So, I've written an open letter to 2020

Dear 2020, 

Boy, howdy, what a doozie. 

See, you have entire worlds rooting for your death. You have human beings who have lost so much during your reign. You have bitmojis showing that you’ve been a dumpster fire of a year. You have memes telling you to “Fuck off.” You have so many people who are rooting--not just for your reign to be over but--for you to be destroyed, written off as the worst year ever. 

I’m not here to do that. I mean, do I appreciate how you have packed so many obstacles into such a short period of time? No, of course not. I’m a lazy person, and I don’t like overcoming one just to find another staring at my face. 

But, really, it’s not your fault. I can’t possibly believe that you came in all bright and shiny on January 1st, 2020 being like, “Y’all better buckle up.” Maybe you’re just as heartbroken as everyone else. I can’t believe that your successor, 2021, has been rubbing her hands waiting for you to fail, so she can swoop in like a superhero. 

See, Time is a team. 2021’s success depends on you, as you depended on 2019. Decades depend upon decades. And, we *can* fight about what year actually is the end of the decade (2019 or 2020), but that thought wearies me. Your reign didn’t suck because you wanted a Machiavellian twist. Your reign was hard and difficult because you inherited a mess.

This letter will be America-centric, because it is the reality in which I am living. 2020, you came in so joyfully, so full of life and love to give. Then, COVID-19 became a real big problem real fast. But, you see, 2020, that wasn’t your fault. (Technically, it was 2019’s fault...but, again, placing blame is ridiculous.) We weren’t ready for it. America dug its heels in Anti-Science malarkey.  America’s rugged individualism, for which we are so renowned, was truly the downfall here--each person thinking for themselves, not the community. That’s not your fault, 2020...again, if we’re gonna place blame, maybe the fault lies in 1492, when Columbus “discovered” the New World and followed his selfish interests and destroyed the beautiful cultures that already lived there. Or maybe the fault is in 1776, when the colonies didn’t like being told what to do. Or, maybe in 1773, when we threw a hissy fit over some tea and taxes. 

America doesn’t always recognize the difference between patriotism and nationalism. 

Then, 2020, while you were dealing with COVID, a police officer, Derek Chauvin, knelt on the neck of George Floyd, and a *different* a police officer shot Breonna Taylor in her own home, and Gregory and Travis McMichael shot and killed a man named Ahmaud Arbury, all of which reignited protests around the world. Again, 2020, it isn’t your fault. Maybe it’s 1619’s fault, when White people kidnapped millions of people from a continent far away to work their lands because they thought they were too good for that kind of dirty work. Or, maybe it is the entire decade of the 1910’s, when the Jim Crow Era really ramped up. Or maybe, it is 1955’s fault when three white men killed a *child.* Emmett’s death and Mamie Till Mobley’s bravery set the mid-century Civil Rights Movement in motion. And, guess what, 2020? We’re still fighting that same damn fight. So, you see, it isn’t your fault. 

Then, in November...and December...and probably January...Joe Biden kept winning the presidential election. But, unfortunately, that’s not your success. Maybe it belongs to 2016, for electing a man fully inept at carrying the responsibility for anything at all, let alone an entire country. Or, maybe it is in 2018, when a giant swath of people saw what wasn’t working and ran for office to change it. And, maybe, yes, maybe it’s yours, too. But, *electing* Biden, much like the second after 12:00 a.m. when your reign ends and 2021’s begins, won’t change anything.

We, as a country, have to work to make this a place worth living in. We need to address the death of our planet and the cataclysmic natural disasters worsened by climate change. We need to work to become an Anti-Racist person, neighborhood, city, state, country, world. We need to work to believe in fucking science. We need to take our heads out of the sand and realize that all it took was two months of income instability to throw 7.8 million Americans into poverty while Jeff Bezos’ already gargantuan income increased by 78 billion dollars. 2020, that is not your fault. It is the fault of greed, corporatism, racism, and the many, many years before you that allowed it to happen. 

Actually, 2020, you have maybe been the best year of all. You have given us a year with the fewest school shootings. You have shone a light on how delicate our economy is. You have allowed us to see the true monsters within. You have shown us that we cannot continue to live in a sustainable way. You have punched holes in America’s belief that we are the best. Finally, 2020, you have shown us who true patriots are--people who love America so much that we see how hurt she is. People who love America so much that we work to make her better. People who love America because she is our home.

So, it’s December 31st. Go ahead, take your bow. Pass on your burden and relax. You’ve had quite a year.  

So, I’m a ball of anxiety.

So, I'm a ball of anxiety. This shouldn't be news to anyone. Anyway, Alysha and I happen to have the day off together. Alysha suggested we listen to Joshua McClain during his cello hour. He has started doing this during quarantine; he plays cello for an hour of music and mindfulness. 

Lord knows, I need this. 

Coming into The Age of ‘Rona, I was having weekly panic attacks. It was a super fun time. I was taking on too much and not allowing myself to make mistakes. I wasn’t sleeping because I was replaying every moment of the day before I could rest. I had just settled on making a therapist appointment, then BAM, ‘Rona hit. No one was, obviously, taking new clients. Truthfully, I haven’t done the work in the time given to me. I am now just a less stressed ball of anxiety. So, looking forward to how that will play out when school starts in three weeks. 

March

As cases in Wisconsin started piling up, I was devastated by the senseless loss of human life. In all honesty, at the beginning of this, I was not worried. I thought we would be able to get it under control much more quickly than we did. I thought, for a moment, there was an acceptable loss rate (less than X%; it’s fine). But, as I thought more deeply about it, I was ashamed that I could have, even for a moment, accept any loss. 

April

In April, as people in Wisconsin gathered in the Capitol to overturn Governor Evers’ executive orders, I was so angry. Masks aren’t taking away anyone’s rights. They protect others from a potentially fatal disease. Like, how do I get you to care about humanity? How do you not care that people are dying and having long-term side effects of having their lungs turned into a sieve? How do you not care? 

We started school again in a more scheduled and specific way in April. I was able to see my young people via the internet, and we began to process this global trauma together. How could I expect my kids to turn in work when they are constantly worried about things so far out of their control? I am supposed to be a rock for these kids--an adult from whom they seek advice. I am a pebble, at most. All I could tell them is how much I love them and would rather be with them. But, for their health and mine, we are on opposite sides of the screen. 

Early Summer

Then, in May and June, a neo-Civil Rights Movement waged non-non-violent and peaceful protests and marches across the world. Again, how could anyone stand in support of the police officer who murdered George Floyd and the officers who watched and did nothing. I had to decide that Human Rights are more important than my fear of the virus. I justified to people in my circle that even though schools, businesses, and churches are closed, the marches must happen. There is no online version of Civil Rights. 

These marches have continued. They must continue. There is not equality in this country.  How do I make people care about others? How do I make people see that when they say “All Lives Matter” that includes Black people...specifically, right now?  As a middle school teacher, I (usually) have a deep well of patience. But, my God, I have zero patience for people who do not care about humanity.

Early in the quarantine, a friend posted, “Hey, how are my empaths doing?” The answer is not well. I am not well. I am scared, sad, locked up inside my own head. I am so worried about everything all the time--things so far out of my control. I am a cog in a machine--a machine that is breaking. Our nation is crumbling and I can’t do anything about it. Sure, I can vote, I can make sure others vote, I can march, I can teach kindness, but all of that feels so inconsequential.  

Late Summer

Then, late July and early August rolled around. All of those accolades teachers received in April, May, and June have disappeared. Again, teachers are the villains of the story. Many parents have not been in a classroom for a long, long time. They have this idyllic version of what “school” is like. If we return full in person or hybrid, school will not look like what they want. Parents don’t want their kids to return to “school.” They want their kids to return to normalcy. They want a sliver of their kids’ day to feel like it did. But, I promise you, it will feel almost more alien than virtual learning. 

School has massively changed since we’ve been in school. Desks are rarely in rows. Group projects have become the norm. School is no longer just a place of academic learning. It is a home where children learn how to be humans, where children get fed, where children have an adult that will love them regardless of their behavior. School has become a social safety net because of all of the other societal bullshit (inequitable housing, poverty, unlivable wages). 

Schools have carried this burden, and we do so with very little complaints. I don’t know a single teacher who became a teacher for the pay. We do it because we love children, and we want to give them the stability they need to succeed. If children return to school, their school day will look so different than it was and the in-person schooling because we cannot share pencils, markers,  worksheets, or even space. They are going to do most of their work online anyway.  

Reopening schools comes down to an acceptable death rate. A lot of the memes I see flying around are that only X% of children will contract it. Or, the survival rate is X%. What people fail to realize is that their child could be that X%.  

Parents are working under the assumption that their kid won’t get it, but it’s okay if someone else’s kid gets it. And, that is what sickens me the most. How do I get people to care about human life? How do I get people to care at all? America’s rugged individualism, me-first mentality has gotten us into this mess, and its persistence has kept us here. 

Timeless

This all leads me to my main point. No one is immune to this virus. My “pod” has done everything right. We have worn masks. We have kept distant from one another. We have not gotten together with large groups of friends. And, still, someone in my pod contracted COVID. I had a moment when I envisioned the world without this person in it. I envisioned that someone I love was no longer here. Our pod had just been together. This person worried about whom they may have given it to. Was I safe? Were the others in our pod safe? Were the people with whom they came into contact safe? This person is on the mend and doing well. And, everyone in our pod has all tested negative for COVID. Luckily for us, the emotional toll that a positive diagnosis took was more painful than the physical. However, not everyone is so lucky. 

Think of someone you love deeply and without abandon. Think of the world without them in it. Tell me, is that an acceptable loss to you? Is there any acceptable loss? 

Our world has been in turmoil. I would like to say its only been in turmoil since January, but honestly, it has been in turmoil for much, much longer. It was in turmoil when the Egyptians held Jewish people as slaves.. It was in turmoil as Europe colonized the world. It was in turmoil when millions of African people were kidnapped and sold as property. It was in turmoil when American slavery shifted from cotton fields to prison labor. It was in turmoil when White people patted each other on the back the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Fair Housing Act of 1968 were passed. We ended racism, right?  

In America, we are in turmoil. 

We are witnessing the slow death of democracy as our president is trying to steal the election.

AGAIN. 

Our GDP has dropped 32.9% since March. 

We are in a second wave of Civil Rights movements. 

We are dying from a pandemic because people are equating their opinion with expertise. 

We are trying to keep it together, and we are failing miserably.  

We are a nation in crisis. 

I beg you, please, take a moment and care about humanity.  Because, I, honestly, don’t know what else to do. 

So, a storm's been brewing

I was talking to my mom the other day about how I saw myself in this fight. It is a long road of discovery, and I am still figuring it out. As a writer, I am not going to stop writing. As an educator, I am not going to stop teaching. For each of my poems that I share, I’d like to discuss two poems/ essays/ books by authors of color.  

The first poem I offer you today, dear readers, is an excerpt from “A Wreath for Emmett Till” by Marilyn Nelson. The original poem is 15 sonnets, and is published as an illustrated narrative. In 1955, Emmett Till was a 14 year old boy from Illinois who was visiting his cousins in Mississippi. He didn’t fully understand the difference between the veiled, subtle racism of the north and the raw, visceral racism of the south. He went into a store and spoke to a white, married woman named Carolyn Bryant. She then accused him of making physical and verbal advances at her. In response,  Bryant’s husband, his brother, and others killed Emmett Till, a 14-year-old boy, in a horrific way. They were acquitted. 

In 2008, 53 years after Emmett died, Carolyn Bryant said she fabricated the incident. White supremacy allowed this to happen.. A white woman falsely claims that a Black boy besmirched her honor. Her husband is given carte blanche to do whatever he sees fit. White women continue to use their position as “the weaker sex” to force retaliation against Black men (re: Amy Cooper / Christian Cooper). White people must dig into their deep-seated biases and learn to do better.  Myself, my family, many of my friends, included.  

Some say that Till’s death spurred the next wave in the Civil Rights movement. While wildly important, I am sure some people would have preferred to see his fifteenth birthday. 

Excerpt from “A Wreath for Emmett Till” by Marilyn Nelson

III.
Pierced by the screams of a shortened childhood, 
my heartwood has been scarred for fifty years
by what I heard, with hundreds of green ears. 
That jackal laughter. Two hundred years I stood
listening to the small struggles to find food…
Two hundred years of deaths I understood.
Then slaughter axed one quiet summer night, 
shivering the deep silence of the stars. 
A running boy, five men in close pursuit.
One dark, five pale faces in the moonlight.
Noise, silence, back-slaps. One match, five cigars. 
Emmett Till’s name still catches in my throat. 

XV. 
Rosemary for remembrance, Shakespeare wrote. 
If I could forget, believe me, I would. 
Pierced by the screams of a shortened childhood, 
Emmett Till’s name still catches in my throat. 
Mamie’s one child a body thrown to bloat, 
Mutilated boy martyr. If I could
Erase the memory of Emmett’s victimhood,
The memory of monsters...That bleak thought
Tears through the patchwork drapery of dreams. 
Let me gather spring flowers for a wreath:
Trillium, apple-blossoms, Queen Anne’s lace, 
Indian-pipe, bloodroot, white as moonbeams, 
Like the full moon which smiled calmly on his death, 
Like the gouged eye, which watched boots kick his face. 

This next poem, “Black Girl Magic” by Mahogany L. Browne talks about what a Black girl is supposed to do vs. what a Black girl is. White readers, I want to check what our role is in how we and society make Black girls feel about themselves. “The Bluest Eye” by Toni Morrison follows a Black woman named Pecola who equates her melanin with ugliness and strives toward being beautiful--in her eyes White. 

Think about the movies we are watching. Does it offer Women of Color in lead roles? With complex backstory? Check the books you’re reading to your children. Do they offer racially diverse characters? Think about the aisles of dolls and the pictures on toy boxes. Are they representing diverse representation? Ask yourself, how can you be a part of the change? How do we teach our children to be actively anti-racist?

Please take a watch: Black Girl Magic
Here is an interview from Poetry Foundation of Mahogany L. Browne discussing her poem and experience.


I wrote this poem at 3:00 a.m. I took my dog out to go to the bathroom and felt the heaviness of the air. From there, metaphors jumped synapse to synapse in my half-asleep brain. With some revision and editing, we are here. 

Storm Warning

You know what it feels 
like right before a storm?
The air is leaden. 
         Thick. 
I know there is some 
scientific answer about 
pressure change. 
But science can’t answer 
what I feel in my 
         bones--  
That the air is hot with 
         electricity. 
It is still and 
waiting for a spark.  

This country was hot with 
         electricity. 
And, George Floyd’s final breath 
         sparked
and lit the world on fire. 

There is no scientific reason 
for this change in pressure. 
It has been boiling and rising. 
Four hundred years of 
oppression and rage vacuumed into 
         Eight minutes and 
         forty-six seconds.

It isn’t just about George. 
It isn’t just about Ahmaud. 
It isn’t just about Breonna. 
It isn’t just about _____________.
                                   (say their name) 
  
It is about White men looting Africa taking 
          husbands, fathers, and brothers. 
          wives, mothers, and sisters.
It is about four hundred years of lynchings
while the people who were supposed to protect... 
   ...watched.
   ...cheered. 
   ...participated. 

This country has been violently racist 
          since before it was a country.
It has been raining 
          hate and 
          violence and 
          prejudice 
since its conception. 

We are fighting the same war, 
just a different century. 
Police brutality didn’t begin 
in the last decade; 
we just began filming it. 

These protests are not 
in response to any one death. 
They are in response to 
          ALL the death 
          ALL  the carnage 
we wrecked on our Black brothers and sisters.

By responding with 
          militarized vehicles and 
          escalating peaceful marches, 
the police continue time and again 
to prove that they require 
          submission 
not offer protection. 

They are pointing weapons at our citizens. 
          It doesn’t matter that the 
          bullets are rubber when 
          you’re staring down the 
          barrel of a rifle. 
Tear gas and pepper spray are 
          chemical weapons. 

The air is leaden and thick, my friends. 

We are the storm. 

So, ................

When I tried to write the title for this, I am just staring at a blank cursor. As if words matter. As if anything matters. The only thing that matters right now are Black Lives. 

On of my favorite poets, Mark Doty, wrote, "What can words do / but link what we know / to what we don't / and so form a shape?" I am so deep in the "what we don't" that words are sparse and rage is pervasive. 

Imma tell you right now this is not going to be my usual manicured, well-crafted, or, frankly, edited post. It is going to be a snap shot of a moment in time when words fail and poetry rises. 

"L.A. Prayer" by Francisco X Alarcon was written about the 1992 LA Riots that surrounded the acquittal of the police officers who beat Rodney King causing permanent brain damage*. 1992. The LA Riots happened 28 years ago. 28 years. In 28 years, we have learned nothing. God have Mercy on Minnesota if Derek Chauvin gets acquitted. 

L.A. Prayer by Francisco X Alarcon

April 1992

something
was wrong                  
when buses                
didn't come                

streets                          
were                              
no longer                    
streets                          

how easy                      
hands                          
became                        
weapons                      

blows                            
gunfire                        
rupturing                    
the night                    

the more
we run
the more
we burn

o god
show us
the way
lead us

spare us
from ever
turning into
walking

matches
amidst
so much
gasoline

"Harlem" by Langston Hughes was published in 1951. It is one of the poems I teach my students every year. We talk about what it means. We talk about what each instance might look like (dry up like a raisin in the sun, stink like rotten meat, etc). And, we talk about what it looks like when dream, undoubtedly, explodes. 

Harlem by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

      Does it dry up
      like a raisin in the sun?
      Or fester like a sore—
      And then run?
      Does it stink like rotten meat?
      Or crust and sugar over—
      like a syrupy sweet?

      Maybe it just sags
      like a heavy load.

      Or does it explode?

The next two poems I wrote in 2016. My heart is on fire that they still carry so much meaning today. We. Must. Do. Better. We have to do better. This is cannot be White and Black. It is Everyone vs. Racists. There is no, "I am not racist." White people have benefitted from systemic oppression and White people must look inside of themselves, look at their ingrained prejudice, and face it. White people have to be a part of the solution. The way to do that? Shut up. Don't talk. Listen. Your voice is not the most important. Educate yourself. Engage in conversations. Shut up. Don't talk. Listen. Your voice is STILL not the most important. 

Yes, I fully understand the irony of me, a White poet, writing this. I fully understand the irony (and arrogance) of my sharing my poetry alongside some of the greatest poetic minds. I share because White people need to step up in a HUGE way. They need to show their BIPOC (Black Indigenous People of Color) brothers and sisters that they are here in whatever capacity needed. 

Step up, White people. People's lives depend on it.   

Deferred Dreams by Kathryn Botsford

My buddy Langston, he told me about 
what happens to a dream when it is deferred. 
And, right now, I just can't sleep.
I close my eyes and see
Black men and women's lives
drying up like raisins in the sun--
juice seeping from them. 

And, that, that is why Black Lives Matter. 
Because senseless violence, perpetuated
by hate, by profiling, by casual racism 
festers like a sore.

Black Lives Matter because they
run and run in an endless cycle of 
self defense, police violence, 
Black retaliation, violence, protests,
violence, death, violence, death, violence.
Death.

White standers by watch, 
They wring their hands unsure of 
whose lives matter, or if they matter at all. 
Their mere observation stinks of rotten meat. 
They participate in that casual racism that prepares
their fellow Americans for slaughter. 
They
        cross the street.
They
        clutch their bag. 
They 
        start sentences with, "I'm not racist, but..."

There is no but. 
There is no reason for these actions.
There is no response to this onslaught of deep-seated
violence and hatred. 

The cries of 
"All Lives Matter" 
         or 
"Blue Lives Matter" 
crust over the experiences of our Black brothers and sisters--
a syrupy sweet concoction meant to pit us versus them.

We are a divided country. 
We see this every day. 

White standers by, pick up the mantle. 
Stop wringing your hands.
Use them to lift up your brothers and sisters
whom—for too long—have sagged under this heavy load. 
Be a part of this movement. 
Stand
         up.
Show 
        up. 
Be upset. 
Be an ally.

Together, we explode.
Our hopes and dreams 
flare and catch, 
spreading a fire that
cannot and will not
be extinguished. 

The next poem is a more direct conversation with those who know there is a problem but do not know what to do about it. It may be enough to just let your friends know that you’re there. It may not. You have to be ready to engage in hard conversations, open those cans of worms, talk about the racial issues that make us uncomfortable. We must build a future worth living in. And right now? This isn't it. 

Post Amble by Kathryn Botsford
We the people
are angry. We are sick.
We are tired.

We are raising our voice
in order to form a more perfect union
with our Black brothers and sisters.

Too many of whom have died at
the hands of those who’re meant to
establish justice, who’re meant to insure domestic tranquility.

We are frustrated at those who
provide the common defense
of “All lives matter.”
But, you see, Black lives, they don’t matter more,
But, Black lives matter.
Too many of us have forgotten.

So, before we forget Alton
Before we forget Philando,
Before we remember to forget whoever is
next and next and next,
we must stand with our brothers and sisters to
promote the general welfare in our country.

Now is the time
to provide a space
in which they feel safe,
in which they feel home.

Now is the time
to help them to safety on an
elevated railroad.
  
Now is the time to
shout and protest and rally
from St. Paul to Ferguson.
We must secure their blessings of liberty.

Now is the time
to share this burden
wherever you are.

We, the people, do ordain and establish this
constitution of fairness, of justice,
of being on the right side of history.

Now is the time to band together.
We are a many-colored revolution
that demands equality.

Now is the time to become the
United States of America.









*Correction via Jennifer Richardson. Thank you for keeping me honest and accountable. 

So, why is it important to "go high?"

In a speech on July 25th, 2016, Michelle Obama spoke about how their family had (and has) responded to criticisms of Barack. She said, “When they go low, we go high.”

In a Time Magazine article, she talks about how “going high” doesn’t mean that you don’t feel the pain or frustration. It means that you work through it to try to better understand someone’s perspective. She, notably, writes, “When I say, ‘go high,’ I’m not trying to win the argument.”  

That’s the part that gets me. I really dislike losing arguments. I really dislike the person I become when I argue because...I rarely lose arguments. However, in winning arguments, I sometimes lose respect for who I want to be as a human being because of the tactics I've used.  More often, I just walk away. 

Here is where I might lose some people, but please hear me out. It drove me bat shit crazy to see the “Not My President” bumper stickers when Obama was president. Like, “Ya dingledoos. It doesn’t matter if you agree with him or not, he is your president.” So….now the shoe is on the other foot. I will say it is a little different because Obama won both the electoral vote and the popular vote, while the current president only won one of the two. However, we can rip into the electoral college in a different post. 

While I disagree with the vast majority of what our Dingledoo in Chief says, does, reflects, represents, etc, he is still my president. I don’t agree that children are still in cages. Yeah, remember that? I don’t agree that there are “very fine people on both sides.” I don’t agree that he owns stock in and keeps pushing hydroxychloroquine as a remedy for Covid-19. I don’t agree that he has off-handedly created a medical environment where the people who need it for actual autoimmune diseases and malaria are having a difficult time getting their prescriptions filled. I don’t agree with his disbelief in science and reality. I don’t agree with his inability to be honest. 

However, he is still my president. He was elected by a minority of people with an electoral college majority. I do not, I repeat, DO NOT want him to be my president for another four years. 

I have found it so, incredibly difficult to “go high” when he is abusing his power, green-lighting disgusting human tragedy, and actively killing our planet. He evaded removal from office because the senate majority leader refused to have a real trial in the senate. He has doubled down on his border wall and has turned suspicion toward Asian Americans. It is so much easier for him to blame those who don’t look like him for his feckless leadership and inability to control...anything. He has revoked the Paris Climate Agreement. Our planet is dying, dude. There will be nothing left for you to rule if we don’t take care of it. 

The President has muddied the waters of trust so fully that any media that goes against what he says is “fake news.” Distrust in the media and pushing propaganda is a huge, giant red flag. His followers very rarely listen to anything that contradicts him. They often spout hate and ignorance and don’t support their opinions with facts based in real life. His followers listened to his pussy-grabbing tape and heard about the multiple sexual misconduct accusations, and said, “Yep, I am all in.” 

It is so difficult to “go high” because we are not even playing the same game right now. Progressives work toward bettering their people and their base. They have a moral obligation to “do the right thing.” Because a victory fought in their trenches of dishonesty, hate, and ignorance is no victory worth winning. The President’s followers are so entrenched in his rhetoric that trying to have conversations with them hasn't gone anywhere. Hasn’t “moved the ball forward.” So, what do we do?

It sucks. We are getting literally and metaphorically slaughtered. If he wins the 2020 election, our nation may be irreparably damaged. If he doesn’t win, our nation may still be irreparably damaged. He watered a chasm between the “Right Side of History” and the “Wrong Side of History.” It is now a canyon. We have to build bridges to allow people to cross.

We have to talk to single issue Republican voters. We have to talk to non-voters. We have to continue talking to Trump voters. We have to get people to give a damn. We have to rally around the common goal of progress. We have to vote like our rights depend on it. However, we  must respectfully engage in conversation with people with whom we disagree. We cannot think we are better than the people with whom we are speaking. We have to go high.

We have no idea what our future holds. We have no idea how our world will be shaped by the actions (and inaction) of our government. We have no idea what will be written in the history books. 

What we do know is how we acted. Were we fearless in standing up for what we believe? Did we do all we can for our homeless brothers and sisters? Have we protected our Black and Brown  brothers and sisters from people who deem themselves judge, jury, and executioner? Have we surrounded our Asian brothers and sisters who are not at all new to discrimination in this country?  Were we compassionate toward our Hispanic and Latinx brothers and sisters who are fleeing war torn countries? Were we kind to our neighbors?

Have we gone high when it is so, so much easier to go low?  

So, My Mom and I Talk About Important Stuff

So, my mom has been writing a blog about her musings, observations, and River Ramblings. Every once and a while she sends me a piece on which she'd like feedback. She sent me the first half of this piece, and it really spoke to me. I asked her if she wanted to collaborate, and I could add a different, personal layer on taking care of one another in regards to Mental Health. So, with no further adieu, here is the piece:

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”

(yes, it even carries on a bit more)

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 progression 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. The way in which my anxiety manifests itself 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.