Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Stop blocking my blog
I will take this all the way to the Supreme Court if I have to. Stop interfering with the release of my blog. I have every right to let the world know what law enforcement from Alaska to Arkansas has done to my family. This book will get printed somehow, someway, whether you like it or not.
Monday, November 2, 2015
A Life's Work
Snapchat users discovered recently the platform they've been using plans to snap up their work. (I'm using the term work loosely as I imagine the only reason to use an app which makes messages and photos disappear immediately after viewing would be nefarious.) Even so, it prompted me to look at Google Blogger's terms of service notice again.
In one breath, Google promises that our work is our work. Yet, immediately after, they had the same language that gave Snapchaters pause. So what gives? Who owns what?
As a professional writer who plans to publish this work as a book, I am concerned. To say the least. I take my copyright privileges seriously. I can't stand to see a poem or anything with the notation - author unknown. That just bugs the crap out of me. That means that someone somewhere didn't respect that writer or their work enough to find out and give proper credit.
At the risk of sounding awful, I once denied a person to print a poem of mine on a funeral leaflet - because I knew it was my best poem ever and the risk was someone was going to copy it without giving me credit. Something I could have made money from for years by selling it to be printed on posters, greeting cards and keepsakes would have been lost. I know what you're thinking and I don't care. It's my property.
That's the attitude Dolly Parton has. Oh My God. I have new found respect for that woman after reading about her on Joshua Kennon's Investing Blog. Trust me - under all that blond hair - whether it's real or not - is an unbelievable business titan mind. Read it. Seriously. Then read every single one of Joshua's posts. Seriously.
Putting my work on this public site has its' risks, spammers, spinning, out-right theft. And trust me, if I find anyone doing it - I'll be all over them like Dolly Parton's legal team.
But if I don't. If I don't do everything I possibly can in my power with the only talent God gave me - writing - then my son that I waited 23 years to come into my life - his life will be permanently altered by the unconstitutional actions of law enforcement from Alaska to Arkansas. And I won't let them steal my son's life from him.
In one breath, Google promises that our work is our work. Yet, immediately after, they had the same language that gave Snapchaters pause. So what gives? Who owns what?
As a professional writer who plans to publish this work as a book, I am concerned. To say the least. I take my copyright privileges seriously. I can't stand to see a poem or anything with the notation - author unknown. That just bugs the crap out of me. That means that someone somewhere didn't respect that writer or their work enough to find out and give proper credit.
At the risk of sounding awful, I once denied a person to print a poem of mine on a funeral leaflet - because I knew it was my best poem ever and the risk was someone was going to copy it without giving me credit. Something I could have made money from for years by selling it to be printed on posters, greeting cards and keepsakes would have been lost. I know what you're thinking and I don't care. It's my property.
That's the attitude Dolly Parton has. Oh My God. I have new found respect for that woman after reading about her on Joshua Kennon's Investing Blog. Trust me - under all that blond hair - whether it's real or not - is an unbelievable business titan mind. Read it. Seriously. Then read every single one of Joshua's posts. Seriously.
Putting my work on this public site has its' risks, spammers, spinning, out-right theft. And trust me, if I find anyone doing it - I'll be all over them like Dolly Parton's legal team.
But if I don't. If I don't do everything I possibly can in my power with the only talent God gave me - writing - then my son that I waited 23 years to come into my life - his life will be permanently altered by the unconstitutional actions of law enforcement from Alaska to Arkansas. And I won't let them steal my son's life from him.
Friday, October 30, 2015
Following
Ok. Let's just pretend for a second that my first follower is not just the cop upstairs. If you're not - then please let me extend an apology for the assumption. You'll understand why in a few sentences.
Upon leaving Sitka, I knew the chances of them dropping such blanket unconstitutional violations of freedom and privacy were practically non-existent.
Did you know you can tell if someone is following you by looking in the rearview mirror and not watching the first or even second car behind you? It's usually the third or fourth car. I had read that somewhere and dang if it wasn't true. I tried it in Del Rio, Texas, our next stop on the map. I would switch lanes and the third or fourth car would follow. Then I would switch back. And the third or fourth car would follow. You know what's really fun? Wait until the green light is getting old, then speed up to go through just as it turns yellow. Just to see if they'll run it to keep up with you. One time I got real inventive and just decided to go in a square - around the block - for no reason whatsoever. That only worked once until they caught on.
In Del Rio we lived in the barrio. Besides testing to see how many people were following us, we spent a good deal of time taking walks up to the so-called park. Which was actually just a square of grass that neighborhood mommies strolled around to get fresh air. Two things could be counted on during our walk. The house on the far corner consistently featured a screaming mom. Always screaming. Every frigging day. The second thing I could count on was a white van with it's door open - yet it was so dark inside you couldn't tell who might be in there. That van seriously creeped me out. It could have been a mommy's van. But why would she leave it wide open for a stranger to then hide in for her return? Not likely. The other option was a potential kidnapper. Considering we lived in a poor neighborhood and we sported the fanciest stroller by miles, that was a real possibility. Especially since Del Rio is just across the Mexican border and we looked like a prime target. That van with it's dark interior and yawning door made me seriously nervous. The third possibility was we were being followed by the usual suspects yet again - the police.
At home, I wondered where they had put the cameras since our new house wasn't fronted with glass like the one in Sitka had been. I didn't bother to try to find them. With technology the way it is now I knew they probably were everywhere, even the computer, tv screen, potentially all over. Laughing Head had already proved to me that I was being filmed. At that point I considered hiring a private detective to protect me and Isaac.
Upon leaving Sitka, I knew the chances of them dropping such blanket unconstitutional violations of freedom and privacy were practically non-existent.
Did you know you can tell if someone is following you by looking in the rearview mirror and not watching the first or even second car behind you? It's usually the third or fourth car. I had read that somewhere and dang if it wasn't true. I tried it in Del Rio, Texas, our next stop on the map. I would switch lanes and the third or fourth car would follow. Then I would switch back. And the third or fourth car would follow. You know what's really fun? Wait until the green light is getting old, then speed up to go through just as it turns yellow. Just to see if they'll run it to keep up with you. One time I got real inventive and just decided to go in a square - around the block - for no reason whatsoever. That only worked once until they caught on.
In Del Rio we lived in the barrio. Besides testing to see how many people were following us, we spent a good deal of time taking walks up to the so-called park. Which was actually just a square of grass that neighborhood mommies strolled around to get fresh air. Two things could be counted on during our walk. The house on the far corner consistently featured a screaming mom. Always screaming. Every frigging day. The second thing I could count on was a white van with it's door open - yet it was so dark inside you couldn't tell who might be in there. That van seriously creeped me out. It could have been a mommy's van. But why would she leave it wide open for a stranger to then hide in for her return? Not likely. The other option was a potential kidnapper. Considering we lived in a poor neighborhood and we sported the fanciest stroller by miles, that was a real possibility. Especially since Del Rio is just across the Mexican border and we looked like a prime target. That van with it's dark interior and yawning door made me seriously nervous. The third possibility was we were being followed by the usual suspects yet again - the police.
At home, I wondered where they had put the cameras since our new house wasn't fronted with glass like the one in Sitka had been. I didn't bother to try to find them. With technology the way it is now I knew they probably were everywhere, even the computer, tv screen, potentially all over. Laughing Head had already proved to me that I was being filmed. At that point I considered hiring a private detective to protect me and Isaac.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Dumb Ass Questions Not To Ask An Adoptive Parent
'Does he speak Spanish?' - asked by a relative, and you know who you are girlfriend, the second we brought home Isaac from Guatemala. Why yes. He came out of the womb speaking Spanish and at one year of age he is now completely fluent.
Winner of the most insensitive question - 'Did they have a sale on babies?' So my baby is reduced to merely dollars in your mind since I actually had to seek an adoptive agency out to help him come to our family. And yes. I always considered me and my husband a family. We were just much smaller without Isaac.
Winner of the most ironic question, seeing as it came from an administration person with Arkansas Christian Academy in Bryant - 'Do you know how precious your son is?' .
Well let's see. I cried myself to sleep for 23 years before he came into our life. We spent thousands of dollars we had no idea where they were going to come from when we started the process. We had to take pictures of our house and write half a book to provide beginning info for the adoption agency. We had to hire not one but two lawyers. We had to host a home visit to prove we would be fit parents. We took five plane trips, both ways, in God-awful weather, causing extreme turbulence and rough take-offs and landings the entire trip. We rode in a tiny, barely holding together car without seatbelts both from and back to the airport, weaving through Guatemala City traffic that apparently followed no safety rules whatsoever. I just closed my eyes a lot and prayed.
Let me tell you how much my son is worth to me. I love my son more than anything else in the entire world. I told him that every time I laid him down for a nap. Isaac is worth more than all the riches in both heaven and earth.
Winner of the most insensitive question - 'Did they have a sale on babies?' So my baby is reduced to merely dollars in your mind since I actually had to seek an adoptive agency out to help him come to our family. And yes. I always considered me and my husband a family. We were just much smaller without Isaac.
Winner of the most ironic question, seeing as it came from an administration person with Arkansas Christian Academy in Bryant - 'Do you know how precious your son is?' .
Well let's see. I cried myself to sleep for 23 years before he came into our life. We spent thousands of dollars we had no idea where they were going to come from when we started the process. We had to take pictures of our house and write half a book to provide beginning info for the adoption agency. We had to hire not one but two lawyers. We had to host a home visit to prove we would be fit parents. We took five plane trips, both ways, in God-awful weather, causing extreme turbulence and rough take-offs and landings the entire trip. We rode in a tiny, barely holding together car without seatbelts both from and back to the airport, weaving through Guatemala City traffic that apparently followed no safety rules whatsoever. I just closed my eyes a lot and prayed.
Let me tell you how much my son is worth to me. I love my son more than anything else in the entire world. I told him that every time I laid him down for a nap. Isaac is worth more than all the riches in both heaven and earth.
Abused At School
There is not one single relationship in my life that has not been destroyed by this unconstitutional invasion of privacy that started in Sitka.
'Do not be afraid of them. God Himself goes before you." No more apt words could have come to mind. Since the day we left Sitka, God was not the only one going before us. It was obvious when interacting with someone new if they had been contacted first, been shown a picture of me, talked about me.
So just before the dead of winter in what I call the 'real' Alaska - Delta Junction - when I contacted the local school about a preschool program I had heard about on the radio - it came as no surprise when they started acting weird with us.
So weird that even the base commander commented on it.
Isaac up until that time had happily been spending time at home with quite a few jaunts to the outside world with daddy to the headquarters building on base. Isaac's favorite person to visit was the base commander who always took time out for who I'm sure was his favorite visitor also. When the commander had to get back to work, Isaac would charm the rest of the building with his sweet, outgoing personality.
So when the local school came back with an assessment of how they felt Isaac had interacted with the other children during the hour or so time I had left him there, as 'shy' - the commander immediately exclaimed - 'Have they met him?'.
Kent wasn't hip about the idea of preschool, especially one that seemed to be centered around special needs kids. Before contacting the school I had not been aware that this was their focus. However, I had nothing against it and felt actually that exposing Isaac to children with challenges would help develop an empathy in him. But I also agreed with Kent that he would not receive the sort of undivided attention I could give him at home, especially since the caregivers obviously had children with severe issues to take care of.
So we decided to back out of the idea of the preschool. It was when I had to go back to the school for the paperwork that I knew once again that I was being treated like a lab rat - a psychological experiment - to see how I reacted to something.
I entered the office and on a computer screen facing the counter where I had to stand was the most horrendous picture on the screen of an abused child I had ever seen. I immediately grimaced and turned my eyes. The office worker smiled and said they send those all the time. Seriously? I don't want to see that. She made no attempt to get rid of the offending sight and actually seemed to take pleasure in my discomfort. The poor child had been burned from head to toe. And I left the school office feeling just as abused as that innocent child.
'Do not be afraid of them. God Himself goes before you." No more apt words could have come to mind. Since the day we left Sitka, God was not the only one going before us. It was obvious when interacting with someone new if they had been contacted first, been shown a picture of me, talked about me.
So just before the dead of winter in what I call the 'real' Alaska - Delta Junction - when I contacted the local school about a preschool program I had heard about on the radio - it came as no surprise when they started acting weird with us.
So weird that even the base commander commented on it.
Isaac up until that time had happily been spending time at home with quite a few jaunts to the outside world with daddy to the headquarters building on base. Isaac's favorite person to visit was the base commander who always took time out for who I'm sure was his favorite visitor also. When the commander had to get back to work, Isaac would charm the rest of the building with his sweet, outgoing personality.
So when the local school came back with an assessment of how they felt Isaac had interacted with the other children during the hour or so time I had left him there, as 'shy' - the commander immediately exclaimed - 'Have they met him?'.
Kent wasn't hip about the idea of preschool, especially one that seemed to be centered around special needs kids. Before contacting the school I had not been aware that this was their focus. However, I had nothing against it and felt actually that exposing Isaac to children with challenges would help develop an empathy in him. But I also agreed with Kent that he would not receive the sort of undivided attention I could give him at home, especially since the caregivers obviously had children with severe issues to take care of.
So we decided to back out of the idea of the preschool. It was when I had to go back to the school for the paperwork that I knew once again that I was being treated like a lab rat - a psychological experiment - to see how I reacted to something.
I entered the office and on a computer screen facing the counter where I had to stand was the most horrendous picture on the screen of an abused child I had ever seen. I immediately grimaced and turned my eyes. The office worker smiled and said they send those all the time. Seriously? I don't want to see that. She made no attempt to get rid of the offending sight and actually seemed to take pleasure in my discomfort. The poor child had been burned from head to toe. And I left the school office feeling just as abused as that innocent child.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Gun To My Head - Constitution 201
A message to the cop upstairs who doesn't think I know about him - you could come downstairs right now, put a gun to my head - and I would simply turn to my son, tell him I love him and continue writing.
I will not let you intimidate me. I can see you right now trying to grab screen views as I write. Blogger doesn't have auto-save. So when my save button depresses on its own - I know what you are doing. I also know that you are very likely blocking my feed. Ever hear of the Constitution? The First Amendment? That's right. You don't care about them. Well I do.
I care even more about my son. That's why I will never quit. I will never stop. I will find a way to get this book published. Despite everything you are trying to do to stop me.
I'm smart enough to have figured out this goes way beyond my son - you have a program in schools nationwide that is damaging children. They and their parents have a Constitutional right to know what you are doing. I didn't seek out this story. You literally dropped it in my lap.
My son deserved far better than what you did to him. I will not stop until the world knows exactly how law enforcement and the school system destroyed my son's life. So that he can get his life back.
I will not let you intimidate me. I can see you right now trying to grab screen views as I write. Blogger doesn't have auto-save. So when my save button depresses on its own - I know what you are doing. I also know that you are very likely blocking my feed. Ever hear of the Constitution? The First Amendment? That's right. You don't care about them. Well I do.
I care even more about my son. That's why I will never quit. I will never stop. I will find a way to get this book published. Despite everything you are trying to do to stop me.
I'm smart enough to have figured out this goes way beyond my son - you have a program in schools nationwide that is damaging children. They and their parents have a Constitutional right to know what you are doing. I didn't seek out this story. You literally dropped it in my lap.
My son deserved far better than what you did to him. I will not stop until the world knows exactly how law enforcement and the school system destroyed my son's life. So that he can get his life back.
Saturday, October 10, 2015
Better Mom Than Your Own Momma
It's a common misconception that people who grew up in abusive situations can't make good parents. Rubbish.
That's a lie and don't you let anyone fill your head with that trash if for some reason your childhood in any manner mirrors mine. And if it does, let me just pause right now and say to you the words the wisest woman who ever walked this planet said to me - "I'm so sorry this happened to you." It's okay if you stop right now and cry a little. I get it.
But after you are done with the tears, there is something that is so critical to your future that you need to get if you haven't done so already. What they did is not your fault. What they did doesn't define you. Ever. It defines them. Period.
And whether you believe in God, Heaven or Hell or not - I can assure you, they will go to Hell for eternity. God said, "Revenge is mine." So from there you can go on. I sleep easy every night knowing that those who hurt me burn in Hell for eternity. I don't think of them except to write the truth on these pages.
All I think about is taking care of my son and his future. A job which has been made inexorably harder by people filling his head with their lies. Their lies based upon a common misconception that is a lie. And I refuse to leave this earth until my son knows the truth.
That's a lie and don't you let anyone fill your head with that trash if for some reason your childhood in any manner mirrors mine. And if it does, let me just pause right now and say to you the words the wisest woman who ever walked this planet said to me - "I'm so sorry this happened to you." It's okay if you stop right now and cry a little. I get it.
But after you are done with the tears, there is something that is so critical to your future that you need to get if you haven't done so already. What they did is not your fault. What they did doesn't define you. Ever. It defines them. Period.
And whether you believe in God, Heaven or Hell or not - I can assure you, they will go to Hell for eternity. God said, "Revenge is mine." So from there you can go on. I sleep easy every night knowing that those who hurt me burn in Hell for eternity. I don't think of them except to write the truth on these pages.
All I think about is taking care of my son and his future. A job which has been made inexorably harder by people filling his head with their lies. Their lies based upon a common misconception that is a lie. And I refuse to leave this earth until my son knows the truth.
Friday, October 9, 2015
Destroying a Life from the Inside Out
You would think that sending your child to a private Christian school where half the administration is packing guns would be safe. That depends on if you know who the enemy is.
When you turn a corner and someone is pointing a gun straight at you, the enemy is easy to determine. When the same person holsters their gun, reaches out to shake your hand with a hearty 'We are so glad you came' - you may not recognize who exactly you are meeting.
Which is not to say I just out and out trusted them from the beginning anyway. With my childhood, you shake hands and trust after you've known the person awhile. A good long while. It took the faith of God himself to send my child to a school, any school, as it was. At least the signs at the entrance to the church telling everyone half the place was packing heat gave me some comfort. What I didn't know is that the administration themselves were the enemy to my child.
And no - they didn't point a gun at him. What they did was actually worse. They tried to act like they were our friends, to act like Isaac's friend, then day by day by day, hours on end, they attacked his life from the inside out.
Until the life we had built up together over a ten year period no longer existed. What did they use? Words.
God said I Am the Word. My journalism school said the pen is mightier than the sword. Words have power. To use words to destroy my son's mind is evil. And yet again - Arkansas Christian Academy, Bryant, Arkansas can't sue me for these statements. Because it's the truth. I dare you to - just try it.
When you turn a corner and someone is pointing a gun straight at you, the enemy is easy to determine. When the same person holsters their gun, reaches out to shake your hand with a hearty 'We are so glad you came' - you may not recognize who exactly you are meeting.
Which is not to say I just out and out trusted them from the beginning anyway. With my childhood, you shake hands and trust after you've known the person awhile. A good long while. It took the faith of God himself to send my child to a school, any school, as it was. At least the signs at the entrance to the church telling everyone half the place was packing heat gave me some comfort. What I didn't know is that the administration themselves were the enemy to my child.
And no - they didn't point a gun at him. What they did was actually worse. They tried to act like they were our friends, to act like Isaac's friend, then day by day by day, hours on end, they attacked his life from the inside out.
Until the life we had built up together over a ten year period no longer existed. What did they use? Words.
God said I Am the Word. My journalism school said the pen is mightier than the sword. Words have power. To use words to destroy my son's mind is evil. And yet again - Arkansas Christian Academy, Bryant, Arkansas can't sue me for these statements. Because it's the truth. I dare you to - just try it.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
Real Life Math
Cops across the nation have had unprecedented access to the life Isaac and I have led since day one. A simple mathematical calculation of 24 hours per day times 365 days per year times 10 years equals 87,600 hours of video of our life.
During that time we have lived our daily lives. Took our daily walks. Isaac had his daily nap right up until five years old. We mulled the decision on when to allow technology into our lives - knowing that when it did invade it would be impossible to retreat from its' use. And in the meantime, I relished every single moment of our daily-ness. Letting the puppy out with us to run over to the pile of dirt that construction workers had left on the lot next door - to let Isaac play king of the mountain and laugh at Tink trying to join in. It was just days and days of nothingness and everythingness all mushed up into the most wonderful oneness. I wouldn't trade anything for the memory of our days of nothingness-wonderfulness.
For I remember them. Every single one of them. All ten years. The hugs. The multiple kisses I gave my cupped hands, then blowing them real hard for dramatic effect, sending Isaac into giggles just before his nap. To show him that just one kiss was not enough. To leave the living room curtains open just a bit as he slept on the sofa, even though I was certain there were cameras somewhere in the house, just to be sure everyone could see us. To prove to them I am a good mom. To prove to them I am not like those who raised me. After all, why else would they have watched since day one? If they had not already decided in their minds what they thought our future held.
But I didn't need the cameras. To me it is a point of honor. My child's birth mother lives half a world away in Guatemala. But she can rest her heart in the knowledge I treat Isaac with all the love I'm sure she feels. Every single day.
And they were there every single day too. Forgetting to turn off their cellphones and probably almost dropping it when it rang right over our heads in the living room. Tripping over a beam in the attic and falling. Loudly. Twice. You ok dude? Eating fast food egg sandwiches even Isaac could smell, despite the fact I hadn't cooked eggs in two weeks at the time. Following me down the hallway over my head, which yeah, I can hear. Smashing into the side of the house countless times to gain entry - making my dog freak out and run in that direction barking.
So they were there too. Constantly. Obviously an invasion of privacy of historic proportion. But I didn't stop them. I didn't limit their access. Because really - how do you stop anyone from watching you? So I knew without a doubt our every move was monitored. The number of endless hours, weeks, days, months, years can easily be calculated.
What I can't calculate is why they then decided to take my healthy, happy, obviously thriving son and destroy his life.
During that time we have lived our daily lives. Took our daily walks. Isaac had his daily nap right up until five years old. We mulled the decision on when to allow technology into our lives - knowing that when it did invade it would be impossible to retreat from its' use. And in the meantime, I relished every single moment of our daily-ness. Letting the puppy out with us to run over to the pile of dirt that construction workers had left on the lot next door - to let Isaac play king of the mountain and laugh at Tink trying to join in. It was just days and days of nothingness and everythingness all mushed up into the most wonderful oneness. I wouldn't trade anything for the memory of our days of nothingness-wonderfulness.
For I remember them. Every single one of them. All ten years. The hugs. The multiple kisses I gave my cupped hands, then blowing them real hard for dramatic effect, sending Isaac into giggles just before his nap. To show him that just one kiss was not enough. To leave the living room curtains open just a bit as he slept on the sofa, even though I was certain there were cameras somewhere in the house, just to be sure everyone could see us. To prove to them I am a good mom. To prove to them I am not like those who raised me. After all, why else would they have watched since day one? If they had not already decided in their minds what they thought our future held.
But I didn't need the cameras. To me it is a point of honor. My child's birth mother lives half a world away in Guatemala. But she can rest her heart in the knowledge I treat Isaac with all the love I'm sure she feels. Every single day.
And they were there every single day too. Forgetting to turn off their cellphones and probably almost dropping it when it rang right over our heads in the living room. Tripping over a beam in the attic and falling. Loudly. Twice. You ok dude? Eating fast food egg sandwiches even Isaac could smell, despite the fact I hadn't cooked eggs in two weeks at the time. Following me down the hallway over my head, which yeah, I can hear. Smashing into the side of the house countless times to gain entry - making my dog freak out and run in that direction barking.
So they were there too. Constantly. Obviously an invasion of privacy of historic proportion. But I didn't stop them. I didn't limit their access. Because really - how do you stop anyone from watching you? So I knew without a doubt our every move was monitored. The number of endless hours, weeks, days, months, years can easily be calculated.
What I can't calculate is why they then decided to take my healthy, happy, obviously thriving son and destroy his life.
Monday, October 5, 2015
How Much is a Life Worth?
My preacher father raping me didn't stop me from believing in God. However, the actions of Arkansas Christian Academy, Bryant, Arkansas, made me stop believing in church.
And that's a shame. I had planned to raise my child in the church. I wanted him to feel so at home at church that he could feel free to do what I used to do - run the aisles after church waiting for Mom to be done talking - play hide-n-go-seek in the baptismal during a weeknight church meeting that kids weren't invited to and try to squeeze past the door greeter to avoid his bear hug and fail - getting the hug whether you wanted it or not.
Know every corner of that building and every person in it because you had entered those doors every single time they opened. To know that your bestie at church was always safe to be around because they came from a good family. You could tell because you spent so much time with them at church suppers - watching how the parents treated them.
You know, I was always one of those back row Baptists. To me, it was just more comfortable. I didn't like sitting up front where I felt I was being stared at. But just because I was in the back didn't mean I wasn't listening.
I was listening intently because at church I was at home. At home with my true father. My father God who protects me and never hurts me. To have that is priceless. To have it taken away by people who claim to know God is a travesty.
And that's a shame. I had planned to raise my child in the church. I wanted him to feel so at home at church that he could feel free to do what I used to do - run the aisles after church waiting for Mom to be done talking - play hide-n-go-seek in the baptismal during a weeknight church meeting that kids weren't invited to and try to squeeze past the door greeter to avoid his bear hug and fail - getting the hug whether you wanted it or not.
Know every corner of that building and every person in it because you had entered those doors every single time they opened. To know that your bestie at church was always safe to be around because they came from a good family. You could tell because you spent so much time with them at church suppers - watching how the parents treated them.
You know, I was always one of those back row Baptists. To me, it was just more comfortable. I didn't like sitting up front where I felt I was being stared at. But just because I was in the back didn't mean I wasn't listening.
I was listening intently because at church I was at home. At home with my true father. My father God who protects me and never hurts me. To have that is priceless. To have it taken away by people who claim to know God is a travesty.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
Child Abuse
What they did to my child at Arkansas Christian Academy, Bryant, Arkansas, constitutes criminal child abuse. Period.
So why would I, a military-trained journalist, publish that sentence? Because it's true and I can prove it.
You see, when the military trains a journalist they don't mess around. They take a typical four-year training period, condense it down to eleven weeks and turn out real writers. With a wash-out rate exceeding 50 percent, students better pay attention during training or they will find themselves serving lunch specials in the chow hall instead.
I learned early not to listen to other people when it comes to my writing. On an assignment worth almost half our final grade they provided a story source with a last name a mile long. Most of us got it wrong after the group interview because we were too timid to go up one by one and verify the person's last name. So we were like - yeah - how was his last name spelled? That one story almost turned me into a washout.
So when I write something - I make sure I get it right. And yes. I know of two previous posts where something appears to be wrong. Both times I did it on purpose. For example: I know that technically Fort Greely is a post, not a base. And I don't care. I'm Air Force. Every military installation is a base to me and I'm not changing it. Also - I know that technically what I referred to earlier as Sitka National Forest Park is actually Sitka National Historical Park. But if I had used the real name and you had never been here what would you automatically picture in your mind? Probably a park in a city square with some historical markers like you see on the highways in the lower 48, or a restored local building, surrounded by picnic tables and swing-sets. But if I used a more descriptive name such as Forest Park - you immediately picture us walking through a forest. A place of beauty. A place where once you move into it more than 10 feet you are enveloped with air so fresh it restores your very soul. Technically the wrong name - in reality the true name. To have used the actual technically correct name would have bogged down and distracted from the whole original point of that particular post. So I used what described it best.
And it's my blog. What are you going to do? Sue me? I think not. Just like Arkansas Christian Academy won't sue me. Look. Let's test it. Make it even more noticeable.
Wait. Wait for it. What is that I hear? Is that a knock on the door from a lawyer? Nope all quiet. And they never will because they know I'm telling the truth. I will crucify them in a court of law if they even attempt to do so.
So why would I, a military-trained journalist, publish that sentence? Because it's true and I can prove it.
You see, when the military trains a journalist they don't mess around. They take a typical four-year training period, condense it down to eleven weeks and turn out real writers. With a wash-out rate exceeding 50 percent, students better pay attention during training or they will find themselves serving lunch specials in the chow hall instead.
I learned early not to listen to other people when it comes to my writing. On an assignment worth almost half our final grade they provided a story source with a last name a mile long. Most of us got it wrong after the group interview because we were too timid to go up one by one and verify the person's last name. So we were like - yeah - how was his last name spelled? That one story almost turned me into a washout.
So when I write something - I make sure I get it right. And yes. I know of two previous posts where something appears to be wrong. Both times I did it on purpose. For example: I know that technically Fort Greely is a post, not a base. And I don't care. I'm Air Force. Every military installation is a base to me and I'm not changing it. Also - I know that technically what I referred to earlier as Sitka National Forest Park is actually Sitka National Historical Park. But if I had used the real name and you had never been here what would you automatically picture in your mind? Probably a park in a city square with some historical markers like you see on the highways in the lower 48, or a restored local building, surrounded by picnic tables and swing-sets. But if I used a more descriptive name such as Forest Park - you immediately picture us walking through a forest. A place of beauty. A place where once you move into it more than 10 feet you are enveloped with air so fresh it restores your very soul. Technically the wrong name - in reality the true name. To have used the actual technically correct name would have bogged down and distracted from the whole original point of that particular post. So I used what described it best.
And it's my blog. What are you going to do? Sue me? I think not. Just like Arkansas Christian Academy won't sue me. Look. Let's test it. Make it even more noticeable.
What they did to my child at Arkansas Christian Academy, Bryant, Arkansas, constitutes criminal child abuse.
Wait. Wait for it. What is that I hear? Is that a knock on the door from a lawyer? Nope all quiet. And they never will because they know I'm telling the truth. I will crucify them in a court of law if they even attempt to do so.
Thursday, October 1, 2015
It Was His Eyes
It was his eyes that told me he loves me. And he wasn't my husband. Who was standing right beside me.
Those eyes, that look, really took me aback. I was having trouble focusing on what they were saying - they kept droning on while my mind was examining all the facts: I've never met this person in my entire life. My husband is next to me. That didn't stop the look. My son was exploring the room. The presence of a complete family didn't stop the look. And although my hair can look nice on a good day, even when I was 20-something with hair that bounced and behaved all the way down to a much cuter, slimmer butt - even I wasn't that much in love with my hair.
No one falls in love to that extent at first sight. This - this was someone who knew me intimately and loved me deeply.
I tried to bring my focus back to what they were talking about. Something about security. Perimeters. I glanced up at the wall over a work station. A map of the base and a large photo of a security fence.
That's when it clicked. Even though he wasn't in a police uniform, none of them were - he had to have seen the videos. The black square in laughing head's hand had been a camera. I knew that for certain now. Those eyes had seen me laughing, playing, twirling Isaac around to music, my long hair spinning up in the air behind us.
His days were spent mostly underground at Fort Greely, Delta Junction, Alaska, protecting the missile defense of our country. But at some point, he had come back to the surface, to a meeting with the military police. To watch videos of me before we arrived.
It was his eyes that told me so.
Those eyes, that look, really took me aback. I was having trouble focusing on what they were saying - they kept droning on while my mind was examining all the facts: I've never met this person in my entire life. My husband is next to me. That didn't stop the look. My son was exploring the room. The presence of a complete family didn't stop the look. And although my hair can look nice on a good day, even when I was 20-something with hair that bounced and behaved all the way down to a much cuter, slimmer butt - even I wasn't that much in love with my hair.
No one falls in love to that extent at first sight. This - this was someone who knew me intimately and loved me deeply.
I tried to bring my focus back to what they were talking about. Something about security. Perimeters. I glanced up at the wall over a work station. A map of the base and a large photo of a security fence.
That's when it clicked. Even though he wasn't in a police uniform, none of them were - he had to have seen the videos. The black square in laughing head's hand had been a camera. I knew that for certain now. Those eyes had seen me laughing, playing, twirling Isaac around to music, my long hair spinning up in the air behind us.
His days were spent mostly underground at Fort Greely, Delta Junction, Alaska, protecting the missile defense of our country. But at some point, he had come back to the surface, to a meeting with the military police. To watch videos of me before we arrived.
It was his eyes that told me so.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Constitution 101
Have you ever had sex with your husband, knowing that cops from Alaska to Arkansas have seen video of it? I have. And when I've met some of the cops while out in daily life, they have blushed bright red. So I know it's true.
The first hint of my life being videotaped came from laughing head himself. One day the head watching in the window became two heads. With a square black object held in front of one, a bit far away to tell for sure at the time. But later I would know my suspicions were spot on.
At the time, all I knew for sure is that every moment of my life was being monitored. Sitka being a small town, it's hard not to run into a cop in your everyday life. But seeing as I knew unauthorized psychological experiments were being conducted on me, the chief of police was taking an inordinate amount of interest in my shopping habits, and my home itself was ground zero for observation, I went with the theory that other happenings weren't so much happenstance.
I suspected that the two ladies running through the woods while Isaac and I took our walk were there for more than just the fresh air. And the jerky guy who always jogged up silently behind me so close he nearly brushed my shoulder, despite the path being four feet wide, then exhaled extremely loud in my ear - making me yelp - was most likely a cop too. That and most times at restaurants I could detect someone nearby trying to act as if they didn't know me or weren't listening - but obviously were.
One day while walking Sarge down the gravel hill, I stopped. Did they watch all people who were abused as a child this closely? I doubted it. It would be impossible. It was obvious they had predetermined in their minds what I was like based solely on what other people had done to me as a child. I was being treated like a criminal. I knew then I was going to be the most watched person in history. What a waste of time, resources and money.
Our Constitutional rights to privacy are a huge concern in modern life. I can tell you from personal experience what it feels like. When it goes on and on and on without stopping for ten years like it has us, you second-guess every move you make. What does it look like to other people? What do they think? How much of the videos have they seen?
So if you are thinking after reading the first six posts, how can she bare so much of her life? It's because it already has been. I have nothing to hide. And they know it. They have the videos to prove it.
The first hint of my life being videotaped came from laughing head himself. One day the head watching in the window became two heads. With a square black object held in front of one, a bit far away to tell for sure at the time. But later I would know my suspicions were spot on.
At the time, all I knew for sure is that every moment of my life was being monitored. Sitka being a small town, it's hard not to run into a cop in your everyday life. But seeing as I knew unauthorized psychological experiments were being conducted on me, the chief of police was taking an inordinate amount of interest in my shopping habits, and my home itself was ground zero for observation, I went with the theory that other happenings weren't so much happenstance.
I suspected that the two ladies running through the woods while Isaac and I took our walk were there for more than just the fresh air. And the jerky guy who always jogged up silently behind me so close he nearly brushed my shoulder, despite the path being four feet wide, then exhaled extremely loud in my ear - making me yelp - was most likely a cop too. That and most times at restaurants I could detect someone nearby trying to act as if they didn't know me or weren't listening - but obviously were.
One day while walking Sarge down the gravel hill, I stopped. Did they watch all people who were abused as a child this closely? I doubted it. It would be impossible. It was obvious they had predetermined in their minds what I was like based solely on what other people had done to me as a child. I was being treated like a criminal. I knew then I was going to be the most watched person in history. What a waste of time, resources and money.
Our Constitutional rights to privacy are a huge concern in modern life. I can tell you from personal experience what it feels like. When it goes on and on and on without stopping for ten years like it has us, you second-guess every move you make. What does it look like to other people? What do they think? How much of the videos have they seen?
So if you are thinking after reading the first six posts, how can she bare so much of her life? It's because it already has been. I have nothing to hide. And they know it. They have the videos to prove it.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Live Experiments
A bug under the microscope. That perfectly describes what they are doing to my life, to Isaac's life. Apparently emboldened by the fact I hadn't sued them, Sitka Medical Center decided next to turn my life into their personal laboratory.
The first experiment falls under the category of 'I can't prove it but I know in my heart what I am thinking is true'.
I was walking my 100-pound 3-foot dog Sarge up the gravel hill leading to the mountain behind our house in Sitka when three kids rushed us. I had to hold a hand up and tell them to stop immediately. They supposedly wanted to pet my dog. Ok. Let's examine this scenario. Number one, in fourteen years owning my dogs, not once has a child approached us for any reason. Why would they? Compared to the size of a child my dogs tend to be on the gargantuan end of the spectrum. The only people who ever stopped were adults driving cars who were so star struck by Babs' beauty that they just had to pause, lean out the window and comment. Yeah, Sarge never invoked that response. So I knew immediately something was up. Kids don't run at a behemoth like Sarge. Away from maybe. But never at.
So I paused. I could feel them. Watching me again. I looked at the apartment building where the kids had come running from. Trying to hone in on where the feeling was coming from. I couldn't decide where it was originating - second floor middle window or third floor corner window facing the ocean, the direction we had come from. Both apartments had the curtains closed so I couldn't tell for sure. I finally came to the conclusion people were watching in both locations, someone to say we were coming, and another to have a better view of when the kids rushed us.
First off, to even run an experiment like that is an insult to who I am as a person, to my character. It also told me a lot about what they thought of me and how they had already predetermined in their minds what I must be like just because of what other people had done to me as a child. What they did disgusts me on so many levels.
Apparently, I couldn't even now leave my house without some sort of weird experiment being conducted. The next one is even weirder.
Again, on one of our walks up the hill, construction workers were laying new tar on the flat roof of a strip mall across the street. Nothing unusual there right? Except one worker was wearing a brand new sparkling clean white long-sleeve shirt, pressed to perfection. Just like the shirt my preacher dad must have worn on Sunday mornings.
Seriously? Yeah. That sounds like the perfect choice for that job. So I knew they wanted me to look. Though it truly was beyond stupid. So I looked. And on our way back down the hill, a dark SUV with even darker tinted windows so you couldn't tell who was driving slowly pulled right up in front of us, the back window rolled down just enough so someone could see us, but we couldn't see who they were. And again, a little hard to prove but I'm leaning towards it was them because no one wears a long-sleeve white freshly-pressed dress shirt to lay tar on a roof.
Even the military which is infamous for conducting experiments on unsuspecting subjects, now acknowledges that doing so is unethical. Yet my whole life is being treated as no more valuable than that of a bug under a microscope.
The first experiment falls under the category of 'I can't prove it but I know in my heart what I am thinking is true'.
I was walking my 100-pound 3-foot dog Sarge up the gravel hill leading to the mountain behind our house in Sitka when three kids rushed us. I had to hold a hand up and tell them to stop immediately. They supposedly wanted to pet my dog. Ok. Let's examine this scenario. Number one, in fourteen years owning my dogs, not once has a child approached us for any reason. Why would they? Compared to the size of a child my dogs tend to be on the gargantuan end of the spectrum. The only people who ever stopped were adults driving cars who were so star struck by Babs' beauty that they just had to pause, lean out the window and comment. Yeah, Sarge never invoked that response. So I knew immediately something was up. Kids don't run at a behemoth like Sarge. Away from maybe. But never at.
So I paused. I could feel them. Watching me again. I looked at the apartment building where the kids had come running from. Trying to hone in on where the feeling was coming from. I couldn't decide where it was originating - second floor middle window or third floor corner window facing the ocean, the direction we had come from. Both apartments had the curtains closed so I couldn't tell for sure. I finally came to the conclusion people were watching in both locations, someone to say we were coming, and another to have a better view of when the kids rushed us.
First off, to even run an experiment like that is an insult to who I am as a person, to my character. It also told me a lot about what they thought of me and how they had already predetermined in their minds what I must be like just because of what other people had done to me as a child. What they did disgusts me on so many levels.
Apparently, I couldn't even now leave my house without some sort of weird experiment being conducted. The next one is even weirder.
Again, on one of our walks up the hill, construction workers were laying new tar on the flat roof of a strip mall across the street. Nothing unusual there right? Except one worker was wearing a brand new sparkling clean white long-sleeve shirt, pressed to perfection. Just like the shirt my preacher dad must have worn on Sunday mornings.
Seriously? Yeah. That sounds like the perfect choice for that job. So I knew they wanted me to look. Though it truly was beyond stupid. So I looked. And on our way back down the hill, a dark SUV with even darker tinted windows so you couldn't tell who was driving slowly pulled right up in front of us, the back window rolled down just enough so someone could see us, but we couldn't see who they were. And again, a little hard to prove but I'm leaning towards it was them because no one wears a long-sleeve white freshly-pressed dress shirt to lay tar on a roof.
Even the military which is infamous for conducting experiments on unsuspecting subjects, now acknowledges that doing so is unethical. Yet my whole life is being treated as no more valuable than that of a bug under a microscope.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
Always Watching
Do you ever feel like you're being watched? Yeah - me, not so much. In fact it was so rare in my childhood that the only two instances were so creepy that they are forever seared in my memory.
After school detention for, gasp, socializing, meant I often stayed late to write a hundred times on the blackboard that I will not talk with my neighbors. Backfired on them though - I actually liked writing and spending time with the teacher rather than go home to an empty house. The creepy thing though is someone else noticed me leaving later than all the other kids, walking home by myself.
I could feel him long before I could see him. So I slowed my pace. And that's when I saw it, his shadow move back deeper into the approaching alley. Fear ran through my body as I crossed over to the other side of the street. Now from a safer distance I dared to look between the old brownstone apartments divided by the alley. He was gone. But he had been there. He definitely had been there.
It's even worse when the watcher is someone you know. Like your own mother. I was now in 11th grade and a majorette with the East High School, Des Moines, Iowa band. A few twirling lessons back when I was five finally paid off with a spot on the squad. (That and the infinite patience of my new friend that actually propped her stereo speakers in her bedroom windows, facing out, so we could figure out a winning routine - blasting the Beach Boys over and over. Did you know that you can get amazingly good at throwing a baton super-high in the air, then twirl around to catch it when you are practicing outside? Good thing the band room where they held tryouts had two-story ceilings.)
It was a Friday night football game. The pep squad had decorated our lockers too, just like the football players, which I'm sure they enjoyed decorating more. Mom had drove me there. As I got out I told her to just go ahead and go home. I knew plenty of people I could mooch a ride off of. She pulled out a paper. I pled - seriously - these games are endless. I'll be fine. To no avail. She was not budging. This is stupid I thought as I walked away. I really wished I could have talked her into leaving so I could enjoy myself. I wasn't a baby after all. We were supposed to sit with the band so I took my appointed space and tried to relax. But again I could feel the watching. I squirmed. I looked off into the distance. I couldn't make out which car was ours in the over-packed parking lot. But I could feel it. The hate. Like a hot, searing blast of hate. Directed just at me. It made me miserable. I just wanted to have fun in this one moment of time.
So I do know what it feels like to be watched. That's why I could recognize it so fast when they started watching me in Sitka. It's not something you see. You feel it first, then sometimes it's confirmed by what you see, like at Sea Mart.
When you have the kind of childhood I did you end up with defense mechanisms. I didn't even realize I had mine until I stopped to think about it. They had become as much a part of me as my DNA.
What I do is... Watch. Everything. Everyone. Does. Says. Emotes. Infers. Tones. Moves. Looks.
Watch. My Environment. Changes. Scenes. Movements. To the point I do it without even thinking. To the point I can read what other people are thinking. To the point it becomes a version of psychic.
So I could actually feel his presence before he got close to the house. We had just brought Isaac home and spent our days cuddling on the sofa reading, strolling in the Sitka National Forrest Park, and dancing to music played over the tv channels. Our house had a beautiful view of the ocean off to the right, and the whole world could see us thanks to glass spanning the entire front. I loved that place. Light everywhere. But did I see him coming? No. I felt him coming. Long before the SUV passed by, I would look up, no matter what I was doing and see him watching me as he drove past. No matter which way he was coming from. No matter what time of day. Finally he figured out I was always looking back. So he started turning his rearview mirror in towards the cab and looked the other way. But I still knew. He was looking at me in the mirror.
Always watching my environment, I knew whoever lived in the house on the curve to our left was a shift worker. Only shift workers line their windows with foil. It's the cheapest, easiest way to block out the light so you can sleep during the day. And since there is no industry in Sitka - that meant a cop, firefighter or hospital worker lived there.
And one day the foil disappeared. A head appeared. Just the head since it was one of those narrow windows high up on a wall, for design effect. Isaac and I had a favorite game we played. I would push his walker to the end of the hall and tell him to wait. I'd rush back to the kitchen and hide around the corner, calling for him to come. Then say 'BOO!' when he reached the corner. Being the smart kiddo he is, it only took once for him to figure this was going to be fantastic fun. And it was. It was hard for me not to laugh before he reached the corner. Each BOO was met with squeals and hands in the air. Even the head in the window was probably laughing.
Sounds innocent enough right? Just watching right? But it was so much more than that. It didn't stop there. I couldn't hear them, I couldn't see them and I could only assume they entered while Isaac and I were on our daily walk - but I could feel them in the house. In Isaac's bedroom to be exact. The design is what provided the perfect hiding spot. A loft in his bedroom, accessed only by a ladder is where I felt someone. Second-story buildings have always creeped me out, so I had lined the ladder with stuffed animals, to visually take away the effect of having a loft overhead. None of the animals ever seemed to be disturbed. Still. Someone had managed to scale up there. Listening. Watching everything we did. I could feel them.
You only imagine things like this happening in Russia, China, countries where people aren't free. I was definitely not living in the land of the free anymore. People in those countries know they might be watched at any moment. I knew for a fact I was always being watched, inside my house, outside my house. No matter what I was doing. I couldn't even have sex with my husband without knowing someone was watching, listening. It creeped me out but I didn't think I could stop them. They seemed determined to do whatever they wanted with my life. I thought about telling my husband since I told him everything. But tell him what? Even I couldn't believe this was happening - even though I knew it to be true for a fact.
It was the beginning of what I refer to as feeling like a bug under a microscope. Unfortunately they didn't stop with just looking, always watching. What they did was so much worse. If I could have stopped them Isaac - I would have. Their looking at us, watching us wasn't so innocent. They had decided beforehand our futures. And we didn't have the freedom to stop them.
After school detention for, gasp, socializing, meant I often stayed late to write a hundred times on the blackboard that I will not talk with my neighbors. Backfired on them though - I actually liked writing and spending time with the teacher rather than go home to an empty house. The creepy thing though is someone else noticed me leaving later than all the other kids, walking home by myself.
I could feel him long before I could see him. So I slowed my pace. And that's when I saw it, his shadow move back deeper into the approaching alley. Fear ran through my body as I crossed over to the other side of the street. Now from a safer distance I dared to look between the old brownstone apartments divided by the alley. He was gone. But he had been there. He definitely had been there.
It's even worse when the watcher is someone you know. Like your own mother. I was now in 11th grade and a majorette with the East High School, Des Moines, Iowa band. A few twirling lessons back when I was five finally paid off with a spot on the squad. (That and the infinite patience of my new friend that actually propped her stereo speakers in her bedroom windows, facing out, so we could figure out a winning routine - blasting the Beach Boys over and over. Did you know that you can get amazingly good at throwing a baton super-high in the air, then twirl around to catch it when you are practicing outside? Good thing the band room where they held tryouts had two-story ceilings.)
It was a Friday night football game. The pep squad had decorated our lockers too, just like the football players, which I'm sure they enjoyed decorating more. Mom had drove me there. As I got out I told her to just go ahead and go home. I knew plenty of people I could mooch a ride off of. She pulled out a paper. I pled - seriously - these games are endless. I'll be fine. To no avail. She was not budging. This is stupid I thought as I walked away. I really wished I could have talked her into leaving so I could enjoy myself. I wasn't a baby after all. We were supposed to sit with the band so I took my appointed space and tried to relax. But again I could feel the watching. I squirmed. I looked off into the distance. I couldn't make out which car was ours in the over-packed parking lot. But I could feel it. The hate. Like a hot, searing blast of hate. Directed just at me. It made me miserable. I just wanted to have fun in this one moment of time.
So I do know what it feels like to be watched. That's why I could recognize it so fast when they started watching me in Sitka. It's not something you see. You feel it first, then sometimes it's confirmed by what you see, like at Sea Mart.
When you have the kind of childhood I did you end up with defense mechanisms. I didn't even realize I had mine until I stopped to think about it. They had become as much a part of me as my DNA.
What I do is... Watch. Everything. Everyone. Does. Says. Emotes. Infers. Tones. Moves. Looks.
Watch. My Environment. Changes. Scenes. Movements. To the point I do it without even thinking. To the point I can read what other people are thinking. To the point it becomes a version of psychic.
So I could actually feel his presence before he got close to the house. We had just brought Isaac home and spent our days cuddling on the sofa reading, strolling in the Sitka National Forrest Park, and dancing to music played over the tv channels. Our house had a beautiful view of the ocean off to the right, and the whole world could see us thanks to glass spanning the entire front. I loved that place. Light everywhere. But did I see him coming? No. I felt him coming. Long before the SUV passed by, I would look up, no matter what I was doing and see him watching me as he drove past. No matter which way he was coming from. No matter what time of day. Finally he figured out I was always looking back. So he started turning his rearview mirror in towards the cab and looked the other way. But I still knew. He was looking at me in the mirror.
Always watching my environment, I knew whoever lived in the house on the curve to our left was a shift worker. Only shift workers line their windows with foil. It's the cheapest, easiest way to block out the light so you can sleep during the day. And since there is no industry in Sitka - that meant a cop, firefighter or hospital worker lived there.
And one day the foil disappeared. A head appeared. Just the head since it was one of those narrow windows high up on a wall, for design effect. Isaac and I had a favorite game we played. I would push his walker to the end of the hall and tell him to wait. I'd rush back to the kitchen and hide around the corner, calling for him to come. Then say 'BOO!' when he reached the corner. Being the smart kiddo he is, it only took once for him to figure this was going to be fantastic fun. And it was. It was hard for me not to laugh before he reached the corner. Each BOO was met with squeals and hands in the air. Even the head in the window was probably laughing.
Sounds innocent enough right? Just watching right? But it was so much more than that. It didn't stop there. I couldn't hear them, I couldn't see them and I could only assume they entered while Isaac and I were on our daily walk - but I could feel them in the house. In Isaac's bedroom to be exact. The design is what provided the perfect hiding spot. A loft in his bedroom, accessed only by a ladder is where I felt someone. Second-story buildings have always creeped me out, so I had lined the ladder with stuffed animals, to visually take away the effect of having a loft overhead. None of the animals ever seemed to be disturbed. Still. Someone had managed to scale up there. Listening. Watching everything we did. I could feel them.
You only imagine things like this happening in Russia, China, countries where people aren't free. I was definitely not living in the land of the free anymore. People in those countries know they might be watched at any moment. I knew for a fact I was always being watched, inside my house, outside my house. No matter what I was doing. I couldn't even have sex with my husband without knowing someone was watching, listening. It creeped me out but I didn't think I could stop them. They seemed determined to do whatever they wanted with my life. I thought about telling my husband since I told him everything. But tell him what? Even I couldn't believe this was happening - even though I knew it to be true for a fact.
It was the beginning of what I refer to as feeling like a bug under a microscope. Unfortunately they didn't stop with just looking, always watching. What they did was so much worse. If I could have stopped them Isaac - I would have. Their looking at us, watching us wasn't so innocent. They had decided beforehand our futures. And we didn't have the freedom to stop them.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Firecracker Baby
I was born on the Fourth of July. Just writing that makes me smile. It was the one day a year poverty could not touch. No matter what - the parade would march by, throwing candy at us kids. The carnival would take over the town square of Chariton, Iowa and even just one ride was a thrill. Ice cold watermelon juice dripped down our bare summer legs onto the front steps. When the sun finally called it a day is when the real fun began - fireworks overhead and sparklers in our hands, waving to make our own show.
It was just simple fun. The kind we almost take for granted here in the United States. Where we have peace to live our life the way we want. Even if all we want is just that one ride, just that one piece of watermelon, just a chance to dance with a sparkler in our hand. But what if it weren't that way? What if you woke up one day and uniformed militia guarded every bank, every large store with machine guns as you walked in? What if you had to take your child to the airport in the middle of the night, to greet the next flight from America - so you could point out the richest looking woman - 'Right there - her - go to her.' Telling them the most likely target to beg from.
What if instead you had been born in Guatemala? That was the future my son Isaac faced until we were blessed with the opportunity to rescue him. At least that is how it started. As I look at his beautiful face now it's obvious he rescued us from so much more.
When I turned towards the ocean that day at Sea Mart, my heart told him, you are home now. This shining place where diamonds play across the water - this is your future. At that point, we should have been left in peace to live our life. We were in America - right? I was soon to find out I no longer lived in the land of the free.
It was just simple fun. The kind we almost take for granted here in the United States. Where we have peace to live our life the way we want. Even if all we want is just that one ride, just that one piece of watermelon, just a chance to dance with a sparkler in our hand. But what if it weren't that way? What if you woke up one day and uniformed militia guarded every bank, every large store with machine guns as you walked in? What if you had to take your child to the airport in the middle of the night, to greet the next flight from America - so you could point out the richest looking woman - 'Right there - her - go to her.' Telling them the most likely target to beg from.
What if instead you had been born in Guatemala? That was the future my son Isaac faced until we were blessed with the opportunity to rescue him. At least that is how it started. As I look at his beautiful face now it's obvious he rescued us from so much more.
When I turned towards the ocean that day at Sea Mart, my heart told him, you are home now. This shining place where diamonds play across the water - this is your future. At that point, we should have been left in peace to live our life. We were in America - right? I was soon to find out I no longer lived in the land of the free.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Campaign of Terror
'Do not be afraid of them. The Lord your God goes before you.' Instantly my throat closed at words my soul knew by heart from Sunday School. Not like hands around my neck, but a force centered entirely in one spot, the center front of my neck, just where a barely noticeable scar remains, a tiny point just big enough to twist a knife into. I had not felt that force since the day my mother died.
The Alaska I once loved slid past my view, 100-foot spruce interrupted by a mix of empty rich-owned architectural envy, dotted with local homesteads marked with noticeable signs of life - the oft used half-crooked deck leaning down to the edge of the Inside Passage water's edge and matching wooden stairs up to the house, kitchen windows with light shining through simple cotton curtains, smoke puffs drifting off roofs to fly closer to the eagles.
I had expected to feel happy, welcomed even, back to where we had first started our new family in Sitka. But this wasn't Sitka. It was Ketchikan. And suddenly, two simple sentences my soul spoke to my heart gripped me in fear. Them. That's plural. How many are they? Do not fear them. What are they going to do that I should not fear?
The first time I had noticed one of them was at the Sea Mart in Sitka some nine years prior. As I gently lifted Isaac out of his car seat and turned to face an ocean surface sparkling like diamonds on a rare rainforest sunny day, I knew I had made the perfect choice for a long-awaited first grocery trip as a mom.
There was a cheaper place we could have gone. But I didn't care. I wanted to always remember this day. For it to be absolutely perfect. And it was. Hardly anyone else there, time to linger over shelves brimming with organic and fancy brands. No need to hurry. So when I turned at the end of the first row and stopped at the brownie mixes, I knew exactly why I was taking so long. Even though I had been making brownies from scratch for years, I figured a new baby in the house would require a few adjustments here and there - so I was looking to see what if any, were the new options for an easy chocolate overdose. But why was the man at the other end of the aisle taking just as long?
For someone who was not gay nor a chef, he was willing to spend an inordinate amount of time looking at the spices. A man shopping for his wife, yet stumped as to where the heck is something would have pulled out his cell phone long ago. So as a person with an equally inordinate amount of patience, I waited him out. A few moments later my answer rounded the corner, greeting him with a cheery, 'Hey Chief!'. A pained looked actually crossed the chief of police's face. Busted. Not that I was surprised. It was just a confirmation of what I already knew.
I didn't know him from the paper; I never bought it. What alerted me to their actions was an extremely weird incident at the doctor's office.
I had gone to the Sitka Medical Center for an annual PAP exam. Instead, Dr. Donald R. Lehmann, M.D., performed an unauthorized, unethical psychological manipulation and experiment.
The first tip-off was everyone's mannerisms and voice tones when I arrived. They were all acting weird. By the time I passed the new visiting medical resident with an Italian name a mile long - I definitely knew something was up. He looked absolutely terrified. I almost turned around right then and there.
When Dr. Lehmann entered the room, he walked slowly, in an apparent predetermined line, straight towards me then turning sharply directly in front of me to walk slowly to a chair at the end of the room. Obviously to make sure I had a good long time to take in the change. As if I wouldn't have noticed that my doctor who normally wore shoes that cost more than all the shoes I've bought in a lifetime combined, with pants that draped like butter - decided to suddenly shop at the thrift shop and left with poor mismatched choices at that. With holes in the shoes. Seriously.
He then proceeded to perform the exam, looking for a physical response. To see if my subconscious would present the past to him. Unethical. To say the least. Which is why the new resident looked terrified. He knew what was happening was wrong.
After that, I knew to expect almost anything out of them. So I wasn't surprised to see them following me. What I didn't know though is that it was the launch of a campaign of terror against my tiny family - even before Isaac arrived.
The Alaska I once loved slid past my view, 100-foot spruce interrupted by a mix of empty rich-owned architectural envy, dotted with local homesteads marked with noticeable signs of life - the oft used half-crooked deck leaning down to the edge of the Inside Passage water's edge and matching wooden stairs up to the house, kitchen windows with light shining through simple cotton curtains, smoke puffs drifting off roofs to fly closer to the eagles.
I had expected to feel happy, welcomed even, back to where we had first started our new family in Sitka. But this wasn't Sitka. It was Ketchikan. And suddenly, two simple sentences my soul spoke to my heart gripped me in fear. Them. That's plural. How many are they? Do not fear them. What are they going to do that I should not fear?
The first time I had noticed one of them was at the Sea Mart in Sitka some nine years prior. As I gently lifted Isaac out of his car seat and turned to face an ocean surface sparkling like diamonds on a rare rainforest sunny day, I knew I had made the perfect choice for a long-awaited first grocery trip as a mom.
There was a cheaper place we could have gone. But I didn't care. I wanted to always remember this day. For it to be absolutely perfect. And it was. Hardly anyone else there, time to linger over shelves brimming with organic and fancy brands. No need to hurry. So when I turned at the end of the first row and stopped at the brownie mixes, I knew exactly why I was taking so long. Even though I had been making brownies from scratch for years, I figured a new baby in the house would require a few adjustments here and there - so I was looking to see what if any, were the new options for an easy chocolate overdose. But why was the man at the other end of the aisle taking just as long?
For someone who was not gay nor a chef, he was willing to spend an inordinate amount of time looking at the spices. A man shopping for his wife, yet stumped as to where the heck is something would have pulled out his cell phone long ago. So as a person with an equally inordinate amount of patience, I waited him out. A few moments later my answer rounded the corner, greeting him with a cheery, 'Hey Chief!'. A pained looked actually crossed the chief of police's face. Busted. Not that I was surprised. It was just a confirmation of what I already knew.
I didn't know him from the paper; I never bought it. What alerted me to their actions was an extremely weird incident at the doctor's office.
I had gone to the Sitka Medical Center for an annual PAP exam. Instead, Dr. Donald R. Lehmann, M.D., performed an unauthorized, unethical psychological manipulation and experiment.
The first tip-off was everyone's mannerisms and voice tones when I arrived. They were all acting weird. By the time I passed the new visiting medical resident with an Italian name a mile long - I definitely knew something was up. He looked absolutely terrified. I almost turned around right then and there.
When Dr. Lehmann entered the room, he walked slowly, in an apparent predetermined line, straight towards me then turning sharply directly in front of me to walk slowly to a chair at the end of the room. Obviously to make sure I had a good long time to take in the change. As if I wouldn't have noticed that my doctor who normally wore shoes that cost more than all the shoes I've bought in a lifetime combined, with pants that draped like butter - decided to suddenly shop at the thrift shop and left with poor mismatched choices at that. With holes in the shoes. Seriously.
He then proceeded to perform the exam, looking for a physical response. To see if my subconscious would present the past to him. Unethical. To say the least. Which is why the new resident looked terrified. He knew what was happening was wrong.
After that, I knew to expect almost anything out of them. So I wasn't surprised to see them following me. What I didn't know though is that it was the launch of a campaign of terror against my tiny family - even before Isaac arrived.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Time is Precious
This was not supposed to be my post today. But then again, what happened Saturday was not supposed to happen either.
It was intended to be an innocent father/son fishing trip right down the road - not the sort of trip you give tearful goodbyes over.
Then the hospital called at about 5 p.m. It's times like this that time moves in different directions than the clock itself.
That's why people say things like ' I remember exactly what I was doing when the World Trade Center Towers fell'. That's because time stood still while the clock went forward.
Will Smith's teenagers, Willow and Jaden, were ripped apart last year for daring to discuss ideas that reveal Standardized Testing/Common Core to be the joke they are.
See tmagazine/nytimes exclusive article by Su Wu for the entire interview. Personally, I found it refreshing to read about teens that are obviously using their minds to a higher potential. Willow challenged the idea of time, saying in essence that she views time as fluid.
While she expressed her views in a non-conventional way - when you think about it, society as a whole acknowledges those same views everyday. Whole industries are built upon the concept of building more time into your day by prioritizing goals. In effect, stretching days by hours. Has time ever stood still when you met your true love? Did summer seem it would never end as a child?
One time concept I still can't bend my mind around is presented by God Himself in the Bible. He says, 'I always have been and always will be.' I can totally get the 'always will be' because I believe in Heaven. But always was? We experience life on earth as finite beings that are created by God. So we have a beginning and ending until we go on to Heaven. As such our time here is precious. Every single second.
What is even scarier than the pictures - to find out two days later that on the other side of the tree that stopped our car - was a 35-foot sheer cliff that would have meant certain death.
It was intended to be an innocent father/son fishing trip right down the road - not the sort of trip you give tearful goodbyes over.
Then the hospital called at about 5 p.m. It's times like this that time moves in different directions than the clock itself.
That's why people say things like ' I remember exactly what I was doing when the World Trade Center Towers fell'. That's because time stood still while the clock went forward.
Will Smith's teenagers, Willow and Jaden, were ripped apart last year for daring to discuss ideas that reveal Standardized Testing/Common Core to be the joke they are.
See tmagazine/nytimes exclusive article by Su Wu for the entire interview. Personally, I found it refreshing to read about teens that are obviously using their minds to a higher potential. Willow challenged the idea of time, saying in essence that she views time as fluid.
While she expressed her views in a non-conventional way - when you think about it, society as a whole acknowledges those same views everyday. Whole industries are built upon the concept of building more time into your day by prioritizing goals. In effect, stretching days by hours. Has time ever stood still when you met your true love? Did summer seem it would never end as a child?
One time concept I still can't bend my mind around is presented by God Himself in the Bible. He says, 'I always have been and always will be.' I can totally get the 'always will be' because I believe in Heaven. But always was? We experience life on earth as finite beings that are created by God. So we have a beginning and ending until we go on to Heaven. As such our time here is precious. Every single second.
Here is where time almost stopped for us Saturday:
What is even scarier than the pictures - to find out two days later that on the other side of the tree that stopped our car - was a 35-foot sheer cliff that would have meant certain death.
How dare they. How dare they steal even one second of our life together.
Friday, September 11, 2015
From Des Moines St. to Guatemala City
As a child I stood in front of the Christmas tree and told my uncle that nine family members were raping me. I handed him evidence, in hope of getting a new family for Christmas. I had not even known he was a cop until one day he came to our house in uniform. They told me at school he would help. He didn't. His name - Danny Palmer - a now retired officer of the Des Moines, Iowa police department.
No one else would protect me, so I used the only weapon I had. My mind. I am now that child all grown-up. The military trained me to be a journalist; they gave me a voice I didn't have back then. A voice I now intend to use.
But this story is about so much more than me. I am on a mission. A mission to get my son's life back for him.
Our life together started Thanksgiving weekend 2005, when my husband and I flew to Guatemala City to pick up our new adopted son - Isaac. We were there for his first birthday and flew out late December as a brand-new family of 23 years.
We were thrilled and excited about the prospects the future now held. We finally had someone else to care for and worry about besides ourselves. If we had only known how the simple act of trying to pursue happiness by adding to our family would unleash a torrent of psychological terrorism and abuse spearheaded by law enforcement and educational agencies from Alaska to Arkansas - we also would have been filled with fear.
The details of how this all happened will unfold little by little throughout this blog. I chose the title 'So Help Me God' based on two reasons:
1. I alone stood with God as a child in that dark basement against evil no one should see. I alone stand today with God to protect my child from the evil he can't see.
2. So Help Me God is the last line in the legal oath you take when you testify with your hand on the Bible. For I tell the truth, and I can prove it beyond a shadow of doubt.
By now it should be clear that I have no reservations about naming names/locations for the guilty.
So here's the next one.
The actions of the staff of Arkansas Christian Academy, Bryant, Arkansas, should terrify every parent. In the less than four months that we paid this private school $500 per month for tuition and a person that masqueraded as a tutor - instead of educating my son - they stole his entire life. His past. His present. His future. Their actions make God Himself cry. They took our life that we had very carefully crafted day by day and destroyed it.
And I'm here to get my son's life back for him.
As a mother's undying, unconditional, always steadfast love to my son Isaac:
You deserve the life I had you ready to soar out into - not the one they wrapped their lies around. I alone stand today with God to proclaim the truth - So Help Me God.
To The Best Boy in the World
I Love You More than Anything Else in the Whole Entire World
Love, Mommy
No one else would protect me, so I used the only weapon I had. My mind. I am now that child all grown-up. The military trained me to be a journalist; they gave me a voice I didn't have back then. A voice I now intend to use.
But this story is about so much more than me. I am on a mission. A mission to get my son's life back for him.
Our life together started Thanksgiving weekend 2005, when my husband and I flew to Guatemala City to pick up our new adopted son - Isaac. We were there for his first birthday and flew out late December as a brand-new family of 23 years.
We were thrilled and excited about the prospects the future now held. We finally had someone else to care for and worry about besides ourselves. If we had only known how the simple act of trying to pursue happiness by adding to our family would unleash a torrent of psychological terrorism and abuse spearheaded by law enforcement and educational agencies from Alaska to Arkansas - we also would have been filled with fear.
The details of how this all happened will unfold little by little throughout this blog. I chose the title 'So Help Me God' based on two reasons:
1. I alone stood with God as a child in that dark basement against evil no one should see. I alone stand today with God to protect my child from the evil he can't see.
2. So Help Me God is the last line in the legal oath you take when you testify with your hand on the Bible. For I tell the truth, and I can prove it beyond a shadow of doubt.
By now it should be clear that I have no reservations about naming names/locations for the guilty.
So here's the next one.
The actions of the staff of Arkansas Christian Academy, Bryant, Arkansas, should terrify every parent. In the less than four months that we paid this private school $500 per month for tuition and a person that masqueraded as a tutor - instead of educating my son - they stole his entire life. His past. His present. His future. Their actions make God Himself cry. They took our life that we had very carefully crafted day by day and destroyed it.
And I'm here to get my son's life back for him.
As a mother's undying, unconditional, always steadfast love to my son Isaac:
You deserve the life I had you ready to soar out into - not the one they wrapped their lies around. I alone stand today with God to proclaim the truth - So Help Me God.
To The Best Boy in the World
I Love You More than Anything Else in the Whole Entire World
Love, Mommy
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