A Second Wish Granted

My brother was given a wish when he was young. You see, my brother hasn't had a long life. The way I break it down is walking years, and wheelchair years. Either way, they are years, years that we have cherished. My brother's first wish was granted during his walking years. Through Make-A-Wish he was sent to Florida where we stayed in a beautiful place, filled with happiness and joy. He went to Walt Disney World, and Universal Studios. The family went with, well, besides grandpa. I know he enjoyed his 'vacation' of having no one around for a week. This first wish was special, because he was a wide-eyed, naive, not-knowing-what-the-reality-of-his-life-would-be, child.

Last night, my brother had another wish granted to him. Through family friends, and a hospice nurse, Coach Whittingham came to my brother's home. I cried, and smiled. My heart was full of happiness for my little brother. Five minutes later, four linemen were at the door knocking. They filled the room, as they were linemen (you don't realize how big they are until there is no room in the living room!) They visited with my brother, and admired all of the decor in my mom's home. Everywhere Coach turned he saw Utah, Utah, Utah. Coach was proud, you could see it in his smile. He gave my brother a visor of his that he has worn in past games. Then, Coach asked J if he wanted to come down on the field before, and after the game. He asked J if he wanted to get a tour of the locker room. He was wide-eyed, and happy, only he wasn't naive, and he now knows what the reality of his life will be.

Life is beautiful, life is fragile. Don't take it for granted. When you have bad days, smile, because it's all only temporary. Most importantly, do what is important to you. Do what you really love, and never go a day without telling the ones that you love, how much you love them.

xo,
Kas

Graduate School

When I entered my Cultural Diversity and Understanding classroom at The University of Utah, College of Social Work, I had no idea that I was going to fall passionately in love with school, far more than I had ever fallen in love with anything.

My cohorts often discussed what they were going to do, and what their next step was. Often the topic of graduate (grad) school would come up, and I would shut down. I thought that my Bachelor of Social Work would be plenty, that my thirst for knowledge would diminish once I had my degree. It's not that I didn't think I was good enough, or that I didn't deserve to go to graduate school. I simply had minimal desire to go. 

I "graduated" in December of 2012, and having eight months of a break I began the process of contemplating grad school. After nine months of a break I began the process of asking, timidly, if people I looked up to within the Social Work profession, would be willing to write a recommendation for grad school. After I received a plethora of "yes", "of course", "it would be an honor", and "I was waiting for you to ask." I knew that I needed to apply. 

Now, after a month of completing a few lists, gathering items, and countless hours of writing I have submitted my application. It wouldn't have been possible without so many amazing people helping me attain the courage to actually start the thought process of graduate school. These people, who were so generous, are individuals I will never be able to repay in any way shape or form. That folks, is Social Work.

I uploaded the documents needed. I double, and triple checked the application. I typed in the numbers on my debit card. I hit submit. I typed my full time. I hit the "I agree/I understand" button. Then the "Thank you" page popped up on my screen. I had just sent in my application for graduate school. 

I sat, dumbfounded, had I just sent it? I really, really, just sent it. Then, I cried. I cried happy tears. I cried because I was doing something I once had never even known about. I cried because I was doing something I once never thought possible. I cried because I was doing something I once was told would never happen. I cried because I was finally proud of myself. I, Kasandra, am proud. I cannot tell you how great that feels. I am happy. 

xoxo,
Kas

Great-Grandma: Floris P. Cole

My great-grandmother was one of the most amazing women that I have ever know, in my entire life, no contest. I was lucky to live right down the street from her for many years as a young child. Not only that, but she was the glue to my family. My fondest memories of her was when I would have sleep overs and she would spoil me like none other by: 

1. Tickling my feet 
2. Making me the PERFECT peanut butter and honey sandwiches (she always knew just how much to put on each side.) 
3. She would always let me play dress up, by putting on all of her different lip stick, and blush. 
4. I was fond of her goody drawer; full of all types of pastries. 
5. I would go down in her sewing room, where I would look at all of her different buttons.
6. We would watch ice skating together. 
7. Thanksgiving Day games at the table after dinner, between pie. 
8. The Santa Claus sack, of which I remember some of the most random presents (especially toward the end of her life, and deeper dementia.) 
9. The conversations I would have with her, and when she would always talk about her cordial cherry chocolates that her father would give to her for both her birthday and Christmas. 
10. The way she would always let me talk, and talk, and talk, and she always made me feel like everything I had to say was the most important thing in the world. 
11. Playing tic-tac-toe, hangman, monkey in the barrel, and pick-up-sticks. ALL of which was in her buffet in the dining room. 
12. Going through her jewelry in her back bedroom and thinking of how glamorous she was as a young woman/middle-aged woman. 
13. Moving in, and living with her and listening to all of her funny stories, mostly because of her dementia. 
14. Sitting on the porch with her, and visiting with Mr. Sheriff (the crossing guard.) 
15. Her never letting you leave without at least accepting a drink from her. 
16. Her fridge downstairs that was old SKOOL, which you used a screw driver to open the fridge with.
17. When she first got zipper, and she would jump up into your arms and bark at herself in the mirror. 
18. Her yell, which was my whisper.
19. Going out to lunch with her and my Aunt Marilyn . . . and all the Sunday drives. 
20. Most of all I loved my great-grandma for all of the love that I felt, and continue to feel from her. She may be gone, but she will love on forever. 

I love her for all of the wonderful things that she stood for, and continues to stand for. I still don't know her religious preference. I still don't know her political stance. I just know that she is the type of woman that if anyone said anything bad about her, I wouldn't be able to believe it. That is how I want to live my life. I want to love everyone. Laugh often. Forgive easily. Talk calmly.Oh, yeah, and love, love, love. 

I miss you! GONE, but NOT FORGOTTEN. Love you forever and for always. 09/09/09 

Don't let Robin Thicke be a lesson to you.

One of my staff encouraged me to follow a link, which was in essence something that our society, isn't thought of enough. She heard me read aloud each and every word. When I was finished she said, "I didn't even think about this aspect." I thought to myself, "Wow! Really?" She considers herself a feminist. At what degree, I am unsure. I was blown away, not in any way to degrade her, but that she hadn't ever thought of it from this view point. There has been an article/letter going around titled, “Dear daughter, let Miley Cyrus be a lesson to you.” The following article can be found here: http://themattwalshblog.com/2013/08/28/dear-son-dont-let-robin-thicke-be-a-lesson-to-you/

But, the following part not only made me cry, but reminded me what as parents our job is for the next generation. Also, it is the exact reason why I don't want to be a parent. I don't want to have to explain why my generation has decided to do what we have decided to do. I don't want to have to explain right from wrong, I want it how my parents had it ... common sense. Great entertainers and well, less sex ... ism, what am I saying? Sexism is alive and well, just as much as racism, and any other ism on the planet. 

Dear son,

Don’t let Robin Thicke be a lesson to you.

Don’t let any of these pigs and perverts you see on TV be a lesson to you. They treat women like garbage; they possess no chivalry, no self control; they are disloyal and dishonest; they spend all day pursuing pleasure at the expense of others, and they encourage you to do the same. You might be tempted to follow suit. In fact, you WILL be tempted. These male pop stars and celebrities, look at them, you’ll think. They take advantage of emotionally broken, self loathing, confused young women, and they are rewarded handsomely for it. Look at their nice clothes and their nice cars. Look how they are admired and loved. Look, they treat women like trash and other women fawn all over them because of it. This must be how real men behave, you’ll think.

And you’ll be wrong. You’ll be wrong about a lot of things in life — this is what it means to be human — but never will you be more wrong than when you feel the temptation to buy the lies that pop culture sells about the nature of true masculinity. Son, there is nothing glamorous or fun about being a man of low character and no integrity. What you see on TV is a facade. It’s a sales pitch. It’s poison. You see the bright lights and the sexy women, but you don’t see what happens when the cameras are off and these pop culture gods return to their lives as mere mortals. You don’t see them in their big, empty, lonely houses. You don’t see the emptiness in the pit of their souls. You don’t see all the alcohol and drugs they have to use to dull the pain of living a life devoid of real, committed relationships. You don’t see the hatred they have for themselves and for humanity. You don’t see the jealousy they have towards normal, decent men.

Your dad is no celebrity. He’s just an average, boring guy. But he’s got something that every famous and non-famous womanizer envies: He’s got the love and commitment of ONE beautiful, smart, faithful woman. He’s got your mom, and he’ll only have your mom until the day he dies. He ought to be waking up every day shouting praises to the Lord because of that.

Listen, son, don’t let the world tell you how to be a man. They don’t know anything about the subject.

Men are loyal. Men are honest. Men respect and honor women. A man goes out and finds one woman, and he vows to protect and love her for the rest of his life. A man would never betray that vow. Even the weakest and most cowardly man — if he is a man at all — would die for the woman he loves. Your dad is no hero, but let someone try to hurt your mom and watch him suddenly turn into Superman (or Batman, whichever you prefer).

See, son, you don’t have to be big and strong to be a man, although I think you will be one day. You don’t have to be “cool” or athletic. You don’t have to play guitar or fix cars. These are all fine things, but they don’t define a man. A man is defined by how he treats women, by how he keeps his promises, and by how he protects and serves the ones he loves. That’s what makes a man a man. My dad taught me that, he taught it by example. I pray I can do the same for you.

Oh, and by the way, if I ever catch you disrespecting women, I will sit you down and talk to you about it. But first I’ll kick your butt up and down the street. That’s a promise.

Love,

Your old man 

Love

The idea that one person can love another person, cheat on that person with another person, love that person, cheat on that person with another person, and then love that person is something I will never understand. 

Look I get it, I don't know all the ins and outs. I don't know the details of each relationship. Just tell me how, if you love that person, which you said you did, you can't/won't/don't want to work it out with them?

Also, tell me why the person you cheated with would then love you back. I think I can see why I have so many trust issues. The one person I always thought I could trust, I can't.

Xo,

Kasandra 

WHO I GREW UP WITH

My brother, J.T. has DMD (Duchene Muscular Dystrophy). He turns 16 on 07/22/2013, though we celebrated his birthday this evening. This was a little kid, whom is now a young man ... a young man that is maturing at a rapid rate. We get in these little petty arguments on Facebook, and I find humor in them. I do this to feel normal, normal with my only brother I grew up with. His wheelchair has never really affected me. I have always seen him as my brother, that is it. The wheelchair is just apart of him. In the past, when I was 18 and younger I would complain about helping him. Now that I am older I don't complain, and I usually jump to helping him, if possible if I am available. I know that he won't be here forever. I know that none of us will be here forever. Now that he is 16, I want to make our relationship even better. By doing that I would tease him less, and I would harp on him less, etc. The only problem with this is I know that it would make our relationship feel less normal. He has less time on this earth than your typical person, and I'm not sad about that. REALLY, I'm not. I just don't want to treat him any different because of this fact. 

Bro, maybe now you get it ... maybe now you understand. I have never wanted you to not have an opinion, in fact I want your opinion to grown and mature. I want to remember your opinion on things, and when you're gone (and God forbid that comes too soon) I want to know what you would do. I want to do the things which you would do. I know you're smart. I know you're kind. AND I know you're loving. I want to keep a part of you in my heart forever, and for always. So, next time I give you a hard time, give me just as hard of a time. That's what I want. I love you. Forever. Foralways. xo

America's Truth. Not the REALity

United States Slavery is the equivalent of the German Holocaust. 

Just as all Germans aren't responsible for The Holocaust, not all American's are responsible for Slavery. 

But, just as any German with any relation, particularly with an SS officers last name is ashamed, I, a person with white skin am ashamed. 

I am ashamed to be white.

Most would call me lucky, but doesn't help the fact that I am ashamed. 

One day I was sitting in one of my Social Work courses, and we were watching a movie about Native American's. At a particular point in the film, I raised my hand, (my hands were shaking, my heart racing, my stomach was in my throat, and I'm sure my voice shook) as I proceeded I said something to the affect of, "I cannot believe MY people did this." As I got to the word "MY" I began to cry. Everyone turned to look at me, seeing as how me crying in class wasn't rare, I had gotten pretty used to it. Professor Dena a Native American herself, seemed dumbfounded, yet supportive as I was crying like a baby. I proceeded and said, "I'm ashamed. I'm sad, and sick, and cannot get over how my people have treated others throughout history." She just stood there strong, with a backbone, and one of my forever inspirations. 

I have a lot of white guilt, and many would say that I shouldn't, I cannot help but hold onto this said, "White Guilt." I've discussed this with many people, and I no longer take it in and hold on to it, I educate myself . . . and ensure that I know I am fully innocent on the actions of my ancestors. 

I look at pictures of slave fortresses in Ghana, and think deeper, and FEEL emotions that pictures shouldn't bring out of someone. I know that I am meant to live in Africa, and I promise you one day, no matter on what part of that beautiful continent that I live, I will LIVE, and I will love. I will leave a piece of me there, that maybe will leave my soul in pristine condition. That maybe will make me whole, again. Maybe I can share that I never knew the truth, until I paid to learn the truth. No one tells you anything, until you pay for it. You learn AMERICA'S truth, not HISTORY. Not the real truth. Not the reality.