Thursday, April 30, 2015
The id Post: Violence Begets Violence
The id Post: Violence Begets Violence: by Irene Daniel The images coming out of Baltimore, Md. this week left me emotionally drained and very, very sad. One of the images that h...
The id Post: Violence Begets Violence
The id Post: Violence Begets Violence: by Irene Daniel The images coming out of Baltimore, Md. this week left me emotionally drained and very, very sad. One of the images that h...
Violence Begets Violence
by Irene Daniel
The images coming out of Baltimore, Md. this week left me emotionally drained and very, very sad. One of the images that has gone viral, and often trumpeted as heroic, is that of a mother beating, slapping and humiliating her teenage son, for participating in the rioting.
I don't know the woman. I am not fit to judge her, for I no nothing about her life, her personality or her history. "I lost it," were the words Toya Graham used to describe her reaction. I very well may have reacted the very same way. We never know how we will react to any particular situations until we are confronted with them. What I do know is what it feels like to be slapped, beaten and humiliated in public by your mother.
No, I wasn't rioting in the streets. But whatever I was or wasn't doing, my memory still carries those scars. It took decades of reading self-help books, psychotherapy, anti-depressant medication and a Juris Doctorate from UCLA to help me to see past the emotional and physical abuse I suffered as a little girl. Only then did I realize that: if I wasn't enough without that law degree from a prestigious law school, I would never be enough with it -- or anything else. It took a lot more work to get me to a place where my self-esteem was genuine and authentic; where I could be, and love, the real me.
When I was practicing law in Southern California, I worked for two different non-profit legal services corporations as the directing/managing attorney for domestic violence projects. In the mid-1990s, the County of Los Angeles, as well as other governmental and social agencies and organizations, invested heavily into such programs following the trial of OJ Simpson for the murder of his wife, Nicole Brown Simpson.
I trained staff attorneys, paralegals and other support staff in litigating case after case after case, of men beating their wives. We all had to undergo 40 hours of Domestic Violence Training, which was very eye-opening, extensive and demanding -- intellectually and emotionally. We read relevant material and listened to many speakers talk about the effects, as well as the origins of domesic violence and abuse of family members. We even heard from Denise Brown, Nicole's sister, about how much the family suffered silently for years before her death, knowing that Nicole was being beaten, and feeling helpless to prevent further abuse.
We also learned that police officers are some of the worst offenders. And when police officers abuse their families, who will come to the rescue of the abused and frightened family? Other police officers who work with the man who terrorizes them? Guess again. When police officers abuse their families they are more likely to get away with it due to the "blue wall of silence," their fraternity brothers looking the other way.
For me personally, the most effective and most memorable of our speakers in the Domestic Violence training was not a woman, but a black man, whose name escapes me these 20 years later. What is important is not necessarily who he was, but what he said about the origins of such violence in men. It was the first time I had ever heard violence described as a "problem-solving tool." Those were his exact words and I will never forget them, or how they changed my perspective on the whole mess.
Almost without fail, adult males who beat their wives and children were themselves abused as children. I am not talking about reasonable discipline, I am talking about the humiliation that comes with being beaten in public. My mother was ill and should probably have been medicated for her depression and anxiety. I have forgiven her everything, but I grew up always being afraid of her and I knew that I could never completely trust her because she might fly into one of her fits of rage and beat me with sawed-off broomstick handles. Needless to say, I had a lot of bad days around it.
The woman in the video, Toya Graham, was desperately afraid that her only son might be arrested or shot. I am 100% sympathetic to her fear. My point is not about her, or judging her in any manner. The point that I am making is that her son will soon be a man. What are we, as a society, teaching him about violence?
His rock-throwing, however ill-advised and unlawful, was his reaction to his fears that his life was less valuable than a young white man's life to white police officers. His fear is not without merit, as we have seen case after case after case of white cops getting away with murdering black men, even shooting them in the back. Maybe he was thinking that, "If my life is likely to be taken by one of them, I might as well take some of them with me." Again, I am not condoning this ill-logic. I am just making the point that I can understand why he would feel that way. His answer to police brutality was more violence. How is that supposed to work?
His mother, Ms. Graham, reacted to his violent behavior with more violence -- and in a very humiliating manner. If we all react to violence with more violence, then how can reason and logic prevail? They have no place to even take hold.
In an interview with Ms. Graham and her son, Michael Singleton, the misguided teenager shared some of the ensuing conversation he had with his mother, and I found it most informative. His mother asked him what those police officers had ever done to him. While Michael has not, as of yet, been a victim of police misconduct, he admitted to be missing friends who were no longer here due to police activity. While this does not, in any way, excuse his choice to throw rocks at police officers, it does bring information into the conversation that I think is relevant.
Michael Singleton didn't see police officers as people there to protect him. He saw an enemy who took his friends away. Rightly or wrongly, his perspective is one shared by many, many young black men who perceive law enforcement officers as out to get them. To dismiss their fears outright and call them thugs and bitch-slapping them in the street, is to deny them their own humanity. How can you teach a young man respect if it is never afforded to him?
I only hope that someday, when Toya Graham's son Micheal is a grown man, he will not have the need to solve his problems by hitting and/or humiliating someone he loves. I know, not only from my professional training, but from my own personal experience, that using violence to solve your own personal problems gives birth to myriad unintended consequences. And those consequences may be just as deadly as those from which Ms. Graham was trying to protect her child in the first place.
Copyright 2015, Irene Daniel, All rights reserved.
The images coming out of Baltimore, Md. this week left me emotionally drained and very, very sad. One of the images that has gone viral, and often trumpeted as heroic, is that of a mother beating, slapping and humiliating her teenage son, for participating in the rioting.
I don't know the woman. I am not fit to judge her, for I no nothing about her life, her personality or her history. "I lost it," were the words Toya Graham used to describe her reaction. I very well may have reacted the very same way. We never know how we will react to any particular situations until we are confronted with them. What I do know is what it feels like to be slapped, beaten and humiliated in public by your mother.
No, I wasn't rioting in the streets. But whatever I was or wasn't doing, my memory still carries those scars. It took decades of reading self-help books, psychotherapy, anti-depressant medication and a Juris Doctorate from UCLA to help me to see past the emotional and physical abuse I suffered as a little girl. Only then did I realize that: if I wasn't enough without that law degree from a prestigious law school, I would never be enough with it -- or anything else. It took a lot more work to get me to a place where my self-esteem was genuine and authentic; where I could be, and love, the real me.
When I was practicing law in Southern California, I worked for two different non-profit legal services corporations as the directing/managing attorney for domestic violence projects. In the mid-1990s, the County of Los Angeles, as well as other governmental and social agencies and organizations, invested heavily into such programs following the trial of OJ Simpson for the murder of his wife, Nicole Brown Simpson.
I trained staff attorneys, paralegals and other support staff in litigating case after case after case, of men beating their wives. We all had to undergo 40 hours of Domestic Violence Training, which was very eye-opening, extensive and demanding -- intellectually and emotionally. We read relevant material and listened to many speakers talk about the effects, as well as the origins of domesic violence and abuse of family members. We even heard from Denise Brown, Nicole's sister, about how much the family suffered silently for years before her death, knowing that Nicole was being beaten, and feeling helpless to prevent further abuse.
We also learned that police officers are some of the worst offenders. And when police officers abuse their families, who will come to the rescue of the abused and frightened family? Other police officers who work with the man who terrorizes them? Guess again. When police officers abuse their families they are more likely to get away with it due to the "blue wall of silence," their fraternity brothers looking the other way.
For me personally, the most effective and most memorable of our speakers in the Domestic Violence training was not a woman, but a black man, whose name escapes me these 20 years later. What is important is not necessarily who he was, but what he said about the origins of such violence in men. It was the first time I had ever heard violence described as a "problem-solving tool." Those were his exact words and I will never forget them, or how they changed my perspective on the whole mess.
Almost without fail, adult males who beat their wives and children were themselves abused as children. I am not talking about reasonable discipline, I am talking about the humiliation that comes with being beaten in public. My mother was ill and should probably have been medicated for her depression and anxiety. I have forgiven her everything, but I grew up always being afraid of her and I knew that I could never completely trust her because she might fly into one of her fits of rage and beat me with sawed-off broomstick handles. Needless to say, I had a lot of bad days around it.
The woman in the video, Toya Graham, was desperately afraid that her only son might be arrested or shot. I am 100% sympathetic to her fear. My point is not about her, or judging her in any manner. The point that I am making is that her son will soon be a man. What are we, as a society, teaching him about violence?
His rock-throwing, however ill-advised and unlawful, was his reaction to his fears that his life was less valuable than a young white man's life to white police officers. His fear is not without merit, as we have seen case after case after case of white cops getting away with murdering black men, even shooting them in the back. Maybe he was thinking that, "If my life is likely to be taken by one of them, I might as well take some of them with me." Again, I am not condoning this ill-logic. I am just making the point that I can understand why he would feel that way. His answer to police brutality was more violence. How is that supposed to work?
His mother, Ms. Graham, reacted to his violent behavior with more violence -- and in a very humiliating manner. If we all react to violence with more violence, then how can reason and logic prevail? They have no place to even take hold.
In an interview with Ms. Graham and her son, Michael Singleton, the misguided teenager shared some of the ensuing conversation he had with his mother, and I found it most informative. His mother asked him what those police officers had ever done to him. While Michael has not, as of yet, been a victim of police misconduct, he admitted to be missing friends who were no longer here due to police activity. While this does not, in any way, excuse his choice to throw rocks at police officers, it does bring information into the conversation that I think is relevant.
Michael Singleton didn't see police officers as people there to protect him. He saw an enemy who took his friends away. Rightly or wrongly, his perspective is one shared by many, many young black men who perceive law enforcement officers as out to get them. To dismiss their fears outright and call them thugs and bitch-slapping them in the street, is to deny them their own humanity. How can you teach a young man respect if it is never afforded to him?
I only hope that someday, when Toya Graham's son Micheal is a grown man, he will not have the need to solve his problems by hitting and/or humiliating someone he loves. I know, not only from my professional training, but from my own personal experience, that using violence to solve your own personal problems gives birth to myriad unintended consequences. And those consequences may be just as deadly as those from which Ms. Graham was trying to protect her child in the first place.
Copyright 2015, Irene Daniel, All rights reserved.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
The id Post: Victims of Addiction -- A New Day, A New Way, A Ne...
The id Post: Victims of Addiction -- A New Day, A New Way, A Ne...: by Irene Daniel Several months ago I got a call from someone I knew in high school. My caller id informed me that Frank Arthur Celaya III...
Victims of Addiction -- A New Day, A New Way, A New Hope
by Irene Daniel
Several months ago I got a call from someone I knew in high school. My caller id informed me that Frank Arthur Celaya III was calling. Those who know me well know that I don't pick up the phone right away. I let it go to voicemail and respond at my convenience unless it is someone I know well or it's a call that I am expecting. But not this time. Something deep inside, some intuitive voice said, "Pick up the phone, Irene. Your future is calling."
Frank and I had connected on Facebook, as old friends and acquaintances often do, but I hadn't known him well in school. He was a few years older than me and when you're young those years make a big difference in how we perceive one another. His little sister, Rita, was in my class and I wondered why Rita's big brother would be calling me. My curiosity, as well as my intuition compelled me to answer; and answering that call was one of the best decisions I have ever made. We talked for hours.
We talked about a lot of things, but mostly we talked about Victims of Addiction. Frank told me his story -- a compelling tale of a family torn apart and financial ruin as the result of his son's addiction to drugs. I learned a lot, although I still wasn't crazy about the word "victim." This realization brought me face to face with my own denial of how I had been, and still was, a victim of many things.
You see, I have survived child abuse, spousal abuse, alcoholism, depression, anxiety and the ensuing consequences of my own bad choices. The foundation of these bad choices lay in the arrogance of denial of my own victimhood. I saw myself as a survivor and overcomer of all the adversity with which life had presented me. I'm no victim, I've always told myself. And this false affirmation was a response to a culture that sees victims as weak; wallowers in self-pity.
I see it all differently now. For now I know that, while I have been victimized, often brutally so, to deny my pain and anguish is to deny myself. And it is this denial that has estopped me from living an authentic life; the ability to show up as the real me, sans masks and false-fronts.
Since that initial conversation, which seems like several lifetimes ago now, Frank, Jackie (our clinical specialist) and I have spent countless hours on the phone, as well as reviewing and editing each other's writings. We have all grown from these exchanges. And we have all been forever changed.
I do everything differently now. I answer my phone when people call unless I am truly unavailable. I am no longer afraid of life; of people, places and things. And most especially, I am not afraid of myself. I don't have to isolate and hide myself away from a world that, in my victimhood, I usually perceived as cruel and frightening.
For I have learned that, while I don't like being a victim of anything, the fact remains that I have been been, and in many ways still am, a victim of other's people's bad choices. And I don't need to blame them -- or me -- for any of those choices. I do, however, need help and loving support to get past it all. And getting past it all is what Victims of Addiction is all about.
Victimhood should always be a temporary state of being. However, as with any injury -- physical, emotional or Spiritual -- refusing to acknowledge our pain only makes it impossible to truly heal and to be made whole again. And healing the families suffering from the bad choices of one of their own is the very heartbeat of Victims of Addiction.
But now we need you, my friends and readers, to bring this transformational message to the 24 million families of addicts. These families are completely lost in a morass of treatment centers, legal fees, financial ruin and the false hope of a paradigm that doesn't work for them. We need you to bring our promise of A New Day, A New Way, A New Hope,to fruition.
Any amount you can give to support our mission would be greatly appreciated. If you can't give (and we've all been there), you can give us an assist by spreading the word to everyone you know. Share this blogpost, share our Indiegogo campaign @ https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/victims-of-addiction, or share our website @ http://www.victimsofaddiction.com/, or our Facebook page.@ https://www.facebook.com/newdaynewwaynewhope/posts/1437699119875845?fref=nf#!/newdaynewwaynewhope?fref=nf. .
Hey! You out there -- our future is calling!!
Copyright 2015, Irene Daniel, All rights reserved.
Several months ago I got a call from someone I knew in high school. My caller id informed me that Frank Arthur Celaya III was calling. Those who know me well know that I don't pick up the phone right away. I let it go to voicemail and respond at my convenience unless it is someone I know well or it's a call that I am expecting. But not this time. Something deep inside, some intuitive voice said, "Pick up the phone, Irene. Your future is calling."
Frank and I had connected on Facebook, as old friends and acquaintances often do, but I hadn't known him well in school. He was a few years older than me and when you're young those years make a big difference in how we perceive one another. His little sister, Rita, was in my class and I wondered why Rita's big brother would be calling me. My curiosity, as well as my intuition compelled me to answer; and answering that call was one of the best decisions I have ever made. We talked for hours.
We talked about a lot of things, but mostly we talked about Victims of Addiction. Frank told me his story -- a compelling tale of a family torn apart and financial ruin as the result of his son's addiction to drugs. I learned a lot, although I still wasn't crazy about the word "victim." This realization brought me face to face with my own denial of how I had been, and still was, a victim of many things.
You see, I have survived child abuse, spousal abuse, alcoholism, depression, anxiety and the ensuing consequences of my own bad choices. The foundation of these bad choices lay in the arrogance of denial of my own victimhood. I saw myself as a survivor and overcomer of all the adversity with which life had presented me. I'm no victim, I've always told myself. And this false affirmation was a response to a culture that sees victims as weak; wallowers in self-pity.
I see it all differently now. For now I know that, while I have been victimized, often brutally so, to deny my pain and anguish is to deny myself. And it is this denial that has estopped me from living an authentic life; the ability to show up as the real me, sans masks and false-fronts.
Since that initial conversation, which seems like several lifetimes ago now, Frank, Jackie (our clinical specialist) and I have spent countless hours on the phone, as well as reviewing and editing each other's writings. We have all grown from these exchanges. And we have all been forever changed.
I do everything differently now. I answer my phone when people call unless I am truly unavailable. I am no longer afraid of life; of people, places and things. And most especially, I am not afraid of myself. I don't have to isolate and hide myself away from a world that, in my victimhood, I usually perceived as cruel and frightening.
For I have learned that, while I don't like being a victim of anything, the fact remains that I have been been, and in many ways still am, a victim of other's people's bad choices. And I don't need to blame them -- or me -- for any of those choices. I do, however, need help and loving support to get past it all. And getting past it all is what Victims of Addiction is all about.
Victimhood should always be a temporary state of being. However, as with any injury -- physical, emotional or Spiritual -- refusing to acknowledge our pain only makes it impossible to truly heal and to be made whole again. And healing the families suffering from the bad choices of one of their own is the very heartbeat of Victims of Addiction.
But now we need you, my friends and readers, to bring this transformational message to the 24 million families of addicts. These families are completely lost in a morass of treatment centers, legal fees, financial ruin and the false hope of a paradigm that doesn't work for them. We need you to bring our promise of A New Day, A New Way, A New Hope,to fruition.
Any amount you can give to support our mission would be greatly appreciated. If you can't give (and we've all been there), you can give us an assist by spreading the word to everyone you know. Share this blogpost, share our Indiegogo campaign @ https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/victims-of-addiction, or share our website @ http://www.victimsofaddiction.com/, or our Facebook page.@ https://www.facebook.com/newdaynewwaynewhope/posts/1437699119875845?fref=nf#!/newdaynewwaynewhope?fref=nf. .
Hey! You out there -- our future is calling!!
Copyright 2015, Irene Daniel, All rights reserved.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
The id Post: I Remember You: When We Were Just Kids
The id Post: I Remember You: When We Were Just Kids: by Irene Daniel The other day I was sitting in my house chatting with some old friends, Pamela and Tommy Cathemer III. We all grew up toge...
I Remember You: When We Were Just Kids
by Irene Daniel
The other day I was sitting in my house chatting with some old friends, Pamela and Tommy Cathemer III. We all grew up together. My mother used to babysit them after school, so we're like family. And always will be.
As old friends often do, we got to reminiscing. I gazed out my living room window, past the fence to the sidewalk and across the paved street to the Sante Fe style home where my neighbors Duane and Vickie live. But it didn't used to be that way. Right outside my front door used to be nothing but funky ol' dirt.
We started talking about all the fun we had in that dirt, especially when all the kids in the neighborhood would and play there with us. Sometimes there would be a whole lot of us, sometimes less so, but fun was always had by all.
There were my two older brothers, Gilbert and David, and me; and of course Tommy and Pam and their two little brothers, Reed and Stewart, as well as their Aunt Olga. She was only a few years older than Tommy and one of my best friends. The Martinez family lived next door and usually Louie, Linda and their baby sister Francis would join in. The Jarequis still live across the street to the east, where Johnny, Frankie and Rickie grew up. Sometimes, the Harveys -- Pam, Eddie and David -- would be next door to the south, visiting their Grandaddy Gordon, the electrician. And then my BFF since 4th grade, Rhonda, would come over to play with me and join in our games. The more, the merrier.
We had a blast!! Being the oldest, Gilbert would organize games of freeze-tag, baseball and some other games that I think he just made up; using us as guinea pigs to test his theories of play. We ranged in age from preschool to high school and no one got left out. Even the littlest among us got their at-bat. We ran around and screamed and giggled and fell down, scraping body parts. Sometimes we'd fight and squabble, but mostly we laughed and got lots of exercise. We were buds!
Those memories are so vivid to me and it was heartwarming to know that Pam and Tommy remembered them too. We recalled that, as we were mucking around kicking up lots of desert dust, we could hear the clamour of pots and pans, and smell supper cooking in the various households. The scents seemed to blend together in a rich and appetizing aroma stew that hung in the air. And then my mother's comadres and compadres would call their brood in to come and eat as the sunlight slipped beneath the horizon. By then we were all covered with dust and maybe a little blood; just a bunch of dirty, sweaty, stinky kids.
Recounting our childhood glee we all agreed that, while progress and pavement are good things, we shared something special that is gone for good. Our shared gratitude of days gone by made us feel sorry for the today's kids, with their play-dates and helicopter parents. Our parents were glad to get us out of their hair for awhile. "Just try not to get run over," they would warn, since we were playing in the middle of an unpaved road. We kids were just as happy for the break from chores, homework, nagging and discipline. We just ran amok for an hour or two. It was the best! Those images remain one of the richest spots in my memory bank.
We talked some more, fast-forwarding to what was once the future, but now is past. We are all in our 50s now and can still appreciate bright futures, even though we all bear many scars of life's battles. Yet, for each of those 1960s households, the future would bring great loss and the torment of unspeakable grief. Some of our playmates live now only in our memories; ghosts of our collective childhood. We all lost someone.
The first to go was Louie Martinez. He never made it out of high school because he died in a horrible car accident. I will never forget how the whole town mourned his passing. The shock of seeing big and strong football players, Louie's teammates and friends, sobbing uncontrollably left and indelible impression on the 13 year old me.
The Jarequis lost Johnny -- their oldest, bravest and funniest. My brother Gilbert died of cancer in 1988. The Cathemers took the biggest hit of all our families. Reed, the sweetest one of all of us Reedy was, died of an accidental gun-shot wound at the age of 14. And my beloved friend, Olga Marie, died in the spring of 1990. I miss them all. A lot.
Yet, as I lament these passings, I rejoice in the appreciation of my memories of the laughing, screaming, giggling, bloody and dirty kids that we once were.
I look out my window and there they all are again -- happy, silly children at play.
I remember you. I will always remember you.
Copyright 2015, Irene Daniel, All Rights Reserved.
The other day I was sitting in my house chatting with some old friends, Pamela and Tommy Cathemer III. We all grew up together. My mother used to babysit them after school, so we're like family. And always will be.
As old friends often do, we got to reminiscing. I gazed out my living room window, past the fence to the sidewalk and across the paved street to the Sante Fe style home where my neighbors Duane and Vickie live. But it didn't used to be that way. Right outside my front door used to be nothing but funky ol' dirt.
We started talking about all the fun we had in that dirt, especially when all the kids in the neighborhood would and play there with us. Sometimes there would be a whole lot of us, sometimes less so, but fun was always had by all.
There were my two older brothers, Gilbert and David, and me; and of course Tommy and Pam and their two little brothers, Reed and Stewart, as well as their Aunt Olga. She was only a few years older than Tommy and one of my best friends. The Martinez family lived next door and usually Louie, Linda and their baby sister Francis would join in. The Jarequis still live across the street to the east, where Johnny, Frankie and Rickie grew up. Sometimes, the Harveys -- Pam, Eddie and David -- would be next door to the south, visiting their Grandaddy Gordon, the electrician. And then my BFF since 4th grade, Rhonda, would come over to play with me and join in our games. The more, the merrier.
We had a blast!! Being the oldest, Gilbert would organize games of freeze-tag, baseball and some other games that I think he just made up; using us as guinea pigs to test his theories of play. We ranged in age from preschool to high school and no one got left out. Even the littlest among us got their at-bat. We ran around and screamed and giggled and fell down, scraping body parts. Sometimes we'd fight and squabble, but mostly we laughed and got lots of exercise. We were buds!
Those memories are so vivid to me and it was heartwarming to know that Pam and Tommy remembered them too. We recalled that, as we were mucking around kicking up lots of desert dust, we could hear the clamour of pots and pans, and smell supper cooking in the various households. The scents seemed to blend together in a rich and appetizing aroma stew that hung in the air. And then my mother's comadres and compadres would call their brood in to come and eat as the sunlight slipped beneath the horizon. By then we were all covered with dust and maybe a little blood; just a bunch of dirty, sweaty, stinky kids.
Recounting our childhood glee we all agreed that, while progress and pavement are good things, we shared something special that is gone for good. Our shared gratitude of days gone by made us feel sorry for the today's kids, with their play-dates and helicopter parents. Our parents were glad to get us out of their hair for awhile. "Just try not to get run over," they would warn, since we were playing in the middle of an unpaved road. We kids were just as happy for the break from chores, homework, nagging and discipline. We just ran amok for an hour or two. It was the best! Those images remain one of the richest spots in my memory bank.
We talked some more, fast-forwarding to what was once the future, but now is past. We are all in our 50s now and can still appreciate bright futures, even though we all bear many scars of life's battles. Yet, for each of those 1960s households, the future would bring great loss and the torment of unspeakable grief. Some of our playmates live now only in our memories; ghosts of our collective childhood. We all lost someone.
The first to go was Louie Martinez. He never made it out of high school because he died in a horrible car accident. I will never forget how the whole town mourned his passing. The shock of seeing big and strong football players, Louie's teammates and friends, sobbing uncontrollably left and indelible impression on the 13 year old me.
The Jarequis lost Johnny -- their oldest, bravest and funniest. My brother Gilbert died of cancer in 1988. The Cathemers took the biggest hit of all our families. Reed, the sweetest one of all of us Reedy was, died of an accidental gun-shot wound at the age of 14. And my beloved friend, Olga Marie, died in the spring of 1990. I miss them all. A lot.
Yet, as I lament these passings, I rejoice in the appreciation of my memories of the laughing, screaming, giggling, bloody and dirty kids that we once were.
I look out my window and there they all are again -- happy, silly children at play.
I remember you. I will always remember you.
Copyright 2015, Irene Daniel, All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
The id Post: Asterik Love: The Lament of the Rebound Fling
The id Post: Asterik Love: The Lament of the Rebound Fling: by Irene Daniel I love you with an asterik Please let me explain I never, ever, ever thought that I could feel again Most day...
The id Post: Asterik Love: The Lament of the Rebound Fling
The id Post: Asterik Love: The Lament of the Rebound Fling: by Irene Daniel I love you with an asterik Please let me explain I never, ever, ever thought that I could feel again Most day...
Asterik Love: The Lament of the Rebound Fling
by Irene Daniel
I love you
with an asterik
Please let me explain
I never, ever, ever thought
that I could feel again
Most days
I don't want to feel
most days I just get through
I haven't even
half a heart
with which to beckon you
I have no dreams
to share today
life's 10 minutes
at at time
Even my soul
is something
I no longer
can call mine
I cannot trust
my choices now
hope betrayed deflates
disabling me from
responding to
the one at my gate
Is the image
that I see
helping hand
or sword
Deliverance from drowning
or just more
black cords
Unable to perceive
too well
from this lowly
vantage point
How can I
in this state
true love
annoint
Perhaps only time
will tell
perhaps a heart
can heal
Perhaps the bittersweet
of life
shows us
what is real
But for now
I cannot tell
fantasy from true
And so it's with
an asterik
that I say
I love you
Copyright 2015, Irene Daniel, All Rights Reserved
I love you
with an asterik
Please let me explain
I never, ever, ever thought
that I could feel again
Most days
I don't want to feel
most days I just get through
I haven't even
half a heart
with which to beckon you
I have no dreams
to share today
life's 10 minutes
at at time
Even my soul
is something
I no longer
can call mine
I cannot trust
my choices now
hope betrayed deflates
disabling me from
responding to
the one at my gate
Is the image
that I see
helping hand
or sword
Deliverance from drowning
or just more
black cords
Unable to perceive
too well
from this lowly
vantage point
How can I
in this state
true love
annoint
Perhaps only time
will tell
perhaps a heart
can heal
Perhaps the bittersweet
of life
shows us
what is real
But for now
I cannot tell
fantasy from true
And so it's with
an asterik
that I say
I love you
Copyright 2015, Irene Daniel, All Rights Reserved
Thursday, April 2, 2015
The id Post: The Felix Ranch: 150 Years of Legacy
The id Post: The Felix Ranch: 150 Years of Legacy: by Irene Daniel A friend of mine is celebrating with his family this spring. The Felix Ranch is located about 6 miles north of my hometown...
The Felix Ranch: 150 Years of Legacy
by Irene Daniel
A friend of mine is celebrating with his family this spring. The Felix Ranch is located about 6 miles north of my hometown of Florence, AZ, which was founded in 1866. This little Mexican-Cowboy Eden boasts of its history of being one of the oldest towns in the Grand Canyon State. The Felix Ranch predates the town's founding, established just one year earlier in 1865.
1865! Wow! What a year. The Civil War ended. President Lincoln was assassinated. Great wounds from which our Union has yet to heal.
But out here on the banks of the once mighty Gila River, Jesus Felix (or Feliz) an immigrant from Cumuripa, Mexico, started something big. I grew up with a lot of kids in my class named Felix, and a lot of kids named Feliz, who are all descendents of this one man. There are several different stories about which came first, the Felix or the Feliz, and there are also local roads and streets bearing either name. I haven't the space to sort it all out here, so I'll just say congrats to all! Moreover, I know better than to pick a fight with any one of them over any one thing, lest I have the whole lot to contend with -- and there are lots and lots of them. And they're everywhere!
What I find much more fascinating is the history of the place and the people. I have been privileged of late to spend some time with Katie Felix, current matriarch in residence at the Felix Ranch, and some of her children. When she learned what a history buff I am, she loaned me a big red binder full of deeds, stories and newspaper clippings. I was mesmerized as I poured over all of it, especially the old deeds.
Those deeds tell a story of family, land, innovation and legacy; aka, the American Dream. It started with one patch of land and one Felix (or Feliz), and acquisition of water rights. From that starting point, sections of the property have been expanded, divided between family members, sold-off, expanded again, easements granted, leases sold and land donated in parcels large and small; mostly large. And that's just the land. The people are an entirely different bag of discovery.
Many a colorful character has inhabited the Felix Ranch, and still do. Not the least of these are Katie and her husband, Paul Felix, current patriarch in residence. Pablo has lots of stories to tell and lots of time to tell them to anyone who will listen. His recountings of ranching, farming, engineering and innovation tell not only his story, but that of his father and his father's father, and all ancestors named Felix (or Feliz).
It's not just a story about a patch of earth and the people who worked it, creating generations of prosperity. That would be a story in and of itself. The history of the Felix Ranch is an American story, filled with gains and losses, zeniths and nadirs, joys and heartbreaks. It is a story of change, growth and pivots as this family made the adjustments necessary to move through history successfully, albeit unscathed.
What I have learned most from the family Felix (and Feliz) is this: consistency and longevity are born, not of sameness, but of change and diversity; snatching opportunity from the jaws of adversity. It is a story of making adjustments; adjustments to weather conditions, social changes and market conditions. There seems to be a sacred intuition acquired by those whose sustenance is dependent upon nature, and whose first business partners are the earth and the sun. What's more, for generation upon generation, they pass it all on to their young.
I suppose we all have to adjust to the times and circumstances around us; surrendering that which is no longer useful in order to make way for new growth. This family knows full well that bumper crops come from fertile fields which once lay fallow. The seeds of new growth sprout from darkness, struggling to find the light. And it is in this contrast -- between old and new, darkness and light -- that we learn to distinguish wheat from chaff; that which is useful and that which is not.
And I wonder: what does the next 150 years hold in store for the Felix Ranch? What new innovation will propel this legacy forward? What new method? What new crop?
For I have no doubt that the Felix Ranch can go on for another 150 years. They will find a way. They've done it before -- lots of times. It's in their DNA. Like all families, this one is not without its complicated dynamics; but there is no question that they love one another and are completely devoted to the ranch and their collective legacy.
And so, Happy 150th Anniversary to all of you, back at the ranch! And a very special thank you to Paul and Katie for their nurturing hospitality.
Last, but certainly not least, a very special thanks to my buddy, Louis, who I have known since first grade, and has been a true friend and great company of late.
Thanks for letting me tag along for the ride. It is an esteemed privilege and delightful pleasure to know you -- all of you!!
Copyright 2015, Irene Daniel, All Rights Reserved.
A friend of mine is celebrating with his family this spring. The Felix Ranch is located about 6 miles north of my hometown of Florence, AZ, which was founded in 1866. This little Mexican-Cowboy Eden boasts of its history of being one of the oldest towns in the Grand Canyon State. The Felix Ranch predates the town's founding, established just one year earlier in 1865.
1865! Wow! What a year. The Civil War ended. President Lincoln was assassinated. Great wounds from which our Union has yet to heal.
But out here on the banks of the once mighty Gila River, Jesus Felix (or Feliz) an immigrant from Cumuripa, Mexico, started something big. I grew up with a lot of kids in my class named Felix, and a lot of kids named Feliz, who are all descendents of this one man. There are several different stories about which came first, the Felix or the Feliz, and there are also local roads and streets bearing either name. I haven't the space to sort it all out here, so I'll just say congrats to all! Moreover, I know better than to pick a fight with any one of them over any one thing, lest I have the whole lot to contend with -- and there are lots and lots of them. And they're everywhere!
What I find much more fascinating is the history of the place and the people. I have been privileged of late to spend some time with Katie Felix, current matriarch in residence at the Felix Ranch, and some of her children. When she learned what a history buff I am, she loaned me a big red binder full of deeds, stories and newspaper clippings. I was mesmerized as I poured over all of it, especially the old deeds.
Those deeds tell a story of family, land, innovation and legacy; aka, the American Dream. It started with one patch of land and one Felix (or Feliz), and acquisition of water rights. From that starting point, sections of the property have been expanded, divided between family members, sold-off, expanded again, easements granted, leases sold and land donated in parcels large and small; mostly large. And that's just the land. The people are an entirely different bag of discovery.
Many a colorful character has inhabited the Felix Ranch, and still do. Not the least of these are Katie and her husband, Paul Felix, current patriarch in residence. Pablo has lots of stories to tell and lots of time to tell them to anyone who will listen. His recountings of ranching, farming, engineering and innovation tell not only his story, but that of his father and his father's father, and all ancestors named Felix (or Feliz).
It's not just a story about a patch of earth and the people who worked it, creating generations of prosperity. That would be a story in and of itself. The history of the Felix Ranch is an American story, filled with gains and losses, zeniths and nadirs, joys and heartbreaks. It is a story of change, growth and pivots as this family made the adjustments necessary to move through history successfully, albeit unscathed.
What I have learned most from the family Felix (and Feliz) is this: consistency and longevity are born, not of sameness, but of change and diversity; snatching opportunity from the jaws of adversity. It is a story of making adjustments; adjustments to weather conditions, social changes and market conditions. There seems to be a sacred intuition acquired by those whose sustenance is dependent upon nature, and whose first business partners are the earth and the sun. What's more, for generation upon generation, they pass it all on to their young.
I suppose we all have to adjust to the times and circumstances around us; surrendering that which is no longer useful in order to make way for new growth. This family knows full well that bumper crops come from fertile fields which once lay fallow. The seeds of new growth sprout from darkness, struggling to find the light. And it is in this contrast -- between old and new, darkness and light -- that we learn to distinguish wheat from chaff; that which is useful and that which is not.
And I wonder: what does the next 150 years hold in store for the Felix Ranch? What new innovation will propel this legacy forward? What new method? What new crop?
For I have no doubt that the Felix Ranch can go on for another 150 years. They will find a way. They've done it before -- lots of times. It's in their DNA. Like all families, this one is not without its complicated dynamics; but there is no question that they love one another and are completely devoted to the ranch and their collective legacy.
And so, Happy 150th Anniversary to all of you, back at the ranch! And a very special thank you to Paul and Katie for their nurturing hospitality.
Last, but certainly not least, a very special thanks to my buddy, Louis, who I have known since first grade, and has been a true friend and great company of late.
Thanks for letting me tag along for the ride. It is an esteemed privilege and delightful pleasure to know you -- all of you!!
Copyright 2015, Irene Daniel, All Rights Reserved.
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