Important Words To Hear

Kevin Henderson was my student five years ago. Kind, funny, polite, smart - the type of student who is an asset in any group. Now, he is a man who has words we all need to hear. Please, read what he has to say:


I am overwhelmed by immense grief. I’ve been trying to find creative ways to channel all of the pain I’ve felt, but there is no response but grief. I can’t stop seeing George Floyd’s face. Or Tony McDade’s. Or Breonna Taylor’s. Or Ahmaud Arbery’s. Or Sandra Bland’s. Or Eric Garner’s. Or hundreds of others. I am constantly viewing a mental photo album of Black lives that have been taken and it has been painful, overwhelming, and draining. I see my brothers in these faces. I see my sisters and my father and my aunties and uncles. I see myself in these faces. I remember being 11 years old and being placed in handcuffs multiple times at school. I remember being stopped and told that I “fit the description of a known suspect” on college campuses multiple times. I remember driving home from work at midnight and seeing a police car flash their lights, make a u-turn, and tailgate me for the next four miles. Most of all, I remember feeling blessed that my anxiety didn’t turn into reality. I don’t have the ability or emotional capacity to adequately express how traumatic this constant barrage of Black death has been. I’m hurt and I know my people are hurting. To all the Black folks in my life and beyond, I love you. So fully and unconditionally.

George Floyd’s death has caused a massive uproar on social media. This has been accompanied by an incredibly frustrating amount of non-Black opinions and interpretations of Blackness, activism, and oppression. This shit needs to get checked, plain and simple.

If you’re not Black and you’re outraged— good. You should be. But you should also understand that your outrage needs to take a backseat to Black leadership. The protests in Portland were hijacked. In Eugene, hijacked. And in plenty of other places, they’ve been hijacked. White demonstrators are taking advantage of a Black oppression and pushing Black people out. How the fuck do you gentrify protests? If your goal is truly to stand against the oppression of Black people, then defer to the leadership of Black people. And if that includes fiery protests, then let that shit burn. But white folks don’t get to light a fuse that’s threaded with the same material as nooses. Check your privilege at the door.

A lot of folks are sharing a tweet that states, “Saying ALM as a response to BLM is like saying the fire department should spray down all houses in a neighborhood even though only one house is one fire because all houses matter”. You may think this is a great display of allyship and is so clever, but to that I would say: I am not a fucking burning house. My Black is not a hindrance or an oppression— my Black is beautiful. When Black people are being targeted, the problem is not that they are Black. The problem is that there are people with power and privilege who fear Blackness and act upon it. Continuing with the analogy, the problem is not a burning house. The problem is that someone is trying to burn a house down. If you view Blackness as a burning house, you are denouncing the inherent beauty of Blackness and showing your savior complex. Check your privilege at the door.

If you’re only present about the killing of unarmed presumably straight, cisgendered Black men, then you are missing the point. Black women, Black trans women, Black trans men, and Black people of all sexualities are being targeted. If you’re ignoring the intersections between gender and sexuality when it comes to violence against Black people, then you aren’t standing for the liberation of all Black people. Check your privilege at the door. 

I shouldn’t have to say this— stop sharing photos and videos of Black people being murdered. It’s incredibly triggering and only serves to satisfy a morbid craving for observing Black death. Every time I’m on a knee to rest, or move around, or grab something, or anything at all, I immediately see George Floyd’s face beneath that officer's knee. I feel lucky that I wasn’t underneath his knee but I breathe cautiously, knowing that I damn well could be.

A Fairly Longwinded Tale of Unanticipated Excitement

A little background:

I remodeled a house to create a multi-generational living situation. The lower level was completely redone before occupancy, and the upstairs kitchen/dining area was remodeled this past winter, by a different contractor. There is shared space upstairs, my daughter has her own space on that same level, and my space is downstairs. And my other daughter lives two houses over. This is all relevant to our tale.

I am very happy with the engineering and structural changes that my first contractor did in the lower level, and the sheetrock work was first-rate. However, there were some errors made in some of the finish work that caused increased costs and distress, and periodically I have found additional issues that are left over from that work. This is also relevant to our tale.

Monday afternoon:

The upstairs cat comes and visits several times a day, and sometimes has an upset tummy. I was sitting on my couch in my living space, and I saw something on the rug under the bookcase. From 10 feet away, it appeared to have been a small string of cat barf. That would be gross, but not unheard of. I got a paper towel and walked toward the bookcase, but something was not quite right. I bent over to look, and I realized it was a slender little brown snake. (!) About 5-6 inches long, and as big around as a small earthworm. (BTW, slender little brown snakes in North America are harmless. But they still should not be In. The. House.)

 

(not the actual snake)

I hate snakes. 

No, really. When I see a photo of a snake in a magazine or online, I turn the page or scroll past. Quickly. Don't even want to look. If I encounter one outside, I just say "Hi, snake" and walk the other way - the outdoors is their space. But a snake in my house? Nope. Nope. Nope.

Now, if you know me, you know that I am a fairly bold individual, and I typically jump into "let's fix this!" mode. And there is NO WAY I was going to approach this slender little snake. Nope. I moved quickly to the stairs and called to my daughter Eryn to come down RIGHT NOW. She confirmed that, yes, it's a snake, and oh - the snake was now on the move. At which point I jumped behind the couch. There may have been a little shrieking. And she jumped back as well, without the shrieking. We quickly decided that we needed someone to save us from this slender little snake, so I called Liz - my other daughter. Because her husband has to be around other people at work, we have been properly socially distancing since March, and she has not been in my house since then. But, to quote Hippocrates, desperate times call for desperate measures. Liz gloved and masked up and came right over from her house to save us from the slender little snake, coaxing it into a container and releasing it out into the backyard. Whew! 

But, how did the snake get into the house? We discussed and dismissed a number of ideas, and nothing really made sense. Hmmm. 

Monday evening:

After having a nice Memorial Day BBQ and fire pit in the backyard with my kids (socially distant, of course), I sat down in my living space to watch the 10 PM  news after cleaning up my downstairs kitchen area. The upstairs cat was visiting and kept walking over and staring at the backdoor, and I finally got up and went over to look at what she was seeing. There, on my kitchen floor, was a tiny slug. On my kitchen floor. About 1/2 of an inch long. A slug. On my kitchen floor. 

I sent a series of texts to Eryn, as I tried to figure out #1, how did the slug get in my kitchen and #2, what would work best to remove it. And then, a solo slug visit became a party of two.

 

(The person whose name is blocked out we will call "Tom". His name is not "Tom".)

Eryn came downstairs (again), with a flashlight. There was no shrieking from either of us - we are apparently not as freaked out about slugs. They just don't belong in the house. Ever.

At this point, I was determined to thwart any additional invasion attempts by belly-crawling creatures who may have decided that my house is a nice place to visit, and began to investigate how in the world they were getting in (after scooping each slug onto a small trowel and returning them to the outside). The flashlight helped us determine that no other creatures had gotten in, and that the space around my backdoor threshold was not sealed properly. My well-stocked garage includes various tubes of silicone sealant, and I embarked upon home repair. At 11:00 at night. Which I should not have been doing, if "Tom" had done his job. This was not the first evidence of "Tom" not doing his job, which is why there was a different contractor for the 2nd phase of my remodel, but that is something for another story, another time.

Tuesday:

The silicone seems to have done its job - it has filled in the previously unsealed area, and there are no belly-crawling creatures in my house.  It is my hope that this is the end of the Unanticipated Excitement.

I hate snakes.

Sometimes, Things Resonate

My friend Gregg is a writer who speaks truth - sometimes touching, sometimes soothing, sometimes painful, always honest. His words here are words worth sharing, for those who need to hear.

 Take the time to read. You will be blessed.

CLICK HERE TO READ: Gregg Koskela - Needy

A Basket Full of Grief

Last Thursday felt heavy. In a meeting of leaders in my faith group, when we had a time of checking in to see what we might lift in prayer for each other, I spoke of how I felt like I am holding a big basket full of grief for so many people I know who have experienced loss or uncertainty in this time. 

• A friend whose husband died suddenly over the weekend. 
• A woman whose father passed recently and whose mother is in another state, alone during this time, and the agony my friend is experiencing because of not being able to go to her mother. 
• A former student who had to exercise her medical power of attorney and make end-of-life decisions for her father over the past couple of days, leading to her father dying peacefully today while the nurses helped her FaceTime with him through the process. 
• A friend of a friend who has made the transformative decision to leave an abusive situation, and all the challenges that go along with that brave act. 
• A co-worker who is struggling to engage in distance learning with her students and, at the same time, help her own children engage in distance learning. 
• A friend whose employment situation is in jeopardy. 
• A doctor who puts her life in danger to go to work and care for patients in the Emergency Department at her hospital. 

So. Much. Weight.

For insight into what to do with this basket, I looked in the book of Isaiah. In the 41st chapter, the writer discusses difficult situations and then speaks to the concept of trust, saying that God says to us “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you.” 

The writer does not say that God will keep hard things from happening but rather, God will be with us and hold us during the difficulties.

Sometimes those who grieve feel God holding them through words of comfort. Sometimes it is through the physical touch of a hug. Sometimes it is through simple acts of kindness, like when my own father brought me a Jamba Juice every morning for five weeks when I found it hard to eat after the sudden death of my husband two years ago. Sometimes it is when a friend sees the need and launches a fundraiser to provide the money that will help with a difficult transition. Sometimes it is a trail run in the woods. Sometimes it is when a memory brings warmth and a smile.

So I am sharing this basket and all that is within it with God, and asking for strength and help, for me and for all of us in this time. 

Hard things happen. I have found that God is always there, to bring strength and to hold us. And to share the weight. 

So What Was THAT All About?

Yesterday, I went on a tone-deaf mini-rant that ended with a complaint about out-of-date shredded cabbage. After seeing several friends utilize online grocery ordering, I decided to try it out. The process with the shifting pickup dates and times was annoying but certainly manageable, and most of my order was fulfilled – I now have milk and avocados and apples and green peppers. Yay! But seeing the expired date on the bag of cabbage was, for me, a “last straw” trigger.

Cabbage? Really?

No, it's not the cabbage. Actually, it’s my students. My “A” day students to whom I taught the 1^st steps of demand/supply theory on March 11, not knowing that would be the last day we would see each other. My “B” day students that sat and talked with me throughout the day on March 12, after the Governor’s order to not gather in groups larger than 250 people (Executive Order 20-05) scrapped our school’s planned Unity Day. Unity Day had been organized as an unprecedented day of rotating assemblies and discussion classes, and we received word 15 minutes into the 1^st segment that we could not proceed. So instead, we reverted back to the “B” day class schedule, and students were unsettled. Frightened. Irritated. Angry. So we watched the news, and saw that on March 11, the World Health Organization had declared COVID-19 to be a global pandemic. And we talked about what that might mean. And discussed whether school might be interrupted. One student, with great earnestness, asked “Mrs. McKee, does this mean Jesus is coming?” So then we talked about how, in the midst of any number of disasters or horrific events (Pearl Harbor, the eruption of Mt. St. Helens, 9/11, Hurricane Katrina’s aftermath, and so on), people have often wondered if the event was a signal of the end of the world, and what that looks like in different belief systems.

It’s my seniors, who have had the final 12 weeks of their school career ripped away from them. They’ll still graduate, of course. But schooling has abruptly stopped, and they are done. My students will not learn the basics of demand/supply theory. Government students will not participate in their mock legislature. I.B. students will not test. CE2 students will not complete their internships. There will be no prom. No band trip. No Winter Guard championship. No Dance Nationals. No state choir competition. No spring sports season. No senior sunset. And who knows what “graduation” will actually look like?

It’s my sister-in-law, who is on the front lines of fighting this pandemic in her position as an ER doctor at a major hospital in Portland. It’s my son-in-law’s sister, who works at one of the most impacted hospitals in New York City. 

 

It’s my former student who, as a person of Vietnamese ancestry, is dealing with ignorant people who treat her and other Asian-Americans with suspicion and hostility because they see all Asians as Chinese and they believe that COVID-19 is a virus that is passed on from Chinese people. 

It’s Governor Ron DeSantis reopening beaches in northern Florida just two weeks after issuing his month-long stay-at-home order, and the Floridians who rushed to sunbathe and play volleyball in defiance of the directive to engage only in activities like running, walking, or surfing.

 

It’s the growing number of people who are protesting the “tyranny” of government-ordered closures, carrying weapons and “Don’t Tread on Me” flags. People who do not understand that it is the appropriate function of government to protect the public, whether that protection comes in the form of traffic lights, zoning laws, licensing requirements for professions ranging from plumbers and electricians to teachers to physicians, chiropractors, and dentists, and so on. And now, in the midst of a global pandemic, it is the appropriate function of government to put restrictions in place that will mitigate the spread of the disease. These restrictions are rooted in the best available science, not in some conspiracy to take away “freedom”, using whatever definition one applies. 

 

It’s the incredible ineptitude of the current occupant of the White House, who appears to be stuck in perpetual prepubescence – caring most deeply about being the popular one who is adored by all, and caring very little about the vast human suffering that is happening all around him.  He continues to downplay the 700,000 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in the US, including 13,000 deaths in New York City alone (April 18, 2020, Johns Hopkins University). Meanwhile, he called himself a “victim” during his April 16 call with the nation’s governors: "I was a victim of the first test, meaning I had to go through it. And I didn't like what was happening," Mr. Trump told the governors Thursday. "When they tell you, it goes up your nose and then they hang a right at your eye and it goes under your eye. And I say, 'You've gotta be kidding.'    And I called it an operation, not a test. I said, 'This is operation.'"   This self-labeling as a victim of a swab test comes 3 ½ weeks after calling himself a “war president”. 

It’s those who surround him, who fawningly refer in every response to “the President’s plan” each time they speak, to stroke his fragile ego.  Who look away when he make outrageous claims during his nightly briefings, but do not correct or challenge. Who, through their silence, give acquiescence to his rantings.  Who repeat, on various media platforms, his scientifically inaccurate statements as if they are factual. Who enable this emperor, who is completely without clothes.

 

One of the areas in which we have spent professional development time at my school is learning about the effects of trauma.  A concept with which we have become familiar is, for various reasons, when pressure has built up to a certain point, a person may “flip their lid”, during which they’ve basically just had enough. And later, when the lid is not flipped, more reasonableness comes back into the picture, and there is an opportunity for insight and reflection. But for some whose trauma is unrelenting, the lid seems to stay in a perpetual state of flipped-ness. That is the state for many right now.

Most everyone is experiencing their own version of trauma during this extraordinary time. It includes those of us who come from positions of privilege and are learning to navigate a new reality of working from home and shopping online, or seeing their children and grandchildren only through Portal or Zoom. It includes those school kids whose not-yet-completely-developed brains are struggling to absorb and process the abrupt changes to their lives. It includes those whose work is considered essential and are navigating how to stay safe as they meet the public or interact with coworkers. It includes those who are on the verge of losing their homes because of the sudden loss of what had always seemed like a very secure job. It includes those whose small business is the lifeline for not only themselves but for their employees. It includes those who are fighting for their lives or for the lives of others because of this virulent virus. And on, and on. Personally, my own trauma is small and my privilege is real. If out-of-date cabbage is what triggered my lid to flip, even for a brief moment, perhaps it was time to take inventory and see what is really bothering me.

It was never really about the cabbage.

Sources:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1k9gLrQP4adjP6hrd_03BXLtVkkDHSXps/view

  

https://www.foxnews.com/us/jacksonville-florida-beaches-reopen-coronavirus-phase-1

https://coronavirus.jhu.edu/map.html

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/trump-guidelines-on-opening-up-america-leave-much-up-to-governors/