With Love to Pittsburgh

I've often explained that Pittsburgh chose me.

A life as a nomad, the daughter of a military family, living in places from upstate New York to southern California and everywhere in between. North Dakota was the place I knew best, but the very second I first laid eyes on Pittsburgh after emerging from the Fort Pitt Tunnel, I knew. I knew it was the city where I belonged.

It's a strange feeling, that. It's the feeling of being home laid beside the feeling of not having a clue where you are. I couldn't have told you the difference between Squirrel Hill and Shadyside, but it didn't matter.

Home.

I chose Pittsburgh, but only after it chose me.

It's not a perfect place. It never has been. Several times each week I go straight when turning right could save me a few minutes. I prefer to let those few minutes drift away rather than drive past the house with the giant, tattered confederate flag hanging outside. You can say it's a difference of opinion or a sign of rebellion but that's all crap. It's a symbol of hate.

There are more symbols of hate than there were a few years ago. While I've avoided that flag for probably six years, I now can't avoid the bumper stickers on mailboxes and trash cans that have popped up in my neighborhood. A Trump sticker strategically placed in plain view of the one Hispanic family. It's turned slightly so that it always faces their windows, a passive-aggressive reminder that white supremacy sees them.

The Hispanics' house has been vandalized. It was blamed on "punk high schoolers" which maybe was what happened, but it wasn't a coincidence that it happened to THAT house. Hate blames its woes on people who look or believe differently for no reason and it passes that on to the next generation.

The vandals struck recently, but the hate has lurked for years. Did I ever mention that I once fired a trainer for racism? The trainer was teaching a safety class and someone tipped me off that things weren't quite right. When the trainer stopped by during the lunch break to ask a question, I asked him if he offered any classes in Spanish. His reply? "REAL Americans speak English. I will never provide training in other languages."

I chose Pittsburgh, ugly hate-filled warts and all.

It's been said that "we're better than this."

We're not.

Pittsburgh, much like all of America, is full of hate and bigotry. We always have been. We aren't better than this, but we're in a position to make that choice.

We can be better than this.

Always with the Tongue

We All Have a Purpose in this World

I've always known Mila has a GPS device embedded in my brain because every single time I think I'm being sneaky, she KNOWS I'm there. Last night was no exception. I thought I would sneak into the house at around 1:00 am (late flights suuuuck but they're better than staying out of town an extra day) and go straight to bed.

Nope.

The second I was in the house, Mila knew. I don't know how, but she KNEW. And she made sure I knew that she was pissed I had been gone.

There was a lot of hugging and I believe Mila was petting me at one point? She does that sometimes. I let her because at least she doesn't twirl my hair like her sister did. That made me NUTS. It would be better if we could all keep our hands in our own space, but whatever. Go ahead and pet me, kid.

Between the pets and after she was done telling me off, Mila was really super sweet. There were lots of words of affection and such, but then there was the knife to the heart.

"I cried a lot because I really missed you."

THANKS FOR THE HEAPING PILE OF GUILT, SMALL CHILD. As if I wanted to spend my day hanging out with a bunch of people in red hats instead of with the small child who is trying to destroy me.

Ahem.

As I was wading through the waves of guilt and trying to find a life vest, Mila helped me out. She clarified her statement in the way only she can. "I really missed you because I couldn't reach the Pop Tarts and sissy wouldn't share hers."

So there you have it. I'm a useful Pop Tart getter.