As everyone is surely aware, my nephew Colin Phillips was born on Friday, July 2nd at East Georgia Regional Medical Center in Statesboro. He was 7 lbs 4 oz (his due date was 7/4), his chest and head were 13 inches, and he was born at 1313. Thirteen has always been my lucky number, incidentally.
It is hard to articulate how monumental his birth is without being one of those people who shove photos of their children or children they love in everyone's faces while they nod politely and try to shuffle away. But the fact remains that he is an absolutely beautiful child that we can't get enough of. Looking at him, I mostly see his father, but I see hints of my mother and me as well. I'll never have children of my own (and I'm ok with that), so I imagine Colin (and any potential future siblings) will be the closest thing I have. He shares my blood. He's the grandson of my parents, the great-grandson of my grandparents, who I wish were around to see him. I try to envision what he may look like, or what kind of personality he will have. I wonder what his life will be like, who his friends will be, if he'll be gay like his uncle and great uncle (I don't worry about it because his parents would be supportive, thank God, and by that time it shouldn't be an issue anyway).
I don't worry about any of that, truthfully, because I know this: Krisha and Timmy will be wonderful parents. I can't speak for Timmy, but Krisha and I had many difficult times during our childhood, and we were exposed to things that we never should have been. That's not an indictment of our parents; they did the best they could do at the time. But it was what it was. And to Colin's great fortune, Krisha learned from our parents mistakes. He will never endure the things we did because Krisha will never, ever allow it. I also know that Colin will be surrounded by love - he has parents who he can always talk to about anything. His uncle and grandparents will be only a phone call/email away. He won't be spoiled, though - neither Krisha nor I tolerate that. We got that from our parents.
So, I think about Colin, and miss him terribly. I'm also overwhelmed by the desire to protect him - you know, that whole I'll-take-a-bullet-or-jump-in-front-of-a-train feeling. I know he isn't my child, but I already love him as though he is. He's my flesh and blood, at any rate.
Colin, I hope you get to read this one day. If you are, hopefully I'm still around to tell you these things in person. But, I'll tell you this - welcome to the world, little buddy. It can be a pretty great place, but it got better six days ago. Know that your parents adore you, and I love you more than I can articulate here. I'm always here for you.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Dear Media: Please Stop. You Aren't Helping. Love, Highland Park
Here is the original entry I submitted to Chattarati.com before it was re-written prior to posting. No, I'm not bitter.
Over the last five and a half years that I have lived in Highland Park (and Chattanooga), I have had my share of debates, discussions, and outright arguments with people regarding the place I have chosen to call home.
John and I were well aware of the history of the neighborhood when we decided to live here; indeed, it’s sort of what drew us to it – the opportunity to live in a fabulous old home while working to make a difference was very appealing to us. The fact that it was light-years away from our dreary tract house-filled subdivision in the northern Atlanta suburbs made it even better.
Settling into my job, I began realizing what kind of perception Highland Park had locally. If the wide-eyed looks of horror didn’t clue me in, the strange and sometimes pointed comments would have hit me over the head. Things such as:
“Are you scared?”
“Do you have a gun? You NEED one. And bars on your windows. And dogs."
“Bless your heart. You’re not from here and you don’t know no better.”
“You’re an idiot. SOMEONE saw you coming. Get out of there.”
"Highland Park has the highest [insert violent crime here]. You're screwed."
And so on. I didn’t understand it – were they referring to my neighborhood? The one with the awesome houses and the active association and the fabulous people? The same one?
I soon found out that the answer to that question was quite often no.
One day the local news was on (John watches it; I’d rather watch Imitation of Life AND It's My Party on a continuous loop because they're less depressing), and my ears perked up when I heard something about a shooting in the “Highland Park Neighborhood”. The street mentioned was one I’d never heard of; when I looked it up, it was at least five miles away. Further observations led me (and nearly all of our neighbors) to the conclusion that the local news media often refer to any area between E.23rd Street and Wilcox Blvd. as Highland Park, or anything within the 37404 ZIP code, and that 99% of any crime references to our neighborhood did not happen here.
This still happens today, but not as much; somebody normally jumps on the phone to whichever media outlet to ask that they please refrain from referring to an area as Highland Park if it’s not within the actual boundaries. They’ve complied for the most part, but still mess it up enough to make our teeth itch.
Now granted, we’re one city, and what affects our neighbors affects all of us and all that. However, from a PR perspective, such inaccuracies are a nightmare. These perceptions make some people hesitant to live or invest in Highland Park. I can’t imagine how many potential residents – ones who would enjoy living here and contribute to the neighborhood – have been scared away. Not only that, I have heard countless stories of real estate agents flatly refusing to show homes in HP to their clients, even when they request it specifically. So, when someone slags my 'hood, I feel that it's my duty to defend it, much like Scarlett O'Hara defended Tara from the Yankees and carpetbaggers. Except that I don’t jerk the curtains off the windows to construct needlessly voluminous hoop dresses and live in a mid-19th Century version of a metro Atlanta McMansion (come to think of it, the O'Hara Plantation, if it actually existed, would probably be covered by a declining 1960s subdivision or seedy strip mall at this point).
The overwhelming majority of the negative comments have come from Chattanooga natives; indeed, it isn’t a coincidence that most of Highland Park’s newest residents are not from here. We weren’t here back in the bad old days of the 1990s when we did have the highest crime rate in the city, or when prostitutes skulked about openly on our corners (yeah, there's Main Street, but they've been nearly entirely driven from the neighborhood proper, and Main Street has become rather inhospitable for them as of late). It is somewhat understandable that people who were here then may have a difficult time understanding that things change.
But things do change. Cities change. I wouldn’t have lived in Chattanooga 15-20 years ago (my first impression of the city when I visited back in 1992 was Frazier Avenue, which at that time was an unseemly hellhole), much less Highland Park, but around that time, a small group of residents decided they were over it and they weren’t going to take it anymore. At the time, they were simply holding their own, accepting that they were only delaying the inevitable, that when they died or moved away, their neighborhood would slide back into chaos. But that didn’t happen – the homes, neglected yet proud, well-built yet crumbling, full of much of Chattanooga’s history – the lure was too powerful for many of us to ignore. And here we are, and we absolutely owe that to those first pioneers like Judith Schorr, the late Ginny Tatum, the late Mary Norwood, Marlene Brown, Charles and Uneva Shaw, and countless others. They worked to ensure that Highland Park would be a viable community for themselves as well as for those who would follow them. When people insult and disparage our neighborhood, it’s a slap in the faces of these people, and for the rest of us as well. It diminishes all of the hard work we have all put into it. It demeans my friends and neighbors who have chosen to call this place home – like the half-dozen or more who came to see after John when he wasn’t feeling well, or the ones who invite each other for drinks on their porches, or those of us who greet new residents and help them get acclimated. To me, it’s more than simply being ignorant or contrary – it’s hurtful.
Granted, urban living isn’t for everyone, and those of us who grew up in suburbs probably took a little time getting used to it, but this is my home, good and bad. I can’t say enough about the people I’ve had the privilege to get to know here. Many of us worry about not making a difference during our lives, but we have. People in one hundred years may not know our names, but they’ll know that we were here, and what we did, because our legacy will live on. I think this quote (of a quote) from Dr. Martin Luther King is fitting in our case:
“…we ain’t what we want to be; we ain’t what we ought to be; we ain’t what we gonna be, but, thank God, we ain’t what we was.”
Over the last five and a half years that I have lived in Highland Park (and Chattanooga), I have had my share of debates, discussions, and outright arguments with people regarding the place I have chosen to call home.
John and I were well aware of the history of the neighborhood when we decided to live here; indeed, it’s sort of what drew us to it – the opportunity to live in a fabulous old home while working to make a difference was very appealing to us. The fact that it was light-years away from our dreary tract house-filled subdivision in the northern Atlanta suburbs made it even better.
Settling into my job, I began realizing what kind of perception Highland Park had locally. If the wide-eyed looks of horror didn’t clue me in, the strange and sometimes pointed comments would have hit me over the head. Things such as:
“Are you scared?”
“Do you have a gun? You NEED one. And bars on your windows. And dogs."
“Bless your heart. You’re not from here and you don’t know no better.”
“You’re an idiot. SOMEONE saw you coming. Get out of there.”
"Highland Park has the highest [insert violent crime here]. You're screwed."
And so on. I didn’t understand it – were they referring to my neighborhood? The one with the awesome houses and the active association and the fabulous people? The same one?
I soon found out that the answer to that question was quite often no.
One day the local news was on (John watches it; I’d rather watch Imitation of Life AND It's My Party on a continuous loop because they're less depressing), and my ears perked up when I heard something about a shooting in the “Highland Park Neighborhood”. The street mentioned was one I’d never heard of; when I looked it up, it was at least five miles away. Further observations led me (and nearly all of our neighbors) to the conclusion that the local news media often refer to any area between E.23rd Street and Wilcox Blvd. as Highland Park, or anything within the 37404 ZIP code, and that 99% of any crime references to our neighborhood did not happen here.
This still happens today, but not as much; somebody normally jumps on the phone to whichever media outlet to ask that they please refrain from referring to an area as Highland Park if it’s not within the actual boundaries. They’ve complied for the most part, but still mess it up enough to make our teeth itch.
Now granted, we’re one city, and what affects our neighbors affects all of us and all that. However, from a PR perspective, such inaccuracies are a nightmare. These perceptions make some people hesitant to live or invest in Highland Park. I can’t imagine how many potential residents – ones who would enjoy living here and contribute to the neighborhood – have been scared away. Not only that, I have heard countless stories of real estate agents flatly refusing to show homes in HP to their clients, even when they request it specifically. So, when someone slags my 'hood, I feel that it's my duty to defend it, much like Scarlett O'Hara defended Tara from the Yankees and carpetbaggers. Except that I don’t jerk the curtains off the windows to construct needlessly voluminous hoop dresses and live in a mid-19th Century version of a metro Atlanta McMansion (come to think of it, the O'Hara Plantation, if it actually existed, would probably be covered by a declining 1960s subdivision or seedy strip mall at this point).
The overwhelming majority of the negative comments have come from Chattanooga natives; indeed, it isn’t a coincidence that most of Highland Park’s newest residents are not from here. We weren’t here back in the bad old days of the 1990s when we did have the highest crime rate in the city, or when prostitutes skulked about openly on our corners (yeah, there's Main Street, but they've been nearly entirely driven from the neighborhood proper, and Main Street has become rather inhospitable for them as of late). It is somewhat understandable that people who were here then may have a difficult time understanding that things change.
But things do change. Cities change. I wouldn’t have lived in Chattanooga 15-20 years ago (my first impression of the city when I visited back in 1992 was Frazier Avenue, which at that time was an unseemly hellhole), much less Highland Park, but around that time, a small group of residents decided they were over it and they weren’t going to take it anymore. At the time, they were simply holding their own, accepting that they were only delaying the inevitable, that when they died or moved away, their neighborhood would slide back into chaos. But that didn’t happen – the homes, neglected yet proud, well-built yet crumbling, full of much of Chattanooga’s history – the lure was too powerful for many of us to ignore. And here we are, and we absolutely owe that to those first pioneers like Judith Schorr, the late Ginny Tatum, the late Mary Norwood, Marlene Brown, Charles and Uneva Shaw, and countless others. They worked to ensure that Highland Park would be a viable community for themselves as well as for those who would follow them. When people insult and disparage our neighborhood, it’s a slap in the faces of these people, and for the rest of us as well. It diminishes all of the hard work we have all put into it. It demeans my friends and neighbors who have chosen to call this place home – like the half-dozen or more who came to see after John when he wasn’t feeling well, or the ones who invite each other for drinks on their porches, or those of us who greet new residents and help them get acclimated. To me, it’s more than simply being ignorant or contrary – it’s hurtful.
Granted, urban living isn’t for everyone, and those of us who grew up in suburbs probably took a little time getting used to it, but this is my home, good and bad. I can’t say enough about the people I’ve had the privilege to get to know here. Many of us worry about not making a difference during our lives, but we have. People in one hundred years may not know our names, but they’ll know that we were here, and what we did, because our legacy will live on. I think this quote (of a quote) from Dr. Martin Luther King is fitting in our case:
“…we ain’t what we want to be; we ain’t what we ought to be; we ain’t what we gonna be, but, thank God, we ain’t what we was.”
Friday, April 24, 2009
My Parents, Myself? Sort Of, But Not Really
Let’s face it – our parents shape us into the people we are, whether they were present or not. There’s no getting away from it, and I’m no exception. As I get older, I find myself understanding them more and more, and in some ways, less and less.
Both of my parents were born in Miami. My mother’s grandparents migrated from Screven County, GA during the depression to find work, and they did – the construction industry was booming, and my great-grandfather and his sons toiled in the blazing Miami sun along with thousands of other unnamed carpenters and craftsmen. When I go back to Miami (I haven’t been back in ten years; I need to do something about that) and see Miami Beach – the Art Deco District, the Fountainbleau Hotel (where my mother’s high school prom was held) – I feel immense pride that men like my grandfather and great-grandfather built those pastel palaces with their blood, sweat, and tears, and shaped the landscape we see today.
It was in this torrid atmosphere that my mother, Theresa (pronounced tuh-RESS-ah, not tuh-REES-ah) Louise Zeigler, arrived in 1954. She was the third child of my grandma Jenny, and the second for my grandfather, but the first one who lived (in his first marriage, there was an infant daughter who died soon after birth).
My mother always was (and still is) an attention getter, and she and her father Boby (his name was Quinn, but everyone called him Boby) became inseparable. I’ve heard the stories a million times, like the time Boby took her fishing in the Everglades . On the way back, Mom mentioned that she was hungry, hoping that he would take the hint and stop at the nearest fast-food restaurant. Instead, Boby pulled the truck off alongside a canal, popped off the hubcap, washed it out in the canal, cleaned the fish, and cooked them in the hubcap over a fire he built. Mom said it was the best fish she ever had.
It was soon clear that Mom was strong-willed; by her own admission she was sort of a brat, and her brattiness knew no bounds, whether she was putting ants in her sister’s stockings, or frogs in her bed, or ruining her perfectly sprayed and teased bouffant hairdo by messing it up with her hands. This continued with the arrival of her brother Rocky when she was nearly six; one day she upset him so badly that he chased her about the neighborhood with a meat cleaver, and when she went to the neighbors for help, they told her to go home and get what she deserved before slamming the door in her face. That’s hardcore.
Mom came of age in the 60s and 70s, but she wasn’t about the feminist movement (as much as that dismays my sister and me). Her goal was simply to be a wife and mother (not that there’s anything wrong with that); this would happen quicker that she probably anticipated.
My parents met in late 1970, I think, at a dance at the National Guard Armory in Homestead , south of Miami. They began seeing each other, and on November 20, 1971 they were married. My father had just turned 18, my mother 17, and both had left high school at this point. I guess it wasn’t so weird to be a 17 year-old wife and mother back then, but it was probably wasn't broadcast to the world that I was born exactly six months after their wedding.
It stuns me today to think about how young they were when I was a child; they were kids themselves. Some of the earliest memories of my parents are of them around the age of 20, but they seemed older to me. After we moved to Georgia, my father went to trade school, and Mom settled into being a wife and mother.
My parents didn’t get along very well, and that didn’t change after my sister’s arrival in 1977. When they battled, they battled, and it could be scary. They loved each other, but they were essentially immature kids playing house who didn’t know how to communicate in an adult manner.
Through all of this, I knew one thing: my parents loved me. My father, like most men of his generation, wasn’t good at showing it, and I honestly sometimes wondered if he wanted to trade me in for a different son. He grew up rough, and I don’t think he knew what to make of a strong-willed, bookish and freakishly articulate little boy who was an ardent pacifist and spent time reading newspapers and encyclopedias rather than roughhousing with other kids. I knew he loved me, but I was rather overly sensitive and easily offended, and I was afraid of his temper. Thus, the walls went up, and they’re still being torn down today, with much success.
I knew, however, that my sister and I were my mother’s world. She was rather overprotective, which would cause issues later, but I knew her love for me never wavered. Sometimes I wonder if she loved us too much, but I’m not sure that’s possible.
As the years wore on, and we grew up, my parents grew further and further apart. They fought, often bitterly and far into the night, leaving themselves (and us, because we couldn’t sleep through it) exhausted. I became increasingly angry with them; weren’t they supposed to be adults? Adults aren’t supposed to have temper-tantrums, but mine certainly did. Many times I felt (sometimes I still do) that my sister and I were the adults and our parents were the unruly children who my sister and I were stuck raising. When I was old enough to drive, I would flee the house as soon as the yelling started. I had had enough and decided it was time to save myself. My biggest regret is leaving my sister there, but she was a kid and they would have killed me for taking her from the house without permission. I still regret it, though, and always will.
My parents finally divorced in 1995 for obvious reasons (and for others that won't be discussed here), and I think it nearly killed my mother. Despite the near-violence of their marriage, my mother loved my father, and to have him leave after 23 years left her bereft. That’s something I’ve learned about my mother: she loves fiercely and too much, and she loses enormous chunks of herself when people she loves die or go away.
It’s taken me a long time to sort through my life, especially regarding my parents. I didn’t speak to my father for twelve years after the divorce; today, I’m not really sure why. When we finally reunited at my sister’s wedding, a floodgate was released – I realized he indeed loved me, and still does. Both of my parents complain that I don’t call them very often. I don’t, and it’s not because of them; I simply hate talking on the phone (working in call centers does that to a person). I’m no longer angry with them. Truth is, aside from my parent’s marital problems, my childhood was pretty good. I realize today that, at the time, they were doing the best they could. They simply weren’t capable of behaving differently because they didn’t know how. Despite the tumult, they were pretty good parents. My sister and I have a strong sense of right and wrong that was drummed into our heads from an early age. We were taught to respect everyone and to treat others as we would like to be treated. Both of us were exceptionally well-behaved and polite, and I credit my parents for that. When I came out to them, they said they loved me and nothing would ever change that.
Today it’s easier for me to see the traits I got from my mother and father. I never had a chance to avoid being opinionated as I got that from both my parents. My mother passed her ADHD down to me (thanks for that), and my sister is analytical like our dad. Emotionally, I think I’m more like my mother, which scares me a little. Both of my parents instilled in me the drive to Do the Right Thing, and to fight for what I believe in, which serves me well today in the political and social justice venues I seem to trip and fall into.
Of course we have differences, even now. Dad is an ardent Republican (fiscally, but still) which makes me throw up in my mouth a little (ok, a lot), so we don’t speak about politics because we don't agree on anything. Aside from that, we get on very well now, and I think we’re much closer than ever. We’ve both grown up and realized that life is too short to be petty and ridiculous. My dad is who he is, and I don't expect any more or less from him.
My differences with Mom erupt from time to time. I’ve worried about her a lot over the years. The divorce took a toll on her, and she had a slight heart attack a few years ago. The emotional bereavement from losing my father has never gone away, and now my sister is out of the house, and I am in another state. For someone who built her life around raising children, I imagine she feels like she has no purpose, and I think she’s quite lonely at times. All I have to say (which I probably won't say to her in person because it makes me uncomfortable) is this: Mom, I may not call you often, but that’s about me, not you. You were – and still are – a wonderful mother, warts and all. Thank you for raising me to be a self-sufficient adult, and thank you for your rabble-rousing (I had to get it from somewhere) on behalf of me and of gay children everywhere. Never forget that you are truly exceptional, and that the lessons you taught me – good and bad – are things I will carry with me forever. And for that, I will always be grateful.
Both of my parents were born in Miami. My mother’s grandparents migrated from Screven County, GA during the depression to find work, and they did – the construction industry was booming, and my great-grandfather and his sons toiled in the blazing Miami sun along with thousands of other unnamed carpenters and craftsmen. When I go back to Miami (I haven’t been back in ten years; I need to do something about that) and see Miami Beach – the Art Deco District, the Fountainbleau Hotel (where my mother’s high school prom was held) – I feel immense pride that men like my grandfather and great-grandfather built those pastel palaces with their blood, sweat, and tears, and shaped the landscape we see today.
It was in this torrid atmosphere that my mother, Theresa (pronounced tuh-RESS-ah, not tuh-REES-ah) Louise Zeigler, arrived in 1954. She was the third child of my grandma Jenny, and the second for my grandfather, but the first one who lived (in his first marriage, there was an infant daughter who died soon after birth).
My mother always was (and still is) an attention getter, and she and her father Boby (his name was Quinn, but everyone called him Boby) became inseparable. I’ve heard the stories a million times, like the time Boby took her fishing in the Everglades . On the way back, Mom mentioned that she was hungry, hoping that he would take the hint and stop at the nearest fast-food restaurant. Instead, Boby pulled the truck off alongside a canal, popped off the hubcap, washed it out in the canal, cleaned the fish, and cooked them in the hubcap over a fire he built. Mom said it was the best fish she ever had.
It was soon clear that Mom was strong-willed; by her own admission she was sort of a brat, and her brattiness knew no bounds, whether she was putting ants in her sister’s stockings, or frogs in her bed, or ruining her perfectly sprayed and teased bouffant hairdo by messing it up with her hands. This continued with the arrival of her brother Rocky when she was nearly six; one day she upset him so badly that he chased her about the neighborhood with a meat cleaver, and when she went to the neighbors for help, they told her to go home and get what she deserved before slamming the door in her face. That’s hardcore.
Mom came of age in the 60s and 70s, but she wasn’t about the feminist movement (as much as that dismays my sister and me). Her goal was simply to be a wife and mother (not that there’s anything wrong with that); this would happen quicker that she probably anticipated.
My parents met in late 1970, I think, at a dance at the National Guard Armory in Homestead , south of Miami. They began seeing each other, and on November 20, 1971 they were married. My father had just turned 18, my mother 17, and both had left high school at this point. I guess it wasn’t so weird to be a 17 year-old wife and mother back then, but it was probably wasn't broadcast to the world that I was born exactly six months after their wedding.
It stuns me today to think about how young they were when I was a child; they were kids themselves. Some of the earliest memories of my parents are of them around the age of 20, but they seemed older to me. After we moved to Georgia, my father went to trade school, and Mom settled into being a wife and mother.
My parents didn’t get along very well, and that didn’t change after my sister’s arrival in 1977. When they battled, they battled, and it could be scary. They loved each other, but they were essentially immature kids playing house who didn’t know how to communicate in an adult manner.
Through all of this, I knew one thing: my parents loved me. My father, like most men of his generation, wasn’t good at showing it, and I honestly sometimes wondered if he wanted to trade me in for a different son. He grew up rough, and I don’t think he knew what to make of a strong-willed, bookish and freakishly articulate little boy who was an ardent pacifist and spent time reading newspapers and encyclopedias rather than roughhousing with other kids. I knew he loved me, but I was rather overly sensitive and easily offended, and I was afraid of his temper. Thus, the walls went up, and they’re still being torn down today, with much success.
I knew, however, that my sister and I were my mother’s world. She was rather overprotective, which would cause issues later, but I knew her love for me never wavered. Sometimes I wonder if she loved us too much, but I’m not sure that’s possible.
As the years wore on, and we grew up, my parents grew further and further apart. They fought, often bitterly and far into the night, leaving themselves (and us, because we couldn’t sleep through it) exhausted. I became increasingly angry with them; weren’t they supposed to be adults? Adults aren’t supposed to have temper-tantrums, but mine certainly did. Many times I felt (sometimes I still do) that my sister and I were the adults and our parents were the unruly children who my sister and I were stuck raising. When I was old enough to drive, I would flee the house as soon as the yelling started. I had had enough and decided it was time to save myself. My biggest regret is leaving my sister there, but she was a kid and they would have killed me for taking her from the house without permission. I still regret it, though, and always will.
My parents finally divorced in 1995 for obvious reasons (and for others that won't be discussed here), and I think it nearly killed my mother. Despite the near-violence of their marriage, my mother loved my father, and to have him leave after 23 years left her bereft. That’s something I’ve learned about my mother: she loves fiercely and too much, and she loses enormous chunks of herself when people she loves die or go away.
It’s taken me a long time to sort through my life, especially regarding my parents. I didn’t speak to my father for twelve years after the divorce; today, I’m not really sure why. When we finally reunited at my sister’s wedding, a floodgate was released – I realized he indeed loved me, and still does. Both of my parents complain that I don’t call them very often. I don’t, and it’s not because of them; I simply hate talking on the phone (working in call centers does that to a person). I’m no longer angry with them. Truth is, aside from my parent’s marital problems, my childhood was pretty good. I realize today that, at the time, they were doing the best they could. They simply weren’t capable of behaving differently because they didn’t know how. Despite the tumult, they were pretty good parents. My sister and I have a strong sense of right and wrong that was drummed into our heads from an early age. We were taught to respect everyone and to treat others as we would like to be treated. Both of us were exceptionally well-behaved and polite, and I credit my parents for that. When I came out to them, they said they loved me and nothing would ever change that.
Today it’s easier for me to see the traits I got from my mother and father. I never had a chance to avoid being opinionated as I got that from both my parents. My mother passed her ADHD down to me (thanks for that), and my sister is analytical like our dad. Emotionally, I think I’m more like my mother, which scares me a little. Both of my parents instilled in me the drive to Do the Right Thing, and to fight for what I believe in, which serves me well today in the political and social justice venues I seem to trip and fall into.
Of course we have differences, even now. Dad is an ardent Republican (fiscally, but still) which makes me throw up in my mouth a little (ok, a lot), so we don’t speak about politics because we don't agree on anything. Aside from that, we get on very well now, and I think we’re much closer than ever. We’ve both grown up and realized that life is too short to be petty and ridiculous. My dad is who he is, and I don't expect any more or less from him.
My differences with Mom erupt from time to time. I’ve worried about her a lot over the years. The divorce took a toll on her, and she had a slight heart attack a few years ago. The emotional bereavement from losing my father has never gone away, and now my sister is out of the house, and I am in another state. For someone who built her life around raising children, I imagine she feels like she has no purpose, and I think she’s quite lonely at times. All I have to say (which I probably won't say to her in person because it makes me uncomfortable) is this: Mom, I may not call you often, but that’s about me, not you. You were – and still are – a wonderful mother, warts and all. Thank you for raising me to be a self-sufficient adult, and thank you for your rabble-rousing (I had to get it from somewhere) on behalf of me and of gay children everywhere. Never forget that you are truly exceptional, and that the lessons you taught me – good and bad – are things I will carry with me forever. And for that, I will always be grateful.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Bullying is Bad, Period, and Just Because You Think a Kid is Gay Doesn’t Make It Acceptable, Mmmkay?
Carl Walker-Hoover would have turned 12 on April 16th. Unfortunately, the extension cord he fashioned into a noose ten days earlier ensured that he wouldn’t live to see his birthday.
Carl was a victim of anti-gay bullying at his school in western Massachusetts, and had been for a long time. He didn’t identify as gay, at all, but it didn’t take much for the Neanderthals to set upon him. His mother contacted the school frequently to demand that something be done, but nothing was. Nothing except being forced to eat lunch with his bully for a week.
Really?
Carl’s birthday this year coincided with the National Day of Silence, which raises awareness of GLBT bullying. School can be a scary, scary place for children who are gay, or questioning, or even perceived as gay. Taunts of “gay”, “faggot”, “queer”, etc. denotes that one is the lowest of the low, not worthy of respect, not worthy of dignity, not worthy of happiness.
Not worthy of life.
Predictably, the mouth breathing protesters have come out in force. “Religious” groups (and I use that term loosely) have encouraged parents to keep their children home on this day, that it’s simply “propaganda about homosexuality” or it “promotes a social and sexual agenda”.
I have two words for these people: Fuck. You.
Seriously. Fuck you and the horses you rode in on. Fuck you and your uptight, fundamentalist bullshit. Fuck you and your cold-hearted hatred. Fuck you and your fake holier-than-thou morality that you spew while you beat your submissive wives and tapdance in public toilets and warp your children in the name of Jesus (or someone you think is Jesus, because the one I’ve read about doesn’t act like a sanctimonious hypocrite). Fuck off and die.
I have zero patience for these people. I can’t chalk it up to differences in philosophy, or agree to disagree. I can’t blow it off because I don’t think like them. I can’t take the opinion that “everyone has a different opinion” in this case. Because kids are fucking dying and they don’t care.
Listen, morons. It’s really quite simple. Every single child has the right to go to school without fear. Every child has the right to not be bullied. Period, paragraph, end of discussion. It doesn’t matter if you think they’re freaks or if you think they’re sinners or if you think they should be killed because they don’t fit into your narrow view of what’s acceptable. All too often, gay kids suffer in silence, and when they do go to teachers and administrators for help, there is usually one action taken: nothing.
Schools frequently do absolutely nothing to stop anti-gay bullying. These kids are frequently getting it from all sides: parents, teachers, administrators, churches, peers, politicians. Imagine having everyone in your life telling you that what you are is shit. Something you didn’t ask for and is really confusing, and it’s you, and you can’t change it any more than you can change your skin color (and shouldn’t have to, really), and you’re being told that people like you are immoral, less-than-human creatures who wish to promote a weird, bizarre sexual smorgasbord on the human race (maybe I’m a Bad Gay, but I still haven’t been apprised of the so-called Gay Agenda). It’s no wonder that so many gay teens (and perceived gay) are killing themselves. Check out the Lifetime movie Prayers for Bobby (I can’t watch it because it upsets me too much) for a small glimpse of this. It’s a true story.
Point is, these are children. Children deserve to be protected, and loved, and respected. It’s not okay to bully kids who are different. It’s not okay to believe that “religious freedom” gives one a license to abuse others, and anyone who believes this, in my opinion, is rotten to the core and worthy of scorn and mocking.
I have a friend who I’ll refer to as TJ (his name is John, but he’s not my partner John, so I don’t want to confuse people. Don’t ask what the T stands for). TJ lives in Livingston, TN near the Kentucky border. He’s a direct descendent of Alvin C. York, the most decorated soldier in WWI and the subject of a 1941 movie called Sgt. York starring Gary Cooper. TJ is also a cross-dresser – not full on drag, but a sort of gender-bending hybrid.
TJ probably emerged from the womb with lip gloss in one hand and a makeup bag in the other. His parents knew from the start that he Wasn’t Like Other Boys; he shunned sports, dressed in his mothers clothes and heels, and otherwise minced, prissed, and pranced about with a florish. He’s that way today, and I will fight to the death for his right to be who he is.
That’s not to say that I understand it; I don’t. Not at all, because I’m not him. Neither John nor I are feminine, nor do we have the desire to wear women’s clothing or makeup. But that’s not us. It is TJ, and it always has been. It is simply who he is. Whereas John and I could “pass” for straight, TJ could never. Not even with a gun to his head.
Surprisingly, TJ has never had many issues with anyone, even in the Tennessee hills. John explained it this way: people in the hills stick up for their own, even if they think you’re a freak. You’re their freak, dammit, and they’ll defend you.
The only times I’ve ever nearly gotten into a physical altercation were both related to TJ. Both times we were here in Chattanooga, and both times he was being ridiculed and disrespected by strangers near us – middle aged men, who should have known better, making fun of him not five feet away, out loud, like he wasn’t present.
Like he wasn’t human.
He told us to ignore it, that he was used to it, but I wasn’t having it. John and I made choice comments of our own, and left.
This is why we fight. It’s for people like Carl and TJ and all the others who are berated and disrespected when all they want to do is live their lives as they see fit. TJ has been lucky so far, but all it may take one day is some drunken redneck to hurt him or worse. That’s something all GLBT worry about, really. John and I could hold our own, easily, but TJ would never be able to defend himself. So it’s for all of us, really. We deserve to be safe. Children deserve to not have to feel like suicide is their only option. When children are dying, it’s time to take to take a long, hard look at your soul, and decide if you’re helping or hurting. Too often people are hurting them, oftentimes grown-ass adults who should be protecting them are too busy being petty and hateful to give a damn or using the words of Jesus as an excuse to hate when these attitudes are diametrically opposite of his teachings. There are no words for how excruciatingly ugly and sad that is, and I will spend the rest of my life fighting for these people, as well as for myself.
Carl was a victim of anti-gay bullying at his school in western Massachusetts, and had been for a long time. He didn’t identify as gay, at all, but it didn’t take much for the Neanderthals to set upon him. His mother contacted the school frequently to demand that something be done, but nothing was. Nothing except being forced to eat lunch with his bully for a week.
Really?
Carl’s birthday this year coincided with the National Day of Silence, which raises awareness of GLBT bullying. School can be a scary, scary place for children who are gay, or questioning, or even perceived as gay. Taunts of “gay”, “faggot”, “queer”, etc. denotes that one is the lowest of the low, not worthy of respect, not worthy of dignity, not worthy of happiness.
Not worthy of life.
Predictably, the mouth breathing protesters have come out in force. “Religious” groups (and I use that term loosely) have encouraged parents to keep their children home on this day, that it’s simply “propaganda about homosexuality” or it “promotes a social and sexual agenda”.
I have two words for these people: Fuck. You.
Seriously. Fuck you and the horses you rode in on. Fuck you and your uptight, fundamentalist bullshit. Fuck you and your cold-hearted hatred. Fuck you and your fake holier-than-thou morality that you spew while you beat your submissive wives and tapdance in public toilets and warp your children in the name of Jesus (or someone you think is Jesus, because the one I’ve read about doesn’t act like a sanctimonious hypocrite). Fuck off and die.
I have zero patience for these people. I can’t chalk it up to differences in philosophy, or agree to disagree. I can’t blow it off because I don’t think like them. I can’t take the opinion that “everyone has a different opinion” in this case. Because kids are fucking dying and they don’t care.
Listen, morons. It’s really quite simple. Every single child has the right to go to school without fear. Every child has the right to not be bullied. Period, paragraph, end of discussion. It doesn’t matter if you think they’re freaks or if you think they’re sinners or if you think they should be killed because they don’t fit into your narrow view of what’s acceptable. All too often, gay kids suffer in silence, and when they do go to teachers and administrators for help, there is usually one action taken: nothing.
Schools frequently do absolutely nothing to stop anti-gay bullying. These kids are frequently getting it from all sides: parents, teachers, administrators, churches, peers, politicians. Imagine having everyone in your life telling you that what you are is shit. Something you didn’t ask for and is really confusing, and it’s you, and you can’t change it any more than you can change your skin color (and shouldn’t have to, really), and you’re being told that people like you are immoral, less-than-human creatures who wish to promote a weird, bizarre sexual smorgasbord on the human race (maybe I’m a Bad Gay, but I still haven’t been apprised of the so-called Gay Agenda). It’s no wonder that so many gay teens (and perceived gay) are killing themselves. Check out the Lifetime movie Prayers for Bobby (I can’t watch it because it upsets me too much) for a small glimpse of this. It’s a true story.
Point is, these are children. Children deserve to be protected, and loved, and respected. It’s not okay to bully kids who are different. It’s not okay to believe that “religious freedom” gives one a license to abuse others, and anyone who believes this, in my opinion, is rotten to the core and worthy of scorn and mocking.
I have a friend who I’ll refer to as TJ (his name is John, but he’s not my partner John, so I don’t want to confuse people. Don’t ask what the T stands for). TJ lives in Livingston, TN near the Kentucky border. He’s a direct descendent of Alvin C. York, the most decorated soldier in WWI and the subject of a 1941 movie called Sgt. York starring Gary Cooper. TJ is also a cross-dresser – not full on drag, but a sort of gender-bending hybrid.
TJ probably emerged from the womb with lip gloss in one hand and a makeup bag in the other. His parents knew from the start that he Wasn’t Like Other Boys; he shunned sports, dressed in his mothers clothes and heels, and otherwise minced, prissed, and pranced about with a florish. He’s that way today, and I will fight to the death for his right to be who he is.
That’s not to say that I understand it; I don’t. Not at all, because I’m not him. Neither John nor I are feminine, nor do we have the desire to wear women’s clothing or makeup. But that’s not us. It is TJ, and it always has been. It is simply who he is. Whereas John and I could “pass” for straight, TJ could never. Not even with a gun to his head.
Surprisingly, TJ has never had many issues with anyone, even in the Tennessee hills. John explained it this way: people in the hills stick up for their own, even if they think you’re a freak. You’re their freak, dammit, and they’ll defend you.
The only times I’ve ever nearly gotten into a physical altercation were both related to TJ. Both times we were here in Chattanooga, and both times he was being ridiculed and disrespected by strangers near us – middle aged men, who should have known better, making fun of him not five feet away, out loud, like he wasn’t present.
Like he wasn’t human.
He told us to ignore it, that he was used to it, but I wasn’t having it. John and I made choice comments of our own, and left.
This is why we fight. It’s for people like Carl and TJ and all the others who are berated and disrespected when all they want to do is live their lives as they see fit. TJ has been lucky so far, but all it may take one day is some drunken redneck to hurt him or worse. That’s something all GLBT worry about, really. John and I could hold our own, easily, but TJ would never be able to defend himself. So it’s for all of us, really. We deserve to be safe. Children deserve to not have to feel like suicide is their only option. When children are dying, it’s time to take to take a long, hard look at your soul, and decide if you’re helping or hurting. Too often people are hurting them, oftentimes grown-ass adults who should be protecting them are too busy being petty and hateful to give a damn or using the words of Jesus as an excuse to hate when these attitudes are diametrically opposite of his teachings. There are no words for how excruciatingly ugly and sad that is, and I will spend the rest of my life fighting for these people, as well as for myself.
Friday, April 17, 2009
My Grandma Was Hip, and Hers Weren't Broken
Most people our age had grandmothers who looked and acted like one would expect a grandmother to act (i.e., grandmotherly).
Not mine. She didn't look or act like one, and I loved her dearly for it.
My grandma was born in Duluth, GA in 1925 (Gwinnett Place Mall now sits on the property, and no, no one in our family made money off of that as far as I know), but grew up in Miami. An early marriage ended when the young man was killed in WWII, a second marriage ended in divorce, and my grandpa was her third. Her full name - Geneva Alice Martin Gitannis Benefield Zeigler - sounds like a soap character, which was sort of fitting.
My memories of Grandma Jenny are as vivid as she was. Her vast collection of wigs was legendary in our family; she was a natural brunette (I think), but she favored red wigs that appeared as though they came from the Lucille Ball collection, and we never knew which one she would show up wearing. Sometimes she would surprise us and appear as a blonde, but not often.
Like most of our female Martin descendants, Grandma Jenny spent untold hours in the mirror getting her makeup just right or putting together the perfect outfit. In her younger years, her style was fashion-forward and cutting edge - old photos reveal pedal pushers and mules as early as the late 50s, and even the somewhat dreary June Cleaver-esqe dresses came alive when she wore them. In the 60s she sported the perfect beehive hairdo (or wig, probably), and she became a redhead when it was somewhat scandalous to do so. By the time I came along, she, like many women, had fallen victim to 70s polyester, but even so, I never saw her leave the house without looking her best.
When my mother was little during the late 50s, Grandma decided it was time to find a job, so she did. Evidently this was some sort of affront to my grandpa (and most men at the time, I assume), so she simply didn't tell him. She left after he did and got home before he did, he was none the wiser, and she had extra spending money. Until my mother spilled the beans, which apparently prompted a Fred Flinstone no-wife-of-mine-is-going-to-work tirade. In a then-brazen display of feminism (which she would pass down to my sister, but it somehow skipped our mother), she declared that she was keeping her job, and that was that, and if he didn't like it he could take a flying leap into the nearest canal. He ranted and raved for a while, and eventually got over it.
My grandfather died suddenly in January 1980, a few months shy of my 8th birthday. I remember the day vividly - he got sick, Mom rushed him to the hospital, Grandma ran out of the house after a mysterious phone call, and when they returned it was all over. His death affected my grandmother in characteristic fashion - she mourned, but like the steel magnolia that she was, she dusted herself off and moved on. She even began dating a little, but unfortunately her judgement became cloudy when it came to men.
She met a man - I don't even remember his name - from Nashville, and they started seeing one another. It didn't take long for her to figure out that this gentlemen was no gentleman at all; his shady dealings were obvious, and she soon found herself trapped somehow. He became abusive, even; some of what he did to her remains unprintable.
We're not sure what led her to board a bus to Nashville one summer day, or what her plans were. I'd like to think that she intended to end things with him once and for all, but we'll never know. That may have been what she was thinking when, as witnesses would later tell, she was arguing bitterly on a pay phone (this was 1985, after all) at a Waffle House and slammed it down. She may have been thinking this when she stormed angrily out of the restaurant en route to her hotel, which was across the busy four-laned street. And it's probably just as well that we don't know what she was thinking when she stepped off the curb and saw, too late, the car that was coming over the hill in her direction.
My grandmother was taken to Nashville General Hospital, which, as it existed in 1985, resembled something between a crumbling medeval fortress and an insane asylum. In this squalor, my grandmother languished in a coma for five days until the doctors told the family that yes, her brain was swelling, and no, nothing could be done. My grandmother slipped away on July 24, 1985, leaving her family devastated. She was 60 years old.
My 13 year-old mind comprehended only some of what was going on; this was the first family death in which I was old enough to participate in the rituals. Hers was the first dead body I had ever seen, and I was adamant that I would not go near her, but I was involuntarily propelled toward the pretty casket. She looked beautiful; dead, yes, but lovely in her yellow dress and blonde wig. As I looked at my grandmother, who was now as animated as a piece of furniture, an immense sadness came over me. Never again would I see her smile at me, or hear her voice, or eat her food. She was lying there, dead, resplendent in a pretty dress but still dead, and would soon be put in the ground, and that would be that.
The funeral was held on a typically oppresive late July day, which also happened to be my sister's 8th birthday. I'm not sure if anyone even realized that, or if they did, who was in the mood? She was lowered into the ground next to my grandfather, and the ancient black gravediggers began their task.
My mother's siblings had come for the funeral; my mother's youngest brother Rocky arrived from Miami after a lengthy estrangement. When I saw him with his shocking weight loss and bizarre case of shingles, I instinctively knew what was wrong with him, even as a 13 year-old. No one had to tell me, and no one did. He was also developing a racking cough that got worse and worse, and he was hospitalized once he returned to Miami. Two weeks to the day after his mother's death, Uncle Rocky died from AIDS complications. He was 25.
No one told us the real story, and for an already grief-wracked family, this was too much. There was the gay thing, which for a southern family in 1985 was difficult enough, but no one knew anything about AIDS then, and there was fear, terror, and shame about it, to say the least. The cause of his death was a whispered secret that the adults guarded with their lives, because what would people think? I was belwildered.
After everyone went back to Miami for the second time, my mother and her surviving siblings, like so many, had a falling out, and did not speak for years. I imagine their pain was as terrible as my mother's was, but I only saw her, and she was pain, a raw, walking ball of it. I can't imagine the pain they went through, losing a mother and a brother in short order. It's unfathomable to me that that much pain exists, and I hope I never experience it. My mother had lost her father 5 years earlier, and now this, and she was 30 years old. While she went about the business of raising us - I imagine it was the main thing that kept her going - she was different. And she's never, ever been the same. Life dealt her a blow (and would again 10 years later when her marriage to my father ended), and I imagine that the horrible, searing pain gathered itself into a ball and took its final place in her soul, and it would never go away.
As for me, the loss of my grandmother and uncle remains one of the great tragedies of my life. I live in Tennessee now, and I have visited the accident site and the hospital where she died - by that time, it had relocated, and the building was condemned and was later mercifully torn down. Not only did I lose my grandmother and my uncle that summer, but I lost a part of my mother as well. It wasn't her fault, and she was still a good mother, but my sister and I would never get that part of her back, because it was gone forever. I don't know if it died with her mother and brother, or if it evaporated into the ether, but either way, it ceased to exist.
Not mine. She didn't look or act like one, and I loved her dearly for it.
My grandma was born in Duluth, GA in 1925 (Gwinnett Place Mall now sits on the property, and no, no one in our family made money off of that as far as I know), but grew up in Miami. An early marriage ended when the young man was killed in WWII, a second marriage ended in divorce, and my grandpa was her third. Her full name - Geneva Alice Martin Gitannis Benefield Zeigler - sounds like a soap character, which was sort of fitting.
My memories of Grandma Jenny are as vivid as she was. Her vast collection of wigs was legendary in our family; she was a natural brunette (I think), but she favored red wigs that appeared as though they came from the Lucille Ball collection, and we never knew which one she would show up wearing. Sometimes she would surprise us and appear as a blonde, but not often.
Like most of our female Martin descendants, Grandma Jenny spent untold hours in the mirror getting her makeup just right or putting together the perfect outfit. In her younger years, her style was fashion-forward and cutting edge - old photos reveal pedal pushers and mules as early as the late 50s, and even the somewhat dreary June Cleaver-esqe dresses came alive when she wore them. In the 60s she sported the perfect beehive hairdo (or wig, probably), and she became a redhead when it was somewhat scandalous to do so. By the time I came along, she, like many women, had fallen victim to 70s polyester, but even so, I never saw her leave the house without looking her best.
When my mother was little during the late 50s, Grandma decided it was time to find a job, so she did. Evidently this was some sort of affront to my grandpa (and most men at the time, I assume), so she simply didn't tell him. She left after he did and got home before he did, he was none the wiser, and she had extra spending money. Until my mother spilled the beans, which apparently prompted a Fred Flinstone no-wife-of-mine-is-going-to-work tirade. In a then-brazen display of feminism (which she would pass down to my sister, but it somehow skipped our mother), she declared that she was keeping her job, and that was that, and if he didn't like it he could take a flying leap into the nearest canal. He ranted and raved for a while, and eventually got over it.
My grandfather died suddenly in January 1980, a few months shy of my 8th birthday. I remember the day vividly - he got sick, Mom rushed him to the hospital, Grandma ran out of the house after a mysterious phone call, and when they returned it was all over. His death affected my grandmother in characteristic fashion - she mourned, but like the steel magnolia that she was, she dusted herself off and moved on. She even began dating a little, but unfortunately her judgement became cloudy when it came to men.
She met a man - I don't even remember his name - from Nashville, and they started seeing one another. It didn't take long for her to figure out that this gentlemen was no gentleman at all; his shady dealings were obvious, and she soon found herself trapped somehow. He became abusive, even; some of what he did to her remains unprintable.
We're not sure what led her to board a bus to Nashville one summer day, or what her plans were. I'd like to think that she intended to end things with him once and for all, but we'll never know. That may have been what she was thinking when, as witnesses would later tell, she was arguing bitterly on a pay phone (this was 1985, after all) at a Waffle House and slammed it down. She may have been thinking this when she stormed angrily out of the restaurant en route to her hotel, which was across the busy four-laned street. And it's probably just as well that we don't know what she was thinking when she stepped off the curb and saw, too late, the car that was coming over the hill in her direction.
My grandmother was taken to Nashville General Hospital, which, as it existed in 1985, resembled something between a crumbling medeval fortress and an insane asylum. In this squalor, my grandmother languished in a coma for five days until the doctors told the family that yes, her brain was swelling, and no, nothing could be done. My grandmother slipped away on July 24, 1985, leaving her family devastated. She was 60 years old.
My 13 year-old mind comprehended only some of what was going on; this was the first family death in which I was old enough to participate in the rituals. Hers was the first dead body I had ever seen, and I was adamant that I would not go near her, but I was involuntarily propelled toward the pretty casket. She looked beautiful; dead, yes, but lovely in her yellow dress and blonde wig. As I looked at my grandmother, who was now as animated as a piece of furniture, an immense sadness came over me. Never again would I see her smile at me, or hear her voice, or eat her food. She was lying there, dead, resplendent in a pretty dress but still dead, and would soon be put in the ground, and that would be that.
The funeral was held on a typically oppresive late July day, which also happened to be my sister's 8th birthday. I'm not sure if anyone even realized that, or if they did, who was in the mood? She was lowered into the ground next to my grandfather, and the ancient black gravediggers began their task.
My mother's siblings had come for the funeral; my mother's youngest brother Rocky arrived from Miami after a lengthy estrangement. When I saw him with his shocking weight loss and bizarre case of shingles, I instinctively knew what was wrong with him, even as a 13 year-old. No one had to tell me, and no one did. He was also developing a racking cough that got worse and worse, and he was hospitalized once he returned to Miami. Two weeks to the day after his mother's death, Uncle Rocky died from AIDS complications. He was 25.
No one told us the real story, and for an already grief-wracked family, this was too much. There was the gay thing, which for a southern family in 1985 was difficult enough, but no one knew anything about AIDS then, and there was fear, terror, and shame about it, to say the least. The cause of his death was a whispered secret that the adults guarded with their lives, because what would people think? I was belwildered.
After everyone went back to Miami for the second time, my mother and her surviving siblings, like so many, had a falling out, and did not speak for years. I imagine their pain was as terrible as my mother's was, but I only saw her, and she was pain, a raw, walking ball of it. I can't imagine the pain they went through, losing a mother and a brother in short order. It's unfathomable to me that that much pain exists, and I hope I never experience it. My mother had lost her father 5 years earlier, and now this, and she was 30 years old. While she went about the business of raising us - I imagine it was the main thing that kept her going - she was different. And she's never, ever been the same. Life dealt her a blow (and would again 10 years later when her marriage to my father ended), and I imagine that the horrible, searing pain gathered itself into a ball and took its final place in her soul, and it would never go away.
As for me, the loss of my grandmother and uncle remains one of the great tragedies of my life. I live in Tennessee now, and I have visited the accident site and the hospital where she died - by that time, it had relocated, and the building was condemned and was later mercifully torn down. Not only did I lose my grandmother and my uncle that summer, but I lost a part of my mother as well. It wasn't her fault, and she was still a good mother, but my sister and I would never get that part of her back, because it was gone forever. I don't know if it died with her mother and brother, or if it evaporated into the ether, but either way, it ceased to exist.
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