images

I am ignorant. I’ll start there. I don’t understand all of the struggles that LGBT youths live with. I am ignorant. I don’t understand the pronouns, the labels, the pain, the complexities, that the LGBT community lives with. I am ignorant, and something has to change.

I am an ignorant, straight, white, middle-aged, resolutely gun-control-supporting woman who watches the news–– or avoids it, because my heart bleeds. I read; I try to understand, but I still feel helpless to turn the tides that seem to be sweeping us away. I am straight; I grew up in a strongly Irish Catholic community, where the word “faggot” was used regularly. I met gay men and women for the first time, in college. I considered myself “progressive” because I had gay friends, but admittedly, I saw their differences first. Naively, I thought I got it… until a close friend was thrown out of his fraternity–– all of his belongings tossed out the window, because he trusted his “brothers” and told them he was gay. I was shocked that guys I thought I knew, could treat another friend so horribly. When it comes to the transgender community, I am more informed than some, but still ignorant.

Black Lives Matter, and that does not imply that other lives do not. It’s a necessary statement because Black lives have not mattered enough; that needs to change. But I’m White, and I’ll never fully understand what it’s like to experience the daily challenges, heart breaks and inequities of being a Black American. I’m 52 years old. I see myself struggling to catch up with the “times they are a changin’,” as my kids educate me on their generation, and the things they do understand. Admittedly, sometimes I feel lost. In the wake today, of yet another mass killing–– in a country where there is an average of one per day, most of which never make mass media, 90 Americans a day killed by guns–– I stand resolutely in favor of wide-spread gun control. Call me old, but on this, I can not be swayed. These are a lot of issues and I feel at a loss most days, to know how to help or what to do. I feel ignorant when I realize just how much I don’t know about each of these issues, that suck the life from our society.

Today, I learned that another young person has taken their life. M was a transgender young man in my small community. I did not know him, but I was familiar with him. M was a 19-year-old boy; 19 is not an adult. He was the same age as my beloved boy. My heart breaks, when I think of the times my own boy has felt bullied and hurt, and recognize that this boy’s pain felt that much more insurmountable, to him. My heart breaks knowing that another mother will not see her child again. M was in the process of transitioning from female to male, and was struggling with depression. Particularly disturbing: he had posted his struggle on Facebook, including a very troubling post, just three days before his suicide, of trying desperately, for weeks and weeks, to get help for his depression. The daunting waits for appointments (weeks); the ignorance of others who did not understand his struggles as a trans person; the long wait to be seen and approved for medication, when he was able to eloquently express his needs and advocate for himself. His sense of hopelessness was palpable, in these poignant posts.

My heart breaks for his mother. It breaks for his loved ones and all the friends who cared about him, who could not ease his pain, and who have lost a friend. My heart breaks because I am a mother; this was a child, and I am ignorant. I believe that it does in fact take a village, and I failed this child too. Each time we look at a story and silently say: that doesn’t apply to me, consciously or unconsciously, we are a part of the problem. Being ignorant is not a valid excuse anymore. M was not alone, but he felt alone. When he went to a local ER, two days before his suicide, he was told that his gender identity was a “personality disorder.” This, by trained professionals! I am intimately aware of the health care providers at that hospital, and believe that it was purely ignorance, not mal-intent, that would lead to such a statement, but again: ignorance is not an excuse anymore. A young boy is dead.  Too many of us are ignorant. I am ignorant.

images-1But I plan to change that. My ignorance can not be an excuse to turn off the news. My ignorance shouldn’t allow me to go about my day and compartmentalize the death of a 19-year-old transgender youth, who felt misunderstood and hopeless enough, to end his life. My ignorance can’t be an excuse to simply feel sad for the unethical shooting of one more Black person. It’s not enough to simply not own a gun, and say that I am against those who do. We do not have to be IN somebody’s shoes to get it. Nor do we need to be swallowed up by all of the pain around us. I will start by doing more to understand what needs to be done. I will do more to understand the issues that overwhelm me. I will not be ignorant.

It starts with each of us. How many LGBT young people need to kill themselves before we truly teach our own children to not to bully. How many before we reach out and show some compassion, throw a possible life line to a drowning child? Do we need to be Black to know that being killed for a routine traffic stop is absolutely wrong? Do we need to be Black to stand up and say that? Do we need to lose a child, a lover, a spouse, friend or family member, to gun violence to stand up and say this needs to change? Or is it enough to know that 90 other Americans die each day? If all those children at Sandy Hook were not enough, what will be? Prayers for the victims are not enough. We can all step up and do more. Ignorance is not an excuse, and education is so much easier than healing broken heart after broken heart after broken heart…

If you want to be less ignorant about LGBT issues, check out my blogging friend Julie Tarney’s blog: My Son Wears Heels. She is a bold and informed mother, educating others on the life of her transgender child. Check out her writing; it’s deeply moving and very informative. Read more, use that computer to be informed and help young people who are hurting. Try to understand what Black Lives Matter is really about, and take a stand. We must all stand together when it comes to changing America’s reputation as a hot bed of gun violence. Ironically, when people hear that my daughter lives in Israel, they frequently say, “Oh, aren’t you so worried?” Well, it is a much safer place than the US, when it comes to violent crime. Ignorance can no longer be an excuse. We can change things.

Share your thoughts in the comment section. I want to know what you think, and welcome honest, constructive feedback.

*     *     *

GIPYHelp Me Reach My Goals!   KAPOW!  The Tales From the Motherland Facebook page recently hit the 2015 goal of 800 likes (which I set after hitting the 700 mark)! I’m going big for the next year and aiming for 1,000!! Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated.

 Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit; plagiarism sucks!

 

 

 

Posted on December 3, 2015 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 15 Comments

©medicalnews.com

Suddenly my Twitter following is growing. Don’t ask me why; I really couldn’t tell you. We’re not talking big numbers here; this is peanuts in the world of social media numbers. I’m boring on Twitter; I don’t really understand how it works. In fact, I’m terrible at all the things you’re told to do, to be successful on social media, but Twitter has especially stumped me; the learning curve can be dumbfounding–– or, involves things I’m just not wired for.

I’m still figuring out #hashtags–– and I assure you, it is a talent that others have mastered! I’m not good at re-tweeting, and until recently, I rarely followed anyone, even if they followed me first… unless I “knew them.” Let me be clear: my intentions are good. I feel badly when someone I don’t know follows me, and I don’t return the favor, but up until recently, I dealt with Twitter like so much of my life and my blog: I aim for authenticity and honest intention. Hence, I reasoned: why would I follow someone I don’t know? The people I followed were those whose blogs I read, or people I knew face to face. That’s a limited list. Is it any wonder that I had well under a hundred followers for ages? I have the same approach with blogging: I follow the people who I will actually read. I just feel too guilty if I follow someone and then don’t make the effort to read their work. So I do read. It’s hard with folks who post daily, but I make an effort with anyone I’ve “followed.”

There were a few noticeable things that helped me improve my visibility (say from 60 followers to my current humble 578) on Twitter. I wrote a blog post about the Surprise Skype Baby Shower I threw for my daughter, who, lives in Israel. I felt disconnected from her pregnancy and all that was happening, so I put together a full-blown shower and surprised her on Skype. I arranged to Skype with her, on a specific day and time. Then, I had foods she liked, decorations to cheer her up (balloons, flowers, colorful flags), and a room full of people who love her. They each brought a gift, and got a one-on-one moment via Skype and the computer screen, to tell my girl why they picked their gift, and wish her well. It was a huge success, in that it accomplished exactly what I wanted to do: connect with my daughter and that special period in her life.

Social media was the furthest thing from my mind, however, other than the fact that I was grateful to Skype technology. I tweeted my blog post, as I always do, and amazing things happened: Skype liked the Tweet, and Re-Tweeted it. They connected with me; I connected with them. They sent me adorable “swag” for my new grandchild, and made me feel good about that Tweet and blog post. Then, big guys at Skype liked and re-tweeted, and a whole bunch of people started looking at my measly Twitter page. Pow! I literally stumbled into it in my usual clueless way, and a few more people started following me. I didn’t follow most of them back, because I was still pretty ignorant about all of this. It’s a learning curve.

Being named a BlogHer Voices of the Year 2015 (VOTY’15) garnered some attention for my writing, and the post that the BlogHer and SheKnows’ Goddesses chose, On My Father’s Birthday, A Letter to The Man Who Killed Him. It brought in readers, and readers take a look at your Facebook page and your Twitter profile. At BlogHer’15, I attended any session on analytics that I could find, and figured a few things out… like, that there were analytics to follow. Yeah, I didn’t know that. Super helpful talks, and I came away understanding a little bit more about how this whole Tweet thing works.

google

Then I discovered #ThinkBIGSundayWithMarsha, hosted by entrepreneur Marsha Wright. I was in Israel for much of August, helping my daughter with her new baby (and new love of my life), and somehow I stumbled on the Twitter site. Each Sunday, Ms. Wright hosts Tweets from all over the world. The Tweets must be positive or inspirational; you can’t be selling something or diverting to another site, and she urges folks to connect. That’s how I got hooked. I love that it’s an entire day of positivity. I read those Tweets and actually feel my own insecurities melt a little. I feel empowered by the encouraging Tweets/words of others, and I love the connections that are made as we read each other’s Twitter posts. My understanding of Twitter changed completely. I found myself following back, as others followed me. I wanted to re-Tweet, because we were a positivity movement each Sunday.

Social Media in general, and Twitter in particular, changed for me with that connection. I started thinking of things to post on Sundays. I started getting followers, seemingly out of the blue. Thrill of thrills and mystery of mysteries: LeBron James started following me. Hello? Very strange, but it gave me a boost in my sons’ eyes. Wink-wink, nod-nod. I went from mom who blogs to cool… for about ten minutes. Recently, I’ve found that a lot of very big Twitter folks have followed me. It’s interesting to read their profiles and guess how they even noticed me? I follow back now, nearly every time. I can’t imagine why they pick me, or how. I’m still pretty clueless, and frankly, I’m still quite boring, but I return the favor.

I started blogging regularly for Huffington Post one year ago, and I notice a distinct spike in followers whenever I post there. I’m not talking the kind of spike that real social media gurus would notice. As I noted, I’m only at 578 followers right now on Twitter, but I still get a little thrill with each notification. I am rarely re-Tweeted, because my content is not thrilling. I Tweet my blog posts; I try to be more mindful of re-Tweeting things I see that impact me. I continue to write blog posts, whether for HuffPo or my own blog, Tales From the Motherland, that mean something to me. I write about what sincerely interests me or moves me. I try to write without filters; I aim for authenticity in anything I write, and I write to connect. Facebook is personal too, and I suppose that’s why Twitter took me so long. It’s harder to connect, harder to be filter-free and authentic, in 140 characters. I’m in awe of the folks who master it and find a way to influence people in so few words. I am not a woman of few words; I suppose it’s another reason I continue to flounder in the Twitter world.

Ultimately, I’ve learned that I have to step outside some of my boxes, and my comfort zones, to participate on Twitter. I have to stretch. But there you go: stretching, stepping outside boxes, challenging ourselves is how we grow. When we reach out, there are others who get it and connect back. I no longer feel defensive saying to my family or friends, that I have on-line friends. I have made connections through my blog, Facebook and surprisingly, Twitter, who are very real and special to me. I may still be boring on Twitter, but I’m thinking outside the box these days, and learning to embrace new adventures.

Do you like social media? Do you “get” it? Share your Twitter handle and I’ll follow back. Handle? See, what I mean?   

*     *     *

GIPYHelp Me Reach My Goals!   KAPOW!  The Tales From the Motherland Facebook page recently hit the 2015 goal of 800 likes (which I set after hitting the 700 mark)! I’m going big for the next year and aiming for 1,000!! Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated.

 Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit; plagiarism sucks!

Posted on November 30, 2015 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 34 Comments
29337_420030823000_607453000_4537396_5567814_n-11

My father loved us very much… and he lost us.

 

One year ago, I published a letter on my blog: On My Father’s Birthday, A Letter to The Man Who Killed Him. It was Freshly Pressed and had nearly one thousand hits, in a few days. It was published in Huffington Post and was huge there too. People sent the most amazing responses from all over the world. They shared their own stories of loss, grief, and forgiveness. Many told me I was incredible, for forgiving. Others understood my true intentions. Still, others thought the title of the post was misleading: the man I was writing to wasn’t really a killer, per se; they felt duped. Publishers in Australia and Europe asked to repost it; many other bloggers shared it. I was named a “Voices of the Year 2015” by BlogHer and SheKnows Media, based on the piece, an enormous honor and a boost I needed as I processed so many thing. It was posted the same weekend that my first piece was published in Huffington Post–– an entirely different kind of post. Many of those readers thought I was anti-Palestinian, a killer of babies, a “Jew lover.” I am that; I could not love my husband and children more–– they are Jews. The point being: two very different posts, and two entirely different outcomes.

But the piece about my father was deeply personal, while it garnered all kinds of reactions and accolades, I did not write it with any of that in mind. I wrote it to heal. That letter was the first time I put down in words, my own efforts to really move forward. It’s been more than 40 years since my father was killed; one could argue that I should have forgiven and moved on a long time ago. I would agree with that. However, in my defense, I’ll say it again: there is no expiration on grief. That single loss has followed me my whole life. It has defined me in many ways, and I was finally ready to be in a new place with that reality. I did not write the letter, which became a blog post, to be Freshly Pressed. I did not write it to be praised by so many strangers. I did hope that maybe the man I wrote it to, or someone he knew, would see it, and we would both have closure. But I didn’t write it to be praised. I don’t see myself as anything other than a girl who still misses her father, a woman who has grieved, a person on my own private journey. The fact that all of those other things happened, is just the how life unfolds.

However, all of that did happen. Life unfolds because of how each unique pebble lands on the water. The ripples make waves; the waves bring things to shore. In the year since that letter was posted, a lot has changed. In seeking to move forward, in writing one letter, I learned there were other things to learn, other things to be written. That one post opened me up to hearing truths about my father that I had never heard. It was painful stuff to hear–– not for what I found, but for what I lost. I was faced with hard truths, that changed almost everything. I spent weeks digesting and mourning the years I’ve spent focused on untruths. I went away for 9 days to process it. I walked for miles on the beach. I raged against my own ignorance, and I raged against the lies I was told. I let myself feel the grief that was under all of that rage. Anger is a chameleon, often hiding much more vulnerable emotions.

In the end, there is no going back. I spent much of my childhood wishing that I could wiggle my nose and turn back time. I wished I could sprinkle some fairy dust and change the outcomes. I prayed that I could be good enough, strong enough, special enough… to turn it all around. Then I stopped praying; I stopped wishing, and life just move on. That’s what happens, when reality sets in. We move forward, even if we haven’t “moved on.”

This year, it all looks very different. On November 29, 2015, my father would have turned 74. He’s still gone, but I’ve come a long way in healing and figuring out new paths for this journey. Some days, it’s a big ball of dark, sticky, mess to work through, and some days I feel stronger and more grounded than I ever have. My story, my life is my own. I don’t write it down to make a good story. I don’t write it for recognition, awards or feedback. I don’t write it for others at all. I write it for me, and because I’m a writer, I put it out there. It can mean whatever it means to each person who reads it, but it’s what it means to me that matters the most. Last year I wrote a letter to the man who killed my father; this year is different. It’s one year later, and my eyes are open.

 

He loved wild places…
My Dad, 6 months before his death

 

Dear Dad,

This has been an incredible year, and you have been on my mind more than ever. For the first time in my life, that’s a good thing, not the misguided longing I carried for so many years. I feel like the bottom fell out, and there you were, and yet, there you weren’t. Now I get it, and that carries great healing, as well as new reasons to grieve.

I think I understand much more clearly who you were, not just the stories that I relied on. Hearing the truth: that you loved us, that you never let us go, that you fought for us, has been a revelation. Despite the pain that came with it, I feel lighter, blessed to know that my heart was right. I feel relieved to know that the things I felt, the memories I had, were real… It was the reality that I was fed that was broken, not me. After a lifetime of feeling abandoned, I feel loved; I feel found.

At this point in my life, much older than you ever got to be, I’ve had to work through my anger as well. I’m angry that I’m a 52 year-old woman, and only just figuring some things out. I’m angry that lies were my compass, and I never understood why I was off course. I’m sad that I missed the chance to feel love that was offered, because I was scared and confused. I’m bitter that I didn’t see the truth, for myself. And more than anything, I’m sorry for how all of that clouded my love for you, and my ability to share that with others.

I miss you. All these years later, I miss you in new and unexpected ways. I miss having grown up with the love that was right there, if I had only known. Even in your absence, I would have given anything just to carry your love with me. I miss having felt your love, and having felt free to love you back. I miss all that we didn’t get to share with each other. I miss you.

I love you, and more importantly, I finally know just how much you loved me. I don’t feel like a silly kid who just created stories to feel better, I feel like a kid who was loved… and who lost someone very precious. Thank you for loving me so much, dad. Thank you for being present when I was scared. I remember now. Thank you for your presence even now, I feel it. Thank you for loving us so much that you were willing to do whatever you had to do, to take care of us and show us that we had a whole family of people who loved us. Thank you.

Happy Birthday! It’s hard to believe that you would be 74 years old this year! You will forever be 32, 29, 21, 18, 16, 2… the ages you were in the few photos I have. I study those photos, looking for you, looking for me, looking for the things I don’t know. I look at those photos hoping to see something I’ve missed. But you just smile back, our dad, my mother’s spouse, your mother’s son, my aunts’ brother; a cousin, a grandson, a friend… it’s their stories that bring the photos to life… and my filtered memories.

Happy birthday, for all the years we shared and all the years we lost. Happy birthday, for the man you were, and the man you might have been. Happy birthday for loving me and for knowing that I loved you in return. Happy Birthday for each of the people you touched, and the marks you left on our hearts. This year, I’m not thinking about the man who killed you, or the events that shaped our lives, I’m thinking about you. I’m missing you and loving you. I’m celebrating your birthday with joy, with love, and with peace. Happy birthday dad; I love you.

    *     *     *

GIPYHelp Me Reach My Goals!   KAPOW!  The Tales From the Motherland Facebook page recently hit the 2015 goal of 800 likes (which I set after hitting the 700 mark)! I’m going big for the next year and aiming for 1,000!! Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit; plagiarism sucks!

Posted on November 27, 2015 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 39 Comments

Each week Friday Fictioneers serves up a challenge: to write a 100-word story, from a photo prompt. This week’s photo was provided by the talented Sandra Crook. Rochelle Wisoff-Fields herds this ever-growing group of writers and I am grateful for her integrity, kindness and commitment. I am grateful for the wonderful group members who have supported my writing for 2+ years now. When I miss a week, I am always disappointed. Thank you all, and may you enjoy a wonderful Thanksgiving, if you are celebrating it.

If you would like to join Friday Fictioneers, or would like to check out the many other wonderful stories, please stop by Rochelle’s blog Addicted To Purple, for more details. As always, I welcome honest, constructive feedback. I try to do the same.

sandra

© Sandra Crook

 

A Long Hard Path

All of her thoughts were dark. A sense of hopelessness permeated each day. As she set out, in the dim early light, she knew that despite any pain she might cause those she loved, it would be better… in the end.

The path was steep. Each step a pilgrimage, she drew in deep breaths and thought of the struggle, year in and year out, to find balance and peace. Each step a prayer–– forgive me; I’m sorry… one foot in front of the other.

Legs heavy, heart racing, she reached the top of the bluff, and paused, as the sun rose.

(Word count: 101)

    *     *     *

GIPYHelp Me Reach My Goals!   KAPOW!  The Tales From the Motherland Facebook page recently hit the 2015 goal of 800 likes (which I set after hitting the 700 mark)! I’m going big for the next year and aiming for 1,000!! Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit; plagiarism sucks!

Posted on November 25, 2015 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 51 Comments

images-1

You go to the supermarket, to pick up a few things for dinner. You’re just passing the Gala apples and headed toward the brussel sprouts­­–– because you’re an adult, and you’ve learned to like them–– and there she is, your ex. You were close friends for ages, you thought you’d be close forever, but the friendship is dead and so is she. You may or may not know why things fell apart, but you no longer speak; emails/calls/ even hand-written cards, go unanswered. It feels like a death, and you’ve spent lots of time coming to terms with the loss. You’ve grieved the death of your friend and the friendship you shared. Yet there she is, walking right toward you, preoccupied with carrots. What do you do?

Admittedly, in my case, I have no idea what happened. I have kernels– bits and pieces of things that caused mutual pain, but nothing that ads up to the end of a friendship, that I thought would last into old age. My friend made me laugh; she understood my deepest insecurities and struggles; she was there through thick and thin… until, she wasn’t. I’ve reached out every way I can think of. I’ve dug deep for whatever role I played to cause such a breach, but I can’t think of anything that would lead to a permanent severance of our relationship.

It’s been a while now. Our whole family felt the hole where she had been, and I have licked my wounds and grieved long enough. As with any death, the end of a friendship demands that you grieve and move on. Moving on does not mean that you let go, but that you don’t stay stuck in missing someone, and wishing things were different. Reality bites sometimes. However, unlike a real death, the end of a friendship may mean that the two of you will still run into each other; you may still have to interact.

It happened in the produce department. There she was, and there I was, holding brussel sprouts. She hadn’t seen me yet, and for the briefest moment I froze, unsure of what to do. For years, I knew that she would look up and a huge smile would brighten her face; we’d hug (we always hugged: coming, going, just because) and launch into whatever was going on. We might end up having dinner together, at their house or ours. Even if I were in a hurry, it would never have occurred to me to hide, or avoid her. Before.

However, as I saw her checking her phone, glancing at the carrots, I did just that­–– I hid. I ducked behind a display, like a common thief, and looked for an exit. I watched her. She still looks great in anything; her smile as she glances as a text or something, is still brilliant. But that smile isn’t for me anymore, and just as quickly as I feel it’s warmth, I feel the sting of loss again. Through the bread and over to the next aisle I dash, hoping that if she noticed, she only wondered if it was me, but didn’t see me for the coward I now am. I’ve seen a ghost, and I’m rattled.

What is the protocol? How do we move forward when someone we loved but have lost is still around? I’ve seen these things turn ugly; I’m sure I’ve even been involved in ugly. It’s hard to get to this stage in life and not have people come in and out of your life, and not all of those transitions are smooth or pain-free. These days, I focus on figuring out my role in a situation, and looking at ways I can change if I need to. I try to make amends, but that only works if both parties want to heal or move on smoothly.

©thelizzies.blogspot.com

©thelizzies.blogspot.com

At lunch recently, another friend said to me: “You may never know what happened,” and even after all this time, and her words hit me like a brick. She had lost a very close friend, many years ago, and had the benefit of having had that friend spell it out for her in a letter. My friend explained that while it was a real blessing to know what had happened, it hadn’t changed the grief she felt. “She wasn’t there anymore, and no explanation could make that better. It just gave me something so that I wasn’t guessing. I was always grateful to her for that.”

I don’t have the explanation, and admittedly I was chicken when I saw this lost friend just a few feet away. No doubt, a year ago it would have been so much harder, but it still made my insides twist. I still miss her. I had to resist replaying all of the possible reasons why we’re no longer friends round and round in my head again. Instead, I bought some Cheez Its. I snuck around each corner and hoped she wouldn’t be there. I snuck around a few corners and hoped to get another look. I thought about abandoning my cart and just leaving, but then I’d get home to “what’s for dinner,” and I’d cry. I’d reconfirm for my husband and the three twenty-something males living in my home, that I’m a mid-life hot mess, and we’d have nothing to eat our feelings away with.

I think I did the best thing possible at this stage: I finished my shopping. I took deep breaths and bought what I needed. I talked myself off the ledge and reminded myself that I’ve grieved this loss. There’s no expiration on grief, so setbacks will happen, and seeing the person you’ve laid to rest, in person, under any number of situations, is just challenging. I’m not a hot mess. I’m a reasonable woman who’s lost someone I loved. I’m moving on, but I stumbled for a moment. Maybe some day I’ll see her in the store, or on the street, and I’ll smile. Maybe we’ll remember that we meant a lot to each other for a long time, and we’ll say hi. Or, maybe we’ll just avoid each other forever. There’s no good answer for how to grieve and move on, whether it be a friend, an ex-lover, or a family member who you no longer get along with. Shit happens. Life marches on. These things are clichés for a reason. After she was gone, I went back and got brussel sprouts; I went home, and I made dinner.

What would you have done? Have you lost a good friend? Share your thoughts in the comment section.

*   *   *

GIPYHelp Me Reach My Goals!   KAPOW!  The Tales From the Motherland Facebook page recently hit the 2015 goal of 800 likes (which I set after hitting the 700 mark)! I’m going big for the next year and aiming for 1,000!! Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit; plagiarism sucks!

Posted on November 13, 2015 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 51 Comments

I’m not sure where this one comes from… but I looked at the photo, and a few minutes later, there were exactly 100 words. I cut three. “When the spirit moves you…” I’ve so missed my wonderful fellow Fictioneers, but I’ve been traveling and busy de-cluttering–– making room for change.

Friday Fictioneers is a weekly flash fiction challenge. Use the photo prompt to weave a 100-word story. Master of Ceremonies is Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Visit her blog, Addicted to Purple for more details, or to join our merry band. This week’s photo is from J. Hardy Carroll.

As always I welcome honest, constructive feedback; please leave a comment and tell me what you think.

© J. Hardy Carroll

© J. Hardy Carroll

When The Spirit Moves You

“I still talk to you.

Just before I fall asleep, I feel you there beside me. Sometimes, I put my hand on the mattress and think I can still feel your weight, your heat… but the mattress has shifted. I drift off with my hand brushing the air.

When the leaves are changing, and I remember how we laid in their sweet decay, I say your name aloud and feel you wrap your arms around me. I pull my sweater tighter, warm and safe.

Today, I sit beside your gravestone, calling your name, but you’re not here.”

(word count: 97)

*   *   *

GIPYHelp Me Reach My Goals!   KAPOW!  The Tales From the Motherland Facebook page recently hit the 2015 goal of 800 likes (which I set after hitting the 700 mark)! I’m going big for the next year and aiming for 1,000!! Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit; plagiarism sucks!

Posted on November 11, 2015 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 62 Comments

Ok, I admit it: I’m getting old. I find myself lost in the crazy world of progress. Some days lately, I sound like an old lady even to myself! Look at all those naked butts! These black leggings have got to go!  Or, take your hat off when you’re inside, or at the table. Or, What the hell is going on with Halloween costumes for girls? Seriously people, why are so many costumes variations of slutty, inaproppriate images for girls, while boys get to be action heroes, goblins, ghouls, knights, pirates, and the like. The girls can be these things too:  if they’re willing to saunter about in super short, breast push-up, pedophile attracting counterparts. So call me an old lady; go ahead and do it in the comments section; but I find it disgusting!

Draculaura, size 4-6

Draculaura, size 4-6

photo    photo

We wanted to be rolly polly bees; cute bees...

We wanted to be rolly polly bees; cute bees…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

While my neighbors and I carve pumpkins and put up fake cobwebs, as we get our houses ready for a night of doorbell ringing and kids in costumes, asking for candy, there are girls out there trying to figure out how to dress for the night, or for a party, when their options have become so utterly limited. When I was in high school and college, we liked to figure out creative, clever costumes… and sure, we wanted to look good. But looking good didn’t really involve pure sexuality. I was a Q-tip my junior year of high school (somewhere, there’s a photo of this, but not in my possession)– took me forever to make my cottony cone tip head and fluffy leg warmer tips. Ok, so maybe a few people thought I was a tampon, but not a sexy one. My friends were cowgirls, fairies, scary kids (from the Children of the Corn); we were cute,  we were funny, we were clever or scary; we were not sluts. There was very little focus on sexy, in our minds.

photoSo apparently I’m officially out of touch.  A week ago, I wandered into our annual Super Halloween store– you know, the ones that pop up in an empty space, each year and make Halloween their entire focus. Very quickly it was clear that unless I wanted to dress as a slutty variation of any of the usual suspects, I was shit out of luck, where costumes are concerned. However, it was when I wandered over to the kids only costume section that my old lady guts found themselves all bound up. When oh when did it become for ok for little girls, size 4-6 to dress as “Midnight Mischief?” Do these girls even know what kind of mischief there is at midnight?

Isn’t it bad enough that young girls are being sexually molested, date raped, party raped, cyber bullied, photopushed and influenced to dress provocatively on virtually every level, without getting to dress up as “Fallen Angels,” at twelve? And what kind of parents allow their young daughters to model for these costumes? Yep, there I go again, being an old lady. ‘Cause in my day, we got to be ghosts (entirely non-clingy sheets in place), witches (the non-sexy ones, that were just scary and ugly), gypsies (with colorful, silky scarves). We were not sexy; our parents forbid it. There were boundaries that weren’t crossed, and we were young girls playing pretend. We did not pretend that our barely formed breasts were there to get better Treats.

Image: Huffington Post

Image: Huffington Post

 

 

 

 

 

In the most appalling, most disgusting example of a costume, a company actually thought this was somehow ok. Maybe they market inappropriate costumes, but someone out there came up with this costume and crossed a line, because on some disturbing level, they thought it was ok. Don’t bother writing in to tell me it’s a joke. It’s not. I have a dark sense of humor; I get that stupid and even dark can be funny. But, people this is not funny, it’s just plain wrong. Let me be clear: on every level. Having worked as a social worker on an Eating Disorders Unit for two years, trust me: there is nothing, nothing funny about young women starving themselves.

sc086298a7So, I’m out of touch; I’m clueless. In my mind, Halloween is a time for Tricks and Treats. My kids went as Mummies, Heroes and Heroines, Hippies and other age appropriate costumes. There was no sexy in those costumes, and I made sure my girl could be just as clever, strong, or epic as my boys (Here, she’s Queen Amidala, from Star Wars). Today, I look around and I’m shocked to the left, shocked to the right. I’m left scratching my head and asking when did little girls and women become the utterly inappropriate treats of the night, or the butt of sick jokes? Why on earth do boys still get to save the world while girls get to shock the world. Or, am I the only one shocked? Go ahead; call me old.

Pulled this together with things at home... Cleopatra, no skank.

Pulled this together with things at home… Cleopatra, no skank.

It’s a boy and man’s world, even on Halloween:

photo photo photo

Is this a trick or am I missing the treat?

*   *   *

GIPYHelp Me Reach My Goals!   KAPOW!  The Tales From the Motherland Facebook page recently hit the 2015 goal of 800 likes (which I set after hitting the 700 mark)! I’m going big for the next year and aiming for 1,000!! Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; 

Posted on October 26, 2015 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 29 Comments

I’m late, late, late this week… I’ve been in Denver for parent’s weekend at my son’s school. Such fun times together, but no time for anything else. Humble apologies for late submission and tardiness in reading all of your great stories!

A warning, this photo has a very disquieting quality to it, that pulled me in a dark direction. The focus on the closest cars, while the others are distorted and blurred, the rain. It give me the creeps. I apologize in advance for the language and unsettling topic. A writer’s gotta’ write what the muse inspires.

Friday Fictioneers is a weekly flash fiction challenge with a photo prompt. Use it to create a 100-word story. If you are interested in joining this merry band of writers, from all over the world, check out Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s blog Addicted to Purple. As Always, I welcome honest, constructive feedback; please leave a comment.

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

I Got You Babe

Stupid bitch. As if a little rain would stop me? Park under a light and wait it out? I’m far more patient than you know.

I’ll wait in the shadows, baby doll–– with those pretty eyes watching for a break in the rain. Nervous? Afraid you’ll get wet, but more afraid of the dark… You should be.

You don’t even notice me. You’re all the same.

I can smell your fear, taste it–– sweet and salty, like the last one’s… and the one before her.

Sit and wait. I’ve got time.

I love the rain; it washes away the evidence.

(word count: 100)

*   *   *

GIPYHelp Me Reach My Goals!   KAPOW!  The Tales From the Motherland Facebook page recently hit the 2015 goal of 800 likes (which I set after hitting the 700 mark)! I’m going big for the next year and aiming for 1,000!! Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit; plagiarism sucks!

Posted on October 19, 2015 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 22 Comments

Recently, I had my attitude checked in a marijuana dispensary. You read that right: a weed shop. If you know me personally, and are judging me right now, save it ‘til the end; you may be checking your attitude too. If you don’t know me, then read on, but this may be checkmate.

Marijuana has been legal (in some form) in the state of Washington for almost three years now. It still feels new, and there is plenty of good humor about the availability of magic edibles and medical versus recreational use. I would be lying if I said that I never tried it before its legalization. I smoked it in college, on several occasions, but it made me sleepy and slow; it wasn’t my thing. But many of my friends smoked regularly, and while I knew it was illegal, I wasn’t that worried about the criminal element of using it.

Flash forward. I’m a fifty-two year old woman with three nearly adult kids; I’ve been married twenty-nine years, and I use marijuana for pain management. Mostly. I’ve had a very serious auto-immune disorder for may years, that’s lead to countless hospitalizations and surgeries and has left me allergic to all but two antibiotics, and nothing except Tylenol, for pain management. If hospitalized, there are a few pain meds I can take, along the lines of elephant tranquilizers, but if I have a sinus infection, a severe headache or several broken ribs and 2nd and 3rd degree burns… it’s an ice pack and the sofa. That’s what it was a year and a half ago, when I had an epically horrible year, and my doctor finally said to me: “have you considered medical marijuana?”

Admittedly, when my doctor, who is conservative and very thoughtful in his approach, first suggested that I consider using medical marijuana for pain management, I giggled like a girl… who was high. The idea of it was crazy to me. I said no. Then, in a freak boating accident I broke six ribs. Ten days later, I had a large pot of boiling soup spilled on me and sustained 2nd and 3rd degree burns on my chest and stomach. The ribs, which were unbearable, paled in comparison to the agony of burns… on broken ribs. I was given morphine for pain, and was immediately sick. Morphine was added to the list of pain options that I’m allergic too, and shortly thereafter I took the marijuana suggestion much more seriously and got my prescription.

Getting the prescription was the first hurdle; going to get it filled was harder! Having thought of this as illegal for so long, having told my teenage kids how bad it was to “do drugs,” I felt embarrassed going to the medical dispensary. I was afraid that someone I knew would see me and judge me. I was confused about what it would be like to use weed for pain–– Would I get high or just get relief from pain? Would it impair me in other ways? Was it addictive? All kinds of things went through my head, most of them based on old misinformation.

At the dispensary I faced the next hurdle: getting the prescription filled. You don’t just walk into these places and buy marijuana. You bring a prescription and they register you. It’s all done very clinically. I filled out pages of health forms, just like you do in doctor’s office. After that, the receptionist called my doctor’s office to confirm that I was a patient, and had I been given this prescription. When the receptionist at my doctor’s office asked to speak to me, to confirm that it was me filling this prescription, I was mortified! I imagined all of them having a good laugh over this, and cringed at the thought that this is the same office where I take my kids. You’d think I was buying marijuana or something! Exactly.

In the product room, the smell of fresh cut Hindu Kush was incredible. I can’t lie: I wanted to curl up in a field of that sweet, organic smell and nap. “Nick,” the “budtender” found this hilarious, and was happy to show me how the buds are cut, and used. It was fascinating, and surreal to look into a huge bin of what I’d spent my entire life thinking of as illegal. Nick then very clinically described all of the products available for pain, as well as for anxiety, sleep, depression, relaxation, etc. I felt so stupid, so old… like an old dork… as he explained how to use a “vape pen” (portable vaporizer), what “edibles” were, and all of the nuances of medical marijuana. I bought a tincture (placed under the tongue), and some Mango Haze to use with a vape. Nick assured me that the smoke would not irritate my lungs–– that it would be smooth, and that neither would make me high, only manage my pain.

Nick was a really nice guy, with a sweet face, but he was wrong on both counts. The first time I tried the vape, I coughed so hard I thought I’d burst veins, and within thirty minutes I was shoving tortilla chips in my mouth, like I was back in college. Apparently Nick and I have different thresholds. I frantically waved my hands in the air, trying to get rid of the evidence smoke, and tried not to giggle too much. There was nothing mature about my first foray into legalized marijuana.

All of this sneaking around is particularly interesting to me, in light of one very huge hypocrisy about all this: alcohol is not only widely used and abused, but seen as socially acceptable, to all but a few and people of certain religious faiths. Marijuana, despite its legalization, is not. We all know people who drink too much, too often, and it’s not unusual to see photos posted on social media of drinks raised. Many parents lecture their teens about drinking, but then go out for drink with friends… and drive home. Alcohol use and abuse takes an enormous toll on society. It is the number one cause of vehicular fatalities, and yet, it is widely accepted and tolerated, while marijuana use is still seen as criminal, or at the very least questionable.

A very important study released early this year by the National Highway and Traffic Safety Administration found that consuming marijuana does not increase the crash risk of the driver. Read that again. Gordon Trowbridge, the communications director of the NHTSA called this study the most closely controlled study of its kind that has ever been done. My guess is that most readers will find this shocking; I did. This does not mean that marijuana use and driving is safe, or that marijuana does not cause impairment. But alcohol, not marijuana, is the leading drug-related risk factor in vehicular fatalities.

And that brings me to my attitude… and having it checked. It’s legal; I’m an adult, and so I went to a recreational store recently, to see where my nephew works part time and to see what they sold. I was coming from a formal meeting and my friend and I were “dressed up.” While we were there, several other customers came in, and I found myself sizing them up. I didn’t realize just how much, until thirty minutes after I left and I couldn’t find my iPhone. I searched “everywhere,” and finally called the store; I knew I’d had it at the counter. The owner was kind and very concerned. “Oh man, I’d hate to think that any of my customers would steal your phone!” He was sincerely upset–– and said exactly what I was thinking. In fact, I was sure a particular lady had probably taken it.

It doesn’t take Sherlock to guess the punch line here. My phone had fallen in between the seats of my friend’s car, but not before I had judged every person I saw in that store. When I realized my mistake, I felt sick, actually sick. “You know, if that woman had lost her phone, she would never have accused us of taking it,” my friend commented. I knew she was right, and I just felt sicker. What made me judge these people–– the fact that they were buying weed? I was in the same store for the very same reason. I called the storeowner immediately and apologized for worrying him. He was so relieved, but I still felt horrible.

Twenty-three states and the District of Columbia have legalized marijuana in one form or another; four states and DC have legalized it for recreational purposes. It’s legal where I live; I’m over twenty-one years old, and still I have hang-ups about its use. I worry about what others will think, even as I write this. While visiting the state of Colorado this week, I heard about a local group of mothers who staked out a local dispensary and then started posting the names of parents who shopped there… to humiliate them. I don’t know if this story is true, but frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me. It’s appalling, and hypocritical on so many levels and I believe it leads to all kinds of mixed messages with our kids. Just like alcohol, this should be seen as a mood-altering drug that must be used responsibly and legally. I’m no fool; I’ve never assumed that my kids or the teens and college students I know care any more about the legality of it, than my peers and I did, when we were their age. Again, it wasn’t my thing, but I drank long before I was legally allowed to. What’s the difference? Oh right, one kills more people.

I have long believed that marijuana should be legalized for both medical and recreational use. I believed that on principle. Yet, I slinked into the medical dispensary like a criminal, and far worse: I assumed that folks who were in a recreational store, for the very same reasons as me, had stolen my phone, based solely on the idea that they were buying pot… so they must be untrustworthy? Well friends, watch your phones around me! It’s time we all put on our grown up pants and accept that when we pick our poison, one is no better than the other. One person buys a bottle of wine for dinner, another takes a few hits of weed. I came home from the dispensary recently, with my attitude in check… and some very fine chocolate.

IMG_3299 (1)

*   *   *

GIPYHelp Me Reach My Goals!   KAPOW!  The Tales From the Motherland Facebook page recently hit the 2015 goal of 800 likes (which I set after hitting the 700 mark)! I’m going big for the next year and aiming for 1,000!! Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit; plagiarism sucks!

Posted on October 18, 2015 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 37 Comments

I recently celebrated my two-year anniversary of joining Friday Fictioneers. There was no cake (the baker has retired) or fanfare, but I felt like I wanted to thank some of the wonderful writers who have encouraged me here. That is a mighty challenge, as there are so many of you! Ted Strutz‘s cheerful photo got me thinking of happy. You all are my happy thought.

I decided to stick to the wonderful few who have encouraged me from the beginning, and have continued to tune in pretty much every week that I write. Thank you, kind writers. Your encouragement, edits and support mean so much! To all of you who I love reading and hearing from, who could not be spun into silly words, know that I appreciate each and every comment. Constructive, honest feedback is always welcome. Admittedly, this one is NOT FICTION.

If you are interested in joining this merry band of writers, from all over the world, check out Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s blog Addicted to Purple. Let the merriment commence!

© Ted Strutz

© Ted Strutz

Exactly 100 Words of Gratitude

Amyng to connect, she reached out, and I took the bait. String 100 words into a story, she encouraged. I doug in the sandy depths of my wordy brain, and my first Fictioneers’ story was björn.

The first year I didn’t miss a week. While I russelled with not making words sound like nansence, the encouragement and support of kind people gave me alicia’n brevity. Suen I was hooked.

Two years later and this deelightful challenge keeps me coming back. It never dawned on me then, that I’d so look forward to Wednesdays, and a jans to hook others!

—> There’s no working Rochelle into one of my silly sentences, but without her passion and mgenation, we wouldn’t be here! Thanks for two fabulous years Rochelle, and congratulations on your retirement from the bakery. Their loss is the reading world’s gain!

And a giant thank you to Toby (AKA: Fearless Leader, T-man, an Angel, Dumbass) for tweeting me Every. Single. Week! You rock darlin’!

*   *   *

GIPYHelp Me Reach My Goals!   KAPOW!  The Tales From the Motherland Facebook page recently hit the 2015 goal of 800 likes (which I set after hitting the 700 mark)! I’m going big for the next year and aiming for 1,000!! Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, LeBron James does (yes, for real)! Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. Honest, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email,  no spam.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, I’m grateful, but please give proper credit; plagiarism sucks!

Posted on October 8, 2015 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 66 Comments