PeaceWave
PeaceWave's JournalTen years ago, she was beaten within an inch of her life by a former boyfriend...
This one's for my neighbor's daughter, who has come so very far...
Truth be told, the abuse - first emotional then physical - had been ever present in the relationship. The "relationship." Does that word apply to any two objects gravitationally related to one another - even if one, like a black hole, intends to completely subsume and swallow the other? Like a trawler plodding its way through previously untainted serene waters, he had slowly but surely roiled every aspect of her life until she was unrecognizable, even to herself. The way he spoke to her, his specific choice of words, alternating between adoration and diminishment, creating an unsteady ground, eventually becoming a quicksand, impossible for her to traverse, left her falling until she eventually felt helplessly weightless, adrift in space not even her own, but entirely his.
She knew something was wrong. A simple trip to the post office was cut short by a persistent sensation that she was ShRiNkInG. Running, getting into her car, driving as fast as she dared, fleeing to the safety (was it really safe) of their apartment, a letter to her mother still in hand, she locked the door behind her and immediately began trembling, then sobbing. When he came home and found her on the ground, still blocking the door, rather than soothe her, he chastised her. What was wrong with HER? This question, these words, had long since become mirrors within her mind, reflecting both blame and shame back upon herself. Perhaps it was for this reason that, when he first came at her not with words but rather fists, she retreated into that same mirror filled abyss.
When at last she emerged from darkness, she was greeted by diffuse hospital lights she could barely see through swollen eyes. A voice, that of a woman, a little older and wiser than herself, explained to her what had happened and what would happen. Over the ensuing months, there would be so many steps to climb before she once again reached stable ground. How far and for how long had she been falling? Still healing, she returned home to the embrace of her mother, a warm and almost forgotten sensation. In succession, physical and mental therapy, a rebuilding her sense of self, a determination to give purpose to what had happened, depositions, hearings and then a trial. Eventually, a thing she'd once thought of as human banished to a place reserved for demons.
And then, after quite a while passed, something happened that was so out of place with the life she'd previously known, that it appeared almost as a sudden cosmic event. She met a young man. He was kind and honest and smart and understanding. He listened, and he did so without judgement. And, as chance would have it, he was an expert on the laws of objects in motion, a rocket scientist, albeit one in training, two semesters of graduate school to go. Two years later, they were married. Another year after that and they are now welcoming their first child, a daughter who'll bear the name of a flower. And, when she thinks about what kind of life this other girl will live, she imagines one where that girl is always in control, never falling, ever earthbound.
How about five bullet points justifying your continued need to exist - ASAP!
This, of course, is only how I imagine and wish things would work out for all those affected...
The DOGE staffer lingered impatiently near the office machine. Wearing a black hoodie screen printed with the words SUCKS NOT TO BE ME, his pale skinny arms were crossed and ear buds protruded from under unkempt hair. "What the fuck is taking so fucking long?" he mumbled to nobody in particular. Finally, the page unfurled itself from the printer. The young man, all of nineteen and six months out of college - not having graduated but rather having dropped out since he deemed "all of it simply a waste of his time" - looked admiringly at the page. In bold twenty four point New York Times font letters atop an otherwise still crisp white sheet were the words FIVE BULLET POINTS JUSTIFYING YOUR CONTINUED NEED TO EXIST. Just below, in a font half this size were the words Due Today.
In long strides, the DOGE staffer made his way to the office of the Agency manager. The manager, a fifty two year old man who had worked at the Agency for thirty years affected a weak smile when the DOGE staffer entered his office. "Five hundred of these go out right now. Not even now. Like yesterday now." The pinstripe suited manager peered at the freshly printed page. "You don't think this is a little vague?" The kid from DOGE was perplexed. "What do you mean? It's perfect." Through progressive lenses, the manager peered at the acne faced young Republican before him. "I just think you could use a little context. Today could be any day. Monday will be today if I'm reading this on Monday." Feeling chastised, the boy thought how much he hated old people. "Okay then. I want your answer in ten minutes."
Once the DOGE staffer had left, the manager began to reflect on all that had been accomplished during his time at the Agency. When he first started out, the Agency wasn't a true reflection of America. How did we ever get anything done back in the day? he thought to himself. Not enough perspective. Not enough curiosity. His father had been a schoolteacher and had taught him at an early age that, in order to be an effective communicator, one needed to be able to inhabit one's audience. Having adapted and evolved over the years, the Agency was now a microcosm of America and better for it. Looking hard at the page before him, the manager thought about all the people, places and things in his life that mattered the most. Inhabiting his audience, the words flowed easily onto the page.
Five minutes later and on his way out of an office he knew he'd never again see, the Agency man handed his response to the boy from DOGE. Then, he loosened his tie just a little bit and decided that the rest of his life was going to begin with walking his dog. Struggling to phonetically sound out the words, the boy looked around helplessly at an office whose personnel and mission were alien to him. In big black cursive text, nearly unintelligible to the kid, the Agency man had written the words To remain and forever be unbroken.
A first hand account of the impact of Friday's "24 Hour Economic Blackout."
In my car, driving to the Safeway in the Bay Area suburb where I live - the same store I have shopped at for decades - I am sincerely curious as to the effects of the much hyped "24 Hour Economic Blackout." The county where I live (along with all the other counties in the Bay Area) was easily won by Kamala Harris in the 2024 Presidential election. Perhaps the battle cry for economic change would resonate more here in this bastion of liberalism, I thought. But, as I approach the store, what I find is similar to every other Friday at this suburban grocery store surrounded by small restaurants and various eateries. The parking lot is filled to near capacity at a little past Noon (not unusual since the pandemic ushered in a wave of remote employment throughout the Bay Area). Plenty of people are out and about enjoying a splendid sunny afternoon in Northern California. Colorful fiberglass helmets float atop the nearby regional trail, weaving their way through and past joggers shimmering with perspiration under the bright sun. First impressions that a rebellion is in the works are anything but promising.
As I get out of my car, I scan the frontage of the Safeway. I can feel my stomach churn slightly. Is that a group of protestors I see just outside the entrance to the store? Am I about to be bullied by a suburban version of Che Guevara brandishing a day old French baguette who's going to scold me for my brazen embrace of Capitalism as evidenced by my desire to catch some Friday food specials? As I get closer, I realize that what I see is just three soccer moms and their kids catching up on family events. Anything my gut is feeling is more likely the after effect of the probiotic pill I took the night before. Entering the store, I again look for any sign of true change. No again. The queue to reach the deli and Starbucks counters are just as annoyingly long as ever. Then again, it occurs to me, wouldn't any revolution worth its weight in coffee beans have to be fueled with at least a few Venti sized Frappuccinos? The lady behind the counter waves to me. She bikes to work. I admire her eschewing of the combustion engine. Her routine is her defiant act against a world reaching its RPM threshold.
Meandering through the various aisles of the store, filling my cart with all the usual suspects (many of which I will later need to cop to at my equivalent of confession - the doctor's office), I spot another worker stocking shelves. "Have you had any fewer customers today with this economic blackout going on?" I ask. Turning from arranging the big spice display before her, "What's that?" she asks. "People online were saying there would be an economic blackout today. No shopping for 24 hours." Her brow furrows a bit. "Not that I've noticed. Who started it?" I realize that I don't really have an answer. To this day, the creators of "viral" content remain elusive to me, the Wizard of Oz before Toto pulled back the curtain. A few minutes later, my cart now full, I move on to the checkout counter. One of my favorite checkers, a man in his 30's who attends junior college at night, ushers me through. Swiping my debit card, I ask. "Did you hear about this 24 hour economic blackout?" Surveying the job being done by the teenaged bagger at his side, he responds "Did I hear about it? Yes. Did I actually see it? Nope."
Maybe things are different over at Target, I thought. It wouldn't hurt to try. I wouldn't want to miss out on anything.
After careful consideration, I have decided that the 24 Hour Economic Blackout is bullshit.
I wanted to like the idea. Hell, I myself proposed something similar not long after the election. That said, this thing was extremely poorly thought out. And, I have two primary reasons for saying this...
(1) To begin with, several stores that sell essentials (i.e., food) offer deep discounts only on Fridays. For instance, Albertsons/Safeway, with its 2,300 stores, has all of its best grocery deals only on Fridays. And, trust me, when I say these are good deals. I consider myself an extremely shrewd shopper and I estimate that I routinely save 30-40% on my bill whenever I shop at Safeway on a Friday as opposed to any other day of the week. And, I'm not alone in targeting the day of the week when I shop for groceries. Every worker at Safeway with whom I've spoken has told me that the store gets twice as many customers on Friday. So, this Economic Blackout is not only asking me to miss out on these deals, but to likely also return to the same store the following day and pay 30-40% more for the same items - Which would have the counter-intuitive effect of only enriching the store that much more. You really want to ask people who are already living on tight margins to go this route? Seriously, someone didn't think this thing out all the way through.
(2) Sale prices aside, saying you're going to protest food prices by not buying food for one arbitrary day actually makes absolutely no economic sense - Since you're simply going to make up for what you didn't buy that one day by purchasing more some other day. The economic impact on the grocery chain is zero. Now, if you really want to hurt their bottom line, get your fucking hands dirty. By that, I mean GROW SOMETHING. I say this as a gardener. Planting season is nearly upon us. Every spring, my own family plants tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, snap peas (my personal favorite), melons, etc. This is addition to the stone fruit trees we harvest every summer. It doesn't take a big piece of property to produce your own produce. And, even if you have no property at all, there are community gardens and gardening collectives you can join, contribute to and benefit from. The environment will love you. Your body will thank you.
So, in summation, pick another day of the week and I can get on board with a 24 Economic Blackout. But, even then, symbolic gestures are no match for real action and real physical effort. It's a sign of the times that too many people now confuse inaction (mostly conducted behind a computer screen and splattered across social media) for real world effect. The most effective "protestors" I know are gardeners. They wield power not with guns, but with shovels and spades. Something to chew on this Thursday.
Dinner time and my sister's 13 year old grandson strikes again..."Donald Trump's a dick with Peyronie's disease!"
"Will someone please turn off the TV!?" Pointing a serving spatula at the television and it's dinner time questionable ad for bent penises, my niece's face suddenly took on a shade of crimson approaching that of the lasagna she was getting ready to serve. Then, addressing her son, "And, as for you, we don't talk about that kind of stuff at dinner time." Luckily for the boy, his great grandmother's 91 year old increasingly unidirectional ears weren't able to hear the exchange from the other room. Otherwise, multi-generational hell would have broken loose there amid the pleasing aroma of garlic bread. My sister turns off the TV, a 16 year old behemoth twice handed down within the family and which just won't seem to die. The boy's parents don't own their own home and, with rents being what they are, big ticket purchases are scarce.
No sooner are we seated, glasses are clinked and cheers are offered than Mom's fired off the culinary equivalent of a hollow point bullet, "Who's recipe?" A round not intended for me, I'm digging in. Meanwhile, my sister and her daughter exchange glances before my sister answers for her daughter. "It's my recipe, Mom. It's made with turkey, not beef. We're trying to eat healthier." Realizing that's my cue to stave off a battle fought over a pasta playing field, I turn to my grand nephew "You seem to have changed your position on Donald Trump. What gives?" The kid's playing with his food before finally answering "Some jerk at school said I probably won't be able to attend college since Trump and Elon got rid of the Department of Education. Even if I have good grades, there won't be any money for college."
The sound of a heart breaking isn't a sound at all, but rather a silence that seems to last an eternity. In that moment, across the dinner table, that's what I heard and saw in the face of the kid's father. He works hard. I know he does. But, college dreams aren't a natural byproduct of blue collar labor. With his family's budget tight as it was, his son was going to need loans to attend college. And, regardless of the situation, a 13 year old kid should be thinking more about that girl he gave a Valentine to and less about two fucking billionaires who don't know the first thing about love. The boy's mother, my niece, was the first to break the silence. "First, that kid's a snot nose little punk who doesn't know anything. Second, there's a long time to go between now and when you go off to college. Eat."
While this answer may have sufficed for some, it wasn't enough for Mom. 91 years of life has tempered her and turned her into the kind of psychic warrior Yoda would admire. She had another verbal round loaded, except this time it wasn't aimed at anyone at the table. "That son of a bitch. He ruins everything he touches." Looking at her great grandson, she asked "What have I told you about obstacles?" I already knew the words the kid was going to say, because they belong to a secret language Mom introduced me to many years before. "We go over them. If we can't go over them, we go under them. If we can't go under them, we go around them. If we can't go around them, we go through them." That's right. He wasn't done though. "Grandma called Donald Trump a son of a bitch." Yes she did. And, deservedly so.
To the guy at Costco taking back returned items while praising Trump for "sending us all $8,000 checks" FUCK YOU.
Elon Musk (Not Donald Trump) pulls out of his ass a proposal to send every American a check for $8,000 (in exchange for what is anyone's guess). Less than 24 hours later, I'm at Costco returning a pair of pants that won't fit my own fat ass - An aspirational purchase justified by Costco's lack of dressing rooms. During the return, I make an innocuous comment about prices going up. The clown at the register comes back with "No worries. Donald Trump's going to be sending us all stimulus checks for $8,000. That should help." If I wanted the furtherance of misinformation, I'd go stand in the line designated "Idiots form a line here." But, I don't. I just want you to process my fucking return. THIS is the world we currently live in. 24 hours is all it takes for fiction to become fact in the minds of the masses.
After tanking a U.S. election, what more damage could pro-Gaza/Hamas people possibly want to commit?
Seriously, they got what they wanted. In a country that permitted them free speech, for months they irresponsibly devoted their breath to screaming derogatory names for Joe and Kamala, labeling them "Genocide Joe" and "Killer Kamala." Their "Uncommitted" movement led to just that - lots of Democrats and Independents not bothering to vote.
If their point was to shoot themselves in the foot, drag down American voters who had once been their allies and condemn the residents of Gaza to displaced refugee status, then they "succeeded" in spades - Since handing a U.S. election over to Trump is directly and causally related to the permanent end of Gaza as any possible part of a future Palestinian independent state.
That's right. THEY did that. Not Joe. Not Kamala. Not loyal Democratic voters. Not Netanyahu. Not the 1,200+ Israelis their "Freedom Fighters" killed on 10/7/23 or the 251 Israelis their "heroes" kidnapped on that same now infamous date. That was all on THEM. So, what is this these people are doing now - A "victory" lap?
Or, is this simply a complete lack of self-awareness, cognitive dissonance on display, a creeping sense of guilt at odds with a narcissistic belief that they can do no wrong? At the end of the day, I might feel empathy for them - if not for the fact that their misguided deeds have been so hypocritical and so hurtful to those they claim to care for.
Has it occurred to these people that maybe, just maybe, the Palestinian people (as opposed to the terrorists of Hamas and those who support that terrorist entity) NEVER wanted their "help" - since all their "help" brought was even more harm? Maybe they share more in common with Donald Trump than they realize - the need to "take care of" other people - "whether those people like it or not."
I grew up watching James Bond films, fully expecting the bad guys to be like the Bond villains. They're actually worse.
Keep in mind, for a suburban kid growing up in the late 1970's, there existed only two Tolkienesque realms in the world - one composed of absolute good and the other comprised of absolute evil. The good realm was permeated with malls, arcades, video games, Dungeons & Dragons, bands like Led Zeppelin and Thin Lizzy, muscle cars we imagined we'd one day drive and the good old U S of A. The bad realm was littered with flea markets, Legos and all the other toys we'd outgrown, the dying embers of disco, AMC Pacers and the Soviet Union.
We were on the verge of adolescence and there were definite expectations of what the world we were on the verge of entering would be and what we would make of it. Nobody said it was going to be easy. After Vietnam, a general malaise pervaded everything we heard on the news and experienced at home - government block cheese anyone? One last colonialist venture for a nation too old to have made such an adolescent mistake. But still there was a sense that, going forward, the world would invariably be a better place - because of our generation.
Which maybe explains why, as kids, we queued up to drop our $2 to watch all those Bond (and later, Star Wars) films. In the movies, the bad guys would be wealthy, demented and flawed in the their pursuit of their truest lust, that for power. And, in our innocent minds, we knew that just didn't make sense. If we and our friends had one last dollar between us, it was getting split four or ten ways. Looking back, I guess there were other kids growing up in those years, the Musks and the Bezos, waiting for an entirely different world. One where all the wealth and all the power would, without flaw, be all their own.
My Latin gardener has "disappeared."
Carlos has been our gardener for approximately five years now. At the very beginning of the pandemic, he rolled up to our house in his old rust colored truck, the vehicle's best years far in its rear view mirror. Stepping out, the young man introduced himself. In a timid voice which only became more confident when we indicated that we speak Spanish, Carlos explained that he'd recently lost his job with a construction company but that he was hard working and was going to turn around a bad situation by starting his own landscaping business. "No vine tan lejos sólo para perder." "I didn't come this far just to fail."
Carlos was from El Salvador, a fact which immediately ingratiated himself to us, since our own family's roots extend to that country. "Were we interested in being his first client?" "Do you have an edger?" I asked. I can mow a lawn with the best of them. But, for some reason, edging is a skill I've never mastered, my personal kryptonite. "Yes, I have all the tools I need." The earnest and hopeful look in Carlos' eyes transcended language and culture. Salesmanship begins with the ability to engender trust, the awareness of which is lost on legions of fancy suits hawking their equally fancy financial products. We'd never had a gardener before. But, now we did.
Over the ensuing years, Carlos transformed our lawn and gardens into the envy of the block. His business too flourished. He took on first one, then a second assistant. The old rust colored truck gave way to a bigger spanking white one. Despite having more clients, Carlos' care and attention to detail never diminished. At the slightest sign of yellowing, the lawn was fertilized. Failing sprinkler heads were swapped out. Groaning sprinkler valves were replaced. Along the way, Carlos told us in his steadily improving English about his family and his pride in beginning to achieve his American dream. His son, he said, would also work with his hands. He would be a surgeon.
And now, without any notice whatsoever, Carlos and his two assistants have simply vanished. He has twice missed Monday, his scheduled day to work at the house. The first time it happened was brushed aside. Perhaps he was ill. When the second Monday passed without seeing Carlos and his crew, we became concerned. Calls to his telephone number first went unanswered, then were met with a full mailbox notification. A visit to a neighbor on an adjoining street who had also become one of Carlos' clients was met with a similar story. "We don't know what happened to him. We're worried." A man, his livelihood and his American dream are all as though they never existed.
Profile Information
Gender: Do not displayMember since: Fri May 15, 2015, 09:46 PM
Number of posts: 3,682