Don’t Just Sit There

 
Have you ever tried to raise money for a good cause?  It’s tough right?  People don’t want to see pictures of starving children, children with flies on them, bald children, women with breast cancer scars, people in wheelchairs, veterans with missing limbs, veterans with burn scars so bad they are unrecognizable, or homeless people, or mentally ill people. You can barely get people to give up a NEW toy at Christmas for Toys for Tots… I know, I’ve tried!
When my son joined the Marine Corps, I became deeply involved with an organization called MarineParents.com. Marine Parents raised money through a variety of ways, but it was always a struggle. The founder and many of us volunteers worked day and night to be able to send care packages to deployed Marines, help the wounded warriors and their families, provide support and much needed information to families of all Marines from boot camp through veteran status and provide support for Gold Star Families—you know who they are, right?
When asked to join the Board of Directors and head the fundraising and development aspect of the organization, I learned real fast how quickly people can forget to call you back, not respond to your emails or letters or just flat out say no. Support for the troops does not necessarily equate to SUPPORT for the troops. All that flag waving… is meaningless unless we take care of our troops.
When the recent ALS Ice Bucket Challenge appeared on the horizon, I could not have been more thrilled. A little understood, fatal, hideous disease, which hasn’t received much attention since Lou Gehrig was “struck out” with it in 1939 and subsequently died in 1941, at the young age of 37. It killed my dad in 1991 too.
So little is understood about this disease that they really don’t know how or why people get it. What they do know is that military veterans are twice as likely to develop ALS. There is no single test for diagnosis, and at this time, there is only one drug, that may prolong life by a few months. At the time my dad was diagnosed with ALS, there was no drug. In 23 years, they have created one drug that might give someone an extra two months.
For a few weeks the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge took Facebook, YouTube and Twitter by storm and managed to raise an unprecedented 100 million dollars. And it did so because it was different—something almost anyone could do, and it was something people who couldn’t afford to donate, could do to help raise awareness. Wouldn’t everyone want to participate? Well, some people don’t want to help– some people who care less about humanity and more about their own lives. Some people who are too lazy to do their homework before they decided something isn’t worth their time. I know of one person that called the ALS campaign “crap.” (She was promptly unfriended.) Some people started posting untrue tax records for the ALS organization trying to debunk the organization and the Ice Bucket Campaign.
Across the board—not just ALS, but with Childhood Cancer, Breast Cancer, Lung Cancer, Ovarian Cancer, Cancer of the Prostrate, Colon Cancer… and that is just some of the cancers not even all the diseases. For everything we don’t understand—for everything we don’t have a cure for we need funding.
There is no shortage of causes for people to participate in and if something isn’t your cause- I get it- I really do—but don’t slam other causes or all causes because it makes you feel better about not giving a shit.  
A couple of things I learned while I was fund raising on a grand scale was corporations are interested in numbers. They want to know how much traffic your website gets, how much money you get from grants, how you plan to raise the next 10,000 and then the next 10,000. They want to see official tax records and they want to know the percentage of money spent on administrative services.  In the case of medical charities, we would want to know the percentage that goes to actual research. So if you are going to go after an organization for a large grant- have your ducks lined up. These aren’t bad things for us to understand either—in order to get the maximum bang for our buck or our sweat.
I also learned that people run from scary stuff. People didn’t want to hear about troops with missing limbs or blinded or brain damaged… because if they thought about it, they would have to admit that it might happen to their loved one. Cancer is scary, MS is scary, homeless people are really scary… And, the mentally ill… forget it, no one wants to even think about them. But, we have to—because our society is becoming immune to humanity and human frailty. What people say and what they do, don’t match. We are not doing enough for each other. The days of feeding a stranger are no more- yet fifty years ago, that was the norm. Now if a hungry person knocks on our door they are likely to be shot.
The ALS Ice Bucket campaign may have seemed like a gimmick to you- but gimmicks work better than guilt. And gimmicks work better then screaming.  Sadly- many people don’t want to confront reality. They want everything to be pretty  (or fun) so their denial can’t be broken. The ice bucket challenge was a huge success. It may not be long term, like some of the walks or runs, but as far as awareness goes—it got everyone between the ages of 13 and 80 to think about ALS and I would call that a successful campaign.  
If you think there is nothing you can do, you couldn’t be more wrong. Here is a list of a few different way to raise funds for a good cause.  If you can come up with something new, that isn’t dangerous then explore it as an option. Check your charity in one of the charity watchdog websites provided at the end of this article.

·         Walk/Run-a-thon
·         Ride -a-thon
·         Bowl-a-thon
·         Golf Tournament
·         Bazaar
·         Spaghetti Feed
·         Crab Feed
·         Sidewalk Sale
·         Casino Night
·         Bake Sale

If you are stuck for worthy causes, just open your eyes. September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. You are going to see pictures of bald children, children with tubes, and dark circles and maybe even some children that have passed away. Don’t look away. Don’t pretend that if you don’t look it doesn’t exist.  It does – and they need all the help they can get.  Do something.
 

Helpful Links:  

Robin’s Flight From Earth

He was part of our identity—all of Marin really, but mostly those of us that went to school with him. I went to school with him but we weren’t friends or buddies. He was friends with my friends and I knew who he was because I knew who everyone was; he might have known who I was—we never talked about it later. And later he worked with my boyfriend in Sausalito, and after that I became a good friend of his brother Todd. We knew each other. He was Toads little brother and I was Cable Car Katie, a name Todd gave me since that was my usual mode of transportation. We didn’t hang out unless we were both visiting Todd at his bar on Chestnut Street in the Marina. And then, we were quiet, polite, and probably thirsty.  I waited on him when I was a waitress in Sausalito. I left him alone- and he appreciated it. He was an introvert when he wasn’t being an extrovert.

I was in a management class about 20 years ago in Livermore, California. I might as well have been a 1000 miles away from Marin it was so different there. The terrain, the people, the smell… nothing was the same. The man who was facilitating the class asked all of us to write down something that most people didn’t know about us.  I never write anything of consequence when asked to do this because if people don’t know things about you they probably shouldn’t—so I wrote down I WENT TO SCHOOL WITH ROBIN WILLIAMS.

When we read them aloud, the facilitator’s head snapped to me… and he said, “That’s what I wrote too.”

He had gone to College of Marin with Robin; I had gone to Redwood High with him.
 

Marin County has had many stars, a lot of favorite sons and daughters. Some spent only a short time here and we claim them anyway… like greedy little grubbers who want all the credit for other people’s success.  Writers, musicians and actors often find Marin County amenable to their needs. We don’t chase after them or ask for autographs, sometimes we nod, but mostly we let them alone and maybe that is the attraction.

Robin always had a melancholy layer just below the surface. If you ever met him, you would know that. And like many people that suffer from depression, reason escaped him, logical thought was stuck in some deep dark pocket of his brain and what surfaced was the last resort, the last decision he would ever have to make.

He was part of our identity—in some weird subconscious way. So the fallout of his demise – his purposeful leap to the next world, has been hard. It’s taken a toll on so many people – some that never met him but loved him for his art. And those of us that knew him, though not well, we are left with an empty feeling, and ask, “How could you leave this soon?”

He’ll be part of the Redwood High Memorial Wall now, a wall I was just reading all the names on last week. I was thinking I should add my little brother and now there is one more, and College of Marin’s Memorial Wall too. Maybe they’ll have a plaque at some bar he went to once or twice, and the along the Dipsea Trail. He won’t be forgotten anytime soon– but what killed him will be, it always is.

I wish, I know we all do, that he would have picked up a phone.

 

 

While I Was Walking…

Life is strange sometimes. I could have easily– no, more than easily– it was almost a given–turned out to be a bitter old woman.  I might have been the lovely Miss Haversham, cobwebs and all. Instead, due to some fluke, some twist of fate and perhaps a bump on the head,  I have become more compassionate in my mature years. This surprised me, so I had to do some double checking to make sure I hadn’t turned into a Marin County left wing, hippy dippy who has lost touch with all reality. When the two completely different subjects I wanted to write about converged, I took it as a sign from Buddha or my late mother,  who keeps an eye on things, (okay that’s dippy) that I should sit down and try to explain to everyone what I was thinking about all year long, and why I couldn’t focus their conversations about vacation locations or new TV shows.
 
Cyberbullies and Homeless People
Sometime last year or maybe the year before I made the mistake of starting to read the comment sections on public blogs and newspaper articles.  I was stunned at how vile people could be. Most of whom use an alias but some, so sure that their responses are acceptable behavior, use their real names. Some people are just bullies who would never say anything to anyone’s face, but feel safe doing so in cyberspace. The attacks shocked me and I am not easily shocked… in fact I can be frightfully candid when the situation calls for it… but some of these situations did not call for anything other than compassion. I wanted to write to these publications and blast these bullies for being bullies… but that didn’t seem right either. I knew I couldn’t shame them, so I just sat on it for a while, waiting for the urge (to verbally smack them upside the head and make them see how puny their brains were), to dissipate. I tried not reading the comments, but when the two issues converged, when the hideous comments written were about the one other thing I was feeling passionate about and writing about—well, I had to act.
But, let me digress for just a minute here–I started walking around my little town sometime in April of 2013. First a mile, then two and then three, four, five and six miles some days. Around July 2013, I ran into an old friend, my old roommate from the 70s who I hadn’t seen for over 30 years and we started walking together with our dogs and talking about everything including our shared shock of how people view other peoples misfortunes with such disdain. I realized then, that if I was out of step with the world so was she, so at least there were two of us. My wheels started turning.
It was on my alone walks though, with just my dog, that I started noticing a lot more homeless people than ever before. They were camping out in public instead of the open space areas. Small areas of trees next to shopping centers, or schools or churches, usually near a creek but always near foot traffic. Some of them had carts full of their belongings, some had only backpacks, some had built lean-tos, some looked spaced out, and some looked drunk, some looked crazy; some looked depressed (Who wouldn’t be?). A few had dogs. One lady hung out at the laundry mat in the afternoon until it closed, one guy parked his cart and his collection of I don’t know what  on one of the main streets and greeted everyone that walked by like he was the mayor. Their faces were dirty and wrinkled beyond their ages and most of them were missing some or all of their teeth. Their hair was matted and yes, they smelled bad. I didn’t see one person who could have gone and gotten a job that day. They needed more help than that.
During those first few months of walking, the weather was still warm. I found myself looking for them though, making sure everyone made it through the night. A seed was planting.
While all that was happening, a debate started hitting the town council meetings, the bloggersphere and newspapers about affordable housing. From what I read, the majority of people in Marin County were not pro affordable housing. Some cited valid reasons like high density and traffic and others plain and simple said if you can’t afford to live here you should not live here. Others still, said they didn’t want the riff-raft in their neighborhoods. They didn’t want blacks or Mexicans moving in from other blighted areas (Like Vallejo). Wait a minute I told myself… I can’t afford to live here! I barely get by and I have 2.5 jobs.  I don’t smoke or drink or take vacations. How can these folks ever get back on their feet without some help?
As I watched the debates unfold, I started making mental notes of things that sounded off to me. The issue was three fold or four fold and the information was one fold. My confusion was compounded by the fact that many people I know and respect were coming down on the anti-affordable housing side and I couldn’t figure out why exactly.  I knew two things. 1. Marin has an abundance of homeless people (many people with children) and 2. Marin and the Bay Area in general has an extreme shortage of apartments and homes for rent. (At any price.) The rental market, which I am very familiar with because one of my 2.5 jobs is a licensed Realtor, is off the charts this year. I leased one three-bedroom two-bath home in San Rafael for over $3,200 in one week. Another, in Novato, in less than two weeks.
I started digging for facts. What I found online was not surprising since it backed up what I saw while I was out walking. But, what I saw while walking was worse than reading about it. It was real, it was human. It was inhumane. We care more about homeless animals than people in this county. That’s what I saw. That is what I see every day.

The First Fold:
According to a reportby the Marin Independent Journal, the homeless biennial count in January of 2013 was 933, which was down from the previous years. However, the precariously housed, people that may be facing eviction, or are living in overcrowded homes or couch surfing, numbers have increased to 4,388, up from 4,179 in 2011.  
The report continued. “Diane Linn, director of Ritter Center in San Rafael, which provides services to the homeless and working poor, said that number continues to rise because of economic pressures and a lack of local affordable housing.
We are sorely short of affordable housing options. There are no single-room housing occupancy options,” Linn said. “It’s bad for the working poor out there. It’s getting harder and harder.”
(*Linn is no longer the director. Peter Lee has been the director since 2014)
 The Second Fold: Plan Bay Area, ABAG, and SB375:
Plan Bay Area is a state mandated, long-range housing and transportation plan designed to reduce pollution and greenhouse gasses.
ABAG:  Formed in 1961, the Association of Bay Area Governments is the comprehensive regional planning agency and Council of Governments (COG) for the nine counties and 101 cities and towns of the San Francisco Bay region. ABAG has limited statutory authority and requires major city and county votes for action. The concern of ABAG is long-term growth, big picture, sustainability and conservation.
 
Signed into law by Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, SB375 is the Sustainable Communities and Climate Protection Act of 2008; a State of California law targeting greenhouse gas emissions from passenger vehicles.  The Global Warming Solutions Act of 2006 (AB 32) sets goals for the reduction of statewide greenhouse gas emissions. Passenger vehicles are the single largest source of greenhouse gas emissions statewide, accounting for 30% of total emissions. SB 375 therefore provides key support to achieve the goals of AB 32.
The Third Fold -Citizen Marin: Citizen Marin is comprised of the leaders of neighborhood and community groups from throughout Marin County who are wrestling with the demands of the Sustainable Communities Strategies and SB375. They struggle with the concept of overbuilding Marin County with affordable housing like high-density buildings in otherwise single-family home neighborhoods. They cite issues like crime, traffic and simply maintaining “our small town quaintness”. 
Citizens Marin group disagree with the scientific conclusions and contend that the density mandate of 30 units per square acre is too high (20 is acceptable) and that affordable housing (apartment complexes) will increase the crime rate.
I could go on and on here about the debate—but I’m really only interested in the human element of the whole situation. If I have learned nothing else in my 62 years, it’s that you have to care about other human beings. I see homeless people and want to help, but I’m not sure how. I give them money; sometimes I buy blankets and distribute them. I have made sandwiches and brought them to people, but all the little things I do does nothing to answer the greater problem.
To help me understand the greater problems regarding affordable housing I made an appointment to talk to Mary Kay Sweeney, the Executive Director of Homeward Bound of Marin.  Homeward Bound is Marin County’s chief provider of shelter and residential services for homeless families and individuals, serving approximately 1,400 people per year in 14 inter-related residential programs. No one understands homeless and the working poor better than Mary Kay Sweeney and the people that work tirelessly at Homeward Bound of Marin.
Mary Kay Sweeney replied to my email request to meet and was gracious enough to spend more than an hour with me explaining the homeless issue in Marin and answering some of the questions I had regarding affordable housing. Many of my questions were based on citizen responses to online blogs and hearsay information from colleagues. I wanted to confirm my suspicions that some of the facts people were sharing in cyberspace (and over lunches) were complete or partial fabrications.
One of the responses I read on the Novato Patch –replying to an articleon affordable housing was this one by someone who calls himself/herself Bubbasixpack. (I’m sure he/she means beer and not abs)
Bubbasixpack July 09, 2013 at 04:33 PM
There are lot of empty houses in Richmond, but they’re empty because they moved here when invited by the developers who couldn’t fill the places they built in Novato. Fill up the empty housing before we build more. Don’t like where you live? Too bad. Stay in school and out of jail. It worked for me.
I asked Mary Kay – specifically if she was importing people from other cities to fill affordable housing units. She shook her head slowly- adamantly no.  I felt she had heard that question before- and she was weary of it.  “No”, she said, “in fact, it’s the other way around; since there is little or no affordable housing here we sometimes look in neighboring counties for our transitional people.”
Bubba’s comment was one of the milder ones.
I read everything I could get my hands on regarding this issue- but the most important research I did was right on the street. I started putting dollars bills in my fanny pack that I use when walking the dog. As Toshi and I walked around town and ran into homeless people, I started looking them in the eye and saying hi. Just hi. They all wanted to pet Toshi. No one asked me for a dime. A few times, I made sandwiches and delivered them but mostly I just started giving them a buck or two when I could. The most important thing was that I said hello. They were no longer invisible– to me. Or scary. Or crazy. Did they need baths? Yes. Did they need meds? Some did. Would they spend my lousy dollar on cigarettes or booze? Maybe. All of them, every single one of them thanked me and said God bless you. Some told me their story. Some didn’t want to talk but all were polite. All of them pet Toshi and got some Toshi love.
Homelessness is a costly issue. There are multitudes of problems that arise from the homeless people including wild fires started at encampments, defecating and urinating in streams (or in Open Space areas) littering near streams where many of them camp out. Transporting to hospitals due to exposure to weather extremes or overdoses (on an already unhealthy body), hospital expenses, arrests for loitering, illegal camping, etc. I’m not sure but I think there has to be a better way to manage this issue.

You might think that everyone that is homeless is a junkie or drunk or someone who refuses to take their meds—but you would be wrong.  Many people just like you and I are just one or two paychecks away from homelessness. Anyone with a minimum wage job or even slightly above would be in real trouble if they lost a week of work due to illness. Many low-income people work three jobs to stay alive in Marin. If you lose your job and your home, getting into a one-bedroom one-bath apartment in Marin County (providing you have excellent credit) can easily cost 5000.00. In order to afford the least expensive studioin Marin you need to make over $20.00 per hour.
Many argue, why wouldn’t people go where they can afford to live? There are several reasons. Many of Marin’s homeless are from Marin- some from one time affluent families in Tiburon or Ross. They stay because their families are here, and occasionally some help them out, and because they are familiar with the terrain. I can’t imagine being homeless and camping out and having to go to a strange town where I didn’t know the safe places to go.
About 9% of the homeless in Marin County are veterans.  Some suffer from PTSD or TBI. Many suffer from drug and alcohol addiction. I’ve run into to a few of these vets while walking Toshi, when I am wearing my USMC sweatshirt. They always ask me if I was a Marine. No, I tell them. My son is. They tell me then, that they were Navy or Army or they just say Semper Fi and I know the rest. “Thank him for his service,” they say. Then I guiltily thank them for theirs—because clearly, our whole country did not.
As the weather turned bitterly cold, I found myself driving around in the morning and taking inventory of the homeless people I knew. They had their regular spots and if there weren’t where they were supposed to be I worried.  I knew some wouldn’t make it through winter. That was a sad fact.
In this 2013 report on homelessness in Marin County – the statistics are eye opening. In one of the wealthiest counties in the nation—we have a ridiculous number of homeless and almost five times that precariously housed individuals.
I’m not sure when Marin became so full of itself. Marin was originally inhabited by the Miwok Indians and built on the backs of ranchers, fishermen and blue-collar workers. In the early 1900s, Tiburon, one of this country’s wealthiest cities, was a blue-collar railroad town, with cargo trains running daily. The wealthy people that did live here were largely philanthropic and donated to a variety of causes without fanfare. Most of us that grew up here, most, not at all wealthy, but some who grew up in wealthy families too, find this snobbery and lack of compassion disgusting.
I certainly don’t have all the answers. I do believe if there were more people like Mary Kay Sweeny of Homeward Bound in the world, that this problem could be solved tout de suite. She seems to have compassion, ability to solve problems and implement processes for long-term success. Why city leaders across Marin wouldn’t want to help her expand or copy her methodology (without quid pro quo) I don’t know. Politicians it appears are only in it for their votes and don’t really care about anyone who isn’t making it to the polls.
I can’t do anything about the bullies. They are stupid. They are not worth my time. The only thing I can do because I am not a millionaire, is help the organizations that actually are doing something, by either spreading the truth about homelessness thereby changing the way some people think of the homeless or donating my time and money to places like Homeward Bound or Ritter House and teaming with other organizations that raise money for homeless veterans. Some people want to stay angry, I won’t waste my time on them.  
Across the nation, there are homeless people who need help and across the nation, there are not enough facilities to help them. Every year- every damn year, we find homeless people frozen to death or somehow killed by the elements. It seems like a no-brainer to me. If it’s fear it could be you… all the more reason to do something. I don’t know where the anger towards these folks comes from. Oh yeah… your tax dollars. Well- in that case remember the veterans… the ones we owe EVERYTHING to. Remember the sweat of all the underpaid workers in the country that keep food on your table, watch your kids, clean your houses, change your oil, rotate your tires, cut your lawns, make your fast food, work at your favorite retail outlet, or work at any one of a million restaurants or bars you frequent. Because when they lose their jobs, (or even lose work due to illness), they are in jeopardy of losing their homes.
I’m still walking. I’m still handing out dollars or sandwiches and in the winter I’ll go to Goodwill and other places and buy blankets to give away. It’s not enough. People have to care or this problem will not go away.
 
Helpful Links:

A Giant Step Backward

My mother used to say I was the first “Women’s Libber” she ever met. I wasn’t though. I was much too selfish to worry about any other woman and her equality issues. And honestly, it never occurred to me there was a problem. I was never led to believe that I couldn’t do a certain thing because I was a woman—none of my parents, all three of them, ever said, oh no, that’s just for boys. So I played with a hammer and nails when I was little, I helped my dad paint houses and later I got jobs that only men had (though unbeknownst to me I was paid less, much less.)
I was one of the first female liquor “salesman” in Northern California – and the only one that had not inherited the job from their husband. I was twenty-one years old at the time. Later, I had other jobs that were predominantly male, but I never thought about it. I just did what I wanted. If I bulldozed my way, it was only to get the job, never realizing I was competing with men.
My Great –Grandmother was my role model. Though married, she was self –sufficient. She came to the United States from Germany in 1906, on her own at age 17 and with the help of her brother secured a job, and took care of herself. She married my Great –Grandfather and still worked at Sutro Baths giving swim lessons, saved her money and opened her own general store/bakery in San Francisco. Later, after he cheated on her, she divorced him—in a time when divorce was not usually an option, she chose to go it alone. She later remarried, a sweet man and together they bought a small chicken farm in Santa Rosa. I don’t recall in my life ever seeing him do anything but sit in the kitchen and play solitaire (often with me in his lap) – my Great-Grandmother did everything from chopping wood, to mending fences, to planning and planting flower and vegetable gardens and sharpening her ax on the stone pedal sharpener. She cooked, she cleaned, she sewed, she farmed, she worked and she owned her own business—so why would I ever think that as a woman, I could not do what I wanted?
Physically, I was extremely strong when I was younger. My Dad used to call me a powerhouse. I’m not big, no taller than 5’3” and at my physical prime 110-120 pounds. (Much more now.)  I was just strong. As a liquor salesman and later a bar manager I could pick up boxes of booze and move them around the storeroom with ease, or change a beer keg (160 lbs) with no sweat.  
I never minded a man opening a car door for me (and still don’t mind) but any boyfriend that tried to run my life soon became an ex- boyfriend and I didn’t feel the need to marry because it was expected of me. I never married because I never found the right person for me.  I have nothing against other people’s marriages.  I just couldn’t imagine a caucus over car purchases or dinner or anything. For the most part, when I was young—that is what married people did. Someone was always in charge of the money—and that seemed weird to me. I work for it—I’ll spend it. In retrospect—maybe I could have used a partner with better money sense—or maybe just a good accountant.
I was not intentionally a women’s libber and I may have misunderstood the movement in its infancy– if not then though- I will call myself one now.
Now that I’m a little less selfish, I feel like I should help the next generation and the ones after that too, understand how hard fought (and not quite won) the right to be an independent woman was and is.  I didn’t even know I was fighting it—but of course, I was and now I am again. I have a son, and nieces and nephews and I feel obligated to make sure that the girls know they can do anything they want to do—and they can do it for the same amount of money the boys make. And, I want the boys to know that while they are in charge in their “spaceship” the girls are in charge of their own. I want them all to know, that it’s brains, not brawn and not feminine wiles that will help you succeed in life and indomitable fortitude, that will keep your head above water when everyone else is drowning.  
The political conservative viewpoint is chipping away at the strides women have made in the last 50 years because we relaxed. We thought it was all good… we thought we won – even though women by and large still don’t make the same salaries as men, even though women are still abused,  without appropriate recourse, even though, we don’t vote for women because if they are tough minded they are bitches—but their male counterparts are smart.
We still have some work to do.
The Supreme Court’s Hobby Lobby decision was a good smack in the head for those of us who care about equality. Those of us that care about our daughters, and our nieces and our granddaughters and all the women to follow.  The ruling undermined a woman’s choice—the very foundation of the woman’s movement—the very foundation of our independence and equality. We can argue about the separation of church and state all we want and it’s a great argument and one I believe in—and we can argue that a corporation cannot have a religion – but the fundamental flaw with this ruling is that it removed a woman’s right to be able to make their own choice without interference from a patriarchal employer, or anyone other than their own physician.  The ruling- in essence made someone else’s religion more important than the federal law or me as a person.  (Quitting your job and going to work somewhere else, as some have suggested, is not a choice it’s an ultimatum.)
Any one of the numerous precedents that Justice Ginsberg cited in her descent should have been enough to change the outcome of this ruling– now we have taken a giant step backward and it will take years to fix it.
You don’t have a choice—if the choices are taken off the table. You don’t have a choice if someone is making it for you.
I want my girls, the girls in my life and the girls in their lives, to have choices. I hope they don’t have to make some of these choices… but if they do, I sure as hell want them to be available.
You can be socially or politically conservative and choose to not use contraception—but you cannot be a liberal woman and choose to use it if it’s not available—that is where the flaw is.  That’s where equality goes out the window and we catapult back to the patriarchal dark ages.
I’m going to be keeping an eye on this and other issues that chip away at our freedom to be independent, self -sufficient women.  I hope the younger generations will join me in making sure we don’t slip farther back and do leap forward.
Miami 1973

 

 

 

The Best Advise I Never Got



Don Figone
We had the big send-off for my dad on Thursday. There was no religious ceremony for my step dad, just a nice party at the St. Francis Yacht Club. I’ve been calling it his Bon Voyage. His wife, Rebecca said everyone had to check their tears at the door, and so we did. The room was full of Frank Sinatra music and a montage of images from dad’s life—from childhood through his 86 years of life. It was perfect really.
He became my step-father when I was four years old, so he’s the dad I identify with more of the two. I loved them both of course, but hour for hour– I spent much more time with my step dad. I worked for him on and off for years. He got all the crap stuff too—the pre-adolescent mood swings, the teenage insanity, the depressed 20s the fucked up 30s.  And he bailed me out, literally and figuratively of many jams.   
The party was exactly what he would have wanted—I guess, at least if he were alive he would go to this kind of party. People told funny stories, and save for some laughing through the tears from his closest relatives; it was not a depressing day at all.
Several people got up to speak and tell funny stories about our dad.  I had written a little something but left it in my car, I knew I wouldn’t be able to say anything without crying—and I promised him two months earlier—I would be cool, I would not fall apart during or after. I didn’t want him to have to worry about me while he was dying. It seemed like the most unselfish thing I could do for him… some small payback for the years of support and bailouts.
One man that he knew from Lake Merced Golf Club got up to speak and it didn’t immediately seem like it was going to be funny. Nice- but not funny. He talked of how my dad was always willing to help everyone, and that was true– and how gracious and generous he was. Also, true. Then he proceeded to tell us a story of how my dad was helping him with his (golf) swing. He said.  “And Don told me just stand with your feet apart and your head down, and hit that ball like you don’t give a shit.”
“Just hit that ball like you don’t give a shit.”  And it hit me like a golf ball between the eyes. That is the best advice my dad never gave me.
I’ve been stuck in my writing lately. Besides emotionally drained from the last few months, I have been trying to figure out how to write nicer. Not better… nicer. And it crippled me. I haven’t been able to write a word that matters.
So, Dad, of all the advice you gave me over the last 58 years this is the best. I’m going to write like I don’t give a shit. I’m not going to worry who likes what I have to say. I have to say what I need to say. I’ve been worried about upsetting people and as a result, my silence has turned itself on me and made me sick.
I have a great niece, Jasmin, who is a writer too. She always sends me words of encouragement and tells me what a great writer she thinks I am, so I owe it to her to continue to write—so that she will continue to write. If you’re a writer, you have to write and if you have a particular voice you have to use it. It’s not an option or a hobby, it’s a compulsion and an obsession that can’t be controlled by self-will or the opinions of others. We write, because we have to.
So Jasmin my dearest, write like you don’t give a shit. Write for yourself—just keep writing.

A Lesson from My Mom

 

Mom Approx. 50 Years Old



My mother used to proudly tell people, including her children, that she was part black, or whatever term she used back in the day, probably colored, maybe negro. She said she was a direct descendant of Haile Selassie, the Emperor of Ethiopia. She explained this by telling us it happened during Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia in the early 1930s, which was when she was born—but in San Francisco. Not Ethiopia, not Italy.

I don’t know why she told us this. I like to think it was to teach us a lesson. I like to think that she was as appalled by racism as I am, but I really don’t know. Maybe she just liked messing with people’s minds. Closed minds, small minds. Her prejudice was for stupid. Like me, she was guilty of her own stupidity, but had little tolerance for the stupidity of others.

It could have been a believable tale. She had big brown eyes and beautiful full lips. Her auburn hair wasn’t curly but had a lot of natural wave. Her skin, naturally olive, would turn chocolate brown in the sun.

My mother never blinked when I introduced her to my Japanese boyfriend, and later, when she found out I was going to have his baby, she was thrilled. She never mentioned mixed race, or any of the issues that might come up– that did come up, due to crossing some line that some people drew. Her own kids looked like the League of Nations and she often said so. My older sister is dark with a Latin appearance, like my mother’s Southern Italian ancestors, I’m a blue eyed blonde like my father’s German grandmother, my little brother was more olive and Italian like my mother, (She was French and Irish on her mother’s side and Italian on her dad’s.) then later my little sister, who is a nice blend of Northern Italian from her dad and Southern Italian from my mom. For a short time when I was very little, we had two Korean foster children—my auburn haired mother turned many curious heads when we were all with her.

When I was pregnant with my son, people I knew asked me what I was going to do as a single mom with a mixed race child. That was such a crazy question to me. I just thought of him as my baby, not a race. It never occurred to me there would be any issues. And for me… there were no issues until bigotry crept into my life. When people would stare at us on the bus or in the store and shake their heads in disgust, or ask, “Did you adopt?”  No, I’d tell them, I have the scar to prove he’s mine. And while that question alone is not overtly bigoted, the implication is. This was in the melting pot Bay Area. I could only imagine what it was like in different parts of the country. The thought scared me.

Since 9/11/1, I have seen the same kind of hate for the Muslim religion and /or anyone that may look like they are of Arab descent. Never mind that most people don’t know the difference between a Sikh  (not Arab) and a Muslim (maybe Arab maybe not), don’t know the difference between an Afghani, Iraqi or Iranian, don’t know the difference between Farsi and Arabic, everyone that looked like they were  from any part of the Middle East became an instant suspect. People who had immigrated to the US to flee their war torn countries, to have religious freedom, to have human rights, were shunned because of the way they dressed or talked. It hasn’t gotten much better 13 years later.

With the recent events surrounding the racial intolerance of the Clippers Basketball Team owner Mr. Sterling and the crazy cowboy in Utah, Mr. Bundy, I have to wonder how far we have come as a country in regards to racial equality—since the Civil War. Not far at all, I’m afraid.

I am sensitive to it because I see it through my son’s eyes.  I’m sensitive to it because my niece has three little girls that are half Mexican. I’m sensitive to it because my mother, in her infinite wisdom, or maybe unknowingly made me aware of the ignorance many people have regarding race and cultural sensitivity.

Trying to have a frank conversation about race relations, religious freedoms, and sexual orientation freedom is difficult.  Sometimes I think the freedoms my son went to war for are nonexistent. He came back from Iraq with a better understanding of freedom and of the cost of freedom, but to a country that didn’t get it.

I read a great essay Pretending Racism Doesn’t Exist Doesn’t Make it Go Away  the other day written by Jeff Yang. The last two paragraphs wrap it up nicely; the whole essay is worth reading more than once.

“But denying racism doesn’t delete it. It simply allows it to live on in obscurity, drifting in the shadowy margins or lurking beneath the polished surface of polite society, where it can erode our most cherished shared values in secret, or erupt in fits of dark and terrible rage.

As Cliven Bundy and Don Sterling have demonstrated, as much as we claim that something is “not racist,” the “but…” continues to trail on behind it, keeping a foot in the door for the things we’d rather keep hidden.”

·         I’m not racist BUT, a black president, no thanks.

·         I’m not intolerant of any religion, BUT this country was founded on Christian beliefs we should not allow Mosques to be built here.

·         I’m not a bigot BUT, two men should not get married to each other.

·         I’m not a bigot BUT, I don’t want Mexicans living in my neighborhood.

·         I’m not a bigot BUT… FILL IN THE BLANK.

I wish my mom were here so I could talk to her about this. I would ask her why she told everyone she was part black and why sometimes she wore a Star of David even though, she was baptized Catholic. I would ask her if she thought she was ahead of her time in bringing these issues to the forefront, or did she just like to mess with minds of stupid people?  Either way, I have to say, she is my hero for this lesson. I hope I’m living up to her expectations as a human being and a daughter—I certainly am trying.

My mother, if she were still alive, would be the grandmother of seven, one is one-half Japanese, the others are a mixed bag of nuts, like me, a little bit of everything, and great grandmother to four, three of whom are half Mexican girls. She would have loved all of them and they would have loved her.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom, I miss your beautiful brain.

 
 

This is How You Live

Last week my best friend of 46 years lost her mom, Elsie. Elsie was the epitome of everything I think is wonderful and cool… and she passed those amazing qualities to her daughter—who put the last 1.5 years of her life on hold, to take exquisite care of her mother.
Elsie didn’t like me much when we first met in 1968. She thought I was too fast for Renee, and she was right. I was. It didn’t take her long though, to see that I tried to keep Renee out of trouble, rather than lead her astray. I spent every day at their house. They fed me, and treated me like family.  (Yelling at me when deemed necessary.) They welcomed my sister and later even my mother into the family fold. I have never met a family like them since—a family that gave so much and asked for nothing in return.  
Elsie was dignified. A proud American woman  of Mexican and Irish heritage who was always a lady, and handled life—and all the horrors that come with it, with more class than anyone I have ever met.
When her grandson tragically passed away at 4 years old, I heard Elsie cry. It was a primal cry, and one I’ll never forget. It was a cry from the most broken soul and I thought for sure she would never recover from that loss. But, she did and, she laughed again eventually and loved more grandchildren and a few great–grandchildren.  Later she lost her beloved husband, the love of her life, and shortly after him her oldest daughter – both to cancer. And dotted here and there the loss of friends and family. Life was not particularly kind to Elsie, but her dignity prevailed. Her witty humor prevailed. Her passion for life prevailed.
She could be sweet or tough, and quite candid with a few of us. None of us liked being on the receiving end of those tough conversations, but I see now that she was trying to toughen us up—so we could get through life and not cop out to this problem or that problem, to not say life is too hard I don’t want to do it. .
Elsie was a bastion of strength, dignity and generosity. We won’t ever forget her and I am going to do my best to follow her lead when it comes to dealing with whatever life hands me. I’m going to try to pay forward the love and generosity so freely given to me all these years—and try to be someone Elsie would be proud of.  
Adios Madre xox

This is how you live… Elsie Style.
 

The Grief of December

Grief never feels good. If you ever lost a loved one, you know this. It could be a year ago or 40 years ago; it changes sometimes, the pain less sharp and sometimes more. It’s an injury without blood, a gaping wound that never really heals.  
Most of us learn to live with it– the missing piece to our psychic puzzle. There is always a feeling of something missing. Someone missing. Some of us try to fill the hole with medication or new shoes, or booze. It doesn’t work.
Years after my mom died, I picked up the phone to call her. I realized I couldn’t remember her number and then realized why and embarrassed at myself for such a ridiculous fopaux, (Seriously, how can you forget your mom has died?) hung up the phone. I can’t remember if I cried—or cleaned house. One of the two, I have no doubt.  
My 27-year-old brother died December 19th 1982 from complications due to injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident that occurred a little over 100 days prior. My 53-year-old mother died two years later on December 9th. The holiday season has proven to be my most difficult season to get through and the list of people I grieve for has grown substantially since my brother and mother died. But, there is always a holiday, or a hallmark of some kind, birthdays, death days, the last time you talked. Any month can be the bad one but for me it’s always December.
I know there are the seven stages of grief, but the truth is there are no rules for how to do it, or how long, or how sad you should be, or how much you should cry, or if you should cry at all. Everyone grieves how he or she grieves and if you become expert—through experience, how sad for you.
It comes in waves. It doesn’t matter how long ago someone left this world, it can feel like yesterday or it can feel like a long time ago and you wonder how you could be so sad for so damn long. For me, sometimes just smelling something like bubblegum will remind me of my brother and the endless baseball card bubblegum he shared with me when he was little. Earlier this year his best friend sent some pictures of my brother when he was young, and a few shortly before he died. I cried because I missed him… and I cried for what he is missing. A beautiful daughter he never met and three amazing granddaughters that would have owned him. He missed the best part of my life and his.
The “no rules” grief also applies for whom we are grieving. My sister just lost her horse after 21 years, and was devastated. When my son’s 14-year-old dog was put down, I watched his grief pour out in heavy sobs, he was beyond consoling. It was then I realized he was also grieving for the friends he lost in the war, the ones he never had time to cry for—and maybe his own innocence, left in the sands of Iraq. Postponed grief is the stuff that will kill you.
We walk around with a cloud of sadness. Not everyone sees it. Some people are oblivious to our teary eyes and our ability to skirt a subject that is sure to make the wave of sadness rush in. Some of us want to talk about it, some of us cannot.
Sometimes, grief can surprise us. When my son’s dad died unexpectedly two years ago, I was floored with grief and I woke up crying every day for weeks—still sometimes, I can’t think about this loss without tearing up. I never expected to feel that way, but I never expected him to die at 53 either.
My grief is always just below the surface. I don’t wear it like a badge—I don’t share it with strangers, or even all my friends. It’s just there and that is how grief works.
For me, grief is a reminder to live well, to be kind because we really don’t know what other people are going through and we really don’t know if someone won’t be here tomorrow.  I do put one foot in front of the other but I understand that isn’t always possible for everyone. When my son’s dad died, his grandmother understandably got a little crazy. When I asked my son (in an uncharitable moment) how he could put up with that he reminded me that losing your child trumps losing your father. His grief—made him smarter. His grandparents carry on; their strength is admirable their Japanese Buddhist durability intact, and I try my best to mimic them.
I know more than a few people hurting from grief right now. It always seems worse around the holidays. The empty seat syndrome, the missing piece of your heart, the special ornament with their name on it, more reminders than our hearts can bear—but bear we must.
This holiday season don’t be afraid to share stories about your departed loved ones with people that knew them or know you. Often you will find yourself laughing through a story instead of crying through the silence.
For all of you feeling the loss of a loved one please know this… you are not alone.  Many people are grieving over someone. We may not all wear it the same way—but we wear it.
If you are suffering from severe depression due to grief, please seek counseling — while I don’t think there are rules– I do think some people benefit from help with the grieving process.
see this link:
 Just a few of my missing pieces…Mom, Johnny, Dad, Jon, Johnny, Jon, Noodle & Smokie

VETERANS DAY 2013

Iraq 2006



Every year, since 2007, when my own son became a veteran, I have written something for Veterans Day. My theme changes slightly, usually depending on the reflection I am seeing through my son’s eyes.

This year, the reflection from his eyes is a good one. At least for today, at least for this moment—he is in a good place and time. If he is dogged by nightmares, he’s not saying. I notice he keeps himself busy, like my dad used to do. Always tinkering with something—the opposite of depression sleeping. Busy hands, calm mind. Calmer mind.  (**note 2017 this is no longer the case- severe PTSD anxiety attacks, withdrawal from family and friends)

If he is in a better place- than, so too am I. But, now my focus has shifted from him to the bigger picture. A picture whose existence I have been peripherally aware of, but until now, until my own son was in the clear, walking towards peace of mind instead of down Crazyville Street, I could not focus on anything but him.
The picture I am seeing is a horrific one. It’s the stuff nightmares are made of. It’s full of suicide, depression, PTSD, diagnosed and undiagnosed brain injuries, the inability to reach the people that need us most—that deserve help the most. And, worst of all—apathy. Apathy on the part of the American people, the very people who have benefited from the missing limbs, the burned skin, the inability to think straight, the lack of attention span, the shakes, the nightmares, the alcoholism, the suicides—they could not care less.


Lately there is advertising showing buffed soldiers or Marine veterans missing body parts, modeling underwear or whatever. This is good. Maybe, Americans will be able to look these people in the eye someday and say…what?  Thank you for your sacrifice. Thank you for losing that leg, arm, eye, life as you knew it. Thank you just isn’t enough.

The latest DOD data on suicide amongst veterans is an estimated 22 Veterans will commit suicide DAILY.

According to the report: “Among cases where history of U.S. military service was reported, Veterans comprised approximately 22.2% of all suicides reported during the project period. If this prevalence estimate is assumed to be constant across all U.S. states, an estimated 22 Veterans will have died from suicide each day in the calendar year 2010.”
I suspect the actual number is really higher. They won’t classify death from alcohol or drug overdose as suicide—but for many veterans (and civilians too) that is exactly what it is. I call it slow suicide.
This report notes the following: During the Iraq War, 4,475 U.S. service members were killed and 32,220 were wounded; in Afghanistan, 2,165 have been killed and 18,230 wounded through Feb. 5, 2013. Among service members deployed in these conflicts, 103,792 were diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) over the period 2002 to December 2012. Over that same period, 253,330 service members were diagnosed with a Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) of some kind. As a result of battle injuries in the Iraq War, 991 service members received wounds that required amputations; 797 lost major limbs, such as a leg. In Afghanistan, 724 have had to undergo amputations, with 696 losing a major limb. –

According to information obtained through the VA, there were 62,619 homeless veterans in the United States in January 2012. I’m willing to bet there were more then and there are many more now. This is disgraceful and unacceptable. And, please don’t tell me some of them want to live this way. If that is what you want to tell yourself to make yourself feel better then great—but please don’t expect me or anyone else with a brain to believe it.


Here are some facts from the not for profit Greendoors, based in Texas.
  • The number of homeless female veterans is on the rise: in 2006, there were 150 homeless female veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars; in 2011, there were 1,700. That same year, 18% of homeless veterans assisted by the VA were women. Comparison studies conducted by HUD show that female veterans are two to three times more likely to be homeless than any other group in the US adult population.
  • Veterans between the ages of 18 and 30 are twice as likely as adults in the general population to be homeless, and the risk of homelessness increases significantly among young veterans who are poor.
  • Roughly 56% of all homeless veterans are African-American or Hispanic, despite only accounting for 12.8% and 15.4% of the U.S. population respectively.
  • About 53% of individual homeless veterans have disabilities, compared with 41%of homeless non-veteran individuals.
  • Half suffer from mental illness; two-thirds suffer from substance abuse problems; and many from dual diagnosis (which is defined as a person struggling with both mental illness and a substance abuse problem).

  • Homeless veterans tend to experience homelessness longer than their non-veteran peers: Veterans spend an average of nearly six years homeless, compared to four years reported among non-veterans
There are programs all over the country trying to help homeless veterans. But, they need our help. The VA is overwhelmed with veterans right now. If you think your 2-3 hour wait at Kaiser or your local clinic is too long… try going to the VA.  Now try it with PTSD and a little bit of TBI. Try filling out reams of forms and then turning them in and waiting 6 -9 months for a reply to tell you if you qualify for disability, when you are positive that you were blown off a rooftop in Iraq and hurt your head– bad.
Volunteering at the VA is one way you and I can help. But there are other ways. You can help on a local level by finding out what resources there are for veterans in your area and asking them what you can do.

Learn how to talk to veterans. If you never served, you need to understand that you don’t really understand. Acknowledge that, and you will at least gain some respect from the veteran. Don’t ask stupid questions. (Like, did you ever kill anyone?)  A veteran will tell you what he wants to tell you.
If you know a veteran in need of assistance make a call 877-4AID-VET

If you know a veteran who may be contemplating suicide: Veterans and their loved ones can call 1-800-273-8255and Press 1, chat online at www.VeteransCrisisLine.net*, or send a text message to 838255to receive free, confidential support 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, even if they are not registered with VA or enrolled in VA health care. VA also provides support for Service members through the Military Crisis Line. Service members and their families and friends can call and text the Veterans Crisis Line numbers and can chat online at www.MilitaryCrisisLine.net.
There are so many things we civilians can do to help today’s veterans and the veterans from previous wars, who have served our country, and made it possible for us to live in the free world that we live in.
Most of us can’t write a big old fat check to our favorite charity. But there are still ways to help raise funds for these not for profit organizations that truly help our veterans. Be sure you investigate the organization thoroughly before donating time or money.  
If you can’t volunteer, then just do this. Next time you see someone wearing a USMC hat, or a Navy hat, or an Army jacket. Ask them if they are a veteran. If they say yes—shake their hand. Look them in the eye and shake their hand– and then say thank you, and mean it.
Resources for veterans and their loved ones:


PTSD/ SUICIDE
Hearts Toward Home International – Dr. Bridgett Cantrell



HOMELESS


***You can find more and local resources by googling key words and adding your city.



If Only People Cared

 
 
 
If only people cared. I hear that a lot. I say it a lot. The truth is people do care. They do what they can. There is plenty of bad news in this world for each and every one of us to care about. And that is the problem. We are all on cause overload. I am on cause overload.
My Marine Mom friend has a 2.5 -year-old granddaughter, Sophie who has cancer and has been undergoing treatments for about 15 months now.  Many of us have followed Sophie’s progress, her good days and bad days, her absolute courage, on Facebook and on her CaringBridgepage. Her family has been courageous too. And on a mission, to help bring to the forefront the fact that childhood cancer is not funded like it should be and to raise awareness. The American Cancer Society only gives one cent of every dollar to Pediatric Cancer research and no one can figure out why this is so.
Approximately 7-9  kids die a day of cancer.  (Statistics are all over the map- I guestimated based on several different reports.)
September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month
 
I have another Marine Mom friend whose sister died of breast cancer and she has been on a tireless mission to raise money for breast cancer research.  The projected statistics for breast cancer-for 2013- though greatly improved over years past, are daunting still.
·     About 232,340 new cases of invasive breast cancer will be diagnosed in women.
  • About 64,640 new cases of carcinoma in situ (CIS) will be diagnosed (CIS is non-invasive and is the earliest form of breast cancer).
  • About 39,620 women will die from breast cancer
  • Breast cancer is the second leading cause of cancer death in women, exceeded only by lung cancer. (in 2013)
My own personal cause has some big numbers too. Veterans with PTSD and Active Duty/ Veteran Suicides are at an all-time high. I have screamed this from the mountain-top with only those in my shoes taking notice. And maybe some of them found me to be too loud, too crazy, too driven.
According to this 2012 VA report 22 Veterans commit suicide daily. That is one every 80 minutes. Paul Riekhoff, the founder of IAVA (Iraq Afghanistan Veterans of America, stated “The country should be outraged that we are allowing this tragedy to continue. The trends are headed in the wrong direction,” As veterans, we at IAVA understand the spectrum of challenges facing veterans transitioning home, including the struggle with invisible wounds. One thing is clear; we need more researchand more collaboration.” 
PTSD awareness is sorely lacking – according to the Center for Ethical Solutions, nearly one soldier in five, or about 300,000 of the 1.6 million soldiers who have served in Iraq or Afghanistan, has post-traumatic stress disorder (“PTSD”) or major depression. My son has suffered from it, which brought it to the forefront for me. It is an invisible wound.
During my son’s time in the Marine Corps, I spent time as a volunteer for a Marine parent’s web- based group. We were an all-volunteer group of moms and dads that worked – we thought, tirelessly for our cause, which was supporting one another and our Marines. Our founder, worked even harder—sometimes around the clock. The message received from her, was that what we did was never enough. Never mind that most of us had jobs, never mind that most of us had families to take care of or that we put anywhere from 5 to 35 hours a week in on top of all that.
I understand now, she was frustrated. She wanted more for our guys and gals in harm’s way.  Like Sophie’s GrandMo is frustrated, Like Jill W. is frustrated, like I am frustrated over the lack of concern for what we think are monumental causes. What she (the founder of the group) didn’t realize then—but may have come to realize at some point was that everyone was just doing the best they could with what they had. It wasn’t ignorance, or apathy that kept them (us) from giving more. We just had no more to give. And who can judge what is too little?
Children are a precious gift—even the older ones. Everyone is somebodies baby. And that gives everything equal importance, in my mind at least.
We need to knock on the doors of corporations and government officials and stop berating our fellow sufferers.  Finesse donations, don’t scream for them.  Be grateful to those who can give time or money and try to understand those who can’t.
All of us just want to help people we love. That is what it all boils down to. There is nothing stronger in this world than love and maybe sometimes it makes us crazy. But I am willing to do what I can for my causes, and my friends causes—because that is what it’s all about.
If any of the above causes ring your bell, please feel free to donate your time or money or hold a fundraiser on behalf.  Or if you have a cause you would like to share about please do. Let’s start looking at these things like we are helping friends, because that is what friends do.
 
To Donate to Pediatric Cancer:
To Donate to Breast Cancer Research
To Donate for PTSD/ TBI and the Prevention of Suicide for Veterans
Or any local VA VFW center.