As the pipe clamp blisters began to pop and heal on my hands, I knew I was in a race against myself to find my next gig in woodworking. I had just quit my job after I was put on a mandatory 72-hour work week schedule, which was neither safe nor necessary in the warehouse where I was a full time furniture maker. From my first taste of sawdust, I was hooked. I loved everything about it, especially the aches & pains associated with putting in a hard day of manual labor.
I had moved thousands of miles from my industrial Michigan factory roots, only to go to college and decide the blue collar life is what I wanted. I quit my job, only when it was obvious that it would either kill or permanently injure me...but it was still one of the hardest decisions I have ever had to make. Besides the fact that I love it, I realize now how wrapped up I was in the identity of being just one thing...In my working life, I have always had to have at least three side hustles going on and I've done everything from nude modeling, to being a maid, a well-paid executive assistant, an extra in movies, a make-up artist, to an apprentice sander in a woodshop.
When I call home to update my family, typically, whatever it is I describe is met with unconditional love & acceptance, even if there is a tinge of it not necessarily being understood. As a woodworker, I was finally able to align myself with an identity - one thing that I loved being and doing...and it was so much easier to explain that!
Predictably, when the job fell apart, I scrambled for any paying gig I could find on craigslist. As it turns out, it was a good time to be involved with film making and I even signed up for acting classes. Being involved in the process is as exciting as it seems like it would be - even the long hours of waiting, while being completely dressed to the nines for a 6:00 a.m. call time, shouldn't be exciting, but it still is.
Around this time I also found work as a fit model, working for a local design house. It's a job that pays very well but the work is inconsistent. Still, I am extremely thankful to have it, even if it is a bit weird for me to use it as an identifier at the dentist's office and have the receptionist squeal and ask me a bunch of questions about the job. That's a rock star moment, I'm not going to lie, but it's completely foreign to me to identify myself as "model" in any capacity...especially when "factory rat" was a closer signifier just weeks ago.
I'm not sure if all the discomfort in lacking a fixed occupation or identity squarely rests on my shoulders, or if I am reacting to other people's confusion when I try to explain, "Well, I'm actually a furniture maker, but I'm out of work, so I'm doing the acting and modeling thing, while looking for another woodworking gig." Who does that? I'm not sure if I even understand myself anymore.
In the long run, it's probably a good thing that I am so versatile & adaptable - I always have something relevent for any type of resume I'm creating for myself (and I have at least 3); but I long for the day when I have a short answer to the question, "So what do you do?"
My first job was working as a make-up artist in my mom's cosmetic shop, which was located in "the dead mall" across the street from the mega-mall, where everyone respectable went to shop. The only folks who ventured into the dead mall were those with bizarre fetishes they wanted to try out in "public" without actually being too far out into the public sphere. My four hour shift was often punctuated with high school principals and construction workers in drag, trying out the new high heels they just scored at Payless; a 60 yr. old woman dressed as a naughty school girl being led around on a leash by her husband; your occasional flasher; foot fetish guy who would creepily make me show him the colors of "toenail" polish we carried and on & on...
Anyway, it appears that Vox is now the dead mall. Of course, I'm sure there are still many "respectable" folks on here...but more so, there are a lot just letting their freak flag fly. And I love it. You are my people and I'm happy to be back. But don't send me pictures of your penis. Thanks.
Hello Members of Girl Germs,
I am very sorry that I went MIA for so long and spammers have been allowed to contaminate this space. I'm back now and ready to lay the smack down. I nuked as many spam posts as I could find and members that are clearly robots...but I'm sure I didn't catch everything. If you see something that should be destroyed, please let me know so that I can take care of it.
Thank you so much for adding all this wonderful content to the group - I have enjoyed catching up with everything I missed and have learned a lot. Also, you have inspired me so much! I can't wait to start writing again!
xoxo,
Miss Scotch
Wednesday night I attended the MoveOn and Democracy for America Vigil for health care. Since I don´t like to go to a place like Centennial Park alone at night, my schizophrenic brother Ernie accompanied me. He was glad to ride along with his cell phone to keep me safe and to hold a sign and help me keep my candles lit.
There were about 100 people stretched out on either side of the low stone wall in front of the park. We had young people there, praise be, since so many young people seem to think health care is not their problem. Most stayed long enough to find out different. We held out signs and our candles prominently along West End, a major thoroughfare. Passers by who agreed honked and waved, and we yelled back at them. Across West End, there were three anti-health care demonstrators with two signs mentioning socialism. They kept pretty quiet in the face of our much larger numbers. Several AFL-CIO officers were with us, as well as a Bridgestone-Firestone worker who took the opportunity to ask us to sign a petition against the current Chinese flooding of the market with cheap tires. I was glad to do this, and Ernie joined in as well. Tire making is a filthy, dirty business, and management is not always attuned to the legitimate needs of workers. The last thing they need is to be undercut by imports.
Then came the health care stories. Perhaps the most impressive thing about them was that the people who gave them, no longer young or physically ill, used a kitchen stepstool to climb to the top of the wall so we could see and hear them. One was a self-employed lady lawyer who had had to buy a cheaper private insurance plan than her original one which cost $1,700 a month. Now she has no mental health coverage and only generic drug coverage. Thus one of her neccessary prescriptions cost $380 some for 30 days supply. Going online, she found she could obtain the same thing from Canada for $67.84 for 90 days supply. - The hate talkers tell us only the lazy unemployed are without insurance, but here is a woman who has worked in a highly skilled position all her adult life.
The next speaker broke my heart, for she is young and a 9/11 survivor. We kill thousands in her name, but nobody is willing to help her survive with her troublesome lung ailment. Her husband was fired because of the effects of her huge medical expenses on the company´s health insurance rates. Now they are in Nashville, she working part time at home and he working 2 jobs to make ends meet. They do not have health insurance. Where are the Christians? Where is decency?
The last speaker didn´t talk about himself. He spoke for his brother-in-law, a 35 year old who had been laid off and lost his health insurance that same day. The young man had some abdominal pain he thought must be a hernia, but he could not afford to go to a doctor. Within a year he was dead of cancer.
I completely wore myself out standing, waving, and talking at this event. I was glad to have Thursday off work to rest. Getting older does that to a person. But going and showing the Medical Industrial Complex we won´t be put off by the hate and shock talkers was the most important thing I could do with my time.
Blanche Peay Lillie was Zack Peay´s surviving daughter. She was into middle age when she divorced her husband, but for her that was just a beginning. She began nurse´s training and eventually became head nurse at a large hospital. I remember her as an old woman and never realized she was as beautiful as in this picture.
Admiral Carlton Benton Jones is the grandson of Samuela Peay Jones, Almira´s younger sister. Almire didn´t approve of her marriage to Henry Jones and wouldn´t come into the parlor for the wedding. Admiral Jones is retired and , to the best of my knowledge, living in Denver. We were able to send him his grandmother´s Bible.
Right now I am working all I can on Health Care Reforn. A government option is needed to provide GROUP rates for people who can´t get into a group at work. Group rates are the key. Individual health policies are hardly worth the paper they are written on because one little claim can wipe out your year´s premium. That´s no way to make money, and these companies want to make plenty of it.
I implore everyone not to listen to the scare ads. Yes, you will pay for health care - but you´re doing that right now and sometimes not even getting the health care! The government will NOT tell you what doctor to see, when you can see one, or what tests or operations you can have. Private health insurers are doing just that - they don´t precisely say you can´t have a test; they just say they won´t pay for it. According to a recent article in FORBES magazine, these companies work to sign up healthy people and drop those who really need medical care. They don´t care about our health - it´s about making money.
A good part of my concern is that PatrickXFCE, Fightingale, and their children have good health care throughout their lives. I´m nearing the age for medicare, but I plan to work as long as possible. For one thing, I know I have glaucoma drops in my future, and that´s expensive medicine. Please check out the health care stories the President has gathered on the site ORGANIZING FOR AMERICA.
Just got home from a party at Club Filipino in San Juan. It was my niece's first birthday. she's a real doll.
It was fun and the place was really classic.
The party was filled with old people, plus the place's ambiance made it interesting, but the theme was magical yet clowny.
One thing I love about the place are the oil paintings of one of my favorite artists, Fernando Amorsolo at a cafe shop. However, the paintings were encased in glass yet gave uncomplementing reflection of light from the outside. The paintings' beauty are hidden.
There was a funny thing that happened.. my cousin, the celebrated mom, rushed to me and pulled me and told me that she'll introduce someone to me. "OK", I said.. and she looked at me as if trying to say something.
I think she hoped that my eyes would sparkle. But I'm certain she had introduced us before.. but I gave the same reaction. ^_^
I´m mighty irritated you went and shot yourself that way. Not all the way mad, mind, because I know you have carried heavy burdens for a lont time. Jerry and I both (yes, I called him and was the one to give him the news) felt you were finally turning a corner after a year that had been full of emotional hardship and danger. Mama and Daddy were both concerned you would do this when Gary Bird died, and I was proud of how you managed to overcome that and several other pet deaths, plus continual discouraging circumstances.
How do I know you´re in heaven? Not like I could prove on your favorite science shows, of course, because nobody really understands the afterlife. I don´t think we´re supposed to. But I know how you worked out a personal relationship with God despite the fact that many who call themselves God´s people denounce you for being gay. I know about your Bible and historical study, the rock pile in your yard that is really a pile of prayers, and the tenderness and concern you´ve shown for your friends and for all animals. It is a trait of our family to find close personal friendships with animals because human relationships have been so cruel and hard on us all.
I would never have thought about the animal friendship thing if Mama´s psychologist hadn´t written about it in a book for which she was one of the models. It´s true, though. You have both the best and the worst of the Allison family in you - the great creativity, fine humor, and caring for animals and also the hot, touchy temper and tendency to rant - plus the suicide, of course.
You wound yourself thoroughly into my heart and my parents´ too, once we met you and began to correspond. You changed their thinking, you know. Mama had always been sort of passively negative about gays and had never thought of them as real people. Daddy had always been aware of the gay men in the work force and had worked with them normally. His thing was always ¨so long as you don´t do it with my wife you can do it with frogs for all I care¨. You made him see the reality of discrimination against GLBT people, and he was a member of PFLAG for several years. Both of them enjoyed your letter tapes and cartoons, and both were greatly concerned about the hard life you´ve had.
Now at least you are whole. That severe dyslexia - especially at a time when it was not diagnosed or understood - was a horrible thing to happen to someone of your ability and temperament. I was proud to type up your varied stories and get them out to a modest audience. I know you´ve never considered being gay a disability and enjoyed your life in ¨the fruit bowl¨, as you called it. Still, it was something that made you even more of an unacceptable outsider in many circles. You found some sort of peace or at least tolerance with both parents before they died, and I´m glad of that. It says something that the son they most rejected came back into the desert to look after them.
I´m glad you had Pat listed somewhere as your next of kin to contact. She was on vacation, you know, when the coroner contacted her office. It wasn´t until the next night she found time to call me; she had already arranged the cremation and scattering of ashes just like you wanted. Jerry was lamenting to me that he and Caltha never got out to see you. They were fully meaning to until that rotator cuff injury got him down. I´ve no idea how we are going to contact all the people who cared for you - Vi, and Morning Wolf, and AJ and Ken.
Yes, I´m going to work to stay in touch with Pat and Jerry. I´m working to preserve the storehouse of memories in my care and pass it on down. I´ve told Larry just how much you were concerned about Josh´s Asberger´s and how he could get a good education and get on in life. I´ll sure miss talking politics with you - and European royalty, and world history, and my own writing and drawing. You were a Best Friend to me at a time when I needed one. Now be happy and rejoin old friends.
I wrote this in response to an article on AlterNet.
Andrew M. Weiss suggests that childhood mental disorders are largely a fabrication of Big Pharma, since the first diagnostic manual published by American psychiatrists in 1952 lists only one childhood disorder. - To hell with the 1952 manual. I was one of those disturbed kids. I was there.
In fact, mental or emotional disorders have a long history in my family. My mother, born in 1920, suffered what we now know as Clinical Depression while in her teens. She also had an impossible to please mother and a drunken father. Several older members of my grandmother´s family had either been carted off to an institution or committed suicide. Mama knew she needed help by the time I was born in 1945, but institutionalization or shock treatments (remember those?) were the only treatment available.
Like any child, I was upset by my mother´s emotional problems and sometimes irrational behavior. What really put the tin lid on things was the birth of my brother in 1952. Childlike, I realized rather early something was ¨wrong¨ with him without understanding what or why. Gradually, my feelings of frustration, anger, and downright hatred made me almost suicidal. Luckily, my pediatrician recognized my condition and arranged affordable care with one of the practicing psychologists in the area. He prescribed a sedative until my condition stabilized.
Meanwhile, there was nothing available for my haggard mother and increasingly out of control brother, who had hallucinations among other things. Finally a UGF funded mental health center with a sliding fee scale was established in my area. My parents attended parent groups, and my brother finally at age 7 got a diagnosis - childhood schizophrenia. We all had various types of individual and group therapy to help us handle the situation, but only common or garden variety tranquilizers were readily available then.
One thing we all quickly discovered was that we were by no means the only desperate family. My folks met college professors and people from the projects to discuss their troubled kids. My teenage therapy group never lacked for members of all social conditions. Oh, yes, the troubles were there alright.
In the late sixties, my brother spent 18 months in the adolescent unit of the local mental hospital. With this treatment and some medication, he became able to live in the community and graduate from high school.
Now, about all those side effects like tardive diskinesia - my brother took Mellaril for 35 years and did have some mild symptoms. Our family doctor, operating from a clinic allergic to possible liability, cut back his dosage. This resulted in my brother driving to another state, throwing his identification in the trash, and deliberately shop lifting to get himself arrested. I took off from work and drove Mama over there to get him out. Yeah, worked out great, didn´t it?
No, I don´t trust Big Pharma, but they didn´t invent emotional illnesses in children. Some, like schizophrenia and autism, are physically based. Autism IS on the rise, quite possibly because of industrial pollutants known to affect the nervous system.
Children suffered mental disorders in the fifties. I was there. I was one of them.
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