Squee Buddies

Sometimes it's hard to know when to get involved. Even if someone has good intentions, they might not be thought of as such by the other person. I know. I have been officially dubbed a Squee Buddy by my friend Amy. According to Amy, a Squee Buddy is a highly ranked position, and anyone bearing this title must be of great importance, for they alone are a confidont and advisor. I give her advice, and sometimes, just listen patiently while she vents.

That's what a Squee Buddy is for.

I will get involved in a situation if the other person a) asks for help, b) deserves a second opinion, or c) needs a wake up call. I do not tend to jump down people's throats telling them what they should and should not do. But if my friend is in danger, or compromising someone else, then it is time to let them take a break and let someone else take the reins.

It's hard when two friends fight. It gets harder when a third friend picks sides. So, to keep things from boiling over, I listen to each side of the story, and try to form a solution with both people in mind. I always tell my friends, "I won't get involved if you don't want me to." That gives them the freedom to make their own desicions, but also the knowledge that they are not alone. It usually works.

Some people get involved when there really isn't a need. Rumors spread, and tempers flare. It could all so easily be avoided, if people would just lsiten and practice a little patients. Some people use drama for adrenaline, I think. They don't have anything to worry about, so they create something. I know these people must have Squee Buddies too, but I often wonder if people are so bent on revenge that we've forgotten what peace is all about.

Sometimes it's hard being a Squee Buddy, but listening comes nautally to me, so it's not that bad. I think that people forget how much bonding can be done through struggling through life together. I'm glad I can help my friends when I can, because I know they would do the same for me in a heart beat.

That's what a Squee Buddy is for.

Gilded Age Arostic Poem

Greedy upper-class exploiting the
Immigrants , and the
Laborers , whose
Dreams took them to
Ellis Island,
Determined to be a part of


America's
Great
Economy

The loaded Cart

Down the dirty path I go,

Through pouring rain and driving snow.
Loaded down, and old and slow,
Down the dirty path I go.





I carry memories, I carry thoughts.
Dusty rugs, old trunks, and pots.
I carry things arcoss all lots,
These memories and forgotten thoughts.





A cart's a cart, and that's what I am,
Creaking, rocking across the land.
Gritty and brown from the dust and sand,
Think of me as a helping hand.





Times are tough, family's on the move.
They've got nothing left, so there's nothing to lose.
War changes things, that's old news,
So they head on out, in tattered shoes.



I see the sun rise and set.
Somehow, some way, we'll get there yet.
Sometimes it's dry, sometimes it's wet.
And still the sun rises and sets.





Down the dirty path I go.
Stakes are high, and the grub is low.
We're a tired lot, and I guess it shows
But still, on down the path we go.

Cha-Ching!

The United States is considered the most powerful, as well as the richest, country in the world. The problem with that is, it seems that 10% of the population has 90% of the wealth! In America, we have two extremes: people with unholy amounts of cash, say Bill Gates, and those with absolutely none, like Jazzy J, who lives on the downtown streets and busts rhymes for your spare change.
It would be dishonest to say that I don't envy the rich and the famous. Being rich, or at least well off, solves many problems, but creates new ones. Having money gives you choices, which, if made appropriately, can lead to happiness.
My family is rather poor. But we are what my mother calls "clean poor," with a small house in a small neighborhood. All seems well to others, but they don't know that we sometimes have to go through the house looking for change, so we can put a little gas in the car. We came within ten days of losing the house. We are surviving because we finally have a tennant who pays rent every month. We would play the lottery, but we don't have money for tickets. My dad is little to no help, only bringing home about $400 a month, and after paying his own rent, there isn't much left for child support. Mom has to get help from others; the church, family, friends, for money.

So why are some people's wallets so dang fat? For some, it comes from years of hard work, a good education, supporting parents, and a good job. Others are born into families who have money to begin with. Dad's a lawyer, and Mom's got a Ph.D in psychiatry. Their children can go to a good school, and live in MacMansions in crime free neighborhoods. They have no problems getting into college, at least as far as tuition is concerened, and don't have to pay off student loans.

Many of America's wealthy people give money to charity. Celebraties surrounded by a crowdof ruddy, malnourished children in Gambia grace the covers of magazines. Headlines like,"Musician Donates Thousands to Hospital" blare from newspapers. I think this is all well and good, but what happens when the money runs out? What about those of us who never recieve it? There is enough money in the world for us all to live decent, modest lives. But there will always be an imbalance when it comes money. As long as there is greed, corruption, and materialsim, there will be poor people.

There have been so many fights with my mom that I can't ever really remember what they were about. When my dad moved out, we all fought a lot. Except for my dad. He never fought for anything, for his dignity, for a better job, for his little girl.
He turned into Superman as soon as he heard the word "divorce." He spent time with Mom, and even us. He took my brother and I out to eat, like he had the money. In his apartment, he turned up Fleetwood Mack so loud the neighboors started copmlaining. Mom and he laid down in the floor, feeling the base. Mom looked so stupid. I couldn't believe she was falling for it. Andrew fell for it to. He was only eleven though.
Mom and I fought almost every day then. I kept on telling her that Dad was no different, he's just being manipulative again. It was after the base-through-the-floor experience that things that things got heated up. Was I the only sane person in the family? Our roles had been reversed; Mom was the thirteen year old girl and I was the responsible one.

"Why are you letting him do this?" I asked, feeling the tears come.
"What, he's turning himself around....aren't you happy?" I couldn't hold back any more. That was just rediculous. I somehow managed to scream through clenched teeth, "NO! And he's NOT changing...you only think he is...it's just a show to get you back!"
"And what makes you so-"
"Listen to me!" I said. 'This man....has ruined our lives. You.....and Andrew and I.....are so close to being rid of him. And here you are all crazy over a man who has not and will not change. He had plenty of fair warning before you filed for divorce. Isn't it funny how he turns into a freakin' God all of a sudden?"
"I'm in love again, Faith! Maybe this was just the push he needed to start things over."
"That's it, Mom, I don't want to start things over with him, because it's going to run the same way as it did before, except now, he doesn't have a job, he's depressed, he's about to get kicked out of his apartment...and he's DAD!!! He's childish. He's prideful, and he's lying to your face with all this BS about how he just wants the best for us. If he really did, he would sign the papers and let us move on, for God's sake!"
Mom looked at me, mascara running down her face, mouth open. She looked at me like I was someone she didn't know. I felt so powerful saying these words. I didn't even think about them before they left my mouth. It's like my heart and my brain were speaking for me. I wasn't going to go silent the way I had for so long. I didn't care if Mom was mad or sad right now. I didn't care if I was a being a "good" girl.

Dad didn't change. the divorce was made legal, my parents' marriage annulled. When the quality time ended, and Dad's "interest" in our well-being ceased, my mom would later come to me and say, softly, "You were right."

The multiple fights and this one in particular, have changed my relationship with Mom. Also, theses fights occured right at the time when I was starting to become less and less dependant on my mother, and the divorce made me grow up really fast.
I learned that parents need help too. I learned that sometimes tough love is needed as a wake up call. I learned that I had more power in me than I thought. I don't credit myself with saving my mother from years of torment, or anything like that. I just credit myself with making her realize that things are not always was they seem.

I'm still glad that my parents are separated. Mom and I still fight, because we are realted and confined in a small dirty house most of the time. She's given me tough love as well. I'm almost grown. We're both learning to deal with that.

Growing Pains

Growing up has not always been a pleasant experience for me. I learned early on that the best part of childhood is, at some point it stops. I was painfully small and shy, wieghing in at less than half the size of my classmates. At age twelve, I was roughly the size of the average seven year old.

I broke my arm in kindergarten. On a four foot slide, of all things. I was preparing to go down on my tummy, and plow head first into the soft sand below, which at the time seemed loads of fun. But shortly after I started my descent, I chickened out. I awkwardly hooked my feet around the sides of the slide, partially stopping my Hollywood stunt. Mind you, I was still slipping around, and my tiny arm came down hard on the metal railing of the slide. Coach Griffin heard the pop, and he carried me easily into the school.

The break was bad, and I was pulled out of school for the remainder of the year, which was a relief to me, because I hated that God forsaken place. This was just the beginning of many terrifying years of public school.

And that wasn't all. I had two brothers, one seven years older, who was the baine of my existence, and one two years younger, also the baine of my existence. Patrick hated me, as older brothers often do, and did everything in his power to torment me. When he wasn't doing that, he avoided me entirely. Andrew was different. He followed me everywhere, toddling after each of my own tiny steps, not meaning at all to annoy me, but doing so anyway.

I often requested that my mother throw Patrick off the deck, and that seemed to be a perfectly reasonable punsihment for ruining my life the way he did. Patrick said to Mom, in the midst of a fight, "She sounds like Bloody Mary! Off with his head!" I knew about "off with his head," but that just seemed cruel. I didn't want Patrick to die...just suffer. A lot.

My brothers and I continued to fight regularly. Blood was sometimes drawn. (I was a biter.) But over time, Patrick and I became close. I'm a young adult now, and Patrick is grown. He dumped his formal childhood title and took up the more casual "Pat." Strangely, he seemed more up tight and serious as a child, and now that he is grown, he seems to be easing up a little.

I've grown too. I'm entering adulthood with an awkward smile and a woman's body. Patrick knows this. While Andrew, now fifteen and a guard dog of a little brother, wants to shield me from danger, and any opposing male that comes into his territory, Patrick wants to prepare me for adulthood. He figures that being ready to take on life is better than trying to prevent it from ever happening.

I'm excited. I'll be eighteen soon. Wow. Adulthood. But is this realistic? I mean, is anyone ever an adult at eighteen? Or thirty two, for that matter? For some, being an adult means fending for one's self, and for others, it means looking out for your fellow man. I have a feeling I will end up doing both.

Childhood never really stops, I suppose. It just morphs into something else. We still hold on to our past experiences whether we want to or not. Our past does not necessarily make us who we are; it's what we make out of it, and whether we move forward or not. I think I'll try going down the slide again. Who knows? It could be fun.

When is Breaking the Law Justified?

Equality is a tricky little concept. Everyone needs it, but how do we get it? It's part of being human. Unfortunately, it is not easy to come by. Throughout history, and across the globe, people have had to fight to get the rights they deserve.

We all know about the American Revolution, when newly founded America was trying to gain independence from Britain. Who would have thought that the Stamp Act could so dramatically change the course of history? The whole world was laughing at this fierce little country, who obviously didn't stand a chance against Great Britain and her monarchy. But through resilience and determination, America became the most powerful country in the world, no longer a spitting kitten, but a ferocious tiger. Three documents shaped our new government, but one in particular upheld our rights. The Bill of Rights is the first ten amendments of the Constitution. This little section states our rights and freedoms as human beings, and as Americans. Many thought that the Bill of Rights would be a waste of time, but it has become a reference guide to many over the years. It is physical proof that we are all created equal.

But this has not always been so. Blacks were enslaved for hundreds of years, stripped of all moral value due to the color of their skin. Even after slavery was abolished, African Americans had little to no rights. And just as America fought for independence, blacks began to fight for equality. Thus the Civil Rights movement was born.

African Americans, fed up with the ignorance and cruelty of the rest of America, hit the country where it hurt; the workforce. At the time, blacks made up the majority of laborers, doing small jobs that seemed meaningless, but held the economy together. Maids went on strike, and others began boycotting businesses that were no "black friendly." Restaurants soon found the "Colored Section" empty, and bus lines found themselves transporting a mostly white crowd. Rosa Parks, a famous person during this time, initiated the bus boycott. Exhausted after a long day working, she sat in the front of a city bus, refusing to move to the back where the "Negroes belonged." When asked to move by a white customer, and then the driver, she sat calmly and said no, she would not get up.

Rosa Parks was arrested and sent to jail.

This outraged the public. There were a few whites who had the decency to stand by their black brothers and sisters, and they too began walking to work, instead of taking the bus. People began to wonder, did the Bill of Rights apply to blacks?

The answer is yes. Through struggle and bloodshed, people began to wake up. Schools were integrated, and the right to vote was given. Under the watchful eye of a certain Dr. King, the civil rights went as peacefully as a fight for freedom could possibly go.

Martin Luther King Jr. is a familiar name. We think of him as the leader of the Civil Rights movement, leading marches down city streets, and speaking powerfully to thousands. His ways were non violent, and productive. It was the white Americans who wanted to fight. They would not give up their superiority, and refused to even think of sitting next to a black man in a favorite restaurant. But no one was asking for superiority; just equality.

Today, the Civil rights Movement is over and done with, but the struggle for some still continues. Hope fully now, enough progress has been made, so people can focus on the word "American," and not "African."