Writing, Spirituality, and Social Justice

Gratitude

2011-12-05T19:37:00.001-08:00

It has been so long since I have written here, and so much has happened, that I hardly know where to begin. So instead, I feel compelled to list what I am most thankful for, right now, at this very moment in my life.

I am thankful for T, who really listens to me, who is willing to sit on the phone while I tell her the details of my day and is more patient and calm about whatever I'm saying, more able to be a witness and not a fixer, than anyone I've ever met.
I needed this more than I even realized.

I am grateful for my friend J, who is always honest with me.

I am thankful that I have learned to be a witness, to sit at the edge of a person's pain and hold it without becoming it. Even, when I am most centered, to sit at the edge of my own pain and hold it without becoming it.

I am grateful for my daughter's opportunity to volunteer at the Humane Society, for the board that welcomed her, for the college student H who goes with her. She belongs again in a way that she hasn't in so many years. She is beginning to imagine herself as someone who could care for animals, and make money doing it, sometime in the future.

I am grateful for all the people who have hired her to care for their animals.

I am grateful for the times when I am able to breathe when I think of the future. I am grateful that I now only get a knot in my stomach, a panicked feeling in my throat, about half of the time. I am grateful because I know I am making progress, and that sometime in the future, I will be able to breathe through these moments more, if not all, of the time.

I am grateful that we just learned yesterday that S's littlest brother has found a permanent home. I am praying it will really be permanent, that the family will have the strength and clarity to see him through this year, and the next, and the next, and the rest of his life.

I am grateful for her other brother and his adoptive father, who welcomed us for Thanksgiving, who are now truly a part of our family.

I am grateful that in October I got to perform the weddings of four people I love deeply, for how moving those weddings were, and for the chance to do it all again for another couple I love in January.

I am grateful that, in this culture of immediate gratification and so much uncertainty, people are still willing to commit their lives to each other and to find a way to live in love.

I am grateful for our beautiful live Christmas tree, and for all the people who stopped to help us get it back on the top of our car when it toppled off, and for the moment when my daughter said to me, "We are so lucky to live here. This wouldn't have happened anywhere else."

I am grateful for the students who have helped to create and sustain an ESL program for new immigrants in our community--for their patience with the disorganization and chaos of the day to day struggles of getting such a program up and running, and for sticking it out, lesson plan by lesson plan, day by day.

I am grateful for my new coworker, who has relieved me from 20 hours of work a week and so much more. She is a calm and thoughtful presence who is already making a difference in my stress level in her first month on the job.

I am grateful that my supervisors finally truly heard and took to heart my need for more help.

I am grateful that I have lost almost 20 pounds in the last two months. I am grateful that my decision to focus on my body has led to more energy, to a sense of control over my life, to more self-confidence. I am grateful that I am no longer using food to relieve my stress. I am grateful for Weight Watchers and the awesome people in my meeting.

I am grateful that for the first time since adopting S I'm beginning to make progress on my debt. That I had the clarity to realize that a trip to Greece would have been too much for us, emotionally and financially, this summer.

I am grateful that I have six more months to work with Lisa on a post-high-school plan. I am grateful that even though she hasn't passed all the standardized tests her grades are good, she's working hard, and there is still a way for her to graduate in June.

I am grateful that I was able to run into my ex recently and have a real conversation that contained no bitterness or anger or pain.

I am grateful for the church I attend, and for the amazing minister there. I am praying that, although she'll have to leave, I will be able to keep this church home, or that, at the very least, I'll be able to feel sustained by the time I was able to worship there.

I am grateful for healing, and forgiveness.

I am grateful that my daughter told me today she was the luckiest person alive to have a mom like me--that even when things get hard, I know she gets how much I love her, and how hard I'm trying.

I am grateful that I am feeling happy more often than sad these days. It has been so long since I could say that!

Summertime: On Gratitude, Grief, Patience, Hope, and Family

2011-09-03T08:51:00.000-07:00

On Gratitude
“What do you think would have happened to me if you hadn’t adopted me?” S wanted to know one afternoon, as we were making the long trec from our hometown to where my aunt, whom S calls “yiayia,” or grandma in Greece, lives in Detroit.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly, because I don’t.

“I don’t think it would have been good,” S said. I let that statement hang in the air as we passed some horses grazing in the distance along the highway. I didn’t know what to say. The truth is, we still don’t know what will happen, exactly—and that has been a major stressor all summer.

“I’m so glad you adopted me,” she added, “and that you love me so much.”

We both took a deep breath. “I’m so glad you love me so much, too,” I said.

She put the seat back and tried to nap. The dog in his backseat kennel stirred, looked over at her, and lay back down.

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On Grief

This summer has been a time of major growth for both of us. Thanks to two good friends—one a long-time, old friend whom I’ve gotten to know a lot better this summer, and the other S’s most recent “college buddy,” actually a slightly-older-than-college age woman who has had an incredible impact on S’s life—I’ve found my way out of a depression that lasted more than a year. The depression was brought on by the death of my student and the losses, through death or moving, of so many other good friends and beloved family members this past year.

Both friends were going through major life changes and dealing with memories from their past, and our time together started with me finding a way to open my heart to them—to not hold back in how I helped them as I had been doing, unconsciously, for far too long out of fear of getting hurt by loss. Whenever we grieve, all of our past, unresolved griefs are unleashed again, and we have to struggle to figure out how to live with one foot in the present and one in the past. It becomes difficult to think beyond the next moment, or to love anyone, because loving yourself is a full-time job.

But I was clearly called to help these friends through crises, to put my own grief on hold, to step out of the dark place where I had been hiding. And, in time, our conversations developed into truly reciprocal friendships, and I felt cared for and loved, like someone finally knew the day-to-day details of our lives enough to be there for me through all the ups and downs.

One of them, Lisa’s college buddy T, will leave in a couple weeks, which will be incredibly hard for us—but for once I don’t feel sad that we got so close and now I will have to lose her. Instead, I feel grateful for all she’s done for us, grateful that I was able to be there for her, grateful that I had, even for a brief time, someone with whom I could talk late into the night, could completely lose a sense of time around. It has been so long since I’ve had a friend like that in my life.

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On Patience

All summer we have been grappling with a variety of social service agencies, the details of which I outlined in an earlier post. We have been trying to determine what resources S is eligible for as she enters her senior year of high school, and because none of these agencies communicate with each other, it has been quite time-consuming.

I was working half-time this summer, and so I set my schedule to be 8:30-1:30 four days a week (at work) and another day with the same hours which I spent at the coffee shop struggling through forms and phone calls and other details related to S’s care.

It paid off; in the end, I was able to leverage more assistance than we’ve ever had, as opposed to less. Adoption assistance will continue until she graduates high school. A very helpful social security worker, while not succeeding in getting S disability payments, figured out that she was owed payments from her bio parents—and we got, quite out of the blue, a very large check for back payments, and will continue to get a check every month until she graduates high school. And, we got a family support grant from Human Services.

What this means is that I will be able to pay all of S’s tutoring, child care, and job coaching with resources other than my own—and begin to make some progress on my debt, not to mention always have enough money to pay our bills and for other necessities. It is a great relief.

There are a few items that still need to be resolved—my insurance and her MA which covers the co-pays for her meds and therapists are now refusing payment on many services, and I’ll be in a battle with them for the foreseeable future; I didn’t get my tax refund because the federal government is suddenly, for the first time, suspicious about whether S was actually adopted and actually has special needs (OK, federal government, here are the 70 pages of assessments she’s had in the last year proving she is)…etc.

But somehow I am managing to, well, manage. I am not feeling nearly as panicked as ever before. Even though all of the resources we have will be cut off once she graduates, I now have a year to figure out what to do, as well as a very helpful social security worker who thinks she can get S qualified next year for disability (once the other resources are cut off) and a very helpful social worker.

T, S’s college buddy, helped her get ready for pursuing a job for this coming academic year, and she now has a long-term placement with the local Humane Society. It is a perfect fit for her--she wants so much to do the job well, and she is in love with the animals. I just hired a new college student to be her job coach, and I’ll be able to get her credit for this experience.

The school was, as usual, totally unhelpful in this process, and didn’t answer any of my questions about whether this experience could count for credit until three days before the start of the new year. The answer was yes, but only if a paraprofessional went with S to the site during the work day. By this point, S had gone through her training (which the paraprofessional would have had to complete, and which isn't available during school hours) and was scheduled for evening hours—and the Humane Society isn’t in need of help during the periods when the school had scheduled her work experience.

So, I gave up and said I was going to home school her in the work experience, math, and her fine arts credit (she’ll be taking piano again this year). I decided this was easier than trying to negotiate. Ultimately, even though it was utterly flawed, I also decided not to fight the evaluation the school did—I have given up. I have decided I will get her through high school with a combination of daily communication with her teachers and some homeschooling, and that trying to use the special education department to help is pointless. She will have an IEP, and I’ll fight for it to include the accommodations she really needs—but ultimately, I realize I need to do most of the work, to communicate directly with teachers and not expect the special ed department to help either with organizational skills or academic skills. I know this may sound defeatist, but I have wasted so much time and energy communicating with her special ed teacher and the staff in the room, and I’ve finally realized I need to eliminate this stress from my life.

And…it’s only one more year! After that, I’ll likely need to advocate for her with other people and agencies, but I can’t imagine any advocacy that will be more difficult than what I have been through with the schools.

I am learning, slowly but surely, to let some things go if they truly can’t be resolved, and to find creative solutions for them. I am learning, slowly but surely, to stay present in the present and not be obsessed with the future. And, I’m learning patience. I feel like there have been so many utterly amazing gifts, and so much growth, in all of this.

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On Hope

In June, S had her first seriously violent episode in a long time. Her ballet obsession had become all-consuming after her recital in May. She got violent with both T and me when we tried to set some limits on her obsession. So, I cut her off altogether. This involved a very difficult conversation with her teacher, who had been part of the problem all along—a good, kindhearted person who really cares for S, she had not been able or willing to be honest with her about her abilities in the area of dance. S imagined herself as being graceful and beautiful on stage; she could barely follow the steps. I realized her teacher had put her on pointe much too early, and that the result had been incredibly damaging to S’s understanding of the work that is needed to make achievement in any art.

After a month off completely, she has been, for the last month, allowed to dance, read about dance, or watch dance videos for a half hour each day—but most days, she forgets to ask for this time. I also bought her a new pair of pointe shoes over the summer to show her that I would be willing, someday, to let her dance again—but that she needed to learn some limits.

She goes back and forth. We had another incident last night where she said, “I’ve been doing really well with my limits, so I’ll start dance again when school starts, right?” Well, no. We had decided that the very earliest she would be able to start again would be October, after at least a month in school, and that she would have to agree not to be in any recitals, as they tend to cause a lot of the obsessiveness. But, she wasn’t satisfied with this answer—again. This time, though, she apologized within 24 hours for resisting the rules we had already set up.

It is hard for me to write this next part. When she got violent with me over ballet, during the incident that led to a complete cut off of any talk about dance, she tried to choke me. She realized quickly what she was doing and pulled her hands away--but she had her hands on my neck for long enough that I was scared. She was so sorry—immediately sorry, for the first time ever, maybe.

But then, two days later, we learned that a boy she’d known from school—another student in the special ed department—had choked his mother to death last Christmas. The case was finally closed—he had admitted that it was him (and his brothers) who did it. News like this can’t be easy for anyone to take in—but imagine if you were the same age as the boy and had sat next to him in the Resource Room. Imagine if he had been quiet but likeable, although you had been bothered that he called the room "the retard room," and wished he would stop. Imagine if, two days before his arrest, you had put your hands around your mother’s neck and squeezed. How could you ever trust yourself again?

S was devastated. It took many long, hard conversations to make sense of what had happened. The image of violence laid out in the local paper—so many details—led to nightmares and memories from S’s past. But I feel as if she came through this hard time stronger, with a deeper sense of who she is, and a deeper understanding of how her actions affect others. It has been amazing to see her growth.
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On Family

We took an epic road trip with our dog to see my aunt this summer; we had never been to her house before, because we usually meet in Ohio where the rest of my extended family (except for her and my sister) live. We had also never had an opportunity to spend a lot of time with just her and her husband—even when she has visited, time always felt hectic.

It was the best vacation of our lives. We had a wonderful party for S’s 18th birthday, and several family members came up from Ohio or from other parts of the Detroit area. We went to the zoo and to Greenfield Village, an old-fashioned village S absolutely loved. We stopped in Chicago for a day on the way there and in the Wisconsin Dells for a day on the way back. We had long mornings of playing with our dog in a fenced-in backyard and long evening conversations with my aunt and her husband on their screened in back porch. I felt so lucky to have this family, to be so deeply loved.

My family is hardly completely functional, to say the least. My mother’s death when I was 13 affected all of us, and the family dynamic, in so many ways. In the more than 25 years since then we have had times of deep connection and disconnection—but all of that seemed so far in the past when we were together this summer. I realized that although things have not always been easy, I have never had to question, as S did for the first ten years of her life, whether my family loved me. Even my father, at his most abusive, clearly always loved me—though he made a lot of mistakes in knowing how to show it.

I have that safety net of love that has always held me up, even when I’ve felt like an outsider among my own family, even when they have deeply hurt me or haven’t been able to accept all parts of me or my life. And now, S has that love, too—she knows at a deep level that we aren’t going anywhere.

In some ways, being part of a family—and, for that matter, opening oneself up to deep and real friendships--means being willing to get hurt, being willing to experience loss and failure, but knowing you will still be loved and that you are still capable of loving.

Last night S wrote me an apology after a fight that, in the scheme of our relationship, was relatively minor. She gave it to me this morning. In the letter was this line: “I know you will always love me no matter what I do. But I am still sorry.” That’s the kind of certainty everyone should feel about their relationships with the people they love.

That’s not to say we should allow ourselves to be abused or that we shouldn’t set some limits on the ways we are treated or treat others—but that we know we can forgive and be forgiven within those limits we set for our own safety and sanity. I am glad to have learned this lesson this summer—glad we have come so far—and I feel hopeful about this coming school year, which, for S, begins in three short days.

Memories of Thea Angeliki

2011-07-03T09:18:00.000-07:00

The night I learned Thea Angeliki had died, I was on an annual retreat I take, and I had briefly interrupted the silence to spend a couple hours in a writing workshop about belonging. The facilitator asked us to list the people and places to whom we belonged, and then to choose two of them and write about them. For reasons that weren’t clear to me at the time, I wrote Thea Angeliki’s name down—and then decided to write about her. This is what I wrote. Two hours later, in my room, I was weeping because I had a message on my cell phone telling me Thea was gone. I’m sorry she never got to read this, but I wanted to post it here and to pass it on to others who loved her.
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In my first memory of Thea Angeliki, she is standing at her kitchen counter talking to her cat, and my sister and I are looking at each other across the table and smiling. My mother was with us, as was my aunt Katina, and because my mother was well, I know I must have been younger than 10 (unless this trip happened in one of the brief six-month periods of remission between 1980-1984). My sister and I had been in plenty of Greek widows’ homes, but we’d never known a Greek woman to own an indoor cat, much less to talk to it.

I remember I kept staring at her. She looked like my grandmother in the face, but she was so small, and she moved so quickly and confidently. It was hard to believe she was family. On the ride home, I asked my mother some questions about her—why did she seem so different from Yiayia? My mother and Thea Katina laughed. By way of explanation, my mom simply said, “She’s one of a kind, all right.” That phrase stuck with me because I didn’t remember my mother ever using it before.

I know I saw Thea Angeliki several times between that visit and my 20s, but my next clear memory of her is a raucous Thanksgiving we spent together at her nephew Chris’s apartment in Phoenix when she was visiting while I was in graduate school there. At some point that evening, Thea Angeliki told me she had the family gift of reading fortunes and asked if she could read mine. I said she could.

She took one look at my cup and got the most worried look on her face. “You are going out with a really bad person,” she said. “This person is going to really hurt you. Is this true?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I looked away from her. I couldn’t admit the obvious to myself, even though the signs were already there. I would like to say I left that Thanksgiving dinner and broke up with my significant other immediately—that would make a much better story to tell--but unfortunately I pushed what Thea had said out of my mind and stayed for two more years. Things got continuously worse and worse.

One winter afternoon a little more than two years later, after a fight, I drove to the base of South Mountain and climbed to the peak without stopping once, without even noticing the blooming ocotillo and saguaro or the view, without even bothering to put on the hiking boots I always kept in my trunk. What am I supposed to be doing? I asked out loud when I got to the peak to no one in particular. And then I screamed, How did I end up here?

That’s when I saw the rattler. It was right by my foot. I tried desperately to remember what I was supposed to do—run? Stomp on its back? Stand still? I don’t know exactly what happened, but the next thing I knew, I was startled awake by the sound of Thea Angeliki’s voice: “You are going out with a really bad person.” I was sitting on a rock with my head on my knees—I am not sure if I had simply curled up out of fear, or fallen asleep—but either way, the snake was gone, and I was certain Thea was sitting right next to me. She wasn’t of course—she was in Detroit, probably totally oblivious to this experience.

I hiked down the mountain, slowly. Everything, I realized, was in bloom. I didn't have to be afraid of anything, because no matter what happened, cacti would still bloom every year, the mountain would still be there, and sometimes I would be able to avoid dangerous situations--and when I couldn't, I could draw on the strength of the people who loved me and on my own inner strength to find my way out.

I went home and began to pack my things. It took two years for her words to work on me, but eventually, they gave me the strength to get out of that relationship.

About six months later, in 1998, I went to Greece for the first time as an adult, something I never would have been able to do if I’d stayed in that relationship. I needed to see Ikaria, to reconnect with family I hadn’t seen in almost 20 years—but I also needed some time away from Phoenix to figure out what I was going to do next.
I ran into Thea Angeliki in Evdilos and ended up staying with her on the first floor of Thea Aglaia’s home.

I feel so lucky that I was able to spend that week with her. We made coffee every morning—she said she needed a little time to enjoy the morning before going upstairs for breakfast with Aglaia. I don’t remember much about what we talked about, only that our time together felt peaceful. Then we would go upstairs to sit with Aglaia. Angeliki would try to get her to smile, to tell a story, to interact in some small way with us. Sometimes she would tell part of a story, or affirm what Angeliki had just said, smiling a little to herself—but that was all. Then we would try to get her to take a walk with us, to do anything besides sitting in that little dark kitchen. She would always decline.

At first, Angeliki was gentle, but toward the end of the week I spent there, she began to get frustrated. “You need to take off that black dress and enjoy your life a little, Aglaia,” she said one day over breakfast. “It has been years since he died.” The “he” was her son, who had died in childhood. Aglaia blamed herself, and she had never gotten over it. Aglaia ignored her, but she told me over coffee during the siesta one day that if she could, she would burn all of Aglaia’s photos of the long-dead, and force her to stop living in the past.

I didn’t say anything. I felt for Aglaia. I was even strangely comforted by how much time she spent at her altar, where photos of her son and others long gone were situated beside icons of the saints they were named for. I wasn’t really over my mother’s death, even though it had happened nearly 15 years earlier. Coming back to the island was making me realize how little I knew about her—everybody I met had a story that I hadn’t heard, and while I loved to take them in, they also made me sad that I hadn’t been able to have more time with her. I felt both more at home in Ikaria than I had anywhere else and less at home, at the same time—and the contradictions the trip was bringing up in me would serve as the basis for much writing and self-reflection after the trip.

Of course, I also wasn’t over my break up. In a few weeks I would go back to Phoenix for my last year in graduate school, the year that promised to be hardest. I had no idea what was happening next. I felt caught in the middle of the past and the future—even though I was in the most beautiful place in the world, I couldn’t just be in the moment. It was impossible for me—there was simply too much grief and fear.
But then one day Angeliki walked me around the village and showed me places that had been a part of her history— her childhood home, the stone where her mother would grind wheat for bread, and, finally, her elementary school. “I had a teacher who was so mean to me,” she told me, “so now whenever something bad is going to happen, I dream of her.”

For some reason, that story reminded me of how I had dreamed of Angeliki that day when I was finally at the end of my rope. I said to her, “Remember how you read my cup when you came to Phoenix a few years ago, and told me I was in a bad relationship?”
I couldn’t read her face, so I’m not sure if she really remembered, but she told me she did.

“I got out of it,” I said.

“That’s good,” was all she said back to me. And then, after a long silence as we walked back toward the house, she added, “Life is too short.”

For the rest of that trip, I kept my eyes open. I stayed in the present. And because she taught me to do that, I knew I belonged to her as much as to my grandmother, and to my Thea Agglaia—but that I was going to choose to live life fully, to defy any old world ideas if they didn’t sustain me while also honoring my ancestors and being grateful for them.

The next day, I planned to go back to my father’s village, so that morning, I asked if Angeliki would read my cup. “I don’t think you need to have it read,” she said, not explaining why, but I understood. She had already given me the only advice I really needed. I was going to have to figure out the rest on my own, and instead of being terrified by that possibility, I was going to have to learn to rest in it, even to celebrate the uncertainties and unexpected twists and turns.

Thea Aglaia died a week later, and I went back to the village for the funeral. It was heart-wrenching for me; I suddenly realized how awful it was that all of her life had been focused almost exclusively on death and on what happens after, rather than on being present with the joys and sorrows of the present. I owed it to my mother, to Aglaia, to everyone who loved me, to live life in the present.

Angeliki lived to age 96. I saw her for the last time last year at the Pan-Ikarian convention in Detroit. She had dementia and was in a wheelchair, but she was so incredibly happy to be surrounded by family and friends. She looked radiant. I know caring for her at the end was not easy for her family, but when I saw her, at least, she seemed so incredibly and completely and deeply herself.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that those who know who they are, who define themselves based both on their web of relationships and on their own inner truths, live longest--but I do believe that in her case, the fact that she was, as my mother told me so many years ago, both "one of a kind" and truly in love with her place and her people made a difference in the length and quality of her life. I am grateful for this lesson.

Transition

2011-07-03T08:26:00.000-07:00

"Wanting to find a place where everything's okay is just what keeps us miserable. Always looking for a way to have pleasure and avoid pain is how we keep ourselves in samsura (the vicious cycle of suffering during our life journey). As long as we believe that there is something that will permanently satisfy our hunger for security, suffering is inevitable. The truth is that things are always in transition. 'Nothing to hold onto' is the root of happiness. If we allow ourselves to rest here, we find that it is a tender, nonaggressive, open-ended state of affairs. This is where the path of fearlessness lies." --Pema Chodron, Buddhist nun

So many things right now are in transition, uncertain. I am in financial crisis again--the adoption assistance check didn't come on time (which happens every July, but this year, I forgot about this and didn't plan for it), the state government has shut down which will mean I am paying for more of Lisa's services (therapy, meds, etc) out of pocket. In some ways, this has been good for me. I realize I have never been good with money. I have always spent everything I earned. If I look back over the last three years, I see where I made my mistakes--I didn't have any savings when S arrived, I had to purchase a lot of basic necessities for her in the beginning, and then, a year later, my father got sick, so I made several trips to Ohio. In the midst of all this there was the trip to Greece, which I really couldn't afford but did anyway (I'd committed before my father got sick, but still). I had to keep using credit for these expenses, and now my credit is also maxed out. Of course I'm getting all kinds of invites to take on more--I've always been able to pay more than my minimum payment, so my credit score is good--but I've been throwing them in the trash.

S and I had a talk about paring back our expenses. It actually went very well. She's working on being alone at least a little more without major incident, so far, so that we can cut child care expenses. I have told her I'm no longer going to let her talk me into buying things we had not planned on, and that we had to really save for any big purchases like new shoes. We have been doing pretty well the last couple weeks, and as a result, although I had to ask her child care providers if they were able to wait another week for their paychecks, we are going to be OK. The adoption support check will come, and the state government will begin functioning again--it's all just a matter of time. But I know I need to figure out how to save even as I try to pay down my debt so that, when things like this come up, I have something to draw on.

In the meantime, I'm still waiting to hear about what kinds of resources she'll have after she's 18 (I wrote about the details of this early last month--I'm no closer to answers now, and the magic 18-year-old deadline looms). I have gotten confirmation over the phone that her adoption support is "very likely" to continue, but I've yet to actually get written confirmation. In the meantime, the other agencies are waiting for that decision before deciding what they will give us. Adoption support initially was going to wait for Social Security until the Social Security counselor, God bless her, got on the phone and ripped the Adoption Support people a new one for playing a game of chicken over our family's resources. Someone has to give, because everyone says she qualifies, but for how much will depend on how much other agencies will give us--so someone has to name an amount first.

It is easy to feel sorry for myself, but I have a good job and private insurance and, now, a plan to be debt free and have a modest savings in the next three years, if I can stick to my plan. I also only work half-time in the summer, so I have the time and space to do some long-term planning and to think things through. I can't imagine what the truly poor families that rely on state support are dealing with right now. S's co-pays, which are now covered by Medical Assistance, which kicks in when my private insurance is done paying, will amount to about $400/month--and that's WITH most of the cost of her services being covered by my private insurance. That means if we didn't have private insurance, we are talking about somewhere around $4,000/month--nearly twice what I make each month. What will a family with a child with a disability--and hers are minor, in the scheme of things, compared to what some families are dealing with--what will such a family do during the shutdown? Of course, some providers will simply provide services and medications for free out of an ethical responsibility to those with the highest need. S's therapist has already told me she considers her to be high need, so she'll continue to provide services even if she doesn't get the 50% out-of-network cost that she currently gets from MA.

I think one of my problems with the idea that groundlessness equals happiness lies in the fact that, if read too literally or in the wrong ways or with the wrong kind of theology in mind, I could decide to just sit around and wait for God or the universe or whatever to take care of us. But that is powerlessness, not groundlessness. There are things I can do, and I have done them--written and called our legislators, talked firmly to each agency about how I don't appreciate the game of chicken they are playing, and that someone has to step up and tell us in the next week how much my child is going to get so the others can make their decisions, and, of course, spending the countless hours applying for these things in the first place so that we can keep paying down debt and paying basic expenses.

But groundlessness--that is something different than powerlessness. Groundlessness is about knowing that there is no permanence. Again, with the wrong mindset or theology, this, too, can be threatening. If nothing is permanent, why try to do right by people? Why try to convince legislators to see issues your way if they will, eventually, no longer be in office and you'll have to start over again? Why make friends and work at those friendships? Why fall in love, why have children? I had trouble with this concept because deep inside I wanted to believe that what I did COULD make things, situations, relationships, whatever more permanent. Of course, to some extent that is true. We have deeper friendships and relationships when we work at them, when we make the time and space for them. We have more just political systems when we remain involved in them, even as they transition again and again.

But, most things are out of our control. And that has been, for me, one of the hardest lessons. I want to believe I won't die before age 50--so I make sure that (although I am overweight) I never get to the weight my mother was, that I have a more active lifestyle than she had, that I eat healthier and exercise more. I do my breast exams and go to the hospital every time I feel a lump. But ultimately, I could die at any time, of course. I can only control the situation so much.

When you lose a parent young, your body and soul fight between wanting to control everything and feeling completely hopeless about the future. I have learned, slowly, over the last almost 30 years, to find a place in between these two extremes and to stay there at least, well, 40% of the time. The other 60% I'm still trying to control or feeling hopeless. But at least now I can catch myself doing each of these, and I can find my way back. No, I will tell myself, don't walk away from this conversation--it matters, what you say and how well you listen matters--even if your full presence may not change anything, your full presence is a witness to the ways we can love and live in hope. No, I will tell myself, don't just give up on trying to get the next chapter of the novel written--even if no one else ever reads it, writing is the way you connect to your soul, and these characters, even if no one else ever meets them, are teaching you something important. Stick with them.

That is groundlessness--acting out of love and hope even when we know our efforts may not matter at all in the long run. We can have hope that they will, but even if they matter only in the short run, haven't we given witness to the acts of love and hope that are transformative? If we can't do whatever needs to be done to create a permanent change, haven't our voices and actions mattered, at least in terms of how we have inspired others or even ourselves to do the next right thing?

Lately I've been open, again, to the deep conversations that have always sustained me. My father's death, my student's death, my mentors' deaths--they blocked me in some deep ways that I didn't really recognize until this summer, when people started showing up and longing for the same kinds of deep conversations I so desperately need to sustain myself. And so I have been having them. And even when they are heart-wrenching and take me to deep places where there are wells of pain I have not yet touched, I can come back to the surface and keep swimming--I don't stay there.

I am learning to be fully present, not just with these friends but also with my child, again. I can tell the difference--aggression is gone, and all our conversations are more real now, and I can more easily feel everything, without holding too tightly to any feeling. I am finding a way to work steadily on everything from my office's annual report to the ongoing search for resources without panicking about what will come next. Somehow when I'm able to be in this groundless place, I also make better decisions--about money, about how I spend my time, about how I set boundaries around what is and is not possible at work or home.

I'm in a good place even though there is so much transition, so much I can't control.

Memories of my Godfather

2011-06-17T21:28:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when things were very serious—like during my mother’s long illness—my Nono would find a way to make everybody laugh. I distinctly remember a time when we were all gathered in the family room in the house where I grew up. We were talking about ordinary things (I think I was answering a question my Nona had asked me about how school was going), but the mood was dreary. Although I can’t say for sure when this happened, but I know my mother was still alive but not in the room, so she was likely in the hospital, which means I was between 9 and 13 years of age. In any case, quite suddenly and totally out of the blue, my Nono did a summersault off the couch. It seems impossible that this is a real memory, but I swear it happened. My sister and I burst out laughing. Nona was shocked and said, “Taki, what are you doing?” but then she started laughing too. He had a way of lightening things when they were too heavy.

He had the best sense of humor of anyone I ever knew. He was almost completely blind, though I didn’t know it until after an encounter I had with him in the Summit Mall when I was probably around 11 or 12. I was wandering the mall with my friends, and I saw Nono with a couple of his Greek buddies walking toward me. I ran up to him and said, “It’s so good to see you!” I took his hand and gave him a kiss on both cheeks.

“It might be good to see you, too, but I won't know for sure until you tell me who you are,” he said to me. His buddies cracked up, but I didn’t really get the joke until later.

“Very funny, Nono. It’s me, Argie,” I said, and then he smiled and gave me a hug.

Later I asked my cousin Connie about it, and she said, “Didn’t you know your Nono is mostly blind? He can see your outline, but that’s about all.”

It blew my mind. How could he be blind? He literally never showed any sign of blindness that I could see. Of course, looking back, I realize that he was always with others (usually Nona) if he was in unfamiliar places, and that by the time I was about seven or eight he was no longer driving. Maybe I wasn’t very observant, but I think the reason it surprised me so much was he seemed so invincible. Even when I heard about his death—although I knew he’d struggled with cancer and other illnesses and was 82—I didn’t believe it.

He wasn’t a large man, but he had a large presence. His features and glasses were big, as was his voice—but it wasn’t only the obvious aspects of his physical self. There was something about his presence that always made me pay attention.

He loved to be funny, but that that does not mean that he didn’t take seriously the important things in life. I remember Nono and Nona coming to our house after my mother died. They were so sad they could not talk. The love they had for her, and for my father, was deep. I would be reminded of this again and again by my Nono. In almost every conversation I had with him as an adult, he would say, “Your mother was one of the best.”

Nono was a wise businessman. I knew this because every Greek in Akron knew it, but also because I got to see him at work. He offered me a summer job at his insurance agency when I was in high school, and I worked that job for at least three summers. I have three memories of my time there that I think demonstrate what kind of businessman he was. First, I remember a parade of Greeks, and the occasional non-Greek, wandering in and saying they wanted to talk to Taki or Pete, depending on what they called him. They would go into his office behind closed doors and talk for what seemed like a very long time. I wondered once, out loud, why they didn’t just deal with those of us in the front office, and Judy, his secretary, said, “They’re not here to buy insurance or report an accident. They came to get some advice.” To this day I have no idea what that advice entailed—only that he was the kind of person who people from all walks of life could count on.

I also remember one time when I had printed the list of people who were late on paying their premiums. It was my job to call them to remind them to pay their bill. I gave the list to his secretary to check it, and she crossed out a couple names, saying, “Pete told me they have already paid.” A week or so later, one of those crossed out names called in. She was an American lady and sounded very sick.

“I’m calling because I can’t pay my bill,” she said to me. She told me her name, and I checked the list.

“It looks like you already paid it,” I said to her.

“But that’s impossible,” she said. “I don’t have any money because the medical bills are piling up. I haven’t been able to pay any of my bills.”

I assured her that her bill was paid and got off the phone as quickly as possible. Later that night, I asked my father, “Do you think Nono knew and paid it for her?” I asked.

“Your Nono does not pay other people’s bills for them,” my father said. “If he did, he wouldn’t be so rich. It must have been a mistake.” I realized suddenly that my father was jealous of him, and also of how I was interested in, and wrestling with the story. That was the last time I ever talked to him about anything that happened at the insurance agency. But I knew what had happened, and I realized even then that I wanted to be generous like my Nono was when I was older.

My third memory involves how he treated his staff—his secretary Judy, who was a very kind single mother, and her daughter, who also worked part-time in the office. If it was a busy week, he would buy everyone pizza on Friday. Also, once Judy told him about a little cabin by the lake that she wanted to buy, but she wasn’t sure it was a good financial decision. He said to her, “Judy, you deserve a little enjoyment in your life, you know what I mean? You should buy it.” He walked away abruptly as he so often did, and I glanced at Judy. She was wiping a tear out of her eye. I don’t think anyone had ever told her anything like that. I was too shy to ask her later what decision she’d made, but I hope she bought the cabin.

As for me, I was a terrible worker. First of all, I was a shy, awkward teenager who was definitely not cut out customer service, and I was terrible with anything math-related. I could handle the filing and other routine tasks, but even while doing those tasks, I distinctly remember daydreaming about whatever book I was reading at the time or whatever story or poem I was writing. I’m sure I drove Judy crazy. I realize now, of course, that I wasn’t much help, and that the whole idea of the job, besides giving me something useful to do and a little spending money, was to give him a chance to spend time with me.

Sometimes he would ask me to come into his office to do something that could clearly have been done at my desk. I remember stuffing envelopes at a table in his office while he talked to me about my father. “He’s a little bit crazy and mean sometimes, but he is a good person inside,” he said to me. At that time, when things were at their worst with my father, I didn’t really believe that was true—but those words stuck with me as I grew older and definitely played a role in my decision to reconcile with him and actively work at building a relationship with him in my late 20s.
Another time when I was in his office he told me the story of meeting and marrying Nona. I actually stopped what I was doing to watch him talk, because he got a faraway look in his eyes, and a huge smile.

“You’re still in love with her,” I said. I was a little bit surprised. I was a teenager, and I didn’t think any older people stayed in love after they had children. I was immediately embarrassed that I had said it out loud—it seemed somehow too personal or strange.

But he didn’t hesitate to respond. “Of course,” he said. “She is the best woman to put up with someone like me. I am so lucky.”

“You’re not so bad,” I joked.

“But she’s much better than me,” he said, without even a hint of laughter in his voice.

In addition to the talks we had in his office, he frequently took me out to lunch, either to Yocono’s or Wally Waffle. I loved these lunches. He was the only adult at the time who took my ideas seriously. Maybe that wasn’t exactly true—maybe he simply had more time than the other adults in my life to really engage with me—but either way, when I was in his presence, I felt heard and understood in a way I didn’t with many adults at the time.

My father was prone to making terrible business and financial decisions, none of which I knew about unless Nono told me. Unlike the other Greeks in Akron, he was too proud to actually ask my Nono for advice. Occasionally Nono would tell me about some decision my father had made—he’d heard about it from somebody else in the community—and he would say, “I would have warned your father against that if he had talked to me, but he would have done it anyway.” My family never talked about money, but I knew two things that I learned from my Nono: that my father made enough to make ends meet but just kept making bad decisions, and that he could have had the knowledge to make better decisions if he’d actually asked for help. At a time after graduate school when I was struggling financially, and more recently when my daughter’s needs have stretched my budget beyond its capacity, I have remembered the importance of asking for help when I need it—not for a handout, but for advice from people who know more than I do about money management.

Over the years, my father would get mad at my Nono many times, or avoid him altogether. My Nono always took this in stride. He told me during one of these fights, “Your father has a strong personality, but that’s OK.” It was the understatement of the year, and it made me laugh.

When my father had a nervous breakdown, Nono actually posed as a depressed person and went to a local doctor to get anti-depressants for my father. I found this story completely hilarious, mostly because Nono must have really had to put on an act. I never saw him depressed (except when I visited him during his long and ultimately successful battle with cancer). He wasn’t one to wallow in his sadness. Although this little trick could have backfired in multiple ways, it worked. My father actually tried them, and they actually helped a little. He was able to continue to get them once he realized they worked, and they really helped him to cope with the hardships he faced later in his life. Even when my father was pushing them away, Nono and Nona showed up when most people couldn’t deal with my father’s drama. They were definitely his most loyal friends.

Another gift that Nono gave me was that he took my academic interests seriously. Most Greeks, including my parents and extended family, are very committed to education, but Nono actually paid attention to what interested me. I was very interested in World War II when I was a kid. I interviewed him once, and maybe twice (I’m not sure) about his experiences as a young person during the war years. It was one of the few times besides when my mother died that I saw him very sad. He told me about seeing people die and bodies being piled up in the streets of Athens. I wish now that I had better recorded the interview, at least on paper, or that I could find the essay I wrote in 7th grade about the interview. I’m not even sure I ever showed it to him, but I do remember my 7th grade history teacher, Mrs. Moran, putting a big “A” on the top of the paper. I was a good student, so the “A” wasn’t that big of a deal, but below it she wrote, “You are lucky to have someone who can tell these stories to you in person.” I will never forget that, because it seemed like such an unusual thing for a teacher to write on a student’s paper.

Later, he and my Nona bought me Nicolas Gage’s book Eleni for my 14th birthday. They took our family out to eat that year—the first birthday I had after my mother’s death—which was critical, because there was not much celebrating happening in our house at that time. My father was mad about the book because his family had been on the opposite side of the Civil War in Greece than Gage’s—but even then, I knew that war made people do terrible things to each other, and that equally bad things had happened at the hands of both the right and left wing. This book and the interview I had with him led to a life-long interest in World War II and the Greek Civil War. I have written many creative works based on these historic events, and I have taken students to Greece to study them.

There are two conversations that I had with Nono that have had by far the biggest impact on me. I have returned to them again and again over the years. Once, he told me that he hoped I would be more successful than he was someday.

“I don’t think I will,” I told him. My father always hoped that with my “brains,” I would become a doctor or a lawyer and be able to afford everything he couldn’t, but even in high school and early college, I knew I was not going to become either. I was terrible at science and also terribly shy.

“I don’t mean like have a lot of money and more than one house, not that kind of success,” Nono said. “I mean I hope that you will do something where people want to come to you, instead of something where you have to go out and try to get the people.” It was such a different message than the typical message immigrants give their children and godchildren. It was not about wealth or even about belonging, but rather about choosing to do something meaningful, where your work was essential, needed.

“But people do seek you out all the time for advice,” I said to him. He didn’t respond to that—he just got up abruptly to pay the bill and walk back to the office.

I hope that I have fulfilled his hope for me. I am a mother, teacher, and writer, and I am now the coordinator of service-learning and community service at the college where I teach. Although I make a lot of mistakes in all of these roles and can’t claim that I am always successful in the way he meant, I know that the choices I have made in my life were influenced by him. I have, at least, chosen several times throughout my life to do what will be more meaningful and useful.

Another time, on a dreary, rainy day when we were eating at Wally Waffle, he asked me if I believed in God. It was a strange question, especially coming from the person who baptized me, and I don’t remember the context—though I’m pretty sure there wasn’t really a context. I think the question came into his head in much the same way that the idea to summersault off the couch came into his head.

I said honestly that I wasn’t sure. I was about to start college and was not sure anymore where I belonged or what I believed. He said to me, “I think people who don’t believe in God are idiots. How could you not believe when there is so much beauty in the world?”

My first thought was that there was absolutely nothing beautiful in my immediate surroundings. I remember looking around the rundown restaurant and out the window-lined wall at a parking lot, where a woman was struggling to open her umbrella. But instead of commenting on the irony of what he had said about beauty, I blurted out, “But Nono, you can’t even see!” Right after I said this, I was sorry.

For once, he didn’t answer right away. There was a long pause, and he took a bite of his food. Then he said, “I still know when things are beautiful,” and that was that.

I have been thinking about these conversations all of my life, and I have shared them with many people. Together, they account for what was probably the best spiritual advice I’ve ever been given. The world is an incredibly beautiful place—even in the midst of the worst suffering, if we bother to look, we can see that beauty. And if we can’t see it physically, we can certainly feel it and know it. Spiritual beauty is beyond what we can experience through the five senses alone. This understanding has made it possible for me to get through the very worst moments in my life, and also to fully enjoy the very best.

My Nono's influence on my life has also helped me to remain committed to living a life of generosity and meaning, even if I sometimes fall short of doing so. I didn’t get a chance to tell him how grateful I was, which was completely my fault—in the last 15 years since I left Ohio, I could have made more of an effort to stay connected, but life got in the way. So, I’ll say it now in a way I know he'll understand:

Nono, you were one of the best.

Diagnoses, Assessments, and Turning 18...oh my!

2011-06-08T17:04:00.001-07:00

So, let me get this straight:

S cannot stay by herself without getting on the internet and spending $100 she does not have or taking money out of my wallet and going to the store and getting, then eating, an entire box of Oreos. She can't get her homework done without someone sitting next to her. She has no idea how to function in most social situations. She would spend hours twirling around on pointe if she could.

She's making progress in all of these areas--lots of progress, actually--but, bottom line, she's not going to be able to be on her own when she turns 18 in a month.

Still, she needs a diagnosis other than her current diagnoses--math disability, PTSD and ADHD--to get any resources post-age-18.

All right, not a problem. The school is going to do an evaluation, required every two years for any student receiving special education services. Only the "evaluation" includes two tests and an "interview" (questionnaire) that I fill out. Also, her special ed teacher observes her in three classes and writes down what she does. From that information, the school decides she doesn't have any learning disabilities, but that she will continue to qualify as an "EBD" student (emotionally and behaviorally disturbed), whereas before, she qualified as both EBD and SLD (specific learning disability). So, they have to help her with emotional stuff but not with, you know, actually learning anything. Also: "we can't diagnose her with anything specific, except to say that she doesn't have a learning disability and is emotionally disturbed. Sorry, that's not our job."

No problem. Her psychiatrist, who mostly just writes her meds scripts after quick check-ins with us once a month, convinces my insurance to pay for a thorough evaluation. After two days of testing and a month's wait, in addition to ADHD and PTSD, S is diagnosed with a non-verbal learning disability. This diagnosis fits her skills incredibly well. It is diagnosed based on a huge discrepancy between her verbal IQ score and other aspects of her score. The diagnosis requires very specific accommodations if she is to learn well. It also affects her social skills.

The doctor also diagnoses a rule-out for OCD, ODD, and Aspergers. That means she may or may not have these, he's not sure.

After getting his report, I realize I have evidence that she needs help with learning, not just with emotional issues. But the school cannot use this report--they can only use their own evaluation, unless I write a request stating that I disagree with their findings and want them to pay for an outside evaluation. I already _have_ an outside evalution--but that doesn't matter.

Next, I connect with Human Services. Her IQ is too high for her to qualify for services, and without a definite Aspberger's diagnosis, the others "don't hold much weight." But, they can send a psychologist to our house to do a "functional assessment," and maybe he can make a "more specific diagnosis using the language we need for our files."

"Wait!" I say excitedly. "She's having a functional assessment done next week!" Vocational Rehabilitation Services has convinced me to allow my child to stay for four nights at another family's house and to take a bunch of tests at the workforce center an hour away to determine what her living and work skills are like."

"That sounds like a good idea," the social worker says, "but we need to have our own assessment. Vocational Rehab can't diagnose her. That's not their job."

OK, fine. A psychologist Human Services contracts with comes to our home, talks with S for 30 minutes, then with me for 30 minutes, and, at the end, asks me, "Has anyone ever talked about an Aspberger's diagnosis?"

"No," I reply, confused. "I thought that's what you were doing here--trying to determine if she had Aspberger's."

"No, I just want to know about her daily living skills," he says. "I can't make an actual diagnosis."

"But the social worker said we need a diagnosis to get services?"

"Really? Well, I can't do that. But I'll write up a nice report saying that even though her IQ is too high to qualify she still has some issues with living and work skills. Maybe that will help."

He leaves, and S announces that he is the dumbest person she's ever met. I can't really disagree.

In the meantime, I contact the state S is from to request that my adoption assistance be continued another year. The woman on the line says it's possible, but not a done deal, and that she can't do anything until S is a month away from 18 in terms of responding to my request. So, I can't plan my summer finances, because I have no idea how much money we'll have coming in after she turns 18 next month. "But you should try Social Security," she suggests, "so you have a safety net in case we don't come through for you. She may qualify for SSDI."

So, I make an appointment with Social Security. But, they can't get us in until the end of this month--which turns out to be a blessing once I see the sheer weight of the paperwork I need to fill out to determine if S qualifies for disability income. "We'll need proof of a diagnosis," the unhelpful woman on the phone tells me.

"OK," I say. "So, what kind of a diagnosis does she need to qualify? She has PTSD and..."

The woman interrupts me. "Well, it's not only the diagnosis. We need proof that she can't work full-time."

"Well, she's going to have a vocational rehab assessment next week--will that work, if they determine she can't?"

"No, that's a different kind of assessment."

"So, how do we demonstrate that she can't work?"

"Well, if she's worked before and had to stop working..."

"She's 17. She has special needs. She's never had a job."

The woman seems perplexed. "Oh," she says. Long pause. "Well, we'll just need to see the diagnosis, and then talk to you and her. And if we need more information, we'll have to ask for another assessment."

So, let me get this straight:

--In order to get an IEP continued, the school has to do its own assessment. And, if you don't like the results (which I didn't), there's a long, paperwork-heavy grievance policy. All I want is for them to look at these other assessments, but not, that's not part of the grievance policy--instead, I have to request that they hire another person to redo the assessment.

--In order to get vocational rehabilitation services, VR must do its own assessment.

--In order to get services through Human Services, Human Services must have a diagnosis.

--In order to get a diagnosis, Human Services must have diagnosis language that "exactly matches what we need to see,"--but they can't tell me what that language is.

--In order to get Social Securty benefits, we need "a diagnosis," but I can't know what that is, and "the diagnosis may not be enough." But when I offer proof from other agencies that S has trouble making good decisions if she's left alone, well...that's not good enough.

--I need to get a guardianship for S, but in order to do so, I need to have evidence that she can't live on her own and needs help making decisions. Um...who, exactly, can verify this? The attorney isn't sure, but "hopefully one of these assessments she's getting will work."

--Why did I put my daughter through a two-day neuropsych exam again, if no one can use the results?

Dear Parents of Children with Disabilities,

Start the transition process early, even if the school swears that they are not required to start until the senior year. They are wrong. The school is supposed to begin transition services in 9th grade, but they won't help unless you really push them. And even if you do push them, they are unlikely to follow the IEP goals you put together, even if you create an entire curriculum that all they have to do is follow. So, in short, don't expect the school to prepare your child for the future, or to connect you to any resources you need.

Vocational rehabilitation may be helpful, but only if you actually call them and let them know you're paying attention to the fact that they've only met with your daughter twice in four years. When they do realize you're on the case, they will be very nice and start offering to assess her, and this may work out (I can't say for sure--I'll get back to you on that next week). But, in order to prepare for the assessment, plan to spend several hours filling out paperwork with questions that are already in multiple files at multiple agencies around the state.

Do not expect to get any assistance filling out any of the 120 pages of forms that you will need to fill out to get connected to multiple support offices, none of which talk to each other or accept each others' assessments. Expect to traumatize your child by forcing her to talk to multiple strangers and answer the same questions and take the same tests over and over--even if she already has a therapist and a family therapist and other resources, now. Strangers, you see, are much better able to determine her needs than anyone who works directly with her on a weekly or daily basis.

Expect your child to see through this and recognize that it is, as my daughter S put it, "complete and utter b.s."

Finally, be sure to have a plan B, in case, as soon as your kid turns 18, you find yourself utterly broke, without any kind of financial or medical support whatsoever. (Be sure you have a job with good health insurance that will keep your child on your policy past 18--but don't expect to keep your medical assistance, even if your copays alone for the meds she needs cost $200 or more a month).

And, don't be too idealistic. Despite the fact that we for some reason believe 18 to be a magic number, and even though you have busted your ass to get her everything she could possibly need to work through the challenging aspects of her disabilities--your child will not necessarily behave like an 18 year old when she is 18. She will not necessarily be able to go right from 17 to a job or to college. And, while holding S back was a good decision for our family, don't think that having another year in high school will solve everything--18 is the magic number, no matter what year your child is in school.

Also, when you are as frustrated as I am at the moment, please also feel free to call me. I promise to be a good listener. I know now how much we all need at least that. I also promise to help you advocate for your child--but I can't help with that until a few more years have passed, after I've figured out how to advocate for my own.

In the meantime, I do have some helpful advice: take care of yourself. Get exercise, get sleep, eat well, do what you need to do to stay balanced spiritually and emotionally. I am finally doing these things, and am finding I can take all this beaurocratic bullshit day by day, hour by hour.

In the end, the most important thing, besides self-care, is being present for your child. So if you find yourself ignoring her to make a phone call to one of the many agencies that has accidentally disconnected you after a long automated phone call in which you entered your child's social security number four different times--or if you find yourself distracted from what she's saying because you are filling out yet another form asking the same stupid questions about her independent living skills-- well, take a step back and think about what really matters. Time with your child matters more in both the short and long-run, I promise, than whatever it is you're doing--even if what you're doing has a chance of affecting her life as an adult.

And, finally, just keep telling yourself this: no matter what happens, you are going to be OK, and so is she.

Love,
Argie

Hello Again

2011-05-17T00:18:00.000-07:00

It doesn't seem possible that it's been three months since I last posted here. We didn't have e-mail access for awhile, due to a virus I ultimately decided not to bother to fix, having spent way too much money on an old computer.

I bought a laptop I couldn't really afford, finally, last week. It was nice not having a computer at home in many ways. I read a lot more. S and I argued a lot less. I was able to leave work at work more often (though I also ended up at work until 2 or 3 in the morning far too many times, rather than having the luxury of working from home when things absolutely have to be done).

To actually catch up whoever is reading this on what's happened in the last three months seems rather pointless...and so, in lieu of doing so, I'll make a list of lists.

Things I'm Excited About This Summer

--Having more time to write, read, and spend with S and with friends (I only work half-time in the summer, starting June 1)
--Taking a retreat (hopefully next week)
--Taking some time to reflect on what the office I coordinate accomplished this year and make goals for next year
--Finish at least one of the four manuscripts-in-first-draft that I've been, for some reason I've been unable to even think about yet this year.
--Blogging more

Things I'm Working on Related to S's Future

--S is now hooked up with vocational rehabilitation, which means she'll have free assistance with making a post-secondary school or job plan, and taking the steps necessary to reach her goals.
--S went through a thorough neuropsych evaluation. We learned she has a non-verbal learning disability and OCD, among other new diagnoses. The non-verbal learning disability was, for me, the most useful new information. It turns out that her verbal IQ score is above average, but the other skills measured in IQ tests, memory and logical thinking skills, were below average. She has trouble, therefore, taking on and finishing big tasks, and understanding concepts that are not concrete (including non-verbal communication of any kind). Whether or not this is a result of her abuse or completely unrelated is not clear. She still has the PTSD and ADHD diagnoses, as well as a rule-out for Asperger's, meaning she may or may not have it.
--Human Services is now a fixture in our lives. A social worker is now working with me on doing a guardianship (so that I will be able to help S make decisions after she turns 18), applying for social security benefits, and getting additional testing done to determine what kinds of resources, if any, S might qualify for.
--I have pulled S out of career and math classes, after learning how little she had gotten done in either. It was so disappointing, and I felt so helpless. As a result, S now comes to campus and works with her tutor T from 12:45-2:00 every day, then goes back to school. The positive outcome of this is that S is getting so much done, and I'm seeing the potential she has to do really well academically with the right support.
--I am in the process of fighting a recent evaluation the school did that indicates S has no learning difficulties--for some reason, they insisted on doing their own evaluation rather than using the neuropsych. (Yes, it is state law that they have to do their own evaluation, but they are also permitted to use other sources--they refused in this case).
--I am also in the process of filing a complaint against the school for refusal to follow her IEP. Literally nothing in S's IEP has been followed consistently all year--it is maddening. The only reason she's doing well is because I have tutors working with her. I have written these letters but have not yet submitted them--I had literally no time to think about them and finalize them. I do now, and they will go out in the next couple weeks.
--We have a summer schedule figured out, for the most part.

Hard Stuff From the Last Three Months

--S (and I) continue to be anxious about the future, and to fight because of this anxiety. Just today I yelled at her for being lazy, and she yelled back that she's scared about the future. I need to figure out a way to stay calm even in the face of so much financial and logistical uncertainty. I have to find a way to believe we will both be OK, whether or not she qualifies for resources, whether or not I continue to get adoption support during her last year in high school. Lots of people are much worse off right now--at least I have a good job! I need to breathe!
--I talked with my supervisor about my workload. I explained that I am having difficulty paying basic bills, including child care, because I am working so many hours, and that I don't feel like I'm doing a particularly good job at any aspect of my work because I am always rushing through everything. I pointed out that I am now doing what used to be three people's jobs. She was not particularly responsive, though she did contact me a few days later via e-mail saying she'd thought about what I said and wanted to have a longer conversation about having realistic expectations. I cannot go on working as much as I have been for as little money as I make--it just isn't healthy, or sustainable, or good for S.
--We said goodbye to lots of people we love last week--though, as always, graduation made me realize how much I do really love my work and my students, and how lucky I am that I have people in my life who are hard to say goodbye to.
--The new Gay-Straight Alliance at the high school has been dealing with some oppression by both teachers and other students; a group of us who are also starting a new P-Flag chapter will be meeting with the principal this afternoon to take action.
--The Marriage Amendment will likely go on the ballot in MN next year--and while it would be easy to feel hopeless in the wake of this, I have to believe that a ballot initiative will create dialogue where dialogue did not yet exist. (That's the only "bright side" I can come up with here).

Books I Read In the Last Few Months

_The Barn at the End of the World_ by Mary Rose O'Reilley
_The Love of Impermanent Things_ by Mary Rose O'Reilley
_Bound_ by Antonia Nelson
_Extra Indians_ by Eric Gansworth
_The Girl Who Fell From the Sky_ by Heidi W. Burrow

Reading now: _Driftless_ by David Rhodes

Really Good Stuff from the Last Three Months

--S's report card was really good--the best ever, in fact--all A's and one B!
--S and I will dance together in an upcoming recital--a dance in honor of my father. It is going to be hilarious and amazing at the same time (hilarious because, well, it's us dancing, and amazing because, well, it's us dancing). It's been a lot of fun working on the dance with her.
--My students inspire me. Whether they are reminding me of my dream to start Healing Ranch, bringing their parents over to meet me during graduation week, or organizing a new group to help integrate new immigrants into the community--I am in awe. And I realized recently that I am very lucky to have the job I have, and that I can stick it out a little longer, until I am ready financially and logistically for whatever comes next.
--S has been working very hard on school work now that we've gotten her out of the resource room for those two class periods. She's capable of so much if we can keep expectations high. I feel very lucky that she has such an amazing tutor.
--A group of us are starting a local P-Flag chapter. It's a long overdue way to support families of GLBT folks--and the GLBT folks themselves.
--Church has been good for me and for S--really good. The new interim minister won't continue next year, but having that space on Sunday mornings, and experiencing both her presence and her preaching, has been a gift.

That seems good for now, anyway. By the way, I would recommend all of the books mentioned above except _Extra Indians_ (it wasn't terrible, but it also wasn't great). I would also recommend, if you have a child with special needs, taking the time when s/he is 16, rather than 17, to get to work on setting up support systems and plans for life post-18. But I refuse to beat myself up about this. Between my job and parenting S, there is so little time! Still, if I had to do it over, I would have started earlier.

And finally, I would recommend finding hope even in the most hopeless situations, because there's plenty of it out there.

A letter to my mother

2011-02-05T21:29:00.001-08:00

Dear Mom,

Twenty-seven years ago today, I lost you. As trite as it is to say so, it is hard to believe that many years have passed. Now that I have a daughter, I have a different kind of context for understanding that day, and what happened before, and what came after.

I know now that children who experience trauma tend to get stuck at the ages of that trauma, to return to old coping mechanisms they used at that time when things get hard, to view the world always through the lenses of that trauma. And sometimes I still feel, at 40, like that 13 year old girl who pushed her way through to the office that had turned into a makeshift sick room and demanded to know where you were. The one who, the night before, wanted to see you--had to see you--so she pushed her way in and held your hand and realized for the first time when you opened your eyes and tried to focus on her and couldn't that you were definitely going to die--and that you were profoundly sorry.

But I'm writing to tell you that although the last year has been by far my most challenging as a parent, I am OK. Although I've been bitten and hit and scratched and screamed at, although my hair has been torn out of my scalp, although I've had to spend hours advocating for even the most basic services S needed, and hours more holding her while she wept and screamed and regressed and repetitively returned to a few key obsessions when she couldn't handle the realities of her life, I am OK. Sometimes when I am in the midst of her violence or grief or inexplicable obsessing I remember the screaming and violence that happened in our house after you died, and I have to tell myself I am the adult now, not that child. I have to pull her toward me and hold her and make things right again--and to do that, I sometimes have to push that scared 13-year-old girl out of the way.

I'm writing to tell you that although I've had to rethink what friendship is, I am OK. Sometimes, I am back at school on the Monday after you died, my first day back, and I am watching the world around me and realizing I know so much more than anyone in it--that I've experienced so much more. (Of course, that wasn't true, and still isn't--there was hidden grief and violence and horror everywhere, but my grief was too big to see that). In this memory I am angry that nobody looks at me, or that people look at me in the wrong ways and for the wrong reasons, or that people say the wrong things, or that those who had once been my friends don't know what to say and do.

It is like that now--has been, actually, since the first-year honeymoon with S ended. I think we remind people of how selfish they are, or how lucky--we remind people that they want their lives to be easy and happy, full of small dramas but not large ones, and also that they feel guilty about this--and so they keep their distance. It is not that simple, of course, but through the 13-year-old lenses, that's what I see. I long for the deep kind of connection I was finally able to have with those 13-year-old friends when, in the end, I wept and demanded it, told them I needed them. I've tried that. At 40, it doesn't really work. It is much easier for people to hear but not listen.

I am writing to tell you that today I started my day by having breakfast with a group of women my age, something that does not happen very often anymore. I managed, somehow, to make small talk, and I did my best to stay connected to the conversation for the one hour they had, and I was able to be grateful for that time without the 13-year-old girl in me demanding more and deeper conversation. It was a start, and I was proud of myself for getting up early to do it, and grateful they'd invited me. And I continue to be grateful for the people in my life who do show up, regularly, for wine or weeping or the deep listening that can happen only when the hours are spread out in front of us--even if they aren't always the people I expected to show up when I started this adoption journey almost three years ago. You had unexpected connections like that, I remember, too.

I'm writing to tell you that although I've lost the two most important mentors I've had in the last 10 years, and one of my students, and, of course, Pamba, I am OK. 2010 was a hard year, full of grief I couldn't fully feel because I didn't have enough hours to myself, because S needs me at every moment she is awake, and when someone else is caring for her, it's because I have to be at work. But if JG and T taught me anything it was to love the people more than the job and to always work hard to help the underdog, whoever that was. To find creative ways to solve problems--especially when doing so would open up other people's worlds and lives. To stick things out, do what's right, even if things are tough, and even when the powers that be don't agree with what you're doing.

If M, my student who died, taught me anything, it was that there is still in me some fear of difference, some fear of having to commit too much--and that I need to actively fight that part of me if I want to become whole. I also learned from his death that I need to pay attention to my own sadness, my own overwhelm, and take care of myself. And, finally, that I must stay committed to those who are hurting--to actively invite them into my life, to nurture them, but never at the expense of caring for myself.

From all of them I learned that most constraints (time, money, energy) are human-made, not real. That I can live the life I want and must sometimes sacrifice for the sake of healing and love. That my life will not be, well, "normal"--and that this lack of "normalness" is what will make me whole and happy in the end.

From Pamba I learned what kind of parent I didn't want to be--the kind that screamed and felt sorry for himself and thought of himself before others always and always felt he didn't get enough credit or attention. I have been humbled by realizing that, in the midst of my grief, I became, at times just this kind of parent. But, I also learned from him what kind of parent I want to be--the kind who can ask forgiveness, say he's sorry. I learned about my own capacity for forgiveness. And self-forgiveness. And moving forward, finally.

I want you to know that now, I take the time to see and learn these and other lessons. I want you to know I am slowing down, paying attention. That this past year has been a year of stagnation and grief and fear--but that I'm moving past those things now. After breakfast, I went to T's home, where his family and friends had packed up all his books, which he'd donated to the library. He had at least as many, if not more, than I do. Today I stood in the library with two first-year students who showed up to help and ran my fingers over the spines of the books he'd once held and read. I could imagine each era of his life, could picture him in his office reading them. I felt at peace. And then, I went to the coffee shop to grade for awhile, and finally, after that, went home to be with S.

We sat quietly on the couch, leaning into each other and reading. I read through my devotions, one of which asked me to write down the deepest desires of my heart. After writing about helping to usher S into a good future, I wrote about Healing Ranch. And kept writing. And kept writing. I imagine the dead know everything, but perhaps I'm wrong. In any case, please send me whatever energy and love you can to help me bring these dreams into fruition--if they are meant to be. And if not, give me the strength to go on anyway.

But I've gotten off topic. When I started this letter, I was writing to tell you, first and foremost, that I know now that when you clenched your hand in a fist a few months earlier and promised me you would do whatever it took to "make it," that you must have been going through the most horrible pain. I'm not talking about the physical pain, or even the general I-have-cancer-and-might-die kind of pain, but the specific I-might-have-to-leave-my-daughter-forever kind of pain. I can't imagine looking into S's eyes and feeling that. I can't imagine.

I know mother-love now, and so I can look back at the years you were sick, and the years before that, and understand. How even though I tend to remember you as incredibly patient and gentle, you were sometimes angry and, yes, even mean--though not often. And I forgave you, as I know S will forgive me. And the rest of the time, you always made me feel I was the center of your world. Even when you were taking time for yourself, humming and staring off into space, gathering up your reserves to keep going forward. Even when you were snapping at Pamba, finally at the end of your rope at his neediness and self-pity, at all the ways he held you back from the life you wanted. Even when you were dying.

And so I am striving to give S the same kind of love and attention. I will need your help with that, too. It is difficult to sustain sometime--and was especially difficult with all the losses of this last year. But now, I am moving forward.

After the Healing Ranch dreaming, we went to the gym. I remembered you trying here and there to lose weight, and now I understand both how hard it must have been and how caring for others at the expense of your own care takes its toll on one's body. I don't want to suggest the stress in your life caused your cancer--but there is some connection, no doubt. And so I resolve to care for myself--to be careful about my eating, to keep up the exercising, to give S these same gifts. She is getting better, slowly, about eating and exercising, now that I'm back on track. And I am remembering again to cherish, as you did, my time in the kitchen, to work at making healthy meals, to make sure we sit down together. I will need your help to keep this up.

In the evening, we went to a dance performance then on campus. It was a risk, because, if the dead do indeed know everything, you know that S is obsessed with dance to the point that it is holding her back from moving forward. Afterwards we came home and talked a bit about the performance. Then, she asked what I'd been writing all that time when we'd been cuddling earlier on the couch. I told her I was working on the Healing Ranch dream. She wanted to read my notes. She laughed at the messiness of them, at the lack of organization, at the cross-outs and side notes in the margins. And then, she said it all sounded good, and she added her own notes to my margins.

After that, she picked up a horse magazine and looked through it, saying, "I remember how, before, I used to love horses." We talked about Honey, the horse she loved who died around this time last year, and about death, and about what it was like for me to lose you.

And then, she said, "I think I don't want to be a dancer anymore. I think I want to work on Healing Ranch with you, to work on healing people. Maybe through dance, or maybe some other way. But I think that's what I'm supposed to do. To heal myself so I can heal other people."

She was so earnest, staring into my eyes from her perch next to me on the couch. I tried hard not to get too excited, or to jump too far ahead. I know by tomorrow she may have forgotten this entirely. But when she moved on to planning the decor in each of the rooms I'd sketched out for the main house on this property that, at this point, I can only dream of affording someday, I wondered if maybe this time it would stick--that she's not meant to be famous or tutu-ed or stage-d but her authentic self, always in the process of healing and being healed.

I wonder sometimes what you learned from being my mother. My memories of our time together are spotty. Sometimes I have glimpses, actual glimpses, of you among your sisters and nieces and nephews, laughing and joking, working side by side with other women in the kitchen. Or I remember a few key times when you stood up for what you thought was right at church, with your friends, even when others were afraid to do so. Or the times I saw you genuinely connect with other women in that we-don't-have-to-worry-about-time kind of way.

But mostly I remember the times we were alone together. We had some serious talks, albeit brief and few and far between, about life and family-love and hope and wonder. These stick in my mind--the poignant moments like the time you clenched your fist and said you'd do anything to make it. And I remember how I never had the urge to run away. I could be in the presence of your pain, or your anger, or your wonder. I wasn't afraid of any of it.

But after you died, I became afraid of everything, and every big decision I've had to make required me to push that 13-year-old girl out of the way, to trudge on in order to get to where I knew I was going. But now I see that it was the little girl herself who was leading me. She would take a few steps forward and look back with her big sad and attentive eyes, daring me to follow her. And then, when she was sure I was heading in the right direction, she laughed a little and skipped out of the way.

Now I see that I have to embrace her rather than trying to get rid of her. She just wants the attention she stopped getting when you died. She just wants to be able to sit with the pain and not have to hurry through it. She just wants to have the kinds of conversations that go deep and aren't rushed. She wants to understand whatever is happening around her--anger, violence, even motionless-ness, even grief. Most of all, she knows how to love fiercely and deeply in the forever kind of way.

And so I'll find a way to be 40 and 13 at once, and I'll let S be whatever age she is from moment to moment as she tries to come to terms with the little-girl dreams she never got to dream and the grown-up dreams she sometimes glimpses. And I'll be patient--one thing everybody who knew you always says as soon as they get to talking about you is how patient you were. I'll do what I can to be patient and to make it--which means I'll be courageous, and take the 13-year-old girl's hand.

I'll need your help with that, too, please.

Love,
Argie

On Turning 40

2011-01-10T08:10:00.000-08:00

It’s my birthday today, and I’m taking the day off of work, a day of reflection and retreat. The only thing I have scheduled is a massage this afternoon, my first in more than ten years. I have been looking forward to the day all weekend—but it started out, somewhat predictably, in not exactly the way I had hoped.

Over the weekend, S and I had some good talks about how she needed to take more responsibility around the house, to take better care of herself, her animals, and her environment. I have realized that over the last year I’ve been depressed, and that many of my expectations of her, for that reason and others, went out the window. We have talked about how I want to turn that around this year, to find a way to keep our place neat and clean, to use our time wisely, to live more healthfully. To her credit, she was on board with these new year’s resolutions, overall, and she helped me give the house a thorough cleaning over the weekend and did all her chores last night.

Mornings have also been rough in the last year. S has a lot of trouble getting up, and I have to hover over her through every step of her morning ritual. When I’m regulated—when I’ve taken the time before she gets up to do devotions and to get even 10 minutes of yoga in—I can get through this even if she’s being resistant.

But, on most days, just getting through the morning without losing it is challenging. We talked about how to make the morning routine go more smoothly, and she agreed that if I got into bed with her and cuddled her a bit earlier (until this morning, I did this for about five minutes before she absolutely had to get up), then she would be in a better mood in the morning, feeling less rushed.

Well, I tried it this morning, and it backfired. I went in a half hour early, but at the end of the half hour, she still fought waking up, getting dressed, and again, as has been happening far too often lately, she got breakfast but I ended up picking out her outfit, walking the dog, cleaning off the car, packing her lunch, and not getting to do anything for myself—which has become a pattern, happening far too often. She used to do these things herself, but in the last year, both because of the struggles we’ve faced and my own depression (and, honestly, laziness), she’s really been slacking. At least this a.m. I was not also struggling to get myself ready also, since I didn’t have to be anywhere.

During this stressful morning, she mentioned that she didn’t care that it was my birthday (even though she’d gone out of her way to make me a cake over the weekend and to help clean the house when I told her that was what I wanted more than anything), and also that her cat was out of food. The trouble is, the cat shouldn’t be out of food—there’s absolutely no logical explanation—and I really didn’t want to spend money on more food for her. (Another new year’s resolution involves taking better care of our finances—I don’t want to waste money on things we shouldn’t actually need). The morning ended with me telling her she had to use her own money to buy the cat more food, and her slamming the car door and stomping off, instead of turning toward me right before going in the doors and giving me the “I love you” sign in sign language that is our usual ritual.

But, to my credit, I took it in stride. As I was driving away, the snow falling thickly around me, all the branches of the trees around me heavy and white, I managed to notice how beautiful everything was, even as I was slipping and sliding down the one and only real hill in our small town. I was able to shrug off the morning, knowing that by afternoon, we would be living a different story. Everything is temporary.

And then, strangely, instead of going home, I found myself turning toward the center of town, driving to the only store in town (a combination hardware, clothing, toy, kitchen, and pet store) that carries decent cat food, and buying S a giant bag of it, $40 worth--enough to last her cat about six months (well, unless the food inexplicably disappears again, that is). I thought to myself, I’ll just need to make this up somewhere in the budget, and I went ahead with the purchase, for no reason except that I wanted to live generously and kindly today. I also bought myself a hat for less than $10 (they were 60% off, and somewhere during our holiday travels, I lost mine).

And then, I walked into the only coffee shop in town to get myself a mint mocha latte and a piece of coffee cake to take home for breakfast. This was also not in the plan or the budget (though I discovered a gift certificate I didn’t even know I had in my purse as I was paying—a gift for sure!) When I got inside, as I was stomping the snow off my boots, I noticed the place was unusually quiet. Only one person was there, and it happened to be one of the only true enemies I have in Morris. The man is a conservative minister who, in an earlier period of my time here, went head-to-head with me in the town paper over whether or not GLBT people should have the same rights as straight people, and whether or not Jesus loved and welcomed them. He is the man who started a rampage against a friend of mine who staged a children’s play about diversity issues (that did not, but in his mind, might have, mentioned GLBT people). He and his parishioners convinced many schools in the region not to send their students to the play as a field trip, and most principals agreed. He is the man who had convinced all the other ministers in town to put an ad in the newspaper condemning GLBT and single parent families. He is, in short, a person who has caused me and several people I love a lot of pain.

And, I happen to have learned through the grapevine that in the last year, his church fired him, his wife left him, and he was diagnosed with stage four cancer. Admittedly, until the moment I saw him, I’d felt a kind of subdued glee about how his life was going—a “Well, what comes around goes around” kind of feeling. Never mind that my mother died of cancer when I was the age of one of his children. Never mind that I know what it’s like to be part of a broken family (though my parents never divorced, my mother’s death caused a huge rift between her family and my father, and there was another rift among the siblings in my mother’s family—all of which were healed by the time my father died). Never mind that my biggest fear is that I’ll lose my job. I even went so far as to imagine what it must have been like for him to learn that, in this time of suffering for him, I was awarded a human rights award partly because I’d been brave enough all these years to stand up to people like him—the thought of his seeing my photo on the front page of the newspaper brought me great joy, if guilty joy.

He looked up at me, then looked quickly back down at his computer. I went to the counter and chatted cheerfully with the managers, who called me by name. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that when they said my name, he looked up again. It has been some time since we had encountered each other in person, and I was, after all, draped in scarves and hat and hood and giant winter coat. And then, after I got my food, I turned to him, paused for a moment, and gave him a genuinely kind smile. I say genuinely because in that moment I felt some kind of love or sympathy or forgiveness or—something—flooding my entire body, and I acted on it. I also felt regret—regret that I’d spent so much energy hating him instead of realizing that he’d been put in my life to teach me something important about how to be a vocal advocate—as well as, maybe, how to forgive.

He smiled back. Then I made my way to the door, shouting “have a good day” to him and the managers and the one other customer who had just wandered in, another man who happens to have also shared views I didn’t exactly appreciate in the paper.
And I thought to myself, I am growing up.

I got home and took my time reading through my devotions. Below is one of them, by Wendy M. Wright. It seems such a fitting 40th birthday gift that I feel as if I need to copy it in its entirety here:

“The path of love that I walk is neither predetermined nor clear cut. It is forged in the process of walking day by day, listening deeply to the silence brooding beneath the noisy instructions issuing from without and within our own hearts. God’s will is not a puzzle to be solved but a mystery to be lived into. It is a mystery whose contours emerge as we journey on.”

Amen!

Holidays!

2011-01-10T08:09:00.000-08:00

I think we got it right this year. We drove for two days toward Ohio, where my family is from, with a carload of gifts and our dog. We got a hotel (generously paid for my aunt C, who raised me, as an early birthday gift), so we had our own space to just be together and with our dog. This made every moment we were with family poignant instead of exhausting, I think. The slow drive back home was a slow reentry into our own time and space.

We spent a lot of time holding my new nephew, and playing with my other nephew, now 6. We made a snowman and ate way too much and went to a couple museums on days when we needed to be alone together and laughed a lot with the extended family.

And, of course, we sang. This is always the highlight of the holiday season for me, when we all gather together on new year’s and sing the traditional Greek carols. In the song, we invite St. Basil, and each other, to sit and eat, sit and drink, sit and tell each other our troubles. We sing about endings and beginnings. And in those moments (this year, on both New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day), I feel everyone there, pressing in around us—my grandmother and mother and aunts and uncles who are gone now, and of course, this year, my father, also. And all of us who are still living were there, ages three months to nearly 90. This year, we went on to other songs I’d learned from them, and I wept and held onto one of the babies, and it was beautiful.

Shifting

2010-12-18T07:50:00.001-08:00

It has been a strangely beautiful and poignant 20 or so days since I wrote the last entry. After S and I wept and talked on the couch that day, after J and I exchanged those e-mails about the NPR story she had sent me, something in me began to shift. I was suddenly stronger, no longer relying on J or S or anyone else to carry me, as I had been, I realized, for much of this semester, maybe even this year. I have been feeling stronger and more able to really enjoy each moment for what it is.

Thanksgiving weekend was wonderful; S and I reconnected and spent a lot of time cuddling and talking. We got a gigantic Christmas tree that I couldn't really afford and a beautiful wreath for the front of our house and we spent all weekend decorating and admiring it. It tipped over multiple times, three of S's favorite ornaments broke, there were tears that dissipated into S saying, "But at least I have beautiful things now that are mine, even if sometimes they have to break." And then a friend of ours came over with a giant piece of wood and a drill and somehow stabilized the tree, and it has been beautiful ever since, even if it did displace one of our couches, even if it is totally in the way all the time in our tiny house.

After Thanksgiving, there were a few dramatic and awful moments. But, I did a revolutionary thing, and something that every therapist and book says I should never do--when S got crazy, screaming, throwing things, holding a knife to her wrist, I told her calmly that I loved her and would always love her, but that I didn't want to get hurt. And I drove away. I went to get a Subway sandwich, texted J, and when I returned, she was calm, she'd cleaned up, and she was sorry.

That's when I realized something has shifted in S, too. Kids with trauma feel abandoned all the time--anything, from being on the phone when they have a question to seeing fear in your body or face cause them to assume that these parents who have them aren't really forever parents. So, you're not supposed to walk away. You're also not supposed to yell or touch them either, of course, when they are freaking out, unless you're putting them in a hold to keep yourself safe--but leaving is not an option. And yet, I left, and it worked. I had tried that a few times early on, and leaving had been disastrous, had ended with S running away or doing more damage than she would have otherwise. But now--now, even if she doesn't always know it, I think in her heart she knows I'm never gone for good.

And so, I was suddenly cheerful, feeling good. I was suddenly able to enjoy every moment I had with J, whether we were having wine and deep conversation until 4 a.m. or she and her friends were singing Christmas carols outside my house at 1 a.m. or we were having a quick conversation while exchanging S in the middle of the day. I would think, we are so lucky she is in our lives, and our friendship with her is so beautiful and amazing. I felt the same way about the class I have this semester that I absolutely love and the one that has been somewhat of a disappointment (though admittedly, I think the death of my student who was in the class is playing a huge role in that). I was able to see what I did love about the students in the less-than-desirable class, to find even the most annoying among them endearing, and, when some of the students in the good class seemed to peter out at the end energy-wise, to seem less interested and enthusiastic about the material, I didn't take it personally.

And, for once, I was really enjoying the holidays. I was taking my time shopping, loving putting together a Christmas card with photos of our last year, loving all of it. I even went back to the church I left so long ago when the new minister invited me--and S and I felt comfortable there, and the pain I'd felt for so long after leaving seemed to have dissipated, too. We went with on a harrowing drive to see K, S's other beloved college buddy and horse teacher who now lives five hours away. It took forever to get there in a blizzard, but we made it, and again, although the visit was brief, I found myself thinking not how sad it was that these people were no longer going to be living in our town, but how lucky we were to have them in our lives forever, and to believe that it would be forever. It was all so incredibly beautiful and poignant, and I was happy.

And, in the midst of this happiness, S and I got the flu, the school held their meeting without me and never told me what was discussed, and I simply took it all in stride. I realized S is either going to get through high school or she's not, and I have to let go a little. I mean, don't get me wrong--I still have a tutor for her, still send notes to the school when her IEP is not being followed, still support her learning as much as possible--but again, I'm taking all of this less personally somehow.

Also in the midst of this happiness, something else happened: I learned that I had received the city's Human Rights Award. I have to admit I've always sort of scoffed at the stupidity of awards, and even resisted having an award for community service at our college until I was pressured into it by administrators. But, honestly, now that I have actually won something that actually relates to what I really care about, I have to admit it feels really, really good.

I honestly had no idea that the narrative of my life--which I like to believe centers on social justice--made any sense to anyone else. So much of what I do is behind the scenes, and so much of it might not be recognized as human rights work unless someone is really paying attention--and yet, people have been. In my good days, I can see that I have affected individual people's lives, but it's hard to see whether the work I've done has actually affected the community as a whole--and although I think the jury is still out on that question, I'm also glad that other people think it has.

Anyway, I felt so incredibly honored. There was a wonderful awards ceremony at a city council meeting and a wonderful party at my place afterwards, and honestly, I don't remember the last time I've had so much fun or the last time I've laughed so much. It was one of those perfect moments where everyone who has been supportive of me was in the same room (although maybe not at exactly the same time) and we were truly celebrating.

And then, suddenly, it was the last day of classes, and I was madly grading finals, and all of the sudden it was time to say goodbye to J. We had made a plan that we'd go out to eat at the diner in town and then we'd say goodbye, but of course I asked her to come back to our place so I could give her some books in lieu of a better gift later, and then sat on our couch and held each other and cried for a long time, even though we'd meant to make it less dramatic, even though she had a final to finish and packing to do.

But I told her that the last time we'd had to say goodbye, even though it was less permanent than this time, I had felt so hopeless--like there was no way I could get through my father's death and the semester that would follow without her, no way S and I would end up in one piece. But this time, even though she's going away more or less for good (though of course there will be visits in both directions), I knew that knowing her had made us stronger, and that although we were going to miss her terribly, I knew we would be OK.

That was last night. This morning, I woke up and did the things I used to do to take care of myself, the things that were habits before my father died almost a year ago and the year 2010, one of the hardest in my life, began. I don't know why we don't take care of ourselves when things are hardest, but it is too late to worry about that now--this year is gone and I am moving forward. I read devotions and did yoga and now I'm drinking coffee and writing here, and soon I'll wake my child and we'll have a good day. Her tutor, who next semester will also be her college buddy, will come to relieve me for a few hours so I can wrap S's gifts and work on my grading and hopefully have a little time to go to the gym, which I've literally not done this entire year, and I'll still get everything done in time to leave for Ohio and to meet the grade posting deadline.

In the middle of next week we'll drive there with our dog and stay in a hotel and, although this is not at all the norm for our family, I'll explain that it's the way we have to do it in order to get through the holidays--that S needs her dog and her own private space, that we need to be able to have time alone together. And I know we'll have a good time at the family gatherings, that I will love holding my new nephew and spending time with my crazy loud Greek family, because I'm in the mindset now where I can be in the moment and see how everything is so beautiful or so sad or so hard and know it's just that moment, so I need to sit with it, lean into it, take it all in, and then, when it's time, to let it go.

No Doubt

2010-11-25T22:13:00.000-08:00

S has been out of control lately, beyond anything “usual,” even for her. She’s been consistently mean and violent and screaming. She created a fake ebay account and purchased $400 worth of items, and this has been a nightmare to fix. She is eating whatever she wants at lunch at school, mostly sugar, and refusing to eat the healthy lunches (or, for that matter, suppers) that I make; food has been an issue all along, but it’s really escalated recently.

Worst of all, she is showing little remorse for her actions. Every little request turns into a fight. Every boundary is a challenge meant to be broken. Even if she agrees—yes, you’re right, I can’t handle the computer, please take away the keyboard and mouse—the next day she is screaming at me and her college buddy because I’ve taken away the keyboard and mouse. Living in my home has been exhausting.

This past Tuesday, things reached a head when she blew up and cussed at a teacher. Up until that point, most of her aggressive behavior had been aimed at me. The issue was minor—a student in her class saying that the snow was melting—and after blowing up at him, when the teacher asked her to calm down, she got physically aggressive, grabbed the phone, called me, and refused to let the teacher have her phone.

Afterwards, there was little remorse, and she was completely unable to recognize how minor the student’s words had been, how they definitely didn’t merit a meltdown. This kind of behavior has been common enough that the school has asked for a meeting; we’ll be meeting next week to try to hash out how to handle these kinds of outbursts, and how to best support her education in what we hope is just a phase of aggression.

That night, on our way to therapy in a town two hours from ours—a trek we make every Tuesday—S told me that too many things were changing. Her godparents are splitting up. My father is gone—and she does not want to go to Ohio for the holidays, where our family is from, now that we won’t be able to see him or spend time at his place. Her beloved college buddy, J, will be leaving soon. Too much change.

Each week, I call her therapist and leave a message with the week’s highlights. I described her aggressive behavior—she had physically attacked me multiple times in the last week—and what had happened at school. After the therapy session, the therapist came out and said that S needed to have healthy snacks with her and to have access to them at all times. The trouble is, I’ve offered this option to her—in fact, she has enough food with her to be able to eat between classes—but she refuses to do so. She also said S realized when she’d blown up but was too embarrassed to apologize for her behavior. Again, the trouble was that this simply wasn’t true—she had spent much of the ride to therapy explaining why what she’d done had been justified, grasping at straws.

I left the session frustrated, something that happens all too often. Our family therapist and I have been working on pushing her a bit lately—on forcing her to talk about why she’s doing what she’s doing, why she’s remained obsessed with childish things—and it’s worked. She’s able to “go there,” even if it gets ugly in the process. Part of her reactions recently, I think, have to do with how afraid she is of the future, and how unwilling she is to move forward. She’s stuck, but her therapist is not helping her get unstuck. She’s swimming in the stuck-ness with her, not trying to push her out.

I have been unable to find her a better therapist, or even another one who is closer—it is difficult to get someone to take on a child with her level of trauma, and difficult in general to find a therapist who isn’t booked these days. In the car on the way home, I said that it was frustrating that she was lying to the therapist, and that they were not addressing the root causes of any of the issues. What was it about snow melting that was so upsetting? I wanted to know. Why was she so obsessed with a certain kind of very realistic baby doll that she purchased $400 worth of items related to the dolls? These actions had to be triggered by something related to her abuse—they otherwise simply didn’t make sense.

She began to pull my hair, pulling out large chunks of it. I pulled over and managed somehow to stay calm, but the rest of the ride was grueling. She was screaming or sobbing for much of it, telling me over and over again that she planned to kill herself, and how she would do it, that her life was completely meaningless. At other times, she would grow calm and tell me that she knew she needed more help. “I feel like I’m going crazy and I don’t know what to do. I know my therapist isn’t pushing me hard enough,” she said several times. “I need more help.” She vacillated between talking rationally and screaming irrationally, and I just tried to keep the car on the road, get us home safely—which, finally, I did. But, by the time I got home, I was in a lot of pain, physically and emotionally.

Just as we were about to get into town, I said quietly to her, “I wonder if you will feel any better when you see our dog.” I have no idea why I said it. And then we were in the house, and our dog was jumping on her, and she put on his leash and told him how much she loved him, how glad she was to see him. We walked him around the block. As usual, he sniffed at everything as if he’d never been on our street before, running around in circles, marking his territory.

“Look, Mom,” S said. “Our dog is saying, ‘Sniff everything. Live life to the fullest. I think that’s good advice.’”

I turned my face away from her so she wouldn’t see me start to cry. How could she go from wanting to hang herself to learning this simple lesson from her dog? “It’s so beautiful out, Mom. The snow didn’t melt. And look at the clouds. I’ll bet it’s going to snow more tomorrow, and everything will look beautiful and new again.” Her voice carried a true sense of wonder.

We got inside and she played with the dog for about half an hour, throwing his ball over and over, laughing unselfconsciously when he would run back to her arms.
Then, we cuddled on the couch. She told me that the weather had looked an awful lot like the place she is from for a long time, too long, and that she wanted to go back to the happy memories of when she visited me for the first time (it was snowing) and when she moved here (the ground was snow covered). She didn’t want to be stuck in the past. She wanted to be in a good place, not a bad place.

I asked if she thought I was pushing her too hard. “No,” she said. “I need to be pushed.” She paused for a minute. “I’m sorry for everything, Mom. I’m sorry for how I’ve hurt you and how I hurt the kid in my class and my teacher. I don’t want to be the kind of person who hurts people. I don’t want to turn out like my bio family. I want to get better.” We cried together for awhile, and then, finally, she went to bed.

I called J then; I’d texted her a couple times during the night because, as usual, I just needed someone who loves us to know what was happening—someone who would really get it but also wouldn’t get scared away.

We have only two more weeks with her, and I am going to miss her terribly. I have been struggling with how much to tell her recently—I don’t want her to feel guilty for leaving, but at the same time, since S got to me, J has been one of our most important supporters, either experiencing or hearing about every up and down, even when she spent a semester abroad last year. I told her the story, and when I got to the part of our dog jumping on S, of her glee at seeing him again, she began to cry, and so did I.

“I keep forgetting how much I’m going to miss her,” J said.

I asked if I should be telling her everything, still, now as she’s trying to say goodbye. She said she wanted to know. I think that’s the best kind of friendship—the friends who want to know, even if knowing isn’t convenient or easy.

Earlier that week, J had sent me a link to an NPR story about unconditional love. A couple adopts a child who turns out to be mostly unable to love them for several years. The story goes through the abuse the mother experienced—abuse much worse than what I am experiencing now, but eerily similar in many ways—and over and over, the reporter asks her in different ways why she kept going. She can’t give an answer—she just did. It was the right thing to do. The boy is now grown up, and doing well. At the end of the story, the reporter asks the mother if she thinks he loves her. “I’m not worried that he wants to hurt me,” she says. “Yeah, I mean, I think he does.”

The reporter, Alix Spiegel, ends the story with these words: “It’s a very unsentimental view of her relationship with her child. But that is what has made Heidi so successful. Heidi is an unusually pragmatic person…realistic, tough minded…and these are precisely the characteristics that are needed in this situation. If you are the kind of person who actually needs love, really needs love, chances are you are not going to be the kind of person who has the wherewithal to create love. Creating love is not for the soft and sentimental among us. Love is a tough business.”

I listened, and of course, wept like crazy. Then I sent J the following e-mail:
I've probably told you this story before, but I remember during my second interview with S's team, one of the social workers (the sternest one of all of them) asked, bluntly, "What are you hoping to get out of this?"

I thought about it for awhile. I remember thinking, well, if I wanted a normal life, I would adopt or try to give birth to a baby, and have at least a slightly higher chance of acquiring said normal life--at least, as normal a life as any single lesbian adoptive mother with all of my issues/personality traits can have, I guess.

And I remember also thinking, wait, why AM I doing this? And I remembered how for years people had asked me the same question about why I always taught the basic writing classes (full of students who were likely not to make it through college) or why I have always let random people land on my couch for weeks on end or why I have driven random people out of town to get the help they need, sometimes in the middle of the night...whatever, you get the point--and how I had never known how to answer them, or even how to explain how I got myself in these situations where I was doing these things.

And all of the sudden I thought, either this is a really unhealthy or a really healthy impulse that I have, this desire to help people who are at the end of their rope, who by all measures seem hopeless to everyone but me. Maybe this makes me codependent or crazy, I thought. It wasn't the first time I'd had these questions, but it was the first time I'd encountered them since wrestling with them when I first began the adoption process. Suddenly, I couldn't remember how I'd resolved them before--or if I'd resolved them. I felt confused and scared and...

Then the social worker impatiently and sternly repeated the question. And I remember feeling this sense of total calm by the time she got to the end of it the second time.

And I said, "I'm not sure, but I think the answer to that question is that I'm expecting to get absolutely nothing out of it. Which makes me sound like I'm crazy, I realize..."

And the social worker said, "No, it sounds like you're the perfect person to be a mother to a kid like S."

I swear that was the moment when she decided I was the one, even though it took another interview before they picked me over the other family and even though she continued to ask me really hard questions until the moment I drove away with S to the airport a few months later to bring her home.
And I also swear that when I said it I had never been more sure that what I was saying was the truth.

Anyway, I honestly think my problem lately (and I could change my mind about this by tomorrow, who knows) is that I have up until now gotten so much more from S than anyone ever imagined was possible--that she has attached relatively easily and does clearly love me and a lot of other people, too, something the social workers told me would never be possible. Yes, she has been violent and mean and done some crazy things, but for the most part, my journey has been easier than anyone expected. She’s not in jail or dead, as one record I read suggested she would be by the time she was 16. We’re making good progress, in the big picture.

Maybe she just needs some time to be the kid everybody told me she was, and maybe I have to go back to why I did this in the first place, which was not because I wanted to live with someone who would give me unconditional love, but because I thought I was capable of giving it to someone who (up to that point, at least) didn't in any way deserve it.

I mean, she was beating the crap out of people physically and emotionally all the time before she moved here. Maybe she does just need me to be with her through this so she'll know I'm not going anywhere and so she'll work through whatever it is she needs to work through right now and so, finally, we can get back to how it was at the beginning, where I think she sensed it was all about her and not about me (which has not been the case lately, when I've needed so much more from her b/c of everything else I'm going through).

It also occurs to me that her bio mother was depressed a lot of the time, and irrational, and always feeling like a victim, things that I have been feeling a lot lately because of all the losses I’ve experienced recently, and there's no way she's not picking up on those things and no way that's not freaking her out...

Anyway, I have also been reading all these spiritual books which are reminding me that nothing ever stays the same and nothing is really ever about me, that the universe is way bigger than my feelings and thoughts and that the best way to get back to being right with the universe is to realize this...and the whole time I couldn't grasp what they were telling me, b/c I'm too full of grief right now about everything...and it wasn't until I listened to the first woman talk about her son that it made sense. I liked this so much that I actually wrote it down, what the journalist said at the end of the first story: "If you are the kind of person who actually needs love, really needs love, chances are you are not going to be the kind of person who has the wherewithal to create love. Creating love is not for the soft and sentimental among us. Love is a tough business."

Anyway, all of this is to say thanks for sending this, and of course, for everything else, too. (p.s. Sorry for all the ellipses...)

J responded:

I think I sent it to you because you remind me a lot of that first lady. Not because you have a silly voice, but because of how she responded when the interviewer asked her if she'd ever considered just giving up -- there's this sort of surprise in the woman's response, as if it's something she's never even considered -- the unthinkable.

I remember being so amazed and unnerved when I first met S, that day in the coffee shop--I couldn't understand why exactly you'd chosen to bring this large frightened girl into your life. You'd been telling us quietly that you were going to adopt and now here she was, sort of unreal.

I very quickly learned why, yes. There are no immediate external benefits -- you are not doing it to earn money or to have something good on your resume, which sometimes seem to be the reasons why anyone my age does anything good ever -- but soon there were intrinsic ones; S riding Honey, S hugging you passionately, S going up to old people in the grocery store and asking them, "Sir, what was it like when you were in high school?" (This happened three days ago, by the way.)

When she succeeds it makes me feel like humans can do anything. When she fails it makes me feel like the bad guys will always win. And this unnerves me -- why have I so clearly defined success and failure for her?

Success has happened already -- she's here, and nobody is going to hurt her anymore, and she has a cat and a dog and a mom whom she loves, who she is slowly learning is like that first mother – for whom giving up has never been an option.

I read this e-mail and cried a lot, and then, when I was done crying, I felt an intense gratitude for J—there is no doubt that she was meant to show up in my life, and meant to be there for the two of us for the last 2 ½ years. There’s also no doubt she’s meant to be moving on to the next thing—to the person she loves, to the country where he lives. Change is inevitable; we aren’t supposed to try to stop it, but rather to try to stay in the moment, to be grateful for what we have in that moment, for how each person we come to know and love changes our lives.

There is no doubt, either, that I’ll stick out this difficult period, no matter how long it lasts, and that I will never stop loving S. And, although I forgot this temporarily, there’s also no doubt that I’m strong enough to do this, even when I’m getting nothing back, even when parenting S results in pain, physical or emotional. I’ll keep loving her even when she can’t love me or herself or her life or the world—as well as when she can.

Pussy Willows and Apologies

2010-11-14T10:15:00.000-08:00

In her poem "Pussy Willow (An Apology)," Susan Mitchell writes of being late to see a friend because she becomes enthralled with pussy willows outside the florist shop on the way. "I had to take off/my gloves, and I would have/taken off my skin//(for why should I put/a barrier between/myself and anything?" she writes, "...because I cannot/keep my hands/off the world/and the world out of my breath."

The poem is about how every choice we make to be present with one thing means, necessarily, that we are no longer present with something else. Each hour I'm at work and S is at home, my heart struggles--I want to be with her, but I also want to do my job well, to manage a program that makes a real difference in the community and in students' lives. I'm able, somehow, to keep that larger goal before me when I'm meeting with faculty, students, and community partners, to continue to feel the excitement of the potential results of those meetings (though this means I'm often disappointed by how things turn out--the faculty member decides not to do service-learning after all, or the student finds that she can't commit the time she'd expected to a project).

When it comes to time with S, I've been having trouble lately, again, being present in the moment and not worrying about the future. As she processes the fact that her case will never go to trial, as she realizes just how different she is from her peers, that having close friendships or relationships with them is not really feasible at this stage in her healing, as she tries to come to terms with her own academic and potential professional limitations, as we say goodbye to the college buddy who has been a rock in her life for the last two years, she is depressed. Sometimes this means she's weeping inconsolably in my arms; other times, it means she's acting out, refusing to get off the computer that she uses to escape or refusing to do her chores or refusing to finish homework.

I've come to the point where I am realizing it is not possible to continue working at the current pace and to parent her well. I am talking with my supervisor about this in a little over a week, something that is scary in these particular budget times--even though the office has been cited as a priority, my job class is the most vulnerable class for cuts, because I don't have the protection of either a union or tenure.

Meanwhile, S told me she needs more time with me. We looked at my calendar and realized that it is true--I have been away from her more this semester than ever before. We sat down and I blocked out more time to be with her--but the fact remains that there is no way I could do my job in the hours she is at school; it's simply not possible. And there's no way she can be left alone; not only does she get lonely, but she also makes terrible decisions, like deciding to visit me just before I am to give a speech, with our dog, or like creating an ebay account and spending $100 she does not have. And even though I was attentive to her concern and enacted an immediate solution, this does not mean I am really giving her the time she needs to keep growing--there needs to be a bigger, more systemic solution to this problem of her feeling abandoned and needing more time with me.

In some ways, it feels like she's regressing, but I don't think that's it exactly. I think some of her security has disappeared in the last year and she is not sure how to manage all the changes. I think that the brave act of telling her story sustained her--until she learned that no one had really listened, that nothing would come of it. I also think that the last two years of high school are scary for anyone, but especially for someone like her who refuses to take a realistic look at what the future holds.

I don't have the time to manage her IEP in the ways it needs to be managed, or to help her with homework in the way she really needs help, or to meet with her teachers regularly, or, basically, to do all the things that her special ed team should be doing but never actually does. I don't have the time or energy to continue battling the school--I fought for an IEP I could live with that at least included some specific goals related to social skills and career planning/college prep, but I've been lax in making sure they are actually happening. They are, sort of, but at a very slow pace and very haphazardly. I am frustrated but don't even have the time to feel the extent of my frustration, much less to act on it.

And so, I find myself in the cliched dilemma of so many parents, one that I swore I'd never have: at what moments do I put my job first, and at what moments do I put S first? I thought I could always put S first, but I have a lot of pressure to build a good program at work--otherwise, I'm expendable. Aside from that, I put a lot of pressure on myself to make real differences in people's lives--and I think all of us should put that kind of pressure on ourselves, so that we don't become satisfied with our comfortable middle class lives and forget about the suffering in the world. Still, how do I do it all?

I have such contempt for so many parents I know who clearly put their careers before their children, who talk about splitting the weekends between spouses so they can each get 10 hours of work in on Saturday and Sunday, who talk about the victory of getting their kids to bed at ridiculously early hours so they have the evenings to work. This is the norm in academia; people talk about their kids as problems to be negotiated rather than people to be raised. That's not to say the people who talk like this aren't good parents--I've never had occasion to talk with them about why they had kids, or how they are raising them, or any other important questions. I realize I can't see the whole picture because I interact with them mostly at work.

And now I feel like I've become one of those parents, calling S's college buddies to say I need just one more hour, saying yes to meetings after 5 or 6 or even 7 because I want to have my hands in the project, even if that means that S gets less time with me. I have no time to actually reflect on all the projects I'm involved in or to do my own grading/class planning--if that happens at all, it always happens after 10, when S is in bed. So I'm also not getting enough sleep. And when I have the opportunity to actually talk to another human being, it's also always after 10, and I always say yes or am the one who invites that person to come, because I so need the interaction. I have an open door policy after 9 anyway--so people know that's the time they can come to talk with me, to reflect on their day, to be there for me and for me to be there for them. I want to keep this--in fact, I need to keep it for myself--but each day when I do have a visitor I don't get work done that needs to get done.

Mitchell writes, "What/does the world want (anyway)/of me with its pussy willows, with/its tears and angers//its greeds and splendors, its/petitions of/skyscrapers and waterfalls?//And what do I want with/its famous and forgotten? And is/this the purpose of my life,//to figure this out?"

I feel like I am at a critical place where I have to look carefully on what it is I want to accomplish. Maybe that's because I'm only a few months away from 40, or maybe it's because S is 1 1/2 years away from graduation, or maybe...I don't know. I do know that I can't go on living at this pace in this way for much longer and keep myself sane.

In answer to her own question about whether the purpose of life is to determine what the world wants of us, Mitchell goes on, "Or is it/to touch and be touched? And if/I love the world more than any one person, or if I love/one person more/than the world, what/does this say of me?"

This is a critical question for me. My decision to adopt S came out of a realization that I couldn't do as much as I wanted to do for any one person of the many who needed a real investment in his/her past, present, and future. Because I could not ever make a big enough impact in any one person's life, I thought adoption would give me the chance to do that. But the reality is, the rest of my life had to go on. I had to keep a job that was dedicated to students, many of whom still seek me out for guidance, and social justice work, which simply cannot be done from 8 to 3:15, or even 8 to 5. So there is a conflict here, and yes, the easy thing would be to close my door, to not be present for people other than S. But I tried that for a year, and my student evaluations were disastrous, and I felt angry and mean all of the time. There is no middle ground for me--I either give my heart and soul to what I'm doing or I am so closed off I can't be effective at all.

Mitchell's resolution, if one can call it that, is, at this point, beyond my full comprehension. She writes, "And what do I say to friends/when they keep me waiting,//Oh, dally, friend, delight/so that I may rub/it from your body//its furs and gewgaws, its/horrors and sweetnesses, so you may/deliver it to me, you//the messenger, the unwinged,/the prosaic in all/its scratch and bliss?"

There is a reversal here--the speaker is no longer the person who stopped to examine and touch the pussy willow, the one who was late for an engagement with a friend--instead, she becomes the one in the position to forgive the latecomer. The "it" here is the pussy willow, of course, but it is also all the "its" that all of us carry--our private griefs and joys, how everything we experience is both light and dark, both uplifting and full of loss. In our lives, the "it" is the loss of my father, the upcoming loss of day-to-day contact with our dear friend J, the memory of walking along the river or in the wetlands examining each wisp of prairie smoke, each blossom, and the changing colors of the prairie grass. The "it" is everything we carry with us when we encounter each other.

Mitchell seems to be suggesting--and it is a suggestion only--that we not worry so much about time, but that we think about how to be present with each other in the time we have to connect. That we take the time to take in and really see each "it," each "pussy willow," but that we also take the time to encounter those "pussy willows" that we carry with us. That we touch each other (not necessarily physically, but with our souls--though physical touch is also critical), and that we are present for each other's truths.

Maybe some people, myself included, are more interested in making appointments, staying on time, and remaining goal-oriented--on having answers to the big questions about what the world is asking of us. But maybe it is enough to be present.

Now I feel like a broken record. Haven't I written this a million times before?

But being present isn't possible if there is too much stuff in our lives that gets in the way. So I'll meet with my supervisor, try to come up with a plan to narrow the focus of my office, possibly to either get some time off for reflection or to get more help. It is a first step, but also an important one.

Song for Autumn

2010-10-21T21:41:00.000-07:00

"In the deep fall/don't you imagine the leaves think how/comfortable it will be to touch the earth instead of the/nothingness of air and the endless/freshets of wind?"
Mary Oliver writes in "Song for Autumn."

What does it mean to live a good life, to have a good death? A mentor of mine died a good death recently, loved deeply by so many who visited regularly until the very end. I never went to see him, even though S asked many times that we do so. I had heard from a mutual friend that he'd said, "Let them come if they need to say goodbye," and I didn't. I didn't because the last time I saw him, he had hugged me tightly and told me how glad he was to have worked with me, and I had said the same. We both knew, of course, that he was dying, but in that moment, surrounded by the noise and laughter at a community meal, we didn't have to say it.

Before then, S and I had presented him with a painting of his favorite local hang out at his retirement party, and a note in which I'd told him how very much I admired him. I admired him because he was genuine, always. There was never a doubt about how he felt about any new idea, any new challenge in his work--he would tell you, directly, but also gently. There was also never a doubt that he valued people over policies or financial realities or public relations. He was an innovator--he wanted to help people find and live their dreams. And then, when that happened, he would just sort of sit back and smile, but never take the credit. Case in point: I showed up in his office and told him I dreamed of someday taking students from the college where I teach to the island my family is from--an island in the middle of nowhere, far away from the Acropolis and the Plaka, without much of a written history at all. I wanted them to go and just be with the elders there, to find a way to connect and learn from them. It was a vague plan, at best. Within a year, it happened. To say that his belief in the idea was absolutely critical would be an understatement. He would find a way to "play with the numbers" until the trip was affordable for as many students as possible.

Perhaps I am a coward for not going to see him in those last days, but I knew that others he knew better than me were visiting regularly, and that he had excellent care, and that he knew how I felt about him.

I can't help but contrast his death--and the death of my father, who was lovingly cared for by my sister in his last days as we tried to get home from Greece--and the death of my other mentor, Gremmels, who was with his wife and family when he passed--to the death of the student I lost recently, the one I wrote about in my last blog. I wanted to imagine that his death had been peaceful, but I've since learned it was not--and this truth, which I can't explain further here, has been devastating.

I think in a very real way I tend to think of life as a struggle--if people were leaves, they would be fighting the wind, clinging to the branch, not wanting to go to the next phase, the obviously worse phase. We are all hanging on, in my worldview, to our ideals, to our dreams, and if we give in to whatever is pushing us around, we're going to be lost forever.

My work with people with Alzheimer's, which started when I was in graduate school, and the more than ten years of thinking and writing I've done about this, has changed this worldview to some extent. At least, I liked to think it had. I write about how my friends with Alzheimer's have taught me to live in the moment, each moment, how to understand my life not as a coherent narrative--this happened, then this, then this--but rather as a curious and raucous circle of characters and memories and dreams and jokes and stories. We can dance in that circle, breathe in it. We can create ourselves again day in and day out. We can learn, most importantly, about deep connection, about how to enter into another person's world instead of trying to pull them into ours.

But how well have I applied this concept to my work with students? Not very well. I pride myself in being able to help a a student who started out barely able to write a sentence to the point where he is walking across a stage. I like to see the way service-learning projects change students' views or help them to find a passion for social justice. I am outcome-oriented. I always have been.

Speaking of circles, haven't I written about this before? Maybe it's all I ever write about--this tension between wanting to create change and wanting to take my time being fully present with other people, understanding how they see the world, finding a way to create a space for real connection. But, what is connection if it is not connected in some real way to social change? What is a story if it is not part of the larger story of how we grow to understand each other, to peel away the layers of oppression and privilege until we live in a just world?

It would be impossible to write about death without also writing about the many kids who have killed themselves in that past few months--the numbers I've seen have ranged from six to 14, and I'm not sure anymore what accounts for the differences. I know, of course, that suicide is never as simple as, "I was gay, people didn't accept me, I killed myself." I also feel a bit of discomfort about politicizing deaths like these. At the same time, what could possibly be more political than how we die, besides how we live? Do we live in a society where we are hated, tolerated, or truly integrated and honored for the gifts we have to give? Do we live in a society where we are lovingly cared for at the end of life, where we don't choose our own deaths, but we are willing, like the leaves in Oliver's poems, to lie down--even longing for such rest? Can we ever see death through lenses that do not evoke some kind of longing for something that can't be won't be--can we ever stop saying, "What if so-and-so had only lived a little longer?"

Oliver goes on, "And don't you think/the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,/warm caves, begin to think//of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep/inside their bodies? And don't you hear/the goldenrod whispering goodbye,/the everlasting being crowned with the first/tuffets of snow?"

The answer to these rhetorical questions is, only if you are listening. I write this not to evoke notes forgiving me, or assuring me that I couldn't have prevented anyone's decision to die--but I do know that I have not always listened. Sometimes this has been because the person across from me isn't communicating in a way I can understand. Maybe I think it's pretentious or overly self-pitying or overly theoretical. Maybe I don't want to bother to go further--or I've tried, and he hasn't wanted to go there. Whatever the situation, it is easier to close doors, to turn away. Easier to think, "I don't want this"--this friendship, this student-teacher relationship, whatever--"to be this hard." There is a restlessness to many interactions in this time of economic challenge, when everyone is trying to do more with fewer resources, less time. And yet, the seasons go on changing. Our surroundings, even with their subtle changes, remain familiar.

"The pond/vanishes, and the white field over which/the fox runs so quickly brings out/its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its/bellows. And at evening especially,/the piled firewood shifts a little,/longing to be on its way."

Perhaps we all long for the fire. We want to be made new, to be born again. We don't want to die, most of us, but we all need rest, an through that rest, we have the potential to transition into a new, better version of ourselves. Even then, we dance in the same circle of characters, regardless of how or when or whether we tried to make an escape.

What I know from my student's memorial is that I was not the only person who misunderstood him--but also, I've learned that many, many people did not. Many people saw his brilliance, understood that he couldn't learn or be in relationship in the conventional ways. He connected to some of us on very deep levels. The rest of us can remember comical misunderstandings, or moments when we got close to knowing him, or allowing him to know us.

His death has made me want even more to start Healing Ranch, and to think more clearly and deeply about its mission. Maybe the ranch should not be focused on transitions in the traditional sense of the term--on setting goals, on trying to discover one's gifts and applying them--but rather on the journey from tree to ground, on finding a way out of the wind, a way to rest and evaporate and come back in some new form. And then, once we have found our way to the fire, we can look at the world, and not where we want to fit into it, but how we can change it so that anyone, everyone, could draw their circles in the sand, and dance.

bare feet in the leaves

2010-09-28T07:35:00.000-07:00

The trees along our street would turn colors and there he would be, walking past my house, kicking up small clouds of red and yellow with his bare feet, smiling a little to himself. Or he would show up on my back porch and just sit there, not wanting to talk. He’d have his head back and be looking up at the sky, the sunlight reflecting off his dark glasses.

Sometimes, he was genuinely happy.

We met during orientation in fall 2005, when I cheerfully greeted all my new advisees and forced them to go around the room, saying their names and majors and other mundane facts about themselves—where they were from, what they liked to do for fun. Murdock refused to participate. He pulled his black fingernails through his long hair and looked at me through those signature dark glasses. When I asked his name, he refused to tell me.

Eventually, I of course figured out, by process of elimination, who he was. Somehow, I got him to come to my office. By then, I thought I’d figured him out. I told him bluntly that just because he was queer, or goth, or whatever, didn’t give him any right to be an asshole, and that maybe if he would give me a chance, we’d end up having more in common than he knew.

“What do you expect me to do?” he asked me.

“For starters, you could tell me what you want to be called.”

“Murdock,” he said. “My name is Murdock. Don’t ever call me by my first name.”

“That’s good,” I said. “That’s a start. Now, why don’t you take off your glasses?”

So he did. It was the only time in five years that I saw his eyes. “I can’t see you,” he said. “I don’t see the world the way other people do. I need these glasses to make sense of color and light.”

“I will always see you,” I promised him then.

I have gone back to that memory over and over since Murdock’s death. Did I keep my promise? I can’t be sure. When somebody dies, it is hard not to replay every conversation you had with that person in your head over and over. It’s hard not to imagine how things could have gone differently if…if what?

If I had shown up at his door instead of just e-mailing when he missed class. If I’d been in less of a hurry during that last conversation in my office. If I hadn't encouraged him to move back onto campus, hadn’t helped him think about how to advocate for a single room. Many of us, I am sure, are asking such questions. Sometimes these questions boil down to guilt, but at other times, they are more complex--deep and multi-colored as the leaves in autumn.

I remember him walking past my house, bare feet in those leaves, when he lived down the street. I remember how he could turn angry and silent in an instant, and I had no idea where it came from—but also how smart he was, and how funny. He used sarcasm and intelligent humor to keep people at bay, but also to stay connected to them. He liked it when I managed to dish it back at him, which wasn’t often. He was too quick for me.

Sometimes he was so incredibly sincere, but I would misread what he was saying to me. In a recent conversation in my office, he said he thought old people had a lot of wisdom—that there was a lot to learn from them. I wish I could remember the context, but I don’t. I gave him a funny look, waiting for the punch line. “What?” he said. “You can’t believe I’d say something that mundane or normal?” I responded, “People might say that, but they don’t really mean it—so I don’t actually think it’s a normal thing to say at all.”

“Well, I really think that,” was all he said in response.

Sometimes I laughed at him. Sometimes I rolled my eyes at the things he said or didn’t say. Sometimes I tried to get him to tell me more, go deeper, but then the air would become electric and the leaves would dance like small lanterns and catch fire and burn out fast and everything was quiet and dark again. A joke, a strange look, a quick escape from my office, and I’d know I’d gone too far.

He had been through so much--abuse, rejection, living with challenging disabilities--but he was resilient; I truly believed he would make it to graduation. He scoffed at the idea of wearing a robe and walking across a stage, but I told him I was going to make him do just that the last time we talked--and that I hoped he'd make that trek barefoot, as he so often was in my memory. Of course, I could never make him do anything. Nobody could.

Our conversations were magnificent, strange, blurry as the trees turning colors outside my window in the fog this morning. It would be too overwhelming to look carefully at each. Impossible, even.

He saw the world, literally, differently from the rest of us. I wonder now how the trees along our street looked to him at this time of year, when they are so brilliant. I wonder how they would have looked to him today, right now, in this particular fog, in this particular light, as I write this after a sleepless night.

There is no way to make sense of the death of someone so young. To turn our loss into some kind of a lesson seems demeaning to someone like Murdock, who was such a deep thinker.

Still, I think back to those flip words that came out of my mouth in our first private meeting. “I will always see you,” I said to him. I hope we can all take the time to look at each other, to peek behind the walls that we imagine are there, to talk and to listen deeply to each other. I hope we can find a way to be present right now, in the present, with each other.

Murdock, I will miss you. I wish you a deep and restful sleep.

September

2010-09-26T06:51:00.000-07:00

It has been so long since I've written, I hardly know where to start. S is back to full days at school, and she's doing incredibly well. She is also doing a better job of getting chores around the house done. With the exception of a couple days last week, she has been calm and focused (well, for her), and has been, basically, happy.

J, her college friend, is back from Germany, and two other college women are helping out now, working with her just a few hours a week. They will take over J's hours next semester, so I thought it was important to get them started now to ease the transition. We're in as much of a routine as we could possibly have given how much of my job involves evening and weekend work--and different hours each week.

Strangely, after a summer of dreading coming back full-time, I am loving my job this year. Part of that is a first-year seminar course called community engagement: from volunteerism to social justice. I have really great, thoughtful, enthusiastic students in that class, and it's a pretty diverse group. The class has really given me a chance to synthesize my thinking about the field I have accidentally found myself working in over the last ten years, and I'm feeling passionate about that work again. I'm also co-teaching a disability studies course with a friend, and it's nice to be doing this a second time, when the material is not so new to me, and during a semester when I am really grounded in this place.

Grounded. It's strange--I think for the last two years, because my father was dying and S was having so many troubles, my life felt fragile and disjointed. Sometimes when I would write here or in my journal, I would see the coherence, but mostly I was just struggling to get through each day. I also was so unhappy about all the changes at work, and I think it simply took two years to get adjusted first to the idea of a new appointment and new coworkers and then to a full year of being in that appointment. Now that I'm in year two, I feel more settled and confident and less frantic.

I got my teaching evaluations back from last year, and they were very high again. It was such a relief to realize that I haven't become a terrible teacher, but that terrible things happening in my life made me a worse teacher for a little while. I'm starting to finally forgive myself for the year and 1/2 when I was so frantic and frustrated with my life that I took it out on my students.

All in all, I feel like I could stay here for awhile longer without feeling terrible about myself and my life. "Here" is this town, this house, this job--but I feel like it's more than that, though I can't put my finger (or words) on exactly what I mean. I have started to be in the present more, instead of dreaming about and then worrying about the future. At the same time, I'm still thinking and dreaming about the idea of Healing Ranch, and I feel as if, if it's meant to be, it will happen eventually. I just need to work right now on being grounded here, and paying off debt, and getting S through high school.

I did a better job at S's IEP meeting of advocating for her. This summer, I went to a conference and learned more about what the schools are supposed to offer students like her during high school to help them with the post-high school transition. The school had done none of these things, but I realized that rather than becoming bitter at the school, or at myself for not advocating for her, I needed to give myself a break. It's been a rough two years, and now is an opportunity to really focus on the transition in healthy ways. I did a lot of research and wrote the goals I wanted to see in her IEP, and I effectively advocated for them and for a post-high school transition program.

In other news, for awhile we were housing a young mother and newborn while she made some big decisions about her future. We got attached to the baby, and then she began to stay in other places, places I don't necessarily think are the healthiest for her. Her things are still here, but she and the baby are not. I somehow have found a way to let this go--to decide that she has to make her own decisions about her life. This has been incredibly hard, but I think it's good practice in case I ever do end up running a place like our dreamed-about Healing Ranch. I'll have to figure out what the boundaries are, what will allow someone to have space there and not, when I will intervene and when I must let go. In this case, the baby is not in danger, so I have decided to let go. I have been able to help S through the process of accepting what is up in the air, not fully clear.

In the meantime, I've had some other opportunities to discover some synergy between my past and my present. Over Labor Day weekend, we went to Detroit to a convention for everyone from the island where my father and my mother's parents grew up. It was wonderful to see our extended family in a happier setting (the last time we'd seen most of them was at my father's funeral). It was the first time I'd taken S. We wandered around Greektown, danced, spent quality time with family. It felt good to be there.

I was asked to read a poem I'd written in college at the conference banquet. Someone had dug it out of a desk drawer--I remembered writing it but no longer had a copy myself. This poem about the traditional dance from my family's island took on new meaning now. I am more connected to the island now than I ever was, and also more disconnected at the same time, because of the life I've chosen--I have an adopted daughter that doesn't exactly fit into the Greek life timeline, and I'm not married--but I also go back regularly to do the service project at the nursing home there, so I'm also not a stranger. I wrote of the dance as a way of climbing out of our collective grief, being present in the moment--words that have more meaning now that my father is dead and I have a daughter. It was poignant and important for me to do this.

Similarly, the mother of one of my favorite students, who is now a doctor, contacted me out of the blue and asked if I would do a sermon for her church in a town about an hour away. Writing that sermon was a good chance to reflect on my work life--on what has happened in the ten years since N was in one of my first classes, on how my commitment to deep engagement with the community has shifted, deepened, changed. I ended the sermon with a poem that N had recorded, spoken by one of the elders in our project. It is still one of my favorites, speaking to what it is like to lose a friend and find her again. I wept while reading it--it was too much to think of how I was reconnecting with a family who I hadn't seen in years, how lucky I feel to have such a wide web of connections, even if at times I want more deep connections here, in my immediate life.

This is a completely disconnected entry--but I will end by saying that yesterday, S and I received a letter saying that the police investigation into the statement she made back in March is complete and has been forwarded to the county attorney, who will now decide whether to press charges. We have been assigned a victim advocate in case the case goes forward. S is both scared and excited. She called her previous foster family to tell them--she contacts them only occasionally these days to share big news (though for awhile, her foster father was seriously ill, and she was calling daily during that time). Her foster mother said, "I thought you wouldn't have to think about that stuff anymore." The family had done nothing to help her heal, and when I heard those words, I felt an old anger creeping up.

"Well," S said, very strongly and deliberately, "I think it's important to try to get justice, and I am finally strong enough to do that."

And all of my frustration at them was gone as soon as she said those words. S's words reminded me that I don't need to keep looking back, frustrated by all the things others could and should have done for my daughter, or for me. I just need to be present, and to look forward, too.

We've come a long way.

Summer

2010-08-11T22:13:00.000-07:00

June was a slow month full of lots of down time (as well as productivity at work and with my writing). S was home alone a lot of the time--a first for her--but I was able to get home each day by around 1 p.m., so we were still getting quality time together. I was letting go a little, realizing how desperately she needed some unstructured time, and although she often didn't make the best decisions, she certainly wasn't making unsafe ones--and we were able to process and she to learn, at least to some extent, from the decisions she made that weren't the best.

But July--wow, it was a whole different story.

Suddenly mid-July was here, and we were preparing for S's dance camp. She would be attending a week-long arts camp, in the dance program. I talked with the teachers and camp director beforehand, and we made arrangements to ensure that she would have a safe, encouraging environment and that I would be able to support her by being nearby. We shared a room in the dorm, and I would volunteer in the kitchen and be on call in case any challenges occurred.

It was a hard week. She wasn't, of course, ready to dance for seven or eight hours a day, or to be around peers after a full month of essentially doing whatever she wanted, mostly by herself. I had an infected foot, which did, eventually, heal--but still, I was in pain for much of the time. I was also working for 6 or more hours each day in the kitchen, which is much fewer hours than the regular staff worked (up to 12 or 14). I worked with a teacher and a CNA who needed the extra summer cash and a bunch of evangelical college students--as well as a saxaphone-playing, comedy-writer-video gamer type who was the cook. It was, needless to say, and incredibly surreal week. I was asked whether I had a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, ridiculed for not knowing the best way to cut a watermelon, told I had "real skills in the kitchen," and encouraged to perform YMCA for the campers--all in the same typical day.

Camp is strange. I went to church camp every year as a kid, but it was all about bonding over culture and religion and going to deep emotional places and learning who I was--this camp was all about performance and forced fun, and there was a sort of military feel to it. The kids had to line up a half hour before each meal, for instance, and then they had to all eat in half an hour. The counselors in our cabin told the girls they both came from military families, and they treated the girls like little soldiers, barking out rules, refusing to unlock the doors of the cabin except when it was convenient for them, and shouting things like "everybody needs to be in bed in five minutes," causing fights over showers, among other things. I swear I remember pigging out with my camp counselors the night before communion and watching the clock to make sure we stopped eating at midnight, and staying up most of the night talking about important teenage things--but maybe I'm imagining this, or maybe arts camp and church camp are nothing alike. Either way...

S did OK, but for the first half of the week, she was obsessed with getting into, and winning, the talent show. When the performers were posted, she had a meltdown, a major one that involved cussing and screaming and crying and wandering around refusing to listen to anyone, and we had to leave camp for the evening. But after a dinner in town and some intense conversations which were the beginning of her realization that she was not going to be a ballet dancer as a career, she was back at it, determined to learn the recital dances and finish off the week.

I did have a realization, though, in the few hours I had free when I had time to pray and read and write. S is not ready to be in 11th grade, and yet holding her back is also not an option. She's not ready, really, to be an adult, is the problem. Of course, I always knew this--knew she'd be living with me way past 18, knew she'd need hands-on parenting for much longer. Still, the talent show incident somehow solidified this for me. Once I got past my own sadness--I haven't been able to teach her the coping skills she needs to be able to handle disappointments like this one, or to recognize her own abilities and potential--I realized it's going to take a lot longer for her to learn these things, and that I have to figure out, in the meantime, how I will continue to raise her when, after high school, I no longer receive adoption support checks.

I also realized in those quiet times away from our home and small town and my job that I can't go on much longer living this life. I am ready to move on. I need to start pursuing the career I know I really want and that these many years have prepared me to take on, and I'm going to need to be brave enough to make the switch. I really want to start the "Healing Ranch" that S and I dreamed about, innocently, when she first came--a safe place people can come to heal. The vision has become sharper and clearer over the last two years, as have some of the steps I would need to take--but the big impetus is going to be actually being brave enough to work toward this, being able to overcome all my doubts and fears.

I had some time to look back over my life, and to think some more about my writing career (or, rather, lack thereof). Even during graduate school, I realized that my career path would not involve the typical "publish or perish" life, and in a way, I've lived exactly that dream--found a way to use what I learned in graduate school to create a career and life for myself that really utilizes many of my gifts. But, at the same time, I've neglected my own work, and I'm beginning to long for it again, for the long hours of writing and rewriting, even for the desire of others reading my work, something I haven't longed for in many years.

I realized, too, that while I really, truly, did not want the tenure track life, I also have, due to fear and avoidance, not sent out my work for a long time. Even if I'm not interested in traditional publishing venues, getting my work out where people can read and be inspired by it is important. And, I owe it to the amazing people I met in 2005 when I took a research trip to Greece for a writing project to finish--well, something. I lost a novel to a computer crash, but that's not really any excuse. I know I can do better than what I had, anyway, and I have a good first draft of a play. I need to finish it, and figure out how to bring it life--I have to stop avoiding this desire and need.

So, strangely, despite the military atmosphere and how difficult life was for S during the week we were at camp, it proved also to be a fruitful week for me, and an important one. Literally two days after returning, we were in the cities for S's birthday, where my aunt who raised me--her grandmother--met us for a few fun-filled days of shopping. OK, I'm not a big shopper, but it was fun to be around them, and it was one of the most enjoyable family visits in quite some time.

And then, just a few days later, S's brothers arrived. Yes, brothers. A, who is 1 1/2 years younger than her, has recently been adopted by a man in another state; she hadn't seen him for two years, and even prior to moving here, she only saw him once a month or so. B, her youngest brother, now 13, just had his adoption disrupted--I can't get a straight story about it, only that the foster mother is now trying to get him back. S had not seen him in more than five years. In a strange turn of events, the social workers and his new foster parents felt B needed this reunion, and suddenly, he appeared in my backyard, waving madly, running into S's arms. Within minutes, they were talking about how they share ESP and other special powers, and then, rather suddenly, about their abuse. B said, "You were such a good sister. You always tried to keep us safe."

"I didn't do enough," S said, tears welling up in her eyes.

"You did the best you could, though," said B, and I don't think she needed to hear any words more than those.

After they talked awhile about their abuse--me interjecting to tell them it was going to be OK, that they were survivors, that telling these stories were part of their healing--and, finally, cutting off the conversation when S said, "I have to stop now, I'm overwhelmed"--they went on to tease each other about crushes and run wildly around the house, chasing the dog.

It was beautiful.

Late at night, A and his father F arrived, and A joined right in, joking around, acting silly. F was exhausted, so we called it a night after an hour or so--but my first impression of him was very good. I realized, with a wave of gratitude unlike any I have ever experienced, that he had been the one who first suggested this amazing trip, and the one who had asked if B could come along. I couldn't stop staring at them--their mannerisms, their positive and negative behaviors, all so similar.

The rest of the week was full of activity--fishing, swimming, shopping, amusement park visiting, and more. We had such an incredible time. A remembers almost nothing from their childhood--I suspect that, now that he heard parts of what happened from his siblings, he will be going through the dark night of the soul that S went through six months ago, hopefully before he turns 18.

B asked me, over and over, if I would adopt him. It was heartbreaking to have to tell him I couldn't. I really bonded with him. He's an incredibly fiesty and oppositional kid, much like S was when she first arrived--but he's also wicked smart, and so sweet when he wants to be. There were a couple very difficult incidents when we had to intervene to keep him or other people safe because he was prone to impulsive and violent behaviors. But, overall, the trip was an incredible success, even though saying goodbye was heartbreaking.

I loved them all, and it was impossible to say goodbye. The last two days since they left, I've been operating in a kind of fog, nervous about how much I still need to do before classes start, sad that the excitement of this crazy month is over, but also grateful to be able to focus on the school year and routines beginning again.

That's summer, in a nutshell! And now that I have adequately (though not very poetically) updated this blog, it's time for bed!

The Problems with Therapy

2010-07-05T21:12:00.000-07:00

Ever since she came to me, S has been seeing a therapist two hours away. So, once a week, we drive to the therapist's office, I sit in the waiting room for an hour, and then, we drive back. Sometimes, if the appointment is early enough, we stop somewhere for food or shopping--but most of the time, we literally leave around 5 and drive back at 8 or so, putting us at home by 10, if we are lucky.

I have mixed feelings about this therapist. I call her before each appointment to talk on her answering machine about how the week has gone; that way, if S is hesitant to bring something up, she has a little background. But it does not seem to me that the therapy itself is doing much good. In fact, our family therapy (with a therapist literally a block away from us) seems to be much more helpful. S goes back and forth about whether the therapist is helping her; sometimes, she says she is, and other times, she tells me she needs someone more qualified or smarter.

Anyway, around the time when S had her huge, four-day melt down, when I was literally trapped in our house for four days, I started exploring other possibilities. I called back around to the two or three therapists in the region who had said they might consider seeing S, but weren't taking new patients. Finally, one of them said she was, and I scheduled a two hour intake with her--the plan was that I would meet with her to share S's history, and then, she would do a separate intake with S, and at that point, we would decide whether we wanted to switch to someone closer to home (and possibly more qualified to work with kids who had experienced severe trauma) or stick with the therapist S has had for the last two years.

I really want a therapist who will take a team approach, who will be willing to get more involved with our family, who I can call on when, say, S is unable to stop raging. Luckily, our family therapist has done this for us to some extent, but she's not an expert in S's issues. I also wanted someone who could talk to S more than once a week when necessary, who wasn't overscheduled, who didn't cut her hours during the summer (as S's current therapist does).

So, I was eagerly awaiting the scheduled appointment, but then, the new therapist was ill. No problem, except that her next available appointment was THREE weeks later. At this point, I wondered how someone who couldn't get me in for another three weeks could possibly be better than the therapist S is currently seeing, but I agreed to schedule yet another appointment.

In the meantime, I had to fill out eight pages of paperwork. The paperwork was completely inappropriate for families like ours--there was no acknowledgment that maybe S was not living with her biological parents, or that maybe she had only one parent, and not two--you could, for instance, check a box saying you were divorced, but there was no box to check saying you were simply single. (Is it just my imagination, or do plenty of women have kids before they are married--to say nothing of adoptive families like ours?) There were a lot of questions about methods of discipline that seemed to imply that parents had to be partly to blame for the child's behavior (not to suggest that we aren't, sometimes, partly to blame, but still--the tone of the questions was really problematic). There was also one infuriating checklist that included the phrase "clings to father," but no correlating "clings to mother." Apparently, children do not tend to cling to their mothers if they are troubled?

Anyway, I finally got to the paperwork, and filled it out, writing a lot of critical comments in the margins, things like "my daughter was adopted so I don't have a full medical history; thus, I am going to leave this page blank," to "my daughter does not have a father, so there is no way I can answer this page" to "there is no check box here that matches our family--I adopted my daughter as a single mother." You get the picture.

I got a reminder in the mail yesterday with a note that I MUST bring the paperwork in advance, or else the therapist would not see me. So, I dropped it off a couple days ago. Then, this afternoon, less than 24 hours before the appointment, the secretary called and said, "I'm sorry, but Dr. ___ cannot see S tomorrow. That appointment was mistakenly scheduled. Dr. ___ is not currently accepting new patients. Please call back to schedule an appointment with another therapist."

No, thanks. I've already talked to all the other local therapists--trust me, not a single one would work well with my daughter. This was the only therapist with any expertise in S's issues and the only therapist who had come with some positive recommendations from people with children whose backgrounds are similar to S's.

To say I was irritated when I got this message would be an understatement. First of all, poor S was nervous today about tomorrow's appointment, going back and forth about whether she really needed more help or not, really wanted to switch or not, worrying she'd hurt her current therapist's feelings, etc. Ugh. Don't they realize they have put S through a terrible ordeal?

And, I can't help but wonder if the therapist got scared off when she saw the paperwork. If you think I'm being paranoid, just know that I sent similar paperwork off to approximately 12 therapists before S had even arrived, and ALL of them, except for her current therapist, called back to say either that they didn't think they were qualified to help her or that they were not taking new patients.

Recently, there was a letter in the local paper from a family who had lost their adult son to suicide. The letter explained how difficult it was to get the help one needed when was in crisis. It was poignant and horrifying.

I feel lucky that we have a good family therapist--but she's not necessarily qualified to help S with her trauma work. I feel lucky that we have a semi-qualified therapist for S--but she's two hours away and we can't always get in to see her weekly.

Sometimes I think the whole system needs to be shaken up. We don't need therapists who can't even say hi to us if they see us on the street, who are so overworked that they can't extend an hour appointment if the client needs more time, who are so concerned about boundaries that they can't talk to others in the client's life who are in a position to help them. Everyone should have a team of people supporting them through their emotional/vocational/spiritual journeys. These people should talk openly to each other and to the person receiving the direction; there should be time and space to really help the person understand herself and grow.

The local Developmental Achievement Center uses exactly this model--we accept it for "those people" who have cognitive or mental health challenges, so why can't we accept it for everybody? I, for one, would love to have people in my life who I knew loved me enough to really want to take the time to be present with each other and with me to help me on my journey. And, what's more, I long to play that kind of role in others' lives--I can't even count the number of times I have felt completely alone when advocating for my students who needed advocacy, much less for S.

Today I had a spiritual direction appointment. After my retreat, I'd sought out spiritual directors in our region and, miraculously, found a liberal Christian who understood the GLBT community and had teenagers of her own. I talked openly and honestly about my spiritual journey with her, and she told me about hers. While I'd gone to her because she was more experienced and had some training in spiritual direction, I was also aware of how different it felt from counseling/therapy; she wanted me to know and understand her and where she was coming from; she often told stories from her own life to help illuminate my journey; we spent time in contemplative silence together, and in prayer. This, to me, is the kind of guidance most of us need--to be fully heard by a fully human person who is not so worried about boundaries that she refuses to share even the smallest detail of her personal life, by someone who, while further along on her journey, is nevertheless able to confess challenges and roadblocks in her past and current life.

It was a good experience, and I'm hoping to be able to continue, though she would not make another appointment with me--she wanted me to take in the experience, pray about it, be sure I wanted to go forward, even though I felt sure after that first meeting.

I don't mean to suggest that S doesn't need therapy--I just wish there were models available that went beyond our "50 minute session, first come, first served, rigid boundary" model, that took into account that different people process things and heal and learn differently. I do know that S needs medication now and probably will for the rest of her life; I'm also aware that, given the level of abuse she faced, she also needs a kind of expertise that just anyone probably cannot provide. For that matter, I do, too--I was looking initially for someone with some experience with adoption and adoptive parents, but instead, I chose my therapist after she had already gotten to know me and S and had some sense of the scope of our problems (she is also our family therapist, and S and I agreed that I could see her separately). She has been helpful, especially with specific issues related to my parenting and my work life, and I will continue to see her in addition to the spiritual director, as at this time in my life, one will help me attend to day-to-day dramas, and the other to the big picture of my spiritual life.

Still, I firmly believe that therapy/counseling/spiritual direction--whatever we choose to call it-- should address the spiritual--whatever that looks like for each person--and should be flexible enough to meet each person's unique needs.

A thank you, and a story, for everyone who has taught me to stand up for justice

2010-07-02T13:25:00.000-07:00

I got a couple phone calls on Tuesday saying something was going on at the church I used to attend. To make a long story short, I attended a church in town (a Methodist and United Church of Christ church—in small towns, even seemingly completely different Protestant faiths tend to combine to make churches viable) for about five years, and during that time, the church began to grapple with whether to become an Open and Affirming/Reconciling congregation—publicly welcoming, in other words, to GLBT people. Ultimately, the process was so painful for me that I left, just before the church voted the idea down. I have since really missed going to church, and I miss some of the people. I even tried to go back after S came into my life, but she didn’t feel comfortable there—looking back, I now suspect that she sensed my discomfort.

I knew the minister was retiring, and that the church would be calling an interim, UCC minister (I still get the bulletins—in fact, in her last bulletin message, the minister had noted that she hoped the congregation would rethink and revisit the O&A decision. I’d felt a sense of hope when I read that bulletin, but I still did not want to go back.

When I finally called back some of my friends from the church, I learned that a dynamic and highly qualified interim minister had applied and been interviewed, and that the pastoral relations committee had recommended her appointment. But, during her second interview, she had disclosed that her husband had undergone a transition, and was now a woman.

Somebody left that interview (which included board members as well as the search committee) and spread the word. Panic, rumors—you get the picture. In essence, all of the educational efforts the O&A group had put forth had clearly done very little to reach people in their hearts. Now, the board would vote on whether or not to approve the recommendation of her appointment—and unbelievably, unethically, perhaps illegally—her partner’s gender identity was going to play into how some people would vote. So, the church board and the search committee had called a special meeting to discuss the candidate.

Two of my friends wanted me to come. I thought, at first, that I shouldn’t—what right did I have to weigh in, when I’d bailed on the congregation? But one of my friends said to me, “This is about the future of this town, not just the congregation.” I decided to seek some clarity in prayer. Up until 10 minutes before the meeting, I was walking around town, praying for guidance. And then, strangely, inexplicably, a car pulled up next to me, and someone got out quickly to run into a store on main street. I turned to wave (I wave at everybody here), and it turned out to be a man named H, who was the first person to ever invite me to church.

I took this as a sign. I could tell that he and his wife were on their way to the meeting and were just making a quick stop. I could tell, also, that they were taking in the significance of this chance meeting. They had been vocally against making the church Open and Affirming—even though they had been by far the most welcoming of me, as a person, when I arrived at the church. I’d always felt this was a great contradiction. Somehow, seeing them in the midst of my prayers seemed like a clear direction.

So, I walked to my car, as the meeting was beginning in fewer than five minutes, and I drove to the church. I sat in the parking lot for another five minutes, feeling terrified. And then I prayed, Spirit, if I I’m supposed to be here, then please help me to really listen, and, if I’m supposed to speak, to say what I’m supposed to say.

When I walked in, I could see the worry on many people’s faces. I knew what was going through their minds. I also saw the two people who had called me to invite me smiling. I realized suddenly that my presence might keep people from saying what was on their minds—perhaps they would temper any hateful comments, at least a little bit. But also, I wondered if my presence would keep the conversation from moving toward a solution.

The meeting had already begun, so I took a seat next to one of the men who had been most vocally opposed to the Open and Affirming process. My heart was beating hard. The facilitator, who I know fairly well, talked at first about the process: the committee had made a recommendation, and the board would vote on July 11. The congregation as a whole does not have a say on interim ministers—only their elected representatives can make the decision. Still, due to the rumors flying around, there was clearly a need to have a congregational conversation.

The facilitator put some rumors to rest: the candidate’s spouse had transitioned three years earlier. The family was still intact. The teenage children were coping. Both parents are currently employed with the UCC church, but looking for more permanent employment. The interim minister candidate was interested in a more permanent position, if the placement worked out. The family would live in the parsonage, but the children would commute 45 to school, because they did not want to switch schools. The spouse is employed at a church camp and would be seeking employment either in their old community 45 minutes away or in our community.

After the facts were discussed, there was a conversation about the children—one person implied that they might not fit in here, because of what the family has been through; another said he was disappointed that they wouldn’t be “full” members of the church, as we needed more children. There was some discussion about whether it was appropriate for her to ask to be eligible to apply for the more permanent position, and also some questions about who exactly had made this decision. It became clear that people were spinning their wheels, trying to find some way to make the candidate seem less desirable and not talk about the “real” issue.

And then, things got weirder. One man said, “How are we gonna dress her, or him?” One of the women who had called me said, in no uncertain terms, “She will dress herself, that’s not appropriate.” Others looked at each other uncomfortably. A young mother wondered how she would explain “this” to her children. She said otherwise she had “no problems with anybody,” it’s just that she couldn’t figure out how she would talk to her kids about it.

The conversation went on. Some people in the room kept returning the conversation to her qualifications and the fact that we should not even be discussing her family or her spouse; if she was the best candidate, we need to hire her. Others kept returning to how the family would fit in here, to why she wanted to come, to what she would “force” the church to do.

“We might split over this issue,” one person said. “The open and affirming issue is dead now, and this will bring it back up.”

“If we’re meant to split, though,” said the facilitator, “that’s exactly the kind of thing an interim minister will help us to determine.”

A friend who was clearly on the side of justice said she hoped people would “pray over this, and do what was right;” a woman who has always been on the other side said, “Amen to that!” then began to whisper to the people sitting around her. Apparently she was already sure how those prayers would turn out, if she made them.

And then, at the end, the facilitator said, “Well, it sounds like everyone’s questions have been answered. The council will vote on July 11.”

At which point, I took a deep breath and raised my hand.

I am not sure exactly what I said. I was aware at certain points that some people in the room were crying. I remember talking about my own prejudice against transgendered people—how, when I first encountered them in the early 90s when I was coming out, I didn’t think they belonged in “our” community—their issues, after all, were totally different from ours, I would argue.

When a friend came out to me as trans—I’d thought he was a butch lesbian—I had been hard on him, very hard. It had been ugly. That friend is dead now; he took his own life years later, after we had reconciled—the process of transitioning was simply too hard for him.

And then, I talked about the students I knew who had transitioned before or during their time at the college where I teach, and how they had educated and challenged and inspired me. I said that they were among the bravest people I knew, and that they were having impacts I could only imagine having—working with homeless queer youth, teaching in a reservation school, working toward a nursing degree. I talked about transgendered people I’d met who were attorneys and teachers and social workers—how all of them had told me unequivocally that living between genders had affected how they practiced their work and lived their lives.

I said that I'd had to search my heart and face my own prejudices around this issue and so many others, that I'd had to encounter my own privilege often in my life in uncomfortable ways--and that I believed Jesus called us to do just that.

And I said that I had great admiration for the hopefully-soon-to-be-called minister. I said I wasn't brave or open enough to see beyond gender, but obviously, if she had kept the marriage alive through her husband's transition, she was a better person than me, and most of us.

In the end, I said, “The Jesus I know loved everyone. You pushed me out of the church. It hurt. Don’t make the same mistake again. If you are going to say yes, you need to really say yes, and open your arms. Don't do it halfway. This is an opportunity to open the doors wider, to make amends for mistakes this church has made in the past.”

I don’t know what will happen, but I said what I needed to say. Instead of feeling the old worry and fear and rejection, when I walked out of the doors of the church, I felt, instead, empowered and whole, like the Spirit had been speaking through me. The gratitude I felt, and still feel, was profound.

Note: This blog entry is written in memory of L, and also in gratitude for all those who have taught me to stand up: thank you J, I, and T, especially, for all the ways you’ve helped me to understand trans identity and to become the advocate God wants me to be!

On Trust

2010-06-18T16:14:00.000-07:00

We are heartbroken. S's youngest brother has been with the same family since the kids were removed six years ago. About a year ago, the family decided not to adopt him, but said they would have him under guardianship for the rest of his childhood. He chose not to be put up for adoption, and by all accounts, he was doing well.

S has not heard from him since before Christmas, and we didn't get any response when we sent him Christmas gifts. She's written him two or three times since--no response. The middle brother and his adoptive dad will be visiting this summer, and his dad inquired about having the youngest brother join us. We were told this probably wouldn't work, as he was going through a "hard time."

Today, we learned that the family has given him up. We don't know any other details--where he's staying (foster home? residential treatment center?), or anything else, but we will be involved in talking about a strategy for finding him a permanent family.

The only consolation we could find in this day of many tears is that maybe, just maybe, this family was never committed, and therefore it was going to take something big like this to open the pathway for him to find another, better home. There are so many kids in the system that if a kid is doing relatively well and not dying to be removed, he or she is no longer a priority within the system. S and the middle brother were both in homes in which they were not making a lot of progress and where the families were going to remain foster care situations, and not guardianships, so there was a great incentive to get them into new homes. We are praying that now that he is no longer with them, he will become a priority.

I am angry--who gives up on a child after six years, just when he is getting to the range of ages that are most difficult for all kids, regardless of their trauma history? Even if the "worst case scenario" happened--if he seriously hurt another child or an adult--a family that has loved a child for six years, who went into the placement willingly and knowing his history--should be able to stick it out.

I remember that when I was considering S, one of her social workers gave me an article to read about a mother who adopted a son knowing he was very likely to abuse and even possibly kill other people, given his history. She did her best with him, but he did just that--abused a woman, later killed another man. He went to jail for life. She visited him regularly and never stopped calling him her son. The social worker said to me, "With the kids in this family, and with many of our hard-to-place kids, this is the kind of commitment you have to make. You need to search your heart and be sure you're strong enough to make it."

I believed then that I was, and I still believe I am.

Today, when we went to the local diner for grilled cheese, fries, and milkshakes, as we do every Friday as a little "we survived the week" treat to ourselves, S said to me, "Mom, you wouldn't ever..."

She didn't have to finish. I asked her to take my hands and to look me straight in the eye. "No matter what you do, no matter what happens, I will never give up on you," I said.

She nodded, but kept holding onto my hands until our shake came. I'm not sure she fully believed me--I'm not sure she will ever fully believe me. I have told her before that it's OK if she never understands how much I love her or how committed I am, if she never fully trusts me--I don't need her to trust me. I'm going to stick around whether she trusts me or not.

On Retreating (Or, Maybe the Longest Blog I've Ever Written)

2010-06-14T23:58:00.000-07:00

Getting Ready

I have realized I need a retreat in early June—that this is a necessity I’ll need to work into my schedule, probably forever. So, almost exactly a year to the day after taking my life-changing retreat last year, I went away again. While I wanted to return to the apartment where I’d stayed last year in the middle of the woods, far from everyone and everything, I opted instead this time for a room at a nuns’ residence in the city, mainly because the college student who would have S was living nearby for the summer, and so, it made sense to show up in the city, surrender my car and my daughter to her, and retreat. (I will admit that my long and painful battle with poison ivy after last year’s retreat also played a role in my decision).

In preparation, I read through what I’d written in my journal while on retreat a year ago. The demon I was battling then was anger—anger at all the people who had hurt S; anger at the school, their treatment of her and me, their inability to take responsibility for not following her IEP, and inability to meet her needs; anger at the many friends who had disappeared when the going got tough, who had not responded to specific e-mail pleas for help; anger at the administrators who had thoughtlessly fired several people and added tasks to my job description without offering me any additional compensation in order to get through a budget crisis.

Re-reading that journal helped me to recognize how far I have come in the last year. While I’ve been angry since, my anger has never reached that pounding-the-ground-until-my-fists-hurt anger; in the last year, I have been able to let some things go, to better determine what is and is not in my control, to recognize that sometimes I have to do the best with what is provided, and try to compensate for what others cannot provide. But I also realized that some of the practiced I’d promised myself back then that I ought to continue—yoga, prayer, journaling, working in earnest on my writing projects—had not happened. Of course, this realization was accompanied by shame and guilt and frustration with myself.

But, in re-reading those entries, I’d also had a sense of hope. Since the beginning of Lent, I had at least tried to spend some time in reflection each day. I’d also been reflective about my parenting by discovering a new parenting paradigm and connecting with other adoptive parents via listserves. I had opened up more to the adoptive parents in my own community. I was making progress with S, and I was definitely a better parent than I’d been a year earlier—less likely to blow up at her, more likely to be able to be present, even in the hardest moments. S, too, had made great progress, at least in part to my work on my end—she was talking openly about her abuse, better able to verbalize her stress limits.

I thought that my demon this year, if it can be called a demon, would be grief. I felt I hadn’t yet truly mourned my father. And, there were other griefs, too—one of S’s college buddies, on whom I relied for emotional support as well as support for S, had graduated and left town just a couple weeks earlier, and many other college students S and I loved a great deal had also left. I knew I was still angry at friends who had not been willing to be there for us on our terms, and I knew there were some situations at work that were making me mad, too. But mostly, I thought, it would be grief I would have to work through.

There were other things bothering me, too. I was going back and forth between two extremes. On one extreme, I felt my job held so much possibility. I had the ability to finally shape a program truly committed to social justice, that could be truly life-changing for people. I had spent much of the first year on assessment to determine the best ways to do the work, and I was excited to dive in this summer and finally finish our website and create a plan of action.

But I had faced a great deal of resistance and even outright refusal to collaborate or help move projects forward from an employee who was forced to take on some work for the office, a former employee still involved with some of the projects, and administrators. I felt I couldn’t create in the way I wanted. In addition, in the fall, I had received the first really bad set of evaluations of my teaching career—I had all kinds of excuses for this, but they stung, and I lost some of my confidence.

In short, I liked the idea of my new job, and I loved the students who were working with me, but the other staff involved in the projects, my supervisors, and other frustrations kept me from being effective. So, I felt that I couldn’t be effective, and on some days, this, in addition to my growing alienation from friends here, made me feel I had outgrown my time here, that I needed to move on to another—what? Job, life, group of friends, location? I wasn’t sure. On other days, I felt these challenges were simply that—challenges, and that I just needed to persevere, live and act authentically, and set and meet realistic goals. The college students who have been so important in my life at work and in our lives at home, keeping us afloat in the worst times, gave me hope.

A couple weeks before the retreat, I had discovered Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun who wrote the book Taking the Leap: Freeing Ourselves from Old Habits and Fears. I was so moved by it I read it twice, all the way through, which isn’t like me. The book was very much in line with my discovery of Beyond Consequences, Logic, and Control, the parenting paradigm I had been using, in that it focused on creating space between what others do and say and my reaction, and finding a way to realize that I could control only my own behavior. The book also touched on the fact that our traumas effect what “hooks” us—i.e., what words and actions others say or take are most likely to cause us to react out of fear—which translates either to reacting with cruelty or by shutting down. It was our job to heal from these traumas, of course, but also, to recognize that these triggers would be ours forever, and that we would have to be able to recognize them when they arrived and keep ourselves from responding.

I had already done some of this work even before reading the book: I knew that my triggers with S, and with the people at work who aggravated me, included being ignored (because I felt as a child that no one had bothered to try to understand me); physical or verbal violence (because of my father’s treatment of me); laziness (because my family believed so strongly in that immigrant ethic of hard work); and an inability to take responsibility for or apologize for one’s actions (again, my father’s most aggravating behavior as a child). Of course, I am prone to all of these triggers, too—in other words, I can ignore people, lash out violently (though never physically, thankfully, except for one time when I hit my father when I was a teenager), be lazy, and not take responsibility for my own actions—so, of course, when I behave in these ways I trigger myself and create a spiral of shame and blame. NAME HERE talked about this, too—about how hard it is for westerners to simply recognize a fault, and realize that one’s life is all about making progress on the fault and just moving forward, rather than beating ourselves up and creating negative spirals.

Day One

So, when I went into my retreat, these were the thoughts I was carrying. I arrived at the center with S, her college buddy, and another college student we’d picked up along the way, and they hugged me goodbye, and I felt like crying, thinking maybe this wasn’t right, leaving S with them, going off by myself—I was afraid. And then I was suddenly very much alone.

On the first day, I spent some time starting a new journal—besides my musings on this blog and a typed journal I kept during Lent, this was one of the few times I’d journaled, and the first time I’d journaled longhand, in a very long time. I wrote about the room I had—it’s three beds, its ghostly watercolors on the wall, the calligraphied message: “peace/peace/I leave you peace/but not as the world gives peace.”

I discovered in the drawer of one of the dressers a book of poems by a man named John P. Cock (I know, I can’t get over his name either, which is why I won’t refer to him by last name in this paragraph) called By Cosmic Design. I almost dismissed it altogether because the poems are not good in a literary sense—but as I read them, they began to feed me, to get me to the deeper place where healing can happen. The author had realized, to paraphrase, that Spirit was not meant to be discovered or accepted—Spirit simply was always present, accessible, and was constantly growing and changing. I read and wrote and copied lines for about three hours.

Then I went out to the hallway, following signs for a meditation room. I entered and found myself breathless—there in front of me was an icon of Jesus, the old Byzantine version, his hand raised in blessing, his other hand holding the Word. There were three candles placed in front of it, a beautiful wall hanging behind it, two windows—and that was all, besides the meditation pillows and chairs. I sat on a pillow and did the Greek Orthodox prayers for the ninth hour; I decided as prayed those old psalms that I would follow the hours while I was here, let them work in me, see what happened.

One of the sentences from psalm 84, for some reason, really spoke to me: “I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tent of wickedness.” I felt so moved when I read this verse, though I couldn’t say why. I realized I saw myself as a doorkeeper—someone who welcomes people in, who is not necessarily always noticed, nor wants to be, but who ensures that the door stays open.

I realized how many doors I felt had closed on me, and how pained I felt by this exclusion—not just in the last year, but throughout my life. I realized that some of my problems with people at work had to do with this sense of exclusion—of needing to be at the center of things to the exclusion of really welcoming others, or of being so deeply rooted in an institution that they could not see how the very institution itself is exclusionary.

I realized, too, that I am irritated only by faults that I myself share, and that doorkeepers don’t only let people in—they are often hired to keep people out. How can I be devoted in every way, in all aspects of my life, to radical inclusion? I prayed. How can I be sure that my door is truly always open, that I can look beyond the obvious things that keep people separated from each other. And, most importantly, how can I know how to open the door, and keep it open, without making the other person’s journey all about me, without needing people to tell or show me how important I have been to their process? And how can I make sure, through all of this, that those who have entered, and that I, remain safe?

I went on journaling most of that afternoon, finally writing about incidents in the last year that had hurt me, telling the stories in their gory detail. I had wanted to much to tell them to someone who could hear them—and my therapist and some friends had heard some of them—but there was need to write them in, as Chodron says, to “lean in” to the feeling, allow myself to fully experience it so I can later let it go. In the process, I realized how lucky I was to be feeling this sense of exclusion, this emptiness—to not have a lover or primary person in my life who is my equal, to not have someone I can truly consider a “best friend,” to be so unsure of everything except for my love for S.

This was an emptiness I had not felt in a long time, and the last time I’d felt it, years earlier, when leaving an abusive relationship, it had nearly destroyed me—I had been so full of longing and of holding on tightly to everyone around me. After my more recent break up, I realized, I’d done the same thing—lashed out at everyone around me who couldn’t fill the holes, who didn’t do the things I needed. In a way, I was still doing that, though my responses weren’t so childish or obvious.

About a month earlier, I had complained to one of my adoption lists about this loneliness, and so many had responded with such kindness about how they, too, had found their friends distancing themselves after adopting. But one woman wrote that she wondered if I wasn’t somehow keeping people at arm’s length too, and urged me to look at myself. I dismissed this at first—I had, after all, asked directly and specifically for what I needed, and had gotten very few responses. But I was now revisiting what she’d written and realizing that I had wanted my friends to fill holes they couldn’t fill, to do things they couldn’t do for me. Never mind that I’d done as much or more for them at hard times in their lives, never mind that I’d asked more directly and specifically for help than anybody had ever asked me. I had to accept what they could give, and be grateful, and not expect everything I needed.

After writing for awhile, I went into the meditation room and read the vesper service and sat in meditation. I came back to my room and did yoga—I decided to finish each meditation session with yoga. I ate a simple but healthy one-pot meal in the ill-equipped kitchen, and then read some of a book by Elizabeth Lesser called Broken Open. I didn’t like the tone, and the whole book was pretty much geared toward upper-middle-class people in that weird way that so many books with any sort of self-help focus are—though I would find truths nestled within the chapters, and I decided to make reading it a practice of accepting what I could get, and discarding the rest without resentment. (Not that I think people shouldn’t be critical of books—but that I wanted, in this particular case, to find some way to practice accepting what I could get from a source and not trying to force it to be what I wanted it to be).

Anyway, one question she asked really spoke to me: “What will it take for my longing for wakefulness to become stronger than my fear of change?” I would return to that question over and over throughout the weekend.

Day Two

The next morning, I did the Matins service, and the 7 a.m. hours service, and then yoga—it felt so good, so liberating, to stretch. Again I wondered why I don’t do it every day, how I had allowed my body to become so stiff and sore. On my way back to my room, the hallway was buzzing—down the hall there were offices for the many programs the nuns run in the community, and I saw people who already looked foreign to me, walking busily down hallways with files, the way I must look at work. I realized I was in the zone now, and that only healing could happen.

I noted in my journal that I felt I wanted to weep, but couldn’t. I also realized I’d identified some things I was still or now angry about, so I went to the pillow, as I had a year earlier, and pounded them out. The process was quick this time. I went to the dark places and just let myself feel it all, and imagine the worst possible ways I could hurt the people who had hurt me. And then, suddenly, not long after, all the anger was out. I remembered how I had pounded for the whole three or four days last year, how my palms had been swollen, how heartwrenching it had all been. It felt so good to realize not only that I was still capable of “going there,” and coming back in one piece, but that I didn’t need to stay there as long anymore.
I promised myself I would try to be aware of my anger, to keep it before me, to do this pounding work as things came up, instead of saving it for June each year.

I discovered another gem in Lesser’s book: “I realized my only hope was to give up the life that had been, in order to make room for the life that is. I call it my ‘choiceless choice.’ Making that choice, over and over again—to accept what is, to release what was—has become the major focusing agent of my spiritual work.” I was noticing a theme here, how all the quotes that spoke to me were about letting go of resistance—something that is hard for a feminist, an activist, an abuse survivor, a member of an oppressed group—to do.

But I realized it was my work for this moment, anyway. I did not have a father living anymore. This was a fact. My relationships with my family and friends had profoundly changed for multiple reasons in the last year, mostly having to do with my having a child—this was a fact. S’s college buddy, my dear friend, had moved away, and her other college buddy, to whom I’m equally close if not closer, would be returning from a semester away, but would then be leaving in either December or the following May, probably to go back to Germany, to be with someone with whom she’d fallen in love. These were facts. I couldn’t keep holding onto a past that wasn’t anymore, no matter how beautiful those connections, those long talks on our back porch, had been.

I went on contemplating these truths, writing them, went on praying the hours all day. I hadn’t left my room yet, and suddenly I realized I had been there for a whole 24 hours. I had an appointment to talk with a spiritual director after my first 24 hours at the center. I knew I would need to process what was coming up, that I would need some kind of spiritual guidance at that point.

An elderly woman showed up in my room; she was dressed in one of those cheerful pantsuits so common among middle class women in their 70s. I soon learned she had left her vocation as a nun after 15 years, but that she had remained connected to the order, still believed in using her gift of spiritual direction for people who needed it. As I began to talk, I felt an odd disconnection from her. She smiled a lot, and her eyes often got wide and dreamy at the wrong times. I was convinced she was only half present with me—oh, great, I thought, just what I need. She was forgetful, too—she would ask questions more than once, even forgot at one point that my father was dead.

But then, as the hour drew to a close, a strange thing happened. She clarified for me what I needed to pray for. She said, “So, what you’re telling me is you need soul sisters, friends who are really connected to you in the deep spiritual ways. And you need a spiritual community of some sort, a group of people who are willing to be really present with each other. And you need to decide if you want to stick it out or find new work, which means you have to look carefully at the blocks that are keeping you from creating the change you want to change in the world around you, and whether they are part of the structure of your job or inside you. And you need to not be so hard on yourself, and to play more, which will help you to write.” It was strangely a very true summary. She added that I needed to find a permanent spiritual director in the meantime, and suggested a few resources closer to home than the cities. She also suggested I write a letter to my mother telling her how angry I was that she had died when I was young.

This was strange, but I was intrigued. Years earlier, shortly after college, I used to visit a spiritual women’s retreat center in the city where I lived. I went once every three months and spent the weekend in walking meditation and journaling. At the center, I’d also taken a writing class and gone on a group writing retreat.
My teacher was a very spiritual person; she’d once given me the same advice, and I’d responded, “But I know my mom’s death wasn’t her fault. I’m angry she died, yes, but not angry at her.” I went on to say I had plenty to be angry about—the people who abandoned me when I came out, the church that wouldn’t allow me to be the minister I knew I was at heart, my father, who had been absent or abusive for much of my childhood. “Still,” the teacher had insisted, “It’s your mother you need to forgive. You need to do this so you can write authentically.” I hadn’t thought about that advice in years, but I knew I would write my mother a letter that night, if for no other reason, to tell her about this strikingly similar advice I’d received from spiritual people more than 15 years apart.

The spiritual director and I prayed together for all of these things, and she encouraged me to stay present with these questions, to keep holding them out, and to pay attention to subtle or big shifts. Then she said, “I have a book I wanted to give you. I’m old. I’m giving away my books, and I thought you could use this one.” This was odd, since she knew absolutely nothing about me when I arrived at the center except that I’d booked a private room for three nights. She handed me a book that included weekly meditations and daily reflections—it has been incredibly pertinent to me since I started using it after getting back, all about figuring out what is blocking me from being the most authentic person I can be. And, at the very end, she ordered me to leave my room. “It’s time to get out, get some fresh air,” she said.

So I did. There was a labyrinth nearby, I knew—I’d once walked it when I was lonely and confused and sad after my break up; another time, I’d drunkenly skipped along the path with a friend in the rain (don’t even ask). I found it, but it was overgrown, and there was a sign saying it was in transition due to a building project. The sign encouraged walkers to walk it anyway—and then, to also visit a temporary labyrinth just a few yards away. But the old labyrinth was littered with several neon-colored, distracting flags, and its grasses reached beyond my knees, almost to my waist—I felt the combination of long, wet grass and flags would be distracting, make it impossible to do a walking meditation.

So I opted instead for the temporary, newer version, but it turned out that was equally distracting—the path was not very well worn, and I found myself focusing on whether I was actually following it rather than letting my mind empty. Afterwards, I sat on a nearby bench and wrote, “It’s almost comical, really. I went to the newer path thinking I would find emptiness and clarity, but instead, I found I had to concentrate to find my way. I don’t know if this means I’m supposed to stay with the emptiness longer or move forward, if I’m supposed to revisit the old, flagged, overgrown version of the path or stick with this new one, keep working it until it becomes clearer. A cosmic joke—a prayer almost answered but not quite.” I went on to walk the path a second time—this time, it was clearer, and I was able, not to meditate, but to pray for the things the spiritual director had so clearly laid out for me. As I walked, I felt a stirring to call some people I barely knew but whose presence had been comforting to me, and a profound gratitude for those who had been or were in my life who were able to go with me to the deep places—even if some of them are much younger than me. I didn’t panic, didn’t worry—I just went on praying, making note of what was coming back.

I went back to my room, prayed the hours, read part of Anne Lamott’s most recent book (not new, but new to me), which was like returning to an old friend. I took another walk later, and ended up, again, in front of the labyrinth. I walked and prayed for what I’d discovered, again, and then, I went in to make some dinner. In the process of making dinner, grief finally struck me, and I heard myself say, “All I have wanted all my life is someone to really listen to me, to really hear me, the way mom did.” Whether or not my mother really did is beside the point—of course, I could be idealizing her, but the fact is that when I was with her, I felt she was really present. I wanted to have that gift, but also to give it.

I went to pray the vespers and sit in meditation, but I was interrupted by a Buddhist group who had reserved the meditation room—their organizers hurried in to rearrange the room, and I snuck out. Later, I would smell the incense and hear them chanting, and I would go out to the hallway to listen more closely. I would find a woman who had come out of the room and collapsed on a couch in the hallway, sobbing. I wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but somehow I knew she needed to be alone. There was something profound in that show of grief, though, and I saw it as a precursor of what would happen if I could be present, really present, in my meditation. Of course, as I thought this, I realized I was striving for something rather than simply entering the mystery.

Anyway, I went to my room, remembered what I’d heard myself say at dinner, and wrote a letter to my mother. I told her I didn’t know why I had been so sure she always really heard me, but I was. I wrote about how I was making my way through motherhood blindly with only that insight to guide me, and how I found myself sometimes doing and saying things with or to my daughter that reminded me of how she treated me—letting her see me in vulnerable moments, talking from the authentic center of my heart, listening from that center, being crazy and silly with her--and then knowing I was doing something right—but how I also longed for her to be here to show me the way, and wished I remembered more.

I wrote that I was supposed to tell her how mad I was at her for leaving me, that two spiritual people had told me, 15 years apart, to do this, but that I couldn’t, because it didn’t feel true. I told her I was afraid I’d die young, still, even though there are no signs this is going to happen, and that I am angry she’s not around, and sad, but not at her.

And then, suddenly, I found myself writing this: “I should have learned this at 13, but here I am, having to relearn it—how nothing is permanent, how I must lean into the anxiety that impermanence creates, be aware of the fear there, in that statement. And so I have this moment, and the next one…my whole life, in a way, has been a longing for you, and now, at 39, 26 years after your death, I need to accept that that deep hole in my center, that emptiness, is not going to go away. And that this is OK. It is part of me. It can be a great teacher, if I will stop trying to plug it up or fix it or heal it and just lean into it, and listen. Maybe I haven’t forgiven you for dying after all. Maybe this is the last great and beautiful forgiveness—to accept my pain and loss for what they are, to stop trying to heal them or escape them, to stop being afraid of them, but also, to stop swimming in them, in the fear and anger and hopelessness they create. They are me, and I am them. Spirit works in those places if I can lean in. Maybe this is the great lesson of this retreat, if there is one.”

I told her I knew she would want this kind of authentic honestly—that I had a feeling she longed for and was grateful for the moments when she had that kind of connection.

And then, I wrote another letter, this one to S’s college buddy J, the one who is in love and may be moving to Germany after a short return here. I told her I had finally found a way to release her, to recognize that our friendship couldn’t stay the same forever, and how ridiculous it was that I had tried so hard to hold onto her and that it had taken me so long to realize I was doing this. Earlier I’d written her an e-mail, a response to a question about what I thought of her plan to return to Germany, that started out saying I was happy she was in love and though that taking risks was important, and often the very best thing to do—but I went on to say all the reasons I wanted her to be cautious, how she had to be sure. I took all of that back in that letter, and wept finally, for the first and only time all weekend, while writing her. Later, at home, retyping what I’d written so I could send it to her in an e-mail, I wept and wept some more—it was a great a beautiful release, like the woman’s on the couch, and I thought of how so many of us, all over the world, were learning to let go.

Day Three

I woke in time to watch the sunrise, prayed the hours, did yoga, had breakfast, and was shocked to realize when I was back in my room that it was only 6:30 a.m. I went back to the hard work of writing letters—letters to dead and living people, to people I see everyday and people I rarely see. I told the truth in these letters, knowing that I could decide later how to deal with the truths as they emerged. I asked forgiveness, expressed my rage and pain. I know I will only send a handful of the letters I have written—some were written so that I could let go, in one way or another, of unrealistic expectations, of unresolved anger—some so that I’d find a way to continue working with or knowing or even loving someone without that person holding me back from whatever it was I needed to do to live my authentic life. At 10:30, I fell into a deep sleep, and woke at noon.

It was a rainy day, so I kept on writing, taking breaks to pray the hours, after which I would sit in meditation, and then do yoga. Eventually, I came to find myself feeling gratitude for everyone to whom I had written, and others besides—even people like an abusive partner I’d had several years earlier, about whom I rarely thought these days, and the lover I had after her, who loved me deeply and completely but couldn’t stay faithful at a time when I so desperately needed stability. I realized that each of these experiences, and so many more, had led me to this time of reflection, when I could finally face this truth about the impermanence of everything—not just in an intellectual way, but really face it in the deep places, learn how not to hold on too tightly, and also not to push away, but to simply allow people to enter and leave my life, to soak in their impact, to do my best to impact them, without force, but instead, with love.

At three, I showed up in the meditation room for the ninth hour prayers, and then I found myself sitting, my mind truly empty and open for the first time since I had arrived. I realized that just noticing that meant I was thinking, so I resolved to be present without judgment, to just lean in to whatever came up. And I heard outside some people calling to each other in voices that showed familiarity and love, joking voices, warm voices. There were car doors slamming and laughter. I noticed this, and at first, I thought, that is what I want.

But I have had that, and I will have it again, and nothing is permanent, I told myself, and then I began to laugh with them, to feel their joy somehow through the window, and I also thought, if nothing is permanent, that means that isolation isn’t real, because how can we be isolated if the universe is always changing? If we are all changing, always, then we are all connected, always, too. And I laughed and laughed at this, and then I went back to my room and, instead of yoga, I danced. I danced and danced for about an hour, just let my body do whatever it wanted, whatever it could, mournful, joyful, angry, silly, sexy dancing, whatever came out. It went on and on and I thought to myself, this is ecstasy, I should cherish it, and then I thought, oh no, this, too, will pass, so rather than cherish, which means you are already in the future when it will not longer be, just live in it, completely present. And so I did.

Later, I ate dinner, the rain stopped, and I walked again for awhile, ending up finally back at the labyrinth. I decided this time to walk the old path, despite the neon flags and the tall, wet grass. I was soaking wet by the end, but I went with it anyway. I went slowly, singing Agios o Theos three times, stopping, praying part of the service, then going on. The sun began to set, bright in the sky, glistening on the wet grass. I realized I’d really watched the sun rise and set for the first time in years.

I exited the old labyrinth just as the vespers were over, and then I went to the new, where I walked and I prayed for whatever came to mind—for soul sisters—to recognize the ones I already have and to be open to others, for a spiritual community, to be a good parent to S, to be able to remember that nothing is permanent and that therefore isolation and fear are false, and to be able to work through those feelings when they came up, lean into them and let them go. I prayed for clarity about my vocation, for a way back into either using my current job as a vehicle for healing and social change or for a new path that I couldn’t even imagine—that I would have the bravery to do whichever was right. I prayed forgiveness for all the ways my fear and loneliness had caused me to hurt others, or to shut down. I was specific, very specific—but instead of beating myself up, I let myself be unburdened. I let myself see I was capable of another way. I went back to my room and wrote these prayers down so that, when I was lost, I could return to them.

Day Four- Returning Home

The next morning, I decided to do Matins and the first hour service at the labyrinth. I sang Agios o Theos or Kyrie Eleison while walking, then stopped, prayed part of the service, went on singing, stopped, prayed, etc., until I had wound my way in and out, had finished the prayers. I used the old path this time, thinking to myself when I was done how fitting these two labyrinths were for my life—the old, overgrown, soon to be lost, and the new, not quite clear yet, and how I had to live at once in both of them, and also in the space between, the present, where each day unfolds whether or not there is time for reflection, and I must remember to go to the path, walk it, be attentive to it.

I went inside, did yoga, read through the journal in its entirety. I added more prayers as I reconnected with insights I’d had along the way. I noticed that I didn’t feel any regret about leaving, no grief or worry or fear. I was really present in the present in a way I hadn’t been for far too long. At the end, I went one last time to the meditation room to read the sixth hour prayers; Jesus is crucified, willingly giving up his life for a greater good, willingly suffering for a way of life he knows is better, more authentic, than the old way. Suffering leads to light and love. As I was walking out of the meditation room, feeling a deep gratitude for all I had experienced in that space, I noticed a little painting I had not noticed before, tucked into a small alcove at the side. I’d walked past it every day, eager to get to my pillow, and now I really looked at it. It wasn’t completely discernable—maybe it was cloud and lightning and pink and blue sky, or simply a giant, neatly framed blob of watercolor, an image of everything and nothing, of emptiness and fullness at the same time. Whatever it was, I kissed it with the same tenderness I’d kissed Jesus’ hand at the end of my meditation, in the Greek Orthodox way, touching my lips to the mystery.

Back to Reality

And then, quickly, I was tested—after a loving reunion, S wanted to go to the ballet store, needed to buy things we couldn’t afford. I told her we couldn’t afford it. I told her we had the dog, and it was raining, and a visit to the store wasn’t practical. She said she’d walk in the rain if I waited, would pay for it herself, knew exactly what she wanted, it wouldn’t take long. I told her that if she could get us there, we could go—and she led us at least 40 miles out of our way. Finally, I said, we are lost, and she hit me, hard, on the head.

But I was able to just observe what had happened, realize we weren’t safe, get us to a parking lot. I was able to sit and say to her, you haven’t hit me in a long time, you must be very afraid or upset about something. I was able to listen and be present to what she was feeling. She admitted then that she didn’t have the money, the leotard didn’t fit, she didn’t know where we were going, and yes, it would be best to go home. She was so sorry so quickly, and later, she did some extra chores for me without being asked, “so you don’t have to jump back into working so quickly.” She didn’t want to talk about it in therapy the next day, but we got through that, too, and she did, and we worked on what to do differently, and I stayed calm and present.

Inevitably, I raised my voice this weekend, a week later, and she said, “The retreat didn’t help!” But then I was quickly and truly sorry, and so was she, and she began to cry about Papou, how much she loved and misses him, and I asked her what I could do for her, to help her know it was OK to feel this way. She said she wanted to put on Greek music, and so we did.

And we started to dance, let our bodies move to the music, find and lose each other again in our living room on a rainy afternoon. She would clutch and let go; I would pull her up from the floor, we would move in our own small circles, far from each other, then end up together again.

She said, “Let’s dance a duet in his memory, Mom.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” I asked.

“I mean, let’s get it ready for the next recital,” she said, and I agreed, though I said for now I just wanted to be in the present, right there in the living room with the music getting us to the deep places, with the two of us laughing and crying and dancing and knowing our bodies and the deep places within them, the soul-and-spirit places where some people never dare to reach.

On Shrek, Staying Present, and Taking the Long View

2010-05-23T21:43:00.000-07:00

Tonight S and I saw the most recent Shrek movie. I don’t remember if I’ve seen any of the other Shrek movies--but I decided to suggest the outing because I’d spent all day in the garden, and it was starting to look gloomy outside for the first time since morning, and I was tired and craving an opportunity to turn off my brain and sit still. Also, all day long S and I had been bickering about little things, and while we hadn’t blown up, I knew that might happen if we either avoided each other or tried to talk. Watching a movie together, while not exactly bonding, was a good middle ground.

I can’t believe I’m going to say this, especially since I’m critical of the movie industry and how much money is spent creating movie after movie with the same basic plot line and more and more special effects (though at least I see my movies at a small town co-op theater, which makes me feel a little better about seeing silly movies), but I felt 100% better after seeing the movie.

Don’t read any further if you haven’t seen the latest Shrek movie but think you will. The premise of the movie is that Shrek is getting bored with the sameness of each day—feeding and diapering the babies, getting interrupted every time he needs time to himself, etc—and he’s so totally tired out by his day to day life, and so bored, that he blows up at his wife during his kids’ first birthday party. This provides an opening for Rumplestiltskin to show back up, eager to “help” him have a day of escape. His family won’t even know he’s gone, and he’ll be able to be the ogre he once was. Unknowingly, Shrek signs papers that essentially give Rumplestiltskin the opportunity to take away the entire narrative of his life—nobody remembers it but him, and he finds himself in an alternative life with the same characters—but none of them know or remember him.

Of course, predictably, Shrek realizes how he hasn’t been grateful enough and eventually finds a way to save himself and his family and return to life as usual, and he’s able to find joy in the simple pleasures of life again. I know, it’s a silly kids’ movie, but watching it really did make me feel lighter, able to more clearly see my own life. When it was over, in fact, S and I got up and danced in the aisles, and laughed heartily, and fell in love with each other again.

I had spent all day getting the garden in, and I’d imagined that S would help, but of course, she didn’t—each time she came out and proclaimed that she’d help in a moment, she would disappear, forgetting the promise. At first, it didn’t matter—it was a beautiful day, and gardening is therapy for me—but after awhile, as I got more and more tired and sore and my trips inside revealed that the house was getting messier and messier, I got frustrated. It didn’t help that for much of the afternoon, S was lying on the couch reading about native plants and gardening and kept coming outside with more and more ideas for how to create a perfect native garden in our yard. Predictably, at one point I snapped, “Don’t you see how much work it is to put in a garden? Are you blind?” But, to our credit, we managed not to escalate, and S even got an assignment done today when her tutor arrived later, and I got to spend an hour reading on the back porch while they worked.

It’s easy to get tired of each other, and it’s easy, both in the job I have and at home, to feel like I’m constantly being asked to stop whatever it is I’m doing to do something more pressing (but that I’m much less interested in doing). S cannot be in the same room with someone and be silent—it’s just not possible—so even if we’re sitting on the couch reading different books, she needs to me respond to her comments about her book. And, I am often waylaid in my plans at work by students who need immediate help or by a request from an administrator that is more about the institution’s image than the deeper, justice-related work I want to be doing. Anyway, it had been one of those days—and weeks, and months, and semesters.

I have been working really hard lately to change my perspective on my life and other people, as I’ve alluded to many times in this blog. It started with a new parenting paradigm (specifically for children with trauma, though it works for all children, and all relationships, really) that focuses on building a relationship rather than trying to change behavior, and being able to recognize the root causes of both my behaviors and feelings and S’s, and to find ways to name them and connect through that naming. The paradigm advocates for creating boundaries to keep children safe (emotionally and physically) but not imposing consequences and rewards for behaviors, and seeing behaviors as a communication about a feeling or memory, not as inherently “bad” or “good.” Of course, some behaviors have natural consequences—if you scream at someone, they may be more afraid of you or trust you less, etc.—and the idea of this paradigm is that people will suffer and learn from these consequences if they’re given the time to reflect AFTER they have gone through the heat of the moment, and that no learning can happen when a person is not regulated.

It’s impossible to adopt this paradigm, of course, without also applying it to oneself. Doing so opened up a new way of thinking about my own behavior. Slowly, I’ve been able to notice the physical signs of stress that might make me either “blow” or go into avoidance mode, feeling stuck or unable to think or speak or act. Even if I can’t stop myself totally from my fight or flight impulse, I’m able now to at least recognize these impulses for what they are, and usually able to stop before going further than the initial words of impatience or annoyance (or the initial shutting down). I am recognizing what my triggers are, and how they are connected to past pain. In the past, I’ve seen healing as a way of, if not getting over, then at least moving through, this pain from my past—but now I am realizing that I don’t have to do either. The pain simply is. I feel the pain, and it affects how I see the world now and react to it. But, the good news is I can see my fear and pain clearly now most of the time and can control my reactions.

The parenting class I was taking also stressed that changing our own thought patterns would make it easier to notice and react in better ways to our triggers, and would help us to build healthy relationships with others. This isn’t anything new, the premise that a person needs to work on him or herself before expecting his or her relationships to change. I was a bit less enthusiastic about this piece, especially when the teacher suggested that using affirmations could be a powerful way to change our thought patterns, and asked us to try to use them daily for 21 days.

Affirmations? Was she kidding? They sounded like the stupidest, shallowest thing in the world, and there was no way I could say them without laughing my ass off. I hate anything that appears simplistic. I also want to avoid becoming one of “those people” who sees the world through rose-colored glasses and doesn’t notice—or try to alleviate--its pain and suffering. But I decided to try them anyway, and they are actually working. Instead of making me less aware and responsive to suffering, I find that I am more aware and responsive, more conscious of how decisions I make, from my interactions at work to my purchasing decisions, affect others (either immediately or in the big picture).

Still, even with these attempts to change my outlook, I’ve been feeling a lot of dissatisfaction about my day-to-day life. I am tired of the same exact battles with S, and have to restrain myself sometimes from shouting, “You’re not making any progress at all!” Of course she is, and I do see it when I’m clear, but when I have to make dinner and her tutor has called off and she has an assignment due the next day, it’s frustrating to have to ask, once again, why she’s still on the computer and not either doing her work or helping with dinner. Or when I’ve had a rough day at work and I know she’s been sitting around for three hours doing nothing—and I get home and her chores aren’t done and she claims not to have gone on the computer but it’s clear she has.

Work feels the same way lately. I get a new idea and a supervisor shuts it down, either by saying that pursuing it will take me away from other work or that I can’t afford the time or resources. And it’s not just my supervisors: I try to get a group of people organized to follow through on a grant application they wrote, and they won’t mobilize. I get an entire website designed six months earlier than I’d planned because of pressure from my supervisors but can’t get a straight answer about why it’s not yet live. I ask about whether the three weeks I spent in Greece count as “on” or “off” time (I have a 10 month contract), and am told that the 10 month contract really means that I’m expected to work “as much as possible this simmer, though you should take a break if you needed it.” Do I actually pursue the fact that it is illegal to ask someone to work when she’s not getting paid, or do what I know I probably need to do anyway, and get the work done that can’t wait until fall, while taking off as much time as I can afford? You get the idea. Experiencing frustration after frustration, it’s easy to begin to wonder why I am working in an institution that keeps me from creating the change I want to create, and why my efforts at home to help my daughter grow don’t have a quicker payoff.

The difference is, I can now feel my mind battling between framing things positively (she didn’t finish both her chores, but she got one of them done and wasn’t on the computer when I got home) or negatively (I can’t believe the dishes aren’t put away yet and that she’s reading the same issue of Seventeen for the tenth time). Both are equally true, they’re just two different ways of seeing the same situation. In both cases, I’ll hold her accountable for her actions, but the outcome will be different in that the way I respond to her (“I can’t believe you didn’t get your chores done again! And haven’t you gotten sick of that stupid magazine yet?” vs. “Thanks so much for cleaning the cat’s litter and taking out the trash. The house smells so much better! But, I’m disappointed that you didn’t get the dishes put away. It won’t take long—let’s just do it quickly now together”). If I don’t mention the magazine, it’s less likely that it will become a source of tension all the time, and it’s not that important—she’s in down time (even if she shouldn’t be, since the chores aren’t done), so she should be allowed to do whatever will relax her, within reason.

I didn’t used to even feel the possibility of the positive frame, and now I at least know it exists, though I don’t always choose it. I feel like after seeing this silly and simplistic movie, though, something changed. I think I’m able now to recognize that the battle is happening, but then I agonize over it, going back and forth, back and forth, and eventually feeling exhausted and ashamed that the positive frame couldn’t “hold.” The movie made me realize that rather than getting mired in shame and allowing the battle to go on and on, it might be possible to alleviate a lot of suffering by simply choosing the positive frame and then acting on it, right then—and when that doesn’t happen, quickly forgiving myself, making amends to others if necessary, and moving on. This will take some work, but it seems to be the most natural next step in the work I’ve been doing to be more conscious of how my thoughts and feelings are affecting my actions.

In other news, S finally “got over” a boy she’d been crushing on for what seems to be at least a year, though I’m not sure about that. But, she quickly fell for another guy, got his number, texted him asking him out, and was heartbroken when he rejected her (nicely) in a responding text. On Friday night, she wept and wept and was sure, so sure, that this meant no guy would ever like her, that she’d never get more mature or thinner or happier or more confident, all the things she’s sure guys want her to be. I talked to her about being present in the present—focusing on what she could do, right now, to feel better about herself—and also about having the long view—every single rejection will feel awful, and yes, the pain may linger, but she won’t always feel the intensity she felt right after getting the text.

And, I praised her for handling this new crush better. In the past, she’s allowed crushes to drag on for months, analyzing every interaction she has with the boy, feeling deep, intense anger at any girl the boy shows an interest in or even gives attention, and continually seeking the boy’s attention and response through words and behaviors that mark her immaturity. This time, she felt the feelings, acted on them within a couple weeks, and now she can move on (I hope). Huge progress.

I am learning by watching S, and by living my own life, that it’s important to be in the present. So, this weekend I planted the garden I know will give you time to myself to reflect and be, as well as healthy food I can feel good about eating—instead of beating myself up for not ordering and planting veggies from seed this year, I decided that didn’t mean I couldn’t have a garden. And, of course, once I realized that, I had two offers of free plants from friends, and was able to spend about what I would have spent on filler plants anyway. I’m reading the books I’ve been wanting to read, even though I have other things I should be doing. I’m writing a little every day, but not getting caught up in where it’s going or when it will be done.

It’s also important to have the long view. That means both seeing the negative patterns in my life life—for instance, how in the past I’ve gotten so caught up in wanting to discover the ending of something I was writing that I got frustrated with the process and didn’t finish it at all—and changing them, just as S was able to change the negative, obsessive spiral she’s had in the past when dealing with crushes. But having the long view also means not allowing myself to get caught up in any spiral of crazy, self-deprecating thinking at all, and helping S to get out of these cycles, both by supporting her in those moments and by modeling a better way for her.

In short, whenever you can choose a frame, pick the positive frame, and respond through the viewpoint that frame provides, then move on. And enjoy the simple pleasures of life, like when you jokingly begin to dance in the aisle of the movie theater in order to embarrass your daughter and she begins to dance with you, and you both end up laughing and walking out into a suddenly cloudless evening hand in hand.

Humility

2010-05-20T22:30:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was a crazy, whirlwind weekend. My first cousin/aunt C, whom S considers her “yiayia” or grandma (because she raised me and was a mother figure to me) was visiting. The weather shifted from 40s and rainy to 70s and sunny, and graduation was outside, as it ought to be, and included a good old-fashioned protest against the graduation speaker (our university system’s president, who after three years of lobbying has yet to ensure that clothes with our college’s logo are made somewhere other than sweat shops). It was a beautiful day in every way.

Afterwards, S’s college buddy K, her fiancé, and their families came over, and we drank homemade rhubarb wine (made by K’s parents) and awkwardly tried to find a way to say goodbye. Then other graduates and students descended on our house, and the party went on. Finally, late at night, after everyone was gone, K returned after cleaning out her horse’s stall, weeping, and we sobbed together and talked about how much we’d miss her. Poor C was stuck in the middle of it all, and as usual, was incredibly helpful. It was good, though, I think, for her to see what our lives are like. At the end of it all, I felt so blessed, as I often do at this time of year.

Then on Sunday, S had her dance recital, which, unbeknownst to anyone else, was also mine. I meet with S’s dance teacher once a week, and we stretch and mess around on the bar and the floor, and also share town and college gossip, and it is always a beautiful reprieve for me—but the idea of performing for others was never part of the deal. But as I struggled with my own feelings about S’s dancing—how awkward and clumsy she is, how she has no sense of how other people see her body, how she’ll never be able to do anything useful if she can’t see herself as others see her, etc.—I realized that these problems/feelings/thoughts were mine, and not hers. Yes, someday she’ll realize she’ll never be a famous ballerina. Someday she’ll realize she is not following along in her dance classes, despite the kind and patient direction and one-on-one attention of her teachers, and that her lack of grace (and some damage done by her abuse) is probably going to prevent her from having a career that is focused on her physical self.

I share many of her traits. While I like to believe I have a more realistic picture of my own skills and abilities—if anything, I tend to underestimate rather than overestimate them--I’m totally clumsy and inflexible. I’m overweight. I hated gym as a kid, and was, as clichéd as this sounds, always the last to be chosen in gym class. And until about five years ago, I hated the idea of working out. I loved to swim and bike and hike, but would never push myself to go beyond what was comfortable, and certainly would never have considered doing either for anything other than fun. Luckily I discovered yoga, and then eventually came to enjoy time at the gym, seeing these physical outlets (including my weekly ballet lessons) as part of a larger spiritual practice, a way of connecting mind, body, and soul. (Though admittedly, my visits to the gym since January have been rare to nonexistent). But anyway, my point is that despite all my growth in this area, I have never been totally comfortable in my body, especially not when I feel eyes on me (beyond those of an intimate partner, that is), and I know that I project some of this onto S.

So, I decided to try an experiment. What if I agreed to be in the adult dance at the recital? What if I proved to S and to everyone else that it doesn’t matter how good you are, or how well you do, but that you take risks, do your best? It became especially clear that I had to do this when S said to me, on one of the rare days when she felt discouraged about her recital dance and her weight, “If you really think it’s just about having fun and celebrating the end of the year, then why aren’t you going to be in it?”

So I started to practice, both with my teacher and, when I could, with the adult class that meets at another, less convenient time. And then, on recital day, I just did my best. And my best was terrible. I didn’t remember many of the steps, the steps I did remember felt awkward, and I even started laughing on stage at one point. In short, I made a complete fool of myself. And strangely, I loved every minute of it, I really did.

I realized I’m finally too old to keep holding onto my teenage self-consciousness or to not love my body—not just privately, which I actually do and have since I came out (though not before that), but also when it is front of center, on stage. I realized that I also have to let go of all of the pressure I’ve felt all my life to prove myself—to prove I can do just as well as the straight person, the kid with rich, blond, American-born parents who went to college, etc., etc. I didn’t even realize how much I felt this sense of needing to be good at everything I do, and this pervasive shame for not ever being as good as I’d hoped or wanted to be, was affecting me. Somehow, being on stage, messing up, and being able to work through the embarrassment changed me, totally. It opened up some old pain, but it also made me realize how much stronger and happier I am now than at any other time in my life.

Last night a good friend who just graduated and is leaving this year came over. S adores him, and he's one of the few people besides her college buddies who is really attentive to her. He had dinner with us, and later we had some drinks and went on talking. We talked about why he didn’t want to go to graduate school—he’s truly the smartest person who has ever come through our college in the time I’ve been there, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. He said that graduate school would be the safest road for him, and that he needed to take a risk at this time in his life, and not get stuck in a life he doesn’t want. When I asked him what he didn’t want about it, he said he couldn’t imagine feeling the stress and the burden of always having more that needed to be done--he'd had enough of that in college. It was a strange answer in a way—he is choosing a life of activism that will surely drain him at times—but he said he feels that such a life, with others equally committed to creating change, would make any hectic or overwhelmed feeling worth it for him.

Even before this conversation, I was having a crisis about my job and what I really wanted to be doing professionally. Actually, I've had this crisis most of my life. I hate academia in so many ways. I hate its hierarchical nature, how tenure is based so much on seeking approval from outside sources and proving oneself--there is a constant and very real competition among my colleagues over who is busiest, and those who seem to have a lot of extra time to be with friends or family are considered suspect. I won't pretend I haven't participated in this at all, by the way--I have made a conscious effort since leaving my partner of six years not to live that kind of life, but I still fall into it at times.

When I first came here, I believed I would stay for one year, maybe two, then move on. Strangely, I had two different plans, the one I wanted, and the one I thought I should prove to others I could do. The plan I wanted: I would make a little money, pay off my debts, then create a life that was centered on activism and find the right place and the write people for this work, and live simply and happily ever after. The plan I felt I should pursue to prove to others that I could: I would build my CV, send out my poems, get some more publications, try to get a tenure-track job.

I never aggressively pursued either goal. Partly this was because I fell in love with someone who was very much committed to the institution, but that's not the whole story. I never worked hard at paying off my debts--my generosity toward others and/or other decisions always got in the way. I also never tried to network until my books were published; I have three book projects in close-to-final drafts that I have only halfheartedly sent out for publication. I am just now beginning to realize, ten years later, that maybe neither of these routes are really what I want.

There were a few different phases in my process. During college, I realized for the first time that I was smart and talented, that not only would I finish college, but I could go to graduate school. After so many years of struggling in honors classes in high school—being one of the kids smart enough to be in those classes but never one of the ones who got straight A’s or whom the teachers remembered--I felt honored when my mentors in college thought graduate school was the right path for me.

But, I wasn't totally convinced, and this was partly because my last two years of college had been such a period of change for me--I came out, I discovered feminism and activism, I lost some friends and gained others. I knew I needed to find a community, ground myself, do activism, but also earn some money and pay off some debts--and I did all of this for three years in Cincinnati. But I missed writing, and I had lost the spiritual center that came with it. And so, I went to graduate school for creative writing.

And then, in graduate school, I became incredibly discouraged. To me, writing had been a spiritual practice, and reading a way into empowerment and a deeper understanding of myself as an activist and change agent. But graduate school was not about these things. It was about technique, and ultimately, about getting published in literary journals no one but other writers ever read. I struggled and felt very alone for most of my time in graduate school—but I’m also grateful that I went, that I wrote the manuscript that I wrote, and even that I had a dramatic and abusive relationship during that time, because all of these experiences shaped me in important ways. Graduate school made me miss activism and community building, and I knew my future had to involve both--but it also introduced me to teaching, and to doing social justice work in the context of a class.

As I left graduate school, essential questions like “what social change can poetry publications foster in the publishing world that exists now?” and “What happened to the radical impulse that had once marked what it meant to be a poet, that had drawn me to writing in the first place?” continued to plague me. I concluded that academia had ruined poetry, and as I was leaving graduate school, I decided I wanted no part of an academic life. But, I needed a job--I had debt and had to work toward paying it off--and I needed to leave Phoenix because I wasn’t happy there for various reasons—that was clear. Somehow, I ended up getting a job in academia, though I applied to many different kinds of jobs. The job I chose felt “safe” because I would be focused on teaching struggling first-year students to write, which was noble. If I couldn’t change things by publishing my writing, perhaps I could help students to find a way to create change in themselves, and ultimately in others, through their process of putting things on the page.

Let’s face it, the biggest risk I’ve ever taken professionally was to move to a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, to leave a place where I wasn’t happy, but where I could have probably worked for the rest of my life—or lived a life with fewer connections or obligations and more time to write and pursue a career with a capital C. But now, I have stayed at an academic job for 10 years, and it doesn’t look like I’m leaving anytime soon, so I can’t pretend not to be a part of academia, albeit a slightly outside-the-center part. When I finally fully realized this—that I was staying, that I wasn’t ever going to have a published book, at least not one that I’d have to work my ass off to get published--then I went through a phase in which I convinced myself that I had somehow purposely shot myself in the foot, missing grant or submission or job application deadlines, and now, 10 years in, I can’t get those years back.

But after dancing ridiculously on stage and talking with my friend, I came to another realization. I haven’t done those things because they aren’t who I am. I believe in the power of art to make change, but publishing a book of poetry or a novel is not going to be my path, probably (though I suppose I should never say never. As a side note, a visiting writer earlier this semester and inspired me to think of my writing in new ways, and as I rework some old material, I am having visions of a more collaborative and community-based way of doing my writing—but that’s a whole different post).

I write to make sense of my life and the world—or rather, to come to some mysterious and incomplete understanding of their complexities—and writing is what leads me to action, whether that be my decision to S or a my decision yesterday to advocate for a student who needs more help than she’s getting. And I’ve come to realize those small and large actions are the actions that make me who I am—not my title or where my office is or what my job responsibilities are or how many publications I can list on my CV or what I'm "doing" career-wise. And yes, I can inspire and change students’ lives, and doing so is rewarding, but if I imagine myself to be the primary or most important person inspiring them, then I will always be disappointed at how little I can accomplish. I have to see myself as part of an interconnected web, and to know I have the power to play some small role in other people's lives, but that I can't change them totally, not on my own--just as I couldn't change myself without influences from others. In short, I have a little more humility.

I have been feeling so disconnected from so many former friends since adopting S, and I know that this is partly due to how my commitments have changed, but mostly due to the fact that by adopting her, I reclaimed an important part of who I was, and remembered that I was always happiest when my activism was personal and about connection, and when I could work on the same "issue" (in this case, empowering people to be who they are) could be worked on on multiple levels/in multiple ways and not through one specific set of actions. A friend from Cincinnati reminded me of this--that I wasn't happy doing direct action work only, although I see its importance and potential for radical change.

Anyway, my feelings of disconnection are tied up in my confusion about my role in academia—before my dance debut and my conversation yesterday, I felt I was either a part of the academic community here or else a total outsider whose role it was to try to change the institution. I won’t say I don’t think of myself as a change-agent from within anymore, but I am coming to realize that it’s OK when I can’t create the change I imagine, and OK when others don't want to join me in creating that change. Some days, maybe it’s enough to get through an ordinary day and be attentive not only to what I've accomplished but also what I've learned—solve a misunderstanding between a professor and a community partner about a survey her students is doing, talk a depressed student through her decision about whether or not to stay in school, order some books I might consider using next semester, get a student employee started on a project that will be meaningful to many elders in the community, and then go home to my daughter and to dinner and a long conversation with a friend.

That’s a day, and I’m glad I have the time and space for the thoughtful, connected conversation and the connection with S at the end of it. I’m glad I have the time to be around inspiring people—not just “around” them, as on the same campus or in the same home as them, but actually have the time to talk to them and know them and learn from them and contribute to their growth, too. I'm glad I have--and take--the time to write here, to try to make sense of what is happening around and inside me. I'm glad I have the time to rethink the idea that I'm lonely--maybe, if most of those people at this time in my life are a lot younger than me, that’s not the end of the world.

I feel myself letting go of two issues that have plagued me all year: the bitterness toward former friends who don’t take that time to get to the deep and vulnerable places with me (in other words, to be supportive in the ways I need), and the worry over what should come next for me professionally, which has included the unbearable idea that I really, really need to leave as well as the unbearable idea that I really, really need to stay. I am re-learning, slowly, how to be in the moment, to acknowledge my loneliness and keep reaching out, to dream without the anxiety that sometimes is part of the process of dreaming.

One of the other adults who participated in the dance, a woman who has shared with me that she has severe anxiety, said to me right before we got on stage, “Screw it. So what if we make fools of ourselves? Most people in the audience would never, ever get up here in a million years.”

“You’re right,” I said, raising my fist, and we both laughed loudly and hysterically.

And so, I danced awkwardly in front of many of my colleagues and the parents of my daughter’s friends and, well, everyone in town, really, because hardly anybody misses these kinds of events. And yes, some people did sort of avoid me afterwards, or wonder if they should say something kind like “good job” or even “nice try”—I could tell from many people’s body language that they truly did not know how to react to the fact that I’d gotten up there and made an ass of myself. And to say I didn’t care at all would be a lie—but I caught myself feeling that familiar shame about not being good enough, and then, I laughed at myself. That shame and all of the "need to be as good as, need to be better than, need to prove how busy I am" are not me, never has been. I need to keep resisting those feelings, to acknowledge the pain of change and loss while also paying attention to what I do have, what small good things I can do, for awhile.

Today I am feeling blessed and lighter than yesterday. I am leaving the office in the academic building that is the last tie to my identity as an academic, someone who primarily teaches and publishes things, and moving into the Office of Community Engagement full time. (I'll continue to teach a couple classes a year, but they will be mostly interdisciplinary classes, except for one creative writing class that keeps me connected to my identity as a writer). It has been sad because the office was my mentor Gremmels' office before it was mine, and leaving it feels like disconnecting in some more final way from him, but also because I have been in that space for ten years, of course. But it has also been somewhat of a relief. For one thing, the office is a mess, and it's high time to sort and toss and figure out what should be cherished. For another, the move helps me to finally let go of both the expectations or beliefs I imagined that others had of me--either that I would eventually become a real academic (if I didn't want to be a failure) or that I'd never be able to hack it.

At the end of a long day of sorting and moving things, I checked my e-mail. My inbox held two incredible gifts. I got an e-mail response to a request I'd sent to a summer dance camp. In the e-mail, I decided to be honest about S's skill level and mental health issues, and I asked whether they felt the camp would be a good environment for her. I explained what kind of environment and approach she needed and also insisted that the only way she would be able to go is if I could come with her. I said I would pay for accommodations and meals if I had to, but that I would prefer to earn my room and board by volunteering. Admittedly, I fully expected a rejection, or at least to be put off for several days, but instead, I got multiple encouraging e-mails--from the dance instructor, from the camp director, and from the administrative assistant--all letting me know that not only did they need help in the kitchen, but that they had experience with and an interest in helping people like S to grow.

And, in another e-mail, the adoptive father of one of S's brothers said he had decided to visit us this summer. We had been talking for a couple weeks via e-mail about whether the kids were ready, and if so, how the visit should work. I am beyond thrilled that they want to start the in-person connection by coming here, and I can't wait to meet them.

I came home today after a full day of sorting through my old office and moving into my new one and couldn't wait to share the good news with S. She was ecstatic. We registered for the camp, planned our summer, talked about everything that would be wonderful and challenging about her brother's visit. We were full of possibility and joy. Earlier this year, I ignored her requests to go to a dance camp and refused to even consider that maybe there was one that could meet her needs; I'm so glad I've gotten over my own issues with her love of dance and found a way to give her what she wanted. We also talked about missing K, about how we would miss M, the friend who was here yesterday, but how that was OK, because that pain of loss reflects how deeply it is possible for people to affect each other's lives.

It was a good day. I danced through every moment of it, and let myself be who I am, and now that I've written this and made sense of this last week I'm ready to sleep, finally.

Still Here

2010-05-08T17:33:00.000-07:00

I'm still here--just incredibly busy. But some beautiful things have happened recently, so I'm just going to list them.

1. S hasn't figured out how to stop doing impulsive or violent things, but she does seem to be better at apologizing soon afterward.

2. S finished her research paper today, which was due months ago and was one of a handful of assignments that threaten her completion of 10th grade. I think the other ones will also get done.

3. I started writing again, finding a way to revisit a project I'd started five years ago, thanks to the encouragement of a writer who visited our campus.

4. S's college buddy K and her fiance asked me to marry them; I know this will be one of the most meaningful weddings I'll ever have the pleasure of officiating.

5. The campus finally had a memorial for my friend Gremmels, and it helped me to find closure.

6. I finished an online parenting class and learned a lot about how to better deal with my daughter's trauma; I also made some new long-distance friends in the process.

It's that time of year when I should definitely be grading or saying goodbye to the seniors who I love who are graduating or doing pretty much anything except posting here...but I felt like I had to do so, even though this is brief. All of the above items could be entire blog entries on their own, and I hope they will be once the students are out of town and my work life gets quieter!

Empowerment

2010-04-17T21:18:00.000-07:00

So, S did it--last Monday, she went through an interview that lasted over an hour about her abuse. She was as prepared as she could possibly be, I think. We had talked about everything that could go wrong, from her abusers getting angry and trying to find us to going all the way to trial and losing at the end. She still wanted to do it. She wrote down everything she could remember about each abuser, and she practiced reading what she'd written, and I pretended to be an officer who needed more details.

Last Monday afternoon, we got the call. The officer made small talk about the weather. Then he put the recorder on, asked me if I was the only legal parent of my daughter, asked if he had my permission to interview her. And then, she said, "I have it all written down," and began to read. Two sentences in, he interrupted her. It wasn't enough to say she was raped, or tortured, or neglected--she had to be specific about body parts and where they went and how often, about why she couldn't open the refrigerator to get food when she was hungry, and what would happen if she did. It was heartbreaking and also awe-inspiring to hear her calmly answer each question directly and honestly. Truthfully, she did much better than I expected.

At the end, he asked if there was anything else she wanted to say. She calmly leafed through her four pages of notes and read off anything she hadn't already covered, then responded to more questions.

In the end, when it was all over, the officer politely said he couldn't ensure our safety or tell us for sure what would happen next, but that he'd be in touch. He had to get "their side of the story," he explained, and also "needed to go back through the records," before the state could decide if they had a case on their hands.

I want to be cautious here; I mean, the system has never before worked for my daughter. She is so hopeful that they'll get put away for good, but I know that whether that happens depends on a long string of events between now and whatever the end of this turns out to be. I have talked with her about this, but she continues to have hope.

The next day, she was terrified, sure they were coming after her. I called our violence prevention and advocacy office, our local police station, the agency where her bio mother, unbelievably, is still permitted to send letters (though S has never wanted to read them). I got advice and assurances that our local resources would do everything to keep us safe. We can't file a restraining order without the order including our current county of residence or our last name, so that is out of the question--it would be more dangerous to file one than to leave things as they are.

So many people said or implied we shouldn't do it--even one of the social workers involved in the adoption said she hoped someday S could "put the past behind her and move on." I honestly felt the same way until after the interview was over, and S announced she wanted to celebrate with an ice cream cake. Until I watched her tonight at a campus event tell a total of 12 people what she'd done--indiscriminately choosing them (anybody who barely knew her was included). She is moving from shame to pride, from self-hatred to empowerment. I am proud of her.

On Forgiveness

2010-03-31T20:46:00.000-07:00

S has remembered more details: a child prostitution ring, who knows how many rapists. How they hoped she'd get pregnant, and that the baby would be a girl. She cannot forgive them unless she gets justice, she says, so we are on that road: in the next week, we'll hear back from a police officer in the city where she grew up, find out for sure what our first step is, but it looks right now as if she will need to tell her story to a local officer. Luckily, I know most of them, so we will be able to make this happen in a way that feels as safe as possible for her. But what happens next, I can't control. All of it, so out of our control. I have told her it's OK to stop at any time. I have told her that she does not have to take this on. I have told her I'll be there for her, no matter what she decides.

She wants to know if she's allowed to cry. She wants to know if I'm sure I'll always love her. She wants to know if I'm sure it was her fault, any of it.

And, perhaps most importantly, she wants to keep other children safe. We have reason to believe that some of her abusers could still be abusing children. "It's not about revenge," she tells me. "It's about kids being safe."

That she's able to think about others when she's barely making it through the day--when she's down to half days at school and hasn't had a day in weeks that has not included shaking and tears--is a miracle.

Another miracle: even though she has faced the worst abuse imaginable, she wants to make amends to people she hurt along the way. At the top of the list was a social worker named M--she still remembered his first and last name--who removed her from her home. I remembered his name appearing multiple times in the records. I also remembered that her bio family had brainwashed her to believe he was the devil, and that she was terrified of him. At first, I blew her off--I'm sure he knows you weren't able to think straight back then, sweetheart, I said--but she persisted, so I decided to see if I could find him. I did, and sent him an e-mail saying that S was grateful for what he'd done for her, and sorry that she'd been so cruel to him. I also gave him a very brief update on her life--like five sentences.

What transpired next was a miracle I can't even begin to explain. When he heard from me, he sent me a long e-mail, which included these words:

"Tell S from me that she has nothing whatsoever to be sorry for. Tell her to
release the guilt she feels the same way I released her, so that she could
ultimately find you. Tell her that hearing from her and knowing that she has
found happiness is the greatest gift I have ever received. Tell her that I
know how much she loves her brothers and how hard she tried to keep them safe.
Tell her that she is the bravest and strongest person I have ever met. Tell
her that when I think of her riding on a horse, I see a warrior princess who
will fight for what is right and good. Tell her that the dragons she is now
facing [her memories] are no match for her."

There was so much more, but this part was my favorite, and S's. She smiled widely when I got to the "warrior princess" part. This phrase was especially poignant because S once had an elaborate fantasy world, where she would escape when she felt unsafe, which meant she was in this world most of the time. Even now, remnants of this place are still with her, still come to the surface in scary times: she's a princess in a perfect, pink world, and everybody loves her, and she can have anything she wants.

When I told M of her reaction, he wrote back, "I chose the phrase "warrior princess" very deliberately, because I hope it will help her to understand that the fantasy world she created to protect her heart is in fact real - that it worked - and that because of it, she is alive. She can now use that world, and the confidence she found it it, to emerge whole into the world she now shares with you. The difference is that in the other world, her role as a princess was a passive one. Just a princess. Now she is a warrior - a brave and noble soul. She will face these dragons, and defeat them."

While we've been careful not to discuss any details of her abuse--we are worried that our contact could be misconstrued later by a crazy defense attorney, if this goes that far--we are communicating as friends now, people who care about each other and both love my daughter. I am lucky.

I am lucky, so lucky. I need to write these words.

Don't get me wrong: I'm lonely at times, still, longing for a real community of friends here who have the time and energy to be there for us and who are closer to my age (my college student and long-distance friends continue to be my best support, for better or worse). I'm still crying almost every day.

But I'm also lucky. I now have a great online community of parents who really get what I'm going through; they've been immensely helpful. I am taking a parenting class online with other parents of traumatized children, and I've learned so much already, applicable instantly. The support group for parents who have adopted older children here in town has let me weep in the corner of our local diner, and wept with me, and provided encouragement--and to think at one time I did not trust them or think they could help. I am slowly developing friendships with new people, too, who have not backed away from the intensity of this time in our lives--and renewing friendships with long-distance friends.

Since I started these efforts--and since we survived that hard four days of hell I wrote about in my last entry--there has been no violence or yelling, only time talking honestly, weeping or laughing together. We are on a road to healing. And, yes, forgiveness.

Maybe some things can't ever be forgiven, not completely, but what is forgiveness if not a giving of oneself for another person? What is it if not my ability, in times of this much grief, to find a way to connect when so many people I used to feel close to aren't available? What is it if not S's ability, in times like these, to think of others rather than only her own suffering--to want to reach out the M, to want to help keep other children safe?

I think of the woman who poured expensive, fragrant oil over Jesus' feet and wiped it with her hair. In the Greek Orthodox church, that story is commemorated today, and we are all anointed with the oil of healing. There are two accounts of this story, but in one of them, the woman was a harlot, and the disciples grumbled that the oil would have been better used if sold and the money given to the poor. But Jesus said, no, this was done to prepare me for my burial. What she has done will always be remembered.

I think of the intimacy of that act. I think of how intimate it felt when I was anointed by a priest on Holy Wednesday--the last time was more than 10 years ago, now--and how I could feel that oil on me for hours afterwards. A blessing, fragrant, divine. I was perfect exactly as I was. If we were closer to a church, if there was no school or work tomorrow, that is where I would have been tonight.

I want S to feel that, too. Interestingly, she has decided to become Greek Orthodox, and has even asked a friend of mine to be her godmother. (She will always have the godparents who anointed us with holy water at her adoption party--but to be Greek Orthodox, she needs a mentor of the same religion). I have such mixed feelings about the church of my childhood. I love the rituals, but hate much of the dogma. And yet...

And yet, I am remembering the blessing of oil, looking forward to our trip to the nearest church, three hours away, for Good Friday, when we will duck under Jesus' tomb, say a prayer, and leave church triumphant, hopeful. I am looking forward to the darkness of Pascha's midnight, the passing of the light.

I am looking forward, ever forward, but staying grounded, right here, right now, breathing deeply. We will be OK.

Lent

2010-03-08T22:35:00.000-08:00

I can’t believe this, but the Greek Orthodox Church has a website. I wonder what the church fathers and mothers would think about the images of saints showing up on a computer screen. Not only that, but a person can sign up to have daily scripture readings and stories of the saints delivered directly to her e-mail inbox.

So, because I couldn’t think of a better idea for a way to honor Lent, I signed up for those readings and promised myself that I’d read them every morning. I decided I would also go back to an old morning discipline I abandoned some three years ago of writing three stream-of-consciousness pages every morning. I would read through the e-mail once, and then just start writing, not worrying about whether what I was getting down had anything to do with the readings for that day.

And, within a week, it became painfully clear why I’d given up those morning pages around the same time my partner and I broke up. As they are intended to do, they break down all the barriers a person is holding up, not only between herself and others, but between her public self and her center. Morning pages, as I had so easily forgotten, force us to face realities of our own lives in brutal bursts of clarity.

And yet, despite the excruciating realizations the pages seem to be bringing to the surface every day—-I’m not as happy here as I pretend to be; I’m losing control way more often than I should; S’s behaviors aren’t only her fault and the fault of her abusers; etc…I’ve stuck with it, even though it has been hard.

In the midst of it all, S had the worst meltdown of her life, a rage so deep and violent and horrific that it kept us home for four days, sitting together on the couch and talking, weeping, screaming.

We were on our way home from her therapist’s, in a city two hours away, when it started. She wanted to sew on the ribbons to her new pointe shoes—-never mind that it was 9 p.m., we wouldn’t get home until 11, we had four days until her first lesson. For once, I stayed completely calm, repeating over and over again the reasons we couldn’t do it now: I'm driving, it's dark, it will be late when we get home.

But no, she wanted to do it now, right now, and she was willing to do anything to make it happen—including pulling my hair and hitting me hard over and over again on the head.

I pulled over, in tears. But still, my voice remained calm. "We could have died," I said, "Do you realize that? We could have so easily died."

"Well, maybe that would be better," she said, and then she burst into tears.

“This is not OK. Every time you talk about pointe shoes you go a little crazy. You’re failing English because you’ve chosen pointe shoes as your research paper topic. You can’t do anything except watch stupid videos when you’re supposed to be researching. And now you want to die because you can't sew on the ribbons tonight? You HAVE to tell me what this is about.”

And then, she began to wail and hit and scream and spit. I held her as hard as I could. I kept saying, I love you, but you have to calm down.

"You don’t love me," she screamed. "You should have adopted a baby. A baby would have been easier."

Finally, two hours later, we hit on three truths: she had taken ballet for one month during her childhood, and coincidentally, one of her abusers had moved into the house that same month. I had known about a connection between ballet and her abuse, but for the first time, it came into sharp focus: how this man had wanted not to abuse her, as her other abusers had, but to love her, to marry her.

She was eight years old. He was, at least, in his 40s.

And then, another truth, perhaps an even deeper one: she didn’t have anything to live for. She had created the obsession with pointe because it was something to focus on, something to look forward to. What else could she do? As I’d noted, she wasn’t doing well in school. She knew she wasn’t good at pointe. Maybe she had been OK at riding horse—-not great, but OK—-but then Honey died and she didn’t deserve that kind of happiness again, obviously. And her animals—if it weren’t for my reminders, she wouldn’t even remember to feed them. They’d probably be dead. And Papou had died, and it was her fault, clearly, because he got sick right around the time the adoption was finalized, and obviously she didn’t deserve a grandfather who loved her, either.

And then, truth number three: also, pointe was something that made her feel like she was a normal 10-year-old girl, like maybe, just maybe, she could pretend she’d never been taken by force in a police car from her bio home, that she’d never gotten older than 10.

"But you don't want to be 10 again," I said. "When you were ten, you still weren't safe."

“If M (her brother) hadn’t told, if he hadn’t saved our lives, I would probably have gotten pregnant the next year, you know,” she said. “I turned 11 and got my period." She said it calmly, and for a minute, I thought the meltdown was over. But then she was weeping, screaming again. "I don’t want those girls to have to turn 11. I don’t want those bitches and whores to turn 11! They’re bitches and whores and they don’t know how easy they have it!” she screamed.

“It’s OK,” I said to her. “They’re safe.”

“Nobody will call them gutter sluts like my brother’s girlfriends used to call me. They would watch, sometimes, you know, when I was getting was raped.”

And then she was calm again, back in a world into which she could fold herself—the world that silenced her. That world, I realized, is comfortable for her--scary, yes, but less scary, maybe, than the unknown.

When she was calm enough, finally, we drove home. On the way, she said, “I need more help than I’m getting right now,” and I knew she was right.

“I’m going to change my paper topic,” she said, as we drove around the curvy road that encircles a lake about a half hour away. “And take a break from pointe.”

But when we got home, she went directly to the computer, turned on some point videos.

“It’s past midnight,” I said calmly. “You have to turn off the computer. It’s time to go to bed.”

And she attacked me, kicking me repeatedly in the knee until I could barely walk on it.

I thought maybe I would have to hospitalize her. Instead, we made it until the next day, and saw our family therapist. There, we made a plan: we would stay home for four days and try to get as much of it out as possible, and if she attacked me again, I would call the therapist on her cell phone, and S would be hospitalized.

I didn't want to hospitalize her, but I didn't see any other option. Hospitalization, I knew, would disrupt our bond. It would remind her of worse times, like when one of her foster mothers committed her, and she never saw her again. And so, I had to try.

At home, on the couch, she told me everything, finally, in all the detail she could remember: gang rapes to celebrate important family milestones, the fights between her brothers and their friends over who would get to rape her. Her little brothers, how she tried so hard to protect them, failing again and again. Her mother was there, too, in all of it, participating, not just watching, a detail I never knew.

There is more, but I can’t type it all. It’s too much to have to remember the telling of these stories. I simply can’t imagine living them.

I knew, theoretically, that she had been abused more severely than even the average foster kid. But to know and to feel are two different things. To read the records and to hold your daughter down while she cries and screams her way through the stories are two different things.

But we got through it. Our college student friends showed up to walk the dog, do our grocery shopping. We didn’t leave the house for four days.

And then, when it was over, for awhile, at least, we had a celebration of my father’s life, a 40-day memosino in the Greek style, except without the liturgy. I made the traditional kolyva and a soup he’d taught me to make the last time I visited. People showed up, brought food, including friends I’d tried to reach who hadn’t called me back during that time. (Still, only one person my age has actually talked with me about what happened—people are afraid of what they don’t understand).

I had canceled this celebration, and then re-invited a smaller group, because S wanted to see people. I thought this was a good sign.

Through it all, I kept up my Lenten discipline, kept reading, kept writing. And one saint’s story, which I read sometime during or shortly after those days of hell, stood out to me. This saint, Gerasimos, had tamed a lion, who attended to him during his monastic life in the caves. There were many stories of this lion, but the one I love most is the story of the stolen donkey. Gerasimos had a donkey that was the lion’s best friend. The donkey served a practical purpose, carrying Gerasimos' water from a nearby well.

One day, the donkey was stolen when he was away at the well with the lion. The lion had fallen asleep, and some thieves took the donkey with them. When the lion returned, Gerasimos believed he had eaten the donkey and punished him by making him fetch water and do other chores for him--chores that were no problem for a donkey, but difficult for a lion. The lion willingly complied.

Weeks later, at the well, the lion saw some people passing with the donkey, and recognized him. For the first time in his life, he roared, scaring the thieves and recovering the donkey. Gerasimos freed the lion to show his gratitude, but the lion returned each week to bow before the saint’s cave. When the saint died, he went to his grave, roared loudly, and died himself.

Ever since reading it, my mind cannot stop thinking about this story--I am even dreaming it. Perhaps that is because it is a story of deep and unconditional love—from the lion to the human, that is. Even when the human is unable to return that love, the lion remains faithful.

And if the donkey represents the vehicle we need to get our needs met--then the story is also about losing, and then rediscovering, that vehicle. All of our lives, although the vehicle is right before us, we lose it, rediscover it, and lose it again. We punish each other when we can't figure out how to meet our own needs, and then we are sorry.

This is the story of me and Lisa, I wrote one morning in the midst of a rant about my friends--who weren't there, and then didn't respond to a follow-up request to be there the next time. But suddenly that didn't matter anymore--the story had become clear to me. That's why I keep coming back to it, why I can't let it go.

Upon realizing what this story meant, I did some crazy things. I stopped being bitter about being dropped from party invite lists and planned or spontaneous social gatherings, about how all the favors I offered my friends over the years have not come back to me now, when I need them most—and I thought, I need to figure out how to get my needs met.

I joined online adoptive parents' groups, even though I don’t really believe in online communities--but they’ve actually been helpful! In the process, I learned about a parenting philosophy that at first sounded too simple and seemed to have been created mostly to earn easy money for its creator. Morning pages began in my conscious mind—don’t drink the kool aid, Argie. Don’t be an idiot—but then they got to the raw truth of the matter—this must be making sense to me for some reason. I’m not an idiot.

I paid a little more attention, and the core belief really spoke to me: all of our actions have their root in either love or fear. It is up to me to recognize that so much of S’s “difficult” behaviors, and my reactions, have their root in fear, and to actively work on changing that dynamic.

And so I had to face my fears, all of them, so often masked as anger or self-pity or jealousy: that I am not as valued as I ought to be at work and will inevitably someday be cut; that I’m incapable of being friends with people because I’m too needy or too intense or…something; that I’ll never do as much good in the world as I hope to do; that I can’t possibly become a better parent, stop yelling or reacting or freaking out when things go wrong—that my ability to stay calm in this recent crisis was an anomaly in an otherwise guilt-ridden narrative of losing control, that I’ll turn into the kind of parent my father was.

But what good does it do to face these fears? Maybe I have to make friends with the lion, somehow.

And then I realized I needed to look into all of this more carefully—so I joined an online parenting class. The basic idea that we can't fix things by taking back control—who wants to teach their kids that the way to live is by controlling others?—seems right to me. And I know I have the critical thinking skills to discard anything that doesn’t make sense along the way.

Maybe I’m losing it, but I think I just may be getting saner. Maybe online communities and online classes aren't so crazy, after all.

And then I started to dream—what if I left this place that I thought I’d never leave, this place I’ve spent the last 10 years trying to make better? What if I stopped worrying so much about what is making me angry and focused instead on what is making me afraid? What if I let myself connect with S in the way I did in those hard days, being fully present in her present, and her past, and her future—instead of focusing on only one of those at once?

And suddenly, everything in my life seemed full of possibility and mystery and wonder again, and S was this amazing child I was so lucky to have in my life, a person I wanted to learn to love more deeply, not a kid whose behaviors I wanted to control.

It seems weird to write that I am in a new place, that I feel on the verge of something big right now—but I do. And it is exciting to not be sure exactly what it is.

voices

2010-02-15T13:52:00.000-08:00

Voice #1:
Thank you for the sympathy card and letter. I don’t have time to respond right now, but know that I appreciated it.

Voice #2:
Thank you for the sympathy card and letter. What you wrote was very meaningful to me. We haven’t been in touch in a long time, so it would have been easy for you to ignore the fact that my father died. But I appreciate that you took the time to write from the heart. Thank you.

Voice #3:
It was really nice to get your letter. Even though things have been rough on and off between us for so many years, I always know that when it matters, you will come out of the woodwork and say the words I need to hear.

One time, long ago, you told me you weren’t really a writer, but that’s crazy. What you wrote was comforting and disturbing and ugly and beautiful at the same time. You were brave to write it.

Voice #4:

Nobody sends cards with actual letters in them anymore except my 86-year-old aunt and random elderly friends of my dead parents, so it was so nice to get yours.
Nice? Shit, I've been living in the middle of nowhere, a place where people are polite and distant, for way too many years. What I mean to say is that what you wrote blew my fucking mind.

I miss being around people who get what it's like to die and come back from the dead, you know? People here, where I live now, don't get it, or at least, they don't talk about it.

I know you claim not to be a writer, but what you wrote was poignant and real and raw and beautiful and ugly and shameful and lustful and full of wonder. Only those of us who have come out and lost our parents and lived without some of the things we wanted or needed could manage to write something like that.

I was just telling my students today that if everything a person writes is tentative and full of worry over what other people will think, then what's the point? But, I said, if writing that way is terrible, then living that way is even worse.

One of my students walked out crying. She probably won't be back, or else she'll show up next week in office and pretend nothing happened and claim she was sick, or else this will be the opening, the moment when she begins to tell her story, and years later she'll write me a long letter like the one I got a few weeks back that will go like this:

You almost killed me, but luckily, you also saved my life.

Maybe being a teacher or a friend is as risky as being a doctor. But the reality is that none of us are ready for that kind of truth. Still, some of us manage to go on living honestly because we are fierce and, maybe, a little crazy to believe we can change anything, ever. And yet we do—we change our own lives and others’ lives and sometimes a little piece of the world.

I want to be one of those somebodies.

I do love you, you know, even though I also hate you a lot of the time, even though I could never be in a room with you for longer than a few hours without wanting to kick the living shit out of you. But that's at least partly because I was trying so hard not to be like you that I forgot how important it is to be real.

Thank you for sticking all of it out--you know, all these years we've known each other--and for writing what you wrote, and for being who you are.

Going Home

2010-02-01T21:32:00.000-08:00

Once, my friends P and J and I went out to eat with my father. They mentioned Santorini to him—how beautiful it was. He replied, disgustedly, in his signature thick Greek accent, “Santorini is NOTHING.” He then proceeded to explain to them that if they really wanted to see the most beautiful place in Greece, they ought to visit Ikaria.

If you ask S what she remembers about Ikaria, she will mention one of the following: the large number of totally ignored and flea-infested stray cats, which had never been fed or loved as consistently over a two week period as they were during our visit; the two faced man dream that many of us had, which we concluded was proof that our hotel was haunted; the bagful of rocks she picked at the beach on a walk with her college buddy J. Sometimes she’ll say she was stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere for much too long; most of the time, though, she’ll say she had the time of her life.

This isn’t the story I’d tell, but I am glad she has her own. For me, our trip was colored by my father’s sudden decline in health and, while we were on our way back to the U.S., his death. For the last eight days of our time in Ikaria, we felt his presence hovering over us, saw him everywhere: in the faces of strangers, who would light up when they figured out who my father was (they always had a story of how they knew him); in his brothers’ faces, full of grief for his decline and stories they couldn't tell me, not yet; in the violent waves crashing against the giant rocks in my father's home village. We saw him, too, in the elders with whom we worked: in Demetrios, who played dominoes with the same concentration my father applied to backgammon; in Ianni's dramatic displays of depression ("Everything is disastrous here"), in Katina’s way of verbalizing anything that came to mind, no matter how rude or hurtful, as well as in her love of dancing.

There was a darkness in Ikaria I’d never experienced before. For the first time in all of my visits, I didn't feel safe there. One of my students took a ride home with an older man who wasn't safe; the hotel manager was dismissive and rude to us; all of us experienced signs that spirits were among us, and that they weren't necessarily friendly or kind. One student was ill for part of the trip; another suffered a dog bite and had to get a rabies shot, and the owner couldn't give us a straight answer about whether his dogs had been vaccinated.

The elders I’d loved on previous trips, most of them, were gone: Argiro, who shared my name and had the most sincere smile and deepest blue eyes, whom we had watched go from total immobility to movement and joyful facial expressions during our first visit; Rodopi, who had never married or had children but had baptized more children than anyone else on the island, and loved my students as deeply and with the same kind of hope she gave her godchildren; Panagotis, who had sung so beautifully and knew a myriad of regional songs.

Still, there were surprising moments of great hospitality and generosity. My aunt’s sister-in-law had all 16 of us over for lunch one day, even offering vegetarian options. A stranger drove my student to the hospital and called the dog's owner to find out if he had been vaccinated. The elder Katina fell in love one of my students, and tried to give her sweets each day, a scarf, a watch. Georgia and Christos shared honest and heartbreaking stories about the German occupation, sending one of my students out of the room in tears. A women’s group threw two dance parties for us—one at the nursing home and one at a local bar. Maria's willingness,a couple times, to sing for us, despite her severe mental illness and dementia; Stamatoula’s strong grip on our arms; Christos' continual comments about how hard we were working, how he wanted us instead to relax.

In a way, my father’s life, and his relationship with me, was like this trip—there was always a darkness and fear in the backdrop, but there were also always moments of deep and profound generosity and love. In the end, the last two times I talked to him he was both gleeful because he felt good and was surrounded by family, and deeply, piercingly sad because I was where he wanted to be.

In the end, my sister told him the stories of his life and he died happily, smiling up at the ceiling, and we knew he had seen our mother, that he went home peacefully and without regrets, even though he’d lived a life full of mistakes, big and small. But he lived life fully, taking risks, loving deeply and passionately, saying and doing what he wanted in each moment. Perhaps it isn’t the best way to live—but it’s also, definitely, not the worst.

A life full of too much carefulness—if that is a word—is, in the end, not the kind of life that triggers memories so deep they swell with tears or laughter, spill over into who we are and where we belong and what about us matters. Maybe living carefully, planfully (probably also not a word), is admirable in its own right. People who make plans can choose to impact others, but I think that lives lived passionately, risk-ful-ly (definitely not a word), and loudly might, after all, have an even greater, if less predictable, impact, after all.

People always tell me I am like my mother, but I know there are ways in which I am also like my father. I’ve never taken the easy route or the most advisable one. I’ve taken risks based on passion and compassion. I’m terrible with money, overly generous and thoughtless about its worth, some might say (though I hope at least to avoid the severe consequences he faced because of this flaw). I like the pleasures in life, all of them—food, wine, dancing, being with people with whom I feel deeply connected, others I won’t mention here. I also love quiet and contemplative moments and hours alone, something I noticed my father needing more and more as he got older.

There was such an outpouring of love for him at the end—so many nights spent laughing and talking late into the night with relatives and friends before and after the wake and funeral. At the end, my grief finally took hold of my body when I watched more than 100 people go up to his coffin at the end of the service to say their last goodbyes. I wept and wept, remembering the stories that connected each of them to my father, my mother, my sister, me. There were people I’d known since birth--my mother's best friend and her husband, who had not always been able to tolerate my father's harsh honesty; the many Greek men who had worked for him, sticking by him as long as they could, and moving on without bitterness when he was unable to pay. There were also others who came into my father’s life closer to the end—a man in his 20s who had played backgammon with him in his final years; a man in his 50s who couldn’t speak either Greek or English but had somehow managed to forge a deep friendship with my father that seems to have been based entirely on private jokes that transcended language.

In the end, it was S who held me up when I said my last goodbye, who reminded me that it was only his body there. I knew he was listening to everything I said to him, even though I’d missed the chance to tell him in person. Still, I feel he would have stayed alive until I returned if he needed to hear me tell him something or say something to me. Maybe I am wrong about this, but I think I might be right.

Before the wake, S carefully washed her three favorite stones: a tiny blue square with swirls of white, a perfectly white, smooth globe; a small, white triangle that might have been a tooth. She wrote him a note saying she was sorry she hadn’t been able to say goodbye, that she loved him, that the three stones represented the three of us: father, daughter, granddaughter. I love that those stones and that note were buried with him, beside the place my mother was buried. I love that I don't know which one is which--maybe because, in many ways, we are so much alike.

Ikaria is mixed up with my father’s pride and humor, his violence and love. Its clear blue waters, sometimes calm, sometimes fierce, are mixed up in the way what he felt and thought was always on the surface, visible even if it wasn’t beautiful, though it often was. He thought Ikaria was the most amazing place on earth, and he wanted everyone to love it the way he did. This desire to share what he knew and felt was selfish and selfless at the same time, and I see that same mix of selfishness, of selflessness, in my daughter, in myself.

Sometimes our greatest weaknesses are also our greatest strengths. Again and again, I learn this lesson.

I want to write here about the memories I have of him, or the stories I heard in the weeks I was home from others who loved him. But instead, two images keep coming back: my daughter and her college buddy J climbing the rocks by the ocean in Manganiti, how the looked perched there together, staring out into the sea, and how, suddenly, they were overtaken by a giant wave. They scrambled down the rocks toward flatter land, laughing and screeching at the same time, and we had to explain to my uncle why we'd shown up soaked from top to bottom.

And, on the 16 hour drive from my hometown back to where I live now, in my father’s car, which I shouldn't have been driving: we drove into snow and fog so thick we couldn't see, and I wanted to turn back, but couldn't bare the thought of more days among the boxes of his things. So I stuck it out, and suddenly, an hour later, we were out of it, in clear blue skies, clear roads, and sun for the rest of the way.

I know these images are cliches about grief and loss, how they encompass us, how they become the smooth but cloudy glass through which we see the world, how they overtake us quickly, unexpectedly. But there is also the sound of J's laughter, and S's, the pure glee of surprise mixed with a little fear.

It’s snowing again now, but we made it home.

Gremmels

2009-12-23T00:40:00.001-08:00

For months, I've been trying to write a tribute to my mentor Jim Gremmels. I still don't think I have it right, but I think it's closer than it has ever been so far, and I think I'll send this version to his wife Ruth. I think part of the reason I am having trouble writing it is not only because there are so many memories, but also because he himself was such a great writer, so clear and to the point, and so poignant and funny. I can't ever hope to write as well as he did, so nothing I could write would ever be an adequate tribute. Still, here is what I have.

A Tribute to Gremmels

The first time I had a meal with Jim Gremmels, I was interviewing for the first of many versions of the job I have now at the University of Minnesota, Morris. He claimed to be retiring, and told me over cafeteria pizza that if I got the job, I would also get his office. By this point, he had asked me two questions, and two questions only: did I think I could live in this town, and did I really care about my students. I said yes to both, but really, I was just looking to get as far away from Phoenix as possible, and this seemed as good a place as any to land for a couple years. But I had been teaching long enough that I knew I meant the part about my students, though I had no idea until much later that there could be no comparison between my love for the young people in my classes, or anyone’s, and his.

He didn’t say much else during lunch—or at least, not much that I remember—but after that, he gave me a tour, which ended at his office. I had never seen an office so messy in my life. The floor was strewn with piles of files, random paper clips and slips of paper, and a thick layer of dirt. Large, open cupboards were overflowing with more files, more papers, and stacks of books. He didn’t apologize for the mess; he simply stepped over his piles while explaining, “Back before this was a college, it used to be the principal’s office for the ag school. That’s why there’s a button in the corner. He used to press this, see, and ring the bell.” He pushed his thumb against it, then turned to me and grinned. “But it no longer works, so I have no control over this place.”

I took the job, and arrived in the middle of summer, when most of my future colleagues and students were gone. And, while I’d hoped being in a small, quiet place would help me to center my hectic life for awhile, giving me time to read and write and think, moving into my new rented home and office had the opposite effect: I felt lonely. So, when I started moving into the office, it was good to have some signs of another human being in my midst—signs I quickly realized had been left for me on purpose.

He’d left a bulletin board with a poem tacked to it called “For the Children” by Gary Snyder. I could tell the poem had been printed on the old-time press he had proudly shown me during his tour. I didn’t think much of the poem at the time, but I realize now how prophetic it was, in a way, of my relationship with Gremmels. The first stanza reads:

The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us.
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

I was starting my career, that steep climb on which I believed at the time this small college and office would be just a stepping stone—and he was ending his. Everything I would come to understand about who I was as a teacher, and a person—an understanding that would lead me, like him, to dedicate much of my life to this college on the prairie--would require fighting the facts of my life that, up to that point, had indicated I wasn’t going to be happy. I was going to learn how to fight the status quo, how to see the climb not so much as a way to get ahead but as a way to find a home, and Gremmels would play a big role in teaching me that.

When I opened the filing cabinet, I found a stack of books, mostly poetry by feminist and lesbian writers, in the top filing drawer. Apparently, he had already figured me out. There was a small piece of paper that looked as if it had been trampled over, no doubt a scrap he’d found on the floor when he was moving out. It said, simply “Thought you’d like these. –JG.”

I didn’t see him again until the first week of classes. “Did you find the books?” he asked me, appearing suddenly in my doorway. He wasn’t one for small talk or greetings—no “I’m glad you took the job” or “how has the adjustment been going?”

I looked up at him, startled. “Thanks!” I said.

“I thought you’d like them. They’re not on loan. Yours to keep.”

“Thanks,” I said again, and just as I was trying to figure out some other way to show my appreciation—not just for the books, but for convincing me to come, for getting the office ready, for the poem he’d left on the bulletin board—he was gone.

That was the first of his regular—always weekly and sometimes daily--visits to my office. Gremmels would go on to teach at least one class until his death, for another nine years. “You’re getting old,” I’d joke with him when he showed up to see me. “Don’t pretend you came to see me. I know what really happened—you forgot they kicked you out of here when you retired. And now you’re trying to cover it up.” He never found this funny, no matter how many times I tried the joke on him.

But he kept coming back. He’d just show up in the doorway and talk about politics, campus or state or national, and the conversations always began with a sentence like, “What the fuck does Bush think he’s doing now?” or “What in the hell was so-and-so thinking yesterday at that meeting?” Sometimes he would bring me a new book he was excited about—we didn’t always have the same tastes—and sometimes he’d show up with a regional writer and invite me out to eat with them.

When I had a student in my office, he would abruptly ask him or her, “Is she treating you all right? Not coming down too hard on you?” He’d say this no matter who the student was, and it wouldn’t matter if my door was opened or closed, if the student was crying over a break up or a bad grade or leaning over a paper I was discussing with her or sitting back and bullshitting about his day—Gremmels would walk right in as if he owned the place, like the ghost of the principal who had once run the school from that tiny office.

Sometimes he’d bring me gifts, usually things he thought I could use for the found poetry project I ran at the nursing home. In my early days at UMM, probably because nobody believed I’d want to stick around and everybody was busy with their own teaching and research, he was the only colleague who showed an interest in what I was doing with my students and those elders. Because this project was so important to me, and because he was the only one who talked with me about it, I can safely say that he was the main reason I chose to stay in Morris.

“I feel sometimes like you’re the only one who values my work,” I said once, after gratefully accepting an old-fashioned fishing pole I knew some of the old fishermen at the home would love to get their hands on. A few days later, he brought his son, who worked at a nursing home, to campus, and showed up saying he was taking me to lunch. Then he announced that his son would be doing a presentation in my class about how important our project was. I was irritated at the time—I didn’t need him to convince my students our project was important, I needed him to convince my colleagues. And, I resented being told what would happen in my class that day. I had a syllabus. I had plans. Now, looking back, I realize how kind this was—I never would have accepted an offer to lunch, or an offer to send in his son to help me out, and he knew this about me, so he simply made it happen.

During one of his visits to my office, he sat down to read me a letter he’d written to the editor, and we got to talking about politics. I don’t remember the topic, only that I got pretty passionate about something, and he respectfully disagreed. I think I may have told him he wasn’t truly a feminist—I can’t remember exactly. During one of the more heated moments in the conversation, a student of mine poked her head in and said, “Uh, Miss Manolis?” (She was the only student who has ever called me that, but no matter what I said, she wouldn’t give up the habit).

“Yes, Tina?”

“You missed class.”

And I had, totally. My class had ended five minutes earlier. Gremmels didn’t jump up, didn’t apologize. He just sat there calmly and turned to her and said, “We were talking about important things.” Then, he added, “Is she a good teacher?”

Flustered, Tina said yes.

“Treating you OK?”

“Yes, sir,” said Tina.

“Good,” he said. “That’s good.” As she was walking away, clearly completely confused by the interaction, and who could blame her, he shouted after her, “You don’t have to call me sir!”

There was another less frequent visitor to my office—our old chancellor, Sam Schuman. When he showed up, it was usually at 1 or 2 in the morning, and he would always tell me to go home, that I was working too hard. But, he also commented on each visit how my office was beginning to look more and more like Gremmels’. The longer I stayed at UMM, the messier and less organized I got. I swear it’s something about the office. Or maybe it has to do with the fact that I always keep my door open and try to be present with whoever wanders in, something I learned from him. And at times, that means I’m getting my work done on a wing and a prayer, and there’s no time to worry about anything but re-reading the text five minutes before class. Forget filing or cleaning or straightening up.

That was the most important thing I learned from him—that it’s not enough to show up and do the minimum, that a teacher has to truly be present for the students, meet them where they are, and that sometimes this means getting them into your office and bullshitting about things totally unrelated to the class, until you can find something they want to talk about, something they know more about than you do. Sometimes it means putting aside your own research priorities to pay attention (Gremmels and I both have some unfinished manuscripts stored away in drawers and closets and old hard drives), and often, it means not having time to clean up. And then, if you’re lucky, they’ll do their damnedest to write a decent paper or story or poem for you, to take an interest in what you want them to read, and talk about the work with you, and revise for you, and make it through the class, and then, eventually, through college.

The other thing I learned from Gremmels was the importance of being direct. I once complained to him that nobody I’d met in Minnesota, besides him, was ever direct about anything. “I’m not from Minnesota,” he said. “Plus, I had plenty of Greek friends in my day, before you, I mean. Did I ever tell you about…” and then he was into another story. Luckily, I wasn’t teaching that day, because it was a long one, and the beginning of many more stories of the early years of his marriage to Ruth and fun times they had with their Greek friends in Sioux Falls.

My favorite example of Gremmels’ directness was how he treated Rich Heyman, one of my closest friends who for several years had the office across the hall from mine. During my first year at UMM, Gremmels showed up at my office and said, without greeting me, as usual, “I don’t know what your politics are, but will you sign this?” He shoved a handwritten letter at me. It urged students not to vote for the esteemed Green candidate who was running that year, because doing so would be counterproductive—yes, his policies were sound, but he couldn’t win, and we desperately needed a Democrat in office.

Not really understanding the culture of the student newspaper—a problem, I might add, that has plagued me multiple times since I got here—I agreed to sign. Gremmels then handed the letter to Rich. Being perhaps even more direct that Gremmels, Rich told him he planned to vote for Nader, and furthermore, that he didn’t think it appropriate for faculty to urge students to do anything in their newspaper—a sentiment, I might add, that many students expressed in responses to the letter.

In any case, Gremmels never spoke to Rich again. OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but at the very least, he was never polite to Rich again. Case in point: one winter, Gremmels showed up at my office and announced that it was time I learned to ice fish, and that he would be taking me that weekend.

“I don’t know, Gremmels. Sitting around in subzero temperatures on a frozen lake doesn’t sound all that much fun to me, even if there is beer,” I said to him.

From across the hall, Rich called out, “I want to learn to ice fish!”

“Did I invite you?” Gremmels called back at him. Then he walked away.

I never did go ice fishing with him, but I did have the pleasure of learning another trade from the master himself. About two years before his death, Gremmels came to my office and, uncharacteristically, sat down without saying anything. I knew whatever he had to say was serious, so I just waited.

He told me he had Parkinson’s, which I had already suspected. "It's getting worse," he said. "I can still play tennis and run the press, but not for long." And then he surprised me with a question: Might I be willing to take over the press? I knew the press mattered to him, but I had never been particularly interested, even though I loved the poems and invitations and other pieces he had printed over the years. But I said yes, nonchalantly, too busy worrying about getting ready for my summer class to think through what I was doing.

And then he asked again, a more serious look on his face—he wanted to make sure I really understood. “I want this to go on,” he said. “And I would be counting on you.”

What a gift to get this kind of request, to be trusted in this way. My immediate reaction was that taking over the press was an impossibility--I was teaching two summer classes, helping to plan a major community event, involved in other community organizations this summer...not to mention, I was in the middle of finalizing paperwork to adopt a child. But something about the way he asked me made me say yes.

During my first lesson, it took me two hours, approximately, to set and then dismantle my name and address. In the process, I learned how to find the letters and numbers in the tray, the age-old logic of where they were placed, to tell the M's from the W's, and to set the type so that it aligned perfectly and tightly, ready to be printed. He was the most patient teacher I’ve ever had, just watching, occasionally correcting what I was doing. When I told him so, he said, "Damned right. That's one thing I know for sure. I'm a good teacher."

And, as I was searching for the capital “M” for my last name, and then setting it upside down and having to turn it around—I realized that I was supposed to pay more attention. My mind slowed down. I was there, and I was focused, and I was letting myself care about nothing except correctly setting that “M.”

In a way, the lessons he had taught me came full circle as we continued to work together that summer and fall. As I worked, he would tell me stories about his life, or read speeches he or his son had written for the DFL, or letters to the editor, interrupting himself only to remind me to pay attention to what I was doing, or to correct a mistake. Once, we had to dismantle an entire stanza of a poem because of some mistake I’d made. I protested that there had to be a way to fix it, and he said, “No, not a chance. Sometimes, you just have to start all over.”

I think about that whenever anything goes terribly wrong—like the terrible semester I had recently when I got my lowest teaching evaluations ever, or when I lost many good friends to recent layoffs, or when I find myself screaming at my daughter, something I thought, before adopting her, that I would never, ever do. Sometimes, you just have to call it a night, or a week, or a year, and start over.

The semester before his death, during one of our last sessions at the press, I would confess to him that I hadn’t been caring for my students as much as I used to, that I felt disconnected, that I had lost my passion for teaching. I told him I wasn’t sure what was going on, and joked that maybe I needed a sabbatical, or a new job. And he said, simply, “Well, reconnect.” And then he said he had a letter he wanted to read to me. It was a barely literate letter, and I had no idea, when he began to read, who had sent it. When he was finished, he folded it and said, “That’s one of my old students. He didn’t graduate.”

“Sounds like he knew you pretty well, though,” I said. The letter had asked specifically about members of Gremmels’ family by name.

“Well, he lived with us for awhile, when he didn’t have any other place to go,” Gremmels told me. “Haven’t seen him in years, but we still keep in touch.” And then, his voice got just a little louder. “Watch what you’re doing, for God’s sake! You just put the e in upside down.”

And, indeed, I had. Gremmels was like that—he had a way of helping me get my life in order in with the simplest stories or retorts. When my partner and I broke up, he responded, “That’s too bad, but I know you’ll get through it.” When I said I felt my work wasn’t valued and wanted to leave UMM, he asked if I valued what I was doing, and if I cared about my students—and then, when I said yes, he asked, “Why isn’t that enough?” When I said I was too busy to meet him at the press, he simply ignored my rambling lists of things-I-have-to-get-done-immediately and said, “OK, see you there tomorrow at 10.”

And, for some reason, even if was mad at how he didn’t understand the level of stress I was under, I’d show up.

During that same last session, I told him my daughter was driving me crazy, and I was beginning to wonder, during the first year after taking her into my home, whether I was really cut out to be a parent. He said, “She’s a teenager.”

“She’s not just an ordinary teenager,” I countered, frustrated. “She had a terrible life.” I could feel tears pressing against the back of my eyelids. I convinced myself that, like so many others, Gremmels would never understand what our new little family was going through.

“She’s a teenager,” he repeated, and then he moved on to another subject.

Sometimes the simplicity of his answers frustrated me—and sometimes I told him so. But he was never bothered by my frustration with him. He shrugged it off, or, sometimes, even laughed at it, which only made me angrier and more self-righteous. But now, looking back, I don’t see his reaction as disrespect, but rather, as the highest possible respect he could have given me: in short, he knew I was smart enough to come around, to hear what he was saying. It was, after all, just a repeat of the very first lesson, the one in the last stanza of that Gary Snyder poem he’d left for me:

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

Even at the end of his life, when the press went into storage due to a remodeling project and there was no clarity about where and whether it would be running again, when he was barely making it through the day, he seemed to be clear on one thing: that if you are present enough in your own life, and if you’re willing to slow down enough to connect with others, then your work in the world will matter. And he was right. When I think of him, I think of the only stanza in that Snyder poem, which I purposely skipped earlier, because it is perhaps the most poignant, and the best place to end, and to begin:

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

December

2009-12-17T21:51:00.001-08:00

December is always like this; it's just that everything is compounded by several factors: I'm leaving for Greece and trying to have a real Christmas here and trying to get all my work done--which is to say, mine and several other people's who haven't been doing theirs. On top of this, there has been so much loss and tragedy and grief in my life lately, mostly other people's, but I have been holding them up and advocating for and caring about them--which is both energizing and exhausting. There are things to mourn--a student who has passed away, her death rippling across time and space for so many of my favorite students; the teenager from our town stabbed to death by her boyfriend; and, on a smaller scale, the people I care for are retiring or leaving, and I'm discovering how disconnected I feel from some people I used to love, and how connected I feel to others who won't be here much longer. So, basically, I'm more swamped and overwhelmed and sad than I usually am during finals week in December, and I literally have no idea how I'll get everything done by December 27, when the plane takes off and we're above ground and it will be too late to worry about the fact that one day this semester I literally showed up to one of my classes having forgotten to do the readings, or that maybe I should have left clearer instructions for the people who are doing very little but will need to actually follow through on several details while I'm gone. I'll just be...

I'll be taking 13 students to Greece. And my daughter, and her college buddy J. It's going to be a whole different kind of stress, and for awhile I was sort of dreading it, but suddenly, earlier today, I had this moment of clarity, and I realized the following:

1. I'm going to Greece.
2. I'm taking my daughter--it will be the biggest adventure of her life, even if she's feeling, at the moment, more terrified than excited.
3. Lisa's college buddy J will leave for a semester and most of next summer, and I haven't totally processed how this will affect my life--but I get to spend three more weeks with her, and she's going to keep me and my daughter sane as she so often does, and it will be fun to have this adventure with her, too.
4. And the students--they are engaged and funny and excited, and, I think, less nervous than me. This trip, in its earlier iterations during May session, has changed so many people's lives, and I'm certain it will change some of theirs as well.
5. And the elders--I miss them, miss how it feels to be at the nursing home, with them, with that kind of time stretched out to just be present with people who want companionship more than anything else.

The other night I was talking to a student of mine about a kid he knew who died--how sad he was, how he didn't know for sure how to process it, or how much of an impact he'd had on any of the kids at the after school program where he used to work. We talked about how the moment of connection is sometimes all that matters, all we can be sure about--how the times when my daughter belly-laughs or lays her head on my shoulder and talks to me, really talks to me, matter so much, even if I can't be sure now or ever about the long term, the big picture.

I could be panicked, and maybe I should be, about how much I have to do. But I'm also glad that, even though I've been getting so little sleep, I'm letting myself enjoy little pleasures--letting myself stretch in the ballet class I can't really afford (time or money-wise), letting myself eat good food and drink wine with people I love, letting myself sit in front of the lit Christmas tree and just breathe, breathe, breathe.

S's therapist from the city she is from contacted me recently, just to check in. I sent a very long e-mail at 2 a.m., then apologized for how much I had babbled and mentioned how tired I was.

She wrote back, "Please never apologize for long emails- I love them! Every time I have read about S's progress since meeting you, I am filled with happiness, and I always think what a miracle it is, but the more I think about it the more I think it is no miracle at all. It is simply the result of giving a healing child everything that they need to heal and grow. I truly believe they should use your story as an example of the potentials that exist when the right time, energy, resources, and love are put forth."

That night, after a particularly hard day at work, and after writing a very honest e-mail that included all that has been uplifting and hard about parenting this child--I so needed this response. I felt blessed--and since getting the e-mail, I have also felt my heart slow down. I'm making good choices about how to spend my time. I'll get everything done, and I'll not get enough sleep, and there will be moments of panic and frustration--but I'm not going to let all of that get in the way of being present in my own life.

And so, in the midst of it all, I took the time to have two of my favorite students over for dinner--and they made Christmas cookies with S and laughed at our shaggy and overly affectionate dog. I took the students who work with me (and S, and J) out to dinner--and we talked about silly things and laughed and had a few deep exchanges, too. Last night J took a study break and I took a break from my work, and she came over at 1 a.m. and we had a glass of wine and talked about nothing and everything, and instead of getting sad, I just savored this last time that we'll be in this space talking like this over wine for a long time. Tonight S's other college buddy K came over, and we let ourselves cry a little, but only a little--mostly we just told stories about our semester and laughed at S's comments. I am remembering to care for myself and the connections I have here. I want to know that I am strong enough to sustain myself through the most stressful times by being unwisely generous with my time--but opening my home and heart and feeling the reward, even if I don't have the time.

...and, anyway, it will all get done, and when it does, I'll be going to Greece!

on being evangelical, and practicing what you preach

2009-10-30T20:03:00.000-07:00

When I arrived at the school to pick up S after her play rehearsal, she bounded into the car, practically shouting, "Guess what happened today?"

"What?"

"A motivational speaker came to our school. He was SO cool. And he's going to talk again tonight at 7:30. Can we go, mom, PLEASE?"

Admittedly, the second I heard the words "motivational speaker," I was immediately suspicious. Plus, there was a Halloween party I wanted to attend, and a university cultural event--but I'd missed my chance to get tickets to the second, and I didn't have much energy to pick out a costume for the first. Maybe it's meant to be, I thought. Plus, S is very vulnerable to misinterpreting messages, and tends to get confused about the main idea--maybe, I thought, it would be a good idea for me to go hear this guy so we could talk about him.

"Tell me more," I said. "What did you like about him?"

"He tore a phone book IN HALF on stage. And BENT A STEEL BAR with his TEETH. It was UNBELIEVABLE."

"OK, but what was his message?"

"People told him all his life he'd never amount to anything. And he was constantly getting bullied and beat up and nobody did anything. But he never gave up, and now he's doing all these cool things. Plus, he travels around with this really great band. Anyway," she gushed, "the whole POINT was how it's not OK to treat people who are different badly."

So, I reluctantly agreed not only to go, but to go early to get a good seat. We did--and got a front row seat--but as soon as the band started its opening number, I told her I had to move back. I was so focused on getting away from the loud speakers (and reflecting on how old this meant I was) that I missed both the words of the first song (but, hey, there were like five teenagers screaming into their microphones over very loud electric guitars that were playing the exact same notes--no melody, no texture--so I was also trying to block out the music, if one can call it that). I also missed the fact that several teenagers rushed into the front row as soon as S and I had abandoned it. "We lost the best seats," S said, scowling at me.

In the second song, I heard the name Jesus, but not much else. "Are these guys evangelicals or something?" I shouted into my daughter's ear. I looked around then, recognizing four families I happen to know go to a very conservative church in town--all of them perfectly nice people with nice elderly relatives at the nursing home whom I know well--and I started thinking maybe I'd happened upon the kind of event I'd spent my life avoiding. Besides the families, the auditorium was about half full with high school kids who, like S, had been lured to the event by the assembly at school.

"He's an ANTI-BULLYING SPEAKER, Mom," she shouted. "Don't be psycho."

"They're singing about Jesus," I shouted back.

"But you love Jesus," S replied, pointing to the prayer rope I wear around my wrist.

Good point. Now, S should by now be perfectly clear on my religious beliefs--she knows I'm a liberal Christian, and she knows I've suffered a lot of pain because of how I have been treated by religious people, and she knows I pray and do devotional readings every day, and she knows I'd never push any of my beliefs on her, but that I do need to do some kind of reflection with her each Sunday to feel as if my week is complete, so we've settled on a Unitarian-type service, just the two of us.

But, so far, it was hard to connect these teenagers to any sort of conservative, exclusive movement that spread hateful ideals. They were, first of all, adorable.
The drummer had a "drop beats, not bombs" shirt on, and the main vocalist had long hair and jeans falling off his ass and was pretty incredible at jumping off large speakers while singing without needing to catch his breath, among other things. The teenage girls in the room were cheering and taking pictures with their cell phones.

So, I decided to wait it out. When the backup vocalist got on the mike and said she and the only other girl in the band were going to "show you what we've got," and added that she hoped "the old people in the room" would like "this Alicia Keys song," I realized I was really, really old--I could only vaguely remember who Alicia Keys is.

And then, after a beautifully sung (but poorly accompanied) lyric that did not seem to be Christian, the "motivational speaker" came on stage. He started out by blowing up a hot water bottle until it popped. We were supposed to cheer for him and believe he could do it. I was bored to death watching him get red in the face and hearing the crowd shout for him--in a sort of low-key, Minnesota way, that is--but S was really into it. It popped. More cheering. He went on to tear two phone books in half, bend a steel bar with his teeth, and roll up a frying pan. To be honest, I was sort of wincing through the whole thing, but still, I stayed.

Then the guy told his story--he couldn't read, write, or speak for many years, he was forced out of public school, he went then to a private Christian school and was bullied even more harshly there. He persevered and got into college. A professor he trusted told him he should drop out, that he'd never amount to anything. He persevered and graduated college. Soon after that he found himself in a room not unlike this one hearing a message not unlike his, and he ended up getting on his knees and accepting Jesus into his heart. There were some jokes along the way, and people respectfully and forcefully laughed in that Minnesota-nice way, but, to be honest, nobody seemed particularly into the story. Except my daughter, who whispered occasionally, "That sounds like me."

And then things got creepier. He began to weep and explain how Jesus had changed his life, had helped him to believe he could not only overcome his limitations and still go on to graduate college, but also help turn other people onto Jesus. He asked those of us who wanted Jesus to change our lives, too, to raise their hands. I didn't, S did. (Jesus has already changed my life; I didn't need this dude to "help" with this). Then he asked the people who had raised their hands to join him in prayer. I watched as he closed his eyes, as the teenage band began to sing some Christian rock song, as he moved his lips in prayer for those hand-raisers. Then he asked the hand-raisers to come forward, because he was going to break a baseball bat across his knee and he wanted to dedicate that action to them. I didn't, but I decided not to stop S. I wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to watch her up there with everybody else, to see how she'd react. About half the crowd followed her up: the volleyball team, a few football players, some parents with little kids--and crowded around him. He said, "Before I do that, though, I want you all to close your eyes and repeat after me. I am just so moved by how many of you want to turn your lives around. Let's commit ourselves to Jesus." I didn't listen to what he said. I couldn't. But I know he asked for sins to be forgiven, for Jesus to come into each person's heart.

He then asked for all the mothers in the room to raise their hands. My daughter turned and looked expectantly at me. I wasn't planning to raise mine, but I did anyway--to keep my hand down when she was staring at me would be like denying she was my child. "It looks like there are only a few of you, but I'll tell this story anyway," he said. "My mother is the only person who ever believed in me, and the only person in my family who now approves of what I'm doing. So no matter what brought you here, just know that God doesn't want you to give up on your children. I don't care if they have a learning disability, or ADHD, or even autism--don't give up. You're not hear on accident. You're here to learn that God is going to use your child for something amazing, just like He is using me."

And then he asked a man to come on stage and introduced him as the man who made all of this possible. I recognized him immediately as the youth pastor of one of the churches in town that had recently written a letter proclaiming homosexuality a sin, and those who supported it hell-bound. The band passed out cards for people to sign. I didn't read them, but I silently prayed--yes, prayed--that my daughter would not sign one, or at least not put our contact information on it.

After the cards were signed and returned to the pastor, he broke the bat over his knee, then held up the two pieces, making the shape of a cross with them, holding it up victoriously. "Now, everyone, I'm leaving town tomorrow, and so is the band. But Youth for Christ will still be here. This guy," he said, pointing to the local minister, "He's the real deal. He'll ALWAYS be here for you. He will show you the love and acceptance and hope you need in your life."

And then, it was over, finally. As people were walking out, I saw S approach a band member who was cleaning off the stage. I watched as he handed her the torn phone book. She ran her fingers through it. He nodded at her, and she grinned widely and hugged him.

Then, she walked toward me. "He GAVE me the phone book, Mom," she said, holding it out me. "Wasn't that awesome?" I couldn't believe she hadn't caught onto how I felt about it all.

"Not really," I mumbled, but she didn't seem to hear.

"I figured I'd just rededicate myself," my daughter said. I realized suddenly that, in one short year, she had made a complete circle from evangelical Christian to atheist to Greek Orthodox to evangelical Christian.

I nodded, trying to push her out of the room. But the big-muscled evangelical approached me and put out his hand. "Thanks for coming," he said.

S hugged him. "Thanks for coming here," she said. "I'm one of those kids who has thought of giving up a lot of times because nobody believed in me."

I was mortified. I didn't want this man hearing my daughter's story. But then she went on. "But thank God my mom is here for me. She makes sure I never give up." Admittedly, when the story ended that way, I got tears in my eyes. S put her arms around me.

"Oh, that's so beautiful," he said. "You must be an amazing mom." He looked directed at me, a tear coming out of the corner of his eye.

I thanked him politely and practically carried S out of the room. In the hallway, I met up with another mom I know fairly well; we've been on several community committees together, and I know she goes to a mainline Lutheran church in town, not one of the many conservative/evangelical ones. "That was really amazing," she said to me, but she sounded a little doubtful. "Did you think so?"

"I thought it was interesting," I responded. My throat felt really dry.

"I didn't know what to expect," she said.

"I didn't, either."

I said goodbye to her, and we got into our car. I took a deep breath and prayed, Please let me handle this the right way. And I felt myself get really, really calm.

"What did you like about it?" I asked, finally.

"Well, he's kind of like me. I mean, he didn't have anything going for him, and nobody cared about him, but now he's doing this great thing because he believed in himself and didn't let everybody convince him he was nothing."

"That is a good message," I said. "I liked that he talked about how important it is not to bully other people." I swallowed hard. "But," I said.

"But what?"

"But I didn't like everything he said. I think he is a different kind of Christian than I am."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I don't believe it's OK to manipulate people into feeling like they have to raise their hands to say they are dedicated to Jesus. I didn't raise my hand or repeat after him when he wanted us to pray together. And I didn't go up front. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't believe Jesus likes that kind of prayer. Jesus criticized the hypocrites who would stand on street corners showing off how they pray and trying to get other people to be like them. He says we shouldn't be like them. Instead, we're supposed to be humble and pray in our own rooms, with the door shut."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," S said, hugging the torn phone book to her chest.

"But see, that's what these people want you to do--not take the time to talk through what you're hearing, not think about it too much."

"I'm not STUPID, Mom. And anyway, what people are you talking about?"

"I know you're not stupid. And that's why I want to give you another perspective, so you can make your own choice."

"You're ASSUMING he's an evangelical, Mom. How do you know that?"

"Well, first of all, that group he was promoting is a group from one of the churches that preaches homosexuality is a sin. I KNOW that minister." But I felt myself getting angry, and I managed to calm myself down again. "But actually," I heard myself say, "I don't really think they ARE evangelicals."

"What do you mean?"

"Evangelical is a Greek word. It means, a person who spreads the good news. What do you think the good news is?"

S didn't answer right away. "Love your neighbor?" she said, finally.

"That's what I think, too. And his message seemed to be all about loving yourself. I mean, you have to love yourself to love your neighbor. You do have to be OK with yourself to do any good in the world. And he's right, every single one of us has the potential to be used by God to do good in the world. But I think we have different ideas about what doing good means."

"He IS doing good, Mom," S said. "He's talking to people about why bullying is bad."

"I agree. That part of his message is powerful. But the rest, in my opinion, isn't. He said himself that his goal in life is to win hearts for Christ. Well, that's fine, if that means that he's trying to get people mobilized to follow Christ's message, which is what I think the good news is."

"What do you mean?"

"Christ's message was about love and inclusion. It was about changing the system so that those who didn't fit in weren't persecuted. It was about feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, freeing the oppressed. Did you hear him say anything about those messages?"

S thought for a minute. "Well, he did say people shouldn't bully."

"True," I said. "But what if I told you that minister that he said would always be there for you has been a bully to me, writing homophobic letters in the paper? What if I told you that everyone isn't welcomed in his church? Or that the church spends more time preaching about what they think is wrong with individuals instead of what's wrong with society, and what we can do to change it?" By this time, we had made it home and were sitting on the couch, and she was absent-mindedly braiding her doll's hair while the dog and cat snuggled against her.

"I'm not stupid, Mom," she said again. "You have to trust me. I'm not going to let them convince me to join some scary church that wouldn't accept you for who you are."

"But you practically did tonight when you went up to the front and signed that card," I said. "Did you give them our contact information?"

"I wrote down my e-mail," she admitted. "But if they e-mail me, I'm going to just respond that I'm not interested and please not to e-mail me again."

"That's a good idea," I said. "And if you keep getting e-mails, will you tell me?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"But they're not going to e-mail me, right? I mean, you're the town lesbian. They're going to recognize my last name."

"If they do recognize your last name, then that's all the more reason they'll think you need saving. That's how these people work, sweetie. They look for people who seem vulnerable, who need to be loved and included, and they will do anything to get you involved. They tried it on me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm not stupid, either, but I went to a Campus Crusade for Christ meeting my first year in college, because I was lonely and a really nice girl invited me. And they had the same exact message, about how people who have been treated poorly and struggled really needed Jesus, and he would change their lives."

"What happened?"

"I needed to hear that at the time. You know I was bullied in high school, and I always felt like there was something different about me. So I kept going for about three or four times. And then I stopped, because after awhile, I realized it was the same thing every time. Well, I wanted more. I wanted to try to figure out what good I could do in the world, and I wasn't convinced that just helping to get people to those feel-good meetings where everybody cried and laughed a lot was enough. They also didn't do any real analysis of Jesus' message, and I'm not stupid. I know the Bible is complicated and pretty much anyone can pull out a couple passages and say whatever they want about them and ignore the ones that don't make them feel comfortable." I realized I was preaching, and that S was losing interest, so I got to the point. "Anyway, when I decided to stop coming, they wouldn't leave me alone. They kept calling and knocking on my door--this was before anyone had e-mail--even though I kept saying no. I tried to talk to them about why I'd decided to move on, but they didn't really want to have a conversation. To them I was a soul to save, and it was their responsibility to do it. But think how much good they could have done if they'd spent that energy working on changing the immigration laws in this country, or finding a way to train homeless people for new jobs."

"Mom, I think I believe what you believe. I think people shouldn't be forced to pray or to make their lives all about converting people. I think we should be working on changing the bigger things, like you said."

"Well, he was right about one thing," I said.

"The bullying part?"

"Well, OK, three things. The bullying part, and the part about how you have to believe in yourself and keep persevering. And he was also right that I was supposed to be there tonight. I think if we hadn't gone, we wouldn't have had this conversation, right?"

"Right. And this was a good conversation to have."

I sighed deeply. Everything was going to be OK.

"Do you think of Jesus as your friend?" S asked, suddenly. "As someone you can talk to about anything?"

I thought for a minute. "Not really," said. "I mean, I do think God loves me as I am, always. And when I pray, I do sometimes tell God my problems or confess the things I've done wrong. But I also feel like God challenges me to keep growing as a person, to ask hard questions, to have hard conversations, and to take risks to make the world a better place. The people I admire are the ones who are in their communities trying to make them better, even what that's a hard thing to do."

S picked up the phone book and ran her fingers through it. "But isn't that what a real friend does, Mom?" she asked me.

I was amazed at her wisdom. "Actually, yes, you're right. That's exactly what a real friend does. Friends don't let the people they love accept easy answers to take the easy way out. But they also love you unconditionally."

"Can I keep this, though?" S asked, holding up the torn phone book.

"If you want to," I said. "What does it represent to you?"

"That I can do things people think I can't do," she said. "That I can get through hard times."

"OK, then keep it," I said. "I think it is important to believe in yourself. Otherwise, you can't do the good you're meant to do in the world."

"What's the good you're meant to do, mom?"

"Adopting you and helping you grow up, I'm sure about that one," I said. "I'm still figuring out some of the other stuff. I used to think it was sharing my writing to inspire others, or my work for GLBT equality, or helping students who needed my help, or the work I've done with elders, and helping other faculty do similar kinds of projects..."

"Maybe it's all of those things," S said, wisely. "Does it have to be just one?"

"No, definitely not," I agreed. "It's definitely about paying attention to every action you take, every decision you make, and using your talents to make good changes. But choosing to adopt you--that was definitely the best decision I've ever made."

S looked away from me and turned her attention to the dog as she often does when I say things like this. The dog jumped off her lap then and made his way to the door, letting out a short yelp to let us know it was time for his walk.

"Grandma," she said, in a strange, deep voice she has made up for the dog, "my mom's tired because you've been talking to her about big things for way too long. Will you give me my walk without her? Because I really, really need to pee."

The dog yelped just as she finished the sentence, as if he really had spoken those words. "Compromise," I said. "We'll take him together."

"OK," S said, in her own voice, followed by a long sigh. "I GUESS that's a good idea." Then she added, "I love you, Mom. And that's evangelical, right?"

"Huh?"

"That's good news, right?"

"Yes," I said. "That's good news. Now I have to figure out what to do about the fact that the school let a motivational speaker..."

She interrupted me. "He didn't say anything about God during the school assembly. He just talked about bullying."

"Still, I don't think it's appropriate for the school to let this guy talk to you and encourage you to come to something else."

"Let it GO, Mom. Please."

"I'm not sure I can. I have to think some more about it. I just need to make sure I'm making the right decision, either way. So I'm going to sleep on it, OK?"

"That's a good idea. You always tell me I should think things through before I act on my anger."

"Right. I guess I should practice what I preach."

and the hate crime bill passes!

2009-10-29T17:51:00.000-07:00

Finally, 10 years after Matthew Shepherd's murder, the federal hate crimes bill is signed into law by Obama. It's hard to believe. So hard, actually, that I found myself watching the footage over and over--I couldn't get enough of it. There are other signs that things are getting better: there's hope that the Defense of Marriage Act will be repealed, that Don't Ask, Don't Tell will be repealed.

And yet, I can't help but reflect on the fact that in the last two weeks, two GLBT students at the college where I teach have dropped out of school, both of them dealing with fallout related to coming out.

When we lose queer students--and it happens every year, without fail (and those are just the ones I can count, not including any who silently slip away, in pain and in the closet)--all of the faces of the kids I tried to "save" come back to me. Last night, I dreamed them all, marching in a parade for justice, waving the rainbow flag. At the end was the man who started E-Quality, the GLBT group here, who endured receiving boxes of dog shit and threatening notes, and never even considered calling the police--and who didn't graduate. This was 15 years ago, and things are better now--but not good enough, not really.

I wasn't in the dream. Or maybe I was, but if so, I was filming from a perspective above them all, as if I couldn't quite reach them or have the effect I hoped to have.

OK, so these students maybe weren't "save-able"--they were suffering from years of mental health issues that related to their coming out process, their shame. But certainly they wouldn't have suffered as much if they had lived in a different family, a different kind of society. Certainly we are all responsible for creating that society.

I go back and forth between sounding really old, telling stories about how things were when I was in college and explaining how lucky the young people are--and feeling hopeless (how could it have taken 10 years to include the words "sexual orientation and gender identity"--not to mention disability--in a hate crimes bill?)

And whenever I begin to think that these kinds of symbolic changes don't matter, I remember how I responded when I heard my supervisor at the college bookstore proclaim, after a request to do a book display for pride week, that she wasn't about to give any space to a "bunch of faggots." I sat there, at the counter, and just took it, didn't even think it was at all peculiar that she'd say this, as much as it hurt. Now I'd be making some calls if someone on my campus said something like this. Have I changed on my own, or has my tolerance for hate been affected by the progress we've made in the last 20 years?

But the hate is often more subtle these days, and harder to nail down. If a student can't afford to pay her tuition, and her parents cut her off when she comes out (or when they find out she has a girlfriend), what's she supposed to do? It takes time to declare independence from one's parents--it can't happen overnight. When a student has faced self-hatred for years because of his parent's treatment of him--if he's suffered verbal and physical abuse--why would we expect him to be able to put all that behind him and step into college a new man? That kind of grief and horror will catch up with anyone. Not having a support system when one's roommate or friends do--that stings. More to the point: what about the student who is out and confident, mostly, except that every so often, there are people who are cool to her, who say things, off-handedly, that show they aren't true supporters of GLBT equality--how long is she supposed to take this pervasive hate before she breaks?

We are even more responsible now, I think, for responding to hate--for being present, for seeing ourselves and others with clarity, for challenging and educating before hate gets to the level of a hate crime.

I can't help but believe, though, that any stride to make our country, our world, less tolerant of hate and more tolerant of difference (yes, tolerance is the first step toward acceptance)...well, that's something we ought to celebrate, right?

a note to all the girls I used to know who starved themselves

2009-10-13T22:49:00.000-07:00

In the beginning, I wanted to tell you I couldn’t stand the sight of you, the thighs fluctuating from fat to thin, or the bony-kneed, arm-laced-with-knife-marks, pale-skinned bodies.

I hated, too, how you wore your not-wanting as a badge of honor, flimsy as the size three dresses you wrapped around hips like cloaks, thick as the cheese you rolled into your napkin, carefully shrouded, to throw away.

I didn’t want to understand. To understand would mean facing everything you wanted, everything we all wanted: a home-place where our shame could evaporate, wisp by wisp, into thin air, like the dry ice in the kettle we’d stir every Halloween in our front yard to draw the trick-or-treaters.

We liked to dress up. I was always a witch, armed with magic wand, magic broom—I could sweep clean the yellow-brick-road of your memories, turn your days from black and white to color, stir the concoction until it tasted right, even to you.

But I can’t go on like this, hating and loving you at the same time.

You were the opposite of carelessness. But somehow you were drawn to me, laying out, methodically, your reasons: You don’t seem to hate your body; you know when you’re hungry; You don’t seem to care how you look.

“Thank god you’re not one of those girls,” my first lover told me, running her palm across my belly.

Some of you wanted to shame me, to stand beside me like pillars of salt, daring me to change you back.

Some of you wanted to fuck me—as if, if your bodies collided with mine, you would turn careless, learn to want again.

“But I won’t look back,” one of you said to me, when I asked how it started, turning my face from your triangle-hip. “If I had to look back, I’ll fall apart.”

I still don’t know what I should have said, should have done. I don't remember how it ended, if it ended. So much I've forgotten in that haze from those years of wanting and not-wanting.

Grown up now, a parade of girls makes its way through my office, carnival-reflections of you. I still don’t know what to say, what to do.

Sixteen

2009-10-06T22:45:00.000-07:00

Summer, 1987: the sweet-and-bitter scent of the cigar your father says he doesn’t smoke, the gritty rage in the back of your throat, the sound of his phlegm clearing, tentatively, over and over.

Twenty years later, you will realize he waited all day for the chance to stand there, on the porch below your window, until your cousin was gone to her night job and you and your sister were believed to be asleep. You keep the window open because Ohio is muggy and still in August, because you love the sound of crickets and the small, round light over the Boltz’s picnic shelter, lonely now against the backdrop of lake and grass.

All summer long, Mrs. Boltz sits on a folding chair in the center of the family’s barn and watches her sons pull down each weathered slab of wood, and twenty years later, you will see there was an easier way, that she chose this laborious un-building. But for now you know only that you like to sit beside her on a hay bale, twist the thick, blond strands in your fingers, and watch with her, breathing deeply the sweet-and-musty scent of barn. When her daughter calls out from the farm house, Mama, time for supper, you say goodbye and kiss her on the cheek.

Even on the hottest days, her skin is cool and smells of oranges, you don’t know why, and summer is that smell, too, the laborious un-building of each orange peel, each petaled clove of garlic, the garden with its bounty and its bounty, the cigar your father smokes, or doesn’t smoke, the slow line of cows against the fence, their silent parade toward the flatbed truck that will lead them to the slaughter.

Summer is fresh, warm milk and its absence, the neighbor boy’s handcuffed wrists, the neighbor boy, his absence. Twenty years later, you won't remember his family's name, or his face: only the masked terror-child who rode his bike into trees on Halloween night to scare the other children.

You know it is only a matter of time: soon band camp will begin again and you’ll have to practice. Mr. Artz will stop by to say he can hear you playing from across the field, how much better you sound this year than last, and in between Friday night football and pizza at Noble Roman’s, somebody will know what happened to your neighbor, what he did, and you’ll hear the story, too.

But for now, your father is inside again, snoring at the television; your sister is mumbling her dreamscape; your cousin won’t be home for hours. You are sitting up now, watching the thin trail of road barely visible between the row of pines and the last, tall rafter of what used to be the barn, leaning toward the darkness.

As usual, nothing is happening, but you can’t sleep. Then car doors slam. You don’t know these voices. Twenty years later you will realize the couple came to a place where they believed no one could hear them, not understanding the science of echo, valley, wind. Even from this distance, without the words, you know his anger is rising up from the small round shame in his throat; you know he’s hurt her and he’s sorry.

Then it is quiet until, suddenly, you hear the sound that comes from her—-rising slowly, octave after octave like your clarinet in the fifth grade, when you still couldn’t hit the high C, when every scale you played was screechy, laborious, off key. She is taking her time and nobody can stop her, tame her, and then you can almost make her out, or think you can, hands rising up toward a sky full of cumulus clouds.

It will rain tomorrow.

Before that, you will sit beside Mrs. Boltz for one last time until the last ream has been pulled from its foundation in the soil.

She goes on, reaching with hands and voice, higher, higher. You want to tell her, in the kind, steady voice of your first good teacher, who, much later, came to your mother’s funeral and asked you, to distract you, do you still play the clarinet? Do you still love it like you did at the beginning?

During lessons, he’d say, Slow down. Let the air move through you. Breathe. You want to take the woman by the shoulders and lead her inside, say these words to her, because grief connects with grief, because it’s the end of summer, because tomorrow, you’ll wonder if this really happened, and nobody else will have heard her scream.

(If your throat is burning, you’re not breathing right, he’d say).

Slow down. Move through.

Silence again. Then car doors slam, wheels turn against the spattering of rocks beside the ditch: sputter, sputter, screech, silence. Too late, you think. Too late to save her.

And then, the unexpected happens. Twenty years later, you'll wonder, did he really walk across your lawn, toward the Bowmans’ house?—yes, that was their name! The Bowmans!--and out into the distance, toward the woods? Did she really drive away without him?

Either way, you had already become her by then, already understood how the burn in your throat will one day rise away. Build up, tear down, sit still, forget, drive away, remember. Supper time. Summer time.

You are 16. You are learning.

Power Over It

2009-10-03T21:24:00.000-07:00

In his memoir _Firebird_ about his childhood, marked deeply by his mother's addiction and his father's pain, Mark Doty writes, "To tell a story is to have power over it. Now they--we--are part of a tale, a made thing--a perspective box!...What happened defines us, always; erase the darkness in you at your own peril, since it's inextricable at last from who you are...Surely their actions might be something we'd do ourselves: the hand raised to strike could be your hand, the face that trembles to receive the blow your face. The finger on the trigger yours, afraid; the heard held in the gun sights yours also. And that is close enough to forgiveness, to find that any character in the dream of your life might be you. But you don't know that until you tell the story; caught in the narrative yourself, how could you see from that height?"

Those words, when I read them the first time, resonated with me. Now, on the other side of parenthood, as with Lamott's work (which I wrote about yesterday), I understand more deeply what he means. I expected to be the kind of mother who was nothing like either of my parents, or the aunt who raised me after my mother's death. I sometimes see small glimpses of my father's abuse, as well as his fierce desire that I become something more than others expect; I feel my mother's deep love, how she wanted to both hold on and let go, at every moment; I sometimes experience the nervous worry of my aunt, who wanted so much to do everything right that she couldn't be present. I had not expected to become any of them, but at times, I do, and this has, yes, made me love them more, understand them better. It has also forced me to experience both humility and grace.

But tonight, for the first time, I realized it is not possible always to imagine myself in another person's shoes, and that maybe, just maybe, this is OK in some situations.

S and I were having a good day. After last night's period of reflection--which ended with my last blog entry--I slept deeply for almost 12 hours, and I woke up feeling like a new person, no longer full of shame, the grief still swimming in my body, but not numbing me--instead, making me more alive. We had a very late breakfast, and then I went to work to catch up, and S spent some time with her college buddy. I got home; she was quiet but happy, and we had dinner and took a short walk; we saw some friends on the way, who said I should come over later for a drink. "You should go, Mom," she said. "You never get to do anything with your friends. I feel OK about staying alone." So I said I would later, and we cleaned the house; she helped without complaining. Afterwards, we started decorating for Halloween, and then suddenly it was 8:30 and I told her I was leaving.

She sulked; I got annoyed. "What is it?" I asked her. "Why don't you just tell me? Do you not want me to leave? And if the answer's no, then I want you to try to tell me exactly why that is."

She sat on the couch and said, "I need you to sit next to me." Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. I did.

"It was snowing," she said. "And that didn't happen very often in the (state where I came from). And it was foggy. I was dressed as a princess, and my brothers were Tigger and Pooh. My father was taking us trick-or-treating, but we weren't dressed right, and I was shivering. And he was acting like a good father."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"He said if anyone bothered me he'd hit them with his flashlight. And my older brothers were with us. And then there were two dogs. I don't know whose they were. My brothers started to beat them."

"What happened next?"

She stopped then, and I could feel her body against mine struggling for control. She wasn't sure if she wanted to hurt something, somebody, to lash out in violence, to scream, or if she should stay here, on this couch, in this safe house, and keep on talking.

She chose, for the first time ever, I think, to do the second. And the memories came out like this for hours, in this much detail, her voice soft and clear, tears running down her cheeks. The numerous animals her brothers abused and killed. All of the places and ways her father raped her and her brothers. How her mother said she would kill herself whenever any of the children said they would tell; how she would sit in the room and just watch, her face blank.

"Thanks for not talking," she would say once in awhile, and then she would go on. She held my hand. The dog and cat occasionally jumped up on her lap and licked her face, but she seemed not to even notice them, though sometimes she would absentmindedly run her fingers through their fur.

After a few hours of this, she stood up rather suddenly and said, "I think that's enough for tonight. I don't think I could take any more memories, so I'm going to shut them off now." The entire time, Halloween music had been playing on the recorder, but I hadn't dared to get up to turn it off. She did so, saying, "I think the scary music helped me remember for some reason."

Then, she came back to the couch and sat next to me, laying her head on my shoulder. "I'm glad you're my mom and I'm glad you listened to all of this w/o freaking out, even though I know it was hard to hear." And she said she thought she needed to do that more often, to just sit quietly and try to remember things, because already she feels like, as she put it, "some of the black hole is getting filled and I have more control over myself."

"You're brave to want to do what you did tonight," I said to her.

"I have to. Otherwise, I would have to just kill myself, because I can't go on the way I was. I wouldn't have a future." It was a really scary thing to hear her say, in a way, but I also totally get what she means. She can't really just go on carrying all that stuff in her body and mind without telling the stories.

At one point, she said, "I used to feel bad for my brothers. I thought they didn't know what they were doing because they grew up the same way I did. I was mad at my parents, but not at them. But now I remember how the cats would shout out and how horrible it sounded, and how they did it so calmly, and in so many violent ways. Sometimes afterwards they'd just calmly rinse off their hands with the hose. Or how when they tied me up they were so calm about what it was they were doing. Or how they would look at me and say so calmly that if I told anyone anything, they'd kill me."

"Did you believe them?"

"When my mom said she'd kill herself if I told, I believed her because I'd seen her try to kill my brother. Did I tell you this, that she stuffed pills in his mouth because she wanted him to die? So I thought it wouldn't be too hard for her to kill herself, if she could do that to my brother. But I believed them even more, because they had killed so many innocent beings. Why wouldn't they kill me? What would stop them?"

We were silent for awhile, both of us crying. And then she raised the volume of her voice, and it was strong, sure of itself, but still even. "Anyway, I don't feel bad for them anymore. I mean, why did they end up so mean, so heartless, and I ended up with such a big heart so that I have to feel all of this?"

I can think of some reasons: S was younger when she got out, 10 to their 18; she's had safe places to live since the age of 10, even if they weren't ideal; she's a girl, and that alone means she's been subtly socialized to be less violent, even in the midst of that level of abuse.

Still, I know what she means. When Doty writes about the hand raised to strike, the finger on the trigger--how it could have just as easily been his as his mother's or father's--I believe this, I understand it. But I can't take that same leap when I think of boys tying up their sister to gang rape her, or breaking a beer bottle and stabbing a cat to death with its shards while their sister watched. I can't understand or imagine that kind of cruelty. Does that mean I'm in some kind of denial, or that, truly, some people are either born or made more cold-hearted than others?

I guess I'll never know for sure. What I do know is this: just after S said she could never forgive her brothers, the cat crawled into her lap. She stroked her and said, "I would never hurt you, I would never hurt you," over and over, this mantra. And the cat purred and turned over to show S her belly.

"That means she trusts you," I said.

"I know," said S. "And, for the first time, I think I trust you, too," she added, and I breathed in deeply, letting the words sink into my gut, mix with that grief, that holy darkness.

"Hopefully someday M (her brother) will tell F (his new adoptive father) the things I'm telling you. I think it's the only chance he has to survive, if he can tell someone. I hope someday he'll trust F the way I trust you."

And I remembered how F had written me earlier in the week, two sentences: "Even though M can be unresponsive at times when it comes to talking, every day I find him more sweet and good-hearted. I feel I really made the right choice and was so lucky to find him."

"I hope so, too," I said to her. Then I kissed her forehead and added, "I am so lucky I found you."

"I'm lucky, too," S whispered, wiping the last tear from her cheek.

Homecoming

2009-10-02T23:19:00.000-07:00

The last week I spent with my father offered new challenges; he didn’t, after all, qualify for a home care program, so we had to determine a way to pay for his care, using some money he’d hoped to keep in Greece for his eventual move back there. There were other legal and financial challenges that needed to be sorted out. In the end, when we left, my father was sitting on the couch where he’d been spending his days and nights, sobbing. But, he also thanked me—and I am not sure he’s ever done so before. The drive home was bittersweet; the warm, sun evaporated into thick, cool fog before our eyes; we started the drive in shorts and t-shirts and ended it in sweats. But, it was also so lovely to be home; I teared up when we got to the kennel and our dog greeted S with his usual leap into the air, and she almost fell backwards.

My last day in Ohio, I got a call that my dear friend G had died. He was in his 80s and still teaching until, a couple weeks earlier, his health had declined to the point that he couldn’t anymore. He was old, and he had begun to suffer, but I wasn’t ready to let him go. “I know how much you loved him,” my friend said. “I didn’t want you to find out over e-mail, but I’m also afraid, now, that you won’t be able to safely drive home.”

But I did, and S transitioned back into school relatively smoothly. The first week proved to be more challenging for me. There were tensions with co-workers that needed to be aired out; they did, but doing so was exhausting. When we learned there would be no public funeral for G, some of us who knew him well found ourselves weeping together over the news; we had wanted some way to get closure, though of course we also wanted to respect his wishes. A former student who recently dropped out of school came by to say goodbye, and ended up weeping in my living room for hours. I was glad to have had the time to talk with her, to hopefully play some role in pulling her through her depression (though I’m not sure I helped much), to give her a blessing for her new life across the country—but again, the conversation took what little emotional strength I had left.

I was so tired by Wednesday night that I felt utterly numb, unable even to think straight. I did probably the stupidest thing I could have done—I got very drunk with a much younger friend who is a good listener and also very funny—and who can drink as much as me with even less obvious effects.

Last night the stupidity of this decision became clear when I completely lost my mind last night. I’d worked for 12 hours straight, and in the midst of the day had been a crying jag with another friend of G’s, a challenging conversation with a co-worker, and a phone call from an agency I’d tried to contact more than 10 times while in Ohio, finally getting back to me. When I got home, S’s college buddy told me she’d refused to do her homework. When I questioned her about what was due, she was confused, so we went online and realized she had a test on material she had not yet studied. I lost it, shouted at her, told her she needed to be more responsible. Of course, my temper tantrum only sparked the same behavior from her. Needless to say, no studying got done.

I realized I was feeling the same kind of helplessness and rage I’d felt before my summer retreat. It’s no wonder; while the outcome was manageable, I’d been fighting a completely bureaucratic health care system and dealing with my cranky father for two weeks while also essentially home-schooling my kid. Of course something relatively small was going to set me off. Even S said, reasonably, that this was only one test in one class and I didn’t need to get so upset about it. “If you have that attitude you’ll NEVER pass high school or reach any of your dreams,” I yelled, which, now that I am typing it, totally sounds crazy.

Today was a decent day overall. I felt my students were finally excited about their community-based research projects. I had one of those conversations during which I realized our office had already accomplished some important goals. I got to see both of S’s college buddies together in one place and sit briefly with them while I ate a late lunch. It felt good to take a break. So, while S was having a horse lesson, I decided to go through a pile of “not pressing” papers on my desk, including my student evaluations from last semester.

I braced myself; I knew last semester was comprised of some of the worst months of my adult life, and that I’d spent much of the semester angry and scattered—but I had no idea just how bad they would be. Prior to reading them, I had been informed that a student was fighting the grade I’d given him; I was relatively unconcerned about this until I saw just how bitter my students were about everything, in both classes. My first reaction was to be defensive, but within a half hour, I realized that their criticisms were right; I really had not taught well, at all, last semester, and I’d known this was the case even as I was in the midst of it. I reviewed the facts; I had worked through a lot of my anger, self-doubt, and frustration over the summer and was, once again, a teacher who cares about her students. I’d also spent some of the summer getting organized and even read about ways to overcome my usual scattered methods of time management (though I didn’t realize how badly these problems were effecting my students, I did know I needed to improve these skills in order to a good job directing the new community engagement office). Finally, I’d been working on ways to separate my personal and work life so that S’s issues or my dad’s illness aren’t bleeding into my work or becoming excuses for why I can’t be effective. I left work feeling like I had handled this blow well. I made the decision to make an appointment with my supervisor to talk about the evaluations and tell her what I’d been doing to prevent another semester like last spring.

Then, I got home and promptly went to sleep. I slept deeply until K, S’s horse teacher, called to say they were done and that S wanted to talk to me. “Can I go to the Homecoming dance tonight at 9:30?” S asked, “Pleeeaasssee…”. I went over all the obvious reasons why she couldn’t: no dress, she was in trouble for not preparing for her test, etc. And then I relented, because I was honestly too tired to deal with her whining. They got home, and when I heard them opening the door I felt tears coming to my eyes; “I can’t do this,” I thought to myself. “I really am in no shape to be a parent right now.”

S bounded in and immediately went upstairs to search for a dress. K sat down and told me S had told her that she didn’t want to talk to me anymore about anything because everything stressed me out. “I don’t want to make her cry or yell,” she’d said, which immediately caused me to burst into tears.

Suddenly the faces of all the students I’d not served well went through my mind, literally, and I cried harder. I thought about G, who had been my mentor--how much he'd loved his students, how he'd never gotten lazy or frustrated, how his pep talks had always involved the question, do you care about your students?--and when I said yes, he'd say, then you'll know what to do.

I felt like, in the last few months of his life, I had sorely disappointed him--even though, of course, he had no idea that I'd had the worst teaching semester of my career.

“I don’t think I can do this right now,” I said. “I just can’t hear anything else about what I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” K said. “I just think you need to talk to her, that’s all.”

And so we did talk. I cried the entire time, but S was calm, just petting the dog, who was lying still for once. I apologized for yelling, she apologized for not trying her best. She said she wanted to go to college but I’d scared her into believing maybe she couldn’t; I said that she would need to work harder but that one test was not going to ruin her life.

“I think you’re just stressed out about Papou, and about your friend dying,” she said, maturely. She sighed. “I know how that feels, because remember, I was close to Honey, and first she got sick, and then she died.”

“That’s true,” I said. “And you weren’t yourself for quite awhile. But still, I need to be able to handle those things and still be a good parent.”

"G was important to you," she said, patting me on the shoulder. "I know that. He was teaching you to use that press. Maybe you should try to get that going again and you'll feel better."

It should have been comforting to hear her say that--but currently, the old press is in storage (due to some remodeling on campus), and no permanent home has been designated for it. During my last conversation with G, we were strategizing about how to convince the administration to care about it as much as we did. There had been no conclusion, and no goodbye. I didn't even know for sure if he could trust me to do what he'd asked me to do two years earlier--take over the press because he couldn't run it anymore. "I'm afraid I forgot how to run it," I said. "It's been in storage for a whole year now." I felt, again, like I was nothing but a disappointment to everyone.

Luckily, we got interrupted then by her friend, who came over, had dinner with us, and then, on her way out, accidentally let the cat out.

Suddenly, we found ourselves in the dark, in the rain, weeping and calling her name. I irrationally thought, “I don’t think I’ll survive if we don’t get this cat back in the house. If she gets lost or hurt, I’m going to have a really hard time believing that there’s not some kind of evil force out to get us right now.” As if my dad’s illness, G’s death, my former student’s depression, and my bad evaluations-–three of which I couldn’t have controlled, and one of which I need to simply learn from and move on—somehow indicate I’m a bad person, or especially cursed.

At one point, after over an hour of searching, I decided to drive around—and realized my car keys were lost. In the same moment, I also realized just how disgustingly messy our house had become, and felt, again, like a total failure. It’s been a long time since I felt shame—I have somehow managed since becoming a parent to let that feeling of guilt and self-hatred go and learn from each mistake, and then just move forward—even in the worst of last spring, I felt grief and anger and maybe even, at times, enough guilt to make me realize I needed to change my behavior—but never shame.

But there it was again, that old demon. I’d spent so much time in counseling on it over the years. I thought it was gone, but it was gripping me again, and I felt like I couldn’t face anyone at all.

And then, suddenly, I found myself standing quietly right next to the cat, and caught her. S was overjoyed. She immediately wrapped her in a blanket and cuddled her. We dried off and warmed up. She took a bath and got dressed for Homecoming. She looked stunning. I found the car keys. And we still had a half hour to spare before the dance started. We talked about things she could say to the people who were there and made a plan for what she would do if she got anxious or angry or bored and wanted me to come—and the next thing I knew, she was walking into the dance, handling her high heels more gracefully than I could have never managed, at 16 or any age, for that matter. I watched her, moving slowly but confidently toward the door, her purse casually thrown over her shoulder—she didn’t look like my nervous, awkward kid at all, and in that moment, I wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. Irrationally, I thought, what if she gets smart enough to realize how badly I’m fucking this parenting thing up, how I’m not really a good teacher or person?

I got home and started to clean house—and then I stopped myself and realized what I needed was to sit, to center myself, because only silence and stillness were going to get me past my self-hatred and back into my right mind. Only prayer was going to help me to see clearly what I could and could not control about my life, and how to move forward. Only meditation was going to help me to be glad that S was, on this particular day, handling life with more grace and confidence and maturity than I was. The voices were there, saying, nothing you do will make up for how badly you fucked up last year; S will be calling you in about 10 minutes and there’s no point in trying to work through this now; you totally cursed yourself when you admitted to yourself that you didn’t want her to become a better person than you are; but I just sat and listened to them and, eventually, things got quieter. I started to cry from the deep places—not from shame, but from grief. And then the crying dissipated, and I felt like studying a spiritual text. On a whim, I picked up, instead, Anne Lamott’s book _Traveling Mercies_, which I hadn’t read since 2005.

It turned out to be exactly what I needed. The way she writes so vulnerably and openly about her struggles with parenting and her spiritual path have always moved me—but now, I think, they resonate so much more deeply. She is, after all, a single mom who decided on a whim to keep her baby, not having a clue about what she was getting her self into, as well as a sometimes reluctant, sometimes enthusiastic, Christian and spiritual seeker.

I laughed and wept and got through half the book before S called, at 11:45. It touched on every theme I was struggling with this week—aging parent, resistant, refusing-to-work kid, dead friend—the beauty and transcendence of grief, the importance of working within rather than trying to escape its depth, its raw suffering.

I was so into the book that it wasn’t until I was pulling up in front of the school that I realized the dance was going to be over in 15 minutes, and that S had been there for almost three hours. I could see her standing there by the door, alone, leaning into the glass and squinting, waiting for me. I saw in her for the first time my 16-year-old self, who traveled a narrow road between confidence and terror at every moment.

I had connected with that girl briefly while I was in Ohio—by chance, S and I had driven by my old high school right before the Homecoming game, and I’d seen the high school band students excitedly gathering in front of the school, in the exact same place and with the exact same uniforms we’d had when I was in marching band. I’d immediately, inexplicably, started to cry, but now, seeing my daughter at the front door, I realized why. I was remembering how, on Friday nights, when dusk was falling and I was playing my scales, getting excited about the upcoming game, I managed somehow to believe that anything was possible, and instead of great confidence or great terror, I felt a strange sense of peace. From her posture, I could tell S was feeling the same way, even though she was alone.

When I asked her how it was, she said, “Alright.” She described how she had told several people about her cat-capturing adventure. She said that several of her peers had laughed at her “cat-turing story—get it, mom? Cat-turing.” But, it hadn’t been perfect. She’d run into a boy who had treated her badly last year, but she’d figured out a way to ignore him by imagining donkey dicks hanging off his forehead. And nobody had asked her to dance.

“So, basically, here’s what I’m hearing you say,” I reviewed. “Instead of panicking when you saw that boy, you found a way to manage it and handled it perfectly. You had conversations with your friends and made them laugh. It wasn’t amazing, but you stuck it out and did what you could to have fun. Is that right?”

“Right,” she said, adding, “these damned shoes aren’t comfortable at all.”

“I’m so proud of you,” I said. “Do you realize how much more mature you are now than you were even a few months ago? Remember the spring formal? You only made it through the first hour, you had no idea what to say to people, and you refused to go unless I was a chaparone. And this time you went by yourself, stayed for almost the entire three hours, and had appropriate conversations with people.” And then I did start to cry a little, but only a little.

“You’re such a lesbian,” S said, smiling and shaking her head.

“And you’re such a straight, 16-year-old girl,” I said back.

“You’re my lesbian mom, the only mom I’d ever want.”

“You’re my straight daughter, the only daughter I’d ever want.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“OK, Mom, let’s go home so I can cuddle my cat.”

Truly Alive

2009-09-19T14:52:00.000-07:00

The day after I got to Ohio, my father was released from the hospital. It was clearly too early, and I suspect that the fact that he owes the hospital a significant amount of money (despite the fact that 80% of his bills are paid by Medicare) may have played a role, though I can't be sure. Maybe it's more mundane than that--there is an urgency to turn beds over as quickly as possible, that care is no longer patient-centered, even in one of the best hospitals in the world.

In any case, on the day he was released, he had not yet been able to sit up or go to the bathroom on his own, and he could not climb the five steps he needs to climb in order to get into his apartment. Still, optimistic, we got him into my car, and we dropped my sister off at the airport on the way to his home. He cried as she left--in the two weeks she had been with him, they had gone from intending to celebrate my nephew's fifth birthday at the Cleveland Zoo to spending hours together at the hospital.

On the way home, we called my cousin A's husband L, who we hoped would be at home, to come to the apartment to help my father up the stairs. It was not an easy process, but we managed to get him inside and onto the couch where he is spending all of his time. We helped him to the bathroom, and then L left. I went to get some things that would help him--a raised toilet seat, bars for the bathtub, and new showerhead, a stool for the bathtub--as well as some groceries and some medications for him--saying I would be gone about an hour. S came with me; up to this point, she was holding up quite well, but I didn't think she would yet be able to help him if he needed anything. We left the phone next to him and told him to call me immediately if he needed help; I would remain within 10 minutes of his apartment. Instead, he decided to try to go to the bathroom on his own, and ended up waiting a long time for me to return and help him up.

Since then, things have been going well. He is now able, with a walker, the raised toilet seat and bars, to get to and from the bathroom on his own. He took a shower yesterday almost completely on his own, and was able to change his clothes again, mostly without help. He sleeps much of the day, but he is now also sleeping almost through the night, waking only once or twice. He can sit up on his own now, so I am not needed to help him in the middle of the night as I was at first. The human body's capacity to heal is amazing to me--less than two weeks ago, he had a 10% chance of living, according to the emergency room doctor; today, there is no doubt that within a couple months, he'll be able to live independently again.

I am slowly sorting out challenges related to his finances, too. For one thing, I've convinced him to stave off the bill collectors by paying a small amount toward his growing medical bills (rather than refusing to pay, as he has been doing). He has a point--he owes almost as much as he makes each year, and nobody should have to pay for medical care--and yet, at this time he does have some extra money, and so he should at least contribute to those bills (eventually, he agreed to this argument). Other bills are also getting paid, and he's allowing my sister and me more access to his finances so we can be more help.

And, I have managed to advocate for continued nursing care after I leave at the end of next week; Medicare will pay for this service, which will include washing clothes, heating up meals, and assisting with personal care. This is a relief, and the nurse will begin her visits next week so the transition between my care and hers will be smooth.

My extended family here has been amazing. Each day, after getting some homework done, S has had somewhere to go; she has been hiking, shopping, and to the Greek Festival at the church that was at the center of my spiritual and social life when I was a kid. I have been able to let go of the fact that the people caring for her don't know all the rules--that she came home with Barbie dolls and a tiara on some of these outings, even though she knows better than to buy things that are not age-appropriate, seems minor in the scheme of things. She's getting to know the people in my family, and coming to love them. They are generously spending hours on end with her, despite her immature and sometimes contentious behaviors--and this was a good lesson for me, that maybe there are times when I have to let go of control and know that I can get her back into her routine.

And, she and my father are getting used to each other. Sometimes he doesn't react to the things she says or does--how can someone ignore a giant pile of chairs, with Barbie dolls hanging at strange angles from them--or not laugh when she comes home from the Greek Festival announcing she's met her future Greek husband? But she's coming to accept that he is not as responsive as usual, and she is showing such tenderness toward him, and actually helping when he or I ask her to do something for him. As one of my friends pointed out in an e-mail yesterday, it is too bad she's having to leave her routine and her schooling, but good that she is learning that this is what people who love each other do in times of emergency.

Last night, my aunt and an old friend of my parents' came over and gave S and I a much-needed break. We went to the Greek Festival together. It was a wonderful trip; I saw my mother's best friend for the first time in some 10 years, as well as many old friends of my parents. S got on the dance floor and followed along as best she could, overcoming her fear of Greek dancing without being sure of all the steps. We ate well. The weather was beautiful. S chose a prayer bracelet and Greek Orthodox prayer book as her souvenir; she spent a couple hours looking at it, and doing the prayers, and then asked this morning to go to church.

Strangely, I felt elated--I have all kinds of mixed feelings about the Greek Orthodox Church, of course, but I think connecting to my past this week has affected my feelings toward the church, and my desire to share that old, deep love of the mystery and ritual with S. I also think that growing older has made it easier for me to accept the Church as She is--complex and beautiful and deeply flawed--and I can, for instance, deal with the fact that there is now a volume on same-sex attraction in the church bookstore that says such attractions are natural and show that the person has a calling to live a celibate life. "Look, mom, you're supposed to become a nun!" S joked, a little too loudly, holding up the book. This would have devastated me earlier in my life--and it is still painful, don't get me wrong--but I no longer seem to be affected by strange looks of confusion when I introduce S as my daughter or explain that no, I'm not and have never been married. I don't care that I overheard someone whisper something about what they had heard about me at the festival--and of course, I have the luxury of being far away.

But, in any case, I was moved by S's interest in the church, and her willingness to put aside her vehement atheism to read about the religion in which I was raised. The actual liturgy was hard for her, though--too long, too much ritual that she did not understand, despite my best attempts to explain as much as possible before and during. Still, I was glad we went (the first time we've left my father alone for more than an hour--which went well), and glad to see more old friends there. Ultimately, I don't think she'll choose to be baptized, and I am, of course, OK with this. Still, I'm glad she got to see where my spiritual roots are, and glad she'll be wearing a prayer bracelet and reading the calming rituals of the hours every day, at least for a little while.

As for me, my souvenir was a book of sayings about the Desert fathers and mothers. I don't know why I purchased it; I've always regarded these early Christian hermits with some interest, but also with a lot of resistance. The activist in me can't believe that their ascetic lives affected anyone; they did not believe in serving the larger society, but only in being present, in their caves, to God. But, people visited them, wanting to hear their perspective on life--and when I opened the book randomly to a section called "Detachment," I realized how much I have struggled all my life with my many attachments--to what people think of me, to the idea of achievement or praise, to memories as I want to remember them (not necessarily how they happened), to anger and rage. I bought the book without really thinking through the decision. I am beginning to read it, and already I can see that I was meant to do so.

One key prayer of these men and women was, "We entreat you, make us truly alive." Sometimes I feel only tangentially connected to my own life, and I struggle always with wanting to feel grounded, real, whole. Their sayings, so far, seem to me to be one path toward that goal--and words that can be used in my own life, which is, of course, immersed in the things and the institutions of the "real world." And perhaps that is exactly these spiritual people's gift--they had the time and space to come to a wisdom that others who would not make a choice like theirs could use.

One of the fathers answered the question, "what good work should I be doing?" in this way: "Are not all actions equal? Scripture says that Abraham was hospitable, and God was with him. David was humble, and God was with him. Elias loved interior peace, and God was with him. So, do whatever you see that your soul desires according to God, and guard your heart."

Is it possible that loving God and doing good are meant to fulfill our deepest desires rather than to force us to sacrifice those desires? Is it possible that if we are centered and able to recognize what we most deeply desire, we will automatically be able to fulfill what we are meant to do for the world? It seems too simple--but also totally liberating, and true. For now, I will keep reading.

Answered E-mails, Answered Prayers

2009-09-07T21:02:00.000-07:00

Last Monday, my sister accompanied my father to an appointment where he was declared, for the moment, anyway, cancer free. "Bone cancer doesn't ever heal, not all the way," the doctor explained, "but right now the real issue is a fracture in the hip." He agreed to surgery, in a month or so, to put a pin in his hip so he would be able to walk more easily, and eventually fulfill his desire to move to Greece.

On Friday morning, my sister called to say that he had been airlifted to the hospital for emergency surgery. The radiation had caused a clot in his colon, which was dying. Twenty hours later, he was still waiting for the surgery; now, he is recovering relatively well, though he's confused and paranoid, and his heart is keeping an irregular heartbeat.

Next week, S and I will head there for about ten days to help arrange for his care because my sister has to leave. I will have to cancel some 30 work-related meetings; S will miss the second and part of the third week of classes, putting her at a disadvantage for staying on track in school at an especially bad time as she transitions from one case manager to another. To complicate matters, her college buddy J had a bad fall off a horse and is injured, though she'll be OK; she's unable to help out during this critical first week of school for S.

And so it goes; nothing is ever in our control, and if anything is a continual reminder of this, it's my father's ongoing health issues--and my daughter's recovery from (or, rather, living with) trauma.

Sometimes I think the main lesson I'm supposed to learn in life is exactly this: how little is in my control. But why this lesson? How will learning it, finally, once and for all--or, more realistically, the journey of learning and re-learning, over and over--help me, exactly?

This question haunted me to the point of throwing me into a dark night of the soul this weekend. People were so kind--my friend P came to the house and stayed up with me half the night on Friday while I awaited news; the next night, S and I had dinner and our friends' house, and then I went back to P's later for drinks and more conversation. It's not as if I had any right to feel bitter or lonely with so much love and support around me--and yet, for some reason, I did.

Partly this was due to the realization that there was no one in our town (or no one able to come to our town) who could handle caring for her for 10 days, not even any combination of people. It just wasn't feasible. I would have to take her with me, something that a two parent family would likely never have to choose. Partly I grew exhausted when, the night after my father's surgery, a friend asked me a series of questions that felt invasive about S's journey; why, I asked myself, does she need to know so many details about how S's PTSD works if she's not in a position right now to offer any tangible support--and why after so many months has she not offered anything I told her I needed?

I started to think about how, back in February, even before Honey's death, I'd sent a vulnerable, honest e-mail to a group of friends saying that S's PTSD was out of control and that I needed them; I followed up by listing exactly what I needed. Some responded honestly, explaining their limitations and offering what they could; others made concrete commitments to help; this friend in particular, and others, had never directly responded. I am, apparently, still hurt and angry by this, though I didn't realize it until now, when I am again feeling overwhelmed and afraid.

I couldn't sleep last night, thinking about these things: where are the people I can really count on? Never mind that these friends had rushed to my side, and that I hadn't been alone all weekend except for last night. Finally, I got up and decided to look up that e-mail, to see what I'd actually asked for and who had received it. It took a long time to find it, but when I did, I realized that I'd received everything I'd asked for--though in most cases, the people I'd asked were not the ones who offered the gift. I'd asked for adult company whenever I could get away or after S was in bed, and understanding when I couldn't get away; I'd asked to be invited to things even if folks were sure I couldn't make it, so I would still feel included; I'd asked for people to be willing to be flexible and open to seeing me when I could make it work; I'd asked for people to take an interest in S's talents and find a way to help her develop them; I'd asked for people to give S opportunities to develop her social skills by spending quality time with her and connecting her to other kids her age; I asked for friends to take the time to understand PTSD and not to be afraid or turn away.

What did I get? A support group of other adoptive parents--not perfect, no doubt, but helpful. Another single parent adopting S's brother with whom I've had some deep e-mail conversations. Three friends who have employed S all summer (she has more money in her savings account than I have in mine!), helping her develop her love of animals and fashion. S's college buddies, who have become friends for me as well as supporters for her. A real friendship for S, that has been slowly developing over the summer--sometimes rocky, and sometimes beautiful and deep--and some good conversations with her mother about raising a special needs child. Evening conversations with unlikely people over wine on my back deck.

I then asked myself the terrifying question: If I have so much, what am I missing? A spiritual practice--something bigger than myself and my day to day work and parenting to sustain me. A spiritual community. Impromptu get togethers at my place; the chance to share food and conversation at the spur of the moment. Time to myself, to write.

And so, today, I got up an hour before S and practiced yoga, and prayed. I felt so much more centered all day. For supper, when S's friend showed up, I asked her to invite her mother for supper, and the four of us ate and laughed about our unusual family dynamics. While S was in the bath, I read some poetry, and wrote a first draft of a poem. I am beginning to think about how I might be able to build a spiritual community when I return from visiting Ohio; it won't be easy, but I need to do what I did back in February and ask for what I need. It will likely come, just maybe not in the way I expect it to come, or from the people I expect to offer it.

My friend who needed to know exactly how S's flashbacks worked, who wanted to understand some kind of formula for responding to them, probably annoyed me because, like me, she is afraid of what she doesn't understand--she wants to quantify it, to make sense of it, rather than to embrace its messiness and mystery. By getting the details, she will be able to push aside her fear, and also to erase her culpability--all of our culpability, really--when people like S suffer from trauma--as well as her responsibility to determine how and what she could do to respond to what she now knew. I remember feeling this way multiple times--when I had to face my own racism, my own ableism, other privileges, when I'd faced rude awakenings that maybe I wasn't quite the noble person I'd thought I was, maybe I was a little too careless about my own responsibilities to others. It was much easier to learn whatever facts I could about whatever the situation (another person's suffering, racism, whatever) than to look inside and understand the ways I was limiting my own growth by not fully feeling and responding to the new insight or information.

Of course, we are always most annoyed by people who share our own faults. Like me, my friend is struggling with control issues; it would be easy for me to say, "And I am further along in understanding and contending with mine," but of course, I don't know that.

Why is embracing the reality that we have so little control so important, then? Because to do so is to laugh in the face of fear. Fear comes from a desire to control, to understand, when control or understanding are impossible. So does self-pity, and selfishness in general, and guilt, for that matter. But if we take the time to look beyond the things we want to understand or control, beyond the way we expected things to go when we first uttered our desperate prayer, we're going to see so much abundance--and also going to recognize the ways we have been healed and the places where healing is needed, both within ourselves and in the world, and the ways we're called to act.

Tonight, after S went to bed, I realized the bitterness and exhaustion were gone. I'd taken the time to pay attention to what I had. I'd asked for it, and received it--just not from the people I'd expected to be the ones to offer their help. I no longer felt angry about the people I'd helped in the past who hadn't been there for me; I could see the bigger karmic picture, how the healing I'd offered was coming back to me from the universe, and how the precise source didn't matter so much anymore.

I will have to continue to wrestle, I think, with disappointments; I will have to accept people for who they are, where they are in their journey, and what they do and do not want to face, what they can and cannot (or will and will not) offer in terms of healing. And, now that I've identified my needs, I will begin again to practice yoga, prayer, and sacred reading every day--no doubt I'll fail at this, but it's worth beginning again. And I will continue to pray for a spiritual community that can embrace ambiguity and mystery, that can really help me grow as a healer of this world, challenging and comforting me. And, I will continue to pray my gratitude for the mysterious and beautiful ways my February e-mail has been answered by the universe.

It Would be Harder if She Weren't Sorry

2009-09-03T21:41:00.001-07:00

I have a giant, visible bruise on my arm from S, who bit me, hard, on Monday.

It all happened so fast. I went back to work full time last week, but S doesn't start until after Labor Day. Her college buddies were busy with...well, college. So she was spending a lot of time surfing the internet in my office--more time, by far, than she should have been. It's not like I didn't try. Her college buddies came by whenever they could. The Saddle Club invited her to help with the horses during the day. She brought books every day, and sometimes even read them for two or three hours, but it's not really realistic that a girl with PTSD and ADHD would be able to spend more than three hours on...well, anything.

Except, apparently, U-Tube videos of random pre-teen girls who are showing off their newly acquired ability to stand on their toes in pointe shoes.

But, let me backtrack: Wednesday, my first day back full-time, went well. Thursday, also, until we went to school for the open house. That, too, was going well, until Mrs. M, S's old case manager, waylaid us for almost 15 minutes, finding a way to subtly mention every single issue we'd had last year, openly defying all of the boundaries I tried to lay out. Just typing this much is making me angry all over again, but suffice to say that when we left the building, S was shaking, and no longer wanted to go back to school in the fall. We processed. She came around. We talked about how she could protect herself from being stalked by Mrs. M. She agreed to do this. I talked to S's college buddy J about it, who said, "Well, the worst that could happen is S could get mad and hit her." Yikes. There's nothing I can do about it except keep communicating openly with S about what is happening at school and getting involved when boundaries are broken again.

Of course, during that conversation, S announced to Mrs. M (later, she explained, in an attempt to keep her from talking about anything else), that she would be going on pointe in January. Mrs. M (to be fair, she had no idea that we'd now linked ballet to S's abuse) said she was delighted to hear that, and how proud she was of S.

S had also managed, between Wednesday and Monday, to get a similar compliment from everyone we know in our small town.

And so, inevitably, it happened: after four days of this, on our way home, I told S I needed a break from pointe talk again, that she was regressing. "It's all Mrs. M's fault," she said, but it wasn't; the pointe talk had begun before we saw her at the open house.

We began the dog walk, as usual, and, as often happens lately, S didn't want to take the hour-long walk we usually take. I was frustrated; I wanted fresh air after so many hours meeting with people I don't know well, trying to get the new office I'm coordinating up and running. But, we also needed to return some library books, so we gave the dog a short walk, then walked to the library--where she proceeded to spend 40 minutes trying to find books about ballet. She'd read all the ones in the library, and many offered through interlibrary loan. Frustrated by her inability to find any new books, she got more and more resistant to the idea of going home.

Finally, I got her out of the building. I talked to her on the way home about how frustrated I was that every time she was thinking about ballet, she managed to not follow the agreements we had made--most recently, that we would be at the library no longer than 10 minutes because I wanted to get started on supper. "If you spent even half the time actually practicing ballet that you spend online--or even just getting any kind of exercise whatsover--you would be so much closer to your goal of getting on pointe. You do realize, don't you, that getting into the pre-pointe class is a gift, but that you didn't learn even half of what you really need to learn for that class? And that you are flat out lying when you tell people you'll be on pointe in January--nobody's ever told you that?"

They were harsh words, but they weren't knew; I'd said them in our family therapy earlier in the week, and she had been resistant then to really hearing them, saying I was trying to destroy her dreams. "It's not about your dreams," I said then, and repeated again. "It's about the fact that you refuse to be realistic, or honest, and that you are lazy in class and also lazy at home. It's like you want to get praised for getting on pointe but don't want to actually do the work it's going to take to get there."

At which point, she bit my arm, hard. It's the first time there's been a visible bruise that lasted more than a day or two. It isn't pretty. And, unlike the only other mark she ever put on me, on my stomach, it's also something I see and feel every day, every time I type or look down at my arm absentmindedly or...well, it's just there, to remind me...

Of what? Of the cost of being honest with her? That I shouldn't have said what I said in the way I said it, or at the time I said it? That she hasn't come as far as I'd like to believe--that she is, in fact, regressing quite substantially in these days just before the start of school?

I think that's what's bothering me, is that I don't know what the bruise is supposed to tell me.

I can remember my father putting marks on me. I felt like they meant I was somehow his in a way I didn't want to be. I felt like they were some kind of proof, also, of what an awful father he was, something I would be able, for the rest of my life, to hold over his head.

But I can't feel any of those things about S. She is mine, and I want her to be mine. She's not my parent, she's my kid. And she's not a terrible kid, either, just a...well, damaged one.

I hate the word damaged, and even if I liked it, it doesn't excuse her, anymore than the reasons for my dad's violence--the sexist culture we come from, his mental illness, his lack of coping skills, the myriad of losses in his life, his inability to live in two cultures at once--can excuse him.

A few days later, all I really want is a day off to let myself heal--not to get rid of the bruise, but just to cry it out, to feel the fear and rage and pain I felt right before the bite. After, I felt nothing--eerily, this is how I also felt during and after my father's meltdowns. And, even more eerily, I have seen S, when she's not attacking me, disengage in the same way when I'm out of control.

But this time, I wasn't, not really. That's the thing: when I'm really out of control, raising my voice, or, as has happened a couple times, slamming things around in the kitchen, she is either gentle and nice and wanting to make things better, or she's totally disengaged, not present.

When she is hurting me, I know, at least, that she's here with me, present, feeling something, that the words have sunk in, and maybe, as scary as it is to think this, that she's heard them in a way she doesn't hear me when I'm yelling or slamming things around. Which, to my credit, I've been doing much, much less frequently recently.

Today my friend touched my arm and said, "Did that happen the way I think it did?" When I nodded, she just said, "Come over for supper on Saturday. Bring S. Let's start early, so she can play with H (her little boy)."

I got tears in my eyes. My friend T is so good at reminding me that nothing S does is ever going to shock her, that nothing she does is ever going to make her afraid to have us over, or to be my friend.

That should be enough, and now that I've written it down, actually, it is enough. That, and J, S's college buddy, doing everything she can to have S as much as possible this week. And her relatively new tutor, who has only known us for a couple months, who today brought over her puppy to meet our dog and spent two hours with S, not asking to be paid.

I think sometimes I am lonely because the people who are there for me right now, really there, are not the people I expected. I think it's also because my work right now is so personal to me; I have wanted for a long time to build an office that can really make a difference in the community; I have wanted for a long time to teach courses on disability studies and social justice. I'm doing all of these things this semester, but they are draining, even at times painful.

It is impossible, for instance, to sit in a meeting with a student I know has been abused and talk to her about her desire to do a project on the inadequacies of the mental health system for people of color, to hear her say, after I've agreed to let her do this project and given her suggestions, "No matter what I do, it won't make a difference. This isn't something that's going to change, ever."

It is impossible to talk about the idea of normalcy and not to think about how the special education department at my daughter's school is totally centered around the idea of norming the kids in the program rather than empowering them. I'm teaching the class with my friend T, who is herself disabled, and we have both promised to avoid rants and to tell no more than one personal story per class. But I am not yet telling stories; they are too new, and make me feel too vulnerable--and even when I am ready, not ranting will be too difficult.

When S went to bed tonight, I tried to fall asleep, but I couldn't. I was in bed at nine, exhausted, and, by 11, I was up again, downstairs, sitting on my back porch with a glass of wine, trying to decide if I should call anyone. I just wanted to say out loud that I felt like a terrible parent--we have eaten out three nights in a row, which I can't afford; we have talked through some aspects of the night she bit me, but we are far from sorting it out, mainly because I am having trouble staying present when I'm with her--I am either at that moment or else I'm somewhere else entirely, worrying about the student from last semester who is fighting for a higher grade or the pressure of starting a new office or a student who keeps challenging me or...you get the idea; S is having frequent flashbacks still, two days later. But, strangely, all it took to make me feel better was to write this down--and to remember T's hand on my bruise, and J's text message, "I hope you're OK," on the day it happened.

"Is she sorry after she does something like this?" T asked me today.

"Yes."

"And I'll bet that's even harder, that she's sorry for it."

I thought about that. "It would be harder if she weren't sorry, really," I said after awhile. "But I guess I'm not in a place yet where I can really feel the full effect of what she's done, and until I can, I'm afraid I can't really be present. Which means I can't help her, or myself, to deal with what happened."

T just nodded.

Maybe now, after writing this, I will be able to feel it all, and to be present again, and, most importantly for this moment, the one right here, right now, to be able to rest.

Kai S'anotera

2009-08-22T00:07:00.000-07:00

It has been a rough day, but a good one, too.

It started with a meeting with S's new case manager. I have always liked her as a person, but I was admittedly worried about Lisa being moved to her room; she's a bit flaky (based on some interactions we've had in the community not related to our jobs), and her room always feels chaotic and loud. But, S loves her, and so, in that sense, I think it will be a good fit.

Also, she's not contentious or manipulative or likely to evangelize.

I am glad I had my retreat in June; I think I worked out most of my anger at the schools there, but there was some residual stuff left over, because I began to dread this meeting, really dread it, and as usual, I went in with a two page agenda, prepared for a fight.

And she started the conversation by putting a file on the table labeled "communication file," which was very thick, and saying to me, "How can we avoid this? Because I don't want to do this."

I agreed, and we were able to put together a plan to meet once every other week so that I could share with her what was happening at home with me and her college buddies and in therapy, and so that we could discuss interventions her therapist had recommended, in addition to any academic issues.

I said, "In short, the reason that file is so thick, besides the fact that the case manager was evangelizing to my daughter and that her IEP was not being followed, is that I felt I was not being heard. It became important to put things in writing--but it also didn't help."

"I will listen to you," she said, and that was enough to bring tears to my eyes.

And she did. We figured out some ways to manage S's propensity to lose things and get confused about assignments, her high frustration level, her obsessive and other inappropriate behaviors--and other things. When I told her about the reason behind S's ballet obsession, she did not act freaked out as the principal and another potential case manager (who I decided earlier in the week not to use) had acted. It was, all in all, a good meeting.

And then I rushed to pick up S from home and take her to tutoring. We had a half hour to go over what had happened at the meeting, and she was happy with the decisions we'd made and the plans we'd put together.

Then, I left her in my office, thinking her tutor and another college student who had offered to help out in a pinch would be showing up--but due to some miscommunications, neither ever came. So, I rushed off to a series of back to back meetings, and S ended up in my office without supervision for four hours--two is definitely her limit.

Backtracking, S started a new medication that is supposed to release more slowly that her previous one so that she does not do her usual revert-to-age-five-and-sometimes-get-violent act that often occurs between 4-6. I had just sent her college buddy an e-mail saying that I really felt the med was working--after only three days. A little premature, perhaps, because she had the first violent outburst she's had in a long time; it involved hitting and kicking and throwing a couple chairs.

But all of this was predictable, actually. Her college buddies have been busy this week, so she's been shuffled around a lot more. And while she's grown a lot in that her internet use is no longer unsafe, still, she really does need someone to be nearby so she can talk about all the things that outrage her on You-Tube, and so that she does not slip into an obsessive thought pattern.

Predictably, both of these things happened, and I wasn't around. I felt like a terrible mom. And, predictably, she melted down.

But, perhaps not so predictably, she went willingly through a series of consequences that lasted about two hours. She decided what the natural consequences would be for each of her mistakes in the blow up and did them all. She also agreed to give up computer time for three weeks, acknowledging that she needed a break.

She'd been encouraged by You-Tube, as it turns out, to watch several movies about preventing anorexia, likely because she has watched so many about ballet. But S was not ready to see these; they were provocative. And, she'd spent much of her time watching ballet videos and decided to put on the leotard and tights that she had sworn she'd never wear again when we got home, the costume that reminds her of abuse memories and feels unsafe.

I told her I didn't think this was a good idea, but she said, "If you don't like it, leave the room." I set the alarm for an hour and went into the other room--then fell asleep on the couch. Yikes! By the time I woke, she was back on the computer, even though I'd told her not to do so, and she had turned off the alarm. She refused to get off and called me every name in the book, then got violent. But, just as suddenly, she stopped, and apologized, and wrote down what her consequences would be, and did them.

I could be beating myself up about this and probably should be--there's really no excuse for not knowing what's happening with your own child for four hours. But for some reason, I don't feel any guilt. I know it was a mistake, and I'll be more careful next time to make sure people follow up and don't have dates confused, of course--but I don't feel like wasting energy on guilt. A year ago, I would have, and would have obsessed and worried about what this says about me as a mother--but now, I finally have the confidence to say, I'm doing a damned good job, and even though I make mistakes all the time, I am learning from them.

And then, after the consequences, and after dinner, and after the dog walk, of course, S got into the bath and I got on facebook. And that's how I learned (I'm embarrassed to admit) that the ELCA voted to allow GLBT people in committed relationships to be ordained.

I have been involved in this issue since it first came up in 2002, I think it was. I was asked by some local ministers to facilitate discussions about GLBT issues in response to a mandate from the head of the church that each congregation was to do so. But the discussions were canceled because, as they told me, their congregations just weren't ready.

Well, as it turns out, many congregations weren't ready, and the vote when the other way at the assembly the following year. A powerful movie was made about that vote. I used to own it, but I have lent it out so many times that I don't know who has it now, and can't remember its title, but it documented Pastor Anita Hill's ordination in purposeful disregard for the vote. She is one of my heroes, and I can't even think about the movie without weeping.

S came out of the bath. "What are you cheering about?" she asked, and that was when I realized I'd vocalized joy after reading one of the many links that showed up on my facebook update page.

"The ELCA church just voted to ordain gay people!" I shouted.

"Oh," said S, disappointed. "I thought maybe gay marriage became legal in MN." She paused for a second, looking at me thoughtfully. "I'm not going to cheer until that happens."

I didn't think I needed to write about this, but after watching a movie, and getting back online to read some more articles, I realized I wasn't going to fall asleep until I had this down.

There's a saying in Greek, kai s'anotera, which means, essentially, and now, on to even better things. It's said at graduations and other events of achievement--but I think it is perhaps also applicable in situations like the ones we have experienced today, beginning with the meeting with the school and ending with the news from the ELCA.

I'm all for celebrating. I was so moved by the honestly and authenticity at today’s meeting, with S’s ability to realize what she’d done and respond appropriately, and with the many celebrations of the ELCA vote that I've admittedly watched tonight on You-Tube. And yet, my daughter is so right. The vote was so incredibly close, for one thing--we are nowhere near any level of acceptance of GLBT identity among mainline Protestants. And, yes, this vote does not translate to anything civic. Also, we have work ahead of us, both in terms of growing past the violence and of working with the schools. We must celebrate, but we must not rest.