Young people give me hope some days…
“Introduction: How is America still a place of Injustice?” by Amy Lee https://link.medium.com/VEis32Jc47
Young people give me hope some days…
“Introduction: How is America still a place of Injustice?” by Amy Lee https://link.medium.com/VEis32Jc47
I am certain it is not clear to you the extent of my loss. The lemon tree that took 19 years to bear fruit; buried atop my son’s placental home; planted by my mother who died in my son’s nineteenth year in her bedroom, in the house I’d lived in all my life-she knew him, she helped birth him, she drove like a javelin to Santa Monica, to the converted farmhouse that served as a freestanding birthing center, ensuring his literal birth in a barn. This lemon tree was cut down…by the subcontractor…who is now dead.
My son grew up in that house. He called it a crapshack because he was, in childhood, quite gangling and sometimes ungainly. He was forever stubbing his toes. It was a cottage. It couldn’t be helped that he was a bull in a china shop. Nevertheless, that crapshack was his childhood home and the satellite around which we wove our travels in the world.
We built, my mother and I, a library in that house. Venice thrift shops provided much of our largesse. We collected, and read, hundreds of books. Destroyed, now, many of them, the bookcase standing in the yard with many of my other klediments.
I knew the man who built my crapshack, by hand. He was a JW. His name was Elmer Lambert. His wife’s name was Ima. I remember they had a daughter, but might also have had a son. The house was a one-bedroom cottage with hardwood floors, built in cabinetry, a counter between front room and kitchen that could be used as a table, serving area, and lookout point. The front door boasted a barn-door type window, giving an unimpeded view of the front and side yard. The doorway was wider than average.
All the doors in my house, save the front entry, opened to the left. Behind the door to the bedroom, Mom had built a linen closet to house our dishtowels, cuptowels, bath towels, sheets, small blankets, some small kitchen appliances. The left-opening door, when left open, provided cover for the cabinet.
I had to step down once into the kitchen. I had a white ceramic sink that was deep, and boasted knobs for hot and cold. It was a piece of a countertop, cookware storage, and under the sink storage unit. Facing the sink, my stove was to my right. I had hooks, hangers, cabinets on the upper walls to the left; a hanger for mugs, a couple of places to hang dish towels. Had a mirror mounted in there, and a light. The large rectangular window above me provided morning light from the east.
I love to cook. My son loves to cook, but he has to have a whole lot of room and prep area. Me? I can whip up something palatable with a couple of burners, but it gets monotonous. I’ve been living like poverty for over a year now with a gas stove that is not connected to the gas line because the contractor left the line capped, providing no connector. There are many gas lines under this structure because a gas line was run to operated the gas dryer I do not have and to the hot water heater that was placed alongside the “driveway” because this structure was built without plans.
The flooring in the bathroom is mushy and feels about to give way at any moment; there’s a leak somewhere, likely because the shower was not installed properly and was not sealed. I have no warranties, even thought I was promised three years of warranties by Safeco Liberty Mutual if only I worked with their preferred contractor.
I had a back door, through which I could generate cross-ventilation, get to my back yard easily. I still have the t-poles for my clothesline, but my undamaged workshop was torn down to make way for a “garage”. There was a scheme to turn my verdant paradise into a heat island, bordered by asphalt and cement. My yard was full of green and flowering plants, including succulents, bougainvillea, lavender, night-blooming jasmine, honeysuckle, a variety of roses. This in an area zoned for livestock and farming. I live in the County of Los Angeles. There are horses here. There are chickens here. There are nurseries here. But the County is gentrifying, which brings me to my property tax status.
In California, in Los Angeles County, in 2015, my property taxes were ~$650 per year. Now, in 2019, my property taxes have tripled. This job, done by Vince Paglia, was accomplished by tearing down my 1923 hand built Rambler home. I had a workshop in the back yard with a waist-high, full-length hard wood worktable. There were shelves that I remember saving magazines in because of the vertical dividers in the cabinet. There were shelves and cubbyholes on the walls. There was a great, heavy wooden drawer, that I possess still, that fit into the worktable. Vince Paglia tore down my workshop, the unpermitted expansion that was used for storage to put up a parking lot and I don’t eeeven have a car.
I miss Segovia. Segovia was a death cactus that grew in a ring of tires. Segovia was very tall, perhaps 7′-8′, and bloomed at night. When in bloom, Segovia’s scent wafted over the yard, blending with the night-blooming jasmine, sometimes the honeysuckle and lavender very faintly. Segovia provided most of the privacy in my back yard, grown along with the honeysuckle that grew on the fence. When Mama Gin lived next door, she was a homeowner who worked for the IRS. Her son served in the Air Force. Her daughter was a flit. She and Mom shared the care of the trees planted along the property lines between the houses. Mr. Lambert took care of most general maintenance, but Mom was pretty handy with tools. Mom and I took care of the gardening and yard maintenance when I was growing up.
I remember Mr. Lambert gave me my first nickname. He called me Sputnik because I was his satellite as he worked about the place, prattling to him with my 2 or 3 year old self. Ima, Mrs. Lambert, always offered me fruit. I grew up kindly towards the JWs because I grew up with experience of the Lamberts.
I used to play and work in my workshop. I haven’t been able to use my spinning wheels because the inadequate garage is packed to the gills with my household goods. I haven’t been able to unpack because the house is now smaller, configured differently, has not even a closet, though a one-bedroom, one-bathroom was paid for. More than $80K was given to Paglia for goods not in this structure. I wish I did have the vent-free, infra-red heaters for which he received pay. I wish I had my back door. I wish the attic vents had been installed instead of the fire sprinklers for which I have no instruction manual. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with these things because I never had them in my home before.
Vince Paglia and Kent Stiles of Safeco Liberty Mutual have put me in a bad way, I tell you what. I learned from reading the legal bric-a-brac that your insurance provider is not supposed to leave you any worse off than you were before you filed your homeowner’s claim. Maybe this is why Stiles has changed my claim number from 12-digit number to 22-digit number, and when I call to inquire about this claim number that I don’t recognize, no one else recognizes it either. This brand new claim number is recorded on my claim history with the databases that record such data and hold it for seven years, along with the date of loss of every claim I’ve ever allegedly filed with Safeco Liberty Mutual, the cause of said loss, and the amount paid out to mitigate the loss. This brand new to me claim number even says my loss was caused by water. Imagine, the insurance company is recording false information; my loss was caused by the wind.
If my claim settled and paid out $48K under one claim number, why are $430K and $439K recorded under that new claim number as the amount paid out on those official records? Those records can impact the premium I’ll have to pay for insurance when I manage to escape from Safeco Liberty Mutual.
I have referred to the scam through which I’ve been put as GASLIGHTING. I hate being gaslighted, especially by a corporation that should have a fiduciary responsibility towards me, the insured, who paid premiums, on time, since 2011. Instead of being appreciated, I’ve been robbed.
I believe Safeco Liberty Mutual and Paglia and Associates do not appreciate the severe loss they have caused me. I think the dead contractor kindled the wrath, though….
A friend sent me a video in Messenger that detailed many of the ways you can end up dead in America if you happen to have been born Black. It stung me. It is the 21st C. and we are still with this white supremacist bullshit.
The video made me think about Emmett, that and an article I read by Dr. GS Potter, who seems to be a phantom, about why we can’t automatically believe all women when they cry sexual assault victim. I thought about the parallels I drew between Emmett Till and Tom Robinson in To Kill a Mockingbird. Both dead as a result of doing something ordinary, both dead because of the believed white woman’s word.
When I feel more composed I will figure out how to embed the video. I want to have the ability to watch it several times. Emmett Till died as a result of purchasing penny bubble gum. Tom Robinson ended up convicted and dead because he offered kindness to a poor white girl, abused by her father and sneered at by the townies. Philando Castile hurts all the more because he was riding in his girlfriend’s car with a young girl child in the back seat, because he’s dead and mother and daughter are traumatized how many ways ’til Sunday?
Doing mundane things can get you killed in America if you are visibly Black. Sandra Bland is dead because she allegedly didn’t signal a turn.
What the fuck is this?
HOMELESS PEOPLE. IT IS A VIOLATION OF HUMAN RIGHTS TO TREAT HOMELESS PEOPLE THE WAYS WE DO. DENIAL OF A PLACE TO RELIEVE ONE’S SELF, DENIAL OF WATER, VIOLATIONS OF HUMAN RIGHTS.
Why do we have people living on the streets in large numbers in America and that shit’s okay? We officially have pavement dwellers like those I observed in parts of the Indian subcontinent that were, at the time, suffering large in-migrations of rural people into the cities, looking for work. They lived in the garbage dumps. In America, the area surrounding the homeless is turned into a dump because of lack of access to the basics: a place to cook, a place to squat it out later, a place to lay your head.
Seems so simple, the fix to this. So many rich politicians could afford to house all the homeless people on their many properties. Why do we, the people, allow these conditions affecting people just like you or me, to persist? Are we truly anesthetized? Are we truly that unfeeling? Is there no longer any creature recognition going on?
What the fuck is really going on, people?
In 1955 Money, Mississippi, Black people had a greater chance of being lynched, and of having the lynchers get off because of the low prosecution rates for violent crimes against Blacks, but in support of white female purity and white male superiority. Carolyn Bryant only recently confessed that she lied. Her believed lies got a 14 year old boy tortured, mutilated, slaughtered.
Hikkikomori looking better and better e’er day.
Here’s a phrase that sincerely chaps my ass. What if the police ask you to describe me? Whachugonsay?
Discovered my disgust with this statement after getting into a discussion about who can and can’t say nigger. We concluded with the thought that anyone can say anything (conditional) because this is a country that constitutionally guarantees freedom of speech. I added that saying anything means being ready and able to take the consequences of those utterances.
See, you can’t say nigger to everyone. I don’t care how you spell it, inflect it, think it’s cute or a term of endearment, you can’t say that to everyone. Some folks have a reflexive action to being called nigger. They will bust you in the mouth, with love, ’cause they ain’t having it. I think I am one of those people.
Nigger is a slur, an ethnophaulism. How’d you like it if I walked up to you and called you my Dago, my Wop, my Mick, my Chink, my Gook, my Buddhahead, my Guinea, my Spic, my Kike, (recent) my Beaner? Does it grate a little? If not, do you know someone who might not share your attitude?
It is difficult to find a slur for whites that carries the same punch as nigger. By becoming white, those ethnics who look more like the dominant group eventually became white. Hunky or honky no longer packed a punch. Even Jews thought, and think, they were white. It only takes a second to be disabused of that notion when faced with real crackers who think the kikes are out to replace them.
We are all color struck. We are overly concerned with the color of another’s skin because to be anything other than a variation of pink is to be diminished in the world. We don’t talk about slavery. We don’t talk about Jim Crow. We don’t talk about the Trail of Tears. We don’t talk about segregation, an active factor in our lives today. Why are we all color struck, especially those who come here from other countries where there may or may not be a racial history of torture and abuse? Loss of cultural and historical memory? Loss of self-awareness? Loss of our humanity? For certain, it is because we have been taught to be conscious of color, particularly for purposes of differentiation and separation.
We need to speak to one another in the way we wish to be addressed. Don’t come @ me with your nigger speak. I really will bust you in your mouth, with love, and dare you to call the police. Since you don’t see color, you won’t be able to give a credible description and I will go on my way, hoping I taught you something of value.
You can file a Small Claims case online in California Superior Court. You can file for personal injury to get restitution.
You know who filed this morning? For the first time since 2008, I slept 6 hours last night because I finally got physical proof that the gang members have been blocking my driveway. Finally got a police report. My case file grows . . ..
On Thursday, my neighbor of 50 years said to me, “Fuck your mother.” Unfortunately, I wished him the same. However, I think his remark was out of bounds as I only asked him to move his car forward a little bit to make it easier for me to get out of my driveway. We had a screaming fest, heavily laden with expletives, as I mainly parroted back what was shouted at me, as it is not customary for me to be playing the dozens and yelling in the street like a fishmonger’s wife.
So, I’m taking his mother to Small Claims Court to get my $7500. I think I have a great torts case. Got some negligence involved, intentional injury, PTSD, and possible punitive damages. Most important, I have years of supporting documentation. Preliminary research begun. . ..
Unwritten is the assumption, in some households, that you will flush a closed toilet and leave the lid closed upon exit.
Once I learned the practice, searching for the logic of it followed.
It seems waste matter is aerosolized in the flush process. Invisible drops of raw sewage are deposited on all exposed surfaces.
An imposing Anglo man, over six feet to my five foot nothing, sternly taught me the lesson of close the lid before flushing when I demonstrated my lack of knowledge by violating this toileting rule. I’d also left the top up. I never forgot his instruction. He gave an entirely new meaning to the term ‘anal’.
Visiting a girlfriend of recent acquaintance, I saw a sign posted in her bathroom. It read:
Close the lid before flushing.
Leave the lid down when you exit.
Clear instructions without the intimidation. Priceless.
Mom told me that them Texas crackers didn’t ‘preciate seeing Black people doing better than they were. Didn’t like the fact that even though they had their collective foot on Black folks’ neck that they had better cars, better houses, dressed with style and flair, and the men had far more sexually exotic women.
My bf told me his dad would not drive the new car he’d earned working hard for Mr. Chawly every day because he’d never get another raise or promotion if he did.
Bronco Baama didn’t carry the white, working-class-wanna-be-middle-class men because they don’t like the fact that he’s got a better car, better house, is better dressed and has a wife who is way hotter than theirs. He irks Congress because he’s beaten them at their own game, broken down the gates of the last bastion of the good ol’ boys, and looks better while he plays.
Let us not forget he IS a lawyer. Indicating he’s better educated, well-traveled, intercultural, and while many have tried to question his birthplace, no one has challenged his credentials. Yet, I heard Mittens call Bronco Baama a boy and a liar, in front of millions, with the recalling of one anecdote during the first presidential debate. He’s the mouthpiece of his undereducated, working-and-lower-class, underinformed, tea-party base (crackas), which is ludicrous as he’s rich as Croesus and hasn’t much of a clue about how the little people live, despite his experience as a Mormon bishop.
The last gasp of a redundant class smells of the sourest of grapes.
Chin-Chin; (I learned that watching Call the Midwife. I absolutely adore Chummy!)