I Was Colorblind But Now I See

It was 1985, my Junior year at South High. Every time I walked on the school campus my skin crawled a little. Everyone said it was fine. “Rebel Pride!” was something we all were supposed to embrace. At the time, the student body to me seemed to be 40% white, 35% black and 25% other. I am not sure of the exact statistic. 

I would hear my white friends complain about how we couldn’t fly the General Lee/Confederate Flag anymore at football games. Political Correctness was robbing us of our heritage. I was at a total loss of what that meant. The North won the war. The South lost, why would anyone want to fly a flag as if something was a victory. I felt embarrassed for my black friends wondering if they were hearing any of it. Wondering why more fights on campus didn’t happen.

The mascots of our school were Jody and Johnny Rebel. Yup… That’s right. Jody wore the complete baby blue taffeta ballgown WITH, hoops. Johnny bedecked in the Rebel blue and a hat on top. Each football game I would wonder why no one was saying anything. How this could be ok with everyone! How it was possible Everyone embraced 

Rebel Pride.

I went along. I wanted to fit in. However, I didn’t grow up here. My early childhood years I listened to stories about my parents marching in Civil Rights marches. How my Mom related to discrimination because of the religious bias she encountered in her state. She was not LDS (Mormon) and in the 1950 thru 1960s that was a huge issue. No dates. Exclusions from social gatherings or babysitting jobs. Her empathetic stories would go on and on. I was raised to never exclude people because of their differences. I was raised to be Colorblind. If I didn’t see color, if I only saw people, there would be no racism.

Poof… it would be gone.  

No need for Affirmative Action. No need for Wage Equality. No need to change history. If we would treat people like people and not a color or a disability, the Parentals told me, the problem would be solved.

I believed them right up until the end of my Junior year. 

People told me I was moderately popular in high school. I heard a rumor that I was liked. It would be my Senior year so why not?

Why not run in an election to be part of the school mascot team. I was told I would be a cute Jody Rebel.

So I ran. I made posters. I campaigned. I didn’t go out for cheer leading because it was a potential scheduling conflict. As did a few other girls. One of the girls was black, Georgia. The other girl had the same name as mine, Becky.

It came down to a runoff. 

Becky 

Becky H. (Me)

Georgia.

The morning after the final vote I was so excited. I couldn’t wait to get to school and see who won. When I arrived, I saw the announcement, Georgia won. I was happy for her. Naturally a little disappointed, but Georgia was a huge soul. Everyone loved her. She would make a fantastic Jody Rebel. She definitely would be better at it than me.

I moved on with my day.

As the classes transitioned, I began to hear a murmur. Towards the end of the day it finally was reported to me through some acquaintances. They agreed with the rumor. They were mad at me too. What I had done was completely unjust. It was offensive. I should have known better.

I should have known that Becky C. was more popular than me.

I should have done the honorable thing and dropped out of the race.

I confused everyone because the underclassmen couldn’t tell the difference between us.

I had split the vote and allowed a black girl to win Jody Rebel.

Didn’t I know? Jody Rebel was supposed to be WHITE? I completely ruined our classes Senior year. How selfish I was. Blablabla.

Suddenly, I was no longer colorblind. I now understand what looked at me that day in the face was systemic racism. Many friendships silently ended for me that day. I was ok that they were mad at me. I was ok that their opinion was I somehow was an awful person for a day.

I felt proud. I, unknowingly, did my part. Yes! this school was racist. Yes! our mascot was racist. The whole premise of our high school celebrated oppression. Somehow, unwittingly I defied it. I made room for a change. I never apologized for staying in the race. I still don’t. I wanted to be Jody Rebel. Georgia won fair and square in that runoff.

More importantly,  

It was time we had Georgia as our Jody Rebel.

Obscured Dignity

The air was crisp as sleep melted away.  Within the cathedral ceiling of that momentary bedroom, leaves of towering sycamores began to yellow.  Sunlight sprinkled warmth on her face as a sapphire sky peeped through.  The grass was not too wet.  That was nice.  Sleeping was mostly comfortable and warm in the makeshift bed.  She was grateful for the blankets.

Standing, sleep stretched from muscles as the smells of fall air filled her lungs. She savored the warm morning.  Winter brushed the air with crispness. She bent down to carefully fold her bedding and place it into the shopping cart. The park was quiet.  Savoring the solitude and beauty, thankful no one was around to disturb her. 

She tightened the sage bathrobe around her frame. It hung off her like a child playing dress up. Strolling around the shopping cart overflowing with earthly possessions, she assessed its arrangement. As she placed the bundle of blankets in, she lifted out a carry-on rolling suitcase.  Grabbing the shopping cart with her left hand, she dragged the bag in her right towards a building central to the park.  A musical cacophony of bird song accompanied her saunter into the public bathroom.

She paused at the door, with a determined push, the basket leapt into the lavatory. A dull clang traveled across the park as the basket met with a metal trash can inside.  Head held high, she strolled into the bathroom with the bag trailing behind her.

About 15 minutes later she emerged. Her outfit for the day was comfortable denim shorts, an aqua blue T-shirt and a denim vest- which looked like it had been a jacket in a previous life.  She placed the carry-on bag in the front of the basket.  Walking around the portable home, tender arrangements to her belongings were the final preparation for the day’s travels.

Standing for a moment smoothing her bangs and hair, she sighed.  With a look around she evaluated the temperature.  The air brushed her skin with its chill.  The olive green robe was draped over the top of the basket.  Picking it up and jauntily wrapping it around her shoulders, she slid her arms in, grabbed the lapels of her dapper garment and straightened it.

Fluffing her bangs while she walked around the basket; inspecting it for the last time. Satisfied she stood at its helm and gave it a shove.  It rolled as she sashayed to the side of it. Resting a hand on the old friend's side, they began the day’s journey. They disappeared from the park, the robe’s sash gliding behind her like a royal train.  A private moment of dignity in the simplest form had been hers. 

Homelessness is often something we look away from. We, the Fortunate Housed often judge harshly the poor and Unhoused. We talk about the Blight, the Problem, the Inconvenience, the...etc. 

Jesus said to remember the Poor.

But for the Grace of God, would be I.

One week in 2010. a homeschool week filled with shuttling kids to homeschooling activities. Girly and I sat at in park while the boys attended classes. While she worked on her school I observed a fellow human sister beginning her day.

Zany: A Boy Became a Man

Ase was 8 months old when I found out I was pregnant.

Zany blasted into this world with one of "those" birthing stories- cord prolapsed. Dramatic race down the hallway with a male nurse between my legs and plugging my hoo-ha. The only OB left only moments before. There I lay, anesthesiologist sitting poised with general anesthetic. The nurse still sitting between my lets, fighting to hold a crowning head above my cervix. Nurses running in and out:
"We can't find a doctor."
"We found one, He's just scrubbed in for surgery, but he's a neurosurgeon and hasn't done a c-section since residency"
"Never mind, the OB is back."

Anesthesiologist gently looks at me and says, "Start counting backwards."

At 10 months, sitting in a high chair eating breakfast.
Zany leaned to one cheek. Let out a butt cheek flapper. Sat straight up.
AND laughed.

At 11 months I asked him playfully what kind of birthday he wanted.
He hummed the Winnie The Pooh theme song.
"You want a Winnie The Pooh birthday party?"
"Yuss!"

I was in trouble.

I began to pray for inspiration. It came: How did Robin William’s Mom do it? Or Jim Carrey, Andy Kaufman, Tim Conway, Jonathan Winters…Somehow these men were raised without being broken by their Mothers.

After a bad day in first grade, he threw a vacuum across the room. His teacher turned a blind eye while classmates punish each other. She only acknowledged good behavior. In this Lord Of The Files environment, they cornered Zany, under a desk, yelling at him.

When we moved to the Central Valley where we chose to  home school. So much needed to be corrected and we wanted to give them a love of learning. Zany struggled to get his schoolwork done on time. So, I designed a natural consequence:

If you don’t get your school work done within the time allotted, then at the end of the school day, you take it to your room. No playing out side with the neighborhood kids.


He contentedly sat in his room for a week. AND quit doing school work altogether.

It was a hill I died on.

Some people wanted to call him “Strong-Willed.” But I knew he wanted to please. He had a soft and compassionate heart. If I broke that will, he would become a broken man. Not prepared for the life God called him to.

I met a Mom of a similar boy. In his teens now, this boy, years earlier would only wear kakis. It lasted a year. Why? Because it was weird to wear his name- jeans.  She agreed with me. That “Strong-Willed” book was only good for one thing:

Hitting your kid with it.

She introduced me to Raising Your Spirited Child and Making Children Mind Without Loosing Yours. These books saved his life. I stumbled across Nurture By Nature-based on the Meyers-Briggs personality test. This book gave me a game plan that changed as often as he did.

In Zany’s preteens, exasperated, I asked him, “Do I need to explain to you WHY I am an authority in your life?”


His stormy blue eyes widened. He softly and humbly asked, “Yes. Please?”

Because I Said So never worked.

Why? BECAUSE if I wasn't there he had no reason to follow the rule. He needed to have an intrinsic reason to be honest, respectful, honor authority, forgive and serve others.

Early tees found me in tears and on my knees daily. Homeschooling him was what he needed, but it was a refining fire for me. How to raise this gifted, gentle soul and not break him.
Zany wasn't mine.

I was a steward of the child God created. I would be held accountable for every millstone, harsh word or injustice. One morning, looking in the mirror and at a complete end Holy Spirit whispered this verse to my heart:

Through the Lord's mercies we are not consumed,
Because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23


If God’s mercies are new every morning for me, then from that fountain, I can extend them to him. I decided I was going to like Zany as a teen-EVEN IF IT KILLED ME.

Zany went to public high school. He was ready to be accountable to someone else. He wanted me to be just Mom.

Now he is a senior. Drug free, alcohol free, and a solid faith in a God who loves him. He knows he has shortcomings. Zany knows the only help to navigate them is growing in faith. He has a tireless work ethic. Impervious to bullying and passionate about justice. Still driven by his individualistic ethos.

He turns 18 today.
He’s a man.

AND I LIKE HIM.

The Art of Falling

A week ago I fell.

A complete and total face plant walking Watson. My fantastic Audrey sunglasses scratched. Both knees scraped and bruised. My right shoulder still complains when I lay on it.

And… What happened in that fraction in of a second revealed a complete freedom.

On 8mm film, when I was 3 years old, flickers an odd little thing which is the perfect picture of my basic personality.

I run as fast as I can.

I stop.

Step warily over a garden hose.

Then continue running.

I remember at 5, learning to ride without training wheels. I was a two wheeling success for three days. Then my Grandparents came over. They wanted to see me ride my bike.

Proud, and feeling quite invincible, I pushed away.

Began pedaling down the sidewalk.

I was great riding in a straight line, but the bike decided to turn. I hung onto the bike as we both found the rosebush at the end of the apartment row.

I refused to ride my bike for the rest of the summer.

I. Hate. Falling.

Then I had boys. They jumped. They climbed. They fell. Ase was cautious and I realized very quickly he looked to me for bravery. I had to lead by example.

These were our mantras:

Being brave is being afraid and doing it anyway.

If you fall-point your toes. (Patrick Swayze’s Mom told him that.)

Then we moved to Mammoth. Counting Mutant worked for the resort which of course meant Ase and Zany learned how to ski.  Here they were, wanting to hurl themselves down an ice covered mountain on waxed wood pieces.

 

I was the parent.

I needed to set the example.

I needed to get my ass on a chair lift and learn how to ski. In throwing myself upon the mercy of gravity a truth emerged from the ski/snowboarding culture: falling is an art form. All falls are braggable accomplishments, because it means you tried.

Life happened and we moved into the Central Valley. The boys, now with sister in tow, decided dance would be their new passion. I would watch through the window of their classes, or in the audience during rehearsals. Beautiful, graceful dancers flowing across the stage would fall on their face. They would bounce up like a rubber ball, smile firmly in place and continue. It reminded me of what my Mom used to tell me when performing a musical piece: “If you make a mistake, keep playing. Don’t pause. Don’t start over. Just keep going because the audience won’t know you made a mistake. You are the only one who knows the music.”

I have listened to people the last week, express concern, sorrow, regret and warnings to be careful in the future. Each interaction leaves me a bit befuddled. I fell and it was spectacular. It was the rare person who could revel in the beauty of my wounds. Who could celebrate with me that I was alright in the grand scheme of things.

 

And I realized today:

Falling is not the worst thing that could happen. 

I bounced back up.

Smile on my face.

Bravely facing the next moment.

Never afraid to fall again.

Nutty Maggots

Originally posted December 2009

This is Nutcracker week for us. In the whirl of costumes, make-up and lost shoes I am reminded of Nutcrackers past. 

Ase and Zaney struggled with responsibility in their early teens- I know, shocker. With dress rehearsals everyday,  I assigned jobs to everyone so the house could run efficiently while we ran out of it. The boys were to take out the trash when it was full, without being asked. Being a firm beleiver in natural consequences, I left them to it. Not nagging was difficult when the kitchen can took on the form of a Slurpee. So, I cinched the sack closed to help make it obvious. Can't add any more to a closed sack.

The volcano of trash sat patiently waiting. 

Opening night was upon us. Tensions were high and I sent Zaney up for a shower. Ase, GirlyK and I sat in the workroom discussing the plans. A whole wall of the workroom is a window that looks out onto our back yard. As we relaxed and planned, my eye wondered to a little white wormy thing wriggling on the floor. I bent down to see what it was.

GirlyK cautioned, “Mom, don’t squish it! It is a caterpillar.” 

It wasn't a cute little white caterpillar. It was a maggot!

I showed it to Ase, 14 at the time, the little wiggling life between my fingers, “It IS a maggot.”

He looked at me blinking.

I clarified, “The pupa of a FLY!”

Reality dawned upon his intelligent face. The three of us looked at the floor; a migration of maggots sparsly covered the floor.

Ase ran for the vacuum.

I picked up what I could.

GirlyK, 8, began her scientific examinations.

Zaney, 13, was finally in the shower. 

I suggested, "Ase, you might want to take the garbage out now."

He picked it up, carried it to the back door and reached his hand to open it only to find a herd of them wanting freedom.

He cried,” EEEEWWWWWW!”

GirlyK squealed with delight.

I vacuumed for the next 20 minutes. Under the couch and in nooks and crannies. GirlyK was so helpful to point out a new "family" to be set free. Ase controlled his stomach as he washed out the trash can. Zaney still in the shower discovering who knows what. 

I looked at Ase, “Do you think it is a good idea to take the trash out on a regular basis?”

He sheepishly smiled.

 Zany finally came down, very, very clean. As Ase and GirlyK brought him up to speed, he looked at me dumbfounded. The story didn't make any sense. A few moments later I found a straggler. Gingerly held between my fingers I showed him.

"This! is a maggot. It is the beginnings of a fly. That's why it is gross" 

Zaney cocked his head to one side. Shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh, those? I have been picking them up all day.”

Quitting

Originally posted on December 9, 2010

I am always the last one to leave. A party, a theme park, church. An argument isn't over unless true harmony exists for all involved, much to The Counting Mutant’s irritation. A decision is weighted upon all collectible options. In all situations, affirming and confrontational, I do not quit.

Some consider this diligence a personality flaw. 

My soul screams this mantra to my head: to quit in the face difficulty, cheapens the experience of life. 

When in conflict with person or situation; first comes the talking. There is an echo inside my head, so the only way to hear myself think is out loud. Unfortunately that means someone has to listen until a piece of solution reveals itself. Only when I have exhausted all avenues of resolution will I resign.

“Just as iron sharpens iron, a person sharpens the character of his friend” Proverbs 27:17

What people don’t recall when they throw around this cliché is:

You can’t have sharp iron without sparks.

Within interaction there will be controversy. To end a relationship or an experience because of difficulty, compromises the value of the life we have been given. To work through these differences creates a better life story.

The Counting Mutant took part in a business philosophy course. Close to the end, he was invited to continue in an advanced level. He said yes. At the end of the course, life happened which complicated his ability to continue. During the final conference the offer to continue was extended. This time he declined.  The instructor of the course spoke to the many that changed their answer. He challenged them to examine their behavior.  Was this a common practice in business or their personal life where an agreement was made and then broken?  The instructor introduced the word reneging: to break a promise or go back on an agreement. The consequences of reneging of reneging are; people become leery of  your word and question the reliability of it.

The shame of quitting evaporated. My real issue was about reneging. Whenever a commitment needs to be made, I am thoughtful and count the cost. I never want to jeopardize a person’s trust or faith in me. Through disagreements we learn about each other.  This is why the idea of quitting is unreasonable to me. Listening to another’s grievances I gain strength and wisdom. There is a certain power in admitting my weaknesses and face the conflict. It grants me an opportunity for a Reality Check. My focus turns to crafting those flaws into strengths.  Life is the greatest adventure. Being available for resolution makes my life story richer.

I Don't Miss It

I miss you.

Sometimes those words give my heart a warm pitter patter of fluffy bunny memories. Laughter until my sides ached and ice cream sundaes. Dance parties, horse back riding and secrets spoken in the dark. A place of safety, innocence and mutuality.

Other times...

My heart freezes, bracing for the next blow. Trapped in the torture of a toxic relationship these words are bait. Scars flame in memory of pain and rejection. Words spoken in the past bounce around my head - judgement, blame flavored with bitterness.

It took a long time for me to learn what my part in a toxic relationship was. Boundaries I overstepped. Vulcan logic heard as insult and judgement. Once I understood, I reached out to make amends and make a behavior change. I listened more intently so as to not make the same mistake again.

Only to step into a new minefield labyrinth of mistakes. Like a starfish, a limb would be lost, but I would grow it back again: all in hopes that at the end of the day the relationship would be filled with love, grace and equality.

Then I woke up. I made of an ass of myself. I assumed the person wanted me in their life. My presence was more than just geography and convenience for them. I believed the other person honestly liked me and valued the journey we walking together. The reality; my existence in their life was by default not desire. 

In order to thrive a paradigm needed a shift. I disciplined myself to reciprocate. If someone had a need, I could happily serve. As I watched satisfaction color their soul I felt joy. I needed nothing else. Some of my relationships now are one sided. Others are mutually beneficial. I have found fulfillment in both. The difference is, my worth as a person does not stem from the success or failure of these affiliations.

On occasions, my path crosses those past acquaintances which proved to be most painful. Three little words spoken and I freeze the urge to vomit. I wonder what is missed about me. Who would miss a bull after he left a china shop? Would anyone regret removing the pebble in a shoe? I cannot respond because of the word constipation in my brain. Those three words are irrational.

Then I saw this quote and understood. It put the word "miss" into a different context. I miss the smell of summer thunderstorms of my childhood. The romantic idea of becoming a famous singer/actor. It isn't the person, it is the idea. The presence. The fragrance. The romantic idea. 

That is logical. It hurts to visit that ideal, because it was so wrong. Contentment is within the reality of today. A peace of mind built on trust. Teaching myself not to jump to conclusions, but allow a camaraderie to grow organically watered with mutuality. Value for value. I weigh my words before they are spoken. Then ask myself: am I listening as much as talking? Love ebbs and flows. People weave in and out of life on their own paths. Finding the joy in the moment with them is what matters.

Snowmiser, Heatmiser and Scrooge

This was originally posted on December 23, 2010

Photo taken by paulabflat

Christmas. It is not about the shopping. It is not about the gifts. It is not about the decorations. I understand the meaning logically and traditionally: God became flesh in the form of Baby Jesus who grew up and died for my mistakes: the fulfillment of Biblical prophecies.  For many, Christmas does not have spiritual significance. It is simply a time of giving, participating in charities or changing the house decorations.  

My early childhood was spent with my Dad in the Air Force.  These Christmases were celebrated in the land of Snowmiser.  

Photo taken by jzlomek

New Mexico; a sprinkling of snow frosted the lawns and the sidewalks were lined with Luminarias.  The simplicity of a brown lunch bag weighted with sand and security for the lit candle placed inside was breathtaking.  My Mom told me it was to remind us of the path Mary and Joseph took to find a place to stay in Bethlehem.   

My Dad was transferred to Utah. We lived near Grandparents. Snow billowed everywhere. Snow people set up residences in their front and back yards where they would live undisturbed until spring.  These Grandparents were affectionate, and honest.  Their home was filled with light, laughter and magic. They were not perfect, but a deep feeling of love flavored the air.  Santa magically brought presents and no matter where we were, he somehow knew where I was. I was never lost to him.  It was my first glimpse of how God saw me.  Santa was the image of a loving heavenly being that somehow knew everything about me and everywhere I was.  He was the image of God was made concrete.

When we transitioned into civilian life and moved to California, the land of Heatmiser.  

The California winters I grew up with were gloomy grey skies that last for days. The air was colder than any Utah blizzard I would walk to school in. That chill settled deep into my bones and wouldn’t go away until the first unforgiving blast of summer sun. 

Photo taken by coopah

These California grandparents were the cranky kind. Their house had no natural light. They spoke to me only when necessary. Christmases in their house matched Mad Hatter’s tea parties. The cherry on top was my parents’ crisis of conscience. They didn't want to lie to us anymore.

There was no Santa.

I had already kind of figured it out at my sage age of 9. None the less, the magic of Christmas was lost for a while. I wondered if God had forgotten me. I knew he was real, but did he care for me? 

Then…My Dad was out of work. My parents sat us down and prepared us for the worst. There would probably be no presents under the tree. 

Christmas morning dawned. I resolved myself to be thankful for anything. The four of us walked the hallway to the Christmas tree. Then the unimaginable…

Photo taken by phaewilk

PRESENTS UNDER THE TREE!!

That morning Santa was real. He gave me a Mandy doll. She was beautiful, perfect and completely unexpected. He was not a jolly, white bearded fat man. He was God. Written on my heart in a tangible way was a reality of the Divine. He cared for me enough to give me something.  I every time I looked at that doll I was reminded that miracles still happen. I knew God was real and from that moment on, I clung to him. He loved me. He saw me wherever I was. He extended to me grace and forgiveness. He was my true Santa. 

Years later, I faced a lean Christmas with my children. We curled up to watch “A Christmas Carol.”  I realized my attitude about Christmas was similar to Scrooge’s.

I had forgotten the miracle. 

I watched Scrooge on his knees begging for another Christmas from the Ghost of Christmas Future and I saw myself. His promises to give the gift of friendship, help where he could, grace and blessings to his fellow man became my own. His promised to keep the Spirit of Christmas all year round did not come natural for him. It would be a deliberate action; fueled by memories of joy from Fezziwig’s counting house; he left behind the sorrows of being left alone at school.

Photo taken by anon

I discovered a box deep within myself filled with sorrows of Christmas past. Like Scrooge, I decided to put away the sorrows and hold tight to Christmas’ spirit of giving. It isn’t the Christmas Pasts that defines Christmas. It is the Christmas Present. These gifts should not be limited to a day, but are to be present in each moment of my life.