Yesterday's post, part 2

I probably shouldn't write this -- particularly not right now -- because I'm frustrated and emotional.  However, I've been told that some of my best writing comes out of times when I am frustrated and emotional, so here goes anyway.

I'm thinking more about #4 from yesterdays post.  In particular,I'm thinking about this idea of how I (as a woman) am supposed to embody a specific definition of "success."  I'm thinking about the measuring stick others are using versus the one I typically use.  I'm thinking about how it is that I -- and other women, too -- can feel like a failure, or a disappointment, or an anomaly, or just feel broken because of those arbitrary yardsticks and the ways we measure up (or don't).  I'm thinking about the fact that I am generally happy...happier than I have been in several years, and have been moving forward in my happiness and confidence by leaps and bounds these past few months.  I'm thinking about the fact that I seem to have a Perceived Happiness Value by which others assess my situation.  I'm thinking about the fact that this Perceived Happiness Value is not necessarily accurate, and about the fact that, because my happiness comes from other sources, I have been and can be judged as unhappy, or unsuccessful, or not normal.  Mostly, though I'm thinking about the fact that this judgment can affect my ACTUAL happiness and my ACTUAL confidence and my ACTUAL sense of self-worth.

That is not how I want it to be.

I really wish I could say "meh.  Ya know" and blow it all off like it's no big deal.  I really wish I could just say, "I'm cool with who I am and how things are going.  I know that when things aren't cool, I can handle it and change things so that I feel like things are cool again.  But right now...I'm actually pretty cool, thanks."  I wish that I could say in actual live conversation, "you know, I understand that what you are telling me is right/was right for you and your happiness...but right now, my happiness and I are okay, thanks.  Right now, I'm happy with the decisions I am making."

And, in fact, that is what it all comes down to: choice.  The freedom to choose your own path and make your own decisions, and the ability to have those choices respected and honored as a valuable path.  Honestly, isn't that what we all want?  Isn't that how we should live and be with one another?

Given, things happen that are out of our control that are not what we would have chosen.  There are times we have to make decisions when we don't have a good choice, or the option that we would like is simply not available.  Sometimes, really shitty things happen, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

But we do have choices.  After the shit happens, you have choices.  Even if they aren't good choices.  Even if they aren't choices you would like to have to make.  Even when it seems like you don't have choices.  Even then you have a choice.  

My decision to date right now -- or not -- is my business, and mine alone, end of story.  My decision to get married and have children right now -- or ever -- is my business, and mine alone.  It does not have to do with whether or not I am meeting these socially imposed milestones.  It does not have to do with whether I am objectively whole, or broken, or healthy, or unhealthy, or mature, or immature, or emotionally scarred or stable.  It does not have to do with how attractive I am, or how unattractive I am.  It does not have to do with my weight or lack of it.  It does not have to do with my fashion sense (or lack of it), or how well (or poorly) I flirt, or how well (or poorly) I can play the games society insists we should play when we date.  And yes, each of these things has been mentioned as a potential factor in my lack of partner situation.

It feels, though, like I am failing.  Like it's wrong for me to be happy without these other things in my life.  Like I am wrong for being happy without these things in my life.  "It's just not normal," I've been told.  There are pressures from people and communities around me that make me feel like a failure for not wanting and starting a family in which I stay at home and take care of a handful of kids.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with that -- absolutely nothing!  In fact, I think it is a wonderful and honorable choice for any man or woman to make, and I respect each person who makes that decision.  I respect them, however, exactly for that -- their decision.  It is not my decision right now.  Choices change, of course, and my position on this could very well change.  However, for me, now, at 28 with a recently completed doctoral degree and a job I am privileged to have and love with all of my being, it is not my choice.  Because it is not my choice, it makes the rest of my choices seem wrong, unimportant, and inconsequential.  Because it is not my choice right now, it feels like I am messing up the rest of my life and letting others down.  And, more than anything, I just hate feeling like a disappointment.  

Choices change!  Decisions change.  Circumstances change, opinions change, and there is nothing I can see that I am doing now that would negate the changing of my choices in the future.  In fact, I foresee my choices as definitely shifting in the future.  But does that mean that I am a failure now?  Does that mean that me, as I am, with my choices in this moment...does that mean that I am somehow failing at this big, hard thing called life?

The answer is "no," but there are parts of me that feel like the answer is most definitely "yes."

Final Friday

It's Friday again, and I seem to be making a ritual out of lists on Fridays...so here is our Final Friday list for November:

(1) Family is a wonderful thing for which we should all express gratitude and thanksgiving.  And then we should go home, before that feeling of gratitude and thanksgiving passes.  Sometimes, that window can be very, very small.

(2) Hanging out downtown in the town you grew up in is an interesting experience.  My sister and I went downtown today, because all the little shops were open and doing fun activities for "Frosty Friday."  It was a little chaotic and crowded, but it's fun.  It's also crazy to walk around and see the same people I've seen since I was a kid.  I can't decide if I like this or not.  Sometimes I do: I like the familiarity and the fact that things don't change, and the fact that people know my name and my family.  Sometimes, though, I just don't like it.  I know I would never be able to be seen as my own person, and this bothers me.  Space and my own community is a very good thing.

(3) I had a long conversation today with a family member who does not know I blog about this person's perception that blogs are self-centered, and that only self-centered people have blogs.  It made me think and made me quite uncomfortable, because it's true.  It really is.  Not that only self-centered people have blogs, I don't think you can say that, but that blogging is rather self-centered.  There is no reason why people should want to read my (or others') ramblings about my/their mundane thoughts and/or existence.  And yet...here I am.  I need to think about this more.

(4) I hate that people in my life hold the idea that a woman is not truly successful until she has found a partner/married/had children.  I hate the fact that I know I will not be seen as truly successful until I have accomplished this.  I completely understand that this is a developmental milestone I am supposed to have reached by now.  I also completely understand that, sometimes, people don't know how to handle it when certain expected developmental milestones have not been reached.  And, actually, it's NOT really a developmental milestone, so I take that back.  It's a socially expected milestone.  There is a difference.  Just because I'm not married/don't have a partner/have not had children at 28 does not mean that I am developmentally behind.  It feels that way right now, I won't lie to you.  It feels like people must think there is something flat-out wrong with me.  BUT...the rational part of me knows and understands that this is merely an arbitrary social expectation based on patterns of other people in our current culture.  Regardless, it pisses me off, perhaps unnecessarily.

(5) I have a lot to say, maybe tomorrow, on food, and body shaming, and how hard it is to be body-positive and to stand up to body shaming in all of its sneaky forms.  I will have to write about that tomorrow.

(6) I have some super exciting things coming up for me the next few weeks, and I am extraordinarily excited and full of amazement and gratitude for each of them.  I will hopefully have some exciting things to write about soon.

Happy Thanksgivukkah!

Happy Thanksgivukkah!

To all my friends: Happy Thanksgiving and Happy Hanukkah!  I hope you all had a wonderful day full of family and love.

Let's all remember to express gratitude tomorrow (and other days) too!

Thanksgiving Eve and culinary mishaps

Happy Thanksgiving Eve.  Or Thanksgivukkah Eve.  Or, you know, Happy Wednesday.  Happy November 27th.  Whatever works for you this evening.

It's been a long ass day.  So long, in fact, that the curse words have been flowing freely all night simply because...well just because.  It's been a long day.  At 2PM I was ready for the day to be over, but I wasn't done at work until 6.  Ten after six, actually, because the family I was working with wanted to show me pictures of the Christmas lights on their house.  This was great, and it was a sweet little house, and normally I would be very patient and enjoy such an interaction because it's indicative of what wonderful rapport with them and how much they consider me part of their life that they want me to partake in the joy of Dad's handiwork with the Christmas lights.  Tonight?  I kind of wanted to throw my hands in the air and say "for the love of all that is holy, I don't care about your freaking Christmas lights!"

I didn't.  I wanted to.  But I didn't.

Anyway, after I finally got home and got dinner, I cleaned up the house and then drove out to my parents house, which is where I am now.  It's been a long ass day.

So, briefly, I will share the family story about Autodidact at Thanksgiving that is told every year and will live down in infamy forever and ever.

I was 11.  A newly turned 11, mind you, and we had 19 people coming to our house for Thanksgiving.  My job in all of this was to make the pumpkin pie.  I was a pretty sharp little 11 year old, and I knew my way

around a kitchen pretty well.  There was nothing too special about this pumpkin pie...just the simple recipe from Joy of Cooking.  I was going along, doing really well, super independent and feeling important amidst my parents and grandmother in the kitchen.  I was going to make the best pumpkin pie ever.  Everyone would be so impressed, right?  I felt I was pretty much something special.  Isn't if funny how important those things become to us, especially when we're young?

Well, in feeling like Something Special, I failed to realize that the recipe spread onto a second page.  I saw the directions on page two, but failed to see that the last ingredients on the ingredient list were on that second page.  I mixed and measured and poured it all into the pie crust, and I popped that beautiful pie in the oven.  "I'm done!" I told my mother.  Several minutes later, she came to check: Did you put in the pumpkin?  The evaporated milk?  The sugar?  We went down the list -- yep, yep, yep.

"Did you put in the eggs?" she asked.

"Eggs?" I questioned.  "There aren't any eggs in the pumpkin pie."

"Yes, there are," she said, panic rising in her voice.  "Did you put in the eggs?"

I looked at page two of the recipe.  There, at the top of the page, were the two eggs.  The two eggs I had NOT put in the pumpkin pie that was now in the oven.

Of course, just then, the door bell rang with the first load of relatives.

"Get out the eggs!" my mother said sharply.  I retrieved them from the fridge.  My mom pulled the pie out of the oven just as the relatives came in the door.

"What are you doing?" they asked.

"We're a little breathless," she said.  "Autodidact forgot the eggs in the pumpkin pie.  So I'm fixing it."  She dumped the filling out of the pie and back into the bowl, whisked in the eggs, dumped it back into the crust, and put it back in the oven.

I was humiliated.  No one was going to be impressed.  No one would think it was the best pumpkin pie ever.  It wasn't even mine anymore, I felt.  I left out the eggs.  It was the talk of the entire day -- how clever my mother was for thinking of dumping out the filling and putting in the eggs; how lucky we were my mother caught it; how I would do better next year.

The year after that, I was again given the task of making the pumpkin pie.  "Remember last year?" everybody asked.  "Did you remember the eggs?" everyone repeated.  I did remember the eggs.  However, that year I reached for the glass jar of brown sugar on the top shelf and dropped it, into the glass bowl underneath, and somehow managed to shatter them both.

I am-- somehow -- still the one who typically makes the pumpkin pie...and everyone still asks about the eggs.  Interestingly, I don't even like pumpkin pie.  Something about the consistency.  Maybe it would be better if I left out the eggs?

I am the keeper of the Transformers

This poem is not what I intended to write tonight.  I started a post yesterday that I thought of the day before that I want to finish...but this poem suddenly wanted to be written.  This is exactly how it fell onto the page, attempt one, little to no editing...but here it is anyway.  

I wrote an "I Am" poem about two years ago when I did a poetry service at church with my friend Reticula.  I shared that poem here.  Here is an updated "I Am" poem, two years later.  

I am the keeper of the Transformers

I am the keeper of the Transformers.

The gateway to Thomas the Tank Engine, Spiderman, and Captain America,

I am the helper of badass kids who want what they want when they want it

but learn to get what they get when they earn it.

I am floating bubbles bringing open-mouthed belly laughs,

quiet praise and jubilant exclamations for cleaned up blocks,

bottoms in chairs, fingers on noses, and hands not used for hitting.

I am "that lady with the stickers and chips"

the talking doctor, the worry doctor, the un-cross doctor,   

and the M&M dispenser.

I am a Swamp Monster, a Potato Head, a Poo-poo Face, and

a doctor who doesn't even know the names of all the Pokemons.

I can certainly be a disappointment.

I am words on a page hiding a face,

longing for connection behind the plain-face type.

I am gentle and fierce; fiercely gentle and tough --

I will stand up while sitting down with words that give me

a presence I don't understand. 

I am a fighter of injustice, I am

finding, using, discovering, uncovering

my voice; I am

scared of, trying to find, racing towards, running from

my power; I am

blossoming.

I am quick to smile,

the familiar face that reminds people of Sarah, or Elizabeth, or someone I'm not --

but could be, if the tables were turned.

I am hiding in a crowd

overwhelmed by its energy, I am the one who is swallowed by extraversion. 

I am skirts and scarves, boots, and wool sweaters.

I am a nose-ring and a secretly desired tattoo -- covertly funky

while fitting just barely inside the constraints of professionalism.

I am dog kisses and long walks at the park, 

the saver of stinkbugs and earthworms,

I am the prayer that is whispered for road kill on the highway

and the first to smash a cricket.

I am full of contradictions and always far from perfect.

I am sleepless nights.

The birther and fighter of worry bullies.

I am long emails and handwritten notes in the mail,

I am a vaguely familiar melody. 

I am too much, too intense, too emotional, too nice:

I am an out-of-bounds, free-form soul

expanding the edges of my existence.

I am inviting you to join me.

I am not enough for all I want to create,

but always searching for all I can be.  I am bearing my soul because

it's the only way I know to change the world.

I am loving this world with all I have to give. 

I am the keeper of the Transformers.

I am one gateway of hope in a world that needs transforming

so I open myself to being

transformed.

An old poem, made new

A slight re-write of an older poem, because writing something for real just ain't happening tonight.  Still, I don't know that I've ever shared this one and I just found it again...and it kinda fits where I'm at today anyway.  It's like it was meant to happen.

Untitled

There are moments.

The moment between sleeping and waking when I,

tiptoeing cautiously back from a dreamless night

feel Sun’s beams stretching across my bed.

Like the hope I’ve been waiting for,

she warms my body before I can attempt to

shame it into non-existence.

It’s as if the Goddess herself crawls into my veins and

holds me from the inside.

She breathes life into my limbs,

pulls my body back from the exile of denial

and instills my heart with innocence

my sleep-filled being

doesn’t remember losing.

In that moment between sleeping and waking,

I let her love me

in the ways I dare not love myself.

I feel her open the secured places,

let her slip inside and

infuse them with denied truth, rendering them sacred.

I suspend my thoughts in her arms,

let her bless my sunshine filled body, and

spend the rest of the day aching

to live wholly into this half-realized dream

of me, as I am.

What would you do: Diversity discussions at work

I keep thinking I want to write this post, and then I keep telling myself that I shouldn't...and then I keep wanting to write it...and then I stop myself again...

So I'm going to write it, but I'm going to write it carefully because I don't want it to be misconstrued.  If I say something that doesn't sit right with you, or something that doesn't seem like me...ask me in the comments and we'll talk.  Chances are that it just didn't come out right, in spite of my being careful.

There is this one particular colleague that challenges me for several reasons, but mostly, I think, because we are just very (very) different people.  She is not a bad person, and I don't want to come across as saying that she is.  She has very different values than I do, sure, but she's not a bad person.  I think her intentions are mostly good.

This person, who I'll call Emma, challenges me most of all on two topics: (1) completely unchecked privilege that she has no intention of recognizing and (2) complete lack of awareness on issues surrounding diversity. 

Allow me to set the scene for the following conversation.  Emma, another colleague I'll call K, and myself were sitting in our cubicles.  I was writing progress notes, and Emma and K were talking.

Emma is a Caucasian, cisgender, Christian female in her early 30s, born and raised in a (self-described) wealthy, religious family in a Midwestern state. 

K is an Indian, cisgender, Hindu female in her late 20s, born and raised in Delhi, India, in a (self-described) "well-off" family.  She has been in the US for 5 years.  It should be noted that K has a traditional Indian name.

K asked Emma for assistance with pronouncing an unusual name for a client she would be seeing later that day.  Emma provided as much assistance as she could, and laughed at the name.

"You know," K said, "I always thought I wanted to give my children traditional Indian names because they have so much meaning, and I just have always thought they are beautiful.  But after working with kids and knowing how much I mess up their names all the time, I don't know if I want to do that to my kid.  I'll probably name him John or something," she laughed.

Me, as I was pretending to write notes

"Oh my gosh," said Emma.  "I can't stand these...you know...interesting names.  You know how I told you that I did foster care when I was living in [Midwestern state]?  Yeah, well, did I ever tell you the kids' names?"

"No," said K.  "I don't think so."

I continued typing my notes, but my fingers were turning into claws on my keyboard.  This was not going to end well, I could tell.

"Well," said Emma, "the first child I had...a little boy...his name when I got him was [insert traditional Native American name here].  Well, let me tell you, I called the foster care agency and told them "there is no way I'm calling a child this name.  We're going to have to give him a new name instead."

K laughed, sort of.  "So wait, his name was [traditional Native American name]?  And they changed it?"

"Oh yeah," said Emma.  "There was no way I was going to call a child that.  So we changed the name to [insert common, European sounding name here].  And then my SECOND foster child...I couldn't even figure out how to pronounce his name.  His name was [insert traditional Native American name here].  And I just told them, "no, I'm calling him [insert similar sounding name that is a relatively uncommon, but clearly European, name]."  She laughed.  "I mean, come on.  How was I going to call a child [traditional Native American name]?"

K laughed again, sort of.  "So you just changed the children's names?  You can do that?"

"Oh yeah," said Emma.  "The foster care agency didn't have an issue with it.  I think they probably understood."

There was an awkward moment while I weighed the anger that was coming out of my ears, the likelihood that I would be able to respond in a calm and rational manner, and the fact that I need to work with her for at least another 10 months.  I couldn't stay quiet.  I took a breath and turned around.

"Growing up in Midwestern state, there must have been a large Native American population," I said, hoping to give her a way to introduce this fact, or recant her prior judgment, or change her story, or offer a redeeming piece of information, or something.  None of that happened. 

Also me, waiting for the smoke to start coming out of my ears.

"Oh yeah," she said instead.  "They're everywhere."

I'm pretty sure flames came out of my ears.  I took another deep breath.

"Well, given that, and given the children's names, it sounds like they were probably from families with Native American heritage.  Right?"

"Well, yes," she said.

"Hmmmm," I paused.  Everything paused for a moment, as both Emma and K waited for what I was going to say next.  "You know," I said, thoughtfully and calmly, "I don't know that I agree with you on this.  Given, they weren't children that I was caring for, but it concerns me that children who are being taken not only away from their family, but also away from their culture,  would also have their names that link them to that culture taken from them.  From what I understand, names and the naming process are extremely important in some cultures...not to mention that there is an identity with that name, even with very young children.  To take that away so that I could feel more comfortable, or so that the people around me could feel more comfortable, is not something I think I could condone."

"Oh, they were really young...I mean, the oldest was 3.  And this is something that the foster care agency has to do all the time."

"Hmmm," I said, pausing again.  "You know," I said, continuing to breathe and attempt to sound thoughtful and calm, "I think this also bothers me due to the fact that this fees like a perpetuation of what Caucasian people have done to Native Americans and their culture for generations.  I just think that I would really hate for a child to lose their traditional name and their link to their heritage because someone isn't comfortable with calling them by their given name."

"Yeah..." Emma paused.  "Well...it was really no big deal.  The foster care agency was cool with it."  She laughed and made a joke, and then her pager went off, calling her into session. 

K and I turned back to our computers and started typing after she left.  My heart was pounding because...dude, standing up is hard.  There wasn't a reason to stand up to this particular issue, necessarily.  It was all over and done.  But I had to do it anyway.  I just had to.  I couldn't have let myself just sit there and listen to it.  Why?

(1) Because I don't know how this conversation might have affected K, as a Indian woman living, at least for now, in the US.  As an Indian woman expressing -- albeit tongue-in-cheek -- her hesitance to name her future children with names that are culturally important and significant to her. 

(2) Because we work together in a helping profession with children from all walks of life, from every possible background and history, and because the sort of ignorance and judgment she was displaying is not okay with me if she is going to continue to work in this profession.  I mean, if you change your own foster children's names, what might you say to a family or client with whom you are working?  (Keep in mind, we have lots of prior history, too.  I'm not basing this on a one-time interaction, even if it was a whopper).

(3) Because this just was not okay.  Changing others' culture to make you more comfortable is not okay.  Laughing about others' heritage to make you more comfortable is not okay. 

(4) Because, it seems, that this had been told and retold as a "funny story" for years, and had always gone unchecked.  I couldn't let it go unchecked.

It was hard.  But I had to say something.  I don't think it changes anything.  I also don't think this will be the last conversation of this nature that we have. 

Also me.  I'm the dude offering the drink.

(I do know that she did not come to the didactic I did on cultural competence...in spite of supervisors directives to go.  This was a serious bummer, as I did the didactic because I saw a need - from her and others  - and asked to be able to help to fill that need.  I expressed this disappointment to my supervisor later, and her response was, essentially "you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink."  This is true, but hard to sit with.  I kinda want to shake her and say "LEARN, DAMMIT!"  This, however, is generally regarded as unprofessional).

How would you have handled this situation?  Would you have had a conversation?  Or would you have let it be?