The Second Round

Last week, I'd started on a blog post about my feelings regarding the outcome of the most recent US elections. I got most of the way through and ran out of steam, plus I wrote a bunch about it on our family Slack and that blew up. Lots of hurt feelings, lots of not really seeing each other, lots of stuff that we might never fully work through but we're family and we love each other anyway. But it's still an open wound.

Wednesday morning, James's first words to me were, "What do we do now?" If I need to explain to you why we're dumbfounded and upset, then you don't really know my family and there's too much to catch you up on here. Regardless, I had a clear-ish vision: "We take care of our kids. We do what's best for our family." As we spoke, I realized that James was in a tailspin and I was perhaps not as gracious as I could have been. I was in active survival mode and James needed a few days to process and gain his bearings. I know that my inability to suffer prolonged bouts of vulnerability in others is one of my character flaws. I've been thinking on that as I've looked at rentals in Minneapolis and priced snow pants, crampons for all, and winter tires.

The past few weeks, I've been listening to various episodes of a podcast my sister mentioned to me: The Bodies Behind the Bus. The most recent episode I listened to resonated do deeply with me. The guest was Eric Isaac. He was talking about creating his own definition of spiritual abuse. I couldn't find a transcript, so ended up transcribing his thoughts on my own. And I ruminated.

This morning, it all came together in my brain, why I feel like I know where we are, why I feel so personally worn down and discouraged, and why my instinct was to ramp up and do this thing, whereas James needed more time to grieve and come to grips with reality.

First, I'm going to share Eric Isaac's definition of spiritual abuse: "Spiritual abuse is its own umbrella category of abuse. Any form of abuse — sexual, emotional, psychological, vocational, or other — can fall under the category of spiritual abuse if God or the sacred is presented as complicit or used to justify abuse by power-holders through attempting to coerce or manipulate others for the purposes of control. The effects of this unique form of abuse can create unique theological or ontological trauma that can leave a lasting abusive construction of the sacred or God long after the individuals have removed themselves from the abusive environment. Spiritual abuse can also create and inform entire faith communities and institutions that are built on abusive manipulations of the sacred, perpetuating abusive conceptions of the sacred, alongside behavior by institutionalizing the conceptions of the sacred."

By that definition, I've been the victim of spiritual abuse multiple times in my life.

First, I was married to someone for 13 years who would make a decision (for example: that I needed not to talk to my sister as often as I was) and say, "If that's the wrong decision, then someday I will answer to God for it. But I'm responsible for this family, and that is my decision as to what's best for us."

Second, when I set about to leave that man, the church where I'd served for more than 6 years called me into meetings almost every day for two weeks trying to talk me out of divorcing him because "What if Jesus is going to save your marriage tomorrow and you gave up one day early?" They didn't what to appear to support the idea of divorce, so they micromanaged my behavior (or tried to; I'm bad at obeying when I disagree) for over a year before I folded and moved away. This was after they invited me to leave several times.

Third, when James and I got engaged, my church leadership tried to talk us both out of it. Since James isn't a believer, they didn't want me yoking myself to him. In the end, the preacher told me, "If you're not willing to submit to this part of our leadership, I'm not sure what we have for you here." This hurt, but when I found out that he'd groomed another young member of that church and carried on an inappropriate extramarital relationship with them (which started as sexual assault and continued through spiritual abuse over time) for many years, I was just mad.

Mad at the control for their own purposes. Mad at withholding the love of Christ because their priority was maintaining the glowing reputation of the church. Mad that the parable of the 99 sheep doesn't seem to apply to these people and their organizations: When you have a lost sheep, that's where you devote resources and love... you aren't supposed to just say, "Wow, you're a mess. Sacrificing the one for the 99 is just good math."

I have decades of experience in the arena of, "You'll do what I tell you to do or you'll suffer the consequences because God and stuff."

Years ago, when I was cleaning out my closet to prepare for moving from our family home of 7 years into the RV that D and I share for a couple of pretty awesome years, I remember a feeling washed over me. It said, "No help is coming."

For weeks, I'd been telling my story to anyone who would listen, in hopes that they'd understand my predicament, have some empathy, and walk through the process as my corroborating testimony. (To be clear, I did have friends who rose to this occasion, but no one on the church staff; no one who had any ability to make my presence in that body anything other than a thorn in the side of leadership.)

That message that I was on my own was kind of freeing. It allowed me to stop looking for a soft heart where none existed and instead redouble my efforts to move ahead, knowing what I needed to do.

The trauma of that lives large in my life to this day. I think that's why the quote about spiritual abuse felt so affirming and cathartic. It helped me see that when I'm triggered with a certain flavor of despair, I click immediately back into that mindset.

Last week, I tried to explain my hurt regarding the election to people who couldn't hear it. I guess I haven't learned that lesson yet. I'll just commiserate with those close to me who feel the same way I do and keep doing what I always do: taking care of my family and putting one foot in front of the other. Oh, and resisting. Because, as you now know, I do not obey well when I don't trust my leaders.

That Time I Did Blackface

When I was on social media, I disclosed this episode... and I'll add more information and introspection on it here... AND I'll say that it's part and parcel to something I experienced this weekend at the Austin Powwow and American Indian Heritage Festival.

Also, when I was on social media, I had a LOT of regular blog readers. It's fallen off to a very small number, and I know that if I keep posting soapbox issues, it might be tiring and you folks might be tempted to catch up on something less... whatever this is. However, this is something that's true about me and I can't ignore it: I believe in full human rights and justice for everyone, to a person. For every person from any nationality or of any ethnicity. For gay, trans, and folks who defy categorization. For victims. For prisoners. For people I disagree with. For fat people. For people who are in situations through no fault of their own AND as a result of their own choices. For everyone.

Especially when I see my complicity in injury or oppression, in upholding systems that have marginalized others, I want to speak up. I need to confess so that no one will think I don't know what I've done, or that I am not deeply sorry. And I need people who have developed understandably low expectations of white ladies like myself to have a bit of hope to cling to... not because of anything I am doing, but because of these kids. These kids give me a needed respite to my cynicism, and it is my sincere desire that the affect of these stories will be the same for you.

First. Here are two pictures for you.

The first is from 1978, at the present-day Ka-Do-Ha Indian Village Museum in Murfreesboro, Arkansas. The second is from 1979, at the Cherokee Heritage Center in Park Hill, Oklahoma. Obviously, my parents wanted us to learn about the Native American history or we wouldn't have visited the sites. VERY often, we were the only children at places like these. We had no ill intent. But that doesn't change the fact that in our attempt to "embody" the culture we were supposedly respecting, we appropriated stereotypes in a way that is harmful. It further perpetuates those stereotypes, and it personally hurts individuals. I apologize for my ignorance, and for any damage my actions caused. I pledge to keep learning and keep doing better.

The above pictures are the ones that popped into my head as we were walking through the market at the powwow this weekend. Many of the sellers were Native Americans, and Mal saw something that caught his eye. There were a couple of rows of slightly-smaller-than-life-size ceramic partridges. They were each painted white with lovely designs on their backs. Each one was different. The seller told me that her son made all of them, as well as canteens and other pieces, with no pattern... just whatever came to him while he was designing.

Mal asked me to take a picture. In the past, I can see myself taking a picture of the neatly-arranged flasks, then using it as wall art. But because of what other populations have taught me, I said, "It IS beautiful. But if you think that art is lovely, and you want to look at it, then you need to buy it." That meant nothing to Malcolm in the moment, I'm sure. I could have just said, "No." But it's part of a bigger picture that I'm trying to paint for him. Eventually, hopefully, the whole thing will click into place into his worldview.

We did buy a partridge. I got it for D, whose birthday was Saturday, and who adores birds. Incidentally, here's a picture I took a decade ago when I took my own now-adult child to the Cherokee Heritage Center.

The guide's name is Robert, and he patiently showed D (we were the only people under the age of 60 on the tour) how to weave, play stickball, shoot a rabbit with a blow gun, and how to make an arrowhead out of an antler. Also, he told us that in the early 1800s, the literacy rate of the Cherokees was higher than their white neighbors'.

I want to tell you something about D: D was not raised by any kind of "woke" parents. I have read blog posts from this same time frame, and I cringe now at the thoughts I used to have. Yet somehow, D became this incredibly empathetic, conscientious human being all because that's just who D is. In fact, much of the growth I've sustained over the past few years are because D has dragged me into the light through a strong will and influence. 

We've had plenty of times when D has called me out for, say, enjoying a song on the radio that contained a racial slur. I didn't buy it, but came home and did my own research... and realized that, dang, that song was out.

So if that's the person D is, maybe, just maybe, Mal will be, too? And he'll even have a head start? I'm going to hope that, and maybe you can hope it, too.

Now we'll get to what I wish had been mere clickbait, but which was, in fact, an actual event in my life. As I mentioned, the Native American poses were from when I was 6 and 7 years old. Let's move forward to 1987, when I was 15 years old.

My high school had an annual lip synch contest. Sophomore year, my favorite group was The Pointer Sisters. I'd been in love with their song "Neutron Dance" ever since it had been released. I remember my friend Pam and me dancing around my house to it, and her slipping and injuring herself in the kitchen.

I wrangled two friends, both white like I am, into doing this with me. So I'm in the "it has to be realistic" camp that I see now is ridiculous, but I also am skeptical when contemporaries of mine like Seth Meyers say "everyone knows this isn't appropriate." Adolescent me in northwest Arkansas in the late '80s had maybe a passing awareness of minstrelsy (the only "Jazz Singer" I knew was Neil Diamond). Or Jim Crow. Or any of the baggage that is wrapped up in black face. I wish I'd known. I wish I'd made a better decision.

As I've thought about it over the years, I can't help but wonder what the grown-ups in the room were thinking. Did any of them realize it was a bad idea? If they didn't, why wouldn't they tell me? I was quite open about our plans. We had a dress rehearsal, and I made sure that everyone knew we would be actual black folks the next day. The only feedback I got was that I needed to wear a better bra because my chest was too bouncy for a wholesome high school program.

The morning of the lip synch contest, I left the house looking like this, because I had classes before the program.

I think my distinctly uncool high school self was trying to approximate the style on the "Break Out" album as best I could. Remember it? (Also, does the shirt say "Dance" on it in puffy paint? I believe that it does.)

White shirt tied at the waist, check. Boot things, check (actually, they were super-high-top fold-down Chuck Taylors, and my favorite article of clothing. I wore them to a cowboy thing in college, because I've never owned a pair of actual boots until I recently got some snow Crocs). Curly hair, check... it was the late '80s. Layers, not really but I put on a bandana, so half-check? Dark hose so you couldn't see my Caucasian legs? Sigh. Check.

My mom took this picture. She knew I was going to color my arms and face. If she'd known it was offensive, she, of all people, would have set me straight. If there's one thing my mom can't abide, it's people getting their feelings hurt. And swearing.

Do you know how I colored my face and arms? With body paint. I bought it at a Fort Smith costume store. It was basically a tongue depressor that had been coated with this brown "paint" that was dry until you ran the stick under water. Then you could just rub it across your skin, and the color would transfer. I'm sure I talked about the owner about our "cool" plans. That person didn't say anything negative about it, either.

And we danced. We Neutron Danced. We got second place, and I felt robbed.

Then.

Someone complained.

There were three black kids that I distinctly remember from high school; a brother and a sister, and a girl who lived around the corner from me. The neighbor girl went to someone at the school and complained that we'd done the performance in black face. I don't remember how I heard about it. But sadly, here's what I took away from it, since no one told me differently: She liked a guy I had dated the summer before, and she was just trying to get me in trouble out of cattiness.

Once again, I wonder how the adults in charge decided to handle this? I was given no context as to why someone might be upset by what we did ("I ADMIRE them! I want to BE them! That's what we did!" was my refrain, and one that continues to be used by people who are unwilling to examine their actions and attitudes... which was definitely me at 15). 

It's interesting that I've never seen a photo from that performance. It's like even the yearbook photographer knew "These are never going to see the light of day." Oh, the next year, I won the lip synch contest when a friend and I did "Let Go" by Cheap Trick. I dressed up as a man. Until a few years ago, I probably would have insisted that being as "authentic" to The Pointer Sisters as I could was the exact same as dressing "drag" as whichever one of the Cheap Trick dudes I was. 

But regardless of my intent, the impact of my action was that at least one person got hurt, and that I unwittingly contributed to a long history of caricaturizing people of color. I had taken on the easiest and most shallow facet of blackness to mimic, and had not thought of the fact that my classmates didn't get to shower after the ceremony and go back to a position of majority and privilege.

I won't use her name, but on the off chance that the young woman who complained ever reads this, I am deeply sorry. In my self-obsessed outlook, I took your hurt and centered myself. I minimized your complaint to absolve myself of any guilt or need to do emotional labor. I owed you an apology. I owed everyone an apology. I should have gotten up at the next assembly and confessed, repented, and maybe taught a history lesson that just was not covered in our classrooms. You were right. I'm sorry if you didn't feel validated in your concern. I wish we could have sat down and you confront me, if you'd wanted to. You deserved better. 

How does this inform my life today? Well, at least one of my children would never appropriate anything. In fact, when I brought home a shirt with an alebrijes on it as a souvenir for my older child, I had to report that I'd gotten it at the "Discover Mexico" visitor's center, so the sale of it was benefiting a local economy (albeit a robust tourist one) in Mexico. But if the other is tempted, we will talk about it and educate him as to why it's not appropriate.

Although I am totally and fully responsible for my choices, even as a teen, I do wish that the grown-ups in my orbit had done a few things that could have helped everyone. So I will use that as a blueprint in case I ever need to intervene in such a situation:

1) I will try to keep anyone, especially minors, in my charge from committing blatantly offensive and needless acts.

2) If there is a complaint, in relaying it to the offending party, I will use grace but also inform them why their actions were problematic. If I don't know, I'll do the research and learn why on my own, without forcing the offended party to justify their hurt.

3) I will seek as much input on how to handle the problem as the offended party wants to provide.

4) I will strongly suggest that the offending party respond in some reparative way, even if it takes a while for them to figure out why, and then how.

Okay, that's it. Gormless but trying. Your continued patience is appreciated.

No Polar Vortex Here

Our windows are open. While there are record cold and windchill temperatures in the north and northeast, it's 70 degrees here.

I keep looking across the street.

The house doesn't look any different, but it "feels" different.

Last Thursday, our 26-year-old neighbor, the one who brought us a bunch of goodies for the dog right after we adopted Shelby, and who had such an incredible story about her childhood adoption and reconnection with her birth mom as an adult, took her own life.

I saw her every day. She and her husband have several dogs, not all of whom can be walked together, so she usually made a couple of trips every morning and a couple in the afternoon.

I know she struggled with mental health. She wanted to have a positive outlook, but had also been through so much. I didn't know her very well, and we only spoke a few times in person and several times when I was still on Facebook, but I know two things about her: She loved her husband, and she loved animals.

I dated a guy once who had a lot of grief and anger about his own childhood. He was also disillusioned about how his adult life had turned out. Once, he told me, "I wish you were enough to combat all of that. But you're not enough. No one is enough."

And, of course, he didn't mean me. He meant his feelings for me, and the kind of hope caring about me gave him for the future.

Regardless, I feel for my neighbor, and hope he's not suffering from self-doubt, wondering too much why he couldn't be "enough." I wish I knew him well enough to extend that thought. Maybe someday.

Here's another thing: Panther Cat.

Panther Cat is what Mal calls the black cat who has been around since before we moved in.

Apparently, Panther Cat's mom was a stray around here. She had babies, and all of them died/disappeared except for this one. My neighbor said she wanted to keep the cat, but couldn't.

Still, Panther Cat was part of the family. As much time as he spent in our yard and fighting over our porch with Carol, when the dogs would go out for a walk, Panther Cat always followed them. You'd have thought he was on a lead.

Once, I saw him slow down in front of the biggest dog, who tripped over him, and neither snapped at the other. It was incredible.

I haven't seen Panther Cat since our neighbor passed. Maybe he was scared off by all of the activity. James said there were 4 sheriff's cars, a ladder truck, 2 EMTs, and some other vehicle with lights and sirens.

I can't think about any other possibility. But I hope he comes back soon.

Saying Goodbye

I met Rob when we were two of half a dozen second-graders put into a first/second grade "split" classroom at Morrison Elementary school in Fort Smith, Arkansas, in 1979.

Me: Gentlemanly haircut courtesy my barber grandfather; second to the end on the left in the back row of kids.
Actually, Rob's hair is not unsimilar. He's 2nd to the end on the right, same row.

When we were seven years old, 46 sounded old. So very old. Even older than our parents! Of course, at the time, we had zero thoughts of what our lives might look like after school, after families... it all seemed like much MUCH later. Too much later even to consider.

Since Morrison only had one of each grade, we were in school together. Our little sisters were best friends. Our parents were in the PTA together. We spent a lot of time in the same space until we started junior high, at which point I went to a private school and then we moved across the river, one town over. Coincidentally, Rob's family moved to Van Buren the summer before we started high school, and once again, we were in school together.

We had some mutual friends, and a couple of my good friends dated Rob. But mostly, we were in separate social circles throughout high school. Rob was in ROTC and ended up serving in the Navy. He got married the year after we graduated, and and next time I heard from him, it was thanks to the internet.

I don't remember whether it was Yahoo! or AOL, but I remember chatting with Rob when he was living in Hawaii and I was in Las Vegas. It made the world feel extremely small. Two kids from small-town Arkansas had made their ways across the country and were still very far apart, but able to catch up in real time over a computer screen whenever it was convenient.

Later, we became friends on Facebook. Rob and his growing family had moved to the Austin area. I was living in North Texas. And, as you know, I ended up in Austin, as well.

James and I went to the Hayeses' for dinner once shortly after we got here. It was long enough ago that D was still hanging out and went with us, spending the entire night playing Minecraft with Rob's older child, Mak. Even though we were in the same basic metro area, it was almost an hour from the Nuthaus to Rob and Sarah's.

We invited them down once, but Rob got a migraine so just Sarah and Peyton, their younger daughter, came. Sarah told me about Austin's moonlight towers, which gave me something fun to research downtown. It's pretty cool history, and I was glad to know about them.

Later, we moved WAY further south, then, almost two years ago, we moved to a tiny town about 6 minutes from Rob and Sarah's house. We kept talking about getting together. Sometimes, when they'd visit "our" park to kayak, Sarah would ping me on Instagram, but I never noticed in a timely manner.

But today, after having grown up neighbors, lived all over the place, and once again being neighbors in a totally different place, I saw Rob. I wish I hadn't.

Because 46 doesn't seem so old anymore. It's downright youthful, isn't it? And it's much, much too young to say goodbye to a spouse.

Hearing so many people speak of Sarah today inspired me on a couple of levels.

For one thing, I tried to pinpoint the first memory I have of her. You know what it was? That she showed up at prom my junior year with a senior who was probably the first guy I was ever truly in love with. I thought he and I had all the same friends, but I'd never seen Sarah before. Then that was basically all I remember until, right around her graduation (which was the year after mine), Sarah and Rob got married. Babies in love.

Sarah had a history with cancer. You can (and should, really) hear about it from her in this video she made four years ago. When we had dinner with them, she spoke about some of her experiences... but not much. Mostly, we talked about family and our common histories and jobs and normal "grown-up" stuff. She had an easy, hospitable way.

And everyone who spoke at her funeral today spoke of being loved, and seeing Sarah love others so tangibly. Rob's aunt said that, having known Sarah since shortly after the wedding, she'd never seen her raise her voice or say a mean word about anyone. Now, I realize no one is perfect and likely Sarah did both of these things at some point, but no one who knows me could say that about me... on any given single day of my life, honestly.

So the other way I was inspired by Sarah's funeral was just to be better. To live a joyful, hopeful, outward-facing life that will leave everyone I touch better off than before they knew me. My track record so far is not great.

As Rob and the girls try to figure out a new way to live, I am confident that the love and goodwill Sarah put out into the world will enfold the family. He joked today (yes, he spoke at his wife's funeral) about how Sarah was basically The Energizer Bunny and that he certainly couldn't have stopped her... but I hope he knows the person he is, and the partner he was, gave her the space to do the things she did. I wish every possible ease and comfort for the whole family. And I'm grateful I got to know Sarah, if only briefly and somewhat distantly. Rest in peace.