I am an inappropriately ungrateful woman. Meaning that I am ever more concerned with myself than others. Especially those that I care about. This has been pointed out to me before. No, not last year, but decades ago. Selfish and mean are two words that found their way to my ears from more than one reliable source. Of course, those people didn’t themselves have those traits. Take Barb, for example.
I have, in my posession, a letter dated 1985. A four-pager, written in tiny hand. Explaining lovingly how and why she thought I was an ass. I keep it for posterity. And for days when I feel entitled or find myself slipping back…
…back to the Dee of old.
The Dee of old. No, no. I’m still the Dee that was. Selfish to the nth degree. But I occasionally get a reprieve. Sometimes the chunks of time are long and measured. Other times not.
An exerpt; “You can be so thoughtless and mean, Dee. Sometimes I feel that you love me with everything you have in you. Then other times you are so cruel. To be on the receiving end of that is the worst thing I’ve ever felt.”
’85, folks. 21 years ago. Fortunately, that person has agreed to let me communicate with her again. I did not deserve the generosity. I’m not trying to be a martyr or seek pity here. Not that at all. Perhaps I just need to remember that I have spent most of my life expecting things from people who loved me. People who owed me nothing. And I gave little in return.
But it’s today. I have new friends, new formations of family. A re-establishment of sisterhood. I was blessed. I’ve been given a gift that I did not earn. The meaning of grace, isn’t it? Something we get in spite of ourselves?
Take this past week for an example:
I had horrific, stifling car problems. I was rescued yet again, by Lu and Vern. Then a family whom owes me no loyalty. A family, a vision of unity and love that strikes me with awe every time I’m near. Eh-net and Charlene and Aubs and Gabs and…the boy.
Ask Barb, ask Lu, ask my staff. I’m probably the last name on a will-call list for favors that might inconvenience me. I don’t want to be that person, that assclown, any more.
I adore my friends and family. New and old. You guys stick around, despite my selfishness.
Thank you. You help me every day to distance myself from the Dee that was. It’s a battle. It’s a journey.
But I need you to know how grateful I am that you’re right here with me.
I love you.

I never, in my years on the planet, would have thought this to be true.

Until now.

There is a race of people that I despise, loathe and hate.

It is the Nazi party of 1928-to present. Adolf Hitler and his sycophant bastards. Women too, not exempt from my fury. I bubble up with anger and resentment each moment that my minds eye recollects the holocaust. Like now. I’m viewing some WW2 dvds. They’re talking about Auschwitz. A man is regaling the interviewer with his nefarious reasoning for offing the Jews. “They cheated my family.”
“They”, being anonymous of course.

Goddammit, I’m so mad. I wish I could go to his house and punch him in the nose. Push his face into the mass graves of those he’s claimed were cheaters. He’s speaking of his hatred of the Jews in the present tense, too. I hate him. I hate Germany. Its soil is poisoned with innocent blood. How could anyone go there? Be a tourist?

Despite the fact that there are stunning places to see, sausages and struedel and weiner schnitzel to eat, I’d puke my guts out the moment I thought I’d have to visit that friggin’ final solution Hell on earth. My head shakes involuntarily and my rage boils up spontaneously when I try to place myself in the shoes of Jews.

The shoes of Jews. A post from “Nobody hugged them goodbye.” What can I do to feel less hate? Can anyone tell me?

I’m simply mortified and oh so morose.

These are interesting strands, aren’t they? Our DNA, if unravelled, would go to the moon.
I am convinced that my hereditary units were stranded, lost somewhere. Here’s why;
I have a nose bleed. It’s been going on for a couple of hours now. I’m not at all prone to this ailment. In fact, the only nosebleed I’ve ever incurred was while visiting the folks in arrid AZ some years ago. But my sister, Ffej, was often prone to nosebleeds as we were growing up. Especially during those long afternoons of torture. The ones when Jeff would make us box each other to entertain him and his friends. Ffej would inevitably end up with a bloody nose. My tears would always feel a million times sadder than the red cells that ran down her face. I never wanted to hurt my sister. But the stronger DNA or chromosome that was our brother won out every time. Me and Jeff were tight at one point in our life. Then it dissipated. He was 16. He was naked with girls, I was not. He found better entertainment that did not include his 11 year old sister. Sister Suzie was off doing her honor roll stuff, having friends and being Ffej. They left me in purgatory. I couldn’t fit my genes in anywhere. I called them Levi’s, my brother called them Lee’s. Probably sounds bizarre to you, reader. But my siblings opinions and attention meant my life to me. Meant my world to me. Until it left. Until I left.
Segue to present day. My sister, my angel, I cannot go two days without talking to. My brother, the eternal enigma, I cannot go two weeks without wondering…who is he now? What motivates him to get out of bed each day?
But get this…
Our parent’s, the aloof anti-Jeffists, are visiting him next week. What about a visit to Fl. or Mn. you ask? Ha.
Me and Ffej have spent thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours acquiescing to our parent’s wishes.
They’ve not been to see us in eons. But guess what? They’re off to see Jeff in Calgary. The mutinous brother. The nose bloodier. The gene pool pee-er. Fine by me. I’m filled with angst at the thought of my folks in Jax. A stress I care not to endure. But it hurts my sis, I think. Though she feigns to care.
Fuck genes. Genes are immaterial. Families are supposed to be the substance, the strands that really bind. Not so, as would seem apparent in the life of me.
I’ll happily wade about in the shallow end of my own cess pool. It’s way more real and reciprocal.
And, I suspect me and Ffej know the true score. We understand and feel love. A gift that sustains us whom are true to one another…spanning this globe or that continent.
Genes or no genes.
Petrie dish or not…
I get to choose my genes/jeans today. That’s the blessing of becoming a grown-up.

Happy birthday U.S.A.
230 years old. Wow. Long life you’ve had there, liberty.
Remember when my family celebrated your bicentennial? 1976. We were in Pennsylvania. We joined my mother’s parents that year. I was 10. I had pride in me for you, America. Even though we lived in another country. It was embedded, this patriotism, and no one could touch it. Not even me. It was invisible, invincible.You always lived right inside, even though I never invited you in. Do all Americans feel this way? I wonder…
There is a tangible emotionalism that stirs each time I watch your history. I never felt that way while we were singing: “God Save The Queen” at each assembly. Weird, huh? I didn’t try to make manifest this umbilical to you. Do you instill yourself that way into every American? I am reduced to tears simply by watching the stars and stripes flying in the wind, or seeing a soldier salute, or any other American-like gesture. How does that figure, eh?
I saw your ground zero devastation three months after my birthday in the year 2001. I couldn’t breathe that day. Couldn’t walk through Manhatten’s wintery bluster without tears stinging my cheeks and heart.
My soul left that day. Went somewhere to join in your sorrow, I guess.
We are all America. I am America. You are my nation. You infiltrate me. From Washington’s rainy coast to Key West’s Atlantic heat. I’ve trod your ground from there to here.
All of you. Whether I condone the behaviour of your residents or not, I’m bound by birth to defend, honor and protect. It’s just the way you made me, America.
We are so very blessed to have our roots buried in your soil. In the grand scheme of life on Earth, I know I am your daughter, and I cannot feel alone.
Happy birthday, U.S.A.
I got you a present. Me.