Long Time. Weird Hands.

It's been quite a while since I posted here. Many times I blogged in my head. I wanted to share my musings on all kinds of stuff personal, political and spiritual. Physically I couldn't. Since my last post I have been in the midst of a flare caused by Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA). The onset of the disease was in September. My right wrist was bugging me at my job as a barista. I rested it and went to work again hoping all was well. Instead I could only make about three drinks before my wrist gave out. Initially a GP thought I had tendinitis. Two days later after the pain spread to my left wrist an orthopedist thought I possibly had RA and referred me to a rheumatologist and took a blood test and scheduled me for physical therapy. The blood test confirmed something was wrong.

Quickly the pain and swelling spread to my fingers, elbows, knees and ankles. Eventually my toes, hips and jaw became inflamed too. My doctor told me I couldn't work any job involving use of my hands... the only jobs I had really ever had. I had to quit Starbucks and decide if I was going to start my first term at Portland State University as planned. School was only days away by then and so I called PSU's Disability Resource Center. I made an appointment with the DRC and said "fuck it" and began school wearing wrist braces, stretchy fleece pants and a really good concealer (thank you MAC!).
Getting into the rheumatologists was tricky. The next available appointment was months out and the pain I had was just too much. I called the office and literally begged in tears to get in. The receptionist took pity on me and I only had to wait two weeks. This was a miracle. My rheumy (short for rheumatologist) started me on 40mgs Prednisone. After one week I had only gotten worse. So she had me take 10mgs Methotrexate and 60mgs Prednisone. Worse! After an increase to 80mgs Prednisone and 20mgs methotrexate, my rheumy decided to finally get me on Enbrel because I was not having any improvement. Apparently this is not typical. Most RA flares stop after a month or two. I've been in a flare now for over four months.

Enbrel is a once a week injection that suppresses the immune system. Rheumatoid Arthritis is really not like what one typically thinks of when they hear the word arthritis. Yes joint pain is an issue but the problem stems not from the inflammation itself but the immune system. I really think RA should be renamed degenerative autoimmune disease or something because that is what it actually is. With autoimmune diseases the immune system goes haywire somehow and attacks the person's body. For RA folks it's the joints and eventually other areas. For other folks it can be different areas like the liver (Sjogrens), skin and organs (Lupus), and myelin- the nervous system protector (Multiple Sclerosis). Because RA has the word arthritis in it a lot of folks don't realize how serious, debilitating and even deadly it can be. Thanks to modern medicine though, drugs like Enbrel work to stop the damage to joints caused by inflammation. It's a $2000 a month solution that has thus far helped take the edge off my pain and swelling. I'm still on 20mgs Methotrexate and now only 10mgs Prednisone.

So how am I? It's a very hard question to answer. Like I said the Enbrel combined with the other meds has taken the edge off, but that's all. I still can't pull on a pair of jeans. I still need a two hour nap everyday. I can't wear my wedding ring due to swelling. Physical therapy has given me a much greater range of motion in my wrists, however I still have pain and inflammation. Laundry is now done in a day instead of three, but if I attempt to do laundry, make a meal and do some other chore in a day, I have to rest all the next day. I made cinnamon rolls last week and my wrist has been in biting pain ever since. No kneading for me. Not yet.

All this is pretty hard on my ego too. My 98 year old grandma asked me if I was able to work yet and I felt ashamed to say no. I feel like folks think I'm lazy and trying to get out of working. The sad thing is I love to be engaged and would very much like to make the money our family needs right now. But I can't, at least not in the industry I was in. And because of the exhaustion, there are not a lot of jobs for folks who need to wake up late, take a nap in the middle of the day, rest, and go to bed early. I can't hand write. Typing is done in increments or by voice command (like this post). I even have to take breaks when leisure reading. I want to be better and prove to everyone that I am a hard worker but I just have to be where I'm at. Kinda disabled. Kinda sick. Kinda sick of it!

The truth is I am not lazy. Somehow through the grace of the Goddess and the support of my wife (who some days had to put my clothes on for me) and friends, I managed to get through my first term at school. I got all A's and made the President's list. It was no small task and I have to remember that. There were days I cried one minute from the pain and the next because I was afraid of getting an assignment in late. I gave up several times and had to pick myself up and keep saying "do your best...forget the rest." Sometimes things were turned in late or not completed to the level of competence I wanted. But I had to keep going even if I was afraid of disappointing a teacher or myself. In the end all my teachers believed in me, though none of them made special allowances for me, beyond what was within my disabled student rights. I am so grateful for the grades and hope to do more of the same. And I must remember at the same time, no one ever died from getting a B.

My antidepressants had to be increased and I started seeing a mindfulness counselor. The truth is I had some very hard days. Most of these last four months I have not felt like myself. My joking, dancing, goofy self. My body just hurt and the pain kept me from feeling much of anything other than that. It wasn't until I started taking Enbrel that I've had the energy to goof off some. Today I actually did my 1st little bit of impromptu performance art in front of Little Bird. But I had a few days where I just wanted to give up. Not die or anything, just have all the pain, swelling, exhaustion, and sadness go away. I wasn't trying to be sad. I think for the most part I mentally maintained a positive attitude. Emotionally though I felt something so deeply awful in my heart that waking up felt...undesired. It was at that point I knew I needed to talk to someone. Depression is common for people with RA. It's been better the last couple weeks, but I know that it's not the last time my gray friend will visit.

And let's not even get started on finances. You know I can see why so many people become homeless after becoming ill. And when a person has a chronic illness that may or may not permanently affect them... it's even harder because in order to get federal government financial assistance you have to have a variety of qualifiers that some folks, despite being very sick, don't have. Not to mention even if you do qualify they usually reject the claim the first time and take months to approve a claim. I have had to apply for various levels of assistance because I cannot work. At first I felt bad but a good friend reminded me I've been a taxpayer for years and that I in a way have paid for the services I'm receiving. If I wasn't ill I'd never ask for the help. Anyway I'm grateful because we've been able to maintain a roof over our heads, food in our mouths and utilities to use. We stick very close to a budget and this year we can't afford to give Christmas presents.

There is no way to know what the future holds. Maybe this flare will go away once and for all (though my rheumy says that is impossible) and I can become the princess rock star I always wanted to be. The reality is this is a life long disease. Even if I can get the inflammation under control, it's likely to rear it's achy head again at some point. I already have tissue damage in my hands, but no bone damage, thank goodness. My hands are already permanently changed and four of my fingers are now crooked. The loss of my beautiful tapered fingers has been one of the hardest things because I was always secretly proud of the shape of my fingers and hands. Now though I focus on what my hands CAN do. I can still make a hella good chocolate cake or bake delicious thumbprint cookies or gooey beet brownies (all from scratch mind you). I can dress myself (mostly) and get up from a chair on my own again. I can pick up my dog or cat and kiss them and I can wave hello to friends. My hands almost always hurt even when someone asks "how are you" but I don't mention it because what can they do about it? Instead I look at my now weird hands and say "I'm okay" and then do whatever I can to focus on them, because when I'm not thinking of myself, I don't hurt as much. So "fate keeps on happening" as Anita Loos once said. I'm not afraid of my fate. I accept that I have RA. Still trying to make peace with it, but at least for today, I'm okay with it.

Thumbprint cookies made with my weird ass hands

♥F

Sacrifice or Why Hair is The Thing

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


Recently an old buddy of mine posted an article she found in the wellness section of the New York Times detailing an interview in which the Surgeon General called for women, especially Black women, to choose exercise over hair. The Surgeon General herself, Dr. Regina Benjamin, is a Black woman. She noted that some Black women not only choose a good hair style over getting a work-out but choose seeing their stylist on a regular basis rather than their doctors.

Despite my friends good intention with posting the article, along with another commenter who was incensed at the idea of beauty before health, I got a whiff of that new version of racism known as white privilege. "I don't get it" is an understandable response to something unknown of course. Thinking "that's crazy, why would someone do that" is also a fair reaction. Where privilege raises its perfectly coiffed head is in its own laziness by not going beyond the initial singular response to ask meaningful questions.

"Well who cares if hair is straight or curly" or "I like hair when it's all wild looking" also highlights the lack of interest in really understanding where these women are coming from. That lack of interest is racism. Just because there is no burning cross doesn't mean there isn't a serious problem. Such responses to the hair/health issue completely ignore the question as to why women, especially Black women, literally sacrifice their health and shorten their lives in the name of something so seemingly superfluous as hair. Dr. Benjamin was right to point out this hair phenomenon but made a mistake in not addressing what she darn well knows is the underlying reason for such behavior.

Shame based in a long standing history of racism.

When I was twenty-six years old I had my first surgery. My doctor was a white man who was about to perform a laparoscopy to diagnose and treat endometriosis. Being a woman of color and a descendant of slaves I am aware, on a historical/spiritual level of how my people have been treated by medical professionals. Trusting doctors doesn't come easy for many folks regardless of race, but for Blacks, all one has to do is mention the word Tuskegee, and all faith goes out the window. As I was being rolled into the OR my doctor and his assistant were having a jolly conversation of sorts. I was nervous but ready to be rid of the chronic pain I had been having. As the gurney came to a stop I clearly hear the words "my pet pig" uttered by my doctor. Now in all reality, these two men were likely discussing farm animals and randomly chose my OR entrance as the time to speak of such matters. However all I could think was that they were going to sterilize me without consent or experiment on me, because I am brown & therefore not much more to them than a pig. I was in so much fear I couldn't talk. I began to cry. They thought I was scared because it was my first procedure. I was scared because my humanity and dignity felt acutely threatened. But I also felt powerless against history, medicine and racism. I let myself succumb to the anesthesia because in part, back then I felt that when it came to racism, if you're wanted dead or injured, there wasn't much you can do about it anyway.

No one should ever have to feel that way going into surgery. At least when I go to my hair stylist I can trust that if she makes an accidental or even malicious mistake, my fertility is not in jepordy. It's doubtful she'll give me syphilis or experiment on my internal organs in any way. Perhaps going to the hair dresser is safer after all.

So here are the questions that would be a bit more enlightened and quite frankly more interesting to ask about the hair/health issue:

-What would cause a Black woman to feel that her hair is more important than extending her life by a few or even several years?

-Why is hair and the issue of beauty so important to these women?

-Is it possible I'm reacting to this issue without looking at the whole picture?

For that third question, we all do that on just about every issue on the planet. We react without thinking of the root causes or that our understanding or the context may be completely different from what is or was really happening in a given situation. In this particular instance the first two questions provide the context and causes.

SimplyComplex_87's response to Dr. Benjamin's call to bear well toned arms provides a great glimpse into this issue:

"how backwards is it that black women care more about looking like something they're NOT (read: keeping their hair silky straight like Europeans, because their naps are "ugly") than ensuring their lifespan isn't cut short by 10 years or more...

if that isn't proof of the collective shame we feel about our natural curls, then i don't know what is. white supremacy is something else, i tell ya"

Call it nature, to want to be attractive in order to propagate the species. Call it racism though to be told over and over again, even these days, that nappy hair is not "regular" hair or "good" hair. This time it's not whites who overtly tell Black women that (though I still see my fair share of hair touching and wig/weave commentaries by white women - yes mom, that means you) their hair is sub-par but other Blacks who reinforce old notions of European beauty standards.

And why do we do this to each other and ourselves?

A perfect answer by African Export:

"There are too many of us who feel less than if we cannot walk out without a weave or a wig... I know its deeply rooted...confidence and self-esteem is what it really boils down to...a lot of us don't feel beautiful if we don't have Indian Remy (ed. note: this is real hair from India)... a lot of us have deeply rooted issues and we don't know how to get over it."

Self-esteem, self confidence, deeply rooted issues, not knowing how to get over the issues or even knowing they are there.

Almost all North American women have bouts of beauty insecurity from time to time. Now take those U.S. beauty standards and apply the need to survive and the desire to thrive. Add hundreds of years of racism combined with sexism in the form of rape, forced abortions, forced infertility, fetishization/exoticization, professional advancement withholding (yes women have been held back & even fired for having natural hair) and reinforcement of goodness/beauty in those who possess more European physical attributes.

My father had naturally very tight hair. Technically he was mixed race like me but he, because of his hair and dark skin, was perceived solely as Black. My dad loved my hair. Sadly, he was jealous of it and would tell me as I greased his afro how lucky I was to get Indian hair (not South Asian Indian but Indigenous American as we are part Muskogee). Despite the fact that my dad occasionally told me I was ugly, I always knew that according to him, my hair was better than his. Ironically years later in puberty my hair began to curl up and my white mother referred to my hair as a birds nest.

In high school my own racism spewed out about nappy hair one night after I was attacked by a group of teen aged Black girls. Walking in-between my two friends I was without warning smacked so hard in my ear that I fell to the ground. After some nonsense and another ear smack, the girls ran away and in my fury I shouted at them "at least I can use mousse!" I have never forgotten those words and burn with shame each time the memory is discussed.

The truth is that in U.S. history, Black folks like me, who though couldn't pass for white, but were less "African looking" were often given a higher place in society among both Black and white society. A quadroon woman (quarter-Black) had a much better chance of "marrying up" than a mulatto (a now racist term for half-Black) woman. An octoroon (eighth-Black) back in the day may even pass for white if her hair was smooth and her skin pale enough. Even if a dark skinned Black woman was far more beautiful than another light skinned woman, her chances for a better life based on marriage prospects (thank you racism and sexism!), were drastically lower.

Such life circumstances based on racialized percentages may seem strange, but it was the whites, not the Blacks who came up with such a system. Blacks as free people and slaves had to adopt and abide by such principles in order to survive. Do we really think that because slavery is over that there are no lingering affects? Ask any white woman if she still feels the affects of making less money than men and her answer of yes would shock no one. Tell people that some Black women put their hair above their longevity and folks just shrug in willful or semi-fascinated ignorance.

So why do some Black women put their hair before exercise, physical health and doctor visits? Because deep inside they are trying to live. They're trying to live in a world that still tells them that their hair is not enough. Their skin is not enough. Their lips and eyes, and bodies are not enough. That if they are beautiful they are beautiful in an "exotic" way, not a just a regular way. And while some whites may envy being considered "regular" they certainly wouldn't envy the price-tag that comes with being an "other" all the time. We value the way things look in this capitalist society, whether you like it or not. If you do not appear to be "right" than you are wrong or not enough. Really can you blame someone for trying in their own way to be enough though beauty, through even their hair?

If we don't like this paradigm there are things we can do. We can invest in the self-esteem of young women of color. We can tell them that they are beautiful and can be anything. We can represent darker skinned women in the media more aggressively and in proper context (ie. not putting the Black model in the animal prints). We can stop supporting brands that claim to support all women but don't (hello Unilever). Instead of saying "how weird" we can ask why and educate ourselves and not be lazy by simply asking our friends of color to answer all our race related questions.

Racism is death. Many Black women are sacrificing their lives in order to have a life. Whether it be through their hair or not, condemnation without examination only continues to ripen the poison apple we all continue to eat.

~F

The Vote

A conversation with my mom inspired these words: "As far as I'm concerned the Presidential election is a circus. No, even a circus makes more sense. I think the whole thing is absurd and I feel embarrassed for the women and people of color who died so that we all could vote in this crazy system." I went on to say that "the Presidential race is like having an affair with a very smarmy but attractive married man who comes into town every four years and leaves me feeling utterly dirty."

Right after these words came out I apologized to my mom for sounding so grandiose. I was shocked to hear myself and was forced to acknowledge that I feel very sad about the level of childishness I see in what we currently call the democratic process. Yes our voting system is better than say a country where the public cannot vote, but is it necessary for so much ugliness, finger-pointing and dirty tricks to be the way a politician gets into office?

In my senior year of high school I missed being able to vote in the Presidential election by 1 & 1/2 months. The election was in early November & I turned 18 in mid-December. I had that whiny teenage angst then about wanting to vote & how 17 was old enough to be trusted with something as grown-up and important as voting. Besides the angst I was excited to become a part of the democratic process. I had campaigned for Senator Wellstone, protested military action in El Salvador and participated in various rallies by the time I was 17. My mom for years was an election judge (she still is) and we talked extensively about local and national politics (all from a strong liberal point of view). It seemed really unfair that I couldn't help vote Bill Clinton into office when I knew there were plenty of adults who were not as politically aware as I was.

I cared about this country and it's people. I cared about who was in office and how they would make a difference.

When I was finally able to vote and help re-elect Bill Clinton to office I felt excited, proud and voted with a solemnity that only a first time thoughtful voter could. It was like going to the church of democracy where the personal was political and instead of holding my hands in prayer, I held a pen and made a carefully rendered "X" by the candidate I felt would love and protect us, much like some mortal deity.

That was the first and last time I felt such reverence for our political process.

Perhaps it's my age or experience or sobriety or all of the above but I just can't get my panties wet over Presidential elections anymore. After having the Presidential election hijacked not once (2000) but twice (2004) I began to feel almost numb to any hope for a real political process in which "we the people" decide on the candidates that shall serve our greatest good in office. Over the years it has thankfully become clear to me that Presidents are people, flawed like you and me. It is also clear (in my humble opinion) that the electoral college is a flawed system for our current needs as citizens. Finally I am painfully aware that TV ads, billboards, magazine articles, political websites and news media outlets do very little for helping me decide which candidate is the best choice (for what?).

To be honest, when the primaries went down in 2008, Obama was not my first choice. Ironically I liked John Edwards initially (yes I know) but started to listen to the three top candidates in their own words. I was finally won over by Hillary Clinton because of her ideas on education, marriage equality and the war. After the primary I put my support behind Obama and was very exited about the prospect of not only having (finally) a President of color in office but having someone in office who seemed to care about uniting the nation while emphasizing that we all could make a difference.

My BFF & I shared and shed tears when it was confirmed Obama had won. In one of his post election speeches he again emphasized unity and that we all would have to work for change. Many of us worked for that change while our President extended Bush tax cuts. Obama has done some great things that I feel don't get enough attention. Please refer to this link for more information. Despite many of the good things, Obama has been like all the other Presidents: unable to fulfill promises made on the campaign trail.

So for now I just don't want to hear about what Rick Perry or Michelle Bachmann or Obama or what anyone else is doing on their journey to and through the upcoming election. I just don't really care right now and am happy to put my head in the sand until I can hear in the canidates own words, what promises they will eventually break. Today I vote for my sanity. Today that is the vote that counts the most.

~F

Photo credit

The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl

For the love of gawd and all that is holy, please check out this wonderful web series. A must for anyone who is awkward, especially if you're awkward & of color.

Check it. http://awkwardblackgirl.com/series/

Here is the first episode.

No no no!

Once upon a time, I was an avid reader of Mark Morford. His refreshingly honest writing style & often on point commentary on society and pop culture made me a fan the very first time I read one of his articles on SFGate.com. My fandom ended in March of 2007 when he wrote an article entitled "Let's All Go to Rehab!" The post was a gleeful protestation of the idea of rehab. Who was Morford's #1 example for why sobriety wasn't important or at least very helpful? It was Amy Winehouse, who in 2007 was leading the music world in a fabulous revival of soul inspired pop.

In the article, Morford discusses Winehouse's first breakout single "Rehab", a song about not going to rehab despite those around her thinking she needed to. It was a great song to dance to and I can't blame Morford for getting caught up in such a wildly wonderful pop song. And I can even understand why those who wish to rebel against those who try to enforce good behavior would find such lyrics as "they tried to make me go to rehab and I said no no no" nothing short of a triumphant call for freedom. Morford referred to Amy's real life stint in rehab and how she left before finishing treatment as going on her "own merry crazysexy way." He goes on to say:

"Then she started drinking again, almost immediately, without actually giving much of a damn, and has on her backstage concert rider the mandatory requirement that she be supplied with two bottles of good red wine in her dressing room every night. Mmm, wine."

Like Morford in his article, I do not believe rehab works for everyone. Nor do I believe there is one way to be sober or soberish. Just because something works for one or maybe even many, doesn't mean it would have worked for her. Obviously rehab didn't work for her and that's fine. What upset me about Morford's article was the dismissal of how sick Ms. Winehouse was. Yes she did go on to have a phenomenal album... but sadly that was the beginning and the end. Her life, as a human, as a being for goodness sake, clearly had little joy or true authenticity. Her "happy languid sexy self-destruction" was neither happy or sexy. It was depressing and deadly. Whatever other gifts she could have offered the world, musical or otherwise, stopped when she continued abusing mood altering substances.

Not everyone who tries drugs or alcohol becomes an addict. And yeah some people absolutely can as Morford noted "pour a mean cocktail and not take it all so damned seriously" but Winehouse was not well and I think those that praised her illness missed an opportunity. Rebellion is fine when we take the time to make sure we don't simply set the world (and ourselves) on fire, just because we can or because it's perceived to be cool. True rebellion is having the strength to endure no matter how shitty others are to us. Real rebellion is living with those days that are unbearably grey and surviving to help others live through them too. Honest and powerful rebellion shares the gifts that come through us and doesn't stop even in the face of low self esteem, addiction, heartbreak and tragedy. Rebellion takes the time to make sure it is really and truly, inside its heart, free.

Amy Winehouse died. Regardless of what the autopsy says, we all know what killed her. Self destruction, addiction, illness. Those that did try to make her go to rehab all those years ago knew something that apparently Mark Morford & so many others didn't in 2007. That Ms. Winehouse needed help & love & people to hold her accountable. She needed this not just for her own well being but for her art and for our chance to take part in what could have been her true, real & honest rebellion. Yes Mark, she was our perfect American model. Let's hope for our own sake we get a new one.

Rest in peace Amy!
~F

Three Songs in Honor of Three Years

Tomorrow is Mycal and my three year wedding anniversary. In honor of these last three years I'd like to share three songs that have been significant to me in our relationship.

Nite and Day by Al B. Sure
I'm pretty sure this has to be the most sexy yet completely cheesy songs (and video) of the eighties. Needless to say, such attributes makes Nite and Day one of my favorite songs ever. For years I'd listen to this song while imagining giving someone some self confident sultry pole dance (don't ask). Despite the pure mono-browed greazy hotness of this jam I never dated anyone who even revered or even remembered it.

One night in the first few weeks of dating, Mycal and I were hanging out at her apartment. She asked to play a few songs for me from her vinyl collection. Since I love being wooed by music I said I'd love it. She slapped a record on and played a jam that I at first couldn't believe I was hearing. The synthy toots combined with an enthusiastic "woo!" captured all of my attention and I swear my hair swelled into some eighties styled configuration. Nite and Day with all its glorious arousal provoking power was being played... on vinyl... by a hot girl... holy crap!

Honestly at that moment I had what the kids refer to as an eargasm and all I could do was sit on the couch with an expression of shock, awe and delight while blood began to rush to my nether regions. It was at that moment I knew when it came to this new hot woman I was dating, I had met my match.

You are the Best Thing by Ray Lamontagne
For not being a straight couple we have chosen one of the most popular, in recent memory, wedding songs to be our song. Or maybe I should say the song chose us. One night, before the whole Jay Leno/Conan O'Brien debacle we we watching the Tonight Show with Jay Leno. I had already been a fan of Ray Lamontagne and was excited to hear his latest debut on the show.

Good ol' shy Ray came on stage and the next thing I knew we got aurally slapped with a tremendous wallop of horns. It was clear this song had a back-in-the-day feel with an up tempo celebratory feel. Then Ray began to croon "Baby, it's been a long day." He sung about how he needed his love but not in that weird, squishy way. Instead with triumph he sang "You are the best thing... that ever happened to me."

My wife and I looked at each other and I said "I think this is our song" and she nodded yes. See we hadn't really organically found our song yet and we might have made a more cerebral approach at having one prior to that night, but because we had had so many special songs (as two music lovers will) we couldn't decide on one. This song came lovingly blaring out of our television with the right words, melody and spirit to capture the feeling of our love.

Half-Breed by Cher

I know what you're thinking. You don't have to tell me how damn bizarre it is that we love this song so much. In our first year together this lovely little gem of a song came up when we were telling each other stories about our childhoods. To be honest I have no clue who brought up the song or why. All I know is once we started talking about is Mycal started going through her vinyl looking for the song. I think she found it on a compilation and we agreed the song was totally awesome and friggin' ridiculous.

For the rest of the day and months that song was somehow incorporated into just about conversation or event. Mycal would say "I want a sandwich" and I'd respond "Sand-wich... is all I ever heard. Sand-wich how I loathe to hear the word." The fact that both of us have indigenous and European ancestors made the whole white/Indian that much for funny because of its resonance and salty taboo aftertaste.

One day Mycal came home with a present for me. I closed my eyes, opened my hands and it was my very own vinyl copy of Cher scantily clad in breastplate, jockstrap looking bottoms and a feather headdress. The sheer offensiveness combined with hotness on that cover... man... that was just too much. I almost started crying because I knew I had never had a partner before who would give me such an endearing yet completely shit-tastic present. Mycal and I got each other. We understood one another in so many ways and Half-Breed demonstrated that.

So here's to three years married to my partner in crime and only person in the world who really gets me. Our bond incorporates wackiness, fun and mutual care. We tell the truth and we remain open, even on the days when life's woes feel overwhelming.

This week I changed my last name legally to incorporate her last name and I couldn't be more proud to tell the world how very lucky I am to be her missus.

My Prayer

God, please give me the strength to love. Amen.

http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/peace/laureates/1964/king-bio.html