(Which is the best present of them all, now that I think of it). Thank you Amber! And here are 42 wishes from my June heart to yours! Thanks for the post!
...
How do I understand the white privilege I benefit from? What are those benefits? Benefits, to name only a few: not getting shot by police, being mostly ignored by police my whole life, not being followed by store employees who are making sure I’m not there to steal anything, being able to get home loans. My white privilege means that the deep roots of racism in our systems were meant not to be seen by me, it means I went through a long uncomfortable period of extreme white fragility and defensiveness and learning, reading, listening. It means learning to understand the difference between flagrant individual prejudices and the systemic racism that I was blindly channeled into to help keep it in place. Systemic racism is insidious and my white privilege means I now work to tear down those racist systems, learning what those systems are and how to elevate the Black voices that have been doing the dismantling work for decades while also shouldering the burden of racism daily. I’m learning what my role is as a white person and what role is best-suited for the person I am? What can I do and not break myself? What can I sustain? I’m learning.
Tuesday, June 23, 2020
Wednesday, June 17, 2020
Just not ready
Everyone wants to go out. On a socially distanced walk. To the beach. By a fire. Up North. To San Francisco where my niece is getting married in August. To a patio. A drive-in. A protest. A singalong. Her backyard. What's the harm? To the Lake St Croix Beach. To Target. To Menards. To dinner. For fun. To change it up. Because you can't stand it anymore. Because you'll beat this Pandemic. This Damndemic. You want it like it was. You're up for it. You'll take the risk. You'll play a socially distanced game of soccer. Zumba in the park. Yoga on the dock. Masked bike rides six feet apart. To 38th and Chicago. To save the world. To do something. To save yourself. To not just sit there. To anywhere.
It's not that I don't want to do these things.
It's not that I don't want to do these things.
Friday, June 12, 2020
My Reply to Dorothy's Kick Ass It's About Time Post about living with chronic pain
- I obviously have strong feelings about this and it's what I really must tell you. Thank you Dorothy! For the inspiring words, inciting words, and timely post! Her blog Weekly Ramblings, homespun and family run, is TDF real, raw writing! xoxo
- Thanks so much Dorothy. I’m sorry to say, for both of us and any of us dealing with chronic pain and the dysfunctional, patriarchal medical system we live with, that i can relate to this %100. I sure know the fear, disabling pain, despair and exhaustion of having to continue asking and receiving “help” that is more taxing than healing; I’ve never felt so alone in my life as I do with chronic pain, worsened by the amount of time and energy I must put fourth explaining, care taking, convincing, defending, etc, in order to “earn” any support. As always, I am touched by your raw, wise, no bs insightful writing, reminding me that it is time to write about my own chronic pain, instead of hiding out behind the shame I have bought into from a negligent system built upon years of neglect, stigma, and ego, convincing me that the shame and despair is mine to carry. This piece reminds me that now, amidst so much social injustice, is the time for all of us to rise up to speak our truth and rehabilitate all systemic suffering, from racism to a climate change to disabling illness. And while I recognize that my daily practice is to nourish myself with the healing and compassion of my own inner wisdom and to take accountability for my contribution to this and all suffering, it is freeing to recognize in your words my own anger at having to go so much of it alone and that this is also not okay and that this, too, must change and that for me, right now, that means, more writing about it. I’m not sure that’s what your’e saying exactly, but you helped me name that. And I’m grateful. Sending you love and much peace in your body, Thank you! 💙🙏 Please read or
and read the awesome post at https://weeklyramblings.com/10-fun-things-i-learned-from-having-a-disabling-illness/#comment-65
Tuesday, June 9, 2020
Couldn't deal with the screaming man today
We set off again for our monthly odyssey to the drive-up window at Walgreens to pick up the monthly RX. Last month, as you recall, the man at the window yelled at us and if we were living in less politically correct times, I might liken him to Seinfeld's Soup Nazi and call him the RX Nazi, which maybe I will anyway.
The point is the drive-up window was at least 10 cars deep. Given I had to Zoom home for a Zoom PT appointment, there was no way in hell. Last month, we were only behind one car and it took 30 minutes to get to the window, witnessing much shouting between car and window as we waited. This is not ordering fries and a vanilla shake, folks. This is drugs and poverty and Covid 19 and a world gone mad.
So we backed out and pulled up at the handicapped spot (yes, I have a hangie thingie) and called the pharmacy to see how long the line was. I thought I might send in TCF, who has less fear than I do, and a far better immune system.
"At least ten people deep," she said.
"Inside?" I said, cringing toward TCF.
"Yes, m'am."
"Really? Ten people inside?" I was trying to bend reality to fit my will. "Do you mean inside and not the drive up window?"
"Yes, m'am."
"Okay, thanks!" I said and reluctantly hung up, journey aborted.
It was a nice drive anyway. We tried not to talk about how insane a line ten deep is, especially after doing the math that didn't add up. We're tired of trying to understand why social distancing is old school, why at least half of the people coming and going weren't wearing masks, including an elderly lady being practically dragged out by the elbow by her elderly daughter. We tried to let go, remind us ourselves, even now, that it's the journey that counts.
It was a nice drive anyway.
We took the race car on the freeway and drove her at the speed of summer, just like the old days. Close to home, Culture Club's "Karma Chameleon" came on COOL 108 and that made it all worth while. Boy did that sound good. When TCF got out at Miracle Mile to mail the letters, I really cranked it.
It had been ages.
The point is the drive-up window was at least 10 cars deep. Given I had to Zoom home for a Zoom PT appointment, there was no way in hell. Last month, we were only behind one car and it took 30 minutes to get to the window, witnessing much shouting between car and window as we waited. This is not ordering fries and a vanilla shake, folks. This is drugs and poverty and Covid 19 and a world gone mad.
So we backed out and pulled up at the handicapped spot (yes, I have a hangie thingie) and called the pharmacy to see how long the line was. I thought I might send in TCF, who has less fear than I do, and a far better immune system.
"At least ten people deep," she said.
"Inside?" I said, cringing toward TCF.
"Yes, m'am."
"Really? Ten people inside?" I was trying to bend reality to fit my will. "Do you mean inside and not the drive up window?"
"Yes, m'am."
"Okay, thanks!" I said and reluctantly hung up, journey aborted.
It was a nice drive anyway. We tried not to talk about how insane a line ten deep is, especially after doing the math that didn't add up. We're tired of trying to understand why social distancing is old school, why at least half of the people coming and going weren't wearing masks, including an elderly lady being practically dragged out by the elbow by her elderly daughter. We tried to let go, remind us ourselves, even now, that it's the journey that counts.
It was a nice drive anyway.
We took the race car on the freeway and drove her at the speed of summer, just like the old days. Close to home, Culture Club's "Karma Chameleon" came on COOL 108 and that made it all worth while. Boy did that sound good. When TCF got out at Miracle Mile to mail the letters, I really cranked it.
It had been ages.
Monday, June 8, 2020
I must be anxious
Because Covid is starting to take over my dreams. For the past week, I've been at large gatherings trying to do social distancing and others are refusing to comply. When I try to step back, they come closer. When I try to get more space, they follow and want to breathe on me, near me, with me. Outside, inside, everywhere. It's all a big party.
"There's nothing to worry about," they insist, coming closer and closer, as though it's all been a dream.
"There's nothing to worry about," they insist, coming closer and closer, as though it's all been a dream.
Thursday, June 4, 2020
Ripening
I am so grateful to so many of my students who are writing about living through the sixties (or any time of protest: personal, global, from toxic systems to broken families) and all they stood up for and against. How even though some of them feel that we haven't accomplished anything, that we've gotten nowhere, it is the fruit of their actions that inspires every letter I leave on the page. How their voices were the seeds (of the blossom) now ripening, encouraging everyone to rise up, keep walking, keep writing, keep shouting, keep ringing the bell of mindfulness, to look closely and deeply at our systems, our minds, our keepers, the stories we tell ourselves and the words with which we choose to do so. Without those great teachers and storytellers and peace makers that came before us, we would not be here writing today, planting seeds. It's not how or why or what they showed up for, but that they showed up at all.
Monday, June 1, 2020
Parenting is so hard
When I was a kid, Ma told me everything. If I asked, she told. If I said I was afraid, she said, "Well you should be. There are a lot of assholes and creeps out there." When I asked her, after watching one of those televised Holocaust series ("specials," circa The Thorn Birds, Roots, etc), if the nazis could come back, she said, "Who knows? Probably. There are a lot of Jew haters out there." I think I was 9 or 10 when that was on. I don't think I ever heard her say "don't worry. It'll be okay."
This was the latchkey generation. I never much saw my parents and they let us roam free, watch what we want, do what we want. We were often left alone way into the night or even over night. Fear and horror ravaged my young body, in addition to a fair amount of physical and emotional aggression at the hands of my family's unhealed generational trauma. There weren't a lot of places to call safe. It wasn't okay to talk about, given the consequences and lack of awareness at the time. To be beat up, yelled at, taken advantage of, degraded, name called, shamed, etc, was the norm in my immediate circle, though many of my friends were not physically abused and had a sense of safe place at home, which helped them cultivate a sense of safety inside, a place to take refuge within during scary times.
My childhood is not uncommon and at the time, it was normal and quite idyllic. Me and Ma were happily enmeshed, for better or worse. I have lifetimes of happy childhood memories, though it is curious to reflect on what made them happy, a subject for another day. The point is that was a long time ago. Much healing has happened and continues to happen. I commit to healing and making safe, loving, space for myself in my body every day in hopes of showing up as much as I can for myself and for others. I don't watch the news or TV at all. I am mindful of what I allow into my body. I am not, as you know, a social media person. This helps.
The hard part is parenting. I want to do the opposite of my childhood. I don't want to tell my son anything. I can be comically, effusively comical at times in protection of what I foresee as potential pain or anxiety inducing situations, from flakey friends to horrifying world events. I am adamant about no news, no TV. When he asks if my body will heal someday, why I can't run, I give him half an answer, mostly reassuring. I tell him "don't get old," what the elders told me. No bueno, I know. As he ages, I allow him a bit more truth, or admit the unknowns. "I don't know if I will ever run again. But I do know, I would carry you out of a fire. I don't know when the rioting or Covid 19 will end, but I do know I will protect you as best I can no matter what. Calm your body, calm your mind. Let's breathe together."
Because I was so young, too young, to take in violent world events, let alone the ones happening nearby and at home, I am overly protective of taxing my son's young body with toxicity that has nothing to do with him, that isn't his to carry. I tell him there is a lot of suffering and things we don't understand and injustice and that right now things are very scary. I try to teach him that even so, the world is a loving, welcoming place, the importance of cultivating for himself on the inside. Safe space inside. Yet I'm also aware that he is fully empowered. He is not me. He can handle what comes his way. He already senses what's up even if I don't tell him. And I tell him he is safe. Not to worry. But if he does, that's okay too. I tell him to be kind and unafraid of his emotions, the importance of tending to them so they don't take over. I tell him to be a friend to himself, to make room and loving space inside for refuge. As a rule, we smile and wave at babies.
There is a lot of pressure right now to shove all of this at our kids, to teach them something, to show them something, to have them wake up and realize that they, too, are part of the problem and the solution. Okay, okay... yes, no...maybe... both. But even as I own my stuff, even as I mindfully assess how much of my stuff can get in the way, I am sitting with what feels right for us.
In the meantime, after books and before bed, we talk about what's sweet. We've both been having really intense dreams lately, the kind that make you sweat. "What would sweet dreams look like?" I ask him, as he tucks into the ear of his gigantic bear. He wonders. "Hmmmm..."
"Mexico?" I say.
"Oh yes. Akumal," he says. "The ocean. Shirley Temples."
"Guava," I say. "And those little cream chocolates they left in our room..."
"And the monkeys! And the agutes!"
"Yes... and our sweet waiter friend...."
"Carlos!" he says.
"Yes!" I say, "Carlos!"
And we go on like that for a while longer until he says, "Okay, Mama, that's enough about Mexico. G-night."
"Night night, " I say and we do our routine, like a prayer, and I know he's going to be alright.
This was the latchkey generation. I never much saw my parents and they let us roam free, watch what we want, do what we want. We were often left alone way into the night or even over night. Fear and horror ravaged my young body, in addition to a fair amount of physical and emotional aggression at the hands of my family's unhealed generational trauma. There weren't a lot of places to call safe. It wasn't okay to talk about, given the consequences and lack of awareness at the time. To be beat up, yelled at, taken advantage of, degraded, name called, shamed, etc, was the norm in my immediate circle, though many of my friends were not physically abused and had a sense of safe place at home, which helped them cultivate a sense of safety inside, a place to take refuge within during scary times.
My childhood is not uncommon and at the time, it was normal and quite idyllic. Me and Ma were happily enmeshed, for better or worse. I have lifetimes of happy childhood memories, though it is curious to reflect on what made them happy, a subject for another day. The point is that was a long time ago. Much healing has happened and continues to happen. I commit to healing and making safe, loving, space for myself in my body every day in hopes of showing up as much as I can for myself and for others. I don't watch the news or TV at all. I am mindful of what I allow into my body. I am not, as you know, a social media person. This helps.
The hard part is parenting. I want to do the opposite of my childhood. I don't want to tell my son anything. I can be comically, effusively comical at times in protection of what I foresee as potential pain or anxiety inducing situations, from flakey friends to horrifying world events. I am adamant about no news, no TV. When he asks if my body will heal someday, why I can't run, I give him half an answer, mostly reassuring. I tell him "don't get old," what the elders told me. No bueno, I know. As he ages, I allow him a bit more truth, or admit the unknowns. "I don't know if I will ever run again. But I do know, I would carry you out of a fire. I don't know when the rioting or Covid 19 will end, but I do know I will protect you as best I can no matter what. Calm your body, calm your mind. Let's breathe together."
Because I was so young, too young, to take in violent world events, let alone the ones happening nearby and at home, I am overly protective of taxing my son's young body with toxicity that has nothing to do with him, that isn't his to carry. I tell him there is a lot of suffering and things we don't understand and injustice and that right now things are very scary. I try to teach him that even so, the world is a loving, welcoming place, the importance of cultivating for himself on the inside. Safe space inside. Yet I'm also aware that he is fully empowered. He is not me. He can handle what comes his way. He already senses what's up even if I don't tell him. And I tell him he is safe. Not to worry. But if he does, that's okay too. I tell him to be kind and unafraid of his emotions, the importance of tending to them so they don't take over. I tell him to be a friend to himself, to make room and loving space inside for refuge. As a rule, we smile and wave at babies.
There is a lot of pressure right now to shove all of this at our kids, to teach them something, to show them something, to have them wake up and realize that they, too, are part of the problem and the solution. Okay, okay... yes, no...maybe... both. But even as I own my stuff, even as I mindfully assess how much of my stuff can get in the way, I am sitting with what feels right for us.
In the meantime, after books and before bed, we talk about what's sweet. We've both been having really intense dreams lately, the kind that make you sweat. "What would sweet dreams look like?" I ask him, as he tucks into the ear of his gigantic bear. He wonders. "Hmmmm..."
"Mexico?" I say.
"Oh yes. Akumal," he says. "The ocean. Shirley Temples."
"Guava," I say. "And those little cream chocolates they left in our room..."
"And the monkeys! And the agutes!"
"Yes... and our sweet waiter friend...."
"Carlos!" he says.
"Yes!" I say, "Carlos!"
And we go on like that for a while longer until he says, "Okay, Mama, that's enough about Mexico. G-night."
"Night night, " I say and we do our routine, like a prayer, and I know he's going to be alright.
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