Yesterday, the 9th Circuit ruled against the administration's discriminatory Muslim Ban. It was a just decision and a right decision. It was the most American of all decisions.
By ruling that the injunction against the Muslim Ban would stand, the 9th Circuit Court ("9th Circuit") upheld the rule of law. They protected our institutions of government and the checks and balances of power. And while the administration argued (with a straight face that no doubt covered the whirling emotions of the lawyers who must have been struggling with how to defend this inherently flawed Executive Order) that the Executive Order creating the Muslim Ban was not reviewable (thereby deeming themselves by this argument quasi dictators with what they called "unreviewable authority"), the 9th Circuit heartily disagreed. The Court stated, "In short, although courts owe considerable deference to the President's policy determinations with respect to immigration and nation security, it is beyond question that the federal judiciary retains the authority to adjudicate constitutional challenges to executive action."
In fact, the 9th Circuit underlined that this was even the case in times of so called conflict, stating that: "Indeed, federal courts routinely review the constitutionality of-and even invalidate-actions taken by the executive to promote national security, and have done so even in times of conflict." The 9th Circuit is recognizing that in times such as these, where fear is the catalyst (although that fear, I would argue, is a creation of the administration who uses scare tactics and xenophobia so that they can create racist and discriminatory policy), that it is even more crucial for courts to be a check on the balance of executive power.
The 9th Circuit also addressed another important issue. Was there any evidence of discriminatory intent and is it relevant? As a write this, I want to scream yes, but I am trying to remain calm and reasonable here. But, it must be said that the evidence of discriminatory intent is staggering, evidence that us in the general public were bombarded with pre-election and after. And, in my opinion, the Executive Order Muslim Ban is "per se" unconstitutional because it is a "Muslim Ban" and while the administration tried to walk back from their own nomenclature, they are stuck with it.
What I am saying is that a religion based ban by any other name still smells the same and to carry the Shakespearean reference even further, the 9th Circuit is obviously well aware that something is rotten in Washington D.C..
Moreover, how the current administration could argue that their intent was non discriminatory flabbergasted me. It should flabbergast you. It is almost perjurious. And the 9th Circuit emphasized that the Executive's intent was an important piece of evidence stating that, "it is well established that evidence of purpose beyond the face of the challenged law may be considered in evaluating Establishment and Equal protection claims." This means, in laywoman's terms that the evidence from the Executive's own mouth calling this a Muslim Ban and his intent of disfavoring Muslims (as well as his cohort's statements like Rudy Giuliani's words) is relevant and admissible into evidence. It means that what the Executive said, before and after the Executive Order was made, does come in.
Ultimately, we all know in America that just because you say it, that does not make it so. Our President had not learned this truth. And, yesterday, the 9th Circuit just taught the President a very much needed lesson.
Panorama of San Bernardino
Saturday, February 11, 2017
Friday, January 20, 2017
Optimistic outlook
Today, the day of the new administration and President's inauguration, I am feeling weirdly optimistic. Sometimes, the worst things happen, bad people get elected, good Presidents step down, fathers die, you find out you're infertile, and the world still keeps moving. The sun rises, rain falls, people eat, coffee percolates, and the universe survives.
If you had asked me when I was in law school what my goals were, I would have told you, to be a wildly successful lawyer. Back then, I had no idea how soul sapping big law was. I had no idea that I would lose myself for years. This former waitress and high school dropout would hide herself in a office dressed in a three piece suit. But then, slowly, I would return and find myself through poetry. My early poems snatched pieces of fragmented memory and put them on a page. Many of the poems turned into stories.
I define success much differently now. I define a successful lawyer as one that makes a difference in the world and as a deputy public defender, I am able to make change on the micro level. One person at a time. Every kindness means something to me and the world. Everyday, I see my colleagues fight the good fight. That is success. Success is having time to write, and cuddle with my husband on the weekends, and spend time with my mom and sisters and of course, the shih tzus.
Success is family. I never thought about having children until it was almost too late. But, I have decided that my dream of having children will happen. It will. It has to. Because some things are too vital, too important to forget about. I refuse to put my dreams into a sock drawer to be forgotten.
So, today, of all days, I have the audacity to continue to have a thing called hope. And I hope you do too.
If you had asked me when I was in law school what my goals were, I would have told you, to be a wildly successful lawyer. Back then, I had no idea how soul sapping big law was. I had no idea that I would lose myself for years. This former waitress and high school dropout would hide herself in a office dressed in a three piece suit. But then, slowly, I would return and find myself through poetry. My early poems snatched pieces of fragmented memory and put them on a page. Many of the poems turned into stories.
I define success much differently now. I define a successful lawyer as one that makes a difference in the world and as a deputy public defender, I am able to make change on the micro level. One person at a time. Every kindness means something to me and the world. Everyday, I see my colleagues fight the good fight. That is success. Success is having time to write, and cuddle with my husband on the weekends, and spend time with my mom and sisters and of course, the shih tzus.
Success is family. I never thought about having children until it was almost too late. But, I have decided that my dream of having children will happen. It will. It has to. Because some things are too vital, too important to forget about. I refuse to put my dreams into a sock drawer to be forgotten.
So, today, of all days, I have the audacity to continue to have a thing called hope. And I hope you do too.
Friday, January 6, 2017
all I ever wanted
I've been on vacation the last couple of weeks. My goal was to write, write and write some more. But instead, I've been running around as usual filling my days with record stores and lunch with friends. And music. I've been listening to a ton of music. There is something to be said for this. Music has always been a salve for my soul and unleashes my creativity. I bought a new live Iggy Pop album where Bowie plays keyboards. I listened to it as soon as I got home. I played with my Sex Pistols figurines, another splurge, and danced and sang. I felt free.
Then I started thinking about childhood. About fun. About passing that down. Or the inability to pass it down. My husband and I been trying to have a child for almost ten years. Or maybe it's been nine. Regardless, a long fucking time. Too long. Too many false hopes. A miscarriage after IVF. And then the last two years.
The last two years have been hard. I am not the same person. I'm angry. Angry at God. Angry at my husband. Angry at the world. I have a ball of frustration inside of me. My back is always tight. My body feels like it's breaking down. Whether it's due to the miscarriage, my age, my overall hopelessness or mere coincidence, I don't know.
What I do know is this. I've changed. I haven't been able to write much. The childhood stories are blocked by something. The joy I used to feel when writing is gone. Poof. It feels like it's all too much.
I guess I'm stuck there. In that place between the hope I had when I found out I was pregnant and the day I was told there was no heartbeat. I didn't cry that day. Remembering back, I think I just felt numb. As if I already knew. That numbness is what I can't shake.
Where I go from here is the question that remains, a question I can't answer because I don't know.
How do you find peace in failure? Can there be peaceful resignation? Or maybe, just maybe, I should try again and risk the worst kind of heartbreak.
I know I seem as if I am wallowing. But somehow, I think that wallowing is what I need, to be in that place that I have been avoiding for so long. It's not a pretty place.
But to transcend that place, I need to try to live that pivotal loss of hope moment again.
So I can let it go.
Then I started thinking about childhood. About fun. About passing that down. Or the inability to pass it down. My husband and I been trying to have a child for almost ten years. Or maybe it's been nine. Regardless, a long fucking time. Too long. Too many false hopes. A miscarriage after IVF. And then the last two years.
The last two years have been hard. I am not the same person. I'm angry. Angry at God. Angry at my husband. Angry at the world. I have a ball of frustration inside of me. My back is always tight. My body feels like it's breaking down. Whether it's due to the miscarriage, my age, my overall hopelessness or mere coincidence, I don't know.
What I do know is this. I've changed. I haven't been able to write much. The childhood stories are blocked by something. The joy I used to feel when writing is gone. Poof. It feels like it's all too much.
I guess I'm stuck there. In that place between the hope I had when I found out I was pregnant and the day I was told there was no heartbeat. I didn't cry that day. Remembering back, I think I just felt numb. As if I already knew. That numbness is what I can't shake.
Where I go from here is the question that remains, a question I can't answer because I don't know.
How do you find peace in failure? Can there be peaceful resignation? Or maybe, just maybe, I should try again and risk the worst kind of heartbreak.
I know I seem as if I am wallowing. But somehow, I think that wallowing is what I need, to be in that place that I have been avoiding for so long. It's not a pretty place.
But to transcend that place, I need to try to live that pivotal loss of hope moment again.
So I can let it go.
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Under the inland empire sun
In high school, I had blue black hair and a pierced nostril. I wore a uniform of sorts. A punk rock tee (usually my Sex Pistols one) and red thermals with monkey boots and I put male boxers over my thermals and a men's thrift store bought vest over my tee. I would line my eyes like Cleopatra and add bright red lipstick.
I was trying to morph from goofy goody two shoes to punk rock girl. Trying to change into someone darker to match my insides. Looking back, I was trying to find myself. And find myself I did, discovering myself in the music of that time. I found solace from the chaos of home in bands like The Smiths, The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Replacements, The Pixies, Joy Division, The Sex Pistols and of course, the Los Angeles punk bank X. It was the melodies and harmonies of John Doe and Exene Cervanka that attracted me at first. I was always drawn to the melody within the chaos. Then I read their lyrics and it was pure poetry. Real poetry hidden within the music. It captivated me.
While I no longer look the part of a punk rock girl for the most part, my musical obsessions have remained the same. I still try to go to shows as much as I can. It brings something out in me. I feel free and happy at a concert. Like I can do anything at all. All the misery goes away. The pain of my infertility struggles, my dad's death around this time almost a decade ago, my clients' legal criminal problems, the deaths of all my rock icons this year along with the lingering dark depression I have had since my teenage wasteland years. It all goes away, and vanishes with a poof, with the opening strings of a Billy Zoom guitar riff.
Tonight, my husband and I are celebrating forty years of X at the Roxy in Hollywood. I'll line my eyes with thick eyeliner, I'll put on my high socks and monkey boots and my X tee covered by a blue cowboy sweater and I'll scream with excitement when they come on. I'll sing along to every song jumping up and down like a maniac and remember what it feels like to be young under an Inland Empire sun.
I was trying to morph from goofy goody two shoes to punk rock girl. Trying to change into someone darker to match my insides. Looking back, I was trying to find myself. And find myself I did, discovering myself in the music of that time. I found solace from the chaos of home in bands like The Smiths, The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Replacements, The Pixies, Joy Division, The Sex Pistols and of course, the Los Angeles punk bank X. It was the melodies and harmonies of John Doe and Exene Cervanka that attracted me at first. I was always drawn to the melody within the chaos. Then I read their lyrics and it was pure poetry. Real poetry hidden within the music. It captivated me.
While I no longer look the part of a punk rock girl for the most part, my musical obsessions have remained the same. I still try to go to shows as much as I can. It brings something out in me. I feel free and happy at a concert. Like I can do anything at all. All the misery goes away. The pain of my infertility struggles, my dad's death around this time almost a decade ago, my clients' legal criminal problems, the deaths of all my rock icons this year along with the lingering dark depression I have had since my teenage wasteland years. It all goes away, and vanishes with a poof, with the opening strings of a Billy Zoom guitar riff.
Tonight, my husband and I are celebrating forty years of X at the Roxy in Hollywood. I'll line my eyes with thick eyeliner, I'll put on my high socks and monkey boots and my X tee covered by a blue cowboy sweater and I'll scream with excitement when they come on. I'll sing along to every song jumping up and down like a maniac and remember what it feels like to be young under an Inland Empire sun.
Sunday, December 4, 2016
Mantz Girl
I am finishing up season seven of Gilmore Girls. I happened upon the show more than a decade late, but it has become one of my (and my 82 year old mother-in-law's) favorite shows. There is something about the way it captures mother and daughter friendship and femaleness, as well as music and pop culture. But, in the end, it is most about the character of Rory. She wants to be a journalist and ends up as editor-in-chief of the Yale Daily News.
I had a similar experience in college, albeit on a much less elite scale. I was editor-in-chief of the Mountaineer, my junior college's newspaper. It is an experience that I have written about before. I loved layout, headlines and editing. There was nothing like last minute deadlines to give me a rush. It was my first love and I fell head over heels.
In the seventh season, Rory fails to get her journalism internship and is questioning her path. I faced a similar conundrum. I had to transfer to a four year university and the question was, where to? My advisor on the paper was named Gina and she had worked for the Washington Post. She wanted me to apply to Columbia for journalism, but I was too scared. New York seemed so far away and such a huge city. I was a pink collar waitress girl from the Inland Empire. A high school dropout, I had waitressed my way through Mt. SAC after taking my GED and had gotten almost straight As (damn that Algebra II class that I eventually got a B in after much consternation). It just seemed too much of a stretch to see myself in New York City in the Ivy Leagues.
Now it was time to make a decision that could impact the rest of my life. I could go anywhere I knew in theory. Transfer students with high GPAs were in high demand, I knew this. But in my heart, I was boxed in, I couldn't see a path ahead. How would I support myself in NYC?
I decided to apply to UC Riverside. I got in, of course. They didn't have a journalism program, so I decided to major in English Literature. I never worked on the school paper because as a junior it was hard to break in. But here's the rub. Despite the fact that I chose the path of least resistance, I think I made the right decision. UC Riverside was a wonderful supportive environment. I met two great friends there, Emily and Gina, who were both English majors as well. We ruled the school, at least in our minds. I studied James Joyce under a Joyce scholar. I ended up with a nice scholarship and as a result, in my last year at UCR, I didn't need to work for the first time in my life.
At the end of my UCR tenure of a too brief two years, I applied to USC Law and got in. I was floored. I knew my life would change. And it did. And I can only hope that I ended up in the right place at the public defender's office helping the mentally ill and protecting their legal rights. I am not a journalist, but I am a defender of the US Constitution.
Yet, here I am, twenty years later, my junior college days a mere hazy memory, and I am still writing. My nonfiction has been published in literary journals, I have done readings and even a performance at a real theater. My stories are out there, one was taught in a class. It is unbelievable if you think about it.
That's the thing. Sometimes, your dreams find you.
Despite it all, your dreams find you.
I had a similar experience in college, albeit on a much less elite scale. I was editor-in-chief of the Mountaineer, my junior college's newspaper. It is an experience that I have written about before. I loved layout, headlines and editing. There was nothing like last minute deadlines to give me a rush. It was my first love and I fell head over heels.
In the seventh season, Rory fails to get her journalism internship and is questioning her path. I faced a similar conundrum. I had to transfer to a four year university and the question was, where to? My advisor on the paper was named Gina and she had worked for the Washington Post. She wanted me to apply to Columbia for journalism, but I was too scared. New York seemed so far away and such a huge city. I was a pink collar waitress girl from the Inland Empire. A high school dropout, I had waitressed my way through Mt. SAC after taking my GED and had gotten almost straight As (damn that Algebra II class that I eventually got a B in after much consternation). It just seemed too much of a stretch to see myself in New York City in the Ivy Leagues.
Now it was time to make a decision that could impact the rest of my life. I could go anywhere I knew in theory. Transfer students with high GPAs were in high demand, I knew this. But in my heart, I was boxed in, I couldn't see a path ahead. How would I support myself in NYC?
I decided to apply to UC Riverside. I got in, of course. They didn't have a journalism program, so I decided to major in English Literature. I never worked on the school paper because as a junior it was hard to break in. But here's the rub. Despite the fact that I chose the path of least resistance, I think I made the right decision. UC Riverside was a wonderful supportive environment. I met two great friends there, Emily and Gina, who were both English majors as well. We ruled the school, at least in our minds. I studied James Joyce under a Joyce scholar. I ended up with a nice scholarship and as a result, in my last year at UCR, I didn't need to work for the first time in my life.
At the end of my UCR tenure of a too brief two years, I applied to USC Law and got in. I was floored. I knew my life would change. And it did. And I can only hope that I ended up in the right place at the public defender's office helping the mentally ill and protecting their legal rights. I am not a journalist, but I am a defender of the US Constitution.
Yet, here I am, twenty years later, my junior college days a mere hazy memory, and I am still writing. My nonfiction has been published in literary journals, I have done readings and even a performance at a real theater. My stories are out there, one was taught in a class. It is unbelievable if you think about it.
That's the thing. Sometimes, your dreams find you.
Despite it all, your dreams find you.
Monday, November 21, 2016
Thank You God It's Me Juanita
Thankfulness can be a stretch for me. Every year at Thanksgiving dinner, my little sister Annette, who is not so little anymore at 42, says, "Everyone say what they're thankful for."
We go around the dining table and it always sounds so cliche. Everyone says the same things: thank you for family, for friends, for the food (that's my mom's favorite), for their spouse, for economic prosperity, and on and on. It is one cliche after another. Said with the most earnest of faces. We all clap. And it is heartwarming but as a writer, and as my usual sarcastic self, I yearn for the bitter irony.
Then I thought, how about this year I be thankful for something that feels like a curse? I should be thankful for my infertility. And for not bringing a child into the world who will have to live under the darkest of Lords, akin to Sauron and Voldermort, and the Dark King.
He who shall not be named. Please don't make me say his name.
Before the election, I wept over my childless life. For the last nine or so years, I cried and prayed asking why or why over my lack of little ones. After failed IVF and a miscarriage and years of trying, it is something I have had to reconcile.
My lack of kids has vexed me. Irritated me. Saddened me. It has left a pit of despair in my heart because I am a maternal person. Just ask my two Shih-Tzus Frodo (hence the Sauron reference) and Chewbaca. They are my furry princes complete with red Christmas capes. I am their Queen mother. Up until now, my fur kids have not been enough to fill the void in my heart.
Then the unthinkable happened. And now, I thank God for my unproductive, barren, infertile, dry and empty womb.
Because my child will never have to know what it is like to deal with what is to come. I will not have to explain the hate, the lies, the corruption, the civil rights destroyed and laid asunder. I will not have to tell dark and true bedtime stories of utter terror. I will not have to be afraid that my child will know nuclear war.
This Thanksgiving, we are forgoing family time and going to the den of depravity, Las Vegas. It feels fitting. It suits my mood. And on that day of thanks, I will sit at a slot machine and raise my beer to toast my bunless oven in these worst of times.
We go around the dining table and it always sounds so cliche. Everyone says the same things: thank you for family, for friends, for the food (that's my mom's favorite), for their spouse, for economic prosperity, and on and on. It is one cliche after another. Said with the most earnest of faces. We all clap. And it is heartwarming but as a writer, and as my usual sarcastic self, I yearn for the bitter irony.
Then I thought, how about this year I be thankful for something that feels like a curse? I should be thankful for my infertility. And for not bringing a child into the world who will have to live under the darkest of Lords, akin to Sauron and Voldermort, and the Dark King.
He who shall not be named. Please don't make me say his name.
Before the election, I wept over my childless life. For the last nine or so years, I cried and prayed asking why or why over my lack of little ones. After failed IVF and a miscarriage and years of trying, it is something I have had to reconcile.
My lack of kids has vexed me. Irritated me. Saddened me. It has left a pit of despair in my heart because I am a maternal person. Just ask my two Shih-Tzus Frodo (hence the Sauron reference) and Chewbaca. They are my furry princes complete with red Christmas capes. I am their Queen mother. Up until now, my fur kids have not been enough to fill the void in my heart.
Then the unthinkable happened. And now, I thank God for my unproductive, barren, infertile, dry and empty womb.
Because my child will never have to know what it is like to deal with what is to come. I will not have to explain the hate, the lies, the corruption, the civil rights destroyed and laid asunder. I will not have to tell dark and true bedtime stories of utter terror. I will not have to be afraid that my child will know nuclear war.
This Thanksgiving, we are forgoing family time and going to the den of depravity, Las Vegas. It feels fitting. It suits my mood. And on that day of thanks, I will sit at a slot machine and raise my beer to toast my bunless oven in these worst of times.
Sunday, November 13, 2016
A recipe for the times
In the book 1984 by Orwell, there is a famous quote, "If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face - forever." That is how I feel this Sunday after the election. Stomped upon. My hope is almost nonexistent. Now, I do not know if Trump is the next Hitler or Mussolini, but what I do know is that there is the very real possibility that America just elected a fascist dictator into the White House.
I always say that if you want to know who someone is, just listen to their words. And we have listened and listened to Trump. We have heard him scapegoat and rant on Mexicans, Muslims, the undocumented, women, and most of all Hillary. And we have watched his actions. We have seen Trump raise his hand in a Nazi style salute to his crowds. The violence and hate, it was all too crazy at first to even believe.
And Hillary, poor Hillary. She played by the rules and had proper decorum. But, if I know one thing after representing people in 1368 incompetency proceedings, it is this: you cannot argue with crazy, and Trump is crazy. A crazy egomaniac, former reality television star billionaire, who just was elected to the highest office in the land.
Now there are those who say, just wait and see. Wait and see what? Am I supposed to wait to see if he is who I know he is? What am I, are we, waiting for?
For the boot to fall? For the presses to be silenced? For the retaliation to begin? For the mass deportation? For Newspeak (see 1984)?
What is left without hope? Faith, prayer and action. Yes, I am a believer. This punk rock girl is a lapsed Catholic (of the James Joyce variety) who somehow found her own kind of all tolerant and inclusive faith and belief in college after taking a class called Bible is Literature. In that class, I learned that the Bible is all parable and metaphor and the God of the Old Testament is an angry God. But, the New Testament was different. Jesus was all about the love. To me, whether one believes Jesus was a prophet or the literal son of God does not matter, because his words and actions were what mattered. Jesus told us not only to love our neighbor, but to also pray for those who persecute you. (Matthew 5:43-44) And to let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good deeds. (Matthew 5:16).
So that is what I will do. Faith, prayer and action. A recipe for these times. Because I have to believe that they know not what they do. (Luke 23:34)
I always say that if you want to know who someone is, just listen to their words. And we have listened and listened to Trump. We have heard him scapegoat and rant on Mexicans, Muslims, the undocumented, women, and most of all Hillary. And we have watched his actions. We have seen Trump raise his hand in a Nazi style salute to his crowds. The violence and hate, it was all too crazy at first to even believe.
And Hillary, poor Hillary. She played by the rules and had proper decorum. But, if I know one thing after representing people in 1368 incompetency proceedings, it is this: you cannot argue with crazy, and Trump is crazy. A crazy egomaniac, former reality television star billionaire, who just was elected to the highest office in the land.
Now there are those who say, just wait and see. Wait and see what? Am I supposed to wait to see if he is who I know he is? What am I, are we, waiting for?
For the boot to fall? For the presses to be silenced? For the retaliation to begin? For the mass deportation? For Newspeak (see 1984)?
What is left without hope? Faith, prayer and action. Yes, I am a believer. This punk rock girl is a lapsed Catholic (of the James Joyce variety) who somehow found her own kind of all tolerant and inclusive faith and belief in college after taking a class called Bible is Literature. In that class, I learned that the Bible is all parable and metaphor and the God of the Old Testament is an angry God. But, the New Testament was different. Jesus was all about the love. To me, whether one believes Jesus was a prophet or the literal son of God does not matter, because his words and actions were what mattered. Jesus told us not only to love our neighbor, but to also pray for those who persecute you. (Matthew 5:43-44) And to let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good deeds. (Matthew 5:16).
So that is what I will do. Faith, prayer and action. A recipe for these times. Because I have to believe that they know not what they do. (Luke 23:34)
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