theone69's Open Salon Blog

Long time no see....

Tue, 15 May 2012 10:05:08 -0400

It's been a while since I've written anything. Mostly because, well.... I guess my life started to kinda fall apart.

I'm "divorced" now. Big change. Suddenly, she wasn't in love with me anymore. I never understood the whole "I fell out of love with you" concept to be honest. I guess if one can fall in, one can fall out; but I never thought of it as something that could happen so fast. Or perhaps, I never understood how you could love someone and share your life with someone, but then treat them as if they have always been the biggest asshole ever. I mean, surely, if that were the case, the years spent together wouldn't have been years?

My main pain though, is the kids. It's hard when you are a non-biological parent, and you love kids as if you gave birth to them. I helped raise them. I took care of their needs. We went on family trips. I was their step-mother. Now, I'm just B. I have no claim to them. I've been told that I will still be able to see them; and that's all well and good. I do try to see them as I can/am allowed. But no one is all that confident that said access will remain. I worry that the kids will resent me, because their mother resents me... I'm afraid that like her, they will overlook all the fun we had, and how much I did for them, and how much I love them, and just see the negatives.

In other news, I'm dating someone else now. (because we lesbians waste no time, you see)

S and I met in 2004 at a wedding. No online hook up this go 'round. We kept in contact over the years, and started talking again when she emailed and said she'd be visiting TX from CA for a week, and would love to have lunch with me. At the time, my ex and I were basically roommates that shared a bed. S and I started out catching up, and refamiliarizing ourselves with each other. While I was attracted to her when we first met, I had the whole, "well she's straight" mentality, so I never let on. And at the time, that was accurate. As she puts it, she was a "flaming hetero", but she always had some sort of attraction or pull towards me, that she never understood. Guess we get it now, huh?

So we're doing the long distance thing. It sucks, but being that we're both just out of long term relationships (hers was 6 years, mine 4), we figured we'd see how it goes, and when the time is right; she'll move to TX.

Why ANYONE would leave NorCal for TX?! I have NO clue. Must be love.

Anyway, the ex is not exactly thrilled about the whole "new girl" thing. And that's where the bitterness kicked in. Seems to me, she shouldn't be upset; she broke up with ME. Just because someone else was waiting there to catch me when I was discarded, is not on me. Apparently, I'm a selfish asshole to her though.

*sigh*

Anywho, I'm back to drinking.... alot... Probably more than I should. And while S makes me incredibly happy, this whole situation at the hacienda weighs on me quite a bit. Trying to keep my composure, and be nice, even when I'm insulted, and treated like crap. All for the sake of my kids... to still see them.

She moves out soon though, maybe it'll get better; who knows. Oh, did I forget to mention that she's still living with me? Cause THAT'S how I roll.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave... Well Sir Walter Scott, you don't know the half of it homie...

Fin

The problems with Prop 8...

Thu, 5 Aug 2010 16:08:45 -0400

As stated before… I am a lesbian…

As NOT stated before, I’m in no hurry to marry. In fact, I’ve often said that even if it were legal in the US, I probably wouldn’t, much to the dismay of my wife.

See, I don’t think I need a piece of paper to show what I already feel in my heart. I refer to her as my wife. Not my girlfriend. Not my partner. Not my better half. (Although OTHERS refer to her as my better half, I try not to be insulted.) Fact of the matter is, in my heart I KNOW that I am faithful to her and her alone. I know that no matter how bad it gets, she will have my back and I will have hers. I know that when I wake up, she’ll be there. Not because some piece of paper tells her that she legally is supposed to be; but rather because she wants to be. I know that she didn’t HAVE to pick me, but she did and I chose her to be with for the rest of my life. I know that no matter what, hers will be the face I see every morning and hopefully the last face I see the day I breathe my last breath.

I don’t need a piece of paper to show that I’m married. I’m married. I’m faithful. I’m happy.

I also live in Texas, which is probably the reddest state in these United States. Let’s face it; the Emancipation Proclamation had an effective date of January 1, 1863 (issued on Sept 22 1862.) News didn’t “reach” Texas until June 18, 1865. I’m sure it coulda got here sooner, but I always say, it’s because they decided to have us work another 2 years… (Ha!)

Point is the Prop 8 decision won’t affect my marital status for 2 reasons: location and current desire. I say current because the wife is already trying to wear me down on the marriage thing… Everyone knows you can only put a woman off for so long. I digress though.

The point of all this is, I do feel pride for my LGBT brothers and sisters in California for the decision yesterday. It does my heart good to know that the road to equality is opening up. Sure there’s a stay on the decision, but I think it’s only delaying the inevitable.

Thing is, I keep reading about reactions to the Prop 8 decision, and I just wanna ask Prop 8 supporters a question: Do you HEAR yourselves? I mean, really… do you?

See, I read a high-level overview of the opinion. (Wifey printed it for me so I can read it all tonight.) It’s really sad and pathetic to be honest.

Being gay is a choice and against God’s will - You know, believe it or not, being gay and being Christian is NOT a mutually exclusive deal. I’m gay, and I’m a Christian. I won’t lie; there are times where my beliefs and my life contradict each other. I’ll give them that. I do know that I didn't choose this. If anything, I agonized with this from a very young age. I tried to "pray away the gay". No one feared this more than me. (Except maybe my mom, who is a touch homophobic.) Anyway, no one can say that it's a choice anymore than people can say being straight is a choice. It's not for you to say, only God know that. See here are two things Christians have to remember.

Religion has NOTHING to do with politics or civil rights – See there’s that whole separation of Church and State thing. You can believe gays are going to hell all you want. Sadly, the Constitution gives you the right to be judgmental and full of hate. It also allows people who don’t believe in God to not believe. Or people who believe in Wicca to believe in Wicca. I don’t agree with it either, but I don’t condemn beliefs! If you feel that being gay is wrong, then that’s what you feel. That doesn’t mean it should be illegal.
People who DO believe in God KNOW that the only person they truly have to answer to is God and no one else. My relationship with God is no more your business than my relationship with my wife. Your relationship with God is none of my business any more than your relationship with your significant other. Who are you to judge? What gives you the right to tell people what they should or should not do? If my memory of history is correct, (God KNOWS people keep trying to change it), the whole reason why the Pilgrims set sail for the new land was because they were being religiously oppressed. They left England for RELIGIOUS FREEDOM. Why is it we forget this fact? If you disagree with gays, pray for them and move on. No one is requiring you to go to a gay wedding or even perform a gay wedding. You talk to God and we’ll do the same, thank you. My God loves me. My God loves all people. And because of this fact, I am only accountable to my God.

Gay Marriage will ruin the institution of marriage - Really? Not to be cliché’ but doesn’t DIVORCE ruin the institution of marriage? This is the biggest argument they can come up with without throwing in Leviticus. Look. When straight people stop using marriage as a tax shelter, or stop marrying and divorcing multiple times... hell, let’s just say, when the heterosexual divorce rate decreases below 50%, THEN you can say something about ruining the institution of marriage. That’s the biggest crock I’ve ever heard. Gay people can’t ruin something that has been ruined already. There’s no such thing as the “Gay Bachelor/Bachelorette”… or “Who Wants to Marry a Gay Millionaire”. You try to put two complete strangers together and make the marriage work and if not... “Ah well.”

You know who else does that? Muslims. (Not knocking Muslims... some of my closest friends are Muslim). But, for these Conservative Right Wing crazies wanting to protect marriage and then pull @!$%# like this for entertainment... ARRANGING MARRIAGES for entertainment… I don’t know... it says something…

My favorite thing is that the MORMONS are the biggest religious proponents of Prop 8. I so wish a comedian would put it together here, because to me that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard… Mormons…Preaching marriage is between 1 man and 1 woman…. Mormons… It’s almost too easy…

Then of course the Catholic Bishops had to speak out, calling the decision a gross misuse of the law… This from the same people who instead of prosecuting a serial pedophile, “sent him away”… to bury it… It’s not like the pedophile molested people of the opposite sex either… Really? These are the two major religious groups you have backing Prop 8?

Oh yes! Then the “expert” himself George Rekers…The man who can cure “the gay!” Except his own….

You know what? I’m gonna touch that.

California voters are upset because, “they’ve overturned the will of the people!” Yes… How many of those “people” who voted for Prop 8 do you think are homosexual?

How does it make sense to take a majority vote on the rights of a minority?! Is simple math THAT elusive? If 20 people want the right to cross a street of 80 people, and the other 60 don’t want them to… what do you THINK is gonna happen upon a majority rule vote?

Seriously.

Civil rights should never be put to a vote. Who are you to decide what people who AREN’T you can do? Do you HEAR yourselves? I thank the good Lord that Slavery wasn’t put up to a popular vote. Praise God that Women’s Rights weren’t put up to a “popular vote”. And civil rights????

Hell, if it were up to the popular vote, I wouldn’t be able to write this and I’d still be callin’ some white man “massa”.

Prop 8 will see an ultimate demise because truthfully, it’s wrong. It takes a minority and says that they don’t have the same rights as anyone else. There is no true argument outside of religious arguments against it, and Religion has no business in Politics. If it did, I’d be in trouble. I truthfully don’t know that I could worship with as much hatred as being shown by “Christians” these days. Either way, there is no argument for it. There’s no reason for the hatred.

The fact of the matter is, marriage is a right. If I have to pay taxes, and I have to obey the other laws of the US, then I should get the same rights as everyone else; whether I want them or not.

The only thing that can truly stop a final demise of Prop 8 in the Supreme Court is that the Court forgets the little thing called the Constitution and 14th Amendment and dictates a new hierarchy of rights. The day that happens.... Canada here I come... I mean, I'm a black lesbian in the South. I won't have much of a fighting chance if that's the case, will I?

Fin

The Word of the Day is... Accountability

Fri, 9 Jul 2010 16:07:11 -0400

I’m an African American woman.

I was raised in the 80s in Texas during a time when being black could get you cussed for no reason. I’ve been a called a nigger more times than I’d like to count throughout my life. As a little girl I was told that some of my friends couldn’t play with me because of my race. I’ve had old white men come into my workplace and refuse to be served by me because of the color of my skin. (That happened in the 2000s.) Oh yeah, I’m absolutely black.

I also try to see the world as a better place than my parents were raised in. My dad was raised in New Orleans in the mid 50s/early 60s. He’s told me stories of having childhood friends beaten to death because of “talkin’ back to a white man.” He recalls travelling with a band and being chased out of Mississippi. He remembers when they integrated schools. My mother, raised in Austin, Texas, is 5 years older than my father. She remembers segregation well. She recalls a white man hitting her in her stomach just days after giving birth (via C-section) to my sister because she “talked back” thus igniting a racial fight/riot that lasted the course of almost 2 days.

I still try to be optimistic on race relations. I’m the type of person who constantly makes jokes about the racial stereotypes and differences. I don’t judge people on their race, but rather how they act. For instance, when I say the Tea Partiers appear racist; it’s NOT because they all of a sudden showed up when we finally got our first Black President in office; but rather, many of the fringe Tea Partiers show themselves to be slightly racist. (This does not apply to all, because I actually know some who just don’t like Obama, and that’s fine.) But when you make a stupid comment like Rand Paul did, you kinda show your “true colors” sort of speak. Despite all of the animosity in the US, I still try to see us as moving forward, (despite many loud politicians trying to shove us back.)

(Please understand, the few posts I’ve posted on race relations in politics is race relations in POLITICS. I personally feel that the political arena in NO way encompasses real life.)

The events of the Oakland BART shooting and the recent verdict have sent my thoughts of race relations into a tail spin. As I watched the video of shooting taken from the nearby train; my heart broke each time I saw Officer Mehserle pull his sidearm and shoot Oscar Grant in the back; murder an unarmed man that didn’t seem sinister at all. In the video, he may or may not have been mouthing off to one of the officers, but never once did I see him get violent or try to fight the police. I watched in horror as Mehserle murdered an unarmed man.

I’m very hurt for Mr. Grant’s family and I wish I could tell them that they have my deepest sympathies and my prayers are with them. Beyond sympathy however, I’m angry. More than just angry about the incident and the completely idiotic verdict that was given; I’m angry that this constantly happens. How many times must a white police officer “accidentally” shoot and kill an African American before it stops being “involuntary manslaughter”?

In 1991 – 92 I, like many African Americans watched the beating of Rodney King with shock and awe. How could the very people who we provide weapons to protect us do something like that?! I’ve never wavered in my view that the force used on Mr. King was excessive and should’ve been punished. I was certain that all of the officers caught on tape beating an unarmed man that badly would be at least fired and perhaps jailed for a time. How could someone disagree with something that was on VIDEO??! But alas, in 1992, everyone was let off. It was unbelievable. I was angry then; even at the age of 13, at the fact that cops could get away with something like that. I’ve been around cops my whole life, and generally did not have a distrust of them. In fact, I looked forward to hanging out with the cops my mom worked with. They taught me little things about police procedure, let me play with handcuffs... (Not in a bad way, pervs) and just generally made me feel safe. The verdicts in the Rodney King case was probably the first incident that opened my eyes to police brutality and that not all cops are good.

As I grew older and more mature, I started seeing more and more how not all cops are good cops. In fact, it seemed in certain areas, the last person you wanted to see if something happened, particularly if you were black, was a cop. There were times when I was in an area that wasn’t my stomping grounds, and had been harassed by the cops, but never to the point of being beaten. As years roll on, we’ve gone from (what seems to be today) a mere unnecessary beating by the cops; to having people killed by the very people who are sworn to protect and serve.

When will our court system stop protecting cops who make, not just bad decisions, but tragic decisions? I understand that there’s a catch 22 with the system. We need police. We need the laws of the land to be regulated and upheld. We need protection from the genuinely bad people in the world. For the police officers out there who take their job of protection and serving seriously, I commend you and appreciate you.

The courts seem to forget the cops are people first. A murderer without a badge is a murderer when he pulls the trigger; same as a murderer with a badge. I’ve personally held both a taser gun and a sidearm. (Not the exact sidearm but probably close.) There’s NO WAY to mix up the two. First of all, I saw nothing in the video leading up to the shooting to show that there was even a need for a tasering. Secondly, who fires ANYTHING without looking first? Why didn’t his cop buddies who were also there wonder, “Dude, why are you reaching for your sidearm?” I mean, seriously?! All attention seemed to be on Mr. Grant, did no one NOTICE? Why was there a need to draw ANYTHING? The other question I have is, why is it when at least three eye witnesses say that no one actively resisted the officers at the time is that not taken into consideration?

Let’s for the sake of argument say that Mehserle, did in fact miraculously pull his sidearm instead of a taser and this was one GIGANTIC screw up on his part. This “screw up” cost a man his life. His daughter will grow up without a father. If this “screw up” were made by a regular civilian would they just receive a verdict of “involuntary manslaughter”? I’ll push it one further, if Mehserle were black and Grant were white, could Mehserle use the “Ooops Defense” or would the D.A. paint him to be some sadistic aggressor that lost his temper and acted in a fit of rage? Why was the case allowed to be moved from Oakland all the way down to Los Angeles where (let’s face it), one is hard pressed to get justice against police brutality? Does no one else find it ironic that not a one juror was an African American?

Whatever happened to "And justice for all?" Does Oscar Grant not deserve justice?

I’m so incredibly sick about this incident. I’m sick that it seems there will never be any accountability taken for fatal mistakes made by police officers. I get that officers shouldn’t doubt themselves, but at the same time, if you KILL someone or use excessive force on someone where there is VIDEO EVIDENCE that it seems unjustified; perhaps that is the time that the Brotherhood should stop protecting their own.

Shit like this makes me afraid for my children.

Shit like this makes me afraid for my wife.

Shit like this makes me afraid for myself.

Fin

Too Real to be Fiction...Part 3

Mon, 7 Jun 2010 14:06:40 -0400

While I Slept

While we sat in the waiting room, pacing, waiting for word on the surgery, my sister and my Aunt and Uncle (who I had never known to leave Austin ever!) came tearing into the waiting room. Now Austin is a good 2 ½ hours away, and last I heard my sister was in the hospital. It was early to mid afternoon, and there they were in Ft. Worth. It was from my sister I learned what happened that morning.

My mom woke early and went home, (despite the 14 year voice begging her not to), to dress for work. While she ironed her clothes, she called my sister at the hospital to check on her. My sister was on the phone when my step-father came in. She heard the whole thing. She heard my mom beg my step-father not to shoot her. She heard my mother wrestle my step-father into a corner when the gun jammed the first time. She heard her run out of the house and the two shots that step-father got off as she ran next door for help. All my sister could do was yell over and over, “MOMMA! MOMMA!”

Naturally the whole ordeal, particularly hearing it from almost 3 hours away did not help my sister’s asthma. She called my aunt, and told the doctors she had to get out of the hospital. The doctors attempted to calm her down, as her lungs were still inflamed from the previous attack and she was still being treated, but her panic caused more breathing problems and the doctors had to make a decision. Either they make her stay in the hospital and risk more health problems because of her panic, or they release her with some strong medication to come up to Ft. Worth.

If you knew my sister, you’d know that wasn’t much of a choice. My aunt and uncle drove her straight from the hospital in Austin to Ft. Worth, and they arrived as my mom was still in surgery.

Also while we waited, I learned that my father was at the hospital working (he’s a surgical RN) when my mother arrived via Care Flight. He heard the name and ran up to meet the helicopter. He was with her while they assessed the damage. He stopped the doctors from giving her medicine that she was allergic to, thus saving her life. He asked her where I was. She didn’t know, but she did tell him I wasn’t home when it happened. After knowing she’d be ok, he left for his surgery.

Of course I got an earful and then some when he called the waiting room to see if I was there. Apparently, a 14 year old is supposed to think of EVERYTHING and thus it was completely irresponsible of me not to call my father. Whatever. He was a jerk about it, but I know now it was sheer terror that made him go nuts.

My mom came out of surgery after a while. (Time wasn’t a factor at the time.) And we were told the first 24 hours were the critical ones. 1 bullet went straight through her arm, not hitting anything major, but the second bullet went into her back and struck both her liver and a kidney. That bullet they couldn’t get out.

While we waited for her to get out of recovery and into her own ICU room, (we were hell bent on going back there TOGETHER rather than one by one), my brother, sister and I were able to talk a little bit about what happened. They asked me what happened the day before, and why I wasn’t home when all of this transpired. When I told them, it was my siblings who understood the implication that I failed to see.

My mother was shot on Friday June 10^th. I was supposed to go to my father’s for the summer on Monday June 13^th after our weekend at Camp Meeting. Atria knew this, because he had been married to my mother for almost 7 years. He wasn’t only coming to kill my mother; he was coming to kill me as well.

My brother drew it out for me. My bedroom in the house was towards the side. The only way out of the bedroom was my window. (Which my mother never knew I didn’t lock.) If I would’ve been there when he broke in, my mother’s first instinct would have been to run to my room to protect me. That’s probably the motherly instinct of about 95% of the mothers out there. (you’d be surprised on that 5%). We would’ve been trapped in my room, or my window would’ve picked THAT time to be rusted or SOMETHING. Basically we’d both be in the hospital or worse if I would’ve been there. My mom had that bad feeling, and it saved my life. I only wish she would’ve listened to me to prevent her suffering.

Every June 10^th, I remember these events for several reasons. First, it reminds me how strong my mother truly is. I mean, she wrestled the man down to get away and there was at least a good 1 foot height difference and about 50 lbs in weight. (in his favor). That strength she garnered is amazing to me; but then, I always hear that there’s no strength like a mother’s strength.

Secondly, (and I speak from my own personal belief), it makes me realize that there IS in fact a God. Again, this is my own experience, but there are so many factors that played in our survival, both my mother’s and my own. She had begun to work out, and trust me; we’re all tubby in my family. She’d lost A LOT of weight from the time they split and the shooting, and had developed quite a bit of muscle. At her health before the split, she would’ve never been able to wrestle the man or outrun him. She didn’t even know she was shot in the back until she reached the next door neighbor. I believe God led her to start working out months before this happened in preparation. Also, her warning signal, the gut wrenching feeling that caused her to arrange for ulterior sleeping arrangements saved our life. Two days later when Atria turned himself into the police, he admitted that he had gone to our house the night before the shooting only to find us not at home. It angered him, which made him stalk the house on Friday, but if we would’ve been there Thursday, it would’ve been both of us.

Lastly, it makes me grateful every year I have her. Sure she drives me nuts… about 80% of the time, but she also made me who I am today. She’s always had my best interest at heart, and has loved me unconditionally.

Atria served 12 years in State Prison, and once he was released he was re-diagnosed with cancer. He died about a year ago. I was sort of bothered because I hadn’t laid eyes on him since before he shot my mother. I would’ve loved to have seen him as an adult. Not to say anything to him, but just to show him that as much as he tried, he didn’t break me. He took my innocence, he made me live in a prison type environment, and he tried to take my mother; but he didn’t break me. I guess it’s a closure thing. Ah well. It’s not that important.

We didn’t break; my family is stronger than ever…especially my mom.

Fin

Too Real to Be Fiction... Part 2

Mon, 7 Jun 2010 12:06:24 -0400

June 10, 1994

The little girl bolted up at 7:05am. She was confused for a minute, forgetting where she was. After looking around the guest room she remembered that she was with Leah. After figuring out where she was, she relaxed and lay back down. She slept, but fitfully, feeling awkward, but not knowing why.

At 7:30am she got out of bed and dressed quietly. She walked into the living room to find Leah finishing up her preparations for work. Leah had obtained a summer job at a church daycare and had to be at work at 8. Leah’s grandmother would drop the child home on the way to taking Leah to work. Fifteen minutes later, they were in the car on the way to the girl’s house. Upon pulling up to the house, they noticed a couple of cop cars and some police tape. At first, the trio thought something had happened at a nearby house. It wasn’t until the police officer approached the car as it parked outside of the house that they saw that the police tape was around the girl’s house.

The girl, still half sleep and not completely understanding, got out of the car, and started towards her home. She was stopped by the next door neighbor who approached her wringing her hands.

“You need to come to my house.” She was saying. The girl had known the woman most of her life, as it was a very small town and they attended the same church, but the woman always weirded the child out a little.

“I’ll be fine.” The little girl retorted. In her mind, the period of alarm had passed.

“Your mother told me you should really come over here.” The woman insisted.

“No, I’ve been a latch-key kid since I was 8, I’ll be fine.” The girl said again moving towards her house.

“I’m trying to tell you your mother is in the hospital!” The woman blurted. The girl stopped mid stride and faced the woman.

“You mean my sister is in the hospital.” The girl said slowly and deliberately, certain the woman misheard the message delivered by my mother.

“No. Your mother is in the hospital! Your step-dad broke in and shot her this morning.” She said again urgently.

All of the air left my lungs. All sound except for the blood rushing in my ears ceased. My vision clouded.

She wasn’t supposed to go home. I thought to myself. She was supposed to go straight to work and then home and we’re supposed to go to Austin or Camp Meeting.

“Is she alive?” I stammered.

“I think so. She was when they took her. That was about an hour ago.” My neighbor said.

I checked my watch. It was close to 8am. Briefly I thought back to my jolt at 7:05am that morning at Leah’s house. I don’t really put a lot of salt to “psychic” anything, but I will say, something woke me and wouldn’t let me go back to sleep. Some call it a “psychic” feeling, I prefer to think it God; it all depends on your beliefs.

I faintly heard a sob from the street. I looked over to find Leah crying her eyes out and her Grandmother trying to speak to a police officer. I had momentarily forgotten that they were still there. I walked over to Leah.

“I’m so sorry, B.” She said to me. I gave her a hug. That’s all I could do. Her grandmother walked over and hugged me.

“They don’t know much.” She said. I nodded absently.

“Go ahead and go.” I told them.

“Are you sure?” They both asked. I nodded again. At the time I had no idea what I was going to do, I figured I’d sit in the house until someone came over to get me. They fussed a little more over me, and after a few minutes they were gone. As I watched them drive away I started to notice the crowd that gathered around my house. People looked at me with pitiful looks. I heard whispers of, “That’s her daughter.” Or “Poor thing.” But no one took a step towards me. Even the police officers carried on securing the area and didn’t seem to notice I was there.

I turned and approached the house again. That got a cop’s attention.

“Excuse me? Who are you?” He asked me.

“This is my house. My mother was the one shot.” I said tersely. His look softened.

“You can’t go in there. It’s a crime scene.” He said softly. It didn’t occur to me that there would be an investigation going on. I guess my head didn’t wrap itself around the fact that they hadn’t caught my step-father yet.

“Oh.” I said absently. I was still holding a bag of clothes that I had taken to Leah’s. “Can I put this in my room? It’s right there I can put it in through the window.” I said pointing at the exterior window.

The cop looked at the window and studied me for a while. He looked around nervously, then finally said, “Go ahead.”

After putting my clothes in my bedroom, I walked around the yard aimlessly, still feeling the eyes of the rubbernecking neighbors on me. The only neighbor I knew was the next door neighbor, who was waiting for me to go to her house. I really didn’t want to. I sat down on the curb outside my house and just stared aimlessly. A couple of police officers came passed in front of me. Every time one came in my line of vision, I asked the question I was afraid to know.

“Is my mom alive?”

None of them could answer me. They kind of shrugged and went on questioning neighbors. I just sat there, for God knows how long, on the curb, alone and terrified. I didn’t have a way to call anyone. (No cell phones back then.) I didn’t want to go to the neighbors’ house. I just sat on the curb trying to breathe.

The unmarked cruiser came barreling down the road a little while later. I can’t tell you how long, because I really don’t know how long I sat there. I looked up at as the car pulled up on the scene, thinking it was another cop from the city we lived in, until the driver got out. It was my mom’s boss, a Lt. at the police department she worked in, the next town over.

Lt. Laseman kinda scared me. Looking back, I think he had scoliosis or something, but he almost had a hunch. He walked very slowly and deliberately, and he reminded me kind of a turtle. He was nice enough to me when I visited my mom’s job, but I don’t know, he was older, and you know how kids are with older people who look, “funny.” He also had a very gruff voice. Like he had been gargling gravel or something with a heavy southern drawl.

As soon as Lt. Laseman got out of his cruiser, he surveyed the scene and his eyes landed on me. Our eyes met, and his gaze softened tremendously, and rather than going to any of the other cops, he began to walk directly to the curb on which I sat. I stood up and ran to him, forgetting the fact that he reminded me of a turtle. He gave me a hug, and I prayed he knew the answer to my question.

“Lt. Laseman, is my mom alive?” I asked him with my face in his belly.

“I really don’t know, but we’re going to go find out.” He said. He put me in his car and talked to the CO on the crime scene for a minute. To this day, I don’t know exactly what they talked about, but when Laseman showed his badge, and I assume told the CO that the woman who had been shot was with the PD in the next town. After talking the CO’s face turned grim, and he stopped talking and nodded a lot. Laseman shook his hand and got into the car where I was waiting.

“Buckle up kid.” Laseman said in his gravel voice. “We’re gonna go pretty fast.”

He put the car in gear and told me what he knew. Apparently after the shooting, my mom had been sent to Ft. Worth on Care Flight as Ft. Worth had the closest trauma center. It was 40 minutes away, but via helicopter it wouldn’t have taken that long. He got his information from the CO on the scene, and that’s all he knew. He told me that when he found out, he had one of his officers call my brother, and he took the responsibility of driving to our house, and finding out what happened and also to find out what happened to me.

“We heard the call on the radio, and it only mentioned your mom. We were wondering where you were. You got some worried folks at the dept right now.” He said reaching for his radio. I stared out the window as I overheard him relay in his policeman code that he was on his way to the hospital, and that I was fine.

The dispatcher, a lady who always gave me candy when I visited my mom at the station said, “Thank God. 10-4.”

I was listening to all this but not realizing the implication of it all, because I was so concerned with the well being of my mom.

When we made it to the hospital Lt. Laseman lead me into the ER badging his way past the red tape I would’ve run into without him. When we finally go back to one of the triage rooms, the doctor was telling Laseman that my mom was indeed alive, and that they were prepping her for surgery. He didn’t seem keen on letting me back, until Laseman used his gravel voice to persuade him otherwise. He lead us to the room and when the door opened I saw my mother on the gurney, and then I saw the blood.

My God, there was so much blood.

The prep nurse looked up shocked to see a kid coming back, which made my mom turn her head.

She turned her head. She was moving.

I walked slowly to her, and the first thing she said was:

“There’s my baby. How are you?”

That’s when I lost it. I kept my brave face on the hold time. I didn’t shed a tear from the time the whole ordeal started until that moment. I saw the blood the pain she was going through, and the first thing she said to me was, ‘how are you’? I began to bawl like a big baby.

“Don’t cry baby, Momma’s gonna be alright.” She told me. She reached for me painfully. I walked to her and took her hand, still bawling. My brother entered the room and halted when he saw our mother. His voice cracked.

“Mom?” He said from the door. I turned and saw my big brother, the one man that I looked up to and trusted with everything, the person who took care of me as if I were his child almost crack before my eyes. I opened my arm, and stepped to the side for him to come to my mom’s bedside. He put his arm around me and I handed him my mom’s bloody hand.

“Hey baby.” She smiled weakly at him. We stood there not saying much, me blubbering, and my brother fighting tears. The doctor entered and said he had to take her to surgery. Reluctantly we stepped away from the bed and watched them wheel our mother to the OR.