Vote

Yesterday I voted and just as I said I would do, I wrote in a candidate.  My husband told me that I wasted my vote, but I don't feel I did.  Change starts as small and simple as a whisper; or in my case, on e ballot.  If it had not been for those in our history bold enough to be willing to let their one voice be heard above the many, we would still be sitting still, steeped in the ashes of our faults.

Whether we move forward or backward in our society depends on the people we place in leadership.  It seems other countries get this, but the "world leader," America, seems to lack enough people with the courage to fight back against its governmental injustices.  For those who are willing, they are quickly shut down by advertisements and support groups who show how "fairly" they treat the people versus the truth in their crimes. Some how those get covered up under the blanket of making the persecuted look like the real villains.  This happens through mass media, and the not so subtle subliminal messages in television and theater.

I'll bet most citizens didn't even know there were candidates outside of Clinton and Trump running for the office of president. I myself never really paid much attention, because they aren't spotlighted in the news.  Gary Johnson represents the Libertarian Party and Jill Stein represents the Green Party.  They have accounts of what direction they think this country should go in as well.  They debate serious issues, one of which are in the headlines.  Why not?  I want to hear what they have to say as well.  This way I can have all the information I need in order to make an unbiased vote when I go to the polls.

That's the way its supposed to be right? I wish!  You'll find people, few and far between, who are are willing to vote unbiased, and most of the time those who say they are, are probably lying. Voting unbiased sounds cute, sweet, and politically correct, but even the best of us have a preference which clouds our ability to hear any part of what another candidate has to say as long as they are not members of our own party.    This is why you see so many former Republican presidential candidates, who staunchly spoke out against Donald Trump and his policies, suddenly advertising in his favor.  They've mysteriously had a change of heart over night and now support the man and his mess.

You see what I did right there?  I just showed you my own bias.  Because even though I don't consider myself either Republican or Democrat, I would still like to think that I'm considering a leader based on his principles and not his party.

Whatever happened to Ralph Nader?  Is he still alive?  As far as I know he is the only Independent Party candidate who never gave up running in each election no matter how bad the defeat.  I have to respect a man like that. He was willing to, despite the odds, keep moving forward so his voice will be heard.  Will anyone else be willing to do that come November 8th? You may not be running for president, but you still have a voice.  Change starts with one person, then snowballs into something big enough to make a difference.

The Forgotten Child

The other day my son and I were sitting down at the table. I watched him while he ate his breakfast because he likes company when he eats.  While we sat, I began to reminisce about my grandparents and some of the things they used to say and do when they were alive.  One of the expressions my maternal grandmother used to say about a relatively thin person who seemed to eat a lot, but yet not gain weight, was such a funny-sounding kind of oxymoron, that it took me a while to ponder on before I was able to understand the meaning.  Even though the expression may not make much sense to a young mind when first heard, on the day I sat across the table from my oldest son while he ate his breakfast, it made perfect sense to me.

My grandmother used to tell us all the time when we were young, "you eat so much it makes you po' to tote it."  Some Southerners will get this, while those in the North will write if off as just another one of those mindless sayings they say in the South, but simply put, it just means that no matter how much you eat, your weight goes nowhere.

Thinking back on those times we used to run around Grandma's house, I also remembered how Grandpa used to relate to me as opposed to the other grandchildren.  His feelings for me, or lack there of, were quite sour.  As a matter of fact, he was not fond of neither me nor my mother, and she was his child.  My mother and I used to put our heads together and wonder if it was due to the rumor that she was the daughter of the neighbor across the street.  This rumor carried around the neighborhood and among my grandmother's friends, and was seemingly confirmed when the very neighbor, who so happened to be one of my grandfather's friends, told my mother when she was eighteen that he was indeed her father.  Both my mother and I were inclined to believe this because she didn't look like her other brother and sisters, nor did she act like them.  She spent her childhood wondering why she was different, and singled out by her parents.

This is not to say that I believe my grandmother was some sort of worldly woman.  She was a woman strong in her faith; one who showed great love to her family the best way she knew how.  I honor her memory and feel privileged to be called her granddaughter.  She, along with my Aunt, was the one to rush in to my rescue the time my grandfather lifted a blunt object to strike me in the head with.  I was only about eight or nine and couldn't understand how the sheer sight of me angered him so much.  All I wanted was his love.

Sitting there across the table from my sixteen year old, I began to remember all of these things.  I sat there engrossed in my thoughts while confessing to him my experiences.  I told him of the time when I was nine and my maternal grandfather was handing out loose change he typically kept in his pocket to all the grandchildren.  I sat on the sofa watching at first, not thinking he would even consider giving me any because he usually shewed me away. But then something came over me, a sudden hope that this time would be different.  I longed for his acceptance more than I realized, and it was that hope and longing which propelled me from my place on the sofa to go and join the circle around him.

As he took his time counting out change and extending it to the little hands waiting to be filled, he got to me and stopped.  The glare in his eyes reflected sheer contempt and he told me to go away because he wasn't going to give any thing to my "Gerald-looking a#!."  Yes, typically when my grandfather spoke to me, his initial response would be followed by a series of expletives, and for some reason, he never referred to me by my name.  I was always called by my father's name because everyone said I looked so much like him.

I pulled my hand back and returned to my spot on the sofa.  All the hope I had conjured was now gone as I sat back and watched as the rest of the kids get their portion of the change. There would be more times where I was left out from the gifts my grandfather shared with his grandchildren, but that one in particular has always stuck out in my mind.  It was a turning point for me, because it was then that I determined in my little mind  I would do everything I could to get him to love and accept me the way I did him.

I didn't really know much about my paternal grandmother at the time. My parents divorced when I was four years old, and both of them lived in two different states.  But, what I do remember is a night when my parents went out and left me, along with some of the other grandchildren on my father's side of the family, with his mother.  I called her Mama Lucy because she had sternly warned me to never call her grandmother.  She said that she wasn't anyone's grandmother, though she really was, but at the time she was still grasping for a fleeting youth.  Any way, on this night at bed time, I remember getting really excited because Mama Lucy was inviting all of the grandchildren she had to come and sleep with her in her bed. Everyone there was privileged to be around Mama Lucy all the time, I was the only one who lived out of state, and therefore; didn't get to see her as much.

I watched as all the little bodies scrabbled into her room.  Then I got up and proceeded to follow them, but before I could make it past my grandmother's bedroom door,  she stopped me.  I was told that I couldn't fit in the bed with the rest of the children, and that I would have to go and make a place to sleep on the living room floor.  My face fell, and I found it impossible to hide my heartbreak.  In my little mind, I had been rejected in favor of the other grandchildren even though I belonged to her as well.

When my parents came in later that night, on the floor is where they found me, curled up in a little ball, trying to stay warm.  Of course, my father blew a gasket and asked why his child was the only one on the floor.  My grandmother had told him that I wanted to sleep there.  I knew this not to be true, but I refused to speak up about it.  I figured if I told, it would just be a strike against me, and if I was ever going to earn Mama Lucy's love, tattling would not be a good choice.

When I was done reminiscing, I looked over at the face of my son.  He looked just like I had on the night my paternal grandmother made me sleep on the floor, and the day  my maternal grandfather denied me his gift of coins.  I was suddenly struck by the sadness he was feeling, not because of what happened to me, those things no longer bother me, but because my story had such a profound effect on him.  As his mother I would never want him to feel left out the way I did when I was growing up.  It would make me feel an indescribable devastation.  I live my life so that he doesn't have to know the pains of not knowing how special he truly is.  Every child deserves that.

I thank God  I am no longer affected by the hurts in my past; hurts suffered from my own family.  Sometimes the very ones you think are there to protect and care for you, can be the ones who make you feel the most insecure.  Growing up, I tried my best to please those I loved in hopes that it would make me more acceptable.  I am just learning now, as an adult, that there is no way I am able to please everyone all the time.  The most important thing is to be secure in who God made me to be, and try my best to live peaceable with people.  If who I am is not acceptable to some, even those within my family, I have come to know that it is okay, I am still called good by Him who made me.