Tag: dadlife

Reaching Acceptance

by jcafesin, posted in grief

For anyone experiencing grief from loss…

The fetus inside me, my potential daughter, was diagnosed XXX from a tissue sample taken during an amniocentesis my 14th week of pregnancy. We’d named her Sierra, since she made it past the first trimester, after losing two of the triplets in utero the first month.

I’d had three pregnancy losses before the triplets. I was in my late 30s, maybe too late for kids I feared, which is a pedestrian way of saying I was scared out of my fucking mind I’d never have them. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted children. Sierra was wanted.

My 15th week of pregnancy another ultrasound showed us our daughter inside me. “The ghost in the machine,” my husband had said quietly. By then we’d decided raising a child — ill from birth who’d likely never survive to adulthood — was beyond our financial, parental, and emotional capabilities.

After the abortion my husband was driving us home on the icy road and I started shaking. Then I threw up all over myself, the passenger seat and the floor. We figured it was the anesthesia wearing off but it continued for days. I threw up most everything I ate. I hardly slept. I had a debilitating back ache — like someone was drilling a hole into my lower back with a power tool. And I could not stop crying.

I’ve been a staunch pro-choice supporter since I found out what it meant. Women must retain or be given back the RIGHT to control our bodies, especially since an est. 33% of men leave the woman to care for the child alone. Regardless, I’d never had an abortion, and the events of that day kept replaying, looping in my head — from crossing the line of protesters with the aid of private police hired by the clinic, to the procedure, which I was semi-conscious for throughout, and was as horrific as it sounds.

A week later my back was still killing me, waking me at night. I couldn’t sit still during the day. I figured I deserved the pain for what I’d done. The loss of my daughter was crushing. Regret consumed me. I didn’t deserve to have kids anymore. I’d wanted her so badly but was too afraid of losing her too young, of watching her suffer with little we could do to help her. I was afraid we couldn’t afford her quality care. I was afraid… And I hated myself for letting my fear rule me.

I cried waking each morning to my empty womb, then several times a day and into a restless night’s sleep through the holidays. I got up many times at night, and since I’m allergic to aspirin I paced the living room to assuage my back pain. I couldn’t sit in a car for long to go to family celebrations, and didn’t have the bandwidth to put on a face for them. Instead we stayed home and I painted an old army footlocker of my father’s in coat after coat of thick black lacquer. Took days after Christmas for the doctor to get back to my husband about the state of his wife. He prescribed me some pain medication for my back, and bed rest, and told me I’d start to feel better in a few days.

I didn’t. Days, weeks, months went by and I could not stop crying. I took the prescribed meds and it helped my back but not my state of mind. Several months after the abortion I went back to consulting and took on marketing campaigns, one of which was Toys R Us. I broke down in my car in the parking lot of the agency I’d just signed contracts, and cried throughout the two-week project in my home office. Work was not distracting enough for the self-loathing rhetoric inside my head.

Six months later and the Concord MA landscape was flush with greenery. It was my first full summer there and compared to the gray, cold winter, it was beautiful, but I didn’t really see it. It was humid, sticky, unlike California’s dry heat. It was buggy, full of mosquitos. It poured from thunderstorms and flooded our basement every time. Beyond my daily crucifixion, a gnawing hope lingered that I’d get pregnant again, so I continued working out to keep my body fit, but that was about it. We stopped going out to dinner because when I ate it was hard to swallow. I had no interest in going to the movies, seeing friends or family. Road trips stopped. Singing stopped. Listening to music stopped. If I got pregnant again, no matter what, I’d keep the baby.

I didn’t get pregnant again in the following six months. My husband and I looked into adoption. We attended a China Adoption With Love seminar, and left cautiously excited. Sort of. The black cloud did not lift. I still woke crying, and wept in quick bursts throughout most days, and often for longer in the night. My husband was rightfully concerned and asked me to see a therapist. I’ve seen many in my lifetime, starting when my mom sent me to one when I was 13. None have helped me [even remotely] to better navigate my world. I didn’t need to cry to some psychologist who’s job it is to be supportive. My husband, in his weird way, was trying to be. He’d experienced the loss of Sierra more as a matter of course — we’d decided to terminate. Move on.

I could not move on. I could not go back and do it different. Stuck in purgatory, I agreed to see a psychiatrist when my husband insisted I “do something.” I’d never seen one before, only LMHCs and LMFTs, none of which were doctors. Maybe they could prescribe something to help me stop crying all the time. Something safe for pregnancy…just in case.

A well-groomed, graying hair, bearded man in his early 60s shook my hand and introduced himself when I entered his office.

I sat on the leather couch across from his swivel chair. I’d had no contact with the man until right then as his front desk arranged the appointment. And I had no idea how psychiatry worked. Should I begin with my parents, or should I start with why I was there and what I wanted from the sessions, assuming there’d be more than one. Likely many, as therapists hope for.

“Tell me why you’re here, and what you hope to get from meeting with me,” the doctor said.

And I launched into my pregnancy with Sierra after losing three others in utero before the triplets. Took me half the session to get through the abortion since I was sobbing so hard. The psychiatrist wrote on his pad, and provided a box of tissues, but seemed unmoved by my hysteria. When I finally shut up and calmed down a bit he asked me again what I hoped to get from coming to him.

“An anti-depressant that’s safe in case I get pregnant again.”

“I’m not going to give you drugs,” he said flatly. “None are without risk if you’re trying to get pregnant.”

He gave me five, 45-minute sessions. I cried, a lot, at first. We talked about grief, about unfulfilled expectations, about loss of self, my growing thoughts of suicide — turn off, feel nothing ever again. Our last session started out as usual with me describing my week. I’d been crying less, which was good. But I continued to visualize methods to commit suicide, vacillating between a drug overdose, or carbon monoxide poisoning.

“This is our last session,” the doc said, legs crossed, his pad in his lap. Expressionless.

I stared at him sitting ‘properly’ in his swivel chair with one foot on the ground. Assessing me. I’m not sure if I was glaring at him but I didn’t look away. He was just like therapists, albeit way less supportive, though more informative with studies and statistics. And he was ending our sessions when he hadn’t helped me at all! “But I don’t feel any better,” I blurted. Seriously, what was this guy’s benefit-add for his exorbitant hourly rate.

“I’m not a therapist, here to make you feel better.” He paused, and continued to watch me. “The hard truth is it’s going to hurt every time you recall the abortion, or think about the potential child you chose not to have. It is going to hurt. As we’ve discussed, you’ll never know if you’d have lost her in utero, like you have all your other pregnancies; or you’d spared her a lifetime of hardship. Regret and self-doubt will feel overwhelming at times. When she crosses your mind in the future, it’s going to hurt. Hopefully a bit less over time, but every time you remember the events of this period in your life, it is going to hurt.” He still did not look away. But I did.

“I know,” I whispered, bawling again. “But it’s been over a year and I’m still crying all the time. I don’t know how to let it go. ‘Move on,’ like my husband has,” I said bitterly.

“Each of us processes grief in our own way and time. Regardless how long it takes you to ‘feel better’ over this loss, you’ll likely face many painful events in your life. The trick is not to let them stop you from living. Being alive means feeling — happy, sad, good, bad, whatever. And feelings are transient, sparked by circumstance. You can leave here today, go home and hang yourself in your doorway. I certainly can’t stop you.” He paused, to let it sink in, I assumed. “Or you can go live your life forward, move through the process of grieving, and further away from this loss with each new experience. Biologically, you’re still fertile, and seemingly have no issue getting pregnant. If you do, may it be healthy,” he said softly, his eyes stayed fixed on mine.

“Doesn’t matter if it is,” I proclaimed through sobs, but to this day I can’t tell you that I fully meant it knowing the chances of chromosomal damage during gestation happening again with my advanced age. “I’m going to have kids. Either birthing them or adopting them, I’m going to raise kids,” I said definitively, and in that moment the black cloud began lifting.

“I believe we’ve gone as far as we can together.”

I never saw him again. Clearly, I did not commit suicide that day. I had two healthy children — our son ten months after that last session, and our daughter two and a half years after that. As devastating the loss of Sierra, the pervasive black hole inside has filled with the inconceivably humbling love I get to feel for my kids.

Painful events will follow joyful ones throughout this process of living. Twenty plus years later, the psychiatrist’s words still resonate, helping me get through the tough times in my life now knowing that beyond recurring periods of darkness there will be times of brilliant bright light.

The TRUTH about Mark Zuckerberg

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

IMAGINE working your ass off all through high school, studying instead of partying, volunteering with school and community groups so you can get into a good college. You send out your applications, to Stanford, Harvard, Princeton, as you have a 4.8 GPA, and all the right clubs on your resume. Your mom kisses each envelope before mailing, “for luck,” then hugs you, with her silent prayer that you’ll be accepted everywhere, that the world will see her beautiful daughter the way she does.

Pins and needles until the letters start coming in, or maybe they won’t, and no college will want you, keeps playing in your head, until March rolls around and letters DO come. Cal Berkeley wants you! UC Davis wants you! Stanford wait-listed you. And Harvard ACCEPTED YOU!! You’re dancing in the kitchen with your mom, dad, and little brother, laughing, hugging, celebrating your achievement of hard work and tenacity. For the moment, you let yourself bask in the glow of your family’s pride.

August comes around, and you are settling into your dorm room at Harvard. Your roommate is nice enough, though she’s hardly there. Unlike you, she’s very social. She got into Harvard on her daddy’s dime. He went there too. She has a 3.6 GPA, but got a free pass into the school, as did ex-president George Bush Jr (with a 2.35 GPA). If nothing else, Harvard is incestuous. Known as ‘Legacy students,’ over a third of Harvard students are related to past students, with money.

You love your classes. Your professors. A few months into your Harvard experience you are doing well academically, even if you haven’t made any real friends. You assure your mom you’re fine, though you don’t tell her you’re feeling more than a bit lonely. The popular girls, like your roommate, came in with money, and come from money. They dress trendy, buy expensive, look sharp, act confident. Make it in Harvard, or not, they have no worries after school. The rich rarely have to worry like the rest of us.

You come back to your empty dorm room one afternoon, turn on your computer, and are about to get started on the paper you have to write for Expository, but the image on the screen stops you dead. Your face stares back at you, next to some sexy female student. Headline reads, “We were let in for our looks? No. We will be judged by them? Yes.” Subhead says, “Who’s Hotter? Click to choose.” Under YOUR PICTURE voters agree you’re not.

This is the beginning of Facemash, which eventually became Facebook. This is MARK ZUCKERBERG’S idea of fun — making women feel like shit for his entertainment. IMAGINE what that girl must have felt when she saw NOT under her Harvard profile picture. IMAGINE if it was YOUR CHILD. Or YOU.

And here’s what ZUCKERBERG said the first night he released Facemash: “I almost want to put some of these faces next to pictures of some farm animals and have people vote on which is more attractive.”

This is MARK ZUCKERBERG then, and THIS IS MARK ZUCKERBERG NOW! He is still the same ugly, petty, small man/child, pulling the same ugly crap, indifferent to anyone but himself, ignoring the pain he is causing around the globe now.

Zuckerberg was already a second-year student at Harvard when he began Facemash. He was not a child. If ZUCKERBERG was a decent man, a man of compassion, empathy, not cruelty, he never would have COPIED HOT OR NOT, an app that was already out there. Zucky just ripped it off! To debase Harvard WOMEN. Shame on you ZUCKY, and your MAMA and PAPA, for not teaching you how to treat others with respect and kindness!

ZUCKERBERG is still indifferent to anyone but his own needs, even today. His Facebook recommendation engine helped get TRUMPY ELECTED! Twice! How? Facebook only shows you what ZUCKY WANTS YOU TO SEE. You do NOT see all your connection’s posts. ZUCKY only shows you posts that REFLECT YOU. Upset about inflation? FB will show you Russian and Republican advertisers (disguised as friends and connections) who sell you that Trump will fix the economy. We are all merely seeing posts that reflect our personal concerns and opinions now.

ZUCKY only sees his own reflection too. It’s what allowed him to debase women at Harvard. It is allowing him to keep his screwed-up recommendation engine on and running. Republicans spreading lies, ZUCKY doesn’t care. He cares about getting and keeping advertisers. His “fake news” AI department is a joke. I know someone working there, and they tell me he isn’t trying to stop it at all. It doesn’t serve him to do so. He wants advertisers, and you don’t get them, and keep them, limiting ad sales.

He got lucky debasing women from an app he RIPPED OFF. Now he’s god to so many in Silicon Valley. Sadly, they are so blinded by his “success” that they cannot see the ugly little man/child he was @Harvard and still is. Humans get our moral fiber, our value systems, between 0–8, maybe up to 10 years old. Mark clearly didn’t get much moral guidance from his parents. And amoral people rarely change. They need a brick to the head, to ‘hit bottom,’ and ZUCKY ain’t fallin any time soon. In fact, Mark’s aligned himself with powerful Republicans to protect his self-interests.

The spoiled, self-serving brat is guiding the world to disaster after reaping huge profits on fake news without restraint to get Trumpy elected again. We now have a fascist running our country [into the ground] for the second time. Why? On top of getting him elected again, ZUCKY is paying Trump millions (billions?) to stop the Fed’s from breaking up Mark’s META monopoly.

MARK ZUCKERBERG, your power was wielded by the wealth of your parentage — mere chance, dumb luck. You’ve prioritized status and image over compassion and authenticity. Behind every great fortune is a great crime. Your crime, Mark, is the narcissist you’ve chosen to be.

Imagine how you and your wife, Priscilla Chan, would feel if YOUR DAUGHTERS, Maxima and August, were voted NOT HOT, deemed UGLY their first year at Harvard, as no doubt they’ll go there with the money you have made on the wasted hours all of us have spent on FACEBOOK and INSTAGRAM.

DELETE Facebook

DELETE Instagram

Parenting

Trump

Musk

WhatsApp

6M Yrs of Human Evolution

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

or Review of The Hunger Games series…

ONE WISH. Right now. What would it be? Mom asked me and my sister on our drive home from school when I was 10. She often came up with non sequiturs to kill the silence following our monosyllabic responses when she asked about our day.

To get those new knee-high black leather boots, my sister said, and she paused for our mom’s response but got none. Which I know you won’t let me, she snapped.

What about you, Dolly? What would you wish for, Mom asked, looking at me in the rear view mirror.

World peace. I gave her my canonical answer when anyone asked what I’d wish for. I wanted it more than anything else, growing up watching my mom cry fixed on the TV News looking for her son, a front line Marine in the jungles of Vietnam at the height of the war.

What a stupid answer, my sister proclaimed. Never happen. Why don’t you ever wish for something you could actually get?

I slumped, but crossed my arms over my chest and countered, Peace is possible. Anything is possible.

Not world peace, she assured me. She was parroting our father.

Nothing ever changes, was Dad’s canonical refrain. Humans are aggressive, territorial, warring beings. We will always be combative, competitive, violent— a product of our foundation, forever encoded in our DNA.

Not true, I’d argue through the years. We’ve advanced from apes, developed complex languages, laws to protect and care for each other. We’ve risen from hunter/gatherers to farmers that now feed billions, created technology that allows us to communicate globally—

And we’ve invented better ways of killing each other, was always Papa’s rejoinder.

But we can learn how not to, I’d add with less vigor, sensing he was right, at least in that we’d invented a way of killing every living thing on our planet decades before I was born.

–

Fast forward 20+ years— a generation drop. Went to see Dances With Wolves at the Piedmont Theater with some friends. An epic film, made for the big screen, about an Army Lieutenant’s experience with Native Americans in the Dakota/Wyoming territories in the mid 1800s. Opening scene: U.S. civil war, blood, gore and all. Two scenes in, Army Captain blows his brains out. Couple scenes later, wagon driver pierced threw the chest with an arrow. Scene after scene showed violence. Americans killing Americans; Americans killing Indians; Indians killing Americans; Indians killing Indians with warring tribes. Ten minutes before the film ended I’d had enough. I ran from the theater, outside to the curb and threw up in the gutter.

My father is right. My father is right, was screaming in my head. We were engaged in the Gulf War back then, yet another stupid skirmish over territorial control, like dogs peeing to mark their spot. We’re better than this, a part of me pleaded. No. We’re not, I heard my dad say.

A beater BMW full of young guys watched me as they slowed almost to a stop alongside me on the curb. The driver stuck his tongue out and waggled it at me. A guy in the back seat behind the driver was catcalling me, making whistling noises like he was calling his pet. Piedmont is a wealthy suburb of Oakland, but it isn’t immune to assaults or drive-bys. Fear and disgust suddenly had me retching in the gutter again and the BMW took off.

My father is right. Nothing ever changes. We’re still barbarians, taking what we can, killing each other over nothing everywhere. My father is right.

I was blowing the blind date my girlfriend and her new husband set me up with that evening, silently staring down at the sidewalk while he paced me as the four of us walked to the Rockridge Cafe near the theater. I couldn’t stop tears from welling as we all sat down for a late dinner, excused myself and hid in the bathroom to get it together, but stood in the rather small, dim space and cried. Within moments my friend knocked to come in.

What is going on, she demanded, less concerned than annoyed. My ‘date’ was a friend of her husbands, and I suppose I was shaming them.

I apologized, willed myself to stop crying, but almost every time I blinked tears fell anyway. It’s just…I hesitated. Then I tried to explain to her I’d spent a lifetime denying my father’s ideology, and it turns out he may be right about humanity. We are a doomed race, with the emotional maturity of monkeys and the technology to annihilate our planet.

What difference does it make what we are or aren’t, my friend snapped. There’s no way to know what’ll happen in the future, so why worry about it? And if you’re a little less sad sack, even if you don’t like Mike (the date), you’ll find a guy like I have if you lighten up. You’ll start a family, move to some safe enclave with people like us and you’ll be so busy raising your kids and living the life you won’t feel a need to save the world anymore.

I stopped crying then, wiped my eyes on my sleeve and looked at her. She sounded like my pollyanna mother. You don’t get it. What’s the point of having kids if not to move us toward a more creative, compassionate, kinder, equitable future? Seriously, do you really want our kids, or theirs, or their kids kids to wade through the mire of the crap we do today? The sexism? The systemic racism and inequity it perpetuates? The violence we tolerate. Still!

She just stared at me. Then, You really need to chill! Splash some water on your face then come out and have a glass of wine or two, or three, and something to eat and you’ll feel better. And be nice! She commanded before reaching for me and pulling me in for a hug then left the bathroom.

–

Fast forward 20+ years more— another generation drop. Just finished The Hunger Games series with my 13 year old son. Normally, I never see movies or read books that involve kids getting hurt anymore. As a parent, I can’t touch that terror. But my son insisted Suzanne Collins was the ‘best writer he’s ever read,’ a high endorsement for a kid who reads three or more books a month, and requested we read it together for our traditional nightly read. And as a fiction writer, I just had to see why my kid loved this series so much more than any before it.

The first book, The Hunger Games, was captivating at first read. Engaging. Fast. Edgy, but a smooth, entertaining ride. Knowing there were two more books in the series made it plausible the main character, Katness, went along with the games with only the vaguest of questions about the morality behind them. Alliances were formed for survival, not partnering for innovation or love. The novel focused on the games themselves, the dystopian society, exploitative, ugly, and violent in the extreme, but it didn’t occur to me until the end of the first book there were no real characters on the pages. Ultimately, most everyone was out for themselves.

The Hunger Games was sad, dark, deeply disturbing from opening line to closing sentence, a grotesque statement on our character— Ms. Collins’s self-proclaimed interpretation on the popularity of the reality show Survivor. My son promised me the series provided a happy ending.

We finished Mockingjay last week, the last book in the series. The novel was disjointed, too many quick cuts with no real depth scene after scene. Beyond exploitative, reading it was like watching CNN— a barrage of video clips of what’s happening, and only the briefest explanation (and generally singular POV) as to why. And though Katness and her band of tortured cronies eventually win the day, the author makes it very clear the new order is the same as the old one, equally ugly, most having learned nothing from their past persecution and perilous fight to overthrow ‘the Capitol.’

My father is right, according to Suzanne Collins.

Nothing ever really changes is not a happy ending. After finishing the full series, I realize the novels are more effect than substantive content, on par with reality TV, as the writer claimed was her model for the series.

Been feeling somewhat ripped off for wasting my time with her three novels, and a bit pissed off for the message that Ms. Collins is subtly selling to our children.

My husband and I are raising our kids with the belief that people are malleable. We can, will, and do change. In fact, the human race is in the process of change constantly, albeit slowly, and not just our physicality, but our minds— we are evolving beings. We encourage the notion we can reach our amazing potential for invention, empathy, connection, with enough collective intelligence to create and sustain flourishing societies through communication, cooperation, compassion, and compromise. We promote these concepts to empower our children with the mindset they are changeable, bad habits are breakable, contempt and anger minimized when we are respected, feel valued, loved. War, famine, disease, hate are all eventually resolvable if we allow our massively complex, creative brains a safe harbor to thrive.

Idealist, my father, and seemingly Suzanne Collins mock me. Better an idealist then the cynic resigned to impending doom, or the author who exploits our frailties from voyeurism to sadism for book sales and then lays our current character flaws in stone to our children.

We must believe fundamental change in our character and nature are possible for each of us to begin living our kinder, smarter, more creative and productive selves forward.

What Makes a Great Man

by jcafesin, posted in masculinity

Men are the freight train comin’ at ya.
Women are the poison in your food…

I’m a guy’s girl, meaning I’ve spent most of my life hanging out with men instead of women. The freight train comin’ at ya, I prefer men’s straightforward nature, their directness, their unwavering, solution-oriented trajectory. Men are simpler than women. Not less intelligent, just not so round-about, from behind, underneath.

Women, by contrast, are the poison in our food. Eons of subjugation have forced us to become puppet-masters to get what we want/need for ourselves and our children. Not a judgment call, simply a fact that until very recently might was necessary for our species survival, putting men firmly on top of the human hierarchy. Greater muscle mass to kill mastodons gave men the ability to take what they wanted, including sex. From our beginnings, men have assumed they controlled the household with superior strength.

Notice I said, “men assumed they controlled the household.” Well, you know what happens when you ass(of)u(and)me…;-}

Seriously though, probably pretty early on, like cavemen times, women figured out how to get men to do what we want using our wit and wiles. Genetic transfer of memory over thousands of generations of women passing on how to be manipulative eventually became woven into the DNA and imprinted on our XX chromosomes.

Regardless of why women became… complex, the fact that we are scares me about us. Women don’t only manipulate men. Quite often our children, sometimes even our friends, and all too often ourselves. I’d much rather face a freight train because if I’m paying attention, I can get off the tracks before getting slammed. Hence, why I’m a guy’s girl.

Men have historically subjugated women simply because they could. A mere six generations ago, women were not allowed to own their own property or keep their own wages. The only way to keep her family fed and a roof over their heads was to placate to a man. Until as recently as the 1970s, women could not get a mortgage loan without a co-signature from a man. And even today, stats from Dept. of Labor for 2023 show women still make 83% of a man for the exact same job.

Times truly are changing, though. Want a mastodon? Buy one on Amazon. Men’s physical prowess is unnecessary in today’s world. Upwards of 60% more women graduate college then men today. Most educated women pursue a career path and can pay their own way through life now, even if we still typically make less then men. Most of us don’t need a man’s financial support to survive or even thrive. Technology — from the Pill to the PC — has made it possible for women to control our own destinies, and function equally alongside men in most of today’s business environments. The few jobs still requiring brute strength are being replaced by robots.

Men are losing their position atop the social order with every advance of technology, and every law enforcing equal rights. And falling off the tip top position of authority hurts. I get that. It’s why more men voted for Trump than women, by a lot. The new pres elect promised to MAKE MEN GREAT AGAIN, but this is a lie, like most everything else out of the man/child’s mouth.

  • Great men don’t need to subjugate anyone. They value input and recognize insights from their spouses and colleagues to their children.
  • Great men don’t need to be ‘right’ all the time. They respect other’s POV, often learn from them and alter their position.
  • Great men think with their brains, not their ‘little heads.’
  • Great men are humble, remorseful when they screw up. They don’t blame the people they’ve hurt when made aware. They apologize and try not to repeat the hurtful behavior.
  • Great men know how to listen. Hear. Remember and learn from what is said and discussed.
  • Great men can disagree without rancor or hateful rhetoric. They’ve no need to put down their wives, their colleagues, or their children’s behavior or POV.
  • Great men don’t make their career/job, watching sports, doing hobbies, or fulfilling personal desires more important than anything else in their life.
  • Great men are connected outside themselves. They consider the lives they touch and care about the radiating effects of their actions before taking any.
  • Great men do not need to be served but take pleasure in serving others.
  • Great men are aware of their own emotions. They understand what they are feeling in real time and express their feelings instead of brooding with silent contempt.
  • Great men are not afraid of looking vulnerable or asking for help.
  • Great men truly care about the world around them. Not just in words but deeds — volunteering, teaching, giving, sharing, investing their time in not just personal pursuits but helpful and kind actions.
  • Great men are empathetic. Compassionate. Kindness is the foundation of what motivates most of their behavior towards others.

All of the bullet points above (and many more not listed) are also what makes a Great Human Being.

I’ve been privileged to know a few great men in my life. I am free to express my thoughts and feelings to them without worrying they’re going to dismiss what I say, put me down, stonewall me, or try to silence me by derailing the dialog when they’re losing their position with my reasoning. Our relationships are of mutual respect. I never need or desire to play puppet master with them.

Playing the role of puppet-master is exhausting. Figuring out and then implementing the primers and triggers to motivate the behavior I want takes more energy than I care to invest. I prefer just TALKING and honestly expressing what I need, which is why I generally suck at puppeteering. And quite frankly, with so few great men, or women who aren’t honest with themselves or those they try and manipulate, it’s been a lonely life, always on the outside looking in on communication games I don’t care to play.

Gaming honest communication to get your way, get what you want, or ‘win’ a dispute is destructive in the extreme. Successful relationships — where both parties feel heard, respected, appreciated — from partners to parenting to friendships and colleagues require listening and caring about the other person’s feelings, thoughts, and preferences, and of course, understanding you can’t always get what you want, but both get what they need in equal measure. Only in doing so can each be a safe harbor for the other.

It really is time to eradicate from the human lexicon these ingrained antiquated gender roles and social positions that have been in place since the beginning of our existence.

It’s time for men to realize that to be a Great Man now requires more than brute strength or bringing in an income. Step down from the throne, shed the bravado and learn to build partnerships on a foundation of trust through mutual respect and compromise.

Women must come out from underneath, behind, quietly poisoning the well of honest communication with puppeteering. Instead of continuing to play puppet-master, stop accepting slights to avoid conflict. It only builds resentment. Boldly, honestly express how you feel and what you need. Don’t settle on being ignored, undervalued, invisible, constantly acquiescing to his desires over your own. Don’t manipulate. Communicate. Keep pushing the envelope of awareness, and know evolution takes millennium to change what has been since humanity began. We are all works in progress, and we must learn from one another to thrive together.

Believing is NOT Thinking

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

My father is a fervent Republican. My mother was a Democrat. I once saw him put his fist through the maple cabinet an inch from my mother’s head because her vote was going to cancel his in the second Reagan election. Though he never hit her, connected anyway, he often shouted, slammed things, threw things, even at me, when he encountered resistance (reason) when espousing his conservative views.

My father doesn’t believe Global Warming is real or caused by us in any way (absolving himself of conserving resources).

My father believes all non-believers — atheists and agnostics — are dangerous fools to be converted.

My father distrusts all Muslims.

My father believes in trickle-down economics, though it’s been proven again and again it makes the rich richer while wiping out the middle class.

My father doesn’t believe in gun control. “If they come for me, I’ll stop them at the door.” He quotes the NRA with fervor! “Take away what kind of guns we get to own, and you chip away at the foundation of the 2nd Amendment,” he preaches.

I remind him he can’t stop a tank with an AK-47. I implore him to examine history, and context, that the right to bear arms our forefathers were talking about were pistols and shotguns that took three minutes to load and didn’t fire straight or would blow up in your face. Automatic assault weapons were neither considered, nor anticipated when the 2nd Amendment was written.

He scoffs. As his daughter, and a woman, I am clueless.

As a mother of two amazing, spectacular children, I am horrified, not only by mass shootings on school campuses, but everywhere else, every time an assault weapon is used against our own because the NRA wants to stay rich. And our government officials, Republican senators in particular, ostensibly “by the people, for the people,” are paid off by gun lobbyists to let them.

I grew up in L.A., on the Valley side of the Hollywood Hills. I went to school with writers, producers, directors’ kids, all fairly to extremely liberal. My father was the outlier in our neighborhood and among my parents’ colleagues and friends. The Great Divide between the Republicans and Democrats, fueled by Reagan pushing religion, conservatism, then ignited by Bush Jr’s Christian administration, and then concertized in lies, ignorance, and hate by Trump, didn’t exist yet. My parents lived together in relative peace, except around election times.

We have become a polarized nation, and this serves no one here. On the personal level, it has divided me from my family. My siblings, like my father, are fervent Republicans. My sister, disgusted we’re raising our kids without religion, decided she’d had enough of my liberal leanings and checked out of our lives entirely, leaving our kids deeply hurt their aunt had abandoned them. My brother used to forward me emails from his Born-Again community that Obama was a Jew-hating Muslim who believed it’s okay to kill babies. During Trump’s reign, he spoke of the evil liberals who supported abortion and insisted the rights of a fetus eclipsed those of the mother. My brother’s ignorance is only eclipsed by his blind faith in his Christian leaders’ conservative rhetoric.

The chasm in our morality and our philosophies is so diametrically opposed at this point that the rare times I talk with my father our dialog quickly sours, then invariably turns contentious. I’ve told him time and again I won’t discuss politics with him, but he insists on little digs, like, “Do you care about your kids?” He has not spoken with our children, his grandkids, in 7 years, or acknowledged them in any way, not birthdays, no calls, ever, and virtually never inquirers about them when I call him, which I always do because he doesn’t call me.

Truth is, it’s getting harder and harder to call him. Almost two decades after my mom’s death, my father is undaunted by age or illness in his quest to spread conservative lies. He’s a true believer (as are most hard-core Republicans) because believing is easier than thinking. Being told what is right and wrong, good or bad, is simpler than considering the complexities of our behavior, and our obligations to each other and the world we inhabit.

My remaining family believes women should not have the right of choice with our own bodies.

My father and siblings believe gays should not have the legal, nor moral right to marry. They believe homosexuality is a mental illness.

My family espouses they believe in “less government” — preaching the Republican’s canonical tagline — but want to govern (restrict) women’s choice and limit our birth control resources; control who gets to marry; limit medical treatment to those who can afford care; allow corporations to buy politicians that allow the mass murder of our children and citizens for corporate profit. They’d prefer to believe the GOP rhetoric that Global Warming isn’t happening and support the ‘rights’ of Big Oil to drill and frack our planet to death, instead of investing in renewable energy for our kids, and the welfare of Earth forward.

I’ve been wondering when it’s time to say goodbye to family, even before they die. I’ve been grieving my sister’s departure from our lives since her exit 15 yrs ago. The little connection I retain with my brother and father seems… over. My kids have no relationship with either. We have virtually no common ground and share little time that doesn’t quickly turn combative. So really, what’s the point of trying to stay in touch? Harsh? You bet. Ugly? Yeah. I’m profoundly saddened that we’ve come to this impasse. Hurts. A lot, knowing almost half our nation feels as my family does. And I am mystified, disgusted, and shamed by their gullibility in choosing blind faith over thought and reason.

We are again on the precipice of our survival as one nation, but this time the war isn’t with rifles that blow up in our faces when shot at the ‘enemy.’ Now, we must recognize the enemy is ourselves — choosing ignorance over reason because it’s easier to binge-watch Netflix, peruse Instagram, or stream gameplay on Twitch than it is to think.

My daughter, a recent college grad, told me most of her friends off and online — this new round of young voters — will not be voting this election. They’re taking a stand, showing how they feel about our government, they claim, neglecting to understand without voting they are essentially voting in Trump. They say they’re disheartened by their choice between a great-grandfather and a misogynist (who they don’t say is just 3 yrs younger than Biden.) They focus on our current president’s age because their feeds on Insta, Facebook, Reddit [and their like] tell them to — flooded with GOP marketing to sway young voters Biden is too old for another term. They get their information from social media and blindly believe their feeds, not knowing, or even caring that what they are scrolling through is personally targeted at them, and designed to manipulate them to buy, try, subscribe, and believe in snake oil.

The chasm between us will continue to grow with more believers buying into the derisive rhetoric of their religious leaders, politicians, Google’s search results, and ‘personalized’ marketing on social platforms and apps. More families are finding themselves on opposite sides of an ideological divide that will likely tear them apart, like mine, unless we STOP believing and start thinking what is right, not only for ourselves and our family, but broader, more complex considerations that include finding and creating ways to help our neighbors, community, this country, and our planet thrive.

A Valentine’s Day Romance

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

Fantasy Romance

It’s almost Valentine’s Day. And A MARRIAGE FABLE is a 5-star FANTASY ROMANCE novella, “A poignant exploration of love that captivates from start to finish.”

#FantasyRomance #love #marriage #married #couples #marriagetheory #MFCC #match #tinder #onlinedating #bumble #NFL #lovestory #boyfriend #girlfriend #parenting #momlife

The Good Life

by jcafesin, posted in aging, Family, family life, lonliness, parenting, parents, Uncategorized

To escape the bickering, and whining, and catering to the needs and desires of everyone’s demands, I took our dog, Annie, for a walk on a quiet fire trail near our house. Bright and beautiful out, a sweet sea breeze came over the Oakland Hills with the afternoon sun. The mile and a half dirt path along the base of the foothills was mostly vacant, rarely used by even residents of the neighborhood, so I did not leash my dog for the walk.

I saw someone from where I stood on the ridge while I waited for Annie to finish marking her territory in an open field. A woman was coming towards us on the trail below, and I tensed as I scanned for the dog she was most likely walking, but saw none. Still, I called my 70-pound Shepherd-mix to me. My beautiful pound-hound was a bit unpredictable with other dogs. Play. Fight. Run. I never knew which, or why. She passionately loved people, though most didn’t appreciate her bounding up to greet them.

Annie came to me, and I held her collar as we stood on the ridge and watched the woman trudge up the hill. Her white hair looked almost like a silver helmet in the sunlight. She walked slowly, and carefully, and hunched. I made her out to be in her mid-70s. My dog started whining the moment she noticed the woman approaching, then practically yanked my arm off trying to pull away from me and go meet her potential new friend.

The woman was 30 feet away when she noticed us, looked up and stopped. I loudly assured her my dog was very friendly and loved everybody, and that I held her securely, asserting there was no need to worry. The old woman looked at my dog wagging her tail wildly and whining incessantly, and she smiled. She confidently told me she loved dogs, then called mine to her with a pat on her legs and words of welcome. I let go of Annie’s collar. She lopped over to the woman, ears back, but tail up and swishing, and sidled up to her, leaning her downy-soft, muscular frame into the woman’s legs. I joined them on the path where the woman stood stroking my pound-hound.

The old woman gently ran her hand along the length of Annie’s back again and again while extolling the animal’s Sphinx-like appearance and friendly nature. Annie was mesmerized with her touch, as my dog was with just about anyone’s, but the woman seemed to really enjoy the contact as well, her expression set in a soft, contented smile. She explained she’d had several dogs during the years she and her husband raised their three kids. The dogs had passed on, the kids had moved on, now with families of their own. Her husband died two years back and for the first time in her life she was alone.

Her kids, even her grandkids kept telling her to get a dog. I chimed in with words of encouragement, told her about getting my dog at eight weeks old from a kill shelter in Manteca, and ranted about some great local shelters where she could find a great companion.

My graceful hound took off after a squirrel, startling us both. The woman began brushing the dog hair off her pants, but a lot of short hairs were woven into the navy polyester and clung to her pant legs where the dog had leaned against her. “I’ve spent the last 50 years of my life attending to others needs—cooking, cleaning, and more cleaning, and taking care of everyone else. I told myself I deserved a break after my husband lost his three-year battle with brain cancer. I would travel, get out to the movies and play canasta, live the good life.”

Annie came bouncing back, long tongue dangling from her panting (grinning?) mouth. She came to me first to get my pat, then went back to the old woman for more strokes, which the woman gave willingly. “I’ve been on three cruises in the last two years. I play canasta twice a month, and see all the new movies I want.” Again she seemed…pacified, by patting my dog. “Turns out, the good life was when I was needed. Being counted on made me feel vital, and valued. Now, no matter what I do, I mostly just feel lonely.” She straightened and brushed her pant legs off again as my dog swaggered over to the tall grass and lay in it. “I think you all may be right. It’s time I got a dog.” She gave me a pleasant smile. “It’s been a pleasure chatting. Good day to you.” And she went on her way.

I stood there watching her walk along the path, her words echoing in my head. My kids were 12 and 14, and beyond their bickering, and continual demands of my time and energy, parenting them was simply the richest, most rewarding experience of my life. They made me feel vital. Valued. And with my life so integrated into theirs, and my husband by my side joining me in this grand adventure, I virtually never felt lonely anymore, like I had so often before them.

Annie lay in the grass sunning herself. I gave a quick whistle, and she popped up and joined me on our walk home. I stroked my dog as she walked by my side, glad to have her with me, counting on me, as my kids and my husband did, and probably would for many years to come. I imagined the old woman’s empty house and anticipated the tumult in mine.

And suddenly, I felt very lucky indeed to be living the good life.

Married? Wish He Was…Better?

by jcafesin, posted in marriage

A modern twist on a Christmas Carol, A MARRIAGE FABLE is a novella, another tall tale of the powerful genie, Finnegus Boggs, and his lessons on love that inspires Andrew Wyman, a typical modern-day husband nearing his 25th wedding anniversary, to become a better man.

New #Review:

Journey Toward Enlightenment

If you’re a fan of magical realism like I am, you will enjoy reading this mystical story. A quick read with plenty of drama kept me engaged. It’s a story filled with equal parts regret and redemption. It always feels good when a narcissist jerk gets a taste of his own medicine, and feels even better when this self-absorbed deplorable gets a chance to be a better man. Will he accept this new choice? I’ll never tell. Ask the genie. Do yourself a favor and read this well-written story and find out if there is hope for “this day and every day forward.”

–Ingrid Hart

“A Marriage Fable does for Valentine’s Day what A Christmas Carol did for Christmas Day. A Must Read romantic fantasy!”
– BJ Fera—Goodreads

Between What is Said and What is Heard

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

On our drive from school the other day my tweenage son told me a classmate had offered him a joint. I’d been preparing for this moment, staging it in my head for years, ready with my bag full of allegorical stories of my reckless youth before easing into the “Why drugs are bad for you” speech. But as I drove home searching for how to begin, I remembered back when I was a teen, walking in on my sister’s confession, and my twisted interpretation of her troubling story…

I was fourteen, finishing 8th grade. Another sunny day in L.A., and I came into my house sweating from my twenty minute walk home from middle school. I heard my sister talking in our parent’s bedroom, which was usually off limits to anyone but them. When I got to their doorway I saw my sister and mom sitting next to each other on the end of our parent’s bed. They stared at me standing in the threshold, looking more like siblings the way their short, thick dark hair framed their tear-streaked faces.

I migrated into the room looking back and forth between them and asked what was going on. They shared a non-verbal exchange as I sat across from them on the little cushioned chair in front of the mirrored vanity. After some time trying to gain her composure, mom finally launched into the reveal. She wiped away her tears, then told me that my sister had been ill. This was not hard for me to fathom, since in the last year she’d dropped a lot of weight, and more recently, her skin was turning orange. We were not close siblings. She was two years older and had worn her weight loss like a badge of honor, but with my mom’s assertion I felt the ground falling away thinking of cancer or some other horrible life-threatening illness. My mother continued to explain that my sister had been starving herself for the last few years to lose weight, and had started vomiting most of what she did eat this past year to stay thin. She became so overwhelmed with grief in the telling that fresh tears slid down her cheeks. She covered her mouth and sobbed.

My sister took over, delivering her words vacillating between shame and pride. She sat perched on the edge of the bed and confessed to years of fasting and purging because skinny was in, and she didn’t want to be left out. She touched on her orange skin from eating lettuce and carrots exclusively for days. She talked about losing her period, her reason for confessing to our mother, afraid she’d become sterile. Then she changed tracks, and clearly delighted, she spoke of shopping with friends, and finally fitting into the skin-tight Calvin Klein jeans that the actress Brook Shields famously posed in. She’d become part of the in-crowd and reveled in being desired by the popular boys in school. Like most of her high-school girlfriends, she’d finally achieved what I thought impossible for our well-endowed family lineage. She was unarguably thin.

My mother had regained her composure, and sat next to my sister silently ringing her hands. I sat on the little cushioned stool staring at my skinny sister, consumed with jealousy. I wanted to be her.

I, too, wanted to be rail thin, heroin chic, a cover-girl stunner like my big sister. To me, she was beautiful— sleek, tight, hip, slick and trendy. She was what I too aspired to be, what every magazine, TV show and movie showed attractive, desired women should be. Thin.

And she’d just told me how to get there.

What I heard her say that afternoon was starving and vomiting worked to lose weight. I failed to acknowledge her detailed account of the toll the eating disorder took on her body and mind. I stopped listening right after she told me how she’d gotten skinny. Everything that followed was white noise.

From that day forward, and for the next five years I threw up frequently after eating to purge my body of the calories. I starved myself for days, sometimes going for weeks eating just vegetables. I tried to ignore that I was tired all the time, and chronically cranky, and falling into a black kind of depression. The desire to be thin superseded all reason. If my sister could do it, I could, and would, and did, regardless of the health risks.

Several years in therapy with a nutritionist gave my sister the fortitude to eat healthy, combat social pressures and become more accepting of her body. I learned to control my weight with exercise. Racquetball and running eventually replaced retching, but every time I over-indulge I consider throwing up to rid my body of the unwanted calories. To this day my sister’s words still echo in my head and taunt me— not all of what she said, only what I heard.

I pulled my Prius into the garage this afternoon and I looked at my beautiful son in the rear view mirror awaiting my lecture. My stomach hurt from the pasta salad I’d eaten for lunch earlier. My heart hurt— lost for words of wisdom for my kid. I wanted to purge my body of the heaviness, then shook my head in disgust at the notion, hoping my son didn’t catch it. Thirty years later, I’m still fighting the voices inside my head that rationalized my sister’s eating disorder as a workable solution to weight loss.

I led my son into the house for a snack and a chat. And I lied. I made up a tale of ‘a friend’s’ reckless behavior that led to disaster. I told story after story of kids I went to high school with who were users and grew up to be losers (though I knew none). I assured him popularity did not come with using. I left no space for him to surmise drugs were simple fun, or required to be ‘in.’ I chose my words carefully, considered them from many angles for possible distortion before speaking, even asked him to summarize what I’d said often to make sure we were on the same page. And though he parroted my sentiments in detail, in recalling my experience with my sister, I am left with lingering concern he didn’t really hear me.

Sometimes, between what is said and what is heard is the Grand f***ing Canyon.

Raising Kids Without Religion

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

My husband and I raised our children without religion. We gave them no religious identity (as in claiming to be Christian or Jewish because of our parentage). We are both devout atheists, and I use the term devout with purpose. We don’t believe in a higher power, or any gods, or even the possibility of one. We are not agnostic. We believe awareness begins by the sixth month of gestation, and ends at death. Upon birth, our combination of chemistry defines individual uniqueness, so often mislabeled as a ‘soul.’ No heaven, or hell. No rebirth awaits us after death. Reincarnation is a myth. There are no second chances to get living ‘right,’ and we never ‘ascend to a higher plain of existence.’

You, me, Hitler, all end up the same. We cease to exist upon death. Only our contributions throughout our lifetime remain when we die.

Frightening and harsh though this may seem to believers, the fantastical bible stories and the ‘jealous’ malicious god, (Exodus 20:4-5), described in them never resonated with us. Much to our parent’s chagrin, we grew further from all religious ideology with their spiritual indoctrination. Ancient dogma conjured by men to control the masses by creating an outside deity that could not, and by its own commandments, must not be questioned, religious leaders were telling us not to think. They required blind faith, and neither my husband nor I were willing to buy into thoughtless beliefs.

We agreed before having kids that we’d raise them without religion. We could not teach them what we do not believe, and what we both feel is fundamentally destructive at this point in human development. The value system we hoped to impart is based on a keen awareness of self, and others, our planet, and the immense responsibility each of us have to preserve all life here.

Picture a bull’s-eye, we told our kids, like the Target logo. You are the center dot, obviously, as you can only perceive and participate in life while living. The first ring out from you is your immediate family; the second is your extended family and friends. The next ring is your community, then your country and then the world. And all rings must be considered when making choices and/or taking an action.

The Target philosophy is a model for a thriving society. Consciously considering the radiating effects of our actions forces us to think before we act. Our ability to think conceptually, project into the future, then alter our behavior to achieve that projected outcome is what separates the human race from all other life forms here.

There was no need to sell our kids on religious dogma such as promises of heaven, or threats of hell. We taught our kids not only to be considerate and responsible to family and friends, but to humanity as a whole, and all things on this Earth. We expect them to honor their debt to those before them by striving to deliver a better world to those here, and those yet to be.

As atheists, we are considered by many to be heathens– uncultured, uncivilized people. Our parents are constantly trying to convert us, under the delusion that we are what they were raised to believe, whether we admit it or not. They vehemently express their disgust in our ‘denial,’ and barrage us with threats that our children will be lost without a religious upbringing. My brother, a born again Christian, assures us that Christ died for our sins. He promises my children will be ‘saved’ after death from all wrongdoing if they just accept Him as their savior. He never stops to consider the catastrophic lack of responsibility this ideology instills in his, and every other blind believer’s behavior. My brother, and his brethren real estate brokers lie, cheat, and rob unsuspecting clients of their life savings without ever considering the destructive effects of his actions, believing in his own righteousness, having ‘faith’ in the forgiveness promised him.

By everyone’s reckoning who’ve met, or know our children, from family and friends, to teachers, to restaurant servers, my kids are liked and well respected. They are courteous and conscientious, more considerate than most adults, and 90% of their so called ‘god-fearing’ peers. They are team players in sports, strive for excellence in their studies, both straight-A students from grade school forward. They share what they have, and compromise to ensure fair play. And they do all this, not by threats of eternal damnation, but because they understand their role in, and responsibility to humanity, and this planet we inhabit. My children are not lost. They experience no spiritual void. They find beauty and wonder in many things, like nature, and sometimes even in the nature of man.

With the advent of technology and advanced weaponry, our world has become so very small and fragile. We must stop pretending we are powerless, under the will of various deities, or follow the divisive rhetoric of religious leaders who preach if Christ exists than Judaism is wrong. If Allah rules than Christianity is a lie. Religion has become the problem, giving excuses, or worse, forgiveness for whatever crimes we commit. Christ will not save us from global annihilation. We are all responsible to save us from ourselves.

At the dinner table recently, my husband asked our now teen kids a simple question: “What are you?” Both answered: “Human.” Touché! Religion, skin color, and/or economic status, my children see no division between themselves and other people. This position is mandatory for the survival of humanity. We teach our children to recognize their radiating effects on all they touch, and not only acknowledge their mighty power, but embrace the responsibility that comes with it. Humanity’s future depends on each of us taking individual responsibility for the actions we take in life, not for rewards in an afterlife, but to enrich the lives we touch here and now, and to make it possible for those yet to be—the generations to come—to experience the unfathomable wonder in being alive.