Getting my first Pfizer vaccination. Getting my second Pfizer vaccine.
It’s been four months almost to the day since we found out we had COVID. By we, I mean Dylan and I.
Over the last four months, I have been silent. I haven’t publicly spoken or written about our COVID experience at the beginning of this year. There has been so much guilt in my heart and soul about having COVID. I am still struggling with that guilt, but as a writer, I can’t stay silent not while this pandemic rages on. I feel shame over having COVID. Like I need to keep it a secret and not talk about it, but I’m not an ostrich. My head does not belong in the sand, and I’ve never been one to shy away from telling the truths, my truths before. People are still complaining about wearing masks, fighting the harsh reality, saying it’s a conspiracy, claiming the vaccine is dangerous.
I am an immunocompromised human. Dylan is a disabled veteran. We were quarantining for our own health and the health of all humans. In our home, we believe in science and the reality of this pandemic.
Since the announcement of quarantine over a year ago, we have been social distancing like absolute champs. We stayed the fuck home. I stopped traveling. We started having our groceries delivered. We didn’t go out to eat. We hardly saw friends or left the house, except when completely necessary. We have worn masks and stayed away. We’ve sanitized and cleaned.
So many people did not believe in the seriousness of COVID until if affected them personally. We did not need to be affected personally to know the severity of COVID. Though we did have several friends who contracted it and recovered. They were fortunate to have uncomfortable but manageable symptoms.
We did everything we could to stay safe, but COVID came for us.
COVID still invaded our home, and we were met with the full force of it. Dylan and I had been so extremely careful, and yet it entered our home and almost took his life—and mine, but I’m ignoring the severity of my own situation. There’s nothing more, really, we could have done to prevent getting COVID, but I’m still struggling with guilt over contracting it. I have talked about it so infrequently that very few people in my personal life even knew about it at the time or even now. We didn’t advertise it. We were more concerned about surviving it because we both had fairly extreme cases. Only our very closest friends and family knew what we were going through.
On December 26, 2020, Dylan went to Chicago to visit his family. By December 28, he was admitted to the hospital with a positive COVID test and pneumonia. He didn’t have enough breath to call and tell me himself, so I found out over the phone from his mom once he’d been admitted. It was devastating. My partner of the last five years was in the hospital on the other side of the country fighting for his life, and I couldn’t do a thing about it.
Blake, one of the closest people in my life, had come over to spend time with me and hang out with the dogs while Dylan was gone. He was there when I got the phone call. I felt horrible because I had put him in danger without meaning to. We went for COVID tests the next day. I had a sickening feeling that I would absolutely be positive for it because I had developed a bad cough the day before. On New Year’s Eve, I found out I had COVID and Blake did not. We knew it would be two weeks of quarantine before Dylan could even think about coming home, before I could leave the house, before Blake could leave the house. We were trapped in a new way. I was trapped sick in my house with someone I loved. I was trapped by fear that the one person I depended on to be okay might not survive.
Everyday, I struggled to breathe. My oxygen levels kept getting lower and lower and lower, yet I refused to go to the hospital because of the dogs. Blake is probably the only reason I did not die, but it was not good. (Don’t do what I do, kids. Go to the doctor.)
Everyday, I waited for texts from Dylan to know he was okay, he was still alive, he was still breathing on his own.
Everyday, I hoped to hear news that Dylan was responding well to treatment and could go home soon to finish his recovery.
Every few days, I heard from his nurses or doctors to find out how he was doing. The news was hopeful but never good.
He ended up staying in the hospital for almost three weeks. When he was finally released, he had to stay in Chicago for almost three more weeks, two of which he was dependent on oxygen. He visited specialists repeatedly, waiting on the all clear to come home. Dylan was all alone on the other side of the country with his family and doctors, but I worried constantly. I was at home with Blake, who did everything from cook to clean to take care of the dogs to helping me get dressed to checking on me in the middle of the night.
By the time Dylan came home, he had been gone for almost six weeks. He was better but not back to normal. I had not been completely honest with him about my own health because I did not want him to worry as he fought for his life. He was shocked by how sick I still was, but we made it through. We spent the next two months slowly working back into normalcy.
If we’re being honest, and I am, we are both still on the mend. Neither of us have full lung functionality. We still get tired and winded much easier than we used to. We are both grateful to be alive, to have survived.
Dylan and I are both completely vaccinated. The moment we were allowed to, we signed up. He had Moderna. I had Pfizer. He reacted with a sore arm and slight aches and pains. My reaction was slightly bigger with a sore arm, aches, pains, and a low-grade temperature. The second dose was easier for me than the first.
I was vaccinated through UTMB Health at their outdoor League City location. I signed up through their website: https://www.utmb.edu/covid-19/vaccine/ back in February. It took me a week and a half to get an appointment. Now that vaccinatio are open to everyone, I’m sure it looks a little different as far as the sign up process. I arrived at the site. I never once had to get in my car. It took about half an hour to snake through the park, sign in, read the information, and get my vaccination. I then proceeded to the parking lot, where I waited fifteen minutes to make sure I didn’t have any reaction. I was on my way. This was the process for my first dose and three weeks later for my second dose.
Dylan was vaccinated through Harris County in Waller at their outdoor location. His process was exactly the same with a shorter snake time because it was a smaller site, serving less people. It was fast and easy.
We are vaccinated. We still stay home more than we did in the before times. We wear masks when we go out. We sit outdoors when we go to restaurants. We believe in science. We believe in COVID. We believe in vaccines. We believe in doing our part. This isn’t over, but we have and will do whatever we can to make COVID a part of history.
Cuddling with three puppies and their mama. The others are somewhere doing something. I’m very attentive, I know.
Yesterday was National Puppy Day, and I missed it. Well, I watched everyone else post pictures about their puppies. I was lazy and didn’t.
The thing is, every day is puppy day in my house. Not only do I have four actual puppies, I have two older girls too. It’s a zoo. It’s chaos. It’s a furtacular event always. There is never a moment, big or small, that does not have something to do with the dogs. I can attribute that to their being enormous, multitudinous, and very attached to me. I go nowhere alone ever, and I love it.
Even as I write this, I have one asleep on each foot, two are upside down tug-o-warring, one is asleep in their box for naughty reasons, and a sixth is standing up on my wingback chair staring out the window in case of God knows what. That means there are five very big dogs in my small office. It’s wonderful. This is not a complaint. This is a brag. My office is better than your office.
A year ago, I had a home filled with Beau, the original rescue, Tess, the stray mama, and thirteen three week old puppies. I was determined to keep zero of the puppies. Life and a man had a completely opposing world view of what would happen, and I lost. Fast forward through the poop, tears, puppy breath, teething, potty training to today: I am a homeowner with a house full of six much bigger than expected dogs.
I would love to tell you this life is easy. It is not.
Having six dogs sounds amazing, and it is. Having six dogs sounds hard, and it is. Having six dogs sounds a little crazy, and it most certainly is. It was a choice and a commitment. It was a commitment to them and a commitment to Dylan, my pawtner in parenting. We made a commitment to each of our dogs to love, respect, raise, and maintain them until their last breaths, no take backsies. We made a commitment to one another that no matter what transpires between us, we will raise them together; we will not separate them; we will not keep them from the one another; we will share expenses; we will carry the burden; we will lean on the other when things are hard; and we will always create rules and boundaries together for them, no take backsies. Adopting one dog four years ago (wow) connected us in a more concrete way, making it more complicated if things went to go awry. Adding five more rescues to that equation… well, much, much, much more of a concrete connection. Worth it, but a challenge.
There are more than just the challenges of having six dogs. We did it in a COVID world where both our incomes and lives have been impacted very, very much. Tess was incredibly sick and pregnant when I picked her up off the street. Getting her healthy was expensive and heartbreaking. The puppies have some special needs, which makes it expensive and a bit complicated at times. (No complaint. I knew what I was getting into.) The reality is: VETS ARE EXPENSIVE. Their health is non-negotiable. We went without so they could be taken care of. We took on debt to take them to the ER. We buy their dog food first before our groceries. COVID made things much tighter, but it’s worth it.
On top of it, a rescue already existed in this home. Beau was the first priority. We made a decision to foster Tess and the puppies. We knew we wanted to keep Tess, but if the rescue in Beau couldn’t handle being in a multiple dog household, we would have made the very hard decision to find Tess and all the puppies their furever homes. Turns out Beau LOVED Tess immediately. They were inseparable and best buds from the beginning. They do everything together and literally hug every morning when they wake up. Beau also loves the puppies. It was an adjustment, but they adore her and she loves to play with them. But she still had to figure out how to be top dog, get attention, and cope with the fact she was no longer the sun, moon, and universe in two people’s worlds. She had to learn to share: time, food, love, attention, bed. Just kidding, she never learned how to share bed; she’s the only one that always sleeps in bed. Some of her neurosis were exacerbated at first, but with love, time, and extra attention, she’s back to her normal neurotic self.
Is it a breeze now? Fuck no.
It’s still hard. They’re still young. They’re still growing and learning and making mistakes and getting on each others’ nerves. Most days are amazing, but there are some days I cry. Being a dog parent to one is hard. Being a dog parent to six is still hard. Struggle is a part of taking care of and living with another being, human or not. The happiness outweighs all the negatives, but it’s work.
It. Is. A. Lot. Of. Work.
It takes a lot of work just to afford to maintain them and keep them healthy. It takes a lot of emotional work to stay calm in the chaos because I’m not going to fuck up my dogs’ emotional wellbeing with an inability to handle the fact they’re just being puppies. I do my best. Sometimes I fail. That’s okay. They love me anyways. They know they’re safe. They’re in the only home they’ve ever known with the only parents they’ve ever known being loved in the only way they’ve ever known: unconditionally, patiently, enthusiastically, and constantly.
My six dogs have been the catalyst for DRASTIC life changes over the last year, and I’m okay with that. Everything is for the better even when it has hurt like hell. They are and will be my number one priority until the day they die. I took on this responsibility, and no matter how hard it was, is, or will be, I chose to make their lives the very best I can.
If you ever find yourself in my home, know that you are watching six pieces of my heart and the very best of me walk around our home.
In honor of trying to be the very best pawrent I can be. I’m including six inspiration posters I created from things I’ve said to my dogs in my very best high pitched and happy-even-though-my-world-is-chaos-and-stressful dog parent voice:
A family picture of all thirteen babies and their two mamas at three weeks old!
Happy Birthday Siren, Vienna, Knight, Marcus, Duke, Joey, Hera, Lucy, Makeda, Sadie, Teena, Murphy, and Bear! Being your first human mama was the most rewarding challenge I have ever been crazy enough to dive into.
After bringing home a very pregnant, street dog on February 26, 2020, Tessa went into labor five days later on March 2. Which means, a year ago, thirteen puppies were born in an epically long labor that lasted 38.5 hours with seventeen hours and one minute between the first and last born. Every single one of the thirteen is healthy, happy, and living their best life today.
What a year it has been.
I was a bit protective of my babies. I didn’t want them to go to their furever homes ever, but that was not an option—I couldn’t afford fifteen dogs, nor did I have the space. I sent them to their wonderful furever homes at three months old because I was able to ensure they were vaccinated, were well socialized, avoided the critical time when they could develop neurosis and fears, learned ample skills from their mama, and I was able to catch and solve some health issues. Puppies are adorable, and I loved every single second of my time with them, but those first three months was a massive struggle in every way. I look back and wonder how I did it. The answer: love and support from my closest friends and family. Neither I nor the puppies would have made it through without those heroes in our lives. Having thirteen puppies and a brand new mama dog was taxing in more ways than I can even describe, but I won’t even try because this is a birthday celebration.
What was even harder than getting through those three months: Watching them go to their new homes. I felt so empty when they were gone. (Even though I still had four puppies, Tessa, and Beau, pieces of my heart were missing.) Knowing each puppy was in the very best home for them made it much easier to say goodbye. Every single parent sends me updates, so I have gotten to watch them grow, becoming more themselves in the comfort of a loving home. I was the puppy matchmaker; I gave the puppy to the perfect home for them and a puppy suited to the home each family could provide. Some of the puppy parents have become good friends or were already good friends. Several have stayed for a night or a few when their parents go on vacation or work trips. Puppy play dates happen. They may not be my babies anymore, but they are still in my life. I am so blessed to have found so many wonderful homes for my amazing puppies.
From left top clockwise: Knight, Duke, Makeda, and Bear. The four babies who are mine forever.
Every day, all day for three months, I was surrounded by thirteen puppies and Tessa. Three months is a short amount of time, but it is a lifetime when you’re watching beings evolve and grow and become themselves. Each one had a unique personality from the moment they were born. Being around them brought me so much joy and filled my heart with love. I was so completely in love with each one. It was impossible to name a favorite, and to this day, the ones I kept are here because a) I wanted to make sure they received the medical care they needed b) their personalities were best suited to Beau and Tessa. I didn’t keep my favorite puppies because I didn’t have any. They were all perfect and still are.
The fact it has been one year since they were born… Is shocking. Where has the time gone? I have watched my four grow into these amazing dogs with huge, unique personalities and needs. Life has been busy and complicated and stressful at times, but I wouldn’t trade anything in the world for my dogs. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for my four puppies and the nine others. My heart is theirs. For now and forever.
A year ago, I was given a beautiful opportunity to give fourteen dogs a chance at life, and they are making the most of those lives every day.
Before they went to their furever homes, I took pictures with each of them. They gave me hope and happiness during an incredibly difficult pandemic. There’s no way I wouldn’t remember each one, but I wanted something beautiful to look at as the years fade the memories. I want to share them with you and a little bit about each one.
Siren, the first born.
Siren was born on March 3, 2020 at 3:45 pm, weighing 8.75 ounces. He was adorable and such a sweetheart. He loved to howl and let out an incredibly high pitched noise anytime he wasn’t playing. Rough housing was his favorite activity but I could always count on big kisses from him. He kept his name Siren and lives in Houston.
(March) Vienna gave the best kisses!
March was born on March 3, 2020 at 4:50 pm, weighing 11.3 ounces. Named for the March sisters in Little Women. She has a goofy dew claw with two nails. She was always up to play but never dove right into the middle of the pack. Cuddling was just as much appreciated as play. Her daddy claimed her right away and named her Vienna—after the sausages because they looked like fuzzy, brown sausages. She lives in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
Lucky enough to call Knight mine forever.
Knight was born on March 3, 2020 at 5:35 pm, weighing the least at 7.5 ounces. He gave me so much anxiety from the start because he was so little and refused to gain weight. Sass has never been something he lacks. He still suffers from little man syndrome and hates being pushed around even though he is the second biggest in my house and in the litter. I kept him because we bonded over the ten daily feedings we had, his autoimmune disorder, and his deformed front legs. He still has the name Knight, but I pronounce it phonetically, to his father’s dismay. K-Nig-Hit is cuddly beyond belief.
(Hardy) Marcus has been using his soulful eyes since day one.
Hardy was born on March 3, 2020 at 7:15 pm, weighing 7.62 ounces. Named for one of my favorite authors, Thomas Hardy. I’ve never seen such soulful eyes, and he uses them often on his dad. He was equal parts rowdy and lazy. He was always one of the first to curl up in my lap or behind my back. He always had such long legs; there’s no doubt he could be a supermodel. Instead he’s assumed the name Marcus (as in Aurelius) and lives in the lap of luxury in Houston with his dad. Doggy daycare is his jam.
Derpy Duke was never meant to stay, but stay he did, and I couldn’t be happier.
Duke was born March 3, 2020 at 9:00pm, weighing 9.21 ounces. He was a big derpy goofball from the moment he was born. Chewing has been his favorite thing since they got teething toys at two weeks old. To this day, he has a toy or shoe (yikes) in his mouth. If there is a free lap or hand he will claim it. If there’s no free lap or hand, he will still claim it. At eight months old, he had dental surgery to correct his severe overbite, which gives him the derpiest smile on earth. He’s my forever baby. It was a happy accident.
(Nosky) Joey was an adorably cuddly handful.
Nosky was born on March 3, 2020 at 9:05 pm, weighing 8.57 ounces. He has four white paws, so I named him “socks” in Russian. He had, and still does, a predilection for starting squabbles. He loved to antagonize and then walk away. It was irritating and funny; I’m certain he enjoyed his practical jokes. I was incredibly stressed out at eight weeks because he developed a joint problem, luckily his forever mama is on top of it. He’s living the best life and is incredibly spoiled. He is now named after Joey from friends and lives in Pearland, Texas.
Hera’s looking away from the camera as I get kisses from her forever sister!
Hera was born on March 3, 2020 at 9:55 pm, weighing 10.12 ounces. She was the first to crawl into a lap. She could never get enough of those cuddles, although she was happy to get her play on whenever a tussle started. She was quiet, sweet, and an all around easy puppy. Today, she still goes by Hera and lives in Ames, Iowa with my parents, so she’s got a pretty cushy life with her sister, Teena and brother, Barney.
(Boudica) Lucy has the cutest dots on her nose!
Boudica was born on March 3, 2020 at 11:13 pm, weighing 10.2 ounces. Named for Boudica the 60 ad Iceni queen. From the very start, she didn’t live up to the warrior queen she was named for. She stayed far away from any romp, preferring cuddles to literally anything else. She was skittish and shy, which only made me love her more. With adorable dots on her nose, she is gorgeous, perfect, and ridiculously easy to take a nap with. Her new name is Lucy, and she lives with her feline sister, Juniper, in Lincoln, Nebraska.
(Star) Makeda is still joy incarnate.
Star was born on March 4, 2020 at 12:10 am, weighing 9.63 ounces. She was hoppy, happy, and ready to love on anyone from the moment she was born. It became evident very early on that we would keep her because she had enough energy to keep up with Beau. I started referring to her as “Joy Incarnate” at three weeks old because she always has been. I renamed her because I wanted a more unique name, so she’s gone by Makeda—an Ethiopian warrior queen—since she was three weeks old. She’s shy yet rambunctious, playful yet cuddly, happy yet reserved. She’s a dichotomy, and I fall in love with her more every day.
(Lily-May) Sadie has resting sad face.
Lily-May was born on March 4, 2020 at 1: 20 am, weighing 10.48 ounces. Named for Lily Bart in House of Mirth and May Whelan in The Age of Innocence both by Edith Wharton. Shy yet ridiculously lovable, she was always excited about everything once she felt safe. It was impossible to stay away from her because she followed me everywhere any chance she got. Today, she goes by Sadie and lives in Houston with her rescue dog brother, Cooper.
It’s (Athena) Teena’s turn to look-ish at the camera.
Athena was born on March 4, 2020 at 5:20 am, weighing 10.26 ounces. She was sweet but always a little funny. She wanted to cuddle but not that much. She wanted to play but not too much. She was curious but super cautious. She would frighten incredibly easily. She had such a soft coat, I loved burying my face in her neck and covering her with kisses. My dad has a knack for giving funny nicknames. He started calling her Teena, and it stuck. Today, she lives with my parents in Ames, Iowa with her sister, Hera, and their rescue dog Barney.
I never knew what (Oryol) Murphy’s ears would do from one day to the next.
Oryol was born on March 4, 2020 at 6:08 am, weighing 11.99 ounces. Named after Ivan Turgenev’s hometown in Russia. He was a chonk from the start and all about the cuddles. I was obsessed with his ears; they never knew what they were doing and changed day to day. He was so laid back that he earned the nickname “Stoner Puppy.” He loved playing, cuddles, and diving face first into food: the messier the better. He hated bathtime, though. For such a lazy puppy, he popped right to life the moment I tried to bathe him. I hope for his mama’s sake, he’s gotten better with age on that front. He lives in Houston, Texas with his mom and goes by the name Murphy.
Bear is much, much, much bigger now.
Bear was born on March 4, 2020 at 8:46 am, weighing 12.1 ounces. Last but definitely not least, Bear is unforgettable. He was the last, the largest, and the most headstrong of the bunch. Where there was a will, Bear would find his way. He was a cuddly challenge from day one, but he’s impossible not to love even when he was causing me a great deal of frustration. His dad fell in love with him, and he ended up staying in my personal pack. I wish I could say he’s gotten easier, but all I can say is: he’s gotten bigger! He lived up to the name Bear and weighs about 100 pounds with the biggest head he could muster. Luckily, he’s more lovable than he is frustrating.
Happy Birthday my babies! I can’t believe you’re all a year old. I can’t believe I survived. I really can’t believe I’m the mama to four of you. To my other nine babies: I miss you all every single day, think of you often, scroll through the thousands of pictures I took, and talk about you endlessly. I am beyond lucky to have watched you grow into the puppies you were, and I am even more blessed to be able to watch you all grow into the dogs you are becoming. One year down forever to go!
bisous und обьятий, RaeAnna (Your First Human Mama)
Today is a joyous, historic day. Joyous because the people spoke. Hatred was voted out of the Oval Office. Historic because the people chose a woman of color to lead us as Vice President. We chose change and progress, love and acceptance, hope and perseverance. We chose to strive for better, to embrace diversity in this country, to trust a woman with an office we should have been represented in a long fucking time ago.
If I am being incredibly honest, it’s not joy I’m feeling today but relief. The depth of which is overwhelming because tomorrow, I will wake up not having to suffer through the quotidian knowledge that the vitriol spewing Donald Trump is President of the United States.
I am not living under the delusion that when I wake up, the world of tomorrow is brand new. No, it is the same world as today. The fight is not over; it has just begun. Biden and Harris will not miraculously change the hearts of every man and woman who voted for Trump, who has turned a blind eye to systemic racism, who has decided police brutality is acceptable, who thinks the immigration policies of the last four years are humane, who has believed women are inferior, who has perpetually chosen to hate. In a world where information is more readily available than ever before, it is a choice to be ignorant of the devastating reality rooted in history, policy, and the heart of America so many people live in on a daily basis.
This is the world we live in. 74 MILLION Americans voted for Trump. Not just men. Not just white women. People from all backgrounds voted for Trump. 74 million Americans will not disappear or change their hearts and minds by tomorrow morning. Nope. They are still here. They are still our friends, coworkers, neighbors, family, parents. They are all around us, and it is our mission to show them a better world.
I believe in love and kindness and peaceful protest. My activism is fueled by loving those akin to myself as much as those who have different beliefs. In my heart, I believe love and kindness is the only way to change the world, but that doesn’t mean I don’t fight, I don’t call out ignorance, I don’t push boundaries, I don’t stand up for what’s right. It means I do it from a place of love. I also believe in anger.
I am angry. I am furious that Trump was elected in 2016. It didn’t come as a surprise, but it crushed my soul. I have spoken up in the past four years, and I have marched. Mostly I have read and listened and learned. I educated myself more deeply in areas I have been passionate about but lacked information. On a personal level, I was deeply devastated by Trump’s election. I have not spoken about my life as a rape survivor, a domestic abuse survivor, as a sex worker outside of a brief mention here and there. None of these define me, but they are an integral part of my identity, my career, my activism, my existence. Trump’s election cut to the deepest corners of my pain as a broken woman. This man fueled by hatred was elected to the most powerful role in this country after he proved time and time again that he was unworthy. I am angry because people I love voted for him in 2016 and again in 2020. They’re not bad people; in fact, they’re great people, but they searched within themselves and were still able to support a despicable man.
On Friday, January 20, 2017, I woke up at 3:43 in the morning in tears. I was filled with the need to write a letter to the man I have loved and looked up to my entire life. A man who is kind and loving beyond words. A man who voted for Trump. A man I call Dad. I have no idea who he voted for in 2020, and frankly, I have no desire to. Even if he did vote for Biden, it wouldn’t change my hurt. This is a letter I never sent. Instead it is a letter to my father and every father who voted for Trump. It is a letter to every man and woman I love who voted for Trump. It is a letter for every Trump supporter. It is a letter that is unchanged, and yet I stand by every word exactly four years later. Biden may have won, but 74 million people voted to reelect Trump.
Dear Dad,
I didn’t need to ask who you voted for. I already knew, but I asked anyway. I couldn’t validate my feelings without knowing for sure. Maybe it was hope that kept me from asking for so long, or I was delaying the depression that I knew would set in the moment you answered: Trump.
It’s there now and always will be. In every hug, laugh, kiss, kind word. You love me, I don’t doubt that. But your vote tells me something else. Whether you realize it or not, your vote showed me where I stand. I am not worth the same as you. Your tiny act of filling out one tiny circle with your one tiny voice as one tiny vote in a sea of other tiny votes is not tiny to me.
You are my father. You gave me half of my existence. I see you in the mirror and in my mannerisms. I am yours. I carry your last name and my face is recognizably yours. You were with me every day of my life for nineteen years. You watched my first steps, heard my first words, changed my diapers. You woke me up early to breakfast together before work and put me back to bed. You taught me long division and gave me my first coffee. You showed me what perspective is in art and life. You were at every dance and piano recital with words of encouragement. You watched band concerts and sat through cold football games to watch me in the marching band at half time. You were there at high school graduation and the real reason I walked at my college graduation. You have held my hand and shed tears in a hospital room. You celebrated my successes, but bought me ice cream through my failures and missteps. You chose to support me when you didn’t want to. You have been a part of my entire life. You were not an absentee father. You knew me. You raised me. I am your first born. As birthdays passed, your role turned from caregiver to being the person I wanted to emulate more than anyone in the world. You have been the hero, the guiding light my entire life, and I don’t think I can say that today.
I am your daughter; the only you will ever have. On November 8, 2016, you silently told me I am less than you, less than your son. My future looks different than yours or your sons. Going into the world tomorrow, I will face challenges and obstacles you or my brother have never and will never have to face. Because I am a woman. It shouldn’t matter but it does. My genitals affect my existence in this world, and your vote made that existence even harder.
Anger is a part of my soul. I am angry for so many reasons. I am irrationally angry that you couldn’t save me from pain men have put me through. With time, I will forgive you for not saving me in the past. I am familiar with the reality that it isn’t your fault, but you are my father. You were there, and I have the human wish that you could have just known something was wrong, someone was hurting me. You didn’t see. I hoped you would look in my eyes and see the pain, the pleas for help, the need to be saved, the desire to be believed. People talk about a parent’s intuition, but you didn’t have it all those days I was silently dying. You never saw the subtle signs as the little girl you watched dance around the house disappeared every time a boy you shook hands hit and raped me. I wish you could have seen all of those things in my eyes because they are your eyes. I am your daughter. I was hiding inside a body that looks like a female version of yours. I forgive you all of these things because I know it was not your fault; just like it was not my fault. Something I will have to continue telling myself everyday until the day I die hoping to believe it myself. You are not culpable for that boy’s actions or any of the other boys who came after. Men have hurt me in ways, I’m sure, you once prayed would never happen. But I carry their actions with me everyday as a permanent part of my psyche and history.
You didn’t know then. You had no way of knowing. You know now. I have started making a career fighting against the kind of men who hurt me, the kind of man who is being inaugurated today. I speak out against violence against women by using my story to create positive change. You know now; yet, you do not believe me.
You voted for Trump. You invalidated my struggle as a woman and supported every man who has ever hurt me. You normalized violence in an instant. With your one tiny vote you gave power to predators by electing a predator, a rapist to the most powerful office in this country. You helped make him a role model to little boys and young men. They will say, “Well, the President did it.” and “I’m just quoting the President.” Your vote made it even harder for me to get out of bed everyday because I always wonder if today will be the day I’m going to get raped again. Your vote told me it’s fine for men to act like your president. A man who thinks it’s totally fine for men, like my ex-boyfriend, college best friend, childhood friend, friend from church—all men you welcomed into your home—to take me without my consent because they are men, I am a woman, and they wanted me.
By voting for Trump, you showed me I am not equal to my brother in your eyes or my country’s eyes. My brother who has just graduated college, who has a better job than I will have for years to come if ever because not only have I overcome being a woman, I have overcome so many obstacles he will never face because our genders differ. I have to worry about employers seeing this to only question if I am a viable candidate, someone who can be trusted to not make claims about sexual assault or cause problems in the workplace. I am shamed for overcoming and surviving repeated rapes and violence instead of being lauded for my vulnerability, transparency, and fight for equity because I am a woman, and this is my plight. My brother and I are not equals in your eyes; your vote told me that.
Stories of how women prevent rape and assault circulate constantly when men should jut not be raping. I do not walk in fear to my car with keys entwined between my fingers. I do not call friends to chat on the phone so I don’t look vulnerable. I do not ask a friend who is both trusted and male to walk me home. I do not wear pants instead of skirts. I do not back down when men intimidate me. I do not stay in well lit areas. I do none of these things because I am not scared of the worst thing that could happen to a woman. I am not scared because I have already been gang raped. What else could be worse for me? It happening again? It already has happened on repeat for years. I am not scared of men because they cannot bring worse. And being murdered sounds like the most uninterrupted sleep I’ve had in over a decade. You do not know these things because you are a man, and you don’t live them. You could know them, but you don’t believe me when I tell you. Instead you choose to label me a liar, troubled, in need of help. All I need is a world that believes I deserve to be treated like a human.
Your vote says everything to me because of who you voted for. Even if I agreed with all of his policies (which I absolutely do not), I cannot overlook his humanity. Or lack thereof. You voted for a man who treats women worse than the dirt he walks on. He says it is his right to grab me by the pussy. Well, someone did.
Someone did for years, and several men after him did too. Some stopped at just grabbing, but others took it further. I have been harassed and groped by male “friends” in a bar while I was sober wearing a turtleneck. But it was fine because they were friends, and I was inexcusably in a bar. A liberal, Black president was in his second term, at the time. A man who believes women are equal and deserve respect and have the right to autonomy. Yet, you voted someone into office who has done what those men have done to me. What kind of world do you think he will create for me? If I was already living in hell? What will this man lead us to? For women, for minorities, for immigrants. I cannot imagine, and I am not looking forward to seeing what plays out. I just pray that we elect someone better in 2020.
You helped make a man President, and he will be the “role model” for every man, son, brother, father, and everything male in between in this culture that surrounds me, your daughter, who has to live next to these men. I have survived in a world where this has not been the male “role model,” but yet all of these struggles have still been my reality. If this has been my world, what will it look like with this President leading us? Your President believes it’s fair to take me because I am pretty and female. Well, at least, I’m pretty because that means I’m worth being seen. Being a woman is not an asset with this President, who you helped elect.
How do I move forward? I have always been proud to be your daughter. I have always worked to earn your approval. As your daughter, since the beginning of my time on this earth, I have never wanted to distance myself from you because I had always been proud to be your daughter. I don’t know how to feel now. I’m not proud of you.
I will never again hug you the way I once did because this stands firmly between us. How do I pretend things are fine when you have helped institutionalize discrimination based on the one thing I will never be able to change: my sex?
I love you less because of this. Just admitting that causes me more pain than you or anyone else will ever know because I have loved you intensely, loyally, blindly, and to a fault my entire life. You have been who I have idolized most. In my heart, I have always defined myself as your daughter. Not because you are my genetic benefactor or because we share the same name or because society and culture tell me I have to for patriarchal reasons, but because you are a good, kind, intelligent human.
I can forgive everyone else their vote. Friends, family, acquaintances, etc. because it is their right in this country to vote for whomever they believe most fit. I can forgive them, though I will never agree. I can’t forgive you this.
At 25, I now know where you believe I belong as a woman. This will not cripple my future. Your vote showed me I am less than. I cannot forgive you. Even though it is your right to cast your ballot as you see fit, it is still your obligation to protect me as a father. You took on this role willingly not at conception but when you decided to parent me. Parenting never ends. Not when I left for college or when you stopped financially supporting me or when I began a career or moved cross country. You are and always will be a father, and it is and always will be your obligation to protect me. You did not protect me when you voted for Donald Trump. What happens during his presidency lays squarely on your shoulders. It is your fault and every other person’s who voted him into office.
Tess was happy I FINALLY stopped teasing her with the cake and even wore a party hat to get a bite of that cake. | Dress | Hair Bow | Earrings | Necklace |
Happy Birthday Tess!
She’s reached the ripe old age of two, as of last Saturday. I’m late posting because I’m the worst mama ever, but she celebrated with cake.
Alright, if I’m being honest, I have no idea when she turns two. That’s the nature of rescues. We just have no idea. The vet can give us an estimate of how old they think she is, but there’s no telling. Last year, when I took her to the vet the day after rescuing her pregnant-ass off the side of the road, the vet said they were doubtful if she was even a year old yet, which made me sad. How hard must her life have been to not only get shot (yes, there’s a bullet in her back), living on the street, and get knocked up all before her first birthday.
Everyone deserves a birthday, and I decided to make Tess a year old upon her adoption into the Rekemeyer family by giving her the birthday of January 9, 2019. I also really like numbers in patterns, so that looks like 1.9.19 (Beau’s is 5.15.15).
It’s not a birthday without a personalized, dog-friendly cake from Three Dog Bakery. Tess devoured her part, and no she did not eat the whole thing by herself. She definitely got the biggest slice, but everyone else got a slice too. Beau took her slice and ran so she could enjoy it in solitude. Knight carried his around the house with a prideful prance. Duke laid on the ground and ate it upside down with confused enthusiasm. Bear was terrified of the thing in his bowl and ran away howling. Makeda enjoyed her piece and Bear’s with optimistic bewilderment. The puppies don’t get people food or anything other than dog treats and their special food, so it’s always funny on the rare instance they get something out of their norm.
Tess has been full of surprises from the moment I brought her home. Carrying a host of problems and a shockingly large litter, she has been the sweetest problem raiser I’ve ever encountered. Luckily, the problems and surprises have not been behavior or attitude things, they’ve all been her tiny body doing funky things or due to her previously homeless predicament.
Of course, we couldn’t enjoy her birthday without a memorable hiccup. Due to health reasons and concerns from our various veterinary health professionals and specialists, the 2020 dog additions have not been fixed yet.
Tess went into heat a month and a half ago. Every precaution was taken to prevent another unwanted pregnancy—not that I don’t love every single one of her puppies. No more babies! When I say, every precaution, I mean, everything physically possible was done to ensure there would be no incestual babies in my house. That being said, I rounded the corner one day to find Bear—the youngest, biggest, and most sexually aggressive puppy—attempting intimate relations with his mom through the bars of her kennel…. I guess where there’s a will, there’s an awkward attempt. If it weren’t so completely distressing, the effort would have been very comical to watch play out. I did not, however, watch it play out. Being a cock block has always been one of my many talents, and this mama stepped in right away.
The likelihood Tess wound up with children once again through the kennel was highly unlikely, and I talked my anxiety demon down for a good month and a half. Then a week ago, I was laying in bed with Tess on my face (because where else, in a king sized bed, would she possibly want to settle?) and noticed her nipples and boobies were starting to engorge. Fuck… I took her to the vet for a pregnancy test as soon as they could get me in, which was an incredibly stressful 27 hours of researching second trimester dog pregnancy signs, googling Texas’ doggy abortion laws (yes, that’s a real thing), and crying about the fact that I let this poor little thing down.
After spending $629, I found out Tessa is a big fat liar.
She’s experiencing a false pregnancy. Thankfully there are no father-brothers or a grandma-mother in my house; yes, that felt as dirty to type as I’m sure it did to read. Suffice to say the vet and all the staff had a good laugh at the thought of Bear trying to canoodle through the bars of a kennel.
No babies. Tess is completely fine and a very happy two year old. She’s just hormonal and continues to surprise me in expensive, inventive, and stressful ways. Once she’s heartworm negative (we find out in April), we’re yanking that overachieving uterus.
bisous und обьятий, RaeAnna + Tessa
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Christmas tree hunting has been a tradition my entire life.
What is the definition of Christmas tree hunting? For me, it means, first, locating a Christmas tree farm: one that grows Christmas trees. [My personal favorite in the Houston area is High Star Christmas Tree Farm. It’s north of Houston. They have amazing prices and friendly staff.] Once at the farm, the hunt is on. Grab a saw and a measuring stick. Find the plumpest, tallest, most symmetrical tree that your space allows. Lay down on the ground, saw that tree down. Shake it, bundle it, pay for it, put it in the truck, head home to set it up and decorate!
Every single year, minus 1999, 2014, and 2015, I have gone to a tree farm, hunted the perfect tree, and cut it down. By I cut it down, I mean, my father, my boyfriend, my friend, my boyfriend, anyone that wasn’t me cut it down. We’ll get to that in a moment. The reason for no tree hunting in 1999 was: My family and I weren’t home for Christmas. We were celebrating in California with family, so we decorated a Christmas cactus. 2014 and 2015 did not have a tree hunt because I was living with my best friend’s family, and they have a fake tree.
Beau loves the big dogs that moo so much!!!
Out of my thirty Christmases, I have had a real live tree personally cut down (by a someone close to me but not me) for twenty-seven of those Christmases.
The most fun part about Christmas trees… I’M ALLERGIC!!! Our love is greater than my inability to touch them. I have a commitment to real trees because I love them, I love their smell, I love having a real tree that I picked out of the ground. Luckily, I have people who love me enough to struggle cutting down a tree, setting it up, and decorating it. I, graciously, take on the role of manager, pastry chef, and barista. Everyone gets what they want, but mostly I do.
Loving on the best girl in the whole world.
Once Beau entered the family, she started coming on the hunt for the perfect Christmas tree. This is her fourth year. This year, we have five extra dogs in the house. We decided to save our sanity, and only brought Beau with us to hunt. She loves it. She loved looking at the big dogs that go moo and rubbing up against the pine needles. She did her very best to try and greet every human and pupper she met. And per usual, she did not want to cooperate for family pictures, but I managed to get one nonetheless.
This is also the first Christmas in my own house. A house with a very high ceiling, a very large living room, and fireplace warranting a large ass tree. I managed to find the chonkiest twelve foot tree I could find. It is a giant of a tree. I love it so much. The amount of joy it brings me is too great for words. Pictures will be coming soon. Bringing it in, setting it up, and decorating it was a several day process because it’s very large and very beautiful. I am in love with my Christmas tree.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!
bisous und обьятий, RaeAnna + Beau
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