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Although I tried everything I could think of, tough love didn’t work, I loved him too much to go that route and for us, it wasn’t working. Being imperfect myself I didn’t want to come off like I was judging him or I had it all together myself, I didn’t. We just let him go to a point. But every so often when he was being kind and receptive we would talk. No judgment, no bringing up what happened last week just talking and running to the store for things together. It’s really just building a relationship. And then the next day he would be a monster again. No easy answers and they’re all a little different as well as circumstances. But 20 years later… he’s not perfect, I’m not either.. I haven’t seen his mom in years, but he’s my best and closest friend. We text a lot and when he comes to visit with his girlfriend every couple of months for a few days, we usually shed a few tears when he leaves. Even though he can still be a monster sometimes, his wife calls me and asks for my help every so often. I don’t know the answer, but I know in part you gotta love them even when they’re unlovable. When they are older they remember stuff we forgot….or want to forget. Prayer, meditation, seeing a shrink, pulling your hair out, calling the cops…been there, myself with his mom. I don’t know what you’ve tried and there is no way in hell I judge you for it. This is just my story, he isn’t my blood son. I don’t think there is anything we wouldn’t do for each other. He’s in his 30’s still has some behavior problems. But he’s the closest and dearest man I’ve ever known. You never give up. You never throw them away. Suddenly, I long to use a bandanna to secure my hair before playing a spirited game of kickball with my bunkmates (rather than using one as a makeshift mask before engaging with the outside world). I want to actively participate in icebreaker games of “Two Truths and a Lie,” instead of rolling my eyes with the other malcontents. I dream of going to sleep at night surrounded by my friends, after a long night of post-curfew gossip about how Sophie G. totally made out with Evan F. behind the canteen. At its heart, after all, the sleep-away camp is unlimited, lightly structured time with your friends; maybe it’s not such a coincidence that I’m longing for it right now—when even a park hangs with a small group feels somewhat risky.

Greta van fleet parks project escape to Nature shirt

Although I tried everything I could think of, tough love didn’t work, I loved him too much to go that route and for us, it wasn’t working. Being imperfect myself I didn’t want to come off like I was judging him or I had it all together myself, I didn’t. We just let him go to a point. But every so often when he was being kind and receptive we would talk. No judgment, no bringing up what happened last week just talking and running to the store for things together. It’s really just building a relationship. And then the next day he would be a monster again. No easy answers and they’re all a little different as well as circumstances. But 20 years later… he’s not perfect, I’m not either.. I haven’t seen his mom in years, but he’s my best and closest friend. We text a lot and when he comes to visit with his girlfriend every couple of months for a few days, we usually shed a few tears when he leaves. Even though he can still be a monster sometimes, his wife calls me and asks for my help every so often. I don’t know the answer, but I know in part you gotta love them even when they’re unlovable. When they are older they remember stuff we forgot….or want to forget. Prayer, meditation, seeing a shrink, pulling your hair out, calling the cops…been there, myself with his mom. I don’t know what you’ve tried and there is no way in hell I judge you for it. This is just my story, he isn’t my blood son. I don’t think there is anything we wouldn’t do for each other. He’s in his 30’s still has some behavior problems. But he’s the closest and dearest man I’ve ever known. You never give up. You never throw them away. Suddenly, I long to use a bandanna to secure my hair before playing a spirited game of kickball with my bunkmates (rather than using one as a makeshift mask before engaging with the outside world). I want to actively participate in icebreaker games of “Two Truths and a Lie,” instead of rolling my eyes with the other malcontents. I dream of going to sleep at night surrounded by my friends, after a long night of post-curfew gossip about how Sophie G. totally made out with Evan F. behind the canteen. At its heart, after all, the sleep-away camp is unlimited, lightly structured time with your friends; maybe it’s not such a coincidence that I’m longing for it right now—when even a park hangs with a small group feels somewhat risky.

Greta van fleet parks project escape to Nature s hoodie

But Reid—born Joy-Ann Lomena—has either the advantage of the extra pressure of claiming membership in two different, sometimes socially separate, communities. She is both African American and part of that group of first-generation immigrants whose parents came to the United States after the 1965 Hart-Celler Immigration Act cleared the way for people of color from across the world. Her father, a geologist, came from the Congo. Her mother, a nutritionist (and later a professor at Northern Colorado), Guyana. When her father left Reid and her two siblings early into her childhood, her mother raised the family alone in Denver. Her mom was up to the task. She took them on long car trips. She wanted her children to know that they should never be denied anything based on their race. Harvard? Stanford? Yale? These schools were all within reach. She taught them to seek a life of adventure. To live without fear. To never let anyone tell them no. Reid would have to lean on her own fortitude far earlier than anyone really should. She would get to Harvard. But weeks before she began classes, cancer felled her mom. Reid had wanted to study medicine because, well, her family wanted her to. By the time she started school, she had lost faith in doctors, all doctors. She struggled that first year with the invariable depression and darkened outlook one has when you lose a parent so young. She left Cambridge for New York, returning the following year to study film. It would prove a fortunate route. After graduation in 1991, she moved to New York, eventually landing a job at the School of Visual Arts. There, she met her future husband, the film editor Jason Reid, whom she married in 1997. In Florida, the two began to raise their three children, and Reid freely moved between life in media and politics. There was a column in the Miami Herald, posts at two different Florida television stations, a pit stop with an advocacy group devoted to stopping George W. Bush’s second term, talk radio, a job with the Florida arm of Barack Obama’s 2008 presidential campaign. There, she laid out a future that has largely come to pass: She wanted to write a best-selling book. (She got that with her 2019 work, The Man Who Sold America: Trump and the Unraveling of the American Story.) She wanted to pay off her college debt. And she wanted to be on Hardball.

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