[stylist] {Spam?} Long Article: I'll Call Her Sandy(someprofanity)

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

Thea,

I just think you can better place, and word, your isolation in this
piece. I'm not critiqueing your actual life but your writing in this
particular piece. I think your isolation and loneliness needs to be
clearer and written more concisely without the repetition. This is where
showing us may be more powerful than telling us.

As a nonfiction writer myself, we can easily put too much between the
lines when others comment because we are writing about real life,
especially when it's about our life. But we need to look at the context
of the writing itself and try to see what the reader sees. We know the
entire story and how we feel about it; readers don't have that entire
background. So I'm not commenting on your life except in how you portray
it here and how you weave it into this narrative.

By the end of the piece, we already need the info you give at the end.
We need that isolation to be clear from the beginning, not tacked on as
an end note.

I've never been accused of lying about my blindness because I used the
computer, so no, I don't understand this, but yes, I am fully aware how
ignorant the world is about blindness and the tools we use. Nonetheless,
this is info you can better place within this piece, and again, just be
mindful of redundancies.

As an editor, I see where revisions can happen and where you can make it
stronger. This is my intent in commenting at all. With work, this can be
a strong piece.

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Miss Thea
Sent: Friday, March 14, 2014 3:16 AM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: Re: [stylist] {Spam?} Long Article: I'll Call Her
Sandy(someprofanity)


Hi, Bridgit.
Thank you for the time and effort you took to read my article. I do see
many of your points. Repetition is one of the things I will have to 
learn to overcome.
There are only a couple of points I would quibble with.


Re the background info: The paragraph about my not being able to get
out, 
about my family not wanting contact with me is, I believe, germane. The
kind 
of isolation I'm living with, the loneliness from past hurts, etc. is 
exactly what set me, and people like me, up for this kind of predator. 
Without the background info, can you just imagine the comments: "Well, 
what's the matter with you? Go meet people offline. Join a gym. Join a 
theater group, church, or choir ..." and on and on. I find that unless I

spell things out, people are mighty quick to judge. Maybe I can bring my

reader into my isolation with me by showing it rather than telling it,
but 
describing how I cry every day for lack of contact with my kids or 
describing my fight to get proper WheelTrans service would take away
from 
the main piece. The setup paragraph is just that. It tells the reader
why 
I'm not out on the town, meeting flesh and blood people, and why I'm
alone 
and have no support system.

Re the blindness: I wanted to let people know who might not, how I use a

computer, how I read her messages.
On a Harry Potter forum, I was accused of lying about my blindness
because 
the ignorant person writing me had no idea about screenreaders and
Braille 
displays.
And isn't that exactly what the lawyer accused me of? Lying about my 
blindness? So if the reader is with me while my screenreader reads her 
messages or feels the Braille under my fingers or whatever, they won't 
wonder when the lawyer makes his statement. Their sympathies will be
with 
me.


We here on the list know how it's done, but if the world is going to
read my 
pieces, I want it shown in the article or stories about blind characters
how 
they do things.
I'm sick of ignoramuses who don't even know me, calling me a liar
because I 
write on forums and the like.
As far as the forum went, I reported the person.
As far as my blog goes, I will spell things out for those who don't
know.

Your other points are well taken, and I promise to actually roll on the 
floor and purr. Hahaha.
Thea

-----Original Message----- 
From: Bridgit Pollpeter
Sent: Friday, March 14, 2014 1:39 AM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: Re: [stylist] {Spam?} Long Article: I'll Call Her Sandy 
(someprofanity)

Thea,

I would drop the first para and start with the second para.

Watch for where you can break paras. There's quite a few paras that
should be broken into two or more.

This is just a suggestion, but consider making more literary. Consider
turning sections where you tell us info into scenes showing what
happened. Try using more sensory descriptions and not just telling us
about emotions in the narration.

You write, I’ll skip the part where I rolled on the floor, purring.
First, not exactly skipping when you state it, and second, why skip?
Don't necessarily need too many details, but this is the difference
between telling us an emotion and showing us.

You write, My Sandy was a 43-year-old self-employed structural engineer,
working on a multi-million-dollar bridge. Why do we just get this info
about Sandy at this point? I feel like we should know this sooner,
especially when you mention her working on a project earlier.

You kind of jump from learning who is actually texting you to having a
conversation with the lawyer. I feel like a smoother transition is
needed.

You write, I was a lioness, chained, powerless, while her just-born cub
had its belly ripped open by a stronger animal. I roared with impotent
rage, sadness, confusion. This needs a little work, but I like it. This
is raw emotion, and by using the imagery and metaphor, I feel it drives
your point home better than when you just relay what happened. We get
inside the emotion with this language.

You use the cliché being played like a violin, which is over-used; is
there any other way to describe this? Can you tap into that emotive
writing again to find a better way to relay this info?

Not a biggie, but do you need to detail how you read the email on your
computer? You've already established you're blind in this piece, why
keep repeating it?

I would end this with the comment about this not being a relationship
gone bad. I would quibble about the comment about disabled employment,
but that's an entirely different topic with a lot of perspectives. I
don't feel it's necessary here though, but the previous sentence is
much, much stronger.

The section about your daughter not wanting contact doesn't seem germane
to this piece. It's info that doesn't add anything to the over-all
point. Unnecessary details should be cut in revisions, which is writing
101. Certainly the parts about not wanting your daughter to experience
this pertains to the piece, but your current relationship plays no part
on the topic.

And you have a tendency to become redundant in this piece. Sometimes a
stronger point is made when you don't constantly repeat info. There are
several instances of unnecessary repetition from beginning to end.

The end starts to run on. I think this would be stronger to end with how
I suggest previously. You get long-winded and redundant at the end.
Leave us with a strong image, that preying on people and not just
finding yourself in a bad relationship. Currently, the end starts to
drag.

Over-all, not bad. It definitely could use some editing, but you do
demonstrate the importance of the issue at hand.

Bridgit
-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Miss Thea
Sent: Tuesday, March 11, 2014 3:16 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] {Spam?} Long Article: I'll Call Her Sandy (some
profanity)


Description: Even if you’re smart enough to avoid the devastating money
losses associated with romance scams, the price is still too high.


I met her on Pink Cupid, a lesbian dating site. She was different from
anyone else I’d met. From her first message in late January, to the day
it all went to hell just after Valentine’s Day, she was a class act.
I’ll call her “Sandy”.

I am a person with disabilities, born totally blind, live with
depression and anxiety disorders, and have picked up several pain
conditions along the way. In addition, I’m a virtual shut-in, due to an
enforced escort requirement slapped on my file by my city’s paratransit.
I can find someone for medical appointments, but not much more. People
aren’t volunteering to sit on a paratransit vehicle so I can get to a
party, get a job, or take a course. They just don’t want to commit that
kind of time, nor can they. Plus, how’d you like a 3rd party while
you’re on a date, getting to know someone? Even if I could find such
people, it would be awkward for all concerned. Plus, not everyone wants
to help a lesbian meet other women. I have had to end a volunteer
relationship with one person who felt that because the paratransit
demanded I have an escort, I was obviously intellectually handicapped,
needed to be told how to live, and that I was certainly a moral
degenerate who needed to hear that old saw: “Adam and Eve, not Adam and
Steve”.

Thus, my quality of life is vastly undermined, since the ability to get
from A to B, so important to anyone over the age of sixteen, is denied
me.

What’s next? An online dating site: Pink Cupid.

That’s where I met her. I’ll call her “Sandy”.

Age-appropriate, friendly, not casting me aside because of my
disabilities or my shut-in status, we began communicating daily.

Through the magic of a screenreader and a Braille display, plus
VoiceOver, iPhone’s built-in screen reader, I had connected with another
human soul.

I awoke to messages from her, got iPhone texts from her throughout the
day, and a beautiful song on Valentine’s Day. I sent her a song on
Valentine’s Day as well, not to mention throughout-the-day messages: I’m
doing this or that, I’m thinking of you. You’re in my prayers.

She told me all about her life, and her work as a structural engineer in
South Africa.

She always treated me like a lady, never tried to use me for cyber sex.
She never cheapened me in any way. I was her baby girl, and she, my
princess. I could feel it in the air, as Valentine’s Day drew nearer.

I phoned her using my Skype credits, and asked her outright.

“Sandy, we’ve only known each other a couple of weeks, but it feels like
we’re in love. What do you think?”

She gave me a hearty laugh, as warm as fur. “Of course. You’re my baby
girl!”

I’ll skip the part where I rolled on the floor, purring.

I read her letters on my Braille display to my two other blind friends.
The sincerity, beauty and eloquence of her missives, which now included
that beautiful “l” word, impressed them. My sighted friends said she had
an open, honest face, and praised the transparency and vulnerability she
displayed in her letters. Everyone wished me well, even those who do not
approve of “the gay lifestyle”.

My usual depression lifted. I wrote with passion and fervor, knowing my
Lady was also working hard on her project. I borrowed that old Chuck
Berry tune as I washed and dried the dishes, fed and picked up my
sleek-furred cat for the petting of his life, and my fingers danced on
the keyboard writing, even when they weren’t writing. They poised over
the keys while my Muse stood beside me, giving me unaccustomed energy. I
sang, “It was a lesbian wedding, and the straight folks wished them
well.”

I dreamed of her at night, and called her in South Africa, too excited
to sleep. I sang to her; she told me of her plans to visit Canada.

“When? Like April or May?” I asked.

“March. As soon as this contract job is over. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I was euphoric, counting days, planning all the things she might like to
see in bustling Toronto. Or maybe she’d just like to cuddle up, pet the
cat, and relax.

Then, on the 18th of February, I called her number in South Africa. A
man answered, which astonished me as “Sandy” had always answered the
phone. Every time I called or Skyped her I got the same woman with the
same voice.

“May I speak to Sandy?” I asked.

“She’s not here,” said a man with a thick African accent. “Before I can
tell you anything, what was your relationship to Miss (I’ll call her
Woods)?”

“I’m her girlfriend,” I said.

“Oh yes, and you are 
”

“Thea.”

“That’s right. She said you were her lover or something. You see,
there’s been an accident at the building site.”

My Sandy was a 43-year-old self-employed structural engineer, working on
a multi-million-dollar bridge.

“Somebody died at the site as a result of the accident,” he said.

I started to cry. “Oh, God. Not Sandy.”

“No, no,” he quickly reassured me. “She is quite safe, but the police
arrested her on suspicion of negligence.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m her lawyer. Don’t worry, I’ll have her out of jail in the morning,
and you will continue as you did before.”

I could only imagine what she must be feeling, knowing that someone had
died on her watch, and relieved that it wasn’t her.

“Sandy wants you to know that she loves you, and asks you to pray for
her.” In fact, she’d been crying and calling my name, and had given her
phone to this “lawyer”, who was a stranger to us both, because she had
no friends or family in South Africa. He was to call me back the next
day. I told him only that I loved her, and would stand by her, and asked
him to please pass along my love.

The next day, he did not call back. I held off as long as I could, then
called South Africa. I got him again. This time, I was told that Sandy
had not become a client. He could do nothing for her, as she hadn’t the
fee.

“Can you help her?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m totally blind, and am unemployed. Can you help? I
mean, you’re a lawyer and you’re right there.”

“Well, since you’ve been honest enough to tell me you are blind, I must
tell you I have a wife and two kids. I can’t work for free.”

It went downhill from there. Emotionally exhausted, worried about my
girlfriend, I demanded to know if this man was just going to let her rot
because she didn’t have the fee? I assured him that she would get paid
for her work. He never mentioned Legal Aid. At the time, neither did I.
But I was the emotional wreck, not him. He continued to tell me that
Sandy cried my name and wanted me to know everything that was going on.

The conversation with the “lawyer” ended in a shouting match. He hung up
on me.

I wrote my darling a text, saying I did not like this man who had her
phone, that I could not understand him because of his thick accent, and
that I was angry with him for not helping her. I also asked her his
name.

She was a woman alone, in South Africa, and I, her girlfriend, was alone
and disabled in Canada, worried sick, my mental health deteriorating,
unable to eat or sleep. I withdrew. I lay on my bed, worrying. The only
time I got news about Sandy was when I picked up the phone.

The next afternoon, my iPhone announced that she had written me. I
grabbed the phone, exultant, till I read the text. Then my spirits
plummeted. “Thanks for all d insults. I think I should know who I can
give my phone to. Aren’t you ashamed that you can help who you say you
love? (I’ll call the signature “Smith”) Furious, I thought of all the
tears shed, the prayers said, the worry, the anger on her behalf. This
“lawyer” hadn’t even been decent enough to give me his name, nor had he
answered my tearful pleas to tell me where she was being held, and all
my research on the Internet which is about 1 percent accessible to the
blind, netted me nothing.

My last call was the worst. I found out that he, not Sandy, had sent
that insulting message. He was jumping up and down demanding respect,
that I had no right to say anything about his accent, and I was
screaming at him for ruining my life. If Sandy ever read all the
messages I’d sent to her mobile, recriminating her for the insults she’d
sent me–which were, in fact sent by this “Smith”, she would never
forgive me. Worst of all, the empathetic lawyer had died and left this
snake in his place.

“How do I know you’re blind?” he demanded.

“I’ll mail you my plastic eyes, you son of a bitch!” I shouted at an
equally high decibel. The call ended badly, to say the least–him
demanding respect he hadn’t merited, and me screaming for blood.

When he hung up on me, I continued screaming–at God, at life, at whoever
was unable to do anything but listen.

“I’m blind! I’m stuck! I can’t get her out of there, and that scum bag
won’t help!” I melted down. I suffered a 24-hour headache after that
sobbing, screaming session. During this, I got one of my regularly
scheduled calls from the Distress Center, which my shut-in status
vouchsafes me so I know I’m not alone.

I sobbed through the whole story.

I was a lioness, chained, powerless, while her just-born cub had its
belly ripped open by a stronger animal. I roared with impotent rage,
sadness, confusion.

I wrote Sandy one final text. I loved her, but could not take the
stress. This “lawyer” was daily shaking me down for money I did not
have. I was snapping and snarling at my best friend, when I wasn’t
staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but an all-consuming rage. I
didn’t leave her because she was in jail. I left her because no one
would help us keep connected and this odious man had her phone, and was
shaking me down, shaming me for not “helping”, essentially calling me a
liar in the matter of my blindness. Apparently, he hadn’t looked at the
picture I tried to take of myself that I’d sent Sandy before the trouble
started: when we were in Lesbian Sweetheart Land. We’d both had a good
laugh at that attempt.

Then I wondered. Was she in jail at all? Why wasn’t this odious man at
least telling me where they were holding her so I could get out of his
hair, and contact her in jail, if that’s where she really was? I googled
“bridge disaster kills one in Cape Town”, and came up empty. An
acquaintance who lives in South Africa hadn’t heard anything either. I
got to thinking. This was supposedly a multi-million-dollar bridge,
there was a fatality, and the supervisor, my new girlfriend, was in
police custody for negligence? Why was there nothing about it on the
net? Why had my acquaintance not heard of it? If it was only
questioning, how long could South African police actually hold her,
anyway? My bottom lip became raw from chewing. Hmm. What was really
going on here?

I began to give serious consideration to the possibility that my “little
lion cub” might be playing a part in this. Why, if he was a stranger,
did she give him her phone? Why not to a member of her staff? Why hadn’t
she called me? OK, in the excitement, she could have remembered me much
later. Still, I was being played like a violin. The lawyer said he went
up to the prison, that it was about an hour’s drive, that it was a real
inconvenience, that he was doing us a kindness. But in all that time,
Sandy never called me once, or texted me to tell me she was being
treated all right, that the food sucked, that she still loved me, or
anything. The “lawyer” kept pushing my buttons: My lamb was in trouble,
and why wasn’t I getting her out? Yeah, sure you’re blind! Tell me
another one.

My sight was clearing–not my optic nerves, my head. If she really was in
jail, and this guy was taking her phone to her so she could read her
messages, why hadn’t I heard even as much as a short text before
visiting hours were over? It was as if she no longer existed, except as
a button he could push. They were very subtle. She never said a word
about money or anything, and he never asked me directly for money–just
stomped on that “protective love” button, while my Dorothy was
supposedly locked up in the witch’s castle. Hmm. I smelled not one, but
two, rats, and made a decision.

I reported her to Pink Cupid, and received an email from a 3rd party
stating that her profile had been removed from the site.

The romance, or love scam, according to one internet source I read,
thanks to my screenreader and Braille display, is the twelfth highest on
the list of fraudulent activities.

According to the FBI, women who are lonely, disabled, over 40, widowed
or divorced, (that’s all me), are the most likely targets, but every
person and age group is at risk.

The story goes like this: Someone from a Western country claims to be
living or working overseas. They woo you. In my case, Sandy power-wooed
me with iTexts and emails that built my trust, emails in which she told
me all about herself, emails in which she was interested in everything I
did. Her texts were sweet, told me how much she missed me.

True, we hadn’t actually met, but we had talked on the phone several
times, and on Skype–my dime. I bought Skype credits so I could call her
in South Africa. Our conversations were always uplifting, fun, and made
me love her more. She had said that her computer “had a fault” and that
now we were together, she would learn to use Skype.

Then, the “tragedy” happened. These were slick people. From the 18 of
February, I never heard Sandy’s voice, so she certainly didn’t ask for
money, and while the “lawyer” was too clever to use the word “money”, he
shamed me for not “helping” someone I say I love. He couldn’t have meant
anything else! He had already mentioned the fee which Sandy could not
afford, and asked if I could “help” or if I had family or friends who
could.

In truth, I was one of the “lucky” ones. I had made it my business to
read every Dating Safety Tip Pink Cupid had to offer, and I read other
tips not on the site.

I also read testimonies of women and men who had lost devastating
amounts of money, in addition to the emotional anguish..

Still, even if you’re smart enough NEVER to send anyone you meet online
money for any reason, the emotional cost is too high.

These heartless criminals net billions of dollars every year, and cause
emotional as well as financial devastation to their victims.

If you’ve been scammed in this way, you can contact the FBI’s crime
complaint center at http://www.ic3.gov). They may be able to help you
recover the funds, but unfortunately, there’s no law enforcement agency
that can help you recover from the emotional damage done by these
crooks.

I’d like to see the day when laws are passed with high fines or prison
sentences for 419, or romance scammers. This is not a “bad” relationship
that didn’t work out. These people carefully groom you, build you up,
woo or power-woo you, for the sole purpose of getting their hands on
your money. I was lucky enough not to have it, as unemployed, disabled
people don’t make much.

Still, I was set up for a sting that has nothing to do with the
honeybee. If tough laws made such scams unappealing for these criminals,
imagine how much safer this world would be! With these people behind
bars or working in hard labor camps, they wouldn’t have time to think of
new ways to hurt people.

True love is hard to find, at the best of times. I’m praying for the day
when the “Sandys” and “Smiths” of this world will be unable to add one
more anguish to people already often targeted by others: people who seem
weak or vulnerable, the disabled, the lonely, the elderly. Instead of
blaming the vic for being “gullible”, the law should concentrate its
efforts on rounding up the wolves.

Then, I could do what the dating site hopes I will do: Have a fun, safe
dating experience. I’m not only speaking as a lesbian, but as a mom,
whose teenager is a lesbian. Her father and I have split. She doesn’t
wish contact with me as of now, and I only wish I was there to help her
avoid the pitfalls these criminals present. These people know that even
if you’ve read the Safety tips, when emotions are strong, you’d do
anything to get your Dorothy out of the witch’s castle. To find out that
your Dorothy IS the witch, and is scamming you together with a partner 

Well, it’s something I’d spare my daughter, if I could. In light of the
fact that people who are scammed over and over again have a harder time
recovering next time, have a harder time forgiving and forgetting, that
each scam attempt, plus the ordinary “bad” relationships, makes it that
much more likely that the target will turn into someone bitter and fed
up, isn’t it time we got really tough on the love scammers? For our
sakes, for our children’s.

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