It's All About We...

What I did with all that kale

2008-08-01T22:19:00.006-04:00

At the market a few months ago we bought some kale. Our family loves the stuff. The checker at the register held it up and asked, "what's this?" I explained it was kale, sort of like spinach or, I dared say, collards. (No, she didn't know collard greens either.)

Now that the season has started, our CSA, Wolf Pine Farm, gives us healthy helpings of kale most weeks, especially towards the end of the season when the cold starts in. There's a trade table where people put items they don't want and pick up something they do. We tend to load up on all the "left" kale and let people have our mixed salad greens or tomatoes (we grow our own tomatoes so they're not as precious).

Why do I bring up our love of kale? (See our bumper sticker in this picture -- our only bumper sticker until our recently added Obama '08.) Wanting people to eat more kale goes beyond health or taste issues. Kale is a hardy, inexpensive, delightful dark leafy green vegetable too many people don't appreciate. Either they've never tried it (ignorance) or they haven't had it cooked well (inexperience).

Ignorance and inexperience are at the root of most of our social problems today. When I say "our," I mean everyone and everywhere. And when I say "today," I mean always. Ignorance and inexperience lead to fear; fear leads to all kinds of irrational and dangerous attitudes and behaviors.

Examine any human conflict and you'll find fear. Fear of others, fear of losing what's ours, fear that different might be better, fear that seeps into just about every facet of human consciousness. Why not try diplomacy? We're afraid to appear weak/we're afraid it will seem we support them/we're afraid they'll blow us up. Why not build affordable housing? We're afraid of crime/we're afraid poor people equals irresponsible neighbors/we're afraid our homes will lose value.

Get past ignorance and inexperience and it's easier to find peace.

Let's start somewhere simple. Why not try some kale? Here. I'll tell you what I do with all that kale we get (from Wolf Pine Farm and from our own gardens).

First, when I have a batch of kale, I don't assume I'll use it in time. I know me and I'll forget it's there. And, while one of the beautiful qualities of kale is it lasts easily up to a week bagged in the refrigerator, it's really best to eat (or freeze) vegetables immediately so they don't lose too many nutrients. So, as quickly as I can, I do a "quick boil" of these luscious greens.

I learned the easy care and treatment for all our leafy greens in my all-time favorite cookbook, Feeding the Whole Family, by Cynthia Lair. I will generally describe what I do based on my fuzzy memory. If you'd rather have precise directions, check out this web page (but please ignore step 4, no need to steam after you've just boiled!).

I fill a pot with water. A big pot is good. A little pinch of salt (I like kosher for the grab-ability). As the water heats up, trim the stems off your kale. I find the easiest way is to fold the leaves in half so the stem becomes sort of a seam on the back that's easy to chop off, leaving a long v-shaped notch in the middle of the kale leaf.

I usually prep all the kale I've got and do several batches. Even the firmest greens shrink a bunch when boiled, so you'll be able to fit quite a bit in the pot. By quite a bit I mean something like... 4-8 cups of loosely packed raw kale leaves (depending on how curly the leaves are, how much volume they'll take up).

The water comes to a boil. Put the kale in the water, tuck it in nicely so it's all covered. Set the timer for 3 minutes (or remember to check back, though I *never* remember without the timer). Feel free to poke at it every once in a while.

It will come back to a boil. Just let it go. After about 3 minutes, start picking out pieces now and again and tasting them. They should be bright green and tasty. Kind of nutty. A little spinach-y. Texture a bit like the seaweed that floats in typical miso soups. Mmmm. Here's a picture of some from my last batch:

I think the color in this picture doesn't do it justice. It was a brighter green in real life.

Now here's a tip I like. Instead of dumping the whole thing into a colander, use a slotted spoon (I used one meant for a wok) to dish out the kale into the strainer. You'll be able to reuse the water for more greens. Or, at the very least, you can water some plants with it when it cools for a very healthy plant treat.

Immediately dunk your kale in cold water (using actual ice cubes with the water is a good idea if you're in the mood) will stop the cooking process and keep the kale tender and lovely. Once it's fully cooled, squeeze it out and chop it into bite sized pieces. Grab handfuls of the cold, wet kale and stuff it into freezer containers (we use plastic bags) in your family's serving size portions.

Throughout the year you'll be able to grab a batch of the frozen pre-cooked kale and saute or braise it with... garlic and olive oil, soy sauce and sesame oil, balsamic vinegar and olive oil and garlic, sesame oil and sesame seeds, and I'm sure the list goes on.

I hope you try it out if you haven't before. The bang for your buck you'll get as far as nutritional value is immense. Knowing you're doing your part -- assuming you bought your greens locally -- to support sustainable farming will also feed your soul. When we eat our kale we sometimes pause to consider the larger idea of education (defeating ignorance and inexperience), and how that does add flavor! If you can experience just an ounce of the umph we feel when we enjoy our kale (including our five year old whose favorite food for her young life has frequently been cooked greens!), the world will indeed be a better place.

Oh, and if you're wondering if kale is really all that healthy? Please please please check this out: http://www.nutritiondata.com/facts/vegetables-and-vegetable-products/2462/2

Whose Undies Can I Show?

2008-04-15T22:25:00.007-04:00

My parents' bathrooms gross me out. I don't know how they can stand the icky loose hairs, the disturbing dust collector glueyish splotches around the toilet, the marks of soap scum on the tub and mildew around the faucets. How uncool is it for me to write about that, though?

I just finish David Sedaris' "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim," where he brings up just this point. His family stopped sharing things with him after he began writing his books. They knew they would become fodder for his essays. The half.com synopsis describes it this way, his sister's "resentment of his relentless mining of their shared past in his essays." Who can blame them? I'm sure my parents won't be too thrilled that I've exposed their disgusting bathroom problem (they clean up before real company).

My most recent essay used the real name of the girl who beat me up in high school. Does interacting with me bring with it the risk I might write about it?

I'm realizing the answer to that question is yes, it does. My nearest and dearest know I write about my experiences. Being a part of my life means being a part of my writing.

The question that has me zoning out in a contemplative haze lately is: how much anonymity do I owe my loved ones? (Or those barely familiar to me, for that matter.)

Sedaris' apparent disrespect for his family's privacy brings great results. He's brutal. Other writers handle this love-me-I'll-write-about-you issue differently. Anne Lamott seems to (mostly) ask her son's permission before sharing stories. Or, he's come to realize he needs to preface intimate discussions with "don't write about this, okay?" or something like that.

I have no desire to shame my family (sorry about those bathroom comments! it's really not that bad...), but aren't the dirtiest little secrets the most fun to read? Someone as shallow as Seinfeld was so successful in great part because he found the mundane we all experience and used it. What is fair game for my writing material?

For the most part I come at this question from the position of a reader, rather than a writer. I've always read the stories that uncover the most personal experiences. I remember as a youngster being obsessed with stories of teen pregnancy, runaways, abused children. The more personal and shocking, the better. As a child, fiction was my favorite (do you remember "Flowers in the Attic?") and as an adult personal essays and memoirs hold the most fascination for me.

Exposing my friends and family for the sake of telling a good story has me hesitating. Sharing intimate details about their lives seems disrespectful. Claiming what I write is fiction would be untrue. I write about my own experiences. I'm beginning to write more frequently about the story of my life. I'm compelled to tell these stories. Protecting feelings of those around me seems to be taking a back seat to getting the stories out on paper -- hopefully in a form a publisher will use.

On the one hand, there is a moral or ethical dilemma where I am concerned for the welfare of my friends and family (and even for those who I met only in passing). They haven't given permission for me to include them in my stories.

On the other hand, there is the driving force within me to tell these stories. It can't be stopped.

Those Crazy Haters!

2008-03-15T20:54:00.011-04:00

When Becca Mayes beat me up in ninth grade, there was almost a reason for it. In that case, I actually did something inconsiderate (asked her boyfriend if it was true she was a slut (I wasn't one myself, yet, and I was sincerely and naively curious about a rumor I'd heard)).

Becca stalked me for about a week. Stood outside my classes, glaring through the tiny windows on each door. The day finally came. After homeroom, Becca, Lisa Ryan, and another girl started grabbing me, pulling me into the bathroom. All I could say was, "what about my books?" (The big pile of books in my arms, where to put them down.)

Once she had me in the stall (yes, I tried to stop them dragging me there) most of it is a blur. I remember ducking the punches. I remember the loud echos. I remember using all my strength (successfully) to stop her from flushing my head in the toilet. But, I mostly remember the ridiculously civil, even therapeutic (for her), conversation we had.

Me: "Why are you doing this, Becca?"

Her: "You called me a slut!"

Me: "I'm really sorry about that. I asked John about what I'd heard. I am really sorry!"

(Thud. Thud. Whack. Some punches grazing off my face, some landing on the stall wall behind me.)

Me: "But we were friends last year! What is so wrong that you're doing this to me now?"

The little chat (Thud. Whack. Thud!) actually moved into how unhappy she was, how she hated me for being "so perfect," and how it wasn't fair that I got my life and she got hers. I felt sorry for her as she tried to beat the shit out of me (successfully).

The other girls, the door-watchers, participated in some parts of the conversation -- I was sure the unnamed girl's sister couldn't be pregnant if she had her period, the unnamed girl was sure her sister was pregnant.

Surreal? Yes.

The only time this sort of insanity happened in my life? Nope.

The next major time I recall was Gina someone spitting... no Lori Matarazzo spitting in my face at a dance. For this exchange I have no recollection what I might have done to spur the sputum. Perhaps I again said something stupid or naive. Or, perhaps I did nothing.

No one has physically beaten my up in a lot of years. But, I'm still a magnet for people hating me. Really, seethingly hating me. Almost every time it sneaks up on me. Almost every time it hurts my feelings at first. Almost every time I do some crazy dances to try to fix whatever's wrong.

Then I remember the pattern.

It happens.

Over the years I've gotten used to it. Not in any sort of "oh poor me" martyr kind of way, but, just a sort of an "it's the cost of doing business" kind of way.

When I'm in a group setting, an advisory board, for example, my style bugs a lot of people. I don't like to dabble with what-ifs. I like to decide and do. I like concrete achievable tasks, not theories and considerations.

The best groups generally have another strong-personality/leader type to balance me out. Someone who recognizes the value of detailed planning and consideration before taking action. Almost always, though, I ruffle feathers. It's okay. I also get things done, and that's more important to me than being liked.

The last time I was in one of these messes, hooo-boy, did she hate me. Seriously hated me. I'm talking piercing stare-downs with the strength of lasers. All I could do was giggle with nerves, it was so insane. Emails like, "Did you enjoy your vacation? I sure did." It was brutal. The worst was, though, how she sucked me into insanity. She accused me of theft, of power-plays, of dishonesty, and all sorts of almost-criminal acts. I prayed like a crazy person, as I had become nuts wondering what I'd done to make her hate me so. Crying over it one night, I asked Josh why these people latch on to me. "You're outgoing, you don't hold back." That's really what it is most of the time.

A wise soul explained that particular situation this way. Some people take on leadership. Others see those leaders with bull's eyes on their chests. Just looking for that best shot. Take 'em down is their call.

My style and personality aside, there are people out there looking for targets. I can't try to become someone these sick people don't notice. It doesn't work that way.

My best spiritual guides have always told me to pray that the people who drive me most crazy, who hurt me most, that I should pray they get everything I want in my life. Simple. I pray they find peace. Remarkable what praying for them does. I usually move directly into forgiveness.

When I'm most healthy, I treat these people with respect. I consider what my role in the relationship is. I find what my part of it is, if there are things I've done that need amending. Then, I promptly ignore almost anything they say. I pray for them. I feel sorry for them. And I move on to the next thing.

It's my natural tendency to isolate. Part of why isolation soothes me so is I don't have to deal with the Haters. But I do like to make things move, so I don't stay alone for long.

Last night I was honored to speak to a large group of people about issues near and dear to me. As the words came out of my mouth I knew my positions were strongly held. I knew it was likely I was really, really pissing off some people. I also knew there would be others who would just as passionately value my message.

Dancing around trying to make people happy is one of the most miserable ways to live. I know. I used to do it all the time. Being my authentic self, my considerate and caring authentic self, I can only hold fast to the knowledge that I am well-intentioned and well-meaning. When those crazy Haters come at me, I say, "hey, what's up? I'll duck your slugs today, but go ahead and throw them if it makes you feel better."

I'm no punching bag, but, if I took everyone's opinion of me more seriously than my own self-assessment, I'd be in quite a bit of misery. Here's to doing enough good in the world, being courageous and strong enough, that I keep pissing people off.

"i can be changed by what happens to me. but i refuse to be reduced by it." -- Maya Angelou

"Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great." -- Mark Twain

Gut knots in the clearing

2008-03-01T20:59:00.007-05:00

It's dark and wet. Full of steam and tears and desperation. Sometimes my fingers lose all sensation as I fumble for the keg tap. I'm fourteen, fifteen. I'm sixteen, seventeen. I'm on a field, in someone's basement, in an old mansion with the parents away, or in the woods of someone's farm. I'm staring off into another room, knowing he is watching me.

There is a simple science to being beautiful and young. Attracting one only requires convincing him he doesn't exist to me. Inside, I am a hummingbird of awareness. All he sees is my face, my body, my smile, and my slow strong confidence. I know I'm lovely. I know I'm good at it. I am all powerful.

What strange paths of dark memory. Keeping my feet grounded in the now where authentic confidence and love connect and support all things. I'm out of practice. Visiting those places from before, I haven't done this more than ten years. The raging pain, loneliness, confusion, and trauma are all mixed in together with normal teen angst and anxiety. Today, I begin clearing out the clutter. Sort through the typical and file it away. Uncover the damage, clean the wounds that still fester, hold tight to the now where all is safe.

Who are these people now? What do they remember?

Only scraps of the most humiliating, flagrant, and rank behaviors of mine are resurfacing. Were there good times? Were there any real connections?

Hovering over the well, staring full force down in to the darkness, knowing it goes to the center of the earth. I'm diving in. I'm falling down. I am immersing myself to reclaim and know. I will scrape away the lingering filth.

What will be left when this is over? I have all I need, now. There are no visions of retribution. There is no blame.

I begin recalling smells, sights, sensations. Pick up a can. Check for carbonation, be sure there are no ashes. Good enough to drink? The haze and tunnel vision, the crowd as a blur, hearing voices, knowing they are talking, but I'm not able to move. Smiling to show I don't care. Oh, how not caring was the ultimate goal. I see it in young kids these days. I don't care. You don't affect me. I am going to show you so clearly that I am unimpressed by you. Perhaps, and likely, I was just as transparent.

Waking Up.

2008-01-27T18:30:00.001-05:00

The late-night drive-through attendant passed me two cheeseburgers without judgment. Her emotionless (empathetic?) gaze was better than therapy. Finding myself camped out in the middle of the king-sized bed, computer on my lap, remote in one hand, 3 Musketeers in the other--it took two hours of dazed terror before I realized I'd been there before.

This time, I was in a hotel without my husband or daughter. That time, over ten years ago, I was alone heading toward the worst of my drunk and stoned life. This time, life was mostly full of joy, balance, and serenity. That time, chaos and loneliness led me in endless dark mazes.

I had no idea being away from my daughter overnight for the first time would be so brutal. It kicked my ass for those two hours. When I recognized where I had arrived (desperation, lack of clarity, obscured reality) it was an easy shift into pleasure. Ah ha! Look what's happened! And, immediately: a bubble bath; guilty-pleasure television with the volume up; doing what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. And, most of all, sleeping harder and deeper than I had in years.

It's as if life is a continuous set of spirals, lines flowing up and around, higher and higher until the coil is too tight. With each forward movement--it's always moving forward--the next unspringing is more gentle. Ten years ago every lesson devastated me, as I believed in perfection and an impossible ideal. These days, I usually recognize the signs of an impending challenge or lesson and I just hold on and breathe.

Four and a half years ago our daughter came into our lives through a gash in my abdomen. She wanted to come out feet first. There was no convincing her to turn. On that first night, she lay among my IV tubes of antibiotics for the post-op infection and Pitocin to stop the hemorrhaging. She nursed enthusiastically. She slept with us then and has ever since.

Sleeping in our grand king-sized bed is full of reconnecting, snuggling, giggling, and love. Sure, she'll sleep in her own room someday but, for now, we all love our arrangement.

So, for all of her sweet little life, any time she's needed me at night, I've been there. I am breathing with her, laying with her, and always within reach.

As we work on less dependence on me and more acceptance of comfort from her Daddy, we realized the best thing for us was me spending a night away. I was desperate for a good night's sleep (being needed throughout the night had finally caught up to me), and we were both desperate for Josh's chance to be "the one" she needed. My physical presence, because of the patterns and habits we've set over the years, was problematic. Maya didn't believe she would be okay without me. What a terrible lesson to teach a child: you'll fall apart if I'm not there. So, it was with some anxiety but mostly excitement and confidence that I packed my bag for this overnight.

A massive burlap sack filled with wet sand smashing me across the room was how I felt when I first left our house. I actually thought I might vomit because I was "leaving Maya." My perception of my importance, and ultimately Josh's ability as a father, was skewed. Twisted. Distorted. Reality was again obscured.

Thankfully, it just took that bit of time for me to recognize just how fucked up it all was. As if Maya would fall apart without me. Intellectually, I was sure I didn't believe that. But those two desperate hours were close cousins to the last few months of my darkest drugging and boozing. This time, I had solutions at my disposal. Easy tools to use to fix this mess. I simply said, "Oh, hey, god? Shit, I'm totally fucked up again. I think I'm way too important and I think I'm a piece of shit. Would you fix all this?" And POP up I sprang from the bed to run the bubble bath.

Clarity. Clearness.

It's all so simple if I don't make it complicated. And, holy crap, did I sleep well that night.

Quit touching my kid.

2007-12-30T21:21:00.000-05:00

Would you get your hands off my child, please? How would you like me to poke you in the belly? Want me to try and tickle you? Maybe I'll insist you hug me and not take no for an answer? I'm sure we both think not.

Even the most well-intentioned adults around me lately have let me down. Sure, our daughter is off-the-charts-cute. Not just in the parents-always-think-their-kid-is-cute kind of way, she's simply gorgeous by most objective standards. She's also very small for her age with a huge head and huge eyes. Just calls out to the mother in most every person (male and female) she meets.

Why is it, though, so few adults on this earth seem to have a clue that children are people?

I heard the beginning of a great This American Life on the subject of "talking to children." It began with interviews with children about what annoyed them most about adults talking to them. The children were obviously older than Maya (she's 4 and a half), but they are still putting up with some of the same shit.

Adults seem to flail around wanting to say the right thing, thinking there's some kind of code language children speak. The adults get goo-goo gah-gah when talking to them. Really sing-songy. Trying to connect, they instead treat the child as some kind of stuffed fluffy toy who might enjoy being bent this way or that.

Maya even has a defensive "cutsie wootsie" mode she goes into where she swings herself all around, hanging on to my legs, looking up in an almost flirting coy sort of way that shocked the hell out of me the first time she did it. I asked her after why she was behaving that way (didn't say it was wrong, but was suprised) and she told me that when people talk to her in baby talk, she just wants to do that. The goo-goo-gaa-gaa talking tone that grownups often take with her sometimes slips past me until she begins her little "I'm just cute" dance behind my legs.

Some advice to those of you who really, truly would like to communicate with that little person in the shopping cart in front of you at the market? You are looking at a small person. An individual. A human being.

They like smiles, but feel weird if you stare at them too much. Sure, if they're very small infants (not holding themselves up, yet), they might like a little peek-a-boo. For any child, though, your best bet is to just imagine children are just small adults.

Speak in your regular voice. Bring up something you might bring up to an adult if you were going to be so outgoing and bold as to talk to a stranger at the market. Perhaps you might comment on the pretty flowers nearby, or compliment an article of clothing the person is wearing. Maybe you, too, enjoy sweets, so you could empathize with the experience of enjoying a lollipop (that surely some bank teller thrust into the child's hand without regard to her parents' wishes).

Think of how odd you'd feel if someone came up to you and started cooing, "Oh, you are so beeeeeautiful!" Sure, you might feel flattered. If you were available, you might hope to get lucky later that night. But, under most circumstances you might feel pretty freaked out.

Yesterday at Target I decided I needed to help out my little girl. I said, "When someone says something like that (a woman had just said over and over and over, you are so beautiful! adorable! so cuuuuuuuute!), they would love to hear you say, 'thank you.' What that means is you are telling them you appreciate they are trying to be kind. You don't have to say anything, but a 'thank you' is probably what they are hoping for."

Maya, like any normal human being, tends to freeze up in shock when these strangers begin gawgling all over here. And, no, she's not "shy," she just thinks you're being really strange and it makes her a little confused and uncomfortable.

And, no, I'm not going to make her give you a hug even if you are a relative. I'm not going to expect her to kiss you or even accept a hug from you. I understand she's so cute you want to gobble her up, but even her Father and I check in before we slobber all over her (most of the time).

Thankfully, my closest family dwells in the realm of respect. I think they may sometimes wish they could force the issue (LET GRAMPA HOLD YOU we all sometimes want to say). But they see clearly that Maya gives her affection and receives her affection on her terms (she loves being held by Grampa when she's in the mood). Knowing her body is hers, that she decides who touches it, how, and when, may be one of her greatest (thus far, well-learned) lessons.

We'll continue giving her tools for responding to adults who mean well but don't have a clue. We'll continue not forcing her to interact with strangers, and we'll continue not expecting her to give hugs or kisses to anyone when she doesn't want to. Without apology.

Once again, let me encourage you. The next time you are interacting with a child, try to imagine the roles reversed. Whatever you do or say to that child, what if someone did or said that to you? Would you be comfortable? How would you respond?

Because, seriously, the next time someone tries to tickle my child or tries to get her to say something to them ("come on, tell me about your little doggy-woggy-woo") I might just haul off and slug them. Now that's not a lesson I want to teach my cute as a button sweet as a plum little angel girl.

Christian with a lowercase c.

2007-12-17T17:41:00.000-05:00

My four year old says, "I'm Mary and this is baby Jesus" and proceeds to sing all the words to "Oh Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel." The time has come for me to explain why I'm christian. And why I'm not a Christian.

"I'm a Christian" vs. "I'm christian."

First let's be clear. I'm not "a Christian." The right-wing fundamentalists have taken over that term with disturbing voracity. It makes me sick to my stomach to risk being grouped with such generally hateful sorts. Christian (with a C) now means to me, and to so many I talk with, an almost drug induced state of bliss (denial of questions or doubts), glazed eyes (from crying tears of joy when someone is "saved"), rigid rules. Mostly, Christian with a C requires following the strict-father model of living. It means a woman has no right to say what happens to her body. It means taxing the wealthy, stripping social services to nothing, and expecting the poorest among us to support it all. It means same-gender love is wrong. I want nothing to do with Christian with a C.

I am christian, though. I strive to live like Jesus did. That's the essence of it, how I explain it to my daughter. In four year old terms, it's pretty simple. Love everyone. Do whatever you can to help rid the world of injustice. Forgive yourself and others for our human frailties. Know that all you can do is your best and that is enough.

The magical fairyland of miracles.

But what about the "miracles," the loaves and fishes, the healing blindness, bringing people back from the dead? Or, as Maya asked today at lunch, "Are angels real?" My answer is also pretty simple. I don't get hung up on whether or not those things are literally true (it might lean into the sort of magical fairyland kind of thing, would it not?) or if they are only metaphors and lessons. I recognize that humans wrote the Bible, so the stories are most likely stories. I take the lessons from them and move on.

But what about the rising from the dead? Again, I don't get hung up. Literal or not it isn't a huge deal to me. The lessons that we're all Okay, that we are always forgiven for our mistakes, and that the power of god is bigger than any human -- that's enough for me.

The truth is, though, at this moment I believe Jesus literally came back to life. When I'm in my "maybe it didn't literally happen" times, it doesn't scare me. Those thoughts fit perfectly in my faith, believing the truth of it as miracle or metaphor doesn't change the message.

I recognize being raised by a minister and faithfully christian mother has a great deal to do with the likelihood that I'll not find the story of the resurrection in the land with dragons, trolls, and fairies. Then again, as we all know, it could have pushed me farther away from believing the story. And, again, while I do happen to believe it actually happened, it's not the biggest part of christianity for me.

I believe christianity is a religion of social justice. Jesus ate with and talked with women. With tax collectors. With sinners and untouchables of all sorts. Talking seriously with such non-people was rebelious enough, but to wash their feet or share a table with them was truly radical. He told poor people that they were the most special of all. He said people should love their enemies. He was a teacher.

After the sadness and revulsion I feel for those people I feel are butchering Jesus' messages, those cap C's, I realized there was another great obstacle preventing me from embracing the christian label.

I don't believe Jesus would want our worship. The Jesus I understand would not want us to bow down to him. He would not want to be treated as someone more special than any other person. He certainly wouldn't want me calling him "Lord." Teacher, sure, but Lord, no way.

So, how could I be christian if I won't pray to Jesus? That's the question I grappled with for about the last ten years. But my truth has found me and I know now that, for me, being christian means I want to be as much like Jesus as possible. I want to be bold, courageous, and intelligent. I want to stay centered in my connection with god in all times of my life, as much as I can. I want to forgive myself and others every minute of every day. And, most of all, I want to help change the world. I want to help my neighbors near and far. I want people who are suffering to find justice, and I want to help make that happen.

What about Jesus as 100% god and 100% human?

The other hangup I had when I didn't consider myself christian was the stance that Jesus was 100% God, different than us humans. As with so many of my understandings of my christianity, I realize it's an issue of translation. The miracles were probably story telling tools. Jesus was a great healer (this is historical fact, not religious belief, though the ideas of what kind of healing he did are disputed), but was he as powerful as god? In my view, no. In my view, Jesus was astoundingly good at staying connected to god. He was clearly "centered" as we might say today. Serene. At peace most of the time. In no great hurry.

Again, I find Jesus to be a role model for my spiritual life. I know from my own experience that staying connected to what I call god keeps me relatively sane. I know peace when I am strongly connected to that strength. It's my view that Jesus really got it -- he found a way to stay connected more often than he was distracted by daily life. He was the ultimately god-connected person. Whether that was through prayer and meditation, through yoga, through great conversations with loved ones, or through times of quiet, I don't know. But from what I know of the man named Jesus, I can tell he wasn't easily distracted from his source of peace and strength.

But surely, you won't stand for the Father Lord King garbage, will you?

No. I won't stand for it. Mostly. My conception of god is not at all paternal. I certainly don't think Jesus would dig that kind of reference in this day and age. But, in those days when women were dismissed and not counted, using paternal references to describe power and strength makes sense. In the days of rulers like Kings and Emperors it makes sense that Jesus and others would use the language of the day. Shortcuts, if you will, to explain they believed that god was extraordinarily powerful.

When I go to church with my parents, or continue our search for a church that meets our own family's needs, I spend a lot of time translating so I can tolerate the paternal and inegalitarian concepts and language used. I usually don't even like to use a capital letter G on god, it's too high-and-mighty for me. Through the translation, though, I can still hear the message:

Be kind.
Be just.
Be brave.
Care for those who need help.
Don't put up with shit from hateful people.
Love yourself and others.

So as Maya plays Mary, sings the Christmas hymns with all her might, and hears a bit more of the Christmas story every morning when we sing Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel at breakfast, I feel good being christian. I feel honored that our child asks such probing questions, forcing me to articulate in the simplest terms what I believe. I always begin by saying, "Well, not everyone believes this," or, "Some people believe that is true, but I don't." But I almost always end up telling her the truest truth I know. The most important thing is that we try to love everyone in the world and help people who need it most.

Later that day she was playing store and announced, "I work for the giving store. We prepare food to give to people who don't have enough."

I believe Jesus would be glad.

Ophelia's Ride

2007-11-06T10:02:00.000-05:00

Lately, the evils of four year olds has me losing perspective. I keep telling myself, "they're four, they're only four, they're just four year old little kids!" But, when my sweet daughter Maya tells me a classmate said, "you can't play with us" within some particularly nasty context (playing doggy, no one would be her owner) I want to rip out the classmate's hair and throw her into a locked dark closet. Would that be inappropriate?

Life is like ocean waves. My self-awareness and understanding always reaching and finding new sands, new treasures. Always uncovering new old rubble. I've come to love The Ride even when storms make it scary. The Ride always rocks and rolls me. I'm always safe.

From this perch, I've been revisiting what it was like. What it used to be like. My happy tendency these days is to live in what it's like now, finding the past an ordinary place with the present full of mystery and joy. Then these little brats came along. These little excluding and nasty and superficial little crap heads.

I've started reading Re viving Ophelia. No matter what parents do, Pipher reports in Ophelia, young girls risk losing their authentic selves. It's only by being "high in acceptance and strong in controls" that we parents have a chance to find our daughters reclaiming themselves in their later teens. Apparently, our daughter is doomed to begin hating herself and hiding herself at around 11 years old, just like every girl I've ever known. The parents are not to blame.

Overbearing parents, absent parents, cool parents, geeky parents, they're all facing the same thing. Girls who used to be outgoing, unabashedly intelligent, confident, and creative turn into little puddles of quietude, bitterness, or fear. Everything the girls are is wrong -- their hair, their bodies, their thoughts, their words.

Early on, I was entirely a Good Girl. I didn't get in trouble, I followed the rules, I did my homework, I was Responsible. Before junior high, I was an artist. I wanted to be an architect, among many other things. Then on career day, an older woman groaned at me when I told her this and said, "Oh, no you don't, dear! You'd have to major in math and science!" She said this in an honors seventh grade math class. Not only was she not accurate about the "majoring," but she was talking to someone who (at the time) loved math!

In the seventh grade I decided to become popular. I set about it like I would any homework assignment, I read books, magazines, studied up. I realized I'd have to drop the friends I had, even the ones who were hoping to climb the social ladder with me. It would only be by publicly rejecting them that I'd move into the cool crowd. I did what it took. I began flirting with boys, too, and found them flirting back. My life began revolving almost entirely around how others perceived me and I did, as Pipher reports as so common, lose track of my real self.

In the 9th grade I wrote a play in AP English as a class assignment. I have no idea why I thought it a good idea, but the play ended with me, standing alone in front of the class saying, "I'm lonely." It was meant to be a Waiting for Godot flavored performance, but I look back now and see that I was speaking the truth.

There are other pivotal moments that shoved me into the typical self-hatred so many of us experienced in the brutal years of junior high and beyond. For a while in my 20s I blamed my parents, of course. But I think Pipher's on to something in her position that it is our culture, our misogynistic surroundings that damn girls (and boys, I could argue in another essay) to the Hell of self-annihilation. Blaming the culture may sound like a cop-out. But now that I'm living life as a parent of a child, and now that I'm reflecting on my own history from this perspective, I see no other explanation.

Now I'm examining my role as a grown woman, a mother. How can I help Maya survive with her Self intact? Or, help her have a chance of reviving her true self when the storm of adolescence calms?

I've already strayed. When Maya went to a summer camp (mornings doing crafts and music) I began to pack little "treats" in her lunch box that felt inconsistent with who we are. I bought the little sugar drinks (claiming to be yoghurt, with Disney characters on the bottles) or pre-sliced cheese. I included bits in her lunch bag I knew "all the other kids" would have. Already I was concerned about her experiencing the ostracizing that comes from having the "wrong" foods in a lunch bag. I was giddy doing this, knowing I was "helping her" be one of the "cool" kids. Oh my god. What was I thinking?

Last week I again packed a lunch for Maya, but this time I was grounded. I was joyful and held true to our family's priorities. I did pack a little treat, but it was some plastic spider rings we got at the dollar store last year (the lunch was on Halloween) rather than some crap food that would only make her feel tired. The environment for this lunch was also not typical -- I knew that in this group "cool" was actually healthy and wholesome and genuine. Authenticity and kindness are the norm and the children are much less likely to say, "eeeew" to Maya's lunch choices (as they did when I once included a box of carrot juice).

Just as I am revisiting this insane pressure to be what others expect -- the same pressure that forced me over the cliff into self-hatred as a young girl despite my loving supportive family -- I'm finding my own life to be a comfortable, firm, and perfectly fitting shoe (is there a prettier more accurate metaphor? I'm sure there is...). I am coming into being myself, fully accepting and pleased.

As a mother, I think I've caught myself early enough -- I'll do my best to focus on being true to myself, modeling the self-respect I want for Maya. I don't need to buy the Disney. I will also focus on supporting Maya's choices, encouraging her to realize that she has choices, that she alone determines her value -- no matter what those around her say.

Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today, I've read. What I got from the Ophelia book wasn't despair or hopelessness. I got guidance. The book recalls a study done on strong and successful women like Eleanor Roosevelt. She describes a common theme for all the women was intellectual curiousity about something and a generally lonely adolescence filled with solitude or social rejection. Armed with this information, I feel encouraged. If Maya turns out to be a girl who loves horses, or a girl who loves Broadway musicals, or a girl who loves field hockey, I'll be overjoyed. Passion for something, no matter how unfamiliar or even distasteful to me, will be her go-home-free card. I also won't let myself get sucked back into the "if she's liked, she'll like herself" trap. As I begin experiencing the pain and joy of watching my daughter work her way through the system, I'll try to remember to let go. I'll practice having faith that everything will turn out okay.

Tonight a friend asked Maya who her best friend at school was. Wouldn't you know her answer was that very same girl who had so wretchedly spurned her before? I can't say I'm pleased about this since I am still nursing a tidy resentment. However, I am more comfortable remembering that not only is she only four, she's out there practicing life. She's learning about who she is just like I am. All I can do is just hang on for the ride.

"She's Black, she's Black, she's BLAAAAACK!"

2007-10-21T12:53:00.000-04:00

"She's Black, she's Black, she's BLAAAAACK!" was just about all my brain could handle. Maintaining a simple and polite conversation was barely possible. No matter how much we had in common, no matter how likely a future friendship, I could think of nothing but that amazing dark skin, the transcendent hair texture, and my entire personal history of race relationships. Oh, how I wanted to prove to this woman that I was not like just any white woman! I knew, of course, it was just this level of self-consciousness that would make me utterly annoying to her. But, I just couldn't help myself.

Helping myself, though, is really what race relations is about for me these days. I do care about the greater socio-political issues (shocking disregard for people's lives all across the continent of Africa, overt brutality in our country, job discrimination, and of course the list goes on). However, my personal journey with racism now centers around me, my husband, and most of all, my daughter.

When I sat for coffee with the "she's black she's black she's BLACK" woman, I was reminded of a time in college in the late 80's when a fellow student raged at me something like, "I am not all black people! I can't solve your problems!" The disgust, the tears, and the absolute giving up I felt from her did change me. I was so ignorant, so inexperienced with people who were not white-upper-class-and-highly-educated that I lumped anyone unlike me into a group. This group, I thought, would be my source for how to fix the world. Surely, they knew what I could do to not be like a bigot, a racist, a slave owner.

It was then I began to try and get over myself. Trouble was, I just didn't have anyone to practice being just a person with. There was no one in my life I could intentionally not discuss race relations and curing the world of injustice. There was no one in my life with darker skin, or fancier hair. There wasn't even anyone I knew whose family had struggled financially, dark or fair skinned. And, yes, I recognized how this desire to not look to someone for all the answers was just a different side of the same coin.

I don't believe in the concept of being "color-blind." I find it offensive to everyone involved. Why should anyone pretend someone doesn't look the way they do? How is that respectful? One constant in my life is my need for authenticity. Facing tough issues by talking about them; I don't do well with elephant's snoozing on the throw rug nearby.

It my own need for honesty and clarity that had me obsessing, desperate for an intense and intimate conversation about race every time I ran in to this woman. Entirely annoying, of course, since I knew I was just doing it again. Not seeing her as a woman, a mother, a wife, a writer, a social justice activist, but only seeing her Blackness. I really didn't want to, but I knew if I pretended I wasn't, it would just make it worse.

In college, I studied and fell in love with "Symbolic Interactionism." Put forward in force by Herbert Blumer but made real to me by Erving Goffman, the idea that we all together strive most of all to maintain a coherent sense of reality. The "presentation of self" is disturbed when an individual becomes obsessed with their own performance. Smooth interactions between individuals are the goal of most players in life, most of the time throughout our daily lives (most don't walk down a crowded busy street intentionally slamming into other people, we work together as individuals to keep the peace).

I know in my past I have suffered from white guilt and that has prevented me from behaving naturally. It's humiliating, really, but, it's my own shit.

Playing with dollhouse toys, my daughter announced one afternoon that she called one set of dolls the dark-skinned dolls. She didn't say that the other set was the light skinned dolls. I gathered myself together enough not to launch in to a whole history of race issues in the USA. She'd made a simple observation. We've tried to always be sure she has characters in books with lots of different backgrounds, tried to always have dolls that are not only blond and white, knowing every little thing is part of the greater picture. We talked to her about melanin when she first asked about darker skin after visiting my parents' church. We've done everything we can to not make a big deal, but to still keep the option for deeper discussion open. And, yes, I am probably over-thinking it way too much. But, then again, I'm really not.

We live in a state (Maine) where it's not common to see people who aren't white. Economic status is more varied than where I grew up, but trying to recognize those differences takes a judgmental frame of mind, not easy for a four year old to pick up on. We visit Boston (awfully white city, but relatively International) and come across families speaking other languages, wearing interesting clothes, looking remarkably different. It's nice, and we talk about things with her, but what will help Maya most?

I tried signing her up for a Kwanzaa celebration class for toddlers, but was vastly disappointed when the instructor slipped up and asked the class if they knew about the country of Africa. I do believe that experience with people with darker skin, with different languages, and with different cultural backgrounds is the best thing we can give Maya (and ourselves). But, how can this happen and not be contrived?

I've written previously about my six grade field trip on a bus into Hartford where the teachers showed us "urban decay" and "urban renewal." They actually stopped the busses in stressed out neighborhoods and said "this is urban decay." I guarantee you there were people around those streets. How can Josh and I be sure that signing Maya up for classes or working to have playgroups where the kids aren't just white isn't a lot like that? I suppose it makes a difference if there is a genuine interest in the topic, or if the playgroup participants are actually friends. Knowing I have the motivation of "exposure" however, is what feels too close to that old frame of mind ("these people will give me the answers, ease my guilt").

Today we went to the toy store where Josh and I very blatantly purchased an excessively expensive and annoying toy strictly for bribery (you reach this milestone, we'll celebrate with this toy!). We reached the shelves and the Baby Alive toys available were only the dark skinned, curly haired dolls (sort of African American looking, though I think they all look like aliens). We had watched a movie on the computer that morning as we whetted her appetite for the thing where the freakishly large-eyed blond baby says, "uh oh, I made a stinky!" I flinched at the shelf. I wondered if I should be prepared for Maya to say, "That isn't the doll we saw, I want the other one!" I was really hoping I wouldn't have to say, "It's this doll or no doll," because I didn't want the darker doll to be the disappointing choice.

Maya didn't say a word about how she looked different (even though the doll was surrounded by the blond dolls of the "pee-pee only" version). She hugged the box to herself. She has been cherishing the boxed doll all day (she gets to open it after she reaches her milestone).

On the way home from the store, this is what she said, "The company that makes these dolls must really want children to buy them!"

"Yeah, hunny, why is that?"

"Because she has dark skin and dark skin is the most beautiful."

"Dark skin is beautiful, hunny, yes, they must know."

Inside I'm not afraid her pale-skinned self-esteem is suffering, I'm doing a touchdown dance with fireworks. Thinking, at least at the moment, she's making good associations.

A few months ago (a year?) I said to the "she's black she's black she's BLACK" woman who I had come to know on some deeper levels, "It's so nice to finally know you as a just a person." I honestly don't remember if we went forward with that conversation at that point, or later in safer email, but, it's true that she's the first Black woman (and Latina, it turns out) who I consider a friend. And, it's most definitely true that while I have fleeting thoughts of "wow, that hair is so cool," or, "her skin is so stunning," I realize I have thoughts like that about all of my friends in different ways ("how does she pull of those knit caps?" "when does she have the time to shave her legs?" "her hair always looks so clean."). They are fleeting and I'm not obsessed.

Josh doesn't have the same hang-ups I do. He grew up in a much more culturally diverse world (Southern New Mexico). He's also blessed with an ability to not over-think things. But, he knows what I'm talking about when we try to decide how to help Maya not think that this world (Maine) is typical of the rest of the world. He knows how gross it feels to imagine signing Maya up for a playgroup or class only because we know she'd meet kids who aren't white. I suppose, like everything, I'll have to turn this over to faith. Trusting that it will all work out because God's in charge and I'm not.

I don't know the answers. I don't know how I can help Maya make friends without having an internal explosion about race or class issues go on in her brain. For this day, for this moment, I'll take Maya finding the "dark skin is the most beautiful" as a pretty good start.

Writing.

2007-10-14T14:17:00.000-04:00

Anne Lamott really pisses me off. In fact, when I saw her Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year in the parenting section a couple years ago at the Harvard COOP, I actually gave the book the finger. Such was my resentment at some writer journaling in public about motherhood, like I could. Or, like I should.

It must be trite, it must be drivel, it must be painfully common. How presumptuous to think she had something unique and fascinating to say about parenting.

The fact that my resentment blossomed and exploded with physical force (the middle finger jammed up at the softcover book) didn't elude me. I recognize jealousy. I recognize fear: Afraid. Really, really afraid. Here was this dream and someone else was living it and how could I possibly ever do it if other people already are. I only want the path less traveled on; I won't be a sheep or a lemming.

So it required great bravery on my part last week to pick up the book, purchase it, and open the cover to read. I finished it in 36 hours which says a lot as a parent of a 4 year old.

That weekend as I read, I began feeling rumblings in my body. Discomfort. A loosening of my glue.

I turned to the wisest person I know. I turned to this four year old who has spent her life facing her fears and asked, "Sweetie? There's something I really, really want to do but I'm scared to do it. But I want to do it, but I'm scared. What should I do? How can I do this thing? How do you do it when you feel this way?"

Very seriously and with several long long seconds of contemplation, she looked at me with those ocean-deep eyes and gave me the answer. "Mommy, I listen to what my body is telling me. I might need to give myself more time with my Mommy first, but when my body tells me I'm ready, I just do it."

Later that day, lying on my back finishing up the Lamott book I spilled empathetic laughter every few minutes. With my four year old audience demanding it, I read the funniest portions out loud (meatball-like poops rolling away, slapping an infant for fear it wasn't just sleep overcoming him but rather a seizure). Most items made Maya giggle, too.

Years ago (1996 to be exact), I began writing a weekly column and posting it online. This was before I knew the term "blogging," and certainly the activity of blogging hadn't reached the masses. My self-imposed deadlines kicked my ass, really. I took them so seriously. I remember many a Wednesday evening sweating and twisted at the computer screen researching "What in the hell is going on with the Hutu and the Tutsis?" Or simply commenting on my latest self-revelation that I somehow imagined might interest someone.

For the past year, I've known an intense magnetic pull bringing me back to writing personal essays. I left them when I became suddenly embarrassed at how self-obsessed I knew I seemed to some.

I've found the courage to begin reading these kinds of things again, Anna Quindlen, Barbara Kingsolver, (and of course that beastly and fabulous Anne Lamott), most recently. In their words I've found not only camaraderie but also inspiration. Much of why I drink their words with such abandon are the feelings I get of a Shared Experience. As I approach my own writing, I feel a permission to address the day-to-day.

Each essayist has a unique voice and experience, no matter how common the theme. Knowing I can say "what's already been said" and have it still be new and unique simply because it comes from me frees me from the sheep and lemmings fear. Any path I choose will be less traveled because the path belongs to me.

I'm falling apart from the inside out. I'm unhinged, unglued, and frighteningly free floating. My writing days return like a herd of buffalo. Knowing I seem just fine, perhaps a little tired, but as if I'm a functioning member of our simple world, well, that's just craziness at it's strangest. How these feelings can be mauling my insides while I stroll through the pumpkin field with my darling daughter and my dreamy husband? I know it's all because the writing is coming.

I know it because my body says I'm ready.

and I mean it this time...

2007-08-16T22:47:00.001-04:00

Okay, bless you all dear readers and friends... the nudges and prods have been happening more and more. I'm listening. I'm going to start writing this column again, beginning in September.

Right now, though, Josh is going to read Harry Potter to me.

NIP (Nursing In Public)

2006-07-06T23:24:00.000-04:00

She climbed into my lap, assumed the nursing position and asked quietly, “nah-nah.” Without thinking about it, I lifted my shirt and unsnapped my bra. After her sucking began I was suddenly self-conscious. We were at the library story hour; a room full of mothers with their small children and babies. I believe I should never have to tell my daughter we can’t nurse because other people don’t like it. The thing is, as she gets older I’m uncovering levels of discomfort and ignorance that make my insides ache. Why should I have to tell my little girl some people don’t understand that nursing is a beautiful thing? Why should I have to say, we can’t nurse in the doctor’s office because I’m worried the person sitting next to me might get uncomfortable?

When I’m in line in the supermarket – the example even the most passionate “lactivists” use as a place where they might not nurse their toddlers – I want to shout, would you be uncomfortable if I gave her a bottle? Would you be uncomfortable if I gave her a favorite teddy bear or hugged her? Why should she have to give up this perfect source of comfort because our culture seems to think a plastic pacifier is more civilized and that breasts are just for sex?

Yesterday I was in a small hotel suite with my in-laws and Maya was painfully over-tired, obviously fighting a cold, and meeting new grandparents for just about the first time. She wanted to nurse. I had on a sling, so I found it easy to let her nurse even in such close quarters – I was surprised when my father-in-law bounded off of the couch we were all sitting on and burst into the other room, apparently finding a sudden desperate need to wash his hands. When he came back, he sat in the chair on the opposite side of the room and his eyes looked everywhere but at me and my beautiful two year old, who was snuggled inside the colorful fabric of her favorite “tsing.”

Today in the same little hotel room, I told her she’d have to wait – she grew more persistent, since she’s not used to me saying no to nah-nah for what must have seemed like no reason.

I began to tell her that some people don’t understand how special nursing is. Then I stopped myself.

The world can be such a hard place.

She has a lifetime to learn about pain and disappointment – I’m not going to force those lessons on her. Frankly, I think the people who don’t understand the power of the nursing bond are missing out on one of life’s greatest miracles. Until she wants it to be different, we’re going to have nah-nah whenever and wherever she wants it.

In fact, I’ve got to go now. Maya’s asking for some nah-nah.

Mommy, Stay

2005-05-23T18:11:00.000-04:00

The last few weeks have been tough for our family. Emotionally exhausting. Maya made it clear it wasn’t okay for me to leave her with a babysitter, or her grandparents, or even her Daddy. I tried working from my home office, but every few minutes she would want to nurse or talk with me. Trying to get work done at a local coffee shop was out, too. When I started toward the door, she would tremble with tears in her eyes and plead, “Mommy, no! Don’t go now!”

Parenting is a series of choices. Josh and I follow our gut. If we discover later the research backs us up, that’s nifty. But, no matter what the experts suggest, we stay true to our instincts.

When Maya told me not to go, I heard choruses of outsiders in my mind telling me, “she’s testing you, trying to manipulate you; you are the adult and mustn’t let her push you around; she needs your consistency (I said I was going, so I should go for her sake),” and on and on.

Those were loud and pushy and misguided outsiders’ voices.

In my gut, in my heart, my soul, my core, I knew that Maya was testing me. She was saying, “I need you to stay. When I need you and I tell you so, will you hear?”

I passed the test.

I bulldozed through the swamp of voices predicting an overindulged and “spoiled” child and landed safely in the nest of comforting my daughter.

The need for Mommy to stay hasn’t wavered over the past several weeks; so, as I mentioned, it’s been an exhausting time for our family. Josh has taken up a great deal of slack in housekeeping (tasks for which he already pulls at least half the weight), has thickened his skin to the “no Daddy!” times, and has reassured me that he agrees our choices are right for our family. Respecting Maya’s needs is how we care for her, even if it means in the short-term all my emotional resources are being spent on her security.

When would it end? I thought many times. Surely, allowing her to nurse whenever she wants to (needs its own essay) and not leaving her with a sitter – not leaving her, period – surely all of this responsiveness would soon increase her sense of security?

Why, then, did it seem that Maya clung even more desperately to me – saying no to a trip to the market with Daddy (always a favorite jaunt for the pair), even at times not wanting Mommy to leave the room?

The responsibility of attending to her needs has been heavy, but small moments convince me the choices we are making are right for us. When she was falling asleep a few nights ago, Maya rested her hand on my cheek and said, “Stay, Mommy.”

“Yes, yes, I will stay,” I whispered, pressing my mouth against her sweet sweaty head.

I wondered if this was just the typical two-year-old stuff or something bigger. Maya answered my questions this weekend.

“Mommy’s not going to die,” she stated with a question’s tone while in her rocking chair.

“What?” I said, not quite sure I heard her, could she have said…?

“You’re not going to die,” she said, staring intensely at me with the widest big eyes a little girl could ever have.

“No! No, hunny, I am not going to die!”

“Daddy’s not going to die,” she said, almost without inflection.

“No! No, he’s not. He won’t.”

Throughout the weekend she continued on this theme, asking if we were going to die. Talking about her animal parents and friends dying, requesting the stories we tell be about parents or friends dying.

These thoughts are too big for a child. She is too tender for such dark fears!

I remembered, then, a conversation we had when she pointed to a picture of my Aunt Mary. I told Maya then that Mary had been my cousin Ali’s mother, but she had died much too young. The conversation was brief, but, as I look back the deep fears she’s had are making more sense.

In addition to talking about my beloved Aunt Mary, my grandmother has been very seriously ill and we have talked to Maya about the possibility of Gramma Jean dying.

The topic is one I assumed a two-year-old would only take in what she could handle. I chose to be blunt about the truth (everyone/everything dies, death is permanent, etc.) because I was sure she simply wouldn’t get in to the heavy stuff.

“Mommy’s not going to die,” she asked as she sat in her car seat waiting to be brought upstairs after a trip to the market.

“Mommy’s not going to die,” she stated firmly as we lay in bed going to sleep last night.

“No, hunny, I promise I will never leave you.” I said. “If I ever leave you it will only be for a short, short time and I will always, always come back home safe. I will not die.”

I justify the lie by adding in my mind, “in the next ten minutes…” knowing it would be cruel to ask this sweet babe to understand that her Mother could and would one day die.

When she begged me not to leave her with a sitter, what if I had discarded her need for me? What if I had decided the other things were more important than her cries for me to stay? Can you imagine how frightened she might have been? Can you imagine trying to get a handle on death all alone as a 28-month-old child?

When we continue caring for Maya in this way – that her cries for us are real needs, not attempts at control or manipulation – Josh and I both know we are doing the right thing for her. What a world around us, though, when the strongest message to the general public is that people like us are being “controlled” by our child! When Maya looks up at me, caressing my cheek and says, with satisfaction just seconds before drifting off to a milky sleep, “You’re not going to go,” I know we are doing what is best for her.

“That’s right, sweet love,” I say to her, long after she breathes the heavy slow rhythm of sleep, “I’m staying. Mommy is staying with you. Daddy is staying with you. We will never leave you.”

And we never will.

2002-09-03T11:22:00.000-04:00

My fingers pressed and probed his bloated belly – I thought popping the gas bubbles might ease his discomfort. When we snuggled in the evenings, or in the afternoons watching “Emergency Vets” together, my hands would wander on their own to his warm scratchy belly with its smooth balding patches.

There was an especially responsive area near where his ribs and his spinal cord met. With pulsing and increasingly firm pressure, there was almost always a great release of gas. When the gas left his body, I felt empathetic relief. I felt victorious.

Sometimes I’d lie facing him, moving his front leg over me like an arm in an embrace. We have pictures of us in that position and our mutual bliss is apparent. My fingers and palms would always find their way to his belly, relieved on the days when the bloating was minimal, determined on the days when the skin was taut and his intestines felt like hard balloons about to burst.

On Saturday, August 10, 2002, when my hands returned to their nurturing, intimate ritual, probing his belly to see if I could help, I found his bowels release under the usual gentle pressures. I used the old blanket to push the extruding bowel movement back inside and hoped the attendant would come soon to take away the carcass.

All Whites Are Racist

1999-05-12T22:15:00.000-04:00

"All Whites Are Racist!" screamed giant red letters on the yellow banner in the student center. It didn't say much more than that, except to come to the theater at a certain time that day. I was outraged and I wondered what in the heck was going on, after all, that was total nonsense -- I wasn't racist and neither were my friends. We were good people, not scummy ignorant bigots. How dare someone imply otherwise?

What followed was a workshop with a man named Tony Harris. I don't remember many details of the workshop but I walked out of there with a deeper understanding of my own racism and the impact it had on my life. Mr. Harris showed me that our tendency in looking at racism is to see how it negatively affects non-caucasians, when, in fact, caucasians are suffering great emotional pain because of racism, too. The workshop wasn't a touchy-feely, "oh you white people have it so bad" kind of thing, but rather it was an experience that revealed painful truths: no matter our intentions, we white people are racist.

Defining "racist" must go beyond a dictionary definition. The way we use the term "racism" in this country is not simply "making decisions based on race." The term "racism" as it is used today is about oppression and power. I define racism as "people with power oppressing people with less power, based on their apparent race." Of course there are exceptions to "all whites are racist" but it is for the most part a true statement and the exceptions are fewer than most people like to think.

We white people grow up with advantages born unto us. For example, we are less likely to get stopped by the police and more likely to be hired for a job. Whether we like it or not, we have more power than people with darker skin. Because we have advantages based on our skin color, we are participating in a racist system and are therefore racist ourselves.

Through our families, through the media, through implicit and over messages we are taught stereotypes about people who aren't white. Because we believe these stereotypes on some level, we're afraid. Because we are afraid, we avoid people who don't look like us so we can avoid feeling uncomfortable. Because we avoid people who look like us, we have no opportunity to disprove the stereotypes we are taught.

Additionally, because so many of us are good, well-intentioned people, we feel guilty for our position, for our advantage, and for our country's history of oppression. Because we feel guilty is one more reason we avoid anyone who isn't white, so we don't have to feel uncomfortable -- so we can pretend it isn't so.

Given this premise: all us white folks are racist, what can we do about it?

I have some ideas how on an individual level we can work towards breaking the bonds that have been holding us all down in this racist society.

I think of where I have lived. When I lived in a white suburban area of town I had rare occasion to interact with a non-white person. I had no idea the impact this had on me until I moved to an area of town where most people have dark skin -- at first, I was literally afraid! All logic was out the window, and I just felt nervous and guilty and I felt I stuck out like a sore thumb being so white.

Well, it's been some time (this happens each time I move in and out of neighborhoods where there are more dark skinned people than light skinned) and I love where I live. I no longer feel nervous and I no longer feel guilty most of the time. I haven't escaped my racist background, but simple proximity to people who don't look like me helps me recognize my biases and move beyond them.

Another thing I suggest is for you (if you're white) is to be the minority for a while. Go to a bar filled with mostly Asian people, go to a Hispanic neighborhood association meeting, or go to a black church where you are one of the only white people around. The experience is terrifying and shocking when you realize this is what it must be like for so many dark skinned people in "your world" when they "visit." It also helps to bring yourself into the reality that there is no "one" black person, Asian person, Latino person -- among the darker skinned people there are tremendous varieties. There are fat and skinny, there are poor and wealthy, there are sloppy and neat.

It seems sad to suggest such things as "get next to a darker skinned person to get over your fear and your guilt" -- it would be nice to believe that dialogue would be a first step. I think living in the same worlds is the first step, and I think it's up to those of us who have the most power (the white people) to recognize our advantages and use our power to help make changes. We can choose to live in "black/Asian/Latino neighborhoods," we can choose to attend churches and temples where not only white people worship, we can simply shop in supermarkets where not only white people shop. We can live our lives with conscious thought and with intent.

Since I don't believe we can ever be entirely free of our racism as white people I believe educating our children is the most vital step we can take to changing our world. It's our responsibility to guarantee our children grow up next door to people who don't look like themselves, that they sit at school desks and work on homework assignments with children who don't look just the same, and it is our responsibility that they are exposed to the richness and variety of the world's cultures rather than just the white culture around them.

All whites may be racist, but it's true that the children are our future and it's up to us to teach them.

------------------

Here's a link to some information about Tony Harris, he's connected on this website to a "show" called "American Pictures" which looks quite interesting, the site itself is well done:

http://www.american-pictures.com/english/show/tony.htm

Note: This essay is one of my favorites, first published on my website in 1999. It's still quite consistent with my views, after all this time.

But Senator, You Just Don't Get It

1998-03-31T22:32:00.000-05:00

Harriett was running down the hall, late for the luncheon with Senator Simpson. As she ran, she called over her shoulder, "someone canceled, do you want to come along?"
Did I?

I'd been working for Harriett Woods, former Lieutenant Governor of Missouri, at the National Women's Political Caucus for just under a year. My most recent project was organizing luncheons with leaders of women's organizations and each individual member of the Senate Judiciary Committee. This was just immediately following the confirmation of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas.

Of course I wanted to "come along!"

After passing through the metal detectors of the Senate building, I had to run to keep up with Harriett's long leg strides. When we entered the private dining room, the architecture and decor seemed ancient and powerful. Two or three of the women's group leaders had already arrived and were seated at the heavy wooden table that filled the small, bright, high-ceilinged room.

We took our seats and I sat, not speaking, just listening to Harriett make lovely appropriate small talk with the other women. No one spoke about what they were all there for: the topic was "discussing women's perspectives on the Hill/Thomas hearings." I was in shock. Here I was, 21 years old, sitting in a private dining room of the Senate with leaders of some of the most influential womens' organizations in Washington, DC -- we were all there together waiting for Senator Alan Simpson.

Senator Simpson, the vocal Judiciary Committee member from Wyoming.

After about ten minutes, the door behind us opened. The tallest man I've ever seen in my life limbered in followed by an elegant (and also tall) woman.

The Senator took a seat at the tremendous table. He took a seat directly across the table from me.

The woman who was with him, his wife Anne, sat at the head of the table on the other side of the room.

The Senate dining staff began serving our lunch as the polite and amiable chit-chat continued.

Again, there was no mention of what the participants were all there to discuss and I found the omission made the conversation shallow and stilted -- though I see now how it was all about manners, protocol and style.

Finally, as I evaluated the fruit cup (yet another food item I couldn't possibly eat with my stomach so full of butterflies), Harriett said something like, "Shall we get started?" Something like that. She crafted such an eloquent but simple statement, I wish I could recall the exact words.

She made her point: it was time to move beyond the small talk.

The Senator then took the lead.

He began speaking of Anita Hill and how she had perjured herself. I don't know how long the Senator spoke, as I was still in shock, but I do remember distinctly that he mentioned the "corrupting effect of this rock and roll" -- my jaw almost dropped onto the floor when he actually said that.

As the Senator spoke, I ground my fingernails into my palms to keep myself from speaking. The thoughts were a hurricane in my brain and I was afraid I would burst out in some verbal explosion of frustration.

He was missing the point, and no one was saying anything to him about it!

Were we going to sit there and listen to him slamming Anita Hill and just sit mute? Would all these nice manners continue and block any real communication about the frustrations of the issues of real sexual harassment in the workplace and the lack of women in the Senate?

At one point a sort of squawking noise escaped from my mouth.

My fingernails were almost through the skin on my palms.

I looked, pleadingly at Harriett after I made the sound and I said to her, "could... could I say something?"

And Harriett, the strong, impressive and grand woman announced to the shocked looking table members with her arms waving about, "Yes! Yes! My assistant, Heather, would like to say something!"

My hands relaxed in my lap.

I started to speak with a quivering and timid voice.

I said, "Senator, I understand that you think Anita Hill perjured herself. But, I don't think that's the point. I think the point is, there were no women up there on the Judiciary Committee, so no one could possibly know what she had gone through if she had been telling the truth."

The Senator was just staring at me.

After I finished speaking I'm not sure if I even took a breath of air.

The Senator took a bite of his fruit cup and his head began to nod.

He chewed and said, "Hmmm...well, I never thought about it that way."

I recognized even then that he was being kind and diplomatic -- though I will always hope my words might've reached him.

I continued shaking and shivering throughout the rest of the luncheon. I have no recollection of any other words that were exchanged in the meeting. I just remember when it seemed it was time to go.

The Senator raised himself slowly from his chair, and the rest of us followed.

When all of the thank-you's and good-bye's were being exchanged came one of the most remarkable interactions of the whole experience.

Mrs. Simpson came over to me with her hand extended.

She introduced herself to me, and I introduced myself to her. She continued shaking my hand and looked deep into my eyes and said, "You keep on going," and gave my hand an extra tight squeeze.

In the cab on the ride home, Harriett said to me, "I hope you're writing about all of this." That was eight years ago, and at the time I wasn't. The experience, however, isn't one I will ever forget. Each time I revisit the memory I'm energized by Mrs. Simpson's words and I do "keep on going."