I'm sorry, #mikebrown

Unarmed teenage shot six times this summer.

SIX TIMES!

WHERE ARE THE ANSWERS?
WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?

Well, he's black and dead so there won't be any.

We can't un-shoot him.

Shhh, America. Shhh. Go back to sleep.
Let's pretend this was all a strange dream. 
In the morning we will pump our veins with high fructose corn syrup and our bellies with ammonia-soaked dollar menu meats and catch up on trending dog-shit.

We will not concern ourselves with the grief or heartbreak of his mother.

We will talk about his shoplifting.
Two of my siblings were caught shoplifting when they were 18. They were given stern lectures. My mother never had to worry that one of her foolish teenagers might be shot by police. We are white. Of course she didn't have that fear. And even if one of my mother's teenager's had been shot by a police officer, can you imagine the public outrage? Shoplifting would have had NO place in the post-death dialogue. But Lesley McSpadden has to listen to the callous dialogue of strangers who wish to assign blame for his death to her son's age-appropriate rebellion.

I am so sorry, Mike Brown. You didn't deserve to die. Your death sucks. And exposed how scary things are right now. So scary that we can't walk down the street without sometimes getting shot six times. You shouldn't be dead. You should have had your chance to become a man and live out your life.

Since I still have the chance to live out my life, I have to keep raising my voice.

I want peace.



I want us to treat each other with respect and as equals. I propose a blessing, a toast, a moment of reflection:

Here's to the past, looking back to make sure mistakes are not repeated.

Here's to the present, working for change.

 Here's to the future, while we're still alive to look forward to it.

I stand against police brutality, and will not rest until #JusticeforMichael is served. Join us: http://naacp.org/ferguson #NAACP

http://oogeewoogee.com/since-you-already-forgot-about-ferguson-mikebrown-let-me-give-you-an-update/

Moving on

I am wide awake, eating ice cream at my kitchen table, in the middle of the night. I told myself I could stay up late if I cleaned. Instead I took a long, hot shower. My apartment is packed into neatly labeled boxes; a twenty-five times familiar task. This will be my sixth home in two years.

Tomorrow I am moving from this tiny apartment on East Walnut to a west end house with four bedrooms and a yellow door. It is a quiet street in a safe neighborhood. The couple next door have been living there for 58 years.

It is important to me that Chip, Ben, the kids, Sir Spencer Rooney and I are all moving into this space at the same time.

I'm excited.

Pin pricks

Ever feel so stressed, stretched so thin, you could not possibly bear for one more thing to go wrong? This is a story of the kind of stress that is too much for me right now:

I lost my keys yesterday. And the keys of a friend whose dog I was looking after.

Said keys were lost while walking aforementioned dog.

Also lost that day: what little remained of my calm.

Time: noon

Heat: 90 degrees

Dog: walked about a mile. No stops were made. Ok, a stop to bark at a squirrel. A stop to rub her face on the grass. A stop to confirm that she does not like playing in the fountain. A stop to rub her face in more grass.

Keys: discovered missing when walk is nearly finished.

Steps: retraced.

Dog: thirsty, confused.

Regina: thirsty, without phone or wallet.

Keys: never found.

Dog: tied to porch while Regina tries to get into the house.

7 foot high gate into friend's alley: climbed.

Back door to dog owner's house: open.

Baby Jesus: thanked.

Phone charging happily on counter: used to call mother.

Mother: agrees to pick up/rescue sweaty, dirty Regina.

Regina: peels back a section of the backyard fence; walks two blocks around to front of house where dog is secured. Walks two blocks back with dog to force dog through fence opening into yard.

Fence: re-secured.

Dog: hugged and watered, left to nap inside her home.

Belongings: gathered. Except for pesky missing keys.

7 foot high gate from alley into street: climbed.

Mother: picks up sweaty, dirty Regina.

Gitmo

Mos Def, now going by the name Yasiin Bey, made a video of what it is like to be force fed, Guantanamo Bay-style. When he was fearful and in pain, he pleaded with them to stop. The Gitmo "detainees" are not given that option. And having been not only in the military but also handcuffed by the police once or twice, I assure you the bodies of the prisoners are not restrained with the delicacy and respect that the crew showed Bey.

Eighty-six of the one hundred sixty-six detainees were cleared for release in 2009. That was four fucking years ago. No wonder people are hunger striking. Also: are some of the people being force fed in the middle of fasting for Ramadan? Have we respect for nothing?

I am embarrassed to admit that I thought Obama closed these unethical torture camps as soon as he got into office. Out of sight out of mind apparently for this silly woman.

I can make an argument for why I don't follow the news more closely. The media spins stories to match up to their agendas. Or worse, to make a good segue into the next "breaking news" story. The government has the public distracted by hyped up local-level trials that distract from larger, more globally important issues and empty promises of politicians jockeying for seats of power. Even if a politician's initial campaign was sincere, once you are in the belly of the beast the only exit is the end of your term. No thank you, I will save that news-watching hour of my day for something less beastly.

Obama tried several times to close Gitmo and was shut down by Congress, the Navy, etc. He recently made statements against what was going on there. But if he was unsuccessful in closing an operation of which he is publicly ashamed, does he have any power at all? Is he just another puppet? Who is running this show? Corporations?

The U.S. government is a machine churning out propaganda, oozing into other nations to take their natural resources and whatever else we want by force, taxing the public to pay for shady, inefficient, inflated military operations. Instead of plantations, minorities and the poor have projects and prison.

In government there is no truth. There is no good. There is no hope. We are the worst.

Now what?

http://www.mysanantonio.com/opinion/commentary/article/It-s-time-to-get-things-right-at-Guantanamo-Bay-4680075.php

http://youtu.be/z6ACE-BBPRs

On being DeGaetano

Yesterday my sister Bethany texted me that the video she had made for her husband was almost finished and posted on Youtube. http://youtu.be/ZAxzGjWKclw

I love it and have been showing it to my friends for the past 24 hours.

Beth is 30 and about to have a baby with her husband Stephen. They have been together for ten years and have what I consider to be a beautiful relationship, the rare kind of happiness that not everyone gets to have. In the video Beth is largely pregnant and performing a rap she wrote called "Baby Daddy" about Steve making her feel loved, safe, secure.

My friends comments surprised me. They talked about how similar my sister's movements, dancing, voice, tattoos, face, style and body were to mine. Since she and I have such different body types, I have always thought that we looked enough alike to clearly be sisters but did not think that we were noticeably similar.

We totally are, although we are only half the picture. Ben and Lauren make up the other half. We are four pieces of the same puzzle and I am so happy, blessed and grateful to be a member of this tribe called DeGaetano. I have often focused on the things about my family that drive me crazy or the fights that various ones of us are having with each other. What I should focus on is what I have: an amazing, loving family.

Our parents did not do a lot of instructing. No talks were given about the importance of nature. We were just taken to the park and the beach and the lake. We were taught to ride our bikes and rollerskate by six, sent out to play every day of summer vacation. Music was a focal point in our home. Not talking about music trivia or debating one form of music over another. Just listening to it,dancing to it, making it. Music was on all the time. Bethany and I were given piano lessons. Ben had trumpet lessons. Lauren had dance classes. We were all in choir at some point. Bethany and I sang and played piano on worship teams in church and school when we were teenagers.

Time was the cherished commodity, not money. We know how to give to the people we love.

The last time I saw Ben, Bethany and Lauren was in February when we lost both of our grandparents in the same week. The night before my grandmother's funeral Bethany, Lauren and I shared a hotel room (thanks, Mom). Ben had decided to stay in my parent's room. It surprised me a little that he chose to skip our slumber party but I guess a grown man sharing a bed with one of his sisters was too high a price to pay for the fun benefits of aforementioned sleepover. Whatever, Ben. Us girls giggled into the night. There was a remote that adjusted the pressure of the mattress and Lauren lowered the pressure until we could feel our asses on the bedframe. Bethany, six months pregnant at the time, watched with mild amusement and I scuffled unsuccessfully to get the remote back from Lauren. We gave each other Pop pop kisses (lightning fast) and Dad kisses (super thin-lipped). We even took time to hurt each other's feelings a little.

The next week was Pop pop's funeral. Lauren was sick and stuck in North Carolina. This time Stephen was along. I drove with my brother from the funeral to the cemetery. He keeps a mouth harp on the dash of his truck and I tried to use it. He took it from me and showed me all his sick mouth harp tunes. We hummed and whistled songs. We did not discuss the absurdity of having a receptacle to store an urn in a public place. If you are going to be cremated, shouldn't your ashes be scattered or kept with a loved one? Why burn the body and then pay to store what isn't there anymore? The luncheon after the "inurnment" was at a Maggiano's, an Italian-style chain restaurant. Ben, Steve and I beelined to the bar. Quality time and all.

Regigi for Mayor

Been doing stand up for four months. First time in a long time, if ever, that I wanted to be really good at something. I am not horrible but want to be awesome. Have been trying to get on stage at least twice a week. 

Could I take this to the top? Can I at least take this to the middle? 

Last night I was sitting on my roof smoking a cigarette and finishing a bowl at five am. Spencer was exploring the roofs of neighbors and I was looking at the skyline, trying to figure out my plan.

Have more conventional plans not worked because I was trying for the wrong thing? Or have they not worked because I do not care about them? Is it me? Is it this shitty economy? Is it lame-ass corporations I don't give a shit about pandering to? 

Manhunt Ahoy

I am sorry that there were bombings in Boston this week and that people were killed, injured and scared out of their minds. Totally sucks. Oh, humanity you sneaky snake. I actually had two friends and three acquaintances in Boston for their marathon that day. My friends saw the second explosion and I am so glad that they were not hurt. I watched the news unfold holding my breath and clutching my throat just like everyone else. 

Today my Facebook "news-feed" is filled with celebrations that one suspect has been apprehended and two others killed in the manhunt that put a city on lock-down just for them. Those celebrations seem premature and misplaced. 

First: I did not realize we were no longer innocent until proven guilty. Second: now that Dzhokar Tsarnaev is in custody they want to take away his right to an attorney and the right to remain silent because that would be too much of a hassle. Senators McCain and Graham issued a statement saying "the last thing we want him to do is remain silent." No fucking shit. The ideal suspect in any case is a chatty one. That doesn't mean we take away someone's rights. Should we also torture him, Senators? To ensure that justice is served? What means are you willing to pursue in order to get the end you desire? Third: Would we be talking this way if the suspects (dead and alive....) were whiter? More "American" looking? Are we really that gross? Last: Can we even bear to look in the mirror and question ourselves about U.S. government/military actions abroad? What is our death toll? We can be certain it is greater than "three killed and dozens more injured."

I am not interested in being part of a jeering, cheering crowd at the base of any gallows. I do not want to sit back and rest assured that "America" is now "safe" and that "justice" has been served because most likely neither is nor will be true.