Coloring with the Catholics: My Story of Criminal Mental Health Care and Higher Ed Gaslighting in Larry Nassar’s Michigan (New Part Six): After the Looney Bin? Worse than Life Interrupted, Life Dismantled

by Gina Fournier

UNDER CONSTRUCTION. THANK YOU!  This storytelling requires some elaborate time structure. And documentation when falsely accused of hallucinations and psychosis. This is not a memoir. This is me still trying to save my life from retaliatory criminal (not forensic) psychiatry.

December 2021. I am currently pulling some stuff from this chapter and moving it eslewhere.

I would greatly appreciate public support and acknowledgement for my claims. Murdered with Catholicism and psychiatry by the Livonia, Michigan Catholics of my youth and monster sexist William MacQueen, of Oakland and Macomb Community Colleges, with help from bully teachers still working as public servants.

New Part Six Chapter Titles:

• You Can Redecorate, But You Can’t Hide an Explosion
• Argo Fuck Yourself! I Quit!
• Thanks Are Due In War Especially
• Overrun with Rats
• Equal? Employment Opportunity Commission Claim moved to another section
• Thrown Under the School Bus by Michigan Education Association Teachers
• Teachers Be Honest: Students Don’t Read
• Ghosts of WWII

By Gina Fournier

Chapter: You Can Redecorate, But You Can’t Hide an Explosion

After the looney bin, I was overwhelmed with fallout from the Land of Motown Community College attack on my life.

My husband had unexpectedly lost his life. I had been locked up in the Felician nun’s looney bin for a week. My teaching career was over.

In less than a year’s time.

My head was spinning.

I tried to be very positive and move forward.

But my head was spinning.

~ * ~

It hasn’t stopped spinning, but my head hasn’t popped off, yet, either.

Somehow.

It hurts.

My head hurts, skull and soft stuff.

~ * ~

I certainly knew what had happened, what was being done to me, but finding the language to express it to others and finally fix it remains my main challenge.

There is no other story like this one.

I’ve checked.

~ * ~

I knew I needed to heal, even before I understood my injuries and the extent of the damages incurred.

Damages caused by criminal mental health care pretending to be a needed cure for a condition that does not exist, bi polar, that I did not have.

Damages inflicted by Catholics, ironically Catholics who believe in virgin birth and define looney, in my world view.

Damages inflicted by the Catholics of my youth, who I rejected.

Damages caused as intended, by Land of Motown Community College, with support by bully teachers, administration, school law enforcement and the faculty union.

~ * ~

I engaged in color therapy, among therapies, as I sought healing.

Acupuncture.

Yoga.

Spinach soup.

Meditation.

My usual exercise, riding the stationary bike.

Walking in the woods with Dalva dog, until she was too old to walk, which soon happened.

~ * ~

Properly grieve my husband.

Come to terms with the tragic end of our marriage.

Figure out what to do next.

~ * ~

I had to clean up the mess of a bomb.

Find a new life.

I was approaching 50.

~ * ~

Spoiler: I have failed miserably to do anything but keep my head attached.

~ * ~

Healing and fighting for justice became my vocation.

Saving my life became much more than a full time job.

It still is.

~ * ~

Chapter: Argo Fuck Yourself! I Quit!

Land of Motown Community College and the state of Michigan completely ignored my looney bin lock up and it’s pivotal role in that crime against my humanity.

To this date, NO ONE at the college or within the state of Michigan has acknowledged what it has been done to me, what happened, February 22-28, 2013, what happened leading up to my week in Catholic Siberia, or what has happened in retaliation since.

Silence screams GUILTY!

~ * ~

I got out of the criminal Catholic insane asylum February 28, 2013, after a week that completely changed my life for the worse.

A state-forced looney bin stay to which one objects apparently means forever after being lonely and isolated from the world, and so many horrible realities, in my case.

~ * ~

I quit my tenured teaching position less than two weeks later, in March, through e-mail.

~ * ~

I quit and promised to sue.

I quit because I could not work for a criminal mental abuser and because I needed money.

My nemesis arranged a situation in which I would likely be forced to quit.

If I could not afford to sue in federal court, than I could not afford to not be paid, either.

My retirement savings account was locked and unavailable unless I quit, which I was forced to do, as planned.

~ * ~

In 2005, when I was hired, I did not elect to take the pension route, because something told me I may not want to remain working at Land of Motown Community College for the rest of my life. 

After consideration, I opted instead for a 403b retirement fund.

To my dismay, I learned that Land of Motown Community College did not allow teachers to withdraw funds from TIAA CREF without resignation or retirement.

~ * ~

I’m looking for my brief resignation e-mail, which I sent rather hastily with resolve and the feeling of clean.

Instead, I just found two drafts of resignation letters that I did not send.

I wrote them before I was suicide swatted, captured and held.

~ * ~

January 13, 2013: “It has come to this: I must resign my post before the illegal treatment of my nemesis destroys my health and kills me too, like the school’s illegal, discriminatory and unethical actions contributed to the death of my late husband . . . I am quitting not taking your lousy settlement offer, so I can cash in my 403b and sue you . . .”

~ * ~

I had forgotten that I quit to stop criminal mental abuse and because I needed money to survive.

Equally.

Though mental abuse alone was enough reason.

~ * ~

As planned by my nemesis, no matter, for whichever reasons, I had to quit.

But not because I was suddenly seriously innately mentally ill.

~ * ~

Second draft resignation letter unsent written in February, before I was suicide swatted.

February 2, 2013: “My own psychiatrist has made clear there is nothing wrong with me beyond normal imperfections. How dare Land of Motown Community College seek to ruin every aspect of my existence, including my psychological interior.”

~ * ~

A due process meeting, regarding the disingenuous action begun nearly a year before, was scheduled at Land of Motown Community College, minus the timeliness and honesty of actual dual process.

The meeting was scheduled for March 8, 2013, not long after my escape from the looney bin.

~ * ~

I thought about attending the due process meeting.

I tried to imagine how I might attend and defend myself.

~ * ~

I decided to skip it.

I did not feel safe, or think attendance would help me in any way.

There was no way in hell I could, or would, get into my 2003 brown Honda CRX, which I bought and paid off with my Land of Motown Community College salary (and eventually was forced to sell for too little), drive from Wayne County to Oakland County, and show up alone to face hostile union, hostile administration and probably hostile campus police, including my suicide swatter, who was definitely hostile.

Not after they had me locked up in a criminal Catholic looney built by the Felician nuns of my youth, who I rejected.

~ * ~

I skipped my hanging, as anyone would, if they could.

~ * ~

If I recall correctly, oh yeah!

I went to the movies instead.

~ * ~

I didn’t trust Mary McGee, the president of the Land of Motown Community College Faculty Association, or anybody at Land of Motown Community College.

~ * ~

I recently found in a cyber cubbey hole an exchange with Mary McGee and Mary Henson, of the Michigan Education Association (MEA), from April 2012, when my old white man nemesis first struck.

From start of the witchhunt to my finish, the union president said the right things superficially, to keep the Land of Motown Community College bogus paper trail moving forward, but she did the wrong things, as the union had been doing all along.

~ * ~

The MEA and the in-house union threw me under the bus, while claiming they were on my side and doing all they could.

The union did all they could to end my career and actually helped the school administration to gaslight a female teacher.

Back at the start of the witchhunt, when I set up for the looney bin, I was told to attend a two day mental health exam.

Like those given to mass murders in police custody.

~ * ~

I was singled out for mental abuse due to my critical voice.

The due process-less due process meeting that I did not attend was a ruse, a spark to set off sexist Gaslight witchhunt.

The school refused to say one word about its claims, which fails to meet the requirements of due process.

The school refused to say one word about its claims because nothing had happened.

Which the union knew.

~ * ~

I am still proud of my words in response to the union’s bad faith actions:

“You must have lost your mind if you think a two day mental health exam with a criminologist is the way to treat good teachers who are not crazy or dangerous, who simply believe due process should include due process.”

~ * ~

Did the college send any other teacher to hack shrinks under threat of terminations?

I bet no.

~ * ~

After the looney bin, this e-mail from my no-good to me local union president urged me to take disability leave, if it was offered.

Meaning the union suggested my best plan was to admit I was so mentally ill that I could no longer teach.

The union’s dishonesty is clear from the first sentence.

“Representatives from OCCFA and the MEA appeared at the scheduled due process hearing on March 8 that you requested . . . “

Wait a minute.

Now I started this whole thing?

~ * ~

Union?

People ask me about the union.

You don’t know the union like I know the union.

~ * ~

The Land of Motown Community College Faculty Association union president, working for the administration and bullies, urged me to admit I was crazy and needed long term leave money as a crazy person.

“Although the College is not obligated to offer you the option of a long-term disability leave, we have strongly advocated that they do so. As we have indicated to you previously in email, we believe that it is in your best interest to cooperate with the Human Resources Department in the completion of paperwork for both short-term disability to cover the current leave period and long-term disability in the event that it is offered. Accepting disability leave allows you to maintain a significant portion of your income into the future. It is imperative that these disability options are acted upon prior to further action by the College.”

~ * ~

What a disgrace.

The woman teaches psychology.

~ * ~

Does she teach with bias about the field and not inform students of the biased nature of the field’s existence?

What a horror show, inside a horror show, inside a horror show, double-helix-ing into infinity.

Will it ever be be fixed?

~ * ~

At one point, I asked for my total union dues paid to be refunded.

~ * ~

Just in case humanity recently became a whole lot nicer, you know, being optimistic, in search of restorative justice, I just sent this woman an e-mail: “Your role . . . in sexist Gaslight witch hunt is disgraceful . . . I strongly urge you to come forward voluntarily. Restorative justice is requested.”

I know.

I must be crazy.

~ * ~

I’m not hopeful.

I have never been delusional.

Desperate?

Yes.

Chapter: Thanks Are Due in War Especially

Naively, I thought my criminal mental abuser from Land of Motown Community College would me leave me alone if I quit my job–my very well paid, supposedly union-protected, highly-coveted teaching job, at one of the highest paying community colleges in the nation. 

I was wrong, I realize much more fully now, in spring 2019, after I returning to life in civilization. 

~ * ~

Strict chronological order prevents review, while underlying connections often require reflections, in order to be unearthed and recognized.

In other words, break from chronological order.

In the power invested in me by me, and the creator and creation, bless any reader.

Really.

Thank you.

I mean it.

~ * ~

I’m only able to write this out of control crazy tale now, because I laid in waiting, for a large chunk of time, during which I inadvertently allowed my attackers to continue attacking me, out of sight, in remote lands (meaning up north, in Michigan).

And I’m only able to write this space age online memoir, because I turned real estate into cash.

Real estate left to me by husband, who died in the first year of the witchhunt.

~ * ~

Bogus mental health care upends everything, work, relationships, living space.

I was suicide swatted while renting in Livonia, then returned to Garden City until foreclosure, when I escaped up north to Lake Miramichi, where I stayed and tried to hang on.

~ * ~

Hang on.

Stay with me.

Preview inside a preview.

I re-emerged into civilization with some cash, after the eventual sale of the lakehouse at Lake Miramichi, up north, at the end of summer, in 2018.

With that cash, I bought shelter in Bay City, transportation and internet connection (necessary for a wordpress blog and internet research).

And I bought a little more time.

Necessary to reflect and write.

~ * ~

Incidentally, that cash is almost gone.

And I’m rightfully terrified.

~ * ~

I haven’t been able to get and hold a job.

~ * ~

Somehow, after jail, in Osceola County, up north, this story returns to civilization and surprisingly the classroom, in fall 2018, but does not stay long, I hate to report.

~ * ~

Prepare for the crazy scope of this story.

Losing chronological order helps me tell it, as I continue to live it.

~ * ~

Ok. So I can only write this story now, like this, online, because I did not write this story earlier, offline.

And I can only have a place to write because of Harry, Ethel and Chris Wysocki, all dead now, to whom I owe much gratitude.

~ * ~

Spring of 2013, immediately after St. Mary Merciless looney bin lock up downstate, became the end of my after the looney bin lock up downstate years, in the fall of 2015, foreclosure, Garden City.

Look at the palm of your right hand and see me move up from the Metro Detroit area to the center of the lower portion of the Mitten state.

~ * ~

There is a Jeremiah Johnson/Little House on the Prairie portion of this story, a very long and active section. 

Of all things.

I have tried to stop this story in its tracks but it has kept spreading like kudzu vine, which does not grow in Michigan.

~ * ~

After the looney bin, after foreclosure in Garden City, for three years, between October 2015 and August 2018, I lived in my dead husband’s remote mid-Michigan lakehouse cabin, without running water, canned heat or access to the internet at home. 

~ * ~

I slid out of the very comfortable upper middle class into the constantly-putting-out-fires lower class much more quickly than I feared.

~ * ~

But, however, importantly, also, I have been extremely fortunate to have the security of two homes to fall back on, for at least while, thanks to Harry and Ethel Wysocki.

~ * ~

It is very strange indeed, that I should benefit from parents, not mine, people I never met, and not their own blood.

~ * ~

Thank you.

~ * ~

And, I am so sorry.

~ * ~

We have made our peace across the intergalactic highway.

But perhaps peace needs constant care, like democracy.

~ * ~

Among the six Wysocki kids, my husband ended up with both homes owned by his parents, Harry and Ethel.

~ * ~

The house downstate in Garden City, built in the Levittown years, in the late 1940s, was left to be split among the six kids, while my husband alone was given the lakehouse up north.

~ * ~

Chris returned from a stint living in New Zealand to care for Harry, as he died of cancer, then care for Ethel as she grieved, until she also died, so he was given the lakehouse, and Ethel’s adorable toy poodle, Bridget.

~ * ~

Chris bought out his siblings in the house downstate in Garden City, at a zenith price, when it was worth almost 100 grand, in the late 1990s.

~ * ~

So he was in sole control of both family houses, including decades of backed up belongings.

~ * ~

During our decade together, he did not maintain a relationship with his brothers and rarely saw his sister.

~ * ~

The lakehouse cabin was owned outright.

It was purchased dirt cheap by today’s standards.

900 square feet, with a low-slung loft, 750 feet walk-able living space, located on private Lake Miramichi, outside Evart, Michigan.

The land was acquired in 1968; the house was built in cedar from a kit designed and sold by a Michigan builder, circa 1972.

~ * ~

Somehow, I endured through three winters, alone with my dog and bird, in abject poverty, without an income.

~ * ~

They were the best and worst of times, for sure.

My financial and social circumstances were greatly reduced solely due to criminal mental health care and higher education gaslighting run amok.

But the scenery was gorgeous.

~ * ~

Not much of a spoiler.

While in hiding, things got worse, again, by outside design.

The Land of Motown Community College sexist Gaslight witch hunt followed me.

~ * ~

~ * ~

I argue that retaliation I’ve met is proof of the attack, but I’ve got plenty of proof, and I’m still bleeding.

A second disingenuous cop from Land of Motown Community College struck up north, where I was sitting prey.

~ * ~

Please know that even I find this story incredible.  

If I were listening to me or reading me, I would have my doubts.

~ * ~ 

In any case, whether the reader, should there be one, finds me believable or not, inarguably I’ve had more opportunity to review my own murder, and more room to fight for justice, even though my fight has not been successful, thanks to the time bought by Wysocki real estate, which I inherited, accidentally. 

Thanks are due especially in war.

~ * ~

How many scribbles shape a messy spiral doodle?

How many circles, like smoke rings, shape this story?

Chapter: Overrun with Rats!

Circle back to chronological order.

It keeps the mind nimble, to help fight off dementia, to re-order the world artistically, to play with the standard math.

~ * ~

Looney bin, lost job.

After the looney bin and argo quitting my abuser at Land of Motown Community College (or so I thought), in the summer of 2013, I soon moved out of the rented house in Livonia where I was abducted by Stupid Cop and the Livonia Police Fuck the Bitch Squad, as rats had moved into the improperly closed, non-functioning chimney.

I said RATS!

Actual rats, which also serve my Mitten State nightmare metaphorically.

~ * ~

Likely, while I was in the looney bin, perhaps since the dishes were left undone, and openings for attack were available, my 1930s era rented home in Livonia attracted rats.

~ * ~

Poor Louie!

Stupid Cop left the bird to fend for himself.

~ * ~

Once she got my Facebook SOS, sent from inside Catholic Siberia, my friend, The Clown, fed and watered Louie, the cockatiel, who was left to fend for himself alone, inside my rented Livonia home.

But The Clown did not feel inclined to do the dishes, while I was locked inside the looney bin unnecessarily.

She was busy.

They weren’t her dishes.

~ * ~

I recall one day after the looney bin, before I moved back to Garden City, which took months, looking at a rat–A RAT–standing on the back porch, right outside the sliding glass door.

Feet away from me.

It was looking back at me.

A black rat.

I said, Rats. Calmly. In a trance. Looking at a rat through the glass.

Thinking, That’s my life.

Overrun with rats.

~ * ~

Once they broke down the door, the rats found numerous routes inside the rented Livonia house.

I recall one night watching television and hearing the rats chew through a hole in the wall they had made, a hole in the wall in the laundry room that I had barricaded that day, with not-heavy-enough wire mesh.

~ * ~

At night, they ran through the walls in my bedroom.

Occasionally, one screamed.

~ * ~

I wasn’t sleeping too well anyway.

~ * ~

The rented Livonia house had a Michigan basement, which means it was unfinished dirt, in part, and scary.

I never went down there alone before the rats.

The door to the scary basement opened into the exercise room that I painted in tropical colors to help ward off my nemesis.

~ * ~

After contacting the rental company and my own exterminator, so I could escape rats in Livonia and return home to Garden City, I successfully broke the lease on my rented house through a small claims court claim.

The judge said rats make a place uninhabitable.

I agreed.

He allowed me to break the lease, but did not grant my request for costs.

A small victory, I guess.

~ * ~

I finished moving back to Garden City before the end of the summer, I think, before my late August birthday, when I turned 49 years old

~ * ~

I moved back to Garden City house, west of Detroit by a few municipalities, and lived there again, as I had for ten years previously, until October 2015.

~ * ~

But I lost that house, as my husband predicted.

The mortgage was underwater, like Atlantis.

~ * ~

Operation Democracy.

Just keep going.

Steal my stature of liberty sign?

Paint another.

~ * ~

Why me?

Of all my Livonia Ladywood High classmates, among all the teachers at Land of Motown Community College, why me?

~ * ~

I don’t recall actually writing much of anything in high school, but I wrote for the school newspaper, The Plaid Press.

I was co-editor.

When the Felician nuns had an anniversary, Sr. Rose, the moderator, had me write the article.

I bet the content was given to me in large chunks, short of writing the article herself.

Or maybe not.

~ * ~

November 10, 1980.

Byline, me, Gina Fournier.

Here I am, young student journalist, regaling the history of the Felician nuns, who raised me in Catholic schools and who would later rape my life.

Rape my life.

My story expressed in Twitter-edgy parlance is a tone (“rape my life”) I did not use as a at Ladywood High during the Reagan era:

“The community of sisters zealously undertook various charitable works including the establishment of an orphanage, a school for the poor, a home for aged women, and a hospital. Working together, but with no name to unite them in public’s mind, the inhabitants of their hometown, Warsaw, called them the Felician sisters. The name derives from the frequent visits with the children to the shrine of St. Felix in a nearby church.”

~ * ~

How did all this happen without anyone stopping the destruction of my life? 

It’s not like I live in Bangladesh, Syria, Venezuela, or actually live in the former Soviet Union. 

~ * ~

End self pity.

Try to remember gratitude and a grace.

This quest has been a great challenge for me at times throughout this ordeal as it drags and spreads to infect everything in my world.

~ * ~

Around the wrist of the Mitten, and Detroit, in the meat of the palm of thumb, in Livonia and Garden City, before I was run out of town, I tried everything I could think of to fix what was wrong.

Find rats?

Call an exterminator, sue, break the lease, move, take action.

~ * ~

But nothing I did worked to solve my largest problem: my attackers were still on the loose. 

And I still could not shut up.

~ * ~

At one point, before moving, I thought about getting a cat to fight the Livonia rats.

But I discarded that idea for more decisive reasonable action.

I’m allergic to cats.

I’m not delusional, not incapable of taking care of myself.

~ * ~

Back in Garden City, after I nursed poor old sweet Dalva dog to death, I got a new dog, Hunter, off Facebook.

There is no way to measure the positive impact of such a valiant knight.

Thankfully, I never had to see such a handsome beast with a rat in his mouth.

~ * ~

Chapter: Equal? Employment Opportunity Commission Claim

I took care of business, all kinds of business.

I was very busy.

I still am.

~ * ~

I contacted the state licensing board that controlled doctors and hospitals. 

I contacted lawyers. 

~ * ~

move most of EEOC to Gaslighting

section under construction

~ * ~

People don’t want to hang around bomb sites. ~ * ~ But I need people to know: I ‘m not crazy, I’m tortured. There’s a difference.

~ * ~

May 2013.

Response to the claim filed by my by this point gone baby gone lawyer.

No surprise.

The Equal Employment Opportunity Commission said they would not take action against Land of Motown Community College, which was anticipated, as their usual response, but the federal government agency did grant me the right to sue, which was also anticipated, as their usual response, I was told.

A formality. 

This is the point at which a federal discrimination case would be filed, but wasn’t.

~ * ~

At that point, in May 2013, after the looney bin, I could not find a subsequent lawyer who would take on a case against Land of Motown Community College, once the case was muddied by the first lawyer.

~ * ~

~ * ~

If my lawyer had refiled the EEOC claim after I was suicide swatted, maybe the outcome would have changed.

Probably not.

~ * ~

I filed my own update with the EEOC after I got out of the looney bin, when I was still absorbing and investigating my husband’s death, and running three households: 1) my rented home in Livonia, which I left ostensibly due to rat infestation that probably started when I was locked up, 2) our house in Garden City, where I returned, and the 3) lakehouse cabin up north, where I eventually escaped, where things got worse, not better.

~ * ~

I don’t recall writing the sentences included on the form I filed with the EEOC.

“On December 4, 2012, I filed EEOC Charge No: 471-2013-00466, alleging I was regarded as disabled and as a result was placed on suspension.”

~ * ~

How else to explain the sentences I apparently submitted to the EEOC?

Correction the EEOC wrote the sentences based on what I told them.

I needed to not sign until illegal looney bin lock up was clarified.

I remember being confused and unclear about the limited, twisted, dark alley of law considered by professionals to be open to me, in terms of legal recourse.

In my refiling, I told the EEOC, about my employer, I said, in the space provided on their form, about which I was told to place no faith:

“In January 2013, I was informed that they would stop paying me and I would retain health care coverage. In February 2013, I was placed in the hospital after my employer called the police and filed a a false report.”

If that was me writing, I was shell shocked.

~ * ~

To calm my nerves, I shopped for and bought new furniture on credit at Art Van Furniture, a long time chain in the area.

To mark the rebirth of the Garden City house.

~ * ~

Like most vagabonds, I had never before bought any furniture but used furniture from garage sales and resale shops.

Living in Mar Vista, a corner in Los Angeles, and Acton, among the rich of Greater Boston, I found coffee tables on the street, but did not buy new furniture almost out of pride, as a necessarily not-rich artist.

The furniture in the Garden City house had been purchased by my husband’s parents.

But things change.

Newly widowed, not divorced, de-classroomed, attacked by a madman, my world made unreal, I figured a new special order love seat, chair and ottoman would help me feel better, grown up, worthwhile, sane, right.

Brand new furniture at my age would help me rise to the task of recovery.

I was wrong.

~ * ~

Buying the furniture was maybe daffy. Probably ill-advised. I paid it off, then sold it for a large loss two years later, when I lost the Garden City house in foreclosure.

Perhaps I became delusional, thinking I could fix so quickly the damage done by criminal and cruel mental health care, quickly enough to pay off the furniture and not go broke.

~ *~

Apparently, I told the federal government in my updated EEOC claim, after the looney bin:

“On March 11, 2013, I quit based on the experiences from the past year.”

And:

“I believe I was constructively discharged after I was retaliated against for filing a previous charge of discrimination, in violation of The Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990, as amended.”

So convoluted.

I guess I was trying to sound like a lawyer.

~ * ~

My nemesis planned very well.

~ * ~

No surprise, but still painful, my post-looney bin updated EEOC claim, which I wrote myself, was turned down.

I was told, effectively, that I was supposed to endure employer gaslighting and employer suicide swatting, resulting in illegal and cruel looney bin lock up, and like it, by the federal government of the United States.

“Based on the information that you provided at intake, the EEOC will be unable to conclude that you were discriminated against. You provided information that indicates you quit. There is no information to establish that the work environment was so intolerable that a reasonable person would have quit or that it was related to your previous charge.”

~ * ~

A reasonable person would accept one’s higher education employer breaking the faculty contract and engaging in mental abuse in order to silence academic freedom?

A reasonable teacher would endure removal from the classroom on phoney charges, non payment of wages, withholding due process?

A reasonable teacher would endure criminal action?

~ * ~

I was again granted the right to sue in federal court.

A formality.

~ * ~

One law firm kept me on a string for a very long time, not saying no, saying we’re thinking about it, never saying yes.

That hope drifted away, along with a few pounds of my documentation, copies, while my story and piles of original documents have multiplied.

~ * ~

My nemesis created and executed the perfect crime.

Unfortunately, he was not finished with me.

I think I was supposed to lay down and die in his plan.

At least keep quiet and not complain.

~ * ~

I have experienced heartbreak, tumbling over mind rape, subsuming wallet rape, collapsing intosocial rape, like my childhood Slinky toy took stairs once set loose. 

Like a spiral doodle come to life.

Going down, down, down. 

Problems all coiled together permanently, bent and tangled as time wears on. 

~ * ~

In addition to learning the limits of equal protection, I discovered there is virtually no medical malpractice for any medical reason in Michigan, investigating on behalf of both me and my dead husband, and few civil rights lawyers. 

It’s not like in the movies in my imagination. 

Pro bono lawyers aren’t sitting around waiting for your call.

~ * ~ 

Chapter: Thrown Under the School Bus by Michigan Education Association Associations

(edit note: change “her” throughout to Daughter of Car Dealer?)

I tried to find work.

That did not go well.

I could not take over my husband’s one-man cleaning business because he had told all his clients that he was divorcing me, and that I was suddenly crazy dangerous, which is a line he used to try and save the two houses, even though he knew I was not crazy.

Like I’ve said, we’ve made our peace across the universe, thank you to John, Paul , George and Ringo. 

~ * ~

I did not live among the rich in Oakland County, home of Land of Motown Community College. 

I lived among the bottom ranks of working class in Wayne County, in an old ring suburb of the Motor City.  I lived in a job ghetto.  No restaurants, to speak of, no waitressing jobs, like I worked at during college—in California. 

I was too old anyway. 

~ * ~

Managers at box stores were male and looked at a me and my resume: English teacher, masters’ degree, author.  They did not call me back.  Who wants to hire a former community college English teacher, me, as subordinate?

No one.

I am embarrassed, panicked and horrified to admit: it did not occur to me to call a temp agency, which became out of the question once I sold and ran out of running automobiles and retirement funds. 

~ * ~

Teaching felt out. 

~ * ~

Meanwhile, I was denied unemployment insurance through all appeals because I was told by an elderly white male former labor attorney turned judge prior to retirement, two of them, in fact, across appeals, that I quit my job at Land of Motown Community College frivolously.

~ * ~

I faced Land of Motown Community College after I quit in administrative court over unemployment insurance.

I thought I had a claim because I was forced to quit.

But two old white male judges, cronies by age and occupation of my nemesis, said no, even after appeal.

“You quit your job over personal reason over which the employer had no control.”

The inaccuracy of the statement reads like a gun shot to my vagina.

~ * ~

Pricey attorney Robert Boonin was retained by Land of Motown Community College to fight me in an Oakland County administrative court, and still works for the college. I saw his name listed as bargainer in the latest faculty contract, I believe.

~ * ~ 

Before I lost two administrative court appeals over unemployment insurance, I played girl detective, hired a private investigator and ordered a round of subpoenas.   

The private dick I hired served four Land of Motown Community College employees and made them appear in court, including my suicide swatter, the top cop at Land of Motown Community College, Terry McCaueley, two bully teacher foes, Suzanne Labadie and Eric Abbey, (spawn of the lead bully teacher, Mr. Online Shakespeare, who wanted to retire to his boat on Lake St Clair), and my nemesis, the interim human resources labor attorney, William MacQueen.

~ * ~

Land of Motown Community College never supplied any documentation to support the criminal mental health care roller coaster to hell, which they commandeered for me. 

Presto!  Black Magic!  

My nemesis, like an evil wizard, created the spark to start the thing running, like the evil carnival in Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes, adapted, apparently, into the scariest Disney movie ever made.

I’ve not seen it.

~ * ~

When given the opportunity in a courtroom, the only proof offered by Land of Motown Community College to support the initial claim that I had serious sudden mental health issues, which needed addressing immediately, because of suddenly seriously erratic behavior was also created out of air and criminal thinking.

The Document does not appear in the binder of materials created by my nemesis.

My claim, denial and two appeals stretched in court from September 2013 to January 2014.

A document was created for an administrative court appearance, in January 2014. 

It was written by the most active of my bully peers during the witch hunt, daughter of car dealer, a fact she told peers, which stuck in my head.

I subpoenaed her, as promised.

~ * ~

From the start, this woman rubbed me the wrong way.

We were cordial but not friends, not in the same tribe.

How does an adjunct own real estate in Chicago?

A rich daddy.

Please allow me to use my own psychology on her, as she did to me, officially, in court, under oath, to help gaslight and murder me.

At least briefly.

I now live in Bay City, coincidentally.

Home of Labadie car dealerships.

Too easy. Fill in the joke on your own.

Pig gig.

Yep.

~ * ~

I should have spent money on a lawyer to represent me in administrative court instead of buying furniture.

But the outcome would likely have been the same.

I stood in front of two white male judges, older gentleman.

I was told administrative judges were retired labor attorneys, the kind that work for business, not workers, like my nemesis.

One called me, “Mr. Fournier!”

Both were closed-minded to my claim that I was forced to quit due to mental abuse, including criminal mental abuse (suicide swatting).

~ * ~

I keep electronic copies of This Document all over the place.

This is It.

This is the Proof I needed to be treated like an accused mass murder.

The Document.

~ * ~

The clues giving The Document away, those that stick out at first, are more about appearance. 

The Document is not printed on school letterhead or set within school e-mail. 

There is no good reason for a genuine document to not bear the marks of authenticity.

The Document is not genuine.

~ * ~

The Document was provided by my bully peer under oath and admitted into the court record as evidence.

The Document was admitted along with Mr. Online Shakespeare’s Nov. 10, 2008 letter, imitating the Gettysburg Address and maligning my pedagogy, which peers initialed before it was written.

~ * ~

~ * ~

I did not win, but I did create court record.

In case that ever matters to the world.

It matters to me.

~ * ~

Analysis of The Document.

Battle of the English Teachers.

It takes more thoughtful review and insider knowledge to notice that the administrator addressed was not in position as dean at the time the letter was supposedly generated.

I’m pretty sure.

I think we may have been technically dean-less, in dean transition.

Deans at Land of Motown Community College moved around campuses and positions like they were dodging bullets.

But he is the dean named by my nemesis when this attack was launched, in the letter dated April 13, 2012.

~ * ~

Jump to the point of my argument: The Document was coached into being by my nemesis, who sat with my bully peer, behind pricey lawyer Robert Boonin, who still works for the school.

~ * ~

Most obvious proof The Document is a phony? 

The date was changed by hand from March 26, 2011, to March 26, 2012. 

Not a simple calendar date or month change.

A change in year!

The Document submitted to the court as proof I acting crazy dangerous all of a sudden is not genuine.

The Document is a joke!

~ * ~

As I recall, the judge dismissed the relevance of the visual marks of perjury.

~ * ~ 

On the same day, in court, under oath, a bully English teacher, with sway and stature because of her support of the old-school in-house union, committed perjury and plagiarism, in order to help nail shut my coffin. 

She had become department head, but that’s because no one else wanted the job.  The position was supposed to be shared.

Department chair did not supervise peer teachers.

According to her LinkedIn profile, currently this teacher represents the college in a national organization of English teachers. 

~ * ~

Does she teach her students perjury and how to plagiarize and get away with it?

Is that why she’s lauded?

Because she hasn’t been caught or held accountable?

Because she’s a successful higher ed cheat?

~ * ~

I realize now, after following phrases like “mental health” and “misery” as they wind through the bogus paper trail, that she likely had help composing the document she submitted in court.

The document greatly manipulates and in effect completely rewrote my presence on campus. 

~ * ~

The Tale of Two Losing Women.

I have so much hate for this woman, this bully co worker, who pushed The Document, I don’t know what to do with it.

I’ve painted and written fairy tales of torture for her.

No one wins.

She is tortured daily with skin removal, hell fire, wrath of god, crucifix, shackle, but restored to full health for a night’s sleeplessness, over and over and over for years, over seven years at this point. This fairy tale torture continues for the exact number of days she tortures me, then ends, if the witch hunt ends, with the public light of day.

But no one wins. I am forever alone because of the all hatred I’ve been forced to digest. She loses her job and life, too.

No one wins.

The tale of two losing women.

~ * ~

The Document.

Point one of three, bogus narration. Why my co-worker suddenly scares me. Plagiarism. Perjury.

“Ms. Fournier moved an online class in her schedule in a such a way that it conflicted with other offerings of the department.”

Creating the schedule is the biggest point of interaction between full-time teachers in charge. 

The department’s main bully I called Mr. Shakespeare. 

For years, he arranged to teach too many automated sections of online Shakespeare, and the others allowed it. 

~ * ~

Really.  Online Shakespeare?  Many sections of online Shakespeare?

I was appalled. 

Most teachers looked away, as long as they got theirs.

~ * ~

The Royal Oak and Southfield English department coordinated the schedule like Mafia dons dividing up territory, on behalf of teachers, not students.

~ * ~

“Over the course of several e-mails, she threatened legal action against me and other members of the department (though the emails were between the two of us), refused to take part in our department’s coordination of the schedule and described another department member as ‘unsafe,’ a bold and false accusation.”

Wait a minute. Isn’t that exactly what she was doing? Calling me unsafe? Using bold and false accusation?

How would she know if Mr. Online Shakespeare was dangerous to me or not?

It was not her job to decide.

She wasn’t there every second.

She was not my supervisor, or God.

~ * ~

The Document.

Point two of three, bogus narration. Why my co-worker suddenly scares me. Plagiarism. Perjury.

I was the bully, according to my bully peer.

Watch the pattern of quotation. No words are mine, just hers:

“I was called a liar, told that I was morally bankrupt, unfair and lacked academic integrity. These baseless accusations, which amount to libelous ‘name calling,’ are a threat to my professional livelihood. Beyond that, however, I feel harassed and bullied into complying with the wishes of one faculty member over nine others who work in this department. This behavior has made it incredibly challenging to complete college business.”

This co-worker was unethical. She tried to rewrite historic union guidelines about seniority to subvert the fact that I was hired before her. She proved her lack of ethics again with her testimony in court and in The Document.

She began bullying me years before, led by Mr. Online Shakespeare. The entire department ganged up on me, documented in 2008.

I filed two grievances about scheduling and lack of ethics between 2009-2012.

They were ignored.

~ * ~

Land of Motown Community College teachers next to never met, by contractual lack of requirement.

The campus English department did not regularly meet.

We worked in isolation with our students.

No department or college business was impeded by my pedagogical concerns.

I was required to act on behalf of student need, as I saw it.

The Document is junk.

~ * ~

The meeting purposely mis-described was not an English department meeting. 

Our department was small and dysfunctional.

We rarely rarely met because we were not required by contract to hold department meetings. 

Through mostly private back channel connections, department teachers, who had all ganged up against me in 2008, without resolution, used politics to grab at the pie of classes in the schedule in order to suit their personal life styles. 

Mr. Online Shakespeare preferred boating.

~ * ~

Overtime, the college cut back on online Shakespeare offerings due to my pressure, but it cost me my livelihood.

~ * ~

Because I was run out of Garden City and spent a few years outside of civilization, I missed this news blurb, in 2015.

Land of Motown Community College was held accountable for shoddy online teaching practices.

~ * ~

Michigan Radio: “OCC has offered online courses for years. More recently, it sought accreditation as a ‘virtual campus’ that’s authorized to grant online-learning based degrees as well. But its application wasn’t approved by an oversight body, the Higher Learning Commission.”

The faculty union president, the psychology teacher who helped gaslight me, was interviewed.

Michigan Radio: “OCC Faculty Association head Mary Ann McGee said that faculty were first told in June that all online classes would be canceled for the winter semester. McGee suggested the school administration should have put the full range of online services in place before applying for virtual campus accreditation.”

What does that mean, “online services”?

Is there such a thing as “classroom services” which differ from “online services”?

Or is online college instruction simply too often a bad idea that is unsupportable?

Michigan Radio: “She said that since voting to approve the idea in 2010, faculty have built the backbone of the school’s online offerings, but administrators have bungled the rest.”

Self-serving duplicity.

Bungled the rest of what?

~ * ~

Rebuttal.

Online teaching and learning at the community college level is too often a bad idea.

It takes more time to teach and learn well online, compared to the classroom, so some teachers and students seek the anonymity and low standards that can happen without checks and balance in cyberspace.  

~ * ~

“Many of the faculty members that I talk to, even if they don’t teach online courses themselves, are very embarrassed and upset by this,” the faculty union president of Land of Motown Community College said to Michigan Radio.

Wisecrack.

They’ve got a lot to be embarrassed about.

~ * ~

The Document.

Words were used not honestly but to tie a noose for my neck.

“Further, every attempt of mine to adhere to the process this department has in place for scheduling has been met with undermining, insidious reactions from Ms. Fournier.”

Process?

Correction. A grab bag, a political grab bag for teachers, a very small group of well-paid prima-donna union teachers, not including adjuncts, adjuncts for whom students paid just as much per credit hour.

Whatever it was best called, it was not a scheduling process that put student need first, in my view.

If I may say so, safely, without retaliation.

~ * ~

Have they bothered to retain the academic integrity portion of the faculty contract at Land of Motown Community College?

. ~ * ~

In my coworker’s boldly bogus testimony, she alluded to long standing schedule disputes but soon called me the bully, then she progressed into indignation.

She labeled me a problem for the college. 

Because she was coached.

The Document is a plagiarism and perjury.

Shouldn’t that matter to tax payers and students?

~ * ~

Point three, bogus narration. The Document. Why my co-worker suddenly scares me. Plagiarism. Perjury.

Campus Senate meeting.

Ironically, she accused me of slandering my poor innocent co-workers (including her).

Slander is speech that maligns.

Libel refers to the written word, libel like library, is how I remember the distinction.

That semester, on campus, she had removed me from a computer classroom time slot minus “department coordination,” a computer classroom time slot, which I had held for some time.

She took it for herself, as I recall.

Sound like two bitches nitpicking?

She re-arranged the schedule for a section that did not meet weekly on campus.

For a hybrid course, part online off campus.

Which means the computer classroom went unused for half the semester.

I was murdered over pocket change and students have paid.

~ * ~

Can a union change your life?

It sure changed mine.

~ * ~

A liar can either stop lying, or continue lying.

She continued.

In The Document, she eventually worked up to a crescendo, describing “serious concern for the safety of attendees” at some fantasy amalgamated version of regular monthly campus senate meeting, in which my alleged but nonspecific behavior supposedly “frightened” her. 

~ * ~

I did not all of sudden become physically frightening.

I didn’t wave a gun.

I didn’t make any threats.

I didn’t shout or interrupt.

I did not physically touch anyone.

Nothing happened.

No one was hurt.

No one was frightened.

~ * ~

Witch hunt.

Sexist Gaslight witchhunt.

Women can be sexist toward other women.

https://www.guerrillagirls.com/

~ * ~

This woman had the audacity to claim I frightened her due to my allegedly “shaking voice” and “erratic responses to conversation in the meeting (like laughing out-loud at the comments of other attendees).”

Shaking voice?

Laughing?

I always laugh at clowns and the antics of zoo animals.

~ * ~

She went way out of her way to sound like the psychiatrist she isn’t, attributing to me “physical shaking and tics, refusal to make eye contact, and an emotional and flustered departure from the room at the end of the meeting.” 

~ * ~

Eye rolling?

Dismissive saddened head shakes?

Require looney bin restraint?

~ * ~

Very dramatic. 

Very closely cultivated to mock concerns in a voice mimicking a mental health care worker. 

But how many writers involved could not get the year date or visual presentation or the facts correct? 

~ * ~

Like the hack shrinks and the St. Mary Merciless crew, nothing solid exists to support my coworker’s claim that she was afraid of me, suddenly. 

We never liked each other personally, but I did not butt my head into her personal and professional life. 

Who was acting the bully?

~ * ~

In addition to help from hack shrinks, no doubt, only a lawyer could create hearsay like the following, for The Document: “I was not alone in my concerns about safety, a sentiment expressed by numerous attendees after her departure, including a licensed professional.” 

Who?

The union president psychology teacher? From another campus with it’s own entirely separate campus senate meetings?

~ * ~

I happened to retain the agenda from the March 8th campus senate meeting referenced in the bogus document.

The union president psychology from another campus was not scheduled to be present.

Notice the school logo and marks of authenticity appearing below which are missing from The Document.

~ * ~

Reading so much bad press about yourself is definitely a drag.

It hurts. 

Wallet and heart.

English teachers should be held to a higher standard. 

I held myself and my students to higher standards.

The language and manipulation of over-lording mental health care were used to filter reality into a fun-house reflection of my professional persona. 

My version of life at Land at Motown Community College sounds so different from my bully peer’s testimony in The Document. 

I hope I convince some people.

~ * ~

(Note: I still have Eric Abbey’s subpoena and testimony from the same court. He lied about Mr. Online Shakespeare’s November 10, 2008 letter under oath. Not sure where to put it. Also, I sent Suzanne an email recently, like other players, asking for restorative justice and for her to come forward voluntarily. I know. Crazy.)

~ * ~

Chapter: Teachers Be Honest: Students Don’t Read

Here’s the nut of my problem with other English teachers: they would not admit that students do not read. 

If students can get away with not reading, and they most often can, they do. 

They do no sign up in droves to take stay at home and read alone online Shakespeare classes, not ones in which one might have to actually read Shakespeare. 

They are willing to pay to take online Shakespeare classes in which they can fake reading and easily earn a passing grade.

This kind of honesty was not prized at Land of Motown Community College, where a majority of students often did not complete courses in English and Math in which they enrolled.

(add Eric Abbey’s testimony lying about not reading Mr Online Shakespeare’s letter here?)

~ * ~

~ * ~

Would other former co-workers honestly support this view of me as suddenly crazy dangerous? 

I’ve also taught at The Sound Stars Make Rushing Through the Sky Community College, Assembly Line Community College, and Closest to the University of Michigan Community College.

~ * ~

So much time has passed. 

Bogus mental health care sticks like super glue. 

Most people shut up and keep quiet at times like these. 

I believe that was the plan. Use me as a pawn to help silence prima donna full time union teachers going into contract negotiations. The administration wanted to prepare the teachers for tougher times.

A sacrifice was needed.

Me.

~ * ~

As population has dropped, and birth rates chilled, the pool of high school graduates interested in college has dropped, too, and competition for remaining students has increased.

Michigan has 28 community colleges, and plenty of state universities.

Meanwhile, most teaching work is done by unsupervised part timers, so all the meetings conducted about everything and anything, held among only the small group of full timers who bother to show up to campus and college wide meetings, generally had little effect on student experience in classrooms at Land of Motown Community College. 

The old school model.

~ * ~

Meetings are, of course, run according to Roberts Rules of Order, are a requirement of the old school model.

Meetings were a waste time.

Still, I attended meeting out of a sense of duty.

~ * ~

I attended monthly campus and college senate meetings out of sense of duty.

Most full-time union teachers did not bother.

Recall, Land of Motown Community College is a multi-campus instution in a sprawled county.

Most teachers did not bother to show up for monthly campus meetings, and most certainly did not drive around the sprawled county to attend specialty meetings at other campuses.

~ * ~

I was upset at one final Land of Motown Community College meeting I attended in the spring of 2012, but I kept myself together.

~ * ~

No blood was shed.

The police weren’t called.

That’s not funny in modern times.

~ * ~

I carried a copy of Camille Claudel’s biography with me.

I was rereading it, absorbing it, falling through the space and time fabric toward Camille’s story.

I recorded notes from phone conversations with my lawyer on the front blank pages.

I was carrying the book like a talisman, but the wrong one, I guess, if you know her story.

~ * ~

This meeting was not described in The Document, though the perjurer was present at this meeting, a rare meeting of the full English discipline, meaning English teachers from all five Land of Motown Community College campuses, not just our little hovel of a group in Royal Oak and Southfield.

The meeting was in Southfield, the first and last time I recall union English teachers from upper Oakland County slumming it.

The two locations, Royal Oak and Southfield, situated a few miles part on either side of 1-696, are considered one campus, strangely, in two cities, in effect making it harder for the poorest residents of the county, in Southfield, closet to Detroit, to complete their degree.

Poorer students are less likely to have stable lives, stable jobs, stable health, stable family dynamics, stable transportation.

~ * ~ 

The final meeting that I attended at Land of Motown Community College, of which I’m thinking, took place after the witch hunt had been launched, after the purview of my peer’s fake document.

In April 2012.

When I was counseled by my lawyer to say nothing, but to sit silently and stew. 

Sitting for the last time, after seven years dedicated service, among English teachers from all Land of Motown campuses, as a group as always pretending . . .

. . . . in this case, pretending to assess our composition instruction for the first time in the college’s history.

~ * ~

Note: The Document writer says on her LinkedIn posting that she has recently restarted this initiative.

~ * ~

By far, the Academic Literary program, weighted so strangely against students, for teacher’s private lives, if you ask me, received most attention from the English Discipline.

~ * ~

Overall, there was very little oversight of instruction, which is probably normal for higher education.

~ * ~

I recall seething, and being afraid and appalled, looking out at my peers. 

I knew it was the end and could not believe my back-stabbing coworkers were murdering me and getting away with it. 

~ * ~

Non benevolent co-workers who voted up Mr. Online Shakespeare’s hegemony, year after year, sat far apart at tables, which were set up to fill a room much larger than what was needed.

The space between us was a good metaphor for the chilly climate ever present in the English discipline and among my immediate campus peers. 

Chapter: Ghosts of WWII

I had to deal with my newly dead husband’s estate. 

There was so much to do to pick up the pieces of my life shattered by bogus mental health care, plus his suddenly shattered life, too. 

Somehow, there still is. 

~ * ~

This diversion of a stolen family helped me then, and it helps me now.

I need to rebuild before I post the documents about going to jail, as part of the Land of Motown Community College attack.

You have no idea how unsafe I feel and really am in the world.

I have been swept up and taken away from my life and held unfairly in modern America twice, the lonely forevermore looney bin and jail, because I was dedicated to my job in a way that annoyed my co-worker community college prima donna union English teachers in L. Brooks Patterson’s Oakland County.

What word combination will break this horrible spell and end my nightmare?

~ * ~

I was buried in old stuff that mostly nobody wanted, another metaphor for my life.

Unwanted.

Insignificant stuff needed hauling, like a case of empty Log Cabin syrup decanters, and big stuff that needed selling, like old cars and old boats. 

After I left the rat infested rented house in Livonia, two houses worth of belongings, belongings left by my dead husband, belongings left by his dead parents, people I never met, needed to be dealt with as I looked for important papers and figured out what to do next.

~ * ~ 

I repainted the drab walls in Garden City, in part, in the spirit of the Caribbean, where Chris and I vacationed.

Themes suggesting a happy third world brothel, the beach at dawn, and interior jungle helped my emotional outlook. 

And the house looked really great, years of detritus painstakingly cleaned away, aired out rooms opening into a fall harvest inner hallway.

~ * ~

I felt safer in Garden City, more protected, living physically further away from Livonia Catholic Siberia.

~ * ~

I loved to burrow in the center of the Garden City house, sit on the floor crossed legged, inside the warmth of the newly painted burnt orange hallway, and listen to the national broadcaster from Canada, via Windsor.

I listened to music on CBC Radio 2, all the programming, seven days a week.

I didn’t want to hear my beloved NPR and news of the states, where my civil and human rights were trashed.

~ * ~

As a kid, I listened to CKLW, commercial radio, out of Windsor, on my bedside clock radio. Tom Jones’ “What’s Up Pussy Cat” woke me up memorably day after day, cemented in time, on some deejay’s playlist.

~ * ~

My father was born in Canada.

I’m half Canadian.

I asked the Prime Minister of Canada Justin Trudeau if Canada would accept me as a political refugee.

He said no.

~ * ~

No one wants to deal with me.

~ * ~

I spent money from my cashed-in retirement on not just acupuncture for the dog and me, and color therapy, repainting walls that had not seen paint in decades, but I also contracted minor home renovation. 

Once I threw out the old furniture, I had the bungalow’s oak floors redone.

To help beautify the lower middle class neighborhood, I fixed the crumbling front porch.

Redoing the crumbling front porch seemed like a good idea, but also helped depleted my resources more quickly than if I had been more stoic. 

~ * ~

I was very conscious I was living on top of the lives others who were providing me berth when I needed it. 

I lived closer to ghosts than real people most days. 

I felt a kind of wonderful freedom as I cleaned through the past and emptied my dead husband’s family house of other people’s stuff, but I also felt very reverential, oddly, for people I never met alive.

~ * ~

I had to pay off the recently installed backyard privacy fence, too.

My, she was yar.

~ * ~

In the eaves of my husband’s small family home, I found a trove of love letters in a WWII trunk, written between his parents. 

~ * ~

Between 1943 and 1945, Ethel was home with her mother and son in Detroit, while father and husband Harry circled the continental United States, in the Navy. 

~ * ~

Finding the love letters to me was a big deal. 

~ * ~

I found other mementos of important. 

A Japanese war helmet and gas mask. 

~ * ~

A U. S. government issued pamphlet about avoiding venereal disease. 

A booklet on how to write lover letters, too. 

And a letter home written on stationery from the Hollywood Canteen. 

And more.  

~ * ~

It took me a few years to read the love letters, which contain a lot of personal talk about sex and love, as well as frustration with life during war, plus the every day mundane. 

I had to wrestle with myself about whether or not to read them. 

I decided I was the right person. 

I decided that Ethel figured I was the best choice, too.

Curating the love letters was not the job for a blood relative. 

Sex talk includes private names for body parts. 

I need to document my every claim because of the attack on my mind.

I don’t want to misuse the letters.

I must sell my story.

A bookkeeper in Malden, Massachusetts, when I was trying to collect a past due advertising bill for Time Warner Cable, told me, and I can’t forget, “Sex sells!”

Of course she’s right.

Ethel, please trust I am trying to make good.

The dead don’t blush.

~ * ~

I need to donate the letters, I think, when I’m done with them, maybe to The National WWII History Museum I’ve recently seen on Turner Classic Movies, while watching movies like The Longest Day and Sands of Iwo Jima.

~ * ~  

I read about news of D Day, Nagasaki and Hiroshima reaching Ethel through her letters to Harry, which Harry brought back home with him.

I sense letters were lost, though hundreds remained.

~ * ~

I discovered that Harry wasn’t sent to a theater of war until after the United States bombed Japan, and then he was sent to Japan. 

Then the letters end. 

~ * ~

Harry came home to Detroit, soon purchased the Garden City home, and fathered five more children, the last one, the largest, the baby, was my husband. 

~ * ~

While playing with ghosts at home in Garden City, I continued fighting my own one woman war for personal democracy and human rights.

I continued to sleuth what had happened to me, redress state government, look for legal aid, look for work, heal, move forward. 

I was much better at playing with ghosts.

~ * ~

I continued to post on social media about the Land of Motown Community College sexist Gaslight witch hunt. 

I posted in search of press coverage, a publishing contract, some kind of public acknowledgement.

I posted to document and blow steam about my ordeal, to keep my head from exploding, to try and save my life.

~ * ~

I tried to sell a memoir, but my story still has no ending.  

I cribbed a summary treatment entitled, “Snow White and the Galactic Butterfly: A Memoir of Abuse and Recovery Across the Universe,” which I sent out to prospective agents.

~ * ~

Back in 2014 and 2015, my tone was naive and hopeful, regarding the expectation of public support and a some sort of settlement, neither of which have not transpired.

~ * ~

Somehow, I was going to use my go-to-girl as shaping element.

Snow White loses her naivete, grows up, sees the wicked witch as a sad woman, grown old and mean-hearted, avoids the same fate and remains positive, despite the odds.

I didn’t have the elements fully fleshed out and connected, just like a happy ending remained elusive.

~ * ~

Chris was a gardener who was concerned about the declining monarch butterfly population.

Some think monarchs carry the souls of children who have died.

~ * ~

Remember, my Catholic attackers believe in all sorts of happenings I think are nonsense.

~ * ~

Apologies. Links to next chapter under construction. Don’t use labeled link below. To continue reading, please go back to the list of sections and choose the next chapter. Thank you!

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