Is the democratic party broken?

The other day I saw this:

Hilary already had her time. I like Bernie Sanders. 

This was my response:

Bernie Sanders is unelectable. He divided the Democratic party so much it left room for the Russians to foist the Orange One upon us. His misogynistic Bernie Bros pushed his campaign by hating Hillary because she was a woman. He’s alienated so very many. Lesser of two evils, indeed. Hmmph

His messages, policies, and platforms are now shared by many potential candidates. And for the record, Hillary never got her time, it was stolen away from her. In my humble opinion, while the DNC needed/still needs to stretch it’s goals to the more progressive side, it was FAR from broken.

That started me thinking which led to today’s post. I’m a lesbian woman who has watched my party pull the USA toward the more liberal agenda over most of my lifetime. I’ve cheered and participated the whole way, being born in the late fifties as one of the tag-end baby boomers.

The DNC, while I’ve been alive, mind you, have gotten Social Security enacted to protect/improve the lives of the elderly as well as Medicare for the poor. They passed civil rights legislation that included voting rights for black Americans, and funding for public education and schools. Wade v. Roe may have been a legal victory, but the Dems made sure abortions were affordable and available.

The Democrats won a hard-fought battle for Title IX, demanding equal opportunities for women athletes, as well as pushing for legislation to improve the health care for women, reproductive and otherwise. More recently, they helped push through voting measure after measure to ensure the rights of everyone to marry the person of their choice, regardless of gender, a matter quite dear to my heart. They fought with tooth and toenail against Prop 8, before and after passage, until it was repealed. And when the banks nearly collapsed, they passed the Frank/Dodd legislation to rein in banks and protect people’s savings and IRAs.

Democrats have been at the forefront of every major political battle of my life. Although not always victorious, sometimes inexcusably negligent, and occasionally hoodwinked by the unscrupulous (just like the individuals who make up the party and the human race as a whole) they have clearly and quite demonstrably made my life a better place from where it was destined when I was young.

In 2016, once again, the Dems were at the forefront of change, supporting and backing a female candidate for president after putting the first black man in office. There was no more deserving person than Hillary Clinton, who’d worked to improve the lives of women and children her whole life. When pushed by the patriarchal leadership to conform to the good-old-boy’s standards, she did it. When told to toughen up and take it on the chin like a man, she did. When she came nose to nose and toe to toe with some of the most powerful male leaders in the world, she held her own and represented the USA with powerful grace and skill. She is so effective as a leader that she had the Russians quaking in their boots.

Now we know what we didn’t in 2016 when all the post-election blame was being hurled at Hillary’s feet. The Russians have been targeting the American political system for decades, trying to influence our government into such political chaos that they can either tear us down or force us into a much more compliant nation.

The Russians (and others, I’m looking at you, China, South Korea, and Saudi Arabia) have used subtle forms of propaganda to convince the American people to pull away from each other. They target the poorest (financially) of both political parties with Plain Folks speech, namecalling the opposition, fake news, glittering generalities, and by urging them to jump on the bandwagon of either ultra-conservativism or progressive liberalism. The RNC has been pretty much taken over by the alt-right who demand unquestioning loyalty in support of business and profits. The DNC is also being divided, although not surprisingly the party of inclusiveness is showing signs it may survive as a whole.

The truth is, in my humble opinion, the liberal progressive agenda was moving ahead fairly well in our uniquely American one-step-forward-two-steps-back kinda way until portions of our population got hoodwinked by propaganda into a simmering discontent. Next thing I know is the party that’s always fought to make my life better is being divided almost as effectively as the conservative party by social media and the political machinations of Bernie Sanders. The originally Liberty Union Party, then Independent, then Democrat, now Independent again candidate, who has a lot of good ideas but no sound ways of implementing them, taps into the misogynists within the Democrats the way Trump tapped into the racists among the Republicans.

Sanders, needing a strong political base, didn’t squash the anti-woman rhetoric some of his followers (the self-proclaimed Bernie Bros) spouted. Even after his defeat in the primary, Sanders refused to throw his full endorsement behind Hillary Clinton. Instead, he chose to fuel the fires of party division with innuendo and slippery slope arguments and only at the very end of the campaign, when hints of a Trump victory were in the air, did he urge his most devoted to not stay home as they’d announced they’d do, but instead go out and vote for the ‘lesser of two evils’.

By then he’d dumped the Democrats to assume the mantle of the Independent Progressive, otherwise known as He-Who-Would-Have-Been-Elected-If-Only. He kept insisting the parties were basically the same, a patent falsehood that has been stated so often people are starting to believe it.

With all this division and refusal to compromise, while foreign entities create false memes and fake websites filled with clickbait to outrage and inspire, is it any wonder our country is grinding to a standstill, our citizens suffering, as our great American experiment of a democratic republic crumbles before our eyes? Can’t you just see Putin doing the happy dance while pulling our strings, making our president and citizenry dance to his tune?

But, even as we’re encouraged to judge without evidence, hurl insults rather than offer help, and are being dragged into a nationalistic Us v. Them mentality/behavior, those messages are being questioned. Our shared humanity has begun to shine through.

As always when the powerful make the financially vulnerable suffer, individuals with little more themselves are making up the difference, opening food pantries, starting crowd fundraising, staffing and serving those in need. People across the political spectrum have always responded to cries for help because when we aren’t beating drums within our individual tribes we’re all basically the same.

We want to live in peace among our neighbors, love someone who loves us back, provide for our children and elderly, and chase a dream or two. Our country was founded on the assumption that every human being is equal, and entitled to the chance to attain happiness. It’s time to make good on those premises (pun intended, oh spelling-nazis).

It may be a shame, but it appears neither Hillary Clinton or Bernie Sanders could wrest control from The Donald anymore. Fortunately, a whole new crop of liberals have entered local, state, and federal elections. They’ll tell us who they are over the next year, gearing up for the big one of 2020. The heart of the liberal still beats among us and as our voices join they grow louder every day.

I think it’s especially pertinent as we watch the changing landscape of the synergistic DNC, to remember the wise words of Maya Angelou:

“When someone tells you who they are, believe them.”

The Elephant on the Phone

GOP_Trump_ElephantDailyKos Cartoon credit Laloalcaraz

In the past, I have always heeded sage advice and avoided using this blog to discuss politics and politicians, in particular. It never works for authors to refer to their own political leanings in print, online, or social media conversations. Inevitably, fans with different political leanings will turn away, sometimes feeling so betrayed by you that they actively dissuade potential readers. That’s the kiss of death. So why do it today?

Because I’m in the position of a woman anxiously waiting by my phone for a certain man to call. But the entire trope is upside down, which makes it noteworthy, at least to this author. Usually, said woman is hoping to be pleased if not thrilled when Ms./Mr. Right finally phones. I know this. I write romances. The anticipation is pleasant, spiced with the normal dread of disappointment.

But that’s not the way I feel. I don’t like this. It feels scary and wrong. I don’t want Big Orange having access to my ever-present cellphone that I’ve been told can gather information about me by not only listening in but also providing real time video. For two days I’ve been hearing that Big Orange is going to phone every American’s cellphone to test a new national alert system. While I can’t object to the government being able to alert its citizens in case of emergencies, the anticipation I feel is near terrifying. I find myself dreading the ringing of the phone.

Things are so extreme these days. I’m constantly being reminded of alarming dystopian fiction, not to mention the lessons of history. I’m reminded that events which seem like ancient history to us now were ‘modern times’ when they happened. What if our ‘modern times’ include a government led by narrow-minded holier-than-thou types who approve of spying on its citizenry, using what it learns to keep the populace in line? Is it possible for them to watch, listen, and record me twenty-four/seven? Which of the digital gadgets in my house are already gathering info about me with permissions they’ve gathered unbeknownst to me?

What if I start receiving messages that are duplicitous, or outright lies? Could propaganda be ringing me up? What does that mean? What will happen? How will society change? What will be the new norms? Will families like mine be allowed to exist legally? Will we need to flee our own country to remain free?

Sounds paranoid, I know. But, I’m an older white female, well-educated, who’s only missed three elections since her eighteenth birthday, all due to distance or illness. (Please, don’t nag me to vote absentee. I prefer walking into the polling place and wearing my I Voted sticker all day.) I’m also a lesbian with a wife, two kids, four grand-kids, and three great-grands. My personality is quixotic and usually upbeat. An artist, I easily find the beauty of the world all around me; as a teacher I can’t help pointing it out to anyone nearby. But it’s been a rough twenty-three months for people like me.

Everything I thought I knew about my country, my fellow Americans, my neighbors and friends, has been turned upside down. Harmful laws I thought gone forever are being reinstituted while helpful ones are dismantled as if they never existed. Ethics are being ridiculed, sacrificed on the alter of wealth. Women are being ridiculed, sacrificed on the alter of white male privilege, easily mansplained away. People aren’t listening to each other, compassion is rare, and judgement abounds.

“The times,” as Bob Dylan once noted, “they are a’changing…” and not for the better. Or, as Wednesday Addams said more succinctly, “Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

I refer you to the novels:

  1. Nineteen-Eighty-Four by George Orwell
  2. Animal Farm by George Orwell
  3. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
  4. The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
  5. Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
  6. A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
  7. The Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins

Read, think, vote. We dare not go gently, like lambs led to slaughter.


EEK! There’s the phone…

Lauren Margaret on a Hard Part of Foster Parenting

My niece is doing the tremendously hard work of foster-parenting. It’s a noble thing to do which can backfire on the host family in any number of ways. Their efforts have brought her family both joy…and heartbreak, as Lauren’s following blog post proves:



Lauren Disrupting
Photo credit:




You Can Piss Me Off Like That Anytime, Kiddo!

JJA 2018So, we get home from our staggeringly long vacation visiting family on the island of Terceira. Ten weeks, otherwise known as seventy days, aka the-whole-frickin’-summer, seemed ever-lasting at first but swiftly grew to the familiar scale of ‘never-time-enough’. It always happens like that, a longing to return inescapably swoops us up weeks before we’ve even touched ground again in America.

If you’re wondering how in the hell we can afford something like this, the answer is complicated. We work really hard to make it happen. From saving tax refunds and any ‘found’ money, almost never eating out, reading only free books or ones I manage to win in contests, to cooking from scratch with as many ingredients grown in the backyard by my talented wife, we always pinch our pennies. Heck, it took me three years to be able to afford a new Kindle because I allowed myself only to buy one from gift certificates. And now I’ve gone and lost it, but that’s a story for another post.

Then, while we’re on the small island in the Azores archipelago, we live frugally. Due to local contacts, we’re able to score a place to stay at only ten euros a day. Family members store fishing gear and other necessaries between visits, and (at no little upheaval to their regular schedules) they loan us a car. Most nights we’re welcome to join family dinners at any of several tables, and our lunches consist mainly of local cheese, bread, and fruits. We enjoy simple pleasures rather than participating in tourist activities. And we have a hella good time. I’m already missing steaming mornings with my granddaughter, Mac, riding swells and floating in sea water while arguing generational differences and points of view. We watched puffy white clouds grow and shift endlessly in clear blue skies as tiny fish (and a few not so small) swam around us. Ah… yes…

But, we’re back now. It’s time to pick up the mantle of responsibility and get the five-year-old ready for kindergarten, the sixteen-year-old ready for her junior year, and get my head into the thoughtful beta-reader responses I’ve received over the summer. I want to finish Get Yourself Another Butch and get it to a publisher. As always happens, my head started planning for the American experience, preparing myself for the paradigm shift from vacation to work, Europe to America, island versus city time. When our youngest daughter picked us up from the airport, I was ready to hit the ground running. So, I grabbed a couple of suitcases and (after a brief examination of the abundant garden) turned to negotiate our crumbling back steps.

They’ve been pummeled by weather and ravaged by time, ice and weeds alternated turns at forcing gaps wider, while rain and wind ground away at exposed concrete. To avoid some of the worst gaps, we grab the ironwork rail to kind of haul ourselves up to the kitchen door. But they’ve loosened over the last year, so you’ve got to watch where you step and forge your way up carefully. That’s what I expected to see but this is what greeted my stunned eyes.

New Back StepsI shrieked, thrilled and stunned. Our daughter, Michelle, turned white as a sheet.

“Are you mad? I knew you’d be mad,” she said.

I just shook my head, speechless. My wife turned to see what the commotion was all about. Michelle stared at her mom and backed up a step.

“Hey, that’s great,” cried my Traf. “They look great.”

“They do!” I finally managed. “They’re beautiful!” The steps had been our first priority for repair, but we’d been putting it off to better afford our trip. Now we’d had our trip and returned home to our daughter’s spectacular generosity. But her reaction really floored me.

She’d told everyone she knew, the neighbors, her co-workers and friends, family in person and on the internet, that she was terrified we’d be upset, angry, pissed off. She thought we’d dislike the end results.

I didn’t know what to say to that. Traf and I love it and couldn’t be more pleased to have this home repair done with no effort on our part. We’ve thanked her and told her several times how pleased we are, but she clings to the idea that we wouldn’t have liked it.

I hate that she feared and seemed to expect harsh judgement for such a thoughtful, considerate, generous act. I hope she’s been pleased with our thrilled reaction. We see you, kiddo, for who you are. You can piss us off like this as often as you like!

Oh, to Hell with it.

80 PoundsI’m sorry. I know I promised 12 reasons why I should have gotten bariatric surgery sooner rather than later, but I lost interest in the project half-way through. Perhaps I’ll pick it up again later.

But today I wrote a piece of my mind to a young woman considering bariatric surgery and I’d like to share that with you. Kind of sums the whole thing up. She asked if I (as she does) ever felt, by getting bariatric surgery, I took the lazy way out, cheating as it were. Here’s my answer:

Oh hell, yeah. And I come with decades of baggage. I was 58 when I had my Roux-en-y and I felt like such a lazy loser. But look at what I’d done before resorting to my last option:

1. Yo-yo dieted for literally five decades. My earliest memory is of my diaper falling off while my parents taught me to suck in my toddler-tummy. I lost and gained the same twenty pounds at least a hundred times over the years and you know what that taught my body? That starvation is periodic and to be expected, so stock up on those extra calories and store them in fat cells.
2. I would go through periods of terrible self-loathing. I needed to so that I’d deny myself the substances my body demanded to maintain itself. Dieting hurts (I’m sure you know this) and to make myself succeed I’d have to call myself horrible names, expect failure to force success, and other unutterable abuses I’d NEVER take from someone else.
3. Taught myself that I was only worthwhile when small, i.e. thin. Crapola to that. I was worthwhile every minute of my life and spent way too much time in trying to satisfy my own (and society’s, so-called friends, co-workers, and stranger’s) idealized images. So what if I took up more space than others? I was worth it.
4. Spent too much time in my head, hating others, hating the times we live in, hating anyone who judged me as wanting, hating, hating, hating.
So, young woman, you’re not alone. Yes, I felt I was cheating, but you know what? I didn’t. I chose a medical procedure that has been working for me for the last two and a half years instead of expecting something that failed me (dieting) to suddenly work when it never had before.
Do what you need to do to be the best YOU you can be. If that’s surgery (as it was for me) then embrace it, learn everything you need to do to be successful, and work it just as hard as any diet you’ve ever been on. It’s not easy choosing to amputate a part of your body and have your pipelines rewired, trust me.
You ain’t lazy, girlfriend, and you sure aren’t cheating. Trust me, it’s a challenge every day not to lapse back into bad habits. But if you’ve ever lost 20 pounds or more, you’ve got this.

By the way – if you’ve been following my blog via the link (since the creepy weight-loss schleps stole the first one), it has expired. I’m now http://www.GentaSebastian.Net
You might want to update your links, or chance losing contact with me forever…(oh, the horror!)


belly-2473_1920Welcome back to my four-part series about what I’ve learned over the last two and a half years following bariatric surgery. Following my Roux-en-Y, I reminded myself to pay attention to my body, my emotions, and my experiences. The first three reasons why I believe now I would have been better off getting the surgery in my youth are in part one. Here are reasons 7-9.


Growing old ain’t for sissies and the health issues that accompany morbid obesity begin to take their toll earlier rather than later. There is damage to my joints and spine that directly correlates to carrying around eighty extra pounds for decades. I’ve been plagued with plantar fasciitis, early-onset arthritis, and bad knees that only got worse. The damage to my body led to more and stronger medication over the years.

I hoped to get rid of many of them by having the surgery, but only 70% can significantly reduce their medication and it seems I’m in the unlucky 30%. I do sleep without the c-pap machine strapped to my face now, though, so yippee for that.


Not to be indelicate, but just using the restroom is far easier, especially public ones with tiny stalls. I don’t have to scoot in sideways and worry about what germs might linger on walls various parts of me used to touch. I don’t have to wait for the handicapped stall and then suffer the judgmental glances of skinnier women I usher past me to the smaller ones.

And in the shower, I can easily wash parts of me that formerly took acrobatic acts of skill to reach. My daily shower time is half what it used to be, as is my water bill. Although I’m drinking about five times as much water as before the surgery, so maybe it isn’t, after all.

I go down to the basement and up to the attic twice as often as I used to and don’t worry about trying to carry as much as I can manage in one trip because I’m not afraid to go up or down for a second load.

I can stand in the kitchen to prepare the family dinner without having to take a break and sit down to rest my back. No one, least of all me, thought I’d be cooking so much post-surgery. My family more or less expected I’d leave the cooking to them, but I still watch the Food Network and the Chew (bye bye, sob sob) and have as much interest in the process as ever. I may eat way smaller portions, but my family are thrilled that I still cook their favorite recipes.

And much to my wife’s chagrin, I can shop as long as anyone these days. And with more selection in clothes and shoes, I’m much more eager to do so.


Yes, I know I mentioned this before, but now I’m talking about friends, specifically straight friends. Sure, they were kind to me before and they still are, but their ways of being kind have changed. They respect me more now that I’ve achieved this significant weight loss and have kept it off for so long. They now turn to me for dieting advice and commiseration instead of offering it.

Straight women seem to feel camaraderie over the struggle and occasionally envy my success. I believe this is because almost every woman struggles, at one time or another, to lose weight in our overly judgmental America. Even after menopause, we are urged to be physically attractive as potential sexual partners for men (misogynistic claptrap – a topic for another day) and are judged by a strict scale of youthfulness and societal norms of beauty.

If there’s been a few months between visits, my straight girlfriends almost always mention it and ask if I’m still losing or exclaim over how much I’ve lost. At first, I was surprised by this but then I realized that, having been obese for the better part of sixty years, they’ve identified me so completely with being large that my new appearance surprises them every time they see me.  Oddly enough, my LGBT+ friends adapted to my new look much faster and no longer comment on it, probably because I’m not identified as strictly by appearance/gender norms.

To some of my older friends, I will always be ‘tagged’ in their brains as ‘the fat lesbian’ no matter how much they may like me. They’ve been conditioned to identify ‘otherness’ and both criteria fit when they met me.

Because I’ve slipped the American societal noose of fatness, I’ve done what very few others achieve, and their minds rebel at having to shift labels. That’s okay with me. Call me this, call me that, but don’t…

…call me late for supper.

Catch you next week for the third part of my four-part series. Drop me a comment and let me know what you think of my musings.

2017 Terceira


  2017 Terceira.jpg

Tomorrow marks two and a half years since my Roux-en-Y. I’ve learned a few things about myself and our society. This is the first of a four-part series explaining why, for me, it would have made sense to get bariatric surgery forty years ago.

Before anyone goes off on me – I am NOT saying everyone who is overweight should lose it. That is a medical decision which only you can make, I hope with the advice of a wise physician (or four). Many very healthy people carry extra weight around and I’m pleased as punch for them that they’re not suffering as I did.

I’d tried various diets since childhood and can proudly say that I am an EXPERT dieter. I’ve lost anywhere from twenty to eighty pounds utilizing fad diets, food supplements, and rigorous exercise programs. Unfortunately for me, diets worked only until I’d lost the weight. Then, once I started receiving approval and congratulations for having accomplished such a challenging task, I’d relax my strict (self-hatred driven) dieting behavior. Gradually, I’d relapse into my old eating habits regaining everything I lost and adding more (my body’s way of protecting me from these periodic episodes of starvation). Over the years and in total, I estimate I’ve lost close to five hundred pounds and gained closer to six hundred, a very bad habit that’s placed a lot of stress on my body. Bariatric surgery is the only way I’ve ever lost this much weight and kept it off this long. There’s no guarantees I’ll stay this weight forever, but 2.5 years is two years longer than any weight loss prior.

Please do not interpret my experiences as medical advice. If you are overweight and are unhappy about it, please talk to a doctor about all your options before making life changing decisions. These are merely my own experiences. Yours will be completely different.

So, here we go:


I’m talking about strangers, here. While I weighed in the mid-two-hundreds (from my early twenties to late fifties), I understood that people were nicer to slender women, but I had no idea how much nicer they were. If I’d known people who’ve never met me before and will never see me again, could be so considerate, polite, and charming I’d have considered this procedure forty years ago.

Seriously, my life might have been SO MUCH more pleasant. Instead, I got judgmental glances, called rude terms, asked if I were pregnant, turned down for jobs, and given unwanted and unnecessary advice. It got so bad that when I’d see a new doctor for the first time I’d start the initial visit by saying, “I know I’m morbidly obese, but that’s not why I’m here…” and still I’d be told that if I’d just lose weight I wouldn’t have any health issues.

Um, seriously? C’mon, skinny people get high blood pressure, slender folks can suffer gout and sleep apnea, and lithe human beings still live with chronic depression. I bet their new doctor’s first words aren’t, “Lose weight, it all stems from there.” And doctors weren’t the only ones doling out advice. Complete strangers felt justified recommending diets, exercise workout routines, weight-loss programs, all without once being asked.

Every time someone was rude, or unkind, or judgmentally preachy, I spent time stewing over the situation and wondering if I really deserved that kind of attention. Without spending so many hours miserably contemplating my imagined failures, I could have gotten much more done AND been more in the mood to do so.

Of course, I also could have gotten therapy to help me deal with my low self-esteem issues, as well. But instead, I dieted, lost weight, received approval, regained all the lost weight and more, and repeated the process for decades.


Bariatric surgery deeply affects the entire body, and when it’s accompanied by either gallbladder removal or as in my case, undoing a Nissan fundoplication, it really throws the body for a loop. Think about it, part of your stomach is being amputated and your digestive/evacuation system is being re-routed. That’s a lot of cutting and stitching, and it takes time for your body to heal and get used to utilizing energy in new ways.

Your hair falls out. The body is marshalling its resources and your hair is not ranked as a high priority compared to surviving and adjusting to a very serious surgery. By waiting until I neared sixty to have the bariatric surgery, I put it off until my hair already began thinning. I did take biotin for six weeks before and am still taking it years after the surgery, but my hair will never be the same again. The thick, luxurious locks of my youth would have suffered a bit but rallied sooner and more fully if I’d had the Roux-en-Y in my twenties.


Okay, I’ll admit it. Getting older means becoming set in your ways and bariatric surgery demands change. You’ve got to adjust to much smaller and smarter portion sizes and food choices. You’ve got to make food a lower priority and learn a healthier way of living and breathing as much as eating and exercising. I listen to my body in ways I never have before and try to react in time to save myself from disaster.

Stomachs, for better or worse, are flexible. They grow larger if stretched and shrink if starved. Bariatric patients who are not careful, or have difficulties following surgery, or who just plain regret the permanent change they’ve made, can re-stretch that malleable organ right back to a large enough size to put back on all the weight and more. It’s easier than you think to regain all the pounds you lost, unless you CHANGE the way you live.

I’m fighting forty-five years of self-abuse and unlearning a half-century of bad and deeply ingrained habits. It would have been far easier to switch to better ways before I fell prey to so many unhealthy habits.

So, now you know the first three reasons why I believe bariatric surgery in my twenties would have been a good idea. My reasons may not be valid for everyone else, but after living post-op for two and a half years, I know they are for me.

Check back  soon, as I’ll be posting reasons 9-6 sometime in the next week.




Bariatric Surgery 2.5

80 Pounds
Amazing! I’m still startled by the change.

I know! Can you believe it? It’s over three years since I started the journey and two and a half since I underwent bariatric surgery. Following a full year of preparation and education, my excellent surgeon performed two procedures, undoing a Nissen fundoplication before the Roux-en-Y. The entire surgery took the better part of four hours.

I was an excellent patient and the weight dropped off as I recovered from the surgery and adjusted to a new lifestyle. At first it was just a matter of coping with the side-effects of a zero carb/high protein diet (dizziness, oh my goodness). Then the longing for solid foods became so overwhelming I resorted to blenderizing ground beef and refried beans, ugly as sin and twice as satisfying. I remember the celebration when I could finally eat a full cup of food per meal! I still eat on salad plates and use smaller utensils to remind me of portions and chewing… chewing… such a blessing.

At my lowest weight, taken one year post-op, I’d lost eighty pounds. Since then I’ve regained 7 stubborn pounds, but I can live with them. So I lost a lot and regained a little.

Genta Sebastian visiting the island of Terceira 2017

I also gained a lot of insight into what weight means for an older woman and have lost some respect for our society, all of which will be the subject of several blog posts over the summer.

What have I learned? A lot more than I thought possible. Have I changed? Not as much as I expected. Join me as I try to express the thoughts that have gathered since I started this life-changing journey.

Isn’t that the way for authors? It’s not real until I put it down in words.  So watch for the first of a series I’m calling:



Teaser Tuesday: Sneak Peek at Get Yourself Another Butch


Chapter 10

Autumn 1968

Traf balanced on the gently rocking boat, enjoying the heat of the summer sun on her back and grinning at Tio Marcio as she pulled in a full line of struggling sardines. She held the string of small silver fish high as she tore free the ones that didn’t drop to the boat floor themselves. She scooped up her wriggling catch and threw it into a large metal can, then hurriedly checked the down pigeon feathers she’d carefully tied to each small hook and threw her line back in. “I’m glad you asked for my help this afternoon,” she said happily. “There haven’t been any sardines around the island for months. I’ve never caught so many at one time before.”

They’d sailed out of Praia on an early afternoon in the middle of September, on the smaller of his two fishing boats. Traf used to crew for Tio Marcio as a commercial fisherwoman before joining the US Air Force and still went out with him when he needed her. He’d left word for her at Mãe’s house that the sardines were running and he could use her help to fill an ‘all you can catch’ order for the fish market. In the center of the boat stood two large tin garbage cans, lids tied to their sides. With one already half full, they had every hope of filling both that night.

“You wait,” laughed Tio Marcio, reeling in his line with all but one of his ten hooks full. “We’ll catch plenty more before we’re through. We’re getting special help.”

His comment surprised Traf. Although he didn’t allow his crew to swear, she didn’t think of Tio Marcio as a particularly religious man but, like most fishermen, she gratefully accepted any divine intervention. “We could sure use it,” she said, nodding at their now slack lines. She reeled in and peered over the stern of the boat.

“Sqwoooo, sqwoooo, ski-swi, sqwoooo!” Someone shrieked right behind her.

Startled, Traf spun around to find a porpoise no more than arm’s distance, standing on its tail almost completely out of the water, shaking its head at her and grinning with sharp teeth. Terrified, she nearly toppled out of the boat but dropped at the last moment, rolling to the side and making herself small. She uncovered her head and stared at Tio Marcio who grabbed his sides and brayed like a jackass.

“You heard her,” he said, picking up the largest sardines from their catch and throwing them one after another back into the sea. “They want their share.” She watched in shock as her fishing mentor lost his mind right in front of her. After he’d thrown close to fifty of the largest fish back into the water he sat down and wiped his forehead, waving at a half-dozen fins in the distance. “Eat well and thanks for your help!” he called after the disappearing porpoises.

“Why did you throw away so many fine fish?” Traf asked, picking herself up from the bottom of the boat and staring at the horizon. “That was easily four or five lines full,” she complained, peering bleakly into the somewhat less-full garbage can.

“We’ll get those back and more,” said Tio Marcio, gesturing off to the side at the porpoises breaking the water, throwing themselves playfully back and forth as they swam in their direction. “They’re herding the sardines toward us now.”

Traf heard the wild cawing of seagulls and watched them dart down to the water right in front of the school, picking up fish to carry off. Sure enough, the surface of the water roiled with silver flashes as the swirling school of sardines dashed heedlessly away from one danger right into another. Her fishing line went taut, and her pole tip dipped toward the water as they struck. She reeled in one line after another for an exhausting fifteen minutes. Finally, the fishing slowed to a stop and before she could be scolded again, Traf jumped up and started flinging the biggest live ones back overboard.

“You know,” said Tio Marcio as he helped her, “there are plenty of stories about these great fish helping people who are drowning, swimming between their legs and throwing them up on the rocks.

“I’ve heard some of those,” Traf agreed, opening a jar of cold coffee she’d brought along to drink while they waited to see if the sardines would come back. “But I thought they were fish stories, tales you old salts tell each other on long fishing trips.”

“You could have found out yourself, tonight,” he teased her. “I thought you were going over the side for sure when that porpoise came out of the water. I saw her coming and knew she was going to do that. She’s done it to me before.”

“What? Scream like a tortured woman right in your ear?” Traf screwed the lid back on the coffee and checked her jig, replacing two of the missing hooks. “There’s not much that scares me out here, but that did.”

“Oh, really?” razzed Tio Marcio. “I seem to remember you trying to cut loose a moray eel rather than bring it in teeth snapping.”

“Yes, then your nephew landed it and left it on the floor of the boat! That thing bit my boot and wouldn’t let go ‘til you clubbed it to death. I hate to tell you something you don’t know,” she grinned at her old boss, “but your nephew’s an idiot.”

He ignored the jibe and her clear attempt to redirect to one of his favorite topics of conversation. Refusing to be baited, he teased, “Yes, the eels bother you, moray, crongo, electric, but I also recall something about octopus, right?” Tio Marcio watched the bobbing sea horizon, searching for fins, sparing her a glance and a wink. “Something about when you were little, right?”

She remembered the story she’d told him years ago. “Oh, yeah, that. My father used me for bait one time,” she shuddered. “I was little, splashing my feet in a tide pool while he looked for crabs. He saw an octopus in the pool near my feet and told me to keep splashing. It grabbed my leg and started to climb up me, the suckers left big bruises. It wrapped its tentacles around me and squeezed before Father grabbed its gills and killed it.” She shuddered and spat over the side. “Just one of the many times he’s failed to protect me.”

“You’re kidding, right? Why would you say that? It was Gaspar’s idea for me to bring you out here and have a chat with you.” The boat captain’s usually cheerful countenance became serious. He ceased watching the waves and turned his attention on her.

 “There’s talk going around, Traf, about your club and your friends. Some people are saying you girls need to be taught a lesson to keep out of men’s business.” He watched her absorb this information without notable emotion. “Doesn’t that worry you? This isn’t just idle gossip, they’re serious.”

She nodded her head in acknowledgment.

“Your father overheard them planning in a bar. He asked me to warn you. He and your brother-in-law, Joaquim, have warned all of Lajes what’ll happen if anyone touches one hair on your head, and I’ve spread the same warning here in Praia, but we thought you should know.”

Traf stared at him. “Did you just say my father warns men against attacking me?”

“Sure, he’s been telling that around since before you came to work for me,” said Tio Marcio, surprised by her surprise.

Traf had always been thankfully amazed she’d never been assaulted as so many of her butch buddies had been over the years. Would her father, the same one who beat her with a two by four, do that for her?

“Thank you for warning me.” Traf grimaced. “I’ll spread the news and we’ll take extra precautions, make sure no one’s alone and…,” she hesitated just a moment, swallowing around a bitter lump in her throat, “…we’ll make sure it’s safe inside when they get home.” The Troublemakers had learned that lesson the hard way. “We’ll take care of each other.” She lowered her repaired line back in the water, studiously looking out to sea.

“Well, good, but I’d still feel better if you’d steer clear of that whole court business,” Tio Marcio said. “Acosta and his buddies are stirring up trouble. They’ve been talking big and …”

“Uh oh,” she interrupted, pointing toward the horizon. “Look, a pack of sharks is coming right for us.”

“Those are the porpoises, woman. Sharks can’t work together. They’re not that smart. These porpoises are smarter than you.” He dropped his own line, smiling and waving as the playful porpoises jumped in and out of the water, circling the scrambling school of fish, enjoying the game of herding them to the boat. They fished frantically, reeling full lines of sardines in and dropping empty ones back as fast as possible. An eternal twenty minutes later it ended again. This time the porpoises ate and disappeared. They knew the sardines swam away when the seagulls flew off, always searching for easy prey.

“Both garbage cans are nearly full,” Traf pointed out. “But the sun hasn’t even set, yet. It’d be a shame to go in so soon.”

“Take some sardines and bait some two-line jigs with the bigger hooks.” While she did so, Tio Marcio dumped a few buckets of seawater in to top off the garbage cans and tied their lids down, covering them with wet burlap sacks. “We’ll see if we can land some cod to take home for dinner.” He took one of the baited jigs, attached it to his line, and let it out.

Traf took the other and did the same, but as her line sank out of sight she thought she saw a bright blue spark, like a tiny lightning bolt. “What the hell?” she said, immediately embarrassed. “I mean, what was that?” She described what she’d seen.

“Sounds like an electric eel…”

Traf hastily reassured herself that her line was of nylon and not the thin wire she used for hand-fishing. She thought about reeling up anyway.

“…and they’re always in the company of…” Tio Marcio excitedly climbed up on the engine cover in the middle of the boat, staring around at the surface of the water. “Ah hah, what luck! Speak of the devil and he appears. We’ve got an octopus, Traf, see the ink in the water over there?” He raised the anchor an arm’s length and maneuvered the boat’s rudder to drift in that direction, lowering the anchor again where the last traces of ink dissipated.

Traf, who felt a tug on her line, said over her shoulder. “Fine, you fish for octopus but I’m after cod. Don’t expect any help from me if you catch one!” She started reeling in but hissed between her teeth when the line wouldn’t give. “Great. I’m stuck on a rock. Probably caught while we were drifting,” she complained, giving the line a hard yank and reeling steadily until it broke. She lost both hooks.

Grumbling, she watched Tio Marcio pull in a large rock cod as she prepared another jig. Ready at last, she dropped it to a meter above the bottom and it immediately caught again. “We must be over a bunch of rocks or coral. I keep getting caught!”

“Of course, octopus like caves and holes to hide in.” He looked at her tugging. “Ease it loose, the hooks cost money, you know.”

She wiggled the line up and down and back and forth to see if she could work it free. She jerked it straight up, but still, it didn’t give. “Shoot,” she said, more careful about her language. “I’m going to lose this rig, too.” She started reeling, watching in disbelief as her pole tip bent nearly double without the line breaking.

“What the…?” The line gave minutely under her relentless reeling. “Oh, great, this cheap line is stretching.” She straightened out her pole and angled it into the water, pulling to make the line snap. Instead, it again reeled in incrementally. Traf redoubled her efforts as Tio Marcio pulled in his line, this time with two small fish on the hooks.

“I don’t believe it. I must have picked up a sunken log or something,” Traf complained as the ruined line slowly began to wind around her reel. Tio Marcio threw the small fish overboard and reached with his hands for her line.

“We’ll just snap it free,” he said, adding his muscle to the pull. “Holy Mother of God,” he shouted, staring down into the water. “You caught it, you caught the ‘pus. That’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen.”

“What?” Traf shrieked, standing up on her toes to look over the side. Directly under them, she saw only spotted brown where the usual gray-green of the sea would be.  “That’s all octopus? It’s huge! Oh no, Lady of Fatima save me.” She reached for the clippers she kept in her tackle box.

“Don’t cut the line, are you kidding? That thing is worth two thousand escudos, maybe more. Look at the size of him!”

“I’m not catching that octopus,” Traf shouted.

“Think of the money!” Tio Marcio barked. “Pull it this way, toward the shallow stern, or we’ll never get it over the side.”

“I’m not touching that thing!” Traf growled, throwing her pole at him. “You do it if you want it so bad. I’m not going near it.”

Tio Marcio grabbed the pole before it fell overboard and shouted, “You fool. I’ll do it by myself.” He glared at her. “You only get the chance to catch a fish like this once in a lifetime.”

“Not my lifetime.” Traf scrambled to the higher end of the boat, as far away as possible. “Or yours either if you don’t let that monster go!”

“Damn it, Traf, don’t be such a coward!”

“Go for the gills and pull its head over until it sprays ink. That’s how Father killed the other one.” She shrieked, pointing at a tentacle as wide as her ankle snaking over the boat side and waving about.

“I know how to kill an octopus.” Tio Marcio angled the line so it pulled in smoothly, reeling steadily as the great fish came closer. “Shut up and get the gaffe, woman.”

“No,” she yelled, throwing the long-handled hook to his feet. “You’re an idiot, it’s not worth your life!”

“What a girl you’ve turned out to be after all, little trafulha,” Tio Marcio taunted, breathing hard with his efforts. “I’ll be teasing you about this for the rest of my life.” He didn’t see the tentacle searching for something to grab coming closer to where he stood at the side of his boat, but she did.

 “Watch out, it’s trying to get you. Cut the line, save yourself, get rid of it!” Traf tugged at the anchor as if preparing to move the boat.

“I’ve almost got him.” Tio Marcio, a seasoned fisherman, kept reeling in the line and the water began to shift just under the surface. “I thought I’d never get one, but this is my dream catch, a once in a lifetime. An octopus this size brings more than any other fish. Restaurants pay top money for the huge ones.”

“There’s not enough money in the world. I won’t risk it. There’s no way I’m touching that thing or letting it touch me.” Traf shouted as another tentacle began sliding over the side. “Cut it loose! I’ll buy you more line, man, and a new pole if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll pay you the two thousand escudos myself if you just let it go!” She paled visibly as a third tentacle tip reached over the side of the boat and wrapped itself around one of the boat captain’s arms. “Too late,” she whispered, aghast. “The devil’s got you.”

“Help me,” Tio Marcio shouted as much longer lengths of the tentacles climbed over the side, as wide as his thigh and searching for something else to wrap around. “Quick, Traf, grab hold of it.”

“You’re a dead man!” She stared at him in horror as a tentacle seized his ankle.

Tio Marcio threw down the fishing rod, using his free arm to frantically tear at the thing holding his other. But, by then other tentacles grabbed the boat and one reared up directly behind his back.

“Watch out,” she screamed.

He turned as the tentacle wrapped around his throat. “Traf,” he screamed, “help!”

“Fight him,” she shouted, wrapping her arms around her chest. “I told you not to mess with octopuses!”

The choking man strained against the creature and every time brought it a little farther into the boat until it’s huge head, easily four times as big as a soccer ball, rose up and over, it’s squinty eyes glaring at them. The massive beast took command of the small boat.

“Tink uff ta mummy.” Traf strained to make out what Tio Marcio said. “Tink uff ta mummy! Helfff meeee.”

“What are you saying? I can’t understand you.”

“Dabbid, wommn, hep me ged dis fitch. To somtin!” His free arm tore at the sucking tentacle at his throat.

The monster slithered across the boat deck, searching over the side for deep water. “It’s going back to hell and dragging you with it!” Traf watched, terrified, paralyzed.

“Todt letti goh. Stawp id. Tink uff ta mummy.”

“Don’t let it go? Think of the money?” Traf laughed crazily. “Don’t worry, man, your wife will soon be a rich widow with plenty of insurance money.”  She closed her eyes. “That thing is going to kill you!”

“Gawwwht tammit!” Tio Marcio reached for the giant fish’s gills under its massive head, stretching as far as he could go. His face turned a dusky shade of blue and his eyes started to roll back before he finally got the grip he needed. Yanking with all the strength left in him fueled by all the fear in the world, he ripped the massive gill out. The dying octopus slowly loosened its grip as ink and life leaked from its body.

Traf stared at the raging sea monster terrorizing her only a moment ago, now a gelatinous mass sprawled across the boat deck. Tio Marcio struggled to remain standing, still caught and gasping for breath. Recognizing her fears as childish, she grabbed the lifeless tentacle around his throat and pulled, peeling its suckers free. As he gasped for air, struggling through racking coughs, she worked at the tentacles around his wrist and ankle, marveling at purple bruises the size of oranges.

She fetched the jar of cold coffee and wordlessly handed it to him. Tio Marcio drank gratefully and then let loose a stream of profanity and oaths noteworthy for both their complexity and diversity. He called Traf every kind of coward, heaped aspersions on her ancestry and curses on her great-grandchildren, and then called upon Satan and all the powers of Hell to punish her.

“You would have watched me die, rather than help me fight off that octopus!” He shook his head in disbelief. “You fuckin’ bastard, you cowardly bitch.”

Traf glared at him as she pulled up the anchor and started the engine, heading for shore. “I told you I wouldn’t go near that thing before you pulled that monster up onto the boat. You’ve known me long enough to believe what I say.”

He finished the coffee and calmed down before they reached port, and even started chuckling through his bruised throat. After loading the fish and octopus into his van, he gave her the keys. “Drive me home, then take this sucker to Beira Mar in Angra. Make them give you at least two, no, three thousand escudos. If they ask why the price is so high, tell them. Deliver the sardines to the fish market and explain I expect at least two thousand down on my account. Then get back here and scrub out the boat.”

When she got him home, climbing painfully down from the van he said, “Thank God my wife is visiting her sister tonight and isn’t home to see me like this. I’d never hear the end of it.” He placed his hand on the van window and leaned in. “You’ll still get your full twenty percent, Trafulha Troublemaker. You made a thousand escudos tonight. But next time I’ll take your two thousand escudos instead of counting on you.”

He walked toward his door but stopped and turned around after a few steps. “Remember what I told you, my young friend. Take precautions and be vigilant. You never know who might not be there when you need them.”

Words and Works of Award Winning Author Genta Sebastian


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