I was approached by a journalist from the Milwaukee Journal Tuesday regarding my submission to Common Pitch Milwaukee. This is the article she wrote wherein my quote is completely out of context and much of what I said was left out.

This post exists to set the context right.

As some of you may know, I was very excited to read about Common Pitch Milwaukee. As soon as I read on their site: “We’re on the hunt for eight promising startups working hard to redefine business in America. The best candidates will represent products or services that improve on (or completely reinvent) an existing American industry, helping to make it more sustainable, more profitable, more community oriented, more ethical – and maybe even more fun.” I knew I had to do it.

The cafe fits all of that. While the thought of getting on a stage scared the crap out of me, it’s for the dream. So, I went for it. Initially the due date was listed as the 18th. Then, all of a sudden, it got switched to the 13th. The application consisted of two small questions- 1. regarding what social impact our concept has 2. what environmental impact and then a mandatory video. I had clips of people talking about what the cafe would mean to them now or what it would have meant to them growing up. They were going to be at the end of me describing what the cafe was. With the switch in date, I had to just link the videos in separately in the “anything else you want us to know?” section and go with a video of me explaining the cafe. Here is the script I memorized for it:

“Hi, I’m Natali. Some people know me as UberDork Girlie and this is my pitch about UberDork Cafe. There will not be pie charts or a soundtrack or fancy graphics. Just a story. You see, once upon a time there was a single mom that struggled finding a place where her and her daughters could hang out. Looking for things to do during a Wisconsin winter turned depressing. Having crayons and chicken fingers doesn’t automatically make a place kid-friendly. Very few places offered classes and activities for kids and their parents to bond and those that did were outrageously expensive. So, she started thinking. What started out as creating a place for her and her daughters to hang out at ended up being the idea of a home for an entire community.

From the application, the video pitch was made out to be the main part.

Guess not. In fact, they would admit after they posted who made it through, that they never even bothered to watch the video pitches. That they had no intentions of doing so until after they had the “short list”, meaning the 8 picked.

THAT is where I became “very confused and disillusioned.”

Why would you ask for them and then not watch them? How are you going to pick from the answers of those simple questions?

I wanted to figure out what I had done wrong. What I could do differently next time. So, I went to look at the chosen 8.

First on the list- brighter12 An “online companion for working a 12 step process.” I have seen and heard of other resources for 12 steppers. I checked out the entire site to get a feel for what would make them different. Then I clicked on “our team” and there, plain as can be, under “Our Business Partners” – Spreenkler, Innovation in Milwaukee and Manifesto.

Who is presenting Common Pitch Milwaukee? Spreenkler and Innovation in Milwaukee.


Can you honestly say that you wouldn’t have thought “WTF?!?” too?

Absolutely nothing against the Rahms, at all. I applaud what they are doing. I am all for making a difficult journey easier. It did, however, answer my questions of “How is this different? Innovative? Revolutionary?”

The fact that they would pick their business honestly broke my heart a bit. These are groups that claim to exist to bring in, nurture and support people who want to open businesses that change Milwaukee for the better. Groups I was looking forward to working with in the future. Groups that involve people I had respected. Groups that didn’t even bother to watch the videos people made for their pitch. Groups that just picked their own.

That’s how it feels and it is certainly how it looks. No matter who picked the 8, (which I still have no clue, the rejection letter was from Art Milwaukee? They aren’t even on the Common Pitch Milwaukee site?) the moment that a business partner came up, something should have been said.

Then there is the fact that only 3 out of the 8 are from Milwaukee. I understand both sides of this coin. One is “Why have it here if it’s national?” One is “It gives Milwaukee more exposure.” I’m down the middle. Hell, one company is from Chile?? That certainly doesn’t fit in with “eight promising startups working hard to redefine business in America” and it’s concept is far from unique as well. But, I’m sure there is some sort of reason that it would be picked over all the entries they got. Right? Bottom line- there was a better way to achieve both.

I LOVE Milwaukee. I am all for anything that helps bring in new talent, that showcases the best we have to offer. I am far from some “MilTownHater.” (Seriously is that even a real phrase?) And I certainly did not set out to rock any sort of boat or piss anyone off.

You know what though? I know I’m not alone in this. I know there are many others that are mad as HELL about this and all that lies underneath. And let me tell you, this is all just the tip of the iceberg. There is some disturbingly dark stuff underneath all of this that just keeps going and going. Things I never wanted to know and would rather that I didn’t. But, somethings you can’t un-see or un-know. And all those people out there that are upset about this, that are feeling confused and disillusioned, they had great ideas too. Ideas that would help make Milwaukee even more awesome. But, where are they to turn now? It’s not just about not having the opportunity to pitch at this event. It’s about the whole week and the organizations involved and the feeling that this one event manages to put out there.

At the very least, you can say that this was handled REALLY poorly.

And if that pisses people off, than so be it. Ms. Gallagher already put my name out there connected to this mess, I’m gonna own up to my thoughts on it. Thoughts that may not be popular. Thoughts that have already upset people that matter far more than I do in this city.

But, just like this city that I love, they are mine.

I wish nothing but the best for all of those pitching tonight. And to the organizations that are attached to this mess. Hopefully they will find their way back to their mission statements someday. The first cup of coffee for them at the cafe is on me.

Update: “‘Our event is designed to bring attention to entrepreneurs, to celebrate entrepreneurialism and to involve the community in bringing support to people that desperately need it,’ said Carmel Hagen, Common’s chief marketing officer.”

Whether anyone wants to come forward and say it or not, this one event has done A LOT of harm to the very community this week was to be about. No matter what the groups involved and their friends will say.

It’s been almost a year now since I have written my “Yup, I’ve Got Boobies” post. To date it is the scariest, most emotional post I’ve ever written. Yes, even more so than the one outlining me standing there with a knife in my hand staring a stalker through my patio door. Breast cancer is far scarier than any stalker.

As soon as that post went up, my awesome tribe of geek girls responded with an outpouring of love and support that went beyond just RT’s. That’s how we roll. One laughs, we all laugh. One cries, we cry too- then whip out whatever we can to make that turn to laughter. One makes a stand, we stand behind her.

We are strong. We are geek. We have boobies. We use our powers for good.

And I am so proud to announce that we have banded together to create a project for the cause. Coming your way soon…

The #BoobieWed Geek Girls Edition Calendar

There are more than 250,000 women living in this country that were diagnosed with breast cancer under that age of 40. That does not account for the thousands that did not detect it early enough and lost their battles with breast cancer as a result.

The strongest weapon in beating breast cancer is early detection. That is the fuel behind this project- driving home the importance of it and reminding women (and yes men) to check their breasts regularly and remind those in their life to do so as well.

For more information please visit the amazing organization Young Survival Coalition.

And stay tuned for more to come on the Epic Gift That Keeps On Giving.

Now go give ’em a squeeze and make sure they’re happy!!!

Remember #BoobiesAreStrongerThanTheForce But they still need to be checked.

Once upon a time there lived a little girl who believed that anything was possible. That just because something hadn’t been done yet did not mean that it couldn’t be done. That someday a Princess would slay a dragon. That someday what was on the inside would count more than what was on the outside. That someday people would come in so many colors, black and white would cease to exist. That someday the world would be a peaceful and happy place.

As she grew, she held tightly to this belief, this faith that anything could be accomplished. The harder life tried to beat it out of her, the more and more cemented in her belief she became. When things got really dark, she would close her eyes and picture the endless possibilities that lay ahead until it was safe to open them again. As the girl got older she saw many things no one should have to see and went through many things no one should have to go through. Each time, she closed her eyes and thought of a time when no one would. In fact a time when no one would go through worse either because she knew that there were many out there that not only faced worse in their lives, but did so on a daily basis.

That girl, not so much a girl anymore, also thought of a time when she could do more than small little things to ripple a very large pond. Very few things made her happier, and still do really, than proving the “you can’t” sayers wrong.

A couple of months ago, one of her pet peeves seemed to be everywhere. Like someone let it get into a bucket of chicken after midnight and it multiplied out of control. Just what was it that was eating that chicken? Grumpy, negative people. The kind that spew their negativity at everyone and prove that whole misery likes company schtick. The kind that constantly whine and bitch and moan about everything, yet do nothing about it. Perhaps that isn’t fair, sometimes they do go through the effort of raising a finger to point it at those whose fault they would like to blame for it. But, of course it is never THEIRS. And sometimes some of them may do so simply because they don’t know what else to do. But when it comes down to it, even when you don’t know what exactly to do, you aught to try something. Any effort is better than no effort at all. And that girl has always believed if you are not part of the solution, you are part of the problem. So that girl closed her eyes and she thought of a time when the positive would outweigh the negative. Then she tried to imagine just how she could make that happen.

It was around this time that a couple of other people she had grown to know quite well were facing the same negativity and about done with it as well. They realized that on the outside they were so very different, but on the inside, they all shared the common bond, the desire to make a difference. To make a change in this community, in this country, in this world. Together they also knew that they did not have the one right answer on how this would be done, but that was ok. The mere fact that they knew they had each other and knew there would be more like them who shared their goal was all they needed. The girl smiled happily, knowing she had found a way to make a much bigger ripple in that very large pond. And that girl’s smile got a whole lot bigger and a lil mischievous when she realized all the “you can’t” sayers they could prove wrong.

And so it began.

Once upon a time, Zebra Panel was born. And someday, it will make all kinds of things that haven’t happened, begin to happen.

To visit Zebra Panel online, click here.

To visit Zebra Panel on Facebook, click here.

To hang with Zebra Panel on Twitter, click here.

To visit some of the girl’s Partners in Change:

Her homie, The Bus Bandit, please to read is recent AMAZING blog post byclicking here.

Her soul sistah, Berni, click here.

Her Partner in Change and Crime, Carrie, click here.

Her sister from another mister and in dorkery, Sara, click here.

Her heart of gold havin’ BFF Stacy, click here.

Her newest partners and amazing group of people, Life After Hate, click here.

Harold: So. you don’t use the umbrella any more? No more revolts?

Maude: Oh yes. Every day…but… I don’t need a defense any more, I embrace. Still fighting for the big issues but now in my small, individual way.

After my year term as president for SFAR, I stepped down. No more standing at the edge of a corn field on dark, damp nights with a half ass tv crew facing the owner of a dog farm, his friends and the damned Sheriff all glaring at us while toting shot guns. I will have to find the photo of his giant “stay off my land or alce” sign. Yup, alce.

I had to. Not long into my sophomore year of college, my year from hell began. From that point on, my umbrella was put to rest. The next few years were simply survival mode and healing. But, slowly, surely, my inner Maude returned. I too embraced embracing. Years, experience and some wisdom gained through those had shaped a different spirit of protest for me. No longer standing with a picket sign did not mean I turned a blind eye either. I never stopped voting, writing letters and signing petitions- using the voice, albeit more tempered and quiet, that I had. I strived to lead by example. Hoping it would be infectious. I also learned to choose my battles wisely.

It wasn’t until I left graphic & web design and went back into health care that my voice would once again return with some chutzpah. I have a fiery instinct to protect my residents. My first round back was at a company with all new construction and hoity toity lil old people for residents. So, my biggest battles typically were with hospitals that wanted to discharge them to nursing homes and doctors that didn’t follow through. There is, however, one priest that is not likely to forget me anytime soon.

One of the hardest things to do is to get a priest to come to a group home. Seriously. I’ve had Catholic residents whose entire parish was off on sabbatical and they were dying and no priest from another parish would come to visit them to administer the last rights (now called “anointing of the sick”.) I had a 92 year old lady move in from Racine ( a good 1/2 hour away from where the home was). She was Catholic, came from a nursing home and her priest had developed Alzheimer’s. She still wanted communion every month, so it was my mission to make that happen. Well, I struck out everywhere and finally just called the priest that came by already for another resident. What’s one more for communion? He was a crab on the phone, but agreed to see her and “see what he could do.” In he glides on his monthly visit and all the staff are warned not to let him leave without seeing the other lady. Sure enough, he tries to fly out of there and encounters me at the door. Smiling. I gently remind him of his promise. This jack ass then walks up to my lil 92 year old in the dining room and YELLS in her ear “ I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M SUPPOSED TO TALK TO YOU. YOU ARE NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY. CALL YOUR OWN PARISH.” Oh the seething. I turned and walked outside to the parking lot while he said goodbye. As soon as he walked out that door (all the staff’s faces now popped up pressed against the windows) I let him have it. Both guns blazing. “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? You can NOT talk to my residents like that!” He didn’t even looked shocked. Just smug and pious. “She is not my responsibility. She is not part of my parish.” “Really? Well it’s a good thing Jesus didn’t operate on that theory now isn’t it? That is THE most unchristian thing I have ever heard.” His retort? “I don’t expect you to understand. You are just a commoner and most likely not even Catholic.” *deep breath* “I’m a recovering Catholic and they have the likes of people like you to thank for that. As far as the ‘commoner’ thing goes? Well, you weren’t born with some special mark on you that deemed you the chosen one, you pompous ass. ANYONE can take the vows you have. Clearly they were nothing more than some regurgitated words for you and hold no meaning. Even a “commoner” grasps the concept of the Golden Rule. If Jesus not only did not turn away lepers but embraced them, what gives YOU the right to turn anyone away? Let alone some sweet little 92 year old lady that has been a devout Catholic her entire life. So, go ahead and prance your self-righteous self back to your Mercedes and drive off out of here. But trust me- when it comes time for the God to whom you have supposedly vowed your life to judge you, He will knock that smile off your face.”

I called my mom when I got back in “Mom, it’s official. I am truly gong to hell. I just cussed a priest out in our parking lot.” My mom, bless her lil heart, “Well, that took longer to happen than we all thought and I’m sure he had it coming..”

Then I began running the “community based residential facility for those with chronic mental illness.” My first couple of weeks there I heard the phrase “ Oh ___ , you guys will take ANYONE.” At first I was offended. A long time case manager friend of mine came in surprised as hell to see me there one day. Just like the rest, she uttered “What the hell are you doing here? This place is a total hole and will take ANYONE.” And it hit me. Harder than Bobbie slapped Whitney around. “You’re damn right we will, J. You know why? EVERYONE deserves a home. Period. Yeah, it’s a bit of a hole right now, but I’m working on that. Someday we’ll be the Pfister for “crazy” people.” My crusade on behalf of those with severe chronic mental illness in Milwaukee then began.

The biggest thorn in my side? The VA. They HATE me there. I have gotten in more knock down, drag outs with them than I can honestly count. The reason? I have never seen a more gross negligence for the care for one’s patients EVER. And these are VETERANS. The very people that have laid their lives, and sanity, on the line for us. I have marched my happy ass down there and stood outside doctor’s doors waiting for them to sign off on a script renewal because it’s Friday and they have ignored my gentle fax reminders for two weeks letting them know their pharmacy will not dispense another supply of oh Depakote until the order is renewed. If it’s not signed that day, they don’t have Depakote for the weekend and the last thing that a person with schizoaffective disorder needs to do is go cold turkey off of that. They also insist on messing with the dispensing as well and that is a fight I have yet to win. The prescription will read “75mg of Zoloft, one tab, by mouth twice daily” Do they dispense 60 tabs of 75mg Zoloft? No, they dispense 30 tabs of 150mg and tell us to cut it in half. Not only does this not match the order, most of these medications they have us do this with are not to be cut PER MANUFACTURER’S INSTRUCTIONS. They don’t care though, because it’s cheaper that way. And, well, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder doesn’t really exist. They’ll tell you so.

So, I found my voice again, using it boldly with my head held high, but only for small, individual “fights” if you will. No picket lines. No rallies. No mass assemblies. No newspapers. No half ass TV crews. No fields at night.

And then, one night, a tweet passed by my screen. It caused me pause. A desperate plea from what appeared to be an Iranian to hackers for assistance. It was @PersianKiwi and I knew there was a chance it was real. From what it was requesting, I knew what it was looking for and why it would be. (Sometimes the 2 years I dated a hardcore hacker comes in handy). As I clicked and read and clicked and read, the story unfolded. I began to research the Iranian election and the candidates that ran. That is all I could find. Nothing of this scandal that they were tweeting of. I then stumbled upon one Twitterer whose emotion was way too human for him to be bullshit. When my eyes could no longer focus, I went to bed.

My head swimming. My heart aching. My eyes wide open.

The decision was simple. I was picking up my umbrella again. That morning, Elphaba was born. My own little personal declaration of unity and support. Over the course of the next weeks I stayed glued and focused on what was going on. I am not ashamed to admit that I have sobbed, screamed and wished that I could do more to help these people that, yes, I don’t even know.

There have been many arguments thrown out there and at me:

“These are Iranians. They hate us, They are our enemies.”

“The change of power will do nothing to protect us from their nuclear program.”

“They made their own bed, let them lie in it.”

“How do we know it’s even real and not some propaganda to engage us in war.”

My retort is simple. Firstly, I respect the opinions of others. It would be hypocritical of me to not and I do understand where their points may come from. Mine is this:

Ghandi is the man in my book. We do need to be the change we wish to see in this world. Whether they are in Iran, China or Istanfreakinbul, they are people. Humans. Just like us. People have been a fascination of mine all my life. I have taken several different language not just for the language, but to understand the culture as well. These people standing (for the most part) silently declaring their desire for independence, for their vote to actually count, for their government to recognize they have given them a vote and need to uphold that are not the same “Iranians” that we have been shown via media for years. Propaganda and distortion of the facts by government and media works all ways. Could their nuclear program remain intact regardless of a change in regime? Possibly. But, I highly doubt it. One of their platforms for change is peace. Symbolized by the beautiful green ribbons bound around their peace fingers. Their eyes have been opened to the truth of the world, not what their government has force-fed them for years. They know. They don’t want to become another America, they don’t want to completely abandon their culture, their beliefs. Their requests are simple. Basic. They want to live peacefully with the rest of the world, they want more of a real say in their government, they want to live more humanely. And I wholeheartedly support them in all of that. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are basic human rights no matter what soil ones bare feet intertwine with. No matter what language they speak. No matter what God they pray to, or don’t pray to.

Perhaps I am odd, but, if someone walked up to me, told me they hated me (yes even if they stated they wished me dead), then was being beaten in the street two minutes later because they were simply walking down the street holding the hand of the person they love, I would stand next to them in saying it was wrong. That, dear friends, is just how Elphaba rolls.

And, for now, Elphaba isn’t going anywhere.

Dear “Dedicated Thin”-

Fist off, thank you for stopping by and reading my post. (I use post vs. blog because your comment leads me to believe that the probability is high that you haven’t ready anything else I have written.) The fact that you took the time to not only do so, but leave me feedback as well is appreciated. Seriously.

Secondly, in re: to “what a piece of complete shit”, it is good to know that I’ve done something right in your eyes. You see, I pride myself on not doing things half-assed, so accomplishing a complete shit versus a partial or incomplete shit is a concept I can more than hang with. So, yay for that!

Now for your big question- “Are you really that much of an egotistical, self-centered asshole?” That is a bit more difficult to answer. I say this because your vagueness doesn’t really give me much to go on. The mere fact that I have a blog where I spew forth random babblings about my life and expect people to read it could indicate yes to egotism and self-centeredness. Then again, one could point that same theory at anyone who has a blog. Further, one could point it toward someone who posts such a comment on someone’s blog whom they don’t know. Goodness knows I would not want to indicate those were my feelings towards them. I am constantly amazed that anyone reads my babblings and frequently thank them for doing so. I put it out there not really expecting anyone to read it at all and am grateful when they do. (I could reference my introductory post regarding my blog and its description, but quite frankly that may come across as snotty and I really don’t feel that is necessary at all.)

Is it the whole topic itself that seems to wreak of egotism and self-centeredness to you? I understand that keeping some tadpoles from being flushed and opening my big mouth when I feel that things are wrong isn’t really saving the world. There are thousands and thousands of people out there that have done and will do great, heroic things to truly save this world. Their stories are FAR more worthy of reading than mine and that fact is one I do not lose sight of. They are also people I strive to be more like on a regular basis. Even if it is just in my own quirky, dorky lil way.

To some extent, I can see why one may question me being egotistical and self-centered based solely on that one post with those points in mind and knowing or reading nothing else about or by me whatsoever. I do honestly apologize if that is the only perception received as such.

Having said that, who does such a thing? Honestly?

Mr./Ms./Miss/Dr. DedicatedThin. You set up an account with LiveJournal, filling in only that you are allegedly from the US and that your birthday is supposedly January the 3rd. That’s it. No entries on it. No following of anyone. No friends. You leave your vague, judgmental comment while hiding safely behind your cloak of anonymity. I trust I won’t offend you by stating that has just a tiny lil whiff of self-righteousness to it. Which brings me to the last word of your question/comment…

Asshole? No, no really I am not. An asshole struts about on a regular basis exuding negativity and unprovoked, rude, inappropriate, unwarranted behavior. It is a skin worn daily and an ugly one at that. So, I say, with great confidence, that I am not an asshole. Can I be a bitch? You betchya.

For instance, I’m willing to bet you may find it just a touch bitchy when I say that before you go on anyone’s blog and start leaving comments such as the one you left me, you may wanna put on your big people’s panties, lay your own self out there for others to see and scrutinize and lob a couple of bricks at your own glass cottage.

Say what you want to say, think what you want to think about me. At least I have the balls to look someone in the eyes. That includes myself in the mirror.

Thanks again for stopping by and have a wonderful day!

Sincerely,
Natali

P.S. You may want to avoid reading part three of my Save The World Syndrome Saga sugar because I’m guessing you’re not going to like that one either and I’m not going to refrain from writing it (or anything else for that matter) due to your comment.

P.P.S. It just occurred to me that another possible reason for your disgruntledness could be that you are an angry PETA supporter that has become offended by my comments regarding them. Well, it that’s the case… fuck you. Yup, I said it.

Displaced paragraph time.

Middle school saw little “activism” action from me. I did end up throwing one bully up against a locker and scaring the ever lovin’ shit outta her for picking on M, the special ed student I was most protective of. Other than that, challenging Mrs. L, our accelerated English teacher who was a total condescending, uppity biotch, on a regular basis was it. Nothing much to report.

Then came High School. My lack of desire to eat meat continued. I went around and around with the principal repeatedly until Mr. W caved and added a salad bar as a healthy, non-meat alternative in the cafeteria.

I rescued a tank full of tadpoles doomed to be flushed. Ok, so the teacher was just scared of me at that point and handed them over. That was a feat in and of itself considering the guy walked, talked and acted like a varsity wrestling coach. Not that an accelerated, college level, Biology teacher can’t be a wrestling coach or vice versa, but com’mon now it was just weird. (side note: him teaching “reproduction” redefined the term “awkward as hell.” ) The tadpole’s poor father was sacrificed in the name of science. Teach decided to just spring a lesson of how to artificially inseminate a frog on us. This started with poor Kermy getting plucked from his lil ole tank, pithed in the head and well I won’t describe the rest to spare my guys that read me. Needless to say, I went OFF. Forced dissection was expected. Springing a frog slaughter on an innocent gal will get you a verbal woopin’ you aren’t soon gonna forget.

The other cause that was important to me was the continued segregation by some. Through a program called “220” here in Milwaukee, city kids could get bussed into the burbs for school. I was close with the three of them that started with the program back when we were in elementary school. Despite knowing these kids for what 8-10 years, well let’s just say “better schools” still have ignorant fucking students. I’ve never been one to label people, especially my friends and certainly not with something ridiculous. They weren’t my “black friends.” They were my friends. Period. Many smaller battles were waged on their behalf. The one that sent me over the edge?

One had a little sis, R, who was a freshman when we were seniors. Her locker was down the band geek/art hall with mine and I loved the hell out of her. (Still do 🙂 ) There was this one girl (I’ll call her IB for Ignorant Bitch) that used to be mean as hell to R for no damn good reason. R just took it each time. I was constantly showing up and threatening IB to back off. One day IB got REALLY stupid and jumped my girl. I came around the corner just as she grabbed her from behind, threw her on the ground and started swinging. R didn’t fight back. At all. I had dropped my bag and hauled ass down that hall. The band director came around the back corner just as I pulled IB off her. Probably a good thing he did in hindsight. He took both of them down the hall toward the office.

Next period I find out R got a three day suspension. IB got two days detention. I shit you not. Yeah… into the principal’s office I STORMED. I suppose I should mention that I’d known Mr. W. since I was in Kindergarten. His son and I were in the same class and I used to tutor his youngest son, who I swear works for like freakin’ NASA now. He sat there listening to me rant not only about this absolute bullshit that just occurred but all the other copious amount of uncalled for shit my friends quietly put up with and shouldn’t have had to. By this point he knew better than to interrupt one of my rants. My happy ass sat in that office until he called R and apologized. Then I made him promise to suspend IB and permanently relocate her locker. Forever. And he did. I just couldn’t be in there for that part.

I then turned around and waged war on the School Board. I insisted they include cultural diversity into the curriculum starting in elementary school. If only I could visually share with you my memory of the looks on their faces when they attempted to use the celebration of Black History Month as a defense. I do feel a tiny bit bad for making the Secretary cry. Just a tiny lil bit though.

It’s safe to say MANY were happy as all get out to see my ass graduate and get the heck up out of there at that point. Guess I can’t really blame them. I kinda screwed up their whole little ignorance is bliss thing. If that is true, if ignorance really is bliss, well I guess I’m just a wipe the smile off my face then kind of gal.

On to UW-Milwaukee. College is fodder for one with Save The World Syndrome’s soul. The list of student orgs you can join is more fun and more difficult to choose than picking your classes. You name it and I wanted to join. The one that seemed most suited to my non meat eatin’, salad bar gettin’, tadpole savin’ self- yup, Students for Animal Rights.

Hold up now! I know the first thing you thought of when you read that was PETA. Don’t even. I’ll get to them assholes later. Just chillax and hear me out.

I think it was like four meetings in when I got nominated and voted in as the first Freshman President they’d ever had. Before I agreed to take it, I told them I would do it ONLY if the group embraced my philosophy on what the group should be and how we should represent ourselves. I even made them revote after I was done with my little speech. The vote came back with me still President. Six members quit and walked out. In the next three weeks though, we gained 45 new ones. My philosophy?

We act as a RESPONSIBLE voice for the rights and treatment of animals and an educational resource for the students. Our library had squat covering anything to do with animal rights. This meant stocking books and literature that presented ALL sides to the main issues that were at hand and allowing those reading them to come to their own beliefs- whether it was that same as ours or not.

We did NOT call people who ate meat evil, we did offer sound, trusted information on how to healthfully embrace vegetarianism. ALL “shock material” was tossed. I got huge shipments of bumper stickers, samples, buttons, literature- you name it- from The Body Shop, The Humane Welfare Society and other groups and companies that did not test on animals. We were not to protest in any way, shape, or form unless it was agreed upon by the whole group. In fact, a dog farm in Darboy was our only real protest. That and assisting in getting steel jaw traps banned in Wisconsin (yuppers, I actually spoke at the hearing they had at the state capitol) were our two big stances that year. I’ll save those stories for another day cuz this bad boy is already way too long. Sorry bout that. I also worked with several other student groups and organized the first ever Earth Day Festival at UWM. That day just kicked ass. Last, but not least, we were NEVER, EVER to portray ourselves as the student division of PETA.

While, at that time, fundamentally I do believe PETA’s heart was in the right place, they’ve had (even then) a history of goin’ about it the wrong way. I don’t do backasswards well. At least not when it comes to important things. My grandma always taught me you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Sittin’ in the Union by the food court with giant posters of scalpless monkeys and gorey lab animals = beyond vinegar. Sittin’ in the Union by the food court with vegan brownies, Kiss My Face samples, Body Shop animal friendly buttons and please adopt, spay and neuter your pets posters= honey. And I am all about the sweet folks.

I’m gonna wrap this part up for now (finally!) But, I’ll leave you with a lil something to kick back and ponder while I’m writing the third (and last) part of my Save The World Syndrome “affliction” saga…

Nowadays, you mention PETA and people think of a bunch of crazy assholes that want Obama to apologize for a fly. Seriously, a fly. No matter what you picture, then or now, I never understood one thing. Perhaps it’s just the dork in me. But, it’s the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. “EH-THICAL.” Not “EEE-THICAL.” So why the hell do they pronounce it like they’re freakin’ pocket bread???

“You know what your problem is, Pee Wee? You have ‘Save The World Syndrome.’ You wanna save everyone and everything in this world and you’re never going to be able to do it.”

“Maybe not, but I’m gonna die trying then, Dad.”

I was 14 at the time. The cause? A stray cat.

I trust you won’t be taken aback by my divulging that I was an odd, odd lil girl growing up. I hated meat. My three fave foods were peanut butter & banana sammiches, raisin bran and mac & cheese. Not only did I love veggies, to my sis’s great joy, I always ate her lima beans for her. Once, I sat in the dining room for three hours chewing a bite of pork chop my father insisted I try, yet I refused to swallow. My mom finally took pity on me. This lil paragraph is going to seem a bit out of place as I jump ahead, but trust me.. it will all make sense in the end. Well, maybe more toward the middle really. Just enjoy the ride.

My first true sign of activism came at the ripe old age of five. To this day, my parents are still baffled as to where it came from. Honestly, I’ve never cared where, when, why or any of that- it’s simply a part of who I am. I tend to breathe in with the good and boldly expel the bad. Anywho. First week of Kindergarten. I was already getting yelled at by Mrs. H daily for asking to read the book to the class at story time. “You can’t read!” “Yes I can!” By the time Wednesday rolled around, I was feelin’ fiesty.

Recess time. I watched a stray dodge ball take off, with no one after it. I didn’t know then that it would land in my destiny, I simnply saw an excuse to run. While I’m scooping it up, I realize there is a rucous of laughter with an undertone of the sound of a girl crying. It didn’t take long for me to scan the playground and see a group of kids I hadn’t noticed the other two days. Some looked exactly like me, two had foam helmets on, one was in a wheelchair and a few had what I would learn later on were some visual characteristics of Down’s Syndrome. The girl that was crying, was also bleeding from her cheek. Surrounding them was a group of older kids. Fifth graders to be exact. Now, I knew the first group was different in my head, but, in my heart, they were just kids. As I wandered closer, one of the older kids threw a rock at one of the lil boys in a helmet.. Though it missed him, he was still scared.

The look on his face is what first lit that spark, that beyond fiesty protectiveness that has never really gone out. It also sent me sprinting. Right on up to Mr. IThinkI’mCool rock-hurling boy. His arm goes up to pitch again and I tap his shoulder. He swings around and ends up pegging one of his buddies with the rock instead. Dumbass. He looks down at me right pissed and just screams “WHAT??!!!?” I look up at him, smile sweetly and say “I’m going to have to ask you to please stop throwing those rocks at them.” He laughed, literally in my face. Which, of course got all his lil mindless cronies to get to cackling as well. “Go away kid” he says as he pushes my forehead. I swear one of my eyebrows raised. My feet were planted firm though and I didn’t budge. He was too confident though to notice. (Seriously, picture Fargus) He picks up another rock, this one’s pretty damned big. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m going to ask you again to please stop.” More laughter. More fear on those kids faces. Dumbass completely ignored me. He pulled his arm back to chuck away. I’d had enough. So, I grabbed the arm that was up in the air poised to throw, spun him around and I socked that lil bastard in the nose. Knocking him out. Cold.

THEN the teachers decided to saunter over. To this day I think it was the sudden quietness that fell over that area that caused them to stop their freakin’ coffee clutchin’ and finally pay attention. All I know was, I got to meet the principal for the first time that. day.

Sitting outside her door, I could only hear her half of the conversation to my mom. Bless her heart though, she basically asked her why her lil five year old girl had to police the playground against bullies. Mrs. P didn’t really have an answer to that. Especially considering the lil girl whose cry I heard needed stitches. Dumbass came to like 2 minutes later on the playground. I could hear him siffling away in the nurses office though.

The next two days Mrs. P and I would have more bonding time during lunch recess. Dumbass visited the nurse again on Thursday. This time I heard the nurse make a comment about him ever being able to have kids again. Friday one of his cronies got a black eye. I always started the same polite way with them. Asking them to stop. They refused to stop, so I didn’t either. I continued to hover protectively over the special ed kids at recess. Doing the job that I feel the teachers should have been doing. I didn’t care then whose job it was. I just knew someone needed to do it. Each time my mom got called she asked the principal the same question. This continued until the bullies stopped. One would get a lil brave on occasion, but I was never far enough away to not be able to get there in time to handle them. Eventually, they gave up. Hell, by the time I hit second grade, people would finally start playing with the special ed kids too. I think they realized I was getting faster and taller and just wasn’t going to back down. Ever.

By the end of that first week I’d really given the principal a reason to hate me. Turns out I could read. Mrs. H. chucked the book at me and yelled “Fine! Here Miss Smartypants!” When I actually started reading the story, she turned white and ran out of the room. After I said “the end”, I looked up and saw her and Mrs. P standing at the back of the room. I wish I would have had a camera for the “OH SHIT” look on Mrs. P’s face. Especially when I smiled very sweetly at her and it turned into fear.

So, where does the misplaced paragraph from earlier come in? You didn’t honestly think that this was my only story leading up to my father’s lecture at 14? Hell, that wasn’t the only lecture I got. Nope, this was just the birth of my crusade. The full journey takes a bit and this, dear friends, is only the first post. There are three in total. I’ll let this one sink in a bit before our journey continues. Until then…I have the playground of life to go keep an eye on.