I watched my dad suffer from a gut-wrenching disease called Pulmonary Fibrosis. There is no known cure and few people have heard about it unless they've known someone personally who has suffered from it. On February 5, 2018, I lost an irreplaceable figure in my life, my sweet dad. Yet knowing there is potential to help others by donating money for research helps funnel the pain of losing someone so important to me. 

Please click on this link for more info about my dad and ways you can help.

Discerning oneself as a republican/conservative does not necessarily mean he or she is a racist/homophobe. However, it's highly likely that a large handful of conservative republicans are running low on empathy. Whether it's something they used to have more of or it's never been present in their daily lives, depends on the unique experience of each individual; a task in itself which requires empathy.

there are things to be done, 
they are left doing. rooted in
action. stereo on pause,
a slow-cooked response.
bare hands waving
side by side.

Thirteen years ago, my life changed completely. Looking back I wouldn't have it any differently. It's been a long, dueling ride of figuring out what to keep and get rid of. I try to pack light nowadays.

I used to think I was involuntarily cast in a bad movie, full of outgrown child actors and cliched uses of symbolism, like getting actually rained on when the going was already absolutely down. I used to curse a lot of people under my breath. Two or three, really, but it still felt like a lot. I even called myself 'a conservative' for two consecutive years till I finally found my way back to the middle.

I still think it's all a movie, however, I'm the one writing it this time. It's full of the characters I create, shape, and set out to do my dirty work, of retelling the story that wasn't ready to be told before now. I get trapped in this thinking sometimes, expecting real life events to turn out the way they might in a film, the moment of glory so poignant it defies coincidence. Thirteen years later, walking into a fully crowded room, knowing there's the chance you'll get to share some of the art that has kept you alive all these years, even without having to explain the reasons behind it. Just doing it for yourself, followed by another cliched scene of singing 'you've come a long way, baby' while walking the streets home, utterly relieved to still be breathing.

It doesn't work that way, though, because then the credits would roll. Better to throw in a wrench or two to remind you that art is indeed for you and yourself only, and it is continual.

I speak for many people when I say 'rape' was not in the school curriculum. Growing up in the eighties and nineties, we learned what rape was on TV, in that rare occurrence in a soap opera storyline, like Kelly on 90210 or someone on Dallas or Dynasty. But never in school. Rape was an untouchable subject. 

It wasn't until my late twenties when I began to understand the value of claiming ownership over my own body. That was after years of shamelessly handing it over to anyone who wanted to look after it. That wasn't part of the curriculum either.

It's unfortunate, really, how there is little to no encouragement for young women to claim such an ownership over their bodies, especially when there are constant signals to give it away--whether it's risque booty shorts for 5-year-olds or pressure for 25-year-olds to receive Botox injections.  There's no signal out there that says, Women, these are your bodies. Respect them and take care of them, because others won't.