“Seven o’clock?” my friend Dee said. “That is late for a happy hour. That’s his way of getting out of having to buy you dinner. Next time, ask if you should eat first.”
Dee’s been divorced for years, and moved to St. Pete about three years ago. She’s been one of my friends tutoring me in the fine art of internet dating.
Too bad for Steve that I hadn’t talked to her before meeting him. I’d come straight from a late work meeting, and I was starving. We talked for two hours, and he ended up paying for my non-happy-hour-priced drink and appetizer. When I’d asked if he were hungry, he’d told me that he’d already eaten. He seemed magnanimous about picking up the check – for a date that he’d initiated – but made it clear the next one would be on me.
There’s not going to be a next one. Even though he walked me back to the parking garage, holding my hand, gave me a peck on the lips and exchanged phone numbers with me, I haven’t heard from him. Maybe there’s a rule that the woman always initiates contact after the first meeting, but if there is one, I haven’t heard it. In any case, I’m relieved. I really don’t want to go out with him again, but I also don’t want to blow him off to his face. Much easier to pretend there will be another meeting while not actually setting one up. He’s cute, but he lives all the way in Clearwater. I spend too much time in my car as it is; driving to people’s houses all over Pinellas County as part of my in-house sales job. A guy has to be amazing for me to look for love outside to St. Pete.
I’ve been dating for less than a year; have had two relationships since the divorce. At first, I was eager to meet new men and enjoyed surfing the sites. I went out with my first “boyfriend” three times before I felt a spark of attraction, so I thought I owed it to myself to give decent guys more than one chance.
Then I met a guy to whom I felt an immediate attraction, and then spent months trying to make a relationship work when we had nothing else in common.
Now, even though I’m looking for my next relationship, I’m looking for reasons not to date. They include:
Lives too far away
Votes Republican
Too much younger than me (granted, I don’t run into this too often)
Too much older than me
Look like they’re older than me
Didn’t graduate college
Never married
Married too often
Didn’t have kids
Has too many kids
Not physically active
Too physically active
Doesn’t like TV
Watches too much TV
Talks too much
Doesn’t talk enough.
So you can see, this might be a problem.
Maybe the problem is me.
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
Tuesday, July 16, 2019
Unveiling "Dating in Paradise!"
I began this blog in the summer of 2012, right after my husband and I moved to Florida. At the time, I called it “my year on vacation;” we had rented the house for a year, and I honestly didn’t believe we’d be staying much longer than that. I left boxes unpacked. I viewed my new friendships as temporary. I thought a return to Maryland – the D.C. suburbs, with serious jobs and serious people – would happen in 2013.
Instead, we bought a house on St. Pete Beach; our son moved in with us for a year while he attended the local community college, and we became Floridians. I got my real estate license and doubled down on my writing. I was no longer on vacation; I renamed my blog “Writer in Paradise” and focused my posts mainly on writerly concerns. (It wasn’t until much later that I learned about the local writers’ conference, “Writers in Paradise.” I didn’t mean to steal its name!)
Last year, I had another huge upheaval in my life. My husband of nearly 28 years decided he didn’t want to be married anymore, and six weeks later we were divorced. Tom and I had met when I was 21, right out of college. Although I had dated a bit while I was in school, those days were long behind me. While divorce is sad and change is hard, it’s also catapulted me into a completely different life. I’m still writing, still pursuing my dream of being traditionally published. I’ve taken an additional sales job in addition to real estate to make sure I’m getting out of the house on a regular basis.
And I’m dating. Not meeting men through mutual friends, or work, or hobbies. I’m going on dates with men I’m meeting through dating apps. I tried OKCupid for a while; Bumble never really worked for me. I’m not looking for casual hook-ups, so I never logged into Tinder. Hinge got me a lot of men my son’s age, which was too creepy for words. So for now, I’ve settled on Match and Plenty of Fish. I’m paying for my Match account; I’m not upgrading with POF.
It’s an adventure. Too much of an adventure to keep to myself. So I’m refocusing my blog to share those stories. While I’m still a writer in paradise, my blog will be centered around dating in paradise. Ride shotgun on my adventure as I peruse the profiles of men holding giant fish and sitting astride motorcycles. Roll your eyes as I’m dumped by a guy who’d rather be with a Scientologist. Sympathize with me as I get pleading emails from 70-year-old men who live 70 miles away.
Florida Man is on Match, and his tattoos have their own photos.
Dating after 50 in Florida is not for the faint of heart. Or for those who don’t have a sense of humor. Or a Lyft account.
Join me!
Instead, we bought a house on St. Pete Beach; our son moved in with us for a year while he attended the local community college, and we became Floridians. I got my real estate license and doubled down on my writing. I was no longer on vacation; I renamed my blog “Writer in Paradise” and focused my posts mainly on writerly concerns. (It wasn’t until much later that I learned about the local writers’ conference, “Writers in Paradise.” I didn’t mean to steal its name!)
Last year, I had another huge upheaval in my life. My husband of nearly 28 years decided he didn’t want to be married anymore, and six weeks later we were divorced. Tom and I had met when I was 21, right out of college. Although I had dated a bit while I was in school, those days were long behind me. While divorce is sad and change is hard, it’s also catapulted me into a completely different life. I’m still writing, still pursuing my dream of being traditionally published. I’ve taken an additional sales job in addition to real estate to make sure I’m getting out of the house on a regular basis.
And I’m dating. Not meeting men through mutual friends, or work, or hobbies. I’m going on dates with men I’m meeting through dating apps. I tried OKCupid for a while; Bumble never really worked for me. I’m not looking for casual hook-ups, so I never logged into Tinder. Hinge got me a lot of men my son’s age, which was too creepy for words. So for now, I’ve settled on Match and Plenty of Fish. I’m paying for my Match account; I’m not upgrading with POF.
It’s an adventure. Too much of an adventure to keep to myself. So I’m refocusing my blog to share those stories. While I’m still a writer in paradise, my blog will be centered around dating in paradise. Ride shotgun on my adventure as I peruse the profiles of men holding giant fish and sitting astride motorcycles. Roll your eyes as I’m dumped by a guy who’d rather be with a Scientologist. Sympathize with me as I get pleading emails from 70-year-old men who live 70 miles away.
Florida Man is on Match, and his tattoos have their own photos.
Dating after 50 in Florida is not for the faint of heart. Or for those who don’t have a sense of humor. Or a Lyft account.
Join me!
Tuesday, May 7, 2019
I Get Knocked Down…
A few weeks ago, in my writers group, I shared some of the “pass” emails that my agent had gotten from editors who’d read my thriller, which I like to describe as “The Stepford Wives in the Villages.” (an upscale Florida retirement community known for conservative Republicanism and high levels of STDs)
To sum, these emails gushed over the concept and the plot, but all the editors had failed to connect with the voice. I explained that probably meant that while they liked the story, they just didn’t like how I told it. They didn’t like me as a writer.
How do you get past that? I was asked. How do you keep trying, keep writing, after rejections like that?
The answer is, I don’t know. For some reason, I just do.
This has been the worst year of my life so far. And even as I write that, I recognize how lucky I am. Other people’s “worst year” entails losing children, losing their health, losing their homes. I have all of these. (And I remain aware that I could still lose any or all of them.) Still, compared to where I was a year ago, there’s a lot of pain. Last year at this time, I had two books on submission with several imprints of the big five publishers, and I had high hopes for both of them. My husband had just started a new job, which resulted in a huge payout from the company he left. We were planning big vacations; I was researching MFA programs; life was fabulous.
And then I came home one afternoon and he had moved out. A few weeks later, rejections started rolling in from those publishers. I abandoned my MFA plans, put my house on the market, bought a small home for myself, put my next novel aside and worked on finding a “real job.” (His words.)
As writers, we are often told we need to develop a thick skin in order to handle criticism and rejections. What I learned from developing that thick skin is that it’s handy in situations that have nothing to do with publishing. Thick skin is necessary when your husband of 28 years tells you he wants to divorce you as quickly as possible because “women don’t date separated men.” Thick skin is also handy when that new job has people yelling at you because you committed the sin of showing up for an appointment they made. When the first guy you date after your divorce dumps you to return to his Scientologist ex-girlfriend, it’s that writing-developed thick skin that lets you turn the experience into a funny anecdote rather than an excuse to stop dating.
I guess this thick skin is why I keep writing. Or maybe it’s a thick head. I finished my first novel in 1992. I spent more years than I like to remember writing and trying unsuccessfully to sell screenplays. I won a few minor awards; even signed with an agent who apparently spent more time reading the Daily Racing Form than scripts. In 2012, with many of my online screenwriting friends producing and making their own movies, I decided it would be easier to self-publish a novel than to make a movie from one of my scripts. And perhaps that thinking doomed my chances of traditional publishing, since I’ve self-published two novels since then.
Still, my goal remains to be traditionally published, and it seems more out of reach than ever at this point. Is it the thick head that’s refusing to let me hear a message from the universe that I’m not a good- enough writer for the Big 5? When these thoughts threaten to overwhelm me, I’m reminded of a story that one of my workshop leaders likes to tell. He had taught a famous writer as an undergrad, and he’s often asked whether that writer was the most talented person he’d taught. His answer is no; the most talented person had bad luck and then just gave up.
We all know what luck is, but what constitutes talent? I often hear the saying that success is hard work plus luck, but where does talent fit into that equation? Most of us think of talent as being given by God or nature. My son played a lot of baseball growing up; in that sport there’s a saying: “Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.” My son worked very hard but he wasn’t talented enough, and there were enough talented players that did work hard that he was unable to progress. (And while the talented ones who didn’t work hard got farther in the short run, in the long run they are worse off than he is now.)
When my son stopped succeeded and started struggling in baseball, it was so painful that I had to “unfollow” other baseball parents whose sons were still progressing in the sport. Likewise, now when I go on Facebook and I see friends celebrating long-term marriages or publishing contracts, I can’t help asking why them and not me. What’s wrong with me, my voice, my stories that I’m not worth publishing or holding onto? Is this something I can fix? Or maybe there’s nothing wrong at all; I just haven’t found the right publisher or person.
Or maybe I just use too many semi-colons.
I may not ever get that publishing contract. I might not ever be in a long-term relationship again. But I can rewrite my personal definition of success.
Right now it’s: “I never gave up.”
To sum, these emails gushed over the concept and the plot, but all the editors had failed to connect with the voice. I explained that probably meant that while they liked the story, they just didn’t like how I told it. They didn’t like me as a writer.
How do you get past that? I was asked. How do you keep trying, keep writing, after rejections like that?
The answer is, I don’t know. For some reason, I just do.
This has been the worst year of my life so far. And even as I write that, I recognize how lucky I am. Other people’s “worst year” entails losing children, losing their health, losing their homes. I have all of these. (And I remain aware that I could still lose any or all of them.) Still, compared to where I was a year ago, there’s a lot of pain. Last year at this time, I had two books on submission with several imprints of the big five publishers, and I had high hopes for both of them. My husband had just started a new job, which resulted in a huge payout from the company he left. We were planning big vacations; I was researching MFA programs; life was fabulous.
And then I came home one afternoon and he had moved out. A few weeks later, rejections started rolling in from those publishers. I abandoned my MFA plans, put my house on the market, bought a small home for myself, put my next novel aside and worked on finding a “real job.” (His words.)
As writers, we are often told we need to develop a thick skin in order to handle criticism and rejections. What I learned from developing that thick skin is that it’s handy in situations that have nothing to do with publishing. Thick skin is necessary when your husband of 28 years tells you he wants to divorce you as quickly as possible because “women don’t date separated men.” Thick skin is also handy when that new job has people yelling at you because you committed the sin of showing up for an appointment they made. When the first guy you date after your divorce dumps you to return to his Scientologist ex-girlfriend, it’s that writing-developed thick skin that lets you turn the experience into a funny anecdote rather than an excuse to stop dating.
I guess this thick skin is why I keep writing. Or maybe it’s a thick head. I finished my first novel in 1992. I spent more years than I like to remember writing and trying unsuccessfully to sell screenplays. I won a few minor awards; even signed with an agent who apparently spent more time reading the Daily Racing Form than scripts. In 2012, with many of my online screenwriting friends producing and making their own movies, I decided it would be easier to self-publish a novel than to make a movie from one of my scripts. And perhaps that thinking doomed my chances of traditional publishing, since I’ve self-published two novels since then.
Still, my goal remains to be traditionally published, and it seems more out of reach than ever at this point. Is it the thick head that’s refusing to let me hear a message from the universe that I’m not a good- enough writer for the Big 5? When these thoughts threaten to overwhelm me, I’m reminded of a story that one of my workshop leaders likes to tell. He had taught a famous writer as an undergrad, and he’s often asked whether that writer was the most talented person he’d taught. His answer is no; the most talented person had bad luck and then just gave up.
We all know what luck is, but what constitutes talent? I often hear the saying that success is hard work plus luck, but where does talent fit into that equation? Most of us think of talent as being given by God or nature. My son played a lot of baseball growing up; in that sport there’s a saying: “Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.” My son worked very hard but he wasn’t talented enough, and there were enough talented players that did work hard that he was unable to progress. (And while the talented ones who didn’t work hard got farther in the short run, in the long run they are worse off than he is now.)
When my son stopped succeeded and started struggling in baseball, it was so painful that I had to “unfollow” other baseball parents whose sons were still progressing in the sport. Likewise, now when I go on Facebook and I see friends celebrating long-term marriages or publishing contracts, I can’t help asking why them and not me. What’s wrong with me, my voice, my stories that I’m not worth publishing or holding onto? Is this something I can fix? Or maybe there’s nothing wrong at all; I just haven’t found the right publisher or person.
Or maybe I just use too many semi-colons.
I may not ever get that publishing contract. I might not ever be in a long-term relationship again. But I can rewrite my personal definition of success.
Right now it’s: “I never gave up.”
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
How Match.Com and Realtor.Com are essentially the same thing
I’ve been a realtor for almost five years now, but it wasn’t until I began internet dating and put my own house on the market at the same time that I realized how very similar shopping for a new house online was to finding a new mate via Match.com or OKCupid. The internet should make these things easier; instead, it leads to exponentially more choices, more confusion, and more heartbreak…
Step One: The Pictures. You’re scrolling on Zillow or Match and you stop short when you see them. A white picket fence around the lawn. A smile that goes all the way to the ears. Your heart beats faster. This could be the one!
Step Two: The Contact. Excited texts and phone calls are exchanged. Everyone seems eager to meet! The first meeting is scheduled right away. You stress about what to wear, how early to arrive. Even though it’s early, you can’t help but plan ahead…. Commitments, time line, change of address… is it too soon to tell all your friends?
Step Three: The meeting. To be honest, it’s not exactly what you hoped for. You knew the pictures online were staged, but you weren’t expecting this. Still, nothing and no one’s perfect and you can’t be that picky. And everyone’s saying the right things… the master bedroom is amazing. We both love Star Wars! We’ll be in touch real soon!
Step Four. No one gets in touch. Should you text something casual… “just checking in?” Should you be more direct… “Will you be submitting an offer? Do you want to go to the new Spiderman movie?” No. You won’t. Because if they were really interested, you’d be hearing from them. Sigh… Thank you, next…
Step Five. Someone liked the pictures! They’re texting to set up a meeting! It’s so exciting!
Step Six. Repeat steps one through four as necessary.
Step Seven. After much trial and error, now you know the difference between what you can change/what will change (the tile in the kitchen; kids who live at home) and what you cannot change/what will not change (too close to a busy highway; he’s a Scientologist). You’ve made your choice. It’s not perfect, but what is? Congratulations as you move into a lovely future!
Check out my listing on Zillow!
Step One: The Pictures. You’re scrolling on Zillow or Match and you stop short when you see them. A white picket fence around the lawn. A smile that goes all the way to the ears. Your heart beats faster. This could be the one!
Step Two: The Contact. Excited texts and phone calls are exchanged. Everyone seems eager to meet! The first meeting is scheduled right away. You stress about what to wear, how early to arrive. Even though it’s early, you can’t help but plan ahead…. Commitments, time line, change of address… is it too soon to tell all your friends?
Step Three: The meeting. To be honest, it’s not exactly what you hoped for. You knew the pictures online were staged, but you weren’t expecting this. Still, nothing and no one’s perfect and you can’t be that picky. And everyone’s saying the right things… the master bedroom is amazing. We both love Star Wars! We’ll be in touch real soon!
Step Four. No one gets in touch. Should you text something casual… “just checking in?” Should you be more direct… “Will you be submitting an offer? Do you want to go to the new Spiderman movie?” No. You won’t. Because if they were really interested, you’d be hearing from them. Sigh… Thank you, next…
Step Five. Someone liked the pictures! They’re texting to set up a meeting! It’s so exciting!
Step Six. Repeat steps one through four as necessary.
Step Seven. After much trial and error, now you know the difference between what you can change/what will change (the tile in the kitchen; kids who live at home) and what you cannot change/what will not change (too close to a busy highway; he’s a Scientologist). You’ve made your choice. It’s not perfect, but what is? Congratulations as you move into a lovely future!
Check out my listing on Zillow!
Monday, August 13, 2018
Dispatches from Heartbreak Hotel
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I’m here for you.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
We’ve all said those words at one time or another to a friend or family member who was in pain. I’ve said them myself, many times. But it wasn’t until my husband of nearly 30 years walked out on me, telling me he wanted a divorce as soon as possible because “women don’t date separated men” and to sell the house right away, that I realized firsthand how inadequate those words actually are.
In many ways, I’m very lucky. My son is healthy; I’m healthy, there’s money in the bank and eventually I’ll be okay. But this is the most painful thing that has ever happened to me. It left me crying in a ball on the floor. The day it happened, I was able to call one friend who dropped everything to come over. After I sent a hysterical text later that night, another friend arranged an evening out with a few others. A third friend, whom texted wanting a dinner date with my husband and me, dragged me out of the house a few days later and watched when I could only eat a few spoonfuls of soup. Another friend, who was supposed to watch our dog on the vacation my husband canceled behind my back, spent that weekend with me instead. (I am extremely lucky that I have so many friends.)
I announced the news on Facebook a few days after he left, after it took a few days to track down my mother to tell her directly. I got a lot of replies like the ones above.
I ignored all of them. I concentrated on the folks who called, who sent gifts, who texted at the start of the day and then at the end. And now that I’m coming through it, this is what I’ve learned:
People in enormous pain are too broken to reach out to you to ask for help, or tell you what you can do. It’s the people who call us, who stop by and make plans and don’t take no for an answer that fill that need. If you don’t contact us, we won’t contact you.
On the other hand, too much contact is overwhelming. Don’t feel bad if you’re not one of those who can stop by and sit with a hysterical person. Most people have enough friends and family that having to constantly answer texts, phone calls, etc. with the same story just makes the pain all that worse. Of course, if you know that your friend only has a small circle to rely on, be one of the people who comes over.
Do not call to offer support and then make the conversation all about your problems. Listen, offer words of comfort, bring dinner, let her cry. But complaining about your own marriage or job situation to someone in enormous pain is worse than not calling at all. Don’t do it.
Don’t expect your friend to have the energy for normal activities that you might have enjoyed engaging in together. Pain is physically exhausting. If all she wants to do is sit on the couch, sit with her.
Don’t ask her for any favors. Some days getting up in the morning takes everything she has.
Don’t expect her to hold her tongue if you act like a jerk. Her nerves are frayed raw and she’s not able to maintain a polite fiction if you minimize her situation.
Make sure your friend has plans on weekend nights. Those evenings are the hardest of the week to be home alone.
My life is like living inside a tornado. Less than a month ago, I thought I’d be with this man for the rest of my life. Now I’m closing on a new house in two weeks, moving the first day of September, and will probably be divorced by my 51st birthday. It’s incredibly painful, so exhausting, but it’s also like ripping off a Band-Aid. I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. Again, I know I’m so much luckier than so many others who’ve gone through this, or worse. I have friends who came out of the woodwork to stand by me who’ll be an important part of my life forever. I’ll do anything for them. And there are friends I barely heard from. No hard feelings there, but it’s good to know who you can count on and who you can’t.
There are a lot of people in a lot of pain in this world. If you can be the kind of friend they need, they’ll never forget it.
“I’m here for you.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
We’ve all said those words at one time or another to a friend or family member who was in pain. I’ve said them myself, many times. But it wasn’t until my husband of nearly 30 years walked out on me, telling me he wanted a divorce as soon as possible because “women don’t date separated men” and to sell the house right away, that I realized firsthand how inadequate those words actually are.
In many ways, I’m very lucky. My son is healthy; I’m healthy, there’s money in the bank and eventually I’ll be okay. But this is the most painful thing that has ever happened to me. It left me crying in a ball on the floor. The day it happened, I was able to call one friend who dropped everything to come over. After I sent a hysterical text later that night, another friend arranged an evening out with a few others. A third friend, whom texted wanting a dinner date with my husband and me, dragged me out of the house a few days later and watched when I could only eat a few spoonfuls of soup. Another friend, who was supposed to watch our dog on the vacation my husband canceled behind my back, spent that weekend with me instead. (I am extremely lucky that I have so many friends.)
I announced the news on Facebook a few days after he left, after it took a few days to track down my mother to tell her directly. I got a lot of replies like the ones above.
I ignored all of them. I concentrated on the folks who called, who sent gifts, who texted at the start of the day and then at the end. And now that I’m coming through it, this is what I’ve learned:
People in enormous pain are too broken to reach out to you to ask for help, or tell you what you can do. It’s the people who call us, who stop by and make plans and don’t take no for an answer that fill that need. If you don’t contact us, we won’t contact you.
On the other hand, too much contact is overwhelming. Don’t feel bad if you’re not one of those who can stop by and sit with a hysterical person. Most people have enough friends and family that having to constantly answer texts, phone calls, etc. with the same story just makes the pain all that worse. Of course, if you know that your friend only has a small circle to rely on, be one of the people who comes over.
Do not call to offer support and then make the conversation all about your problems. Listen, offer words of comfort, bring dinner, let her cry. But complaining about your own marriage or job situation to someone in enormous pain is worse than not calling at all. Don’t do it.
Don’t expect your friend to have the energy for normal activities that you might have enjoyed engaging in together. Pain is physically exhausting. If all she wants to do is sit on the couch, sit with her.
Don’t ask her for any favors. Some days getting up in the morning takes everything she has.
Don’t expect her to hold her tongue if you act like a jerk. Her nerves are frayed raw and she’s not able to maintain a polite fiction if you minimize her situation.
Make sure your friend has plans on weekend nights. Those evenings are the hardest of the week to be home alone.
My life is like living inside a tornado. Less than a month ago, I thought I’d be with this man for the rest of my life. Now I’m closing on a new house in two weeks, moving the first day of September, and will probably be divorced by my 51st birthday. It’s incredibly painful, so exhausting, but it’s also like ripping off a Band-Aid. I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. Again, I know I’m so much luckier than so many others who’ve gone through this, or worse. I have friends who came out of the woodwork to stand by me who’ll be an important part of my life forever. I’ll do anything for them. And there are friends I barely heard from. No hard feelings there, but it’s good to know who you can count on and who you can’t.
There are a lot of people in a lot of pain in this world. If you can be the kind of friend they need, they’ll never forget it.
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
If She Were Your Child
Jewish kids learn about the Holocaust really early. Not in school, Hebrew or otherwise, but at first by eavesdropping on whispers of elderly relatives at Passover seders. In shul, during Kaddish. We are brought up to know both the horror of what happened to others like us, and the appreciation that we were born in a time and in a country where we were free from fear that we would be targeted, even killed, over our religion. Still, I don’t know of any Jewish kids who didn’t play the “what if” game, who didn’t imagine themselves in 1930s Berlin.
I learned about the St. Louis late enough that I can still feel the tingle of horror that went down my spine when I read that the USA—my country! The good guys!—sent a shipload of Jews back to Europe to die. And that we had quotas forbidding them to emigrate here. That Otto Frank was denied safe passage to the U.S. for his family. That the U.S. government was infested—I use this word deliberately—with anti-Semites; that heroic FDR himself disdained Jews. That we knew about the concentrate camps and still decided not to bomb the railroad tracks leading to them. Knowing this, it became easier and easier to imagine myself as a girl, trapped on that ship, no way out, sent to die.
Today, there are many countries in turmoil. Their people are poor, their governments can’t meet their needs, and some of their citizens have turned to heinous crimes to support themselves or because growing up in such cruelty breeds cruelty. Others are doing everything they can to escape these countries; to give themselves and their children a chance of a better life in the U.S. This has been going on for years, and it’s getting worse.
Yes, parents have sent their children unaccompanied to the U.S., hoping they would reach the country safely. Jewish parents in Europe in the 1930s did this as well. These kids have been detained at the border. It’s a horrible mess, but what waited for those kids in their home countries was even worse.
What would you do if she were your child? What would you do if your country was burning down around you, and you only had enough money to get your child to the relative safety of the neighboring country up north, the land of the free and the home of the brave? Would you be brave enough to send her alone?
Or maybe you’re “lucky” enough to have enough money, enough resources, that you can make the trip together. You know if you can just make it to the border, you can tell the border guard that in your home town, your brother was killed by gang members, and they said they would kill you and your daughter if you didn’t sell drugs for them. You made it this far, barely surviving, so you can claim asylum and try to start over in a country where you have nothing, know no one and barely know the language. (Yes, I know that some folks claiming asylum are members of these same gangs. We are supposed to have a process to sort them out.)
Sadly, while you were on your perilous journey, you didn’t get the memo that the Justice Department had declared “zero tolerance” for asylum seekers; that you would be assumed to be a criminal, jailed, and your daughter would be taken away from you to live in a “tender ages” shelter, where there is no system for insuring you’d ever be reunited again. Oh, and the Justice Department has unilaterally decided that gang persecution and domestic violence are no longer reasons to be granted asylum, so you’ll probably be sent back home to die. And maybe you’re even at peace with that, because you did what you came here to do, got your daughter to safety, and maybe she’ll be adopted by an American family. In any case, you’ll never know what happened to her. You won’t know that the months she waited in a place that some have described as a “summer camp,” where adults were forbidden to comfort her cries and teenagers taught themselves how to change her diaper, have damaged her forever. She’ll never be able to trust anyone again, never be able to form a healthy attachment, because in her young mind, her mother abandoned her.
There are two types of people in this world: There are the people who see that mom from Honduras and say, there, but for the grace of God, go I. I don’t know if it’s because I’m Jewish and was raised on the stories of Anne Frank and others, or because God made me a writer with the unquenchable thirst to know and feel the stories of every person I came in contact with. But I read about these people and I wonder if I could be strong enough to make this journey.
There are also people in this world who don’t see themselves in other people; who see them as literally “other.” The worst of them call them “cockroaches;” say that they “infest” America, that laugh at the cries of these children. The better of them argue logically that these kids were jailed during the Obama Administration, that there is enough going on in our country that we need to take care of our own first, that there just isn’t enough money to help, that their countries are hopeless and we need to keep their crime from our borders.
I’m not going to pretend I have any answers. There are no easy ones, and I’m not informed enough to make policy proposals. All I’m left with are feelings—that our country is broken, owned completely by those who value their own bottom line above everything else. That our world is broken, as too many live in poverty and violence and too few want to spend the time and money to help them. That our souls are broken, as too many see what’s happening and say it’s not their problem because it’s not their children.
I’m so ashamed of what our country has become. I’m so terrified that the worst is yet to come.
I learned about the St. Louis late enough that I can still feel the tingle of horror that went down my spine when I read that the USA—my country! The good guys!—sent a shipload of Jews back to Europe to die. And that we had quotas forbidding them to emigrate here. That Otto Frank was denied safe passage to the U.S. for his family. That the U.S. government was infested—I use this word deliberately—with anti-Semites; that heroic FDR himself disdained Jews. That we knew about the concentrate camps and still decided not to bomb the railroad tracks leading to them. Knowing this, it became easier and easier to imagine myself as a girl, trapped on that ship, no way out, sent to die.
Today, there are many countries in turmoil. Their people are poor, their governments can’t meet their needs, and some of their citizens have turned to heinous crimes to support themselves or because growing up in such cruelty breeds cruelty. Others are doing everything they can to escape these countries; to give themselves and their children a chance of a better life in the U.S. This has been going on for years, and it’s getting worse.
Yes, parents have sent their children unaccompanied to the U.S., hoping they would reach the country safely. Jewish parents in Europe in the 1930s did this as well. These kids have been detained at the border. It’s a horrible mess, but what waited for those kids in their home countries was even worse.
What would you do if she were your child? What would you do if your country was burning down around you, and you only had enough money to get your child to the relative safety of the neighboring country up north, the land of the free and the home of the brave? Would you be brave enough to send her alone?
Or maybe you’re “lucky” enough to have enough money, enough resources, that you can make the trip together. You know if you can just make it to the border, you can tell the border guard that in your home town, your brother was killed by gang members, and they said they would kill you and your daughter if you didn’t sell drugs for them. You made it this far, barely surviving, so you can claim asylum and try to start over in a country where you have nothing, know no one and barely know the language. (Yes, I know that some folks claiming asylum are members of these same gangs. We are supposed to have a process to sort them out.)
Sadly, while you were on your perilous journey, you didn’t get the memo that the Justice Department had declared “zero tolerance” for asylum seekers; that you would be assumed to be a criminal, jailed, and your daughter would be taken away from you to live in a “tender ages” shelter, where there is no system for insuring you’d ever be reunited again. Oh, and the Justice Department has unilaterally decided that gang persecution and domestic violence are no longer reasons to be granted asylum, so you’ll probably be sent back home to die. And maybe you’re even at peace with that, because you did what you came here to do, got your daughter to safety, and maybe she’ll be adopted by an American family. In any case, you’ll never know what happened to her. You won’t know that the months she waited in a place that some have described as a “summer camp,” where adults were forbidden to comfort her cries and teenagers taught themselves how to change her diaper, have damaged her forever. She’ll never be able to trust anyone again, never be able to form a healthy attachment, because in her young mind, her mother abandoned her.
There are two types of people in this world: There are the people who see that mom from Honduras and say, there, but for the grace of God, go I. I don’t know if it’s because I’m Jewish and was raised on the stories of Anne Frank and others, or because God made me a writer with the unquenchable thirst to know and feel the stories of every person I came in contact with. But I read about these people and I wonder if I could be strong enough to make this journey.
There are also people in this world who don’t see themselves in other people; who see them as literally “other.” The worst of them call them “cockroaches;” say that they “infest” America, that laugh at the cries of these children. The better of them argue logically that these kids were jailed during the Obama Administration, that there is enough going on in our country that we need to take care of our own first, that there just isn’t enough money to help, that their countries are hopeless and we need to keep their crime from our borders.
I’m not going to pretend I have any answers. There are no easy ones, and I’m not informed enough to make policy proposals. All I’m left with are feelings—that our country is broken, owned completely by those who value their own bottom line above everything else. That our world is broken, as too many live in poverty and violence and too few want to spend the time and money to help them. That our souls are broken, as too many see what’s happening and say it’s not their problem because it’s not their children.
I’m so ashamed of what our country has become. I’m so terrified that the worst is yet to come.
Friday, June 15, 2018
Then suddenly…
The popular television show M*A*S*H had an episode in one of its later seasons where everyone in camp was reading the same murder mystery – The Rooster Crowed at Midnight—passing around chapters and getting into it… only to discover that the last page was missing. No one knew who did it and everyone was going nuts. Finally they managed to track down the author via telephone call back to the U.S.
I don’t remember who did it. But that’s not the point. The point is, readers are desperate for an ending. They want to know what happened; they made it through the beginning and middle; now give us an ending, dammit.
Just this past week, I read two separate books in completely different genres where the author stopped rather than ended it. In both instances, right in the middle of the scene, leaving the reader dangling, wondering yes or no.
Why on God’s green earth would anyone do this?
This is not fun for the reader. This doesn’t make us lean back and imagine the ending the author declined to provide. This pisses us off.
I currently write domestic thrillers. Suppose I just end my latest one, leaving my protagonist on the floor staring into the killer eyes of the person who did it, realizing with her last gasp of consciousness that it was—
The end. Roll credits.
No. This is sadistic. This is mean. This is a good one to encourage readers not to read your next book.
Perhaps the yes ending is too happy and the no ending too depressing. Too bad. Craft a yes ending with an ominous caveat; give us a no ending with a note of hope. You’re a writer. It can be done.
Next week’s winning Powerball number are
I don’t remember who did it. But that’s not the point. The point is, readers are desperate for an ending. They want to know what happened; they made it through the beginning and middle; now give us an ending, dammit.
Just this past week, I read two separate books in completely different genres where the author stopped rather than ended it. In both instances, right in the middle of the scene, leaving the reader dangling, wondering yes or no.
Why on God’s green earth would anyone do this?
This is not fun for the reader. This doesn’t make us lean back and imagine the ending the author declined to provide. This pisses us off.
I currently write domestic thrillers. Suppose I just end my latest one, leaving my protagonist on the floor staring into the killer eyes of the person who did it, realizing with her last gasp of consciousness that it was—
The end. Roll credits.
No. This is sadistic. This is mean. This is a good one to encourage readers not to read your next book.
Perhaps the yes ending is too happy and the no ending too depressing. Too bad. Craft a yes ending with an ominous caveat; give us a no ending with a note of hope. You’re a writer. It can be done.
Next week’s winning Powerball number are
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