Karen Leslie Hernandez – Feminism and Religion

The Utter and Undeniable Need For Walls of Compassion. Still. by Karen Leslie Hernandez

This piece was already published – back on September 11, 2015. Yet, it’s still so relevant, I am sharing it again. Edited a bit, but the same sentiment, same message, same hope.

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We build a lot of walls, especially when we are fearful, hateful, angry, and retaliatory.

There are personal walls, our own little “bubbles,” that give us the illusion of safety. Then we have bigger walls. Walls that our governments build. Walls to keep people in and walls to keep people out.

Current walls that come to mind are the Mexican-US Border Wall – you know, the one that Donald Trump loved and his minions chanted about … “Build that wall! Build that wall!” We have the Israeli-West Bank Separation Barrier-which has contributed to a drop of suicide bombings exponentially, but in the meantime, has cut off Palestinian livelihoods and led to the death of many who can’t get through the checkpoints in an emergency. Here in the US, we have “gated communities” – those communities that give a false sense of security to keep the “degenerates” out. No crime inside those walls, right? Right. We also have prison walls to keep people in. The prison industry is thriving here in the US and more walls need to be put up to incarcerate all the “offenders.” And who can forget the razer wire walls built in 2015, to keep Syrian refugees out of places such as Hungary.

Addiction Matters by Karen Leslie Hernandez

A few of years ago, a video from the Civic Center Bart Station in San Francisco went viral – showing a line of people in the station, shooting up and passed out due to drug use. With the tagline on the evening news, “Bart Junkies,” I was interested in the language explaining the video – “Shocking,” and “Unacceptable,” etc. The comment section got to me too, for each and every one illustrated a stereotypical idea of what or who an addict is. The lack of regard for these lives that have been tragically affected by addiction was apparent and the labels, “trash,” “human garbage,” and so many more, illustrated how isolating and harmful addiction is to every human on the planet.

The fact is, we all know an addict of some sort. Whether they are in recovery and have been sober for 1, 5, 10, or 30+ years, or they are still using, we all know an addict. We work with addicts. They are our family members, partners, neighbors, colleagues, and friends. They are faith leaders, government officials, teachers, techies, doctors, bus drivers, performing artists, and flight attendants. They are homeless, living in their cars, on their boats, and they are also living in million-dollar homes. And just like in the video from the Bart Station, they are shooting up, drinking, snorting cocaine, and popping pills. Addiction is addiction. It is no prettier or excessive in a Bart station, than it is in your friend’s or family’s home.

To My Grandchild by Karen Leslie Hernandez

You’re not born yet.
You’re still an idea
A thought.
Yet
I think of you often.
I hope for you.
I wonder what life will be like
For you.

When you arrive
Will each breath
Be easy?
Will you have
Places to run?
Trees to climb
Glaciers to marvel
Oceans to explore
Whales to watch
Turtles to hatch.
Will elephants trumpet?
Wolves howl
Roosters crow
And lions hunt.
Will rain soak?
Will snow fall from the sky
Or will it be ash?
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“Go Back to your Country!” OK. But … I’m From San Francisco! by Karen Leslie Hernandez

On December 15, 2018, at 10:22PM, I received a call and a voicemail from someone I didn’t know. The charming message left for me? “Hello, Karen. You fat, disgusting slob. Go back to your country. I hope your new year’s is great. You fat, disgusting slob. Goodbye.”

What to say?

With just the right amount of racism, misogyny and stereotyping, at first, I was scared. I remember sitting in my apartment, with the lights off thinking that no one should see I was at home – wondering who this person is? Was he close? Did he live in San Francisco? How does he know my name? How did he get my number? Does he know where I live? It completely freaked me out. I listened to the voicemail several times, wondering if I knew this person – perhaps he was someone I angered because I didn’t want to date him – I had no idea.

In the coming days, after a conversation with Verizon and a friend who works with AT&T, I got the caller’s name and some other pertinent information. An 18 year-old kid named Dominic, from Ohio, was the culprit, and after a bit of sleuthing on Facebook, I contacted Dominic’s dad. I left a voicemail at his dad’s work, sent his dad an email with a copy of the voicemail, and I called the Youngstown police – and I never heard back from anyone.

Continue reading ““Go Back to your Country!” OK. But … I’m From San Francisco! by Karen Leslie Hernandez”