A Change of Seasons

Hello, dear readers! We’ve had quite a journey here through the years, haven’t we? But all good things must come to an end… to make room for something even better!

As of 11/01/2020, I will be retiring this site. But never fear… a brand new site awaits…

Introducing http://www.katrinawrites.com!

I’m thrilled to have a new look, a new outlook, and a brand new online writing course coming soon.

So stop by the new site, sign up for my newsletter, and you won’t miss a thing! (And if you feel like reminiscing, all the posts from this site have been moved over.)

Thank you for being such loyal readers and supporters. I hope you’ll stick around for all the great things that are coming next!

(And if you happen to need a website designed, I’m happy to introduce you to my amazing designer. Feel free to drop me a note.)

Here’s to new beginnings!

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A Million Years Ago

California 2020, Photo by Donna Stoneham

I miss the air, I miss my friends
I miss my mother, I miss it when
Life was a party to be thrown
But that was a million years ago

I can’t read any more. Nothing holds my interest. I’ve been skimming the same book for two months now, and I’m only 50 pages in. I keep reading a couple of lines each night, hoping there’s a turn of phrase that will draw me in. But there never is. I set the book beside my bed and dream of the days when I would read until my eyes could no longer stay open. Now I just lie awake, thinking about words that might move me. Words that once moved me.

Trying to write is an effort in futility. My sentences are all empty, meaningless. The story line wanders aimlessly, the characters are dull. I’ve stopped sending queries for my memoir. I don’t have the strength to live those experiences again. Not now. Maybe not ever. Perhaps those pages are best kept in a drawer, yellowed and aging, unseen.

I am drawn to catastrophic TV—Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead—I look for humanity in the horror. There is little to be found. I wonder who I would be in the battle at the end of the world. Would I hide in the shadows with a knife, waiting to protect my life from those who might try to take it? Or would I drink the poison in an empty room, welcoming the deep, dark forever sleep, an ending of my own choosing?

I took my youngest son to college amidst Colorado wildfires, soot-filled air, and masks. Next week, my daughter is driving through the Washington wildfires to return to school. California is burning. An apocalyptic orange envelops the coast. And we continue to drink from plastic water bottles and overload our landfills and question the science that tells us just how precariously close to death this little blue planet is.

I eat. Homemade brand Mint Cookies & Cream. Fudge Stripes. Spoonfuls of peanut butter with chocolate chips sprinkled on top. The spoons turn into bowls. There is no end to my hunger. I am insatiable, always looking for more, even as my stomach begs for a reprieve and the angles of my face turn soft.

The wine washes it all away. I’ve switched from red to white because it feels lighter. Chardonnay instead of Cabernet. At least for now. But there is no light to be found at the bottom of the glass. And the days grow shorter. The red beckons.

I think about my kids constantly, obsessively. Are they happy? Are they content? Are they surviving? Could they possibly be thriving? Are they carrying the same amount of weight I’m carrying? I want to lighten their loads, but my back is buckling. Are they asymptomatic carriers? If I hug them, will it be my demise? My mom’s? I am willing to sacrifice myself, but not her. My beautiful, white-maned mother, trapped in a castle full of fellow octogenarians, shouting to her loved ones through the windows, waiting, waiting in her wheelchair until it is safe to once again hold her grandbabies’ cheeks between her paper-skin hands.

I am angry. So angry. I’m angry about the invisible particles that might slip underneath my mask and make their way to my asthmatic lungs. I’m angry my seniors were robbed of their graduation celebrations. I’m angry so many choose to fight against the most basic precautions, that we care so little about each other and cannot be inconvenienced for the greater good. I’m angry a horrible excuse for a human was chosen to “lead” us through this mess, and that he fails miserably at every turn. I’m angry so many don’t see the grifter for who is, that excuses are made for his inhumanity at every turn. I’m angry my rainbow mask brings side-eyed, judgmental glances. I’m angry our black brothers and sisters are still fighting for justice and equality. I’m angry we cannot seem to love and respect each other. I’m angry my 25-year marriage ended the same way—with hurt and disdain and words that cut like knives. How can we have hope for peace and understanding in the world if we cannot find it in the place we called home for a quarter of a century? If we cannot protect those we once loved, how do we ever embrace those who are different? Who have dissenting beliefs? Whose faith is placed in a different god? Or no god at all? Whose skin is two shades darker?

I miss hugging.

Is this just pandemic life? Is this what we all are living? The fatigue? The dismay? The hopelessness that settles like a heavy, wet fog? The sirens’ call of a waiting bed at all hours of the day? Is this what we have brought upon ourselves?

Do I eat the donuts? Two or five? Does it matter? It doesn’t, really. Not in the vast scheme of things. I eat the donuts. All of them. Their sugary weight is a lump in my belly, holding me down when I’d rather fly away, tethering me to the dirt and grass of this earth. I lick the cinnamon sugar from my fingers—a luxury I shouldn’t afford myself when microscopic killers could linger under my fingernails. But I take the chance to enjoy the sweet because it feels momentarily safe—a small, insignificant comfort.

I haven’t been anywhere for weeks, after all.

There is no safe place to go.

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Inviting Myself to the Fight

I’ve been invited to a few fights in my life. Most of the fights I’ve participated in haven’t been mine. I find that I’m jumping into the fray far more frequently now that the election is near and racial tensions are high.

Sometimes I just can’t stay silent.

Illustration by Alice Skinner and quote by Desmond Tutu

Yesterday, I was scrolling through Facebook and noticed a friend’s post on Michelle Obama. This friend is someone I’ve always experienced to be kind and intelligent. The post was a derogatory statement about Michelle Obama “having the nerve to say white people who put her in the Which House are racist.” The post and its commentary raised my hackles… and then I saw the first comment:

“Gorrilla in heals.” (Original spelling included for full effect.)

I debated about whether not only to jump into the fight, but to start it. This was a friend of my mom’s, and I didn’t want to be disrespectful or rock the boat.

But I did.

I rocked that boat until it almost capsized.

It was too important.

So I added this to what was a very one-sided conversation about how horrible Michelle Obama is:

“Perhaps if we were all a little more willing to listen to and understand the black experience–no matter who conveys it–there would not be such a great racial divide in this country. It’s interesting that this post was positioned as a statement about not being racist, and yet the first comment–which no one has countered–was Michelle Obama being called a “gorilla in heels” (which was also grossly misspelled). If that’s not a racist and ridiculously offensive comment, I’m not sure what is.”

What followed was a frustrating discussion about Michelle Obama whining about racists, about how Barack never deserved his second term, about how tired the post’s author was of the Obamas inciting racial divides, about how Obama was elected only because he was black, about how the author wasn’t racist because she’s a nurse who has always treated all her patients equally no matter what color…

But there was never an agreement or acknowledgment that “gorilla in heels” is a racist statement.

Instead, she countered that I called Trump names (and “which was worse?”), that my friends said vile things about him on my page, about how her friends were entitled to their opinions.

There was so much I wanted to argue, mostly about how calling Trump out for what he’s proven himself to be–homophobic (rolling back LGBTQ rights), xenophobic (“shithole countries”), misogynistic (“grab ’em by the pussy”), a failed businessman (3 bankruptcies and many outstanding, unpaid debts), a pathological liar (“This is a hoax…,” then “I knew this was a pandemic from the start…”), and just plain dumb (Yo-Semite)–was not name-calling, it was truth. but I ended with this instead:

“Which is worse? ‘Gorilla in heels’ isn’t simple name calling–it’s so incredibly, offensively racist. Seeing it and not calling it out makes me complicit. I won’t be complicit… on my page or anywhere else.”

And she replied: “It is called freedom of speech. It is not my job to call people out for their thoughts.”

And that’s where I knew the fight was useless. She was not willing to listen. Nor were any of her friends who continued to “like” her arguments.

Here’s the thing about the First Amendment: It’s not absolute. It does not apply to words categorized as obscenity, child pornography, slander, libel, incitement to violence, and various others. And in its purest form, it only protects individuals from government interference. So hiding behind its protections to promote racism is really a moral and ethical issue. The government won’t say that an individual shouldn’t call Michelle Obama a “gorilla in heels,” but does that mean we–in the name of humanity–should? Just because we can? And that we should turn a blind eye to blatant racism simply because “it’s not our job” to stop it?

That’s where I disagree. It is my job. It should be all of our jobs. If this country is ever going to bridge our racial divide, we all have to stand on the side of decency and humanity. We all have to take a stand for what is right, for what is decent, for what is human. Racist rhetoric is none of those things.

As a member of the LGBTQ community, I cringe when I hear gay jokes or homophobic slurs. I cringe and then I speak up. It is my job to protect my fellow humans. When I hear someone use the word “retarded,” I speak up. It is my job to protect and defend the disabled. Perhaps those jokes and words were once socially acceptable, but they’re not any more. When we know better, we should do better. (Thanks, great Mother Maya.)

The fight I invited myself to felt like a battle of epic proportions. When I was finished with it, I drank too much and cried myself to sleep. It feels insurmountable, this blind hate that fills so many hearts. I am fearful for my kids who are entering adulthood in such a broken and battered national state. They deserve better. We all deserve better.

If we’re not willing to stand up for those who have been systemically downtrodden, what are we willing to stand for? A leader who bullies, incites violence, mocks the disabled, praises white supremacists, rolls back LGBTQ rights, and lies every time he opens his mouth? How have we come to this?

My black friends will say we haven’t “come to this”–this is always who we’ve been as a country. Racism runs deep. It’s breaking its ugly head through the surface of all our lives now because it’s been unleashed by a leader who allows for and encourages hate and discord.

I was raised in an incredibly racist small town, home to many KKK leaders and members. It is hard to avoid internalized racism when it is part of the fabric of your life. I have to work every day to educate myself, to learn more, to listen harder, to be better. I have to work to undo what was part of my blood and sinew simply because of my geography. I have to do the same for my internalized homophobia.

I am willing to do the work.

Our fellow humans deserve it. They’ve always deserved it.

How long will we allow others to be held down because of the color of their skin? How long will it take before we all start listening? And believing? And changing?

It’s already been centuries too long.

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