The Post I've Waited Eighteen Months to Write

Over the last eighteen months I've started a dozen posts about my divorce, only to delete them. I wanted to wait until there was no shred of resentment, no hint of blame, no whiff of judgment or my personal specialty--sarcasm.

Today I can say simply that the relationship didn't work for either of us. He's happier now, and so am I. Our kids have relaxed into knowing they still have two parents who love them.

Now, instead of the divorce, I want to write about the gifts I've received during the last eighteen months, about what I've learned so far in this incredible awakening to my own good life.

Letting Go  Changes Everything.

Near the end, fighting panic at the idea of splitting up my family and becoming a single mom, I got on my knees and gave the whole mess to God. For the first time in our twenty-year rocky relationship, I was willing to let go if the Universe deemed it so.

Two days later it was over.

I bawled my eyes out the first day, wandered around like an insomniac zombie the next. Two days after that, I felt a peace and lightness I hadn't felt my entire adult life.

As it does with all endings, anger and hurt and resentment would rush back into the void in the coming weeks. But there was a rightness to letting go that never left, even when fear had me breathless. I remember that golden afternoon early on when I lay on my bed, dizzy from crying and lack of sleep, and let the Universe take over. There was a rush of understanding that forces beyond my comprehension had brought me to this planet and given me this Jennifer-shaped space to inhabit, that I was just an ordinary human, yet infinitely valuable--even if no-one knew I existed.

Having been in one relationship or another since age sixteen, I'd never accepted my wholeness. Now I have (or have made a good beginning), and it's wonderful. For the first time in my fifty-plus years, I'm happy to be just me.

Letting go made that possible. And I'm grateful.

It's Not Personal

What other people do, say, and believe is about them. What I do, say, and believe is about me--always. When I get angry--and I do--my anger points to an area of my life (often an old coping skill) that's begging for my attention.

I have no right to judge another's actions (how the hell do I know what anyone needs?) but I have the absolute responsibility to decide how I will respond. My peace is up to me. Always.

There's freedom in that, and I'm grateful.

The Universe Gives Me What I Need, Not What I Want

I was asleep in my life. Now I'm acutely--sometimes painfully--awake. But there's still a strong pull for the old ways; to lure a warm and needful someone who'll wrap his arms around me and whisper that I'm beautiful and that he has what I want; to bury my head in his chest and lull myself back into the love-drunk haze of forgetting who I am and what I'm made for.

Being newly-awake in your life is like walking around without skin. The slightest brush feels like a third-degree burn. New thoughts, realizations, and understandings sink in so fast you wonder if you're ever going to process them all. It's a strange season. I'm awkward as a teenager, bumbling around making rookie mistakes, apologizing. My friends--who've patiently listened while I blather about all the new stuff I'm figuring out--are probably as anxious as I am for this season to end.

Wonder who I'll be when it's finished?

I have a long history of fitting myself to the needs of another, of carving away pieces of my soul so I don't take up too much space. But a bell can't be unrung. When the invitation comes to dance the old, familiar steps, there's a new disquiet alongside the familiar pull. I can choose the old way for a time, but I can't fool myself into believing it's good for me.

Now I pay attention to the sensations in my body, how my heart literally aches when I use my old coping mechanisms to chase what I think I want. But when I let go of wanting and reach a radical acceptance of All That Is, peace takes its place.

With each deep exhale, I'm stronger. And for that, I'm grateful.

Eighteen months ago I'd have told you a very different story about my divorce. Today I can tell you being single--and learning to be well and whole on my own--is a huge gift. The biggest gift since my children and my sobriety. I wouldn't go back even if I could.

Life isn't always easy, but my life now is very good...and for that, I'm grateful.


Cheers,

-T



Review of Rhenna Morgan's WHAT JANIE WANTS

As a Noir writer/reader, I rarely hit the romance shelves. But my good friend and plotting partner Rhenna Morgan has a new contemporary romance out, and boy is it a doozy!

Here's the review I posted on GoodReads:

What Janie Wants by Rhenna Morgan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

A perfect hot romance for the beach or by the pool! Loved both characters (though Rhenna's guys are always my favorites--alpha males with just the right amount of emotional intelligence.)

When Janie McAlister checks into a secluded resort in the lush Riviera Maya, she expects a quiet week to rest, hide, and heal her wounded psyche after a devastating divorce.

What she doesn't expect is a clothing-optional beach. Or meeting a gorgeous young man with an old soul.

But Zade Painel isn't your average guy. And when he comes to his uncle's resort after the sale of his business went wrong, he has some things to work out, too. First, though, he wants to know more about the stunning redhead who accidentally decked him in the lobby.

From the start, their attraction seems genuine. Yes, there's an age difference. But Zade isn't worried about it. And through his wiser-than-his-years observations, Janie learns to relax. More than relax. She learns to take a deep breath, open her arms to life's possibilities, and maybe for the first time ever, ask for what she wants.

This is a quick, fun read (with OMG hot sex scenes). But there's wisdom here, too. And genuine emotions that come from experience. If you like contemporary romances with a spicy-to-hot rating, I highly recommend WHAT JANIE WANTS


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Does Your Life Have A Soundtrack?

Mine does.

Songs from the seventies remind me of being a socially awkward kid in our California suburb--a fish-out-of-water (or country girl stuck in the city.) I hear The Hollies or Electric Light Orchestra or old Fleetwood Mac and think about my cool older sister (and her boyfriend), who always knew what to say and how to make people laugh.

Play Journey or Styxx or Kansas and I think about my teenage years, about my own boyfriends and the angst-ridden (and mistake-plagued) years between fifteen and nineteen.

There's a strange gap between nineteen and twenty-nine, almost as though my internal music stopped.
Could've been the drinking, I suppose. Or being married for the wrong reasons.

But at twenty-nine both of those situations changed, and I heard the music again: Alanis Morrissette, Melissa Etheridge, Jewel.

When I hear Natalie Merchant, I think about getting married again, and about holding my newborn babies and crying because I loved them so much it hurt.

In the mid-2000's, music became a symbol of my rebirth as a whole person, separate from my identity as a wife/mother/veterinarian. I picked up the guitar again after thirty years, gave myself the gift of once-weekly lessons, learned to sing (sort of), and even performed a few times.

I still play and sing (mostly for myself.) But one of my favorite things now is mining for odd or underplayed music that captures the mood of whatever story I'm writing. Right now I'm working on a mystery where San Diego homicide detective Samantha Benning is taunted by a serial rapist who claims to know what happened to Sam's missing sister. As you might guess, the tone is pretty dark.

Here's a partial playlist:

Pearl Jam--Indifference

Rolling Stones--Gimme Shelter  (Not exactly B-side, but great shit-hits-the-fan music)

Led Zeppelin--Kashmir 

Pearl Jam--Footsteps

Pearl Jam--Of the Girl

Bush--Machinehead

Grace Potter and The Nocturnals--Nothing But the Water (get ready to be blown away!)

I'm sure your life has a soundtrack, too. What's on your playlist?

-T

The Post Where I Get Taken To The Woodshed

I adore writers.

I grew up being the weirdest person in the room--the geek, brainiac, live-eat-and-breathe-whatever-story-I'm-reading freako with sub-optimal social skills and near-unibrow (at least until seventh grade.) I was the kid with the too-big vocabulary, the introvert who worked in the library, who read on the bus (and in class, and on the playground) so much she got teased.

My first love was horses. My second love was reading about horses.

Becoming an equine veterinarian was the next natural step, and I loved it, too. But in my second decade of practice, amid the daily grind of owning a small business, I began feeling as though I'd lost touch with an essential part of myself--the daydreamer, the wonderfully weird, creative child who made up stories to amuse herself.

I started writing in my spare time--and soon found I'd rather write than do my 'real job.' A few years later I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and jumped.

And discovered my tribe.

Fiction writers come in every flavor, shape, size, and disposition. The books we write are just as diverse. But we all share a love of story, of escaping into a made-up reality and seeing that world through the eyes of someone other than ourselves.

It's cool to find people who share your interests. But it's REALLY cool to walk into a room and realize you're not the weirdest person there.

Fellow Tulsa writer Susan Spess Shay was kind enough to drop by this week with questions about where and how I write. Her blog is called Small Town World, and it's a great place to visit.

I can heartily vouch for her weirdness. ;-)


-T

You Gotta Be Kidding Me...

Novelist Colleen McCullough died this week. I was a pre-teen when THE THORN BIRDS came out, and I remember being captivated, carried on a romantic tide by the stunning lead character and the priest she loved. When it came time, years later, to pick out the color for my prom dress I chose ashes-of-roses. (If you've read the book, you know why.)

I have no idea whether her writing would appeal to me now, or whether she'll have the literary longevity of, say, Virginia Woolf. But I do know she sold 30 million books.

Thirty. Million. Books.

And The Thorn Birds television production still ranks as the second-highest rated miniseries of all time. Whatever you think of the writing, the subject, or the genre, you have to give Ms. McCullough credit for building an amazing career.

And when she dies, you'd think that career would be the focus of the first paragraph of her obituary.

Instead, the Australian reporter said this: "Plain of feature, and certainly overweight, she was nevertheless a woman of wit and warmth."

Great. But what was she wearing when she died? Could she cook? Was she married?

If, like me, crap like this makes you want to curse/roll-your-eyes/buy another black pantsuit, you're not alone. Twitter had a little fun with the writer, matching the obituary's absurdity with its own, using the hashtag #MyOzObituary. Media outlets finally noticed--and called bullshit.

 Acclaimed Novelist Gets Sexist Obituary

They say the first step is recognizing you have a problem.

We have a long history of focusing on women's looks, of judging their worth through their roles as wives and mothers. But men have families, too. My husband cooks better than I do. He fills out his jeans quite nicely, has an engaging smile, and is handy with a wrench--or a vacuum. And when our kids were babies, he probably changed as many diapers as I did. Yet, strangely, those attributes aren't listed on his curriculum vitae.

Fifty years from now, I doubt they'll be on his obituary, either.

Here's to taking the first step.


Cheers,

-T

Friday Art Break

How to make any job fun: Use your imagination!

Screenshot courtesy of CNet

Kansas cattle farmer Derek Klingenberg decided to spice up his daily cow-feeding routine by hooking a camera to a drone and using...shall we say, strategic feed placement...to create this unique living sculpture.

Well played, Farmer Derek. Well played.

Here's the entire video: Farmer Creates Art Using A Drone...and Cows


Happy Friday!

-T

The Day I Became A Racist

I grew up in California in the '70's, immersed in the culture of new-age awareness and the struggle for equality for all people. It was in our liberal church I first heard the word Apartheid, and though our congregation was more homogeneously white than the milk now chilling in my fridge, we joined in the movement to boycott South Africa's government-sanctioned oppression of people of color.

My staunch Republican parents welcomed black South African singers into our home, invited an Iranian student to live in our guest room (even as relations between our countries had begun to sour) and hosted two Japanese exchange students. One of my dad's most treasured friends was a fellow from Peru.

We had a couple of black kids in our fifth-grade class, and in when it was time to brag about who you were 'going with,' the boy with the big Afro topped the list. (His dad drove a Pantera, for God's sake.)

As a kid, I knew skin color had nothing to do with a person's worth. As an adult, I believe that more strongly than ever.

And I'm also painfully aware I hold an unconscious bias regarding people who look different than me.

I discovered my hidden racism on Friday, September 2, 2005--three days after Hurricane Katrina made landfall in New Orleans.

Oily black flood waters had cut off the city, and the news crews who made it in could only film the destruction, misery, and hopelessness. I'd spent two days listening to the radio or glued to the tube, furious at public officials for failing to plan for the worst. Reports came in of nursing home residents abandoned by their caretakers, hospitals left in rain-soaked darkness, and families stranded on their roofs in the summer heat, going days without fresh water.

Every time a news crew would interview the citizens of the predominantly black city, I'd think, "Someone should go help those poor people."

I thought my sympathy made me a good person. A non-racist.

My kids were little then, aged five, three and two. I owned a busy veterinary practice and was in the middle of remodeling my first rental property. The thought of going to New Orleans to 'help those poor people' never occurred to me. I sent a few bucks to the Red Cross and congratulated myself on my caring attitude.

Then CNN showed a woman who looked like me.

I still remember the moment: I was in my rocking chair watching television, my two-year-old daughter sleeping on my lap. The midday summer sun shone through the windows of our air-conditioned living room while my middle son played on our nicely carpeted floor.

The newscaster was in downtown New Orleans--on Bourbon Street, maybe--and had stopped to interview a woman carrying a child. The woman's face was flushed, the way mine gets when I'm hot, and her dirty-blonde hair was pulled into a disheveled ponytail--my standard hairstyle when my kids were young. She was in her middle thirties and, like me, was still packing some of her baby weight.

The reporter asked a question. Instead of responding, the woman said, "Do you have any water? I'm worried about my son. He's only four---" She lifted the child who lay limp in her arms. His fair skin could have been my daughter's, his dark hair exactly matched my son's. "He so hot, and now he won't wake up."

Her voice broke, and she started crying.

Next thing I knew I was standing in front of the television, tears streaming down my cheeks. I'd gasped, "Dear God," loud enough to wake my daughter.

By the time I put my daughter in her crib, I'd mentally calculated how much it would cost to load up the green minivan with bottled water and drive down there, what I'd bring (gas cans, batteries, first aid kits) and how I'd get into the city once I arrived (hitch a ride with a news crew). My responsibilities and life constraints never entered my mind.

In the span of maybe forty seconds I'd gone from "Someone should help those poor people," to "I have to drive down there and save her."

That's when I knew I was a closet racist.

Like any decent human, I wanted the people of New Orleans to be safe from harm. I was even willing to give money to make that happen, and to rail against the elected officials who'd let them down. I saw what was happening and was genuinely sad. But until the white woman appeared on that screen, I didn't feel the terrible human suffering from Katrina.

I'd like to tell you the change occurred because of the child, or because it was a first-person account instead of a voice-over description of helicopter footage. I wish I could say I'd become saturated by the bad news and had simply reached my breaking point.

But I know the truth: I was willing to leave my young family and business and go save the woman with the sick child because she was me.

***

There are plenty of studies that suggest I'm not alone. 

Professor Sendhil Mullainathan from Harvard University published an article in The New York Times explaining how well-intentioned people can harbor subconscious bias toward job applicants with names associated with African-Americans, and how resumes from Anglo-sounding applicants received far more callbacks than resumes where the name had been switched.

There's even a video by ABC News (painful to watch, if you're a well-meaning white person) where three actors took turns pretending to steal a locked bike in a park. The actors (young white male, young black male, attractive white female) were identical in dress and in their explanations to onlookers. None pretended to own the bike. The white male worked for an hour without anyone intervening. He got a few questions but no resistance--even when he made it clear the bike wasn't his. The attractive white female had onlookers offering to work the bolt cutters for her (a topic for another post, sadly.)

The black male made it about four minutes before someone (an older white man, though he wasn't alone in his outrage) confronted the actor, screaming and threatening to call police. 

Racism exists.

My challenge as a white American--and as someone who genuinely believes all people are created equal--is to recognize that my own bias may hide under my good intentions. I need to stretch myself, step out of my comfort zone and make an effort to connect to people who don't necessarily look like me. I need to reach out and form friendships with the parents of my kids' friends (who are, thankfully, of such a wonderful variety of colors they resemble a really great trail mix) and make sure I'm seeking identification with people who travel in different orbits.

I need to recognize my hidden bias--and fight it with every ounce of my being.

***

I didn't go to New Orleans that day. By that afternoon there were reports of gas shortages in towns hundreds of miles out, of churches and relief organizations left stranded outside the city, depleting an already-overloaded system. 

Inside the city, aid had begun to trickle in.

I told myself my kids were small, that they'd never stayed with Grandma for more than a night or two. My equine clients needed me. The first payment on the rental property was due any day.

In short, sanity returned, and I decided to leave it to professionals to save the people of New Orleans. 

I'll never know what happened to that woman, or to her limp, sleeping child. The CNN crew gave her a bottle of water (on camera, of course) and went on to interview more hurricane victims. Over the next weeks I thought about her often, and sent up prayers for her rescue.

Now, nine years later, I think of her as one of my best teachers, and send up a prayer thanking her...

...for showing me I'm a racist.

Cheers,

-T

Whew, What A Year!

I'm sitting in the quiet lull of Christmas Eve, in that golden hour between finishing the dinner dishes and leaving for a late-night candlelight service at church. My husband is comfy in his chair, the dogs are asleep, and the kids are upstairs building the mother of all forts in the game room.

All is well in our house this holiday season.

But beneath my content runs the cold undercurrent of understanding how fast life can change. For proof, I need only remember the gathering we attended today where three of our immediate family members were fighting cancer--the youngest barely thirty years old.

My mom lives two thousand miles away. Last week when I hugged her I was stunned by how small she's become. She's facing a daunting life change, and it scares her. I can't do anything to halt the change. All I can do is put my arms around her and say, "We've got you, Mom. Whatever happens, we'll make sure you're okay."

In a few hours we'll open jammies and drink hot chocolate and say goodnight. But my beautiful kids are growing older, and the days of wondering when Santa will come have been replaced by teenage humor and tempered expectations.

The only constant in life is change. Part of my appreciation for this holiday comes from knowing it'll be the only Christmas 2014 I'll ever experience.

Wherever you are tonight, whatever emotional place or geography or stage of life you find yourself in, I wish you a peaceful Christmas Eve surrounded by those you love.

Cheers,

-T

What Stories Do We Tell Ourselves?

This is a post I found on Tumblr about the subconscious stories we make up about people based solely on factors like race and gender. It's eye-opening (and depressing, and a little scary...)


http://rhube.tumblr.com/post/90837856583/how-media-clearly-reflects-the-sexism-and-the-racism-we




Oh yeah, and Happy Fourth of July!


-T

Book Review: Wolverine Bros. Freight and Storage

Wolverine Bros. Freight & Storage: A Conway Sax Mystery by Steve Ulfelder
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Conway Sax is a complex character, and this book shows him at his brutal best.

When his friend and fellow barnburner, Eudora Spoon, asks Conway Sax to go to California and rescue her son, he can't say no. The book opens with a scene worthy of Richard Stark's Parker series--and includes Sax hefting a buck-naked Kenny over his shoulder and walking out of a gang hideout.

This is the fourth book in the series, and in my opinion, the most straightforward, enjoyable read. The first, Purgatory Chasm, was a heartbreaker. But I like Sax better now that he's come to terms with his core failures as a human. He sucks at relationships, but he's great at breaking heads.

As with his previous books, this author's writing has a throwback feel reminiscent of the best Noir writers of the fifties and sixties. This character is old school; a retired race car driver and recovering alcoholic with a destructive streak.

I dare you to read the first page and stop. If you're like me, you'll look up four hours later and wonder what happened to your afternoon.

Cheers...and Happy Reading!

T.D. Hart


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Baton Blog Hop

My plotting friend and partner-in-mischief, Rhenna Morgan, tapped me for what she calls a Baton Blog Hop: basically a game of tag for writers. The idea is to answer four questions about your writing, then tag another fool author to do the same.

But first you need to know about Rhenna Morgan and why you need to go--right this minute--to her blog and bookmark it as a must-read.

The first time I met Rhenna, she was fresh off a wild night with Nickelback. Since I have an honest-to-God picture of me with the band (fifteen seconds of ecstasy that cost more than I'll ever admit) I was sure I'd met a kindred spirit.

I'm certain the first words out of her mouth were irreverent and funny, though I don't recall what they were. I do remember hearing about the fantasy she was writing (her first) and thinking, "Damn, I wish my first story had been that good."

Turns out I have very good taste. Last week, Rhenna sold UNEXPECTED EDEN to a major freaking publisher--and they want to see the next two in the series. So if you're into fantasy with a hot streak of romance (you'll need a cigarette afterward, believe me) watch for the release of UNEXPECTED EDEN in December.

Now for the questions:

What am I working on?

Right now I'm finishing revisions (for the third time? Fourth?) on a Noir Mystery about a San Diego homicide detective who investigates the murder of a rock star she had a crush on as a teenager. Seventeen years ago my character's sister disappeared from a crowded beach, and the singer's voice was literally ringing through her speakers the moment she realized her sister was gone.

The working title is LIFE FOR A LIFE.

Next up is a thriller about a young man whose father died in prison after embezzling forty million dollars from the mob. The FBI thinks my character has the money. So does the mob...and they want it back.

How does my work differ from others in its genre?

Noir is making a comeback and there are some amazing writers out there right now. But if I had to point out differences, I'd say my work focuses on character more than some.

When I'm planning a story I imagine the protagonist first--who he is at his core, what emotional baggage he carries--then plunk him down in a terrible situation and see what happens.

That's why I loved HBO's TRUE DETECTIVE. Those guys would be interesting no matter what crime they solved.

Why do I write what I do?

Noir is all about redemption. Take the film Casablanca. Rick is a selfish, fucked-up drunk who gives up the only woman he's ever loved to help defeat the Nazis (and save her husband's life). Having more than a passing experience with those character defects, I'm drawn to the idea of using bad for good.

Also, I have weird ideas about what constitutes "Happily Ever After."

How does my writing process work?

I'm still refining it. My first book took foreeeeevvverrr. I knew if I wanted to do this for a living I needed a better protocol.

I tried Napoleon's strategy on the second (show up and see what happens--also known as 'pantsing') and still wasn't happy with the time from start to finish. I outlined my third, and the rough draft took about half as long as previous books. So I guess I'm a 'plotter,' though my characters like to deviate from the freakin' plan at the least convenient times.

That's the cool part, though--when you're writing according to your perfect little outline and your character does or says something you didn't expect.

Another neat addition this year is that I began working with Ed Stackler, editor for the incredible Greg Iles, whose book NATCHEZ BURNING is winning rave reviews. Ed has a way of drilling down to what's important. When you know your characters and the obstacles they're facing, writing what happens next is easy (Ha!)

Well, that's it. I'm going to tag two of my favorite writers, Mary McIntyre Coley and Jackie King. Hopefully next week you'll learn how these lovely ladies construct their novels of suspense!

Cheers...and Happy Writing!

-T

A Valiant Legacy

The other day, my friend Mark Darrah showed me a piece he'd written for Tortoise Tracts, an occasional publication dedicated to discovering the extraordinary in the ordinary. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.


As a side note, like Mark, I took Oklahoma History, graduated from high school in Moore, OK, and attended eight years of college at Oklahoma State University. The first time I heard about the race riot was during the reconciliation meetings in Tulsa a few years ago.

Cheers

-T

In June, 1921, Tulsa's Greenwood District was burned to the ground by an angry white mob. The caption on the photo says it all:

Mt. Zion Baptist Church engulfed in flames:

Mt. Zion Baptist Church, aftermath: 

Tortoise Tracts
Vol. 10, Issue 1 February, 2014 © Mark S. Darrah

A Valiant Legacy

The year is 1966. May. The place: Taft Junior High School in Oklahoma City. The seventh grade social studies teacher has spent the first two-thirds of the hour talking about Communists. Then, she says, "And we have Communists right here in Oklahoma City..."And she lambasts as Communists a group of ministers who have signed and presented a petition to the local school board demanding respect for the U.S. Supreme Court ruling prohibiting children from being forced to say government required prayers in public schools. 

The filing of the petition made the headlines of the front page of The Daily Oklahoman. The Court's ruling had already been demonized by its shorthand summarization as "prohibiting prayer in school." In this Cold War time, when billboards read "Impeach Earl Warren," this act of courage by this small group of ministers constituted for many --the social studies teacher included --not only apostasy but also treason.

At the end of the hour, a seventh grade boy walked to the front of the room, looked the teacher in the eye, and said, "My father signed that petition and he's not a Communist." He turned and left.

The boy's father was reprimanded. He lost his church. His family was uprooted from their home. This father was by no means a radical. He had voted for Richard Nixon in the 1960 presidential election. He worked hard, paid his bills, tried to be a good citizen. He simply believed that compulsory prayer is no prayer at all, that prayers required by the government profane the sacred.

Later in his new residence as his family mourned the loss of familiar surroundings and friends, that father sat in the dark and wondered whether he had done the right thing.

***

"The building had just been completed the month before," my friend Dean says. He and I stand on the bottom floor of the Mount Zion Baptist Church in the Greenwood District of Tulsa, Oklahoma. "The church had taken out a loan to build it and then it all went up in flames except this basement. Let me show you something.” Dean leads me into a recessed area and he points to black scars on cement walls. "You can still see where the fires burned. The insurances wouldn't pay because they said it was caused by a riot and they didn't have to. The church members met in this basement for years until they were able to pay off the debt and build another building."

Like other public school students of my generation, I had to take Oklahoma history in eighth grade. My textbook had been silent about this. The most devastating racial violence in American history had taken place within walking distance of where my junior high school teacher taught a saccharine version of my state's past.

That official story also left out the chapter on the Ku Klux Klan's domination of my state in the 1920's. During this decade, the KKK was strong not only in South, but also in the Midwest where it had the largest number of members. It was vigorously anti-Catholic, anti-African American, anti-Semitic, and anti-immigrant. According to its literature of the day, this secret society of self-proclaimed knights was committed to protecting the "purity of white womanhood" and to organizing "the patriotic sentiment of native-born white, Protestant Americans for the defense of distinctively American institutions."

The Klan recruited heavily from white Protestant churches and fraternal orders such as the Freemasons and the Knights of Pythias. Over thirty-five thousand people attended a Klan induction in Oklahoma City in 1922. One year in the 1920's, all five candidates for Speaker of the Oklahoma House of Representatives were members of the KKK. Church ladies formed auxiliaries to restore and preserve "traditional values and morality" and to support their husbands' nocturnal commissions.

Klan members, disguised in white robes and hoods as the ghosts of the Confederate dead, abducted and physically punished those whom they believed engaged in public indecency, drug use, immoral behavior, wife beating, bootlegging, and other assorted sins. In Oklahoma, martial law was declared to stop the Klan's vigilante beatings, whippings, and castrations.

In the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921, thirty-five square blocks of the African-American community were destroyed, over 100 people were killed, and an estimated 10,000 were left homeless, the result of white mob violence. The governor who declared martial law was immediately impeached.

***

When I wrote a family history for a college class in the 1970's, I asked my living grandmothers and grandfather this question: What was the most significant event of your lifetime?

Each answered: World War I.

Each thought this war had forever corrupted the morals of the country.

These days, my sister, brother, and I go through family heirlooms accumulated by my parents and their parents, aunts and uncles, grandparents, and great-grandparents. Many were Masons and members of Eastern Star. All were devout white Protestant Oklahoma Christians.

I wonder how close I got to touching the robes of the Ku Klux Klan.

***

I remember a discussion I had with my grandfather during the latter years of his life. He had come of age in the Oklahoma of the 1920's and had political ambitions like his father before him. By the time of our talk, Grandpa had had a stroke. He didn't get animated much anymore, but when I asked him whether he had any dealings with the KKK, he lurched forward and said, "They were all a bunch of cowards. They tried to get me to join. I told them I wouldn't have anything to do with them."

***

The wonderful thing about learning is that you deprive no one else by taking what you learn. The wonderful thing about teaching is that you don't lose what you give away. Teaching is also the only gift you can give that lives into eternity. Something you teach becomes another's who teaches it to another and to another, and on and on and on.

You see, my grandfather had a son who signed a petition demanding that the Oklahoma City School Board respect the decision of the U.S. Supreme Court prohibiting government-mandated prayer in school. And that son was a minister, who was reprimanded, who lost his church, whose family was uprooted, who later sat in the dark and wondered whether he had done the right thing. But let me ask you today, would my brother --that seventh grade boy who told his teacher that his father was not a Communist --have had the courage to do so had he not been taught by example?

From The State Sentinel (Stigler, Ok), Oct. 5, 1922

Keota, Okla. Oct. 5 – 

Last Tuesday night The Keota Knights of the Ku Klux Klan held a meeting west of Keota and a class of twenty-one were initiated. Out of these twenty-one, eighteen were farmers and the other three laboring men. There is some propaganda going over the county that nobody but "high-collared" men can belong to the organization. This is absolutely false.

Tortoise Tracts

Tulsa, Oklahoma 74114

Keep your eyes open for the publication of Mark Darrah's upcoming collection of personal commentaries A Catalogue of Common People.

A Most Un-Noirish Photo:

Got the Monday morning blues?

Try adding Gold...

When You Say Yes to One Thing...

...You're saying no to something else.

Easy concept, right? So why has it taken me darned near fifty years to figure it out?

We're looking at moving to a better school district for our kids. Problem is, I really enjoy my corner of the planet: The Writer's Barn, my garden, my manicured horse pastures and lawn. Yes, we're fifteen miles from decent shopping and forty minutes away from my middle kid's school. But it's quiet out here. In the spring, we're visited by rabbits, bobcats, and the occasional deer. In Summer, we sit on our back patio every evening and watch fireflies while our kids prowl the woods behind our property. Every Fall, I mulch my garden and vow to do a better job pulling weeds next season.

So why do I bitch--daily--about the drive?

Maybe because I haven't truly grasped the concept that when I say yes to one thing, I'm voluntarily saying no to something else.

For a control freak like me, taking ANY option off the table is the worst kind of torture. I hate to hear no, and my coping mechanism is to 'find a way,' which works about a well as you'd expect.

For example, when we built this house, I didn't want to waste money on rent. We sold our house in town, I found an RV, and for eight months we camped; me, my husband, our infant son, and our seventy-pound dog. But RVs decline in value. Propane is expensive. And weathering an Oklahoma storm season in a fifth-wheel trailer with a baby and a thunder-shy Doberman will cure you of the camping bug. Forever.

But I face the same problem with every situation. When I decide to write a thriller about the guy whose former girlfriend wants him to help find her low-life husband, I'm saying no the other dozen stories residing in my outlines folder.

When I say yes to being out of debt, I'm saying no to a new car, and when I say yes to a writing retreat, I'm saying no to being debt-free sooner. When I say yes to living in the country, I'm saying no to low gas bills and short drive times and great schools.

In the end, if I wind up saying yes to city living, it means saying no to The Writer's Barn, to my garden and visiting wildlife; saying no to my manicured horse pastures and lawns, to my fireflies and peaceful mornings. It means saying no to rototilling, to watching my tulips bloom, to harvesting peaches from the trees I've planted. And that makes me sad.

So, I suspect this will be a year of Trying to Find A Way. This time I plan to do better with praying for help, trusting the universe, and accepting the results.

Hopefully my solution won't involve anything that remotely resembles camping.

Cheers...and Happy Writing!

-T

Nick Kristof Nails It...

Today is Thanksgiving.

                                                Source: thegospelcoalition.org

I'm warm. Dry. Well-fed. So are my husband, children, and those closest to me. Even the family pets have enough to eat and somewhere warm to sleep.

It's tempting to think, 'Good for me. I've worked hard, and I deserve to harvest the fruits of that labor.'

Maybe.

But what about the mother in Houston, or Oakland--or even Damascus--who works equally hard to provide a good home for her children? She risks so much more than me, dodging bullets to go to work at her second job, walking home though violent streets late at night. Doesn't she deserve to know her kids are safe when she tucks them in this Thanksgiving Night?

Can I really say my efforts are the reason we're enjoying a peaceful holiday when I've done nothing more dangerous than write a check to Safeway?

Truth is, I'm lucky. I was born to two stable, loving parents in a country with good infrastructure and decent public schools. I wasn't abused as a child. Or neglected. Or starved. My folks insisted I could do anything I put my mind to. They encouraged me, guided me. And when it came time to attend college and start my own business, total strangers were willing to lend me money.

Yeah, I've been successful.

But I didn't hit a triple; I was born on third base.

Nick Kristof's piece today in the New York Times says it masterfully:

"As we celebrate Thanksgiving, let’s remember that the difference between being surrounded by a loving family or being homeless on the street is determined not just by our own level of virtue or self-discipline, but also by an inextricable mix of luck, biography, brain chemistry and genetics."

Today, as I spread whipped cream on the second pie I'm bringing to the family celebration, I want to rededicate myself to making sure everyone who inhabits this tiny blue planet has the same opportunities I do; that every mother, father, and child of humanity gets to experience the comfort and warmth of Thanksgiving...

...every day.



Cheers...and Happy Thanksgiving!

-T

The Devaluation of Work (and the people who do it.)

A few years ago I attended an out-of-state conference with two colleagues. The plane ride was a hoot. These guys were funny and irreverent and I was looking forward to a great weekend. After we picked up our bags the three of us shared a cab from the airport to our waterfront hotel. A ten-minute ride, tops.

By the time we arrived at the hotel, I wanted to murder my companions.

Far from being funny, they'd used their wit to excoriate the driver, making fun of everything from his looks to his manner of speaking to his taste in music. What struck hardest was their undisguised distain for this man performing such a menial task. The word 'lowlife' came up more than once.

You see, our cab driver wasn't from here. He was a brown-skinned guy with an unpronounceable name and a serious accent, and the music blasting from the speakers danged sure wasn't Sinatra.

So, even though the driver had jumped out of his yellow taxi with a smile and lifted our heavy suitcases into the trunk before opening our doors, my friends felt justified calling him a 'sand nigger.' Even though the cab was clean, the ride comfortable, and the route direct, the human being who performed this valuable service didn't merit the dignity of a polite 'thank you.'

Never mind that he was Ethiopian (a majority Christian nation), well-educated (try taking a driving test in a foreign language sometime), and a hard-working small business owner, my companions were fixated on the social services this man was sucking up. My colleagues complained (loud enough for the driver to hear) that 'they' only come here for free schools and free food vouchers and free healthcare.

Red-faced, I had leaned between the seats to ask questions during the ride, hoping to drown out the idiots beside me. The driver told me where he was from, that he was an independent contractor with the cab company. When we got to the hotel and my friends had taken their bags, I lingered at the trunk. "Do you have family here?"

The man nodded. "A wife and two children." The enthusiasm in his eyes had been replaced by something bleaker. "My wife works in a kitchen. I am a chemist, but in my country..."

I wanted to say so much that day: That what he'd done for himself and his family represents what Americans say we value. Hard work, bravery, sacrifice for the greater good. That anyone who works deserves respect, regardless of the nature of that toil. That the four miles from the airport to the hotel would've been a damned difficult slog with my shoe-laden suitcase, and I was grateful for his service.

Instead, I gave him a twenty-buck tip on a ten-dollar fare and wished him a good afternoon.

source: HiloCommunityPlayers.org

 

 

But the experience sharpened a thought that had been coalescing for a while. My friends might be jerks, but their views weren't unique. After listening to them the rest of the weekend, I realized they genuinely believe they're paying for a huge population of poor people who rely on public support to survive.

In a sense, they're correct.

The problem is, those same people are working forty or fifty hours a week. They literally have no more hours of their lives to trade for dollars, yet need public assistance to survive.

Have we become so resentful of the social safety net we can't see how our reliance on cheap labor makes it necessary? Want to get rid of food stamps? Great! Raise wages so anyone who works can survive without them.

Did you hear me? Anyone who WORKS.

Fast food, janitorial, retail clerk. No matter how menial, boring, or unchallenging the job, work is good, right? Something we should laud as righteous and worthwhile and as deserving our respect.

But is that really what I believe, or do I secretly look down on folks who do the crappy jobs I can't imagine doing?

If I'm honest, I'm as bad as my colleagues. At least they don't hide their disdain for 'lowlifes' in minimum-wage jobs. Sure, I talk about dignity and hard work, but where do I spend my dollars?

Because when I order a cheap burger knowing the woman who cooked the meal can't feed her own family on what she earns, I'm saying I don't value work. Maybe I cringe at the words 'sand nigger,' but when I shop at a certain Arkansas-based chain whose full-time employees drown beneath the poverty line, I'm saying I don't believe folks who work there should earn a living wage.

                              (Probably wouldn't hurt to skip the burger altogether.)


Legislation would be nice (ain't gonna happen), and I'd love to see minimum-wage workers rise up and prove how much they contribute to the economy. But maybe the rest of us simply need to focus--again--on valuing work over wealth.

Here's a list of fast-food chains that pay a living wage. Next time I eat out, I'll check the interwebs for companies who pay their employees well and declare my support with my own hard-earned dollars. If you love shopping at big-box stores, here's proof that paying employees more yields bigger profits (and better service!) At Christmas, why don't I take ten minutes to find out whether the store believes as I do--that people who work shouldn't need food stamps to survive.

My colleagues are free to believe as they choose. Instead of focusing on their horrific manners, I'd have been better off investigating my own beliefs--and holding them up against my actions.

Starting today, I'll do just that.

Cheers...and Happy Shopping!

-T

Small Things That Matter...

Today a friend of mine linked to an article by a local sports writer about a boy who played a single, magical season of T-Ball.

The writer's name is Jenni Carlson. I'll let her writing speak for itself:

Hugh, who was buried in his No. 10 Blake Bell jersey, made lots of people smile, but never did he smile bigger than when he was on the field with his T-ball team. As much as he loved watching his Sooners and his Thunder and his sister, he loved playing even more.

 

That's why Rick sat down amid the worst grief that a parent can feel and wrote that email to the parents of the kids on Hugh's T-ball team.

 

He wanted to thank them for the gift that they'd given their family.

 

Read the article here

 

(Yeah, it's sad. But I didn't start crying until Carlson told about the stranger showing up at the funeral and explained why.)

 

Whatever piddly problem I think I'm dealing with today, my kids are healthy and happy and fed, and I need to be damned grateful for that small gift. When I forget, life hands me an uncomfortable reminder that we're here for a wink of a celestial eyelash; a tenth-of-a-millisecond in a history too large to measure.

 

Am I doing everything I can to make my millisecond count?

 

Cheers...and nice job, Jenni Carlson.

 

-T

 

Ready for Creepy Flash Fiction?

A couple of months ago an agent posted the following writing prompt: Construct a hundred-word story featuring the words hammer, full, claw, coop, back, and ratchet.

I considered passing. But I was at an impasse on my current story, dribbling words on the page at a frighteningly slow pace. The problem was I dreaded putting my hero through the hell I'd set up for him. He's a really good guy. In real life I'd hope he'd find peace and serenity and fulfillment and live happily ever after.

But in the story I've torn away everything he loves and forced him to confront his deepest fears. And that's tough to do to a person you genuinely like.

So I decided to jump in on the writing prompt. As an exercise, I challenged myself to spare my character no pain. Here's the result:

“Close your eyes, Evie,” the angel says. “I’m here.”

I turn my head. Blink away dripping blood. He’s dazzling, familiar. Blond hair. Dimples. Green eyes shining with love and untold jokes.

The haze clears and I’m on my back, alone. Moths dash against the fly-spotted bulb in our chicken coop.

Matty?

My mouth is full of cloth. I gag. Ratchet a breath.

In the doorway, a human monster. Blond hair trails from the claw of his hammer like blood-soaked algae.

“I’m here, babe.” The angel’s breath is like cool water on my cheek.

The hammer lifts, and I close my eyes.

The exercise was fun (and damned hard, let me tell you. A hundred words...sheesh) and the piece received an honorable mention out of about sixty entries. But I'm not sure I met my challenge; even though I killed my character I still couldn't leave her without comfort.

Maybe I should write about people I don't like.

Cheers...and Happy Writing!

-T

Why I Love Great Writing

Recently, I've read two stories that stuck with me.

The hitch: They were both about dead people.

The first was a long, thoughtful piece by Jeremy Markovich about race car driver Dick Trickle.

                                                                 Photo: SB Nation


The second was a brilliant obituary about a retired nurse named Mary "Pink" Mullaney.

It would be hard to argue either story had a happy ending. Trickle committed suicide after a long bout with untreatable pain, and Ms. Mullaney--who left behind an amazing 'To Do' list for the rest of us-- no longer graces this Earth.

But what both pieces did, brilliantly, is make me wish I'd known the person who inspired the story.

To me, that's what great writing does. It puts us in another world--whether that of a hard-partying short track driver or a Catholic grandmother who carries chicken sandwiches in her purse in case she encounters a hungry person.

Both writers sought to reveal truth. Both wrote with obvious love for their subjects. But what made these pieces special were the anecdotes, the little details that showed the character of the deceased.

Rather than say he was a 'hard-partying, hard-working' driver, Markovich told about the night Trickle became the oldest Rookie of the Year in NASCAR history.

Instead of describing Ms. Mullaney as 'generous,' her biographer made up a hilarious list of how she'd treated hitchhikers, homeless people, and invading possums.

If you have time, check out both stories. My guess is you'll wish you'd met these folks--or, like me--that you'd written these wonderful pieces.

Cheers...and Happy Reading!

-T

A Letter to Oklahoma State Football Players (From a Fan)

Dear Oklahoma State Player,

I've often wondered how you feel as you walk down Hester Street on Saturdays. How it feels to have hundreds of people wave and cheer, offer high fives, and hold up signs with your name on them. I've wondered what you think when complete strangers ask for your autograph or hand you their orange-clad babies for a picture.

photo: http://www.okstate.com/

As a fan and alumnus, I've even wondered sometimes whether you feel used. If, perhaps, you're walking along thinking, "These people don't know me. They can't possibly care about me as a person...or know what I've gone through to get here. They're only cheering because I give them wins."

The truth is I'll never know how you feel when you make that walk on game days.

But I can tell you what it's like to watch and cheer and offer high-fives to the young men who've chosen to play football at Oklahoma State.

I'm delighted when one of our Cowboys makes good--whether that's getting signed to a pro squad or being hired to coach high school ball. Come to my house on Sundays and you'll see me cheer like crazy when Kendall hits the gap in San Franciso, when Dan drills it through the uprights in JerryWorld, or when Dez drags defenders ten yards after making the catch. Like the rest of the Cowboy Nation, my husband and I shed bitter tears when Darrent Williams was killed--then wiped our eyes for a different reason when Donovan Woods earned his Super Bowl ring. (I still have your jersey, Number Eight.)

I don't know how you feel about us--the fans and Alumni. But here's how we feel about you:
                                                                         

Good looking kids, huh?

 

 

The day you chose Oklahoma State, you became family.

You're family because we realize you had other options. Some of you committed to Oklahoma State when our stadium was a joke (Rust-Oleum, anyone?) and our record was worse. And even after we started winning, we understand that a kid growing up in Houston or Dallas could opt for the 'bright lights, big city' experience at a larger school.

Yet you chose Oklahoma State.

And that makes us family.

Are families perfect? Heck, no. We mess up sometimes. We struggle and make mistakes, especially when we're young. (I've always claimed partial credit for Eskimo Joe's phenomenal success. Thankfully, I've matured since.) We're not perfect. We don't expect you to be perfect, either.

And we don't stop loving you when you're not.

Ask anyone from the O-State family about Prentiss Elliot (former player who got into legal trouble) and you'll get: "I heard he's doing better now, and I'm glad." Even after the furor this week over the Sports Illustrated article, an alum tweeted about Artrell Woods (a major source): "Makes me sad. I cried when he caught that catch (after coming back from a terrible back injury)."

We want you to succeed. We're sad (for you) if you don't.

Because you're family.

So when you see me cheering for you on Saturday, know this: I'm cheering because you decided to work, sweat, and study at the university where I met my husband, earned my veterinary degree, and where I want my children to attend.

Because you chose Stillwater, we've heard the same chimes ringing from Edmon Low, walked on the same sidewalks (with their goofy chalk reminders), and sat in the same freezing classrooms. You know better than to swim in Theta Pond (and to visit Voodoo Village if you got suckered into it), and you've felt Gallagher-Iba rumble when the Sooners came to town. Like me, you've waited in line at Whitehurst, cussed the walk from Morrill to Ag Hall, and wondered what genius came up the name Classroom Building.

That makes us family.

After college, whether you wind up in Houston or Chicago or Los Angeles, try this experiment:

Put on your OSU gear and walk around. See how long it takes until someone flashes you the 'Pistols Firing' sign or says "Go Pokes." It's happened to me in places like New Orleans and San Diego and Seaside, Oregon. I guarantee it'll happen to you.
                                                    

photo: http://www.pistolsfiringblog.com/

 

 

 

If you're the gregarious type, stop and tell the person you played football--then get ready to be peppered with questions about your life and career and whether you have kids and how often you get 'home' to Stillwater.

Because that's what family does.

How does it feel to be a Cowboy football player? I'll never know. But I can tell you how it feels to be an OSU alum...

...it feels like coming home.


Cheers...and Go Pokes!

-T