Zap!

I feel

weak

immature

whiny

stupid

annoying

ugly

when I cry.

Pro-choice is not pro-abortion.

I support a woman’s right to choose.

I have put it in perspective;

I would be thankful if my mother decided not to abort me.

I would be angry if I was forced by law upon her.

I would like women to be able to choose their fate, even if they end up choosing one I don’t agree with.

Personally, I would encourage women to go the adoption route if they can’t keep the baby.

I realize this is difficult.

So is aborting even a tiny zygote.

It can’t do anything yet. It’s not even a full fetus. Still, it might as well be a full-grown baby to a mother.

“Bad people” are not going to adopt your baby.

Your baby will not go unadopted.

I accept that there are circumstances in which abortion may be the only choice. Circumstances we don’t come across often.

And I want my fellow American women to have that choice.

It means so much more.

There is always going to be someone who feels they are oppressed or unequal. In many cases, that is the truth. Today I point to women as my “someone”. In the past, women have been anything but equal in the eyes of American law or congress. Women fought not just men but other women as well to get their right to vote and go to university. Not all women wanted to get jobs. Women who did were looked down on. Now, we look back on them and admire their determination. Now, a woman who wants a traditional “housewife” role can be looked down on. Must we all be career-women, just because we can? Ladies, we have a choice now. That is what we wanted. We will never truly want, collectively, equality with men. There are those would protest using beautiful women as decoration, or who would scold men for thinking a woman weak or over over-emotional. I hate to tell it to ya, but women ARE more emotional than men. We use it to our advantage, though, don’t we? When’s the last time you cried to get out of a ticket on the road, or to get sent home by the nurse in high school? Another newsflash, women ARE weaker. Now of course, there are strong women out there. My own mother was a body builder in her younger days. Growing up we always passed the pickle jar to her if it wouldn’t open. Comparing my parents at that time, she was certainly stronger than my dad. However, the circumstances were unequal. Had my father also been a body-builder, he would have turned out twice as muscular. He would at the same time have eaten twice as much as her. Given equal opportunity, my father would have been the stronger one. Now that they’re older (as in, pushing sixty), they’ve certainly evened out. If Mom works out at all these days it’s to lose weight from fat, not gain weight from muscle. In the end, whether we’re for decoration or not, it can be acknowledge that most women will always have that desire to be beautiful. Oh, and it certainly helps to get the bartender’s attention if you’ve got a nice pair!

I saw a comic the other day. A man had taken a woman out to dinner. As is custom, the man paid. In the next panel, and a man and a woman were working. The man got paid more. Now, look this way. If these protests finally got settled out and women and men earned the same amount, would you start going Dutch, or would you still expect the man to pay? For that matter, what if two lesbians are going out on a date? I agree, we need to set a lot of things on an equal playing field in the ways of law and paychecks, but how will we ever survive if we don’t iron out the kinks in society’s preconceived ideas of the man paying etc.? Will these things change on their own with time? If so, will it eventually come to the point where a girl can’t flash her tits to keep the traffic cop from giving out points? Will it come to the point where skirts are sold in the men’s section?

America, you have been good to me. You have so far treated me well, despite my disabilities and vagina. America, I am a white, middle-class woman from a white, middle-class neighborhood. I’m in college. I have work skills. America, you love me.

But do you love my brother, a gay artist living in an apartment with his boyfriend?

Do you love my Shipmate, a muslim woman supporting her family in Africa from here?

Do you love my friend in the ghetto, with his many siblings, single-mother and welfare check?

Do you love my classmate, an Arabic woman?

Do you love the homeless mothers and their little toddlers?

Did you love my ancestor, Brady, when he was only an Irish immigrant?

Did you?

America, my ancestors came here on the Mayflower. For all I know they raped Navajo women, or later in life sent them off in chains on the “Trail of Tears” to Mesa, Arizona once they realized Africans made better slaves. They didn’t give a damn about minorities. They didn’t care about homeless people, homosexuals, or “colored folk”. They only cared about freedom from England, spreading Christianity, and getting rich. For being descended from these people, I am rewarded and honored with papers calling me a DAR, “Daughter of the American Revolution”. You have high hopes I will follow in my ancestors footsteps of spreading Christianity and getting you rich, but all I’m interested in now is finding freedom, not for me, but for my brethren in this country of false promises.

Also because of my lineage, I am deemed a DBE, “Daughter of the British Empire”. I am rewarded for this with invitations to tea-parties. I don’t get any scholarship money from it, nor encouragement to knit sweaters and vote Republican. I love these little old ladies and their British accents, and I am glad for our allies and friends to be among us.

I do not question my loyalties, but I question the people and the organizations. DAR: An organization that celebrates revolution, but votes against it? DBE: An organization celebrating being British, yet choosing to live in America? USA: A country that promises freedom and equality, but only if you’re a straight, white male? USA: A country that promises freedom of religion, yet forces you to follow Christian-based laws?

There are far worse places for me to be than here. America, thank you for what you have done for me. But, America, you are too arrogant, and you lie too much. America, you bite off more than you can chew. America, you run on democracy, but only when it suits you and oppresses others.

We’re dead for a long time. We’re dead longer than we are alive. We don’t know what’s going to happen to us. Will we go to heaven? Will we exist in a void? Will we be reincarnated? Will we simply cease to exist?

We never know when we’re going to die. Maybe we’ll die tomorrow in a freak accident, or perhaps tonight the house will burn down as we sleep. Maybe we’ll die of old age, surrounded by our descendants.

We think about our death quite often. We write wills. We do our thing in this life to ensure peace in the next. We worry. We may even aim for it.

How much do you value your life?

How much do you value someone else’s life?

Do you value the life of a criminal more than the life of an innocent?

Do you value the life of a human more than the life of a spider?

How much would you risk?

Who’s life would you put at stake?

Who would you kill?

Who would save?

What is important to you?

Do we even exist?

Death is a science, but post-mortem is a philosophy.

Who needs mystery in life

when we have so much in death?

Lucky are the few who do not face it at some point in their lives. Lucky are the few who have never fallen head over heels in love with someone, invested all their love and time, only to lose it. Lucky are the few who don’t waste years loving someone, and years mourning someone. It is a harsh lesson that we all take different meaning from. It can teach us to grow emotionally detached, or to it can teach us to fear facing such commitment ever again. It can make us want to crawl into a hole and die there. The worst feeling in the world is losing someone you can’t imagine losing. The worst feeling in the world is to find that someone and pour all your love into them, only to be rejected. The worst thing is think everything is fine, to spend all your days with that special someone, then to one day lose it all in a moment. Some come out of it stronger. Others come out of it dead. Heartbreak is painful. Heartbreak is soul-crushing. Heartbreak is common.

There is no single secret to true happiness. Like a meal, it has many ingredients, prepared and combined in such a way to make it reach such purity and deliciousness. It has a ying-yang flavor, whereas you cannot find happiness without also finding sadness. Until you taste the many differently prepared forms of happiness, you will never know which is truly the most delicious.

Happy home-life.

Happy work-life.

Happy social life.

Love.

Friendship.

Fun.

And you must tailor to your own tastebuds. Perhaps you find happiness in relaxing, or perhaps your get enjoyment out of moving. Maybe you are happy with your friends, or perhaps you are happiest alone.

There is no standard for happiness. No one can tell you that in order to be happy you must do this, or act like that.

Go around and ask people what makes them happy.

Try it.

“Being with my children.”

“Hearing my favorite song on the radio.”

“A home-cooked meal.”

“Being told I’ve done a good job.”

“Finishing a stack of papers.”

“Winning a race.”

“Watching my child win a race.”

“Puppies.”

“Moonlight.”

“Thunderstorms.”

“A sunny day at the beach.”

“A hug from my son.”

“A hug from a stranger.”

“Sleeping next to someone I love.”

There are many different ways to make people happy.

Take a moment and think about what makes you happy.

Dwell on it.

Think about it and maybe you will get a little smile.

A sad smile, a happy smile, a grin, a smirk-

Does what makes you happy

make other people happy?

Think about it.

Enjoy yourself.

You have never woken up and not recognized your own mother.

You have never had to walk to the bus at 6am only to arrive bloody and battered because you can’t walk 2 feet without falling, only to be yelled at by the bus driver and teased by the other riders.

You have never had to worry all day if you were going to suddenly collapse in the middle of class or work.

You have never been robbed completely of your dignity in front of your friends and enemies just once, only to have it stay with you for the rest of your life.

You have never had to deal with the trauma on yourself
as well as the trauma it causes everyone around you.

You have never had to be ashamed of something you could not control.

Now I dare you to look me in the eyes
and tell me
everything is fine.

I am not retarded.

I am not brain-damaged.

I am not bipolar or schizophrenic.

I do not have autism.

I am not mentally unstable.

I have mastered five musical instruments, two of which I compose sheet music for on a regular basis.

I write lyrics, poetry, short stories and novels in my spare time, some of which I have published.

I draw, paint, sculpt and sing.

I have thoroughly enjoyed gymnastics, ballet, tap dancing, soccer, swimming, racquetball and ballroom dancing.

I have scored above average on the IQ tests administered to me in Philadelphia on my bad days.

My essays and SAT scores have gotten me where my laziness would have kept me from.





I have epilepsy.





Don’t you dare tell me that epileptics are all brain-damaged

or retarded

or mentally challenged in some way.

I have epilepsy

and I am still stronger than you

in even my weakest moment.