I'm Pam Newman.
I am awesome every day & you are too.
Follow my butt on Twitter!
I'm a writer of aricles, poems & songs. Here's some cool stuff I wrote.
And I’ve been pulling up my britches and being strong and all that shit, but it’s a lot of work, man.
Her birthday was more important and circled around her. More than christmas or thanksgiving. It was one of my chances during the year to do something nice for her or make her smile.
Or you know, disappoint her to epic proportions.
But mostly I was really good on her birthday. Especially towards the end of her life.
I didn’t have to get her a birthday card, or a little fake flower. Or anything. She lives in a jar at my house. I’m never gonna make her smile until she cries again. She’s never gonna squeal, “My pammie!” or be sweet and tender.
She died, and that’s okay, we’re all supposed to die, but damn. I knew everyone died, but I just expected her to live forever.
No more birthdays for mom.
She would have been 63
She said (and I am paraphrasing), “Well what did they do wrong? There’s no way police would use that kind of force if they hadn’t done something wrong.”
I told her, “That occupation is filled with Black and Latino people.”
She replied, “Oh, that’s what they were doing. Being people of color and standing up for themselves.”