6 January 2025
Epiphany
Cry Facho!
Four lonnnnng years ago, in January 2021, I purchased an old black leather jacket from an online vintage clothing shop. I said it brings out My Inner Facho!
I’ve usually been mis-taken by men, and by women, as weak, passive, pliable, submissive, docile, dumb — qualities that do not describe me. Perhaps it’s due to my fair coloring, small build, and relatively short stature of 5 feet, 3-1/2 inches. Or it’s my quiet manner, that persists until I find a worthwhile reason to speak my mind.
I cannot recall any outcomes from those missed perceptions that were comedic. Most were dramatic, a few almost tragic!
I certainly did my best to turn those tears into laughter. To my amazement, and disgust, I realized that the person who had so severely misjudged me was — utterly without a sense of humor.
Being humorless is no laughing matter. It’s a woeful condition.
Many patriots in America have come to intimately understand that dire truth during this past decade. We’ve encountered, sometimes physically, the vile vacancy of a comedic, or cheerful, response from persons who think they “run” our lives.
They’re running now!
What does a sane and civilized person do in the face of unbridled hatred?
Walk away — with calm determination — from that tool of the devil.
The Lord does not expect you to turn that other cheek until it’s bloodied to a pulp. You cannot expect yourself to prevail over the ghastly past that rightfully belongs to someone else. You’re not running away. You’re stepping toward your future.
You’ll then have to contend with your own emotions getting quite a workout from a nasty run-in with a moral pygmy, a narcissistic swine, a gutless bully.
That process is neither easy, nor brief. It’s not meant to be. It’s the stuff of which my novels are made.
I did not set out in life to cry facho, or any other rallying cry. I didn’t set out to cry. I did, however, discover that until I was able to transform my tears, along with those of someone else, into a smile, then I hadn’t truly grown up. I’d not yet embarked upon the never-ending journey of Being A Novelist.
I was wise enough to understand that the person named Debra Tanis couldn’t write worth a lick until she’d licked the calls to victimhood, and venom, and vitriol, and vengeance. “Staying within yourself” requires having a self to stay within, or within which to stay.
All of my novels explore that valiant voyage through dramatic scenes and narrative depths of emotion. I select my first one, NORTHSTAR, and THE GHOST, finalized in 2014, as supreme literary illustrations of this truth:
Until you learn how, and why, a smile’s a frown turned upside down, you haven’t learned much about life, or living it right.
About a year ago, I received a message on my pathetically under-used cell phone. I think I got to it that same day. I do recall it was a Friday. The subject concerned a financial legal matter related to my family-of-origin. My initial, and only, reaction was the “feet don’t fail me now” flight pattern.
I immediately heard my conscience, or the voice of God, dictate:
“You must deal with this, Debra.”
And so I did.
It turns out that a very brave and very rebellious act, or series of actions, that I undertook during the late 1980s had borne fruit, of many varieties. Those bold inquiries into the past of my deceased father had planted seeds of serendipity, even serenity, in a family genealogical archive (database) in Salt Lake City, Utah.
Nowadays, it’s sport, and big business, to check out your ancestors. Back in late 1980s, digging up bones wasn’t the fun DNA chase of today.
During one Christmas of the long ago, I received a rather unusual gift from a work associate: a set of forms to fill out and send to the Genealogy Gurus at the Church of the Latter Day Saints in Salt Lake City. I still remember how nicely the pages were carefully enclosed in lovely holiday tissue wrapping paper.
My only goal, back then, was to find out some names of my paternal forebears, so that I could then write them — with factual accuracy — on the very empty branches of The Family Tree in the birth record book of my as-yet unborn first child, a son; and, then, three a half years later, of my daughter.
My friend at the time confessed her fears about her legacy research project:
“I hope I don’t find a horse thief.”
“If that’s all I find, I’ll be grateful,” was my reply.
There’s no need for detailed information here. They could fill a book. They already have, several, in fact. From some very empty tree branches, I intuitively created entire fictional forests.
During this past year, significant, and profound portions of my father’s ancestry were most unexpectedly granted to me — several decades after I’d audaciously gone in search of answers to basic questions about my antecedents, solely to provide those basics to my progeny.
I consequently experienced the tranquillity of knowing this job was well done, even though I’d not consciously been aware of the work I was doing at the time I was doing it.
I am eternally thankful to My Maker for directing me, on that winter day, one year ago, to steel myself to finish whatever it was that I’d started, many years ago. Those were dark years for me, enlightened by the wondrous love that guided me through grievous sorrows.
We cannot change the always-despairing doubters. We cannot force our joy upon the bitter souls who despise us for holding joy in our hearts. We can, and must, walk away from all of that doom-and-gloom, with a prayer for the lost. We also owe a duty to ourselves to prevail over the nasty work of the devil by looking for the Light in the darkness that’s a specialty of any anti-Christ.
Fortunate is anyone who has been tempest-tossed, and lost, but who became found, through the grace of God. We can then become further blessed through the love that we receive into ourselves, and consequently give to others. You must accept love before you can ever hope to give it away. True love does not spring forth from an empty vessel, or from a chalice filled with bitterness. The splendour of love is an endless flame, within, that lights your path in this journey called life.
I still shed tears in contemplation of the unforeseen fulfillment of a promise, along with a vow, that I’d made, many years ago, to my oldest sibling, Edward. With amazement and with abundant gratitude, I’ve accepted the truths of these words that I quipped to Dear Husband:
“I’m not only carrying the torch of my family-of-origin to the future — I am the torch!”
Cry Facho!