You have to know that we really do love each other, but most of the members of my family are – (sigh) really weird (some of whom will actually admit to being weird – OK, I admit it – I’m weird, but so are all of us).

I know, we all SAY our families are weird, but I have proof that mine is. I won’t expose the entire family right away – it might be too much for you to handle, but I HAVE to expose at least one member of my family, my baby sister.

First a good point – she’s anal about everything, which makes her very neat. I know, the term, “everything” sounds vague, but when it comes to the way she wants things, she wants things to be THAT way, and that way only. For example, when my oldest daughter gave her a present 20 years ago, according to my daughter anyway, Kathy SCREAMED at her, “STOP BUYING ME GIFTS! I DON’T WANT GIFTS!”

Kathy doesn’t like clutter, and a gift means she has to find a place for it, something she doesn’t want to do, because no matter what the gift is, she considers it to be clutter. Kathy’s scream made quite an impression on my daughter and Keeley made a mental note to herself to NEVER give my sister a present – EVER. 

So this year, when Keeley made gifts for everyone else, she specifically did NOT make one for Kathy. I didn’t know that Keeley made gifts for everybody EXCEPT Kathy, though, and I also didn’t know that Kathy had made such a demand 20 years ago, so when I brought into my sister’s house the gifts that Keeley had given me to bring, I noticed that one of my sisters had no gift. 

I told my other sister, Cindy, and my mom that Keeley probably accidentally brought Kathy’s gift with her when she drove to visit other relatives. My mom, who probably didn’t want the gift either said, “That’s OK. Give Kathy mine.” She would get her gift from Keeley later. So when I talked to Keeley later that day, Keeley told me about the “conversation” that had taken place 20 years ago and gave me her reason for not giving Kathy a gift. 

Too late. Mom already gave her gift to Kathy and Mom went home, so I had to take the gift back from Kathy and remind Kathy about the demands she made 20 years before. Kathy remembered the conversation and told me she would give the gift back to Mom for me. 

Phew! 

Kathy was kind enough to let me spend Christmas night in her home, and when it was time for me to leave, she asked me if I wanted to bring any of the food home with me. Of course I would! So she packed up a plate for me and asked me if I wanted the olives too. I LOVE olives, so again, I said yes.

However…

Before I could scream, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” (I screamed it anyway) she had already mixed the black olives with the green olives.

For somebody who is so anal about everything, you would think she would know enough NOT to mix olives. But Kathy doesn’t like olives, so she cares nothing about anything olive-related. She probably doesn’t even use olive oil.

The other day, since I still had a bunch of olives left, I asked my great granddaughter, Ayla, if she would like one. My granddaughter, Sarah, said, “Yes, she does. She likes the black ones.” 

Too bad, because ALL of the olives now taste like green olives.

Final words: NEVER MIX OLIVES unless you want them all to taste like green olives.

Zac decided he wanted to get the mail and promptly dropped it all in a pile of leaves. As we bent down to pick up the dropped mail, we heard crickets.

“Did you hear that?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said peering into the leaves. “What is it?”

“Sounds like crickets,” I said as I bent over. I kicked aside some of the leaves, and bent over again while Zac leaned on his knees and searched.

The sound stopped when we kicked some more of the leaves, so we went into the house. I put my phone on the couch and noticed I had a missed call. That’s when I remembered that the tone I chose for my oldest daughter, because she lived in the country, was the sound of crickets.

Why is it that the simplest of questions become so complicated that confusion sets in so fast you’d think your head just spun a 360 in less than a millisecond?

Last summer, I asked my daughter where her husband, who was at a tournament, would be spending the night. Her daughter and son were away for the weekend and I thought that maybe the three of them would be spending the night in St. Louis with her brother- and sister-in-law who took the kids to another tournament in St. Louis.

Apparently, though, my son-in-law was at a different tournament. So when I asked where he would be spending the night (I wasn’t being nosy – they lived with me at the time), my daughter said, “Where everybody lives.”

I’ve learned not to let confusing statements pass. Thinking she was being a tad too evasive and that she was avoiding my question, I reiterated, “So Scott is spending the night where everybody lives.”

“Yes.”

Hmm. How does one respond to an answer like that? I didn’t know, so I said, “Earth?”

Her confusing look prompted me to consider other possibilities – the solar system maybe or perhaps a different dimension – the Twilight Zone or the sixth dimension (does one exist?) – instead, I returned her confusing look with my confusing look.

We stood there in a limbo state for a few seconds before she said, “Buddy, his friend?” And I thought, what does Buddy have to do with anything? Have we switched conversations and now we’re talking about Buddy? Did I ever meet Buddy? Do I know Buddy?

And then I figured out that what she REALLY said was, “Wherever Buddy lives.”

Well, if I had remembered that he had a friend named Buddy, I probably wouldn’t have been so confused. Probably.

I was once a cocktail waitress who, with the exception of one time, never dated patrons. The only reason I dated that particular patron was because the guy had the best line of anybody I’d ever met. “I have ghosts in my house. Want to go out with me?”

It worked, but only with him, and only once. I preferred dating guys in bands that played at the bar because they were transient and I wouldn’t have to cultivate any long-term relationships with them. Besides I was in love with somebody else and until he came to his senses, I would continue to enjoy my dates with these temporary guys.

As the bands came and went and came back again, I continued to date my favorite guy from each band when they were in town. In only one band, however, did I date the roadie, knowing that one of the band members was also interested in me. Though I clearly stated my intentions to date only one of them, the bass guitarist was equally clear in his intentions that HE would be the one dating me.

As the band was clearing out one weekend, I sat in the van outside the lounge waiting for my roadie to return. I heard what I thought was a car backfiring twice as I waited, but thought nothing more of it.

When the roadie finally emerged from the bar, he sped off and told me he had just been in a brawl with the bass guitarist. Why? The bass guitarist felt the roadie had taken what was supposed to belong to him – me.

“There are two bullet holes in the ceiling,” he said, “because of you.”

Wow, I was part of my own Western movie. Well, naturally, I didn’t believe him until I went to work the following Monday and was fired from my job for being involved in a shootout that caused structural damage to the bar. There, in the ceiling, quite obviously, were two bullet holes.

Fortunately my waitress buddies (one of whom has remained one of my dearest friends) stepped forward on my behalf. After all, I wasn’t even in the bar when the argument took place.

Those days are long gone. Over the years I dated a bunch of men, usually only once. The majority of them turned out to be alcoholics and drug abusers, a few were obsessive types, and one apathetic individual was an alcoholic and a drug abuser – a perfect life mate choice for me.

When that divorce ended, I dated more alcoholics and drug abusers and was just about to give up on dating when one of the women who worked with me told me a guy she knew was interested in me. Tired of dating my usual lot of losers, I peeked through the doorway, and thought, “Hmm, I am not the least bit attracted to him; therefore he must be perfect for me.”

So we went on a couple of dates, but I could sense that something was amiss. Just before what would have been our third date, he called to ask me a favor – “Would you mind telling my wife that we never slept together?”

Well, there you go. Something was not amiss. Someone was a Mrs.

But hey, no problem. It was true. We hadn’t slept together, so I didn’t have a problem telling her the truth. What were the chances that she would actually appear on my doorstep anyway? 

She knocked on my door while he leaned sheepishly against his car in my driveway. I closed the door behind me and stood with her on my patio. After she quizzed me and I responded to her questions, she looked me straight in the eye and told me she believed me. She said that for some reason, she felt she should thank me. I wasn’t prepared for that. Before I could absorb that comment, she went on to cry, “You have no idea how difficult it is to be married to a crack addict.”

I honestly can’t remember what she said after that. I was too busy lifting my chin off the pavement. But yes, that’s the kind of guy I attract, and that is why, with a couple of exceptions, I haven’t dated since 1995.

It’s been so long since we’ve hosted a party for our friends that wasn’t what you would call an office party. So I thought that maybe we would have a little fun this New Year’s Eve and host a party for just our friends and loved ones. The holidays can be so much fun, but also so very hectic because of all the things going on with friends and family. That can make it tougher to spend time with your friends, so that’s part of my excuse for throwing this party.

I looked online to find most of what I could for some ideas about what to fix and how to decorate our home for the party. When I was online looking up that stuff, I came across some information on Miracle Ear. I looked through it some and after I read it, I decided to show it to my husband. I’ve been telling him for years now that he needs to get some hearing aids and I finally convinced him to go and get fitted with some of them.

I’m hoping that our New Year’s Eve bash will go off without a hitch!
]]> http://theresawiza.wordpress.com/2011/12/29/putting-together-a-big-nye-bash/feed/ 0 theresawiza http://theresawiza.wordpress.com/2011/12/21/the-day-i-almost-died/ http://theresawiza.wordpress.com/2011/12/21/the-day-i-almost-died/#comments Thu, 22 Dec 2011 03:11:37 +0000 theresawiza http://theresawiza.wordpress.com/2011/12/21/the-day-i-almost-died/ ]]> They surrounded my bed – men and women wearing medical scrubs – some pacing, some sitting on the bed with me. One was rubbing my arm, another was rubbing my back. The respiratory therapist stood next to my bed waiting for the OK to administer the medicine that would open my airways. It had been only two hours since my last treatment and I wasn’t due another one for two more hours, but it was obvious to everyone that I couldn’t wait that long.

I leaned forward on the hospital bed, wondering why I couldn’t get more than a hair’s width of oxygen into my lungs. I was terrified.

The respiratory therapist wasn’t allowed to administer the drug that would save my life without the doctor’s consent and the worried looks on the faces of all those nurses and techs told me that if they couldn’t find the doctor soon, this asthma attack would be my last.

But the doctor wouldn’t respond to their pleas of a return phone call, and my struggle was becoming increasingly life threateningly difficult. By now every nurse on the floor was in my room, by my bed – by me, trying to comfort me, trying to calm me down. I was aware of what they were doing. There were too many of them in my room. Calming an asthma patient is important in helping the asthmatic to breathe.

And yet knowing how concerned they were, and seeing the fear in their eyes served more to frighten me than it did to calm me down. It was the second time in a period of only a couple of days during the same hospital stay when I wondered if this asthma attack would be my last.

Finally, the nurses found the doctor and the respiratory therapist was able to administer the drug my lungs so desperately needed, but I couldn’t breathe it in – my airways were too constricted. I wanted to cry, but I could barely breathe, let alone cry, and my fear increased with each attempt.

But after several tries, I felt some air enter my lungs. I wanted to cry with relief, but I couldn’t cry either. I could still barely breath. And then, finally, a sign of relief. 

I had a lot to be grateful for. I would make it after all. I would live.

http://www.blueskyscrubs.com/categories/Scrubs/

A couple of months ago, during my last asthma attack, I asked my doctor to give me a refill on the only medicine, other than my breathing treatments, that helps me in the early stages of a cold (the Z-pack ) because it prevents infections from spreading. I had never before asked for a refill, but I had the foresight to know I would probably be getting a cold again sometime in the future, and having a prescription on hand would alleviate my fears of having to drive myself to the ER. If I can’t immediately care for the cold, the cold will settle in my lungs, become a raging infection, and cause my breathing to suffer.

It didn’t used to be this way. The second a cold entered my system, I would bring out my arsenal of weapons, everything from echinacea and Vitamin C to teas, juices, and soups. I made sure I got plenty of rest and I took very good care of myself. After a couple of days, I felt better.

But lately colds travel to my lungs so quickly I have no time to prepare for them, so having something on hand to attack the cold is my only way to prevent myself from landing in the hospital. I now have to rely upon breathing treatments several times a day as well.

This past Saturday I came down with a cold. Normally, I would have to wait until Monday morning to ask the doctor to fill my prescription and, despite begging the receptionist to please get my message to him right away, he wouldn’t return my call until late Monday evening. By that time three days would have gone by and I would have been so ill, I might have had to be hospitalized.

But this week – thanks to my foresight, I had my Z-pack waiting for me. And so I put on my “I’m sick and have to rest” nursing uniform (PJs and a robe), and I made sure to get lots of rest, drink lots of fluids, take my breathing treatments, and think positive thoughts.

But nursing myself back to health using those methods is not the only thing that expedites my getting well – I also give myself a time limit (setting goals is important) – for some very good reasons:

Wednesday night (tomorrow, YIKES!) three of my grandchildren will be spending the night, followed by visits from five more grandchildren and two daughters the following day, followed by five grandchildren spending Thursday night in my home, three grandchildren spending Friday night, and 11 people celebrating Christmas Eve with me.

Words from Norman Vincent Peale’s, “The Power of Positive Thinking” (which I read three times, by the way) plays in my ears. I WILL get better – or maybe I should say I will myself to get better. Either way, by Wednesday, I WILL be better! I have no other option.

For all of you celebrating religious holidays during the month of December, I would like to add:

Merry Christmas!

Happy Hanukkah!

Merry Kwanzaa!

Happy Winter Solstice!

Merry Dar of Ashura!

Happy Bodhi Day!

(Did I miss anybody?)

http://www.blueskyscrubs.com/categories/Scrubs/Scrubs-for-Women/

It’s hard for me to not get sucked in, especially when the people I love feel hurt or depressed. My heart is so connected to them, their pain penetrates my heart.

But rather than spend my time focusing on sadness and negativity (my own sometimes), I’d rather rip open a vein, splay that pain and frustration in a blog, and bleed it out of myself.

Several months ago I was wallowing – and wallowing deeply – in self pity. My health was failing and I was struggling to pay my bills, hoping to win the lottery (which was highly unlikely considering I never play the lottery). But despite everything that has happened to me, despite everything that is still happening to me, I’ve decided that I’d like to be an airline.

You read that correctly – an airline. I want the government to bail me out like they do all the big corporations who can’t afford to pay their bills.

And I want the State of Illinois to stop causing me grief. First they forced Amazon out of Illinois because of Illinois’ exorbitant taxes, and that affected me personally, because I had hoped to make money from Amazon on my blogs. I’ll never know now if I could have made money from Amazon, because Amazon pulled out of my blogs. I live in Illinois.

In addition to the whammy Amazon slammed on me and other Illinois residents, I got notice that I still owed Illinois more taxes than I had already paid them in 2008, but I didn’t get the notice from the state of Illinois – I got it from an attorney!

That Illinois (the attorneys actually) came after insignificant me, who made close to $7,000 that year and they required close to $500 in back taxes, astounds me. Seriously, if you took even 1% of the income from the wealthiest corporations – you know, the ones who don’t pay taxes – you would have enough money to pay my Illinois state taxes for the rest of my life and the lives of my children and grandchildren. But why should corporations pay taxes at all when they can ask for government bail-outs?

And what is it with these collection attorneys? I think their conversations with the state of Illinois sound something like this, “Hey, if you have anybody from the lowest economic group, let us know. Don’t tell them we’ve contacted you and send them no warnings about owing back taxes. Otherwise we lose out on an opportunity to steal from the poor.

Send them straight to collections. Do not pass go. They have no idea they owe back taxes, since they’ve already paid their taxes, so this will come as a huge surprise. Corporations and some slick high-tax-bracket individuals know how to slip through the loopholes we created for them, but the ones who lost their jobs due to illness or downsizing and the ones who have fallen through the cracks are the ones who pay our salaries. Just let us know what the poor chumps owe you, we’ll double what you’ve decided they owe, and we can both reap the benefits. Oh, one more thing wait for the holidays.”

Notice how reap and rape have the same letters? Just saying’.

Anyway, in addition to those problems, over the past couple of months, I’ve had random Internet connection problems, lots of house problems, and numerous computer problems. I will be paying the State of Illinois and the ceiling and roofing guys (for water damage and a mold problem) probably for the rest of my life.

Oh well. I don’t care if it takes me the rest of my life to pay them – all I can afford to pay the attorney is $10 a month, which the State of Illinois has agreed to accept. And the roofing guys haven’t complained about my $25 a month payment, either, after I paid them half my $1,000 deductible.

What I have found over these many many years is that when I feel overwhelmed, I wallow in self pity for as long as it takes for me to climb out of the pit of despair. After a while, after I am boneless, I develop a spine, put myself back together – unlike Humpty Dumpty – and take a step.

That’s all it takes – one step – in any direction. Any direction takes me forward and away from my self. If I’ve made a wrong decision, I can backtrack, but at least I’m moving. I’ve made some horrible decisions in the past. And all of them brought me to now. Good or bad, they brought me here – now.

Despite the financial struggles and the fear that I was going to lose my home, I’ve decided that I will keep my home. It’s warm, open, airy, and big enough to sleep any family members (or friends) who come to visit. I have to hope that the items I’m crocheting will sell somewhere – once I get my laptop fixed so I can photograph the items.

The difficulty for me in dealing with so much negativity is trying to maintain a good attitude. And so I rely on quotes like George Harrison’s, “All things must pass.” And things do pass. I’ve lived long enough to know that what is happening now won’t be happening a year from now, and what happened last year isn’t happening now.

I’ve learned that if I can’t keep my home, it wasn’t meant to be. Simple as that. I move on. Somewhere.

But my focus has to be on the good things in my life, the people I love, the things that bring me pleasure – time spent with family and friends, writing, crocheting, and my home.

Sometimes I have to remind myself to enjoy little things because little things remind me that life isn’t always bad. So I pay attention to mornings like one Saturday morning when I was first in line at the post office, first in line at the bank, and first in line at the Walgreens drive-through prescription pick-up lane. How often does that happen?

Today the sun is shining, and my home is peaceful and comfortable. The furnace if functioning, the clock is ticking, and my heart is beating.

Though I still have difficulty breathing, though I still have a little more than three and a half years to take my chemo meds, though my air conditioning needs repair before next Spring, and though my laptop needs repair, I have a comfortable bed with soft cuddly blankets, a semi-working laptop with fix-it CDs on the way to my house so I can repair it, a newly repaired roof over my head, a car that runs, electricity that works, a fireplace if it doesn’t, and water to drink.

But more important, I have a creative imagination I can access for my writing and my crocheting, and I have family and friends I cherish and adore.

One phone call from any of them, one text message or one email from people I love is all it takes to get me out of my slump and over the hump to higher ground where I can look at everything from above and be thankful for the little things.

And it is from that position that I aspire to be  – an airline – because the airline would get pardoned for millions of dollars worth of debt. And if I were an ailine, the state of Illinois would forgive my back taxes (which I don’t think I owe, incidentally, but “owe well” – the owe well, by the way, is a pit attorneys push unsuspecting clients into when those clients, already living below the poverty level, become even more deeply buried in debt due to the exorbitant attorneys’ fees).

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Thank you for visiting!

Guest post written by Samantha Rogers

Every year when we all get together for Thanksgiving, we also make a point to go and see The Nutcracker together. I can’t even think of how many years that we’ve been doing this, maybe even before any of my kids were born! But no matter how many times we’ve seen the ballet together, it’s always so special for us! I never really get tired of it and it’s something that’s nice and familiar about Christmastime, like watching A Charlie Brown Christmas or The Santa Clause.

But this year I thought that I would make sure I get to really enjoy it like I used to by research hearing aids. I found the site http://hearingaids.miracle-ear.com/digital_hearing_aids.html and after I looked through it some, I went in for a hearing test and got fitted with some hearing aids.

I think that this year my oldest son’s girlfriend is coming home with him for Thanksgiving, so we rounded up a ticket for her at the last minute. I hope that she loves the Nutcracker as much as we do!

The know-it-alls spout off about what should happen and about how we should take care of the matter. They show up ready to fight for “our” land and for “our” rights.

And every time I hear some of the drivel that drools from the mouths of these righteous freedom fighters, I can’t help but think about the time BEFORE this land became OUR land, to the time when the white man claimed to have DISCOVERED this land.

Back up.

Discovered? Weren’t people already living here? Oh, wait, I forgot. Those people – the “Indians” – didn’t count, because the white man claimed this land for his own.

Must have been quite a predicament – I mean, how can you tell a bunch of illiterates who don’t know the English language that they are no longer welcome in their own homes?

Hmm. I know, let’s cage them. Let’s claim this land as our own, consider “our” language, which we brought with us from a different country, to be this new land’s “preferred” language, and reserve a small spot for those despicable “Injuns”. It would be inhumane to kill them, after all – and um, I know, we’ll call their new homes “reservations,” because we are permitting them to live in OUR country by reserving OUR land for them – that should shut them up.

OK, that’s done; now we need to find some help. Let’s go to Africa where another bunch of illiterates who don’t know our language won’t understand us. We’ll bring them back to the country we have stolen from beneath the feet of its original inhabitants and force the slaves to work for us. We’re getting really good at stealing – first a whole country and now a bunch of people.

But wait. Is it possible (just asking) that maybe the red people and the black people weren’t actually stupid because they didn’t know the language of the white man, but that maybe the white man was stupid for not realizing that this land was already discovered by the people ALREADY INHABITING IT? And maybe the reason the blacks and the reds didn’t understand the language was because they spoke a DIFFERENT LANGUAGE?

Let’s reiterate – the white man deceives himself into believing that he has actually made a great discovery, he bullies the people who already live here into vacating the land they once cherished and cared for, he then drags unwilling participants from another country to take care of his needs, all of his needs, and well, I think that brings us up to speed.

Admit it – we live in a country that was bullied away from its original inhabitants.

But now “our country” needs laws – white man laws – not white woman laws or black man laws, but white man laws. White man, after all, is Darwin’s select member of the species. He is the aggressor, so obviously more powerful than any other human being – survival of the fittest, right? Proven to be the fittest because those cowardly Indians allowed the gun-toting aggressors to shove them around.

Over time, laws had to be changed to accommodate women (who knew they had a brain?) and black people (they have the ability to read English?) and, let’s not forget, the Indians (let’s give them a bunch of gambling casinos – that should make them happy).

And we’re done. We will never return to Caesar what was Caesar’s, and we can’t do anything about those Native Americans anymore anyway (great – now we have to be politically correct), so let’s just ignore them and deny what we did to them.

And now? OMG these stupid Mexicans want to infiltrate our border too? What the …! What a dilemma. And, worse, now we’ve got a half-black man in the White House? How did we let that happen to OUR country? And what can we do about it?

Before I discuss what we CAN do, let’s talk about what we CAN NOT do. We CAN NOT allow immigrants to “own” this land. Because when you claim a land as your own (as the white man did), you give yourself permission to use its resources for whatever you desire – to chop down trees you believe now belong to you, for instance – to take land away from people already living on it so you can claim Eminent domain, as the white man did when he arrived on the shores of this country.

Until recently, white man ruled. Nothing went on in these United States unless the white man said it was OK. But now everything is spiraling out of control. So what? Do we need more laws, laced with thousands of loopholes so anybody who has half a brain can slip through them?

Why not? All anybody has to do is twist the original terms of the law by completely bending them in such a way as to make them appear to fit the needs of the person who is profiting from the loopholes. The blacks and the reds will never figure it out because they don’t have even half a brain. Only those of us smart enough to recognize a loophole will know how to slip through one. But what about all those holes in our borders? What about all those people creeping in from Canada and Mexico? All immigrants are probably terrorists, right?

On second thought, maybe just the ones who board planes are terrorists. I mean any time you see somebody with a turban around his head or with dark skin and straight hair, what else can you think? If they look like Iraqis (looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, must be a duck), they must be terrorists.

The descendants from the land of Jesus have to be terrorists, right? – Because they came from the same country?

What is wrong with you? Have you not seen paintings of Jesus? He has light hair and blue eyes. He would never look like an Iraqi! How dare you for even thinking that Jesus was even close in resemblance to the terrorists!

And how dare anybody who tries to get into OUR country. We were BORN here. Look at all those illegal immigrants trying to have their babies here. How dare those half-brains use the loopholes in our legal system to legalize their own illegality.

Stop! Take a step back.

Does Karma play any role at all in the progression (or regression) of our United States? I mean what SHOULD happen to people who STEAL AN ENTIRE COUNTRY from its inhabitants? What SHOULD happen to people who STEAL PEOPLE from another country?

And while we’re discussing “shoulds,” what SHOULD have happened to groups of people who shoved their religion down the throats of highly spiritual people who had been treating our Earth with reverence and respect, but who had to watch with impotence its destruction?

The confiscation of this land from the people who cared for it smacks of Hitlerian elitism. Admit it! The people who stole this land from the NATIVE Americans were BULLIES!

The white man, in coming to this land, thought HIS ways were the right ways. And he taught those uncivilized inhabitants that he was the almighty and the powerful, fully capable of kidnapping the entire lot of them. His criminal behavior must have terrified the families who were sent to live in what can only be considered to be a step above concentration camps.

The damage has been done. Nothing we can do now will eradicate from the minds of the Native Americans the manner in which the world they knew ended. No number of apologies will ever suffice for the mistreatment the Native Americans suffered.

But though it’s too late to apologize for what our ancestors did, it’s not too late to reverse the negative influence our ancestors visited upon this country from its inception as the United States of America. We have become a melting pot, and because we tout freedom, we have become a beacon to people of all nations who want to experience the same rights we have.

This was a land of opportunity for the white man and a nightmare filled with trails of tears for its native inhabitants, whom we have buried beneath a veil of contempt. We’ve swept them under their own tents and hoped they would never rise again to claim what was originally theirs.

We are attractive to people who want to experience the American Dream and the freedom we have. Yes, huge numbers of people come here expecting a free ride. We cannot allow them to inhabit this land the same way our ancestors did. We can’t give away all of our resources the way the Native Americans did.

What we CAN do and what we SHOULD do is ask the Native Americans what THEY think about immigration. Because ALL OF US, unless we are Native Americans, are descendants of ILLEGAL immigrants. And yes, I understand the distinction between legal and illegal. The fact that the Native Americans had no written laws concerning the legality or illegality of immigration does not dismiss the MORAL and CORRUPT issue of infiltrating THEIR country and claiming it as our own and then expecting that everybody who comes after us must abide by OUR laws.

New immigrants entering these United States of America hope to find freedom just as our ancestors did. We should be grateful that any group of new immigrants arriving here doesn’t decide it has DISCOVERED this land, corral us all, and then demand we speak a new language. In the world of science fiction, the possibility of life forms inhabiting other planets in other solar systems is entirely possible. Imagine groups of aliens descending from the sky and claiming the Earth as theirs.

What language should we be speaking? Let the Native Americans decide.

Let’s admit that this land was stolen by a bunch of thieves. And let’s move beyond the arguments for or against immigration. Is there nobody in the entire United States who cannot come up with a comprehensive enforceable immigration law that addresses the needs of current Americans and is fair to new immigrants hoping to gain legal status?

One more thing: why are we merely “tolerating” each other? Let’s embrace our differences and move forward into a brighter future filled with hope where we can all live together in one country and treat each other with the respect each human deserves.

By the way, I’m mostly white. Most of my ancestors came from England, Ireland, France, Germany, and Russia – and oh, yes, the United States of America. You see, I’m also Native American (Cherokee).