Real Cie Reviews: An Equally Worthy Child

Disclosure: 
I received a free copy of this book for review purposes.
This is a duplicate of my review of this product on Amazon.

This brief book gets right to the point in addressing a problem which is extremely prevalent in a society demanding a certain very specific variety of excellence and perfection from all its citizens. The author initially discusses her own feelings of being "less worthy" despite being a good student who was accepted by her peers and growing up in a stable household where she was treated well by her parents and her needs were provided for.

The age-old nature vs. nurture debate is addressed in the book. The author provides evidence that the nurture component is the one which plays a key role in whether or not a person feels worthy. Even individuals who grow up in impoverished circumstances may feel equally worthy if feelings of worth were modeled by their parents and passed on to them.

As someone who grew up in a household where accomplishments, a certain type of very narrowly defined physical attractiveness, and wealth were measures of success, I failed in every way. I learned at a very young age that I was a "bad" child and not worthy. My parents saw themselves as failures. As often happens in such a situation, there is one child who excels and one who constantly fails. My brother was an overachiever who pushed himself well beyond his limits constantly. Although he was not a stellar student, he excelled in other areas such as sports, and he was very popular. I was a B student who was physically uncoordinated, I was physically unattractive, and I was the target of bullying. I used drugs and alcohol to cope with the cruel way I was treated by my peers, with my parents' evident disappointment in me, and with my then-undiagnosed mental illness.

The author's revelations of her own struggles spoke to me, although her experiences were not the same as mine. This book is written in an easy-to-read fashion without talking down to its audience. It addresses a serious societal problem: the push to create a society populated by only the sorts of people who reach a very high bar in areas of perceived physical attractiveness and personal accomplishment. Anyone who falls below these ludicrously elevated standards is not only "less worthy," they "deserve" to be treated as less than human, not even afforded the common decency of being allowed to live their lives in peace and basic comfort. Those who do not measure up "deserve" to be dehumanized, ridiculed, and forced to live in poverty according to these twisted standards.

The author postulates that everyone has a place and that everyone deserves to be treated as having an equal measure of worth. It is fine to praise people for high accomplishments, but those who cannot or do not wish to strive for such accomplishments are no less worthy than those who are society's "high achievers." I quite agree with the author on this point. Our world would be a much better place if we treated all people as equally worthy, regardless of their perceived ambition, attractiveness, intellect, innovation, or ability to perform for an audience. I believe that people as a whole would be much happier and there would be far fewer deaths caused by stress-related illnesses, far less anxiety and depression due to perceived personal inadequacy, and, thus, a greatly reduced suicide rate.

My criticism regarding the book is minor. I too learned to use "he" as the default in writing about a person whose sex is unspecified. From my point of view, this is archaic and sets men and boys as the default and women and girls as an aberration or second-class person.

I would also like to see the term "overweight" disappear. Over what weight? If the person is large or heavy, refer to them as large or heavy. We have all been taught to "other" larger people, and terms like "overweight" and the even worse "obese" pathologize big folks. It is possible to point out society's prejudiced attitudes towards heavy people without othering those people.

Aside from these issues, I have nothing but praise for this book. It is a brief, thought-provoking read written in simple language. I recommend it to everyone who has ever felt "less worthy" or who has pushed themselves to the breaking point to prove their worth. A job well done by a bright, thoughtful, and fully worthy individual!

~Cie~

Troiku Challenge 2019: Day 2: My Native Town

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

my native town

far, far away--

burgeoning trees.

my native town

i never fit anywhere

and now i must go

far, far away--

i make a new life happen

i will still see you

burgeoning trees

buffeted by prairie wind

my new home is here

Santoka Taneda & Cie

Notes:

The Sleigh portion of the Troiku was created by Santoka Taneda (3 December 1882 - 11 October 1940). The three "horses" were created by me.

I was born in Denver, Colorado on 15 February 1965. My parents were actually living in Laramie, Wyoming at the time. I was born in the middle of a blizzard at 6 A.M. and have caused nothing but trouble ever since.

After my brother was born on 17 March 1969, my parents moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico so my father could finish his doctorate. We lived in a rundown house in a bad part of town. There were fire ants, black widow spiders, and cockroaches the size of school buses. However, we had a half acre of land and were allowed to have chickens. We planted corn and beans. There were horned toads and skinks. The neighbor had pheasants and bees. He was an okay guy who pretty much kept to himself. His wife was a fire-and-brimstone Fundamentalist who called me a filthy slut for taking my shirt off on a hot day. I was four years old at the time.

A New Mexico accent is similar to a Texas accent, and when we moved back to Colorado when I was ten years old, all the other kids ridiculed the way I talked. I was already shy, and this led to me becoming even more withdrawn. I always hated school. I was never well-liked or anything even in the same zip code as popular. To this day, I still hate the sound of my own voice and I hate when people ask the innocent question of "where are you from?" My knee-jerk reaction is to answer "Mars," because I've never felt like I belonged on this planet.

Many, many years later, I live in the suburbs of Denver, but it costs too much to keep living there. Denver is one of those cities whose working classes can't afford to live there. A condo or small townhouse in Denver costs around $250,000, and then the owner still has to pay HOA fees which average $600 per month in the Denver area. The average salary for someone in the working classes in the Denver area is $12 per hour. See how that doesn't add up?

For someone who is disabled, things are even worse. There is a waiting list to even be considered for subsidized housing. The homeless population is growing by leaps and bounds. Even a modest apartment is out of reach for people in the working class.

Thus, people in the working class are moving out of cities like Denver to rural areas. If they continue working in Denver, they have a long commute. If they are unable to continue working, they end up on the dole. 

My son and I are moving to Grover, which is approximately 110 miles northeast of Denver. He has a modest amount of money being given to him by his father following the sale of farmland. This money allows for the purchase of a six-bedroom historic hotel and renovations on said structure. Property taxes in this area are low. The average person living in this area falls below the median income for the state and many fall below the poverty line. My son and I are among the people who fall below the poverty line. We are both disabled and neither of us can work conventional jobs.

Moving to this place is a risk but also an opportunity. 

It is also our last hope.

Here's to Grover, my last stop on the journey, and possibly the first place I'll truly feel I can call home.

Join us for updates and other curiosities at the Good Stuff From Grover site!

Carpe Diem Weekend Meditation #86 + Weekend Mini Challenge: A Portrait of Dystopia

Dystopian Portrait

Photoshop Manipulation by The Real Cie

Utopia was

Only ever a sad lie

Flawless fallacy

Pretty cars, pretty people

Not a place for those like me

~Cie~

Notes:

Today I found a couple of great prompts and flipped them upside down. 

The Carpe Diem Weekend Meditation prompt asks us to examine the concept of utopia in a Haiku or Tanka. Mine is more a Senryu than a Haiku. I do not question the existence of Utopia, but I postulate that it is more like Metropolis. It exists for a very small percentage of people. Most people are on the outside looking in, and some are completely crushed beneath the boots of the beautiful and careless dwellers of Utopia.

So, what portrait did I paint?

That of one of the people crushed beneath unrealistic expectations of beauty and brilliance and casually cast aside, not worthy of any sort of rescue because they do not adhere to society's standards of prettiness.

The person in the portrait is me. I chose it because I was sitting at a rather dismal-looking bus stop on the day of the 2017 Women's March. I would learn that day that not only had my health deteriorated more than I previously realized, but people are utterly self-absorbed, even the ones who claim to be "progressive" in their approach.

I managed to get through the entire march, which is a miracle in itself considering that I almost stopped several times along the way because I was becoming weak, but I had also become confused enough that I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find my way back to the bus stop. 

When the bus stopped, everyone else shoved on board and the bus driver told me he wouldn't be able to take me. I said I understood, and I understood his position, but I kind of thought all those other people were assholes. I started feeling that wouldn't have happened to me if I was young and pretty.

 I was ravenously hungry. I had a Snickers bar, but I was trying to conserve it for "the right moment." With a lifetime living with ED (stands for Eating Disorder), I had learned to deny myself food up until things became critical. They were critical, but not critical enough.

I got on the next bus about a half hour later and had to stand. I was wobbling all over and my eyes were rolling back in my head. Exactly nobody gave any fucks. In fact, one spectacular dudebro about my age chortled and said: "I had to stand all the way there, now it's your turn."

Despite the fact that my eyes were glazed over, I managed a withering glare and said in a steely if somewhat shaky voice: "Buddy, I had to stand the whole way there too. Don't even try to pull that crap on me!"

He turned away and noticed a confused-looking young woman holding a bus schedule. He grinned and invited her to sit down in his seat. She didn't speak much English. He leaned in close to her in order to better "help" her, I suppose, because he was just a helpful kind of guy, at least if the person in need of help was a pretty young woman.

When a seat finally opened up, I scooted my ass into it as quickly as I could and scarfed the Snickers bar as if I hadn't eaten in a year. By the time I got off the bus, my feet were swollen and aching so badly I could hardly walk. This time, however, an angel appeared in the form of a very sweet Latina lady in her late 30's or early 40's who offered me a ride. I thanked her profusely. After the callousness I'd just experienced, her generosity brought tears to my eyes.

I knew at that point that I could no longer take part in events such as marches because I was no longer strong enough to do so physically.

I lost my job a couple months later because I became extremely ill and was pushed to keep working by my supervisor in spite of having a serious respiratory infection. I had a small stroke while working one night and ended up getting fired. Once my savings were gone, which happened reasonably quickly, I ended up living in poverty and have been there ever since. If it weren't for my son allowing me to couch-surf, I'd be sleeping in my car.

Utopia exists for a very small percentage of people. I used to dream of being something wonderful, of being a star, but over the years I've come to see that often those dreams end as nightmares.

So, you have a portrait of the kind of person that society doesn't want to acknowledge even though there are a lot more of us than most people care to think, and my skepticism that Utopia exists for anyone but the well-heeled in anyplace but dreams.

Caregiving Techniques: Slide Sheet + Sly Speaks: Devalued Professions

SMART Slide Sheets, Patient Not Able to Assist

This series of videos from MedCo Technology is helpful for both professional and home caregivers. They offer techniques to minimize the likelihood of injury to the caregiver.

Most injuries in both institutional and home settings happen because the caregiver is rushed. Institutional settings, particularly long-term care facilities, are often understaffed. Many times at-home caregivers are without help and may be caring for other children if the handicapped loved one is a child, or for children as well as an aging parent.

Caregiving tends to be a profession/skill which is devalued. It is seen as something which uneducated people do, and tends to be seen as a “woman’s profession.” “Women’s professions” tend to be paid less well than so-called “men’s professions.”

Modern society will remain mired in misery until people in all walks of life and in the devalued helping professions and situations are seen as worthwhile, contributing members of society, which they, in fact, are.

~Sly Has Spoken~

 Image copyright juliahenze

Purchased from 123rf.com

The Cheese Grates It + OctPoWriMo 2017: Day 15: Filthy Rich

A collage of images from the video "20 most annoying spoiled rich kids on Snapchat." https://youtu.be/-IqNMU6VOPg

Filthy Rich

Sometimes when I make a delivery

To someone who lives in the kind of home

That I can't even afford to look at

And will surely never live in

I feel a little sick

Some say it's the fault of the working class

That we aren't able to live in homes like that

They believe they are actually superior

They say things like

You don't expect me to live like people

Who make $25,000 a year

Do you?

As I bring their snacks to the door

Sometimes up a long flight of steps

My knees and ankles ache

The party music pounding

I wait for the rich little shit

Who inevitably ordered the grub

He smiles smugly as he looks down his nose

Says "How ARE you" with a smirk

Either knowing full well that I know he doesn't give a fuck

Or thinking I'm too stupid to realize

He thinks of me as dog shit on his shoe

I smile as if I didn't hate his kind

With the virulent passion of explosive diarrhea

The best that I can hope

Is that he's not a total waste of oxygen

That there's a soul somewhere behind the veneer

He takes his snacks inside and slams the door

No tip forthcoming for the contract worker

Who can't afford health insurance

Whose Medicaid got pulled when she found this job

Because she now makes the queenly sum

Of $2000 a month

I limp back to the car on legs well abused

By working many years of physical jobs

Legs which don't work quite right because of repeated back injuries

And arthritis forming in the joints

The snob thinks that those like me deserve our fate

After all, we've chosen to be down and out

I feel sick to my stomach

Not just because I'll never be able

To afford a place like his

But also because, even with as much as I'm struggling

There are those worse off than me

Still, I'd like to vomit on his lawn

As much as I may envy

The things that those like him are able to have

The thought of not having to worry about money

I don't envy their kind at all

I don't want to be like them

I'd never want to be the sort

Who thinks that I'm so much better

Then the person who's made my life a little easier

By bringing me the things I can afford to buy

And have delivered on a whim

Yet having so little class

That I couldn't even be bothered

To give them a few dollars

To buy a little lunch

I often feel quite nauseous

When forced to be in the presence

Of the classless, filthy rich

~The Cheese Hath Grated It Poetically~

Note:

I deliver groceries for a living, not only to rich neighborhoods. Some of the neighborhoods I deliver to make me hope that I get out of there without being mugged. I don't look down on the people living there. I might have ended up in one of these places easily enough. As it happens, I ended up in a run-down mobile home without a working furnace or shower in a reasonably quiet suburban area with a seedy underbelly. None of my direct neighbors are cooking meth, but several meth labs have been broken up in places close by.

I am a 1099-R contractor. This means that I don't get any benefits from my employer. I also do my own accounting. If you're self-employed and don't already have an accountant or use Quickbooks Self-Employed, you may thank me for the link I'm about to give you which will save you some money when you sign up for Quickbooks Self-Employed. http://fbuy.me/fFN2W 

My first three months cost me $10 each. I now pay $18 per month, and it's well worth it. Life would be an even bigger mess without it.

I honestly did not write this poem as an advertisement for Quickbooks Self-Employed. It is a very real reflection of my life.

My legs hurt all the time. There are days when I get severe calf cramps that literally leave me writhing and screaming. I am not sure how long I'll be able to continue doing this kind of work.

I literally can't afford health insurance.

I am still catching up on back bills from the four months when I was underemployed. I don't know if I'll ever catch up.

I am diabetic, and there are days when I can't afford to eat. Not that anyone should ever have to go a day without eating, but being diabetic makes it extra special. I make "too much money" to qualify for food benefits. A great deal of what I make goes into car maintenance and fuel. Yes, I can "write it off," but that isn't as big of a deal as it sounds like.

My job does have certain advantages which are a big deal. I make my own schedule every week. I don't have to work the typical five days a week nine to five schedule, which is a schedule that causes me to fall into a literal depression. I don't do well with five-day weeks, I don't do well with early shifts, and I don't do well with jobs where there's a boss standing over me for the whole shift.

I can't do health care work anymore because of my diabetes. I got fired from the homecare job I was doing earlier this year because I fell asleep during the shift. I literally thought I'd had a TIA because that was how deep the sleep I'd fallen into was. I still don't remember it happening, I only remember the outcome. It devastated my life, and I still haven't recovered financially or emotionally. I often feel like a failure because of this incident.

I live with not only debilitating physical illness but catastrophic mental illness: type 2 bipolar disorder, plus obsessive-compulsive disorder with hoarding features (believe me, that one's a struggle to fight with. The hoarding involves items, not animals.) and borderline personality disorder. To my credit, I have learned to cope fairly well with this trifecta of shit. There are certain things that my fucked-up circadian rhythms still won't let me do, like working the early shifts that people get pats on the back for. When people find out that I work late shifts preferentially, they always look at me like I'm going to give them some sort of disease if I touch them. Yet our 24-7 society would collapse if no-one were willing to work those Weirdo Shifts.

I'm not expecting a medal for any of my struggles. However, being treated with a modicum of common decency would be nice.

If you're one of those people who thinks that the company your delivery driver is working for pays them such a fine sum that you don't have to give them a tip, think twice. Fedex and UPS pay actual salaries with benefits and their drivers don't take tips. 

The person who delivers items such as food and groceries is making a base wage of around $5 per hour. In the case of my company, I then make $1 for every delivery within a five-mile radius and $3 for every delivery outside the five-mile radius. As I mentioned previously, I make no benefits. The work is physically demanding, and we are often working short of help. 

Even a modest ten percent tip really helps.

I try not to feel bitter when people don't tip, but I can't help it when they could obviously afford to but think they're too good to do so.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~