Author: Katie Wigington

Eugene’s F Bomb

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5th Grade Longfellow Elementary San Francisco
In my fifth grade class at Longfellow Elementary in San Francisco, a boy named Eugene sat behind me. I can’t remember Eugene’s last name but it was something like Smith or Brown.  Eugene had reddish-brown hair and brown eyes, some freckles and an unremarkable look about him. His unique distinction- and we  all have one- was that he would let the F-bomb fly about twenty times a day. In 1962, in 5th grade, that was unusual.
I was a Safety Patrol. I took my safety patrol job seriously. I would wear my white belt and hold back the pedestrians until it was safe to cross the street. I obeyed the rules and I enjoyed enforcing them. I remember taking care of that white belt as if it were a living thing. I was proud of my job.
Eugene annoyed me. In addition to his cussing, he picked his nose. Since I came from a family that smacked you if you picked your nose I made an effort to never look at him because I knew I would hit him.
As the school year neared the half-way mark, I found myself hating Eugene. He started to look rat-like to me. I’m pretty sure he hated me too. Mrs. Renstrom, I have no doubt, was sick of me telling on him as much as she was sick of him swearing and finally moved me to a different spot. How she handled him, I don’t remember.
Now though- some 50 years later I think I was a little too harsh on Eugene. The F-bomb is my favorite word. I use it when I am happy, mad and sometimes sad.  It’s descriptive, it’s definitive, and it makes me feel better. It’s a little mini stress reducer in an extremely stressful world. It’s just a little word- yet it carries enormous impact. I get it now- I really do.
I would like to officially, apologize to you Eugene.  You may have grown up to be a nose picking creep, or maybe you are in the FBI or CIA or a politician somewhere. Maybe you died in some war or from some drugs or maybe you are happily married now, with four kids and six grandkids, all running around dropping the F-bomb for you.  I just want you know I get it- and Mrs. Renstrom probably got it back then. She probably felt the same – being in charge of 30 plus 5th graders when the world was changing faster than she could learn about it- let alone teach us.
Now, I can say I see the need for rules, but I break many of them. I’m loathe to make others follow any rules, too many years of herding cats to want to do that anymore. Now- I just say fuck it- and move on.

Happy Birthday Renee Ellen

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There are not too many people, who will come home from their honeymoon early to pick you up from the hospital, after a routine medical procedure. But my friend did. And over the course of 45 years she has helped me a million times. Always – always there for me- even when she’s mad at me.

For forty-five years, we have been friends. Through thick and thin. Through births and deaths and all the life stuff in between. We have worried about everything together. We have mourned together. We have shared fears and joys and blessings. Our faces have grown lined together. Our hair turned gray together.
I can’t really remember what it was that first made us friends. Maybe it was our mutual dislike of Physical Education. Perhaps we sat on the sidelines together. She was so bubbly and normal, not my usual pick in friends really. She knew everyone in school and everyone loved her, which normally would make me dislike someone. Instead- she became my best friend.
She adopted me. She brought me home to her family and shared them with me. They didn’t quite get me at first. They thought I was too fast for her- and I was. Too experienced, too edgy, too worldly- already at 15 or 16, whatever we were.  
We spent holidays together; we walked down Magnolia St. with our pink lemonade and vodka in our short-shorts and halter-tops, watching the Fourth of July Parade. We spent every day together. If we had secrets from each other, they remain so to this day. I don’t think we did though.
We had a million laughs. With her family cracking crab, making tamales, lecturing us, drinking our wine, telling our crazy stories. And we had a million tears too.
Her family became my family. Her parents bossed me around and for the first time in my life, I liked it. Her nephews were my nephews. Her sister, my sister. She even let me fall in love with her brother for a while.
I was protective towards her. Hating anyone who would dare to hurt her. Like an older sister- I kept an eye on her- hoping she wouldn’t make the mistakes I had already made.
No boy ever came between us. Her husband understood from the start that I came with the deal. (thankfully)  

We fought sometimes as sisters do. We misinterpreted each others words or looks or sometimes silence. We drifted apart a time or two- but never in our hearts.

Tomorrow is Renee Ellen Mistron Gallagher’s  60th Birthday.
I am so fortunate to have you as my friend. My support. My sister of the heart.
I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without you- so I just wanted to say thank you for being born. (oh and thank Elsie for doing the work ;o) )
Love you much,
Katie

Save Our Veterans

/ Katie Wigington / 3 Comments

They come home as heroes. We – their families and loved ones hang banners, meet buses and wave flags. We are so proud. So relieved. We check their faces for signs of stress. We look at them with a magnifying glass. Still, we don’t see it.

It doesn’t take us long to forget their reality. I bet you can’t wait to get a job, go to school, get married, have kids. Whoa, they say. Hold up a minute- I need to chill a little here.

So, they party and spend their war money. We know the signs, we all read up on this before they come home. But, but, what about that job Uncle Mike wants to give you? We can’t seem to help ourselves.

They are depressed. They sleep. They lock themselves in their rooms and don’t come out for days, sometimes months. They go to bars and fight. They buy their dead buddies drinks and won’t let anyone sit on the bar stool where the drink is sitting. They cry.

I’ll take you to the VA if you need a ride, we tell them. We are met with a blank stare. Or worse. They can’t sleep. When they do sleep they have nightmares. They wake up swinging, hit whoever is in their way. Their guilt increases. They can’t help themselves. They drink some more. They take the pills the VA hands out like candy.

They are reckless. They cheated the odds before why not again? They ride motorcycles, drive fast cars, jump off cliffs with paper wings, walk dark alleys, sleep with strangers. Risk becomes their high.

They rant. They rave. They don’t give a fuck. They hate you. They hate life. Five, six, seven years later. Still holed up in a small, dark room. Can’t get dressed. Can’t watch the news. Can’t read a book. Can’t take a piss without punching the bathroom wall.

Our heroes. Who’re their heroes? Can’t be us. We haven’t done shit for them. Clean your room you’ll feel better. Get a haircut you’ll feel better. You just need to get a job, meet a nice girl, nice guy, get a dog, have some kids, you’ll be fine. Trust me.

They hurt themselves. Some of them need those scars on the outside to explain why the inside is so messed up. They long for war days. It was easier, they tell us. I’d rather be shot at all day long than try to find a fucking job in California, Nebraska, Oklahoma…pick a state.

This is a call out. I’m calling you out to get them some help. We owe them. If you are one of those people that say, I never asked anyone to go to war for me. Then I hope you never need my help. I hope you never need THEIR help. (and please don’t be my friend on anything)

Our heroes are dying before our very eyes. For some, suicide is the only way- because they can’t figure out how to live in this world. We can help them. But we have to be dogged in our resolve. We cannot give up because we hit a few bumps in the road. These are our sons, our daughters, our husbands, wives, nephews, nieces, cousins, neighbors. FRIENDS.

 

 

Cooking Lessons

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Yesterday my 20-year-old niece, Francesca, told me she wanted to learn to cook and bake. I told her she should come over anytime and I will show her a few things. I invited her for dinner tonight and when I picked her up, I told her this would be a cooking lesson too.
Basically- Chessie is starting at ground zero in the kitchen. Boiling water. So I didn’t want to get too complex- but she might as well make good tasting food – so we started with Nonno Chicken, AuGratin Potatoes, sautéed broccoli and banana nut bread for desert.
First, we boiled the potatoes while I cleaned up the kitchen. 6 Med size russets – skin on.  
After I got the kitchen cleaned up, we took the chicken breast and pounded them to about ½ thick. – And set aside. Then I cut the broccoli and par-boiled.
I shredded the cheese for the potatoes.
Chessie looked on while I explained why I was doing things in the order I was doing them- which is so everything would finish at the same time of course.
Next, I showed her how to peel the skins off the potatoes and cut them for the buttered casserole dish. Then diced a ½ onion to sprinkle in with the potatoes.
I took the par-boiled broccoli and put in a pan with minced garlic, butter, olive oil, salt & pepper. Set aside for later.
Then I made the cheese sauce for the potatoes with a butter/flour roux, and then added milk, the 2 cups of cheddar (shredded) and ½ cup of Romano/Parmesan.
Chessie and I were talking about all kinds of things while we were cooking. School, different careers, your forgiven screw up window (age 16-22) and family- she wanted to know about my mother- her Nonnie.
We poured the cheese sauce over the potatoes and then topped with bread crumbs and a little more cheese.- Popped in the over at 375.
We took our pounded chicken breasts and dipped them in egg with crushed rosemary, garlic powder, salt & pepper. Then dipped in seasoned bread crumbs.  We browned the breaded chicken breasts briefly in olive oil and butter – then placed them on a cookie sheet. We deglazed the pan with Raspberry vinegar and a little more butter and then poured that over the chicken.
We set the chicken aside for a bit and cleaned up the kitchen again.
The potatoes had browned perfectly- so I pulled them out and put the chicken in the oven for 10 minutes at 350. I turned up the heat on the broccoli.  
While the dinner was in its last few minutes of cooking- Chessie mashed the bananas for the Chiquita Banana Bread Mix. We took the chicken out of the oven after about 10 minutes and put the Banana bread in. (350)
We sat and ate our dinner. I think Chessie was happy- she cleaned her plate!
It was great to spend an evening with my niece. It was fun to share some of my recipes with her and show her how easy cooking can be if you plan a little bit. I did tell her sometimes it doesn’t always work out with everything being ready on time- but you learn to adjust (and BS ) your way through it.
I’ve always had a comfortable relationship with Chessie, but I think tonight we bonded a little more. In many ways, she reminds me of me- maybe a little less hard –headed. But if I can share anything to make her life a little easier- whether it’s cooking or something else- I’m happy to do it.
I’ve solved a lot of problems in the kitchen- I hope to share that recipe with Chessie too.  

He is America’s Son

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Sgt. Bales
It’s time to pick our jaws up off the ground. Stop being so shocked that our active duty troops are falling apart and find a way to help them.  
This last week when the news came out about Sgt. Bales, the soldier accused of killing 17 Afghan civilians, (many of them children, and for no apparent reason) sent shock waves around the world. But I was not that surprised. Sickened and saddened- but not surprised.
The first thing I did was go to my facebook page to see what my fellow Marine parents had to say about this. Oddly enough- they were mostly silent save for a few that were immediately fearful for the lives of the troops having to deal with justifiably angry Afghans in the aftermath.  I thought to myself- maybe they all know in their hearts- this could be one of our kids. What could we say?  How should we feel?
I admit my perspective is skewed after all these years as a Marine Mom. After reading thousands and thousands of news articles regarding the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, after receiving 5000 plus US troop death notifications from the DOD in my in box- and after reading everything  ever written about PTSD- yes my perspective is probably not like most peoples.
I work and live in ultra-liberal anti war Marin County. I try not to discuss issues of war with anyone. To me it is personal, war is personal it’s not a theory or a political stance- it’s what my son and his friends have experienced up close and in person. It’s what all my fellow Marine families, and Army families have experienced.  I am very war weary myself. I am not a gung-ho war monger. (I don’t know any mom that is)  I would like nothing better than to see us out of these Arab wars for once and all- but I would like to see us end it without destroying what good we have done and without destroying the sense of duty that our troops have felt over the last 11 years. Without creating more “Vietnam” style vets- that came home to hostile territory, that were told they fought a war that was pointless- that were told they lost arms, legs, eyes, hearing and moral bearing for nothing. There are vet’s that spent years trying to recover and many never did- they still live under bridges, in the woods, on the streets, trapped in crazyville and unable to deal with the world, such as it is, today. No, I don’t want to see that happen again.  It already is though. On any given night- according to the VA and the Departments of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) they estimate that over 67,000 veterans are homeless. HOW does this happen? WHY are we not taking care of these men and women?
I’m not defending Sgt. Bales actions, but I’m not condemning him either. I think he snapped. I think he saw too many of his friends get blown up and shot up. These are pictures that will NEVER leave his brain. I think he felt a certain amount of survivors guilt and I think he lost all ability to figure out how to fix his unraveling life both in the Army and at home in the US. Like any of us might- (and so few of us can even imagine his world) in an untenable situation, trapped in a hostile, remote part of the world- he snapped.  
I just have to stop for a minute- every time I read an incendiary report about this and try to understand that most people feel there is no reasoning behind the actions Sgt. Bales took. I do understand their anger, I am angry too. My anger is directed towards the people don’t care about our troops who are deployed 15 months (Army) and some many as 5 COMBAT deployments in 5 years (Marines) and my anger is directed  towards the people who constantly say stupid things like “Well, he signed up for this right?”
In the last few years, I have made a concentrated effort to back away from all things Marine Corps, all things war related. I had to for the sake of my own mental health. But my support of our troops and our veterans has never waivered. It never will. I purposely don’t write about these issues because it usually starts some sort of riot. But riot be damned- people need to wake up and understand the facts before they go off on their crusades.
If I were Sgt. Bales mother, I would love him just as much today as the day he was born. Maybe more. And so that is how I think I prefer to think of Sgt Bales. Not as a monster that killed 17 people in cold blood- but as a son who is sick and needs help. He is her son, and he is America’s son. I hope he gets the help he needs.
Side note: I do understand that Afghanistan has been under siege for so many years most of her citizens don’t remember peacetime. I have no doubt they are war weary- and suffer from extreme PTSD. Some of them hate us and some of them tolerate us. Few of them love us. This incident has done severe harm to the tenuous relationship between the allied forces, the US and Afghanistan and we need to be on high alert for retaliation. I’m fairly certain “we” will never be forgiven for the crime against these families. Having said that- I hope we don’t hang Sgt Bales to prove a point to the Afghans’ that we are sincere in our apology. We need to be loyal to our own first.

We need to make it clear to the President of the United States- that it is not okay to treat these hideous incidents as anything other than a horrible case of PTSD and/or TBI or at best temporary insanity. We need to get the word out to as many people as possible that the way our troops and vets are being treated is not acceptable. We need to demand they get the treatment they need. The United States government owes its thanks and protection to these men and women that have sacrificed their lives, limbs and in many cases their very souls to fight terrorism and protect the freedoms we have in the United States. It’s up to us to get the word out- do not use Sgt. Bales as a human sacrifice to win some points with the Arab world.

Happy Birthday Baby 2-28-12

/ Katie Wigington / 3 Comments

You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. You saved my life the minute you were born; maybe the minute you were conceived. I love that you got the best of two very flawed people- with just a smidgen of our flaws- so that maybe you could relate to us a little.
Since you were just a little guy you always brought the best out of the worst of us. The curmudgeonliest old people smiled when they saw you totter across a room. Weathered old sailors and grizzled mechanics, waitresses, grocery clerks and plenty of strangers always commented about what a cool or amazing kid you were.
You have been my hero always. Before the Marines, before your first steps, your old soul eyes looked into mine and I knew you were special.
I could not be more proud of the man you have become. You may feel burdened sometimes taking care of everyone like you do- but I watch in awe and feel such pride being your mom. (Though I take no credit for your incredible ability to help everyone.)
I hope this birthday is a great one for you. I hope this year brings you peace of mind, joy and pride in yourself.
You are the perfect son for me. The best gift I was ever given.
I love you with all my heart. 
Happy Birthday, Nicholas John Nakamoto
Mom

There for the Grace of God go I.

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I woke up this morning thinking about a dinner conversation we had last night. All week long, I have heard disparaging words about Whitney Houston and her death, always using the “real heroes” are our soldiers, sailors and Marines in argument of her hero status.
Why does honoring one have to take from the other?  Heroes come in all shapes and sizes. For thousands of underprivileged (or call it like it is- dirt poor) kids in New Jersey and scattered around the U.S., Whitney Houston was a hero. She was a black woman who made it big– and she became successful, famous and wealthy by almost anyone’s standards. That her life fell apart is only a bit of her story- yet it’s the part some  people want to focus on.
I never understand why it always has to be one way or another. Why does my hero have to be your hero?  I have more than a few heroes. My son of course, even before he became a Marine and went to fight a war in Iraq- he was my hero. My dad- even though he was not the best dad, my mom, even though she was not the best mom, lots of writers, several friends for various reasons, a fireman I am related to, a few policeman I know and yes, the troops- the people that put themselves in harms way for our freedoms. I’m not one to idolize movie stars or musicians, it’s just not my thing, but I can see quite clearly why people do idolize them. Many people need to see a shining star within reach. It’s not a bad thing. I don’t understand the disdain.
I look at it like this. Whitney Houston was somebody’s mother, somebody’s daughter, somebody’s friend and so on. Why should her loved ones hurt any less because she wasn’t perfect, or a Marine or a soldier or fireman?  If you believe in God- and most of you do- why is her life less precious to God than anyone else’s?  
I was not one bit surprised by the death of Whitney Houston. I watched her downward spiral for a long time. I was however; surprised by the lack of compassion by so many people- people who thought the attention was over the top. I hate to think it was a racist thing, but I don’t remember anyone being this angry over the attention Amy Winehouse got for her untimely self induced death.
It’s not for me to say or you to say- who the “real” heroes are for anyone other than ourselves. But, if you can’t look at the world from a point of view other than your own, then you have my sympathy.  
As for Whitney’s demise-  There but for the Grace of God go I.

So this is Sixty…

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On this day, my 60th birthday, I am up at 6AM. It’s only fitting I guess that in a week that sleep was a priceless commodity, I squander it now to write something about turning 60.
Sixty – feels just like 59. But it sounds better to me. Better on so many levels- like I made it to sixty- or- I am sixty dammit- don’t treat me like a child, moron, idiot (you pick the noun).
I already perused facebook, commented to some annoying person, and chatted with one of my Marine Mom’s this morning. I checked my emails, drank two cups of coffee, and so far I have to say that 60 is just like 59.
I received a couple of very nice cards from well-wishers. One card from my oldest, dearest friend – we have actually grown old together (45-46 years of friendship), how great is that? One card in particular caught my attention because it’s from a new, young friend, who said in the card that I bring joy and light to her. I don’t see myself as bringing joy and light to too many people. I bring something… sharp wit, a few laughs, intelligent conversation, hard-headedness, but not so much joy and light. That I am able to bring this to her made me feel better about myself. Maybe sixty has smoothed some rough edges. Maybe my new friend looks at me through fresh young eyes and doesn’t see the baggage, the scars, the information highway which grooves my face.
I am having breakfast with two old friends this morning- then dinner with my sisters. I plan on doing the things I enjoy today- like reading, writing, riding my bike and walking my dog.
I don’t plan on reminiscing my way though the past 59 birthdays or future tripping on what 60 will be like. I’m just going to do the same thing that got me here- and keep putting one foot in front of the other. Maybe I’ll watch my step closer.
I have just a few words of wisdom for those of you behind me in this trip. Take care of your skin, your teeth, your feet and your back. (I didn’t)  If you smoke- quit now- (I did) it may buy you a few years. Don’t get fat- it’s nearly impossible to get rid of it later. (I’m trying)  Find beauty in something. Have passion for something. Hang on to your friends. Don’t let anyone use you as a doormat. Don’t complicate things. Feed your brain and keep it nimble with books. Learn new words as often as possible. Focus on the now- not the future or the past.

The True Confession of an Obit Reader

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Okay, so I read the obits. So what? I bet you do too. I bet everyone over the age of 40 reads them, or younger if you are Italian. I bet you wonder what killed them if it doesn’t say. I do, especially if they are young- or my age. Sometimes you can tell by the charity chosen to donate to. Sometimes it is the Humane Society, so then you’re left to wonder.

I started reading the obits in my 20’s. My mom read them too. She would call me when I lived in San Francisco and she lived in Marin- and ask me to check the San Francisco obits for relatives and friends.
My reasons for reading them now are two-fold. Or so I tell myself anyway. First because I do have a morbid curiosity to know if anyone I know died. Second, I like to critique them. Now the latter sounds bad- but I can’t help it. It has made me somewhat obsessive about my own obit, so I am either going to write it myself- or possibly trust my son to make it a good one. (Depending on how much of a surprise my departure is.)
I am particularly curious about the people that lived to be ninety and their obituary has almost nothing in it.  Mind you, I don’t want mine to read every little detail. “Katie was wild as a youth, ran away from home several times, was somewhat promiscuous in her twenties (it was the 70’s people) and drank like a fish until she was in her late thirties.”
No, I don’t want that. (Nick, please note.) But some accomplishments- other than giving birth to an awesome kid- would be nice. And if I died of being hit by a big old bus- then say so- I don’t want my friends and other obit aficionados to wonder how I ended up wherever I end up.
I live where I grew up, so I’m seeing more and more names I know in the obits these days. Most of them I haven’t seen in forty years- so I won’t be running off to their funerals. That would be too Harold and Maude, even for me.
Lately, I’ve found a couple of other good uses for obits.  Character names and profiles are a plenty in that section. Of course, I mix and match- but grabbing real careers and names makes very believable characters.
 Lastly- reading the obits really reminds me to live like there is no tomorrow. Live passionately and be true to yourself- because it may be a one-trip deal. (As much as I like the thought of reincarnation- just in case- I like to hedge those bets.)
So here is hoping I don’t see your name anytime soon and if you see mine- I hope the following blurb gives you a couple of laughs.
Happy Weekend! 

I’m Glad I’m not Voting Today

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I’ve been sitting on my hands for a couple of weeks now- trying so hard to not say anything about the political chaos going on. I just took a walk and tried to think of something else I could write about that might be of interest to someone- anyone.

All week long one sentence kept going through my head though. And this is what it was:
If I were President Obama, I would be dancing a jig right now.
Honestly, I don’t know where I stand in the political turmoil. I’m observing- and sharing my observations with you. I don’t vote party line because I don’t agree with either side 100%. So I vote for the person. I look for someone with the qualities that I find attractive in any human being. Intelligence, compassion, fairness, honesty (forthrightness), and a sense of humor. The later being important in the balance of all things grave and important- you do have to know when to laugh. I apply the same criteria to picking my friends.
I am not interested in religious doctrine when it comes to running this country. I do not care what religion anyone is as long as it does not interfere with affairs of state or as long as they don’t impose their views on me. I remember the controversy surrounding John Kennedy as the first Roman Catholic. He was a “damn Catholic”. I do not recall- and maybe because I was young, but I don’t recall in any history I have read, him ever making decisions based on his religion. It would stand to reason since he was a practicing Catholic, that he was pro-life, which means he couldn’t be elected as a Democrat today. But Pro Life and Pro Choice was not an issue in the 60’s. Illegal abortions were the rage back then. Death by rusty coat hanger was the solution to the problem of pregnancy.
I would like to see us not become involved in any more wars that are none of our business. YES- I know there is a global war on terrorism. (That is like a world war only sneakier) I know our country needs oil or we will become a 3rd world country in the dark, tuit de’suite. So I am willing to try a little diplomacy. A little psychology.
Many of the world’s leaders are nut jobs. The Arab Spring cleaned up some of it- but there is much more to go. North Korea, Iran and Syria are the most pressing at this moment in time. Many African nations are lurking in the nut trees too. We cannot take our eyes off of any of them. Not for a minute.
I remember when President Obama was running for President and he said, “We’re going to change the way we do things in Washington.” (DC). I actually did laugh out loud. I remember saying to whoever was in the room at the time-( maybe it was the dogs-) that he was in for a big surprise.
All candidates from all parties make promises they can’t keep- because all candidates are not privy to all the facts. They think they are- but they are not. And we sure aren’t either.
That was why after President Obama was elected- his plan for getting our butts out of Iraq changed slightly. Then much to the surprise of many, including me, he took an aggressive stance in Afghanistan- (which most American’s had forgotten about) and ramped up the troops. Because he knew more then he did before he was elected. It’s one of the perks of being President.
President Obama inherited a huge mess of a country. Everything was in the fiscal toilet. The housing market was a disaster and we were in or within a minute of being in a recession. I don’t think the President has the power to magically fix the mess he was handed. And I don’t think President Bush was the soul person responsible for the mess either.
The turn around has been painfully slow, but finally this week the economist’s have had some good news for us- and President Obama. Things are starting to go in a positive direction again. That is not why I think President Obama should be doing a jig. No- the reason I think he should be doing a jig is because the GOP has not produced a viable candidate – at least for me. I know a lot of Republican’s that are saying they have not decided yet- or flat out, they don’t like any of them. It will be interesting to watch this race.
And while many of the people that voted for Obama have been disappointed because he didn’t act fast enough, or changed his mind, armed with new information- still I doubt many staunch Democrats will be voting Republican.  Maybe- if they are like me- and vote for the man or woman and not the party some Democrats will cross over and visa versa.  The political gulf is widening though.
Bipartisan is a dirty word right now. I would personally like to see the politicians grow up and start figuring out where to compromise – because Congress is a joke if they can’t get anything passed- and that alone forces any President to make Executive Orders or *recess confirmations. The founding fathers made sure you could not keep the decisions of the country at a standstill. (*The question of the legality of the appointment will undoubtedly go to court- I am guessing that they will find it legal.)
I’m trying to convince myself my vote matters. I’m trying to figure out if I want health insurance for my preexisting conditions or not. I’m trying to figure out if I will have to live in a world full of bigots and people that think God is only for Christian’s and Americans.  I’m trying to figure out what will happen to the fragile economy if we make the wrong decision. I’m trying to figure out how many more troops – how many more mother’s sons or daughters will have to be killed in tribal wars that have gone on since the beginning of time and will likely continue long after we bring our troops home. (Yet I would be willing to go fight for the rights of women in those countries.) I’m trying to figure out if the economy will turn around or will I actually have to work till the day I drop dead.  I have no money so I’m not really worried about taxes right now.I am worried about civil rights, gay rights, and human rights.
I have more questions than answers. I want a hybrid candidate. One that offers solutions instead of insults and one that has the capacity to communicate with world leaders with respect where due- and be able to act swiftly, with might when necessary. I want a candidate that will respect the civil rights of Americans and the human rights of Americans and everyone else.
Maybe that is too much to ask of any human being.