Daily Archives: October 27, 2012

Tales From the Pole: One of My Proudest Moments As a Stripper

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I’ve been so incredibly serious and dark in all of my posts over the last few weeks.  I’ve been down…I can’t fool you guys.  But you should know that I am one of the most random people you will ever meet. 

Have you ever been walking down the street or through a crowded mall…alone…and all of the sudden your mind if filled with thoughts of something so hysterical that you just begin to howl  in unconstrained laughter?  Oh you try so hard to hide it, but some wild thought has taken over your brain and you’re done for. 

You know you looked as crazy as a shit house rat to all the people you walked by.  You know that your maniacal, seemingly unprompted laughter caused people to question “what the voices were saying to you” and wondering what incompetent doctor was supposed to be managing your meds.  It happens to me all the time.  It’s not cool and it’s rarely convenient, but it sure does happen.

Granted, I have to give props to all the crazy people in the world.  I mean, don’t they mix it up a little bit for us?  I personally appreciate crazy people.  I think the world would just be plain dull without the deranged.  I mean, how entertaining is it hear someone talk to themself…or even argue with themself.  I personally like the people who swat at flies that aren’t really there.

Plus, and you’ve got to admit this…  Sometimes, deep inside, you think you might be a little bit “cray” too.  Now you might not be like me…you might not openly admit it.  But I’m brave.  I’ll go on record to say that I question my sanity like almost every single day.

When I encounter someone who is truly off their rocker, I pray for them.  Then, I inhale and exhale slowly and intently as I bask in the fact that even though I may be a little bit loco… I’m surely not as crazy as that dude over there. 

Now when I was a stripper, I took crazy to some whole other levels.  However, I did it with style, flair, and unyielding creativity.  I think I made erratic, unbalanced behavior look good. 

Now I was mean when I was a teenager, but by the time I was struttin’ under the lights of main stage in my 6-inch slut slippers I can say that I had truly evolved into a kinder, gentler person.  I guess being a stripper softened this gals heart up more than a little bit. 

I would never harm a fly, but if you harmed one of my people…or if you degraded me, you had better watch your back, because I assure you, that no matter your financial stature, no matter your size…you were gonna get it.

Now you see, much to the dismay of the general public, some of the nicest people I have ever met I met in a strip club.  On average, most were lonely regulars who just wanted a friend and someone to talk to.  Friday and Saturday nights kind of sucked though, because we’d draw a younger crowd.  They were what I referred to as the “Bachelor Party Crowd”.  This crowd sucked because they came out in droves.  My club would be packed wall-to-wall but these young bucks didn’t spend the money that the older gentlemen did. 

Audaciously, these young punks were of the mindset that they were too hot to ever have to pay a woman for anything.  But I mean, really dipshits?  I used to make small talk with these guys and ask them what they did for a living.  They’d proudly tell me.  I’d say, “Oh yeah?  Do you get paid for that or anything?”  They would look at me like I rode the short bus all my life and say, “Well, yeah.”  Then I’d say, “Well haha, bitch.  This is MY work and when I come here I get paid.”  They usually got the point, but overall these pompous imbeciles would expect a high-end entertainer like me to do “somethin’ strange for some change“.  I didn’t like it when these punks would come at me with a single, dollar bill folded perfectly down the middle.  What did they expect to get for that?  I mean, we’re talking about 4 quarters here.

Overall though, the men treated me with genuine kindness and respect.  The exceptions to the rule would be some of the Dallas Cowboys who were winning superbowls during the early nineties.  Actually, most of them were cool to me, except one.  I don’t throw out names, but this guy made a name for himself when he hooked up with one of my girlfriends and a few 8-balls of cocaine in a hotel room one night.  That had an interesting outcome!  My friend’s boyfriend was a Dallas cop and ended up getting fired  and catching some serious charges for putting out a hit on this jackass NFL player. 

But the worst guy I ever met will go down in the chronicles of stripper history as far as I’m concerned.  He was a recruiter for a porn company.  He was fairly young and edgy looking.  Of course, I was unaffected.  My man was a competitive body builder and a male stripper at the hottest ladies club in the Dallas! (lol)  Anyway, when I asked for this dude’s name, he told me his name was, “Free.” 

When I tell you that this guy was a colossal douche bag, you have to believe me.  If you looked up the term “doucher” on Google Images, I feel certain that this guy’s mug would show up as the top search result.

He was cocky and arrogant as hell.  For what reason, I have no idea.  I guess he thought we stripper chicks dug that kind of stuff.  We didn’t.  I remember he was sitting at the center table, right in front of main stage.  He wasn’t tipping anyone

I handled “Free” just like any other patron that I came across in the club.  He did not impress me in the least and I wanted him to give up his cash.  Before I boldly and courageously went in for the kill, I tried a little ice-breaker to warm him up and prepare his vile, little heart to give Mama some “paper”.  I said, “Hey, I could really use a drink right now, Baby.”  This reprobate looked me dead in the eye and said, with a demeaning, domineering glare, “YOU get me a drink.”  He was insistent and homeboy was feelin’ real sure of himself. 

Was I hallucinating, did a dude just come into “my” club and order “me” to buy “him” a drink?  Yep, I think he did.  So what did I do?  Well, of course, I asked the gentleman what he was drinking.

He replied, like I was his bitch.  He didn’t say please or thank you.  You could tell this dude thought he was the shiz.  “Glenlivet,” demanded this weasel.  “I’d love to get you a drink”…  I mean it, I wouldn’t miss a chance to buy a REAL L.A porn recruiter named “Free” a shot of his favorite scotch, right?  Well, it was sorta like that.  And so, I slipped off to the dressing room to get some money.

Back then the shots were $7 or $8 bucks.  There was no way that I was spending more than a dollar on this scumbag.  He had been a real asshole to some of the other girls, so I cut some of my closest gal pals a real fine deal that night.  I would need to collect a dollar from at least 6 or 7 of them if they wanted to “help” me get our distinguished patron his scotch.  I collected, the money and proceeded to the bar where my favorite bartender, a superfly Greek named Demetri was posted up.  He was my dog.

Demetri poured that shot for me… Oh yes he did.  Then guess where my black-patent, leather, platform boots took me next?  Well, it wasn’t straight over to deliver “Free” his drink.  As a matter of fact, it was to the ladies restroom.

Now to me, the shit this man was drinking smelled like flammable urine that had been sitting in a stagnant pool of waste at the bottom of one of those dreadful porta pottys… It stunk! It reminded me of a stank, abandoned urinal…or better yet of the nasty Turkish toilet that I was forced to squat over once on a ferry-boat off the coast of Greece.

I decided that since his scotch smelled like piss, he would scarcely noticed if I poured half of that shot out in the toilet.  I did.  Then I voided my bladder right into his cocktail, making certain to bring it right back up to its original fill line.  I smelled the aromatic mixture of scotch and my piss and everything just lovely to me.  In no time I was able to “serve” our visiting dignitary the drink that he had ordered me to purchase for him.  And I did it with a smile

But to my horror, that reprobate glared at me right straight in the eye.  He pushed the drink away from him and over to me.  He said, “You drink it.”  He was the devil!!!

Oh my God!  Oh my God!  Luckily, I have a bit of acting in my background.  I improvised.  I turned up my nose and looked at him like he had just lost his mind.  I firmly responded–quite indignantly and  very haughty–“Hell no.  I would never drink that.  It smells like piss to me!”  Once more this degenerate would glare deeply into my soul.  Next, he would pause for a long, tension-building silence.  I thought I had been made.  Then with his porn industry swagger and a thunderous eruption of gall and bravado, he slammed that drink back.  Oh friends, he slammed it back good!

Bottoms up, Biatch!!!

He made this kind of, “Ahhh” sound.  It was like he wanted so badly to be cool and utter the word, “smooooooth.”  You know?  Like the wimpy guys do in the movies before they lose their breath and begin gasping for air.

“Free” would not actually lose his ability to breath that night as he unknowingly threw back his shooter of scotch and golden water.  He took it like a man…

After I served my guest his beverage I politely excused myself.  As it turned out “Free” might have gotten some sort of wicked buzz off my wicked whiz.  If you can believe it, the dude became more abusive to the girls when I left.  He clearly thought we were whores.  He clearly thought of women as objects that he could exploit.  He tried to degrade some of the other girls and was hassling the dancers beyond anything that was tolerable.  Friends, “Free” was a very, very bad man.  I don’t think he knew Jesus.

“Free” was gently escorted out by two REALLY big bouncers that night.  Although he came in vertically with all that swag, he left horizontally with no swag to speak of?  What had happened to “Free’s” swagger that night?  

Even though “Free” had been kindly shown to the door, I didn’t get a chance to miss him much after his sudden departure.  Consequently if I wanted to remember Mr. “Free”, all I had to do was walk over to the entry doors.  Apparently “Free” suffered a  minor head injury during his graceful exit, because he sure did leave behind some pretty sizable blood stains on our entry doors.  Oops.

Hey “Free”.  Don’t mess with Texas, Baby!  And, never, ever mess with a stripper…  (Now that boy should have just known better!)

God Bless the Child…

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Beloved,

I have been totally absent from WordPress as of late.  The truth is, I have been totally absent from life as of late.  And for the love of God, I honestly started  this blog to inspire people and help them find healing!  That’s what my vision was. And  so lo and behold, would you look at what’s happened?  It’s been all about me.  It’s been YOU that have constantly encouraged and inspired me.  It’s like this:

One day Jesus was teaching, and Pharisees (bastards…ooops!) and teachers of the law were sitting there. They had come from every village of Galilee and from Judea and Jerusalem. And the power of the Lord was with Jesus to heal the sick. Some men came carrying a paralyzed man on a mat and tried to take him into the house to lay him before Jesus. When they could not find a way to do this because of the crowd, they went up on the roof and lowered him on his mat through the tiles into the middle of the crowd, right in front of Jesus.  -Luke 5:17-19

You see, that’s me…the sick one; the paralyzed one.  I’ve got some pretty phenomenal, devoted friends (like you) who have been carrying my mat for a while now.  While I am so thankful to have that kind of love in my life, I am starting to feel kind of shitty and ashamed.  I don’t want anyone to have to carry my mat anymore.  I really don’t.  I want to be able to carry my own and I want to carry yours, for a change.

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I’m having a rough time right now.  Not surprised, are ya?  It’s the same song I’ve been singing for a little while now…  My circumstances have been hard to bear, but Sunday evening, something happened that truly devastated me to the core, something I’ll write about later.    This week our cell phones were shut off, my power was shut off, and my car has been grounded with nary a drop of gasoline in it.  I got my food stamps this week, so Praise God, we have food to eat, but mind you, I feel like insane white trash every time I swipe that card.  I’m so embarrassed.  Today, I had to borrow a large sum of money from one of my oldest and dearest friends to get “one” of the medications that I’m out of.  And while I’m bitching about everything else, I might as well tell you that I’ve run out of clean underwear and have been going commando for two solid days.  

Now while all of that was the gospel truth, I have to be honest with you.  I don’t want you feeling sorry for me, friend.  What you absolutely have to know if that Ava Elizabeth Wisdom is by no means a victim.  A victim is an innocent person who bad things just happen to.  The victim doesn’t choose to be a victim…it’s out of the realm of their control.

I am not a victim by any stretch of the imagination.  Granted, my childhood sucked ass, like countless other people’s have, but I have to be real with you and confess that I’ve made far to many bad choices in my lifetime.  Most of those choices were made out of pain I didn’t understand and a secret, yet overwhelming desperation to be loved…but there came a time in my life where I knew right from wrong and chose wrong anyway.  

I guess you could say I have always been an experiential learner.  I used to never listen to wise counsel.  I was a rebel to the core, always hiding behind my furious, unbridled anger.  I was hellbent to feel something real…even it was only agonizing emotional pain.  

As a kid I had been violently ignored, ridiculed, and rejected by someone whose affection, approval, and attention I now realize I needed as much as I needed food and water at the time.  However, and I am truly ashamed to report this now, “I think I was pretty successful at making him pay the price for the years of hurt I endured.”  Mind you, I swear to God that I didn’t ever want to hurt him the way he hurt me (or my mom)… not then and not now could I live with myself if I ever (knowingly) hurt that man.  But I will say, I tore his ass up pretty good when I came barreling into my teenage years like a meth-induced bat out of Hades.    Holy God Almighty!  I was the worst, most impossible teenager in the entire world.  Historically, I don’t think anyone in all of North America could have ever compared to me.  Come to think of it, I don’t imagine South America or Africa could have held a candle to me either.

Now in my defense, I do believe want to go on record here and say that I wholeheartedly subscribe to the epistemological theory of tabula rasa.  Notwithstanding, of course, the powerful role that genetics play in our lives.  I do think that we are products of both nature and nurture.  But riddle me this, Batman…

Journey with me for just a minute to the land of make-believe.  Let’s pretend a child is born with a fully-functioning brain (God knows I was not!).  No pathology exists in this child’s brain…  Grandpa wasn’t an alcoholic and didn’t wasn’t out chasin’ women in the honky-tonks, Mom wasn’t bipolar, schizophrenic, nor did she have a history of panic attacks, or the slightest trace of Borderline Personality Disorder…  Daddy hadn’t done  any time in the pen for cooking up bathtub crank either … No family history of pedophilia, and no one’s great-great-great-great grandmother worked a whore in a brothel.  You hear me?  This kid’s brain is legit.  There are no genetic defects.  So, fundamentally, we’re talking about  a quintessential, genetic apotheosis here… (we’re still pretending)

So suppose that  a child is born with this remarkable brain and that she has no genetic predispositions to anything other than

1) Prolific beauty

2)Wicked intelligence…and

3) The disposition of Mother Teresa (mixed with a the slightest bit of my modern-day charisma and savoir faire-Just kidding!).  

Imagine, that someone had this perfect brain.  Now let’s shift gears a bit, shall we?

Imagine that, even though this darling creature is genetically perfect in every way, her mother becomes unhappy with the progression of her potty training and decides to glue her hands to a wall…and beat her…almost to the edge of death (we’re not pretending anymore).

So what about that?  And while we know that there is most likely no chance of the existence of the aforementioned brain that I dreamed up just now, genetically speaking, we do know  FOR CERTAIN that recently, 23-year Elizabeth Escalona, beat her baby girl so severely that there wasn’t a spot on her tiny little body that wasn’t bruised or bleeding.  She pulverized her little girl until the child entered a coma.  Mind you, this didn’t happen in Liechtenstein, Mozambique, or in the South Sandwich Islands that lie off the coast of  freaking Antarctica.  No.  It happened about 30 miles from my home in Dallas, Texas.

I TRUST God to provide SOME sort of healing to this beautiful, precious little girl…  But come on.  How will her little, human heart ever understand or make sense of the fact that her own mother hurt her like this.  

Friends I am very verbose.  As you may have noted by now, I am never at a loss for words.  But what happened to this little girl…  Well, I’ve got the words to talk about what happened…  It’s just that for once I am using what little self-discipline I possess to not write about this more than I have already.  Truly, I want you to know that I have played this scenario out in my head, far too many times.  I am a very visual person and I am also wildly analytic.  

All things considered, let’s just say that my mind has considered all things in regards to this little girl’s case.  I am aghast.  I am veritably horrified and afraid to let my children walk out of my front door.  What kind of depraved world do we live in, people?  What mind could even contrive such an atrocity.  Moreover, what monstrous soul could carry a thing like this out.  

Here’s the thing.  “Glue doesn’t dry instantly.”  It would have taken more than a minute for the glue to dry.  That’s all I’m going to say about that.  If you choose to follow my haunting, gruesome train of thought then I’ll let you go there without any help from me.  I’m just saying, the mother didn’t just snap.  Too much time elapsed to say this wasn’t premeditated, at least in some minute way.

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Now, back to the notion of tabula rasa.  You should know that I do think genetic factors play a substantial role into the development of a human being but I emphatically lean way more toward the nurture side of the nature vs. nurture debate.  I believe that children-being perfect, innocent gifts from God-are born with a relatively blank state.  It’s also worth mentioning that I was a Psychology major in college.  I’ve studied this issue to no end and hold firm to my beliefs.

Children come to us as these magnificent, blank canvases.  I love that about them.  Children captivate me.  I love them more than life itself.  Their pure, unfettered view of the world and their simple, but sometimes magical expressions of faith rock me to my core.  And have you ever noticed that a child will never debate you on the existence of God?  Never.  They’re wired to believe in what they can’t see nor even begin to understand.  Of course, I think kids are incredibly connected with supernatural things…and the Divine.  They just believe…   It’s magical to witness the faith of a child.  

With that, I don’t mind shifting my gears a bit and letting you know that I’m mad as hell right now.  I’ve been mad as hell for days.  Perhaps, you haven’t sensed my anger up to now… But don’t be fooled.  My lips have been clinched for days and I’m ready to fight.  I’m not kidding, I’m really angry and really on edge right now. I’m sick and freakin’ tired of the maladies that exist in our fallen world and I’m even more tired of the effect that they have on our children.  And at the risk of sounding like a crybaby pee-pee pants, I’m really pissed off about the things that happened to me when I was a child.  It wasn’t fair.  And I still have to fight tooth and nail every day to maintain my sanity and to give my kids any kind of normal life.  I’m bitter about that.  I just feel like things are coming into perspective for me and I am starting to see things for what they are.  

I’m not going to write about this now (I will later) but I got into a bar fight on Sunday.  I’ve never done something like this.  Something happened…something I can’t talk about now.  Long story short, this big ol’ , manly gal, who truly looked like Beth, Dog the Bounty Hunter’s wife was bullying me.  I was devastated about something that had just happened and she was there to make a complete fool of me and capitalize on my pain.  Now, I’m not a big girl by any stretch of the imagination.  And yes, I was wearing an argyle sweater, some skinny jeans, a cute little headband, and some gold metallic ballerina flats…  It was a biker bar and I suppose I stuck out like a sore thumb, particularly as tears were streaming down my face.  So Big Mama got up in my grill.  I mean, y’all, she really got up in my grill.  

NOTE TO SELF: Think before you engage in hand-to-hand combat! 

She was cursing at me and then I guess she shoved me really hard in my chest.  After she made contact with me… After she put her damn hands on me, it was over.  I was like a Pitbull on PCP with a side of bath salts.  It took several men to break up the brawl.  It’s like all my fury just showed up all at once.  I was told her face was messed up after the incident.  I mean, I didn’t break her nose or anything like that, but I did put a pretty good smack-down on the old broad which was, I think, was a complete shocker to everyone who looked on. Mind you, I hadn’t had a single sip of alcohol.  As a matter of fact, I had just got up from a little nap.  But when she hit me,  I felt like an untamed beast.  I am super lucky because 1) I didn’t have so much as a scratch on me, and 2) I was merely thrown out of the bar and the police weren’t called.  I would have definitely gone to jail if the police had been called.  God was really looking out for me…  Lesson learned, Ava.  

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On a softer less Hell’s Angels-like note, the picture below is me at my 2nd birthday party.  In this picture you can tell I was blissfully happy.  I was living out my little slice of Camelot but I didn’t know it at the time.  All the world was as it should have been for me.  You can’t fake a smile like that!   Who could have known that my perfect little world was about to change forever?  Who could have predicted that the Utopian bubble that I had been flourishing in was going to rupture in less than one year?

Friend, take a second to study my little face.  I was so innocent.  I was so pure.  In overwhelming contrast of how I am today, I was very quiet.  I was also very dainty and delicate.  I was shy and incredibly modest.  Not so much like the career stripper I’d later become.  I guess I always did know how to work a crowd at a birthday party!

   

Nowadays, there are people I know who’d swear that I actually possess a pair of testicles.  I can neither confirm nor deny these suspicions.  What I can say though is that “if I did“, you can bet that they’d be mammoth in size.

I want to make jokes and laugh the heartache away but the truth is, I grieve for the little girl in the picture above…as if she weren’t me at all.  She’s so far gone now, but I remember her.  I remember that she wanted to actually be Wonder Woman.  I remember that when her sisters took a nap-every day-that she would run game with her mom, pretending to be napping too…  In reality she’d quietly go into her room, close the door behind her, and go straight to the bottom drawer of her nightstand.  That bottom drawer contained an exorbitant amount of the most amazing make-up you’d ever bear witness to.  

It was with that make-up that she… “I” would daily transform myself into a beautiful, enchanting princess who had a life like the one I once knew.  A life before the isolation.  Sometimes I would pretend to be a lovely, graceful ballerina.  I would open the top to my cardboard music box and then emulate the little, plastic ballerina by spinning.  I’d spin around and around and around…  I don’t really remember where it was I would go in my head when I was little.  I just know that it was a place where I was happy.  It was a place where I was loved the way my grandmother and grandfather had loved me before my mom got remarried…back when my life was perfect…  Back when my dresses were adorned with like, 500 gazillion  jingle bells that were carefully sewn in just for me… Back when I was the center of my grandparent’s world and nothing else mattered.  

You see, my mom wasn’t able to take care of me when she first had me.  I suppose she was really young and she had  a lot of past hurts and traumas that she had to work through.   So, I lived with my grandparents.  I was the center of their entire existence.  And they were the center of mine…  

My biological father had split when his tenacious sperm cell burrowed its way into my mother’s unprotected egg.    Men tend to fall asleep after they blow their load (it’s actually called the refractory period) and I suspect that my biological dad could have dozed off during the early stages of my meiosis.  But of this I’m certain: the chromosomes hadn’t even had time to split and migrate to opposite ends of the nuclear envelope when that dude jetted and threw us the deuces and all but yelled out, “Peace out, biatches!!” People, I’m talking, the dude left the state to avoid being my dad.  

I wonder if he knew then that he was throwing me to the wolves.  If he had have known, would he have given a rat’s ass?  Nah.  Probably not.  He was a famous DJ in the Dallas area at the time; a hippie with a cult-like following of women.  I think my mother was outside of her damn mind getting involved with him!  He was a wealthy kid from a conservative, VERY Catholic family.  I guess they wouldn’t have mixed well with us.  

My grandaddy was a deacon in the Southern Baptist Church and my grandmother thought that people who raised their hands during worship were loco (I was raised thinking the term  Charismatic mean demonic or something).  She could have never gotten jiggy with confessionals, Hail Mary’s, and incense burning of any sort.  

And as far as I was concerned, the Virgin Mary was the coolest, most honorable chick on the planet.  It’s not like God would have ever chosen me to bear His only Son.  But dude, Mary was certainly all that.  I can’t wait to meet her when I come home to Heaven… But she was just a human.  I’m not going to pray to her.  Yeah, so I guess our families weren’t meant to blend.

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So back to my tabula rasa hoopla and ballyhoo…  I said all “that” so that I can reemphasize that I BELIEVE that  “I” was born a blank slate… a pure-white empty canvas.  I experienced things in my childhood that even those closest to me don’t know today.  But for fuck’s sake….WHY?  Why did these things happen to me when I was just a sweet, trusting, open-hearted little girl.  I’m so mad!  And I’m not feeling sorry for myself because the little girl who I’m defending doesn’t in any way feel like me.  I don’t know where she ended and I began.  

Now you’ve experiencing a lot of unfocused, overly emotional, senseless rambling up until this point.  Hang with me.  If you blew through this post praying that it would end, “That’s OK”.  If you don’t hear anything, hear the rest of this, please.

ALL of the unholy shit that I experienced is NOTHING compared to what some of these other children are going through RIGHT now.  My childhood was marred and maimed by pain, rejection, and abandonment.  However, the reality that I must face is that my life was a freakin’ Marti Gras compared to some of these babies out there in the world right now.  And don’t think they’re far away from you.  The child next door to you could be going through hell right now and you might never know it.

Oh my God!  I want to scream!  I want to kick the living shit out of that mean and nasty bar whore again and I want to scream at the top of my lungs!

I know I can’t go back and save myself, but oh God, I CAN do something for them.  I can help a hurting child today.  It’s so easy to do.  

So (at long last) I end by saying, “God bless the child…”  God bless the child who is suffering in silence.  God bless the child who is alone; that invisible little soul.  God bless the child who is injured or molested by the hands that are supposed to love and protect her.  God bless the child who cries alone in the dark.  God bless the child who is terrified and completely overcome with fear.  God bless the child who doesn’t have enough food to eat.  God bless the child who is cold tonight.  And God bless the child who is only 8-years old and is feeling the weight of being the protector and head of his household because his dad left!  God bless the child…  

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You know, I think to myself, even Adolf Hitler was a baby at one time.  I don’t care what anyone says, he was not born with a bloodthirsty aptitude and a desire to kill millions of innocent people.  I will argue that with anyone all day long.  

What if his early years were different somehow?  Mind you, I’m not saying that he wasn’t a monster as an adult.  There is this invisible line when your childhood ends and your adulthood beings.  That age is different for each and every one of us I suppose.  I think it’s the moment that you consciously accept who you are and what’s happened to you…to the child you once were.  That’s healthy.  But NEVER is it healthy to just accept your circumstances like a punk bitch and say, “It is what it is.  This is just the card that life dealt me.”  Hell no.  That’s not what you do.  You FIGHT…. you FIGHT to get back what was unfairly taken from you.

Look, I’ve come to realize that as much as I hurt for the little girl who was once me…there’s not a damn thing I can do to change the past.  I can’t build a time machine and travel back through the years and stop anything that happened nor can I protect myself,  my sisters, or my Mom.  I would have already done that if it were possible.  

But even though I’m getting old I have learned something profound.  Some would say my epiphanies have come too late in life.  After all, in my head I believe that I am on the cusp of menopause.  Plus, not that long ago I literally had to pull a coarse, gray whisker from my face…  

Anyway, in all seriousness, here’s the message of my heart: While I can’t go back and heal my own heart… And while I can’t go back and save the innocent little girl that I was once was, I can still find complete healing and experience total reformation with the help of my Lord and Savior.  Do you know how?  By loving kids today…  By loving all of them emphatically, like my very life depends on it.  I suppose in a way it does.

I have a particular calling and some crazy gift with emotionally disturbed, broken teenagers.  I can affect so much change in their lives.  I know because I’ve done it.  But I’ve been so depressed and out of touch that I haven’t done it lately.  I’m changing that tomorrow….

What’s YOUR calling when it comes to children?  Your calling may be with boys… or maybe just with girls…  You may identify best with a particular age group.  But please listen to me… I literally beg each and every one of you to find just one child… Find just one child and pour out your love into one of their darling little lives.  

If you’re a man, PLEASE hear me.  I believe that the obvious demise in the state of our nation has everything to do with the breakdown of the traditional, American family.  In Rick Warren’s book, “The Purpose Driven Life,” I remember vaguely that he said that love was spelled like this: T-I-M-E.   How do we expect a large majority of our fatherless children to lead anyone or anything when they simply have no leaders in their lives to model?  And don’t any of you overzealous single mom’s get up in my grill and start telling me that your kids are fine without a dad.  Bullshit.  I’m tough as nails and I love my kids with a burning, fervent passion.  I have tried to be everything to my boys.  But there is one thing I cannot seem to be: their DAD.

As males and females we each bring unique attributes to the table when it comes to parenting our children.  But we are different.  God did not create a woman to raise her children alone.  Conversely, God didn’t create a man to raise his children alone either.  We need each other   More than anything, our kids need us.  

If you’re like me, you can’t change your circumstances.  I’d LOVE for a knight to ride up on a white horse and save me from the world.  Well, no such knight nor anyone clad in anything that remotely resembles any kind of armor or even aluminum foil has come to call.  Granted, I sleep with a box fan on, so I wouldn’t hear if he came at night.  But there’d at least be traces of horse dung or something.  Right?  He’d leave me a note?   Aye, aye, aye…. I joke, but the truth is, he’s never come.  And I can’t bank on the fact that he ever will.

But about these kids….DO SOMETHING.  Please.  Pray…give it to God.  Ask Him to bring a child into your life that needs you…  Who knows, friend… just the tiniest effort on your part may change their world forever and ever and ever.  It’s easy to love your own children.  But I dare you to branch out and find a child who you didn’t know existed.  Pour out some of that love you have…  I PROMISE you that, even though, you may change a life, YOUR life will be the life that is transformed.

All my love,

Ava

PS….To Arlene, I’m sorry if the curse words burned your eyes.  To Diane, I know you get it…  Now talk to Arlene for me!  LOL!