I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.
-- Anaïs Nin
Showing posts with label men. Show all posts
Showing posts with label men. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Sunday, June 24, 2012
To S., High School Graduate (Who is Just Getting Started), With Love from His Ms. B
S. and I met each other about 4 years ago while I was still working in a group foster home. I still refer to him and his younger brother lovingly as "my boys," although they are rapidly approaching manhood and never really were "mine."
I am honored that they keep me in the loop of their lives and was happy to be given the chance to speak this bit to my dear S. in person at the celebration of his high school graduation this past Thursday.
*
These people, they don't know me, so I'm going to start with a line I stole:
"Excuse my French / Emotion in my passion / But I wear my heart on my sleeve like it's the new fashion"
I also want to set our stage with another phrase:
I am enormously proud of you.
(That one's all mine.)
I also stole this line:
"Know you are where you are not by chance, but by the design of your Creator, for your own development and for the development of those around you."
It reminds me of an article I read once.
There is a tribe in East Africa called the Masaai. Wikipedia tells me that the Maasai are an ethnic group of semi-nomadic people located in Kenya and northern Tanzania. They are among the best known of African ethnic groups, due to their distinctive customs and dress and residence near the many game parks of East Africa. They speak a language the name of which I cannot pronounce that is a member of the Nilo-Saharan language family that is related to Dinka and Nuer. The Masaai are also educated in the official languages of Kenya and Tanzania: Swahili and English.
They have cultural traditions that look nothing like ours. Or at least that's what it looks like when you just look with the eyes that allow you to see only the surface
The Masaai distinguish the men from the boys. Becoming a Masaai man involves these special rituals with special clothes and special colors and music and behaviors. The men in this culture tend animals, hunt other animals, and fight to protect their home, their women, their children. They do that fighting with spears, with knives, and with their hands.
Now, back to my article.
It was about a young college student named James Nampushi. Mr. Nampushi said:
"I must work hard. I must work hard. This is a miracle to me. To be here, is God. I must work hard because I know where I came from and where I am now. So I have to do something..."
S., there is something you have in common with this man beyond the fact that your skin color is much closer to his than it is to mine.
S., you must work hard. You must. That you are here, this is God. You must work hard because you know where you came from and where you are now.
The last part is the clincher: So you have to do something.
You and Mr. Nampushi. You both have to do something.
Mr. Nampushi grew up in the tribal Masaai community that taught him certain things about what it means to be a man. He learned these things, and then he decided that the salvation of his people in a world that is growing by leaps and bounds involved, at least in some small part, continuing his education in a land far, far away from his comfort zone to learn things that the people in the culture he came from couldn't teach him.
Things that he had to learn for himself.
From himself.
From the rest of the world.
From people who were different from him.
Sometimes drastically different.
Ms. B, what's your point? I can hear you asking with your eyes, kiddo.
Here comes the preachy part. Get ready.
Know this:
As a Black man who grew up in an urban environment and finished growing up in foster care in South Carolina, the statistics that you face at this critical juncture of your life are damning. Do not, do not, DO NOT LET THIS LIMIT YOUR EXPECTATIONS OF YOURSELF. Push the messages of thug life, victimization, materialism, the voices of entitlement and violence, as well as the voices that tell you that because your skin is brown your brain was not made to process just as much information as anyone else walking around away. Throw them away. Ball them up, tear them into shreds, and incinerate them. Open the windows of your life, and blow the ashes out into the breeze.
Know this:
God has done a lot to bring you to this point. You and I can both think of times in your life when He could just as well have abandoned you in one way or another. He didn't. Think about that. Think about what it means that the All-Knowing, All-Wise Provider and Creator of All decided to hang onto you. Decided to provide the hearts of all of the people in this room to love you and believe in you and try to show you what you are made of. Do you think that this was an accident? Think about it.
Know this:
You have been blessed with a voice. You have choices about how to use this voice. By now surely you have learned that people listen to you. Consider what you hear, consider the biggest picture you can, and choose your words and actions wisely.
Know this:
Your academic achievement to this point has not been indicative of your capacity. We both know that, and now so does everyone else in the room. I get it; you were busy with other things. Your childhood included more violence and loss than mine, and your prefrontal cortex, the part of your brain that makes plans and provides motivation, has been otherwise occupied over the past few years.
I've got news for you. You've landed. From now on, not nearly as many things are going to be handed to you as you're used to. You're going to have to prove that you deserve them. You're going to have to put your shoulder to the grindstone and push. Go show us what you can do.
Actually, forget us.
Show yourself what you can do.
I am proud of you. I don't have enough words to be able to tell you what it does to my heart to see you graduated... to know what I know of your story, to see you tall and strong, to see your clear eyes looking off onto the next thing... proud isn't the right word. I am blessed. Blessed and richly favored.
Don't mistake this for a stopping point, though. True, you get to pause, be congratulated, and look back at how much road you've covered... but, baby, it's so far from done. It's really only the beginning.
Go.
Go get it.
Go get into it and on it and all over it.
There's work yet to be done.
We're your tribe... we're your people... and we need you.
And by we, I mean the world.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
More On Girls Who Read
First, read this.
Then, read this.
By the time the girl who reads grows up, she knows that the only men worth having are Darcys.
Mr. Darcy and the girl who reads meet at least twice every year as she slowly relishes Pride and Prejudice as though she is eating a really, really good chocolate cake. You know the kind--rich and soft with buttercream frosting and raspberry sauce? You have to eat it slowly. Relish, one might say.
Women who read are all Elizabeth, and we can relax because Darcy will love her every time. Love her every single time. Without fail. Darcy is good like that. Consistent.
Every time Elizabeth is too smart, especially for a woman, Darcy loves her. Every time she's not the prettiest girl at the party, Darcy loves her. Every time she speaks her mind to the point of argumentative, Darcy loves her. Every time her family is a complete disaster, Darcy loves her.
This is the dream... the impossible, unbelievable dream.
I want to be clear, this--tall, handsome Darcy finds you, fights for you, marries you, and, with long declarations of passionate love, carries you off to his mansion to live happily ever after--is not expected to happen in the real of life of a girl who reads.
Real life is different. The girl who reads will readily admit that she is far too aware of this fact.
As she grows up, the girl who reads is done settling. She's done dating around, done giving it time, done waiting it out and seeing if he will eventually show up in one form or another. She's been hopeful. She's been patient. She has worked on herself. She has been open to possibility. Sometimes she's stubbornly, hard-headedly, stupidly refused to see the reality of the object of her affection and lived to be deeply embarrassed.
And she doesn't want to talk about it.
She's stopped looking.
She's stopped waiting.
She's planting her herbs in the pots she's gathered herself, determined to fill her life to over-flowing with cooking, knitting, music, clothes, the paint on her walls, her family of friends... determined to make this life, this one right here, the one she's actually living, the very best it can be.
Without Darcy.
Alone.
She's going to do it because life is too short to waste it pining over men who won't appreciate the subtleties of her morning routine... who won't notice when she has her nails and toes done... who won't allow her the emotional space to cry at the end of that bad movie that reminds her of her dad... who won't have enough thoughts and feelings about the world to keep up with her. They won't be strong enough for her darkness, and they won't be able to light the corners of her heart with laughter.
She won't waste any more of her time.
She's going to assemble her own life. It won't include you. You took too long. She couldn't find you, no matter how many internet dating sites and blind dates she, humiliated, suffered through.
When you meet her, realize that she's learned to be loud because she's afraid.
Afraid that you will see her frazzled edges (the ones she tries to keep covered with pedicures and fresh flowers in her house) and run the other way. Afraid that she'll never be pretty enough for you to stay. Afraid that she'll never be able to think of enough interesting things to say. Afraid that you don't like kissing her as much as she likes kissing you, and afraid because she likes kissing you as much as she likes kissing you.
Afraid that if she tells you too much about the actual state of her heart, you will think that she is trying to pressure you into fixing it... into staying... why aren't you running away again? Or worse, that you will figure out what she keeps in the locked box in the very back of her very back-est hiding place:
That she very desperately needs to be loved... all the way loved... and is waiting for that.
Holding out.
Holding way, way out.
She's not looking at you because she doesn't want to see you not looking at her. She will almost run away from you because she doesn't think that you will chase her. She doesn't think that you would ever want to catch her.
When you ask her how she is, she will be fine every time. Fantastic even. Great. Doing really, really well. She will look you right in the eyes. When she's not fine, she'll look down before you catch her almost-tears.
And she is doing really, really well. She has a career. She is educated. She has interesting friends, a dynamic life, purpose, passion, intelligence. She has books. She has lots of books. Her life is useful, and when it is not useful, it is interesting.
You didn't read the book, so I'll tell you what's important about Darcy.
He's steady. Darcy means what he says. You know that from the kind of man he is. When he tells Elizabeth that he loves her, she can trust it to her very core. It's not going to change. He will die loving her.
He has principles. He's not doing this casually. Darcy doesn't do anything casually. Girls who read aren't into casual. If it's going to be casual, we'd rather be reading. The book lasts all the way until it's done, and if you're not ready to be done, you can read it again.
Also, Darcy wants Elizabeth.
He doesn't just like her. He wants her. He doesn't just think that she is interesting. He wants her. He wants to hear her thoughts. He wants to tell her all about his insides. He wants to take her, to hold her, to ravish her--you can hear it in the way he speaks to her.
Yes, we want you to have a job. We want you to have an education of some kind. We want you to have interests and passions and other things, but what's seductive about Darcy isn't his money. It isn't his height. It isn't his place in the world. That's not why he's the object of so very many day-dreams.
It's him. It's the kind of man he is.
Do you want a girl who reads?
Ask her out. Take her to dinner, take her to coffee, cook with her, take her for a walk... it doesn't matter. Ask. Pick her up. Drive. Pay. Insist.
Listen to her. Make eye contact, and hold it. Speak. Say something important... something intelligent or vulnerable or funny or honest. Give her time to say something back. She may be a better listener at the start. Use patience. Ask her what she's read. Ask her what she learned. Don't talk about the weather. She sucks at small talk.
If she'll let you, read what she writes. She may say no, but it's mostly because she's afraid you'll be bored. Ask again. Her writing is the clearest way she's learned to articulate the parts of herself she protects, and you need to know about those parts. You need to love those parts.
Realize that her life is orchestrated to not need you... to avoid needing you. She doesn't need you. She wants you. Want her. Sometimes, need her. Tell her so.
Bring her flowers. It will be best if you picked them out of a yard somewhere.
Let her be loud. Look for what she is hiding.
Put your hand on the small of her back at parties. Hold her hand. Kiss her in public. Claim her. Wrap your arms around her while she's doing the dishes. Distract her. Spend the whole morning in bed.
Tell her that she is beautiful. She may never have heard it in her whole life. She may vehemently disagree with you. Hold her head in your hands, look into her eyes, and tell her that she is beautiful. When she cries, tell her again. Mean it.
Don't say it if you don't mean it.
Don't fear her tears. She fears them; be strong enough for both of you.
Fight with her. Make her yell at you. Let her cry. Give her time to speak what needs spoken. Hold her when it's over. Don't leave. Instead, stay.
Hold her. Know how much it takes for her to admit to you that she is struggling. She may want to talk about it, but she may not. She may just want you to hold her. Do it. You may never know how much that helps.
Tell her that you love her. Tell her the moment you know it. Tell her again. Tell her on the phone. Tell her by text message. Tell her in front of her friends. In front of your friends. In front of strangers. Tell her again and again and again. It will take her a long time to believe you, but those moments will sustain her while she learns to accept that you're telling the truth.
Wait. Be patient. There are parts of her that are growing that never grew before. She's been hurt and disappointed every single time she's tried this, and trusting you takes courage every single day.
She's creating a space for you right up front--a warm, arms wide open, soft space for you to land. She'd like you to stay awhile. Stay forever. You'll be stronger together.
It's worth it.
You will push and pull each other into better humans... she will dream big enough to keep up with yours, big enough to pull you into hers, to create whole new cities of dreams you never allowed yourself before.
Look for a girl who reads.
Don't just date her.
Love her.
Don't stop.
Then, read this.
By the time the girl who reads grows up, she knows that the only men worth having are Darcys.
Mr. Darcy and the girl who reads meet at least twice every year as she slowly relishes Pride and Prejudice as though she is eating a really, really good chocolate cake. You know the kind--rich and soft with buttercream frosting and raspberry sauce? You have to eat it slowly. Relish, one might say.
Women who read are all Elizabeth, and we can relax because Darcy will love her every time. Love her every single time. Without fail. Darcy is good like that. Consistent.
Every time Elizabeth is too smart, especially for a woman, Darcy loves her. Every time she's not the prettiest girl at the party, Darcy loves her. Every time she speaks her mind to the point of argumentative, Darcy loves her. Every time her family is a complete disaster, Darcy loves her.
This is the dream... the impossible, unbelievable dream.
I want to be clear, this--tall, handsome Darcy finds you, fights for you, marries you, and, with long declarations of passionate love, carries you off to his mansion to live happily ever after--is not expected to happen in the real of life of a girl who reads.
Real life is different. The girl who reads will readily admit that she is far too aware of this fact.
As she grows up, the girl who reads is done settling. She's done dating around, done giving it time, done waiting it out and seeing if he will eventually show up in one form or another. She's been hopeful. She's been patient. She has worked on herself. She has been open to possibility. Sometimes she's stubbornly, hard-headedly, stupidly refused to see the reality of the object of her affection and lived to be deeply embarrassed.
And she doesn't want to talk about it.
She's stopped looking.
She's stopped waiting.
She's planting her herbs in the pots she's gathered herself, determined to fill her life to over-flowing with cooking, knitting, music, clothes, the paint on her walls, her family of friends... determined to make this life, this one right here, the one she's actually living, the very best it can be.
Without Darcy.
Alone.
She's going to do it because life is too short to waste it pining over men who won't appreciate the subtleties of her morning routine... who won't notice when she has her nails and toes done... who won't allow her the emotional space to cry at the end of that bad movie that reminds her of her dad... who won't have enough thoughts and feelings about the world to keep up with her. They won't be strong enough for her darkness, and they won't be able to light the corners of her heart with laughter.
She won't waste any more of her time.
She's going to assemble her own life. It won't include you. You took too long. She couldn't find you, no matter how many internet dating sites and blind dates she, humiliated, suffered through.
When you meet her, realize that she's learned to be loud because she's afraid.
Afraid that you will see her frazzled edges (the ones she tries to keep covered with pedicures and fresh flowers in her house) and run the other way. Afraid that she'll never be pretty enough for you to stay. Afraid that she'll never be able to think of enough interesting things to say. Afraid that you don't like kissing her as much as she likes kissing you, and afraid because she likes kissing you as much as she likes kissing you.
Afraid that if she tells you too much about the actual state of her heart, you will think that she is trying to pressure you into fixing it... into staying... why aren't you running away again? Or worse, that you will figure out what she keeps in the locked box in the very back of her very back-est hiding place:
That she very desperately needs to be loved... all the way loved... and is waiting for that.
Holding out.
Holding way, way out.
She's not looking at you because she doesn't want to see you not looking at her. She will almost run away from you because she doesn't think that you will chase her. She doesn't think that you would ever want to catch her.
When you ask her how she is, she will be fine every time. Fantastic even. Great. Doing really, really well. She will look you right in the eyes. When she's not fine, she'll look down before you catch her almost-tears.
And she is doing really, really well. She has a career. She is educated. She has interesting friends, a dynamic life, purpose, passion, intelligence. She has books. She has lots of books. Her life is useful, and when it is not useful, it is interesting.
You didn't read the book, so I'll tell you what's important about Darcy.
He's steady. Darcy means what he says. You know that from the kind of man he is. When he tells Elizabeth that he loves her, she can trust it to her very core. It's not going to change. He will die loving her.
He has principles. He's not doing this casually. Darcy doesn't do anything casually. Girls who read aren't into casual. If it's going to be casual, we'd rather be reading. The book lasts all the way until it's done, and if you're not ready to be done, you can read it again.
Also, Darcy wants Elizabeth.
He doesn't just like her. He wants her. He doesn't just think that she is interesting. He wants her. He wants to hear her thoughts. He wants to tell her all about his insides. He wants to take her, to hold her, to ravish her--you can hear it in the way he speaks to her.
Yes, we want you to have a job. We want you to have an education of some kind. We want you to have interests and passions and other things, but what's seductive about Darcy isn't his money. It isn't his height. It isn't his place in the world. That's not why he's the object of so very many day-dreams.
It's him. It's the kind of man he is.
Do you want a girl who reads?
Ask her out. Take her to dinner, take her to coffee, cook with her, take her for a walk... it doesn't matter. Ask. Pick her up. Drive. Pay. Insist.
Listen to her. Make eye contact, and hold it. Speak. Say something important... something intelligent or vulnerable or funny or honest. Give her time to say something back. She may be a better listener at the start. Use patience. Ask her what she's read. Ask her what she learned. Don't talk about the weather. She sucks at small talk.
If she'll let you, read what she writes. She may say no, but it's mostly because she's afraid you'll be bored. Ask again. Her writing is the clearest way she's learned to articulate the parts of herself she protects, and you need to know about those parts. You need to love those parts.
Realize that her life is orchestrated to not need you... to avoid needing you. She doesn't need you. She wants you. Want her. Sometimes, need her. Tell her so.
Bring her flowers. It will be best if you picked them out of a yard somewhere.
Let her be loud. Look for what she is hiding.
Put your hand on the small of her back at parties. Hold her hand. Kiss her in public. Claim her. Wrap your arms around her while she's doing the dishes. Distract her. Spend the whole morning in bed.
Tell her that she is beautiful. She may never have heard it in her whole life. She may vehemently disagree with you. Hold her head in your hands, look into her eyes, and tell her that she is beautiful. When she cries, tell her again. Mean it.
Don't say it if you don't mean it.
Don't fear her tears. She fears them; be strong enough for both of you.
Fight with her. Make her yell at you. Let her cry. Give her time to speak what needs spoken. Hold her when it's over. Don't leave. Instead, stay.
Hold her. Know how much it takes for her to admit to you that she is struggling. She may want to talk about it, but she may not. She may just want you to hold her. Do it. You may never know how much that helps.
Tell her that you love her. Tell her the moment you know it. Tell her again. Tell her on the phone. Tell her by text message. Tell her in front of her friends. In front of your friends. In front of strangers. Tell her again and again and again. It will take her a long time to believe you, but those moments will sustain her while she learns to accept that you're telling the truth.
Wait. Be patient. There are parts of her that are growing that never grew before. She's been hurt and disappointed every single time she's tried this, and trusting you takes courage every single day.
She's creating a space for you right up front--a warm, arms wide open, soft space for you to land. She'd like you to stay awhile. Stay forever. You'll be stronger together.
It's worth it.
You will push and pull each other into better humans... she will dream big enough to keep up with yours, big enough to pull you into hers, to create whole new cities of dreams you never allowed yourself before.
Look for a girl who reads.
Don't just date her.
Love her.
Don't stop.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
brother
Familiar music blares from my always-too-loud phone. I know what answering will mean. The shield I made this morning during the walk from bed to speaking and have been using all day to protect others from the Death Star I can feel being quietly built inside will be knocked right out of my hands and smashed on the ground. For better or for worse, he is good at destroying. He is also good at other things. I press "ignore." He will wait. Not patiently, but he will wait. I'm not ready yet. I may be when he tries again. He never waits for very long. Even states away, he can feel it when I'm hiding.
I realized early on the path to adulthood that, beyond my beloved father, I knew nothing of the more angular gender. I knew nothing of what it is to think in straight lines... to be trapped in pants... to compete in ways which I never seemed to be able to keep track of... to have responsibility before God that is different from my own... to live on the other side of the coin. I was smart enough to know that I needed to learn. I asked God in simple words, and He answered simply.
Had said answer consented to occupy less space, I might not have noticed him. He might have gotten away simply with internet communication and occasional meetings, but somewhere in there I turned my head, and he was suddenly part of what "family" feels like. Together, we came to better understand other words. He taught me about "protect" and "respect"... taught me in ways you can only learn from a brother...
taught me in ways you can only learn from someone who is willing to tell you when you have become the enemy...
taught me in ways you can only learn when someone turns up when there are lions to fight, bares his teeth, and jumps into the pit with you...
someone who never needs a list of reasons why he should hasten when he hears, "Help," and knows how to never make you feel small for asking...
or feel small at all...
... and it's not because he walked out of a comic book. I have flown at his demons. I know them by name. He and I have also come nearly to blows, as is often the case when fire meets fire and there's just about anything in the vicinity. We are not known for our long fuses, but then again, although we may look nothing alike, bits of our souls seem to be cut from the same cloth. There are times when he smacks the cup out of my hands when I'm trying to hydrate just to see the look on my face, and there are times when I have to push him away because he is standing on the hem of my dress with his big foot while I'm trying to leave the room.
Not on purpose.
But sometimes on purpose.
And sometimes it's really caught on something else, but then I'm one who blames those in her heart first.
Don't make that face. You are, too.
Somewhere in my mind, the thought of the brother God sent me from another family is stitched to the word "community." We like to think of community as something out there, not something in here. We say that we "work in the community," like it's a place and not the corners of our hearts stapled together... or "with the community," like we can work with ourselves. Like you and me are not made of the same elements. Like we could separate, even if we tried. Like turning my back on you isn't turning my back on me which, as it turns out, looks a lot like circles.
Yes, I realize my rambling, but there is something to say about what has happened that has something to do with the way the world smells right now... something about the interchange between woman and man... something about what that has done to so many... something which needs to be laid plain:
There is that which obedience to God protects. There is that which boundaries protect.
Somewhere in my heart there is a love letter to him, one in which I will explain what it feels like to know down deep that I am heard... that my voice is one which speaks... that what is spoken is heard through the filter of respect, a filter created because the voice is mine. Through the mirror of his eyes, I saw parts of myself which were before invisible, parts which he still defends tirelessly, just as tirelessly as I defend his. I will explain in that letter how it feels for the mirror to appear and call for my attention when I think that I may be invisible again... although I suspect that he may already know. I hope that he does...
Somewhere in that letter will come this lesson: Respect makes for love like this, love which doesn't need to go away and hide... all-inclusive love for life and for humanity which rejoices with the chance to read this letter to his wife, to her children, to their children... love which turns into service and fosters the development of others, of groups of others, of a family which comes in a billion different shades of love, love which stands in the sunlight and announces, "This is what community feels like. This is what it feels like to be the human family."
It's what I mean when I ask, "Unite the hearts of Thy servants..."
It's what I mean when I sing, "All are His servants, and all abide by His bidding."
It's what pumps in my heart when it beats, "We all come from God, and unto Him do we return."
I smiled when the phone rang. She saw the picture of his brown face and the face of his daughter on the screen. "Who's that?"
"My brother."
I realized early on the path to adulthood that, beyond my beloved father, I knew nothing of the more angular gender. I knew nothing of what it is to think in straight lines... to be trapped in pants... to compete in ways which I never seemed to be able to keep track of... to have responsibility before God that is different from my own... to live on the other side of the coin. I was smart enough to know that I needed to learn. I asked God in simple words, and He answered simply.
Had said answer consented to occupy less space, I might not have noticed him. He might have gotten away simply with internet communication and occasional meetings, but somewhere in there I turned my head, and he was suddenly part of what "family" feels like. Together, we came to better understand other words. He taught me about "protect" and "respect"... taught me in ways you can only learn from a brother...
taught me in ways you can only learn from someone who is willing to tell you when you have become the enemy...
taught me in ways you can only learn when someone turns up when there are lions to fight, bares his teeth, and jumps into the pit with you...
someone who never needs a list of reasons why he should hasten when he hears, "Help," and knows how to never make you feel small for asking...
or feel small at all...
... and it's not because he walked out of a comic book. I have flown at his demons. I know them by name. He and I have also come nearly to blows, as is often the case when fire meets fire and there's just about anything in the vicinity. We are not known for our long fuses, but then again, although we may look nothing alike, bits of our souls seem to be cut from the same cloth. There are times when he smacks the cup out of my hands when I'm trying to hydrate just to see the look on my face, and there are times when I have to push him away because he is standing on the hem of my dress with his big foot while I'm trying to leave the room.
Not on purpose.
But sometimes on purpose.
And sometimes it's really caught on something else, but then I'm one who blames those in her heart first.
Don't make that face. You are, too.
Somewhere in my mind, the thought of the brother God sent me from another family is stitched to the word "community." We like to think of community as something out there, not something in here. We say that we "work in the community," like it's a place and not the corners of our hearts stapled together... or "with the community," like we can work with ourselves. Like you and me are not made of the same elements. Like we could separate, even if we tried. Like turning my back on you isn't turning my back on me which, as it turns out, looks a lot like circles.
Yes, I realize my rambling, but there is something to say about what has happened that has something to do with the way the world smells right now... something about the interchange between woman and man... something about what that has done to so many... something which needs to be laid plain:
There is that which obedience to God protects. There is that which boundaries protect.
Somewhere in my heart there is a love letter to him, one in which I will explain what it feels like to know down deep that I am heard... that my voice is one which speaks... that what is spoken is heard through the filter of respect, a filter created because the voice is mine. Through the mirror of his eyes, I saw parts of myself which were before invisible, parts which he still defends tirelessly, just as tirelessly as I defend his. I will explain in that letter how it feels for the mirror to appear and call for my attention when I think that I may be invisible again... although I suspect that he may already know. I hope that he does...
Somewhere in that letter will come this lesson: Respect makes for love like this, love which doesn't need to go away and hide... all-inclusive love for life and for humanity which rejoices with the chance to read this letter to his wife, to her children, to their children... love which turns into service and fosters the development of others, of groups of others, of a family which comes in a billion different shades of love, love which stands in the sunlight and announces, "This is what community feels like. This is what it feels like to be the human family."
It's what I mean when I ask, "Unite the hearts of Thy servants..."
It's what I mean when I sing, "All are His servants, and all abide by His bidding."
It's what pumps in my heart when it beats, "We all come from God, and unto Him do we return."
I smiled when the phone rang. She saw the picture of his brown face and the face of his daughter on the screen. "Who's that?"
"My brother."
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
It is impossible...
... to explain everything which has transpired since last I wrote. Here are some of my learnings:
1. There is a reason they call it working FULL-TIME and going to school FULL-TIME. Doing both at the same time in one life results in a negative quantity of time and whole lot of half-assed assignments in both domains.
2. Our system for assisting those suffering with any kind of mental challenge and their families is one of the more broken things in our world. No one gets what they need without unimaginable pain and stress that does not let go. The only way to get through this is one breath at a time.
3. I love the boys I work with more than I ever thought it was possible to love children that did not come out of my own womb. They smell, they curse, they are involved in all sorts of destructive behaviors, they devour media whose benefit I cannot find, they only love you back when it suits them, and they have attitudes bigger than the whole sky... and somtimes things happen and they run away and I don't know where they are or if they are safe or cold or hungry or dead or injured or scared or sad or destroying themselves by some other means, and when they come home I realize why my heart was racing and I could't sleep and it makes tears in my eyes and I have to hold on to them for a few seconds and touch their faces to make sure that the peices are still attached. There are moments in every day I work there that are so fundamentally human that my heart literally hurts. Human = someone needs to listen to my story. Human = someone needs to be there for me to give my school papers to. Human = someone needs to hug me when I get home. Human = someone needs to laugh at my jokes. Human = someone needs to be delighted that I came back with both feet under me. That anyone could birth a child like any of the children in my cottage and ever give him away... ever consent to have him taken away... ever not be able to find the strength necessary to move heaven and earth for him... this baffles me. I am better able to interact with the bafflement than I have been in the past. The parents concerned cannot find the strength. Things have happened beyond their control. Most of them come from so many generations of shattered families that they do not know how to even think about being 1 of 2, let alone 1 of a whole family. The world is an ugly place, and foster care is another place where the ugly shows clearly. All I know is that if the universe conspires in such a way that I cannot adopt or have a son of my own, I think that my life will be incomplete. Seriously, I have sisters; I knew about daughters. I did not know about sons. Why didn't anyone ever tell me about sons?
4. I have the capacity to literally love anyone. This is both a blessing and a curse. I am still learning how to interact with this quality. Love is, after all, both blind and the answer.
5. EVERYTHING (from eye contact to tone of voice to words that are said to when to speak and when to not to what you say and how you say it and what color shirt you're wearing and more things even than that) about communication is cultural. There literally are different sets of rules for different colors of people, and an annoyingly small number of people are able to understand that people should be treated differently when they deliberately slight you than when they simply did not speak your cultural language.
6. The flu SUCKS. Seriously, that thing knocked me on my behind for 1 week and left me perpetually dizzy and exhausted to weak for another week on top of that. I lay there and thought, "Yep, I could see how someone could die from this. It wouldn't be that hard to die from this." Still firmly in this world, but it was truly awful.
7. I need curtains on my windows in my room. I have decided to go ahead and let this be a long, laborious process of picking some that I really love instead of settling for ones which will work but which I don't really care about. This is probably metaphorical, but for now it's about curtains. Stop judging me.
8. Speaking of judging, I do not know where single women even go to find a man. I am open to this possibility, and I feel like, despite #1, now is the time. There is a startling lack of options.
9. I hate school and everything it stands for. Who said this was about education? I've said it before, and I'll say it again; school getting grades which is about figuring out what the teacher wants and delivering it.
I think that's probably enough learning for now. I'm exhausted. My life is exhausting. I do, however, love almost everything I get to do. Who's complaining? Not me. :)
1. There is a reason they call it working FULL-TIME and going to school FULL-TIME. Doing both at the same time in one life results in a negative quantity of time and whole lot of half-assed assignments in both domains.
2. Our system for assisting those suffering with any kind of mental challenge and their families is one of the more broken things in our world. No one gets what they need without unimaginable pain and stress that does not let go. The only way to get through this is one breath at a time.
3. I love the boys I work with more than I ever thought it was possible to love children that did not come out of my own womb. They smell, they curse, they are involved in all sorts of destructive behaviors, they devour media whose benefit I cannot find, they only love you back when it suits them, and they have attitudes bigger than the whole sky... and somtimes things happen and they run away and I don't know where they are or if they are safe or cold or hungry or dead or injured or scared or sad or destroying themselves by some other means, and when they come home I realize why my heart was racing and I could't sleep and it makes tears in my eyes and I have to hold on to them for a few seconds and touch their faces to make sure that the peices are still attached. There are moments in every day I work there that are so fundamentally human that my heart literally hurts. Human = someone needs to listen to my story. Human = someone needs to be there for me to give my school papers to. Human = someone needs to hug me when I get home. Human = someone needs to laugh at my jokes. Human = someone needs to be delighted that I came back with both feet under me. That anyone could birth a child like any of the children in my cottage and ever give him away... ever consent to have him taken away... ever not be able to find the strength necessary to move heaven and earth for him... this baffles me. I am better able to interact with the bafflement than I have been in the past. The parents concerned cannot find the strength. Things have happened beyond their control. Most of them come from so many generations of shattered families that they do not know how to even think about being 1 of 2, let alone 1 of a whole family. The world is an ugly place, and foster care is another place where the ugly shows clearly. All I know is that if the universe conspires in such a way that I cannot adopt or have a son of my own, I think that my life will be incomplete. Seriously, I have sisters; I knew about daughters. I did not know about sons. Why didn't anyone ever tell me about sons?
4. I have the capacity to literally love anyone. This is both a blessing and a curse. I am still learning how to interact with this quality. Love is, after all, both blind and the answer.
5. EVERYTHING (from eye contact to tone of voice to words that are said to when to speak and when to not to what you say and how you say it and what color shirt you're wearing and more things even than that) about communication is cultural. There literally are different sets of rules for different colors of people, and an annoyingly small number of people are able to understand that people should be treated differently when they deliberately slight you than when they simply did not speak your cultural language.
6. The flu SUCKS. Seriously, that thing knocked me on my behind for 1 week and left me perpetually dizzy and exhausted to weak for another week on top of that. I lay there and thought, "Yep, I could see how someone could die from this. It wouldn't be that hard to die from this." Still firmly in this world, but it was truly awful.
7. I need curtains on my windows in my room. I have decided to go ahead and let this be a long, laborious process of picking some that I really love instead of settling for ones which will work but which I don't really care about. This is probably metaphorical, but for now it's about curtains. Stop judging me.
8. Speaking of judging, I do not know where single women even go to find a man. I am open to this possibility, and I feel like, despite #1, now is the time. There is a startling lack of options.
9. I hate school and everything it stands for. Who said this was about education? I've said it before, and I'll say it again; school getting grades which is about figuring out what the teacher wants and delivering it.
I think that's probably enough learning for now. I'm exhausted. My life is exhausting. I do, however, love almost everything I get to do. Who's complaining? Not me. :)
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
“when he went away/ the blues walked in and met me”
We like to have very PC conversation about men keeping women down, women’s ways of doing things and thinking about things as superior to the male approach, equality as sameness, and the like, but current neurological research shows clearly that there are a number of very importance difference between men and women which explain many of the stereotypes we’ve grown accustomed to accepting… men don’t listen, men can’t find things, men only think about sex, men aren’t in touch with their feelings, etc. Things I’m reading and thinking these days make me sit back and evaluate these thoughts in a different light.
I’m into this new thing called a “learning mode”… you know, attempting to approach things in life, the universe, and everything with the idea that I have something to learn from an experience. It has been an exercise in humility, and I think that, as a strong and fiercely independent woman, humility is called for here… here being not just my wee life but search to find ways to understand and serve in God’s grander movement of humanity towards peace and prosperity.
There is a reason that clichés and stereotypes have become clichés and stereotypes. It’s not that they’re always true, but there’s a reason that things stick in our collective head. Apples, for example, do not tend to fall far from the tree, what goes up does tend to come down, and I don’t know about you, but I have found, at least so far, that the rains turn to pours in my life at a moment’s notice.
It leaves me wondering about what else is true, or at least indicative of a predisposition in a certain area. The differences in our brains are interesting. For example, I am told by most of the men in my life that there are times that they’re actually thinking nothing. Nothing. I am fully prepared for this never to be a reality for me. I can safely say that there is never a moment of silence in this head of mine, nor do I know any women for whom this would be false, except in moments of highly practiced meditation, during which I’m sure there must be some sort of thinking going on… mostly because I cannot actually imagine it being truly quiet. Peaceful, yes. Softer, sure. Empty? Thinking nothing? What does that even mean? Freedom from rolling over in the middle of the night to hear some random song from the day playing in your head (this morning it was T-Pain singing “I could put you in a mansion/ way up in Wisconsin/ said it’s nothing you could change your name T-Pain what’s happening”… SO troubling)? Wow. The experience in a body in which that’s not a reality would be so different. I think it’s why I can’t sleep with music on. It’s NEVER quiet in my head, and I always want to sing along, too. Who cares about sleep when you could be singing?
Anyway there are better examples I can think of once my head isn’t so full of other things, but what I’m trying to say is that strengths and weaknesses differ. What would happen if we actually looked at the stereotypes being thrown around and tried to see if what there is to learn... like what if "men don't ask for directions" might also indicate an inherent tendency towards individual initiative and individual investigation of truth. What if we looked at that as a natural predisposition to a strength instead of putting it down? Perhaps we would get farther not always jumping to emasculating our men. I'm not sure how that works, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't look like our current system.
Empowering women isn’t about disempowering men. Something in my wonders if we’re failing our men… like the standard for them must be re-evaluated in light of changes in balancing the wings, but it doesn’t mean that our men become dispossessed of their inherent strengths and skills to which they are predisposed. There has to be a way to empower both wings. Surely God created us complimentary.
I’m into this new thing called a “learning mode”… you know, attempting to approach things in life, the universe, and everything with the idea that I have something to learn from an experience. It has been an exercise in humility, and I think that, as a strong and fiercely independent woman, humility is called for here… here being not just my wee life but search to find ways to understand and serve in God’s grander movement of humanity towards peace and prosperity.
There is a reason that clichés and stereotypes have become clichés and stereotypes. It’s not that they’re always true, but there’s a reason that things stick in our collective head. Apples, for example, do not tend to fall far from the tree, what goes up does tend to come down, and I don’t know about you, but I have found, at least so far, that the rains turn to pours in my life at a moment’s notice.
It leaves me wondering about what else is true, or at least indicative of a predisposition in a certain area. The differences in our brains are interesting. For example, I am told by most of the men in my life that there are times that they’re actually thinking nothing. Nothing. I am fully prepared for this never to be a reality for me. I can safely say that there is never a moment of silence in this head of mine, nor do I know any women for whom this would be false, except in moments of highly practiced meditation, during which I’m sure there must be some sort of thinking going on… mostly because I cannot actually imagine it being truly quiet. Peaceful, yes. Softer, sure. Empty? Thinking nothing? What does that even mean? Freedom from rolling over in the middle of the night to hear some random song from the day playing in your head (this morning it was T-Pain singing “I could put you in a mansion/ way up in Wisconsin/ said it’s nothing you could change your name T-Pain what’s happening”… SO troubling)? Wow. The experience in a body in which that’s not a reality would be so different. I think it’s why I can’t sleep with music on. It’s NEVER quiet in my head, and I always want to sing along, too. Who cares about sleep when you could be singing?
Anyway there are better examples I can think of once my head isn’t so full of other things, but what I’m trying to say is that strengths and weaknesses differ. What would happen if we actually looked at the stereotypes being thrown around and tried to see if what there is to learn... like what if "men don't ask for directions" might also indicate an inherent tendency towards individual initiative and individual investigation of truth. What if we looked at that as a natural predisposition to a strength instead of putting it down? Perhaps we would get farther not always jumping to emasculating our men. I'm not sure how that works, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't look like our current system.
Empowering women isn’t about disempowering men. Something in my wonders if we’re failing our men… like the standard for them must be re-evaluated in light of changes in balancing the wings, but it doesn’t mean that our men become dispossessed of their inherent strengths and skills to which they are predisposed. There has to be a way to empower both wings. Surely God created us complimentary.
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