The Wolf Inside All of Us

So, I am hiding out in Peet’s because these dudes across the ravine are revving up extensions of their manhood,their chainsaws, and the noise of the saws accompanied by

the sounds of cracking and snapping branches where heron, woodpeckers and squirrels land, nest and romp, makes my heart ache and my eyes weep. 

Before heading out to Peet’s, I was beside myself. 

I yelled across the ravine at the hombres “!?Tienen Permitas!?   I was crazed. 

Saw red, the color of blood. Had to put on my Wonder Woman bodysuit and flex every bit 

of muscle I could locate.

I phoned the City of Monterey Planning and Development Commission who, after transferring me 3 times, finally connected me with Deputy Forester Robert Reed.

Reed told me he needed an exact address before he could investigate.  In my hoodie, flannels and slippers, I headed out.  It was a bitch to locate because all the houses are set way back, beyond winding driveways and tucked behind old growth foliage. Eventually, I locate the tree murderers 

after several drive-bys, U-turns and mistaken-house-identities. 

“10 La Selva Court” I report back to Deputy Reed when I locate the site of the executions.

Reed informs me he will investigate and get back to me.  It’s a big NO NO to cut trees in Monterey County, especially cypress and oaks. I hope they nail those bas@!*ds!

So, where was I? 

Exhausted and pissed that life is so damn cruel, sad and folks so ignorant at times,

I head to get some respite and feed my caffeine addiction.  Believe me, it’s a cross to bear. I try to turn my head and just focus on peace, love, little yellow daisies, groovy sunsets and all the sweet things of our world that make us all say, “Awww.”  I try to wave the American flag and be happy and proud of all that is as perfect as a professionally wrapped Christmas present, but it’s a challenge for me to close my eyes to what’s not perfectly wrapped.

I try so hard not to notice. I try so hard not to care. (Meiko)

Many times, at the trailer park,  I could have turned my head, let the calls go to voicemail, looked the other way.  But quite often, I stared cruelty right in its ugly, seething face … 

I tried to avoid it; the bitter, but of course, the bitter is often unavoidable. 

FLASHBACK

Space 10 calls inebriated at approximately 3:45 pm, evidently he would have phoned earlier but he had just got home after a full day of subbing in a second grade classroom in Watsonville.

He was lit.  Lit and pissed.  Which, based on my childhood, is a bad combination.

Now, space 10 complained on a regular basis and most of the time, I let the message machine listen. But sometimes I faced the ugly monster head on and it’s during those times you find out what a big girl you actually are.

“Rafael, what’s the problem?” I place all fear and annoyance in the back seat and put the car in drive.

“The guy at space 5, Jose, called the cops on me…I was just over there…at the party and he called the cops…kicked me off his property…”

I had met with the Monterey County sheriff the night before. 

It appears he crashed space 5’s private party, making a complete ass of himself; gorging on tamales 

and carnitas, drinking Coronas by the armfuls and stumbling into the guests, especially the ladies in tank tops. 

The sheriff, who knew my "favorite" tenant by first and last name, just wanted to inform me that he escorted him home, tucked him in and warned him if he returned to the party, he’d arrest him for disturbing the peace.

“…Ralph… Pull it together.”  I scolded him like a I would a puppy who got into something he wasn’t supposed to.   “You gotta have an invitation to attend someone’s gathering, you know that!”

“… I know, Valeria, but he’s an as*@!h#@*.”  His voice slurred like nobody’s biz.

 “…I know, Rafael, the world’s full of them. Now go to sleep!”

And the world is.  Like the assholes with the chainsaws, like the folks I saw teasing and harassing a fat woman, like the dude who torments his neighbor’s barking dog

and like the four middle age men sitting across from me right now at Peet’s.

They are intentionally loud, most likely because they didn’t get enough attention when they were little boys. They're obnoxious.  Their jokes are racist and stupid.  Their voices slice my brain like my third grade teacher, Mrs Rogers, fingernails on the chalkboard.  A fifth one joins them, but the café is crowded and there isn’t a vacant table or chair to be found.  

(If there had been, I would have moved.)  Not an empty chair except the one across from me 

at my table.

“Hey, babe. Can I have this chair?”  The fifth one has the audacity to say to me.

Babe.  My thoughts work fast, and in that fastness, I must choose if this is my World War III today

or not.  Do I put back on my Wonder Woman tights and flex every feminist muscle I own or is it 

one I overlook?

“Sure. Prick. But, I’m Wen’s babe not yours.  Help yourself.” is what I want to say.

But instead, I smile a half-smile; you know those kinda fake, courtesy grins,

 “It’s all yours.”

It’s a tightrope; the choice to look at the painful and try to make a positive difference or simply turn our heads, close the newspaper, turn off the news, walk away.

Sometimes, it’s all about self-preservation, ‘ya know?  But sometimes, it’s about humanity.  

Yours. Mine. The less fortunate.  One of my favorite artists is Lucinda Williams. Yep, she's dark, 

often gritty, but she tells it as she sees it...

As you walk along the sidewalks of the city
You see a man with hunger in his face
And all around you crumbling buildings and graffiti
As you bend down to tie your shoelace
Sirens scream but you don't listen
You have to reach home before night
But now the sun beats down it makes the sidewalks glisten
And somehow you just don't feel right
Hold me, baby, give me some faith
Let me know you're there let me touch your face
Give me love give me grace
Tell me good things tell me that my world is safe
You pass by bars with empty stages
Three o'clock drinkers fall by
Chairs are placed on top of tables
As you brush the hair out of your eyes
A woman stops you with a question
So you drop some money in her hand
She sleeps in doorways and bus stations
And you'll never understand
Hold me, baby, give me some faith
Give me love give me grace
Tell me good things tell me that my world is safe

Shit.   The world is full of bad news.  Yes, yes, my sweet little fairies, of course it’s also full 

of flowers blossoming, little children singing and puppies finding their forever homes.

Don’t freak out all you hippie mamas!  But let's face facts:  

The world also needs our immediate attention.  

Just one small step every day.  One offering to one individual, an animal, a littered sidewalk…

just "one-a-day" is all it would take to make an Xtreme change! 

Let’s see now.  According to the World Bank, the world’s total population is currently 6,973,738,433 (obviously organic because of deaths and breeders)

But imagine if every single person practiced one act of selflessness, one random act of kindness, one hour at a soup kitchen…just "one-a-day." Whew!  My math skills are lacking, but I’m pretty sure that would be a helluva lot of positive change!

FLASHBACK

“Good morning, Marilyn.  How’s it going today?”  I once asked space 27, a senior resident on State Disability and Medicare, whose own kids rarely call or visit.

“Oh, they changed my doctor appointment again and I can’t get in for 2 months

now.  My daughter said she might try to help me get in to see her doctor sooner, but she’s real busy because of her work and kids and all, that I don’t know when she’s be able to help me.” 

(“Your daughter hasn’t called or come by in well over 6 months and she lives in the next damn town.” I think.)

“I wanna work outside, got lotsa weeds growing, but my back is in a bad way today.”

Later that day…

I had the park maintenance man landscape Marilyn’s entire back lot. Done.  I even bought some

6-packs of cosmos, daisies, and nasturtiums and had him create some colorful beds.  

It took him only 2 hours and I didn’t give a shit about what the other residents might think. 

Yep, I play “favorites.”  Always have.

We all ache, deep down inside, for a part in a play where we can succeed.  We just need to care about something bigger than ourselves.  We need to care about the things that truly matter and we need to find our ‘big-girl’ voices and ‘big boy’ voices about the things that need our help.  

We need to speak up, shout out and make some ruckus!  We need show more interest in inequity, poverty, disease, education and the environment more than we show interest in Kim Kardashian’s new Botox treatment.  

At some point, we need to let go of our past and the injustices therein, but not before we understand that we are connected and linked to the repercussions (of those injustices) that still exist today.  

We cannot ignore.  We must not ignore.

You know sometimes Facebook is a total waste of time; a sucking of one’s soul into the abyss.

But other times, you come across some true words of wisdom…

I think if we walk, eyes wide open.  Walk with purpose and devotion.  If we feed the wolf inside that is good and exudes hope, kindness, humility, love and perhaps a little furor… 

Then and only then, will we see positive change each and everyday.

Just calling it as a trailer girl sees it.

~tpg

Soul Food

Sometimes a blogger can’t find one damn subject to blog about.

Other times, there are so many subjects, topics, issues, events and persons of interest that
it's overwhelming.

Either way, a blogger can be placed in the same dilemma:  What do I write about?
What is my readership hungry for?

When I left the park, I left a plethora of stories; left them right there in the middle of the street. Left for the next manager to pick-up, dust off and appreciate.

The daily shenanigans and the characters that resided there; those individuals who we tend to turn our heads from, pretending they don’t exist.  Well, they were in fact, colorful, unique souls and their daily lives gave me something fun and rare to write about.

Alta died last week.  I read it while I was sitting in the waiting room of The Nancy Ausonio Mammography Center, waiting to have my boobs squished.  The local paper was lying on the table next to me, wide-open to the obituaries and there she was. 

Space 32.

Stunned, I instantly could hear that gravelly voice of hers calling me at all hours of the night.  Let me tell you, that  b*!@!ch gave me so much grief…constantly complaining about each and every pothole in the road, the sweaty man she knew was spying on her when she showered and her endless by-passing me when I didn’t respond to her demands quickly enough; going directly to the management company’s owner for things like rent increases, trimming of trees and yes, the potholes.  She swore like a truck driver and reeked of Pall Malls and vodka.  Her long acrylic nails were a hideous bright pink. Her rag muffin mutts were her coveted babies and she had lived in the park longer than any other resident.  Funny though, that spitfire always waved, always gave me a Christmas card each year and Meyer lemons from her tree. 

When someone dies, what they actually do is drop this enormous, boulder-like burden called ‘reflection’ down on top of us. It lands heavy, like a slab of concrete and forces us to pause, then look back on all the past interactions we’ve shared with that person.  

And in doing so, we are left determining if, in fact, we had truly been the very best person we should have been.

This ‘pause,' I have come to believe, is an essential and key component in learning to be more human; More human in the sense of, more of the soul.  Of course, one cannot come to this without a great deal of contemplation and deliberation.
It’s as if a light finally goes on and you realize there’s more to a person than you took time to see or experience, and there’s more to yourself and your own depth than you were willing to expose.
That ‘more’ is heart.  That ‘more’ is thinking before you speak.  That ‘more’ is the ‘ole "do unto others as you’d like them to do to you."  And of course, you get the gift of a huge lesson.
Unfortunately, what you don’t get is a second chance.

At least, with that particular dead person.

Space 32 was all right.  She walked the road her parents walked and their parents before them.
It's the only road she knew.  She made me laugh out loud often.
She gave me subject matter for my writings.
She took the “What the hell!” attitude when it came to rules and booze.
And I liked all that about her.

Now her kids cry.  A cry, I do believe, comes from their souls because I know that cry.
I know that ache.  I know that finality.  And so what binds Alta's kids and me now has nothing to do with our differences and everything to do with our commonality.

They are left with her triple-wide to keep or sell, left with her two mutts, left with her smoky clothes, left with boxes and boxes of black and white photographs, left with bottles of her medications, her bills, her Caddie, her Meyer lemons.   All they have are these things and their memories, some good and others not so good.

And one more thing.  They too now have that boulder; that burden of reflection to carry. 

So, I sent a card to the family.  That’s the human thing to do, now isn’t it?
Well, what I'd actually like to do is sit down again with Alta, have a cup of coffee or a vodka on the rocks, but it’s too late for that, now isn’t it?  Instead, I chose her as the subject of my blog this morning.  But this time, it’s an accolade; a tribute to Alta Mae, but also, it’s a tribute to life and to the serious side, which I suppose is the ying or yang of ‘the poke fun at’ side.
Her obituary, in part, was simply stated,

“She enjoyed her job, crocheting, playing her piano, listening to jazz, traveling in her motor home with her daughter, son-in-law and her two babies, Dolly and Bubu (her dogs) and shopping with her granddaughter, Stacey.”

Donations were requested, in lieu of flowers.  Cancer research.  Bladder research…

And the local SPCA to whom I sent a small check in her name, just as so many did when my own mom died. This is how it works.  This is how we humans roll.  This is how we attempt to make something sad and insignificant...significant. This is how we show sympathy and compassion.

No matter how late we are in doing so.

Last week’s blog, for those of you who partook, explored the "F-word". 

I’ve written a couple hundred or more blogs, but never has one caused such a ruckus!  Never has one sparked so much discussion. Yee haw! Though I appreciated the comments and emails I received, the responses really blew me away because, though much of my writing may be seen as meaningless fluff, I believe there've been a couple more worthy of conversing and debating over, than one about a silly four-letter word.  Certainly important issues I’ve written on such as homelessness, poverty, the environment are all worth joining in on a discussion over, but oh no!  Oh my!  It was the “F-word" that got y’all uppity!
Well, that’s okay by me.
But today’s blog is perhaps worthy of something far more imperative than discussion:
sweet silence.  Perhaps, noiselessness is what's required more than anything else;
A silence to crawl into, with eyes closed, and just privately reflect.  I'm guessing such reflection will fill our hunger and nourish us with the soul food we might need.

Today's blog is one girl’s quiet tribute, but more than that, it’s a call to a weaponless battle;
a march, a rebellion, a double-dare to be more human in each and every interaction that comes on way.
It's a battle that must erupt deep down in each of our souls, before we might lose that opportunity.

This disappearing world.

 ~tpg