On Dallas.

Dallas: you make it so hard to live here.

I'm not even talking about the rapidly inflating cost of housing or the problems with the school system, or the relatively poor pay and benefits that you dole out to your public safety workers. I'm talking about the day-to-day experience of your average resident, who is forced to reckon with your inability to productively deal with inequality and poverty, house indigent persons, contain loose dogs, maintain your infrastructure, or respond to calls for assistance. 

On my way to work this morning, I dropped my daughter off at her school. It’s a little charter school that sits just off I-30 in east Dallas. Once she was out of the car, I noticed that an old abandoned post office two blocks from the schoolhouse—and smack in the middle of a residential area--has suddenly attracted a large gathering of homeless people who are sleeping on its porch. I’m guessing that the pell-mell closure of Tent City has driven indigent people further into the residential areas that line the highway, not—as many posited—toward the services and shelters offered downtown.

I turned right onto Grand Avenue, narrowly avoiding a loose chihuahua who was tailing a group of children crossing the street to go to the elementary school at Mount Auburn.  As I started to pull onto 30, two large dogs darted in front of my car and across the entrance ramp into traffic. I swerved off the ramp and back into the neighborhood, unable to watch what was most likely about to happen.

On Tuesday, sitting at a traffic light a block from my daughter’s school, my five-year-old asked me, “Mommy, why is that man giving himself a shot?” and I glanced out the window to see a man passed out on the sidewalk with a hypodermic needle sticking out from between his toes. I called 911, because he appeared to be unconscious. He was mere feet away from the front door of Fire Station 19; the dispatcher was less concerned with reason for the call and more focused on being a total asshole and berating me re: why I couldn’t provide a full description of the man’s clothing and name the cross street at his location. Personally, “man passed out with a needle in his foot by the front door of Fire Station 19” is a pretty actionable description as far as I’m concerned, but what do I know?  Apparently nothing, which the dispatcher was only too happy to point out.

Then there are the comically sized potholes that are less funny once they’ve destroyed the front end of your car, or the panhandler that—for years now--routinely parks his wheelchair at the bottom of the highway off-ramp at the East Grand/Munger exit on eastbound I-30, causing drivers to slam on their brakes to avoid him while he wheels aside their cars, hand extended. He’s caused two accidents that I’ve witnessed over the past four years, plus a near miss in the dark of night that I’m still not sure how he survived. He's part of a group that camps at that spot daily, in a school crosswalk and up against a chain link fence outlining a backyard that's filled with tricycles and trampolines and other trappings of a childhood that shouldn't have to worry about aggressive panhandlers sitting feet from their backdoor.

And here’s what kills me about all of this: I visited a large city in a third world country several years ago with a public health organization and the things I saw there aren’t much different than what I see here daily. Loose dogs everywhere. Cratered roads. Aggressive panhandlers. Addicts and drunks passed out on the streets. Extreme poverty. Apathy.

The difference? They know they aren’t “world class”. We insist we are, building bridges and trails and parkways and arts districts while ignoring the reality of what it really looks like to live in Dallas. And that reality is this: those who live in and around our poor and working class neighborhoods routinely deal with the very hallmarks of ruin and municipal chaos, having given up on calling for help long ago. And on the off chance that we do call for help, we can't provide cross streets and descriptions because it’s everywhere. It’s all of it. Corner of Dallas and Texas. What does it look like? I dunno, but it’s 

On Fires Still Burning

Photo by Sonya Hebert-Schwartz, Dallas Morning News

The first time it happened to me was early in the morning on May 20, 2013. I was getting ready for work, listening to The Ticket, like I always do…running late, like I always do. And my phone buzzed on the sink with a text message from my boss, whose four little words weighted me down with an instant panic. “Is your husband OK?” And then came the second text, moments later, from a friend: “Saw the fire on the news…is everything OK?”

My husband left the house that morning around 5 a.m. to report for his shift with Dallas Fire-Rescue. There had been a massive six-alarm condo fire earlier in the morning, and in that fire, Stanley Wilson was killed. My husband wasn’t there. But in those first few moments, I didn’t know that my husband had gotten to work well after the alarm. I didn’t know where he was. And my heart accelerated as I texted, tried to call, got nothing. For the first time since he called me in September of 2011, breathlessly reporting “I got the call!” right after he found out he had been hired, I was scared by his job. I was afraid that my phone would ring and a 671- number would pop up on display and I would just collapse, right there, as bad news was delivered.

I knew the job was a risky one from the get-go. I work in law enforcement—I understand line of duty deaths and on-the-job injuries. I research and write about decision making in critical incidents; I know what can happen even under the best of circumstances. But at some point, shortly after graduating from Academy, my husband told me not to worry about him. “We take care of each other,” he said. “We are never alone.” And I took heart in that. I met the people he worked with—the woman who works out every day so she’ll be fit enough to drag even the biggest of lugs out of a burning building; the Cross Fit enthusiasts who’ll have no problem hoisting someone over their shoulder and getting them down a flight of stairs to safety; the lieutenant who treats his people like his actual family.  I saw the protocols for working in a fire—the buddy systems and hose lines. I watched him inspect his safety equipment. I felt OK about it.

Until May 20 when that reality hit me: he could be gone, I thought. And the possibility was too awful. I called my dad crying, and talked to him until my phone clicked and I saw my husband’s photo pop up on my screen. He was fine. He was covering for a crew at another station. They were busy.

In that moment, there was relief and then an enormous sorrow and empathy for the wife whose husband didn’t call with that relatively banal update. I watched over the next few hours as Facebook flooded with the black bars meant to signify line of duty deaths. Days later I saw photos of the tributes to Wilson at his funeral and I thought to myself….at least he was never alone.

Except that he was. He was lost in a building that was being pounded by water from ladder pipes above it. He died alone because nobody could find him. He died because he should not have been in that building—and even knowing the limited amount of information about firefighting tactics that I do, I knew that. And I no longer felt OK with it. 

I wanted to know how it happened. Who didn’t take care of Stanley Wilson? Who might let my husband down next time he’s walking into a structurally compromised and burning building? Jenny Wilson, Stanley Wilson’s wife, wanted to know what happened. She deserved to know what happened. She lost her husband of 21 years. Her boys lost their daddy. And they weren’t supposed to, because a firefighter is never alone.

Instead of giving Jenny Wilson an answer, she was stonewalled by the very people that were supposed to protect her husband. And my husband. And all the other men and women of Dallas Fire- Rescue. She waited 16 months to find out what she already knew: somebody messed up. Badly. And she waited 16 months, all the while trying to pick up the pieces of her and her boys’ lives, to hear Chief Louie Bright say this on September 19, 2014:

"There is no one person that bears all responsibility for what occurred on May 20^th of last year. This investigation revealed that DFR firefighters took or failed to take actions that possibly contributed to Stanley Wilson perishing in this fire”

And then:

“Our firefighters are given the authority to weigh the risk of any orders given, and if there are any actions that place firefighters in unnecessary jeopardy everyone has the authority and duty to speak out and consider alternatives”

No one will take responsibility. The incident commander made a horrible decision, did not follow any recognized protocol, and then relayed an accounting of the incident during the ensuing investigation that was wildly contradictory to every other version of events given. And then the top leadership of the department condoned all of those things by leaving that commander in a position where he will maybe one day compel my husband or someone else’s husband or wife or mom or dad or brother or sister to walk into a burning and structurally unsound building. More incredibly, Louie Bright told the men and women of Dallas Fire-Rescue and their loved ones that Stanley Wilson died because he didn’t question an order. Nobody should be OK with that. 

Dallas Fire-Rescue made a promise to us—to the men and women of DFR and to their loved ones—that their firefighters will never be alone. That promise is what keeps me from staying up all night worrying about my husband, or from panicking every time I heard about a fire on the news. These days, my stomach bottoms out every time severe weather approaches or I see a reporter on Twitter mention a blaze in the city. I don’t trust the department with my husband’s well-being.

And they owe me my husband’s well-being: the families of firemen sacrifice a lot—which seems almost silly to say in the aftermath of Jenny Wilson’s loss. We don’t have a normal family life. The odds of divorce are staggering for fire service families: we have to work hard to keep things together. We have to handle crises, small and large, while our loved ones serve the City of Dallas. And we understand: that’s just the job. And many of us really love the job. We are proud that our loved ones do what they do. The fire department is a  big part of our lives--because it has to be. Because my husband is my life. Because he is my kids' life. 

I kiss him goodbye on shift mornings and see him walk out the door to join his co-workers in facing the unknown. That may sound unnecessarily dramatic because sometimes the day is quiet and the unknown is so very mundane: is there time to work out? Will the lieutenant bring in some of the fish he caught for dinner? Sometimes, my husband and his station mates run non-stop and whether or not they’ll even get to eat dinner or get any sleep becomes an unknown. Sometimes, the unknown presents itself as a situation that I cannot even fathom: burning buildings; traumatic EMS calls. But he is never alone. Right?

I don’t know anymore. Jenny Wilson does. She knows that Stanley Wilson was alone; that the Dallas Fire-Rescue administration has abandoned her…and that it probably won’t be the last time something like this happens. Case in point: Scott Tanksley’s widow is still waiting for an investigative report into what happened the night her husband fell off an icy overpass in early 2014 while assisting stranded motorists. What could possibly take so long? Dallas Police Department issues reports on officer-involved shootings within a matter of weeks—if not days. Why can’t DFR give these families what they owe them? And why can’t they give all the rest of us what we need—which is simply to feel confident in the fact that our loved ones will never, ever, be alone.

I won’t even touch the organizational breakdown that this incident portrays—the fact that the top administrator of a command and control organization just told his entire command that they should always question their leadership in a critical incident. I won’t go into the many ways that such a statement could cause absolute chaos and low morale. But I what I will say is that it causes a great unease in the hearts of the families of Dallas Fire-Rescue officers. That it scares us. That it makes it plain to all of us that one morning, we might be getting ready for work when the phone rings. And then we will be alone.

Stanley Wilson (photo: Dallas Fire-Rescue)

What Miley did.

We gave up cable a year ago when we bought our house. It was expensive, we want our kid to grow up with an actual imagination, and besides, Twitter pretty much obviates the need for it. If I want news, I go to Twitter. If I want someone to ruin the new episode of “Breaking Bad” for me, I go to Twitter. Everything that happens on TV lives there (now with commentary!) for better or for worse.  And, so you know how I experienced the MTV Video Music Awards on Sunday: a blow-by-blow on social media, with 140-characters of insight from a collection of liberal media’s best and brightest feminist icons, plus a smattering of 90s indie rock heroes and a handful of Wichita Falls rednecks.  Reading about it from these viewpoints was kinda like viewing it through a cracked-out kaleidoscope…that suddenly came into sharp, clear focus when Miley arrived on-scene.

I feel like I can be on a first name basis with Miley now that she’s overtaken every piece of media I’ve consumed for the last three days. Plus I saw her booty. But the truth is, I wouldn’t know “Party in the USA” if it appeared in my living room right now and starting twerking (a term that I just looked up on Urban Dictionary, thank you very much).  I do know that Miley was a teen star with her own TV show, has a famous dad, and is now a pop star and tabloid mainstay. These days, she sports an edgy haircut, parties a lot and is involved in a seemingly tempestuous relationship with some Australian dude.

And, oh, people are upset about what Miley did on Sunday. After everybody freaked out about it, I called it up on 4G yesterday morning to watch it…and I have to say, I don’t get the outrage. I’ve read the outrage…everywhere from Jezebel to  People Magazine to the Washington Post to mommy blogs far and wide. It’s plentiful. But here’s the thing: it’s incredibly, incredibly misguided.

A lot of you think that Miley’s a straight-up slut for performing a sexually provocative dance number. You’re lamenting her fall from Disney princess to stripper pole provocateur, and you are appealing to her dad for an explanation of her behavior. You know what I say to that? This is a 20 year old woman. Most likely, she didn’t make her own decisions during her “Hannah Montana” days. She does now. She chooses to assert her sexuality onstage in an industry that celebrates and commoditizes and rewards celebrating sexuality onstage (see Madonna, Britney Spears, et al). You don’t own her body. Her father doesn’t own her body or her sexuality and HE NEVER DID. To suggest that he did or does is creeptastic. You don’t own your daughter’s body or sexuality, either, and if you think you do, you have a big problem. See this piece for some more insight on that issue. We all pay lip service to being true to ourselves and celebrating individuality. And yet, as Miley’s up there, doing what she do, we’re berating her. Because we can’t handle that this former child star is a sexual being. We can’t handle that our own daughters might grow out of pigtails and One Direction and someday, somehow assert their own sexuality. Ergot, Miley = slut.

Futhermore, while Miley’s a twerking skank, what of Beetlejuice’s erstwhile pedophile cousin? Robin Thicke was an active part of that entire production…and where’s the outrage about a 30-something dude grinding behind a 20-year-old girl? Where’s the Facebook assertions that you tucked your beautiful son into bed tonight and just know he’ll never turn out like that? Why is Miley “nasty” while Robin Thicke is just…Robin Thicke? Why aren’t you all sending Tweets to Alan Thicke right freaking now about his son’s behavior on the VMAs? Oh, right.

A lot of you are angry because your kids were exposed to Miley’s tongue thrusts and undulating buttocks. That does not fly unless you fell into a coma the day after MTV kicked off in 1981 and woke up Sunday night expecting Buggles videos. This should not have been a surprise (see Madonna, Britney Spears, et al), period. End of story. And frankly, I’d much rather engage my kiddo in a discussion about Miley Cyrus than try to explain why someone who beat the snot out of their girlfriend on their way to the VMAs a few years ago is still embraced by that institution and rewarded with nominations.

A lot of you think that Miley is a damaged soul who needs to be rescued. At what point did we, as a society, decide that someone gleefully and energetically dancing onstage is a broken person? She stuck out her tongue and shook her butt, and maybe she’s got problems, but maybe she doesn’t. Blatant expressions of sexuality do not automatically equal some level of victimization; that’s an oversimplification if there ever was one. And if you’re worried about someone with a messed up view of sexuality, let’s consider the lyrical offerings of one Robin Thicke:

"Girl, give it to me
I'll put it all on you,
Girl give it to me"

Or:

"Let me put it on your face for you,
please"

Jesus. They’re not even good. But that’s beside the point. Nobody gave a crap what those dudes were saying, what it actually is that kids are listening to over and over and over, what’s influencing their views about the women they encounter every day. Everyone cared about the dancing pop star. Not enough of you are outraged by the commercial, heavily sexualized but generally lame state of popular music. But, heavens! Miley!

This is the part where I tell you that I don’t give a rat’s about Miley. I don’t listen to her, or to Robin Thicke or to Kendrick Lamar. I don’t read tabloids, except for the old US Weekly at my dentist’s office, and I gave up my Perez Hilton page views five years ago. Twitter puts these things in my face, but I acknowledge them as a part of our messed up culture and move on. I work really hard to make sure that my child can appreciate music without all that spectacle and nonsense, and without the monthly payment to Uverse. I also work hard to make sure that she understands, even at a young age, that we don’t ridicule or objectify women; that we don’t assume she’s a victim of her circumstances just because we aren’t fans of her means of expression; and that we question why anyone else does either of those things. And, finally, I hope to make her understand that our media culture is broken, broken, broken when we’re still up in arms about this:

When we should be up in arms about this: