In the heat of the Northern Hemisphere summer, and particularly the Midwest humidity, I want to call attention to this situation from last week. In the 108 degree record-breaking heat, the men and women in this un-air conditioned Medium Security jail, or Workhouse (as it’s commonly called) were caught on camera calling for help.
I’ve been thinking lately about if and when I want to go back to work, and what I would even want to do, and I’m struggling. I don’t know if I want to be in direct practice anymore, and I don’t think I have the patience to work with addicts or mentally ill people anymore.
Most of the time in my old role, I felt like an imposter.
I meant to post this in February, but, you know. Life.
There was a video released on the White House Facebook page of a 106 year old woman meeting the president. She was so happy, and to think of all she had seen and lived through – from 1910 until now – its moving.
As Super Tuesday has just passed us in the United States and we are gearing up to inaugurate a new president, I wanted to share memories of Obama’s first inauguration in ’08. The first time a black president was inaugurated. A day that will live in history will live well in my memory.
If we were having coffee, we would both arrive at the same time, a different shop than we normally go to, this one out in the woods. There’s a large truck idling outside, and the noise and gas its belching clashes with the serenity of the trees around us. We’re not happy about that, but the gentleman barista brings us our cappuccino. I like this part, I say to you.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“What are you going to study in college?”
“Oh, you want a career in XYZ?”
“Why do you want to work for this company?”
Last May, I wrote a post about a fellow blogger, Rarasaur. She was about to be put into prison for a crime she didn’t commit, (here’s her story here) and I was moved by the wickedness of a criminal “justice” system that essentially bullied an innocent person.
I saw an update on her today – she’s getting out of prison after 15 months. 15 months. The Wee One wasn’t even a twinkle in my eye, I was still living in St. Louis, I was still working, but I wasn’t a rennie yet.
I’d thought about her several times over the past few months, and I was glad to learn that she’s getting out (hence this post passing the good news on.)
I have talked a little bit about Ferguson about this blog, and I’ve talked about social justice and privilege as well. I want to be an ally in the effort to change the system that eradicates these privileges, but I’m not too sure how to do that, or how to do it effectively. Really be an ally and not “a great white savior,” ’cause I’m not.