From the mind of an Hermana Coraje…

From the mind of an Hermana Coraje…

“I’m glad I cleaned the house today,” she thought in her best Lady Macbeth fashion. “Too many damn cobwebs. Out damn memories.”

She’d contemplated burning some sage but settled on removing old totems from the past as being enough. Finding the photos of “that other family” triggered this latest “limpiada,” a lesson taught by her mother.

“The best way to get rid of the past,” her Mamá Coraje once said, “is to believe it never happened at all.”

Rewriting history was a family skill so well-honed, even Orwell would blanch out of shame. For the Coraje women, lies were irradiated truths. Truths were best regarded as lies told by those who only wanted to destroy their gossamer veneer of perfection. The singular male Coraje — the son or brother  — seemed to lack the focus required. He was a man-boy with feet of clay, desperate to be liked and loved, lacking integrity and grit.

Adept at creating her own reality since youth, this particular Coraje sister didn’t even break a sweat at the effort anymore. Ignoring events, people, the color of her skin, her family’s lower-middle-class reality, it didn’t faze her in the least. She chose to dance on the jagged edge, to remain a beautiful liar en pointe. Yet, the years were now revealing their own subtle truths, manifested in her stick-thin figure and the frozen look of bitter disappointment on her face. Whatever beauty or character was erased now.

It was seeing a photo of her mother with her American-born cousins that triggered this bolt of divine inspiration as she finished cleaning. She’d send the found photos to their original owners. It would be easier to simply place them in the trash.

La basura se junta,” Mamá Coraje would say about people who had lost their use to her.

Another pair of trembling hands would soon hold the plain manila envelope she’d carefully filled with photos covering several years from what was now a different lifetime. The note? Benign in its phrasing, but packing a wallop that would reverberate beyond several area codes: “I thought you could use these.” Its simplicity was almost too perfect! Minimum effort for maximum damage, this bread & butter note written with the same intent as a “Thank you” card or a grocery list.

Would she know that sending this package would elicit feelings of anger and rage? Would she know that emptying her house of what was once treasure would be deemed callous and heartless? That the question of “Who does this?” would be muttered via texts and phone calls and several lunchtime conversations? The frozen smiles captured in these wrinkled black & whites and torn color images belied something she would never allow herself to acknowledge: her own feelings of malignant envy.

As la Hermana Coraje transported the sealed envelope to the post office, she reflected on the scorched earth demeanor of the Corajes. It was a cold feeling, cold and lonely and terrifying in its power. Was this too much? Had she gone too far? But she caught herself before any rationality or humanity could take root. Gripping the steering wheel of her sensible Japanese car, a trace of a smile revealed itself as she accelerating on the gas.

“Sick, Tired, and Scared.”

“Sick, Tired, and Scared.”

“The most important thing I want to express to people is that I’m not cured. I could probably relapse in a minute. Who knows? It’s just a weird disease that sneaks up on you and all of a sudden you’re boozing at the bar, or whatever. And it doesn’t have to be because of you or pressure or this-or-that. It just can be.

The most important thing is that I didn’t want to set myself up for failure and be like, “Look at me!” I wanted to write the book that I needed when I was suffering. ” — Kristen Johnston, actor

I won’t even try to gloss it over with a layer of shiny wit, dear readers.

I am truly sick.

My diabetes is worse than ever. My cholesterol has hit a number that even scared the staff of my doctor’s medical team.

I’ve written about this before. All of my friends have heard the tale before. I had to admit to myself that I’ve been playing Russian Roulette with my health for the better part of a year. I know I went too far. I’ve known. My insatiable thirst for sugary drinks? My getting up more than three times to urinate during a given night, having to witness a small mountain of foam in the toilet each time? The numbness on the tip of my right-hand thumb, which mirrors the nerve damage I have on my right pinkie toe? All signs of diabetes left unchecked.

Given my unpredictable mood of late, I was literally given a “time out” by my boss. I was given a day off. Another red flag, but one that motivated me to sit down for blood work at One Medical. It was time to do something. Anything. It was months overdue. I was told by the phlebotomist that I’d get my results in about a week or so.

I received this email 24 hours later.

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I’d just visited my shrink when I received Dina’s note. After the first two reads, all I could see was the words “Blindness,” “Kidney Failure,” “Heart Attacks” and “Strokes.” I felt nothing as I sat in my car in that parking lot off Wilshire Blvd. I turned the ignition, put the car in reverse, drove off the lot… and went straight to 7-11 to buy a Super Big Gulp filled with Fuze Raspberry Iced Tea for the trip home.

A new shade of anger has set in. Anger that I am in this square. Again. I am angry at myself. Again. I am sick. Sick, tired, and scared. It sounds like an ambulance chasing law firm. The office of Sick, Tired and, Scared. I can only imagine their rates.

Alan asked me earlier last week if I was looking at death as a means of avoiding dealing with a few situations in my personal life. Of course, I said, “No.” But as I write this diary entry now, I realize, some truth exists to the question he posed. Yes, I would rather be dead than have to deal with what is happening in my life at the moment. I don’t know this person I’ve become. I know the behaviors very well, but not the individual. When did fear and anxiety become my defining characteristics? How did I let myself become so afraid that I’ve immobilized myself?

When I began my career in the film industry, if doors were closed in front of me, I’d either knock them down or find another way in. I don’t do that anymore. This is beyond complacency. What I feel is a form of terror. I’d prefer leading myself to a stroke, heart attack or worse than to deal with a crisis point. That is suicide.

Friends of mine have lost loved ones this year to health issues that we are able to control. It isn’t just a question of age. We know eating better, taking a bit of exercise, and thinking healthy are the sure-fire ways to live a healthier life. Genetics only account for a portion of the reason for illnesses like diabetes and heart disease. We can get BETTER. But it takes focus and control, two things that people like me, who live with an addiction to poor food choices and insolence, struggle to engage.

This anxiety, which has only been amplified thanks to the Trumpist Age, cannot swallow me whole. I haven’t felt so alone as I do right now, even if I do live in a crowd. Taking solace in knowing just how MANY people are desperate at this moment isn’t enough anymore. But, I do know who I can trust with these feelings, even if I’ve worn out my welcome with this story. I dig my heels into the ground the minute most people offer me advice to “get better” or “smile” or “stop reading the news.” If you knew how much I love shoes, such behavior has no place in my adult life anymore. I’m not a child and being stroppy about anything in this life is beyond idiotic.

This self-destruction must end in a way that doesn’t require my mortality. I need to get my shit together. I need to start thinking healthy again. I need to at least LIKE myself again. Otherwise, this diary will live on as an obituary or a cautionary tale. Take your pick.

I will be seeing my physician this week to review the lab results and put together a medical strategy that will play a role in getting my numbers to safer levels. I am tracking my food intake on the Weight Watchers app. I am being proactive. This doesn’t resolve the bigger issue that is a key reason why I’ve lost control, though. I’ll begin with this first truth, this first salvo in positive thinking:

It isn’t betrayal, my wanting to tell the people close to me, that I want to change my life before this situation kills me.

Act II

Act II

Being a child of the 80s, the message of having it all seemed so easy to process. You went to school. You received a degree. You landed that dream job. Life was set. Easy peasy. Right?

Sort of?

I went to three schools, no degree. I did land a dream job, several. Life has been rather complicated thanks to my lack of financial restraint and other demons I have yet to truly conquer. But I’m trying, dammit. I’m trying.

I made a comment to my boss about making it only to “the middle.” Of course, he was annoyed that I am inferring that all of my hard work as a producer since 1999 only carried me as far as his company. That’s not why I meant. Not in the least. I’ve never felt more creative or expressed myself as well as I do as an interviewer these days. Hell, I tend to get a hug after every interview these days. Even from the men.

So what the fuck? Why do I feel like the sky is falling every damn day?

I’m single. Who isn’t?

I’m fat. Who isn’t?

My dad is dying.

Is it too late to change careers? Am I lying to myself thinking I can set up shop at the Vogue offices of London or Mexico City?

Can I go back to school and finish that damned degree once and for all?

My dad is dying.

And no one in my family has been able to think about life after Dad yet. Not even me, but the task is something I am grappling with now. I have questions, too. Is it going to feel like a house of bricks crashing all over us? Will it be followed by a sense of relief? Will it be followed by the sound of siblings running to the four corners of the world? Will we finally be able to be civil with each other and not let our toxicity spoil the soup? Is it all too late for that to happen?

I hear their not so hidden anger in the constant stream of critiques and judgments that dominate our dinner table. I sit and marvel these days, thinking, “These are the people that have my back?” Still, how can we shield ourselves from any sort of attacks when most are happening from within our own house? Dad wouldn’t want to see us this way. Mom doesn’t like it either, but she’s ground zero at times.

Our entire narrative has been penned with our Dad as the central figure. We do our duty, giving Mom a much-needed break where we can. Yet, how is it possible that I feel guilty for not wanting to be around any of them, that I am kind of hanging on to a thread of sanity right now. I should go back into therapy, something to diffuse the atom bomb that I carry in my brain right now. I am eating to stay silent, but I feel my body is in full revolt right now. It is literally slowing down. Every move, every reaction, it’s life in forced perspective.

And that’s not supposed to be the Mexican way. Oh no, we’re supposed to that warm, united front of good humor and great food. Allow me to dispel that concept. It is total BULLSHIT. You had to be that group when the family lived in the hacienda, where great swaths of land dividing us from other families and communities. You know what makes the Mexican family survive? A lot of us drink and eat… to forget the lives we can’t seem to leave. While it feels great to see that sentence, yes, it is followed by a strong wave of guilt.

I think about putting such distance between me and my LA life a lot now. It seems like I want to pioneer a life that doesn’t require facing the past or a present that only makes me wince.

So, what’s going to be the narrative of my Act II? It starts when the lead character, Me, reaches out for help. That’s what I am doing, reaching out for help and guidance. I can’t do this alone. No one can. The time does arrive when you have to release the side of yourself that stops you from harming yourself and others in the wake of the blast of an emotional bomb.

It’s here.

 

The Adventures of Dad, Jorgito, and the Golden King Tut Ticket of 1978

The Adventures of Dad, Jorgito, and the Golden King Tut Ticket of 1978

If you know my family, you’ve probably heard the tale of “The Adventures of Dad, Jorgito, and the Golden King Tut Ticket of 1978.” It remains one of our favorite stories to tell because it has everything, laughter, drama, realizations about a child’s true nature, and mummies. It makes sense that it includes mummies since most Latino families pretty much embalm all sorts of moments they can drag out from its tomb now and again. It usually happens at a family gathering, especially during the holidays.

But I digress.  First, a little context to the Tut connection.

From 1976 to 1979, the treasures found in King Tutankhamen’s tomb toured seven U. S. cities, including Los Angeles. The exhibition was a wild success, to put it mildly. “King Tut Mania” was the only pyramid scheme destined not to bankrupt the regular folk. It was as if a Cecil B. DeMille film had come to vivid life, seeing these treasures. The mystery, the glamour, the history! All of it on display and separated by glass. Angelenos lost their proverbial shit when it arrived at the L.A. County Museum of Art. About eight million Americans made the trek nationally to the “Treasures of Tutankhamen” when it hit their chosen cities. However, more than one million visitors were tallied in Los Angeles alone. (You know how Latinos love their gold!) And, I represented two of said entries at LACMA. Reasons exist as to why.

Dad was already caught up in the fervor. A factory next to his was manufacturing swag to cash in on “King Tut Mania.” He’d bring home such replicated artifacts as Tut’s funeral mask, a small statue of the goddess Isis encased in a lucite pyramid. Yes, these were factory rejects, but so what? It was so rare to see Dad get excited by such things, but his being a pragmatic man meant that he was obsessed with science and history. He loved truth and facts versus the fantasy of the abstract represented by fiction.

Tickets were sold out for the LA exhibition, but Dad was so proud when I was chosen to be one of the fifth graders from South Ranchito Elementary to visit with the Egyptian boy king at LACMA. It meant something to him that one of his family members could bear witness to this glorious exhibition of rarely-seen history.

A few weeks later, as the exhibition prepared its departure, Dad had this wild notion of heading down to LACMA to see if we swing two tickets. As he always stated, “The worse they can tell you is ‘No.'” So, we jumped into our aqua blue VW Beetle and made our way down Wilshire Blvd.

Mind you, Dad first sent me by myself to the box office to see if any cancellations were available. He waited in the car and I bolted up the steps to the museum entry. (I don’t think any parent would do that today. I was 10-years-old and Wilshire Blvd. was still a muy busy thoroughfare then.) Unfortunately, my this first inquiry did result in a “No” that held until I got back to the curb where I was to wait for Dad as he made a turn around the block.

As I kept a vigilant eye for Dad, I felt someone tap my shoulder. I looked up with nary a look of surprise to gaze at a handsomely dressed woman. She smiled this congenial smile and asked, “Are you trying to get tickets for Tut.” This wasn’t a “Stranger Danger” moment as she looked like she’d been to Bullocks Wilshire and that mattered to me then. Haha. I think I said something like, “Yes, ma’am. But there aren’t any tickets.” She then reached into her pocketbook and pulled out one of those Golden King Tut tickets from her pocketbook.

You could almost hear an angelic choir at that moment. I went’ from a “No” to a shocking “Yes!” Fortune really favors the child left alone on a busy street, dammit!

“My friend isn’t able to make it, so why don’t you take it,” she said.

I wish I remembered more of that exchange because all I know is after saying “Thank you, ma’am!” I took a good look at that ticket just as Dad pulled up to the curb. I do remember that I was too excited to enunciate, “Dad! I got a ticket. Look!” Dad smiled this huge smile.

Then I said, “I’ll be right back. I’m going back in!” And boom, I was off!

Oh, how my family and I discussed the selfishness. The lack of awareness. The utter glory of my young self-absorption! For years!  Reflecting on that moment now, I know my Dad would have never left me in the car while he walked through the exhibition… again. Although, he did leave me to my own devices at the ticket office. Whatever. The important thing was for me to say, “Dad. Here’s the ticket.” For him to decline it would be a lesson in how we sacrifice our own needs and feelings. (Orale, Latinos católicos! Guilt starts early!) Haha.

Well, it is kind of true.

I do remember Dad’s dejected look as I turned and walked away. When we got home, I remember the silence in the car. I knew I hurt him a little. Once home,  I also remember hearing Mom and Dad talk about my brazen nature, my incredible luck, and my brazen nature again. It was followed by laughter, but I knew I disappointed them. Hell, I’d live to disappoint them again and again, but this episode remains my favorite since it carries a better layer of charm and innocence.

In the end, we both did get our chance to share the Tut experience in 2005 when “Tutankhamun and the Golden Age of the Pharaohs” made its appearance at LACMA. This time, the entire family made the trek to Wilshire Blvd. Of course, that adventure is marked by Mom saying, “Hmmm. This looks smaller than the exhibition your father and I saw in Cairo. You know, in Egypt.”  (Hahaha. Yes, we’re THAT family.)

In the end, my globe-trotting parents did venture to the land of Pharaohs to get a singular view, first hand, to the wonders of Tut and more. As much as I envy them, I am also proud of my parents, who took their vacations in places far and further away. They were our first guides, showing us the way to see the world as a source of adventure. We were meant to leave our backyards to see what doesn’t have to exist in a museum brochure. As a result, we’ve created our brand of history, too, and I love that.

It’s wonderful to see our family history repeating itself as Tut has returned to LA yet again. It’s been 100 years since Tut’s tomb was discovered, thus the largest exhibition of artifacts ever will be touring the world to honor the occasion, perhaps the last time they will ever be seen outside of Cairo. Los Angeles was selected to host the world premiere of “King Tut: Treasures of the Golden Pharoah” at the California Science Center. Of course, my family and I made the journey yet again and yes, the day is sold out. However, due to Dad’s current health issues, he won’t be able to make the trek to the California Science Center with us. Mom and Neto were also down for the count due to having colds.

My family and I know we don’t need a reason to celebrate the 40th anniversary of “The Adventures of Dad, Jorgito, and the Golden King Tut Ticket of 1978.” It is a bummer to note that glorious golden mask can no longer leave its home in Egypt. It just means our spirit of adventure will take us to the heart of the Nile, see the pyramids, and give them our best from our parents who stood there in awe and joy so many years ago.

This is such a powerful full circle moment nonetheless, one I will share with Poppadoodles when we return from our visit with El Rey Tut. I am reluctant to write more now as I feel tears building up. I have so much more to say to Dad from “Remember when?” to “Thank you” to “You were so right!” That’s a conversation that has to happen sooner than later and time is no longer on our side, I’m afraid.

As my family and I take in these treasures anew, I can’t help be reminded of the beauty of history.  Wherever these essays may rest long after I’m gone, I hope people will appreciate the love and respect that remain the hallmark of my Dad, as a parent and a human being. What I hope is also unearthed years from now is that our history as father and son, and as the Carreon Family as a whole, was a precious one indeed.

 

 

The Rise of Generation Mad As Hell

The Rise of Generation Mad As Hell

It is the Monday after the March for Our Lives and our young people have staked their position in history. Between 800,000 and a million people made their way to Washington, D.C. and more than 800 sibling marches were staged across this nation in support. From the heart of downtown Los Angeles, I saw and heard these youth leaders from all walks of life speak with the temperature of passion that only happens on a mountaintop. They are no longer living in the shadow of MLK’s dream, rather, their very DNA has been imbued with its power. And, like the student movements of the 1960s and 1970s in this country, they are taking destiny and change into their own hands.

Our children, tired of being mowed down over and over again in our schools, first by rampaging white gunmen then by the privileged white men & women of public office who dare to diminish their intent or anger, took to the streets on March 24 to send a simple yet complex statement to our leaders and the world:

Enough.

So, how did some leaders respond?

“I respect their views and recognize that many Americans support certain gun bans… However, many other Americans do not support a gun ban. They too want to prevent mass shootings, but view banning guns as an infringement on the Second Amendment rights of law abiding citizens that ultimately will not prevent these tragedies.” — Senator Marco Rubio, R-Fla.

or

“How about kids instead of looking to someone else to solve their problem, do something about maybe taking CPR classes or trying to deal with situations that when there is a violent shooter that you can actually respond to that.” — CNN commentator and former Pennsylvania GOP Sen. Rick Santorum.

Yeah. Good luck with that, Messers. Rubio and Santorum. Let’s see you walk up to the many families you and your party would like to see thrown out of this country, or rendered ill, or murdered by your lack of empathy and concern. Let’s see if your return to “core values doesn’t keep the body count rising.

SMU.

Since the ascent of Donald J. Trump to the American presidency, sectors of the media have done well in rebranding themselves as purveyors of a Cheeto orange-colored hell that makes me like I’m in the Garden Club scene in the original “Manchurian Candidate.” Interviews with porn stars or Playboy models were teased with TV spots and other spoils of hyperbole, the whorehouse effect of catering to the lowest common denominator have overridden the sanity mainframe. At least for the grown-ups and it appears to be affecting our children are following suit.

It is not surprising that the circus of distraction rolled back in town with the Stormy Daniels interview with Anderson Cooper on “60 Minutes” the same weekend as the March for Our Lives. Of course, the landmark series earned its BIGGEST ratings in a decade. Honestly, no offense Ms. Daniels, but you’re part of the problem, too. And as much as I do think 45’s titanic ego deserves to be sunk, shame on us for making your story obfuscate the bigger news and issues at play here.

It was on February 14th when 19-year-old Nikolas Cruz felt the need to commit a domestic terrorist act by murdering 17 people at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. It may not offer consolation to the dead and their families, but an angrier beast than the intolerant rage that motivated Cruz to infamy has awakened in our nation’s youth. They are gaining strength and are committed to fighting in the name of those who were brought down in cold blood by cowards juiced up on arrogance and bullshit Trumpism dogma.  I know I am not alone in thinking about one seminal moment in film history at this moment.

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In 1976, writer Paddy Chayefsky unfurled what may be the greatest wake-up call of the 20th century. Imagine being in the audience at the local cinema watching “Network” when the great British actor Peter Finch stared down the camera as Howard Beale, an elder statesman journalist who has just been fired for poor ratings. Radiating with the exquisite clarity gained by either divine intervention or insanity, Beale addresses what is to be his final audience with the following speech, a true Jeremiah for the ages:

Program Director: Take 2, cue Howard.

Beale: I don’t have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It’s a depression. Everybody’s out of work or scared of losing their job. The dollar buys a nickel’s worth; banks are going bust; shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter; punks are running wild in the street, and there’s nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do, and there’s no end to it.

We know the air is unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat. And we sit watching our TVs while some local newscaster tells us that today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes as if that’s the way it’s supposed to be!

We all know things are bad — worse than bad — they’re crazy.

It’s like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don’t go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we’re living in is getting smaller, and all we say is, “Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials, and I won’t say anything. Just leave us alone.”

Well, I’m not going to leave you alone.

I want you to get mad!

I don’t want you to protest. I don’t want you to riot. I don’t want you to write to your Congressman because I wouldn’t know what to tell you to write. I don’t know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street.

All I know is that first, you’ve got to get mad.

You’ve gotta say, “I’m a human being, goddammit! My life has value!”

So, I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window, open it, and stick your head out and yell:

I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!

Earlier in the film, network programming executive Diana Christensen (portrayed by Faye Dunaway), makes this pronouncement:

“The American people are turning sullen. They’ve been clobbered on all sides by Vietnam, Watergate, the inflation, the depression; they’ve turned off, shot up, and they’ve fucked themselves limp, and nothing helps.” So, this concept analysis report concludes, “The American people want somebody to articulate their rage for them.”

It takes very little to make either of these monologues relevant today. The American people are sullen, but they aren’t keeping their rage in check. They’ve allowed it spill out of their beers and cheap wine with ice, dousing innocents with their own special brand of hate. The American people are have turned into Cheeto-colored assholes.

Was having a black president for eight THAT bad? Now we’re being clobbered on all sides by the NRA, Russiagate, rising costs, being depressed; we’ve turned on virtual reality with handheld devices, swiping away our dignity in the process. We’ve Netflix and chilled ourselves limp, and nothing helps. We are using guns, homemade bombs, the Internet, and social media, all parried by the biggest bunch of instigators who want to see us kill each other so they can reap the benefits — financial and political — of a smaller, whiter pack of beasts.

Yes, we do need someone to articulate our rage. Yet, it is our American youth that took it upon themselves to make it happen in a way that is proactive and a benefit to us all. I am ashamed of the adult leaders who scoff at these students, particularly Emma González, who boldly called “BS” on these leaders for their lack of mobilization, leadership, and humanity. Behold GENERATION MAD AS HELL And don’t begrudge them a damn thing!

Perhaps too many of us still feel America is not THAT bad. No amount of self-loathing can wipe away the ever-growing stockpile of sins of 45, the Alt-Right and, especially, the GOP. They’ve been meme’d, shared, gif’d and archived only to be brought back each time our nation reaches a crisis moment. Generation Mad As Hell is not allowing false piety, gender or cisgender hate, keep its hammerlock of keeping the rest of the country divided and afraid.  They are repurposing these weapons of mass distractions to illuminate their way to a better future. We cannot deny them that. We are also part of that future. The Kids are going to do what we’ve failed to accomplish: turn the tide and restore sanity and a greatness represented by ALL Americans, not the ones deemed worthy by a sociopath president incapable of hiding his contempt in the name of “greatness.”

It is believed strength can be achieved numbers. Generation Mad As Hell can’t do this alone. It is our obligation to stand with them, to share what we’ve seen in the past so they don’t make the same tactical errors like allowing complacency to take root once the cameras or Tweets go away.

This fight for our lives won’t be resolved with a single march or the mid-term elections in November. The Trumpian Age is not the way its supposed to be. We are human beings! Our lives have value! Generation Mad As Hell is here and we all do not need to take this bullshit anymore.

As Tony Kushner wrote in his landmark play “Angels in America,” “Greetings, Prophet. The great work begins! The messenger has arrived.

The message is clear: “Enough.”

#guncontrolNOW #stasndwiththekids

#network #howardbeale #theyreyellinginbatonrouge

#beawarrior #resist

Are we all turning into Trump?

Are we all turning into Trump?

“Whoever has provoked men to rage against him has always gained a party in his favor, too.” — Friedrich Nietzsche

“People who fly into a rage always make a bad landing.” —  Will Rogers

I’ve gone from labeling 2017 as a “dumpster fire” to a “Trumpster Fire” instead. And it shows no signs of abatement in 2018.

The cruel ineptitude of the Trump Administration and the monster that functions, barely, as our president, has revealed we possess no real limit as to the amount of rage we contain as a public today. It’s permeated even the banalest of conversations between friends or strangers anywhere in the world. It clogs our social media feeds. It can be seen out in the world as people unleash unholy hell in viral videos captured on planes, local markets or city streets. We race through red lights in complete disregard of the consequence of a car crash.

We yell out our frustrations to ourselves or each other. Many of us take to the social media sites to commiserate, castigate, or simply troll others with this remixed brand of hatred.

No more.

Rock icon David Byrne of the Talking Heads wrote:

“Facts are simple and facts are straight.
Facts are lazy and facts are late.
Facts all come with points of view.
Facts don’t do what I want them to.
Facts just twist the truth around.
Facts are living turned inside out.”

But we aren’t patient or even interested enough in any of the facts anymore. We Tweet, we react, we pass judgments that only stoke the fires of a pitchfork mob. We turn “fake news” into a rallying cry. We turn lies into truths. We let pundits twist facts around like our favorite licorice candy, chew, spit, or shit it out into oblivion. And we pat or stab ourselves in the back with validation for being a “good American.”

I fear we are all turning into a version of Trump now, whatever our sensibilities, affiliations or political beliefs.

I don’t look good in orange. No one does.

We are a society being corralled into dark spaces by bots unleashed, all paid by the highest bidders so we can exterminate ourselves. And personally, I’d rather limit my interaction with trolls to the ones played by Anna Kendrick and Justin Timberlake in that animated film.

What really scares me is my growing intolerance for white privilege, for people who consider racism, homophobia, misogyny, and xenophobia as a return to “core values.” Hijabs are a beautiful, cultural tradition, not the headwear of terrorists, no matter what the media whores of oligarchs like Alex Jones, Tomi Lahren, Jeanine Pirro, and Sean Hannity love to scream out loud as if they’re having an orgasm of rancid ideology. No, American-born white terrorists wear Ralph Lauren Polo shirts, buy their guns at Wal-Mart, and blame anyone and everyone who is not like them for the selfish woes. They extol the virtues of being white as if it was blackwashed by eight years of the Obamas, but really, it is just an excuse to be racist, ignorant, and selfish assholes who are seeing their own decline in real time.

We have nowhere to go but up, but love is our new four-letter word. It refuses to penetrate those who are holding on to our shitty past before civil rights like a wino holding on to a cheap vintage. I don’t want to be angry anymore. I know many people don’t either. But too many of us continue to congregate around a water cooler of rage, particularly in sites like Facebook.

Trumpists, the ones with the money, of course, want the remaining parts of America to stay fat, stupid, lazy, sick, old, and ultimately dead. And they’ll charge us along the way. Remember that the next time you feel the need to turn orange about how shitty your life was under Obama.

Remember, orange doesn’t look good on anyone unless they’re the devil himself.

 

 

 

 

Remember Me: Latinos and Alzheimer’s

Remember Me: Latinos and Alzheimer’s

I’ve come to discover that a visit to the doctor with an Alzheimer’s patient is a mini-documentary in itself.  I’ve only been to the emergency room with my Dad one time. The bulk of these responsibilities have been with my mom and siblings. It does feel weird to say I was glad I was able to be there for Dad that weekend. It meant not completing interviews at a junket, but he had fallen and hit his head. The urgency in my Mom’s voice was enough of a motivator.

The entire time we were together, I found moments to hold his hand. I modulated my voice to be the sound of reassurance as nurses checked his vitals and, especially when he had a CT scan. That machine was loud and scary enough for us both. In between was a round-robin of the same questions in Spanish, “Where’s Mom? and “How far are we from home?” He rarely if ever speaks to me in English. I loved witnessing his gallantry with his sincere “Thank you’s” as we went from urgent care to the hospital. Funny, he never asked, “Who are you?” I consider that a small blessing and miracle.

In the end, Dad was pronounced healthy and fine. No damage, although the doctor did find evidence of a previous fall that had healed.

A year and a half later, Dad’s visits of late have been a little more challenging. After a struggling with pneumonia in early January of this year, the effects have taken on the dynamics of a luge run during the Olympics. As of late March:

He’s still fighting pneumonia.

He’s having trouble walking.

He may or may not have new spots on his lungs.

His pancreas is swollen.

He is having physical therapy, but he still reluctant to stand tall because it hurts.

He is silent for long stretches.

He sleeps a lot more.

He is a bit more irascible.

He needs a haircut.

He doesn’t want to eat, choosing instead to spit his food out.

He struggles to swallow.

He’s lost seven pounds.

He weighs around 122 lbs.

*He thinks he’s 32 years of age.

*That means my mom is a cougar!

It is comforting to know we aren’t the only family trying to balance all of the emotions and realities of having a parent with Alzheimer’s or dementia. Maintaining a sense of normalcy is our priority. Yes, he lacks control of his bodily functions. He is still Dad in whatever state or phase of the disease he endures. This isn’t the time to mourn him yet.

However, that doesn’t mean frustration is non-existent. I bristle every time I hear my Mom or sibling raise their voice to him. I know what it masks and it isn’t denial. We are adults with ailing parents. The narrative that awaits us all is already scripted. As my mother said to me recently, “I just want to make sure he’s comfortable.”

Oh, and don’t pat Dad’s tummy. He will slap your hand away.

That’s all we can do. That’s all any of us can do. Now, what can you do if you find yourself in a similar situation? Unlike previous generations, we have so many more resources to understand Alzheimer’s and its effects. It is important to be informed and proactive in keeping our loved ones healthy and safe.

According to the Alzheimer’s Association’s website, Latinos are “1.5 more times more likely to develop Alzheimer’s disease than whites. Now, we may be living longer, but too many of us are still succumbing to health risks like diabetes, high blood pressure, and high cholesterol, which may all be triggers for Alzheimer’s and stroke-related dementia.

Let that sink in for a moment.

Part of the Latino culture is the propensity to say, “No pasa nada” when it comes to “serious” matters as personal issues like our health. Is it a sense of shame of having things be imperfect in our family? Is it the fear of appearing weak? Is it ordinary pride or vanity? Maybe it is all the above.

My father, who was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes years before developing Alzheimer’s, owes his extended lifespan because of my mother’s tireless efforts. The woman mobilized into action like Diana Prince and she made a point to include my siblings and me in the process. Mom was prepared in terms of the many questions she asked of his doctors, My younger brother took over the research. My older sister discussed support groups. My younger sister became a caregiver, too. As we now know,  two or more lift, feed, carry, wheel, and, fight better than one.

Mom changed the way he ate, removing the foods that were the cause of his diabetes and her high blood pressure. The result? He is now 93 and it wasn’t until this year that the effects of some fantastic medications that slowed down Alzheimer’s to give him 14 more years of quality life. My family did its part to understand this disease, benefiting him and all of us. We have no regrets here. None. 

Latinos remain the fasting growing population in this country. Yet, we may see as many as 1.3 million of our people afflicted by Alzheimer’s by 2050. That’s too many. I encourage you all to study, learn, pay attention to all of the signs that could indicate the illnesses that can lead to being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s or enduring stroke-related dementia. Be part of the fight. Be part of finding the cure. Remember everything you can for them. It is what keeps our loved ones on this mortal space.

I made a promise to my Dad to remember it all, his journey and ours, for him. And to provide others with a view from within this difficult space. Until a cure is found, more families will be affected by its ravaging effects. No one should feel alone or without recourse! Resources do exist to help and answer the myriad of questions as to how to better control this disease. Be informed!

I have written before that Dad was the keeper of our family lore. To be able to write down these chapters is an honor and privilege. And when the time is right, I will read them to him. I think he’ll approve.

#rememberme @alzgla @alzassociation

IG: @i_am_jorge_carreon

http://www.iamjorgecarreon.com