Featured ARTICLES and PERSONAL ESSAYS

• He Had AIDS and I Had Hepatitis C: A Love Story – Marie Claire
• Defriending My Rapist, The New York Times
• 9 Lives for a Weeble, New York Press, AWARD
• After Surviving Rape, I Had an Abortion at Age 14, Woman’s Day
• I Might Not Be Alive Today If It Weren’t for Obamacare, Woman’s Day

SEE ALSO: dorriolds.com/writing/

JOURNALISM

• How AI Changed My Life – TIME magazine
• What Do Those Pesky Cookie Preferences Really Mean, WIRED
• Mass Shooting Survivor Austin Eubanks Talks About Life After Columbine, UPDATE

BOOKS

My short stories and essays are published in 9 Book Anthologies

• City of New York’s Victimology Course Textbook
• My autobiographical short stories and artworks are published in eight book anthologies. I am also included in a ninth book: CUNY (City of New York) textbook for their Victimology course at John Jay College of Criminal Justice. My New York Times essay, “Defriending my Rapist,” was published in print and online and immediately went viral. That’s when my personal essay was added to the required reading lists. I was featured all over the web and in print. I became a sought after speaker for top universities, professional conferences. And I am a proud member of RAINN‘s Speaker Bureau.
• Essentials of Victimology, textbook for City of New York’s Victimology courses
• At Grandmother’s Table
• Power of the Positive
• Easy As A, B, C
• Creative People: What Makes Them Tick
• The Ultimate Christmas Oy, Come All Ye Faithful
• Chocolate Lover’s Soul – Skinny Dotty and Her Chocolates 
• Tea Lover’s Soul – Compassion and a Cannoli
• Chicken Soup for the Recovering Soul

The post Featured Writing Samples appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

Celebrities can be so sparkly. As a kid, I was sure fame and money meant happiness. Ha! It means hard work for years. I’ve clawed my way to the middle. Haha.

IRL, many stars have that electric charisma and look fabulous in person. After meeting a ton of A-listers, I am happy to report that only tiny number of celebs seem – shall we say – less than humble. Once in a while, a top star can be surprisingly cranky! In their defense though, fame requires working one’s tuchas off.

This photo (below) was taken at the Tribeca Film Festival red carpet for The Quiet One, a fascinating film about ex Rolling Stone Bill Wyman. It was only a half-block from my home. One rarely sees famous far-right Republicans in my all-the-way left Manhattan neighborhood. At first, Rupert seemed awkward. Most likely because he knew that he wasn’t going to make a lot of friends in Chelsea. But he loosened up and seemed to enjoy the attention. 

Blondie in the East Village

My photo has been chosen for the soon-to-be-released paperback edition of Debbie Harry’s book, ‘Face It: A Memoir.’

I met charismatic and gorgeous Debbie Harry (Blondie) at Alan Cumming’s Club Cumming. Blondie’s appearance at the Enclave Reading Series was kept on the down low. As a member of the press, I’d been tipped off ahead of time and was quickly ushered to my seat. I sat between Thomas Manzi (Harry’s manager) and the entertaining theater director and actor, Rob Roth.

The punk icon successfully slipped into the dark club without notice and was led to her seat at our table. It was great fun when the eyes in the surprised audience popped when Blondie’s presence was announced. This was Harry’s first public reading from her debut memoir, Face It (HarperCollins). Oh, what a night!

I❤️NY

More A-List Celebs

It’s a lot of fun interviewing top celebs. Here are some of the stars I’ve interviewed and photographed here in my native New York City. My YouTube Channel stats are up to 1,746,884 views.

Check out more on my YouTube Channel

Update: As you know #Covid19 put the 3D entertainment industry on hold. We all want this nightmare to end. Wear your mask, get vaccinated, stay away from lunatics with AR-15s, and please come back soon! Love and kindness. In the meantime, here’s a virtual video with another New York City icon, Joan Jett.

A–G

Alec Baldwin, Moran Atias, Woody Allen, Angela Bassett, Kim Basinger, Jamie Bell, Mayim Bialik, Roseanne Barr, Prince Lorenzo Borghese, Kate Bosworth, Lorraine Bracco, Abigail Breslin, Jeff Bridges, Adam Brody, Albert Brooks, Zlatko Buric, Gerard Butler, Rose Byrne, Lizzy Caplan, Patricia Clarkson, Glenn Close, Laverne Cox, Billy Crudup, Penélope Cruz, Rory Culkin, Willem Dafoe, Paul Dalio, Rosario Dawson, Robert De Niro, Kirsten Dunst, Aaron Eckhart, Peter Facinelli, Michael Fassbender, Abel Ferrara, Ralph Fiennes, Isla Fisher, Jodie Foster, Ciaran Foy, James Franco, Antoine Fuqua, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Julia Garner, Paul Giamatti, Alex Gibney, Terry Gilliam, Domhnall Gleeson, Shep Gordon, Ryan Gosling, Maggie Grace, Maggie Gyllenhaal

H–N

Paul Haggis, Jerry Hall, Pooch Hall, Tom Hardy, Debbie Harry, Lucas Hedges, Katherine Heigl, Jonah Hill, Emile Hirsch, Katie Holmes, Gavin Hood, Vanessa Hudgens, Holly Hunter, Oscar Isaac, Allison Janney, Richard Jenkins, Joan Jett, Felicity Jones, Jason Katims, Zoe Kazan, Catherine Keener, Jack Kesy, Sir Ben Kingsley, Luke Kirby, Kevin Kline, Steven Knight, Shia LaBeouf, Christine Lahti, Peter Landesman, Frank Langella, Jill Larson, Juliette Lewis, Liana Liberato, Ray Liotta, Justin Long, Kevin Macdonald, Eddie Marsan, Dylan McDermott, Mads Mikkelsen, Cesar Millan, Helen Mirren, Julianne Moore, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Erroll Morris, David Morse, Viggo Mortensen, Cillian Murphy, Rupert Murdoch, Kumail Nanjiani

O–Z

Edward James Olmos, Elizabeth Olsen, Ellen Page, Josh Pais, Vanessa Paradis, Nate Parker, Aaron Paul, Bernadette Peters, Oliver Platt, Carrie Preston, Richard Pryor, Jr., Kathleen Quinlan, Daniel Radcliffe, James Ransone, Jeremy Renner, Jason Ritter, Eric Roberts, Ray Romano, Paul Rudd, Winona Ryder, Susan Sarandon, Peter Sarsgaard, John Sayles, Liev Schreiber, Adam Scott, Kristin Scott Thomas, Michael Shannon, Alia Shawkat, Alexander Skarsgard, Stellan Skarsgard, Christian Slater, Mira Sorvino, Paul Sorvino, Steven Spielberg, Gloria Steinem, Kristen Stewart, Sir Patrick Stewart, Jerry Stiller, Julie Taymor, Juno Temple, Fred Thompson, Uma Thurman, Lily Tomlin, John Turturro, Sofia Vergara, Alicia Vikander, Sam Waterston, Naomi Watts, Forest Whitaker, Michael K. Williams, Patrick Wilson, Nicolas Winding Refn, Alex Winter, Nat Wolff, Elijah Wood, Evan Rachel Wood, Matilda Mae Wyman, Suzanne Accosta Wyman, Bob Zappa

The post A-List Celebs Dazzling Photos appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

I worked as an art director and Bill was my boss. It was a small company that made litigation graphics. Major law firms hired us to provide their attorneys with eight-foot-high charts to display during trials. The lawyers would point like Vanna White to charts for the jury to see from 20 feet away.

I said, “Good morning, Bill.”

The three graphic designers I shared the room with and the four from an adjoining room gathered round Bill to launch the morning ritual of stomach-turning sucking up.

“Bill, you look terrific. Great color for you,” Alicia said.

“How was your weekend with the family upstate?” Leo asked.

Big David starts in about football, “Did you catch the game, Bill?”

I just couldn’t stand it anymore, so I grabbed a stack of folders and headed off to the copy machine with my design layouts. Bill came into the narrow room and leaned against the door frame.

“Busy copying?” he asked.

“Yup,” I responded to the painfully obvious question.

Bill walked over and stood way too close. Without warning he leaned in, reached his hand down and yanked the seat of my cotton stretch pants.

“Baggy pants,” he said disapprovingly.

I whirled around and blurted out, “Don’t touch my pants,” and scurried out of the room.

“Why are you always so militant?” he called out after me.

I winced. My arms burned, my stomach churned, and I was sweating. Once back at my desk, I began putting the copied pages into their corresponding job folders. ‘Damn,’ I thought. The whole reason I wore the baggy pants was so he’d stop staring at my ass.

Every day I went home and combed the want ads in the Times, but I couldn’t find anything even close. I was making good money as a designer, had excellent dental and medical benefits, profit sharing, three weeks paid vacation and 12 paid sick days.

It seemed like it would be idiotic to quit. We worked on exciting highly publicized cases like a John Gotti trial, the Central Park jogger case and the Exxon Valdez oil spill. In many ways I loved the job. The work was fun and challenging. My co-workers and I liked to talk about movies and books, and I adored my supervisor, Leo, who shared my kooky sense of humor. But Bill … Bill was a sexist pig and a bully.

Another day Bill slithered up beside me. He was a foot taller than me, so when he put his arm around me as if he was my buddy sliding a hand around my waist, his hand brushed up against and rested on the lower part of my right breast due to our height difference. I felt sure that this “accidental” fondling was intentional. I froze. I wanted to kick myself later for not calling him on it. This was a man who insisted we attend his office pool party every summer.

Bill had a large second home outside of the city. During my first pool party initiation he took me on a tour. Bill showed me the master bedroom and master bathroom. He pointed to the custom-made shower that had a ledge built in. He said, “That’s so my wife and I can do one of those things married people do.” He gestured with his hand to make it clear he was talking about a blow job. I was aghast. Every year after that I tried to figure out a way to skip the pool party. But the one time I did, he tortured me about it for a year.

One day my co-worker Sherri ran over to me, crying. She showed me her weekly time sheet, with a note in Bill’s handwriting. It said, “I’m very attracted to you.” Bill was 68 years old at the time. Sherri and I were both 26. He was married to his third wife. I felt like scrubbing the time sheet with hand wipes. “What should I do?” Sherri asked me, a worried look on her face.

I didn’t have the answer. For the past month I had been trying to organize the other six women at work to bond together so we could sue Bill for sexual harassment, or at least confront him. Not one of them would agree to help. I tried cajoling them. When that didn’t work I tried getting them as mad as I was, but they all seemed passive.

“How long do you want him to slither his hands across your boob when he’s pretending to hug you?” I asked. They accused me of being too dramatic. I accused them of being in denial.

Day after harassing day, Bill would walk up behind me as I sat at my desk. He would slide his huge meaty hands around my neck until his fingertips touched. It felt like a combination of him wanting to seduce me and strangle me. Each time it happened, I was rendered paralyzed and speechless. One day I’d had it and said, “Don’t touch me!”

That started an ongoing office humiliation that would last for the entire eight years I continued to work there. Bill would sneak up behind me, and he would start to put his hands around my neck but would stop less than an inch away. Then he would make sure that he had an audience and say in a mocking tone, “Oops! No touchy.” All of the brownnosers would give it a hearty laugh and the blood would rush up to my face and ears.

My friends and my feminist mom often demanded an explanation for why I wasn’t taking this man to court. Bill was brilliant; he knew a lot about the law, and he was rich and could afford much better lawyers than I could. I was afraid of being ripped apart on the stand as rape victims often are. I was reluctant to spend all of my meager savings on lawyers and afraid of being fired.

One day I returned from an approved day off. Bill blocked my way to my desk and used his deep, flirty voice, “Ms. Olds” — he always called me that — “please see me in my office immediately. And bring the layouts that are on your desk.” I did as he asked. He shut the door and said, “So, a day off? Are you in love?” I replied, “That’s not something I will discuss.”

He slammed his fist down onto his desk, lurched towards me and demanded, “Why are you so combative? We are a family around here.”

“Bill, I have a family. This is where I work. Let’s talk about the layouts.”

My friend Lorraine gave me an 11″ x 17″ sign that said “What part of NO don’t you understand?” She suggested that I put it on the bulletin board behind my desk. I did. I wanted to believe it would help, but only two co-workers ever mentioned it. Both were female.

Temps often worked the phones at the front desk. There was one large, sassy, redheaded Southern gal named Lucy. She pulled me aside one day, about three years after I had begun working at the firm, and said that I should know that the men doing the same job I was doing were paid more than I was. This was a tricky bit of information. How could I bring it up with Bill without betraying her confidence?

When I had been hired full-time, Bill had assured me that I would receive periodic raises “without even having to ask for them.” This had never occurred. I decided to muscle up some courage and go in for a talk.

“Bill,” I started, “are you pleased with my work?”

“Oh yes,” he said.

“Am I being paid on the same scale as the men?”

“Of course not,” he said.

Did I hear him correctly?

“Ms. Olds, David has a wife and two daughters to support, and mortgage on a house to worry about. It simply would not be fair to pay him the same amount as you.”

I was dumbfounded. Speechless.

The following week I received a raise. Very smarmy way to get a raise, but I was glad to deposit the money.
One day, without my knowledge, Bill took a photo of me. I was leaning over my desk, deep in concentration, working on graphics for a chart. I was wearing an appropriate V-neck top, but at that angle, a hint of cleavage appeared. He passed the snapshot, a zoomed-in view of my breast area, around the office.

Another incident happened while I had to fix chipped type on a chart in a hurry. I knelt down on the floor to quickly restore the chipped ‘H’ on the sign. Bill came through the doorway and said, “Ah, women – just how I like them, on their knees.”

I continued to look for a better job. I went on interviews. My father always warned me never to quit a job until I secured a better one. One November afternoon, Bill called me into his office and told me to close the door. He sat slumped, his brow was furrowed and the sides of his mouth were turned down. “As you know, business has been very slow this year. I am going to cut your salary by half. I’m sorry to give you this news, but I’ve always appreciated your loyalty and I know that you will stand by me during these tough times.” This came as a shock to me and so did my response: “In that case, Bill, I will not be working here any longer.”

It was as if I’d jumped out of a plane with no parachute and was in free fall. But the feeling was glorious and the risk paid off. I went into business for myself, which was terrifying at first. I had a mortgage to pay and monthly bills and feared using up the bit I’d managed to save. But within a month I got a full-time freelancing gig designing college textbooks and that year I made twice as much as I’d made working for Bill. I landed more and more creative jobs, web design and print work, and my writing took off.

It’s been years since I worked in an office. My desk is at home and my loyal dog likes my whistling. I make twice as much money and literally whistle while I work. And there is no longer a six-foot-four goon of a boss grabbing the back of my pants.

The post Fight or Be Fondled – Rising Above a Bully of a Boss appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

I hope you enjoy my photos from the Annual Halloween Dog Parade in Tompkins Square Park. The costumes this year were spectacular. You can read about the “Howling Good Time” on Sniff and Barkens magazine.

More doggie ghosts from Halloweens past

There was a huge turnout despite the rainy, cold and windy weather. Here is a teaser of photos. 

See more fun Halloween dog photography here!

One touching story came from Lorna Li who came dressed as a chef holding chopsticks. She talked about her darling dog, a Pekingese named Iggi. He has his own Instagram account: everyonesiggi. Read more about the amazing rescue of her little Iggi.

You’ll also hear exclusive quotes from beloved dog advocate Ada Nieves, who co-chaired the event.

The post Basket of Adorables: Photos From Halloween Dog Parade in New York City appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

Cockroaches scampered up the bed and scurried across my Greenwich Village apartment floor. I knew I was hallucinating. The empty liter of Bacardi rum glared at me next to barren packets of coke.

I was 26, sitting cross-legged like a child on my queen-sized bed. It was 6:00 a.m. and I hadn’t slept. It was 1988. A frigid March wind blew in from my windows facing Minetta Lane. Every nerve roared for more cocaine.

I watched with terror as a tarantula writhed on top of my dresser. I closed my eyes, hoping it would disappear. Tarantulas don’t live in New York but when I opened my eyes, the hairy black thing was still there.

My lap was littered with confetti-like shreds of eight-by-ten glossies. My painting portfolio. How could I have done that to the only thing I was proud of? I’d painstakingly assembled each page of the spiral book, with photos tucked safely under plastic sleeves in the hopes of finding a better job than waitressing. On one of the ripped pieces, I’d pressed down so hard with a pen that it left indents on the image. Hendrix lyrics: I don’t live today.

My mind scrabbled at the events leading to this last bender. The day before, my roommate Frederic had confronted me in the apartment. His long elegant fingers dug into my upper arms so hard it hurt. An angry vein popped out on his forehead and he shook me like a ragdoll. With tears streaming down his face he said, “If you don’t stop killing yourself, I’m leaving.”

In his eyes I could see the reflection of what I’d become. Disgusting, pathetic. Shame and self-loathing buckled my knees.

Frederic was the only person that mattered. Boyfriends came and went like subway riders. If any got too close, they’d see who I was. Or I’d decide a man’s hands were too hairy or he chewed too loudly. I’d break up with the bewildered fellow and return to my plague of loneliness. Then I’d fixate on a new crush and brood when he barely noticed me.

Happy couples on the street were a mystery. I wanted to run up and say, “How do you do that? What’s wrong with me?”

But Frederic, he was my best friend, like a loyal older brother who’d adopted me.

Our railroad apartment placed his room at the opposite end. Now, as I sat on my bed with jaw clamped in a coked-out grip and eyes bulging, I begged the universe not to let him wake up and see me like this. I’d sworn to stop after he threatened to move out. I had to because life would be unlivable without him. He was the only reason I didn’t jump out a window.

I remembered stopping off at Jimmy Day’s bar on West 4th Street for just one drink. The rest of the night was a blank.

My ashtray overflowed onto the nightstand, reflecting another broken promise to Frederic. Ever since he’d quit, he hated when I smoked. Gone were the days when we’d drink vodka together and play Scrabble for hours, chain smoking and laughing. He’d quit the cigs, cocaine, and vodka.

I emptied the ashtray into my leopard-pattern tin wastebasket. Suddenly, billowing puffs of smoke and high flames shot out of it. I closed my eyes and rubbed them hard. Slowly, I opened them again. Still roaring flames. I got up from the bed and put my palms on the sides of the tin to feel for heat. It was cold. Relieved there was no fire, I was terrified there was no sanity either.

I heard the long-ago voice of my cousin Angela, “You’re so lucky you can handle the drugs, Dor. But if you ever have a problem I’m the one to call.”

I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Ang?”

“Dor?”

After bursting into tears I slurred, “Uncle Carl had the right idea. I’m gonna get a gun and shoot myself.”

“Wait,” Angela said. “Do you have any more alcohol or cocaine?”

I had only the specs of coke that lined the empty packets and a few airplane-size bottles of Absolut stashed in my underwear drawer.

“Finish everything,” Ang said.

That was a first. People never told me to drink more.

“I’ll be there soon,” she said and hung up.

Her brother Brad called.

“Hey Sweetiepie.” It was soothing to hear his voice. “I reserved a bed for you in Florida.”

“Ooh, Florida?” I said, “Is there a pool?”

I heard the front door slam and realized I’d awakened Frederic. My throat went dry but I kept doing what I was told, scraping the last snortable flakes and downing the vodka minis.

Ang arrived at the apartment and yelled “Hey Dor!” After a bear hug she scanned the closet, grabbed a knapsack, and began to pack.

While she yanked t-shirts out of my dresser drawer I moaned with agony, “I’m out of cigarettes.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Everything is fine.”

Being exhausted and stoned made me pliable and obedient.

Angela carried my backpack while I navigated the four flights down to the lobby, gripping the banister to keep from wobbling. When we got to her double-parked car on Macdougal, she helped me into the passenger side and buckled me in. Sure I was going to puke, I unbuckled.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

The thought of eating made me gag. I managed a slurry “no.”

“We have to eat something,” she said. “It’s a long trip to Florida and when did you last eat?”

Before I could answer or stop her, she hopped over to the shake shop across the street and came back with two vanilla shakes. I got down about half of it before I bolted from the front seat and barfed on the pavement. She came around and helped me back into the car.

We headed off to JFK airport. As soon as Ang started to drive, I passed out. I have no memory of the airport or boarding the plane. I came out of the blackout while Ang was checking me into the rehab. There was a pink-skinned lady at a desk with a dopey soccer-mom hairdo who told me to sign paperwork. Then she led me down the hall to a room. Before she closed the door, I asked her to get Angela but the woman said she’d left. My tired bones collapsed on the cot’s thin mattress and I zonked out on the flat pillow till morning.

When I awoke, I tried to piece things together. Only isolated snippets. Frozen snapshots of laughing with a bartender, making out with somebody. I looked around the sparse room and wanted to go home. I got out of the bed and walked to the door but found it locked. There were no lights on. I peeked through the Plexiglas window in the door and could see a woman at a desk. I rapped hard on the window. She smiled and came over to me.

“Where am I?” I said.

“You’re in the detox room at the Hazelden Center in West Palm Beach.”

Her voice sounded like it was coming through a cloud of cotton. I could hardly decipher what she was saying, much less comprehend it.

“What am I doing here?”

She didn’t seem surprised by my question and patiently explained I’d come the day before and my cousin had checked me in, then left, and I’d be staying with them for the next 31 days.

I told her I had to go home and needed to leave right away. I demanded she find my purse. She retrieved it from a locker and handed it to me. I looked for the sliding Bayer aspirin container with my emergency line of coke and mini straw. I couldn’t find it and became frantic. She looked at me kindly and explained they’d searched my purse and disposed of the drugs they found.

Irate, I yelled, “You can’t do that!”

“Yes, dear,” she said, “we do that for all of our patients. You’re here because you’ve agreed to stop taking drugs and you signed the intake permission form.”

I demanded to leave.

“Okay,” she said.

To my horror, I found only two dollars and loose change in my wallet. I was a long way from home with no access to money. Dizzy, I asked the woman if I could lie down again.

“Of course you can, dear. That’s a good idea.”

She helped me back into the creaky cot and I stayed for 31 days.

Written for The Fix

The post The Darkest Night of My Addiction appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

To My Civil Rights Activist Mom

In the house I grew up, Mom had a framed letter from Coretta Scott King dated Nov. 10, 1966. It was a letter of thanks. “I would like to thank you very much for your interest in and support of my recent Freedom Concert in Chicago,” Mrs. King wrote. “Much of the success of these concerts depends upon persons such as yourself who devote time and energy in their promotion and support.”

Justice in Winnetka

50 Years Later

On Sunday, July 26, the 2015 Justice Project: The March Continues rally was held in the Chicago suburb of Winnetka, Illinois. The event was a 50th anniversary commemoration of the North Shore Summer Project’s (NSSP) 1965 rally that brought 10,000 people together to listen to the stirring words of Martin Luther King Jr.

1965 Fair Housing Rally

That 1965 rally was the largest gathering ever before on the Winnetka Village Green, and the first time Dr. King ever spoke in an all-white suburb. One of the NSSP fair housing activists and rally organizers was my mom, Sally Wendkos Olds.

My Mom was not a political figure. She is a Jewish woman who excelled at writing and raising three kids with my doting Dad. Both parents wanted us to grow up in a just society of equal rights for everyone. Those rights should always include housing rights. In 1965, she worked as the publicity director and contact person for the Winnetka Village Green event. She also wrote a follow-up article for a Chicago church-published magazine called Community.

Racial Discrimination

The N-Word

My parents raised me to never discriminate against anyone based on the color of their skin – nor their religion. Hence, I took little notice of anyone’s skin-color. Sadly, in 1975, when I was in Weber Middle School in Port Washington, Long Island, there were creepy classmates who frequently called me “nigger lover.”  I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that anybody actually still thought that way; that was my introduction to racism.

#BlackLivesMatter should not have to be a hashtag — it should be a given.

It’s a terrible stain on this great nation that racism still runs rampant here. I’d never bash America because I feel lucky to have been born in such a privileged country, but it is painful to hear what goes on outside of my insulated world of diversity and liberals in New York City’s Chelsea neighborhood, where almost anything goes and people of all colors, religions, and sexual preferences are celebrated.

On June 1, The Guardian wrote:

“An analysis of public records, local news reports and Guardian reporting found that 32% of black people killed by police in 2015 were unarmed, as were 25% of Hispanic and Latino people, compared with 15% of white people killed.”

Don’t get me started on the disgraceful Confederate flag issue. It took the murder of nine black churchgoers in Charleston to order South Carolina to take down its offensive Confederate flag — the utmost symbol of racism and slavery.

FAIR HOUSING FIGHTS STILL IN THE NEWS

One month ago, the Supreme Court endorsed a broad interpretation of the Fair Housing Act of 1968. They agreed with a Texas-based nonprofit corporation that the Department of Housing and Community Affairs and its officers had “caused continued segregated housing patterns by allocating too many tax credits to housing in predominantly black inner-city areas and too few in predominantly white suburban neighborhoods.”

The New York Times Wrote

After the Supreme Court’s decision June 25, The New York Times wrote:

“Much progress remains to be made in our nation’s continuing struggle against racial isolation,” Justice Anthony M. Kennedy wrote for the majority in the 5-to-4 ruling. “The court acknowledges the Fair Housing Act’s continuing role in moving the nation toward a more integrated society.”

SEE ALSO: A White Civil Rights Activist Looks Back on Martin Luther King March on Winnetka Village Green

I asked Mom about the past 2015 event in Chicago because I wanted to know how she felt about the tragedy that not enough has changed since the 1960s. She said, “The North Shore Summer Project opened a lot of people’s eyes to the unfairness of restricting communities on the basis of color or religion.”

Hate Mail

Mom said, “Although I received hate mail from some of my neighbors, the NSSP found that most residents in these northern suburbs were very willing to have nonwhite neighbors, and that it was the realtors who made, and acted on, other assumptions.” Concerned, I asked Mom if the hate mail had scared her. “Instead of frightening me, it inspired me to do more, since it let me know that my efforts and those of my fellow activists were being noticed,” she replied.

That’s rather impressive, don’t you think? Way to go, Mom!

When I asked if anything stands out in her mind about this 2015 event she said, “In one way it was dismaying that 50 years later, at this anniversary, we still needed to be reminded about the importance of fair housing, as in the stirring words of Hilary Shelton, the NAACP’s Washington [D.C.] director. He reminded the audience how crucial housing is in determining the schools children go to, the services residents can receive, and the building of personal assets throughout a lifetime. But,” she added, “the speakers acknowledged good news, too, like the Supreme Court’s recent ruling that building affordable housing in areas that perpetuate segregation is illegal, even if intent to do so cannot be shown. Our nation is making progress.”

In 1965, the Winnetka Historical Society wrote, “Dr. King’s appearance in Winnetka came at the end of a day of rallies in the Chicago area. Though hoarse and exhausted from five earlier speeches, Dr. King urged the crowd to ‘go all out to end segregation in housing.’

He asserted that ‘[e]very white person does great injury to his child if he allows that child to grow up in a world that is two-thirds colored and yet live in conditions where that child does not come into person-to-person contact with colored people.’ Dr. King criticized not only the ‘vitriolic words and violent actions of the bad people,’ but also ‘the silence of the good people.’ He observed: ‘We must now learn to live together as brothers, or we will perish together as fools.’”

Amen to that, Dr. King.

The post An Activist Who Fought for Civil Rights Reflects on Racism 50 Years Later appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

Cats Have Skills We Don’t

Cats have skills that we don’t. Have you ever watched you cat and notice when your cat’s ears change position?That’s because felines can pick up sound frequencies that are no perceptible to us mere mortals. Your fur baby has vision way stronger than yours. Whether it’s dawn or dusk, kitties see much more than their owners do. And it is a myth that cats cannot be trained. They can.

Cats Can Be Trained

It’s a cryin’ cat shame that felines don’t get their rightful recognition. Google can spit out tons of stories about cats saving humans. And no matter what you previously thought, news flash: cats can be trained. They are already working as service animals despite the legalities.

“Cats might have skills that are as yet untapped in this realm.”

— Bioethicist Jessica Pierce

Bioethicist Jessica Pierce writes lovingly about cats. However, her theory does not support my argument about training. She believes that pussycats are not legally service animals because people assume, (correctly, in her opinion), that cats cannot be trained. Pffft. There’s plenty of evidence that proves otherwise.

However, Pierce makes a legitimate argument when she points out that service dogs navigate for persons with visual impairment. Cat’s do not. “Although cats can certainly be trained,” says Pierce, “I don’t think they are behaviorally adapted to the sort of physical, mental, and emotional work for which dogs are so well-suited. Cats are not hyper-social, have heightened startle reaction compared with dogs, are not large or physically strong enough to support the weight of a person and don’t seem to be as tuned into human communicative cues.”

All that being said, Pierce adds, “Cats might have skills that are as yet untapped in this realm.”

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Austin Eubanks was one of the survivors from 1999’s horrific mass shooting at Columbine High School. Tragically, his best friend Corey DePooter was murdered by the gunman.  After Eubanks was severely traumatized and vulnerable, doctors began prescribing him painkillers. I know from experience, opioids are only effective for relieving short-term physical pain. They are extremely addicting and have side-effects. Long-term use can be disastrous.

Eubanks Kicked Drugs

After the shooting, Eubanks developed an opiate addiction. But at the time of our interview, he’d fought the battle of quitting drugs. Eubanks excitedly told me about his treatment and how he’d learned to live clean and sober. This is after he’d almost lost everything due to his addiction taking him to the brink.

Dealing With Survivor’s Guilt

During our interview he confided, “I could literally get whatever I wanted. Telling them I’d been shot at Columbine and lost my best friend was like getting an open prescription book from every doctor. I’d been filled with grief and survivor’s guilt. But I finally found lasting recovery.”

It has been more than two decades since this article was published. However, today, when I saw David Hoggs was trending on twitter, it brought me back to my interview with another gun violence survivor who weathered his pain by turning into an activist.

RIP Austin Eubanks (Oct 8, 1981 – May 18, 2019 ).

Those of us from Sandy Hook, Parkland, Uvalde, & Highland Park have a vision of living in a nation with no mass shootings. We thank @SpeakerPelosi @LeaderHoyer @WhipClyburn @RepCicilline for leading the effort to pass the assault weapons ban in the House of Representatives today. pic.twitter.com/1NraEelcIT

— Newtown Action Alliance (@NewtownAction) July 29, 2022

Seventeen years ago, 17-year-old Austin Eubanks was terrorized during the Columbine High School massacre. It was on April 20, 1999 and Eubanks was in the library with his best friend Corey DePooter when they heard a bomb go off. It was chaos and Eubanks ran to hide under a desk. He was shot in the arm and knee, but his deepest wounds were emotional. Austin saw his best friend murdered in a barrage of bullets.

“My injuries were not to the point of needing an opiate pain medication,” Eubanks told The Fix in an exclusive interview. “But I was immediately given a 30-day supply. Within three months I became addicted.” From then on, he said, “I used substances every day, day in and day out.”

After the shooting, his parents took him to see a therapist who said Austin was too shut down to process his horrific trauma. But the reason no one could reach him was because he was overmedicated.

“I learned to manipulate doctors,” Eubanks said. “I could literally get whatever I wanted. Telling them I’d been shot at Columbine and lost my best friend was like [getting] an open prescription book from any doctor.”

Austin never went back to school at Columbine and his parents hired a tutor. He graduated in 2000 and attended the Columbine ceremonies without setting foot back in the school. He went into advertising and married in his early 20s. He and his wife had a son, but Eubanks’ substance abuse escalated. His first attempt to get sober was in 2006. “I went to a 30-day inpatient program,” he said, “but within hours of leaving, I went right back to the same regimen—abusing pain pills and Adderall.” 

Right before Columbine, young Austin had been misdiagnosed with ADD. 

“I didn’t have ADD,” said Eubanks. “I just liked being outdoors and playing golf better than being in school. At that time, if anybody was truant at school they said, ‘Oh, they must be ADD. Let’s put them on a stimulant.’ That was why I got Adderall. I liked it because I could abuse opiate pain medication to the level that most people would be nodding out. With Adderall, I could function. Basically, I was doing oral speedballs. It was like using methamphetamine and heroin.”

His second try at living clean came in 2008. His son was three and he was separated from his wife. “That’s when I started to have an intrinsic motivation to change. I went to treatment, stayed 90 days, and achieved eight months of sobriety.”

He and his wife reunited and decided to have a second child. Another boy was born. 

“This is one of the examples that I use when I give presentations about learning every way that doesn’t work. First, I did the normal addict path. I achieved abstinence for a period of time, and built up enough false confidence to where I said, ‘I can drink, because alcohol was never a problem for me.’ I went back to drinking. After a few weeks, drinking led back to smoking weed. Smoking weed led back to Xanax, which led back to Oxycontin, and then I was right back into the same routine.”

In 2011, he was approaching 30 and estranged from his wife and kids. “My sobriety date is April 2, 2011. I woke up in a jail cell and had absolutely no idea how I got there.” 

The last thing he remembered was heading to see the Colorado Rockies baseball team on opening day. He’d been using Oxycontin and drinking, and had passed out in a restaurant. Police arrived and arrested him for probation violation. Due to his addiction, Eubanks spent years in and out of the court system for various offenses, including car theft and writing bad checks.

“I woke up, I opened my eyes in jail, sick. I was in withdrawal from opiates. I was hungover from alcohol. That was the absolute lowest moment of my life. I had ruined the marriage. I had two children I was estranged from. I told myself, ‘If I don’t stop right now, I’m going to die’ and I wasn’t ready to do that. I hit multiple rock bottoms and finally came to understand that I had learned every way that doesn’t work, and I gave up the fight to keep trying to [get sober] on my own. I went into treatment and said, ‘Tell me how to walk, how to talk, what to do and I will do it.’”

After staying mum all these years, Eubanks decided it was finally time to talk about his addiction publicly. “By talking about being at that low place in my life, it’s my attempt at helping others. I’m proof there is a path out and there’s a path out for everybody, regardless of where you are in life and what you’ve lost.”

When he finally found what he calls his “lasting recovery,” it was not in a 12-step program. “I had gone to a 12-step rehab,” said Eubanks. “I used the 12 steps, I worked them, I met with a sponsor. But I left there with two words in my mind: powerlessness and disease. Those are two dangerous words to put in somebody’s mind who is trying to enact behavioral change in their life. I’m not contesting the value of 12 steps and I’m not saying that addiction is not a disease, but I’m saying that you have to approach it from a position of empowerment to create a life for yourself that is so great you can’t imagine going back to using substances. Without that, relapse is much more common.”

He credits a therapeutic community (TC) for his long-term sobriety. “They focused on the behaviors around addiction.” He stayed for seven months. “The TC model helped me understand what was happening in my brain. I’ve always been a thinker. It was really beneficial to be able to say [to myself], ‘These decisions are happening right now in your life because this is how your brain is functioning. This is what’s happening in your prefrontal cortex. This is the reason for your impulsivity. This is what your mid-brain functionality looks like. This is what it’s going to look like at three months of abstinence. This is what it’ll look like at six months of abstinence. At a year of abstinence, if you’re able to achieve that, your brain is going to be fundamentally different than it was in the beginning.’”

Eubanks learned what his triggers were. “I could say, ‘These are impulses I’m having right now, but there’s a date on the calendar where my brain is going to be functioning differently. If I continue to exhibit pro-social behaviors and work toward that goal, I’m going to continue to make progress.’ It helped me as a roadmap.” 

Now sober five years, he works for The Foundry, a TC substance abuse treatment center in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. “We talk to people about brain function,” said Eubanks, “about transactional analysis and what that looks like; what ego states make our decisions and why impulsivity is so strong. And why an addict behaves like a rebellious child. Then we apply all that to 12-step principles, which we have found to be phenomenally beneficial for people.”

Eubanks believes that addiction is on a spectrum, similar to autism and Asperger’s. “That spectrum is dictated by a number of factors and it’s everything from IQ to socioeconomic status to somebody’s social group to the age of the first time they used. A lot of things contribute to a person’s ability to function for a life of abstinence. We have to look at that on a case-by-case basis.”

It’s true, one size does not fit all and individuals require different tools. You might have somebody able to function in an environment where there’s alcohol around and not be susceptible to relapse, while others can never be in an environment like that without the risk of slipping.

The Foundry’s TC model is based on four pillars: medical, clinical, wellness and family. Medical includes tests to determine blood levels and how a patient metabolizes medication. When appropriate, medication is prescribed. Clinical includes counseling, observation, and treatment to help patients cope with behavioral, mental and emotional problems that interfere with their daily lives. Wellness may include yoga, diet and exercise to help build a better life. Family may involve working with families on a weekly basis and then bringing them out for a family intensive, where they go through the curricula for three days with other families.

“The message I want to send to people is to ask for help,” Eubanks said. “I lived in the dark for over a decade in my addiction. I could never see the path out. Ask for help because it’s there. I finally took the road of recovery and never looked back. Through that process, I was able to re-establish a relationship with my children that is fantastic today. They play a big part in my life. I have a functional relationship with my ex-wife, who is now remarried and I’m recently engaged and going to be married again. Life is too good to ever consider going back to where I was.”

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An Exclusive Interview with Nancy Spielberg

Dorri Olds: Have you thought about making this into a feature film?
Nancy Spielberg: Oh, I have. It’s like a cross between Catch Me If You Can, Band of Brothers and Indiana Jones. [Laughs] All those elements — the capers, the clandestine operations and the bigger story — have so many wonderful pieces to it, more than we could fit in the documentary.
Have you daydreamed about who could be in the movie?
I think Leo DiCaprio as [the pilot] Al Schwimmer would be good. I’ll ask my 26-year-old daughter, “Who do you think is hot and cool and can play swarthy, sexy pilot types?”
Does it make your job easier or harder to have a famous brother?
[Laughs] A little of both. It made it much harder to raise money, much harder. You know, like it’s hard to raise money for the Shoah Foundation because everybody thinks Steven Spielberg supports the Shoah Foundation completely. It was hard because I did have to answer that question. I would gather people together, show them a sample reel, tell them I’m raising money, it’s a 501(c)(3) not for profit, and I would get these questions, “Why can’t your brother give you the money?” Or “Where’s Jeffrey and David, his friends?” So I had to say, without being defensive, “I didn’t ask and that’s not the kind of relationship I want to have with my brother. I also think that this is project that we all need to support. This is not a one-man-show.” In that sense it was tough.
On the other hand, the benefit is that I feel like a lot of doors opened up and people listened to the story and I already knew a lot of people that I contacted to work. I’m very close with James Moll. He’s an incredible filmmaker who started off making home movies for my brother. “It’s Kate’s birthday, let’s make a movie.” Then he went on to make “Last Days” and “The Foo Fighters.” He’s won Oscars and Grammys and Emmys. He’s incredible. The joke was that I went to James first and said, “I need your help,” and he said, “OK, your brother helps me. I help you.” He had Harris Done, which was my dp [director of photographer] who I’ve known through James. James had Larry Benjamin, the guy who mixes sound who is incredible. These people were all willing to work with me.
Here is a fascinating sample reel:
Above and Beyond • Playmount Productions • Katahdin Productions.
Is it true that when you called Director Roberta Grossman that she didn’t believe it was really a Spielberg calling her?
Yes, she wouldn’t take my call and didn’t answer my email. She thought it was a prank. As she described it, “Hava Nagila” was opening up in film festivals and was getting all the awards and she was feeling very smug and secure. The big joke in her office was, “Oh, if that’s Spielberg, tell him I’ll call him back.”
She checked me out with Rachel Levin from Righteous Persons Foundation saying, “Does Stephen have a little sister named Nancy that’s making films?” So she checked me out before she would return my call. But I’ll tell you, she’s incredible. We have such a great team. I feel bad because sometimes that whole Spielberg thing tends to overshadow the people that deserve credit more than that name. She’s wonderful. The whole team was wonderful. I’m grateful she finally took my calls. [Laughs]

Click here to stream Above and Beyond

The post Nancy Spielberg Tells the Wild and Heroic Tale of a Ragtag Team of Israeli Pilots in 1948 appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

In other words, she is an original. By using her voice to help others, Blake has become a top influencer. You will find her writings in essays, articles, blog posts, and social media messages that are all over the web. In addition to top internet outlets, and her byline includes appearing in major print magazines.

As a result of her hard work – and determination to help others – Melissa Blake is a fiery activist educating the world. In addition, Blake is now the author of a memoir: Beautiful People: My Thirteen Truths About Disability. The book’s release date is March 5, 2024. However, it is available for pre-order now.

Here is one of her brilliant tweets that went viral.

During the last round of trollgate, people said that I should be banned from posting photos of myself because I’m too ugly. So I’d just like to commemorate the occasion with these 3 selfies… ???? 

— Melissa Blake @melissablake

Years ago, Blake wrote to me after seeing my New York Times essay about teen rape. Her kind words gave me comfort and she shared parts of her life with me. Although our experiences weren’t the same, we bonded over surviving trauma and a shared mission to help others.

I have experienced Blake’s kindness firsthand. We met when Blake reached out to me after reading my essay Defriending My Rapist which was published in The New York Times.

Centennial Cats

Blake said yes to an interview for my recent assignment for Centennial Animals, a sub-division of Centennial Media. Inside Your Cat’s Mind is a popular magazine series. I did a deep dive into why cats are not officially-approved service animals. Despite the myth that cats aren’t trainable, of course, they are. Just ask a cat trainer!

Cat Trainer Melissa Millet

Dr. Melissa Millet, one of Hollywood’s go-to animal trainers, rescued five cats. She then trained them to star on the silver screen. As a result, her five cats are cast members in the remake of Stephen King’s “Pet Sematary.” These kitties knew nothing about acting until Millet trained them.

Her secret? Patience and kindness. The five furry critters went from non-actors to reaching the top of the crop as cat stars in a major motion picture. As a true-blue animal lover, Millet fights for the rights of animals. Her requirements include supervisors hired to be on set in order to ensure humane treatment. Trainer Millet will never have it any other way.

Back to Blake

Cat lovers like Blake don’t need a certificate to prove heroism in their felines. However, not every residence permits dogs on their premises. And, there are licensed service animals, for example, miniature-horses, that are turned away. Yet, landlords are often agreeable to four-legged feline family members. So, yeah, trained cats have not yet earned their rightful title: “Official Service Animals. Hopefully, that will change in the near future.

See Also: Interviews With Women Writers: Surviving & Writing

Wild About Harry

Blake’s first cat Harry came into her life at a crucial time. It was after her father’s suicide. Sisters Melissa and Joy, and their mother, grappling with grief. “Harry gave us so much love when we needed it most,” said Blake. “We gave Harry a home, thinking that we were saving him. But instead, Harry saved us.”

Blake was born with a rare genetic bone and muscular disorder called Freeman-Sheldon syndrome. After Harry lived a long, full life, the family met two more life-saving cats named Whitney and Stella. “They are precious creatures,” says Blake. “They always remind me to slow down. When I am anxious or depressed, just petting them for even a minute calms me. They have a soothing, loving presence. It is so peaceful.”

And, Blake says, “One of the things I’ve found most interesting, is that none of our cats have been afraid of my wheelchair. Whitney loves sitting in my seat and it reminds me how accepting cats are. Cats never fail to make me smile. They lift my mood.”

Ok folks, I’ll leave you with this #WednesdayBrag

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