Flotsam

Look, I’m basically exhausted because March is Birthdaypalooza, I’m averaging 4.5 hours of sleep a night, my children decide to wake up before the crack of dawn every morning and I’m about to embark on three four-hour car trips in the next 10 days. What that means is that this post, long overdue, btw, is coming from a place of not-quite-pulled-together and is really just a bunch of random things I cannot purge from my brain.

AKA: Things I Don’t Understand and/or Which I Find Dumb. 

Let me be clear that absolutely NONE of these things are intended in any way to be offensive. That shouldn’t have to be said, but maybe someone will find talking about corsets offensive so there you go. People are nothing if not predictable and Being Offended is practically an art for some people.

So here we go.

Waist Training. I don’t understand this phenomenon of squishing in our ribcages and waists in order to make them look smaller because what that actually does is make our asses look bigger and I don’t know about y’all, but my Nutella and wine habits are doing that just fine.

But really. We burned our bras because they were constricting* and don’t even tell me you don’t do that shiver and “ahhhhhh” the minute you rip the thing off every day. A corset? HAHAHAHA.

No.

Why is this attractive? Can anyone explain? I understand if you’re dressing up in period attire and need to wear a corset for a dress or you’re into some sexy dress-up, but daily? As, like, part of your routine? Nope.

Pants. Why do pants have to be a thing? Can we just actually not?

(I may or may not also be feeling a little bloated at the moment in addition to all the tired in case you were curious.)

Zits Past 17. I am at least 82.4% certain that my face looks worse right now at 33 than it did at 17. That should be illegal. I don’t really want to dig up old photos of 17 year old me because I would probably weep at my lack of jowls and the crease between my eyebrows, but suffice it to say I should not have zits AND gray hairs.

Speaking of that…

Gray Hair. As it so happens, I do not actually love Nature’s Highlights, particularly because they’re not well-placed, sporadic, and don’t make me look nearly as amazing as Rogue. If I had her hair I wouldn’t complain, but no. I hold my hair up to brush/comb/dry shampoo it and I’m blinded by random glints of lighting off the grays which I swear I did not have until six months ago. YAY.

Bronchitis. It’s the definition of “worst” because you feel fine but you cough like a three-pack-a-day smoker AND pee yourself a little every time you do it. No bueno. Do not recommend. Thanks, Obama.

______
*I know that isn’t why we burned our bras. That is, however, why I would like to burn mine. Bras that don’t fit are the worst.

What Living With Anxiety Feels Like

I spent the end of last week on the verge of an anxiety attack. It wasn’t spectacular, in case you were curious. 

Anxiety is weird. It’s weird to live with. It’s weird to explain to others who haven’t experienced it. It’s even weird to explain to those who have because no two people experience anxiety in the same way.

I do my best to mitigate anxiety, to keep it from creeping in. I steer clear of triggers like the news, high-stress situations. I try to get enough sleep and practice self-care. But then there are days when it’s impossible to ward off the anxiety threatening to overwhelm me so I just…deal. Because I don’t have a choice.

Anxiety, for me, feels like electricity in my skin. And not the good kind of tingles when you’re on the verge of something fun and exciting coming your way. 

My anxiety feels like my skin is threatening to combust. Every part of me is on edge and aware that things aren’t normal and I can’t calm it down. I can’t stop the prickly feeling that is made worse by just about any and everything touching my body. Clothes, kids, Dan, my hair. 

I feel like a wild and uncontrollable downed power line you might see in the movies is just bouncing around inside of me, threatening harm to whatever comes into contact with me. Not physical harm. Just…like I’m a harmful presence in other people’s lives. 

I shouldn’t be there because what if my anxiety jumps to someone else?

I try, in those moments, to get away. To breathe and clear my head. To tell myself that the anxiety I’m feeling isn’t me. It’s in my head. And in my skin. And my guts. But it isn’t who I am. It’s not who I want to be. 

Sometimes the self-talk works. Most of the time I want to bury myself in the bed and wait for it to pass, however long that may take. 

But life–my life–is still happening around me. My responsibilities continue even when I feel like I cannot move.

So I move. 

I fill cups and make meals. I let my children sit in my lap because what they need in that moment is to be close to me even when my insides are on fire. I give hugs and kisses. I try.

I push forward. I choke back the thoughts of running away. Of hiding from the pain and trembling I’m feeling. Because anxiety, my anxiety, is painful. It hurts me and I know that sometimes it hurts others, too.

I don’t know how to begin to understand what will likely be my children’s legacy of dealing with a mom who suffers from anxiety. 

It’s not every day that I feel this way. It’s not even every month. It’s just…there. Like once I’ve held it off for so long, the dam breaks, it comes crashing in, and once the swell of emotion has had a chance to seep into the earth again, or find its way down some tributary, I’m okay.  

I’m in treatment. I take medication to help control it. I know enough to know that there will be days like these, and I tell myself that once the kids are older, they’ll be able to understand. Mom is having a bad day.

I will always wonder if that’s enough and cling to the hope that it is.

More

2015 Word of the Year
I realize we’re nearly two months done with 2015, so the timeliness of my word of the year is, well, not timely at all. But it’s still 2015, so I’m giving myself a wide berth to do what I want.

My word for the year is MORE. And it came to me while watching The Little Mermaid on repeat in the week between Christmas and New Years. Thankfully, I know I’m not the only person on the planet who’s ever been so inspired by a Disney movie she made a mantra about it, and if I am, oh well. I guess I am.

More is such a materialistic word. People want more money, more stuff, more more more. But that’s not what I’m really looking for with 2015 being about the acquisition of more.

Ariel says it herself.

“Look at this stuff, isn’t it neat? Wouldn’t you think my collection’s complete? Wouldn’t you think I’m the girl, the girl who has, everything…?

What she wants isn’t more stuff to fill up her grotto. She wants…yeah, you know where this is going.

She wants more.

I want 2015 to be a year of living a more full life, one where I don’t take things and people for granted.

Slowly, through dealing with Daddy’s death and some of the recent changes we’re making for our future, I’ve come to realize that this life I have is a good one, so it’s high time I started appreciating it for what it is instead of what it isn’t or could be. We can’t live in what isn’t or could be. We have to live in what is.

I know that I have a good life. That doesn’t mean I don’t have aspirations or areas that need work. Of course I do. But this life I have, the one Dan and I have created together, it’s good.

 

I want 2015 to be a year of more time with those I love.

There is never enough time for those we love, so this isn’t necessarily about the quantity of time as much as it’s about the quality. I’m a big believer in the small moments mattering most. The little times where we just sit and listen to each other are the ones that get remembered when everything else starts to fade away because those are the memories that make an impression on our soul and not just our minds.  I never want to turn down a cuddle from the kids or an opportunity to spend time with someone I love. I don’t want to “in a minute” my life away. I want to give those I love the quality time they need.

I want 2015 to be a year of more dependability because mine sucks.

I remember a time in my life when I was a relatively dependable person. Then I stayed home and that all went straight out the window. It’s way too easy for me to say “oh, yes, I’ll do that…” and then forget. Two days (or two weeks!) later it still isn’t done. It was easier to manage commitments when I had a more finite amount of time to spare. If I only have an hour to make phone calls before returning to work, I have to make those phone calls, you know? Being at home all day has ruined my dependability because I can’t remember anything. I’ve made commitments and failed to follow through on them because…because I have. I hate that I don’t feel dependable.

So now I’m making notes, I have a planner, and eventually I’ll figure out why checking email on my phone has made everything more complicated instead of less.

I want 2015 to be a year of more writing and creativity because those things fill up my soul.

I’m not really sure what’s going on with this blog right now. I can’t tell if I’m outgrowing this space or if this desire for more is telling me to branch out and readjust what it is I’m doing here. Maybe the answer is just to get back here and get back to doing what I do.

I Love You Too

I’m not a perfect mother. I know, I know. I was just as shocked to learn that as you are.

The truth is that I’m in great company because none of us are perfect mothers. We all have flaws, big or small or both. We all have ways in which we believe we could do better, even when the reality is that we’re doing our very best.

The trouble is that I often beat myself up for my imperfections. The times I yell too much or am too rash with my responses to their tiny questions eat away at me. How often have I let my annoyance at their insistence that everything be done their way or right that minute no matter what else is going on in the world shine through and am I doing it so often that eventually they’ll just give up trying to get my attention?

Am I shutting them down when I should be lifting them up? Do I listen to the small things they have to say often enough so that one day down the road they’ll want to tell me the big things?

Am I doing okay? This mothering thing? Am I doing it okay?

Those are the thoughts that nag me and lead me to wonder, nearly 6 years later, if I’m loving them enough. If I’m showing that love enough for them to know that no matter what kind of moment I’m having, my heart beats for them.

One day Emma snuggled into me and she said “I love you too, Mama.” I thought “how adorable is that!?!” Because it was adorable. She knows how to give and receive love and she freely shares her love with me. This is still how Emma tells me she loves me, but today I had a little revelation. That extra three letter word thrown into her proclamation suddenly meant just a little bit more.

She’s not saying “I love you.” She’s saying “I love you too.”

Does she know what she’s saying and how it’s not the normal order for swapping declarations of love? No, probably not, but somewhere in my heart, that little word “too” is soothing.

She knows I love her. She’s confident in that. She understands my love for her runs so deeply that I don’t even have to say “I love you” first for her to know it’s the truth.

Despite my faults, I’m doing this mothering thing okay.

I love her and she loves me too.

Diary of Depression

Monday: Wow. These kids are live wires this morning. I know I just woke up but I really want to go back to sleep. Is it too soon to go back to sleep? Maybe I’ll feel better after yoga. I wish this gym had a different yoga class, or that there were some familiar faces in here or a familiar instructor. Do I really suck if I just go to sleep while Joshua plays video games? Yeah, that’s totally shitty parenting and I shouldn’t do it. I should be engaging him, talking to him. Making him read or do flashcards or something. Not just plugging him into a tv. He’ll be back at school tomorrow and then I’ll take a nap. 

Tuesday (morning)Ugh. We overslept. Why can’t I just get out of bed when the alarm goes off in the morning? Why do I lay there and think that I won’t fall back to sleep? I do this all the time and at some point it’s like I’d learn that’s a dumb thing I’m doing and stop doing it. Where did all this traffic…oh right. First day back to school. God, is everyone running late? What is this? Please don’t let Emma cling to me at school drop off this morning. I don’t know if my skin can handle it. Man, my head hurts. I should shower when I get to the house. Shower and put on clothes and makeup and dry my hair and then I’ll feel better. Nah, I think I’ll just take a nap.

Tuesday (evening): Why did I think it was a good idea to bring Emma to the gym and feed her dinner here? And why was I so stupid to think scheduling Joshua’s swim lesson for 5:30 was okay? Can this child seriously not just sit in a chair and eat some food? What in the world have I done to screw her up so greatly and why is she so maddeningly wild? And why are all these people staring at me? Why I can’t I control this child? Man, I really just want to go to sleep.

Wednesday: Did I shower on Monday? Yesterday? Why can’t I remember when I showered? Do I smell? I should probably put on a bra. Where is my bra? And how many days in a row have I worn this hoodie? Why is the sun so bright outside the window? It’s too bright, but if I close my eyes I’m going to fall asleep again. But my head hurts and maybe closing my eyes for a minute will help it go away. Maybe sleep won’t be such a bad thing. I’ll just sleep for half an hour and then go get the kids. Sleep is probably better for me than taking a shower.

ThursdayWow. I got a decent night’s sleep last night and I actually feel okay this morning. For now. But these kids are shrieking and fighting and why do they have to do that? How do I get them to get along with each other and not fight all the time? I should probably write something. It’s been a while. I’m definitely going to shower today. If I do nothing else, I have to do that. I’ll do it after I get back from picking up the kids. Right now I’m going to lay here and do nothing.

Friday: I should text Dan and tell him that I need a reason to shower and do my hair and makeup this weekend. And wear a bra. Maybe that will get me out of this…whatever it is. I just need a solid reason to pull my shit together. Otherwise, I probably won’t.

People think depression is this deep sense of sadness. Mine is mostly a sense of abject failure. I can’t get the kids to behave. I’m probably not really welcome at this yoga class where I know no one and no one knows me but they all know or at least recognize each other but I’m the outsider and is that person staring at me? I can’t pull it together to put on a bra in the morning, much less shower regularly or do anything to make myself feel better, so I just throw on a hoodie, put my hair in a top knot, and tell myself it’s frumpy chic.

I’m just…empty.

It’s like being stuck in the Swamp of Sadness in The Neverending Story when Atreyu loses his horse because Artax just can’t muster up enough of a damn to get himself out of the mud. And it doesn’t matter that Atreyu is crying and hoping Artax will just get his horse shit together and climb out. Artax just…can’t.

Last week I just couldn’t. I could see that I needed to do something, anything, to break the rut and climb out of the mud, but I just couldn’t do anything except sleep.

I’m better now. I think. On the upswing, at least, but last week was really hard, for no reason I can determine. While the diary up there isn’t something I actually wrote last week, I definitely found myself just sort of stuck and feeling…nothing. That’s what depression is for me.

It’s nothing.

It’s not all the time, 24-7 nothingness in one of those periods. I’m not overwhelmingly unhappy. In fact, I laugh and experience joy and plenty of other positive human emotions, but there’s this nagging emptiness in the background, coupled with a desire to hibernate until it passes.

But life goes on and so do I and eventually the light in the windows is welcome instead of too bright.

Listen To Your Mother, Atlanta! (And Audition For Our Show!)

Just in case we thought I didn’t have enough to keep me busy this year, Listen To Your Mother season is in FULL SWING! My co-producer Jana and I are up to our elbows in planning, our date is set, (April 25! Mark your calendars!), and all we need now is a few good stories to share.

That’s where you, my fine Atlanta readers, come in.

We need YOU. And your stories. Your voice matters.

I believe in the power of storytelling. Stories are our history and sharing them with one another is how we bridge divides between race, gender, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status, and the debate of red vs. white wine. (Answer: Both. Of course.)

Listen To Your Mother is oral tradition in the 21st century with stories focused specifically on motherhood and its many facets. It’s funny and messy and it’s sad and amazing. Motherhood is life.

If you live in or around the Atlanta area and want to audition to share your story on our stage, we would love to have you.

Help us give motherhood a microphone in 2015.

Cancelling Christmas (And Other Dumb Stuff)

I started writing this post in my head yesterday after having half a box of Milk Duds for breakfast. I was two candy canes and a cup of chocolate syrup away from being Buddy the Elf’s newest friend when I saw a thing on Facebook that sent that sugar surging through my system.

The picture, shared by a radio station, was from someone’s Facebook post where she chastised other parents planning to give their children big ticket items from Santa because that might hurt the feelings of those children who did not get big ticket items from Santa. There’s some good will in there somewhere, I think, but that’s…illogical. I’ll get to it in a minute.

Pondering that picture sparked a few more things I think are dumb.

1. Cancelling Christmas Because Your Kids Aren’t Grateful

I listened to an entire radio segment on this one. If you have reached the point of cancelling Christmas because your kids aren’t grateful, grab the nearest newspaper, roll it up, and whack yourself on the head with it. You haven’t been teaching gratefulness throughout the year and now you’re taking out what is your frustration with yourself on your children.

I’m not saying they don’t deserve to learn a lesson here, but I’m saying that cancelling Christmas probably isn’t going to teach them said lesson.

Being grateful, spreading good will and kindness, helping others who are less fortunate, those are things we should be doing all year long. Whenever opportunities to do so present themselves, help. Have those conversations with your children about the many blessings in their life and show gratitude in your own actions all throughout the year.

Don’t wait until Christmas to teach being thankful for what you have because others don’t have the same things. It’s too late. The proverbial boat has sailed.

2. Chastising Other Parents Who “Lie To Their Children” 

While this is not true for every parent who disagrees with playing up the Santa myth, as there are plenty of y’all who are out there like “meh, just don’t want to do it,” and also those who are still unsure how it’ll all play out since their kids are pre-Santa age, there’s also a heaping dose of superiority that smacks out of some peoples’ mouths every time they utter the phrase “well, WE don’t BELIEVE in lying to OUR children” or any iterations thereof.

Show me a single parent who, when the first Christmas twinkles begin to appear, jumps for joy shouting “OH! HOORAY! IT’S TIME TO LIE TO THE CHILDREN!” Some parents just don’t see Santa as lying to their children. Some parents just want to celebrate the magic of Santa Claus with their kids because it’s fun or they have fond childhood memories of the things their parents did or it’s really just as simple as they do what they want.

You don’t “lie to your children.” Okay, well, good…for you! Because they are your children. And these children are my children and there is room enough in the world for all of our celebrations, mythical fat man and his flying reindeer or no.

Why is Santa Claus and what others do with him in their own homes such a big deal to so many people? When in the history of Santa Claus have we ever cared this much. (Newsflash: It’s all social media’s fault.)

3. Complaining About the Over-Commercialization of the Holiday

Y’all, it’s no secret that Christmas (and every other holiday, essential and non) has grown increasingly more and more commercial. Blame advertising. Blame marketing. Blame movies. Blame society. We are a consumer culture. That’s not changing any time soon. But it’s sort of pointless to do all of your complaining about this at Christmas. (If you’re the kind of rallies against this all year, I salute you.)

Why? Because for some families, Christmas is the only time they really buy gifts for their kids. Don’t make them feel bad about that in your efforts to do what you deem to be good.

Some families buy gifts for their kids throughout the year, and they aren’t called gifts. They’re called “I want this”-es. Kid sees a toy, wants it, parent says “okay.” (I think probably these children and families would overlap with the families from #1 in a Venn diagram.)

Other families say “not right now” or “we’ll save up for it.” And they do. Then Christmas morning rolls around and all the things they’ve been saving up for appear under the tree, from Santa or not from Santa–no judging–and others look at that sort of haul and click their tongues in disgust and go “Ugh. Consumerist culture is SO. GREEDY.” (To which I go, “ugh, two lumps of coal for you.”)

Which brings me back to the original meme:

4. Telling Other Parents They’re Doing Celebrating Wrong

That’s what struck me about the image I saw on Facebook yesterday. It said, essentially, if you give your kid a big present from Santa instead of from yourself, another kid who didn’t get a big gift from Santa, or didn’t get a gift from Santa at all, will internalize that and wonder what’s so wrong with them that Santa didn’t stop there. Or that Santa isn’t an equal opportunity gift giver and it’s not fair and society will crumble.

I have to call bullshit on that one. They WILL do that (probably) if YOU are talking about it.

I get the sentiment. I do. But how about we teach our kids not to be bragging braggers instead of telling other people not to give their kids big presents. Or small presents. Or whatever.

If you’re teaching thankfulness and gratefulness and kindness and any other -nesses except jerkiness, cool your shorts. You’re doing your job and your kid is going to be fine. You have no idea what those other parents might have done to afford that present, how long they saved, whether it was purchased with a bonus or by a grandparent, and frankly, it’s not your business.

Stop caring so much what other people think and your kids will follow suit, which is really the bottom line in all of this.

Do what works for your family. Stop passing judgment on others. Take some of the time you spend judging the choices of other people and go sing some carols at a hospital or bake a cake for the neighbor or curl up on the couch and what It’s a Wonderful Life for the 400th time.

Peace on Earth, guys.

Now can someone pass me a candy cane? My sugar-to-blood ratio is getting out of whack.

Start to Stop Smoking Cessation at CVS

My dad would have been 49 this month. When his birthday rolled around, I thought about how there are days when I really wish he were here to see the kids, to be a familiar presence. To call me “kiddo” one more time.

He died of a massive heart attack in August 2013. We’ve been without him for almost a year and a half now, and while it gets easier, when I think about the circumstances surrounding his death, I can’t help but get a little angry and a lot sad.

His heart attack was caused by a perfect storm of high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and being overweight. But my dad was aso a smoker. A heavy smoker. A cigarette every 12 minutes smoker.

We nagged and pleaded and nagged some more for him to stop. We coughed incessantly and obnoxiously whenever he lit up. We complained about the smell. But he was addicted. He would never have admitted that, but he was.

He tried to stop at least a handful of times, cold turkey, with medication, just cutting back on how many. He started smoking outside and we thought maybe the freezing cold January air would make him quit. It didn’t. Nothing did.

When he had his heart attack, one of the possible scenarios was for him to be placed on the transplant list where he would await a donor heart. While that would not have worked because his heart was too damaged by the heart attack, he wouldn’t have been allowed on the list anyway, and the number one reason why was because he was a lifelong smoker.

Because of his smoking addiction, he wouldn’t have been eligible for placement on the transplant list had he been strong enough to make it that far. He would have had to live with a portable bypass machine and be smoke free for an entire calendar year before being placed on the list, and then he would have had to wait for a heart. Chances are good he wouldn’t have made it that long, but that wait wouldn’t have been so daunting if he hadn’t been a smoker.

There aren’t a lot of health care related companies who are in the business of helping people stop smoking, but CVS is one of those companies. In 2014, CVS stopped selling tobacco and all tobacco-related products in ALL of its stores. Then it launched Minute Clinic smoking cessation programs in each of its stores.

(Did you know that CVS has vowed to have a Minute Clinic within 10 miles of every residence? That’s pretty fantastic, right?)

The Start to Stop smoking cessation program includes individualized counseling, ongoing coaching to help quitters quit,  and nicotine-replacement when applicable. (There’s also a weight loss counseling program, which sounds pretty great, too.)

Per the Centers for Disease Control, smokers who seek help in trying to quit are two to three times more likely to succeed than those who go it alone, as my dad always did. In just 24 hours after quitting, a person’s risk of heart attack starts to diminish, and in 1 year the risk of heart disease becomes half that of a smoker.

I wish my dad had made different choices while he were living, but since he didn’t, all I can do now is spread the story of his life and how we would probably have him here today if he had taken his health more seriously. Companies like CVS are helping to do that.

They’re helping people make changes for life.

This post was written as part of a CVS campaign to promote their Start to Stop smoking cessaion program and #HealthYourself initiatives. My story is my own and if sharing it helps one person quit smoking for good, I’m more than willing to tell it.

Spinach Pesto (Healthy! Delicious! Easy!)

Guys, I haven’t had my own kitchen in 3 months, and while not cooking every night seems like a dream, I really, really miss it. Right now, I’m busy planning our next kitchen, so while I’m doing that, I’m also planning recipes I’ll be making in said new kitchen. (I’ve somehow gained 13 pounds with all the not cooking I’ve been doing…)

Monday night, I whipped up some (healthy! delicious! easy!) spinach pesto and ate so much I probably gained another 2 pounds. (But then I got my hair cut and lost 5, so….win?)

Spinach Pesto

Doesn’t that look so pretty and green and amazing? It was seriously one of the brightest and most lovely dishes I’ve ever made, and it was so easy! It was also FAST! Dinner was ready in under 30 minutes, which makes this a great meal for families who are crunched for time in the evenings.

I’m estimating amounts for all of these ingredients except the spinach. I used 3 pounds and it made a LOT of pesto (and I poured it ALL on the pasta instead of putting some in a jar and sticking it in the fridge for future use). Use the following list as a guideline, but adjust how much of each you add based on your own preferences. But don’t skimp on the garlic. Or the cheese.

You’ll need:

  • 2-3 pounds baby spinach
  • 1/4 chopped fresh basil
  • 5 cloves fresh garlic, chopped
  • 1/2 cup (and then some) shaved parmesan cheese
  • 1/2 cup milk or cream
  • 5-6 T olive oil
  • kosher salt
  • cracked black pepper
  • Pasta of your choice

Soften your garlic in 2 T of olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat, then throw in the basil. Enjoy the aroma! Add in the spinach, sprinkle with kosher salt and pepper, and drizzle it with another 2 T olive oil. Gently toss it a bit to mix the spinach, salt/pepper, and oil. Cover it and let it wilt, stirring once or twice.

Once it’s wilted, add cheese, milk or cream (use 1% or 2% for lighter pesto, heavy cream for richer pesto), and spinach to a blender or food processor. Blend. I added another 2 T of olive oil while blending and then used reserved pasta water, just a ladel-full, to thin the pesto just a bit, not so that it pours like water, but so it would actually pour. I’m not even sure if that makes sense but I hope it does.

Drain your pasta and pour the spinach pesto over it, tossing the pasta to coat/mix with the sauce. Top with more shaved parmesan cheese.

I used capellini because that’s what we had in the pantry, but Dan said he would’ve preferred a penne or other heartier pasta. Fetuccine would be an excellent option. I also sauteed some chicken to go with the pasta, but if you want a meatless meal, this can do the trick. This would be great served with a big, leafy salad. (Spring mix, blue cheese crumbles, Craisins, candied walnuts, champagne vinaigrette. You’re welcome.)

This is not a meal I could make weekly since I’m the pasta fan in the family, but I could definitely throw it into the monthly rotation and play around with the add-ins for variety. Chicken, shrimp, zucchini chunks, maybe sundried tomatoes, all would work nicely.

Voila! Dinner is served!

Why I’m Talking About Racism

I’ve never been one to go on a mass unfriending spree on Facebook, clearing out my timeline of the thoughts and opinions of those with whom I disagree and sanitizing the place so that it looks just like me. That’s not how the world works and I prefer Facebook to look more like the world and less like what one might imagine a communal society would be. Different people sharing different ideas is one way we all grow.

But last week, for the first time ever, I wanted to. I really, really wanted to.

As the Internet erupted in the wake of the Grand Jury’s decision not to indict Officer Darren Wilson for the shooting death of Mike Brown in August, I watched as everyone divided into groups and prepared for battle, myself included, and I wondered why we couldn’t all understand that the world would be a much better place if we could find some place to meet in the middle and move forward, together. But I just don’t think that can happen. The separation between groups is too great.

There are those who say racism exists and those who say it’s a thing of the past, and I’m not talking about institutional racism which is another beast entirely. There is delusion and division and derision, insult hurling, and statements that start with “I’m not a racist, but….”

(Hey, so, chances are if you say “I’m not a racist, but…” the next thing that comes out of your mouth is probably going to be racist.)

Those who want to fight against racism have to get in the trenches and dig in for the fight, which is where I find myself as 2014 draws to a close. It’s not a place I imagined finding myself because growing up I was taught that racism was a thing overcome in the 60s. We were all taught that.

Right now we’re finding out that was pretty much a big lie and it’s hard to admit that what we thought was true is actually quite false.

We thought racism ended when “separate but equal” was shot down by Brown v BOE. That the Civil Rights leaders marched racism right out of our country, arm in arm, singing “We Shall Overcome” like 20th century Pied Pipers. We’ve watched Dr. King “I Have a Dream” speech, read it, studied it. I taught it (and his Letter From Birmingham Jail, which is definitely recommended reading). In school we zeroed in on the peaceful protests and sit-ins and rarely were the stories of the more violent protestors being written about in anything other than derogatory and frightening lights.

As the riots raged in Ferguson and protests popped up across the country, I wondered what the world had been like during the Civil Rights Movement. Mama remembered Rosa Parks respectfully making her point. By the time she started studying history in school, protests and riots had been written out in favor of the examples of passive resistance, but there were riots. There was violence. There was anger so bottled up it had nowhere to go but out. And as history shows, a great deal of that violence was perpetrated by white people stoning black children who dared try to go to school or have lunch at the counter instead of the back of the store.

History books are written by white men. Anyone who’s paying attention can see revisionist history hard at work with just a quick glance around social media these days as anyone who brings up the real, actual racism alive and well in our country is accused of “playing the race card.”

Here’s a thought: When thousands of people stand up and say “Racism is alive and well and it’s killing our people” they’re probably not lying. That many people uniting their voices under a shared and terrifying experience aren’t wrong. The one or two people you know who say “nah, that’s not true” probably aren’t correct. How is that so hard to see and understand?

I can only think that people who can’t understand it are incapable or, worse, unwilling, and I can’t understand that.

Understanding racism as a white person, challenging it, means challenging pretty much our entire existence. It means confronting the way we were raised and the tiny prejudices which were slipped into our consciousness without our knowledge. It means asking what someone means when they quote that scripture about being “unequally yoked” or pointing out the fact that it’s unnecessary to qualify a person’s identity with his or her race.

“So and so at the corner store…he’s Black…was telling me…”

Little things like this, non-violent but pervasive beliefs some of us don’t even realize are part of the reason why racism persists. So long as we don’t challenge ourselves to do better–to BE better–it will continue to infect the future, and I’m not okay with that. I care about racism because I care about our collective futures.

I want to believe in the possibility of a world where my fellow mothers and I share the same worries when our kids leave the house and not one wherein my black friends have to worry about whether or not they’ve done enough to teach their sons The Code. I believe in that world where people are judged on the content of their character and not the color of their skin. Right now, this world isn’t that world. But it can be.

No one can take the high road in the fight against racism, not really, and that’s because there is no higher road to be taken. Taking the high road is akin to turning the other cheek which is ignoring the issue, and this is an issue which demands to be confronted head on and not buried like some skeleton in our nation’s closet.

Besides, that closet’s getting kind of crowded, don’t you think?