1987; One Moment More

I was 16 and I wrote a note.

Despair was too deep.

Pain too much for one moment more

I took a bottle of aspirin, I laid down and waited.

And in the morning I woke up.

 

And maybe I should, should have felt a sense of joy, 

A sense of purpose and renewed hope.

I had planned for my life to end the night before and yet,

it was morning and I was still here.

But I didn't and I'm not sure why

 

I was still numb.

 

 On the outside I'm sure that I looked all in place

My smile and laugh Were there and many days

They were authentic

But some days not

 

Life became busy and easy to fake

Because many moments were sweet and beautiful

And sustained me... I learned to mask the empty

The pain and even while

Accomplishing much, becoming a mom

Finding my voice and standing tall

 

Some days I was still numb.

 

Mid to late twenties brought marriage and more

Deeper understanding of myself

Therapy to reopen and close wounds

A bi-polar diagnosis to make it all make sense

Medication to quiet my mind and help.

And it did until it didn't I felt like a guinea pig

It was never ending-the cycle

Of good days and bad of trying to determine

if I was capable of this this one moment more

 

because I couldn't escape the numb

 

My thirties were a roller coaster but so busy

I was distracted and able to hide from myself

I had so much joy My smiles were easy

And my heart was full I cherished my roles

as wifey and momma bear

It seemed hard to imagine

I had been broken and sad

Most days ignoring as this was what 'was' because

I'd 'arrived' by now and knew how to handle the empty,

the pain that lingered still

 

My nagging moments of numb.

 

As I've travelled through my 40s

and become comfortable in my skin

I see things so different

the one moment more

I'm accepting of myself and all that

I am and am not

 

Where I shine and where I'm tarnished

I no longer fear the empty and pain

the numb that still lingers

some days more than others

but i have love and authentic joy

 

i embrace my brokenness

and remember that day 33 years ago

It seems so long ago and yesterday at the same time

I can't give you answers

There is no special sauce

I have no idea why I'm still here

 

But I do know this.

Every day since

Even those when I'm numb

Those when I'm weak and feeling alone

When the lies fill my head

That nothing is real and hopelessness begins to reign.

I remember that morning

Opening my eyes

And rereading that note

Declaring that I could not hold on one moment more

 

And cling to the truth that I can.

Do the work.

I don't know much about fishing.

I mean, I've been fishing a couple of times. It's not pretty. I have no clue how to cast my reel, I will NOT  touch the worms, it's soooo boring, I'm too loud and definitely not patient enough. It seems to pretty much just be luck but I know enough to know it's not.

I could learn about it. I have friends who fish, I live near lakes and rivers. I could afford fishing equipment if I wanted to. I could find information online. And of course I could even watch a YouTube video if I wanted.

So I guess that's the real bottom line.

I don't want to.

As I've been mulling over how there are still individuals in this country who are willing to look the other way regarding racism...who really just desire to go back to what life was like before George Floyd was murdered before our eyes on May 25th, 2020...who almost seem to dig their heels in more to be pro law and order, pro white supremacy, pro hating BLM and anything to do with dismantling the systematic racism that permeates our country and systems....I've come to this conclusion.

Racism and racial tension....is their fishing.

They could learn more. They could educate themselves. Even though they may not have experience, they could look to those that do.  I'm convinced, for whatever reason, they don't want to.

Long before Derek Chauvin, J. Alexander Kueng, Thomas K. Lane, and Tou Thao murdered George Floyd...police and others have been brutalizing and murdering black people. Often without consequence. There has been outcry and marches before.  There has been looting and rioting. There's been tension and polarizing viewpoints. There has also been silence.

I want to talk about that silence.

Are you staying silent because it's just easier?
Are you uncomfortable by friends and family who have racist viewpoints?
Are you really wishing everyone could just behave and respect each other?
Are you frustrated that there doesn't seem to be an end in sight?
Are you feeling emotional whiplash, sometimes getting on board, sometimes questioning?
Are you angry that everything has changed for you?
Are you feeling guilty but you aren't entirely sure why?

I'm imploring that you lean into all of that. Lean into those feelings rather than your desire to have it all go back to 'normal'. To remain silent.

We need you.  The movement needs you. We need you to lean into that queasy feeling and educate yourself. We need you to push through your silence.

If you know it frustrates you that people fly the confederate flag, but you aren't really sure how to articulate it…..if you sometimes question why people can't just be nice and kind, yet you know that isn't the answer....if you know it is wrong to make assumptions about black people but you don't know how to tell others why....if you honestly believe that things aren't equal...

You need to do the work.  I'm begging you to do the work. Find the people, the articles, the documentaries, the social media groups, the activists to learn from so that you can better understand and explain what you believe in your gut to be true.

I often say that Oscar, Tamir, Alvin, Trayvon, Eric, Laquan, Breonna, Philando, Micheal, Alton, Jordan, Walter, Atatiana, Botham, Ahmaud, Stephon, Freddie, Dontre, Sandra, Jay, and so many other hundreds of names could be my husband; could be my sons.

And it's true. Because there is not just racism in white people's hearts. There is also racism in the systems and power of this country. It is the definition. I have studied this, experienced this and observed this since high school when the idea of sociology and people groups first became something that I was passionate about. It is true. But I can't convince you it's true if it's not your reality. You will either believe me because I have studied it, experienced this and observed this. Or you will choose to do the work so that you can better understand and accept it.  If you don't? Then you will remain ignorant.

And like me, if I walked out on the pier and cast my line into the lake, having no clue what I was doing, I could likely pull off looking like a fisherman.  But I can almost guarantee that I wouldn't catch a fish. And I very likely might hinder someone else from catching one. When I'm ready? I'll have to seek out the answers and information I need to learn and excel.

If it's your time? Do the work.

That's all I got today.

We the People....

There isn't a lot of space to be neutral about a lot of things lately.  But if we are really honest, much of what we love to remain neutral about? We really have no business remaining neutral about.

I have to say that since 2012 when I began to lose Facebook acquaintances at a record pace, this is the largest number of posts, anger, movement I've seen from white folks.  For those who 2012 doesn't ring a bell, Trayvon Martin was murdered by George Zimmerman in February 2012. He was not immediately arrested and it was only after much protesting, phone calls/emails and civil disobedience that George was finally charged. And while he was charged....he ultimately was acquitted.  At the time my sons were 15, 14, and 13 and while I have been quite aware of the ugly of this county long before 2012, there was something so incredibly personal about Trayvon's murder that propelled me to speak out more, care less about other's opinions and create my mantra 'We can be casual but we can't be close'.

In the years since....it's been tiring to say the least. And yet, not even an iota of tiring as it is for my browner and black friends. Because while I know and claim all of the fullness of my Mexican heritage, I am not naïve to the fact that to many, while they know I look different, they see me as white when they look at me. Or maybe Italian. Truth be told, only other minorities normally recognize that I am not white upon meeting me.  White folks love to claim me.  This has it's own disturbing reality that is another blog for another day.

The other day I re-shared a bunch of blogs I had written over the years from a tired wife and mom of black men. Who has had more conversations than I can count to try and educate, implore, teach my fellow folks about race and injustice. About the two America's that exist.  You may have even seen this past week, as my heart and head remain in a constant state of potential explosion that much of my time on social media has been sharing live streams. Or if you've blocked or unfollowed me, maybe not ☺ There has been a lot of really good material shared in the last week; articles, books, resources to bring awareness and help white people who desire to move from silent bystander to a vocal ally who understands as much as they are able to. Please seek out those. Find them and read them and memorize them and then teach your white children to think different and respond different and move different so that the possibility for change increases. Help them grow up to be white people who understand privilege and fragility and believes that they are real, that things aren't the same and this country is fucked up and has been fucked up since jump. (feel free to say it nicer!)

And as I've cried. And fumed. And agonized. And fought the desire to cuss folks out. I've been mulling over and over; how to put all of the jumbled thoughts in my head into a coherent format as many have asked me my thoughts and opinions. What's inside, I need to get out. So here it goes.

     We must first acknowledge that this country was never designed to uphold justice for all. The constitution is a joke that we keep trying to revive and redesign so that it will serve our purposes. But it can't. Because at it's core, it is hate filled, written with ill intent, ignoring entire people groups who built this country without ever fully enjoying the fruit of it. The farce is that white people love to sing and stand and pomp and circumstance the fuck out of anything red, white and blue that represents the "great melting pot". Flags, bandanas, desserts, tattoos, country singers belting out God Bless the USA. But they do so all the while ignoring the truth that 'We the people....' is a slap in the face to all the people who are not recognized in the eloquent words of white forefathers. If you try to discuss differently they are gonna 'All Lives Matter' you to death. The amount of information that one could take on, discover and learn about privilege and what it means and how we throw that shit around like it's fertilizer on the farm could take someone forever. But we choose not to take it on, discover it or learn it.  Because that also means unlearning all of the racist and biased 'truth' that we've been brainwashed to swallow and regurgitate....like God doesn't see color and we are all equal. And we don't want to do that because we don't want to know. Or even worse, even worse?  We like to pretend we know, that we're just so woke. We act like we've learned because we kissed that black guy back in the day, have one black friend, danced to Biggie when we were young, sit with our black co-worker at lunch, read one author or saw 'Do the Right Thing' and suddenly we're an ally and love to tell others about the plight of black people. But suddenly, in the midst of proclaiming our wokeness, we end up in a deeper sleep than before. But it's worse because it's hidden. Not just to others but even to ourselves. Until one day, a racist white woman calls the police on a black man in Central Park and not just calls the police on him, but ANNOUNCES, without any shame that she is going to tell them that she is being THREATENED by a black man because she knows what that means.  And we respond with....I mean we don't know that she's racist!  Yes the fuck she is.  Or we hear about any of the horrific real life stories that have made our headlines (and the millions situations that don't) and right away we try to justify, defend or 'try to make sense of things.'  I'm so fucking tired of folks trying to make sense of things. You can't. Period. You can't make sense of it because it is what it is.
     Racist ideology runs thick through the fiber of this country and thus, also runs through any system that has been put in place since the beginning it's time. And from the moment that Natives were lied to, murdered, tortured, and tucked away from the pristine lily whiteness of 'merica; it's been that way.  Healthcare. Housing. Education. Financial. Until EVERY white person can acknowledge that truth, stand up for the oppressed in every circumstance they encounter, there will be no justice. So there can be no peace.
     I know to some I am extreme. It's easy to take my socialist views and disregard me. It's easy to say I'm too emotional because my husband and sons are black. It's easy to roll your eyes because I'm just always blah blah blah'ing and being so mean to nice people.  Fuck nice people. The definition of nice is being agreeable and pleasant. I refuse to be agreeable and pleasant about racism and the racist ideologies that must be dismantled before there can be real justice and real peace.

That's what I've got today.

Love and Grief

My friend Linnea asked me to share about grief. Intrigued by the way my family walked through my Grandmother’s death, she asked if I would share a little about that. Processing that all evening led to this. Hopefully she can glean what she's looking for from this.

I think if we’re honest, maybe we always function in a state of grief. Because for many of us who understand how precious each day is…..we know that death is always present with life.

What does it mean to do grief well? in a nutshell, I think it means clinging together while allowing each other to go bat shit crazy a bit with no judgement.  (well sometimes judgement but then remembering we aren’t supposed to judge and get our attitude back in check.)

For my family….my Grandmother was the matriarch, the rock and beloved. She was respected and I think we all felt that she was something special. Not perfect, but perfectly her. The process of grief began years before her earthly life ended. As her health deteriorated, I know our very large family interacted with this truth differently. In my opinion, there’s no wrong in that. If we’ve been created individually and uniquely us…then it would make sense that we would journey through grief individually and uniquely.  Each hospital visit left her body weaker. And each time it became more difficult to see. I loved her so much.

In her final weeks…quite honestly there were differences between family members. Emotions were on 10. Pain and heartache were ever present. Arguments, hurt feelings, frustration. But always, always leaving it at her bedroom door. Always, always entering that room with reverence and devotion for the cherished woman lying in that bed.

Family was everything to her. From the time I was little, she hated it when we didn’t get along. It hurt her heart that there was division and separation. It didn’t matter to her if we were all different, had different opinions, lived differently.  She wanted us to remember that family was everything and in the end life is too short to hold onto anger. She wanted and expected us to get along. To stand by family.

And so. We did.

For our heritage, honoring a life in death means a novena. It’s a Catholic tradition of 9 days after a death, gathering for prayers, food, family, remembering. I know there’s deep tradition involved and it’s celebrated, honored differently so I am certainly no expert.  But that's what it's meant to us.

And so we sat, stood and kneeled in that living room. With her rosaries. And prayed. And cried. And ate. And argued. And reminisced. And ate. And cried. And laughed. And prayed. And cried.

And remembered.

Because perhaps death, and thus life should be bigger than ourselves. And in those moments it didn’t matter who had said what when. Whose secret was biggest. Whose skeletons were piled higher. Who was right or who was wrong. I don't know how to explain it. I just know that in that room I felt incredibly proud to be her granddaughter. And incredibly awed by her sacrifice.

Those 9 days. I'm sure there's many important things a devout Catholic could tell you about those 9 days. But what I can share? Is that those 9 days create a bond through grief, a bond of history and tradition. A bond of united love for her, which connects us forever. 

Doing grief well....I think it just accepting that in order to love authentically, at some point you will grieve. And then you will love again.