That first blush

Just before 7:30pm, on a Friday night two Decembers ago, Jack and I convinced Tom to let us adopt Nutmeg. I will never forget the amazed expression on J's face when I said, "We did it! Get your shoes on, and let's go get that cat!" 

Not only was it way past bedtime, and not only were we both stunned that T agreed to house yet another living creature, but it was also such a wonderfully unorthodox way for J and me to spend a Friday night that we buzzed on a giddy high the whole way to PetSmart. 

One of the tactics we employed to sway Tom's opinion was Jack's saying, with dreamy eyes and in a slightly dramatic, clutching-pearls way, "Dad, Nutmeg is my soulmate. We need to have him."

Although that was largely untrue then, J and I love the Nut so dearly and deeply now, that in retrospect, his claim seems totally honest and reasonable. 

More recently, one of Jack's girl friends, X, adopted a gray tabby named Sugar. She loves Sugar in the borderline-obsessive way we love Nutmeg, and she and J bond over their cat-adoration on a regular basis. J went to her house for an after-school play date a couple weeks ago, ostensibly to meet Sugar and share photos of Nutmeg, and later regaled me with the grand time they'd had.

"Sugar doesn't really like boys, but X and I still had a lot of fun!"

"What did y'all do, honey?"

"Well, we mostly just fought."

"What?? Were you mad or just playing?"

"Just playing. We just threw things at each other. That kind of fighting..." And he smiled.

I'd noticed, as this conversation progressed, the slightest tinge of red creeping into Jack's cheeks. By the end, his porcelain skin was positively aglow, and although he couldn't have articulated why, I certainly could. And I smiled.

"It begins," I told Tom that night over dinner. 

"Oh Em, I don't know. He's only in third grade."

"Yes, but even if he's completely unaware of romance or crushes or the ways people interact when they flirt, it is still a nascent dawn of a new era." And I smiled again.

I wish you could have seen the upward curve at each corner of his mouth as Jack relayed this story to me. I wish I could more accurately describe just how innocent and sweet he looked and sounded when describing the way he and X "fought." I wish I had a photograph of him in that moment so that the image of my little boy feeling something new and exciting would never fade in the way that memories are wont to; the pencil-eraser-smudging over time of what was once sharp and crystal clear.

Jack has always had such a delightfully clueless aura about him. He was never remotely vexed about his passion for all things pink as it didn't occur to him that anyone would care (and of course, they shouldn't have). He wore his pink shirts and slept in his pink and white sheets and rode his magenta bike with its white seat and streamers and butterfly decals with all the unadulterated confidence in the world.

He has never expressed an inkling of concern about not much liking or being terribly good at most sports, and he didn't notice that (until he shot up like a beanstalk in second grade) he was one of the shortest boys in the grade. Even burgeoning social dynamics and divides haven't much phased him. It took a bully to get his attention to those sorts of challenges, and even then, his primary reaction was simply one of sadness: "Why would anyone act like this?" 

Oliver is much more attuned to societal dynamics, norms and expectations, and although his awareness arguably means he's more prepared for the realities of the world, it still makes me sad for him because he doesn't experience childhood with the same blissful ignorance as has Jack.

In that regard, I can only describe Jack as angelic, an attribute that made witnessing that first blush especially dear. With the knowledge of what's to come, I basked in the utter innocence of his experience. Perhaps he's not even thought about it since. But I have. And it still makes me smile. 

#Ferguson #race #whiteprivilege

Last week, outside the gym locker rooms, I saw a friend. He’s a great guy, and I also love his wife. We met nearly four years ago when our children started kindergarten together. They are both incredibly successful professionals and their kids are the sort you meet and think, “What terrific kids!” Which of course also means, “What terrific parents.” We started catching up, and I asked if he was still travelling fairly constantly for work. He’s been on the road regularly for the past year and told me that pace hadn’t yet relented. Hopefully this fall. He must be a million-miler on all airlines by now.

Chit-chat transitioned into a powerful conversation about race in America, and for the next twenty minutes, I mostly listened, entranced and sad.

He and his wife are black. Did you have that in your mind’s eye? Or did that make you pause slightly, like the jury in A Time To Kill when Matthew McConaughey instructs them, “Now imagine that girl is black.”

We talked about what’s happening in Ferguson, the Eric Garner homicide, my friend’s own experiences as the victim of bigotry and racism since he was young. He told me about having been called the “n word” too many times to count, about having the police follow and pull him over for no reason and then question his ownership of his own car. He told me about the treatment his wife has received too; ugly, discriminatory profiling.

The albatrosses they now possess, constituted by years of these encounters, have made them think long and hard about how they need to prepare their children to be black in America. As he told me how -emphasizing perfect diction; learning how to handle being called the “n word” should that happen; teaching irreproachable behavior when in the presence of any authority, especially the police - I stood there, dumbstruck and heartbroken. We are definitely not in a post-racial U.S.

Our boys have been friends for years, and the way they walk down school halls or the baseball dugout now might be just the way they saunter through malls or towards a movie theater in another ten. My friend said that even though they (the boys) wouldn’t bat an eye, others might. Strangers may “look at them differently. If the police pass …” and something appears even the tiniest bit off, “nothing would happen to your son, but something could very easily happen to mine.” He said everything much more eloquently than that, but hopefully you get the drift. Remarkably, he didn’t sound bitter. He sounded resigned, and that crushed me.

For my heart hurt with those truths, throbbing with the painful knowledge that because I am white, I won’t have to prepare my kids in the same way. I have read and heard so much, especially lately, about black parents who are scared for their children (particularly for their sons) to simply walk down the street. Who fear for the hateful assumptions others will make for nothing more than the color of their skin. They have had to work, as will their children, harder than white peers for the same, or lesser, outcomes.

Trayvon, Michael, Eric. Black men walking on American streets one moment, dead the next. Killed. I’d be terrified too.

But those are never the worries I have for my sons. I fret about many things, but I take for granted -subconsciously; because I can- that they won’t be profiled and judged. That ability to not worry? That is white privilege and it’s despicable. That this privilege is another’s burden, too many others’ burden, enrages me and makes me cringe. It is morally indefensible.

Realizing the time, my friend and I quickly hugged and said goodbye. I thanked him profusely for the gift he gave me in this conversation, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I don’t think I will and I do hope we’ll pick up where we left off sometime soon. Discrimination is ugly and divisive, the sort of horribleness that necessarily exalts some while denigrating others. It reminds me of the caste system in India, an antiquated, racist scheme that I I suspect many Americans would condemn, despite the tragic double standard inherent in doing so.

In such an unequal system, the “exalted” must and should play an enormous role in fighting the injustice. It is additional discrimination to put the onus on the denigrated to themselves do better and overcome. Like hetero allies do in the fight for LGBTQ rights, so too must non-blacks rise up in protest of the Eric Garner and Michael Brown homicides. Garner was killed by a police officer. Killed. On a street in a chokehold, begging for breath while some ignorant idiot continued to apply pressure. And for what? Selling cigarettes when he shouldn’t have been?

So far, the officers responsible have been slapped on the wrists. They’re still employed by the NYPD. The NYPD union protested the claim -despite video evidence and the autopsy- that Garner died from the chokehold, citing instead his being overweight and in somewhat ill health. Mayor de Blasio called for dialogue. What would be different if Garner were white? I suspect much. And by the way, that officer, the one who killed Garner and still has his job? He was accused twice in 2013 of falsely arresting and abusing people. Who’s the threat here? The problem?

We all should have a problem with cops like that. We all should expect and demand more. Dialogue should prevent these sorts of deaths. It’s a largely empty suggestion afterwards.

Remember Cliven Bundy? That racist, nearly-seventy-year-old in Nevada who has refused to pay grazing fees on federal land for twenty years? Remember him sitting atop his horse, flanked by an equally crazed militia, all of them armed out the wazoo, pointing their guns directly at the Bureau of Land Management agents and screaming about their second amendment rights? Can you imagine if a group of black men sat in their place? I don’t at all think it’s exaggeration to say that at least one would have been shot dead and the rest jailed for life.

Ours is far from a fair and just society, and after all the years and decades spent fighting for equality on many fronts, it’s deeply upsetting to witness events that strongly suggest we have moved forward not an inch. American inequality plays out socioeconomically, racially, geographically, religiously, along gender lines and on and on. At times the future seems so terribly bleak: what can any of us do? What can one of us do? What can I do?

Right now, I can look microcosmically at myself as a white mother of two. I believe it is my responsibility to confront racism head-on by exposing my children to its ugly presence; as they see its injustice and are moved by it, I can try to guide them towards behavior that combats such intolerance.

It is my duty to expose them to the abject poverty in which many Americans live and foster in them desire to work towards its end. It is incumbent upon me to repeatedly remind them just how fortunate they are and to instill in them sincere generosity and eagerness to give back, not out of a sense of obligation but rather the deeply held conviction of what is just.

I want to continue to ask and listen and learn and talk. To stand up alongside and for my brothers and sisters in whose shoes I don’t walk so that I see more clearly their paths as they both converge with and diverge from my own. It is my hope that as my children see their mother walking the walk, they are inspired to do the same. And that at some point, the weights of injustice and suppression that debase the fabric of our society are weakened to the point of insignificance and true regret.

On Perfectionism

For as long as I can remember, I have felt an innate drive to do my very best in every task or endeavor regardless of size or seeming import. I’m not a corner-cutter, and I like hard work; struggling through the gritty, decidedly unglamorous aspects of any job makes the outcome that much more meaningful. When I was young, my mom used to offer my sister and me odd jobs around the house as a means of making a little extra money for our cash boxes. Did you have one of those? I think they came from the Lillian Vernon catalog. I can’t recall what color mine was, but I do remember that it had a combination lock built into the front, my initials engraved in a small silver plague just above that, a slot in the top for dropping coins/bills in, and a small metal handle for easy transport. Elia had one too, and if memory serves, she was as enthusiastic a saver as was I.

Anyway, Mom would often make lists of jobs that needed to be done, and we could take ‘em or leave ‘em. They weren’t fun -think gutter cleaning, shower curtain cloroxing, etc- but we could make a few bucks, and I often decided to take them on because they were a means to my larger end. Cleaning gutters was not fun. South Louisiana weather tends towards the hot-and-humid-always variety, and you just never knew what sort of slimy creatures might be hiding in the compacted pine needles, leaves and other natural junk. At that time in my life, I hated being dirty, I did not want to be wet unless I was in the shower, and I loathed all manner of bug.

I remember one particularly grueling day: the sun was blazing down, I was sweaty and dirty, the gutters seemed to be filling as fast as I could empty them, and out of desperation I started singing -while suspended out a window- “I’m the luckiest girl in the world….” It was facetious, but looking back, those sorts of tasks taught me incredible lessons about hard work and just getting a job done right and well the first time around. I was lucky to have those experiences, to have financially comfortable parents who were nonetheless determined to make us feel lucky about our lot and to value hard work of any sort.

Yet as with most everything, there are extremes, behavioral fundamentalisms if you will. Whether gutters or homework or appearance or whatever, I worked hard, sometimes, often, listing too much towards the side of perfectionism. It was difficult for me to stay in the present when a future goal was always on the line: there was always more that could be done. And although I’m much more of an optimist now, I was, growing up, really a glass-half-empty kinda girl.

Looking back -hell, looking now!- I think perfectionism was my effort to control the pessimism and anxiety I felt during much of adolescence and early adulthood. If I could do something faultlessly, there would be no reason for anyone to judge or feel upset with me. If I was agreeable, helpful, a straight-A student, tidy, accomplished, thoughtful and kind, I could keep at bay any negativity or dislike from others; that way, I’d only have my own self-judgment to manage. This equation seemed safer, but I see now that it also ingrained a striving towards perfect that has often been exhausting to maintain. Additionally, it makes the times when I do upset or disappoint or sadden others that much harder for me to handle.

As I have grown older, I have not stopped analyzing and working on myself. I believe we are all works in progress, and that there never comes a time in life in which any of us has nothing left to learn. Times change, we change, those we love change or surprise us. Life is a vast set of dynamic Venn diagrams, and each of us is but one element in many of those. To stay open is exciting, yet personal growth is usually quite difficult. That said, I think such growth is infinitely rewarding.

In my latter-thirties, I feel a comfort and confidence in myself that has long been elusive. It is thrilling but also vexing at times. As I grow more into the person I believe is the truest me, I simultaneously must (and want to) shed some of that attempted-perfectionist shell. It can feel terrifying. It can feel not worth it. But I think and hope that it is. It has taken me a long time and a lot of nervous-stomach managing to come to an acceptance that as no one is liked by everyone, perhaps I needn’t hold myself to that standard. In the same vein, it has been scary to accept that by living honestly and openly and authentically, I will upset others at times. Yet when I look at those whom I most admire, they are the individuals who speak and live their truths. Respectfully but without apology or disclaimer.

This is not to say that I don’t care what others think. On the contrary, I believe I might still care too much; the yoke of perfectionism is a gripping one. And one of the forces that most inspires and fulfills me is reaching out to, connecting with and supporting others.

But I’m tired of feeling beholden to others’ opinions or expectations when what that really means is that my own are suppressed.  I am an ambitious woman who likes to succeed. I have learned that usually, it doesn’t hurt to ask: for help; for clarification; for acknowledgement when it’s due; whether the restaurant will sell me their water carafe because I love it (yes, they are usually willing to sell anything!). To stand up for oneself is simply to show that self respect, but it doesn’t always come easily to people, and often, this is especially true for women. As a side note, I think this is what has made Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In message go viral so quickly: her saying that ambition is OK and doesn’t make you less of anything (necessarily) is serving as the confirmation and support many of us need to truly lean in to our lives.

In second grade, there were two girls who really gave me trouble. They taunted and teased me, and I just didn’t know how to handle any of it. It wasn’t in my nature to say, “hey, stop, you’re hurting my feelings” and so I just took it in. My mom, wisely, took me to a great child psychologist who helped me learn to stand up for myself, who helped me see that I needed to attend to myself in addition to others. Though I started learning this skill decades ago, I’ve still not mastered it. It’s hard as get-out. Yesterday, at the farmers market, the cheese lady gave me the wrong amount of change (too  little). I spent a full two minutes, tense and concerned, figuring out if I should simply accept it (“she did work hard to make the cheese; she is handling lots of customers”) before I finally got up the nerve to go back and say, “I”m sorry but you gave me the wrong amount of change.”

For pete’s sakes, I apologized AND felt badly about something that wasn’t my fault. So clearly there is work to be done. But it MUST be done.

The point is that I am coming to peace with the blunt fact that I am who I am. Not perfect. Not an endless font of patience. Not without opinions and beliefs. Not willing to keep my mouth snapped shut all the time. Not a thornless being. We all have deficiencies, blemishes, flaws: to share instead of hiding them seems to be an untapped means of connecting with each other. So I am trying to find comfort in being the imperfect self that I truly am, recognizing that though some won’t like it, others will. I think I will. And I think I owe it to my boys to model that real people mess up, err, say the wrong thing sometimes; but they don’t stop trying to better themselves and they derive pride in the honest process of self-discovery.

Voltaire said that the perfect (or best) is the enemy of the good. I am a good person, and I know how hard I work to be a positive presence in the lives of my friends, family, acquaintances and community. And I think that in many ways, that’s good enough. Maybe it’s better than perfect.

The yoke is loosening; I am shaking it free.