There are many variables as to why “our” sons (and daughters) join gangs. But the main variables that influence their decision to become a gang-member are their need and desire for:
1. Love (Acceptance and A Sense of Belonging)
2. Material Gain
This may sound cliché, but the principle reason why our children are turning to gangs in large numbers is because they are looking for someone to love them.
If you take the time to ask one delinquent child for the reason(s) they belong to a gang, 9 out of ten (if not ten-out-of-ten) will tell you that their fellow gang members love and care about them. Then you’ll wonder how they know that.
When gangs are recruiting your child, they tell your child that they (gang members) love and care about them. They prey on your child’s emotional and material deficits. Gangs promise your child recognition (attention), praise (love), and access to the material things they desire. These are the initial captivating lures gangs use to recruit your child away from you and onto a path of crime, incarceration, and death.
Parents have a tendency to believe that providing for a child is sufficient enough demonstration of their love. But in reality, it isn’t. A child needs to hear and feel comfort like a hug and kiss. They want to feel reassured, and they want to be shown and told—often—that they are loved.
Gang members pump your child up all the while turning them away from you by telling them (feeding on the child’s belief) that you don’t love them.
Believe it or not: The demonstration of love and affection with your child is your best and first line of defense against gangs. I know it works—tried, tested, and true.
With all the children in my life—and there are hundreds—I use[d] a common theme to capture and retain their attention and trust, and that is: I always tell them that I love them, even when I have to be firm and unrelenting in a position that is for their best interest. After disagreements, I never allow a child to depart from me without a hug and a reassurance that I still do and always will love and care about them.
When the children (and young adults) in my life are in disagreement with or seething mad at me, I demand a hug—it softens the situation—before we get into addressing the issue(s).
When they make me mad, I first collect myself (I quickly wrangle and strangle the monster mom in me). Next, I hug them while telling them what the problem is. Softening the atmosphere and energy between us sets the stage for me to engage rational discourse (conversation) to gain insight and/or achieve resolution. I do this without judging, degrading, or intimidating the child. If a child is degraded and intimidated, they become resentful and resistant to advice or directives. My goal is to always keep the lines of communication open with children/young adults. And because I use rational discourse in my approach, I get results.
Often, when I have to intervene on behalf of a parent to find out what is going on with their child, the platform from which I launch is already in place because I took time in the past to build and bridge it with the child. So when I approach, they are relaxed and honest with me. Not only do I let the child know that I understand and am there to help them with their situation and parent, I always make sure the child hear me and understand when I shift gears to represent their parent’s position without making the child feel I am taking sides.
I am honest enough to let a child know when their parent’s approach was wrong, disrespectful, or otherwise not well thought-out. But I give scenarios as to why their parent act[ed] that way, all of which are grounded in the rationale that their parent loves them and want the best for them. I tell them, as parents, we’re not always right, and at times, we need someone to tell us that—which I why I’m here. Also, I engage the child in helping me devise strategies that they’d like to see their parents utilize to reach them. And in closing, I always ask: Do you want me to tell your mother/father, or do you want to tell them? In most instances, the child wants me to “be there” when they tell their parent(s); and some want me to disclose their admissions.
I have asked many children/young adults why do they open-up and talk to me, as well as always tell me the truth after they have shut-down or lied to their parent(s). And 100% of the time, they tell me [it’s because] “…you’re patient…you don’t scream and cuss me out…you don’t judge me…you love me…you don’t be tripping like my mama…you listen to me…you don’t treat me like a little kid…” I have a 100% success rate in gleaning information or cooperation from children/young adults, and I feel blessed for it.
So, if don’t implement a strategy anchored by love to keep your child out of gangs, you will give your son or daughter to the gangs. If your child is already in a gang, use the same strategies to get them out. If you need help, email me at saishebrokesom@hotmail.com
Love, Saishe!
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
A Daughter from Hell
In your quiet moments, have you ever contemplated whether or not your child is possessed with some unidentifiable evil force or source? The level of evil and contempt that even a mother should not forgive?
While you’re alone and reading this, go head and admit it to yourself: “My child is a demon. I don’t even know him or her. It has gotten to a point where I don’t like…”
You wonder to yourself: “Who do they take after [in the family]? What have I done to make this child so disrespect and evil?” You keep trying to point to at least one incident that derailed [the] child’s moral compass, but you can’t.
I know. I use to be like that about my daughter. But then I came to the realization that there is no helping her. She is who she is. She did not inherit her “evil,” selfish, sociopathic, psychopathic, pathological lying, money-hungry-will-do-anything-for-it characteristics from me. Rather, she inherited those traits from her father/my ex-husband and his family. She will never change.
I want to share her traits with you as a means to let you know you are not alone in dealing with a person like I’m about to describe.
I am not a trained professional in psychology, but I’ve seen, know, and researched enough to conclude that my adult daughter strongly appears to be is a sociopathic psychopath, in concert with suffering from Borderline and Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and is certainly bipolar (although she has and exhibits all the traits and behaviors, but has never been diagnosed--to my knowledge. But she is seeing a psychologist).
Following is a Profile of a Sociopath (and an extreme sociopath, i.e., “a psychopath”) that I retrieved (and I’m quoting) from information I located on the Internet that best describes my daughter (use it to identify any traits that your child or anyone close to you in your life may exhibit regularly):
• “Glibness/superficial charm
• Manipulative and cunning
• Grandiose sense of self
• Pathological lying
• Lack of remorse, shame or guilt
• Shallow emotions
• Incapacity for love
• Need for stimulation/Alcohol Abuse
• Callousness/lack of empathy
• Poor behavioral controls/impulsive nature
• Early behavior problems/juvenile delinquency
• Irresponsibility/unreliability
• Promiscuous sexual behavior/infidelity
• Lack of realistic life plan/parasitic lifestyle
• Criminal or entrepreneurial versatility
• Contemptuous (expresses hatred) of those who seek to understand them
• Does not perceive that anything is wrong with them
• Authoritarian
• Secretive
• Paranoid
• Seeks out situations where their tyrannical behavior will be tolerated, condoned, or admired
• Conventional appearance (or impeccable appearance)
• Goal of enslavement of their victim(s)
• Exercises despotic control over every aspect of the victim's life
• Has an emotional need to justify their crimes and therefore needs their victim's affirmation (respect, gratitude and love)
• Ultimate goal is the creation of a willing victim
• Incapable of real human attachment to another
• Unable to feel remorse or guilt
• Narcissism, grandiosity (self-importance not based on achievements)
• Habitual Liar
• May state readily that their goal is to rule the world”
My daughter exhibits all of the above behaviors and traits; and does not have a conscience. She is an exceptionally cruel person and a fierce liar. She’s extremely manipulative of others; very and consistently dishonest. She possesses an inability to love. She is incapable of building and maintaining lasting and "profoundly meaningful relationships.
Do you see a pattern in your child or loved one yet?
I am going to keep going. The following information was also derived from the Internet, and I’m quoting
•"Sociopaths are charming at first and may seem charming, soft-spoken, and normal to everyone around them. But they have a scary need for control. They will isolate you from friends and family and you will be tangled in their web before you know it;
•"The key characteristics of a sociopath include: (1) having no conscience, (2) inability to treat others as human beings, with feelings and rights and (3) inability to learn from experience, from life. They are narcissistic--completely self-absorbed. One result of this is gross immaturity, though it may be hidden unless one knows the person well. A sociopath behaves as if he/she were the only person in the whole world and as if everyone else exists for their benefit/pleasures and had no existence in their own right. (4) Sociopaths treat other people as toys and hanker as power to control and hurt their 'nearest and dearest'. (5) Many are monumentally self-important: They may pretend to be millionaires, when in reality they are sliding towards financial disaster. (6) Habitual dishonesty;
•"The sociopath will charm their way into your life and heart, then take complete advantage of you - your emotions, your finances, your intellect; will make you think you are the crazy one. They are 'hucksters" and will tell you a sad life story to trap you into having sympathy for them so they can con you. They will isolate you from your friends and possibly your family; can or cannot hold a job and will probably commit crimes - theft by deception, fake physical disabilities, forgery; will abuse drugs or alcohol; and live to abuse you;
•"A sociopath causes non-stop turmoil in their family; and is a charming and frightening menace.
•"It is very difficult to recognize a sociopath but in a nutshell, a sociopath is a parasite. There is no help for them because a sociopath does not want to be helped. A sociopath will attract you with their charm and bring you to his/her side, and then will toy with you, lie and show no remorse. Sometimes there will be a fake smile in their face while he/she engages in their malicious ways. When confronted, the sociopath will deny any responsibility, then back away from you and blame you for whatever wrong he/she did. What is worse, everybody will believe him/her because he/she is able to gain sympathy in a cunning and calculating way.
•"They grow up in constant conflict with authority; they are most often bitterly angry and sometimes violent adults, brittle and combative under a thin veneer of charm;
•"A sociopath uses earnest persuasiveness, expert lies, and scheming manipulations, to achieve very destructive victories. A sociopath has great skill in sculpting their world to suit their plans and fulfill their wishes.” (Note: These examples of a sociopath behavior were written by a guy who wrote this about one of his family members because he just “wants to write this…just to get it out of [his] system after all of these forty years. But it might perhaps contribute to the overall understanding of sociopathic behavior”);
•"Sociopaths appear apparently normal; they are not easily recognizable as deviant or disturbed. Although only a trained professional can make a diagnosis of whether or not someone is a sociopath, it is important to be able to recognize the personality type in order to avoid further abuse;
"A sociopath does not have to be a person that is constantly in and out of jail, failing in being able to keep a job, nor constantly being broke. Sociopath's can be wealthy, have a great history in the work place and have never had any run in with the police. What they do have is the ability to manipulate each situation to where nothing is their fault. They are quick to give praise to someone, but use that as another way to draw them further under their control. They truly have no capacity to believe that anything they have ever done is wrong - even when caught in a bold faced lie;
"They don't pre-plan their "sociopathness" and how it will effect what they want - sociopath's are naturally that way. They are the way they are - to everyone in their lives - from when they were a child, throughout their entire lives. They do not have the ability to change the way they are. They may "mellow" as they age, but their need to have control over others, the need to be impulsive and violent, their feelings that, even in lying, they never do anything wrong, and their ability to charm everyone they think they need to charm, does not leave them as they age.;
"It's also very hard for someone involved with a sociopath to be able to see what they know is happening, even after catching the sociopath in the lies and manipulation. It's incredibly hard to decide to leave a sociopath, as well as stay away from that sociopath;
"Are you involved with a psychopath (extreme sociopath)? You may not know because they can be very charming and friendly and can appear to be altruistic, until you get close and inevitably they do something threatening or immoral and then you must set limits that disappoint them. The near-constant state of frustration and dissatisfaction felt by a true psychopath is the source of not only their rages but those eerie, on-and-off-like-a-faucet tears. (Yes, tears are seen even in some men, though of course still more common in children and women);
"People with Borderline Personality Disorder become “easily excited or have high-strung temperaments” that also resembles that of a sociopath in a temporary state of excitement.) They are always nervous and complaining of a headache or fatigue--always seeking compassion from others.
“Most of the physical problems a sociopath exhibits are neurologically based,” i.e., they seem nervous all the time/high anxiety or always hurrying. For all their frantic racing around, they are really very dead inside, and this is tragic beyond description;
“People can sense that the sociopath needs something, and they keep trying to give it and the sociopath/psychopath keeps trying to take it. But the sociopath cannot truly take in that healing energy of human contact. So, the sociopath becomes frustrated and instead looks to take unfair advantage. And the caregiver may give until it does him/her damage."
They lead high compartmentalized lives--and you better not try to go into those compartments. They live this way because they live separate lives, i.e., one group of people may never know anything about the another group of people, and so on.
My daughter lives this way. She has different groups of people believing another woman is her mother, and that woman's kids are her sister and brother, and their kids are her nieces and nephews. It's crazy.
Recently, at my ex-husband's funeral, at my daughter's separate lives collided, i.e., for decades she had been telling scores of people that she did not have a relationship with me...she never talk to or see me...I've never helped her...she does not accept anything from me..." But at the funeral, everyone she had lied to found out differently, including her boyfriend who said to me when I introduced myself as her mother: "I'm confused! You're her mother?" He stared at my daughter pensively as though he was having an epiphany about her. Several minutues later, he stated to a woman sitting on his right while pointing at me on his left: This lady right here said she is her mother." Then he stared at my daugther for about a minute. He rose to his feet, exited the pew (with my daughter in tow from the front row) and exited to chapel.
When my daughter returned to the chapel he was not with her. He had completely left the funeral before the service started. Of course I made it no better because I was all over her--talking like a bell-clapper--and she was a nervous wreck. I made absolutely sure that everyone knew she had been lying for decades. I stayed and served food at the repast to make her sweat. Of yes! She 98% ignored the woman that she claim is her mother. I felt sorry for the woman because she looked hurt and as though she had an epiphany as well.
Do you recognize any of this?
If you do, let your narcissistic, psyhopathic, sociopath go. They are dangerous and they do not like or love you. They are incapable of such emotions. They are also incapable of feeling remorse. Only God help a person like this because there is NOTHING you can do to help them. They will continue to hurt or destroy you.
Believe me! I’ve experienced all of the above—repeatedly—with my daughter, which is why am qualified to recognize sociopathic, psychopathic, bipolar, narcissistic/borderline personality disorders.
Saishe!
While you’re alone and reading this, go head and admit it to yourself: “My child is a demon. I don’t even know him or her. It has gotten to a point where I don’t like…”
You wonder to yourself: “Who do they take after [in the family]? What have I done to make this child so disrespect and evil?” You keep trying to point to at least one incident that derailed [the] child’s moral compass, but you can’t.
I know. I use to be like that about my daughter. But then I came to the realization that there is no helping her. She is who she is. She did not inherit her “evil,” selfish, sociopathic, psychopathic, pathological lying, money-hungry-will-do-anything-for-it characteristics from me. Rather, she inherited those traits from her father/my ex-husband and his family. She will never change.
I want to share her traits with you as a means to let you know you are not alone in dealing with a person like I’m about to describe.
I am not a trained professional in psychology, but I’ve seen, know, and researched enough to conclude that my adult daughter strongly appears to be is a sociopathic psychopath, in concert with suffering from Borderline and Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and is certainly bipolar (although she has and exhibits all the traits and behaviors, but has never been diagnosed--to my knowledge. But she is seeing a psychologist).
Following is a Profile of a Sociopath (and an extreme sociopath, i.e., “a psychopath”) that I retrieved (and I’m quoting) from information I located on the Internet that best describes my daughter (use it to identify any traits that your child or anyone close to you in your life may exhibit regularly):
• “Glibness/superficial charm
• Manipulative and cunning
• Grandiose sense of self
• Pathological lying
• Lack of remorse, shame or guilt
• Shallow emotions
• Incapacity for love
• Need for stimulation/Alcohol Abuse
• Callousness/lack of empathy
• Poor behavioral controls/impulsive nature
• Early behavior problems/juvenile delinquency
• Irresponsibility/unreliability
• Promiscuous sexual behavior/infidelity
• Lack of realistic life plan/parasitic lifestyle
• Criminal or entrepreneurial versatility
• Contemptuous (expresses hatred) of those who seek to understand them
• Does not perceive that anything is wrong with them
• Authoritarian
• Secretive
• Paranoid
• Seeks out situations where their tyrannical behavior will be tolerated, condoned, or admired
• Conventional appearance (or impeccable appearance)
• Goal of enslavement of their victim(s)
• Exercises despotic control over every aspect of the victim's life
• Has an emotional need to justify their crimes and therefore needs their victim's affirmation (respect, gratitude and love)
• Ultimate goal is the creation of a willing victim
• Incapable of real human attachment to another
• Unable to feel remorse or guilt
• Narcissism, grandiosity (self-importance not based on achievements)
• Habitual Liar
• May state readily that their goal is to rule the world”
My daughter exhibits all of the above behaviors and traits; and does not have a conscience. She is an exceptionally cruel person and a fierce liar. She’s extremely manipulative of others; very and consistently dishonest. She possesses an inability to love. She is incapable of building and maintaining lasting and "profoundly meaningful relationships.
Do you see a pattern in your child or loved one yet?
I am going to keep going. The following information was also derived from the Internet, and I’m quoting
•"Sociopaths are charming at first and may seem charming, soft-spoken, and normal to everyone around them. But they have a scary need for control. They will isolate you from friends and family and you will be tangled in their web before you know it;
•"The key characteristics of a sociopath include: (1) having no conscience, (2) inability to treat others as human beings, with feelings and rights and (3) inability to learn from experience, from life. They are narcissistic--completely self-absorbed. One result of this is gross immaturity, though it may be hidden unless one knows the person well. A sociopath behaves as if he/she were the only person in the whole world and as if everyone else exists for their benefit/pleasures and had no existence in their own right. (4) Sociopaths treat other people as toys and hanker as power to control and hurt their 'nearest and dearest'. (5) Many are monumentally self-important: They may pretend to be millionaires, when in reality they are sliding towards financial disaster. (6) Habitual dishonesty;
•"The sociopath will charm their way into your life and heart, then take complete advantage of you - your emotions, your finances, your intellect; will make you think you are the crazy one. They are 'hucksters" and will tell you a sad life story to trap you into having sympathy for them so they can con you. They will isolate you from your friends and possibly your family; can or cannot hold a job and will probably commit crimes - theft by deception, fake physical disabilities, forgery; will abuse drugs or alcohol; and live to abuse you;
•"A sociopath causes non-stop turmoil in their family; and is a charming and frightening menace.
•"It is very difficult to recognize a sociopath but in a nutshell, a sociopath is a parasite. There is no help for them because a sociopath does not want to be helped. A sociopath will attract you with their charm and bring you to his/her side, and then will toy with you, lie and show no remorse. Sometimes there will be a fake smile in their face while he/she engages in their malicious ways. When confronted, the sociopath will deny any responsibility, then back away from you and blame you for whatever wrong he/she did. What is worse, everybody will believe him/her because he/she is able to gain sympathy in a cunning and calculating way.
•"They grow up in constant conflict with authority; they are most often bitterly angry and sometimes violent adults, brittle and combative under a thin veneer of charm;
•"A sociopath uses earnest persuasiveness, expert lies, and scheming manipulations, to achieve very destructive victories. A sociopath has great skill in sculpting their world to suit their plans and fulfill their wishes.” (Note: These examples of a sociopath behavior were written by a guy who wrote this about one of his family members because he just “wants to write this…just to get it out of [his] system after all of these forty years. But it might perhaps contribute to the overall understanding of sociopathic behavior”);
•"Sociopaths appear apparently normal; they are not easily recognizable as deviant or disturbed. Although only a trained professional can make a diagnosis of whether or not someone is a sociopath, it is important to be able to recognize the personality type in order to avoid further abuse;
"A sociopath does not have to be a person that is constantly in and out of jail, failing in being able to keep a job, nor constantly being broke. Sociopath's can be wealthy, have a great history in the work place and have never had any run in with the police. What they do have is the ability to manipulate each situation to where nothing is their fault. They are quick to give praise to someone, but use that as another way to draw them further under their control. They truly have no capacity to believe that anything they have ever done is wrong - even when caught in a bold faced lie;
"They don't pre-plan their "sociopathness" and how it will effect what they want - sociopath's are naturally that way. They are the way they are - to everyone in their lives - from when they were a child, throughout their entire lives. They do not have the ability to change the way they are. They may "mellow" as they age, but their need to have control over others, the need to be impulsive and violent, their feelings that, even in lying, they never do anything wrong, and their ability to charm everyone they think they need to charm, does not leave them as they age.;
"It's also very hard for someone involved with a sociopath to be able to see what they know is happening, even after catching the sociopath in the lies and manipulation. It's incredibly hard to decide to leave a sociopath, as well as stay away from that sociopath;
"Are you involved with a psychopath (extreme sociopath)? You may not know because they can be very charming and friendly and can appear to be altruistic, until you get close and inevitably they do something threatening or immoral and then you must set limits that disappoint them. The near-constant state of frustration and dissatisfaction felt by a true psychopath is the source of not only their rages but those eerie, on-and-off-like-a-faucet tears. (Yes, tears are seen even in some men, though of course still more common in children and women);
"People with Borderline Personality Disorder become “easily excited or have high-strung temperaments” that also resembles that of a sociopath in a temporary state of excitement.) They are always nervous and complaining of a headache or fatigue--always seeking compassion from others.
“Most of the physical problems a sociopath exhibits are neurologically based,” i.e., they seem nervous all the time/high anxiety or always hurrying. For all their frantic racing around, they are really very dead inside, and this is tragic beyond description;
“People can sense that the sociopath needs something, and they keep trying to give it and the sociopath/psychopath keeps trying to take it. But the sociopath cannot truly take in that healing energy of human contact. So, the sociopath becomes frustrated and instead looks to take unfair advantage. And the caregiver may give until it does him/her damage."
They lead high compartmentalized lives--and you better not try to go into those compartments. They live this way because they live separate lives, i.e., one group of people may never know anything about the another group of people, and so on.
My daughter lives this way. She has different groups of people believing another woman is her mother, and that woman's kids are her sister and brother, and their kids are her nieces and nephews. It's crazy.
Recently, at my ex-husband's funeral, at my daughter's separate lives collided, i.e., for decades she had been telling scores of people that she did not have a relationship with me...she never talk to or see me...I've never helped her...she does not accept anything from me..." But at the funeral, everyone she had lied to found out differently, including her boyfriend who said to me when I introduced myself as her mother: "I'm confused! You're her mother?" He stared at my daughter pensively as though he was having an epiphany about her. Several minutues later, he stated to a woman sitting on his right while pointing at me on his left: This lady right here said she is her mother." Then he stared at my daugther for about a minute. He rose to his feet, exited the pew (with my daughter in tow from the front row) and exited to chapel.
When my daughter returned to the chapel he was not with her. He had completely left the funeral before the service started. Of course I made it no better because I was all over her--talking like a bell-clapper--and she was a nervous wreck. I made absolutely sure that everyone knew she had been lying for decades. I stayed and served food at the repast to make her sweat. Of yes! She 98% ignored the woman that she claim is her mother. I felt sorry for the woman because she looked hurt and as though she had an epiphany as well.
Do you recognize any of this?
If you do, let your narcissistic, psyhopathic, sociopath go. They are dangerous and they do not like or love you. They are incapable of such emotions. They are also incapable of feeling remorse. Only God help a person like this because there is NOTHING you can do to help them. They will continue to hurt or destroy you.
Believe me! I’ve experienced all of the above—repeatedly—with my daughter, which is why am qualified to recognize sociopathic, psychopathic, bipolar, narcissistic/borderline personality disorders.
Saishe!
Monday, October 29, 2012
Babe In Total Control of
My favorite girl--hands down--is Mother Nature--the bitch of all bitches that is to be feared.
A Babe In Total Control of Herself. In fact, this bitch--with all due respect--controls what, when, where, and how we do what we do--including what we're going to wear. Ain't that a bitch?!
Man does not predict what this bitch is going to do. This bitch predicts what man is going to do. Now how's that for [total] control. This bitch alone serves as the ultimate purveyor of the "laws of retribution." This bitch heaps retribution upon those who we are out of step with the virtues of their respective Gods. Those who are evil, who harbor malcontent or hatred of any kind in their hearts, manners, or actions, shall suffer.
When this bitch is sick of something (us), she shuts the s--- down! This is a bad bitch! Honestly! There isn't a bitch on the planet that compare--no where!
This bitch shifts the direction of oceans, lakes, and rivers; possessing an awesome multi-faceted arsenal of elemental weapons. And the wind is the most treacherous among them--it is the driving force that carries them all.
This bad bitch uses--at her will--rain, hale, sleet, snow, heat, cold, drought, floods, dust, storms of all kinds, and some more s--- we have yet to see--to put and keep us in our lowly place. This bitch makes earth-shaking calls of thunder before striking fire around, down, in, and from our a-- with bolts of lightning. The bitch is bad! Don’t make this bitch mad!
This bitch have people standing around--outside--with microphones and cameras showing and telling us what they think is about to happen. This bitch determines the status of mankind, and scares the crap out of everybody listening, looking, and affected.
Me and you, you and me: We wonder why Mother Nature would flood, burn, and blow down our homes and all we own. Really? Are we really that perplexed as to why? Okay.
Go look in the mirror. Search your heart, intent, and deeds. There in lies the answers.
"We ain't right!"
Like a rapper asked in a song: "How you gonna win if you ain't right within?" In the song, she even asks again: "How you gonna win if you ain't right within?"
You better think about what you're doing and have done. And if all isn't and hasn't been good, if Mother Nature has to rise up, it ain't going to be fun.
Some people cry and ask [their] God why does this keep happening to me?
Answer:
Go look in the mirror. Search your heart, intent, and deeds. You can't "win if you ain't right within." And keep in mind: This isn't mankind kicking your a--! It's this bitch: Mother Nature. So you better get some "act right and do right" about yourself.
Stop hating on whatever or whoever it is you hate on--remove the malice from your heart. Stop obstructing the happiness or well-being of your fellow man and help him on his mission. Start doing and giving from your heart without conditions. Stop destroying relationships and property. Learn how to love and treat people properly. Stop persecuting others for their religious beliefs, sexual orientation, race, gender, class, or culture. Treat people the way you wanted to be treated, i.e., with dignity and respect. Never seek to harm or neglect. Respect God's "green" earth and treat God's children and animals the best. Stop and think before striking a pose..you now know the drill. If you--we--don't..., Mother Nature will...!
A Babe In Total Control of Herself. In fact, this bitch--with all due respect--controls what, when, where, and how we do what we do--including what we're going to wear. Ain't that a bitch?!
Man does not predict what this bitch is going to do. This bitch predicts what man is going to do. Now how's that for [total] control. This bitch alone serves as the ultimate purveyor of the "laws of retribution." This bitch heaps retribution upon those who we are out of step with the virtues of their respective Gods. Those who are evil, who harbor malcontent or hatred of any kind in their hearts, manners, or actions, shall suffer.
When this bitch is sick of something (us), she shuts the s--- down! This is a bad bitch! Honestly! There isn't a bitch on the planet that compare--no where!
This bitch shifts the direction of oceans, lakes, and rivers; possessing an awesome multi-faceted arsenal of elemental weapons. And the wind is the most treacherous among them--it is the driving force that carries them all.
This bad bitch uses--at her will--rain, hale, sleet, snow, heat, cold, drought, floods, dust, storms of all kinds, and some more s--- we have yet to see--to put and keep us in our lowly place. This bitch makes earth-shaking calls of thunder before striking fire around, down, in, and from our a-- with bolts of lightning. The bitch is bad! Don’t make this bitch mad!
This bitch have people standing around--outside--with microphones and cameras showing and telling us what they think is about to happen. This bitch determines the status of mankind, and scares the crap out of everybody listening, looking, and affected.
Me and you, you and me: We wonder why Mother Nature would flood, burn, and blow down our homes and all we own. Really? Are we really that perplexed as to why? Okay.
Go look in the mirror. Search your heart, intent, and deeds. There in lies the answers.
"We ain't right!"
Like a rapper asked in a song: "How you gonna win if you ain't right within?" In the song, she even asks again: "How you gonna win if you ain't right within?"
You better think about what you're doing and have done. And if all isn't and hasn't been good, if Mother Nature has to rise up, it ain't going to be fun.
Some people cry and ask [their] God why does this keep happening to me?
Answer:
Go look in the mirror. Search your heart, intent, and deeds. You can't "win if you ain't right within." And keep in mind: This isn't mankind kicking your a--! It's this bitch: Mother Nature. So you better get some "act right and do right" about yourself.
Stop hating on whatever or whoever it is you hate on--remove the malice from your heart. Stop obstructing the happiness or well-being of your fellow man and help him on his mission. Start doing and giving from your heart without conditions. Stop destroying relationships and property. Learn how to love and treat people properly. Stop persecuting others for their religious beliefs, sexual orientation, race, gender, class, or culture. Treat people the way you wanted to be treated, i.e., with dignity and respect. Never seek to harm or neglect. Respect God's "green" earth and treat God's children and animals the best. Stop and think before striking a pose..you now know the drill. If you--we--don't..., Mother Nature will...!
Friday, October 26, 2012
Baby Said: You're So Ug-a-ly! Man said: You're a Pretty Little Thing
One day, as I was standing in line at a local supermarket, a 3-year old baby girl spoke to me in a raspy tone: "Hey," she quipped enthusiastically. She was a beautiful Carmel-colored little girl with sandy-brown hair, a huge smile, dimpled cheeks, and twinkling eyes. But her voice sounded as though she had a cold.
"Hey, to you," I responded equally enthusiastic. "What's your name," I asked.
"Brianna," she said still beaming.
Instantly the smile fell from her face as something else drew her attention away from me, prompting me and those standing near us to look around to see what caused her smile to suddenly disappear. She lowered her head, casted her eyes upward and transfixed them.
I noticed she was starring at a man in another line right next to us.
The man was exceptionally well-dressed in chocolate brown slacks, a matching brown crew neck, long-sleeve pull-over shirt; taupe-colored snake skin shoes, and a matching belt. He was impeccably dressed and smelling good.
My eyes moved from studying his clothes to his face. The man was very dark-skinned with an unusually large head. His eyes were droopy, appearing to be half-closed; and his lower lip was huge, puffy, and pink, suspended downward on his chin--he looked hideous. I was careful not to buck my eyes in surprise.
Brianna's fixation on the man made everyone else take a look at him. Her mother wiped her face in a motion to make her stop starring at him.
The man noticed Brianna's rock-steady glaring at him. He exchanged looks with her several times as she sat in her mother's shopping cart.
He said to Brianna: "You're a pretty little thing."
A man in line directly behind me holding a big sheet cake immediately chimed in and said: "She sure is--just as pretty as she can be."
Brianna's eyes were still casted squarely in an upper-cut fashion on the man.
The man stated again: "She's so pretty. Do you know how pretty you are," he asked Brianna.
Out of the blue, in a slow methodical tone Brianna stated: "You're so ug-a-ly." (Not ugly: She incorporated 3 syllables in the word instead of 2.)
The man behind riveted; and we all held our laughter. But you could hear--within a second or two--sounds of near sneezes from people or clearing of throats to contain their laughter.
Brianna's mother, laboring to keep from laughing, shouted: "No he isn't! Don't say that, Brianna!"
"Yes he is," Brianna replied without air coming in between her mother's comments.
At this point, everyone within ear-shot erupted into unbridled laughter, including the hideous-looking man.
The man behind me fell into me; he, the cake he was holding, and I hit the floor. Tears were rolling down his face as he laughed, and his face was completely distorted as he gasped to catch his breath. I was literally sprawled out on floor in my own state of belly-aching laughter with him leaning against me trying to speak.
Brianna was the only one not laughing. She maintained her composure, frowning at the man--which made it even funnier.
After several minutes, people recollected themselves and moved through the lines. But not me and James--the man with the cake that knocked me down while laughing. We were still on the floor in a sitting position straining our guts in laughter.
James launched into lampooning what had just happened. James made his voice raspy like Brianna's, looked at me and said: "You're so ug-a-ly."
"No he isn't," I said mocking the mother. "Don't say that, Brianna."
"Yes he is," said James impersonating Brianna before he fell backwards into another fit of laughter.
People were standing over us laughing as we re-enacted the scene with Brianna and the hideous-looking man.
Finally, we got off the floor. The birthday cake James was holding was smashed and completely unsalvageable.
James panicked: "Oh, Lord! My daughter's birthday cake is smashed all up! My wife is going to snap! What am I going to do? Help me!
We went-up in laughter again. I said to James as I began walking away: "I got to go."
James snatched me back, whipped out his cell phone trying to hand it to me and said: "Oh no! You can't leave me now. You helped me smash my cake. Here," he said sticking the phone in my face. "Call my wife for me and tell her what happened." He was serious. But we couldn't stop laughing. By now I was weak and exhausted.
I said to James: "Hey! There's the manager; have him call to her to tell her how the cake got ruined in the store." When the manager heard me say that, he walked back over to us.
"I'm going to do better than that. Come with me," he said to James. "I'm going to have bakery redecorate a sheet cake for you right now--it might not be the same kind of cake, but it will be a sheet cake decorated like the one you all smashed on the floor laughing at the poor man."
In the end, I had run out of time and could not purchase what I originally went to the store to get. James got a fresh, redecorated cake. But I got a memory for a life time; and every time I tell somebody this story, I cannot control my laughter, and the listener(s) get a blast from it.
Out of the mouth of a baby! It was dearly hilarious. And the hideous-looking man was very good-natured about the ordeal.
Saishe sharing!
"Hey, to you," I responded equally enthusiastic. "What's your name," I asked.
"Brianna," she said still beaming.
Instantly the smile fell from her face as something else drew her attention away from me, prompting me and those standing near us to look around to see what caused her smile to suddenly disappear. She lowered her head, casted her eyes upward and transfixed them.
I noticed she was starring at a man in another line right next to us.
The man was exceptionally well-dressed in chocolate brown slacks, a matching brown crew neck, long-sleeve pull-over shirt; taupe-colored snake skin shoes, and a matching belt. He was impeccably dressed and smelling good.
My eyes moved from studying his clothes to his face. The man was very dark-skinned with an unusually large head. His eyes were droopy, appearing to be half-closed; and his lower lip was huge, puffy, and pink, suspended downward on his chin--he looked hideous. I was careful not to buck my eyes in surprise.
Brianna's fixation on the man made everyone else take a look at him. Her mother wiped her face in a motion to make her stop starring at him.
The man noticed Brianna's rock-steady glaring at him. He exchanged looks with her several times as she sat in her mother's shopping cart.
He said to Brianna: "You're a pretty little thing."
A man in line directly behind me holding a big sheet cake immediately chimed in and said: "She sure is--just as pretty as she can be."
Brianna's eyes were still casted squarely in an upper-cut fashion on the man.
The man stated again: "She's so pretty. Do you know how pretty you are," he asked Brianna.
Out of the blue, in a slow methodical tone Brianna stated: "You're so ug-a-ly." (Not ugly: She incorporated 3 syllables in the word instead of 2.)
The man behind riveted; and we all held our laughter. But you could hear--within a second or two--sounds of near sneezes from people or clearing of throats to contain their laughter.
Brianna's mother, laboring to keep from laughing, shouted: "No he isn't! Don't say that, Brianna!"
"Yes he is," Brianna replied without air coming in between her mother's comments.
At this point, everyone within ear-shot erupted into unbridled laughter, including the hideous-looking man.
The man behind me fell into me; he, the cake he was holding, and I hit the floor. Tears were rolling down his face as he laughed, and his face was completely distorted as he gasped to catch his breath. I was literally sprawled out on floor in my own state of belly-aching laughter with him leaning against me trying to speak.
Brianna was the only one not laughing. She maintained her composure, frowning at the man--which made it even funnier.
After several minutes, people recollected themselves and moved through the lines. But not me and James--the man with the cake that knocked me down while laughing. We were still on the floor in a sitting position straining our guts in laughter.
James launched into lampooning what had just happened. James made his voice raspy like Brianna's, looked at me and said: "You're so ug-a-ly."
"No he isn't," I said mocking the mother. "Don't say that, Brianna."
"Yes he is," said James impersonating Brianna before he fell backwards into another fit of laughter.
People were standing over us laughing as we re-enacted the scene with Brianna and the hideous-looking man.
Finally, we got off the floor. The birthday cake James was holding was smashed and completely unsalvageable.
James panicked: "Oh, Lord! My daughter's birthday cake is smashed all up! My wife is going to snap! What am I going to do? Help me!
We went-up in laughter again. I said to James as I began walking away: "I got to go."
James snatched me back, whipped out his cell phone trying to hand it to me and said: "Oh no! You can't leave me now. You helped me smash my cake. Here," he said sticking the phone in my face. "Call my wife for me and tell her what happened." He was serious. But we couldn't stop laughing. By now I was weak and exhausted.
I said to James: "Hey! There's the manager; have him call to her to tell her how the cake got ruined in the store." When the manager heard me say that, he walked back over to us.
"I'm going to do better than that. Come with me," he said to James. "I'm going to have bakery redecorate a sheet cake for you right now--it might not be the same kind of cake, but it will be a sheet cake decorated like the one you all smashed on the floor laughing at the poor man."
In the end, I had run out of time and could not purchase what I originally went to the store to get. James got a fresh, redecorated cake. But I got a memory for a life time; and every time I tell somebody this story, I cannot control my laughter, and the listener(s) get a blast from it.
Out of the mouth of a baby! It was dearly hilarious. And the hideous-looking man was very good-natured about the ordeal.
Saishe sharing!
Chicago's African-American Elected Aldermen Are Handkerchief Heads
Yeah! That's right! Chicago's (Illinois/USA) local elected officials from African-American wards (districts) are "inadequate, unconvincing, and unsatisfactory" in their representation of their respective constituents. We should be ashamed of them.
But what's most puzzling to me is that people keep electing the same do-nothing, say-nothing, propose nothing handkerchief heads to public office and expect different results. Go figure!
The whole world (every continent on earth) knows that Chicago, Illinois has become one of America's most prolific killing fields, especially in African-American and Latino neighborhoods. Often, Chicago experience 20 to 60 shootings and 10-15 murders every week, mostly children and young adults between the ages of 5 and 35.
On October 25th, 2012, the local newspaper (Chicago Sun-Times) reported that Chicago's African-American and Latino aldermen "grilled" Chicago's police superintendent about "what he's going to do to stop the murders and high crime in Chicago [in their wards]."
I really should not have been shocked nor disappointed that those handkerchief heads in Chicago's city council had the audacity to confront the police superintendent about high crime in their wards--crime that has been proliferating long before he arrived here--where they live that they themselves have failed to do anything about it--for decades. I'm embarrassed for them.
Chicago's local elected officials DO NOT INTRODUCE WORKABLE or any type of ordinances (laws) that are beneficial to the economic well-being or public safety of Chicago's residents. Can you imagine that?! A local city council comprised of 50 elected officials (aldermen) who do absolutely nothing, and these people are paid in excess of $100,000.00 annually. What a sop!
These same aldermen I'm talking about put the police on "blast" because they (the fraidy-cat handkerchief head aldermen) think the police aren't doing enough to stop the shootings and killings in their own neighborhoods.
But here's the real kick-in-the-head: These same African-American and Latino aldermen DO NOT GO OUT INTO THEIR OWN CRIME-INFESTED districts to CONFRONT their GUN-TOTTING, GANG-BANGING, DRUG-DEALING, SHOOTING, MURDEROUS constituents (like the police are doing every minute of every day) to try and stop crime.
The police, on the other hand, are on the "front-line" dodging bullets while literally chasing down the criminals in these aldermens' districts without the help of these same aldermen. Go figure again! Heck! These aldermen don't so much as talk to or connect with the law-abiding residents in their districts--the very people who keep electing them to office (which speaks volumes about how apathetic and/or stupid their constituents are). So you can bet your ranch they are not ever going to go face-to-face with criminals--their representation of the people ends right here. Betcha!
I truly understand why other cultures and races of people panic when African-Americans move into their neighborhoods. And believe me: I am embarrassed by every reason why we are not wanted in certain areas. I understand why African-Americans are largely not respected by other cultures and races, globally, i.e., we do not respect ourselves. We (African-Americans) do not do what is required to effectively help ourselves, especially regarding economic development and curtailing crime that is being committed by our own children.
African-Americans expect the police and government to solve our twisted, rampant, and spiraling socio-economic ills--which is another reason why other races and cultures do not respect or like us.
It grates my nerves whenever I hear an African-American say: "When are the police going to stop this crime? The government isn't doing enough to..." Damn! What the hell are you (we) doing or going to do to help solve our own problems! Stop blaming everybody else. Blame yourself!
The police didn't create crime in our communities! The government didn't create poverty in our communities! We--African-Americans--are responsible for our own circumstances! Yeah! Yeah! We are!
We live in America, damn it! We are free to get an education. We are free to take advantage of "free enterprise" (capitalism). Create your own wealth if you will--there are no restrictions on establishing legal enterprises. We live in a land of opportunity that we do not take advantage of. People are dying every day to get to America for the opportunities we ignore and take for granted.
The next time you vote for your local alderman, make sure he or she is not a stupid, handkerchief head without a plan to help you help yourself.
Saishe Brokesom and I'm mad!
But what's most puzzling to me is that people keep electing the same do-nothing, say-nothing, propose nothing handkerchief heads to public office and expect different results. Go figure!
The whole world (every continent on earth) knows that Chicago, Illinois has become one of America's most prolific killing fields, especially in African-American and Latino neighborhoods. Often, Chicago experience 20 to 60 shootings and 10-15 murders every week, mostly children and young adults between the ages of 5 and 35.
On October 25th, 2012, the local newspaper (Chicago Sun-Times) reported that Chicago's African-American and Latino aldermen "grilled" Chicago's police superintendent about "what he's going to do to stop the murders and high crime in Chicago [in their wards]."
I really should not have been shocked nor disappointed that those handkerchief heads in Chicago's city council had the audacity to confront the police superintendent about high crime in their wards--crime that has been proliferating long before he arrived here--where they live that they themselves have failed to do anything about it--for decades. I'm embarrassed for them.
Chicago's local elected officials DO NOT INTRODUCE WORKABLE or any type of ordinances (laws) that are beneficial to the economic well-being or public safety of Chicago's residents. Can you imagine that?! A local city council comprised of 50 elected officials (aldermen) who do absolutely nothing, and these people are paid in excess of $100,000.00 annually. What a sop!
These same aldermen I'm talking about put the police on "blast" because they (the fraidy-cat handkerchief head aldermen) think the police aren't doing enough to stop the shootings and killings in their own neighborhoods.
But here's the real kick-in-the-head: These same African-American and Latino aldermen DO NOT GO OUT INTO THEIR OWN CRIME-INFESTED districts to CONFRONT their GUN-TOTTING, GANG-BANGING, DRUG-DEALING, SHOOTING, MURDEROUS constituents (like the police are doing every minute of every day) to try and stop crime.
The police, on the other hand, are on the "front-line" dodging bullets while literally chasing down the criminals in these aldermens' districts without the help of these same aldermen. Go figure again! Heck! These aldermen don't so much as talk to or connect with the law-abiding residents in their districts--the very people who keep electing them to office (which speaks volumes about how apathetic and/or stupid their constituents are). So you can bet your ranch they are not ever going to go face-to-face with criminals--their representation of the people ends right here. Betcha!
I truly understand why other cultures and races of people panic when African-Americans move into their neighborhoods. And believe me: I am embarrassed by every reason why we are not wanted in certain areas. I understand why African-Americans are largely not respected by other cultures and races, globally, i.e., we do not respect ourselves. We (African-Americans) do not do what is required to effectively help ourselves, especially regarding economic development and curtailing crime that is being committed by our own children.
African-Americans expect the police and government to solve our twisted, rampant, and spiraling socio-economic ills--which is another reason why other races and cultures do not respect or like us.
It grates my nerves whenever I hear an African-American say: "When are the police going to stop this crime? The government isn't doing enough to..." Damn! What the hell are you (we) doing or going to do to help solve our own problems! Stop blaming everybody else. Blame yourself!
The police didn't create crime in our communities! The government didn't create poverty in our communities! We--African-Americans--are responsible for our own circumstances! Yeah! Yeah! We are!
We live in America, damn it! We are free to get an education. We are free to take advantage of "free enterprise" (capitalism). Create your own wealth if you will--there are no restrictions on establishing legal enterprises. We live in a land of opportunity that we do not take advantage of. People are dying every day to get to America for the opportunities we ignore and take for granted.
The next time you vote for your local alderman, make sure he or she is not a stupid, handkerchief head without a plan to help you help yourself.
Saishe Brokesom and I'm mad!
Thursday, October 25, 2012
I'm Often Told: "You're Too Kind..." (Inference: I'm Stupid...)
For decades, I've wondered what people [actually] meant when they said that to me.
Then one day, in a discussion with a Greek friend of mine, Penny, about me frequently having been told that I'm too kind, she said to me: "What people are saying to you is that you are stupid. In the Greek culture, too kind means stupid. People are actually admitting that they would not do what you do for people, and you're stupid for doing whatever you do to help people."
My response to Penny's comment was an uneasy, inquisitive laughter followed by asking: "Really?"
Why?
Because the remark, each time it [had] ever been spoken to me about me always felt like an insult rather than a compliment; and because Penny maintained a straight concerned expression on her face while imparting what she believed people really meant, I believed her.
For more than two-thirds of my life, I have been confused by peoples' aversion for or suspicion of [simple or extreme] acts of kinds.
I'm kind to people, especially and extremely so to those I love the most. I'm generous with my love, time, and resources. I'm compassionate, respectful, and helpful. I'm always there for those in need without fail. But I keep getting hurt by betrayal and acts of derision. For the life of me, I simply don't understand why. I'm naive enough to believe that if I am all of this to people, then I do not deserve to be hurt in any capacity for any reason.
I keep telling myself: "I'm done. I can't keep doing this. I'm tired of this. I don't understand why they treat me this way even though I'm good to them--have never disrespected or betrayed them. I never do anything to hurt them. I do everything I can for them..."
I've been looking for reasonable rationales for many years.
Then, I summoned the courage to watch the movie "Passion of the Christ." Well, I'm telling you: That movie reduced me to a blubbering, snotty-nose pulp of a person. The personal pain I felt while watching that movie was overwhelmingly overbearing because minus being nailed to a cross, I am often treated exactly the way Christ was treated in that movie. I came away from watching that movie with a greater sense of understanding, as well as a renewal of my purpose and commitment to believe and remain one of "God's gift's to mankind" like my mother told me I am.
But I began looking at people differently. I realized that when you are the wiser in any given situation--good, bad, or indifferent--you bear the burden of doing the right thing even if the opposing person or entity is completely wrong. I received and grasped an enhanced ability to forgive without questioning, whereas I use to forgive and nearly drive myself crazy about the "whys."
I began to accept my responsibility to always set the "good example," no matter how painful or difficult it may be because my mother assured us that "we are not responsible for how we are received, but rather for what we do, how we do it, and for what purpose." So it became easier to by-pass the insults and disregards whenever encountered. Smiles automatically beset my brow in the face of adversity because I know that when the universal laws are acknowledged and accepted, the laws of retribution cannot come into play.
When a burden becomes too much to bear, I walk away without contempt or regret.
This is how I want to be remembered. After I'm gone from this earth, who I was, and how I served and treated mankind shall serve as my legacy--not how "they" treated or received me.
Love, Saishe!
Then one day, in a discussion with a Greek friend of mine, Penny, about me frequently having been told that I'm too kind, she said to me: "What people are saying to you is that you are stupid. In the Greek culture, too kind means stupid. People are actually admitting that they would not do what you do for people, and you're stupid for doing whatever you do to help people."
My response to Penny's comment was an uneasy, inquisitive laughter followed by asking: "Really?"
Why?
Because the remark, each time it [had] ever been spoken to me about me always felt like an insult rather than a compliment; and because Penny maintained a straight concerned expression on her face while imparting what she believed people really meant, I believed her.
For more than two-thirds of my life, I have been confused by peoples' aversion for or suspicion of [simple or extreme] acts of kinds.
I'm kind to people, especially and extremely so to those I love the most. I'm generous with my love, time, and resources. I'm compassionate, respectful, and helpful. I'm always there for those in need without fail. But I keep getting hurt by betrayal and acts of derision. For the life of me, I simply don't understand why. I'm naive enough to believe that if I am all of this to people, then I do not deserve to be hurt in any capacity for any reason.
I keep telling myself: "I'm done. I can't keep doing this. I'm tired of this. I don't understand why they treat me this way even though I'm good to them--have never disrespected or betrayed them. I never do anything to hurt them. I do everything I can for them..."
I've been looking for reasonable rationales for many years.
Then, I summoned the courage to watch the movie "Passion of the Christ." Well, I'm telling you: That movie reduced me to a blubbering, snotty-nose pulp of a person. The personal pain I felt while watching that movie was overwhelmingly overbearing because minus being nailed to a cross, I am often treated exactly the way Christ was treated in that movie. I came away from watching that movie with a greater sense of understanding, as well as a renewal of my purpose and commitment to believe and remain one of "God's gift's to mankind" like my mother told me I am.
But I began looking at people differently. I realized that when you are the wiser in any given situation--good, bad, or indifferent--you bear the burden of doing the right thing even if the opposing person or entity is completely wrong. I received and grasped an enhanced ability to forgive without questioning, whereas I use to forgive and nearly drive myself crazy about the "whys."
I began to accept my responsibility to always set the "good example," no matter how painful or difficult it may be because my mother assured us that "we are not responsible for how we are received, but rather for what we do, how we do it, and for what purpose." So it became easier to by-pass the insults and disregards whenever encountered. Smiles automatically beset my brow in the face of adversity because I know that when the universal laws are acknowledged and accepted, the laws of retribution cannot come into play.
When a burden becomes too much to bear, I walk away without contempt or regret.
This is how I want to be remembered. After I'm gone from this earth, who I was, and how I served and treated mankind shall serve as my legacy--not how "they" treated or received me.
Love, Saishe!
Saturday, October 20, 2012
A Mexican Said To Me: "You're A Racist N..... B....!"
And my reply was: "Sure you're right! And so are you and your mother! Therefore, we are identical."
Of course he was statically shocked by my immediate honesty. And I quickly pointed out to him that he arrives every week in my neighborhood providing lawn services for African-Americans, primarily women, and not one of his employees is African-American.
Earlier:
I was working throughout the neighborhoods surrounding my home soliciting African-American homeowners to switch from using Mexicans for landscaping services to using African-American men as a means to provide business and employment for our [own] people.
When a Mexican contractor arrived to cut grass at a neighbor's home, he heard what I was saying to her as he began unloading his equipment. He mauled me with dirty looks, morphing into a contemptuous malcontent, speaking of me with profanities to the two workers with him, telling them to "cut the grass anyway..."
"Alejandro!" My neighbor shouted at him. "You don't run a darn thing over here on my property. And you're not going to cut my grass anyway. I no longer want your services. You’re fired! You don't come here and disrespect me and my property."
Totally disregarding what she had just told him, Alejandro continued unloading his equipment, which prompted my neighbor to snap: "Did you hear what I said, Alejandro?"
With a balled-up facial expression, Alejandro growled: "I heard you, but I'm going to cut your grass one last time and you pay me. You're firing me because this lady said you should hire a black man?"
My neighbor walked down her stairs, stood in front of him, and snarled: "You must have me confused with your wife whom you disrespect every time she's here with you. I said you are fired. I dare you disrespect me about my own s----! Get off my property!"
Alejandro walked next door to a neighbor's house and was met with the same resistance. He effectively not only lost the next neighbor's account, he had lost every account on that block because I had already worked the whole block successfully converting every account he had.
By the time Alejandro made it back to where we were standing, he was cussing loudly at us. Several men came out of their homes, threatened him and his workers, while physically escorting them to their truck.
Alejandro was furious. He looked as though he wanted to kill. He hung out of his window and shouted at me: "You're a racist nigger bitch!"
I smiled broadly at being called a "racist nigger bitch" because I had successfully altered his economics and thereby affected his behavior (i.e., economics controls one's behavior: have money, be happy; be broke, be sad, mad, and otherwise). Had I not taken thousands of dollars away from him and his family, he would have kept how he really feels about black women to himself while making a fortune from us.
The Point Is:
Mexicans are recipients of a multi-million dollar landscaping industry financed by African-Americans, creating millions of jobs for Mexicans. I'm simply advocating and soliciting that we turn our landscaping accounts over to African-American men and youth, which would shift the millions of dollars to create new businesses and jobs for our men and children. This isn't rocket science.
I get really angry at black people when I see Mexicans being used to do any kind of work for us, especially lawn /landscaping services.
And what is worse, we [you all] seem to be blind to the fact that Mexicans largely do not hire African-Americans (men, women, and children) under any circumstances; and when they d,o it's because they are attempting to attract African-American customers.
African-American men and youth could use and benefit from the jobs and fortunes we are currently giving to Mexicans. I cannot figure this out, except to tell you all about it and pray that we change our economic practices to benefit ourselves, especially our men and youth.
I would very much like to see young, middle-aged, and old African-American males driving around in new heavy-duty trucks with trailers hauling equipment to provide services in African-American communities.
I would love to see African-American men/youth driving Escalades, Tahoes, and every other new car or truck because they are making money from us.
I would love to see African-American men being able to buy homes and take care of their kids and families because they are making money from us. I say this because Mexicans are doing all of this because they are largely making millions of dollars from us. We have to change this.
Saishe Brokesom! Holla-back!
Of course he was statically shocked by my immediate honesty. And I quickly pointed out to him that he arrives every week in my neighborhood providing lawn services for African-Americans, primarily women, and not one of his employees is African-American.
Earlier:
I was working throughout the neighborhoods surrounding my home soliciting African-American homeowners to switch from using Mexicans for landscaping services to using African-American men as a means to provide business and employment for our [own] people.
When a Mexican contractor arrived to cut grass at a neighbor's home, he heard what I was saying to her as he began unloading his equipment. He mauled me with dirty looks, morphing into a contemptuous malcontent, speaking of me with profanities to the two workers with him, telling them to "cut the grass anyway..."
"Alejandro!" My neighbor shouted at him. "You don't run a darn thing over here on my property. And you're not going to cut my grass anyway. I no longer want your services. You’re fired! You don't come here and disrespect me and my property."
Totally disregarding what she had just told him, Alejandro continued unloading his equipment, which prompted my neighbor to snap: "Did you hear what I said, Alejandro?"
With a balled-up facial expression, Alejandro growled: "I heard you, but I'm going to cut your grass one last time and you pay me. You're firing me because this lady said you should hire a black man?"
My neighbor walked down her stairs, stood in front of him, and snarled: "You must have me confused with your wife whom you disrespect every time she's here with you. I said you are fired. I dare you disrespect me about my own s----! Get off my property!"
Alejandro walked next door to a neighbor's house and was met with the same resistance. He effectively not only lost the next neighbor's account, he had lost every account on that block because I had already worked the whole block successfully converting every account he had.
By the time Alejandro made it back to where we were standing, he was cussing loudly at us. Several men came out of their homes, threatened him and his workers, while physically escorting them to their truck.
Alejandro was furious. He looked as though he wanted to kill. He hung out of his window and shouted at me: "You're a racist nigger bitch!"
I smiled broadly at being called a "racist nigger bitch" because I had successfully altered his economics and thereby affected his behavior (i.e., economics controls one's behavior: have money, be happy; be broke, be sad, mad, and otherwise). Had I not taken thousands of dollars away from him and his family, he would have kept how he really feels about black women to himself while making a fortune from us.
The Point Is:
Mexicans are recipients of a multi-million dollar landscaping industry financed by African-Americans, creating millions of jobs for Mexicans. I'm simply advocating and soliciting that we turn our landscaping accounts over to African-American men and youth, which would shift the millions of dollars to create new businesses and jobs for our men and children. This isn't rocket science.
I get really angry at black people when I see Mexicans being used to do any kind of work for us, especially lawn /landscaping services.
And what is worse, we [you all] seem to be blind to the fact that Mexicans largely do not hire African-Americans (men, women, and children) under any circumstances; and when they d,o it's because they are attempting to attract African-American customers.
African-American men and youth could use and benefit from the jobs and fortunes we are currently giving to Mexicans. I cannot figure this out, except to tell you all about it and pray that we change our economic practices to benefit ourselves, especially our men and youth.
I would very much like to see young, middle-aged, and old African-American males driving around in new heavy-duty trucks with trailers hauling equipment to provide services in African-American communities.
I would love to see African-American men/youth driving Escalades, Tahoes, and every other new car or truck because they are making money from us.
I would love to see African-American men being able to buy homes and take care of their kids and families because they are making money from us. I say this because Mexicans are doing all of this because they are largely making millions of dollars from us. We have to change this.
Saishe Brokesom! Holla-back!
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Create Wealth: This Christmas Buy Your Kids Stock Certificates
Do you ever think about what you could buy for your kid(s) that doesn't [necessarily] cost a lot of money that would be a very significant gift--for Christmas this year, or their birthday(s) every year?
Do you ever just want to reward your kid(s) because they're getting good grades, demonstrating good behavior, and/or for being focused while following instructions?
How about starting an investment portfolio of stock just because you want your kid(s) to have a chance at [current] financial growth and [future] stability?
News Flash:
The third question above is designed to give you food for thought regarding the first and second questions, respectively. You can afford it. You should start doing it right now.
Instead of continuing to make the Walton's of Wal-Mart rich this coming holiday season by shopping till you drop for items that black people have no part in manufacturing, why not purchase [a] share of Wal-Mart’s stock for your kid(s)? One share of stock in Wal-Mart at approximately $75.00 to $80.00 per share is less than the cost of latest whatever your kid(s) are begging for.
Or, how about buying a share of the company that manufacturer the $200 to $300.00-a pair of gym shoes that you buy at least once a year for your kid(s) (who probably does not deserve them--that stock will probably cost you about that much or less)? For example: One share of NIKE stock likely will cost you under $100.00. Again, you'd be spending money for an investment at the same cost you'd ordinarily pay on the depreciable (going-to-wear-out anyway) gym shoes.
Go to http://quotes.wsj.com (The Wall Street Journal's stock report) and get a real time, up-to-the-minute stock quote (cost) of any stock of every corporation that is traded on the New York Stock Exchange.
Repeat (Now I'm Training):
How about introducing your kid(s) to wealth-building by purchasing them a stock certificate (share) or several shares of stocks in the companies where we spend our money regularly for them. For example: We buy a lot of food (commodities), tangible goods like clothes, shoes, electronics (including games)--you know, stuff like that.
Repeat (I'm Training Again):
Instead of spending hundreds of dollars on the latest pair of gym shoes or whatever, buy your kid(s) a share of stock. The gym shoes you buy will depreciate (wear-out). But, on the other hand, if you purchase the stock of the company that makes the gym shoes--well then, that's laying the foundation for wealth-building. Chances are that company will be around for another 50-100 years with its stock more than likely appreciating (increasing in value) instead of depreciating like the gym shoes your kid(s) ask you to buy that you really cannot afford and they don't deserve. So, if you're going to spend "the" money anyway, spend it wisely--THIS TIME!
See that! Isn’t that sweet? It beats the hell out of spending money on things for your kids they won't get a return on, or won't [still] have 5, 10, or 15 years down the road. Buy anything tangible today and I'll guarantee the kid(s) won't appreciate it tomorrow, and certainly will not [want to] have access to it or be able to use weeks, months, years from now (like those shares of stock I told you to purchase for your kids way-back-a-few-sentences-ago).
Most of our children don't even know what stocks are or what investing is. But is high-time that we start teaching, guiding, and actually start [re-]directing some of the money we spend on them to investments.
In addition, as a responsible mother, you should also make it a mandatory requirement that your kid(s) a designated, pre-arranged amount of their own [saved] pocket or walking-around money to make small purchases of stock--one or two at a time.
It's really simple do. You don't have to have a stock broker to purchase a share or shares of stock; and you can purchase one share at a time or as many as you want at one time.
In publicly traded (on the stock markets) corporations have "Public Relations" departments at their corporate headquarters. All you have to do is call the company or companies of your choice, and tell the public relations department that you want to buy shares for your kid(s) directly from their corporation. It's that simple. HECK! Buy some for yourself--first!
Don't keep being a stupid economic buffoon (I use to be one). Like me, start spending your money in ways where your money can start working for you while you keep (and still can) work for it. Make purchases that will benefit you and your kids in the long-run as opposed to ways that only satisfy your emotional or greed needs. STOP THAT! Do as I say for a better financial way. Please!
Yeah. Yeah. I know. I love you to...
Saishe! Holla!
Do you ever just want to reward your kid(s) because they're getting good grades, demonstrating good behavior, and/or for being focused while following instructions?
How about starting an investment portfolio of stock just because you want your kid(s) to have a chance at [current] financial growth and [future] stability?
News Flash:
The third question above is designed to give you food for thought regarding the first and second questions, respectively. You can afford it. You should start doing it right now.
Instead of continuing to make the Walton's of Wal-Mart rich this coming holiday season by shopping till you drop for items that black people have no part in manufacturing, why not purchase [a] share of Wal-Mart’s stock for your kid(s)? One share of stock in Wal-Mart at approximately $75.00 to $80.00 per share is less than the cost of latest whatever your kid(s) are begging for.
Or, how about buying a share of the company that manufacturer the $200 to $300.00-a pair of gym shoes that you buy at least once a year for your kid(s) (who probably does not deserve them--that stock will probably cost you about that much or less)? For example: One share of NIKE stock likely will cost you under $100.00. Again, you'd be spending money for an investment at the same cost you'd ordinarily pay on the depreciable (going-to-wear-out anyway) gym shoes.
Go to http://quotes.wsj.com (The Wall Street Journal's stock report) and get a real time, up-to-the-minute stock quote (cost) of any stock of every corporation that is traded on the New York Stock Exchange.
Repeat (Now I'm Training):
How about introducing your kid(s) to wealth-building by purchasing them a stock certificate (share) or several shares of stocks in the companies where we spend our money regularly for them. For example: We buy a lot of food (commodities), tangible goods like clothes, shoes, electronics (including games)--you know, stuff like that.
Repeat (I'm Training Again):
Instead of spending hundreds of dollars on the latest pair of gym shoes or whatever, buy your kid(s) a share of stock. The gym shoes you buy will depreciate (wear-out). But, on the other hand, if you purchase the stock of the company that makes the gym shoes--well then, that's laying the foundation for wealth-building. Chances are that company will be around for another 50-100 years with its stock more than likely appreciating (increasing in value) instead of depreciating like the gym shoes your kid(s) ask you to buy that you really cannot afford and they don't deserve. So, if you're going to spend "the" money anyway, spend it wisely--THIS TIME!
See that! Isn’t that sweet? It beats the hell out of spending money on things for your kids they won't get a return on, or won't [still] have 5, 10, or 15 years down the road. Buy anything tangible today and I'll guarantee the kid(s) won't appreciate it tomorrow, and certainly will not [want to] have access to it or be able to use weeks, months, years from now (like those shares of stock I told you to purchase for your kids way-back-a-few-sentences-ago).
Most of our children don't even know what stocks are or what investing is. But is high-time that we start teaching, guiding, and actually start [re-]directing some of the money we spend on them to investments.
In addition, as a responsible mother, you should also make it a mandatory requirement that your kid(s) a designated, pre-arranged amount of their own [saved] pocket or walking-around money to make small purchases of stock--one or two at a time.
It's really simple do. You don't have to have a stock broker to purchase a share or shares of stock; and you can purchase one share at a time or as many as you want at one time.
In publicly traded (on the stock markets) corporations have "Public Relations" departments at their corporate headquarters. All you have to do is call the company or companies of your choice, and tell the public relations department that you want to buy shares for your kid(s) directly from their corporation. It's that simple. HECK! Buy some for yourself--first!
Don't keep being a stupid economic buffoon (I use to be one). Like me, start spending your money in ways where your money can start working for you while you keep (and still can) work for it. Make purchases that will benefit you and your kids in the long-run as opposed to ways that only satisfy your emotional or greed needs. STOP THAT! Do as I say for a better financial way. Please!
Yeah. Yeah. I know. I love you to...
Saishe! Holla!
Monday, October 15, 2012
Don't Buy The Latest Gym Shoes: Buy Your Kid The Damn Stock!
Let me repeat that with more clarity: Don't buy the latest gym shoes with Dwayne Wade's, Derrick Rose's, Michael Jordan's, or anybody else's name on them. Rather, buy the damn stock of the company that's making the gym shoes for you kid(s). How about that?!!
I got rocket-pissed again when I saw the headline on the front page of the (October 15th, 2012) Chicago Sun-Times newspaper that reads: Mass Appeal. Dwayne Wade is attempting to help Chinese firm Li-Ning join Nike, Reebok and Adidas as global athletic shoe titans." The operative words here are: "Dwayne Wade is attempting to help Chinese..."
On Page 3, Dwayne Wade is standing next to a little China man (in Beijing, China?) announcing his partnership with Li-Ning--who is a "three-time Olympic Gold Medalist gymnast for China." Mr. Li-Ning is 49 years old and is the owner of the company (that will make/brand the Dwayne Wade gym shoes) that earns $1 billion in revenues annually.
Question:
Is Mr. Li-Ning, whose company is based in China where Dwayne Wades' brand gym shoes will be manufactured, is banking on black people, especially black mothers to be a multi-million/multi-billion dollar source of [annual] USA revenues for the Dwayne Wade brand gym shoes?
Answer:
HELL YEAH! Why do you think Dwayne Wade is standing there in the picture with Mr. Li-Ning?!! Mr. Li-Ning knows we love "our baby boy" Dwayne; and he is banking our continued economic stupidity, as well as on us still being asleep economically. Why wouldn't he? We--us, black people, and black women--keep turning everybody except ourselves into multi-millionaires/billionaires.
2nd Question:
Why isn't Dwayne Wade the owner/manufacturer of his own brand name gym shoes, in America--right here in Chicago?
2nd Answer:
Untrained! Too stupid?! Whatever the [real] answer is, it will never satisfy the mind of logical thinking, economically astute people because he has the money to do it. Go figure!
Third Question:
Will Dwayne Wade have distributorship rights here in the United States when Mr. Li-Ning decides to intro Dwayne's brand of gym shoes in the U.S. market?
Third Answer:
HELL NO! I'll bet my ranch and yours that the China man did not and will not give Dwayne--or anybody black and male like him--distributorship rights. We should be totally pissed-off about this!
So check this out: Blacks get no jobs because the shoes will be made in China. Dwayne or any other black businessperson in the U.S. will not have distributorship rights. But, yet, Mr. Li-Ning believes that Dwayne Wade's name tagged to the brand will influence us to buy the gym shoes. His assumption is based on our pattern of being stupid-ass consumers--FOR REAL!
Fourth Question:
Are we--us, black women--going to continue to be "damned idiots" and make this China man rich? Are we?!!
The Answer Should Be:
HELL NALL! Not one black female, harboring a vagina, [some] kids, and some money, better not buy one pair of those gym shoes--UNLESS OF COURSE--we--us, black women--get first crack at being distributors of Dwayne Wade's brand gym shoes; and we're going to let Dwayne Wade know that. OUR BABIES NEED JOBS! And it is our [collective] job to make sure we create jobs and they (our babies) get jobs. Now, how about that?!!!
Let me say something here: We are done being buffoons (people "who behave in a stupid and annoying way") when it comes to how, where, and with whom we spend our combined multi-billions of consumer dollars--WE'RE DONE WITH THAT! We must negotiate economic deals with everybody on the planet. They'll have to cut us in, or we will have to cut them out (of our purses).
MEMO FROM CHICAGO [IL, USA] TO MR. LI-NING IN BEIJING, CHINA:
Your brand initiatives director, Mr. Brian Cupps (a white boy from America who doesn’t employ black people either) stated: He "think it's very important [that Chicago will be a target market because]. Dwayne has established himself in Miami, but Chicago is his roots. That's where he's from...so we won't forget that."
What Dwayne nor Mr. Cupps couldn't have possibly told you is that we're (the people with the money in the black community--black women) are gearing up not to buy your new partnership brand with Dwayne Wade unless you negotiate distributorships with black businesswomen/businessmen in the U.S.--and not Jessie L. Jackson and his crowd of carpet-begging, do nothing for the black community cohorts. Be ready to send your representative to negotiate with our representative, and we'll let you know or show you whether or not your new brand with Dwayne Wade "can buck the trend" [of others having failed].
Sincerely, Saishe Brokesom (USA)
P.S. Mr. Li-Ning will get the memo because someone in China is viewing my blog.
Holla!
I got rocket-pissed again when I saw the headline on the front page of the (October 15th, 2012) Chicago Sun-Times newspaper that reads: Mass Appeal. Dwayne Wade is attempting to help Chinese firm Li-Ning join Nike, Reebok and Adidas as global athletic shoe titans." The operative words here are: "Dwayne Wade is attempting to help Chinese..."
On Page 3, Dwayne Wade is standing next to a little China man (in Beijing, China?) announcing his partnership with Li-Ning--who is a "three-time Olympic Gold Medalist gymnast for China." Mr. Li-Ning is 49 years old and is the owner of the company (that will make/brand the Dwayne Wade gym shoes) that earns $1 billion in revenues annually.
Question:
Is Mr. Li-Ning, whose company is based in China where Dwayne Wades' brand gym shoes will be manufactured, is banking on black people, especially black mothers to be a multi-million/multi-billion dollar source of [annual] USA revenues for the Dwayne Wade brand gym shoes?
Answer:
HELL YEAH! Why do you think Dwayne Wade is standing there in the picture with Mr. Li-Ning?!! Mr. Li-Ning knows we love "our baby boy" Dwayne; and he is banking our continued economic stupidity, as well as on us still being asleep economically. Why wouldn't he? We--us, black people, and black women--keep turning everybody except ourselves into multi-millionaires/billionaires.
2nd Question:
Why isn't Dwayne Wade the owner/manufacturer of his own brand name gym shoes, in America--right here in Chicago?
2nd Answer:
Untrained! Too stupid?! Whatever the [real] answer is, it will never satisfy the mind of logical thinking, economically astute people because he has the money to do it. Go figure!
Third Question:
Will Dwayne Wade have distributorship rights here in the United States when Mr. Li-Ning decides to intro Dwayne's brand of gym shoes in the U.S. market?
Third Answer:
HELL NO! I'll bet my ranch and yours that the China man did not and will not give Dwayne--or anybody black and male like him--distributorship rights. We should be totally pissed-off about this!
So check this out: Blacks get no jobs because the shoes will be made in China. Dwayne or any other black businessperson in the U.S. will not have distributorship rights. But, yet, Mr. Li-Ning believes that Dwayne Wade's name tagged to the brand will influence us to buy the gym shoes. His assumption is based on our pattern of being stupid-ass consumers--FOR REAL!
Fourth Question:
Are we--us, black women--going to continue to be "damned idiots" and make this China man rich? Are we?!!
The Answer Should Be:
HELL NALL! Not one black female, harboring a vagina, [some] kids, and some money, better not buy one pair of those gym shoes--UNLESS OF COURSE--we--us, black women--get first crack at being distributors of Dwayne Wade's brand gym shoes; and we're going to let Dwayne Wade know that. OUR BABIES NEED JOBS! And it is our [collective] job to make sure we create jobs and they (our babies) get jobs. Now, how about that?!!!
Let me say something here: We are done being buffoons (people "who behave in a stupid and annoying way") when it comes to how, where, and with whom we spend our combined multi-billions of consumer dollars--WE'RE DONE WITH THAT! We must negotiate economic deals with everybody on the planet. They'll have to cut us in, or we will have to cut them out (of our purses).
MEMO FROM CHICAGO [IL, USA] TO MR. LI-NING IN BEIJING, CHINA:
Your brand initiatives director, Mr. Brian Cupps (a white boy from America who doesn’t employ black people either) stated: He "think it's very important [that Chicago will be a target market because]. Dwayne has established himself in Miami, but Chicago is his roots. That's where he's from...so we won't forget that."
What Dwayne nor Mr. Cupps couldn't have possibly told you is that we're (the people with the money in the black community--black women) are gearing up not to buy your new partnership brand with Dwayne Wade unless you negotiate distributorships with black businesswomen/businessmen in the U.S.--and not Jessie L. Jackson and his crowd of carpet-begging, do nothing for the black community cohorts. Be ready to send your representative to negotiate with our representative, and we'll let you know or show you whether or not your new brand with Dwayne Wade "can buck the trend" [of others having failed].
Sincerely, Saishe Brokesom (USA)
P.S. Mr. Li-Ning will get the memo because someone in China is viewing my blog.
Holla!
Your Son Sells Drugs. You Benefit. It's Alright With You!
What do you all think about [the]mothers who know their children are selling drugs? Have you ever thought about why they go along with it? (Note: I'm not ignoring fathers. But this fight is between me and my "sisters" who are laying back, living large from the money they receive from their kid selling drugs.)
The answer is a "no-brainer:" Mothers benefit from their sons [and daughters]selling drugs. That's right! They receive cash money. Regular big money! They're "alright" with it, which means they're alright with the daily shootings and murders of innocent people, mostly our children throughout their (our)communities,totalling 20, 30, 40, 50, and 60+ people every week.--all year, every year, for years. These statistics are shocking, horrifying, and mind and heart-numbing.
What will it take for these mothers to arrive at a point of not being "alright" with this?
When are we as communities going to come together as mothers to put a plan of action into play to give our sons [and daughters] economic alternatives to selling drugs, gang-banging,dying in the streets, and killing [other]human-beings?
What is it going to take for us to arrive at the point of wanting to help our own children?
We (us, our people, our communities) have exceeded critical-mass and are currently in a state of clear and ever present danger; and we must began the process to save this present up-and-coming generation of children, and generations to come.
I don't have all of the answers, but if you haven't read the articles I have written in this blog pryor to this one, you should. Why? Because I've covered what we must do as a people. I'll be writing more about what we must do as women to steer our people into change-for-the-better. We just simply have to get [it] started.
The Fate of Drug-Dealers and Gang-Bangers in My Family: In our family, we turn[ed]family gang members and drug-dealers in to the authorities--and their mamas' to if they were in our way. These were hard choices, but necessary to save the "whole," i.e., the lives of us as well as those in and around [their/our] communities. We had already lost one really brilliant 3-year old girl (in our family)to murder on a street corner in 1992. After that, there were no "sacred cows" in our family. Those who engaged in vice, we turned them, their drugs, and their guns in to law enforcement--as a measure to save them from themselves and save us from them.
We advocate and offer family-member young people support for educational pursuits, and hire them to do odd jobs for us until they find gainful employment. If they don't go along with the family plan and they get in trouble, we engage "tough-love" by not making one effort to get them out of trouble. We allow them suffer the consequences of their actions by experiencing what it's like not to have taken our advise to follow the positive path we tried to lead them to and steer them on; as well as what it's like to "be out there" in trouble with no one to turn to, especially among their so-called, no-good, gang-banging, drug-dealing, murdering friends. In every instance, when we engaged this strategy, we had no more problems with the gang-banging, drug dealers in our family. They got on the "straight."
Example of How Effective The "Family Plan" Worked: One of my nephews while going to school is Mississippi went to jail for selling drugs at the age of 17 (in Mississippi--of all places. Imagine that!). My sister, living here in Chicago flew straight into panic mode. She called me first--the family "purse"--and I flew straight into her butt telling her "you must be out of your damn mind if you think I'm going to help you get your son out of jail after I promised him that I've never spend a dime for a lawyer or to get him or any of them out of jail--even my own." (Tough-love in play.)
Then she had another one of our sisters call me, and I not only flew into her face, I flew all-the-way-up-her-butt because she was a drug addict--didn't qualify to talk to me. She never called me back to discuss the subject after that.
Next, a Mississippi-located relative called in a conference call with my mother and my sister (whose son was in jail). I singled my mother out first saying to her: "Mama! You know where I'm headed with this, right?"
Mama responded: "I tried to tell them before they called you."
"Okay," I said to her. "Hang-up now, because I'm going to have to be nasty because no-in-the-nice isn't working right through here." My mother, having an excellent sense of when to hold them and "when to fold them," hung-up.
I went on to remind my sister and my nephew's paternal grandmother that since he was a little boy (9/10 years old), I told him many times that if he or any of our kids decide to sell drugs and go to jail, I, nor my mother would be there to help him/them. Now that he had made good on what he was not suppose to do, I'm making good on what I promised him I would not do. After that, I ran my long-distance phone bill up to an unimaginable proportion by calling all the monied-up people in the family demanding that they let him stay in jail (this was his first offense).
My sister was devastated. She was "my girl." This is the sister that taught me how to fight--how to physically accomplish knocking people out. We were real close. We hung-out together more than with anybody else in the family. But then, she was madder [at me] than an untamed rabid dog. She didn't speak to me for months because I told her "the purse" is closed and my bank is on "lockdown."
When my nephew called me from jail, and asked me: "Auntie: How can you tell people not to help me.?"
My reply was: "With my mouth fueled by determination. And, how could you have the nerve to sell drugs to an undercover police officer--in Mississippi--, get caught, go to jail, then expect me to help you? I'm person who promised you I'd never help you get out of jail for anything illegal you've done. And when you get out, don't call me until you graduate from high-school, then college. My best advice is for you to call your friends. Better yet: Call your supplier. He's pursed-up. Ask him to post your bail and get you a lawyer. Call me back and let know what he says."
He stated: "What friends? They're not going to help me."
My response: "Now that you know it, I hope you benefit from knowing it. Good-bye."
He spent 120 days in jail; released on 1 year probation; and has since never gotten into any more trouble with the law.
Just suppose my family lacked the resolve to allow him to stay in jail, without a lawyer, during his "first" offense. He would have gotten out of jail and continued selling drugs. But because we did have the necessary mental fortitude and courage to let him suffer the consequences of his actions without our assistance, he abandoned his drug-dealing life-style (and his enabling paternal grandmother was broke--once again.)
End of story.
Saishe Brokesom on the real! Holla-back!
The answer is a "no-brainer:" Mothers benefit from their sons [and daughters]selling drugs. That's right! They receive cash money. Regular big money! They're "alright" with it, which means they're alright with the daily shootings and murders of innocent people, mostly our children throughout their (our)communities,totalling 20, 30, 40, 50, and 60+ people every week.--all year, every year, for years. These statistics are shocking, horrifying, and mind and heart-numbing.
What will it take for these mothers to arrive at a point of not being "alright" with this?
When are we as communities going to come together as mothers to put a plan of action into play to give our sons [and daughters] economic alternatives to selling drugs, gang-banging,dying in the streets, and killing [other]human-beings?
What is it going to take for us to arrive at the point of wanting to help our own children?
We (us, our people, our communities) have exceeded critical-mass and are currently in a state of clear and ever present danger; and we must began the process to save this present up-and-coming generation of children, and generations to come.
I don't have all of the answers, but if you haven't read the articles I have written in this blog pryor to this one, you should. Why? Because I've covered what we must do as a people. I'll be writing more about what we must do as women to steer our people into change-for-the-better. We just simply have to get [it] started.
The Fate of Drug-Dealers and Gang-Bangers in My Family: In our family, we turn[ed]family gang members and drug-dealers in to the authorities--and their mamas' to if they were in our way. These were hard choices, but necessary to save the "whole," i.e., the lives of us as well as those in and around [their/our] communities. We had already lost one really brilliant 3-year old girl (in our family)to murder on a street corner in 1992. After that, there were no "sacred cows" in our family. Those who engaged in vice, we turned them, their drugs, and their guns in to law enforcement--as a measure to save them from themselves and save us from them.
We advocate and offer family-member young people support for educational pursuits, and hire them to do odd jobs for us until they find gainful employment. If they don't go along with the family plan and they get in trouble, we engage "tough-love" by not making one effort to get them out of trouble. We allow them suffer the consequences of their actions by experiencing what it's like not to have taken our advise to follow the positive path we tried to lead them to and steer them on; as well as what it's like to "be out there" in trouble with no one to turn to, especially among their so-called, no-good, gang-banging, drug-dealing, murdering friends. In every instance, when we engaged this strategy, we had no more problems with the gang-banging, drug dealers in our family. They got on the "straight."
Example of How Effective The "Family Plan" Worked: One of my nephews while going to school is Mississippi went to jail for selling drugs at the age of 17 (in Mississippi--of all places. Imagine that!). My sister, living here in Chicago flew straight into panic mode. She called me first--the family "purse"--and I flew straight into her butt telling her "you must be out of your damn mind if you think I'm going to help you get your son out of jail after I promised him that I've never spend a dime for a lawyer or to get him or any of them out of jail--even my own." (Tough-love in play.)
Then she had another one of our sisters call me, and I not only flew into her face, I flew all-the-way-up-her-butt because she was a drug addict--didn't qualify to talk to me. She never called me back to discuss the subject after that.
Next, a Mississippi-located relative called in a conference call with my mother and my sister (whose son was in jail). I singled my mother out first saying to her: "Mama! You know where I'm headed with this, right?"
Mama responded: "I tried to tell them before they called you."
"Okay," I said to her. "Hang-up now, because I'm going to have to be nasty because no-in-the-nice isn't working right through here." My mother, having an excellent sense of when to hold them and "when to fold them," hung-up.
I went on to remind my sister and my nephew's paternal grandmother that since he was a little boy (9/10 years old), I told him many times that if he or any of our kids decide to sell drugs and go to jail, I, nor my mother would be there to help him/them. Now that he had made good on what he was not suppose to do, I'm making good on what I promised him I would not do. After that, I ran my long-distance phone bill up to an unimaginable proportion by calling all the monied-up people in the family demanding that they let him stay in jail (this was his first offense).
My sister was devastated. She was "my girl." This is the sister that taught me how to fight--how to physically accomplish knocking people out. We were real close. We hung-out together more than with anybody else in the family. But then, she was madder [at me] than an untamed rabid dog. She didn't speak to me for months because I told her "the purse" is closed and my bank is on "lockdown."
When my nephew called me from jail, and asked me: "Auntie: How can you tell people not to help me.?"
My reply was: "With my mouth fueled by determination. And, how could you have the nerve to sell drugs to an undercover police officer--in Mississippi--, get caught, go to jail, then expect me to help you? I'm person who promised you I'd never help you get out of jail for anything illegal you've done. And when you get out, don't call me until you graduate from high-school, then college. My best advice is for you to call your friends. Better yet: Call your supplier. He's pursed-up. Ask him to post your bail and get you a lawyer. Call me back and let know what he says."
He stated: "What friends? They're not going to help me."
My response: "Now that you know it, I hope you benefit from knowing it. Good-bye."
He spent 120 days in jail; released on 1 year probation; and has since never gotten into any more trouble with the law.
Just suppose my family lacked the resolve to allow him to stay in jail, without a lawyer, during his "first" offense. He would have gotten out of jail and continued selling drugs. But because we did have the necessary mental fortitude and courage to let him suffer the consequences of his actions without our assistance, he abandoned his drug-dealing life-style (and his enabling paternal grandmother was broke--once again.)
End of story.
Saishe Brokesom on the real! Holla-back!
Thursday, October 11, 2012
From A Dog, I Learned Discipline, Humility & Renewed Love
That's right! I learned discipline and humility from a dog--a black labrador retriever.
During a time in my life, when I was questioning my faith and whether or not being a kind, loving, and generous person was the right way to be with people (because I was constantly being hurt by peoples' disregard for genuine caring and assistance), God sent a beautiful homeless 14-month old black Labrador Retriever to my front yard.
He came into my life immediately after I recognized that I had become resentful, mean-spirited, totally out-of-character, and loving the effectiveness of people backing-up off of me with their ungrateful, evil, and high-altitude attitudes. I started falling backwards into an abyss of sharp-tongued annihilation, even feeling hatred for certain people, places, and things. I began waiting on moments to swash-buckle my boss who was an arrogant demon--and I enjoyed every second of doing verbal battle with him. I would go as far as to invite him to terminate me. I sought-out the worst-of-the-worst to give them a taste of their own medicine--and it wasn't nice. Certain situations got so intense that I even called the police on myself. I had reached a point in my life of believing that everything about mankind and family was not good because no matter how kind and patient I was, I was constantly kicked in the heart and head, and otherwise mentally and emotionally beat-down. I gave up and started fighting back.
At the time the black labrador retriever came into my life, I had a 6-week old German Shepherd puppy, and early (6:00 a.m.) one morning, I was out in front of my house training him. He was a smart little puppy, but extremely independent. He constantly pranced, high-stepping and kicking like a show horse--he was definitely an alpha male puppy. I had my back to the street and my puppy was facing me. Suddenly he became distracted. Then I felt something bump me--ever so lightly--dead center of my butt. I slightly glanced over my left shoulder; saw something big and shiny black; and me and my puppy took off running. I ran for one solid block, never looking back, praying that whatever that was wasn't chasing us. Finally, I looked back and nothing was there.
I walked to a park near home, where we stayed for about an hour. When I returned home and as we approached, I saw a big black dog laying on my lawn near the front steps. My heart raced when he stood-up. I stopped. He paused just looking at me, swishing his tail from side-to-side; then it started moving in a circular motion. His ears went forward and he cocked his head to the left as if he was wondering why I was scared. I had just moved into my home and did not know any of my neighbors. I panicked not knowing what to do. After about a 30 to 40-minute stand-off, I got the nerve to knock on a neighbors door who called my husband for me and asked him to open the back door so I could get in the house out of range of the dog.
My husband opened the back gate, and as I (and my neighbor, Mr. Mayes) moved towards the gate, the black lab moved with us. Then he looked up and saw my husband and his tail went berserkly in 360-rotation--his whole back-end was wagging. We could tell he was happy, but my husband ran and slammed the gate closed. With my puppy tucked in my bra, me and Mr. Mayes climbed a van parked across the alley from my back gate. We were out-of-control laughing because the black lab was standing at the gate working his head inquisitively while whipping his tail waiting for my husband to open the gate.
My husband went to the front yard and called the dog--who dashed to the front yard--and I leaped from the van and ran into the back yard.
This dog stayed in front of my house all day. He would get up to chase people. My husband would go out front and call him back to get him to stop chasing people--walking, on bikes, or getting in and out of their cars. I called animal control all day. It was a hot August day and we knew the dog needed help, but he was so big and tall, we were afraid of him, especially after he started chasing people. Each time he chased somebody, he always returned to my front lawn and laid down--this went on all day. At one point, when my husband had to leave home, he waited until the dog chased somebody then he ran to his car.
By 5:00 p.m., I called the police because my husband had left home, and I didn't know what this dog would do. He had been lounging on the lawn and chasing people all day.
The police arrived and tried to lure him into a squad car. The dog started running back and forth from the police. He came back to my front yard every time. Then a policeman asked me to give him some water and food. I filled a quart-pot with water and gave the policeman a Subway turkey sandwich. The dog drank two quarts pot of water then gobbled down the sandwich. By now, about 5 squad cars had arrived and blocked off the streets in all directions because they thought he'd really start running after he got food and water. (Neighbors were everywhere.)
A few minutes later, my husband drove up. The dog ran straight-away to my husband; sat at attention at his feet for about 5 seconds; jumped him licking him to the ground. It was a Kodak moment.
A policewoman asked my husband to cokes him into getting into the squad car. My husband slid into the car and called to the dog. The dog cocked his head to the left, swirled around, and ran straight to me, and I ran straight into the arms of the closest policeman. The dog skidded to a halt. He was a thinking dog; very strategic.
A policeman stated to my husband: He's made his decision. You got yourself dog. Let's put in your yard. As soon as the policeman said that, the dog sat down close to me and the policeman who I was hiding behind, allowing the other officer to grab him by the flea collar he was wearing and lead him to my back yard.
Right away, I noticed that the dog was gorgeous. His coat was jet-black, swirled close-cropped hair. He was shiny--simply elegant. Very well-behaved; a very loving dog; and he was very patient and loving with my puppy--who was trying to bite his throat out as soon as he moved into the yard.
My yard was full of police and neighbors, and everybody wanted him. I informed everyone I would try to locate the owner. Everyone left.
Then, about 30 minutes later, policemen in all types of vehicles--marked/unmarked cars, uniform and plain clothes; paramedics in ambulances, and even a couple fire trucks showed up at the front-door and back yard. When we got outside, a female paramedic by the name of Collette was parked next to my six-foot fence standing atop her ambulance talking to the dog--and he was standing there listening to her. The policemen, paramedics, and firemen that were at the front door ran to the back yard--all of them shouting they wanted the dog if we didn't. It was a circus. There were so many law enforcement and first-responders at my house, Leroy Martin, Chicago's Superintendent of Police [at the time] who lived around the corner from me, showed up to see what was going on.
As I opened the back gate for everybody--approximtely 25-30 people, Collette jumped from atop the ambulance over the fence into the yard announcing she was in vetenarian school, asking if she could examine him.
The dog greeted her and every single person in the yard very lovingly. The dog was especially friendly with all the males--responding to any command given him by anybody. The dog was well-trained to voice and hand signals.
Collette commanded him to lay and roll-over onto his side. The dog complied. She gloved-up and began examining him: Mouth, teeth, paws, belly, skin, rectum, penis, ears, eyes, etc.--and the dog allowed all of it. After the 20-minute exam, Collette announced the dog was in excellent health, as well as sporting a pedicure. She cried while begging us for him. Several policemen offered to pay us to mate him with other pure labs. Others offered as much as $1,500.00 for the dog. We were overwhelmed with request.
Over the following 3 weeks, contacted a vetenarian clinics, and all reported after several days that all their owners of black labs had not lost their dog. And every day for 3 weeks, Collette visited the dog. She really wanted him. But also over that 3-week period, the dog grew on me. He was so well-behaved and had the patience of a saint with my puppy who was trying to kill him.
My new black lab walked around almost every minute of the day with a puppy hanging from his throat--twisting and turning until he got tired and dropped to the floor or ground. My puppy would bite him. Kick his food and water over. Attack! Attack! Attack! But my new dog never laid a tooth or paw on him. Rather, he would lick my puppy to calm him down or lick him until he fell asleep.
By the second week of having him, I recognized my new dog was an extremely humble and tolerant a dog. His loving ways constantly reduced me to tears. Then one night, I was looking at him and he was looking at me. I said to him: "You're my new baby. God sent you to me, didn't he?" He rose up onto my lap and placed him huge head on my chest, and started making a throaty sound as though he was answering me in the affirmative. I said to him: "Now I know why you wouldn't go with the police." Then he licked me like crazy.
By week-three, Collette asked again to take possession of him. But by now, my husband made it clear he was keeping the dog.
Over the next several weeks, I noticed the dog remained consistently loving and tolerant of my puppy. He was very disciplined, well-trained to a science--he understood everything. He even created his own job: Sniffing every inch of my car whenever I returned home. When he was done, he wanted to be paid with a treat. He waited for our elderly neighbor to arrive home from work around 11:00 p.m. (She worked at Walgreens.) He would announce her arrival and demanded that we let him out so that he could escort her to her door--every night! So that he could see her in her yard without obstruction, he tore-out the top half of a plank of wood dead-center of the fence so that he could see her and she could touch him--and nobody was permitted to be in her yard or touch her garbage can except her. He would snap on us if we entered her yard or touched her garbage can.
In fact, the dog tore out planks of wood from the fence in every direction so that he could see outside the yard. When my husband repaired the fence in each direction, the dog removed the new planks and put them on the patio. He acted more like a person than a dog.
I, without a doubt, knew God sent him to me to restore my faith, and to teach me discipline and humility. He renewed/restored my natural ability to love. He taught me many things over the course of 14.5 years he was with me. He lived far beyond the life-span of a Labrador Retriever, and he remained true to his nature: The epitome of love, discipline, humility, tolerance, and a fierce protector.
In previous postings, I've already shared how I used "love" to help change my mother's abusive ways; and how I used "love" to reach and teach troubled kids in my life. Now I going to share with you how I used "love" to capture the trust and eventual "love" of my current German Shepherd that I adopted from the Anti-Cruelty Society ("ACS").
In December, 2010 I was cruising the ACS website, shopping for a puppy as I was ready for another dog after my labrador and sheperd two died in 2007 and 2008, respectively. They were both 14.5 years old when they died.
While cruising looking at many different dogs, I came across a picture/profile of a 6-month old German Shepherd named "Camila." She was plastered in a corner of her kennel with an expression on her face that shouted: "Oh no! Please don't hurt me. I'm so scared." And the caption under her picture read: "This is Camila. She recently came to us as an abused animal. While she is sweet, she is shy and does not trust anyone. But we believe an ideal loving home would be great for her." Her eyes beckoned me.
It was a cold and snowy Friday evening, but that didn't stop me from going to get her.
When I arrived, she was still available. She was terrified of me; thin as a pencil; and her coat was dull and drier than a power house.
We started the paperwork immediately. When the associate asked me what her new name would be, we both said at the same time "Rendy"--that was amazing to us. She actually read my mind. We laughed and agreed on the name. But, I couldn't take her home until the following Monday because she had to be spaded.
I picked her up that following Monday. When I got her home. She instantly could smell the scent of my previous dogs, and her terror intensified. She was afraid of everything, including sounds.
My family looked at one another, then at me, but they didn't say anything to me about her. But I knew what they were thinking: "Why in the hell would you go get a dog like this?" We all laugh about it now, and they all confirmed that that is exactly what they were thinking when I brought her home, but did not want to hurt my feelings.
For months that followed, I constantly talked to her. I showered her with lots of love, rubbed and hugged her endlessly each time learned a new command. Finally, she began to trust us, especially me. Now, she's still a little skittish, but trusting. She's a great watchdog, and most importantly, she is a prissy, loving diva who demonstrates "love." She even offers to share a treats with anyone. She's another example of "Love can fix it."
If you ever wonder[ed] why your parent(s), your spouse, or a friend never tell you or show you that they love you, perhaps it is due to the fact that they never experienced/received love and affection themselves. A person cannot give that which they have not received.
If you are familiar with "love," share it. All of us need it.
Stay strong! Love long!
Love, Saishe! Holla-back!
During a time in my life, when I was questioning my faith and whether or not being a kind, loving, and generous person was the right way to be with people (because I was constantly being hurt by peoples' disregard for genuine caring and assistance), God sent a beautiful homeless 14-month old black Labrador Retriever to my front yard.
He came into my life immediately after I recognized that I had become resentful, mean-spirited, totally out-of-character, and loving the effectiveness of people backing-up off of me with their ungrateful, evil, and high-altitude attitudes. I started falling backwards into an abyss of sharp-tongued annihilation, even feeling hatred for certain people, places, and things. I began waiting on moments to swash-buckle my boss who was an arrogant demon--and I enjoyed every second of doing verbal battle with him. I would go as far as to invite him to terminate me. I sought-out the worst-of-the-worst to give them a taste of their own medicine--and it wasn't nice. Certain situations got so intense that I even called the police on myself. I had reached a point in my life of believing that everything about mankind and family was not good because no matter how kind and patient I was, I was constantly kicked in the heart and head, and otherwise mentally and emotionally beat-down. I gave up and started fighting back.
At the time the black labrador retriever came into my life, I had a 6-week old German Shepherd puppy, and early (6:00 a.m.) one morning, I was out in front of my house training him. He was a smart little puppy, but extremely independent. He constantly pranced, high-stepping and kicking like a show horse--he was definitely an alpha male puppy. I had my back to the street and my puppy was facing me. Suddenly he became distracted. Then I felt something bump me--ever so lightly--dead center of my butt. I slightly glanced over my left shoulder; saw something big and shiny black; and me and my puppy took off running. I ran for one solid block, never looking back, praying that whatever that was wasn't chasing us. Finally, I looked back and nothing was there.
I walked to a park near home, where we stayed for about an hour. When I returned home and as we approached, I saw a big black dog laying on my lawn near the front steps. My heart raced when he stood-up. I stopped. He paused just looking at me, swishing his tail from side-to-side; then it started moving in a circular motion. His ears went forward and he cocked his head to the left as if he was wondering why I was scared. I had just moved into my home and did not know any of my neighbors. I panicked not knowing what to do. After about a 30 to 40-minute stand-off, I got the nerve to knock on a neighbors door who called my husband for me and asked him to open the back door so I could get in the house out of range of the dog.
My husband opened the back gate, and as I (and my neighbor, Mr. Mayes) moved towards the gate, the black lab moved with us. Then he looked up and saw my husband and his tail went berserkly in 360-rotation--his whole back-end was wagging. We could tell he was happy, but my husband ran and slammed the gate closed. With my puppy tucked in my bra, me and Mr. Mayes climbed a van parked across the alley from my back gate. We were out-of-control laughing because the black lab was standing at the gate working his head inquisitively while whipping his tail waiting for my husband to open the gate.
My husband went to the front yard and called the dog--who dashed to the front yard--and I leaped from the van and ran into the back yard.
This dog stayed in front of my house all day. He would get up to chase people. My husband would go out front and call him back to get him to stop chasing people--walking, on bikes, or getting in and out of their cars. I called animal control all day. It was a hot August day and we knew the dog needed help, but he was so big and tall, we were afraid of him, especially after he started chasing people. Each time he chased somebody, he always returned to my front lawn and laid down--this went on all day. At one point, when my husband had to leave home, he waited until the dog chased somebody then he ran to his car.
By 5:00 p.m., I called the police because my husband had left home, and I didn't know what this dog would do. He had been lounging on the lawn and chasing people all day.
The police arrived and tried to lure him into a squad car. The dog started running back and forth from the police. He came back to my front yard every time. Then a policeman asked me to give him some water and food. I filled a quart-pot with water and gave the policeman a Subway turkey sandwich. The dog drank two quarts pot of water then gobbled down the sandwich. By now, about 5 squad cars had arrived and blocked off the streets in all directions because they thought he'd really start running after he got food and water. (Neighbors were everywhere.)
A few minutes later, my husband drove up. The dog ran straight-away to my husband; sat at attention at his feet for about 5 seconds; jumped him licking him to the ground. It was a Kodak moment.
A policewoman asked my husband to cokes him into getting into the squad car. My husband slid into the car and called to the dog. The dog cocked his head to the left, swirled around, and ran straight to me, and I ran straight into the arms of the closest policeman. The dog skidded to a halt. He was a thinking dog; very strategic.
A policeman stated to my husband: He's made his decision. You got yourself dog. Let's put in your yard. As soon as the policeman said that, the dog sat down close to me and the policeman who I was hiding behind, allowing the other officer to grab him by the flea collar he was wearing and lead him to my back yard.
Right away, I noticed that the dog was gorgeous. His coat was jet-black, swirled close-cropped hair. He was shiny--simply elegant. Very well-behaved; a very loving dog; and he was very patient and loving with my puppy--who was trying to bite his throat out as soon as he moved into the yard.
My yard was full of police and neighbors, and everybody wanted him. I informed everyone I would try to locate the owner. Everyone left.
Then, about 30 minutes later, policemen in all types of vehicles--marked/unmarked cars, uniform and plain clothes; paramedics in ambulances, and even a couple fire trucks showed up at the front-door and back yard. When we got outside, a female paramedic by the name of Collette was parked next to my six-foot fence standing atop her ambulance talking to the dog--and he was standing there listening to her. The policemen, paramedics, and firemen that were at the front door ran to the back yard--all of them shouting they wanted the dog if we didn't. It was a circus. There were so many law enforcement and first-responders at my house, Leroy Martin, Chicago's Superintendent of Police [at the time] who lived around the corner from me, showed up to see what was going on.
As I opened the back gate for everybody--approximtely 25-30 people, Collette jumped from atop the ambulance over the fence into the yard announcing she was in vetenarian school, asking if she could examine him.
The dog greeted her and every single person in the yard very lovingly. The dog was especially friendly with all the males--responding to any command given him by anybody. The dog was well-trained to voice and hand signals.
Collette commanded him to lay and roll-over onto his side. The dog complied. She gloved-up and began examining him: Mouth, teeth, paws, belly, skin, rectum, penis, ears, eyes, etc.--and the dog allowed all of it. After the 20-minute exam, Collette announced the dog was in excellent health, as well as sporting a pedicure. She cried while begging us for him. Several policemen offered to pay us to mate him with other pure labs. Others offered as much as $1,500.00 for the dog. We were overwhelmed with request.
Over the following 3 weeks, contacted a vetenarian clinics, and all reported after several days that all their owners of black labs had not lost their dog. And every day for 3 weeks, Collette visited the dog. She really wanted him. But also over that 3-week period, the dog grew on me. He was so well-behaved and had the patience of a saint with my puppy who was trying to kill him.
My new black lab walked around almost every minute of the day with a puppy hanging from his throat--twisting and turning until he got tired and dropped to the floor or ground. My puppy would bite him. Kick his food and water over. Attack! Attack! Attack! But my new dog never laid a tooth or paw on him. Rather, he would lick my puppy to calm him down or lick him until he fell asleep.
By the second week of having him, I recognized my new dog was an extremely humble and tolerant a dog. His loving ways constantly reduced me to tears. Then one night, I was looking at him and he was looking at me. I said to him: "You're my new baby. God sent you to me, didn't he?" He rose up onto my lap and placed him huge head on my chest, and started making a throaty sound as though he was answering me in the affirmative. I said to him: "Now I know why you wouldn't go with the police." Then he licked me like crazy.
By week-three, Collette asked again to take possession of him. But by now, my husband made it clear he was keeping the dog.
Over the next several weeks, I noticed the dog remained consistently loving and tolerant of my puppy. He was very disciplined, well-trained to a science--he understood everything. He even created his own job: Sniffing every inch of my car whenever I returned home. When he was done, he wanted to be paid with a treat. He waited for our elderly neighbor to arrive home from work around 11:00 p.m. (She worked at Walgreens.) He would announce her arrival and demanded that we let him out so that he could escort her to her door--every night! So that he could see her in her yard without obstruction, he tore-out the top half of a plank of wood dead-center of the fence so that he could see her and she could touch him--and nobody was permitted to be in her yard or touch her garbage can except her. He would snap on us if we entered her yard or touched her garbage can.
In fact, the dog tore out planks of wood from the fence in every direction so that he could see outside the yard. When my husband repaired the fence in each direction, the dog removed the new planks and put them on the patio. He acted more like a person than a dog.
I, without a doubt, knew God sent him to me to restore my faith, and to teach me discipline and humility. He renewed/restored my natural ability to love. He taught me many things over the course of 14.5 years he was with me. He lived far beyond the life-span of a Labrador Retriever, and he remained true to his nature: The epitome of love, discipline, humility, tolerance, and a fierce protector.
In previous postings, I've already shared how I used "love" to help change my mother's abusive ways; and how I used "love" to reach and teach troubled kids in my life. Now I going to share with you how I used "love" to capture the trust and eventual "love" of my current German Shepherd that I adopted from the Anti-Cruelty Society ("ACS").
In December, 2010 I was cruising the ACS website, shopping for a puppy as I was ready for another dog after my labrador and sheperd two died in 2007 and 2008, respectively. They were both 14.5 years old when they died.
While cruising looking at many different dogs, I came across a picture/profile of a 6-month old German Shepherd named "Camila." She was plastered in a corner of her kennel with an expression on her face that shouted: "Oh no! Please don't hurt me. I'm so scared." And the caption under her picture read: "This is Camila. She recently came to us as an abused animal. While she is sweet, she is shy and does not trust anyone. But we believe an ideal loving home would be great for her." Her eyes beckoned me.
It was a cold and snowy Friday evening, but that didn't stop me from going to get her.
When I arrived, she was still available. She was terrified of me; thin as a pencil; and her coat was dull and drier than a power house.
We started the paperwork immediately. When the associate asked me what her new name would be, we both said at the same time "Rendy"--that was amazing to us. She actually read my mind. We laughed and agreed on the name. But, I couldn't take her home until the following Monday because she had to be spaded.
I picked her up that following Monday. When I got her home. She instantly could smell the scent of my previous dogs, and her terror intensified. She was afraid of everything, including sounds.
My family looked at one another, then at me, but they didn't say anything to me about her. But I knew what they were thinking: "Why in the hell would you go get a dog like this?" We all laugh about it now, and they all confirmed that that is exactly what they were thinking when I brought her home, but did not want to hurt my feelings.
For months that followed, I constantly talked to her. I showered her with lots of love, rubbed and hugged her endlessly each time learned a new command. Finally, she began to trust us, especially me. Now, she's still a little skittish, but trusting. She's a great watchdog, and most importantly, she is a prissy, loving diva who demonstrates "love." She even offers to share a treats with anyone. She's another example of "Love can fix it."
If you ever wonder[ed] why your parent(s), your spouse, or a friend never tell you or show you that they love you, perhaps it is due to the fact that they never experienced/received love and affection themselves. A person cannot give that which they have not received.
If you are familiar with "love," share it. All of us need it.
Stay strong! Love long!
Love, Saishe! Holla-back!
My Sisters' Keeper: Planting The Seeds
I am compelled to talk about being my sisters' keeper, i.e., having their backs; helping them carry a load; speaking on their behalf when they are unable or powerless to do so; or simply just being there because in numbers there's power, etc., etc., etc. I'm talking about women of color, black women, African women, African-American women, African and mixed-blood women--all my sisters.
I was raised to and I live my life in the service of others; and at times, it can be a lonely, time-consuming, extraordinarily brutal and painful existence. But nevertheless, I continue to do so. I exit [some] battles scarred and raggedy, but grinning--if you can imagine--because I won and survived, and got a rush from it, really! Steady and ready for the next round or an entirely new battle. If this is what I have to do to make or keep situations/circumstances smooth and accessible for my sisters, then I accept the challenge. (I've known this about myself since I was a little girl. For the meek I use to fight bullies in the "Deep South" if I couldn't reason with them. Game over! I have a profound intolerance for injustices of any kind--it's in my DNA.)
Why do I feel this way?
Because always there exist a need. Let me repeat that several different ways : There is always someone, somewhere who needs assistance, somehow for whatever reason. Women need support: Be it emotional, financial, or simply encouragement or validation--we got to have it.
There are those of us who draw strength and courage from adversity, and I'm one of those women. I fear nothing except my OB/GYN (for whom I have to open my legs); my dentist (for whom I have to open my mouth); and the IRS (for whom I have to open my whole financial history)--and I HAVE TO TRUST that they know what they are doing to the most vulnerable aspects of my being. Beyond that, bring it!
There are those of us with access to resources (human and otherwise) to remove obstacles from the paths to economic or social upward mobility, and I am one of those women. I utilize every resource I have access to to assist anyone I encounter or who is referred to me with a need (problem/issue)--even when I don't have the time, I find it. I owe this to my people.
I know God prepared me for service to mankind because it started early on. He put me in path of some of nation's greatest planners, bankers and financial experts, economists, lawyers, politicians, judges, people in law enforcement, business owners, ministers, and neighborhood mothers--the most important of them all. I sucked the life-knowledge out of every last one of them. If/when any of them shunned me, I'd show-up again anyway, call everyday, even approach their friends, family, and colleagues in my efforts to get them to help me help somebody else. Some of my greatest friendships that exist today started-out this way. One judge (federal court Judge Blanche Manning) stated to me one day: "I let you in my life because I knew you were not going away." I was quite amused.
I've seem every kind of problem a person can face--from the alley to the White House, literally; and I've used every resources I have--from the alley to the White House--to help resolve those problems/issues.
Unfortunately, women like me (who are willing to go beyond the extra mile or fight to get it right) are few and far between. But those of us who possess the know-how, resources, and the courage to trail-blaze, must not let-up--not for a minute. We cannot afford to get tired. (I'm not going to say "discouraged" because I don't know what that is.) We have to connect our networks, select the best-qualified leaders, and keep it moving.
On a lighter note: People ask me all the time: "How did you get so smart? How did you learn so much? What makes you tick?
My response was/is always the same: "From getting my butt kicked!" I learned a little something from every shellacking (i.e., "easy or decisive defeat") I'd ever been on the receiving end of. Then I set-out to seek inclusion into those individuals' circles. I told all of my defeaters that I was impressed by the manner in which they defeated me, and would very much appreciate being mentored by them so that I could learn how not to make the same mistake(s) in other areas of my life. I recognized all of them as vital human resources that one day will be needed to help me help others.
Nothing Ventured. Nothing Gained
A lady I met at my hairdressers' salon--with whom I became friends with--contacted me one day in blubbering tears about having been turned down for the home equity loan at Bank One--where I had referred her. She also informed me that the loan officer located at a Wisconsin Bank One location was not only insensitive and rude to her, his vitriol at his colleague (the branch manager at the Bank One Chicago-based branch) and my friend /human resource was glaring. (My friend needed the loan because her daughter was graduating from grad school, and her [paid-in-full] home was in disrepair.)
We were baffled by this because through one of my human resources, her credit report(s) were completely sanitized, clearing the way for her to purchase a new car without a co-signer.
The Wisconsin-based Bank One loan officer said to her: "You have a lien on your home, and it will take to at least 120 days to get that cleared up. So for now, your loan is denied. Call me in 120 days." Then he slammed the phone down."
Well that rang my bell.
I got on the phone to the Recorder of Deeds office and asked one of my [human resources] what we needed to do to get a resolved lien removed from her property. Within 5 minutes, the lien was removed. We called both the Chicago-based Bank One branch manager and the Wisconsin-based Bank One officer to advise that the lien was just removed. But the loan officer scoffed: "Bullshit! Then hung-up the phone. He could not believe we got a lien removed within 20 minutes of his last call with my friend and his colleague.
By now, I'm in my "Let me slap this white boy out of my way" mode.
I composed and faxed a 3-page, well-articulated letter to Bank One Chairman Jamie Dimond. First I established that I am a tenured Bank One customer--all the way back to First National Bank of Chicago and now Bank One. A customer with an impeccable track record regarding [paid-off] loans, banking, etc., who had never so much as bounced a check, or made a teller-assisted withdrawal. In chronological order, I explained what happened with my friend's loan and how she was treated., as well as the Bank One branch manager.
The following day, I received a call from an Executive Vice President working directly under Mr. Dimond advising me that Mr. Dimond was in receipt of my letter, and was "on top of the matter."
Later that day, I received a call from the Chicago-based Bank One branch manager [my friend/human resource] telling me that Jamie Dimond showed up at the Jeffery Manor branch and told everyone they "were not going home until they pull every loan application at that branch. Then he called loan officer Mr. Scott Peterson at the Wisconsin branch, cussed him out and fired him over the phone. Then he personally instructed my friend, branch manager Diane Thompson to approve my friend's loan at a 4.00% APR, as well as authorize a credit card with a $35K line of credit." Diane indicated that Mr. Dimond was enraged that a customer would be treated that way. She even told me that the black man [I had sent to her] who owned a McDonald's "also received the $250,000 loan he was seeking."
The point is this: Never, ever allow an obstacle stand in your way when you trying to climb the mountain. And if you need to call your friends to help you, call them! Become or return to being your sisters' keeper. We are in crisis mode--around the world--and our sisters need us.
I was raised to and I live my life in the service of others; and at times, it can be a lonely, time-consuming, extraordinarily brutal and painful existence. But nevertheless, I continue to do so. I exit [some] battles scarred and raggedy, but grinning--if you can imagine--because I won and survived, and got a rush from it, really! Steady and ready for the next round or an entirely new battle. If this is what I have to do to make or keep situations/circumstances smooth and accessible for my sisters, then I accept the challenge. (I've known this about myself since I was a little girl. For the meek I use to fight bullies in the "Deep South" if I couldn't reason with them. Game over! I have a profound intolerance for injustices of any kind--it's in my DNA.)
Why do I feel this way?
Because always there exist a need. Let me repeat that several different ways : There is always someone, somewhere who needs assistance, somehow for whatever reason. Women need support: Be it emotional, financial, or simply encouragement or validation--we got to have it.
There are those of us who draw strength and courage from adversity, and I'm one of those women. I fear nothing except my OB/GYN (for whom I have to open my legs); my dentist (for whom I have to open my mouth); and the IRS (for whom I have to open my whole financial history)--and I HAVE TO TRUST that they know what they are doing to the most vulnerable aspects of my being. Beyond that, bring it!
There are those of us with access to resources (human and otherwise) to remove obstacles from the paths to economic or social upward mobility, and I am one of those women. I utilize every resource I have access to to assist anyone I encounter or who is referred to me with a need (problem/issue)--even when I don't have the time, I find it. I owe this to my people.
I know God prepared me for service to mankind because it started early on. He put me in path of some of nation's greatest planners, bankers and financial experts, economists, lawyers, politicians, judges, people in law enforcement, business owners, ministers, and neighborhood mothers--the most important of them all. I sucked the life-knowledge out of every last one of them. If/when any of them shunned me, I'd show-up again anyway, call everyday, even approach their friends, family, and colleagues in my efforts to get them to help me help somebody else. Some of my greatest friendships that exist today started-out this way. One judge (federal court Judge Blanche Manning) stated to me one day: "I let you in my life because I knew you were not going away." I was quite amused.
I've seem every kind of problem a person can face--from the alley to the White House, literally; and I've used every resources I have--from the alley to the White House--to help resolve those problems/issues.
Unfortunately, women like me (who are willing to go beyond the extra mile or fight to get it right) are few and far between. But those of us who possess the know-how, resources, and the courage to trail-blaze, must not let-up--not for a minute. We cannot afford to get tired. (I'm not going to say "discouraged" because I don't know what that is.) We have to connect our networks, select the best-qualified leaders, and keep it moving.
On a lighter note: People ask me all the time: "How did you get so smart? How did you learn so much? What makes you tick?
My response was/is always the same: "From getting my butt kicked!" I learned a little something from every shellacking (i.e., "easy or decisive defeat") I'd ever been on the receiving end of. Then I set-out to seek inclusion into those individuals' circles. I told all of my defeaters that I was impressed by the manner in which they defeated me, and would very much appreciate being mentored by them so that I could learn how not to make the same mistake(s) in other areas of my life. I recognized all of them as vital human resources that one day will be needed to help me help others.
Nothing Ventured. Nothing Gained
A lady I met at my hairdressers' salon--with whom I became friends with--contacted me one day in blubbering tears about having been turned down for the home equity loan at Bank One--where I had referred her. She also informed me that the loan officer located at a Wisconsin Bank One location was not only insensitive and rude to her, his vitriol at his colleague (the branch manager at the Bank One Chicago-based branch) and my friend /human resource was glaring. (My friend needed the loan because her daughter was graduating from grad school, and her [paid-in-full] home was in disrepair.)
We were baffled by this because through one of my human resources, her credit report(s) were completely sanitized, clearing the way for her to purchase a new car without a co-signer.
The Wisconsin-based Bank One loan officer said to her: "You have a lien on your home, and it will take to at least 120 days to get that cleared up. So for now, your loan is denied. Call me in 120 days." Then he slammed the phone down."
Well that rang my bell.
I got on the phone to the Recorder of Deeds office and asked one of my [human resources] what we needed to do to get a resolved lien removed from her property. Within 5 minutes, the lien was removed. We called both the Chicago-based Bank One branch manager and the Wisconsin-based Bank One officer to advise that the lien was just removed. But the loan officer scoffed: "Bullshit! Then hung-up the phone. He could not believe we got a lien removed within 20 minutes of his last call with my friend and his colleague.
By now, I'm in my "Let me slap this white boy out of my way" mode.
I composed and faxed a 3-page, well-articulated letter to Bank One Chairman Jamie Dimond. First I established that I am a tenured Bank One customer--all the way back to First National Bank of Chicago and now Bank One. A customer with an impeccable track record regarding [paid-off] loans, banking, etc., who had never so much as bounced a check, or made a teller-assisted withdrawal. In chronological order, I explained what happened with my friend's loan and how she was treated., as well as the Bank One branch manager.
The following day, I received a call from an Executive Vice President working directly under Mr. Dimond advising me that Mr. Dimond was in receipt of my letter, and was "on top of the matter."
Later that day, I received a call from the Chicago-based Bank One branch manager [my friend/human resource] telling me that Jamie Dimond showed up at the Jeffery Manor branch and told everyone they "were not going home until they pull every loan application at that branch. Then he called loan officer Mr. Scott Peterson at the Wisconsin branch, cussed him out and fired him over the phone. Then he personally instructed my friend, branch manager Diane Thompson to approve my friend's loan at a 4.00% APR, as well as authorize a credit card with a $35K line of credit." Diane indicated that Mr. Dimond was enraged that a customer would be treated that way. She even told me that the black man [I had sent to her] who owned a McDonald's "also received the $250,000 loan he was seeking."
The point is this: Never, ever allow an obstacle stand in your way when you trying to climb the mountain. And if you need to call your friends to help you, call them! Become or return to being your sisters' keeper. We are in crisis mode--around the world--and our sisters need us.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Mothers: The Cycle of Abuse Can Be Broken
Initially, I'm going to share some history that created the fabric of physical, emotional, and verbal abuse in my own family, dating back to the early 1800's in order to set the scene by which one might be able recognize why and/or what happened to them; or [to finally] understand why people are sometimes pre-destined to become abusers.
My great grandparents on both sides of the family were born into slavery in the "Deep South," and my grandparents therefore were greatly subjected to that way of life as well.
As a result of slavery, my grandfather's family morphed into hard-core, mean-spirited haters of mankind, and my grandfather (my mother's father) was true to his indoctrination--cruel to the 10th power!
My grandmother's people (my mother's mother), however, were well-mannered humble people who used the hardships of slavery as fuel to make life better for them and their descendants. They went along to get along and therefore faired better than most people around them. But they never missed an opportunity to help as many people as they could without having to be asked.
My grandparents eventually inherited a large farm in Alabama that my great grandmother had previously inherited from the man who had enslaved her family--for which she was very grateful (working like a man along side her family). They worked and managed the more than 600-acre farm very successfully--having to fight and make concession to survive every step of the way.
By the time all of my grandparents' children were born, their farm was fully operational, and all of their kids were driven to work hard--some of the older children were not permitted to go to school.
My grandfather by now had become a hard-working obsessed farmer and "master abuser." On a daily basis, he would fuss, cuss, and beat my grandmother and their children sometimes from sun-up til sun-down.
My grandmother was a petite, extremely pretty, soft-spoken, hard-working, quiet, and humble woman. She was often described as "being like an angel;" and she was terrified of my grandfather. Whenever she tried to intervene when he was berating or beating their kids, he would beat her to a pulp and forbid her from showing them any level of love and affection. If he caught her being loving with her own children, she was beaten for that--which caused her to become extremely traumatized, withdrawn, and completely silent. (Even as a child, I would speak-up for her--fight, cuss, and seriously tried to hurt anybody who disrespected her. Special Note: For the last three years of my grandmother's life, I was the only person in the world she would talk to. I was honored. She was 96.5 years of age when she died.)
My mother and her siblings were victims of my grandfather's rage, just as he was a victim of his father's and the plantation owners' where he was born and raised.
Two-thirds of my grandparents' children grew into being "master abusers" by the time they reached adulthood. The other third had inherited my grandmother's "gentle gene" and grew up to be the opposite of their abusive siblings--my mother was not one of them.
My mother was next to the last child born and had siblings that were 25 to 30 years older than her. So, not only was she emotionally, physically, and verbally abused by her father, her older siblings abused her as well.
My Mother Became An Abuser By Default
I must start out by first telling you that my mother was a good provider. She was a hard-working, strong woman--and very, very pretty--just like her mother. I use to think she had special powers because she always seem to somehow know when things and people were not right. She was very intelligent--having won an academic/athletic scholarship to attend a major university in Alabama in the 1950's--that her father did not allow her to utililze/attend. She was very resourceful; very clean (a real germaphobic), a great cook, and at times, a joy to be around.
Because abuse was the norm to my mother, she married an abuser--my father.. And boy, oh boy! My father really abused her--emotionally, physically, and verbally--and I use to cuss him out until I was exhausted; or I'd take sissors and destroy some of his clothes, wet his cigarettes, and pour his whiskey out in front of his face. My mother stayed with him until one of her older sisters arrived at our home one day, beat the hell out of my father, packed us up, and moved us away into her home. (I was so proud of what my aunt did, she became my life-long hero.)
After we eventually settled in our own home again, my mother's abusive ways surfaced and manifested. I couldn't believe it. She began doing to us what my father (and her father) had done to her. Even though, at [my] very young age, I knew she was hurt, scared, lonely, and above all, struggling; she could not control herself. This was the very first time she had been absolutely on her own--with kids. Also, having been exposed to my grandfather, I learned first-hand how he was--and I positively hated him--so I knew he had an affect on her demeanor.
Upon noticing my mother was abusive, I started assessing my aunts and uncles, and was able to quickly identify and differentiate the kind non-abuser from the harsh abusers among them.
If my mother couldn't find her hair rollers, she'd beat us. If we talked too loud, she'd cuss us out and/or beat us. She would bark demands at us saying some of the most hurtful things to us, and call us the nastiest of names (yet she was always baffled as why I wasn't afraid to cuss in her or anybody else's presence when I was a little girl). If someone told her we misbehaved, she'd try to kill us. I was horrified and did not take too well to beatings, emotional and verbal abuse. So I decided I could love her out of that sort of behavior.
By the age of seven, to try and keep her from fussing, I started having dinner ready when she'd get home from work. I'd pamper her by scratching her scalp and rolling her hair every night. I'd massage her legs after dinner and wash her stockings [every night] before going to bed. I'd hustle to earn money to help her out financially by cleaning house for my aunts and other women in my life; cooking, washing, often going to the store; hustling pop and juice bottles. I had a paper route. I worked in a restaurant serving hamburgers during lunch hour when I was in grammar school. I did everything I knew how to make money to ease her struggle. Nothing worked--at first--but I never stopped believing I could [help] change her learned behavior.
My mother was especially abusive to my sister who looked just like our father. She was so abusive to her that at times when she would tie my sister to a radiator and beat her, I would jump on my mother's back, covering her eyes with my little hands in an attempt to make her stop beating my sister and turn on me--I did this often, and often did I get the hell beat out of me; but she would have to work hard to beat me because I would run out the door through the street(s). She thought I was nuts--as did my sisters.
Eventually, she stopped roping my sister to the radiator to beat her because she got tired of chasing me for miles. Every time she caught me (the athetic part of her scholarship was becasue she was a tri-athlete--a Flo-Jo" of her time), she'd snatch me around and beat me in the streets all the way back home; and I'd be telling her every step of the way how wrong she was.--I was never afraid to do so. Some times, I use to question my own sanity for blurting out what I thought was right against her. But I was bold like my great grandmother and a few of my aunts. Wrong was wrong, and whenever I encountered it, I was on it--adults, dogs, policemen, whomever, whatever, or wherever. I am hard-wired to on-the-spot challenge "wrong."
I stayed focused on loving my mother into abandoning her abusive ways. And one day, when I was 9 years old, I asked her if I could talk to her. She agreed. I asked her to tell me why she was so mean to us? I told her that I love her and I wanted to know what could I do to make her life better and feel loved? I told her that I was not like her and grandfather--I was like grandmother--and I could not understand why she treat us so badly.
She kept her back to me as she made coffee. Then she poured a cup for both of us--I was surprised--and sat down at the kitchen table with me. First she just starred at me, and I sat there patiently waiting for her to stop starring at me because I felt her staring meant something. Then she smiled. and I smiled back at her. Then she cried for what seemed like an eternity, but it was actually 5 minutes or so before she was able to speak.
"You know," she started speaking in a slow and methodical manner, allowing her fat, wide tears free-flow down her face, into her mouth, and under her chin.. "No one has ever asked me how I felt, or what I wanted, or even tell that they love me. No one."
I shouted: "Nobody! Really, Mama? Not even grandmother?"
She looked me square in the eyes and whispered: "Not one soul. You are the first person--my baby--to tell me I am loved. You are the first person to ask me what I want and what can be done for me to make me feel loved..." She crumbled face first onto the table top. She mumbled through her sobs: "My daddy didn't allow my Mama to show us or tell us she loved us." We could see it in her eyes, but she wasn't allowed to speak it so she didn't. And my brothers were so rotten to the core, they told daddy on a couple occasions that they heard Mama talking baby-talk to some of us." (Well, this was the affirmation of my hatred for her brothers.)
I jumped up, ran around the table and embraced her as hard as I could and vowed that I'd always love her and take care of her.
After I left home, I continued to financially support her. I gave her everything she needed and desired. I showered her with gifts, dinner and lunch dates. I exposed her to cultural events. I talked to her every day and visited her no less than 3 to 4 times a week. In the winter, I'd get-up extra early to take her to work, and when the temperature was sub-zero, I leave work early to pick her up from work. I'd take her grocery shopping every two weeks without fail--and buy her groceries. I bought her any furnishing and appliances she dreamed of having. I paid her rent often and her weekly transportation cost so that she could start and have a savings account--which I added to bi-monthly. I tried to give her self-esteem and make her dreams come true. She was my "road-dog," i.e., I took her everywhere I went when I wasn't working--she'd just ask me what to wear and she'd be ready when I got there.
Throughout the course of all of my efforts, I began to witness a person transformed. My mother became very extroverted, very calm and loving. She became trusting and began making friends, and going places. She was no longer an angry person, and even though she was previously like that, I never heard her a say a bad thing about anyone--not ever. She had just been abusive to us--her children. I came to realize she had become the person she truly was--true to her real nature, and I was over-joyed and proud of her.
In 1985, while out scouting about shopping, my mother grabbed me by the hand and said to me: "I really, really love you; and I appreciate and thank you for teaching me how to love, and for showing me what it feels like to be loved, respected, and forgiven."
In 1996, immediately after one of my sister's passed away, I forced her to have knee surgery--for which she took a 4-month medical leave-of-absence. One week before she was due to return to work, without her knowledge, I authored her retirement letter, forged her signature, and Fed-Ex'ed it to her job. Gracefully and intellectually, I slapped the s--- out of her supervisor and adversaries in her retirement letter and proudly announced her retirement. I had been wanting to quit her job for decades.
The Sunday night before her Monday morning return to work, shaking like a wind-whipped leaf, I showed her her retirement letter. She read it then looked up at me in disbelief. Then she went and got her glasses and read it again. When she raised her head again to look at me, she had tears in her eyes, and I knew I was in for it... She had not cussed in years--not one utterance of profanity. She asked: "You quit my m-----f----- job? I can't believe you quit my f...... job! You quit my f..... job?!
I nodded in the affirmative--I was scared to death.
She repeated: "Saishe, you quit my job? What am I going to do? I cannot afford to quit my job! Jesus! What have you done?
With God-speed I started laying out her financial future. I informed her that while she was recuperating, I applied for and had obtained her the "Widow's" Pension" for her through the Social Security Administration because she wasn't old enough for straight Social Security benefits, and she would be getting $1,191.00 monthly. My sister Lyn had left her a decent sum of money in an account with her [my mother's name] on it. And I had been investing money for her retirnement for more than 20 years. On top of that, she'd be getting a pension from her job, in addition to her Profit Sharing money--that she will rollover to a safe investment plan.
After hearing about her financial health, she starting smiling, and stated: "I'm retired! Good God! I don't have to go back to that place...!
By now, I had recovered from my out-break of raw fear and nervous twitching. I replied: "I've been wanting to quit your job for decades, and it was a pleasure to do.
My mother enjoyed her retirement fully from July, 1996 up until she fell ill in March, 2005. She went everywhere she wanted to go with her friends; bought anything she wanted when she wanted it; and played the lottery or the slot machines with wild abandon. She was so lucky at winning, she had a big, fat "gambling account" that she drew from to indulge in her favorite pass-times.
And one night as I laid in bed with her as she was dying from bone cancer, she turned her face close to mine and said: "Before I die, I want you to know something else."
I asked: "What's that?"
"You make life so much fun. We have laughed the past 30 to 40 years away. And I want you to know that with you, I know we've shared the greatest love affair of all. I just want you to know that. And if everybody else whose lives you've touched was honest, they'd tell you the same thing..."
At that moment, she confirmed that I had achieved my goal, and I relished that accomplishment, i.e., using love as a weapon against her abusive ways.
So, the moral of the story is this: I broke the cycle of abuse as I have never abused anyone in my entire life--including my children (the one I birthed from my wound and the ones that were born one from heart). I am a real example that it can be done--it's hard and very painful, but it can be done.
In addition, if you were abused or is an abuser, take time to try and understand what causes people to be abusers, and then forgive the abuser(s) and/or yourself for being an abuser--which is necessary to [finally] break the cycle of abuse. If not, the cycle of abuse will continue, as will the pain and suffering that results from it.
Stay strong.
Love, Saishe! Holla-back!
My great grandparents on both sides of the family were born into slavery in the "Deep South," and my grandparents therefore were greatly subjected to that way of life as well.
As a result of slavery, my grandfather's family morphed into hard-core, mean-spirited haters of mankind, and my grandfather (my mother's father) was true to his indoctrination--cruel to the 10th power!
My grandmother's people (my mother's mother), however, were well-mannered humble people who used the hardships of slavery as fuel to make life better for them and their descendants. They went along to get along and therefore faired better than most people around them. But they never missed an opportunity to help as many people as they could without having to be asked.
My grandparents eventually inherited a large farm in Alabama that my great grandmother had previously inherited from the man who had enslaved her family--for which she was very grateful (working like a man along side her family). They worked and managed the more than 600-acre farm very successfully--having to fight and make concession to survive every step of the way.
By the time all of my grandparents' children were born, their farm was fully operational, and all of their kids were driven to work hard--some of the older children were not permitted to go to school.
My grandfather by now had become a hard-working obsessed farmer and "master abuser." On a daily basis, he would fuss, cuss, and beat my grandmother and their children sometimes from sun-up til sun-down.
My grandmother was a petite, extremely pretty, soft-spoken, hard-working, quiet, and humble woman. She was often described as "being like an angel;" and she was terrified of my grandfather. Whenever she tried to intervene when he was berating or beating their kids, he would beat her to a pulp and forbid her from showing them any level of love and affection. If he caught her being loving with her own children, she was beaten for that--which caused her to become extremely traumatized, withdrawn, and completely silent. (Even as a child, I would speak-up for her--fight, cuss, and seriously tried to hurt anybody who disrespected her. Special Note: For the last three years of my grandmother's life, I was the only person in the world she would talk to. I was honored. She was 96.5 years of age when she died.)
My mother and her siblings were victims of my grandfather's rage, just as he was a victim of his father's and the plantation owners' where he was born and raised.
Two-thirds of my grandparents' children grew into being "master abusers" by the time they reached adulthood. The other third had inherited my grandmother's "gentle gene" and grew up to be the opposite of their abusive siblings--my mother was not one of them.
My mother was next to the last child born and had siblings that were 25 to 30 years older than her. So, not only was she emotionally, physically, and verbally abused by her father, her older siblings abused her as well.
My Mother Became An Abuser By Default
I must start out by first telling you that my mother was a good provider. She was a hard-working, strong woman--and very, very pretty--just like her mother. I use to think she had special powers because she always seem to somehow know when things and people were not right. She was very intelligent--having won an academic/athletic scholarship to attend a major university in Alabama in the 1950's--that her father did not allow her to utililze/attend. She was very resourceful; very clean (a real germaphobic), a great cook, and at times, a joy to be around.
Because abuse was the norm to my mother, she married an abuser--my father.. And boy, oh boy! My father really abused her--emotionally, physically, and verbally--and I use to cuss him out until I was exhausted; or I'd take sissors and destroy some of his clothes, wet his cigarettes, and pour his whiskey out in front of his face. My mother stayed with him until one of her older sisters arrived at our home one day, beat the hell out of my father, packed us up, and moved us away into her home. (I was so proud of what my aunt did, she became my life-long hero.)
After we eventually settled in our own home again, my mother's abusive ways surfaced and manifested. I couldn't believe it. She began doing to us what my father (and her father) had done to her. Even though, at [my] very young age, I knew she was hurt, scared, lonely, and above all, struggling; she could not control herself. This was the very first time she had been absolutely on her own--with kids. Also, having been exposed to my grandfather, I learned first-hand how he was--and I positively hated him--so I knew he had an affect on her demeanor.
Upon noticing my mother was abusive, I started assessing my aunts and uncles, and was able to quickly identify and differentiate the kind non-abuser from the harsh abusers among them.
If my mother couldn't find her hair rollers, she'd beat us. If we talked too loud, she'd cuss us out and/or beat us. She would bark demands at us saying some of the most hurtful things to us, and call us the nastiest of names (yet she was always baffled as why I wasn't afraid to cuss in her or anybody else's presence when I was a little girl). If someone told her we misbehaved, she'd try to kill us. I was horrified and did not take too well to beatings, emotional and verbal abuse. So I decided I could love her out of that sort of behavior.
By the age of seven, to try and keep her from fussing, I started having dinner ready when she'd get home from work. I'd pamper her by scratching her scalp and rolling her hair every night. I'd massage her legs after dinner and wash her stockings [every night] before going to bed. I'd hustle to earn money to help her out financially by cleaning house for my aunts and other women in my life; cooking, washing, often going to the store; hustling pop and juice bottles. I had a paper route. I worked in a restaurant serving hamburgers during lunch hour when I was in grammar school. I did everything I knew how to make money to ease her struggle. Nothing worked--at first--but I never stopped believing I could [help] change her learned behavior.
My mother was especially abusive to my sister who looked just like our father. She was so abusive to her that at times when she would tie my sister to a radiator and beat her, I would jump on my mother's back, covering her eyes with my little hands in an attempt to make her stop beating my sister and turn on me--I did this often, and often did I get the hell beat out of me; but she would have to work hard to beat me because I would run out the door through the street(s). She thought I was nuts--as did my sisters.
Eventually, she stopped roping my sister to the radiator to beat her because she got tired of chasing me for miles. Every time she caught me (the athetic part of her scholarship was becasue she was a tri-athlete--a Flo-Jo" of her time), she'd snatch me around and beat me in the streets all the way back home; and I'd be telling her every step of the way how wrong she was.--I was never afraid to do so. Some times, I use to question my own sanity for blurting out what I thought was right against her. But I was bold like my great grandmother and a few of my aunts. Wrong was wrong, and whenever I encountered it, I was on it--adults, dogs, policemen, whomever, whatever, or wherever. I am hard-wired to on-the-spot challenge "wrong."
I stayed focused on loving my mother into abandoning her abusive ways. And one day, when I was 9 years old, I asked her if I could talk to her. She agreed. I asked her to tell me why she was so mean to us? I told her that I love her and I wanted to know what could I do to make her life better and feel loved? I told her that I was not like her and grandfather--I was like grandmother--and I could not understand why she treat us so badly.
She kept her back to me as she made coffee. Then she poured a cup for both of us--I was surprised--and sat down at the kitchen table with me. First she just starred at me, and I sat there patiently waiting for her to stop starring at me because I felt her staring meant something. Then she smiled. and I smiled back at her. Then she cried for what seemed like an eternity, but it was actually 5 minutes or so before she was able to speak.
"You know," she started speaking in a slow and methodical manner, allowing her fat, wide tears free-flow down her face, into her mouth, and under her chin.. "No one has ever asked me how I felt, or what I wanted, or even tell that they love me. No one."
I shouted: "Nobody! Really, Mama? Not even grandmother?"
She looked me square in the eyes and whispered: "Not one soul. You are the first person--my baby--to tell me I am loved. You are the first person to ask me what I want and what can be done for me to make me feel loved..." She crumbled face first onto the table top. She mumbled through her sobs: "My daddy didn't allow my Mama to show us or tell us she loved us." We could see it in her eyes, but she wasn't allowed to speak it so she didn't. And my brothers were so rotten to the core, they told daddy on a couple occasions that they heard Mama talking baby-talk to some of us." (Well, this was the affirmation of my hatred for her brothers.)
I jumped up, ran around the table and embraced her as hard as I could and vowed that I'd always love her and take care of her.
After I left home, I continued to financially support her. I gave her everything she needed and desired. I showered her with gifts, dinner and lunch dates. I exposed her to cultural events. I talked to her every day and visited her no less than 3 to 4 times a week. In the winter, I'd get-up extra early to take her to work, and when the temperature was sub-zero, I leave work early to pick her up from work. I'd take her grocery shopping every two weeks without fail--and buy her groceries. I bought her any furnishing and appliances she dreamed of having. I paid her rent often and her weekly transportation cost so that she could start and have a savings account--which I added to bi-monthly. I tried to give her self-esteem and make her dreams come true. She was my "road-dog," i.e., I took her everywhere I went when I wasn't working--she'd just ask me what to wear and she'd be ready when I got there.
Throughout the course of all of my efforts, I began to witness a person transformed. My mother became very extroverted, very calm and loving. She became trusting and began making friends, and going places. She was no longer an angry person, and even though she was previously like that, I never heard her a say a bad thing about anyone--not ever. She had just been abusive to us--her children. I came to realize she had become the person she truly was--true to her real nature, and I was over-joyed and proud of her.
In 1985, while out scouting about shopping, my mother grabbed me by the hand and said to me: "I really, really love you; and I appreciate and thank you for teaching me how to love, and for showing me what it feels like to be loved, respected, and forgiven."
In 1996, immediately after one of my sister's passed away, I forced her to have knee surgery--for which she took a 4-month medical leave-of-absence. One week before she was due to return to work, without her knowledge, I authored her retirement letter, forged her signature, and Fed-Ex'ed it to her job. Gracefully and intellectually, I slapped the s--- out of her supervisor and adversaries in her retirement letter and proudly announced her retirement. I had been wanting to quit her job for decades.
The Sunday night before her Monday morning return to work, shaking like a wind-whipped leaf, I showed her her retirement letter. She read it then looked up at me in disbelief. Then she went and got her glasses and read it again. When she raised her head again to look at me, she had tears in her eyes, and I knew I was in for it... She had not cussed in years--not one utterance of profanity. She asked: "You quit my m-----f----- job? I can't believe you quit my f...... job! You quit my f..... job?!
I nodded in the affirmative--I was scared to death.
She repeated: "Saishe, you quit my job? What am I going to do? I cannot afford to quit my job! Jesus! What have you done?
With God-speed I started laying out her financial future. I informed her that while she was recuperating, I applied for and had obtained her the "Widow's" Pension" for her through the Social Security Administration because she wasn't old enough for straight Social Security benefits, and she would be getting $1,191.00 monthly. My sister Lyn had left her a decent sum of money in an account with her [my mother's name] on it. And I had been investing money for her retirnement for more than 20 years. On top of that, she'd be getting a pension from her job, in addition to her Profit Sharing money--that she will rollover to a safe investment plan.
After hearing about her financial health, she starting smiling, and stated: "I'm retired! Good God! I don't have to go back to that place...!
By now, I had recovered from my out-break of raw fear and nervous twitching. I replied: "I've been wanting to quit your job for decades, and it was a pleasure to do.
My mother enjoyed her retirement fully from July, 1996 up until she fell ill in March, 2005. She went everywhere she wanted to go with her friends; bought anything she wanted when she wanted it; and played the lottery or the slot machines with wild abandon. She was so lucky at winning, she had a big, fat "gambling account" that she drew from to indulge in her favorite pass-times.
And one night as I laid in bed with her as she was dying from bone cancer, she turned her face close to mine and said: "Before I die, I want you to know something else."
I asked: "What's that?"
"You make life so much fun. We have laughed the past 30 to 40 years away. And I want you to know that with you, I know we've shared the greatest love affair of all. I just want you to know that. And if everybody else whose lives you've touched was honest, they'd tell you the same thing..."
At that moment, she confirmed that I had achieved my goal, and I relished that accomplishment, i.e., using love as a weapon against her abusive ways.
So, the moral of the story is this: I broke the cycle of abuse as I have never abused anyone in my entire life--including my children (the one I birthed from my wound and the ones that were born one from heart). I am a real example that it can be done--it's hard and very painful, but it can be done.
In addition, if you were abused or is an abuser, take time to try and understand what causes people to be abusers, and then forgive the abuser(s) and/or yourself for being an abuser--which is necessary to [finally] break the cycle of abuse. If not, the cycle of abuse will continue, as will the pain and suffering that results from it.
Stay strong.
Love, Saishe! Holla-back!
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