Still, I had my eye on the calendar, wary of any unexpected emotions that might rear up as I approached that anniversary of violence.
Then, just one week shy of my one-year mark, I was stunned and horrified along with the rest of our nation when a far more heinous act of violence exploded in an Orlando nightclub and into our collective consciousness.
This was brutality on a terrifying scale. A massacre. The worst terrorist attack since 9/11. A hate crime. It was every horrible form of hatred, bigotry, and obscene violence at once.
Watching its aftermath, we witnessed trauma on a national stage. The profound trauma of the victims rippled outward to their loved ones, friends and family, coworkers, acquaintances, the LGBTQ community, allies, Floridians, Americans, and beyond.
Now, we are grieving. So many innocent and beloved people’s lives were stolen and cannot be replaced. There is no salve for the pain of their loss, no silver lining to this tragedy, and no easy takeaway message. We can only try to comfort each other.
I attended a vigil for the Orlando victims outside of the civil-rights landmark, The Stonewall Inn. Gay people are some of my best friends and family, and I wanted to pay my respects to the lives lost and the LGBTQ community at large. Stonewall is in my neighborhood. These people are my neighbors. We are a community.
The enormous crowd stretched down Christopher Street and across Seventh Avenue. Many held signs with expressions of love and tolerance. The speakers talked of connection and unity. Together we mourned as the names of the forty-nine victims were read. It was heartbreaking and beautiful and powerful.
I’ll never forget it.
Claim love
But a year from now, when the date stands out in our mind, a blot on the calendar, I wonder, how will we be different?
How will we as a country, as a community of Americans, be changed?
The fear is real. Trauma will leave its mark. But it doesn’t have to change us for the worse. We can be weathered but not hardened.
I hope we can come together to protect and heal those in pain, to prove the resilience of our American values of freedom, equality, and tolerance, and to grow in love and empathy.
A year from now, let’s be the country where we were healed.
Batter Up!
Lisa
It was last summer that I got major news.
Specifically, it was major-league news.
I’m was going to throw out the first pitch at a Phillies game.
The game was on August 20, when the Phillies played the Cardinals, which was Ladies’ Night. Francesca and I were both there, meeting and greeting Ladies before I feared I’d make a fool of myself in front of both genders.
(As you read this, it has happened already, but let me continue as if it hasn’t, to give you that you-are-there feeling. Because I WAS THERE!) It was the day that baseball changed forever.
How often do you think varicose veins show up on the pitcher’s mound?
Exactly.
This is Virgin Varicose Territory.
Before I explain how this amazing event came about, let me first state the obvious. This is a huge honor for a hometown girl like me, and I’m very grateful to the Phillies. When I first got the news, my instant reaction was incredible excitement, and my second reaction was: What do I wear?
Well, it’s Ladies’ Night, and I think like a Lady.
But also I think like a Middle-Aged Lady who realizes that it’s hot in August and that means I can’t wear my fleece sweatshirt and fleece sweatpants, which Francesca affectionately calls my teddy-bear clothes.
And that means that I have to wear shorts, displaying to advantage my thigh cellulite, wrinkly knees, and aforementioned varicose veins, running up and down my legs like I-95.
At some point, we Ladies become Google Maps.
I am now Driving Directions.
The only good thing is that the game isn’t until August 20, which gives me more than enough time to lose fifty pounds.
Or maybe five.
Or one.
Plus, I have to learn to pitch by then.
No problem.
I looked it up, and the distance from the pitcher’s mound to home plate is sixty feet six inches, so I’m pretty sure that I can get the ball over the plate if I stand six inches away.
l want to make a good showing for Ladies everywhere, so when I got the news that this was actually happening, I did the first thing most Ladies would do.
Go shopping.
In order to practice my pitch, I needed a ball and a baseball mitt, though at one point in my life I had both. But my ball and baseball mitt went the way of my sanitary belt, and probably for the same reason: Who needs it?
So I went out to the store to buy a ball and a baseball mitt, where I was the only sixty-year-old in the aisle trying on baseball gloves.
I picked out a black mitt because it’s slimming.
Also it was a Ladies’ mitt because it has pink laces.
Actually, I don’t think that’s sexist, or even if it is, it’s not the end of the world, because pink is my favorite color.
You know the joke, there are two times in a woman’s life when she likes pink—the first time is when she’s six years old and the second time is when she’s in menopause.
Wrong on both counts, pink haters.
For me, menopause is a memory.
And now I don’t remember.
It’s like sex, that way.
To return to point, I didn’t have to buy a jersey, or T-shirt, or whatever you call the thing that baseball players wear on top because the Phillies are actually providing me a Phillies baseball jersey that will have my own name on the back.
How cool is that?
Ladies love personalized items.
Just ask Frontgate.
By the way, the Phillies asked me what number I wanted on the back of my jersey. I instantly thought 60, for obvious reasons, but the numbers don’t go that high.
Also I didn’t want to advertise my waist size.
LOL.
So then I chose number 1, because all Middle-Aged Ladies should be number 1 in their own mind, even if we are number 293874646828238 in the world’s mind.
But number 1 was already taken.
Probably by some egomaniac.
So I chose 2.
I try harder.
And I always will.
See you at the game, Ladies.
And thanks, Phillies!
Diaper Genie
Lisa
I just bought diapers.
For Ruby The Crazy Corgi.
Before I explain, let me warn you. If you’re squeamish, stop reading now. Go read something else.
Preferably one of our other books.
Or enjoy life some other way.
It’s up to you.
This is America.
Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, if you’re truly squeamish about things like poop and peepee.