Day With Daddy

Daddy and I shopped. We piddled and looked and rode around for hours. I had lunch with my Daddy, just he and I, eating alone for the first time in our lives. My sister, my stepmom, my brother, they were always there. I’ve never had alone time with my Daddy, not that I can remember, in my entire life.

We reached for the same things at the same time. We talked about gadgets. We found things in common. We chuckled over shared idiosyncrasies. He laughed at my love of cowboy boots, Ray-Bans, and pearl snap shirts. He says I definitely got that from him. I didn’t disagree. How could I? I suddenly remembered those three things were the staple of my Daddy’s wardrobe for most of my life. “You come by it honestly”, he said.

I have people I’ve considered family for many years, people that consider me family too, but this is different somehow. To look at another person and know you share this unbreakable biological link with them is an entirely different feeling. To be with another person who shares my DNA, who sees themselves in me, is almost a new feeling for me. It’s something I’ve not had for almost 12 years.

The family I’ve had for the past decade have loved me like I was theirs. From the women I’ve met in prison who adopted me as a sister, aunty, mother, to the family I lost recently, there are moments when you are sitting together and they start to talk about who they look like, what mannerisms or personality quirks they get from whom and the moment you were so happy to be a part of has suddenly made you feel like the interloper. I don’t look like these people. I don’t share all these memories. I’m not bound by anything other than love and no, there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s a beautiful thing, but those moments when I would realize that I wasn’t family in the biological sense left me feeling hollow and left out. Something was missing from my life. My father with his deep, sarcastic chuckle. My step-mom with her twinkling, kind eyes. The connection I had with people who watched me grow. Being able to look at another human being and know they are the reason you have wild, unruly eyebrows, a love of tinkering with electronics, and a passion for finding a bargain is an irreplaceable feeling.

My Daddy’s traded in his boots for slippers, his Ray-Bans for a prescription pair, and his Western shirts for Hawaiian, but every time I slip on a pair of boots, adjust my sunglasses, or snap a pearl button I will know I came by it honestly.

Day One

The woman in first-class who acted quite uppity is down here with the rest of us waiting on her bag to flop down the ramp. Who knew baggage claim was the great equalizer? She was demeaning to the flight attendant, complained when an economy-class passenger used “their” bathroom, and demanded to deplane first. Yet, here she was waiting on her bag with the plebs. I was happy to see the elderly couple, who had attempted to board early only to be informed loudly by Miss High and Mighty that they weren’t allowed to board before first-class, get their bags and leave before her overpriced, ugly luggage tumbled down the chute.

I just happened to turn and there was my Daddy. He looked older, much older, than I remembered, but still just like I remembered. Walking in like he owned the joint. He looked right past me. He didn’t recognize me. I had to call out to him.

I’d imagined this moment for years, dreamed about it. I’d imagined these slow-motion dream sequences where he scoops me up like he did when I was a little girl. I’m not a little girl anymore and he’s not the giant he always seemed to be. Tall, still, yes, but thin and a bit frail now. Age had caught up to the man who always seemed invincible to me. He didn’t scoop me up, but he hugged me close for a long time.

Too many black bags passed by as we stood there waiting, not talking, unsure of how to make small talk with each other after all this time. My skinny little Daddy insisted on getting my bag. My Daddy with the defibrillator, diabetes, hearing aides, and God knows what else. He still had to play Daddy. Hope blossomed within me as I followed this man I knew little of save a few faded childhood memories I’d held onto all these years. Hope is a powerful force. Hope kept me going for years when I had nothing else to hold onto in this world. Hope gets us out of bed every morning. Hope held my hand as I followed him out into the humid Texas afternoon.

There was Cheryl, my step-mom. Step-mother never seemed like an appropriate title for her. She was the reason I got birthday cards and Christmas gifts from my father. For years, I thought his signature was pretty and flowery, like a woman’s, only to realize when watching her sign a check one day that she was also the one to sign those cards and gift tags. Her black hair replaced by gray, her trim water skiers body replaced by old age. Those eyes, kind and wrinkled at the corners, evidence of a lifetime of smiles, held one more smile for me. Her hug was as genuine as her smile and lasted even longer. I was home.

Stomping Down Memory Lane

For those of you who have read earlier posts on my blog, you know that I’ve recently reunited with my father and step-mother. After months of talking on the phone, we decided a visit was necessary. I planned to drive due to astronomical ticket prices, but was surprised by the most amazing group of people with enough money to buy a round-trip ticket to Texas.

I spoke to my step-mom, Cheryl, earlier and the conversation was intended to be a quick “don’t eat on the plane cuz there’s this awesome Mexican food place…”. After an hour or so we finally got off the phone. We strolled down memory lane together at different houses they’d owned all over East Texas. She was amazed at the things I could remember from when I was as young as 3. We got on the subject of pictures and my want to scan old pictures to bring back to Kentucky with me. She asked me if I remembered this man who used to work for them when we lived on the farm in Jasper. I strangely didn’t remember.

The story she told me was a bit disturbing. Apparently this man did odd jobs around the farm for them and seemed like a genuinely nice person. He called them one day and asked them to pick up his car as he’d been arrested! Arrested for molesting his own children. They picked up his car and brought it back to their house. After some time, they decided to clean out the car. In the trunk, they found pictures of me and my sister. Every picture they had of us in fact squirreled away in this man’s car. Cheryl told me how angry my Daddy was and how he went to the judge to try and make sure the guy didn’t get off lightly. I have no memory of any of this and I’m glad. I didn’t, however, want to hear that the precious pictures of my past that I’d been obsessing over for years had been the object of someone else’s obsession long before they mattered to me.

The Ides of March is not an auspicious day to begin a journey. It’s also a waning moon and the middle of the week, also bad times to start a journey of this kind. I can’t help but to be hopeful and positive about what’s at the end of the terminal in Texas. My family most assuredly, but also a connection to lost memories and lost pictures from what at times has felt like a lost life.

Christmas Present From My Past

As some of you may know, or not depending on how much you’ve read my blog, I went to prison. The how’s and why’s aren’t important at this point, but regardless, I went and when I did, my family seemingly disappeared. Some just disappeared, some told me out and out “We don’t want you in our lives anymore.” I realized in 2005, sitting on a prison bunk, that I was completely and utterly alone in this world. There was no one I could write or call who would write back or pick up the phone. Life seemed rather hopeless then…

Flash forward 11 years…out of prison, sitting around the dinner table with people, although not connected to me biologically, are my family now. The phone rings and my “nephew” Brad answers, looks confused and hands the phone to me. The man on the other end says “Do you know who this is?” I said, “Uuuhhh, nope. Who is it?”

He said “It’s your Daddy.” I didn’t believe him. I told him “I don’t know who you are, but this isn’t funny and I don’t appreciate this on Christmas.” He said, “Kristi, this really is Daddy.” I said, “Okay, prove it.” He told me my name, his full name, birthday, and other things about my childhood that no one else could have. My knees went weak and I hit the floor. It was my father after all this time…after 11 years I was hearing the voice of my Daddy. When I said “Oh My God….” He laughed and I knew it was him. I could never forget his laugh. It’s part chuckle, part belly laugh, part mischievous little boy. He always laughed like that when he was teasing me.

I cried when he told me how much he loved me. How sorry he was for not calling. He told me he missed me, that he was proud of me. He made me promise that it wouldn’t be the only time we’d talk. He gave me all of their numbers and made me promise again that I would call…regularly, that I would send pictures, that I would text him to tell him how my day was. I’ve never before heard my father cry until I told him how I found them (he and my stepmom) on Facebook and how I saved their picture to look at from time to time, so I could feel some sort of connection to them. He promised to send more pictures, pictures I could hold, pictures I could frame.

He told me about my stepmom, my little brother, aunts, uncles, cousins and what they were doing and about their lives. I went from being basically an orphan to having a family again when that phone rang.  I now had someone that told me stories from when I was little, talked about how much I was like him, someone who shared my DNA. I had a history that didn’t start when I walked into the jail.

We talked for two hours and promised to talk again soon. It was scary and sad and disorienting and wonderful. I thanked him for giving me the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten. 11 years since I saw him through the glass at the jail telling me he had to go back to Texas seems like so long ago, but in that moment none of that existed and I was once again that little girl who used to fish and ride horses with her Daddy.

Adventures In Organizing

It’s been months since I’ve posted to this blog and needless to say my life is quite different. Ok, so it’s not that different, I just got a different job. I’m a community organizer with a non-profit. A non-profit I love, that I’ve actually written about on this blog. If you want to see who I’m working for check them out here. I’d love for you to join and mention my name when you do. Ha!

As with anything in life, I try to look at everything as a series of lessons, a life-long school. I’ve been working for KFTC for about 3 months now and have compiled a list, mostly in my head, of what I’ve learned thus far. If you’re interested in a career as an organizer, I urge you to read this list before sending in your resume.

1. There is no quick and easy way to stamp 450 postcards and the postal workers will not offer to help!
2. If you’re expecting 5 guests, prepare for 20.
3. If you prepare for 100, 10 will show up. Make sure you have family and friends who will eat 30 leftover cupcakes.
4. The people you don’t expect will be the most amazing.
5. Your family will begin to hate the sight of the computer they used to think was cool.
6. You will recognize politicians in the grocery store, but more importantly they will recognize you and may make every effort to avoid you.
7. Even though you have an actual office, the location of that office will change daily. It could be your car, a state park, or a mountain top….well what’s left of a mountain top. More on that here.
8. It is impossible to do everything you want or need to do in a day…no matter how great your workplan is.
9. The gas station is not necessarily the best place to talk to a former governor about organizing in his community.
10. If directions to a meeting include, “wade across the creek or wait for the truck” chances are you will not have cell service.
11. Not everyone will be as excited as you are about what you’re doing. Expect it, prepare for it and don’t be hurt when your family rolls their eyes at you as you once again talk about how great the meeting was.
12. Because you love what you do, believe in what you do, your job will in many ways take over your life, as evidenced by the links I keep posting to various parts of KFTC’s website in this my personal blog post.
13. Your dog and/or cat will not be spared the humiliation of becoming part of your organizing. Check out Bizzy and her plea for a better Kentucky. (Kentucky does Deserve Better damnit…)

I said to consider this list before sending in your resume as if I would’ve given a crap before sending in mine then or even now. This job is crazy, hectic, exhausting and freaking wonderful. I couldn’t be more thrilled to work for KFTC, to work with an amazing group of people, spend time with our dedicated, fierce and fiesty members who really are working to make Kentucky a better place. And yes, I realized I talked about my job throughout this entire post, so next time, I’ll blog about my cat, ok?

Where Were You Guys?

This entry is primarily for my convicted felon friends. So as we said on the inside “If it don’t apply, let it fly!” Unless you’re interested, then by all means, read on!

Saturday, June 11, 2011, I went to Louisville and attended the (Statewide Voting Rights Coalition Meeting). Aside from being the only representative from Eastern Kentucky, I was amazed that more felons didn’t attend. So there I am, surrounded by all these people, giving up their Saturday to attend this 4-HOUR MEETING. (Sorry Dave, it was a little long, especially for a Saturday!) I went by myself.  I called people…a bunch of people. None of my friends could/would go. I realize it was a Saturday and you don’t want to give up a Saturday. I didn’t either. I wanted to sleep late and go fishing with my honey, but drove to Louisville and back – 4 long hours, both ways, by myself because it’s important. Important to me and important to people who don’t even realize how important it is!

It was honestly the same way at the Voting Rights Rally in February. I kept looking around expecting to see people who used to stand in line with me at the chow hall. Nope, not one. There were, however, a great many people who had never been to prison there. People who had never been to prison fighting for the rights of convicted felons. Walking the halls, talking to their representatives, speaking at the Rally. They were there fighting for friends, relatives and some didn’t even know a convicted felon, but were there just because it was the right thing to do. God bless ‘em! So, needless to say, it was rather disappointing that I didn’t see anyone I got counted with in prison there to stand with me and get counted again…where it mattered this time.

Yes, some people have had their civil rights restored, a small few, but the numbers of those fortunate individuals are becoming smaller each year. I’m one who has not been fortunate enough to have my rights restored. When we leave prison, we are all given the Application for Restoration of Civil Rights with our ticket out of the gate. We are told all we have to do is: “fill this out, mail it in and you’ll get your rights back”. This is not entirely true my friends. Well, really it’s not true at all. I recently learned that the applications go through a process. I hope I got the steps right, forgive me if I didn’t, but I think it goes a little something like this. You mail in the application or give it to your P.O. (Parole Officer) who then forwards it on to the Division of Probation and Parole in Frankfort. The Powers That Be in Frankfort then strangely send it to the county of conviction, namely the Commonwealth Attorney’s office. Yes, you read that right…the Commonwealth Attorney that prosecuted your case now gets a say in the restoration of your civil rights. If he/she signs off, it’s then sent back to Frankfort, maybe the Governor’s office. I’m not exactly sure because when I heard “Commonwealth Attorney’s Office”, my brain hit pause. “Seriously, the jerk that sent me to prison still has a say about my life? After I’ve served my time, ‘paid my debt’, I’m still under the thumb of a man who doesn’t really know me? You gotta be kidding me!” As there is no system in place to track the applications, I can only presume that’s where the process stopped for me.

I suppose through all the mindless ranting what I’m trying to say is this. In prison, we did not have a voice. What we said, did…not…matter. It was difficult (at times impossible) to affect any real change in those places. To bring in or create better programs for people who truly wanted a chance to make it, who didn’t want to live that life over and over again. Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten what it felt like to sit on your bunk all day while a bunch of officers pilfered through your belongings? I sure haven’t. I haven’t forgotten the feelings of helplessness during a “lock down”, “shake down” and especially a “pat down”. I haven’t forgotten the powerlessness I felt then when I had to ask permission to do something. I feel that powerlessness today when I keep asking for permission to vote and am obviously ignored. BUT….we are not powerless. We can change things if we work together. Even though we can’t vote, we can stand with others and let our voices strengthen theirs. Take some action! Tell your representatives you want to vote again, send in the applications and keep sending until you get a response. Write letters, come to KFTC meetings, go to Lobby days, even one of Dave’s 4 hour meetings, call me and I’ll come pick you up. Maybe we can find a chow hall on the way for old time’s sake.

Diet Starts With D-I-E

About two years ago, I started experiencing serious pain in my joints. Not all of them, mainly my hips, shoulders, and knees. Ok, so that’s most of them, but I digress. I probably shouldn’t have, but I went to Web MD and used the symptom checker. (As I don’t currently have insurance, this was basically my only option.) It gave me an enormous list of symptoms, which I narrowed down to either arthritis or avascular necrosis. Either of which were not great. One you live with the rest of your life; the other basically requires replacing the joint, namely my hip. A hip replacement…

 My hip? What am I 70? Only “old” people are supposed to have hip problems. Guess that meant I was old. Now when I say my hip was hurting, I think I need to give a better explanation of what I mean. I would wake up in the middle of the night in serious pain, unable to move my left leg and frustrated. Yes, frustrated, because I’m 30-something and couldn’t sleep through the night or roll over in bed due to hip pain. I can’t tell you how many nights I woke up in pain, felt helpless and gave in to tears. Talk about being old before your time!

 Trying to get out of bed in the mornings…that was the worst. I was grateful every morning that I’m the early riser in our house and no one would see me limping around for the first hour and hear my moaning and groaning. After an hour or so, I would be fine and go on about my day. I won’t even go into the knee and shoulder issues because, honestly, who wants to hear about someone else’s physical ailments? (I know I’ve already told you a lot, but there’s a point to all this. Just stick with me, ok?)

 A little over a week ago, I went and got my hair cut. So, I plop down in the chair and in the midst of small talk, my stylist tells me that she quit drinking diet pop because she heard the Aspartame in most diet pop causes joint pain. WHAT? I was shocked! No way….I looked down at the ice cold Diet Pepsi in my lap and thought “Surely, “the right one”, my drink of choice, my beloved Diet Pepsi could not be the cause of my suffering!”

 It stayed in the back of my mind, so I googled it when I got home that evening. Sure enough. There is some information about it online. The FDA denounces them as quacks and their research not pure, but it was worth a try I thought. Putting down the diet pop to see if my joints stop hurting? Kind of a no-brainer really. It’s not like I’d be taking some experimental medication. I thought back to when I first started drinking the stuff and realized the pain started just a couple of months later. This could be no coincidence.

 ”Oh help me God. The Diet Pepsi in the fridge is calling to me.” I’d be lying if I said quitting wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t as hard as I thought. I discovered it was more of a habit than anything. At work, I would walk across the street for a pop (read: Diet Pepsi) as part of my mid-morning routine. On my first day, I actually pushed the Diet Pepsi button instead of water and for a moment thought “It’s just one…”, but I went back and got more change.

 It’s been a little over a week sans Diet Pepsi and at this point I honestly don’t miss it that much. Most days I would have drank 2-3 20 oz bottles and a can or two after I got home. Yes, I know it’s awful, but I loved the stuff. Now, if I want a pop, I get a Sierra Mist, but I really don’t drink pop at all anymore. Sometimes I’ll share one with Johna, but I really don’t want it.

 As for my pain, believe me or not, but I’ve been pain free for over a week now. I sleep better because I’m not waking up in pain which enables me to function better during the day. I’m not waking up in the middle of the night. I’m not waking up every 30 minutes needing to change my position. I’m not living with pain.

 Here’s my point finally: Diet is everything. Read labels and look up ingredients you’re not sure about. Don’t accept the fact that it is safe just because it’s being dispensed by your pharmacist, grocery store or on the sidewalk. (Look at how many other dangerous substances are dispensed on sidewalks. Yes, I mean drugs.) Question everything you put in your body. It’s your body, so it’s your right. Don’t take medication just because the doctor says you need it. Check your diet first. Ever watch the drug commercials on TV where it seems as if the list of possible side effects is longer than the info about the new wonder drug? Is it worth it to eat these fat-free potato chips now, but have the “oily discharge” later? (Did you just get a visual of that? You’ll thank me later.) Most of this stuff is common sense, but really think about it like this….

 If you’re having trouble sleeping at night, stop drinking caffeine during the day.

If you have high blood pressure, stop eating the bacon.

If you have GI problems, quit eating McDonald’s and try yogurt for lunch.

 If I had went to the doctor for the joint problems, I would have undergone x-rays, an MRI, medication(s), all of which would have been completely unnecessary, unhealthy, and probably quite expensive. So before you go to the doctor and bombard your body with more chemicals and/or radiation, check your diet. We’re killing ourselves with convenience and the rush to get more done, get ahead and be like the people we see on TV who seem so beautiful, thin and happy drinking that diet pop.

Day 13

5 minute poem.

Too lazy to
go smoke
the cigarette
on my mind.

Too tired to
change the channel
of the show
I’m sick of.

Too blah to
dye the roots
that seem to shine
brighter on Monday.

Day 12

Found pictures last night
I remembered  to miss you
today, just today.

Day 11

A poem of 40 lines that is a single sentence.

I saw
you when
I went
to town
driving past,
never
even
noticing,
my regard,
but I,
oh yes,
I
did,
I saw
music’s joy
in the lines
around
your
mouth
and
the fleeting
sadness
when
the commercial
interrupted
your idyll,
a place behind
the two doors
of your
Prius
where
you
i-mag-ine
a stage
where you
are under
colored lights
and
the adoring eyes
of fans.