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Recently at the White House, we had the privilege of listening to Hannah Jackson introduce the Vice President of the United States, Mike Pence. What’s unusual about that? Hannah is fourteen years old and the daughter of a formerly incarcerated father. Her courageous and articulate words inspired the entire East Room of the White House and
IMG_0249should inspire the country to support our need for prison reform.  Thank you, Hannah.

Here is the link to Hannah’s speech on c-span as well as the text below. https://www.c-span.org/video/?c4730399/saint-hilary-8th-grader-hannah-jackson

Good morning,

Thank you. It is an honor to be here today. Words cannot express how grateful I am to see everyone here today talking about a topic that is so close to my heart.

I used to have a dream – that I was with my dad – but we were surrounded by metal fences and metal tables. It wasn’t until I was 9 years old and my mom told me he had been in prison that I realized this wasn’t a dream, it was a childhood memory.

It turns out I’m not the only one with memories of having to visit a mom or a dad in prison. There are 10 million other kids in America who grew up with a mom or dad behind bars.

All these kids want, is to come home from school, eat a snack and talk about their day – to have their mom or dad at their ballgame – or hear them read a bedtime story and feel their kiss good night.

Incarceration has many negative impacts for children and families. And it often kicks off a vicious cycle. Children who grow up with parent behind bars are 6 times more likely to be incarcerated as adults. Children whose parents suffer from addiction are 8 times more likely to become addicted to drugs or alcohol themselves. You’re also much more likely to grow up in poverty.

It makes you wonder – how can we ever break this cycle?

As a kid, it is very confusing to watch grown-ups fighting over politics, instead of helping people and solving these problems. And that is exactly why it is so meaningful that we are all here today – to start focusing on the solutions. So we can break these cycles – people can get the help they need – and kids can be reunited with their moms and dads.

To continue that conversation, it is my honor to introduce to the stage –

The Vice President of the United States Mike Pence.

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This is Hannah listening to the President after Mike Pence spoke.

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 This is Hannah’s look-alike mother, Jessica Jackson Sloan, who has her own remarkable story. Jessica is co-founder with Van Jones of #cut50.  She is sharing the stage with another outstanding woman, Topeka Sam, the founder and ED of The Ladies of Hope Ministries. thelohm.org. They’re listening to Jared Kushner speak of the need for prison reform, a cause Jared supports passionately.  FYI, this is a bi-partisan effort that many people have been working on through the previous and current administrations. It is a cause we should all support as Americans and human beings. Don’t tell me we should only work with our own party. Let’s be grownups and work together.

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January 2016, I was privileged to  be a guest of Mrs. Obama in her box at the President’s final State of the Union address. While we watched the President make his way to the podium, everyone was clapping and smiling, while those close to the center aisle were maneuvering to shake his hand. It was very collegial and they seemed like they actually liked each other. It looked. . . hopeful.Screen Shot 2017-11-12 at 8.05.34 PM.png

Then the President started talking and I couldn’t ignore the conduct of the Congress. We hear our congress is divided but when you are looking down at it physically and symbolically, it’s stunning. There’s an invisible line right down the middle of that historic, important chamber.

When the action started, the President would say something and the left side of the chamber (Dems) would stand up and loudly applaud; the right side (Reps) of the chamber sat silently on their hands. While half the room cheered, the other half looked at their email, Facebook or Twitter. We had to leave our cellphones in the motorcade. That rule didn’t apply to our leaders. And now with the change in administrations, the Dems sit on their hands and the Reps cheer loudly. Seems it’s tradition. What kind of crazy tradition is that?

For a long time I’ve lamented the lack of grownups in Congress. The name calling is disgraceful and the lack of mutual respect is shameful. We wouldn’t allow our children to behave the way Congress does. Even if they agree with an issue and want to support it, they are scolded if they don’t follow the the Party Line, because they don’t want the other party to get a win! Shouldn’t this be about human beings, about our country, not about winning and losing?

I believe in bipartisanship and civility. I believe we should be working across the aisles and Getting Things Done. Instead Congress is stuck in the muck.

May 18, 2018 was the White House Summit on Prison Reform. Space is limited in the East Room so this included a very small group of 150. This is the second time I’ve been to the Trump White House and I’ve received a myriad of reactions:

 How exciting! Wow! Can I come too? Are you kidding? How could you go there? How could you work wth them? You shouldn’t go!

Guess what…I went. IMG_0221

Suddenly I’m in the position of supporting a bipartisan bill, The First Step Act, HR 5682. www.FirstStepAct.com and being criticized for it.  Van Jones, cofounder of #cut50, and Jared Kushner and their teams have been working tirelessly on this. It’s a complex dance of up and down the Hill and across those deceptively ordinary looking yet deeply historic aisles to craft a prison reform bill that will start the first domino of the many that must be knocked down. IMG_0231They are walking through mine fields and everyone is getting heat for it. I’m getting heat for showing up at the White House and participating.  So are my other sisters who’ve either lived behind the wires or had a loved one there.

 

(Photo: Columnist Rebecca Hagelin, Me in my camouflage jacket, Jared Kushner (Yes, he’s very tall), Pamela Winn of Restore Her and Amy Cando, CEO of CAN-DO Foundation.)

Van Jones admits he’s as liberal as they come, but in one IMG_0238of our first conversations he surprised me with a comment I’ve never forgotten. I was voicing criticism of one of our political leaders and Van said, “It’s a big playground, Sue Ellen, and we all need to learn to play together.”

In his very intelligent book, Beyond The Messy Truth, he observes, “To fix America, progressives and conservatives need a better relationship, grounded in mutual respect and deepened by working together on tough problems.” He’s serious and he didn’t pay me to say that:)) You should read it. (Photo: Pouring rain in front of the White House with Van Jones, bipartisan leader par excellence.)

 

The First Step Act is just that, a first step, applicable only to inmates in federal prisons. I’ve included a summary of the bill below, a link to the bill and a link to the Marshall Project for a bipartisan analysis.

https://www.congress.gov/bill/115th-congress/house-bill/5682

https://www.themarshallproject.org/2018/05/22/is-the-first-step-act-real-reform

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To answer my critics, I support this bill because no bill will ever be perfect, we are the grown ups in the room and must find ways to work in a bipartisan fashion. Jared Kushner’s father served prison time and, unlike most families, Jared had the means to visit his father often. He met other inmates and their families and he was appalled at how the system operates. He didn’t have to assume leadership on this issue and he’s gotten a lot of flak for it, but he knows how necessary it is.

So YES, I support the extremely difficult work that Jared and Van and their incredible teams have done to get this far. If not for their shared vision, none of this would have happened and I wouldn’t have been in the East Room of the White House last week to attend the WH Prison Reform Summit. Kudos to all who had the courage to show up. We’ve passed the House; now we must pass the Senate, a more formidable task.

For a very long time, not one formerly incarcerated human being was ever invited to the table, therefore our ideas and experiences went unheard. That’s counter productive because WE are the prison experts. Finally we are being included and our voices are being heard. All I can say is, let’s build a bigger table. We need each of you to show your support for this bill, the human beings, the families and communities it touches. That means all of us.

 

 

 

Harvey Weinstein. Everyone in the world is posting expressions of shock, dismay, disgust and horror. Really? Suddenly American men are shocked and disgusted? Seriously, you never had any idea that this kind of sexual harassment and violence by rich, powerful, old and mostly unattractive, overweight men has been going on for CENTURIES?

I’m 72. I’ve been sexually harassed since I was in my 20s. Yes, by rich, powerful, much older, unattractive, overweight men who were pillars of their churches and had loving ‘showcase’ families. In corporate America, I often reported to the president or CEO of the company and had to travel with them. One of the ‘pillars of the church’ would sit by me on the plane, trying to put his arm through mine over the armrest so he could rub his arm against my breast. It was both disgusting and hypocritical from this tower of Christianity. I quickly learned to check us both in to different rows so we could both have aisle seats:))

I also learned to hop quickly out of the limo at the hotel and dash to the front desk. I would make sure we were checked in to rooms on different floors. and I never sat next to him at meals. It was a dance I did, a keep-away dance. It was exhausting and demeaning, but I needed the job. Good jobs in corporate America weren’t that common for young women in the 70s and 80s.

He wasn’t the first nor was he the last. I got quite adept at that keep-away dance, but it hurt my heart and angered me. No, I never considered going to HR. How could I complain about the CEO? We women talked about it amongst ourselves, but that’s as far as we could go.

So now let’s go a little farther. Did you have any idea that many of those same powerful men were also predators often against their own children? One of America’s other dirty not-so-secret secrets is incest. I met hundreds of women in prison who had been raped by their fathers, step-fathers, uncles, mother’s boyfriends. I met one young woman who gave birth to her father’s child when she was 12! Effectively that little boy was both her son and brother. At first, I though she was an anomaly but I quickly learned she was not.

If you visit any of our country’s juvenile facilities for girls, you will hear stories of incest that will chill you to the bone. So often these predators are pillars of very strict and fundamental religions. They are also powerful businessmen and feel untouchable. Often these girls turn to or are given drugs to ‘ease’ the pain. The next step is crime and then society condemns them as ‘bad girls’ and addicts. I dare you to go through what they’ve been through and not turn to some kind of escape from the horror.

Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, Bill O’Reilly, Roger Ailes. They are just the tiny tip of an enormous world-wide iceberg. Yes, women are saying “Me, too,” but what is it going to take to put a stop to this? Some men may actually be worried, but mostly, they still feel untouchable. Many women are afraid to make waves, lose their jobs, and, yes, even hurt the wives and children of the predators.

It’s going to take a true cultural shift in America’s thought process to actually change this behavior. It’s going to take men talking openly against it in locker rooms and clubs, men supporting women as they speak out. It’s going to take true equality, equal pay, equal representation in Congress and our state governments and corporations, equal protection under the law. That means men will lose some power. Is that even possible? I haven’t seen any evidence that they’re willing to open up, speak up and stand up for their women: wives, mothers, aunts, cousins, girlfriends and, most important, daughters. That’s what it’s going to take to create that shift. What about it, men?

Fifty years ago on August 1, 1966, Charlie Whitman, a former Marine and University of Texas student, murdered his wife and mother then went to the top of the central tower at the university in Austin and for 96 minutes fired randomly, killing a total of 17 people and wounding 31. All hell broke loose then. Last week in Las Vegas hell broke lose again and it took my memories back to that day fifty years ago.

I was in the English building next door to the Tower waiting for our professor to show up for a class on how to teach Shakespeare to high school students. Funny how I remember that. After ten minutes the professor hadn’t shown up so we rose to leave. I was closest to the door and first out into the surprisingly crowded, chaotic hall. Someone said, “You can’t go outside. Someone’s shooting from the Tower.” Like an automaton, I turned and parroted, “We can’t go outside. Someone’s shooting from the Tower.”

Our classroom faced away from the Tower so we were able to look out the windows at students and teachers crouched behind trees, cars and bushes. The view from the top of the Tower gave the shooter a predatory view of everyone below. Those 96 minutes were an eternity. When it was over and we were released, I remember walking across the Main Mall right under the Tower. There was an endless line of ambulances parked in the narrow inner campus road. Bodies and blood were everywhere and students were sobbing. In the stifling heat, the pools of blood seemed to swirl in puddles on the pavement like it was alive. It was hypnotic, something I never forgot.

We all went back to our dorms and apartments and watched the news tell us this was the first mass shooting in American history. It was easy to watch the news then. In Austin there was only one station, KLBJ, that belonged to Lady Bird Johnson, President Lyndon Johnson’s wife. They controlled the airwaves. 

Classes were suspended the next day; the University cleaned up the blood; we went back to school. There were no memorials and no counseling was available for any of us. We were the “first” and there was no precedence. The university seemed to want to cover it up. They were afraid it would impact the university’s reputation as well as registration. Conversations about “it” were not encouraged.

At last, fifty years later, the University has created a memorial garden in honor of those who died or were wounded on that August day so long ago. The survivors were invited and recognized. It only took fifty years.

https://www.texasmonthly.com/articles/fiftieth-anniversary-tower-shooting/

Now we are so used to these mass murders that our law enforcement is trained and our schools and communities provide counseling immediately. Ironically, August 1, 2016 was the day that the new gun carry law in Texas went into effect, allowing licensed gun owners to bring their guns on campuses! When is enough enough? It is beyond my understanding how a country that requires a driver to pass a driving test, have a license and car insurance, cannot get sensible gun control laws passed.

The terror in Las Vegas took me back to Austin fifty years ago.  While I go about my work, I’m remembering, just like we did in 1966.  I know the lives of the survivors of this carnage are changed forever. They will never forget that beautiful fall evening full of music and love, followed by mass terror and murder. They have lost their innocence and some of their families and loved ones. It is horrific. When is enough enough???? 

This picture says it all:

 

 

 

And yet there is more to consider besides the guns, the violence, the carnage and the hate. There is the history. Among the many quotes attributed to Churchill,  “History is written by the victors.” In America, we have written our history well to reflect the success of the white man, including the claim of worst massacre in history.

Actually that’s nowhere near true. Thanks to Wikipedia, we can easily call up a list of Indian massacres, and violence against the Irish, Italians, Chinese, Africans and anyone else who was an “other.” Here’s a list of the worst massacres of Native Americans in our history. https://listverse.com/2016/07/19/10-horrific-native-american-massacres/

Because white people were the victors, we wrote the history. Thus the “first mass shooting in American history” was in Austin, Texas in 1966. Because I was a young college student, I believed it until much later.

Our nation has been built on violence. We have all the stats, all the reasons, all the common sense, all the bodies and all the blood to stop this violence with sensible, bipartisan gun regulations that at least equal our laws about cars and driving. But all we are getting is our political leaders offering “thoughts and prayers for the victims.”

Seriously? Is that the best our leaders can do? Is this the least we will accept? It’s not just our leaders, it’s all of us who keep turning our heads because the “timing isn’t right.”

 

THE PARDON

Big News In Arizona. We’ve had a Presidential Pardon. It made international headlines and gave me a very bad dream. This Pardon brought back memories I can never forget.

On July 19, 2002, I entered my first jail, in Maricopa County, Arizona. I was a well-educated fifty-seven years old woman suddenly face to face with another world. I was afraid; I was shocked; I was very, very sad.

I was also very sick. In February I’d been diagnosed with stage 3B breast cancer and told my survival odds weren’t great. I’d already had six sessions of chemotherapy, with all the accompanied nausea. I wanted to curl up in a fetal position with a cozy blanket, soft pillows and crackers. Instead I got handcuffs, a thin plastic mattress, sickening food and vomiting.

The first time they handcuff you is a shock. Some guards make them so tight they cut into your flesh at every move. Shackles are worse. They serve their purpose; they restrict your steps and are heavy and cruel on bare ankles. The holding cells are filthy, and there are only hard concrete benches and one open toilet. At some odd hour, they bring baloney sandwiches, but no trash bag so everyone just piles the trash in a corner for the mice. Thirty-two women are crammed into an 8×12 tank. It’s desperately hot. There is no more room to sit or move so some women just stand, looking dazed. The theory is that this inhumane treatment will inspire people not to come back. It doesn’t work. It just succeeds in dehumanizing them so they have no dignity or hope left.

I was kept there for twenty hours, waiting to be processed. The noise, the heat, the smell, the meanness of the guards all contributed to a feeling of fear and despair. I didn’t know such a place could exist in the United States of America —  the beacon of civilization for the rest of the world. I didn’t want to believe that a human being could create this hell and others were willing to work in it.

Finally, we newbies were moved out to Estrella, the woman’s jail. There our clothes were taken, we were strip searched and given uniforms of black and white stripes. Then we were escorted to the dorms. I could feel the heat all the way down
the hall. When we walked through the door at the end, it felt like Dante’s Inferno. One hundred seventy-eight women in racks of bunks three tiers high.

Eight showers that didn’t drain and eight toilets, all without doors. One sheet, one thin blanket, no pillow allowed. One uniform, one bra, one pair of panties, one pair of socks. Anything else is contraband. Anything else is country club.

Everyone sweats and smells and struggles to stay clean. The evaporative coolers had been broken for two months. Mid-July and 115º outside, but no repairs in sight. Of course, office air conditioning was fixed quickly, and the offices were freezing.

The lights were kept low to ease the heat. Too dark to read, my only respite. Time felt upside down. The meals added to that. Two meals a day, always the same. Breakfast at mid-morning, always a sack with baloney, six slices of white bread, two slices of fake cheese, one old orange and crackers. In the late afternoon, 
dinner of unrecognizable mix and smell served on a brown tray. The windows were small and very high so there is no feeling of time.. Meals are irregular and time is twisted.

It felt like a 21st century concentration camp and, because of the heat, we were living in the ovens. Everyone in black and white stripes. Everything done to denigrate, debilitate and demoralize. It’s big business designed to create a revolving door of job security. Most inmates are poor. No one cares.  Once behind those walls, you become a distant memory to the world.

The first night in the dorm, one of my neighbors literally vomited her insides out all night long, completely ignored by the guards. Heroin withdrawal. I’d never heard such suffering and agony. How could anyone survive that?  It was my first exposure to drugs and I was horrified for her. But despite my inexperience with drugs, and with a huge age difference, the kindness of these drug-addicted women overwhelmed me.

These young women shared their meager possessions with a generosity unseen in the world I’d known. I was profoundly sad and frightened and they embraced and comforted me.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be safe. We respect our elders.”

I was there six months. The time was filled with sleeplessness, constant shaking, incessant noise, terror, the men in black and tears. I’m ashamed to say I cried enough to float the damned place away. Yet It’s Still There.  Add to that, nine indescribably rough trips to both court and the hospital, each one twenty-four hours of agony and exhaustion.

In the middle of this, I had my mastectomy. They told me I was the first woman to ever have a mastectomy while there. The medical staff didn’t really know what to do with me so they mostly did nothing. I’ve been a patient with cancer and an inmate with cancer. There is an ocean of difference between the two. The feelings of despair and loneliness were overwhelming until the women rallied around me. In that wretched, cruel, unfeeling place, these women comforted me and surrounded me with love. Society saw them as addicts, thieves, prostitutes and murderers. I saw them as victims of incredible violence, too often raped and beaten by  fathers, uncles, brothers, boyfriends, husbands and pimps. One woman told me she was glad she was there. She felt safe. Her husband and her son couldn’t touch her there or beat her up. At first, I thought she was an anomaly but she wasn’t. There were so many like her.

I can never forget those women whom society shuns and ignores. I can never forget that place. When THE PARDON was announced, all those memories flooded back, as vivid as if it was yesterday. Ironically, I remember that time more clearly than the morning my beloved husband died. The noise, the clanging doors, the jingle of chains, the terror of the men in black, the intimidation, cruelty and horror of the place all came flooding back.

It was created with pride by “the toughest sheriff in the country.”  Not only did this man and his crew terrorize our Latino population, violating a court order in doing so, his lack of basic human decency caused the death of too many inmates and racked up millions of dollars in law suits paid for by tax payers who didn’t seem to mind and continued to vote for him. . .until they didn’t. And now we are here, looking at a man found guilty of only a criminal misdemeanor, only that. So many crimes against humanity, heart-breaking and unconscionable. Yet they cannot be attributed only to him; the staff, the guards, the voters are also culpable. There is blood on the hands of everyone who cheered him on. And now he has been pardoned.

I thought I would feel more, more pain and more outrage. Instead I feel nothing except a great sadness for all the people who have experienced his hell. But I won’t let his cruelty destroy my hopeful heart. There is no hope for him and people like him. There is, however, hope for our world if passionate, clear-minded people pay attention, speak out and work for change. “Enough is Enough.” Enough denigration, humiliation, cruelty and lack of accountability.  Our country is better than that. We are better than that.

To those who read this and feel the need to attack me and defend the sheriff, first remember America is the Incarceration Nation. One in three Americans now has a criminal record. We incarcerate more people than Russia or China! It’s easier than you imagine. Our jails and prisons are indeed over-populated with minorities, but that is changing with the opioid crisis. We are criminalizing everything and you could be next. Then suddenly you’re inside in black and white stripes, and you are horrified, outraged and very empathetic. Funny how that works.

screen-shot-2017-02-13-at-11-27-36-pmWhere were you fifteen years ago, Valentine’s Day 2002? Some of my young friends weren’t even born yet. Some of  my sisters and brothers in orange were inside. Some of you were celebrating Valentine’s Day and some of you were lamenting the lack of cards, chocolate and flowers.

I was sitting in a doctor’s office hearing the words, “You’ve got  stage 3B breast cancer.” What? No, that can’t be right. I’ve never smoked. No one in my family has had cancer. I eat my veggies and exercise. And what the hell, it’s Valentine’s Day. Seriously??

But it was right and none of that other stuff mattered. I was tapped on the breast by Breast cancer behind the wiresthe cancer demon and began a journey I never expected. Curiously, it almost paralleled with my prison journey. If I hadn’t been diagnosed on Valentine’s Day and started chemo and had my medical records, I wouldn’t be alive today because most of my treatment including my mastectomy was behind prison walls.

Although “they” told me I probably wouldn’t live five years, fifteen years later, here I am. Christine died; Gina died; Paula died; too many died; even David died, but I’m still here. Often I wonder why. And then I look at the book by my bed, The Book of Joy by the Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu.

I first checked this book from the library, but after one chapter I knew I had to own it so I rushed to Costco where it sits amongst the latest book bargains, hot off the press. You might not notice it, but Pay Attention. Forget the best selling novels screen-shot-2017-02-13-at-11-32-38-pmand take this one instead.

It’s divided into three sections:

I    The Nature of True Joy

II   The Obstacles of Joy

III  The Eight Pillars of Joy

This book will open your eyes to the difference between joy and happiness. It will open your eyes to the incredible power and joy of LIFE, despite suffering and sorrow.

You’ve heard me say it a million times, “Everyone has a story.” Mostly those stories are about pain and suffering. You’ve also heard me say that there is great power in your willingness to be vulnerable and share your story with others.

The Book of Joy distills the power of our grief, pain and suffering and gives meaning to our stories.  I’m not going to give you a book report. Nope, you have to buy it  and keep it by the bed with a marker to highlight the meaningful parts. And then put a journal with it to write your own story so you’ll know why you’re here and what you’re meant to do.

What’s your story? Have you figured out your purpose? If you haven’t, no worries. I didn’t “get” mine until I walked into prison at fifty-seven years old. (Slow learner.) Judy Pearson calls finding your purpose your 2nd Act. 

Judy is a breast cancer survivor with an incredible story and a clear vision to make a difference in the world of cancer. She founded A 2nd Act to do just that. A 2nd Act: Survivorship Takes the Stage is a live, curated stage performance, featuring a cast of eight women survivors of ALL types of cancers, local to the city in which the show is being held. Professionally produced, each woman has auditioned for a slot to share her own story of how she’s using her post-diagnosis gifts of time and experience for the greater good.

I’m deeply honored to have been chosen to be part of the Phoenix cast for 2017 and Sunday we had our first table reading. At that table, The Book of Joy came to life. All of the women there realized the power of their stories while they were going through their suffering and from their pain, they have manifested extraordinary 2nd Acts. Their courage is humbling and inspiring.

The Phoenix event on Sunday, March 12th. I hope you will visit the website to get the details. If you know anyone who has battled cancer or if you have, I urge you to attend this event and bring your friends. You will laugh, cry, be outraged delighted and you may see yourself in one of the stories. Here’s the link to the site: https://a2ndact.org/the-2nd-act/

Meanwhile, back to Valentine’s Day. Maybe you have a marvelous date tonight. Maybe you’re sad because you’re alone. Consider this. In doctor’s offices all over the world women and men and children are hearing the words, “You’ve got cancer.” In a heart-beat, their lives are changed forever.

Here’s your chance for a really special Valentine’s Day. Instead of feeling blue, why not take some flowers to a senior center or a hospital or the VA? Why not invite your mother to dinner? Think outside the box and get creative. What wonderful thing can you do to brighten someone else’s Valentine’s Day? Who knows, it might feel so good it will become your 2nd Act!

I haven’t been out on New Year’s Eve in about thirty years. David and I kept a wonderful tradition and once he was gone, our tradition became a treasured memory. There was no way I was ever going out again on NYE until my friend Betsy came up with a brilliant concept that grew organically as we all embraced it…a Greenwich Mean Time (GMT)
celebration. (http://www.rmg.co.uk /discover/explore/greenwich-mean-time-gmt

screen-shot-2017-01-01-at-10-24-45-pmThe theory was that we would celebrate the New Year on London (GMT) time, five o’clock in Phoenix. Evryone I talked to loved the idea. Betsy and I got more and more excited. She and her husband Ken ordered thirty-two balloons and streamers. I gotcool hats, important looking crowns and princess tiaras. Their daughter Daria planned a menu of the yummiest of treats lovingly purchased from Costco. After all, who wants to spend time New Year’s Eve slaving over any kind of stove? And we agreed to dress in our sparkly best.

screen-shot-2017-01-01-at-10-38-58-pmWe gathered at three to start the festivities, an eclectic group of people who’d never met, yet felt as though we’d known each other forever. Three of our group went to the same high school. Diane discovered that her beloved mother had been the gynecologist for Mary and her mother and her grandmother. Mary’s words, I loved your mother, brought tears to all of us.

Francine and Diane began plotting how to take over the entrepreneurial world. Paul regaled us with a story of trying to impress his date by taking her to a drive-in movie without a car. It must have worked because they’ve been married over fifty years.  Ken and Tom solved the problems of the political world and have a can’t-lose presidential candidate to run for 2020. Nope, can’t tell. It’s a secret.

Everyone had a story or a connection that stunned, excited and inspired us as we grew closer to five pm, midnight GMT. Crowns and tiaras were tilted at just the right angles; streamers and poppers were poised as we counted down,
                                           5. 4. 3. 2. 1 . . . Happy New Year!!!
Cheers, hugs and pure joy to ring in the new year.

The rest of the world was just starting to prep for their celebrations, but for us, the Arizona sunset was gorgeous and we’d had a fantastic time. By six-thirty we were all safely on our way home, long before the traffic became dangerous with people who had over-celebrated. It was the best possible way to celebrate New Year’s Eve and we agreed it must become a tradition.
                                So here’s to a new way to bring in the New Year. . .
                                                         Greenwich Mean Time.
                                                     Happy New Year, Everyone.

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