Archive for July, 2011

I have the yearn to focus on this area of my life.  My husband seemed to rebel against it.  Our couple hood could not support my want of this habit. 

In this family, there was really no room, for any helping. 

His response for my expressed need in this area (I thought) was often irritatingly trite and demeaning. 

I was continually reminded, “Jodi, don’t you understand, charity, begins at home.”

The struggle was too much.  I didn’t have the energy for this continual fight. I had to pick and choose my battles.  I was worn and frayed dealing with my day to day issues with this man.  I had no energy to fight for any cause that existed outside of our home. 

This is, to you, my pathetic excuse. 

I figured out how to feed my charity addiction.  I lived vicariously though my sister.  At her home I could breathe her second hand smoke.  She dealt out all kinds of causes.  This is what made her so exciting and fun.  She lived in a junkie flop house full of characters, events and parties. 

The girls and I would often cop a spot. People rotated in and out.  There were ball players, exchange students, priests and nuns.  Foreigners frequented her house.  There was always a game of cards or spoons.  Her husband Dan became addicted to her drugs.  Jen was always coordinating, packaging and delivering something soothing to someone.  Dinners, drinks, snacks, and baby blankets were bundled and packed.  She did all of these things, worked on her MBA, took care of my niece and nephew, enrolled in classes at the Y and still was the source of my number one fix.

The girls and I became hooked.

I secretly took this habit to work.  I found I could hide my addiction from Mr. P. during work hours.  I knew it was only fair to disclose my addiction to my business partner.  We discussed the parameters of any use.  My partner agreed with the concept of a humanity fix.  It was O.K. that I took that bottle to work.  I found my enabler and my excuse.  I didn’t have to hide it under any desk.

I handed out pro bono divorces. 

That drug made me sick.   

(People who do not pay for a divorce have little motivation to try and settle their disputes). 

I tried the next best thing.  

Pro bono bankruptcies. 

I find that is a pretty good high.  

(I still do those now and again).

My need and want for the next best thing was increasing.  So I decided to try God’s Kitchen.  I also went down to the shelter on Division.  I worked Veteran’s park in the winter time.  I would find myself staring into the faces of older middle aged men.  I start to feel a little uncomfortable in sharing too much with them.  I wonder what violence or sex crime they could be capable of.

I cannot help but wonder what woman they have violated, hit or abused.

I don’t do any more for any homeless man–especially with the girls in tow.

But my vein has this need.  I fully understand the plight and dilemma of a young mother.  I know what it is to buried alive. 

Try digging out of that hole with a teaspoon.

See how long you can stand in that snow drift barefoot with no overcoat. 

It’s more enlightening than Econ 101. 

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My friend Dave suggests that for me to truly understand the sweet it was necessary for me to taste that bitter. 

I am still trying to get bitter out of my mouth. 

I am really trying to work on my brokenheartedness, hate and frustration. 

 I am doing this the best way that I can.  I am really trying hard not to poison my girls. 

I am trying to open my eyes as well as my heart.

Amy tells me there are really nice guys out there.

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Maybe that is why the cosmic strings have pulled me toward this new group of women.  They help young mothers.  They have sought me out.  I think I can be of some assistance.  I hope I can motivate that young stripper to consider other options.   I know it’s not going to be easy.  They basically all come uneducated, unemployed or working that minimum wage job.  I am finding they all have tatooed and pierced loser boyfriends.  They share their DNA with dead beat dads.  Most of their cars don’t run, there are never enough diapers and just not enough milk. 

There is the need for PPO paperwork,  paternity complaints, motions for DNA testing and requests for increased child support.

It’s starting to sound way too familiar.   My time in that law library can be of benefit.

I know I have turned my teaspoon into a shovel. 

Maybe I can help and motivate these girls to do the same.

According to Merriam-Webster it is:

2. a : one of the attributes or features that make up and distinguish an individual b (1) : a feature used to separate distinguishable things into categories; also : a group or kind so separated <advertising of a very primitive character> (2) : the detectable expression of the action of a gene or group of genes (3) : the aggregate of distinctive qualities characteristic of a breed, strain, or type <a wine of great character> c : the complex of mental and ethical traits marking and often individualizing a person, group, or nation <the character of the American people> d : main or essential nature especially as strongly marked and serving to distinguish <excess sewage gradually changed the character of the lake>
3. position, capacity <his character as a town official>
5. reputation <the scandal has damaged his character and image>
6: moral excellence and firmness <a man of sound character>
7 a : a person marked by notable or conspicuous traits <quite a character> b : one of the persons of a drama or novel c : the personality or part which an actor recreates <an actress who can create a character convincingly> d : characterization especially in drama or fiction e : person, individual <a suspicious character>
8 : a short literary sketch of the qualities of a social type — char·ac·ter·less \-lÉ™?s\ adjective — in character : in accord with a person’s usual qualities or traits <behaving in character> — out of character : not in accord with a person’s usual qualities or traits <his rudeness was completely out of character>

Origin of CHARACTER
Middle English caracter, from Latin character mark, distinctive quality,from Greek charaktēer, from charassein to scratch, engrave; perhaps akin to Lithuanian žerti to scratch
First Known Use: 14th century

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I think about my character all the time.  I analyze the character of others all the time.  I look for the good.  I find myself making excuses or rationalizing away flaws in others.  I find this need to come up with logical reasons that fit a behavior to explain the bad.   I am the type that needs answers to my questions. 
I like to think we all have a common goal.  That we are all inherently good and want to improve ourselves.

Who doesn’t want to be the best that they can be?  Why wouldn’t you want to self-sacrifice and help others?

I love characters in books.  I am learning how to write and form characters in my stories.  I look for traits and flaws.  I wonder about the people around me.  What is the make up of their character? For the most part I find people forgivable and endearing.   It has taken me about eleven years to learn how to read clients.  I get better and better at it on every file and every case.  I learn how to read a judge or another attorney’s face.

I still have to remind myself that there are people inherently toxic, selfish, self-centered and truly evil.

In pondering all of this Pat Conroy must have been thinking the same thing when he wrote sections of his South of Broad.  It is beautifully written and I fell in love with this section when I read it:

“How do I know if I can trust you?”

“You don’t.  You got to look at me.  Study me, and come to some
decision about me.  Is this a man I want to charge the sniper’s nest
with, or a Judas who will sell his soul for thirty pieces of silver?
Or is this a Simon who will help Jesus carry the cross up to Calvary?
You got to make a decision about me.  And you got to do it fast.”

So I ask you the reader: Who are you?  Are you the leader of the snipers?  A Judas?  A Simon?
Are you trustworthy?  How do I know?  How can I tell?  What is it that I am supposed to do?  Do I take one look, close my eyes and just leap?

I really try to figure all of this out.  I look to the person’s occupation.  I look at the person’s family history.  I look to hear what other’s have to say about this person.  I even ask the person directly. 

I am wondering who is this person—really?

In my personal life I am not so good in figuring out a man’s character.  I know we are all on our best behavior when we date.  It’s the daily contact that grinds like sandpaper.  When we are all tired, hungry, and had a long day at work when our inner monsters come out.   

It’s when you are changing a flat tire and out of frustration a can of fix-a-flat has been chucked at your head.

I have a monster too–I know it’s not very big and it rarely comes out.  So small that it won’t even chuck the can of fix-a- flat back.

Ultimately, I close my eyes and try to feel the character of the person.  I ask my inner voice what it has to say. 

  
My Jen tells me I need to learn how to pour a beer over a man’s head.  My Kate tells me I need to start on the premise that all people are evil until they prove otherwise.  The problem I have is even when I turn to punch my self defense instructor in the face all he can do is laugh.   “Everyone Look!  It’s Monty Python’s killer rabbit.”

I am not mean.  I can’t pull it off.

They know me.  My cuteness and goodness  become character flaws.  These traits are used against me.  The line in the sand can be erased, discussed, redrawn and negotiated.   

My professor friend suggested it really is Darwin at work.  Our ability to look at people and decide if they are healthy or not.  He explains that once you get past the packaging we have to see if the product is going to make us sick. 

I am kept wondering when I am going to have the allergic reaction.

So I ask the professor: “Who are you really?” Are you the leader of the snipers?  A Judas?  A Simon?

He just simply answers, “I am a professor.”

I resign.  I acknowledge that I am flawed in the Darwin department.  I need product labels that show me content.  I need ingredients listed.  I need expiration dates.  I am convinced that somewhere in my gene pool I was gypped.  

Unless warned otherwise, I am the little girl that would help the serial killer find his lost dog.

I don’t want to waste a perfectly good beer by dumping it over someone’s head.  They aren’t worth my time nor the effort.  I want a graceful exit out.  

I just have never had the desire to key a car, pour sugar in a gas tank or punch someone in the face.  Darwin did not give me that kind of nature. 

So I understand that I need to go about self -correcting.  I think I should be like Lisabeth Salander and carry a hammer in my purse.

I wonder if I use my words if that would help.  I could wear a F.U.C.K. Y.O.U. tee-shirt.  I wonder if that would convince, be of some assistance, or help.

I doubt it. 

My shirt would be pink and white.  The profanity would be written in glitter.