Because my childhood was so idyllic (two happily married parents, a supportive educational system, room to be creative and explore, etc.), it's difficult to write about that time with a critical lens. I need to share something here, however, to help you understand my journey. We didn't have to drive far from our predominantly white community to discover a pocket of diversity. Aside from a small grocery store and a second-hand store that sold clothes, our shopping options were limited, so occasionally my family would pile into the station wagon and drive to the nearest urban area. It wasn't a huge city, but it had multiple stoplights and even a mall! As I grew older, those same trips were taken with carloads of friends. It was in this space that I learned, through observation, that people of color were to be feared. We avoided the more diverse areas of the city because of the crime; we locked our doors when someone with a certain look came too close to the car. "What makes Black people so criminal?" I thought to myself. "Are the Black people here so poor because they're lazy?" I wondered. And of course the logical conclusion could only be this: certain populations of people of color were inherently uneducated, poor, criminal, bad. None of these words were ever explicitly said to me, however. My parents worked hard to teach me to love everyone; I grew up in a church that preached and lived out the gospel's mission to love our neighbor. But still, I was learning. When I became a mother to children of color, the scales began to fall from my eyes as I learned about systemic racism and implicit bias. And I realized I had been asking the wrong questions all along. Instead of "What makes Black people so criminal?" I should have been asking, "Why are Black communities policed differently than white communities? Why are Black perpetrators handed different sentences than their white counterparts? What has led to the school-to-prison pipeline?" Instead of asking "Are the Black people here so poor because they're lazy?" I should have been asking, "What kinds of discrepancies exist in our educational system? What unfair rules and regulations in the housing industry have created these neighborhoods? Do Black people and white people always have the same employment opportunities?" If I had started with those questions rather than the questions full of stereotypes and assumptions, I would have reached a healthier conclusion much sooner. But here I am today, digging deep and looking for the answers. Today you might find yourself asking, "Why are these Black protestors so angry? Why are these Black athletes so disrespectful to the flag and veterans?" And maybe it's time you reframe those questions to really discover the answers, not the assumptions. We live in a country deeply divided for reasons more complex than any of us understand. For today, however, I'm going to look at the questions I'm asking and move forward from there. If you'd like suggestions for resources on these hard conversations, I'm happy to point you in the right direction. Until then, let's keep asking the right questions.
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I love writing. I love weaving together a sentence, working in the delicate balance of saying exactly what I mean while also focusing on the art of language. Some artists work in clay or acrylics. I work in words. Lately, though, I'm stuck. In a former life I had another blog where I wrote openly about the challenges of adoption and parenting, about my journey with anti-depression meds, about life. And then I realized that it was incredibly selfish to process so honestly about my children and then post for the world to see. Now I'm here on this "teacher" blog, and I'm writing occasionally and publishing rarely. Sometimes I write about race; other times I muse about my faith. Occasionally I play with poetry, and mostly I write in rambling prose. But to what end? It's a question I ponder frequently. I have this incredible love of writing, of tracing words on a page and leaving my heart there in black and white. When I'm driving in my car to work or lying awake in the early morning, my mind is the page where words weave and tumble. Here at my little desk in my upstairs workspace, my fingers often can't keep up. I just have so much to say. But what is this writing? Is it a journal that in my self-aggrandizement I believe the world wants to read? Is it a blog with a unique, intended audience? Is it somewhere in the middle? I describe myself as a writer, but I've been paid for my words just once. I've been published in a newspaper twice. That isn't exactly an impressive resume. Not always effortlessly, the words come to me, but what do I do with them? For now, I keep writing. Today on my Facebook newsfeed a post from my former blog popped up. It was written four years ago today, in the fall, often a time of deep reflection and introspection for me. I'm posting it here today because the words still ring true. --- Sometimes I encounter a song that simultaneously leaves me breathless with desire and lying in a puddle of grief on the floor. Lately this song has been “Blood” by The Middle East. It randomly played on my Pandora, and there was no turning back. It has been an obsession not unlike my days of Pearl Jam and Lisa Loeb, and later Fiona Apple and Tori Amos, an obsession requiring plays on repeat and memorization of lyrics about blame and death and family. It is a song with poetic words scrawled across a canvas of percussion and voices and the suffering that is life. It’s the kind of song with a melody that sticks around, a rhythm that beats existential thoughts from my brain moving to my heart. Lately I’ve been thinking of my childhood. Fall and harvest do that to me. I remember trips to the field to deliver sandwiches and chips to my dad and Uncle Gary. I can feel the hum of the combine as I rode a round or two with them, breathing in the dust and the death. It was fall when my Uncle Gary left this earth. I can picture his frail body on my wedding day, just months before cancer stole him from us. During fall, especially, I miss him. During fall I miss my high school days when Friday nights included sleepovers after the big football game. I miss my college days when the reflected leaves painted the Cedar River with rust and golden brown. I miss our early married life when $2.14 bought us hot fudge sundaes from the McDonalds across the street. Of course hindsight is blurry at the edges, so in my memories I am perpetually beautiful and happy. I’ve also been pondering the impact that we leave on the lives of those around us. I think of the boy I loved when I was fifteen, the girl whose words wounded when I was seventeen, the young man who stole so much when I was nineteen, the college professor who spoke the words that pushed me to teach writing, the wandering soul who saw beauty in me in my early twenties. I remember Uncle Gary and his limitless kindness, Mrs. Lott who gave me Oreos at recess in 2nd grade, two grandmas who loved unconditionally, and now a husband who still holds my hand when we drive in the car. Simple moments and words that many of them may not even remember. But here I am, carrying those words and moments around, sometimes as unnecessary weight, trying to make sense of it all. The puzzle pieces don’t fit perfectly, but as I grow older, I see more of the picture. Now I’m raising a son with the soul of an artist, who sighs with passion in sync with me when we see trees sketched black against the sky of a sunset. And his old soul feels the pain, too, like his mother. So much beauty, so much suffering right here on this earth, wearing skin to hide our beating hearts. Life simultaneously inspires and erodes me…..a messy mixture of paradoxes to discern and diagnose. And that is life. That is blood. |
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September 2020
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