Heather L. Barmore
No Pasa Nada Heather Barmore Elsewhere About
Heather L. Barmore
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Heather Barmore
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    Change In Action at Babble Voices


    A Mother's Love

    “Some mothers are kissing mothers and some are scolding mothers, but it is love just the same, and most mothers kiss and scold together.” ~Pearl S. Buck

    Two years ago, I took it upon myself to surprise my mother for Easter. I drove the seven hours to Albany, with only my father knowing, and arrived home around 11:30 PM. In my haste and excitement I busted my ass running up our front steps. When I say “busted my ass” I mean I tripped – while on the phone with my mother – and fell up the steps, cutting my elbow, knee, my hand and two toes. When I rang the doorbell, practically in tears, my mother spent a good 5 minutes trying to figure out why the doorbell was echoing on the phone. I told her she was having hallucinations and to open the damn door. She saw me and was happy and exclaimed that there was no where for me to sleep. The hell?

    I mean, although I spent the first few days of my life in an honest to God drawer, I had a perfectly acceptable bedroom that had been painted in the Guilderland colors with yellow furniture for accents (It looks cool, I swear). “What do you mean I don’t have a place to sleep?” was the incredulous response. “Well G took your room over, because his is a mess and the basement is a mess, so there’s no place for you to sleep.” She went on to shove the knife further into my tired and busted ass heart to say; “It’s not like you live here anymore Heather Lynn. You have your own apartment and I wasn’t expecting you.” Ouch. This reminds me of the time that she told me – quite recently actually – that she was debating what to do with my bedroom now that I don’t live there anymore.

    Fine, fully functional adult with her own apartment, that I understand, but the woman has pretty much been planning my eventual departure and most likely has drapes picked out. I bet ugly ass drapes too that are made out of kente cloth. Ok, I’m lying about the kente cloth part, but if you saw the living room, you’d understand. I should also mention that she has told me that unless I am seriously injured or dying, I’m not allowed to move back home. Trust me, I seriously contemplated it when I spent that whole three weeks unemployed. When told of the idea she replied with an emphatic “Hell no.” Meanwhile G is being molly coddled and probably won’t be asked to leave until he turns 25 and is offered a dowry of some sort.

    This was all brought to mind this morning when I realized that I hadn’t talked to my mother in like days. Like, I don’t even recall the last time I spoke with her, but I’m assuming it was last week and only after I harassed her assistant. And even then, the conversation was limited to “What do you want? I have a meeting to go to.” That’s the love of a mother people. Don’t be surprised when after my trip home for Easter, she starts referring to me as “Oh, what’s her name…”


    Or as I like to say “ri-cock-ulous”; so ri-cock-ulous in fact that it has to be it’s own post and who doesn’t enjoy reading every inane thought that runs through my head.

    You’re so very welcome.

    Perhaps if it were 1863 and I was fearing the destruction of Fort Sumter and the confederates were coming to take my Yankee ass to Mississippi, then maybe, just maybe this would be ok. But this morning, when quietly perusing my gmail account, I noticed an advertisement for a confederacy website “All things Confederate. Online since 1996!” Of course now I can’t find the URL*, but last I checked, google and gmail were all “Yes there will be advertisements, but only for things that you’d be interested in” and given the intelligence of google, then of course every ad, would pertain to something that I would in fact care about. But the confederacy?
    It must have been that email that proclaimed that the south will rise again. No wait, I know, it was the email I sent to Bone that said “Take care and long live Dixie”.

    And for the record, I like the South, my parents are both southerners, with my father hailing from Birmingham. READ: I am not adverse to southerners just the idea of the confederacy.
    *found the URL www.rebelstore.com Go quick before all of the "I survived Appomattox and all I got was this lousy t-shirt" shirts are sold out.

    I see stupid people

    Though not one to usually piggy back off of other’s posts (I feel like I’m stealing when I do it), this post from I-66 inspired me in so many ways to write one almost similar, but in bullet form and with an option to expand on his ideas. You see, I’m from upstate NY. Land of the free, home of the white man. It’s cold and dreary for 8 months out of the year and it’s boring unless you’re the skiing/hiking/boating/camping type of person. I’m into all of the above except for skiing, which I did for 5 years and hated every second of. Then again, I only did it because I thought it would make me popular. It didn’t.

    But when he mentioned how people speak different types of English based on who they’re around and/or where they are from, I thought of the numerous times that people have pointed out to me that I speak differently. I speak differently? As in I can use the phrase “you abhorrent motherfucker” correctly?

    I think we need some examples for this exercise in asshat-ry to work properly:

    • The cab driver bringing me from Georgetown back to my apartment who asked where I was from, because I spoke very well for a black person. (it should be mentioned that I-66 said he would’ve spit on the cabbies money. That’s a tactic I’ll use for next time)
    • The stranger in my local liquor store who asked where exactly I was from because I didn’t sound like I was from here. (No comment)
    • The man who the cabbie picked up on my way home one evening, who asked where I was from. I told him upstate NY and he, in all his very perceptive glory, said that it’s cold up there and that there are a lot of trees. Also? There aren’t a lot of black people. (thank you for pointing that out to me, you can go shave your back hair now you dumb fuck)
    • The 150 times that people have been visibly shocked to meet me after speaking to them on the phone and saying that my name is Heather.
    • Or, my personal favorite, the dozens who find it odd that I golf and/or wear polo and/or shop at the gap and/or shop at J.Crew. Obviously I must be white if I’m shopping at any of those places, because it’s apparently unfathomable that I own argyle. (For the record, I enjoy argyle, cashmere, and little polo playing men monogrammed on my sweater)
    • And finally, anyone that says incredulously “You’ve been to Martha’s Vineyard??” For the record, there’s a whole slew of black people that reside on Martha’s Vineyard, but if you took the time to heal after that severe head injury that made you a dumb fucktard, then you would know that
    • Oh, forgot one, all the times I've been met with astonished faces when I say that I attended American.

    Now one would think that I would become enraged upon hearing all of these things or that I’d be doing some serious kicking and or punching (“I don’t sound black? Well you’re about to find out what a person with no teeth sounds like”). But alas not. What’s the point? If I spent my time trying to discipline every ignorant shithead to cross my path, I would have no time to write about it on the internet or to enjoy Five Guys or burritos. Over the years I’ve learned to just give a weak smile and a ‘heh’, though annoying as hell, I’ve seen the very serious side of reacting to one’s words on race – whether or not intended to hurt or not – and it’s not pretty. Meanwhile, I’ll sit here and watch the dipshits of the world self destruct, because it’s pretty much inevitable when you’re that stupid.