Rugged Individualism.  Grit.  Determination.

Our country is seeped in these attitudes, and they served us well growing a young nation.  Clearing lands, pushing the frontier boundaries from one coast to the other, becoming a world power.  (Never mind that the First People were here already, and these principles didn’t work so well for them, but I digress.)

I see these traits of strength also have a great deal of selfishness woven into them.  In this moment in history, our selfishness clothed in bravado of ‘You can’t make me’, ‘Just Do It’ or ‘I want . . .’ might be our undoing.  We can’t apply known mantras to an unseen and unknown enemy such as the COVID virus. 

I totally understand needing both public health and financial livelihood, and appreciate that tremendous balancing act and its extremely difficult decisions. 

I don’t understand the throngs of people going to crowded bars, restaurants, beaches and public events.  Or maybe I understand all too well that our national identity of rugged individualism is betraying us.  

I beg us to put aside ‘me first’ and look out for the needs of others and the common good.  Ultimately, I believe it will be best for our own welfare as well as that of everyone. 

I’ve been silent on this blog space for the past few weeks.  Mostly, because I felt helpless to find the right words during this time of such pain for our country and Black Indigenous People of Color (BIPOC).  I also wanted to honor boundaries regarding the proper use of my white woman’s voice in addressing the sin of racism in our country. 

I had been invited to a Juneteenth celebration, but I did not feel knowledgeable enough to be an ally.  It felt like I would be a spectator instead of a participant.  My daughter urged me to honor Juneteenth by reading and learning more about the day and the Black Lives Matter movement. 

I read and watched Fr. Bryan Massingale, a professor at Fordham University and a leader in the field of theological ethics.  A Milwaukee area native, he brings lived experience as a priest of color to his speaking and writing.  In a recent article, The assumptions of white privilege and what we can do about it, Fr. Massingale states, “First, understand the truth between being uncomfortable and being threatened.  There is no way to tell the truth about race in this country without white people being uncomfortable.”  He goes on to say, “but avoiding and sugar coating this truth (of race) is killing people of color.”

I watched a movie about a young black man falsely accused of rape and imprisoned.  How the criminal justice system was broken in his case and in the case of so many people of color.  I watched “13th”, a documentary that presents the issue of race in our criminal justice system.  I learned that even though black men make up about 6 % of the US population, they make up a bit more than 40% of our country’s prison population. 

I learned that “Black Lives Matter” is a phrase highlighting the inequality of security and dignity for people of color.  It is not about Black Lives Matter MORE than other lives.  It is a declaration and a plea for understanding that Black lives matter AS MUCH as all lives.  Because a small number of people have used protests as a means for violence does not take away from this fundamental truth.  If an Army base were bombed, would anyone respond to “Army Lives Matter” by saying “But ALL military lives matter?  Of course not!  Or if an orphanage were set on fire would people reject the phrase “Kids Lives Matter”?  Of course not!  Most of us would intuit the inherent truth that all life matters while understanding that the community in focus needs extra comfort and support during their time of loss. 

Why now?  Like so many, I had been complacent.  I spoke out against injustices, even chair the human concerns committee at my church.  I thought I was doing my part for human rights.  The recent deaths of so many young black men have made me realize I can and must do better.  I acknowledge and pray for forgiveness for my part in this systemic sin.  I will keep reading and learning about racism is our country.  I am hoping we can all vow to do better.   

Fr. Massingale is also the author of a book, Racial Justice and the Catholic Church. His final words in the book are, “Social life is made by human beings.  The society we live in is the outcome of human choices and decisions.  This means that human beings can change things.  What humans break, divide, and separate, we can- with God’s help- also heal, unite and restore. 

What is now does not have to be.  Therein lies the hope.  And the challenge.”

  

I was sitting on my patio pondering what to write next for the blog.  Cute or light-hearted wasn’t appropriate.  Dirge-like somberness didn’t feel right either.  When I flipped open my notebook to start writing, or more likely to stare at the blank page, it opened to a piece I had written as an exercise with my writing group in January.  The writing prompt was ‘My dreams for 2020’.                

These words are exactly what my heart wants to say today. 

My dreams for 2020 is the world to become a kinder, more accepting world.  I pray to God that the year ends preparing for a change in presidency.  Dreams . . . with hope for reality.

I don’t know what it will take for our communities, our country and the world to be able to see the ‘other’ as an opportunity to learn and grow.  To hear a call for generosity of provision and goodwill. 

I just know I dream for the fear and animosity toward anyone different from ourselves to end.  I pray and dream for a recognition of the value of each life and an end to the loss of life and limb from violence.  Whether shootings or reckless driving or domestic abuse.  I dream about my role in helping to bring about tolerance, security and safety for those in my neighborhoods and those on the other side of the world.  Do our words make an impact?  Yes! And Yes! Let it be so. 

January 2020 is very far back in the rearview mirror.  I know that words alone will not bring about an end to systemic racism. However, one key initial step is to define the problem.

“Systemic racism is a form of racism expressed in the practice of social and political institutionalizations.  It is reflected in disparities regarding wealth, income, criminal justice, employment, housing, human concerns, political power and education, among other factors.”  Wikipedia.

Ok, I don’t love the source, but this was actually the clearest, most concise definition I found.  I believe we can easily read and understand this statement to help us answer the question, “Does systemic racism happen in our country?  In our state, in our communities?”  No side arguments.  You know, the ones to get the topic off track.  We need to answer the question with a simple ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. 

We all need to sit with our answer for a while and ponder where our answer will lead us.  It might lead us to:

• Donate to a cause such as Southern Poverty Law Center. 
• Start a book group. I am going to read “Their Eyes Were Watching God” by Zora Neal Hurston and discuss with my daughters and friends. 
• Read Langston Hughes and other prolific authors of the Harlem Renaissance. 
• Teach our children about great people of color such as Frederick Douglass, W.E.B duBois, Sojourner Truth, Toussaint Loverture.  Names not as familiar as Martin Luther King, but each a profound contributor to the fight for civil rights and equality. 
• Start the uncomfortable conversations with our family and friends. 
• Vow to end our silence. Raise our voice in a peaceful protest or in a letter to elected officials demanding real and lasting changes to ensure safety and equal rights for all.  

I’m rolling up my sleeves and going to work.  I hope you are, too. 

“Who was justice for the poor, who was rage against the night?” *

Over 100,000 dead

The naysayers scoffed

That will never happen

Lifetimes edited into brief litanies

Veterans, coaches,

         nurses, children,

princes and paupers

the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.

Over 100,00 dead

Those that ran toward danger and into the arms of death

A 100 year-old man whose brother died in the last Pandemic

You know, the one we should have learned from

Instead Spanish flu and Corona virus

       orchestrate a family reunion

But this damn virus killing us off isn’t enough

We have to kill each other?

We kneel on George’s neck

We proclaim ourselves judge and jury

We shoot Ahmaud

We are silent, we are complicit

We know the poor and persons of color are dying more

We are silent, we are complicit.

Nice people don’t go there.  Don’t talk about that.

I don’t want to be nice anymore.

I want to hold George’s sister

And Ahmaud’s mother

And tell them I’m sorry.

I’m so, so very sorry.

‘I want to be justice for the poor,

I want to be rage against the night.

I want to be hope for peaceful people

I want to be light.’ *

*Anthem” by Tom Conry adapted

Remember when we were kids and used our snow saucers as shields while we fought off fierce dragons or legions of armies?  Or maybe we were the mom with our kids in the passion play at church playing the role of a Roman soldier.  We threw a red towel around their shoulder and stuck a hub-cap in their hand as their armor.

Just a few weeks before our lives turned upside down, I had attended a Women’s conference.  One of the presenters talked about the Roman soldiers had another type of shield other than the one we so lamely depicted with our hub-caps and snow saucers.  Historians tell us that this shield, called scutum or scuta-plural, was about 4 feet by 2 ½ feet and weighed up to15 pounds or more.  This would be more like pulling the fender off of a VW bug and running around with that playing army!

Anyway, the purpose of this shield was to protect more of the soldier’s body, they could crouch down and protect their head as well as their middle.  When the soldiers were marching in tight formation, the scuta not only better protected the individual, but the whole group as well.  AND, if things got really bad, they could huddle together in a ‘testudo’ or ‘tortoise formation’ with some of the soldiers holding their shields facing the front or side and those in the middle turning their shields upwards to form a canopy or shell over them all. 

The point of the presentation was that we are called to provide protection not only for ourselves and our families but for others as well.  Sometimes we need to put our shields together.  Now, especially in this time of the pandemic, I don’t want to be crawling under a turtle shell with all of you.  But I do want to challenge us to symbolically create a tortoise formation around our families and our communities.  We need to look at how our thoughts and actions can be united for the greater good.

The greater good- a term we maybe learned in a philosophy class, or perhaps by reading the classics in High School English.  Lately, I’ve been pondering that our current Covid pandemic can’t be starkly labeled as either a health crisis or an economic crisis.  It is foremost an ethical crisis.  There are valid arguments coming from all directions.  Yes, lives will be lost if we ease or stop social distancing.  Yes, lives will be lost from suicide and addictions if we don’t ease restrictions.  I don’t know the answers, but I do feel that I am getting a clearer picture of the right question.  

I believe if we all navigate the days, weeks and months ahead keeping in mind others’ needs as well as our own, we will be better positioned for getting this right. Or finding the greater good when there are no right answers.  I am hoping I can hold my shield up high for you, and that you will hold one up for me.   

Mary: 

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” 

A tremendous nod of appreciation and respect to Charles Dickens for this, one of the greatest opening lines in literature. Any genre, any time period.  I did not realize until just now doing research for this article that it continues on in an incredibly long and beautiful run-on sentence.

“it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair . .”

I had hoped to say that ‘best of times, worst of times’ sums up my week.  And then I discovered the riches of all these contrasts -- each couplet adding layers of validation to my scattered and often diametrically opposed thoughts and feelings. 

Last week started with finding out our local library system was offering on-line reservations and a method for curb-side pick-up.  I spent two hours just choosing which books I wanted to request.  Perhaps a bit like getting lost in the book store, but I don’t know anyone who does that.  

And then Friday was my pick-up day, I was so excited!  I told some friends at work it felt like the super nerdy joy Steve Martin displayed as he cried out, “The new phone book is here, the new phone book is here.”  I got home and paged through my treasures; three historical fiction books and a literary work by Walter Mosley.  Then, as I tried to choose which to read first, the words of Mozart in the movie “Amadeus” came to mind.  He was trying on wigs and excitedly proclaimed, “They are all so lovely, I wish I had three heads.”  Can you tell, I was really, really excited to have these books! 

I had been reading on my Kindle since the ‘safer at home’ order started.  A wonderful gadget, but it is no match for the tactile delight of turning pages and brushing your hand across a glossy cover.  I chose to start with a historical fiction set in the mountains of Eastern Europe during WWI.  The main characters were a doctor and nurse in a field hospital.  Beautifully written with exquisite prose, complex characters and well-developed plotlines.   However, reading about rapid progressions of illness to death from typhus, the endless battle to save lives with very little equipment and medications, and the bickering and in-fighting amongst the decision makers was not exactly uplifting or an avenue to escapism these days.

Which led me into the worst of times.  That story plunged me into such feelings of gloom and melancholy.  I know my dark times are like the brightest day for some that battle depression and other mental health issues.  I know our current battle with Covid-19 has worsened these conditions for so, so many people.  And I know mental health care in our country is not given the respect and resources needed.  Mental health conditions, addictions, and substance abuse are an epidemic in their own right, and have been for some time.  And I pray for all those that are fighting these battles even more fiercely than ever before.  But to all those screaming for flinging open the doors of our society as a solution to the mental health crisis running along with the virus crisis, I suggest shut the front door.   A more lasting solution is for us as a society to take an honest look at mental health care in America and make some necessary changes.  We can do better. 

I had been struggling with what to write next and pointedly avoided the keyboard.  I felt I had no funny quips or ‘rah-rahs’ in me.  I feel, though, there are many of us that experience this roller coaster of emotion within short amounts of time.  The goal of this piece began as an invitation to myself and each of us to acknowledge and accept whatever range of feelings we have and when we have them.  Very often though, it seems the writing itself sets the path.  Just today, I saw that May is Mental Health Awareness Month.  I’m thinking that was the muse whispering in my ear.  I’m grateful for the direction.  I pray we are all kind to ourselves and others.  Especially to those that are in most need of our kindness and care.  

Katie: 

My mom beautifully pens, “I pray we are all kind to ourselves and others.  Especially to those that are in most need of our kindness and care.” Kindness is truly the only way through. True compassion for, true faith in, and true love for one another is the only thing that gets one through. 

In the past, I have been pretty open about having high functioning anxiety. I don’t always seem like I am ready to explode, going a million miles a minute, or envisioning scenarios that put me in positions over which I have no control. I don’t always seem like that. But, I promise you, it is there, right there under the surface.  That is what high functioning _________ looks like. You fill in the blank. 

It looks like, “I can’t break down because if my kids see me cry, they’ll know something is wrong.”

It looks like, “The world was literally on fire, and I can only focus on the fact that my baseboards are dirty.”

It looks like, “Yeah, yeah, no, everything is fine.”

Anxiety, Depression, OCD, looks different on everyone. I am high-functioning. My anxiety is seen as a boon to my work and my community. Others wage different wars with their demons. I cannot speak for those. 

I don’t want pity. I don’t want indifference. I want recognition that everyone is carrying something heavy. 

We are going through global trauma right now. I want everyone to know that just because someone else’s “stuff” is heavier than yours doesn’t mean that your “stuff” isn’t heavy, too. 

This is truly the worst of times. We are in a global pandemic. There are not enough equipment, supplies, or staff to keep our nation, our world, safe. There are people with Covid-19. There are still people with cancer. There are still people with heart conditions. There are still people with depression and anxiety. ‘We are not all in the same boat, but we are certainly in the same storm’ (Damian Barr).

That is the place in which we rejoice. That is the place where we must become one human race. We have got to weather the storm together to welcome the rainbow. And, we can only do that when we support one another regardless of age, race, ability, class, religion, sexual orientation, or, yes, even differing political persuasion. 

As people united, we will not be divided.  And, that, my friends, that will be the best of times.

The real, the reasonable and the ridiculous ramblings

In one of the first blogs I had promised to sometimes share the ridiculous and to invite you along as I laugh at myself.  Lord knows, when you are an awkward nerd like me there is no shortage of material.  And perhaps we all need a good laugh right about now. 

In a nice pairing with a recent dilemma in which we pondered whether red or white wine goes best with PB no J on toast, I present the mystery of the little Black Box.  I had recently gone to a gas station/convenience store for a few staples.   You know, the one with the great bathrooms and Karuba coffee.  Nice people, adequately stocked with the basics (although I did not check out the toilet paper so can’t help you there), and well set up to get in and out quickly with not a lot of other people getting in your airspace.

By basics, I mean milk, bread, a few pieces of fruit, a Lindt chocolate and a little Black Box of Cabernet Sauvignon. For those unaware of this little jewel, it is a 500 ml pouch-like container of wine.  When I opened it later that evening getting ready for a Zoom writing group, I did not see an inner white seal I thought it would have.  I hadn’t paid attention when opening to whether it had made the distinct click of a sealed container.   Had it been opened already?  Did somebody mess with the inventory or did someone pull a malicious prank?  In light of our current health crisis, my first thought was that somebody might have slipped something in there and I would NOT be safer at home!  Darn, my writing group soon and no red wine.  Life is hard.

The next challenge was how to rectify this problem.  Do I take my little Black Box up to the counter and say, “Somebody opened my wine”?  To which they would answer in their head, “You did, you crazy old lady.”  Uh.  No thank you.  I bought another little Black Box and paid careful attention to the opening and packaging.  I am happy to report it does not have that little white seal and it pairs well with crazy cat ladies and Zoom video chats.

I had also previously written about this week in spring when God falls head over heels in love with His creation.  Not that He (or She) isn’t always, but this display of new life all around us is especially magnificent.  A tree in fully bloom, heavy with fat white flowers.  Another laden with delicate fuchsia colored blossoms.  Pinks, purples, whites and yellows of daffodils and hyacinth.  Precious gifts, each one.

Yes, life is hard right now.  And not because of wonky little boxes of wine.  That is the ridiculous.  But the real and reasonable thing is that there is beauty and joy all around us.  Sometimes we have to search for it, sometimes it is right in front of us if we open our eyes to it.  Sometimes it offers only a fleeting moment of release from the challenges of life, but sometimes it can brighten the whole rest of the day.  

Seek and you will find, I promise.