I have a confession. I used to think I was better than other people. I don’t want to say I was ever a racist, but I might have been. It’s hard not to be when you grow up under the guise of white privilege in the United States. My confession: I had little understanding for those who were different from me. And I didn’t need to – I never stepped out of my realm of convenience (my bubble). My life was good. I attributed that goodness to something I had done; but the truth is there is nothing I could have ever done that would explain the level of status to which I was born.

This is a fact of being a white person in America. You believe you’re just a little bit better than everyone else.

It was about 6 months ago. I decided I wanted to focus a bit more on my writing. Besides this blog, I had yet to take on a personal writing project.

I think in words – filtering almost every experience through the grid of how I would string letters together to create something meaningful to describe it.

How would this scenario play out?

What would this person do?

That person?

I did what any aspiring writer would do in my situation, and Googled local writing groups – I hoped to find something near me, and people – to help me in my new endeavor. I found several that fit the bill, arriving on a Tuesday evening clad in my standard jeans and T-shirt – yes high heels are required uniform for me– just to give you a picture.

When I die, I hope no one ever says, ‘he was such a nice guy.’

I had reconnected with an old friend and we were discussing the complexity of relationships over plates of tacos (so essentially, it was a perfect night for me).

The hearts of men have been on my mind quite a bit recently. As this thing grows and expands and it’s reach becomes out of my grasp, I’m getting more feedback. About half of that comes from men. The men are sending me ideas for guest posts, they are sharing my work with their peers and private Facebook groups. They want more and they want to talk about their hearts and relationships.

Last week, I wrote about Why Your Wife is So Mad. I’ll be honest, it irritated some people (and it wasn’t your wife). It was called feminist BS, among other things. Funny, as I’ve never really considered myself a feminist necessarily. Meaning, I’m not pro-female as much as I’m pro-people and pro- healthy relationships. And pro- deal with your stuff so you can be a better human -kind of gal. So, if that makes me a feminist bullshitter, then um, ok I guess.

But I digress:

Ok guys, this one’s for you.

I get a lot of mail and comments from men who struggle in their marriages or have recently gotten divorced. These guys are looking for material, groups, and the like focusing on their needs during relational turmoil. I tell them I can’t really speak to all of that, because I’m not a guy. They express severe lack of resource, both online and in a general understanding within our population – I can’t disagree.

Universal truths about relationship are essentially gender neutral. I can see thier point. But still, I’m not a guy.

So…Let’s unpack this and get real.

It was a night of intimate gathering. The holidays are filled with nights of intimate gatherings. Within the span of my 90-minute appearance the group had made fun of handicapped people, questioned Obama’s birth heritage and ridiculed and minimized a community member on the autism spectrum. I stood as an outsider in the conversation, simply watching. Nervous laughter came and went as we waited for the buzz of the second, third, fourth (?) drink to kick in and take the sting off the social anxiety hovering slightly above eye level. It seems we all need a drink to take the edge off – I stopped drinking a long time ago.

The people are protesting. The people are pissed – except for half the people. Half the people are elated. Half the people feel justified. The other half feel scorned. Half the people didn’t even show up.Sometimes in life, you’re lucky if half the people even show up.I hate politics. Holding firm to a personal belief that the only way to effect real change is not through government, but through the hearts of the people.

There’s a new girl at the gym. I’ve known her for years really, but she’s new to that space in my life. She’s what I’d call a loose acquaintance. The other day, I noticed she stopped talking to me – saying hello and the like – the times I’ve approached her, she seems distant, like I’m bothering her. We’ve all been there. Is it me? Is it her? What is going on here?

It started in middle school. Science class was held in a portable outside and it became a game for one boy to grab my *ss as we walked there each day. The next year, another great game was created when a different boy would pull me into the band closet and try to kiss me while his friends held the door. Every year, it was my great pleasure to be greeted by the PE teacher as I emerged from the locker room after dressing out, “would you like fries to go with that shake?” he would ask as he watched my friends and me head down to the school field.

I’m worried, I say – I’m concerned because we’ve been on antidepressants for over a year now and she’s still depressed.

“Of course she’s depressed.”We’d found a new therapist, one who is working with new techniques. These techniques have worked with other kids – we are hopeful.“Every day is hard for her – everything she does, everywhere she goes it is too bright or too loud or not loud enough. It takes all she’s got to just get through the day. She has a right to be a little depressed. I would be worried if she was not a little depressed.”

Her boss was angry. He wanted her to begin planting the seeds to a co-worker about the eventual phasing out of her job. When she refused to do so, the treatment was harsh and his abuse became focused on her. Suddenly, she could do no right.His wife was angry. It seemed like he could do nothing to please her. Most days she blew up his phone with angry texts in order to get him to do what she wanted. ‘If you were worth anything.. .’ ‘If you cared at all.. .’ ‘If you ever leave me, I’ll make your life a living hell.’ All the while, they served on the local church council and were members of the best clubs in town – they were modeling the perfect family. This was going to be a long life.

A few years ago, I cut the cord. (This means I don’t have cable - or satellite TV.) I don’t miss it really unless an awards show or major sporting event happens. Then I’m forced to go elsewhere to watch said event. Since I’m a total homebody, ‘going elsewhere’ usually looks like reading about what happened online the next day because of course; there is no TV news.