research project

As I've taken up writing on here anew, I've also been better about writing in my journal-thingie.  And that's a good thing because I bought it a couple of years ago, a fancy Moleskine one, and it'd been a damn shame that I wasn't filling it up and getting my money's worth.

I bought it when I started this research project about romantic relationships and what they mean for the self -- the past, present, and future self.  In particular, I was trying to figure out what they meant for my feminist self.  I interviewed my Mom, some of my best friends, a couple of women from church.  And I got some good stuff.  Originally, I had a plan for writing up the project, but ultimately, I guess I just came to some insights that I was needing and then that was done.

Seemingly abrupt shift: A few years ago, Rachel told me that a cantor had once described faith in God to her as "feeling lucky all the time."  That resonated with me, and I've thought about it a lot since.

I've been feeling tentatively better the last couple of weeks, and part of it, I'm sure, has been that I've felt really lucky several times.  It's made me feel held, protected.  I'd like to be better at nurturing that sense of gratitude as a way of staving off the intense despair that's marked the last several months for me.

I'm thinking about taking up another "research project."  This time, I'm thinking of asking folks ahead of time to come up with a list of ten or so things (people, experiences, whatever) in their lives that make them feel lucky.  (And nothing cliche.  You can't say "family" because, duh, boring.  Gotta be specific.)  A gratitude survey.  And then I want to chat with them about their list, take my dorky notes in my Moleskine.  Think about what they say so much.

First I'll write my own list to see what that's like, and then, I'll get started.

even better

Coffee shop got some rugs.

really high anxiety level today

I took today off from the new ridiculous job I've got, thinking that I needed a day to wade through email and other errand-y type stuff, and I'm struck by how just one week of TCOB and relative inattention to my own mental health has left me feeling pretty seriously jacked up.

I thought I was getting better, but I'm really conscious this morning of how much I need to slow the fuck down if I'm going to ever get for real back to feeling like myself.  It's frustrating.

duet

I woke up this morning remembering this one time that I was in the car with Johnny driving up 57 singing this song together.



That's a good memory.  

Yeah.

I think of this post by my friend Walt often, particularly these lines, particularly lately:

Wilson-Hartgrove says that, of course, there will be times when we are called to move on. But we should not easily leave. And where we find ourselves, we should be building community, and this takes time. Wilson-Hartgrove tells a story of a man complaining to his pastor that, after a year in a church, he wasn’t experiencing much community. The pastor asked how long he had been there. “About a year.” “Then I guess you’ve got about a year’s worth of community. Stay another year and you’ll have two years’ worth. Stay thirty and you might find some of what you’re looking for.”

forcing myself to write this

This coffee shop where I write in the mornings must be the number one spot in SF for AA and Al Anon folks to come and have sponsor/sponsee meetings.  I like that about it.  Mostly, I don’t listen in, because… Anonymous, but there’s just so much talk about steps and self-care and dependency.  The thing I know about folks in recovery – from my life, from movies, from church, from my mornings here – is that they tend to keep it pretty real.  No boring small talk that makes me want to run the hockey puck out of here.

Another thing I like about this place is that the owner knows I want a large coffee for here, but he’s still kinda grumpy with me.  I think it’s because of the shoes (slippers) on the seat thing and because one time I turned the lights on in the back room and he came back and turned them off, telling me, “There’s enough light from the windows and from your screen.”  He plays good music, too.

Joaquín, my roommate, thinks the coffee here sucks, but I don’t mind.  I just miss Dunkin Donuts.

"I mean really magnificent"

Last night, our Bible Study crew got to sit in Cecil Williams' office, talking with him and his badass wife, Janice Mirikitani.

When asked how they managed their personal overwhelmed-ness in the face of their massive transformative successes, they said:

Cecil Williams: "Most folks, when they get caught up in something that is about to be magnificent, I mean really magnificent, and they get caught up on it, what they do is they cut it short because they get afraid."

Janice Mirikitani: "Or they want to own it."

CW: "They want to own it.  That's right.  And you can't own it and get it going in faith and courage.  You have to, you have to be open to it.  Don't own it.  Be open to it."

JM: "And give it away." 

CW: "Yeah.  And give it away.  Yeah.  Yeah.  But, that's one thing I found out about by looking at the stories of the Old and New Testament of the Bible, and that is that you gotta take a risk.  If you don't take a risk, if you don't, if you don't say, 'I don't know it, but I'm doing it.'  If you don't know it... What we've got to do is learn how to take a risk, take a chance.  We just have to let it, and all of a sudden, it works, and it may take other folks to help it work, but it's working.  The important thing is it's working.  And, well, I got into a lot of trouble taking the risk, but I still took the risk.  I will always take the risk."

candor. ha.

I have a vivid memory of being at an IEP meeting for Conor years ago, can’t remember when.  I was a little kid, not sitting at the table with my Mom and his teachers, but I was listening.  As a goal for that year, the teachers were suggesting that Conor be able to do the grocery shopping for our family.

(In those days, I very often did the grocery shopping with my Mom.  Doing the grocery shopping for our big-ass family meant two overflowing carts at Aldi and one at Jewel.  It took hours.)

The idea was that Mom would drive Conor to the grocery store and wheel him in with an envelope in his lap containing the list and some money. The grocery store staff would then wheel him around and get all the stuff.  Then, they’d bring him up to the front where the cashier would ring up his cart and take the money from the envelope.  Finally, they’d call my Mom to pick him up.  This was supposed to be a way that Conor could contribute to the family, that he could take on a chore.

Okay, for those of you who haven’t gotten to spend any time with our little man, check it:

My Mom lost her shit at that meeting. 

A couple of weeks ago, at another such meeting, she was thanked for her “candor” in response to another ridiculous goal set for Conor.  This time, the goal is: “With no more than three verbal prompts, Conor will independently eat at least twice per month with 50% accuracy for three consecutive months by January 13, 2016.”   What a serious crock of shit.

I don’t think I blame the staff at his day care center.  He’s able to go to this center (despite Illinois being the worst state in the Union in terms of services for adults with disabilities) because he’s got state funding to do so.  In order to keep the state funding, he’s got to prove that he’s working toward and meeting goals.  Always improving. 

HOLY FUCK, WHY?

He should get the services he needs because he needs them, and they cost what they cost. 

The header of the goals sheet they provided reads, “These goals help me to achieve my dreams and assist me to be as independent as possible.  They are what matters most to me and have been decided by myself with the assistance of those who are closest to me.  My support team will help me in achieving these goals by making sure I have all of the necessary supports and materials to make my dreams into a reality.”  I can see how such a statement might apply well in the cases of people whose ability profiles include more communicative capacity than Conor’s.  But in the case of Conor, how seriously disingenuous.

Conor’s experiences with this kind of “goal-setting” brings into focus for me the broader fixation that education policy-makers and professionals have with fixing people.  When I think, “Holy shit, just let him be,” I must also wonder who else (and how else) is also being done so heinously wrong by the way we approach education.  Onward and upward!

today

1. 

2.  Today is the last day my parents have a land line.  My Dad is taking the number as his cell phone number.  For some reason, I'm really tripping on that.

Dear students,

You’re now well into your second semester, and I hope you feel like you’re getting into your groove. I really wish I could be there with you, and I was really glad to hear that you’re working with A.  She is the coolest.

I want to thank you for your patience with me as I got sick last semester.  For those of you who don’t know, I have depression.  Usually, I can keep it under control by taking medicine and talking to a therapist, but sometimes it flares up into what my doctor calls “a depressive episode.”  Some of you might also have depression, or know someone who does, so you might have some idea of what it is like. 

For me, it’s like… Have you ever been to the dentist and they want to take an x-ray of your teeth?  Well, if not, what they do is put this really heavy vest on you that protects your chest from the x-rays.  (You can ask Mr. S about the science on that…)  When I’m in the middle of a depressive episode, it feels like I’m wearing one of those vests all over my whole body and especially on my brain.  Everything, everything, seems so boring and horrible and hopeless that I just want to cry all the time.  And as some of you know, I did cry all the time.  Finally, after talking about it with my doctor and therapist, my family, and N and R, I decided that I was too sick to be the kind of teacher that you all deserve, and that’s why I left.

R told me that some of you feel as if you might have caused my depression.  That is just not even a little bit true.  You all were so often the only bright spots in my day.  Most every day, one or more of you would say or do something that struck me as so hilarious, so fascinating, or so inspiring that I would think to myself, “Okay, I can do this.  I want to be here with these kids.” 

I’m thinking about that day in 8A/7C when we realized that every play y’all were writing (Well, not A’s and S’s) ended with somebody dying; what a sick sense of humor we must have developed as a community!  I’m thinking about the day when I discovered that R had written “ass” on his table about 7,000 times.  I’m thinking about how pumped up S and T got on that day when we talked about whether or not middle school girls have the right to wear leggings.  I’m thinking about how Y’s crocheting got me to finally learn how to knit.  (I have made so many scarves since I saw you last.)   I’m thinking about the intensity with which 8B/7D reacted to Juror 8’s reasoning when we watched 12 Angry Men.  I’m thinking about how quickly E was moving up reading levels, and about how hard N and K worked at lunch, the sophistication with which M participated in our discussion of school shootings.  I’m thinking about the deep questions D always asked me, the kind and funny notes that P and J would pass me.  T was writing a really cool reinterpretation of “The Three Little Pigs.”  I could go on and on.

I’m spending a lot of time and energy now trying to get better by making a healthy routine.  I’m writing every day, reading every day, running, and making more time to be with friends and family, even if it’s just on FaceTime.  I’m still in San Francisco, and I plan to stay here, so I would love to come visit, maybe tag a long on some of the exciting end-of-the-year stuff.

I would be so happy to stay in touch with y’all.  I think you have my cell phone number (If not: ###-###-####), and my email is ------------@gmail.com.  I would love to be there to listen if you need someone.  We could grab lunch, see a movie, talk about high school plans, whatever.  I had to leave my work because I was too sick to do it well, but one way that I will get better is by spending more time with people I care about, and that’s you brilliant people!

Sending all the best vibes in your direction,

Ms. D

"It is a truth universally acknowledged..."

On my way back from Bible study last night, I saw three old White men doing things that seemed like opening scenes of short stories.

One was standing in a dark doorway on Powell Street showing his penis to tourists.

One was standing on a corner belting out to himself "If You're Happy and You Know It."

One tumbled down the stairs at the BART station.  (He was okay, he said, just embarrassed.)

I told my roommate when I got home, and he said, "Old White men doing weird things: The story of San Francisco."

alternatively...

There's the advice that my Dad has oft delivered in my times of need: "Fuck the fucking fuckers."

I mean, do these look like people who give a fuck?

"sucking it up" AND grace

When I was thirteen, as is tradition, I got confirmed as an adult in the Catholic faith.  I didn’t believe in God, so I really shouldn’t have done it, but all my friends were doing it, and I was thirteen.  And I did like the tradition of choosing a new name.  It had to be a saint’s name, so I remember spending weeks worth of library time at school with my friends pouring over the indexes of encyclopedias of female saints.  I ended up choosing Grace.

To prove that we were ready to be confirmed, we had to write a report about our chosen name.  I learned about St. Grace, a wealthy woman who gave up all of her riches to the church.  And I wrote about my beloved (Great-) Aunt Jeanne, who so loved the song “Amazing Grace.”  I also wrote about the little angry fairy named Gráinne (Irish for Grace) who one of my dance teachers told us lived in the fuse box in the basement we practiced in – his attempt to get us not to play in it. (Reporting about Gráinne showed my spiritual maturity. Ha.)

So I became Ellen Clare Mary Grace.

I also had a great-grandmother named Grace.  Years later, when I was hanging out with my Grandma (who is Kathryn Grace), she told me the story of one of her earliest memories: She could see her young girl self sitting on a bench, waiting for the bus with her mother (Grandma Grace), her sister (Aunt Jeanne), and her two brothers.  They had a suitcase with them because Grandma Grace was leaving their father, H.P. He was abusive.  Grandma was born in 1929, and it’s one of her earliest memories.  This couldn’t have been later than the 1930s. Imagine the courage Grandma Grace must have practiced.  Strength beyond what makes sense.  Grace.

(I love the way my friend Kristin talks and writes about grace.  I’m quoting her when I say “beyond what makes sense.”)

When I was graduating from high school, one of the school secretaries (from whose office I read the morning prayer and announcements over the P.A. each day – what a nerd) gave me a card in which she told me I was “grace under pressure.”  It’s rare that I remember a compliment, so I’m grateful that that one stayed with me.  How seriously kind.

These days, I’m trying to reorient myself toward grace.  “Grace” instead of “suck it up.”  Several weeks after moving to California, I remember reporting incredulously to my hearty friends back in the Midwest, “Holy shit.  Everybody here talks about their feelings so much.  And we’re supposed to listen and adjust accordingly.  It’s like nobody here has ever heard of fucking sucking it up!”

I think probably because I’ve missed my home people so much, I really took “suck it up” as a mantra this past semester. 

I’ve been so miserable.  I’ve lost a bunch of weight. I’ve slept more than I’ve been awake.  I’ve re-watched all of Friday Night Lights and five seasons of The West Wing. I’ve called my mom sobbing at least 7,000 times.  I’ve declined most invitations to get out of the house for dinner or drinks or coffee. 

But I’ve been telling myself that I’ve been “sucking it up” and pushing through.  Sucking what up?

My dear friend Suzanne and I have been talking a lot about “sucking it up.”  It’s an idea that has a lot of pull with both of us, and we’ve been trying to figure out why.  Speaking for myself, I know that in large part, I was raised to suck it up by two parents and four brothers who modeled on the daily that when someone needs something and you can help, even if it’s inconvenient, suck it up and do the right thing.  And I value that value.

I have been equating not sucking it up with being spoiled, privileged, not self-aware, whiny, and weak.  And honestly, I haven’t changed my mind about that. All of this is me trying to wrestle myself into sucking it up. 

I think what I’m trying to do now, though, is get to “sucking it up” and grace.  Rob Bell gets me good on this with what he writes in Love Wins (a book about heaven and hell that I’d really recommend to frustrated Christians) about Jesus' story of the prodigal son.  Most of what I’ve ever heard said about this story focuses on the prodigal son, the one who takes his father’s money, turns up, and then comes back broke, broken, and allegedly sorry.  I can’t relate to that character.  I can relate to the brother that stays home, sucks it up, and does what he’s supposed to do.  That brother is pissed when the prodigal one comes back and the father, instead of rightly chastising him, throws a party.  I always thought that this story was simply about the father extending grace to the asshole.  He gets love and mercy he doesn't deserve.

Here’s what Bell says about the older brother’s reaction to the party: 

First, in his version of events, he’s been slaving for his father for years.  That’s how he describes his life in his father’s house: slaving.  That directly contradicts the few details we’ve been given about his father, who appears to be anything but a slave driver.   

Second, he says his father has never given him a goat.  A goat doesn’t have much meat on it, so even in conjuring up an image of celebration, it’s meager.  Lean.  Lame. The kind of party he envisions just isn’t that impressive.  What he reveals here is what he really thinks about his father: he thinks he’s cheap. 

Third, he claims that his father has dealt with his brother according to a totally different set of standards.  He thinks his father is unfair.  He thinks he’s been wronged, shorted, shafted.  And he’s furious about it. 

All with the party in full swing in the background. 

The father isn’t rattled or provoked.  He simply responds, “My son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.”  And then he tells him that they have to celebrate. 

“You are always with me,
and everything I have is yours.” 

In one sentence the father manages to tell an entirely different story about the older brother. 

First, the older brother hasn’t been a slave.  He’s had it all the whole time.  There’s been no need to work, obey orders, or slave away to earn what he’s had the whole time. 

Second, the father hasn’t been cheap with him.  He could have had whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it.  Everything the father owns has always been his, which includes, of curse, fattened calves.  All he had to do was receive. 

Third, the father redefines fairness.  It’s not the father hasn’t been fair with him; it’s that his father never set out to be fair in the first place.  Grace and generosity aren’t fair; that’s their very essence.  The father sees the younger brother’s return as one more occasion to practice unfairness.  The younger son doesn’t deserve a party – that’s the point of the party.  That’s how things work in the father’s world.  Profound unfairness. 

People get what they don’t deserve,
Parties are thrown for younger brothers who squander their inheritance. 

After all,
“You are always with me,
and everything I have is yours.” 

 …  

Now most images and understandings people have of heaven and hell are conceived of in terms of separation. 

Heaven is “up” there,
hell is “down” there. 

Two different places,
far apart from each other. 

One over there,
The other over there. 

This makes what Jesus does in his story about the man with the two sons particularly compelling.  Jesus puts the older brother right there at the party, but refusing to trust the father’s version of his story.  Refusing to join in the celebration. 

Hell is being at the party.
That’s what makes it so hellish. 

It’s not an image of separation,
but one of integration. 

In this story, heaven and hell are within each other,
intertwined, interwoven, bumping up against each other. (166-170) 

“Hell is being at the party,” works for me.  It speaks directly to my frustration with myself for being miserable instead of grateful.  I live in a beautiful part of the country, in a lovely apartment.  I grew up in a loving family, and I have never really wanted for anything.  My inbox has filled up each week that I’ve been home with warm and funny notes from people at home that I love and who love me.  I've had brilliant teachers who have helped me to understand how systematic privilege and oppression works in our world, and who have helped me see my serious privilege.  I really haven't earned all of the wonderful things* in my life.  "Profound unfairness."

And yet I can’t stop crying.  And that makes me feel really ashamed of myself.

But the father in this story doesn’t tell the older, more responsible brother to “suck it up” and act like he’s having fun at the party.  He just reminds him that he’s deeply loved and provided for.  Matthew 6:26-27:

“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away barns, and yet God feeds them.  Are you not much more valuable than they?  Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”

I’ve got this sense of entitlement to doing work that matters.  And I agonize about it.  I want to do it well; I must.  And I don’t think I’m wrong to feel such a sense of urgency. What I need to do is suck it up and get to work gratefully -- because I can and everybody can't.

But I have probably developed an inflated sense of self-importance, and ironically, in doing so, have demoted myself in my understanding of how God knows and loves me.  I’m not a sacred (if broken) child of God, made in God’s image, because of the work that I do; rather, because God created us in God’s creator image, we get to participate with God in re-creating more sacred, less broken versions of ourselves and of our world. Just because we are.  Not tied to a particular job.  We’re always already at the party, if we can just recognize that we are.  God graces us unconditionally, and we must (and we get to!) practice grace by recognizing that.

Now.  What the hell that looks like, to simultaneously suck it up and practice grace, for me or for anyone, I don’t know.

*In no way do I mean to suggest here that White privilege is a "wonderful thing."  I believe deeply that racism significantly dehumanizes white folks, just as for example, sexism significantly dehumanizes men, so often immobilizing them emotionally.  My privileges are inherently tied to disadvantages experienced by people of color, and that makes me lesser.  But the way that White privilege can and has manifested in my life -- e.g., not fearing for my life because others think me monstrous, and etc. -- has afforded me serious comforts.