30.6.23

Agendas Don't Read Comments, People Do.

 


According to my faith practice, a desire to be called one of God’s people is a willingness to “bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light,” and a commitment to “comfort those who stand in need of comfort.”   (Mosiah 18:8-10) It’s no small commitment. 

When I see rainbows (especially in June) that’s what I think about.  I know too many dear, beautiful people to reduce Pride month to an “agenda”.  Besides, agendas don’t read and hear comments, people do. If I am to love my neighbor as myself, then I’m going to seek to understand, because I really don’t like being misunderstood or dismissed. At least, that is the goal- I fall short of it all the time.  Anyway, I think this sunset tonight is a spectacular end to the month, and it got me thinking.  


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;

Each noon burns up the morning's chill;
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.”

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;
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.”


<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GWWMfUl8MNE" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>

Internet Archive of A Century of Dishonor 
A century of dishonor : a sketch of the United States government's dealings with some of the Indian tribes : Jackson, Helen Hunt, 1830-1885 : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive


Ramona by Helen Hunt Jackson - Free Ebook (gutenberg.org)


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.  

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

                                                       Scorn - Tomas Rowlandson -  1800



 It is so, so hot.  I look around my small and sweltering basement apartment.  I scan the packed room.  A playpen (where the baby slept), kitchen table, book shelf, rocking chair, computer desk and a tiny TV/VCR on a table Sam brought home from the pawn shop where he used to work.  All these things are flanking the walls while filling the room.  It is July, and there is no air conditioning.  We (Sam and I) had been using a spray bottle at night, dampening our sheets with cold water in an attempt to cool down.  Unable to sleep, Sam would check the thermostat;  "Eighty-six degrees in the middle of the night?"  

But now it is midday.  I need to get out of this sweatbox and I have the car.   Looking at my sweet, dewy baby, I get him ready for an outing.  I change his diaper, and that is all, because that is all he was wearing. (Baby is hot, too.)  Strapping my beautiful, smiley, little boy into his car seat, we set out.  

I would often take drives to look at possible places to live, and dream of the kind of house I might have some day.  Maybe.   Sam and I had been searching for condos, tired of paying rent.  Maybe we could build some equity?  Maybe we could find a place that is a little roomier? Invariably, I end up in old, treelined neighborhoods with beautiful brick houses that we certainly couldn't afford now, and might not ever be able to manage.  I would drive slowly and dream.  I like that walkway... I would plant flowers just like that... Those windows must bring in lots of light, etc.  My baby was always up for a drive while I dreamed.  He was an easy and cute companion.  

My car was also without air conditioning, and on this summer day, the rolled down windows are providing little relief.  I pass a grocery store.  Drawn to the probable air conditioning inside, I am already feeling relief as I pull into the parking lot. 
Unlock Baby from the car seat. 
Wrap my hands around his bare chest. 
Scoop him up.   
A fleeting thought comes over my conscience as I do this: perhaps I should have at least put a onesie on him
I cradle my little boy's back as he sits on my hip, and we walk into the cooled building.

I had just strapped him in the grocery cart, feeling thankful for the cooler air, when an older woman approaches me, talking. I think she may be Russian.  Her words sound Slavic, anyway.  Her body language is eager and her eyes are angry.  It takes just a moment for me to realize she is chastising me. Speaking (quickly), pointing to the "baby", touching his bare skin, then hugging her body, pretend-shivering.  Next, she is pulling at my short sleeved shirt with utter disgust.  What I heard from her scalding, broken English; "Where are his clothes?"  "Why don't you dress your child?  You dressed yourself and don't bother dressing your child? It's cold in here for a little body. You buy food, but you don't buy clothes for your child?  What's the matter with you?"

I can't remember if she actually said, "You are a bad mother."  Maybe it was, "What kind of a mother are you?"

She walks away with hand motions and harrumph.  

The shame.  It washes over me like a bucket of boiling water being poured over my head, soaking through to my gut.  As I stand there, looking helplessly at my poor child, all the typical responses of that emotion come flooding to the surface.
I want to fight. 
I want to give that lady a piece of my mind, and all my excuses (so as to change hers).  
I love my child more than anything. 
I take care of him, clothe him (usually).
I should have put clothes on him.  What was I thinking? 
I don't know what I'm doing. 
I am all alone.  Every day.  Winging it.  I have no idea. 
This poor boy.  
I don't know what I'm doing. 
I want to hide.

What kind of a mother am I?
I answer myself:
A lousy one.  

Suddenly, my happy baby looks so deprived.  So...naked. I realize he is being raised by an imbecile; a young, dumb-headed girl.   Oh, I love my baby fiercely.  But when it comes to caring for him?  Poor boy.  My poor, poor boy at the mercy of my incompetence. And that mean, old lady just called me out in front of God and all the patrons at the Albertson's grocery store. 


****

I woke this morning with a desire to write.  As I searched in my mind for ideas;  (anti-racism, teaching, book reviews, star trek...) this memory surfaced out of nowhere.  Of all the blasted things -  

Upon reflection, I realize that the confrontation at the store brought more than feelings of incompetency to the surface.  I felt profoundly lonely and lost.  I have always had wonderful support, but this motherhood responsibility was mine, alone, to navigate. I truly had no idea what I was doing.  I managed to keep my baby alive and happy, but most of the time I was in a panicked, puzzled state, wondering what to do about...anything.  As a new mom, I  felt pathologically insane and it just hadn't been diagnosed yet.  Now I know more about postpartum depression, but then I just scoured my one parenting book, and worried.  He was so colicky at first (panic).  I could not satisfactorily swaddle or get him to use a pacifier (failure). I couldn't figure out how to nurse him (neglect).  I was always fumbling (proof of inadequacy).  And then, there I was, fumbling in front of the whole wide world, looking at my baby and trying to see if he was shivering.  If he was cold and unhappy and I didn't even notice.  How can I not know to dress my baby?

My only peer, the only young mother I knew at the time, was my sister in law.  She took to motherhood naturally.  Being the oldest girl of a large family, she was used to caring for babies.  She had cute clothes and bows and a nursery.  She seemed to have enough energy for photo shoots and sewing.  Motherhood isn't easy for anyone, but it didn't seem to be a mystery to her.  I realize now what a blessing it was to have her example.  Seeing her not panic when her baby cried taught me that it didn't mean I was automatically ruining my child when mine did.  Babies cry.  She would talk about the stages (teething, for example) as if it would pass, and that I wouldn't be sleepless forever. She also relished the fun, fleeting parts while she could.  (I may have missed it, not knowing how quickly each stage passes.)  I got to see her move forward confidently with her life, developing skills and hobbies,  nurturing her role as a mother.  She took charge with that swaddling blanket and with all of motherhood.  In so many ways, she shined a sane, faith-filled light on motherhood.  But on days like that hot day, I shrunk back into a dark place, pushed in by that self-condemnation that comes with comparison.  The shame of all my lacking. And now I had a real life accuser to snuff out any doubt about it. Oh, how she crept back into my mind over the years.  And still.

 I seem to remember walking defiantly in the store for a minute, but then decided I couldn't bear the shame anymore, and left.  Sometime later,  I went to my mother in law's house. (Perhaps I was teaching piano lessons to her younger children?)  I do remember being self-conscious there about my almost naked child.  I think she looked at his bare body and said something about it being a hot day.  I remember telling her about what happened at the store.  I'm sure I was defensive.  I remember her listening.  I don't remember feeling judged by her, even though I know my mother in law would never, ever have taken a baby to the store in just a diaper. 

It's not the most neglectful thing a mother can do, I know.  However, it is very embarrassing to think that I sometimes don't have common sense about things.  (It's hard to even type it out.  Pride is another failing.)  But, I didn't.  I was kind of a mess. 

What would I say to that mom in the store now?  If I saw her standing there, dumbfounded, looking at her cute naked baby as he looked back at her.  Knowing how scrambled her mind was, I would put my arm around her and say, "Look at that darling baby and smile at him.  Look.  He is o.k. and you are o.k.   He is a cute, healthy baby boy.  If he looks cold, you'll go home and take care of it.  Just like you tried to take care of it when he was hot."  

It is possible that my mother law said as much to me. 

I was 22 years old then. That baby is 22 years old now.  He's just fine.  In fact, he turned out to be this wonderful, beloved human being despite, and maybe because of, my shortcomings.  


There.  I wrote something today. 




 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.