rousing the rabble

Minerva and a Side of Fries

I had and continue to have nothing against fast food employees.  Really.  I don’t.  It’s just that I didn’t want to be one, that’s all.  This didn’t seem to matter much to Miss Minerva Sharpe.  She was the insurance case manager whose job it was to oversee my Worker’s Compensation claim.  I was on worker’s comp more months than I care to count due to a wickedly debilitating repetitive stress injury in both of my hands and arms.  I really want to say I am grateful to this very imperfect system of Worker’s Compensation; I do. Bereft of income, savings depleted, it kept me from having to move in with my brother and his family and live in their crawl space.  But, it was the most infantilizing, anxiety-provoking, dehumanizing systems I’ve ever been in, so my feelings are mixed.  (And now, here in California, on top of that, “reforms” have rendered it all but unnavigable and nearly unhelpful.)

Move over, David Sedaris

[written years ago, before my first publication]

“It’s just as good as half the crap out there,” my friend said after reading the story I’d just finished writing.  “You should really do something with your stuff."  What did he mean, I should do something with my stuff?  I just gave it to him to read.  And what about the clever little stories written about my friends that I give to them every year as Christmas gifts, carefully selecting just the right font to go with his or her personality?   

“You know what, you sound a little like David Sedaris,” another friend said.  David Sedaris?!?!?!?  Pffff…I do not write like David Sedaris. I could understand if my writing is a bit reminiscent of early Woody Allen in, say, Getting Even.  Or, in my more serious moments, my words might suggest Woolf’s influence.  But David Sedaris?  His several published books  - only one of which I’ve partially read - suggest he's got potential and everything, don't get me wrong.   But, please.  "How do you know he doesn't write like me?"  I said back to my friend.  It's just as likely.

An Open Letter to the People of America from Thanksgiving

Dear People of America,

I know it’s lame to write this in a letter, but I’m just too upset to talk in person.  I’ve been meaning to talk with you about this for years, and have never been able to bring myself to do it.  But, my therapist says if I’m ever going to move forward, I have to get this off my chest.  So here goes:

I’m feeling really ignored by you.  I feel that you skip right over me to Christmas, like I’m not even there.  When I see all of the Christmas decorations in your stores and hear you play Christmas music when I haven’t even arrived yet, it hurts.  It hurts badly.  I have needs, too, you know.  And I need you to be fully present with me.