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No, You Sign MY Sign Up Genius

"I'd like to be the ideal mother, but I'm too busy raising my kids." - Unknown

I am about one sign up genius away from losing my....mind. This has become the year of bacon wrapped green bean bundles. I have taken them to at least one event per week for the past four weeks. I can roll those babies in my sleep. My kids’ most recent signup genius asked for craft donations, and my computer offered to auto-fill “bacon wrapped green bean bundles.” We don’t even remember a time when my kitchen did not smell like crisp, salted pork, which is not necessarily a bad thing. And why? Because it’s early December!

You see, if you are a college writing teacher, this is NOT the most wonderful time of the year. This is the survival mode, will I ever make it, I’m not paid enough for this, blood shot eyes time of the year. We know there is a light at the end of the tunnel, but there are plagiarized run-ons blocking out any semblance of it. Bah-humbug.

Add to this stress the fact that everyone around you is scurrying about in holiday bliss. Decorate this! Eat that! Please RSVP! Toss in a side of motherhood obligation and every single school celebration known to humankind. There are endless opportunities for disappointing your children. Time should also be allotted for every branch of the family while social media flashes the Christmas countdown. Only 15 shopping days remain! Time is running out!

Meanwhile, I am having trouble remembering to put real shoes on before I leave the house. I have no bandwidth for these menial tasks. My brain is a computer with 52 browser windows open. I am just standing here with a spinning circle waiting to load.

But there is hope. Soon, I will submit my final grades of the semester and jump for joy at the beautiful gift of time - time to slow down and enjoy the finer things in life while eating myself sick with that evil Chex mix peanut butter powdered sugar crack my best friend always makes. Until then, I thought I might make a little sign up genius of my own. I’m sure I could pool some resources to get it all done quickly and efficiently. A girl can dream, right?  

My Early December Life Sign Up Genius

My #nomakeupmovement

“There’s a part of me that likes shoes, and likes dresses, and likes makeup, and likes books, and likes to write. I think that’s the case for many women. But our culture makes us think we have to choose slices of ourselves that we’re comfortable showing the world.” -Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

As often happens, our family dinner conversation took a strange turn. We were discussing cultural grooming practices. “Female shaving has been used historically to keep women in a visually infantile and docile state.” This is the kind of statement I will pick up from my colleagues and deliver to my critical, rowdy audience of three as we dine on soup and applesauce. My eleven year old son immediately slapped palm to forehead. “Geez, Mom! Then you might as well be upset that I can run around without a shirt but Lila can’t.” Clearly, my message was received.

We have heard a great deal about women and feminism in the news of late. The media has highlighted concerns of “how we will explain things to our daughters.” Women have also been making waves in the entertainment industry. In a stunning display of natural beauty, Alicia Keys released a new album with her makeup-free face gracing the cover. Her #nomakeupmovement has taken social media by storm. In “Time to Uncover,” her essay for the website Lenny, she explores her epiphany:

“'Cause I don't want to cover up anymore. Not my face, not my mind, not my soul, not my thoughts, not my dreams, not my struggles, not my emotional growth. Nothing.”

It is a message of empowerment and newfound self-awareness.

I rarely wear makeup myself. It is actually more noteworthy to document days that I do take the time to prep my face for an audience. My hair is only further proof of my unbecoming. My mane is long, unruly and usually in need of a good shampooing but can be pulled together in a big beautiful mess on top of my head. I spend about 80% of my life in workout clothes. If success was based on dress, I would be a sorry disappointment. So, it would be hard to not draw parallels to my life. 

But I don’t think Keys’ message stops at her clean, unfiltered face. She has stripped down her walls of protection and is showing her truth: the good, the bad and the ugly (although I have yet to see anything ugly about her). She has realized the infinite power that comes from learning to listen to herself. She is not going to let society or industry expectations dictate her choices. Her transformation represents ownership and a deliberate seizing of power.

In an article for New York Magazine, Stella Bugbee reflects upon Hillary Clinton’s choice to show her face sans make-up at a post-election press conference after months of wearing a calculated, political mask and hairstyle:

“Obviously, liking lipstick doesn’t disqualify us from participating in feminism or having a career — and it certainly doesn’t distract us from our work or the important issues of the day...But there is no denying the power and freedom in rejecting vanity.”

Power and freedom seem to be an emerging theme. Choice and individual preference rise over societal, cultural or political expectations.

I am not advocating for women to stop shaving or wearing makeup. I am, however, advocating that we stop and consider what drives our choices. Rosie Molinary, friend and author of Beautiful You: A Daily Guide to Radical Self-Acceptance, goes as far as to say, “Beauty standards are a political issue. If you are obsessed, you are oppressed.” When I am rushing to get dressed and groomed for a day at work, and my nine year old daughter says, “Mom, you care too much what people think,” I feel the need to explain myself. How do I show her young, impressionable mind that it is my choice to look a certain way in my career? I choose to dress in a particular manner when teaching in the classroom, but in most of life, or when I coach at our CrossFit affiliate, I choose a natural look. I consider myself to be a multi-faceted person with many roles, and I am okay showing different sides of myself. It does not necessarily imply that I am hiding my true self in my professional life.

It is incredibly tempting to just toss my makeup and throw scarves over my untamed locks in solidarity with Alicia, all the while belting out, “This girl is on FIY-AH,” but personal grooming preferences are just scratching the surface. The ways I choose to execute my power and freedom should be visible in the fabric of my everyday life. “Just because” or “That is how we have always done it,” simply do not suffice as responses for how we live our lives. I must demand more of myself. For now, I will continue to shave my legs and occasionally wear makeup because that is my choice. It is not necessary for my legs to look like my dad’s in order to pull off some grand gesture of feminism. But I will try to be present and pay better attention to the motivations driving my day to day decisions. I can begin by examining the framework surrounding my role as a woman in our current culture. There is no shortage of issues beckoning analysis. I'm with you, Alicia. Let's uncover some truth.

Alicia Keys. Her album "Here" is now available.

Dumbest One in the Room

“Don't be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world without end, amen.” ― George Saunders, The Braindead Megaphone

“I love it when I’m the dumbest one in the room!”

My students, who never really know what to expect when I open my mouth, erupted in laughter. I figured I should elaborate. I explained that I enjoy putting myself in situations where I am surrounded by much more informed and intelligent people than myself. It is humbling and empowering at the same time. “You absolutely, positively, have to learn to ask questions,” I pleaded. It is the only way we can grow and figure things out for ourselves.

My younger self was not comfortable being the dumbest person in the room. I needed to play it cool and act like I knew what I was doing. As a young teacher, we were taught that students, like animals, could sense fear. We had to act like we knew what we were doing, even if we did not. It was survival of the fittest. To ask questions was to reveal uncertainty - that you did not hold all the answers. Asking questions was a sign of weakness.

With age and experience, I have come to realize the limits of my own understanding. Admitting when I don’t know something only opens up an opportunity to learn and deepen my knowledge of humanity and the world around me. When I am the dumbest person in the room, I can release the sense of obligation accompanied with being an “expert” or guardian of some absolute truths. The teacher becomes the pupil, and I no longer have to hold all the answers. I listen, question, probe and wrangle with ideas and theories I learn from my surroundings.

In my profession as a college instructor, I am surrounded by colleagues who are experts in their fields. My office is located on a hall filled with faculty who teach history, economics, sociology, English, religion, psychology and anthropology. It is fertile soil for growth and continued education. I engage in conversation with these people almost every day. I am on committees and in clubs with these intellectuals. They are artists, social activists, world travelers, dancers, musicians, poets, writers and so much more. While I have my strengths and areas of expertise, most days I knowingly sit at the table as the dumbest one in the room.

When I first met one of these fellow faculty members, I assumed he was a pretentious, stuffy professor based on the fact that he was very reserved  and seemed to only speak in theoretical  jibber jabber. In time, I began engaging in conversation with him about teaching, art, books and current events. With each conversation, I came away with some new idea or concept on topics ranging from cultural grooming practices to religious theories.  I used to feign understanding and nod when he started talking of Socialism, Marxism or Capitalism, but these days, I have become much more transparent. I am quick to tilt my head in a dumb, labrador retriever manner and ask, “Huh?” He always explains, and with each conversation, I become a little less ignorant.

In other areas of my life, I am also reminded of just how little I know and understand. In her recent interview for NPR’s “Fresh Air,” author Zadie Smith described parenthood as a chance for humiliation. “Humiliation because we have so many ideas about ourselves, and children are here to destroy all of them one by one.” Yes, as a parent I am frequently reminded that there is just so much more to learn. Even what I think I understand often comes tumbling down when I am confronted with questioning or a need to explain my beliefs to an unrelenting eleven year old. In these cases, I do my best to exemplify my dedication to a life of learning. The journey will never be complete, and I can be open in revealing I still have so much more to learn.  

I will admit that I do have my moments of expertise. When my colleagues need to know how to squat, deadlift, make healthy food choices, or rally any kind of enthusiasm, I am their person. But ultimately, I am irresistibly drawn to the moments when I sit back and comfortably assume the role of dumbest person in the room. I often say that if it was feasible, I would stay in school for the rest of my life. I absolutely love being a student, and for now, the world will have to be my classroom. My curriculum is an evolving compilation of books, films, articles and various art forms introduced by the people around me. My book shelves are lined with titles suggested by fellow parents, colleagues, CrossFit community members, friends and online acquaintances. At the heart of my personal development, the critical thinker in me demands that I ask questions and listen. William Butler Yeats said, “Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.” After spending my early years trying to fill that pail, my present self is fully embracing this incendiary phase.

She Knows and Loves Herself

“You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts.You may house their bodies but not their souls,For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”

Khalil Gibran, “On Children” (from The Prophet)

I just finished reading another book by Sarah Addison Allen. She crafts beautiful stories set in the mountains of North Carolina and infuses them with just the right amount of whimsical magical realism. Her characters are endearing and flawed, often on a journey of self-discovery and realizing their true, unique nature. Her novels are a comfortable landing place for me. When I want to get swept up in a story, she always delivers a captivating escape. This latest book was no different. She revisited characters from a previous novel: the Waverly family brimming with thoughtfulness, quirkiness and originality. She writes of two sisters doing their best to raise daughters. “Motherhood is hard enough without judgment from others who don’t know the whole story.” Amen, sisters. I can relate.

It just so happens that this magical storyline came along at exactly the right time. In raising my daughter, I carry the tremendous weight of concern for her big spirit. Lately, I have worried about her loud personality and the fact that she does not have a tight-knit social group. Is she an outcast? Has she brought this on herself with her passionate, dramatic reactions to everything from food to games at recess? And what was I hoping? Do I want her to conform? Follow the crowd? Do I want her to blend in rather than stand out?

Allen shows this complexity when her two characters discuss the teenage daughter, Bay. The rational sister shuts down the mother’s paranoias.

“I think she is doing fine. Bay knows herself. She likes herself. She doesn’t care what other people think...You want her to be popular...She doesn’t want to be popular. She wants to be herself.”

I gasped upon reading these lines. It was as though the character was hurling meteors of parental advice directly at my face. I could sub in my daughter’s name, and the paragraph worked perfectly. Yes, she likes herself. How much time have I spent beating myself up and scraping by with insecurities and harsh personal criticism? My daughter, free as a bird, soars above those painful moments of self-loathing because she knows herself and, most importantly, likes what she knows.

My daughter as Mother Nature for her school's Fairy Tale Ball.

When my children were younger, they were prone to alarmingly high fevers whenever they got sick. A fever of 104-105 was not uncommon with a typical, run of the mill ear infection. The wise, simple advice from our pediatrician talked me down from numerous paranoid, new-mother meltdowns: “Don’t worry so much about the number. Pay attention to their behavior. If they act lethargic and unresponsive, that is more important than a number.” Basically, she told me to trust my gut and pay attention. Perhaps this advice is still relevant and important in other aspects of my kids’ lives.

I cannot get caught up in counting their friends to measure social success, but I can pay attention to their behavior. The number is one indicator, but I can tell far more by seeing the whole child. In my case, the child I see is living a big, full and happy life. I have moments of panic because I just can’t decipher what her true self will look like at 16, 18 or even 21. There is no formula or box she will fit into, but I wouldn’t want her to fit in any box. When I become hyper-sensitive or nervous watching her interact with her peers, I begin to see situations through my motherhood lens. I want to shield her from rejection or ridicule, guard her from situations where she will be the ultimate black sheep, but as my husband candidly reminded me, “Why would you want her to fit in with the crowd? YOU are a black sheep.” My daughter, at nine years old, has figured out that she is unique, and she is perfectly content. If she is too much for some people, she moves on to a new audience or adjusts accordingly. At times, there are natural consequences. She might have to offer up apologies or adjust her tone, occasionally shedding some tears, but ultimately, her identity is found in herself rather than the acceptance or approval of her peers. It has taken me too long to realize this is not a matter of concern but a cause for celebration.

A few weeks ago, my daughter accompanied me to a local health food store for our weekly shopping. There is a man who happens to be there almost every time I go. He wears a vibrant robe, sandals, carries a cross-body purse and flaunts his majestic, silvery striped afro. My daughter immediately spotted him and stopped me. “Mom, look at that man! He is wonderful! He doesn’t care what other people think!” I wanted to scoop her up and twirl her around. She teaches me so much. “Yes. Isn’t it beautiful to see someone so free and comfortable in his own skin?” I responded. Before I knew what was happening, she ran over to the man. “Hey, I LOVE your hair.” His warm smile seemed to say, “The light in me salutes the light in you, little girl.” They were kindred spirits and fast friends.

As a mother, it is crucial that I remember the definition of success and happiness is relative to each individual child, not based on our personal experience. Our children do not need to follow our prescribed paths; furthermore, it is unfair to project our insecurities and fears onto them. Towards the end of Allen’s novel, the teenager’s mother has a realization. “Maybe you don’t have to be led into the future. Maybe you can pick your own path.” Yes!  A hundred times YES! I can lead by example, but my daughter will forge her own unique path that suits the person she knows and loves - herself.

A Pilgrimage from Pouting to Presence

We have this possibility of doing a pilgrimage every single day. Because a pilgrimage implies in meeting different people, in talking to strangers, in paying attention to the omens, and basically being open to life. And, we leave our home to go to work, to go to school, and we have every single day this possibility, this chance of discovering something new. So, the pilgrimage is [for]... people who are open to life.

Paulo Coelho (in an interview with Krista Tippett for Onbeing.org)

In his heartbreakingly beautiful memoir, When Breath Becomes Air, Paul Kalanithi writes, “Human knowledge is never contained in one person. It grows from the relationships we create between each other and the world, and still it is never complete.” I took numerous trinkets of wisdom from his writing, but this phrase struck a major chord. I know I am such a hodge podge mash up of all the people who have passed through or are still present in my life. It would not be fair to say I’m a melting pot because I can still identify who and where I gathered some of the transformational nuggets of knowledge that shape me. To make Kalanithi’s words ring even more true, he emphasizes that the process of patching ourselves together is “never complete.” We are a work in progress.

Each new person I take time to come in contact with has the potential to leave a lasting brick in the wall of me. Likewise, each place I visit and see can take up residence and shape my perspective. Creating myself involves synthesizing everything I see, hear, touch, taste and feel in this big, beautiful world. How do I continue to construct knowledge and build new understanding? By embracing what a wise Instagram hashtag once taught me - #keeplearning. Keep reading. Keep writing. Keep traveling. Keep talking. Keep listening. Keep watching. Keep moving. Keep living.

But there has to be more. Life is not measured in hashtags (I hope). Kalanithi uses the phrase “relationships we create.” It will not suffice to just keep doing stuff. We must commit to actively create. We need to cultivate relationships with people and places in order to gain and appreciate human knowledge. This concept sends me drifting through the pages and pages of my life; all the people I have known and all the places I have been that left me “schooled” for better or for worse. What if I never embraced my life in NYC? What if I never took the time to find and cling to my “mama tribe” when I first became a mother? What if we never answered the call for open space and adventure and moved to Colorado? What if we never started a CrossFit community in our garage? What if I had not taken the time to cultivate deep friendships within my profession of teaching? I shudder to think of the tremendous void and all the human knowledge that would be missing from my life.

When we left Colorado, I was devastated. I left a piece of my heart there and spent the first couple of years here in Charlotte pouting. I thought that life out West had changed me, which it did. It awakened me to adventure and a passion to explore all that this world has to offer. By failing to practice flexible thinking, a term we use to pry my Type A child from his rigid world view, I blatantly dismiss the fact that my life out West was a new beginning and perspective, not one self-contained experience. Living in Colorado left a lasting impression on me, but I have to leave that behind and become fully present in my new life to reap the rewards of a world of opportunity in a different, slightly more humid home on the East Coast.

In a little less than six years, I have grown more as a person since moving back to North Carolina than I ever have in my entire life. I have found friends who show me genuine honesty and encourage me on an inward journey to discovery of my truest self. Neighbors invite me to step outside my comfort zone and push my physical capabilities. Co-workers introduce me to knowledge and ideas that help challenge and shape my world view. Teachers remind me to listen more and talk less.  Colleagues engage me in difficult, soul-searching conversation that rattles me at my core. Each relationship has a vital and unique role in my “chance of discovering something new.” I have to halt the lamenting for what I once had and decide to show up and cultivate human knowledge in a new place and with new people. This shift has literally been life-changing but remains fluid, occasionally slipping from my grasp on days I still mourn for the life we left behind.

Kalanithi was 37 when he lost his battle with cancer. So very young. He was my age with a wife and brand new baby girl. Yet his voice whispers through the pages for us to wake up and take action. Our pilgrimage is never complete. We can’t hold all this life has to offer in one person or one place. We must take the time to cultivate relationships. We can get to know people and have real, life-enriching conversations. Yes, #keeplearning, but that and so much more. Ask questions and really listen to the answers, all the many answers. Then take pause and start building that human knowledge one relationship at a time.

A note about this post…

I wrote this reflection on Kalanithi’s book a couple of months ago. I was saving it for a rainy day because other topics kept popping up. Originally, I had written a blog about my daughter for this week; then, election day happened. I wanted to write about the hurt, sadness and fear engulfing me at the moment, but I am yet to formulate my thoughts and feelings in a communicable way. I am sitting with all of it on my heart and mind, hugging people (weird, I know), and trying to have as many conversations as possible. This reflection on Kalanithi’s book does not reveal my post-election heart; however, it does address one of my goals moving forward. The human knowledge I have built is the very reason I have been so deeply affected emotionally by the events of this week. Presence, awareness and relationships have opened my heart to the painful truths we all face as a nation. As Toni Morrison quite simply states, “Can’t nothing heal without pain, you know.” Thanks for reading.

Giving Myself Permission

“The Work of You”

No one is coming

to save you,

to give you permission,

to choose you,

or validate you.

This has always

been your job.

You must love yourself

so fiercely

and fully

that you have no other choice

but to be strong

for yourself,

to fight for yourself,

to be yourself,

and to build yourself.

-Cara Alwill Leyba

Permission. This word keeps popping up throughout the landscape of my life. It haunts me in the books and articles I am reading and continues to echo in conversations with my peers. Just last week, a friend noted, “Ugh. You said the P word.” If this word is so determined to reveal itself in my psyche, I best wake up and take a deeper look at what is happening right under my nose.

“When are you going to give yourself permission?” This question came from a talented, new friend of mine. She is part of my writing club, and while I have only seen her in person twice, she has already had a profound impact on my thinking and writing. I tend to talk without thinking and spill out all my emotions, but she is gentle and slow to speak. I can see in her face that she is thinking, rolling the words and ideas around in her brain, scanning any situation with a keen artist’s eye. She doesn’t miss a thing. And with one question, she can blow my world wide open, heightening my awareness and understanding of myself. Yes, she is that good.

That evening, we had just read a piece I wrote about motherhood obligations and the natural tendency to seek an occasional escape from the weight of responsibility. There was a line about permission slips needing to be signed. My friend saw something more in my simple prose. When would I give myself permission? What did I need permission to do? How much time had been wasted waiting for this permission? The questions gained momentum in my mind. I needed to pull this issue closer to the surface.

I was born a rule-follower. A straight A student always aiming to please. My life followed a timeline, and I never strayed from the plan. I made people happy. My life deserved a nice, conservative golf clap. But now in my late thirties, that response has become lame and void of true feeling. I desire hooting and hollering, crying, yelling and deep down belly laughing - the kind of response that doesn’t seek permission. I want my life to summon an unsolicited, soulful and boisterous standing ovation.

How can I authentically allow myself to feel and experience life in this grander, uninhibited way? One step must be to wake up and recognize the areas where I am relinquishing control of my life. Thus, the process of unearthing instances of permission-seeking suddenly springs open Pandora’s box. I have sought permission as a parent, questioning my maternal instincts to raise my children the way I best see fit. I have sought societal permission in the manner I dress and groom myself - playing it safe with modest, conservative “teacher clothes,” makeup, and tidy, tame hair. I have sought medical and “expert” permission concerning exercise and caring for the body I inhabit, often to my own detriment. I have sought family permission to follow or abandon certain positions within my career or other job opportunities. I have sought indirect permission from my children for the way I divvy up my time and partake in soul-feeding activities that occasionally infringe upon family time. Most recently, I sought permission from my colleagues to step around to the other side of the desk, back into the role of writer.

The list goes on and on. I have sought unofficial permission from my parents, my husband, my teachers, my coaches, my bosses and even my friends. By seeking the blessing from these people, I have relinquished my own control and power over my life. In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg explains that writing is “about trusting your own mind and creating a confidence in your experience.” As a writing teacher, I agree and recognize myself in her words, but in my personal life, I falter when opportunities arise to “trust my own mind.” Failing to give myself permission is a direct result of not trusting myself. When I am seeking someone else’s blessing for my actions, I am discrediting my own judgment and ability to make important decisions for myself. Paralyzed by fear and self-doubt, I am dependent upon someone else telling me it’s okay and giving me permission to move forward.

The good news is that the tide is beginning to turn. With every conversation and increased time putting thoughts to paper, I become more awake and in tune with my ability to “create confidence in my experience.” This summer, I got my first tattoo, and while this small word on my forearm is tame by any tattoo standards, it is a grand gesture and symbol of intentionally seizing the reins of my life. I did not seek permission. I wanted it, so I got it. I will forever wear the evidence of this metamorphosis branded on my right arm.

To an outsider, I can see how this phase could be misinterpreted as late onset rebellion. She was good all through her early years, so she is rebelling in her thirties. I get that, and perhaps there is some truth there. I prefer to think that I am finally waking up. I am finally listening to my own voice and trusting my gut; learning to turn an inward eye instead of looking to others for permission. Why should I wait for others to believe in me and edge me forward when I can move along so much faster by cutting out the middleman?

At our last writing club meeting, my perceptive friend suggested that I turn my latest writing into a bigger project. “What about a memoir?” There it was. This simple question tossed out in casual conversation sent my mind spiraling and unlocked a sense of long-awaited relief in my soul. I have ALWAYS wanted to write a memoir. Since early adulthood, it has been my absolute favorite genre to read. Mary Karr describes memoir as “a single person trying to make sense of the past.” I find comfort and great fulfillment in watching a writer unfold their past and draw meaning from their journey and experience. For years, I have wanted to explore my own past through writing but felt that a memoir might be overly ambitious or pretentious. My friend’s question opened up that gate and seemed to be the permission I needed. To think of all the time lost in the waiting, but there is no time like the present. I can write the book I want to write, even if only my husband and a few close friends ever read it. Elizabeth Gilbert writes, “The universe buries strange jewels deep within us all, and then stands back to see if we can find them.” Self discovery and realization are their own rewards. I will continue to pay attention to where and when I am waiting on permission to act and write my own story, but in the meantime, I will get to work on my memoir.  

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