tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4887571556688409392024-03-13T01:44:49.624-07:00HOLLYE DEXTERMom. Author. Singer.
Rabble-RouserHollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.comBlogger332125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-43226187003458848292020-02-10T07:56:00.001-08:002020-02-10T07:56:26.346-08:00LILY PAD MOMENTS<div style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br />Anyone who has only come to know me in the past few years wouldn’t know that I used to write a blog that was uplifting and hopeful. When these old writings pop up on my Facebook memories, I’m shocked. I think to myself, “I used to think that way? What’s happened to me?” And what’s happened to me is that in the last three years I have changed. I have lost faith in God, in religion, in my country and in humanity. I have lost optimism. And I have almost…almost…lost hope. But for chrissakes, finding hope in the dark moments is what I used to write about. It’s what my books are about. </div>
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I used to write a lot about what I call my “lily pad moments.” Lotus flowers only bloom from the deepest muck in the pond, the water beneath is dark and murky. Throughout my life, I’ve been able to navigate my way across those dark waters by hopping from one lily pad moment to the next. I consider a lily pad moment a tiny glimmer of hope, kindness or beauty; a friend reaches out, a stranger holds a door open for you and smiles, a baby is born, spontaneous fits of laughter (my favorite), new life flourishing after the rain, a crocus poking it’s head above the snowy ground…these small scenes of perfection that are there to heal us if we pay attention. </div>
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I’ve been paying way too much attention to everything that terrifies and enrages me, and because we are the story we tell ourselves, it has changed who I am. I want to tell myself a different story. Maybe it sounds ridiculous and pollyanna-ish, but I’m willing to try. So I’m stating this publicly. I’m going to write daily about my lily pad moments, and I hope you’ll share yours too. I may have days that I fail. I probably will. And then I’m going to forgive myself and get back on track. It may be pointless. Or it may begin to heal me and help me get back to wholeness. </div>
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Bad news is coming at us daily like a firehose to the face, and it is suffocating our spirits. I’m going to grasp these tiny moments like an oxygen mask and let it breathe life back into me. I’m going to use those lily pads as stepping stones to got across the dark waters that threaten to pull us under. </div>
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Thanks for reading. May your day be filled with lily pad moments.</div>
Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-31042246847971758742019-05-03T09:18:00.001-07:002019-05-03T09:21:28.341-07:00My Encounter with the RedHats<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">This Sunday, I was shopping for curtains in Home Goods, when a woman and her teenaged son breezed past me in crisp, bright red MAGA hats. My stomach contracted and I literally became nauseated. Word to my friends living in red states- I salute you. I’m a California softy living in liberal LaLa land. I’m not exposed to open carry or MAGA hats. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">She walked past me again, and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stopped her.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I kept my voice calm.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I said, “Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">She looked surprised but she stopped and said yes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I asked (calmly, I swear), “Why are you wearing those hats?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">She straightened, jutted her chin forward. “Because I want our country to go back to what our founding fathers intended, and I believe in the constitution.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I nodded. “I’m curious. How did did you feel about Trump banning an entire religion from our country, since that violates what our founding fathers intended and the constitution?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">She changed the subject to a Fox News talking point. “Well, Sri Lanka just banned women wearing hijabs, but when the President tried to do that, everyone attacked him!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I said, “Look around you in this store. Do you realize that the majority of people here have been negatively affected by Trump’s policies? Do you realize they may feel hurt by seeing you wear those hats?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">Defiantly, she said, “We’ve been wearing these hats all day and no one has said a thing!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">“They may not have said anything, but I assure you they were thinking and feeling things. I know I am. I actually felt sick when I saw your hat. Many of the people here may even feel threatened by seeing you in that hat.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">She shot back, “Well, they threaten US.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I said, “Wow. You’ve been threatened? That’s terrible! Who threatened you?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her son broke in and said, “This isn’t about politics- this is about God.” He pointed to the sky.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I looked back at the mom, “Do you actually believe trump is a Christian?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yes!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">“The guy who cheats on his wives with porn stars is someone you look up to?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">She said, defensively, “I wasn’t there. I don’t know that any of that actually happened. And I don’t judge anyone.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">“How about immigrants? Do you judge them?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">She cut me off, “I stand 110% with the President and appreciate all the good he has done for this country!” And with that she stormed off. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I just stood there in shock. Angry. Shaken. Had they gotten this ideology in church? This was how she was raising her young son?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I kept pushing my cart, thinking about the fact that yes, one way or another, trump will eventually be gone, but these people will still be all around us, and we will have to go on as a country with the knowledge that we are broken and divided. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I didn’t change anything by talking to MAGA lady. She is firmly entrenched in her position, and raising her young son to be the same. I am firmly entrenched in mine, and am raising my young son to be the same (and already raised two strong young progressives). </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">So what’s the moral of the story here? I have no idea. Maybe if anything, our country has begun a long-needed conversation, and my run-in with MAGA-lady was just a tiny part of it. Or maybe it was a complete waste of breath. I only know if I didn’t say something, I would have felt worse. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">I also thought about making blue hats that say MAKA: Make America Kind Again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thoughts?</span></span></div>
Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-63293179163071808742019-01-31T20:04:00.004-08:002019-01-31T20:04:41.995-08:00The Smartest Kid in Class<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">It’s always a perfectly ordinary day when fate delivers its most crushing blows, and that’s the way it was that sunny, January morning. I was walking into the supermarket with my husband Troy, drinking a cup of coffee, when I picked up the L.A. Times. The picture on the front page made my stomach lurch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Oh my god…” I put my hand over my mouth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“What?” Troy asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I know him!” I pointed to the photo. “How can this be real?” My eyes filled with tears.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Troy skimmed the headline. <i>Wall Street Journal reporter...kidnapped...terrorists...</i>“Oh my God…” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">As I numbly walked through the supermarket, absently dropping items into my cart, I was overcome. Memories and emotions I had pushed away for so long now enveloped me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Birmingham High School, 1979, was where I first met Danny. He was a <i>brainiac</i>, as we kids used to say. I was an average student, but French came easy to me. Any kind of language, actually. It was the math and reasoning part of my brain that struggled. In my first year of French, I got straight A’s without trying too hard. But then I was placed in honors French with the infamous Madame Leisner who, as everyone knew, suffered no fools. It was French immersion class, meaning she spoke no English at all to us, ever. Once I got past the initial intimidation, I fell into it wholeheartedly, speaking French with my friends outside of class, and even began dreaming in French. I hoped one day I’d go to France, but I didn’t know how that would happen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Danny and I were in Madame Leisner’s class together for two years. I was sure Danny had been to France. He was the kind of kid who, I imagined, spent his summers in Europe with his family. I had a single mom who worked nights and supplemented our income with food stamps, while I, at fifteen, worked in a restaurant to get by. The reality was, I would probably be a waitress and work nights like my mom. But a girl could dream, and I did. In French.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Danny excelled in Madame Leisner’s class. In fact, he excelled at everything. He was an accomplished musician, an honors student, popular, came from a successful family. Danny had a way about him. He stood tall, with no need to impress anyone. He was super smart, not geeky smart, but the kind of smart you wanted to be. He seemed comfortable in his own skin, which made the slacker kids uncomfortable around him. He came from a supportive family who encouraged his education. And I was the kid whose dad was in prison. I was the kid who longed to speak a different language. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">French was one area where I could almost stand shoulder to shoulder with a kid like Danny. I barely had to crack a book. When I received a “B” that quarter with no effort, I was quite pleased with myself until Madame Leisner kept me after class the next day. She held up my report card with a stern face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” She demanded. (What’s going on?)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Porquoi?” I asked. (Why?)</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And in French she continued to lecture me (I’ll spare you the translations), the bottom line being – you can do better than this. Way better. And she was right, I could, but I just couldn’t think of reasons why I should. I mean, who cared? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She did. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Until that moment, until that day, I had no self-respect. I ditched school. I got drunk at parties. I had no vision of a future. Until she said, “You can do better than this.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The next thing I knew, she had taken me from struggling through a reading of “Le Petit Prince” to reading French novels like “Les Miserables.” She had me writing essays in French. She pushed me to excel. She was not the mushy-gushy <i>I care about your feelings</i> kind of teacher. She was brash and insistent, commanding respect. There was no room in her world for mediocrity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">One day after class Madame pulled me aside and said she wanted me to enter a French speech competition. I could never say no to Madame, but I was shocked that she chose me over Danny. He could have surely won that competition with ease. He was the perfect choice. I was bewildered. Why me? Why didn’t she choose him?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The speech competition took place at Harvard Westlake Academy, where the wealthiest, most privileged kids in L.A. attended school. I pulled into the parking lot in my trusty old Mustang, which bellowed like a motorboat and leaked oil everywhere it went. I parked alongside the Cadillacs and Mercedes, signed in and took a seat alone amongst the other kids who sat with their parents. I felt awkward and clumsy, an imposter in their emerald city. When it was my turn, I got up before the judges and delivered my speech about <i>Les Baleines</i> (the whales) and their impending endangerment. I could feel panic rising in my throat, my vocal chords constricting. The way the judges looked at me, confused, tilting their heads, made me nervous. I felt their eyes were saying <i>you don’t belong here</i>. I could feel myself flailing. I knew the flow and rhythm of my speech was horrendous. I was shaky, stumbling on my French pronunciations – which had always been my strength. French people said I spoke naturally. Not that day. Needless to say, I did not win. Danny surely would have, but Madame Leisner bet on the dark horse this time. I was crushed, humiliated that I had let her down. It wasn’t for lack of preparation - I put the time and research in. My problem was I didn’t have the self-assurance of a kid like Danny. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It was painful to face Madame Leisner on Monday. But she just picked up where we left off, <i>Ouvres vos livres, s’il vous plait</i>…(Open your books, please) and we went forward as though nothing had ever happened. I looked across the room at Danny. So smart, so serene. Why didn’t she choose him?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">After High School, I continued to flounder, while Danny continued to excel. I dropped out of college. I waitressed. I got married and divorced. I waitressed again. He went to Stanford, became a journalist, then a bureau chief for the Wall Street Journal. He married a French writer, and was about to become a father. How, then, could this headline be real? Our Danny, abducted by terrorists? I studied the L.A. Times article, poring over every word. I couldn’t accept the reality of what I was reading.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The fluorescent lights in the supermarket were beginning to give me a headache. I felt woozy. I stopped in the cereal aisle, leaned against the cart and said a prayer that he be delivered home to his family, and then I fell into my husband’s arms and sobbed in the middle of Ralph’s market. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My prayers, and the prayers of so many others, were not answered. Weeks later, Daniel Pearl was brutally murdered by the militant terrorists who had held him captive. Our Danny, the smartest kid in class. An incredible bright light was gone in an instant. And I am still here on Earth wondering why? What sense could be made of all this?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Years later I attended a writer’s workshop, where once again, I was surrounded by the best and the brightest ivy league-educated writers, and could feel those old feelings of insecurity beginning to creep in. When the instructor returned her notes on my piece, there was one place where I had used a really awful cliché, something about feeling like a girl in a Cinderella fairytale, and she wrote in the margin “You can do WAY better than this.” Tears welled up in my eyes, and I smiled. I remembered Madame’s insistence, and again, I thought of Danny. A musician, a courageous writer, a soon-to-be father, and loving husband, he lived up to his own expectations for his life. He stood out in this world. We all expected it from him. The problem was, I had never expected it from myself. Now, Danny was gone, without the chance to wake another day. But I did have this life I was given, and it struck me, <i>how dare I even think of wasting another moment hiding behind my insecurities. </i>Facing the mortality of my peers at such a young age, especially one who was so iconic to me, rocked my world. I had to look within and ask myself some tough questions. Danny gave the world his best. Had I? <i>You can do better</i>, that’s what Madame said. If nothing else, in honor of Danny, I was obligated to prove her right. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">In the years since Danny’s murder, I have pushed myself to do better. I became an author, and founded a nonprofit, running workshops for teens in crisis. I set a standard of excellence, the kind I saw in Danny, for my own children. Two have already graduated college (the youngest still in school). Like Danny, all three play instruments. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I ponder this intricate web of humanity; how often we touch each other’s lives without ever knowing it. A hug, a handshake, a smile at a stranger could change the course of a day - that day could change the course of a life. Although I didn’t know Danny well, simply by being his authentic best self, I absorbed the message that I too could rise to the best that was in me. Maybe that is the point of it all, and the sense that can be made. Each of us is here to connect, to lead by example, to touch the life of others. And if we’ve done it well, we leave this world a little better than we found it. I would say Danny did that well. He left an imprint on the world beyond what he could have ever imagined. His was a life well lived, which continues to inspire people all over the world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Today, my French is rusty, and I still have not made my way to France. But I have set an expectation for myself and I know that one day soon I will get there. When I do, I will sit in a Parisian café and raise a glass to Madame Leisner, and to Danny, the smartest kid in class. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">** The High School that Danny and I attended, Birmingham High in California, now features the highly acclaimed Daniel Pearl Journalism Magnet school. </span></span></div>
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<br />Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-62258369764136331342018-09-21T09:52:00.000-07:002018-09-21T09:59:50.919-07:00#MeToo: A Letter to my Children<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPsLZNarSf1bknvFsN-nXhCggWSDamWkZySTXKTb7qczqCfDIHcu11cmkPfYrqSZTExk3XnNjo4p8LWILANgFmpFskRUxLCO0DbamgDaVMpENwWgi66NKe9lzAcmaLf08vvNY4LbSXB1h/s1600/Hollye+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPsLZNarSf1bknvFsN-nXhCggWSDamWkZySTXKTb7qczqCfDIHcu11cmkPfYrqSZTExk3XnNjo4p8LWILANgFmpFskRUxLCO0DbamgDaVMpENwWgi66NKe9lzAcmaLf08vvNY4LbSXB1h/s320/Hollye+3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is how old I was, the first time I was assaulted. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">To my children,</span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I am sharing something with you that is painful and personal for me, and the reason why is that I want to break the cycle of abuse, so that you, and your children, never ever have experiences like this. Holding these experiences in silence has only empowered sexual predators, and they are everywhere, in every industry and in the White House. And women aren’t the only ones who fall victim to sexual abuse. Young boys do, too. And it’s more common than people would think. The problem is that those of us who have been victims of this feel shame and keep it inside. Not only is that toxic to us, but it protects the perpetrators, and allows them to keep abusing. The reason I’m telling you everything is because I want you to see how rampant it was in my generation, and I want it to end with me. Maybe by me finally releasing it, the monster loses its power.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">These are my experiences:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Three years old: I was abducted by two older boys and locked in their apartment. I can’t tell you what they did to me because all my mind can see is darkness. My young mind tricked me into thinking I had passed out. Maybe I did. When my mom and stepfather found me, my stepfather lifted me in the air by one arm and wailed on my behind, shouting at me that I was bad for disappearing like that. I did not have the language to explain what had happened to me or to defend myself. I learned then that it was my fault if something horrible happened to me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Eight years old: A boy in my class trapped me behind the handball court and held me there for 20 minutes, holding a metal nail file to my throat and threatening to stab me if I tried to get away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Eight years old: Standing on a corner with my friends, a man pulled his car up to the curb in front of us. He was naked and masturbating. I told my mother but there was nothing we could do. The man drove away to terrorize other little girls.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Ten years old: I was out rollerskating and stopped in the local deli to get a drink. The man behind the counter tried to get me to come in the back room with him. I said no. He grabbed my wrist and started dragging me on my roller-skates. I kicked him in the shin with my skates and got away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Eleven years old: We were at a friend’s house in Redondo beach. I was walking down the street with three of my friends to see the beach, which was only two blocks away. A man started following us, making kissing noises and saying things like “Hey pretty babies. Where you going?” We started walking faster but he did too. He ran up behind me and grabbed me but I got away and started running. We ran all the way home, and never got to see the beach. I learned then that girls can’t walk anywhere, even in groups, even in broad daylight, without being subject to predators. And they will get away, and do it to other girls. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Twelve years old: Walking home from school, my friends and I were on the railroad bridge when a man stepped in front of us, dropped his pants and started masturbating. We were trapped and terrified. We ran back across the bridge, away from our homes, and couldn’t get home for hours because we were afraid to cross the bridge. When we finally got home, I found my mother at our neighbor Susan’s house. We told them what had happened and they called the police, who were not able to find the man. Susan shrugged it off like this happens every day, and told me “Next time a guy drops his pants in front of you, just laugh at him. That’s what my sister does.” Then she gave me half a valium and told me it would be fine. I learned then that men would drop their pants in front of you and it was up to you to learn how to handle it. We were never able to walk to school again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Thirteen years old: I was at a sleepover at my friend Laura’s house. I woke in the middle of the night to her 6’ 2” sixteen-year-old brother taking my pants off. He picked me up and carried me into his room and laid me down on his desk. I jumped up and ran. He chased after me and threatened me but I got out. I ran all the way home in the middle of the night. My mother woke to me pounding on the front door. She called Laura’s mother and told her, and that was the end of it. The brother never suffered any consequence for attempting to rape a child. I learned then that you can tell but nothing will happen to the perpetrator, so you better learn how to protect yourself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That was also the end of my friendship with Laura. She was too ashamed to face me after that. I learned then that if you speak up you will lose friends. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Thirteen years old: I was at a sleepover at my friend Sherri’s house. In the middle of the night her drunk father burst into the room buck naked and stood over us. I sat up and looked him in the eye. I think he was surprised to see me there. He turned and left. I never told Sherri, or anyone. I didn’t want to lose another friend. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Thirteen years old: My mom’s boyfriend’s brother Bobby Abbondante, who babysat me only the year before, said he’d take me to a movie I really wanted to see. At the drive-in movie, he attacked me, ripping my shirt open, biting me, aggressively grabbing my breasts, hurting me, leaving bruises and hickeys all over me as I fought and screamed. After, he cried and begged me not to tell. This was the year The Wilderness Family had come out. He had made a bet with his friends that he could “nail” a movie star. I learned then that as a female, I had no value - I was just a bet, something to be “nailed.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Thirteen years old: Standing outside the library at night, waiting for my mom to pick me up. Some teenage boys rode up on bikes and started saying sexual things to me. One of them grabbed my breast and squeezed it hard, hurting me. I screamed and they laughed and rode away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Fourteen years old: The man at the deli who had tried to drag me away on my skates became a peeping tom at my house. I was home alone nights because my mom worked. His face would appear in the bathroom window when I or one of my friends was using the bathroom. My friend Greg went to his house with a butcher knife, tried to kick down the front door, threatened to kill him if he ever saw him around my house again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Fifteen years old: Late one night I caught my good friend and neighbor Keith watching me undress through a crack in the curtains of my bedroom window. That was the end of our friendship.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Eighteen years old: On vacation in Bimini, an island where there is no law enforcement or government, my cousin Tammey and I walked past my uncle Dan’s entourage one evening on our way to dinner. A creepy guy in the “entourage” who had been leering at us during the week loudly suggested to the rest of the guys that they ought to grab Tammey and I and have a gang bang. Tammey told the guy to fuck off but I was terrified. We told uncle Dan and he assigned two bodyguards to trail Tammey and I everywhere we went, and somehow had the guy kicked off the island that night. Imagine having to spend your vacation with two bodyguards because there are so many men on the island who might rape you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nineteen years old: My boss, John Makhani, asked me to come out with him after work to discuss my possible promotion. He trapped me at his house, refused to let me go home, and tried to coerce me into taking my clothes off in front of him. For about an hour he bullied me and tried to get me to undress but I wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let me go home until the morning. After that, he punished me by criticizing and humiliating me in front of staff, making my job a living hell until I had no choice but to quit. I learned then that if you stand your ground, you will lose your job. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nineteen years old: My friend Diane and I were invited by a friend to a celebrity party at Larry Wilcox’s house. He was a star on the show CHIPS that was popular back then. We arrived at his house to find it was only the two of us, and three guys. Larry started making out with my friend Diane, and he tried to get me to make out with him too. He wanted us to have a three-way with him. I was disgusted. I refused and went outside in the backyard. His 50-year-old creepy friend followed me. He started hitting on me and when I turned him down, he became aggressive. I ran away from him. He literally chased me around the backyard swimming pool for an hour until I threatened to call the police. Finally a friend showed up and chased the guy off. I learned then that if you accept an invitation to a party, you are vulnerable to assault. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And then there are the many times as an adult I’ve been “grabbed” Donald Trump style- once when I was a waitress in a crowded bar, holding a very heavy tray over my head. The guy grabbed my crotch and I couldn’t defend myself. Another time at a concert. Another time at a restaurant. Another time at a gig. Another time at a Christmas party. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Donald Trump is the face of every vile man that has attacked me, of every man that has disregarded my humanity. I want this to be the generation that STAMPS OUT men like Donald Trump and Harvey Weinstein and Woody Allen. I want to see good men and good women seated equally at the table of life, and in positions of power. I want to see good men and good women as the stewards of humanity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">How any man can grow up to treat a woman like she is nothing is a mystery to me. Those very same men grew inside our bodies. Their blood was created from our blood. We cared for them and raised them. I want my husband and sons to be aware of what it’s like for women- or what it has been like. I want you to be aware, stand up and speak out when you see this kind of behavior in men. Speak up when you hear men talking about women like they are pieces of meat who have no value. Speak up when you hear misogyny, woman-bashing and feminist-bashing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Right now, with a vile predator like Trump in the White House, I have no hope for this country. But I put my hope in you, in your generation, to make this country and to make humanity decent again. I’m counting on my daughter to be strong and loud, and my sons to love and respect the women who gave you your life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">May our future generations only know about the #MeToo movement from the stories they read in history books. </span></div>
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Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-81117719293193693062018-07-27T10:12:00.000-07:002018-07-27T10:12:37.942-07:00You Listened<br />
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How many times had you crept into their rooms at night and pressed your face against them to hear the soft hiss of baby breathing, to feel that warm, sweet milky breath in your ear, always needing that reassurance that <i>yes, mama, those babies in your care are strong and sure and thriving</i>. It only had to happen once, that pivotal moment when you had to choose: either tell yourself <i>you're being ridiculous </i>or trust your intuition.<br />
You sensed the monster, the fire that slipped into his room, and before that, the carbon monoxide, with its vile tentacles spreading out from his lungs to veins to blood, and yours too. You listened. That voice. <i>Check the baby. Check the baby</i>. You pressed your cheek against his, heard that baby breathing, the steady rhythm. You listened. You laid down beside him. And because you chose to trust yourself, he still breathes today.<br />
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#tinystoriesHollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-22212788151221523562018-07-27T10:01:00.000-07:002018-07-27T10:03:19.292-07:00The Sound<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: , , "blinkmacsystemfont" , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The sound of motorcycles revving in the driveway meant that Uncle Dan was home, and with him came the entourage. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">One by one they pulled in, taking their place in Dan's court. He'd sit in his King Louie throne in the living room, and maybe his pet owl would be perched above him, sleeping in the day, unperturbed by Uncle Dan's loud and boisterous storytelling, his laugh that sounded like a pack of wild hyenas yipping all at once. Or was that just the pack of wolves he kept in the backyard? </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: , , "blinkmacsystemfont" , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">He'd tell stories from the movie set, and the m</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: , , "blinkmacsystemfont" , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">otorcycle boys would hang on his every word, endure his sharp criticisms and sarcasm, and the nicknames he'd pegged them with: Bullet, Tall Boy, Rags. To stay in his orbit was to defer to him, and no matter how tough and intimidating they may have appeared, they did defer. Not because he threatened. He never had to prove his brute strength. He only had to cast a "look" your way.<br />It wasn't that they, or I, were afraid of him. We only feared not being in his orbit. To try to understand this is to try to understand the universe. He was the sun around which the rest of us orbited. And he was the black hole, sucking us all in, until we'd disappeared to ourselves.<br />He was the sun.<br />He was the king.<br />He was our savior and he was our destruction.</span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: , , "blinkmacsystemfont" , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">#TinyStories</span>Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-10082861601774276712018-04-12T08:54:00.000-07:002018-04-12T08:54:12.512-07:00Why I Still Have Hope for America<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, '.SFNSText-Regular', sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">These days, I wake in the morning weary with sadness. The world, politics, fear for my country has worn me down. But then, this morning as my kid is eating breakfast, I see Ellen Degeneres on the back of his cereal box, and I feel hope. Ten years ago, we couldn't even pass marriage equality in California - the most liberal state. Today it's the law of the land, and Ellen Degeneres, an openly gay woman, is the ambassador for goodness on the back of my kid's Honey Nut Cheerios.</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, '.SFNSText-Regular', sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br />I think about the fact that Barack Obama, already noted by historians as one of the best Presidents in American history, is of mixed race, and that inter-racial marriage was still illegal in many states when he was born. </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, '.SFNSText-Regular', sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br />I think about the fact that Oprah Winfrey, a black woman, is one of the richest, most influential people in the world, when all her grandmother had advised for her was to "find some nice white people to work for" -- and that it's an American colloquialism to describe an extremely wealthy person as having "Oprah money." I think of her ancestors, women who were enslaved, raped, beaten, forced to work in the fields and do the work of ten men, and hope to god there is an afterlife because if there is they are surely smiling down with pride.</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, '.SFNSText-Regular', sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br />This American dream, to bring people from all over the world, from every culture, race, religion to live together as one democratic nation, is an experiment. It theorizes that every man and woman can achieve greatness, and that we are each only limited by the scope of our own dreams. It's a messy experiment, and we have failed terribly on so many levels. But we've also made great progress, because today I'm looking at Ellen on a cereal box and smiling, and maybe even feeling a twinge of hope in spite of the news cycle. </span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, '.SFNSText-Regular', sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-12760729982776421522017-09-25T15:12:00.001-07:002017-09-25T15:12:14.480-07:00My Tracey.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tracey sitting like the beautiful queen that she was. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My beautiful Tracey passed last night. Our family surrounded her yesterday. We gathered around her bed and showed videos of her trip to Ireland. My niece cooked her favorite beef stroganoff, which she could not eat, but she could smell it cooking in the house. We each had our private conversations with her. We told her how much we loved her and promised her we would take care of her mama and each other - and her beloved rescue dogs. After we all left last night, we had asked a nun to come to stay with my aunt, and to be at Tracey's bedside overnight. The nun was praying over Tracey, singing hymns to her, when Tracey stopped breathing at 10pm. I rushed back to the house to be with my aunt and niece. We kissed Tracey, told her how much we loved her. I put her favorite facial cream on her, and her lip balm. My aunt put her in her coziest pajamas, and put her favorite perfume on her - Angel. We held hands with the nun around her bed and prayed for her soul's peaceful journey. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Kamran's roaring thirties party</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Yesterday morning, my aunt woke Tracey, told her to open her eyes as the sun was rising. Tracey had watched the sun rise on her last day on earth, a Sunday. She was surrounded by love and family and laughter and stories and the fragrance of cooking in her house. Her rescue pups were curled on the floor beside the bed. It was what she wanted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But what she really wanted more than anything was to not have cancer, and to live, and she gave it hell and lived almost a year from her diagnosis, when they only gave her three months. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Tracey was my big sister. Sometimes I lived at their house, and sometimes she and Tammey lived at our house. She protected me when I was little. As we grew, she drove me and my cousin Tammey around, took us to movies, like Billy Jack, Halloween, the Rocky Horror Picture Show. And then when I was old enough, she taught me how to drive, what to do when I got my period, what it was like to be with boys. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She never had children of her own, but she adored and took such good care of all of our children. Evan loved her so much. Friday night, she could barely open her eyes, and the cancer in her spine had completely paralyzed her, but when Evan came into the room, she perked up, forced her eyes open and said, "Evan, are you excited about your birthday Party? Tell me what you've got planned." </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">When my aunt was stepping out to get some lunch, she said, "Mom, don't forget to buy lunch for the person behind you."</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That's who she was. That's who our Tracey was. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">God, I loved her.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I told her yesterday that her soul is pure and made from love, that her soul doesn't have cancer. That when she leaves, she gets to take all of the love, and all of the wisdom from what she has lived through, but none of the pain. She gets to leave the pain behind. And I told her that she lives on in all of us. Every person who loved her, every person whose life was touched by her. How lucky are we?</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tracey and Tammey were my bridesmaids at my wedding</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tracey, Tammey and my Uncle Dan. We have lost all three in the past three years. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So many of you prayed for her, some of you donated to help pay for her nursing care, some of you sat bedside with me, or offered me guidance and advice on what to do in hospice. She knew this, and she was so grateful. Thank you for being part of Tracey's journey. Someone told me once that for every kind deed you do, you lift the entirety of the universe just that much, and it can never be erased. So thank you - with everything in me, thank you.</span></div>
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Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-78985109149413150402017-08-18T14:33:00.002-07:002017-08-18T14:33:15.127-07:00Saying Goodbye to My Friend Frank<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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(This popped up as a heartbreaking memory from one year ago today. Below is the Facebook post I wrote on the day Frank died) </div>
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<b>August 18, 2016</b></div>
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I can't even believe I am writing this. Today, the world lost a truly great soul. My friend Frank passed away of cancer this morning. He was a generous, supportive, kind, stand-up guy. He was fiercely defensive of the people he loved -- the kind of guy who would gladly take a punch for you. </div>
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He was a music aficionado, an art collector, a proud supporter of all things Latino. He believed in fighting the good fight and showed up for almost every one of my gun violence prevention<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"> rallies. He was incredibly generous. Every time we were doing a fundraiser for Women Against Gun Violence, he'd stop by with a trunk full of donations- Hollywood and sports memorabilia he'd collected over his lifetime. When we co-sponsored a gun buyback in L.A., he turned in his gun. He said "I don't need it anymore." He was given a gift card for the gun, and he donated it. </span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">He showed up for my readings when my book came out and told everyone to buy my book or else! But the memories that will stay with me forever are the heart to hearts we had, about family, and faith. He reached out to me when his mother's health was failing, when his brother was sick, and when he was having trouble communicating with his son. He often asked me to pray for him. He thought that maybe I had God's ear since I was a preacher's daughter. </span></div>
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One of the things I most admired about Frank is that, although he didn't have biological kids of his own, he stood by his stepson Brando even after the relationship with Brando's mother didn't work out. He helped Brando get to college. Brando is now an award-winning author and a college professor.<br />Frank was the kind of person who touched a lot of lives, though he was a private guy and often liked to fly under the radar with that kind of stuff. </div>
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Frank had come home from Mexico this summer feeling a little under the weather. He thought it was something he'd eaten. A couple weeks later he was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. They said he had six months, but it turned out he only had weeks. We had a good long talk on the phone a couple weeks ago, and I am so grateful for that because he told me he'd thought I was upset with him over something he'd said recently, which I absolutely wasn't. It would have torn me up if he'd died thinking things weren't good between us. I was supposed to visit him this weekend. I texted him to see when would be a good time, but the last text I got back only had one word; "suffer." I'm writing this post through tears. I'm glad Frank doesn't have to suffer any longer. I'm going to keep praying for him, and hope that he was right in thinking I had God's ear. </div>
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I'm grateful for the six years of friendship I had with Frank, and for the beautiful legacy he left behind in Brando, in his wife Stephanie, and in all of the artists and musician's lives he touched. I'm going to miss him terribly. He was truly one of a kind.</div>
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Rest in Peace, my brother, my friend. </div>
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Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-39774475152632367992017-07-25T10:50:00.000-07:002018-04-03T18:25:20.110-07:00Follow up to Rite Aid, Racism post<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: 'San Francisco', -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, '.SFNSText-Regular', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
My post <a href="https://hollyedexter.blogspot.com/2017/07/rite-aid-racism-and-where-we-go-from.html">Rite Aid, Racism and Where We Go From Here</a> kicked up a lot of dust with people, both on my Facebook page, and on other people's pages.</div>
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I was glad to hear each person's point of view, even though we might not completely agree. We each perceive our lives through a unique lens, based on our own past experiences. For me, I'll admit right now that for a long time I didn't see how deep racism was. I thought we, as humans, were evolving beyond the lizard brain that makes us fear "the other." Drump's America has show<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">n me just how naive that was. Growing up, my stepdad was the only white guy in Little Richard's band. Richard used to introduce me to the audience as his daughter and when everyone laughed, I didn't get the joke. I grew up in a Lala-land world where race was a non-issue and to tell you the truth, I’m still shocked that my perceptions of the world aren’t shared. That’s my sin, I guess. Not white privilege, but the privilege of growing up in a multi-racial, harmonious world. </span></div>
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To differentiate between people based on the color of their skin is ludicrous. To call yourself a Christian, or a Muslim, or a Jew, and to believe that you are better than anyone else, when you also believe that God created all people, is insane. </div>
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Some people were angry that I didn't automatically side with the women in the story. I am a feminist. I have been sexually assaulted, sexually harassed at the workplace, attacked by a friend's older brother at a sleepover when I was thirteen, having to run home in my nightgown in the middle of the night. Believe me, I am highly sensitive to the issue, and have fought for and marched for women's rights. What I saw at Rite Aid was not an issue of a woman being harassed. I saw two young people, highly emotional, both in the wrong, but ultimately, I saw the young black man being put into a threatening situation, and in today's climate, that is dangerous. </div>
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I'm glad we had a real conversation about this on Facebook. I absorbed what each of you had to say, even when your views were different than mine. I don't think there was one right answer. Sexism is real. Racism is real. And denying that is hurting us. Until we come to terms with truth in this country, we can't make anything better. </div>
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Thanks for reading.</div>
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Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-36529079652188040532017-07-25T10:46:00.000-07:002018-04-03T18:25:55.068-07:00Rite Aid, Racism and Where We Go From Here<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Friday night, standing in line at Rite Aid, Evan and I found ourselves in the middle of a drama that epitomized the heightened racial tension in this country.</div>
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Two young black men came into Rite Aid, and passed by two white girls, a blonde and a brunette. The men were handsome, muscular, wearing tank tops and shorts. They looked like they had just come from the gym. The girls were wearing jeans and tank tops. All four looked to be in their twenties. The younger guy said something to the brunette. Her response to him was to loudly say “Fuck off.” Then she turned and stormed away.<br />
“Fuck you, too!” he fired back.<br />
And with that, all hell broke loose.The blonde girl started screaming and cursing at the man. “Don’t you fucking talk to her like that you motherfucker! Don’t you ever talk to her!”<br />
“All I said to her is that she looked pretty!” he shouted back.<br />
“I don't care! You don’t say ANYTHING to her. My sister is sixteen years old! You don’t talk to her!”<br />
“I didn’t know she was sixteen! How am I supposed to know that?” he shouted back.<br />
(She didn’t look sixteen, by the way. She looked 25, and they didn’t look like sisters.)<br />
“You don’t talk to her, motherfucker!” she screamed.<br />
“Shut up, bitch,” he said, and it went ballistic from there. (As a feminist, I HATED that he said that.) They both were at fault, but if there were a contest for filthiest mouth, the blonde girl would have won. She was a constant stream of screaming expletives. Everyone in line stood there, most of them looking down or away. </div>
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The blonde girl shouted at the manager, “Call the police! Get this guy out of the store!”<br />
Someone said they had called the police. At that, the guy’s friend got on his cell phone and started explaining the whole situation to someone. Maybe he was calling an attorney - I don’t know.<br />
The store manager came over to the younger guy and quietly asked him to tone it down. He said he didn’t want any trouble in the store. The young guy talked to the manager in hushed tones. They even shook hands. The manager said nothing to the blonde girl, and did not ask her to tone it down, even though she was the one who provoked the whole screaming match. </div>
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After a moment or two she started up again, warning him, her finger pointed at his face, that he better not EVER talk to her sister again. He screamed back. It escalated again, and the black guy shook his head and said something about “white people.”<br />
Finally, I shouted above them, “Please! Everyone calm down! Both of you! There’s a child here.”<br />
At that, the young man said, “I’m sorry ma’am,” and to Evan, “I didn't see you there, little man.”<br />
The blonde girl ignored me, did not stop screaming and did not tone down her language in front of my son. We paid for our merchandise and hightailed it out of the store. Evan was pulling me by the arm. He was scared. </div>
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In the car as we were pulling out of our parking space, Evan asked me, “Was that man a thug?”<br />
My hair stood on end. “Evan, where did you hear that term?”<br />
“In videos and movies. There are these guys that are really mean and tough looking and they always talk about thug life.”<br />
“Have you ever thought that about any of our black friends?”<br />
“No, of course not,” he said, "but that guy seemed mean."<br />
Just then, the two men were walking out of the store. The young man’s friend was still talking on the phone to someone. He came out first. I stopped my car, rolled my window down and said, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”<br />
He lowered his cell phone, walked over to my car and bent down, to see me eye to eye.<br />
“Listen,” I said, “I saw what went down in there. I mean, I get it. I know why your friend was angry.”<br />
“He didn’t mean anything by it, he was just upset. I’m sorry your son was scared…”<br />
“It’s okay. I know racial tensions are running high in this country right now, and everyone is emotional. But I heard what your friend said about white people, and I just want you to know…all white people aren’t assholes, okay?” I extended my hand to him.<br />
He looked down and shook his head, then he took my hand. “I know that,” he said. “I deliver Nestle water out in Malibu every day. I know that.” He squeezed my hand. Just then his friend walked up to us. He saw us talking, our hands clenched in a handshake. Over his friend’s shoulder, he shouted to Evan in the back seat, “Hey little buddy. I didn’t mean anything against you, okay? It’s all good, little man. You’re the man!”<br />
Evan nodded and waved back. We all shook hands, told each other to have a good day, and although I am not in any way religious, I found myself saying “God bless you” to them as they got in their car, because maybe that’s all I know to say at this point. </div>
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As we drove away I asked Evan if he thought those guys were mean and scary.<br />
“No,” he said. “They seemed really nice.”<br />
Then, as we drove home, I had a long talk with him about why that man at Rite Aid might have seemed mean. In my opinion, it’s because anger masks pain, and young black men are feeling a lot of pain right now. I told him that, in my opinion, if it had been a young white guy who had hit on that girl, she would have possibly ignored him and gone on with her shopping. Or maybe even flirted back. I highly doubt she would have told him to fuck off. I highly doubt, if he had been a young white guy, that her sister would have been screaming at the manager to throw the guy out of the store, and call the police. I told him how many young black men have been wrongfully incarcerated. I told him the story of Jordan Davis, and Tamir Rice and Philando Castille. He was shocked. “How can people do that? How can they just shoot someone like that? That’s against the law!”<br />
“Yeah, it is against the law. But too often, people aren’t being prosecuted for murdering young black men. And that hurts. And that makes people angry, and defensive.”<br />
“I understand,” Evan said. </div>
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So here we are. I have no simple wrap-up to this story. I have no happy ending/lessons learned.<br />
This is what we are in the middle of, and it sucks. I can only think of the words my husband once said to me, when we were in personal crisis and fighting each other. He said, “In times of trouble, we have to turn toward each other, not against each other. Otherwise, we’re not going to make it.” So maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s the only solution we have to work this out; each other.<br />
And because I don’t know what else to do or say, I can only say this…God bless us.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">*** this was a post on Facebook that was shared widely and garnered hundreds of strong emotions and comments. I realize that not everyone will see this story in the same way that I interpreted it. I can only say that this was my experience, and this was the way I perceived the situation, based on the things said, and the level of vitriol. See my follow up post for further clarification: https://hollyedexter.blogspot.com/2017/07/my-post-rite-aid-racism-and-where-we-go.html</span></div>
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Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-87481625259314575792017-06-16T12:04:00.000-07:002018-04-03T18:26:46.488-07:00Meeting my Muslim Neighbors<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="js_8">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszCZrWZHLKvlWjBRuFLl1p5FkMPiP4uellgVbYND8HfdG3wUSLgNvfYii8kA74WlUUpTvYv5kurzEZmluHZJjLYNHs4zOKLHmx5mSpXSjISqUf2C-pnIJcp0-4DkSQm7wuC3azuRPStxQ/s1600/ramadan+group.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszCZrWZHLKvlWjBRuFLl1p5FkMPiP4uellgVbYND8HfdG3wUSLgNvfYii8kA74WlUUpTvYv5kurzEZmluHZJjLYNHs4zOKLHmx5mSpXSjISqUf2C-pnIJcp0-4DkSQm7wuC3azuRPStxQ/s320/ramadan+group.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Islamic Society of West Valley/ Inter-faith dinner</td></tr>
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Last
week, my eleven-year old son Evan confided in me that he’s been having
some fears about ISIS, because of all that he’s seen on the news, and
heard from friends at school. He told me that a few days before, a
delivery man wearing a turban came to our front door to deliver a
package and he was afraid that it might be ISIS with a bomb.<br />
<br />
I
realized that this was a pivotal moment for him, so I stopped what I was
doing and we had a long talk. I told him that the delivery man was most
likely a Sikh, first of all, and Sikhs are not affiliated with ISIS.
Second, I told him that Muslims make up 21% of the world’s population,
and just as the KKK do not represent Christianity, the violent people of
ISIS do not represent the religion of Islam, and are only a tiny
fraction of a percentage of Muslims. I also told him that in 2015,
toddlers handling their parents guns killed more people in America than
terrorists did, so the probability of him running into a terrorist are,
again, a fraction of a percentage. (He’s a math kid, so he likes this
percentage stuff.)<br />
<br />
But I realized that what might matter for him
more than percentages would be to have a positive experience with the
muslim community. So I reached out to my friend <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1255212869&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/virginia.classick?fref=mentions">Virginia Classick</a>,
the inter-faith queen of the gun violence prevention movement, and
asked for her help. She suggested that I attend an inter-faith Ramadan
dinner at my local mosque.<br />
Evan was so nervous on the way there.
“How long will it be?” “What If I’m dressed wrong?” “What if I’m the
only white kid, and everyone thinks I’m weird?” “What if I don’t like
the food? Do I have to eat it?” <br />
<br />
When we arrived, we were warmly
welcomed, and within minutes, Evan ran off with a pack of kids to the
children’s classrooms upstairs, where they played together for hours. It
turns out, one of the kids, Raif, is a classmate of Evan’s. Now they
are friends. <br />
The highlight of the evening for me, aside from the
amazing food (which Evan happily ate), was when we were all welcomed
into the mosque for evening prayers. I sat on the floor in the mosque
next to Muslims, Christians, Jews, and Sikhs. And as the plaintive song
of prayer filled the room, and the worshippers bowed and knelt, we could
hear the rumble of our children’s footsteps upstairs, and their
laughter as they chased each other down the halls. <br />
<br />
The Imam
pointed out that though the Arabic is the language of their prayers, the
congregation at their mosque were people who spoke many different
languages and were from very different cultures. In the front row were
congregants from India, Iran, Kenya, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Indonesia
and others. The overwhelming takeaway from the evening was community,
unity, love and service.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJu3Zqr7cOlRXf3TBGt2c8eKDtv1UwCJhTrnMdi3iDTsbEIFePOufeCwOcIIFofJeAOQJ4jL4YeT_DImfuDLX71zag3KD9YFNWtU4QyarHwF5CftHtkk3u3Dnvh6_UNle4IzJ4r1arBb0i/s1600/ramadan+women.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="558" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJu3Zqr7cOlRXf3TBGt2c8eKDtv1UwCJhTrnMdi3iDTsbEIFePOufeCwOcIIFofJeAOQJ4jL4YeT_DImfuDLX71zag3KD9YFNWtU4QyarHwF5CftHtkk3u3Dnvh6_UNle4IzJ4r1arBb0i/s320/ramadan+women.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Evan is not the only one who benefitted from this evening. I, too, made many new friends. Farha, Ashia, Namia, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=100008096357283&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/revfeliciaparazaider?fref=mentions">RevFelicia Parazaider</a>
from the Love Revolution in Berkeley, Stephanie from the Vineyard
Christian Church, and I even ran into a few old friends there: my
activist friend <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1046543673&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/spikedw?fref=mentions">Spike Dolomite Ward</a>,
and long-time friend Cantor Mike Stein. Standing next to me in the
photo (in the pretty pink jihab) is my new friend Farha. She is
originally from India. We talked about mostly mom stuff: our kids
schools, the best local programs, the winning academic decathlon program
at the local high school that her son had participated in (he is now at
UCLA), and the challenges of middle school. We also talked about the
misperceptions being spread about “Sharia Law.” Farha reminded me that
amongst the first of Sharia laws are prayer, charitable giving, and
fasting as reminder of what we are grateful for (sound like any other
religion you know?). Everyone I spoke to from the Mosque warmly embraced
and welcomed us, and invited us to come back, anytime. <br />
<br />
When I
finally rounded Evan up to leave at about 10PM, he was happily lounging
with his new pals playing Super Mario Brothers in one of the children’s
classrooms. As we left, he said, “That was really fun. I’m so glad we
came!”<br />
<br />
So am I.<br />
Mission accomplished.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhlDj5ZakeTg0bod86fH_Xf3o0gA3Rn_9gfBRkbQsh4IEY34yUb3c_GEkEoU0GIylcS4sxWWnjpg7XZ5vLDkdDKjN8yobj9vleqMDHDhBAEZU8QpZ-eYS9-0dC7aJPNqPLHEkvggA-aCyh/s1600/Ramadon+Kids.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhlDj5ZakeTg0bod86fH_Xf3o0gA3Rn_9gfBRkbQsh4IEY34yUb3c_GEkEoU0GIylcS4sxWWnjpg7XZ5vLDkdDKjN8yobj9vleqMDHDhBAEZU8QpZ-eYS9-0dC7aJPNqPLHEkvggA-aCyh/s320/Ramadon+Kids.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evan with his new pals. </td></tr>
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Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-88082792781906252242017-05-20T08:22:00.000-07:002018-04-03T18:27:17.581-07:00Crossing the Political Divide: My Conversation with an Unlikely Trump Voter<span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"></span></span><br />
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This month I was in Washington DC to do a little rabble-rousing with Congress. My friend Sandy Phillips and I caught a cab back to Dulles airport, and that's when we met our cab driver, Yamir. Yamir asked what we were in town for, and I told him we work to prevent gun violence and lobby for stronger gun laws. He thought that was great, and was in full support of our mission. Assuming that Yamir was not born in America, due to his very thick accent, I made some offhand comment about Trump being a jerk. That's when Yamir said, "Actually, I voted for Trump."<br />
<br />
I was floored. I couldn't understand how a
black, immigrant man could possibly have voted for a President who so clearly did not represent his best interests, so I asked Yamir why he voted for him.
We had the most interesting 45-minute conversation on the way to
the airport.<br />
<br />
Yamir immigrated here legally from Ethiopia 20 years ago.
He lives in Virginia, is married and has 4 kids. He and his wife are
hard working and make a combined 100k. H<span class="text_exposed_show">e
has always voted Democrat, but he said that Obamacare in Virginia set
his family back about $5k a year. This really upset him. Also, he is
Orthodox Christian and even though he is not so much practicing, he says
it's ingrained in him because it's how he was raised and it's his
culture, so gay marriage was hard for him to accept. I listened to him with respect, and then I offered up my personal story of my Baptist preacher dad and
my two gay brothers. I told him that it's easy for my Dad to accept my brothers for who they are because Jesus taught us to love and not judge each
other. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">He really listened to what I had to say, and agreed that my argument had merit. He said that his wife
and his son, who is a student at Boston University, tried to talk him
into voting for Hillary,and that they had almost convinced him until the
Comey letter. That's what pushed him over the edge. Now he totally
regrets his vote. He told me how angry he is about the racists in the
administration, the billions we're paying for Trump's golf trips,
Trump's lack of intelligence, and the Russian collusion. He sees now
that he was duped, and I told him I really respected him for having the
courage to be honest about it. We had the most productive, respectful,
intelligent conversation, and shook hands at the end. </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> I truly
believe that sharing our stories is what will save this country, whether
it's about gun violence, healthcare, women's issues. I hope you will share your stories, and let others know why your personal politics have value to you. Let's keep the
conversations going.</span></div>
<span class="fbPhotoTagList" id="fbPhotoSnowliftTagList"><span class="fcg"> </span></span>Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-9672525171392032782017-05-19T10:34:00.001-07:002017-05-19T10:34:41.493-07:00Letter to My Teenage Self<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />Dear Teen Self,<br /><br />Remember that muggy, summer afternoon when you and your friends sat in a circle on your bedroom floor, your fingers raking through the tired, flattened shag carpet while you all pondered whether you’d still be alive in the year 2000? (And then the silence that followed while you tried to do the math in your heads?) I’m here to tell you that you made it. As the clock struck midnight at the turn of the century, you were in Las Vegas with your husband and kids. You had just turned 37. Ancient, I know. No flying cars or teleporters, as you all had imagined. But then, you never imagined the internet. You also never imagined you’d be happy. <br /><br />I guess I should introduce myself. I’m you, at 53. (Ancient, I know.) I traveled back through time to tell you a few things that just might have changed your life. The first and most important thing is this: although life looks bleak, everything really is going to be okay. It is. It’s not going to be easy, not by any stretch, but it’s going to be worth it. You’ll see. <br /><br />In the meantime, here are a few other things I want you to know. <br /><br /><b>You are perfectly fine, just the way you are.</b> Forget your Herbal Life diets and your Ayds appetite suppressants and your bust exercisers (and the chant that goes with it: <i>we must, we must, we must develop our bust</i>). One day, when the internet comes along, you’ll be able to do your own research about what’s healthy, and you will find out that (contrary to your mother’s opinion) 125 pounds at 5’5” is not overweight. So, that’s one thing. And being small breasted, though great fodder for boys to make jokes, will be a godsend as you get older and gravity takes its toll. Also, blow it off when the boys in high school call you “facehead” because of your round face. Sure, it makes you look younger now, but it will also make you look younger later, and that’s what counts. (A little insider info: those boys will drunkenly hit on you at your 20th high school reunion, anyway. But I digress.) Bottom line: You’re young. Enjoy your young, imperfect body. One day you’ll be deeply nostalgic for it. <br /><br /><b>Wear sunscreen. Please. </b>Your 53-year-old face bears five deep scars from skin cancer surgeries. Don’t bake in the sun trying to be someone you are not. Let the boys express horror and shock and pretend to be blinded by your pasty white legs. Let them call you Casper the Ghost as much as they like. In a few years, punk rock and Madonna are going to come along and make pasty white cool, anyway. And then you’re really going to regret those blistering sunburns that kept you laid up in bed. That tan that you worked so hard for will one day turn to wrinkles and age spots and leave you on a cozy, first-name basis with your dermatologist. Trust me on this one.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the fifth skin cancer surgery. Not worth the teen tan. </td></tr>
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<br /><b>Be you.</b> The only true job you have in this life is to be your authentic self – exactly who you are, flaws and all. I know there’s no way you’re going to tell your cheerleading squad that your dad’s doing time in San Quentin and your single mom works nights in a bar. That’s okay for now. The “little miss perfect” thing will soon grow old, and those superficial friends who accepted you will eventually abandon you. One day in the future, you’ll have the courage to tell the world who you really are, and it’s only then, when you show your flaws and vulnerability, that your true friends will find you. These friends will stay forever. And the greatest friend you will ever have? That would be you. So take good care of yourself. Treat yourself well. Be kind to yourself -- never judgmental, critical or cruel -- because the world will reflect back the the way you treat yourself. I really wish you had known this a lot sooner. <br /><br /><b>Some bad things are going to happen, and that’s okay. </b>Your parents might let you down, disappoint or even abandon you. Some friends will betray you. There will be times that you will be broke. A troubled, stupid boy, or maybe a parade of them, will break your heart, and you won’t even believe it’s possible to hurt that bad and still be alive (wait until childbirth). People you love will get sick. People you love will die. And there will be moments that your life feels so hopeless and pointless that you won’t want to live. But you will, and please do. There are things in store for you - miracles, things you never could have imagined - that will blow your mind. I promise you, you’re not going to want to miss it, so hang on. <br /><br /><b>And finally, don’t sleep with that guy.</b> You know the one I’m talking about- the one you know isn’t right for you, but you’re trying to make it right because you are so desperate to be loved. I’m telling you, it’s not going to end well, and you’re going to suffer the fallout from it for decades. So please…don’t do that. You deserve better. And if you’ll just be patient, one day “better” will show up. That’s a guarantee. <br /><br />Oh, and one more thing. SMILE in your senior picture. Who cares if you have braces. You look better when you’re happy. That will always be true. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyXJzzTDcAM_I2EsKjZH2U0w-m3PF5nttl5lSz2-dankzoSsrrkMTaL5f3zq-Mua_k6hmWWysX_vDLAFILdpRzFH0KzQbTeU1Lo4VLvZ1Oo395GZAMD1lBjC5TR7dcDq3HpYLGz6euHvB/s1600/Hollye+Senior+pic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyXJzzTDcAM_I2EsKjZH2U0w-m3PF5nttl5lSz2-dankzoSsrrkMTaL5f3zq-Mua_k6hmWWysX_vDLAFILdpRzFH0KzQbTeU1Lo4VLvZ1Oo395GZAMD1lBjC5TR7dcDq3HpYLGz6euHvB/s200/Hollye+Senior+pic.jpg" width="137" /></a><br /><br />
With love (and I finally mean that), <br /><br />Your Ancient 53-Year-Old SelfHollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-57541709771041718962017-02-08T11:23:00.000-08:002017-02-09T07:45:27.762-08:00WHY WOMEN MUST SAVE AMERICA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5rBVCldZ2cF9DbqgKdQWG0tbEX9U6ong_jE_KCayZzaapWELjjB3SbYKoOzksOpFlYIwfef3ZVZB5B3Z5Vhoog9NMx0q0c6o6E6_OaDGb2tGFR6MAr2VoaUDGf30sdd1iRcicTeJ5dXf/s1600/Womens+March+crowd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5rBVCldZ2cF9DbqgKdQWG0tbEX9U6ong_jE_KCayZzaapWELjjB3SbYKoOzksOpFlYIwfef3ZVZB5B3Z5Vhoog9NMx0q0c6o6E6_OaDGb2tGFR6MAr2VoaUDGf30sdd1iRcicTeJ5dXf/s320/Womens+March+crowd.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="st">"Women, if the <i>soul of the</i> nation is to be saved, I believe that you must become its <i>soul</i>." </span></div>
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<span class="st">- <i>Coretta Scott King</i></span></div>
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America ranks 101st globally in the percentage of women in legislature. </div>
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Let me repeat this: ONE HUNDRED COUNTRIES IN THE WORLD
SURPASS US in women representing our government. A man who brags that he can grab women by the pussy and can
do “anything he wants” to them, is now our President, and the GOP Senate Majority leader feels emboldened to shut Elizabeth Warren down for reading the words of Coretta Scott King.
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<br /></div>
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Steve Bannon, the President’s chief strategist, was chief
executive of Breitbart.com the alt-right website (that calls itself a news
organization) that consistently belittles and attempts to disempower women. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><b>Check out a few of the articles Breitbart has published in the last year or so:</b></span></div>
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<i><b>“THE SOLUTION TO ONLINE HARASSMENT IS SIMPLE: WOMEN SHOULD
LOG OFF”
</b></i>(http://www.breitbart.com/milo/2016/07/05/solution-online-harassment-simple-women-log-off/)</div>
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Here’s a brief quote from that one: “Given that men built
the internet, along with the rest of modern civilisation, I think it’s only
fair that they get to keep it. And given what a miserable time women are having
on the web, surely they would welcome an abrupt exit. They could go back to
bridge tournaments, or wellness workshops, or swapping apple crumble recipes,
or whatever it is women do in their spare time. I, Donald Trump and the rest of
the alpha males will continue to dominate the internet without feminist
whining. It will be fun! Like a big fraternity, with jokes and memes and no
more worrying about whether an off-colour but harmless remark will suddenly
torpedo your career.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><b>“HERE’S WHY THERE OUGHT TO BE A CAP ON WOMEN STUDYING SCIENCE
AND MATH”</b></i> <a href="http://www.breitbart.com/big-government/2015/06/15/heres-why-there-ought-to-be-a-cap-on-women-studying-science-and-maths/">http://www.breitbart.com/big-government/2015/06/15/heres-why-there-ought-to-be-a-cap-on-women-studying-science-and-maths/</a>
This “article” says that women just can’t cut it in highly competitive fields,
and can never make up their minds. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><b>“BIRTH CONTROL MAKES WOMEN UNATTRACTIVE AND CRAZY” </b></i></div>
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This piece says that the pill alters women’s bodies so that
they don’t “jiggle” in the right way to attract men, gives women cottage cheese
thighs, and makes women sluts. <a href="http://www.breitbart.com/tech/2015/12/08/birth-control-makes-women-unattractive-and-crazy/">http://www.breitbart.com/tech/2015/12/08/birth-control-makes-women-unattractive-and-crazy/</a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Trump and Bannon are planning a complete takedown of our
current government, and you can guess what that means for women. If you notice,
WOMEN are the ones standing up to Trump and his regime. Attorney General Sally Yates. Ann M.
Donnelly – the 1<sup>st</sup> New York judge to stand up against the Muslim
ban. Elizabeth Warren. Nancy Pelosi. </div>
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If the Senate and House were 51% women, we wouldn't be in this mess. We wouldn't be shut down on the Senate floor, our reproductive rights wouldn't be threatened, the ERA would have already been passed, we wouldn't allow Trump's regime to wipe out all federal programs for victims of domestic violence (they just eliminated all) and women would finally receive equal pay. </div>
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EMERGE is an organization that trains
women how to run for office. <a href="http://www.emergeamerica.org/">http://www.emergeamerica.org/</a>
There are over 500,000 elected positions in the US. Many of them are small and
local, and that’s where you begin. Find the Emerge chapter in your state. Even if you think you could never run, just attend an event or join a free informational phone call and learn what’s
involved. Think you’re not qualified to run for a local position like School
Board or City Council? Donald Trump is the leader of the free world. If there’s
anything he’s taught us, it’s that anyone, literally anyone, can be President. You can do this.<br />
</div>
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Here’s an article about newbies who ran for office and won,
and how they did it; <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/news_and_politics/politics/2017/01/i_ran_for_office_and_won_here_s_how.html">http://www.slate.com/articles/news_and_politics/politics/2017/01/i_ran_for_office_and_won_here_s_how.html</a></div>
<br />Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-2834737013728303382017-01-25T15:38:00.001-08:002018-04-03T18:30:15.518-07:00Put your broken heart aside and #RESIST<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="js_2p0">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsIHNnDXaDKHrBokScBg9DOIOR_p7LqM2HmOiGxnPRmioig5GS_lV1V0EzFItaOMZfyRHK_ISj9meZGFh92NS9Dc55eu-X0oZ8V3sq8zju9K48OaW4DqGQSuGE583tMkL_nvVtHwch4It/s1600/Screen+shot+2017-01-25+at+12.04.34+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsIHNnDXaDKHrBokScBg9DOIOR_p7LqM2HmOiGxnPRmioig5GS_lV1V0EzFItaOMZfyRHK_ISj9meZGFh92NS9Dc55eu-X0oZ8V3sq8zju9K48OaW4DqGQSuGE583tMkL_nvVtHwch4It/s320/Screen+shot+2017-01-25+at+12.04.34+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
Have you ever heard of the term "MORAL
INJURY"? This happens when what you believed about the world turns out
not to be true. I learned this term recently at the <a href="http://wagv.org/">Women Against Gun Violence</a> Firearms Suicide
Summit. A military psychiatrist explained it to us, and told us it’s the
number one reason Veterans commit suicide.<br />
<br />
Moral injury is what
many of us are experiencing right now. We lived through, or saw what
our parents and grandparents lived through with World War II and Vietnam
and the long hard struggle for civil rights. We were grateful those
times were behind us, that we could learn from them and never repeat
those mistakes again. We lived through 9/11 and Matthew Sheppard and the
fight for marriage equality. We worked hard to elect the first
African-American President, and were about ready to see another step
toward equality in America with the first woman President. We thought
there was no stopping the beautiful progress America had made. We were
becoming a kinder and more inclusive society. We were evolving!<br />
<br />
We slapped our “LOVE TRUMPS HATE” bumper stickers on our cars and
planned our victory parties with friends because there was NO WAY a
married man who had bragged about grabbing women by the pussy could EVER
be elected President. I mean, look what happened to Bill Clinton,
right? We laughed at Trump's campaign as we watched it unravel after he
insulted Hispanics, blacks, Muslims, veterans. We never, ever believed
that anyone, no matter what side of the aisle they were on, could elect
such a hateful person – especially a hateful person with absolutely no
experience in government, nor any understanding of how our government
works. Americans are a good people. The majority will vote the right way. After all, we’ve
evolved!<br />
<br />
But Republicans voted party over
morals. Trump received less votes than Romney, but still got the lion’s
share of Republican votes. He won because Democrats – a LOT of them,
just didn’t bother to show up. They were sulking. They didn’t like the
choices so they decided to sit this one out. I warned, over and over
again on social media, that bad politicians are elected by good people
who don’t vote. And it happened. President Obama reflected what we
aspired to be, but Trump reflects back to us what we’ve become.<br />
<br />
So now we are faced with the consequences. We are shocked and in mourning. We didn’t unite against hate and misogyny, and now it is being visited upon us. The President of the most
powerful nation in the world is a self-deluded narcissist who knows less
than nothing about foreign policy and how the government works. A white
supremacist has been chosen as the President’s top advisor. A climate
change denier has been chosen to head up the Environmental Protection
Agency. Ben Carson, who claimed that homosexuality is a choice and
evolution is an idea encouraged by the devil, is in charge of HUD. The GOP has the steering wheel for all three branches of government, and the NRA
was just thrown the keys to the car. You think you’re hurting? Our
children are the ones who will suffer most for our mistakes.<br />
<br />
Yes,
we are suffering our moral injury, but there’s no time for
hand-wringing. Rome is burning and we’ve got shit to do. We’ve got two
years until midterm elections- you know, those elections that Democrats
never show up for? These are the elections when Congress is elected. You
better work like you never have to make sure every person you know gets
to the polls. You better work harder than you knew you could to learn
the issues and the candidates, and educate those around you. What ever
you do, do NOT become lulled into a sense of complacency and delude
yourself that everything will turn out okay if we just “give him a
chance” and “think positive.” Never before in our nation’s history has a
man with NO experience in governing been given the helm of the most
powerful country in the world. STAY WOKE, people. Stay woke and get to
work.<br />
<br />
START LOCAL: Contact the Democratic party in your state,
find out what local and statewide elections are coming up and when. Call
the campaigns and ask how you can help. <a href="http://asdc.democrats.org/state-parties/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://asdc.democrats.org/state-parties/</a><br />
STAY WOKE and wake the people around you.</div>
Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-7050927599773996692017-01-12T12:46:00.002-08:002017-01-12T12:46:33.891-08:00Don't Let Them Take Our Healthcare!I lived six years without health insurance, due to a pre-existing
condition. What was my pre-existing condition? I had seen a therapist
for depression and anxie<span class="text_exposed_show">ty after my
house burned down. Every insurance company denied me, even after I
appealed annually and wrote numerous letters to all of the major
providers. When I found out I was pregnant with Evan at 41- I had NO
INSURANCE. I was incredibly lucky to find a California program that
covered pregnant, uninsured women. They paid for my high-risk pregnancy
and emergency cesarean delivery. Many other women, in other, less
progressive states, will not be so lucky. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
I turned to Planned Parenthood for my annual checkups and breast exams
during those six long years that no one would insure me. I would have
had NO health care at all if it were not for Planned Parenthood. I
watched a documentary on how many homeless women and mothers there are
in the US. Many of them have become homeless after being bankrupted by
medical bills. If, during these 6 years, I had been hit by a car, or
gotten cancer, I would have lost everything. My job, my house, all my
savings. I could have been homeless.<br />
<br />
Last night, while we slept, the Republican Senate voted 51 - 48 to:<br /> 1. To end coverage for pre-existing conditions, veterans benefits, and aid to rural hospitals. (50 miles to an ER rural voters)<br /> 2. To remove discrimination protection for women in healthcare.<br /> 3. Against the provision allowing children to remain on their parent's insurance till the age of 26.<br /> 4. To cut off funding for the Child Health Insurance Program (CHIP)<br /> 5. Against ACA contraceptive coverage and maternity care provision.<br /> 6. To direct committees to send budget legislation to defund and repeal the Affordable Care Act.<br />
<br />
And by the way, they also voted to defund Planned Parenthood. <br /> The house votes on Friday, January 13.<br /><br />
And for those of you who get health insurance through work, no
pre-existing conditions, and lifetime caps for coverage are back for
everyone.<br />
<br />
How can GOP representatives defend being the party of American values when they strip Americans of life-saving healthcare? My Facebook feed today is filled with posts of friends who are cancer survivors, who have mental health struggles, who have sick children and spouses, all who will be denied healthcare for
having a "pre-existing" condition. Some who will die if denied their expensive medications. CALL YOUR HOUSE REP NOW! They vote tomorrow to repeal the ACA. Tell them
what this means for you!<b> </b><span class="_Tgc"><b>(202)225-3121</b> </span></div>
Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-19901467911007713232016-12-22T16:16:00.000-08:002016-12-22T16:16:54.569-08:00Sifting Through the Rubble<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Lately, I've been sifting through the rubble of what was my former optimistic self, trying to figure out what to make of what I'm filled with since the election, which is mostly this: pain and suffering and despair. <br />
<br />
Pain is real, and should be acknowledged. Pain tells me to pull my hand
out of the fire. Pain tells me to do something...NOW. Pain should be
acted upon. <br />
<br />
Suffering is self-created: a choice. Suffering
happens when I resist what is. Suffering isn't noble. It doesn’t help
me, and it doesn’t help anyone around me. Suffering keeps me trapped in
pain.<br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
Despair is when I search outside myself for hope and, finding none, I believe that hope doesn't exist. Despair isn't real. <br />
<br />
So here's what I make of these messy emotions: We are entering a dark
era. The only way I get through this is to ditch the suffering and
despair, and act on the pain. I can't look for someone else to save me.
I've got to find hope inside of myself first, and let it build. I have
to connect to every other flicker of hope I find, and create networks of
hope. I have to appreciate every tiny beautiful moment; a cat sleeping
in my lap, a kind word from a stranger, an extraordinary sunset...and
let those tiny moments carry me until the rest of the world reflects
light again.<br />
<br />
<br />
The light will return. Maybe not now, maybe not soon...but it will return. That much I know.<br />
It returns, because we create it. </div>
Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-29208197007821056212016-12-22T14:56:00.003-08:002018-04-03T18:28:55.885-07:00DARKNESS DEFINES THE LIGHT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
“Darkness defines the light.” That’s what my yoga/meditation teacher <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1201686422" href="https://www.facebook.com/kristen.eykel">Kristen Eykel</a>
said, as we engaged in a deep discussion after a group meditation this
morning. The darkness that is sweeping the country and the world right
now is defining a message for us: RISE.<br />
<br />
I woke up today, like every day since the election, with a
feeling of dread in my stomach. I've been miserable and short-tempered,
and not much fun to live with, even though i meditate and do yoga
and I try, really try, to be positive. But today, I think I finally
figured out why I can't shake this awful feeling; I am changing. Life is
changing me and change is fucking painful -- it just is. I wrote about
this in Fire Season. When a caterpillar transforms into a bu<span class="text_exposed_show">tterfly,
it's an ugly affair. Before the butterfly can form, the caterpillar
must first completely liquefy inside the chrysalis, becoming what my
friend <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=100002674435588" href="https://www.facebook.com/lyena.strelkoff">Lyena Strelkoff</a>
termed "caterpillar soup." So maybe that's where a lot of us are at
right now. We are lying on the floor in a puddle, beat down by life,
caterpillar soup -- and that's okay. It's a stage, a step on the ladder
of metamorphosis. </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
My brilliant friend
Lyena had this to say on the subject, "The only way to become more than we were (plus
it's the fastest way out of the soup) is to surrender to dissolving. The
more we deny how we feel, the more we try to run away from it, cover it
up, try to shove ourselves prematurely out of the chrysalis with
inauthentic gratitude or positivity, the longer the process will take
and the more likely we'll get stuck there. 'Who am I willing to become?'
--that's the only question I have to ask. And then let the process of
becoming take its (uncomfortable, miserable at times) course. Adversity
sucks. But adversity of any kind, personal, professional, communal,
global, is always presenting us with the opportunity to become more than
we've ever been. The thing is, we have to say yes. And if we don't,
then adversity only sucks."</div>
<br />
If there’s any silver
lining behind these shitstorm clouds, it’s that people are beginning to
wake up and answer the call of their higher selves. Human rights,
equality, and basic goodness are not granted to us. W<span class="text_exposed_show">e
are the ones who work to make these things a reality. So how do we do
it while the bad news is pummeling us, daily? There is so much: the
environment, women's health, defending the marginalized, protecting
journalism and the truth. Each of has to decide what our personal
activism will be, and then take action. Some of us are warriors who will
march, some of us are surgeons who will actively cut the cancer out of
this country through legislation, some of us are seamstresses who will
stitch the fabric of our society back together, some of us are
wordsmiths who will renew the troops with hope and direction, some of us
are healers who will hold up the wounded. We all have a role. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="text_exposed_show">And when we finally pull ourselves out of the soup, when we finally rise, we have to become more than
we ever knew we could be. We have to look ourselves in the mirror and
say, "I am willing to step into my full potential and own my power." We have to shine
brighter, be bigger, be more than we were before. What other choice is
there?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span>One thing
is certain: the time for hand-wringing is over. </span><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="text_exposed_show">All hands on deck. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span>RISE.</span><br />
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Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-6508876606561818452016-11-10T13:09:00.000-08:002016-11-10T13:09:25.442-08:00Don't Tell Me To Get Over It<br />
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<br />
DON'T TELL ME TO GET OVER IT.<br />
Not since George Wallace has a
Presidential candidate run on a platform of hate and divisiveness. (The
difference? Wallace didn’t win. We must have been a more tolerant nation
in the sixties.) If you voted for Trump, regardless of your reasons,
you put the stamp of approval on his hate, bigotry, xenophobia and
misogyny. You sent a message around the world that this is our American
value system.<br />
<br />
I will be ashamed when I travel next month, when
people in other countries eye me with suspicion and fear. As I walked
into my son’s school yesterday, I looked at the other parents and
wondered, are you one of the people who outwardly smiled and feigned
tolerance, but privately endorsed this candidate of hate? And then dread
gripped my stomach when I realized that people of color are probably
looking at me because I am white, and wondering the same thing. I want
to tattoo my forehead “I DIDN’T VOTE FOR HIM! I LOVE YOU!” Trump
politics have set up a horrific scenario where we can no longer trust
one another. So no, I can’t get over it. And neither can you. It’s going
to take a long, long time before our country can repair the damage he
has done.<br />
<br />
<br />
DON'T TELL ME NOT TO PROTEST.<br />
Protest is an American right, protected by our Constitution. <br />
I am sickened by the posts on social media calling the protesters
“idiots,” calling their marches “pointless.” I suppose they’d have said
the same about the march on Selma, or the march against the Vietnam war.
This country was founded by protest. Ever heard of the Boston Tea
Party? Or the American Revolution? Before you start calling protesters
“idiots,” go back and study American history and the Constitution you
claim to love so much, and then tell me who’s the idiot.<br />
<br />
<br />
DON'T TELL ME THIS IS DEMOCRACY.<br />
Webster’s defines Democracy as “control of an organization or group by
the majority of its members.” The majority of Americans voted for
Hillary Clinton. She, like Gore in 2000, won the popular vote but lost
the election. In any other Democracy around the world, Clinton would be
our nation’s leader. It’s time to overturn the Electoral College and let
our country be a true democracy where the majority of Americans decide
who will lead them. <br />
<br />
<br />
DON'T TELL ME TO CHEER UP.<br />
There is no
bright side to bigotry and hate. There is no upside to misogyny. There
is no “making the best of” xenophobia. I may not be the silver lining
person you’ve come to know, not for a while anyway. My faith in America
has been shattered and I am grieving. I may not cheer up for a long,
long time. Maybe four years. But as each day passes, I am gathering my
resolve, and my strength, and my voice. You’ll probably be hearing a lot
from me over the next few years. It may not be cheerful, but it will be
loud. <br />
<br />
<br />
DON'T TELL ME HE'S MY PRESIDENT.<br />
I didn’t vote for him. He is unqualified, undignified, unhinged, and represents the antithesis of American values.<br />
He is <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/notmypresident?source=feed_text&story_id=10154178901062875"><span class="_5afx"><span class="_58cl _5afz">#</span><span class="_58cm">NotMyPresident</span></span></a>.<br />
<br />Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-27241811114883207932016-10-13T12:37:00.001-07:002016-10-13T12:37:41.493-07:00What's happened to political decency?I'm horrified by what I'm seeing in this Presidential election
season. We have lost all decency and decorum. I remember back when
America was appalled that Dan Quayle misspelled the word potato. People
couldn't believe that a man who couldn't spell was Vice President of the
United States. But now, America holds ignorance up like it's a virtue.<br />
<br />
During the debate, I watched Donald Trump spew unintelligible rants
about Russia and Syria, proving he knows nothing about the world <span class="text_exposed_show">or foreign policy. And yet his followers cheer for him and the talking heads say he did well in the debate. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
I remember when it was unconscionable to call someone a liar, back when
the most shocking thing said during a debate was "Senator, you are no
Jack Kennedy." Donald Trump has dragged our political system into the
gutter, pointing his finger in Secretary Clinton's face and calling her a
liar, calling her the Devil, saying she has a heart filled with hate,
saying he will throw her in jail while his supporters jeer and holler.
And the talking heads praised him for ending the debate by saying she
was a fighter, as if that somehow made him a gentleman. Trump has turned
this campaign season into a dystopian reality show. Jerry Springer even
tweeted that he'd like to have Trump on his show. What an embarrassment
we are, in front of the entire world. I am so concerned for our young
citizens watching this, worried that they will become calloused and
immune to how wrong this is. I hope to God we can find our way back from
this dark era. I hope we can return to a two-party system in which our
elected officials may not have agreed but they worked together and
respected one another. The objective of a two-party system was to
discuss our differing ideas and come up with bi-partisan compromises
that best serve the people. It was never intended to be a death match.<br />
<br />
#ImWithHer </div>
Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-58695664017271478282016-10-07T08:07:00.000-07:002016-10-07T08:08:49.247-07:00Loving and Losing StitchI'm shattered. This morning, our beloved Stitch didn't greet me when I
woke. He didn't come when he heard the can opener, and I thought that
was odd. I called, and he didn't come. Evan and I found him lying still
on the rug in the living room. As long as I live I will never be able to
erase the heartbreaking image of Evan shaking Stitchy's lifeless body
and shouting, "Stitchy! Wake up, wake up!"<br />
<br />
Stitch was only nine years old. He wasn't sick. This was a complete shock.<br />
<br />
Yesterday was a really good day. I was home all day. We to<span class="text_exposed_show">ok
several walks in the field and he was happy and spry. I gave him a few
treats. He ate all his dinner last night. And then, somehow, he passed
away in his sleep. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
I
always called Stitch my little gentleman. When we were walking through a
door he'd always stop and look up at me, wait for me to pass through
first. He was a gentle and considerate soul. He loved everybody. He
never wanted to fight with other dogs or cats, he just wanted to be
friends. I am still in disbelief that this has happened. I can't stop
crying. This house doesn't feel like a home without him.<br />
<br />
Many
of you supported us when we fought for years in court to keep Stitch
away from his former owner who had abused and abandoned him. You know
the long journey and the struggle, how very hard we fought for him and
how very very much we loved him. Stitch was no ordinary dog. He came to
our lives to teach us courage, and how to stand up for something you
believe in. I know that for the rest of my life I will carry the lessons
I learned through loving this dog. Because of Stitch, we started the <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/savestitch?source=feed_text&story_id=10154077231197875"><span class="_5afx"><span class="_58cl _5afz">#</span><span class="_58cm">SaveStitch</span></span></a>
campaign fighting for animal rights. After the L.A. Times, NPR and Fox
News picked up the story, this case became a national conversation. In
the courts we fought for pets to have the right to live in the home that
is safest for them, rather than being treated as property to be
returned to the owner, regardless of inhumane treatment. We lost our
case and our appeal and weren't able to change the laws, but we held on
to Stitch. After all that drama and 3 years of court battles, I don't
know if we made a difference or not, but I do know that Stitch was able
to live his life with us, in a home where he was loved beyond measure.<br />
<br />
The short years we had him weren't nearly enough, and yet, I feel so
fortunate to have had him at all. He blessed my life, and touched many
others. He was my little gentleman. A piece of my heart goes with him...<br />
(For those of you who don't know the story of Stitch, it's here. If you
think I fight hard against gun violence, it's only because I learned how to
stand up to bullies when I fought for Stitch; <a href="http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fhollyedexter.blogspot.com%2Fsearch%2Flabel%2FSave%2520Stitch&h=4AQH2mXCWAQFdgv42YKHlKDNXwRofq8I6EIpBdXy5AxowjQ&enc=AZMe8XTLO7aed8nsMxFc1JAaBwTrJ7EJQmd2Q6vADoFTP-gA-hYQEvuB_H8SdwQVhOkbd2ZKrAf3MgJLQdfAswPGJlHKNphNqXtJk1ra0YXoxf-pnVpZFJJCunmAvL65Ys4g-9OILbY24zFWGTRxxfTqfNthyStG0rWP3IRGKJ9SoQmCcE0V17mNMp_N7LYHj0w&s=1" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://hollyedexter.blogspot.com/search/label/Save%20Stitch</a>)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-z8zMmYcxRYTxkCYTbAbxs7fBUeRylqQ3hpaANIXAjS0P2cWpv5nQ44BdBcYJ0nu99g1xuPM2C1zOb9q2tKcMV5oePBbTBYeaAX1q56qwbuGluobuR8V6UzCv-dO-3J8HnS7qmyoQagoc/s1600/Dex+fam+with+Stitch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-z8zMmYcxRYTxkCYTbAbxs7fBUeRylqQ3hpaANIXAjS0P2cWpv5nQ44BdBcYJ0nu99g1xuPM2C1zOb9q2tKcMV5oePBbTBYeaAX1q56qwbuGluobuR8V6UzCv-dO-3J8HnS7qmyoQagoc/s320/Dex+fam+with+Stitch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-87966176713987673392016-10-03T14:42:00.000-07:002017-06-16T12:15:23.170-07:00We Gave Our Son a Stranger Things Birthday Party (and it was awesome!)Evan, 10 years old, just started middle school. It's been tough for him because he's amongst the youngest and smallest in the school, and since most of his friends went to other schools, he doesn't know many people. He's been miserable since school began mid-August. But the one thing that has made him happy is watching the whole season of Stranger Things - twice. He became obsessed with the show, watching countless videos and vines, reading insider blogs watching all the interviews. He said he even liked it more than Star Wars.<br />
<br />
So this September, since he was turning ELEVEN, my husband and I decided to give him a birthday party he'd never forget.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>STRANGER THINGS BIRTHDAY PARTY!</b></div>
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our front door.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We built the theme around finding Barb. These were posted outside the house.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pizza and Eggo waffles and Twinkies for dinner? You bet!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-VPd6nlC1zkEy7Id2yJmibGDqqCsYPyMD2eU7Nz0T9P3dKSvwZBZgKZDE24XgMkeyK1ZnCZJYtbP1XcOBhn5mrk_FkYopxvFqOeXVCULGfthOBfFPa2jGQSPAGd3yeneAmtTwVzi90KDR/s1600/IMG_9600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-VPd6nlC1zkEy7Id2yJmibGDqqCsYPyMD2eU7Nz0T9P3dKSvwZBZgKZDE24XgMkeyK1ZnCZJYtbP1XcOBhn5mrk_FkYopxvFqOeXVCULGfthOBfFPa2jGQSPAGd3yeneAmtTwVzi90KDR/s320/IMG_9600.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The goodie bags had to be authentic. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47E1mGj3DcS5ZecsSvxXOffU0blN5ZCFGjxhMkNDWSuvUWpmO8jQ0CY1MJqeBlJbB8KlC_Pgcp1zJnl5LhliqLTdDopE8xrhUHcY4HjUKGMUcqCc_LuYHBkUQ3WSrnoQAauakDtiCV8rn/s1600/IMG_9617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47E1mGj3DcS5ZecsSvxXOffU0blN5ZCFGjxhMkNDWSuvUWpmO8jQ0CY1MJqeBlJbB8KlC_Pgcp1zJnl5LhliqLTdDopE8xrhUHcY4HjUKGMUcqCc_LuYHBkUQ3WSrnoQAauakDtiCV8rn/s320/IMG_9617.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I made his birthday cake out of Twinkies, Ding Dongs and candy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFOQlIBJS6TfrXI8vnlWDpeaf86uuoSBoF5p9J7WONF3_i0yPhb_e8o77lf_jN595HCxPA2O30kUh8TA996hdQDAeo0m8hNhPGXngEtb-X0YqgQwVNzjMRE1jPmA6OGnOG6jV_C3saG-Ho/s1600/IMG_9644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFOQlIBJS6TfrXI8vnlWDpeaf86uuoSBoF5p9J7WONF3_i0yPhb_e8o77lf_jN595HCxPA2O30kUh8TA996hdQDAeo0m8hNhPGXngEtb-X0YqgQwVNzjMRE1jPmA6OGnOG6jV_C3saG-Ho/s320/IMG_9644.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We played STRANGER THINGS trivia.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<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/AVvXsEiSamV5gXN60i_k67NVBYm7r-G84j9an4cl2YoYzyAOZELb_JjDrHchhYh3GeFwLFcEMdCq6XcMVY8hLG3YE8qcsWDYREyNzOo7iiLIYWcpQGPDcl1byr47zrWG4XNDDhAXFhI_w9VTk7qI/s1600/IMG_9643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSamV5gXN60i_k67NVBYm7r-G84j9an4cl2YoYzyAOZELb_JjDrHchhYh3GeFwLFcEMdCq6XcMVY8hLG3YE8qcsWDYREyNzOo7iiLIYWcpQGPDcl1byr47zrWG4XNDDhAXFhI_w9VTk7qI/s320/IMG_9643.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We set up an Eggo bar for the kids</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigNBqmgZhobRGQFI1yvHugSdsDIGeq59ZoYWZP9VKkmVF2xFkYRdk-BHeQqJWKuS8VKz7V0degiQ-jFphp1SW0tESjBd1IRybR_QE6fHWUf4gVMeGZwHbbpEOJOvPXCfYe5LvpnBhI9Thb/s1600/IMG_9605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigNBqmgZhobRGQFI1yvHugSdsDIGeq59ZoYWZP9VKkmVF2xFkYRdk-BHeQqJWKuS8VKz7V0degiQ-jFphp1SW0tESjBd1IRybR_QE6fHWUf4gVMeGZwHbbpEOJOvPXCfYe5LvpnBhI9Thb/s320/IMG_9605.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We painted the alphabet on a tablecloth and hung it on our wall.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ESnuJ3IMKNIsAOO4T2BvWWmkDOsqx6symx3o8NvdSsy5aGzvyWQAuyXZE0Ede1b_HT0UEgwGQg9tYtYJtixv_Fw64mSg2LX343geN3SOkNSmgRXyWRSISDBwh8V9lFq5DHEILLvZ8b1d/s1600/Evan%2527s+B+irthday17371_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ESnuJ3IMKNIsAOO4T2BvWWmkDOsqx6symx3o8NvdSsy5aGzvyWQAuyXZE0Ede1b_HT0UEgwGQg9tYtYJtixv_Fw64mSg2LX343geN3SOkNSmgRXyWRSISDBwh8V9lFq5DHEILLvZ8b1d/s320/Evan%2527s+B+irthday17371_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We used Stranger Things text generator to make his invitations</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggUpyq8lSBhTfEu1HinuXSqjIzi2q_vH5LY3K340R3LNGU_j88kWGEf3nQqmdRscPbExyNlKlmkSZ922AB_rJcbvIY0rd2Sk4Ya8S-XPubaPKZuvGoe1KcuJ7tuLn-rFT8wYGQ-lsMn7hc/s1600/IMG_9626.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggUpyq8lSBhTfEu1HinuXSqjIzi2q_vH5LY3K340R3LNGU_j88kWGEf3nQqmdRscPbExyNlKlmkSZ922AB_rJcbvIY0rd2Sk4Ya8S-XPubaPKZuvGoe1KcuJ7tuLn-rFT8wYGQ-lsMn7hc/s320/IMG_9626.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We got into character!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcKfqT7w_O_WP09qTVT-g-aCmfHH1jHMeWXcoXndoFas2y4oycRZYwDRMdLyxh8CbARjjOhvrefusLnXKW8yPIqa6fTVT8axmJIHRm1Wkk3H5MiuekjaB9PTA2FxxKc7_2FKN_vxMOwtw/s1600/IMG_9621.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcKfqT7w_O_WP09qTVT-g-aCmfHH1jHMeWXcoXndoFas2y4oycRZYwDRMdLyxh8CbARjjOhvrefusLnXKW8yPIqa6fTVT8axmJIHRm1Wkk3H5MiuekjaB9PTA2FxxKc7_2FKN_vxMOwtw/s320/IMG_9621.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our best friends got into character, too!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We downloaded the whole Stranger Things soundtrack and had it playing the whole night. After Stranger Things trivia and Demogorgon tag, we played a hot potato game to "Should I Stay Or Should I Go." And after dark, we surprised the kids by taking them on a Barb hunt. We had turned our basement into The Upside Down, dark with vines and webs and everything covered in black and a bubble blower going under blacklights to give it that weird snowfall effect. We brought the kids down there two at a time, while the scary "LIGHTS OUT" Demogorgon theme blasted. After walking through massive webs and putting their hands through Demogorgon goo (warm, mushy, overcooked spaghetti) they would eventually find a corpse covered in slugs and bugs, with oversized Barb glasses. Suddenly, Sheriff Hopper would jump out of the shadows with a flashlight under his face, warning them to never tell ANYONE what they'd seen, and the kids all went screaming up the stairwell.<br />
<br />
All in all, it was a fantastic birthday party that Evan will never forget, but the part that made Evan the happiest? When Shannon Purser (Barb) tweeted it!<br />
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<br />Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-24951492990514504792016-04-05T10:19:00.000-07:002016-04-05T10:19:35.673-07:00Writing About Family: Truth and Consequences <style><!--
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhuirjA9ibX96CWzN7yfPkiVKPTfyA3WQzZlB_acnZuc67ilYbFXVB9F5pX3hmKjJ4KPOrOoPnKK_eC_rasJsmbA1w1ZsmM0jEkzLsT3pL0mV75ZQBMeNl2nwWGNTysVaxCE_R9D_Pj-l/s1600/Fear+and+truth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhuirjA9ibX96CWzN7yfPkiVKPTfyA3WQzZlB_acnZuc67ilYbFXVB9F5pX3hmKjJ4KPOrOoPnKK_eC_rasJsmbA1w1ZsmM0jEkzLsT3pL0mV75ZQBMeNl2nwWGNTysVaxCE_R9D_Pj-l/s320/Fear+and+truth.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Storytelling
has existed since the beginning of humankind. Our stories are the connective
tissue that holds humanity and possibly even the universe together. Poet and
activist Muriel Rukeyser famously wrote, “The Universe is made of stories, not
of atoms." Every person on this planet has a unique life path and
therefore an interesting tale to share, and yet so many of us struggle with
whether or not we have the right to tell our stories. We are silenced by the
fear upsetting others, mainly our family, in writing our truth. </span></span>
</h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Who
Owns The Truth?</span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
begin my book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fire-Season-Memoir-Hollye-Dexter/dp/1631529749">Fire Season</a> with this note:</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
“In my extended family, arguing over versions of our
history is practically a blood sport. My relatives will wrestle each other to
the mat about the way it all went down. In reality, there is no such thing as
absolute truth, only our personal interpretations of it. Each of us sees life
through our own unique lens. The best way I’ve ever heard it described was by a
woman I met in a writing group. She said as her mother lay dying, she and her
sister sat on either side of the hospital bed, holding their mother’s hands. At
the moment of her passing, the sisters spoke simultaneously. One said, “She’s
gone cold!” The other said, “She’s still warm.” And both statements were true
to the women who made them. <span style="font-style: normal;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>I do my best, as a flawed and complex person myself, to write
with compassion and understanding. There are no heroes or villains in my books,
only imperfect humans doing the best they can. Mine is not the elusive absolute
truth, but it is my truth.”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">The bottom line is that you own the rights to your life story. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">No one else can shape it, or write it
like you can. </span>Your story is the only thing of true value that you own--
the one thing that can’t be taken from you. Cherish that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Write
Honest Characters:</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
memoir writing, it’s important to write with objectivity. If I portray myself
as the hero and someone who wronged me as a one-dimensional Hitler, the reader
is not going to believe it, and the story won’t work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even Hitler had a dog he loved. That’s the interesting part.
Every character is rich with contradictions. Our job is to find those
contradictions and flesh them out -- to portray each character as a whole human
being. Fiction writers climb inside each character, listen to their voices.
Every character comes to a scene with his or her own agenda. Even in memoir, we
need to get behind the agenda of each character. Let’s say you’re writing about
your mother (and honestly, who isn’t?). The message of the book can’t be “My
agenda was to be happy but my mother’s agenda was to make me miserable.” From
your perspective, that may be true, but certainly that was not your mother’s
sole agenda in life. A powerful writing exercise is to try writing the scene
from your mother’s point of view, in her voice, then rewrite the scene, from
your perspective but with deeper honesty and a fuller understanding of each
character. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fear
of Abandonment</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-weight: normal;">Writing the truth is both terrifying and liberating – for
you, and for the reader. The fact is that no matter how careful you are, you’re
going to hit a nerve and upset some people, because, as Pema Chodron says, fear is a
reaction to moving closer to the truth. Being a writer means telling the truth,
facing the fear of abandonment, and writing through it. Initially, when first
putting pen to page, write like an orphan. Forget your family. Dump it all out
of your head, every single word, thought, and feeling. And then take some time
away from the manuscript.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you
return to reread and edit, keep only what is absolutely necessary to the arc of
the story. Delete everything else. Find compassion for every character. Soften
the edges of your anger. When you finally hit send on the manuscript, keep in
mind that it’s called a book “release.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Release it. Your work now belongs to the world and the readers to judge,
to love or to hate. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">For my own moments
of panic, I have these words from author Steve Almond above my desk: </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
</h1>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQ5ubQ6KxyD3ktDRLrYVro9N5v8QB3iSpdTRbFk00PS5bWdwnTq-Vq234iRZetRVYYHgOtpXsql1UCLd07PXyZ5z6cPknDSAVeM2SBDSb9SA8exJkVEag5btl5WWWS7_23T1FWjK7TDuq/s1600/Typewriter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQ5ubQ6KxyD3ktDRLrYVro9N5v8QB3iSpdTRbFk00PS5bWdwnTq-Vq234iRZetRVYYHgOtpXsql1UCLd07PXyZ5z6cPknDSAVeM2SBDSb9SA8exJkVEag5btl5WWWS7_23T1FWjK7TDuq/s640/Typewriter.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;">Be proud of yourself for releasing a complete work
of your unbearable feelings, and let the world do with it as they will. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span style="font-weight: normal;">** An excerpt of this article was published in Writer's Digest: </span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">http://www.writersdigest.com/online-editor/3-rules-on-writing-about-your-family</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h1>
Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488757155668840939.post-87688960657865993582016-01-19T22:26:00.000-08:002016-01-20T08:22:33.301-08:00The Magic Hats<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>On Monday night, when I spoke at my Uncle Dan Haggerty's memorial, I told a version of this story, which captures what he meant to me, to all of us. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpq7Oq1g2tIMG3l4j85F-S6Gnh046YBF8iWtq3rKXy2G0BjxvJdq-eekw21D-wp7qSXjRuKkP_97WibaiMu7WXNozYZUnWdUHAHAfAkivH-v796qnNMmDA9OXC8zgH2DxJegXMPaXM4TWc/s1600/1970+My+family+thanksgiving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpq7Oq1g2tIMG3l4j85F-S6Gnh046YBF8iWtq3rKXy2G0BjxvJdq-eekw21D-wp7qSXjRuKkP_97WibaiMu7WXNozYZUnWdUHAHAfAkivH-v796qnNMmDA9OXC8zgH2DxJegXMPaXM4TWc/s400/1970+My+family+thanksgiving.jpg" width="383" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanksgiving 1970. That's me and my cousin Tracey up front, Uncle Dan and our moms and Grandma looking on. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">We were eight years old that Easter, Tammey and I.
Tracey was ten, double-digits so she could hardly be bothered with us
pipsqueaks any more, unless she was really bored and had no one else to play
with. I was staying the weekend with my cousins, which I often did.
Sometimes I spent a week, sometimes a month, or sometimes they lived at our
house, if Uncle Dan and Aunt Diane were filming a movie out of state. Our
mothers were sisters, so our families and homes were interchangeable. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">What woke me that morning was his loud
laugh. It was so unmistakable – high-pitched and almost maniacal, but in a good
way that made you laugh with him. I had barely opened my eyes when Uncle Dan
flew through the air and landed on us, knocking the wind out of us both. We
screamed and protested but we were in for it. The ticklefest was on. He tickled
us until we couldn’t breathe, then just as fast as he came in, he ran out in
nothing but his Fruit of the Looms, his hair sticking out all over his head.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">“Get up!” he shouted back as he ran down
the hall, “We’re going somewhere.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">“Where are we going?” I asked Tammey,
whose face was still flushed red from laughing. She just shrugged and started
to get dressed.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We threw on whatever clothes were on the floor from the day
before, not bothering to ask where he was taking us because we knew it would be
an adventure. Uncle Dan didn’t take you to places like the post office or the
supermarket. He had no interest in the responsibilities that the rest of the
world thought were important. He lived in Dan-world, where only Dan-rules
applied.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I’d never known him to hold a regular
job. In his earliest days, he was a body builder who played a muscleman in
Annette Funicello/Frankie Avalon beach movies. Sometimes he was building
motorcycles, or doing stunt work, but most of the time he was training animals
for the movies. He used to keep wolves in the backyard, until one of them
attacked Tammey. I was with her when it happened. We were about six. It was
early in the morning and Tammey, Tracey and I were the only ones awake. Tammey
ran out into the backyard in her little flannel nightgown, mistaking one of the
new wolves for her pet wolf Akela. The wolf, who was not Akela, grabbed her by
the head and shook her like a rag doll. My Aunt Diane heard Tracey and I
screaming, dove through her bedroom window, and wrestled her child from the
jaws of a wolf. Like one does. They took Tammey to the hospital and got her
head all stitched back together. When they brought her home, they laid her down
on the couch in the living room, and I sat by her side and held her hand all
day.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3nLjRMkhmvmChcqfSnpO44Ml8qZcSAlPTicda8K354uoeWdQI4131c1dqsMsO2BddDxxHV_xsmo4hsc1LiZFVPHDCTmtz4LJCzxgQB-gMWB8E8TJj52Jrz9BULNkIIWV_4AY7wsSucjY/s1600/Tammey+and+I+3+yrs+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3nLjRMkhmvmChcqfSnpO44Ml8qZcSAlPTicda8K354uoeWdQI4131c1dqsMsO2BddDxxHV_xsmo4hsc1LiZFVPHDCTmtz4LJCzxgQB-gMWB8E8TJj52Jrz9BULNkIIWV_4AY7wsSucjY/s1600/Tammey+and+I+3+yrs+cropped.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Tammey, always together.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Uncle Dan also had an owl that lived free
inside the house. When I was a toddler, he had a pet lion that my cousin Tracey
used to take baths with, but they got busted for that one and had to send him
away. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Uncle Dan was completely uninterested in
society’s rules. His friends looked like a ragtag bunch of reincarnated
pirates, in fact, I’m almost convinced they were. They wore bandanas, had long
hair and tattoos. They rode motorcycles and built custom cars and did stunt
work in films. Some worked on the film Easy Rider, and Uncle Dan got a small
part in the movie. Some were animal trainers. Uncle Dan was the king of the
crew, sitting in his carved king’s chair in the living room, holding court, the
owl often perched atop it. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">His home was fit for a king, or maybe a
wizard. He made it that way. On the living room ceiling he attached branches
with little white lights woven through it, so at night it looked like
fireflies. There were gargoyles staring down from the walls, animal skins
draped over the sofa, and intricate brass statues of angels and faeries. The
front door was a massive wooden arched door, with an iron ring as big as a dinner
plate. It took two of us kids working together to get it open, or closed. I can
still hear the loud creak of that heavy door, the sound of the iron knocker
clanking against it (there was no sneaking in or out of that house) and I can
still remember the particular fragrance of the living room: a mix of leather,
wood, patchouli and pot.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Sometimes Uncle Dan would get a burst of
inspiration and start drawing on the walls. He was incredible at creating
imaginary characters like wizards, pirates and dragons. We’d watch over his
shoulder as he sketched and the character came to life. He was obsessed with
Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book, and when the Disney version came out, he
drew all the Jungle Book characters on one of Tammey’s walls – life sized. He
also drew a mermaid in the bathroom, and began to paint her but never finished.
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Uncle Dan already had the motor running
that morning as we scrambled to get dressed and get our butts in the truck
before he left without us. We jumped in the front seat, on our way to
who-knows-where. Jazz was blasting from the car stereo -- always. We stopped
off at a nursery, and Uncle Dan hopped out, leaving the truck running and music
blaring. In what seemed like only minutes, he came rushing out with a cart full
of flowers, vines and chicken wire, and loaded them in the back of the truck. Next,
he drove to a pet store, but it was early morning and the store was closed.
Nothing could stop him once he got an idea in his head. He always found a way
to get what he wanted. He went to the payphone to make a phone call and before
we knew it someone was there to open the store. Uncle Dan was persuasive. He
wasn’t the kind of guy you could just blow off, and in fact, most people found
it impossible to say no to him. He knew people everywhere he went and could
always pull a favor. Uncle Dan strutted out of the pet store and handed me a
cage with a tiny yellow and blue bird. “Here, hold this,” he said, and went
back inside. I put the cage in my lap. The bird was only as big as my thumb,
its eyes like shiny black beads. Tammey and I talked softly to the bird, trying
to make it feel comfortable. We learned from Uncle Dan to be kind to animals.
Only days before, there was a mouse in Aunt Diane’s closet. We helped Uncle Dan
to catch it in a shoebox, then drove miles in the truck until we found a vacant
field, where Uncle Dan set the mouse free. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Uncle Dan came out of the pet store and
jumped into the front seat, handing Tammey a box. Inside was a baby bunny,
small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. I had never before seen such tiny
and fragile things. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">“Hold these while I drive, and be careful
with them, okay?” he said, revving the engine. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">“Okay,” Tammey and I said, and then we
tried to keep our little pets calm while Uncle Dan drove with all the windows
down, his hair blowing, Miles Davis blowing on the radio.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">When we got back to the
house, he immediately got to work in the driveway, cutting branches and chicken
wire, leaves and flowers flying everywhere. I asked what he was doing, but he
seemed to be in his own inner world, and didn’t respond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone thought I asked too many
questions, anyway. Tammey and I were hungry, so we went inside, scrounged
through the cupboards in the kitchen, and ate dry cereal out of the box, then
we wandered off to play foursquare with some of the neighbor kids. After an hour
or so, Four Square became a serious game of Dodgeball, leaving Tammey and I
sweaty messes with dirt on our hands and smudged on our faces. When we heard
Uncle Dan’s whistle, we dropped the ball and ran home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Uncle Dan sat me down on a crate in the
driveway and tied a bandana on my head. He lifted a tall, pointed witch hat
made of chicken wire, with flowers and branches woven through and shiny green
leaves and magnolias around the brim. Inside he had fashioned a perch out of a
branch, and my tiny bird was sitting on it, blinking its beady eyes. The hat
was half the size of me. He carefully lowered it on to my head and suddenly <i>I</i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> became one of Uncle Dan’s magical
characters. </span>Being chosen by Uncle Dan made me feel important, like the
sun was shining on me a little brighter than anyone else that day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Next, he held up
Tammey’s hat - <span style="font-family: "times new roman";">a giant sombrero
they had brought back from a trip to Mexico. Uncle Dan had covered the brim
with cabbage leaves and flowers. It was truly a beautiful masterpiece. He cut the top of the hat out and put a head
of butter lettuce there, with the baby bunny nestled inside. He had Tammey try
it on, and she and I stood together, bringing characters to life out of Uncle
Dan’s mind. Uncle Dan crossed his burly, muscled arms, stood back and studied
us. He seemed pleased with his work, flashing that huge trademark smile of his
and said, “You guys look great!” He then lifted our hats off of us and
carefully put them into the truck.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I threw my arms around him, “This is the
best day ever!” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">He hugged me tight, lifting me off my
feet. Being held by him was the best feeling. He was as big and solid as a
mountain, and we used to climb on him like monkeys when we were small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">He rushed us toward the truck, “Now let’s
go. We’re late!” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> “Late for what?” I asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I entered you girls in the Easter hat contest at the mall.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><i>Easter hat contest?</i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This didn’t seem like something Uncle Dan would care about. At all. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">The thing about my Aunt and Uncle is that
they were always late, really late, to everything. If we wanted them to come to
a party of ours, we had to lie and tell them it started an hour earlier so they
wouldn’t miss it. Sometimes they still did. We zoomed in to the mall parking
lot, Uncle Dan screeching to a stop and
parking illegally. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hurry!!” he said, “ the contest already started!”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">We tried to run, but balancing giant hats
with bunnies and birds on our heads was not easy. When we got to the center
court of Sherman Oaks Fashion Square, there were hundreds of people watching the
stage, and someone from the newspaper taking pictures. My stomach lurched. The
girls on the stage were dressed in traditional Easter dresses with crinolines
and little white gloves and hats with ribbons and bows. They wore patent
leather shoes with heels, and stood posing for pictures with their moms. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">As we walked up to the
stage, everyone stopped and stared. I felt Tammey’s small hand grab mine and
squeeze. The contest was already over, the judges had made their decision, but
Uncle Dan talked them into letting us go on the stage to show our hats. I
didn’t want to, but I knew how much this meant to Uncle Dan and didn’t want to
hurt his feelings. So we walked across the stage, our little faces smudged with
dirt and sweat from Dodgeball, wearing jeans and wrinkled t-shirts with these huge magic hats, and instead of recognizing how genius these hats were, the
girls and their moms stared at us like we had just stepped off of a spaceship.
I really didn’t want to stand next to the prissy girls and their moms, because
even though I knew that Uncle Dan’s magic hats were better than theirs, I also
knew that we actually were from another planet, one those girls could never
comprehend. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">The judges had a quick discussion on the
side of the stage, then a man stepped up to the microphone and announced the
winners. The prissy girls with the prettiest dresses and ribbon hats won the
trophies and the money. The man said we had received honorable mention for
“originality.” The judges gave us some cheap plastic bubble wand as a prize,
and Uncle Dan looked crushed. I’d never seen the King sad before. It made my
heart hurt. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Driving home in the truck, we were quiet.
Uncle Dan stared out the window, not listening to jazz. The hats began to fall
apart, the flowers and leaves wilting in the heat. We had to return the bird
and bunny to the pet store. I slumped down in my seat, a lump in my throat,
wishing I knew how to make this right. But I didn’t.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Forty-four years later, I would feel that
way again, on a much deeper level, when I found out that my uncle was suffering
with cancer. I had loved him more than life, and at times I had hated him.
Throughout my childhood, I depended on him. He was strong, powerful,
invincible. He took us in when my mom’s life was falling apart. My own father
was in prison, but when I went places with Uncle Dan and my cousins, he
introduced us as his three daughters. I loved that. When I moved out on my own and I was struggling, he showed up at my doorstep one night, without me ever
asking, and gave me rent money. He took me on incredible trips to exotic
places. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">But in the eighties, drugs changed him. My childhood belief in him was
crushed. I struggled with how to forgive him for the things he had done, but
the feelings were bigger than me and I couldn’t bear them. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I wanted to be at his side when he was
sick, but I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t pretend like nothing had
happened – that our family hadn’t been obliterated, that my trust in him hadn’t
been shattered, that my aunt hadn’t been devastated by the things he did, the
choices he made, and the cold way that he left her. Just like the
eight-year-old girl I once was, I wished I knew how to make it right, but I
didn’t. And then he died.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">On the day he died, I went to the
mountains to let my soul rest. I spent an entire day working on a 1000-piece
puzzle, because nothing else made sense and this was the one thing I could fix.
That night I dreamt that hundreds of puzzle pieces were raining down on me, and
every one of them had a different picture of my uncle’s face. I had no idea
what to do with them.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">What is the moral of the story? My god, I
wish I knew. All I do know is that love is everything. It can heal you, and it
can also break you. Family is so damned complicated. You can love someone with
all your heart and they can hurt you without ever meaning to, and heroes, as
much as we want to put all our faith in them, almost always fall from their
pedestals. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Love is a risky business, but I’ll take
the risk every time, because what other way is there to live? Would I have
traded in my childhood with my uncle to save myself the grief I felt as an
adult? No way. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">It was a wild, heartbreaking, magical
ride, and I’m so glad it was mine. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">*****</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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Hollye Dexterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10184998678584429429noreply@blogger.com9