16

 She was 16.

16.

A girl. Scared, got in a fight with her foster "sisters." A girl, scared, called the police. A girl, scared, grabbed a knife.

She was 16.

My daughter is 14. She has never been in a fight. She has never needed to grab a knife. But if she was --if she had-- would she have been shot to death by a cop in order to break up a fight? Is that what we do in this country? Or is that only what we reserve for Black kids?

If two teenagers are in a fight and we need to intervene, does one of them need to be shot? Killed? Eliminated?

Does "keeping the peace" mean killing whatever is making the noise?

She was Ma'Khia Bryant. A child who had a mom and an aunt, a child who was in the foster care system, a child who had already dealt with some tough shit, a child who loved to sing, a child who loved to cook, a child who called the police, a child who grabbed a knife.

She was kid. Scared. Angry. A volcano of emotions we adults can't even remember because 16 was so long ago and because we have tried a lifetime to forget what it felt like to be 16.

16.

She was not a threat to the cop. She was clearly fighting the women --the girls?-- in the yard. And when people are attacked --when we are attacked, when we are scared-- we attack, or we run away. That's fight or flight. That's our reptilian brain, our survival mechanism. But Ma'Khia Bryant didn't attack the cop. She went after the threat. Or so she thought.

And yet, the cop on the scene --he saw a 16 year old Black girl and decided in that moment that she was dangerous. That she was a scary Black woman. That she didn't deserve to live. The cop who was called by Ma'Khia Bryant simply pulled the trigger. 4 times. No de-escalation. No warning shot. No attempt to disarm. No attempt to recognize Ma'Khia Bryant  as a person worthy of anything other than a bullet. 

4 bullets.

And that cop walked away. Never in danger. Never harmed. Never intervened. Never de-escalated. Never really even tried.

A cop showed up, a cop drew his gun, a cop fired, a cop murdered a 16 year old girl.

And the trolls and the lawyers and the spokespersons will insist that she deserved to die. She had a knife. She was out of control. She should have followed orders.

And yet the adult on the scene, the adult with the actual deadly weapon, the adult is the one who pulled the trigger.

Who is the adult in the room?

Who's out of control now?

Ma'Khia Bryant was 16. She will not graduate from high school, even though she was on the honor roll. She will not go to prom, even though she loved music. She will not hug her mom or thank her foster mom or write a poem in her English class, even though she was a good kid and a good student. She was afraid, and for that, she died.

She was 16.

13

 He was 13 years old.

13.

My son is 12.

My daughter is 14.

I can promise you, I made some very poor decisions when I was 13. 

Adam Toledo was 13.

The state has already figured out its spin: gang violence. It's all the fault of the gangs, of the 21 year old who put a gun into Adam Toledo's hands. The Blue Lives Matter crowd will run with it. He had a gun. He was in a gang. He was bad. Dangerous. He should have complied with authority.

He was 13.

It's never the fault of the adult cop who got trigger happy. The adult cop who, for whatever reason, made a split second decision to pull the trigger. The adult cop who, for whatever reason, saw a weapon instead of raised hands, hands in surrender, hands in the air. Just hands. A kid. A scared fucking kid.

It doesn't matter what Adam Toledo was doing out that night. He was a kid, and kids make some dumbassawful decisions. He was a kid, disenfranchised. He was a kid who had found friends on the streets, a kid who was lonely. A kid who wanted to belong. He was a kid, doing kid shit he shouldn't be doing, pushing boundaries he shouldn't push, hanging out with the wrong crowd. He was a kid. He was all of us when we were 13.

It's the responsibility of the adults in the room to hold Adam Toledo close. To help him safely navigate his world. To help him find friends. To help him.

Not to fucking pull the trigger and murder him.

Adam Toledo was 13. And I am sick, thinking about my own kids and their shitty decision making skills, and the adults I entrust to keep them safe.

If you can't tell the difference between a kid --unarmed, hands in the air in surrender-- and a violent threat: then you should. not. be. armed. 

Fox News will blame everyone but the cop.

And Chicago will probably burn. 

I wish I could set something on fire.

And Adam Toledo is dead.

He was 13.

The Last Day

It's the last day of a much-needed vacation. Even now, a week later, I am resisting getting the kids out of bed. I am savoring the silence and staring at the stinkbug on the wall across the room, willing it to just kill itself for once.

I think I'm rested. I'm definitely well-fed.

The house isn't clean, but it isn't a disaster. 

I didn't read the books I was going to read.

I didn't get my steps in.

I did drag my kids to the top of a mountain.

I did beat my son in Donkey Kong 3 and Qix.

I did finish 5 crossword puzzles and only looked up clues a few times. 

I did manage to get caught up on work and buy myself the week off so I wouldn't have to go back to work until tomorrow. (Of course, COVID gets the last laugh. Because of skyrocketing numbers in the state, our school schedule has changed yet again, back to 100% virtual and no standardized testing --schedule change #5-- so now I will rewrite everything I wrote last Saturday so I wouldn't have to work today...c'est la vie...)

I don't know if traveling was the right thing to do when the CDC has said to stay home. But I do know that it was the right thing to do for our family. We avoided crowds, never went inside a public building except to use the bathroom, always got take-out, always wore a mask, and went through several bottles of hand sanitizer along the way. We tried to do it "right," whatever that means in a year full of so much wrong.

And now I will get the kids up.

I will attempt to yoga all the hours of driving out of my bones.

I will rewrite the lesson plans for the week, I will postpone that blog post rant about standardized testing to another day, I'll drink one more cup of coffee, I'll kill a stinkbug.

Once the kids have showered, we'll go get rapid-testing done at the ISD spring break testing pop-up, just to assuage any fears.

We'll eat one more take-out meal so I don't have to cook.

The weather report called for thunderstorms and pouring rain all day today.

The sun is shining in defiance. 

Michael gets his second dose tomorrow; Pfizer has requested approval for the vaccine for 12-15 year old children, based on their incredibly successful trial numbers; there are 9 weeks left of school.

Summer is coming.

It's Complicated

Every year, "Siblings Day" suddenly hits my Facebook feed without warning, and I vacillate between awwww and awkward as I scroll through all the photos of siblings, then and now. 

It's strange being an only-oldest-youngest. 

I was 1 or 2 when my parents split, 5 when my mom remarried, 6 when my dad remarried. There were 3 older step-siblings that suddenly appeared; they were haughty and sophisticated and tall. I was a country girl, still foolishly believing in Santa Claus and wearing bobby socks and princess seams. I was out of my league with their inside jokes and shared tragedies.

When I was 8, both sets of parents started new families. It was a year of babies, a year of diapers, a year of staying out of the way. My sister was born a month early in January; my brother was born a month late in March. (A cousin came right on time, landing near Valentine's Day.) I was 8, surrounded by babies that I was sort of related to. The next wave came two years later, and one more followed. 5 halves in all, and I was in the middle, holding them aloft like Lady Justice, trying to balance all of the rules and expectations and needs of 2 very different famlies. Trying to figure out who I even was and how I fit. Trying to balance.

I know for a fact that they --all of the halves and the steps-- have never all been in the same room.

When I got married, most of them were there. The halves all showed up, played their wedding party part, wore their tuxes and bridesmaid dresses, danced the ceilidh, hugged and laughed. I'm pretty sure the steps were not there. Why would they be? I had officially not been recognized as a member of the family in my step-grandparents' obituaries. We were not siblings. We were acquaintances at best.

And yet, in my early years of teaching, I used to start the semester with "2 truths and a lie." I always used the same statements. My eyes were blue. I was an only child. I had 8 brothers and sisters.

My eyes have always changed by the day--sometimes yellow with green rims, sometimes green with brown. My eyes have never been blue.

It is strange being an only-oldest-youngest. On siblings day, I don't have a photo to post of all of us. I'm not even sure how to count all of us. Who's in? Who's not? Who makes the cut? Who would be in the photo? What are the criteria? What boxes need to be checked?

I didn't really grow up with any of them. I was nearly a decade older, the live-in babysitter, the big sister in college who they wrote letters to when they learned to write letters.

It's complicated, my family. It's complicated, my relationship with my siblings. They are, and they are not. We are and we are not.

I am the oldest, the one who got all the rules and broke all the rules, so that the younger ones could have an easier go of it. I am the Type A, the leader, the one who is driven.

I am the youngest, the one who never fit in and knew it. The one who was clearly a country mouse in the city. The one who desperately wanted to belong, even though belonging looked terrifying and cliquey and seemed to be reaching for something just out of reach.

I am the only, on my own path, finding my own journey, building my own family. 

It's complicated.

They are my family, even if a photo doesn't exist. They are--for better or for worse--part of the fabric woven into me, the only-oldest-youngest. 

I wouldn't change my family. My families. Because of them, I was able to see different ways to be in this world, different ways to exist. Because of them, I have been able to see so many of my students, truly see where they are coming from, because I came from there, too.

But on siblings day --if that's even truly a thing-- I look at all of the photos of friends, candids with their families, eating ice cream and swinging on swings and sitting at picnic tables, posing in graduation regalia...and I wonder what a nuclear family might have felt like. What is is like, a Leave it to Beaver existence, a Brady Bunch all under the same roof? Instead of those photographs, I see a lonely kid, awkward and out of place, the only-oldest-youngest, the one who didn't truly fit in to any of the families in the photo album.

It's complicated, because they are my family, even if a photo doesn't exist. They are--for better or for worse--part of the fabric woven into me.

A Mom's Vacation

Even though I have an out-of-office reply set on my work email, I've still checked it once a day. I've still returned several emails. I've still had to email both freelance jobs that I am taking a few days off. I'll be back on the grid next week. Carry on without me. 

Today, I slept in until 9:50. 

I was supposed to get the kids up at 10:00, so we could drive to a nearby town and check it out before the mask-less crowds hit. 

But the cabin was silent. It was overcast outside and looked like rain. Tomorrow we have to check out of the cabin by 10:00.

 

I wanted coffee, a crossword puzzle. I wanted to sit and do absolutely nothing. 

 

I did not want to get the kids up at 10:00 so that we could drive to a nearby town. I did not want to hear complaining, arguing, and lectures on how I'm doing yet another thing wrong. 

 

And so I spontaneously decided that today was a "me day." A day off. The last day of our vacation when I don't have to wake up, plan meals, plan activities, nag everyone, break up arguments, clean up at the end of the day, take the garbage out, drive several hours, shower, or even put makeup on if I don't feel like it. 

 

Jennifer Chen on Unsplash

I made a pot of coffee, grabbed a crossword puzzle, and sat on the deck in the Amish rocker. 

Everyone else woke up 2 hours later. 

Sam was irate. Why didn't I follow through on our plans? Why didn't I wake them up like I said I would? Why did I bother to make plans if I wasn't going to do them?

 

And I answered, "Why don't I get a vacation, too?" 

 

... 

  

I don't think he'd ever considered that idea before. 

... 

Moms don't really ever get a vacation. 

From the first moment they find out they are pregnant (and all society's rules and judgment start piling on: what you can do, can't do, can eat, can't eat, can drink, can't drink) until the day the kids move out of the house, moms don't really get to take a day --a real day-- for themselves. Even if moms go away for the day, they need to first organize and arrange everything, including meals and activities and rides and childcare, before they get to breathe. Even when we go camping, which is about as much vacation as I can create, I am still in charge of activities, meals, cleaning, showers, bedtime. I am still in charge of negotiations and navigations. I am still in charge of creating the vacation. 

 

Even today, on my self-declared "me day," I have already done two loads of laundry. I've checked the weather 3 times. I've mapped out our drive tomorrow. I've read the instructions and found the dumpster for when we check out. In just a few minutes, I'll find places for take-out, I'll place the orders, I'll drive to pick up the meals, I'll pay, I'll bring them home, I'll console and apologize when Sam's meal is inevitably wrong again (it's always wrong), I'll try to find something for Helena to eat when she decides she doesn't like what I got her, I'll play countless games of Pacman with Sam, I'll pour them into bed, and then I'll breathe. 

I'm not good at taking time for myself. I've said this before. 

But even when I insist that I am going to take some time for me, I can't really. I'm a mom, and moms don't ever really get a break. Mind you, I'm not complaining. I love my kids. I even love (mostly) being a mom. But I also realize that I had to say that, I had to say "I'm not complaining," because someone inevitably will read this and tell me to be thankful for everything I have, tell me to be happy that I was able to have kids, guilt me for feeling like I deserve just a little bit of time for me, tell me to own the choices I made and stop complaining.

I think I'm going to grab a beer and another crossword puzzle while I wait for the laundry to finish. 

Then I will get out of this rocking chair and on with the day.

The Never-ending Journey

I've been on a journey this year.

Well, I've been on a journey for 48 years. That's what life is, thankfully: a journey, not a destination. If life was all about the destination, our whole focus would be on death. I'm glad I was able to leave that obsession of heaven and hell behind when I left the church.

But this year, 2021, I've been on a journey to try to find balance. To try to find a way to love the new me --older, heavier, more physically awkward, less prone to wear amazing, uncomfortable shoes. 

Balance, for me, is --has always been-- a struggle. I am a thoughtful, passionate teacher. I am a good writer. I am a decent mom (the kids are fed, clothed, and ethical, albeit unable to enter a room without destroying it). I am an okay friend and an okay partner. But I am not good to myself, as my negative self-talk about my body clouds the beauty that I know I bring to the world. I haven't figured out, in our new pandemic world, how to work out regularly with any intensity, since I don't want to be seen trying to yoga in the living room, or flailing instead of kickboxing, or peeing my pants as I attempt to jumping jack (Just one. Don't get crazy.). I have kind of lost myself in trying to make everyone else happy, and the time I carve out for me is after they all are in bed, when I should be in bed as well, drinking one too many drinks and staying up way too late just to be able to breathe. Self-destruction may very well be my modus operandi. 

Vlad Bagacian on Unsplash

In February, I decided I would try 30 days of self care. I even enlisted a friend. 30 days of yoga, walking, water, forgiveness. Of course, self-care should not be about shoulds, but I don't know how to self-care without a to-do list. As one would expect, I lasted about 7 days before I missed a day, a week, a month. I did, however, try on every last piece of clothing in my closet. The size 16's that I loved went into storage. The size 12's and 14's, calling me old and fat and awkward and sad, got kicked to the curb. What I have left in the closet now at least fits, even if I wish it didn't, even if I wish these pounds away.

And now it is April. Easter. Spring. A new beginning? How many cliches can I roll out in the attempt to convince myself that this time it will stick? This time I will suddenly learn to take care of myself and fall in love with the new me?

I'm not even sure what the new me should be.

Should. That word again.

But I know that this is what I want for the new me. I'm just not sure how to get there.

• I want to be at a healthy weight.
• I want to believe --truly believe-- that I am beautiful, no matter what that healthy weight turns out to be. I want to look in the mirror and love what I see.
• I want to live in a house with less clutter and less conflict.
• I want to run again --even if run means walk-- and I want to be okay with that.
• I want to only wear comfortable shoes for the rest of my life and be okay with that, too.
• I want to learn how to read for pleasure and not feel guilty about "doing nothing."
• I want to find a balance between making to-do lists so that I can get things done, and giving myself a break from the obligations and judgment of the to-do lists.
• I want to sleep more, move more, drink more water.
• I want to build healthy relationships with my partner and my kids.
• I want to build a healthy relationship with myself.

I'm not sure how to accomplish any of this, how to map out this journey, except to get out of bed each day and try again. 

Matt Howard on Unsplash

I need to give myself the same amount of grace I extend to everyone else.

I need to remember that this is a journey, not a quest.

I need to stop assigning myself things I need to do.

It's a never-ending journey.