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Thursday marked the Autumn Equinox. The day of the year where there are equal parts night and day. Exactly 12 hours of light and 12 hours of darkness before night begins to outweigh the daylight hours.

Yesterday, cooler air helped to solidify the change and it almost felt as if on cue, the universe too had received the news that Jon was no longer with us. That the sun wouldn’t yet have the strength to shine as it once had and would need some time to learn how to keep us warm again.

Just as the end of summer always feels unfair and never long enough, Jon’s death has that feeling of unfairness. An injustice of time bestowed upon all of those that loved him.

That somehow God must have been mistaken in this decision. Somehow, we unintentionally have all found ourselves on the wrong side of right and wrong, fair and unfair.

Because nothing feels fair about losing Jon. Nothing feels fair about a wife being without her husband, a son without his father, parents without a child, brothers without a brother, friends without a friend.

Nothing seems fair about experiencing Jon’s infectious smile, his sense of humor, or his kind heart and having it ripped away. Suddenly and without warning.

Honestly, it almost feels cruel. That perhaps had we been afforded some type of warning we would have known better. We would have taken the opportunity to soak up his smile a little longer, hold the embrace of his hug a little tighter, listen to his voice more closely knowing it would be our last time.

The duration of darkness is often lengthened by such thoughts – a continuous loop of what ifs and should haves.

But I also think about all of those whom were never given the chance to experience his love. The unfairness of having never known Jon and what they missed. A life devoid of Jon would be the true injustice.

It is unfair to have loved him and have to endure the pain of life without him but man, what a blessing it is to have known him.

Most of you probably picture him exactly how I do right now, with that smile; the one that could pierce right through to your heart. One glance and you knew you would never be the same. A mannered politeness that could outshine any southern gentleman. So much so that years ago, I told him if he called me “mam” one more time, his shift at the bar would be filled by someone else. “Stop calling me ‘Mam’, Jon. I am only 2 years older than you”. The ability to tell a story that only he could tell. And boy could he tell a story. Jon had mastered storytelling the way a painter perfects his canvas. Effortlessly and with every detail perfectly placed. However, nothing compared to or even came close to his warm heart. A genuine heart which forced him to hold a willingness to help anyone, anytime, no matter the circumstance. If one person could define “he would give you the shirt off his back”, it would be Jon.

But if you really wanted to see his face light up, all you had to do was ask about Jonathan or John Boy as he liked to call him. Jon loved being a dad. His face lit up differently when Jonathan was around. The pride obvious. How blessed he felt to call you his son, Jonathan.

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they interact with children, and Jon always found his way into any child’s heart. My children never left his house without a handful of candy and snacks, causing my youngest to always ask “where’s the man that hands out the snacks” after a haircut at Ms Amber’s house.

I spoke to Jon when I was pregnant with my youngest son and voiced my concern that my older two boys were only 2 years apart and my youngest son would be 6 and 9 years younger than his brothers. He laughed and told me not to worry, the age difference would not matter, the middle son would bridge the gap. Just to make sure they understood that brothers always take care of brothers and everything would be fine. He knew from experience, having been perfectly placed in the middle of two brothers.

But what I will always be most grateful to Jon for will be for marrying one of my best friends. For showing her what it meant to be truly loved by someone. For bringing Jonathan into her life and an extended family to love and appreciate the woman she is. Jon and Amber could be as different as night and day sometimes, but like night and day they complimented one another perfectly. To see them together was to bear witness to true love and happiness. It may not have been enough time, but many spend their lives searching for what Jon and Amber had together.

For many of us, life will never be the same without Jon and it feels like there will now be a permanent indicator etched onto our life’s timeline. Life before Jon died and life after Jon died, in the similar way the Autumn Equinox evenly divides the light and darkness.

Jon was pure light. So bright at times, it could often be blinding and many may wonder how they will ever be able to find their way again without him. We often stay silent when we are unsure of the words to say or how to comfort someone being forced to walk through darkness. Instead choosing avoidance in an attempt to prevent the wrong words from being spoken. But the antidote to darkness is light and Jon left behind rays of his light with all of us. We each carry that gift having known him. We keep it aglow by speaking his name often. By sharing the memories out loud we were lucky enough to make even if we know he would have told them better. By still making sausage gravy even though it will never come close to being as good as Jon’s. By holding the hands of Jonathan, Amber, his parents, brothers and family members for as long as they need. By offering help without hesitation or hidden agenda. By smiling when we think of him, even though it may still hurt. We fight the darkness with the shield of his light.

Because although the Autumn Equinox signals that darker days lie ahead, they are always temporary. The sun and warmth ultimately find their way through, it simply takes some time.

Matthew 5:4 “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted”

I have taken quite a long break from sharing here. It would seem, the world is not what it once was, or perhaps, more specifically what I had always believed it to be.

Although I could feel the shift, often I would ignore it, attempt to reason it away because to accept what I was seeing in front of my very own eyes, would mean accepting much of what I had been taught in my 43 years would need to be questioned.

I don’t know why we are gifted intuition but I do know that more often than not, we ignore this gift. Whether by intentional design, or accidental unacceptance, too often we deafen its warnings and cover the eyes of the insight it provides. Although the more I have chosen to trust my intuition, the more I have learned to trust its ability to guide me in the proper direction. The way we learn to trust our legs to walk, without thought or hesitation.

Clarity can be a blessing and a curse and it doesn’t come easy. It can be a lonely journey, especially when the thoughts born are portrayed as not being held by a majority or are silenced and eliminated as a suitable topic for conversation. We have always been taught that there is safety in numbers and for many people this has served as the foundation to formulate opinions – all opinions, even those found to be harmful or hurtful. However, if you truly want to know the depth of your belief in something, just ponder if you would be willing to unwaver in those convictions if the numbers weren’t on your side. If the safety net of the group were removed, would you still be willing to fight for what you know and believe to be good and right. Would you be able to hold your head a little higher each day as stones were cast, even if the stone casters never realize you were fighting for them also. After all, a true test of a person’s determination, will and spirit can be measured by their ability to withstand isolation. It is why solitary confinement is used as a punishment and an interrogation technique. Only the mentally resilient can withstand the type of pressure bestowed upon many of us these past two years.

Fight fire with fire, is what I continued to tell myself as I riddled off facts to fight against smoke and mirrors and tried my best to offer Grace when confronted with those who attempted to demoralize me with terms chosen specifically for their ability to degrade and belittle my views, my intellect or my voice.

I have been accused of being greedy and putting money above lives for wanting our business to reopen early in the pandemic. I have been accused of wanting my children to die because I fought for their return to school. I have been labeled a “science denier” because I wanted them to walk through those same doors fearless and armed with a smile, not hidden behind the false promises of a mask. I have sat in a doctor’s office, across from judgmental eyes and condescension, because I chose to ask questions about natural immunity vs vaccine induced immunity and voiced concerns about the latest, convenient definitions used to define health. I have been called a “conspiracy theorist” for not immediately accepting what is being offered to me, even as obvious answers to ignored questions continued to pile up.

Time reveals all and I noticed something else… as the answers to all of those premature questions began to trickle out, the silence that followed has been deafening. The voices willing to jump out and attack me without warning or regard for feelings or logic, were suddenly absent. The friendships severed hastily and without consultation, have yet to be requested again. The collective confidence held from the comfort in believing one resides in the majority began to disappear, along side the notion that membership had entitled positioning on a higher ground.

We are at a point in this country where some of us must begin to accept responsibility for how we have treated the rest of us. Accountability that many were not only fooled into believing lies but manipulated into turning on friends and family who asked questions when what was believed to be the majority opinion did not add up.

Those of us that were turned on, we are not looking for an apology nor do we even request or need an acknowledgement that perhaps we may have been right about a few things. We are way passed that now. We simply look for you to join us in relentlessly asking questions and demanding accountability for what has been done to ALL of us. Eliminate all the labels and boxes we painfully shrunk to fit ourselves into and dig in to harmoniously and simultaneously create an environment where our children do not just have to endure life but will have the freedom to live it.

Hasn’t that always been the goal? Create a world where our children are better off than we were?

Our freedom comes with a responsibility to preserve it for those behind us and consequence is quickly approaching if we continue in the belief we do not hold the power to its preservation.

Perhaps the path leading to this vision varies but the intended outcome has always been the same. Freedom does not discriminate, it is for everyone, even those we may not see eye to eye. Its most important function designed for those with whom we may disagree, specifically when they are the minority.

We all yearn for a place, a country, a world, where our children have the opportunity and freedom to reach their full potential. We have been fooled into believing our paths do not intersect. They do. They always have. We were tricked into thinking that if we believed in the journey of one path, then travel was prohibited on any other path, and all ramps were closed. A “you made your bed, now lie in it” type of thinking. Lucky for me, I have never been one for making my bed anyway. However, more and more it would seem this was always the plan, to have us split up and run in different directions. Fracture us down into the tiniest of slivered pieces so we would never again believe in the power of functioning as a whole. For the task to put ourselves back together to seem so daunting and overwhelming, we would never try or give up easily if we did.

If you thought a racist was someone who didn’t have a black square as their profile picture two years ago but realize now a bigger problem may be that black children are reading at a level much lower than their white counterparts, then welcome. If you are starting to wonder why there are no protests as black communities in urban cities are experiencing the highest rates of death and violence in years, then welcome. If you thought schools should have opened but didn’t yet have the strength to voice your concern, and now your child is below level in reading and math, then welcome. If you thought your kids were being taught math, reading and history at school, only to find out that political agendas were also being pushed, then welcome. If you thought taking a vaccine meant you were no longer susceptible to a disease but you came down with that disease anyway, then welcome. If you chose to receive the vaccine but didn’t agree with mandating people out of jobs or society, then welcome. If you thought inflation was “transitory” and government spending could not increase it, yet you can barely afford groceries, then welcome. If you never really cared how someone chose to dress or identify themselves but see the glaring problem with allowing biological male athletes to participate with female athletes, then welcome. If you thought all of your elected officials worked for the people whom they have been tasked to serve only to find out many, from all sides, have been working for themselves, then welcome. If you can’t shake the small, tiny feeling living inside that something just doesn’t seem right, then welcome.

Membership is free, although it cost many before us. However, it will not cost you an apology, nor shame in the understanding you may have been fooled. We have all been there at one time or another, judgment is best suited to be served by those who are perfect and have never made mistakes. Shame doesn’t live here. Shame is a tactic used to quiet the determined. The only requirement is a willingness to stand beside one another. To fight for a world where our children will always have a voice and an ability to stand up for what they believe in without the threat of being labeled, placed into a group or ostracized. A world where all of our children will not only have the literacy level to read about freedom but be fully versed in its importance and willing to teach it for years to come.

Whether you took the scenic route or a short cut, it doesn’t matter the path. The only thing that matters is you arrive.

Unfortunately, there is no red carpet here, no cameras to capture your appearance. No fireworks on display nor a clever hashtag, as it would more than likely be removed anyway. Like most things in life, it’s a journey whose appreciation can be felt only after having traveled. A humbling destination where battle includes fighting for those who do not yet realize they need fighting for.

We won’t announce your arrival and our only weapons are the memory of a country that once was and hope in the possibility of what can be. When you land after your journey, you may feel weary and a little confused but no matter the speed with which it took you to travel, we promise to help glue your piece into place, grab your hand and kindly whisper “Welcome to the Revolution”.

If there is anything I have learned, it is if we allow it, intuition will always leads us to the right path but should you get lost, just head in the direction of the overgrown path with the name that was meant to connect us all…

it’s called Freedom.

Luca Brasi was born on a farm and adopted by parents with a shared love of the movie The Godfather. Although fiercely loyal, he began going by just “Luca” when it was quickly determined his temperament would never allow him to rough up a band leader or anyone else for that matter. Although, he did once murder an entire plate of pigs in a blanket while his family sat unsuspectingly in the next room.

Ever the faithful and alert guard dog, you could find him most days at his self-assigned post of the dining room window from 3-5pm after his morning, mid-morning and early afternoon naps, announcing the arrival of every child, woman and man to arrive to their homes for the past 11 years. He did not work the midnight shift though, which was discovered when he was careful not to wake his family while someone broke into their car, parked in the driveway.

Although his ancestors’ bloodline is officially unknown, we are fairly certain he was a descendant of one of Pavlov’s dogs by the trail of saliva he left on the hardwood floors, yet couldn’t fathom his inability, in 11 years, to figure out standing too close to the mudroom door when someone exited, would result in being hit in the head when they returned. He couldn’t stand the thought of a solitary minute though, so he endured daily smacks to the head, followed by head rubs and apologies every single day for over a decade. His need to be with his people was also evident by his escapes from the backyard and journey to the front door where he would stare at us in disgust through the glass, until someone noticed and let him in.

To ensure we experienced guilt every time we did leave him, he would stand watch at his post and make sure his sad eyes pierced our heart as we pulled out of the driveway and greet us from the same spot upon our return, no matter how long we had been gone. I often wondered if he ever moved from that window or just sat there waiting and scanning for our car to enter the street. In addition, he was well known for his infamous hunger strikes if his mom left for more than 24 hours, unless you pulled out cheese. Cheese was the way to his heart, and he had the nose of a bloodhound that could pick up the scent of cheese from another room. Legend has it, even the slightest rustle of a deli bag could awaken him from the deepest of sleeps.

An avid ball hoarder, he never did master the game of fetch. Although in his younger years, he was an all-star outfielder during batting practice for his brothers. He did, however, learn to ring a bell to go outside and would give you a high five when prompted. He loved a short walk, not a long one and wasn’t keen on running unless it was in his sleep. He ran the equivalent of a few marathons in his sleep.

He was known to dabble in the city life and enjoyed visits to Baltimore to stay with his uncle when his family was away. Known for its dog loving environment and lack of rules, Luca spent city days napping on sofas in between meals of table food and spent nights sleeping in Uncle Tim’s bed. He often needed reminders when he returned home of the rule “what happens at Uncle Tim’s house, stays at Uncle Tim’s house”.

A large dog, he was once mistaken for a horse. His size could be intimidating for some, like the dog fearing Verizon technician arriving to install our cable one day, inquiring if he was aggressive. I encouraged him to keep his distance, but only if he didn’t want to fall in love with a dog. He doesn’t bite, I warned, but there is a strong possibility he may lick you to death. After several hours of installation, he departed declaring he was the coolest dog he had ever met. I imagine he is a dog owner himself now.

And that was his gift. He had the ability to cast a spell on anyone crossing his path. He was incapable of anything but pure, unconditional love. Well love, and the occasional bout of gas. Honestly though, there wasn’t a person or animal to enter his life that he didn’t love, he even held an affection for his uncle’s cat who smacked him in the face every time he said hello. 

He was a gentle giant who spent 11 years giving more than he ever expected in return. 11 years of comforting in sadness, loving in times of doubt and brightening every day his tail wagged. We spent 11 years experiencing his love and we will now spend a lifetime missing him. 

He is preceded in death by a Guinea Pig, who exceeded his life expectancy by years and is mourned by three heartbroken brothers, a doting over treating mom, a dad who didn’t want another dog, a loving uncle, grandparents, neighbors, a long list of friends, an extensive list of groomers, a few contractors, a lady at the dog park, a territorial cat and a Verizon technician. 

Rest Easy, sweet boy and tell them your mom said it’s time for a treat. 

The hardest part of loving you, is saying goodbye.

I have been following the COVID case numbers on the Maryland COVID Dashboard for a while, but began following it a bit more closely in August when it was announced the dashboard would begin to include vaccination breakthrough case data. If you would like to read the press release announcing it, you can do so here. 

Apparently, there was some type of Cyber Attack and the numbers stopped updating for about 2 weeks in December but luckily they began updating again the day after double vaccinated and boosted Governor Hogan announced he had tested positive for COVID.

Anyway, there are two handy bar graphs detailing monthly data from January 26^th, 2021 – November 30^th, 2021 for vaccinated COVID positive cases. Although they have not been updated since November, you can still gather the data for total monthly cases and hospitalizations for COVID cases in vaccinated individuals. Although we are nearing the middle of January, December data is not included. However, there is an updated number for total vaccinated breakthrough cases included near the bottom of the dashboard which updated today for total breakthrough cases January 26^th 2021 – December 31,2021. I am including screenshots for reference. 

Clicking on each month in the bar graph, reveals the total monthly breakthrough case numbers and they are as follows: 

January 2021 – 4

February 2021 – 73

March 2021 – 416

April 2021 – 971

May 2021 – 595

June 2021 – 316

July 2021 – 2,028

August 2021 – 8,920

September 2021 – 10,116

October 2021 – 8,318

November 2021 – 9,725

Upon adding up all of these numbers, one can arrive at a total breakthrough case number for January 2021 – November 2021 of 41,482 vaccinated COVID positive cases.

As of today, the Maryland Covid Dashboard lists 170,976 total vaccinated COVID positive cases for January 2021 – December 31, 2021. 

One can deduce by subtracting 41,482 (total Jan-Nov 2021) from 170,976 (total Jan-Dec 2021) that the total vaccinated COVID positive cases for the month of December 2021 equals 129,494.

Included on the Maryland Covid Dashboard is another bar graph which details the daily case count for each day. I am providing a screenshot this also for reference. I would assume daily numbers reported are for the day previous, as they are updated around 10am each day. Therefore, when adding the daily case count numbers for December, I chose to use the dates of December 2, 2021 – January 1, 2022. When adding the daily case count for those dates together, the total case count for all of Maryland, regardless of vaccination status is 138,803 for the month of December. 

Based off the information provided by the state of Maryland on the MD Covid Dashboard, the total number of UNVACCINATED COVID positive cases for the month of December is 9,309 and the total number of VACCINATED COVID positive cases for the month of December is 129,494. In other terms, 6.7% of cases in December were unvaccinated and 93.4% of cases were VACCINATED. Wild, right? Even wilder, is that not one local media outlet or government official is announcing it.

I tried to understand the hospitalization data but it is not quite as easy to decipher. While the MD COVID Dashboard does list the total hospitalizations of vaccinated COVID positive cases, it only details a daily hospitalization number overall. I would imagine someone in the hospital for more than one day is counted each day they remain hospitalized, therefore, I am not sure how to extract the numbers to understand them properly. But let’s be honest, if the numbers showed it was mostly unvaccinated cases being hospitalized, it would not only be included but would be quoted by every news outlet and leader in this state, every day. It is being left out for a reason and that should tell us all something.  

Look, I am not here to prove that vaccinations are not working or that people shouldn’t be vaccinated. I am simply here to stand up for my family and others like us that can see when things are not adding up. Data is being omitted and hidden and we need ask ourselves, why? I have found over the past two years that I learn much more by paying attention to what is not being said rather than what is being said from the microphone. 

However, when we have schools and businesses implementing separate rules and policies for those vaccinated vs unvaccinated and leaders blaming the return of mask mandates on unvaccinated citizens, it would seem of extreme importance to fully understand our current COVID environment through the data available. 

I am not a mathematician. In all honesty, math is not my strong suit; but I am able to perform the simple math required to arrive at these numbers. The question is, why haven’t our leaders? They either believe omission relieves them of liability and guilt, they are lying or they are incompetent. In any of these cases, I do not want them leading me or my family.

Ask questions. Demand answers. And for the love of God, just be kind to one another. 

A person’s true character can be revealed by whether they are willing to fight for those with whom they disagree. 

It is time we begin to ask questions in unison.

Read Part 2 – here

It seems today, according to Facebook, is National Daughters Day. I am not even sure it is a real holiday, but each year the world of Facebook is hell-bent on reminding me of every person in my friend’s list that has received or birthed a child with a vagina, but me.

If I sound a little salty, it is because I am. I mean I can French braid for Christ’s sake. How do I not have a daughter or a sister, for that matter.

When I was a little girl and would screech to my parents “But I want it!”, they would without fail, begin singing “You can’t always get what you wa-ant”, in their best off key Rolling Stones impersonation.

When my cousin’s daughter was born deaf, we never spoke of all the sounds I already knew she worried her daughter would never hear. A bird chirping, the crescendo in a song ultimately leading to the emotional understanding of a listener, or the possibility of her daughter never hearing her own mother’s voice. I wasn’t alone in this avoidance, most people skirted around these topics. But there were always the people who seemed genuinely clueless and maybe it was meant as an attempt to comfort, but the phrase that would always irritate me was, “You don’t miss, what you don’t have.”

Fortunately, my cousin’s daughter was a candidate to receive Cochlear ear implants when she was young and is able to hear the sound of her mother’s voice. But what if she had never been able to hear her entire life? I am not sure she still wouldn’t have missed the idea of hearing because the understanding that those around her did hear would never be muted. She still would have understood that although she had never experienced sound, those around her did. That there was an entire level of communication that she was not privy to. An entire sense that she would never experience. Never hearing a sound would not necessarily equal never wanting to hear a sound nor negate her longing to hear.

Most people always assumed my desire for a daughter was simply filled with dreams of ballet slippers, leotards, glitter, and pink tutus. Don’t get me wrong, those definitely would have provided a much-needed break from urine splattered toilet seats, stinky cleats, and athletic cups left on my kitchen island, but I was never looking to fulfill some fairytale dream of holding my very own real-life daughter baby doll.

Having three boys herself, my grandmother always understood how it ran much deeper than lacey dresses and pretty hair ribbon. It had nothing to do with disappointment or an ungratefulness for mothering sons. It was about the lost opportunity to become the mother we had both longed for. To right the wrong that had been handed to us in an effort to tip the mothering scale in our favor. To prove that good mothers didn’t always come from perfect mothers. To raise a daughter the way we had both desperately wished we had been raised.

I love my sons and I cannot imagine a life of mine where each and every one of them doesn’t exist in it. There is simply a very different dynamic provided by having a daughter. Perhaps a daughter life would be nothing like I have always pictured it to be. Perhaps I am like a person who is deaf and misses the sound of laughter because they can still see it and understands it exists for others, just not for them. Perhaps, one day I will be like my cousin’s daughter, who was so overwhelmed by sound when she received her cochlear ear implants, she used to try to throw them out of the car window from the backseat, while my cousin was driving. And now, now I watch videos of her singing and dancing, to the music she almost never heard.

I also understand that my sons are on loan to me.

Of course, I will always be their mother and that will never change. I am the most important woman in their lives, for now. However, one day, in a future that seems to be approaching at lightning speed, I will pass the torch 3 times to each of their wives. And if I have done my job correctly, she will become the most important woman in each of their lives. She will become their support and the one they will seek out for advice and comfort. Still, my hope is that one day, she will smile at me in a way that says “thanks for raising such a good man,”, even if he never did learn to lift the toilet seat up and still leaves dishes in the sink. More than that, I hope she will understand that when I handed her that torch, I also handed over the very piece of my heart that ignited that flame, three times.

My soul sister and I have 7 boys between the two of us and they each fill us up in ways we never dreamed. Our cup runneth over with love and worry and how did we ever endure life without them. (a bit quieter, I imagine) Still, every single one of those 7 pregnancies, we prayed for one of us to have a girl. It didn’t matter which one of us, because the best friends in life are the ones that still want you to listen and dance to the music, even if they will never hear it.

A few months ago, I picked up my son from baseball practice, and on the car ride home I asked him, as I always do, how practice was. He said it went well and that he had worked with the pitching coach this practice and the pitching coach was impressed with his changeup and wanted to know who showed him the grip.

“My mom did”, he said

And I thought about that Rolling Stones song. The one my parents used to sing to me when I was a little girl and how when I was a bit older, I heard that song on the radio and realized there were additional lyrics.

“You can’t always get what you want… But if you try sometime you find, you get what you need”

Because sometimes, it takes a little longer for the music to reach your ears.

I have written for years but only recently started sharing again. After a recent post, a couple of girlfriends reached out to me on a group text, to ask how I had never shared this secret of mine. The answer is simple – vulnerability. Whether you have a knack for putting together words and structuring paragraphs or not, sharing your inner thoughts and how you process life in your head is very personal. It is why diaries come adorned with locks.

For a writer, the feeling of vulnerability isn’t absent, it hopefully becomes overshadowed by the compulsion to take the words and sentences floating around in your head and the need to pour them out on paper and make sense of them. The way a photographer sees a sunset cast a shadow in a unique way and is compelled to grab a camera, or how I imagine a runner feels the need to run, even without a destination. The last one still boggles my mind because the only time I have ever been inclined to run is if one of my kids is about to dart into a street, but to each his own.

When asked why I was hesitant to share my writing, I responded by asking them to envision standing nude in a room filled with fully clothed people. Their response was “Get naked”.  Not, literally, in a weird Girls Gone Wild way, but figuratively, which can still feel just as weird and actually a little scarier for me.

I have been quiet the past two weeks. Honestly, I think my brain is on complete overload and overwhelmed by all of the opinions, conflicting data and options concerning the school year.

An edited version of our family’s story about international plane travel, was shared on the TODAY Show media channels over the past few days. The unedited version can be found here.

In true internet fashion, the opinions were abundant, both positive and negative.  Many had been in a similar experience, but many clearly had not and felt the need to call me “selfish” for traveling with my youngest, that I obviously did not know how to parent and my favorite “I needed to set clear expectations for him.” After 3 boys, I practically have a PhD in setting expectations and handing out punishments.

What they did not know was this trip had been planned for months, before the first flight. We were traveling for my children to meet my husband’s family and see where their father had grown up as a child. Fortunately, I was born with thick Irish skin toughened by years of victories and failures. It still may be unable to withstand sunlight without being lathered in SPF 70, but after 15 years of being a mom, it has become a shield for parenting opinions and criticism to roll off of.

The irony is the original article had two paragraphs which discussed not passing judgment on fellow parents and maybe choosing to replace it by offering grace instead. It costs absolutely nothing to extend grace to another person and at the same time, may mean everything to the person it is being offered to. It is certainly something that we could use a lot more of in the world.

Each spring, for years, my husband would throw grass seed in our backyard. As soon as the soft green spikes would begin to rise from the ground to make their presence known, they would disappear. His dream for a sea of backyard grass would be trampled by the feet of young boys and his hope would be quickly diminished by just one neighborhood wiffle ball game.

I have hesitated to write about George Floyd and the current racial divide in our country. Not for fear, but because it seemed better suited as an opportunity for listening, rather than talking.

As I watch city by city in this country burn and crumble from within, I am reminded that not only do we have a portion of our population being marginalized, undervalued, attacked and killed, we have a portion of our population exploiting that very same pain.

I will never pretend to understand the anger and frustration of the black community. I refuse to pretend to relate to the fear any mother of a black son feels when her son leaves the house. I will not pretend that although I was born into a family lacking wealth, connections and power, I still may have had little to overcome in comparison to the obstacles experienced by many others.

I will also not pretend that one of the issues preventing change in this country isn’t accountability.

Accountability that bad cops, unfortunately, do exist and are too often given the benefit of the doubt until video surfaces. Accountability that good cops, with noble intentions, are met with misplaced anger and prejudice every shift of every day. Accountability that a black man’s pulse must rapidly increase when a siren sounds and lights flash from behind his car.

Accountability that the issues plaguing much of our inner city communities run deeper than overt racism and are much more systemic in nature. Accountability for the continued election of failed leadership in my city of Baltimore and also around the country. Accountability for the small crowd that gathered when a 7 year old little black girl was shot and killed while riding in the back seat of a car a few years ago. Accountability for the lack of media coverage when her 5 year old sister was shot just 4 months later, while playing in front of her house. Accountability for why our city did not erupt in protest for either of them.

Accountability that burning down businesses and neighborhoods only further marginalizes the communities being fought for. Anger and frustration are normal human emotions, destruction is never a solution and must not be tolerated nor excused, as it will never reach the ears it is aimed and will only confirm and validate current biases. If change is what is being sought, it is necessary to project your voice to those that stand in front of you, not just the ones standing beside you. Accountability for allowing groups instigating violence, to be combined with those peacefully protesting.

Accountability that although we all may have experienced discrimination at one time or another, some of us historically pay a much larger price.

Accountability that many white people do not consider themselves racist simply because their families were never slave owners and a quick social media post quoting Martin Luther King Jr or detailing their outrage is enough confirmation for many others.

Accountability as to why the last times my city received this much media attention was in April 2015 and when it was referred to as a shit hole. Accountability for the fact that our city has not only never recovered from those past riots, but has been on a steady decline ever since. Accountability for the change that never occurred.

Accountability for the ease with which we use our voices when we are reminded to by the news. Accountability for the muting of our voices when the news cycle changes, the cameras go home and the politicians are done taking photos. Accountability that the same voices crying out now for the protesters right to be heard, were some of the same voices attempting to silence different protesters a few weeks ago and vice versa. Constitutional rights should be supported at all times, not just when it is of political convenience for either side.

Accountability that we have never fought for change in the way truly needed. Accountability that change will never happen until the cameras are turned off, the fires extinguished and we each take a seat at the table to not only acknowledge, but accept responsibility for the past and present.

 I do not have a full proof solution to offer, but I have a pretty good idea where to start.

We can start by repairing the relationship between our police and those they have been tasked with serving and protecting before it becomes irreparable, which is quickly approaching. We can start by fighting for justice all the time, not just when we are told to by the media. We can start by recognizing the same fingers used to point at someone else, can also be pointed at our selves. We can start by removing the corruption that plagues many of our local, city governments and ask questions when our elected officials get richer and our schools do not have heat. We can start by not re-electing politicians that have already been caught stealing from the constituents they promised to help. We can start by electing representatives whose focus is to help the people, with a willingness to work hardest when no one is watching, not just when it is time for re-election. We can start by teaching those who need to learn, how to fish, instead of just throwing a fish to keep them quiet. We can start by not using every crisis as an opportunity for a political play.  We can start by understanding and accepting the multitude of factors that have contributed to our current state.

But if change is our goal, we must first start with accountability before we can start the process of healing.