Sunday, March 19, 2017

The Glitch

Do you remember Pixar’s Wreck-It Ralph?  The innovative film that introduced us to the characters that live inside the video games we have all loved?  It’s pretty inventive, but what was held out for me, intentionally or no, was the character of Vanellope von Schweetz otherwise known as “The Glitch.”  Vanellope is a mistake.  She will wreck every game.

Her official biography reads, “Vanellope is a pixelating programming mistake in the candy-coated cart-racing game Sugar Rush. With a racer's spirit embedded in her coding, Vanellope is determined to earn her place in the starting lineup amongst the other racers. The only problem: the other racers don't want her or her glitching in the game. Years of rejection have left Vanellope with a wicked sense of humor and a razor-sharp tongue. However, somewhere beneath that hard shell is a sweet center just waiting to be revealed.”  While the real story is that Vanellope is actually the game’s Princess and lead driver, her power has been taken away by the Candy King.  The lies he has told make everyone fear that her glitch will lead to the game being unplugged.  Her mistake, her existence then, ends their world.    

Pretty dire for a glitch, right?  A glitch then can be threatening to others.  It can make you see something in yourself that you would rather not see.  But glitches are just errors not ends, and they can be overcome.  My son, Sam, has a glitch.  It has impeded his learning, and he is struggling with material that he simply doesn’t understand.  It is taking time away from everything.  The glitch is overrunning his belief in himself.  That can be debilitating.  It can be the start of a tumble of bad that has nothing grounded in the reality that Sam is an amazing, kind, funny, hardworking, interesting, compassionate child, and an excellent friend.  I have stood as a mediator between Sam and his school life, explaining, reassuring, and encouraging but the issues have only become broader and the disconnect more pronounced.  It was time to seek help for Sam before he began to believe the lie about the glitch.

“Does that make sense to you?” Eyebrow raised, I swallow my irritation at the condescension in the question from the school psychologist.  In that moment, I knew that it didn’t matter what I said or showed.  This committee of school professionals was not going to take my prepared statement into account.  In fact, they were typing up their final report denying Sam any educational psychological testing before I even started speaking.  Working from year-old data from a test Sam had taken while in Florida, I was told  no less than 4 different times that Sam was “average.”  His results were “average.” Perhaps, said the social worker, I needed “to praise him more rather than focus on results.” 

“He’s performing fine within the low scale of what we consider to be ‘average’ for the fourth grade.” 

“There needs to be a real need to pull him from the general education classroom.  And, you know, your heart goes out to him for his struggle, but there’s nothing really here that justifies testing for any real disability.” 

“You should have him go outside more. At least 20 minutes a day,” said his teacher to me. 

“Maybe get him involved in a sports team so he can locate what he’s good at,” the special education resources teacher said.

“You should take him to your pediatrician to be checked for anxiety so he’s happy and well,” the school psychologist reported.

“Our reading specialist spent two 20 minute sessions with him.  He’s able to perform in these parameters within the average to low average range” the testing scion told me.

I am seething.  I am rigid.  I had come to this meeting with hopes of an answer for Sam’s continued struggles in school.  And I felt I was being berated as a mother who wanted the school to “fix” my son.

Does that make sense to you?

No.  It doesn’t make sense.  Because this child is struggling daily to achieve the marker set as average, and he is anything but average.  He is fantastic.  And we are exhausted.

Does that make sense to you?

No.  It does not make sense that a child needs to repeatedly fail in order to garner your attention and help.  It doesn’t make sense to me that everyone in that room had decided that Sam was “good enough.”  Even though his struggles with auditory and visual memory and phonological processing were readily evident in his school work. 
“All I want,” I said willing myself to remain civil, “is the chance to give Sam the tools he needs to feel successful in the classroom without struggle—” 

“Well, it’d be nice if he had an easy carefree time at school,” the psychologist interrupted….and my vision blurred.  I saw red.  I had come into this dark room to face this 8-person panel, and dressed as well as I could, and I had thanked them all for coming to help Sam.  No one responded, not the Assistant Principal who I’ve met on no less than a dozen occasions and still has no clue of my name or those of my children, the psychologist who had never met Sam and was working off of a year-old report, or the school counselor who had insisted I initiate these proceedings rather than go to an outside educational psychologist to get the testing Sam needed done.  

No one said anything, but for me there were so many invisibly loud fear inducing words vibrating in that dim and heavy room:

“You’re wasting our time.”

“Why can’t you be satisfied with your average son?”

“Here’s another hysterical parent wanting perfection.”

“You haven’t done your homework.”
“All he needs is more attention.”

“You are not a good mother.”

I am willing to take just about anything as a parent.  I am more than willing to be insulted, condescended to, handled with rudeness and incivility; I am willing to maintain my dignity in the face of all of that because I tell my children all the time, it is how we act and the compassion we show that says who we are.  How we respond means something. 

When I was driving home after gathering my papers, the report printed for me that I had to sign, and thanking them for their time in the face of their judgmental silence, I thought of the children who had no advocate, whose home life was so unstable that their deficits were extraordinarily large.  

I thought of that panel, that they weren’t bad people, but exhausted from meetings where they might be fighting a guardian or parent to get help for a child that the teacher saw was desperately needed.  I thought of the mountains of paperwork that followed each of these, that they saw my request as minimal in the broad range of suffering they experienced each day.     

All this is true, but there was no need for such disregard.  According to these professionals, Sam needs: 20 minutes or more of time outside, to play on a sports team, and to be praised to have his learning issues right themselves.

It made me think immediately of Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Yellow Wallpaper—which if you haven’t read it, details the effects of the ‘rest cure’ for postpartum depression.  The young woman is locked in a room and is forced to take complete rest to get over her illness.  She finds in her psychosis that the wallpaper begins to move and speak to her.  Her husband and doctor find her at the story’s end, crawling around trying to enter the wallpaper. 

How many times are deep seated hurts or needs or absences are felt and pushed away because they are “inconvenient,” and do not measure highly enough in the scale of suffering?  You have them don’t you?  Haven’t they played a part in your life?  

Something you couldn’t understand but were too embarrassed to ask about?  

Being told that you wouldn’t understand anyway?  

Settling for something more “suitable” to who you appeared to be?  

There are so many fundamental challenges to our maturity and they occur at so many pivotal moments as we age and bend and try to reach towards the sun.  It’s just that for some of us, the bough breaks instead of bending.  And the resulting wound is assuaged by self-harming strategies of addiction or self-neglect.  

In this age of social media, the bully on the playground is unidentifiable and the resulting hurts are even more searing.  It’s not stick and stones anymore—the words are far more hurtful and burn on your brain long after they’ve been set there.

My friend and I were talking one morning about a high school initiative to allow students to take two classes online so that the children could get much needed sleep.  She thought it wonderful, as did I.  The other parents though?  For some reason, the desire to get children rest is seen as a porthole to laziness. 

They should suffer.  Suffering is good.  It makes them stronger.  Let them take every advanced class offered even if it grinds them into pulp before the age of 18.  “Well it’d be nice if he had an easy carefree time at school….”

What is happening here?  What are we doing?  And it isn’t the teachers, my goodness, no.  They are the unsung heroes in this tale.  They are the first ones shaking their head as they receive curriculum instruction and cringe at what the State Board of Education has decided is appropriate for a 9-year-old to grasp.   

My eldest son came to the 6th grade with a deficit in math—because now as a 6th grader he is doing 7th grade math.  Next year he will do 8th grade math as a 12-year-old, and by his 8th grade year he will do Algebra the resultant grade will follow him to high school.  So he had to teach himself (with his language arts mother in tow) 2 years of math in one.  He did it, and he can do it.  But did he have to?

When did an “easy carefree time at school” become a bad thing?

When did learning effectively also mean pain and hardship?

When did effort become synonymous with anguish?

When did being happy become so very underrated

I’ll throw this out there: I think it’s more important to be happy than anything else. 

Because happiness will ensure success.

The aches and pains that we had—and I know we all had them, these posts have illustrated so many of my own over the past few years, we do not need to revisit them on our children to guarantee that they are successful.  Look at our world now.  Look at the pain here, the misunderstandings, the violence, the rage.  We cannot allow another generation to inherit the same parameters that produce it.  The cycle needs to stop. 

Let’s address the hurts as they come, let’s show each other compassion and begin to listen, let’s rethink “average.”  And let’s begin the enterprise of exceptional.

After I talked to both my husband and another good friend who shares my dismay at what all of this has come to, I sat and wondered.  I went outside to work and feel the sun.  I considered.  Sam is working hard at average—too hard.  So we will go with our original plan and get Sam the help he needs to fix the “glitch” that is holding him back to love learning, yes, with ease.  Because he deserves it.  He deserves the chance to open a book and be carried away by a tale so gorgeous he sees possibilities hanging like stars above his head.  

He deserves to be able to look at an assignment and understand what is being asked of him and rejoice in the knowledge that he can fulfill that task without worry.  He deserves to be happy.  And that, is anything but average. 

The glitch should not spell doom.  There should be an escape from the game for every player.  It can be overcome to find the incredible that is hiding just beneath it.  And yes, because of having to deal with it for so long, you understand amazingly how others suffer and you swell with compassion for it.  You have an innate capacity for loving everyone despite their own glitch.  But it doesn’t have to define you.

“I’m sorry Sam.”  I turn to face him and put down my gloves. 

“Why Mommy?”
“Well,” I swallow and take his hand sitting on the steps to the kitchen, “I failed today.  I didn’t get you the testing.”

“Oh Mommy, that’s okay.”

“It is?”

Sam shakes his head, “Yeah, it’s okay.  Because they don’t know me, so they can’t see me.  But it’s okay, because you do.  Okay?”

He hugs me, and you know he’s 9 so I don’t know how many more of these I’m going to get, so I hold on just a bit more.  I’m always the last one to pull away.  “I’m happy Mommy.  It’s going to be fine.”

And so it is.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

The Good Steward: A Lenten Journey

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" - Mary Oliver

The weight of Mary Oliver’s words fall heavy.  And they are supposed to be, heavy I mean. Like something overripe, and waiting on a limb.  The gentlest breeze seems to give it that force to find grounding where it hits, with a muffling sound and a fragrance that’s just too dangerous because of how rich it is. Today is Ash Wednesday and begins our Lenten season of waiting and considering the determined path Jesus took towards his crucifixion.

What I understand of Biblical history or the ancillaries surrounding it, the average life expectancy for a man in those days was similar to that of classical Rome, before the advent of modern medicine and was from 30-35 years.  Jesus, from all we can understand, died after starting his ministry at the age of 30; he had three Passovers.  He was 33 years old.  To me that doesn’t seem to be either rich, full, ripe or dangerous.  But it was all of those.

When I lately read a novel, I noted these words, “Life. Rich, vibrant, contrary life.  How very much she loved it, and what a fickle steward she had been.”  The heroine in this case, had a gun to her temple and had spent most of the novel worrying about appearances, considering independence, and forgoing the courage to claim the love of her life.  It wasn’t any of these that moved me though, it was her choice of phrase that struck me: steward.  At the end of the world, then, her regret was the lack of stewardship she had shown in guarding and guiding the one life she had been given to live.

And then I saw it, that Lent could be about a new kind of stewardship—one that carefully considered my one wild and precious life.  And I thought, here I have 40 days to turn it around, to make it rich, vibrant, and whole.  To do that, to make that happen, would require every minute of those 57600 in them.  Because I finally feel like I’m understanding it, if I don’t do this, if I am not a better steward I will not be fulfilling what I can do or be here.  And I will be the poorer for it, and so will you, and God will wonder why hadn’t I seen it before it was too late.

You have seen proposed changes like this right?  The eating plans and the living plans, the promises and testimonials about how everything can turn around if ____ was just given a chance.  And it is difficult because of all you have to do.  Obligations for work, for school, for children, for spouse, for parents and for friends.  We have to be good and patient stewards for all of this, the cost not to do it well and consciously is so very high.  And we become good at it if not unenthusiastic.  

We get up and work and we kiss children, we listen to dreams, we encourage, we motivate, we try to make better choices, we fight our own nature to tend to ourselves because that, we are told, is selfish. So, we become good stewards.  We fulfill our obligations and if there is breath and ability left, there is still more to do: the environment—political, social and natural, the causes, the pain you see.  And before too long, you feel you are failing and falling fast.  Unable to fulfill your role well in any of them.  And you wonder sadly, if this is what life was supposed to be?


This Lent I want to unpack all of that.  Because a small line in a novel reminded me of something very important, that the first stewardship entrusted to us is for our very own lives.  And unless that life is lived with purpose and joy, there is no ability to minister to anyone else.  Your own despair wins out instead.  “Choose life, so that you and your children will live.” (Deuteronomy 30:19)

The objective of Lent is to see what has been given so that you can feel whole.  Something gets lost in the thoughts of penance and abstinence.  We are already really, really good at punishing ourselves in my reckoning.  We are absolutely ready to take blame, understanding that it is our lack of will that has put on pounds where we don’t want them, our ignorance that has allowed for a thousand situations to happen.  Guilt is something we are well versed in.  And the whole world obliges, by playing upon it.  Letting us know that we are never, ever enough. 

None of that matters to God, and maybe, just maybe this Lent is time for you to see it.  That you are indeed enough.  Just as you are.  And once you know that, once you stand in stewardship of your life as it is, once you allow yourself to embrace the joy that has been paid in full for you, you can allow yourself stewardship that is exhilarating rather than exhausting.  God wants you to care for yourself.  To love you so you can love everyone else.  To love you the way you are loved by God.
For me this is looking carefully at what is making me less than, what gives voice to the whispers of discontent that then become loud roars of rage and anger.  

The premise is simple, I promise: once you find what is making your heart hurt and fear the fall, you can begin to live and that’s worth the 40 days to figure out.

  • If it is the work that I do, that I may have fallen into by chance rather than choice, and it is unfulfilling, is there a way I can carve out time for something that gives me joy?  Is there a community choir I can join, a local theatre group I can audition for, a crafting group I can start, a dog that I can walk, a retirement home I can bake or garden for, a newborn I can snuggle? 
  • If the children that you love are making it hard for you to love, maybe there is a playgroup you can leave them with just for an hour.  A chance for you to breathe again and miss them. 
  • If the noise of the world is crashing in with the sorrows and the grandstanding and the sheer lack of understanding, it is time to find the quiet.  Get into your car and drive to one of the parks in your area.  Walk for 5 minutes.  See where you are, breathe deeply, and walk back.  Those moments spent in the quiet green of life and hum, will resonate with you and make you believe again in possibilities. 
  • If the diet that requires exclusion of the sugar you crave, and you stand with a fork in the leftover cake at 10:00, hating every bite maybe it’s time to ask why it is you need the sweetness to begin with?  What is missing?  What is hurting that requires it?
  • If the exercise class is too difficult or too far away and you cannot go back or the gym membership is being unused, and either or both are making you feel once again a failure at health and resolve then go outside to your backyard or that of a community garden.  Rake, shift, plant and consider.  Your arms will ache, your legs will too but you will breathe sweet, cool air and feel accomplishment.
  • If the friendship has been silent and you fear it cannot be mended, try to reach out and connect.  No matter what else, without answering the siren’s song of that relationship, its ghost will continue to haunt you.  You don’t need anything that does that. 
  • If the mess around you leaves you breathless with its enormity, the sheer volume of paper and packages and bits that you thought were at once necessary, that it saps your will to do writing or the dreaming or the crafting that you love, perhaps it’s time to set the timer, get a bag and get some bags to fill with care to recycle what has been forgotten already and is weighing you down with its mocking volume.  (The piles are definite: shred, recycle, donate.  No more than 3 seconds for each decision, the amount of time it took you to purchase or bring it in in the first place.)  
  • If the days wake you with memories of times when you lived selfishly, spoke sharply, hated and hurt intentionally, it’s time to put all of those down.  Because those thoughts hold you back and make you weary.  You will never be able to move forward if you are always looking behind you.  Forgive yourself.  You have to.  Everyone makes mistakes.  Being a good steward requires that you have accountability and enact it judiciously.  You will not repeat your past, leave it there. 

We were never meant to carry so much.  Encumbrances like those will hurt you unnecessarily.  And you’ve been hurt enough already. 

You are whole.  You are amazing.  You are enough.

Ripe, rich, full and a little dangerous.  Because any life well lived is all of those if we are lucky enough or foolish enough or a combination of the two.  To love greatly, to listen carefully, to consider and to move when necessary.  This Lent discover the way to become a steward of your own life.  At the end of 40 days, when we come to celebrate the resurrection of the risen Christ, the fulfillment of a such a loved promise, we can extend that energy, love, richness and grace we have located within ourselves to everyone we can hope to know.  And that is life changing.  That’s exactly what we are meant to do.

So tell me, my friend, what are you going to do with your one wild and precious life?  Grace and peace be with you this Easter season.  

Thursday, February 2, 2017

Climbing Jacob's Ladder

Do you know the story of Jacob’s ladder?  We have Jacob, the grandson of Abraham, trying to flee from his twin Esau who had vowed to kill him.  Esau was angry with Jacob for taking away his inheritance.  On his way to his relative’s house, Jacob laid down to rest, and dreamt of a ladder descending with God’s angels upon it.  Jacob saw God standing above it, repeating his promise of support that he had made to Jacob’s father and grandfather, saying “Behold, I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land.  For I will not leave you….” (Genesis 28:15) 

In the book of Genesis, Jacob’s ladder is the long link between earth and heaven, God’s promise of redemption and support.  This image has revisited my mind so many times in the last few weeks.  When I have read of bans and detentions.  Of outcry and protest.  Of fear. 

Let me tell you another story, of a woman who is tired and traveling with a fractious 2-year-old which has only made her more so.  She is missing her mother, too ill to travel and visit her in America, but now she is looking forward to seeing her husband and making sure he is eating.  Her neighbors will look in on him, she is sure but still.  This trip had been planned for months.  Money scraped together to make the visit.  And it was a wonderful one.  But there is a problem.  Her greencard will no longer permit her entry into the United States.  The TSA agent has detained her.  And her child sensing her fear, begins to cry.  She tries to call her husband, who is frantic with worry.  He tells her he is trying to find someone to straighten everything out.  He asks if she is well, if their daughter is all right?  As the hours pass and the tension mounts, and she is regarded with piteous suspicion she looks forward to the double doors that clear customs and wonders if she will see her husband on the other side.

Then there is another mother, who hasn’t seen or smelled or considered home in over a year.  Ever since she had to flee with her child and her brother-in-law, when she had to barter and steal to make sure her family could eat, when she worried about the anger forming in her nephew’s eyes as he struggled to understand that asylum can also mean “trapped.”  She has not bathed often and even when she has, it has been in cold water.  Her digestive system is in ruins because she eats rarely, preferring instead to give her portion away to the children.  She has been forced to undress in front of strangers and sleep on floors.  Her university education and love of poetry no longer matter.  Another woman in the temporary camp she lived in for 6 months told her that her husband’s cousin, a law professor, was now a check-out clerk.  Despite the humiliation she has endured she says she will do the same.  Anything was better than worrying if she was going to be alive by the day’s end.  She prays constantly.  And finally, the interviews are over and she is here, in the United States.  But she is barred entry.  Her accented flawless English, cultivated from years of pouring over the Romantics, is mocked.  She closes her eyes, and takes a seat.  And waits.  In a clean airport, at least, she does not have to fear being raped.  But she has not stopped asking God for deliverance.  Her eyes seek heaven.

When everything on earth is gone.  When someone is vowing to kill you for stealing a birthright, you look towards heaven with profound faith.  Your clothes, food and any other cultural marker has vanished.  Your faith is all you have left.  And that carries you all the way to a new shore. 

Jacob’s ladder.  
I will not be the one to break the rung of another's faith;
 I will help her hold on to it.

I have hurt while watching voracious and blatant attacks on social media with unverified links from both sides.  And since it seems that so many get their news from social media where anyone can post anything with an email address and a pseudonym, truth and justice is being pulled further away and fear is the sole resounding rallying cry.  A dangerous wail of frustration.

When fear moves us, the ladder stretches even higher.  The rungs increase in spacing and number.  We forget entirely about bringing the kingdom of heaven here, and we forget what that means.  We forget kindness.  We forget love.  We breed our own terror.

My son wrote in his notes about the Boston Massacre, “In 1770, a snowball was thrown at a British solider and he then fired his musket killing 5 colonists.”  Can you imagine an environment of such tension and fear that a simple snowball would result in the spark that began a war?   Because when I see the fear in the eyes of protestors, the fear is mirrored in those detainees.  And such fear will culminate in an extraordinary way, if we do nothing.

Let me explain by relaying a part of a particularly frustrating conversation I had with someone recently:

“I’ve seen the order—there is NO BAN.”

Me: “It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?!  These people are protesting for nothing.  There isn’t a ban, it is the same document that has been instituted by administrations over the last 16 years!”

Airport Demonstration

Me: “I don’t care.”

“You have to care.  This is crazy.  People are just willing to protest anything.”

Me: “They’re afraid—

“Afraid? Of what!”

“It no longer matters what the language says.  All that matters is the fear that it inspires.   That should we start turning away those in need of help—

“It’s temporary.”

“Tell that to the detainee.  Tell her it’s only temporary after she traveled a lifetime to get there.  Tell him that his business, his family, the life he created after leaving another behind is no longer his to claim.  Tell him he must wait even though he’s paid taxes, met with his daughter’s teachers, volunteered in his community, gone to public meetings.  Tell him.”

“Come on.”

“No.  No come on.  I saw on Facebook, a woman I know posted, ‘I guess we’re all immigration experts now,’ complete with an eyeroll.  But she doesn’t understand, that this is just now too much.  That the democracy de Tocqueville critiqued is becoming realized while the ideals the Founders stood for seems to be radically misunderstood.”

“No, wait a minute.”

“No.  These people?  They are afraid.  And maybe for too long we’ve all just passively accepted that those elected officials embody the ideals they are sworn to uphold.  We haven’t kept an eye on them.  Now their grandstanding seems divided on party lines, exacerbated by the tension in the air.”

“That’s not the law.  That is not what it says.  We have a responsibility to the citizens of this country.  And we have a court system and Congress that were created to check and balance one another.  You know that.”

“It doesn’t matter.  It’s the state of the union.  And unless this President addresses this fear.  A very real fear to the people he represents, something will happen that will be bigger than a snowball fight.”

“A snowball fight?”

“Never mind.  It’s just that they’re afraid.  And while fear can be irrational, it needs to be taken seriously.  I would never send my child back to bed to face the monsters he believes are there.  I will go.  I will turn on the lights.  I will recheck the closet and under the bed.  I will stay and hold his hand until he feels safe.   I will do it so he feels he doesn’t see monsters everywhere when he is older and when it is the bright light of day.  For some people the monsters never go away and the shadow they cast becomes real, because no one took the time to explain that they are NOT real.” 

"The face of terror is not the true faith of Islam."
The remarks of President George W. Bush at the
Islamic Center of Washington, DC on 9.17.2001

My cousin is Muslim.  Another came into this country seeking asylum.  I am a first-generation immigrant.  I took the oath of citizenship just shy of my 18th birthday, the original oath promising to defend America and bear arms against any enemies foreign or domestic.  I am proud to have grown up here, for the intense sacrifices and scrutiny my parents have borne to raise me here.  My father said that there is nowhere else on earth where dreams can be realized.  Where if someone worked hard enough success would come despite family name or the circumstances of birth.  This, for me, is deeply personal.

Nuccio DiNuzzo/Chicago Tribune/TNS via Getty Images

There has not been a single year in my memory when I haven’t been witness to a parent (or I myself)  being told to “get out of the country and never come back.”  Through the years of both party administrations, the racism and sexism has kept coming:

  • My mother was given threatening letters at work during the Iran hostage crisis and told to “watch [her] back, that [someone] would be coming for [her].”  When my mother showed her supervisor, she looked the other way and shrugged.
  • I was jovially, loudly  (and repeatedly) warned by Mr. Adams, my high school Biology teacher, not to be found riding the elephant in the rotunda at the Natural History Museum before getting off the bus for our field trip.
  • I was asked for my contact information because the little boy in my grocery cart looked so well cared for, was I available then to nanny for [her] family?  “He’s my son,” I said quietly and placed the packages woodenly on the belt.  “He’s my son and I teach in the English Department at ----- College.” 
  • My father had full cans of soda thrown at him during his lunch walks in Georgetown and screamed at and called everything but a child of God.
  • At the park when Joe was a toddler, I went to grab something from the stroller, and saw Joe reaching over to say hi to another little boy.  They spun wheels on the playground together.  When I walked over to see him, his mother, a lovely blonde just like her little boy, abruptly picked him and said in a carrying whisper, We don't play with those people.
  • My father was punched and his cheekbone crushed by a drunken African American orderly when my father told him he couldn’t touch one of his patients in that condition.
  • We have had bricks thrown through our window.
  • Years ago, I was told I was taking away good American jobs, I remember looking up from the vegetable bins at the market and said, “I wasn’t aware you were looking for an Assistant Professorship in Literature?” 

So none of this language, as bad as it has gotten, is surprising for me.  In fact, as a minority woman, in an interracial marriage, I can tell you I’ve experienced much worse. 

If any good can come out of this intense unrest and pain—such excruciating pain—we are witnessing, it is this: that people are understanding the process of Democracy.  They are looking to understand how government works.  They are learning the names of their representatives and calling them.  Accountability is becoming important, passivity can no longer be the order of the day, no matter who is in charge. 

--Jamal Joseph

“There is no expiration date on dreams and there is no start date on activism.”  But there has to be a purpose and a common one, of a better and kinder and more decent world.  To be even more personal, I’ll share with you an insight a therapist once told my husband and myself, “You know I think you both needed this.  Your marriage needed this.  You needed to hit a bottom in order to rebuild and begin again to talk to one another.  To learn to talk to one another.”  A hard reset.  Maybe this is a truth for us all now as well.  We need a call-back to the gravity and courage of the founding of this country that sought liberty from any kind of oppression. 

I hold those truths very dearly indeed and have explained to my children that despite our personal disagreements we have to look at the manner in which the country works, and allow that process to continue.  And yet, this order?  The rationale is not sound and the agents involved to carry it out, do not seem to be equipped to undertake it. 

With one brief exception, I have not found any TSA agent to be especially kind or helpful.  I have found them to be uniformly brusque, rude and having serious misconception of their authority.  One team in Tampa took aside my then 4-year-old son, and removed him from my presence as he looked at me in panic.  They tested his small palms for gunpowder residue: twice.  And yelled at him when he, so scared and shocked, as I could see through the partition, was too nervous to place his hands palm up.  He had tears in his eyes as he was delivered back to me.  Through clenched teeth, I said, “you are not allowed to take a minor away from his parents to search him.”  The man grinned, winked and said, “have a nice day Paki.”

So these are the people who have to enforce these restrictions.  These men and women are in full charge of people who have been traumatized once, twice, many many times over?

“We have to let this play out in the court system.”

“No we cannot.  We cannot.  How much longer does a permanent resident have to wait before moving beyond those double doors?  The court system?  And if one such detainee can by some miracle find a lawyer just beyond the door to file an injunction, what form needs to be used?  No.  There is no more time.”

“There were a total of 109 detainees.  That’s all.”

That’s 109 too many

Japanese American Internment WWII

“There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are alone in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28).    Step-by-step, rung by rung we have to climb this ladder.  We cannot do it alone.  And we must help each other reach further.   Fear cannot divide us.  We have to confront it; we have to ask the hard questions of why we are scared.  We have to recall Japanese-American internment, Chinese labor camps, and the lingering shock and acrid residue of war; we must face our fear. 

Your humanity and decency calls upon you to act in kind to another.  To believe in both of those ideals despite any evidence to the contrary and to see them in another.  We must try.

Remember that woman, that mother trying to calm the racing of her heart and seeking with eyes to find recognition of her humanity in another's?  That woman could have easily been my mother in 1973.  That child—me.   That man seeking asylum and rest?  Jesus.  There can be no greater evidence of God than our love for one another in the face of our differences. 

I have to thank you for reading this, when you are most likely tired and weary of reading so much on the same.  When you have seen and witnessed and borne pain yourself, watching friendships end and relationships crumble.  The first person I know I must reach is the person whose views are in absolute contradiction to my own.  So I foresee many formidable arguments in my future.  But it’s worth it.  Change cannot come without discomfort, and challenge will sharpen our own ideas.  Combined is a path toward cooperation and a willing hand to continue the climb.  In its undertaking, I wish you peace, strength, and above all else, courage.