Since We Are All Growing Up In America

“I will simply take the position that the spoken word, like the written word, amounts to a nonsensical arrangement of sounds or letters without a consensus that assigns ‘meaning.’ And building from the meanings of what we hear, we order reality. Words themselves are innocuous; it is the consensus that gives them true power.”

-Gloria Naylor, “The Meanings of a Word”

With enormous bags under my eyes and a tired, heavy heart, I stepped into the classroom to face my students. My husband and I stayed up late the night before watching peaceful protests turn into destructive riots from the safety and comfort of our bedroom about ten miles away from downtown Charlotte. I knew walking into the classroom that next day would be difficult. My students are working on a definition essay. “You are on a rescue mission to save a word or idea from common misconceptions.” We have been discussing how we can use writing to literally break down ideas and construct new ones. “Writing gives us a voice and makes things happen!” I challenge them to write the paper to change the world. Their reading for that day was Gloria Naylor’s essay, “The Meanings of a Word.” This timing was one giant window of opportunity-an authentic teachable moment in the making.

Naylor’s essay is about the word “nigger” and how she “heard it for the first time” from a little boy who called her that in her third grade class, even though she had grown up hearing her family members use the word at home. It was different and context mattered. She was shocked. Naylor closes the essay with her mother answering her difficult questions.  “And since she knew that I had to grow up in America, she took me in her lap and explained.”

Earlier that morning I had been the mother trying to answer difficult questions. My two blonde, blue-eyed children sat comfortably eating their breakfast in our South Charlotte home. They did not witness or hear the violence from the night before. My husband and I watched it on CNN, just like many Americans. Yet, this time it was different. The city we call home had been cracked open with raw, painful anger brought into clear view. I struggled to talk to my kids about the difference between peaceful protesting and rioting. I did not pretend to have a solution for all of this heartbreak, but I was compelled to acknowledge it and charge my kids with the task of “filling people’s buckets” at school that day. “Our city could use some extra kindness today. Let’s spread some love.”

"We all need a little bit of love today."
Photo Cred: Ann Doss Helms @anndosshelms
A woman hands out flowers on Thursday night in CLT.*

After getting my children ready for school, I grabbed my phone to check on a dear family friend. He is a police officer here in Charlotte. He has been working around the clock for the last couple of days. I know he has been hugging his wife and three kids a little tighter when he leaves for work lately. He is a gentle, kind man who cares deeply about helping people. We jokingly refer to him as “the chicken whisperer” because of the way his chickens follow him around his backyard, and he lovingly defends “his girls” from hawks or other prey. I know in any kind of emergency, he is the person I would call to show up at our front door. He is one of many - not just an issue or a faceless blue uniform, but a friend, a husband and a father. I want to make sure he is okay and knows I want to listen to his story.

As a teacher, I have the unique opportunity of learning from my students each and every day. I get to listen to their stories and see the world through their eyes. I have put my foot in my mouth on more than one occasion. There was the time when I was teaching at a public high school in NYC. I was proclaiming to my class that one of my favorite things about living in Manhattan was that I could have anything and everything delivered: my laundry, my groceries, my dinner, etc. One of my bright-eyed students laughed as he exposed my Southern naïveté. “Maybe in your neighborhood, Miss. Nobody delivers anything where we live.” Gulp. I was only thinking about my NYC, not their version. I was humbled and ashamed.

Similarly, I recently had an eye-opening conversation with an adult African American student. She was talking to me about her teenage son. “He is so mad at me for taking away his hooded sweatshirts,” she sighed. “He thinks I am trying to control him, but I am trying to keep him alive.” She continued to tell me about the fear she lives with every time her son leaves the house. She doesn’t want him to be associated with certain groups in her neighborhood. He is a good boy who plays basketball and is hoping for a scholarship. I looked at her across my desk and told her that my son wears a hooded sweatshirt to school almost every day of his life. I had never thought twice about it. I never needed to. “I am so sorry you carry this fear.”

Photo Cred: www.charlotteagenda.com*

Back in my classroom, the room buzzed as we all simultaneously received the critical alert text. The college was closing early. I told my students to text their loved ones and let them know they were okay. I fought back tears as I opened the floor for discussion, just as I initiated dialogue with my kids and my police officer friend earlier in the day. This conversation is for everyone.

My students are black, white, Asian, Middle Eastern and so much more. They are Jewish, Christian, Muslim and atheists. Their voices and narratives represent a broad spectrum of life experiences. If words themselves are harmless and we decide the significance they will have, as Naylor suggests, then we are not powerless. We can unite so that all voices are heard and welcomed to the conversation. We can make a change. We can choose kindness. We can choose to examine these issues through the eyes of the people they impact the most, many who have and will experience injustice, fear, and violence that most of us will never comprehend. We can be critical thinkers examining all the evidence before forming and projecting our opinions out into this world. We can teach our children to speak the language of kindness and love rather than hate and judgement. We can realize that this does not have to be a Democrat or Republican issue, nor a liberal or conservative one. And since we are all growing up in America, the consensus can be that this is a HUMAN issue.

*All images were taken from a collection by Katie Levans, Co-Founder and Creative Director of Charlotteagenda.com. You can see these images at: https://www.charlotteagenda.com/66969/11-images-hope-charlotte-needs-see-week/.

Raising the Girl I Never Was

"If we want to give our children what they need to thrive, we must honor their basic nature- boyish or girlish, introverted or extroverted, wild or mellow."
-Wendy Mogel, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee: Using Jewish Teachings to Raise Self-Reliant Children

The other day my eight year old daughter stood beside me in front of the bathroom mirror. “I look like you today, Mommy.” Clad in tank tops, leggings and messy buns, we were ready to start our weekend. I stood there looking down at her white blonde hair and twinkling blue/green eyes. In those moments when she wants to be just like me, I am taken aback. If she only knew how hard I fight to become the girl she wakes up as every day.

My son does not try to look like me or imitate me. He doesn’t need to; he was born like me. He has all my neurotic, Type A tendencies. My daughter, on the other hand, draws nose rings on her face and decorates her skin with self-designed tattoos using her tool of choice. I envy her innate gusto for living. She is equally excited when she gets a new set of colored pencils or when the family gets a new frying pan. Her energy and laughter are infectious. She makes her own clothes because, unlike me, she is crafty and Pinteresty. She is also brave in a way I may never be. I didn’t become comfortable in my own skin until my mid-thirties, and here she is living each day in such a big way before even hitting double digits. She told me her motto: “In the end we only regret the chances we did not take.” With jazz hands framing her shiny face she exclaims, “I take ALL the chances!” As you can imagine, she is quite terrifying to parent.

Yet, she is funny and passionate. There is always a light in her eyes and a song in her heart.  She is disciplined and practices self-control as a gymnast, but most of her time is spent wide open, exploring her surroundings with an imaginative and boisterous spirit. Her room is a disaster, a self-constructed shrine of “Life with Lila.” But best of all, when she grabs my head and aggressively smashes her face against my cheek for a welcome-home kiss, her love is palpable. Still, none of these details reveal the reality that so much of my time is spent pulling my hair out asking, “WHY?”

In my favorite parenting book, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, Wendy Mogel writes that whatever traits we see in our children that make us crazy will one day become their greatest strengths. Almost daily, I try to remind myself of this silver lining as I battle with my free-spirited child to finish a task she has started, clean up after herself, consider using a filter before speaking her mind, or end a dramatic tirade. Her passion can take an explosive turn and quickly trade laughter for tears. Some of her elaborate projects have ruined countless pieces of furniture and various surfaces in our home. Frequently, her active imagination embellishes the truth beyond the acceptable allowance of creative non-fiction. She would rather beg for forgiveness than ask for permission. One day she will probably backpack across Europe, but right now I can't keep her attention for more than two minutes. She lives in a perpetual state of “ants in her pants.” She worries her poor brother to death. “I'm worried Lila will make bad choices and run away with people with mohawks when she is a teenager,” he confides. Me too, Jude, me too. (Our family has nothing against mohawks. I am not sure how this hairstyle became the dreaded symbol of rebellion in his strange little mind.)

Thus, our task as parents is set before us. How do we keep this wild child, spirited and free, from being crushed and shoved into predetermined boxes? Where can she safely spread her wings and be who she is meant to be? Can we help her maintain this bold nature into her teen years, bypassing the usual roller coaster brought about by self-esteem issues and peer pressure? How often will we need to literally save her from herself or some horrible natural consequences? And most importantly, will we be able to maintain our sanity throughout this whole process?

While I don’t pretend to always “get her” and at times want to reign in her big living just a bit, I can immediately recognize when other people try to silence or dull her passions. My instincts kick in, and I fight for her opportunity to be her truest self. I have no desire for her to spend years building a persona to hide her spirit and conform to expectations. While I am busy excavating and connecting with my real identity, she can be fully living in hers. This is why when I saw a school situation where her spirit was not recognized or appreciated, I jumped into action. My girl has no time for labels: bossy, loud, over-active. She can flourish and taste this life in an environment that celebrates the way she takes in the world and inhabits her own body.

Raising this spirited child is not for the faint of heart. Whether I am extinguishing hot glue gun mishaps or unearthing snails and frogs in her pockets, I have moments of complete frustration. I find myself apologizing or wanting to make excuses for her bold behavior. It is so hard to turn off the “I-would-never-do-that” voice in my head. But then I step back and listen to her tell me about her hopes and dreams or direct our gratitude game at dinner. I listen to her defending the beauty pageants I abhor because, “Maybe it’s their passion, Mom, and everyone should be allowed to follow their passion.” I am reminded that I must keep fighting to honor her wild spirit and help her learn to protect that light in her eyes and song in her heart no matter the cost. In the process, perhaps she will inspire me to take a few more chances of my own.

September Is the New January

Keep only those things that speak to your heart. Then take the plunge and discard all the rest. By doing this, you can reset your life and embark on a new lifestyle.

-Marie Kondo

This week I hit a wall - the great wall of Jaime. With so much time spent reflecting, processing, examining and critiquing myself and my own “unbecoming,” I burned out. I became absolutely sick of myself. I needed to escape from my own head. The deeper I dig into myself, the more I see what needs work. Wouldn’t it be nice if self-improvement was like the HGTV shows? Flip this Woman. Love Her or List Her. What a dream to start a project on myself, hit a few bumps along the road, then tie up all the loose ends in thirty minutes! Instead, I have cracked open Pandora’s box and now found that I don’t currently have the energy to put it all back together again.

Last week, over our usual work lunch of chicken, roasted okra, apples and almond butter, my close friend and editor said I usually write with a “coachy,” I-have-it-all-figured-out voice (she did not intend this as a compliment). She knows the truth. I am a hot mess. Just today, I ugly, snot-nosed cried on the way to a lunch meeting. I am sick of thinking and talking about myself. I can only write what I want to read, and it turns out I am also sick of reading about myself.

This unbecoming of my unbecoming should not be viewed as a lack of self-esteem or a cry for attention. I am perfectly happy with myself in plenty of areas of my life. I am even quite proud of many of my accomplishments. I am not in some deep pit of despair and self-pity; I am just taking some space from myself. Gretchen Rubin, author of The Happiness Project, declares that September is the new January, a clean slate full of opportunity for newness. Perhaps I am craving this fresh palette in my world. It might be time to declutter a bit - September Cleaning.

The “spark joy” simplification trend based on the book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing by Marie Kondo says we should hold things in our hands and see what brings us true joy and keep only those things. I have no desire to pick up everything in my house or life. I cannot even stomach going into our attic. We have unopened boxes hauled from address to address: baby toys and clothes, pictures, family heirlooms, and so many books. There is just too much stuff, and as I already mentioned, I am tired. But I can identify certain treasures in my home that bring me joy and might be worth highlighting for my September purge.

If I were to run through my house collecting things that brought me joy, I would end up with these things, in no particular order:

• Dried fresh lavender in a mason jar
• My bed and all my pillows
• InstaPot (how did I ever cook without it?)
• Dining room table made from mango trees
• Jason Mraz vinyl
• Nut butter (the tiny Justine’s packets bring me great joy, despite the need for constant kneading)
• Rainboots
• Fenway the Labradoodle
• Elephant pants
• Homemade coconut oil body butter from my friend/neighbor/workout partner
• Dixie, my barbell
• Birthday and family picture books
• Brent's beard
• Books
• Diffuser
• Elephant lunch bag (I’m in an elephant phase at the moment, don’t judge)
• French press and fresh coffee beans

I guess if I were to ever restart with only a few carefully selected possessions, I would begin this new life as an elephant pants wearing, coconut oiled, caffeinated woman with her dog and assorted nut butters. There would be music, relaxation, food, exercise, rich memories and company (assuming my husband has to come along with his beard). It’s possible these objects represent everything I would need. Yes, I agree with Rubin. September is my new January, and rainboots are precisely the practical and liberating choice for taking that first step beyond this wall.  (Said in my coachiest coach voice).

When You Don't Mother Like Your Mother

Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them.
They move on. They move away.
The moments that used to define them are covered by
moments of their own accomplishments.

It is not until much later, that
children understand;
their stories and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories
of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones,
beneath the water of their lives. 

-Paulo Coelho

The other day I walked in on my kids watching a home movie taken when my first born was about five months old. I was mesmerized by the sights and sounds. I wasn’t struck so much by my chubby baby boy’s first Christmas. It showed my mom as she used to be. Hearing her voice opened a whole floodgate of emotions. I had forgotten what she sounded like. I had forgotten our interactions: me a young, nervous mother and her a new, doting Nana. Since December 2005, Mom’s mind has been lost to Alzheimer's, and I have had time for some serious soul searching.

I have spent a lot of time pondering how different I am from my mother. It is a strange cocktail of guilt, rebellion and self exploration. My mom, a tall, thin, blonde, blue-eyed woman, was passive, soft-spoken, fragile, and completely self-sacrificing. She gave us whatever she had. If she had one cookie and I wanted it, she would gladly let me take it. Her world and identity were built around her family and her faith. Mom’s answer to all of life’s worries, no matter the size, was “Pray about it.” She was the quintessential Southern Baptist preacher’s wife, taking her place on the front row each and every Sunday.

Contrarily, I am a short, solid, brunette, brown-eyed woman who usually has more questions than answers. If I ask my children to describe me, I am pretty sure they would not use any of the same adjectives that I use to describe my mom. I can almost hear them now: Passive? No. Soft-spoken? Ha! Fragile? Not in the least. Self-sacrificing? Maybe, but she would never share her food. My kids would really have to dig deep to find the resemblance between me and their Nana.

Despite our opposing personalities and approach to motherhood, Mom and I do have tremendous similarities that I almost overlooked by opting to look only at our differences. She was an English teacher, my first teacher. She taught me to write and encouraged me to fall in love with written language. Her childhood dream was to become a missionary to Africa. She never made it to Africa, but she did get to serve for many years in South America. When her parents fell ill to Alzheimer’s disease, she moved her family back to the United States to care for them in their final months. Suddenly, I can see our resemblance begin to come into focus.

Here I am an English teacher, my children’s first teacher. I have hauled them to libraries and book stores since infancy cultivating avid readers who share my passion for books. I did not dream of Africa, but I did dream of open spaces. We moved our family, sight unseen, across the country to Colorado. When tragedy struck and we needed to care for sick and grieving parents, we packed up and moved our crew back to the East Coast. Evidence of Mom’s footprints are present in these choices, my life’s actions, even if not evident in my personality or physical appearance.

I continue to grow and come into my own as a mom. My children see me as a confident woman who loves her career and cares deeply about helping people. They know that I will speak up and use my voice whenever necessary. I am not on the front pew watching and supporting their dad but rather standing beside him working as his partner and equal. My daughter jokingly refers to me as “muscle mama,” recognizing both my physical and emotional strength. Both kids watch as I strive each and every day to build a better version of myself, in no way sacrificing my own identity and personhood to be a mother. Ultimately, I hope they see that as a good thing. Why should she be self-sacrificing? Her self has as much worth as ours.

 

I once read a meme that stated, “Sometimes when I open my mouth, my mother comes out.” I smiled at the inapplicability of this message. I don’t hear my mother in my life anymore. I miss that voice, so gentle and different from my own, but I can find her in the backdrop, in the large, life-shaping decisions that made me who I am today. Mom and I have traveled such different paths. Where she said right, I most likely said left, but when we needed to fulfill our dreams, raise our children and help our loved ones, we showed up in the best way we knew how.

I will never be my mother, and that's okay. I wish I could have one last conversation with her to see what she thinks about that. I know certain decisions I have made would disappoint her. Other decisions would make her very proud. I would like to think that she would be happy to see she raised an independent, progressive-thinking daughter who is carving an uncharted path for her family. But the truth is, she would probably prefer I take a more traditional route with less risk and questions.

I do not mother as my mother did. She delivered me into this world and taught me so much about life and love. I can accept and celebrate our diversity. We share so much more in common with our love and shared desires than we hold in our differences. I will honor her by showing up not as her, but as myself, to this role of motherhood every single day.