One Nation, Indivisible

It was election night. The results were pouring in. My phone buzzed with a text from my son: “America doesn’t want me.” This text required a phone response.

I called my boy, half a country away. He answered. His voice was trembling, I could tell he was in tears. “Mom, I’m terrified. I’m afraid to go out.”

For the record, this adult son turns 29 today. He is a world traveler, and street-savvy. He has an art degree and is studying law, passionate about pursuing justice for all, that thing we pay homage to in our pledge of allegiance. He is smart, but more importantly, he is kind. And he was terrified.

“Mom,” he said, “during the course of the presidential campaign, I’ve been approached in an LA laundromat and a St. Paul coffee shop, questioned as to whether I was a terrorist. I’ve had my life threatened by an off-duty policeman in a bar in Minneapolis, who said he could take me out back and shoot me, and no one would ever find out who did it. This was just during the campaign–how much worse will it be if he gets elected?”

It is the fear of every parent that we cannot protect our children from the world. We do what we can, we prepare them as adequately as we know how, and we spend the rest of our lives learning to let go. For those of us who are white parents of children of color, the world we would protect them from is not one that we personally experience. We are only too aware that the elements they may need protection from are part of the white privileged systems from which we ourselves benefit. It is painful to acknowledge that we can be unwitting players in the oppression visited upon our children.

I felt so helpless as I talked to my boy. I tried to offer support that only seemed to twist the knife deeper, and hung up feeling inadequate and dissatisfied. In a later conversation, I asked him “what can I do to help you?” “Let people know, Mom”, he answered. “It’s important to tell these stories.”

So I share this story today, knowing full well that it is far from unique, and struggling with this ugly irony–that in the same breath in which I am enraged and indignant at how strangers dare to treat my son, this precious child who made mother’s day cards, and brought me breakfast in bed when I was sick, this young man who loves to play with babies and spent his last summer seeking justice for those on death row–in this same breath I am painfully aware that my own unconscious racism leads me to look upon other mothers’ sons with similar suspicion. I catch myself checking to see if my car is locked, when driving through predominantly black neighborhoods. I see a young man and woman of color, walking together down the street, laughing. He holds a television set poised over his right shoulder. The first thought that flashes through my brain, before my Minnesota Nice chip can intercept it is: “I wonder if that TV’s stolen”. Of this I am not proud. And I am not just chagrined–I am horrified. Horrified to recognize the seeds of racism sown within my own heart.

It’s always easier to project our evil onto others than to engage in painful self-examination. I can weep and wail and moan and protest about everything going on out there, but if all that does is allow me to turn the spotlight away from my own failings, then I am no better than the “enemy”, whomever or whatever he or she might be.

I believe that the surest way to peace, to justice, and to “One Nation, Indivisible”, is for me to take a good, long look at my own heart, painstakingly uproot what has been planted, till the soil, and plant a new crop. I pray the harvest will come soon, and be bountiful.

And I wonder–what sort of a nation might we become if we each tend first and foremost to the fruits of our own heart? Shall we journey together and find out?

 

 

 

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Maternal GPS

I was struggling recently. You’re shocked, I know. Specifically, I was struggling with childhood issues stemming from uneven parenting. I prefer “uneven” to “dysfunctional”, because it allows for the good things that did seep through, speaks to the paradox of sometimes good, sometimes really bad that occurred during my formative years.

I have gotten to the point where I can hold two truths simultaneously, one in either hand: 1) My parents probably did the best they knew how, AND 2) I did not get what I needed.

I have been angry. I have been grieving. I have been astonished and awestruck, both to understand the extent of the damages to my psyche, and to acknowledge the inner strength I must possess to have become (at least on my good days) a (mostly) functional adult.

I am at the point where I need to choose how to move forward, both in grieving for my parent who has died, and in reassessing my relationship with the one who is still living, renegotiating something that will meet both my needs for connection and for self-protection.

In the midst of this painful process, I stumbled across a letter I wrote to one of my sons a couple of years ago, as he awaited acceptance/rejection letters from law school. As I reread it, I realized it could be easily applicable to any one of my children, and then, HOLY COW, it might even secretly be a letter to me, that older, wiser, inner parent part of me, speaking to the younger, tender, deeply wounded little person who still longs to hear that she is ok and worthy of love. I share it here in the hopes that it might resonate with those of my readers, my pseudo-siblings who got cheated out of a “normal” childhood (whatever that might look like) and are struggling to be adults without having the solid underpinnings of unconditional love that are our birthright. It’s kind of long, my apologies. I guess it’s just an example of what happens when I hand my pen to my heart and get out of the way.

“Dear Son,

Sorry the waiting is so hard. I know this will sound extremely dorky, but it can’t hurt, right? You can envision yourself opening letters of acceptance. In my mind’s eye I can see you walking to the mailbox, opening a letter, and it has big, red, felt-tipped handwriting that says “Yes!” (You may choose your own font.)

At the very least, it beats stressing about the possible noes. They may come, but that way you won’t be miserable until they do. I in no way mean to invalidate how hard this is for you. Truth be told, I am slightly anxious too, but more in a good way–wherever you land, it will be better than where you are now, and I am excited for you, for your next steps, for your new future, for the wonderful person you are and the amazing person you are continuing to evolve into. I know that the people you will champion in your new line of work will be deeply blessed by all that you bring to the table. Right now, it’s just a question of which table.

When I say I’m proud of you, I’m not proud in a “hey, look at me, I did a great job, and check out the result” kind of way. It’s more like: “Look at that man, and he’s so awesome that the love I feel won’t stay put quietly in my heart, and it’s too big to fit inside, and holy cow–that man’s my son!! and I’ve been blessed to witness his journey and sometimes be a guide, and even though he’s had to overcome so many obstacles, he still is kind, and thoughtful, and generous, and compassionate, and intelligent, and beautiful, and talented, and perservering, and loving. And that’s a miracle. And I am grateful for the blessing of you, to have had the privilege of sharing your life.

Today I am rearranging my office, gearing up for a new phase, and noticing, much to my chagrin, how much it bothers my sensibilities when my books are not lined up by height. Sigh. I guess I couldn’t hope to be my parents’ daughter and come away unscathed. But, truth be told, also blessed–my eclectic vocabulary, organizing skills and above-average intellect are gifts, though, as my father once admitted to me, smart is fine, but isn’t as important in the long run as kind.

And you are both, and so many other things as well. I am crying now just thinking about what a treasure you have been and continue to be in my life, and even if you end up practicing law in Zanzibar with no internet or phone service, my heart will always find you, ’cause that’s just how it works when you have kids, and you love them, and you try hard, and you get some stuff really right, and you get some stuff really wrong, and a lot of stuff in-between, but you just hope that it was enough, and you’re proud because even though it was harder than anything you ever imagined you could do, you somehow managed to pull it together and never give up, give way better than you got, and you hope that if your kids can do the same, give better than they got, and their kids too, maybe in six more generations no one will need therapy anymore ’cause they’ll just know how to love each other and be caring, and loving, and kind, and fun, and responsible and consistent, and flexible and tenacious, and they’ll know from the get-go that they are already good enough, and they won’t have to spend so much time and energy trying to prove that to themselves and others.

So back to my original point of that unintentional run-on paragraph, which is that wherever you land, I will find you, my maternal GPS system will tell me which direction to stand so that my love will flow out and make its way to your heart, and course through your veins, and the sound of my voice will whisper softly in your ear–you are loved, you are blessed, you are enough.”

And I’m a little embarrassed, ’cause this is not the email I planned to write, and I thought about not sending it ’cause it might seem too corny or overly-emotional, but then I figured you get to decide what to take in, what fits, what feels right, and scrap the rest of it.

So, um, back to my to-do list, which is mostly the business about dealing with bad checks left over from December.

Ma Dukes”

 

 

 

How To Be A Better Parent All The Time At Everything

Loved this post. Hope you will too. Wish I’d read it twenty years ago!

How to be a better parent all the time at everything?? You can’t. The end.

Jess Basson

Dear Parent,

You’re probably thirty-something. You probably have a child or two under the age of four. You never knew you could feel SO MUCH LOVE, but you also never knew it was going to be THIS HARD. There are moments of sheer delight, but they’re often separated by long, mundane hours that range from busy to infuriating.

You feel guilty that you miss your pre-parent life. You wish you never lost your temper as often as you do. You know your spouse is supposed to be on the same team as you but often they feel like The Enemy.

But most of all, there is this nagging suspicion that you are messing it up.

mugIt being Parenthood, Your Child, Marriage, Life.

You used to feel like someone who could manage stress, who knew how to handle, who had a game plan. But between discipline and diet, health and safety, tantrums and tired…

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Touching

The morning started off very sweetly. My daughter, now 29, dropped her son off at school and swung by the house. I was still in bed. In my early-morning stupor, I tried to ask her something, and she decided what I was trying to say was that I needed to snuggle with her before she had to go. I didn’t object. Snuggling felt warm, and toasty and soft and delicious. I didn’t realize how much I missed that feeling. I was very affectionate with my kids–we slept together, cuddled, warm piles of limbs and elbows, tickles, plump cheeks and shinbones, knobby knees and tangled hair, morning breath and morning waking, a messy nest of love.

I first brought my daughter to bed with us when she was several months old, after I nearly dropped her one night while nursing her in the rocking chair, bone-weary from exhaustion. And there was no turning back, but it was mostly a good thing.  The kids didn’t see their dad much during the day, but we’d all be together at night, or at least by morning, the kids trickling in one by one as the night wore on, first the nursing baby, and then the siblings, little feet pitter pattering their way to our room in the dark.

My husband and I gave up our double bed, traded with the kids, pushed their twin mattresses together, and called it a king. I think that was before the bedbugs, but that’s another story.

Years later, as a single parent, the trend continued, my youngest refusing to stay for long in his own bed or his own bedroom. “But mom”, he pleaded with me once “you’re my love connection.”

Sometimes when I dream at night, my children are little again, at least for a while–they come to me unbidden, the memory true and undistorted–solid, clear, precise, in a way that my daytime memory cannot produce.

I wake with nostalgia, a sense of sweetness, wholeness, and loss in the same blurry exhale. And in those just-before-consciousness moments, I savor the knowledge that I wasn’t such a bad mother after all.

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