I'm so excited!!! @intheheightsmovie https://www.instagram.com/p/CP9cptOhnb0/?utm_medium=tumblr
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I'm so excited!!! @intheheightsmovie https://www.instagram.com/p/CP9cptOhnb0/?utm_medium=tumblr
This week I read The Truth Project by Dante Medema I highly reccomend! It's uniquely written and so beautiful. I cried and cried. I listened and finished 3 books and have started a 4th. I don't remember Dear Mr Henshaw being so sad though. Strider is the follow-up and it was new to me. It's always a joy to find Beverly Cleary books I haven't yet read. They are read by Pedro Pascal so it was even better. đ The ADHD book was meh, it was really short though but outdated now. Story is taking a bit but I bought the book used so it's already highlighted for me. What are you reading? https://www.instagram.com/p/CPuIDWaBgCO/?utm_medium=tumblr
I've had a couple good hair days. Bonus photo of me in my washing my face crown. https://www.instagram.com/p/CPhvJiTBF17/?utm_medium=tumblr
I've been reading a lot! I listened to The Last Black Unicorn since @tiffanyhaddish read it. It feels like you're having a conversation when the author reads their autobiography. Really loved the other 3 books as well and I can give a short synopsis if anyone is interested below. https://www.instagram.com/p/CPeZNUUhaky/?utm_medium=tumblr
3 years later...
It's interesting to see how hard things were 3 years ago. Every year on the boys' birthday is tough and seeing all the memories of the updates is emotional. I think it's harder this year than most, maybe because I'm far enough away from it that I can remember it instead of feeling like i'm still in the middle of it. I was thinking back on it and I can't believe all we've gone though. Adding on to that pain, seeing the election go how it did was just terrifying. The memories coming up from that are so angry and raw. I remember feeling so helpless. I was far away from my family and felt guilty for living in Portland and not driving and not owning a car. All those little things that I'm so adamant about started feeling selfish and childish. I thought about moving back to Salem and commuting to Portland so I could be closer. Theodore wasn't up in Portland for another month so I wasn't into my more hands on portion of the journey. I remember thinking of babies in the NICU was sad and kinda depressing and then when it happens to your family and you are there it's different. You become stronger than you realize and it's still sad but it's also real and you look at those nurses that you couldn't imagine why they did what they do and realize they are the most amazing people and you hope that they make all the money and get all the extra points to get into the good place. My perspective was obviously different as they weren't my babies but I have to remind myself that I was there with my sister as much as I could be. I felt guilty every day that I wasn't there. I'm incredibly lucky I work where I do and could be there at a moment's notice if I was needed. I'm amazed at myself though. I look at all that was happening, the fact that I still got up and went to work every day and led a life. The hard part was that things kept getting difficult. My father and I started talking again. He sent me a text for my birthday which is rare. I always wanted to hear from him growing up and sometimes he took the time to call, or send a card, or have someone send one. So this made like 5 or 6 times out of 42. we started texting the end of May and we were like a step away from actually talking again and he died. It was hard. We had inside jokes and he was actually trying. I'm happy I got that though. I got to finish my journey with him on a high note. Â I got to travel to Santa Fe for his funeral. Which was hard but in a different way. It was weird being there without him there to avoid or feel weird about. Seeing family that you know are yours but feel so foreign and like you are on the outside. My grandpa died the following June. Which was a different kind of hard. He was my connection with my name, with my family and I felt like I lost that years before. We hadn't talked in 3 or 4 years before that and the further it got away it was harder to explain why. "you said the N-word with a hard R in a room of white people and us" sounds almost ridiculous. You let your step granddaughter goad you into saying it in front of me. She sat and looked right at me when she was egging him on and when he said it. She knew what was happening, what she was doing. I'd gotten an DNA test the same time and I was almost scared to take it thinking that he'd love me less if I had more African ancestry than he did. I was already feeling pushed out when i was a kid, I wasn't shiny and new and I looked too much like my dad. I wasn't pretty or cute or even interesting and I'd been damaged in their house. I don't know if they knew what happened to me. I don't know how to put it in words to tell them and I'm not sure I can still. I'm afraid that they will blame me, or not believe me, or not care, or already know. The abuse we talk about was worse than what we don't. I was in my 30's before I could say that I didn't think it was funny. That the torture my "uncle" put me though wasn't funny. The more I thought about what I went though as a kid in their care the harder it was to cope and I couldn't pick up the phone. and then no one called me so I stopped worrying about it. But then my dad died and I called him and he ignored me. The only one to ask me why was my father. The last text. He said grandpa missed me. that he didn't kn ow why and that it "wasn't his business" but I told him it was his business. and we were going to talk about it and then we didn't. When my grandpa was in the hospital I was there. I wasn't there as much as I was with Theodore. and I was going to be there more but I hurt myself badly in a fall (I still can't feel anything in the space that I hit a year and a half later) and spent a couple days in bed and then not walking and then he died. I was so numb. I didn't have space to feel guilty, i had no space to feel anything. I went to the funeral and it was weird and hard and I forgot why I didn't talk to them for a minute and then they were there and it got hard again. I felt like a kid again, desperate for these step aunts and uncle to just fucking like me. Just be nice to me. I got dragged into it every time. Maybe this time they won't let him torture me. or laugh when I cry. They are all middle aged now and sad. so so sad so that's my last laugh. But they took things from me. things they don't deserve to have. A week later Theodore died. He died exactly 2 weeks after my grandfather. We knew it was going to happen but that was so hard. harder than anything. In the almost year and a half that's elapsed things got better. It took a while and I felt just dead but not wanting to die but it slowly got better. I got better. I got my IUD taken out and I got even better. I had my tubes removed and it got as good as it is.
my front facing camera takes better selfies if I'm not holding it... (at Portland, Oregon) https://www.instagram.com/p/B3RK6WEBCSO/?igshid=14p73ahxg9juy
a glimpse at my mid 90s https://www.instagram.com/p/B15VM6DBN0m/?igshid=1fawmma6igjym
Summer happy hour with friends is perfect on a rooftop deck. Rum Club rounded out the night. (at Revolution Hall) https://www.instagram.com/p/B0cTlYvBc5X/?igshid=136am3j2ms1y3
Blazer Game vs the 76ers. (at Moda Center at the Rose Quarter) https://www.instagram.com/p/BsCSEQDBrT7/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1qahsvo33h5t4
Quesadilla Wednesday! (at Oregon Health & Science University (OHSU)) https://www.instagram.com/p/Boe2DvMBpwg/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1enr41tarl6y1
S'all right in St. Johns tonight (at Dub's St. Johns) https://www.instagram.com/p/BoTOhMXBQFo/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=18iozovlz8kqs
Bob Fletcher, a former California agriculture inspector who, ignoring the resentment of neighbors, quit his job in the middle of World War II to manage the fruit farms of Japanese families forced to live in internment camps, died on May 23 in Sacramento. He was 101.
His death was confirmed by Doris Taketa, who was 12 when Mr. Fletcher agreed to run her familyâs farm in 1942, the year she and her extended family were relocated to the Jerome War Relocation Center in Arkansas.
âHe saved us,â Ms. Taketa said.
After Japan bombed Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, the United States government forced 120,000 Japanese-Americans on the West Coast out of their homes and into internment camps for the duration of the war.
Near Sacramento, many of the Japanese who were relocated were farmers who had worked land around the town of Florin since at least the 1890s. Mr. Fletcher, who was single and in his early 30s at the time, knew many of them through his work inspecting fruit for the government. The farmers regarded him as honest, and he respected their operations.
After President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed an executive order in February 1942 that made the relocation possible by declaring certain parts of the West to be military zones, Al Tsukamoto, whose parents arrived in the United States in 1905, approached Mr. Fletcher with a business proposal: would he be willing to manage the farms of two family friends of Mr. Tsukamotoâs, one of whom was elderly, and to pay the taxes and mortgages while they were away? In return, he could keep all the profits.
Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Tsukamoto had not been close, and Mr. Fletcher had no experience growing the farmersâ specialty, flame tokay grapes, but he accepted the offer and soon quit his job.
For the next three years he worked a total of 90 acres on three farms â he had also decided to run Mr. Tsukamotoâs farm. He worked 18-hour days and lived in the bunkhouse Mr. Tsukamoto had reserved for migrant workers. He paid the bills of all three families â the Tsukamotos, the Okamotos and the Nittas. He kept only half of the profits.
Many Japanese-American families lost property while they were in the camps because they could not pay their bills. Most in the Florin area moved elsewhere after the war. When the Tsukamotos returned in 1945, they found that Mr. Fletcher had left them money in the bank and that his new wife, Teresa, had cleaned the Tsukamotosâ house in preparation for their return. She had chosen to join her husband in the bunkhouse instead of accepting the Tsukamotosâ offer to live in the familyâs house.
âTeresaâs response was, âItâs the Tsukamotosâ house,â â recalled Marielle Tsukamoto, who was 5 when she and her family were sent to the Jerome center.
Ms. Tsukamoto is now the president of the Florin chapter of the Japanese American Citizens League. Her mother, Mary Tsukamoto, was a teacher, activist and historian who, with Elizabeth Pinkerton, wrote âWe the People: A Story of Internment in America.â
Mr. Fletcherâs willingness to work the farms was not well received in Florin, where before the war some people had resented the Japanese immigrants for their success. Japanese children in the area were required to attend segregated schools. Mr. Fletcher was unruffled by personal attacks; he felt the Japanese farmers were being mistreated.
âI did know a few of them pretty well and never did agree with the evacuation,â he told The Sacramento Bee in 2010. âThey were the same as anybody else. It was obvious they had nothing to do with Pearl Harbor.â
After the war, resentment against the Japanese in Florin continued. If Mr. Tsukamoto tried to buy a part at the hardware store only to be told that the part was not in stock, he would ask Mr. Fletcher to buy it for him.
Robert Emmett Fletcher Jr. was born in San Francisco on July 26, 1911, when the city was still rebuilding after the great earthquake five years earlier. He attended the University of California, Davis, and later managed a peach orchard before taking the job as a state shipping point inspector.
Survivors include his wife, the former Teresa Cassieri, to whom he was married for 67 years; their son, Robert Emmett III; three granddaughters; and five great-grandchildren.
The Fletchers bought their own land in Florin after the war and raised hay and cattle. Mr. Fletcher was a volunteer firefighter in Florin for many decades before becoming the paid fire chief. He was also active in historical groups.
He was never much for celebrating his role in the war, and he noted that other Florin residents had helped their Japanese neighbors.
âI donât know about courage,â he said in 2010 as Florin was preparing to honor him in a ceremony. âIt took a devil of a lot of work.â
Well, I have a new hero
One of the most useful things Iâve learned about recovering from trauma is that my decisions need to be judged according to the incomplete information that was available to me at the time.
So, say Iâm deciding whether to eat chicken at a restaurant. All evidence is that itâs a good idea. Iâm hungry for chicken, and I usually feel good after eating it.
I eat the chicken, and I get food poisoning. The resulting illness causes me to fall short of responsibilities, and creates numerous problems for me and the people who depend on me.
What happened?
Trauma brain says: âThis happened because I am Bad At Making Decisions. If I had made The Right Decision and not eaten chicken, everything would have been fine.â
Recovery brain says, âAccording to the information that was available to me, the chicken was unlikely to make me sick. Eating chicken was a Good Decision with Bad Consequences. This happened to me because I had incomplete information.â
The âtrauma brainâ response makes all decisions really hard, because each decision involves the prospect of being judged by a future self that has more information.
âShould I buy the $2 mouse pad or the $3 mouse pad? If I buy the cheaper one and it doesnât work well, it will be my own fault for not buying a better quality oneâŚâ
(Then I might end up paying myself $1-per-hour to agonize over which mouse pad to buy, which is probably an ACTUAL unwise course of action.)
But if I foster the ârecovery brainâ response, I can start to trust that my future self will judge my decisions kindly.
âIf I buy the cheap mouse pad and it doesnât work, then I only gambled $2 on it. If I buy the $3 one and even it doesnât work, then Iâll have more closely guessed how much I need to pay for a mousepad of sufficient quality.â
And then later when the mousepad doesnât work: âWell, that didnât work. At least I made a decision. The outcome has given me more information about the options available to me going forward.â
(Meta level: Decisions you made prior to reading this post about how to treat yourself were probably good given the information you had access to about trauma and recovery!)
tl;dr: Bad results are not always evidence of bad decisions. Give yourself the benefit of the doubt about why you do what you do.
JUST IN TIME FOR HALLOWEEN, BITCHES!
Iâll be posting these to Facebook soon đ
Boyyyyyyyy
How did you get these photos of my extended family
Happy hour after con! 2nd day in a row. (at Altabira City Tavern) https://www.instagram.com/p/BnhoQn_hyLr/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=lx3ovbnt9gl4
Rose City Comicon was a blast this year! I saw a ton of amazing panels, met some cool people and bought amazing things. (at Oregon Convention Center) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bnhj-u0BtFp/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=4mxnlbxmu2dc