Inkshell’s Neighborhood

Who remembers the ones who have been lost and have not yet returned?

In Latin America, forced disappearances are done for political reasons.  The disappeared ones, as they are called, or los desaparecidos.  It is the political version of genocide.  People may be thought to be politically dangerous for any reason at all, and one night they are just gone.

In America, we have our own disappeared ones.  They do not disappear for political reasons.  They aren't targeted by the government or a group in opposition to said government.  The force behind it can't be categorized as an organization of terror, an organization of nationalism, an organization of fundamentalism, or an organization at all.

They are pedophiles, and they are preying on America's children.

Today, I heard a woman by the name of Colleen Nick speak about her daughter, Morgan, who disappeared among dozens of people at a Little League game in Alma, Arkansas, in 1996.  Morgan was six.

Morgan

Morgan at age six.

Morgan's mother calmly spoke today about how her daughter, thirteen years ago, disappeared from her life.  She also talked about how she has still not given up on finding her daughter.  She talked about the false leads, the false hopes, the dead ends, and the heartache she and her family has experienced every day since Morgan's disappearance.

Morgan at Age 18

Morgan's image, age-progressed to age 18.

The other children Morgan was playing with that day described the man who is believed to have taken Morgan.  Each, to a child, described him the same.

Composite Sketch

Still at large.

People have told Colleen that she should give up hope.  She should console herself by thinking her daughter is dead and that she's gone on to a better place.  Colleen refuses.  Only 2% of missing children gone this long return home eventually.  Those are odds she's willing to take.

The children disappear.  But they are not forgotten.

Morgan will be 20 years old this month.  Happy birthday, Morgan.  Your mother is still waiting for you.

Visit the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children to learn more.

tri color fat bottom vase 2
Originally uploaded by Cherrie712

Fat bottom vase sturdy and big enough to hold a thick, vibrant array of wild flowers or a simple arrangement that's able to support a short stem. Done in a tri color glaze treatment of khakatile, overlapped with apple green celadon. Colors went beautifully earthen. 4.25 inches tall x 4.25 inches at the base.

To view this and other items, visit Sibbotery on Etsy.

I'm in Alexandria, VA, tonight to attend a training tomorrow and Monday at the Center for Missing and Exploited Children, which they put on for police chiefs, sheriffs, prosecutors, and other officials in positions indirectly related to law enforcement, such as myself.  I've heard that it's a great training, and I'm really looking forward to it.

So I'm staying at the Hotel Monoco Alexandria, which I wouldn't be if my own agency were paying for it.  This is where the Center put me up.  There are also four weddings going on in the hotel this weekend, so I'm going to be very underdressed.  Anyone have any advice they want me to pass on to the happy couples?

death came softly to my door not the brash fellow of my fears but oh, so politely stealing in quietly stealthily, hungrily "I take what I can" the susurrant pronouncement chills me to this very day "You won't take me!" I boldly cry though barely containing the terror over under sideways down backwards forwards square and round he searched every nook and cranny "I take what I can" "Stop saying that!" I shout pausing eyes laser-like resting on the helpless defenseless most innocent of all "I take what I can" quickly like a breath vanishing on yesterday's wind he was gone taking with him our fondest hope heart's desire gone and gone empty womb longing to be filled and yet we do not sorrow as those who have no hope "the sun WILL come out tomorrow bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there'll be sun"

Accountability is often something many people are found willing to take only after every other option has seemed to disappear from view.

I was listening to NPR earlier today and chuckling at the response of former Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick to what has been a long, public, humiliating and ridiculous soap opera mayoral drama that one would only hope to see sandwiched between morning talk shows and advertisements for dish soap. The very public event appears on it's slow descent into old news, but the lingering effects of his response reminds me of one of my biggest pet peeves ever.

Accountability, specifically the lack thereof.

Too often, it seems the simplest way to address what appears to be a gross violation of common sense, decency, integrity and ethics is to offer the trite phrase...

"I exercised poor judgment."

I guess what bugs me about it is the implication that somehow...this is aberrant behavior for you. That typically you make good choices but on this one, you managed somehow to reaallly miss the mark. It is smug, and almost reasons away a potential character flaw as a hiccup. I call bullshit. Don't get me wrong, we are not infallible. We are all going to screw things up. Make poor choices. Act sometimes selfishly and purposefully in pursuit of something not all that favorable. Just don't offer up such a trite and nearly condescending semblance of accountability when you are engaged in something knowingly morally corrupt and potentially harmful to a slew of others besides yourself. Do not offer it when what you've actually done is more akin to...heinous, horrid or at the very least impossibly stupid.

I am making no judgments on the case I mentioned above. I'm making a case for accountability.

When you fuckup, have enough character to just call it what it is. Don't wait until I've caught you in a nest of lies. Don't wait until there's no one else in the room to whom you can wave a disdainful finger. Don't wait until you have no one to measure your mistake against to determine the severity of your general fuckedupness. Own your stuff. Hell, you can even be belligerent about it. I'll look the other way for a moment because I know it is sometimes painful to bear witness to your own stink.

But if you're at least willing to do that, then perhaps I can reasonably spend some time working up the ability to actually forgive you for it.

I didn't expect you But there you were Caught, at first, in the periphery of my vision Like a leaf caught In the eddy of a mountain stream Swirling, swirling Moving neither forward nor back I strained to capture you with my eye Illusive 

"We are so eager, as a body politic, to eliminate the possibility that public servants will do anything wrong that we make it virtually impossible for them to do anything right" (Schorr, p. 65).

Schorr, L. B. (1997). Common Purpose: Strengthening Families and Neighborhoods to Rebuild America. Anchor Books: New York.

At approximately twelve PM Pacific Daylight Time today a doctor looked into the face of a young woman in San Diego, California and told her that the life which had previously been growing in her womb was no more. 

My first crush was a family member.

Actually, my first crush was Bo Duke from the Dukes of Hazzard, but I try to forget that.

I've been thinking a lot about this lately as I come to terms with what I want, don't want, what I tend to ignore and what tends to pop up and smack me between the eyes in my male counterparts. They say the only way to figure out where you want to go is to figure out where you've been...and as much as I hate that old tired thought, I think its a necessary exercise.

So, Bo Duke aside, I've gone all the way back to my very first crush, who probably has no idea he was my first crush. So we will refer to him as ******** as I am directly related to this man and the innurnets are funny things. I try to remember what I loved about him. When you're between the ages of 8 and 14 there doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason. You just like, with all the passion you previously reserved for things like Malibu Barbie and Lite Brite. Ahh the magic of colored lights...

******** was tall. He had a lot of hair and big brown eyes that shone when he laughed and spoke when he didn't. He was quiet, unassuming, had quirky taste in music and typically did not have the burning desire to be acknowledged or called to attention by anyone. He had the perfect smile, still does, sweet and crooked and completely devoid of arrogance or any great sense of his own importance. And he was quiet. And to this day, I've always equated quiet people with great wisdom.

So in my mind, he was a mystery. And yes, I have always and will likely always like, a mystery.

******** was also a geek. Before it was cool to be a geek, and when it was nearly a physical hazard, ******** was a geek. He didn't listen to the music other people listened to. He didn't particularly enjoy sports. He was a bookworm. I too, was a geek. Firmly implanted in that state with pink frosty glasses and two rope pigtails that were perpetually fuzzy, I clung to ******** because he was older than me, inclined not to say much and if he had his choice would much rather be in his room listening to his stereo and reading a book. He felt safe to me. Which is something I've always been a sucker for. Safety. I felt like whenever ******** was in the room, my glasses were okay, my introversion was okay, my odd thoughts were okay and my reading material was okay. In fact, I spent most of my time in his company lusting at him over the pages of something from Madeleine L'Engle or C.S. Lewis admiring the mystery of his brain during brief intermissions.

I don't know that he knew I crushed so badly. Or perhaps he knew and really didn't think much about it as I was __ years his junior. (Ha! Thought I was going to give away another clue, didn't you?) Whatever it was...when I think back to what I loved about him...I take heart that in the best of ways, much of what really impresses me about a guy has not changed.

I like presence. And not the mouthy "look at me, aren't I the shit" presence, but more of the, "I'd much prefer to slip by virtually unnoticed" presence. The type of person who lets the quality of their actions say so much more than the grandeur of their words. Someone who doesn't wear their intelligence on their sleeves, but still leaves you knowing that theirs is a mind you wouldn't mind perusing for hours and days on end.

I know what you're thinking now...

'What about all that Michael Strahan/300 stuff?" Yeah yeah, I know. But that's purely fantasy. And I'll even go so far as to peel back another layer on my onion. Big, brawny guys make me feel small. Feeling small (physically mind you, not behaviorally) makes me feel protected. And that brings us back to that RPM love buzzword, safe. Big guys make me feel safe. Safety, for some reason, makes me feel loved. Yes, I like tall...but I've always liked tall. I am tall. I hail from tall people. Also, I find that tall people tend to be able to adapt and understand some of the more lingering effects of body image. Want to melt my heart? Let me catch a tall guy that seems, even if only for an instant, to be uncomfortable with his height by tugging at a sleeve, or curling over just a little bit to make you feel as if you aren't so little. Kills me, every time. It shows a chink in the armor, and chinks in the armor are immediately humanizing to me because I've got more dents and dings in my armor than I may project in this space. I spent a long time making it about height...but it has never been that superficial. Perhaps I use tall, to hide the truth which is...I want to feel small and safe and protected.

I live in between the lines of guys that I meet and interact with. Much of what I see, I don't mention. But I'm never paying attention to the things they want me to notice. I'm paying attention to all the things they don't. And that's usually where my serious attraction will begin or end. ******** was beautiful on the outside, at least to these eyes, but the elements that made him most beautiful, were the ones you can never get a handle on by looking at a photograph or reviewing the short reels. What makes a man beautiful to me, are five basic things:

1) A heart that's willing to be vulnerable
2) A mind that's ever hungry to know just a little bit more
3) A desire to be seen and to see for all that really and truly is
4) A care and compassion for all things small and precious
5) The courage to know when it's time to change

Oh my God. I'm in love with Barack Obama.

Oh well, perhaps I'm not so screwy after all. ******** grew up and became a great man. I grew up and went on to learn some more valuable lessons. I used to think that made me a reject. Perhaps what it really means is I am patiently tending my crop.

This is dedicated to the Big Cat. In the midst of tending your own wounds I hope you remember that you can never lose who you were truly meant to be. That divine destiny lives on within. Find it, and you will have found you. Love, Nerd Girl.

There is no good way to describe late August in Las Vegas.