Look where you're going!

I remember so vividly teaching my kids how to ride their bikes.  Well, not Jordan.  She simply got on the bike and started to peddle around age 3.  But the boys.  I remember.

Andrew and Derek were ready.  Bryce I had to bribe.  But regardless, each one, one at a time when they were around 5 years old,  donned their sneakers, buckled the helmet (always a little too big calling even greater attention to their own tiny demeanor and exceedingly large eyes), and stood alongside, listening to the instructions.

"Don't worry.  I'll be right here.  I'll hang on to you and I won't let you fall.  I will run alongside you until you say to let go.  I'm here.  You're ready.  Let's go."

And we would start. 

But invariably, in their fear of falling, they would lower their gaze to the ground in front of them, under them, and in result, they would topple.  And fall. 

I'd pick them up.  Check the damage.  Apply either kisses or ice depending upon the severity and we would try again.

Peddle.  Peddle.  But they would lower their eyes, then their heads to better focus on the fear.  And fall.

"Don't watch what you are afraid of.  Instead, watch where you want to go."

And they would try to look out, but then ultimately would look down, and then, down they went.

But we kept on.   And each time, they glanced down less and out more until pretty soon, they got it, and said "Let go Mom!  Let go!"  And in their new found focus and skill they would peddle off, going further and further each time.  Until they barely remembered they ever needed me at all.

They learned a lesson.  Me?  Not so fast.

So many days with my now grown 20 year old kids, I focus on my fear.  I look at all the perils in their paths, all the things that might go wrong.  In doing so, I loose my focus, my balance, and in my insecurity I grab out for them, trying to get them to see my fear too.  Sometimes I am successful, and we both careen to the ground.

But more often than not, they keep looking ahead, riding confidently over the potholes and through the puddles.  I run after them, until I hear them yelling once again "Let go Mom!  Let go!"  When I do, and I raise my eyes to see the broad horizon they are confidently moving toward, and only then, I am so very, very happy. 

If they fall, I can still see them.  I can go pick them up and apply kisses or ice depending upon the severity.  But soon the distance between us allows them to pick themselves off before I even get there.  Then, they simply remount, turn to give me an "I'm ok" wave, and start again.

Looking not at their fear, but at their future. 

And teaching me to do the same.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about privilege....

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about privilege.  There's been a lot of time since my last post to think about it, and a lot of reasons why.  And of course, much of my thinking is informed by the lives of my kids.  I will write more about that soon, but for now, I need to write about it from another place.

Privilege....

It is a hard concept to grasp if you have it, not so much if you don’t.

Friends, colleagues, and others in my circle have denied their privilege. Hard work, stick-to-iti-ivism, and sheer gumption are the key to success.

But that doesn’t seem to be quite enough.

Hurricane Irma blew through here recently, and this is when my privilege reared its pretty blond head.  I have enough money.  Not a ton, but enough that when I sold my house, I chose to move into a newish apartment downtown. When the storm was brewing, our staff had a plan, had resources, called a meeting, and told us exactly what to expect.  We had impact windows and doors, a five year old building, a team to prep the space, and generators for our generators.  Residents formed an online chat room, communicated what was happening from the various views and even sent video so we could see the rise of the river.  When someone had a leak, neighbors came with buckets, towels and duct tape.  When a woman cut her hand, a doctor in the building responded with first aid.  When we got bored, there was a bottle of scotch in the stairwell.

On the other hand, there are the people of Puerto Rico where over a million residents had no power and 500,000 had no water after Irma crossed their path.  And just when it seemed the island was at it’s lowest, along came Maria, leaving the entire island powerless-literally and figuratively.  People are dying in a San Juan intensive care unit because there is no diesel to power the generators.

Without privilege, there is no power.

I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if Maria had followed Irma to Houston instead of San Juan taking the one-two punch.  Would FEMA have done something different to prepare for the second strike?  Would Congress have stood on the Capital steps and demanded that Houston be protected, shored up, a wall built to guard it from the coming tide?  Would the citizens have called the media, the government, the world to take them in and create evacuation to safe havens created specifically for them?  Would FB have exploded with “Pray for Houston” or banners, or outrage over the government’s denial of climate change or adequate storm resources?  Would Houston somehow been prepared in a way that Puerto Rico wasn’t?

But it wasn’t Houston.  It was Puerto Rico.

There was no Congressional ranting, no media outrage, no FB protest.  Why?  No one, note even the residents of Puerto Rico expect much from mainland US.  Heaven knows, they have learned there is seldom a hand reaching across the Caribbean.  After all, the government of Puerto Rico saw Congress had already deserted them in the myriad of financial crises.  FB didn’t expect much because, well, it’s Puerto Rico.  They’re not America’s responsibility, right?

No privilege, no power.

Privilege is a social construct that gives power and opportunity to some, but it also creates expectation.   Over a lifetime of being a white American in the middle class, I have come to expect results.  Concern.  Caring.  Results.  And when I need something, I have no hesitation in expressing those demands, making those demands, demanding those demands.  And the majority of America, white, middle class jumps on my bandwagon amplifying my voice until it is a deafening roar society must listen to, respond to, take care of.  That is not my “fault” but neither is it the fault of those who have NOT been listened to, NOT responded to, NOT cared for to NOT bother.  Their energy is conserved and used to take care of themselves because there is a social construct that society will not respond.

No privilege, no power.

Look at this difference.  According to CBS News,  “An eight-member team from the Energy Department’s Western Area Power Authority that was deployed to Puerto Rico ahead of the storm and assisted with initial damage assessments has been redeployed to St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands.”

Did you read that right?  EIGHT member team.
                                        Now REDEPLOYED to St Thomas (as of 9/25, five days post Maria)

No privilege, no power.

Compare that to Houston, where, “Within days, the number of FEMA employees, other federal agencies, and the National Guard deployed topped 31,000, all focused on helping Texans respond to Harvey.”

No privilege, no power.
Gail Choate
September 25, 2017



NOTE:  There is no ending for this piece, because, quite frankly, there is no end in sight.  But I am sick and tired of the majority in this country, (yes, you, white, middle class) denying privilege exists and denying that we live in class based society.  How dare we say that America is equal opportunity?  How dare we say just pull yourself up by your bootstraps?  How dare we, when the unprivileged have the audacity to point out our privilege, how dare we say, “Get that son of a bitch off the field right now, he's fired. He's fired!"  

No privilege, no power.

No ending, no end.





https://www.fema.gov/news-release/2017/09/22/historic-disaster-response-hurricane-harvey-texas http://newyork.cbslocal.com/2017/09/25/hurricane-maria-puerto-rico-power-grid-damage/

My child is not giving me a hard time...

My friend posted a meme this morning that said, “My child is not giving me a hard time.  My child is having a hard time.”

What a simple statement of absolute truth. 

Oh it sounds simple.  “It’s not about you. The world doesn’t revolve around you,”  my mom used to say.  Interesting that she would say that to me, but then her entire world revolved around me and my brother.   Everything that we did wrong was somehow her fault.  

I remember, for example, one of my biggest faux pas.  As a teen, my church youth group went to a weekend Jesus retreat.  It was going to be outdoors at a great camp with lots of open space to explore and commune with nature.  To be with God.  

What better place to bring alcohol?  Yup… we brought along a bottle of vodka (I think it was vodka although I seem to recall that slo gin was normally our bottle of choice).  After a day of Bible and prayer and reflection, we proceeded to sneak out of our cabins late at night and congregate in the nearby woods.  There we drank ourselves silly.  Except for Steve.  He drank himself into unconsciousness.  And we were scared.  Really scared.  In our drunken panic, we went to our Youth Group leader.  I don’t remember what exactly transpired after that, but whatever he did revived Steve without any flashing lights or trips to the hospital.  I seem to remember it consisted of simply waking him up and then everyone sleeping it off.  However, what I do remember with more clarity than Sharpie on a Solo Cup is my mom’s words… “How could you do this to me?”

It was more sobering than a hard slap to a cold face.

How could I explain it had nothing to do with her.  In fact, my mom was the furthest thing from my mind when we concocted our transgression.  It was Wisconsin.  It was the 70s.  We were only 1 or 2 short years from the (then) legal drinking age of 18.  It was a retreat.  An escape.  We wanted only to retreat.  To escape.  Not our parents.  Not even the world.  We simply wanted to escape being kids and be adults.  And vodka seemed to be the most immediate way. 

But my mom didn’t see that connection.  Instead, she connected the dots between our foray into alcoholism and Mother’s Day and immediately labeled my actions being about her.  She was a bad mom.  She didn’t measure up.  She was a failure.  She was embarrassed.

And in true penitent Christian fashion, she took that embarrassment to a whole other level on the Sunday when we evildoers had to stand in front of the congregation and admit our iniquities.  Ask for forgiveness, not from Jesus who proved he understood the value of a good drink at Canaan, but worse.  We had to beg forgiveness from the elders of the church who wore white gloves and mink stoles and looked over their glasses as they sucked their teeth.  And while we may have been eventually absolved, my mother never was.

I learned that from her. 

To take things my kids do personally.

And now, as the mom of young adults, I am unlearning it.

My kids love me unconditionally. They would do anything for me.  Anything.  Yet when they mess up, get jacked up and even fuck up, it’s not about me.  It’s all about them.

It’s about them feeling for the boundaries in the dark.  It’s about them looking for their place at the table in a packed dining hall when they’ve arrived a tad late.  It’s about them finding 1000 ways that won’t work on their quest for the one that will. 

As a mom, I remember when they learned to walk.  With my first, Andrew, I tried to remove everything dangerous from his path- to clear the way.  Yet I couldn’t keep him from wandering into a pool and nearly drowning.*   With my second, Jordan, I swore I would follow around behind her ready to catch her at the first wobble.  But she had other ideas and went from sitting on her own to standing and walking long before that milestone was supposed to be in sight.  Derek started running behind the first two with reckless abandon before I even seemed to notice. And the youngest?  With three older siblings and a mom who was trying to be more perfect with every child, he didn’t have to walk.  Everything he needed/wanted/desired was simply brought to him in eager anticipation.  So by the time he took his first steps, I was simply relieved.

Were these four approaches a reflection of me?  Were they a measure of my momhood? 

No.  They were four kids reacting to their worlds in a way that was purely theirs. 

And today, when I take the time to look, each continues to navigate their world in similar fashion.  The way each learned to move through their world as babies is much the way they move through the world today.  It is about them. Their view.  Their speed.  Their path.  Their road.  Them.

It’s not about me at all. 

The lesson my mom taught me, my kids untaught me.  I must stop being afraid my kids might embarrass me in front of a judgmental world and instead, watch them maneuver through life. Whether they go from ditch to ditch, before I think they are ready, with reckless abandon or so slowly I am simply relieved when they hit their own stride, I stand on the side cheering them on.  Ready to pick them up, dust them off, plant a kiss on the boo boo, and send them back on their way.

My child is not having a hard time.  My children are living their own time.

And nothing makes me prouder. 

* I wrote about this in my blog post of December 2016.

Ahhh.....ouch....ahhh....OUCH....AHHH.....

Ahhh.....ouch....ahhh....OUCH....AHHH.....

The sound of a good massage.

My thoughts ricochet like a pinball wizzard  between "this is heaven, please never stop" and "WTH?!?!".

Blissful images flood my mind as the therapist's expert hands glide, without resistance, from tight muscle to tense muscle.  He deftly takes the knotted remnants of my day accumulated over my life and deposits them into some cosmic communal vessel where all unused stress goes to be recycled into something wonderful.

But then, "OW!"  He hits a spot, just to the left of my right shoulder blade, where all of my responsibility and worry and angst take refuge, hoping to hide behind my "should"er. That place in my body where obligation and regret reside.

Yes, nestled between what I think I should do and what I really can do, my frustration and fear are allowed to fester and furrow deep within my fibers. There they hibernate and marinate only to arise at 3 in the morning causing me to lie awake or fight myself in restless dreams

Ahhhhh..... but when my magic man presses his thumb, or his elbow, or all 180 pounds of himself deep into that recess, damn, that hurts.  And it feels so good.

Why is it that when I get a massage, I like the pain?  I'm not a masochist (although I might like to star in my own version of "50 Shades of..." but that's a different blog post).   But I do.  Like the pain I mean.  I know it hurts, yet I lean into it, I breath through it, and in some strange way, I relish it.  It hurts, but it hurts with purpose.   Sometime, somewhere somehow my mind learned that at the end of the pain is release. It is pain with purpose.  In fact, the pain in a good strong massage is one of taking control of the latent pain, squeezing in "Take that!" and with sheer force of will, chasing the pain of "You didn't do that!" away.  The pain is good, directed, healing.  Afterall, without the trigger point pain, the knot just stays there and rots, turning septic and oozing its poison not only in my shoulder but my neck, my head, my back, my entire body.  So during a massage, I don't simply tolerate the pain, I yearn for it, beckon it and embrace it because i know that without it, I will never find sweet release.

Is all pain the same?  Is it not bad at all, but simply the final holding on of the negative right before the huge release?  Is it a precursor of growth?

If it is, then why do I constantly fight it?  Set my life mission toward "AVOID PAIN AT ALL COST"?  I'm not thinking I should look for pain, but rather, perhaps when I feel it, like in a good massage, I should lean into it, breathe through it, welcome it, and wait in giddy anticipation for it to be over (which it will) since I KNOW on the other side is sweet, sweet release.

The Buddha is credited with saying "Pain is inevitable.  Suffering is optional."  In massage, my pain does not yield suffering.  Quite the opposite.  Can I move this learning to other sufferings in my life?

Ahhh...ouch...ahhh...ouch....

In between the shooting flashes of pain release, my kids pop to mind.  Ever since they were little, I did everything in my power to shield them from pain.  I sheltered them and if that didn't work, I fixed whatever it was that went wrong.   I wrote notes, and demanded conferences, and fudged a thing or two.  As teens, I escalated and began solving problems they didn't even say they had.  All they had to do was text a question "Do we have roadside assistance?" and I would have the mounted police on their way with a jump, new tire and a hot thermos of cocoa.  "Mom, do you ask your students to do narrative essays?" BAM!  I was googling the components, downloading examples and before you could say "I only need a rough draft" was providing prompts to overcome my daughter's writer's block before it could manifest.  As a parent, I worried, and stewed, and frantisized all sorts of calamities so that I could outrun, out takle, and out perform them in my supermom quest to save my children from pain.  

"I got this mom."  "I love you but stop..." "If I need help, I know who to call."

As children they would insist "I can do it!"  As teenagers, what I called rebellion, they called doing it on their own.  They've been trying to teach me that my job as a mom is not to suffer on the way to avoiding their pain.  In fact, without pain, they can't grow.  Without pain, they can't feel the sweet release of growth.  They need the pain.

I think I finally get it.

I love them so much.  I would do anything for them.  I would give them anything.

And what I need to give them now is their own pain.  Their own mistakes.  Their own choices.  Their own lives.

They are smart, and resourceful and resilient.  They will make some bad choices but more good ones. And like my massage, any pain they experience will allow them sweet, sweet release.  

Pain is inevitable.

And I am here for them.  Leaning in.  Breathing.  Loving.

Suffering is optional.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.................

One more day...

My body is wracked with the reverberations of a tension filled world. 

My mind is cluttered with a to do list of things I can do nothing about. 

My soul stretches out yearning to entwine its edges 
                                               in the universal consciousness of grace. 

Just another day..

Go placidly...

Today, my newsfeed is full of fear emanating around  a world I barely know. 

Over my coffee, on a cold, rainy and gloomy South Florida Sunday, I am taken back to my stint as  a child soldier of the Cold War.  Certainly, my earliest recollections of school include learning to skip, and sing, and the musty cloakroom where they checked us for chickenpox.  Fond memories of learning and playing and trusting.  But I also remember the scary world; the one where we were indoctrinated to believe the Russians were out to get us. School was our boot camp and there we were trained to take cover under our desks during air raid drills, to toss boos at the Russian Olympic athletes,  to arm our astronauts with prayers that they might conquer space first.  But being a soldier was scary. It was scary to be so scared.  But I stood up straight, looked straight ahead and tried to march with the rest.

Thankfully for me, my mom taught me so much more.  She took my face in her hands and lovingly shifted my gaze to the right and the left.  She showed me a home always open to those who needed a place to stay, a meal, a drink, a shoulder, a laugh.  She showed me friends from all walks of life, all countries of origin, all places of worship, which in the white homogeneity of Green Bay Wisconsin, was quite a feat. She demonstrated every day that love forms us, love unites us, love wins.  She taught me that I didn't have to be in march step with those around me.  

When I was a teen, filled with the heady belief I would change the world, my mom hung a poem by Max Ehrmann on the wall of my room.  Like the pledge of allegiance to the United States of America I espoused each day in class,  I recited this poem daily, my pledge to the world.  My pledge to me.  It gave me strength and courage and hope.

“Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.”

It still gives me strength and courage and hope. 

Forty years later.

Thank you Max.  Thank you Mom.

I cheated last night.

Why?  It was New Years Eve.  It was the last day of what was a challenging, scary, yet overall wonderful year. 

2016 was my year.  It was the year I embraced being alone. 

To say I loved embracing being alone is a stupid.  As stupid as “give yourself a hug”.  I’m sorry but you can’t hug yourself.  That’s not a hug.  That’s not the unconditional feeling of safety wrapped in someone else. That’s not the overwhelming letting go cause someone else has got you.  That’s not the “I don’t ever want to leave here” feeling you get wrapped in love. 

No embracing being alone is not the same feeling of joy as being with someone who takes your breath away.

Embracing being alone is strength.  It comes right from the core, and surges through every inch of your being.  It is the confidence knowing that you can do anything.   You can handle any situation.  There is nowhere you can’t go.  There is nothing you can’t do.  You see, once you learn to live with silence, no one talking in your ear, you can start to hear the thoughts in your head. 

Now that is scary shit.

I don’t know about you, but my thoughts often times are made up of the voices of every doubt, every fear, every criticism, every negative that ever swirled in my vicinity.  Like leaves taken up by a cold winter wind, they join forces and create a vortex of disapproval.  Individually, they simply side eye, but once they are flying together, as one, their cackling and braying builds to a crescendo of failure. Anxiety grips my soul in a chokehold. So I use the voices of companions to distract my hater thoughts while I run from them.

To be alone, is to face them.

That’s what I’ve been doing.  Facing them.  Hearing them.  Feeling them.

And it’s been really, really hard.  And scary.  And lonely.  And liberating.  And fucking incredible.

It started with the Beyoncé Formation Tour.

Remember the Superbowl half time show?  Poor woman got more exposure than Janet Jackson’s boob a few years before.  She was called a hater and the Miami police called for a boycott of her concert saying she glorified the Black Panther’s with her anti-police message.  The president of the Miami Fraternal Order of Police is my FaceBook friend, and I heard it all.  On the other hand, SNL applauded “The Day Beyoncé Turned Black.”  Of course, as a political scientist, this intrigued me.  Here she was, finally finding her black voice, and she got all sorts of backlash for it?  I had to go to the concert.  Had to see if the police would show up.  Had to see the protest.  Had to be in the middle of it.  But no one would go with me.  Damn.  Another experience I would have to read about later. 

Or I could go. Alone. 

That was the scariest thing I ever did.  Who would I talk to?  Who would I dance with?  Who would I look in the eye while singing along? No one.  I had no friends.  No one wanted to be with me.  I was unloved.  Unlovable.  All of the fears of the last few years came flooding forward.  The divorce, the friends who chose him over me, the friends who didn’t know what to say so they hid, the bad dates, the flirting that ended in nothing more than dick pics …all of it began whirling into a hurricane of hurt. 

But this time, I didn’t run. 

I bought a ticket.  I went to the concert. 

“Up in the club, just broke up, I’m doing my own little thing!”

I was empowered.   There was no stopping me now.

I booked a 21 day tour to Spain/Portugal/Morocco and I went.  Alone.  I went to the full moon paddle board event.  Alone.  I went to the movies.  Alone.  I started cooking amazing food that I ate.  Alone. I learned to be.  Alone. 

And I discovered alone and lonely are not the same thing. I spent a year learning to live in the honesty of where my life was.   Accepting it.  Embracing it.

And then, on the last night of the year, I cheated on me. 

I ate a jar of cake. 

It wasn’t the eating the cake that was the juxtaposition from the year of authenticity I was ending.  No it was choosing the short term fix over the long term game.  It was in the attempt to deny that immediate distraction came with consequences.  You see, I’ve been journaling my food in an effort to live better, be healthier, control my migraines.   And I had already eaten my healthy level of carbs/fat/sugar for the day.  I have learned that exceeding a certain threshold results in an ice pick to my brain. But last night, it wasn’t about my brain.  It was all about my mind.  And my mind fixated on an unclaimed cake jar.  The one we loving made for a family friend who didn’t have time to see us over the holidays. It was a cake jar of love and it taunted me with how unloved I was. 

It called up the fears that had sparred with all year.  

Like a knocked out boxer who somehow struggles up from the mat, fists in the air, all my loneliness rose to taunt me from that jar. One last sucker punch.  It got me.  

I ate the cake.  

And now, on New Year's Day, my head hurts.

But it’s not a migraine. 

It’s a dull ache that is simply a reminder that as strong as I am, I am human.   It’s a throbbing that says the temporary ache of aloneness won't be stuffed down with food.  It’s the tension that reminds me that it is better to let go and feel the lonely rather than to hold on to the fear.  Choose feeling sad, lonely for a minute over hurt for hours the next day.  Besides, eating cake didn’t bring my friend over. It didn't love me. It didn’t even taste that good.

But it’s not a migraine.

Know why?  

I’m stronger than a year ago.  Loneliness only got off one little punch, it didn't take me to the ropes or bring me to my knees.  

I’m better than a year ago.   I only ate half the cake and then did something good for me....went for a long walk, alone.  And drank a ton of water to flush the sugar from my soul. 

So I have a take-two-tylenol headache.  I'm ok.  I'm more than ok.  Even though I do dumb stuff sometimes, like think that love comes in a cake jar,  and I lose the round, I'm winning the bout.  I'm strong.  I'm brave.  And I love that.  I love me. 

Sometimes I go off, I go hard

Get what’s mine, I’m a star

Cause I slay.

All day.

We gon’ slay, gon’ slay, we slay,

I slay.

Happy New Year.  Happy New Me.