Fuck Aunt Jemima

I’m troubled reading white people post they are upset they are losing Aunt Jemima.  You’re that attached to a corporate logo?  Have you lost your freakin’ mind?  Get on ebay, they’re selling Aunt Jemima clocks, wall hangings and jackets, buy all you need.  I think by the time you take it out of the box you will realize you were ridiculous

I’m reading if we destroy our history, we’re doomed to repeat it?  When was the last time you saw a statue of George III in the United States?  Anyone want to take bets as to when we become part of England again?  Florida was part of Spain.  New York was part of Holland.  Anyone think we’re going back?

Someone asked about Gone With the Wind, are they taking Gone with the Wind from us?  I remember the first time GWTW was on television.  It was mid-1970s.  We sat around the television as a family and watched it, true story.  I believe it opens with a slaves in the field scene.  Even in the 1970s my parents saw that and said “OMG, this is terrible.  This is going to disturb people.”  Ask your children and grandchildren if they’ve seen GWTW and what it meant to them.

And then you’ve got the whole issue of the Confederacy.  Every year, from the time I was 10, until I was 16, I took a road trip with my grandparents.  We started in Florida and went to Canada, but as we made our way to Canada, we spent a fair amount of time in Kentucky, with my grandfather’s parents and then in Detroit, with other relatives.  Georgia, Tennessee and Kentucky were full of Civil War sites, battlefields, markers.  In Detroit I asked where the Civil War stuff was, one of the relatives said, “We won that war and we don’t talk about it here.”  The Detroit relatives had originally been Kentucky relatives.  They moved, during the Depression, and stayed.  My grandfather’s parent had also moved to Detroit during the Depression, but they retired to Kentucky. 

I like history.  I have visited numerous plantations, which are museums.  They sell books you rarely see, written by emancipated slaves and collections of the stories of emancipated slaves.  I’ve bought and read a lot of those books.  I think there’s a big difference between museums of Southern History as opposed to statues of losing generals in the cities where they were defeated, Aunt Jemima and the Confederate flag on your truck.  If flying the Confederate flag on your truck is not intentionally meant to be racist it, at a minimum, reminds me of high school kids who tell you they are Wiccan or Buddhist.  I remember one saying that in my house and my daughter said, “You’re not Wiccan.  Are your parents Wiccan?”  They were not.  “What do you do as a Wiccan?  What do you believe?  Do you go to Wiccan church?  Or did you just pick that so you wouldn’t be like your parents?”  Or do you fly the Confederate flag to be just like your parents? 

One of my friends posted yesterday the Civil War was not only about slavery.  She read that.  I’ve read and heard that too.  I read and heard it so much I asked my cousin who’s a history professor at a college in Kentucky.  I asked him right on FB, I could probably find that post.  He said there would have been no Civil War had the issue not been slavery. 

I recently responded to a Save Aunt Jemima post where a commentator said racism comes from families.  My Grandpa’s grandfather was in the Confederate Army.  I have never known a finer man than my Grandfather.  Each and every day we were together, he was so good to me. 

We were genealogy hunting in a Kentucky cemetery where we came upon this marker.  I was 13 years old.  Grandpa told me Calab was a slave.  Calab died when he was about 20 years old.  Calab is buried in the same cemetery as my great-grandparents and my great-great grandparents.  Calab's is the only slave grave in that cemetery.  I look for Calab’s marker every time I go to that cemetery.  I asked Grandpa how Calab died.  Grandpa said he probably got sick.  How come they aren't sure how old Calab was? That stone bothered me.  I stared at it for a long time, wondering about Calab, and his relationship with R.C. Robertson.  What was it like at the cemetery when they buried Calab?  Where was Calab's mother?  And then, on that day in June of 1977 my grandfather said the only thing he ever said to me that was terrible and wrong.  Grandpa justified slavery.  He said it wasn’t so bad.  Slaves were expensive.  They cost as much as a car.  You take care of your car; they took care of their slaves.  And I was quiet, for I was a bookish, nerdy, glasses-wearing, high IQ, Grandpa-loving girl.  And I thought about it, and Grandpa’s logic was terrible.  What Grandpa said was wrong.

How can you be such a wonderful person and make such a terrible statement?  Is it because your grandfather was in the Confederate Army?  Would it be okay if you had been the slave, as expensive as a car?  Jimmy Carter says you have to take people, like his father, and relate them to their times.

That’s the only racist remark I ever heard out of my grandfather’s mouth EXCEPT my grandparents called Brazil nuts by an impermissible name.  I can’t tell you that name because if a white person says it, lighting strikes us dead, google it.  We told Grandma and Grandpa they had to say Brazil Nuts.  We corrected them every time they said the wrong words and they got it pretty quickly.

I think there are terribly racist families, but I think, when I was growing up, I was more touched by systemic racism than overt racism.  We were so segregated when I was growing up in Lauderdale-By-the-Sea.  My grandparents owned a motel. They had several employees who were black. Black people were not allowed in Lauderdale By the Sea after dark.  If an employee worked late my grandfather or my father, drove them home. Normally they would have taken the bus. It is striking that looking out for the black employees was a job for the men. If an employee was staying the night, which was not unheard of, my father or grandfather called Town Hall to report a negro was sleeping over and explained why. We were doing this in the 1970s. 

When I was in fourth grade, 1974, my elementary school was desegregated. I was not close friends with any black children. The chance of me marrying a black man was zero. I was a nerdy, bookish, not rebellious young woman.

I was 34 when I had my daughter. My daughter heard not one word of racism in my house. She didn't know racism existed until they told her about Martin Luther King Jr. in Kindergarten.  When I picked her up from school that day my daughter was horrified. We talked about it for a long time. I think we talked about it for days.  She kept saying, "You knew this, and you didn't tell me? How could you know this and not tell me?" "YOU'RE FIVE YEARS OLD AND IT NEVER CAME UP. I wasn't trying to withhold information from you." When my daughter was in preschool, I picked her up one day and she told me she met the boy she was going to marry. I said, "Tomorrow, show him to me." She did. I told her, "I think you picked the best one."

White people, get over yourselves, kick Aunt Jemima to the curb. She can’t possibly mean that much to you.

W. George Allen

W. George Allen’s death made the front page of the Fort Lauderdale paper. I think that’s awesome. He would too.

From 1981 until 1991 I had a temporary legal secretary service that served about 100 Broward County law firms. W. George Allen’s firm was one of them. I worked in Mr. Allen’s office often from 1984 until 1988.

Mr. Allen had a consultant working with him to make the office more productive. I was not impressed. I said something to one my co-workers and was told when Mr. Allen was a young lawyer, he came to Fort Lauderdale. No one would hire him, because he was black. The consultant’s husband gave him a job.

Mr. Allen had a heart attack and his office got really out of whack in his absence. He asked what I thought could be done. I asked him to authorize me to bring in a team over a weekend. We work two days, for however many hours it took. We would determine the status of every file and do what we were able to do. We did. Mr. Allen was impressed.

I was not in Mr. Allen’s office all the time, I was in and out, a lot. One day he told me he was taking everyone to the Tower Club for lunch the next day, to celebrate. He asked me to cover while they were gone. I told him I would cover, but this would be the last thing I would do for him. I recognized I wasn’t his employee, but I was there a lot. I like the Tower Club. It hurts my feelings everyone is going and I am staying. He thanked me for telling him and said we would lock the office while we all went to lunch.

I became a lawyer. I sometimes ran into Mr. Allen at lawyer lunches or the courthouse. One late afternoon I was walking through the oldest part of the old courthouse. There was no one else there. I hear a man call out, “Marian.” I see someone far down the hall. He’s headed my way. He knows my name. I can’t see him. He is at the far end of a dark hall. He knows what I am thinking, “It’s George Allen.” We ride down the elevator together. “How’s your daughter?” He asks.

One morning, when Judge Holmes was on the civil bench, Mr. Allen entered the courtroom fairly late. He spotted me and sat next to me. I felt important. He said he forgot to turn off his phone. He went to turn it off, and turning it off caused it to make a sound. Judge Holmes immediately asked whose phone it was. Mr. Allen stood up and said it was his. He said it went off because he was turning it off, because he forgot. She told him to give her the phone. He would get it back when a $100 check was delivered to her office made payable to a charity.

Mr. Allen was the main speaker for a lunch during Black History Month. He had written a book, "Where the Bus Stops". The room was full of black lawyers. He was so happy. I read his book. George Allen was raised in Sanford, Florida. He picked celery for the Duda family. I’ve eaten a lot of Duda celery because I’m always on a diet. I never thought about the Dudas being a family or how poor Mr. Allen was and what a tough childhood he had.

After Mr. Allen became successful he bought a weekend home in Lake County, Florida. It's a beautiful county. It has lakes and hills, unlike the rest of Florida. It's nearer to where he grew up. His house was purposefully burned to the ground, during the week, when no one was in it.

I think the last time I saw him was during the foreclosure crisis before a foreclosure division was created. We were waiting in the same small hall for our cases to be heard. We waited for about an hour. We were sitting and talking. We had a great time. He asked if I ever heard anything about my first husband. I told him what I knew. I said I read the associate who worked for him back in the ‘80s was disbarred. Mr. Allen said, “He didn’t have the character to be an attorney. The most important thing you have is your character.”

The bailiff came over and asked, “Mr. Allen, what number are you on the docket.” I said, “Five.” The bailiff asked how come he asks Mr. Allen a question and I answer. I said because I used to be his secretary. It was my job to help him be ready. The role has not left me. The bailiff asked, “Mr. Allen, she was your secretary?” He said I was. The bailiff said “Wow.” Wow is right, I was so fortunate to work with W. George Allen.  

Kavanaugh, Ford, and #MeToo

A few years ago, I attended a deposition in a criminal case.  A long-standing client’s teenage son was a crime victim.  The young man was robbed in a high school bathroom. His mother could not attend the deposition, but I could, ‘cause I’m a lawyer. There were several school administrators in the State Attorney’s waiting room, also there to give depositions.  They thanked the young man for coming forward.  They said what he did helped everyone.

Think about getting robbed in a bathroom.  It was traumatic.  Despite my standard advice for depositions: “Tell the truth and tell it short”, and: “Only answer the question you are asked”, that deposition went on for three hours. 

As we walked back to my office the young man said he wished he’d never reported it.  First, he had to tell the story at school (reporting).  Then he had to tell the story to the police (investigation).  Then he had to tell it to the State Attorney (investigation).  Now he had to give a deposition.  He could end up having to testify at a trial.  He wanted it over.

When MeToo started I wrote about a co-worker knocking me to the ground, and kissing me.  I got away.  That incident was in December 1982.  I remember because it was after an office Christmas party.

When I published that story, a young cousin commented her uncle touched her inappropriately.  That was a gut punch to me.  I also had an inappropriate incident with her uncle.  I never told anyone ever, until that FB post.  Her uncle was disabled but he could work.  You could tell he was disabled just by talking to him.  I was close to his father.  We were both family historians.  I was visiting them, staying at their home, in Seattle, which is far from Florida.  I didn’t want to cause a scene.  Plus, I had handled him.  He got inappropriate.  I quashed it immediately.  It did not happen again, but I stayed away from him.

Years later he inappropriately touched his prepubescent niece.  This made me angry with myself.  If I had it to do over I would do it differently.  I would have reported it to his father, after I was home in Florida.  I don’t know it would have made a difference.  I did not know, at that time, this can be serial behavior.  I made excuses for the man because he is disabled.  But disabled or not, other people deserve protection.

My friend, Bonnie, told a MeToo story on FB, followed by, “I have one “MeToo” story I will not tell.”  I commented, “MeToo.”

Male celebrities started dropping like flies as a result of “MeToo.”  Bill Maher said, “I thought I didn’t understand women, now I realize I don’t understand men.”  My GBF (Gay Best Friend) was in my office.  He couldn’t believe Charlie Rose was taken down by MeToo.  “Charlie Rose, I can’t believe Charlie Rose, can you believe Charlie Rose?  I can’t believe it.  Do you think all this stuff is true?  I can’t even believe all this is true.”  I told him it is true.  He said it is too many men.  I said it is under reported.  He asked why I think that.  I told him men hit on women constantly.  I told him I was assaulted by a judge.  GBF asked who.  I would not tell him.  I told him he wasn’t a judge at the time he assaulted me. 

GBF is a lawyer.  He stops in my office a lot to hang out, ‘cause it’s so nice here.  If he’s in the courthouse he stops by to visit.  He recently stopped by and I said, “Remember that judge I told you about?  He’s not a judge anymore.”  May God forgive me for any pleasure I derived from the pain of another.  It was wrong of me.  Rather than do that, may I observe signs and wonders.

I’m not telling this story to diss this guy.  I’m not using his real name, for this story, he’s Richard Merda.  Its purpose is to compare and contrast with Christine Blasey Ford and Brett Kavanaugh, to give you knowledge.

I believe my incident happened in 1986 or 1987, it could have been the first half of 1988, but I don’t think it was.  I place the date there because (1) I was married and (2) I remember where I lived.

There was a restaurant with a bar, “Il Giardino’s.”  It was filled with lawyers nightly, particularly on Wednesday and Friday.  I wasn’t a lawyer yet.  I owned a temporary legal secretary service that served about 100 Broward law firms.  I was going to college.  I wanted to be a lawyer more than anything, except for also wanting to be a mother.  I had many good times in Giardino’s.  I went after work.  I believe it was Wednesday, it was not Friday. 

I started talking to a lawyer, I’ll call him Tommy OleFlaDuh, from an old Florida family, not any family I wrote about in other stories.  I was a juror in a case Tommy tried.  We found the person not guilty of DUI.  He said if he had been able to bring in other evidence we would have convicted her.  Maybe so.

Tommy introduced me to the attorney next to him, Richard Merda.  My husband worked at a private club and had spoken of Merda.  My husband said Merda was very cool.  I told Merda he knew my husband.  The three of us talked and had drinks. I do not recall how many.  I know we weren’t slamming shots.  When it was time to go, and it was early, they said they should give me a ride, because I seemed drunk.  I felt drunk.  I agreed to the ride.

I got in the back seat.  Merda got in the back seat with me.  That was weird.  Tommy drove.  Merda attacked me, and I mean attacked.   I do not have clear recall of everything that happened in that car.  What I have recall of is fighting and fighting and fighting, periods of stopping fighting followed by more fighting.  Near the end I was screaming and fighting.  I was trying to get out of that car.  I was trying to break windows.  They took me back to my car.  They said they should really drive me home, that I was not okay.  I was screaming they had told me they were taking me home before, “Let me out of this car!  Let me out of this car!  Let me out of this car!”  They did.  I would not be surprised if they followed me home.  They were both lawyers.  The bar had been full of lawyers.  I think they followed me home to make sure I got there. 

I walked into my apartment.  My husband was there.  I would put the time between 9 and 10 PM.  We looked at each other and he asked, “Who did this to you?”  “Richard Merda.”  I was beat up.  My dress was ripped up.  It was a beautiful green, silk dress.  I threw it in the garbage.

If I was upset about what happened – and I was already feeling better because I got away – my husband was shattered.  He asked what we were going to do about it.  I said we were going to do nothing.  We are going to act like this never happened.  I wanted to be a lawyer.  He worked at a private club.  We do anything about this it’s just bad, bad, bad, all bad.  We forget, like it never happened.

I would say three times in subsequent years I ran into Tommy OleFlaDuh, in and around the courthouse.  When he saw me his head would drop, “I’m so sorry.”  He told me more than once.

A couple times, still in the 1980s, I saw Richard Merda.  He taunted me about the great time we had.

In 2004 Tommy died.  He was young.  I recently looked it up, both these men were young lawyers at the time of this incident. 

Merda ran for judge.  I sometimes promote judicial candidates on my FB page.  A friend contacted me and said, “I hope you’ll support Merda.  He’s my good friend.”  I responded, “I know him too.”  I did not promote him.

I couldn’t believe this guy was running for judge.  I started reading about him and I saw some copy that said something like he knew he had done bad things, but then he found Jesus.  He reformed and was a changed man.  I figured it could be true.

One day there was a teenager in my house.  Her last name was OleFlaDuh.  I asked if she was related to Tommy OleFlaDuh. She was.  I asked if she knew how he died.  She named a drug.  I asked if it was suicide or accidental.  Who knew?  He was getting divorced.  He was not happy.

I had an uncontested hearing in front of Merda.  I thought about that hearing most every day until I had to appear before him.  I hadn’t seen him for decades.  I wondered if he remembered.  I thought maybe not.  I call an uncontested hearing a walk through.  Everything is settled.  My client testifies, by answering a few questions, the Judge rubber stamps it, it’s over.  I went to that hearing.  I left with the feeling Merda did not recognize me at all.  It was over, like it never happened.

I think it was a Friday, I was pinged by the local courthouse blog, Merda resigned and left the courthouse immediately.  He is gone.

Early one morning, as I was getting ready to go to Miami for a presentation regarding my brother’s recent death, which is available for viewing on my YouTube Channel, I got pinged a complaint was filed against Merda.  It had a link to the complaint.  I didn’t read it, had to go to Miami. 

When I got to my office hours later the Merda complaint was all the buzz.  Had I seen it?  Merda’s assistant turned him in.  He was falsifying dockets, getting other judges to cover for him and lying about how he was spending his time.  The assistant put it together including copies of his text messages to her.  She also complained about running personal errands for him, managing his finances, travel plans and other nonjudicial matters.  The complaint included a lot of evidence.  How did I feel about this?  “Wow.” 

Merda agreed to be disbarred and then stated he had a great run, dedicating nearly 40 years to the profession, but now it was time to move on.  He said his law career was like a previous life, which reminded me of what he said about his life before he was born again, when he was running for judge.  He said despite all the allegations against him, for which he agreed to disbarment, he did a great job.  He is glad to be away from the courthouse, it’s not nice there.    

It is an honor and a privilege to be an attorney, and only a very few are judges. 

Women stay quiet about sexual assault because of the manner in which they are treated when they reveal it.  It’s so easy to say I should not have been in that bar.  Should the men have been there?  No one else ever did anything like this to me. 

I so try to learn from my mistakes and do better.  I don’t always do better.  I hate to see people make the same or similar mistakes, but I see it, all the time.  I did not write this story to out Merda.  I wish that guy all the best, away from me.  I felt compelled to write it due to the striking similarities between my story and Christine Blasey Ford’s story.  In my story you see what happens when you put a man like that on the bench, you get merda.  I felt comfortable enough to write it now because he’s off the bench.  I am older and I am strong.  

Mark Judge, Bret Kavanaugh’s friend is a “men’s rights activist” who advocates for a vague standard of consent and extols the “beauty of uncontrollable male passion”.   From all the examples I have listed in this story, assault is a power issue, like when you’re a celebrity, you can do anything.  You can grab ‘em by the pussy.

They say middle aged women have become the loudest, strongest activists.  If that’s true, it’s because we’ve worked our asses off to get where we are.  We are sick of this insanity.  No one deserves to be treated like this.

Duckling Rescue

               I was talking to my friend, Helga.  She read one of my stories about a duckling.  She said it was poignant.  She commented I must really like ducks. 

               Helga is a retired psychologist.  I am a lawyer.  We are both in listening professions and are careful with our words.  I have no exceptional love of ducks.  They are all around my house and I pay attention to them.  I have exceptional love for most babies, not cockroach babies, but ducklings are cute and fuzzy. 

               From observing the ducklings with their mothers, I learned the ducklings constantly peep.  That can be translated into English, “Mom, Mom, Mom.”  The duck chortles in return, “I am here.  I am here.”  That’s how they communicate.

  

               When a single duckling is lost from its mother it peeps non-stop and runs around like a cartoon duck, panicked.  Unless it finds its mother, it is going to die, for ducklings cannot survive on their own.  That is intolerable to me, I can’t watch that and not try to help.  I grab the duckling with the intention of keeping it comfortable until it can be returned.   I have returned healthy ducklings to their families, I do not recall how many. 

               I gave two ducklings to two different mothers, on different dates, because healthy ducklings don’t like being in a cage in my house.  They love being with a duck mother and other ducklings.  Both those ducklings died, as did many of the mothers’ other ducklings. 

               I have taken in ducklings that appear healthy, but die quickly, from parvovirus. 

               I took in a very sick duckling with botulism.  She died.  I have since learned how to treat botulism, don’t know that it will work, but I will try. 

               I kept a duckling that was limping for a week.  She is alive and back with her family.  That’s an awesome feeling.

               The odds of me taking in a duckling and having it survive are low, but I can’t stand the sight of an abandoned duckling.  It’s not a particular love of ducks, it’s a particular love of helpless babies.  I can't stand watching them suffer.  

               Conversely, there are 497 children still separated due to the family separation policy that ended on June 20^th. 

Court Orders, Contempt of Court and Good Ole' Boys

Court orders are effective as soon as the Judge speaks them. 

Yesterday the US government chartered a flight and removed a woman and her child from this country in the midst of litigation.  The government told a judge they would not remove them, but then did.  This was announced in court, while the plane was in the air going from Texas to El Salvador.  The government’s lawyer was apologetic and told the Judge she would get the woman and child back.  The Judge was angry because he was told the woman and child would not be removed.  The Judge ordered they be brought back, the plane be turned around.  The Judge said if this did not happen he would hold people in contempt beginning with Jeff Sessions, the Attorney General.  The woman and child came back.  This was a touching, moving, and beautiful display of the rule of law and checks and balances in our government. 

Contempt of court brings punishment.  Punishment can be all manner of things, like incarceration or losing your case.

A court order is effective as soon as it comes from the Judge’s mouth.  It is almost always reduced to writing, but it is effective from the moment it is spoken.  This gets lost in every day court.   I practice civil law.  We don’t always take down every word the Judge says in every civil case, like a divorce.  It costs money to have a court reporter there and transcribe what the judge said.   Nevertheless, a court order is effective the minute the Judge rules, from his mouth.  Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful woman who fell in love with a manipulative flashy man.  They bought a house, but it was in the man’s name.  They broke up and woman sued man for the house, either the whole house or half the house, I don’t remember. 

I was woman’s fourth lawyer in pre-computer days.  I went to the courthouse and sat in the file room reviewing her file and having them copy pages for me at a $1.00 a pop.  It was a huge file.  I stayed on the case for a while and then jumped ship because my client owed me money.  When I bailed I had a lien on the file.

Years passed, beautiful woman won the house, it went all the way up the appellate process and she won.  There were a lot of liens on the house.  The house had been sold, I think in a tax sale, and there were people lined up, including me, to be paid.  A large sum of money was obtained for the house.  I was number 4 to be paid and there was plenty of money.

Until manipulative flashy man’s lawyer stepped in.  He said he held a first mortgage, and it was for more than all the money obtained for that house.  A mortgage beat all other liens, except this mortgage was recently obtained and was for attorney fees. 

Sometimes, most times, I have a very good memory.  When beautiful woman first served flashy man with her lawsuit, the first thing he started doing was transferring the property.  He would “sell” the property to his friend.  Beautiful woman’s lawyer would go to court to reverse the sale.  This happened three times.  The third sale was reversed and, in open court, the Judge said, “Flashy man, I am ordering you are not to transfer or encumber this property again during this lawsuit.”  Except that order was never typed up.  I think because beautiful woman’s lawyer quit after that hearing, I’m sure because he wasn’t getting paid.  But the transcript was sitting in the court file.  I had read it, and I remembered.  I went back to the file room and found those pages and argued flashy man’s lawyer should not get paid.

Flashy man’s lawyer was from an Old Miamah family.  He was old enough to be my grandfather.   I was a young lawyer.  He said something to me like, “Missy, I sure am glad I am on the right side of this case.”

Our Judge was Leroy Moe, a really good judge.  As Miamah argued for his fees Judge Moe read the transcript prohibiting flashy man from encumbering the property.  Miamah had been at that hearing.  Judge Moe told Miamah to back off from the fees.  Miamah wanted the fees.  The Judge asked how important this was to him.  Miamah said very important.  Judge asked if it was as important as his ticket.

Miamah did not get his fees.  Within two years Miamah lost his license to practice law.  I assume the Judge turned him in.  I did not turn him in.

Fast forward years and years, I go out to do a deathbed will.  The man in the bed’s last name is Miamah, from the old Miamah family.  There are numerous Miamahs in the large house, for their family member is dying.  After we do the will I ask if they were related to Attorney Edward Miamah, who is, by now, dead.  They are.  I had a case with him and he got in some trouble for things he did in that case.  They said, “Not all Miamahs are good people.”

My Martin Luther King Jr. Day Story

When Lily was little I sent her to Elite Private School. I viewed it as a safe environment with every possible extracurricular on campus. It was my hope I could leave her there from 8 AM until 6 PM, where she would thrive, and I wouldn’t have to worry.

If there were 100 kindergartners, I am going to say 10 were African American. Lily went to after care. I am guessing six of the African American children went to aftercare. Most of the white children did not, they had stay-at-home moms. From the first day I picked Lily up I saw the children divided into groups, white and African American. They did this on their own. Lily was always with the African American children. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t have a problem with it. I wanted to ask her about it, but I couldn’t figure out a way to do that, without her thinking she was doing something wrong. What I really wanted to know was, “What’s wrong with the white kids? Why don’t you play with them?” Lily was happy with her aftercare group. I didn’t ask. Why create a problem where there is none?

On the Friday before MLK, Lily got in the car. She said she learned about Martin Luther King Jr. in school. I nodded. She asked if I knew at one time black people and white people were not allowed to sit next to each other on the bus, or eat together in a restaurant, or use the same bathroom. I knew. Lily was really angry and emotional. She shouted at me, “Why did YOU not tell me this?” I was startled by her emotionalism over historic segregation. I said it never came up. It was not information I meant to withhold. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS????” She shouts angrily. What? “It means if we lived back then, we couldn’t sit together. We couldn’t be together.” I was baffled. “Your father is not African American.” I told her. “Both your parents are white. You are white. You and I would ALWAYS be together.”

Call me stupid, Lily wrote a Facebook post in the past month. She posted a video about the growth of skin lightening products. She spoke of receiving a couple dolls as gifts. I remember them well. My sister-in-law, Pilar, gave Lily a Latina Barbie. Lily hated it. She cried. My friend Clara, gave Lily a Native American, American Girl Doll. Lily burst into tears. Pilar and Clara are Hispanic. The difference between Lily, Pilar and Clara is Pilar and Clara’s mothers were Hispanic. I am going to guess, when they were little, they had a preference for dolls that looked like them, as opposed to blonde Barbie. Lily gave the dolls away. Lily said watching the skin lightening video brought those dolls to mind. The dolls made her angry because Lily wanted to look like her Mom.

Lily is half Armenian. Her father, and both his parents, were born in the United States, but all his grandparents were born in Armenia, they may technically have been born in Turkey, but they were still Armenian, it works like that, really.

Lily said when people meet her in person they comment she is tanner than she looks in pictures. That’s because many of her pictures are digitally altered, lightened, to make her “more beautiful”. The skin lightening products got her thinking how absurd and unnecessary that is, a way to make people feel badly about themselves, particularly when Lily, personally, prefers being tan. Lily said from now on, when she edits her own pictures she is going to stop lightening her skin color because black and brown are also beautiful.

Martin Luther King Jr. was a Baptist Minister. He preached equality and love, regardless of skin color. That really ought to be easy, a no brainer.

Lawyers and Greed

            When the United States became a nation, lawyers were the most respected profession.  That we are not anymore has at least as much to do with the society in which we live as it has to do with lawyers.  I was taught in college, in the 1980s, the United States continuously expects annual growth at a rate that has never happened in human history, better, bigger, more, gimme, gimme more.  We have not achieved the growth they anticipated in the late 1980s.

            Republicans rile up the masses to protect doctors from their mistakes that kill and seriously injure people, by invoking fear, “Protect your doctors, or you might lose ‘em  Do not let the government take away your choice.”  Images are conjured of the doctor in Little House on the Prairie or Gunsmoke, with a complete failure to recognize most doctors work for corporations, for which they generate profit or revenue.  I am not saying your doctor doesn’t like you.  I am saying you are one of the many and the amount you, as an individual, pay the corporation is near meaningless.  There is a good chance your doctor is more concerned with how many patients he sees in a day and how quickly, or how many surgeries he performs in a month.  Some doctors also really excite to pharmaceutical and surgical equipment promotions.  “Doc, wanna go to the Super Bowl?”  “I’m sorry Doc, you didn’t perform enough surgeries to win the Super Bowl tickets, how about taking the family to Cancun for Spring Break?”  Does this offend you?  Would you excite to it?

            A teacher hates her job.  She has to teach curriculum with the goal her students do well on tests.  The administration does nothing about behavior issues and she is not allowed to do anything either.  She has over 10 years in and many years before she retires.  If she quits she loses her pension.

            A lawyer is happy with the number of divorce cases she signed up last month, most ever.  It was a goal.  Know how you sign up more divorces?  Tell ‘em what they wanna hear.  “Hire me, I’ll get you everything.”  Maybe the client will be lucky and the lawyer will make him or her happy, especially if the client’s expectations are reasonable to low. 

            One of my goals is to leave clients better off than they would be without me.  I have declined divorce cases. 

            A long-time client and her husband agree to divorce.  They want me to do it.  I know their financial situation and the needs of their household and large family.  I tell them no.  I am asked if I realize they will hire another lawyer.  I’m fine with that.   Several months later I see wife and ask about the divorce.  They are not in a financial position to get divorced.  I’m glad they consulted with a professional. 

            I am walking out of an electronics store when I am stopped by a friend who works for a big box carrier.  “Mrs. Lindquist, I need to schedule an appointment at your office.  I need to get divorced.  My wife cheated on me.”  I am so sorry.  I know you have a couple little kids, own a house, have a pension and work a lot of hours.  Before we meet, think about what you want.  Is your wife going to stay in the house with the kids?  Is there any equity in your house?  Do you want to think about something like keeping your pension and giving her the house?  We need to compare values.  How often are you going to see your children?  It’s sad you won’t get to be in the same house with them anymore but OMG, your wife cheated on you, with all you do for your family?  Let’s get her.  He never came in.  I ran into him months later.  “Mrs. Lindquist, I thought about what you said.  I was working a lot, and not paying attention to my wife.  I love my wife and children.  We started going to counseling and church, we are better.”  That was 20 years ago.  He is retired.  His children are grown.  He is still married.

            Professionals are not what they were because society is not what it was.  We have an insatiable appetite, an inability to delay gratification and greed constantly demanding more, more, more.  How does that end?  Oh, fish in the sea, come listen to me.