I just deleted someone I dated from my life for the second time. This time the deletion was via Facebook.
I made the stoopid mistake of befriending someone I used to date via Facebook. In a moment of weakness and loneliness, I sought him out and sent him an e-mail saying "Hi." He, in turn, send me an e-mail saying he wouldn't mind being a Facebook friend. So, I befriended him.
What the $*@! was I thinking?!
I had dated the guy 21 years ago before I joined a journalism program and went to my first journalism job in Bellingham, Wash. Eleven months later when I interviewed for a newspaper job in Northern California, I went to see him and wanted to pick up where we left off. But there was no place to pick up. He uttered those "six words" no lovesick adult wants to hear: "I'm not in love with you."
The plane ride from Sacramento to Seattle and the flight from Seattle to Bellingham were the longest I've ever spent. Even when I flew from Oakland to Miami with a sinus infection, that flight wasn't as long as those.
Anyway, once I signed up for Facebook in February, I became curious about whatever became of the guy. He was indeed on Facebook. It wasn't until a month ago when I sent my e-mail and he responded.
This week he announced on Facebook that he is in a relationship with this trim, petite, beautiful brunette. (He proudly posted the picture. She looked like Sacramento "arm candy.") I mentally kicked myself for befriending him. After 21 years and an involvement that had nothing to do with love on his part, what was the point of being his friend?
I asked a coworker if the guy would know immediately if he'd know that I removed him from my list of friends. When the coworker said, "No," I logged into my Facebook account, found the guy's photo, and clicked the X. When the prompt asked if I was sure I wanted to delete him, I clicked "Proceed." Buh-bye.
I read Facebook's rules and regulations as well as a commonly used list posted by a blogger. I want to add the following: "Unless you are on very good terms with your ex-significant other, do not look him or her up on Facebook. Also, do not befriend him or her on Facebook. It is not worth your dignity."
Writing Diva
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Halloween as History Lesson
This is my first day back at work after a weeklong vacation. I expected at least 1,500 e-mails when I logged on to my work computer this morning. But a message from my boss made my jaw drop.
Every year my colleagues at the state agency at which I work dress up for Halloween and compete in a chili cookoff. This year my boss suggested that we dress up in 1950s style, a la “Happy Days.” The women would wear poodle skirts and sweaters with pony tails. The men would wear pompadours, duck tails, leather jackets, and jeans.
After closing my mouth, my first thought was, “HELL NO!”
I sent copies of the e-mail to my siblings. My older brother advised that I “just say no.” Indeed, I am doing just that.
My older sister T1 was blunter. She said the ‘50s “were not great for black people.”
That is true. The 1950s were a bleak period of African-American history. Jim Crow was thriving. Emmett Till, a young black teen, was brutally murdered in August 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white woman in Mississippi. Four months later on December 1, 1955, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat at the front of the “colored section” to a white passenger. Her arrest prompted Montgomery, Alabama’s, black community to launch a successful yearlong bus boycott. Montgomery’s buses were desegregated on December 21, 1956.
Although U.S. Supreme Court declared racial desegregation in schools was unconstitutional in the Brown vs. Board of Education, Topeka, Kan., decision in May 1954, the memo must not have reached Arkansas state officials, who tried to block nine high school students from entering Central High School in Little Rock in 1957.
Racial injustices were not limited to the South. In California, there were hundreds of communities that had covenants, conditions, and restrictions (CC&Rs) excluding African-Americans, Jews, Hindus, Eastern Europeans, and Asian-Americans from living in those neighborhoods. I learned San Lorenzo had such CC&Rs when I was a reporter for a San Francisco Bay Area newspaper. Stephen Maganini of The Sacramento Bee wrote a September 12, 2005, article about an Assembly Bill that addressed such racist language in past CC&Rs. Arden Park in North Sacramento had such restrictions.
I realize my boss is trying to raise morale, as my younger sister T2 suggested, by having us all dress up. However, having a Halloween costume theme based on the “Happy Daze” of the 1950s is racially and historically offensive. And I will have no part in it.
My idea was to wear a purple SEIU Local 1000 t-shirt and a pair of distressed (read: holey) jeans and come to work as I am – a disgruntled state worker. Under the circumstances of furloughs and job cuts, I think a disgruntled state worker is scarier than Freddy Krueger or Jason from “Friday the 13th.”
Writing Diva
Every year my colleagues at the state agency at which I work dress up for Halloween and compete in a chili cookoff. This year my boss suggested that we dress up in 1950s style, a la “Happy Days.” The women would wear poodle skirts and sweaters with pony tails. The men would wear pompadours, duck tails, leather jackets, and jeans.
After closing my mouth, my first thought was, “HELL NO!”
I sent copies of the e-mail to my siblings. My older brother advised that I “just say no.” Indeed, I am doing just that.
My older sister T1 was blunter. She said the ‘50s “were not great for black people.”
That is true. The 1950s were a bleak period of African-American history. Jim Crow was thriving. Emmett Till, a young black teen, was brutally murdered in August 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white woman in Mississippi. Four months later on December 1, 1955, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat at the front of the “colored section” to a white passenger. Her arrest prompted Montgomery, Alabama’s, black community to launch a successful yearlong bus boycott. Montgomery’s buses were desegregated on December 21, 1956.
Although U.S. Supreme Court declared racial desegregation in schools was unconstitutional in the Brown vs. Board of Education, Topeka, Kan., decision in May 1954, the memo must not have reached Arkansas state officials, who tried to block nine high school students from entering Central High School in Little Rock in 1957.
Racial injustices were not limited to the South. In California, there were hundreds of communities that had covenants, conditions, and restrictions (CC&Rs) excluding African-Americans, Jews, Hindus, Eastern Europeans, and Asian-Americans from living in those neighborhoods. I learned San Lorenzo had such CC&Rs when I was a reporter for a San Francisco Bay Area newspaper. Stephen Maganini of The Sacramento Bee wrote a September 12, 2005, article about an Assembly Bill that addressed such racist language in past CC&Rs. Arden Park in North Sacramento had such restrictions.
I realize my boss is trying to raise morale, as my younger sister T2 suggested, by having us all dress up. However, having a Halloween costume theme based on the “Happy Daze” of the 1950s is racially and historically offensive. And I will have no part in it.
My idea was to wear a purple SEIU Local 1000 t-shirt and a pair of distressed (read: holey) jeans and come to work as I am – a disgruntled state worker. Under the circumstances of furloughs and job cuts, I think a disgruntled state worker is scarier than Freddy Krueger or Jason from “Friday the 13th.”
Writing Diva
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Official Story
“You can’t handle the truth!”
Jack Nicholson as Col. Nathan Jessep in “A Few Good Men”
At this writing I am supposed to be packing my things for a two-night church women’s retreat at Northstar-at-Tahoe. But I’m not going after all.
The “official story” I gave my prospective roommate and another attendee is that I’m cramping badly from my period. It’s true, I have cramps. But an 800-mg. dose of Motrin would have shot it down easily.
The real story is that I have had problems arranging a ride to the retreat. I have called people, sent e-mails, put out feelers. My 1995 Honda Civic broke down three years ago just three-quarters of a mile short of the Squaw Valley exit. Conchita, as I call my coche, will not make the trip, even with an oil change.
When I opened an e-mail from an attendee who is driving my roommate to the retreat saying that there may not be room for me, I saw one word: hassle. The word “hassle” is the equivalent of waving a red cape in front of a bull. When I travel, I plan carefully to avoid as much hassle as possible. So, upon reading her e-mail, I said to myself, “¡Ya basta!” I’m not scrambling to find a way to Northstar-at-Tahoe. It’s humiliating to have to ask people for help, in this case, a ride. It’s not worth my peace of mind.
Yes, I’m out $92 for the room, which is a bargain at a beautiful resort. But it’s a lesson to me to have all my ducks in a row before going anywhere. I must depend on myself.
But back to the topic at hand. I tell lies of a sort. Yes, I am having cramps from a menstrual period I haven’t had in more than eight months. Again, that is the “official story.” If I choose not to do something, I will tell people I don’t know well “a truth.” But it’s not necessarily the reason why I’m not doing something. That reason is “the truth.”
For example, I am a volunteer with an organization related to my work. I work closely with an insensitive, overbearing, micromanaging woman. I take registrations for the organization’s monthly programs. But I don’t attend the programs. The “official story” is that I have a lot of work to do at the office, which is true. The “real story” is that I can’t stand working with that woman and if I’m left alone with her, I may do something that would have my attorney sister representing me before a judge and jury. The real story would hurt the woman’s feelings and jeopardize my working relationship with the organization’s board members. So, I stick to the official story.
I tell my siblings, youngest nephew, and close friends the “real story.” I feel comfortable with them, and they can handle it, especially if I say it gently. But those outside that circle get the “official story.” I know, it’s not what Jesus would want. But not many people, as Col. Jessep said, can truly handle the truth.
Writing Diva
Jack Nicholson as Col. Nathan Jessep in “A Few Good Men”
At this writing I am supposed to be packing my things for a two-night church women’s retreat at Northstar-at-Tahoe. But I’m not going after all.
The “official story” I gave my prospective roommate and another attendee is that I’m cramping badly from my period. It’s true, I have cramps. But an 800-mg. dose of Motrin would have shot it down easily.
The real story is that I have had problems arranging a ride to the retreat. I have called people, sent e-mails, put out feelers. My 1995 Honda Civic broke down three years ago just three-quarters of a mile short of the Squaw Valley exit. Conchita, as I call my coche, will not make the trip, even with an oil change.
When I opened an e-mail from an attendee who is driving my roommate to the retreat saying that there may not be room for me, I saw one word: hassle. The word “hassle” is the equivalent of waving a red cape in front of a bull. When I travel, I plan carefully to avoid as much hassle as possible. So, upon reading her e-mail, I said to myself, “¡Ya basta!” I’m not scrambling to find a way to Northstar-at-Tahoe. It’s humiliating to have to ask people for help, in this case, a ride. It’s not worth my peace of mind.
Yes, I’m out $92 for the room, which is a bargain at a beautiful resort. But it’s a lesson to me to have all my ducks in a row before going anywhere. I must depend on myself.
But back to the topic at hand. I tell lies of a sort. Yes, I am having cramps from a menstrual period I haven’t had in more than eight months. Again, that is the “official story.” If I choose not to do something, I will tell people I don’t know well “a truth.” But it’s not necessarily the reason why I’m not doing something. That reason is “the truth.”
For example, I am a volunteer with an organization related to my work. I work closely with an insensitive, overbearing, micromanaging woman. I take registrations for the organization’s monthly programs. But I don’t attend the programs. The “official story” is that I have a lot of work to do at the office, which is true. The “real story” is that I can’t stand working with that woman and if I’m left alone with her, I may do something that would have my attorney sister representing me before a judge and jury. The real story would hurt the woman’s feelings and jeopardize my working relationship with the organization’s board members. So, I stick to the official story.
I tell my siblings, youngest nephew, and close friends the “real story.” I feel comfortable with them, and they can handle it, especially if I say it gently. But those outside that circle get the “official story.” I know, it’s not what Jesus would want. But not many people, as Col. Jessep said, can truly handle the truth.
Writing Diva
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Not Just Another Day
I tried to make it through September 30, 2009, as if it were another workday. I got dressed and fed myself and my cats as usual. I took the commuter bus to work in Sacramento. I had a stack of technical and policy reports to edit. I got my paycheck today and declined to contribute to the state’s United Way campaign because of the furloughs cutting into my pay.
Then my sister Black Woman Blogging sent me and the siblings her blog entry about the 11th anniversary of Mom’s passing.
With apologies to my Christian friends – DAMMIT!
The reminder was like pulling off a scab to reveal a fresh, unguarded wound. One would think that after 11 years it wouldn’t hurt. Correction: One would not be thinking, period. It still hurts. And I don’t know when it will stop hurting.
(P.S. to Black Woman Blogging: I’m not angry. You’re right to express your feelings in writing on this day. I’m just mad at the circumstances.)
My mother had Alzheimer’s disease, but it was the lung cancer that eventually took her life. She didn’t have the ability to communicate her pain and concern for her health. When she fell asleep the night of September 29, she didn’t wake up the next day. That devastated Dad and eventually the rest of us.
I think for me what hurts most is that there were things I wanted to tell her about my life but couldn’t. I wanted to explain why, 20 years ago, I was tearful and upset when Dad and she drove me to Sacramento International Airport for the return flight to Bellingham, Wash., where I worked my first job as a newspaper reporter. (I was dumped by a man who told me, with brutal honesty, “I’m not in love with you.”) I wanted to confide in her about my health problems, but the Alzheimer’s wouldn’t allow her to understand to keep my confidence. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was about the times when I was snappish with her. I wanted to tell her that I finally sought chemical and therapeutic treatment for my depression. Finally, I wanted to tell her I found a job in state government that suits my talents as a writer and editor.
But on the Sunday before she passed, I sang to her and told her, “I love you.” She responded, “Thank you, baby.”
She understood. Maybe that’s enough.
In closing, when Mom passed, there was a star in the eastern night sky that I hadn’t seen before. The night before the funeral, I had followed that star in my car all the way to Folsom before I returned to Sacramento. To me, that was Mom. And to this day, whenever I see that star, I say, “Good night, Mom.”
Writing Diva
Then my sister Black Woman Blogging sent me and the siblings her blog entry about the 11th anniversary of Mom’s passing.
With apologies to my Christian friends – DAMMIT!
The reminder was like pulling off a scab to reveal a fresh, unguarded wound. One would think that after 11 years it wouldn’t hurt. Correction: One would not be thinking, period. It still hurts. And I don’t know when it will stop hurting.
(P.S. to Black Woman Blogging: I’m not angry. You’re right to express your feelings in writing on this day. I’m just mad at the circumstances.)
My mother had Alzheimer’s disease, but it was the lung cancer that eventually took her life. She didn’t have the ability to communicate her pain and concern for her health. When she fell asleep the night of September 29, she didn’t wake up the next day. That devastated Dad and eventually the rest of us.
I think for me what hurts most is that there were things I wanted to tell her about my life but couldn’t. I wanted to explain why, 20 years ago, I was tearful and upset when Dad and she drove me to Sacramento International Airport for the return flight to Bellingham, Wash., where I worked my first job as a newspaper reporter. (I was dumped by a man who told me, with brutal honesty, “I’m not in love with you.”) I wanted to confide in her about my health problems, but the Alzheimer’s wouldn’t allow her to understand to keep my confidence. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was about the times when I was snappish with her. I wanted to tell her that I finally sought chemical and therapeutic treatment for my depression. Finally, I wanted to tell her I found a job in state government that suits my talents as a writer and editor.
But on the Sunday before she passed, I sang to her and told her, “I love you.” She responded, “Thank you, baby.”
She understood. Maybe that’s enough.
In closing, when Mom passed, there was a star in the eastern night sky that I hadn’t seen before. The night before the funeral, I had followed that star in my car all the way to Folsom before I returned to Sacramento. To me, that was Mom. And to this day, whenever I see that star, I say, “Good night, Mom.”
Writing Diva
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Singleness Is Not Failure
After I turned "fiddy" earlier this week, I reflected on my life as a single woman and pondered the question if I have failed at life because I never married or had children.
I came close to marriage with one man 18 years ago. Thankfully, it didn't work out. He is a high school teacher, as he was when I dated him, with the same problems today that he had during our brief 10-month relationship.
Sometimes when I attend a singles function, I get asked by dance partners why I never married. It's a difficult question to answer in the length of a song. I made many mistakes in my dating choices, prompted mostly by my lack of self-esteem. My intuition was on target about the men I dated. The problem was, I was so desperate for companionship that I didn't listen.
Once I was in a tempestuous relationship with a man who, I discovered later, had a criminal record. Say it with me now: EEEWWWW!
I won't go into the rest of my dating failures. I find them too embarrassing to put into print. I will say that they were life lessons, for better or for worse.
My sister, Black Woman Blogging (http://www.blackwomanblogging.blogspot.com), helped put things into perspective. I should enjoy being single, she said. The grass isn't always greener on the other side.
I am free to be myself. I can listen to whatever music I choose without having someone comment on how "white"or how "urban" it is. I can sleep in on weekends if I choose. I can have two cats as my companions without someone complaining about allergies or cat hair. (One day, when I get a house with a backyard lawn, I would like a beagle, too.)
Most of all, I can appreciate men quietly without having a boyfriend, fiance, or husband give me a jealous look.
One of the good things about being African-American and my age is that I have my mother's genes. In other words, I really don't look my age. I have some gray hairs, but most of my hair is black. (Thank you, Mom!) I get a mix of wrinkles and pimples. (Maybe they should be called "pinkles"!) And I'm still somewhat slim. (Thanks, T1, for the 5-pound weights! Now I'm getting First Lady Michelle Obama's arms!)
I may find someone. I may not. But I intend to live in the moment and enjoy the good things in life and pursue my dreams with whatever time I have left.
So, I haven't failed "life" by being single. The lessons are ongoing.
Writing Diva
I came close to marriage with one man 18 years ago. Thankfully, it didn't work out. He is a high school teacher, as he was when I dated him, with the same problems today that he had during our brief 10-month relationship.
Sometimes when I attend a singles function, I get asked by dance partners why I never married. It's a difficult question to answer in the length of a song. I made many mistakes in my dating choices, prompted mostly by my lack of self-esteem. My intuition was on target about the men I dated. The problem was, I was so desperate for companionship that I didn't listen.
Once I was in a tempestuous relationship with a man who, I discovered later, had a criminal record. Say it with me now: EEEWWWW!
I won't go into the rest of my dating failures. I find them too embarrassing to put into print. I will say that they were life lessons, for better or for worse.
My sister, Black Woman Blogging (http://www.blackwomanblogging.blogspot.com), helped put things into perspective. I should enjoy being single, she said. The grass isn't always greener on the other side.
I am free to be myself. I can listen to whatever music I choose without having someone comment on how "white"or how "urban" it is. I can sleep in on weekends if I choose. I can have two cats as my companions without someone complaining about allergies or cat hair. (One day, when I get a house with a backyard lawn, I would like a beagle, too.)
Most of all, I can appreciate men quietly without having a boyfriend, fiance, or husband give me a jealous look.
One of the good things about being African-American and my age is that I have my mother's genes. In other words, I really don't look my age. I have some gray hairs, but most of my hair is black. (Thank you, Mom!) I get a mix of wrinkles and pimples. (Maybe they should be called "pinkles"!) And I'm still somewhat slim. (Thanks, T1, for the 5-pound weights! Now I'm getting First Lady Michelle Obama's arms!)
I may find someone. I may not. But I intend to live in the moment and enjoy the good things in life and pursue my dreams with whatever time I have left.
So, I haven't failed "life" by being single. The lessons are ongoing.
Writing Diva
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
50
"I like to kick, stretch, AND kick! I'm 50! Fifty years old!"
Sally O'Malley (as portrayed by Molly Shannon, "Saturday Night Live." See http://www.hulu.com/watch/1504/saturday-night-live-sally-omalley)
I have no problem with sharing my age. Today, my mother Claudia "Deena" Buford Robinson gave birth to me at 11:41 a.m. PDT 50 years ago at Sacramento County Hospital, now UC Davis Medical Center. Besides, my sister, Black Woman Blogging (http://www.blackwomanblogging.blogspot.com) already gave away my age. Thanks, BWB.
My puzzle is defining what 50 is. I don't feel whatever 50 feels like. I may have a little bit of a camel hump. (No camel toes, though, thank goodness! If you need to know what "camel toes" are, watch the Hulu.com video.) But I walk every day, use weights three times a week, and perform sit-ups on my bed twice a week. I look pretty good for my age.
I read in the April 2008 issue of More magazine about second acts. I had considered a second act of starting my own editing and writing business. But now I'm actually planning it because of the three-day furloughs that Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger imposed on California state workers, myself included. I can't allow the political drama at the state Capitol to affect my plans for the next stage of my life.
As Helen Reddy sang in "I Am Woman," whatever wisdom I gained was born of pain. I don't think I would want to be young again. I didn't know as much and I was too trusting. I'm more discerning in whom I trust and I treasure the life knowledge I've earned.
I'm glad to be starting my 51st year. As my older sister "D" would say, it beats the alternative.
Writing Diva
Sally O'Malley (as portrayed by Molly Shannon, "Saturday Night Live." See http://www.hulu.com/watch/1504/saturday-night-live-sally-omalley)
I have no problem with sharing my age. Today, my mother Claudia "Deena" Buford Robinson gave birth to me at 11:41 a.m. PDT 50 years ago at Sacramento County Hospital, now UC Davis Medical Center. Besides, my sister, Black Woman Blogging (http://www.blackwomanblogging.blogspot.com) already gave away my age. Thanks, BWB.
My puzzle is defining what 50 is. I don't feel whatever 50 feels like. I may have a little bit of a camel hump. (No camel toes, though, thank goodness! If you need to know what "camel toes" are, watch the Hulu.com video.) But I walk every day, use weights three times a week, and perform sit-ups on my bed twice a week. I look pretty good for my age.
I read in the April 2008 issue of More magazine about second acts. I had considered a second act of starting my own editing and writing business. But now I'm actually planning it because of the three-day furloughs that Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger imposed on California state workers, myself included. I can't allow the political drama at the state Capitol to affect my plans for the next stage of my life.
As Helen Reddy sang in "I Am Woman," whatever wisdom I gained was born of pain. I don't think I would want to be young again. I didn't know as much and I was too trusting. I'm more discerning in whom I trust and I treasure the life knowledge I've earned.
I'm glad to be starting my 51st year. As my older sister "D" would say, it beats the alternative.
Writing Diva
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Building a Church on “Sacred Ground”?
New Life Church, which has been meeting in a school gym, a school multipurpose room, and a warehouse for its 11-year history, is going forward with plans to build its facility on five acres in rural Vacaville.
But getting the OK wasn’t easy. There was a conflict between Christian and Native American faiths. Each side strongly defended its position and beliefs. And while our church won, it wasn’t pretty.
I was one of about 25 people from New Life who attended the Vacaville City Council meeting Tuesday night to provide silent support of the project, a two-story church with a parking lot and septic system on a parcel bordered by Cherry Glen and Rivera roads just southwest of downtown Vacaville. Local resident Roberto Valdez appealed the Vacaville Planning Commission’s granting of a conditional use permit to build on the site, contending that construction would unearth remains of Native Americans possibly buried there.
Since its inception, New Life had been meeting at Fairfield High School and Laurel Creek Elementary School in Fairfield, where it currently has two services. New Life’s Warehouse, also in Fairfield, hosts two youth-oriented services. In April 2008 church officials announced to the congregation that we purchased five acres off Cherry Glen Road and have an option to buy an adjacent six-acre site. Since then, we’ve worshiped on the site three times, at least to my recollection.
Before we entered the council chamber, Associate Pastor Brad Stanhope told us that the appellant and his supporters were not the enemy.
Before Valdez spoke, Wounded Knee, a Vallejo resident and a member of the Mi-Wuk tribe, pleaded with the city council not to allow the church to build on the land, which once had a restaurant, hotel, and bar until the 1960s.
“How can you build a church on a (Native American) sacred ground?” he asked.
Interim Community Development Director Maureen Carson said the site had been surveyed for any signs of a burial ground. The Native American Heritage Council was contacted, and it concluded that the acreage had no known burial sites. To appease Councilmembers Ron Rowlett and Pauline Clancy, the church agreed to recruit a Native American volunteer to monitor construction in the early stages. While the councilmembers sympathized with Valdez and his supporters, the Planning Commission was thorough in reviewing the conditional use permit application and environmental documents.
After the city council denied the appeal unanimously, some New Life members applauded. I was not happy about that. For one thing, clapping when two sides are passionate about this contentious issue is in poor taste. Second, the appeal pitted two faiths against each other. I found it very humbling.
Frankly, I don’t think Valdez is finished with his fight to keep the land undisturbed. I will feel better once the doors of our new church open for the first time.
Writing Diva
But getting the OK wasn’t easy. There was a conflict between Christian and Native American faiths. Each side strongly defended its position and beliefs. And while our church won, it wasn’t pretty.
I was one of about 25 people from New Life who attended the Vacaville City Council meeting Tuesday night to provide silent support of the project, a two-story church with a parking lot and septic system on a parcel bordered by Cherry Glen and Rivera roads just southwest of downtown Vacaville. Local resident Roberto Valdez appealed the Vacaville Planning Commission’s granting of a conditional use permit to build on the site, contending that construction would unearth remains of Native Americans possibly buried there.
Since its inception, New Life had been meeting at Fairfield High School and Laurel Creek Elementary School in Fairfield, where it currently has two services. New Life’s Warehouse, also in Fairfield, hosts two youth-oriented services. In April 2008 church officials announced to the congregation that we purchased five acres off Cherry Glen Road and have an option to buy an adjacent six-acre site. Since then, we’ve worshiped on the site three times, at least to my recollection.
Before we entered the council chamber, Associate Pastor Brad Stanhope told us that the appellant and his supporters were not the enemy.
Before Valdez spoke, Wounded Knee, a Vallejo resident and a member of the Mi-Wuk tribe, pleaded with the city council not to allow the church to build on the land, which once had a restaurant, hotel, and bar until the 1960s.
“How can you build a church on a (Native American) sacred ground?” he asked.
Interim Community Development Director Maureen Carson said the site had been surveyed for any signs of a burial ground. The Native American Heritage Council was contacted, and it concluded that the acreage had no known burial sites. To appease Councilmembers Ron Rowlett and Pauline Clancy, the church agreed to recruit a Native American volunteer to monitor construction in the early stages. While the councilmembers sympathized with Valdez and his supporters, the Planning Commission was thorough in reviewing the conditional use permit application and environmental documents.
After the city council denied the appeal unanimously, some New Life members applauded. I was not happy about that. For one thing, clapping when two sides are passionate about this contentious issue is in poor taste. Second, the appeal pitted two faiths against each other. I found it very humbling.
Frankly, I don’t think Valdez is finished with his fight to keep the land undisturbed. I will feel better once the doors of our new church open for the first time.
Writing Diva
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