Perspective

My grandmother died today.

I'm more upset than I thought I would be. Or at least the finality of seeing the words in silly Times New Roman Serif made me realize that I actually am a bit upset by this. Commence diarrhea of the keyboard.

I have a great family. My parents have been married for something like 55 years. I am the youngest (by far) of 4 kids, with 5 nieces and 1 nephew. And 1 grand-niece (or is it great? I can't remember). My upbringing was standard Southern. Every Sunday we went to church, and in the afternoon we went to Grandma and Granddaddy's house.

I think I was 14 or so before I ever knew my grandparents' given names. Vera Dover Wyatt and George Dargin Wyatt. Dargin is one of those peculiar Southern names that we tend to saddle our children with in hopes that it will somehow connect them with something in their heritage. To date, I think it has only every worked with wealthy closeted homosexual men in Charleston or Richmond. I know that I have never felt any kinship with my ancestry by being handcuffed to the middle name Givens all my life (apparently my maternal great-grandmother was Willie Givens Feemster, a truly unfortunate and non-euphonious collection of syllables). But I digress.

Ever Sunday we would go to Grandma and Grandaddy's house, where I would play in the toy room with odd assorted leftover toys and whatever I brought with me to amuse myself and any of my cousins that happened to be there. My mother is the oldest of 12 kids, so there was usually a cousin or two. Granddaddy scared me. He was a big, loud old man, who had a speech impediment, and didn't walk well due to a factory accident, so I never really understood anything he said, and he just always got louder. In retrospect, and he's been dead long enough I suppose I can be this irreverent, he sounded a lot like the fucked up guy from the movie Goonies. Grandaddy was also a drunk, but I didn't know that until much later.

Grandma however, was exactly what you think of when you think of a Southern Grandma. She was a slight woman, with white hair done up in curls tight to her head. She has a soft voice, and a slightly creaky drawl that always made my name polysyllabic (a feat which cannot be accomplished above the Mason-Dixon line). "Jo-uhn," she called me, or to distinguish between my father and me, "Jo-uhn Givins." I never minded my middle name from Grandma, it's just how it was. For a while she tried Little John, but that lasted until I was about 13. My dad is about 5'9" on a good day, and I'm significantly less than "little."

She always asked how I was doing in school, and as I went along in years and moved out of the house, I only saw her at reunions and Christmas. Even then, she would always ask about the last girlfriend, or, eventually, my wife. Then she'd ask when were going to have kids (a question reserved for old relatives, anybody else can bugger off!), and from her I never minded. You never minded anything from a woman so gentle. There was iron in her, though. There had to be to raise 12 kids through the Depression, with a husband who was a drunk, and sometimes mean. She did what she had to do to raise those kids, and they all turned out pretty good.

A few years ago, I realized that she had no idea who I was. Not in some great philosophical differences way, in an Alzheimer's kind of "now which grandchild are you?" kind of way. That was ugly. Three years ago was our last Christmas with the whole family. Grandma was put into a nursing home the week between Christmas and New Year's.

I never visited.

I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't look into those vacant eyes and know that she didn't know me. I thought that my memories of her would be left intact by that fact, but I was so absolutely fucking wrong and it tears my goddamn guts out. I went to see my grandfather to get closure, and watching him lay in the hospital bed out of his mind was so bad that I thought it would be better to just remember Grandma how she used to be. But I don't. All I remember is two days after Christmas, 2000, in the basement fellowship hall of my aunt's church, giving my grandmother a hug and a kiss, and her looking at me and saying "Now which one of Frances' boys are you?"

So it didn't work. I didn't put enough distance to insulate myself from my grief, and I didn't do the things I should have done to not feel guilty today. And I can't ever change that. I know I loved that sweet little old woman, and I know that she loved me. And in the long run, yes, that is what matters. But I could have gone to visit. I could have sucked it up, dealt with the fact that she didn't know which grandchild I was, and brightened a lonely old woman's day with just a little bit of fucking effort on my part. But I didn't. No, I didn't put myself through the pain of seeing her alone in a nursing home. But I will carry around the guilt of ignoring that sweet old woman for a long time, and that's just the penalty for my mistake.

So go hug your grandma. Or your kids. Or whoever.

"Help somebody if you can. And get right with The Man." - Van Zant

Fragile

Do you remember how you felt four years ago? When you watched the first tower come down. When you saw the hole in the side of the Pentagon.

How you felt when you saw Donald Rumsfeld do something good for a change and run back into the building to get people out. When you heard about Michael Judge, the NYFD chaplain that was killed by falling debris. When you saw the flag raised in the rubble.

Do you remember how you felt last week? When Tippitina's was silent. When the Famous Door Club was empty. When Pat O's was boarded up. When the helicopters turned away from Charity hospital because of shooting. When you first saw Interdictor's livejournal. When you found out that your friends were okay. Maybe homeless, but okay.

I feel fragile in moments like this. I feel helpless, and that burns me to the core. I am not inclined to sit by. It galls me to be unable to physically help people, but I can't. I can't go to Biloxi and clear the streets. I can't string new power lines through Gulfport. I have given of my money and will give of my time in the ways that I can, but I can't help but feel frustrated that it's not enough.

But we all do what we can. And what I can do, coupled with the efforts of all the other people that are helping, will be enough. Eventually.

These are not pretty times. Our government has failed us in our time of need. I don't need to dick around the blame game. I don't care whose fault it is. The fact of the matter is, four years after the 9/11 attacks, we still cannot handle a major catastrophic event in our country. So it's up to us, the people, to band together and fix things. And we will.

We will.

New Orleans will rebuild. Hopefully stronger. Hopefully as diverse. But she will rebuild. And I will be back there, drinking Hurricanes and watching Al not be able to hang. Wanna come?

But she will be back. Because this IS my South. And we take care of our own. She's like that classy lady from church after a stroke. She's down for a little while, and we'll need to take her a casserole or two for a while, but next Homecoming, she'll be in the front pew and she'll bring the potato salad.

There are some real assholes in this world

And of course, when things really suck that's when the assholes rear their ugly head.

House Speaker Whats-his-fuck from Where-the-fuck spouts some bullshit about whether or not New Orleans should be rebuilt because after all, it's below sea level. Show some compassion, you overpaid ratfuck political asswipe!

And now the director of FEMA says that the folks stuck in Nawlins deserve some of the blame because "after all, there was a mandatory evacuation order." AND the trains stopped running. AND the buses stopped running. AND the airport closed. AND a lot of the urban poor don't have three big fucking SUVs in their front yard plus a Prius Hybrid they drive to make themselves feel all green and Earthday-y, you rotten politically-appointed bad-toupee-wearing ratfuck!

Jesus, white people suck. Rich white people suck more.

That's not fair. Not all white people suck. Wil Wheaton is a god-damn genuine superhero. Go read Otis, G-Rob & CJ's blog to see how f'n cool Pokerstars is to help with Hurricane Relief, not too long after they shelled out $200 grand of their own cash matching tsunami donations. And check out G-Robs NOLA memories.

But just like the looters are evil, and Jesse Jackson once again proves himself a jackass, these political ratfucks burn my ass worse than a 3' high flame.

Go do Something Good

Go to Otis' Pokerstars blog and read about the benefit tourney's Wil had the grace to help arrange. He's a superhero in my book.

Or go to my cousin Pax's blog and link to the Red Cross site and give them some money.

Or both. I'll be in the tourneys, and I'll come up with some silly prize for anybody who actually reads this and busts me out. Note - the odds of me getting busted out = HIGH, but the odds of any of the three people who read this being the ones to do it = SLIM, so I'm probably off the hook there.