Things that Put Me in a Good Mood

There are little things that put me in a good mood. Like pogo sticks. A couple of weeks ago my car needed repairs. You know how you wonder whether you should go to the car repair place or just stack a bunch of hundred dollar bills and set them on fire? Well, I dropped it at the car repair shop and later went to pick up a rental car. The car was red and the radio was cranked to country music: score. And as I drove through a residential neighborhood to meet a friend for a drink, I saw a kid on a pogo stick. He was bouncing, bouncing, bouncing in their tiny yard without a care in the world. I rolled down my window and gave him a thumbs-up.

It reminded me of the time I asked a 9-year-old piano student for gift advice. A little girl I knew was having brain surgery at Mayo Clinic and she was just a couple years older than him, so I asked what he thought I should take her in the hospital. "A pogo stick," he said without delay. Seeing the earnest look on his face, I didn't have the heart to point out that her surgeon had probably advised her against using devices that would accelerate her into the air at the mercy of gravity. So I took her something else, but it must not have been that great, because all I can remember is the pogo stick.

And then there's washing dishes the morning after a dinner party. Normally, I wash dishes immediately after a meal. It's a little compulsive, but mostly harmless, I think. One time, my then-husband and I hosted a dinner party that went until the wee hours of the morning. All the lights in the house were on and the front door was unlocked, but we didn't know that until two guys walked right in. They were looking for their university. They had had such a fun evening that they'd completely lost track of their 125-year-old university. After giving them directions, which could be readily summarized with a gesture toward the southwest, we sat back down. I don't remember if we locked the door after that. But I know the dishes didn't get washed that night.

Another time, a few young Saudi Arabian guys ended up disoriented in our backyard dinner party. (This has unintentionally created a sub-theme about lost people. Don't let it distract you.) They'd been in the U.S. for just a week, and were to begin classes at an area university the following week. One was trying to find his host family's house, and the other two were trying to return to their dorm. They were all novices with the English language, so directions about public transit given with swift taps and slides on a tiny iPhone map were too overwhelming to comprehend. After a minute of watching their bewildered faces, I decided to just give them a ride. "This is the nicest thing that's ever happened to me in my life," one said haltingly. "Wow, I hope you experience nicer things than this in your life!" I replied.

I had a dinner party recently and the guests left in the early hours of the morning. Once again, I let the dishes sit until the next afternoon, when I was ready to remember the evening and the many before it. I generally vacillate between steeping in nostalgia and catapulting myself forward. Live in the moment, they say. Washing dishes the day after a dinner party is something of a middle ground, where memory meets the present. Where lipstick-stained wine glasses are more than a task, and leftover dessert for breakfast is more than a consumable.

There's not much I understand about life, but two things I know for sure: I will continue to leave my dishes out after dinner parties. And my policy about using pogo sticks after brain surgery will never change.

Toxic Relationships: A Vocabulary Lesson

Eighteen months ago I wrote this piece in solidarity with women. "One woman silenced by fear is everyone’s battle. One woman isolated by manipulation is everyone’s battle. One woman tormented by narcissistic revenge is everyone’s battle. If I don’t fight, it becomes my niece’s battle. If you don’t fight, it becomes your daughter’s battle."

Today, I write for seven women. That’s how many women have allegedly been killed by a boyfriend or husband in the Twin Cities this year. And it’s only June.  

I write because some people, and those who love them, don't have the vocabulary to describe the abuse that is happening to them. They don't have the vocabulary to find a way out. This list is a start.

---

ABUSE: Abuse is not necessarily what we've always thought it was. It often doesn't start right away, and it isn't always physical. Those who excel at abusing introduce fear and confusion later in the relationship. Someone who is afraid is much easier to control and manipulate than someone who is aware of their strength and capabilities. Abuse destroys the strength of spirit. It breaks courage.

ADDRESS CONFIDENTIALITY PROGRAMS: Many states have address confidentiality programs. They are designed to help survivors of domestic violence, sexual assault, stalking, or others who fear for their safety maintain a confidential address. It is one aspect of regaining a sense of safety and security.

BROKEN RECORD APPROACH: Even if the relationship has ended, the abuser may not respect that boundary. If they approach their victim in public, show up at their workplace, or otherwise engage in delusional behavior about their relationship with the victim, it may be necessary to re-state as firmly and respectfully as possible that it is over. The statement should contain no emotional language, no opportunity to engage in a conversation, and no implication that they may have a second chance. It is over, period. This step will be important if it becomes necessary to make a case to a judge.

INTERMITTENT REINFORCEMENT:  When the abuser's behavior occasionally gains attention from their victim, s/he learns that a reward may come at any time and that persistence is key. Even if it has been an on-again, off-again relationship for a while, the victim can draw a line in the sand at any time. There comes a day when no attempts to reconcile are acceptable, but it is of utmost importance that the victim avoid any and all intermittent reinforcement.

ISOLATION: Slowly but surely, an abuser seeks to isolate his or her victim, so that they become their sole source of support, emotionally, financially, and socially. This is not normal. No one should rely on one other person for all of their needs. If someone has become isolated, though, it is not too late to reach out for help, whether from friends and family or from professionals. It is not too late. It may feel easier to stay than to leave right now, but the long term will prove otherwise.

NO CONTACT: Women often pursue consensus on next steps, whether in the workplace or a relationship. When deciding whether to end a toxic relationship, many try to engage their abusive partner in a rational dialogue. If you are trying to get out of a toxic relationship, eliminate any and all contact with the abuser. Periodic attempts to "reason with them" will result in intermittent reinforcement of the abusive behavior.

PERSONALITY DISORDERS: If you haven't studied psychology, you may not be familiar with terms like narcissistic personality disorder and antisocial personality disorder. One quick look in the search engine of your choice will bring up scads of articles about these disorders. The checklists of criteria may help a person understand what they are experiencing. Maybe the abuser's disorder is a result of a troubled childhood, but that is not the victim's problem to solve. The abuser is an adult, and must take responsibility for his or her actions.

RESTRAINING ORDERS & ORDERS FOR PROTECTION: Harassment Restraining Orders and Orders for Protection were designed to protect victims of abuse. Ultimately, it is just a piece of paper, but it is an important step in documenting patterns of behavior. The most recent victim in the Twin Cities, a 57-year-old woman, did not have an existing order against the 65-year-old boyfriend she was trying to leave. Maybe this happens because victims doubt it would have any effect, maybe because things don’t seem bad enough. 

SLIDING SCALE FEES: There are lawyers and therapists who understand the challenges of leaving and recovering from abusive relationships. They can provide legal services to pursue an order for protection, or help a person understand how to get out and learn from a traumatic experience. While abuse experiences are almost always painful, expensive, and time-consuming, it is possible to survive and become a stronger person as a result. But it is important to show enough vulnerability to ask for and accept help. Don't try to do it alone.

---

In this very moment, there are women and men across our nation and world who don’t know what to do. They feel alone and afraid. They wonder if it matters whether they go on.

I’d like to gently grab them by the shoulders, look them directly in the eye and say: You’re stronger than you’ve ever dreamt. And you’re worth more than you feel right now. 

St. Augustine said that hope has two beautiful daughters: their names are anger and courage. We can all be both, together.

Stories from the Oil Patch: Pack Your Bags

They say some 100,000 people rushed to Alaska to dig for little gold nuggets in the late 1890s. That number is almost a sixth of the population of North Dakota today. There are no concrete figures for those who've moved to The Bakken oil patch, the most recent rush for the figurative pot of gold.

In 1897, people read newspapers to prepare themselves for the journey. Outfitters advertised their services to those who needed a guide to help them strike it rich and printed booklets with a list of provisions that would be necessary for one man to survive for a year en route to the Klondike.

25 lbs. Evaporated potatoes
1 Suit oil skins
3 yds. Mosquito net
1 Axe, single bit
25 lbs. Nails, assorted
2 Hasps and staples
1 Rifle, 30-30 Winchester
Fishing tackle

There were scads of other things in the list, things I don't even understand, things only my history-loving dad would understand. (I've often asked him in an incredulous tone: Why do you know that? The tone would be familiar to those who can not believe they are related to the person with whom they are speaking.)

People still scramble for a new opportunity, but today they prepare through YouTube and Facebook and Twitter. People who've found work in The Bakken in western North Dakota post YouTube videos on what to bring because it's hard to find, and what not to bring because a company will provide it once you're hired. They advise on how to get a job. They warn against slumlords in a rush of their own. They tell tragic and comedic stories of failure.

Rumors travel fast anywhere, and especially in energy boom towns. I heard in the bar in Dickinson that the Walmart in Williston can't even keep things on the shelves, that they just put the palettes on the floor and let people tear through them. So of course I went to Walmart in Williston.

It's true, boxes were opened and left on the palettes in the middle of the main aisles of the store. But more interesting than the idea of such demand was exactly what is in demand. Boxed food, canned food, pillows, bedding, towels, and the makings for s'mores. Those in the so-called Man Camps arrive and need the basics. Or maybe they're been around a while and don't have anything more than a microwave or campfire for cooking.

Things have changed in the past 116 years. I don't know what I'd take to the oil patch if I were moving there from across the country, new to the state and the industry. But I do know that wherever I might move, I'd leave my evaporated potatoes behind.

Stories from the Oil Patch: Pass with Caution

It wasn't the first time I'd been in an environment of wall-to-wall men. There was the time I visited a prison in Tripoli, Lebanon, home to 950 male pre-trial and post-conviction prisoners.

But this time the men were barreling down the highway in semi trucks on a rainy day. One carried fracking sand, another carried water, yet another carried crude oil. My car was covered in mud from scoria, a red rock nothing like what I grew up with on the gray gravel roads of north-central North Dakota.

My used Audi A4 was dwarfed next to these hulking vehicles so my hands stayed on the wheel at 10:00 and 2:00, just like I was taught.

Then, traffic abruptly came to a halt just a few miles shy of our collective destination: Williston, the heart of the oil patch. At least two miles of cars sat motionless on Highway 85. I could see emergency vehicle lights in the distance. 

No one honked, maybe out of respect, maybe because it was pointless. A few trucks turned around, presumably to find an alternate route. But I, along with hundreds of others, put my vehicle in park and waited. For an hour. 

I did a bit of writing, had a snack, repeatedly checked my cell phone for coverage with no luck, and wished there were a bit of foliage should I need to relieve myself at some point. Alas, I looked to my left and there was nothing but horizon. To my right, nothing but horizon.

Then, suddenly, traffic started moving on the other side of the road. Hundreds of trucks headed south, while our side of the highway didn’t move even one car length. It was like a forced layover at the airport, when you watch all the other travellers board flights to their destinations. Except that this was probably tragic. 

I looked online later to see if I could figure out what happened to the people involved in the accident we eventually passed. It was impossible to discern because there were so many accidents along that stretch. "Suicide 85," one person called it in the comments section of a news website. 

On my way back south later that day, I saw a billboard that said: Pass with Caution. There were many billboards, some with the Ten Commandments listed. But none seemed so relevant on a rainy day, as trucks whizzed by me, carrying the ingredients that will make fuel out of fossils to make my little car go.