Now Reading: This is What America Looks Like - My Journey From Refugee to Congresswoman - Excerpt!

 As a refugee who fled civil war as a child, I am still trying to figure out where I fit in—which is perhaps why the most important note I found sticking to the wall outside my office had only three words. 

“You belong here.”

Even though there are many politicians who interest me, this one woman, who happened to write a book, has drawn me since she was first taunted over and over and over by white congressmen.

What power did she have to achieve so soon a prejudicial spirit from the republican party? For surely she had no past experience that they could consider--at least I didn't think so. Yet, there she was being a target right from the point she had been elected...

Why?

Obviously I decided to buy her memoir.

But immediately I realized that this book may later be a political story. But first, we learned about her early life that was so completely different from those who grew up in America, that I was startled...

And then empathy flowed as I continued to read...

Perhaps, I thought, if I shared an early chapter, there would be many United States women, and perhaps, even some men, who would also find, if not empathy, at least some type of sympathy???

But, frankly, after the last decade and, especially, during the last several years, I have lost any trust that men who have been so indoctrinated by various groups, that, if we allow it, women will be "placed" back into the kitchen/house, never to be allowed to even leave that building...

Am I wrong? I hope so. There are many women who have known the lack of a love such as Jesus (And who was clearly NOT White)

taught--to love wives as Christ loved the Church... I recognize that my faith is falling--not in God--but in how those who claim to be Christian have turned against the majority of All God's Children!

Because they are not White

But, merely, like Jesus and many other leaders

The Irony of this turn for so many is sadly incomprehensible to most... 

Prologue “Thank you for helping to uplift so many girls from all over! Love from Seattle.” “Salaam sister—from the West Side in Senegal to Detroit #13 strong. You continue to amplify us.” I don’t remember when they first appeared on the wall outside my office in the Capitol Building: the Post-it notes with words of admiration and encouragement left by people from as far as Duluth and Delhi. “Congresswoman, traveled from Oregon and HAD to see you! Thank you for being BRAVE, BOLD, AND OUTSPOKEN. If UR ever in Eugene, I can show you around.” “Thank you so much for all you’re doing to protect our courts!” “Keep fighting for immigrants.” I do know when they started to become a problem for Facilities. It was a few months after I became the first Somali American Muslim woman elected to Congress in 2018—right after President Donald Trump began his Twitter attacks against me. “Ilhan is an American hero!” “No matter what they say, we’ll always have your back!” Overnight, a large mosaic of multicolored squares grew up around the American flag and plaque bearing my name and the name of the state I represent, Minnesota. Maintenance asked us to remove them, so my staff took the Post-its down and put them back up on a wall inside my office. But visitors to the congressional office building, open to the public Monday to Friday, 7:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.M., continued to put them up. “Thank you so much for being a voice for those who cannot speak for themselves.” “You are a soldier of the people for peace & justice for all.” They just kept coming, so Facilities gave up. Now the patch of little neon notes is a permanent bright spot on the otherwise austere white walls of a municipal hallway. What I am most proud of is not the visible expression of support for my work as a legislator, fighting for all my constituents’ ability to participate in our democracy. Nor is it the high praise or the depth of emotion—although these sentiments have gotten me through some tough times. What I am most moved by is the incredible diversity of the message writers. They come from different places and perspectives. There are Post-its from teenage girls, who dot their exclamation marks with little hearts, and from Senate staffers, who took a moment from their long days in a cynical city to jot down a positive word. A blue heart-shaped sticky note with “Republican women support you” was stuck beside a regular yellow Post-it that read, “From one black immigrant to another, please know that I love you.” I learned the Hebrew letters on a light blue note, מיר וועלן זיי עיבערלעבן, were actually Yiddish for “We will outlive them,” which Hasidic Jews in 1939 had turned into a song of resistance in the face of a Nazi commander. That all these people and more would choose to stand behind me—a Muslim immigrant who had arrived in this country from Africa speaking only two words of English—is proof enough that there are stronger bonds than identity. As a refugee who fled civil war as a child, I am still trying to figure out where I fit in—which is perhaps why the most important note I found sticking to the wall outside my office had only three words. “You belong here.”

Named a Best Political Book of the Year by The Atlantic

“This Is What America Looks Like is the origin story of a leader who,

 finding no set path that would take a person like her to the

places she wanted to go, was forced, and free, to chart her own.” 

–The New York Times Book Review

1 Fighter 1982–1988

Mogadishu, Somalia The teacher quickly put a student in charge of my third-grade class before she stepped out of the room. This was not unusual in my elementary school, where students stayed in the same classroom while our teachers for different subjects rotated in and out. When transitioning between periods, teachers usually designated one child to keep the rest from getting too rowdy. Like all kids, we were prone to abusing this position. Today, though, the boy in charge really let his newfound power go to his head. Almost immediately, he ordered another, smaller boy up to the chalkboard to write an assignment. “I beg you,” said the boy being ordered to the board, “leave me alone.” But the tall boy in charge was determined to humiliate his classmate, who was a minority in every sense. Poor, small, and an orphan, he didn’t have the crisp white shirts, ironed uniform trousers, and shiny school shoes of the middle class that the large boy and I both came from. The big boy continued to taunt his victim, escalating his threats when his classmate wouldn’t rise from his seat, until finally he shouted, “Hooyadawus!” which means “Go fuck your mother” in Somali. I burned in my seat. I always hate it when people use vulgar language, but I get really angry when it involves mothers, who I knew from the beginning were sacred—even if I didn’t have one. I mean, everybody was always talking about how important mothers are. In Islam, my native country’s main religion, we learned that “Paradise is under the feet of mothers.” You were supposed to bow to your mother, abide by her every wish, not debase her. There were also deeper forces at play than my seven-year-old brain could recognize in the moment. Although thanks to my older sisters and many loving aunties I didn’t lack for mothering, my mother, my hooyo, had died when I was a preschooler. I don’t have a single memory of her, even though I remember other things from that age—like family members fighting over whether or not I should start school. Some of my aunties and uncles thought I was too young, because technically you were supposed to wait at least until you lost your first two teeth. “She’ll lose her books,” someone said. “She won’t know where to go,” another argued, “and the other kids will steal from her.” But I didn’t stop complaining until they let me go. And, no, I didn’t lose my books or get robbed, even with all my baby teeth intact. I remember all of that clearly, but my hooyo? What she looked like, something she said, even what she died of? Nothing. As an adult, I went to a hypnotist to see if he could help evoke something, anything—a voice, a touch—but nothing emerged. I still find it so odd. Whether it was an early commitment to my religion’s teachings or the fact that an absence can loom larger than any reality, mothers were a big deal to me—and I didn’t like anybody to disrespect them. “He’s not going to get up,” I said to the bully. “You’re supposed to make sure nobody gets out of their seat, not give us assignments. So you’re just going to sit and shut up, and we’re going to wait for Teacher.” The boy, at least two heads taller than me, was not impressed. “If you don’t shut up, you’ll be sorry,” he said menacingly. I was a particularly tiny child, so anyone who didn’t know me assumed I was a coward. The runt who always got bullied at school. But I wasn’t afraid of fighting. I felt like I was bigger and stronger than everyone else—even if I knew that wasn’t really the case. “I’ll meet you in the rear courtyard after school,” I said. That was the place where all the kids went to fight. Right before the next teacher entered the room, the boy who I had stood up for whispered to me, “After school, I’m going to run, because after they beat you, they’re going to beat me.” “If you don’t want them messing with you every day,” I replied, “you’ve got to stand up for yourself.” He might have been a wimp, but he was no liar. When school let out, he kept his word and ran. With a crowd of kids screaming around us, the bully and I began fighting. I was small but a good fighter. I pulled the boy down and rubbed his face in the sand. When my brother, Malaaq, who was in the eighth grade, arrived to watch the fight and saw me grinding the boy into the ground, he shouted, “Ilhan! What the hell?” My brother wasn’t actually surprised to see me at the center of a fight, just annoyed. There was always a slew of parents coming to our house to complain that I had hurt their children. My dad would just laugh. “The only child nobody should be coming here to complain about is my smallest baby.” YES, I WAS THE BABY OF A LARGE FAMILY, AND YES, I WAS SMALL. But that had nothing to do with the sticks growing in the bushes by the gate outside our house, which were perfect for beating back any kid who chased me home from school. I had the independent mindset of an only child. I didn’t feel young, in no small part because I was never treated like a child. No one was patronized in my brilliant, loud family. In our Mogadishu compound—filled with African art, books of history and Somali poetry, and music—the disagreements were constant. We were a multigenerational family—aunties, uncles, cousins, and siblings from my maternal side, all living together. We were unlike a traditional hierarchical Somali family, where when the father or mother spoke no one else dared utter a word. Instead, everyone, even the youngest child, me, was brought into every decision. Sometimes I wished Baba, my grandfather, and my aabe, my father, would take on more authoritarian roles. They were annoyingly accommodating to each person’s opinion and patient during the ensuing arguments. Everybody was always screaming about what we should do, even when it came to what we were going to eat for dinner. The constant conflict made us at once close and distant from one another. Despite our differing points of view, we all were accustomed to disputes—we had that in common. There was nothing typical about my family. To this day, I don’t know a family quite like ours. But in Somalia, where members of an extended family living together are almost always patrilineal, we especially stood out, since my aabe had moved in with my mother and her family after they were married. Sons usually assumed responsibility for supporting their parents as they aged. Hooyo, however, wouldn’t agree to marry Aabe unless she could stay with her family. My father didn’t have a full appreciation of what he was getting into when he decided to leave everything he knew by the wayside for love. Although I would perceive different conflicts in him when I grew older, as a child, the greatest one I noticed had to do with his diet. Aabe, who won’t touch seafood, married into a family where fish was the primary source of protein. Furthermore, although he ostensibly fit into my mother’s world, as is often the case, he could never completely forget the ways he was born into. My father, an educator, came from a traditional patriarchal Somali family where the boys, the primary beneficiaries of educational investment, were raised to become the leaders of their future families. Meanwhile, when my grandfather welcomed his firstborn child, my mother, he promised himself that she would be treated the same as, if not better than, any male firstborn. Custom dictated that only the birth of a boy was a moment for pride. But Baba, who had a huge presence, was nevertheless very proud. He was opinionated and sure of himself, but not without reason. He had one of the sharpest memories of anyone I ever met. Well-read, he had the knowledge of so many books at his fingertips. When he wasn’t working at his government job, helping to run the country’s network of lighthouses, he liked to fish and play cards. Baba was also a great cook. He was a purist when it came to the ingredients he used to prepare dishes of his specialty, Italian cuisine. His minestrone was my favorite food. Just as he wouldn’t compromise on the quality of the tomatoes in his soup, Baba didn’t waver in his convictions. He stayed true to his vow to raise his daughter as an equal to his sons. When Hooyo met Aabe, she was in her twenties, which was very rare at the time, since women predominantly married in their late teens. Not only that, but she was also gainfully employed as a secretary for a government minister. I don’t know that my grandfather needed her financial support, but my mother had a sense of duty about living up to the responsibility and unusual privileges she had been afforded by her father. Everyone knew that if you ever needed Baba to sign on to something or calm him down about a dispute, you needed to talk to his daughter. She was my grandfather’s true confidante. I wasn’t surprised by the stories I heard time and again about how while she was alive, whatever Hooyo said, went. That’s because Baba continued to invest a lot of time and energy in the girls of the family (more than he did with the boys, according to my uncles). He was extremely close to us and did not adopt the traditional patriarchal role of the protector that Somali men usually fall into with the opposite sex. He treated us as equals. It’s always hard to say why a person goes against cultural norms. My grandfather’s freethinking partly stemmed, perhaps, from the fact that he didn’t come from one of the country’s formalized clans. The maternal side of my family was Benadiri, a Somali ethnic minority who trace their lineage to Persians, Indians, and Bantu peoples from West Africa and Arab Yemenis. Successful traders credited with helping spread Islam to Somalia, they settled in port cities like the country’s capital Mogadishu, where my grandfather was born and raised. I think Baba embraced the idea that if you don’t fit in anyway, you might as well do what you want. THE ONLY PLACE WHERE I COMPLETELY FIT IN AS A CHILD WAS within the walls of my family’s compound. Otherwise, I wasn’t quite enough of any one thing. Although officially I belonged to my aabe’s clan—one of the most powerful in the country—I wasn’t fully Somali because of who my mother was. Not that anyone, other than our neighbors, really was aware of this, since we weren’t stereotypical Benadiri, known for their light skin and passive natures. Many of my aunties and uncles, as well as my grandfather, had darker skin like me. And no one in our family was remotely passive. As the youngest, I was spoiled, but then again I really wasn’t. Our family of civil servants and teachers was well off enough to have a guarded compound and driver. But I didn’t like the attention I received from the other kids for the in-your-face privilege of our white Toyota Corolla and our driver, Farah—nor the constraints. I hated being driven back home after school and usually tried to walk, which meant trouble for Aabe, since that’s when the fights with other children took place. I also wasn’t enough of a girl, at least in the traditional sense. None of the women in my family were expected to cook and clean—like most Somali women. We certainly had just as many, if not more, opinions than the men in the house. But I also did what boys did outside the house. I played soccer. I climbed trees. I snuck into the movie theater. No other girls I knew did any of that. My tomboy ways only fueled the talk among the neighborhood women about “poor Ilhan,” a girl growing up without a mother. Never mind that I had all the love and attention of a crowd of caring adults, they reasoned, I must have been deprived of a mother’s affection and guidance. There were so many assumptions about who and what I was supposed to be, and none of them fit the description I had of myself. But I wasn’t burdened by the discrepancy. Indeed, I never bothered to answer for it. Instead, I followed Baba’s example. If there wasn’t a world out there to fully embrace me for who I was, I didn’t have to worry about appeasing anyone.

I was eight years old when civil war broke out in Somalia. One day everything was okay, and the next, there were bullets piercing not only buildings but also people.

In the reality of war, sometimes running for shelter somewhere else makes you feel safer—even if it isn’t so. On the way to my great-grandmother’s home, I saw bodies piled up on the street. We stepped over them. The adults didn’t know what was happening, even though I felt they should. Instead, I kept hearing them say the same thing over and over: “I don’t understand how everything just turned.”

~~~~

My background is German on both sides of my family. Reminding me again that when I asked my mother about my background, she immediately pointed out that I was an American. Today, as we are faced with the extreme turn of one political party against the known principles of democracy, we are also in a position wondering how everything just turned... But, when you stop and think about your own life, you will soon realize that in every society, every culture, there are individuals who act as bullies from their early lives and sometimes carry those predatory emotions into their adult lives. Others will choose, as Ilhan might have, coming from an actual democratically run home with sufficient financial support to be able to strive for what each would choose for their lives...

But as in the Prologue, we see that even with a unique family dynamic, this congresswomen chose to work with others to attempt to make life better for all... She was where she needed to be...

Yet, right from the beginning, it was the president himself who set the tone of prejudice against her, so that many have followed in his footsteps on bigotry... Yet she continues to fight!

What Ilhan Omar symbolized when she was attacked — and why it drives Trump crazy

The administration’s policies are about making women compliant again.

https://www.ms.now/opinion/ilhan-omar-assault-trump-american-women-femininity

Rep. Ilhan Omar: Trump is weaponizing fear against me and other immigrants

ICE activity in Minnesota is state-sanctioned racial profiling used as a tool of political intimidation.

https://www.ms.now/opinion/ilhan-omar-trump-slurs-somali-minnesota-ice

Trump not only dismissed Ilhan Omar — he disrespected his own role as president

Abraham Lincoln warned us about this momen

https://www.ms.now/opinion/ilhan-omar-attack-trump-response

Disclaimer

I am sure all of my readers are aware that I do not support, in any way, the republican party. 

For one reason. We all know that the president lies, and the party follows what he says. I really have no choice. As long as I cannot trust anything stated by the republican representatives, I cannot in good conscience use any "alternative facts" from that group.

I have no desire to debate between parties. Politics, in my opinion, is backing 99% of the actions now being made by our government. None of it is legal. None of it is in in support of the majority of the needs of our citizens. None of it is supported by the constitution.

GABixlerReviews

Favorite Author, Lauren Carr, Presents Her Latest - Shadows of the Missing - A Chris Matheson Cold Case Book 5 - A Personal Favorite! With Playlist...

With a heavy sigh, she collapsed into his arms. “What if she pushes one button too many and I end up killing her?” “You can call Elliott and me, and we’ll help you get rid of her body.” She chuckled. “You’d do that for me?” “I vowed for better or for worse.”

Kassie gave a short, humorless laugh. “Always the cop, huh? Even when it’s family.” “Especially when it’s family.” Helen finally met her gaze. “I spent over thirty years wondering why people disappeared on us. I’m not losing you to something stupid like this.”

“How many pitchers of beer did you drink?” Elliott asked with a wicked grin. “Three,” Chris asked. “But Helen and I weren’t driving and—” “But buzzed enough to kill all inhibitions,” Francine giggled. “Let’s just say while this hotel is nice, the walls aren’t that thick,” Elliott said. “I’m in the mood for love,” Doris sang. Helen’s face flushed. “We are married.” Doris held up her hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m glad that you and my son have a sexually happy relationship.” With a sigh, Chris rubbed his flushed face. “Not for the rest of our stay here.”

It's been quite some time since I read a book by Lauren, but I knew that there would be a basic sameness that made me make her one of my favorite authors... First, a dog will always be a member of the family... Indeed, Lauren started out with a family series and has continued the saga down through the years, spotlighting each generation in one way or another... In my mind I might not be able to remember the ancestral lines, but I can still picture the first main character and how he came to be a rich cop! LOL

And, you will always feel like you're in the midst of a family event... Even with the latest, which includes the Geezer book club (the club is a cover for solving mysteries) there is a feeling of kinship, of laughter, of warmth and sharing that also comes along with backgrounds of individuals which makes the pain and hurt even more poignant to read about... If you're looking for a long-time series or a quick read, do check Lauren Carr out, by entering her name in the right column and pulling up book after book that has brought pleasure to thousands if not millions!

“I’ve made absolutely no headway,” Doris told Helen as she took a seat across from her. “But I’m going to crack this case. All the book club has to do is identify her, then we can find out who killed her and stuffed her in a barrel.” A group of retired law enforcement investigators, the Geezer Squad pretended to be a book club—because they were afraid of what their families would do if they knew that instead of reading crime fiction, their parents and grandparents investigated true crime. Their latest case was The Lady in the Barrel. “Mom is obsessed.” Chris refilled his glass of lemonade and joined them at the kitchen table. “Aren’t you going to take a shower?” Doris asked. “You’re sweaty.” “I’ll take a shower before dinner. I just want to rest for a few minutes.” He reached across the table and slid his mother’s copy of the folder containing the details of that month’s cold case. 

“Can you imagine contracting to have your deck rebuilt and finding a dead body encased in a barrel that has been there for decades?” “How do you not notice a fifty-five-gallon barrel under your deck?” Helen picked up the copy of the forensics report of the barrel’s contents. “Do you know what’s under our porch?” Doris asked with a wicked grin. “Our house is a hundred years old. There’s no telling what secrets the Matheson family has hidden inside these walls or under our floors.” “The key is the barrel.” Chris pointed a finger at the picture of the rusty barrel on the report Helen was scanning. “How many people have fifty-five-gallon barrels lying around? It isn’t something you just pick up at the local hardware store. If we contact the company that made the barrel, they may steer us toward the killer.” “That combined with the used motor oil they found inside with the lady,” Helen said, “That’s a lot of used motor oil. We’re talking about a service garage.” “So, the killer has to have some connection to automotive.” Chris picked up the picture of the composite sketch of the Lady. “What details has the forensic pathologist given us to narrow down our search of the missing persons database?” “He believes she was in her late twenties to early thirties,” Doris said. “Female. She had long blond hair. She was a bleached blonde. Five feet four inches tall. Weighed approximately one hundred and fifteen pounds. She had given birth at some point.” The three of them passed around the picture of a young woman with long blond hair. She was a pretty woman. “What was the cause of death?” Helen asked. “I doubt if she crawled into that barrel to die of natural causes.” “The investigators said she died of asphyxiation,” Doris said. “She’d been strangled.” “Strangling someone with your bare hands is up close and personal,” Chris said. “Whoever did this went to a lot of trouble to hide the body. The killer got the barrel, sealed it, and concealed it in a location he knew would remain undiscovered for a considerable period.” “The homeowner had lived in that house for three years,” Doris said. “Law enforcement completely cleared him. Law enforcement has accounted for every woman in his life. Francine researched every homeowner from the time the house was built forty years ago to the present and discovered no potential victims. One of her sources told me that law enforcement has done the same. There’s no missing woman connected to anyone who lived in or had any connection to the crime scene.” “Did they find anything else in the barrel besides the body and dirty motor oil?” Helen asked. “The victim wore white jean shorts and a blue and white striped shirt with shoulder pads,” Doris said, “Now the shoulder pads tell me that this murder must have taken place in the 80s. Shoulder pads were a big thing then.” Chris mentioned the house was built in ‘83. “Forensics determined the clothes were all upscale designer brands,” Doris said. “Even her underwear was expensive. We’re not talking about Rodeo Drive. But we are talking about Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s. The type of woman that people would notice if she had disappeared.” “That points to our victim having an expensive taste in clothes,” Helen said. “I’d say,” Doris said. “Not only was she wearing designer clothes, but jewelry, too. She also had diamond sand dollar earrings. We're looking at a woman with means.” “Someone has to have reported her missing,” Helen said. “We just haven’t found the report yet.” “Did they find any other jewelry?” Chris asked. “Wedding ring?” “Nothing. No purse or wallet or driver’s license giving her name,” Doris replied. “That’d be too easy,” Helen said while giving Sterling a cracker with a slice of cheddar cheese on it. “No hit with her DNA in the national database?” “Or familial DNA.” “You said she had given birth,” Helen cast a glance at Chris sitting next to her. “That means she’s someone’s mother. She’s got family out there looking for her.” “We’ll find her. The Geezer Squad is on the case.” Doris gathered the reports and cleared the table for dinner. 

“How did your helpers do?” The sly grin on her face revealed she knew the answer to her question. Chris let out a sigh filled with exhaustion. He laid his head in his arms on the table. “The highlight was the last hour when Katelyn got a splinter in her finger. While Sierra, Victor, and Buck administered first aid, Nikki and I collected the last two truckloads of hay and hauled them to the barn.” “Three people to remove one splinter?” Helen asked with a laugh. “Katelyn takes after her grandma,” Chris said. “I never needed a splinter to wrap a man around my little finger.” Doris winked at Helen. “All I needed was to turn on my irresistible charm.” “Why didn’t you use your irresistible charm on Elliott to get him to help me bale hay?” Chris asked in a sleepy tone. “He would have, but he had to go help that friend of his down in Georgia. Do you know where you made your mistake?” Doris shook the case file at him. “You should have had a bigger family. When I was growing up on our farm down in southern West Virginia, hay season was a big thing. All our aunts and uncles and cousins would come out. The women would cook all day and make desserts while the men would be out baling and hauling in the hay. Then afterwards, we’d be eating and gathering around the bonfire and shooting off firecrackers.” She continued to recount stories about her childhood in rural Appalachia as she put away her research and prepared dinner. Their voices lowered to a very dull roar in Chris’s ears as he drifted off to sleep. “Who’s that?” His mother’s question crashed through his slumber.

~~~~

Whoa, did you notice that the setting for at least part of this latest case is centered on West Virginia and Morgantown, where I used to live, as part of the search area? Carr is known for her novels being set in this particular area, but tapping into Morgantown was a bit more closer home for me. Made me connect more right from the beginning!

Before we go any further, this book starts out as a specific cold case, but becomes so much more that you will boggle at the complexity of your story line... So be prepared!

Christ Matheson is the ancestral main character; however, his wife, Helen, and her sister really set the stage for the entire book. You see, quite recently his wife's sister, Kassie, contacted her. The two sisters have been estranged in recent years... The girls lost both their parents at early ages. They both disappeared. Helen had been adopted and had a better life than Kassie who had been in several different homes during her childhood. But Kassie had come to realize that she needed to find some place--somebody--to be a part of a family for the rest of her life. She started with finding Helen and asking her to work with her to find out what had happened to her parents... And once that decision was made, of course, the entire Geezer group became part of the search. These individuals, by the way, all have some type of background that provides them a special expertise by which they can help in a formal criminal investigation. And when they started working a case, the pace, I must say, is much faster than any normal police procedural book you will ever read! LOL!

Once a plan has been made, they start the investigation, which almost immediately, led to the discovery of a body. It was not the girls mother, but the body did still wear costly jewelry, which could be identified and allow moving on to the next step in the search. In fact, each action that was discovered, soon resulted in the discovery of more bodies!

Just not the girls parents!

Staring out at the historic downtown buildings and the distant silhouette of Halliehurst Mansion against the forested ridge, Helen nodded. “Or maybe we just got bigger.” Her voice was quiet, laced with the weight of questions they’d carried for decades. They were here to uncover the truth about their parents, and in this quiet Appalachian town—gateway to endless trails yet rooted in its own stubborn history—that truth felt closer, and more daunting, than ever. Kassie turned at a light to take an exit ramp off the freeway leading into Elkins. “You can be the bad cop. You’re good at that.” Shooting a sideways glance at her sister, Helen ignored the dig.

“I used to entertain you kids by singing Dolly Parton songs.” “And play the guitar,” Helen said. “That was me.” Dani did a deep bow at the waist. “I perform most weekends at the local saloons.”

But soon they were traveling back to where the family clan was still living. Helen visited first and was immediately welcomed back with their pet name for her--this would be important as the search gets more tense! But an interesting event they discovered was that their mother had become involved with a group of call girls called the Suzy Qs, but she was known for her helping them with the business management rather than actually being involved... And all the SuzyQs that were still in town praised what their mother had taught them to be able to get out on their own and made a better life...

“Suzi Q was a class operation,” Dani said. “Didn’t any of you feel you were being exploited as sex workers?” Helen asked. “Nobody grows up saying they want to become a sex worker.” Trudy shrugged her shoulders. “In my case, I was being sexually abused by my stepfather. I ran away at sixteen–to Abby’s house. We had been best friends forever. I happened upon what Abby’s mother did for a living. I thought, why not charge for it? At least I could support myself. Your mother tried to talk me out of it.” “My grandmother was a prostitute.” Kassie stared at her uneaten slice of pizza. “My mother was a madam. My father came from a family of thieves.” “Oh, so you know about that,” Dani said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Do you ever regret taking up that line of work?” Helen asked. “I did what I had to do to survive,” Trudy said. “When it was time to turn the page on that chapter, I turned it and never looked back.” She leaned toward them. “Your mother wasn’t proud of what your grandmother did. She tried to get her out of that work. But just when she thought she was making headway, your grandmother would slide right back into it. She made good money, and she needed it to support her bad habits.” “Being level-headed, Abby could see things more clearly than any of us,” Stephanie said. “We all had baggage. Mostly low self-esteem. Abby knew we needed someone with a steady hand to guide and encourage us to look toward a future beyond Suzi Q.” “Use Suzi Q as a stepping stone to something better,” Helen said. 

As with most stories these days, we soon are introduced to the fact that Helen and Kassie had come from the wrong side of town and had been frowned upon by those with money or power--and there is both. I really don't know whether it is on purpose, or whether every rich family acts like many political families or their rich neighbors, but we certainly have them in this book... 

And that leads me to a point I especially wanted to mention about Lauren's books...Readers will be totally involved in "life..." with every facit... One minute the team will be involved in searching for possible cars in a waterway. While Helen, watches her sister dance in shadows as she waitsfor her friend who will be searching for any cars. Helen hides, not wanting to spoil her sister's moments of joy as she waits to have her close friend join them... For me, this helps to blunt the vision of the crimes that had been committed years ago, while, these breaks of wanting to be with a loved one allows us to gain warmth and safety, as we realize we are not alone in any type of tragedy... Carr excels at this type of twist and turn from one type of scene to another!

It was those in the higher class of town who conceived the story that Helen and Kassie's father had run away with a wife of another to go to Hollywood... But as the investigation developed in depth material, there was no evidence of their father being the man who had traveled out of state. Indeed, soon there was evidence that the woman he supposedly went with, was not the one who traveled out of town--in fact, did anybody? Yet the same rumor was repeated over and over and over, as if lies could make something false become true...

In fact, there was only one specific clue about, on the other hand, what had happened to their mother years later... And it was that Kassie, at age 5, had seen her mother get into a van with Pee Wee Herman... with his famous pinstriped suit... Could a child have correctly remembered that image for decades?

The group settled in, voices dropping lower, the office suddenly feeling smaller—and the stakes, somehow, larger. Outside, the dining room carried on with its usual clatter, but here, forty-five years of secrets had just surfaced...

“Can’t you see that those of us living in the present have lives to live? Some shadows are best left alone.” “Would you be saying that if it was your daughter who went missing and Destiny here had to grow up without her mother?”

You may think we are coming to the end of the story...but you'd be wrong...Wonderfully wrong!!! Because this author not only closes out every single issue/murder event, she presents a fantastic scene for each! Some are funny, some are sad, some reveal accountability which is much needed these days... You get the idea, right? Because this author is one of the best to be found for a totally unique type of family drama which happens to include exciting and intense scenes, one of which has to be read to believe, when Sterling acts to save the day! The signaling between Chris and his K-9 was so extraordinary, I'd defy anybody to figure out exactly how it occurred, unless you're a dog master too! LOL

“Always wanted to flatten high society. Feels better than I imagined.”

Helen and Kassie walked down the aisle together, heads high, family—blood and chosen—following to the front. The organ played “Amazing Grace.” Jethro stepped to the pulpit. “Dearly beloved,” he began, voice carrying to the rafters, “we gather to lay Michael and Abigail Hartman to rest—two souls taken too soon but never forgotten. They leave behind children who carried their light through the dark, and a family fractured too long. Today, that fracture mends.” He looked out over Hartmans, Suzi Q ladies, Geezers, and cousins. “Mike and Abby didn’t see this day. But I believe they’re watching. And I believe they’re smiling.”

Grab any book from Lauren Carr

Find justice, accountability, and Family Love and Truth

This one is a Personal Favorite for Me!

GABixlerReviews

Harold Michael Harvey, Ongoing Legal Contributor and Friend Calls for Courage, Endurance, and Faith to Fight Once Again White Supremachists!

 

Elaine Harvey, now 97, as an 18-year-old, rode her bicycle to register to vote.

Before I speak about the Supreme Court’s recent ruling, I must begin where my family’s voting story truly begins with my third grandfather, Joseph Harvey, who registered to vote in 1868 during Reconstruction. He stepped forward in that brief window when America seemed willing to imagine Black citizenship as real and enforceable. But after Reconstruction collapsed, no one in my family voted again until my mother, an 18‑year‑old Black girl in rural Georgia studying history at Fort Valley State College, cast her ballot in the 1948 Presidential election, culminating eighty years of silence, eighty years of fear, and eighty years of democracy denied

The Supreme Court’s recent ruling prohibiting the use of race in drawing congressional districts is not an isolated legal decision. It is part of a much longer American story, one that stretches from Reconstruction to Jim Crow, from the 1965 Voting Rights Act to the present moment. And if you know that story, you recognize the pattern immediately.

Every time Black Americans have gained political power, the system has found new ways to take it back. I know this not just from books or archives. I know it because my own family lived it.

In the late 1940s, my mother was an 18‑year‑old Black girl in rural Georgia who wanted to register to vote. Her father refused to take her to town. Not because he didn’t believe in voting, but because he feared the Klan would burn his house down or slaughter the family if they saw him escorting a young Black woman to the voter registrar in the courthouse.

So, she rode her bicycle, alone, unprotected, determined, and teased by her siblings and cousins who did not yet understand the importance of voting.

When she arrived, the white registrar handed her a copy of the U.S. Constitution and said, “Read this.” He expected her to stumble. She didn’t. She recited it verbatim, without looking down.

“I said read it,” he barked.

She read it with perfect diction. He snatched the book from her hands before she could finish the first paragraph. Then he shoved a sheet of paper toward her and said, “Sign this.” She did, becoming the first member of the family to register to vote since President Hayes removed the federal troops from Georgia.

That was the price of Black citizenship in the American South: humiliation, danger, and the constant threat of violence. And yet she persisted.

Fast forward to 1970. I was an 18‑year‑old student at Tuskegee Institute. Between classes one noonday, my brother and I walked down to the Macon County Courthouse to register. I grew up hearing my mom recount those harrowing moments in the Crawford County, Georgia, Courthouse. I expected a fight. I expected a test. I expected the same hostility my mother faced.

But the registrar handed us an application. Five years had passed since President Lyndon Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act. Five years, and the world had changed.

That fall, I cast my first vote for Johnny Ford, the city’s first Black mayor. That moment was not an accident. It was not a gift. It was the direct result of federal protection, the Voting Rights Act doing exactly what it was designed to do.

Without the 1965 Voting Rights Act, neither my mother nor her progenies would have been able to participate fully in American democracy. We were denied all the rights and privileges of being Americans. For generations, Black voters were packed, cracked, diluted, and erased through district lines drawn with surgical precision. Racial gerrymandering, when used to remedy discrimination, was not a distortion of democracy. It was a correction.

It was the only way to counteract a century of maps designed to ensure Black people could not elect candidates of their choice. The Supreme Court understood this in 1965. It was understood in 1982. It was understood in 1986. It was understood in 2023.

But in 2026, the Court declared that race cannot be used in drawing districts, even when race was the very tool used to deny Black political power in the first place.

At the same time, the Court continues to allow partisan gerrymandering, even though in the South, race and party are deeply intertwined. A map drawn to disadvantage Democrats will almost always disadvantage Black voters. The Court knows this. Everyone knows this. This reality is unlikely to change until the Republican Party changes its public policy initiatives towards Black and Brown people.

The result is a legal paradox with devastating real‑world consequences: You may not use race to remedy discrimination, but you may use the party to entrench it. This is not neutrality. This is not colorblindness. This is a rollback. The kind of rollback that Rev. Dr. Joseph Lowery, then President of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, railed against when President Ronald Regan nominated Judge Robert Bork to the Supreme Court in 1987. Thirty-nine years later, the Supreme Court now has the numbers to turn back the clock and make America the exclusive domain of White men.

The Supreme Court’s ruling does not simply reinterpret the law. It reopens the door to the very practices the Voting Rights Act was designed to eliminate. It rolls back the clock on gains Black Americans have fought for since the end of enslavement.

My mother’s bicycle ride. My walk to the courthouse in 1970. The election of Black mayors, councilmembers, legislators, senators, and representatives across the South. All of it was made possible by federal protections that the Court is now dismantling piece by piece.

We have seen this pattern before: Reconstruction, Redemption, Jim Crow, The Civil Rights Movement, Shelby County v. Holder, and now Louisiana v. Callais.

The arc of voting rights in America is not a straight line. It is a struggle, a push-and-pull between progress and retrenchment.

The Court’s ruling does not erase the courage of those who fought for the vote. It does not erase the memory of my mother standing in that courthouse, or the registrar who tried to break her spirit, so she would not teach children she would later have the importance of voting. It does not erase the pride I felt voting for Tuskegee’s first Black mayor.

But it does remind us that rights won can be rights lost, and that the work of democracy is never finished.

If the Court will not protect the franchise, then the people must. If the law retreats, memory must advance. If the arc bends backward, we must bend forward.

Because the story of Black voting rights in America is not just a legal story. It is a family story. It is a community story. It is a story written in courage, danger, persistence, and hope. It is a story we must continue to tell, especially now.

May the courage of those who came before us, from Joseph Harvey in 1868, to my mother on her bicycle in 1948, to every Black voter who stood in a courthouse line with danger at their back, guide us in this moment. May their steadiness become our strategy, their endurance our inheritance, and their faith in democracy our mandate. The struggle did not begin with us, and it must not end with us. May we walk forward carrying their light.

~~~~

When you wake up each morning and there is only more and more news about the devastation happening in the United States and across the world because of rich power-hungry white men, there can be no different response for me than to wonder - How are they getting away with this madness! How can you have a constitution that has existed for hundreds of years, yet allow, little by little, the corruption of the people who have worked behind the scenes to gain control, using private money of those who want only one thing--to be more powerful, and to do anything they want... 

You know folks, up until 2015, I thought I did anything I wanted... But my needs and desires are minimal... Having a good book to read and a cat or two to provide warmth and comfort was sufficient for it was in accordance with what God has provided for us throughout our lives. Sure it was hard growing up, with only my mother working to provide for 4 children. But we made it through...

And there was always somebody worse off than we were... 

I met Marian Davis when I was in the 7th grade and we became friends right away. She was the first Black individual I got to know personally. That she was Black was never an issue--and it was like that all of my life, up until a man whose father had taught him to hate had run for political office and immediately started lying to people... I had already interacted with a number of white men in power who were more concerned about being "in command" than in my getting my job done... It was a lesson that immediately prepared me to question just how a man such as the obvious racist was actually elected into the president's position!

But nothing could have prepared us for what has occurred since the first day of his second term! Not even the MAGA group who voted him in and are now facing, along with the rest of us, just how much he actually meant when he said he wanted to make our country great again...

You know what I mean...before Black people could vote and/or hold public office... And, soon, I'll predict, the'll be trying to do it to women as well... I was an Affirmative Action female and saw what happened to women at that time... There was also the stirring of resentment from white men when a Black man was hired for a job he had applied for. Key was that they didn't care why the affirmative action, equal pay for equal work, and all the other laws that came into existence which required them to "work to earn promotions" rather than the good ole boy process that was the rule at that time...

The thing is, folks, is that there is more hate than any of us ever imagined. There are many who have no background in any form of religion, but there has been a major change for many who claim they are Christian, while, at the same time, are willing to turn against those who are different in some way. It's wrong and we who learned and listened to the call to Love Our Neighbors and did so, can't imagine why all of this is happening... Especially when they use religion as a reason for their violence and other criminal goals of more and more money than they could ever spend...

In any event, clearly the Supreme Court has also joined the move to control by illegal actions, such as granting immunity for anything and everything done by the president while in office--what nonsense! Just the one thing, the destruction of a historically preserved White House to please one man makes it quite clear that the United States government is out of control...

And voting to stop a political party from destroying our democracy is the only answer... 

I was hoping and watching for Michael to write about what is happening. I've added a number of videos for documentation, such as stopping an election that has already started, claiming it was an emergency...  His wisdom and strength speaks out for all of us... Thank you for sharing your family's history, about the fear of actually taking the advantage to vote... It is certainly understandable, especially seeing how this president has gone after any non-white people here and around the world...

Please remember that we are All God's Children!

Gabby

John Herlihy, Poet and Ongoing Contributor, Shares His Latest! - Complementary Music of Love

 

Ballad of the Oud

by John Herlihy

 

The sad music of the oud flows on the waves of ancient seas,

The notes float through the air on the breath of fresh breeze.

Such sadness is heard in the strings, so many years of sorrow,

An ancient instrument with roots in grief here on earth below.

Through an extensive range and cultural heritage, the oud sings,

Known as king of the instruments and the instrument of kings.

 

Invented by Lamech, a descendant of Adam, so legend claims,

Fashioned from the body of his deceased son and his remains.

The myth of the biblical Lamech directly links the oud to grief,

Grieving his beloved son, the image of the oud provided relief.

The ballad of the melancholy oud both song and mythic story,

That appeals to the heart of the ages with its honorable glory.

 

Rosettes over the sound holes on boards of cedar or spruce,

A rounded pear-shaped body as if resembling a bowl of fruits.

Fruits sublimely did emerge as music to reach expectant ears,

Music that would often reduce the listeners to streams of tears.

A short neck to play notes with more fluid, voice-like motion,

Microtones as in-between notes expressive of musical devotion.

 

The oud played with Sufi poetry as symbol of the soul’s yearning,

Found in courtly love poetry as the instrument of pure longing.

Medieval times witnessed the oud to represent cosmic mystery,

The more enlightened time of the Renaissance sought harmony.

The oud took its shape during the Islamic Golden Age of theory,

Scholars and musicians refined its design to enhance musicality.

 

Each region of the globe produced its own enriching style, tone,

Drawing from the essence of their own culture, light from bone.

The Arabic oud of the desert sands warmer and deeper tonality,

The Turkish oud in the land of the sultans penetrating musicality.

The Persian Barbat, an ancient lute, played with distinctive clarity,

The oud of Andalusian Spain an instrument focused on its tonality.

 

Present-day music incorporates the oud with jazz, flamenco,

Eliciting harmonies from strings by the subtlety of virtuosos.

Listen to this music of the ages as if being lost in its valuation,

As in intricacies of oriental carpets one loses concentration.

Music to echo our ancestral sentiments as peals of thunder,

As Adam’s ancestor sings a simple ballad of magical wonder.

 

As a lover of ancient cultural lore, I take up the oud in hand,

I have never played the oud before, I accept your reprimand.

Still, I have now completed this treasured poem that I wrote,

Who is there to stop me from playing this one exquisite note.

To pluck a single string, as if plucking a flower, with such care,

To listen to and to witness the sacred musicality of its prayer.

- - - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Beautiful in its coverage of historical significance!

Birth of a Poem

by John Herlihy

These poems – well, they just keep on coming,

They come from where, humming – drumming

On the balcony, at the bus stop, or on the bus,

I dictate them on my phone, to us, to us, to us.

Rhythms soon begin to gather, then to mount,

Ideas begin to spill forth I cannot rightly count.

Breath to make us breathless, hard to breathe,

Fresh words filling the page that cannot deceive.

Bright sparks to capture before riding the wind,

That turn into a conflagration unable to rescind.

Fire as smoldering embers burning in the heart,

Left behind ashes, aromatic incense to depart.

Felt not as pain but ache as the poem is born,

The verses, flow, finish, from imagination torn.

Hand-scripted with an ebony ink-tipped feather,

Dandelion seeds in the wind ride thru heather.

- - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Ah John, you were born to be a poet and remain throughout...

Ode to Childhood Innocence

by John Herlihy

Ah, to be as little children, to live as children forever,

To run thru streets lit by sunset, have to go home never.

To wrestle my playmates, being tickled into frantic laughter,

To play together knowing they will be friends forever after.

To take a deep breath as a surge of exultation passes through,

Any more happier than this in life I never knew.

Riding my bicycle through the empty streets for pay,

Delivering newspapers to my neighbors at dawn of day.

All the other children still sleeping in their beds,

Sledding down winter snowdrifts on painted sleds.

Ice skating across a frozen pond under a starlit sky,

Blowing bubbles into the air without knowing how or why.

Whisper to my imaginary friend and never feel alone,

All trappings of my later life pared away to the bone.

To wake up in the morning without worry or care,

With full reliance on my night whispers of bedtime prayer.

At the breakfast table with my oatmeal feeling like a king,

Playing melodies on strings of my heart as my voice did sing..

Expressing all of my childhood emotions without pretense,

Reveling in the magical wonder of sweet childhood innocence.

- - - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Are we not capable of childhood innocence as adults? Thought-Provoking

This Is What It Means

by John Herlihy

This is what it means to be an infant:

The days are as long as a year.

This is what it means to be a child:

They want days to be longer than they are.

This is what it means to be an adolescent:

They want days to be shorter than they are.

This is what it means to be young:

The days are short, but the years are long.

This is what it means to be middle-aged:

The days are long and the years run along.

This is what it means to be old:

The days are long, but the years are short.

This is what it means to be elderly:

The days are short and the end is near.

This is what it means to die:

Minutes or hours gone, a few seconds left.

This is what it means after death:

An ageless journey into the beyond.

- - - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Somehow my memories don't match yours until the very last stanzas...Different lives???

John, thank you for inspiring us once again

to force contemplation, wonder, and awareness

May we find the place where your words lead

For God is speaking through many these days

to HIS people across the world, not just one small group

but to all He has Created...

May we Listen...

Gabby