Pennermag.com

I find it unbelievable that a court would consider disenfranchisement in California.

Since I turned 18, I have voted in every election which I have been able. From school levies to presidential elections, I’m there. Are the candidates ever interesting, no. Are the issues every compelling, not really.

Of all the states I’ve voted in, California has by far been the best. Since I’ve been here, I’ve voted at my local polling place, by absentee ballot, and by touch screen voting — almost two weeks before election day. That’s right we can vote early here (just not often).

California has been by far the best at informing voters. For each election we get a voter information guide, it gives you the candidates, their positions, and the text of the propositions on the ballot. Additionally, I’ve always received a sample ballot — that is an exact reproduction of the actual ballot.

Did I mention these all come in four to six different languages. Voting in California couldn’t be any easier. This is why I find it incredible that the American Civil Liberties Union would file a lawsuit now arguing disenfranchisement.

If punch card voting is so bad then where was the ACLU for all those years that poor and minority voters’ rights have been trampled upon. Where is the ACLU when it comes to county registrars and state legislatures making it difficult or illegal for convicted felons to vote. Unless there are satisfactory answers to those questions — then partisan politics can be the only obvious answer.

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For those of you who read my blog on Ghetto Mart and hated it don t read on.

Today, I had the unfortunate experience of going to the Ghetto Post Office. I generally avoid it like the plague, but, you know circumstances: It was five o clock, the post office closed at 5:30, I had a package that must be mailed today you get the picture.

Now, I generally go to one of two post offices, one in Hancock Park on Larchmont. This sucker is hidden in a bank you d never find it. There are no lines, the nicest clerk you d ever meet.

Alternatively, I send packages from a post office in Santa Monica on Montana. Nice people, stamps and boxes you can browse through, but it does have some really long lines. I usually pass the time by striking up conversations with the moms with strollers they love to talk about their babies . . .

But today baby talk and nice clerks were not to be my fate. I went to the post office that assumes well before I walk into the door, that I m a terrorist. You may mistake it with a local jail but I assure you, it s a post office.

Tall iron bars surrounding the building. Bullet proof glass separating you from the clerks. Browsing for stamps, out of the question. Want some packing materials you ll have to wait for the clerk with the key, who ll surely keep an eye on you while you choose from behind the glass. Want to mail a package well now, that ll be a feat. Be sure to heft your package to about chest height and set it through the bullet proof portal. And be sure to close your Plexiglas door otherwise the other side wont open.

Maybe I’m just assuming too much. Perhaps all the ’security’ measures are to protect the clerks from each other in case one of them goes postal.

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At the end of my fifth grade year, my teacher made an announcement. She was going to be teaching sixth grade and she would get to keep her class. That news was mixed for me — for Mrs. Bawabe was the creator of the ‘leftover table.’

Each week, she would allow four students to pick three other students for their four peson lunch tables. The problem, there were twenty students in the class (five tables) — so every week there were four students who sat together at the leftover table. It was usually me, Barbara, Nicole, and Tiffany. Barbara was the only white girl at the table — so you figure that out.

Anwyay, I digressed. Mrs. Bawabe decided to keep her class together except for three students. Needless to say I was one of them and I went off to Mr. Cezarek’s sixth grade class.

Now, for reasons never figured out, this teacher had it out for me. I think every other day or so, he would make a joke with the class at my expense. I was probably lucky, because I learned later, the student last year had to spend time standing in garbage cans for Richard Cezarek’s amusement.

The final straw came when we were in the hallway lined up to go somewhere. You remember elementary school — to preserve order, you went everywhere in a line, art, gym, assembly . . . Anyway, on this day, I think he was poised to scare me — how, by trying to plant a rubber spider on me. Fortunately, I’m not afraid of bugs, so I thought it was just stupid.

That was the last of that. Complaining by me, and intervention by my mother, and the rest of the year went by uneventfully (sensing a theme here?). So when people wax on about unappreciated public school teachers, I never join in.

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For the last two years, on and off or more off than on, I ve been working on two book projects. As some of you know, I was working on a non-fiction book project. That has been scrapped. As the third or fourth ghost writer on the project, I should have been warned off. Let s just say, the person who commissioned the project didn t come through.

So, in the interim, I ve been working on a fiction project. I don t consider myself a *fiction* writer per se, but the idea for my book came to me in a dream. Since I believe dreams are prophetic, I started the book.

Over the last few months, especially after taking a break from photography, I ve really dedicated time to the book and I have about forty percent of the story written.

I joined a writing group and we were trying to work through our writing excuses. Most people had kids or full time jobs or no ideas holding them back. I couldn t really say what was holding me back. When I sit down to write the words come easily. It s just a matter of getting to the computer.

I ve had my writing coach read through the first hundred pages or so, but his opinion wasn t really helpful. I m writing *women s* fiction and he thought I should take out many of the adjectives and adverbs to get the action moving. Sometimes, I think men believe everything should be a suspense novel.

I don t know if feed back is important, but I m now looking for a reader to look at the story and see if they get it, if they enjoy it, if they want to know what happens in the end. . . .

Okay, I m done blogging for today. Needless to say blogging is but one distraction from writing.

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Generally, I m a nice person. Okay, that may be an overstatement. I m not too nice to service people, customer representatives and the like but to most people I m okay.

For many years I felt guilty about one of the meanest things I ve ever done.

When I was four or five or so, I attended kindergarten at a school called the Educational Alliance in lower Manhattan. It was a great learning experience mostly because I got to explore anything I wanted and the teachers there really liked me. I got to use scented magic markers, the brand new tape recorder (it was the 70’s, the technology was new) and we got to plant our own lima beans. All in all, a fun time.

Well there was a girl in our class named Augusta. She seemed like a perfectly nice girl, but other students used to make fun of her because she only had three fingers.

Being young, of course, I don t quite remember all the details but during one of our bathroom runs I locked Augusta in one of the bathroom stalls. I remember the teachers looking for her for what seemed like hours and I imagine she was quickly found. She never revealed what I had done and I only have fond memories of that school experience.

From time to time, I wondered whatever happened to that girl but it s one of those things I ll just never know.

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