This week's Five Star roundup is brought to you by a powerful teacher, recovered memories and coming clean, the loss of a best friend, rape culture, a wedding anniversary, how addiction sneaks up and overtakes you, the Fear Of Missing Out, poverty, tolerance and acceptance, and Moniza Alvi:
But it's fine where I am.
I'll never make out what's going on
around me, and that's the joy of it.
— excerpt from "I Would Like to Be a Dot in a Painting by Miro", Moniza Alvi
When she took my dying son from my arms, I let her. I held my breath until I felt myself leave my body, only coming back because my baby needed me. I ignored the chemical smell of the hospital and instead focused on how much my son’s hair curled like his father’s. I watched my mother whisper prayers to him and adjust his newborn hospital hat making him look presentable, as if he were getting ready for a special meeting.
I both can and can't tell you with 100% certainty that I was sexually abused by my dad. I can because I was. I can't because it's my dad I'm talking about, and the mind will contort itself however necessary to protect itself from something so foundationally wrong.
If I grow into a wrinkled old woman I'll still be pining the loss of one of my best friends.
Hey Cam I'll try to grow old - wouldn't that be hilarious? I'll grow old and incontinent and have grand babies. My vagina will probably be quite funny when I'm 95. And I'll live this life for the both of us. I'll try feel the joy for the both of us.
Predator Blaming —Every time someone who has been victimized brings up the fact someone else was involved, point out that they are blaming another entity for their survivor status. They are a predator blamer. How. Fucking. Dare. They.
Then we got to my house and quietly snuck the chicken up to my front door, rang the doorbell, and hid around the corner.
I don’t particularly love talking about motherhood and alcoholism. It’s not exactly the high point of my life to announce to a few thousand people that I was that mother, the trash, the hated one, the drunk, drug-addicted one, the one with two gorgeous, innocent children caught in the cross-fire. And her, that dirty bitch, selfishly killing herself.
But I write about it anyway, because after about a year of writing this blog, I realized I was only telling you people half the story, and I realized I might be of help to somebody, some day in some way and something, I tell you, something has to make those years worth living.
This experience taught one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned and, trust me, I learned it well.
When you follow the crowd, you lose yourself.
Being poor is thinking $8 an hour is a really good deal.
Being poor is relying on people who don’t give a damn about you.
Being poor is an overnight shift under florescent lights.
It is easy, instinctive even, to divide the world into smaller and smaller pieces to protect yourself. Cutting away people who smell too strongly, talk too loudly, or twitch too often can evolve into intolerance on a grander scale. Assail ideas, not individuals.
Please come back and share good writing with us over the coming week to be featured on the next Five Star. Submit it by Tuesday at midnight CST to nominate it for inclusion in the next roundup.
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