Knee Jerk Emotion and Other New Year's Eve Activity

It’s New Year’s Eve and I’m trying to relax at home with my family on a particularly cold night.

I’ve spent the last few days trying to convince myself that as soon as the year ends, I need to find the strength to turn the page.

So writing a blog was the furthest thing from my mind until I read a blog from a fellow writer. She has one of those personalities that make it tough to see the depth of her pain. And I have long suspected she is the closest to an example of a true textbook optimist.

This is a good thing in my opinion. I am, on the other hand, the kind of textbook pessimist; the kind that move shrinks to prescription pads. That attitude helped me do my job over the years

So it was this blog, in which this open-hearted young woman talks about a physical wound that would not heal, that briefly caught my ire. It was her C-Section scar; the one that should have taken weeks to heal but instead took months.

Being one of her followers, I understood what that child means to her. She has written openly about the difficult loss of a pregnancy. I understand there was a great deal of sacrifice on her and her husband’s part to have this child. I am fortunate to be a mother. My life would be empty without my son.

But my initial reaction to her blog was a selfish one. My anger bubbled. I sat back in my chair as tears welled. Why? Some of us have suffered a great deal more than a f*ck*ng scar, I thought.

I can still feel the emotion that rushed through me the minute my company cut my job and the jobs of hundreds of my fellow co-workers, editors and writers. My husband did not have steady work then. It felt as if my insides collapsed. And the only thing I could think is, what will become of my family? My son?

I haven’t gotten a dream job. Instead I’ve been met with stoic faces and sterile business offices. What’s worse than that? I was used to open doors. Now I hit send buttons to email addresses or web addresses. Feedback is getting an acknowledgement that the application was received.

A tough year in my life is defined pulling my son out of his recreation swim classes, county soccer program (which we were able to return to thanks to a friend) and hockey lessons for lack of money.

A tough year in my house is defined by the number of:

• Calls we get from creditors day in, day out.
• The number of holes in my g*dd*mned sneakers before I spent money I did not have to replace them with ones special I found.
• Night’s I’ve sat up crying, praying or simply pacing because I’m out of tears.
• Of rejection letters and emails that assure me I was qualified but they would proceed with other candidates, “but please reapply.”

How much tougher can it get? The truth is, much tougher. And I have not had it much tougher than that. Others have.

A long time ago, the television show “Ally McBeal” had a curious line. When asked by a friend what made her problems bigger than those of others, Ally responded, “They’re mine.”

I hold my troubles close to the vest. And the other columnist? Her troubles are deeply hers and no less painful.

When I step back, I realize how blessed I actually am. We’ve had the loving emotional support of family who has come to our aid, helping to give us a Christmas. My mother-in-law who did everything in her power to make sure her grandson did not suffer, a father-in-law who went to the ends of the earth to find a new tire rim when misfortune struck our car. I have two sisters who fed us during the holidays

I had a friend who handed me cash. CASH. She cleverly suggested I opened her Christmas card at home. I find what in my mind was a staggering amount of cash. I have friends who send me emails with job suggestions and lift me up.

I have a son who rarely if ever complains. I have a husband who holds me when I cry and cheers the loudest when I succeed. We enjoyed a fireworks show for free thanks to our great city and several amazing events at our school, also free.

We’ve enjoyed holiday events, book fairs, even Christmas lights free of charge thanks to the generous nature of local neighborhoods, businesses, shopping malls, cities and our libraries.

And I kick off next year with a return to my college counselor and a job interview.

We are blessed. Perhaps I’ve just allowed myself to get too beaten down. Perhaps I’ve been defined by my problems for too long.

It might just be time to turn the page.

The Homeless Aren't Who We Think They Are

A recent viral video caught my eye the other day.

It was from a young documentarian who gave a homeless man $100 and then followed him. The filmmaker and his crew watched the man go into a liquor store, walk out and head to a local park where he started handing out food he had purchased with the money.

“You thought I was going to get all smacked up drunk?” the man said to the filmmaker who confronted him. The young man apologized and admitted he really did believe he was going to buy alcohol or drugs. But what he found was that the less fortunate man was one of many families who fall into homelessness despite their best efforts.

In reality, before becoming homeless the man had quit his job to take care of his ill elderly parents. They would eventually die and creditors took the home he had shared with them.

Ours is a story of a profession amid tumult. We’re starting over. And that has left us in total limbo and facing homelessness. Today especially has hastened our slide toward homelessness. What has been happening to us seems almost impossible, perhaps implausible.

This year family gave us money as a Christmas gift specifically for the purchase of clothes. With a rare sense of calm, we climbed into our small compact car to head to after Christmas sales to find much needed pants. As we pulled onto the main street, a light signaling low tire pressure signaled a problem with a tire. But the pressure it was signaling was a normal low for a cold, brisk morning.

So head headed toward a gas station to find an air pump. By the time we got to the pump, the pressure had gone down significantly much to our surprise. At the gas station, he checked the tires and found one completely flat.

We were stunned. We became confused after finding a finger-sized hole in one of the tires.

You can guess by now that our hearts sank. I wanted to cry but could not. I’m out of tears. We slowly moved the vehicle a short distance to a Costco tire center. We still have a membership there that our family also paid for.

My husband paid just over $200 for two new front tires. And with that, we lost the Christmas clothes money and then some. We walked around Costco snacking of samples while waiting for the tire center to let us know the job was done.

When they called, it was with more bad news. Workers said they could not replace the tire because the rim had somehow been bent severely enough that the tire itself was not holding air. I felt a deep sadness overwhelm me.

My husband again called family who fortunately have a background in mechanics to relay the news.

The tone of voice from our relative, he would tell me later, sounded like they could not believe what they were being told.

“It wasn’t said, but I think (the family member) was close to saying that if it wasn’t for bad luck, we wouldn’t have any luck at all,” my husband told me later.

We gave out a few precious gifts for Christmas this year. It was a careful balance to give those out as it was. We survived thanks to the generous nature of family and friends. My son received gifts thanks to family, Santa Claus Inc. and an incredibly kind gift from a close friend who wanted to make sure he had a good Christmas.

With this car problem, the rent money we had struggled to gather may not be complete anymore. How much will it cost us to get a new rim? I don’t know. It could be $40 or $200. We don’t know. But this could be the last hurrah.

Before today, my husband and I had held on the hope that we would make it at least through January. Now we’re not sure what’s going to happen.

I often replay in my head is what a small business owner once said to me when I asked him if he had any job openings. He told me he had once had financial difficulties and had to briefly move into his parent’s home. “It was the best thing that happened to me,” he said.

Here’s the problem with that. My parents are both dead. Most of my extended family lives in another country. My younger siblings are struggling financially. One rents a room from a family. Another is married and the couple is raising three children in a two-bedroom apartment. They are packed tightly.

My in-laws are older and unable house us in their home. Another set of in-laws have a nice home but have cats which my son and I are seriously allergic to.

A fourth family member has a home we might be able to move into. But she lives so far away from where we currently live, that I would be forced to give up the 15 hours of work I was finally able to get. It would leave us without a single bit of income. In reality, all of our relatives live far from where we live. We ended up moving far from them in an effort to follow where the work was.

Of course there is a deeper truth at play here. Every single one of the households I mentioned is financially strained right now without exceptions. Taking in another entire family is a large commitment that my husband and I don’t want to heap on anyone.

Dear reader, imagine having to take in a full family yourself. What kind of adjustments would you have to make? Imagine that you were doing it while someone else in your immediate family was already in poor health, facing surgery, difficulties at work or unemployment.

Each one of those households I mentioned is facing one of those scenarios. Moving back with parents is not an option. While there is an option of living with siblings, it certainly would be an added strain for them.

But there is one other choice, which is the most viable, our car. Hopefully it will be in running condition of course.

Even then, I doubt I will panhandle the way the man in the documentary did. I’ve been told it’s a good way to make money. But it’s hard to think that I worked so hard to complete all my college course work so I would end up begging for change anyway.

More importantly, who is going to believe that I am in need? Who’s going to believe that it was a set of circumstances beyond my control that landed me smack in the middle of homelessness? I doubt I’m going to have a filmmaker follow me around. I wouldn’t be that lucky.

Honestly, if it weren’t for bad luck, we wouldn’t have any luck at all.

Reaching a Tipping Point

Desperation came to a Subway sandwich today in my small inland city.

The lady in the pink T-shirt was blond and thin and she was yelling.

“I’ve been out in the streets,” she loudly announced to everyone. “I can’t do it anymore.”

The pace of her diatribe was frenetic and mostly directed at two very young Subway Sandwich employees who stared back in disbelief. A man owed her money, she said. She needed a job, she said. She hated politicians and blamed the president for ruining the country, she said. She vowed never to vote again.

As she spoke, one of the workers, a young man no older than 21 reached into the employee tip jar and offered her $2. There was not much in the jar though he may have gotten more through electronic credit/debit card tips.

That brought the lady in pink’s polemic to a brief halt.

“No,” she said. “You’re a kid. I’m old enough to be your mother. I’ll earn it myself.”

I held back tears. After she had gone I pulled out a few quarters and handed them to the young man. I told him admired his gesture.

I suggested maybe she was ill, maybe not. Maybe she was serious, maybe not. What I did know was how she felt. Only recently had I found a job that offered just a couple of hours a day at minimum wage. It wasn’t near enough to survive but I was fortunate to have it, I told him.

“Maybe,” he answered. “But she filled out a job application and she got a quiz given on the back correct so she’s very smart.”

That woman’s words and her actions weigh heavily on me most of the day. The general sense is that things are improving but in my small segment of the world, some of us are sliding backwards.

I had never seen the woman in pink before she burst into the tiny Subway tucked away in a non-descript commercial center and hidden behind auto body shops.

But hers is far from the only tale of woe I’ve heard over the last few weeks.

So far:

·      A relative was laid off

·      A friend was laid off

·      Another friend is facing eviction

·      Another relative found herself desperately short of what she needed to make a home payment

·      Another relative was forced to quit her job and give up meager earnings because the cost of daycare for her two children became too much.

·      Yet another friend is struggling to find full-time work after being laid off earlier this year

Then there is me.

It’s hard to see beyond my own world. Perhaps there are other places where things are going better. But I’m not sure. The unemployment rate in California is 7.3 percent*. In San Bernardino County it’s 8.2 percent*. In Riverside County the rate is 9.2 percent*. In Orange County, where I was born and raised but left because I could not (and cannot) afford rents, it’s 5.4 percent*.

While the lady in pink shook a fist at politicians, I shake my head at corporations. I shake my fist at their protectors, celebrities, elected officials and political activists alike. I’m angry with anyone who says these corporations owe us nothing and that they are not obligated to help anyone, to employ anyone.

They owe me nothing personally. But they owe this country greatly. Some of them have polluted this land, bankrupted smaller business trading in once high paying experienced positions for minimum wage jobs.

Why can’t Walmart or McDonald’s pay their employees? In McDonald’s case, I have to ask myself if it’s because there is a McDonald’s every mile and a half in my region. They have designed a world where their restaurant jobs are the most prevalent. That’s a lot of employees. And when the goal is feed investors piles of money, is it any wonder the salaries are so low.

Where the rest of us land, only the creator knows. I just hope the resolution comes soon enough to save me and my loved ones … and the lady in pink.

(* August 2014 State Statistics.)

It's Hard to Grow Used to Rejection

I still remember the look on my sister-in-law’s face when she made her latest and boldest statement.

“Oh they’ll hire you,” she said confidently of a local bus transit company. “They’re always hiring.”

She told this to my husband who has a job with a very, very modest salary. Of course it means we’re unable to pay our rent or bills with what he earns. And I have been searching for work since earlier this year.

In an effort to spare us from homelessness he has been applying to become a bus driver. He even attended a Coach Operator Bridge program through Omnitrans in the Inland Empire just to improve his odds.

If you read one of my last blog entries, you know what my difficulties have been in finding work. The list of he has applied for is double that.

So imagine our relief when she, herself a bus driver, gave us such an assurance. It gave us hope that we might find something that will help us survive. We might be able to support our son. My husband searched their site and applied within a day or so.

On Saturday, my hope again turned to tears. The transit company’s email response read in part:

“At this time, we have decided to concentrate our attention on other candidates who we believe best meet the current needs of our organization.  Please be assured that your application was given full consideration.”

I have read these words literally dozens of times. He and I have been graciously thanked for taking the time to apply. He and I have also repeatedly been assured that our application was given full consideration.

In one case, our notices came within days of one another and came fresh off the copier on the same letterhead, on the same sturdy paper and with the same signature in the same perfectly positioned spot.

In some way, I find it odd that I am devastated over another typical rejection. The small voice in my head tells me to put that away and keep moving forward. But there is another part of me that can’t help but drop to my knees.

Friends and family are mystified as to why we cannot get jobs. I can't explain it myself.

I find myself asking what I have done to earn the scorn of so many. Why have I been shunned so badly, so completely? I have never ever in my life been so pushed out. As a Catholic, I’ve begged God to tell me what sin I have committed. And I’ve found myself begging him not to punish my son or husband for my sins.

I sent a letter to Pope Francis begging his prayers and forgiveness for whatever I have done. It’s true.

What I need now is to never mind that I am a smart and experienced employee with a good amount of print and online communication experience. Never mind that I am loyal and serious.

The truth is I will do just about anything to save my family. Hire me because you know you will be able to use and abuse me and I will sit still. Kick me. Slap me, fine. Just employ me.

I have more jobs leads of course. And I will try them all. I promise that each and every time it will be with all my heart and the same optimism. But I need a miracle now.

Christmas Stays in the Closet this Year

Our impending move has pretty much determined that our home will not be decked out in Christmas stuff.

Most of it is packed away in boxes in our son's closet. Sadly since I allow the stress of unemployment to soak up most of my thoughts, it invades my memories and moods. Doesn't matter if I'm trying to enjoy a free sandwich at Togo's or just thinking about the ornaments packed inside a small closet.

In one of the six boxes filled with cheery Christmas stuff is a small styrofoam tube filled with thumb-sized ornaments. They were our first. The very first ornaments my husband and I bought after he and I moved out together into our own apartment decades ago.

The sight of the ornaments was almost comical. We were both thankfully childless as were young journalists. We earned barely above minimum wage alongside people with bachelor degrees. We would all grumble, as young people often do, about how we toiled.

I can't remember now if it was my niece or nephews or even my young sister who presented us with a Christmas brochure, part of a school fundraiser. Inside were the many ribbons, bows, popcorn tins and such that make the holidays very, very merry.

Before turning the order form in, my husband showed me all he was ordering. He chose inexpensive stuff of course. Among them, the ornaments.

"I figured since we didn't have any, why not?" I remember him saying.

Little money means little tree. And we got a small fresh Target tree, the one that seemed to be dropping off the least amount of needles. We took it home set it up. When the ornaments arrived, I began to open them and thought, "Where the heck are they?"

Pulling on an attached golden string, I pulled out the first from its plastic casing. The string fit nicely like a little ring around my finger.

Walking up behind me, my husband asked, "Well, how do they look?"

"Either they are really small or I have huge hands," I told him. We both burst out laughing.

"Well they are our first," he reasoned. I put the first one, a little teddy bear in a Santa cap (if I'm not mistaken.) It was nearly swallowed up by the tree's pine needles. But there they were, our first ornaments in all their Lilliputian glory.

I know they are still among our things. I have not used them in a long time. In the years that followed we added many, many more decorations. Now we have an tree topper angel that stands tall. Her dress is old fashioned country. Her wings are wicker. The expression on her ceramic face is serene. We easily have three dozen ornaments, most of those sports related. The hockey mentions are everywhere of course.

The biggest decision I have now is whether to store them, and risk that they will be broken, or donate them. There are few places that could take everything we have. And giving them to Goodwill will probably elicit some pretty decent cheers.

It could arguably be quite the fire sale. Honestly I think I will be making every effort to save all my ornaments. I guess we have to keep the faith we'll land on our feet.

 

The Descent Into Homelessness Begins in Earnest

Shortly after writing my last blog entry, I got another rejection notice from another job.

This one was noteworthy as it came from the very college who awarded me my degree.

It was for a marketing position that had, I thought, listed every single qualification I had in its requirements list. Until the notice, I had been subdued but hopeful.

The notice was devastating. Crushing. And tonight, again, I find myself struggling to sleep.

On Monday, we must make the painful move of turning in our apartment. We plan to move out as quickly as possible. Our savings are spent. Job prospects are just that, prospects and nothing else.

In order to keep our son in his school, I plan to ask fellow PTO members if I can use their mailing address. I know these people. They are good people and they will likely agree. My husband will return to another county where he will try and find a way to return our family to stability, leaving my son and I to, well ... live in my car.

Our belongings will be given away, donated or trashed.

This is not the worse thing to happen in life. Or at least it's not the worse thing that has ever happened in my life. I've lived through homelessness before. My parents were immigrants, unskilled laborers and our family lived hand-to-mouth most of the time.

My mother placed a great importance on making it to the next day. So while she placed a high value on education, the greater importance was to survive to the next day. And so earning money by any means necessary was the most important. She would have me work with her. All through school, I mopped floors, vacuumed carpets, scrubbed toilets.

I worked through high school and into college, often well into 1 or 2 a.m. depending on how dirty things were at the business we were cleaning. We cleaned one of the Cerritos Auto Square dealerships which often did not close their doors until past 11 p.m. When the economy suffered, the maintenance crews were among the first to go. That spelled homelessness for us many times.

As a result - while I respected what my mom did - I did not want to do the same for a living. I went to college often leaving my mother to work alone while I spent all day at school. I spent much of that time in the campus newspaper office. I felt like journalism was my calling. It was my way to contribute to society.

Yet here I am again, preparing for homelessness.

But this time, I am dragging my son into it. In my ears, I hear the echo of people who tell me, "Don't worry. Things will get better. You're son is strong. He'll be fine. You'll see."

It's hard to hear those things. He's already detected the problems. He asked today why we can't buy a Christmas tree and decorate it. He's started hinting about Disneyland. He's never been but his friends have and they have no qualms about bragging they have been there. He's confused why he can't have a dog or why we can't get a Wii or even why we can't go get a doggon pizza from the local pizza place.

Lucky, as we call him, has no concept he's poor. I don't want him to feel poor. The saying is you're as poor as you feel. But he's learning that something is wrong. He's already walked in on fights between his parents. He's caught me crying in the bathroom. He's poked a few holes in some of the stretched truth's we've told him. A parent under stress can't always remember what explanation they give for any one reason.

These days, I look upon people who have jobs with such envy. I ask myself how they did it. How did they get that job?

All I want to do is use my skills to support my family. I am a good worker; A loyal employee. I work hard. I've followed so many of the directions provided me by friends, experts on how to get work, how to present my resume.

Sometimes I have fantasies that my husband lands a dream job with the Los Angeles Kings. And that he is such a great success, as I know he would be, that his bosses come to him and say, "Where had you been all this time man!" In my fantasy, I finally stop fearing the first of the month.

I could dream of luxuries, but all I dream of is of a peaceful night's rest, one that does not involve crying until 4 a.m. But every morning nothing but more deafening silence greets us. And now, the timer is up. We're done. We must move.

I just want to work. I just want to work. Lord help me. I just want to work.

It's Hard to Keep Your Head Up When Unemployment is Holding You Down

I probably should not be writing this. That’s what I keep telling myself. But alas here it is.

I should have at least written this months ago, when hope was fresher and the weight of unemployment hadn’t yet broken my spirit. This narrative can, and likely will, take on a depressive tone, too heavy for most to want to endure.

It is after 3 a.m. and I am doing the same thing I’ve done for the last 9 months, crying, praying, stressing and not sleeping.

I’ve obsessing over being unemployed and have been thinking: Thinking, thinking, thinking about the handful of essays and blogs from other former journalists, like me, who have been struggling to find work.

I am fortunate that I do not have the kind of story that former New York Times staffer Dobrah Copaken had. Her challenge included facing cancer and the end of her marriage.

My struggle started in February when my employer AOL finally unloaded its Patch.com sites. They were news websites that promised all local news. But they became a financial burden. We became a financial burden. And AOL sold Patch to a company who did some major restructuring. And I became one of hundreds of digital journalists out of a job.

When I joined Patch, I knew it was a startup and knew there was a chance that it could all end quickly. What I did not count on was that my husband would still be working to rebuild his own career at the same time. Just before my lay off, he had been laid off from his web editor job at a local publication. That publication, by the way, has since cut several more positions. And the ownership is struggling.

Struggling to secure himself a new position outside of journalism, he accepted a job with a minor league sports team that pays humbly. The work is seasonal. He loves his job and had hoped it would lead to bigger and better things. But he is still rebuilding.

Then I lost my job.

At the start I launched myself into efforts to get another. I aimed at jobs that I knew I could do outside of journalism. I looked for web management and social media positions that I now had experience in thanks to AOL.

At first I sent out a few at a time so I would not lose track of them. When those got zero answers I sent out dozens. Then dozens upon dozens:

To a local police department

To a Catholic school in Orange County

To Spanish Market in the Inland Empire

To the three counties in Southern California

To Army Reserve office in Los Alamitos, CA

To several hospitals

To a marketing firm in Riverside

To shopping malls

To professional sports teams

The list goes on. But I did not want to limit myself. I returned immediately to school. Maybe, I thought to myself, I should find a job with a little more structure that would allow me time either in the day or night to attend more classes.

I applied:

To Starbuck’s. No response.

To Macy’s. No response.

To Target. No response.

To Walmart. No Response

To a recycling company. No response.

To the Lifestream Blood Bank. No response.

Toys R Us sent me an email letting me know they had more than enough applicants now and had nothing for me. This is the short list.

In a fit of despair I wrote a pleading email to Starbuck’s chairman and chief executive Howard D. Schultz that I never heard anything from. I visited two of Starbuck’s locations only to be sent right back to the website and was reminded something to the effect of “don’t call us, we’ll call you.” It’s been months and I’ve heard nothing.

In a desperate attempt to save my home and stay in our small apartment, I wrote a letter to the CEO of a national grocery store in the Inland Empire, Jack Brown, begging for work. I grasped at the hope he would be sympathetic. While I appreciate that I did get a letter of response, my heart sank that it came from the human resources associated who informed me my letter was forwarded to her and she could do nothing for me. The best she could do was offer advice. “We’re not recruiting right now,” she wrote. Keep checking out the various stores they’ll post signs looking for work, she added.

I wasn’t sure how many stores she wanted me to check on, but the three I shop at never posted anything. And I cannot afford gas to keep checking on others daily. More recently, on trips that I have taken my EBT card to shop, I’ve noticed new faces there. I’m not sure if I indeed missed a posted “recruiting now” sign.

Even several temp agencies have sent me back to their sites and left to wait for word for them to get back to them.

Meantime, I have become creative in finding ways to tell my 7-year-old that we can no longer do certain things. He still participates in some soccer camps that are run by my husband’s employers – when possible and if there’s space. But the hockey he loved so much is done.

Hockey is not cheap but not as expensive as you might think. And it’s better for a child with ADHD than baseball. My son loves Dustin Brown. So we struggled to buy him equipment, one bit at a time while I was still working. The Los Angeles Kings’ Lil Kings program stepped in to be our savior and outfitted our son head to toe in gear. But it is sitting by now. The overstuffed hockey bags are slightly dusty.

I would have been too ashamed to admit months earlier that my husband and I cried when our son finished his last class. Now I don’t care what I say. I am beaten down. We don’t know if we caused was a scene. It’s hard to tell when you walk out with your head down.

So what does this all mean? Why can’t I find a job? Well I suppose its because I only have a two year degree. On my way to a four-year, I was held back by a medical condition too painful to talk about.

My husband, who comes from a modest, middle class home, did not complete his degree in part because, while his family was far from riches, they earned enough that he would have been forced to take on a large amount of debt. We worked our way through college. Already in the journalism business, we found ourselves in the position of having to move out and away to continue advancing our careers.

I was never in a position where living at home with my parents was an option.

And so it goes.

And now it’s after 4 a.m. and sleep is wishful thinking though I am feeling loopy. Tomorrow is another day.

Soccer Un-American? Is Ann Coulter Punking Us?

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Most of us are familiar with Ann Coulter’s conservative politics. She has held them for as long as I can remember.

I spend little time dwelling on what she or any left or right leaning political figure writes.

A child plays soccer at a school field. Photo By Bill Norris, 2014.

But after spotting headlines about her latest column AMERICA'S FAVORITE NATIONAL PASTIME: HATING SOCCER, I had to take notice and read the column. What ran through my mind was this:

“Say what now? Is she punking us?”

For those of you who haven’t seen it, Coulter’s latest columns focuses on soccer, calling it a liberal, socialist sport that is un-American and proof of the country's moral decay. And she attributes its growing popularity to Ted Kennedy's permissive immigration laws.

Was this column tongue in cheek? Was it a slow week on Capitol Hill? What is this?

Coulter begins the column by saying she had avoided writing about soccer “so as not to offend anyone.” For those of you familiar with her writing and the way she presents her opinions, I’ll let that one sit so readers can digest that statement.

Sadly from there, the column goes loopy. The tone of the article suggests it was written by someone with surface knowledge of sports. The entire piece is not well put together. It becomes clear that while the World Cup inspired Coulter’s column, she directs her mockery and disdain toward youth soccer and families who indulge in such an “immoral” activity.

The column is also an embarrassment in that it is heavily peppered by the kind of "’Murica Rules" attitude that makes most Libs and Righties cringe.

She lists all that is wrong with soccer in nine points.

1. Individual achievement is not fostered. “Do they even have MVPs in soccer?” she asks.

2. Players with limited athletic talent can play. “… girls can play with boys. No serious sport is co-ed, even at the kindergarten level,” she writes.

3. Scoreless ties are terrible.

4. There is minimal risk of personal injury/humiliation; therefore it is not a sport.

5. You can’t use your hands.

6. Too many people on the left are shoving the sport down our collective throats.

7. “It's foreign” … Black people don’t like it.

8. It’s too much like the metric system, which Liberals adore. That’s the first I’ve heard of this.

9. “Soccer is not ‘catching on.’”

Somewhere in that column, there has to be a level of personal impact for readers. It can’t just be silly, whiny, “I’m-a-red-blooded-American; Soccer’s booooring!!”

For writers and pundits, there is a lot to work with when it comes to soccer -- as there is with other sports. (About them concussions Mr. Goodell…)

How about looking at the level of poverty that Brazilians face everyday? Now most of them can huddle in the shadow of these massive multi-million dollar soccer stadiums, some which might never be used again.

How about questioning our collective and continued support of FIFA, the sport's national governing body, which is caught in scandal after scandal?

How absurd is it that this column argues with headlines and asserts that team sports discourage individual achievement?

I was stunned at how easy it was to deduce from the piece that sports involving women are not real. For an accomplished woman, a mover and shaker whose own life defies the traditional female role, even the implication is at best hypocritical. On a personal note, I find it a betrayal.

How we all wish Coulter was correct that soccer players do not face the same risk of injury. Youtube is laden with video of gruesome soccer injuries. I prefer the heroic video of Georgian soccer midfielder Jaba Kankava saving Ukranian midfielder Oleg Gusev’s life after the Ukranian was knocked unconscious and nearly swallowed his tongue.

(And personal aside, I’m sure my husband is grateful for the surgery scar that he totally didn’t get after tearing his ACL while playing soccer.)

Coulter writes that the action on the soccer pitch is overshadowed by the hard hits of football, hockey fights (a total of nine in the two months of the 2014 postseason,) the personal disgrace possible in baseball and basketball. “After a soccer game, every player gets a ribbon and a juice box,” she wrote.

So we’re not talking about professional World Cup soccer. OK, we’re talking primarily about youth soccer. Just FYI, fighting is not allowed in youth hockey. I know. My son is in youth hockey. And as far as I know, youth football players are not 300 pounds as she notes in point No. 3.

I am also concerned by the fact that the column seems to rely on a glib comment that African-American’s are not impressed by the sport rather than looking up hard numbers. So let me be of help. The numbers of black players is low and that might be hurting us, according to the Washington Post.

On a side note, my favorite African-American black player happens to be Cobi Jones.  My favorite all time black player? Pele.

That it’s shoved down our throats? How? If you see World Cup coverage everywhere, that’s an effect of an all too American free market trying to squeeze every penny out of the event. And the sports media does what it does -- following the big events like a heard of cattle. They jump on curling when the Winter Olympics roll around.

As to the comparison to the metric system, that’s just too silly to respond to.

As to not using your hands, hockey is similar in this. A hand pass is a foul. And by the way, Ann needs to remember to thank the socialists in Canada for that sport.

I will grant her the scoreless tie took some time to get used to. They happen. As a result World Cups group standings rely on goal differentials that entail the use of math. I’ve never seen Coulter do math, but I have to wonder if it’s another eye-roll inducing activity for her.

Like it or not, futbol has become a sport for soccer moms AND soccer dads because of its accessibility for the kids. Honestly all you need is a patch of land and a ball. Trash cans and, in a pinch, sweatshirts or any article of clothing, can mark off the “goal posts.”

You can play on dirt or grass. If you’re brave, you can play on concrete. Like many youth sports, you can improvise (ie. stick ball, whiffle ball, street hockey, or the game of Horse.)

All said, I say my search for the punchline in Coulter’s column is a fair thing to do. This cannot be a serious column.

Westboro to Picket Maya Angelou's Funeral? I Say Yes

It was with no surprise that I read reports that the Westboro Church have been calling for its members to picket the funeral of Dr. Maya Angelou.

Shocking? Yes. But here is my humble recommendation. Let them come.

This might be the closest many members of that Westboro family will be to grace. For some, this is the closest they will ever have been to true dignity.

Dr. Angelou is one of the few people on God’s planet who could have soothed such troubled souls. She is likely the only one who could have broken through the barriers of anger and hatred.

Who better to remind them of our common humanity? Who better to remind them of the beauty they abandon when they embrace bitterness and hatred? Dr. Angelou never begrudged anyone the feeling of anger. When pointed in the right direction, anger over true injustice can force change and move mountains of ignorance.

Who better to teach members of the church of hate than a woman who rose from what could, at best, be called difficulty? By the standards of many of the same people who now sit in judgment of the Westboro group, Maya Angelou was not supposed to ever amount to much. Her poise and persistence tamed them. Now their children honor her.

Their words, their signs, their hatred are a small beacon in the presence of the illuminating sunlight that still emanates from Dr. Angelou's memory. Nothing but the absence of humanity will erase the impact that Dr. Angelou has had on thousands upon thousands.

Let them come. Let them fight the windmills. Let them scream like the aimless army they have become. Meaningless screams do not equal a voice. It equals noise.

I may not have the honor or privilege to attend a memorial service to Dr. Angelou, but her words and her memory lift me up.

Let them come. I realize the risk is not to Dr. Angelou, but to the mourners who were so deeply touched by her work and her spirit. While we sometimes falter and allow words to cut deeply, Dr. Angelou’s passing reminds us that dignity and love are their own armor.

In her passing, we’re all fortunate now to feel her presence. Westboro cannot touch me. They cannot touch us.

Let them come, I say.

“Prejudice is a burden that confuses the past, threatens the future and renders the present inaccessible.” Dr. Maya Angelou.

Kings vs. Ducks, One Fan's Love Hate Relationship

For thousands of us hockey fans throughout Southern California, marginalized and beleaguered as we often feel, the Los Angeles Kings/Anaheim Ducks playoff series is the stuff of dreams.

 

"This highly anticipated Kings-Ducks playoff series will capture the excitement and the imagination of the most casual hockey and sports fan in Southern California in addition to our loyal, die-hard Kings fans," Kings President of Business Operations Luc Robitaille told NHL online.

Excitement? Maybe. For me it’s a nightmare. You see I am a die-hard Kings fan. But I was supposed to and deeply wanted to be a die-hard Anaheim fan.

The Ducks were supposed to be my team. But they are not. Right or wrong, petty or valid, I blame the old Duck ownership for this. My dislike of them comes from a deeply personal place.

Though I was born in Los Angeles, my family moved to Orange County when I was 1 ½.  In 1990 when I met my now husband, OC born and bred, he was a fan of the Kings, then the only So Cal hockey team. Though I was intrigued by the sport, thanks to the 1980 Winter Olympics, the boyfriend finally presented an opportunity to learn hockey.

He took me to my first game at the Great Western Forum. Kings vs. Redwings. And that was it. I was hooked.

So you can imagine our excitement in 1993 when they announced the arrival of a new team TO ORANGE COUNTY! Thank you Disney Company!

This would be our team! No more driving to Los Angeles! Finally, hockey in my home county.  It was GREAT! Until it wasn’t.

I can’t remember the first time I felt hesitation about the new team. I remember seeing Michael Eisner constantly discussing their “new project.” Then stories began to roll out about the company’s plan to, um, sanitize the sport.

There would be cheerleaders. There would be song and dance. Disney was going to attempt to transform what some saw as a violent sport into a family-friendly activity.

“You know it’s not always violent,” I remember telling my husband. By then Wayne Gretzky played for the Kings. He was amazing to watch even as he grew older. Graceful and skilled, he can count the number of times he’s been in a fight on one hand and have fingers left over.

“I know,” my hubby responded.

Then came the name.

Given all we knew about Disney’s plans, I prayed that Eisner would resist naming the team after the Disney children’s film “The Mighty Ducks,” released in 1992.

“That would make it a marketing tool wouldn’t it?” I asked my husband. You’re using the team to promote Disney as much as your using Disney to promote the team, I remember saying.

By then my husband and I were really hesitant.

Then came the announcement from Eisner that the name would indeed be the Mighty Ducks.

My heart sank.

Oh well right? It’s their team. They can do what they want. And for me, that’s the point. Most, if not all, sports teams ask fans to invest personally. This did not sound like it was going to be our team. Still, I thought, there was a chance I could connect with the team despite the immense PR machine.

Until the Iceman happened during the first regular season game. True to their word that they would make this a Disney-worthy production, Eisner and Co. brought us a character described by the Los Angeles Times as a man with “silver-faced, frazzle-haired looks and rock-till-you-drop demeanor.” It was a disaster.

My resentment grew. By then I felt disconnected from the Mighty Ducks and turning more toward the team that had first taught me to love hockey. LA hockey then was nothing fancy. It wasn’t as if the arena was bursting at the seams with people. Even the bathrooms at the Forum were difficult to deal with.

But they were my team. I thought I’d just root for the Kings quietly. But then came the merchandise.

A tidal wave of family and friends started buying Duck’s merchandise. It wasn’t anything other teams hadn’t already been exploiting, ie. the teal wearing San Jose Sharks. But this marketing avalanche was intense. Lettermen jackets, duck calls, duck masks. And the hockey sweaters? Eggplant and teal with an innovative diagonal strip never before seen on a hockey jersey. A trend was begun.

The marketing blitz was far from unusual, but this one seemed unparalleled. This feeding frenzy was almost an embarrassment of riches especially after running into a string of people in Mighty Ducks gear who could not name a single player on their team but remembered that Emilio Estevez was in the movie.

A sense of snobbery took over and I was done. In my heart, I knew this would never become my team.

Despite all this my other Orange County friends were undeterred. Several kept us up to date on efforts to start a booster organization. Complaints began after, according to our friends, the team’s ownership did not welcome their efforts. I don’t know if they ever did.

According to friends, they were told thanks but no thanks.

Then Ducks coach Ron Wilson opened his mouth. Since the Mighty Ducks were not an option, I had turned to roller hockey and the Anaheim Bullfrogs. I’m showing my age here. They were fun. It was a simple, fun, indoor roller hockey game. I was a huge fan of goalie Rob Laurie. And we were good. Unlike the Ducks (and the Kings) they brought home a championship. A Roller Hockey International championship. A banner was hung at the Pond.

Ron Wilson didn’t like it. He wanted the banner down.

“What’s the problem?” my annoyed husband said at the time. “What’s the harm in the banner? If he hates it, why doesn’t he win a cup so he can replace it?”

As if all of that was not enough, in 2002, the Angels (my team forever) had a special offer for fan Appreciation Day. We could trade our Angels ticket stubs for a Mighty Ducks preseason game ticket. They were playing the Kings.

My sister and I attended the hockey game. As we walked from the Big A to the Pond, I watched several fans along the way stop at their vehicles and change out of Angels jersey’s and into King’s sweaters.

Pre-season for either team in those days meant “good seats still available.” Still as the game got underway I found the Kings fans cheers equaled in decibels to the Duck fans. And the Kings were giving their fans a lot of reason to cheer at that game.

Am I bragging? No.

I was quiet while a Ducks fan behind us railed against what was happening and against a young Ducks player who seemed to be struggling out on the ice.

“Why the hell are there so many Kings fans here?” he asked as I flashed back to the scene in the Big A parking lot. “That’s pathetic.”

Referring to the young Duck on the ice, “He will NEVER own a home in Orange County. NEVER. He might as well pack now. He’ll never be a resident here.”

He repeated this several times. My sister, the man’s wife and I sat quiet and let his angry words echo out past us and to the empty seats surrounding our foursome. In some ways, this shaped my perception of a Ducks fan.

I attended one other Kings/Ducks game at the Pond and the experience was similar. I’ve not returned since. When the Ducks won the cup, I wished them well and followed none of the coverage. I still won’t.

But now here we are, at the series that Southern California hockey fans have long waited for. I can’t tell you how difficult it is because I do respect my friends who follow the Ducks. I adore Teemu Selanne who is a class act. But when I see that team, I know what’s comes with it. I brace for the exchange of insults. I have to fight the urge to show unreasonable emotion.

It might be accurate to say that my dislike for the Ducks is almost as much out of a personal sense of loss as it is from a sense of team/city pride. It still stings.

I am not going to switch allegiances. I am loyal. Actually I am a rabid Kings fan now. They say, “If you don’t like the team, you can leave.” Except now they’re in our house. And I feel forced to relive so much of what made me turn away from a team I so desperately wanted.