Birth, Revisted

“Birth is not only about making babies. Birth is about making mothers — strong, competent, capable mothers who trust themselves and known their inner strength.”

Barbara Katz Rothman

A year ago this weekend, I was due to have my second baby. Just like his brother, though, he never waited for his due date and came a month earlier. I’ve been writing and rewriting this birth story over and over this last year trying to find the words to actually share my experience authentically, especially as I have spent this last year just reeling between lovestruck devotion and absolute misery in the reality that comes with having a second high-risk pregnancy and a second premature delivery. Prior to even getting pregnant, I spent a year in therapy strengthening my mind and a year exercising my body differently to strengthen myself for the extreme endurance sport that is pregnancy and birth, even more when you add high-risk challenges and prematurity factors. In many ways this go around was very much the same as my first pregnancy, and it went identical with medical needs week for week, all except that because I was different, it was a healing experience.

Some know by their labor pains that it’s time to go to the hospital, but in both my pregnancies, I knew it was go-time by the feelings in my gut, the aura in my world. Things went from peaceful in my gut to an absolute conviction that I wouldn’t be able to carry that baby another week. I had spent 34 weeks and six days laboriously watching for the onset of preeclampsia symptoms which came like clockwork as soon as I met the third trimester. Even though the only thing scheduled the day I had Baby S. was one of my monthly ultrasounds, I followed the prompting in my heart and I made sure to braid up my hair in a way that would withstand a surgical cap, I put on an extra thick coat of that expensive waterproof mascara I bought the week prior, and I told my husband to put my go bag in the car.  With a kiss to my toddler, an appreciative hug to my mom who had come as designated childcare for Little J., my husband and I headed out. I tried to go through the motions of being calm, just another appointment, but like I said, I knew it was time.

 Only a week prior I had spent the night at the hospital walking a dangerous line of preeclampsia blood pressure issues, but Mercy would have it that the medication provided stabilized me long enough for one more week of pregnancy. At our ultrasound, the perinatologist confirmed Baby S. needed to come out that day. “You’ve done all you can, it’s time to let us do the rest.”  Despite being “prepared” to hear that, I bawled heartily on the way to the hospital. I cried because it was time for my second cesarean birth, because I hadn’t been able to finish my little oat milk decaf latte, and because I knew I would get to eat sushi and deli meat very, very soon. Such are the thoughts of the pregnant and weary. Those 34 weeks and 6 days had been hard earned. The doctors and nurses could only say how calm I was for all the intense things going on, the need for so many pre-baby procedures to ensure our healthy delivery.

That calmness, though, was thanks to a year of therapy preparing for Baby S. that focused on coexisting with fear, allowing it to be without giving into it’s deep, endless spiraling. Even as I tried focusing on baby arriving soon, I couldn’t help but whisper to myself as I walked myself to the L&D floor, “I don’t want to do it this way!” I didn’t want to go into the motions that would trigger all my previous birthing traumas, but I knew I really, really had to do it. They say go to a happy place when you’re undergoing difficult experiences, but I’ve found that when I try to escape the feelings and pain of such all-encompassing experiences, it just makes it worse for me. My goal this birth was to stay in the moment as best I could. The wait before a c-section, especially when you know what to expect, is so hard. When I would catch myself starting to detach from the moment, I would bring myself back into the present by focusing on everything as it happened and voicing my needs and experiences as they came: slip on the gown, sit on the bed, deep breaths, sit very still while they poke and poke to find a vein in my struggling body, thank them for caring, admit how much something actually hurt versus just bearing in silence, hunger pains, my husband squeezing my hand and kissing my forehead, nervous laughter, really bad jokes, the ticking clock, the need to pee again.  This monotonous routine broke when a nurse informed us that they needed to bump our surgery for another mom who was in a more dire place than I was. God be with that mom, whoever she is, but that was the boost I needed to voice to my trembling self that this experience was different, that it was safe to stay firmly in the present and open myself to whatever this birth held for me. Fear be what it may, but it would not be ruling my birth.

The most pivotal part of my birthing experience was the walk to surgery. If the truth that I was not the most critical case was not enough to lift my mood, getting to walk myself to the operating room sent me into a place of unmistakable peace with all that was and could be. It was my first embodiment of the phrase “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” Instead of feeling like I needed to just “get through this,” I could see the beautiful parallels between my births happening in real time. Forget that I was in a poofy blue surgical cap, oversized hospital gown – clutched closed because good Lord everyone is in the hallway -and only those hideous hospital socks. I walked myself to deliver my baby. Even though a nurse held my hand on this walk, she faded to the back of my mind and I was walking hand in hand with my younger 2019 self to this 2022 birth. Together, we went into this birth to reconcile the past with the present to actually have a future.

As if it was just meant to be a magical experience, my entire surgical team was female. Anyone who has had to steel their souls for being naked in front of strangers, men and women alike, understands when I say that I shook a little less as I sat myself on the table, feeling safe, seen, and heard among fellow mothers, sisters, women. Dreading the excruciating sting of the spinal injection of anesthesia, I asked to have someone stand in front of me in case I fainted. The nurse who walked me into the room cheerfully grabbed both my hands, smiling eyes above her masked face locking with mine, “I am right here with you,” she and the whole room murmured support as I Lamaze-breathed my way through the overwhelming fire of the numbing agent. She helped lay me down as the pain faded into the tingly, curious sensation of blocked pain. Once my body became numb, it was time.

A c-section is such a hardcore experience: your body sometimes goes into a little bit of shock as it processes the numbing agent, shivers make you feel out of control, dizziness and nausea can start abruptly, you feel touch but no pain, and you hear things you would really rather not but you also want to keenly listen for that first cry. This dizzying and conflicting time span is where my greatest challenge staying present began; my body desperately wanted my mind to check out. But I didn’t want to check out. Not this time. I did last time. I practically floated around the room last time. Trauma though this was, this was my baby’s birth and I wanted to participate, be present, to be able to voice my needs. Thankfully, I didn’t have to work hard all by myself. Every time I thought I was going to zone out, I was softly kept in the present by my husband squeezing my fingers and kissing my forehead, the anesthesiologist pressing rubbing alcohol pads to my nose, doctors peeking around the curtain to make eye contact and chatting with me about how everything was going fantastic.

Another unique part to this birth was having two obstetricians perform my surgery. Usually there is one, but somehow the timing was perfect and I had a two-woman team ensure both Baby S. and I had the best birth experience we could have. The whole surgery, I was very aware of the feeling of both doctors’ bodies snugly standing on either side of me, one in each armpit. Both took turns peering around the curtain to lock eyes with me in a way that kept me intimately in the moment from start to finish. It makes me woozy to acknowledge it but I felt all the touch of this birth without any of the pain. Truthfully, it was as scary as it was exciting. But then this is where the actual best part of the entire birth was made possible: I felt my baby’s body slip out of mine and into the world. Head and shoulders, arms, legs! With his robust cry of life, my heart exploded with a euphoria that I cannot put into words. Someone lifted my head for me so I could see my baby as he flapped legs and arms in the cold air of the operating room. He was loud. He was strong. He was here.

“Do you want to hold him?”

There is nothing more transcendent than holding your baby fresh out of the womb, wet from amniotic fluid, mewling for warmth and milk, arms stretched out to be hugged close. The snuggles in that moment are the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced: lips touching, cheeks smooshing, everybody crying. I never got to hold my first like this, and I will forever grieve that. In my first birth, they whisked Baby J. away after a quick kiss and glance, and I didn’t see him or hold him until twelve hours later; even then I didn’t have the strength to hold him long. But this time, even though I felt weak and lightheaded, I held my son, comforted him through his frightened squeals until he lay quiet and content on my chest. There is something about this immediate bonding moment that helped dramatically shift my mindset from healing previous experiences to feeling joy in the present.  By the time they whisked Baby S. off to the NICU with my husband by his side, I found myself actually appreciating the sudden hush in the operating room when this very silence three years felt like being swallowed whole by doom. My anesthesiologist continued to keep me comfortable with whatever she had going on, a nurse would intermittently squeeze my hand and ask me how I felt, and one of the doctors peered around the curtain a couple times to let me know how close they were to finishing the stitch up. This experience felt like self-care: I’ve birthed, now let me stitch up. Because the room was full of women alone, it also felt like an honoring female-led birthing ritual, being stitched and washed and carried. Within half an hour, I was in a recovery room and my hunger pains were finally abated with Jello and cranberry juice. In a much shorter time than previously, I was rolled into the NICU to hold my sweet, littlest boy for a good, long time.

My second baby’s birth was such an incredible experience, but I feel I can only say this because of where I’ve been. Birth has been as much a process of bringing about a new human life as it has been about discovering my own new self. I am a lot stronger than I knew, a lot tougher than even I expected. Sometimes, I wish that my pregnancies had been as easy as it seems people like to portray or remember, but more often I am forever grateful for how I’ve been able to have two very difficult pregnancies, both of similar deliveries, but each a bookend experience of trauma opened and trauma healed. Even more, I am thankful that these two experiences taught me that I could create a safe place for myself to acknowledge and work through my fears, that I had the bravery to push out the people and the messages that did not serve my peace, and that in my walk of life I really have been paired well with a supportive partner who knows how to back me up. I didn’t have eyes to see myself as strong coming out of my first birth. My first birth wasn’t “bad” but it was all kinds of messy. Walking through a near identical birth story with this second baby, I see and applaud my own strength of mind and body for all it went through that first time, during all the time in between, and during this second time I leapt in to do this all again.

Gratitude In All Things

Rain is coming. The trees outside my window are swaying with brief bone-chilling gusts and their remaining red and orange leaves flutter noisily to the ground in submission to the wind’s pull to let go. I feel like there is a lot to learn from trees: they take their seasons in stride, storms and gales included, and they inspire us to be grateful for the blossoms of spring as much as the bare branches of winter. Ralph Waldo Emerson defined gratitude as something we cultivate, indicating a need to consciously toil for that quality. He wrote that one should make it a habit to be “grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously. And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.” All things. Can we include the things we deem “horrible,” “hard,” “devastating,” in our gratitude?

Everything about this year has been so very difficult. Gratitude has been a hard one to muster when the pandemic has isolated and divided us on empathetic responsive efforts and what we deem science or not; when social perspectives have boiled over and left us raw, broken, disappointed in each other; when politics have placed us at one another in outright moral war unsolvable by any outcome; and when our polar views of all the above has left each of us in some way or another saddened at best, depressed at worst. For those isolating in response to the pandemic, the loneliness is heavy. For those fighting the isolation for any sense of normalcy, the effort is exhausting. How can we be merry when nothing feels bright? How can we wish anyone joy when all we feel is wished ill for how much we have allowed our true selves to be seen: our actions or inactions, our voices or our silences? How can we come together when, really, there is a divisive call to stay home? How can we be thankful for all of that?

Yielding to a storm is not often our instinctive reaction. The moment it’s a fight or flight situation – even if the fight or flight is moral rather than physical – we would rather hold to what we know than embrace uncertainty or loss. We would rather fight for our leaves than let them go, even if the leaves are discolored, dead, and no longer serving our wellbeing. Some trees take longer to lose their leaves than others, but the wind is not deterred by a stubborn branch. Dependably, the wind does its job and the fallen leaves are replaced with new blossoms and fresh greenery in the spring, and it’s reliably better than it was before. Each one of us has had to endure our own personal storms of anxiety, anger, uncertainty, doubt, bitterness, loneliness, and so much more. Some of us have more physical storms to add to the above: illness, sudden poverty, deaths. Add to that a denial that all three of those are worth acknowledging. Each of us
are trying the best we can to just make it to spring – figuratively and literally. Bare branched and weary from it all, is there a way to find joy for ourselves if not for others in this pending new year?

Whether or not we can find joy in this season will be about a persevering sense of perspective in the face of what feels a never-ending storm. The things that make us uncomfortable and willing to fight each other have the opportunity to teach us adaptability and open-mindedness, mercy and maturity. The things that anger us have the opportunity to show us how we can act for the change we want to see. The things that make us wonder where we lost similar thinking present the opportunity for further understanding and even learning things we thought we already knew. The things that break our hearts have the opportunity to reinvigorate the value of love, of being present, of saying, “I’m sorry,” and “I love you.”   All things contribute to our growth. All storms have an end. Spring always comes. Even for 2020.

Humbly, I say, let us find our gratitude in the promise of newness in another season, regardless of the challenges that may come with it. Let us resolve to be more willing to flow with the storm and kinder with ourselves when we struggle to adapt. Outside of our individual selves, let us purpose to hold safe space for those of us who aren’t able to let go of their leaves yet. Let us be adult enough to acknowledge we may not see eye-to-eye but that doesn’t mean we ought to go through life opposed to or ignoring one another. The holiday season will be as it always has been: here for a moment and dissipated with the next morning’s fog, whether we choose to be truly present for it or not. The actual days set aside to purposefully exercise our gratitude and share our love will happen whether we are ready or not, and no day is promised to us.

The only thing that makes a holiday special, a season beautiful, a family strong is the willingness to lay down arms over differences so that we can come together to celebrate what we have in common: a passion for living, a desire to live well, a regard for living it together. And if we were honest with each other about the raw things, we might see how many common struggles we share and how many disagreements could be remedied with kinder communication.  Giving thanks continually is no easy thing, but that is why it is a cultivation, an effort. Letting go of the things that have colored this year so dark is also going to be an effort, but we must follow the trees and let go of those things to make room for what is to come. If this entire year was lonelier than you thought possible – I see you and I felt that too. Let us purpose that the gratitude remains. If the quietness of this Thanksgiving hurt in a way you cannot explain  – I see you and I felt that too. Let us purpose that the gratitude remains. If this Christmas made you wonder a little more what it was like to be a socially outcast couple venturing to Bethlehem, just doing the best they could to do what they deemed right and good for their family, I see you and felt that too. Let us purpose that the gratitude remains. And if you’re standing at the precipice of 2020, not leaping but stepping into 2021, silently praying that this new year will hold less wind and more sunshine – but resolving to be grateful all the same to be standing at the end of it – then, tearfully and with hope, I say, me too.

Authenticity

“Authenticity is a collection of choices that we have to make every day. It’s about the choice to show up and be real. The choice to be honest. The choice to let our true selves be seen.”

Brene Brown, The Gifts of Imperfection

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a Facebook. I joined back in high school at the behest of my high school debate club – after all, how else would the cool kids talk about medical malpractice policies, the North Atlantic Trade Organization, or decide between Denny’s and Sweet Tomatoes for club dinners? I didn’t think twice and I was glad to get on it. As soon as Instagram joined the horizon, I got one of those too. Once high school ended and real life began to happen, I started questioning social networking sites but it has taken me over a decade to come to my rawest conclusions on the place these sites have brought us.

This week, I unplugged myself from my social media platforms to just check – in – with – myself. I needed to check in with my heart, my mind, my very marrow, because I feel like it has been way too long since I last did so. I need to quiet the cacophy in my head – to not see the politics of most every person I know, the GoFundMe shoutout of another, or the hatred of so many more. I needed my first act in the morning to be “good morning!” and my last act of the day to be “good night!” as opposed to scroll…scroll…scroll.

What is it about this form of communication that has us all so very mesmerized? Perhaps it is the sense of connectedness, unimpaired by distance, through the sharing of life pictures, events, and thoughts. Those we met years ago and become acquainted with recently equally enjoy free access to whatever you want to share and we like not having to do more than refer people to our Facebook for the details on conversation topics. We also get to announce things easily – relationship statuses, degrees, jobs, engagements, marriages, children, big purchases, deaths. It’s so easy and efficient. Perhaps it is the sense of belonging to a club, a feeling of being with the “in” crowd, an almost exclusivity in an idea that is vastly inclusive. And then there is the business, school, and practical aspect of Facebook – ways to instantly connect and communicate with entities that support our everyday needs. How bad can this kind of connection be?

The pros and cons of social networking sites (SNS) have been an ongoing discussion since the whole Facebook phenomenon leapt out the dank dorm of a college genius. We talk about SNS with our peers as well as with our experts. Generally speaking, there are two concerns people most talk about: the tracking these sites do and the health impact these sites have on us. I don’t have much to say about the “tracking” aspect of the sites – as long as I have a social security number, pay taxes, and continue to live (hell even when I die), there will be a knowledge of intimate details of my habits by more individuals and corporations than I would like to acknowledge. I am not dismissing that as a concern, but I think that we actually have a bigger issue than who is tracking our likes and dislikes. What I question is the intimate ways that social networking sites invade us, inundate us, agitate our emotional health, and prey on our trust. What I do question is the intensity to which we flock to this free, virtual kitsch all for the sake of a simulated, diluted form of connectivity – and we tell ourselves that is authentic, it is important, and it is worth our time.

Relationships derived in the physical world require effort to maintain. While we may hope that sites like Facebook are helping that maintenance, if anything SNS is slowly deteriorating the sacredness of human connectivity and replacing it with a desensitization towards voyeurism and acceptance for contactless, effortless platitudes. The idea of having hundreds of “friends” feeds our need for popularity and mass approval. That idea crumbles when out of the hundreds of friends, maybe ten like your posts consistently. If anything, SNS helps us get comfortable in a detached, experimental stage of relationship. If things get serious in a post, it can be hard to truly express our care – especially when you realize some of the things that are being shared would only be physically shared between people who talked often, who related deeply, and who depended on each other – and you’re not that with the person posting. Sure, browsing a person’s pictures and all their postings can give you an idea of who the person is, perhaps even what they like or dislike. But, honestly, since when did voyeurism and vicarious friendships supersede the intense, integrating, and bonding aspects of authentic relationship?

Social networking sites know how to invade our thoughts – what’s new over the lunch hour? – they know how to inundate us – guess who has liked your latest post? – and they are becoming masters at agitating our mental health: Why don’t they like me? If we feel inclined to post something political, the frightening truth is we are putting out our thoughts – new and curious or well-grounded and logical – into a deep and wide portal where friends and family can either agree and stroke our ego for aligning with their beliefs, or provide a steamy dish of outright humiliation to you in front of everyone you know, all at the same time. In most face-to-face interactions in group settings, discussions can get lively, of course, but rarely do things get so dark as the written word. After experiencing this kind of atmosphere, wouldn’t we leave? Wouldn’t we quit this kind of circle? Not if it is programmed into you that this is your entire, true circle of existence….

Social networking sites can be a truly harmful to the development of our authenticity, our self confidence, our ability to actually show up for ourselves and the ones we truly love. It can stunt our children’s wellbeing and incapacitate our adult maturation in things like love, friendship, and professionalism. I do believe that it hurts marriages when two people find their self care in scrolling through feeds on separate phones all while sitting side-by-side. I do believe that it hurts friendships when people can’t even experiences an activity or a meal without sharing it with those not present. I do believe it promotes the exclusive and elusive glory of popularity in a way that eliminates common sense. Social networking sites aren’t absolute evil – there is a lot of good that has happened at the behest of SNS: connections we might not have otherwise made, solid relationships somewhat maintained over distances and time. I do believe, though, that the extent to which we use these resources and the extent to which we allow these resources to use us, we are losing the will to put it down, to know what we think and to own those ideas proudly, to choose to be ourselves as we are without the liking of someone you haven’t actually spoken to in over a year.

For the sake of yourself, log off. Put it down. Call your mom. Write your grandma. Revisit creativity for the sake of creativity itself. Just walking away for a week, even, can help recalibrate your time spent on it. It can be hard to do it in the beginning, but I can assure you that cutting off cold turkey from the simulated experience of community will help you (re)discover where you have authentic, open, diverse, and accepting humans to feed that need for connection. And if you’re anything like me, you might find that disconnection makes you feel more connected, more seen and heard than you have been in a long, long time.

Racism, Intentional or Not

Over the last few weeks, the Black Lives Matter Movement has disrupted attention from the debate of masks and social distancing to that of accountability and social equality. One friend described it as an evolution rather than a revolution. Perhaps that use of wording might be debated, but I happen to like that word choice for the picture that it evokes: unfolding forward. Evolution can be a painful process because it asks a status quo to change in order to succeed, it asks for something to unfold forward because it can no longer exist as it is.

This is not the first time Black people have demanded social justice, human decency, and that America live out its proclaimed value that “all men are created equal,” but I do believe it is one of the loudest cries yet. One of the reasons this movement is experiencing so much backlash is because it is asking white people to (1) acknowledge the existence of white privilege as a social system that exists and thrives, (2) acknowledge that system is inherently racist, and (3) acknowledge that system is the product of the racist views of individuals benefiting from the system.

During one of my social media exchanges, one person voiced intense offense over the blanket statement that even well-meaning white people are often racist, even if they don’t know it. This person followed with the demand for different words to be used in effort to not offend the white people. My response to this was that the reality of Black oppression is offensive. The words used to describe the horror and injustice in our American history and our present cannot help but be offensive. And oftentimes our racist behaviors, even as well-meaning white people, comes across accidentally yet with the same clout as blatant racism would. The question persisted, though: “If it is inadvertent behavior, is it fundamentally true racism?” Essentially “If I don’t mean it, if I don’t know what I am doing, does it even matter?”

In short, absolutely yes.

One of the first lessons learned in communication is that with every message, there is a sender and a receiver. The most important person in that equation is the receiver because if the receiver does not get the message as the sender intended, the whole operation needs to be started over. Senders have a great responsibility to care about the messages they are sending out into the world – especially the ones they send without even knowing it. During my first year of marriage, most of the disputes that arose between my husband and I were out of the inadvertent messages communicated. The two of us came to realize that just because the sender did not feel or see the offense did not mean that the receiver’s feelings were any less. For the sake of harmony, we had to embrace humility, a willingness to see the worth of our partner’s feelings and understanding of the messages received, and we had to purpose to improve how we each spoke or acted towards the other. Without that effort, our marriage would have suffered harshly. Our words, actions, and environment have immense power on receivers despite any professed or actual ignorance of the power we have. What you say matters. The messages we send, if meant for one ideal and impacting our receivers with the opposite should concern us.

Inadvertent racism is absolutely a prevalent issue because it is only another part of racism itself. Racism uttered or acted out has an impact on the receiver, even if the acting party is clueless to that impact. Inadvertent racism has been scholastically coined as “microaggression,” which is the unconscious or unintentional expression of a prejudicial attitude toward a member of a marginalized group (Merriam-Webster, 2020). A few examples of microaggression include offhand comments like “your English is so good!” or “your hair is so exotic! What are you?” Microaggression can also be nonverbal – clutching your purse or moving to avoid any contact when passing a Black person. Microaggression can also be environmental through the use of symbols with inherently racial messages like flags, sports mascots, or slogans.

The University of Washington performed a study, believed to be one of the first of its kind, which focused on inadvertent racism from the perspective of the offender (or the white person). This study suggested “that whites who are more likely to deliver microaggressions are also more likely to harbor some degree of negative feeling toward blacks, whether they know it or not.” The study offered up multiple scenarios to white and black people and then evaluated the instinctive thoughts and reactions to each of those scenarios. Because the civil rights movement helped reduce the amount of blatant racist behaviors among whites towards blacks, many white people are taken aback when called to account for their unintentionally racist behaviors. Furthermore, white people often assume that if they aren’t blatantly racist (i.e., using racial slurs, refusing interaction with colored people, etc.) , that the call to end racist behavior is not a call that applies to them.

Undeniably, the importance of the University of Washington study – and studies like it – lies in the fact that it provides validation to the feelings of confusion, anger, or fear that colored people have suffered for far too long. It amplifies the reality that you can feel you’re doing a great job at sending racially aware messages while in reality, you’re messing it up badly. The words, attitudes, and environments we foster can impact those around us mentally, emotionally, and physically. If we can acknowledge that truth in the basics of interpersonal communication, it is time we acknowledged it in interracial communication. Just recently, I heard of a restaurant announcing a change of its name from “Sambos” to something – anything – less derogatory towards black people. While the restaurant owner admitted that it was a mash up of the two names of the men who started the restaurant, it took 63 years of being an environmental microaggression before it was “seen” by the white people. This act, though it took six decades, should be commended as growth in interracial communication and is only one example of the awakening that must continue.

It is fair to say that inadvertent racism does not automatically make people evil. It is fair to say that microaggression is a wrong potentially committed in ignorance and by a well-intending person. That ignorance, though, does not negate the significant impact on the receiver. Even more, it is equally fair to say that once a person is called to examine his or her behavior, and if that person chooses to dismiss it, the inadvertent becomes intentional. As noted in the study from the University of Washington, and in my own recent experiences, white people have a very hard time accepting criticism on racist behaviors. The knee-jerk reaction to being called to account for racist behavior has been followed with “but what about the value of white lives?” The Black Lives Matters movement is not one that is trying to exclude white lives’ worth, but could be rephrased as “Black Lives Matter Too. It is not a phrase that is about excluding — it’s a phrase that is about focus.”

Inadvertent racism is prevalent to today’s discussion in the fact that can impact the receiver’s mental health, perpetuate a system that threatens the receiver’s physical health, and overall stunt the evolution, or growth, of a people toward equality.

“Racist” and “racism” are a very strong words, but they accurately describe an ugly behavior that has existed for decades unchecked, renamed, and otherwise allowed. People most definitely can be inadvertently racist because that behavior is taught and sometimes taught so well, we don’t see it until it is uncomfortably in our face. I can embrace that as truth because the last three weeks have show me my own privilege and my own inadvertent racist tendencies – and that truth is not only uncomfortable to name and work to change, it offends and disappoints me. If any of you reading this or reading the news take offense to the words being used to address the issue of Black life worth, perhaps it is necessary for introspection. None of us would like to be called racist, but so many of us – if not all of us – have behaviors to correct. We have to evolve as a people if we hope to be better tomorrow than we are today. We have to change our behavior if we truly value what we claim we value. We cannot have peace when we turn a blind eye to a social system that thrives off of racism, intentional or not.

It is Time.

Once upon a time, there were a people who grew restless and weary of unfair treatment, misrepresentation, and persecution. Years of peaceful petitions for better government went ignored. A simple protest against an unwanted military presence went from tossed words to thrown snowballs to an outright massacre. This changed nothing except added to the boiling blood of the oppressed. A group of men blatantly skipped peaceful protest when they unlawfully boarded a ship, used hatchets to hack open the cargo, and dumped 342 chests of tea into the harbor waters. They sent message after message that they were done being abused. And then, the people left the streets and took to the fields to fight for freedom.

By now, you know that history has redefined these acts of rioting, looting, and outright treachery to a monarchy. History now calls the thugs, looters, and traitors of the 1770s patriots. Yet, even during this time of fighting for equality, it was not a fight for equality for all. Color continued to separate us even after our nation went through upheaval in the 1760s, the 1860s, the 1960s, etc. Though the Civil War ended with a victory for the North and ended the system of slavery, it did not end the way of thinking that brought about slavery. Though the Civil Rights Movement legally ended racial segregation, it did not eradicate the view that some humans have worth and some do not.

I do not know what it is like to live a life as a colored human. For some unknown reason, I was born into this world white as snow and with all the invisible privilege that entails. With that privilege comes the ability not to worry about a lot of things, to remain neutral. But it simply will not do to remain neutral anymore. Once you see and label the privilege for what it is, you cannot ignore the abject disparity. I want to act for change. We do not see a new trend of violence from white on color – we just see it all the time, sometimes in real time. And what we see should make us feel sick, angry, and discontent with the status quo. I would like to say that I do not condone violence, I do not condone looting and rioting or destroying others’ property. But I also would like to say that I value decency and life more than I value things, and if it takes smashing tea chests to be heard, then so be it. I value freedom to operate my life without hindrance, confidence that I will receive care and help when I ask, and a basic opportunity to a decent life – and I think it entirely reasonable and absolutely essential that everyone on American soil – regardless of color – should have those rights too. Anything less is unacceptable.

This is not an issue of bad cops or good cops, Karens, or hooligans violating the memory of murdered innocents. This is inherently a heart issue called racism. Seeing one human as less worthy than another is a taught perspective that we later choose to embrace or fight. That choice to fight against it is at best uncomfortable, and at its worst it’s deadly. There will be no peace in the streets until the cry of the oppressed are heard and compassion is rediscovered. Perhaps the scream will be stifled for another hundred years, but there can be no liberty where oppression is welcome. History will tell the story of the year 2020 just as it does the year 1776. We cannot call America great, beautiful, or the land that we love if we cannot even abide by the truth our forefathers deemed self-evident. It is time to honor the freedom our forefathers bought for us “at the expense of their ease, their estates, their pleasure, and their blood.” It is time for a change.

Tears in the Masa

Note to self: The emotions you cook with come out in the food.

Christmas is the time for tamales. It used to be a community thing in my family where great aunts and great cousins gathered to make dozens and dozens of meat-filled masa rolls. With time though, the community has dissolved and the making of tamales has become a labor of love of the few. If I am lucky, I will have the chance to “help” my mom as she meticulously fills her giant pot with four or five hard-earned dozen. My help is usually after she has had dad buy a slab of beef for long, slow roasting, has fire roasted a bag or two of red peppers for chili, and prepared mounds of fluffy, seasoned masa. My help is more of the experience – talking with her, reminiscing with her, maybe taking a shot of tequila with her, all the while trying to spread that masa on the hojas evenly.

During any cooking time I get with my mom, she always reminds me that the emotions you cook with come out in the food. If you are tired to your bones, if you are happy to distracted laughter, if you are in hot but sweet love – it all comes out in the flavors and sets the mood for the meal. One especially needs to be careful of tears while cooking. That kind of salt does mysterious things to food.

One of the times my great grandmother made tamales she was pregnant with her first child. The baby kicked and she cried happy tears into the tamales. Everyone who ate the tamales ended up pregnant that year and that is how her family grew to be so vast. Another year, sad tears fell into the tamales and it was a year of melancholy for all. Or so I am told.

The last time I made tamales with my mom was right before I had my son. We had spent the entire time talking about the pregnancy and all its challenges, about the line of a strong women we had come from, and how every one of her grandchildren were prayed over to have the same resilience in their own lives. I know we cried tears of hope into that masa. When my son was born a few weeks later, two months too early, he came out fighting and resilient – a symbol of hope if ever I saw one. He came out with a fighter’s genes. I don’t know if there is any science involved in any of this but I do know that you don’t always have to hold your head higher than your heart.

This year, my mom is making tamales with much excitement and I am pretty sure tears of hopeful prayer will end up somewhere in the masa. I am sure she will talk with her kids on the phone, visit with a few who can make it, and wonder how the others are doing, and during all that, prayers unique and kind will pour down her cheeks. And I am sure that this next year will do as all the other years have and manifest the result of the tears cried in to the tamales. That kind of salt does mysterious things to food.

 

Silent Night

Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
‘Round yon virgin Mother and Child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace

I have spent a lot of this Christmas season wondering what it was like to be Mary bearing and giving birth to Jesus.  The Christmas carols make it seem so nice and cozy, perfect and hymnal. The Bible account of it, though perfect as is, seems to oversimplify the great feat of birth by saying things like “and she bore him a son.” Yet the God who created the birth process made it to be an incredible ordeal of death to self and surrender of every instinct to the raw call of the body. He created birth to be awash in blood and water, tears of pain and laughter of triumphant joy, and nothing about it makes me think of silent nights. But then, I wonder…

Was Mary’s pregnancy easy going (cultural damnation for pregnancy out of wedlock aside) or did she struggle with nausea, back pain, heartburn, or one of the other common maladies that come with pregnancy? Did she deliver at 39 or 40 weeks or did the blessed Lord Jesus make her wait? As she walked to Bethlehem alongside her husband, did her feet swell and hips ache leaving her to wonder how they would make it? I wonder if her contractions waited to begin once they arrived at Bethlehem or if it was just like your typical birth and contractions began when they wanted to – at the most inconvenient time ever. During those labor contractions, was Mary the angelic mother we paint her as or did she – mid contraction – grab Joseph by the arm and hotly demand, “you find me a place to have this baby because – he – is – coming!” Perhaps she had it together and was able to just trust, surrender, and wait for the Lord to provide. Did Joseph find a voice of command in him that he never knew he had and did that conversation with the innkeeper go more like a directive than begging and pleading?  I wonder if Jesus was a cooperative birth or if he made his mother work long and hard on his birth. How emotionally challenging a birth – even if it went “perfectly” – not just because it was pregnancy that started for Mary out of wedlock but that Joseph must have had to play a major part in the delivery – a work mostly, if not exclusively, left to the women. Perhaps the innkeeper’s wife helped. Perhaps no one wanted to help the immigrants in the stable. Either way, this birth was a work of excellent teamwork from two people who had not even had a chance to be a couple in life before a child and were now having to birth a baby together – in a place far from home – in the cold of winter – in a stable with animals and poop and dirt. I wonder if Mary felt fear in the final moments of delivery – would she make it or was her life the true cost of this service to God? As she held Jesus to her breast that first time, feeling the frailty of His human form, warming His soft baby flesh with milk and cuddles, did she weep for joy and call Him “sweet, sweet little baby.” Without doubt she kissed His chubby cheeks, counted His fingers and toes, and felt intoxicated by the scent of His fresh babyness. Without doubt she loved Him so dearly. Without doubt she felt that it was all entirely worth it.

This Christmas, I am thankful for the part Mary played. We won’t know her story exactly, but mothers everywhere know the essence of her heart. I am sure that Mary’s view was not “silent night,” but perhaps in the big picture it really was a silent, cold night. No one knew that the birth happening behind the inn was going to change everything for everyone. God created birth to be such a giving of self that I wish it had given a little more to what Mary did. But the story of Christmas wasn’t and isn’t about Mary, it’s entirely about Jesus.  The circumstances of His birth started the age of grace – from how he ensured Mary and Joseph made it through the tumultuous beginning to how He provides for the tumult of humanity now.

 

And Mary said:

“My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me— holy is his name. His mercy extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation. He has performed mighty deeds with his arm;he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts. He has brought down rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, remembering to be merciful to Abraham and his descendants forever, just as he promised our ancestors.” (Luke 1:46-55)

 

 

 

Heartbeats and Little Cries

Note to self: Surrender is not weakness.

I have had a hard time coming back to this because I don’t know how to keep this succinct. My last post has lived with me since I wrote it – this year has been nothing but the need to surrender truly and completely.

On January 3rd, I went in for my 32nd week ultrasound only to learn that our baby was very small for his gestational age. My placenta wasn’t working or my body wasn’t working. Either way, we were going to have an early delivery. One doctor told us that this was an unfortunate situation; another doctor said that the next few weeks would be like sailing through iceberg infested waters and that there was no crystal ball to offer any hope for a good outcome.

A simple stress test to monitor my baby boy’s heartbeat turned into a sudden hospital admission. One minute I was imagining the snack I would have once I went home after the appointment and the next, I was flat on my back in a hospital bed with six nurses talking over me, putting oxygen on my face, trying to find a vein to hook me up to an IV, and telling me “it would be okay.” That night, my OB came into my room, smiling and asking me why on earth I was not behaving for her. Her lighthearted demeanor cut the thickness in the room and her easygoing way of letting me know her plan for me and baby reassured me. Her determination to keep me pregnant for a while longer gave me the sliver of hope I had been starving for; she gave me the purpose I needed to endure whatever for the chance to – just maybe – hold my baby. In essence, I guess she gave me the second half of surrender: determination, a drive to go with the flow as strong and as brave as one possibly can.

I spent a sleepless week bed bound and watching monitors track my baby’s heartbeat. I felt my baby move and he was adamant that the monitors on my belly were an unwelcome intrusion in his space. One morning I woke to him kicking the monitor – tap tap tap – it was a beautiful sound at 4am and a kind way to wake up from a medicated doze. The fight on his part told me to have hope – small or not, my child was not weak.

Laying in that bed, I discovered that physical weakness could be countered by mental fortitude. My mind labored the way I had been expecting my body to: each shot, procedure, and medication was a call to shut out my instinct to self-protect, to swallow back the vast ocean of tears, and to banish the fear of losing my self or baby. My prayer in those slow hours was the same over and over: Lord, mercy. Just mercy. I couldn’t ask Him to save me, I couldn’t demand He save my baby – I had no place to demand that the Unforeseen Force Behind All Life “get up and save us from this already.” I wanted to, but in my heart I realized if there was going to be a successful delivery with life beyond the womb, that would be by His mercy – not by my worthiness – and thus I prayed.

I don’t know at what point I woke up to a dark room and whispers of preparing for a C-section. At this moment, I will confess that I began to resign myself to fear and with it numbness. I told myself to disconnect and to prepare for the worst. Yet against expectations, my baby cried. His two little cries were angry and fighting, a protest to the whole experience of birth, and the sound cut me to my very soul. I kissed my son before they took him to the NICU and in that quick moment, he pursed his tiny lips out to me for a kiss and batted his little brown eyes at me in a way that left me in hope.

The month we spent living at the hospital while our son finished growing, I realized my fight was not to push against the things but to embrace them with both arms and let it come, whatever it was. I found a confidence in motherhood midway through that month in a way I never expected to. In the last six months I have pondered how listening to his heartbeats gave me hope, hearing his little cries gave me drive, but just having him in my arms is mercy in its purest form.

And tonight, I just have to say thank you for mercy.

Surrender

Pregnancy is a process that invites you to surrender to the unseen force behind all life.”

– Judy Ford

It’s the last day of the year and I realize it hasn’t been my year for posting. The year 2018 has been my year of being present, absorbing in the moments I normally would have blogged about, and just cherishing those memories for myself. My husband and I moved three times, openly exploring places to set down some roots. We are in a good place for now, but I feel in my heart this only another lily-pad and we may move yet again…but I do hope it isn’t too soon.

The biggest adventure of this year, though, has been the adapting to the idea of becoming parents. My husband is a true rock in this new phase of life and I am thankful for his practical mind, his compassion, and his measured toughness that inspires me to get my head in the game.

Pregnancy, literally just the pending-mom period of life, is hard to adequately put into words. Each day has been a different experience that is either the test of my very soul or the joy of my heart. Some days are truly magical – I feel good, my baby moves in a way that feels like snuggles, and I can manage the rest of life with finesse. Other days, maybe more of them than not, I feel cranky and achy like an 85 year-old, the baby’s weight is pressed full on my sciatic, and I’ve got no time or patience for anything or anyone else in life.

Many people have offered their ideas on how to express pregnancy, but my masseuse friend has been the only one to (literally) knead the understanding into my bones. At our last session, while she deftly loosened my stressed muscles and soothed my stretched skin, she softly stated “pregnancy is about surrender.” She went on, echoing things my own mother and others have said before: Pregnancy/parenting/adulting is about accepting that you can’t be in control of everything; to fight the changes inhibits the growth, to resist the pain impedes the progress. My friend added that, in her years as a doula, the best pregnancies, labors, and deliveries she witnessed weren’t necessarily the ones most prepared, but the ones most willing to surrender to the fact that your body was created to do just what it’s doing – making and delivering a baby.

I am seven weeks away (or so) until I get to meet my child. I am equally in eager anticipation as I am in slight fear of this unknown next chapter. But mostly, I am just thankful and at a place of openness. Only by the grace of God I’ve made it this far and with His kindness and lots of good humor on my part, I will be through the pending and in the full-fledged parenting. (Go, 2019!) And in it all, I am focusing on the surrender of my all to the unseen force behind life because really, surrender is so much easier than fighting the process. Happy New Year, and here’s to all the adventure that’s out there!

Laundromats

Note to self: Thank your mom.

My husband and I have moved into a lovely apartment complex smack-dab in the center of a quaint neighborhood with every store we could possibly need in walking distance. If that were not enough, it is also close enough to the green hills to feel country and free. There is a reliable cool breeze each evening and ever-cheery sunshine most days. I love it. The company and the view from my own porch make up for the one struggle I’ve had to own: the laundromat necessity.

Laundromat life has been learning. Before moving out on my own (pre-marriage), I have to admit that I was incorrigibly lazy when it came to laundry.  My mother taught me all the skills to laundry – from washing and stain care to ironing and military-level folding of a man’s undershirts, but I was not one to feel the urge to utilize those skills as often as I should have. the laundromat life has also made me aware of good I had it in my parents’ home with their washer and dryer in the garage and my pre-marriage apartment with it’s stacked washer-dryer set inside the apartment.  When I moved out on my own, laundry did get washed, but it was rarely put away after drying – after all, I was the only one living there! Marriage, though, has brought me to apartment life where laundromat is the only way and when you go to the laundromat, you are not just washing that one shirt you want to wear tomorrow night. No. You’re at the laundromat washing your entire clothing line because all that was left in the drawer were your tight pants from high school and those really uncomfortable chonies that wedgie without any relent.  Additionally, I have been learning the dedication of laundry day in that: if you take it to wash, you fold it and actually put it away. Our apartment is too small and our laundry loads too large to not complete the whole task.

More than just the laundry part of laundromats, I have come to realize that the glory of having your own washing machine is that you don’t have to (1) find strangers’ clothing somehow mixed in with your own, (2) talk to outgoing strangers, or (3) watch strangers physically fight over whose machine is whose.

I wasn’t prepared for the the occasional laundry slips and I still don’t know how to handle it when I find some ugly, unknown sock getting all chummy with my freshly-dried sheets. Even if that sock is clean (because, puh-lease, I use a considerable amount of detergent when I wash in those machines), I can’t help but pick that bastard sock up with just two fingers, exhibiting a ceremonious face of disgust, and I throw it away. If those random socks were yours, I apologize for not asking first before chucking them.

Second, talking to strangers is something I like to avoid if at all possible. I do like people and I can be the most social butterfly in certain situations. But I always seem to go when the talky-talk group arrives and this group is a persistent one with an unquenchable need to talk about…everything. I could be reading a book or absorbing into my smartphone screen all the while it does not deter weird-topic small talk from the people next to me.  Not to sound snobbish, it’s just that when I am at the laundromat I am in the zone. I’ve got 4-6 washers going on a timer, I’m watching for dryer openings and counting quarters to make sure I’ll have enough to dry my jeans this time. I have no time to talk!

Finally, the fighting. I’ve never been more intrigued and terrified at the same time as the night I went with my husband and we were minding our business when these two men came to blows over machines. I was intrigued on the same level as watching hyenas on Animal Planet fight over a downed gazelle; I was terrified upon realizing I was in Animal Planet where the hyenas were fighting over the gazelle. The only reason we didn’t call 911, though, was because both men were in their 60’s or 70’s and mostly just yelling their threats. And then one of them tried to slam the other’s head in the dryer door and I snorted from across the room. Because I just have to laugh at inappropriate moments. The fact that they were old and perhaps somewhat deaf saved my husband from having to gallantly defend me. I now bring earbuds with me and try not to spectate too much.

If anything, life with laundromat necessities has been a learning curve. In some ways, I realize I was trained for this and in other ways I find myself without words. My husband is gracious, though, as I have been taking it all in with the wide-eyed wonder of Dorothy in Oz. The greatest thing about the past couple months has been my true thankfulness and admiration of my mother, who has washed, dried, folded, and put away laundry for years.

Hail, Mother, We Who Are About to Wash Salute You!