app Libby, and am an avid user of the amazing app Scrib’d, having to be judicious in my reading choices is a daily concern. </p><p>Deciding to read more books by authors of color is not an act of altruism; it’s a direct benefit to me. Turns out my favorite novels tackle issues of racism, sexism, homophobia, and/or or the environmental crisis, and in my experience, authors of color are more likely to include these subjects as part of their storylines. It’s not that I love reading about depressing topics, but books about something bigger than navel gazing (e.g., infidelity, murder solving, family secrets) are just more compelling and make for a better read. Plus in deft authorial hands, these subjects are not depressing; seeing brave characters confront challenges and overcome them is inspiring.</p><p>I used to think I didn’t like non-fiction, but as I’m aging, I’m coming to enjoy more memoirs, plus reading more poetry and discovering several excellent books about how to be more anti-racist have increased the number of non-fiction books I’ve read, too. I also am surprised to see how many of the books I’ve enjoyed have been speculative or sci-fi books, as I hadn’t previously thought of myself as a fan of sci-fi; this is probably because of the surging popularity of near-future dystopias. </p><p>I am a high grader on Goodreads, giving most books I finish a four or a five, but that’s because I don’t finish a lot of crappy books. (Life’s too short.) But of all the five-star reviews I’ve given, only a dozen or so novels are still sharp in my mind, all books I would definitely highly recommend if you’re looking for a good read. Here they are, starting with the most recently read. Each one links back to my Goodreads review. </p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm23JZzMXZNY3OW1w6rhuWpSXO80PRTMEUeCvPqo5Qv7OXeB64IX-gJ_sAGa78-9yZdKzfusLBWCmVqaGE7cY8YpClrh-KM-xzqZq9sQAJ_7QxSaE_C_Aui6MJsEEGRrKtctlajCh79IR5/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="75" data-original-width="49" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm23JZzMXZNY3OW1w6rhuWpSXO80PRTMEUeCvPqo5Qv7OXeB64IX-gJ_sAGa78-9yZdKzfusLBWCmVqaGE7cY8YpClrh-KM-xzqZq9sQAJ_7QxSaE_C_Aui6MJsEEGRrKtctlajCh79IR5/w48-h72/image.png" width="48" /></a></i></div><i>Razorblade Tears</i> by S.A. Cosby – a fantastic crime thriller about two fathers, one black and one white, who reluctantly team up to find out who killed their sons, who were married to one another. The fathers were homophobes who missed the chance to accept their sons when they were alive, so they are driven after the murders by a potent mix of guilt and regret.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyysmEuN3GgSINrWAa8S8G7MbliHquxCuy_bZ1HyAlCeWOh68MLkbtsVK9sZLZG8GaC21UkeDLE1RQU2sPangSUG4ZAnGbsyjxHl2cavqNNbOsQXyN8IGBfIlzBGD0amiL5gnRlRE1Mgp/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="313" height="68" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyysmEuN3GgSINrWAa8S8G7MbliHquxCuy_bZ1HyAlCeWOh68MLkbtsVK9sZLZG8GaC21UkeDLE1RQU2sPangSUG4ZAnGbsyjxHl2cavqNNbOsQXyN8IGBfIlzBGD0amiL5gnRlRE1Mgp/w45-h68/image.png" width="45" /></a></i></div><i>The School for Good Mothers</i> by Jessamine Chen – a deeply disturbing near-future dystopia that creates for-profit mother-training centers. If you’ve ever seen family court in action, this chilling book is all too believable. <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpHkNFG5t0epfRMS5aiy_zhPvqrCBh_PedTbdmrDiOx3ocxkqsdrg28SlFWmBilyPl9lB0peC2-sfEVYNbdmTYo-6nPaX9FCA2N-yqkJjfksJs1Ro9chZU1g3rlt00kKmObWJrroFIofQH/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="66" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpHkNFG5t0epfRMS5aiy_zhPvqrCBh_PedTbdmrDiOx3ocxkqsdrg28SlFWmBilyPl9lB0peC2-sfEVYNbdmTYo-6nPaX9FCA2N-yqkJjfksJs1Ro9chZU1g3rlt00kKmObWJrroFIofQH/w43-h66/image.png" width="43" /></a></div></div><div><i>Detransition</i>, <i>Baby</i> by Torrey Peters – a wholly original, funny, moving novel about three individuals contemplating parenthood: a trans woman, a detransitioned man, and a cis hetero woman.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4v6zcp6aCtLRquHN0swgNYeOSR7XkuVVRsVoLMM1jVI-615C9DnrnsoLVkcyc74nMqllfiOCIjgeC9NowFB3sFV7FAxp_xrG7I0G3T4pe_tiXD3eThpb3-enZr9hRI2J8tuk06XA2OkZ2/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1510" data-original-width="1000" height="57" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4v6zcp6aCtLRquHN0swgNYeOSR7XkuVVRsVoLMM1jVI-615C9DnrnsoLVkcyc74nMqllfiOCIjgeC9NowFB3sFV7FAxp_xrG7I0G3T4pe_tiXD3eThpb3-enZr9hRI2J8tuk06XA2OkZ2/w38-h57/image.png" width="38" /></a></i></div><i>The Prophets</i> by Robert Jones Jr. – a poignant, powerful novel about two men who love and make a life with one another despite living under the tortures of slavery. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMPVtetzCABL7_ZByM_J4NvxN3Hm81bo4b4E9zf8-4Sx8cGAXnbIdWlESP6b57si1fHu2i1MlDOboAJ5EZ_wctnAjbJazsG1KRZkbMHB0iBfyRX8PWnEzyr9PsbNXWzVmoBgkhxCDU9ZXn/" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="268" height="59" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMPVtetzCABL7_ZByM_J4NvxN3Hm81bo4b4E9zf8-4Sx8cGAXnbIdWlESP6b57si1fHu2i1MlDOboAJ5EZ_wctnAjbJazsG1KRZkbMHB0iBfyRX8PWnEzyr9PsbNXWzVmoBgkhxCDU9ZXn/w39-h59/image.png" width="39" /></a><p><i>The Knockout Queen </i>by Rufi Thorpe – Two misfit, outcast kids with no stable parents, one a gay boy and one a freakishly tall girl, become best friends and help one another through high school until their paths painfully diverge.</p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ZlxtkBsebfJVOTuw8FGBkCJX5YkL5c-RAiBZ8lvSMhQ2m6qEJ9aqMqyuV9xtgsT6wTqKX-H8B07-vajKmTRsJYqM8M7L8oMpLZl2xUAczB_8lBBTJPhAKYi7JeOV4XfAgrD10iwQX_NU/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="336" height="49" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ZlxtkBsebfJVOTuw8FGBkCJX5YkL5c-RAiBZ8lvSMhQ2m6qEJ9aqMqyuV9xtgsT6wTqKX-H8B07-vajKmTRsJYqM8M7L8oMpLZl2xUAczB_8lBBTJPhAKYi7JeOV4XfAgrD10iwQX_NU/w33-h49/image.png" width="33" /></a></i></div><i>Transcendent Kingdom </i>by Yaa Gyasi – A Black woman scientist, who spent part of her girlhood in her mother’s home country of Ghana, researches a cure for addiction in the wake of a family tragedy. <p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwmRB41nz93eMGI-k3WwAOrh_oGADLgDsqQxhKzAdmx3LhzhGJt6dP3BoHEoltEe6syEUmNf7Hc_YTPPQXE8gpVYHXIBILGvvW1KVfeDj0nCl4Gr7ctSriOy5JyCN9AJMoFGdkv5-1TkvF/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="61" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwmRB41nz93eMGI-k3WwAOrh_oGADLgDsqQxhKzAdmx3LhzhGJt6dP3BoHEoltEe6syEUmNf7Hc_YTPPQXE8gpVYHXIBILGvvW1KVfeDj0nCl4Gr7ctSriOy5JyCN9AJMoFGdkv5-1TkvF/w40-h61/image.png" width="40" /></a></i></div><i>Saint X</i> by Alexis Schaitkin – The surviving sister of a murder victim whose killer was never convicted finds her adulthood shaped by the need to placate her broken parents and find her sister’s killer. <p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRN7bITF10gXI3lvote5SysKMkqIXqmIrL8VvtHLcApYO-CefE0PKGuAyKGe8vqza3Rw9UQUYSa0ZZarVYOxPvU9ZIimitexuBwFOaHYCGAVPuaQIrPvLDePPNOpliOPNzsFQAl0pvTTxw/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="312" height="62" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRN7bITF10gXI3lvote5SysKMkqIXqmIrL8VvtHLcApYO-CefE0PKGuAyKGe8vqza3Rw9UQUYSa0ZZarVYOxPvU9ZIimitexuBwFOaHYCGAVPuaQIrPvLDePPNOpliOPNzsFQAl0pvTTxw/w41-h62/image.png" width="41" /></a></i></div><i>My Dark Vanessa</i> by Elizabeth Kate Russell – A young woman falls in love with a teacher and lets their affair shape her future, taking decades to realize that she was groomed and victimized. <br /><p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmp1nmipsNJZUInX4e91cwDTzxoalCNFKc_s8e_RZvYbRJHQfLQYprq04Pb55UKsAW3XJcuMdLbMc6zOpc1-hBIqqSshUHknLrkiLazQzDlG2fcFdPJ06b259YblDKMdyKZFLzjgLAf8OO/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="313" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmp1nmipsNJZUInX4e91cwDTzxoalCNFKc_s8e_RZvYbRJHQfLQYprq04Pb55UKsAW3XJcuMdLbMc6zOpc1-hBIqqSshUHknLrkiLazQzDlG2fcFdPJ06b259YblDKMdyKZFLzjgLAf8OO/w39-h60/image.png" width="39" /></a></i></div><i>This is How it Always Is</i> by Laurie Frankel – A beautiful family novel featuring richly drawn parents and siblings who rally around their youngest member when she decides to transition in early childhood.. <p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQ3Nw7JU0938HaQ-U4MZzyDErbTy4jLkZTL4BDB6L_yRpMhJlyaJU1r8KHVk1Diha3y-L4qpVm8q8HVyW-qgvYmbXb92huux60p_er4C9HcuYJ66zfMWcNi3NaYIRV9qtLCQ33H5_L4Nc/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="315" height="55" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQ3Nw7JU0938HaQ-U4MZzyDErbTy4jLkZTL4BDB6L_yRpMhJlyaJU1r8KHVk1Diha3y-L4qpVm8q8HVyW-qgvYmbXb92huux60p_er4C9HcuYJ66zfMWcNi3NaYIRV9qtLCQ33H5_L4Nc/w37-h55/image.png" width="37" /></a></i></div><i>Such a Fun Age </i>by Kiley Reid – A hilarious, affecting novel about a Black babysitter and her relationships with the white mother who hires her, the white boyfriend who courts her, and the white child she cares for and comes to love. <p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaa7noAWfBKi3fWVNhvC-FQN0AyJ0G2v2ussmXoQ5ll5l1T_J8g-S00APkpyqpfdgwsqpuCLmhyphenhyphenjpjvY1FUFklp_H55pBYD4KosbGyDd6TGahoj6Qc-UkUId4SNYGViCDWNiGBPC03V5K/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="308" height="71" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaa7noAWfBKi3fWVNhvC-FQN0AyJ0G2v2ussmXoQ5ll5l1T_J8g-S00APkpyqpfdgwsqpuCLmhyphenhyphenjpjvY1FUFklp_H55pBYD4KosbGyDd6TGahoj6Qc-UkUId4SNYGViCDWNiGBPC03V5K/w46-h71/image.png" width="46" /></a></i></div><i>The Nickel Boys </i>by Colson Whitehead – A dark, hard novel about a correctional facility for Black youth in the 1950s and how friendship helped some young men survive the brutal conditions. I still remember the sharp surprise of the twist at the end.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhou4cfrUCc9RHedy0kGYOnaKwP1gPda0EDwqeXXy-sdNRPQE1zV7W9UmJ-fCoTGH-Ho3MoFDozQDi1lZd9Vgf3xQ4O1TRIgX0LauW77PWG4cIoIHK_x5ueDhZr44-A470k7GtdhbfDNut9/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="313" height="65" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhou4cfrUCc9RHedy0kGYOnaKwP1gPda0EDwqeXXy-sdNRPQE1zV7W9UmJ-fCoTGH-Ho3MoFDozQDi1lZd9Vgf3xQ4O1TRIgX0LauW77PWG4cIoIHK_x5ueDhZr44-A470k7GtdhbfDNut9/w43-h65/image.png" width="43" /></a></i></div><i>American Dir</i>t by Jeanine Cummins – One of the best novels I’ve ever read, focused on the gang murder of a family and the attempt by the surviving mother and child to flee to the United States. Written with compassion and sensitivity, the determination of the mother is especially compelling when one considers how many thousands of such desperate mothers attempt this trek with their small children each year. </div><div><br /></div><div>I also discovered that everything Chris Bohjalian and Liane Moriarty writes is wonderful and absorbing and reaffirmed for myself that I just don't like book series. <br /><p></p><p>And here are my top 10 favorite non-fiction reads of the past two years, which I am disappointed to see doesn't include any poetry, something I will also focus on more in the year ahead: </p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQgG1td1TJzIprk9VeGrCVHA-4lsBmj101oUVNayInmGMdaDYiuUCBvSV5cQKE3kC1cu6NGdaA7UVIPaoATX9Z0ujdS5nAPs2THh36qFCzk0_1tWitAun8ZAHht4Kr7EBfS-XKzMtqyCx/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="315" height="69" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQgG1td1TJzIprk9VeGrCVHA-4lsBmj101oUVNayInmGMdaDYiuUCBvSV5cQKE3kC1cu6NGdaA7UVIPaoATX9Z0ujdS5nAPs2THh36qFCzk0_1tWitAun8ZAHht4Kr7EBfS-XKzMtqyCx/w46-h69/image.png" width="46" /></a></i></div><i>Educated </i>by Tara Westover – my favorite-ever memoir, about a young woman raised on a right-wing compound by a crazy, controlling father, and how her world opened up when she got to go to school. </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1KJklc6mQAv2JfC28xgjK3Id2IEnCrTY5LjSvPOPOxFAoDjnRts2Xk-_gQY8j2YCOAhvbC00CaR_V9G6bPl2JEV-H82dBKXofVS_FfgCXaPH-hsykUopmJl9Fwu7Y-EdumNeQUcAz90W/" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="313" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1KJklc6mQAv2JfC28xgjK3Id2IEnCrTY5LjSvPOPOxFAoDjnRts2Xk-_gQY8j2YCOAhvbC00CaR_V9G6bPl2JEV-H82dBKXofVS_FfgCXaPH-hsykUopmJl9Fwu7Y-EdumNeQUcAz90W/w40-h60/image.png" width="40" /></a><br /><i><br />Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents -- </i>A master class in presenting a well-supported, compelling argument. Makes clear how much our society is based on an unspoken system of racial caste.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLmlGeCu5svx5laxLqpE88xwZPxnLrEnH9LkXcy_MegIzt7mgsQLyGGx0DoCo4J1JVXIUtM1TT14lhPX66sqv5Y2SzyOcoHszrEAJnNMYT23LG-dqEl1I1RkUASLoQ_VUuR8YntGAuiiRY/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="258" height="61" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLmlGeCu5svx5laxLqpE88xwZPxnLrEnH9LkXcy_MegIzt7mgsQLyGGx0DoCo4J1JVXIUtM1TT14lhPX66sqv5Y2SzyOcoHszrEAJnNMYT23LG-dqEl1I1RkUASLoQ_VUuR8YntGAuiiRY/w39-h61/image.png" width="39" /></a></i></div><i>Catch and Kill: Lies, Spies, and a Conspiracy to Protect Predators </i>by my hero Ronan Farrow – the shocking story not just of how Harvey Weinstein and other predators got away with sexually assaulting women for decades but also of how hard it was to get this story out after NBC tried to kill it. <p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4J69MHzswyw-vuuTcDxVr2L9P1JbmUIh0oW63tDGXcSqcsLTv_4hwxhrGVfxHWjL537vRNg0mH67tExnMLfzhK2HLzxIvQSLORhR51t6C40Whtk9EHjK6013KpiR7FqOjuC_wkFu8aO7T/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="63" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4J69MHzswyw-vuuTcDxVr2L9P1JbmUIh0oW63tDGXcSqcsLTv_4hwxhrGVfxHWjL537vRNg0mH67tExnMLfzhK2HLzxIvQSLORhR51t6C40Whtk9EHjK6013KpiR7FqOjuC_wkFu8aO7T/w42-h63/image.png" width="42" /></a></i></div><i>How to Be Anti-Racist</i> by Ibram X Kendi – Foundational work that helped me understand the difference between saying “I’m not racist” and learning to live as an active anti-racist.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3IfOsjxAigEFrIOGhJfy3DHNhMcPD4eg9E0qzp0cXAhc-wJKtfi2EaI_osQB_gsFvzW2fk4BdAQYHSQavJr_9GH4cn3-1pg6kMLWIP14yI4Zhk0gW_9GIi-GOXdCddDzbZsQK4x11CEVS/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="66" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3IfOsjxAigEFrIOGhJfy3DHNhMcPD4eg9E0qzp0cXAhc-wJKtfi2EaI_osQB_gsFvzW2fk4BdAQYHSQavJr_9GH4cn3-1pg6kMLWIP14yI4Zhk0gW_9GIi-GOXdCddDzbZsQK4x11CEVS/w44-h66/image.png" width="44" /></a></i></div><i>The Biggest Bluff: How I Learned to Pay Attention, Master Myself, and Win</i> by Maria Konnikova – This research-based memoir by a woman who learned to play championship poker contains surprising lessons about how women’s need to please costs us in myriad ways.<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0-nfTbgfcKgbm-XStDEhngHymQlUJGaP7tBh4IfN5cn5ab_PubPt1J6Ngq7sIWXHL4vq54bFU6Acgty6LZcOW9Jm6AdrRq56mxN9DgFOKE0AX-ySrNA60q_AN_X-2t0Tj2MxTMWl9L-Eu/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="318" height="62" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0-nfTbgfcKgbm-XStDEhngHymQlUJGaP7tBh4IfN5cn5ab_PubPt1J6Ngq7sIWXHL4vq54bFU6Acgty6LZcOW9Jm6AdrRq56mxN9DgFOKE0AX-ySrNA60q_AN_X-2t0Tj2MxTMWl9L-Eu/w41-h62/image.png" width="41" /></a></i></div><i>I Want to Be Where the Normal People Are </i>by Rachel Bloom -- because sometimes you just gotta laugh and navel gaze. This one must be enjoyed via the audio version because there are songs.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_X8jRFAzQUnFdNDOr0kGgOdwnlaJbCDeHABVi_masfqjv-j9tR20-9IU9ecSL3aNj8Gc9JkoKtVLUdokcJiumYRdt15cHtmR5gdVElPBl6n0KnHQ-84RCrzHYwkSl-ZPSyt8Abjmqpr5H/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2775" data-original-width="1875" height="66" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_X8jRFAzQUnFdNDOr0kGgOdwnlaJbCDeHABVi_masfqjv-j9tR20-9IU9ecSL3aNj8Gc9JkoKtVLUdokcJiumYRdt15cHtmR5gdVElPBl6n0KnHQ-84RCrzHYwkSl-ZPSyt8Abjmqpr5H/w45-h66/image.png" width="45" /></a></i></div><i>You’ll Never Believe What Happened to Lacey: Crazy Stories about Racism</i> by Amber Ruffin – the title says it all. While there is a lot of humor in this book, the cumulative effect of realizing how much shit Black people have to take in their day-to-day lives should hit white people like a brick to the head.<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWl6wUYld8Kqneche4Tz8_OgRB6J08QfAZp5-x_JHx5wqiDNHVpgtZMhnBfyPWfIie82ThixUB19wAILDV0q4MNDLnWflGYnqL3HhdRnqZ-StiSmB0RsMMuDC3NPXhF6zI0dgZi9ilKlrd/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="309" height="86" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWl6wUYld8Kqneche4Tz8_OgRB6J08QfAZp5-x_JHx5wqiDNHVpgtZMhnBfyPWfIie82ThixUB19wAILDV0q4MNDLnWflGYnqL3HhdRnqZ-StiSmB0RsMMuDC3NPXhF6zI0dgZi9ilKlrd/w56-h86/image.png" width="56" /></a></i></div><i>How to Change Your Mind: What the New Science of Psychedelics Teaches Us about Consciousness, Dying, Addiction, Depression and Transcendence</i> by Michael Pollan – Brilliantly researched and compelling, with startling news about how popular psychedelic drugs were becoming among researchers in the 1950s before anti-drug messaging based on racism shut that research down. Bill, the father of AA, was actually only able to get clean after having a transcendent experience while tripping on LSD, but he and his biographers felt that didn’t fit with his image, so they took that out of his story in the Big Book. Of all the stories Pollan shares, I found that one the most disturbing. How many alcoholics thought they were failures because they couldn't pray the booze away while they were denied the real story of how Bill got clean?<p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-TfTWmPJizjOM8qCN_0Bg8P9l49JiFYKgCzSAHvqWMA2eSgx6WsDXX50Ms8PD59ikdIw3uEFloNBzoMDzcvhaHlE_BOsN19VJygyOYSHMc1rspDLKx4pAgUgJZeezgw06LMcySM3QkZFW/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1949" data-original-width="1418" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-TfTWmPJizjOM8qCN_0Bg8P9l49JiFYKgCzSAHvqWMA2eSgx6WsDXX50Ms8PD59ikdIw3uEFloNBzoMDzcvhaHlE_BOsN19VJygyOYSHMc1rspDLKx4pAgUgJZeezgw06LMcySM3QkZFW/w43-h60/image.png" width="43" /></a></i></div><i>A Year of Lovingkindness to Myself</i> by Brigid Lowry – a beautiful, compassionate book of essays about treating ourselves and one another more gently. <p></p><p><br /></p><p>Take some time to think about what your favorite reads have been since the start of the pandemic. What subjects stand out? Which authors? I am surprised to see that even though less than 30 percent of the novels I read were by people of color, 50 percent of my favorites were. How might studying the breakdown of what you’ve been reading affect your own reading choices for 2022? I'm excited that this examination of my own reading has helped guide my reading for the year ahead. </p><p>Happy reading, everybody! I love to talk about books almost as much as I love to read them, so please share your own thoughts and recommendations in the comments. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-27103661705438074102022-01-11T17:48:00.002-05:002022-01-11T17:48:35.724-05:00A medium helped me talk to Kyle -- maybe<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN5d0BJEecU1CaZaqRXIjO_Q_EM7nHQaiTI6J5_HwPAN24VEhBmbgisfBe819XBqi5lpUAUY0Sg6FOcb8x-XgohnCto2FtRlg3nHlQ73dnmyr-AW0SAKP8XJguM9U54HeZSO_KFNkb2MO4HI2pNeWrKAObSKhs9lEBycnvuUSvI5rKFaVnC-HcipUcAQ=s900" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN5d0BJEecU1CaZaqRXIjO_Q_EM7nHQaiTI6J5_HwPAN24VEhBmbgisfBe819XBqi5lpUAUY0Sg6FOcb8x-XgohnCto2FtRlg3nHlQ73dnmyr-AW0SAKP8XJguM9U54HeZSO_KFNkb2MO4HI2pNeWrKAObSKhs9lEBycnvuUSvI5rKFaVnC-HcipUcAQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div>I’ve recently joined a spiritual support group for grieving parents, Helping Parents Heal, that is<br /> dedicated to convincing its members that our children are with us in spirit. Unlike my other bereaved-parent groups, which are careful not to proselytize or push individual beliefs, HPH is unapologetic about proselytizing. The leaders of the group want parents to believe in the afterlife; they attempt to reassure us in our grief by telling us that our children's spirits are always around us. The group leaders encourage us to look for signs, and they often recount the signs they themselves have seen from their own deceased children.<p></p><p>I vacillate between wanting to believe every penny and feather we find is evidence our children exist in spirit to sadly thinking we’re all deluding ourselves. </p><p>Last week HPH had a special online meeting with a medium, and while other of their online meetings have drawn maybe a dozen parents, this Zoom had 175 people in attendance. Seeing the number of attendees made me cry, just to see how many parents were desperate for a word from their dead child--and to realize most of us would not be called upon. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiXKvRznf14IXx83I2l4KftZ77YyI85R82vZEtQAsRg2tgUyd11PzXe39T6UUKQGsTisZSCBnCIh_4Ls5J8ZYAT989L5XkBS8Da4u2YCgzhdKL4o95hympYjI7lGquxzw5s8PFrQYnoaLUEBteqse5zKZ2yo2nk-hj_Ebxu1lS64-YbsDdbrAvV2UfNg=s299" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="299" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiXKvRznf14IXx83I2l4KftZ77YyI85R82vZEtQAsRg2tgUyd11PzXe39T6UUKQGsTisZSCBnCIh_4Ls5J8ZYAT989L5XkBS8Da4u2YCgzhdKL4o95hympYjI7lGquxzw5s8PFrQYnoaLUEBteqse5zKZ2yo2nk-hj_Ebxu1lS64-YbsDdbrAvV2UfNg" width="299" /></a></div>I’ve been to other group gatherings with a medium, one at my local library where the guy seemed like a charlatan, and the other at a Theresa Caputo show to which my mother took me; an experience you can read about <a href="https://www.lanettesweeney.com/2020/02/do-we-need-medium-to-talk-to-our-dead.html" target="_blank">here</a>. I did not get called on directly in either case. A friend and I who both lost our sons to drug overdoses have talked about hiring a medium to give us a reading, but we have both been too afraid of being disappointed. Still, as I was getting ready to attend this Zoom meeting, I silently begged Kyle to please come through for me. <p></p><p>(I talk to my son sometimes because it’s easier to show faith than not when one is not sure what one believes. Maybe he can hear me; maybe not. No one is hurt by me having a conversation with my late son, even if I am only imagining what he'd say back.) </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHCCf9b-u19tjanQbhqRcUGvklvFo0fChHcNgNQszgKBddGVHtrduAAF5Oa-sZcb3_pcurIJ2btz05_4MlyJYFsuoVUZBIlCoFLuC-FmEEIfgZZvNyt_00GYdmMQgmpcljpF8RXC47fhVe75dxa4lrXVP46pNq6GHmzyU5c9DmzMyRrn72-WakgP_mUg=s225" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHCCf9b-u19tjanQbhqRcUGvklvFo0fChHcNgNQszgKBddGVHtrduAAF5Oa-sZcb3_pcurIJ2btz05_4MlyJYFsuoVUZBIlCoFLuC-FmEEIfgZZvNyt_00GYdmMQgmpcljpF8RXC47fhVe75dxa4lrXVP46pNq6GHmzyU5c9DmzMyRrn72-WakgP_mUg" width="225" /></a></div>The medium, Becky Hesseltine, was a very sweet young woman; she led us through some deep breathing and then stilled herself and tried to open to a connection with whatever spirit was pushing to come through. Other mediums I have seen, including Caputo, start by shouting out a clue – (e.g., “I’m seeing an older woman whose name starts with an M,” and then they wait for someone in the audience to shout out, “Yes, my mother’s name was Mary.”) But Becky didn’t do that; she called on people individually and told us our loved ones were there, and then she tried to share the spirits’ messages with that loved one. She seemed incredibly genuine. And, touchingly, a little bit nervous. I can only imagine the pressure one feels facing a group of 175 grieving parents, worrying you’ll disappoint them. <p></p><p>Becky asked each person she called on to confirm that she was on the right track by saying something like “Yes” or “I understand.” So as she was saying things, her listener was saying, “Yes, I understand that, yes, that makes sense,” adding to the authenticity of the whole event. For the first woman, she said, “I see your mother.” The woman immediately had tears in her eyes and nodded vigorously that she understood. “Your mother is with your son,” Becky told her. It turned out the woman’s mother had died four months earlier and she’d wanted to know if they were together. She was hugely relieved to learn they were. The second woman, who had lost her daughter, was skeptical enough that she didn’t say yes or I understand to many things, even when they were really close. “Are you wearing your daughter’s earrings?” Becky asked the woman. “No.” She said. But it turned out she was wearing her daughter’s rings, which seems pretty close.</p><p>Becky only got to call on three of the 175 of us, and to my enormous surprise and relief, mine was the third and final name called. I was in tears of disbelief as soon as I heard my name. Becky started by telling me that a female, a mother figure was there to talk to me, and I responded by shaking my head no. My mother is alive; she must have the wrong person. My heart sank. But then Becky said “Well let’s make sure this person is here for you, ok? This woman died from a cancer in her lower abdomen.” “Oh!” I said, "Oh, yes, my grandmother died of pancreatic cancer." So Becky said, “OK then, she is here for you.” I was in a kind of shock, as I’d never dreamed I would be hearing from my grandmother, who died in 1995. </p><p>If you would like to watch a video of the entire reading, it's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzEeE3ia274&t=2918s" target="_blank">here</a>. (If you want to skip ahead to my portion, it starts at minute 33.) My daughter Jamie has watched it and is convinced it shows Kyle speaking to me. "That's it, Mom, proof! We know now Kyle exists in spirit. If anyone doubts it, we have it on tape." I wish I felt that certainty.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhv_7qtDQV2WM6qGmJdp--TGZzRGo5JgPmpoK1NiPGe7Ht87I1qLCBc8giBVWXJyE_-ykC5w_QvjOevNiEfgfuyZ62iYu6bTdMgHxkZ85jPg4GkOrkFDimV5awAXGy6lFu_ZdgUze6txID-rl5F10hpDgcXvQ5bMcdvXX4gnacGYnXtlF-uOJJV1-9Bkg=s2680" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1660" data-original-width="2680" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhv_7qtDQV2WM6qGmJdp--TGZzRGo5JgPmpoK1NiPGe7Ht87I1qLCBc8giBVWXJyE_-ykC5w_QvjOevNiEfgfuyZ62iYu6bTdMgHxkZ85jPg4GkOrkFDimV5awAXGy6lFu_ZdgUze6txID-rl5F10hpDgcXvQ5bMcdvXX4gnacGYnXtlF-uOJJV1-9Bkg=s320" width="320" /></a></div>Becky went on to tell me many things that affirmed she was really talking to my grandmother: “Your grandmother was tough,” Becky said. “She had to really be tough.” This was certainly true, as she’d been dropped off at an orphanage when she was five by a family that couldn’t feed her. “She had to do a lot of things alone from an early age.” Yes, she was widowed young and had to raise my mother by<br /> herself. <p></p><p>“She really wants you to know she’s `sharp as a tack’ and `can hear everything,’ This was literally something my grandmother used to tell me and my mother all the time. The phrase “sharp as a tack” was too on the nose not to be clear evidence of my grandmother. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8J4PP1KMP4O1p-2jdBpbg7oqnA-aY79g-biN0bO7ds0T21cwifeBc8hgPoJTLvtuCkwhhXX1yoRot_4Tv5i95gDcfS3_18V53C2Mg3DH9P0QGpj0w2n69s8wb_Qw8wCRCU11QxF-8uBqxY2DdEz6x3U9fkvESqOT5FVXuDvb8kXIddlktQu_r_V_bHA=s960" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8J4PP1KMP4O1p-2jdBpbg7oqnA-aY79g-biN0bO7ds0T21cwifeBc8hgPoJTLvtuCkwhhXX1yoRot_4Tv5i95gDcfS3_18V53C2Mg3DH9P0QGpj0w2n69s8wb_Qw8wCRCU11QxF-8uBqxY2DdEz6x3U9fkvESqOT5FVXuDvb8kXIddlktQu_r_V_bHA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />“She shares your pain, she understands you, Becky said. “She has your son there with you and she wants you to know she understands your suffering.”<p></p><p>“Yes,” I answered, weeping. “She lost a son, too.” (This picture from my first wedding is a picture of my grandmother and her son, my Uncle Steve.)</p><p>“Yes,” Becky affirmed. “That’s why she understands. She’s always watching out for you.”</p><p> Really? This was surprising. I must admit I had never given a thought to whether my grandmother existed in spirit and was watching over me. But perhaps that’s why she was pushing to the front of the line the first time a medium communicated with me. Maybe I've been ignoring her as she tried to talk to me for the past 25 years.</p><p>Starting with the specificity of saying my grandmother died of a cancer in her abdomen (how could she know that?), Becky’s reading of my grandmother was just dead on. “She played a lot of roles in your life,” Becky said (Yes, she was like a second mother to me; my mom and I lived with her off and on throughout my childhood; she cared for me whenever I was sick). </p><p>Finally, Becky said she was turning her attention to the person she knew I wanted to see, my son, though then interrupted herself to say, “My goodness, your grandmother is powerful.” She said my grandmother was very fierce and demanding and she was having trouble stopping her and tuning in to hear my son, but finally she did.</p><p>Sadly, this is where the reading veered off from utterly amazing to more like other readings I’ve seen, filled with what sometimes seemed like guesses, some of which fit and some of which didn’t. Becky started by saying she gathered that my son had died suddenly. Yes. And she eventually asked if it was from substances, from an injection, and I said yes, he'd died of an overdose. </p><p>But before that she asked if my son had a disability, something wrong on his right side, like maybe paralysis on his right side, and I said no, nothing like that, though we don't know what might have happened as he died (nor, as Renee wondered, which arm he shot up when he overdosed). Anyway, we let that go, because we didn't know what it meant.</p><p>Becky said Kyle had a giant heart , an immense heart, and that he loved his family, and that he loved our family dinners and always had fun at them. He said we had a lot of fun together as a family, that even when we no longer lived together he loved coming home for family dinners. (Which I agreed was true.)</p><p>She then said he was saying something about public speaking and she asked me if he had trouble with</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OGhT5YKNXQs" width="320" youtube-src-id="OGhT5YKNXQs"></iframe></div><br /> public speaking and I laughed and said no, he was a stand-up comedian (see one of his adolescent performances, above), and she said something like, “Oh I have to remember whenever someone tells me something and I think they mean a negative, I have it backward. So he was actually the opposite, extra comfortable with public speaking!” And while this was true, it felt like a reach to go for the “Oh I meant the opposite” answer. Also, perhaps Kyle did have trouble with public speaking; he was quite nervous before every show and had to push himself hard to perform and hadn’t performed in years when he died, so maybe he was trying to say something about that and I missed it altogether. But I didn’t like not feeling an immediate aha over everything Becky said. Why must everything my son says be vague and coded. (Well, ok, because he’s dead, I get it, but I wanted to feel we were having a magical experience, and I didn’t.)<p></p><p>Becky said my son kept parts of himself very private and didn't share them, and I agreed this was true. She said he wanted me to know that he always felt fully accepted by me, that he knew I accepted all the parts of him, even the secret ones that he didn't like to share. Also true. (You can read more about Kyle's secrets <a href="https://www.lanettesweeney.com/2021/07/toxic-maculinity-including-homophobia.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLZkKK9ZIT5qvDOaeSPHIm6nvKATiPz8cqqgEPGSdHd1kMiqjYauudNxgpPGSYj4e0GkQ8DF42_Kheqgx_T98fijNRXlwej5EcLhkK3vgvwGxQ0laMGxSwCTOg0MEj2Kawah38ArVZ7JBP64cswkCHMzsg6NmevDbCOZQIb2wY4qKVa9ce5gR323t-cw=s1316" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1316" data-original-width="991" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLZkKK9ZIT5qvDOaeSPHIm6nvKATiPz8cqqgEPGSdHd1kMiqjYauudNxgpPGSYj4e0GkQ8DF42_Kheqgx_T98fijNRXlwej5EcLhkK3vgvwGxQ0laMGxSwCTOg0MEj2Kawah38ArVZ7JBP64cswkCHMzsg6NmevDbCOZQIb2wY4qKVa9ce5gR323t-cw=w301-h400" width="301" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>She said Kyle is helping a lot of people. Renee (who was with me during the reading) wasn't sure if Becky meant Kyle was helping people down here on earth or off wherever he is. His big heart makes him want to look after people, Becky told me, and she seemed to suggest that unlike my grandmother, my son <i>wasn’t </i>always watching over me, that he was busy watching over a lot of people. Although she didn’t mention my daughter by name, I felt that was who she meant, but this is entirely my own conjecture. <p></p><p>There were other things that weren't right on the nose with what she said about Kyle. For example, she asked if I found his body or if he was home when he died, but I said no, I saw him in his coffin but didn't find his body and he wasn't home when he died. Becky seemed confused and said well, he's home now, he keeps talking about home and says he’s definitely home with you. Only afterward did I realize: of course he is home with me now; his ashes are buried in my backyard under an apple tree we planted in his honor, the remainder are reserved in a bag in my bedroom closet in case his daughter ever wants them. So yes, in a literal sense, he <i>is</i> home with me now and forever.</p><p>Becky’s main message was of the love he feels for all of us, how big his heart is, how he wishes he could have been more open with us while he was alive. Becky seemed very genuine. She didn't act like a big fancy mystic; she just seemed natural and down to earth. She called specifically on three of us and gave us each a specific reading about our own people. She stated a lot of facts about all of these people that could not have been guessed or looked up.</p><p>I had wondered in the past if mediumship could be explained by ESP. Maybe there are no spirits, but mediums can use psychic abilities to pick out of our heads what we want to hear and say it back to us. But this experience with Becky confirmed for me that mediums <i>do</i> exist who can pick up on some kind of communication from the spirit world, as I had no thoughts of my grandmother that Becky could have picked out of my head; my grandmother's arrival was a complete surprise to me. Still, despite this confirmation, I was left feeling almost as empty and disappointed as before I had the reading, which makes me feel very ungrateful. But I didn't want vague ideas that could apply to many young men. I wanted my son to appear before me in a blazing ring of fire. I want to be able to hug his muscled shoulders. I want to feel his arms around me. Or at the very least I want a message no one but him could give me. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqqTHjKsHy8I08uXnpCVrHuQSJebg8vnrEwjzwzQ3j6QzRzhYPvwSuTlCoJ3Rr9FdaxSsoupYsaRsozOTbyczVNkGx4DosTQHovN0eMlN-S__8ONEsMTVXdbCfLlHvBFqSOBcnMMiXNmlCJK2UORCUqYVE-X2wDYzoNthVnJozUlydXtOj4_I_E7uz1Q=s1762" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1182" data-original-width="1762" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqqTHjKsHy8I08uXnpCVrHuQSJebg8vnrEwjzwzQ3j6QzRzhYPvwSuTlCoJ3Rr9FdaxSsoupYsaRsozOTbyczVNkGx4DosTQHovN0eMlN-S__8ONEsMTVXdbCfLlHvBFqSOBcnMMiXNmlCJK2UORCUqYVE-X2wDYzoNthVnJozUlydXtOj4_I_E7uz1Q=s320" width="320" /></a></div>Also, I would not have pictured my son and my grandmother together in the afterlife. They seem so unconnected from one another, as my grandmother barely knew my son; she already had dementia by the time she lived near him when he was a little boy, and his main memory of her was being dragged to the nursing home to see her several times a week, not a fun time for any toddler. This raises questions for me about what brings spirits together out there. Is it just blood connections? (And if so, what does that mean about adopted families?) Why are they hanging out? Why hasn’t my grandmother been reincarnated already? (Or maybe she has and her spirit can divide and speak to me while it’s living in another body here on earth. I’ve been doing a lot of reading about reincarnation, and that seems to be a theory.) But again, I am left with more questions than answers. <p></p><p></p><p>So despite all this, or maybe because of it, I got my mother to sign us up to take a course together that Becky is offering, “Revealing your Intuition and Spirit Connection.” It starts tonight at 8 p.m. Eastern time and runs for 10 weeks. I’m telling myself this is partly because I think learning about spirituality and meditation will be good for my mother, who has no belief in the afterlife and a fear of death and has never meditated. But really, probably I am just hoping for another chance at a conversation with Kyle. </p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-76041550174809717822021-11-30T23:51:00.000-05:002021-11-30T23:51:29.197-05:00 How to Buy My Book<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUkPEGqxqY_2jnNn4E4xstA0OtJEfoABLgFNVV-8lbZfDHsOUkrt-fjv9WFhialzj5qiOQIaNL_lxyYnKSl5IcIBM0hKY6Zuuf4DM5MQYYoa0mW4UKUWfOq1XfQbiALynBCxZRjaORZmV4gacz824bzvJsyvaQS9gjAdwbL-8oeuMIeZMoN738JYv30g=s480" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="480" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUkPEGqxqY_2jnNn4E4xstA0OtJEfoABLgFNVV-8lbZfDHsOUkrt-fjv9WFhialzj5qiOQIaNL_lxyYnKSl5IcIBM0hKY6Zuuf4DM5MQYYoa0mW4UKUWfOq1XfQbiALynBCxZRjaORZmV4gacz824bzvJsyvaQS9gjAdwbL-8oeuMIeZMoN738JYv30g=s320" width="320" /></a></div>This post is for everyone who wants to buy a copy of my book and isn't sure how to do it. First of all,<br /> thank you so much! Buying my book is easy: <br /><br />* You can buy it directly from me by emailing me your address and paying me $20 via Paypal. I will pay the postage and get it mailed out to you the next day. My email address is lanettesweeney@gmail.com, which is also all the information you need to pay me via Paypal. (I can't use Venmo, as they don't work with my credit union.) <p></p><p>* My book is in stock at most local bookstores: Broadside Books in Northampton, Booklinks in Thornes, Amherst Books in Amherst, and the Odyssey Bookshop in South Hadley. If you aren't near any of those, you can go to any bookstore and ask them to order it for you, which they will happily do. Even better, you can ask them to carry the book on their shelves!</p><p>* You can order my book from Bookshop.org, an online bookselling site that supports local bookstores (unlike Amazon, which is killing all small businesses). You can order it <a href="https://bookshop.org/books/what-i-should-have-said-a-poetry-memoir-about-losing-a-child-to-addiction/9781646624836" target="_blank">here</a></p><p>* You can order my book from Barnes & Noble <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/what-i-should-have-said-lanette-sweeney/1139997259" target="_blank">here</a>.</p><p>* You can order my book from Goodreads via a variety of online stores <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/57573597-what-i-should-have-said" target="_blank">here</a>. While you're there, you can read some of the lovely reviews readers have written.</p><p>* You can order my book from the publisher, Finishing Line Press, <a href="https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/what-i-should-have-said-a-poetry-memoir-about-losing-a-child-to-addiction-by-lanette-sweeney/" target="_blank">here</a>.</p><p>* You can pick up my book via the CWMars library system (cwmars.org). The book is owned by Jones Library in Amherst, South Hadley Public Library, Forbes Library in Northampton, and Lilly Library in Florence. You can put the book on hold <a href="https://catalog.cwmars.org/eg/opac/record/4565303?query=what%20i%20should%20have%20said%3A%20a%20poetry%20memoir%20about%20losing%20a%20child%20to%20addiction;qtype=keyword;fg%3Aformat_filters=">here</a>. <br /><br />* You can pick up my book via the Mid Hudson Library system. The book is owned by the Highland Public Library, whose website you can access <a href="https://highlandlibrary.org/">here</a>. </p><p>* You can ask your local library to carry the book, which I would greatly appreciate, so that more people can find it.</p><p>* And, if you really must, you can order my book from Amazon <a href="https://www.amazon.com/What-Should-Have-Said-Addiction/dp/1646624831/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_pb_opt?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">here</a>. You can also find some great reviews of my book there.</p><p>If you know anyone who lost a child, I hope you'll consider buying an extra copy for them. And if you're on the fence about buying it, here are a couple of recent reader reviews:</p><p><span id="freeText16361557265618808967" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">I found this collection quite uplifting not in spite of but because of its theme. Sweeny is a powerful poet with strong command of her craft. Her late son, whose work is interspersed, was rapidly maturing into a poet and rap artist of substance as well (she includes work from his very early years through his final months).<br />Kyle's death hit his mom hard. We feel her being knocked down, acknowledging her mix of helplessness, regret, and deep grief. We feel her rage at her son for going down that road. But she learns to claw her way back, to open herself to love, to make her mark as a parent, a writer, a person who has met unimaginable trauma and survived. I liked this book so much that when a neighbor's child died of an overdose just days after I finished reading it, I offered to lend the book.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"> (From Shelhorowitzgreenmkt on Goodreads)</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">and</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">What I Should Have Said is cataclysmically beautiful. I made it my morning Lectio Divina, reading and re-reading a few poems at a time and sitting with them. The author’s poems and her late son’s are breathtaking in their honesty and brilliance. Most of all, I am moved by how Lanette Sweeney put the poems together, so that they speak to each other and to us through and beyond time. These poems are for anyone who has known love and grief, anyone who is human. (From Elizabeth Cunningham on Amazon)</span></p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-2047181859365296582021-10-21T22:45:00.003-04:002021-11-30T22:24:51.336-05:00Time to Talk about Suicide, especially with our children<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjS4LwR2Q16gxdBrTjC89jPga8_1YHHKTZ3rf2polqoCyrAZje8omuWOK4rXPzqEveo4TazZOI7AkZG5r4jFF3gLv96M4QlO408hnwueMFU4RFIqz7rPG7kSVtsJTsm_H7gdOI7dvYggslHereSobjPXg1U-u5TUrvQR-0PJyxfUuEKmIbVQF2sXGAFNg=s628" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="628" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjS4LwR2Q16gxdBrTjC89jPga8_1YHHKTZ3rf2polqoCyrAZje8omuWOK4rXPzqEveo4TazZOI7AkZG5r4jFF3gLv96M4QlO408hnwueMFU4RFIqz7rPG7kSVtsJTsm_H7gdOI7dvYggslHereSobjPXg1U-u5TUrvQR-0PJyxfUuEKmIbVQF2sXGAFNg=w400-h320" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #1d2129;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">As a member of several, online, grieving-parent support groups, I hear every day about children dying in every possible way: by car accident, by cancer, by falls, by electrocution, by drowning, by sudden heart attack (at age 18!) or by other unexpected tragedies, such as by overdose like my own son, or by suicide.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Although we all grieve our children, the parents of suicides seem the saddest. While all parents feel (mostly irrational) guilt over their children's deaths, none feel as wracked by shame and horror as the parents of children who take their own lives.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">During the height of the covid lockdowns, a newly bereaved mother in a Compassionate Friends group shared that her 11-year-old son, whom I'll call Ryan, a beautiful boy whose smiling photo she posted, had killed himself without warning. His mother says he was a healthy, happy child who never showed any signs of depression but just became overwhelmed by not being allowed outside nor ever getting to see his friends. The tragedy of this haunted me deep in my bones. Knowing that youth suicide is a growing epidemic is even more haunting.Above right is a photo of some children who killed themselves in the past few weeks; is there anything sadder than kids this young ending their lives?</span></div></span><br /><div>This is the shadow pandemic, the wave of suicides and overdoses coming in the wake of what this pandemic is doing to our world. In 2020, The Washington Post predicted there would be up to 20,000 additional suicides over the next year as a result of the mental-health pandemic that is following in the wake of the corona virus. And youth suicides had already been skyrocketing over the previous decade, as had overdoses. I know for sure that overdoses exploded in the first months of the pandemic, rising to more than 93,000 dead for the year, a national record. Here's what youth suicide looked like before the pandemic hit: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi98ilaMKw3cHdOfs_wotG5uU954fgbtNjL0sfeTR023cTFNz_TjRkiTSsU2WDESNS99ZKCkDEj1WMEx-JZQl-7XWkBf1_hTwGAvUcxTOjei0O0BTOTST-9n2QpGTp-1fV3YhJI1TCVdeFMJo4tgiU4q_oyu5OIvIo0y_x9RTN0laKTerxMhAMU5crKcQ=s509" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="509" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi98ilaMKw3cHdOfs_wotG5uU954fgbtNjL0sfeTR023cTFNz_TjRkiTSsU2WDESNS99ZKCkDEj1WMEx-JZQl-7XWkBf1_hTwGAvUcxTOjei0O0BTOTST-9n2QpGTp-1fV3YhJI1TCVdeFMJo4tgiU4q_oyu5OIvIo0y_x9RTN0laKTerxMhAMU5crKcQ=w640-h486" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Following the pandemic, 56% more girls were hospitalized for suicide attempts than in the previous year, and suicide became the number one cause of death for children ages 13 to 15.</div><div>Sadly, for children Ryan's age, suicide is often done on impulse, without the child showing any prior signs of depression. Suicide was previously the third leading cause of death among children between the ages of 10 and 14 (and the second leading cause of death for young people between 10 and 24). While females think of suicide more often, males are four times more likely to kill themselves than females, putting boys, who are societally discouraged from talking about their feelings, at particular risk. And while older teens often suffer diagnosed mental health disorders such as depression and anxiety, and exhibit warning signs before attempting suicide, younger children often commit suicide with no forethought and little warning.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I was 15, I attempted suicide. Like most people who truly mean to die, I gave no indication I was depressed. I acted cheerful all day–and then before bed swallowed a bottle of my grandmother's Valium. I remember with crystal clarity the bone-deep, exhausted-with-life feeling I had as I stood in the bathroom swallowing all those little yellow pills. I'd had many stepfathers, several of them abusive, from whom my mother felt unable to protect me, and at that time it seemed to me that life was and always would be nothing but pain–or at least that the pleasurable parts couldn't possibly outweigh the pain of slogging on. Unbeknownst to me, I was also about to get my period, a regular event that caused debilitating depression to descend on me for three days every month for the next 35 years (until I mercifully went into sudden menopause upon the death of my son).</div><div><br /></div><div>Six hours after I had taken the overdose, against all medical odds, I stood up from my bed (in an unconscious state) and walked to my uncle's bed and told him what I had done and then passed back out. So clearly there was some part of me that still wanted to live, but after the doctors made me drink cup after cup of charcoal, they told my mother I needed to be hospitalized.</div><div><br /></div><div>I spent that summer in a mental hospital, the kind of cushy place that used to be covered for months at a time by insurance; it had a spacious, bright adolescent wing and all kinds of therapies. My doctor there was an idiot who told me PMS was a myth and I needed to stop imagining it--but the other kids there, most of them, were just normal adolescents from screwed up families struggling to figure out a way forward. And most of the aides and nurses there were wise and wonderful and talked to us about how we would be able to get away from our parents and make our own lives one day soon, that we just needed to hang in there. We all listened to Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon album repeatedly, feeling it had something profound to say about how adulthood often trapped people in empty, meaningless lives. Most of us, the ones who weren’t suffering from some organic mental illness like schizophrenia, gained strength there to try to live some other, fuller way when we got out. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPiF-pYqjOQdkeHvGCebbg5tX5OQCrve-T-72pyR0UmZz8Wq56Li-ArL7CgxOqB_fPR5obZ16ieOjpnmiedFlPDw6P1ltp2dVz8vV-yVASnGn-OER_I2sJvz0rSUlU9gb1vUSr7flfmR5aqjVkot25uYFlWZ5f8Hp1yFxD_eKafrgIPpE2GEfpjrgEMA=s457" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="457" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPiF-pYqjOQdkeHvGCebbg5tX5OQCrve-T-72pyR0UmZz8Wq56Li-ArL7CgxOqB_fPR5obZ16ieOjpnmiedFlPDw6P1ltp2dVz8vV-yVASnGn-OER_I2sJvz0rSUlU9gb1vUSr7flfmR5aqjVkot25uYFlWZ5f8Hp1yFxD_eKafrgIPpE2GEfpjrgEMA=s320" width="320" /></a>To the left is a photo of me with my mom a couple of years before my hospitalization, which none of us could have seen coming. I'd always seemed like such a happy kid, able to roll and adapt to anything. Until I just wasn't anymore. </div><div>I continued to struggle with pretty awful depression until I reached adulthood, and I sadly suffered serious depressive episodes as an adult, too–but once I had children, the option of committing suicide was simply off the table for me. My father had killed himself when I was an infant, something I hadn't discovered until I was 12 (and learning he had done that likely contributed to my choosing to follow in his footsteps when I was 15, as copycatting is a real, heartbreaking phenomenon with suicide. Both my father’s brothers followed his examples and died by suicide, as well). I knew that no matter how I suffered, I would never leave my own children with that legacy. So even in the worst throes of misery, I have just had to tell myself life will end soon enough for all of us and that in the meantime, I am stuck here with no choice but to grind on. I am seasoned enough by now to know that feeling that miserable is temporary and means I am particularly unwell and in need of help. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since I know I will never do anything to make my occasional death wish come true, I instead force myself to work hard at self-care, therapy, medications, daily yoga, exercise, spending time in nature, making time for art and pleasure, meditating, listening to my own needs, etc., because if I have to be stuck living here, I may as well feel and spread as much joy as possible. I am very grateful for the medications–and the lack of premenstrual hormones–that keep me on a more even keel now. And most days, even more mercifully, do not feel like a slog, they feel like the gift they are. </div><div><br /></div><div>How terrible that young Ryan didn't get to live long enough to have perspective, get help or make any of these realizations. How awful that suicide rates have risen 30 percent over the past two decades, along with overdose rates rising more than 137 percent from 2000 to 2015. This massive increase in young people dying “deaths of despair” by their own hand, whether by suicide, alcohol, or “accidental” overdose, as in the case of my son, are the canaries in the coal mine of our society telling us something is deeply wrong with how we are living. I was hoping, like many of you, that the pandemic might serve as a wake-up call and help us pay better attention to our feelings, allowing us to find new ways of living. The jury is still out on whether we've done this or still might. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the meantime, I hope reading this gives all of you who still have kids at home permission to have an open conversation about suicide with them, to let them know that imagining our own deaths is normal. It may feel scary to admit this to your children, but it's better for them to know everyone has those dark thoughts than to think their own feelings are proof there is something terribly wrong with them. My therapists have assured me that nearly all of us do imagine our own deaths, sometimes longingly. As young people, especially when we feel angry and disempowered, we may enjoy imagining the grief we could spitefully cause our loved ones, how sorry we could make them if they had to attend our funerals. But fantasies like these are not the same as making plans to take our lives; planning one’s own death is not normal–and is, in fact, a clear sign that an illness has taken over our thinking and that we need help outside ourselves. If the voice in your head is advising you to take your own life, please recognize that voice is not your friend and must be reported.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope you let all your loved ones know that hopelessness is a lie their illness is telling them. No matter how terrible they feel today, there are many things that can help them feel better, and I hope you tell them explicitly that you will help them try all those things one by one until they figure out what works to restore their will to live. My son ruined the chemistry of his brain with drugs that made him think he could never feel better without being on drugs, but that was a lie his sickness was telling him. He might have needed a bridge to wellness with recovery medication but eventually he could have learned to find happiness in the thousand small moments we've had to enjoy without him, wistfully imagining how he might have enjoyed something if he were still here. </div><div><br /></div><div>I pray none of you ever endure a tragedy like the mother of 11-year-old Ryan--nor ever leave your own families to endure the self-inflicted loss of you. And I hope you'll all join me in breaking the stigma around suicide and talking to the people you love before it's too late, because truly, we never know what secret, shameful thoughts people who seem fine might be having. Show the people you love that suicide is something loving families can talk about and that suicidal feelings are something all of us can survive. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-54486574287959037552021-09-23T14:04:00.194-04:002021-10-11T09:41:49.487-04:00My Press Kit<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmI9xYztd5TuhLZ1s2B5uB_JDjsK_bIE9fCUkGDbxWA3P4EHVTw08F_97UfYJl1Ew5H4A4CVMPuaSAkWgH-jOZwgetg761nNubotfD_pVMA-PE6QNVpD57KcEw3zHz51KP3iBeASxprZrz/s2048/Lanette+Sweeney2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1657" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmI9xYztd5TuhLZ1s2B5uB_JDjsK_bIE9fCUkGDbxWA3P4EHVTw08F_97UfYJl1Ew5H4A4CVMPuaSAkWgH-jOZwgetg761nNubotfD_pVMA-PE6QNVpD57KcEw3zHz51KP3iBeASxprZrz/w324-h400/Lanette+Sweeney2.jpg" width="324" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">BIO</span></p><p style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Lanette
Sweeney's debut collection, </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">What I Should Have Said: A Poetry Memoir About
Losing A Child to Addiction, </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">was
published by </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Finishing Line Press in August, 2021. Sweeney is grateful the book is allowing her to share
two messages: first, medication-assisted treatment saves addicts’ lives and should not
be stigmatized, and second, a life rich with joy and meaning is (eventually) possible
after even the most devastating loss. </span></p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sweeney’s
essays, articles, short stories and poems have appeared in daily newspapers, print
and online literary magazines (including <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rattle,
Amethyst Review, Gyroscope, Tigershark, Blue Collar Review, Please
See Me</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Foliate Oak Review, </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Misfit Magazine</i>), as well as in anthologies (including <i>Prima Materia, Silkworm, </i>and the Center for New
Americans annual review), and in textbooks, including several editions of the popular college-level women’s
studies textbook <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Women: Images and
Reality</i> published by McGraw Hill. Her essays, blog posts and book reviews can </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">be seen on her website, <a href="https://www.lanettesweeney.com/">https://www.lanettesweeney.com</a> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">After working as a fundraiser, teacher, waitress, reporter, editor, and non-profit executive, Sweeney is grateful to now be a full-time writer thanks to her wife's support. She and her wife and their small-pet army (which consists of a dog, cat, kitten, and puppy) live in South Hadley, MA, in the house where their wedding was held 16 days before Sweeney's son overdosed. Sweeney has one surviving child, a daughter, 29, who is a teacher. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">ABOUT THE BOOK</span><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p style="background-color: #fcfcfc; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box;">What I Should Have Said: A Poetry Memoir about Losing a Child to Addiction </i>recounts a mother's grief, guilt, sorrow, and search for meaning after her 26-year-old son's death by overdose. The book is divided into the stages of grief, with sections on denial and depression, anger, bargaining and, eventually, acceptance. Sweeney's son's poems appear throughout the collection, often in seeming conversation with his grieving mother's words. The author hopes the book demonstrates that even the most devastating grief can result in post-traumatic growth and that medication-assisted treatment saves lives and should not be stigmatized. </p><p style="background-color: #fcfcfc; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 25px; padding: 0px;">Both poets and laypeople have given the book excellent reviews, calling the poems "beautifully crafted" and "poignant." Multiple reviewers noted that once they started the book, they couldn't put it down. The president of Bereaved Parents of the USA said "every grieving parent will relate" to the book and noted it helped her process her own grief about her son's death. The book can be ordered from local bookstores, Amazon, Bookshop.org or Goodreads.com. </p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #fcfcfc; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">PRESS RELEASE</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">FOR
IMMEDIATE RELEASE: <br />OCTOBER 10, 2021<br />
CONTACT: Lanette Sweeney, (845) 527-6616, </span><a href="mailto:lanettesweeney@gmail.com"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">lanettesweeney@gmail.com</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">VIRTUAL READING SCHEDULED FOR NOV. 4TH:<br /></span>AS OVERDOSES
SKYROCKET, NEW BOOK OFFERS <br />
COMFORT TO GRIEVERS, HOPE TO ADDICTS<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">South
Hadley, MA, USA – Following the nation’s worst year ever for overdose deaths, a
timely new poetry collection<i>, What I
Should Have Said: A Poetry Memoir about Losing a Child to Addiction</i>, aims
to bring comfort and encouragement to addicts and their families. The author, along with another mother and author who lost her child to addiction, will be reading from their books in a virtual event hosted by the Odyssey Bookshop on Thursday, Nov. 4th at 7 p.m. You can register for that reading <a href="https://www.odysseybks.com/event/lanette-sweeney-and-miriam-greenspan" target="_blank">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Lanette
Sweeney’s debut collection describes the pain of watching her son suffer with
addiction as well as her enormous grief and guilt following his overdose death
in 2016. Fortunately, the book also offers hope to families suffering a similar
loss or struggling with a child still in active addiction, as Sweeney lyrically
recounts her journey toward post-traumatic growth and grief recovery, as well
as what she’s learned can save addicts’ lives.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I have two messages I’m eager to share with
this book,” says Sweeney: “first, that most addicts need medicine to keep them
alive, so taking medicines like Methadone and Suboxone should not be shameful;
and second, that it is possible to restore peace and joy to your life after even
the most devastating loss.”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">What I Should Have
Said</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
was released last month by Kentucky-based publisher Finishing Line Press. The
book is organized into sections on the stages of grief and includes 20 poems by
Sweeney’s late son, Kyle Fisher-Hertz, showing his move from the innocence of
childhood to the eventual despair of his addiction. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“My
son wanted to get better,” Sweeney recalls. “He attended every recovery program
he could get into. But then he turned 26, my insurance didn’t cover him
anymore, and the Medicaid insurance he got as a replacement didn’t cover the
monthly shot that had helped him stay clean.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sweeney’s
son spent the week before his death pleading for help from the only recovery clinic in the state where he was then living, Nevada, but he was
refused the drug he requested, Vivitrol, which is a monthly shot that blocks
opioid receptors and reduces cravings. (A desperate addict’s quest to stay
clean long enough to get the shot is depicted in the new film <i>Four Good Days, </i>starring Glenn Close and
Mila Kunis.) At the time of Fisher-Hertz’s death nearly five years ago,
Medicaid in 29 states didn’t cover that medicine, whose generic name is
Naltrexone–and Fisher-Hertz, like many addicts, was reluctant to take Methadone
or Suboxone, the maintenance drugs he was offered. Instead, he died of an
overdose of street drugs three days later–less than three months after turning
26 and losing his mother’s private insurance. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I
foolishly didn’t think he should take maintenance drugs, either.” Sweeney says.
“When he called me to say he was thinking about taking one because he didn’t
know what else to do, I stayed silent, and he knew I didn’t approve. When he
died three days later, I knew I had discouraged him from taking the one thing
that might have saved his life, and my guilt was devastating. I wish I’d known
when he was alive that he had a terminal disease that needed medicine to treat
it.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Poet
Lesléa Newman, author or editor of more than 70 books, calls Sweeney’s poems “poignant” and “beautifully crafted.” She
says she “read this collection straight through with [her] heart in [her]
throat” and adds: “Reader, prepare yourself: once you start reading <i>What I Should Have Said</i>, you won’t want
to stop.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Praise
for the book comes from outside the poetry world, as well. The president of the
board of Bereaved Parents of the USA, Kathy
Corrigan, lost two sons and says “Every grieving parent will relate” to the
feelings expressed by Sweeney in this “deeply moving” and “honest” work.
Reading the collection, Corrigan says, helped her process the grief she felt
over losing her second son, who died two years ago from alcohol addiction.
Corrigan said she appreciates that the collection “sheds light on the darkness
and stigma attached to the disease of addiction and [reminds] us that our
children were/are so much more than their addiction[s].”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
U.S. had been starting to turn the tide on overdose deaths in 2019, but then the
pandemic arrived, causing isolation, 12-step meeting cancellations, the
slashing of addiction treatment programs, new economic stresses, and fresh
grief. As a result, the monthly overdose
death rate shot up 50 percent in the early months of the pandemic, to more than
9,000 deaths a month; <span style="background: white; color: #1a1a1a; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">prior to 2020, U.S. monthly overdose deaths had never risen
above 6,300. </span> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
annual overdose death rate also rose to heartbreaking new heights last year;
the CDC anticipates that when the final numbers are in, more than 90,000
individuals will have died of an overdose in 2020 (80 percent from opioid
overdose) – up from about 70,000 the previous year. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Sweeney’s book can be ordered directly from the author or from local bookstores or Bookshop.org or Amazon or from the publisher at </span><a href="https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/what-i-should-have-said"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/what-i-should-have-said</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">. Sweeney is available to do readings from her book and take part
in panels or Q&As via Zoom or other event platforms at schools, bookstores,
libraries, recovery programs, harm-reduction centers, and any other venue
interested in hearing her story and words of encouragement. For more
information or a review copy of the book, contact Lanette Sweeney directly at </span><a href="mailto:lanettesweeney@gmail.com"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">lanettesweeney@gmail.com</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> or on her website lanettesweeney.com.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> * * *<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sources
for Statistics:<br />
</span><a href="https://www.commonwealthfund.org/blog/2021/spike-drug-overdose-deaths-during-covid-19-pandemic-and-policy-options-move-forward"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">https://www.commonwealthfund.org/blog/2021/spike-drug-overdose-deaths-during-covid-19-pandemic-and-policy-options-move-forward</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> citing CDC statistics</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.overdoseday.com/facts-stats/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">https://www.overdoseday.com/facts-stats/</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> United Nations
Office on Drugs and Crime.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">BOOK COVER</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgourekTkbNGUxuBZTbdYqLTSHwcqQOzgcYcN94nqtiSzYdZRtSkbPJdiOxCA_QeWK2V0IYvYk6nEhSbtEiDyyII5Yzg20JSsUCsFCtJZbPKzzDJaj3-5HBQ7AzdDASapd_fFMfs2DMOig_/s2048/BookCover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1389" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgourekTkbNGUxuBZTbdYqLTSHwcqQOzgcYcN94nqtiSzYdZRtSkbPJdiOxCA_QeWK2V0IYvYk6nEhSbtEiDyyII5Yzg20JSsUCsFCtJZbPKzzDJaj3-5HBQ7AzdDASapd_fFMfs2DMOig_/w434-h640/BookCover.jpg" width="434" /></a></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">PRESS LINKS</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.poughkeepsiejournal.com/story/life/2021/09/10/what-should-have-said-memoir-son-who-died-addiction/5576567001/">https://www.poughkeepsiejournal.com/story/life/2021/09/10/what-should-have-said-memoir-son-who-died-addiction/5576567001/</a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> <br /></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiauuJFlYyx0YpuosGP-8EEF40ChGnsckj5jSMj9qIBkEu2mbP5XeLuv-gEUEQL1YyPSYW-rPz7wCKr0VCIB-KwJENbEVa_0ccW2UQqZCWDZ1Uh8dD1asyg_LaZGwyeKgcfyWdB8qe4exQV/s2048/PoJo+article+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1767" data-original-width="2048" height="553" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiauuJFlYyx0YpuosGP-8EEF40ChGnsckj5jSMj9qIBkEu2mbP5XeLuv-gEUEQL1YyPSYW-rPz7wCKr0VCIB-KwJENbEVa_0ccW2UQqZCWDZ1Uh8dD1asyg_LaZGwyeKgcfyWdB8qe4exQV/w640-h553/PoJo+article+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SO28rgbfh9m03IBH5kfgn7vGDYrX6qUCKZBWzMgKR1Z9iC6gBhlmuJ54CK-YmP9a9jERpgrgt35hIfeXLsbXqZcmTWgBO8wdjZwv8powqYMHsZ5JNfWWeiLRYf3B0tQlABelbnFYnz3j/s2561/PoJo+article+2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2561" data-original-width="1130" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SO28rgbfh9m03IBH5kfgn7vGDYrX6qUCKZBWzMgKR1Z9iC6gBhlmuJ54CK-YmP9a9jERpgrgt35hIfeXLsbXqZcmTWgBO8wdjZwv8powqYMHsZ5JNfWWeiLRYf3B0tQlABelbnFYnz3j/w176-h400/PoJo+article+2.jpg" width="176" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Straw Dog Writer's Guild featured Lanette Sweeney in an <a href="https://www.strawdogwriters.org/blog/straw-dog-writers-guild-author-interview-series-lanette-sweeney?fbclid=IwAR1qrWx47NoszCl0NN7jt0eteVEKLM4BG33NvnO6iUIZyla29q9hQKehs0A" target="_blank">author interview</a> on Sept. 13, 2021. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWBNxosXcLJyiMomSW7995X3dezkaMaGO8XEAqI24WPY4pl1igi_JfRYOafLNIB8kP-6TwgU-j11cBVHLPCNuYCrUc6fLRVk6DlKToCWyH-EircvsYclRwJs9ni4q3EpxREpyfSuhKMlzC/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="506" height="637" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWBNxosXcLJyiMomSW7995X3dezkaMaGO8XEAqI24WPY4pl1igi_JfRYOafLNIB8kP-6TwgU-j11cBVHLPCNuYCrUc6fLRVk6DlKToCWyH-EircvsYclRwJs9ni4q3EpxREpyfSuhKMlzC/w640-h637/image.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Kenyon Review</i> columnist Ruben Queseda did <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6159414272746489708/5448657428795903755#" target="_blank">an interview</a> with Sweeney for his Poetry Today column in late April, 2021. (Sweeney's is the second interview on this page.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2WWEtTESrCGnwA0hhlAaPLZJcTQyjtpGnt-KUB-Lz-04STH-ISEGCwbqkQDjhz3vxSrPUd4Ax07MqkDTi7x5Bw5ZLUGH0LteBAX1GjxSXe6OhEtcngyGI1adbb0vG6ikSmstF7EN2tfAt/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="273" data-original-width="624" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2WWEtTESrCGnwA0hhlAaPLZJcTQyjtpGnt-KUB-Lz-04STH-ISEGCwbqkQDjhz3vxSrPUd4Ax07MqkDTi7x5Bw5ZLUGH0LteBAX1GjxSXe6OhEtcngyGI1adbb0vG6ikSmstF7EN2tfAt/w640-h280/image.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>What I Should Have Said: A Poetry Memoir about Losing A Child to Addiction</i> was featured in mid-September as a top choice on the weekly book-recommendation email sent by our local library, <a href="https://wowbrary.org/signup.aspx?zipshow=01075" target="_blank">Wowbrary</a>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;"><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowe-fYB_jpUE3Ont8y8ye8XrPqQPwBi7fENdqvPabUEmvJVGfQvClmHlrSSehclTuETj8Xbd2_I-hmgDmmeuPJaWYyTwrtlb0oEIObNINTZhrJU1_Wb-ezVepqlKvSZWfAafcrb_iO6b9/w412-h740/Wowbrary.jpg" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">APPEARANCES</span></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="background-color: white; clear: both;">UPCOMING: </div><div style="background-color: white; clear: both;">On Thursday, Nov. 4, 2021, join the Odyssey Bookshop in South Hadley, MA, at 7 p.m. as they host a virtual reading with poet memoirists Lanette Sweeney and Miriam Greenspan, both mothers of children lost to addiction. Lanette will read from <i>What I Should Have Said: A Poetry Memoir About Losing a Child to Addiction</i>. Miriam will read from <i>The Heroin Addict’s Mother: A Memoir in Poetry.</i></div><div style="background-color: white; clear: both;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; clear: both;">Both mothers' books were published in 2021. Greenspan, M.Ed., LMHC, is an internationally renowned psychotherapist and author. Her pioneering book, <i>A New Approach to Women and Therapy</i>, helped define the field of feminist therapy, and her Boston Globe best-seller <i>Healing Through the Dark Emotions: The Wisdom of Grief, Fear and Despair</i>, won the 2004 gold Nautilus book award in the self-help/psychology category. </div><div style="background-color: white; clear: both;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; clear: both;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">PAST: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On Sept. 18, 2021, Lanette Sweeney was a featured speaker at the Highland Public Library, the library where she took her children as she was raising them in the Hudson Valley in NY. She did a one-hour long reading and q&a session from her book.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>On Sept. 13, 2021, Lanette Sweeney read a poem by her son, "Liquor Bottle Might As Well Be a Pistol," at a CAPE (Center for Addiction Prevention and Education) event at Shadows on the Hudson Valley; she gave that evening's proceeds from the sale of her book to CAPE, which arranged to have the Mid-Hudson bridge, seen behind the speakers, lit up in purple in honor of the event. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNeHXwy8vknMaeKAdwjkRC-oit3CIj5_QV97U-t4wB2E8P22PqCEa2uxRyFbHNxmqZZy6L-JLxsvzDpJv_T4ebqBe1Y2Uw-W0UEYa5QMUkclrbjn9MXTKstVCy32flyhfBbzBruLd_UuT4/w640-h320/CAPE+event+photo.jpg" width="640" /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNeHXwy8vknMaeKAdwjkRC-oit3CIj5_QV97U-t4wB2E8P22PqCEa2uxRyFbHNxmqZZy6L-JLxsvzDpJv_T4ebqBe1Y2Uw-W0UEYa5QMUkclrbjn9MXTKstVCy32flyhfBbzBruLd_UuT4/s1156/CAPE+event+photo.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black; text-align: left;"><br /></span></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Also on Sept. 18, Sweeney read one of her poems at a Keep it Moving walk/run event. Keep It Moving Zane is a non-profit that provides Narcan training and healthy activities for children in honor of the founder Lauren Mandel's late son, who died of an overdose one week after starting his first social work job at age 22. Sweeney read "To My Son on His 18th Birthday," and gave a portion of that day's proceeds to Keep It Moving. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">On Sept. 7th, Sweeney was the featured reader at the monthly Writer's Night Out/In sponsored by Straw Dog Writers' Guild. <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="clear: right; color: black; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></span><span style="clear: right; color: black; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="clear: right; color: black; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><a href="goog_1075410927"><br /></a></span><span style="clear: right; color: black; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><a href="goog_1075410927"><br /></a></span><span style="clear: right; color: black; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><a href="http://"><br /></a></span></div><p></p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-45763277399999348302021-09-02T18:23:00.000-04:002021-09-02T18:23:16.209-04:00Honoring Kyle by Remembering His Worst Day<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0l8cldEjVIMJnlPdhgkd07VNG8zFGTPSg1OD4eBISyegHPvIYPgBXGxUoid06sdXyYY1HzJbpzq1k1iihIGbenVAwmsrWD8vNI2dEfm2IdFHmjXpIvQhQM-XeVbbYj0R2RbpEojMZbMEr/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="727" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0l8cldEjVIMJnlPdhgkd07VNG8zFGTPSg1OD4eBISyegHPvIYPgBXGxUoid06sdXyYY1HzJbpzq1k1iihIGbenVAwmsrWD8vNI2dEfm2IdFHmjXpIvQhQM-XeVbbYj0R2RbpEojMZbMEr/w309-h320/image.png" width="309" /></a></div><p></p></blockquote></blockquote><p><br />Monday, August 31st, was International Overdose Awareness Day, and I marked the day with a short online event in honor of my son, Kyle David Fisher-Hertz, who died of an overdose when he was 26. This is an essay that captures much of what we covered in that event. </p><p>Last year the pandemic was not kind to addicts. A record number of Americans, more than 90,000 sons and daughters, died of a drug overdose in 2020, more than in any previous year--and 20,000 more than the previous year, when it seemed we were finally turning the tide and beginning to stem the steady increase in overdose deaths that had plagued us for the previous decade. This graph shows how fatal overdoses steadily climbed, with the previous peak passing 60,000 in 2017. The numbers rose to more than 80,000 dead the next year but dropped back down to 70,000 in 2019 before surging last year, with a huge spike in the first months after we were all sent into lockdown. </p><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOWDyiRSj5HL1KTD7BYCmvkGLSIsYd4WI0SqSSQwpAv4XYYflFAZGiwNtuFxodTE6ht0431g3-S8vmfrLWXc3rEa7MNZ2P_EdrIK-SE-9CUrES6w9chD45mZy6YgcI_cmoW0OODBPCkUtS/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="382" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOWDyiRSj5HL1KTD7BYCmvkGLSIsYd4WI0SqSSQwpAv4XYYflFAZGiwNtuFxodTE6ht0431g3-S8vmfrLWXc3rEa7MNZ2P_EdrIK-SE-9CUrES6w9chD45mZy6YgcI_cmoW0OODBPCkUtS/w400-h275/image.png" width="400" /></a></div>The United States represents just four percent of the world’s population, but we were 25 percent of the world’s fatal overdoses in 2020. As this graph from last year shows, North Americans are dying from taking too many drugs at a far higher rate than anyone anywhere else in the world.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzd3LuQHYi8zqFOWUp5_obU1N-YH1XWb3srCnYzkoeCEbgUXakOmx7zIrpS0JUefS9OIGnAHpV44I4uZWAOh8WlSwH00Ibw5i3Bj7IqWVhQmiIH_itfjWNxUDAgejU9N6DIAdBNFN_dMf8/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="550" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzd3LuQHYi8zqFOWUp5_obU1N-YH1XWb3srCnYzkoeCEbgUXakOmx7zIrpS0JUefS9OIGnAHpV44I4uZWAOh8WlSwH00Ibw5i3Bj7IqWVhQmiIH_itfjWNxUDAgejU9N6DIAdBNFN_dMf8/" width="306" /></a></div>There is a serious sickness in our society, and our overdoses are merely a symptom of that sickness, which I believe is rooted in our mindless consumerism and the resulting lack of purpose in our lives. My daughter argues "lack of purpose" is a privileged excuse for drug addiction, but we are a privileged people in North America, and more money gives us greater access to drugs, so it makes sense that feeling a lack of meaning in our lives while having the resources to ameliorate our emptiness by getting high would lead to greater use. But I digress. </div><p></p><p>When I told my daughter I would be opening the event by saying a few words about the overdose epidemic, she wondered what new thing I could say when so much has already been said about this issue. But I believe that even though we are years into this epidemic, the two main messages I want to share in both my new book, <i>What I Should Have Said: A Poetry Memoir about Losing a Child to Addiction</i>, and in this essay, are still not familiar enough to most people.</p><p>The first message is that medication-assisted treatment saves lives. No one should be judged or stigmatized for taking Methadone or Suboxone or following any other medical plan to stay off street drugs. I wish I had known this myself when my son was alive. He and I wanted him to get Vivitrol, a monthly shot that blocks opioid receptors and cravings and doesn’t allow you to get high--but he had just turned 26, lost my insurance, and discovered that the state health insurance he had in Nevada didn’t cover that drug, which has the generic name Naltrexone. The clinic would only offer him Suboxone or Methadone. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuIzEn6nfBeDN_JcWUQ2gji8dqxst61XQnXNQYnUpAH_gaDY2UzJ0t-v8DS1-YOV0mQpEhUp9qnjH_wSaR9An9XbS3cIX6zNQDhiGXMlFDrVSEtfXQJ3m5OysunMCj82Nc4QJAroAUTxH/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="893" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuIzEn6nfBeDN_JcWUQ2gji8dqxst61XQnXNQYnUpAH_gaDY2UzJ0t-v8DS1-YOV0mQpEhUp9qnjH_wSaR9An9XbS3cIX6zNQDhiGXMlFDrVSEtfXQJ3m5OysunMCj82Nc4QJAroAUTxH/w640-h372/image.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />My son (shown here, sober at my wedding, 16 days before he died) called me the weekend before he died to say he thought if he couldn’t get the Vivitrol shot, maybe he would just take the Suboxone they were offering him. Tragically, I maintained a stony, judgmental silence, letting him know I would be disappointed in him if he went on maintenance drugs. I thought he was “better” than that. I thought he could just stop. I didn’t realize his disease was terminal until it killed him. <p></p><p>Since then, I have had the opportunity to visit a methadone clinic, where I saw dozens of healthy young people run in, take their daily dose, and run back out to take their kids to daycare, to get to their jobs, to go on with their lives. If you love an addict, please know he or she has a deadly disease with an incredibly high relapse rate, as high as 97 percent without medically assisted treatment. I still think Naltrexone shots are a miracle; they now have shots that can block opioid receptors for up to six months at a time, and I hope more state insurance covers that medicine than when my son was trying to get that shot. But if the miracle shots are not an option, going on Suboxone or Methadone will provide the addicts we love and want to stay alive a bridge to wellness. We should be celebrating the people who go that route, choosing to live and giving themselves an opportunity to function again. I wish I had understood this in time to have not failed my son when he asked my advice. Instead, I believe my silence discouraged him from pursuing that solution, so instead of going back to the clinic, he got street drugs and took them until they killed him three days later.</p><p>My second message is for the millions of parents, siblings, friends, cousins and other loved ones who lost someone to an overdose in the past five years. Though early grief will shake you to your core and make you question whether you can go on, I am here to tell you you can survive and learn to carry your grief with grace if you just hang in there and practice self care like it’s your motherfucking job. You can have a life of peace and even joy after even the most profound and devastating loss. Post-traumatic growth is real. No one wants to be driven to their knees by loss and trauma, but all of us can, in time, with a lot of hard work on ourselves, allow our worst experiences to open our hearts and bring us closer to our true spiritual selves. </p><p>And now I want to say a few words about what killed my amazing, brilliant son Kyle: He died not only because he was an addict but because he cared so much about what other people thought of him that he spent the last 10 years of his life always trying to one up himself and act crazier and more death defying than he had the day before. He started rehab “only” addicted to crack, but he probably thought he wasn’t as hardcore as the other addicts were until he was as addicted as everyone else to the most deadly drug of all, so he let the other guys in rehab teach him how to shoot heroin. I have an essay on my website about toxic masculinity--which is what Kyle was demonstrating when he kept risking his life to appear cool--and how it contributed to Kyle's death</p><p>But beyond that I want to say please, if you’re a young person who hasn’t done drugs yet, please don’t let yourself be swayed by your desire to impress anyone. If you’ve done some drugs, maybe dabbled in alcohol or marijuana, but haven’t yet done the deadly trifecta (crack, meth, and heroin), please don’t try to play it cool if someone offers you one of those. Please know you are loveable without laying your life on the line to look like what someone else wants you to be. No high is worth what you will be doing to your life if you take any of those drugs. And I am a person who has enjoyed drugs myself, so I am not saying this to discourage you from pleasure. I am saying this to save your life and protect your mother from tragedy.</p><p>At the end of our event, anyone who wanted to name and let us recognize someone they loved who</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlCTr_RnM3Tzppcxej9OkE0VoVcTGKuhgIxiYKRF2WEkRKTaQ5G6ZheIAsv8kt-L29Tnzk-1imTJ_Z7BNZHFN0wWtEaknPBrV1r1uQGTQWLR6H5TB-mQ1G4h_fjhsuyiS74MuNVOESy4i/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="694" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlCTr_RnM3Tzppcxej9OkE0VoVcTGKuhgIxiYKRF2WEkRKTaQ5G6ZheIAsv8kt-L29Tnzk-1imTJ_Z7BNZHFN0wWtEaknPBrV1r1uQGTQWLR6H5TB-mQ1G4h_fjhsuyiS74MuNVOESy4i/" width="244" /></a></div>died of an overdose, was invited to do so, and we wound up talking about a dozen or so other people who had died by overdose. I especially wanted to remember two of Kyle's friends, one who died four months before Kyle did, Peter Parise (left), someone Kyle admired and felt a kinship with-- and whose death probably made Kyle feel more hopeless than he already did. Our sons' connection led to a friendship between me and Pete's mom after their deaths that has meant a great deal to me as I navigated these years of grief. And Samantha Owens, a beautiful young woman with whom Kyle lived in Las Vegas for a while, both of them and their third roommate all shooting heroin together. I had hoped in the intervening years maybe Sam (below) had gotten clean, but instead she died this year of an overdose. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU5qwJWKtvRC8XCRNBDYfHlijfsxqRMvozoJduzDHVB_6mDR1nKYas1EZoVFtIPc5yjUB89laIaniYm8oXJdpJ1kwpCJDu2AZte4wMbRgHM4EopYsUB7p7sM-LZ2BDRqboUToLqHFLx4Tk/" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="785" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU5qwJWKtvRC8XCRNBDYfHlijfsxqRMvozoJduzDHVB_6mDR1nKYas1EZoVFtIPc5yjUB89laIaniYm8oXJdpJ1kwpCJDu2AZte4wMbRgHM4EopYsUB7p7sM-LZ2BDRqboUToLqHFLx4Tk/" width="320" /></a><p></p><p>My son, just like Pete and Sam and all the other people we remembered that night, was more than his addiction, and even though we remembered Kyle on overdose awareness day, I want him to be remembered for more than his overdose. He was an incredible friend, a wonderful brother, grandson and son, a great skier, a lover of books, a comedian, a rock climber, a doting daddy for the few months he spent in his daughter's life, a poet and humor writer, a curious conversationalist and a fearless dancer. He lit up all of our lives, and since his light went out, we have all had to struggle our way out of the darkness.</p><p>I feel blessed I was able to include more than 20 original works by Kyle in my new poetry collection about him (which is available for purchase from me, local bookstores, Bookshop or Amazon). The poems of his that his friends read showcase his talent but also show how desperate he was to get well. The fact that Kyle will never write another word and isn’t here to read his own poems aloud to us is tragic, but I am so grateful that five of his good friends agreed to gather online with 50 more of us to read and listen to his poetry. We read five poems because on September 20th of this year, Kyle will have been gone five years.</p><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyEOpSTDnjZ4imN1I00S07Ow7kcWjDNpLHWSzroPP0q7Jjd-aU6BcHzSjMxG-ehFLysX4HTBi0ZBwFYzS8NtxnwTNmUW3yTN33CWaBnZ8M-gfDUSMcjKUkXh0iyxhZMDiz2GNHLKDvXtX9/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="472" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyEOpSTDnjZ4imN1I00S07Ow7kcWjDNpLHWSzroPP0q7Jjd-aU6BcHzSjMxG-ehFLysX4HTBi0ZBwFYzS8NtxnwTNmUW3yTN33CWaBnZ8M-gfDUSMcjKUkXh0iyxhZMDiz2GNHLKDvXtX9/w101-h149/image.png" width="101" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQBIJAt5TI4GPwgqW3USlbcskiyxl3pQ0_Vk6ERBrVEpvnmBSWiqqEDe9xbizbCqzm4BVpeNX-wnCddELpA2PKhqR6iWnH3cGL4a8CwpTE2v3jpgoN-Aujby1H21JR0lGaVwFjAsizLCIC/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="828" data-original-width="828" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQBIJAt5TI4GPwgqW3USlbcskiyxl3pQ0_Vk6ERBrVEpvnmBSWiqqEDe9xbizbCqzm4BVpeNX-wnCddELpA2PKhqR6iWnH3cGL4a8CwpTE2v3jpgoN-Aujby1H21JR0lGaVwFjAsizLCIC/w134-h134/image.png" width="134" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWYo1aSWFbqxy9Zl54pZ-F0XO6-4D__H1VpQ7_d0z_rJu7zdPEszqPxjRVwa4Il3wxFAW7wO6XfFmQxhDOJHqj7Ml6KN-iESrzpkUJ-iktiu7S4QoWl4PMJwjTQ04fkYKuTD7fwu9WADui/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="733" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWYo1aSWFbqxy9Zl54pZ-F0XO6-4D__H1VpQ7_d0z_rJu7zdPEszqPxjRVwa4Il3wxFAW7wO6XfFmQxhDOJHqj7Ml6KN-iESrzpkUJ-iktiu7S4QoWl4PMJwjTQ04fkYKuTD7fwu9WADui/w162-h159/image.png" width="162" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFiSOy3PnnmNPTg8RleOwmZexI5LvUb5LI5byHVATHPOVsEO-dChOfiKj9cOhTaIW0NF_sUDuwNvQJ2nA6tCfximDMnEp228nkypreDLCSGpqgOywISqze78bjoBskTfV_0BwOgEs5QvGn/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="734" data-original-width="734" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFiSOy3PnnmNPTg8RleOwmZexI5LvUb5LI5byHVATHPOVsEO-dChOfiKj9cOhTaIW0NF_sUDuwNvQJ2nA6tCfximDMnEp228nkypreDLCSGpqgOywISqze78bjoBskTfV_0BwOgEs5QvGn/w159-h159/image.png" width="159" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWvCnTEO8ZiyD16l6vQcQ45Yjlc7kwVV4yE0pLtORlQF6UzEC_mZ7zVdRRrcZJJHUMjKfOAEzNL111gIwK1WkkgM6VvK67Jyc2mUEiGDydHXvRjima-TouzkKA5fhg7mjqUctxIqKHCZEg/" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="734" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWvCnTEO8ZiyD16l6vQcQ45Yjlc7kwVV4yE0pLtORlQF6UzEC_mZ7zVdRRrcZJJHUMjKfOAEzNL111gIwK1WkkgM6VvK67Jyc2mUEiGDydHXvRjima-TouzkKA5fhg7mjqUctxIqKHCZEg/" width="245" /></a>The readers were (from top left) Evan, an old friend of his from Americorps in Seattle, who missed her time slot and was replaced by Ashley, an old friend who knew him when he was in recovery in California; Steph, Kyle's first love; Tommy, a songwriter who was in Kyle's last rehab with him and has stayed clean since shortly after Kyle died. Plus, right, George, his grandsponsor (sponsor of Kyle's sponsor); <br />and, below, Dwight, a house manager here in Western Mass who had to call the cops on Kyle when he discovered him using heroin in the house. He drove them all crazy, but they all still loved him. They each said a little about Kyle, in words I found moving and inspiring. and then each read one of his poems. You can watch a recording of the event here: <a href="https://youtu.be/AbXbzdwd3h0">https://youtu.be/AbXbzdwd3h0</a> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_o0ha6jK4izgUY3HdJzifEYwfzLR1fJVwPY0tA_F9mfVm5_qhhBO48fhNx7QRHP_mJMzAuoaokeQclf3Tt7cNxNMbUKB0uDtuJykgfme-FnZDHrNKM-d53Y1_mT5LSOoX2uAz_vE_B4ex/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="876" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_o0ha6jK4izgUY3HdJzifEYwfzLR1fJVwPY0tA_F9mfVm5_qhhBO48fhNx7QRHP_mJMzAuoaokeQclf3Tt7cNxNMbUKB0uDtuJykgfme-FnZDHrNKM-d53Y1_mT5LSOoX2uAz_vE_B4ex/w320-h263/image.png" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p>At the end of the event, Kyle's little sister, Jamie, read aloud from a text exchange she'd had with Kyle the year before he died. The words she shared (in the text displayed below) most vividly brought my son back to life and showed how smart and funny and wise he was, and why we all kept hoping he was going to be OK. I hope the event and this essay helps someone else say "Yes! That's a great idea," when their loved one talks about using medicine to help them stay clean -- because that's <i>What I Should Have Said.</i> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPW91c-GAwC9aHJMLQOgxIxMjEiGln8d4QFpVE1navd6wfmyPwjw9XiAJARsxkxQcQxGCeq64i9cuuRwN6zvE-9W1CyvaD0BGS8KwS1dkODzXgBQOW2Z5eXhjNMIFmM-aGdsHhPNTpGdOG/s1334/text+from+kyle+to+j+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="681" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPW91c-GAwC9aHJMLQOgxIxMjEiGln8d4QFpVE1navd6wfmyPwjw9XiAJARsxkxQcQxGCeq64i9cuuRwN6zvE-9W1CyvaD0BGS8KwS1dkODzXgBQOW2Z5eXhjNMIFmM-aGdsHhPNTpGdOG/w383-h681/text+from+kyle+to+j+1.jpg" width="383" /></a></div><p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsWuCE1K2nyrEh_2RiW-Xa4U_YtWRMplmZ7PZGTxEw_Qa1ncefyOFyVnA6JLwZ6oJ_A8WJjSCoHQ_1MfRpGXayZPzdcsVZXFdwTbnQEoJTdSycxRVWBWTOfpQcYGLdww_ubDs9ywoWHuR/s1334/text+from+kyle+to+j+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="671" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsWuCE1K2nyrEh_2RiW-Xa4U_YtWRMplmZ7PZGTxEw_Qa1ncefyOFyVnA6JLwZ6oJ_A8WJjSCoHQ_1MfRpGXayZPzdcsVZXFdwTbnQEoJTdSycxRVWBWTOfpQcYGLdww_ubDs9ywoWHuR/w377-h671/text+from+kyle+to+j+2.jpg" width="377" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsiy7ffOwM9KuTRrryADnacaAEsr61RUBMV_MqMndP2DbTGw-xNi8newzYAFVmxclQl3ufOvQYQqfafz5oAxvxVCqfOxl3p8SLIqF7b1iBVLBze74XdgOJtSwP2P71fRkAzaU7EJpgddoR/s1334/text+from+kyle+to+j+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="676" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsiy7ffOwM9KuTRrryADnacaAEsr61RUBMV_MqMndP2DbTGw-xNi8newzYAFVmxclQl3ufOvQYQqfafz5oAxvxVCqfOxl3p8SLIqF7b1iBVLBze74XdgOJtSwP2P71fRkAzaU7EJpgddoR/w380-h676/text+from+kyle+to+j+3.jpg" width="380" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-43521833273512194132021-07-06T14:31:00.007-04:002021-08-31T14:50:39.822-04:00Toxic Maculinity (Including Homophobia) Is Killing Our Sons<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7nIXcE0qKiYqhWmVgKwJvasNyp_JEGIRWlx5b-4-auj5jsSqg3HEDrlCT6i_Kg4ZQZ3pMZtZaukJqk28Itu6ijJKS-HHUGVG3KM22PUufJC-hroGUAL06gkh8oZxql0Ycm9N1KelQoTm/s368/kyleandadrianadrag+cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="368" height="592" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7nIXcE0qKiYqhWmVgKwJvasNyp_JEGIRWlx5b-4-auj5jsSqg3HEDrlCT6i_Kg4ZQZ3pMZtZaukJqk28Itu6ijJKS-HHUGVG3KM22PUufJC-hroGUAL06gkh8oZxql0Ycm9N1KelQoTm/w640-h592/kyleandadrianadrag+cropped.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kyle and Adriana, his camp girlfriend, both dressed in drag for their camp talent show.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Last week I attended a monthly meeting for the Hudson Valley chapter of the Bereaved Parents of the USA and was startled to find that all 15 of us grieving parents who had gathered by Zoom that night were mourning dead sons. Apparently, this gender disparity is typical. The group’s leader, Bereaved Parents USA board president Kathy Corrigan, recalled a getting-to-know-you exercise at a national gathering some years ago in which those who had lost sons were sent to stand on one side of the room, while those who lost daughters stood on the other.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“The difference was stark,” recalls Corrigan, who has lost two
of her three sons. “Nearly all of us in attendance had lost boys.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I began researching this issue a couple of weeks ago when I
was asked to prepare a lay sermon for my former Unitarian Universalist fellowship
in Poughkeepsie on the theme of “Playing with Fire.” Those words immediately made
me think of my son, Kyle, who died at age 26 of a drug overdose after years of
metaphorically playing with fire by engaging in death-defying behaviors.
Although he died addicted to drugs, I used to say his real addiction was to
taking chances with his life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Kyle was not born a wild risk taker; in fact, he seemed
somewhat shy and timid as a toddler. Yet <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as he grew up, he began repeatedly risking his
safety and health to prove how tough he was. The more I read on this subject,
the more I see that the death of my own son fits a much larger pattern of toxic
ideas about masculinity pushing ever-increasing numbers of our sons into early
graves. Though this is tragic, it is also somewhat of a comfort to me, as I
find that the wider the lens through which I examine my son’s tragic death, the
more able I am to stop blaming myself. My son and I, no matter how special I
like to imagine we are or were, are still just products of huge societal forces
that shape all our lives. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">As Kyle stepped into his role as a young man, he engaged in ever-more-envelope-pushing,
dangerous behaviors, culminating in him “experimenting” with and then becoming
addicted to the deadly drugs that ultimately killed him. Kyle told me he did
LSD 45 different times in high school. After he turned 21, he pushed the
envelope even farther and did the drugs we all know are life-destroying. He also
engaged, even before he did any drugs, in death-defying feats of physical
daring. He left behind videos of himself skateboarding off a roof, riding a
bicycle off a slide, riding a bike down a staircase, doing trick jumps over the
bodies of his little sister and other small children in a playground, and playing
a “hit-the-other-guy’s nutsack” game in which two high school boys face one
another with their legs wide apart and then roll a bowling ball as hard as
possible at the other man’s genitals. Kyle’s little sister Jamie, now 28, told
me the other day of a time his friend Scott thought Kyle was dead after he leaped
from a great height off a local diving spot called Doobie Drop. Far below him,
he saw Kyle lying facedown in the body of water, blood pooling around his head—and
was stunned when Kyle sat up. Another time, when my ex-husband and I left Kyle home
alone for the night at age 17, he performed some kind of stunt (maybe on a
swing, but perhaps on a roof, we never did get the whole story) that broke his wrist;
his friends have told me they all thought it was a miracle he’d survived. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I always think of Kyle as having been an especially
brilliant, sensitive young man, but his reckless antics show he was a more
typical male adolescent than I liked to believe he was. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young men are known by actuarial tables
everywhere to drive more recklessly and die more violently and suddenly by
injury and accident --and by homicide, suicide, and drug overdose--than women.
It turns out that my son was not as exceptional as I dreamed he was—and seemed,
actually, to have been more concerned with impressing people with his macho courage
(aka stupidity) than many of his peers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">When
he was 16, Kyle drove his car at 100 miles an hour up and off a hilly road in Highland
in order to “catch air.” D.J., his best friend since second grade, was in
Kyle’s passenger seat as the car flew through the foggy night sky and slammed
into a tree. Both boys miraculously walked away without a scratch, </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjXyg8Z2X-NP_s6ikMBdTp6aPwU8ZhziuN0-DrKO7rkyQc0Dwgx__rIlI3Ur9fKN-4e9nQtNqdktu6eWM0VUdhwnJaTXe3zWxFw5EuqnW3OsICXrTAW1Ob7Ih_WQ5bmi1RtSXrK2IYUjna/s1185/IMG_0503.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1185" data-original-width="664" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjXyg8Z2X-NP_s6ikMBdTp6aPwU8ZhziuN0-DrKO7rkyQc0Dwgx__rIlI3Ur9fKN-4e9nQtNqdktu6eWM0VUdhwnJaTXe3zWxFw5EuqnW3OsICXrTAW1Ob7Ih_WQ5bmi1RtSXrK2IYUjna/w224-h400/IMG_0503.JPG" width="224" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">D.J. and Kyle before Kyle <br />nearly killed him by "catching<br />air."</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">but this
only seemed to make them both more addicted to behaviors that left us mothers
in a constant state of terror. Maybe surviving such stunts–without killing
anyone else--added to their feelings of invincibility. I know that in D.J.’s
case, he went on to become an explosives expert in our Middle East wars,
completing three tours and becoming the most trusted resource for dealing with roadside
bombs. DJ, unlike our son, is still alive, but he witnessed many of his male
peers die young enacting toxic masculinity in wartime and still struggles with
how to live a life free of near-death experiences. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Kyle, meanwhile,
in the years after that car “accident,” worked his way through consuming every
drug he could get his hands on, including drugs he could not even identify.
During one harrowing week, Kyle showed up in Southern California to join me on
a business trip and was half out of his mind on what he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thought</i> was Xanax. A kid who worked at a local pharmaceutical
factory had given him a bag of powder, of which Kyle had consumed unmeasured
spoonfuls throughout the previous week. By the time he stepped off the plane
for that visit with me, he was suicidal and seeing things. A few days of good
sleep brought him back to himself, but I probably never slept well again after
that trip, having seen up close the complete disregard with which my son
treated his life.</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9W6bFycBMbiBpsSk-i03Rwsq7GSU-mIlRzja-ODdzEpHbtfpl-drd4KQOKiGFWtAM8fxkOfEwGrrVAGkwnFu-OFUdEA2OZ5jr4YETvIDVuQ_ETsrUKq7WoY7Hm2E0F6XKSNfVh_ZB32tg/s1263/038.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1263" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9W6bFycBMbiBpsSk-i03Rwsq7GSU-mIlRzja-ODdzEpHbtfpl-drd4KQOKiGFWtAM8fxkOfEwGrrVAGkwnFu-OFUdEA2OZ5jr4YETvIDVuQ_ETsrUKq7WoY7Hm2E0F6XKSNfVh_ZB32tg/s320/038.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kyle strung out on a mystery drug.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Eventually,
his recklessness led him to the most deadly, addictive drugs, the ones I had
always made him swear he would never do–crack, meth and heroin. He could never
adequately explain why he did them: “I thought I could just try it once… I was
curious… Once the other guys in rehab described the high to me I knew I’d have
to try it.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Kali Holloway, in an Alternet article, “Toxic Masculinity is
Killing Men” written a year before my son died in 2016, notes that we begin
socially reinforcing stereotypical masculine behavior, including the
suppression of emotions, on our boy children when they are still babies. She
writes:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 1in;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Parents often unconsciously project a kind of ‘manliness,’
and thus <br />
a diminished need for comfort, protection and affection, onto their boy <br />
children as early as infancy.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">As a result, baby boys are picked up, held and comforted less
often than baby girls. This despite the fact that boy babies are at least as in
need of affection and comfort as girl babies, if not more so. (Boy babies
actually cry more, though whether this is because they are held less makes this
a chicken-and-egg equation.) One mom in the grief-support group I just attended
recalled her mother telling her to </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjlc-gwEFeq1abE-dW7RV1akjWOmjcODRK3WKx6dtzFycQu3gxwvBl3JcknXrfjev4muguufVHOBCqvBp-3N-xMo-5GkgqIF4Nd1JRZFRrLnNsPRwJPtNMVsIgcDZmvNeKqeHxCjtD_tb/s2048/IMG_20170815_204555.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1425" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjlc-gwEFeq1abE-dW7RV1akjWOmjcODRK3WKx6dtzFycQu3gxwvBl3JcknXrfjev4muguufVHOBCqvBp-3N-xMo-5GkgqIF4Nd1JRZFRrLnNsPRwJPtNMVsIgcDZmvNeKqeHxCjtD_tb/s320/IMG_20170815_204555.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We didn't think we cuddled </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">our <br />boy baby less than our </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">daughter, <br />but research says </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">most parents do <br />to help "toughen </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">them up." </span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">stop spoiling her son by picking him up so
much. She took her mother’s advice to toughen him up and stopped cuddling him
as much, something she is still berating herself about today, 12 years after
his death.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A group of more than 200 adults shown identical videos of a
crying baby but divided into groups told the baby was a boy or a girl judged
the baby as “angry” if they thought it was a boy, while the girl baby was
perceived as “scared.” Their responses to the angry baby vs. the
scared baby were divided along gender stereotypical lines, as well.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Little boys internalize adult expectations that they “man up”
early: they first show signs they are hiding and suppressing their emotions between
the ages of 3 and 5. A University of Michigan study found men are more likely
to engage in death-defying activities to attract women than women are to
attract men (Ha! For this they needed a study?);. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">In a 2010
NIH funded study published in the American Journal of Science, “</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Gender
Disparities in Injury Mortality: Consistent, Persistent, and Larger Than You'd
Think,” <span style="background: white;">Dr. Susan Sorenson explains,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 1in 10pt 0.5in;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“[M]ales are born
with a numerical advantage, which decreases over time. At birth there are 105
boys for every 100 girls.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3222499/#bib1"><sup><span color="windowtext" style="background: white;">1</span></sup></a><span style="background: white;"> There would be even more, but fetal death is 7%
higher for boys than girls.</span><a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3222499/#bib2"><sup><span color="windowtext" style="background: white;">2</span></sup></a><span style="background: white;"> The mortality gap widens immediately; by their
first birthday, 21% more boy babies than girl babies die.</span><a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3222499/#bib3"><sup><span color="windowtext" style="background: white;">3</span></sup></a><span style="background: white;"> Excess male demise continues throughout life,
such that by age 65 years or older, there are 75 men for every 100 women.</span><a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3222499/#bib4"><sup><span color="windowtext" style="background: white;">4</span></sup></a></span><span class="MsoHyperlink"><sup><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 8pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></sup></span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 8pt; line-height: 200%;">From </span><span style="font-size: 8pt; line-height: 200%;"><a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3222499/"><span color="windowtext" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3222499/</span></a></span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Men are more likely than women to die of almost every disease
and illness and to die earlier. Injury, a leading cause of premature death, also
strikes men down at a much higher rate. Men are more likely to have
accidents, to unintentionally injure themselves, to commit suicide, and to die
by homicide in all age groups in low-, middle-, and high-income countries.<sup><o:p></o:p></sup></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">In his book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why Men
Can’t Feel</i> Marvin Allen asserts that boys are trained to suppress their
vulnerability not only by their parents but also by other children, who may
shame, tease, or ridicule boys for showing human emotions. As a result, boys hide
their feelings and often find the only way to access them is by using drugs,
alcohol, or death-defying feats in order to feel anything at all.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">
According to the <a href="http://www.cdc.gov/alcohol/fact-sheets/mens-health.htm"><span color="windowtext">Centers for Disease Control</span></a>, men are more
likely to drink to excess than women, leading to higher rates of
alcohol-related deaths and hospitalizations. Boys are <a href="http://archives.drugabuse.gov/NIDA_Notes/NNVol15N4/Prevalence.html"><span color="windowtext">more likely</span></a> to have used drugs by the
age of 12 than girls, which leads to a higher likelihood of drug abuse in men
than in women later in life. American men are <a href="http://www.bjs.gov/content/pub/pdf/htus8008.pdf"><span color="windowtext">more
likely</span></a> to kill (committing 90 percent of all murders) and to be
killed (comprising 77 percent of murder victims). This extends to themselves:
“[M]ales take their own lives at nearly four times the rate of females and
comprise approximately 80 percent of all completed suicides, despite girls and
women attempting suicide at three to four times the rate of boys. And according
to the <a href="http://www.bop.gov/about/statistics/statistics_inmate_gender.jsp"><span color="windowtext">Federal Bureau of Prisons</span></a>, men make up more
than 93 percent of prisoners.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The
damaging effects of the aforementioned emotional disconnection even plays a role in
the lifespan gender gap. As masculinity expert Terry Real explains: “Men’s
willingness to downplay weakness and pain is so great that it has been named as
a factor in their shorter lifespan. The 10 years of difference in longevity
between men and women turns out to have little to do with genes. Men die early
because they do not take care of themselves. Men wait longer to acknowledge
that they are sick, take longer to get help, and once they get treatment do not
comply with it as well as women do.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Thirty years ago when my feminist husband and I began raising
our son did we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> think that
society’s notions about masculinity could contribute to our own son’s early
demise? No way. I believed my husband and I were committed to raising our
children equally and letting both of them know we accepted and supported them
no matter what they wanted to do with their lives. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And yet. despite all of his outrageous, attention-seeking
behavior, there’s a secret my son guarded more than any other, which I’m going
to share publicly here for the first time: </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Kyle was bisexual and
had multiple sexual encounters with men. As a teenager he met men for anonymous
encounters in public parks after they found one another on the gay men’s “dating”
app Grindr. He did this when he was 16, using the family computer we kept in
the middle of our living room. Neither his father nor I had any</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcIBkCEup1lQK7p2DtuO0VNG-bNdej6CsB-4nSmMwbvHFqYkGUcYk83OzYg-MILzawhyphenhyphenUR9QznMVITmto5UIgk4xclm-BntgCYkcLGstfE9ZCj2VB0YZqlotOcZndjc9fwQX_pjx-ykJ54/s1280/kyletopless.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcIBkCEup1lQK7p2DtuO0VNG-bNdej6CsB-4nSmMwbvHFqYkGUcYk83OzYg-MILzawhyphenhyphenUR9QznMVITmto5UIgk4xclm-BntgCYkcLGstfE9ZCj2VB0YZqlotOcZndjc9fwQX_pjx-ykJ54/s320/kyletopless.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">This was the image my son used to attract</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">men on Grindr when he was in high school.</span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">idea this was
happening. His older foster sister, living with us at the time, found his
dating page left open on the family computer and shamed him for it but agreed
to keep his secret to the grave, which she sadly had opportunity to do. Looking
back, it’s hard not to wonder how things might have gone differently if his
secret had been brought out into the open right then, 10 years before he died.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">My
mother asked me recently if any of the poems in my forthcoming collection, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What I Should Have Said: A Poetry Memoir
about Losing a Child to Addiction</i>, mention that Kyle had sex with men, and
when I told her yes, she said, “Oh God, that makes me feel a little sick.” How can we explain why it still bothers us for people to know this secret?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Kyle
presented himself to the world as straight; he told almost no one that he ever
had sex with men. He took pride in doing gender-defying things, such as being
the only boy cheerleader in middle school, or </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOM64r10ft_TIpRBachoGldIYf2yHN7bCPZ5-sxCB_us5zSJZlycJP9A9Dc-gDxJ-TyYU-zjDP3H-oH_QAuMuApWENB5wuGFln6xLKImKcJCUkffeZqgWUhcL-X_ht0Rqcv5B5MYDE_zi/s720/cheerleader.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOM64r10ft_TIpRBachoGldIYf2yHN7bCPZ5-sxCB_us5zSJZlycJP9A9Dc-gDxJ-TyYU-zjDP3H-oH_QAuMuApWENB5wuGFln6xLKImKcJCUkffeZqgWUhcL-X_ht0Rqcv5B5MYDE_zi/s320/cheerleader.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Kyle, the only boy cheerleader (up til then)</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">in his middle-school's history.</span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">dressing as a woman (while his
then-girlfriend dressed up as a man) for a camp dance, precisely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because</i> he presented as straight. He
liked to shatter stereotypes about straight men, which he wouldn’t have been
able to do if people didn’t perceive him as straight. Sharing now, after his
death, what he kept as his deepest, lifelong secret feels like a betrayal of
how he wanted to be perceived. But the more I examine the pressure put on boys
to be strong, unemotional and driven wild by women, the more I feel Kyle’s
sexuality (and the shame he felt around it) at least deserves mention as a
factor in his early death. He felt ashamed of himself and who he was.</span><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;"><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Kyle’s
secrecy about his sexuality is even more puzzling because I am queer, his
sister is queer and our whole family is fairly accepting of a range of
sexualities. This made it all the more shocking when Kyle “came out” to me when
he was 22. He was living on the West Coast, had recently broken up with his
longtime girlfriend, gotten his own apartment, and was signed up to go to the
University of Washington, Seattle, to major in neurobiology that spring. He
phoned me in the middle of his night/my early morning and said, “Mom, I think
I’m gay.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqilGDTdI7qr34zOH7L85Naag3h7VAlZFhCd9MHMkh0dP2AKONSxzcPKOIxaeLQdyAcX2QYuFQhl1XGWE8x7IOG2A6FjuzxN25EwfSzTMSz3AVFwbTa3t0-vrIvRRC0vwSs1ntSXvjX6tv/s960/14479733_10154632611229673_3403916019777595464_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqilGDTdI7qr34zOH7L85Naag3h7VAlZFhCd9MHMkh0dP2AKONSxzcPKOIxaeLQdyAcX2QYuFQhl1XGWE8x7IOG2A6FjuzxN25EwfSzTMSz3AVFwbTa3t0-vrIvRRC0vwSs1ntSXvjX6tv/s320/14479733_10154632611229673_3403916019777595464_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The expression “you could have knocked me over with a feather” fits here. When my
son announced into my half-asleep ear that he was gay, I could not have been
more stunned–or so I thought. It turned out he was really calling to tell me he
was on crack, which turned out to be the more stunning news from that conversation—and
the news on which we focused as a family afterward. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">During
this coming-out call he reminded me that I had stated as fact throughout his
childhood that men could not be bisexual, that if a man had attractions to men,
he was just gay and would figure that out eventually. I apparently repeated
this misguided belief to both my children repeatedly, which left Kyle feeling
he couldn’t ever tell me about his experiences with men, as then I would be
sure he was gay, which he didn’t think he was – or at least not until the night
he made that call. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A
broad study published in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Proceedings of
the National Academy of Sciences </i>last year suggests that my disbelief in
male bisexuality is common – and wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="https://www.pnas.org/content/117/31/18369"><span color="windowtext">https://www.pnas.org/content/117/31/18369</span></a>
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The
article begins, “<span style="background: white;">There has long been skepticism
among both scientists and laypersons that male bisexual orientation exists.
Skeptics have claimed that men who self-identify as bisexual are actually
homosexual or heterosexual. (The existence of female bisexuality has been less
controversial.)” This was true in our family, too. Kyle said he was afraid of ever
acting gay or effeminate, indicating he believed that to be a real man he had
to not only be straight but act straight. Another study, this one by the Human
Rights Campaign, published the year after my son’s death, found that <b>bisexuals
are more likely to have mental-health issues, attempt and commit suicide,
suffer from major depression, and have problems with binge-drinking than either
gay or straight people.</b> It turns out Kyle needed mental-health help when he
“came out” as both bisexual and as a hard-drug addict. Instead, I only focused
on getting him into rehab, where he got no therapy most of the time. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">And while we (Jamie, my wife and I, at least), tried to get
Kyle to talk further about his sexuality in the remaining years of his life, he
resisted, insisting he was fine, “mostly straight,” and didn’t want to talk
about it. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">No matter how many terrible
drug stories he was willing to share with us, that part of himself, the part
that was attracted to men, remained a part he felt unable or unwilling to
explore with us.</span></p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Kyle went through the UU’s OWL, Our Whole Lives, sexual
education training. So in theory he was taught that there was no wrong way to
be human, that he should celebrate himself and his sexuality whether he loved
men or women. But one class can’t counter the pressure of an entire culture. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I have no neat conclusion for this essay, no easy lesson to
tie up with a bow for everyone, except to say that we all must work harder to
let our children know that we can and would love and accept them no matter who
they love, and to fight the cultural messages that teach our boys to suppress
their emotions unless the outlets of drugs, alcohol or risk-taking are allowing
them to let some feelings out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do want
to conclude by sharing one of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kyle’s
poems with you—and one of my own, both of which are in our book, which features
Kyle’s poems and my own and is being published in late July by Finishing
Line Press.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">First, here is a poem by Kyle in which he demonstrates his
need to be a tough guy even in the throes of his despair around being an
addict:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">LIQUOR BOTTLE MIGHT AS WELL BE A
PISTOL</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">by </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Kyle Fisher-Hertz</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, age 25<br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Liquor bottle might as well be a pistol;<br />
I take shots like a cop with his clip full.<br />
Fuck popping a pill–I need a fistful,<br />
cuz the beast in my belly never gets full.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I try to stand my ground but I get
pulled<br />
like a midget with a leashed-up pit bull.<br />
Cuz my addiction grips and then it yanks my chain.<br />
Makes my thoughts so naughty I should spank my brain<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Coming up with grand plans so damn
insane<br />
I'll break my arm like a retard, then go to the ER, <br />
and tell the nurse “10”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>when I rank the
pain.<br />
Cuz I'll do anything it takes just to get my fix.<br />
But when I start to sober up. I regret the shit.<br />
Gotta figure out a plan to forget the shit.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So while I think, I pour a drink,
just to wet my lips.<br />
Next thing I know, I'm shooting dope, and I'm stressed as shit<br />
cuz I'm digging in a vein I can't get to hit; <br />
I'm fucked–and not just the tip,<br />
fucked like an old lady with a busted hip.<br />
I'm alone and I've fallen and I can't get up,<br />
laid out on the couch feeling jammed as fuck,<br />
exhausted by the thought of just standing up–<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">let alone trying to hustle up my
next score.<br />
Getting high's the only thing I get dressed for<br />
or take breaths for.<br />
I just press forward<br />
with the piece of life <br />
I traded all the rest for.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: center;"> </span></p></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">And
then here’s one of mine, in which I mourn Kyle’s inability to accept himself
for who he was:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">FORENSIC EXAMINATION<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">I
lay out the photos chronologically,<br />
birth to death, looking for the one <br />
that will leap up shouting, “Here! This <br />
is the day you might have saved him!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Instead
they just tell their happy story:<br />
loved baby, loved boy, ever joyful.<br />
When his face shut down at 12, only <br />
hindsight lets me see my disruptive <br />
need to leave his father shatter him, <br />
corrupting his fierce faith in love.<br />
In uprooting him, I showed him<br />
he could be switched with a flip <br />
from popular golden child <br />
to nervous nerd who couldn’t<br />
tell a joke nor make a single friend. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">I
rushed him back, replanted him <br />
in familiar soil where he seemed <br />
to thrive again, but by then he had seen<br />
how powerless he was, knew his good life<br />
could collapse anytime. The worm biding its time <br />
squirmed out of its hole as my son learned <br />
his good life was towers waiting to fall.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Pictures
after adolescence barely <br />
show a glitch; he still hams it up, skates<br />
past his drug arrests. He rock climbs, <br />
goes to college, falls in love, teaches, hikes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">He
leaves no photos of himself on crack, <br />
nothing in his journals about the men he met <br />
through Grindr, no evidence of how he gradually<br />
ground himself down every time he felt good.<br />
In his last pictures, he holds his daughter, <br />
wraps his arms around me, dances with his sister, <br />
gazes into his girlfriend’s eyes, pushes his grandmother’s <br />
wheelchair, worm rolling under his tongue. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;">My
compulsive need to find an explanation <br />
keeps me poring over pictures, videos, poems<br />
for years. Now I’ve excavated all my mistakes--<br />
and found only this: nothing brings him back.<br />
<span style="background: white; color: #333333;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
</div>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-42960874554517137642021-03-29T20:25:00.003-04:002021-04-15T15:47:57.658-04:00YOU CAN ORDER MY BOOK NOW!<p>Hello, wonderful reader friends! I am so excited that my book is suddenly, magically available for pre-sales at <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/what-i-should-have-said" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/what-i-should-have-said</a>! </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgilsNvoL1nZkzhhqZUfISWYrZ6t50YfwOncLBg7pEVhj0JxuXrv4Bd3hah_hwAvJnbgbMCM63EotQ8beu3OPixCCroxdI_VGXWaOX9CvwzgF8DQ5bERNFJ0p56Gfq2f9KCmyER_rGVQcdh/s2000/Cover+What+I+Should+Have+Said.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1333" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgilsNvoL1nZkzhhqZUfISWYrZ6t50YfwOncLBg7pEVhj0JxuXrv4Bd3hah_hwAvJnbgbMCM63EotQ8beu3OPixCCroxdI_VGXWaOX9CvwzgF8DQ5bERNFJ0p56Gfq2f9KCmyER_rGVQcdh/w426-h640/Cover+What+I+Should+Have+Said.png" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, question... is my website good enough for my new life as a world-famous author? Some friends who know about such things don't think so, but when I look at what I'd have to pay to have a good Word Press or Wix site, I just don't think it's worth it. Who is going to buy my book -- or not buy it -- just because of my website? Or am I thinking too small? </div><br /><p><br /></p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-14197577272226893522021-03-11T22:18:00.006-05:002021-04-15T15:49:49.072-04:00My Book is Almost Here: I Need Your Address <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh93bS_n-PWBOailzXg7_k8h77IHPcg4RFzF6YbeiUKakCme-JOyZApbfVqBwSEnPQg-uvTKpm7ij1T1UEwwdjSNj8CbIyGsAOTljjUKWtUfXu4kcXWJSTATsX1fcPtglRdQe2KAYBs_ksM/s2000/Back+What+I+Should+Have+Said.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1333" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh93bS_n-PWBOailzXg7_k8h77IHPcg4RFzF6YbeiUKakCme-JOyZApbfVqBwSEnPQg-uvTKpm7ij1T1UEwwdjSNj8CbIyGsAOTljjUKWtUfXu4kcXWJSTATsX1fcPtglRdQe2KAYBs_ksM/w426-h640/Back+What+I+Should+Have+Said.png" width="426" /></a></div>Finishing Line Press tells me my debut poetry collection, is going into pre-sales at the end of this month. I am super excited to send everyone a postcard and/or an email with the ordering information as soon as it's available. If you want to know how to order the book early, which I pray you will all do as it helps determine how big a print run there will be, please send me an email at lanettesweeney@gmail.com with your mailing address and I will add you to my list! <p></p><p>I had said a few weeks ago that I was going to post a blog twice a week, but then I posted a blog and nobody read it (really, it was so weird, after 100 + people read the one before, no one read the last one), so I thought, well, maybe twice a month is too often, so I've gone back to sporadically posting as the spirit moves me. </p><p><b>Six</b> poems from the collection have been picked up by literary journals in the past couple of months, including a poem by Kyle that he wrote for his sister Jamie. I'm thrilled that this book will also give my son a chance to have his poems out in the world, and it only just occurred to me I could be submitting his work for publication, too, so I will be working on that next. </p><p>I hope I hear from many of you with your addresses. Don't be scared because it's poetry; I promise you will be able to understand the poems. Tell your friends who you think might benefit from a grief-recovery story, as well. And if you're in a book group, maybe you can all choose my book for one of your upcoming reads and invite me to your book group. I'd love that. I can feel Kyle smiling with me at that idea. </p><div>Finally, I feel I have to add that it feels very strange to be excited about this book that came about only because my son is dead. Obviously, I would rather have my son than this book, but since I didn't get to choose, I'm proud to have been able to create this project from my grief, and I know the book is going to be a help and comfort to many people. Thank you all for your encouragement of me through this journey.<div><br /></div><div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> #</span> <br /><p><br /></p></div></div>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-8631440269083422822021-02-09T12:17:00.005-05:002021-04-15T15:50:57.625-04:00Luckily, sharing our pain helps everyone<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4hD7LBdUpiEiO2eg6Vgh2dVJFfrkIHbGnzPDdQGrnOhUFE0Wu4Scg5SGEFnJ9v_oj6eULxJLS5rx0C5-NAzY-H30k-SUBqamIu0MmjLB6QKdi57aLnWGNyT5GFGeZI7Ia101nzy5kAfkE/s960/pipeline+art.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4hD7LBdUpiEiO2eg6Vgh2dVJFfrkIHbGnzPDdQGrnOhUFE0Wu4Scg5SGEFnJ9v_oj6eULxJLS5rx0C5-NAzY-H30k-SUBqamIu0MmjLB6QKdi57aLnWGNyT5GFGeZI7Ia101nzy5kAfkE/w480-h640/pipeline+art.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Several months after Kyle's death, his grieving sister Jamie made this art<br />of a poem Kyle wrote her, "Pipeline," which inspired the one I reference <br />at left, "For Those Who Need Science Before Faith." Or... maybe it makes<br />more sense to say that <i>I</i> inspired <i>this </i>poem by talking about my belief in <br />the pipeline with Kyle and Jamie when they were little children . I have <br />imagined it invisibly connecting us all since I was a child, though I don't<br />remember anyone sharing the idea with me. I am excited my book features<br />20 of Kyle's poems, including "Pipeline" as a companion piece for <br />"For Those Who..." My son's poems appear alongside 60 of my own.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After more than 20 combined rejections, three more of the poems from my book were accepted for publication by online literary journals this past week! I’m thrilled they were accepted in time to be listed on my book's acknowledgments page, and I was especially touched by the notes the editors sent me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The editor of the online <a href="https://amethystmagazine.org/"><i>Amethyst Review</i> </a>said she “would be honored” to publish a long rhyming poem that I worked on for more than two years, “For Those Who Need Science Before Faith.” She said all the poems <br />I’d sent her were “very strong," However, the poem she accepted has been a hard sell: it has one rhyme scheme that carries across four sections and 30 stanzas and examines my and <br />my family’s evolving thoughts about faith in the midst of loss. The<br />fact that an editor saw <br />its value and wants to share it with her readers is just what I dreamed of and deeply moving to me. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The editor of the online journal <i><a href="https://pleaseseeme.com/">Please See Me</a></i> said he's happy to publish another hard sell, the longest poem in my book, “The Body’s Expression,” as well as the collection’s title poem, which contains the message I am most eager to share with readers: “What I Should Have Said.” </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When I wrote to thank the editor, he wrote back, “Please excuse me for not saying sooner how important your writing is and how much I personally respect your willingness to turn your personal loss and pain into an experience meaningful to others. In the two years we have had [<i>Please See Me]</i> up we have read about too many such losses of young people and not everyone is able to share their stories with the necessary skill that aligns with candor.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This comment made me think about David Kessler’s book, <i>Finding Meaning: The Sixth Stage of Grief</i>. Kessler, who survived the nation's first mass shooting and endured his mother dying of cancer when he was a little boy, has worked with the grief-stricken all his adult life. He co-authored with Elizabeth Kubler Ross <i>On Grief and Grieving</i>, the book that introduced the five stages of grief, and <i>On Death and Dying.</i> Then the unthinkable happened, and his own son died of an overdose at the age of 21, just after he’d started writing <i>Finding Meaning</i>. It seemed like a cosmic joke from the universe, leaving him feeling that his life was absolutely bereft of meaning. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPJSG6iIgQd8pgZcEgBqrt3PELxhWBP3ZJxJmWggFswYJnPpQgQuqB1Ci6ljf8q_ycToefomHtHY84SeUnLkJAkUhgmANTgyUsrSKOrIyZ3jqLlwAKCI0WoG0kStyxGHNPuIfZheaxy6w/s499/findingmeaning.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPJSG6iIgQd8pgZcEgBqrt3PELxhWBP3ZJxJmWggFswYJnPpQgQuqB1Ci6ljf8q_ycToefomHtHY84SeUnLkJAkUhgmANTgyUsrSKOrIyZ3jqLlwAKCI0WoG0kStyxGHNPuIfZheaxy6w/s320/findingmeaning.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">He realized immediately that he’d had no idea how profound the loss of a child was until he experienced it himself. While I’m sure he treated every parent with whom he’d worked through the years with great sensitivity, he said he now wished he could go apologize to every one for his previous lack of true understanding. That he was able to continue to write and publish this book is what gave <i>his </i>loss deeper meaning. He knew that much as he would wish it otherwise, he was now going to be able to help many more people survive their horrible losses and revive their gladness to be alive because of his horrible new empathy. His book helped me persist in </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>putting together my poetry collection, as getting this book and its message out into the world is how <b><i>I </i></b>am f</span><span>inding meaning in my own loss. Kessler continues to find meaning in helping other grievers through his <a href="https://grief.com/">website</a> and Facebook group, created at the start of the pandemic.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Nearly all of us will experience deep grief and pain in our lifetimes, but those who are able to turn that loss into some kind of meaningful project or life's work that honors their lost loved one are best able to go forward with renewed hope. I’m grateful Kessler’s work helped affirm this for me. Writing my book was the beginning of my healing, and getting it out into the world will help me further by allowing me to reach other families who have undergone or are still undergoing the same pain. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve also received several notes over the four years of my grieving on Facebook and over the past week from readers of this blog telling me that my willingness to share my pain as openly as I have has been a help to them. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">How lucky I am that what is helping me (writing about my pain and sharing that writing) is simultaneously helping others. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">#</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">P.S. Thank you John Sibley Williams, for your great video advising poets it’s all a numbers game and encouraging us to submit more of our work. You inspired me to do that, and it’s working!</span></p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">#poetry #submissions #rejections #grief</span></p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-86808849498584068512021-02-05T12:47:00.002-05:002021-02-06T11:49:32.879-05:00I Wish I'd Let Him Know How Proud I Was of Him<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">My huge grief over having my son die of addiction overshadowed most other thoughts for the first couple of years after his overdose death in 2016. But more recently, I've been reflecting on Kyle's life and what he achieved--and what he <i>didn't </i>live long enough or become brave enough to ever achieve</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DO75MXa3Ekqovv29i3ywdKpwxwxtA-OGF58Q9UTFxjkKkSgZLdp3ZeKG3dCxFLL17fjsSqL9JLPY58v_9zQqvLAKdxIt_ui-3YQb9VyxzecXd5tGEMEbxQ0DG19ecfO0foF2ogDvGNav/s2048/201.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1991" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DO75MXa3Ekqovv29i3ywdKpwxwxtA-OGF58Q9UTFxjkKkSgZLdp3ZeKG3dCxFLL17fjsSqL9JLPY58v_9zQqvLAKdxIt_ui-3YQb9VyxzecXd5tGEMEbxQ0DG19ecfO0foF2ogDvGNav/s320/201.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jamie and Kyle the year before he died.<br />He would be so incredibly proud of her.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I often think of how proud Kyle would be of his little sister, who was two years younger than him but is now two years older than he ever lived to be. Jamie fights for justice in every single thing she does: in her work choices, her group memberships, her spending, her gift-giving </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">(she gets me a gift to a bail-fund gift for mothers in prison for Mother's Day every year)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">, her living choices, and her volunteer time. Kyle was <i>always </i>proud of her for all she was achieving. He was proud of both of us, actually, when we marched for justice, even though I don't think he took part in any marches after the anti-war one I took him to when he was 11. But I remember in 2014 when I posted on Facebook that I was taking part in a march for Ferguson, he was so excited to tell people his mom had gone all the way to Ferguson to stand up for racial justice. (He was definitely disappointed when I explained I was just marching <i>for</i> Ferguson, in Springfield, MA, not <i>in </i>Ferguson.)</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Anyway, the point of this post when I started it was to share that I get sad sometimes thinking that Kyle was too caught up in his
addiction at the end of his life to participate in any way in politics or
activism. I was proud of him at earlier periods of his life when he stood up for social justice; I know he took pride in the work he did for City Year. But sometimes it seemed to me that he'd done nothing but use drugs and try to recover for the last couple of years of his life. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then the other day this post he put on Facebook in the last year of
his life popped up in my memories. He was in the fourth month of a six-month inpatient rehab program that gradually increased his freedoms until he was supposed to be ready to go out to live on his own. So when he wrote this, he was in the middle of his longest sober period since his daughter's birth two years earlier. This must have been his first job as he transitioned toward self-sufficiency from that rehab. I might not agree with how he practiced ally-ship here, but I’m proud that he did *something* instead of nothing. This is my "share" of his post, which starts with my recalling how he fought against homophobia as a child: </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitudJ7wfbNi2gxWlxrcQevmvgspw0Tzl8OMkuNap658mHAPf3MReqHwbttjqIbygj4wSM5glGtXz88ObLqapRqgeMX-WEP74Eu7eqOH0mOtzo4eBML1GAN3GjihmRugPP6acoOLwnpqVSP/s2160/Screenshot_20210202-091620.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitudJ7wfbNi2gxWlxrcQevmvgspw0Tzl8OMkuNap658mHAPf3MReqHwbttjqIbygj4wSM5glGtXz88ObLqapRqgeMX-WEP74Eu7eqOH0mOtzo4eBML1GAN3GjihmRugPP6acoOLwnpqVSP/w320-h640/Screenshot_20210202-091620.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGnBGDNtic58Bh6H4jdIvJ3M50JS-59YqEjjWqhzHIYvTdSsKd48IcEwmZi5Ub4N7uLIEszhAtX9e7WfHvH6eFeJ-P8Jk-HrdGZRBRz8paDJfHP9YOVMoLKRozFl_4BjOS9CbWuWbZsR6N/s2160/Screenshot_20210202-091644.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGnBGDNtic58Bh6H4jdIvJ3M50JS-59YqEjjWqhzHIYvTdSsKd48IcEwmZi5Ub4N7uLIEszhAtX9e7WfHvH6eFeJ-P8Jk-HrdGZRBRz8paDJfHP9YOVMoLKRozFl_4BjOS9CbWuWbZsR6N/w320-h640/Screenshot_20210202-091644.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFg38av_0HMBzmDZOQfEWw2Rz1AQ9G5BCjsvwVGpZI7TFfyfXdvUMH-YbHgdUzIWL8Z3O0jMfIwIPy1rr4B8rSvZHQkWSEIYJQgGalutM4S4HKy8ReO7Ow687qPCZD6zqmKgSd1XAfZ5QG/s2160/Screenshot_20210202-091710.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFg38av_0HMBzmDZOQfEWw2Rz1AQ9G5BCjsvwVGpZI7TFfyfXdvUMH-YbHgdUzIWL8Z3O0jMfIwIPy1rr4B8rSvZHQkWSEIYJQgGalutM4S4HKy8ReO7Ow687qPCZD6zqmKgSd1XAfZ5QG/w320-h640/Screenshot_20210202-091710.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-sHmjwH-nU77wW2I5zG7qQEXKDt_ip31uMO9GekSTH6fH6A6zvD7_8D-pZO8-VeVReFN8ysEqE-CPCrL2saXNH03jyOyH61gFygp-H_EN9zbixZZZTDNgYsxsveRoLmD5iRSQz5z93s2E/s2160/Screenshot_20210202-091723.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-sHmjwH-nU77wW2I5zG7qQEXKDt_ip31uMO9GekSTH6fH6A6zvD7_8D-pZO8-VeVReFN8ysEqE-CPCrL2saXNH03jyOyH61gFygp-H_EN9zbixZZZTDNgYsxsveRoLmD5iRSQz5z93s2E/w320-h640/Screenshot_20210202-091723.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDEhfnKQtYBPaHbA-cz70e9q5gwEq6ujVBewmGvkq2egDj6YtAQlM1caijF8rkYnLI51JyuM3rlrJo5Vi_XJytxUYjqOHWwEOaP-BOkG_kNOlvK9KONgQcGJ8AIJz4_KLv4Xn85g325chs/s2160/Screenshot_20210202-091735.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDEhfnKQtYBPaHbA-cz70e9q5gwEq6ujVBewmGvkq2egDj6YtAQlM1caijF8rkYnLI51JyuM3rlrJo5Vi_XJytxUYjqOHWwEOaP-BOkG_kNOlvK9KONgQcGJ8AIJz4_KLv4Xn85g325chs/w320-h640/Screenshot_20210202-091735.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyubthpHrcRo5nY5P8ME6hSwRzdoMaJRSHmoTXXTOG8hIhPmYRTNQsGMbIRpmrMawMxuUO4lpULQAAz-Ph-5nqDbpEpJdprBqtjg4RvC6K-bbDGXZz6AToKNYaTdOpuJ0aFu1HBR8p0Erl/s2160/Screenshot_20210202-091751.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyubthpHrcRo5nY5P8ME6hSwRzdoMaJRSHmoTXXTOG8hIhPmYRTNQsGMbIRpmrMawMxuUO4lpULQAAz-Ph-5nqDbpEpJdprBqtjg4RvC6K-bbDGXZz6AToKNYaTdOpuJ0aFu1HBR8p0Erl/w320-h640/Screenshot_20210202-091751.png" width="320" /></a></div>Reading through this and the comments that followed made me wish I had expressed more clearly how proud I was of him for standing up for what was right. He was a short guy (under 5'7" I think, though his driver's license claimed 5'8") and he was definitely not a fighter; probably it took a lot of courage for him to say what he did to those guys. And yet, my response was to tell him that I wanted him to think about how he could have done more or done it better. <p></p><p>Losing a child gives you a lifetime to review one's regrets. I've gotten much better at forgiving myself for the mistakes I made, knowing that every mother makes mistakes -- but that doesn't mean I don't still wish I had done better. So I share this blog in the hopes that if you still have alive children, you can learn from my mistakes. Tell your kids what a great job they're doing. Full Stop. (Jamie, I hope you see this and know I'm talking to you, too.)</p><p><br /></p><p>See everyone next week: I'm publishing a post every Tuesday and Friday now. PLEASE subscribe if you haven't already. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">#allyship #anti-racism #grief #regret<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-63518953377938271812021-02-02T23:23:00.005-05:002021-02-03T00:09:39.359-05:00We Couldn't Do Better Until We Knew Better<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I felt guilty after sharing yesterday’s happy news. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMHutu3jnOXjPBSiEkDAD7lJByXGSjNCrFbUKMqFD3MuUYVkLQAan7IT-NMK3bdwCjrBF-atb4mh4kBrxCkPFa3fuRQvAcRLoF4MY6kuq8b1IGGtZLQqsnMGuUa8yi929uqSdCWHEBuqn/s488/IMG_0577.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Besides the guilt I always feel when I admit I’m doing well and feeling happy even </span><span>though my son is still dead, I also felt guilt over how cluelessly spoiled I sounded. </span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-f5KogHCA8p8X0LCbwYlk7tvAMVbw_GClV_59VOfsHGUszuyBU96FoejCzeJEPSYfr10nBQzwRockGpl9c4VtMX_TxS85phOSOtr-BZJhW8Iyrhcu3XTb_QmSb0lE-c4FbOKhBE1Q7hb_/s1964/IMG_0456.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1964" data-original-width="1789" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-f5KogHCA8p8X0LCbwYlk7tvAMVbw_GClV_59VOfsHGUszuyBU96FoejCzeJEPSYfr10nBQzwRockGpl9c4VtMX_TxS85phOSOtr-BZJhW8Iyrhcu3XTb_QmSb0lE-c4FbOKhBE1Q7hb_/s320/IMG_0456.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kyle worked at Local Burger when<br />he was in recovery in Amherst. I still<br />choke up every time I walk in there.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I boasted yesterday about how proud of myself I was for making time to read more books and write more poems and post more blogs. I didn’t mention my underlying anxiety that there is still so much that needs fixing in our country that to take half a day to work on a poem (which I now often do) feels like not just an enormous luxury but possibly a way of burying my head in the sand. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I did do some things last month to help advance the cause of social justice in my own small way, and though it felt wrong to toot my horn by mentioning these things yesterday, today it feels more wrong that I didn’t mention them. So toot toot, here goes: </span></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-size: medium;">My wife and I stood vigil one Saturday for Black Lives Matter, </span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">I paid for and attended a two-hour workshop put on by Still Kickin on how to be more anti-racist in my everyday life, </span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">I follow all the smart people of color I can find on social media to help me make better sense of the world (go, Joy Reid!) </span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">I attended poetry workshops that mostly featured writers of color. I am always doing all I can to expand my perspective. </span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">I am reading several books right now by and about people of color, including </span></li><ul><li><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Caste </i>by Isabel Wilkerson, <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6GHtUTduBGLe5IEEnKFtY_ZrijG30ur1PkWUx_9KjbvMwgzFRhZrwBXGrGRymLLsfcUObi1mZGSFPHGzrlmWYWOEiDVexJyiQnmKTzW1lG6cL3JSr-pdfPBUw4lPYUFt7MC9HdY8KSOS/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1221" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6GHtUTduBGLe5IEEnKFtY_ZrijG30ur1PkWUx_9KjbvMwgzFRhZrwBXGrGRymLLsfcUObi1mZGSFPHGzrlmWYWOEiDVexJyiQnmKTzW1lG6cL3JSr-pdfPBUw4lPYUFt7MC9HdY8KSOS/w131-h200/image.png" width="131" /></a></div></span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">Trevor Noah’s tragi-comic autobiography, <i>Born a Crime</i>, about growing up mixed-race in a country that imprisoned people for interracial relationships, </span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">and a gorgeously written but dense and long novel <i>A Girl is a Body of Water</i> by Jennifer Nansubuga Mayumba, a story of a girl’s coming of age in Uganda during Idi Amin’s rule</span></li></ul></ul><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But what is the point of my listing these steps beyond giving you some excellent book recommendations? It’s still not enough, and I know it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And yet…</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Guilt is not productive, so while I can't help feeling it, I can remind myself none of us has time for wallowing in that mess. I cannot fix everything; I can only affect what is within my reach. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My goals this year as my book comes out must be laser focused if I am to have any impact. So this year I am focusing on reaching as many parents and addicts and allies as I can with the message I wish I’d heard while my son was still alive: medication-assisted treatment saves lives and should not be stigmatized. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I feel sickened that as a society we are only reaching this conclusion now that it’s our white children dying in droves. When Black people were addicted to crack or overdosing on heroin, no one showed them any compassion; they were demonized and criminalized. Now that it’s our kids, we white parents are suddenly advocating for more treatment, recognizing </span><span style="font-size: medium;">addiction as a brain disorder. How convenient. Suddenly we want the whole world to understand that our children are (or were) incredible human beings brimming with potential, so much more than their addictions. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wish I had been able to see the humanity in other addicts, whom I viewed as immoral failures, before addiction killed my child. This is a shame I can only live with by turning it into action. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Just as I must forgive myself for the terrible misunderstandings I had about addiction when my son was still alive, I also must accept that I failed to recognize how racism was impacting addiction treatment before my son was an addict. I hope that by seeing me admit this, other white people can think about admitting it, too. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJlRqyDIy1cinIsrI9NAhPcaLPL1Nef6Qvs-m3vvB5s3ZDGOAaLk9F90z8OBsFiKW4HRu33JDw8yi1E0Vn8o4gxYyN0d4KQQlLu3W9Kj10ExVLKOQ4Ab-sZfkk5Fmosb6au7WmFWhO7_32/" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="680" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJlRqyDIy1cinIsrI9NAhPcaLPL1Nef6Qvs-m3vvB5s3ZDGOAaLk9F90z8OBsFiKW4HRu33JDw8yi1E0Vn8o4gxYyN0d4KQQlLu3W9Kj10ExVLKOQ4Ab-sZfkk5Fmosb6au7WmFWhO7_32/w320-h320/image.png" width="320" /></a><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>We were all part of the problem until the problem came for our kids. </span><span>We couldn't do better 'til we knew better. But now that we do know better, we are morally obligated to act. </span></span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Meanwhile, medical treatment</span><i><u> is</u></i><span> still what will save lives, so just because we were slow to figure this out </span><span>doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be fighting now for equitable,life-saving treatment for everyone. I am committed to keep mentioning how poorly we white people behaved when this was someone else’s problem. I wish I could go back in time and fix what we did (and, you know, save my son's life while I’m back there), but since I can’t, I vow to keep my awareness of our history top of mind as I look for ways to move us all forward in this fight. </span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Thanks for reading. Please share this with someone if you think it can help open a conversation. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">#grief #guilt #addiction #anti-racism</span></p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-19302034235579396912021-02-01T16:33:00.005-05:002021-02-02T17:59:01.627-05:00My Goals Have Been So Good for Me, I'm Making More!<p></p><div>I just ended my best month ever since the death of my son. (I suppose every superlative will always have to be qualified now with a "before-or-after-my-son's-death" extension, because I am two different people in those divided worlds.)<br /><br /></div><div>But let me not get maudlin; I am here to share a reason to celebrate. It’s been four years and four<br /> months since my son died, and last month – despite an attempted mob-coup and the choke hold of our national anxiety as we awaited the Biden-Harris inauguration--was the best month I’ve had since Kyle’s death. I felt productive and fully present, as if I were firing on all cylinders for the first time since my loss. I feel happy. It turns out keeping one's promises to oneself feels really good.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I had set out at the beginning of 2021 to live more “a life of the mind,” to waste less time scrolling and acquiring things and to spend more time reading, writing and reflecting. I also knew I needed to start planning the launch of my book (a poetry collection about the loss of my son to addiction and overdose), which goes into pre-sales with Finishing Line Press on March 29th. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR9NRHqV-W6y9VMBfaDBVNt_Pksrq55RSvTZVYbHcbKk96ClO08Sh1pNn_jhtZIVIuGNGUUywUnb6hcHYVIUdL5pzRyoaxuHnN6y7GZxSdGmDK8g44_Ndcf8mpdMoWbL2GQ3ugoqH6gYDj/s2508/20210130_112317.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="2508" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR9NRHqV-W6y9VMBfaDBVNt_Pksrq55RSvTZVYbHcbKk96ClO08Sh1pNn_jhtZIVIuGNGUUywUnb6hcHYVIUdL5pzRyoaxuHnN6y7GZxSdGmDK8g44_Ndcf8mpdMoWbL2GQ3ugoqH6gYDj/s320/20210130_112317.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div>"I've done it!" I said to my wife yesterday in triumph. "I had an incredible life of the mind this month!" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Really?" she replied. "Are you sure? You don't feel you have to spend too much time cooking?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Which just shows you how kind and encouraging of my goals she is.</div><div><br /></div><div>(Don't tell her, but I have actual fun, often listening to an audiobook, as I prepare our dinners. Who ever dreamed I would be able to eat food that tasted this good every day? Who even knew there *was* food that tasted this good? And how awesome that I know how to create it and am privileged to be able to afford it. As someone who felt I was giving my kids a balanced meal when I heated up a bag of frozen peas to serve with boxed mac and cheese, I'm really proud of myself for the fresh, healthy mix of meats and veggies I whip into meals now.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, over the month of January:</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>I read and listened to lots of books – the best of which were <i>Machines Like Me </i>by Ian MacEwen,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3s7uitgSN57fxL3_ZnvlXaYzOL9gqwzO-co2aXaUWVAiYQgExpH1yq8FyhZ9g9x85ZmpjhTvwUNOr2gLz7fkPnxCSEaDfUb2p9rtdN-Ml-cCNyyBYZqQjxA53pI9F19yZY5NNVkyMNtAN/s488/machines+like+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="488" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3s7uitgSN57fxL3_ZnvlXaYzOL9gqwzO-co2aXaUWVAiYQgExpH1yq8FyhZ9g9x85ZmpjhTvwUNOr2gLz7fkPnxCSEaDfUb2p9rtdN-Ml-cCNyyBYZqQjxA53pI9F19yZY5NNVkyMNtAN/s320/machines+like+me.jpg" /></a></div>for which I am leading a Forbes book group on Feb. 8th, <i>The Cold Millions</i> by Jess Walter, and <i>Mexican Gothic</i> by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. </li><li>I wrote lots of pages of poetry, essays and journal entries. If you would like to see my favorite poem I wrote over the past month, please subscribe or send me an email. (I can't share poems on my blog or they're considered published, but if you promise not to share, I can send one to you.) </li><li>I signed up to take a five-week short-story course that started the last week of January, and as a result read a Raymond Carver short story, "Cathedral," for the first time. (What a pleasure.)</li><li>I attended multiple workshops and poetry presentations, some of them breathtakingly good, including hours spent live-listening to Jane Hirshfield, Jo Harjo, Rachel Eliza Griffiths, and Natasha Threthewey read their work.</li><li>I watched an energetic workshop by John Sibley Williams on submitting poems that inspired me to send out a dozen submissions last week, which made the encouraging rejection letter I just received today a little less hard to take. (And now, the workshop taught me, I should send out two more submissions in response: one back at the rejector with new poems, and one to send the rejected poems somewhere else.) I highly recommend this workshop, which you can see <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mZ1TX9tEXw&t=31s" target="_blank">here</a>.</li><li>I received an acceptance of a poem about my boobs that I’ve been trying to get published for years! Now it’s going into Logic86’s journal about the service industry, which comes out next month. You can check out their website <a href="https://86logic.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.</li><li>I kept twice-weekly writing dates with two writing friends, giving me about 10 hours a week of scheduled writing time with witnesses, and I launched a new monthly writing date with another friend.</li><li>I agreed to write two poetry reviews, volunteered to host a Florence Poets Society event on April 28th for all of the members with new books out, got myself scheduled to be the featured reader at a Straw Dog Writer’s event on Sept. 7th, and have been invited to be the opening act for one of the members' book launches on May 26th.</li><li>I submitted an application to be a featured poetry reader in Phosphorescence, a new Emily Dickinson monthly series launching this year -- and I found out I'm having an interview published with Kenyon Review in their online "Poetry Today" column. (!!)</li><li>Renee and I decided to run for local town government positions, and we sent away for the paperwork we need to gather signatures. I’m running for library trustee and Renee is running for select board.</li><li>I started tracking daily goals and habits in a bullet journal, which I used about half the time. A good start.</li><li><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1GJmRIg0YRz0ELtWvCBv8kkUUiduSNVeZpla4czgebQ01EpY1gh86obvchm37hUoprhMqkzU6gp1RuLKteBm6-RQGiP0U_vKXhQhPT0C2fvBimsK4EX7AQeA3GM31DrIlSctS1uCpzkeH/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="960" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1GJmRIg0YRz0ELtWvCBv8kkUUiduSNVeZpla4czgebQ01EpY1gh86obvchm37hUoprhMqkzU6gp1RuLKteBm6-RQGiP0U_vKXhQhPT0C2fvBimsK4EX7AQeA3GM31DrIlSctS1uCpzkeH/" width="320" /></a></div>I played lots of bridge with my mother (and some on my own and with Larry). And although I’m apparently still a really terrible player (based on my coming in near last most of the time no matter who is my partner), I must be learning something! (Right?)</li><li>I had online game nights with friends and family, arts and crafts and nature time with Jamie (below, who took me on several adventures in January), and <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1WqlHlEm-_xL75ABm6VminJz4shCdpsWbvSM0AIkts7G5M30POnNeFM6PFnmzTkyPj48c8N-fK3HPCeCLRQNSZRNkGsY0k53gNcISotdVTNC_08nflPsgeQgXPP3cVPI_Zn36EDbGC1z/s1888/20210117_141102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1888" data-original-width="1666" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1WqlHlEm-_xL75ABm6VminJz4shCdpsWbvSM0AIkts7G5M30POnNeFM6PFnmzTkyPj48c8N-fK3HPCeCLRQNSZRNkGsY0k53gNcISotdVTNC_08nflPsgeQgXPP3cVPI_Zn36EDbGC1z/s320/20210117_141102.jpg" /></a></div>some family dinners where we played new games. Renee beat my ass at Scrabble (and more importantly, sweetly agreed to play Scrabble with me though I don’t think she loves the game). </li><li>I had therapy every week to help me keep working on setting better boundaries. Better boundaries mean more time for this life of the mind I’m building. Boundaries are easier to keep when they help me reach concrete goals. </li><li>I have begun working on an article about post-traumatic growth, which I just learned is not a concept familiar to all PTSD sufferers, which seems a shame</li></ul>Not everything was about the mind last month. I also took care of my body:<br /><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>I continued to do Yoga with Adriene every single day, which is keeping my body mostly pain-free. (As I said to the doctor at my annual physical last month, “If I’d known how great the return on investment would be on just 20 to 30 minutes of yoga a day, I would have started doing this years ago.” )</li><li>I flossed most days and recovered from losing a tooth. Those two items are connected. I wish I’d done more of the former to prevent the latter.</li><li>I started using a <a href="https://howls.com/" target="_blank">daily tincture</a> that is working on my winter sadness like a miracle.</li></ul>I’m also excited by what I did not do:</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>I did not use Buy Nothing at all (nor did I miss it), though I did enlist my wife to get rid of a few surplus items. Renee is invested in my getting rid of things, so I knew she’d be willing to help them find a new home. However, I’m pretty sure I am not increasing her fondness for the use of the Buy Nothing Facebook page, which is fine.</li></ul>Now I have a confession: my meta-awareness of how I was spending my time this month helped reveal one more area in which I am still a bit of a hoarder of free things: I have a frightening number of library books checked out, on hold, downloaded or in stacks all over my house. The audiobooks and ebooks are OK, because they disappear when their time runs out (leaving me half done with several books I have to keep taking out again.) But the number of library books in my house is out of control. I cannot possibly return all of them on time and still get them read. So… I have made the decision not to take out any more library books until every one of these is read. I know this may sound like a small goal to many of you (and will result in an anxiety-provoking number of late fees wracking up, though I know they’ll all be wiped out when the books go back), but I have been hoarding library books all my life (since early childhood), always feeling the need to take home great big stacks of every book I see that I could possibly want to read… and if I can learn to take out just one or two at a time, that will be an accomplishment. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also, while I’m confessing my book crimes, I have one borrowed book I haven’t been able to bring myself to return because I keep thinking I’ll finish it; I’m going to send a new copy to the kind lender who must think I am never giving that book back. You know who you are, Britt, and I’m sorry. </div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, my added goal for February is to do two blog posts a week. That way they’ll be shorter than this one. If you’re still reading, God bless you. </div><div><br /></div><div>How are you all doing on your New Year’s resolutions?</div><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div><br /><p></p></div>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-5328157219943259492021-01-21T14:49:00.002-05:002021-02-03T16:47:30.757-05:00Is That Hope I Feel? (Grief Made Me Dissociative But I Think That's Lifting Now)<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBfd1V7OL96QVOwbrRA5rXbJ0Od4BCr3LNDj4Yiq3oM6Iv_vKsvTgBe7MXsbaW5f6hm084hSMTK5cl337mkE1QQO8Hj_o-jKYbBwDgRZWBmm4tCRJbtT9O-pZ5qNE0azxhqFJBqqxujkme/s2048/lanettesweeney4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1307" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBfd1V7OL96QVOwbrRA5rXbJ0Od4BCr3LNDj4Yiq3oM6Iv_vKsvTgBe7MXsbaW5f6hm084hSMTK5cl337mkE1QQO8Hj_o-jKYbBwDgRZWBmm4tCRJbtT9O-pZ5qNE0azxhqFJBqqxujkme/s320/lanettesweeney4.jpg" /></a></p><p>I feel like we are all waking slowly from a bad dream this week-- though I also still have the creeped-out feeling that a monster's hand is going to shoot up out of the ground any second, as it doesn’t quite feel like the credits are done rolling yet. Anyone else feeling this way?</p><p>I am realizing, from this waking-from-a-nightmare feeling, that I have been in a somewhat dissociative state for the past four years, in part because of Trump’s win but also because my son died four years ago, just six weeks before the 2016 election. The day after the vote, people – no, actually, just women, who suddenly realized how totally devalued they (still) were--were crying in the streets about Trump being our next president, but I was having a very muted reaction to everything except my own grief.</p><p>I wasn’t crying about Trump because I still couldn’t have any feelings about anything except my own horrible loss. Still, it made perfect sense to me that others were now crying. I had wondered how the world could be going on as usual when my son had ripped himself out of the known universe. So when most people I knew went into deep grief over Trump being our president, I felt affirmed, as if suddenly everyone had realized with me what a wretched world we lived in.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg26T70Q7ZBOIB7rS2vXMyh18SiSTT7Xp9NWIFP7Gsm20Iur_sUFxYuTV5FXTnXGogXNOXVdJ054SWU_BjfxrhAPeqD9-jebshpTFwc8JZOR5FmHlLym98koX0YWuAB8PvGmCvDZSZ8lexv/s638/jack+and+rose.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="638" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg26T70Q7ZBOIB7rS2vXMyh18SiSTT7Xp9NWIFP7Gsm20Iur_sUFxYuTV5FXTnXGogXNOXVdJ054SWU_BjfxrhAPeqD9-jebshpTFwc8JZOR5FmHlLym98koX0YWuAB8PvGmCvDZSZ8lexv/w400-h154/jack+and+rose.jpg" width="400" /></a>Before I go on with the point of this post, which is about the protection the dissociative state provided me, I need to tell everyone reading this who is still in early-stage or prolonged-desperate-stage grief: there really is hope; you will not always feel as terrible as you do now. Nothing stays as it is, not the incredible moments nor our most awful ones, even if we feel permanently stuck. You may never feel like you did before your loss, may never be who you were in the land of before, but you will feel better than you do now if you just hang in there. You may even find you like your new self better, as that self will likely be less brash and arrogant having been put through the excruciating humbling we get when a child dies and we are shown we have no control over anything. In time you will stop trying to go back in time and change the past and that alone will give you more peace. Some of you might feel this increased sense of peace faster than four years, some of you might take longer, but that's how long it's taken me, and if I got here, I believe everyone can get here. If you are in the darkest place ever, I promise you it will change one day, just hang on like Rose after she fell off the Titanic and had to stay afloat on that door; I swear you will eventually feel differently than you do now. (Though if someone is in that water with you, you might want to take <i>turns</i> staying on the door...Just saying, Jack didn't have to die!)</p><p></p><p>Which brings me back to how I just now feel that I am coming out of a benumbed spell that has been holding me and all my fellow citizens hostage and that has been keeping me slightly disassociative all these years. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05LHzPDqBxu964oD6dr8ljcczHQkbRx44zXiO5lehm0u9b-JNxZP6NyE2fu2XWwiQ3Wq7wZZwPXmXviKmsH1p4jRCRD_Kz3NhHLW0BpjBHIjWjRYeLBOeIJXSfMc9Tu1MCLLgny79oG5q/s980/youth-poet-laureate-amanda-gorman.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="980" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05LHzPDqBxu964oD6dr8ljcczHQkbRx44zXiO5lehm0u9b-JNxZP6NyE2fu2XWwiQ3Wq7wZZwPXmXviKmsH1p4jRCRD_Kz3NhHLW0BpjBHIjWjRYeLBOeIJXSfMc9Tu1MCLLgny79oG5q/s320/youth-poet-laureate-amanda-gorman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Yesterday my wife and many of my friends cried watching the brilliant inauguration poet Amanda Garman (pictured here but please <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWOxqmRgiTY" target="_blank">watch the video</a> of her reading poem if you haven't). They cried when Kamala Harris smiled, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin at Sonia Sotomayor, something she advises young women to do if they find they are the first of their kind to have achieved a thing. They cried at seeing the little boy who’d been inspired to overcome his stutter by Biden’s example read us a speech during last night’s concert. They cried at JLo's Spanish shout-out and at Lady Gaga's emotional performance. And they cried seeing the list of the first 10 things Biden did with his executive orders. Through all of this, I was totally dry-eyed. I didn’t even feel choked up, not once, no matter how moving each moment was.<br /><p></p><p>I used to be quite a softy, but since my son’s death, the only thing I have cried over is my loss or my increased fear of anything happening to my daughter. Today, though, I feel I might be waking up. (Is this morning in America?) I suddenly feel like it might be safe to come fully back into my body.</p><p>When I was in very early-stage grief, I felt like my skin had been torn off and I was being asked to go back to work with my entire body an open, weeping wound. I cried every time I saw anyone. But it didn’t seem like I had any choice, financially, about whether I could stay home any longer, so there I was, back in my office, crying through much of each day. When I had to make my first business trip after my son's death, I scheduled it for the morning after the election, thinking everyone would be in a good mood, celebrating Hillary’s win. I was a fund-raiser for Hampshire College, so my meetings were to ask parents and alums to support the college, and everyone I met with that day seemed in shock. One set of parents I met kept shaking their heads while we were talking, as if each moment they stayed awake that day their disbelief only intensified that this was our new reality. I knew exactly how they felt. Or rather I felt now they had some idea how <i>I</i> felt, as I, too, couldn't believe life without my son was my new reality.</p><p>I don’t know when I started to care more about the outside world. I suppose Trump getting into office drove me to care sooner than I might have otherwise. He seemed to be destroying things (civility, civil rights, our alliances, our air and water, immigrants lives) faster than I could keep up and after a year or so I felt like <i>not </i>participating in protests against his behavior was condoning it, so I just acted as if I cared and called senators or wrote letters or did other small things. Eventually, I did those things with more genuine feeling. But even as my ability to feel real outrage over what was happening to our Democracy and Black lives and, say, the Olympic gymnasts’ doctor having molested hundreds of girls, my tear ducts stayed stopped up. I wasn’t consciously choosing not to feel things, but I understand now I just could not fully embody the emotions that came with caring. </p><p>What about children in cages? Surely that made me feel something. It's true, I could not believe how horrifically we were treating our fellow human beings. I was shocked that we were tearing small children from their families and putting them in concrete cells with Mylar blankets, feeding them gruel thinned with water from a hose, providing no one to care for them, and yet calling it a camp. I was pretty sure this was the worst federal thing that had been done in my name since I was born—but I still couldn’t really feel anything about it except anger, which isn't the same as feeling how traumatized and sad those children and parents must be. I did not have the reserves to draw on; it would take a few years for those to build back up.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjthw0XNMEcPg1hm_QmIX3wUGS8wEmfaDlErcDqVwg28lnD93yhCpb5cTVGTm1iXXhljKq-qkoewzLq2H9WFRFVuovat_48DkCmqjf6EHM85lz7IOAN1n4ues1014Da6BPoMw0a9Bef1SiM/s1280/kyle+grave+marker+in+snow.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjthw0XNMEcPg1hm_QmIX3wUGS8wEmfaDlErcDqVwg28lnD93yhCpb5cTVGTm1iXXhljKq-qkoewzLq2H9WFRFVuovat_48DkCmqjf6EHM85lz7IOAN1n4ues1014Da6BPoMw0a9Bef1SiM/w200-h400/kyle+grave+marker+in+snow.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>For at least the first year after my son died, I thought vague things like, “Oh, if I didn’t want to die from the pain of being in the world while my son is dead I might be able to care about [fill in the atrocity]. But I can’t. Too bad.” My mind was preoccupied pretty much every minute with how I could go back in time and fix or change whatever had led to my son's overdose death. Though I slowly accepted that there was no going back, I continued to obsess about what I <i>could </i>have done that <i>would </i>have resulted in a different outcome. <p></p><p>And, as mentioned, Trump’s behavior was so egregious that there were days I didn’t see how I could not at least have a Facebook argument with someone, try to save a cousin or a friend from whatever was happening to exponentially multiply hate among a significant minority of the population. I argued until I saw that no mind could be swayed. At all. No matter how many women came forward to say Trump had raped or assaulted them, including a woman with a credible witness who alleged Trump had raped and threatened to kill her and her family when she was just 13 years old, no matter how many disgusting things he said or did, it seemed no one ever stopped supporting him. Even my feelings about how thoroughly discounted his victims' experiences were did not really seep in. I had a protective bubble around myself. I could feel anger, but the emotions I ought to have felt for the actual victims of his behavior just weren’t accessible to me.</p><p>Which brings us to today. I am so heartened by Joe Biden’s immediate actions: just restoring our alliances in the Paris Climate Accord and with the World Health Organization and ending the Muslim ban and halting deportations and signing the Equality Act and ending the immigration policy that requires all Central and South Americans to stay in Mexico while they apply for asylum would have been enough to give me real hope. But he’s done at least twice as many things and hasn’t been in office 24 hours yet as I write this. </p><p>Being able to feel genuine hope for my country makes me aware of how cut off I've been from having authentic feelings for anyone outside of my immediate family and close friends these past four years, First grief and then the fear we've all been steeping in shut me down. I needed time to heal from the trauma of losing my son anyway--plus if ever there were a great four years to dissociate from the horrors of what was happening to my fellow humans, these were they. But I am hopeful I might just be ready to return to the world of feelings now that the odds have increased they can be happy, hopeful ones.</p><p><br /></p><p>#grief recovery #disssociation </p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-77401466745971851422021-01-01T12:48:00.001-05:002021-01-01T13:04:05.033-05:00My Happier New Year Resolutions Post<p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguf6oKuM-RMTyIhuVAZB2FZtXVznznGaLaAPREKzhCmK3MV7SM7Q8Z_iNK1wwDFzBV99vgAaC-lxL6q9YQo52quf6v0QecSF9_skifVTSSoI1ULc09mShq-YUAKtsl_vbLMgiV9NnFSPCP/s2576/received_152876246337031.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2576" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguf6oKuM-RMTyIhuVAZB2FZtXVznznGaLaAPREKzhCmK3MV7SM7Q8Z_iNK1wwDFzBV99vgAaC-lxL6q9YQo52quf6v0QecSF9_skifVTSSoI1ULc09mShq-YUAKtsl_vbLMgiV9NnFSPCP/w400-h299/received_152876246337031.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My wife loves setting goals; she inspired me to set more <br />of my own for the new year--which we celebrated last <br />night by playing Jackbox games with friends on Zoom.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I was recently asked to deliver a
sermon on writing one’s way through grief, which led me to read a slew of books
on how writing and the creation of other expressive arts helps people find
their way out of the painful darkness that will overtake nearly all of us at
some point in our lives. The sermon went well, I think, and the
benefits to me of having done research into this topic are continuing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">My favorite of the books I read was twenty years
old but seemed highly relevant to this moment in our world: <i>Writing As
a Way of Healing: How Telling Our Stories Transforms Our Lives </i>by
Louise DeSalvo. The author, extensively quoting research by James Pennebaker on
how much better people feel if they develop a practice of writing about their
emotions,<i> </i>reminded me that if I commit this year to write just five
pages a week, I will wind up with more than 250 pages by the end of the year,
enough to constitute a small book. I have determined to set and keep that
writing goal, even if each week’s five pages aren’t going to add up to
anything, let alone a book. Five pages of journal entries, poems, letters to
friends, blog posts, parts of a short story--all the pages I write will count.
And I will hope to devote at least 30 minutes to writing six days out of seven;
four days a week I already have writing dates with accountability buddies,
which helps ensure I write for two or three hours at a stretch for more than
half the days.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">DeSalvo quotes May Sarton’s <i> Journal
of Solitude </i>to encourage us to reap the benefits of steady writing:
“We write not to create works of art,, but to build character, develop
integrity, discipline, judgment, balance, order, restraint, and other valued
inner attributes. …We develop self-mastery, which contributes to our emotional
and spiritual growth.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In other words, setting a goal to write five
pages a week and keeping that goal will make me feel good about myself. Meeting
any goal will enhance my belief in myself. “Seeing ourselves stick with a
writing process is transformative,” DeSalvo promises, and I believe her.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">This in mind, I’ve created my first bullet
journal and set myself daily goals to write, floss, do yoga, and drink 64 ounces of
water, and I’ve set myself the weekly goals of one-hour devoted to card and letter-writing and one hour devoted to
submitting my work for publication. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I’ve also committed to scroll less--to take a
book with me into the bathroom instead of my phone, for one thing, to take Facebook
off my phone, for another. I can’t make myself give up Facebook entirely (at
least not yet) as this month I’ve made a 30-day poetry commitment with an
online group, Dive Into Poetry, which requires us to share our poems on that
platform. And there's a Facebook page I love for women and non-binary
poets that sets a 100-rejections-a-year goal to help us keep our sense of humor
about the odds against having our poetry accepted anywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In one of the most important commitments I've
made to reclaim my time for a life of the mind, I've committed to giving up the
use of Buy Nothing, a Facebook page through which I give and receive free items
such as books, shoes, clothing and home furnishings. I have obtained many, many items
in my home, hundreds of items that I cherish, from fellow members of this
group. I have brought meals to sick members, made pick-ups and drop-offs for
those with no cars, given away rather than sold anything of mine that no longer
serves us, made several friends in my community through our shared use of the
site. But mainly I have acquired material objects and taken to compulsively
scrolling the Buy Nothing page to ensure I see an object being given away as
soon as it's posted, as quicker respondents get the most gifts. But
I already have more than enough material items; I could die without ever
acquiring another non-edible item and still live a full, happy life. Continuing
to acquire things will not make me happy. And therefore, I must recognize my
Buy-Nothing compulsion as just an addictive distraction and give it up to do
more of what I know will feed my soul,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In my previous post, I made a resolution, which I
thought would be my only one, to give up my self-pity about my granddaughter,
who hasn’t been allowed to see me nor anyone in my dead son’s family since February
of 2019, Just putting that resolution in writing made me feel it was already
accomplished. I have accepted and released Maggie and her future to the
universe, though I still hope someday she’ll find me. I accept that there’s
nothing I can do anymore to hurry this process nor pressure Maggie’s mother
into letting Maggie know us, so I am happy to turn my energy to things more
within my control-- like writing five pages a day. Avoiding wallowing in self-pity
will require me to focus my energy on other matters, which, along with my wife's excited love of goals, is part of what
prompted me to make these additional resolutions. And here, today, are pages one and two of this week's five pages – which means I’m already 40% done with my top goal for the week. Not bad for day
one. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">What do you hope to get done in 2021? I'd love
to hear your goals in the comments. Happy 2021, everyone! </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-64071294190449730742020-12-08T13:21:00.003-05:002020-12-08T13:21:59.740-05:00My New Year's Resolution: No More Self-Pity<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEE7MygqHHEWQ9VyvVbvY9AGkwPTtdctHM6bHys9UyR7CKvdw1Xb4vf_7dVnejdAYUZRDEqiKoMAsG_ozrrz0gfzz3Fna-fmUJLqdPkeuiI9_Y7czmj1OGPH3xg9BOE3HMxHwn6YFoj836/s1080/012+-+Copy+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEE7MygqHHEWQ9VyvVbvY9AGkwPTtdctHM6bHys9UyR7CKvdw1Xb4vf_7dVnejdAYUZRDEqiKoMAsG_ozrrz0gfzz3Fna-fmUJLqdPkeuiI9_Y7czmj1OGPH3xg9BOE3HMxHwn6YFoj836/w400-h400/012+-+Copy+%25283%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I rarely make New Year’s resolutions; they seem silly to me—and
statistics back me up. Only eight percent of Americans keep their resolutions,
and 80% have abandoned their commitments within the first 30 days. But this year
there is something I want to resolve—something I want to hold myself and be
held accountable for doing. I want others to hear me state my intention and be
prepared to point out when I’m not meeting it and encourage me to do better.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I suppose this is why people keep making New Year’s
resolutions despite the low success rates; we feel more likely to do something
if we tell others we will. Most years, happily enough, I don’t feel I need peer
pressure to meet my goals; I am already doing pretty much what I think I ought
to be doing for myself, so I don’t need to state an intention and ask people to
hold me to it. This year, however, I know I need help reaching my goal. So here goes:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I want to stop
feeling sorry for myself.</b> I am drowning in self-pity and feel way less
likeable and certainly less at peace for it, but I find I am unable to stop
seeking public sympathy and feeling bad about how wronged I’ve been. I hate
this quality in others. I have ended friendships with people who seemed stuck
in self-pity, in seeing themselves as a victim of circumstances. We all endure tough
breaks, and self-pity doesn’t help
us in the long run. I know this, yet I continue to have a daily pity party playing
in my mind’s background every day. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It feels hard to admit I am displaying a quality I abhor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone suffers; I cannot think of many
friends who haven’t battled a painful illness or
infertility or tragic loss or had to cope with a life-changing diagnosis for
their child. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And</i> I have much
to be grateful for: my wife, daughter, mother, friends, warm home, full
fridge, and pets among them. But I just haven’t been able to stop feeling wretchedly sorry for myself and our family. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Many of you may assume I am consumed with self-pity over the
loss of my son, shown above sleeping with his daughter. When he died of an overdose in late 2016, shortly after that photo was taken, it seemed natural
that I would feel sorry for myself, and I welcomed all the sympathy I could get
for the first year or so. The grief books I devoured encouraged me to wallow
all I wanted, and doing so felt healing. But then, gradually, thanks to the support
of friends and family, thanks to my wife’s extraordinary rearranging of our
lives and budget to allow me to stop working outside the home, thanks to talk
therapy and medication, writing and daily Yoga with Adriene, I started to feel a
renewed sense of wellness and wholeness. I was gradually able to put Kyle’s
life and death in perspective, and eventually to feel grateful once in a while for
the 26 years we had with our brilliant, generous, hilarious son. I started putting
together a poetry manuscript about my son, incorporating his poetry into the
book, which helped me find some meaning in my suffering. I learned that finding
meaning is key to healing. I found a publisher for the book.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHOLPyAm6K8WQ6OW9gCDPcNfyuorl2sxT8zB5fG8-g6Pjghifog5jJasvHRoyILzJ0FOXUJIJq6VpkDIQIzssyACYPJKgvE2UQz-7SVN5jXWMlvJzsZJC07ZoJ-g05GJTIpP4h6W8jgkB8/s510/3d+glasses2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHOLPyAm6K8WQ6OW9gCDPcNfyuorl2sxT8zB5fG8-g6Pjghifog5jJasvHRoyILzJ0FOXUJIJq6VpkDIQIzssyACYPJKgvE2UQz-7SVN5jXWMlvJzsZJC07ZoJ-g05GJTIpP4h6W8jgkB8/s320/3d+glasses2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Then, about a year and a half into my learning to live without
my son, the girlfriend my son left behind, Amber, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>asked if she and their daughter Maggie could
come stay with me and my wife here in Massachusetts. To the right is a photo of them watching a 3D movie in our living room shortly after their arrival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sharing more of this story is just another way
of asking for sympathy, so I will refrain. Suffice to say that after Amber and
Maggie lived with me for six months and then in a nearby apartment for another
year, after Amber encouraged all of us in Maggie’s family to fall in love with
Maggie and she with us, Amber cut us all off. She has not spoken to me nor let
me or any of us see Maggie since shortly after Maggie turned 5 in February of
2019. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to fight in court for
visits, but Amber’s boyfriend (the man she said she needed to escape when she moved
in with me) is wealthier than we are and paid for an expensive attorney to battle
and bully me in court. After an exhausting and expensive year of trying
everything I could, seeing a trial would not be scheduled for many more months, realizing that even if I "won," Amber would appeal and at least another year would pass without my getting to see my granddaughter, I agreed to drop the case. Amber said she would consider
restarting our relationship in exchange for my signing away my rights. I never heard from her again. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My wife and I, who opened our home, supported Amber and
Maggie, and worked tirelessly to help them both start a new life, have never in
our lives felt so used and discarded. And to know that Maggie was cut off without
explanation from her entire loving family without our even being allowed to say
goodbye has been excruciating. Here's a shot of us at a local Bird Show from 2018.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMECgOjF-ntVfk6bw-bBJvtv90IIiji1NWkua60ySt_FzI9PzYuAm3WS6Rt7W15A0ITfzoZwS7okOACsHpod2Tihs3oHYLPNMlslDf6Cs-50oWlOUBFpVLhiDVhj1MR19i__jX_lW1ODa/s2048/147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMECgOjF-ntVfk6bw-bBJvtv90IIiji1NWkua60ySt_FzI9PzYuAm3WS6Rt7W15A0ITfzoZwS7okOACsHpod2Tihs3oHYLPNMlslDf6Cs-50oWlOUBFpVLhiDVhj1MR19i__jX_lW1ODa/w360-h640/147.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><br />But what can I do? Although Amber and her boyfriend have
blocked us on every social media platform, I have tried reaching out with
loving letters to Amber, all of which have been ignored. I no longer have any legal
recourse, but I continue to send cards and gifts to Maggie; I fear most
of them are thrown out. My last card included this P.S. “I take a picture of
every note I send you in case you’re not seeing them now so I can show you all
the times we tried to be in touch through the years.” <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I sometimes dream of writing a book about other grandparents
who have been unfairly cut off from their grandchildren after their child has
died. There are a lot of us. Perhaps writing a book would help me find meaning
in this experience, give me a constructive use for all of this self-pity. </p><p class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, I am at a loss as to how to stop feeling sorry for myself. I
am giving myself the rest of December to wallow—and to hear suggestions from
all of you on how you have moved on from a brutal betrayal—and then, as of
January 1<sup>st</sup>, I’ll be working on keeping this resolution. Thanks for
your help. I’m going to need it. In the meantime, if anyone reading this knows
how Maggie is doing, please drop us a note letting us know.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-45680140297660807482020-09-29T14:09:00.006-04:002020-09-29T14:24:12.114-04:00Why People March<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">A mom friend in Australia asked me to explain to her children why people march. I couldn't find a book to explain it, so I wrote this. Feel free to share -- and offer feedback. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS5gmYG7NvuBvllQis3SAiuC78CgJZ3f-eth17mGHeUjbKdwHQugR1sHOXD06ZcVHRVsaSJHKI84m1Hesz_7nHHj5B_IJw_D2Wpnk3TxG3FWLrxT8MTCGyk3_I8JHge34SI8qitMPFOW1G/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="821" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS5gmYG7NvuBvllQis3SAiuC78CgJZ3f-eth17mGHeUjbKdwHQugR1sHOXD06ZcVHRVsaSJHKI84m1Hesz_7nHHj5B_IJw_D2Wpnk3TxG3FWLrxT8MTCGyk3_I8JHge34SI8qitMPFOW1G/w640-h360/image.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiysOW7gKNQt6xDtm0J8r5o1iAjseoe8ThvJm5DKbxZbmbMA2AyxG1qttdcJqLZvZMycTZJmAV0bHMfJXzxvT4_EF5mRDrd4uIOhMZc1OojMi4C3mD4SVVMmJxDYfVw0Iqb52bA4PbojpMX/s1600/king+louis+xiv.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="566" data-original-width="696" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiysOW7gKNQt6xDtm0J8r5o1iAjseoe8ThvJm5DKbxZbmbMA2AyxG1qttdcJqLZvZMycTZJmAV0bHMfJXzxvT4_EF5mRDrd4uIOhMZc1OojMi4C3mD4SVVMmJxDYfVw0Iqb52bA4PbojpMX/s200/king+louis+xiv.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXav7m-5bZxd7LRTDrSYhGZsjM7XAz3j3K_pVdyn4-LbNcpmMX5n5xju6aYHld3EuirP5H_9MD8iqAIFhTAEX99uY0bB7zbEZpjpvDOJ5rVctOpVeKgp72dPBjq36Hl3_SF-nniknLCFsl/s1600/versailles.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="688" data-original-width="1000" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXav7m-5bZxd7LRTDrSYhGZsjM7XAz3j3K_pVdyn4-LbNcpmMX5n5xju6aYHld3EuirP5H_9MD8iqAIFhTAEX99uY0bB7zbEZpjpvDOJ5rVctOpVeKgp72dPBjq36Hl3_SF-nniknLCFsl/s200/versailles.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqucuOEhB7rYqZwjoJOHPuGeuV646oj4jUvonCrtwshnwedf2dK1Q36I1QjBZNlWTdGOwCeRrYPNrvZ40sEhVJ4gu5A6mQe86Tr3FpvpgN6Us6eP5pkbSTZ841G7cRu_npx5wUU0acx8b/s1600/queen+marie+antionette.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="694" data-original-width="1140" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqucuOEhB7rYqZwjoJOHPuGeuV646oj4jUvonCrtwshnwedf2dK1Q36I1QjBZNlWTdGOwCeRrYPNrvZ40sEhVJ4gu5A6mQe86Tr3FpvpgN6Us6eP5pkbSTZ841G7cRu_npx5wUU0acx8b/s200/queen+marie+antionette.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Once
upon a time, much of the world was ruled by kings and queens. One especially greedy
king, Louis XIV of France, and his greedy wife, Marie Antionette, demanded
all the people give their money to the royal family to make their big, fancy
palace and their bejeweled, fancy clothes even bigger, fancier and more bejeweled. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">They told the people they didn't care if they starved.<br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRBW3yk-8SEn7YZ5krnN1uSLjBRJP2NebtIPMV9x-iyQM0niEzAqcgEF9YlfFdR61LbsD8-Zylv-VUWw1vER1qoTGXznbu5KwomgqOkfsEqMdwCixRpm50glbCserifHPAVDp6FeNwr-qN/s1600/off+with+their+heads.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRBW3yk-8SEn7YZ5krnN1uSLjBRJP2NebtIPMV9x-iyQM0niEzAqcgEF9YlfFdR61LbsD8-Zylv-VUWw1vER1qoTGXznbu5KwomgqOkfsEqMdwCixRpm50glbCserifHPAVDp6FeNwr-qN/s1600/off+with+their+heads.jpg" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Off with their heads!<br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">The people of France grew angry at how
unfair it was that they worked hard but then had to give their money to the
king and queen. They thought Versailles, the palace, was fancy enough! They
grew so angry, they marched into the streets and demanded change. This was the
first known march. Soldiers fought back, but in the end, the people won
-- and made the </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">soldiers chop off the heads of the king and queen!
(Things were very violent back then.)</span></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Since
then, all around the world, people have marched to get their leaders to pay
attention to their demands for fairness and justice. If their leaders ignore peaceful marching, some people burn and break things to get the
leaders' attention -- and the marches turn into riots. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;"><span>A lot of marches start, just like in France, because people are angry their leaders
are taking too much of their money. When leaders take the people's money, that
is called a tax, and tax money is supposed to be spent to help everyone, such as
by building roads or schools or libraries--but greedy leaders often keep much of the tax money for
themselves and their rich friends. </span></span><span>Like that French king and queen, they don't
care if people starve. </span></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpsyj4XLG3tWeF6vafyQaJ36JFdx_Zv21fFt1v6C92ilpkDYv_cWzKrLd89ShNkq77RrBg7TkwF-yXN3n0mITaHXR1zXpsjf5r8l5JI8qUgyyRGewXEWnOB46ItkYRJt4BRKUguwSaLBbB/s1600/boston+tea+party.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpsyj4XLG3tWeF6vafyQaJ36JFdx_Zv21fFt1v6C92ilpkDYv_cWzKrLd89ShNkq77RrBg7TkwF-yXN3n0mITaHXR1zXpsjf5r8l5JI8qUgyyRGewXEWnOB46ItkYRJt4BRKUguwSaLBbB/s640/boston+tea+party.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Early Americans rioted by throwing tea off a boat because their leader, the King of
England, was keeping their tax money instead of spending it to help them. When the
Americans won that fight, they made a new rule: NO MORE KINGS AND
QUEENS bossing the people around. They wanted every person to choose their
leaders and their laws by vote. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiN1Hz1Yyxb-mTt-qgdeuFrGeUutZlbfBm1PYay9bcXTbNipE9_ZNV4SbvoaQHjNFf1chZL4oVC6gf4nlBN4IsFQDL-KOX-Kr3bLItNe04Yb7inqIoN_JZu9dBF7nzFuadrMWYXr0kwWaF/s1600/constitutional+congress.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="750" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiN1Hz1Yyxb-mTt-qgdeuFrGeUutZlbfBm1PYay9bcXTbNipE9_ZNV4SbvoaQHjNFf1chZL4oVC6gf4nlBN4IsFQDL-KOX-Kr3bLItNe04Yb7inqIoN_JZu9dBF7nzFuadrMWYXr0kwWaF/w400-h276/constitutional+congress.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Everyone should vote -- as long as they have pale skin, <br />a penis and some land. (What?)<br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Unfortunately, those early
Americans had a crazy idea about what “a person" was: they thought only
people with white skin, a penis, and a lot of money should be able to vote. (No,
really!) They made a new law that said only men with white skin who owned land
could be the leaders and the voters.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">How did we change this terrible situation? People marched! And protested! And
sometimes rioted or broke the law to get the leaders to change their minds. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">White women had to march, riot, scream, break laws, starve themselves, and
chain themselves to the White House fence for 134 years before they were
allowed to vote. Here are 5,000 women marching in Washington six years before
they could vote. All over the world women have had to march to get the right to vote. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_10"
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black;"><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzQ1NtLv27uUrfTHzs1-apvxMBqeMkTT326994xtjEkVxlGhT_Ax5gUt3ASX51Buy39BveNvgedRTZhsZozbComT4-wB2Nht8JFRViht4gNTlojv2GvcaRsLLohbx4dLnfvMOGSmQfw7p/s1600/women+vote+march.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="800" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzQ1NtLv27uUrfTHzs1-apvxMBqeMkTT326994xtjEkVxlGhT_Ax5gUt3ASX51Buy39BveNvgedRTZhsZozbComT4-wB2Nht8JFRViht4gNTlojv2GvcaRsLLohbx4dLnfvMOGSmQfw7p/s640/women+vote+march.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Here are women marching in Washington D.C. six years before we could vote.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSflTHrLWK2B1ioAfkCCHgXUGpaR4kkKWflGPr5Kv7zi7h2FMen4DZLeZyIaXZAU8pjrEroqs1Vv9BG-xatGAtaZwpRHFp_FqHRdRXen3n1iFLxsOKqhDoJMnxZty8bxeP31VDxNtJuaJ_/s1600/africans+in+africa.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="725" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSflTHrLWK2B1ioAfkCCHgXUGpaR4kkKWflGPr5Kv7zi7h2FMen4DZLeZyIaXZAU8pjrEroqs1Vv9BG-xatGAtaZwpRHFp_FqHRdRXen3n1iFLxsOKqhDoJMnxZty8bxeP31VDxNtJuaJ_/s400/africans+in+africa.jpg" width="342" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Africans living their lives in Africa<br />and then after they were enslaved.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Things were even harder
for men and women with darker skin. White people stole land from the
darker-skinned people here before them--and then they stole actual
darker-skinned <i>people</i> from their homes in Africa and made them
work in the U.S. as slaves. Whites </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">put the Africans in chains and made them do all the whites’ farm work and house work for
no money. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="clear: left; font-family: inherit; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiglAT85cWXRrQIDgHa_e05_EYxcV4_fWZYxNfHEg0tUrYwiXaHr-X_TdPlWWUVhN2_pzBoONns16N7hmP6k4q1ZYZizAd4Edb6KWQwbbWIGgjSKEMQw7l_3DFbGDyW5vWbmP8Y6dNFaCz8/s1600/africans+in+chains.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="1040" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiglAT85cWXRrQIDgHa_e05_EYxcV4_fWZYxNfHEg0tUrYwiXaHr-X_TdPlWWUVhN2_pzBoONns16N7hmP6k4q1ZYZizAd4Edb6KWQwbbWIGgjSKEMQw7l_3DFbGDyW5vWbmP8Y6dNFaCz8/s400/africans+in+chains.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">White people stole the babies of Black people and sold them. White people beat and
even killed the brown and black-skinned people. This happened in Australia,
too, to the Aboriginal people who lived in Australia for tens <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXO066_j0eqE2CW_VZIA7bjnc83avlGQ9EcNaleRGpNFyIyw4PWUBN-XHzChwaHYIza8it4iR3c62siUKc295AIuL_c2U-mjkZ9G2iE5UOjpn9mD3Ud363yujceMDQQ0yar0SzIMptOkVa/s1600/aboriginals+in+chains.png" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXO066_j0eqE2CW_VZIA7bjnc83avlGQ9EcNaleRGpNFyIyw4PWUBN-XHzChwaHYIza8it4iR3c62siUKc295AIuL_c2U-mjkZ9G2iE5UOjpn9mD3Ud363yujceMDQQ0yar0SzIMptOkVa/s400/aboriginals+in+chains.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aboriginals stolen from their families and enslaved in Australia.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
of
thousands of years before the white people came. The Aboriginals weren't called slaves but they were beaten and forced to work for free, which is the same thing.</span><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">How did we</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">change this terrible
situation? People marched! And protested! And sometimes rioted or
broke the law to get the leaders to change their minds. People with darker
skin had to march, riot, scream, break laws, starve
themselves, and run away for hundreds of years before they were allowed to be
free. Some white people realized how wrong slavery was and helped the black people gain their freedom, but changing everyone's mind about slavery took a long time. Some people's minds still aren't changed! </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Even
after we fought a war to end slavery and black people were allowed by law to vote for
100 years, white people still treated black people unfairly. They paid black
people less money. They didn't let black people get a good education. </span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;"><span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihLEW3JUXTCcfBRqSbas9NLcfT5acN7QJ7WnWCvLk8lJ_o0hhl1XlGLR71sGEf7m10SGuBZ9LZnEX3u7Sztk0H3fyJ6EYaeWX546id_NI-fITGhLpVsTPXuslH_2gY23VaF7kTSQTWk4BL/s1600/black+girl+white+school.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="700" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihLEW3JUXTCcfBRqSbas9NLcfT5acN7QJ7WnWCvLk8lJ_o0hhl1XlGLR71sGEf7m10SGuBZ9LZnEX3u7Sztk0H3fyJ6EYaeWX546id_NI-fITGhLpVsTPXuslH_2gY23VaF7kTSQTWk4BL/s320/black+girl+white+school.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This girl was spit on and screamed at by white kids <br />for going to their previously all-white school.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
They didn't
let black people live in their neighborhoods or borrow money from their banks
to buy houses or start businesses. They put black people in jail for no good
reason and made them do hard work for free, just like when they were slaves. They wouldn't let black people share their pools or water fountains or
restaurants or bathrooms. </span></span><span>And sometimes white people</span><span> </span><span>beat up or even killed
black </span><span>people just for looking at them.</span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9bQbv7OZ7y2_5LhOUUhJupZfaN7Wlv1yh4MWhmbUp7VKkv3CDB6WkcG6tEtu0OjFtzKI4uy4g-uVx_6FyQRSimNER_Xcgv23l44NRWu8xJI4eH4gKbPuuJ2eRCDUJiU1AaUxk_EhifwX3/s1600/food+on+head.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="500" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9bQbv7OZ7y2_5LhOUUhJupZfaN7Wlv1yh4MWhmbUp7VKkv3CDB6WkcG6tEtu0OjFtzKI4uy4g-uVx_6FyQRSimNER_Xcgv23l44NRWu8xJI4eH4gKbPuuJ2eRCDUJiU1AaUxk_EhifwX3/s320/food+on+head.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angry white men threw food on black people eating<br />in a restaurant that was supposed to be for "whites only."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">So …how did we change this terrible situation? People marched! And
protested! And sometimes rioted or broke the law to get the laws and people to
change. Black people (with some white friends) marched, rioted, screamed,
broke laws,</span></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">starved themselves, and fought back.</span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The people who have the power, mostly white men, fight hard not</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvclOZ7i7t3w6APYtej1MVLfpXrjn_nSJ9uhmU-69DWhJSM62mojAboXxCEyYO7bk-g9wNb00g_KkjVmxwv2m2zal1kpcy3yX3Adq3CPWxjwrAX2tim6TlrTm17KGIyxiUF_kkWwld5Bn/s1600/police+club+in+marcher%2527s+face.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="396" data-original-width="600" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvclOZ7i7t3w6APYtej1MVLfpXrjn_nSJ9uhmU-69DWhJSM62mojAboXxCEyYO7bk-g9wNb00g_KkjVmxwv2m2zal1kpcy3yX3Adq3CPWxjwrAX2tim6TlrTm17KGIyxiUF_kkWwld5Bn/s320/police+club+in+marcher%2527s+face.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">to
let women of all colors and men with black or brown skin get any of their power away from
them. One of the ways they do this is by fighting the marchers. The police have guns with rubber bullets and real bullets, bayonets, batons or clubs, tear gas, snap bombs, water hoses, vicious dogs</span><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span><br /></span><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif016igMUnUK3KHepZjVOyDAXTmlYyAibK11azXdHZXAAeg3rK_XEWe-LhiGYPW52mwKj-Mq6hu8sD9qjaOiZm8SPqnk5EzuTx-3pe1WIIOjZN1ViICu0GlzP2ouSsVthKk2ordmBGxzwP/s1600/police+dog.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="1400" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif016igMUnUK3KHepZjVOyDAXTmlYyAibK11azXdHZXAAeg3rK_XEWe-LhiGYPW52mwKj-Mq6hu8sD9qjaOiZm8SPqnk5EzuTx-3pe1WIIOjZN1ViICu0GlzP2ouSsVthKk2ordmBGxzwP/s320/police+dog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>and
pepper spray. Sometimes police use these weapons to violently scare even
peaceful marchers into giving up and going home. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Ld8J5I_Gpke1IFE0HJ84-ozbm3ds6PLq0ILvZXLFnngg7ChyphenhyphenJ_Qk3CtSnDkzCOTJEdWjwMRKjHL4lzkbrNZM8x6EJNVjLFx_9uENAxncFNUMlrdhc9PAut5RxC1qYa3TSWrUyx7Uw87i/s1600/police+hose.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="500" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Ld8J5I_Gpke1IFE0HJ84-ozbm3ds6PLq0ILvZXLFnngg7ChyphenhyphenJ_Qk3CtSnDkzCOTJEdWjwMRKjHL4lzkbrNZM8x6EJNVjLFx_9uENAxncFNUMlrdhc9PAut5RxC1qYa3TSWrUyx7Uw87i/s640/police+hose.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span>Marches for black people’s rights and women's rights are still happening today because </span><span>things are still not fair. </span><span>A lot of white people say everyone has the same chances in life and gets equal treatment now from teachers, police, bankers, and employers. They insist this is true (even though the facts definitely show otherwise) because they like to think they have nicer homes or better jobs only because they worked hard and got what they deserved. But lots of black people work very hard and never get to buy a house or have a good job. </span></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The worst thing happening to black people now is that police are killing them for no good reason. Sadly, this has always been the case but now people have cameras on their phones and are taking videos of the killings, showing the black people didn't do anything wrong before police killed them. The police have been lying to us, which was hard for white people to believe, as police are usually nice to us. </span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoVD_nKnAedkXcsOqcIlnH9-LgEabjbTk8SxVV8DS_6F8QTaTkFnQ29noAWWpQS8HDSiZUvWXNGl9opO53wNMahWOHLgrFkNsrROIWgJfm7ZTwIcp4JPSTHZtEF_vjta6P6teWAnIjgB2a/" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img alt="" data-original-height="385" data-original-width="270" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoVD_nKnAedkXcsOqcIlnH9-LgEabjbTk8SxVV8DS_6F8QTaTkFnQ29noAWWpQS8HDSiZUvWXNGl9opO53wNMahWOHLgrFkNsrROIWgJfm7ZTwIcp4JPSTHZtEF_vjta6P6teWAnIjgB2a/w276-h394/image.png" width="276" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Most recently, a Black man named George Floyd was arrested for maybe</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />giving someone a fake $20 bill, and the officer arresting him choked him to death by throwing him on the ground and kneeling on his neck. George called for help. He said he couldn't breathe. People all around were begging the policeman to get off George's neck. George even cried out for his Mama. But the police officer stayed on George's neck until he was dead.</span></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">How can we get police to stop killing unarmed black people? We have to march! and protest! And sometimes we even have to riot or break the law to get the leaders to pay attention. Because people marched, the officer who killed George Floyd was arrested and is in jail. </span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sadly, the U.S. is currently ruled by a crazy, mean man who loves the police to use violence. He has told cops to be rougher when they arrest people; he had police hurt people to clear away a march in front of the White House. He even wanted them to use a weapon <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvbDrhmrIlXwsDhh6vXVevA6JgZxOhIHjH3nkNsIW4gSdbEFifKAaqM66H-h27C-FaUI31lWNQJoYn8XryZyUSxinXH-jPwN5R498BeSGAIXKUtEUhHEq3WDxLPvVt5WactmzVRh_2K73/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="229" data-original-width="408" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvbDrhmrIlXwsDhh6vXVevA6JgZxOhIHjH3nkNsIW4gSdbEFifKAaqM66H-h27C-FaUI31lWNQJoYn8XryZyUSxinXH-jPwN5R498BeSGAIXKUtEUhHEq3WDxLPvVt5WactmzVRh_2K73/" width="320" /></a></div>called a heat ray that would make protesters' skin feel like it was on fire. The police don't want to give up their power so they have been doing what he says and treating th</span><span style="font-size: large;">e people they are supposed to serve and protect as if they are the enemies. They are spraying tear gas and rubber bullets at the protesters, even peaceful ones, or beating them with clubs. Some protesters have even lost an eye or been killed. This little girl is crying because police shot pepper spray into her face; her parents are pouring milk on her eyes to help wash it away. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRzAyEVWdk8X4ELDnleObAW1XhJl_MP1lnOcHhWWXM1PVLY7mrdoAIR3zCGt8w0uS7XOFMHdgBglEQeNp00eCI7LimZBr8ApCFwtegkCwz0LUKDHviSCWWhzhqGvWcPqVR8A1_3woR-Lt/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="349" data-original-width="385" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRzAyEVWdk8X4ELDnleObAW1XhJl_MP1lnOcHhWWXM1PVLY7mrdoAIR3zCGt8w0uS7XOFMHdgBglEQeNp00eCI7LimZBr8ApCFwtegkCwz0LUKDHviSCWWhzhqGvWcPqVR8A1_3woR-Lt/" width="265" /></a></div>And here is a little girl on her daddy's shoulders being threatened by police with giant guns. </span></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="408" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgijkYn8tigq0HxSoEBG7AYV7cMKXGVGFSngcm6uLODfgJnO_SIEjgz_taFS6i4pAJw562XIqLLxU05fUiDNbYX8n5tFWphEA7MDcDO8sa4_eo1ZakVuobziswHFVI-UJoJgtMpBgY9zqMR/w337-h278/image.png" width="337" /></div><span><br /><br /></span><p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCiFbnXY9JkwOJIxi-k_2ytTEWdBYJ-BZ7nxSYXJyCGXr6WN7SAYU_PUHJKAPi4f5BmTwSYoF2JwvVeydGFcdUxfmudn9mXQbwXls5QvWOyvIFw6BjGFfcBV5q2vVNE1oEXoviV0euBZwX/" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="245" data-original-width="408" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCiFbnXY9JkwOJIxi-k_2ytTEWdBYJ-BZ7nxSYXJyCGXr6WN7SAYU_PUHJKAPi4f5BmTwSYoF2JwvVeydGFcdUxfmudn9mXQbwXls5QvWOyvIFw6BjGFfcBV5q2vVNE1oEXoviV0euBZwX/w294-h176/image.png" width="294" /></a><span>Many white people are trying to let black people lead the protests, because for too long white people haven’t listened to black people. Now white people are trying to support black people with our money and our time. We are fighting against police </span><span>violence and the leaders who support it. This November we may have to march to give everyone the chance to vote again, since in Black neighborhoods, many voting places have been closed. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUgIIdHqm1y3Zf4pIZlaYdk8bRVRyJUaVKP4NHSjf4N2r3w8X0G-kWLUf4t2WUw2P0sXLDaQ0gTwg0NerxDOBUuTjQGlaaK2s2PE6nm8u5NwCZthHWU9rs4IAR9erVKOrQRhrxpUwXeVq/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="380" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUgIIdHqm1y3Zf4pIZlaYdk8bRVRyJUaVKP4NHSjf4N2r3w8X0G-kWLUf4t2WUw2P0sXLDaQ0gTwg0NerxDOBUuTjQGlaaK2s2PE6nm8u5NwCZthHWU9rs4IAR9erVKOrQRhrxpUwXeVq/" width="240" /></a></div>I have marched against wars, for women's rights, and for black people's lives. I <span>have taken my children to march with me, and my now grown-up daughter is a passionate activist who marches all the time. </span><span>I'm very proud of her.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTfmge7HMm1ovCwlrKWyYC4nfrYFrHSnTp2xUiJnWGbNlEP559Vea-KBnG2Yu7GOtNa6X-pfvCO_QKNBbyoE2Uw_SrKvwo1lI6osHAq44RzX4tYAWKsL-FOMzJIAxgwlG-SiqBFwZwcqI/" style="clear: right; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="408" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTfmge7HMm1ovCwlrKWyYC4nfrYFrHSnTp2xUiJnWGbNlEP559Vea-KBnG2Yu7GOtNa6X-pfvCO_QKNBbyoE2Uw_SrKvwo1lI6osHAq44RzX4tYAWKsL-FOMzJIAxgwlG-SiqBFwZwcqI/" width="320" /></a><span><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>My wife and I stand every Saturday for black lives in our town. (Standing vigil is like marching except everyone stays still. We do this now to avoid giving one another the Corona virus.)</span></span></p></span></div><div style="margin: 0in;">
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWDuwCicP6hG5vYrEg6y5rJr3kIjtS3yawG2LMON6SjLTwzv6o8Sx6KRXiw5saIYoKhTQQ2B5UH4c6h3UDnQITZVBU3ZV_xZcUVHCJYBNP7Wb_oerKyGqAZPOVlfKEk3uBb_o4OaJXk6uy/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><img alt="" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWDuwCicP6hG5vYrEg6y5rJr3kIjtS3yawG2LMON6SjLTwzv6o8Sx6KRXiw5saIYoKhTQQ2B5UH4c6h3UDnQITZVBU3ZV_xZcUVHCJYBNP7Wb_oerKyGqAZPOVlfKEk3uBb_o4OaJXk6uy/w640-h640/image.png" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />So the next time someone asks you why people march, you can tell them people march to make life better for everybody. I plan to keep marching until more
changes are made and black and white people can all feel safe together. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p></div>
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<br /></div>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-69324896330081363562020-09-17T15:10:00.003-04:002020-09-17T15:10:44.393-04:00What I Did That Killed My Son<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZ2oYV_dZDm5R89zAWnydQR7sVwPRqfdn2sgq2xaLDTGq0Y8uiO78D-DEFJnetLAO6kvK7DKcejBRjscKZXcn-49J05cWioJhFi4U0yM3NHf5V_GqE_Zir7NEv8RU70dE_D-TlL5A7Ozs/s960/kyle+%2526+mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZ2oYV_dZDm5R89zAWnydQR7sVwPRqfdn2sgq2xaLDTGq0Y8uiO78D-DEFJnetLAO6kvK7DKcejBRjscKZXcn-49J05cWioJhFi4U0yM3NHf5V_GqE_Zir7NEv8RU70dE_D-TlL5A7Ozs/s320/kyle+%2526+mom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The end of June marked my dead</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> son’s 30<sup>th</sup> birthday. He died of an overdose at age 26, and marking
his 30<sup>th</sup> birthday hit me hard, a reminder of all the landmarks he
was missing. Heartsick, I stayed up most of the night before creating a video
of Kyle’s life in pictures, which I posted on my YouTube and Facebook pages. (You
can see the video here: </span><a href="https://youtu.be/IMy4qc5ZBWc"><span style="color: #8d3300; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-decoration-line: none;">https://youtu.be/IMy4qc5ZBWc</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">A friend commented, “[This
is] a montage of love. If only love could have saved him.” Reading that, I had
a sudden realization: I had created that video not so much to honor Kyle as
to <i>defend myself as his mother.</i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Look! the video said.
Here’s photographic proof that I was a good mom who signed her kid up for
sports<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">, took her child swimming, proudly
encouraged his early career as a stand-up comedian, taught him to play board
and card games until he could beat me with relish, celebrated him with big
parties for every birthday and graduation, maintained a close, loving
relationship with his admiration-worthy father even though we eventually
divorced, read to and instilled a love of reading and writing in my son, took
him regularly to the dentist and was proud he never had a cavity, took him
skiing, taught him to be polite to older people, shared easy affection with
him, took him on marches and volunteer vacations, encouraged the supportive
bond he had with his little sister, went white water rafting and on
rollercoasters with him, spent a lot of time camping, hiking and in nature with
him, helped him get his driver’s license, taught him to love to dance and have
fun, to treat women with respect, to climb trees, to wear his feminist shirt
with pride, to be creative with his Halloween costumes, to love learning, to
care about his family and friends.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I thought I’d just
wanted to honor and remember my son’s life by showing him at every beautiful
stage. But now I realized what I’d really wanted was to illustrate I did
everything I could to help my son have a wonderful life. I wanted a video to
prove that nothing </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> did caused my
son to become addicted to drugs and eventually die of his disease.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">But, of course, I did
many things that hurt and disappointed my son, none of which are featured in
this video– but all of which have played in an endless, agonizing loop in my
mind ever since my son’s death.</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Only because I have
talked to dozens of other grieving mothers of overdosed children am I able to
forgive myself for most of my mistakes—because I’ve discovered every mother of
an overdosed child made <i>different</i> mistakes. None of us is
perfect, but we were all pretty good moms, and there is no pattern of
wrongdoing I can find, no one place I can point the finger.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">All of which leads me to
the only mistake I made that may have actually killed my son: At the end of his
life, Kyle phoned me, desperate enough to ask for my advice. He had been trying
to get Naltrexone, a drug that blocks opioid receptors, causing users to vomit
if they take a drink and to feel no high if they take an opioid. Naltrexone started
as a pill in the ’80s and is now available as an injection that can last six
months or even a year. Kyle had stayed sober six months while getting a monthly
shot of Naltrexone (known as Vivitrol); he knew the drug was helping because
toward the end of each 30-day period, he started having drug dreams and
cravings. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Since then, he’d turned
26 and lost my insurance, then moved from L.A. to Las Vegas and discovered that
Nevada’s Medicaid doesn’t cover Naltrexone for addicts. Like 21 other states,
Nevada will only provide addicts with Methadone or Suboxone. This was
infuriating to me. Naltrexone keeps addicts from getting high. Methadone and
Suboxone, I thought, just make addicts dependent on a different opioid.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Mom,” my son said to me
at the end of our last phone call, his voice exhausted. He had just been
released from detox after another relapse. He was essentially homeless; he and
his girlfriend and their 2-year-old daughter were living in my mother’s house
in Henderson, NV, and my mother wanted them out. My son’s girlfriend, though
staying sober, he told me, was having bouts of rage at their daughter and
refusing to look for a job. “Mom, I don’t know what to do. If I can’t get the
Naltrexone the next time I go there, I’m thinking of just taking the Suboxone
they’re offering me.”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Did I say to him, “YES!
Of course! Take it! Anything to keep you alive!”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">No. Instead, to my
lasting shame and regret, I maintained a stony, disapproving silence. He knew I
disapproved of Methadone and Suboxone, thought they were for weaklings who
couldn’t beat their addictions on their own or who just wanted the state’s help
to get high.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">So I said nothing. I let
the silence extend. My son finally added, “I just don’t know what to do. I’m
asking for your advice.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">If there were one minute
in my life I could go back to, that would be the one. I wish I’d understood my
son’s illness was terminal and would kill him within days if he didn’t take the
Suboxone. I wish I’d met some of the millions of people who are
maintaining jobs, happily parenting their children, and living healthy lives by
taking Suboxone or Methadone every day. I wish my silence hadn’t conveyed that
I would look down on my son if he went that route. I wish it weren’t true that
I </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">would</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> have looked down on my son if he’d started taking one
of those drugs. I was ignorant, having only seen people on methadone as droopy
head-nodders, and I didn’t understand the alternative was death.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Instead, after a sigh, I
said, “If anyone can convince them to start giving out Naltrexone, it’s you,
Kyle. You’re so eloquent. You can get them to change this policy—and just think
of how many thousands of addicts you’ll be saving. Maybe hundreds of thousands!
You’ll be changing lives.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">That was how I mothered
him. I believed he was so special that even in the most desperate throes of his
addiction, he could accomplish something for others. (We also spoke often of
the book he would write about his experiences cycling in and out of the
addiction-treatment complex, our hope that something meaningful could come from
the years of relapse and new recovery and relapse and horror he’d been living.)
Kyle claimed to have been dutifully trying to get this policy changed for weeks.
The previous week he told me he’d spent all day Friday waiting to see the
doctor considering his application for an exception to the no-Naltrexone rule.
The staff said the doctor would see him soon and then forgot him. At the end of
the day, they apologized and said there had been a mix-up, the doctor had left.
They told him to come back the following Tuesday.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Or maybe that’s just a
story my son told me. Maybe he had already given up and stopped asking for what
they said they would never give him. I have no way of knowing, but I think his story
is true. When he told me this story that weekend, my advice was to go back and
try again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The following Tuesday,
at 4:45 a.m., he overdosed and died in a Best Western bathroom, biking distance
from his grandmother’s home. He’d said he was going to a new job Monday morning
but instead spent all day using. When he got home, he took out the garbage for
his grandmother and was confronted by his understandably enraged girlfriend, who
had been home waiting for him all day with their crying 2-year-old. Their
daughter was having an eerie premonition, kept sobbing that her Dada was going
to leave and never come back. His girlfriend smashed his phone into pieces and
punched him in the face, abuse he surely felt he deserved. (Her punch left a
dark bruise still visible on his cheek as I wept over his body in the coffin
two days later. I didn’t blame her; we had all been furious at him, thinking he
could save himself and enraged that he wasn’t doing it.) He left humbly,
apologizing to his grandmother, and brought with him his anti-depressants, a
pillow and blanket, fresh clothes, and his bike helmet, which suggests his
overdose was not intentional; he seemed, based on what he packed, like someone
who intended to keep living. But at that last moment as the Best Western cleaning
staff was rousting him from where he was sleeping on the bathroom floor,
telling him he had to leave, maybe for that moment he felt so defeated that he
intentionally gave himself a fatal dose. Or maybe he just intended to get a
little high for the road and miscalculated. We’ll never know for sure.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I don’t think any of the
other mistakes I made over the course of his life killed my son. While some of
them –like my decision to leave his dad-- surely made my son’s life harder, I
don’t think any of them made him a drug addict nor compelled him to take that
final overdose. However, I do think I might have at least contributed to his
death by not encouraging him to take Suboxone.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">My wife reminds me that my
son regularly ignored my advice; she wonders why I’m so sure he’d have followed
my advice that day. But he was asking me to support him in what he’d already
concluded for himself: that there was no other way forward for him
but medication-assisted treatment. I believe that when he heard my silent but
deep disapproval of that path, he tried and failed to go forward without
it. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">So my advice for parents
of still-living addicts is this: celebrate your child choosing
medication-assisted treatment. It doesn’t mean they’ve given up on getting
sober. It means they’re choosing life. Many people are on medication for the
rest of their lives for diabetes, high blood pressure, heart disease–why not for
the terminal disease of addiction? Don’t send your child messages that you
don’t believe he’s “really” sober unless he takes nothing at all. (Many 12 Step
Programs, sadly, tell addicts that they can’t consider themselves sober unless
they’re off everything, including the prescribed drugs that can save their
lives; this, too, must change.)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Surviving the disease of
addiction is a lifelong challenge. More than half a million Americans have died
by overdose in the past decade, and the only way I’ve seen people survive long-term
addiction to hard drugs (crack, meth and heroin), aside from a few, rare
just-plain-sober unicorns, is with medication-assisted treatment. (When my son
told me the Narcotics Anonymous recovery rate was something like 5 percent, I
paused, and then said to him: “Good thing you’re in such an exceptionally high
percentile.” What a fool I was.) I encourage all of you to embrace this path as
soon as you can wrap your head around it. Every needle your kid uses until they
start medication could be the one that kills them. Stop waiting for your child
to have super-human strength and just be glad there are medicines that can save
their life right now.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FAFAFA; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">As for my fellow
grieving parents, the ones who share my terrible loss, who watched their sweet,
gurgling babies turn into fiending strangers, my advice is to stop looking for
what you could have done differently. Make yourself a moving, mournful video like
the one I just made if it helps you to remember the good times and all the
things you did right. Let yourself cry over how you’ll never experience those
good times again, never hug your child again, never be able to stitch closed
the wound your child’s absence leaves in your heart. But turn off that video
running on repeat in your head of every mistake you ever made. Your child knows
you loved him or her. In nearly every case, your child wouldn’t want you to
keep suffering from the endless self-doubt we survivors experience. We all did
the best we could at the time. Now we have to figure out how to keep going in a
way that honors our child’s best self and helps other families suffering as we
did and do. I hope this essay does that for someone. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-25580626945855718082020-05-23T14:17:00.001-04:002020-05-26T11:04:13.282-04:00What Would You Give to Hug Your Child One More Time?<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgw76mrHauF01xURNeclhL7n4SqD1CSOt0mnGIoAdAY9IPcuFkrMiMq-d5LTJdT5rJEWxZdOEWYm7BIMBbLAPPfYTuOn-_dn2JaVuJJjFBglO8e8_1gwDWsWEjzy7HIYp_jMrKWa7n1MRC/s1600/DSC00365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgw76mrHauF01xURNeclhL7n4SqD1CSOt0mnGIoAdAY9IPcuFkrMiMq-d5LTJdT5rJEWxZdOEWYm7BIMBbLAPPfYTuOn-_dn2JaVuJJjFBglO8e8_1gwDWsWEjzy7HIYp_jMrKWa7n1MRC/s400/DSC00365.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sept. 4, 2016 -- Hugging my son as my daughters cry. We<br />
were all so emotional that day. I cried through the ceremony.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
(Click post to read the whole thing.)<br />
<br />
Some days I miss my son with my whole body. I can recall his
hug, the full-muscled adult feel of his arms squeezing around me. No one will
ever hug me like that again. I only had the one son.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Once upon a time, I would have said and felt some things
like, “I would trade anything for one more hug.” My visceral hunger to hold him
was so strong, it overwhelmed me. I don’t know if that’s a mother-son thing or
a parent-child thing or a dead-child thing or what… I don’t think I thought
about missing his body when we were apart for months. I was glad to see him, of
course, and loved to feel his hug around me – that’s why I can feel it so
clearly now. But I didn't long for him with an animal need; that longing came only with my grief.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, nowadays, I wonder what that kind of qustion, heard frequently, even
means. What would I trade for one more hug? God, as I write that, my heart
definitely says anything, absolutely anything, but my head has questions. Will
I be bringing him back from the dead to live out his full life, whatever that
is? Will I just get a one-minute hug and then that’s it, and I’d return to this
life where all I’d traded would be gone? So perhaps this means where once I would have traded anything, now I would trade nothing of value, since one
more hug with him would only feel good, but would do nothing to help me continue to build <i>this</i> life that I have to live. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQhhbG37ccRoBRTrILmg9-wMncBQgzACQnS4W5ZGUuiRoDOkh0bOefL1D6bV_YROFWaOTJYFhLLy9TPwVGFmBoIdgzDCFPoesSf07K-oyOhLhbm1xdcfIhcUA6BSrFm3rvfeU_X0qyWP6/s1600/_RLS6226.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="720" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQhhbG37ccRoBRTrILmg9-wMncBQgzACQnS4W5ZGUuiRoDOkh0bOefL1D6bV_YROFWaOTJYFhLLy9TPwVGFmBoIdgzDCFPoesSf07K-oyOhLhbm1xdcfIhcUA6BSrFm3rvfeU_X0qyWP6/s400/_RLS6226.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">September 4, 2016<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Me with my daughters, my son, my mother-- only missing is </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Renee. </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">I so regret that we never got a shot with me </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">with my </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">kids and my new wife that day, our last chance.</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am blessed to
have so many people to love now—some of whom made themselves even truer and more deeply loved friends
after my son’s death--and I wouldn’t trade any of them, nor anyone in my family. I
love them all—and I cherish them… and over the 3.5 years since my son died, I’ve had to let him
go. I've had to incorporate into my self schema his absence. I've had to learn to live with that phantom limb.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is my Memorial Day post. Not to take away from the
soldiers and heroes for whom the holiday is a tribute; my son was not a hero except sometimes to a few of us who loved him, and he didn’t serve in the military. I just realized as I was writing this post, that it was
Memorial Day weekend, and I was memorializing my great, grasping
grief...the grief that <i>would</i> have done anything, traded anything to bring Kyle back. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I see
now (and have had many, many dreams in which you tell me this, Kyle) that I
couldn’t have saved you. That if I could have saved you that day, you’d have
died another day soon after. You were done with this life, and if I'd lengthened your life, I would only have prolonged all our suffering. It hurts terribly to think that, but it hurts more
to think I could have saved you and watched you go on to live the healthy fulfilling life we all dreamed for you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wishing all the grieving mothers whose children were lost in
battle all my deepest love this weekend. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-34874063176552980602020-05-22T14:17:00.002-04:002021-01-05T13:22:40.041-05:00Welcome to My House<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9eVh_GGfZjVKDf-rXiew_UsGenYLHoKRlFnaCxwEvmCosVk4bKkpZKFo1goucWmPeN-Wv0Cvp0W_e_F_lXOvvtzcPQFoJ5UJTl0R1j7oQfnh4S6lLBuugIsLgTGv36g6ACUZY7CcGGnY/s1600/entemanns+cake.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9eVh_GGfZjVKDf-rXiew_UsGenYLHoKRlFnaCxwEvmCosVk4bKkpZKFo1goucWmPeN-Wv0Cvp0W_e_F_lXOvvtzcPQFoJ5UJTl0R1j7oQfnh4S6lLBuugIsLgTGv36g6ACUZY7CcGGnY/s320/entemanns+cake.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Does anyone outside our family remember<br />
Entemann's chocolate-chip creme cake? My<br />
cousin Debbie found the recipe and taught us <br />
on her <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-Cn3tiaEHk&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR1nc7Ut3vYmA6C69VtQa1NADgac2mEGeOa0SgzViVtNr8CU8yd-2QZQDeM">Craftpocalypse</a> site how to make it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My wife and I are now going into week nine of being quarantined together in our home. I am a little ashamed to admit how happy I've been here, under no obligation to see anyone (except my mother, around whom I wear a mask when I pop over to see her, and my daughter, for whom we've made a quarantining exception).<br />
<br />
The days, though Groundhog-Day like in their sameness, pass quickly. I have video-chat dates with friends every week. I write for my MFA program (poems, short stories, 55,0000 words of my novel). I wear nothing but yoga pants and tank tops. I've been building a mosaic on the side of our house and making daily art with an online program I signed up for. I cook delicious meals and eat a lot of ice cream. (So, so much Vanilla Swiss Almond by Haagen-Dazs that I ought to become my own retail outlet just to have wholesale amounts delivered here.) I've been learning to play bridge with my Bridge Life Master mom, something I think I'll still be saying after 10 years of this "learning," as the nuances of this game are endless. I take part in writing accountability dates and Zoom critique sessions. I do yoga (with Adriene, on her Find What Feels Good channel) every day, the only commitment I never break with myself; I cannot say enough about how life-saving this practice, started right after my son died, has been for me. My dog couldn't be more thrilled about having me home with her.<br />
<br />
Even the stress I had around touching groceries, back when I was spraying with Lysol every item that came into our house, has abated now that research shows we are all most at danger of catching corona virus when we're in an enclosed space together, breathing one another's air. So I've stopped scrubbing down our packages and purchases and have relaxed about hiking with my daughter, saying hello to neighbors as we walk our dogs, and visiting people to pick up items from my "Buy Nothing" group. (Buy Nothing Facebook groups, local to each community, allow members to give away things we don't need anymore and to be gifted items our neighbors don't need anymore. My house and wardrobe are furnished, decorated and enriched by literally hundreds of these items.)<br />
<br />
All of the delights I'm enjoying do not change the terrifying fact that a coup is and has been happening right in front of us, in which inspectors general are fired and replaced by cronies and loyalists, in which good people are silenced, in which bad people are let out of prison early, in which the entire swamp of our federal government is abusing its power and stealing our money to enrich themselves, holding parties with big donors on our dime, making millions in stock deals with insider knowledge, giving themselves and their donors giant tax cuts, and looking for ways to keep us from voting in November. I do my best to put the horror out of my mind, as I feel helpless to change what is happening, but that leaves me feeling slimy with guilt for all the pleasures I'm still enjoying.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoEH2B8nwVJlWXjyho4GgdBUixbJAeINOk7Rqguo2Ydu46Spyhlk4MHoXGvWuBuavm9J9JR2olO-zQU4N29EsPRNf4gK4Wpl0WvEH8_N5xQWcb-K6kR0dBqLSU_NwW08lNh_ENX5ElkOFH/s1600/affirmations.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="1056" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoEH2B8nwVJlWXjyho4GgdBUixbJAeINOk7Rqguo2Ydu46Spyhlk4MHoXGvWuBuavm9J9JR2olO-zQU4N29EsPRNf4gK4Wpl0WvEH8_N5xQWcb-K6kR0dBqLSU_NwW08lNh_ENX5ElkOFH/s320/affirmations.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
So I'm going to go back now to my art project from yesterday. Just reading all of these statements aloud reminds me that in my practice of only controlling what is within my control, I'm doing well, I'm doing right, and I need to just keep going.<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">But if anyone has any ideas for how we can affect what's going on "out there," please let me know.</span><br />
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<br />Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-76798618229844163272020-03-17T19:37:00.000-04:002020-05-20T19:42:14.090-04:00How Do We Set Boundaries in a Crisis?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today is my mother’s 72<sup>nd</sup> St. Patrick’s Day birthday. I spent the morning cutting fat off the corned beef I’m making her (why do the butchers hide it?) and rubbing down with Clorox wipes every surface we touch frequently on our ground floor: refrigerator and oven door handles, door knobs, cabinet and drawer pulls, toilet handle, light switches.
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My mother was a little disappointed when we all agreed a week ago we wouldn’t go out, as she loves to be in a noisy bar full of revelers for her birthday, but each day since then the news has gotten more forbidding, and by now the idea of going out to a restaurant is off the table altogether. At this point, we’re not even certain we ought to be getting together to celebrate in one of our homes.
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I texted her today, “I hoped you would come here, just for a change of scenery, if nothing else.” She’s been homebound for more than a week. “ It’s no good for you to be inside 24-7,” I said.
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“But that’s what they keep saying I should do,” my mom responded--so I guess we will be going to her place. And I hope even <em>that</em> isn’t harmful as my wife and daughter have been forced to continue showing up at their places of employment and exposing themselves to who knows what germs. The more news I read about how people without symptoms are infecting the largest numbers, the more terrifying a calculus this seems--but we are going, because leaving my mother isolated on her birthday doesn't seem like a good solution, either.
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My mom has been mostly wheelchair bound since her second failed back surgery more than a decade ago, but she’s maintained her independence with a series of accessible vans and motorized scooters. She moved here three years ago from Las Vegas, where she had lived for the previous 35 years, and now she lives just a mile from me and Renee in South Hadley. Having her close is a comfort and a pleasure; I am learning to play bridge with her, love going to movies with her, appreciate her sympathetic ear and compassion, and just generally enjoy her company and fun-loving spirit.
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In Vegas, she had lots more of a community around her and went out all the time, playing bridge and mahjong, visiting with friends she made through her decades of living and working in Nevada. Since moving here, which she did in part because my son died and she wanted to be near me to be supportive but more because her own health was declining and she needed to be nearer to me so I could help her with daily living, she goes out much less frequently. She increasingly asks that I drive her to appointments, as she is less and less willing to drive long distances … or in the dark …or in bad weather … or if she’s feeling anxious about driving alone or about being alone in her scooter as she goes from her car to her apartment, which is most of the time. This has been frustrating for us, as I want her to stay active and independent--and she feels she is only asking for what she really needs from me.
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Perhaps in a leftover trigger reaction developed as I tried not to enable my drug-addicted son, I often struggle with figuring out how much of what I do for my mother is too much: which of my actions is enabling my mother to become less self-sufficient and more dependent, and which are simply necessary for me to do as a helpful, loving daughter?
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Now, on top of all this, there is a national quarantine for Corona virus. I am my mother’s only child (I had a younger sister, institutionalized most of her life for severe disabilities, who died in childhood), so if my mom needs help, it falls to me to find or provide it (and to my wife, who is also an only child with her own ailing mother who moved here from out of state a few years ago; her mom now lives in a nearby nursing home).
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So I’ll throw this question out to all of you, dear readers: how do we know what is appropriate to give of ourselves and our time and energy during this crazy-making time? Should I give up hoping my mother can even try to be independent for now, recognizing that we are all going to be relying much more heavily on one another than we ever did before? Or should I keep trying to push her to manage her life (and her pain and her depression) by herself? Should I insist she shop for herself? Get herself to her own doctor’s appointments? Find her own therapist? Bring her van in for repairs on her own? Just asking these questions makes me sound heartless—yet a lifetime of my mother being overly reliant on me, treating me like the grown-up rather than the child, sometimes not getting things done unless I am pushing to make them happen, has made me unable to know where to draw my lines in the sand.
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My boundaries were already getting blurrier as my mother aged, and now I fear that coronavirus is going to make them disappear altogether. I’m scared the kind of caretaking my mother could require (and will <em>want</em> me to provide whether she requires it or not) will make me feel that <em>I </em>am disappearing.
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For today, I am happy that my mother having a birthday makes these choices easy: to make her favorite meal and buy her favorite cake, to enjoy her company this evening, to sing to her and celebrate her while dressed in our greenest finery—we will all enjoy this, my daughter, my wife and I. Together we will miss my son's daughter, shown here between me and her mom celebrating my mother's birthday when she was still allowed to speak to us. And we will be grateful we have one another and have helped one another through the heartache of losing first Kyle, who died in 2016, and now Maggie, who hasn't been permitted to see or speak to any of us since early 2019.
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What happens in the weeks to come is my larger worry. How are all of you dealing with being an adult child in the midst of the corona virus; how do you know where to draw your own lines? It is easy for me to fall into crisis mode even when there isn't an emergency, to start feeling it is my job to keep everyone calm while herding them to safety. Now that we are facing an actual emergency, I need to figure out how to keep myself calm--and, especially, how to know that my mother being disappointed in me doesn't mean I failed, as often, no matter what I do, she may feel disappointed in me for not doing more. But then again, maybe sometimes I <em>do</em> fail. I welcome your thoughts.Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-33899739348464657962020-02-02T19:33:00.000-05:002020-05-20T19:36:47.728-04:00Do We Need A Medium to Talk to Our Dead?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The three women who loved Kyle most went looking for him at a Theresa Caputo show a year and half after he died.
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In February of 2018, my mother took me and my adult daughter to see <em>Long Island Medium </em>Theresa Caputo at a stadium show in Reading, PA. My mother paid $500 for our tickets and drove us five hours from our home in Western Massachusetts as part of a wildly extravagant effort to give me what she knew I wanted most -- a chance to hear from my son, Kyle, who died of an overdose in September of 2016.
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The 1800-seat arena was mostly sold out, filled to the rafters with Caputo fans and grieving family members all hoping they would be chosen for a live reading. As we arrived, I wondered how many of my fellow audience members felt, as I did, that this event was going to leave them deeply disappointed.
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Before my son died, I gave almost no thought to life after death. I had lost many loved ones – my grandmother, a close uncle, my in-laws, several friends, even a younger sister in childhood – but I’d never wondered if they could see or hear me, nor what had become of them. The childhood fantasy I’d had that I was being watched over by my father, who had died at age 24 when I was an infant, had long since faded, right along with my imagining I could blink or wiggle my nose to make magic.
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Then my 26-year-old, strappingly handsome son, who had danced with me at my wedding earlier in the month, was found dead of an overdose in a Best Western lobby bathroom.
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My son had struggled with addiction for several years, but in 2016 his future looked hopeful. He’d graduated from a long-term recovery program, reunited with his daughter’s mother and fallen in love with his 2-year-old, Maggie, after missing most of her babyhood. Though he’d had a couple of relapses, we were relieved that he was finally acting as a father to his child. We’d all beamed to see him, sober and doting, cheering as his little girl sprinkled rose petals down our backyard aisle as my flower girl. When he relapsed the week after my wedding, it was a disappointing setback, but he immediately checked himself into detox, which seemed like progress.
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Only his toddler seemed to sense what was coming. Though Maggie didn’t understand her father was an addict, she knew he’d been sick and had spent a few days in a hospital getting well. He came home promising he was fixed and wouldn’t be leaving again, but she was mysteriously inconsolable. She screamed hysterically at him that she knew he was about to leave her and never come back. He swore she was mistaken. He and Maggie’s mother, Amber, exchanged a look over Maggie’s head. Their toddler was saying things that gave them chills about how Kyle would soon be gone forever. They told me this story over video chat, Kyle asking with a nervous laugh: “What does she know that I don’t?” I found the story upsetting, but only because I worried about what Kyle’s relapses were doing to Maggie, not because I imagined her terror prescient.
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During that video call, Kyle seemed excited about a new job he said he was starting on Monday, and he spoke by phone and video chat to several sober friends and family members throughout the weekend. Then, inexplicably – for all of us who are not addicts – he spent all day and night Monday shooting heroin and meth until he died early Tuesday morning.
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My son’s death, unlike all the others I’d endured, caused me to develop an immediate, compelling interest in life after death. I wrote a journal to him as if he were reading over my shoulder. I spoke out loud to him when I was alone. I and other close family members had several startling experiences in the weeks and, especially, first days after he died, and felt sure Kyle was there causing them. A few examples:
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<ul>
<li>My ex-husband and I were at a park near the morgue. Our mood could not have been more grim, but I had a sudden feeling that Kyle wanted us to run around the green field. I felt silly saying so, but I heard myself suggest, out of the blue, “Maybe we should play kick the can,” a game I have never played and don’t know how to play. With that, I felt pushed to look harder at the pristine field and there I saw a single can lying in its middle: a green Monster energy drink our son habitually drank. “That was Kyle,” we said to each other, dazed but sure. And then we ran around making up Kick the Can rules, feeling his spirit with us, sharing an understanding that he’d wanted us to know he could see us.</li>
<li>When I was forced to say goodbye to my son’s body at the funeral home a day later, I tried to take his picture as he was laid out in the coffin. As soon as I had the focus set on his perfectly alive-looking face, with its slight stubble and protruding lower lip plump as if ready for kissing, my phone froze and turned itself off – and I said out loud, to Kyle, “Oh! You don’t want that to be an image I keep of you? Ok then.” I felt without doubt that Kyle had turned my phone off. When hours later my phone turned itself back on, the image I hadn’t had a chance to click of my son’s still face –laid out like a prince’s on a white satin pillow – that image appeared just long enough for me to see it, like a last goodbye, before it vanished from my phone forever.</li>
<li>At his memorial service a couple of days later, as I stood in a fog of grief at the podium, my phone tucked into my bra strap, staring out at our and Kyle’s lifetime of friends, I addressed Kyle first and said, “I don’t know if you can hear me – ” and was interrupted by my phone ringing – one, single ring. Everyone joined me in a relieved laugh when I said to the assembled, “I guess this is a reminder to turn off our cell phones.” But when I looked at my phone to see who had called, it was blank, showing no missed call. I said, “Oh, I guess that was Kyle letting me know he <em>can </em>hear me,” and saying that felt natural, not supernatural. My friends in the first rows nodded vigorously, glad I was believing.</li>
<li>Kyle’s father, Larry, who prior to Kyle’s death affirmatively did not believe in God, said he was driving alone and heard Kyle’s voice speak out loud so clearly it made him scream in the car. “Hey, Dad,” he said. “I’m OK.”</li>
<li>While we were sitting shiva, just as I was asking if anyone believed Kyle could hear us, one of my grandsons tossed a tiny, soft stuffed animal across the room. In a physics-defying arc, it hit a pull chain hanging from the ceiling fan, causing it to fly straight up and shattering the glass in the light so that it rained down all over the floor. At that point, we recognized a pattern: if we asked if Kyle could hear us, he answered.</li>
<li>The radiator in the room where his funeral photos were displayed froze while all the others in the house worked.</li>
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As time passed, such strange incidents happened less frequently, and my feeling that Kyle was with me faded. In the first months, if a scream rose in my mind, which it often did, “KYLE, WHERE ARE YOU??” I immediately felt his soothing energy around me, and a response in my mind: “I’m right here.” I now feel a much less definitive response if I wonder this – so I try my best not to.
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Which may be why, when my mother gave me a birthday gift nearly 18 months after Kyle’s death of tickets to see <em>Theresa Caputo: The Live Experience</em>, I felt mostly dread. I was just starting to accept that my son was gone; I didn’t want to hope for a connection that I wasn’t going to feel.
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During the first terrible year after Kyle’s death, I sometimes felt desperate to find a “reputable medium” (a phrase I would have silently scorned in my previous life), someone who could give me proof that Kyle could see or hear us. Looking back, I’m not sure why I didn’t accept as “proof” our previous, eerie experiences – but as time passed, I started discounting my own memories, assuming they were the product of my grief-addled imagination. I wanted proof, a professional to confirm for me that Kyle’s unique voice still existed in the universe. I wanted a stranger to tell us a story only Kyle would know, a secret we had between us that even I didn’t remember, a joke only Kyle would make.
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I’m sure this is what every grieving skeptic wants, indisputable proof – and none of the “signs” I’d had previously could not be somehow explained away. Indeed, my atheist wife always has a scientific explanation for everything that feels like a spiritual communication (though she has wisely stopped sharing her explanations with me). After the shattered light fixture and broken radiator, she jokingly asked Kyle to please find less expensive ways to communicate, which was as close as she came to acting as if she believed.
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When I started thinking about finding a medium, I did Google research first. There are websites that rank mediums’ reputability, and using these, I narrowed my search down to a couple of people within 100 miles of me. I sent emails and clicked the contact buttons on their websites -- and never heard back.
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A grief-friend – a mother whose son was rehab-friends with mine before tragically dying of an overdose four months before mine -- said she would go with me to any medium I thought was “for real.” She was afraid she’d be crushed by not hearing anything convincing, and I agreed that was my worst fear also. But we didn’t have to worry, because no one I tried to reach ever responded. My mother wrote to Theresa Caputo’s website to ask for an individual reading, too, but we never heard from them, either.
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My mother is a longtime fan of Theresa Caputo and her <em>Long Island </em>Medium show. After attending a medium’s presentation with me at our local library – one that seemed so fake it caused me to burst into tears – she purchased the Caputo show tickets because she didn’t want me wasting any more time on less authentic mediums. And I must admit that by the end of the Caputo show, I was convinced that she was either speaking to the dead or psychically pulling thoughts from her audience members’ minds. I can’t dream up any other explanation for the details she dredged up and the naked shock she drew from the open-mouthed mourners hearing her channel their loved ones. She was so confident about each message she was delivering that even if a person were shaking her head and saying, “No, nothing, I don’t know anything about that,” she would press on, insisting they think harder – and in every case people suddenly discovered a startling connection.
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In the most memorable reading of the night, she told someone who had lost a dear friend to gun violence and blamed himself that she could see “a bloody tattoo.” The man she was talking to, who was crying silently, kept shaking his head until finally the guy’s wife stood up and yelled at him, “Of course, you have that bloodline tattoo in honor of him.” And there it was, under his sleeve, on his forearm.
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Caputo’s show began with a video opener of seemingly miraculous connections she had helped people make in previous shows and a request that we stand during the national anthem to honor the military families in the audience. Then Caputo herself came out, looking much smaller and prettier in person than she does on television. She had torn her ACL and came out limping in a plastic boot, her buff young physical trainer assisting her up stairs as she made him part of her ongoing schtick. She let us know she expected us all to feel moved and positive by the end of the show, whether we had a personal reading or not, because we were going to witness indisputable connections between the dead and the living.
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“Tonight is about your loved ones validating they’re with you and don’t want you to feel guilty,” she said. The dead loved ones who spoke through her were going to do three things to persuade us they were real, she told us:
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<ul>
<li>“They’re going to bring up old stuff that helps you remember good times you had together.</li>
<li>“They’re going to tell you stuff they’ve seen you do since they died to prove that they can still see and hear you.</li>
<li>“And they’re going to show you their authentic personality so you know it’s really them.”</li>
</ul>
Then she said something that my mother and I found disturbing: “The dead are living life through us so they want us to laugh and have a good time.” We hope Kyle has something better to do than just watch us live -- though that does sound like a sad but fitting punishment for someone who threw his life away … which I know is not supportive of the addiction-as-a-disease model, but I digress…
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Theresa is a Vegas-style entertainer -- a talented comedian, a heavily accented character with extra-long nails and tall wigs and an easy patter that draws many laughs – and she’s as good at that part of her performance as she is at talking to the dead. Before starting her readings, she did a pitch for her fan club, whose members are eligible for lower-cost tickets to future shows. There is no way to watch all this without suspecting she is exploiting the desperation of grieving families – but after watching her in action, I believe she is also a skilled medium, someone who clearly possesses a gift, and I imagine she justifies her ticket prices by knowing she is, in fact, offering comfort to everyone who comes to her shows. This doesn’t make me feel any less silly about the money my mother paid to help us learn something we should already have known.
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Which brings me to Theresa’s main act: talking to audience members and their invisible ghosts, a camera crew following her into the crowd to hand out mikes and turn people around so their conversations could be broadcast on the jumbo Tron.
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Theresa claimed that sometimes one ghost spoke for many. She said some messages we heard could be for many of us and this seemed to apply when her first reading was to a mourning sister. With my daughter listening intently beside me, I took notes that read, “Dead brother wants sister to know he takes responsibility for his own death, there’s nothing she could have done, he remembers all she did and doesn’t want her to feel guilty.” This both sounds like a message to my daughter and also like it could be about anyone, but in the moment, Caputo shared many personal details that made this universal message personal to the particular sister she was addressing.
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Caputo went on to speak to about a dozen audience members individually, offering personal details that made people gasp and cover their mouths and cry out and say, “Oh my god, that’s him.” Among the highlights:
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<ul>
<li>“He’s sorry he complained the food you gave him was cold,” she says to a widow whose husband had been a complainer. The whole family, including the widow, laughs and cries simultaneously. “He appreciated you and wants you to take that trip you’re thinking about.”</li>
<li>“You keep seeing shadows flying by you?” she asks a young woman who’d lost her husband. “Or you see lights moving out of the corner of your eye that are making you think you’re going crazy?” The woman nods, amazed. “Well he wants you to know that’s really him, not your wishful thinking. So when you turn your head because you think you see something quick, that’s him.”</li>
<li>“She says to tell you, ‘That butterfly is a beautiful tribute to me; I love it, Mom.’” This is said to a stunned woman who then raises her sleeve to show the butterfly tattoo she had inscribed to her child.</li>
<li>“Did you have a tree and bench dedicated to him?” she asks a family. They all gasp, eyes wide, say yes. “Now see, how could I possibly know that?” she asks. “You think everyone in here dedicated a tree and a bench? Well, he sees that and he appreciates it. He wants you to know he knows you did that.”</li>
<li>“Are you wearing her earrings tonight?” she asks someone. The woman’s hand flies to her ear, she nods, shocked. “She says they look great on you.”</li>
<li>“You’re mad she didn’t wear her seatbelt; you think that’s why she died. But look, this woman over here is mad her sister couldn’t get out of her seatbelt when she died. They are both here together to tell you it was just their time, nothing could have been done.” (Whenever two or more people stood to the same prompts or cues, Caputo insisted this was not a coincidence, that spirits were joining forces to communicate a similar message, using one another’s stories to amplify the stories of others.)</li>
<li>To a whole family mourning their patriarch: “He says it’s ok for you to sell off some of the land to save the rest; he knows you promised to take care of the land, and you’ve done a great job, but he understands you’re out of options, and he’d rather you keep some of it then lose the whole thing trying to keep it all.” Members of the family nodded vigorously or wept, hugely relieved.</li>
<li>In the middle of a reading with a woman whose skeptical husband, Justin, had been dragged there so the woman could try to connect with her dead mother, Theresa said, “I’m getting a name, and I don’t usually get names. Elizabeth?” The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. “Yes!” she screamed, “that’s my mother’s name!” Theresa laughed and said, “How’s that for you, Justin?”</li>
</ul>
Caputo told us at the beginning of the night that we would leave knowing we’d witnessed communication from the dead, and she was right; every interaction she had with individual members of her audience – about a dozen of them -- did seem miraculous, to the point that I almost didn’t mind that I didn’t hear directly from Kyle. I was reminded throughout the show that if others were experiencing these communications from the grave, we could too. If any dead loved ones can speak, then ours can speak to us, too – and he has.
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There was a moment when Theresa said something about “the numbers 9 and 6 – or the months September and June,” which are the months of my children’s birthdays. My daughter started to raise her hand and then stopped and let someone else respond to that cue. “Nah,” she said, “I don’t need for her to help me talk to Kyle.” So perhaps that cue was for us, perhaps not, but either way the show accomplished what my mother intended, reminding me that Kyle <em>has</em> been speaking to us, and we don’t need to pay for expensive tickets to know he exists as spirit in our lives. All we have to do to know he’s still with us is to believe – which, ironically, given how my son’s struggle with faith often interfered with his recovery, is also all he would have had to do to live.
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I hope you are able to talk to your lost loved one without an intermediary. I hope you don’t feel the need to pay good money to attend an entertaining stadium show full of jokes from the dead. The odds of you being chosen for a personalized reading in a crowd that size are extremely slim, so I hope you don’t need to be in that kind of crowd to know that there is life after death. But if you are plagued with doubts and want “proof” that communication from the afterlife is real, a Theresa Caputo show might be just the ticket.
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#addiction #overdose #theresacaputo #overdosedeath #believe #grief #medium #grievingmother #lostson #talkingtothedeadLanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6159414272746489708.post-22065845440658151912020-01-04T19:29:00.000-05:002020-05-20T19:32:53.481-04:00I'm freaking out a little!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I just started an MFA residency today – and I am terrified of failing and not fitting in, but also I am floating a little outside myself watching in amazement as I move among the other students in this beautiful winter-retreat lodge where we are staying for the week. I lucked out and got my own room, which I am extremely excited about, as I was dreading bunking with 25-year-olds – though now that I’m up here on a different floor all alone there is a tiny part of me that thinks, “Aw, it would have been fun and helped me make friends faster if I had to share a room with some of the other women. But the greater part of me is definitely happy to be up here alone.”
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It has been my adult-lifetime dream to get an MFA, to have someone push me to get my writing done, to coach and encourage me, to help me keep my storylines moving, to introduce and expose me to agents and other authors. Now that I’m here, I’m afraid of multiple things:
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<li>First, I’m afraid this program won’t actually push or coach me or help me get published – that either I misunderstood what MFA programs do or that this is an especially awful one. (I’m praying that is not the case and am conscious of a terrible habit I have of putting people, places and things down if I’m scared of them. So I want to be careful I don’t start telling myself I’m above it all, and this program sucks, just so I can feel better about my own failures as a writer.)</li>
<li>I’m also scared I won’t get any writing done and will fail – and they just announced that multiple students have not done their work for three or more semesters, and they’re changing their policy so that students have to hand in work before they can move on to the next semester, or they can only be one semester behind, or something like that. As Stephanie, the program director, said to everyone assembled at the (delicious) dinner, “You’re all paying a lot of money to not get your writing done, and we feel we can’t let that go on for years.” So this tells me that whatever coaching they do, it’s not universally effective…</li>
<li>And I’m scared I’ll be disliked by these kids and or by the teachers and program director, that in the kids’ case I’ll make them nervous just by virtue of being old (I don’t feel old, but I understand someone in her 50s will seem old to them; I’m older than or the same age as many of their parents, I’m sure.) And that in the teachers’ or administrator’s case they’ll feel… threatened by me. The way some (mostly women) do, even though I don’t always understand why. For example, the administrator could read this blog and think I am saying the program is terrible, which I am not! I am saying I don’t know and my fears are running rampant.</li>
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OK, that’s enough expression of my fears; I don’t want to give them more space in my head than they deserve. What I really am is <em>excited</em> that no matter what this program does or offers, I have an opportunity here to focus on my writing with some kind of guidance, with someone watching and waiting for me to do the next chapter (or whatever it is), and that is thrilling. I do feel a make-or-break sense about this, in terms of my ability to feel like a "real" writer, that if I can't finish and publish a book while I'm here, it's never going to happen. And I am excited that my writing will be homework, which will give me permission to tell people I’m busy writing and feel OK about that.
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I’m gonna go now and read through my colleague’s workshop materials and make notes so I have encouraging things to say to them when we start workshopping our submissions together tomorrow afternoon. And if I have time after that, I’m going to edit my poetry manuscript so it feels ready to send out. That will be my first project here that I will work on with my mentor, who is a poet, whom I haven't met yet as she's not arriving until tomorrow morning. My daughter Jamie took the past couple of months reading over my manuscript and offering lots of fantastic editing suggestions and encouraging remarks, so I’m going to try to incorporate those and cut some of the poems so the book is the right length (75-80 pages instead of the 98 it is now).
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Wish me luck. I mean that literally; feel free to share your good wishes in my comments. If you're reading this on Facebook, please don't comment there, because I haven't gone on in weeks except to look for birthdays for a calendar I was making, and I'm hoping to keep it that way.
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Also, here's a photo from our first-ever Christmas Night Salon, which I plan to make an annual event. We had so much fun! This is a picture of the Jamies (my daughter and a friend from high school, Jamie Sharken) with their incredible shrinking mothers, me and my new friend Joanne.<br />
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<br />Lanette Sweeneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01350969214741459571noreply@blogger.com0