LoveLiesBleeding's Open Salon Blog

Pain Moves In a Circular Motion

Thu, 17 Sep 2009 09:09:40 -0400

Since the first Scottish bastard jumped ship in New York harbor and swam for Jersey, the men have been the ones who were angry. They got drunk, they threw the glasses, they beat the wives and they strapped the kids. That’s what it was called up there in Jersey, you know… “the strap” – as in – “Don’t make me the get the strap."

It’s always the kid’s fault when they get the strap. They made him do it. I made him do it. Back then, it was always the men. Women clustered in hushed tones in kitchens and laundry rooms. They silently wiped dishes and countertops while they shushed – “Don’t upset your father.”

When I did something wrong, my mother looked like a trapped animal. Her eyes darted from one side to the other, surveying the living room or the landscape as she drove her little ’74 Toyota Corolla. We had fled in that car the single time we left him.

My father was in trucking and, best as any child is allowed to know, even at thirty-three, he got in deep with some individuals involved in the trucking industry. My mother was afraid. Even though huge amounts of money were coming in, they were going right back out again. One sunny morning, my father parked a cement truck on the Delaware Memorial Bridge that was under renovation. He told the foreman that he was a “stupid nigger” then threw the keys to the locked truck into the river. It cost the foreman a simple phone call to the concrete company and probably some headshaking – but it cost my dad his business.

The stress on my mom was too much. Strangers showed up demanding money and making threats. It was all too much for her – the former prom queen, cheerleader, secretary and now mother. She told him she was going to leave because she was afraid. That was the worst thing she could have done.

I was four years old. She shoved me out the front door of our apartment. Heather Ridge – that was the name of our apartments in Mantua, New Jersey. I’ll never forget that. Heather Ridge was a soft place somewhere back in Scotland with waving fields of heather on a cool and rocky tor.

I watched through a crack in the curtains as my father beat my mother. She alternately cried and laughed as we drove the five hours to my grandmother’s home in West Virginia. Mom’s family was British. She had a crazy old uncle who flashed people, but no one hit anyone in my mother’s family – at least not that we knew of then. When we were safe in my grandmother’s kitchen, I sat on the counter and helped my grandmother pick the flakes of dried blood out of my mother’s hair to see if she needed stitches.

I was safe among women that year - my mother, my grandmother, great-grandmother and an army of aunts standing by to hide Easter eggs and braid hair. I went to preschool without the fear of the strap. My mother was sad. My father came to visit and cried. He was all broken up, but driving a red convertible that belonged to his girlfriend. My bedroom at Heather Ridge had been turned into a weight room.

As spring came again, my father came to visit wearing an avocado green leisure suit. He let me steer his metallic green El Camino and he gave me a Sky Bar. When he left, I cried for my Daddy. I asked to go home because Daddy didn’t hit me anymore – he just gave me candy and presents. My mother went back to him because of that and she’s never left again. I'm sure you can imagine what our life was like.

My father had two sons before he married my mother 42 years ago. I didn’t know they existed until I was six. The oldest had a son a year younger than me. We were raised like brother and sister after he came to live in our town. I love my nephew more than life. But, he found my father – and her name is Lindsay. They had a baby a year ago. Last night I got a voice mail from her when she mixed me up in her call-list with another friend with the same name. The voice mail said, “Hi (name omitted). I’m going to have to take a raincheck. (Baby) broke his arm.”

I called my brother this morning and asked what happened. The state is involved. They may lose the baby. My nephew is going to try to leave her to keep the baby. This time, I hope they get away.

God help him.

St. Michael of Neverland

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 10:06:28 -0400

I'm just stunned by all of this. I mean, I know that societally, we are grasping for connections to each other as a whole. The "mass experiences" that used to bind us together, like watching The Ed Sullivan Show or Live Aid have been diluted by the specialization of interests.

Books, movies, music and events have become so diverse that we don't all experience things at the same time anymore. As a culture, we crave that connection, that collective emotional experience.

Unfortunately, I think the events of the past few days have been rather disturbing. I understand that Michael Jackson was never convicted of child molestation. But, how would we treat someone who moved in next door to us who had settled out of civil court, essentially paying off a victim suing for damages related to child rape?

That kind of reminds me of another collective experience... O.J. Simpson. When he dies, will we forgive all because he was "never convicted" and settled out of court? Will we put a brutal double murder aside because he was rich, famous and talented? Because he advanced the cause of African-Americans in sport? I doubt that.

You may think I'm callous or culturally tone-deaf, but I don't care if Michael Jackson hung the moon and cured cancer. He was a probable child raper. I loved Thriller as much, if not more, than any other American kid. But, this man admittedly gave alcohol to children and slept in the same bed with them. Then, he paid off a victim out of court.

Does the guy get a pass because he could sing and dance?
Not in my book.

Finally, last night I was watching CNN while I cooked dinner. An Mtv VJ from my childhood came on and did a phone interview. He said, "It's like the President died or something." Nope. It's like a guy died that got famous for singing and dancing then became a freakshow. Michael Jackson was a punchline. For me, he's not even funny anymore.

photo: HipHopRX.com

That's Just How I Was Raised

Mon, 11 May 2009 09:05:57 -0400

We should just put up a giant electrified wall between America and Mexico. That would keep out the Swine Flu. Every time they have one of those big parades where they hold up signs in Spanish they should just park a bunch of trucks and planes at the end of the parade and let ‘em all march on – ship ‘em right back where they came from. The Swine Flu is God’s way of saying the Mexicans need to stay in their own fucking… I’m sorry… DARN country. English needs to be the official language. If you are going to take welfare in America (they ALL take welfare) then you’d better damn well speak American. That’s what I was raised to believe.

The gays need to shut up too. It’s bad enough the police turn a blind eye to them running around half-naked and playing grab-ass in public. My kids don’t need to see that shit. I’m not even religious and I know that shit ain’t right. Tab A goes in Slot B, end of story. Every TV show has to have some flaming faggot swishin’ around on it. At least back in the day they used to have some decent shame about their perversion. Now they are right out in the open. They ought to have their kids taken away so they don’t turn gay too. At least, that’s how I was raised to think.

Women aren’t much better these days. What’s wrong with a woman just shutting up and doing some house work? I think this problem started with those books in the ‘60’s. All the women started thinking they were equal to men. It’s just a scientific fact that they aren’t as strong as men. I think they should be GLAD to be “the fairer sex.” Open a door for a woman these days and you’re likely to get kicked in the balls. They have no appreciation for a good man who will provide for them and the only thing he expects in return is a clean house and little bit of respect. That’s the problem with women. They think they can disrespect men now because no one has the balls to hit them. We’re reaping the rewards of feminism. Now all women act like whores and neglect their families. I was raised to respect men – otherwise a broad could get smacked in the mouth. I know my mother did.

Now that Obama is in office, the black people are going to be intolerable. I think it’s a good thing though. If he succeeds, then the black people will have a role model that shows them that if they talk right and pull up their pants they can be somebody. If he fails, they’ll have to shut the fuck up because we gave them a chance and they failed. It’s a win-win for white people. You see, Obama is a black person. A black person is different than a nigger. At least, that’s how I was raised to believe.

Actually, this is exactly the way I was raised.
Each one of these statements came recently from someone in my immediate family.
I believe that each of us has the power of self-determination.

Saying you hold a discriminatory position against any group of people because “that’s how you were raised” is ignorant.

How do I know that?
I live in the world.
I left Mommy & Daddy’s house.

Did you?

Photo: deviantart.com

Eye Catching Sexy Title for My First Post

Mon, 4 May 2009 13:05:16 -0400

I’ve been hanging around Open Salon for several months. I’ve decided to add to the chaos around here.

I suppose I should tell you about myself.

I will only tell you honestly that I do not promise honesty.

I am the lunatic in the padded cell - the homeless man who pays for his coffee in nickels and the desperate student who slits her wrists rather than take one more final exam.

I am the hack who writes the misspelled real estate ads in the PennySaver – your child’s teacher and your next door neighbor that lets his grass die.

I am the woman who lives alone with five cats that never wants kids – the genius who can’t change his own oil and the brother you never had.

I am the liberal who needs a break – the soldier that needs a discharge and the conservative that needs a boot to the ass.

I cannot be defined by my occupation, if I have children, what kind of car I drive or my favorite book. I am defined only be what I can add – or subtract – from the conversation. My anonymity is not a disguise. It’s not a curtain I’ll hide behind to avoid accountability. It’s simply the absence of what is not important. Kudos from me to those who use their real names and post photos of their cars, children and dogs, but I am not you.

Because this place is an entity of Salon, I will say that I am rabidly and unapologetically liberal. I am different than many liberals in the fact that I don’t think everyone should always get a trophy. I’m sick to death of worrying about being nice and not hurting anyone’s “feelings.” In my daily life, I am surrounded by Republicans who spent the past eight years in complacent satisfaction, driving ever-larger SUV’s with “W-The President” and “Stand Up For America! Be an American!” stickers on the bumpers.

Now I’m not supposed to talk about politics in the break room, as they did for the better part of a decade. The handful of token liberals say, “We don’t want to rub their noses in it.” When did simply discussing issues become politically incorrect? We’re not supposed to even MENTION politics because the self-evident fact of McCain’s loss is too painful for the fragile Republicans to hear without snapping? In theory, talking about issues will cause some sort of bad will which will make them… what? Not vote for Obama in 2012? Make them cry? Cause them to lose the comforting idea that they are all unique and special snowflakes?

Let’s get something straight right now - I have no patience for the idea that my personal choices or victories diminish you as a person. If I decide not to have kids, it doesn’t mean that I think that no one should have kids (or they should if I do). If "my" political party wins an election, it doesn't mean that I think there aren't good people on the other side. When did personal choice become a damnation of those who choose differently? We’re all afraid to move in fear of hurting someone’s feelings.

Meanwhile, the people who are ACTUALLY jerks walk around spreading their bile like a disease unchecked. No one wants to confront them or tell them they are acting badly because they already know exactly how to handle us. All they have to do is act increasingly more out of control, yelling, fighting, punching and finally shooting if they have to do so. If you want to be outside of the rule of society all you have to do is act like more and more of a dick until everyone is stunned into silence and fear.

Now that I think about it, isn’t that what the last eight years have been?

Maybe we could try something new?