Who We Are

Last week, Dave and I watched Who We Are: A Chronicle of Racism in America on Netflix. I am strongly encouraging you to go watch it now, as in stop reading and go watch. I promise I'll be here when you're done, ready to debrief with you.

<waiting patiently>

Since you've all watched, I am free to talk about the specifics. Jeffery Robinson brilliantly lays out the case for the structural racism in our country. He uses direct quotes and specific examples, relating them to their place in history and our collective refusal to level this playing field. Let me be very clear: I'm using first person pronouns to refer to White America's attachment to the structures of racism against citizens who identify as part of BIPOC communities. I do not specifically mean people that I know, although part of the brilliance of this lecture is recognizing the part each of us who identify as caucasian (I struggle to call myself 'white', as that really isn't a race--I refuse to answer any demographics question if my only option is 'White'. Caucasian is a stretch, too, but it's the better alternative, for now anyway.) 

His examples are compelling, and in my humble opinion, irrefutable. Structural racism is not only real, but alive and well in 2022. I won't retell all of his evidence-- he does it so much better than I could (go watch if you ignored my earlier nudging)-- but suffice it to say I was left speechless. 

I can't remain speechless for any longer. I walk a line as a public employee, needing to remain apolitical personally, but to also speak up for those in my charge who come from marginalized communities. Which means, I can't fully do one or the other. Having watched this documentary, however, I can no longer comfortably choose my silence when it means those around me risk suffering. Maya Angelou and James 4:17 both remind us that when you know better you do better. Today, I know better, and I am promising to do better. For the last few years, I've made sure to include the BIPOC perspective in my history lessons, and made sure to apologize for the years I perpetuated the myth that the Civil War was NOT about racism. I am sorry it took me this long to correct that narrative, and many others I didn't even know about due to whitewashing.

If we are going to move on from this horrible part of our history, we need to do what the Germans do: acknowledge it, learn from it, and change our behavior. I am committing to doing that, and advocating for those who need my voice to stand up for their rights, regardless of the political consequences that befall me.

It's not easy, knowing who we are, but so very important to becoming who we are all meant to be.

17 Sunshiny Years

 I visited with a Sunshine this week. I had not seen her in person for a few years, mostly due to the pandemic, but also because of distance. I was able to see her interact with her spouse and their child, showering the toddler with love while also adequately conveying her needs to her partner. I am so happy she has found her person with whom to get through this thing called life-- where she can be her full self without fear, and have a different adult life than she saw most adults around her have. She loves big, which I am blessed to receive, and has a self-awareness that I don't often see in someone as young. She has grown so much since graduation-- she stands taller, and holds eye contact. And my goodness, she is a good mom: letting her child explore but making sure they can do so safely. I had to work to hold back tears a few times: of all the tests and other benchmarks we use in schools, the most important one to me is that my sunnies raise kids who struggle less than they did. She (and her spouse, while not a sunshine, fell in love with one, and so is now also mine by the transitive property of belonging) is exceeding this standard.

The pretense for this reunion is I had asked her to paint me something, and I went to pick it up. She's a very talented creator, and I wanted something of hers to hang in my space, partly as inspiration for kids, and partly (mostly?) as a reminder that she is who she is, and that I get to say I knew her when. I didn't have a clear design in mind-- I think said something about sunshine or rainbows-- and she took that and made me the most beautiful honorific to my 17 years as an alt ed teacher. I don't even have words for how perfect it is; it's made by her, for me, about my transition from teaching to social working, and she captured all of that, in a way words (my medium) just can't.

I don't really know what I'm trying to say. I'm so proud of her, but when she also shared the continued struggle before her, I knew it will take her a significant amount of effort to get where she wants to be. There's a lesson for me in this long lasting relationship, but for the life of me, I can't identify it. I love the kids (and adults) that cross my path unconditionally, and am happy to say that love is often the beginning of something else. Somehow, though, there's something here I'm missing-- something for me, to help me learn and grow to be better at my new role. Maybe that's what it is-- that I am back to being new at my job, and while I have learned a lot, the only way out is through. My best teachers may actually be the hundreds of students I taught over the last 17 years.

She agreed to a hug when I left, which felt important. Again, I had to work to not cry. So many people think I give so much of myself, and can't understand how I do what I do: the real truth is I don't know how to do it any other way: I gain so much more back that it's impossible to not go all in. I have learned appreciation for how blessed my life has been, of course, but also that I have made deliberate choices to amplify the good things and jettison the bad.  That I continually choose kindness and empathy when presented with heartbreaking, easily judged situations-- heals my humanity more than it impacts anyone else. I've provided an example for one way to live and parent and love a generation of kids-- those in my classes and the many others in the building-- and visits like this show that it has impacted future generations. It's humbling to say the least, and exceeds my wildest dreams of what I thought possible when I accepted the alternative ed teaching job all those years ago.

Long way round, this was a reminder that listening and loving are the best things that can happen in a school setting. That without truly meeting kids where they're at, their ability to interact with standards is significantly hindered. And, that graduation isn't the end of those relationships, not if you don't want it to be. 

Combat baby, come back.

 It's been awhile since my last post...

Writing, in many ways, is my internal therapy session. It forces me to slow down, and put my thoughts out there in a way that can be understood by those of you who don't live inside my head. I stopped blogging about the time I started my MSW-- I didn't have time, for sure, and Blogger had changed and I didn't want to take the time to learn the new system. I stopped doing a lot of the creative things I enjoy, because I just didn't have the emotional bandwidth. I kept cooking, because I like to eat, and taking pictures... although I didn't do much with them at all. The self-reflective writing that was embedded into the program was the outlet I used from Fall 2016-Summer 2019.

I continued my hiatus then-- I started working per diem as a Crisis Worker and Outpatient Clinician, which again, filled my brain with lots to consider. And then... well, we all know that 'normal' changed on 3/15/20, and I was too freaked out by living and working through a pandemic, both as a teacher and a mental health worker to return to my favorite creative outlets.

This spring, though, my mojo came back. I've been scrapping like a fool, finishing 4 years of pictures in the last 4 months. I've been thinking about my book too-- I've thought about it a lot over the last 5 years-- and how to get beyond the title. And while I am not the same person I was pre-pandemic, I've settled back into myself enough to be able to find my truth through my words again. 

If you've gotten to this point, then something likely resonates with you-- that, or you really like me and reading my blog is an act of love. Please remember: I write for me, to help make sense of all that goes on internally, and have chosen to share it with the world because enough people have said they appreciate what I write. It is highly probable I will write some things that offend certain people I know and love-- but this personal therapy session doesn't work if I'm holding back. However, if my words are helpful to you in your own journey, please come along for the ride. I am a Capital E Extrovert, and love having you here, even through the magic of the interwebs. If you no longer enjoy this ride, you can exit at any time. But,  just like (I hope) your adults taught you, if you can't say anything nice, please don't say anything at all. I welcome differing perspectives-- they help me figure out what I really do mean-- but hatred and unkindness will not be tolerated.

Oh-- there will also be pop culture references, because that's also how my brain works. Combat Baby is a song by Metric, which tells the story of people hitting the 'easy living' part of life, but missing their punk past. Um... yea. While I was never a punk in terms of behavior or clothing style, I have always resonated with punk ethos. I guess this resurgence of the blog is me trying to figure out how that part of me fits with my simple life 52 year old mother of 2 twenty-somethings (or 4, if I count the other 2 I helped raise and consider my own) self who has been married (to the same man, thankfully) for longer than I have not.

If you're STILL here, I'm really glad to have you. Let's go figure out this thing called life together.