WORDS

I’m not entirely sure where we were, but it was north of the river. North of the river is how the people of Kansas City refer to anything north of the Missouri River. This is an area that has gone largely unexplored during my time here. I know where the roller rink is and maybe a couple of casinos. I can get myself to Michael’s school and the airport, but don’t ask me for restaurant recommendations. Unless you’re into Indian food, then Swagat’s out by the airport is a solid choice. We happened to be in a completely unrecognizable area on this day because Michael was buying a used exercise bike. On our way home, we passed a billboard for a layer that read in large, yellow lettering “Winningest!” and I lost my mind.

At first, I couldn’t stop saying the word out loud over and over. I found the sound of the word to be ridiculously hilarious. It’s not like I haven’t heard someone use the word before, but it is always been used in jest around me. Seeing the word spelled out on the billboard just reiterated how stupid this word is. I was almost over my minor turrets moment when we passed the same advertisement on a different billboard. Then I exploded. This is an advertisement for a law office. Do you really want someone you cannot even use grammatically correct language in their advertisement to defend you in a court of law?!? Yeah, I know that my house is made of glass. My posts are the Swiss cheese of poorly written navel gazings, but I didn’t major in English. This dude is a lawyer; His job revolves around language. Besides, my editor is dead. What’s that lawyer’s excuse?

Lately, well ever since the “winningest” incident, I’ve found myself increasingly ranting about language. I will see a turn of words that makes my brain itch and I will go off in a ten minute rant. Yesterday, Michael had the TV on and it was all day coverage of concussion ball. There was a story about Brock Purdy (I didn’t know who this person was before this story) and the day he was drafted for the 49rs. They were showing footage of the draft and there was a woman standing on stage, holding up a jersey the read “Mr. Irrelevant”. I said “Why are they calling that guy Mr. Irrelevant?” and Michael replied “It’s because he is the last person to be drafted.” Disgust and rage instantly boiled up out of my body. Before they showed that footage, the sportscaster was talking about how Purdy has a “chip on this shoulder.” Of course he has a chip on his shoulder! He was just called ‘irrelevant’! That is just mean and uncalled for. As if I didn’t already think poorly about the capitalism and exploitation of athletes that is the NFL, now I think even less of them because they are bullies. Mean, hazing Frat boy, bullies.

And while everyone was speculating about Kelce proposing to Taylor and/or the Chiefs Super Bowl win being a government rig so that Taylor and Kelce could use that platform to endorse Biden (people are fucking crazy), actual genocide was/is happening in Gaza. I know many of you are sitting there thinking ‘But I can’t do anything about the genocide in Gaza’. Yeah, well, you can’t do anything about the whole Taylor/Kelce relationship either but it doesn’t keep you from chattering on and on about it. And if you can chatter and on and on about that, surely you can do some chattering to your representatives about demanding a cease fire and shifting our funding from weapons to humanitarian efforts.

Maybe now that we don’t have football to scream about, we can be the winningest by raising our voices against genocide.

FORMULATING A RAMBLING PLAN

I just made an appointment for my next chiropractor visit, which tends to be scheduled two to three weeks out. This means the next time I get my bones shoved back into place it will be December. People around here already have their Christmas lights up and on. I’ve passed a number of houses who have beautifully decorated Christmas trees on display in their front windows. I still have pumpkins on my porch. Jane and the rest of the Halloween decor made back to the basement just last weekend. Or was it the weekend before last? Maybe it was the weekend before, but I still have pumpkins.

I need more time to muster any kind of holiday cheer. The often talked about but forever elusive Aldi Cheese Advent Calendar was finally available at my neighborhood Aldi. It might be the only thing I’m excited about for December. My brain power has been divided between work and the daily images of death and destruction pouring out of Gaza. I worry for my Palestinian friends here in the US who still have friends and family there. I worry about the Jewish community in the US because the rise of antisemitic violence which was already on the rise, is even worse now. Hate crimes against Muslims and Jews are increasing daily. My brown skinned friends have to be even more careful walking down a sidewalk, ever vigilant for the attack that may come at them. That is an exhausting way for them to live and as American citizens, unnecessary because this country is supposed to be better. Except we’re not. What Israel has been doing to the Palestinians for decades is exactly what white colonizers have been doing to native people for centuries. Acts of genocide are more familiar to us than true acts of humanitarianism. Terrorism is a consequence of displacing, confining and massacring populations of human beings. If we continue to treat other human beings in this way, Terrorists will always exist.

Wow. I thought I was sitting down to write about how I’ve been thinking about forming new habits in the next year. Instead, I sat down and vomited out the imaginary conversations I have with people in my head. While I was all ready to map out a plan for living a happier, healthier life in 2024, maybe I just cleared some space for that mapping by vomiting up this ranty bit. These ranty bits tend to leak out in moments of helplessness and in regards to what is happening in Gaza, I feel very helpless. 5 Calls is a free app that makes it easy for you to contact your members of congress and provides helpful templates for what to say when you call them. I feel very limited in my abilities do anything to help the Palestinians in Gaza right now and it is really hard as someone who wants to fix things, to not be able to fix things.

Do what you can, with what you've got, where you are. - Theadore Roosevelt

Calling my congress members and asking them to demand and support a de-escalation and ceasefire in Gaza is something I can do. Maybe it’s something you can do too.

BANKSYLAND

Melissa had a spare ticket to Banskyland and asked me if I wanted to have a girl’s date. This is something I would have loved to see, but would never have made the effort to buy tickets. So, I hopped up and down and said “Yes, please!” Then we made reservation for fancy dinner and ordered way to much food before driving down to the Westbottoms for the event. The exhibit was held in the Rumely Historic Event space, which we got to hear the history of the building twice as we rode in the in the largest, oldest working elevator in Kansas City. Melissa had purchased VIP tickets which included an audio tour and a free poster. We collected our headphones and made our way to the second level.

This is where things got confusing. We were told to start on the second level, but the tour didn’t match up with the art on the second level. Eventually we figured out how to skip around in the audio tour to match whatever it was we were looking at and then things made more sense. Michael later asked me “How was the exhibit?” and I said “Well, at first it kind of felt like someone had gone to places that had Bansky art on the walls, took photos of them and then printed and framed those photos for us to look at.” Which still feels true. Most of the original stuff was on the second level. Also, Melissa and I were the only ones in the building listening to an audio tour. Everyone else was standing around in groups, talking about art, but not art while holding plastic wine cups. It was a place to go to be seen. The hip thing to do. Melissa and I were the only nerds listening to the hows and whys of each piece of art and there to truly learn and see the art.

Sorry! The lifestyle you ordered is currently out of stock. - Banksy (original street art)

This was the neon installment in the elevator and the first thing we saw. Melissa read it out loud and then said “Ain’t that the truth.” Melissa’s story is not my story to tell, but she is a paraplegic. I’m sure she felt those neon words more than most. Many people responded to my picture of this piece with a thumbs up and even a sad face because I think many of us can all relate in some way to these words. Losses, divorces, job choices gone wrong, falling into a financial hole that you can’t seem to climb out of. Losing the use of your legs. This is just a minor list that none of us would ever have ordered up for our lives. But my friend Eagle had the best response. He posted a gif of a woman yelling “Improvise”.

This should be tagged onto Banksy’s piece.

For those of us living a lifestyle we did not order, many of us have become pretty dang good at the art of improvisation. Sometimes the lifestyle we ordered for ourselves just doesn’t fit right and we have to order up something else. Sometimes the lifestyle we ordered for ourselves turns out to be the absolute wrong order. We ordered a life that really should have gone to someone else. Not only does it not fit right, it doesn’t feel right. The life my fourteen year old self ordered did not include one that contained love. That order I placed then was all work. College and medical school and nothing outside of that. I am happy that life was out of stock. This right now is not the lifestyle I ordered though. I have had to improvise, continue to improvise, because life is change.

Banksy originally plastered these words over a reproduction of a well-known painting. It was his protest statement against the art market and consumer capitalism.

a rebellion against the great corporations that manage our lives, our forms of consumption, even the space in which we live, through choices that are exclusively aimed at making profit. -Banksy

You wouldn’t know this by just reading the neon quote, particularly if you didn’t know this artist. Moving it to neon and taking away the well-know painting behind the words allows one to take it all out of context. Now those words speak to me as a challenge. Okay, that life you thought you were going to get isn’t going to happen the way you thought it would. What are you going to do about it?

Improvise.

I’m going to improvise and practice contentment with this life.

ACCOUNTABILITY

A certain man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who both stripped him and beat him, and departed, leaving him half dead. By chance a certain priest was going down that way. When he saw him, he passed by on the other side. In the same way a Levite also, when he came to the place, and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a certain Samaritan, as he travelled, came where he was. When he saw him, he was moved with compassion, came to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. He set him on his own animal, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. On the next day, when he departed, he took out two denarii, gave them to the host, and said to him, 'Take care of him. Whatever you spend beyond that, I will repay you when I return.' Now which of these three do you think seemed to be a neighbor to him who fell among the robbers? -  Luke 10:30–37

When I read the news report regarding the shooting of Ralph Yarl, this parable was the only thing I could think about. Yes, the man who shot Ralph must be held accountable for his racism, but what about the two homes that Ralph went to for help? The owner of the third house that Ralph went to, reluctantly called 911 while telling Ralph to stay on the ground with his hands above his head. Treating the victim like a criminal. Those people who claim to be christian while pushing forward ideas of hate, who turn their faces away from someone who is suffering because their skin tone doesn’t match their own, are not followers of Jesus. They are liars.

The only reason there is now an arrest warrant our for the man who shot this boy is because the people of Kansas City and outside it, inundated Clay county’s prosecutor, Zachary Thompson with phone calls and emails demanding justice. Don’t stop calling. Don’t stop emailing. Don’t stop constantly pestering your senators and representatives. Don’t stop demanding changes to laws that make murder legal. Don’t stop demanding proactive gun control laws. Don’t stop demanding justice for racist behavior.

Donate here to help Ralph and his family with medical and legal fees.

THESE CHANGING TIMES

Saturday morning, Michael and I stood in a fairly impressive line for early voting. It was a slow moving line, so we had plenty of time to run through another review of the ballot and discuss the pros and cons of yes and nos for some of the state questions. I always feel like I’m going in to take a test I am not fully prepared to take even though I studied before hand. When we’d finished our ballot review, I told Michael about the story Karen Walrond posted in her Instagram feed about how her daughter had to use frequent flyer miles to fly home from college so she could vote. You can see the story here: https://www.instagram.com/stories/highlights/17941902179271771/

It’s a feelings inducing story that will make you cry and then want to punch someone. It is a story of voter suppression. A very important story of voter suppression.

Here’s why.

So often the idea of voter suppression conjures up the image of not just the minority, but specifically those living in poverty levels. Voter suppression is happening to a majority of us because choosing a Tuesday during normal working hours as the only time to vote is, in itself, voter suppression. Without early voting, the poles are only open on Tuesday 6:00 AM- 7:00 PM. Now, I have a regular 9-5 job with a pretty flexible schedule, but let’s put that 6:00 - 7:00 time frame into my daily schedule. I get up at 5:30 AM to walk the dog. Josephine and I get home five minutes before Michael needs to be up and in the shower. That’s around 6:35 and then I get in the shower when he’s done sometime around 6:45 (?). I’m usually leaving my house for work at 7:20something. If I go to the polls at this time, I risk being late for work depending on the line. Not a big deal for me because of where I work, but a serious fireable deal for others. I leave work in the evenings around 5:00 PM. Google maps tells me it should take me fifteen minutes to get to my polling place. So, techinically, if there’s not a line, I could be voting by 5:15 PM. As long as I’m checked in by 7:00 PM, no matter the line, I will still be able to cast my ballot.

This sounds doable.

A number of people in my neighborhood rely on public transportation to get to and from work. If I was riding the bus from work to the polls it would take me thirty minutes to get there. Again, that only takes in account my job schedule. Many people in poverty levels are working two jobs. They have to navigate their voting time around bus and work schedules and I have yet to mention children and family obligations like picking those kids up from daycare or school or getting them to sports ball practice. Most health care workers I know, work twelve hour shifts, making that 6:00 AM - 7:00 PM time frame impossible. This is why receiving a requested absentee ballot is vital for voting rights. This is why no-question early voting options are vital for voting rights.

You know, we don’t have to keep doing things because that’s just the way it’s always been done. Especially if is not working for today’s society. One of the things we should all be demanding is voting rights that make voting easily accessible to all citizens.

Vote!

FREEDOM AND LOSS

I’m at my desk and I’m listening to my male coworkers talk about car repairs and oil leaks. Meanwhile, I’m silently boiling on the inside because the Supreme Court just reversed Roe vs. Wade. And there they all stand, talking like nothing has happened. I guess, for them, nothing has happened. They didn’t lose any rights today. Their bodies still, and always has, belong to them. They have never been second class citizens, have never known what it feels like to not have autonomy. They can’t even empathize.

I am not here to argue with anti-abortionists on the importance of legalized abortion. I will not change a mind so indoctrinated. Nor will you change my mind on the importance of legalized abortion. If hate mail from my church youth group didn’t change my mind then, you’re not going to now. This is always going to be about my body, my choice and my health and how all of that is nobody’s business but my own. I will fight for your rights to practice your religion, but I refuse to allow you to force your religious views into my life.

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The Supreme Court seems pretty hell bent on taking down anything that is not in the original constitution. Roe vs Wade will not be the last thing on their list. Contraception and fertility rights will be next. Same sex marriages will be next. No person, I repeat, NO. PERSON. (exception: white men) Is guaranteed miranda rights. This means that you will be prosecuted with out a fair trail.

This country is becoming the science fiction stories. Life is imitating art in a very very bad way.

WHAT THE GOOGLE DOODLE GOT WRONG

It is International Women’s Day and all month long companies, TV channels and radio stations are celebrating women. I’m sure there is also a Hallmark card out there for this day. Of course, there is a Google Doodle celebrating women today and it’s nice. It is simple, depicting colorful scenes of women doing stuff like taking care of all of the things while doing their job or being doctors. I scrolled through the doodle twice and both times I felt like the artist was given a theme of ‘domestic caregiver’ for the doodle. With maybe an exception for the scooter mechanic, most of those doodle scenes were just stereotypical ideas of women and how men define the role of women.

[side rant: Did I tell you the finance guy at the motorcycle dealership told me that scooters were a much better two wheeled vehicle choice for women? He said that women on motorcycles were not safe. Did you know that one of the great things about wearing masks is that no one can see you mouthing ‘fuck you’ while you put a smile in your eyes?]

None of those doodle scenes depict the fight and drive that women have to have in order to be more than that defined role. The reality of that first scene with the mother rocking her baby while remote working in the office and checking on the older child doing remote school is missing the partner that was sitting at the table or at his own desk ONLY doing remote work. That next scene of women doctors and nurses was all too easy. Women doctors and nurses have finally become a “normal” role we can play in society. The same is true for the scene of the woman designing clothes and running her own fashion business. Where is the scene for the woman who walks four miles a day just to collect fresh drinking water for her children? What about a scene that depicts a woman who could not do her job remotely, has no partner support, and has to manage children and the household? Where is the scene of the women in the Ukraine making molotov cocktails and building barricades to keep the Russians from invading their country?

I think the thing that really bothers me about the Google Doodle is how easy and light they make the life of women look. There is nothing there that depicts how fucking hard it really is. It’s dirty, gritty, messy and exhausting. You want to celebrate women? Give them a break. Take over some child care or at least wash the stack of dishes piling up in the kitchen. Walk the four miles for them to get the water or better yet, make the fresh water accessible at their home. Provide a temporary safe haven for a Ukrainian woman so she can at the very least take a shower and have a nap without worrying about the next missile attack. Recognize and depict the struggle that woman go through to be the doctor, the scientist, the wildlife photographer, the business owner. Recognize and depict the struggle that women go through to just be.

Don’t celebrate me with sugar coated scenes of life.

MOOD

I’ve been in a mood. Monday felt like just the usual case of the Mondays. Microscopes had to be restarted multiple times to get them working. I set up a batch of slides to run overnight, but when I checked on them from home by remote access, I discovered that the batch failed due to a software error. I dreamed about those slides and zombies and then woke up today with my mood far from improved from the previous day. Then there was more work related shenanigans, one of them involving a supervisor. I headed off to my yoga mat with fury in my heart. While I moved through my sun salutations, my brain vibrated with chatter and rage. It was not until the end of my practice, as I sat in baddha konasana, that the chatter lifted and I started sobbing. I stayed there sobbing in baddha konasana for a while and watched the fat tears fall to my mat. Then, slowely, the tears dried up and I breathed a sigh of release.

The first thing to greet me when I went back to my desk was a news notification announcing the release of Kevin Strickland. Some of you might remember the story I wrote back in July regarding Mr. Strickland as well as Lamar Johnson, two men being held in prison despite the evidence proving them innocent. Since that entry, every week I have written and called the MO Governor and the Attorney General, pleading with them to do the right thing and release these men. Each week I have received letter back from both saying the same thing. “We appreciate you contacting [The Governor’s office or Attorney General’s office] …” Both letters end by basically saying they’re not going to do anything about it. I know that my letter writing has very little to do with the release of Mr. Strickland, but I like to think that my voice helped to keep this topic fresh in other people’s minds. That is an act of activism.

There’s a section in Karen Walrond’s The Lightmaker’s Manifesto that talks about celebrating your victories. They don’t have be to big victories, but even the tiniest victory deserves a Huzzah. Even though the only thing I did here was to bring attention to this issue, I feel like celebrating this victory. Not for myself. No, I feel like celebrating this victory for this man, his family and this community. I’m going to celebrate today and continue writing and calling tomorrow for Lamar Johnson.

SAME

Last week, a judge in New York gave Christopher Belter eight years of probation for the rape of three underage teenage girls instead of prison time. A few days later, Kyle Rittenhouse would be allowed to walk free after murdering Joseph Rosenbaum and Anthony Huber. I know I should be screaming about this, but all I can muster is a shrug because this is what happens in this country. White men, particularly if they have money, get away with rape and murder. Meanwhile Kevin Strickland and Lamar Johnson, two black men who have been proven innocent are still sitting in prison. I don’t even know the number of black men sitting in prison for possession of marijuana right now. One is too many particularly with so many states legalizing the use of it.

My dad used to worry about my safety because I live in what used to be a predominately African American community. It still is, but my street has more white faces now than when I moved in, mostly because of the current housing crisis and gentrification. I would always argue with Dad over his concern. I have not once ever felt unsafe in my neighborhood. Josephine and I walk this neighborhood daily. I talk with my neighbors. I laugh with my neighbors. We are a neighborhood that looks out for one another. I am also not prone to being fearful. I will walk down that dark alley without even thinking about it. With one exception: white men.

If I am walking down a sidewalk and see a group of white men walking in my direction, I will cross the street to avoid them. One white man might be okay, but I’m still going to be on guard. A group of white men? No way. I am not taking the risk. My whole life, any time I’ve been bullied, sexual assaulted, or threatened it has always been a white male doing the bullying, the assaulting and the threatening. They do it not because they were raised by incompetent parents, but because they know they can get away with it. Time after time, history has shown and proven that white men do not have to pay any consequences for their behavior. This is why they remain the most dangerous racial group in America. Now, if you are a white man that I know personally and are currently reading this and your panties are starting to twist up in a wad over what I’m saying, you’re either mad because you know it’s true or you feel guilty for some past behavior. If you are a white man reading this and nodding your head in agreement, it’s because you’ve also been bullied, assaulted or threatened by another white man.

This is why the movie American Psycho is so terrifying. It has nothing to do with all the murder and everything to do with him getting away with all of it. It’s terrifying because it is the truth.

There is a video of Rittenhouse walking down the middle of a street with his assault rifle and not one police officer stops or questions him. George Floyd was murdered by police for the possibility of using a counterfeit twenty dollar bill. No weapons on him. No violent crime committed. Trayvon Martin was walking down the sidewalk when he was shot by a white man. The weapon in his pocket was a packet of Skittles. Tamir Rice was shot by police for carrying a toy gun. If you do not see the hypocrisy and crime in this, then there is no hope for you and you deserve to be labeled a racist.

I feel like I’ve written this all before. I’m afraid I will be writing it all again.

THE PREGNANCY WAR

Usually, I’m working on a Thankful Friday post right about now, but instead I’m writing about a conversation that has been rolling around in my head all week. It was a conversation about pregnancy. The person I was talking to was telling me about a new coworker. They said they really liked this person, felt she was a great choice for the job, but she’s pregnant and didn’t disclose this information during her interview. The person then said “I think that’s very unethical of her.” Here’s where I stepped in to defend this new coworker. The unethical part of all of this is not the part where the woman did not disclose her pregnancy. The unethical part comes from the corporate society that has lead to a woman not being able to disclose a pregnancy for fear of not getting the job.

The person I was talking with then said “So, I’ve been diagnosed with a terminal illness and given six months to a year to live. Do I disclose that information if I’m applying for a job?” I feel I deserve a cookie for not saying the actual words I was thinking, which were along the line of “No, Drama Queen, and you’ve just linked pregnancy to a terminal illness. Don’t be obtuse.” This is an apple and oranges comparison, but still I think your current state of health is nobody’s business but your own. Also, you have no idea the amount of good work you could do in the span of six months, let alone a year. It is about investing in the person who is right, qualified and talented, for the job. Everything is temporary.

The New York Times published an article this week about the sad amount of money the U.S. spends on child care and early child development compared to other countries. The average amount other countries spend on child care is around $14,000 a year for a toddler, while the U.S. spends only about $500 or even less. Most families get about $200 in a once a year tax credit for children under two. Any one who is a parent knows that childcare is expensive. My friend Robin once told me that after her second child was born, her and her husband talked about her leaving work to be a stay at home mom. It turned out that her keeping her job, even while paying for two babies in childcare, provided the family with just enough money to keep them from sinking further into debt. So while most of her paycheck went to pay for childcare, the rest of it paid the light bill. Now imagine a single parent family with a mother who has a minimum wage job. Actually, she probably has more than one minimum wage job because that’s the only thing she can do to pay for the roof over her kids head’s.

This is bullshit. But wait…I’m going to give some more bullshit numbers.

The U.S. has double the maternal mortality of most higher income countries. That’s twice as many deaths a year than France and Canada, more than double the rate of the UK. Our maternal death rate is the highest rate among developing countries. THE HIGHEST. The maternal death rate is twice as high for Black women than white or Hispanic women. In this study by the Commonwealth Fund on Maternal Mortality Rates in the U.S., found that Black women with a college education are at a 60% higher risk of maternal mortality than white or Hispanic women. In a 2018 interview with Vogue, Serena Williams shared her pregnancy story and the risks involved in childbirth. It also put a spotlight on the racial bias in the medical field. I’ve had plenty of experience with white male doctors not listening to me. This happens to every woman, but in many cases Black women in particular have been dismissed and mistreated. Case in point: Henrietta Lacks.

And you know what? I didn’t even intend for this post to go in this direction. What I wanted to focus on was the woman’s right to work. When a man goes to interview for a job, does he have to disclose that his wife is pregnant? It doesn’t even enter anyone’s mind. A man can have a job and be a parent. As a woman, we should have the same rights, but as I dig into this topic I just find myself in a pool of disparages that can be narrowed down by one word: Hypocrisy. For a country with a large number of voices screaming for family values, we sure do offer little support for families. Now is a great time to be contacting your senators and representatives and encouraging them to support policies that support working families, policies like childcare and healthcare and reproductive rights.

RESPONSIBLE ADULT

For months now, I’ve been telling Michael that I think I need new brakes on my car. Every time I say it, he tells me that I don’t need new brakes. I’m surprised he doesn’t pat me on the head when he says this because his tone implies that there’s no way that I, a female, would know anything about brakes. Last week I messaged my friend Lyn to see if he could look at my brakes. I met Lyn at the June session of Camp Wildling. He taught the charcoal drawing classes, but he also has his own mobile auto repair business. If you live in the Kansas City area, do not hesitate to contact Lyn with car stuff. He’s honest and does good work. Lyn told me that my front brakes were fine, but I really needed to replace the back brakes. He came over Saturday morning to replace those back brakes and it turns out that I didn’t even really have any back brakes. The old ones, at least one of them, had seized open and was not doing anything.

I can just see my dad closing his eyes and bowing his head while shaking it side to side in disappointment.

I now have new back brakes and four new tires. My car no longer makes that occasional clunkadunk sound it’s been making lately and when I hit a bump in the road while braking, my car no longer makes that grrrrr sound it’s been making for a while. I feel really responsible and grown up because I feel like I nailed adulting on Saturday. Here are all the things I did before noon on Saturday: made sure Michael and The Cabbage got up in time for the Cabbage’s 8 AM soccer game, added words to my journal while eating a breakfast sandwich, grocery shopped, cleaned out chicken coop/pen and put down fresh straw, cleaned the bathroom, folded and put away two loads of laundry, stripped the sheets from my bed, put clean sheets on my bed, took a shower, talked with Lyn about car stuff, sat on the couch and read a chapter of The Lightmaker’s Manifesto (go pre-order your copy right now!).

I am about half way through The Lightmaker’s Manifesto and I’m already feeling the wheels turning in my brain. Right from page one, I felt like Karen was speaking directly to me. I can’t help but feel like I am currently in a one on one life coaching experience and I am rewiring my brain to see activism in a different way. I spent some time journaling on Sunday, making a short list of goals for the month of October and the whole time, I was thinking about all the ways I can be an activist without marching in protests. The more I read, the more I realize that I can be doing a lot more and without much effort. Then Karen shared this quote with the Lightmaker’s team for our prompt this week.

Integrity is choosing to practice your values, rather than simply professing them. - Brene Brown

Am I practicing my values? Not only that, but am I practicing my values in a noticeable way? I don’t think I am. I think I have picked up a bad habit of talking about these things, about being a kind, patient, good person, without ever taking any action to do so. Now, I realize that I am the most judgemental towards my own self. Of course I am kind and I am mostly patient with others, but are these actions big enough to inspire those around me?

Case in point: Saturday afternoon, Michael and I were leaving IKEA. We had to stop at the door because the woman in front of us paused in the doorway to apply hand sanitizer and there was no way around her. She was an older woman, wearing a mask, doing all the right things, but Michael was so put out by the way she had inconvenience him. I tried to be soothing. I said “at least she’s pausing to do something to help end the spread of viruses.” but this didn’t do much to calm Michael and in the end, I let it go and let him rail on with his rant. I don’t think people realize how wearing a mask effects their peripheral vision. It messes you up and is even worse if you wear glasses. I am sure that this woman didn’t even realize that there were people behind her. If I had been truly practicing my values, I would have spoken up and said “let’s try to have patience for others. This woman clearly doesn’t realize that there are people behind her waiting to get out, but let’s cut her some slack because she’s wearing a mask and using hand sanitizer.” This was a missed opportunity to advocate for the elderly and to advocate for patience. It is time for me to hold myself accountable and be more responsible in practicing my values.

Because I am a responsible adult.

WHISPER

Photo from Karen Walrond

I’m listening. I went a little deaf for a while. Honestly I have been overwhelmed and closing off my ears and a tiny bit of my brain was required for self preservation. But I’m listening now. I am listening to hear that whisper of a thought that sparks a more organized activism. Up until now I’ve just been throwing dollars randomly at causes and charities. It was the only thing I could think of to do because I don’t feel I have much else to offer. I am not a bake sale kind of person. I like the idea of attending protests in theory, but crowds freak me out and I have doubts that standing in a crowd with a sign really does anything. My activism is more quiet and subtle. I vote. I stay informed on what bills are being presented and how my senators and representatives are voting. I contact those senators and representatives and that’s pretty much it.

Karen’s prompt for the Lightmaker’s Team this week comes from Brad Montague, the creative mind behind Kid President. Here is what Karen had to say about one of the lessons she has learned from Brad.

I'd argue that in fact, some of the most sustainable movements In the world happen because there's this nagging thing that won't let go of you, a notion that keeps returning, causing you to furrow your brow and mutter, "that's not right. That *can't* be right."

This is why I am still writing the same email every week to the MO Governor and Mo Attorney General about Kevin Strickland and Lamar Johnson. There is a deep nagging feeling inside me that screams that the continued incarceration of these two innocent men CAN NOT be right. There is also the knowledge that these two men are not alone. There are a countless number of predominantly black men who are incarcerated for crimes they did not commit. So I keep the sticky note with the names of Kevin Strickland and Lamar Johnson on my desktop to remind me to keep writing and calling and supporting candidates who want to meaningfully reform this fucked up criminal justice system.

Right now, I’m listening for something louder than a whisper to tell me what to do next. Karen’s book is coming out in just a few short weeks. Pre order your copy of The Light Maker’s Manifesto today!

OUR BLOODY HISTORY

I recently had to have a conversation with the Cabbage about menstruation. I don’t want to go into too many details, because that’s their story to tell or not tell. I just made a point to empathize with them and to stress that there is nothing shameful about periods and what is happening to their body. When I told Misti what I said to the Cabbage, she said that she wished she had had someone tell her the same thing and then I started to get really mad. Then I got furious because for far too long there has always been shame associated with what happens with women’s bodies. The natural processes of the female body has been used as a weapon against women since the dawn of time because not only is something men fear, it is something they don’t understand.

I’m about to set that Red Tent on fire.

Michael attempted to empathize with me for having to have that conversation with the Cabbage by saying something about all boys getting a talk about masturbation. Outwardly, I nodded my head and was all “yeah, that must have been difficult.”, but inwardly I was all “WHAT THE FUCK, GIRLS ARE NEVER GIVEN PERMISSION TO TOUCH THEMSELVES!” Even in sex education, the topic of self pleasure did not exist. Masterbuation was never part of the conversation when I was a young woman. Menstruation was never part of the conversation either. I was so ashamed to mention it that I had to sneak a note to my mother about the things I needed and even then, she did not give any instructions. My strong Southern Baptist upbringing taught me to believe all the things mentioned in the bible about a woman’s body. We were unclean and our only value was in the production of babies. Which is exactly what the patriarchy wants you to believe. I have lost track of the number of times I have heard that a woman can not be President of the United States because of menstruation, the most bullshitty, asinine patriarchal excuse ever.

It is all a lie.

The Sexual Revolution may have shined a light on the female orgasm, but it didn’t do all that much for taking the shame and embarrassment out of a monthly period. Bleeding into your pants has been seen as being as bad as peeing your pants. As if the start and stop of your period was something you ever had any control over. I had one friend tell me as I ranted on this topic that she was afraid to ask for the things she needed because she didn’t know if this was something her parents could afford. She is not the only woman or young woman to have this problem. There are too many women in this country that have to choose between buying milk or buying pads or tampons. Pads and tampons might as well be considered a luxury item and not being able to afford them adds yet another level of shame. Those of us raised in the environment that taught us that our female bodies where shameful now have a very serious choice to make. Do we repeat the cycle with this next generation of young women or do we rail against it with all of our might?

I’ve chosen to rail against it. Not just or the Cabbage, but for myself. I am at an age where my body is changing and doing weird things. I recently stopped taking birth control. My periods are random as fuck and I have no idea what to expect to happen to this body. There isn’t even a whole lot scientific research for me to read through because this society does not place any value on the women’s reproductive organs when those organs are no longer being used to produce. One more thing to add to my list of things that causes rage. This is my body. It does some pretty great things, but it also does some pretty gross stuff sometimes. BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT BODIES DO!

And I refuse to have any shame about it.

I GOT NOTHING

I started to write something about how this week is turning out to resemble my work life before the pandemic. Scheduling snafus and spring break quartines has me holding down the fort this week, which means going into the office EVERY DAY. It’s a little bit of a shock to the system and I thought “hey! let’s write about it!” Then I opened my New York Times for Tuesday morning and read about the latest mass shooting that killed ten people in a Boulder Co grocery store. After a mass shooting targeting our Asian Americans LAST WEEK, the fact that I was at work this week didn’t really seem to matter any more.

One evening sometime last year, Michael and I were sitting on the couch enjoying some wine and TV when we heard gunfire outside. It is not unusual to hear gunfire in our neighborhood, particularly east of us. There were two hundred and sixty nine recorded homicides in Kansas City last year. The weapon of choice for those homicides was some sort of firearm. The Daily Homicide Analysis statistics page lists “argument” as a contributing factor to many of those homicides. I made up the game Gunshots or Fireworks to make light of a serious reality. Guns are routinely shot off in my neighborhood. What was different about that evening last year is that the gunfire sounded so close that I ducked my body down over the dog to lay us both out flat on the couch. The gunfire was coming from the street right in front of our house. We heard squealing tires and then silence. After a few breaths, Michael opened the front door and stepped out. Our neighbor to our right came out. We all checked on each other and then tried to figure out what had just happened in our street.

I don’t tell you this story so that you will think that I live in a ‘bad’ neighborhood or that I should move because it is dangerous. It is not a dangerous neighborhood. My street and my neighborhood are both very safe. My neighbors on all sides look out for each other. Josephine and I regularly walk our neighborhood, waving hello to the people we see. I have given cartons of eggs to half the people on my block. At least two of my neighbors have called me to let me know that they had Josephine when she was going through her Houdini phase. I have returned the favor with other neighborhood dogs. My neighborhood is safe, but not immune to violence.

No one lives in a place immune to violence.

Now there’s a truth bomb no one wanted to read, but for a number of us who grew up in rural white America and the land of suburban picket fences it is a truth bomb we need to read and take notice. We are disillusioned and trained to believe in a vision of what is safe, but that vision is crumbling because the places that we thought were supposed to be safe, places like schools, our churches, our grocery stores, are not immune to violence. Owning a gun does not make you immune to violence. You’re just more likely to be the one to cause the violence, killing a loved one and or yourself. Yet it is a shock and horror to all of us when gun violence happens in the places where we thought we were safe. The problem for me is that it is no longer a shock or horror. It is becoming a way of life. The new American Dream is to survive a day in school, to worship safely and to survive going to the grocery store. This isn’t our ‘new normal’. This is our normal.

When we wouldn’t do anything after the first mass shooting in a school where children were murdered, why would we do anything now?

PRIVILEGE

Levels of gray

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My brother said something over the weekend about how he’s supposedly the enemy now because he is a white privileged male. He followed this up with how he didn’t understand how he was privileged because he’s had to work hard for everything he has. He sounded dejected as he said all of this and I felt bad for him. My brother is a good man. I wanted to explain to him how, even though he’s worked hard for everything, he still has a certain amount of privilege allotted to him because of the color of his skin and his maleness. How do you explain to someone who hasn’t had it easy, that they are privileged?

Privilege: a special right, advantage, or immunity granted or available only to a particular person or group.

I can see my brother reading this definition and asking “what was my special right?” Oklahoma is still a very racially segregated state. Most, if not all, of what he experiences is in a community of white where marginalization is socioeconomic. As a good friend of my pointed out, even the right to work is a privilege. This study is a good example of how just the name on your resume can keep you from getting a job.

White names receive 50 percent more callbacks for interviews

I once had a boss ask me if it was true that some of the people we were working with didn’t want to talk to me because I am a woman. He said this with all sincerity. He was genuinely clueless. It just never dawned on him that this sort of discrimination was happening in his environment. Because it was something he himself had never experienced. This is privilege. Walking into a store without being under constant supervision because of the color of your skin is a privilege. Going to buy a wedding cake and not being turned away due to your sexual orientation is a privilege. Being paid and treated the same as your coworkers is a privilege.

I recognize that I too have many privileges allotted to me. I didn’t ask for them, but I sure did take advantage of the safety it provided me. I allowed myself to be naive in thinking that all people had the same advantages if they only worked hard for it. Honestly, I didn’t have to work all that hard to get to where I am today. Scholarships just appeared. My parents had just enough. I did not have to work and support myself while I was getting an education. THAT IS A PRIVILEGE. With my whole heart, I believe this should not be a privilege but a right for everyone. Now I use the benefits of my privilege to support education whether it be through volunteer outreach or donations. The first step is recognizing your privilege. The second step is using that privilege to do good, to speaking up for the marginalized and to be grateful.

Your privilege doesn’t make you an enemy unless you believe that you are owed these privileges because of your race. Or that you are owed these privileges at all. This is an important conversation that we need to be having because we need good men like my brother on our side. The last thing I want is for my brother to feel threatened or alienated for a number of reasons. Look what happens when white men feel threatened and alienated. They do stupid things like vote for Trump, hold rallies declaring their superiority, and have parades promoting their homophobia.

COMPLACENCY

32/52

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Michael goes back to school on Thursday. He won’t have kids until next week. This week will just be meetings and getting organized. On Friday he’ll have mass shooter training. He told me this as we were eating lunch somewhere. I don’t know even remember where or if we were in Boston or Kansas City. He said all of this to me before the mass shootings committed by white terrorists over the weekend. I just remember feeling the food that I had just swallowed congeal into a lump and wedge itself in my throat. Michael is a high school math teacher. Not a policeman. Not a TSA employee. Not a first responder. Not a soldier.

He’s a teacher.

Every year, before the students show up to class, all of the teachers spend a day where someone comes into the building and pretends to kill them. And the teachers have to find a way to survive. Michael told me that last year, they were given a length of rope to tie up the door. He said that this seemed to work okay and then he shrugged nonchalantly. It was a gesture that I couldn’t quite understand. Was it a shrug of “whatever”? Or was it a shrug of apathetic acceptance of the situation? I feel like maybe when he tells me about the shooter drills that I’m supposed to think of it as normal. Like it’s just like a fire drill or a tornado drill. Active shooter drills are just our new way of life.

Except it isn’t.

The minute I see this as ‘normal’ is the minute I become complacent.

Michael and I have been watching the series Years and Years on HBO. The series follows a family through the years as the world sort of falls to pieces. Climate change causes heavy rains and rising seas that lead to flooding and the displacement of millions of people. There’s a story line on immigration and refugees seeking asylum. There is a story arc around banks collapsing and the financial crisis that follows. Through all of it, you watch this family as they go about their day to day lives. Things don’t really look all that different for them. There’s some job losses from the financial crisis. Love stories and relationships change. There’s health issues to be dealt with. Deaths to endure. All of it seems very much like everyone else’s normal daily lives. They just go on about their business. All while the world falls to complete shit around them.

Some times there’s a really fine line between fiction and nonfiction.

I just signed up at Everytown for Gun Safety to be contacted as a volunteer. I don’t want to just go about my daily life while the world falls to shit around me.