Letters to Carol - An Extraordinary Memoir-Self Help Presentation - From Blob to Beauty Queen; From High Living to Living on the Street -A Review and Discussion and Featuring Complementary Music Videos!

Dear Carol, Let’s go back a little in time. Your grandmother had died. Madea lived in Watts. By this time, she told neighbors she was moving and not to tell your father she was moving to Scottsdale City. Dane was still traumatized over your grandmother’s death. This is when Madea placed the burden on him to father his own brothers and sisters, which was a huge mistake, because the monster Dane allowed him later to perpetrate familiar child abuse tragedies on his own kids, later in life. Carol, because you are such a nice person, subliminally, you understood the pressures Madea placed on your brother, Dane. You knew more after Dane married Perry. She defended his heavy abuse of his siblings. That is why you wrongfully believed tolerance was love again. Notwithstanding, and on top of the pain you endured at home, at school it was worse. Following tortuous hours of “Girls Punishment” with your neck cracking, your body tired, and after hours of abuse, you had to straighten up to go to school for more abuse. It’s important to state that at eleven-years old, a child is not mature enough to know what compounded abuses can do to the maturation of a growing child’s mind. This is why the child internalizes dangerous emotions that can ruin a child’s emotional maturity, much later, in life. This is another reason why by the time you were in your mid-sixties, your inability to find and or handle housing matters had a lot to do with the interruptions of your now fragile emotional stability, which began a huge pile-up from 1955-2023. In 1966 you were in the Black schools, like Mark Twain and Ralph Bunche, where it was normal to be a dark-skinned child. When Madea moved to Scottsdale City in 1966, your dark skin was not accepted by the white kids in Scottsdale City. 

Carol, by the time you entered Junior High School, you were dealing with the pain of an enlarged heart, Post Traumatic Depression, abuse by your brother, Madea and a sister that hated you. It was the end of three-years of being called, “The Blob.” You were tired mentally. You have now stored over a decade of abuse in your emotional cache. The personalities are tired. We have all waited decades for you to be ready to tell your “real” story. To that end, we are all proud of you. At home, things worsened when Madea called you lazy. Getting up to do household chores was dangerously killing you. One day on the track at Garey High School, where you attended for three years, you ran the track. This occurred late in the afternoon. The football field where the Vikings practiced was empty. On that unusual eve you collapsed. As a child without guidance or love, you took care of yourself. You lay on that track, with horrific pain in your chest. On that ground, you prayed to heaven for your grandmother. You knew at any moment you could die, but this was to you another challenge you had to get through. You lay where one of your personalities showed you how to breathe. There, you clutched your heart, not knowing what a dangerous situation you were in. All you knew was there was a lot of chest pain. You laid on the tarmac of the racetrack until the pain subsided, having no clue that your heart was attacking. Later, at home you performed your household chores, including washing walls in the house on Fowler Avenue. You tired easily, but you washed the walls anyway. You did not have support from family to even tell one soul you had a heart attack. A few weeks later, when the school district ordered a physical, their medical staff wrote Madea a shocking letter. In it they told her you had an enlarged heart. Back then, instead of Madea checking all this out with emergency doctors, she continued to ignore the matter not caring about the outcome. “You have an enlarged heart,” she said to you one day when you were sixteen. Giving you this information, did not include following up. In fact, Madea simply waited for you to die. If you can’t accept this information about Madea, your end-of-life maturity will be heavily compromised, Carol. You are not writing this all down for brownie points, or to impress anyone. This is being said correctly now because this is your life. This is a moment of clarity, which will in turn, save us from being on those cold/hot streets, again. We must get this all out. You must cry. You must embrace this pain with the knowledge you never afforded yourself to engage longer than a fly before. I love you, Carol. I know this is hard for you. If Madea thought so little of you to not take care of your mental or physical health; then why would she care about your having an enlarged heart? I am sorry that you are crying. Cry. You must cry to release these feelings from your wreckage of memories of the past. These are the things about your upbringing you refused to face in the past years. You are facing these issues now. This is the most important information of your life. We hated being on the cold streets not knowing how we got there. This information is being given to you, through me, by God. Moreover, Madea was more vicious towards you than you are willing to talk about Carol. What mother allows her older son to daily punish and molest a child with a life-threatening medical condition? It’s time to purge the pain Carol, please ask God to forgive your demons, Carol. You must see Madea for what she was; instead of what you wanted her to be. Carol, this is a must. When people criticize you…When they say leave it in the past, surge forward. This is your life. You are already being freed, as you tell your story through me. Here is where the truth will not be a stranger. Here is where nothing will hide. All human beings deserve to be heard. Listeners will be educated. History will be informed, while this time potential publishers will know the real you. I want them to know that Carol Denise Mitchell is an honest, amazing, smart, beautiful woman, who is at last owning the rights to her safety. Carol deserves love. Carol is for the first time becoming whole. Carol’s story is one of sheer survival!

~~~

I have read several books by Carol Denise Mitchell but none like her latest. Nor have I read a similar book by any other author.  It is, quite simply, unbelievable and  extraordinary, yet, for many, it may be quite confusing. Carol has chosen to declare this a fiction book; however, in my opinion, this is a disservice to potential readers. Carol is protecting herself legally--for she has self-taught about employment discrimination, civil rights, et.al.--by claiming fiction. I, on the other hand, believe she should be broadcasting the truth of her life and what she is, even now, still dealing with. For, as some of you know, I, too, am also dealing with and trying to write my own story... So, if your early life was full of pain, confusion, hate, abuse, or other negative things that can happen to any one of us... I highly recommend you spend some time reading Letters to Carol..." For believe me, as you finish reading, crying for words shared in this book, you will know you are reading Truth...

And the way she presents her story is through the voice of one of her inner selves, who still remembers what happened, and guides today's Carol through each and every single incident where she was abused in some way... is the extraordinary part. Letters to Carol is Carol writing the book, but as if it were dictated by another individual... That part deep inside Carol where all of those memories that she could not confront ever again, had been pushed so deep that, physically, and of course, mentally, she had chosen to live and move forward.

Until that day, maybe she snapped, maybe her body could no longer handle the pressure and...collapsed. Some of you may recall this is what happened to me when the first thing that happened was that I could not stop crying... Only by reading books was I able to escape... One of those books was Whatever Happened to Suzy? Reading this story by Carol was the first of many of those who share childhood pain through their writing...

For me, I found parts of me inside her memoir story... Other readers might also find parts of you, or others in your life. What do I mean? Well, think about how you might represent yourself at your job, as opposed to how you are with a close friend, or better yet, in a crowd. I know that I "put on a face" not literally but figuratively, in each of those scenarios. On the job, I put on my face of a professional, dedicated to doing my job from the first step into my office. I rarely stop for breaks, rather sipping tea while I continue to work. And, most of the time, expecting much the same from others... Get the idea? Most of us have ways to act in different life situations. While Carol calls these different personalities, diagnosing herself, "One day, inside my bedroom closet, I developed dissociative identity disorder, better known as Multiple Personality Disorder. I began hugging myself, promising to develop protective mechanisms to help me deal with daily trauma.  

Now I knew exactly what she meant. In fact, I have used one of the oldest affirmative statements known from the time of Socrates, as my guiding mantra, as I've gone through specific time periods, or traumatic experiences with an inner eye that watched, and remembered... In fact, Carol begins with a first statement of her learned life realization : “No two lives are the same, such is the spice of life!” --CD Mitchell

Also at the beginning of her book, she includes a note that I might have written, from my perspective, if I were to write a book with a dedication: I dedicate this book to anyone that loves the power of God. Many individuals have relied on the love within to get along in life. You are special, you are somebody. We all need to discover the sanctuary within our souls to rest, to be good to others, and more importantly, be good to ourselves. Your health is your wealth, your success is imminent!

Now in my life, I was early involved with the church and quickly learned about the Holy Trinity: God, The Son and the Holy Spirit. I honed in on God as Father since my early father was killed in a mine accident while my mother was carrying me. It was easy to see that I still had a Heavenly Father, who made it clear to me to remember:

All I had to do is know that I know that I know that if I am still then God is there with me... 

He is the Great I Am!

```

Before I go any further with the book content itself, I want to use a present day illustration of what happened to Carol... Have you noticed that many Far Right political people will repeat over and over and repeat again and again, things that we KNOW are lies. Yet some of us have learned from the study of psychology and other communication processes, that, for many people, if you hear the same thing over and over and over, you will possibly come to actually believe and accept it as truth, even though you can do the research and discover that it is a lie--but you're still not totally convinced because you've heard it pounded into your mind day after day after day?!

At a time when we are seeing more and more hateful actions due to , politics, social media and television, etc., it is still hard to realize just how cruel one individual can be to another. 

Carol was a smart little girl, but coming from a large, poor family she was overweight. (I know the feeling, but my story was a small not hidden memory)  compared to what happened to Carol which had been pushed down deep, forgotten, but still an unresolved abuse.  We don't know how much she weighed... What we learn is that her teacher gave her the nickname, Blob! And, of course all the kids also called her by that name!!!

Carol had hoped to escape the significant mental and physical abuse that she was given at home. Her mother also belittled her, used hateful words when addressing her...and, possibly, stood by while her brother raped her. We do know her brother raped her, we don't know definitely whether her mother knew about it. The key point that the home environment was full of children and Madea instructed her son to be like their father (a little short of 20 children by her mother) and, given that her mother ridiculed Carol, all of the other children did as well...

During this time period, Carol fortunately found one counselor who worked with her for three years. While her self-esteem was raised, still there was so much happening, that the good never quite overrode the bad that was happening.

For instance, Carol was able to lose weight and became interested in entering a beauty contest. She won Miss Congeniality! Note that I found this a quite affirming thing. Even though she was the only black girl in the contest, it was Carol's personal interactions with everyone which brought about her selection. Take note of the praise that was made in the book when she realized that even with the things in her past, she was still bringing light and good wishes to others...

Too bad she lost her trophy. She had placed it in a paperbag... But, when Carol graduated from school, her mother kicked her out with the few clothes she had and a paperbag that was soon lost in the shuffle of accepting that the only thing she had to sell was her body and she began to prostitute herself. After all, she wasn't a virgin, right?

See My Review!

But one thing that her counselor had pointed out to her and that she realized herself was that she was a good writer! She wrote her first book, What Happened to Suzy and a new anniversary edition is out now!

She studied hard and became involved in helping individuals with job discrimination, writing another book about what employers don't want us to know! She became well known because of this nonfiction book which was used by employers and employees alike.

It happened to me not long after my official leaving of a long-term career at West Virginia University, when I discovered that I was no longer able to keep my mouth shut, even in sensitive meetings... For Carol, you'll find it was a cumulative experience, much longer than I had...It was years passing as Carol got married, more than once, had children, more than one and had many different jobs beside a significant career as a published writer.

What we do know that is at some point, Carol was homeless and even at that time, none of her family would respond to her need. About that time, I'm sure she began to think, "I don't need you; I don't need anybody!" But that's a lonely existence and scary especially when you are homeless...

When that last straw was broken. Carol had begun to go to counseling and almost immediately, the man who she had gone to for help, promptly took her to a motel and forced sex as part of her treatment... Yeah, right! Carol knew all about that, but, when it happens with a professional to whom you sought help, it creates a response so deep that one can begin to feel that nothing and nobody would ever be trustworthy enough to help me!

While the style of writing is indeed like creating a letter to another person, you will find quite a bit of repetition. Some may see this as what some people do...routinely repeat over and over what they've talked about in the past. This is not that type of repetition. Consider, if you would instead, that one of Carol's grade school abuses was being called "blob" over and over, primarily by white children... As mentioned above, if you are told something day by day, even though it hurts you greatly (or even if it is lies that are not true), there is a tendency for us to believe it "must" be true since it has been said over and over... Breaking the tight bond of abusive language is extremely difficult and you will see that Carol, in trying to move forward without facing her early reality, created a period of so much confusion that it is hard to even consider what exactly is the truth by which you are living.

Fortunately, I would guess from her grandmother who had named her, Carol found a relationship with her Heavenly Father. And, as I read each of the individual letters, I felt that I was reading a God Incident--a book given to Carol Denise by The Holy Spirit. I believe that God through His Son loves all children and grieved for the little girl who was never called by her real name--a child of His... Carol mentions in several videos that she sometimes doesn't know what she is typing--such as the time she needed to share with others about her attempt at suicide. For it is the Holy Spirit that often brings up to us exactly what we need to hear, think about, and possibly act upon. Or perhaps it is both! My above concept of putting on "faces" for different events or people... and a very real awareness that The Holy Spirit has often been using my fingers to write when I allow myself to open to God's Words.

God Bless you Carol

and all the other children hurt by somebody who should be doing just the opposite. I've come to know and love you through this latest book in particular. Thank you for writing it... Many will find themselves in these pages and...find...hope!

Gabbie

 

The Rat Pack Investigated in CNN's Jake Tapper Political Fun Farce...The Devil May Dance 2nd Book With Charlie and Margaret Marder

 

Ahead, the members of the Rat Pack and their hangers-on were oblivious to the Marders’ concerns; they were soaked in bourbon, singing, laughing, and loudly gossiping about ghosts as they stumbled around the graveyard. Charlie and Margaret could make out pieces of their conversations. 

There goes Wallace Beery. He won an Oscar too, Frank! Remember he and a couple mobsters beat that guy to death at the Troc? 

Suzan Ball. Lucille’s cousin. Twenty-one? Cancer. Bit parts. Aladdin and His Lamp. 

Here’s the Garden of Memory. Some reverence, folks, Bogie is over there. Bogart, Sinatra’s hero, was credited with coining the term Rat Pack to describe an altogether different group of friends, but both the term and Bogie’s beloved Lauren Bacall had been posthumously co-opted by his protégé Sinatra. 

Charlie and Margaret headed back, and the snatches of conversation soon grew too distant for them to hear. They made their way over the hills on narrow paved roads to the parking lot. The others held their breath. Above them hung a half-moon, about which Sinatra started to sing: Something, something, man in the moon something, something, baboon, something, something swoon… Everyone exhaled; the wind had blown his dark mood away with the clouds.

 Lawford led the pack in a charge up the hill as Martin sang a song mocking the very young girlfriend of Sinatra’s rival Elvis Presley. “Are you lonesome tonight?” he crooned. “Are you horny tonight? Have you reached puberty yet, my dear girl?” Sinatra cackled. He’d hosted the television special Welcome Home, Elvis, after Presley’s discharge from the army, but Sinatra made no secret of the fact that he found most rock and roll deplorable; he thought the music was written and performed by cretinous goons, and Presley was the gooniest of them all. 

Charlie and Margaret walked slowly, bringing up the rear. Margaret sighed, seeming annoyed. “Stop pretending that this isn’t a little cool,” Charlie said, indicating the scene—they were hanging with icons of the zeitgeist, boozing in a celebrity graveyard in the middle of the night. 

“Ring-a-ding-ding,” said Margaret dryly. The crack of a gunshot echoed across the grass. It took Charlie and Margaret a moment to make out what was going on: Davis was firing Fat Tony’s gun at a grave. Or, more precisely, at the sculpted angel on top of a crypt. “What th—” said Margaret, poking Charlie in the ribs. 

“I think ‘Who the’ is more like it,” Lawford said to Margaret. “Doyle, the guy buried there, was a producer who screwed Sammy back when he was touring the country on the Chitlin’ Circuit with his dad and uncle.” Charlie looked at the crypt. He didn’t recognize the name. Davis yelled, “Son of a bitch!” as he fired off another round. The angel’s head exploded. “There ya go, Smoky!” Martin cheered. He ashed his cigarette on a freshly dug grave, then took a swig from a paper cup. “I’m not done yet,” Davis said, pulling the trigger once more. The blast hit the cherub in the crotch, shattering the statue. One of the pieces of concrete clipped Charlie. 

“Oof,” he said, grabbing his shoulder. 

“Honey!” Margaret cried. “I’m fine,” he said, rubbing the bruise. “Oh, man,” Davis said. “I am so, so sorry.” Davis was soused but clearly concerned. He made his way precariously toward Charlie, wobbly and contrite. The singer was a wee man, not even five foot five, all bone and sinew, maybe ninety pounds dressed for winter. 

“It’s nothing,” Charlie said.

Earlier, Margaret, the ever-prepared former Girl Scout, had stashed the small first-aid kit she brought with her on all family excursions in the trunk of their rented white 1962 Impala convertible. 

“We’re missing all the fun,” Charlie said as a gunshot followed by the pop of an exploding light bulb cracked in the distance. “I’m really fine, honey.” 

“Sure sounds like fun,” Margaret said as she held out her hand for the keys. Charlie reluctantly produced them. She inserted the key and opened the trunk while Charlie looked to the hills, where the echoes of crooning and guffaws sounded almost like local wildlife.  

“Yumpin’ Yiminy, now it’s a clambake!” yelled Sinatra. “More booze!” Another bottle materialized as the pack continued its run through the cemetery, minus Giancana and Fat Tony, who’d turned to walk back to their car. 

Charlie and Margaret stayed in place, leaning on a thick, slightly cracked tombstone. “Irish exit,” Charlie said, motioning toward the departing mobsters.

Then Margaret screamed. From the gauzy illumination of a distant streetlamp, Charlie saw the shape in the trunk, a big shape. It was a body. Charlie stepped closer. He recognized the face, as did Margaret, who turned away. He looked with horror at the woman that they’d last seen days before and that he’d seen quite a bit of in the past few weeks. Her eyes were two bloody caverns; they must have been shot out. There was some brain and bone residue in the trunk but not enough to suggest she had been shot there. Her mouth was agape, her jaw helplessly, horrifically slack. Charlie and Margaret stood frozen until the sudden arrival of the Rat Pack, who apparently had raced over in response to Margaret’s shriek. 

Sinatra looked into the trunk. “Charlie,” he said. “Just what the hell have you done?”

In the past few years Margaret was often reminded of the army’s slogan that “every man has his breaking point.” She was constantly looking for ways to prevent Charlie from reaching his. Whatever the doctors were labeling it, combat exhaustion or combat neurosis or battle fatigue, Margaret knew it would be with him forever. Beyond that, his life in Congress, where he’d been for almost a decade now, was infinitely frustrating—accomplishing anything good required Sisyphean efforts, while ethical compromises were everywhere. And at some point along the way, Charlie found that the constant fundraising and glad-handing to stay in office for his New York constituents had begun to eclipse the work itself...

After the heavy and complex first book, Tapper took a lighter theme to close out the political life of Charlie and Margaret Marder. I call it a farce, even though some of it might be true. A decade had passed and Margaret was constantly watching how Charlie was dealing with the pressure, and, even though Charlie was trying to hide it from her, his increasing need to use alcohol to keep him going.

So when another favor was requested, which involved the simple task of being a consultant on an upcoming movie, both seemed to think it was a good way to fill up time between sessions and maybe do a little vacationing... The Movie was called "The Manchurian Candidate" and Sinatra was to play the lead...

The  Favor: The Kennedy  Family wanted to know just how close and involved Sinatra was to the Mob! And  would his involvement with the presidential candidate be a burden or a good thing...

So Charlie and Margaret were often at the set while the film was being made, with Charlie giving his feedback related to what happens in particular political-related scenes...

And for the rest of the time, Charlie was spending lots of time enjoying the partying that always seemed to be going on... Even when he was at a party, without Margaret, he enjoyed himself, except he was soon placed into another situation when one of the beauties that always was around wound up in the hot tub with Charlie...and a picture was snapped! Fear of its going public was bad enough, but when the girl was found in Charlie's car trunk, he was once again afraid--afraid he was guilty of murder and would spend the rest of the days in prison for a crime he didn't remember, but could have(?) done... Finally, drinking so much, Margaret got involved and Charlie shared it all!

In the meantime, Frank was making changes to his home, doing everything possible to ensure Jack Kennedy's comfort and all that he could possibly need when visiting with his friend, Frank...

[Talking with Robert] Charlie had to smile at the excess. “You don’t want the president to stay there?” Throughout the 1960 election, Sinatra and the Rat Pack had gone all in for Kennedy, and the campaign had been only too happy to capitalize on the fame, the glamour, the money. Sinatra had even rerecorded his Oscar-winning song “High Hopes,” written by Sinatra songmeister Jimmy Van Heusen, with new lyrics: Everyone is voting for Jack ’Cause he’s got what all the rest lack Everyone wants to back—Jack Jack is on the right track! 

As if reading Charlie’s mind, Kennedy shrugged. “When I started at Justice, an agent asked me how he could be expected to go after Mob bosses when my brother’s most famous supporter is paisans with a bunch of them. I took his point. Unfortunately, the FBI doesn’t have any evidence supporting the rumors that Frank is mobbed up, but now he shows up in this wiretap.”

In fact, the majority of the book is in casual settings with various members of the Rat Pack, partying... So, here's some of the music at those times...

“Our crew’s in the back,” Lawford said, pointing. Live jazz played in one of the rooms; the Daisy had so many, it was hard to keep track. Charlie recognized the tune: “Pfrancing,” from Someday My Prince Will Come. He polished off his bourbon in one gulp and began to lose himself in the tempo and the strutting trumpet solo, which sounded to him like a man crying. “It’s like Miles Davis himself is here,” Margaret said. She was trying to keep cool, but she had her hand on his arm, and he could tell she was a bit thrilled. They followed Lawford through the crowd of stars, ogling in every direction...

“Congressman, this one is a keeper,” Sinatra said, pointing at Margaret. “C’mon! Let’s get some swinging music going in here!” He raised his glass and held it up to Margaret. From the speakers came a rapid race of trumpets and trombones, soon interrupted by Sinatra’s voice singing an old Mexican song from the 1930s that he’d covered in May and released on Swing Along with Me in June. Granada, I’m falling under your spell And if you could speak, what a fascinating tale you would tell…

“Sure looks like him from here,” Charlie said. He pushed his chair back from their tiny square table (dinner and two-drink minimum, $5.95 per person, not a room for people without some means). “I’m going to go over there and check it out.” “You sure that’s a good idea?” Margaret asked. “No, but I suspect a middle-aged white guy will blend better at this stag party than either of you.” “Point, Charlie,” said Street. “What is this thing called love?” Sinatra sang. Onstage, he and Martin slouched on stools, drinks in hand. “Frank, if you don’t know, then we’re all in trouble,” Martin quipped. Then, in a singsongy voice: “Did you ever see a Jew-jitsu?” “I did,” Sinatra responded, raising his hand. Davis, who had considered himself a Jew since the 1950s and had formally converted earlier this year, ran onto the stage in mock offense. “Be fair!” Davis barked at Martin as Sinatra pretended to hold him back.

Charlie’s heart sank as he again imagined his once indomitable father alone and hopeless. “We need to get something to the AG about—” He gestured toward Sinatra, who was in the midst of the intro to “Luck Be a Lady.” “They won’t even let Charlie talk tohim on the phone,” Margaret said. “They really seem to relish being bastards, the Kennedys,” Charlie said. “The good news is, the prison doctors told me they don’t think it was a heart attack after all.” “If it wasn’t a heart attack, then what was it?” Street asked. “I don’t know; they don’t know,” Charlie said. “Nothing life-threatening, they don’t think. They also ruled out a stroke. But he isn’t talking.” They all sat sadly at the table. “Why is he at the Tombs anyway—isn’t that a city jail?” Street asked. “Feds have a wing,” Charlie said. “And the AG gets a lot of leeway.”

By the Way, there is no song, "The Devil May Dance"--it was a title created by the author...

Charlie and Margaret, ten years from the first possible death sentence for Charlie are also worried about his father who was arrested and Charlie has not been able to visit. Stress grows and it was time to take the offense and find out exactly what was going on! Politics always seems to be...messy...doesn't it? Me, I enjoyed the music more than anything. I found, even though they were all friends, I was offended by the racial slurs constantly in their comedy... But then, I'm not much for comedy at the expense of...anybody... Guess my empathy gets in the way...

I enjoyed this much more than the first book, simply because of the setting. Sure the mob was there in many scenes, but it didn't necessarily seem like they were involved politically, even though that was the purpose of Charlie and Margaret's involvement. Have to admit that I was more impressed with Margaret as a character. She was a strong woman who still loved her husband, even though he was not doing well in dealing with the politics of, seemingly, every part of their life... But the ending was satisfactory, if not thrilling or spectacular... From a historical perspective, it was indeed a trip back into the 50s, with The Rat Pack leading in bringing music into so much of the book! It's worth my recommendation for you to check it out!

In the meantime, I'd like to share a little bit of the words directly from the author, Jack Tapper, about today's political division...

A personal note: 

I know many of you don't have the time I have to follow what is happening, by watching multiple sites for news information. At the same time, I must point out that it is only through Americans themselves that we can...and hopefully will...maintain our democracy. Right now, I have decided to go to the polls on May 17th, the day before I go in for hip surgery, BECAUSE I DON'T TRUST WHAT THE REPUBLICANS HAVE DONE AND MAY DO TO PREVENT MAIL BALLOTS FROM BEING CORRECTLY COUNTED.  

We all saw Trump's Big Lie that the presidential election was not real...that it was a big lie! And republicans are doing everything to change or manipulate voting activities to try to again force questions regarding who wins in the primaries! YOU must help ensure that our democracy--the privilege to vote, is not made into a farce once again... lies controlled by the republican party that is infecting our nation... 

Book Readers Heaven will do all that it can to share the truth. I care little about politics, as my comments on Tapper's two books have shown. I do care about the rights of ALL PEOPLE TO BE EQUAL... 

Will you help me? SEARCH OUT THE TRUTH ABOUT YOUR CANDIDATES...

SEARCH OUT THE TRUTH ABOUT WHAT IS BEING TAUGHT IN SCHOOLS...DO NOT LISTEN TO REPUBLICAN CANDIDATES THAT ARE LYING TO INCITE AGAINST MISINFORMATION AND/OR making OUTRIGHT LIES!

REMEMBER IF REPUBLICANS SUCCEED IN BANNING ALL THE BOOKS THAT THEY WANT TO, THEN RECOGNIZE THAT ONLY WHITE MALE REPUBLICANS WILL BE TOTALLY HAPPY... and Free...

That is not what Democracy is or was in America... Please do everything you can to learn who speaks truth and responds to our constitutional rights in all ways...