In the spirit of the Tea Partiers and of course tax day, I have decided to let my readers bitch about whatever is on their mind.
I just finished my taxes and I owed more than I did last year. That is my reward for working and not having children, or owning a home or driving a car.
In fact, I made less money than last year and I got taxed more…Go figure.
Autographed Letter Signed,
AFROCITY
So much for the left wing being open, tolerant and understanding.
The right to free speech and assembly are American freedoms that the left seems to believe is only available to them. Why else would the Tea Party movement unnerve them so much to the point that they attempt to discredit it as a racist bunch of rednecks? If you attend a Tea Party rally, some skinhead is sure to be there just thinking the “N-word” . Even if you are an African American Tea Party participant, you are simply invisible to the liberals. No, No, there are no blacks in the Tea Party and someone is there about to say the “N-word”. He/she doesn’t have to say it but a liberal knows they are thinking it. Unlike left wing protesters, Tea Party folks are hateful anti-Obama racists out to kill our president.
From I Own The World
Liberal moonbats are psychic clairvoyant mind readers you know. Someone was thinking that awful word at the Tea Party. How else could you explain liberal claims of John Lewis being called racially derogatory remarks without there being any proof on tape? If John Lewis and the AFL-CIO head Richard Trumpka (aka union scum), says racists are at Tea Party rallies then betcha by golly it must be true.
I love it! Protesters of Tea Party protesters. Andrew Breitbart just imagined those liberals throwing eggs at the Tea Party bus. As if in a moonbat fever, some liberals so badly want to discredit the Tea Party movement that they will stoop so low in the donkey cesspool to serve as Tea Party poseurs.
The blacks at the Tea Party rallies must be vampires because their image does not capture on liberal video tape. All people of color love Obama right? So this African American man who created a YOU TUBE video describing why blacks should NOT be Democrats is just some illusion?
Liberals just don’t get it. Obama’s election is actually a blessing in disguise for conservatives. With their golden ass made in God’s image now seated in the White House, their behavior has been on auto-pilot and without filters. Now they have finally outed themselves as the most oppressive, racist, controlling and manipulative political party known to Americans. The peaceful liberal protest and shining happy people fighting for freedom of speech for all has been debunked. It is okay to hate a president if he is a Republican.
I have said to my PUMA sisters that you can waste your time attempting impossibly to save the Democrats from their own poison. They are a train wreck. No longer what they once were, the Party of ASS is now only a shill for Obamabots and socialism. Drinking Kool Aid by the gallons, five swallows at a time without stopping to check out their reflection in the mirror of truth. Dribblings of purple dye all over their mouths and shirts. They look absolutely and positively ugly and amazing.
Autographed Letter Signed,
AFROCITY
Someday inevitably all of the Beatles will be gone and buried but the their songs will remain a treasure of my life. My favorite Beatle is Paul McCartney. I love his song writing and I can tell the difference between who wrote what in a “Lennon/McCartney” song. John Lennon was a great musician but he was defiant- a rebel. He had an almost abusive anger about him which was apparent even in his more tranquil and reflective songs such as Imagine. “Now is the time to act” is the message Lennon wanted to convey. The world is a barren war filled place and we are at its mercy.
“I’m just sitting here doing time,
I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round–”John Lennon
Paul McCartney on the other hand gives me a feeling of sadness but hope. Yes he acknowledges that life is about loss but he is able to recognize that the loss is something that we should embrace as a natural order. In that there is beauty. A trail of comfort can be seen in McCartney songs. He is a healer if not physically then emotionally. His album Flaming Pie was written shortly before his first wife Linda, died of cancer. One of the tracks “Willow” really moves me. McCartney wrote this as a tribute to Maureen Starkey, Ringo Starr’s first wife who died of cancer in 1994.
There are many things to admire in his use of tone. Respect for the power of loss and a sense of control in succumbing to it.
Hey Jude leaves me feeling the same. Written as a comforting verse for small Julian Lennon, the lyrics begin with a poignancy but ends in victory…Take a sad song and make it better. John loved Yoko but it was Julian who was left behind without a father. Paul captured the loss of a young boy touched by divorce and turned it into a lyrical masterpiece.
So why I am writing about the Beatles songs on a political blog? The reason I need music is to cope. Something has to give me hope and strength to carry on through these barren times. The “historic moment” was not enough for me. It never was. Lately I have been taking a much needed break from writing. I did not want to contribute anything negative to an already polarizing political climate. Mother always said if you have nothing nice to say…
Instead I decided to digest in silence my fat healthcare bill meal that was shoved down my throat. Obama and the Democrats were rushing ahead with their gloating while actual people were still suffering. One afternoon, I was riding the bus home from the Art Institute of Chicago. My arms were carrying two shopping bags of gift shop goodies I caught on a 60% off sale. Posters of old Chicago and some decorative Japanese bowls. Nothing I really needed, they just looked pretty and I desperately needed some pretty in my life again. The morning had been chilly but by 3:00PM, my trench coat and tights were itchy from the 68 degree breeze. For some reason my bus card was rejected. I knew I had put ten dollars on it. Kindly, as I was about to dig in the abyss of my Marc Jacobs purse, the bus woman told me to sit down and forget about it. She must have thought I looked pathetic with all of my bags. I was. Not a young girl anymore, aching feet and ready to go home. As we moved down State Street, I shut my eyes while the sun was shining on my face. Mother and I used to take this bus I thought. So long ago when there was no Obama or iPods, just us…
My public moment of solitude was interrupted by two aged men speaking loudly about Chicago politics. Both were decidedly suspicious of everything- as they should be in Chicago. Gossipy tones plagued the bus now as the two “magpies” began a Heckle and Jeckel esque conversation about Obama. They supported him, that much I could tell. Jesus nearly everyone in Chicago did but me. As one man dug a thermos out of his bag and begin to drink, the other gave his monologue on political theory and Obama. Politics is a cesspool and Obama is untainted.
Drinking, magpie #2 just nodded: He is too classy for that Daley shit.
Magpie #1: He is too smart for that…Keep your friends close but your enemies closer…that is the Obama way.
Magpie#2: (Wiping some liquid from his mouth with the back of his hand) Like with his cabinet. That Hillary chick. You know put her in the cabinet that way you can watch her…watch what she is doing… control the woman so she don’t say or do nothing to hurt you later. She ain’t running for nothing now ’cause she too busy with that secretary post.
Magpie#1: (nodding, thin shirt soaked with sweat at the armpits) Yep like I said keep your enemies close.
Afrocity: (rolls eyes).
My bus stop could not have come soon enough. So tired of Obamabots and their verbal Kool Aid droppings. Where is my Ipod? Ugh. One of the magpies smiled at me as I went to the exit door. “Hi sweetie,” he said.
I sneered. Get real Mr. Delusional. I am not attracted to you in this dimension or any other and Hillary is not an enemy of Barack Obama. He is an enemy of us. He is an enemy of women… of the American way and everything our forefathers stood for. He is the cesspool.
Once in my apartment, my non-partisan cat greeted me at the door. “Meow”
I was his government and he wanted to be fed. I was fine with the arrangement. He paid his taxes in affection and warmth for my feet at night. I will pay for his food and healthcare.
Reaching for the cat’s special $1.89 a can grain free, venison cat food (because he is a diabetic), I wondered if my cat were under Obamacare and not Afrocity-care would he be afforded the luxury of premium cat food? Duck, venison, pheasant, along with a raw diet. The can was opened and the cat knew I would deliver the goods. I hummed “Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night”
“Take these broken wings and learn to fly“
The cat hovered over the dish as I clopped in a hunk of wet venison. He brushed against my hand and began to devour his meal. The cat and I…A symbiotic relationship between two animals. Just like Obama wants it between Americans and the Federal Government.
Autographed Letter Signed,
AFROCITY.
Cakes By One of my favorite artists, Wayne Thiebaud
A sense of accomplishment is in the air. Today is the first anniversary of ALS. Wow an entire year. What brought me, lil ol’ Afrocity to create this blog in the first place? In short, after not quite fitting in at The Confluence and not quite fitting in at Little Green Footballs (which turned out to be a liberal blog disguised as a center right blog or some strange experiment in blogger as evil puppet master), I decided to get my own diggs.
"Lemon cake" by Wayne Thiebaud
Shedding a political spouse, in my case the Democratic Party, required some solitude and space to explore my values. What do I really want for my country? What causes are worth fighting for? I had to ask myself these things because for so long I played in the liberal sandbox watching my pals kick down castles of military defense, christian values, parental rights and all sorts of things that really mattered to me. Externally, I muttered yeah “fuck the military!”, “burn that flag” , “sure the government owes blacks” but internally, especially as I aged, I winced at mostly everything liberals stood for with the exception of women’s rights. Compassion and equal opportunity for all is something I can agree with. I had it in me to be a good liberal, however I also had it in me to be a better conservative.
There is a difference between being a compassionate person and an enabler. Liberals have a tendency to dramatize the human condition, particularly that of minorities and any one they see as down-trodden. When you just spend, spend, spend money- tax dollars- on “compassionate programs” , you have to take a step back in order to see if those programs are really helping anyone or are they enabling a persistent problem to turn into a generational saga. Let’s take welfare programs for example and you know how I feel about those.
"Watermelon Slices" by Wayne Thiebaud
One of the reasons I am against government assistance is because I grew up on it. And yes, it fed me, kept me adequately healthy, but did it advance me or my mother? No. Did it pay for my prom dress? No. Prom was a big deal to a 17 year old girl. How would the $250 government check pay for my prom gown, my hair appointment, my #352 pink dyed shoes to match my dress and my jewelry? The answer was, it would not. Mother went looking for dresses at the Salvation Army store, meanwhile Afrocity began looking for a job. This image of one of us actually working was a bit much for my mother to handle, “you know they will cut us off, ” she warned.
"Rosebud Cakes" by Wayne Thiebaud
I did not care, I had a date with a Victor Costa gown at Nieman Marcus. School by day, working until 1am as a hostess at a Mexican restaurant was tough. In retrospect, it was dangerous to take the bus home so late at night. My school work was neglected B’s morphed into C’s. One night I was so tired, I fell asleep with the curling iron still rolled in my hair. When you are young, you can put up with a lot and my first paycheck made all of the trouble worth it. My first paycheck- that I earned for my work. Money not for nothing but for something I did besides being black and poor. I came to a particular understanding that my mother had yet to achieve. Welfare may let you survive but it doesn’t let you live. Maybe I got the job out of necessity. I had a need that a welfare check could not fulfill. I had a dream about a dress but what about my life beyond the dress? What happens when welfare will not pay for your dreams?
Republican candidates would appear on television, right away before they could speak several words, my mother would shout, “They are only for the rich people, they want to cut welfare and programs in order to hurt blacks.” Funny how our lives did not improve much under Jimmy Carter. Funny how mother’s life did not improve much under Bill Clinton, until she was forced to get a job because the conservative state of Texas would not let her draw a government check just for being her wonderful self.
Shakes by Wayne Thiebaud
In working, she began to buy nice things, take me to lunch, actually act and behave as mother. When she lost the job, she lost her sense of self again. Being 65, by that time, the government was there waiting for her to pick up the pieces. Back she went to waiting for their check. When she died, she had not more than $345 in her bank account. I reported her deceased and the government took back $325 and left her with $20. Why was I angry? True, it was Uncle Sam’s money to give to her and she was dead. However, could he not at least left her with some dignity and money to be buried with? He left her with what she came to him with…Nothing. Nothing at all but her life and the clothes on her back.
The reason I created this blog was to chronicle the thoughts and feelings of a reformed liberal. To some degree I am still evolving. One of the problems some of my critics have with me is my ability to be so compassionate and pathetic, yet turn into a brutal critic of the Obama administration. A lot of people, especially those of color call me a self-loathing Auntie Tom who has sold out. They think I am really a liberal and delusional on some level about my move towards conservatism. I have struggled this year with the enormity of my exodus from Donkeyville. People especially, PUMA’s have posted and gone. Once friends are now distant acquaintances in the political blogosphere.
"8 Lipsticks" by Wayne Thiebaud
Am I happier now having left the Democrats? Oh definitely yes. That party is unrecognizable to me. This country and the direction it is moving in is unrecognizable to me.
Am I a well rounded conservative? Oh definitely, no. I remain pro-choice. There are many things to admire about the pro-life movement but a woman’s choice is a woman’s choice and she should always have the freedom to make that choice.
As this blog continues, I am always hoping to attract people who are willing to hear and understand both sides of an issue.
Before you can help people, you have to first listen to them. This simple practice is something that is severely lacking in the Obama administration and among many compassionate liberals.
Give people what they need, not what you think they need. Give people the ability to help themselves, not a lifetime sentence to be helped by you. You cannot wave a magic wand and expect to end world hunger, wars, pain, sickness, global warming and paper cuts using other people’s money. Your reward will be debt, depression and a lowered moral among those who actually do contribute to society.
You cannot have your cake and eat it too.
Autographed Letter Signed on this our 1 year anniversary,
AFROCITY
It is never really one place or one time that I think about how lucky I am to be alive…How lucky we all are.
My mother always taught me that life is a gift, something that we should respect. Since childhood, the Easter holiday has been special to me.
Mother and I would always buy jelly beans and Paas Easter Kits. Off to Marshall Fields department store we would go to purchase a nice outfit for myself, complete with a flowerful purse, lace gloves and a bonnet.
Would the cruel Chicago weather subside to allow the use of these holy garments? Ah! It did not matter. Even if it were 45 degrees, young Afrocity would dress to the hilt on Easter, patent leather white Mary Jane shoes and all – freezing her cottontail off.
Mother would shake her head in disapproval,
“You just had to wear that outfit didn’t you? Look at how foolish you look in those lace bobby socks shaking like a leaf.”
Who cared if my body temperature was that of an icicle! I was stylin’ and honoring the day that Christ rose from the dead. Jesus wanted me to look my best. Later on Easter night, we would watch The Ten Commandments. My favorite part was God’s powerful voice:
“THOU SHALT NOT KILL.”
Spiritual salvage is all about reusing lessons of the past but today, I am a far cry from that little Easter girl. There is no clove scented ham baking in the oven or failed attempts at blowing eggs to make Ukrainian style decorations (that was a passing childhood obsession that drove my mother crazy). Instead just me and my boxes in my new apartment. Tired and sore from lifting. Not a chocolate bunny in sight, only empty pizza boxes and bubble wrap.
I have never missed my mother more than today.
Unlike Jesus, she is not coming back from the dead. This was made more evident when I opened the box containing her ashes. Moved from one apartment to another just like my china. With a deep sigh, I placed the box in a credenza cabinet. The only thing that would be resurrected was my yearning for the past. When life was simpler. When I could recognize my country.
During my unpacking frenzy, I was able to sneak in an internet break or two and catch the daily happenings. One unfortunate event in Chicago caught my eye, it seems my fair city is getting some much needed practice in before Obamacare goes into full effect. This year, the Chicago weather ignored the trend of freezing off the cute Easter bonnets.
Once April hit, the Windy City was boasting temperatures that climbed into the low 80’s…and a murder rate that climbed into the 40’s in just two days. While warm weather devotees rejoice over the Easter holiday and peel off the winter clothing, Chicago’s youth are hatching out of hibernation with knives and guns.
From the Chicago Sun Times:
Brazen shooting just blocks from top cop
Weis was speaking about recent crime wave in which 41 were shot
April 3, 2010
BY ART GOLAB
After 26 hours of violence that left 41 people shot and four dead, Police Supt. Jody Weis called a press conference Friday afternoon in the Englewood neighborhood — the site of three of the shootings.
But just as the press event ended, Weis had to cut short an interview because of a report of shots fired just blocks away.
It turned out a 25-year-old man was shot at 69th and Paulina and taken to the hospital in critical condition.
Weis had just announced a series of police responses to the warm-weather crime wave, including a crackdown on what he called “large gatherings, illegal parties and large house parties.”
It was a house party that got out of control that led to three separate shootings and one death in the Englewood neighborhood, Weis said.
Weis said problem parties often occur in vacant or abandoned buildings, and he appealed to the public to alert police to such happenings.
“These unauthorized parties often involve underage drinking, little or no security and are held in unlicensed locations,” Weis said. “They are simply not equipped to handle large crowds. They are a disaster waiting to happen.”
Police will also step up enforcement of curfew violations, increase foot and tactical unit patrols in targeted areas and focus on bars and other “problem establishments” that generate more than their share of 911 calls.
“These places are madhouses of criminal activity and tie down precious resources which could be deployed fighting crime,” Weis said.
The 41 people shot between the end of Wednesday and 2 a.m. Friday included four people who were wounded outside the Magnolia nightclub near 122nd and Halsted, Weis said.
Other shooting sites included Bronzeville, Grand Crossing and South Shore. During one especially violent stretch, 16 people were shot in a little more than two hours.
Among those was a woman who said she was shot in the arm in Millennium Park about 12:30 a.m., but did not report it until she was treated in a Melrose Park hospital. Police have questioned where the shooting happened.
Weis noted that the second Englewood shooting occurred despite the immediate presence of three dozen heavily armed and uniformed police officers.
“It shows the complete brazen lack of respect for authority.” Weis said. “The question that I have to ask is, what would they do when we’re not here?”
Ahem, excuse me Officer Weis who uttered “…It shows the complete brazen lack of respect for authority.” Don’t you think that is an understatement? The Chicago Police Department have gotten into the bad habit of thinking they are holding the remote control for Chicago’s violence. When you find black on black crime- and this is what it is. I am not about to parse this as a Chicago wide problem. It is about African Americans and Latinos killing each other while Louis Farrakhan is worried about some conservative nut job killing President Obama.
The Tea Partiers are not the problem in America. Obamacare will never put a Band Aid on what is going on in Chicago.
Louis Farrakhan, Barack Obama, William Ayers, Father Pfleger, Valorie Jarret are all opportunistic parasites on Chicago’s African American community. These are not community leaders. Chicago murders and youth violence is plentiful in supply, more abundantly so since Obama’s election. The hot trend at the moment lies not in the weather but in a surprisingly brazen lack of respect for LIFE in the black community. A surprisingly brazen lack of hope after the chosen one resurrected “black pride” from the dead.
Rather than enjoying the Easter weekend outside in the 70 degree weather, I stayed in and unpacked. A little spider crawled on the widow sill as I opened a box of knick knacks. Annoyed, I began to swat him with an old Vogue magazine then I remembered God’s loud voice.
“THOU SHALT NOT KILL”
Stopped dead in the rolled up magazine’s tracks, I calmly searched through boxes for my Dust Buster. In the spider went, vacuumed and alive. It was good for the little creature to be outside I thought as I emptied the filter and he crawled onto my patio.
“Use your imagination, ” the black kids were told. “Now even YOU can be President of the United States.”
Sure they can ..If they can only hope to have a much of a fighting chance for life as a spider.
Autographed Letter Signed,
AFROCITY
Perhaps the single one and only salutary effect that the passage of Obamacare has had on my life, is jolting my father out of the land of the Obama living dead by raising his concerns about the intrusion of the government in our lives.
I have not known my father for that long.
I speak to him about once every three months.
Everyday I text him an inspirational message. “HEY YOUR LIFE CAN BE AS GREAT AS YOU WANT IT TO BE”
He texts back: “Thanks baby girl…let’s get 2 gethur soon.”
Okay, so I don’t know my father very well at all.
I cannot tell you his favorite color or anything that would require me to have lived around the man for sometime. Total time spent in the same room with my father would probably equal about 1.5 months of my life. However, I do know that we bear more than a passing resemblance. He contributed to my DNA. For some unexplainable reason we both like metaphysical/new age books. We both prefer to eat duck on Thanksgiving rather than turkey. And finally, we both hate to be forced into doing anything–especially if someone else like the government claims that it is for our own good.
Over the last year, I have noticed that I am taxed for doing everything wrong and nothing right.
I don’t own a home so I am a dirt bag in the eyes of the IRS.
I don’t have children so I am an even bigger dirt bag.
It is actually “greener” not to have a child but will the feds give me a tax break for that?
Nope, instead they tax me for drinking bottled water and 10.25% sales tax for living in a major liberal city.
The sin tax fever has also spread like a disease into our day to day and necessary life event transactions. After all, isn’t this is the heyday of liberalism and shouldn’t life imitate government?
This “make em’ pay” for their sins mentality translates into fees for the petty residual activities that we have to do just to make our lives work. You see dear readers, if you have to perform step A in order to move to step B, then you must be charged for it.
I am moving this week, which is why I have been behind in blogging. Let me demonstrate how moving is a sin.
Afrocity must move from apartment A to apartment B.
In order to move, I must reserve an elevator. My reservation requires an administrative fee of $500 to move out of apartment A. What can I do, right? I must move out so I have to pay the fee.
Meanwhile Apartment B- the place I MUST move in to, requires an administrative fee of $600 to move in.
What can I do, right? I must move in so I have to pay the fee. Additionally when I went to pick up my keys and parking permit, I was told that there was another administrative fee for getting the actual permit. Meaning $100 for my actually picking up the permit. I pay an extra $175 a month in my rent for the parking spot but it was a one time administrative fee of $100 to actually pick up the permit.
As I discussed this with my father, he was puzzled.
“I remember a time when all you had to do was get a U-haul and just move in,” he said.
“Not anymore,” I said as I recalled mother and I just paying the first month’s rent and a security deposit during the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s …heck even during the first five years of the new millennium. “Now,” I continued. “If you have to do it, you have to pay for it…I would not be surprised if someday we were charged “administrative fees” or taxed for buying tampons. Why not? Women MUST have a monthly period. A girl’s gotta move out of her apartment and bleed, so why not tax us for it. “
My dad laughed but I was serious. Every apartment I looked at had a move in/move out fee. Even the small brownstone apartments. Sure everybody, you already charge us tax for the shit we like to do such as smoking, drinking bottled water, eating junk food. Now lets get together and figure out how to charge people for the shit they MUST do.
If you MUST do it let’s charge you for it.
On an airplane if you are on a long trip, you must check your bags. Let’s charge you for it.
Actually this is a great strategy to screw people put of all sorts of money and their freedom.
Obama and his liberal minions have pushed healthcare into that all important MUST HAVE category. If you don’t want it, you will pay. You see health care is not something that everybody wants to have.
For some like my aunt, who loathes doctors and actually believes that they implant microchips into your immunization syringe in order to track your every movement, healthcare is a dangerous thing.
For my father who hates to have to do anything because someone told him to, Obamacare is an imposition.
“I don’t like this business of us just having to get this government stuff. If I wanted to pay I would have bought good healthcare to begin with…not that government crap…and you know it won’t be as good as Blue Cross or Aetna…waiting in line while people are dying in the chair next to you…But he [Obama] says he will help us pay for it…”
Dad didn’t sound too confident.
For my sane aunt, who works at a hospital of all places, Obamacare is taking away her freedom to choose and keep the healthcare plan she has loved for years. She voted for Obama. She does not want him to win a second term.
“I never should of voted for him,” she said. “I will never again vote for a person because they are black. I don’t want their [the Democrats] plan shoved down my throat. I wanted to retire next year, now Social Security says I can’t because they do not have the money. The hell with healthcare, just give me my money and let me retire. “
My reply to her, “But you know auntie, not having healthcare is a sin.”
” Then heaven help us,” she laughed but it was not a happy laugh.
She had worked at that hospital scheduling appointments for years. She remembered when a candy bar was a nickle. She remembered the Korean War and a countless number of other historical moments. Some of those moments just happened like the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. , others were legislated like the passage of the Civil Rights Bill. Now for some reason, this historical moment seemed fake and manufactured like those old wax busts of Abe Lincoln you bought from a vending machine.
America has changed. It is not kinder or gentler. It has just changed into something sinful and the Democrats must save us from ourselves.
We should be thankful for this bank account purging of our transgressions and interpret the new sinful America as a consequence of liberal humanity and understanding.
Autographed Letter Signed,
AFROCITY
Forgive me if I’ve told you this story before…The one about how I thought I was pregnant once just from heavy petting when I was sixteen? It was a ludicrous idea because my pants never left my leg but somehow I was convinced that grinding with clothes on while listening to the Simple Minds got me knocked up.
My period was about a week late. I had no experience with it being late before. My mind went to that story mother told me about the woman who was impregnated by a bullet that had brushed a man’s scrotum and passed by her ovaries (Never found out if that story was true or not).
My boyfriend said I was crazy, to not worry about it. How could I tell my mother who thought I was the great black hope – college bound and destined to make her happy that she had decided not to abort me? I decided that I would have to abort and not tell anyone- not even my mother.
My reason for not telling her?
Simply because she would kill me.
Where would I go? How would I pay for this? There were so many times that I sat next to her on the sofa, wanting to say something but I couldn’t. She was my best friend and I could not bring myself to ask for her help. Why didn’t I? After all she got pregnant with my brother at 15. Shouldn’t she understand? Didn’t she tell me to never keep secrets from her? Even if I was pregnant.
So why did I lie by omission?
Because I was afraid. That’s all and did not want her to know. I needed her help but fear kept me from speaking to her and I am almost certain that fear kept this 15 year old in Seattle from speaking to her mother.
From this article in KOMO News dated March 23, 2010
Mother furious after in-school clinic sets up teen’s abortion
SEATTLE – The mother of a Ballard High School student is fuming after the health center on campus helped facilitate her daughter’s abortion during school hours.
The mother, whom KOMO News has chosen to identify only as “Jill,” says the clinic kept the information “confidential.”
When she signed a consent form, Jill figured it meant her 15 year old could go to the Ballard Teen Health Center located inside the high school for an earache, a sports physical, even birth control, but not for help terminating a pregnancy.
“She took a pregnancy test at school at the teen health center,” she said. “Nowhere in this paperwork does it mention abortion or facilitating abortion.”
Jill says her daughter, a pro-life advocate, was given a pass, put in a taxi and sent off to have an abortion during school hours all without her family knowing.
“We had no idea this was being facilitated on campus,” said Jill. “They just told her that if she concealed it from her family, that it would be free of charge and no financial responsibility.”
The Seattle School District says it doesn’t run the health clinics at high schools. Swedish Medical Center runs the clinic at Ballard High and protects the students’ privacy.
T.J. Cosgrove of the King County Health Department, which administers the school-based programs for the health department, says it’s always best if parents are involved in their children’s health care, but don’t always have a say.
“At any age in the state of Washington, an individual can consent to a termination of pregnancy,” he said.
But Jill says she not only didn’t have a say in her daughter’s abortion, but also didn’t know about it.
“Makes me feel like my rights were completely stripped away.”
At 15 years of age, I still depended upon my mother for shelter, clothing and food. She signed my report card, my field trip consent forms, she showed up to the welfare office to prove that she was taking care of me. There were times when she did not feel like braving the Chicago winter to ride 3 buses to my high school for parent/teacher night- but she did. She could have said “get the hell out of my house Afrocity” when ever she got angry with me- but she didn’t.
So why didn’t I give her the gift of trust?
Long story short. I was not pregnant. Never before had a red spot made me so happy. I told my mother afterward and she basically said had I told her earlier, she would have told me that I was NOT pregnant and saved me seven days of acid stomach and chewed pencils. ” I am your mother and I have a right to know, ” she said. “You could die from an abortion if you don’t find the right person- that’s surgery you know…you need help getting home.”
I am pro-choice. I always will be but- and this is a big but. I believe that a child underage should notify their parents.
According to Washington state law, this mother did not have to give consent but I can feel and understand her outrage over learning that her daughter was taken to have an abortion during school hours. What if her daughter came home that day and hemorrhaged in the upstairs bedroom while mom was gleefully downstairs watching Jay Leno?
A mother should know. And to the young women out there, if you are in trouble, give your parents a chance to help you get out of trouble. They would be happy to know that you trusted them rather than a stranger. If your parent is the enemy, as the case in the movie Precious, then you go to a trusted ADULT, family member etc.
Autographed Letter Signed,
AFROCITY.
This has indeed been a great week for media interviews. I am glad that the normally polite conservatives have finally dared to use verbal punches during some recent media appearances. You can’t just be calm and civil with these liberals anymore when confronted with their mis-truths and name calling.
First we had Bret Baier versus Barack Obama. There was nothing better than watching President Obama get unruffled in front of calm and collected “Leave it to Beaver” sweetness and all American Bret Baier. After the interview, Baier was heavily criticized by the left for interrupting Obama’s long sermons of bull and surprisingly even his colleagues on FOX NEWS.
Of course no liberal critique is complete without someone being called a racist:
“Brett was practicing what Fox News calls “baiting the black man”. They use a different word but you get the idea. Brett was beyond rude and unprofessional. He was trying to get points with his boss and other aryans he needs to impress.”
On the liberal mantel of pride lies accolades for those who demonstrate superior skills at racebaiting. If you are against Obamacare, you must be a racist. If you question Obama’s policies, you must be a racist. Here liberal professor and commentator Caroline Heldman calls Rev. Jesse Lee Peterson a racist because he refers to the White House as “Big Mama’s House.”
Regardless of how I feel about Rev. Peterson, uttering the words “Big Mama’s House” is NOT racist. Truthfully, I felt that Dr. Heldman was upset with Peterson because he was black and not on the plantation that she felt he should have been on. Being a black Republican has a connotation of shedding tradition and natural order among Democrats. Gay Republicans are even less fanciful in the holy book of LIB.
I am against government healthcare reform. I must be a racist despite my being African American and someone who was actually a “green medical card” recipient as a child. Government run healthcare stinks. I have experienced it. Contrary to what the Democrats believe, logic and reason among voters is not a vanishing art. We are not naive and can smell bullshit miles and miles away. This is not about Republican vs. Democrats in my opinion. This is about legislation being passed according to the will of the American people.
You’ll know a liberal snow job when you see one. You will have a pretty good idea you have stepped into a pile of donkey poo the moment you are greeted by Obama’s smile and the pointing fingers at the George W. Bush. But you will know it for certain when the liberal refuses to debate the facts and turns red in the face as demonstrated by former Obama campaign manager David Plouffe during this fantastic face off with Karl Rove today.
Watch and enjoy. Karl Rove fed Plouffe his balls on a platter with a knife and fork stuck in it:
This interview made my entire month.
Let them pass the healthcare reform bill. In November 2010, the people will hold the Democrats accountable for it and vote accordingly.
AUTOGRAPHED LETTER SIGNED,
AFROCITY
When Bret Baier of FOX NEWS stepped into President Barack Obama’s parlor for a lengthy interview yesterday , all arrogance and subterfuge broke out from the mouths of the two-faced chosen one.
When it comes to getting to the heart of the matter with the head of our nation, there are no logical underpinnings. Only a smarmy and disturbingly dismissive air that is and will always be the true nature of Obama. There is no sense of openness with this guy. The house is full of glass –breakable objects with “DO NOT TOUCH” signs –such as his ego. Look at it, admire it, but don’t you dare touch it or you may get shocked. Because his clenched lipped, wide toothy smile is an extension of his fake demeanor, I am not quite certain how much forced effort he expends per appearance to actually endear himself to the public.
I will bet anyone a tall frothy mug of root beer that Obama ran to some back room and punched some poor unsuspecting well wallpapered White House wall after his FOX interview.
Bravo to Bret Baier, for not falling for the ol’ Obama long drawn out response trick. Bravo to FOX NEWS for not rolling over and playing dead like nearly every other media outlet known to man.
I love the way Obama is dismissive of Bret’s email examples. Emails from ACTUAL PEOPLE. Not his Kool AID punch drunk adoring fans who are planted like acorns at town hall meetings.
So reminiscent of Obama’s “I HAVE A BRACELET TOO” moment during a 2008 presidential debate.
Has anyone ever told you that you are too nice? That you are “a pleaser” ? You care too much about what others think? For every disease there is its evil twin. The twin of “the disease to please” is named Barack Obama.
Obama’s lack of concern for Americans is not hidden in some deep dank, dark place beneath the surface… It is on the surface.
There is no “at first sight he seems compassionate” . At least for smart voters like myself there wasn’t
Any intelligent, discerning voter can see that it is in Obama’s DNA not to please. There is something more important in his life than you and that’s HIM. Make no mistake that his inner house is full of glass. His brain has skylights and trap doors, no expression of true warmth and held together with steel and concrete beams, 40 tons of granite.
Ultimately this man is a with-holder. While voters were douching their minds with hope n’ change, Obama was cocooning his ego in the love bath.
Whatever originally attracted anyone to vote for Obama is beyond me. His ego is his driving force, not the will of the people. There is no well being center oasis in the desert. Any attempt to reason with him will cause the “Uh, UH” responses and the dreaded “LOOK”. Obama wants to keep things as fluidly slick and deceptive as possible. When you touch the glass, it breaks and will cut you.
Hopefully in 2012 what felt so right to voters in 2008, will feel so wrong. Whether any of his behavior and broken promises inspire his supporters to CHANGE and hope for something better, is entirely up to them.
People like me are just the messengers of the obvious message.
Autographed Letter Signed,
AFROCITY
From I Own the World
Painting By Alice Neel - Westreich Family
For sometime now I have been sporadically posting. I should share with my readers that that I suffer from panic/anxiety disorder. The condition cropped up when I was living in New York, triggered by September 11th stress and the death of my beloved Dalmatian- Paloma. Afrocity thought she knew how to cope. She handled homelessness, starvation, September 11th…Why should the death of a dog be any different?
It was.
"Last Sickness" by Alice Neel
After staying awake all night with my dog who was obviously having trouble breathing, I fell asleep for one hour. When I woke up, she was dead. What do you do with the body of a dead Dalmatian in New York City? I decided to call the veterinarian who instructed me to physically wrap and bring the body four blocks to 75th and Broadway. My hair was all over my head, dark circles were under my eyes. I smelled musty. Must run a bath first. Must wash up. The dog is sleeping upstairs.
Then it hit. A sharp pain in my left arm. Throbbing chest pain, my heart began racing. I was sweaty and faint. I was gonna die. This is what a heart attack feels like. Oh my God, I am dying. Call 911!!!
The next thing I knew, paramedics were carrying me down five flights of stairs, past a few onlookers. What a beautiful Saturday morning and I was dying.
That day, my heart rate would dangerously elevate four times before the doctors finally decided to dope me up with Xanax. Before discharging me that evening, the physician gave me a card. It was for a psychiatric facility. I had panic disorder and would deal with it the rest of my life.
Why now? Why after all of these years of coping with molestation, hunger, cold winters in Chicago without heat– why would the death of a Dalmatian send me to a shrink’s Eames daybed?
Questions still persist five years later. I still deal with anxiety, especially when something from the past harasses my present and future.
My lease is ending and I need to find an apartment. The scars of evictions past haunt me to this day, despite my well heeled zip code, my more than adequate income. Despite my good fortune, I am still anxious and at the mercy of young Afrocity and mother, walking the streets with the Chicago Reader classified ads. We wanted to live on the North Side of the city. With the white people so I could attend better public schools where my classmates did not get pregnant.
Alice Neel, "Nancy and Olivia"
Our being on welfare was a huge obstacle.
Section 8 housing was beneath us. Mother never applied for it. She hated welfare enough as it was.
“Section 8 only puts you in projects with other niggers,” she told me. “If we want to live in Lincoln Park, we can. We just need a co-signer or someone to give us a break.”
Day after day, mother and I would look for apartments. Levolor blinds were always a draw for me. It just sounded classy, unlike the newspaper that covered my windows at the time. Levolor blinds, electric stove, elevator building with a doorman.
That break never came for mother and I. There would be no co-signer. No welfare moms in Lincoln Park. We could not afford $500 a month for rent when our check was only $225.
“Maybe if you found a job-”
“Be quiet Afrocity,” she retorted as we sat on the stairs of a brownstone apartment. We were just rejected again. “I am thinking…Shut up and let me think.”
Heat was shining on us. We were getting blacker by the second. A half eaten bag of Doritos would do nothing for my thirst. Across the street was a school, white kids were playing on the swing sets with their nannies. See Sawing up and down without a care in the world. Though I am ashamed of my thoughts then, for a moment I wondered how our lives might be different if we were white. There would be Levolor blinds, a father who worked on Michigan Avenue. I would attend fancy schools and learn to play Suzuki string violin.
“Here is a place on Pulaski and -”
The very mention of the street name “Pulaski” snapped me out of the daydream.
“Pulaski!!! But that is on the West Side you promised we would live where the white people lived this time,” I protested. “You promised me we would live on the North Side with good school and the Levolor-”
“Not this time,” she shook her head. “School is about to start and we need an address. We can take one of the places where we can get a place… You said you liked Oak Park better than Chicago anyway.”
Glass came over my eyes. I put my head down. She did not like to see me cry. She never allowed it. Lumps came in my throat. Envy swelled for the kids in the school yard. Mother stood up which meant it was time to go. I left the paper and bag of Doritos on the brownstone steps, the #72 bus was waiting to take us home. While I looked out the window, the bus passed through neighborhoods turning from vanilla to coffee, to chocolate. Within an hour, we were back in the ghetto, defeated again.
As I leaf through home decor magazines today, I see much of the same furniture not through some North side stranger’s window but in my own apartment. The Levolor blinds of yesterday are now the stainless steel appliances and granite counter tops of today. I have a real estate agent that helped me find an apartment. My foot and more is in the door. Open houses are now offered by private condo owners facing foreclosures. Beautiful empty apartments once inhabited by slap happy metrosexuals. Others by families who have to move in with their parents because someone lost a job.
“It is cheaper to rent my condo out and live with my parents,” a woman would tell me. “…Recently…there have been some unexpected circumstances in my life…It can even be furnished if you like.”
Somewhere in the Bible, there is a verse that says:
The stone which the builders refused is become the head stone of the corner.
-Psalm 118:22
Funny how life works out. Who ever would have thought that the nappy headed little girl would now get calls from people in Lincoln Park actually needing her. Needing her to rent their apartments. That once enviable feeling has now turned into pity. Pity over the foreclosure sales, pity that healthcare is being shoved down everyone’s throat while people are losing their jobs and homes.
Painting by Alice Neel
I still have my own bitter pills to swallow.
Xanax guards me from my nightstand.
The thought of moving yields night sweats and panic.
So what is it like to rent an apartment now?
It is not different than before.
It never will be I suppose.
The fear always moves with me no matter how much I box, bubble wrap and pack it away.
I can find the perfect place with the perfect arrangement of bay windows, a lakeside view. Like the place I live now. The place my mother died before she got to see it. A high-rise in the sky.
Mother never made it to the promised land.
She never got to see me with the blinds.
AUTOGRAPHED LETTER SIGNED,
AFROCITY
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