What is happening? #blacklivesmatter

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am sick to my stomach right now. My head is spinning with fury and sadness. Over and over I hear the brave composure, the fear, the pain, and then, the crushing grief in Diamond Reynolds' voice during her brave filming* of her boyfriend's (Philando Castile) murder by a policeman in Minnesota. Castile was a well-liked school cafeteria worker with no criminal record other than a previous fine for not having car insurance.

Castile and Reynolds, driving home with Reynolds' young daughter in the backseat, were pulled over for a broken tail light. The cop demanded to see Castile's license and registration at which point Castile informed the officer that he did have a properly licensed firearm with him and that he was reaching for his wallet only. The cop shot Castile in the arm, screaming at him not to move. Three more bullets in quick succession, and Castile begins to bleed out in the car, in front of his girlfriend and her child. He dies slumped over the console and into the back seat.

Reynolds continues to film, the agitated cop screaming in the background, as back-up police arrive. She is unbelievably polite as the cop yells at her to keep her hands where he can see them. She is restrained, composed, calm in a way no one should have to be in the face of such danger and cruelty.

She is ordered out of the car, hands up. She is ordered to kneel and be handcuffed. She is not allowed to hold her daughter, the cops don't answer her when she asks about her child.

This happens less than 48 hours after Alton Sterling is shot and killed by policemen in Louisiana. Like Castile, Sterling was not holding a gun although it seems he had one in his pocket. He was selling CDs in a parking lot when the cops arrived. They tackle and, according to some, taser him, screaming “I swear to God if you fucking move!” He does not reach for his gun. He is quickly shot six times at point-blank range. He bleeds out and dies in the parking lot.

Eric Garner, Freddie Gray, Laquan Donald, Michael Brown, Walter Scott, Tamir Rice...The list grows, black men and women and children slain by cops who rarely receive more punishment than paid administrative leave. PAID! The cops who shot Castile and Sterling do NOT deserve payment; they deserve to be fired and imprisoned and held accountable for taking lives.

Meanwhile, mass shootings continue, Congress refuses to discuss gun violence, control or reform, the NRA sits back and laughs, rolling in piles of money, willfully blind to and unconcerned about the blood on their hands. Donald Trump fans the flames of bigotry and intolerance and division, and people cheer. They cheer!

I don't have any way of understanding this. Hatred isn't going to make anyone do better in life. It's not going to increase paychecks or bring peace. It's not going to make anyone safer.

Our country is falling apart, riven by those racing backward in time to an age of overt racism and classism and horror. Where is a collective sense of self? Why are so many excluded from that? Where is our empathy? Our revulsion? Our willingness to do the right thing regardless of political party? The right and moral thing isn't political; it's justice. It's being our best selves.

Guns are everywhere. The police, tasked with serving and protecting, are killing and abusing all too often. All too often, black Americans are treated like dirt. They fear for their children, their lives, and their futures in a way I simply don't believe whites can understand. This is grossly unjust. This is not something to perpetuate. This is not an America that makes me proud. It is an America that frightens and disgusts me. We should be better than this.

*The videos, especially Reynolds', are extremely difficult to watch, but I urge you to if you can. Hear her pain. Hear the pain of a people oppressed and hated and mistreated. This has got to stop. #blacklivesmatter

Thanks to Adam Ortiz for sharing the gorgeous St. Vincent Millay stanza above.

Sleepless because...

For Jack's combined graduation-birthday gift, all of his grandparents and Tom and I went in together to give him a new bed, bedding, and nightstand. It was time to make the leap from twin to full, and he picked out a really darling bed -a navy blue twill upholstered frame and headboard with a gold J monogrammed on it- a preppy, stylish nightstand in white wood with brass hardware, and a cool new Star Wars quilt and shams. 

terrible color rendering and yes, i know the bed is not centered. j does not want it centered. #idunno

He has since invited everyone in the family to join him for a night in the new sack. My mom and Oliver took him up on the offer immediately, and reported good nights of sleep.
Yesterday, Jack said that for his birthday, he'd reeeaaalllly love it if I'd experience his bed too.

I agreed because even though I doubt most ten-year-olds sleep with parents and maybe at this point I shouldn't bunk with my sons anymore, it's also really dear that Jack still asks and really does want me there.

Immediately, Tom said, "You are nuts. You'll get a terrible night of sleep. Jack kicks!" To which I replied, "I'm sure it will be fine."

As I played with Nutmeg from 2-4 am this morning, bleary-eyed and tired of rogue limbs flailing into me for hours before and a pretty significant amount of talking and moaning in his sleep, I silently vowed to never slumber with Jack again.

But I wouldn't trade it for the world. Even though it meant giving up time with Tom and losing sleep and being pretty uncomfortable, I know what it meant to Jack. And therefore, to me. 

We snuck out for a bit to watch local fireworks from our favorite window seat, and once back in bed, I rubbed his back until he settled and his breathing slowed and deepened.

"Mom, this has been the best part of my birthday. Thank you. I love you."

"I love you too, honey. So much."

I imagine last night may blur into a vague memory or an amalgamation of similar nights as the years stretch forward and beyond. As with all the travel we've done with the boys since they were tots, I don't expect or profess to know what they'll remember clearly and what they won't, what they'll flat out forget and what will matter a great deal. 

But I think (hope!) that an enduring foundation is being laid, one that will withstand time and aging and fault lines and tectonic shifts. 

I hope that Jack always knows how loved he is and that he can draw strength and comfort from that when he needs it. 

Last night, as I rubbed his back, and his perfect lips slackened in sleep's gentle embrace, I thought about how a parent's love for her child sustains but also takes.

At least for me, loving my children and striving always to do right by them often means carving away from other deserving, important things: my marriage, my free time, my extra-parental interests, my energy. There never seems to be enough time, and yet I never regret moments -brief or lengthy- like last night or the recent Lego marathon for in a rushed life, they feel relaxed. In a scheduled life, they feel spontaneous. In the relative brevity of childhood, I hope they count for something. They do to me.

Home!

We left Wrightsville Beach on Friday morning and headed northeast a couple hours to visit friends in New Bern. They live on a creek, and it so resembles the bayou on which my parents live that I nearly gasped in familiarity. Isn't this beautiful? There is even Spanish moss, boatloads of it, like in LA. 

We paddleboarded, kayaked, picked blueberries, experienced a walk-up only Dairy Queen for the first time, swam, talked, laughed, and caught most of the continuation of the INCREDIBLE Djokovic-Querrey matchup at Wimbledon. Seriously, did y'all see that game? Holy smokes!

This morning, we packed up again, but this time to head home. 

There is something so liberating about being elsewhere, about shedding the daily to-dos of regular life. But after a while, I always start feeling a bit unmoored and itching to soon throw my ropes around the cleats on home's dock. We pulled in this afternoon just as everyone started to dissolve in car-bound craziness. Long road trips really test the love, you know?

Tom hauled ass inside, changed his clothes, put in his ear buds and raced to isolating zen of the lawn mower's loud engine. I checked on my garden -new leaves on both blackberry bushes! tomatoes! squash! OKRA BLOSSOMS!- and then hauled ass to the market, the words "No, I will not buy a storm trooper costume. Make your own!" trailing from my mouth as the boys begged.

I returned home to this masterpiece, a delightful repurposing of ninja wear, old Tae Kwon Do gear, a Rebel pilot bib, and the storm trooper mask we already owned.

See kids? I knew you could do it! That is not, by the way, a diaper!

Tomorrow, Jack turns 10, and somewhat to his dismay, I am sending the boys to day 1 of camp. We have celebrated J three times already, and really, this mama needs a day off. Tom promised to assist with additional costume making tomorrow afternoon, and I offered a (yet another) blackberry pie.

Double digits for my firstborn! I remember his birth with total clarity, not least because even though my contractions started at just minutes apart, I plugged in my curling iron and fully planned to style my hair before my mother intervened and, wisely, told me to get in the freaking car instead. 

happy Jack at 8.5 months

I have missed this space and hope to settle back in to my regular routine now. Happy 4th everyone!