30.6.23
Agendas Don't Read Comments, People Do.
6.12.22
#cristiedailywalk
Cristie’s daily walk
Isn’t just on her street.
The magic,
Miracle,
And gift of the journey is
In every flower, in every face,
In every grief, season, and space.
On Wallace
At Huntsman
In the temple
By the ocean
In all times, things, and places -
She knows.
Cristie is daily walking
on holy ground.
*images shamelessly stolen from Cristie's instagram
23.11.22
New Poem, New Heroine.
I recently came across the first two stanzas of this poem in an old anthology book we use at our school. I loved it and had my students memorize it last week. Upon further research, I discovered the rest of the poem (so good). I also learned this kindred nature lover was a fierce advocate who spoke out (and wrote) on behalf of the mistreatment of the indigenous peoples of this country. (Basically, she rocks.) Her friendship of E. Dickinson and praise from R.W. Emerson leads me to believe I've been living in a hole, but I'll share just in case you are like me and love to discover new poetry.
November woods...and the ever-giving Mother who provides life and a place to rest. Thanksgiving and abundance peacefully elucidated. Lovely. Below, I've linked her other writings and information in case you are also interested.
(Also, Happy birthday to my sister Mary. Another fierce force for good!)
Down to Sleep
by Helen Hunt Jackson
November woods are bare and still;
November days are clear and bright;
The morning's snow is gone by night.
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,
Watching all things lie “down to sleep.”
I never knew before what beds,
Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;
I never knew before how much
Of human sound there is in such
Low tones as through the forest sweep,
When all wild things lie “down to sleep.”
Each day I find new coverlids
Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;
Sometimes the viewless mother bids
Her ferns kneel down full in my sight;
I hear their chorus of “good-night”;
And half I smile, and half I weep,
Listening while they lie “down to sleep.”
November woods are bare and still;
November days are bright and good;
Life's noon burns up life's morning chill;
Life's night rests feet which long have stood;
Some warm soft bed, in field or wood,
The mother will not fail to keep,
Where we can “lay us down to sleep.”
25.5.22
Is it me, Google? Am I the Racist?
Artwork by medical illustrator, Chidiebere Ibe
You can find him at: https://www.instagram.com/ebereillustrate/?hl=en
Back in December, I was a viewing a medical student on TikTok who had asked a simple question: "Have you ever seen any kind of medical art or medical representation that was of a person of color?" He posted the above medical artwork (a profile of a pregnant woman and the fetus inside with beautiful dark brown skin). My mind began to meander with questions. A conversation with myself followed, which led to a surprising realization that didn't have anything to do with the artwork (and also everything to do with it):
Q: Until now, I have never seen brown skin in medical art, in a physiology book, or on the knee replacement model in my OS' office last year. I have four kids so I've been to the doctor, a lot. I had books as a kid that I looked at and studied. Classes. Other than the photos from the diabolical Tuskegee Syphilis Study, I haven't seen medical images of people of color. Why?
A: Maybe it's because I live in Utah, and it's pretty much mostly white people. The art represents my community.
Q: Except...then I would have to assume that all these charts and models and such were made here, or made specifically for my community, and other communities have representation. Do they?
A: No. (source cited below)* Besides, there are people of color here. Lots.
Q: Are there just more white babies born in the U.S. than black babies? That doesn't seem plausible (nor is it a very good reason). But I don't actually know. I wonder, how many babies of color are born in the U.S. compared to white babies?
Enter: Google
Because I am the worst at coming up with succinct search phrases, I crudely type the phrase, "Percentage of black babies that were born in the U.S. in 2022" into the search bar. To my surprise, the first several search results included things like:
"How many out-of-wedlock births in the United States" and "Percent of black babies born out of wedlock"
In fact, I couldn't get the simple bar graph or set of stats I was looking for on the whole results page. These results were not answering my question, and made me wonder... I went back to my search bar, left everything the same except I deleted the word "black" and put in the word "white" and hit the enter button. The very first result was exactly what I was initially looking for: "Percentage of births by race/ethnicity". And the others that followed it were similar results. In fact, I went two pages in to see if there were any results about "out of wedlock babies." Nope. This led to more questions:
Q: Why did I get different search results?
A: Melissa, think of how many times in the last year especially that people have brought up "broken families" when referring to people of color. Even in conversations about social justice and #blacklivesmatter, more than once, people would bring this very topic up - using phrases about them (black lives) like: "a cultural thing" and "crime rates" and "drug usage" and "lack of family values". Almost in a, "This is how they choose to live." kind of way.
"They/them"... meaning black people. All of them. Generalized and unnuanced.
Q: Is that why Google gave me indirect results for black babies?
A: It's an algorithm. It's anticipating your direction based on others' searches. It doesn't think the question you're asking is the question you're asking.
Okay, this is my take: Google held up to me an objective, algorithmic mirror to the subjective and racist world in which I live. The search for white babies answered my question directly. And, much like some of my conversations about racism, the questions about black babies took an indirect approach.
One of the sneaky aspects of racism, is that as human beings we are inclined toward bias and comfort. As readily as we participate in racism, or any kind of "otherism" - we just don't see it. And when we are confronted with it, we resist. The brain doesn't want to go there. I mean, I never once noticed the skin color in all the years of going to the doctor, or in all my classes growing up. I'm not naïve enough to believe I was colorblind and neutral about it. My brain saw a representation of myself, so I was comfortable. Bias confirmed and accepted so fast I wasn't even conscious of it.
Stanford Social Psychologist Dr. Jennifer L. Eberhardt wrote an outstanding book about this:
Here I am, months after that experience, and I realize I didn't spend any more time with the issue of the medical art. As I write, I can see some of my initial bias in the process that I didn't notice before. When the topic presented itself, my first inclination was to look for a "logical" and benign explanation. After all, a common response to such topics is some people want to make everything about race. So my questions are built around finding out if it's possible that it's not racist that 95% of medical art is of a white person? While there's nothing wrong with answering that question, it's important to weigh both sides of the scale and challenge my potential bias if I am ever going to come to a just answer. Otherwise, I might be tempted to instead make up reasons to keep my state of comfort. I should have asked other questions:
Q: "In what ways could this be racist?"
A Well, one race is substantially represented, so this feels like a dumb question. But let's ask and answer it anyway with some follow up questions.
Q: "Does this kind of representation matter in health care?"
A: Well, you deliberately chose a woman OBGYN - so to you it obviously does.
Q: "What if I only ever saw artwork, models, and prosthetics of people of color at the Dr.'s office and in pamphlets and text books? What message could that send to me?"
A: I don't know, and I'm not capable of knowing at this point - but I'm certain, based on my reaction to the above illustration I would have noticed the skin color without someone having to point it out. Also, if I had a rash, and my doctor only had images of rashes on dark skin, I might wonder if I'm being diagnosed properly.
Q: If this issue meant something to a person of color, would I listen? Would I validate it, knowing that I am incapable of truly understanding what this means?
I really hope so.
My question to Google was unaddressed, and I was waylaid into a strawman search result. The shocking part of that moment was realizing Google isn't impartial. It is designed to perform as its users dictate.
Q: So, Why haven't we had medical art, models, and prosthetics representing people of color other than for infectious diseases?
A: Go ahead, answer it.
What I am learning, is that in order to keep myself in check, I must be willing to ask what feels like tedious questions. I want to refuse ANY scapegoat explanation (blame) which separates myself from the other, and the possibility of enacting change. Most importantly, I need to listen to someone who is experiencing it from the perspective I can't ever have. If I truly believe in personal responsibility and empowerment, than I am always beholden to my neighbor. In my life, I have come to know this truth: I am only as powerful and free and loved as my neighbor is.
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
-John Donne
Tonight, I did the same searches as before and got better results. If Google can do it, so can we.
*A 2018 study of four anatomy textbooks frequently assigned at medical schools found that dark skin tones were greatly underrepresented, making up less than 5% of more than 4,000 images analyzed. The same study also found that, despite having higher mortality rates for six common types of cancer—breast, cervical, colon, lung, prostate, and skin—Black people appeared in fewer than a quarter of images depicting cancer. None of the cancer-specific images showed what the study deemed to be dark skin tones. (https://healthcity.bmc.org/policy-and-industry/creator-viral-black-fetus-medical-illustration-blends-art-and-activism, Jan. 2022)
24.5.22
Capitol Offense
I read in an article today that there have been 27 school shootings this year.
As a teacher, I immediately did some calculating since I usually plan on about 35 weeks of instruction for my classes. That means...
-Twenty-seven school shootings averages to a school shooting about every seven days in a school year.
-In 2022, we could expect an active shooter to enter a school nearly every week in this country. (More often in 2021.)
-In other words, what we are seeing is that every 1.29 weeks of school, someone is going to attempt to shoot your kids and my kids en masse. OUR kids. And their teachers.
This is real. This is where we live. This is what I can expect as a teacher. This number doesn't include other public shootings (universities, grocery stores, movie theaters, concerts).
I also read this today: our defunct senate has let a background check bill sit for two years. Waiting in the chamber is at least some kind of an actionable effort for responsible gun control. The house passed it.
But the senate won't. Corpulent egos with hot, flapping gums feign effort and movement within a lifeless wing. The real actions in the field take place in the Senate's efforts to protect the party. The terms never time out. Bills like HB8 illuminate the the true objective: party first, and people when it serves the party, sometimes. Diatribes of conviction and principle and "the people" are plays made for the sake of its true goal: more seats than the other team. The senate has become a veritable pro sports league, recruited (or at least not fired) by the people.
We, the people, have allowed the cultivation of a profession of putting off action with words and more bogus words. We pay them to stay in their comfortable chairs, in their air conditioned building (when they bother to show up). We pay for their special health care, as well as security staff in the workplace.
All this safety and security for these "public servants" is funded by our tax dollars in addition to now giving our teachers and our children as tribute while they deliberate. Our children. We pay and lose and pray and mourn these tragedies and continue to wait for a group of people who will never be able to come to a consensus because one party cannot let the other party get any points.
We let them stay. At the price of one shooter (and many bullets) in one of our schools every week.
Have we had enough, yet?
8.9.21
9/8/2021 11:51 pm
Life was - no -
is
whirling -
A Wedding, A House of Love -
Eternity, A House of God -
Filled-to-the-brim Life. Days upon days,
It is good.
Yet, tonight I sit alone "getting work done" and...
This aching churns and burns in my chest.
I
feel
so
alone.
I believed he loved me three days ago. I knew I loved him.
I was surrounded by all of it (the Love).
Soon enough
it will just be one and one, and,
Tonight I wonder if it's all a lie. He's still somewhere I can't see.
The house sits quiet while I wait. Wait and see..
I don't get to hold on to anything.
None of it is mine, and I feel a little lost in this quiet house
Tonight.
30.3.21
You Dress Yourself, But You Can't Dress Your Baby
Wyatt:
Like a little cherub,
A soft, loose crown of curls,
Cheeks that squeeze your eyes shut
When you smile so big.
You feel the need to love
Up you get -- you don’t wait --
Making your way around the table
Kissing the knees (as high as you can reach)
One by one, each receives this sweet token.
I know you still shower love
As far as you can reach,
Kissing those you adore however you can --
You keep shining bright,
Pure love and light without hesitation,
It is who you are.
22.11.20
The Woman at the Well
Woman at the well Diptych is a painting by Joan Columbus
At Jacob's Well
From which she gathered water;
Coming late. An empty vessel.
Not knowing the promise of this font
was also hers to partake.
A mark of the consecrated, dug deep into the earth
Was forsaken by brothers and sisters
For, Jerusalem was the Holy Ground.
She was forgotten --
Deemed too changed to be worthy.
But he waited for her at this place.
He waited, specifically for this woman,
Knowing all she had done.
The Living Water,
Seated upon the symbol
Of the promise,
Picked the forgotten and scorned woman
to declare:
God is not a temple. Is not a place.
Oh, If thou knewest the Gift of God...
You would drink freely-
Then, making her the conspirator of good news,
He declares;
I am He. I am here,
for Her
for Me
for You
Isn't it beautiful? They way He
Loves each one of us?
Knowing all I have done.
12.10.20
Mid Life Miracle.
10.12.20
Having just come home from a date and feeling peckish, I stood facing the open fridge, searching.
I heard her voice down the hall. My nineteen year old daughter was playing guitar while singing my eight year old son to sleep.
Strangely and suddenly, I went back in time. I was sixteen and sitting on the shaggy red carpet in my bedroom. It was one of those days I tried to contemplate my future - one of those times I wondered what my life would bring. Usually, those visions were fuzzy. More of a feeling than a picture. But this time, my young self was getting a vivid glimpse of the adult me, standing in front of the fridge, hearing a pretty song carrying through the hallway. It was such a beautiful sound. Wanting to investigate, I follow the song down the hallway and peek into the bedroom. A lovely and grown girl, about my age, is playing guitar. She is familiar, but nothing I could have constructed in my mind. She is singing a song about hope. I am awed by her. Above her in a loft bed lays a sweet boy, safely tucked in. The softest cheek and longest eyelashes peek from the covers. I want to know him and all about the ample collection of sea shells and rocks that rest on a shelf beneath his bed.
Sixteen year old me seeing this is thrilled at what her life had become. She would marvel at the beauty, the goodness. She would think, "Yes. This is exactly what I want. To the last detail." There are other glimpses of the future which would have left young-girl-me utterly terrified. But this one - this was magic.
My refrigerator reverie ended, though I was still facing the wide open fridge with my hand mindlessly gripping the handle. I knew instantly what the vision was, this merciful and strange gift of presence. So, I stood there a bit longer and accepted it. I let it fill me up. Brim full. I said, "Thank You" and closed the fridge.
Then, I took my 43 year old self and followed the beautiful sound down the real hallway of my real life so I could see and wonder at it all again.