My body—my story

When I was eight months pregnant I developed a pulmonary embolism and was rushed to the hospital.  At the time, I seriously thought that chest pain, severe shortness of breath and swollen extremities were standard operating procedure, right along with baby showers, weight gain and a glowing complexion.

A mad dash to the emergency room in Duluth and two weeks in the hospital convinced me otherwise.

I will always be grateful to the doctors and nurses who saved my life during a very frightening time in our lives. 

In my 9th month, I gave birth to a robust baby boy.

Before we left the hospital the doctor told my husband— that in no uncertain terms—-we should never be pregnant again.

Faced with a potential life or death situation… the issue of birth control moved front and center in our lives.  Luckily future pregnancy prevention was available and I am  here today to celebrate joyous and life affirming events including our son’s wedding this summer to a wonderful woman…. with the hope that one day I will live long enough to be a grandma.

DD7JYYCVYAAs0_K

My story is mine and has a happy ending.  But over the years I have listened to the heart-rending stories of other women who have been faced with more difficult decisions involving birth control and pregnancy termination.

Their stories have strengthened my belief that our government and politicians should stand down and defer to the decisions made between a woman and her doctor.   

Coming of age in the 1970’s–I cannot imagine a time when family planning options are not available.  Yet, it seems there are those who are willing to chip away at a woman’s right to own and control our bodies. In honor of the women who fought to make choice a reality I will fight to maintain the right for other women to access affordable birth control and access  to reproductive healthcare.

A woman’s place is in the house and senate

When my mother was raising seven children she took part-time work to help fill the financial gaps during a time when a woman’s place was in the home child rearing, homemaking and budgeting the income provided by the man of the house.

Mom was also the referee, nurse and teacher of right and wrong.bettycookie

While others in our small rural community may have considered us poor, we never went to bed hungry, regularly scrubbed clean and sent off to Sunday School most weeks.

A child of the Great Depression she carefully guarded money and knew how much we had right down to the nickel.

When I was five years old I learned the value of that nickel and the dangers of foolish spending on a hot summer day.  The neighborhood kids were headed to the store to buy frozen pops and I wanted to join them on their adventure.  For weeks these kids had taunted me that their folks had threatened to call the “welfare” on my family.  I didn’t know what the welfare was… but there had been lots of talk at home about the poor house and how people who didn’t have money were sent to that terrible place.

My mom kept her big black purse on the highest kitchen shelf.  Somehow I managed to move a chair to the counter, climb up and take the money without being caught.

That precious nickel was spent on that long ago summer day and helped me feel like a normal kid as my tongue became stained by the ill-gotten frozen pop.  When I got home I was caught red-handed. (or should I say purple tongued.)  Mom grilled me and explained in no uncertain terms stealing was wrong and hurt everyone. She sent me to the living room to await my punishment when Dad came home.  Sobbing and filled with guilt it seemed as if hours passed until I learned my fate.

When Dad did come home he said not a word.  Mom’s punishment had been enough.  I had learned stealing was bad and a nickel meant something for a family struggling to make ends meet. 

This is just one childhood memory of a time when a woman’s place was in the home and one of the many lessons defining  who I’ve become.   

Pulling up my news feed today and reading about Senator Susan Collins and her courageous stand against the latest Trump Care proposal  I cannot help but think about my mom. She would have made a hell of a politician.

Reflections and forward thinking

I spent the better part of my life working as a radio and television news journalist. At 60 something… I approached the tail end of my career with fear and misgivings. I was the oldest woman delivering the news on a nightly basis in the state of Minnesota.  That was a job in itself.

We live and die by our ratings. I was fortunate the Northland audience continued to tune in, despite my wrinkles and thinning hair.  Looking back It felt as if I were taking part in a grand experiment.

16730463_10154426811812843_3297078833072697536_n

 

The fear and misgivings have passed and now I am charting a new course. No more long commutes, nights away from family and more than enough time to rediscover myself.

When I first started my career it was thrilling to deliver the news night after night and tell the stories of the Northland and its people.  News folks are often viewed as celebrities in their tv markets.  You are recognized by strangers even when you just want to be yourself.   You are judged. And rightly so.
I spent decades keeping my opinions to myself, seeking out both sides to a story and fighting not to pre-judge others.

My advice to the young journalists at the start of their careers? There is so much more than gathering the facts; Who, What, Where, When and Why. We must honor our instincts and maintain a code of ethics. We must also honor those who share their stories. When someone agrees to take part in a story they put their trust in our hands. That is a grave responsibility.

Caring deeply about my community I  will not become a “slacker 2.0” as I move into my so-called Golden Years.  I continue to  expand my horizons by attending leadership workshops and learning how our democracy works.
As I dive into my new life it is with  great hope that I will continue serving my community and maintain your trust.

Can we at least agree on something?

Americans come in all sizes, shapes, ages and colors.  We are rich, poor or just getting by. We love our families and care about our neighbors. We worry about our futures and the generations that will follow us.

If you find you are regularly driving your car on a pothole filled street or you cannot afford to even own a car….you  have children or grandchildren who are going into debt while earning a college degree for a future job that may or may not help them pay down that debt…or if you are  just one paycheck way from disaster –you do not need someone to tell you there is something wrong in America.

President Donald Trump road to victory on the slogan  “Make America Great Again.”  I have always thought America was pretty great, but I am willing to work to make it even better. So how about we  wait on building that wall and start building bridges (our infrastructure) instead?

Mr. President, please work with our congress ( Republicans, Democrats and Independents) to rebuild our country. Here is a short list to start.

-Rebuild and upgrade our  water and sewer treatment plants.

c7bbaa499dec34e59cfff9d76176cbe6

-Take the blue prints and extensive planning for high-speed and commuter rail systems and get them into the hands of builders and construction workers.

-Expand high-speed internet to rural areas.

-Rebuild our power grid.

And while I am at it, please use American made steel, pay workers a fair wage with benefits that include insurance, paid vacations, maternity leave and respect for their labor.

 

Sisters it’s time to huddle

 

After hundreds of thousands of women marched on Washington, many questioned whether it was a moment or a movement.

One of my moments came in the middle of a crowd of strangers  as I stood next to the Hubert H. Humphrey Building.  As dozens of young adults were pounding out a beat on five gallon pails  and elders joined in to chant against injustice –my emotions got the best of me.  I stood very still in the middle of this empowering crowd and let go of my tears.  At that moment I knew in my heart the resistance had begun and I would be a part of it. womensmarch-wewhobelieve

Our moments will sustain the movement that brought together millions of women, men and children around the world on January 21, 2017.

What is happening in Washington DC is no longer simply a matter of politics.  When the top US Senator shutdowns another senator for reading the words of an honored civil rights leader we must condemn his action.

When nominees are unqualified for the top jobs in our country we must question them and pressure our representatives to put aside politics in favor of our country.

I live in Minnesota a great state with deep roots in the Democratic Party (Democratic, Farmer and Labor) tended by such great Americans as Mondale, Humphrey and Wellstone.   I count among them, Klobuchar, Franken and Nolan now serving Minnesotans.

Growing up I was taught to respect others, love my neighbors and work for the common good.

The events unfolding in Washington under our new administration is cause for alarm. The current leadership seems determined to claw this nation back to a time when labor had little power over corporations.  A time when women were muzzled and held few rights— and a man’s character was measured by his skin color –and the right to love the one you love was locked away in a dark closet.

It is time we stand up for America. It is time that we huddle to develop a game plan. Our country’s future and our way of life needs to be defended.

Here is an invitation from the Women’s March Organization;

During the first ten days of Feb, we gather together in our neighborhoods all over the world to define our next steps, and envision how to transform the energy we saw at the Women’s Marches into local and national action.  Find a huddle near you and bring your ideas!

Finding my voice

On Friday morning I will get on the bus for a long trip to Washington D.C. to participate in the Women’s March.  I look forward to finding my voice after a long career as a journalist.

michelle-lee

For 40 years I have refrained from voicing my opinions  on the stories I  covered as a journalist. I lived by a simple rule shared by thousands of journalists; find the truth and tell the truth –in a fair and unbiased fashion.

I left my position as a television news anchor and reporter in Duluth, Minnesota at the end of 2016.  I am  now eager to find my voice, develop my skills as a community activist and learn how to support the issues that I feel are essential to maintain our hard fought rights and freedoms.

On election night 2016 I reported in a fair and un-biased fashion the results of the presidential race while holding  back my personal feelings. Now for the first time in decades I am free to share with your that my heart was broken that night.  When I woke up the next morning I was praying that the outcome of the election was just a bad dream.  But the reality remains that Mr. Trump will be sworn in as our 45th President on the same day I will find myself on a bus with dozens of women traveling to our nation’s capitol.

A Trump presidency scares me, the current majority in congress scares me.  As a woman and a mom my fear is not for myself.  My fear is reserved for our future generations and my friends and family who are being threatened with the loss of health care.  I fear the loss of the right to  marry those we love and for our fragile environment  balancing on a razor’s edge.

Fear is a great motivator.  I will use it to find my voice.

 

 

 

I didn’t get his name

He and his friend were parked at the curb. There was something about him, something familiar.   As I walked by them our  eyes met, I nodded and said hello.    I stopped and he rolled down the window.  How are you, I asked?  Not good, came his reply.

He told me about his dialysis at a local hospital, how all their earthly belongings are now carried in his car which they keep running to stay warm.  He pointed to the woman riding shotgun and told me how she was going to apply for unemployment and how they were checking Craig’s List for a place to live.

I asked whether the hospital’s social worker could help and he explained they offered assisted living, but she couldn’t be with him.  After 30 years or more they were not willing to separate.

They were both Native American. I asked about their affiliations with a tribe or band.  To far away he said…but they have friends locally who do what they can to help.  In this case, friends who didn’t turn them in for parking near the business.

Love or comfort?  He chose love.

Ours was a brief encounter on a lovely late summer afternoon in Northern Minnesota.  I was in a hurry to get to work. As I left them I promised to  send up a prayer for them.

Today, I am ashamed I didn’t do more than listen and pray. Ashamed that I didn’t get his name.

Noozelady