Responsibility: Why You Should Give a Shit

Responsibility.  Moral, Legal, or Mental Accountability.

Accountability.  An Obligation or Willingness to Accept Responsibility.

I don’t like semantics.  Or rather- I like to say that I don’t like semantics.  I think what gets under my skin is when groups of folks let words and meanings bog them down or distract them from all the really valuable and important things they could be talking about or (heaven forbid) doing with their time.  I recently heard about this guy at a Bible study I used to attend.  One day at Bible study he brought up the word responsibility and he wanted to explore what the word meant.  I was not an eye witness to this, but I heard he made a big ass of himself and it turns out that he is kind of a selfish douche.  Oh and he happens to be a pastor.  He is an example of my least favorite person: he is in a position of religious power, he gets caught up in what words mean instead of doing shit, and he is selfish and doing it wrong and making me look bad as a person who likes Jesus and some Jesusy-type things.  

I once got into an epic battle with my brother about responsibility.  It was epic because it had to do with things that I take very personally and that shit got heated.  
  

We were fighting because I was telling a story about some kids that are very important to me, that I met during a time that changed my life, and my behavior in the story was impacted by my belief system.  Needless to say I was locked and loaded for anyone who was gonna say shit to me about responsibility.  My brother, always the instigator, could not just let me tell the story.  He had to pick at it and put in his two cents.

I used to work this job that had your standard 9-5 hours.  I would walk to work and walk home everyday.  Almost everyday my roommates and I would see our 2 year old neighbor outside playing by himself when we left the house.  When we returned home in the evening, he was still outside by himself, but his diaper would be saggy and full.

Yes, it was heart breaking.  

So whoever saw him first (out of all my roommates) would usually play with him for awhile, invite him over to our place to play inside, grab a snack, and get a diaper change.  The sort of people I roll with give a shit about things like this.  

Did any of us have kids?  Nope.

Did my roommate go out of her way to pick up some diapers in his size?  Yes.

Did we all take it upon ourselves to care for this kid?  Yes.

Why did we do this?  Because it is the decent, human, solid thing to do.  It was and is the right thing to do.  

My brother did not agree that it was anyone’s responsibility to care for this neighbor kid.  

And I rained down upon him a storm of rage and wrath about empathy and mercy.  I yelled and cried.  I am a much better arguer now, but at the time this conversation was emotionally charged for me.  I loved that kid.  If I had had the resources or the opportunity, I would have adopted him (and I would have had to fight my roommates for him- because they all would have done the same).  But I was also disappointed because my brother did not understand why it is important that we care about a lonesome 2 year old.  

The fight started because my brother put a sweatshirt on his dog- she was shivering with cold and I happened to mention that lots of dogs get treated better than children (not to say that we should not treat dogs well, I am just saying that all the things need to be treated well).  

I yelled and cried because I am sad that I have to explain why it is important to care for small, vulnerable, children that you see with your own eyeballs.  I sobbed and hiccuped because I could not put in to words how important this is for all of us to do.  I cry because this is a true and sad part of life: there is great need in the world and there are folks that just don’t give a shit about it.  

Here is the part in the post where I get all religious and stuff- so feel free to stop reading if you want.  I was raised by some folks who love Jesus.  Jesus says that we should care because he cares.  One story about him is that he is giving this sermon to these people on a hillside.  They come to him because they heard rumors that he has done miraculous stuff and that he has talked back to the big wigs of their religion (think Joel Osteen and Billy Graham and all those crazy Focus on the Family people).  Jesus made all those guys look bad on the regular by quoting the Bible back to them.  He was a BAMF, for sure.  I mean- he made them look so bad that they plotted to kill him.  It was serious.  

Jesus is talking to all these folks on the hillside and Jesus’ inner circle was like, “You gotta send these people home because they have been here for so long and they are tired and hungry and a long way from home.”  Jesus was like, “If they are hungry, why don’t you feed them?”  And the disciples were like, “That would cost more than a year’s salary.  We can’t do that.”  And Jesus was like, “You guys don’t get it.  I will handle this.”  And Jesus fed all the people because he cared.  He felt responsible for them.  The gospels should be called, “The Books of the New Testament Wherein Jesus Gives a Shit about People- Especially Society’s Cast-Offs.”  

That was me paraphrasing a small portion of the Gospel of Mark.  I hope you enjoyed it.  Feel free to quote me on it, too.  You’re welcome.  

So when I talk about Jesus, this is who I am talking about.  I am talking about this guy that spat in the face of a religion that was for show.  He fed and clothed and helped whoever came his way and asked for help (people that were so weird and gross most people would not even acknowledge they existed), and he even helped a few people that did not ask.  He cared about folks. He says in the Gospel of Matthew, “When you give a shit about society’s most vulnerable and oppressed and ignored members, you give a shit about me.  If you don’t care about them, then you don’t care about me.” (also paraphrased by me).

I don’t speak this way about the Bible or Jesus to shirk the holiness of it all.  This is real to me.  This is the way I see the world.  I have been living this way for so long that it does not make sense to me when people do not feel responsible for 2 year olds that are all alone.  

My brother is ultimately right.  I know this and it kills me (it does not kill me necause he is right and I am wrong, but that I know that most people don’t consider themselves responsible for other humans).  It is not his responsibility to care for anyone.  This life is so hard and resources are so scarce that you should just work to get yours and hoard your resources and call it a day.

But I really want to believe in Jesus.  And he may not be real.  I am totally ok with that.  Yes- I just said that I am fine with the idea that Jesus could be a made up character in some very entertaining literature.  My friend says that the Gospels (all the stories of Jesus’ life) could be written by squirrels for all she cares.  It is the simple fact that the stories of Jesus tell us to be responsible for others.  And when we do this thing, when we are responsible for one anther and we care for one another, magical things happen.  Love multiplies when we take responsibility for each other.  We create the world that we want to live in when we take responsibility for each other.  We become better people when we take responsibility for others.  We also help show people that they have value when we take responsibility for them.  Paradoxically when we care for other people, those people will return that love in a greater way (happens every time and it is very shocking, trust me).  

That 2 year old boy, his name is Calvin, has value.  Sometimes the people in his life forgot about that.  I made it my responsibility to make sure he was cared for, as did my roommates.  We did not do it because we had to.  We did not do it to avoid the guilt we would feel if we left him there.  We did it because Jesus has completely changed the way we look at the world and we could not stop ourselves from caring for this boy.  

A long time ago I decided to start trying to live my life like the stories of Jesus (the ones that may or may not have been written by squirrels).  I drank the kool aid, if you will.  I told the sky that I would give a shit.  I haven’t turned back since.  It has impacted my life in the strangest ways.  One day, as I was walking home from work, Calvin broke out into a run when he saw me down the street.  He had his arms open wide and he ran to me.  I scooped him up and we were glad to see each other.  As I was carrying him home he puckered up his lips and came at me.  What flashed before me was the knowledge that 2 year olds are microbial incubators and his nose already had snot crust on it.  But in that same split second I did not turn my head away from him- I puckered up my lips.  Toddler kiss.

YOLO.

He then rested his head on my shoulder and I carried him to our place to play.  

I said to Jesus, “Why don’t you care for Calvin?”  And he said, “Why don’t you?”  I don’t regret taking responsibility for Calvin for the small moment that he made a cameo in my life story. 

He moved away a few months later with his family, and I hope that whatever people saw him next took up the torch and felt responsible for him, too.  Because if they did, he might just make it.  And I think that is why Jesus wants us to take responsibility for each other; so that we can all make it.    

Figuring out Grace

So this happened to me-someone asked, “What is grace?  Tell me what grace means.”

I did not want to tell her, because I was afraid that my definition might be too narrow, too western, or too Christian, or not Christian enough, or maybe too blasphemous (as if blaspheming was a thing I tried not to do), or that it would just not live up to what I feel when I experience grace.

I tried to wriggle my way out of talking about it, but the ball was passed back to me.  I cannot remember all that I said, but I tried to limit my usage of Christianese (few are fluent), and I tried to make it applicable in non-religious contexts.

Since then I have been trying to think of what my definition of grace is.  Writing always helps me to sort through my thoughts, so I will just start writing and see what happens.

The grace issue came up because I have been tossing around ideas of karma and manifestation in my head.  Karma says that what goes around comes around (eventually).  It says that we reap what we sow.  It says: you do good, you get good, and if you do bad, you get bad.  Manifestation is very similar to karma (in my brain).  It sometimes goes by the name “The Secret” and this woman I went to college with bought me the DVD because she thought I was too negative.  Well, the DVD was dumb and I watched half of it and then promptly returned it to her (with a thank you note- I was raised with some manners).  The Secret says that you can dream up things and think up things and you can attract them to yourself with good energy.  

I do not believe in any of that noise.  Do not be offended by my soap box rantings, but life is too ambiguous for that to make sense.  As I like to say, “the rain falls on both the righteous and the unrighteous," as in- sometimes shit happens to good people and sometimes nothing happens to bad people.  And does this ever suck.  I do not believe in karma or manifestation or the secret or laws of attraction because I believe in grace.

My faith might be shattered and fractured into pieces the size of electrons and neutrons or fucking quarks (I just threw science in to my religious speak, because it is all the same to me), but I still believe in grace.  I believe in grace because I need it.  I believe in grace the same way I believe in the sun and gravity and oxygen.  They keep the world working  and they prevent us from dying terrible deaths.  Grace does the same thing in my universe.

I believe in grace.

So what am I talking about when I talk about grace?

Grace is getting good when all I’ve done is put out bad; getting goodness that I could never earn or work hard enough to achieve.  Grace is an unreasonably generous gift.  Grace gives me more room to breathe, it does not make sense, but I greedily take it up because I need it.  

Grace is when the Coast Guard shows up after I have been treading water.  My ship sank because I did not know how to use a boat or care for it.  I ran my boat in to a bunch of shit because I did not know how to drive it- so it sank.  And I did not make preparations for a disaster or an emergency.  I have been treading water for some time now and I can hardly breathe and I have choked on so much water.  I want to give up and let myself sink.  I wonder if inhaling water will be a relief to my tired and sore body.  I am in this position because I failed.  And then they come with a rescue boat and they wrap me in warm blankets and they feed me a hot meal and they give me warm things to drink.  But I call the captain nasty names, and I kick a few people in the shins, and I scratch and bite folks who try to feed me.  And then, as if that weren’t too much already, they treat me with kindness and love and dignity.  

That is grace.  I believe that this thing exists.  I believe that this thing exists because it has happened to me.

Obviously, it is easy to get on board with this grace idea when I think about myself.  Of course I want grace: sign me up, please and thank you.  But it is harder to accept when I remember that there are some people who I don’t think should get grace.  

Grace doesn’t fucking work like that, dammit.  And therein lies grace.  

I don’t make the rules, thank god, because I am a cruel shit when I want to be.  And if I did make the rules, I don’t think grace could exist.  The very nature of grace is disturbing and alarming.  The people who I don’t think should get it, can get it and that is what grace is- getting goodness that you never could have earned.

Boom goes the dynamite.  

I don’t want to convince anyone that grace exists, I am just trying to define the thing.  It is elusive and ever present.  We are given grace, but we want more of it.  See- that is another thing about grace- sometimes it is with me and I just do not care to admit that it is there.  This happens because I want more of it, or because I want it my way.  I want McDonald’s grace (or at least I think I want McD’s grace).  I think this is an aspect of grace as well; those of us who can admit we need it, want it cheaply, and quickly, and our way (see: Dietrich Bonhoeffer), but if that is how it worked it would then suddenly cease being grace.

My least favorite thing about grace (I am rolling my eyes at myself even as I type this) is that it is usually not delivered in the package we want.  I usually want grandiose sweeps of relief (large sums of money, the cancer suddenly disappears, world peace); I usually want the Coast Guard to arrive.  Sometimes they do arrive.  But sometimes grace is when a friend gets in the water with you and they let you hang on to them because they are wearing a life coat.  With that life coat they can swim for a bit and you can just rest for a moment.  Grace might be that they have a cup of fresh water for you because the salty ocean has you parched.  Grace could be that they have a flare gun and they are gonna wait with you until there is a rescue.  Those things are good and those things are grace.

I wish that grace would have taken all the suffering away when my grampa died (his suffering and our suffering).  I wish that grace had that jurisdiction, but it simply does not.  Grace is that he knew I was there at his bedside.  Grace is that I could hold his hand and that he could squeeze it.  Grace is that I could sing to him before he died.  Grace is that my friends were so generous to me as my heart shattered.  

Did it hurt?  Yes.

Was it awful?  Yes.

Did God do anything to stop the natural cycles of life and death? No.

Did that make me mad?  Yes.

Did I get what I wanted?  No.

Did I get grace?  Yes.

I have been on the receiving end of grace more times than I can count- thank god.  There are so many people in my life who love me and, no matter how awful I am, they just keep on loving me and doing nice things for me.  I don’t know what is wrong with them- to tell you the truth.  But I need them.  And I am thankful for them.  

They are my grace.  

PS: blah, blah, blah, God is grace, blah, blah, etc.  You get my drift and I don’t need to bore you.  If you are interested, I think God gives this grace.  And when I say God,  I am referring to the one of Isaac and Jake and Israel.  Yada, yada, yada.  Look it up if you want.  Holla at me in the comments for some verses on grace, if you want.

2012: The Year that I Would Like to Invite to Suck a Giant Bag of Dicks

I want to start off this blog post in some gracious way, some way that shows how enlightened I am and how in tune I am with peace and understanding and all that shit, but one of my very annoying strengths is that I am compulsively honest.  So I have to start this way:  

2012 was a shitty fucking year.  

It was as shitty as they come.  I have not lived long, I am in my 28th year on this spinning ball of earth.  But I have seen a thing or two since I have been a resident here, and even I am surprised that this year has been the most painful year of my existence.  I don’t mean to be dramatic, I just know that I need to be honest so I can shake it off and try to have a good 2013.  
I know that the marking of the new year is very arbitrary, but it is a nice cultural marker and I would use anything- really any excuse- to mark an end to this shit fest.  Watching my dad die in my childhood home, before my very eyes, was easy peasy compared to this year.  

I only knew my dad for 11 years, and for most of that time he was very sick.  So we never had a solid relationship.  But I knew my grandfather always.   I am very close with my grandparents because of my father’s illness.  They often cared for me and my brother while my dad was in the hospital.  They were my refuge and I consider their home to be my true home. 

My grampa died this year and it was just the worst thing ever.  Not only did it just suck that he died, but it kicked up all this old shit and ripped open old wounds that hadn’t really healed from when my dad died.  So I spent most of the year feeling like a vulnerable and sad and lost little kid with all this grief that I was trying to feel.  And I did this with some amazing support from people who love me and I did it with little support from people that I expected to support me.  And that made it all confusing and awful and yet I made it because lots of people kept telling me that they loved me, even if I didn’t want to hear it from them in particular.  

And as I felt like a little kid all I could do was look at my gramma, my Sun and Moon and Stars and Earth, and just torture myself over the fact that she will not be with me forever and she is my last link on this earth that keeps me from being an orphan.  And I am really trying not to do that, but you have to know that when a kid loses a parent at a young age, their ability to be terrified about losing people is pretty impressive.  I wish there was a competition for this because I would have a gold medal in terror.  I may have collapsed in tears a few times this year yelling out, “Everyone I love, I lose.”  And I wasn’t even being dramatic about this- it is just a theme of my life. 

This year was also shitty because people I assumed would be around to support me through the shit, just did not show up.  My heart was smashed habitually.  A true friend devastated me with so many lies and let my heart drop so many times I swear to God I heard that thing shatter.  And I cannot go into the heart break and all its details, but I have grown up a lot.  And in the few places that I was an optimist before, I am no longer.  

This life is so hard and I am so bitter about that.

I have continued my life long battle with my faith and I am trying to hammer out what I believe.  My grampa’s death re-sparked this.  I heard my family members say the most asinine and stupid things as they tried to comfort themselves during and after his death- and I let them.  But I rolled my eyes so hard I almost sprained my poor optic nerve.  I cringed as they spoke about his funeral service in front of him as he was in hospice, and I don’t really give a shit if he isn’t suffering anymore- I am currently suffering here without the old-right-wing-nut-job-republican-coot in my life.  The spouting about God’s will and heaven and what-have-you did not sound theologically sound and it brought me zero comfort.  So that left me all bothered and agitated and angry and bitter and I am trying to figure out what the heck I believe about this world and God and who God is and who I am and what that all is.

Lots of personal shit went down in my life that I would love to word vomit about but I really cannot get into it.  I did overcome a giant personal issue this year- YAY ME.  But there are other things that just took their toll on me.  And now I am so damned sick.  I have had so much sickness, and then so much sickness return, and then shingles has been the icing on top.  I was diagnosed with it almost 4 weeks ago and I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that I am still in so much pain and I am abusing so much ibuprofen to get through the days and nights.  So my body is so angry and sad and tired and I just can’t lie to myself about it anymore.  

Oh yeah- money trouble and debt abound at our house this year.  And lots of our stuff is just on the brink of breaking and we don't have the money to save to try to replace it when it breaks.  We need some manna from heaven at this point and we are hoping that our shoes will last 40 years, but with the way my husband runs- that is not going to happen.  There just never is enough and we owe everyone and their momma some money.  Yes, some folks have been so generous to us this year- and without them we would be in deeper water.  But it feels so awful to be up to your eyeballs in debt and have no wiggle room in your pocket.  Scarcity terrifies me.  And I am so tired of the scarcity.  I am so tired of it all.

And this year I continued to struggle with myself.  This has been a  lifelong dance of trying to shake off all the stupid shit I learned and trying to love myself just how I am and where I find myself.  I berate myself for not being thankful, but then I get all messed up when I lie to myself that I am fine because I didn’t let myself just be angry and complain when I needed to.  It is a horrendous and confusing cycle that I still do not have a handle on.  Even writing this entry makes me feel bad for not seeing more of the good that happened this year.  I do see it, I swear I do.  So many people were good to me this year and loved me and were so generous and loving to me.  But that doesn’t take away that this year hurt so goddamned much. 

I have been waiting for a good year for a long time.  I really hope this one is better.  It really doesn’t have to do too much to be better, but I need it to do so much and be better.  And I hate that bullshit that says that I think my way into making it better.  A positive attitude is swell, but fuck that thinking.  I am super pessimistic and I have had great years.  Grace is that even the Grinch and Debbie Downer can have good years, and I believe in grace.  So fuck everyone that says I need to be positive in order to get better.  Shingles will suck the positive right out of you and I don’t want to hear objections unless you have had it.  My gramma’s sister in law said, and I quote directly, that when she had shingles she, “Wanted to die.”  You can’t think yourself happily out of neurological pain, friends.  You just can’t.  

So- here is to 2013.  Hoping for a year of grace.  I only have a string of hope intact still (and bravo to me for having that little bit of string left) and I am hoping that happiness and wiggle room come for people that need it.  Because we need it so badly.  I hope there is some rest for the weary.  I hope there is some relief for us and regeneration and renewal for all of us that have had so much devastating loss.  And dammit, I need a vacation.  

"Raising a Girl is too hard," says almost everyone.

What I write on here is dictated largely by my daily experiences.  This week I noticed something really interesting.  I was talking to two completely different social groups of twenty-somethings and somehow the same topic came up- having kids.  This is not an unusual thing for our age group.  We are watching friends and peers have kids.  We are excited/confused/terrified/anticipating doing this ourselves.  We chat about it at work or while eating meats cooked over fire.  It's all very natural stuff to chat about.

At work this conversation spontaneously came up- I am not sure how (now that I am trying to remember, my mind is blank).  I think we were talking about siblings and birth order, and someone commented on how they hope they don’t have daughters because they are terrified of dealing with them.  That comment was followed by a chorus of “Oh yeahs” and “I only want boys”  or “girls are trouble.” 

*Full disclosure- In the past I have only wanted boys, too.  My reason for this is totally different than those voiced in the 2 conversations I participated in this week.  I will get to my history in that arena later.  All you really need to know now is that I do not want only boys anymore.  

I was shocked that everyone in the ethnically diverse room- 8 people, 6 women and 1 man- all agreed that they wanted only boys (I am the 8th person, just in case you were using your fingers to count).  I am no statistician (despite acing college stats TWICE), but the odds are not looking good that all 7 of these folks will have male-only-offspring.  It makes me sad that when they find out they are having a girl, they will be disappointed, even if it is only a little disappointing.  I am sure they would feign happiness.  I am sure that if some of them had boys, they would then want girls.  I hate that girls would only be desired as an afterthought, though.  That is a disgusting shame.  

I spoke up about this. 

I said, “I want to raise strong women who love themselves.  And I want to raise strong men who love themselves and respect women.”  This response elicited a pretty solid chorus of head nods.  But their faces betrayed that they really didn’t want to be bothered.  Raising women who love themselves in this world is a tall order.  Yo.  

Then yesterday, I was in a different social setting (informal backyard party), with a pretty homogeneous racial make-up.  Again the issue of having kids came up, and people expressed that they only wanted boys.  I think I was so surprised that I heard this same information again that I neglected to contribute to the conversation.  It is actually kind of shocking that I didn’t say anything.  I was too busy thinking about how I needed to write all of this down.

I think the thing that broke my heart the most about both of these conversations, was that the majority of people who did not want to raise daughters were women.  I won’t lie to you about this; I felt betrayed.  I wanted to say, “Come on guys, it’s not so bad.  Just be the mother you always wanted to have. Bam.  Get it done.”  

I have a hard relationship with my mother.  So I never wanted kids, no matter their gender, because I did not want my future progeny to feel about me the way I have felt about my mother.  I have thought some pretty not-nice things about my mom.  Since I am a woman and my mother is a woman, I have some intense fears about repeating bad things and making the same mistakes she did.  It terrifies me, especially when I catch myself sounding like my mother. 

But here is the thing- I was not raised by a feminist.  I was not raised by a woman who is even my own race.  So I was/am ashamed of a what makes me ME.  I already have a cardboard children's book on my bookshelf that is full of different colors of children that uses really fun adjectives to describe how all the colors are good and beautiful.  I want to be able to share that with my kids.  I want my kids to feel at home in their skin, no matter what color their skin happens to be.  I want them to feel like their hair is just perfect, no matter if they have little wispy frizz curls or beach waves.  I want my daughter to respect her own body and not look at menstruation as some dirty burden.  I want my boys to respect what women’s bodies can do (which is anything boy’s bodies can do) and not what they look like.  I will do this because I really wish that I was given that foundation.  

I wasn’t proud of my Black history until I studied it myself in college (after being encouraged by my sister when I had the most epic identity crisis).  I wasn’t cool with my period until I read some great feminist literature and found the right products for my body (menstrual cups- it might be the product for you).  

When I started my new job a few weeks ago, I went to the Target and bought myself a little make-up bag looking thing and filled it with all of the things I would need in case I got caught with my period at my work place (my cycle is just starting to regulate so I always need to be prepared, and I appreciate that you didn't need to know that).  It has hand sanitizer, a mini bottle of advil, pads, tampons, liners.  I use a menstrual cup, but I don’t always remember to toss it in my bag.  I also know other people may come to my home and I like to have supplies for them just in case.  So I have my kit and I keep it in my bag (my co-workers think it is awesome and I am more than just a little jazzed that all the ladies come to me when they need supplies).  I said to myself, “boy, I wish my mom had made me one of these to keep in my backpack when I was in middle school.”  It would have made me feel so secure knowing I didn’t have to worry about getting my period at school.  And the make-up bag keeps everything nice and tidy and you don’t have stray tampons opening up in your bag and ibuprofen isn't spilling out everywhere.  And if you carry a make-up bag to the bathroom, everyone just thinks you are gonna put on some lip gloss in there.  Note to self: make these kits for my daughters.  

I am still terrified of being a horrible mother.  But I want to raise secure young people who love themselves and respect themselves.  I don’t want my kids to oversexualize their bodies or the bodies of others because they are not affirmed in their won sexuality or unacknowledged as sexual beings.  I also do not want them to be underprepared or uneducated about sex (am I the only person who never got the talk?).  I think if you raise kids to respect their bodies, they will respect everyone else’s bodies.  And if they are raised to love themselves, they will be loving towards others.  If they are raised to appreciate how they are unique and that being different is not bad, then they will see that people different from them are not terrifying.  

I want to raise daughters because I want to raise good people.  And I really think you should raise some girls, too.  Odds are- you are gonna have to.  So better change your mind about it now.  I don’t think we can positively progress as a society, expect equal pay for women, get better maternity/paternity leave,  and respect for our bodies (Republicans: get out of my uterus.  I already told you I have a menstrual cup in my vag.  There is not enough room in there for the both of you.  Now git on home to your yacht or whatever) until baby girls are valued and wanted.  If you do not want to raise a girl, care for one, raise one to be a good citizen, then you can’t really be surprised when half our government doesn’t give a shit about them either.

Sexual Harassment and Bros- New Job Shenanigans

I am a Mid 20s, Latina/Native-American looking woman, in a world where women make 70 cents on the dollar compared her male counter parts.  White men are presidents.  They make up the casts of entire movies.  They run most companies.  They make the rules and the rules suit them.  

My body can grow and feed other humans and because it can it is expected to do so by most men.  Over time we ladies have just ended up at the bottom of shit.  I think it is because we prefer not to kill and injure things.  We are too busy giving life to shit.    

Third day of my new job- I sit in the middle of the room so I can see most of the room and have access to the door.  I sit next to a guy that I haven’t sat next to before because I am trying to be outgoing and win at this new job.  This guy’s bro sits in front of him.  Then another bro of theirs sits next to that new bro.  I am suddenly the 4th corner in this square of white bros.  Oh Lordissa.  The bro that is diagonal to me is a blond bro.  He is the head of the bros and he has peer pressured his fellow men into being bros for the day by association.  The slightly geeky guy and the fat guy have to be this guy's bros so they can keep their manhood intact.  

The day goes alright.  I am quick and I am focused and there is limited interaction with the bros.  We work in small groups only a few times; bros cubed and the ethinicly ambiguous girl.  

During one exercise the broiest of the bros is messing around and waisting our time.  I tell him to hurry up so we can finish our task.  His fellow bro looks at me and says, “Ooooh, you’re a sassy one.”  I almost punched him in the neck.  I knew a blow to the trachea would really hurt and I wanted to hit him so bad.  I think I gave him a look that said, “I mean business.  Shut up.”  We all carried on with the group work.  

I have a problem with sassy/spicey ethnic woman jokes/comments/stereotypes.  I am a serious professional person that my father raised to do my best and give 200%.  I will smoke you on any job.  Watch me do it.  When a man is serious in this department, he is a hard worker and good man.  When a woman does this, best case scenario- she is feisty, worst case scenario- she is a giant bitch on wheels.  So if you want to get me, a serious worker who will give you a professional pounding and make you look like an incompetent idiot, on your bad side- just go ahead and call me sassy.  

A bit later, the bro who called me sassy was in the washroom.  I dropped my pencil and bent down to get it.  The rotund bro, my table mate for the day, almost elbowed me in the face on accident as I was on my way up from retrieving my pencil.  He was very apologetic and kind and relieved that he did not injure me.  He is a kind bro at heart.  We laughed it off and I told him to forget about it.  No harm, no foul.  Lead bro, turned around to put his nose in our business to see what we were laughing about.  Rotund bro says, “Dude, I almost just nailed her right in the face with my elbow.  It woulda been so bad.”  I was trying to harness my inner bro (the one who likes beer and pork rinds and bowling and burping and farting and large sweatpants) and I said, “Don’t worry.  I have an older brother.  I got nailed in the face plenty of times before.”  Lead bro leans into rotund bro and says with a smirk, “I bet she’s been nailed in the face before.”  They laughed heartily.  My brows furrowed with worry, shock, and questions.  I turned to lead bro and said, “That is disgusting.”  I was pretty sure I knew what he meant by saying that.  I assumed he was referring to getting hit in the face with sperm- not work appropriate.  I told him, plainly, that his comment was disgusting, and I was also fishing to see if he would explain himself or apologize.  But all he did was laugh more.  This is a workplace- this is a school we were in.  So I said, “I am pretty sure I could get you in trouble for saying that.”  I was fishing for more info at this point and I wanted to see if he was saying what I thought he was saying.  He didn’t deny it.  He didn’t apologize.  He just kept laughing harder.  He did mean this joke in a sexual way.  He wasn't sorry about it. 

I also saw him gawking at a girl and giving her attention she really didn’t want.  And he of course didn’t stop (Google: Schrodinger’s Rapist).  I felt disgusted about the whole thing and I was able to change seats after lunch.  When I sat next to this new person she gave me her condolences for having to sit with the bros I was sitting with previously (even she knew from across the room that those guys where all bad news).  I suddenly dreaded the fact that this lead bro might be at my work site and I felt really bad for any woman he would work with in the future.  These 2 things prompted me to think that I should maybe tell someone about what happened- like my boss or HR.  I wasn’t sure though because I wondered if I was being over sensitive and I was also afraid for some reason.  I was afraid that no one would believe me or that they would blow it off.  I told my husband what happened and he was pissed.  He works for lawyers and they have zero tolerance for this kind of thing.  He was shocked that we had no sexual harassment training (we still haven’t and I don’t think we will).  He encouraged me to email my boss (a woman).  I emailed my boss and she set a meeting with me and her and HR.  

In my meeting with HR (an older woman), I told them everything and I told them that I wanted to be honest and transparent.  I won’t go into the details about the meeting but, long story short, the HR person told me that what happened did not constitute sexual harassment, nor was it really harassment at all.  She reduced it to a joke that I interpreted one way because I was sensitive.  

I regretted saying anything.  Deep regret. 

She gave me a few options and none of them really made me happy because none of them could be anonymous.  I voiced my fear about retaliation and she gave me this whole lecture about professionalism and about how retaliation would not be tolerated.  But all I could think of was - but you are tolerating sexual harassment so retaliation may be tolerated, too.

Ugh.  

They kept telling me that they “take things like this very seriously” but then they didn’t take it seriously.  I walked out of the meeting feeling demoralized and alone and angry.  I walked out of there thinking- I would have encouraged my friends and my future daughter to tell her bosses what happened, telling is the right thing to do.  I did “the right thing.”  Yet nothing good came from it.  This guy is going to continue to do this in the workplace because it is obvious he thinks it is ok.  He has never been seriously held accountable for it, and I have this strange feeling that he never will.  I also felt really betrayed by the 2 women in this meeting with me- my boss’s boss and the head HR lady.  I tried to justify it in my  head by thinking- this older woman doesn’t know what this joke means- but she could have asked me what it meant.  I tried to and I still try to explain it all away- both the joke and how HR handled it.  I have not been successful.  This is a really great microcosm of white male privilege and the patriarchy and all that awful bullshit.  This type of thing just cements the fact that I will always feel out of place and really isolated and that I am not welcome here, in white-male-America.  I truly don’t belong.  I hate that that fucker gets more money than me for half the work.  I hate that I am upstanding and respectful and bright and that in an interview he would get picked over me (statistically speaking).  After the HR meeting I was very numb.

I came home and told my husband and he was shocked and angry.  At his workplace people get fired for less.  I am not sure what I wanted to happen or what I expected to happen.  I guess I just wanted some accountability.  I think I wanted him to get a firm talking to- maybe get pulled aside and warned and a letter in his file.  I am sure that with his "firm talking to" he would not have known what incident they were talking about because I found out later that he had done this to another person.  I told a new work friend that I had to go meet with HR about some harassment and she instantly guessed who it was.  She told me that she gotten the creeps from him because she heard him make an inappropriate comment to someone about their mouth and how they drank from the water fountain.  

In this story there are so many things that went wrong.  At least 3 other people (the one I saw him gawking at, the hearer of the drinking fountain joke, and the receiver of the drinking fountain joke) did not see that it was important to mention to HR that this guy was out of line.  I won’t mention it to HR because those are not my stories to tell.  But I sure wish they would have.  Who knows what else this guy said or did?  I hate that women have been socialized to accept this type of behavior.   

I have a hard time being angry on my own behalf.  It is always delayed.  I tell myself I am ok and I carry on.  It hits me later that something really shitty happened to me.  Today my husband and I were walking in a very rich suburb.  Like this suburb is so rich I feel very uncomfortable being there.  Then my husband joked about me being the only brown person in the area and that they need to watch out for me because I am probably trouble (he was joking but it was also kind of true- I bet some people did think that- and so I nervously laughed).  We were  crossing the street when this SUV with 4 white, polo shirt wearing, guys yells out at us, “Hey! Could you go any slower?!”  And they laughed and squealed their tires as they drove away.  For some reason, with my raw nerves from this week, some fresh and tender wounds, and the fact that it was a car full of bros, plus my ever present feeling of never belonging- I had to hold back tears.  My husband knew I was upset and he tried to comfort me.  I just wanted to enjoy our time together so I tried to distract myself.  But it just made me so angry.  I was having a very long, internal, rant about how much I dislike white men.  I mean, I can count on 1 hand how many white guys I think are acceptable and that I trust.  But I also know that my hate contributes to the pool of hate that is ever growing in the universe and I try my best not to contribute to that.  I am having a lot of feelings.  

I am exhausted by all of this.

Finally

I called my grandmother tonight on the phone just to see how her brother was doing.  Of course I have other things I want to tell her and I also want to see how she is doing.  I call her a few times a week now.  I never used to do that.  As my grandfather became ill, about 6 months ago, I began to call her once a week.  As he worsened my calls increased.  Now that she is a widow, I try to call 3 times a week.  

The calls are short.  I don’t want to be a burden to her.  I know that so many people call her all day and, in being such a classic and lovely woman, she will put her best smile on even for a phone conversation.  Recently I did call her because I needed her.  I felt really hesitant to do that, especially because the call had to do with my own marriage troubles.  I didn’t want her to hear about my marriage (even in its state of disrepair) and then consequently long for her marriage.  But, I have to realize that she will do that anyway.  And then something incredible and surprising happened, but also not so incredible and amazing, I suppose.  I poured my junk out for her to see.  I knew she would understand and she did.  She empathized with me about how hard marriage is.  And then she was able to tell me how hard it is for her that my grampa is gone.  Then we both cried on the phone.  

Back in December we threw this huge party at our house for a family member.  It was too much for me.  I can plan these things, but the execution makes me itchy.  I played the perfect hostess and tried my best.  The next day I called my grandmother and I told her that I don’t know how she did that for years with my grandfather.  And for some strange reason it cracked her up.  She just laughed and laughed on the other side of the phone.  It was hearty, belly, tear-producing laughter.  It was contagious and we both just laughed.  I called to tell her about it because as I was in the midst of serving appetizers, I thought of my grandmother entertaining in the 1950’s.  Her and I are so much alike.  We are best suited in the work place and out of the home.  I am a much better cook than her, but we are wild women.  We need to be free range.  We will do things that we have to do, but it will kill us.  We will serve our nicest food to the biggest bull-shitters and roll our eyes fiercely as we stroll back to the kitchen for more.    

I told her about my experience out of exhaustion and we connected in this funny little way.  And then she just couldn’t stop laughing about how ridiculous it was.  I know exactly what she looked like on the other side of the phone.  Her breath got wheezy she laughed so hard.  

This evening, during our phone call, I shared with her another thought that I knew she could relate to.  Again she laughed and laughed.  My mother and aunt were with her and they didn’t know what was going on.  I laughed with her.  I laughed because she was laughing, and because life is ridiculous, and because I knew that her laughter was genuine.  I didn’t intend to make her laugh, I never do.  But I am so glad I did.  She told me that she will probably wake up in the night and remember and laugh some more.  I believe her.  I have seen and heard her do this.  It’s like she stores little bits of funny jokes in her pocket for a late night snack that she can enjoy on her way to the bathroom to sustain her for the long night of darkness and loneliness.  

In the moments after laughing where you sigh, and giggle remnants pop up, my heart felt full and glad and satisfied.  You see, it is not just that my mother and I have a strained relationship, it is that out relationship is non-traditional.  My mother is biologically my mother and she carried me in her womb and she has the cesarian scars to show for it.  But for all intensive purposes, she was not able to be the mother I needed when I needed it.  We do not have a traditional relationship.  I am her peer.  She is my peer.  She did not mother me.  In fact, I mothered her.  So our relationship exists because we have a similar family circle.   

I have always wanted a traditional mother, though.  Everyone does.  When we don’t have one we have a huge hole in our souls.  I am lacking in the parental unit department.  It has been a long and lonely road.  Yet my grandmother has been my constant.  She has been my sun.  I can safely orbit her and know where I am and where my home is.  I have realized that my grandmother is my mother.  When we share these moments and they make me feel whole, I have these tastes of pure happiness and completion I have been looking for.  It doesn’t make up for the times that I have felt like I have been hurled toward a black hole, or a concrete wall, but it helps.  Those moments where we are so strongly attached over the phone, draw me out from the event horizon of the black hole.

In my college anatomy and physiology course I remember the day we learned about gametes.  Males produce sperm constantly.  Their bodies are on a clock where they constantly make new, fresh, sperm.  This is why Larry King has tons of babies and he is an old, wrinkly, man.  Females produce a fixed number of eggs and these are always with us.  We are born with these eggs.  All of our ovum that we are ever gonna have are in our little baby bodies before we are born.  This means that the egg that made me were once in my mother's ovaries whilst she was in her mother’s womb.  My grandmother once carried me in her own womb.  That shit is profound.  When I heard that in class I thought, well at least the woman I love the most carried me in her womb.

I feel so glad for my snippets of joy that I get to have with my gramma.  I appreciate all of the memories and I cling to them.  I am so happy that I get to go through the relationship evolution and maturation with her that most children go through with their parents.   

Thank you, more please.

I hope and pray so desperately for all the motherless children out there to find someone that can bring them this feeling, too.  I hope for you, I really do.  I pray for you, I really do.  

Biracial Baggage- more on race...Surprise!

I was dealt this hand.  It is a strange hand, or at least that is what I think about it.  I am biracial.  My mother is white and my father is black.  To be an american with that parentage is no walk in the park.  I will not explain any of that in this post.  That is hard and exhausting.  But I will explain my experience, which is also hard and exhausting.

I do not look like my parents.  If I am in any store with my mother or any member or her family, it is not assumed that we are together.  If I am in a restaurant waiting with anyone in my father’s family, it is not assumed that I am one of their party.  I am brown.  I look Latino.  I look Hispanic.  I look Mexican.  I do not pass for Black.  I do not pass for white.  It was not a problem for me that I did not look like anyone in my family (except for my brother and my sister), until I was 5 when someone so kindly pointed it out to me (proof that race is a social construct; but a construct that is given so much weight).  

It was hard to feel anxious as a child.  I felt anxious because I didn't look like my father.  I was afraid someone would take me from him.  It was hard to have people admire my mother for adopting brown siblings.  I hated explaining myself and my existence.  I mean, who likes to do that anyway?  No one.  No one likes to explain who they are or how they are.  It is dehumanizing.  

I knew that I belonged to them and they knew that they belonged to me, but everyone else needed convincing.  That quickly tires a child.  Grown ups thought of me as a pleasant child.  I had good manners.  My hair was always creatively displayed.  I was energetic, witty, and talkative.  I could engage adults in a conversation.  And then suddenly they would look at me and say, “what are you?”  This continues to this day.  As an adult, I get it less, because I intimidate people (this is what friends tell me).  But I will occasionally find a brave person whose curiosity gets the best of them and they blurt out, “what are you?  what is your backround?  what ethnicity are you?  what is your heritage?”  They try to be diplomatic about it.  But once you open your mouth to ask a stranger these things, you can no longer be considered a kind person or a diplomat.  

You are being a nosey shithead.  

I know that people hear the way I speak and they see my skin and the 2 things do not sit right with them.  They want to know about my race because then they can categorize me and put me in a box.  They want a cheat sheet on how to treat me.  Latina, Middle Eastern, Native American, Indian, Southeast Asian- who knows?  

But, oh my, they are curious.  Then they find out that the only language I speak is english, and they really get confused.  I recently found out that was another way for people to ask about my race. I thought it was kind of genius of them.  But my answer only confused them more, which pleased me greatly.  

I used to answer people, gladly.  Or I would have them take a guess.  Now, I just sigh in exasperation.  I should just come up with some smart ass answer.  But I was raised to be more polite than that.  And I also know that I am still a minority, so I need to be kind and diplomatic so people won’t judge other minorities harshly because of me; the of the many burdens for People of Color.

Once when I was in high school my mother and I were at a large craft store finding a pattern for a costume.  A woman with a cart wandered over to look at patterns, too.  In her cart was a little girl, all of 4 years old.  The woman looked at my mother and I and said, “Can my daughter meet your daughter?  Can she meet you both?  I want her to see people that look like us.”  The moment was profound and charged with a kind of electricity I have never felt before or since.  Sometimes I feel something similar when I see a biracial family, but it is not as poignant as this moment was.  The woman was white and her daughter was brown like me.  The woman saw us and immediately knew what we were.  She truly saw us.  And she wanted us to see her and her child.  Most importantly of all, she wanted to give her child a taste of seeing people like them- a person like her.  My mother said, “Sure,” and we walked over to wave at her daughter sitting in the cart.  The mother said, “Look!  This girl is just like you.”  And she smiled at her daughter who shyly glanced at me.  I was glad that this woman was brave enough to speak with us.  Seeing them together was just as important for me as it was for the girl.  When we see people that look like us, we feel less alone. 

It is just so rare that I see someone just like me.  

My sister always says that she feels complete when we are all together as a family.  Or at least, when there is a heard of brown people orbited by a stray white or black person, we are better equipped to handle the side eyes or the comments.  Together it more easily rolls off our collective brown skins.  Together we can laugh about it in the car afterwards.  Together we can joke about how we couldn’t put an entire spanish sentence together if our life depended on it.  Together we can make jokes about race to lighten the mood, and our laughter eases the tension because we all understand how awkward the jokes are.  

Thinking of this moment, with the young girl and her mother, makes me weep.  I know what that loneliness feels like and I know that insatiable desire to fit somewhere.  This thirst is not often quenched when you inhabit the kind of skin that I do.  I never feel black enough.  I never will be white enough.  Alas, I am not Latina and I never pretend to be.  I straddle these 2 divided worlds and I have to make my home somewhere in between.  And I know that no matter where I rest, someone in my family doesn’t quite get it or doesn’t understand why I placed myself here or there or anywhere.  

It is quite lonely here.