In spite of this centuries-old practice, some women still manage to find a way to thrive.  To write.

This ambitious group of Afghan women featured in the NYT article has found an emotional outlet in poetry.  Writing as a form of escape, a form of complaint, a form of freedom.  But they do so in secret because the act of expressing her feelings, her ambitions, her worries in written form is cause for extreme physical punishment at the hands of her husband, brother, or father.  The men they dutifully answer to are threatened by such things, seeing her expression as a possible flight risk from her strictly defined domestic role.  So, she isn’t allowed education or exposure to outside influences that may mar that role.

Feeding an unspoken fear as old as time…education leads to independent thinking.  And independent thinking leads to rebellion.

Damn straight it does.  Thank goodness!

Expressing oneself through writing is not only a source of therapy, expression, and self exploration for the writer, but also a source of strength, understanding, and inspiration for the reader.  Though separated by oceans, cultures, and cavemen hell-bent against evolution, we all have the desire and the right to grow and learn by literary means.

To inspire.  And to be inspired.

May these women continue to find both the strength and courage to inspire all women, as they have me.

_______________

I wish I may, I wish I might

Be a solitary bird lost in flight

Free to be, to love, to write

No glow of red, only green light

No tether, wrong, or right

Soaring high over mountains, cloaked in night

Shedding, ridding all semblance of plight

And fervently anticipating, with dawn in sight

A bold new rush of wind as I graze the sunlight

~ Chick Hughes

To Write, Perchance to Dream is a post from ChickHughes

However, a local (at least local to me) library in Brevard County, Florida has ordered a hit on the book…because of its naughty nature.  Pulling the books from the shelves, the library is “taking out” the trash that will cause impure thoughts in the untainted minds of its Floridian southern belles.

“I think they should ship them up north, where they’re more open-minded,” sneered a Florida female conservative touting her intolerance for liberal lit in the confines of a building specifically designed to house literature from all walks of life (regardless of the color of its binding).  And apparently, her position was validated by her fellow fuddy-duddies.  The book has been deemed unfit reading material for the Florida library, and therefore stripped of its shushed right-wing library privileges.  Because only liberals have sex drives.  And all liberals live in the north.

Dear closed-minded,

Liberals like the beach too.

And this one will be getting her tan on – while getting it on with Fifty Shades of Grey.

Chick Hughes

Lusty Lit Hit is a post from ChickHughes

Pampered moms will receive organic lotions, calming oils, baby clothes, skin creams, baby food, lavish toys, and mommy joys.  With such a delightful treasure box coming straight to their doors, moms are making petiteBox their personal baby “booty” delivery service.  Her bouncing baby box will be filled with products from high end brands such as Earth Friendly Baby (providing organic products like shampoo, body wash, baby wipes, and baby creams), Lansinoh (supplying mom with breastfeeding must-haves), basq (spoiling mom with aromatic body oils and anti stretch mark creams), Mam (calming baby with teethers and binky besties), and Angel Dear (cuddling baby with petite blankies and cozily cute clothes).  So many chic treats!  But, perhaps, my favorite luxurious mommy treat is the flower essences energy mist by Lotus Wei.  While not many things can top that incredibly intoxicating new baby smell mommies snort like addicts, full time mommydom can zap a girl’s fresh feeling.  And a quick spritz of the sweet misty scent of flowers teases the senses and rejuvenates the spirit…giving mom just the boost she needs to feel fresh, flirty, and tres feminine.

Not only are these experts on everything wee boxing up top of the line products for moms everywhere.  They’re also including how-to tips on exercising, baby shopping, mixing alcohol-free cocktails, getting through baby’s first year, and everything pregnancy.

Upon subscription, and once a month for each following month, recipients can expect an elegantly packaged box filled to the brim with these extravagant products and mommy literature ensuring pampering for both the poo bearer and the poo wearer.

Whether treating a mommy-to-be, giving as a gift for her baby shower, or surprising her with a welcome home box after delivery…no gift is more thoughtful or more recurring for a newly initiated member of the mommy sorority than a monthly subscription to petiteBox.  And for those DIY moms out there, give yourself the gift that keeps on giving, subscribe to months of doorstep surprises, say “oui” to all things wee, and surrender to the Box.

petiteBox.

Little box. Big luxury.

Chick Hughes

Un Petite Treat is a post from ChickHughes

As adventure goes, this world is a sea of possibilities.  Take the time to “see” the possibilities.

An Italian psychiatrist, Roberto Assagioli, once said…

~ “There is no certainty.  There is only adventure.” ~

Of this, I am certain. 

Chick Hughes

A Sea of Possibilities is a post from ChickHughes

It’s just recently that my son has entered the social battle field that is middle school.

In all of his 11 years, I’ve been persistent when it comes to compassion and empathy for others. Having seen, first hand, the short term and long term effects bullying has on a person’s self perception, and consequently, self destruction ~ I couldn’t bear the thought of a person I was responsible for ever having a hand in bringing that kind of misery and insecurity to a fellow human being. I pushed him regularly to see life through the eyes of someone other than himself. To be compassionate and empathetic. To be a friend, rather than a critic. So, in kindergarten, when he took notice of Ben’s challenges and befriended him, I couldn’t have been more proud. Becoming a safe place for Ben in a place where he didn’t quite fit in was so admirable, so simply and beautifully…human. He was doing exactly what I’d hoped he would.  Accepting without judgment.

He was an inspiration to me, reminding me to practice what I preach.  A daily reality check on my own reactions and feelings towards others.

Ben was crazy about him. Followed him everywhere. As time went on, Ben’s difficulties fitting in became more and more obvious. The other students were beginning to take notice. And they were much less compassionate and accepting. With our first year of middle school almost behind us, I began to notice he ~ who had always loved school and was riddled with stress at the thought of missing class ~ was asking to miss school, to stay home…day after day. He feigned the usual…a tummy ache, a headache, a muscle ache. But never a heartache, which I would soon discover was the culprit.

After my endless questioning about his sudden desire to miss school, he finally curled up beside me, broke down, cried, and begged me to stay home.  He had confirmed my worst fears. He was being picked on, bullied. And for the very thing I had pushed him to do since he had entered school. For taking in the underdog. For not following the herd. For refusing to join the taunting and exclusion of a fellow student. He was being bullied by association. The other kids had succumbed to the need to fit in, set their sights on Ben’s weaknesses, and were descending on him like hungry wolves. Because Ben had found a safe place in him and clung to him for support, and because he couldn’t bear to hurt him by joining the taunting herd, he had become easy prey at Ben’s side. The pecking order establishment of his middle school years was in full swing. And his kindness was quickly sinking him straight down where the bottom feeders would peck away at him and dismantle his self confidence.

Always having guided him away from becoming the bully… it hadn’t really occurred to me that he may one day be the bullied.

He was crushed. I was crushed. He felt defeated. I felt guilty. After all, I was the one who had harped on the realities of what harsh words could do to a person’s spirit. And now, it was his spirit that was taking the beating. What could I do?  An education in psychology, years of experience with children, past struggles as a parent…all left me helpless in the face of an untouchable bully who had targeted my son.

I wasn’t prepared to prepare him for psychological battle.

As his mom, my knee-jerk reaction was defense. I had to protect him, even if it meant forsaking another child. So, I found myself advising him to do the opposite of what I had told him for so many years. I told him to avoid Ben, who had depended on him since kindergarten as a friend. Not to join in on the bullying of him. But to look the other way. To abandon him when he needed him most. To distance himself from him in order to remove the target from his own back.

I cringed as the words escaped my mouth. Mortified at my own feelings. But this was my baby. And I had to do anything I could to keep his very delicate and developing self confidence intact. I knew that middle school was a dog eat dog world…

And I knew that if he carried around a bone, he would be eaten alive.

But his response was yet another thing I was ill-prepared for and left me ashamed and in tears. He looked me straight in the eye and said,

“But mom, if I don’t talk to him, no one else will. I don’t want him to be all alone.”

My heart broke…for the second time. The first time out of empathy for this chunk of my heart that was walking around outside my body. The second time as a result of clashing pride and regret.

How was it that he could be stronger than I in this scenario?

He had confided in me. Had I said the right thing? Advised the right thing? I still don’t know. But I do know that for the time being, he doesn’t feign illness to avoid school. His confidence is back, if only until the wolves descend again.  I can only hope that I’m able to arm him with enough self confidence to fend them off.

Since then, his school principal has instituted a mandatory film for the entire school to watch. A film based on the real life struggles of a young boy who was bullied, how he had become desperate enough to physically hurt himself, and how the bullies dealt with the guilt of what their actions had done to another human being. That film had a huge impact on my son. He cried recalling the details to me. I could not be more proud of the middle school we call our academic home ~ for their proactive efforts in exposing and educating young children on the realities of bullying. Preteen and teen children are naturally inept at seeing things from another person’s perspective. Especially a person with whom they have nothing in common.

But the parents, the schools, and the media are finally saying “no more.”  No more sweeping this issue under the rug. No more making excuses for our youth. No more allowing our children to suffer in silence. We’re uniting for the sake of young innocence, for the sake of broken spirits, and for the sake of missed opportunities for those who have resorted to taking their own lives to escape the mental torment.

For the first time, we’re forcing kids to look at bullying through the eyes of both the bully and the bullied. For the first time, we’re holding kids accountable for the cruelty they impose on a weaker peer. For the first time, we’re holding ourselves accountable for allowing it to happen as we look the other way. And for the first time ~ hopefully ~ we can find the courage and the leadership as adults to stop the cruelty and teach compassion.

I taught my son compassion. But in the face of the bully when the cost became too great, I retreated…

And he taught me that compassion doesn’t come cheap.  And that sometimes, with matters of the heart, we adults have more to learn from children than they do from us.

The movie Bully opens in theaters on March 30. If you have children in or approaching the very difficult years of middle school or high school, take the time to see it with them. It could change, or save, a life.

Chick Hughes

A Lesson In Compassion is a post from ChickHughes

~ Contribution to a dating/relationship website

Text a Little Sext is a post from ChickHughes

They say birds of a feather flock together.  We parental birds make this suburban migration in droves for the well-being of our little people.  So that we can shield them from danger.  So that we feel comfortable letting them play outside without constant supervision.  And so that we can put head to pillow at night knowing we’ve done one more thing to keep them from becoming the misery-spreading anti-family rebel with fangs that every teenager is destined to become.

It wasn’t long after I jumped on the manic mommy wagon that we did the inevitable and followed the droves.  We bought…a neighborhood.  I say neighborhood because, as any of you who have bought a home knows, it’s akin to getting married.  You don’t just buy the house.  You buy the whole damn neighborhood.  The cookie cutter houses, the manicured lawns, the white picket fences, the neighbors’ dog doo on your shoes, the forced neighborhood how-do-you-do’s, and the futile attempts to avoid the obligatory gossip news.  It’s a deceptively package deal.  And the day we sealed the deal and moved into our white picked fence ~ homeowner’s association ~ gated community ~ neighborhood was the day we were to begin our purchased “safe haven” life.  We were naively giddy with newbie enthusiasm.

They say it only takes one rotten egg to stink up the joint.  And the stench was wafting in our direction.  Pulling the overstuffed U-Haul up to our exciting new abode, we were happy to see a child’s birthday party underway…complete with the blur of running kids, the sound of contagious laughter, the rented bouncy house, and the child’s parents…a twosome that would soon make me grapple with why my dream of moving to the city was ever deemed a bad idea.

My first impression of him was one of “What..the.. hell did we just do?”  And as time marched on, he managed only to validate that impression.  Sluggish, overweight, beer in hand, a slight buzz, and an obvious itch to stir trouble.  The kind of trophy neighbor a realtor pays to stay clear of the hood until the ink is dry on the loan papers.  With a cocky demeanor, he strutted over to me, introduced himself, and proceeded to brief me on his wife’s name.  He took a hearty swig from his beer, gave me a manly punch on the arm, and verbally trashed her like day-old empty beer bottles.  On the outside, I was smiling and feigning understanding.  On the inside, I was planning my escape route.  He was, and is, your typical neighborly nightmare.  After executing my escape plan, I turned to introduce myself to what I hoped would be his polar opposite, a fellow mom I could befriend.  But when she refused eye contact with me, left me hanging, and darted in the other direction like I had bared my fangs and taken aim at her throat, I watched my white picket fence fantasy go up in flames.  And I wondered who lit a match?

Days turned into weeks.  Weeks into months.  Being the new kids on the block, we were privy to our fair share of rumors swirling about the couple in question.  All coinciding with my original impression.  But I tried to keep an open mind.  Remain neutral.  I failed.  Neutral is hard to pull off when I walk outside to hear him barking profanities in one of the faces of his many children, when I hear him -over my television- in the wee hours of the night standing in the middle of the street ranting drunken insults at a neighbor who is inside asleep in his bed, or when I realize that politely asking him to keep his large dog from peppering our front yard with T-Rex sized crappy patties signals -to him- a war of not-so-clever words that may end with his waving of the rebel flag and the threat of his 12 gauge shotgun between my eyes.  Clearly, the last thing I want to do is enrage a drunk redneck exercising his right to bear arms.

Bumping into his wife at our nearby grocery store or in the neighborhood was a routine occurrence.  Eye contact and conversation were still, apparently, off limits.  Word of my Medusa stone turning abilities had somehow been leaked.  Nevertheless, our kids had become fast friends and wouldn’t see each other without speaking.  So completely evading the situation wasn’t an option and chance encounters with her became an awkward game of chicken.  Who would speak first?  Who would look down in avoidance first?  She had mastered the role of chicken well.

I gave up trying to talk to her, settled in the notion that she hated me.  But I do think about her often.  As a woman, I wonder if she’s happy?  Miserable?  Afraid?  Stuck?  As a mom, I wonder if the kids are happy?  Miserable?  Desensitized? Resigned?  If his drunken public persona is so unsettling to the rest of us, what was living with him like?  I presumed happiness wasn’t an option.  Maybe avoidance was her defense mechanism.  A way to keep new unfamiliar people at arms length to project the perception that all was good.  That she had everything under control.  Maybe it wasn’t me she hated at all, but the threat of yet another neighbor witnessing the very things she was so desperate to hide.  Not only from the outside, but from herself.

While I prefer to avoid them, my kids want to play with their kids, putting them directly in his path.  So, here we are in a house, in a neighborhood, that we’ve bought for the peace of mind that our kids could play without threat.  But within months of escrow closing, rumors of the unstable “father of the beer” were joined by those of drug dealing neighbors and the realization that registered sex offenders lived too close for comfort.

So it turns out our neighborhood is just a hood, like any other.  A white picket fence is just wood and nails.  HOA rules are only as good as a handshake and a neighbor’s word.  An electric entry gate is easily broken away.  And the people we’re so desperate to protect our kids from live on BOTH sides of the gate.

A gate that serves no real purpose aside from perceived status.

On my side of the gate, I continue to avoid him.  There’s a tangible tension between us that is challenged daily by our kids’ friendship…a friendship that reminds me that young innocence without judgment does exist…prior to life’s jading.

She speaks to me now, although her dislike for me proves hard for her to hide.  We fake it anyway, as do most neighbors.  And every so often, I look out toward her house and wonder what I may do if I were in her shoes.  Is she simply out of options?  Or does she truly love him and lead a happy life?  Am I being presumptuous in assuming her misery?  After all, the only thing I really know about her life is what I see playing out in the streets of our little utopia.

And then I wonder if she wonders the same about me.

Is her perception of me just as haunted by questions?  Does she see my skeletons peeking from my closet as I do hers?  Does she presume to see through me as I do her?

Am I too living under white picket pretense?

Of course I am.

But at least for now, our kids are youthfully unaware of what lies beneath our pretense.  And to them…

A fence is just a fence.   

Chick Hughes

The wide world is all about you; you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence it out.” J.R.R. Tolki

White Picket Pretense is a post from ChickHughes

XKCD

Valentine Dilemma

“No love, no friendship, can cross the path of our destiny without leaving some mark on it forever.”  ~ Francois Mauriac

High Stakes Holiday is a post from ChickHughes

photo by: puFFin2006

~ Refined and reposted from 2011 archive

Ok, admittedly, I’m not a huge fan of Valentine’s Day.  Ever ornery, I resent being guilted into expressing my love by corporate greeting card money whores.  Forced to say “I love you” their way…on their day.  Everywhere I look…cheesy cards, heart-shaped candy, and the foolproof red rose…guaranteed to make her shed her clothes.  Apparently.  “V” day could possibly be the most pressure inducing holiday of the year.  He’s feeling the squeeze to romance her, lest she be the only “unloved” girl alive who will secretly plan her vengeance on some random day when he feels all is right with his all too romantically challenged little world .  And, in appreciation for his romantic efforts, she feels pressured to give it up, lest he be the only “unlucky” guy alive, who will surely wither under the duress of an under-utilized appendage.  He’s sprung for dinner and a gift…and he’s sprung yet again.

Forced to stalk the aisles ablaze with red and pink lovin’ necessities, we buy (literally) into the holiday hype for fear our sweetie will feel unlucky in love. Scrambling frantically, and at the last minute, through hundreds of replicated pledges of love, we’re mere puppets at the greedy hand of the greeting card industry.  Five bucks to express someone else’s feelings and look the other way when the moment has passed and those feelings are tossed into the trash?  Creativity is dead, it seems.  A homemade card created from the heart is not only more romantic…it’s a thoughtful one-of-a-kind gesture, and you can be sure that thousands of other people aren’t pretending to love the same exact “gesture” while wondering if their heartthrob searched for hours on end or just grabbed the card nearest the exit route from the store. But hey, if retail giants say these token mass produced impersonal gifts will get you laid, who am I to argue?

But I do.

If cards, candy, and flowers were sure to set his sheets on fire with hot lovemaking (which is the true motive behind his romantic whim), you can bet the calendar would be inundated with more dreamt up “romantic” holidays.  One competing with the next on its panty dropping ability.  Men everywhere would make a daily pit stop at the local corner store to stock up on the “sure thing” card, candy, flower trifecta.  The male consumer population would redefine the term “convenience store.”   A quickie mart for the quickie smart. 

Obviously love is more complicated than that.  While it’s nice to be romanced on Valentine’s Day, we want to feel loved, supported, and appreciated every day of the year.  After all, there are 364 more opportunities to show affection…and to get some.  Attentive appreciation provides all the ammo our sweeties need to combat those 364 days chock-full of life’s not-so-welcome little surprises.  Fickle and unforgiving, life is unpredictable on a good day, hostile on a so-so day, and a downright bitch on a bad day.  Presented with twists and turns, ins and outs, ups and downs, we come face to face with everything life throws our way.  The good, the bad, and the ugly.  And through it all, we want to know that our one and only will stand by our side.  That we can depend on that love, rain or shine.  Dependability plays a vital role in relationship success and is rated one of love’s most valuable commodities.  We want assurance that the one we love is there to catch us when life tosses us aside.  We want more than a lover.  We want a best friend.

Studies show that the happiest and most successful couples are also best friends.  A best friend is there when life is good…dancing and playing alongside us in life’s blindingly sunny rays of happiness.  A best friend is there when life is hostile…showing us a single ray of sunshine amid life’s ominous rain clouds.  And, most importantly, a best friend is there when life is a bitch…standing right there beside us providing shelter in the eye of the storm.  And when that storm passes, a best friend dances with us in the puddles, dries us off, and helps us move on.

On life’s sunniest and stormiest of days…we want a shoulder to cry on, a friend to rely on, and a lover to get it on.

No more holiday hype.

On Valentine’s Day, on a good day, on a bad day, on THIS day…be the best friend your sweetie needs.

Say “I love you” your way…every day.

Chick Hughes

Love when love doesn’t come easy. 

Rain Or Shine…Please Be Mine is a post from ChickHughes

I am available for freelance writing/copywriting.

* Blog posts

* Websites

* Brochures

* Emails

* Speeches

Whether you need professional advertising with an edge or a simple blog post to jazz up your small business, the power of words can make or break you.  Witty informative writing is key in winning the attention, the affection, and the business of your target audience.

~ Writing for fun.

~ Writing for creativity.

~ Writing for you.

Contact me at chickhughes@gmail.com

Freelance Writing/Copywriting is a post from ChickHughes