until we meet again...

There is a season for everything under heaven, right? There was a season in my life when telling stories about my family and sharing them with the world helped me make sense of myself as an adoptive mother. There was a season in which it seemed everyone was a "mommy blogger." I am so, so grateful for all the mom-blogs and all the adoption blogs, and for every single person who ever read one of my posts. It was good, it was very good. I could not have done this with out you.

It seems that blog-writing season is over now... the leaves have fallen. The words aren't flowing the way they used to. (Everyone has a podcast these days! LOL) So, I'm closing down this little writing space. (and no to the podcast)

These days I, like many other Americans, find all my words and wondering are about who we are as a country, who we have become, and why, and how the hell can we get out of this mess?! I, like many women, am finding my political voice. I knocked on doors for a local congressional campaign for the first time. (And we won!) I plan to get even more involved in the races of 2020, which are right around the corner...

My children are doing well- they are wonderful. Daniel is tween, almost a teen. Everything is boring and embarrassing and terrible and don't you dare tell him how handsome and strong and tall and capable he is. He's going to be a fine young man and I have to catch my breath sometimes thinking just how fast he turned from my little boy to this strapping nearly-man.

Lily continues to be HERSELF. Her amazing, exhausting, exhilarating, exuberant self. She's crazy smart and thriving and so, so beautiful. God only knows what Life has in store for her, but it will be something special, I know it. I find it hard to believe she was once a teeny tiny baby we prayed would live.

Thank you for reading, thank you for sharing this space.

love,

Becky aka: "Injera Mama"

Ethiopian Food: Yum, Yum, Yum!

I love visiting Ethiopia. I love seeing our family, the beautiful land and animals, and to be immersed in a language and culture that is so different than our own. But what I miss most when I come home is this:

The macchiatos. Oh, the delicious, delicious macchiatos. Hot, strong bunna (Ethiopian coffee) topped with foamed milk and sprinkled with cinnamon or chocolate powder, sometimes served with a little cookie and always with a liberal helping of sugar. Just the best.

You can buy coffee pretty much anywhere - a fancy hotel,  tiny hut, a roadside stand, or maybe at this adorable soda shop. 

At the Sheraton, you can have your coffee with a side of a banana split, if you like.

Traditionally coffee beans are roasted and then ground by hand just before brewing.
Here L is grinding the coffee in her family's home. This was the best bunna we had in Ethiopia, hands down. 

A fancy traditional meal- a variety of stews on top a platter of injera (sourdough pancake)
This one includes ground chickpeas, lentils, beef, cheese, salad and stewed greens. 

A very fancy "fasting" platter - all vegan for those observing Orthodox Easter fasting.
On this plate: lentils, beats, salad, chickpeas, peas, stewed greens, eggplant.

The southern regions are known for its beef. Here is a traditional beef stew roasting over a mini open flame. 

Lake Awassa is known for its fish, and here is a large pot of fish soup being prepared right next to the fisherman's market. 

Ethiopian animal kingdom!

Andrew and I thought seeing all these animals was cool. WE liked stopping and taking photos. WE enjoyed the boat ride. Our children... well, our children would rather be swimming. Nevertheless, we did see some amazing animals on this trip. We traveled south from Addis Ababa through Hosanna, Halaba, and stayed at Lake Awassa for a few days. It was beautiful, beautiful country.

Lots of hard working donkeys on the road. This one is hauling water.

This turtle was just crossing the road in front of a church in Addis. As one does.

The giant birds of Awassa.

First we make friends with the monkeys

And then we feed them from our heads. 

More beautiful birds of Awassa. Oh, you wanted to know their names? Sorry, try Nat Geo.

Hippos! Real live hippos! I'm still giddy. They are so cool. 

Yes, that is me talking with an ostrich.

Monkeys everywhere! Not pictured: the one that stole our breakfast that one morning.

Camels! Apparently grown for the meat market, not for caravans.

Lily was given a donkey ride by her father and brothers. A very special treat.

traveling

We went to Ethiopia! And back again! This was our longest trip yet, and it was amazing. We are still unpacking and recovering from jet lag and trying to get back into some normal routines. My brain is definitely still in recovery mode. Until my words can form more coherently here are some photos.

Today's theme! Travel!

Plane selfie. Ethiopian airlines is a fun way to travel- you feel like you are already in the country just stepping on the plane. Downside: it's usually a bit smelly, noisy, crowded and the food can be bad. So, yes, just like being in Africa! LOL

A tik tuk - a tiny taxi with 3 wheels. I was eager to try one, but was vetoed.

tik tuk!

Travel by donkey cart. Usually they are heavily loaded with market goods or people.

Yes, that is 3 people on one motorcycle. We kept track- the record was 4.

We went around the countryside in a our wonderful driver's 4 wheel drive.
D  in the mirror, looking studious as he uses our driver's fancy camera. 

more camera work, this time on a boat! 

Lake Awassa. Not audible in this picture - the whining about having to take a boat ride just to see boring old hippos! Can't we just swim in the pool?!

Kids around the world: demanding screens for long car rides. Or short ones, you know.

looking down the road as we approach the family village

Back in America, still on vehicles. 

Our last flight was cancelled, so we ended up on the train to NYC. We were a bit tired out.

heading back home

There are 4 very large, probably not weight compliant suitcases sitting by our front door. Alarms are set for the ungodly hour of 3AM. Flight leaves at 6. By Sunday morning, we will be landing in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia!

flying, 4 years ago.

It's been 4 years since we last visited our children's homeland. 4 years ago seems like a different world. Lily had just turned 4. (And I mean just. We basically blew out the candles on her cake, then headed to the airport.) Daniel was about 1/2 the (enormous!) size he is now. Many things have happened in our family and in the world in those years. It seems like past time that we went back home.

The weeks leading up to tonight have been anxious ones. We are watching and waiting to see how the latest political upheaval in Ethiopia's government will be resolved.  So far, a restive peace seems to be holding steady.

When I was in my 20's, it seemed to be that I was always throwing a bunch of stuff in a suitcase and jetting off. Maybe I'm mis-remembering, but it seems that now that I'm in my 40's travel preparations cause me much more anxiety than in my care free (and kid free) days. I make lists weeks (months!) in advance, and over prepare and triple check and wake up worrying. This morning I drove frantically to our medical office to get a travel booster shot, the whole while thinking 'What am I DOING? I never used to worry about shots and getting sick while traveling and now I'm practically bringing an entire medicine cabinet in my suitcase!'

Sigh. Worrying, always useless and never easy to stop doing.

However, now the bags are packed and (miraculously) zipped up and the kids are sleeping or pretending to sleep and the fridge is empty, the plants watered, the coffee pot and toaster unplugged and there is simply nothing else to do on my to do list.

So here are my hopes- whispered aloud through the dark to the universe.

Let there be peace in our country as well as the one we travel to.
Let we all be healthy
Let this trip help us re-connect to each other and to our far away African family.
Let there be a moment of laughter that surprises all of us, together.
Let no one get sick from eating or drinking anything.
Let all the flights leave and arrive on time.
Let us get delightfully lost and discover some beautiful place together.

Wishing all of you safe travels, wherever you may be going tomorrow.

lost in translation...

My husband and I just came home from seeing Black Panther. (Wakanda Forever!) This film is amazing, I'm sure I don't have to tell you, you've all seen it. Wow, the magic that can happen when we give voice to non only white, straight, male film-makers! There is, literally,  A WHOLE WORLD of movies waiting to be made. I'm here for ALL of it. Also, I'm down with any kind of Wakanda themed park experience adventure... whatever. Bring it.

But this isn't really a post about a movie. There are plenty of smart folks writing about this movie. Like this twitter thread about all the African influences on the costumes and body art.

It's just that it got me thinking about something I hadn't pondered in a while- about how much gets lost in translation, especially in international adoption. I'm also reading "The Grammar of God" which is about what is lost (and changed) in the translations of scripture from Hebrew to English. Fascinating!

Back to Black Panther for a moment: There is a scene in which Killmonger takes off his shirt to reveal his killing scars... which is an cultural image actually borrowed from the ritual scarification of the Surma tribe of Ethiopia as well as other African tribes.

My Ethiopian children have scars on their bodies... not quite like the raised bumps of Killmonger, but clearly ritual scars, not the kind that occur with typical childhood injuries. Each time I've asked an Ethiopian about them, I've gotten a slightly different, vague answer. Most answers start with, it was done to help their eyes (or stomach)... and then the answers trail away as they realize that in English, they are making not any sense.

It's like it's untranslatable.

Here in America the thought that you would choose to injure or scar your child's skin for a health or cultural or religious reason is... well, it's unthinkable. * But, in other parts of the world, people see through different eyes. And in rural African communities in which there are no doctors or clinics or medicines, rituals and traditional healing are often a worried parent's only options.

My children's scars do not hurt or embarrass them. They are mildly curious about them, when they think about it. Which isn't very often. But I would like them to have some words about them, even inadequate ones, to use when they are grown and questions arise.

We have our own African adventure coming up in just a couple of weeks. We'll be returning to Ethiopia around Easter to see our family and travel a bit. Perhaps we'll find some more answers about the ritual scars on D and L, and why and how and when they were done. Perhaps not. Perhaps, like certain Hebrew phrases, there is no translation into American. We'll see...

Ethiopia
ኢትዮጵያ

*Even male circumcision is now under a lot of scrutiny and pressure. 

when you are not enough...

I teach children with special needs - right now I have a small class of early elementary students with moderate-severe learning disabilities, autism and other diagnosis. I love my work. It is hard, but it's rewarding and never, ever boring. (Some days I wish it was a little bit more boring.)

Recently two of my students transferred to smaller classes in specialized high need schools. My classroom wasn't able to meet their needs, and so after many discussions and evaluations and paperwork and meetings, their parents choose alternate schools for their children.

One of my assistants was getting emotional about having to say goodbye a student. She felt like she had failed as an educator because she couldn't help this child be a part of our school community. I told her, "Sometimes our jobs as teachers is realizing that we are not enough."

My advice to my assistant has been ringing in my ears a bit this week. I've definitely internalized this message as a professional. Sometimes I can't reach a kid, can't get them to behave safely or positively, can't meet their academic or emotional needs. Then I rationally and patiently (oh, so patiently) get the ball rolling to have them transferred. I'm okay with not being enough for all kids, at work.

But, as a mother... have I recognized that sometimes I'm not enough for my children?

I know I'm my children's second choice. As an adoptive parent you have to walk onto this path with your eyes open, or you will stumble immediately. If my children could choose, they would probably choose not to have lost their mother and be moved halfway across the world to live with a couple of white people. I'm okay with this.

So this week I'm working on fully accepting this clear fact: I'm not always enough for my children. 

I can't show my Black son how to grow up to be a strong, confident Black man.

But I can make sure he attends sports and arts programs with black teachers and coaches.

I can't show my African daughter how to become a beautiful, confident African woman.

But I can make sure she attends a school with African-American teachers and leaders.

I can't teach my children about their Ethiopian heritage.

But we can travel to Ethiopia as often as possible, and fill our home with objects, books, music and images from their homeland. 

L with her Ethiopian sister, 2014.

Our children come to us with their own set of challenges and skill sets. Sometimes a tennis star is born or adopted into a family of book worms. Sometimes an opera singer is born or adopted into a family with tin ears.

None of us is ever really enough for our children, no matter if they look just like us and have the same hobbies and interests and skills. We are hardwired to make connections outside of our families and to strive to move out into the wider world.

Sometimes it can be hard to admit that our children need something we can't provide. Maybe we can't supply breast milk. Maybe we can't supply advice about same-sex relationships or how to play the violin. Sometimes our kids need a specialized, high need special education with teams of teachers, therapists and specialists. It is really hard to admit that out loud. I know, I've been in those meetings.

It's okay not be enough. Sometimes our job as parents is to recognize that we need to find someone (or something) else to meet our kids' needs. And then go find it.

Trusting the Mom-stinct, part 2

I'm a public school teacher. I attended public schools through high school. I'm a proud union member. I believe in public schools for all, and think that our education system should be expanded and improved and strengthened, not hemmed in by charters and voucher programs.

However.

Our daughter attends private school.

Parenthood = it's complicated.

Last summer my mom-stincts went into red alert mode over Lily's schooling. I just could not rid myself of the pit in my stomach that seemed to be shouting at me- "She needs something different!!!"

Our daughter is a very bright, energetic and fearless child. Those are AWESOME qualities, but they didn't really jell with the traditional school that she had been attending until this year. Also, she was the only African-American girl in her grade. (and it's a big school) There was plenty of diversity- a majority of kids of color- just not her (beautiful) color. And she felt it. She was very vocal about feeling alone with her identity and she was having a hard time making good friends. Anywhere we went, she gravitated towards other African-American girls, even getting total stranger's phone numbers so that she should set up playdates with girls she met in the local park.

So, we needed a change. Unfortunately, the way that our city's schools system is set up, you really can't just go to any school you like.  Our local school is, frankly, terrible. Better schools in our area were over crowded and unlikely to take in a non-local kid.

Did I mention that this mom-stinct panic set in... last AUGUST? Uh-huh, I was a little slow on the uptake on that one.

Luckily for us, the lovely little Christian school that Lily had attended for nursery- Pre-K has an elementary academy, and very luckily for us, they had an opening in the 2nd grade.

So we found ourselves, just 3 days before school started, scrambling to take the entrance exam, fill out  forms, buying uniforms and supplies, transferring records and figuring out how we were finding the tuition fees in our budget.

Lily didn't take too well to the news that we were moving her to a new school. I believe there was some thrashing on the floor involved. But when we went to pick up her new gym uniform, and she saw the snazzy zip up jacket it came with, she was on board.

Fashion. Not unimportant to 7 year olds.

So here we are: I'm a Unitarian, public school loving, progressive education proponent hippie dippy mom sending her kid to a West-Indian, Christian, traditional, no-nonsense, uniform wearing school.

And it was, by far, the best decision we have made as parents so far.

She is thriving. She has an African-American teacher and principal. She is friends with everyone. She has zoomed up to the top of the class and loves it!

Thank you, mom-stincts. I promise to listen to you better in future.

the children will lead us...

I'm about to use a lot of all caps. I'm sorry. I'm fired up.

I've been thinking a lot about teenagers lately. I have my own teen, as of a few weeks ago. (Okay, not literally, but he's 11 going on 17, so it counts.) But besides the fun first world problems of dealing with zits, phone limits and texting ettiquite, our teens have some serious stuff to contend with.

They live in a country in which they are regulary the targets of madmen with guns. They live in a country piled to the sky with deadly weapons. They live in a country in which politicians, with STRAIGHT FACES, say to them, "well there is just nothing we can do" about gun violence.  Or, my personal favorite, "We should arm the teachers!"

As a teacher of nearly 20 years, I can say with certainty that is the stupidest idea ever, in the history of man. (Yes, MAN. This is (one of the many, many reasons) why we need more women in government.)

Arm teachers!? I can't even answer that without cursing. I sometimes have to hide my PENCILS because my students with special needs use them aggressively (and I teach elementary school). You think I'd let a DEADLY WEAPON in my room? You are out of your mind. And also, since when did it become my job to be a first responder or an armed guard? Protecting our lives is YOUR JOB POLITICIANS. And you are failing miserably, by every measure, in every way. DO YOUR JOB.

My job is to teach kids how to read and add. Your job is to legislate public safety. Clear?

It's been a tough week (year? decade?). But I have hope, I have a glimmer of hope, and so should you, because these teens, these kids who have been practicing red alert drills and lock down procedures and hiding under desks and in closets on the regular for years... they are fed up. They know how to use twitter and give interviews to CNN and they are ORGANIZING.

Here are three events already planned for the coming weeks,  planed and led by young people:


April 20th: School Walkout (to coincide with the anniversary of Columbine)

https://twitter.com/schoolwalkoutUS

March 12th: School Walkout, supported by the Women's March.

https://www.womensmarch.com/empower/

March 24: March on Washington

https://www.marchforourlives.com



And you know what else, in a couple of years these sophomores and seniors will be VOTING CITIZENS. So let's get out of the way and let the children lead. They might just save us all.

A steely anniversary.

This weekend was Andrew and my 11th wedding anniversary. I always love to look up the traditional wedding gifts for anniversaries. They are so funny and old fashioned. Last year, our 10th, was the "tin" anniversary. So I got him a key chain with a dime inscribed with our initials and wedding date (Thank you, etsy.com!). He got me tin wind chimes. (Then we argued for a few weeks about whether the chimes were too loud for the neighbors and should we hang them and where... they now live inside on our back door. LOL marriage.)

The traditional 11th anniversary gift is... steel. 10th is tin, 11th is steel. At first I thought, that's weird, it should be the other way around? I mean, isn't steel stronger and more valuable than tin? But upon reflection... it makes sense. 10 is a special, fun, look we did it! anniversary.  But 11- now you are in the thick of your marriage. You've (probably) been forged by some challenges. You've been tested and sharpened. Also, probably, those knives you got as a wedding present need to be updated.

So we celebrated our anniversary in very thick of marriage way (after farming out the kids to the grandparents. Thanks mom and dad!). We had a lovely little dinner at one of our favorite restaurants. We took a nap. (ah, the luxury.) We paid some bills and took care of some household chores. Mostly, we just hung out and enjoyed the quiet. We didn't need big gifts (although we could use some new knives...). We didn't need a lot of noise or big plans. Just us, and some quiet on a steely winter weekend. It was perfect.

Happy Anniversary honey. 

teendom: I get it now...

Fellow moms, it's all happened to us. An older mom/grandma sees you with your adorable young children and says with a sigh, "oh, treasure every moment my dear".

And you look at her like, Is she NUTS?! Treasure the spit up on my blouse, the dark bags under my eyes, the fights with my husband because neither one of us is rational with no sleep, the filth of my house and the tantrums, treasure the tantrums!?

Sigh. Treasure those moments, my dears. Treasure them. Because one day your tantruming snot nosed toddler will be a snotty mouthed, door slamming TWEEN.

Moms: my son is a teenager. Like, for reals. The signs have been there for months, but lately they are unmistakable

Sign 1: He's really, really interested in how he looks. No more wearing whatever mom got on sale at Target or the local thrift store. Nope, no, no way. His look is highly personalized, involves carefully considered (and expensive!) clothing and accessories and his favorite shirt which must be worn nearly every day, so get going on that laundry woman. (Also we now shop in the men's department because he towers over most grown people at age 11 because life is not even a little bit fair.)

Sign 2: Grooming. Oh, the grooming. This child, with whom a year ago I battled with to take a weekly shower, now has his own personal soaps, creams and potions, and will spend upwards of an hour in a steamy bathroom primping himself. And then leave the bathroom a sodden, disgusting mess.

Sign 3: His phone addiction. The phone (which you got him for SAFETY, right, ha ha.) is now an extension of him. He'll forget his homework, his name, any number of chores, his keys, but he will always know where that phone is. Prying out of his clutches is now a daily chore which both of us loathe.

There are other signs of course. You were all teens, use your imagination. All I can say is, I hug my 7 year old baby girl a lot tighter these days. I'm drinking in her sweet, sassy little self that I can still pick up. I'm relishing her 100 times daily "hey mom, guess what!?" I'm saying yes anytime she "needs a snuggle".

Because in 4 years, that child will give me nothing but back talk and slammed doors. Lord, have mercy. I'm not handing this well, not at all. I know I should "have some chill" as my teen says. I know I should great his grumps with humor and his curses with calm. I'm sorry, I'm new at this parenting teens thing I my chill is red hot.  It's hard. It's really hard to see your once adorable boy turn into a surly mess. I know he's riding the hormone roller coaster and his frontal lobe is not operational yet, but sometimes I was to yell, "what are you doing, are you stupid!?".

Teens make a lot of really, really dumb decisions. They are like toddlers but with Internet access and biceps. And they spend most of their time with other dumb teens which can't help.

So here I am, digging down into the trenches of teen parenting. Reading his text messages and trying not to correct his spelling. Cringing at the social awkwardness and the walking into messes and grimacing through the yo-mama jokes and the loudness. Limiting his screen time and trying to loosen the reigns. Two steps into freedom and three steps back into limits again.

Nobody is really enjoying this and we are all just hoping to get through to the other side intact. Occasionally there are beautiful glimpses of the responsible, warm hearted, funny young man he will be in just a few years.  Then he starts burping the alphabet.

Post #300

well, hello there. It's been awhile. My last post was nearly a year ago, titled "things I suck at mom-ing". Add "mommy-blogging" to that list, please.

It's been quite a year, hasn't it friends? Feels like an eternity, and the weeks still stretch before us, no doubt filled with a similar combination of soul crushing news, "un-precedented" scandals, political nonsense, cultural nonsense, and the daily fear of is this it? It THIS the thing that will kill us all, or bring down the White House, the government, the who knows what?

I feel like I've been waiting for the other shoe (bomb) to drop for over a year now.
I'm exhausted. Are you?

And yet still, life goes on. My children grow older. We buy a new piece of furniture, we go on vacation, we do laundry, we pay bills... Amazingly, astonishingly, Life continues to move forward. It is relentless - Life's ability to keep going on.

I don't know about you, but there have been many, many days in the past year when I wanted to lie down and just say, ok. Enough. Just stop, World. It is too much. Too much suffering, too much violence, too many lives being cut short for NOTHING.

And yet. And yet. Babies keep being born. People fall in love. Kindergarten kids go to the first day of school with sharped pencils and brand new backpacks.

We hold on to each other, because what else can we do?

We tell our stories, because what else can we do?

If there are glimmers of hope, and I believe that there are, (I must be optimistic, because what is the alternative?), then they are in the stories. The stories finally being told by people long silenced.

By women. All those women who finally brought down serial sexual abusers, harassers, tormentors. (Although not the Harasser-In-Chief. NOT YET.)  I have thought, many times in the past 6 months "Is this it? Is this the patriarchy being brought down?" I cried over Oprah's "Times Up" speech. I cried over all the horrid, horrible "me too" stories. I remembered all the me-too moments in my friends and in my own life. All those stupid, ridiculous things we put up with, the lies we told to dates to get home safely, "Oh, my roommate is home sick!" ( I lived alone), the keys we gripped between our fingers while walking home after dark... all of it. Enough.

By people of color. My son (now 11, and a FULL TEENAGER but that is another post), is going to see Black Panther tomorrow with his 1/2 African cousin and his full Ghanaian uncle- who will be wearing royal African garb because it's BLACK PANTHER so. bow. down!  Let this movie be the gates to the flood of stories told by, about, and to people of ALL the colors. It's time.

By LGBTQ folk. By immigrants. By victims of violence. By ex-felons. By Muslims.

Yes, to all it. We Americans have been deluded that we share the same story- some silly nonsense about "pulling up our bootstraps" and "chopping down cherry trees." We were taught that only one kind of person mattered (If I hear ONE MORE PUNDIT TALK ABOUT "WHITE WORKING CLASS MALE VOTERS"!)

It's not true. We are a nation of a million stories, and they all matter.

We need to tell our stories. We need to listen to each other. We need to believe each other.

Then, maybe, maybe, we can create the nation in which we ALL can live, in peace. 

3 Things I Suck at Mom-ing.

Now don't get me wrong, I think I'm a pretty good mom. My kids are both healthy and like to read and reasonably well adjusted. But I will not, as my friend and I joke often, be winning "Mom of the Year"...

There's always Next Year LOL!!!

So there here at least 3 things that I'm really bad at. (If you asked my 10 going-on-13 year old tween, I'm sure he would add another 100 thing, but then he can start his own blog can't he!)

I suck at:

1. Playing with toys. I can't even feign interest in their constantly evolving passions.  Once Daniel tried to teach me how to "play" Pokemon. (Are there rules? Does it EVER make any sense?! Whhaaaaaat?) I lasted about 3 minutes before I faked that dinner was burning or something and fled. My kids have learned that I don't like playing with toys. The occasional board game or cards, sure. Barbies? Superheros? Cars? No thank you. I may sit down for a minute, but then I see something that needs folding, cleaning or organizing and my kids roll their eyes at my furious muttering "Why are there Legos in the Barbie bin! Why are their Barbie shoes in the train set?!" and carry on on their own.





2. Keeping my cool. Maybe because I am paid to be patient all day, and I use up my reserves by the time I get home. Maybe it's because I'm 40 and humans were just not evolved to rear young at this age. (I should be a grandma by now, relaxing in the cave!) Whatever the reason, I'm not good at keeping my cool.  After the 2nd or 3rd time I've asked my kids to put their shoes on/brush their teeth/stop fighting/turn off the TV/etc my voice is at full throttle and my kids have donned their spittle guards.






3.  Not swearing.  Both my kids can swear like sailors, and it's not because they've been hanging out at the docks. Theoretically, I don't swear in front of my kids. But (see above) when I lose my cool because we're 10 minutes late getting out the door and they are fighting over a toy instead of putting their @#$% ing shoes on... well... Sorry, other, better moms. Yes, it was my kid who taught your precious snowflake the s/f/a whatever word. My bad.

Love you kids!

the news.

When I first started studying in Durban, South Africa in 1997, our professor gave us an assignment: watch the news. And not just the English news, but also the news in languages we couldn't understand, Afrikaans and Zulu. (Durban is in Zulu province, and some of white population speaks Afrikaans as well as English. Yes, Zulu is the one with the clicks, but Xhosa has more. If you need to more, ask Trevor Noah...)

During Apartheid the news media was completely controlled by the government, and it was used as way to control the population.  News about the resistance to the racist minority rule was so strictly controlled that publishing an image of Nelson Mandela was harshly punished. Imprisoned for most of his adult life- for decades no one knew what the future President looked like, as the last photo of him was as a young man on trial. (I once was 3 feet from Madiba, God bless his memory forever.)

In 1997 there was freedom of the press and the country was actively working to re-dress the wrongs of its recent past.  However,  it wasn't always so clear cut.

Watch the news, our professor said, and see if you notice any differences. 

Which stories lead the hour? How much time is spent on each one? Which graphics, images or music are used, and what is the newscaster's emotional response or body language? Even without understand the words, you will learn a lot about how different groups of South Africans view their country. 

There are many versions of "the truth".

Yesterday I took my daughter shopping and out to eat in a more conservative, white, Republican part of our city. We sat in a crowded diner for her usual "chicken fingers and fries" and my bad coffee and worse salad. I noticed immediately that 1/2 the TVs were tuned to FoxNews. (Why oh why do we need to have TV's everywhere!?!)

Then I overheard the conversation between the two women in the booth behind us, which went something like:

"Well, I don't think Trump is polite or nice, but he is at least finally doing something about all this crime!"

I've been occasionally looking at the Fox News website to try and live outside my "bubble". (I think that whole concept of "liberal bubbles" is bull@#$% but that is another post that I haven't yet figured out how to write without cursing too much.)

Anyway, every few days I take a deep breath and I scroll through their top stories. And here is what I notice:

Polical stories are always first, and they are usually opinion pieces, not factual. As in, "Watch O'Reilly's take on how the liberal newsmedia is biased!"

The point of the view of the Administration is favored, pretty obviously. As in "The Trump team says...(and we agree!)"

Any articles about the Democratic Party (DNC) are usually about how they made a huge error or are in disagreement about something. As in "The DNC is again in a shambles over their future leadership!"

All the other top news is about an America (usually a white person) being hurt, injured, killed, maimed, lost or jailed (usually a black or brown person).

ALL THE OTHER STORIES are about crime. Scary, bloody, terrible crimes. No matter that they happened to that one lady that one time, they are TOP STORIES.  Sports, international affairs, science, the arts? ... nope, nope, nope. Just death and mayhem.

Cue the woman in the diner who says that despite his flaws at least the President is doing something about all this crime...

Even though the crime rate is the lowest in a generation or more. If you've been watching or reading Fox News, you would think that our country is overrun by brown-skinned criminals intent upon doing horrible, scary things to you and your family.

Yesterday the White House kept several reputatable news organizations out of a meeting with the press secretary. That has never happened before. Even under Nixon.

Yup, I just wrote a whole blog post comparing our news media to South African Apartheid and the Nixon Administration. I did not think I would be doing that a year ago.

Why are there TV's everywhere?!- To keep us distracted.
Why does Fox News highlight so much crime? - To keep us scared.
Why is the White House demonizing and locking out the press? - To keep us from hearing things from other points of view but theirs.

This is what I take away today:

Don't be distracted.
Don't be afraid.
Stay informed, and watch the news in other languages besides the one you know. 

you're nice.

This afternoon the kids had an argument over their rooms- Lily's bedroom is much smaller than her brother's, so the deal is that when he goes to college, she'll move into the bigger room (and re-paint it! she declares.) To which Daniel answered, "Then I'm NOT going to college!" Because: logic. Also: siblings.

So we ended up having a long discussion about how living at your college is really fun and cool and you get to practice being a grown-up, yadda, yadda, yadda. (I didn't mention the drinking.) We don't have him convinced, yet. But we do have at least 8 years.

The truth is that going away to college is a big goal of ours for our children. We don't wish for them to be academic super stars or attend the BEST colleges. We want them to explore the world. We want for them the amazing privilege we received by studying away, and studying abroad.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about a little bit about my experience studying in South Africa.  I spent 4 months living and studying in Durban, then I flew home, watched 18 solid hours of X-FILES on VHS tapes (thanks for recording every Sunday sis!) and then boarded a plane for South Dakota.

Cultural whiplash much? Yup. And Mulder and Scully didn't help. I was kind of a mess when I arrived in the tiny town of S_____, South Dakota.  Pop. 1000.


It's only been recently that I've realized the extraordinary privilege I had to spend the summer in South Dakota. It was a challenging summer for me because it was SO BORING for a 21 year old fresh off an African adventure. But, as the art teacher in the town Boys and Girls club, I did get to work and live and hang out with Lakota people for 2 months.

Most Americans have had limited contact with Indians/Native Americans/First Peoples. Our collective cultural knowledge is as deep as the Disney movies and "crying Indian" Facebook memes. I am certainly no expert and I am very aware of my ignorance. One summer mixing paint and playing pool with 15 Lakota kids makes me an expert in pretty much nothing re: Indian Country. But I do know that it is another world, those reservation/nations. A beautiful, hard, and isolated one which sadly, not enough Americans ever see.

Here was the weird thing about this little town (maybe it's changed since then?). There were 1000 people living in a town with ONE streetlight and there was TWO of everything. Two small town newspapers, two bakeries, two bars, two groceries, two churches, two general stores, two local radio stations. Why? Because half the town was Lakota, and the other half was white. The tiny town was segregated, right down the middle. My 21-year-old self could not fathom this. WHY!? I mean, Indians are the good guys who remind us not to litter! duh!? Isn't racism, like, for African-Americans and Latinos? 

21 year olds are sooooo dumb, and they think they are soooo smart.

I worked at the Boys and Girls Club, which was managed by the Lakota community. All the kids were Lakota.  We spent our days eating donated Christmas themed peanut butter cups and commodity food, doing art projects, playing pool and just hanging out.

One afternoon I took a group of kids to the local playground. The younger ones ran around while the older ones sat on a picnic table with me and chatted. After a while another camp van pulled up and a group of blond strapping kids piled out. They were obviously from the white Vacation Bible Camp. All the little Lakota kids came running over to my picnic table and said, let's go! The older kids started to stand up and walk towards our van. I laughed and said, "Where are you going? We don't have to leave!" One of the older girls said, "but the wasicu  (Lakota slang for white people) are here!".

"So what!" I laughed. Then I saw their faces, how scared they were.

"Guys, it's okay. We can still play here."

Rolled eyes. More movement towards the van.

"You guys?! Don't you know I'm wasicu too right?!"

"No you're not!" They all said in unison. "You're nice!"

I don't think I spoke a word after that. I just got up and opened up the van, and drove us all back to the cozy safety of the Club. My white privilege, previously invisible to me, had just been dumped like cold water all over my head.

you're nice.

20 years later, and I wonder what that little town is like. I wonder if it's still segregated. I wonder if  brown and blond kids play together in the park. I wonder if any of the little boys and girls I played pool with that summer, who are now young men and women, spent part of this year at Standing Rock.

Today the Standing Rock Water Protectors were removed from the protest site they had held for months. The construction crews will move in, and the oil pipeline with be laid down across their land.

you're nice.

There is so much news in the world. In our hyper-connected, 24 hours news cycle world we hear about everything, but are deeply connected to so little. It is like sipping from a firehouse. There is water aplenty, but you cannot quench your thirst. It is rare that a news story from far away, that is happening to a people you don't know and will never meet, can pierce through that and still you. Which leads to our newsfeeds filling with ever more fervent headlines and frantic "SHARE THIS" "WATCH THIS!" THIS THIS THIS!.

How can we feel anything in this din? How can we connect to the world?

I wish for my children, and all children, to travel the world, study with people different from themselves, and see just how beautiful and how diverse we humans are. As Ethiopian adoptees, they've already had their world turned upside down. They know deeply how fragile and terrible the world can be. What I wish for them is to see the strength of the people around the globe. The strength of Africans, who survived and thrived in their forced diaspora around the world. The strength of my European immigrant ancestors, who braved hardships and deprivation to build a new life in America.  The strength of Native peoples, which was finally visible to millions of people because of the brave warriors at Standing Rock.

I was very, very lucky to travel and study abroad as a young woman.  If only more Americans, especially white Americans, could have the experience of having their world turned upside down and their identity shaken, because then, THEN, we might be better citizens of the planet. We white folks could certainly use a dousing of cold water to wake us from the stupor of our invisible privilege.

Then we might know that being nice is not enough.

My world was turned upside down 20 years ago and it's still turning back around. For which, today, I am especially grateful.

http://standwithstandingrock.net

We need Faith now, more than ever

I'm rushing to write this so I can get to church on time. 'Cause I NEED my congregation right now, more than I ever have. And so do you, I bet.

The Sunday after the 2016 election, our service was standing room only. We ran out of orders of service (programs), and we ran out of pew space. Nobody seemed to mind. Nobody minded when the service went long either. Many people cried openly. Everyone seemed to want to stay all day. I joked to our minister, can we have church tomorrow too?

We need faith right now, more than ever.  We need liberal, free thinking, life affirming faiths. We need synagogues that have potlucks with mosques and Christian congregations that host refugees and temples that affirm gay rights and sacred spaces that welcome all.  We need, in this turbulent, scary and constantly shifting world, safe spaces to sit and cry openly. The ground is moving under our feet. We need someplace firm to stand.

My congregation is a liberal leaning, gay affirming, diversity seeking, science loving Unitarian-Universalist church. I was very lucky to have been raised a UU, but many if not most of our congregants come to us after being rejected or shut out from their faith of origin.  How their former temples or churches didn't want these beautiful people I cannot understand. Unfortunately, the story of conservative faith in our country is written with exclusion; a long list of can'ts and don'ts.  Unfortunately many leaders in our government belong to a Christian faith that seems to have gone astray from the teachings of Jesus as I understand them. They are leaving far too many lovely people behind.

Do you need a place to sit and cry openly? Do you need opportunities to have your lifestyle, your love, your dreams and your identity affirmed and loved without question? Do you need to find people to march with and pray with and sing with and write postcards to your representatives with?

Find your church. Find a sacred place to call home. They want you, and you need them.

Here are some tips on finding a spiritual home in this time of crisis: Go on Facebook and look for congregations in your area that have photos from the Women's March. Walk past the synagogue, see if they have a rainbow flag somewhere. Look at the upcoming sermon titles: do they invite you to join with your brothers and sisters in faith?

If you can't find a local place to worship, look online! Our congregation, and many others, livestream their services on Facebook or on other platforms. Get a couple of friends together, light a candle, and join in!

If your sacred space is a under a tree in the forest, awesome. Trying bringing a couple of friends with you and reading aloud from something that moves you. Sing a song together. See how you feel afterwards.  If you feel like your feet are more firmly planted and your breath is deeper, then invite a few more friends next time.

We need Faith now, more than ever. 

A tale from the resistance.

South Africa 1997.

At the tender age of 20 I had the extraordinary privilege of studying in Durban, South Africa for 4 months. Each day of that study abroad created a memory that is still shaping my life. South Africa is an amazing, beautiful, challenging country with a fascinating history.  In 1997, 20 years ago, it was just emerging from its brutal apartheid era. The yellow tanks that had previously terrorized black and brown citizens were still parked in government lots, weeds growing around their giant metal frames.

I've been thinking a lot about my time in South Africa, now that we are beginning our own terrifying racist and isolationist government era.  One moment in particular keeps coming to mind, and perhaps it will offer you a portion of the solace and hope that it is giving to me.

Early in our stay we (the 15 other young college students I was traveling with)  visited a women's help center to learn about the challenges facing families in South Africa.  The center was located in a beautiful (formally all-white) sunny suburb, with lush tall trees and small houses set back from wide avenues.  We sat in a small gray conference room and listened to statistics about the HIV/AIDS epidemic (at its height in the 90's), maternal health, rape, child neglect and homelessness, and violence in families. There was no good news. There was bad news, and there was worse news.

Much like the news this week.

After hours of hearing all of this heartbreaking information, our group stumbled back into the sunshine for our lunch break. The glare of the blue sky hurt our eyes, so newly red from crying over numbers of women raped each year.  We stood on the sidewalk, hardly able to walk in one direction, let alone decide something so meaningless as what to have for lunch.  What should we do? Go home? Barricade ourselves into our dorm rooms?  We thought that coming to South Africa was the stupidest thing we had ever done. We were terrified and horrified, and astonished that the sun could still be shining.

Then from across the street a group of Black women greeted us. From their uniforms (everyone in South Africa wore a uniform), we guessed they were maids, on their own lunch break or running an errand together. They guessed from our sloppy jeans and sneakers and bewildered expressions that we were American students. The women came up to us, smiling wide as the sun and holding their arms out to us, laughing joyfully.

"Welcome to South Africa! Welcome to South Africa! The beautiful country!"

They seemed to think that coming to South Africa was the smartest, best thing we could do. They embraced us with their smiles and then moved on down the street. 

I remember staring after then, wondering... How? How could they love their country so? I'm sure they also knew the rape statistics and the rate of AIDS all too well. They had just voted for the first time just a few years before.  How are they smiling?

It took me many more weeks to understand what I had glimpsed that day. These women loved their country. They knew its flaws and its hardships very well, and they CHOOSE to smile in the face of them.

You can join the terror and succumb to the horror, or you can shine the sun out of your face and say, I LOVE my country.

I love my country, and all the people in it. I will smile like the sun in the face of the terrible things our government is doing to us, because we are worth fighting for.

Welcome to America! A beautiful, complicated country.

A New Year, full of uncertainty

Uncertainty is the worst. I firmly believe that not knowing what will happen is far, far worse than knowing - even if the knowledge is terrible. Perhaps you are more comfortable with uncertainty that I... (Perhaps you even LIKE surprise parties! For the record: NO.)

I've had this non-knowing is worse than being sure confirmed for me many times, mostly notably during our journey to becoming parents.

Should I take the pregnancy test now, or should I wait? Waiting lengthens the amount of time "pregnant" is still a possibility...

It was never positive. Which was, strangely, sometimes a relief, because at least I was sure.

Facts, even when they are the cold hard sharp steel of a negative pregnancy test, are at least something to lean on. They are solid, they hold you.

Thankfully those anxious months are behind me. Thankfully our adoption process, although it certainly had its ups and downs, ended up with a certain outcome. Our children know where they come from, we know their first family and we can communicate with them, see them.  We have the truth of their history to lean on.

So here we are, about to inaugurate a new President.  And there are so many unknowns swirling around us I'm dizzy. My news feed reads "Bad" "Worse", "Unbelievable".  Reports are unsubstantiated, truth is fought over, facts are hidden under layers of excuses or opinions.

What do we hold on to?

This past year, this election, has been so unprecedented, so unpredictable that it's hard to imagine how it will continue... where is the end of this crazy story? The plot is so convoluted and the characters are such cartoons. Our reality would be a failing first draft of a would-be crime novelist.

The uncertainty of this moment is driving me to distraction. I can see others reveling in it: "What will happen next!?!"

But I don't like surprise parties.

So here we are. 2017. A year that could bring... anything. The possibilities are endless, but they all seem to be scary. I am enough of an optimist that there is still a part of me that believes this has a happy ending. (Elizabeth Warren is declared President!)

I'm trying to hold on to something. I'm trying to find some slim hard truths to grasp, even if they are sharp and cold.

I know that next Saturday I'm traveling with a group of amazing women from my congregation to Washington DC.

I know we are not alone. Far from it.

And that, for now, will have to be enough.