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. 

So, the Democratic Party is a Circus

One of the tenants of the Democratic Party has been that everyone can fit under our tent. And, by everybody, I mean everybody. Now, I want to be crystal clear, I am not an exclusionary person. I think there should be healthy, respectful debate and conversations with those with whom you disagree. However, I would like to break down this circus of a “one-tent party” into three parts: shifts in the Overton Window, inequitable “status quo,” and necessary revolution. 

Shifts in the Overton Window 
First, and foremost, the Overton Window frames a range of political conversations that are accepted. For example, when Al Gore was telling us about Climate Change 20 years ago, it was not yet within the Overton Window. However, the OW has shifted so much that science-believing people understand that Climate Change is a huge problem that, if neglected, has been and will be disastrous. “Botsford, how does this possibly relate to what you’re talking about?” you might ask. 

Well, to answer that question, dear reader, come on a quick journey with me. Alysha and I have been watching The Newsroom. It is a show that basically details how news could have (should have?) been covered. Season one takes place in 2010-2011, which showed the rise in the Tea Party. The final episode of season one sums up exactly what I have felt for a long time and gave me the push to write it down instead of keeping it in my head.  

I am a self-proclaimed bleeding heart liberal. I believe in feeding the hungry, caring for the sick, clothing those who need clothes. I recognize my bias. However, I understand the Republican view of smaller government and leaving things up to States. (I don’t agree with it, but I understand it.) In 2010-2011, the Republican Party was taken over by the Tea Party--people like Michelle Bachmann, Mike Lee, Sarah Palin, Rand Paul, and Ron Johnson. People who were part of the Birther Movement, people who deny science, people who value guns more than they value lives (unless those lives are unborn babies), people who are so anti-government that they let it shut down multiple times because they were unwilling to come to the table and compromise. 

This kind of populism, this kind of rhetoric and denial of facts has a direct link to Donald Trump being the 2016 Republican Presidential nominee. He did not run on a platform of Republican policies. He ran on hate. He ran on ignorance. He ran on pitting the most vulnerable people against one another. Donald Trump took whatever shred of dignity the Republican Party had left and lit it on fire. 

 So, where do those Never Trump Republicans go? Where do the Republicans with common sense go? Of...of...of course we can make room for them under our big tent. However, with incorporating so many people, the Democratic Party has kind of lost their way. This is part of the reason we had a bazillion primary candidates; we can’t agree on a true Democratic movement that serves all people. The people “okay” under the Status Quo and the peoplewho came to our tent because theirs got too bananas have shifted the Overton Window to a more moderate view, as opposed to a true progressive movement. Again, I am not saying, “Get out.” I am saying, “Get on board.” 

Inequitable Status Quo 
I am an employed 32 year old with $38,000 in student debt and a mortgage. I do not have children. I am living “comfortably.” My paycheck doesn’t always stretch as far as I want it to. But, I am putting quality food on the table, able to take modest vacations, and can afford to eat at fancy restaurants once in a while. I am doing “okay.” I make a LOT more money than the average income earner. The Status Quo was working “okay” for enough people and was “okay” enough for people to be more afraid of change than of it. 

 The Status Quo is Not Working 
Minimum wage in WI is $7.25. That means that if someone who works a minimum wage job for 40 hours a week, for 52 weeks), they would be making $15,080 a year with zero vacations, zero time to be with a sick family member, zero doctor’s appointments during their shift, ZERO TIME OFF. That is not a living wage. It is not even a subsistence wage. Restaurant workers make even less because tips count toward their wages. 

 Families are in debt thousands of dollars after birthing a child. And, that is WITH insurance. Any unplanned medical expense could bankrupt a family or make them dip into retirements or mortgages. 

 Voting districts are disgustingly gerrymandered. Wisconsin held an in-person primary in a PANDEMIC, in attempts to repress voting in an even more egregious way than their previous voter suppression laws. 

 We have very little in the way of a social safety net, and this pandemic is showing that. We are about to go into my second “once-in-a-lifetime” economic collapse. People are furloughed and unemployed. Many people who were doing “okay” under the Status Quo are now suffering in a big way. My heart breaks for the way we, as a country, are being treated. 

The Status Quo was not a Democracy; it was a Plutocracy. Our government has been bought and sold by the wealthy for decades. Reagan's Trickle Down Economics has not worked. The money pooled at the top, and our government has been fed by that spring for decades. 

Returning to normal is not the answer. It cannot be the answer. If we want to be a true Democracy, we cannot return to normal. We need a revolution. 

Necessary Revolution 
Change can be scary. Political change is terrifying. What if it’s worse than what we already have? Better stick with the devil you know than the devil you don’t right? If you were “okay” under the Status Quo, a political revolution seems reckless. Why rock the boat? However, if you were not doing “okay,” or are not doing “okay” now, there is very little that is worse. We need to provide a better social safety net for our country. We need to protect people who cannot protect themselves. It’s hard to pull yourself up by your bootstraps when you’re not even wearing shoes. 

Individual Thought vs. Communal Thought 
The United States’ “We’re Number 1” mentality does not stop at country pride. The US is an incredibly self-centered society. In the face of this pandemic, we have hoarded toilet paper. We have bought all of the canned goods. We think that we are fighting this pandemic individually, every person for themselves. If my family has eight cans of black beans, we can survive anything. I can live on beans alone!! However, that means another family has zero. But, if I take two cans, which should last me a week, that means that three other families can also have two cans of black beans. That’s how math works. 

 We need to begin thinking communally. We have got to take care of each other. In this example, the pandemic is the framework. However, we need to take care of each other, always. We have to care for our sick, feed the hungry, clothe those who need clothing. And, we need to do it together. 

Medical Costs 
We need universal health care. We need people to be able to access doctors, nurse practitioners, and nurses to get help before it becomes an emergency. There are so many people who go to the ER who have problems that could have been caught and solved had there been early detection. We need people to have access to medications they need to survive. No one should die of a diabetic coma while they were rationing their insulin because they can’t afford it. People should not have to choose between bankrupting their family or getting medical care. We are supposed to be a first world country; we need to start acting like it. 

Minimum Wage 
We are seeing, now more than ever, the need for “essential employees.” People are still working in fast food, restaurants, grocery stores, and essential stores. Minimum wage jobs are not for bored teenagers who need an after school job to stay out of trouble. People of all ages and all backgrounds rely on minimum wage jobs to put food on the table for their families. We need to raise the minimum wage to be a living wage. A living wage is not just the bare minimum to get by; it is a wage that gives people enough. Enough for food, shelter, clothing. Enough to buy Christmas presents. Enough to pay for your kid to play a high school sport. Enough. 

We need a revolution. There are a myriad of other reasons that we need radical social change. We need to focus our concerns on our most vulnerable people. We need to “Dream Big, Fight Hard.” We need to “Persist.” We need to believe in “Not Me, Us.” That is what the Democratic Party is about. Since FDR and his New Deal, the Democratic Party has been about helping people, giving voice to those who are vulnerable, and creating a social safety net that catches everyone when they fall. Our tent is bursting at the seams. We need everyone in it to get on board. This circus train is coming to town.

So, My Mom Wrote a Thing

So, my mom is a total boss, and she is an amazing writer. She wrote this beautiful lyric, silly, and wonderful piece. It is, honestly, one of my favorite things she is written. She showed it to me first in paragraphs, and reading it in my head, I knew that this piece of prose was a poem who just needed shape! So, she and I talked, and I asked her real Aladdin style, "Do you trust me?" She said yes and I put in a line break here and an indent there. These are all her words, and images, and moments; I just gave it some shape. With no more pomp and even less circumstance, here is "The River" by Mary Botsford.

The River

Eternal, yet fleeting,

unchanged and ever-changing. 

The waters bounce and bumble over rocks

and stumble and tumble over waterfalls. 

But mostly it serenely flows by over the depths. 

But the thing is,

from one instant to the next,

the river is continually evolving. 

The H₂O particles going by this instant

are not the ones I will see in the

next nano-second,

or the next

or the next. 

The river will never be the same.

This riverbed was created eons ago

(epochs ago? I’m a bit fuzzy on my geological time). 

Created by glaciers or floods or God’s great design.

At least the riverbed,

or the path if you will,

is unchanging. 

Look at any map from a hundred years ago. 

It’s right there! 

My river is right there on the map

and right here at my feet. 

Right where it has always been. 

Ah, but naysayers will say,

Look at the oxbow of some rivers.

That’s where some river either

got pissy at having to drive the same commute every day,

or perhaps the water wanted to frolic and play in the field like Ferdinand the Bull.  But, I digress. 

I’m kind of fuzzy, too,

on why the river didn’t just

pull itself together and get back on track. 

But apparently sometimes it just can’t,

and thus we have oxbows. 

Personally, I think the fish are kinda

jazzed about them, the oxbows, I mean.

They don’t have to just swim

up or down the river…

they can swim a racetrack if they want to. 

What kid did not love crawling around in

crazy circles if they were lucky enough

to grow up in a house with connecting rooms? 

We had such a house when my girls were babies. 

We called it the Circus Maximus, and it was stupid fun. 

Even our dog, Callie, would romp along the C.M.

as we crawled and chased each other. 

Sometimes he, being a Great Dane and all,

would knock over the littlest one, but still. . . 

crazy fun. 

Back to the fish, see why I think they are kinda jazzed about it? 

And just think, Dory

(you know, from Finding Nemo)

 would get back home with every completed swim

around the Circus Maximus. 

Just outside my door, the river is serene,

then tumbling,

then bouncing

and bumbling

all within a very short distance. 

The water flows by constantly,

but it is not a constant. 

Each drop of water is very fleeting,

never to pass this way again. 

Ok, I know the loop thing of

evaporation and clouds and then rain-- 

Nature’s Circus Maximus. 

So maybe that raindrop has been here, after all.

It is both ancient and new. 

A dear friend has a saying, “both-and.” 

It took me years to get it. 

“Both-and” instead of

win-lose,

either-or,

us-them. 

A way of looking at life with all of its contradictions.

Straight ahead or swim the racetrack awhile.

My kids tease me sometimes,

Ok, land the plane. 

Like, get to the point. 

I don’t know the point except

that these words needed to

bumble

and

stumble

their way out. 

Walking along the river, I feel a great need

to express my joy from having

this beautiful river for a

neighbor. 

I feel a tug to ponder it as both

fleeting and timeless. 

To ponder my love for the water as a

constant, but ever-changing. 

Same as the object of my affection.                                                  

Both-and. 

Eternal and fleeting. 

Contradictions and constants. 

The River.                 Life.                Me.

So, I’ve become someone I do not want to be

When I was a child, I would put on my overalls, slide a screwdriver and socket wrench into the right tool pocket, and hitch a hammer into the left side strap. I would go out to my squeaky swing set and “fix it.” I would turn the screws, loosen and tighten the bolts, then hammer things that look like they needed to be hammered. I was much older when I learned about stripped screws, rusty washers, and hammers are for both creation and destruction.

When we put Sam, my childhood dog, down, I held her and cried for an hour, trying to hold onto some semblance of soul I knew that she had. I didn’t look at, talk to, or like dogs for ten years after that. I wanted to “fix her.” I wanted to fix her cancer. I wanted to fix her bones. I wanted her whole.

When I was in high school, I had so much emotion inside of me. I didn’t know what or who I was. I wanted to “fix me.” I drove down a scary path of self-hatred. I wanted to fix my external self in hopes that my internal self would calm the hell down. I wanted to fix how I loved. I wanted to fix the world around me, so I could feel safe in my own skin.

I want to “fix” things. I want to fix how the world treats my Trans* brothers and sisters. I want to fix the healthcare system. I want to fix systemic oppression. I want to fix hatred. I want to fix.

A human being walked into a synagogue and killed eleven people. Eleven. Eleven souls were on Friday morning and were not on Saturday. As Shabbat came to a close, so did the lives—no, the light—of eleven people.

I haven’t read a single article on this. I can’t. There is too much. There have been too many lives lost and too little action on the part of our leaders. This is not to say that I do not grieve for the fallen. This is not to say I do not hold their families in my heart. Because I am a gentile, I cannot sit shiva for these eleven people. But, Lord, I can mourn.

I am so sad. I am mad. I am…apathetic. I am smapathetic. There are CLEAR ways to prevent this kind of thing from happening. The second amendment as it is currently interpreted should not be a right; it is a fucking privilege. You know what is a right? Being able to go into your house of worship and not get shot. You know what is a right? Feeling safe in schools. You know what is a right? Life. I am pro-life, by which I mean pro-living—living for myself, living for others, living for a greater good.

I cannot fix this. I care too deeply. I love too fiercely. I have nothing left with which to mourn. All I can do is try to teach my young people that love is greater than hate. But, I am flagging. When hatred always seems to win, how can I look my young people in the eye and promise them a better world? How can I promise them that “it will get better?” How can I promise them anything, anything at all?

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.