They say that nice guys finish last. In my experience, this
has been mostly true. I’m here today because I don’t accept that anymore.
I am a nice person; on top of that, I’m a good person. I
took the childhood I was given, full of alcoholism, violence, abuse of every
kind, mental illness, and neglect, and at the age of 21, made the decision to
change my life and began to live down the legacy I’d been born into.
It wasn't easy to sort out the shame, guilt, and brokenness
that I felt was me. There’ve been a lot of times when I wanted to give up, give
into the pain, and end my life.
Why does this matter to you, and what does it have to do
with my being in front of you today?
It has to do with being judged by what you see, instead of
by who I am. What you see is an old RV, cluttered up, and me, a woman up at all
hours, doing who knows what. You see my 20 year old son, who makes rash
decisions (what 20yo doesn’t?), spills oil on the ground, and doesn't pick up
after himself. And, for some reason, you see my cat, Lily, who’s so amazing
most people call her a “therapy” cat, but who’s become a target here at the
Moose lodge, sight unseen, for scratching paint jobs and peeing on orange cones.
You may not think this has anything to do with why we’re
here today, but as I was told I could come to defend myself, this is how I’m
choosing to use my time.
A minute ago I spoke of being judged for what you see,
rather than for who I am. So I’m now going to tell you who I am, 28 years after
I made that decision to change, and who my son is.
When I made that decision to change the story of my life, I
prayed for the strength, tools, and guidance to heal myself, and the
perseverance to never accept that a life without love and peace of mind was
acceptable. I had little hope that I’d ever be free of the heartache, pain, and
shame I woke up to every day, because how could so much darkness, what I called
“the black slime” ever go away? Then one day while I was journaling, I paused,
wondering, could it really be possible? My surprising answer to myself was, if
I can imagine it, then it must be possible.
In my prayers for help, I also made the commitment that
whatever I learned, I would give back to others who were suffering, that I’d
learn this not just for myself, but for anyone else who needed, and wanted what
I had.
I said these prayers a lot because there’s a deep chasm
between deciding to be better than I was raised to be, and actualizing it. As a
young adult I experienced more pain when I was raped, and beaten til my bones
were broken. Because I was accustomed to the level of abuse I’d endured as a
child, I really had no way to measure bad behavior. I knew what was familiar,
and so even one notch up from that was a relief. Plus, when you’re mistreated
in such a way, there’s a part of you that believes that in some way you deserve
it, because you’re broken, wrong, undesirable, and have no value.
I realized a few years ago, that if my life had a title it was
supposed to have been “I was raised to be a homeless drug-addict”. Instead, it’s
become “I fought the battle, and I won”.
Except for those moments when people choose to see what they
think I am, instead of finding out who I actually am.
Now I’ll tell you who that is.
I dropped out of High School during the last semester of my
senior year at PHS. I moved out of my house when I was 17, then back in a few
months later when my mentally ill mom left with another man. Behind her she
left me, my younger sister and little brother. I did my best to protect them,
putting myself between them and him when he’d come after them in an alcoholic
rage. At one point, when he was coming at me, I thought of picking up a heavy
vase and smashing it over his head, but I was afraid I wouldn't kill him, and
then he’d kill me. That almost came true one night, and I left again at
19, permanently this time, after he knocked me down, punching me with one hand
while choking me with the other.
I ricocheted through relationships and locations, always in
pursuit of myself, the me I was meant to be who could then help other people. I
got counseling, attended seminars, read books, and put myself through rehab.
By the time I met my son’s dad, I was in a far better place.
He was in the military. He seemed to be a very good man, and for once, I’d
found someone who didn't abuse me. I was getting better.
When we were in Guam, and I was 4 months pregnant, he
abandoned us.
So I came back to California to raise my son Sean, who’s
been my greatest teacher and my biggest reason why. I found it easy to set
boundaries to protect him, and to raise the bar in my own life in order to give
him a better one than I’d gotten. I went back to school, and in his lifetime
have gone from GED to PhD.
I've also been fulfilling my commitment to give what I've
learned to those who needed and wanted it. I've volunteered on crisis lines,
worked in crisis centers, worked with families in crisis through juvenile
probation, I've been a sponsor, and I've been a counselor, a coach, a trainer,
and a friend. I've taken every training I've ever been offered, and been
awarded scholarships for my volunteer work in Sonoma County.
Because of all I am now, and all I've learned, by the time
Sean was 18, I was able to command top dollar for my services, which is exactly
what I was doing. As graduation day approached for him, I began to think about
what I was really doing. I was no longer accessible to everyone who wanted and
needed what I’d learned. So when he registered for the JC, and moved in with
his stepdad in Santa Rosa, I let my house go, and I gave away everything in it.
I traded my truck for an old RV, and with my Lily cat beside me, went to Truth
or Consequences, New Mexico to volunteer at Desert Haven Animal Refuge, then on
to Galveston, Texas, to help a man set up a non-profit for Childhood Rheumatoid Arthritis,
finally returning to California last year, donating my time at Madre Grande
Monastery, creating their online systems, and picking sage.
In the meantime, Sean’s stepdad had been diagnosed with
Progressive MS, and for the first time ever, his bio dad stepped up and invited
him to live with him in St Louis. We hoped he’d be more dependable once Sean
was with him, but instead he was violent, and emotionally abusive. When my son
returned to California 10 months later, he had nowhere to go. He was working
for my uncle, also emotionally abusive, and sleeping in his car in the business
parking lot.
So I came back. I got the old RV you see out there as
quickly as I could, too quickly it turns out because it’s not in the shape I’d
been led to believe. But that was okay with me, because I could be here with my
son. The day I returned to Petaluma wasn't a day too soon.
I picked Sean up in the morning. He was coughing terribly.
When he got into my car I asked him how he was doing. He was really quiet for a
minute, then said, “mom, when I woke up this morning, I wished I hadn't”.
I cannot tell you how grateful I was to find the Moose
Lodge. All the things you stand for, the charities, the community work, the
children you help. I knew this was a place I could help my son remember his own
greatness, to remember he’d started his own successful videography business
when he was 17, and his great heart and wisdom in supporting people after all
the years of just being around and hearing me while I did it.
I worked on my RV to get the water running, the propane
hooked up, the electricity running after it shorted out one night, and the
engine calibrated and sealed. As you may
or may not know, none of it held. The water heater doesn't work, the propane
leaks like a sieve, and the engine is beyond my abilities.
Before you think I want you to feel sorry for me, pause.
I chose this life. I don’t mind the challenges. I go to the
Elks lodge to shower. And I work from home. I've lived out of my backpack and I've lived on sailboats. I love my life
because what matters to me is that my son is okay, and that my over-head and
responsibilities are at a minimum. The life I imagined was possible is the very
one you see me living, and every day is spent fulfilling my commitment to
support other people, and the things they imagine can be true for them.
While how I live may not be the life you choose, or the dream
of the very drunk, belligerent man who so harshly misjudged me a few nights
ago, it is the one I dreamed of for myself.
That’s my story. As I see it, the problem with being nice,
and good, is that it can be misunderstood for weakness, and vulnerability.
This brings me full circle to why I’m here in this room with
you. The day I moved in I saw a red flag but chose to ignore it. Roger warned
me about someone. He said she was crazy, and bad news, and to not even smile at
her. I took this at face value in the beginning but have come to find out that
what he told me isn't true.
Last month, when Peter told me that although he’d never
actually seen Lily on his car, there were scratches on it, and that I was to do
something about her, or he would. When I asked him to explain to me what that
meant, he repeated what he’d said. I don’t know about all of you, but Lily is a
member of my family, and has been my constant companion for almost 10 years.
What Peter said scared me. I don’t know him very well, only that he doesn't
like me, and I wasn't sure what “or I will” meant. So when Roger came to me that
day, I brought this up with him. Instead of taking my fear seriously, he
defended Peter, and wrote into a contract I had to sign, that I had made this
complaint. He didn't even fully expand upon it but inserted the word “whatever”
into the sentence. The reality is, if I felt threatened, I felt threatened.
I only bring up Peter and my cat because once again, Roger has profiled someone in this park. This time it was me. I know this because the
man who complained about me verbally attacked me about Lily, after being in the
park for less than one day. She was accused of lifting her leg on his orange
cone and making the entire park smell like cat piss, and he’d been warned about
me.
As far as I know, Peter did not have to sign something
saying he’d threatened me, or my cat. Nor did he have to sign anything for
illegally using video surveillance without notice, in the Moose Lodge parking
lot, which Roger was aware of. According to Homeland Security, this is an Act
of Terrorism. And as far as I know, even though I told Roger that the man next
door had been drunk and belligerent with me, he also didn't have to sign
anything.
I've worked very hard to remove the armor I’d built around
myself, and to become a contributing, valuable member of my community. So when
someone speaks to me the way this man did, it’s now a shock to my system. I've
successfully raised the bar, and no one speaks to me this way anymore, or
judges me as harshly as he was allowed to do. He sounded genuinely shocked when
I told him that I work here, as if he couldn't believe a person like me
actually works. I do work. I work hard doing work that I love, and I do it out
of love.
When you see me up at all hours, it’s because I’m on the
phone with someone who needs help. When you see my space cluttered, it’s
because I get so focused on the people I’m supporting I forget what’s around
me. Roger said I have a different idea of neatness than other people. He’s
right. I also have a different idea of what my purpose is, and I take the words
Charity, Hope, and Love to be words of action, not just words I read during a Moose Lodge ritual.
So when you look at me, or other people who look like me, and
think, or say out loud, as the man did to me the other night, that he doesn't
need to talk to me to know me, that he can tell by looking at me that I’m white
trash, living in a trash heap, know that what you’re seeing and judging,
probably has little to do with who that person really is.
In conclusion, I respectfully request that you withdraw this
discriminatory complaint against me. I also respectfully request that you look
to the Oleander flowers, and the aphids on them that draw the flies, instead of
looking at me.
According to our agreement, I bring my things outside during
the day when I’m working, and take them back inside at night. I have no open
food containers, no dirty dishes, and none of what is behind my RV can be seen
from the parking lot, with the exception of my patio set.
In return I will forgo filing a complaint of discrimination
with Regional. I will also forgo filing a police report against Roger, and the
Moose Lodge, for willful endangerment, discrimination, targeting, and
profiling.
