This One’s for You, Ken

Holidays

 

The photograph above is my all-time favorite, the back story of which I will share more about later, so stick with me.

On November 13, I ranted about something Trumpian on Facebook, which prompted my dear and old college friend Ken to post this response: “I like it better when you are happy.”

Happy Teri seems like an oxymoron to me, although not quite at the jumbo shrimp level.

But Ken’s one-liner called me to happy action. Sort of.

Now, the last blog post I wrote back on October 17, was about My Elephant, which was not even close to happy.

So, in honor of Ken’s request, on November 14, I set to writing a happy Teri blog post.

November 14 turned into November 21, and then Thanksgiving arrived.

For those of you who are not in the know, holidays don’t make Teri happy.

So, I figured I would wait until early December to find my happy, but then, you know…those damn Christmas songs on FM 106.7 that I hate to listen to, but can’t stop myself from listening to, make anything remotely close to happy Teri, impossible.

Teri with her hands tightly glued to the steering wheel bawling her eyes out, while weepily singing ♪Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire ♪ would not make Ken proud.

I promised myself—for Ken—that I would not write another post unless it contained some morsel of happy Teri.

(FYI: I have never gone this long without blogging, so thanks for nothing, Ken.)

Fast forward to Christmas Eve, and here I am still searching for any flicker of happy for my next blog post.

Flicker?  Just writing the word has me teetering toward the dark side.

It’s Christmas Eve. You know what that means—the dreaded flickering yule log. Just thinking about those wretched logs perfectly burning in that perfect fireplace makes me well up with unhappiness.

So here I am sitting at my desk at 4:38 pm on Christmas Eve, and I’m struggling Ken.

Almost ready to throw in the happy towel, I look around my desk and think that maybe something might give.

And there it is. Sitting right in front of me on my desk, in all its glory.

The fave photo of me with my grandmother, Mammy (pronounced May-Me), given to me in 2001 by my aunt—the first time I met my father’s family.

I had never seen the photo before, and I was obsessed with it for so many reasons, and on so many levels.

But mostly because I saw a happy Teri.  Okay, I wasn’t full-on smiling, but oh my, look at that grin.

Now mind you, I’m sure at whatever age I was in the photo, I didn’t know anything about happiness.  It seems to me that being happy is an adult obsession.

My aunt presented the black and white photo to me at a lunch she hosted at her home with my other aunt and three of my half-siblings for what I assumed was our first-ever meeting.

It was an out of body experience for sure.

But even weirder than meeting my aunts and siblings at forty-eight years old was that photograph of Mammy and me in front of a Christmas tree.

My eldest aunt explained in meticulous detail that the photo was taken at my grandmother’s apartment on Huron Street. (Now for any of you that know me or have read my posts, Huron Street does not make Teri happy.)

She went on to tell me a lovely Christmas Eve story about my two aunts being there, as well as my Uncle Lou (whom I met at age seven under an extremely violent circumstance), and my mom.

I fingered the photo gently. I traced my grandmother’s heart-shaped face juxtaposed to my chubby round one.

I spoke out loud, explaining to my newly found family, where, in the Huron Street living room, it looked like the tree stood—most likely in the far-left corner. I told them that I was certain we were seated in the old musty club chair that sat in that room for years.

Mammy’s arm was protectively wrapped around me, and she looked glowing. My tiny hand was lightly touching hers.

Behind us, I could see a stocking hung on the tree, most likely home-made by Mammy, and a card perched on a branch that may or may not have been Mother Mary. I wondered if my dress was also home-made.

“Were we both dressed in white?” I asked my aunt. She couldn’t remember.

When I came back to my grinning face, I noticed my eyes. They were gazing up at someone.  And I could tell—that someone was special. Very special. Happy special.

There was a happy twinkle in those eyes; I could see it. Can you?

The studying eyes were intently fixed—staring steadily, watchfully, and with complete adoration.  The person on the receiving end was making baby Teri immensely happy.

“Who am I looking at?” I asked my aunt.

She couldn’t remember.

My Elephant

Me Too

A Republican guy friend recently asked me: Does everything in your life lead back to Me Too?

Now in the old days, I would never define my friends as Democrats or Republicans.

But that was waaay back when, before you-know-who.

Plus, my friend’s question was laced with thinly veiled skepticism, while shoving in some other hurtful rhetoric about protecting men and boys, with poor Judge Kavanaugh thrown in.

I felt anger, frustration, sadness, and madness. But I kept my mouth shut.

I regret that I did not answer him, but I was afraid that if I did, something vitriolic would pour out of my mouth, and that I might later regret my words.

Regret vs. regret.

Yesterday I saw a movie trailer about Dumbo, directed by Tim Burton, to be released March 29, 2019.

As I watched Dumbo soar over the crowd, I got full body goosebumps.

Good for you, Dumbo.

And then just like that, those sicko images crept into my brain.

[Push em out push em out.]

My elephant.

As a kid, I loved Dumbo. He was so relatable. He was an only child, no father (although his name was Jumbo Jr.), with a fiercely protective mother. I would often wonder what happened to his dad, and rationalized in my head that if Jumbo Sr. was in the picture, he would have saved his kid.

Poor Jumbo was taunted and bullied for his big ears—and given the cruel name of Dumbo.

He was ridiculed and treated poorly, but he was sincere, naïve, kind, and truly magical.

Sure, he had big ears, but oh my how he could soar and fly.

Aside from his mom, his only friend was a mouse named Timothy, who believed in him.

And then there was that crow, named Jim Crow, who first made fun of Dumbo, but then convinced him that he could fly with a magic crow feather. (And yes, his name was indeed Jim Crow.)

My favorite part in the movie was when Dumbo was getting ready to fly off the platform in the circus act and prove himself as worthy of love and respect.

I can so vividly recall that first time I watched in horror as Dumbo stumbled off that platform.

I was young, but I will never forget how I silently rooted and prayed that Dumbo would prove all of his tormentors wrong, change his life, and live happily ever after with his mom.

“Lord have mercy,” I will never forget praying to myself, parroting what my grandmother always said.

[Okay, so I can’t remember actual dates, and times, or when it started, or how I got there, or why I was alone, or lots of it, so how can I remember Dumbo and Lord have mercy?]

And then there was that happy ending; that memorable and joyous part when the feather falls out of Dumbo’s trunk, and he realizes that his greatness comes not from the magic feather, but from within himself.

The feather wasn’t his savior; he was his savior. It was up to Dumbo to save Jumbo.

And at that last final moment, Dumbo opened up his ears and soared over the incredulous crowd, proving to them that he was special.

Dumbo, the maligned, became Jumbo, the respected; the hero of the circus.

Why all this talk of Dumbo/Jumbo?

Because watching that trailer about Dumbo triggered Me Too.

Why? I have no clue.

But it triggered something that I had forgotten. One small nagging thing that for years I couldn’t remember.

But now I know.

Before Me Too I referred to my “issues” as “the elephant in the room.”

Unlike Disney Dumbo my elephant was dark and menacing, popping up here and there, in the unlikeliest and often inopportune of times.

Anywhere and everywhere, any occasion, every movie, any song, any anything, or, or, or.

Those despicable visions creeping up and in.

Despicable me and my despicable elephant.

“The elephant in the room” has been in that damn room with me for my entire life.

Actually, “the elephant in the room” has been with me in every room, in every corner, for every second, of every day, no matter where I go or who I’m with, or, or, or.

I know many of you are thinking: Get over it.

Don’t you think I want to? Who would want to live like this?

The answer to my friend’s question should and could have been a simple one: Lord have mercy, yes.

 

One Hell of a Movie Trailer

Politics

I feel sick to my stomach.

I keep looking back on the past two weeks and asking myself is this for real or am I smack in the middle of one of those spine-chilling Hollywood movies about the disintegration of the United States as we know it?

The vision of Dr. Ford won’t go away: Her soft, child-like voice, the heartbreaking definition of fight or flight, two front doors, the hand over her mouth, making eye contact with Mark Judge, Brett Kavanaugh looming over her defenseless self, the uproarious laughter.

The vision of Judge Kavanaugh won’t go away: His angry contorted face, his unhinged shouting, the lame definition of Devil’s Triangle, Renate Alumnius, his promises of revenge, his blatant denial about his drinking, the disrespect he showed to Senator Amy Klobuchar.

And all those old white men sitting decorously like strutting peacocks, making believe they come from a place of honor and integrity. Pretending they want what’s best for the American people.

It’s enough to make anyone want to chug a hundred kegs of beer.

Every time I watch the news and see any one of those nasty old men, I want to scream at the top of my lungs: TERM LIMITS!!!

Where the hell do we go from here?

Beginning in 1998, Igor Panarin, a Russian professor and political scientist, has been predicting that the United States will first collapse and then morph into six separate parts: The California Republic, The Texas Republic, the Central North-American Republic, Atlantic America, Alaska, and Hawaii.

Among other things, he forecasted that financial and demographic changes triggered by the intervention of foreign powers, mass immigration, economic decline, and moral degradation would lead to social unrest, national division, and ultimately civil war.

Panarin even predicted that the wealthier states might get so fed up with the corruption and partisan politics that they may even withhold funds from the federal government effectively seceding from the Union.

Panarin also said this: “The U.S. dollar isn’t secured by anything. The country’s foreign debt has grown like an avalanche; this is a pyramid, which has to collapse. … Dissatisfaction is growing. … There’s a 55–45% chance right now that disintegration will occur. … There is a high probability that with the collapse of the United States, Russia and China will become economic superpowers, and will need to collaborate to rebuild the world economy with a new currency once the United States (and the U.S. dollar) cease to exist. …Occupy Wall Street protests have highlighted the ever-deepening split with America’s ruling elite.”

At the time of his predictions, the first thing I thought was that the guy was bonkers.

The second thing I thought was that it would make for a great movie!

Pure fantasy, but it could be an apocalyptic best seller!

And now, well I feel like I am watching the trailer of a doomsday movie that is soon to come out.

To know the fate of the United States, don’t forget to tune in on November 6th!