Not All Men

Not all men are like that

But her boyfriend was, keeping her locked inside, away from the ones who could have saved her

Not all men are like that, they protest

But the man who manipulated her into a complicit, submissive shadow was

Not all men are like that, the chant continues

It beats like she imagines her heart did when he was enraged and it was all she could do to pray that he was the same man everyone else saw, and that she would see daylight again

Not all men are like that, they plead to ears that have heard it all before

But the the boyfriend who left scars who can’t be seen was

"NOT ALL MEN ARE LIKE THAT" it’s a scream, a desperate attempt to show girls that they aren’t monsters, they aren’t him

But the boyfriend who “just held on too tight” was

"That’s not us!" They yell, stepping forward with hands outstretched

The girl steps back.

And they realize, it may not be them.

But they have the potential.

"Not all men, but him" she says, leaving a bible behind.

Inside is a picture with the words “Kay and Pastor John, First Anniversary”

10 Reasons to Get Another Dog

When Dewey and I went to dog park last Sunday I expected it to be like every other trip we make to the elite human hangout that happens to double as a place where you can let your dog run loose.  I knew what would happen: Dew would be overwhelmed by the other dogs, be glued to my leg, would watch the other four-leggers interact from the sidelines, and would only venture from big sis's side to visit the people sitting in lawn chairs, whom he thinks are there as "petting stations."  I hadn't known that they were having a benefit for the League for Animal Welfare, the shelter my family got that scraggly mutt from, and would have adoptable puppies in the park.

Surprisingly, a little hound named Biddy brought my old grumposaurus out of his shell.  The three-month old Brindle had puppy-soft fur and something about her that pulled Dewey out of his usual fear of other dogs.  We were both instantly in love.  Dewey, who usually interacts with a dog or group of dogs for a few minutes at the most before retreating to his more human companions was enamored with the little one who had chosen him over all of the others, and the pair returned to each other throughout their hour and a half at the park.  In fact when it was time to head for home the two both attempted to head towards Biddy's car.

So how does this expand farther than just the fact that I, a lowly blogger, am clearly head over paws in love with the sweetest puppy on earth? (Besides my darling Dew-baby of course!) Well, there is the small problem of my mother saying she will never get another animal after all the problems we had with our cat, Duck, and the fact that my cat Dexter is just a generally horrid old man.  He's big, he's old, he's creaky, he's stinky, he's not afraid to use physical violence, he's just generally a terror to have around the house.  So convincing her to save Biddy from the horrors of living in a small cage at a shelter will be a chore.  The first time I talked her into getting a dog I made a thirty slide power point presentation in which I outlined how I would take care of him and she would never have to do anything.  Now we've had a dog for five years and it won't be nearly as easy.  Because she knows that I'm not nearly as responsible as I should be, and that I complain about walking the dog, a lot.  However, to help all of those out there who want another dog here are some reasons that you can compile into a powerpoint presentation and hopefully then take your parents on a "we're just looking" trip and end up coming home with a puppy.  (Do you actually read these DH or have you given up on me by this point?)

1. A companion for the first dog.  It's left at home during the day all alone and it could use some to keep it company.
2.  The dog will get more exercise.  Because lets face it: even with all the great exercise we're getting from walking the dogs just need more exercise.  And if the dog had a companion for the yard or the dog park they would get way more exercise.
3. Socialization. No matter how often you take a dog to the park, to daycare, to play groups, the socialization they receive will not be as complete as the socialization they will get from living with another dog.  This will help them out in all aspects of their life.
4. Instincts.  Dogs are pack animals, meaning that their instincts tell them to live among a group.  And while they can consider humans their group, they have been shown to feel more at ease with another canine in their "pack."
5. For the non-canine's sake.  As someone who has a cat that is the scapegoat to the dog let me tell you that all dogs should have a doggy friend just to keep the cats, birds, reptiles, bunnies, and any other animals in or around the house from deciding to move into one person's room and live out their days in there.
6. Because everyone needs a friend.  Even dogs, we as people think our lives can be bad, imagine living in a house where you stared at everyone's ankles all day and no one even understood you.
7.  Supporting a local shelter.  In fact, often times you can support the shelter you got your first dog from.  It's like saying "thanks for all the great times we've had with this one, we'll take another off your hands to let you know how happy we are with the first!"
8. Money.  Yes, dogs can be kind of expensive, but you know what's super fun discounts! And you know what lots of places give?  Second dog discounts!  So those vet bills for when you have to take your dog to get their shots will be super cheap because congratuwelldone you've got two dogs and now you're basically just rolling in free stuff!
9. Buying in bulk.  Here's the thing about dog food, they sell it in gigantic fifty pound bags by my little dog won't eat all that food before it's gotten stale, but when you have multiple dogs they will, so now you're just saving money all over the place! And if you belong to a place like Sam's Club you can get it even cheaper because you are a savvy shopper who has their life on the right track.

Books that Changed my Life

I've read too many books to count, and though I can usually recall a general plot summary after seeing the cover, there are a few books that have changed my life and that have stayed with me to be read and reread until they were dog-eared, food-stained, water-damaged, and all out destroyed.  For some I know why I latched on and still have yet to let go, for others it is undetermined.

The first book I found that made a significant impact on my life was The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo.  The story is of a porcelain rabbit who is loved deeply but is too vain to love anyone but himself, until he goes on an unfortunate journey that shows him the tragedy of life and teaches him compassion.  When I read this book at age eight it was the first book I ever cried while reading.  I was angry at the author for the anguish she put the characters through, up until that point the saddest books I had read were the Boxcar Children -- and I purposely avoided the first book because it made me sad.  However Edward Tulane left me with a sense of knowledge, of deeper meaning, and I spent days thinking about the book.  Finally I read it again, unsatisfied with the conclusions I had come to and thinking there must have been something I had missed.  Each time I read it I find new meaning, but it always ends the same.

Rules by Cynthia Lord first left me feeling unsure of myself, and even now it makes my faith in "finding cures" for illnesses that can't be treated with a pill sink a little lower.  Yet I find myself drawn myself back to the book narrated by the older sister of a boy with severe autism.  As a young child with an adjustment disorder and a three-year old sister who wouldn't speak a word this book simultaneously served to show me how lucky I was and how much trouble I was in for in the future.  I wasn't as bad off as the autistic kid in the book, it wasn't that my sister couldn't talk, she just didn't want to.  However I was also in or a life of therapy appointments and medications and odd looks for weird behaviors.  All in all the ending was just as disheartening as the rest of the book, and yet I returned to the book over and over, perhaps looking for clues that I had missed the glimmer of hope for the autistic, and for me.

F. Scott Fitzgerald has always spoken to me, but The Great Gatsby is one book that I have read multiple times and always found new connotations and ways to think about things.  I must admit that when I first read it I hated the book with a passion, and was not happy to be reading Gossip Girl: Roaring Twenties.  However, after having read the entire thing and reflecting on Fitzgerald's true meaning I realized that I had read the book at face value, and had failed to read on the metaphorical level.  When reading again I picked up on the socioeconomic commentary and found it to have an incredible message about the consumerism that plagued society, which is very relevant in today's society.  I fell in love with the irony of a book written about "empty parties" which were mocking the lifestyles of the affluent, which people copied by having those exact same parties.  Reading and rereading I find more and more comments on the human status, and the lifestyles that were all too prominent then and are again.

While there are many more that could be added to the list, these are three very prominent ones.

Honduras: A Central American Country in Crisis

During my time at the Ronald McDonald House I truly connected with a family from Honduras.  In the months over which we got to know each other I grew close with the three generations of incredible people who had uprooted from the developing country (the new term which has replaced the outdated "third world" label) they were from and came to America to seek treatment for their child's rare and fatal disease.  Although they didn't speak English and I was the only Spanish-speaker among the group communication came easily and when they went back to Honduras I was both incredibly happy  that they would be joining their family again after nearly a year apart and worried that they would be leaving the House to go back to a country that didn't have adequate medical care to continue caring for their little one.

Then I looked up their hometown, and I didn't fear for the little one's health, but for his life.  It's the murder capital of the world, inside the murder capital of the world.  Honduras is a crime-ridden, gang-ruled, powder-keg of drugs and weapons one bad moment away from ignition.  The murder rate is 90 people per 100,000 which tallies up to around 437,000 intentional homicides a year.  The police are corrupt, and, other than the gangs, are the biggest perpetrators of these murders.  The government has lost control, the hospitals are understaffed, many died waiting to be treated, schools are no longer in operation.  Many Americans (or other people enjoying the comforts of a first world country) would consider it anarchy.

Before we judge, however; we must know all the facts.  We may not judge while sitting in our living rooms, knowing that if we get hurt we will simply call for the ambulance to take us to one of the three hospitals where we will be guaranteed a room and a doctor will see us and put a bandage on our boo-boo and send us on our way.  One of the reasons that our country is like this is because America is not run by drug lords and does not rely entirely on drug trading as its commercial enterprise.  However, because it does not, it has resorted to destroying other countries so that it can still shoot, snort, and sniff like there's no tomorrow.  Namely: Honduras.

All the violence, all the war, all the drugs, all the death that plagues Honduras and has turned it into a living hell for it's residents who are trapped in the crossfire of a war being fought by the poor but benefiting only the rich.  Honduras is the biggest drug route to the USA, and yet when the US is asked by national peace-keeping groups to get involved in Honduras to help rehabilitate the country and shut down the drug trade the US is reluctant, when it doesn't simply say no altogether.  It has avoided sending help to Honduras due to the danger the Honduran gangs that control the country pose to military and government officials.  The main group in charge of assistance in Honduras is the Central American Regional Security Initiative (CARSI) which covers a large region of Latin America and is not trying to keep peace in one developing country where narcotics trafficking is becoming a bigger problem by the day, but seven.  Additionally, since the Honduran military coup and following constitutional crisis in 2009 American support in Honduras has been weak and inconsistent.  Support has been pulled in many crucial areas, including some of the most critical aid that was being provided to the Honduran people, military assistance to help regain control over the streets which were and still are controlled by gangs, and the stop of counter-narcotics assistance.

Because of America's refusal to help fix a problem that they started, considering that the drugs are all being trafficked to the wonderful USA, people are brutally murdered in the streets to make an example for others.  The most common victims of these attacks are children.  These children have families: mothers and fathers who will never see their child blow out birthday candles on another cake; siblings who will not understand where their brother or sister has gone, and why she isn't coming back again; friends who will be forced to attend the funeral of someone who just days ago they were playing games with.  Houses are burned down, cars are blown up, none of it is reported, and it is all thought of as an unavoidable fact of life.  Unemployment rates are at nearly one half of the Honduran people, meaning that for many the only way to provide for their loved ones is to join a gang and become one of the feared.  

In America many look down on these developing countries with scorn, believing that their problems are due to their mistakes and they should bail themselves out on their own.  But when you're bailing water from a sinking ship with a spoon, as Juan Orlando Hernandez is valiantly trying to do, sometimes the white flares need to be sent up and help needs to arrive.  America isn't willing to help however; maybe we're all in denial that we are a major cause of the crisis that Honduras is in, maybe our country is just too ignorant to turn off Desperate Housewives and watch something with some actual educational value, maybe we can't deal with the fact that we aren't quite as Christian and as moral as we tell ourselves we are.  Whatever our reasons are we repeatedly ignore everything going on outside our bubble, even when it's happening in our own country, unless it is force-fed to us, which is when we act like we've been following the story since it surfaced months ago and didn't just find out about it because our favorite actress mentioned it in a tweet.

The "A" in LGBTQIA

In America everything seems to revolve around sex.  Whether it's Miley Cyrus giving Robin Thicke a lap dance on live TV or nearly-naked movie stars on magazine covers the overt display of sexuality is everywhere.  So for people who don't experience sexual attraction our society can be an unfamiliar, and hostile place.  Most people in America haven't even heard the term asexual used outside of a biology room, where it is always used in conjunction with reproduction to discuss organisms that reproduce on their own.  Few have heard of asexuality, and even less know what means.

Asexuality is a lack of sexual attraction, and an asexual is therefore a person who does not experience sexual attraction.  The asexual, or "Ace" label is one that is misunderstood, and frequently used incorrectly. Asexuality has a variety of misconceptions floating around it, all of which need to be dispelled.  For one thing: asexual and aromatic are two completely different things.  An aromantic is a person who does not feel romantic attraction; this person will most likely never fall in love, never have a significant other, and will generally be perfectly content on their own.  I say generally because romanticism, like sexuality, is always a spectrum.  There are aromantic asexuals, and there are romantic asexuals who generally attach a gender-prefix such as "hetero-romantic asexual".  Asexuality simply means that the person does not experience sexual attraction, there are many asexuals who want romantic relationships, physical relationships, who like to hug, and cuddle, and are just like everyone else, minus the sex.

The asexual label is high stigmatized, even in the LGBTQ+ community, which is supposed to be a safe space for all who do not fit into the heteronormative box which has always been seen as the only place where people "should" be. An  LGBTQ+ persons have a variety of reasons for thinking that asexuals shouldn't be included in the LGBTQ+ community, including that asexuals face no oppression and that asexuality is a choice instead of a sexual identity and is therefore different from the rest of the identities that are always represented.  Gay activist Dan Savage, who is known for being a bit of jerk, openly mocked the ace community in the documentary (A)Sexual by calling asexuality a preference, and ridiculing asexuals who marched in Pride parades, saying that "you have the asexuals marching for the right to not do anything. Which is hilarious. Like, you didn’t need to march for that right. You just need to stay home, not do anything."  What the rest of the LGBTQ+ community doesn't seem to realize is that asexuals do in fact have something to fight for, and that they face the same discrimination that any non-heteronormative person faces.  Because as much as we say sex is bad and you shouldn't be having it, if you say that you just don't want it, suddenly you're some sort of freak. 

While there isn't a lot of outwards hate towards asexuals in the media, this is most likely because no one has ever heard of the invisible 1% of people who lack the ability to feel sexual attraction. However after a person has come out as asexual they are often subject to ridicule, acephobia, and occasionally even corrective rape. All of these are dangerous, but the latter especially so, an an ace person will often believe that they deserved it, because the person was only trying to help them.  The verbal and emotional abuse to asexuals can include: claiming their sexuality is a choice, claiming their sexuality is a phase, claiming their sexuality is not a real thing, claiming that they are just being a prude, claiming that they just haven't met the right guy/girl yet, or claiming that they are a straight person who is just trying to be a "Special Snowflake."

So what does any of this have to do with gender?  During my AP English class we were going through a "complete" list of gender terms which was made by a social justice activist who travels the country talking to kids about gender identity and oppression.  And yet he knew a flawed, barely researched definition of asexuality, that, when given to my class, was mocked during the rest of the school day and was consistently used incorrectly. How can we trust a man to educate our youth on their gender identity and treating others' gender identity with respect when he doesn't even have a full grasp on the basics of all the sexualities, which play a very large and very influential role in many non-binary gender persons lives. 

A Girl in a Man's World

I have always known that I will be limited because I was born and wrapped in a pink blanket.  Pink balloons adorned the mailbox pronouncing "It's a Girl!" at the eager new parent's house, while my grandparents worried over whether or not I would be as smart as the baby boy my mom's best friend had delivered a few months earlier.  As a child I ran with that boy all the time, and I am in photos it is difficult to tell which of us is which, as my parents had an affinity for chopping my hair short and dressing me in fairly androgynous clothes.  I was a rambunctious girl, prone to rolling in the dirt, climbing precariously stacked objects, and getting into fights with the boys in my neighborhood.  This was supported by my family, who carried an underlying concern about how I would suffer in America due to my gender.  At age three when I would sit and watch "Barney" squealing every time the beautiful Cody graced my preschool presence by walking on screen my father was already concerned that my "boy obsession" would hold me back in life.

While my parents simply tried to toughen me up by shortening my hyper-feminine name to the more assertive one that sounded strong, and by enrolling me in sport after another my grandfather had other methods of how to make me a girl who would survive in the real world.  As a blue collar, backwoods man who had spent his entire life in factories trying to scrape together enough money to send my mom to college he had experienced a lot of the wold, and the ugly discrimination that people face.  Beginning at a very young age I started doing "boy's work" that would make me more likely to survive in a world run by men.  Between doing carpentry in the garage, learning about electrician's work, fishing in my Uncle's pond, and learning about what had happened to the rest of the deer whose antlers currently resided on a plaque above the workbench I became a tough-as-nails, rough-and-tumble, country girl.

At the same time that I was learning about how to clean a shotgun, gut a fish, and jump a car, I was also learning traditional women's work.  My mom taught me to hem dresses, stitch rips, and reattach buttons.  Nan taught me the secrets of Southern cooking, and by the age of seven I could bake snickerdoodles and have sweet tea brewed and iced in time for when everyone wanted to take their afternoon sit-down.  I have the manners of Scarlett O'Hara, I can clean a house better than a maid service, and I am well-trained in the art of child rearing (which I have put to use in a babysitting business that is coveted in my hometown).

Now as a young adult I have a unique personality that can only be described as "rough-and-tumble girly girl" which I believe was greatly influenced by the way I was raised.  And I was raised the way I was due to the social conventions that surround being a girl in America.  In some countries my parents simply would have committed infanticide, gotten rid of my body, and claimed I was a tragically stillborn child.  America has moved forward from that time, but still women suffer in the shadow of men.  I was reared with the feminine rules that govern the South because as a girl I am required to be able to sip sweet tea, bake lemon squares and cook gumbo, and keep my head down.  I was also brought up with the skills that dads generally teach their sons because my grandfather didn't want me to be useless in the workforce, a girl that guys would walk on and take advantage of.  So I learned to shoot, fight, work on cars, and hold my own in a discussion about politics.  I am not resentful of this, I enjoy both sides of my personality and I treasure the memories I have of baking with my Nan, decorating before family members came for a party, as well as the memories I have of my grandfather letting me check the oil in my mom's car, or sitting at the range and shooting over huge towers of Diet Rite cans.  I just question whether it is fair that this only happens to girls.  I certainly haven't heard of families freaking out when they had a boy because they thought his gender would keep him from being president.

Horseback Riding: A Sport for Life

I started horseback riding when I was nine years old, at a rundown barn, with entirely unqualified horses and not enough green space to take care of them.  The trainer was abusive towards both her animals and her students, didn't know the first thing about teaching, and generally didn't know what she was talking about when it came to riding.  Still, I enjoyed the sport and I loved the horses and the time I got to spend around the barn, so I kept arriving every week in my ripped jeans and hiking boots. After one summer of baking in the sun my parents were convinced I was not going to quit riding like I had quit every other sport I had ever tried I got my first pair of real leather paddock boots and riding boots.  I advanced quickly from trotting on the longe line to cantering around the covered arena on my lesson horse, sitting deep in my saddle to offset the jolt from Remi's bad hip joints not moving in cohesion with each other.   After eighteen months I switched horses from my old and ailing Quarter to an obstinate Tennessee Walker by the name of Blaze, owned by a friend of my dad.  When prodded enough he and I finally took our first jump, a measly six inch cross-pole, which became an oxer-gymnastic that we soared over gracefully like we were ready for the World Equestrian Games.  Sure Blaze and I had our, very literal, ups and downs, but we were a team.  So when both he and I ended up lying in the dirt after I missed a cue and he tripped over a jump it wasn't Blaze's fault.  It was mine, and when we got ourselves up and brushed ourselves off we were even stronger.

Eventually I left my old barn due to a falling out with the trainer.  Falling out may be an understatement.  Storming out and never looking back except to worry about Blaze is a more accurate representation of what went down.  The trainer was had always treated her horses terribly but in my third year of riding for her barn the abuse to my lesson horse got much, much worse.  She would frequently grab Blaze's reins right under his curb chain, yank his head down, and then bring her foot up to kick him in the stomach over and over before releasing him, wild and terrified.  The day I left he had refused a vertical three times, and the last times I had nearly gone over his head, thinking he was following through.  I was pulled down from my horse, informed to "watch and learn," before the trainer mounted and began to beat him mercilessly with her whip, screaming at him to go, all while pulling back on his mouth so hard I thought for she would break her reins.  That was the first and I ever cried at the barn, ruining my "tough as nails" persona I had kept up which was necessary to run with the older kids.  One negative comment towards the tears that were running down my face was all it took for me snap.  And shout.  And finally give my big and scary trainer a piece of my mind about what she was doing to the animals people trusted her with.  That day I cooled down my horse, fed him an obscene amount of carrots, and told him goodbye.  Then I left.  That afternoon combined with the death of my beloved Remi was enough to ruin that barn for me.

Not riding, though.  Although I haven't been to a stable in four years I still love horses and the atmosphere of the barn more than anything else.  I occasionally head to my aunt's farm and hang out with her horses, ride around the empty paddocks and just love on the horses, but I haven't trained in a long time.  But unlike sports like soccer and dancing horseback riding isn't a sport that ends when you leave high school or college, in fact many people don't get into horseback riding until they're much older.  I knew a rider who was still riding at the age of eighty five (he died because his horse threw him and killed him but that's beside the point.)  Horseback riding is something you can participate in and love for your entire life, and with so many different disciplines that no matter whether you want to soar over jumps, race around barrels, or just wander through fields, horseback riding can be the sport for you.