White Privilege and Helplessness

Each morning at my bus stop, a young man on his way to high school, talks to me. He jokes that I'm his therapist. We talk about school, college, and working, so he can get an idea of what's to come for his life. He talks about his family, classes, and friends. I think he likes having an older person outside of his family, who has nothing to gain or lose from hearing what's going on in his life, that he can turn to. I'm a safe person, I suppose. It felt awkward at first, since I don't have kids of my own, but now, it feels like an honor and a privilege that he trusts me enough to talk to me. I won't reveal his name or anything about him, except to say that he is a young black(his preferred adjective) man.

Today, though, he told me something that I had no idea how to respond to. He told me that he'd been feeling a little down lately, the last few months or so. I thought maybe it was a typical teenager depression issue, like I had, or maybe seasonal related, since we're just coming out of winter. But he told me that he'd been experiencing a level of something he couldn't really define, until I told him the word. He said that when he was younger, he thought everybody was the same, and fine with one another and that he had a future as bright as anybody else. But lately he'd heard statistics from somewhere that said white people preferred the company of their own kind most. As a young black man who had almost always been the only black kid in his class, this seemed to fill him with uncertainty. I imagine he was now thinking, were people only putting up with him and not really liking him? Add to this all the news we see lately of violence against African Americans, particularly men, in this country, and I think it sent him into a tailspin. I told him that I thought the word he was thinking of, was "disillusionment". When he asked me what that meant, I said it meant that he was seeing the world for the first time for how it really is, and was leaving him sad and disappointed. He agreed with that assessment. He looked at me with such helplessness, wanting advice for how to handle this tough situation, and all I could do was shrug my shoulders and say, "I am so sorry I can't give you any advice about this. This has not been my life experience..." My white privilege slapped me in the face and I had never before felt more unable to help somebody.

Once we get on the bus, we part ways, I get off sooner to transfer to my other bus, and he stays on to go to his school. But our conversation stayed with me all day today. I realized that there are two levels of tolerance and acceptance in this country. There's the governmental level. The level that makes rules that says we have to hire people based on their abilities, not the color of their skin. Laws and regulations that make it more fair for everybody to find employment or education opportunities. But there is another level: a personal level. This is when two people openly and honestly talk about race, and issues that affect us, and what we're trying to do to stop hate. This is the more important level, really, and often overlooked, I think. Because if a person gets a job they fought hard to get, what does it matter if everybody they work with resents them and makes it really difficult for them to feel included and welcomed and able to do their job well? The government can force open doors, but it cannot force the people already inside those doors to love and accept the people coming through them. That is up to us.

Today's experience was eye-opening to me, because I never knew there was an added level of anxiety and sadness that a teenager could experience when he realizes that the idyllic world he imagined he would come of age into, doesn't exist at all. But I get to go on with my life as it is, it's not affected by this young man's sadness. I could just go on and pretend it's not my problem. I can't do that though. The problem is, I'm not really sure what to do. All I can do, I suppose, is continue to open my heart and mind to others, listen to what they say, and incorporate it into my life. Now I have a story I can tell others to hopefully help open their hearts and minds. That way, one day, when the young men and women of color today get through those doors, they'll be met with people eagerly looking forward to them. It's literally the least I can do.

Have Courage and Be Kind

I'm starting to see a lot of open letters to Donald Trump and have been trying to think of the words to pen my own. But none of our words will get to him. A narcissist such as himself will never hear anything but what he wants to hear. I won't waste my effort. The best way to combat a narcissist, is to ignore him. Change the channel whenever his face comes on the tv. Skip reading the articles online. Scroll past the clever memes. Even negative attention is still attention, and he'll take whatever he can get. 

We cannot get through to him, but maybe we can get through to his followers. Rather than call them names and roll our eyes at what we think is their stupidity, maybe we can try to hear them, for once. What are they so scared of? What do they really want? Many of them just want jobs and are willing to put up with Trump's garbage to get one. Many of them just want to be heard. I know from my own experience that once I have been heard, I am able to let go of whatever I've been holding onto. Maybe listening to these people's anger, fear, and frustration will help them to move on from it. Maybe it will open hearts and minds, our own included. 

The 2015 Disney live-action version of Cinderella includes a catchphrase used several times throughout the movie. "Have courage, and be kind." It takes courage for us to stand up for what's right. It takes courage to choose not to respond in kind when people are being hateful, racist, hurtful, and divisive. It takes courage to extend a hand in friendship when you would rather extend a fist in anger. Being kind is hard. Being kind is a choice that we have to make every day. It's so easy to give into anger and hate. Kindness is optional in life. Some see it as a weakness to be use against others, but I see it as a strength. Why give somebody the power to take kindness and happiness away from you? 

In the future, I will try not to post too much stuff on my social media regarding that man. In an effort to diminish his power, I will try to be more mindful of what I share and respond to online. Paying him no mind is the best way to take away his power. At the same time, I will try to listen to what people are saying. I'd be willing to bet, when you strip away the anger, hatred, and vitriol, we all have a lot of the same goals in life. Safety, security, comfort, feeling like you have control over your own life. We all want these things. Maybe we can find a way to come together to help us all achieve them. Moving forward, together. It takes both courage, and kindness.

Why I detest "#FeeltheBern"

Bernie Sanders fans have selected the most unfortunate catch phrase of "Feel the Bern" to express their love/hysteria/passion for the candidate of their choice. I have to wonder, though, if any of them has ever experienced the pain of a burn. I have, and I can assure you that it is not a fun experience, or something I would wish other people to experience.

When I was ten, I fell on an overturned grate that had been over a campfire all day. I ended up with grill marks across my left hand and a giant blister that forced my hand into a curved position. The only thing that brought any level of relief was to keep my hand on a block of ice all night long, but I cannot explain in words the pain I felt. It was excruciating and after a while you started to hope for unconsciousness to put you out of your misery. The next day, I went to the doctor to see what could be done. The doctor drained the blister, which they don't normally do, but the way it had forced my hand into a curved position was worrisome that it would do permanent muscle damage if it stayed in that position for too long. Next came the scrubbing. With a hard bristle brush. Right on the burned skin. After that came the cutting of the dead skin. Just enough to cut what would pull away on its own. Never forcing it. Then they slathered it in salve and wrapped it in gauze. My mother was trained in how to do this for me and ended up having to continue this for the next week or so. I cannot fathom my mother's strength as she did this for me. It was painful, but it had to be done. It's not a memory she likes to talk about very much, even now. But she did it, because she had to help her child get better.

My burned hand probably doesn't sound like it has much to do with politics, and maybe it doesn't. But it's what the phrase "#FeeltheBern" invokes in me. And don't get me wrong, I am happy that so many people are getting involved in politics and the political process. People are excited and enthusiastic. I am reminded of what Barack Obama's campaign felt like in its infancy. What I don't remember about the Obama campaign, though, was what I refer to as "Bernie Bullies." These are Bernie Sanders fans who are very excited about the idea of a Sanders presidency, but cross a line in the way they go about expressing it. People who bully others. People who call names and make fun of people who are supporting other candidates. The unfortunate result of Bernie Bullies, is the exact opposite of what they are hoping for. Instead of bringing people together and helping to convince people that Sanders is the candidate for them, they are pushing them away, making them cling even harder to the candidate of their choice. Hearing these people say things like, "If Sanders isn't nominated, I'm writing him in/not voting at all/voting for Donald Trump just to spite people," doesn't make me respect them. It makes me question their motives. I think a lot of these people look at Sanders for "What can I get out of him?" instead of "What can he do for all of us?" It's a very selfish point of view.

The worst part of the phrase #FeeltheBern, is that burns fade in time. The pain subsides, and after the scrubbing, cutting, and wrapping, new skin begins to grow and the burn becomes a painful memory. My biggest concern about a Sanders nomination, a Sanders presidency, and his fan base, is the idea that he might not achieve his many, lofty goals. With politics, I am a "slow and steady wins the race" person. When you push people too far, too soon, you end up with a civil war, or a Donald Trump phenomenon. The pendulum always swings back the other way before balancing out again. Unless Sanders comes into a presidency with a brand new "Will do" Congress, pretty much none of his goals will be achieved, through no fault of his own. But, as with what happened with Obama, when people realized he really couldn't walk on water, when people realize that Sanders isn't the Messiah they are praying for, they will begin to turn on him like a pack of rabid dogs. But we're not just electing a new president for the next four years, we are of course hoping to elect them for the next eight. With the majority of his fan base disappointed and disillusioned, it will be up to people like me, people who will vote for the Democrat whoever they are, and keep their eyes on the greater goals and needs of our nation, to get him reelected.

For all the people currently "feeling the Bern," I wonder how many will be left four years from now. How many of his fans are merely fair weather fans, only looking at him to get some cool stuff out of him, who will turn against him when they see how long it takes to achieve his goals? I can guarantee you, if he is elected president and inaugurated next January, you will not have "free" college that February. It's gonna take time. Just like all burns take to heal properly. Do you have that patience? Do you have that stamina? Because I can tell you, with personal experience, that the scrubbing, cutting, wrapping, and regrowth of burned skin is excruciating. But it's worth it. My hand healed and there was no lasting muscle damage. But it's a pretty painful memory for both me and my mom. Will Bernie Sanders end up being a painful memory for his most ardent fans? Possibly. But if he's elected president, hopefully he'll be given the time to move this country to a place where we can handle the dreams he has for us all.

The Starbucks Red Cup Controversy

One of the big news stories recently, was the "War on Christmas" that some Christians feel Starbucks is waging. The reason? Starbucks has chosen to use a minimal design of two shades of red for their cups this holiday season, without any images or words pertaining to Christmas. This has sent some people off to buy Starbucks coffee in protest, just so they can tell the barista that their name is "Merry Christmas" so that it'll be written on the cup. Take that Starbucks! And also their money...I don't think these people understand how a boycott works, but anyway...I was thinking about it tonight. I can completely understand where these protestors are coming from. I mean, if you read the Bible carefully, you can completely see the connections to Starbucks and the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. In fact, I am going to remind you of the connection, by sharing with you, the passage in the Bible that explains it all. It's an oldie, but a goodie, and this is the time of year for us to be reminded of it...

As it is written in the book of Macchiato, chapter ten, verses 8-30:

"And Joseph went to the city of Bethlehem to be taxed by Cafe Americano, taking with him Mary, his wife, for he was of the line of David, and hailed from that city. Mary, his faithful wife, was great with child, making it a treacherous journey for all involved.

Along the way, Joseph stopped at the Starbucks of Bethlehem, on the outskirts of town, and ordered a Gingerbread Latte and steamed milk for Mary, for caffeine was bad for the baby. The long and treacherous trek continued from there, though they were mightily fortified by their drinks.

Once Joseph and Mary arrived in the center of the city of Bethlehem, it was past evening and all the houses and hostels had closed for the night. Joseph pleaded with many of the owners, but to no avail. It was the busy tourist season and there were no empty rooms available. One kindly owner, seeing Mary’s condition, granted them the use of his barn to stay the night.

During this night, the time for Mary’s baby to be born, arrived. Joseph, a carpenter by trade, knew nothing about birthing babies, and was filled with much fear, but also much caffeine, which gave him the energy needed for such a harrowing task.

Off in the distance, in a field, a group of shepherds tended their flocks by night, and they were sore tired, so they traveled, with their sheep, to the Starbucks of Bethlehem and ordered many drinks to stay awake. While there, they heard the cries of Mary all the way from the barn, and inquired what was happening. And lo, the barista of the Lord explained to them about the pregnant woman who had visited earlier that day, and told them where she had been headed. The shepherds were filled with much energy, and had nothing better to do with their time than to seek out Mary and see if the baby was all right, for many complications can arise if proper midwifery is unavailable.

When the shepherds and their flocks arrived at the barn, Mary’s baby, a boy she named Jesus, had been born and placed in a trough filled with hay. The shepherds commented on what an adorable child Jesus was, and how he took after his mother, more than Joseph. Joseph then threw out the shepherds and sent them on their way back to the fields, from whence they had come.

In the middle of the night, three wise kings were traveling from afar, and also did stop at the Starbucks of Bethlehem, for they had seen a lit billboard from many leagues away guiding them to the only 24 hour Starbucks in all the land. The shepherds had passed by on their way back to the fields and informed the barista of the Lord about the birth of Mary’s son, Jesus. As the barista of the Lord prepared drinks for the three wise kings, he told them of the interesting news, and the wise kings decided to buy some presents for the child’s parents, for they were wise, and knew that many sleepless nights awaited them.

And so, the three wise kings, having been given directions by the barista of the Lord, traveled to the barn and knocked on the door. Joseph opened the door for them and the three wise kings entered the barn and presented their gifts to the family. Gifts of green tea, caramel Frappuccino, and peppermint mocha were much appreciated by the new parents, who promised to use them well. And use them well they did, for Jesus, like all babies, cried many hours of the night, and Joseph and Mary were very grateful for the gifts the three wise kings had bestowed upon them."

So, as you can see, those protestors are absolutely right to be outraged that their Starbucks cups are not adorned with snowflakes and Santa hats this year. It's just an absolute travesty. So, let us all visit our local Starbucks, every day between now and New Year's Day, and give them what for. That'll teach them! We need to remember to stop taking the Starbucks out of Christmas!

The Legend of Nara the Metal Death Demon

Nara is a metal death demon. It has long, dripping fangs, claws that tear flesh to shreds, and is covered in eyes. Nara is the god to whom many bow down. Nara has an insatiable hunger and demands sacrifices on a daily basis.

Nara is a trickster and confuses people into following its lead. Its chief form of slaughter is inhabiting humans who use small metal pieces that shoot even smaller metal bits into the bodies of others. It fills people’s minds with ideas that Nara is good and just and makes a person free, when really, it merely shackles them. Nara’s coffers are filled with riches as well as the bones of its victims. Nara will stop at nothing to gain more wealth and bodies.

Nobody knows if or when they will become a sacrifice to Nara. It chooses its human inhabitants at random, usually option for quiet men seeking attention, or the ill, but it rejoices with each slaughter of an innocent. It particularly loves children and those in educational settings. People learning to expand their minds are ripe for the picking by Nara, who feeds off their energy.

Nara is very good at making humans feel sorry for it. It convinces people it is the victim and needs protection, and so it has been cared for for decades of time, with no end in sight. It will use its trickster powers to convince people that the quiet attention seekers and the ill are at fault for the slaughters. It points its long, clawed fingers at them all while shaking its head in mocking sorrow. The people set up to protect our land are often fearful of Nara, or openly worship it, and so Nara’s power merely grows.

Nara leaves many questions in its wake. Can nothing stop it? Is it more powerful than we? Will we continue to mourn the loss of Nara’s many sacrifices? Will its hunger ever abate? If only there was somebody strong enough to battle Nara. Perhaps one day, there will arise one who can, and will. If only that one had arisen long ago…

Memorial Day Tribute

I have never lost a loved one to war, for which I am very grateful. But there is somebody that I would like to pay tribute to. A person to whom my entire family owes its very existence, though I never had the pleasure of meeting him. His name is Owen Hardeman, and he is my grandmother's first husband. Allow me to tell my family's story...

I have three grandmothers, two biological, and one adopted. My adopted grandmother's name was Winnifred, aka Winnie, though us grandchildren called her "Moggie". Moggie's first husband was Owen Hardeman, and she loved him very much. But there was a war, and he joined the fight over in Europe. He was a pilot during the Second World War, and sadly, he was shot down somewhere during a flight from Britain to France. He and his plane were never recovered, and Moggie was never able to give him a proper burial. During the rest of the war, Moggie did her best to get through her life as a young war widow who would never get real closure.

When the war ended, Moggie traveled all the way to India, where she spent several years as a teacher, and I would imagine, trying to find meaning in her life again. Trying to get through each day and hope that some day, it would all make sense again and she might be happy once more.

After returning to Seattle in the mid 1950's, she moved into her mother's house and continued to drift through life. In an effort to encourage her daughter to find something to do with her life, her mother mentioned that there was a family just a short distance away whose young mother was dying of cancer and they needed help. Their father was a train conductor who was away from home a lot, and the four children were all under the age of eleven, including the youngest, was was only three years old. Perhaps she could volunteer her time and help keep the house and tend to the children.

That is how Moggie was introduced to my family. She volunteered her time and life to them, and in doing so, found her purpose once again. The four children would come to see her as a surrogate mother, and when their mother eventually died of cancer at the young age of thirty three, Moggie would continue to be there for them. In time, she and the children's father married, and she became the stepmother to the four children. Several years after that, their father died as well, at the age of thirty eight, leaving her alone with the children. Instead of being done with the children and shipping them off to live with extended family or to an orphanage, she kept them and raised them as her own. Because to her, they were her children. She was their mother.

The youngest of the four children is my mother, and my family continues to share the story of Moggie and our family history with one another, and the new generations who have joined our family over the years. I cannot help but think that none of us would be here, if it hadn't been for Owen Hardeman's death in the War.

I don't tend to be one of those people who thinks that God does something so that something else can come of it, but I do think that He is a good opportunist Who sometimes nudges things in a particular direction. Call it karmic balance, if you will.

Something horrible happened to one man during a war and it cost him his life. Through the actions of others, his widow was eventually able to help keep four people together who would otherwise have been separated or moved out of the city they called home. Because of this, my mother was able to meet my father in the time and place that they did, and subsequently were married. And then I was born. It's all connected, and for that, I feel deeply grateful for the sacrifice of a man I never met. Because of him, I am.

This is why I am honoring him and his story, on this day, a day set aside to honor all the Owen Hardemans of this country, from all wars. Thank you for your sacrifice. Thank you for giving your life so that I, and my family, can live freely in this country. I will always continue to fight making this place better for all who live in it and call themselves Americans. I think that is the best thing I can do to make sure that your deaths were not in vain.

Let the Protests Begin!

Ok, America, it looks like we need a refresher course on nonviolent protesting. I love how passionate most of us are about fighting for change against bad laws in certain states recently, but some of you are going about it the wrong way. Here's a handy do and don't list to follow.

Do: Support businesses who serve all people. They deserve your money, regardless of what state they're in.
Do: Tell others about businesses out there who support all people. The instinct is to boycott entire states, but as I saw beautifully quoted online yesterday, "Boycott the hate, not the state." Besides, the supporters of religious freedom laws will tell you they are doing it to support the free market. So, why not let the free market decide. It can be a double-edged sword, that pesky free market...Let the public decide who will stay in business and who will go out of business. Remember, in a free market, your dollar is your vote. So vote often for the businesses you like, and simply let the ones who perpetuate hatred, fade away from lack of support.

Do not: Threaten the lives and property of people and businesses who support religious freedom bills. This just makes them look like a martyr to their supporters. It also makes you a bully. We're looking to change hearts and minds, or at the very least, create laws to protect all groups of people from being discriminated against. Nobody ever changed their mind by being threatened. It only makes them cling more tightly to their belief.
Do not: Name call or taunt people you speak to who feel differently about this. Nobody likes to be made to feel stupid or worthless. It's really easy to get carried away through social media, but remember why we are fighting: to ensure the rights of all our fellow citizens. Don't lose sight of that goal in the heat of the moment. If you try to live by the Golden Rule, this is the most important time not to forget it. And remember, karma does have a way of kicking your butt when you get too out of control. 

It's really pretty simple, if you follow these few rules. Now, let's get protesting!