Raising a Heart to Humanity and Its Women.....or, Why I'm Not Raising a Glass

Today is International Women's Day.
Hashtag that for gravity and posterity!

Today, there are those raising their glasses to the women of the world. Over and over again, I see posts about people raising their glasses to groups, individuals, each other, themselves. Cheers and salutations aside, this continues to trouble me greatly.

Forgetting for a moment, as if remotely possible, that there are people in my life who have had to put away the glasses, to live strong in the moments those around them lift in unison. The wine glasses, the highballs, the beer steins....all tucked somewhere safe or given away. The wine racks buried in storage or converted into something useful.

Forgetting for a moment that there is nowhere in this American culture that you can go without being bombarded by alcohol ads. Those of us who do not struggle with alcohol in ways that threaten our very survival are generally unaware of these ads. They come and go, fading in and out of the scenery, perhaps occasionally leaving us a little thirstier. They are, in our estimation, benign. At worst, momentarily invasive.

We are mistaken. Gravely, gravely mistaken.  And so, for today, in honor of every woman who has ever been, is now, or will ever be on this planet, I ask you to honor them with your hearts instead of your glasses. Let me tell you why. In science terms. Provided by the Center for Science in the Public Interest (CSPI) and the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, and National Institutes for Health (NIH).

1. Women absorb alcohol differently than men. Let's talk.

• While women historically consume less alcohol than men, and are therefore less likely to develop alcohol-related problems, when we do, it happens faster, and the problems are more severe. This may be due to the fact that, when drinking the same amount of alcohol as a man, we develop higher alcohol concentrations.
• Women are more susceptible than men to the toxic effects of alcohol on the heart muscle.
• Women are more susceptible to alcohol-related liver disease than men. 
• Studies have revealed that upwards of 4 times the number of alcoholic women have attempted suicide than non-alcoholic women.

2. Treatment for women is a challenge on many levels. Obviously.

• Alcohol-related illnesses are less likely to be diagnosed in women than in men. Our "generalized" issues are often misidentified as anxiety, depression, etc.
• Women are often unable to access treatment due to family obligations and expectations, including raising children.
• Economic barriers make it nearly impossible for many women to even consider treatment.

To be clear, I am not asking you not to drink. Or judging consumption. Enjoy your wine, beer, liquor. I myself enjoy a hoppy ice cold IPA, and am partial to an exceptional bourbon. But I will not use it today or any other day to honor my gender. Because there are too many to whom it has become toxic and life-threatening. And I will not exclude those women today. Or ever.

Today, I raise my heart, full of the deepest love and highest respect, to every women. Of every age. Whether by birth or choice. In every country on this earth.

You are loved. You are appreciated.

We are family.
#wearethewomen
#IWD2016

Tenement

Ground floor.

Simple.

Never raised a second.

But raised a daughter.

And maybe a roof or two.

Garden untended.
Too busy.

Or too disinterested.

Random shoots of green.

We grasped.

We watered.

We missed.

Blindfolded

By choice.

Trying.

Peering around the edges.

Masked.

Tripping

On cracks.

Pretending they didn’t exist.

Trying

To Walk Upright.

One step forward

Together.

Three steps back

Apart.

Moving.

Walls crumbling.

In our fingertips.

Pressing.

Pushing back.

Please.

Stay up.

One wall stands.
Tall.
Wide.
Thick.
Amid the ruins.
Directly between us.

Plum Tree In The Yard

I don’t know when they stopped noticing us.

I think someone once said

we should take the plum tree down.

It plummeted as naturally to the ground

as a body hit with a bullet.

Life gave me plums, and then

ripped me open and watched me bleed.

Bodies breaking the surface.

We left the dead where they lay,

squashed beneath the bare feet of children and dogs playing.

I hate taut plums with ruby red centers.

I picked them. I ate them.

Now I am unable to ripen lest I bleed again.

Plums on the ground,

soft and spoiling beneath our feet.

An Open Letter to Californians. To All Americans.

There occur, in times of great transition, events which necessitate the passing of a baton, from those who have endeavored to carry it with the utmost pride and courage, to others of us who may not be ready to, or want to receive it.  Now is such a time.  It is April of the year 2011, and the walls of American education have been torn down, brick by brick, plank by plank, and child by child.

With the erection of the walls of the first tiny schoolhouse in this country, raised with it were hopes and expectations for our children, our communities, our states, and this country.  Prior to this monumental moment, education had been available only to a relative handful of the most privileged.  Out of this handful came many who remain today in our consciousness, in the pages of our history books, and embedded in the fabric of our culture.  And in the time that followed, as schoolhouses sprouted up across the plains, our collective consciousness expanded exponentially, creating a culture of understanding, intelligence, and innovation.

Today, in a country built by these very souls, powered by these very minds, education is dismissed as a luxury, and teachers treated as single-minded opportunists.  Local and federal municipalities expunge education dollars from budgets without the slightest hesitation, creating irrelevant and personal justifications even as the line items vanish.  Citizens ignore initiatives created with the sole intention of providing needed funding for the continued education of our children, even as they embrace bonds to build sports stadiums, entire communities giddy with the excitement of a small child on Christmas morning.  Meanwhile, it is expected that education will continue as if nothing has occurred, as teachers are dismissed or stripped of their rights taken without deliberation or rational thought, schools are closed, programs are cut, and class sizes are increased.

We have spoken out, and raised our voices in unison.  Our screams have gone unheeded.  Maybe we did not scream loudly enough.  Maybe they chose to ignore us.  We cannot know.  Nor can we go back, start over, and try again.  We have only one choice, and that is to move forward.

And so I ask you, as human beings and as members of this national and global community, to look back over your shoulder, reach out, and take the baton.  Take it from those who have long carried it, and run with compassion and purpose.  WE are the last remaining hope for salvaging education in this country.  Whether you have a child in school today is of no consequence.  This country and the citizens contained within are our collective responsibility.  WE are OUR responsibility.

There is no miracle on the horizon.  The sweat of those who have tried dampens the brows of us all.  Our collective limbs tremble with exhaustion from the effort already expended by the courageous.  It is time for us all, in the immortal words of an educator, to stand and deliver.  Or stand and watch as the final dismantling takes place.

Do not look back, ask why, or seek to undo.  The past cannot be undone.  Look forward instead.  Ask what CAN be done.  Seek solutions.  Be courageous.  Look where no one has looked before.  Trust yourselves, your instincts, and your love for your communities.  Get involved!  Join the PTA.  Send letters to your local politicians.  Talk to your communities.  Engage your local businesses.  Offer to help your local schools -  ASK them what you can do.  EVERYONE has something to offer, from open hearts and creative minds, to strong arms and legs, to a wadded up $5 bill stuck at the bottom of a long forgotten coat pocket.

Create the future. Do it now.  For, if not us, then who?  And if not today, then when?

My Letter to the Superintendent

Dear Superintendent Carrizosa.


I am a mom, a PTA leader, a community member, a BAFA volunteer and committee member, and a Learning professional. My family has been a part of the Burbank community for 10 1/2 years, and my daughter is a sixth grader at Jordan Middle School, having begun her years of formal education at Roosevelt Elementary. I consider us very lucky indeed to have landed here - for which Disney deserves some credit - and I am proud to be a member of this community.


I am writing to you today as a human being who is passionately dedicated to education. I believe that education is powerful beyond measure, and sits at the root of all things on this planet of ours. It has the power to flourish our communities or destroy them, and we see the results of this time and time again.


On Saturday, February 2nd, my husband, my 11 year old daughter, and I attended the PTA-hosted Community Forum on Public Education. Listening to Mary Perry, Deputy Director of EdSource and amazing human being, speak about the realities of the funding of education in California was.....well, to say "eye-opening" would be a dire understatement. It was in fact earth shattering. It was terrifying. It was one hell of a wake up call. How anyone could have left that room without the will and desire to scream the truth from the rooftops completely eludes me. As horrendous as the state of education is today, at this moment, it pales in comparison to where we are headed.


This morning, I sat on a phone call with the leaders of Educate Our State as they discussed strategy to support Governor Brown's budget, specifically with regard to the temporary tax extensions. Mary had shared this information with us in the February meeting. I am embarrassed to say that, intelligent and aware as I may think I am, I fear I might have been one of those people decrying the Governor's efforts to "raise taxes" had I not been in the February 2nd meeting. It can be plain humbling to discover what you DON'T know, especially about the things that matter.


As of this morning's call, our legislature is five votes short of reaching the 2/3 approval required to put the Governor's initiative on a public ballot, and the early March deadline is rapidly approaching. I believe that we have a responsibility to get the word out, and to support the Governor's efforts. While this is a temporary measure, and perhaps serves merely to duck tape our walls together for a bit longer, without it, we are spiraling downward and the grade is steep beyond measure.


Please, Superintendent Carrizosa, visit the Educate Our State site, and look at what they're trying to do. Please consider getting this word out to as wide a net as you are able to cast. At the very least, please send your own letters to the legislature. They make it very easy, providing online templates. Your leadership has been clearly established here in Burbank, and you should know that those advocates of education in this community speak of you with only the highest regard and respect. They in fact genuinely like you, appreciate your presence in our community, and have great optimism about your contributions.


If there is anything I can personally do in our city to help YOU spread the word, please let me know. In the meantime, I am reaching out to our PTA and my local parents, Facebooking, Tweeting, blogging, and perhaps even ranting on occasion. I may even resort to flyers on doors this weekend. As "green" as that may not be, I suppose it's still one of the best ways to get information in front of people's eyes.


This is important. And difficult. Please help. I thank you, sir, for listening.


Most respectfully,
Karen Hohman Almeida
mother of Isabella Hohman Almeida
Burbank
http://www.congressweb.com/cweb2/index.cfm/siteid/educateourstate
www.educateourstate.org

Black Birds

The sky was a low slung canopy of ash and slate.  Yet off in the not too distant western sky, the sun beamed a fistful of rays toward earth, no doubt onto a cold gray ocean.

Overhead the sky filled with black birds.  Hundreds, their wings spread taut, sitting gently upon the zephyr.  They had appeared suddenly, hovering several seconds before banking off into the western sky.

Less than a half mile up the highway, just past the slow curve east, another flight of black wing birds clambered toward the ashen canopy.  It was again impossible to determine their origin.  Had they been on the ground, digging into the damp earth?  Behind the hill?  Without faltering, they too headed west. The car drew my eyes east, where lightning danced atop the distant hills.

The road through the far valley darkened with greater intensity, and the first few drops of water fell on the windshield.  They grew larger, more voluminous, and as I headed up the grade, I was engulfed in sheets of water.  I had just moments before been one of dozens climbing the hill.  Now, I could scarcely see past the hood of the car.  Hazy taillights and the faint outline of other wheeled tins hovered in front of me, as if in a dream.

I had slowed to a crawl, wondering if pulling off until the downpour had passed was remotely viable.  It was not.  The chances of moving more than a few inches in any direction other than forward suggested the certain anguish of scraping metal, in a place where getting out of the car held the promise of injury if not worse.

Passing Cars

It appears to be a normal thing, noticing with some regularity the state of oncoming traffic when travelling the freeway. This morning was no different. As I headed north on the 101 toward the hills of Thousand Oaks, I noted the rhythms of the southbound lanes; the knotted clusters of slow moving traffic, and the torrents of high speed vehicles when the knots loosed.

Today, though, I found myself marveling at them. The darting lime green bug festooned in lively advertising, the old battered pickup filled with random objects once someone’s dearest possessions, the convertibles, the wagons of numerous shapes and sizes, the ubiquitous SUVs. All of them in glorious flight toward the sunrise. I envied them. In that moment, they drew from deep within me a longing so great that tears welled softly in my eyes. They were the embodiment of a new day, of unfettered opportunities, of hope. They headed full tilt toward beginnings, as I headed in the opposite direction, toward life’s untidy middle.

How many times each day? How frequently could we catch ourselves envying others, yearning to start over, or longing to move toward the sun, eager for the newness of the unknown? How can we cease this measurement of our lives against the perceived richness of others’? Life’s middle is as alive and affirming as any beginning. It is rich with action and emotion, and rife with pleasure, its wrinkles as affirming as the moments of calm predictability and enlightenment. Yet our breathing becomes shallow, our vision narrows, and our desire moves away from our present, toward a past or future.

Tomorrow I will wake to the early morning blackness of pre-dawn, and I will choose. I will decide that my life is ample, is enough. I will decide that those driving toward the sunrise are only, in fact, driving toward the sunrise. I will accept that when they arrive, they will find themselves in the same untidy middle. At least for today.

What will you do?