January 21, 2023

Part 2:

Thanksgiving and Christmas came with white billowing cryptic messages in the skies reading, "We are going to the land of pumpkin pies, our loved ones, and glittering things." Queena's words rang true. "It's just a day, mama, it's just a day." And indeed, she was right. Air traffic had ceased for celebrations and, on the following day, had resumed to their natural state of chaos. Where much of our country suffered from dangerously cold temperatures, my Christmas arrived masquerading as an eighty degree summer day. A perfect welcomed distraction for tradition to go awry.

I'd done everything I could to keep myself from spiraling over the holiday hoopla. It was the two months of commercial manipulation that threatened to take me down. Stacks of plastic useless wannabe gifts towered the aisles. People wondered aloud if they had bought enough for a certain so and so while I inwardly hummed my own tunes on replay even louder to drown out the canned holiday nonsense. I downloaded Norwegian holiday films with subtitles. I celebrated by eating an entire pineapple in one sitting. I did nothing remotely akin to any Christmas I'd ever known.

A few days before the big day, I made my way to the health food store. Palm trees flanked the roadsides. Spikey green fronds danced in the wind high against the brilliant blue sky and snow frosted peaks.

The fortunate were safely housed behind adobe walls lush with fuchsia bougainvillea where terracotta tiled roofs peeked out.

I parked my truck behind the "Sprouts" market and disposed of my one, two and three bags of garbage in their dumpster. Though there was no sign warning me not to do so, my heart still raced from fear that I might be caught. I felt like a vagrant, a criminal. I pulled around to the front wearing the same soiled clothes I had worn for more days than I could count now. This humiliated me. I felt dirty, too. Bathing every night kept my bedding clean, but it couldn't fix my appearance. I could feel the stares and the distance people kept.

《The part of our story no one wishes to hear》

Those piles of clothing you see in stores piled up all shiny and new? Often they originate from countries and factories without building codes, where water damage is common.The mold toxins are in embedded within the threads of the clothing.They are shipped in containers crammed full and mixed with other items such as furniture which is fabricated from formaldehyde or fire retardants. These forever chemicals are killing us. The containers are locked up airtight and sent over vast waters and opened up after they have been intermingling for the longevity of their journey. It's like finding a needle in a haystack for us, the mold injured population, the hypersensitive, this population that is growing exponentially every day.This "mold" is changing from the molds of yesteryear. Our toxic air feeds it. Microplastics and other particulates bind to these molds and create a different kind of monster now. We get near this clothing, and our eyes water and burn, our headaches surface, our vision is compromised, our skin is itchy and inflamed with rashes, and our breathing is challenged.

This is the common thread. We plead for solutions to keep us clothed. "Where can I find clear clothes? Where have you found clear bedding?"

I spot the well-groomed, bearded fellow perched on a fold up chair with his metal box.He trades off with other volunteers collecting donations for the homeless. I have a hard time making eye contact and can't figure out why. Shame, perhaps? I breeze by unnoticed. And yet I want to crouch beside him and tell him that I see what he is doing and how I have had a glimpse of this world. Not so he will empty the contents of his tin in my pockets but to thank him for all of us and to show him the feel of untethered emptiness if only for a moment so that he knows more fully why he sits there and so that when he returns to his place behind the great gardened walls, he will embrace it even more so.

I spent the rest of the day driving to nearby cities in search of something basic to wear.The clothing gods came through at the last stop.I bought a dozen precious inexpensive cotton shirts and rolled them up in a plastic bin rubber-banding them shut for desperate times ahead.

I am late in my return from town.

The pair of birds akin to crows sound their complaing calls for dinner scraps."You will have to wait," i tell them. Hurriedly, I bungee the tarps in place, one over the roof and another to the side away from the wind. It was a frustrating endeavor that required another pair of hands. I worked in one direction and then the wind would change, kicking dust and tiny rocks into my face. I started to cry but stopped myself. I was in this play with no audience. I screamed instead, taking notice there were fewer tears these days. I understood this to mean I was becoming more resilient, and that I had gotten a better grasp on circumstances popping up from nowhere. I had solved enough problems without the extra hands and realized I wasn't as scared as I had once been. And, there were even moments when the sun came out, and ever so briefly, I felt like I was the happiest girl alive.

Please donate if you are able. Thank you so much.♡♡♡

https://gofund.me/9b563122