Wednesday, 5 July 2017

Because They Don't Have You

Kafkaesque rhetoric,
a mean obstacle,
stumbling carelessly
across my path,

driven by a
pedantic bureaucrat,
maybe lacking
power but wanting

maybe lacking
highs and lows
so engaging mine,
or maybe just
someone with just
too much time
on their hands.

Just just just frustrating,
knocking the wind out of
common sense sails
making me question logic.

Walking  by
with a peacock bravado,
Huddling with others,
like-minded colleagues
like little girls or boys
on a playground, whispering,

following the rules,
their rules
that only they know
That only they
can change

within the breath
of a whim, while
everyone around them,
Me, waits and waits
and waits. They saunter by
But let them

Because they don't have you.

Today, I said,
"Not today, I am not in a mood."
You, the older one,
shrugged your shoulders
Paying as much mind to me
as they did.

You finished
telling me off,
took my phone
to play
and then looked up
and smiled.

My eyes travelled
to you,
bouncing off
laughing shoulders,
You refusing to take me
too seriously,

refusing to let it affect
your joy.
Did I give you
that joy, resilience, spirit?
Which you give back to me.

Some people take time
My time,
time that I don't have.
Leaving their angst,
And I take that home to you,

In their high tower,
they command,
They justify,
and the audience applauds
because they have to.
Or else the show won't end.

And the self professed
rithgeous dance to the music
Let them dance,

Because they don't have you.

The littlest you
throwing bubbles in the air
at the furry beast,
And the beast dances
And you laugh
And we laugh
And the beast's sudsy beard grows.

You show me your hurt toe
that you say only I can fix.
It is small, just like the rest of you
My magical kiss makes the hurt forgotten
And we cuddle, making my hurt forgotten
Cuddles cure, at least yours does

Let them have  their pointing chins
and staring eyes.
Their paper clips, pencils and files.
Their special codes and closing doors
and windows that still allow secrets

Let their smugness
hide them away from me
Let them cuddle and cluster
together, it won't cure their hurt.

Because they don't have you.

Tonight, I sit
thinking of you two
tucked away
in rooms under a roof,
your father and I created

Sitting with him as I reminisce
and moan about the day,
He takes my hand  and says nothing
because he doesn't need to.

He sees me and that is all.
And that is all.

Saturday, 28 May 2016

What's In A Name?

One day a breeze slid across a field of wild flowers, lifting a seed, soon to be named Alice, and  trapping her within the shivering breast feathers of a passing bird. This bird took flight across  glistening rock beds, through a forest of evergreen and  across a tumbling river where she finally fell into a field of golden wheat and it was there that Alice took residence.

Alice looked up to see the tall grains stretching towards the heat of the sun, as they did every morning and,  as they did every morning, they swayed together, gracefully, purposely, brushing against one another, creating a vibration the spread across the field, a hum, a quiet calming hum which moaned between the breathes of the earth she grew upon.

Alice, ever changing, woke, as well, to the warmth of the sun, and, as well, stretched not only to feed from the light but to be amongst the others. Stretching with such force that she felt herself break apart and at the same time rush forward.  Her body spread green against the gold, unfurling like an untold story to separate the congregating stalks that smothered her.

"Ahhhh,"the wheat screamed.

Alice hadn't noticed that she was born with prickly thorns around her stem and leaves, and unfortunately, Alice's first words would be used to apologise for her existence.

The ear bowed down to look at his now torn leaf and this odd plant that seemed to trespass on wheat soil.  He shivered with the other plants before returning to the rhythmic sway that didn't invite Alice to join.

Farmer Mother the one who tended the fields  looked upon Alice with curiosity. She had never tended to anything like her before and, frankly, she didn't know what to make of her. But, Alice had grown in her field and therefore, would be taken care of like all the others. She would cover her leaves and stems with soft cloth, and paint her gold so that she could sway within the group.

Alice ached, bending to and fro like a rusted metronome. She became more and more bothered by the constant humming sound and the brushing of the wheat and quickly her paint peeled off. She realised that she would never be part of the sway. She screamed loudly, "Stop it!" which startled even those who usually remained indifferent.

Farmer Mother quietly whispered, "Brushing should soothe you," but Alice felt otherwise and she cried and cried breaking the rhythmic chanting of the field. They stopped and they stared. So, Farmer Mother instead built Alice her own space that she could feel the sun and stretch out and grow. And Alice did grow and grow and suddenly and beautifully she had a rush of long red petals that  made the shape of a basket. Her petal basket held the sun but it also held seeds, dust, dirt and rain water shaken off by the wheat.  Alice felt the strain which bruised and wilted her petals.

Farmer Mother, tired after a long day of turning over soil, fixing fences, pulling weeds,  didn't have time, energy nor the desire to drain Alice so sometimes she would pretend to not hear her cries. Farmer Mother secretly wished that Alice would just do what was expected of all who lived in the wheat field, but Alice would remind her that she was not wheat. Alice would slump her red petals, and slowly they would fall out and lay at both their feet.

Farmer Mother didn't want Alice to be sad, she simply wanted her to sway and shiver and hum.  She wanted the field to return to calm but the Farmer Mother accepted that Alice was different and so chose to cut the others back, giving Alice more room.

All were contented but Alice,  as it is perfectly understandable, because, although their touch hurt, she wished it didn't. Hands stretched out desire to be held or at least to have the potential to be held and Alice no longer had that.

When the sun began to set and Farmer Mother's feet swelled in her boots. She breathed deeply as she went again to tend to Alice.

"Where were you? You promised to take care of me and I haven't seen you all day!"

Farmer Mother took off her hat, wiped her brow and said, "I am here now."

"I am scared, Mother."

"Why are you scared?' Farmer Mother looked at her watch and then looked to the house.

"There is a red beast and it comes out at night."

"Now that's silly. I have never heard such nonsense!" Farmer Mother began to turn away.

"It is not nonsense,"she cried and stooped her red petals and again they started to fall.

Farmer Mother let out a long deep breath, " Would you like to tell me about the red beast?"

Alice looked up, "He comes at night and takes over the sky and blankets the ground, sometimes he breaks into a million beasts and they all attack me."

"Shall I sit with you then?"

"Please,"she said more as a question than a reply. "If you would like you can rest under my petals?"
Farmer Mother thought of the little spikes on the flower, "No, I am fine here," and she sat on the hard dirt.

As darkness unfolded across the earth giving the stars their movement, and as the ears of wheat lulled themselves to sleep, the moon rose causing a red hue to travel through the sky, which cut across clouds before breaking apart above the golden land.

Alice shut her petals, bowed her head and yelled to her mother,"There he is and he is coming for me.  I am scared, Mother. I am scared!"

Farmer Mother sighed, "It is just the moon."

Alice became angry,"No, it is not a moon. It is a red beast and it is coming for me!"

Her shouts travelled faster than the red hue and the fields began to wake. Farmer Mother went to quiet her and she crawled beneath her red petals and there Alice's world took life in Farmer Mother's eyes. It was not just a moon but vibrant blasts of red shouting through the sky fracturing, exploding, expanding, fireworks set off by the unsuspecting clouds. The colours showered down on the wheat fields creating a brilliant, dynamic mosaic. Each overwhelming detail caught in Alice's veins. It's beauty which she created and held, which couldn't be seen by others but was gifted to her mother at this moment on this night.

Farmer Mother gasped, "Alas, little one..." trying to comfort, to explain that it was not a beast but a glorious gift that belonged to only her, but she couldn't find the words for this explosion of colour and sensations. Still Alice quieted. A petal fell down on her mother, crossing over her shoulders, "Alice, is that my name?"

Farmer Mother realised that in the excitement the little flower misunderstood her.

"Is that who I am, Alice?  I have often wondered as I knew I wasn't wheat, no matter how hard I tried, and if I wasn't wheat then who was I? Now, I am Alice or Alice is me." She straightened her stem and her petals reached out as if she was answering to an encore and  waiting for the applause to quiet. She, no longer trying to dance with the wheat, but now, instead, allowing the wheat to dance around her, her vibrance warmed the field and warmed Farmer Mother.

Alice turned to Mother and asked,"Do you think that we should name the others because if you look quite closely, they are not all the same, and maybe, one or two would also prefer not to sway or shiver or brush?"

"Maybe,"replied Farmer Mother witnessing the details of each one's own particular story.

"I name that one Lilly and that one Elliot." said Alice, and that is how Farmer Mother and Alice spent the rest of the night. As the field, which once was only gold, blossomed with colours so did it too blossom with newly recognised life and, as should be expected, each new life rightfully deserves its very own name.

Thursday, 21 April 2016

My Chest Compressed

My chest compressed
like fragile ground under heavy boots
stomp and stomp and stomp and stomp.
Caving inward, unsettled rubble knocking about

My chest compressed
Deflating, air escapes through quiet rips
insides stick together, pulling me down
the darkness again rushes through, consumes.

My chest compressed
punched,  gasping, watching the window fog
my head against vibrating steel
the rhythm of the train takes me home.

My chest compressed
I enter to your quiet cries.
Your sister cradles you
as you wait for fairies to hide you away.

Our chests compress
as we think of the needle
that I am not sure you need
but the doctor would like anyway.

My misgivings growing
as does the red in your eyes.
I question my choices
The restless child in me struggles.

I lay Wonder Woman's armour
at your bedside.
and say it will shield you from pain.
You push it away.

Admonishing her
She is a fake!
The armour is a fake!
Everyone feels pain!

I concede. I cuddle, I kiss, you burrow.
running my thumb down your arm.
We lay sad together and wait for sleep.
We decompress

Friday, 12 February 2016

I Wish Life Was A Musical!

I wish life was like a musical and within a moment we all would just turn to song connecting the world in an unspeakable, indescribable moment of musical notes which flood the air while our smiles rush the camera in a close-up.

I met your father in the city yesterday.  It felt to be a naughty secret, our midday rendezvous.  As I walked down Northumberland, I couldn't get rid of my cheeky smile, the emerging giggle. My fast pace weaved through the crowd of extras and I smiled at them all, even smiled at the fiftieth chugger, beckoning to me.

We hadn't done this in years and yes, I do mean years, shame on us. That day, I wasn't the mommy with stains down my shirt, frazzled, tired, underwear arse backwards (literally). Yes, underwear, put on in the dark, often represented the confusion given from a poor night's sleep,  and even when I found out, probably, slumped over, hiding in an overused bathroom, I was too tired to care, but I digress. In that minute, I was gorgeous. My hair thick, caught by the wind of my stride. My clothes actually fitting and colour coded, makeup that was planned, instead of bought on clearance. As well, I had just downed an Americano with three shots of expresso, every mother's legal high. I was meeting him, the man I loved and he was only a few steps away, I could feel it.

The busker played with her see-through violin, she nodded and smiled. She added romance, intrigue and a sense of urgency, which is when I saw him.  In his black overcoat, woollen scarf, he looked for me and the music heightened as we moved closer, the pace quickened and so did mine. Now, usually in life, this is where I trip, but that day, I didn't.  I was confident, strident and surprisingly agile. I waved and he saw me and the crowd disappeared as it does when two people are in love. I think that your father was terribly shocked when I ran the last few steps and hugged and kissed him, silently embracing as the violin played. Yes, she was tipped.

Today, I walked down the same street again and again heard the music play. It was an Eastern European rhythm this time and, again, I couldn't help but smile.  I was desperate to go into dance, to twirl around the man at the fruit stand or the toothless, smiling, bald man with oversized trousers that stood in front of me, waiting. How wonderful it would be if we all joined in song, shed our tensions, fears, frustration and let the joy emerge.  That mischievous, fun child that boogie's away and now, that child had live music and an audience, so why not dance.

When I was a child, I had a paper round and the news had to be on the doorstep by 6 AM, so before the alarm clocks rang and duvets released the warmth of the night, before coffees brewed and morning kisses given,  I and my little red wagon would make our way down silent streets.  The rattle of the tyres bounced off the street lights, with the tap tap patter of my tiny gait as an accompaniment. The wind would brush the bushes and the trees would shake, the leaves quiver, it would bring a quiet reverberation, and sometimes, helped by the moon, it would gain power and bring a force that rushed through my small frame, knocking me forward, to centre stage.  Quietly but not cautiously, I would twirl under the street lights, watched only by hidden eyes contained in the bush or perched upon the wire and within me, around me, through me, the orchestra would play.

Your father has pointed out that I hum quite often.  I am not sure how he feels about this topic. He suspects it occurs when I am a bit "tense," which it makes him a bit tense. He's wrong.  The humming is only a slight bit of the loud, booming music that fills my body and I love it. As an adult, the quiet humming is what I am allowed to show. However, sometimes, I forget and I break out into song in the market or when walking.  I am usually lost in thought and am unaware of my social transgression until I receive a startled look from a passerby. It doesn't embarrass me, as you know, very little embarrasses Mommy. Hopefully, you will remember my saying to you, "Life is long," but, sadly, sometimes, I am reminded that the ending can come quick and without much warning, so enjoy the now, emerge yourself in this moment.

I will have you know that we are descended from many others who wish life was a musical. Your grandmother often sang Valderi when hiking mountains and I would giggle at the polite but perplexed onlookers before joining in. I can see the same traits in you girls. The bigger little one of you learning the words to all the songs, sometimes shedding that too cool exterior to make funny faces and funny moves, which get me giggling.  The littlest one of you just turning to song, whether it is to ask a question or make a demand, or remake the latest top hit, so it is a bit silly, also contorting your body and voice for comic appeal. Sometimes we all break into song together and laugh, sharing our stages and soothing the lonely child with the little red wagon. We are alive and we are happy. We three are part of a musical, where the goodies always win and the baddies fall into a wagon of mud, communities come together and everyone smiles at the camera as we move rhythmically, unanimously arms interlocked, through the world, together. I love it and you love it and someday it will help fill your basket of happy memories. So, girls, now, we just have to convince your father!

Sunday, 13 September 2015

Let Me Tell You About My Friend Nino

I want to tell you about my friend Nino. I am not sure what to write or how to start this or if there is a point that I want to get across to you.  I just want to write about him because I miss him.

Nino and I met when I was 18 and he was 24.  Not to sound too corny but he walked into a bar and that was it, destiny was made, we were to be forever friends.  Ok, kid, that was corny, but that is actually how it happened because sometimes with some people it really is that easy. I was working as a bartender and he was friends with the owner and agreed to help out that night.  He walked in, smiled at me, took a seat and started talking as if we had always been friends and so I returned the favour and then, like magic, suddenly, we had just always been friends. There was no build up to a close bond, no great deal of shared experiences there was just an ease and comfort that was almost instantaneous that night.  I suspect that was his talent because as our friendship ventured further from the bar, I saw that familiarity in the exchanges he made with others.

At that time in my life, the best way to describe myself was awkward, I played a part in company and often critiqued the replay.  I suspect many people at that age do, some people call it "finding oneself" others call it "losing oneself."

My father had just died, resulting in a part of me dying, but, as that was happening, another part was awakening.  It was nature and no matter how much I begged and pleaded for the world to stop, it wouldn't, not even to catch my breath.  I left home for the first time, and in my new environment,  I struggled to decode the new rules.  I was never that personally or socially confident and with the death of my father what little confidence I had, crumbled. The foundation of support, my childhood home, seemed to be now in disarray. When grieving, families can sometimes come together, sadly, mine didn't, it spread out and my safe place, my home, became vacant. I would go home, often, but it was filled with ghosts, memories of family dinners and parties,  or chats around a fire. Sometimes, I would feel a whisper of a person walking past or, from a distance, watch my mother read the paper, rarely were there words exchanged.

My friendships were going through transitions as well, with so many leaving for university and moving on. I was lonely, angry and as said before, awkward.  That last descriptive was a gift given to me by years of socially trying to fit in but never really feeling my place within the group, whether real or perceived, realised externally or just believed quietly within, we'll never know, but in my mind I lived in the peripheral until I met Nino.

Throughout the years, life throws challenges and we all weather those challenges differently and sometimes little demons form from the scars left behind.  During late nights and long talks, I told Nino of my demons, he didn't judge me or look down on me, he simply smiled, pulled me into his beautiful world and reminded me of how strong I was. I fought and won many battles with him whispering in my ear.

Nino was special and he believed I was special and soon I believed him.  If someone as lovely as him could care for me then maybe I wasn't as awkward as I thought.  Soon, I started to gather other Nino's, wonderful people, who I loved and who loved me and all my honest imperfections and I no longer needed to play a part.

The other day, as you were trying to work your way through that social maze, you looked up at me and said, "You don't get it, Mum. It is not like it was back in the 70's in Connecticut! People aren't nice like they were in the old days."  Well, firstly, I will have you know, I wasn't just a child of the 70's, I was also a child of the 80's and not everyone was nice. In fact, not everyone is nice now.  We create our own beautiful worlds, and we have to choose who to let in because not all will be respectful of those worlds.  I told you that you only need one good friend in life, just one. It isn't just because that one good friend will help you to create magnificent memories that will make you giggle and sigh in years to come but also, because that one good friend will remind you of how special you are and how lovely life can be and they will give you the prototype for the people you will allow in your little world.

When I moved to the UK, it was before either Nino and I were techno savvy and life happens and sometimes people lose touch, sadly. You get busy and you say, I will make the effort tomorrow, and that becomes next week and then soon years pass.

Nino finally joined the social media universe and I was excited to see him and I told him so.  He replied by saying that now I could see how old he had become.  I just said that in my memories he remained eternally young.  However, that last response was a few weeks delayed in coming.  I had seen the notification of his comment and kept meaning to respond and that day turned into that week... and when I finally did, well... I am not sure he had the chance to read it.  Social media told me he died and I am devastated. I just sit here, this morning, coffee to my side, computer to hand, thinking of him-hundreds of unanswered questions, floods of memories, incredible sadness for his family, especially his little girl, who deserved to have him in her life for longer.  This morning,  I just sit here missing him.

Wednesday, 19 February 2014

Your Sister is Your Biggest Fan

Do you remember me telling you the story of how Casey Dog's barking interrupted my lunch with your great grandfather, the man you are named after? Well, it interrupted the dream lunch, since he died long before you or I were born.

At about 2:00 AM, your father and I woke to the barking, rubbed our eyes, looked at each other, slipped out of bed and crept down the hallway, not saying a word. Casey kept taking steps forward, slowly, waiting for us to follow her, and we did,  towards the rattling noise coming from the third floor. A trapped bird flying frantically through three small rooms (one soon to become yours) trying to escape, but there were no opened windows or chimney vents, nor holes in the attic. Its entrance a mystery. We freed it because that is what you do for trapped birds.

I kept remembering  the poem The Raven by Edgar Alan Poe.  Although the poem's theme is not about joy and love gained, the bird plays as a messenger from the afterworld, and at that moment, I thought of you. I knew that you were inside me, growing, which is why the first pregnancy test was done in the early hours of the morning.

When you were born, I was sure that the heavens had actually opened so that G-d could deliver you personally. Time seemed to stop.  I didn't want to move from the first day of your life because nothing mattered after that, nothing was created, nothing died, to stay forever in that moment.  Like a child, I believed that only your father, me and you existed, and that when the door closed to our happy home our guests, friends, neighbours simply disappeared.

Your father and I looked at your fragile little hands that we carefully navigated through sleep suits, your large chocolate eyes, and that fantastic smile. My finger went round and round the garden on your tummy and your little toes and soon you sang the song to me. Each day a new trick magically appeared you began to count, read, tell jokes, collect stones and create hairstyles, a proper little girl.  We watched the angel grow her wings and we marvelled.   Why would G-d have allowed us to be your parents when we really weren't worthy?

Soon my stomach grew again, and you barely noticed or cared because you were three, but the rest of the world did.  Your father and I looked at each other excited but worried. We appreciated that we could never create another child like you. Who could capture us the way you had? So, we agreed to not compare.

Your sister, born in water, our little mermaid, cuddled her wet body into me, trying to gain warmth. As she does this morning under a soft blanket while we watch Sinbad. I dipped down into the bath and cried. Your father ran his finger gently down the side of her cheek and kissed my forehead. She was not like you; she was like her. All night I stayed awake, gazing at her. The first sleepless night of many.  Only this night, I smiled.

You couldn't wait to hold her, and we have a picture of it somewhere. She looked at you and quieted and calmed.  You made cooing noises, smiled and she squeezed your finger. Love born during an introduction. You couldn't get enough of her, so you would poke her when she slept, which she didn't mind as long as it was you she saw when her eyes opened. When I called you into the kitchen, you came with her in your arms (to my terror). You would sing to her and play peek-a-boo and when she grew her first bottom teeth she would show it to us in many smiles.  You barely noticed your positioning being moved from centre of the universe. That came later.

She stopped being your favourite toy, sometime after her second birthday. You were pushed off to school and there she stayed at home, in my arms.  You would come home and find remnants of crafts, puzzles, play dates and mummy sitting tired on the settee. You would pull at my sleeve and I would say, just let me finish my coffee, one more sip, but you would pull harder and harder until I said it louder and louder, which usually made you retreat to your dolls or your crafts. She would want to join and you would agree, as long as she knew the toys were yours.

It didn't seem to bother her to play second in your world. She loved you even though she no longer fit on your lap.  She followed you as you slid down the stairs, listened to your cosmetic tips, watched you with friends (regardless if she was invited) and you enjoyed her as a toy. Her trusting eyes followed you everywhere, to the forbidden sweetie jar or outside the gate or into my make-up case and jewelry box. Each time I caught the two of you, I became cross, so in the future you just sent her, but I figured that one out too. You began to pinch, push, kick her but I saw and I became cross again, and she learned how to pinch, poke and push back, to your dismay.

However, as I put you in time out, in your room or just gave you a pointing, waving finger, your sister protested and you noticed. If there were treats, she wouldn't eat them unless you had some too, When she begged for a toy, she begged for you too. You realised soon that you never left the centre of her universe and I explained that she was and would always be your biggest fan. No matter if friends were "horrible," the universe scraped your knees, or the teacher "told you off", your sister would always step in the line of fire to protect you. Suddenly, her toothy grin made you smile again and you didn't mind her holding you like an overstuffed toy.

So, this morning, when she tries to tickle you relentlessly and you huff loudly or when she wants to match her nail polish colour to yours again, again and again. You roll your eyes,  grunt, but put your fingers forward, saying, "there," because you know that it is a small price to pay for being loved so much by such a tiny thing.  

Thursday, 7 November 2013

It Is Better To Be Alone Than To Share A Bed With Hitler

Living honestly was difficult for me to obtain and then to act on. I had to cope with the periodic episodes of loneliness that tend to coincided. I remember complaining to Grandma that I didn't fit in, that a particular person truly did not like me, that I had been left out of plans, that I was surrounded by lost invitations.   Grandma said, "Do you want everyone to like you?" I, of course, did, and she replied, "Even Hitler?" 

When I was 18 years old, visiting my hometown from university, I attended a cool person's party. Obviously this wasn't typical because I was never cool.  The host was a friend of a friend etc...  When I arrived, it was nice to wander through the crowd of swaggering designer clothes and static large hair. I listened to whispers about the host being a bit of a prick, but they were just whispers, no one would have dared to say it aloud. He was the archetypical male, large forehead under his cap and unnecessarily large condoms in his pocket, padding the keys to his father's Porsche. He was important not just because he could  funnel a few beers in under a minute, but because the next morning with hangover and bad breath, he still would  make the winning goal and that would win the crowd's hearts.

"Great party, Scott" I said. Thanks, he smiled. His teethe were so white that they seemed to glisten. I stared mesmerised, taking space in his circle. I listened to fluid conversations, interrupted only by laughter, the stomach holding type and I smiled and held my stomach too. But then came the racist slant, smoothly and comfortably introduced in the disguise of banter, aimed at the one jock who wasn't white. As my jaw dropped, the receiver nodded and smiled and waited for the spotlight to move on but, I didn't, I couldn't. I had to ruin the moment. Maybe it was due to the influence of midnight debates with lit cigarets in cramped rooms, maybe it was due to discussions had with a vocal mother (your grandmother) who marched for equal rights or maybe because it hurt when it happened to me, a Jew, which was the point I tried to explain. And then there was quiet, it was a moment where the world seemed to stop and my face started to itch.

Mr. Alpha  chuckled, head down, embarrassed, maybe, no.  His next line, "I hate the Jews,"  said with ease.

"You can't mean that."

His response, "Wish Hitler had finished the job, gassed all of you in the oven."

By you he meant me as a collective, my family, my community and eventually you, little one. I thought about my ancestors, who had attended similar parties, held by more powerful alpha dogs.   I looked around the room, at others with shared ancestry. I thought about the soldiers, professors, lost little children, who all attended similar parties, generations ago. Were they quiet?

His voice boomed, "Hitler didn't go far enough, he should have killed you all, poof," the room silently parted, so he could spit out his chew.  He looked back at me and wiped his face, confident that on Monday, the crowds would cheer him on again as he entered his arena. In a frozen room, I screamed until I no longer made sense and as he was pulled into the crowd, I was pulled to my car. The door shut and I sat staring at the vacant passenger seat.

Later, friends tried to excuse his actions, to convince me that Scott was not a bad guy, but he just had too much to drink. As well, they also tried to excuse my strong reaction saying I wasn't usually this hysterical, it must have been due to my father's recent death, another Jew.

Are Alphas made or born or a bit of both?  That person, aware of that dynamic and evasive social formula, a skill I have never mastered. Alphas, with their large personalities, often conveyed by few words, attracts and holds power. So much power that people will sit, patiently, to take notes, to take direction. They will stand staring at their feet like well-trained puppies as their organic world passes, in hopes of garnering acceptance, sense of belonging.

People like to stay within a breath of the alpha. They feel safe there. However, I encourage you to fight the pull of the mainstream current and find a comfortable seat that fits your individual stature. You will never finish designing your world, when helping to paint someone else's. I encourage you to seek that natural smile, even if that smile is given to you by a lifestyle unfamiliar to the one WE have led.  Do not expect people to publicly support your uniqueness, at best, there may be affirmations behind closed doors. But, trust me, being you is better than playing you and if you live honestly, then you will develop a more realistic vision of self and your surroundings.

Blind allegiance is dangerous, especially when given to those who lack intelligence and/or compassion, and, yet, it happens in all institutions and social circles.  People will choose obedience to dimwitted deities, and look down at their feet, smiling, waiting for the line to move, so that they can follow.  Hopefully, you, will stand outside the circle and rightfully ask questions. You will hold true to your own mores, map your own direction and not be pushed by the flow. However, this may mean that, instead of you joining in with the laughter, you could be the one being laughed at, which breaks my heart. It may also mean you spend some nights alone, covered in a pile of lost invitations. But some worlds may be wrong for you or they may just be wrong, and it could be a blessing to not gain entry.  I promise you, it will be worth it, because a cold bed is better than one warmed by Hitler.