Tuesday, 21 September 2010
After my TEDx talk, one of my kids asked me, “Mommy, did you win?”
She thought it was a contest, I was up against the other speakers, and at the end of the night, a victor would be announced. And then, that winner would go on to “compete” on the national TED stage.
I had to explain that no, this was just a one-time deal, there are no winners or losers (we were *all* winners, weren’t we?) (cymbal crash) (groan) — that it was just one night, giving one talk, and now it’s over.
And today, it’s available online.
But it’s not exactly true that it’s over. And today I want to ask the question plenty of my friends, family, and acquaintances have asked me: What’s next?
Hmm, what IS next anyway?
For me, the main Next Thing is the daily work of raising black children in a white supremacist culture. As two formerly sleeping white folks who are trying hard to wake up, my husband and I need education. We need resources, tools, and information. I have accumulated just enough knowledge to see how much I have left to learn.
If you find yourself asking this same question after watching my TEDx talk, here are some of the voices I’ve been listening to. Maybe it could be a start for you, too.
Austin Channing Brown – prophetic truth-teller
Christena Cleveland – Duke Divinity School professor, hopeful and consistent calling a better world into being
Awesomely Luvvie – Nigerian-American writer and blogger who is funny as hell and also can teach you a thing or two
My Black is Beautiful which is from Procter and Gamble of all things, but if they’re willing to have this conversation then I don’t care who it comes from.
Safety Pin Box – A subscription box for white people who want to be allies in the fight for white liberation. A for-profit company whose proceeds benefit black women-owned businesses. They have various subscription levels and even a kids’ box!
White Ally Toolkit emphasizes empathetic listening for racism skeptics, which is vitally important — and very difficult to do the closer I come to a dim understanding of what my black kids will face.
The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness — Michelle Alexander
Just Mercy – Bryan Stevenson
salt. – Nayyirah Waheed (poetry!)
*Note: Some of these shows may not be suitable for children or sensitive folks.* Use your discretion.
Get Out film by Jordan Peele
Dear White People – Netflix
Insecure – HBO
*I mean because of mature language and subject matter, not because it’s hard as a white person to hear how you might be ignorant or misinformed about the experience of people of color. These resources should make you feel uncomfortable and maybe a little offended. That’s the point. Get uncomfortable so you can grow.
These resources are just scraping the surface, of course. What tools have helped you on your white ally/wokeness journey? Please share in the comments.
Let’s endeavor to call things
what they are.
So that when you see my son,
the words “black boy” don’t taste like tin in your mouth,
but like joy unbounded —
for that is what he is.
To me, his blackness is deep
as the ocean, and twice as wide.
In those gradations he carries
Pride. Honor. History.
And while his soul is stitched
from more than blackness,
it’s in there
and out there, plain to see.
He certainly sees it,
can feel it
So put away your ‘colorblind’ entreaties,
swallow that apology and
embrace all that you see
and all that he is.
I’m not raising him to be sorry
for his blackness,
and neither should you
I don’t talk about my “faith journey” much. I don’t write about it. Sometimes I try not to think about it.
I have faith (some). Jesus still captivates me and moves me, inch by inch, toward Truth. I still believe. But most days, I’m not sure what that means anymore — all the familiar landmarks smack false to me, the faith of my youth all tied up in a problematic youth pastor, an American evangelical Christianity I no longer recognize, and lots and lots of “feelings” (feeling close to God, feeling a fire in my chest, feeling his presence close to me) that have gone blank.
Years ago, we stopped going to church. We stopped at the very moment most people keep going “for the kids.” I thought that after we did that, clarity would come. I knew that church as I knew it — meeting on Sunday morning, learning piety, AWANA, a caring community sometimes filled with too much small talk — was no longer where I found Jesus. It wasn’t them, really, it was me. There were too many trappings, too many triggers. Everything there reminded me of the faith of my youth, an easy belief that didn’t come so easy anymore.
So we left. And clarity didn’t come.
I felt my faith withdrawing into itself like a cocoon, distilling what was essential, closing up and hibernating. I waited. I expected an unfolding, an unfurling of a new expression of my faith, a butterfly emerging beautiful and whole, a phoenix rising from the ashes.
But it didn’t happen like that. And all these years later, it still feels dark.
In many ways, I’m still in the messy middle.
And I’m not sure why He still has me here, what else I’m supposed to work out, how in the world I’ll be able to reconcile what I knew with what I know, and why I have to make it so complicated.
I have to believe that something is still happening here in the dark, that God is still at work, that everything will be illuminated in time. But even in the darkness, He speaks.
In the dark, I’ve learned that God never leaves me.
I’ve learned that He’s sometimes silent, and sometimes I need Him to be.
I’ve learned that He’s not afraid of my doubts or my questions or my anger or my fear.
I think I’m learning that it doesn’t have to be a dramatic unfurling of knowing, or a sudden rush of belief, and certainly not a moment of blinding clarity. If that’s all I’m looking for, I’ll miss the little sparks that illuminate the next step forward.
I’m learning that it’s going to be slow. I’m learning that it’s OK to try new things. I’m learning that Going To Church doesn’t have to be a Major Event, it can just be something I try. Or not.
I’m learning that if I pay attention, sitting in this darkness can be a kind of prayer.
I believe; help my unbelief.
Here’s another thing I’ve learned about the darkness: Not only has God been here the whole time, but there are others here with me, too.
I’m so grateful for people like Addie, my blog-acquaintance-turned-immediate-friend when we met a few years ago. I think we saw some familiar topography in each other, a knowing that comes from being where we have, from the fading of a youth faith on fire, the wondering what now. And being honest about it.
Addie has now written not one, but two beautiful memoirs now. The first was recalling the days of her on-fire youth and what came after. Her second memoir, Night Driving: A Story of Faith in the Dark, releases today, and it’s required reading for all of you. She says she thought her second memoir was going to be about “finding a faith home” until she realized it’s not all that neat and tidy after all. She’s hosting a synchroblog today about faith in the dark; you should click over to her site to see all the beauty gathered there.
And if the winding journey of your faith has taken you to unexpected dark places, I think you’ll love this book as much as I do. Addie has a way of piercing the mundane to see the meaning and life in all of it, and writes it out with such beauty you can’t help but see something that wasn’t there before.
Happy book release day, Addie. I’m so thankful that you’re willing to dare greatly and share yourself. We’re all better for it. xo
I’m a block back when I see the older couple turn down my route home.
I’ve taken the old dog out for a walk in the fading daylight,
The fade lasting deep into evening these days,
Just after summer solstice
When the earth and air and sky are touching
and no one wants to miss the magic of this late hour.
I watch as they get closer to the curve in the road
The one I passed this way before circling back
to give the old dog’s hips some relief at home.
The same curve marking the place where
a doe is laying down in the middle of the manicured lawn
Visible over the hedge
They almost pass right by and then
Their bodies speak surprise and delight
Lingering, admiring, maybe snapping a picture.
And then the deference, starting to walk ahead,
not wanting to disturb
And just before turning away,
A beautiful, silly little wave
Goodbye, deer. Goodnight, beauty and surprise and delight.
They hold hands then, just for a few moments.
I find myself wondering how many times that can happen over a lifetime —
A thousand? A hundred thousand?
They don’t walk far before
he starts chasing fireflies
their light growing brighter
in the faded soft gray.
Three times he stops, reaches out, gives up, goes on.
Just before I turn away down my road home, I steal one last look
to say goodnight to beauty
And I see a glow light up right there between them,
But it’s so close they can’t see it
illuminate their faces
before it fades and flits away.
I was listening to a podcast last weekend in which one of the hosts was describing going into a season of increased attention, glamor, and also vulnerability. Before it all started she went into the bathroom and said these words to herself in the mirror: You are not allowed to think of the ways you’re not measuring up. You’re not allowed to cut yourself down or feel unworthy. If you’re going to survive, you’re simply not allowed to think those thoughts.
She made it sound so simple.
And for the first time, it didn’t feel completely impossible to me.
(Do you listen to the Dear Sugar Radio podcast? If not, start immediately. If you’ve never read Tiny Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed, do that yesterday.)
I’m not sure if it’s come with age, experience, or both, but oh, it’s a lovely thing to start seeing the true nature of my insecurities.
These invisible, powerful forces have loomed so large throughout my formative and adult years. I have long believed that I’m good enough, that I don’t deserve love, that I’m not worthy of beauty and hope and belonging. Like a weight around my shoulders, these lies have held me down. They’ve changed my mind, they’ve made me doubt, and I don’t really want to know how much they’ve shaped the course of my life so far.
But just in the last little while, I’ve started to see through those beliefs, those lies, those deep anchors of my soul.
See through them as in, they’re phantoms. Shadows. They’re real thoughts I have, but they just don’t matter that much.
A few times lately when the old familiar untruths started grabbing at my ankles, I have somehow been able to see them clearly, to recognize the pattern before it held me down again, and I almost laughed.
You’re not good enough. You’re ugly. You’ll never change. You’re weak and hopeless and kind of dumb.
Ha, I thought. That’s funny. Those things are super untrue.
And even if they hold some grain of truth in them, even if I sometimes believe them, even if I’m not all the way there? My next through was oh, you again. The same, tired thoughts. Good grief, who the hell cares?
Maybe I’m just so sick of the power they’ve had over me. Maybe I’m ready to be done carrying that burden and believing things that don’t serve me.
Because it’s true, you know. Those thoughts, those beliefs, those patterns that have held you back and seemed so powerful to have held you under their thumb for so long? They just don’t matter that much.
Maybe it’ll take a thousand, a million, more tiny decisions to put down the burden of those thoughts, to shake off the weight of entrenched belief. I might carry some shadow of it on my back my whole life, but most times, I’ll be able to wave my hands and clear it like so much smoke, like a vapor, and it’s gone.
One of my college professors told me over and over again to submit my poetry, my creative writing, my work to literary magazines. He talked about it in class, in meetings, and even a couple years after I graduated. I was writing to ask him something, and at the end of his response, he asked, “Where have you submitted your work lately?”
The answer then, and the answer every time: Nowhere.
Do you do this, too?
“I really should.”
“I will. Soon.”
“I don’t know if my work is what they’re looking for, though.”
“I don’t have time to keep track of all the submission guidelines.”
“My work never really feels finished — I don’t want to submit until I’m confident.”
And you know what happens next.
I haven’t chosen a OneWord resolution for this year, but something is pulling at me all the same. Maybe my mid-thirties are giving me more boldness. Maybe I’m ready to get out there. Maybe I’m just sick of hearing my own excuses.
This year, I’m trying. Doing. Shipping. Risking.
My first attempt? I submitted workshop ideas for a conference. Last week, I found out that none were selected. My first rejection. Guess how that felt?
Nope. It was fine.
Sure, I was a little disappointed and kept it to myself for a couple days, but then? I was proud. Because I hadn’t submitted anything the previous year, or the year before, and realized that (the not trying) felt worse than having tried and failed. At least this time, I put it out there. And now I have more ideas for next year. I even feel emboldened by this rejection, because now I know it’s not that bad. So why not risk some more?
Yesterday, I drove to St. Paul for an audition. I’ve known about Listen To Your Mother shows for five years. I was thrilled when some amazing women finally brought it to Minnesota three years ago.
“I really should audition.”
But this year, when a friend reminded me auditions were coming up, I looked at the “should” for a second, then clicked over to the website and signed up for an audition slot. Last week, I worked and reworked a poem, then yesterday, I drove 75 miles for a 10-minute audition.
I don’t know whether I’ve made it into the show, but even if I didn’t? It was worth it.
The doing, the trying, the risking is worth it.
It feels risky to announce this to you, to say I’m trying and doing. Because I know what you’re all thinking. (At least this is the elephant in my room.)
It’s been so long since I started writing it that the tone has changed. So has the title (more on that soon). The first draft is done. It needs some work, sure. But I’m staring her down this year, my year of doing, my year of risking. For conferences and shows, I’m asking to be picked. For my book, I’m picking myself.
I know my words have value in the adoption conversation. I know there are adoptive families in the trenches who need my book. So what am I waiting for?
You heard it here. Now hold me to it.
What are you waiting for? What have you been saying you “should” do but haven’t attempted? Let’s jump together this year. Let’s try. Let’s risk. Because being brave and failing feels so much better than making excuses for not trying.
***Hey, I think I’m going to consolidate my Facebook identity, because I don’t want to double-post on my personal and writer profiles, but then I just never post on my writer profile. Whatever. I’m just tired of splitting my identity.
I wake up two minutes before my alarm, my body already (still, always) thinking of them, my babies sleeping next to me. Getting up early to write means so much more than just rolling out of bed and pouring the coffee. For a mother, it’s about mothering, first.
So I carefully slide out of bed, then push the comforter up next to my three-year-old as a substitute for my warm body next to her. But I know she’ll know. In her sleep, she’ll sense it, and I know it’s only a matter of time before she’s up, seeking me out again.
I tiptoe through the hallway and kitchen, careful to avoid the loudest floor creaks, turn on the coffee maker and then sneak downstairs to quietly close the doors of my children sleeping down there.
The coffee made, robe on, lights out again, I sink onto the couch and exhale.
I sit quietly in the darkness for eight minutes, maybe ten, when I hear movement and I know that soon, I’ll have company.
But it’s okay. It’s okay.
I used to be annoyed when this happened, wondering why I woke up early anyway, feeling like it was for nothing. But it’s not. Because I can hold my big boy for a few sweet minutes, I can let him curl up next to me and watch me write, I can take it all together. The intention isn’t wasted just because I saw it differently in my mind. The reality doesn’t need to fight it. If I don’t let them be at odds, they won’t be.
This isn’t my writing time, not solely, not unto itself. I can’t check creativity off my list any more than I can mothering. I used to guard my time, to see divisions, try to keep everything neatly in its own space, its own box, its own time. But that’s an illusion. It was a frantic rearranging of a dream, nothing more.
Mothering is creativity is writing is nurturing is thinking is planning. It’s all me, and I have everything I need right here. I carry all of it with me. And it’s when I can see it all together, when I let the lines blur and give myself over to the beautiful mess, whole, that I’m free.
You are amazing.
I’ve done it myself, but every time I see an adoption announcement, another family jumping into these uncertain waters of adoption, I’m still astounded.
Know this: You are braver than you know.
You might feel exhilarated, you might be giddy, you might feel more ready for this than you have felt about anything. You might feel overwhelmed. You might be terrified.
You might have nagging doubts at the edges of your mind, little questions about your family dynamic, how life might get turned upside-down, what this might do to you, what this might do to your marriage.
Know this, too: You have a cloud of witnesses who have gone before you. Nothing that you are feeling is foreign to adoptive mamas everywhere.
And we are here for you.
At some point in this adoption, it is very likely that things will go sideways. You’ll have an unexpected delay, a government official won’t show up, you’ll wait and wait to get picked and wonder if it’ll ever happen, you won’t know whether it’s best to go on or start over, your heart might feel like it wasn’t made for this.
But just wait. Wait and see.
I always thought the miracle of adoption was bringing the child home, redemption, hope, putting the lonely in families.
But now I know there are a hundred little miracles along the way.
When you open your heart to adoption, when you follow God’s lead wherever he might want to take you, you’re saying “yes” to a whole lot more than just a new child.
You’re saying yes to surrender.
Yes to sacrifice.
Yes to unspeakable joy.
Yes to hope against all odds.
Yes to healing — in your heart and in your child’s.
Yes to opening your eyes.
Yes to a love the depths of which you haven’t known before.
You are braver than you know.
You join those who have gone before you in saying, yes, God. Yes. Whatever it means, yes.