Relevant For Our Time

First They Came…
By Martin Niemöller (1892–1984)

First they came for the communists, (substitute Muslims)
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist. (Muslim)

Then they came for the trade unionists, (substitute illegal Mexican immigrants)
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist. (an illegal Mexican immigrant)

Then they came for the Jews, (Gays, Lesbians, Atheists, Environmentalists, you get my point)
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew. (Gay, Lesbian, Atheist, Environmentalist, etc.)

Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.

"Injustice — "You shouldn't have to pay for your love with your bones and your flesh..."

Hell is for Children*

They cry in the dark, so you can't see their tears,
They hide in the light, so you can't see their fears.
Forgive and forget, all the while,
Love and pain become one and the same
In the eyes of a wounded child.

CHORUS:
Because Hell, Hell is for children,
And you know that their little lives can become such a mess.
Hell...Hell is for children,

And you shouldn't have to pay for your love with your bones and your flesh.

It's all so confusing, this brutal abusing,
They blacken your eyes, and then apologize.
You're daddy's good girl, and don't tell mommy a thing
Be a good little boy, and you'll get a new toy.
Tell grandma you fell off the swing

CHORUS

Hell is for children
Hell is for children

We were the first non-profit children's center to open in the High Desert, offering daycare for infants aged 6 weeks-24 months, pre-school opportunities divided by age groups—two, three, and four-year-olds, and before and after-school care for school-aged children. Our director, Ruth, led the Center, housed in the empty Sunday school classrooms and nursery of the United Methodist Church. A selfless, aging woman, Ruth's lifelong career had consisted of volunteering. A philanthropist and tireless advocate for children, she had spent a great deal of her own time and energies to bring this project, this children's center, to fruition. Convincing her church leaders and its families that it was a sound idea to utilize the empty classrooms during the week, in order to offer much needed care to the children of their growing community, she soon received their blessings and the go-ahead. The church leaders and congregation made it abundantly clear though, this was her project and she alone would bear the burden of seeing it succeed or fail whichever the case may be. 

In the beginning, we were a small, diverse group of eight women, including Ruth, who was the only member of the church. Three of us, worked in the nursery—myself included—which as required by law, we were to maintain one staff member for every four infants within our care. The other four women were divided among the remaining age groups, with a ratio of one staff member for every twenty children. Ruth acted as our "floater" lending a hand where she was needed most. I was the youngest and most inexperienced caregiver of the group —yet to be a mother myself. However, what I lacked in parenting abilities, I made up for in enthusiasm. 

 

Word soon spread among the community of our opening and desperate parents flocked to The Children's Center, hoping to acquire a coveted spot in our safe little environment. The infant care was the most sought after, with most of our little ones averaging around 14-16 months old, although we had three who were exactly 6 weeks old when they joined our care. The families were as diverse as we were. Most were mothers and fathers stationed at the Air Force Base or Marine Base, or Department of Defense workers who made a living working at these same military installations. A few were career women, choosing to resume their work shortly after the birth of their babies, accounting for two of the three 6-week-old infants in our care. 

Shortly after our opening, Ruth was contacted by the local Department of Social Services, informing her that if we had any more openings in the infant care she was required to take the three women the office was recommending. The state would pay for the weekly childcare costs charged by the Center, while these three mothers attended the local community college. It was a pilot program to aid young, single mothers, helping them to gain an advantage in life for themselves and their child(ren). With these three last additions, our infant care was officially closed to new enrollees. 

Five days a week, twelve hours a day—from six in the morning to six in the evening—we were a family. We rocked, and sang, reading books and playing patty-cake. We fed our little ones and changed diapers, and wiped noses, and brushed away tears. When our oldest ones reached approximately 18 months old, we decided that it would be a good idea to institute a potty-training program. 

Our two oldest toddlers, both Department of Social Services babies, were Dylan and Craig. Craig was our oldest, a stubborn, feisty, yet funny little man; he was rough around the edges with a tough-love mother. We were acutely aware of the parenting difference that now and again arose between us—three Caucasian caregivers—and Craig's mother's, Miriam, who was Black. We had a few differences of opinion on the training process, but within a few weeks, Craig was blossoming into a wonderful, diaper-free boy who would be ready to graduate to the two-year-old pre-school program. We were all so proud, yet at the same time, I was more than a little sad. Even though we weren't supposed to have favorites, Craig had been mine. Now, he was ready to move on. Yet as we watched him go, it was with pride. In the nearly eight months that we had shared in his short life, we had witnessed him grow and learn.  

Next up was Dylan. An extremely quiet and reserved baby, he was acutely aware of his surroundings and intelligent beyond that of any of the other children in our care. He formed words earlier, spoke in sentences earlier, and performed almost every imaginable developmental milestone earlier than supposed. 

His mother was an eighteen-year-old porcelain-skinned beauty, with naturally blonde hair resembling the color of milk. From afar, she would have struck you as the next Miss California. Yet up close, there was darkness, a hardness in her eyes—revealing a short life of pain and suffering that had resulted in a young woman who was cold and contemptuous. Dylan's father was her polar opposite in appearance, but not so much in temperament. A large, muscular black man, his skin and hair was as dark as hers was light; together they appeared to be night and day. Dylan was a beautiful bi-racial compilation of them both. Skin the color of raw sienna, with a head full of dark, softly cascading curly hair, and light hazel eyes, he was an arrestingly beautiful child.

We began potty training at her request. She had witnessed Craig's success and demanded the same be done with Dylan, even though he was nearly two months younger. With toddlers, two months can be a great deal of time in terms of development, but reluctantly we acquiesced to her demands. After nearly two week of training, we were not having much success, and we felt that it was more detrimental to Dylan for us to continue. We informed his mother, Dana, on a late Friday afternoon when she came to pick him up, that it would be in Dylan's best interest to postpone his training for perhaps a month or two. Waiting until he was more physically mature and better able to control his bodily functions, would ensure a better learning environment for him. Dana was furious. As she stormed out, dragging Dylan behind her, we all looked at one another deflated. We had been hoping to avoid this certain conflict with her.

Monday morning started like any other. I was the opener, arriving at 5:45AM in order to get everything set up before 15-month-old Laura's parents dropped her off at 6:00AM sharp. From there on out the children would arrive, a small trickle here and there, until approximately 7:50AM when the floodgates would open releasing a tide of children of all ages. By 8:00AM, the entire staff arrived, and it was business as usual. Dana dropped Dylan off at around 8:45, which was rather late. Sonya, Karen, and I had considered that perhaps he was going to be a "no-show" which for Dana was a common occurrence, as she wasn't regarded as the most reliable of our parents. She seemed distracted—also not something out of the ordinary for her—and after dumping Dylan and his bag on the floor, and signing our required daily sign-in sheet, she quickly rushed off. 

Dylan seemed more subdued than normal, but with twelve babies, none of us gave it much thought. Sonya put him in his highchair with the intentions of giving him his breakfast. As Sonya placed him in the seat, Dylan immediately began to cry, a soft whimpering at first, which soon escalated to a deafening crescendo. All three of us looked at one another mystified. Sonya removed him from the highchair, complaining in her German accented English "Ah, did your mommy not change you again, dear one?" She carried Dylan into the changing room, and within what seemed like seconds Karen and I heard an audible gasp, followed by a terrifying stream of "Oh my baby...oh dear God, oh my baby what have these monsters done to you?" Nearly thirty years later, I can still physically feel the emotional effect the sound of her words had upon me.

Karen and I rushed to the changing room. Sonya looked at us both, tears streaming down her face, and the effect of her emotional state was alarming Dylan to the point that he had now began to sob in a frightened hiccupping cry. She quietly directed us to look at him. From his waist all the way to his knees, he was covered in bluish-black bruises, some just beginning to fade into a yellowish-green hue on the outer edges, others appearing newer and deeper in color. Also apparent was unmistakable welts, from either where his mother or father had slapped him or slammed him so hard onto the potty-training seat that it had left marks. I remember running to Ruth's office, hysterical. None of us was sure what we were to do. Our nurturing world of pop-up books, apple juice, and graham crackers, of nursery rhymes and rocking chairs, had been ravaged by an unspeakable violence against one of our own. Ruth informed me that she was required by law to call the authorities. 

Chaos ensued. The Police arrived and took all of our statements. Child Services were then called in. No one knew where Dana had taken off to, but later we learned the Police found her hours later at home, she said that she had simply gone to Los Angeles for the day with her friends shopping. She never admitted if it had been her or Dylan's father that had beaten him so badly that this poor baby could not even sit in the highchair without sobbing. From what we could learn, she had said it had happened when they were attempting to potty-train Dylan. He would not use the potty so they kept repeatedly pushing him back down onto the pot and according to her, "we must have pushed him down to hard, and he got bruised." According to Cheryl, who worked with the three-year-olds, and was acquainted with a friend of Dana's, Social Services had removed Dylan from her for one week and then she again regained custody. We also learned that Dana had referred to this week that she lost Dylan as her "vacation." While her nearly seventeen-month-old baby was in foster care, recovering from a beating that left the lower half of his body bruised and welted, she was enjoying her "vacation" by working on her tan.

We had all suffered nearly as much as the beautiful baby boy who had been placed within our care. The psychological effects of child abuse do not affect only the abused. Our morale had been shattered. We had been a big family, naively providing the best caring and giving environment possible, while believing that these children were receiving the same at home. Dylan never returned to the Children's Center, and we never learned what his fate turned out to be. I quit shortly after the incident. Not able to perform my job properly, I felt that it was in the best interest of the children that I leave. But, I will never forget that arrestingly beautiful child, with the startling hazel eyes, and I desperately try to remember him in his moments of happiness and laughter. Not the weeping baby, his tiny slender body bruised and battered.          

 

*The song, Hell is for Children, was written and performed by Pat Benatar, Neil Geraldo, and R. Capps, ©1980. Song lyrics were inspired by readings of a series of articles that appeared in the New York Times about child abuse in America.

** Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

A Wonderful Little Poem

"The Two-Headed Calf"

by Laura Gilpin

Tomorrow, when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass.
And as he stares into the sky, there
are twice as many stars as usual.

"I had a Mother who read to me"

One of my first childhood memories that I can recall is of my mom and me. I am snuggled comfortably beneath the cream-colored chenille bedcover, settling in for a night's sleep, and her quietly asking, "So which one do you want to read tonight?" 

  

Lined up neatly behind my little brown head, in the small alcove of the bed's headboard, were my vast collection of Little Golden Books. With varied titles such as, "Little Red Riding Hood," "White Bunny and His Magic Nose," "The Three Little Kittens" it was always a decision of epic proportion. I had to choose carefully, as there was only one story a night. I am not sure if this is an actual memory of one specific night, or rather an amalgamation of many nights, because this had been our nightly ritual. One that lasted a span of many years. Regardless, it is one of my most treasured.

 

I moved on from the Little Golden Books to the greater adventures of Dr. Seuss and his imaginative, tongue-tangling rhyming. My mother just recently shared with me her enormous dislike of all things Seuss, which was rather devastating for me. I had no idea. Dr Seuss is my all-time favorite author. Theodor Seuss Geisel was an artistic genius, who shrewdly interweaved his views of such topical issues as politics, racial inequality, materialism, and consumerism into children's stories about a cat in a hat, and an elephant that talks to a speck of dust. While it was rather disheartening to learn that my mother did not share my deep abiding love for Dr. Seuss, I am eternally grateful that she was able to hide her aversion well, continuing to ignite my love of reading. My love of books.

As I grew, the greatest places to me always revolved around the printed word. I found my small-town library, the Darwin R. Barker Library, to house a fantastical world of adventure and knowledge. I explored the big woods and open prairie where Laura Ingalls and her family dwelled. I followed a brave dog, named Buck, and his travels northward into the Yukon during the 19th-century Klondike Gold Rush, who in the end finds that he must follow the Call of the Wild. In my eyes, this diminutive white house, of four small rooms, held the answers of the universe.

 

Around nine or ten-years-old, my mother gave me the distinct honor of "Retriever of the Sunday Paper." Every Sunday morning—bright and early—I hopped out of bed, and "neither snow nor rain nor heat, nor..." blah, blah, blah, would keep me from the completion of my assigned duty, to walk to Beck's Newsstand and buy a copy of the Sunday Edition of the Buffalo News that Mr. Beck had set aside for us. I now see the irony in the fact that she sent me and the dog, to retrieve the paper, but back then, I viewed it as my honor, my duty, my responsibility to bring home the all-important Sunday news. It also didn't hurt either that there was a small bribery attached to it. I walked down to get the paper for her; she gave me a few extra coins to buy a comic. 

I would spend what seemed like hours, (I realize now that in the limited attention span of a ten-year-old, it was probably more like 15 minutes) perusing the racks of new comics that came in each week. I wasn't a big fan of Stan Lee's grand universes, never much for the superheroes at that juncture of my life; that would come later when my own seven-year-old son would share his contagious love of the X-Men with me. My tastes ran a little more Macabre. I devoured comics, which now would be labeled as "graphic novels" with titles such as, Creepy, Eerie, and Boris Karloff's Tales of Mystery. An odd child I was. Never the less, Mr. Beck would bag these and the newspaper up, and with my purchases safely stowed, the dog and I would make the trek back home, where I would spend the Sunday afternoon lost in worlds of horror and suspense. It is no wonder that my comic reading days would soon be followed thereafter with the likes of Stephen King and Dean Koontz.

Over the years, I have become a collector of books. I have no preferences; hardcover, paperback, new, old and used—they all have a story to tell. I don't much care for the Borders or the Barnes & Noble's of the world. They are cold, and sterile, and impersonal environments that have somehow managed to suck the excitement out of the book buying experience. If I buy a new book, I would rather acquire it online—even that seems less pasteurized than the big-box bookstores. 

The most magical place in my world is the used bookstore. The wondrous smell that hits you as you walk through the door is a pure delight to the olfactory nerves. A mixture of dust and paper and adventure that transports me immediately to that newsstand of my youth. I search out used bookstores wherever I am, and those who love me do the same on my behalf. 

My family teases me that if I had my way our house would have no furniture other than bookshelves, which may almost be true. A cursory count gives me around ten or eleven bookcases in my house. Is that more than the average person has? Who knows, and does it matter? Not to me. I have a little saying, "So many books, so little time" my own unique twist on actress Mae West's quote. I love to read. I love books. And all because my mom took the time to read a bedtime story to me every night before I closed my eyes, so many years ago. 

Thank you, mom!

The Reading Mother

by Strickland Gillilan (1869–1954)

I had a Mother who read me things

That wholesome life to a child's heart brings –

Stories that stir with an upward touch.

Oh that every Mother were such!

You may have tangible wealth untold

Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.

Richer than I you can never be.

I had a Mother who read to me.

"Prose Snobbery"

The question set before me is this, to discuss whether I feel the comic or graphic novel format is an effective medium for memoir writing. My answer is a resounding yes! I think that for far too long the literary world has dismissed the comic and graphic novel as being subpar to other forms of literature. This animosity toward the comic or graphic novel medium is a form of prose snobbery, resulting in a grand loss to readers of all ages and tastes. What is it about the comic, the graphic novel, that inspires such loathing among the more highbrow wordsmiths? 

Perhaps this aversion comes from the untamed nature of the comic, the graphic novel. Perhaps the literary elite find themselves intimidated by the sensory experience that makes the comic, the graphic novel, so intriguing to those who partake of its rich offering. Perhaps it is jealousy, that their writing comrades of the comic, the graphic novel, are able to weave both words and imagery together to create an abundant feast for the eyes as well as the mind. Perhaps it is a form of sibling rivalry—the established literary genres fearing that the comic, the graphic novel, may upstage their position, much as the older sibling fears the baby will replace him or her. Yet I fear the truth is much simpler. I have a feeling that most readers who dismiss the comic, the graphic novel, have probably never picked one up, much less read one.

From dictionary.com we have the meaning of memoir:

mem·oir

[mem-wahr, -wawr]

–noun

1. a record of events written by a person having intimate knowledge of them and based on personal observation. 

2. . usually, memoirs.

a. an account of one's personal life and experiences; autobiography.b.the published record of the proceedings of a group or organization, as of a learned society.
 

3. a biography or biographical sketch.

The comic, the graphic novel, is ideally suited for all of the above. Many ideas that cannot be fully expressed with words can be expressed through art. A marriage of two realms, the word and the picture.  

So again, the question—do I feel the comic or graphic novel format is an effective medium for memoir writing. Sure, why wouldn't it be?

"The Boring Job — Tales From Your Neighborhood Grocery Store Deli"

Wonderful, I think to myself as I walk the expanse of the front glass case looking over the meats and salads, just wonderful...

"Hello everyone." I smile and feign nice, even though I know it's going to be another one of those nights. Everyone is here. Christ, it's going to be a long four hours with these three.

 

First up is Terry—feverishly cutting up vegetables for a party platter that probably should have been finished hours ago, and is more than likely expected by a customer within the hour. She likes to think that since she has been here nearly as long as Rosemary, she holds some sort of position of power within the deli—a kind of assistant manager by proxy. A real pain in my ass, Terry is one of those women who has almost reached her prime, the age where her daughters are going to get all the looks and it scares the piss out of her. A tiny waif of a thing, she imagines that every guy in the store wants to throw her down on some wood pallet and do her, yet this couldn't be the farthest from the truth. With the hard edginess that comes from years of abuse, physical at the hands of her choice in men and drugs, as an escape from this wonderful life she has chosen, most of the guys in the store wouldn't take it, even if they weren't afraid of her brutish, biker boyfriend, Rich. At somewhere near six and a half feet tall, pushing over 300lbs., he always reminds me of a Sasquatch in leather.  

Next is Rosemary, the actual deli manager, who is as big as Terry is small. At around 6 feet tall, and pushing somewhere near 250 lbs, she reminds me of the Amazonian women from some comic I read as a kid. She isn't a fat woman, just large all the way around. She lives to smoke cigarettes, eat, gossip, get high, and read books. Exactly in that order. She is one of those individuals that smokes as she is eating, which is what she is usually doing in the backroom, smoking, eating, and gossiping. So of course, she rarely gets any real work accomplished, leaving it for the "closer" a title that I hold four out of the seven days a week.

Then there is Marilynn. Marilynn, who is proud that her daughter, Sunshine, is having a baby at fifteen. Proud of the fact that she herself is "gonna be a gran'ma" at the ripe old age of thirty. Guess the apple didn't fall far from that tree...

"Hey, Kim..." Rosemary mutters. It isn't so much a greeting as it is an open-ended statement waiting for closure; I stop and wait for her to finish her thought. "Shit, I lost my train of thought there for a moment" she says, yep...smokin' more than cigarettes on that last break "I need you to make up the pizza's for the case" of course you do "I didn't have the chance to get them made and put out this morning." Of course you didn't.

I respond to her request by asking, "Well it looks like no one has bothered to fill the bowls or trays either, so where do you want me to start? Pizza's or the case?"

She knows I'm pissed. I am so fed up with coming in here at 4 o'clock in the afternoon to a mess that I am expected to clean up. Fry up chicken for the dinner crowd, fill the bowls of salad, slice meats to fill the trays—empty spaces turn the customers off, they want to see fullness when they peer into the deli counter, so it's our job—no, correction my job—to make sure it looks appetizing. Then it is my job, as closer, to clean the rotisserie, change the fry grease, and if Rosemary and morning crew have been incredibly gossipy, it will fall on me to break down and put the load away. All this and wait on the customers who keep our little department afloat. 

"Oh Kim," Terry addresses me in that conspiratorial tone of hers, as I'm slicing up 5 pounds of Vons Signature Honey Ham. "Did you hear about your favorite customer?"

"Which one would that be?" I respond, knowing full well it's the absolute opposite, just by her emphasis on the word "favorite."

"Do you remember the germaphobe you waited on last month?" she asks, as if I would ever forget him. 

An extremely mentally unstable man in his mid-forties, he had come to the deli wanting a pound of potato salad. No matter how I attempted to help him, I couldn't do it right. He requested that I wash my hands so that he could see me do it. Done. Then he wanted me to pick up the sanitary gloves that I was putting on to retrieve his salad with another pair of sanitary gloves, difficult trick, but I acquiesced. Next the container I was going to scoop his salad into was on the top, and in his opinion, "contaminated" so I had to go and retrieve a "clean one" out of the package in the back— one that hadn't been sitting on the counter in the open air. By this time, I am starting to lose my patience. The last straw was when I came back from retrieving his uncontaminated 1 lb. plastic container and he indicated that I needed to start this whole procedure all over again from the beginning, as a line of impatient customers begins to build along the counter. I remember at this point losing my cool and telling Terry to get her ass out to the counter to help this guy, because I was done. I think I may have even mentioned something along the lines of, "go home and make the goddamn potato salad yourself."

"How could I forget? What about him? Did he make you completely sanitize the damn deli before he would take the salad again?" I was being an ass, I knew that, but I just didn't have the patience to deal with his shit...perhaps if he had been a little nicer I would have been a little more understanding.

"He shot his wife and mother-in-law and then turned the gun on himself!" Shocked, I turned to see if she was messing with me.

"Christ. Are you serious?!"

"Yeah, no joke." She responds, with a faux expression of shock.  

I feel a cold shiver slowly travel the length of my spine, "I told you guys he was dangerous. You laughed at me because I wouldn't deal with his shit, but I told you he was more than just OCD." 

"You Say You Want a Revolution"

There is currently a war being waged within the United States and most of us are not even aware that it is taking place. It is a war between the status quo and the anti-establishment. A war between those who believe it is acceptable to kill unwanted, lost, and/or abandoned companion animals and those who believe there are alternative methods of dealing with homeless pets. This revolution is aptly called, the "No-Kill Movement."

 

This battle is being waged against the giant humane societies and municipal animal control agencies that most Americans still believe are acting in the animals' best interest. The American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA), The Humane Society of the United States, and People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) are all under fire for their kill philosophies. Nathan J. Winograd, President of No Kill Solutions, asserts that PETA, one of the most influential animal rights organizations throughout the world, has one of the highest killing ratios of the big three animal care societies. Winograd states:    

        The numbers are finally in. In 2010, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) impounded 1,553 cats. They killed 1,507 and found homes for only 28. Another 9 were transferred to killing shelters and their fates are unknown. That’s a 97% rate of killing. In 2010, they took in 792 dogs and put 693 to death. They found homes for only 16, with 54 sent to killing shelters and their fates are unknown. That is, at best, an 88% rate of killing.

        While the No Kill movement is having unparalleled success and with No Kill communities now dotting the American landscape—in California, Nevada, Michigan, Kentucky, New York, Texas, Virginia, and elsewhere—PETA continues to be little more than a slaughterhouse. 

These agencies remain stuck in the past, mired in outdated philosophies, unwilling to fully explore and adopt newly proven and progressive methods of sheltering, which has been proven to reduce or eliminate the need to kill the animals in their care. 

In the United States alone, nearly 4 million cats and dogs are put to death annually in our shelters. To put these numbers into another perspective, nearly 11,000 pets are murdered each and every day. Many of these shelters are overcrowded, unsanitary environments, and sadly, some have been accused of animal abuse and cruelty to the very animals that are placed within their care.

Yet quietly, every single day, there is a small army of private individuals who work diligently to protect and serve the needs of these unwanted millions; these lost and abandoned animals. Until the day comes that our companion animals are no longer systematically killed after a mere 72-hour hold period, these people are the front line in this war, the rebellion against inhumane killings. Independent caregivers, who rescue and provide foster care for these animals within their own homes until suitable, loving homes can be found. These are the believers and followers in the vision of the anti-establishment, and the message that animals' have the most basic and fundamental right to life. 

The next time you visit your local PetSmart or PETCO on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, take a moment to chat with these dedicated individuals who are volunteering their time, money, and effort to help adoptable pets find loving, lasting, forever homes. Learn about what they do, and perhaps you too will find a calling to volunteer your time or perhaps simply donate to their cause.

For additional information on the No-Kill Movement visit:

No Kill Advocacy Center

The No-Kill Nation

Maddie's Fund