FLASHFlood 2010: WEareNashville

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The Leaveless Plant

The Leaveless Plant

by Cody Gambill

© 2006

I am a plant without any roots

I bring no syrup I bear no fruits

I am not much to look at without any flowers

All I do is sit and stare for hours

Every so often I wander off to find a new spot

Feeling no attachment to anything I’ve got

Every time I move I lose a leaf or two

But no one will notice because here I am new

After moving a while I look down to see

How oblivious I am to my nudity

All of my moving has shaken me bare

Embarrassed and all I ignore the stares

But the more I think the better I feel

Because the leaves from me provided a meal

So I am important like all on this earth

Think I’ll settle down and show this world what I’m worth

-Cody Gambill

8-25-2006

Babies Raising Babies

--------ORIGINAL MESSAGE--------
From: T.A. James
Sent: 2008-01-29 23:12:09
Subject: Message from T.A. James
IN RESPONSE TO: A VOICE FOR THE VOICELESS

A Voice for the Voiceless

 Read More... 

Do you really want to know what happens to children in state custody once they turn 18? This article addresses the problems associated with transitioning youth out of Child Services and into adulthood. 

 

I love your article "A Voice for the Voiceless,” keep up the great work in bringing attention to the not too stable system impact on children even to the age of what's considered adulthood.

————————————————————————————

Thank you so much for your words of encouragement!

I was voiceless once myself-- but keep checking my site—but decided around New Years and my 35th birthday that I was silent WAY too long and decided to start putting a few pieces of myself out there…

I guess at this point in my life-- I have realized that people need to know that abuse can happen anywhere to anyone even to children "like myself" (a high school drop-out turned Ivy League graduate) should not be discounted.

Born to a wealthy, Jewish family with what appeared to be the perfect breeding ground for success— I found myself on my own at 15. At 22 I learned that my child custody and support orders had been “respectfully” terminated by the courts— and there it was. Just me. No money, no place to go, and a father who is famous for his legal maneuverings and handiwork— however unethical it may be.

People just did not get it. For years. Most probably never will. I still have days where I wonder what I did to make them hate me so much that they would allow me to live with so little— homelessness, penniless, and suffering with an extremely painful medical condition at such a young age; while they have so much.

Millions, in fact. Millions on top of millions. Nevertheless, it happens— even in “political,” beautiful, wealthy, overeducated families like the one my mother still pretends to live in. Just last night, in tears, I asked my sister, an Ivy educated attorney who lives without the burden of student loans collection agencies, and medical bills that must be paid before I can even dream of putting the trauma of knowing that I simply was not important enough to be supported financially, emotionally, or medically.

You see the money was there— the desire to spend it on a mouthy teenager was not. So my case was unprecedented— and though Pennsylvania Act 62 and Blue v. Blue made it to the Supreme Court— I will never see the inside of a courtroom despite the overwhelming evidence (and ruling from the Insurance Department and the Department of Public Welfare that I did in fact have enforceable rights— if not as a child, as a so-called beneficiary on a faulty tax return and three health insurance policies that I could not use.

Yes, there were civil penalties I could have collected, but when your father is one of the most prominent attorneys in the region and the Judge who presided over the termination order— finding representation was near impossible. My mother signed away my rights and my future when I was only 15— I sometimes wonder what I could have done differently to make them care enough to see that my basic needs were met.

However, this was not about needs, this was about power, control, and a profound oversight from every single court and agency I contacted for help. My parents underestimated me. Then again— I underestimated myself too. I think my father would regret terminating my child support order — and in effect— my childhood— if he could see me today. He might even feel a little bit proud to know that I made it on my own and I have managed to make it this long without a dime from any of his offshore accounts.

And if could he could see inside my heart— maybe he would even want to know me or undo some of the actions that have left me broken but beautiful inside and out.

I wish he could see me right now. Who I am, who I have become, and how much I have lost living in the past. Me without the pain— without the memories— and without the questions. Without the debt. Without the shame. Without the shame and guilt, without being a burden on my family or the financial burden I clearly am to society….

I may find my way without my natural born family— but the further I move away, the closer they seem….

I know in my heart that I need to tell this story so no one will ever experience such total devastation due to ignorance of the law— or fear I feel when I think of the future.

Constantly wonder how we can turn our back on any child— but I need to know how they could turn their backs on me.

I am too old too be worried that I might be discovered for the "throw-away" child I once was.

Miss Desiree and Baby Niya

I have battled for years with shame over my lost years (you know, the ones that keep me awake at night and on my toes when I meet someone new; search the internet; or find myself trapped in a place— a memory that I can never truly escape. The words never fade, the wounds never heal, but I have hope that my experience and my voice will bring services (not just comfort and compassion) but compel people to ACT!

Somewhere between the child I never was and the person I am today… I developed skills. Not just fuzzy words and warm sentiments— but I actually learned how to get what I needed. But sadly, for me, it was too late. I have the basics— for the most part— I can get anybody from here to there, so why then can’t I do it for myself?

Thanks for the encouragement-- I was so afraid that I might compromise my professionalism or my ability to be taken seriously if people knew the truth about my past-- but your words and others who have seen what I am working on give me so much strength that I can channel into my work, and the children I encounter each day.

I was reluctant at first to publish that piece because I was afraid that people may see it as transparent and know that I am really telling my own story-- but the response has been so heartwarming that it almost makes up for the silent years where all I had were my journals, my truth, and myself.

Thank you again so very much-- I cried early this morning over the past, but I thank you for giving me the strength to go forward with the rest of my day as the person I knew in my heart I could become. I am revising something I wrote a few years ago that I think you might enjoy-- my story. No holding back-- and maybe one of these days, I'll have the confidence and the courage to post it online, but for now, I think you may also enjoy you may enjoy "Good Fences."

Have a wonderful day and do not forget -- it only takes ONE person to give a child the strength they need to overcome the impossible. For me that person was my graduate school advisor but today that person is you!

My Adviser, and saving grace was Bob Crain-- professor of sociology and politics at Columbia University — and though he is best known best known for his work on the study that became famous for the title "There are no children here," he showed me that I had much more to offer than just a pretty smile.

While I was struggling with PTSD long after I left “home” he always made me feel as though I was more than what the custody papers said— and helped me to find a way to use my past, my pain, and my childhood/adolescent experience to navigate a course that seemed most unlikely and impossible alone.

I took that book title, “There Are No Children Here” and ran with it. Today you will see a sign posted outside my front door that reads, "There Are No Victims Here!"

Thanks T.A., my head is no longer in the past, and my tears have dried. I am ready for a new day— a new fight, and a new challenge.

Have a fabulous day and do not forget to remind someone in your life how they have made your day just a little bit brighter.

With sincere appreciation and gratitude,

ElyssaD

On The Verge of Reform... Tic Toc... 24 hours... TIC TOC #dead line

Finish the Reform Right

DAILY HEALTH CARE NEWS 1/28/2010


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Blaming the Victim Creates a Culture of Fear & Silence

Dear Mr. Editor:





Next time you plan to alter my work without consent, the least you could do is copy the title Verbatim!





Here's an even better idea: Don't bother printing my words if you intend to do is write them off.







Sexual assault and rape is vastly under-reported on this country. Want to know why? Read the subtitle!






The subtitle alone implies blame, stigma, and creates a level of detachment.  That type of desensitization is what allows people to look the other way and blame the victim.  This creates a culture of silence, fear, and indifference.


Community apathy is what leaves me wondering why I am completely invisible to everyone within a 60 mile radius of my home.  Not a single person seems to hear a word I am saying. 


I know they hear me.  I way too loud for anyone to pretend for second that they don't know who I am or why I am so sad and angry to be trapped in this big little city. 


No one should be invisible, and it concerns to live in a community that has demonstrated a total lack of empathy and compassion.  So yes, once again, my neighbors may hate me, blame me, or just plain pretend I don't exist.  Unless, of course they need something... the simple that I don't have anything to give.


Perhaps you made a profit of the publication of this article, just as the news story I sold for $1.00 a year ago made the publishes 47 times that amount. 


But I need a job.  I am invisible to everyone around me until they are confronted with their own crisis.   


By implying the assault I wrote about in "Good Fences" had anything to do with a mental health diagnosis, you have helped to contribute to stigma so that you could sell papers. 


Thanks, but no thanks. That just convinces me that you are no different from all the other mediawhores who use labels to exploit those who have already been marginalized by society.


more way people are victimized promote that piece in  your publication . It seems to me, that the perpetrator and the witness should have to answer for there actions rather than placing the blame on me, 


Is there anything I could have done to invite such a violent and personal atack in my own home?  Is there anything any woman, man, or child can do that justifies years of trauma, isolation an fear? 


Perhaps you should have commented on what kind of illness allows a man to watch a man use such force to put a woman of 122 lbs against the wall, his hands on a women without even lifting a finger to call 911.



Ever heard of Kitty Genovese? She was murdered as 38 people watched, yet not a single person called the police or did anything to help as she was brutally murdered in the city of New York. This is due to "Bystander Apathy" We often look to others for cues as to how to respond in a crisis.

Having been a both a witness and a victim, I decided that I would never look the other way. It would serve our communities well to adopt the same philosophy. Not only to create a more cohesive community, but a safer one as well.

When was the last time you called the police or filed a police report? We have criminalized and marginalized too many members of society. So where does it end?

I made a decision a long time that it would end with me. But if you were to ask me today, I might have a different answer.

Blaming the victim not only further stigmatized vulnerable populations, prevents witnesses and victims from coming forward to prevent and report criminal activity. It contributes to bystander apathy and prevents people from reporting crimes.

We already have enough problems putting rape victims on trial. As the editor of a publication dedicated to improving the lives of persons diagnosed with mental illness, I can see why you just went out of business. Good Riddance.

Maybe I'll start my own.

Sincerely yours,

Elyssa Durant, Ed.M.

Contributing Author

New York City Voices

[edited 11/17/2009]

Good Fences or Good Neighbors

What must my neighbors think? I am up all night and I sleep all day. I can only write with one pen, and I often leave my keys in the door. I am noisy and loud, and to make matters worse, I'm from New York.

I listen to one song on the radio over and over again. I take everything I own with me when I leave, and carry it back in when I get home. I am constantly tripping my own feet, and probably offend them with my politics, and I am not shy to say that President Bush looks like the Outbreak Monkey.

So my neighbors may not like me. But they don't know me. And they don't care. After being assaulted in my own home several years ago, I noticed my neighbor witnessing the event through his bedroom window. When questioned by the police regarding his failure to act, he simply told them, "Well, as far as I'm concerned, good fences make good neighbors. " Well, fuck him!

Do you know how scary it is to be alone in a strange city? Afraid to leave, and, afraid to go home? To live in your car because it was the better option? To come home one day and find everything and I mean everything you own was gone? Your birth certificate, your social security card, your grandmother's jewelry. Where would you start? Would you know what to do? Would you ever go back? Would you ever feel safe again in your own home? Anywhere?

Whom would you trust? Whom could you trust?

You could trust me. Because this is who I am.

My neighbors don't know that I spend my free time volunteering at the homeless shelter or by myself. They don't know that I spent most of my twenties in constant fear and physical pain. They don't know how it feels to live with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I became a prisoner of my own making. I live in fear. Fear of fire, fear of chemicals, fear of the dark. Fear of spending the rest of my life with this damn disease.

I need a map to find my keys, and once I do, I have lost my phone. I like my car. I can see everything coming towards me, and I can always get away. I like to write in my car. With one pen, and one song playing over and over again on the radio.

So as I accept the reality that I may never own property or have a place to call home, I can say with certainty that of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most!

You may not care how much I know, but you do not know how much I care.

Answering Voices from the Past...

Dearest Catherine,

Thank you for allowing us to into your world. You do not need to hide anymore. Please do not hide because you have a message of courage, bravery and oddly enough, a message of hope. I have been in this place-- a place of fear and self-doubt, and respect the courage it took for you to post such a revealing piece online for the world to see. The very act of posting this revealing poem for the world to see shows that you are a brave and honest individual who has already taken the necessary steps to move forward.

Please continue to share such insights because when you look back, you will remember this critical time of your life.

We can all learn from the power of your example— that honesty with yourself and those around you cannot, should not, and will not be silenced.

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/989652/battles_in_your_mind.html?cat=42


Your honest prose gives me hope and it gives me courage. The very act of placing this online for the world to see shows me that you are; in fact, conquering those fears and lending your voice to give others the strength they need to speak out-- despite the fact that we live in a world that is often judgmental and unforgiving.

Thank you for sharing a piece of yourself. Take pride in your work, take ownership of your accomplishments; and know that you deserve it!

I always give credit where credit is due… and you my friend deserve a helluva lot... for being the woman you are, a caregiver, a writer, amd though you would never claim to be a victim, the secondary trauma as a care giver is obvious, and your true colors come through when you think no one else is looking.... Beautifully broken, perhaps... but definitely beautiful.

Do not be afraid. You are not alone; and you made a difference in my life today. Thank you.

With love, appreciation, and gratitude.

Elyssa Durant
Nashville, TN