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


    Notes From a Bar Mitzvah

    "While we try to teach our children all about life,
    Our children teach us what life is all about."
    ~Angela Schwindt

    When I voiced my apprehension towards attending her son Ben’s bar mitzvah, my friend Karen replied with a long list of reasons for why I needed to be there. Chief among them being that it would be impossible for me not to smile while doing the hora. Of course she was correct. In my defense, I was far too busy being consumed by the life-ness of life to be interested in mingling with strangers and pretending to be happy. The idea of bar mitzvah-ing sounded daunting and at the time - Thursday - I thought that I would rather spend the day at home, day drinking and being pitiful.

    Invite me to parties. Please.  I am fun.

    This would be my first bar mitzvah, which I stated, fairly excitedly, to anyone who asked. Though my normal extensive researching was thwarted by my wallowing so much so that I did not have the opportunity to Google “how do you open a prayer book” prior too attending. Which means that I spent the first 20 minutes of the service holding it upside down and frowning then making attempts to will it open. There I sat, then stood, then sat, then stood again while clutching my book. Sometime after the third or fourth standing I stopped white knuckling and started paying attention, absorbing, appreciating the moment and then crying.

    One minute I was having such deep thoughts such as:

    - What if it’s your bar or bat mitzvah and you cannot carry a tune?

    - Why didn’t I learn Hebrew before I left the house?

    - Why didn’t I have breakfast?

    - I really like that woman’s hair/dress/make up. Why doesn’t my ass look like that?

    - But seriously, what are they saying?

    And then suddenly:

    - Oh my What is happening? Why are my eyes watering?

    Through the rest of his ceremony being at once exceedingly confused and proud. Subsequently, less interested in what I didn’t know in more in what I did which was to grasp the enormity of it all and the honor that it was to have even been invited. In typical me fashion I lost sight and the purpose only to quickly regain it, thankfully.


    One of my favorite memories of Ben is from one of the first times I had the pleasure of hanging out with him. Like any child, he was curious about me and my life and took the time during dinner one evening to pepper me with questions about my job, my age, my marital status. We went through the basics; lobbyist, 25, not married and no children. We had already gone through how I knew his mother - she was a literary agent and I want for her to represent me. After satisfying him with my answers he paused. “You know”, he started and I mentally braced myself for a thinly veiled insult to come from this nine year old. “You’ve done a lot for someone your age”, was said rather matter-of-factly. And he casually went back to his food while the adults at the table glanced at each other in awe. Because this kid (or “man” as he was so quick to inform me post-party as we kicked a ball around the lobby of his apartment. Me, in a dress and barefoot. Ben the “man” with a giant cupcake stain on his shirt). This is why I cried. This wonderful, spectacular really funny kid. A child who found himself gladly standing in front of those who loved him most and using his call to the Torah to talk about bullying. This no nonsense, all joy, kid. Ben’s dad asked me if I was going to blog about it and I thought that I would have all of this insight and be full of deep thought. In reality, the part where I tell Karen FINE. YOU WERE RIGHT is that instead of remaining consumed by myself  I was too busy being happy to be there.

    With the strangers, the Hebrew, the hora and all. 



    "It's Literally a Post About Vomit"

    1. I wrote this post for another website but other things happened and it wasn't used. When my editor read it she commented on the "vibrancy"of the writing and how well it was written and then she said, "it's literally a post about vomit" which forced a giggle out of me. I felt the need to share it anyway because why the hell not?

    2. This is a really gross. Be happy that I'm not your child.

    3. Happy Back to School, everyone.

    "A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket." ~Charles Peguy

    I was seven years old; a second grader whose mother woke her each morning with a rap at the door and a shout-whisper of ‘Beanie! Beanie Barbum!” a pet name for me. “Time to get up!’ My mother was never one to make extravagant, as-seen-on-TV breakfasts but instead opted for quick and easy. Cheese toast was a popular favorite and often boiled eggs.

    On this particular day, boiled eggs were the option. I was, after all, a growing girl who needed her protein. But there was something amiss, a gurgle in my tummy, or something that didn’t feel quite right. I I told my mother that I wasn’t feeling up to par. She rolled her eyes and shook her head as she put her hand to my forehead. “You’re fine and you’re going to be late” and she sent me off to the bus stop.

    I sat on the left side of the bus - the driver’s side. I remember that my bus driver was a woman named Fran and the bus number was 1. I can tell you that instead of taking the main road to school we took the back way, to avoid heavy rush hour traffic. I’m assuming. Off to school we went, down my street through the entrance of a subdivision and out the back. Sometime between passing the neighborhood’s pool and making a left turn, my mouth started to feel warm. I swallowed a few times only to have spit fill my mouth. I swallowed once more and glanced out the window, hoping the others won’t notice. My eyes begin to water and fill with tears because I am still rather unsure of what is happening just that my seven year old tummy is bothering me and that my attempts to keep whatever is occurring within my body at bay, are futile.

    And then it happens. We are on the final approach to school and I can no longer prevent my insides from being on my outside. A quarter mile from my elementary school and everything that had gone down during my breakfast came up. Eggs, probably some milk, a white cesspool of shame and sorrow as I sat on my school bus helpless, tears spilling onto my cheeks because I just vomited on my school bus. If, at seven, I had been well-versed in sarcasm and woe, I would have made some hyperbolic statement about never being able to go on the bus again and how my mother would have to drive me, both ways, to my new school three towns over as that would be the only way to alleviate the pain of that day.

    We arrive at school where I am ushered to Mrs. Ostrander, the school nurse. She asks what happened and what I ate. I tell her about my eggs. My poor eggs. She calls my mother and all I can hear is the pity in her voice as she says, “Well, she threw up her boiled eggs”.

    I was a sick little girl. A child whose body decided to broadcast her illness - a stomach bug - at the most inopportune time and a mother who had to get to work. Nothing more, nothing less and then it happened again.

    I’ve been playing the clarinet for four years at this point and today is a band day - a Tuesday - at my middle school. Everything is fine as I make my way to the school bus with my overstuffed back pack and expensive woodwind. On this day I am sitting on the right side, the passenger side, but in the aisle seat right by the wheel. I look over at my seat mate and then to the floor below her which is how I can so distinctly remember the expanse due to the wheel well. It is then that I see a giant, phlegm filled glob of spit. Someone - probably a disgusting boy - had hocked a loogie on the bus and there it was, practically in my face as it jiggled around in synch with each bump on the road.

    I quickly turn away but I can already sense that it’s too late. I have a sensitive stomach and I can feel the warmth in my throat once again. My face is getting hotter and I try to put it out of my mind and begin to read through my music book. But i am a child after all and I have to take one more peek and that is when it happens. I throw up all over the bus and I watch my vomit roll down the aisle towards the front as small children lift their feet in horror and despair. It’s on the bus, it is on me and it is on the clarinet case I had been gripping for several miles. The sight of my own upchuck causes me to heave once again. And again. And then once more for good measure as I am brought down by bile and subsequent dry heaves. I cannot look at anyone else as I hang my head in hopes that I am able to click my heels three times and be transported out of this misery.

    We finally arrive at school and I am the first person off the bus. As I get outside to the fresh air I see Jason Stewart, with his mouth full of braces standing right in front of me. Jason Stewart whom I briefly dated during the sixth grade. I had been trying to win him back for a year to no avail. Jason Stewart who picks this moment to smile and say hi as I stand sheepishly on the sidewalk. I have to make a quick decision either flirt back or run for cover but there is no time. He walks up to me and starts to say something as I am holding my clarinet case which is covered in my bodily fluids. I can only look back at him and mumble something but he is unsure of what. I say it again but louder, “I just threw up…” and hold out my hands as a final sign of mercy. He catches air as he jumps back and makes a face of absolute disgust. “EW! Go!”, he spits out at me and I walk into school.


    This is Why We Vote


    On Monday night I attended a screening of Freedom Summer. The film chronicles the organizing of 700 mostly white student volunteers who assisted in registering African American voters in Mississippi during the summer of 1964. The film follows as organizers are intimidated, threatened and killed by white Mississippians who saw enfranchised blacks as a threat to their way of life. For those of you who have seen this film or know the story, it was well before the introduction of Fannie Lou Hamer, a woman whose mere presence on the screen drew applause from the audience. She would appear and the venue became church with shouts of “TELL IT!”. Anyway, it was sometime before she approached the dais of the 1964 Democratic National Convention, I couldn’t help but notice the striking similarities between August of 1964 and August 2014.

    Since the death and ensuing protests of 18 year old Michael Brown, the largely black population of Ferguson, Missouri has learned that the way for their collective voices to be heard is to protest with their feet to the pavement. For the people of Ferguson to move up they must be on the ground. I spoke with a friend recently about how powerful it has been to see these citizens take matters into their own hands after being beaten down (figuratively, literally) by police. The current events in Ferguson are a prime example of what happens when your voice is stifled for far too long.

    Among accounts of abuse by police and the eradication of the first amendment by arresting journalists, was the report that voter registration drives have begun somewhere around the W. Florissaint area near where the protests are occurring. Apparently, Missouri Republicans have taken offense to the people of Ferguson - I must reiterate, the BLACK people of Ferguson - becoming registered voters. The protests will end and the only way for those who live in this small city just north of St. Louis to be heard is to vote. It really is that simple and yet, much like the people of Mississippi in 1964, allowing this particular bloc of voters to participate in the democratic process is seen as a threat. In Mississippi it was because the voters were black and there was a fear that by allowing for them - us, really - to vote would mean an overwhelming number of black elected officials. As for Ferguson, I can only assume that the reason Republicans have been outspoken against voter registration drives is because African Americans favor one party over the other. Though, I must add that what is currently happening shouldn’t be about Democrats or Republicans and that we should all be outraged by a blatant disregard for the Constitution. The disregard I have mentioned before but it bears repeating.

    During Freedom Summer three young men were killed by the Klu Klux Klan. A woman had a noose wrapped around her neck and is threatened with dragging. People were beaten. All of this in the name of voting and here we are, fifty years later with people who want to register to vote still being denied that opportunity. The job of those who represent Ferguson, Missouri is to speak for constituents. The beauty of America is that we live in a place where democracy should be paramount. The onus isn’t solely on those who are denying the right to register but also those who have been denied. The city of Ferguson has notoriously low voter turnout which has left the city with a disproportionate number of white representatives in local government even though the population is largely black. Why? Because of low voter turnout. It isn’t solely a matter of signing up on a piece of paper but showing up on Election Day is when it truly counts. People died for the right to vote, so it is our responsibility to take that baton and push forward.

    Voting isn’t exciting but it is necessary. I hate being the person who implores people to go out and make themselves heard but I will because if you do not, no one can do anything for you. Sometimes the only way to see the first sign of change is to go to the ballot box. We vote not just because we can but because in times like these, we have to.

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