And now for something completely different....
I am a liberal, vegan, animal rights activist, environmentalist in the land of Oz, followers of the Bushizzard of the same name. It dawned on me today as I pulled into an intersection with yet another well maintained beautifully ornamented median behind and between SUVs holding one adult driving with a cell phone with a kid in the back and a "W" on the back window that this must be very similar to how black people feel. I guess this line of thinking was prompted by one lone black woman walking into a pony league (baseball for early teens) meeting amongst a roomful of white men. She seemed to know some, as they did her, but it flashed in my mind that it must never get easy. It must never get easy or comfortable to be surrounded by people who's lives and beliefs are absolutely opposite to you. No matter how hard you try to show that you are "normal" or that you fit right in, you don't. Everything might be going along at a comfortable and relaxed clip when someone says something and everyone looks at you like "uh-oh!" bet she's offended! Shouldn't mention that pot roast you cooked for your family last night...geez. I have never been one to run screaming from the room or march in with my 8' x 10' VEGAN! flag waving it back and forth dramatically. Sure, I have worn my "I am not a nugget" shirt with the cute little chick on it, and I have a "vegan" shirt that I like, and I will explain what I do and why I do it, but I'm not going to change any minds by being a jerk or antagonistic or militant about it. I find that I am kept at an arms distance from a vast majority of people I know. It hurts occasionally, but my sister explained it to me in a way that I had not thought of before. I make people uncomfortable. Not by anything I say. Not by who I am. But because I am doing something they know is the right thing to do and for whatever reason, they cannot do it. No amount of appeasing will make that any different. It simply does not matter what I say. If a mom who beats her kids is around a mom that doesn't, nothing is going to make the abuser mom feel any better about being around the other mom. Although I don't like to make anyone feel bad, there are some things that are simply out of my control. I'm not going to start tossing trash out the back of my car, chowing down on a burger or backing the Iraq war to make anyone feel better.

But it's hard being different. Inside and out, with my little "W" sticker that drips with blood, I am looked upon as a troublemaker, weird, a socialist, a communist or someone to avoid. And that can be difficult. Especially when you have kids, and even more so when you have one that cares about what people think. But that is one thing that I have to give the boys credit for. They have never, ever asked me to be different or appear to be different to fit in. I know my strong opinions embarrass them at times, but for the most part, at least for now, they seem pretty ok with claiming me as one of their own. Which is good.
I have found through a series of life experiences that it is possible to come from one walk of life, cross the divide and walk, even if ever so briefly, down a different road. I have found that I have become a more empathetic and compassionate person by experiencing the many varied paths that have been offered to me. I have experienced, firsthand, soul shattering racism. I have experienced the humiliation, shame and helplessness of classism. I have been caught in the terrifying downward spiral of poverty. I was fortunate in that I had family. Family that loves and supports me. But you cannot know the debilitating shame that comes with not being able to sustain yourself as an adult unless you have experienced it firsthand. Through a series of events that I had no control over, while in England, I went from a fully functioning, vivacious, healthy working twenty something, to an unemployed, unhealthy girl, who dodged the landlord and sat in her room wondering what to do. Crippled by my own pride, I took freezing showers and stole crackers from the bottom of my roommates packages - hoping they wouldn't notice.

I have lived in the Tenderloin of San Francisco in a horrible hotel surrounded by drug dealers, pimps, prostitutes and every seedy kind of person you can imagine. I have jumped turnstiles to avoid paying. I have washed my clothes in the sink for a job interview, and worn my damp threads as I walked in bitterly cold weather over seven miles, since I couldn't afford mass transit. By the time I reached my destination, I was covered in city filth, my hair was a wind blown mess and I was exhausted from a lack of food and stress. Makes for a stunning interview. Despondency walks hand in hand with poverty. I can still feel the desperation and absolute despair that having nothing brings. And I hold onto that still. I will never let that feeling go. I am no longer there, I am secure and safe, covered financially, yet I grip those experiences in my hand with such fervor and zeal because they are the most life altering things that have ever happened to me. Those experiences changed who I was. I befriended the prostitutes. I smiled at the winos. I said hello to the homeless people. I sparred with the pimps. I validated their existence. There is nothing so dehumanizing than being invisible. Holding your hand out to a stranger in need and being ignored. I will never forget the look in the eyes of the man that told me that. His fingernails were so long and filthy, his clothes were stained and streaked, his hair was an unintentional rasta. At first he had a difficult time looking me in the eye, always looking down in shame. I didn't have money, but I gave him the one thing I did have - time and attention. He never asked me for anything, but he did reveal things to me that changed how I looked at people with addictions, homeless people, minorities and others on the outskirts of our society. He gave me more than I ever gave him. He made it so that I permanently consulted my heart on everything I do. And for that I am will always be grateful to Henry.