Disaster Status

From an early age, we’re taught to blame others for our problems. I think it starts with innocent embarrassment but somewhere along the way it transforms into active ignorance.  

And it’s a serious issue. One that is destroying the way we live. And where we live.

So I’m just going to lay it out for you.

We have completely fucked our environment. It’s on us. All of it.

The record-breaking hurricanes, destructive wildfires and deadly earthquakes. The hotter-than-hot summers, the draughts, the extinction of species.

We did it. It’s not Mother Nature retaliating for the election of Trump, as funny as that might seem. It’s not her being revengeful. It’s nothing more than human-caused climate change.

The scientists, the ones we trust to tell us everything, are in consensus on that.

And just because our political leaders would rather argue like children about whether science is real than take action doesn’t mean we can sit idly by and watch our world get destroyed.  

The sooner we do something, the sooner we can try to change the course of the future.

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What did we think was going to happen when we introduced fossil fuels? Started cutting down trees for high-rises? Mass producing new items as opposed to recycling old ones?

We have drastically altered this earth. Of course, that would have consequence.

Every action does.

And by making this a political problem instead of a human one, we’re begging for these natural disasters to keep happening.

The earth doesn’t choose who inhabits it. It’s home to democrats and republicans, blacks and whites, climate change activists and climate change nay-sayers. It does not discriminate.

So why not protect it? It might just be the only unifying thing we have left.

But honestly, the thing that bothers me most is that it takes almost nothing from us to save our home and conserve it for future generations.

Hell, to conserve it for today’s generations.

Because mother nature isn’t messing around. She’s angry all right. And we’re the ones that pissed her off.

What are you going to do about it?

Mirror, Mirror

We all have those moments that make us say, “Damn, does everyone else know I’m a genius?” And then there are those that make us say, “Good god, I’m lucky to have made it this far in life.”

Let me tell you about my biggest oh-shit-I’m-an-idiot moment.

It involves the most expensive thing I’ve ever purchased and my inherent distrust of cars parked in front of my house.

If you all remember, I had to buy a new car after graduation because there was just no way to continue the rad Willsey carpool. So shortly after I officially became an adult with that nifty piece of paper Mizzou hands out, I did the most adult thing I could’ve done: moved home and got a car loan.

Proud.

I am not in the habit of treating my things like things, so naturally I named my new SUV and treated it exceptionally well. 

I hand washed it often. I parked it inside every night. I never ate a greasy drive-thru burger in it, even when I was severely hungover. We’re talking true love.  

Then one day I took myself out of my stereotypical millennial situation of living with ma and pa and moved into a house with what one would call a normal garage situation.

[Let’s just put it in perspective of what I came from: I was used to parking Big Booty Judy in a garage that my dad can fit his F-350, crew cab, long-bed truck inside. It’s real roomy.]

At this point, I’d had my car about 13 months. It had just lost its new car smell. It was a little babe. I had lived in my new house for about a week and felt like I’d become a pro at entering and exiting the garage made for Barbie cars.

So on the fateful day, I took to leaving the house as nothing more than reversing and going. But wait one single second. Who said the lawn people could park in front of our house? And who was that man with the weed eater coming up our driveway?

And that fairly simple, explainable situation is what murdered my passenger-side mirror.

Have you ever been witness to a “car crash”? It’s equal parts sad and scary. An overall traumatic experience. And truthfully, I’m quite proud of myself for hitting the brake and not the gas pedal in my distress. Small victories.

As any adult living on her own, driving her adult purchase would do, I called my mom in tears. If you ask her, I was overreacting… she thought I had hurt myself on a mirror.

Well, basically mom.

Do you know what one mineral gray Ford Edge mirror costs? $463. 

Do you know what you pay when you expertly hit your mirror and you only need one part and your dad is really handy with super glue?  $73

Karma is real, people.

In the time it took for that one part to come in, I truly learned the importance of side mirrors. Try merging onto the highway without using your mirror — I dare you. It’s a damn guessing game… but admittedly somewhat thrilling.

I took it upon myself to tell everyone I’ve ever talked to the dangers of parking inside a garage (it might seem worth it but really weigh out your options). I also decided to measure my garage width and compare it to my car — mirror to mirror — just so everyone would know exactly what I’m up against. I have three inches on either side to shoot my much-too-large-for-me SUV into the normal-sized garage.

I’ve been living at the scene of the accident for nearly two years now. Every time I leave and come home it’s a game of “will she or won’t she.”

We’re moving soon, into a house for life (as in we bought it, have a mortgage, pay interest, all that jazz). When we decided to make an offer, the first thing I did was measure the garage doors. I’ve lost three inches. THREE CRITICAL INCHES. I'll have a whopping 1.5 inches of breathing room on either side.

Moving day is May 11. I’ll keep you posted.

Why Are Women So Offended by the Women’s March?

Let’s just get this out there first: I am an independent thinker. I don’t align with either party but fall somewhere in the middle. I’ll lean left for some issues and right for others. But like most people, I think my views are fairly logical.

Scientific studies are factual. Marriage is marriage. Women are equal.

Record scratch. Freeze frame.

Women aren’t equal.

As women, we are treated better than we used to be. We are no longer expected to be homemakers, to have husbands, to be silent partners. And we aren’t expected to be baby-making, dinner-cooking, laundry-folding machines.

But at one point we were. And that’s where this issue starts.

I can’t argue against the fact we’ve come a long way in the past 100 years. Even the past 20 years. We have strong, free-thinking women to thank for that. They challenged what they were being told by perceivably stronger, conformity-thinking men.

How scary for them.

They did the highly unpopular thing and had a voice. They fought. They marched. They signed petitions. They sneakily built a platform to stand on. 

So women have it good enough, they say.

Well I say we don’t.

It’s 2017 and women, who make up approximately 50 percent of the population, are lesser than because 80.7 percent of the House seats are sat in by men. These men are making decisions for our bodies. Bodies they’ve never lived in — therefore, they don’t know how hard it is to keep healthy and safe and childless.

That’s just one reason women PEACEFULLY marched on Jan. 21. We are scared. Just like Elizabeth Stanton, Maud Wood Park, Eleanor Roosevelt and Rosa Parks all were. And we want our voices to be heard. We need them to be.

The women who organized these marches and marched in them should be celebrated for taking action when they are worried about their rights. What do you do when you’re frightened? I know I would prefer to stay in bed, read, watch TV or snuggle my dog. But no, we marched. We left our homes to put our bodies on the front lines to show just how passionate we are.

And we didn’t just march for the quintessential woman.  

We marched for all women and all issues at stake: including women in other countries, women who are told they can’t because they’ve aged, women who are catcalled because they have breasts, women who don’t want another kid but can’t afford birth control, women who love another woman and are worried they won’t ever get to marry, the woman who gives us life each day: Mother Earth.

We marched for collective human rights.

We did not discriminate in our march. We’re asking you not to discriminate against us.

So I’m sure some of you skeptics are wondering: Where do we draw the line between sexism and feminism?

Yes, I like a man to open my car door. That’s a tradition backed by love and respect, not a lesser-than mentality.

Yes, I prefer vacuuming to mowing the lawn. That’s not me buying into gender roles. After having done both, my partner and I decided to split chores in this way. It suits us.

Yes, I cook dinner. I love to cook and bake and eat. I also happen to cook for a man. Mostly because he resides in the house and it’s convenient.

So the answer to your question is, we draw the line wherever we damn well please.

Because it should be our CHOICE.

That’s what this is really about it. Choice.

Make abortions legal so women can choose if that’s something that works for them and their partner and their life (yes, because sometimes it really is life or death).

Make pay equal so a woman can choose which job she’d rather have — if she even wants one at all.

Make it so the woman who chooses to advance her career instead of add to her family isn’t judged while her husband is applauded.

Make it so the female who chooses not to march isn’t fighting against the women fighting for her.

I truly don’t understand why women are so offended by other women trying to make the world better for the gender. No one is forcing you to get up and march on a Saturday. Or use your phone minutes to call senators. Or take 3 seconds to sign a petition.

It’s your choice not to. As it is ours to.

Why is it so hard for women to support women?

I support that there are women who don’t want to join the efforts. What I don’t understand is the women who are attacking the efforts and saying there’s no reason to protest.

Below are a few reasons I’ve heard FROM WOMEN as to why the women’s march wasn’t necessary.

Reason 1: That it was teaching our daughters to throw temper tantrums to get their way.

Actually, it was showing her that when something makes her uncomfortable, she can stand up and fight for what’s right. She can take action. We’re showing her it’s OK to be in charge of her own body. That she has a powerful voice that will be heard.

Reason 2: That U.S. women have no right to be upset because we have it better than other countries.

You’re telling me you truly think that’s a logical reason to sit back and be complacent? That it could be worse, so we should be happy we have what we have. I don’t think so. Plus, we weren’t just marching for U.S. women. We were marching for all women everywhere, who yes, have fewer rights than we do. But guess who marched in solidarity anyway? They did. Because change is change. Women are women. And they, too, will be influenced by who’s in office in the United States. They already have. Have you heard of the Mexico City Policy?

Reason 3: You’re pro-life so you didn’t march.

First of all, everyone is pro-life. Technically speaking, you’re just anti-choice. If abortions are legalized, no one will force you to get one. You’ll still have your right to abstain from it. We trust that you’re intelligent enough to be a parent, so trust that we’re smart enough to evaluate our circumstances and decide when we’d like to become one.

Reason 4: You don’t feel unequal.

Lucky you. You’ve never been catcalled while running? Never been made to feel uncomfortable by a powerful coworker? You weren’t hired just because you’re pretty and the men in your office needed eye candy? Your salary is exactly the same as the male with your same title? You have access to mammograms, birth control, pap smears? Seriously, that is great! I wish all women could say that but until that’s the case, we march.

Reason 5: That women were put on this planet to do what men can’t.  

So females are the filler sex? The one that makes up for the almighty male? I guess by way of that thinking, if you’re a straight woman, you can “benefit” from this and have a perfectly evened out household. But what about women who love women? The ones who get none of the male “perks.” What about them? Is it human to say it doesn’t matter?

My point is that human is human and human rights involve all humans being treated equally.

Put simply, it’s about choice.

Choice /CHois/ noun:  an act of selecting or making a decision when faced with two or more possibilities.

But women aren’t faced with possibility, we aren’t faced with decisions and we definitely don’t get to choose.

Choice is a funny thing. It makes women feel strong, but when women have it, I guess it makes men feel weak.

What I wasn’t expecting was this from women as well.  

Ride Captain Ride

It shouldn’t be news to anyone that tragedy hit some of our city’s finest a little more than 5 months ago. It’s especially not news to my family, who knew about it long before it was broadcasted. It’s not news that it greatly affected the KCFD brotherhood. That it affected the city — really, the country. It’s not news that my family, and so many others, has never cried so much together. That it brought my mom, my sisters and me back down to the realities that firefighting is much more than a job.

Because how many of us can say we’d give our lives for something that was.

Firefighting is a lifestyle. John and Larry knew that better than most.

I couldn’t write this blog post without first mentioning that.

My dad started the Kansas City Fire Academy on March 25, 1991, so my sisters and I don’t know a life without firefighting.  

My mom actually snuck out of the hospital after having THREE babies at the same time to attend my dad’s KCFD graduation ceremony. Hospital bracelet and all. What a rebelliously supportive woman.

My brother was 2 at the time, so he made it to the graduation as well (pretty positive he and my mom carpooled), and that's why he’s my dad’s favorite kid.

Kidding. Probably.

Anyway, here’s the cutest little pic from that day. Actually, the cutest pic of all time. Good god. This was probably taken after Wade resolved his being afraid of the fire trucks and right before he decided he wanted to be a firefighter.

… or so goes the account of that day. As you can remember, we were days old and left in the hospital unattended. Basically forgotten while my family celebrated. I’m actually quite surprised my mom even came back for us.

Anyway, this isn’t about that.  

I frequently get asked if it’s scary to have my dad (and now my brother too) fight fire, and that’s the thing with growing up around it. It’s normal, it’s typical, it’s every third day. You have to look at it like a job, no matter how hard that is to do.

Of course, it’s like the coolest damn job on the face of the earth — although, mom, dad would admit that raising four babies was much, much harder. (Also, let’s go back to the fact you didn’t run when you could’ve. Thank you.)

My mama, the giver that she is, knew how much we liked to visit my dad at Station 17s (where he spent 12 years driving Truck 2), or she viewed it as a free form of babysitting. Either way, she would take us to see him on his shift.

Let me tell you, those guys were the best “babysitters” we ever had.

Not Ashley, Lindsey, Courtney, Sophia, Tiffany or Katie (is that a lot of babysitters? that sounds like a lot of babysitters) let us have dough-ball fights in the kitchen, chair races down the hallway, play H.O.R.S.E 16 times in a row or climb all over big rigs while asking thousands of senseless questions.

“What’s this really sharp thing do?”

“Can I wear your helmet?”

“Is this the compartment with the really cold water?”

“Would you like to have a Dalmatian dog?”

“Dad, can we have a Dalmatian dog?”

For the record, Wade’s questions were more intelligent.

Of course, this was my dad’s time away from the chaotic foursome that are his children, so after approximately 42 minutes, he would always say the same thing: “Alright. Time to load up.”

He would essentially kick us out. Actually, there was no “essentially” about it.

He absolutely kicked us out.

My dad, who I assumed missed us while he was working his 24-hour shift, would tell us to leave. It was like, “your question-asking limit was reached 41 minutes ago, I’ve had patience up until now, time for you to go.”

We laugh about it now — mostly because he still does it when we “overstay” our welcome for Sunday night family dinners at the Headquarters.

Old dog. Same tricks.

Looking back I feel so lucky to have even had those 42 minutes at the fire station every so often. To get a glimpse into the brotherhood that exists. To know my dad’s second family. To hear stories about how hard of a worker my dad was on the roof and how he knew the roads so well that with him driving they’d be first on the scene.

Honestly, how lucky were we that we sold our Girl Scout cookies to the men that protect our city? That some of those very guys came to our track meets in high school. That we get to see their kids grow up now. Or even better, that my brother gets to call these guys his coworkers, his brothers.

This is a family that my dad has had for 25 years. Twenty-five years today. That means retirement. It could be today, tomorrow or when my mom is ready to have him home all the time… or, really, whenever my sister Evan’s medical insurance kicks in.

I can’t think of a harder working man than my dad. Or someone who deserves to be celebrated more. For he not only gave so much to the fire department in those 25 years but in return gave so much to our family.

Congrats to you, Dad! You did it. And you did it so damn well. 

So Santa is Real, Right?

OK. OK. So obviously Santa’s not real — I’ve known that for a few years now, c’mon who do you think I am? But truthfully, isn’t the holiday season just a little more fun when you pretend to believe? I think yes.

I even get my mind to leap hurdles to do so; the fact my parent’s house, where my siblings and I still go on Christmas morning, has a glass fireplace that Santa would get trapped in is just a minor detail.

If I can do it, you can too.

Believe it or not (haha, pun), the biggest believer in my family is my dad. I have never ever heard him say that Santa is not real.

When my English teacher in the sixth grade broke the news to everyone in class that Santa wasn’t real, like it was common knowledge or something, I turned to my trustworthy father knowing he’d tell me the truth.

I assumed he’d sit me down and explain the reindeer and the presents. The elves and the cookies.

But instead, my dad was shocked that I had mentioned such an absurd thing.

“Of course, Santa is real, honey!”

My dad’s holiday spirit probably hit its peak in 1999 when he went to great lengths to make sure my sisters, my brother and I were keeping the spirit alive.

Christmas 1999

On Christmas Eve, per tradition, we laid out the iced sugar cookies, a coffee cup full of milk and 9 carrots for the reindeer.

[Not an important detail, but I just realized that my dad has a bit of lactose intolerance. Where’d the milk go, DAAAAAD?!]

We woke up early on Christmas morning; we could never sleep past 6 a.m. when presents were just sitting in our living room waiting for us. We were itching to get out to see what Santa brought (gifts from him were always laid out and not wrapped, which made for quick elatedness and less work for my mom).

This year, my mom told us to bundle up — we had a surprise waiting outside.

Once we were in our heavy coats, snow boots and hats, we were led out past the Christmas tree and presents, through the candy cane forest and out onto the snowy back deck.

My dad told us to look up.

Santa had left large sleigh marks on the roof. His boot footprints (coincidently the same size 12 as my dad’s) flattened the powdery snow. There were hoof prints from Donner, Dasher and the gang, and they must’ve been in a real hurry because bites of carrots were scattered about.  

There weren’t ladder marks on the deck indicating my dad had climbed up there. There weren’t steps from where the ladder should’ve deposited him on the roof. There was no evidence pointing to a Willsey family member of any sort.

Next logical answer was so obviously Santa (and at the time, that was the first logical answer, actually).

This is the reason I believed in Santa significantly longer than my classmates.

And now, 16 years later, if I ask my dad how he pulled off the mega Santa Surprise of 1999, he’d play dumb.

“What do you mean? Santa always lands on the roof,” he’d say.

Yes, Dad. He sure does.