Before today ends, we will hear a decision from the Senate that I'm taking a little more personally than maybe some people do. With an expected very close decision, the president's nomination for Secretary of Education will be confirmed, or not confirmed. See, I have nothing personal against this lady, as I'm sure she has very deep rooted beliefs about education, and I am positive she is knowledgeable about sections of the education sector. But...from everything I have seen, her view is a very narrow one, a very privileged one - both in her own education, her career, and the educational path she has chosen for her own children - and she'd be governing our public school sectors.
My youngest daughter is a student in the Spring Branch Independent School District, and my oldest just graduated from that same district and attends a local, public college. They both attended the private school where I teach for elementary school, but I purposely chose a public school for their high school, because I believe there are a different skill set that could be obtained there, beyond just academics, with a broader range of course offerings and a school that would challenge each of them to be more self-sufficient and to develop a voice for themselves. Both their private and public school backgrounds have helped them grow as students and as people, in very different ways.
Growing up, we moved a lot. My own education was a patchwork of different public and private schools, and I attended educational institutions that included rural public schools, a huge public high school, tiny parochial schools, private Baptist schools, independent schools with no religious affiliations, one charter school and one very interesting experimental school (and I'm not sure a diploma from there would have counted, but I was young and it was a good experience none-the-less). I've been in on-level classes, gifted programs, and spent two weeks in special education in a small town Alabama school - because the teacher couldn't understand me when I talked without the same accent as everyone else.
As an adult, I didn't actually set out to become a teacher, but found myself gradually pulled in that direction. It wasn't until I actually got into a classroom that I figured out where I had true passion and that it set me on fire to teach my students and provide opportunities for them. Even now, it doesn't matter what the subject is, if I have a firm grasp on the material, I will fall in love with teaching and my students. There is absolutely nothing quite like seeing someone light up when they take ownership of a new concept and have that "I get it" look on their face. I love teaching and have worked in education for twenty years. But...I'm not qualified to speak authoritatively for others on the subject, or make broad educational leadership decisions. I'm good at what I do in my own little sector. Just like Betsy DeVos is likely very good at her own little niche. There are others out there with a wider vision, those whose experience and educational background gives them a voice that could speak for a broad range of students of all backgrounds across our country.
Public education in our country has never been a cut and dried proposition. The first public schools were established in Massachusetts in the 17th century, by our Puritan friends who believed every child needed to be able to read, so they could live by the word of the bible. Those public schools weren't free, and students had to have a base of knowledge before stepping into those one room school houses. Fast forward a century or so, and it was widely recognized that there was a deeper need for public education. But it wasn't as simple as all of that - who would pay for it? Who was deserving of receiving that public education? Thomas Jefferson - and I'll take a big deep breath and sigh here - he was a brilliant man, but something of an intellectual snob. He believed in public education, but an education that was designed to further divide the workers and the elite. He proposed a public system with two tracks - one for the laborers, and one for the wealthy leaders. It would further cement your fate in life, by being set upon one track or the other.
Colonial society dictated that well-off young men attend schools. Young ladies were educated at home by their mothers, with the idea of Patriotic Motherhood - it was the duty of all women to be able to teach their sons, so that they might better themselves.
In an interesting twist, Pennsylvania even called for free public education for the poor, while those families with the means were required to pay for education.
With the survey of the Northwest Territories, townships were formed, and space set aside for a public school each town. Massachusetts continued to lead the way in education, providing the first public high school and making public school education available for free to all who qualified to attend. The first school boards were established there. Pennsylvania and New York took their cues from Massachusetts and education as flourishing in the north-eastern states.
But in the south, education was spotty and those from poorer backgrounds, girls, and African-Americans - free or slave - did not attend school at all. Girls were educated at home, by their mothers, and economic status often dictated how much education a young woman would have available. Beyond basic reading and arithmetic, most were virtually uneducated.
It was post civil war, when the country was torn apart in every conceivable way - socially, economically, geographically and architecturally wounded, and trying to rebuild that the idea of separate but equal was first brought into our common vocabulary. It was a protection built into our fourteenth amendment. Separate but equal sounds like it should be just fine on the surface. You attend your school, we'll attend ours, and it'll all be fine. We each have a school.
But equal didn't mean equitable. Not all schools were created equal, and states were overseeing the governing of these separate facilities. So, while black students were guaranteed a school to attend, it was up to the state to maintain the facilities, hire the teachers, and maintain the standards. All black public colleges were established, but poorly funded in many states. Often those separate schools had no books, few desks, and sometimes not even heat.
At the turn of the twentieth century, local representatives on school boards in most cities were eliminated, in favor of city-wide elections. This means that, in most cases, the poorer districts lost representation on school boards, while federal funding was cut and those with interests in the more affluent families were making the educational decisions regarding budgeting and availability of resources.
In 1948, in the Brown vs. The Board of Education decision, the US Supreme Court ruled that segregation in schools was inherently unequal. But, on local levels, schools remained as segregated as ever, with geographical demographics and socio-economic lines firmly drawn and determining school placement. Schools with poorer families continued to draw less funding, particularly during the years when standardized testing achievement helped determine funding within a district. Don't believe that's true? Check it out. It still happens today. STAAR testing anyone? What did you think all those blue ribbon schools were about?
I attended a public school in rural Alabama in the late 1970's/early 1980's and it was there that I first met discrimination and the recognition that life wasn't fair. I spent two weeks in special education - my classmates were two deaf children, two black children, and two students who spoke only Spanish. We had no books, no windows in our closet of a classroom, and no materials of any kind. The teacher was furnished with a blackboard, tables (we didn't rate desks) and a dictionary. Period. My mother had me out of there pretty quickly, but those other students didn't have any advocates, and they stayed in special education, forever changing their educational trajectory because they were inconveniently different.
Over the last couple of decades, several states have allowed vouchers, to allow students to apply state funding to attend private schools, or religious based schools. Students are allowed to transfer to other schools within their districts. But, see, students who transfer schools are rarely provided with state funded transportation and those in poorer communities are often children of two working parents who cannot take the time to drive their children and pick them up, or pay for expensive after school care. And so those children attend their local schools. Schools where no one transfers, where their funding has gone into vouchers for students who DID manage to go somewhere else. So schools in poorer neighborhoods receive even less funding than before.
At the turn of this century, more than a quarter of our children attend private schools now. Everyone pays taxes to public schools, but not all schools receive equal funding. We are WIDENING the educational gap, folks. We are slowly chipping away at the middle class and recreating a society of worker bees and educated elite.
Now, the world doesn't go round without the worker bees - I get that. Do whatever job you have and do it well. But somewhere in there, somewhere in childhood, there ought to be a choice. Not everyone is cut out to go to college. I totally get that. But everyone ought to have the opportunity to decide that. The road we're headed down takes that choice away for many.
Betsy DeVos has a really good perspective on a narrow part of education, but her eye is not on the big picture - the one that is the view for the majority of us. She's never known, personally, or with even second hand experience, what it's like to jump through the hoops that are associated with federal grants or financial aid so you or your kids can attend college without being in debt for life. She's never had to put her kids on the corner to wait for a bus to take them to the public school. I bet she's never gotten a frantic text from her kids that they are on lockdown and her kid is hiding in the tunnel beneath the stage in the school theatre. Or that her kids' friend had their lunch thrown away because they were out of money on their lunch ticket. Or any of the other realities that the rest of us face every single day in the struggle to make sure our kids get the opportunities they deserve.
So, yeah, I'm a little heated up about this. Public school in our country is a mess. Federal laws give just enough legitimacy that states are able to make some pretty horrible decisions at times, and still point at the umbrella of the federal government. There need to be changes in public schools - no doubt what-so-ever. But she's not the person to make these changes. She will only reinforce the separate but equal that has still be slowly at work in our schools, long after it was decided that it was actually not constitutional.
So, yes, I'll be breaking my own rule about not checking the news during my work day - because it usually just distracts me and keeps me from being as good as I can be at my own job. Because this is important. I'm a teacher. But even if I weren't, I'd recognize that education is the answer to almost every social ill. Educate yourselves and vote. I'll be saying this a lot - feel free to ignore me on that, if you can. I'm kinda loud when it's something important. Educate yourself and raise your voice, in entirely not separate or equal ways.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Monday, February 6, 2017
Upon Which I Blather About Because It's My Right
Let a crown be placed there upon, by which the world may know, that as far as we approve of monarcy, that in America the law is King. For as in absolute governments the King is law, so in free countries the law ought to be King; and there ought to be no other.
- Thomas Paine
I stumbled across the above quote recently, and found comfort in the words. It reminded me that our country is a democracy and though we may all voice our thoughts, and we may disagree, no one man can make decisions for all. It was my thought last November, when I saw the upheaval that followed in the wake of our presidential election, that the constitution was steady, that the laws of our founding fathers were there to prevent any one person, or party, from taking all control.
Last week, I had moments of doubt about the strength of our own constitution, whether the branches could stand against the rising wind that is shaking them right now. So, I went back, and I read the constitution, and all its amendments. I reread the monumental decisions made in the highest courts that laid the foundation for the amendments. And found comfort in knowing I'm not the only one doing so these days.
As a nation, many of us have become complacent in our freedoms, lazy in our political participation, and ignorant of what our laws actually say. I'm guilty of some of these. And I find some satisfaction in knowing that all around me, a desire to participate in democracy is rising from across the country - all ages, genders, economic demographics, and races. We the people means all people, and everyone has vested interest in what happens to our country.
See, I guess what does concern me is that our founding fathers couldn't have foreseen what the press would come to look like, when they were granted freedom of speech. They couldn't possibly have even imagined ways in which someone could toss their thoughts out to the entire world with the mere push of a button, the immediacy of communication, and the devastating consequences of that power being abused. Scrolling through my newsfeed, seeing the alerts that pop up on my phone all day long, I wonder what they would make of the incredible deluge of information we shift through every single day, often looking for just that one common thread of truth.
They couldn't possibly have known there would come a time when no one would really need to own a gun to put food on their table, or defend themselves against wild animals or natives who were defending their territory. They couldn't have imagined that the rifles and pistols they knew would give way to guns that could fire out several rounds per second and shoot through walls and doors and cars. They didn't even know about cars. I mean, they knew about bears, and apparently we're supposed to worry about those in schools, so maybe defending with arms against bears was always their intent. In that case, my apologies.
In other words, our founding fathers were flawed, but they were not fools. They understood enough of what they didn't want for our country and did their very best to safeguard us for the duration. Those white, free, mostly wealthy and definitely all male, people did the best they could within their own scope of experience to protect our rights and to set up a government that was able to balance itself. A government that was designed to withstand some discourse and to allow representatives of all the people to come together and hash out their differences..
We did get to see a grown man come to power and then have temper tantrums publicly, through social media, because he didn't get his way. Didn't get to have absolute power over absolutely everything, because the checks and balances those men put together in a document for us, over two centuries ago, stopped him from acting as a dictator. Or a monarch. Or one of any other type of government that doesn't allow its people to vote, and speak freely, and disagree with their government. That's right. We get to disagree.
Now, my neighbor might not agree with that, might call me a whiny liberal, but it's totally within my rights to voice my opinion, to do it publicly, to do it loudly. It's not within my rights to block businesses, destroy property, or do anything that might cause harm to another person or their belongings. And I'm appalled by the few people who have felt enough rage to do these things, because their actions drown out the words of those with similar opinions and a better way of expressing them.
I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history and naval architecture, navigation, commerce, and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry and porcelain.
- John Adams
The men who built our country were forged by fire. The freedoms of their children and generations to come were secured through their actions, their faith in what liberties should belong to all men, and through their words. These men were far from perfect - their flip-flopping over the wording in the ratification of the Articles of Confederation were what allowed slavery to continue to flourish far longer than most of them saw practical. They resolved some matters, and left others to fester until there would be civil war a scant half century later. But they had a vision, too, for not only what their country could be at the dawn of the 19th century, but what it could be for their grand children's grand children. And they designed a document that would stand time, because, it could be amended. They knew they couldn't foresee every scenario, and they left room to amend the constitution, but under strictures that would prevent a monarchy from forming out of any change. The people still get a say, and no president can make all the decisions alone.
If John Adams dreamed that his grandchildren would have the freedom to study the arts, then he surely saw an end to the violence that had punctuated his early years and saw hope in the exhausting years he had invested in helping draft laws that would govern our country even today. I've long been a fan of John Adams, as is no secret, and of his wife, Abigail. I'll even admit that, if you can have a girl crush on a lady who lived two centuries ago, I do and she's the object of my affection. Adams gave credence to what his wife said, took her opinion into account, and had great respect for women, not seeing them as lesser of anything, though like his peers, likely saw them as weaker and needing protection.
It wouldn't be until much, much later that ladies would have a right to vote, a right to voice their thoughts, a right to be financially independent. We enjoy those things now, but are still seen as far from equal in the business world. But under our constitution, we have just as much right to an opinion, and to voice it freely.
We are just over two weeks into a new administration in our national government. I don't know where this is going, but what I do know is that it has kindled an interest in government and history such as has not been seen in my lifetime. While elections in my adulthood have been largely apathetic and poorly attended, I now see citizens who are fired up, and having heated debate over liberties - immigration, women's rights, gay rights, the right to speak freely, the right to protect our environment, the right to personal beliefs.
Just as our new president has the absolute right to tweet whatever he likes, we have the right to dispute that loudly and -usually - with far more eloquence. It's the gift our founding fathers left for us. We are all still free men and women, and we still live under a document that covers us and gives a small layer of protection, despite the efforts to poke holes in it. The key to all is to study, to educate, and then to speak with eloquence and passion. I don't mean the kind of passion that throws bricks at glass windows, or makes ugly threats to people you have never met. I mean the kind of passion that will reach out to help someone you don't know, to voice your thoughts, to become uncomfortable in an effort that maybe your grandchildren will live more comfortably, not afraid to show their race, or religion, or sexuality.
And, when I was thinking about this last week, this was the scene that came to mind, it's from a movie I've always enjoyed, though I first watched it because I had maybe just a little crush on Brendan Fraser. But this speech by Joe Pesci is too good for me not to end this expression of free speech.
- Thomas Paine
I stumbled across the above quote recently, and found comfort in the words. It reminded me that our country is a democracy and though we may all voice our thoughts, and we may disagree, no one man can make decisions for all. It was my thought last November, when I saw the upheaval that followed in the wake of our presidential election, that the constitution was steady, that the laws of our founding fathers were there to prevent any one person, or party, from taking all control.
Last week, I had moments of doubt about the strength of our own constitution, whether the branches could stand against the rising wind that is shaking them right now. So, I went back, and I read the constitution, and all its amendments. I reread the monumental decisions made in the highest courts that laid the foundation for the amendments. And found comfort in knowing I'm not the only one doing so these days.
As a nation, many of us have become complacent in our freedoms, lazy in our political participation, and ignorant of what our laws actually say. I'm guilty of some of these. And I find some satisfaction in knowing that all around me, a desire to participate in democracy is rising from across the country - all ages, genders, economic demographics, and races. We the people means all people, and everyone has vested interest in what happens to our country.
See, I guess what does concern me is that our founding fathers couldn't have foreseen what the press would come to look like, when they were granted freedom of speech. They couldn't possibly have even imagined ways in which someone could toss their thoughts out to the entire world with the mere push of a button, the immediacy of communication, and the devastating consequences of that power being abused. Scrolling through my newsfeed, seeing the alerts that pop up on my phone all day long, I wonder what they would make of the incredible deluge of information we shift through every single day, often looking for just that one common thread of truth.
They couldn't possibly have known there would come a time when no one would really need to own a gun to put food on their table, or defend themselves against wild animals or natives who were defending their territory. They couldn't have imagined that the rifles and pistols they knew would give way to guns that could fire out several rounds per second and shoot through walls and doors and cars. They didn't even know about cars. I mean, they knew about bears, and apparently we're supposed to worry about those in schools, so maybe defending with arms against bears was always their intent. In that case, my apologies.
In other words, our founding fathers were flawed, but they were not fools. They understood enough of what they didn't want for our country and did their very best to safeguard us for the duration. Those white, free, mostly wealthy and definitely all male, people did the best they could within their own scope of experience to protect our rights and to set up a government that was able to balance itself. A government that was designed to withstand some discourse and to allow representatives of all the people to come together and hash out their differences..
We did get to see a grown man come to power and then have temper tantrums publicly, through social media, because he didn't get his way. Didn't get to have absolute power over absolutely everything, because the checks and balances those men put together in a document for us, over two centuries ago, stopped him from acting as a dictator. Or a monarch. Or one of any other type of government that doesn't allow its people to vote, and speak freely, and disagree with their government. That's right. We get to disagree.
Now, my neighbor might not agree with that, might call me a whiny liberal, but it's totally within my rights to voice my opinion, to do it publicly, to do it loudly. It's not within my rights to block businesses, destroy property, or do anything that might cause harm to another person or their belongings. And I'm appalled by the few people who have felt enough rage to do these things, because their actions drown out the words of those with similar opinions and a better way of expressing them.
I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history and naval architecture, navigation, commerce, and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry and porcelain.
- John Adams
The men who built our country were forged by fire. The freedoms of their children and generations to come were secured through their actions, their faith in what liberties should belong to all men, and through their words. These men were far from perfect - their flip-flopping over the wording in the ratification of the Articles of Confederation were what allowed slavery to continue to flourish far longer than most of them saw practical. They resolved some matters, and left others to fester until there would be civil war a scant half century later. But they had a vision, too, for not only what their country could be at the dawn of the 19th century, but what it could be for their grand children's grand children. And they designed a document that would stand time, because, it could be amended. They knew they couldn't foresee every scenario, and they left room to amend the constitution, but under strictures that would prevent a monarchy from forming out of any change. The people still get a say, and no president can make all the decisions alone.
If John Adams dreamed that his grandchildren would have the freedom to study the arts, then he surely saw an end to the violence that had punctuated his early years and saw hope in the exhausting years he had invested in helping draft laws that would govern our country even today. I've long been a fan of John Adams, as is no secret, and of his wife, Abigail. I'll even admit that, if you can have a girl crush on a lady who lived two centuries ago, I do and she's the object of my affection. Adams gave credence to what his wife said, took her opinion into account, and had great respect for women, not seeing them as lesser of anything, though like his peers, likely saw them as weaker and needing protection.
It wouldn't be until much, much later that ladies would have a right to vote, a right to voice their thoughts, a right to be financially independent. We enjoy those things now, but are still seen as far from equal in the business world. But under our constitution, we have just as much right to an opinion, and to voice it freely.
We are just over two weeks into a new administration in our national government. I don't know where this is going, but what I do know is that it has kindled an interest in government and history such as has not been seen in my lifetime. While elections in my adulthood have been largely apathetic and poorly attended, I now see citizens who are fired up, and having heated debate over liberties - immigration, women's rights, gay rights, the right to speak freely, the right to protect our environment, the right to personal beliefs.
Just as our new president has the absolute right to tweet whatever he likes, we have the right to dispute that loudly and -usually - with far more eloquence. It's the gift our founding fathers left for us. We are all still free men and women, and we still live under a document that covers us and gives a small layer of protection, despite the efforts to poke holes in it. The key to all is to study, to educate, and then to speak with eloquence and passion. I don't mean the kind of passion that throws bricks at glass windows, or makes ugly threats to people you have never met. I mean the kind of passion that will reach out to help someone you don't know, to voice your thoughts, to become uncomfortable in an effort that maybe your grandchildren will live more comfortably, not afraid to show their race, or religion, or sexuality.
And, when I was thinking about this last week, this was the scene that came to mind, it's from a movie I've always enjoyed, though I first watched it because I had maybe just a little crush on Brendan Fraser. But this speech by Joe Pesci is too good for me not to end this expression of free speech.
Friday, January 6, 2017
Legacy
Last night, I had the honor of witnessing and participating in something special with my Urban Jungle jiu jitsu family. Our coach/sensei/mentor/friend, Tony Torres-Aponte, was honored and recognized as the highest ranking black belt under his coach/sensei/mentor/friend, Royce Gracie. Now, this won't mean much to my friends who don't do jiu jitsu, many of whom are sometimes weary of hearing me talk about BJJ. But, where Tony is, is a place that can only be reached through a lifetime of commitment and a complete dedication not only to the martial art, but to the lifestyle. The belt he wears says that he has chosen to live his life in the way of those who came before him, those who passed on their knowledge and shared their passion. It means that he has embraced taking care of himself, taking care of those around him, respect for himself and respect for others, for a lifetime commitment to training and health and treating others with the dignity they deserve. His belt says all of that to those who know what it means. A black belt in Brazilian jiu jitsu isn't like a black belt in some other martial arts - it's a commitment of more than a decade, an acknowledgement of skills, knowledge, humility and respect. But in the end, it's just a symbol. Anyone who meets Tony can surmise those things, just from standing and talking with him. The belt is a visual reminder of what we all already know.
As we sat on the mat last night, flanked on every side by our training partners, still wearing the sweat we'd earned during class upstairs just a few minutes before, we listened to the higher ranking belts talk about their own journeys in jiu jitsu and how Tony had influenced their training and their lives in every possible way. Some of them have known him and his family for nearly two decades, have trained under him, raised their children along side him, been a part of his extended family. Every one of them had a story about how he had changed their lives for the better, not just through training, but through teaching them how to be better people. Sometimes he does it by kicking your butt, but mostly through leading by example. We see on a daily basis how he handles family, business, conflict, physical challenges, winning, losing, and a million other things. It makes those around him want to emulate his calm approach and careful observations.
One student after another, many of them now incredibly talented teachers of the art, in their own right, gave their memories of what made Tony special, what made our school a special place to be. Some of these men I have trained with every week, and some I had never met before. They all had experiences in common, and I count them part of my family no matter which category they fit, just as I do my regular training partners. We're all a part of some weird, sometimes dysfunctional, family - we do what families do: we support one another, listen to each other's problems and cheer for their victories, we hug a lot. Because of the way I grew up, hugging had never been comfortable for me, unless it involved small children, but that's changed since stepping onto the mats. It's hard to be at Urban Jungle and not hug a lot. I'd also not cried much since I was a kid, and that's changed recently too. There is no inherent weakness in tears, and we were all reminded of that last night, watching grown men wipe away tears, and then Jesse, Tony's newest black belt and a young man who is much loved by us all, brought everyone to tears with just a few words.
When it was his turn to speak, Tony talked about his history and how he came to train in Brazilian jiu jitsu. Meeting the Gracie family in California, he loved the art they taught, but he said he desired the life they led. The family, the closeness, the teaching, and sense of community. He met his wife, Michelle, here in Houston, and they started a family at home. When he bought his property to open our gym, they started another kind of family. I've been lucky enough to be adopted into that family.
Day after day, we see this family grow. We train along side our mentor's family. All three of his children are skilled martial artists, but more importantly, we are watching them grow into good people. They workout along side the adults, training with respect, and teaching the children with patience and laughter. All you ever need to know about Tony and Michelle you can learn by watching two things - their children, and their students...both their families.
As I've traveled and done things in my life, I've thought a lot about the ways in which people try to leave a mark. Once, I blogged about the graffiti on the cars at Cadillac Ranch and the ancient graffiti of the Anasazi on some rocks in the petrified forest, and how I saw the similarities between them. Both are just someone saying to the world that comes after, "I was here." There are monuments that have been built, buildings that stand, pyramids erected, and art work crafted, all as a way of leaving a legacy that says "I existed. I matter." It's inherent in human beings to have a desire to leave something behind. Some legacies aren't something you can touch, or hold or pin down.
The word legacy itself has several meanings; a gift, something handed down through predecessors, ancient knowledge, legal definitions, and a person who is applying to a school their parents attended. I think, in this case, something handed down is the closest definition, but "a gift" could also be appropriate. Everyone wants to think they have a legacy - something they pass on. For a teacher, all of their students are their legacy - living proof of a life well served and purpose found. For a parent, their children are their legacy - a way to pass on traditions, ideals, values, and skills. Last night, we witnessed every meaning of that word, and I'm so glad that pastor Jim Stern spoke, because he was so right in pointing out that all too often we wait until after someone has died to say how much they mean to us, how much value they have added to our lives. We got a chance to show someone we care very deeply about how much they have brought into our lives, and how much that person has changed who we are.
I got lucky the day I googled "kickboxing in Houston" and chose to walk onto the mats at Urban Jungle. The kardio kickboxing classes kicked my butt in every way, but the people there kept me coming back. I met Tony for the first time during a Saturday circuit class, while I was slamming a sledgehammer into a huge tire, with absolutely no idea what I was doing. I met him when he took the sledgehammer away from me and handed me a baseball bat - so I didn't hurt myself. I looked at Jesse, who was teaching the class, and asked who this man was. "That's Tony," he replied, like that should explain it all. Over time, I saw him working with children, and saw the respect he had for all his students, and the warm way he greeted every single person who walks through their door. When I wanted to try out jiu jitsu for the first time, and was scared to even voice that out loud, he never laughed or tried to discourage me, but said, "just show up." When I felt like I couldn't learn this art, that I was too old, too out of shape, too uncoordinated, he never validated those concerns, he told me to "just keep coming back on the mats." Sometimes he had to physically come reposition my legs or arms, because I couldn't understand how I was supposed to move, and over the years has spent as much time getting me to unlearn wrong movements as he has teaching me the right ones. From the moment he took the sledgehammer out of my hands, to the times he coached me in tournament matches I lost, to watching me try for the millionth time to successfully stand on my head, I have never heard one negative thought, never heard a raised voice, and never been told to give up. I've heard other coaches screaming at their students in competitions, berating them, breaking students down on the mats. If I'd walked into one of their gyms three years ago, I'd be at home now in the evenings, watching television, and not training at all. Tony and Michelle are fabulous at what they do, but it's how they do it that keeps their students coming back, and the culture they have created within their four walls.
Standing in a room filled with as much love and respect as was evidenced last night reconfirmed that I made the right choice by training where I do. Having walked in late to class, because it's what happens every Thursday, because of work, I saw faces I hadn't seen in months. I was greeted with hugs, fist bumps, and an occasional attempt at being choked - because it's how we show love. Being with those people makes it a weird sort of party. And when I was asked by Tony, "how are you?" (because he never says "and why are you late?"), I replied the exact same way I always do, "good - better now that I'm here." It's his legacy - helping us all want to be better than we were yesterday.
As we sat on the mat last night, flanked on every side by our training partners, still wearing the sweat we'd earned during class upstairs just a few minutes before, we listened to the higher ranking belts talk about their own journeys in jiu jitsu and how Tony had influenced their training and their lives in every possible way. Some of them have known him and his family for nearly two decades, have trained under him, raised their children along side him, been a part of his extended family. Every one of them had a story about how he had changed their lives for the better, not just through training, but through teaching them how to be better people. Sometimes he does it by kicking your butt, but mostly through leading by example. We see on a daily basis how he handles family, business, conflict, physical challenges, winning, losing, and a million other things. It makes those around him want to emulate his calm approach and careful observations.
One student after another, many of them now incredibly talented teachers of the art, in their own right, gave their memories of what made Tony special, what made our school a special place to be. Some of these men I have trained with every week, and some I had never met before. They all had experiences in common, and I count them part of my family no matter which category they fit, just as I do my regular training partners. We're all a part of some weird, sometimes dysfunctional, family - we do what families do: we support one another, listen to each other's problems and cheer for their victories, we hug a lot. Because of the way I grew up, hugging had never been comfortable for me, unless it involved small children, but that's changed since stepping onto the mats. It's hard to be at Urban Jungle and not hug a lot. I'd also not cried much since I was a kid, and that's changed recently too. There is no inherent weakness in tears, and we were all reminded of that last night, watching grown men wipe away tears, and then Jesse, Tony's newest black belt and a young man who is much loved by us all, brought everyone to tears with just a few words.
When it was his turn to speak, Tony talked about his history and how he came to train in Brazilian jiu jitsu. Meeting the Gracie family in California, he loved the art they taught, but he said he desired the life they led. The family, the closeness, the teaching, and sense of community. He met his wife, Michelle, here in Houston, and they started a family at home. When he bought his property to open our gym, they started another kind of family. I've been lucky enough to be adopted into that family.
Day after day, we see this family grow. We train along side our mentor's family. All three of his children are skilled martial artists, but more importantly, we are watching them grow into good people. They workout along side the adults, training with respect, and teaching the children with patience and laughter. All you ever need to know about Tony and Michelle you can learn by watching two things - their children, and their students...both their families.
As I've traveled and done things in my life, I've thought a lot about the ways in which people try to leave a mark. Once, I blogged about the graffiti on the cars at Cadillac Ranch and the ancient graffiti of the Anasazi on some rocks in the petrified forest, and how I saw the similarities between them. Both are just someone saying to the world that comes after, "I was here." There are monuments that have been built, buildings that stand, pyramids erected, and art work crafted, all as a way of leaving a legacy that says "I existed. I matter." It's inherent in human beings to have a desire to leave something behind. Some legacies aren't something you can touch, or hold or pin down.
The word legacy itself has several meanings; a gift, something handed down through predecessors, ancient knowledge, legal definitions, and a person who is applying to a school their parents attended. I think, in this case, something handed down is the closest definition, but "a gift" could also be appropriate. Everyone wants to think they have a legacy - something they pass on. For a teacher, all of their students are their legacy - living proof of a life well served and purpose found. For a parent, their children are their legacy - a way to pass on traditions, ideals, values, and skills. Last night, we witnessed every meaning of that word, and I'm so glad that pastor Jim Stern spoke, because he was so right in pointing out that all too often we wait until after someone has died to say how much they mean to us, how much value they have added to our lives. We got a chance to show someone we care very deeply about how much they have brought into our lives, and how much that person has changed who we are.
I got lucky the day I googled "kickboxing in Houston" and chose to walk onto the mats at Urban Jungle. The kardio kickboxing classes kicked my butt in every way, but the people there kept me coming back. I met Tony for the first time during a Saturday circuit class, while I was slamming a sledgehammer into a huge tire, with absolutely no idea what I was doing. I met him when he took the sledgehammer away from me and handed me a baseball bat - so I didn't hurt myself. I looked at Jesse, who was teaching the class, and asked who this man was. "That's Tony," he replied, like that should explain it all. Over time, I saw him working with children, and saw the respect he had for all his students, and the warm way he greeted every single person who walks through their door. When I wanted to try out jiu jitsu for the first time, and was scared to even voice that out loud, he never laughed or tried to discourage me, but said, "just show up." When I felt like I couldn't learn this art, that I was too old, too out of shape, too uncoordinated, he never validated those concerns, he told me to "just keep coming back on the mats." Sometimes he had to physically come reposition my legs or arms, because I couldn't understand how I was supposed to move, and over the years has spent as much time getting me to unlearn wrong movements as he has teaching me the right ones. From the moment he took the sledgehammer out of my hands, to the times he coached me in tournament matches I lost, to watching me try for the millionth time to successfully stand on my head, I have never heard one negative thought, never heard a raised voice, and never been told to give up. I've heard other coaches screaming at their students in competitions, berating them, breaking students down on the mats. If I'd walked into one of their gyms three years ago, I'd be at home now in the evenings, watching television, and not training at all. Tony and Michelle are fabulous at what they do, but it's how they do it that keeps their students coming back, and the culture they have created within their four walls.
Standing in a room filled with as much love and respect as was evidenced last night reconfirmed that I made the right choice by training where I do. Having walked in late to class, because it's what happens every Thursday, because of work, I saw faces I hadn't seen in months. I was greeted with hugs, fist bumps, and an occasional attempt at being choked - because it's how we show love. Being with those people makes it a weird sort of party. And when I was asked by Tony, "how are you?" (because he never says "and why are you late?"), I replied the exact same way I always do, "good - better now that I'm here." It's his legacy - helping us all want to be better than we were yesterday.
Monday, January 2, 2017
Finding Resolution
I start 2017 with my life not looking a whole lot different on the outside than it did a year ago, and yet I am finding that I have changed more on the inside than in many years past. A friend who is celebrating her 50th this year referred to it as intentionally taking a left turn at Albuquerque, and I totally hear that in Bugs Bunny's voice. And if you didn't grow up with Bugs and you don't get that allusion, well, please do yourself a favor and get educated on the classics as soon as possible. Somewhere in the last year or two I finally embraced some things in life, and I'm not as eloquent and haven't mastered the pop cultural allegories as well as my friend, so I referred to it as the freeing "give no more fucks" attitude in life. This doesn't mean I don't care about anyone else or their feelings, it just means I don't care what they think of me. It means I like myself enough, for the first time in my life, to walk away from people who are not good for me. Or to reevaluate some relationships and decide whether to take them for what they are, conventional or not, or end things if I can't live with the status quo. I've ended some friendships, ended some things not so well in some cases, and have decided that my family is truly comprised of people I love and who love me in return, not necessarily those who are bound to me by blood.
So, I've stood firmly for many years now that I won't make New Year's resolutions, because resolutions rarely are able to be able to be held tightly enough to make them stick. Once upon a time, I made many every January and they were all but forgotten by February, and often regrets by November, because I hadn't followed through. Three years ago, I started keeping lists instead, ongoing lists of things I wanted to do, things I wanted to try, books to read, movies to watch, restaurants to try. I kept the lists in a notebook that still travels with me on a daily basis. I take it out often, cross some things off, but I add more things than I can ever cross off that always growing list. Or, set of lists, because I keep several going at one time. And every year, I end the year by writing out all the things I did that year that weren't on the list, the surprises that fell into my life, the moments where I took chances or played impulsively. Those are some of the best moments.
2016 was a fuck of a year. Bad things kept happening, all around me, and I watched more than one person's life crumble a little bit, picked up more than one person from the ground, held hands and hugged people tightly when their hearts were breaking. Somewhere in the final month of this past year, I made my one resolution - that 2017 is going to be a year of flat out giving everything I have to absolutely every effort I make. I will make no excuses. There is no giving up or giving in, only digging in my heels and, well, dammit, I'm going to enjoy every single moment I'm given. Someone, please, remind me I said that. Remind me that, even when things are painful, the pain is necessary and a reminder that I'm alive and still capable of continuing and moving forward. One of my friends, please remind me to not hold my breath when I am afraid. I guess I'm talking about having some grit.
OK...that's enough. I am rereading this and I'm one step away from sounding like a fucking cliché. My point is, as roundabout as it may be, that I'm committing to being fully alive and pushing through to the end of things - good or bad. See, I almost forgot, that resolution has another meaning - the resolution is not a promise, just sorting things out at the end. Seeking resolution, in that sense, is never a bad thing. It's just finishing what we start. And I fully intend to finish every start, and make a new beginning before there's time to blink. Personally, professionally, as a friend, as an activist in many areas, and as a human being.
Happy New Year to all of you, whatever resolutions you are seeking. If you need someone to be your cheerleader, I'm here to encourage and to gently poke you as a reminder to finish what you started. There's really no better feeling. Meanwhile, 2017, I have high expectations out of you - you've got a lot to make up for from your predecessor. And I've got a lot of work to do this year, so let's get busy.
So, I've stood firmly for many years now that I won't make New Year's resolutions, because resolutions rarely are able to be able to be held tightly enough to make them stick. Once upon a time, I made many every January and they were all but forgotten by February, and often regrets by November, because I hadn't followed through. Three years ago, I started keeping lists instead, ongoing lists of things I wanted to do, things I wanted to try, books to read, movies to watch, restaurants to try. I kept the lists in a notebook that still travels with me on a daily basis. I take it out often, cross some things off, but I add more things than I can ever cross off that always growing list. Or, set of lists, because I keep several going at one time. And every year, I end the year by writing out all the things I did that year that weren't on the list, the surprises that fell into my life, the moments where I took chances or played impulsively. Those are some of the best moments.
2016 was a fuck of a year. Bad things kept happening, all around me, and I watched more than one person's life crumble a little bit, picked up more than one person from the ground, held hands and hugged people tightly when their hearts were breaking. Somewhere in the final month of this past year, I made my one resolution - that 2017 is going to be a year of flat out giving everything I have to absolutely every effort I make. I will make no excuses. There is no giving up or giving in, only digging in my heels and, well, dammit, I'm going to enjoy every single moment I'm given. Someone, please, remind me I said that. Remind me that, even when things are painful, the pain is necessary and a reminder that I'm alive and still capable of continuing and moving forward. One of my friends, please remind me to not hold my breath when I am afraid. I guess I'm talking about having some grit.
OK...that's enough. I am rereading this and I'm one step away from sounding like a fucking cliché. My point is, as roundabout as it may be, that I'm committing to being fully alive and pushing through to the end of things - good or bad. See, I almost forgot, that resolution has another meaning - the resolution is not a promise, just sorting things out at the end. Seeking resolution, in that sense, is never a bad thing. It's just finishing what we start. And I fully intend to finish every start, and make a new beginning before there's time to blink. Personally, professionally, as a friend, as an activist in many areas, and as a human being.
Happy New Year to all of you, whatever resolutions you are seeking. If you need someone to be your cheerleader, I'm here to encourage and to gently poke you as a reminder to finish what you started. There's really no better feeling. Meanwhile, 2017, I have high expectations out of you - you've got a lot to make up for from your predecessor. And I've got a lot of work to do this year, so let's get busy.
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Golden Calves and Gold Records
This week has been rough. 2016 in general has been rough. It's been a year when friends have crashed their cars, been diagnosed with cancer, lost jobs, and ended relationships. It's been a year when many of those who share my view points on politics were dealt a tough blow, and it's a year when we have lost a lot of public icons.
Icons. It's a tough word for some people. If you grew up in a Catholic church, or in a Catholic school - as I did, upon occasion - the word icon brings to mind the wooden plaques and hand-held images that give accessibility to the saints. Pocket saints, I always thought of them. But an icon is just a representation of an idea. It is not, as so many of those I grew up with believed, a physical image of someone to worship. If you take literally those words said to Moses, then icons could be considered golden calves and false gods. Even the icons of the saints are reminders, not something to be worshipped on their own. I saw plenty of these a few weeks ago, when I was staying in Santa Fe. Everywhere I looked, there were icons for sale. Beautiful tin and wooden pieces to be held in hand, or hung on the wall, or dangled off a Christmas tree. Honestly, I never knew there were quite so many saints. Someone to aid you in prayer for a lost pet, a lost job, and anything else you might think of praying about. There is a saint for everything. An icon for every occasion.
But those icons, they're not the saints themselves, and they're not someone to whom you should pray. The icons represent an idea. That's all. And pop cultural icons are no different. (And I'm sitting here, having typed those words, waiting for Sister Regina to whap me over the head with a ruler).
Our pop icon represent ideas, not even always the same ideas for all of us. And 2016 took away its share of icons.
David Bowie.
Alan Rickman.
Glen Frey
Harper Lee
Patty Duke
Prince
Muhammed Ali
Kenny Baker
Gene Wilder
Bobby Lee
Leonard Cohen
Florence Henderson
John Glenn
Zsa Zsa Gabor
Nancy Reagan
Fidel Castro
Alan Thicke
Garry Shandling
Garry Marshall
Elie Weisel
Kimbo Slice
Janet Reno
George Michael
Carrie Fisher
Debbie Reynolds
So, go ahead, make the argument that these are just actors, writers, scientists, singers. Debate with me that I don't really know any of these people and that I should be equally disturbed by any natural death, enraged all the more by any senseless demise. On some levels, I don't disagree. I mean, certainly, society mourns for the loss of genius. We mourn because Alan Rickman's voice will never stop us in our tracks again as he cuts down another actor with biting wit. We will never hear again the genius of Bowie's tenor. There will never be another middle finger to inequality from Carrie Fisher. Sure, we mourn those things.
But these are icons. Our connection to these people is subjective. I'll give you an example - Prince. I was an impressionable child when he released his Purple Rain soundtrack But a few years down the road, it was the album my first boyfriend and I listened to when we would make out in his basement rec room. To me, forever and ever, Prince is the sound of innocence fracturing, both because I was discovering a more adult world, and because the boyfriend in question died tragically young in a car accident. Whenever I hear "When Doves Cry" I feel both excited and devastated. Prince himself became an icon for that period of time in my life.
Debbie Reynolds passed away yesterday. At just 19 years of age, she co-starred in Singing in the Rain. It became an iconic film of its generation. The movie of the late 30's and early 40's were often starting to be edgy for their time, and there was a glamour and a sexiness about them. After World War II, with the dawning of the Cold War, there was an idea of wholesomeness and traditional family values that crept back into American culture. Debbie Reynolds was an icon of that girl next door ideal. Don't believe me? Check out Tammy and the Bachelor, or any other from that series. Watch a young Ms. Reynolds throw out her heart for Leslie Neilson. She was a symbol of what every American should be or want, if we wanted to stay one step above the Russian heathens. She was an icon. Stayed that way all of her public life.
John Glenn. The first man to walk on the moon. A few hundred years before, we had scientists debating exactly what the moon was, and there was John Glenn, taking that first step for mankind. Like Debbie Reynolds, he was beating the Russian communists, but this time in the space race. He was a hero of a generation and the world mourned his passing, no matter his having lived a long and full life. It wasn't that he died too young, or too tragically. It's that his death was like closing the pages of an era in history. Another icon for a time of innocence and less than innocent competition. I find it ironic that another book about the first manned space mission will be released at the end of this year, Hidden Figures, about the role of women at NASA in getting that first manned flight off the ground, so to speak. No one in the general public knew the story of those African American women, but after this movie, they might be icons of their own, and stand for a dream for young girls growing up in our country now.
Harper Lee changed the thought pattern of several generations of school children with her novel To Kill a Mockingbird. Through the eyes of Scout, countless school children have been forced to confront their own feelings about race and what is right. Her writing is an icon for generations of students whose own thinking was awakened - usually by force - through reading her powerful story. That book has made many a young person confront what they really think about race and what is fair - outside what their family or community has taught them to think. Words have the power to do that, when spoken through a powerful voice. Harper Lee was that iconic voice.
Muhammed Ali who was an iconic figure in the world of sports. A man who seemed invincible, who led the way to many a young boy's dreams, both because of his race and because of his dedication. His voice, often mocked for its well known rhymes and cadences in public speech, was the voice of someone who didn't know how to quit. To this day, he is quoted as a voice of grit and determination. Don't start counting the repetitions until it's started to hurt. You think you have a plan until you get punched in the face. The icon for someone overcoming the odds. Everyone loves that story, no matter the time or the setting. It's an age old ideal, wrapped up in a man who didn't know how to lose.
And so it goes on, the sports figures, musicians, actors, writers, politicians. They are not, as individual human beings, any more important than anyone else. All of us make contributions. Each of us counts as the same specks of dust in the universe. But it's the icons they became that count as so much more, and the icons that are mourned.
Carrie Fisher passed away a few days ago. All my life, I've admired her - first wanting to be Princess Leia, then admiring her powerful voice as an advocate for women and for those with mental illnesses. She walked a hard road, and she gave hope to countless others who walked that road. She understood a little the power of an icon and the gift they could be.
So, we mourn, because it's been a suck ass year for icons. It's been a year of loss and heartbreak, as we quietly memorialize moments of our youth, memories of those associated with those losses, the moments in our personal histories, and the giant holes left in our cultural histories at large. We aren't worshipping them as idols, but we hold them as icons in our hearts and occasionally on pedestals, reminders of what the human spirit can manifest, and reminders of how we all often touch one another, though we sometimes forget that in our daily lives.
To a young child, the worn stuffed bunny they might carry counts as an icon. It's a symbol for everything that is right in their world - mom, dad, home, family, love and security, all in a portable object that they can identify. Those other emotions, those are hard for an adult to wrap their mind around, much less a child. But a stuffed bunny is manageable as an idea and its tangible. Our pop icons are no less powerful, images for things that are important to us. Allow us to mourn those pieces of ourselves, our pasts, our futures, and our identities. Allow us to recognize genius and how it touched our lives in all manner of ways. And let those stars continue to shine in our eyes, as their iconic presence helped shape who we are as well
Icons. It's a tough word for some people. If you grew up in a Catholic church, or in a Catholic school - as I did, upon occasion - the word icon brings to mind the wooden plaques and hand-held images that give accessibility to the saints. Pocket saints, I always thought of them. But an icon is just a representation of an idea. It is not, as so many of those I grew up with believed, a physical image of someone to worship. If you take literally those words said to Moses, then icons could be considered golden calves and false gods. Even the icons of the saints are reminders, not something to be worshipped on their own. I saw plenty of these a few weeks ago, when I was staying in Santa Fe. Everywhere I looked, there were icons for sale. Beautiful tin and wooden pieces to be held in hand, or hung on the wall, or dangled off a Christmas tree. Honestly, I never knew there were quite so many saints. Someone to aid you in prayer for a lost pet, a lost job, and anything else you might think of praying about. There is a saint for everything. An icon for every occasion.
But those icons, they're not the saints themselves, and they're not someone to whom you should pray. The icons represent an idea. That's all. And pop cultural icons are no different. (And I'm sitting here, having typed those words, waiting for Sister Regina to whap me over the head with a ruler).
Our pop icon represent ideas, not even always the same ideas for all of us. And 2016 took away its share of icons.
David Bowie.
Alan Rickman.
Glen Frey
Harper Lee
Patty Duke
Prince
Muhammed Ali
Kenny Baker
Gene Wilder
Bobby Lee
Leonard Cohen
Florence Henderson
John Glenn
Zsa Zsa Gabor
Nancy Reagan
Fidel Castro
Alan Thicke
Garry Shandling
Garry Marshall
Elie Weisel
Kimbo Slice
Janet Reno
George Michael
Carrie Fisher
Debbie Reynolds
So, go ahead, make the argument that these are just actors, writers, scientists, singers. Debate with me that I don't really know any of these people and that I should be equally disturbed by any natural death, enraged all the more by any senseless demise. On some levels, I don't disagree. I mean, certainly, society mourns for the loss of genius. We mourn because Alan Rickman's voice will never stop us in our tracks again as he cuts down another actor with biting wit. We will never hear again the genius of Bowie's tenor. There will never be another middle finger to inequality from Carrie Fisher. Sure, we mourn those things.
But these are icons. Our connection to these people is subjective. I'll give you an example - Prince. I was an impressionable child when he released his Purple Rain soundtrack But a few years down the road, it was the album my first boyfriend and I listened to when we would make out in his basement rec room. To me, forever and ever, Prince is the sound of innocence fracturing, both because I was discovering a more adult world, and because the boyfriend in question died tragically young in a car accident. Whenever I hear "When Doves Cry" I feel both excited and devastated. Prince himself became an icon for that period of time in my life.
Debbie Reynolds passed away yesterday. At just 19 years of age, she co-starred in Singing in the Rain. It became an iconic film of its generation. The movie of the late 30's and early 40's were often starting to be edgy for their time, and there was a glamour and a sexiness about them. After World War II, with the dawning of the Cold War, there was an idea of wholesomeness and traditional family values that crept back into American culture. Debbie Reynolds was an icon of that girl next door ideal. Don't believe me? Check out Tammy and the Bachelor, or any other from that series. Watch a young Ms. Reynolds throw out her heart for Leslie Neilson. She was a symbol of what every American should be or want, if we wanted to stay one step above the Russian heathens. She was an icon. Stayed that way all of her public life.
John Glenn. The first man to walk on the moon. A few hundred years before, we had scientists debating exactly what the moon was, and there was John Glenn, taking that first step for mankind. Like Debbie Reynolds, he was beating the Russian communists, but this time in the space race. He was a hero of a generation and the world mourned his passing, no matter his having lived a long and full life. It wasn't that he died too young, or too tragically. It's that his death was like closing the pages of an era in history. Another icon for a time of innocence and less than innocent competition. I find it ironic that another book about the first manned space mission will be released at the end of this year, Hidden Figures, about the role of women at NASA in getting that first manned flight off the ground, so to speak. No one in the general public knew the story of those African American women, but after this movie, they might be icons of their own, and stand for a dream for young girls growing up in our country now.
Harper Lee changed the thought pattern of several generations of school children with her novel To Kill a Mockingbird. Through the eyes of Scout, countless school children have been forced to confront their own feelings about race and what is right. Her writing is an icon for generations of students whose own thinking was awakened - usually by force - through reading her powerful story. That book has made many a young person confront what they really think about race and what is fair - outside what their family or community has taught them to think. Words have the power to do that, when spoken through a powerful voice. Harper Lee was that iconic voice.
Muhammed Ali who was an iconic figure in the world of sports. A man who seemed invincible, who led the way to many a young boy's dreams, both because of his race and because of his dedication. His voice, often mocked for its well known rhymes and cadences in public speech, was the voice of someone who didn't know how to quit. To this day, he is quoted as a voice of grit and determination. Don't start counting the repetitions until it's started to hurt. You think you have a plan until you get punched in the face. The icon for someone overcoming the odds. Everyone loves that story, no matter the time or the setting. It's an age old ideal, wrapped up in a man who didn't know how to lose.
And so it goes on, the sports figures, musicians, actors, writers, politicians. They are not, as individual human beings, any more important than anyone else. All of us make contributions. Each of us counts as the same specks of dust in the universe. But it's the icons they became that count as so much more, and the icons that are mourned.
Carrie Fisher passed away a few days ago. All my life, I've admired her - first wanting to be Princess Leia, then admiring her powerful voice as an advocate for women and for those with mental illnesses. She walked a hard road, and she gave hope to countless others who walked that road. She understood a little the power of an icon and the gift they could be.
So, we mourn, because it's been a suck ass year for icons. It's been a year of loss and heartbreak, as we quietly memorialize moments of our youth, memories of those associated with those losses, the moments in our personal histories, and the giant holes left in our cultural histories at large. We aren't worshipping them as idols, but we hold them as icons in our hearts and occasionally on pedestals, reminders of what the human spirit can manifest, and reminders of how we all often touch one another, though we sometimes forget that in our daily lives.
To a young child, the worn stuffed bunny they might carry counts as an icon. It's a symbol for everything that is right in their world - mom, dad, home, family, love and security, all in a portable object that they can identify. Those other emotions, those are hard for an adult to wrap their mind around, much less a child. But a stuffed bunny is manageable as an idea and its tangible. Our pop icons are no less powerful, images for things that are important to us. Allow us to mourn those pieces of ourselves, our pasts, our futures, and our identities. Allow us to recognize genius and how it touched our lives in all manner of ways. And let those stars continue to shine in our eyes, as their iconic presence helped shape who we are as well
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
The Word of Your Body
I woke up early this morning, well, I mean it was technically morning, because it was after midnight, with violent leg cramps, the kind that drag me out of bed to walk in hobbling, cussing arcs back and forth around my bed. Cussing more because I didn't turn on the light and stumbled into the corner of my bed frame. New bruise. It can join the fifty or so others sprinkled all over my body. My favorite right now might be the foot shaped bruise on my forearm - complete with toe prints! Thank you, Maria - nothing like a surprise souvenir from jiu jitsu. But my early morning pacing wasn't from rolling, but rather from running.
My children will tell you, I don't run. I walk, I sprint, I amble, I sometimes hobble and limp, but I don't run. Or at least, I don't run often. I'm trying to change that. There are deterrents - leg cramps, shin splints, sore feet, the time I dislocated my shoulder, the fact that I only have time to run at night, and there are some creepy people hanging out on the trail at night...but, still I try. My first attempt at running came about three years ago, when I woke up one day and said, "well, that's enough of sitting around on my ass," and I walked out the door and started slowly circling the park. That first month, I was in so much pain it became my constant companion. I could have named the pain, taken it out to dinner, bought it a drink or two, because it was real and tangible and never left my side. My shins ached, my hips burned, my back felt broken, and for some ungodly reason, my arms hurt. I didn't understand what arms had to do with running. But running brought me to kickboxing, which brought me to jiu jitsu, and so I suppose in some ways, those first couple of months of running in my neighborhood changed my life - and possibly saved it along the way. But I still hate running, and I let it go in favor of cardio classes and weights and boxing. Now I'm back at it, for no reason other than I'm turning 44 this year (this month really) and while I'm no longer young and spry, I'll never again be as young as I am right now. I have no way of knowing what parts of my body will give out tomorrow, or next year, or ten years from now. If I'm going to do something, I might as well start it now.
A friend joked with me not too long ago that I must really hate myself to punish myself physically the way that I do. I don't look like I'm as active as I am, but I put my body through a lot in a week - jiu jitsu, cardio classes, MMA, running, yoga, not to mention normal day-to-day wear and tear from working and hauling groceries, and cleaning my house, and laughing and drinking and being alive. But I had to clarify that I don't hate myself - I spent enough years doing that. I do the things I do because I actually LIKE myself, I like my body, and I want to celebrate the fact that it can do so many things. I just wish I'd figured that out long before I did.
Growing up, "body" was a dirty word in our house. Bodies were dirty and most parts were better off being covered up and kept secret, even from ourselves. Young girls didn't look at their bodies, didn't think about their bodies, except to keep them thin, because that was what men wanted. Girls who touched their bodies were dirty and my mother was willing to beat the dirty right out of me, or out of my brother, who I suppose was a dirty boy in his own right. That duality was confusing - how could something so shameful be something worth so much? As a child, the message received was that I had no real control of my own body. My mother would control how it looked, how I dressed, how I wore my hair, because my body was really only there to transport me from place A to place B until there was a man who wanted my body enough that he would take over where she had left off. And only a man who wanted to marry me had any right at all to my body in any way, and what I felt about it had no bearing in one way or another. It was my body, but I merely lived in it, had no ownership of it or what I did with it.
Rebellion as I grew up meant being careless with my body. Reckless. I broke bone after bone, learning to ride a skateboard, falling off a balance beam, trying some crazy stunt involving roller skates and a bike and a really high hill. And as I got older, being careless and reckless meant giving other people access to my body. It'd never been mine to control, and so I didn't know how to take back ownership at that point, and the only thing I discovered was that there was some power over those to whom I had given the privilege of touch, whether it was the power over the creepy old guy in our neighborhood who liked to grope preadolescent behinds and wouldn't want his wife to know, or over the teenage boys who just wanted to touch some girl's boobs for the first time and were willing to pay for an icee if it got them a trip behind the 7 Eleven.
As an adult, I have abused and punished my body in every conceivable way - eating crap and gaining weight, not working my body the way it was intended, alcohol, sex, and at one time, self-harm. It's been easy to accept things done to my body, abuse heaped upon it, being raped, being taunted, and being controlled. There's truth in the statement that I am not my body - it's not the heart of who I am, any more than the car I drive is a representation of me. But my body is where I live, it's what I use to represent myself to the world, and it's what keeps me tied to this earth and to the people I love. I owe it respect and I owe it some care. In return, I'm finding myself amazed at what my body will actually do, and how much it can endure without breaking.
I have friends who are struggling with illnesses, their bodies partially out of control, and fighting every single day to take back ownership of all of their bodies. From a friend who lives every single day with a disease with which she negotiates for daily necessary movement and function, to a friend who is kicking the ass of cancer and went to her surgery wearing a tiara and a smile, because she knows who owns her body, and it's not cancer. They don't take their bodies for granted, and it would be insulting for me to do so, when I have so many fewer obstacles to go over.
So, I'm turning 44 soon, and my body is carrying around over four decades of wear and tear. Gravity has won several battles, and I carry the scars of a whole lot of others - stretch marks, surgical scars, imperfectly mended bones, and some that are only visible on the inside. But as I start my 45th year, I'll take nothing for granted, and I'll not allow myself excuses. I will push my body to do the things it was made to be able to do, and celebrate those things and reward my body with bubble baths, and long stretches, and a soft bed stocked with a warm kitty. I'll appreciate all the things my body can do, and accept the things it really can't do (I really, really can't climb a rope, even if it were to save my life). And I don't say that no one is ever going to touch me again, but now it happens on my own terms. And I won't say that no one is ever going to hit my body again, but now I know how to hit back. It took four decades, but I finally took ownership of the house I live in - and you know, despite the cellulite and the scars and the sagging, I kinda like what I've got. It's gotten me a lot of places in life, and there are a whole lot more places I want to travel with it.
And I say to my friends, celebrate your own bodies. Listen to them, and pay attention when they tell you something is wrong. Give yourself love, and push yourself to find your limits and go past them. There will come a time all too soon when our bodies won't be able to respond the way that we want them to. Until then, I'm going to enjoy every moment in my vintage edition. Even if some of the parts are hurting - at least they're letting me know they still work.
My children will tell you, I don't run. I walk, I sprint, I amble, I sometimes hobble and limp, but I don't run. Or at least, I don't run often. I'm trying to change that. There are deterrents - leg cramps, shin splints, sore feet, the time I dislocated my shoulder, the fact that I only have time to run at night, and there are some creepy people hanging out on the trail at night...but, still I try. My first attempt at running came about three years ago, when I woke up one day and said, "well, that's enough of sitting around on my ass," and I walked out the door and started slowly circling the park. That first month, I was in so much pain it became my constant companion. I could have named the pain, taken it out to dinner, bought it a drink or two, because it was real and tangible and never left my side. My shins ached, my hips burned, my back felt broken, and for some ungodly reason, my arms hurt. I didn't understand what arms had to do with running. But running brought me to kickboxing, which brought me to jiu jitsu, and so I suppose in some ways, those first couple of months of running in my neighborhood changed my life - and possibly saved it along the way. But I still hate running, and I let it go in favor of cardio classes and weights and boxing. Now I'm back at it, for no reason other than I'm turning 44 this year (this month really) and while I'm no longer young and spry, I'll never again be as young as I am right now. I have no way of knowing what parts of my body will give out tomorrow, or next year, or ten years from now. If I'm going to do something, I might as well start it now.
A friend joked with me not too long ago that I must really hate myself to punish myself physically the way that I do. I don't look like I'm as active as I am, but I put my body through a lot in a week - jiu jitsu, cardio classes, MMA, running, yoga, not to mention normal day-to-day wear and tear from working and hauling groceries, and cleaning my house, and laughing and drinking and being alive. But I had to clarify that I don't hate myself - I spent enough years doing that. I do the things I do because I actually LIKE myself, I like my body, and I want to celebrate the fact that it can do so many things. I just wish I'd figured that out long before I did.
Growing up, "body" was a dirty word in our house. Bodies were dirty and most parts were better off being covered up and kept secret, even from ourselves. Young girls didn't look at their bodies, didn't think about their bodies, except to keep them thin, because that was what men wanted. Girls who touched their bodies were dirty and my mother was willing to beat the dirty right out of me, or out of my brother, who I suppose was a dirty boy in his own right. That duality was confusing - how could something so shameful be something worth so much? As a child, the message received was that I had no real control of my own body. My mother would control how it looked, how I dressed, how I wore my hair, because my body was really only there to transport me from place A to place B until there was a man who wanted my body enough that he would take over where she had left off. And only a man who wanted to marry me had any right at all to my body in any way, and what I felt about it had no bearing in one way or another. It was my body, but I merely lived in it, had no ownership of it or what I did with it.
Rebellion as I grew up meant being careless with my body. Reckless. I broke bone after bone, learning to ride a skateboard, falling off a balance beam, trying some crazy stunt involving roller skates and a bike and a really high hill. And as I got older, being careless and reckless meant giving other people access to my body. It'd never been mine to control, and so I didn't know how to take back ownership at that point, and the only thing I discovered was that there was some power over those to whom I had given the privilege of touch, whether it was the power over the creepy old guy in our neighborhood who liked to grope preadolescent behinds and wouldn't want his wife to know, or over the teenage boys who just wanted to touch some girl's boobs for the first time and were willing to pay for an icee if it got them a trip behind the 7 Eleven.
As an adult, I have abused and punished my body in every conceivable way - eating crap and gaining weight, not working my body the way it was intended, alcohol, sex, and at one time, self-harm. It's been easy to accept things done to my body, abuse heaped upon it, being raped, being taunted, and being controlled. There's truth in the statement that I am not my body - it's not the heart of who I am, any more than the car I drive is a representation of me. But my body is where I live, it's what I use to represent myself to the world, and it's what keeps me tied to this earth and to the people I love. I owe it respect and I owe it some care. In return, I'm finding myself amazed at what my body will actually do, and how much it can endure without breaking.
I have friends who are struggling with illnesses, their bodies partially out of control, and fighting every single day to take back ownership of all of their bodies. From a friend who lives every single day with a disease with which she negotiates for daily necessary movement and function, to a friend who is kicking the ass of cancer and went to her surgery wearing a tiara and a smile, because she knows who owns her body, and it's not cancer. They don't take their bodies for granted, and it would be insulting for me to do so, when I have so many fewer obstacles to go over.
So, I'm turning 44 soon, and my body is carrying around over four decades of wear and tear. Gravity has won several battles, and I carry the scars of a whole lot of others - stretch marks, surgical scars, imperfectly mended bones, and some that are only visible on the inside. But as I start my 45th year, I'll take nothing for granted, and I'll not allow myself excuses. I will push my body to do the things it was made to be able to do, and celebrate those things and reward my body with bubble baths, and long stretches, and a soft bed stocked with a warm kitty. I'll appreciate all the things my body can do, and accept the things it really can't do (I really, really can't climb a rope, even if it were to save my life). And I don't say that no one is ever going to touch me again, but now it happens on my own terms. And I won't say that no one is ever going to hit my body again, but now I know how to hit back. It took four decades, but I finally took ownership of the house I live in - and you know, despite the cellulite and the scars and the sagging, I kinda like what I've got. It's gotten me a lot of places in life, and there are a whole lot more places I want to travel with it.
And I say to my friends, celebrate your own bodies. Listen to them, and pay attention when they tell you something is wrong. Give yourself love, and push yourself to find your limits and go past them. There will come a time all too soon when our bodies won't be able to respond the way that we want them to. Until then, I'm going to enjoy every moment in my vintage edition. Even if some of the parts are hurting - at least they're letting me know they still work.
Friday, November 11, 2016
Nasty Girls
It's been a fuck of a week. No, it's been a fuck of a 2016. Every week I seem to have friends saying, "when will this year END?" Every day I turn on the news to hear about mass shootings, bombings, natural disasters, race riots, police shootings, ISIS, and the list goes on and on and on. All of this has galvanized one of the most heated elections in my memory - gone is the apathy with which most recent elections seem to have been met. Gone is the feeling that it doesn't matter who our leaders are, really. This election became personal. The two candidates became symbols for everything that is right and everything that is wrong in our country, each of them becoming little more than cartoon effigies for the issues plaguing our news and waking us up in the middle of the night.
I am a single mom, raising two teenage daughters. So many things have terrified me in the last year, so many things wake me up from nightmares these days, because a parent's first and foremost thought is how to keep their children safe. Everything else can be fixed later, just keep your children safe. But I can't keep them safe from knowing all manner of things waiting just outside our front door. For my oldest, legally an adult now, she's becoming more and more aware of the dangers and the inequality of our world. As a young woman, she's startlingly aware of both all her future potentials and the limitations that are placed upon her, sometimes because of her gender. This election season drove so much of that home to her and, in return, to me.
To Katie, neither major candidate was all that appealing, but she did her homework, she recognized the futility of voting third party, and she sided with what she saw as the only logical choice. She was a young woman, voting for the first time, for a woman presidential candidate. That was pretty exciting in itself. As time got closer, there were so many news reports, and we had quite a few late night discussions over those. My daughter values her friends, and those come from a wide scope of minorities, backgrounds, sexual preferences, genders, socio-economic classes. The things that Trump was saying in press conferences and debates scared her. Actually frightened her to think of a future where he could make those things happen - where presidential decisions could impact her and the lives of people she cares about. She began to care more and more about the outcome of our presidential election.
It was something that was said that stuck with my daughter, and so many of my women friends in the last few weeks. Trump referred to Hillary Clinton as a "nasty woman." For me, that goes deeper. "Nasty girl" was one of my mother's favorite phrases, along with "dirty girl." Growing up, nasty girls played too much with the boys. They showed too much skin. Any girl who touched herself, pretty much anywhere between the shoulders and the knees, was being nasty. Nasty girls were loud, and opinionated and, well, had better be smart because no man was ever going to want to marry them, and take care of them. I guess I've been a nasty girl pretty much all my life. I guess I'm raising my daughters to be nasty girls too. At least, I hope so.
How confusing is it to be a young woman growing up in a time when it appears that so many doors are open, and yet, there's a giant pit between themselves and the doors? If my mother's version of nasty girls touch themselves, we have a president elect who thinks it's OK to touch other women any way he likes. I hope my own girls know, those are their bodies, and they get to touch their soft bellies and their strong muscles, and their bony feet, and all the things that belong to them. And no one else has the right to ever touch them unless they give permission. And I've made sure they know how to break the arm of anyone who tries. I want my daughters, and all the young women I know, to know that they should be kind, but they should never be silent unless they choose. No one has the right to take away their voice. They have the right to defend those they love, regardless of where they come from or who they love. Skin color is only that, and my nasty girls get it, and how we all need to stick together - not tear one another apart.
I've spent the last three days listening to rants from friends and families, both elated and heart broken over the results of our 2016 presidential election. My own feelings on who should or should not have won don't really matter at this point. I'm not a defeatist, but what is done is done. But now is not the time for those I love to run and hide or hold their voices. It's the time when we most need to love one another, most need to embrace our differences and listen to the words coming from each other. As long as there is an "us" and a "them," we are never going to be strong.
There are issues that we face that are much larger than who is at the apex of our government. And let me say, he's leading our country, so we better hope pretty hard that Trump pulls his shit together and does a decent job of things and gets some smart people in some pretty important offices, because I'm not ready to watch wars start, civil riots break out, or friendships fracture over a giant "I told you so." Nor will I be silent if things do not go well, but what I won't do is use things not going my way or disasters falling as an excuse to hate or to blame or to name call. None of those things are productive. Please, Mr. President-Elect, take a note on that one, because you'll be repping us to the rest of the world. Don't be that nasty boy on the playground calling all the other boys and girls names, just because you think you can. Enough people in this country decided you were their right choice, please rise to that occasion. Prove some of us pleasantly wrong.
With this past election, I've seen so many reminders of the suffragettes of the past, the ladies who laid their own safety and relationships on the line to stand up for their right to vote. This year, women stood in line to put "I voted" stickers on the headstone of Susan B. Anthony, and I like to think she'd be proud, that she's a nasty girl who's saying, "next time, ladies, next time." One friend, who I have dearly loved for most of my life, dressed in her big ass hat, and her pearls, and her ankle length dress and walked down the streets of North Hollywood to her polling station, because she's classy like that. She dressed up to vote, because she is privileged enough to do so, and she paid homage of all those who paved the way for her to be able to do so. Well done, Sammy Kate, well done. And to those lady friends of mine who didn't vote, who thought their voices didn't matter and their opinions didn't count, get your shit together, step it up next time. Educate yourself, stiffen your spine, and understand that your voice matters. There are other parts of the world where no one gets a voice in who their leader will be, and you do, use that power every step of the way.
I was born in the 1970's (yes, that long ago), and despite the advent of NOW, and the sexual revolution, and the long past Vatican II decisions, women were still seen as extensions of their fathers and husbands. I was raised to be educated, but with the expectation that I would never need it, if I just stayed pretty enough and kept my big, opinionated mouth closed long enough. Now I gladly dedicate myself to being a mother and raising my daughters, to be women who I hope DO find love and marry - no matter who that person is, no matter their gender, no matter the color of their skin - but because they want to and never because they think they need to do so. And I want those girls to be nasty girls who sometimes talk a little too loud, who are just smart enough and just skilled enough that they make the boys a little nervous, but are never quite tacky enough to point it out. And I want my nasty girls to know that they can make a difference in the world, in big ways and in small ways, and the only things I expect from them are kindness and understanding, and maybe a little ass kicking when it's absolutely necessary. Educate yourself, and fill your life with compassion - only good things can follow that, no matter how nasty you might be.
I am a single mom, raising two teenage daughters. So many things have terrified me in the last year, so many things wake me up from nightmares these days, because a parent's first and foremost thought is how to keep their children safe. Everything else can be fixed later, just keep your children safe. But I can't keep them safe from knowing all manner of things waiting just outside our front door. For my oldest, legally an adult now, she's becoming more and more aware of the dangers and the inequality of our world. As a young woman, she's startlingly aware of both all her future potentials and the limitations that are placed upon her, sometimes because of her gender. This election season drove so much of that home to her and, in return, to me.
To Katie, neither major candidate was all that appealing, but she did her homework, she recognized the futility of voting third party, and she sided with what she saw as the only logical choice. She was a young woman, voting for the first time, for a woman presidential candidate. That was pretty exciting in itself. As time got closer, there were so many news reports, and we had quite a few late night discussions over those. My daughter values her friends, and those come from a wide scope of minorities, backgrounds, sexual preferences, genders, socio-economic classes. The things that Trump was saying in press conferences and debates scared her. Actually frightened her to think of a future where he could make those things happen - where presidential decisions could impact her and the lives of people she cares about. She began to care more and more about the outcome of our presidential election.
It was something that was said that stuck with my daughter, and so many of my women friends in the last few weeks. Trump referred to Hillary Clinton as a "nasty woman." For me, that goes deeper. "Nasty girl" was one of my mother's favorite phrases, along with "dirty girl." Growing up, nasty girls played too much with the boys. They showed too much skin. Any girl who touched herself, pretty much anywhere between the shoulders and the knees, was being nasty. Nasty girls were loud, and opinionated and, well, had better be smart because no man was ever going to want to marry them, and take care of them. I guess I've been a nasty girl pretty much all my life. I guess I'm raising my daughters to be nasty girls too. At least, I hope so.
How confusing is it to be a young woman growing up in a time when it appears that so many doors are open, and yet, there's a giant pit between themselves and the doors? If my mother's version of nasty girls touch themselves, we have a president elect who thinks it's OK to touch other women any way he likes. I hope my own girls know, those are their bodies, and they get to touch their soft bellies and their strong muscles, and their bony feet, and all the things that belong to them. And no one else has the right to ever touch them unless they give permission. And I've made sure they know how to break the arm of anyone who tries. I want my daughters, and all the young women I know, to know that they should be kind, but they should never be silent unless they choose. No one has the right to take away their voice. They have the right to defend those they love, regardless of where they come from or who they love. Skin color is only that, and my nasty girls get it, and how we all need to stick together - not tear one another apart.
I've spent the last three days listening to rants from friends and families, both elated and heart broken over the results of our 2016 presidential election. My own feelings on who should or should not have won don't really matter at this point. I'm not a defeatist, but what is done is done. But now is not the time for those I love to run and hide or hold their voices. It's the time when we most need to love one another, most need to embrace our differences and listen to the words coming from each other. As long as there is an "us" and a "them," we are never going to be strong.
There are issues that we face that are much larger than who is at the apex of our government. And let me say, he's leading our country, so we better hope pretty hard that Trump pulls his shit together and does a decent job of things and gets some smart people in some pretty important offices, because I'm not ready to watch wars start, civil riots break out, or friendships fracture over a giant "I told you so." Nor will I be silent if things do not go well, but what I won't do is use things not going my way or disasters falling as an excuse to hate or to blame or to name call. None of those things are productive. Please, Mr. President-Elect, take a note on that one, because you'll be repping us to the rest of the world. Don't be that nasty boy on the playground calling all the other boys and girls names, just because you think you can. Enough people in this country decided you were their right choice, please rise to that occasion. Prove some of us pleasantly wrong.
With this past election, I've seen so many reminders of the suffragettes of the past, the ladies who laid their own safety and relationships on the line to stand up for their right to vote. This year, women stood in line to put "I voted" stickers on the headstone of Susan B. Anthony, and I like to think she'd be proud, that she's a nasty girl who's saying, "next time, ladies, next time." One friend, who I have dearly loved for most of my life, dressed in her big ass hat, and her pearls, and her ankle length dress and walked down the streets of North Hollywood to her polling station, because she's classy like that. She dressed up to vote, because she is privileged enough to do so, and she paid homage of all those who paved the way for her to be able to do so. Well done, Sammy Kate, well done. And to those lady friends of mine who didn't vote, who thought their voices didn't matter and their opinions didn't count, get your shit together, step it up next time. Educate yourself, stiffen your spine, and understand that your voice matters. There are other parts of the world where no one gets a voice in who their leader will be, and you do, use that power every step of the way.
I was born in the 1970's (yes, that long ago), and despite the advent of NOW, and the sexual revolution, and the long past Vatican II decisions, women were still seen as extensions of their fathers and husbands. I was raised to be educated, but with the expectation that I would never need it, if I just stayed pretty enough and kept my big, opinionated mouth closed long enough. Now I gladly dedicate myself to being a mother and raising my daughters, to be women who I hope DO find love and marry - no matter who that person is, no matter their gender, no matter the color of their skin - but because they want to and never because they think they need to do so. And I want those girls to be nasty girls who sometimes talk a little too loud, who are just smart enough and just skilled enough that they make the boys a little nervous, but are never quite tacky enough to point it out. And I want my nasty girls to know that they can make a difference in the world, in big ways and in small ways, and the only things I expect from them are kindness and understanding, and maybe a little ass kicking when it's absolutely necessary. Educate yourself, and fill your life with compassion - only good things can follow that, no matter how nasty you might be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)