This Weird Girl

True Stories & Contemplations

Recent Posts

  • Race-Bait

    I have light colored skin, but I’m not white. According to our race-obsessed society I’m a white person. But if I hold a piece of copy paper up to my skin it’s obvious I’m not white. I have a more of a pinkish-brown antique white shade. Whatever.

    If you clicked this post because of the title, it worked. I put out the bait! Woohoo! But I really am going to talk about race; sharing little tidbit memories of how I am so not racist that it kind of gets me in trouble.

    Schenectady, NY

    In 1999 I got my first salary-with-benefits job. Up until then I didn’t have health insurance because it was still a pay-as-you-go system, when going to the doctor for a sinus infection or ingrown toenail removal cost $60. When I got my first job as a public school music teacher I was handed a very overwhelming packet of information and told to choose a healthcare provider. So I picked the nearest clinic and got on with my life. Four months later I got really, really sick. When the doctor saw me for the first time, she smiled and squinted:

    Are you sure you’re in the right place?

    This is such-and-such clinic, right?

    Yes. But how did you end up coming here?

    It was one of the options on my insurance policy. I didn’t know what I was doing, so I just picked a place close to my house. Why?

    It’s just…., people like you don’t often come to this clinic.

    Well, you’re a doctor, right?

    Yes.

    And then she got back to working her magic. And I got back to work when I recovered.

    Apparently this 40-something black doctor in an inner-city, government funded clinic in the low-income side of the city wasn’t used to seeing a 23-year-old white female professional. And the whole idea of it didn’t even hit my radar until 15 years later. As far as I was concerned, a doctor is a doctor. And I needed one.

    Newport, RI

    I married my best friend in May, 2001. We spent our first six months together enjoying the Summer in Newport, RI, while he attended SWOS. We toured the fancy mansions, swam on the beach, took out a boat, and went snorkeling. One day we were with our wonderful mutual friend, who is almost as white as copy paper. Somehow we got on the subject of the census, and she mentioned she checked “Caucasian” because “Pastey White Girl” wasn’t an option. I chimed in, “I checked Caucasian.” My husband casually added, “I checked “other.”

    “Why’d you check ‘other’?” I asked.

    Because I’m not white.

    You’re not white!?

    Do I look white to you?

    *I hold my white forearm against his deeply tanned, dark brown forearm”

    *dumbfounded* So that’s why my aunt sent me a book recommendation about bi-racial marriages in my bridal card! I thought it was just because of your last name!

    It’s only because people from India are historically considered to be white. And I don’t act Indian, because I’m raised in the U.S. and my mother is white. (his South Indian dad is as black as an African American)

    Wow. I didn’t marry a white guy? *pause* *shrug* Oh well!

    We’ve been married three months and you only just figured this out?

    Milford, VA

    Sometime in 2008. I needed a trim. I had butt-length hair that hadn’t seen scissors in almost six years, so it was time. I just walked right into the nearest salon, where two black women were sitting and socializing. They both looked up as I swung the door open.

    Do you have time for a haircut?

    Yes, Ma’am.

    Yeah, I just need a few inches off the bottom.

    Are you sure you’re in the right place?

    Yeah, why? Do you know how to cut white people’s hair?

    Oh yeah, sure. I can do that!

    It never even crossed my mind that there was such a thing as a black salon and a white salon. A haircut is a haircut. But I’m sure it gave those ladies something to talk about!

    Mount Pleasant, VA

    My eight-year-old daughter, blonde hair and blue eyes, had a best friend who was black. Her friend spent the night and I got them matching jogging pants. When the friend’s grandmother came to pick her up, she invited our daughter to one of their family get-togethers; I guess it was a summer family reunion with friends, family, food, and a pool! She assured me there’d be no funny business, and she’d be watching those girls like a hawk. Sure, go ahead!

    A year later, as her grandmother and I were sipping hot mushroom coffee at her kitchen table, she finally confessed she was shocked that I let my daughter go with her to her family’s reunion.

    Why were you shocked? I trust you.

    Yeah, but with all those relatives… a little white girl…. with all these black men?

    Uhhhhhh… are any of them dangerous?

    Absolutely not! But it’s just not common.

    Well, that stuff doesn’t bother me. People are people.

    Bremerton, WA

    2003. I was riding the bus on the Navy base where all the family housing was. A lady and her little girl were sitting across the way from me. As is my normal disposition, I just randomly started talking to her and somehow she ended up at my house to hang out. I invited her and her husband and kids to come over for dinner. The men (my husband an O1 and her husband an E2) swapped salt stories of deployments and ship stats while the women talked about women stuff. Eventually we all ended up in the living room over an exciting game of Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em and listening to Michael Jackson on the vintage record player.

    At the end of the night the dads were buckling the kids in the car when my new friend leaned in and whispered, “This was so fun. My husband was worried about coming, and I told him you weren’t like those other officer wives. You guys are just like us! And he really enjoyed himself.”

    Amherst, VA

    I have a best friend. Yeah, she’s black. And she loves to introduce me to her black friends. And it’s always the same response: I told you Angela was cool!

    Hey Angela! Tell him your black joke! (Black people love this black joke)

    Okay! Hahahah! So, there was this white family in the deep south. It was the little boy’s 5th birthday. He was sitting at the kitchen table eyeing the cake his mother made- his favorite! Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. While Mom had her back turned to get candles, the little boy stuck his hands in the cake and smeared it all over his face and arms. “Look, Mommy! I’m a black man!” Ohhhh, the mother was pretty upset and sent the little boy to see his father for a reprimand.

    Look Daddy, I’m a black man!

    The father scolded the little boy and spanked his butt, hard. “Wipe that hideous stuff off your face! Go see your grampa!!”

    Look Grampa! I’m a black man!

    The old grampa smacked the little boy across the face. “Not in this house, boy! Go see your mother!”

    The little boy slumped into the kitchen. The mother was still angry to see the boy covered in chocolate.

    So, you didn’t wash that chocolate off yet. Hmph. Did you go see your father?

    Yes, Ma’am.

    Did you go see your grampa?

    Yes, Ma’am.

    And did you learn your lesson?

    Yes, Ma’am.

    What did you learn?

    I learned I only been a black man for three minutes and I already hate you white people!

  • Nothing

    So, what do you do on your short trips overnight to the city? I had the opportunity to do whatever I wanted while my husband was in a seminar. Apparently,  what I wanted was to sit and do nothing in a clean hotel room. I caught myself sitting in the corner for 2 hours and decided to take a selfie. Sometimes, the best vacation is doing nothing.

  • Jaywalking

    I’m a fast walker, fast doer, always trying to find the most efficient route to every destination. It’s no surprise that I’m a frequent jaywalker.

    For some reason, today is not one of those days. I took the long way and used the crosswalks. It’s my first day out in seven days. The air is crisp, the sun is shining, and I have leisure time.

    This is what goes on inside my head. For real. I just caught myself taking the crosswalk AND the sidewalk, even though my car was parked two rows away.

    “I’m going to take the crosswalk.”

    “Oh, look! I’m going to take the sidewalk, too! Why the heck not?”

    Like a princess walking through her magical hall, I envisioned a coal colored velvet carpet spread before me, with pillars of gold and sconces of crystal.

    Someone designed, paid, built, and painted this walkway just for me. It’s a privilege to have such a beautiful sidewalk.

  • Faith Identity Politics

    In the following pictures, those words were penned from my head yesterday while writing a letter to a friend.

    Many years ago I stopped calling myself a Christian, for I never knew what the hearer’s preconceived definition was of what a Christian is. There are so many false, skewed definitions of “christian” out there. Most of them are wrong.

    Identity is such a major focus in our society today. And, according to one of my daughters, it’s because people struggle to know who they are, and a label is a faster way to get there.

    A wedding ring is an identifier. I visited an anabaptist church in Amish country once where no one wore wedding rings. We asked a man how everyone knew he was married if he didn’t wear a ring? He smiled, “If they knew an ounce about me, then they’d know I was married.”

    Though I haven’t advertised it to the world much, I don’t think it’s a secret that I considered confirmation in the Roman Catholic church. It’s a long story, but the short of it is that I’ve been to two Masses a week for most of the last 2.3 years as the parish pianist. Up until recently, I considered myself Protestant. But I shed that label quickly once I truly realized what it fully entails. Now I say I was raised and spent most of my adult life under Protestant teachings, but I don’t wear the identification of it.

    I.Love.The.Mass.

    And I’ll say this clearly… I WANT to be a Catholic. My flesh desires that club membership. I WANT to confirm. Why? I have my reasons, but it’s primarily because I WANT the Eucharist soooooooo much! I’ve tasted it twice in the Lutheran church, and the experience was supernatural (a story for a different post).

    Every Mass, I gaze upon it and yet  denied. It’s painful to be so filled with Christ (and many would say I’m more “Catholic” than a Cradle Catholic) and be deprived of His communion only because I’m not initiated into the denomination. But I also fully respect and admire why the RCC does it this way.

    [*sigh* Not many things can make me cry. But when I think about the desire to partake in the Eucharist, I can feel the emotions.]

    I adore my Catholic family. I adore my Baptist family. I adore my Presbyterian family! And my Non-Denominational family, too! (that’s a denomination, btw)

    Worship Jesus where Jesus is worshipped.

    But I just CAN’T wear a label- an identity. For ME to be a ________ would be a sin. [I’m speaking only for myself]. I could site two scripture references to support my conviction, but I’ll leave it to you to look those up if you truly want to know.

    Much to my disappointment, my confirmation will never end up under the Christmas tree. For God will not allow it. But I am sooooo grateful God does not give me everything I want. Because I know He cares for me.

  • Whisps

    I’m almost 50, and short-term memories are disappearing. But my long-term memory is exceptionally good, though losing their color a bit. I’m going to start jotting them down as they come to mind.

    I’m in an older vehicle right now that still has manual rolling windows and small cup holders. I stuck my giant iced coffee in the cup holder, and it barely fits. But then I had a flashback memory, from the smell, and the dust,  and the drips on the console, which made me remember sitting in the car with my dad all through my childhood. I see cold mornings in the winter in Upstate New York, the fog of our breath, the rustle of our coats, and the smell of old sweat on our cheap, knitted winter hats. We’d go to a  Stewart’s near our house and he’d get a coffee.

    Home

    I can still see, smell, and feel the environment of those car rides with Dad’s cup of coffee. I treasure every moment I spend with my dad.

  • Coughing Up Clay

    A few words to describe what a panic disorder felt like to me.

    Around April 2013

    Internal jolting
    The soul seizures
    Shaking, pressing, squirming through the neck and shoulders
    Mind-numbing, the face flushes
    Dripping, reeling, fading into pitch black nowhere
    Coughing up clay, swallowing hard
    And yet the grass dances
    The leaves giggle
    And the mountains, in all their splendor, stare at me with penetrating eyes
    They have something that I don’t have

    Interested in more of my poetry and accompanying interpretations, look for my book! (coming soon)

  • Quarantine Killed the Extrovert

    This poem is rough. I use some strong language. I won’t go into details about the context at the time (I’ll save that for my book), but you should know I had my first psychotic break (ever) the very next day and was hospitalized the following week.

    April 11, 2020

    Violation is my name
    Give it up, because people don’t listen
    This conscience, what is it?
    Behind my face and in my gut
    It’s for others to trample on.

    Violations of my conscience
    Invalidate my voice, why don’t you?
    Motherfucker.
    Tell me I’m wrong again.

    Why CAN’T my story be a tragedy
    In spite of all this pageantry?
    Give me the right to fail.
    Allow me to come out of my closet of hopelessness.

    Casualty is my name.
    Talent and skill, wasted
    Throw it on the ground
    Quarantine killed the extrovert
    But at least it saved a life

    Fuck.

    Interested in more of my poetry and accompanying interpretations, look for my book! (coming soon)

  • Teachers, Where’s Your Self-Respect?

    I’m a dancing Christmas tree at our town parade tonight. As I was piecing my costume together, I had YouTube on in the background. THIS VIDEO  came up in the queue, and I just had to stop and make a comment.

    Below, you will read my unedited* comments. Good luck.

    “No. Bad advice hun. Forget the parents. Be realistic- look the problem in the face. By the time students show up in kindergarten, they’re already educationally and behaviorally comparable to a shelter dog. Parents got a puppy (novelty of having a baby), it exhausted them (first four years are tough), so they tied them up outside most the time (devices, educational neglect) and forgot about them. A couple years later the dog is surrendered to the shelter (public school) where they have to be put in individual kennels (because they’re wild, pooping and peeing, fighting with each other, jumping up on teachers… aka arguing) because that’s all they knew from puppy days- neglect. The new owner doesn’t go back to the previous owner to correct them or encourage them. We don’t call them. We don’t bother. Because they failed at their (educational) job. The new owner must do the hard work of reprogramming that dog. And that’s the part I think teachers are blindsided by. I can’t blame them!

    Young adults have been sold a bag of marketing lies. “Come to our college and become a teacher! We desperately need your $80,000.” And the professors (who were educated in the old way), guided by all the research and curriculum and state standards that are also completely void of the realities in the classroom, do the most fantastic job of cramming the most well-researched techniques, progressions, and philosophies to pass licensing tests and propel teachers into the workforce.

    New hires already know there are problems after the first couple of days of orientation. You’re not going to stand in front of a class “teaching.” You’re going to stand in front of a delinquent doggy daycare. And most of your jobs will be laundering urine soaked linens, scrubbing poop kennels, and sweeping up spilled kibble. You will be covered in slobber and scratches. And if you try to initiate behavior training, the dogs will pull your arm off on the leash, or worse, bolt. All you can do is toss them treats (recess, accommodations, positive reinforcement, parties, incentives), and they’ll only establish a chemical dependence on dopamine. Nothing intrinsic. The obedient dogs, surrendered because their parents died, will be neglected because their kennels are tidy and they don’t bark (get your attention). They just sit there and (educationally) rot.

    The solution is not a better curriculum or a better app. The solution is to wipe the DOE clean. Better yet, shut them down and let the teachers develop their own system. Admin is for overseeing, not imposing. I firmly believe the teachers are more than capable of figuring the mess out, if only they were free to do so.

    Furthermore, educational expectations need drastic revision. It’s the Google/AI Era. No one needs to memorize ANYTHING. Even the doctors pull out their cell phones during visits because they can’t remember the less common treatments!! We don’t even memorize a phone number anymore!!

    The new generation needs to know how to read, write, and work with numbers on the absolutely most BASIC level in elementary school. And I mean BASIC!! Write a sentence, but don’t teach grammar or sentence structure vocabulary. Teach kids how to talk properly, then write what they just said, with basic punctuation. Teach them how to wash laundry, cook basic foods, and the basics on how to not die (put monkey bars over concrete, bring back merry-go-rounds, and teach them how to swim for God’s sake!). Teach them first aid for when they fall off the equipment. Most of the early years, in place of memorizing useless facts (the war of 1812… I don’t even know what that is, and I’m almost 50!… Hold on, let me Google it… 12 seconds later… ok, got it) kids should be developing hobbies that will assist them in keeping sane as adults.

    Middle school shouldn’t be much different. High school is a great time to teach how to manage our societal system- like medical paperwork and navigation, DMV, taxes, civic duty, how to navigate the justice system, mental health (group therapy), dealing with the older generation that youre dealing with today (thats scary), getting along with others, driving, how to be an employee, hygiene, how to rent an apartment. Leave the specialized academics to those who are interested, like math, science, language, and the arts.

    Yes, they should have a general education class that touches on these things. But not big assignments about cell structure, Greek mythology, or probability and statistics. Damn, who needs that crap in everyday life except those who actually WANT to use them in their careers? ….. end rant.

    P.S. Why don’t teachers nod to admin and parent, “Yes, Ma’am” and then just ignore the bull crap and do whatever they want? Are you afraid of getting fired? How is that worse than quitting? Besides, if the teachers would rally together, the schools CAN’T fire them all because they’d then have no teachers. Pool your money and get lawyers for the class action youll have to deal with. A media frenzy could be your best friend.

    Come on, guys! Quit complaining and start changing! Where is your self-respect!?

    Want to be a teacher? Get a business degree with a minor in education, then open your own non-profit school. Crowd the public system out.

    *I lied. I used AI to edit all my grammar mistakes quickly. It took less than 90 seconds. I rest my case.

    My costume project that got neglected for this post

  • Smoke and Mirrors and the Fourth of July


    I’m angry right now, because I’m frustrated, because I’m feeling out of control of the situation, because the school* is controlling our family, the school is controlled by the State and Federal governments, the State and Federal controls the education system [abolish the USDE!!] with their money, that they aquire by controlling our productivity (taxes), so we’re all ultimately controlled by money, of which the love of is the root of all evil 1 Tim. 6:10, which controls by sin, which came from Mankind in the garden, controlled by Lucifer’s rebellion against God, which is the first commandment that was broken- Love the Lord your God with all your heart… and that’s why something as simple as a teenage’s stuffy nose and sore throat turns into his mother’s fit of rage. Even though I kept telling him I’m not mad about his illness, I told him I’m mad about his prior decisions to skip school early in the year that brought us to this point. But he’s also being controlled. (See above). 

    We are such sheeple. Just like scripture says. And we’re so blind, because we go and celebrate “Let Freedom Ring!” when we’re not really free at all.

    *We were adamant homeschoolers for many years, but the control of the government that told us we HAD to do this and that, and HAD to have the paperwork, made it impossible for me, with my temperament, to be successful. I used to blame myself for being a failure. But the controlling government set the system against me.

  • Some Things Shouldn’t Be Said

    It’s hard being weird. I am often misunderstood and find out later that my words were hurtful to someone. The consequence of these discoveries over time has resulted in a deeply rooted sense of paranoia.

    I remember the words my mother always said when I was feeling shaky about my identity, “Honey, you’re not alone.” I have the best mom. But those words often didn’t soothe my perspective of a situation, and I felt very much alone.

    Back in those days, in the mid-90’s, psychology and the internet weren’t a thing. It took late night conversations in the dark with your best friend to finally have the nerve to open up about our secret pain.

    As an adult, I never wanted people to feel alone like I did, so I took on a habit of being an open book for the sake of others. It gets me in trouble, A LOT. Even why trying to be vague, sometimes I share too much about others. Sometimes I lack discretion.

    Sometimes my descriptive words become offensive. For example, when I tried to describe contemporary evangelical worship in one word: polyester. I was in grad school, explaining the contrast with othervstyles of worship. My classmate took offense because she was in the praise production that I was referring to (and she was wearing polyester). When all I really was trying to convey was that I prefer a quieter, more reverent liturgy. Without lights, cameras, makeup, and dress up clothes.

    The contemporary singer from the night (Charity Gayle) didn’t fit into the fancy stage production that was “Worship” that night. She wasn’t wearing make-up, and she looked like she walked on stage after shopping at the thrift store.

    I was a 40-something grad student, surrounded by young, beautiful, talented students untouched from the troubles that I’ve lived through thus far. I felt extremely alone and underrepresented. I was paranoid. But Charity was the only time I felt represented. She gives her life for Christ, but she doesn’t fit in. Just like me. My classmate didn’t catch my drift. And I was embarrassed.

    I’ve been feeling ashamed of myself since my post on 11/11. I since deleted it. I was poetically processing my journey to a mother of adult children, and it came out all wrong. I am convinced someone was deeply wounded.

    Some things shouldn’t be said.