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entry.
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I
met with my state representative last week because I want to engage my community
in the events I have planned in the next few months and thought it was a good
time to get the political lay of the land.
Abigail
Salisbury represents fourteen municipalities, including part of the City of
Pittsburgh, with populations ranging from just under 14,000 in Wilkinsburg to
the tiny borough of Chalfant, which is occupied by 750 people.
One
of the first things she said to me was, “We must not fall into despair,” a take
on the quote from Just
Mercy author Bryan Stevenson, who said, “Hopelessness is the
enemy of justice.”
After
hearing what she deals with, I understand why it’s her mantra.
The
borough where I live currently has a 90% vacancy rate. A lot of the others
aren’t far behind. Blight is rampant. Braddock has received no state grant money
(for things like infrastructure, recycling, law enforcement and conservation) in
two years because we were without a borough manager for a year and that position
is responsible for writing grants.
One
of the wealthiest communities she represents is the only one who refuses to
participate in her inter-municipal meetings, gatherings that encourage
collaboration on issues like policing and policies that benefit all area
residents.
A
woman who resides in that community recently called to complain about the noise
from the pickleball court near her house. This on the heels of a woman from one
of the poorer boroughs asking her for $5 to feed herself until her food stamps
renewed.
I
don’t know how she does what she does. My patience for inefficiency and the
desire to maintain the status quo is nonexistent. And I have a difficult time
accepting entitlement born of ignorance.
This
is why I was never a waitress.
And
yet she persists. Even through the drama created by some of her legislative
cohorts right before the latest primary. This is the level of commitment needed
to facilitate change. That and the courage and patience to continue even though
the results are miniscule or invisible.
I’ve
been thinking about this in terms of the changes I’ve set out to make in my
life. How do you manage all the pieces – the parts that are well-off, those that
need some help, and the neglected? How do you get them to collaborate for the
good of the whole?
The
inter-municipal meeting in my head is always a free-for-all – individual pieces
of me arguing for what they think is best. What’s most important. Often with the
same results Abigail encounters. Not much consideration for the whole, only
their respective concerns.
When
my municipalities gather, finances bullies mental health, physical health and
almost everyone else. The shoulds (cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping) ride
roughshod over relaxation. The drive to make sure others have what they need
constantly battles relaxation.
Recently,
I discovered a neglected borough of mine when I picked up a book called
Main
Character Energy by Jamie Varon.
The
protagonist is a failed writer, her dream of writing mysteries and thrillers
derailed by financial realities and a brother, who out of the blue, picks up the
pen and becomes a NYT bestselling author. She toils away
at “Thought Buzz” writing click-bait headlines and articles designed to incite
war in the comment section, boost views and increase advertising
dollars.
Reading
the first fifty pages plunged a knife into my heart. But I couldn’t stop
reading. Yes, it’s well written, but the similarities to my own life had me
flipping the pages. No, I didn’t go get a “job,” when my dream of being a
successful author disintegrated nearly twenty years ago. Instead, I started
writing for other people – articles, marketing copy, public relations
materials.
2 days ago · 1 like ·
staci backauskas
This
decision was not conscious. I did it to pay the bills and convinced myself that
some writing was better than nothing. The realization that I abandoned that
dream cut deep. A rolodex of memories zipped through my mind, starting the
engine on an emotional roller coaster that lasted long after I put the book down
for the night.
I
couldn’t stop thinking about all the effort I put in to make that first novel
(and the second) a success. All of the bravado, the push to prove I’d made the
right decision by walking away from six figures and a Manhattan apartment. All
the masks I wore to get what I thought I wanted.
I
see now it was really a step in the individuation from the corporate culture I’d
lived in for years. Hustle. Earn it. Produce. There is no rest for the weary.
All of this rooted in capitalism that dictates how you must support yourself.
What is necessary to have the nicer things in life.
At
the time, I was merely doing what I knew.
Twenty-five
years later, I don’t have any brilliant answers. I’m still trying to figure it
out. I’ve done a lot of healing around beliefs and patterns that were
impediments to joy. I’ve discovered and embraced, for the most part, my
neurodivergence. I also know that I let the disappointment of an unfulfilled
“dream” deter me from using my creativity in a way that brings me the joy I get
from writing fiction.
I’ve
used my writing skills to educate, support and connect and I give myself credit
for the wonderful work I’ve done. But reading this book held a mirror to my
inter-municipal committee and made it clear that the quiet longings of my
creativity have been drowned out by the loud and demanding voices around it.
Like the woman asking for five dollars just so she can eat.
It’s
time to be brave, like Poppy in Main Character Energy. And
allow the desire to be creative, to write something that makes me smile inside,
be a priority again. And I’m terrified.
I’m
biting the inside of my mouth. Picking at cuticles. Unable to calm my mind at
bedtime. Signs that I don’t feel safe. This means that I need to calibrate
instead of diving in headfirst, as was my habit for years.
I’ve
taken my last ride on the see-saw of capitulation and rebellion born of
trauma.
The
next step is to revisit my alter-ego, Giletta Montrose, the lead of the novel
Where Fat Girls Haven’t Gone. She has such a bright light,
the ability to re-invent herself and the joie de vivre others have told me they
see in me yet remains hidden when I look in the mirror.
I’m
not exactly sure how this will happen, but I hope she can show me how to take
the blinders off. Guide me to really believe that it’s the process that matters,
not the result. Lead the way in creating more joy. More fun. And encourage me to
let my real self, naked underbelly and all, prance in front of whoever wants to
be a part of it.
I
trust she’s going to rock the next inter-municipal committee meeting.
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