Ghosts of Rwanda

I can't blog, I have way too much on my plate today. I will however post my cultural geography homework assignment. If you do not know about the genocide, you should. I had to answer three questions, those I will not regurgitate. My answers are fairly easy to discern I think, I hope.
We need to understand how this happens to keep it from happening again and again. I would say we have a long way to go considering the current state of unrest in Libya. Our concerns should be larger than the inconvenient rise of gas prices. If you have not seen the documentary "Ghosts Of Rwanda" I highly recommend that you watch it. It is a PBS production but available in segments for free on you tube.
I hurt in my heart for the dead and I am praying in my head right now for their souls. And for those who murdered, I pray for you as well.
Peace be with you all....


1.) I was in my twenties during the genocide in Rwanda. I would dare say that I recall some of the press briefings from the film, and certainly recollect hearing of the unrest during the evening news. Admittedly however, I was largely unaware of what that genocide really entailed until the movie Hotel Rwanda was released and I watched the Hollywood version in horror and disbelief. How did I not know that violence of this nature and scope had taken 800, 000 lives? How did I not see these massacres on the news every night? How could I be an American and be so ignorant to this? I vividly remember feeling nauseous during a scene from the movie, abruptly leaving the couch to take a seat on the cool linoleum of the bathroom floor as I waited for my stomach to either settle or let go. Before viewing the frontline documentary in class, I had previously watched most of the film online and was deeply disturbed by what I observed. I found it even more profound the second time around which I attribute to a classroom setting and the reaction of my young classmates. I am positive that for at least some them, this was the first instance they were made aware of these atrocities. It is difficult to convey how much this situation bothered me emotionally, naturally the violence and death is disturbing to anyone with a soul intact. What resonates however with me personally, beyond the obvious sadness at loss of life and propensity for human violence, is that it’s simply unfeasible to grasp how this could have occurred. Specifically, how my government could sit idly by and scrabble about the definitions of the word genocide while the act occurred in an abandoned Nation left unaided to cope. Until this documentary I was unapprised to the extent of our government’s inaction. The down grading and word play concerning genocide exhibited in press briefings, along with constant deferral of responsibility by the United States and the United Nations due to the Somalia crisis, speaks volumes in context to my ignorance of the magnitude involved. However reprehensible the circumstances in Somalia may have been, the hesitancy demonstrated by our government and military seems unable to produce a parallel significant enough to warrant inaction.
2.) My focus in the film was Carl Wilkins the Adventist Missionary, head of ADRA (Adventist Development Relief Agency) and the sole American to remain in Rwanda after the evacuation. After sending his wife and kids to safety following the initial attacks, he chooses to remain with the Tutsis and Rwandan colleagues under safe guard in his home. After the preliminary attacks of the Hutu extremists, Wilkins ventures out during the daylight hours to help the wounded and aid in relief efforts. For me, some of the most moving excerpts from the documentary are when Wilkins describes his inability to abandon the country, explaining that when Rwanda needed help the most, everybody left. He states “It was the right thing to do” as was his desperate negotiation with Colonel Bagasora, pleading for the safety of an orphanage full with Tutsis children. This man’s bravery and commitment, like all the relief workers, is just exemplary and honorable.
3.) I am sure that everyone directly involved with this genocide (press, red cross, UN relief workers etc.) are haunted by the things that were witnessed; it is hard for me to imagine that a human being could ever truly recover from this kind of violence and terror. I am hopeful that for those who remained and did everything that they could, there is some much deserved solace in their activism. I would venture a guess that the truly haunted, would be those that were privy to the details of desperation, had authority and resources to help, but in Rwanda’s time of need did absolutely nothing. It was sickening to hear President Clinton regretfully admit that he believes (in hindsight) intervention from the Unites States could have possibly spared half of the lives lost. Madeline Albright and President Clinton are two easily accessible targets amongst a group of many American officials (Prudence Bushnell, Anthony Lake, Christine Shelly etc.) that I assume experience tremendous guilt regarding this entire situation. In addition to the United States Government, the United Nations failed terribly. Not only did the UN fail to preserve the promise and purpose of the convention following the holocaust, but also to uphold the agency’s principal philosophy. Less the individual UN workers such as General Dellaire, Captain Umabai and Gromo Alex, the organization was for all intents and purposes completely useless in the face of this genocide. This level of inaction is hard to understand for me, I cannot fathom how confusing it must have been for the UN workers waiting to receive support and resources from the home front. I would hope that the ghosts of Rwanda do not just visit those that are guilty of morally reprehensible behavior, it is my prayer that Valentina is visited by her family too and that those moments soothe her and grant much deserved peace.

Red light district?

Okay this one is for Annie.
I have absolutely no time to really think (at least in any kind of depth) about anything other than my five up coming midterms. My brain is currently at new info capacity and regurgitation ability overload....
But, sweet Annie requested a blog from me, actually wrote on my facebook wall "Girl I'm gonna need you to blog soon"
She is officially the president of the Deb Does Life fan club.
So here goes girlfriend, this one is for you.
I will admit it,(sigh) I should not possess a drivers license. I am quite possibly the worst driver in the world, it is a form of community service to admit this in a public forum. Count yourself lucky if you read this and if you live near me, identify my vehicle so you can avoid it at all cost. Mine is the dented blue 4-runner littered with DMB stickers, my plate reads B2FLMS (translation beautiful mess, did anyone at all get that without my help?)

Here's the thing, it's not that I am a bad driver necessarily, it's more like I should be a restricted driver. It's my opinion that when the joyous DMV employees ask about my eyesight and make me peer through the little eye thingy to make sure I can distinguish red from green, they may also want to test my ears. Just sayin' that it wouldn't hurt for them to stick me in a sound booth with some Mary J. Blige and simulate my vehicles actual atmosphere. The music would have to be jacked up to ungodly decibels and the winter and summer scenario would be different too, leg up in the summer and windows down for sure, you have to account for body posture and wind.
The only reason I recommend this form of drivers simulation is because I am what is known as (in our circle) a car dancer...
If you don't know what this is, you surely have never been stopped at a red light next to me....
It is a form of exotic dancing but restricted to the tin can of a car. What categorizes car dancing as exotic is not a pole or removal of any clothing (although that sometimes occurs), it is exotic in essence because it simply cannot be prevented. The music is up, the car is flying down the road at will of your fingertips and toes, and the world's outside interference is nil.
These are the ingredients to a spontaneous car dance, it just cannot be helped.
This is where the danger comes in.
As in regular dancing, there are levels, styles, nuances. I am without a doubt a dancer by nature. I hear the music and I begin to move. Starts at my head, moves to my neck radiates down to the hips yadayada. I can't help it, the music gets to me. Some people listen to music and remain calm, this is not me.
Music is intended to move you and I was intended to express. It gets fairly beautifully ugly.
For example....,
Today I was listening to Justin Nozuka as I drove home from school, I was singing along quite calmly watching the yellow lines and the oncoming traffic intently, everything was just fine. I was safe and so were you.
But then, this song came on, ripe with angst, passion and a fevered repetition of sounds which builds into a whipped up frenzy.
Spontaneous car dance eruption....
Before I knew it I was clutching my own neck, pulling at my hair and desperately harmonizing with Justin. I was in a full blown ecstatic moment, safety be damned....
Keeping in line with my life's theme, it is bad news and a real thing of beauty all rolled up in one.
I plead guilty of car dancing and have given you all fair warning of my reckless behavior, beyond that I got nothing.
After all, it's not my fault that I have a drivers license, first thing the instructor did upon entering my car for my driving test was turn off my radio. Stupid stupid stupid little man with a clipboard...
If I worked at the Department of Motor Vehicles, I would re-write the registration application...
Do you wear glasses?
Do you have a medical condition?
Do you have a disco ball in your car?

unhappy Anniversary

Hi everyone,
So today is February 7th, a sad day in my family. Five years ago today my step father (the best man I have ever known) died in his sleep. His death came as a total shock as he was only forty nine years old and in perfect health. The medical examiner ruled the cause of his death as sepsis, apparently caused by an undiagnosed kidney infection.
I remember the very moment that I heard the news so vividly that I wonder if the memory will ever fade? Part of me hopes that it will, and naturally, part of me hopes that it won't. I think it was a Tuesday. I had just come home from the gym still sweaty from my work out, Emma was on the floor in the living room watching tv. I stood at the sink filling a glass of water and the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID curiously and thought, why would my mother be calling me noon time on a Tuesday? (we don't speak)- I thought, the girls are in school (my sisters), can't be them...?
I answered hesitently, greeted by my sister Ashleigh's sobs on the other end. I thought it was our Papa, I thought that he had finally suffered a fatal stroke and I braced myself for the words that I knew would break my heart.
She said, "Dad's dead"....
I said "What, wait... Papa?" - heave heave sob sob
she said, "No Dad, he died in his sleep last night, Grampie found him this morning"
In the background I heard the wailing cry of my baby sister Courntey and my kitchen began to spin around me like I was sucked straight into the eye of a cyclone.
I remember that I sat on the edge of the kitchen stool, I remember leaning my heavy body up against the corner of the island for support, I remember that I suddenly felt really cold in the dampness of my wet work out clothes as if the room temperature had plummeted and the sweat spots were turning to ice.
I know that I told Ashleigh, "I have to call you back" and I remember dialing the number to Dan's mobile work phone.
He answered and I said, (and I remember this so well)"Tell Calvin that you have to go right now and start walking towards the car, get in and drive home immediately, my Father is dead and I am here alone with Emma and I feel faint, now go now to the car"
The world I knew, thirty seconds, one minute before, the world where order reigned supreme and things made some sort of sense, the world as I knew it, was over.
It wasn't Papa at all, he was alive. It was my Da. My Da was dead.
I called the girls back, taking in short wisps of air as I tried not to faint, watching the clock on the microwave, counting the twenty two minutes flat it should take Dan to get to me and the baby...counting the minutes until that wounded animal cry could be released from my gut, the death cry was churning inside me waiting for a room with a closed door.
Later that night, Dan drove me to Ann Taylor and told the salesgirl, "she needs appropriate funeral clothes, her Father's funeral in Boston, it will be much colder there"
She dressed me as my sobs turned to the denial screams, "No, I don't want to do this - get these black funeral clothes off my body!"
I stripped them from me, my hysteria another force in the small dressing room and the poor girl stood helpless and heartbroken for me, realizing my denial couldn't change a thing....
That was five years ago today.
Five years ago right now, I was crying in waves of grief that scared my kids and scared me too.
Five long years.
The saddest part of his death for me personally is that my sisters, his daughters, did not get to know him like I did. This hurts me more, than my own sense of what has been lost in my life. They were mere girls when he died, they didn't get to know him as adults like I did. They hadn't yet had the mature and wonderful conversations he was known for, the soul searching, the wit, the wisdom, the humor. I hate that. I hate that he died before they got that part of him. It was the part of him that helped shape me, the part of him I cherished, the part of him that they now NEED.
I hate that he is gone, but I hate that he is gone FROM them more. They are his girls, they are so like him in so many ways. I see him in their faces, hear him in their voices. I wish they knew more of him, so that they could see what I see when they look in the mirror.
I have tried my hardest to be a worthy big sister to them. Tried my hardest to honor what he would have wanted me to do for them, how he would have wanted me to love them, honor what lessons he would want me to teach them.
It's hard. It's so hard. It's hard that he is gone and I miss him. It's hard to not fill his un-fillable shoes, but still feel as though I have to try. It is hard to have the sound of his unique laugh allude me sometimes.....
Death is hard.

All you can do is go on. I have told the girls "time heals all wounds is a crock of shit"
time doesn't heal death - all time does is get you further away from the last time you heard him, touched him, kissed him....Time just provides time to adjust, that's all.
Time will never make it easier. And I say, it shouldn't.
I remember him skipping in the snowfall, his tartan scarf around his head like little red riding hood. I remember him turning to me in the static light of the snow and the street light, I remember his smile, his dimples and his eyes pinched with joy - he called to me "come on Dot" and waved his gloved hand my way.
I hope five years from now I remember ten years ago, I hope I remember that Winter night, I hope I remember the way he held baby Courtney all the time and how he always called Ash his Buddy girl.
I hope I never forget any of it.....
I love you Ashleigh, I love you Courtney.
I love you Ned, Dad, my Da.

Why oh WHYYYYY???

I am pissed off today, really and truly pissed off. I think I have a touch of the ovulatory rage and that certainly may be exacerbating my hyper aggressive pissed offedness - Grrrrr I am mad as hell.
If you are my facebook friend you already know (if you read my status) that I am sick with what I fear is some strain of the stupid flu. Are we still afraid of the swine and the bird, what is the status of those animals?
Whatev.
Normally, me feeling like shit wouldn't be that big of a deal, honestly I am usually sick to some degree with some stupid ailment, as we have previously blog discussed, four kids bring a wealth of germs to my doorknobs. This illness however is somewhat reminiscent of last years strep incident. Oh God, that was awful, I writhed in pain from the horrific body aches and took up shop on my bathroom floor with my face plastered to the cool toilet seat, a welcome reprieve to the hundred and three degree fever that gripped my body for daysssss. Oh my it was something else, I truly believed I was dying. Although Dan and I were living in seperate houses, the alone-ness I felt was made worse by the fact that he was also on a business trip in PA. and so I was trapped here with my needy kids who don't quite get that Mommy is really too sick to make dinner. Thankfully Kevin stepped up to the plate and fed them the standard blue box go-to and my dear sweet Dancam came with a massive bag of supplies for my survival. God love her, she even bought me sugar free popsicles because that was back in the day when I actually watched my weight....haha.
This stupid sickness is coming in a close second to the strep, BUT under far worse personal circumstances and hence my piss ball attitude. I am supposed to read my winning essay tomorrow at 12:20.....I am supposed to accept my certificate and my prize money.... BUT I am tooooo sick to get out of bed!
I want to throw a massive tantrum right now, but I have no energy to kick and scream. You know I am really sick when I can't muster up the energy to throw a fit. In my head on continuous loop, I have CeLo Green's hit song 'fuck you' but only the ending where he asks the question I am asking ... WHHHHYYYYYY WHHHHYYYYYY WHHYYYYYYYYYYYYY??????? Do you know what I mean? If you don't, listen to it and get a visual going of me. Pale, slightly green, flannel grandma style nightgown, messy sweaty medussa like hair pulled back from hideous face, pouting and sneezing in bed - moaning when I have the energy....
WHYYYYYYYYYYYY???
Here's the thing.... the subject matter for the essay was, 'write about someone who has had a positive effect on your life'. I wrote about Omar, a past boyfriend/best friend who died when I was eighteen. I wrote it with every intention of reading it proudly to his Mother, WHEN I WON. The day I won, I found out she died the previous morning....Oh my God, isn't that enough???? Now I have to be sick and can't even go. Grrrrrrrrr pissssssssy.
And with that I am going to quit my bitching and close the box. My head is getting too heavy to hold up and I'm afraid it may smash into my computer screen, shattering it for a third time in 12 months.
I surmise, I was a real douche in my past life and I think it's unfair that she/he doesn't have to pay the piper, I do. Stupid past life. Ugh.