Stand up and be counted

I forget why I was in trouble. I was about 10 or 11 and had been arguing with my mom. I just remember running to my room to get away. My bedroom was small. I shared it with my brother. There wasn’t a lot of extra space. I had a desk and a chair and two stacked milk crates full of books. That was it. I left the book I had been reading in the living room. I wanted to go back to get it, but I didn’t want to get into another argument. Yes, I was stubborn back then too.

With little to keep me busy, I sat down at the desk and pulled out a journal. I wrote about how life was unfair. I was convinced that it was me against the world. After a few minutes, I moved onto writing a short story. I might not be able to control the outcome of my own life story. However, I could control the one in my head.

Sticking it to the bully

Of course, I wrote about two kids who built a space ship. In my story, the two built the ship in their spare time. They thought it would be something fun to do. The goal was to travel to the Moon, maybe even Mars. They hid the ship in the woods near their house. When their nemesis, a dim-witted bully and his gang, started chasing the two of them, they inadvertently led the gang to their ship. They estimated that they were weeks away from testing the ship. Yet, one thing led to another. And there was no time like the present to give the rocket ship a test run.

Oh the crazy stories I came up with as a kid.

Feeling confined again

Like that young kid, I see things every day in the news that frustrate me. I see spineless politicians who lie and use half-truths to spin a different reality from what I see and hear for myself. I see politicians follow the money instead of the needs of their constituents. I see the White House talk about freedom of speech and then retaliate and go after anyone anyone who disagrees with the administration. I see pastors talk about Jesus but then cuddle up close to lawmakers spouting hate and anger.

I feel like my hands are tied again. I feel that same frustration rise inside of me.

Write my way out

Like that young kid oh so many years ago, I run to my room. I run to my desk. I want to raise my fist against the politics of the day. I get tongue-tied and frustrated. Oh, I write my congressman. I put things out on social media, but it feels like it falls on deaf ears.

So, I fight back the best way I know. I pick up my pen. I write about the bully dads who break Pine Wood Derby rules and overstep their bounds and end up losing anyway. I write about people choosing to help others and do good instead of profiting from their loss. I write about rising after a fall. I even write about the things that make me happy and grateful.

Oh, I still get mad about our cowardly leaders. In the end though, we have to make our choices. I can live in anger or I can live in joy and hope. I choose “to write” my way out.