My Day In Lansing

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My Day in Lansing

Matthew: 22:37-40

Jesus replied: Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.   

This is the first and greatest commandment. 

And the second is like it, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” 

All the Law and all the Prophets hang on these two commandments.

I woke up nauseous.  I haven’t been that nauseous in years.  I chalked it up to mild food poisoning or Trump’s inauguration. This was going to be an interesting day.  First up?  A quick breakfast to celebrate the birth of one of the most incredible women I know (Sheila Solomon Shotwell).  Despite the gift of an anti-nausea medicine that she gave to me, (when did that become how we celebrate birthdays?) I couldn’t quite move past the “life would be so much better if I’d just toss my cookies” feeling.  I suppose ordering eggs didn’t help.

I was hesitant to march on (pun intended), but I knew this would be an historic day. I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to show up – for me and for all the women I know and don’t know who are aching to have their voices heard and their rights protected.

With Pussyhats* in hand, we headed to Lansing. I drove to the march with Sheila, Gail and Ann.  On the way, we talked about Ann’s bi-racial daughter who provided the reality check, “Welcome to the suffering I’ve been dealing with my whole life.”  We talked thoughtfully about whether or not the Pro-Life movement should be at the March.  We talked with differing opinions about whether a Nazi should be punched in the face during a TV interview. I was so proud to be traveling with these incredible, smart, strong, passionate women. 

That's me looking like I have to go to the bathroom, but I didn't.

We made it to the march by 12:15pm.  Parking was so easy I was concerned turnout might be small. Ha! I was wrong. To our delight, we parked next to the Republican Party headquarters. (Photo Op! Tee hee.)

 

We made our way to the middle of the capital grounds.  After about 10 minutes I realized I would probably be better off sitting at the nearby Episcopal Church that had opened its doors as a warming station and public restroom.  God Bless the Episcopalians.

I spent the first 45 minutes in a hallway.  Unfortunately it was cold and busy.  And, the first thing that happened was a woman sat down next to me to eat a ham sandwich.  Not good.  The volunteers were delightful, though.  Gail popped in occasionally (always looking for the elusive cake the church ladies were rumored to be serving) and I even got to see my friend, Tommy.  After this kind, 70-year old volunteer scoured her purse for mints for me, I headed in to the quiet sanctuary.  She encouraged me to go there and take advantage of the rocking chairs in the back.

When I took the seat, I looked up and the first thing I saw in all his stained glass glory was Christ.  Jesus, The Christ.  I decided this was perfect.  I had said on my way out the door that I wanted a peaceful day, and well, sometimes you get what you wish for.I couldn’t help but wonder, “What Would Jesus Do?” I was raised Catholic. I’m not a practicing Catholic anymore, but I am grateful for that upbringing, mostly because Catholicism taught me about Christ, his work, his mission.  Jesus was, and will always be, about two things for me...

Love and Forgiveness.

So what would Jesus do if he were at the March? I thought:

·      He’d probably be a speaker.  I doubt he’d be on the agenda though. That’s not his style.He’d probably be hanging out with the people who were even to the Left of the Messages we heard. 

·      He’d be high fiving the Bernie diehards who were gathering signatures to make sure that the two-party system is upended and that money gets out of politics. (Oh man, I bet he’d be turning over a boatload of tables if the Legislature were in session.)  

·      He’d be one of the few people of color at the Lansing rally. I’m pretty sure he’d be one of maybe five people of Middle Eastern dissent.  

·      He’d remind us that he knows what it means to be on a “registry” and that it just spells trouble.

·      He’d gather first with the people who held signs that said “Black Lives Matter” because he knows that their movement needs broad support and if this many people came out to one of their marches their voices would start to be heard.

·      He’d hug the transgendered man knowing full well the pain he has experienced getting to this place.

·      He’d hug the woman who held a sign that said CSA Survivor (Child Sexual Abuse) and he’d apologize because society failed her. And he IS society.

·      He would chide those of us who have done nothing to support progressive causes since the election but yell from our Facebook pages and our Twitter how horrible our lives will be under Trump. 

·      He’d remind us to keep the Faith.

·      He’d remind us that we need to find ways to build bridges, not walls and that every time we say that we need to reflect on what that means in our own lives.  Are we building bridges towards our enemies or walls?

·      He’d remind us not to lose our peace over a Tweet or a post or name calling.

·      He would chide those of us who believe violence, in any form, is an answer.

·      He wouldn’t grab any woman by the pussy*. Nor would he boast about ever having done so. 

·      He’d thank St. Paul’s Episcopal Church for opening their doors and say to their leaders, “Now THAT’s what I’m talking about.”

·      He’d tell us how amazing we are that we were able to get through our protest peacefully.  He’d say, “Now THAT’s what I’ve been talking about.”

·      He’d remind us what values he wanted us to remember… to Love One Another, that the Meek Shall Inherit the Earth, that Words Matter, That Deeds Matter (From Matthew: “These People Honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.” And Power Doesn’t (From Luke: “You cannot serve both God and Money.”)

·      He’d tell us to stop blanketing opinions (They’re all crazy.  They’re all stupid.)

·      He’d probably make a self-deprecating joke about progressives.  Come On! He had to laugh sometimes.

·      He’d say how much he appreciates Pope Francis.

·      He’d tell us what he really thinks about abortion.  That’s it’s complicated.  That it shouldn’t be criminalized. That he hopes if you were pregnant that you would be surrounded by people that would allow you to feel safe and supported. He’d even remind us that the more access to abortion and birth control pills in a controlled area, the less abortions occur.  Okay, maybe he wouldn’t get all factual on us, but he surely would suggest that more compassion is required for the pregnant woman.

·      And he’d remind us that programs that help young mothers, young children and disenfranchised need our on-going support.

·      And when he was done with all that, he’d shut up and listen.  Because he knows that women, while many of us really really, really love men, we’re more than a wee bit tired of hearing them tell us what’s good for us.

With only a little more than a half hour to go to our departure time, I decided to buck up and take a walk around the grounds.  The dense fog from the early part of the day had lifted and the sun had managed to shine. In January?! It was beautiful.  Protestors had taken to the streets to march.  Their chants were loud, and yet peaceful. I cried.  Women, children and the men who love them gathered together to say, “This is not okay.” Repealing ACA in full, turning back the clock on our rights, destroying all the progress made in the last years, etc. “goes against the fiber of our beings and we want to be heard”.

When I got home, I spent the next few hours in and out of sleep jumping on and off social media. I watched the numbers climb. Los Angeles 750,000, DC 500,000 New York 250,000, Chicago 200,000+, Denver 100,000+, Boston 100,000+, Portland 100,000+, London 100,000+ Lansing 8000+ and on and on and on and on and on.  Amazing.

At the end of the day, still in a nauseous stupor, I hit my pillow knowing that America is a great country. It is flawed. It still has so much growing up to do, but it allowed me and millions of women to march peacefully.  Equally important, it fueled me for the work that lies ahead.

ADDENDUM *Now about that Pussyhat

Just some of the hats made by my sister, Anne.

I wore one.  My sister made it.  I wasn’t sure how to react when she asked me if I wanted one.  My gut said, “Just Say Yes”. I did.  I hate the word Pussy.  It’s disgusting.  It’s pejorative.  It’s a word made meant to make a woman feel shame. It’s a word meant to emasculate men. It’s a word that means you equate my vagina with being weak. It’s a word our current President used in a way that made me feel violated.  It’s a word that when our nation heard our then President-Elect use it, they were so numb to knowing that it was wrong for him to say such a thing that they voted for him anyway. 

A week before the march I saw a little girl wearing kitty cat ears.  She wasn’t consciously trying to suggest she was protesting Trump.  She just wanted kitten ears. I felt like the Pussyhat could claim power for “kitty cat ears”.  I was hopeful that wearing a Pussyhat could claim power for me and for all women.  If someone calls me a pussy or says I’m gonna grab your pussy or calls a man a pussy, we can now say, Pussy means strength and power and fight and control.  Now if you are outraged when you hear me use the word (and I still have to practice saying it out loud) I invite you to be outraged instead at the Man, the Men who used / use it in the first place. 

Story for a Thirty Dollar Discount

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Last night* I did a real “writer-y” thing. I attended a Meetup activity for writers, by writers. A group of students from a writing school were performing Moth style in a black box theatre in KoreaTown. It was a small and chatty crowd. I scanned the room for a place to sit. There was a cluster of guys in the corner so I headed that direction. I wasn’t in it for the networking or the dating (which my husband will appreciate), I was in it to hear stories and I thought these gents might provide some entertainment before the entertainment. I grabbed the only empty seat in that area.

Tucking in to the chair was a bit difficult as the guy I was to sit next to was quite comfortable in his wide, Larry Craig-like stance. Squished in, within moments it seemed as though my body chemistry was changing. Can one get a contact buzz sitting next to a guy that reeks of alcohol and cigarettes?

A few hours earlier a homeless man came up to me while I was feeding the meter and asked me if I had water in my car. Okay, first take a minute. How sad is that? I didn’t. But I did have a beet/apple/lemon/ginger drink that I had just bought at Whole Foods. I told him he was welcome to that. That I had just taken a few sips. He said sure and thanked me. He polished it off in three big gulps and tossed the bottle in the garbage can next to us. His arms were dirty and he wore a hospital admittance band around his wrist. It seemed fairly new which was surprising because he was clearly unwashed for a long time. His clothes were filthy. And when I say “filthy” I don’t mean it in the biting, disdainful way I hear my mother say it. Just filthy.

Turns out the guy in the theater actually smelled worse than the homeless guy. I decided to move. The smell would get the best of me. I knew this. I took a look around. The seats were filling up. I went to another spot. “Oh, I’m saving this,” a woman in an out of place, bright orange, business dress shared. I moved on to another spot. “Sorry, I’m saving these seats,” an LA hipster guy said.

“How many seats do you need?” I asked.

“Five,” he said.

Wow. Five. He had lots of friends. I just needed one. I found a seat in the front row. 

I hate the front row. It makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like the back row either. I think life is best managed from the second row. You’re almost up front, but you don’t have to be entirely committed. You care, obviously, you’re sitting so close, but you don’t look overly eager. And if I can get a second row aisle seat – the "I can still get outta here if I want to" seat – well then I’m golden. There was a notebook and scarf on a chair next to me. More seat saving. I was reminded how much of my new LA life I am doing alone. Not complaining. Just observing. 

I was thrilled when the host of the event set up an additional row of chairs in front of me. Thank God. Second row. Then a woman walked in with her gay boyfriend. I’m not sure if she knows he’s gay, but that’s how I’m calling it. You should have seen his wave. Not trying to stereotype, but I’ve seen it often enough. I’ve been in theatre my entire adult life. That over-the-top queenie, “Hey girl! Over here!” wave. It just had a brightness about it that I’ve never seen displayed by my husband or any other straight male friends. I overheard someone say to the woman, “Do people still recognize you from the Bachelor?” I didn’t hear the answer. I didn’t try. I don’t watch those shows. Not judging.

All of the two-together seats were taken. The bachelorette sat next to me in the open seat on the other side. She kept looking forlornly at her gay boyfriend as he tried to find a seat. He didn’t seem to want to sit in the front row either. I leaned over and said, “I’ll just move up. You can have my seat for your friend.” I played it safe. Maybe he wasn’t a boyfriend. I mean he was so handsome and impeccably dressed. Maybe she did know he was gay. Maybe I called it wrong. It could happen. “You would do that?” she said. As if I had just said, “I’m happy to be your surrogate.” It was really sweet. Not at all what I would expect one of those Bachelorette women to say. Okay, shit. Maybe I was judging.

Anyway, it was so nice. I liked her immediately and thought surely America must have loved her too. I moved to the front row. I watched all the performers in their seats on the stage before the show was to begin. They were encouraging each other. Excited. Nervous. “You’re going to be great.” “Give me a hug”. “You’re amazing.” I was so excited to be in that supportive energy. That’s the seat I wanted. On stage. Next to them.

The organizer of the event, who ended up sitting next to me, stepped up to the mic to start the show. She was pleased with the turnout. Her happiness was infectious and her professionalism was greatly appreciated. She encouraged all of us to follow them on Twitter and Facebook and Instagram (writingpad.com). She said you could get a $30 discount on a class if you submit a story with your registration. I was intrigued. I had already been taking notes and knew that I was going to write about this experience before the night was over. If I actually take a class and get the discount, wouldn’t that be like money back in my pocket? Wouldn’t that be as if I was paid for writing something? An LA writing gig. Cool.

She turned the mic over to the instructor who was a Moth winner. I coveted her dress. She, in turn, introduced each writer/storyteller – a virgin, a recovering asshole, a non-equestrian/non- lesbian, a weed mom, a ghosted boyfriend, a Korean loving Oklahoman and a hedonistic Jewish woman with OCD. The performances exceeded my expectations.

On my way out (I was among the first to leave - a first row gift/) I looked around Korea Town. I took in the area. My mother had lived just blocks away from this place in 1953. I wondered if this building was here when she was here. Surely the police caution tape surrounding the building across the street wasn’t there in 1953, but I wondered if she was ever on this street. I was on Western - a pretty busy street. I have to believe she was. I thought on the drive home, “I may not be saving a seat, but that’s okay. I’m in relationship with this amazing city, with its people, with my past, with my mother’s past.” This thought made me very happy. Grateful even. Not alone. Just where I need to be.

*Note: This wasn't last night. It's something I wrote a while ago.

Why I Am Marching

I recently posted on Facebook that I was heading to Lansing for the Women’s March (with women and men) in solidarity with the March in Washington.  One person on my page simply questioned, “To what end?”  I’m not sure if they were trying to be snarky or actually seeking understanding.  It doesn’t matter.  I gave a response, but it made me want to reflect more deeply about why this march, this gathering of women is important to me.

TRUMP: You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful (women) — I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.

BILLY BUSH: Whatever you want.

TRUMP:  Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.

I was sick to my stomach when I heard these words. Physically repulsed.  Trump was boasting that he commits sexual assault. Regularly.  And still it wasn’t enough to stop 63 million people from voting for him. Not enough for men. Not enough for women. I started to reflect on all of the times in which I was sexually assaulted, abused or simply on the receiving end of sexually inappropriate behavior or words. 

This is one of the reasons I am marching.  IT’S NOT THE ONLY REASON. 

Most of these occurrences happened decades ago. Why didn’t I share them earlier?  Who would care? No, seriously. Who would really care? It’s not a “woe is me question”, it’s just “what do you do with this kind of information?” Prosecute people? There’s a fine line between criminal activity and inappropriate behavior.

I think its time we come down harder on inappropriate behavior.  And only we can do that.  If there is no criminal activity, then the response is ours… the actions are ours to take.  

 It begins by telling our stories.

KENNY & DAVID

Kenny & David were brothers.  We went to Catholic school together.  David was my age.  They did a lot of bad things like pouring bleach on Mrs. Musser’s flowers and breaking the window at the Bolema’s during street baseball and then blaming other kids.

When I was three, my sister came home from school and found me naked in the driveway at their house.  They made me take my clothes off to show all the neighbor kids what a naked girl looked like.  My memories of this are faded, almost non-existent.  I do believe my soul still carries this vulnerable experience.

When I was about seven, Kenny, who was 12 or 13 at the time, took me back behind Bob Bolema’s house and made me tongue kiss him.  This memory brings back a visceral reaction of disgust.  For years, whenever I thought of it, I’d get an upset stomach. Even today, I can still taste him.  I hated that he did that to me. 

Also, when I was about seven, Kenny and David tortured me one afternoon.  While out sledding I had accidentally stepped in dog poop.  I said that I was going to go home to pee and clean the poop off my shoes.  One of them, David I think, said it was “dog shit” and that’s what I needed to call it.  Now, believe it our not, and if you know me you know I am capable of cussing like a sailor, but back then I thought if I said the word “shit” I would go to hell.  I thought that swearing was a sin of epic proportions, so I said, “No!”  They kept me from leaving, jumping in between me and my house, then holding me, all the while taunting… “Say dog shit!”  And I kept saying “It’s dog poop!”   

Perhaps you’re laughing at the silliness. It sounds silly to me to write it. 

Then they pushed me down and put my face near it.  I really had to pee.  I begged them to let me go.  They said, “Not until you say “Shit”.  I wouldn’t.  Finally I had to pee so bad, I was afraid I’d wet myself. I started screaming, “Okay! It’s shit! It’s shit. It’s shit!!!”  They let me go.   

I ran home as fast as I could.  I made it to our mudroom and moved as quickly as I could to remove my snowsuit.  Then the damn burst, the pee started and I couldn’t stop it.  I stood there, by myself, sobbing as the warm pee ran down my cold legs and in to my snowsuit.  I remember thinking I was going to get in trouble from my mom for peeing in my snowsuit. I remember this as if it was yesterday.  What horrible fucking boys.  Sorry, this is the only sufficient language to define them.

Many years ago, I was walking downtown Grand Rapids and a man called my name.  It was David. I didn’t make light talk.  I told him what a horrible child he was to me.  I told him that I hoped his own children were terrible to him.  It wasn’t one of my finer moments.   Then a few years ago, Kenny found me on Facebook and friended me. His profile picture was "Chucky" that creepy doll.  NOT MAKING THIS UP.  I told him that never in a million years would I ever want to be reminded of my past with him and declined the friendship.  He didn’t respond. 

Parents, be sure your daughters know that it is safe to go to you when a boy treats them in anyway that makes them sad, scared, uncomfortable, angry, etc.

OTHER BOYS

When I was 12, Mike Sommers from Walker Jr. High and I were at a movie.  During the movie he slid his hand around me, unbuttoned my painter pants and stuck his hands through my underwear and tried to move his fingers inside of me.   I was frozen solid when he was trying to do it to me.  I didn’t know what to do.  Boys didn’t pick me.  Is this how a boy expresses his interest?  I was so confused.  I excused myself and ran to the bathroom to button up. When I left my girlfriend followed me and I shared what happened.  I was in a stall and she was in another. As I was telling her, I heard laughing.  One of the boys had followed us in to the bathroom. 

I felt violated all over again. 

When I shut Mike Sommers down, he barely looked at me again.  I doubt he would have done so even if he had achieved the outcome he desired.  He was a pig and I was a scared little girl who’s only experience up to that point was boys just doing whatever they wanted with me.

Now, here’s the kicker.  The movie we were watching was “On Golden Pond” and even at 12 I saw the irony in that.  For years I joked about it.  I mean Mike Sommers diddled with me during “On Golden Pond.” Hysterical! I sloughed it off.  We don’t even know how to react to something like this.  We joke about it.  This is why we don’t come forward. Even though it doesn’t feel right. Even though its not consent. We still think this is normal. It’s not okay. There was no consent.

Please teach your boys and girls that.  Please teach them that courting someone and assaulting someone are two different things.

**

Also when I was twelve… well that time I’ve already written about (where I was ganged up on by a group of boys, had my clothes cut and was forced to kiss them after having been dragged in to bushes near to my school.)  I won’t go in to more details again.  I didn’t tell anyone about that at the time.

It’s interesting, it seems I didn’t talk about situations when boys my age or near my age did things, but I did when grown-ups did.  We teach kids that it’s wrong when a grown-up is bad.  We need to teach them that it’s wrong when a boy does something bad.

GROWN MEN

When I was four or five, a distant relative took me to a park to watch fireworks.  I remembered that he wanted to play “the tickle game”… whatever that was.  I remember being on the ground and him touching me in a way that made me feel very uncomfortable.  I had the wherewithal to tell my mom that I didn’t like the way he played with me and that I didn’t want to be with him ever again.  My mother heard me.  Later we found out that he sexually abused his children. 

I was smart enough to understand.  My mother was smart enough to listen.

**

When I was 13, I was at band camp.  Yep, “that one time at band camp….” And I wasn’t feeling well.  I told my instructor, a man, that I had to leave early because I didn’t feel well.  He grabbed my arm. Then he caressed me from top of the arm to the bottom.  He said, “You feel fine to me.” It was lurid and disgusting.  I told my camp counselor.  I was removed from his class.  I don’t know what happened to him. 

**

When I was 19, I had a vocal coach.  A man.  He had me do these breathing exercises.  He had me lay on the floor and he would walk over me.  Then he had me stand up and close my eyes. He wanted me to fill my breath through my body.  In order to get me to do this he stood in front of me and placed his hands near the top of my chest. Then as I breathed he moved his hands over my breasts and down the front of my body.  He did this repeatedly. I was scared. Uncomfortable. Confused. Embarrassed. Mortified. Appalled.  I didn’t go back to him.  I didn’t tell anyone at the time.  Who would have cared?  How could I have even described it? It was disgusting.

I wish I knew why sometimes it was easy to share and sometimes it was difficult. 

MY BOYFRIEND

When I was 21 until 24, I dated an alcoholic.  He was always verbally abusive.  He was never physically abusive.  One night, he was sexually abusive.

He raped me.  I can’t share it here.  It’s too personal.  It happened.

IN THE WORKPLACE

The day I was applying for the biggest job of my career, as I was walking in the door to the interview, one of the board members, a man, who was going to interview me said, “I had no idea you had such amazing legs.”  On my way in for the most important interview of my life!  “Oh thank you!” I said.  Pu-leeze.  Thank you, my ass.  That’s just plain wrong and you’re a pig for saying it.  God, so many times I’d sit back and just say “thank you.”

**

One time I was raising money from a guy I had never met.  He was a referral from a friend’s father.  In the midst of our conversation, out of the blue, he said, “You know how you make a woman’s nipples hard? Put some emeralds in her hands.”  WHAT?!?!?  This was a breakfast meeting. With a “Christian.” I kept thinking… “What up to this point have I done to give him any indication that it was okay for him to say this to me?” What had I done wrong?  Not assault, not abuse, just sexually inappropriate.  He was testing me.  How lewd can I get with this woman? It was gross.  After, I told my colleague and told him we should let his father know.  He wouldn’t tell his dad, nor let me.  He didn’t want to hurt his dad. I should have told the man off right then and there.  I didn’t.  I didn’t want to hurt my friend’s dad either – or my friend.  I didn’t want to embarrass anyone.  I should have gotten up right there and humiliated him for thinking it was okay to say such a disgusting thing to me.  I didn’t.  Sigh.

When a woman is on the receiving end of inappropriate behavior, abuse, whatever, support her and if she wants to speak up, let her.

**

Then there’s the time I tried to laugh it off… make a joke.  Someone in power came after me. It’s too embarrassing to write about, because I only made the situation worse by joking about it… with him. 

We aren’t perfect. Especially when we are in situations like this. We will make mistakes too. It doesn’t make his behavior right. We have to forgive ourselves.

***

And there’s more… but I’m done for now.  I won’t include the cat calls, the times guys have barked at me for being ugly (more than once), the times I was called a slut and a bitch, the handful of other stories that would embarrass people I know (including myself) so I’ll not share those now. 

Years ago, a doctor and an acupuncturist both suggested that I may have been sexually abused based on physical ailments I was experiencing.  When I started therapy I asked the therapist to help me uncover if I was suppressing a specific traumatic moment. There wasn’t.  Now I know. I didn’t block any one moment. 

I remembered them all. 

I just didn’t realize then, like I truly do now, that any of them were actually traumatic. I’m not sure I’m every woman. I pray to God I’m not, but it is possible, I’m every other woman.  I know this isn’t just an issue for women. I know men are abused too.

We have so much work to do.  It isn't beginning with the Women’s March on the 21^st. It doesn’t end with that. We must continue to raise our voices. 

Let’s go be heard.

Observations from Oaxaca and Tuxtepec

 

Observations & Lessons from a Birding Trip through
Oaxaca and Tuxtepec: 

Christmas 2016

(in no particular order)

• The Mexican people are kind, generous, warm and wonderful.
• You only pee on your cell phone in the woods one time.
• You only drop your cell phone through a grate into a restricted area one time.
• It’s amazing to see a bat catch a moth, just not when it’s happening while standing on the side of a cliff on a mountain road in the middle of nowhere in near pitch black. Then it’s panic inducing.
• The patience required to hear, then call, then listen, then call again, then wait for the arrival of a fulvous owl to land silently on a tree above your head as you stand in absolute darkness is completely and entirely worth it.
• If you don’t know a bird name, make it up. Your guide can usually guess what you are suggesting (“Um… Didn’t we see a flappy rusty pincher bird today?” “No, Teresa we saw the Cinnamon-bellied Flowerpiercer.”
• When your guide tells you six times that the bird is a White-naped Brush Finch, even though you want to with all your heart, don’t ask him if he said “naped or aped”. His head might implode.

• If you want to feel young, travel with birders.
• Mexico has drive-in motels, i.e. Motels with flaps over carports to hide a car. Ergo, Mexico takes cheating on your spouse very seriously.
• Aging birders toot frequently (and I don’t mean toot as when the leader calls for an owl to appear, I mean, well… you know what I mean!)
• Dogs abound in Mexico, but the best dog spotting for me was the adorable barky chap on the roof of a random house.
• Birds spotted by Welsh birders are the best “Acown Woodpeckah” (to be said with a stately exuberance, whilst pointing to something indiscernible in the distance.)
• In the things that make you go "frog" department. Be sure your birding instructor knows other languages, especially Portuguese. "Hunh?"
• Travel with a birding guide who knows things about butterflies and plants too. Field lessons are the best.
• Travel only with birding guides who understand the importance of a good breakfast with your favorite tea.

 • Mexican churches have beautiful shrines to the Virgin Mary, but more importantly, so do gas stations and hotels and road sides and restaurants and bathrooms and storefronts and, and, and….
• Most birders begin sentences with “When I was in Borneo…” or “When I was in Nepal…” Also heard on my trip, “When I was in Suriname…” “When I was in Ecuador…” “When I was in Panama…” “When I was in Columbia…” “When I was in Alaska…” “When I was in the Antarctic…” “When I was in the Yucatan…” “When I was in Argentina…” “When I was in Nova Scotia…” “When I was in Peru.” “When I was in Costa Rica…” “When I was in Australia…” “When I was in Jamaica…” “When I was in Mazatlan…” “When I was in Vietnam…” etc.
• If you are really cold in the field, then performing bird calisthenics with your sister is highly recommended. “Swift. Swallow. Swift. Swallow. Look, a bird. Look, a bird. Swift. Swallow. Swift. Swallow.”
• To perplex surly birders, play paddy cake in the field.
• To drive your birding guide almost to the point of complete insanity, bring an outdated field guide then look at that more than the birds.
• It is surprisingly easy to avoid drinking the kind of water that will give you “the nasties.” “The nasties” term courtesy of our Welsh (Canadian) companion, so say it with a British accent.
• Mexicans burn effigies at year-end (or to start the new year. Not sure which.) I saw only one Trump effigy. I have to believe there were more. Sigh.
• Many trees are painted white about ¼ of the way up the trunk.
• I’m not a fan of the white painted tree.
• Drivers wave, politely. Almost every time.
• Find a great driver. Birding roads are winding and bumpy and full of cliffs.

• Related. Finding a driver that knows how to circumnavigate a city to get around protesters is helpful.
• Related. Circumnavigating protesters is a great way to see the bowels of a city.
• If you ever get the chance to eat Hoja Santa (holy leaf), do. It tastes like Anise.
• If you ever get the chance to eat grasshoppers, do. But only if they are wrapped in so much yummy Oaxacan cheese that you barely realize you are eating them.
• Don’t be utterly confused when you see many plastic bottles decorating tree branches. If you look closely, after eight days, you will finally realize that they signify that underneath is a good place to leave plastic bottles for collection.
• As third world’s go, Oaxaca is pretty second world (barring any factual historical use of the term.)

• Military vehicles on the road carrying soldiers with guns and military vehicles carrying massive guns being held steady by soldiers are unsettling.
• After seeing blue jays for one’s whole life, a new appreciation for jays can be born (consider the Uncolored Jay and the Green Jay, among others).
• Someone can actually wake up on the wrong side of the bed every day of their lives – and traveling with that person can be nearly unbearable – but only briefly. Especially when you have a sister with you who will make you laugh it off and especially when it gives you a chance to hone your impression of a surly birder.
• One can, after seeing doves their entire life, find a new appreciation for them as well (consider the Ruddy Ground Dove and the Inca Dove).
• While riding in a 12-passenger van, as long as you aren’t feeling motion sickness, closing one’s eyes is a great way to handle fear of heights. 

• In a related post, only three panic attacks due to fear of heights is actually progress for some people. Yay me!
• Travel with a sister who is fun, funny, silly, kind and enthusiastic. You will have a blast. You might also be given the nickname, “The Spice Girls.”
• There is a bird called a Happy Wren. He is the only bird called Happy. And even though you may never see him, just hear him with an assist from your guide, just knowing he is out there will make you, well, happy... as did just about every moment of this magnificent trip!