For the Mothers of Our Wounded

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The Hero

Sung by Matt Snook, Guitar by Gary Talley, Written by Micaela Bensko, Recorded at Azalea Studios, Nashville. Imagery from around the globe. It is for the mothers of our wounded who are truly the unsung heroes of war.

The Hair Brush

My mother stood in front of her mirror like a flamingo, one foot perched up on her thigh that pressed against the lip of her sink. This was her stance each morning as she 'put on her face'. I'd enter her bedroom, a sweet aroma of Aqua Net hung in the air. Sounds of preparation echoed from her bathroom. It was my father's bathroom too, but only to him. Mothers have a way of marking things. By being mothers. Her bed. Her kitchen. Her hairbrush. One of the most defining elements of my childhood, is my mother's hairbrush. I say is, because it's still around. It's over forty years old. Its yellow. Its handle is gone due to an unfortunate wrestling match with a Bobby Pin which launched it to a tiled floor. It was fractured into two sections for years, the handle barely hanging on by a ligament of plastic. Until one day, it broke completely. Just the hairy belly of a bristled face remained to stroke and tease my mother's hair into its masterpiece.

It was yellow in my childhood. The kind of yellow they discontinued due to marketing tests in the eighties. It could be valuable just for the color. Or museum worthy as an example of pop culture's influence on the hairbrush of the seventies.

I was not to touch the hairbrush. It was a sacred item procured from Queen Tut's womb. It was perfect for teasing my mother's hair and any usage by children to brush the hair of the dog or a doll would result in the loss of its powers. Or worse yet. It might get lost itself. So it sat by her sink. Next to the Aqua Net.

I used to sneak into her bathroom when she was busy. Her teasing comb next to her teasing brush. A thin layer of cosmetic powder on the counter taunted my finger to make a line in it. But I didn't. It was Mom's counter. But I couldn't resist her brush. It was the gateway drug.

I reached for it remembering exactly how it was positioned before I picked it up so she'd never know I was there. My hand nestled around its broken body, the bristles facing up. I tried to stand like her. Her left leg bent and foot perched flatly to the inside of her right thigh. Her toes always flexed and then grabbing gently her snow white skin. I wanted her snow white skin and her pretty painted toes. And her brush. But I had to be a grown-up to have such things. Like having a couch. A bed. Only grown-ups knew how to get those things. A house. A car. A brush.

One day, her brush went missing. It wasn't me. But Mom knew by the remnants of long locks left in its bristles that I was there. Her tone was sharp. Like its bristles.

The hunt began. To find the brush. That I didn't lose. But I was recruited as Suspect A and the brush was lost.

Tears welled in my eyes making the search difficult. Forms of furnishings swept past my trojected mission. I collapsed on the sofa defeated with the frustration of my innocence.

I felt the cushion next to me sink and a body slipped into its fold. An arm wrapped around my shoulders to calm their bobbing swells. It was then I heard the first apology of my life. The first time anyone ever said Im sorry. My mother cupped my cheeks in her hands, looked into my eyes and apologized. She had found her brush. Someplace she had set it down. It wasn't me. She overreacted. I was a good girl.

Throughout my life I have remembered that moment as sacred. It laid a foundation for my life of the concept forgiveness. Because at that moment, in the last few stuttered breaths of a child's cry, I understood what it meant to be human. To feel another's remorse. To accept an apology and go right back to loving them. Completely.

As the years have worn on, the bristles on her brush have depleted, a virtual graveyard of teasing. The yellow has faded to a muted shade of mustard.

I visit her home now with my own children. When I hear they are all busy, in her kitchen, I sneak into her bathroom. And stare at her sink. The Aqua Net is gone, but the rest is the same. A thin layer of dusting on the counter. And her brush. Positioned just so. So when I leave she'll never even know I was there.

I will Read A Book

Today I will read a book.

Because books are written from the heart.

You can't spin a book.

Well, yes you can on a table. During a drinking game. But a book has a cover people are told not to judge. News doesn't.

So today, I will read a book.

News has a way of finding the soils in something pure. It can twist liquid rage from a child's arm. Turn innocence to furor.

So today, I will read a book.

News can be used for good
For making a tangible change
I know because I've seen it done
When people are engaged
In something larger than themselves
How life is supposed to look

For today, the good news is,
I will read a book.

Life Is Like A Puppy

Life is like a puppy. Difficult to train in its youth. So you do the best you can. It soils your floors and chews everything in sight. And panic sets in. And you try to make it right. So it doesn't end up in a shelter. Or with people who don't treat it well. There are moments you question if will ever get easier. Then you remember that it is young. There are times you wonder if you made the wrong decision. If you should give it back. Because some people do. But that is because all they see is a soiled floor.
When things get hard I look in its large unknowing eyes asking for forgiveness. I feel its tongue that licks my tears, and its nose searching for what it did wrong. Its breath is pure as it yearns to be inhaled. Reminding me it is fleeting and will soon be gone. So I hold it close and remind myself it is fragile and dependent on only me. And I forgive.

Bride 101

Instead of raising daughters to dream

of the perfect wedding.

Costing thousands of dollars.

That lasts a day.

Raise them to dream of their perfect life.

To search for their heart before dress.

Find their identity before a prince.

Reach for the stars before a ring.

Toss their hair before a bouquet.

Say I did before I do.

Walk the talk before the aisle.

Get married on a beach with twelve people

and no shoes.

Instead of gifts a honeymoon.

Cherish the favors they leave behind.

And you will have the perfect bride.

My Mother's America - Understanding the Generation Gap

We are different. My mother and I. It's funny, because I spent my whole life trying to be like her. Only to find out at forty-two that no two people could be more different. So in a way, I failed my goal of being like my mother. 

They call it the generation gap.  If I had grown up faster, maybe there wouldn't be a gap.  That I fall through. Every time politics or religion enter the conversation. 

I've started turning down the television when Mom enters the room. Which she does often now, as I recover from spine surgery, again. It's getting old. This surgery thing. But she's always there. To give. 

She enters the room. I'm locked in bed. Legs raised. Bed tray nestled over my incision site. They entered from the front this time. I feel like Silence of the Lambs. Without the mask. Or the silence. Trapped.

Mom sits on the arm of the Archie Bunker chair reserved in my room for kind-hearted visitors. She sits on its arm. Rocking its frame with gentle control by the leverage of her toes. As she has done for me my entire life. I sense the rhythm of its springs aching for someone to ask her to sit comfortably. I feel the chair scowl at me, wincing. But Mom will never really sit in that rocker. And it knows it. At most she crouches with intention on the tip of its lap. 

My mother is a force. The air doesn't shift when she enters the room. It expands. To make space for all that comes with her. Her religion. Her politics.  Her love. It's the love that makes it all okay. Because it's the one thing we have in common.

Television divides us.  Honey Boo Boo is an example of welfare waste and food stamp abuse.  

The History Channel is a cesspool of religion and war; Real Housewives of Miami reminds one of Tampa which brings to mind the socialite emails with General Allen that revealed Patreus's affair with a woman who knew too much; Ellen is still gay. Television reminds my mother of the condition of her country. 

And it makes her sad. She's become raw. In art, what is most raw, has the most beauty. My mother's heart is a canvas so filled with life's brushstrokes, her tears scatter when they fall. Because she loves her country so much. As much as her children. 

What has happened to my mother's America? I see her fractured. Her eyes searching for the God in it all. Because He used to be there. In her country. In her politics. One nation, under God. She sees the American flag and she weeps for what it reminds her of. The good things she remembers. But isn't that what mourning is? When you reflect on the past and ache to remember all of the good that was, because recalling the bad would make the loss less meaningful. And isn't that what we live for? Meaning? And why is it me that recalls the moments I never lived? When women didn't vote, or count. When alleys weren't just for cats. And black and white wasn't just a photograph? I see how far we've come and I wasn't even there. America has always been a work in progress. That is what's so incredible about it.  It has constantly evolved into something different. It's never been stuck. Until now. Which is why I need to let down my guard. For a moment. To close the gap. To understand that change occurs by two opposing forces. And that this could be a positive thing. For something that's stuck. 

She rocks the chair looking at me like she sees her country. Broken. A shell of what she remembers used to be so filled with optimism. My mother's generation is in mourning. Because from their perspective, their country, their loved one, is dying. When from my perspective trapped under my tray table, it is simply broken but still so alive and enduring hardships that will pass.

 

My brother and I were raised to believe that America is the greatest country in the world.  Vietnam protests were a blur to my young eyes. Being born after one's parents leaves a lingering sense that we cheated on a test. I am on Earth but missed out on so much of the conversation.  Watergate was in my diaper.  I remember beehives and large olive green flowers on sundresses and sandals that were white.  As Vietnam ended and veterans were battered on their way home, I walked with my brother to Safeway and bought an ice cream cone for fifteen cents after a two dollar movie. Children were protected from the real world. No internet, limited television. And news was boring. I left the room when the news came on and Walter Cronkite spoke through rabbit ears. 

I didn't know. 

But my mom knew. She knew there were things children shouldn't know. I watch her now in the silence of the lambs and I finally understand for a moment why my mother weeps. She weeps because we now watch the same news but hear different things. Because we don't have rabbit ears.

My mother's America that was one nation under God, isn't anymore. It's my fault. I didn't grow up fast enough to avoid the gap. My God is personal to me now, and for so many of my generation disillusioned with episodes of The History Channel. Where we learned that war and religion were the same. This is why my mother weeps. Because she sees the writing on the wall. It's not her country anymore. It's not even God's. It's a platform for a sword fight with the carcasses of Dumbo and the mule from Shrek. And this is the world she is leaving me. 

I see her searching my toes for a sign that they will soon rock the chair she controls at the foot of my bed. I surround myself with my iPad and magazines, engaging in the only topics I have the energy for, love and gossip. It's painfully obvious her desire to discuss what's really on her mind. As my CNN app bubbles an alert that Israel is bombing the Gaza Strip.

I wonder what happened to my mother's America. 

I love my country. My mother loves hers. Why don't we see the same grand dame? My mother sees a grey lady who used to stand in regal glory.  I see a woman with golden years ahead.  I dream of mother and I meeting on middle ground, watching America on Extreme Makeover and somehow we both cup our hands over our mouths at the great reveal and cry because she is so beautiful.  Our country needs a reveal. Of all that is still good inside. Of everything mom misses but is still there. 

Hurricanes reveal. They pull back the curtain and remind us of how incredible our country is even when it's battered.

There will be a day when the beauty in everything is revealed. When it's too late to make it better down here. I imagine my mother and I sitting in our Archie Bunker chairs. Looking down on everyone trying so hard to look busy. Me nestled in the lap of mine, legs crossed and arms stretched. Mom nestled on the arm of hers. As she makes it rock back and forth with her toes. And I'll look at her and her eyes will be clear and light. Her brushstrokes softened by the tears she no longer sheds. And she will be beautiful. Because all will be, revealed. 

Only 15 Minutes - Dental Issue and Our Veterans

There is nothing more important to me besides my family, than our wounded warriors and the military. Since I only have 'fifteen minutes' since my Industry letter went viral, I am hoping that if anything can come out of this - besides my having a heart attack ( although I've heard it's actually quite fascinating- The light. The angels guiding me to those I love ) it is my hope to help shed some light on an issue facing our returning troops.

At Rebuilding America's Warriors, we are seeing a very serious dental problem occurring in veterans deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan. It’s insidious at first, a graying of the teeth, then a shrinking, discoloration, browning at the gum-line, and then they break off. These men and women are in their twenties.

It can happen to many teeth, or one tooth at a time. It is accompanied by sensitivity to hot and cold, inability to chew food, depression, and increased PTSD. And a complete inability to smile.

One of the warriors in our program was treated by Dr. Rick Beadle of Dallas, Texas. Byron Harris, an investigative reporter with ABC affiliate WFAA out of Dallas, filmed a two piece news segment on this mysterious dental issue. Within 48 hours of airing, 9 veterans in the Dallas area alone wrote to us with the same condition. Since the symptoms do not usually show up for 6 to 12 months, medical reports were not made during their time on active duty. Although many have sought help from the V.A., there are no dental benefits for veterans unless they have been declared 100% disabled. We pick up where the VA leaves off. We just never thought it would be with dental.

The most realistic cause our doctors have hypothesized is the Anthrax vaccine our veterans were required to receive prior to their deployment. This was never required in the past. Some believe that the organism is stored in the dentyn of the tooth and exacerbated by stress. But we don't know, and won't know until our own investigation reaches further. This can only be done with the public's help. Or perhaps it was the water. We do not know. But what we do know is it is highly unlikely these young and vibrant troops should be suffering from such excruciating decay.

If you know of any military personnel with this dental condition, presenting the above symptomology, please contact me through this site or through www.rebuildingamericaswarriors.org
But make it snappy. I've only got fourteen minutes left.

Blogging My Bully

Bam. I was down. My face hit someone else's fist. And it was hard. I had never been hit in the face before. My head flung to the left after a cement wall collided with my cheek. That's what it feels like when you're hit in the face. I understand how a fist can end up in a cast after a punch.
It happened in the school hallway. Outside Shop Class. Which had nothing to do with shopping; I was quite upset about that.
I don't know why she didn't like me. The punch came out of nowhere. But her fist hitting my face had been brewing in her head for quite a while.
I was on the hard, cement floor. Where my right cheek now felt comfortable. Because it was cold. The bones throbbed around my eye. Kids gathered. She was gone. Suddenly I wasn't just the "new girl". I was the girl that got punched in the hallway.
I never understood bullies. It's funny how it's the buzz nowadays, to stop bullying. All I can think of, is where was this when my generation needed it. Who were raised to know that children can be mean. There's one in every class. Just walk away. Be everybody's friend. Kill them with kindness. If he's mean to you it means he likes you. These were our talking points.
Bullies are insecure. The meanest kid on the block thinks no one likes him. The girl in the hallway. With the fist. Didn't even know me. But something about me threatened her. I looked in the mirror. I wasn't very threatening. It was fifth grade. I lived at my grandparents' on a farm while my mother secured a job on the East Coast to support us after the divorce. I wore the same pair of jeans every other day. Perhaps she thought that was weird. I'd never kissed a boy. My bangs were teased. Just like me. And I never knew why. Because I never did anything on purpose to hurt anyone else but myself.
It was the punch heard round the world. In my world. Her friends were proud of her. For punching the new girl. Who used to live in Hawaii. Maybe that was enough reason. That I came from a place she didn't understand. That made me different. So I couldn't be good. So punch me.
I missed the smell of Plumerias that wafted through the glass louvers of my bedroom at night. Walking to school with my friends. Being with kids I knew could punch me, but didn't. Because they knew me.
Why do some people hate something they don't understand? To act like they aren't afraid of what they don't know, by destroying it. That's probably why there's so much war. It begins in school. when there is one in every class. Someone who is mean. And that's just how it is.
It's not ok. We know it's not ok. If we see our child mistreated, we talk to the teacher, the principal, the bully. Because we don't just see our child crying. We see ourselves. We see the hallway spinning and feel the cold cement floor on our cheek. And we want it to stop. So that memory can go away of when kids were mean because we were different and they didn't bother to see who we really were.
We live through our children, because every day of their life brings a reminder of our own. The girl in third grade who never said hello. The kid who sat next to us and whispered behind our back. The boy who said he wanted to go out just so he could break up.
Entering the lunch room brought terror to my heart. I'd go through the lunch line. Then stand in front of the cafeteria looking out at the tables filled with kids who looked like they belonged. Wondering how they got there. To that place of belonging. My eyes searched for an open spot or a friendly face. Who looked as different as I felt. I wanted to sit outside on a step. Alone. Where the cement was kind and the sun on my face was warm. Where God would say it's all ok. But we weren't allowed outside by ourselves. To be with God.
It must be why so many of us (the Awkwards) feel awkward at cocktail parties. Because when we enter that room, we are standing there in front of a cafeteria. With a tray in our hands. In front of people we don't know. And all we want to do is sit outside.
My friends might be shocked when they read this. I'm loud, social, and love to have parties. If I were this way in high school I would punch myself. But perhaps it's my coping mechanism. To get my tray back. To stand in front of the cafeteria and not be scared. To sit next with the kids who didn't know me and let them in. To bring down the barriers of fear and say f*ck it. I never swore as a kid so I just thought it would be cool to imagine myself saying that.
I don't know if the bully will ever go away. If our children's children will be having the same conversation we are having - that there's one in every class. But I do know that having been bullied made me want to raise my children to embrace the Awkwards. To live for the "different". To sit next to the child who eats alone. So yes, I live through my children. To finally do it right. To turn back the clock. So they can begin the process of healing. The healing of our generation of parents who didn't have advocates. Who's parents weren't heard, because they didn't know. Because we kept it to ourselves.
It's embarrassing to be bullied. If people didn't like you, there must have been a reason. But who could we ask to find out what that was? So we kept quiet. The question stirred in our souls until we're parents and we see our children going through the same thing and wonder how we can advance so much in technology, but human nature is stagnant. How can it be the same. How can our children be experiencing the same things we did. When all we want for our children is a place to lay their tray.
The signs in today's cafeterias are a start. Respect. Responsibility. Kindness. All words we should chisel into our children's hearts. One hug at a time. So we can lay to rest the topic of the bully. So the bullies don't grow up.
This holiday season, I want to thank the girl who punched me. I will never forget the feeling of that punch. The bruising of my face. The questioning of why. I don't remember her name. I won't track her down on Facebook. But what she did matters to me. Still. She left a memory that has never let me go and created a will to erase her with goodness. With teaching my children how not to be like her. I wonder sometimes if she remembers what she did. Or why she did it. To someone she didn't know. Because it made others proud.
But I do know one thing. My life is more interesting, more fulfilling, filled with more friendships than I could have ever dreamed of than when I carried that tray. And that is where I win. She created within me a drive to heal my wounds by loving so much, so large, that no friend near me would ever see a hallway spin.
I'm not always the perfect friend. There have been times I just couldn't make it right. When I've left a bruise on someone's heart. But I do know I tried. With all of my heart. To do it right.To be the person I hope my children to be. To live by the code of the tray. To look for those who hope to be seen and take a moment to see who they are because the view is beautiful. When you look around and imagine that everyone you see has stood in the front of a cafeteria wondering where to sit.

I don't know if we'll ever get it right. If bullies with be extinct someday. But I realize now it was the girl who punched me who unleashed the goodness I strive for in myself and my children.
I'd like to thank my bully. Through her I learned who I never wanted to be. Because it hurt too much. To be the one on the floor with the aching cheek.
I may trust too much. I may let people in too easily. Because even if it results in a punch, I know I'll survive. That there will always be a seat at a table where someone will make room for my tray. Where I can sit and look into their eyes and see we are not so different. Where I will not want to sit outside on the cement.
I'd like to thank my bully. You changed my life. For the better. Even if the hallway made me dizzy outside Shop Class. And the cement was cold against my cheek. For a moment. When everyone around you was proud. I hope you remember and wonder why. Because I did. And because of you, my tray is full. My heart is good. I will never long to belong to any table. And the most beautiful things in my life, are those that I see, as different.

The Magic of The Apple Tree

I bought the apple tree in our back yard when it was a sapling. I couldn't resist its tiny branches bobbing in the breeze at Lowes. I had wanted to find something for Don's and my anniversary, something living that didn't pee on the carpet. Something to make up for the lemon tree I gave him the year before. That I killed. So I got him the apple tree. It was just the right size to wrap in a bow. The leaves were sprite green and it would bare fruit. That we might actually eat.

We planted it in the far right corner near the fence. The following winter was unusually cold for California. Spring came, but the apple tree's leaves did not. She stood shivering like a child who had done something wrong. Summer came and went. At least in the winter she fit in with the rest of the yard.

Each day I glance out onto the yard for some benign purpose. A squirrel. The dog barked. A hummingbird flit. My eyes would routinely catch site of the tree. A skeleton of weathering limbs. Roots saturated with denial. To anyone else, it was a stunted tree to be pulled and tossed. But I couldn't do it. I had already given up on the lemon tree.

As the years passed, my back began to break down bit by bit, until it crashed, like the lemon tree. I now have a cane I use more often, a bed I rarely leave, nurses with names I know and a scooter with a basket. The people at the dog park view my lawn chair as commitment. Trader Joes hands my friend flowers when she shops for me. I have never known friendship or love as I do now. And I have redefined hope. Hope is no longer what I want to happen. It is instead a knowing that whatever it is, it may not look perfect, but I will grow because of it. For a world that used to spin, mine was suddenly still. There was no place to be. But under that apple tree. So I laid upon its shadow. It was a particularly difficult day after one of my many spine procedures and I simply wanted to be cradled by grass, like when I was a child.

The tree had grown taller, as I had grown smaller, but it never offered a leaf or a bloom. It was as though it had a secret it wasn't willing to share because we hadn't earned the right.

Then just the other day I glanced out onto the yard. For no particular reason. A bird, a rabbit, a leaf. A spritely perfect green leaf. On the tree. The apple tree. But not just a leaf. A white flower with delicate yellow beads flowering from its belly. And another. The branches were filled with leaves, with life. It is said that each flower becomes a fruit. The apple tree was full of flowers.
I could not believe my eyes. I was sure I was wrong. That maybe last year it birthed a bud. Because it couldn't be that the tree was alive. I stared in awe. Of all the years it could have bloomed, it chose now.

So I Googled the apple tree. It turned out she did carry a secret. Evidently, apples are 'self-incompatible' - you need two trees growing near each other to have successful pollination.

The apple tree wasn't dead. She was simply alone. Until I laid beside her. She shouldn't have bloomed without another of her kind. Yet she did. She now blooms when hope needed to be seen by an imperfect gal in the form of sprite green leaves and simple white flowers bursting with possibility, and you realize her season has only just begun.

The Sound of Being Heard

Have you ever done something you wonder if you'll regret later? Not that it was the wrong thing to do. But that you just didn't think through the repercussions thoroughly beforehand. It's that feeling when your chest gets tight and begins to echo an otherworldly vibration reserved for Martians entering the wrong atmosphere. That's what I did.

I live in a little world right now. My surgeries keep me pretty much confined to my bed. Being confined to a bed without handcuffs is rarely interesting. But how much trouble could one get into when it's just you, in bed, with your laptop, and the internet. Wait. Now that I think about it...

What I'm trying to say is, writing is my release, and connecting with others through meaningful reflection is my daily goal. I just sometimes forget that others are involved.

My husband didn't fall in love with a blogger. I was a single mother with two small children, blond hair extensions and large breasts. So imagine his surprise when she turned into a flat-chested,dark-haired pixie-cut blogger with a big mouth. Ok, I've always had a big mouth. On the inside. Maturity just made it more noticeable.

I think that is the difference between youth and maturity. When you're young, you're too scared to say what's on your mind. When you hit forty, the fear of not saying something important, is greater than the horror of keeping silent.

A reporter emailed me about my letter. It was almost midnight, and I emailed him back. To help clarify the letter I had blogged about lions and tigers and bears.

I should have said "no-comment". But I've never been a no-comment kind of gal. I associate that with people behind black umbrellas who had done something wrong. I am human. But wasn't the whole point of my letter about being human?

So I sit. And sweat. That somehow I may have done something that someone in a big chair may not approve. But the only apology I have is to my husband. Who never asked to fall in love with a girl, who turned into a woman, with a voice on her sleeve. And on her blog. And throughout the internet. Who inadvertently struck a vibration felt by many, who for too long, had never felt the sound of being heard. And for that I am grateful.