Author: Katie Wigington

Happy New Year 2016– Finally

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I was all ready to write this great New Year’s blog. I usually write in my head for a couple of days before I commit to paper so I was ready to dazzle everyone with my profundity. I was going to write about how not to drag all the crap of the last year into the new year. How to just take the good stuff and leave the rest. How to turn grief into sorrow and ultimately into sorrow lite. How to let go of anger and don’t even think about revenge—such a fool’s game.

I wanted to write about how important forgiveness is, and that in order to have a heart at peace you must forgive and mean it. I was ready to admit that my dislike (ok, hate) of Donald Trump and the rest of those Bozo’s in the GOP have made me somewhat bitter in the last few months but I have tried- I mean with all my heart, to keep an open mind and try to understand Freedom means different things to different people. But…
I keep reading about the Syrian refugees, the people I was saying we should help three years ago, and seeing comments that exude hatred beyond my comprehension. Really, I could not hate that much. I guess I always try to put myself in other people’s shoes. Or I try to figure out how they got the way they are. I wanted to write about that and say- stop it. Just stop being mean.  
How to make a monster? Beat a child, starve a child of love, of food, of clothing or a place to live or a place to even poop. Let them see their mother raped, and their father blown up and their siblings beaten into submission. Fill his head with shit until it explodes.  (And takes a few people with him.) The kids of the middle east have dealt with all of the above. Not just Syria, but Iraq, Afghanistan, Africa, Palestine – anywhere there is poverty, there are people there to take advantage of it. There will be more terrorist– because the root cause is not being addressed. And hey people– the root cause is not Islam.
So for anyone that does not understand that—let me assure you – we have been making monsters in the Middle East and a few here too. There is a reason why ISIL targets poor blacks looking for recruits. Who in this country is more susceptible than poor people, with not enough food, living in overcrowded project housing, with rats for household pets. If I were looking for recruits that were already angry—I’d look in the segregated (yeah it really is segregated) parts of the country where education is almost nonexistent, where drugs are more available than food, where families have been torn apart by guns and drugs and poverty.
And then mental illness. What some call evil. Back in the old days – the 1960s for my mom, mental illness was treated with shock therapy that fried your brain and left you vegetable. Oops, sorry about that, you’re not crazy or evil after all, it’s just menopause.
All these mentally ill people that shot up movie theaters and shopping centers and schools—all sick. And sure it’s hard to have compassion for the people that cause so much death and destruction, but do people hear themselves? The comments online are actually crazier than the person that caused them.
“We” didn’t make them you say? Well you’re wrong. We most certainly did. We made them here and we made them in the Middle East too. Because we chose to spend trillions on wars instead of helping people. We chose oil. We decided to take a generation of troops and ruin many of their lives for oil, for greed and our complete inability to understand Islamic countries.  
We chose to not spend money researching mental illness and preventing it. We chose to see mental illness as an evil apparition instead of a brain malfunction or undetected injury. We chose to see it as something we should pray about because that works. Ridiculous.
We choose to elect officials who are led by their pocket books and only think what people with money (the NRA, Koch Brothers) tell them to think.
For Example: Totally misinterpreting the 2ndAmendment, and blowing by the word MILITIA and what that is exactly.
noun: militia; plural noun: militias

 

1.       a military force that is raised from the civil population to supplement a regular army in an emergency.

 

2.       a military force that engages in rebel or terrorist activities, typically in opposition to a regular army.

 

3.       all able-bodied civilians eligible by law for military service.

 

So take a look at these graphs I stole from CNN. Interesting right? – no wait. The word is embarrassing.

 

 

And then there is Trump who, if elected, would have us all nuked in about 20 minutes. His friend Putin might do the job, or maybe China, or Pakistan or our little, very mentally ill buddy in North Korea.
I wanted to write about all that. Maybe offer a few answers, or quote Mother Teresa or Walt Disney. “It’s a Small World After All.”  
But let me take a deep breath here.
Because yesterday I got a text from my grandson’s mom that he was in the hospital. He’s got a virus, he’ll be fine. But it was a big smack in the head for me. It immediately changed my perspective from the now—to the future. I really want to leave this world better for him. I don’t think I can blog my way there. I don’t know how to leave him a world without war or gunslingers or torture or famine or air to breathe. I want him to be able to grow up in a world that accepts single moms without condemnation,  that excepts gay and trans people. I don’t want him to be afraid of people that don’t look like him. I want him to have the best health care, the best schools and have it all without being told it’s a burden on his family or his country. I want him to not know the kind of fear that terrorism provokes.
I can write about it and I can vote. But there should be more.
I guess I’ll figure it out. Whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing, I always do.
Happy PEACEFUL New Year

My Manic 2015

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It was a hard year and my best year too. A manic year really. My highest high and my lowest low came simultaneously. As one life was entering –another was slipping away, and I did a balancing act that would rival Philippe Petit, while helping others not fall off their rope. Take my hand. Take my hand. Take my hand.  

I felt completely alone, battling demons that were taking away the love of my life—the air in my lungs. And suddenly 30 or so of my best friends and family surrounded me, lifted me up and supported me through the following months, so I could help the people that needed me.
Then my light arrived. My little love arrived with healing powers, the likes of which are for fairytales only—not real life. Certainly not my life.

He arrived in the spring, bringing hope, like all new things in spring. A ray of light, a purpose, a cause to keep not just me moving forward but others too. More than a few of us needed him. I cried tears of joy and then set out to do the impossible—and did it with the help of my friends.
It’s always like this—every year, losses and gains. People pass away, babies are born. It’s the way of the world. But this year was different. It was a massive rescue mission, headed by old friends—some of whom are Marine Moms, others who have known me 40+ years and others who have known me fewer years, but immediately understood the urgency—the life or death of everything.
The best was going to Europe to meet my grandson thanks to my friends—and then having he and his mom stay with me for almost 3 months. No- wait. The best was my son coming back from the edge. Or maybe it was all of us together for the best Thanksgiving ever. Or maybe it was realizing what amazing friends and family I have. It’s hard to say what part of wonderful is the most wonderful.
I can say this, I am grateful.
Because I am so grateful, I plan on spending 2016 raising awareness for what I have deemed the crime of the century. PTS. Post-Traumatic Stress—specifically combat related.  And Veteran Suicide as a direct result of PTS and other injuries. If you follow me on Facebook you’ll see many posts from me regarding missing veterans, at risk veterans, homeless veterans, and their families and caretakers who suffer secondary PTS due to living in crisis mode 24/7.

I learned first hand in this last year that emotional support for families of veterans is crucial. I want all the families to be able to ask for help if they need it. Doing this alone should not even be an option.
Veteran issues are not and should never be viewed as political. We have an all-volunteer military from all walks of life, who have risked life and limb and a variety of illnesses, so we—civilians, didn’t have to go to war. We owe them. So, no matter what side of the political fence you are on—I hope you have an interest in helping me help them. If you can help spread needed information, and resources for vets and families—I will be forever grateful to you.
May the New Year bring us peace around the world. A lofty wish, I know. But if enough people really want that- it will happen. I learned this year—you can change the tide; you just need the right people to help you.
Below are some helpful links if you are in need of help. 

www.facebook.com/TrevorGouldMemorial
www.heartstowardhome.com
www.veteranscrisisline.net

I Forgive You

/ Katie Wigington / 1 Comment


He sat in my kitchen, in a chair with one leg pulled up to his chest, and his chin on his knee, watching me cook. I was cooking and talking to the dog, and bantering back and forth with our 12-year-old son, when I said something that made him laugh. And because I like it when people think I’m funny, I stopped and smiled at him—you know the smile? The one that says, see, I’ve still got it. He was smiling back. 

“What?” I asked. 

“I don’t hate you anymore. He said.

“Ha! I don’t hate you anymore either.” 

It was mostly true for both of us. 

The 12-year cold war. Over just like that. Except for a few skirmishes.   

As the years went by, I imagined, as we got older, and his parents did too, I would help him take care of them. I imagined that someday we would be roommates, with separate rooms, with him beating me at Scrabble, and us arguing over politics or something equally arguable. I imagined we would be grandparents together, both vying for top spot on the grandparent roll call. 

On December 31st. 2010, I called him to say Happy New Year. And I meant it with all my heart. He said Happy New Year back to me—and I could tell he meant it too. Six days later my son called me telling me his dad had just died. 2011 was not a happy year at all.  I cried for days. I cry still. That grandchild I imagined is here now but he won’t get to know him. So many moments lost. 

That day in my kitchen was the closest either one of us ever got to an apology.  Neither of us ever said I forgive you—but I’m sure we both meant that. I meant that. I guess I can’t put words in his mouth now. 

My life changed that day. A big dark cloud disappeared but I didn’t notice it until later. I can say now… that when all that hurt and anger left, I started breathing. My brain started working better and my life started falling into place. 

If I have learned nothing else in my life, I’ve learned to forgive. Even when we don’t want to. Even when we think that is that last thing we will ever do– it’s what we should do to free ourselves from the hate that devours our heart and spirit. It’s a gift to yourself to forgive—and maybe a gift to the other person too, but that’s okay, because you just never know.

Burnt Toast

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How many times have you burned toast in your life?  Me… I have burned loaves.
I remember when I was little, and if you knew me, you’ll remember too, I was the kind of kid that would throw a fit over burned toast. A real fit, an end of the world fit, the kind where you have to restrain the child because they are flailing and may well hurt themselves kind of fit. Yep, that was me. 
Somehow, my mother survived that. “No problem” she might have said, as she scraped that toast with a knife, and the darkest crumbs fell into sink or the garbage. But you could not ever convince me that toast was not ruined. It was ruined, and I would never eat it no matter what. 
Then my mom would say, “Okay, I’ll make you new toast.” And proceed to give me my old toast after pretending to make new toast—and voila, I was happy. At least for the moment. I didn’t realize then of course, and maybe not until this morning, that much of my life has been burnt toast.  I have scraped the burn off of many a’slice. 
I’ve scraped it off my broken heart, my fragile ego, and my frail and dusty brain. Sometimes, I had to throw a fit first. Sometimes, I just wanted to throw myself away and give up … piece of shit toast. I’m toast. I’m not worth saving. But then… I would scrape myself off. 
Burned toast is temporary. It’s fixable. No, not without some scars… there will be spots visible to the naked eye. Everyone will see them, but they’ll think – wow… good for you toast—you saved yourself and you look pretty damn good. And toast will look in the mirror and say… “yep.” 
I’ve had the opportunity, recently, to review my life a bit. I usually try not to dwell on the past, I have made so many mistakes that thinking about the past undoubtedly brings up some remorse, some regrets, and often some embarrassment. But when I look at is as a whole… my mistakes made me who I am. My successes did not. My burnt toast made me a better cook. My burnt toast taught me how to fix things that are broken and still use them. They are still good. They are not broken. I am not broken. YOU are not broken. 
We are just burnt toast.

POST TRAUMATIC STRESS AWARENESS

/ Katie Wigington / 1 Comment
JUNE IS NATIONAL PTSD AWARENESS MONTH
Every year I focus on Combat PTSD because that is what I have studied the most.  I usually write something about it. I usually explain what it is. Everyone should know these two things by now. If you don’t know—look it up. Google it, google it with my name you’ll find several articles and one radio piece.
So this year I am including a different angle of PTSD. This year I’m writing about how these soldiers, sailors, Marines & airmen who were once hailed as heroes by the general public, are often treated with disdain when they suffer from PTSD. I say suffer… I mean suffer. They suffer, their families suffer, their friends suffer, but most of the people who reaped the benefits of their service and sacrifice, they don’t suffer at all. Some of them don’t even have the decency to vote. The whole freedom thing– shat upon.
TO FULLY UNDERSTAND…
PTSD you have to live it. Not necessarily have it—but live it. If you have a loved one who has PTSD (also called PTS) then you know about the anxiety attacks, the anger issues, the nightmares, the confusion, the depression, the total lack of giving a shit, and the inability for some to function without caretakers. The drinking and drugs are mostly by-products, but surely part of the problem. And, sadly- the saddest of all, is that sometimes they give up and commit suicide. 22 Veterans commit suicide a day. 22 A DAY.
Trips to the VA are too confusing for some. Go to this office for this paper and that office for that paper and go see this guy in that building or this lady in this building and then when you’re through come back to this building but don’t see me see Dr. So & So … and so on and so forth. If you are not suicidal before going there – you may well be afterward. People, us civilians, do not know that.
People ask why did you join the service in the first place?  There are as many answers for that as there are people in the service. After 9-11, a lot of them joined.  Even though most of them grew up with Vietnam War Vets in their family, and Korean Conflict vets too, they heard stories, they knew Uncle Joe was never the same after Vietnam. They knew the story of Aunt Peggy who was a nurse in Vietnam then came home and drank herself to death.  But, they joined.  Some of them joined for noble reasons, some were running away from what they were in, some were thinking of their future, some wanted the free education, most of them—did not think they would die. Most of them did not think they would lose arms and legs and eyes, and hearing and skin, and I bet none of them thought they would lose their minds.
I have studied PTSD now for about 9 years. Before it walked through my door, it walked through the doors of people I knew. When I heard them talk about their loved ones, sometimes it was with anger or confusion and sometimes it was with an abundance of empathy and love. Sometimes – all of the above. That made me realize that I needed to fully understand the complexities before I wrote about it or met it head-on.
PTS has become pervasive among our troops. We managed to turn a blind eye to the Vietnam veterans that came home with it. We called them drug addicts (and baby killers)  and threw them away. But things are different now. Some people know better, and those people spend every waking hour doing something about it by educating everyone they meet—PTS is not a made up condition. It’s not a weakness. It’s a wound. It’s a scar. It’s a war within.
STOP BLAMING THE WARRIORS…
They were mostly 18 years old when they joined. They had no idea what death and destruction would do to them. (And most of their parents had no idea either.)  Even those that thought they might know— thought they were smarter than everyone else—they didn’t know either. So instead of blaming the warriors or even the wars that have already taken place, start finding ways to make peace in the world. Start finding common dominators instead of differences. Stop using religion to hate. Stop voting for war. And sure—the bad guys are the bad guys, and they have to be dealt with—but don’t sign up our troops until all other avenues are exhausted. Don’t be a knee jerk. Don’t hate just because. Try to figure out why.
Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI), and PTS are the signature wounds of the Middle East wars. Studies show that 14-20 % of Veterans from Iraq (OIF) and Afghanistan (OEF) have PTSD.  50% of those with PTSD do not seek treatment. Out of the half that seeks treatment, only half of them get “minimally adequate” treatment (RAND study) 19% of veterans may have a traumatic brain injury (TBI) Over 260,000 veterans from OIF and OEF so far have been diagnosed with TBI. Traumatic brain injury is much more common in the general population than  previously thought: according to the CDC, over 1,700,000 Americans have a traumatic brain injury each year; in Canada 20% of teens had TBI resulting in hospital admission or that involved over 5 minutes of unconsciousness (VA surgeon reporting in BBC News) 7% of veterans have both post-traumatic stress disorder and traumatic brain injury. The rates of post-traumatic stress are greater for these wars than prior conflicts.
HOW CAN WE HELP?
I’m glad you asked. First- have compassion. Don’t assume someone is a bum or a drug addict or a loser because their life isn’t going the way you think it should. Families and loved ones need to educate themselves as much as possible. And if needed, get your own counseling to help you navigate the difficult days.
Clearly, it’s best to let the professionals deal with such a delicate issue. But it’s good to understand some of the triggers and help the Vet avoid them if you have the opportunity.  Check the link for more information.
You can donate to organizations that help veterans with PTS and /or TBI. (see below)
You can volunteer to help navigate the VA process (there is training available)
Just Listen – don’t ask any questions if you are not a combat veteran. Empathy does not extend to knowledge.
A safe way to check in without being intrusive is to ask on a scale of 1-10 how are you doing?  You’ll be surprised how many of them will tell you the truth.
If you know a vet that you suspect has PTSD, carry the VA Hotline number and offer it to him/her.

 

FOR MORE INFORMATION
National Center For PTSD
Donate to:  (vetted)
Hearts Toward Home International
The Pathway Home
Wounded Warriors

A Lesson Revisited

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In 1978, in Sausalito, a party of four, two men and two women, walked into the bar I was waitressing in. I can tell you what I was wearing. It was a tweedy wool designer dress with short sleeves but I had a turtle neck underneath, and high black boots. It wasn’t waiteressy as dress goes but it was winter and I was cold. I had short hair and wore minimal make up, just like now. When I wasn’t waiting on people I sat on the fireplace hearth and kept my back warm. It was a slow night- a Monday I think. There were a few regulars sitting at the bar but all was quiet and serene. Billie Holiday or Nina Simone records probably played in the background, but not loud. We were a drinking man’s bar. No loud dice, no fights. The craziest we ever got was when the ferry landed on a Sunday afternoon or a busy Friday night when the whole town seemed to be out and thirsty. But this was Monday night.

They were raucous and wound up, but I took the order and delivered their drinks quickly—like I said we weren’t busy.

I can still tell you what they ordered. Two Mexicans, a Venetian and Irish coffees and a Calistoga. I don’t remember any conversation, but based on conversations later they told me to smile. I always resent being told to smile. You will get good, no great service from me, but I don’t smile for dollars. I serve drinks or do what I do but smiles are from my heart. Well – then anyway. Later when I got my teeth capped, I smiled more, but still, not for dollars.

As they got louder and more obnoxious, I decided they had had enough to drink. I was lucky to work in a place where I could make that call. My boss was way ahead of his time. So when they ordered another round I said whatever we used to say. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight.” Or, something along those lines. And I walked away. When you walk away that allows people to leave nicely.

But that wasn’t what happened. Instead, one of the women walked out with a drink, (a huge no, no in Sausalito back then) and when I went out after the glass, she turned around and broke it across my face cutting my cheek. So I slugged her. Then suddenly, I was in a choke -hold and her boyfriend was trying to put my head through a window while choking me at the same time. A double paned, beveled glass window. My last thought before a few people came to my rescue was of Mary Queen of Scotland, being decapitated.  My boss was a Scot- maybe that was why I thought of her.

It took three big guys to pull that man off of me.

The police were called, pictures were taken, reports were taken, my boss rushed to the bar from his home and word spread to every bar in town within minutes. That guy wasn’t going to be drinking in Sausalito for a while. My boss made sure of that. And Sally Stanford, our Sausalito Mayor, came to see me the next night after hearing what happened. She assured me word was on the street.

The incident changed my life. I ended up suing him and settling out of court because my brother was dying and I couldn’t deal with the stress. The concussion and the incident itself left me a mess and my boss, coworkers, roommate and boyfriend all tried to help me but I was emotionally unstable for a long time afterwards. I didn’t realize until much, much later that my stress was a direct result of that horrible incident.

During the deposition, the man told my attorney that they didn’t like my demeanor. “Excuse me?” My attorney said, not quite believing his ears. “We just didn’t think she was friendly enough.” They said. I watched my attorney’s face tighten up and the vein in his forehead throb. I could see he wouldn’t have minded taking a crack at this guy.

For years, I shook if customers were nasty to me. My bartenders took care of me- no one would hurt me on their watch again. Later, I got out of the business and stopped drinking. I took a silent vow that I would not put up with abuse. Not from customers, not from boyfriends, not from bosses not from anyone.

This last month I spent working on a real estate transaction with people who abusively bullied me and were nasty to the point that I had to get my broker involved. Then they tried to bully him. After a month, I was physically ill, I developed ulcers, the stress in my back was extremely painful and then finally at the 11th hour they canceled the contract about two minutes before I was going to call my broker and ask him to remove me from the transaction. My broker – God bless him, said I could fire them too if I wanted, it was my call.  

My integrity is intact. I can’t be bought. I’m not a slave and I refuse to be a victim. My health slipped – but I was vulnerable due to other issues in my life. I forgot, for just a second about my beautiful nieces and great- nieces, who I want to show that they can get through life without being a doormat. Without being abused. I forgot about my son who has always been proud of me for sticking up for myself. I forgot my promise to myself way back when.  I won’t be bought. I won’t be abused.

So here I am – feeling 100 pounds lighter. Ready to start a new week tomorrow.  I feel smarter and stronger and healthier than I did Friday morning.

Every single time someone allows abuse, it sends the message that abuse is okay. It’s not okay. Identify it—and crush it. Let’s get rid of these horrible people.  

 

 

 

The Joy of Parenting

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The mistakes are endless. If you think you haven’t made any, or that none were made while raising you, you are wrong.

I was older when I had Nick, in my 30s. Still, I made a ton of mistakes. We all do. And of course everyone jumps right in with their corrections.

 “How could you let him roll off the bed?”

“Um, I didn’t let him… it just happened. It was without my permission.”

I knew about babies. I had babysat most of my life and people used to call me a natural mom when my little sister was born and I hovered over her every little move. Once when my mom yelled at her for something like spilling milk, I looked at my mom sternly and said, “She’s just a baby.”  That was a bold move to make with my mother, but she retreated.

When Nick was a few days old I asked the hospital nurse to bring me a bath for him, and she said, “Yes, we will have someone show you how to bathe him.”

I said, “No that’s okay, I know how to bathe him, I don’t need a lesson.” They stood there and watched me anyway. Then ooh’d and aah’d when I didn’t drop or drown him.

I made big mistakes though. I fought with his dad in front of him. I drank and had hangovers and was cranky for no discernible reason. I smoked around him—a lot. When his grandparents treated him like the Prince of Japan, I over corrected and always knocked him down a peg. “No you are not the smartest kid in the world. You’re just very smart.”

When he mowed the lawn, instead of thanking him I would say, “You missed a spot.”  It was thoughtless really. I wasn’t always thinking about self-esteem or self love–or loathing. I just wanted the lawn mowed or the bed made.

“Take your stinky shoes off outside please.”

Ding

Please don’t bleed on the carpet, I’ll bring you a Band-Aid outside.

Ding

“I’m too tired to play Nick.”

Ding Ding

I quit drinking and smoking by the time he was 4 and 5 respectively.  It helped some, but not for everything. I was less cranky, but still tired. A single mom is always tired, I guess. There are no breaks. There is no, “Go ask daddy to read you a book.”

Once when we were driving down the street I saw a woman in the car with four kids, none of whom were in car seats or seatbelt, and all of whom were hanging out windows. At the stoplight I rolled down my window and yelled at her. “Put those kids in car seats or I’m calling the police!”

“Sorry, if I embarrassed you, Nick.”

“No problem. Actually mom, I’m proud of you.”

That was the first time I thought, maybe I’m doing this right.

When he was about 3 years old his dad and I took him to a fair and we got him a churro. He had to go potty so I told him I would hold it for him while daddy took him.

“Promise me you won’t eat my churro mom.” He knew me well.

“I promise.”

Then I ate it.

Ding Ding Ding

We bought him a new one of course. But, he still tells that story, almost 27 years later. Ooops.

As the years went by, I made a million more mistakes and did a few things right.

Last night when he was here for Christmas dinner he told me, he just told his friend a story of when one time when he was about 8 years old we were at the bank and found some money at the ATM machine.  He told his friend, “It must have been so hard for my mom who was dead broke back then to walk me inside the bank and have me give it to the lady that worked there.”

Jackpot

Parenting is moment by moment. You can have a grand plan but chances are each kid will be different and each response will fit the moment. The day I walked him into the bank I was broker than broke.  I’m sure I thought, if just for a second, about the pair of shoes I needed, or the coat he needed, or maybe some groceries. The fact that he not only remembers the day, but also recounted it to a friend means it was a parenting moment success. A rare pearl.

Recently, my son informed me he is going to be a dad. I know he will be a good dad and he will also make some mistakes, like I said, we all do. But, I have faith that he has a few pearls of wisdom he can share with his son (or daughter) to make up for the days when he’s tired or cranky or just says something stupid.
 
I know he remembers the time when he was 8 years old and I woke him up at midnight to go to Madrone Canyon and watch the meteor shower. Or when he was about 11 and I took him to San Francisco’s Ocean Beach to watch the waves crash over the wall and the cliffs. Or the time we found a place called Skylonda and laughed so hard saying “I live in Skylonda man” like a stoned out hippie. Little pearls. I can’t wait for him to have this joy.

I hope my skills as a grandparent are better than I was as a parent. Perhaps I’ll be the one to make him feel like he’s the Prince of Japan, and his mom will get him home and say, “We don’t have princes in this country but you’re the Prince of your Room.”  

 

It’s Good to Hear a Thank You

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As a writer, I try to bring as much attention to myself as possible. Writers want to be read. Which is not quite the same as agreed with though I like that too. When I get a thumbs up, or a thatta girl, or more rarely someone that tells me they love what I wrote, I am always pleased. I always say I write for myself, and I do because I have to write—it’s what I do. It’s how I communicate, and it’s how I release the pent up everything that I walk around with every day. Believe me, you would rather have me write than the crazy lady alternative, but people liking what I write- really makes me feel good.

But, on a work level, at my job, I try to fly under the radar. I try to not make mistakes.  I’m fairly sequestered after the first two years of trying to do my job and support an office full of agents too. The bosses put me in an office on the 3rd floor in the Novato office, that I share with a couple of other women (agents) who get me, and understand my job requires concentration most of the time.

My job, is the Marketing Coordinator for Bradley Real Estate. We have about 450 agents and 13 offices in Marin, Sonoma and Napa. When I started, we had 9 offices and 250 agents. It’s a hands-on, detail-oriented job, which does not really come natural for me. Anyone that has ever worked with me knows I am a big picture thinker and usually leave the details to people who are better suited to that work. The Bradley’s gave me a job when there were no jobs though, so I was determined to not just do the job but also find better ways to do it.

On heavy advertising weeks I can build up to 12-13 pages of ads (in 3 days), which could be up to 125 ads.   In addition to building the ads for four newspapers, I write copy, I proofread, I correct images—or reject them if needed. Occasionally I talk to agents about different aspects of their marketing. I also read every MLS listing and correct any issues they may have that could get the agent fined, or Bradley Real Estate hauled into court. (As well as spelling and grammar errors.)
What I like best about my job is that my bosses let me do it. They give me guidance when I need it of course. They trust me to make good decisions and they trust me to be there. Because they have this trust in me, I try to not let them down. In almost 5 years, I have called in sick twice, both times for no more than two days. Once when my shoulder froze and another time when I had a terrible virus. I’ve left early a few times, but only if all my work is done.
Anyway, last night at the Bradley Holiday Party—a swanky affair at the Marin Country Club, I was awarded Employee of the Year. I have to say that I was surprised because I really try to fly under the radar. They brought me up on a stage with glaring lights in my face to announce this news and all I could think was – boy they sure keep a good secret. So I pretend slugged my boss, Jason, in the arm.
It really is nice to be thanked for working hard. It’s nice to be noticed since many of those 450 agents never see me and don’t know who I am when they are looking right at me. I try not to make a big noise, so I am generally forgettable from holiday party to holiday party I find myself saying, “Oh no, we’ve met a few times.”
If anyone out there is an employer, you should take a lesson from mine. Let people do their jobs, and say an occasional thank you in one form or another. A good employer lets people build on their strengths and lets them innovate to keep up with the growth.
Rob, Melissa & Jason

So, I want to thank my employers, Rob and Melissa Bradley and Jason Lytz for letting me be me, with my less than round edges, and my forthrightness, and my guard-dog personality. I appreciate them too.



Black Lives Matter

/ Katie Wigington / Leave a comment
My credentials:
  • Daughter of a police officer, great-grand-daughter of a police officer.
  • Have dated or been friends with many police officers.
  • Mother of mixed race (adult) child former member of USMC who served in Iraq.
  • Aunt of mixed race children.
  • Caucasian
  • Champion of freedom and human rights in all countries.
  • Witness to passive and overt racism, oppression, segregation and bigotry every single day.
  • Human Being
HUGE DISCLAIMER: I do not hate the police- in addition to family members, I have had several friends in law enforcement. But I don’t put anyone on a pedestal. I have known plenty of bad police. Plenty of police that thought nothing of beating the crap out of someone with a Billy Club, or molesting hookers because they were hookers. So I’m not in denial about the black community and crime and I’m not in denial about the white racist police.
 
I bet a few of you have been waiting for me to weigh in on this subject. I needed to wait until I had more information and until I could no longer stand what I was reading in the news and on social networks. Until I could write without anger.
 
 
Upfront: Looting is NOT protesting. Protesting is legal and an American right. Looting is illegal and stupid… mass hysteria never helps anything.
 
I know people (I’m sorry to say) that say “black” like I say “child molester”. To them being black is a disease, an inferior disease that thank God they weren’t born with. God… thank GOD because we all know he didn’t intend to make anyone black.  Having a black president has unfortunately widened the divide and increased the hate 10 fold. No one ever says, the President is half white. Never.  People seem to embrace their racism, and own it—“I hate blacks” they say. They call black people stupid and lazy, monkeys and apes, and of course they are all on welfare– and don’t they know about birth control? They should all be spayed, like cats and dogs. I mean seriously, if you are dirt fucking poor why would you keep having kids? They keep playing the race card, when will they get over the whole slavery thing?  We haven’t had slaves for over 200 years.  (That would be incorrect.)  Or, I’m not racist but if they act like animals…
 
So, I decided to tackle some of these statements. And, I know- going in, I will not change one stupid racist mind. But, this is for my son, my grandchildren, my nieces and nephews and anyone who would like to support the fact that we all bleed red and the color of our skin should not matter. And if we don’t wake up—and start treating people right, we are no better than any other country who subjects their citizens to various forms of tyranny. We might as well be the Middle East.
 
I read an article called How Often are Unarmed Black Men Gunned Down by Police? in the Daily Kos that was mind boggling. I’ll recap a bit here for you—but you should read the whole thing.
 
One source, in a report called “Operation Ghetto Storm” says that in 2012 that of the 739 “Justified” shootings shown above from 2012, 313 of them were Black.  44% of them or 136, were unarmed. 27% of them (83) were claimed by Law Enforcement to have gun at the time of the shooting, but that could not be later confirmed or the “gun” was in fact, a toy or other non-lethal object. 20% of them (62) were confirmed to have been armed with a gun, knife or cutting tool.
 
This report, which was gathered by searching media reports, obituaries and even facebook pages of deceased persons includes the following table as an example.

 

The report goes into much further detail- but here is where I want to interject my own thoughts.
I have a feeling that Officer Wilson was afraid of black people when he shot Michael Brown. I say that because of statements he made during his Grand Jury testimony—and well, his actions on that fateful day. But also because I see it in everyday life. I walk a lot. And I noticed that when white people see a group of black teens or Hispanic teens walking, they cross the street. But not if it’s a group of white teens. Personally, I think all teens have obnoxious potential, but when I stay on the same side of the street, this is what I hear almost all of the time. “Cute dog. Can I pet your dog?” Scary right? Big bad black teens. Or they say nothing. They keep their heads down and have no eye contact, because that’s what they have been taught. Don’t even look at white people… it makes them mad.  Now if you think I’m exaggerating let me tell you that many years ago I heard someone say when talking about black men, “You should see how they look at my daughter.” The truth is- everyone looked at her daughter that way because she was a looker, and she turned heads. That is a whole different problem—for another day. The difference though, when a police officer a “peace officer,” is afraid, the dynamic changes. Scared policemen are one of two things, they are either bullies, or nervous Nellies. Neither one is going to make them better at their job.
 
 
I’ve written before that I don’t think it’s always about race. And while I still think that is true I understand a little more now than I did at the time I wrote that and now I see how racism has permeated just about every walk of life. So it’s no wonder things come to a boiling point—and spill over from time to time. How could it not? Even if it doesn’t appear to be about race- I can see where it would almost always feel like it is.
 
I keep seeing this stupid meme floating around the internet about how white people didn’t protest when OJ Simpson got off. But the truth is there were marches, non-violent protests and certainly grand disappointment through-out Nicole Browns and Ron Goodman’s communities. The case was divided racially, and sadly, it’s because of that, that I believe justice was not served. How these racial divides started is history. Our American history that we often sweep under the carpet and try to sugar coat. I’m particularly appalled by the following things I’ve heard people say. “Not all slaves were treated poorly. Or  “Slavery ended 129 years ago, get over it.”  People have this “Gone with the Wind” view of slavery and the white folks loving their slaves (though whipping them if needed) and said slaves loving their white folk. Fictional half-wits, feet shuffling, numb-skulled, down right stupid black people. How would we feel if almost every portrayal of white people was like that? For 100 years – for 200 years? Mark Twain (Samuel Clemmons) wrote Huckleberry Finn and created a black character with honor and wisdom and heart. While the era he was writing about used words which we no longer find acceptable, his intent was not to demean when he used those terms. His intent was to enlighten his generation of bigots. He took some heat for that.
 
 
Bigotry isn’t just about black people. I see the same issues happening with Hispanic immigrants, and indeed, some Hispanics who were born here—since unless you ask for a birth certificate, like they did with President Obama, you really have no idea where someone is born. Interesting enough, this never happens with white immigrants. There are 1000s of Russian and Irish immigrants (some illegal) in San Francisco; I’ve never heard a soul complain or request a birth certificate.
 
In the historical, semi-guide book “The Cool Gray City of Love” Gary Kamiya speaks of the hatred towards the Chinese “in 1877 when more than 500 [white] men stormed San Francisco’s Chinatown from two directions and were beaten back by two phalanxes of policeman, one on Pine and one on Broadway.”
 
Five years after that episode the first significant immigration law, the Chinese Exclusion Act was enacted severely limiting Chinese Immigration.  An expression used at the time went like this: “We hate the Negroes because they are citizens and we hate the Chinese because they won’t be.” (Early Chinese settlers had no desire to be American Citizens.)  
 
Earlier this year, over 200 white protesters stopped busses full of Illegal immigrants (mostly children) who were being transported for processing to be deported. These unaccompanied illegal immigrants, predominantly from Central American countries, such as Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala were fleeing their country for one reason—they didn’t want to die. While the protests were non-violent, the anger was evident to me. The protesters didn’t even want the deportation process to be in their city because they were positive they would be over-run by illegal children.
 
People have been using the term “White Privilege” and many whites go into defensive mode when they hear that but its origins are legitimate. Common replies to that “accusation” are “I have worked hard all my life.” “I have never asked for a handout” – the point is being missed.  White privilege is not about how hard anyone works. White privilege is about the fact that white skin is valued more than black skin. White schools are better, white kids have more opportunities; fewer whites are arrested for the same crimes as blacks. And it goes farther than that—but that is a different article too. 
 
When I lived in North Carolina it took me a while to realize why there was a private school on every corner (across from the church on every opposite corner). That was how the South initially (and in my opinion, still) got around desegregation. I worked with a black woman who had a college degree and was married to a banker, lived in a good neighborhood and wanted her kids to go to the predominantly white school because that’s where the better teachers worked, and that was where the  most money was spent on education. This was a big topic of conversation on talk radio when I lived in North Carolina. A very heated topic because whites did not want blacks in their schools.
 
A week after Michael Brown was shot to death my son posted this on his facebook page. It made me proud.

 
Racism is a plague. It’s so deeply rooted that many of us don’t even know we are being racist. I said black person to someone once, and there was a black person within ear-shot and the person I was talking to shushed me. So let me be clear. You can say black to a black person. It will be another at least 100 years before we are color blind. If you can’t start talking to black people and Hispanic people and Asian people, things will never change.
 
 
This is not about Ferguson, this is not about Michael Brown. This is about disproportionate statistics and reality regarding crime and people of color.
 
From a ProPublica articleby by Ryan Gabrielson, Ryann Grochowski Jonesand Eric Sagara : The 1,217 deadly police shootings from 2010 to 2012 captured in the federal data show that blacks, age 15 to 19, were killed at a rate of 31.17 per million, while just 1.47 per million white males in that age range died at the hands of police.
 
And finally- today’s news from the New York Grand Jury to not prosecute a white policeman, who put an illegal chokehold on a black man for illegally selling cigarettes. It’s starting to look like it’s okay to kill people for stealing cigars or selling contraband, it’s starting to look like it’s okay to kill a kid in a hoodie that looks scary. Even resisting arrest—should not be an excuse to shoot someone when there are several other options to knock him or her on their ass.  It’s starting to look like white Americans would rather shoot someone than use the legal system to punish them for their crimes.
 
 
When my son was here last week he taught me how to say hi in Chinese. I was so excited I couldn’t wait to try it. I couldn’t believe I never knew, growing up in San Francisco. He picked up Arabic when he was in Iraq, and speaks it fairly well. Whenever he hears people speaking Arabic and it’s not a private conversation, he always says hello and a few pleasantries. Nice right? Bridging the gap—making friends. He has friends from all walks of life, and I’m so glad that both his dad and I were able to surround him with many different cultures and let him learn—we all bleed red.
 
I am calling out racists. I’ve been doing it for a few years. It’s not right to judge people by the color of their skin – whether you are morally guided by a religion or intellectually guided you should know for a fact that racism in any fashion is wrong.
 
 
Do you think you are a racist?
 
 

Veterans Day 2014 ~ Let’s Do Something

/ Katie Wigington / Leave a comment
AMERICAN VETERANS

I’m posting this a little early this year. My niece asked me yesterday to help her with an essay about why we appreciate our veterans.  I started out by renaming it “Why We Should Appreciate our Veterans.” And I explained to her that not everyone does appreciate them. I wasn’t going to write about Veteran’s Day this year at all, because I feel like I’m beating a dead horse and most of the people that read my blog agree with me anyway.  But then I happened across an article in the Washington Times that made me realize I can’t speak up enough when it comes to our veterans.

The article I’m referring to was about Marin County’s radical, conservative talk show personality Michael Savage.  Savage was quoted as saying:

“I am so sick and tired of everyone with their complaints about PTSD, depression. Everyone wants their handheld, and a check — a government check. What are you, the only generation that had PTSD? The only generation that’s depressed? I’m sick of it. I can’t take the celebration of weakness and depression.

See, I was raised a little differently. I was raised to fight weakness. I was raised to fight pain. I was raised to fight depression. Not to give into it. Not to cave into it and cry like a little baby in bed. “Boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo.” Everyone has depression in their life. Everyone has sickness and sadness and disease. And loss of relatives. And loss of career. Everyone has depression in their life. But if the whole nation is told, “boo-hoo-hoo, come and get a medication, come and get treatment, talk about mental illness.” You know what you wind up with? You wind up with Obama in the White House and liars in every phase of the government. That’s what you wind up with. It’s a weak, sick, nation. A weak, sick, broken nation. And you need men like me to save the country. You need men to stand up and say stop crying like a baby over everything. Stand up already. Stop telling me how sick you are and sad you are. Talk about the good things in your life.

When have you last heard that? Oh, everyone’s holding their hand. “Oh, welcome to Good Morning America, sir. You almost committed suicide, how interesting. Please tell us your story.” Maybe a young child who’s on the edge can commit suicide. What a country. No wonder we’re being laughed at around the world. No wonder ISIS can defeat our military. Take a look at that. Take a look at that, why people aren’t even getting married anymore to have children. They don’t even have the guts to raise a child. The men are so weak, and so narcissistic, all they want to do is have fun. Bunch of losers. Just go have a brewski and look at the 49ers, you idiot, you. They won’t even get married, won’t have a child, it takes too much of a man to do that. What a country. You’re not a man, you’re a dog. A dog raises babies better than most American men do.”

I was so disgusted by his remarks I had to walk away from my computer for the evening. Granted—he is mentally ill. Granted—he is a hate monger, a bigot and an all-around creep, who has never served a day of his life in the military. Who has never seen combat and who has lived a very cushy life with his two Marin County homes, one San Francisco home, private security and oh, yeah, lots of money. He’s such a despicable human being that I am embarrassed he lives in Marin or even the Bay Area—but he does.
Savage often makes ridiculous claims, such as:  “99% of autism cases, it’s a brat who hasn’t been told to cut the act out.”  
In 2009 Savage was banned from the UK on May 5, 2009, then-Home Secretary Jacqui Smith announced that Savage was on a list of individuals banned from entering the United Kingdom as he is “considered to be engaging in unacceptable behavior by seeking to provoke others to serious criminal acts and fostering hatred which might lead to inter-community violence.”
I just want to tell him one thing. All those veterans, from all those wars, paved the way for your rotten mouth to spew your homophobic, xenophobic, bigoted, ignorant, vile and utterly ridiculous thoughts on our airways.  And to the people who listen to Savage—shame on you. 
Originally named Soldiers Heart (Civil War 1861-1865) and also known as Shell Shock, Combat Fatigue, PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder)  and finally PTS (Post Traumatic Stress), dropping the “disorder” to help end the stigma. PTS is nothing new, and nothing to scoff about. It can be mild or severe and as debilitating as loss of limb. Getting out of bed can be a struggle, remembering to take your meds, or go to the VA Hospital next to impossible. Families are torn apart from lack of support or understanding. This is not a pull yourself up by your bootstraps kind of thing. No one wants to live in this hell and that is why so many with PTS have committed suicide.
Twenty-two veterans a day, one every 80 minutes, commits suicide. Studies (National Center for PTSD Vol.20) indicate that “10-18% of combat troops serving in OEF/OIF have PTSD following deployment, and the prevalence does not diminish over time.”
If you care about our veterans you’ll stop the blame game and do something to help a veteran.  Politicians may have made this mess, but the American people have the ability to fix it.  Be the solution. Show your appreciation to those who have sacrificed not only years of their lives, but for some– their limbs, their sight, and for so many their peace of mind. Don’t just thank them for their service, show them you care.  
Here are some ways you can help in Marin and the greater Bay Area, by donating, volunteering or guiding a veteran to any of the following:

 

Marin Health and Human Services — Veterans Services
Homeward Bound of Marin – Homeless Veterans Services
College of Marin Veteran Services
Marin Employment Connection  for Veterans
The Pathway Home  (OEF, OIF Veterans with PTS and TBI)
The Veterans Home –Yountville  
The Veterans of Foreign Wars

 

*If you are outside of the Bay Area a simple Google search of “veteran’s resources” in your area will bring up several website.s Check them first to make sure they are legit- if you are not sure- feel free to send me the link and I’ll research it for you.