Sunday, January 29, 2017
To me, though, they really are both the same. Love and kindness are my bottom line. Doing unto others. The Golden Rule. Putting myself in another’s shoes. I believe the entire world could operate a little better if we all just joined hands, offered each other a smile, and said, “I may not know what you’re going through, but I am here. I am here.”
My sisters and I had a childhood fraught with chaos. My parents yelled at each other, yelled at us, and frequently could put a hole through a wall with a fist. We moved constantly, had very little to eat, and more often than not went to bed with tears on our pillow.
But my parents were giving people. They did for others things that would never be found out, were first to mobilize when a family was in stress, lent a shoulder to kids from our school that weren’t even in our circle of friends, kids we didn’t know. I remember my mother at one of my sister’s softball games, arm around some girl’s shoulder. I had seen this girl in the halls. Her father had committed suicide. Sat in his car. Never opened the garage. My dad would leave food in the alley behind the house. Clothes. Shoes. Soap. The homeless guys knew these items were meant for them. They never let on, chatted up my dad like he was one of their friends. He was. He became that. That’s how it works. We are meant for each other. We are meant for love.
I’ve been called naive. Been told it doesn’t work like that. There is evil in this world. There are people who want to do mean things. Some of my friends have seen that evil. I may have seen it, as well. But just because that evil exists, just because it is there, does not mean that I cannot love. I will not fight anger with fists. I will not call names because that is what those around me do. I was taught better than that. I was taught to stand for my brother, to stand for the poor, to stand for those in need.
My mother used to tell me, “Never start a fight but never back away from one either.” I neither wanted to start fights nor remain in one. I would be the first to back away. At heart and in my dreams, I am the love child of Mother Teresa and Gandhi. For the first time in my life, however, I am called to fight. I am called to fight for my brother, to fight for the poor, to fight for those in need. I am called. I am called to fight, to fight for love.
Sunday, January 22, 2017
Many people I know and love voted for this man. I want to tell them they voted against themselves. I know individuals who are women, who are lesbians, who are economically challenged, who are single parents doing their best to make it through who voted for this man. I know individuals battling chronic illness, individuals struggling to launch their young adult children, individuals making their way through college on government funds who voted for this man. I want to tell them they voted against themselves.
But that’s irrelevant now.
What is not irrelevant is the fire inside my heart, the fire that is fueled by the Holy Spirit. The question, “What Would Jesus Do?” lives constantly inside my head. And so I ask, “What would Jesus do?”
Jesus would take to the streets. He would feed. He would love. He would nurture. He would empower and hold and warm.
And so I stand.
I stand with the student living in her car, the student working full time to pay for class, doing her best to create some semblance of a life, sleeping on campus in a Chevy. Doing this to avoid sexual molestation at home. I will support her in her decision, when impregnated by her father, to not carry that baby to term. I will tell her she is beautiful and worthy and has much to offer this world. I will support her. I will encourage her. I will stand.
I stand by the single mom working full-time days, putting in the hours, making crap for pay. She is behind in the bills, doing her best, never gives up, and wears the smile that says I am tired, I am alone, I am lost, I have no choice but to move forward through the bedtimes and baths and permission slips and practice, but please, help me God, help me somebody, because I am falling but my love for my children will not let me stop.
I stand for the man in the park, the one living on the bench. With the help of many friends, I offered him food. I offered food to all of those living in this particular park. When I passed him later to ask if he had received, he held out his sandwich and asked if I was in need. No thank you, I said. But thank you for thinking of me. I thanked him for thinking of me.
I stand for the young man, Muslim if we’re labeling, born in this country, raised in this country, educated in this country, citizen of this country, contributing economically to this country. I support him. I stand.
I stand for my friend, my white friend who is married to a black man. I stand for their love, the beauty of it, the connection that is stronger than so many I have seen.
I stand for all those individuals I know – family, friends, colleagues – that choose to love in a way that is not accepted or respected by others because it seems different and wrong, because it is misunderstood, because it is not what some would choose.
I stand. I stand for love and acceptance and respect and courtesy and dignity. I stand for human worth, for a helping hand, for understanding that not everyone will think and act and speak and look like I, that not everyone will have experienced what I have experienced and may have experienced what I have not. I stand for an arm around a shoulder, for a kind word, for a simple, "I am here. I may not understand, but I love you, and I am here."
Yes, he is my president. But I refuse to choose to follow a man who does not have the best interests of those I know and love at heart. I am fueled by the Holy Spirit. I am a child of God. And, so I ask myself, “What would Jesus do?”
Jesus would stand.
Monday, January 16, 2017
Do you know how difficult it is to focus on things like reading and math when you know at the end of the day you are going to have the living daylights beaten out of you just because you exist? Even if I wanted, there was nothing I could do to appease this girl. She hated me. She hated me because I was there. I was an easy target. I was quiet, minded my own business, and did not have the confidence or chutzpah to think her a ridiculous bully who needed to be put in her place. I was a lover, not a fighter.
This is what it’s like to live in the shadow of a bully. I encountered Felicia and her flagpole order first thing in the morning as we walked into school. There were no buses at Parkview. You either walked or, if you lived farther away, your parents drove you. After being accosted, I stepped faster into school to get away from Felicia and closer to the safety of my teacher and my class. Felicia was older, bigger, in a different grade. I felt like I needed to throw up. I tried to listen to the teacher but I couldn’t. I thought about what would happen later. I thought about the ways I might be hurt. I thought about how people hated me when I was just a regular little girl going about my day. I thought about Felicia’s buddies who would support her and cheer her on. I couldn’t eat my lunch. I couldn’t tell anyone for fear of people calling me silly or telling me to fight her back. I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted to go home and tell my mother about my day and play school with my sisters.
The flagpole was at the front of the school. You had to pass it to leave at the end of the day. You had to. It was right there. There was no other way. Most days, that is, there was no other way. Most days you didn’t think about the other ways. The flagpole was in charge. It said this is the way, this is how you have to do it. But there were other ways. There were side doors and back doors and doors that people usually didn’t even notice. And even though your mother parked on the street and you had to end your walk out front did not mean you couldn’t leave through one of those side doors and wind yourself back to her parked car.
Looking back, I am not proud I didn’t stand up to this sad girl. I am glad, however, that I didn’t allow her efforts to prove herself powerful to destroy even further what little esteem I carried at that point in my life. I thank her, now, for teaching me that it is far more important I stand tall and think for myself than to mindlessly follow orders of someone just because she is in charge. I thank her, too, for teaching me to look for all those little side doors, those ways of doing things no one else thinks can be done.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
This is the current theme of my life. You know this. I have written on it.
Cue the fairy godmother. Where the hell is my fairy godmother? Every movie has one of those.
Friends tell me to be content in just being. Please. I haven’t just been since I was in the womb. Even then, I am certain I caused a good degree of rib damage and heartburn. I mean, I’m down with all that deep breathing, sending out groovy vibes, and manifesting hullabaloo but where in the metaphysical journal are the directions for how to send out intentions when you don’t know what intentions you are supposed to be sending out?
Just be. Just allow. Okay, fine. But what do I do while I am allowing? My ship can’t just sit out in the middle of the water twiddling its thumbs waiting on the universe to push it this way or that. It can’t sit out there thinking how much it would like to go someplace but just waiting for a good strong wind to take it there.
And where would it go anyway? So many paths, so many directions, no sight of land. It’s a beautiful sky and a beautiful ground. I’ll give it that. Patience with me, please, as I do my best to sail this ship without actually touching the wheel. Patience as I let go and allow a greater force than mine to lead the way.