Embracing joy is now part of my personal trauma recovery after being lied about, and lied to, while fighting for my life back in 2016. This took place during a series of traumatic events that hit my life. Communication disorders seem to run rampant in my family, as well as my community, while people make gross assumptions and spread offenses and gossip like wildfire.
Yesterday, I went to a free concert at Emerald Park in Eugene, Oregon. In an effort to save money, free is just about what I can afford these days. Satin Love Orchestra was performing. and usually their concert tickets run between thirty to fifty dollars a pop. The performers were dressed in white, reminding me of a Geico commercial or a little slice of Heaven come down to earth as angels to entertain us for awhile. I happen to have a wonderful acquaintance who is a personal friend of some of the performers and she invited me and my husband to join her and her friends for the afternoon. We have some amazing local talent here in Eugene, Oregon, and my friend is one of Satin Love’s biggest fans.
We had a lovely time, I got to watch all the families there with their children, as they enjoyed the summer weather while we all danced and got some fresh air and exercise. Some adults were imbibing adult beverages; some were picnicking; and many I have known in my community for years. I danced with my friends; I danced with women who were older than me and women who were around my age and younger. I danced with children, as well as men of all shapes, sizes, and ages. I even danced with my husband.
I don’t believe I saw any judges or lawyers there, unless they were incognito. Maybe, that sector of our society were all at the Oregon Country Fair in Veneta with their children and families. I am aware that several professionals from the Lane County Courthouse enjoy wild festivities after they spend their time destroying many parents’ and children’s lives in family court, making money from passing judgments often based on lies and false allegations. Most of that sector of society earn over 150.00 dollars an hour, and can enjoy anything money can buy except a clear conscience. Birds of a feather flock together, and all that.
At the free concert, I ran into fellow zombie dancers, fellow actors, fellow political protesters, fellow artists, poets and writers. I saw fellow teachers, fellow construction workers, fellow people from all camps of political, religious, sexual orientations, as well as skin colors. One man walked by me sporting a “Fear Oregon Ducks” t-shirt, as another man in a t-shirt that advertised “Beaver Nation” strolled by heading the opposite direction. I snickered to myself since I studied Duck dicks at the U of O, and know all about beavers, and “Leave it to Beaver” innuendos.
I made small talk with strangers while waiting in the water line as well as in the bathroom line. I cracked jokes with my friends; talked about the amazing musical performers; along with the work I do as a creative writer. We are all creatives, even if we can’t sing or play an instrument like a professional. I asked questions about what other people do, about their names, and where they were from. One man, named Jeff, made jokes about his three friends with first and last names that were suggestive of sexual and potty humor. He talked about getting his three friends together to see if they could see the humor in it when he introduces them to each other. I made jokes about some of my friends and family names, as well as some of the names of those teachers and police officers who I grew up around from my past. I also enjoyed imagining introducing certain people to each other:
“Harry Johnson, meet Richard Balls…Donald Trump, meet Dr. Ms. Morthan Ukanhandle.”
I enjoyed being a part of a diverse community yesterday, gathered to enjoy an afternoon of music and fun. I even watched dogs of different breeds be at peace with one another as their owners enjoyed the experience. It was lovely. I missed my children and wished I could have had some of them there with me.
I watched other people’s children get up on stage and feel like they were stars for a moment in time. I watched young girls doing gymnastics, flipping in the air, doing the splits and giving a dance performance for all to watch and enjoy. I thought of my own young children and their aspirations. Most of them are in sports, or getting married, off to college, or possibly confused as to why their family is the way it is as they get ready to face the bullies at school, the bigger bullies in society, and learn how to deal with other people’s bullshit.
I thought of my once-upon-a-time young aspirations as a little girl growing up in Oregon. I spent many hours training to be a professional ballet dancer, but my life took a different turn when I got married and became a mother of many children, self-trapped in a time period where co-dependent and insecure wives submitted to their co-dependent and insecure husbands and their delusional church leaders in everything while not charging anything for the years of servitude and labor. I counted my blessings that I escaped being a human doormat for the rest of my life.
I turned to scan the crowd.
I spotted Rick Dancer. Rick Dancer, the man I watched on the news as a young adult. He was at the concert with his wife. I approached him, thinking he might listen to what I had to say about the corruption in our broken social system here in Oregon. I am aware that he has an interest in human stories and in trying to make positive changes.
He gave me one piece of advice: “Don’t run for anything. Don’t run for any office, or any position.” He told me it was a waste of time. He did in the past and it didn’t change anything or anyone.
I told him a few of my friends and even complete strangers have suggested I run for President. We laughed.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I told them I wasn’t that crazy. Anyone who runs for President is signing up for Office of Assassination, and I have already experienced being locked out on the roof by one of my teenage daughters who didn’t want to clean her room.” There is no way in hell that I would want to try and fix an entire nation full of out-of-control teenagers, drug infested street gangs, and ignorant adults riddled with lies, corruption, health issues, and hypocrisy. I am certain I would have mobs of people trying to kill me once I outlawed fast food, cigarettes, and street drugs. I can design and make my own bad-hair-day toilet bowl scrubber in my own likeness for those days when I feel shitty, thank you very much. I’d rather go down in history as the woman who wagged a rubber dildo in the air on You-tube in a comedy skit with No Shame Theater Eugene.
Besides, I have issues with dictators and people who believe they are in the place of God to pass judgment over others before walking a mile in their shoes. I’m a Native Oregonian who has spent most of my life surrounded by tribalism and American Natives. My Daddy was a logger and my Mom was a housekeeper and I had to work like a dog to go through school on a scholarship and keep my grades up while under inordinate amounts of stress from years of feeling beaten down and disrespected.
I spent the rest of the concert dancing in my cowboy boots like no one was watching; laughing like tomorrow will take care of itself; and figured I will have to continue to wait for my children, my family, and our hypocritical society to grow up. Love is patient. Love is kind. Sometimes, true love just hurts.
Sometimes, those we tell lies about are quite accomplished and capable human beings.
Some mothers know how to handle hammers, and construction tools, and remove doors from their hinges. Some lawyers like to twist facts and take advantage of emotional torture to paint pictures of mothers without the proper material evidence. Some judges make rulings, running on hearsay and biased opinions about “credible witnesses” without doing due diligence in investigating the stories they are told. Some parent/child relationships become further damaged when parents become scapegoated and shunned from entire family units because it is much easier to remain in denial and point fingers at one person as a targeted problem, rather than face one’s own issues with power and control, or lack of it.
Relationships can become like one tea kettle blowing steam at the other when trying to “fix” someone who is doing better than might be assumed. We humans often try and fix those closest to us out of love and concern; in some families, it is like the kettle calling the pot black.
I turned around again. This time, I saw the long-haired carpenter who showed up to rescue me from the rooftop as I prayed for Jesus to save me. Kevin, sometimes known as Karen, the carpenter who was present when I removed my daughter’s door, was there with his wife. It was good to see them enjoying life. He wasn’t there to defend me in court, and I didn’t have a public defender, but he knows the truth. I also didn’t have the proper DHS documents with me in court which disputed my ex-husband’s lawyer’s gross twisting of one word, “beating” and one horrifying target “head”….the DHS documents record a very different scenario altogether. The DHS documents seem to state “leg” and “accidentally.” I know the truth. I know the difference between intentions and motives. I know the difference between a hinge and a head, a pintle and a pin-head.
My daughter knows the truth. My husband knows the truth. Kevin knows the truth. My daughter’s best friend knows the truth. The police officers who showed up and listened to my hormonal and hysterical daughter, and listened to my husband and me, who left to move onto another family drama know the truth. The truth is: THE SYSTEM IS BROKEN.
Love and Logic parenting doesn’t always work when teenagers are not logical, adults are not reasonable, and professionals engage in black and white thinking, judges declare blanket statements from the bench, and mature wisdom or mercy are not employed. Blind justice is blind because judges just want an easy open and shut case, lawyers just want to laugh their way to the bank, and dictators and narcissists hide behind walls of silence while helicopter parents spin around in circles and hover in the background worrying about their children’s futures looking for a safe target to aim their angst and heartache at.
Maybe tonight I will watch Jim Carey in the movie, “Liar, Liar,” and write some more music lyrics for my new favorite music band called “Weaselbutt and Wasband.” They don’t really exist. I made them up after being inspired to write creative non-fiction by one of my counselors, along with the professors from the University of Oregon.
I guess since I have a degree in Creative Writing and live in the land of Freedom of Speech, here in the Emerald Valley right across from a woman who’s legal name is Snow White, I can pet my black cat named Olive, sweep my home with my broom, cast a few spells over my novel, and at least can utilize the talents and skills I worked so hard to acquire during the years I spent escaping what some might construe as a “Stockholm Syndrome,” situation.
I survived an intensely dysfunctional first marriage where no matter what I did, it was never good enough, and from which there seems to be no complete and total escape. At least, my second husband “lets” me dance with other people, wear what I want, and listen to whatever music I choose while I continue to work on my novel.