Current Events

We Won’t Go Back…To Email Forwards

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We Won’t Go Back is the mindset I am working from these days. Forward motion only. 

For the past couple months, there has been a whirlwind of activity in my little brain. I’ve had a lot to think about. I can trace the upheaval to November 9th, the day I moved from the backseat to the driver’s seat in anticipation of some unsettling revisions to life as I have known it over the past eight years. During the past two months, I’ve done a lot of self-reflection, some changing of habits, and a bit of reaching beyond my comfort zone. The universe, it seems, is hell-bent on providing me with growth opportunities. Another one of those opportunities knocked on my door two nights ago.

My father sent me and my sisters a forwarded email message about Kellyanne Conway entitled Trump’s Campaign Manager Kellyanne Conway Reveals How Faith In Jesus Led To Huge Success. In his comment on the forwarded message, he stated that Kellyanne is just like his three daughters, “educated, working diligently, family centered, and lovely.” While the message began with a comment that the attached message was “not political,” the forward outlined Kellyanne’s accomplishments and her role in conservative politics and many times invoked her Christian faith and her pro-life views. I assume a conservative Christian would read the message and get a boatload of warm fuzzies about Kellyanne and her new role in the White House as counselor to the president.

Here’s the thing about email forwards. It helps if you know your audience before you hit send. A one-sided religious or political message sent to a likeminded person may be appreciated, but the same message sent to someone with differing views may feel at best didactic and at worst totally out-of-line and heavy-handed. In this case, my father didn’t consider his audience. He sent a message in praise of Kellyanne Conway, a religious, conservative, pro-life advocate, to his atheist, liberal, pro-choice daughter. While as a rule I take all religious and political email forwards from my dad and relegate them immediately to the Trash folder to avoid conflict, this time something hit me. I can’t expect my father to know his audience when to avoid uncomfortable conversations with him I’ve not been explicit about who I am, what I believe, and what I am willing to stand for. I’ve allowed him to think I agree with him by not disagreeing with him. I’ve been complicit by accepting the forwards and not presenting my beliefs in contrast.

I know my father meant no disrespect by sharing that message with me. I know he felt he was paying me a compliment. He could only believe that, though, by not knowing me at all. So, last night, at the ripe old age of almost 49, I hit reply and shared my views with my father unabashedly for the first time ever. I explained why I am pro-choice and why I support Planned Parenthood, and why, while I can appreciate all Ms. Conway has achieved in her life despite her personal struggles (we all have them), I don’t appreciate his email forwards about religion, politics, or the pro-life movement. I reminded him I have been a functioning adult for thirty years now and, as such, possess my own beliefs, which don’t happen to coincide with his. I told him I don’t share email forwards supporting my views with him because I respect that he has the right to seek his own truth. I also mentioned that I know he meant no harm or disrespect to me, even though my ego felt it.

Our country is deeply divided. There is rancor everywhere you turn. I would like to see us move to a place where discussion is possible, but that type of discussion is never going to be possible unless we as a nation are 1) brave enough to share our views openly, 2) comfortable enough with others to try to understand where they are coming from and consider the points they are making, and 3) willing to acquiesce on some of our stances to meet in the middle somewhere. At some point, we decided that compromise is weak and accepting less than 100% of what we want undermines the legitimacy of our beliefs. We are a nation of contrasts. We can’t possibly all get what we want. Compromise is crucial. It is democracy at work.

Last night I took my first step towards improving the conversations in my life. I was brave enough share my views rather than remain silent to preserve a false peace while my insides roiled with dissent. My second step will come this weekend when I participate in the Women’s March on Denver with my family in support of Planned Parenthood. I am going to continue to work on my mindfulness skills so I am better equipped to take deep breaths and enter into crucial open dialogue with people of differing viewpoints. I am going to work towards practicing compassion for others when they test my open-mindedness and poke me with their sticks of self-righteous certainty. It’s going to be a process but, then, all good things are.

Roar — The Dragon Mother Has Awoken

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Look at that mane. You just know I can roar.

I am not okay today. I’m not. Yesterday morning I was excited. I was powerful and bold and, dare I say, optimistic for once against my more skeptical nature. Today I am sad, and it’s not that garden variety of sad where you can’t put your finger on it. It’s not general melancholy. It’s in-your-face, raw, jagged, emotional pain. It’s pathetic, disconsolate, achy-breaky heart sickness. This country, which I was starting to imagine was leaning towards becoming more inclusive and welcoming and more like our forefathers envisioned and Lady Liberty professes, pulled my heart out of my closed chest last night with some crazy nunchuck moves and then used it as a target for AK-47 practice rounds. So I am not okay today. I am struggling, and I know I am not alone.

I am not okay today because of who I am and not because of what happened yesterday. I am a woman. A well-educated, well-read, white, straight, upper middle class, clearly privileged woman, to be sure, but a woman nonetheless. I am a mother. I am what my detractors would term a “bleeding heart” liberal. I am an agnostic. I am a feminist. I am a friend to gays and lesbians, people of all faiths, and all colors. I labor to keep an open mind and I search daily for our common values so I can remain open hearted and accepting. It is hard work, but I do it ceaselessly, remaining friends with people I don’t agree with in the hope that I learn more about them and their views and grow in understanding. For a while, I had tricked myself into believing that I was part of a majority and that, as a collective, we would triumph, love over hate, stronger together, all the while going high. It didn’t happen.

An election is an election. It is politics as usual. So, at 48, the election of someone I did not vote for is not something with which I am unfamiliar. I was deeply troubled in 2000 when Al Gore lost the presidency. I worked in the renewable energy industry. Jobs were lost. I’m familiar with disappointment, but this is different. For me, this is a personal loss. I can put aside politics. I can trust that the next administration will do their best. I can be a good US citizen and play nicely with others when my candidate loses. This loss was not about politics for me. It was about sexism, racism, xenophobia, and hate. And when those are your stakes, when you are not simply voting democrat versus republican, a loss is devastating. Today I am poignantly aware that I am in the minority. I am on the outside. To many, I am an unwelcome aberration, at best an anomaly and at worst a nuisance. But if you think for one second that I am going to go quietly, to shut up, stay out of things, and let hatred and ignorance rule, you don’t know me very well. And you don’t understand Pantsuit Nation at all. I’m a middle aged woman with time, money, and pussy-grabs-back attitude. I’m not going quietly.

This is my challenge and my charge. I have only one choice and that is to rise from the heap of those left disenfranchised and make my voice heard. My privileged white sons are about to witness something powerful. Their dragon mother has awoken. First thing this morning, I set up a monthly donation to Planned Parenthood, the first place that opened its doors for me when I was a young college student without insurance looking for well-woman care. Planned Parenthood saved me from a sexually transmitted disease that was on its way to becoming cervical cancer. Because of that, I have long stood with them for the health of all women, women like me who needed some help when nothing else was accessible. As women before me suffered for causes like the right to vote, I will gladly step up, with my money, my voice, and my body to keep the doors of Planned Parenthood open. It’s imperative. Whatever it takes. Don’t even think you can stop me.

When I was younger and an important relationship would end, I would pull out every song that reminded me of the person I’d lost and play them over and over until I was reduced to a tearless, dehydrated, emotionless lump of flesh. Today I thought about playing Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” and just having a good cry. Instead, I found Katy Perry. Today I am giving myself permission and space to mourn. Tomorrow I roar.

The Gray Matter In A Black and White World

Why can't we all just get along like the flavors in this cone?

Why can’t we all just get along like the flavors in this cone?

Confession: I haven’t watched any televised footage of the riots in Baltimore. Well…wait. Maybe I did see a few seconds of that video clip that was being passed around on Facebook, the one where the mom was slapping her son after plucking him from a crowd of rioters. And, for the record, that is exactly what I would have done if I caught my son like she did. But, I digress. The reason that we haven’t been watching the news since all the chaos erupted in Baltimore last Saturday is because I’m sick and tired of seeing this situation on television. I’m sick of news stories about African-American men ending up dead in situations that seem to defy logical explanation, and I’m tired of listening to clueless white folks try to explain the resulting violence. I try not to get sucked into the spectacle of the television news because it makes me nauseous. I choose, instead, to read the news so I can eliminate the pageantry and drama of pompous television news anchors who live to hear themselves speak. Yawn.

Last night, feeling a bit impudent, I broke down and turned on the news around dinnertime. I started with The O’Reilly Factor on Fox News and then caught some of The Rachel Maddow Show on MSNBC because that is what I have to do to find fair-and-balanced news these days, watch two vastly different programs and interpret where the reality lies in the space in between them. O’Reilly spent part of his air time trying to blame the rioting on the 72% of African-American children born to single mothers. His assumption is that the breakdown of the nuclear family is primarily responsible for all the trouble in the African-American demographic. That’s one way to view it, I suppose, but I happen to live in a very grey world where things aren’t quite that easily defined. While O’Reilly seemed to have it all figured out, I found Maddow reporting on all the things we don’t know at this time…what the coroner’s report will say about the cause of Freddie Gray’s death, when the curfew in Baltimore will end, when we will know the fate of the six police officers suspended after Gray’s death, and what might happen once whatever is going to happen happens. I turned off the television news reminded once again why I rarely turn it on in the first place. There’s no news in the news.

This morning a friend shared this piece that was posted by Julia Blount on her Facebook page and then picked up and reposted by Salon. In it, Ms. Blount, a Princeton grad who grew up in an affluent home to a white mother and an African-American father, recounts her experiences as a person of color and, as her article title states, asks white people to respect what Black Americans are feeling. She writes of hopelessness, oppression, pain, poverty, anger, and despair. She writes about how fortunate she has been in her life and yet how even with all the privileges she’s had people still treat her differently. I know people like Ms. Blount. Our son’s best friend also comes from a mixed-race background. He lives in an upper-middle-class suburb of Denver where only half of 1% of the population is African-American. He attends private Christian school and has every conceivable advantage in his favor, save the color of his skin. I have no doubt that his American experience, while certainly impacted by his color, will be tremendously different than the American experience of an African-American child being raised by a single mother in impoverished, inner-city Baltimore. Poverty is reality for 31% of single-mother, African-American homes. Despite this statistic and many other statistics that show that African-Americans live in poverty on a far greater scale than their white counterparts, I know way too many white Americans who wholeheartedly believe that all Americans share an equal part of the American pie dream. Just pull yourself up by your bootstraps like the rest of us, they think, completely oblivious that it’s a lot harder to pull yourself up by your bootstraps when you can’t afford boots. The disparity between us isn’t simply apparent in poverty ratios; it’s apparent in the complete inability many of us white Americans have to notice that we’re better off in nearly every way than any person of color in our country. We’re so clueless that we like to point to Oprah as an example of how the rest of the African-American population should just buck up and get their shit together because it’s totally possible…or at least it was for that one person. This ignorance disappoints me.

Over the past few days I’ve talked with my sons about what is going on in Baltimore. I’ve talked about race, poverty, the staggering number of African-American men in prison, and about the what the death of Freddie Gray and the ensuing riots say about our country. Last Sunday, my oldest son and I watched Selma. As we watched, I had to pause the movie repeatedly to field his questions and listen to his comments. Even my thirteen year old could watch that movie and point out how much things have stayed the same for African-Americans despite some advances. We talked about how fear figures so prominently into our racial inequality and how part of the problem is the ignorance white Americans have about the African-American experience. The marches of the Civil Rights movement occurred 50 years ago, but we’re still stuck with immense disparity between the wealth and status of the races and no apparent interest in ameliorating the current situation.

I’ll admit that I have no clue how we can move beyond these now too common situations, but we should probably start first by admitting that there is more than one reason why we’re still mired in inequality nearly fifty years after the murder of Martin Luther King Jr. and second by acknowledging that there isn’t a white person in this country who understands the frustration, anger, and hopelessness of the African-Americans rioting in Baltimore. When whites in this country stand in judgment without attempting to view things from the other’s perspective, we perpetuate a de facto Jim Crow situation where we are above and they are below, where we know better and they are ignorant, where we are master and they are slave. Sadly, our continued privilege as whites provides us with a podium and a microphone with which to pass judgment, and we continue to do just that. Maybe it’s simply hard for some of us to acknowledge there’s an uphill battle for others when we were born at the top of the hill?

Mr. Roger’s Wisdom

There might just be a silver lining in these clouds.

There might be a silver lining in these clouds.

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” ~Fred Rogers

Explosions in two different states rocked our country this week. In less than 72 hours, bombings in Boston and a deadly chemical explosion in Texas stole the lion’s share of media attention. My Facebook news feed first erupted with posts about the details of the damage and then was quickly overburdened with online prayers and calls for donations. On Monday evening after watching about 20 minutes of reporting on the bombings at the Boston Marathon with my sons, I turned the television off because we’d seen everything we needed to see. The damage was extensive, the loss of life tragic, and the implications disturbing.

On Tuesday, the quote listed above from television’s beloved Mr. Rogers began circulating on Facebook. It was shared thousands of times, a much appreciated reminder to look for the positive when everything seems bleak. And so we did. As a collective community, new posts began emerging about the runners who crossed the finish line at the marathon and kept on running two additional miles to Boston General to donate blood for those injured in the attacks. Restaurants offered free meals to those who couldn’t pay. Ordinary citizens rushed into the fray and used items of their clothing to create tourniquets for the wounded. In West, Texas, emergency responders from up to 100 miles away showed up to offer their services in the wake of that deadly explosion. Those willing to help in times of grave tragedy are often too many to count. And in a way, knowledge of the kindness of strangers somehow removes some of the sting from these horrific incidents. Selfless acts of generosity and compassion bring hope. And it sure does make you feel good about human kind to see the best side of people rather than the side you see most days while stuck in traffic or waiting at the doctor’s office or shopping in a crowded Costco.

I have to wonder what would happen in this country if people treated each other each day with the type of consideration, care, and concern they offer during the worst of times. We all rally together to fix meals for a family when we find out someone is having surgery, but how often do we offer to share a meal just because we can tell someone could use a night off? We volunteer to shovel the driveway for the elderly neighbor when she breaks her hip, but why don’t we offer our services as a matter of routine because we are able-bodied and generous of spirit? We sit and stew in traffic, refusing to let the numbnuts who waited until the last minute to merge into the construction traffic into our lane. We look back and notice someone coming into the store but judge that the ten feet they are away from us doesn’t merit our time to wait and hold the door for them. We moan and groan and whine about having to volunteer for things. We complain every time a request is made of us. We somehow figure that donating $10 through a text or dropping some unwanted clothes off at a local thrift store qualifies us for being a good person while we still commit crimes of indifference toward each other each and every day.

Now I am in no way implying that I am my best self every day. My kids can verify that I provide a steady litany of swear words and derisive comments on the highway. And sometimes when I hold the door for someone out of kindness and they fail to acknowledge me I will pop off with a highly sarcastic You’re Welcome as the person walks away. It’s difficult for me to be selfless. Very difficult. Like many people, I work hard for my family and at the end of the day I feel like I’ve done my fair share and given all I have to offer. I do wonder, though, how much better I would feel about myself and the world if I offered just a bit more of my kindest self to others without a flippant attitude or the hope of acknowledgment. I know we can’t all be Mother Teresa, but I do believe that we’d be a lot happier in this nation if we showed up with our best selves more often. If we tried just a bit harder to be a helper every single day, even in the smallest of ways, I have to believe that this country would be a much happier place to live.