His true nature ...

Look at this photo:

Remember the little incident at Harvard where a woman called the police to report a man breaking into the house across the street from her? The resident of the house is the man walking with a cane, a professor at Harvard. The man assisting him down the stairs is a police officer who responded to the breaking and entering call. The pair are at a White House beer summit, organized by the messiah to improve race relations (stop laughing).

Note who is helping the elderly professor down the stairs. Yes, the guy who arrested him a few weeks ago for disorderly conduct. Note who is utterly ignoring the elderly man's need for assistance.

The man in the front wants to change health care. He will change it by encouraging people like the elderly man who uses a cane to seek end-of-life health care counseling. He secretly hopes that people like the elderly man who uses a cane accidentally fall down the stairs and die outright from their injuries (it would be counterproductive for that person to survive that accident, 'cause that would cost more money to treat him or her).

To me that photo says much. It shows what a narcissist that other people voted into the White House. I did not vote for the man. I have too many questions about his character and thus far, any concern I had about his character is coming to pass.

As far as I am concerned, 2012 can't come fast enough. Yes, I will do my best to ignore some birthdays between then and now, but I truly hope this country survives what this man wants to do TO US (not FOR US) in the next few years. There needs to be a purge of congressional incumbents in 2010 and seriously, this nation needs to get back to the principles it was founded upon.

Lying Parents

I guess it’s just the way things are. Parents have kids so they can mind fuck ‘em every which way. I try to be honest with my adult daughter, to not make promises I can’t keep. I only wish my father had done the same.

My dad died in 1996 from complications of chemotherapy for treatment of acute mylogenous leukemia. He was 67 years of age. He did not expect to die, and left his multi-million dollar estate as a class A clusterfuck. He created a copy and paste “will” before he went into the hospital, I assume trying to save a few bucks. He’d had previous wills drawn up by actual attorneys; I saw one a couple of years before he died, and the only reason I saw it was because I was one of the executors. I had to sign some paperwork associated with that will, and I never read the will nor was I given a copy—my dad told me that there was no need for me to see it, that his estate was being left to his “children” (at the time me, my brother, and sister, and one of his stepdaughters, who was in the process of being “adopted” by my dad, God knows why. Well, actually I do know why now.), but that he wanted income from certain family investments to go to his widow for the duration of her life.

There was real estate that he was leaving to his children (including a subdivision of property that was owned by my dad’s family before I was born), and he intended that each kid received one lot to build a home upon. The income-generating investments, an apartment complex built in 1972–73, a mobile home park, built before my father married his second wife (not going to call her stepmother, because that assumes she’s acted anything like a mother to me, which she hasn’t), and a water company that provided water and sewer treatment to about 5,000 homes, were to stay in a trust, with the widow getting the income.

My paternal grandfather, my father and his brother were farmers. My grandfather was born in West Virginia, and worked in the coal mines as a youth. He came to California in the 1920s, and got work as a barber. He married my grandmother, who was born and raised in the same small community I grew up in. Her family’s claim to fame was her father James McCoey, who was active in the community. My grandmother made much of telling us kids that her father donated the flagpole in the city’s cemetery, and that’s why he was buried underneath it.

When I was very young, my dad and his brother used to run a few head of cattle on a 350+ acre ranch they bought in the early 1950s. I have a vivid memory of being in the barn after a cow had delivered a calf. I was maybe 3 years old at the time.

I’m not sure when exactly they got into farming, but they leased a couple of different ranches from something called “The Land Company.” The property owners lived in Southern California, and the rural roads that lead to and bisected the ranches had names like Hobson and Lagomarsino. The acreage my dad and his brother farmed was Hobson Ranch.

Only I don’t remember my uncle actually working … apparently he had some sort of nervous breakdown and was unable to work. So my dad did, working 12+ hour days while his brother stayed home and started to dabble in real estate.

As kids, my dad and uncle would drag the six of us (my siblings and I, along with our three double-first cousins) to the ranch to weed crops. The ranch was right off the freeway, and I was teased too many times to count for being a “farmworker” when classmates’ families drove by on the freeway and saw the six of us, all blonde, weeding and thinning crops. We were saving money, you know, sacrificing for the future. So said my dad and uncle.

We never went on family vacations. My dad said we had to sacrifice things like that for the future. So while classmates’ families went away during Christmas vacation or even had summer vacations, we didn’t. I think I was probably 11 years old when we had our first family vacation—but with my dad’s brother’s family, one of their business partners and his family (4 kids), and eventually my mother’s brother (2 kids at the time). The vacation consisted of a winter outing, and between the 3 or 4 families, they’d rent a house at Squaw Valley or Alpine Meadows and stick anywhere from six to eight adults AND 10 to 12 kids into a three- or four-bedroom vacation house. There is no way that “vacation” was any fun for the adults—I remember my mom and aunt doing not much more than cooking and keeping clothes dry for us kids.

That was the “family vacation” for about three consecutive Januarys. Throw the kids and dogs into a station wagon, load up one of the farm pickups to take clothing, rented skis and toboggans, and foodstuffs from coastal central California to the Sierras. We did get to miss school, though, because my dad and his brother made sure to not rent around Christmastime—to save money for the future of course!

The first “vacation” where we stayed in an actual motel happened when I was 12. Of course it wasn’t just my family; my dad and his brother’s family came along, too. We stayed in three rooms across from Disneyland (my dad and mom in one room, my aunt and uncle in one room, along with my 6-month old cousin, and the six of us older kids [four girls, two boys] in one room with two beds).

That’s just the way it was, my dad and uncle told all of us kids we had to sacrifice for the future, so they could invest in real estate and be financially secure someday.

I believe they started buying properties when I was 13 or so. The first was acreage off of I-80. They sold that and reinvested in a pair of good-sized lots in Fremont and in Watsonville. The lot in Fremont is now a multimillion dollar office building. The property in Watsonville is housing. My dad and uncle didn’t develop it. My uncle’s pipe dream was putting himself and my dad into position as investors for a world-class hotel in Monterey, on Cannery Row.

That property is now a parking garage.

In 1972 they decided to build a 26-unit apartment complex at what was then the edge of town. It was the nicest apartment complex at the time it was built, with a swimming pool in the courtyard, and covered parking. To save construction costs, my dad and uncle would drag us kids to the property and we had to clean up for the next week’s construction. I was in high school at the time. We’d go in and pick up nails and scrap lumber and cut-up sheet rock and sweep the concrete foundation so things were nice and clean for the builders. We weren’t paid, because “You need to pay into this, because someday it will be yours.”

Again, it was humiliating work, especially for me, a high school junior. Classmates would drive by, stop and honk and get out and laugh. I endured it because this was something that belonged to my family.

Eventually my uncle's family started taking vacations on their own. I believe their locations of choice were Catalina Island and Palm Springs. My family, of course, didn't do vacations. Gotta save for the future, you know!

Fast-forward to adulthood. My parents divorced when I was in my mid-20s. My mom just wanted out and let my dad keep pretty much everything, he threatened to hurt her and he told her if she took her fair share, there would be nothing left for “the kids.”

Cautionary hint: If there are sizable assets between a couple, and they divorce, the woman should get everything due her, and not let the husband tell her she’s harming her childrens’ future. ‘Cause she’s not. She’s harming them by NOT getting what’s due her, because the man will have enough to look attractive (financially) to other women, and then we have the “new” family who is now worthy of inheriting those assets.

My dad married a woman with three daughters. They became his second family, the perfect family. My dad was in the process of developing several properties, and always assured me that I needed to be patient, that he’d make sure I’d receive the acreage from the 350+ acre ranch, just like his mother had wanted. He built and sold houses, built a mobile home park that paid for itself quickly, and became a wealthy man.

His new daughters benefitted greatly. The family went on vacations a couple of times a year. Hawaii, Mexico, Ireland. One of the girls went to Russia; the youngest (the one who was "adopted") I believe got a trip to Hawaii when she graduated from high school. When the middle and youngest girls turned 16, they received cars. They never worked in the fields or cleaned up after any construction crews. No sacrificing for the princesses, no siree!

When my father died, long story short, his wife (of less than ten years) of course inherited the beautiful 5,000 square foot home he’d built for her, with only $40K left on the mortgage. She also inherited the family home, the house I grew up in. She promptly sold that off, keeping every dime of those proceeds. I knew my dad wanted her to receive the income from the apartments and the mobile home park, so no fighting there. But the bitch got greedy, and she ended up pretty much owning everything: basically 50 percent of the 350+ acre ranch, and she quickly sold off those lots, grossly undervalued. Her extended family bought several of them.

When the funds were dispersed, she received 50 percent of the funds; the four “heirs” each received ¼ of the remaining 50 percent. To do the math, she received $200,000 from selling an asset that was part of my family from before my birth. She had written in the “settlement” that I was never allowed to buy property or live on the development, because she was delusional enough to believe I was going to have her killed! Where she got that idea, I have no idea. I was never anything but nice and respectful toward her while my father was alive, and even afterwards.

The estate attorney’s fees were over $250,000. The estate paid for the widow’s attorney’s fees. My brother and I scraped to pay what little we could afford to an attorney who rolled over and played dead—$8,000 that took us two years to pay off after the estate was “settled.”

Oh, need I remind my readers that during the 1990s, I was unemployed and unemployable because of my on-the-job back injury in 1989. I never asked my father for a dime after I got hurt at work ... nor did I receive a dime, either.

Today the widow receives $10K a month from my father’s assets. (She also has his social security benefits, her teacher’s retirement benefits, and her own social security.) I earn … not a dime. Her daughters all own homes that she’s bankrolled. They want for nothing. She lives in her mansion on the hill like a queen. In the 12 years since he died, I received about $30,000, with 1/3 of that paying “inheritance taxes” and going toward my attorney’s fees. At the time of my dad's death the estate was valued at nearly $2 million, mostly in real estate.

I was supposed to receive my grandmother's sterling silver flatware (I am the oldest grandchild). I don't have it, I have no idea where it is. Shortly after my dad's death his wife said I could come up anytime and get it. Only thing was, she lives behind gates and I don't have the code. Nor would she pick up the phone if I called. Lying bitch.

I worked in the fields, picked up construction trash, and accepted the need to sacrifice while I was growing up because it would “all belong to us kids” someday. My dad lead me to believe my sacrifice was the right thing to do, that someday I would own something (even as partners with my cousins which was fine, we used to get along) and giving up things to ensure that future was the right thing to do.

I lie awake nights trying to remember one truthful thing my father said to me, one promise that he made that he kept. I can’t think of one. (Which explains the time of this posting; I am on such shaky ground financially, no matter how hard I try to get into a better situation, to work harder, to find more work. I want to get my daughter through college, at least through paralegal school, and perhaps be in a position to help her if she decides to do law school in a few years.) Did my father consciously choose to lie to us? I want to think not, but it’s entirely possible he did. Heaven knows he wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone except his biological children.

And people wonder why I hate my dad, why I’ve not gone to his grave, and why I moved away from that community. To see his golddigging widow and his precious second family live like wealthy people (‘cause they are!) while I have memories of working so my dad—our family—could have those things they all have now, is just too painful. And I was sick of explaining to people why, upon my dad’s death, I wasn’t all of a sudden “wealthy.”

And for the rest of my life, I am tied to his second family, those three girls who got the vacations we didn’t do because of “the future,” the girls who got the designer clothes while my mom shopped at Spiegel mail order because of “the future,” the girls who each have homes bankrolled on my father’s estate because he was able to lie to his kids and assure that the sacrifice was good for them.

I guess at least I have nothing to promise my kid, so nothing for her to sacrifice for. My father even promised college money to my daughter. That never materialized either. (He promised college money for all of his grandchildren. Only my deceased sister's kid got any money from the widow, because her father kissed the bitch's ass. I have no relationship to my sister's kid, and that kid has made it clear that she considers my father's widow "her grandmother" and the widow's daughters "her aunts." Hope she never needs any bone marrow ...)

My father was cold and selfish enough that he never once attended a single swimming competition that my daughter participated in—she was his only grandchild who took after him in the swimming ability department. He was chock full of excuses why he never could make it. But if one of the stepdaughters did something, you bet he was right there, beaming!

I wish I could retrieve one positive memory about my dad that didn’t end up having strings attached. And I know it’s not cool waiting for karma, but I pray that I live long enough to see my father’ widow pay for her greed and cruelty.

Sins of the Parents

photo from SF Chronicle

There was an article in today’s San Francisco Chronicle about a little boy named Gavin. Gavin is thought to be four years of age, and he’s homeless. He spent much of his time panhandling with his mother on the mean streets of SF and at the Embarcadero BART Station.

After months of watching this child live this life, SF’s Child Protective Services finally got on board and took Gavin into protective custody. The article is here if you want to read it. http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/07/17/MNJ518R40V.DTL

Gavin is the child in the picture. Yes, he’s clean and clothed and looks fed. Apparently his parents are together, but he’s seen with his mom nearly every day, asking passersby for money.

But does he deserve to be on the streets begging for money?

From prior articles in the Chron, plenty of assistance has been offered to Gavin’s mother. Temporary housing, beds, child care so Gavin doesn’t have to hang out on the streets. She refuses. No doubt there is a mental illness component, probably even drug abuse, and for now in the United States, you can’t drag people off because of poor decisions like she’s made.

Obviously handing a monthly check over to these parents isn’t going to get the job done. Taking care of Gavin is probably way down on their list of priorities.

I’m not saying that Gavin’s parents don’t love him. He’s just perhaps not their #1 priority in life.

The foster care system in this country leaves a bit to be desired, but it’s certainly better than having no system at all. One can’t help but wonder if group homes/”orphanages” could be better places if they were given more public funds. Where do those funds come from? They are the funds currently handed over to adults in the form of Calworks, SSI, and any other “entitlement”* program out there that sends a check to a family so the child can be taken care of. No doubt there are people out there looking to work with children, people with degrees in early childhood education who would relish helping children get on their feet, help them grow into responsible adults and not end up like their parents.

Weed out the foster parents who like getting the check from the county and who don’t necessarily have the children’s best interests at heart.

Kids don’t ask to be born, but some adult humans have the thought processes of a cat or dog in heat. No idea of the long-term consequences of having sex and the implications. In the case of a dog or cat, those babies learn to fend for themselves quickly. Human babies of course cannot. A four-year old should be playing, carefree, secure in a home with at least one parent who puts the kid’s care as the #1 priority, not worrying about his next meal or where he is going to sleep that night. The kid gets fed before the grown-up. The kid gets clothing before the grown-up. The kid goes to the doctor before the grown-up. The kid gets shelter before the grown-up. the kid goes to school and is given every opportunity for an education.

So why is it that irresponsible behavior gets you a check from the government (in various forms) for 18 years?

The kid deserves to be cared for, and if that’s in a group home (or loving foster care) where he or she will enjoy a stable life, so be it. Perhaps streamlining the adoption process would encourage more people to open their hearts and homes to children in need. Sometimes severing parental rights are the best thing for a child.

As a society we seem to forget who the victim is in Gavin’s scenario. By forgetting who the victim is, we set up a child for a life of failure—no education, no sense of personal responsibility. Gavin's parents' choices are what keeps them on the merry-go-round cycle of homelessness, joblessness, perhaps substance abuse. Gavin has no choice but to follow his mother to her day job of panhandling, and face it, he's an adorable prop. I'd give my last dollar to that kid, knowing he will be giving it to his mother for whatever it is she wants first. Maybe Gavin gets a Happy Meal out of it ...

One child at a time … someday Gavin may understand and thank CPS. For now, I hope he is surrounded by people who aren’t afraid to hug him and tell him that things will be better.

* I really really dislike the use of the term entitlement. No one is entitled to anything—government is not the teat that nourishes us all. It kills the productive members of society and keeps the dead weight fed, clothed and in some situations, housed. I’m not talking about someone down on their luck, someone who has lost his or her job due to the current economic situation our wonderful government has gotten us into—I’m talking about the generations of families who believe entitlement programs are a way of life.

Racism crap: Oh My God, You are Racist!!!!

I love it when I have the intestinal fortitute to face the 900-pound gorilla in the room.

I made a comment on a blog regarding racial differences in the jury and perhaps that might be why that jury is having a hard time coming up with a verdict.

Okay, I should have used the word “cultural” because the term “racial differences” is a crock of crap. There is only one “race”: Homo sapiens, human beings. We are all the same regardless of skin color; our genes are the same though different groups manifest different appearances, different health problems.

Cultural differences are a very real thing though. If they weren’t, why is it that so much time is devoted in a liberal arts-based education on looking at cultural differences, and why it is so important to be understanding (but not necessarily accepting) of different cultural norms.

People, we live in the United States, and unless you are a 100 percent Native American (I guess the proper term is “Indian,” but I get confused between “Indian” from North America, and “Indian” from India), you came from somewhere. As your family assimilated into the U.S., you kept hold of some of your cultural things (usually associated with food or cultural celebrations), and others went by the wayside. There are cultural norms in the United States that are just “how things are done” and frequently there are laws that back up what those norms are.

Those laws were written by people WE put into office.

Just because something is a cultural norm back where you came from does not make it acceptable here in the U.S.! Tripping horses as a Mexican rodeo event is not acceptable in the U.S. Nor is dog or cock fighting. But we tend to shrug and say “Oh it’s cultural” and that makes it sort of okay.

Here’s a good example that I wrote about earlier this year:

http://scaredmoderatefemale.blogspot.com/2009/01/embracing-cultural-differences.html

Just because it's normal to marry a 14-year old girl back "home" doesn't make it right. "Not knowing" about the law because you are living on the fringe of society because you are here illegally doesn't make it right. I'd be expected to adhere to laws in Mexico, and for me to scream "but I wasn't culturally aware what I was doing was wrong" simply doesn't cut it.

Now here’s my concern with this case I made the blog comment about: It’s a child molestation case where the victims (that were presented) are all WHITE males. The accused exclusively abused males aged 9 to 14 or 15. The jury is a nice representation of the Bay Area; however, there is only one African American juror who is actually an alternate. But I digress.

Right now white males are the lowest of the low. They have been for some time. Basically they are the scapegoats for everything and everyone because they have “worked” to keep everyone else oppressed. (You need to appreciate my sarcasm here—white female is just one rung above white male. I’ve experneiced plenty of “sorry, but the position is filled” only to learn the person hired was not white and not really able to do the job, but because of racial posturing, that person was hired. So much for color blindness.)

So could there be people on that jury trying to send a "message" to middle and upper-middle class males that what they experienced was nothing compared to being a "person of color" every damn day? I don't know. But I'm thinking like an anthropologist here, and why not? It's a valid thesis question that might need answering.

I argue that we need to become more color-blind. Seriously. I do not identify friends and co-workers by a description of their skin color or family’s place of origin. But I understand (from non-white people) that is the wrong thing to do. So what am I supposed to do? I don’t make a decision to be someone’s friend (or not) by a cursory glance at their skin or eye color, or their accent. I don’t walk down the street and when I see a group of young Hispanic men, quickly go to the other side of the street, though I guess I need to rethink my way of doing things. I do NOT look away from an African American person walking down the street toward me. I usually smile at everyone, even if they are not making eye contact.

So I’m the idiot. Guess I will be if and when one of those groups of people thump on me because I'm white and I was there.

When does a person become aware of “cultural differences?” I’ve written about the hurt I experienced in 5^th grade when some of my friends came back from Christmas break and decided since I was a gringa, I was bad. To this day I wish I knew what happened those two weeks we were away from school. I tried to stay friends; I tried eating lunch with them, inviting them to my house for overnights, anything to keep them my friends. But I was bad now, not their friends.

So that’s okay because I’m white?

Why is it that so many classes in a liberal arts education are all about “race” and culture? I had to take cultural anthropology to get into a nursing program (of course those peoples studied were not anywhere near North America; I got so sick of hearing about Trobriand Islanders I could puke! I wasn’t going to trip over a Trobriand Islander in my nursing practice?), and then within the program, cultural awareness coursework within each specialty. Back when I was in nursing school, there was much education given to us about the Hmong, a group that had immigrated in large numbers to our area. It is vital to give people space in the health care setting; their cultural norms help keep balance and are a source of comfort.

I then moved on to a “media and race” class earning my undergrad degree, and that class was the biggest waste of time. Anytime I tried to say I do not pick the people I know based on race, the teacher, an African American man, said that was bullshit.

Was it my fault I didn’t grow up around Asian people or African Americans? I grew up in a white and Latino community.

During my master’s program, I took two semesters of “sport and culture,” and my classmates were black, Latino, and white. I got more insight in that class than any other, because I was able to ask those black and Latino people “what do you want from me? What can I do?”

Eventually once you pour through the shit you get “Treat me like anyone else, and accept me for what I am.”

I know everyone’s perceptions are different. We are products of our generations, our parents (though I am not like my father, who was notoriously racist against black people, and I could not get why.), our educational upbringings, and our life experiences. I don’t want to be less tolerant, I really don’t.

But when I am damned for my skin color and my sex and my disability status, I can’t help being a bit bitter and suspicious, now can I?

Not a place to make cuts…

I have been pretty tied up attending the child molestation trial of San Mateo County psychiatrist Dr. William Ayres, and I had every intention of writing about that here today. Check out the Trials and Tribulations blog to see what I’ve been up to most of the week.

I observed something at the courthouse yesterday and it’s been troubling me.

During the lunch break, I went to the opposite side of the second floor to wolf down my lunch. There was a young woman with her young son in a stroller, waiting for an office to open. Her little boy was adorable—sandy blonde hair, green eyes, laughing. Every so often she would take a cell phone call and while I couldn’t hear her words I could hear her frustration.

The little boy was an absolute flirt, smiling and giggling at women when they walked by. Quite the little lady killer! So as I prepared to schlep over to the other side of the second floor, I stopped and asked the young mom about her boy, whose name is Andrew, and his age is 16 months, though he looks much closer to two.

I mentioned how cute Andrew was and how happy a baby he seemed to be. She said, “He misses his daddy.” I then asked “Where is his dad?” and she said “He’s in jail—the police arrested him for domestic violence and I didn’t want them to.”

I then asked “Did he do it?” and she replied, “Well, yes, he pushed me but he didn’t mean it.” She then said “I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing—my emergency custody papers expire at 5 o’ clock today and I don’t know what will happen if they expire.”

Our conversation went on. She proceeded to explain that her husband hadn’t hurt her, though she was a bit sore from being pushed in the chest. But she did say that he is mean to her, calls her fat and stupid and lazy, and aligns himself against her with his 8-year old daughter, who is also abusive and cruel. The 8-year old regularly calls her stepmother ugly and fat, and then makes cutting motions at her own neck, saying “Someday soon it’s just going to be me, and daddy, and Andrew. You will be gone.” The husband pulls a knife out of his pocket and points it at her and says "Bye bye."

(This woman looks like a young Elizabeth Taylor, and she doesn’t need anyone telling her she’s not a size 2, okay?)

So I asked, “What do the authorities tell you to do?” She said, “When the cops took my husband, they gave me this,” and produced a piece of paper with a list of domestic violence resources. She claims to have gone to one of the places listed on the paper, but it sounds like it’s a support group and not anyplace to get legal aid.

She then burst into tears and said “I am all alone and no one will help me and I don’t know what I am supposed to do.” Her family is in SoCal and she planned to drive down there once she had her paperwork in order—she doesn’t want her husband to snatch the boy up and disappear with him.

Her overbearing mother-in-law called her early yesterday morning to get her son’s “nice clothes” so he could meet with his attorney, and she was encouraged to drop the charges. (There is a restraining order against him, something she didn’t ask for, but an automatic thing in her county when domestic violence has happened. The husband has to pay rent and maintain the household but he can’t have any contact with her, even by phone.)

Only thing is she can’t drop the charges: she didn’t bring the charges! As I understood, the police had been summoned by a neighbor because of the yelling. As the woman gave her history, the police made the decision to arrest the husband.

Andrew is her only child; she lost a sibling to Andrew from gynecological complications, and the pregnancy with Andrew was a difficult one.

So there’s this poor woman, has no idea what to do or how to do it, with a husband who already has the advice of an attorney, trying to keep her baby under her care.

And I had no way of knowing what she needed to do. Her name was on a “list” of walk-up appointments to presumably have the custody order extended. But she was afraid they’d take Andrew because she made him wait in the stroller, because she’d forgotten to grab socks for him (it was very warm outside), that his face might be dirty because she fed him. “I don’t want them to think I am a bad mom.”

She told me her husband controls the family’s money, and when she asked him for money for baby wipes and milk for Andrew, he gave her $6. The stepdaughter said, “Oink, oink, you gonna go get yourself a Big Mac?” at the prompting of her father.

While pregnant with Andrew, her Latino husband told her he wanted her to be a stay-at-home mom. But now he wants her to get a job, but only certain hours. Why? He doesn’t want to pay for child care, so he and his 8-year old daughter (Andrew’s half-sister) will watch Andrew, but only during the hours between 4 and 10 p.m., or overnight, because the father claims that the stepdaughter doesn’t want to be around her stepmother.

The ultimate clusterfuck family. A 33-year old woman whose self-esteem is in the toilet, and when she goes back into that situation (which she no doubt will), she’s allowing the adorable Andrew to become just like his dad, to hear his mother be berated, to learn how to be cruel to women.

All I could do was listen, and then tell her I suspected she did not deserve to be verbally abused or pushed ever.

I fully agree with the police arresting her husband. What I wish would have happened is a social worker or even just a social worker’s administrative assistance be available to guide this woman through the system. What are her rights? Does she need to file official child custody papers?

I know this costs money but I’d sure prefer my tax dollars to help U.S.-born women and children out of their quagmire instead of giving that money to programs like Calworks—as long as Calworks continues to give support funds for anchor babies (who are the citizens) so their parents can learn a trade (which they can’t legally do anyway because they don’t have authorization to work in the U.S.!). Calworks was intended to be a program for people like this woman, so she cold become self-sufficient and get away from what is no doubt an abusive situation.

This is another case where the perpetrator/criminal has more rights than the victim. Makes me sick.

I hope the woman got what she needed and was able to get to SoCal to the arms of her family.

Sears Point NASCAR weekend—why I miss it and why I don’t

As I mentioned in my post from a couple of days ago, I used to be one of the nurses in the “infield care center” at Sears Point (now Infineon Raceway—I hate those naming rights things!) from 1992 to 2000. I earned the right to work at the “clinic” for those four days by becoming a member of the San Francisco Region Sports Car Club of America (SSCA) and volunteering to provide emergency medical care at club races at Laguna Seca (close to where I live), along with some professional events. Once a year I’d venture up to Sonoma to work the Sears Point NASCAR race. It was my vacation, the one thing I looked forward to each year, my Christmas and New Year’s all rolled into one.

When I first started to work the race, the NASCAR guys actually took to the track on Thursday for practice, then qualifying on Friday afternoon after several more practices, a couple of Saturday practice sessions and then Sunday’s race. But in the mid-1990s NASCAR decided to “cut costs” and let the big boys play on the track starting on Friday. So on Thursday, only club racers and the lesser NASCAR series, called the Southwest Tour, were on the track. There was a skeleton crew but I was there—even if few other on-track workers were. I put in 10–12 hour days, made sure that the proper paperwork and medical charts were filled out when a driver or crew person came in (I didn’t see civilians—only NASCAR or SCCA people). The doctors were also volunteers and were usually very devoted to providing the very best medical care possible, even with limited supplies or medications on hand. On race mornings, I was there at 6 or 7 a.m., as soon as the garage area opened, in case something happened before the doctors got there at 9.

The first race I worked was at Laguna Seca, an IMSA event, in 1991. I’d attended the Sears Point race and went looking for information on how to be one of those people on the track. I hit the jackpot—being an RN, even one with a bad back, my skills were needed. And I would be given unique access to both tracks, able to go places that spectators could not go. The people in the club itself were fun, and the medical people, all much older than me, were people I could learn much from.

My first NASCAR event worked was 1992’s race. We didn’t yet have the nice building that is there today—we were in a dusty trailer truly in the infield, at the start line at the drag strip. The garage area (there was no garage, only the team haulers enclosed within a temporary cyclone fence) was across the track—very inconvenient! But we did out level best, and did treat people. Most of the problems were due to oversampling of Napa Valley wines. I spent my time sitting in an ambulance, or on a rescue truck, as the clinic had a couple of nurses older than I with much more “seniority” if you will.

That year was also the first time I was plopped in front of Bill Elliott. The EMT I’d been working with that weekend and I were dispatched to one of the rigs to check up on a crew person that one of the docs had treated, and the doctor wanted me to be able to make a final note and close the chart. The EMT I was with, a gal named Annie, had suffered a career-ending ankle injury. So there we were, two gimps, getting to walk into the garage area, past civilians standing by the gate waiting for their favorite driver. On race morning, when all of the mechanics were frantically doing last-minute tweaks to their cars.

Annie took me to Bill Elliott’s hauler, and spoke to one of the guys. I stood back, nervous as all get-out. I am not shy, but this was Bill Elliott! The guy motioned for me to come toward him, and he said “Go stand by that door [at the side of the hauler] and wait there.”

It happened too fast—out came Bill, I was speechless. I babbled something about he was the reason I was there, the reason I watched NASCAR, and that when he quit, I quit. He laughed and said, “You should be more grateful I have a guy like Henry (the truck driver) who drives the rig here. He’s the hero.” [It had been Henry who plopped me in front of the hauler door.]

Anyway, Bill signed my brand-new #11 Budweiser jacket across the shoulders, I posed for a photo that Annie took, and off I went.

For that race, I worked on the rescue ambulance at the hairpin turn. (I think it was called turn 7, it’s no longer used by NASCAR, replaced by something very boring called “the chute.”) That day, Bill lead the most laps, but because of a set of slightly off tires at the last pit stop, he was unable to hold on to the lead and ended up fifth. That year, Bill was in the hunt for the championship, too.

I walked off the track headed into the garage area to use the bathroom. Lo and behold, who was walking off the track at the same time as me? Yeppers, Bill. I asked him where that finish put him in the points and he held up two fingers. I said “good luck the rest of the season and see you next year,” and he said goodbye and thanks for being there. I could hear spectators ask the gate guard, "Why does she get to go in there and who is she anyway?" It was awesome. People were jealous of me.

My worst nightmare would have been having to work on Bill after an accident, but that never happened. Yes, I did work on some drivers. One year, when Bill did not make the trip to California because of a bad wreck at Talladega (he fractured his femur), I chewed out the driver who was taking Bill’s place (Tommy Kendall) when he wrecked what was a very good car during a Friday practice session. He had to come in and be checked over after taking a pretty hard lick. This was the #94 car, Bill’s team, a car that did not win a single race, an exercise in futility for Bill and frustration for his fans who knew he was a better driver than his finishes showed.

Eventually we got a proper building to use for our clinic. The track of course had no money for decent equipment so most of the stuff we had was Navy surplus, as the doctor in charge was retired Navy. We had beds, and privacy partitions, and IVs and a simple pharmacy stocked with sample medications.

The volunteer doctors eventually shared duties with proper emergency room doctors who were paid to show up. A couple were excellent clinicians, though one irritated the heck out of me when he asked for freebies after he’d treat a crew person, owner or driver. He did this for two years, until the third year, we asked him not to do that anymore and he refused to take the gig again.

Toward the end an LVN joined the club, and time and time again I watched her do things that were outside the practice of an LVN’s license (even stuff beyond the scope of my license!) and I began to fear that she’d do something and I’ be held liable. I actually watched her “try” to treat an insulin-dependent diabetic who’d left his insulin at home by giving him oral hypoglycemics she’d taken from the doctor’s office where she worked. I told her to send the guy to the hospital, period. Only by the grace of God was that man not harmed by her actions.

So the writing was on the wall that the SCCA’s medical team would no longer be needed. Every year was supposed to be our last from about 1997. The last year ended up being 2000, though we had no way of knowing for sure.

That year, I watched the Saturday support race from the garage area, standing on a slightly raised area, right next to Dale Earnhardt. There was no question that I would bug him for anything—by that point I was beyond asking the drivers for autographs or freebies. It just wasn’t right.

That year was Dale Earnhardt’s last Sears Point race. He died at Daytona the following February.

After Dale died, the powers-that-be of NASCAR (Bill France and his son Brian) started making changes to the sport that I just didn’t like. Supposedly sponsors wanted young talent, up and coming kids, pretty guys, marketable guys. There were drivers who had little talent but who could string together a sentence and not have a heavy southern accent.

Bill's last full season of driving in a competitive car was 2003.

My heart was not into the idea of attending that race as a spectator, so I quit the club, quit volunteering for even Laguna Seca races, and let that part of my life go, something that had made me feel of value while I struggled through my back surgeries.

I wonder if I’d still be working that race though. Bill has mostly retired from the sport, and I seldom watch a race unless he’s in it, and even then it’s frustrating because he doesn’t do well—subpar equipment, subpar part-time crew, underfunded presumably because Bill’s not a 20 or 30-something guy without a southern accent. Bill will be 54 years of age in October, and can still drive the wheels off a car.

I tried to watch today’s race, the tenth one that’s gone on without me (I missed the inaugural event in 1989, having suffered my career-ending back injury mere weeks before the race). There is no way I could traipse up those hills to the seats that have been installed at the top of the hill. There is no way I could deal with the grandstand that replaced the Southwest Tour’s garage area and parking lot. I don’t have a favorite driver and I’m sick of Kasey Kahne, Jeff Gordon and Jimmie Johnson being shoved down my throat. I was used to watching from the clinic, with a television monitor, waiting for something to happen.

Seems that event, like so many others I’ve had to let go because of my back, might not be worth my time anymore. But I miss the people and I miss the simple heartfelt thank yous I used to get when I gave my best effort in getting the crews, drivers and their families the best medical care possible in a MASH setting.

I don’t have anything in my life right now that made me feel as whole and valued though …

Well that was easy ...

I have been seriously thinking about which Republican candidate for California governor I'd like to throw my hat behind. I've decided who gets my vote—the candidate who speaks most for me.

Tom Campbell.

He's pro-choice, pro-gay rights (listen people, we have bigger problem right now then to put great effort to opposing these things. God will sort it all out in the end...), and most importantly a fiscal conservative who understands economics. No throwing a bunch of paper in front of him and dazzling him with political bullshit. He's well-educated but he's also done plenty of time in the trenches (unlike a certain "community organizer" who is currently running the United States into the ground!). He's an attorney and earned a Ph.D. in economics.

Perhaps most importantly, while serving as a member of the 102nd Congress, Campbell was named the most frugal member of Congress by the National Taxpayers Union Foundation.

Easy choice for me! Now I need to find a nice candidate to become a Senator and hopefully be rid of the two tax-and-spend liberal wackjobs we are currently stuck with!