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, I know how to win battles but not wars

On Thursday, November 5^th, 2015, I wrote a blog post called, “So, it has been a year.” This detailed some of the things that lead to my anxiety and some of the things that triggered it. Each year that October 30^th passed, I put a little notch in my brain. Each year marked my ability to control my anxiety.

Battle: Being wholly honest with myself and the people I loved.

Battle: My last year of Korea.

Battle: The most difficult year of my academic life.

Battle: Three and a half years.

Every day a battle—a battle I was determined to win. It felt like I was winning. I was winning. The end of the war with anxiety sat on the horizon. Three and a half years.

However, this January, my sleep progressively worsened. I bit off more than I could chew. I had to give a presentation to my peers—people my age. I spend my life talking to children. Talking to adults is very, very different. I had ten thousand things racing through my mind to prepare.

Alysha and I got back from the store (buying snacks for my meeting the next morning). Alysha went inside while I moved my car from the street to the garage. I cut the angle too tight. My chest tightened. I screamed just to prove that I exist.

How will Alysha love me when I can’t even park a fucking car? How can I take care of a family? How can I be good enough? Why should I deserve happiness? I am not prepared to be a teacher. I am not qualified to teach the brilliant minds inside of my young people. How can I coach this passionate, vibrant team of Forensics kids when I hate feeling “looked at?”

I pulled a Y turn and parked the car in the garage. I stumbled inside and brushed by Alysha as she took out Gaia.

“Babe. Are you—?”

“I just need a minute.”

She walked out the door, respecting my wish.

My ribs closed in and my heart leapt out of the way. I breathed through the pain and remembered what Maizey Cakes used to tell me, her arms tightly binding me, willing me to feel safe. And, I felt calmer. I sent a wish of thanks through the winds. I hope she felt it.

Alysha returned with a quizzical look, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“So, that is what my panic attacks look like. Let me fold laundry while I tell you about it.”

She had known that I used to have anxiety attacks, but I never really divulged more than that. I guess, I was still ashamed and stupidly thought I had won the war.

I began folding the clothes. I still hadn’t fully calmed down, but I needed to do something to distract my mind. I picked up a towel. Now, Alysha and I fold towels differently. To keep things ordered in our linen closet, I have adopted her way. I looked at the towel and held it portrait, then landscape. Folded it in thirds and unfolded it. For the second time in as many minutes, I lost control of my body and mind. Air neither entered nor escaped my lungs. My legs forgot how to work. My arms caught my body before the floor did. I gulped tears and coughed out pride.  I was left with nothing but thoughts of iniquity and dread that I somehow deserved this. I panted, waiting for the world to end, for it to stop hurting, for something to happen, for peace.

Alysha stood up and walked to me. She wrapped her arms tightly around me. She held me. She didn’t tell me to relax. She didn’t tell me that it wasn’t real. She didn’t say anything. She held me and breathed deeply, helping my lungs remember how to inflate.

“It’s not about the towels,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “I’m here.”

I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

She’s there, arms wrapped tightly ‘round me—

She is a kite string, and I am a kite

who sometimes forgets how to fly.

Stay strong, soldiers. The war is long. But each battle we fight, remember that it’s temporary. If we can live through this one, we’ll be here to fight another day. And every day after. We are an army. I have your back. You have mine. I don’t care if we’ve not spoken in days, months, or years. I will be there to fight for you when you forget how. Take peace, my friend. Take peace.

For another person’s take on anxiety attacks, please listen to Andrea Gibson’s “Ode to the Public Panic Attack.” This poem gave me the courage to share this post that has been on my heart for three months.