Kayla was the average type of girl that the average type of American male would go crazy for; a petite white girl with long, brunette hair, a striking face resembling a model, and, most importantly, big breasts. I don’t think there was any guy in AmeriCorps at the time who didn’t want to date Kayla, but Kayla already had a boyfriend back in her home state (Connecticut) and, on top of having a boyfriend in her home state, she also basically had a boyfriend in AmeriCorps (John) and another soon to be playmate, Matt. And, of course, like all pretty girls, she was a bitch. No story would be complete without the bitch. And I don’t feel sorry for saying that because just about everyone on the team called her a bitch and I always stood up for her at the time whenever they did. Until she…
My name is Hasani D. Lee and AmeriCorp*VISTA has screwed me over after serving from 1999-2001. They are working with the Department of The Treasury Financial Management Service as they trying to BULLY money from me that I never received.
They think I will STOP and give up, but I assure you! I WILL NOT!
Hey, buddy can you spare a volunteer? Nope, wait, I hear the government pays them…I’ll just order one on Amazon! I hear they are cheap, fraudulent, heavy drinkers and Po‘ rich kids…
“Hey, AmeriCorps…your roof is leaking…”
Ain’t nothing wrong with the roof. When it’s sunny it’s as good as any man’s roof…and when it rains…well, it’s just too wet to fix it!
I don’t know exactly where or when it happened. Don’t really care? Of course, I do. AA meetings have always had a Stepford feel to me. Something beaten down into our souls. So far in grained that the recourse, production and aesthics of it all are similar to a faded water-color painting.
How does one get over the hump? How do you focus on something that is the same something as the something before.
For instance, today, I went to my home group. Like the good recovering alcoholic/addict I am. I listened not intently to Jim babble about the existentialism in his recovery. Jeanie complained about her constant struggle with a higher power, even after 35 years. Suzie reread from the Came to Believe book. Re-emphasizing the same verbage we just heard. And, finally, Roy coughed, spat, picked at his nose and pulled out a nasty example of a snot rag to dispose of item once lodged in his over the top broken blood vessel nose.
Focus Ruth! That’s what I kept telling myself. Keep your eye on the ball! Don’t let up or it will all go down!
So, an hour after saying my usual assault of verbal AA redundant diarrhea and listening to others with the same affliction; I felt better. I felt good.
Dare I say what has been said before me? Keep coming back, fake it ’til you make it!
These are Ambien dosed alcoholics that are laced with an Oxy dependency. They have found volunteer work with the government. There are the spoiled middle aged men that drive horribly reproduced sport cars on inheritance bestowed upon them by Mommy and Daddy. There is of course, the twenty-something’s trying against all odds to free them selves from the trailer and it’s trash. Usually these kids look like deer stuck in headlights.
My heart goes out to anyone who has battled a bias of some sort from the day of their conception forward. The inspiration in that there is no reliance on anyone but themselves…lifts me up. I have been there. Hiding from the emotional abuse. Wanting so badly for a beating instead of the constant threat of one. Drinking myself into another dimension and passing out and coming to.
I drank on a regular basis; a half a gallon of Vodka (cheaper the better), a twelve pack of beer (cheaper the better) and would find that I had gone past the point of drunk and remained stone cold sober. A life time of blackouts and gray outs and pissing my life away with bad choices.
In these little church basements, Veteran’s Halls, Rec Rooms and seedy old abandoned by life state offices…there is and are, pamphlets, books, coins and hoards of militant looking eclectic persons. By day and by night and everyday of the week…a hand is out. I received at hand in an old gymnasium on the State Hospital grounds in New Hampshire.
Norma had been the women’s name. She had more years of sobriety than I had living on this earth. She smiled, shook my hand, offered me a burnt but wonderful cup of coffee and led me to a chair.
Since that day my drinking has never been the same. Being clean tends to put a damper on the edgy chaotic life we all strive for when overly fed on booze and ego.
To be a regular and a fixture in the halls is a privilege to which many Ambien and Annie Grace’s will never see. For the bottom has been covered over by a regular visit to dishonesty. For the rest…the twenty-something’s clinging to a hope that lived inside them on the days when Dad didn’t come home or Mom was out using? They are an testament to true strength and belief in there being plenty excuses to use but no reasons.
Sometimes I miss that feeling of falling
Falling on over the ledge
You know I miss that feeling of falling
Falling on over the ledge
And when my mind it gets to worryin’
And I just can’t get no rest
Oh Baby, that’s when I call you up instead
It’s after midnight baby, I’m sittin’ here all alone
I tried to call your number baby,
But you weren’t at home
I been a good girl baby, through with all that mess
But the way I’m feelin’ now, darlin’
Well it scares me half to death
Well I miss that feelin’, of fallin’
On over the ledge
That summer night in Texas, baby
Too hot and wet to sleep
I heard you pull up in the distance
You’re comin’ to get me relief
We went screamin’ down the highway, baby
So much faster than we should
You pulled me over in the moonlight
Man, I still can feel that hood
Well I miss that feeling of fallin’,
On over the ledge
When that rain starts baby, I want to take a real
Good look at that ledge
It ain’t something you get over
You might think you made it through
You can turn your head and walk away
But it never takes it’s eyes off you
It’ll push your foot right through the floorboard
Make you cut them streamers down his back
You waste what’s precious and you can’t afford
It runs your life right off the track
Keeps you boilin’ in that poison
Only the truly twisted know so well
You don’t need drugs to show you heaven, baby
’cause there’s plenty clean in hell
That miss that feelin’ of fallin’
Of fallin’ on over the ledge
When the blues start callin’ I want to crawl way up close to the ledge
Thoughts on Ambien not so Full of Grace:
So, languidly and apologetically, I must say something. Not all twenty-somethings are the missing link to Neanderthal woman and Attack of the Fifty foot Dumbed Down Dyed Blonde.
Not all attempt to defraud the government and profess a yearning to better the world in one false swoop of ignorant bliss.
Some pay their way through college on their dime and on their time and raise a family, sometimes with Baby Daddy, most often not.
Most do not claim indecent exposure of the plus side of life; they managed to work, volunteer, balance good with bad and cry at night once the kids are a sleep.
The handfuls of upper middle class ‘I want to be an adult…I really do!’ that live with Mum and Daddy. Rake sawdust to better the environment and pray to no higher power. These children dressed in Trazodone/Ambien disguise prey off the idea that ‘someone somewhere owes them something.’
Today there had been a beautiful woman to the likes I had never seen. She was balancing a child on one hip, scolding another child and handing out commands as though she had been running the tightest ship in the shipping business.
She gives to the local community via their needs and wants. She is proud and strong and versatile in what is given…for she and many like her know all too well what is needed.
She is a daughter to the next generation. No mother or father to pave a path of bad intentions and spoiled sexual ideation topped with gender bender idealism. AmeriCorps VISTA, FEMA, spoilers of the spoiled brats have handed down karaoke machines, sweet drinks and open mic nights to these Romney descendants. The 1% of America that her majesty should disown. There are no nude portraits. No fingers held behind the back to which the Annie/Ambien’s speak promises with forked tongue. There is a generation out there willing to pay their fair share. Pick up the mess and gluttony of my group of wanton hippies and attempt to make the grass green again.
Why is it the privilege few are marking every leg with the scent of oblivious inadequacy? The papered in money few are soiling the lot of the working class.
Again, there are your tax dollars at work.
I suppose there is nothing we can do but POP another Ambien and hop it all goes away.
What if I came at you with such loose labels as; fag, dyke, nigger, towelhead?
Where did the labels and the name calling begin? Does it sit with me, a woman deemed by many to have no soul, a romantic vulture and/or a narcissist who is in it to win it?
Has my ego became so large that what seems like a Robin Hood idealism is nothing but a poorly painted shell without a psyche? Had I given into the thought of turning the tables? Helping a baby dyke with diaper changing? Allowed for a path to be shown and to which, every Ambien volunteer could veer right or left. Was the purposeful lesson of ‘dignity for all’ an idea that started from within and, slowing given the option to be drawn upon a photographer’s lens with no right or wrong picture…
Indeed, am I politically correct to consider my own kind denouncing ME and US by their own admission of ignorance and indifference a vagrant’s vain attempt of learning through osmosis?
Had I offered the nakedness of picture taking perfect as an easy out? A simplictic yes or no answer? A fourth grader’s mechanical choice of right or wrong?
Because my spotted calf had chosen what sat behind door number one, homophobic lesbianism,on her own…she personally went about slicing the throats of all who walked a similar beat. A decision made for the sake of ‘the highest reward’ a parent’s grace.
Had all the obvious roads not taken been made more childlike, a toddler would have sat in my bed. But that was not the case.
If there is not an equation set before the dumbfounded and confused what there ever be an answer? And,, does anyone have the right to choose our rights by ignoring the hard-earned paths of others.
Philanderer, philosopher or plain old, sex fiend…I suppose that would be a tough call.
Yet, when the offer of an open door policy is erected within the rules of couple-dom, is it not the choice that makes us moral or not?
I have decided this:
To an extent to which there have been so much bullying by indifference that a Pavlov’s Dog needed to come to life.
I hung the treat in front of the young and naïve subject’s mouth and offered reward and/or punishment.
How can it be when given these options there is no right or wrong, just a simple and complete means to an end: Choosing to work legitimately as most adults do/ Opting to work without acknowledgement of tax and therefore, indeed taking food from the mouths of the poor.
AmeriCorps/VISTA/FEMA exploiting the good nature of her republic by ignoring the simple facts; partying, dancing, karaoke, free housing and 24/7 access to social media versus: volunteering without pay for the sake of volunteering without need for reward other than self fulfillment.
Opting to choose the consequences of our behavior and/or hiding behind labels and faulty advertisement and hidden surnames.
We all have choices!
Point of the matter, the lack of prayer in the classroom, the distance between war and peace, the hatred for each other that derives itself from an unknown origin, all stems from our own ability to evade the choice which maybe difficult. The ulterior motives in all of us, once laid out like a fresh turd on a hot’s summer’s day is our downfall.
The Ambien’s, the Annie‘s, the Brittany‘s and the Jeremy‘s of our nation’s newest real reality show are but simple knock offs. For it is far easier to fashion one’s self to difference than proclaim the choice ourselves