I thought I was going to get bombarded with messages slamming me for being pissed that blacks are exempt from being charged with hate crimes, and are receiving so much favoritism and leniency in the courts. Instead, they have expressed their own frustrations and understanding of how I feel. This is all well and good, but understanding there’s a problem is one thing. Actually doing something about it is another.

I don’t know why, but for some reason the courts go easier on the violent crimes, while those who didn’t do anything other than supposedly hurt someone’s feelings or piss them off with words on paper end up going to jail and losing thousands of dollars. It almost makes me wish to hell I had beaten the shit out of this woman when she came screaming at my door doped out of her mind at 6am that day in September of ‘97. I sure as hell would have if I’d known of the legal hell she would ultimately put myself and my family through.

I don’t want to suggest that people should hate blacks or anything like that. I just wish life would be a little fairer. Letting them get away with so much simply because of what might’ve happened over a century ago really sends the wrong message, and is NOT going to discourage them from criminal activity. That’s all I’m saying.

Having fallen asleep with the memories of the nightmare she and her twisted rouge cop friend put us through, she came to haunt me in my dreams. She showed up here and informed me in a matter-of-fact tone of voice that she’d come to “pick on me.” I said I didn’t realize she was suicidal and asked how she felt about the prospect of getting her ass beat.

She laughed and said, “People rarely go to jail for assault. You know that. But I think you should go ahead and beat me up.” She pointed out that it would mean jail in my case because she was black and I wasn’t. “And I’ll be happy to provoke you too, by throwing the first punch,” she added.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, “I know how it works. You’d cry racism and I’d be charged with a hate crime instead of what it really is – me defending myself.”

She grinned triumphantly, then said, “You’d have to kill me in order to stop me from crying racism, and you know they’ll automatically believe me.”

Whatever really did happen after that, I don’t know, for that was when I woke up.

Then I dreamt of running barefoot across the sand dunes in the desert, something one never does for real if they know what’s good for them as scorpions love to nestle just under the sand during the hottest part of the day.

Then I woke up depressed. I realize now more than ever that we could very well be on unemployment for the rest of our lives. Hey, what better way for whatever’s up there to make sure we never buy a house? Then it can trample on yet another dream of mine. And this cold, rainy weather that never seems to end only sours my mood even more. I’ve known for some time now that poverty would be our best friend indefinitely. The question is what to do about it. I wonder - if the average person knew they were fated to be dirt poor all their lives and that there’d be nothing they could do about it no matter how hard they tried to change things, would they want to kill themselves? Would they ever have their moments when they wished they could just cease to exist, knowing there wasn’t an ounce of hope or a chance in hell of ever changing things?

People say I should be grateful for what I do have and thank God for what He’s given me, and I’m like, that’s a joke, right? They’re kidding, just kidding, right? Do they really expect me to look up into the sky and say, “Thanks, God, for allowing us to be what basically equates to forced welfare bums. Thanks, God, for giving us this trashy old trailer to rent. We worked hard for this. Thanks for rewarding our efforts with such little money and so many hardships. So what if I have to spend the majority of my life uninsured, and so what if I may need thousands of dollars in dental work, for You have blessed us with all kinds of struggles that will stick with my husband and I like the most faithful of friends, and for that, I am truly grateful.”

Get real, folks!

Later…

OMG, this is so funny! Yeah, this entry sure is going to differ from my last doomy and gloomy message. Tom just got me laughing my ass off, and man did I need that!

“How are we dirt poor?” he asked. “How can you say we’re struggling just because we’ve been on unemployment so long and it sometimes feels like we’re stuck in a rut? All the bills are paid. You’re typing on a computer most people will never have, I’m watching TV on a big-screen TV, and you’re about to buy $70 of perfume that isn’t necessary.”

Then I stopped in the middle of the room and slowly made a full circle, eyeing everything I’d won during my sweeping years. The car, the color laser printer, the iMacs, the big screen TV, the $700 shed, the furniture, the expensive jewelry and designer outfits I never wear… then I burst out laughing.

Well, I can’t deny he’s got a point there. Maybe I do tend to get overdramatic at times and make things sound worse than they are. Yeah, I admit it. I do that at times, though I never could figure out why. Perhaps it’s just the writer in me that brings out these melodramatic moments I sometimes still have. Ok, so we’re not doing as horribly as we could be. But we’re also not doing well either. Two people on unemployment are never doing well. Had we been on it a few months and then found work, that’d be one thing. But a year of unemployment that leaves us with no possibility of getting ahead in life is another.