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Dear Mr. Trump

Dear Mr. Trump,

 

You will notice I am not addressing you by the title you somehow "won". You do not deserve to be in the same company of our past presidents. Even the lying crook Nixon knew when the jig was up. The party over. Oh, he never came clean but at least he vacated the premisses.

 

You do not deserve to live in The People's House. You are a nasty, sniveling, lying piece of Chicken crap. Chicken with a capital C.

 

No offence to poultry.

 

Oh, what a mighty leader you think you are. I have to say, however, you constantly surprise me. I think to myself, well that's as low as he could possibly go, and then bingo, you go even lower.

 

This morning as I watched Marie Yovanovitch, the former American ambassador to Ukraine testify with dignity and professionalism, answering questions from both sides of the aisle, you, oh mighty leader, took to Twitter. Slamming Ms. Yovanovitch from the safety of the White House.

 

Chicken Shit are you.

 

You remind me of a school yard bully who throws insults, but from behind a fence where you hide and cower.

If, Mr. Trump, you want to be heard by The People, why not accept the invitation to be heard at the hearings? If you have done nothing and all is as you claim, "perfect" pull up a chair and explain yourself.

 

If you aren't willing to do that then put down your phone and shut the hell up.

 

Seriously, why not think about it. Imagine the hubbub you would create! Imagine the attention you would receive!

 

Imagine the RATINGS!!

 

You could brag about the crowd size, the numbers of folks who tuned in, how you beat Bill Clinton when it came to this" must see" television event.

 

It would be something to look back on with fondness while sitting in your cell.

 

In all sincerity,

 

Claudia

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Dear League of the South

Dear Members of the League of the South,

 

OMG, you must be exhausted. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to wake up every blessed day and believe you must go out into the world and proclaim your superiority. I mean, the rallies, the speech making, the racial slurs, all of it. Do you really think it is an act of bravery to gather at the memorial for Emmet Till and attempt to spread your hatred on film, only to run like frightened rabbits when the security alarm sounded?

 

(I realize you can't hear me but I am chuckling. Oh, such big brave men!)

 

I don't mean to just single out your group, actually you are really just a drop in the bucket. No offense, but you are such small potatoes when it comes to hate groups and truth deniers. I hope you can deal with that fact. There are many groups of racist folks out there who believe the same ignorant nonsense as you do. And some of them even have spiffy uniforms! Hoods even!

 

How do you keep up the strength to continue to spew such bull?

 

Oh, I realize you feel strongly supported by Donald Trump and that most likely gives you a sense of purpose, but what is your end game? Do you invasion a country made up of a sea of white? Because that is not going to happen. Do you think Trump will be in power forever? Think again.

 

Do you dream of people of color ONLY existing to serve you? Moving silently in your kitchens preparing your food, cleaning your bathrooms and bathing your children and then quietly slipping out the back door and home to their small houses on the "other side" of town?

 

Ain't gonna happen.

 

How about if you take a break. Put your feet up. Sip on some sweet tea while reading a good book. Nonfiction. Perhaps one about slavery and how Harriet Tubman helped save so many folks you would have dismissed as not worthy. Or pick up a book by Henry Louis Gates Jr. A brilliant scholar and writer who is black and could teach you all about what it is to be human in this world.

 

Come on, it's over. Accept the fact that your color does not make you superior. Y'all are looking pretty dimwitted at this point in time.


Sincerely,

Claudia

 

 

 

 

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Over Twenty Years Ago

Over Twenty Years Ago

 

Friday, Dec. 23

 

My husband Michael leaves the house a bit after six. Kira is home with me today. We are going to go with some friends to the movies later. Yesterday was spent in limbo. Enough of that. I am in charge again.

Eight a.m. I make my first call to the doctor's office. Nine-thirty. Ten o'clock. Eleven-fifteen. The results are in. I hear a note of annoyance in the receptionist's voice.

 

Dr. S. comes on the line. His voice is a soothing gray blue. He says I have cancer. I am calm. Kira and her friend Erica are standing by me. They are showing me "cat's cradle." I am trying to watch while listening to the doctor. My heart seems to be beating out a new rhythm. C,A,N,C,E,R. He gives me his home number. He says he will be with me for the whole race. Unless I get sick of him. He will see Michael and me on Tuesday morning. More surgery next week. He says I can call him. I hang on to that. I hang up the phone.

 

The girls are off playing. I take the phone out to the garage. I call Michael at work. I try not to cry. But there is a howl locked in my throat. It will have to come out sometime. I say the word to myself. For the first time. It has become my word. I own it now. I whisper it to Michael and feel his face go pale. He's coming right home. I worry about his driving. I call my friend Nora, Erica's mother. I call my own mother. I put myself in her place. Could I bear to hear these words from my own child? I tell her I'm sorry. I really mean it. I hang up and let myself cry for just a minute. no noise. Then I go in to talk to Kira.

 

She sits on my lap in my father's old leather chair. Erica stands close by. That's okay with me. Keep things as normal as possible. We are going to fix this, I tell her. She cries. I try to gather her closer to me. She is nine years old. Her legs are long. She is almost as big as me. But her face is like a baby's. Skin so soft.


This is an excerpt from "Now Breathe" published by Whiteaker Press in 1999

This is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. This is a reminder to be vigilant. Get checked. I am so glad I did so I am able to sit here at my desk all these years later writing to you.

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Dear Emily Dickinson

 

 

Dear Emily Dickinson,

 

In reading your poetry and searching out information about you I have never read anywhere that you ever spent time exploring the East Village in New York City. But, for my 60th birthday I took you there. In spirit at least.

 

The East Village can be a bit gritty, but nothing like it once was. These days there are tourists, hipsters, cafes with coffee served in as many ways as one could possibly imagine, vintage shops, bars, some dive but mostly not, and tattoo parlors. Ink hasbecome very, very popular. And this, Miss Emily, is what brought me to the colorful neighborhood on a Tuesday evening a few summers ago. My daughter was with me.

 

She, who has lots of experience when it comes to ink, was there to cheer me on. I was about to get body art. My first, if piercing doesn't count. I mean who these days doesn't have their ears pierced, other than my friend Christy.

 

Although I was a tattoo virgin it was not my first time in a parlor. The day my daughter turned 18, a day I had imagined taking her to high tea at the Plaza Hotel, she had other ideas in mind.

"I'm getting a tattoo today because I can," she declared first thing in the morning. She also stated that she would be purchasing porn and cigarettes, again because she could.

She desperately wished there was an election taking place so she might cast her ballot.

I had two choices, neither of which would dissuade her. I could be a part of her birthday celebration or let her go on her own.

 

Oh, Emily, you, never having had children, may think I did in fact have another option. I could stop her. Tell her just how un-lady like tramp stamps are and lecture her on the fact that her taste would surely change and she would regret this early morning decision for the rest of her life.

I could take away her cell phone. Disconnect the internet. Ban the Real Housewives from our television. (Oh, my dear, how the world has changed since you sent poems down by basket to those waiting beneath your window.)

 

Well Miss Em, parenting is filled with challenges. Battles to be fought and won and fought and lost and I chose not to pull rank on her. I instead chose to join her on her adventure.

Now, here we were, years later making an appointment with a tattoo artist so that each of us could acquire new ink. I have lost count of how many decorations my daughter has but for me, this would be my first.

 

Our wait was short and we both knew exactly what we wanted and where. My daughter, who is far from warm and fuzzy, more prickly pear, surprised me by her sentimentality.

When she was a small child she was shy. Uppie Me she would ask if she was feeling timid. And I would hoist her up and set her on my hip where she felt safe.

 

This is what she wanted written forever on her body. On her hip. In my handwriting. I didn't tell her how touched I was. She undoubtedly would have changed her mind.

 

Then it was my turn.

 

My artist was a bearded chap with colorful designs covering most of his dermis. He also had what looked like black rubber discs embedded in his earlobes. (It's a style these days. Again, a lot has changed.)

 

He asked if I had been drinking. I told him no.

 

Good, he replied.

 

He had a rule about never tattooing anyone who had been imbibing. There could be excessive bleeding. Or excessive feelings of regret the next day and why should he
have to deal with a hungover, angry customer?

 

He asked me where I wanted the tattoo. I believe he may have held his breath as he waited for my answer. I mean, at 60 there are only so many places on my being which should be seen by men I don't even know. Even professionals.

 

I pointed to my wrist.

 

His shoulders dropped ever so slightly as he let out his breath and relaxed.He then asked me what I wanted.

 

When I told him he was unfamiliar with the quote.

 

It was then that I introduced him to you, Emily Dickinson. He had heard of you, but did not know you.

 

He practiced on paper before piercing my skin. His cursive was lovely. I was surprised.

These days it is no longer taught in school. That, Miss Emily, hurts my heart. I can't imagine what you would say were you to visit us here in this century and discover that most of those lovely swirls and dips and circles you used to write you poetry would be foreign to young students today.

 

I digress.

 

I was enjoying my time in this environment. There was a large gentleman in the booth next to me lying on a table having work done on his chest. Part of his design included a massive set of wings which I thought;

a. would look better on his back as it seems as if there is where you might find wings

b. was kind of a coincidence as wings figured into my own plan for my own tattoo.

and;

c. his torso was in grave danger of looking as busy as the wallpaper my auntie Di once had in her dining room if he continued to go under the needle.

 

I approved the design I was shown and Eric, (I felt I should know his name as this was feeling a bit intimate) and placed my arm on the wide, flat arm of the chair.

 

Soon I developed a great admiration for the gentleman next to me. How the fuck, (pardon my language but we are in a tattoo parlor), was he able to take it?

 

Thirty minutes later we were finished. We paid up and trotted across the street to the nearest establishment serving tequila. My wrist was wrapped in gauze bandages.

 

Later, after dropping off my daughter, my taxi pulled up in front of the apartment and our doorman Jose released me from my yellow cab and then opened the door to the lobby.

The lights seemed extra bright. In the glare he noticed my wrapped wrist. Then noticed my wobbly stance.

 

You didn't…he began.

 

I did! I replied.

 

What does it say? he asked.

 

Carefully I unwrapped the bandage and held up my wrist to be examined.

 

"Hope is the Thing" it read. With a cerulean blue feather drawn delicately beneath the cursive writing.

 

He gave me a gentle high five.

 

In the years since I have introduced you to many others. A bartender at Phil's Fish Market in Moss Landing, California. A sales clerk at Filene's Basement before they went out of business, a punky looking gentleman on the 6 train, a woman seated at the next table in Manuel's Mexican restaurant in Aptos, California and my grandson who at only 5 years of age is restricted to stick on tattoos for now.

 

So I thank you Emily. I have carried the words in my heart and relied on them often.

Now I wear them, not on my sleeve, but on my person. My daughter and I were not alone downtown on those once-gritty streets. You, in your virginal white were with us for inspiration.

I'd love to know what you thought of it all!


Fondly,

Claudia

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No News Day, thanks to Jory Post

No News Day, thanks to Jory Post

 

There are times when the swirl of news becomes too loud, too aggressive, too ugly to listen to. A break needs to be taken. But even in attempting to take a respite the sound still rings in my ears. Close the doors and widows and still, I can imagine what is being said. Unless you can find yourself a voice loud enough to drown it all out.

 

This morning I found that voice. It belongs to the writer Jory Post. His newly published book of prose/poetry, "The Extra Year" quieted the cacophony of sounds, news bites, pundits and politicians yammering in my head.

 

Reading it has been an exquisitely beautiful, heartbreaking experience. I highly recommend it.

 

Jory has been a writer for over 40 years. He has been a teacher, an editor and a treasured friend of the Santa Cruz writing community. And, he is living on borrowed time.

 

Diagnosed with cancer and given little hope he has been using his limited energy writing. The result of this focus and determination is a collection of poetry which will be read and reread for years to come. Do not be fooled by the size of the collection. At 85 pages it is compact enough to fit in a purse or backpack, to reside in the glove box of your car so has to be available for reading any place, any time. This afternoon I took my copy down to the beach and while the overcast sky blocked the sun, I was warmed by Jory's words.

 

I had almost forgotten what it feels like to simply sit at peace. Jory's poetry took me to that place of quiet contemplation. He has honed in on what matters in life. He has developed a laser focus. He is ferocious in his desire to share with the reader the beauty of everyday life made up of what may seem like ordinary things. His wife, his dear friends and colleagues, music, birds, love, fires in the fireplace and writing. His limited time on earth only serves to give even more weight to everything he feels, says, and does. And he is funny.

 

Oh it is a beautiful collection.

 

Oh, Jory, you gave me such a gift today.

 

Peace and a deeper appreciation for life.


"The Extra Year" by Jory Post published by Anaphora Literary Press.

 

 

 

 

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Dear Mitch McConnell, Wayne Lapierre, Donald Trump

Dear Mitch, Wayne and Donald,

 

Did you see all of the pictures of smiling folks on the front page of the New York Times this morning? Usually I go to the wedding section of the Sunday edition of the Times to see happy faces but today's paper was special. Not only were there dozens of relatively unknown faces on the front page but more were included on page 14. 

 

Oh please, I know that to you "gentlemen" having your pic in the paper is no big deal. Not an unusual occurance. But these folks I believe would be surprised to know that they had made the front page of such a well-regarded news source. 

 

I say, "would" because they won't actually ever know of their fame. Because they are all dead. Because of guns. 

 

Not, as you would like to insist, due to "mental illness". A person suffering from "mental illness" can't shoot anyone without, wait for it, a GUN. 

 

There have been so many innocent citizens killed in mass shootings this past summer, 126 at last count, that it was impossible to put all of their pictures on the front page. 

 

Wayne, how do you feel when you read that one of the victims was a three-year-old little girl?

 

Mitch, what do you say to your neighbors when they feel the need to purchase bullet proof backpacks for their elementary school children? 

 

Donald, do your own flock of grandchildren have trouble sleeping at night? Worrying about being killed by a shooter while sitting in a classroom? 

 

Guys, what do you say to comfort them? And speaking of sleep how in the hell do any of you catch 40 winks? 

 

Oh, I know you are all very busy what with destroying the country, dividing us up according to our relationships with firearms and doing your very best to make sure that anyone who wants a gun may get one. But perhaps you could take some time out. It must be exhausting fighting the fight. Always having to defend and explain your position which is actually indefenceable at this point. Again, the photos.

 

Perhaps you could carve some time out for yourselves to simply sit and contemplate your actions, or as some see it, inactions. 

 

Perhaps you could try attending the funerals of all of those friendly looking people smiling at the camera. 

 

I would recommend sitting in the back row, however. Better to see, actually witness the tsunami of grief filling the space around. The heartbreak. The anger. 

 

What would you say to the mourners as they filed out of the church, temple, mosque, school auditorium?

 

Try to imagine what words would be appropriate. Try to imagine what the friends and families would want to hear from you. 

 

As far as I know none of you have attended any of these sad, sad, events. You all just leave it to us to deal with your selfish stupidity. You throw up your hands and blame the second amendment. 

 

I don't buy it. Most of us have had quite enough. 

 

Our children and grandchildren now have "shooter drills" at school.  

 

Many folks now are afraid to attend large public events. 

 

Summer is supposed to be a time for sun and family vacations and relaxing at the beach. But this past summer there were 26 mass shootings between Memorial day and Labor Day. To say nothing of the shootings which happened on a much smaller scale. Still more dead people.

 
Donald, when you promised to be the job creator, did you mean careers in the funeral industry? Because that does seem to be booming.

 

Mitch, Wayne, Donald, what do you say to the parents of the three-year-old who was murdered?

 

Myself, I am speechless at your cowardness. Your greed. 

 

And while I have trouble sleeping these days, I am also royally pissed because I believe each of you sleep like babies. Or like a three-year-old just tucked in by their mother.

 

You disgust me. And I vote.

 

Claudia

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Dear O.J. Simpson

 


Dear O.J. Simpson,

 

So, you're out. Well, at least you did spend a bit of time behind bars. Not fucking

enough in my opinion, but no one asked me what I thought so, whatever.

Despite the fact that I do believe you committed two vicious murders I am writing to

thank you.


Years before you slit the throats of two innocent people you and I met. And because of

you I was able to spend three days in Los Angeles with my sister, Carol. We stayed at

the Disneyland Hotel, because, why not?

I'll back up just a bit.

 

My younger sister and I ran a tennis shop at a small club in Northern California. Carol

was the brains of the outfit. She could figure out how many cases of tennis balls we

 

would need for the year. She could run a tournament like an army drill sergeant. She

managed the payroll and paid the bills. Fashion, however, was not her strong suit. That

is where I would step in and take over. Together we made a good team.


Oh, I think she could have tackled it all if need be. But she made a place for me in that

little shop and I deeply appreciated it. I worked by her side before I got married. While I

was married. And after said marriage hit the skids. The tennis club was more home to

me than anywhere. My sister my most reliable partner. I think she had similar feeling

towards me as our other sister, Cheryl, her twin, was living in Peru and was, I am sure,

deeply missed by Carol.


Early in the morning we would open the shop for the before work players. Late in the

day we would sit at the bar upstairs and drink with the after work players. During the day

we would take turns taking breaks to head out to the courts to play. One more area in

which she was the master, I the student. And every now and then, we would discuss the

merits of "going to market". Traveling to wherever market was being held to take a look

at what was new in tennis. Oversized rackets, the latest in foot wear and cutting edge

tennis togs. We always had to take into account the expense in traveling versus staying

home and phoning in orders or waiting for a sales rep to come to us. When we first

received the information about the spring market to be held in Los Angeles she was

hesitant to sign up. It would be a nine or 10 hour drive, or we would need to fly. A hotel

would have to be booked for three nights. There would be meals to buy and all manner

of unexpected expenses.

 
Sure, there would also be tennis stars sitting at tables with their sponsors, but we had

both seen our share of tennis players.

 

The brochures sat on the counter of the store for days while we debated. Carol was

leaning towards not going. I didn't want to force the issue, but I was longing for a mini

vacation and we had never traveled alone together before.


Then I noticed something in the information packet. You, Orenthal James Simpson,

would be there. O.J., in the house!

 

I pointed it out to Carol. Our eyes locked and she grinned. She was a fan. That's all it

took. She was in!


We threw caution to the wind and bought airline tickets. We booked a double room at

the Magic Kingdom's hotel. We had room service, one of her favorite things. She

ordered a strawberry daiquiri with extra whipped cream. I drank tequila. We lay on the

bed and watched movies at night and during the day wandered booth to booth looking

at merchandise.


We met Ilie Nastase at the Adidas booth and were not impressed. He was slimy, asking

me to "come sit on his lap", which I did not do. But we did order shoes.


Then we spotted you sitting at a table pimping yourself out. I'm sorry to say I can't for

the life of me remember what you were promoting. But we queued up to meet you and

once at the front of the line you first greeted Carol, reaching out to shake her hand and

smiling. Then it was my turn.

 

I remember how big your hand was. Mine disappeared into it. I remember how beautiful

your smile was. I recall wondering how a football player could have such perfect teeth.

And your forehead was so shiny, the overhead lights creating a halo effect.

We got autographs. I have no idea what happened to them.


That was the only time I ever took a trip alone with Carol. It only happened because you

were going to be there. Those three days seem like a dream to me now.

Cheryl moved back from Peru. She and Carol picked up where they left off, twins

forever joined.


The tennis shop was sold years ago. We three went on to other life adventures, Carol

and Cheryl still with their unshakeable bond, until Carol's death just a few years ago.

I wish I could say that Cheryl then turned to me for sisterly companionship, but that was

not the case. Somehow, I lost both sisters in one fell swoop.

But I have the memories of that trip. Those three days in the Magic Kingdom with my

brilliant, funny, talented sister. A time I know I wouldn't have had if not for you.


Now while I firmly believe you are a monster who should never be forgiven, after all,

how does one forgive someone who refuses to admit their guilt, I do thank you. For

those three days back in the 1970's. Before you murdered the mother of your children

and her innocent friend. Before we were all were mesmerized by the white Ford Bronco

chase.

 


Before I could even imagine the pain of losing two sisters, one to cancer the other to an

unexpected turn of events.

 

So, as much as I hate to say it, thank you, you murdering piece of shit.

 

Sincerely,

Claudia

 

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Brave Face

Brave Face


There is a video I have become addicted to. In it, four women have gathered to reminisce about their lives, careers and men. But before they even begin to speak, it is evident that they have stories to tell.

 

Maggie Smith, Judi Dench, Eileen Atkins and Joan Plowright, all Dames in the royal sense of the word, have decades of living behind them and it shows. They have the laugh lines and wondrous wrinkles one would expect to have at a certain age. I gaze at their faces and it is as if I am reading a deeply moving novel. I know there are fewer blank pages left to fill but fill them they will.

 

Each of the women have a few extra pounds, and I am happy to imagine that when given an opportunity to enjoy a good meal or a cocktail they say yes and savor the experience. They say yes to life.

 

They are beautiful. They wear age like a badge of pride.

Look how long I have been on this planet! Imagine what I have seen! What I have learned! What I have done!

 

The other evening I had dinner with friends. Most of us are in our 60's. Before heading to the restaurant I looked in the mirror and was not all that pleased with the woman looking back. I am on the cusp of 70. Grey hair heading to white. Glasses, because who can read a menu without them anymore? Lines and creases everywhere.

 

I know I am not supposed to be bothered by the signs of aging. I give it my best, I really do. But then I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the storefront window as I walk down the street and I see what the world sees and I cringe. Then remember that along with the sagging skin and thinning hair comes the gift of invisibility. No one is looking.

 

Then I feel better.

 

Oh, I know that I could have some "work" done if I chose. And there is nothing wrong with that. So far though, I have avoided looking into it. I don't know if I am confident in my aging, or just too lazy to do anything about it.

 

A few weeks ago I was lying in bed with my four-year-old grandson and he was patting my arm when all of a sudden he declared, "weird skin, Mimi!"

 

I could only agree. And be grateful for sleeves.

 

So my friends and I met for dinner. We were meeting the new girlfriend of one of the men for the first time. A lovely young woman who had just turned 27. Twenty-seven. Two Seven. Oh!

We were seated at a round table. There was candlelight. There was laughter. There was tequila, thank god.

 

I sat back and took in the view. Each of the men were mostly bald. The small amount of hair growing has given up on color. Their faces hinted at stories worth telling. Worth listening to.

 

Our young companion was beautiful. Her hair dark, her skin unlined. Her smile quick and eyes bright. She has so many blank pages to fill. Her future sprawled out in front of her like a long and winding road. She will, someday, acquire the creases and lines and gray hair and extra pounds that will show she has lived a life. That she has depth and experience.

 

I wish I could know her then, to hear how her life unfolded.

 

I climbed into bed later that night and queued up the Dames once more and marveled at their spirit, their joy, their beauty.

 

 

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Dear You,

Dear You,

 

We have not met, but you have been on my mind since Alabama law makers decided to pass a new bill that would ban almost all abortions in that state.

 

I will say right off the bat, I doubt that we will ever all agree on when life begins. That is a real challenge when it comes to arguing for or against a woman's right to choose. If I were religious I could leave it up to the church to tell me how I should feel about this medical procedure. I am not so that really does leave it up to me.

 

Abortion makes me sad. That a woman has to go through one is not a happy occurrence. It should not be taken lightly. It can feel like a terrible dream. Although in a different light, it may feel like waking from a nightmare. It is all about the circumstances.

 

So I am thinking of you today, with a heavy heart. You, a woman I have never met, who may not even be pregnant yet. But who may become "with child" after a dramatic encounter with a stranger. A rape. Or you have been abused sexually by a family member. Or you are on the cusp of building a life for yourself and discover that the condom your boyfriend used must have been faulty. You want to go to college. Have a career. Have children eventually, or maybe not ever.

 

Perhaps you are older than is deemed optimal to carry a child. Perhaps there are terrible, complicated health issues with the fetus. Problems which can't be corrected and if the child survived the birth, would have only a short, very painful life.

 

Maybe you just don't want to have a baby and the reasons why are no one else's business.

 

Oh You. I am worried about you. I grew up when abortion was illegal. While a senior in high school one of my best friends got pregnant. Her family made her drop out of school and "go away" until the baby was born. She never held the newborn, it was whisked away before her tears were even dry.

 

She never did return to school. I would guess that the baby was raised in a loving home, but I can only hope, just as she did. There was never any way for her to know. And she was never the same. Sometimes we would talk about what might have been. If she had been able to discontinue the pregnancy and finish high school and go on to college and follow her dreams. Instead, she went down a pretty destructive path. Where she is today I have no idea.

 

When we speak of "right to life" shouldn't she have had the right to a life?

 

Yes, another couple received a wonderful gift. But at what price?

 

There is nothing easy about any of this. And I am angry and sad that we are debating the issue of who has the right to decide what a woman should do when she finds she is pregnant. Shouldn't she have the right? Shouldn't you?

 

So, Dear You, be careful. Times are changing. They are going backward. This is not new territory, it's old. It is scary. It's dark and mean.

 

I'm thinking about you, wishing you good luck.

 

 Claudia

 

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Dear Meghan McCain

Dear Meghan McCain,

 

Looking forward to the return of The View I popped open a bottle of Corona Light, dug into a fresh bag of pita chips and while spaghetti sauce was simmering on the stove turned on my computer, clicked on Hulu and got comfortable at the kitchen table.

 

You all looked good. Rested. Ready to tackle issues both fun and serious. I was eager to hear you each weigh in on the recent mass shootings. I have lost track of how many people have died in the last few weeks, but no matter the number, it is unacceptable.

 

I really believed, Meghan, that your position on guns may have shifted ever so slightly. You are an intelligent woman and I was sure you had had a come to Jesus meeting with yourself. So, imagine my surprise when you sat at the end of the table and stated how much fun you had during your break from the show. Fun shooting guns. You knew, dear Meghan, that the audience, both in the studio and home, would have feelings about that. But you stood your ground, rolled your eyes, and stated that despite the fact that more shootings are happening every week, no one was going to take your guns away.

 

Meghan, you were snitty. You dug your high heels in like a stubborn, privileged, child. So, dear child, don't you think we have come to a point in this country where guns, especially the really fun big ones you enjoy playing with as if they were nothing but toys, should be put away with other childish things? Can't you find any other hobby you might enjoy?

 

I kept watching as you continued to defend your right to shoot things and I thought about other "rights" and "privileges" folks used to enjoy until they saw the light.

We used to pack up the old Chevy and speed down the highway without seat belts. We drank while pregnant. We smoked cigarettes and didn't give a fig.

 

But as time went by, when we knew better, we at least tried to do better.

You are a brave woman, Meghan. You sit at that table and say what you think and damn the consequences. But, let me ask you this question.

 

If the studio audience had been filled with the family members of those slaughtered by senseless shootings, the parents of murdered children, the children who have lost parents, the siblings who will never see their family members again, would you have stood your ground on the gun issue? Would you have been able to look out at those broken hearted people and rolled your eyes and stated emphatically that you were never going to give up your guns? That you just have too much fun blasting things to bits?

 

Well, Meghan, I would put money on the fact that there were family members of victims watching you this past Tuesday. Perhaps not in the studio, but at home, sitting on their sofa, or at their desk or kitchen table.

 

Picture them, Meghan. Imagine what they thought. What they felt.

 

What would you say to them? Seriously, what in the world would you say to justify your behavior?

 

Wondering,

Claudia

 

 

 

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