I walked out of my favorite bar today.

Not because of the food or the beer or the service, but because of the white guys down the rail. I couldn't unhear them and I couldn't stay silent, so instead -- I left. The bartender poured my full beer into a to-go cup and duct-taped the lid on. I wasn't leaving a full Edmund Fitzgerald behind.

"A Marine! They left a Marine -- who served our country -- and got a basketball player out instead!" It devolved from there. Her race, her hair, her sexual orientation, some pundit, Biden, some votes. 

I tried to bite my tongue. But "he was dishonorably discharged, you know. And committed quite a few crimes. Maybe not the Marine you are envisioning" just slipped out.

"Oh really." I was clearly dismissed. And, they jumped back to their conversation that spiraled into the Black lesbian vote and optics. "She hates America," they said.

I asked for the check, a to-go cup, and some duct-tape.

On Facebook, in response to the same claim about her alleged hatred of America, I asked: "If she hated America, why would she expend the energy and deal with the fallout of peacefully protesting during the National Anthem? If she hated America, why would she even try?"

"Oh, you're her best friend or something?" the lady on Facebook retorts. She seems nice.

No. I'm not her friend. I've never met Brittney Griner in my life, nor will I. I literally just Googled how to spell "Brittney" so I got it right. 

But my laywoman's observations tell me that somebody doesn't put themselves out there, somebody doesn't take a stand, somebody doesn't put their neck on the line if they don't think it's worth it. If they don't think it's worth saving. 

"I honestly feel we should not play the National Anthem during our season," said Griner, one of the top players in the WNBA and second in 2019 most valuable player voting. "I think we should take that much of a stand. 

"I don't mean that in any disrespect to our country. My dad was in Vietnam and a law officer for 30 years. I wanted to be a cop before basketball. I do have pride for my country."

Doesn't really sound like hatred to me, yanno?

And, look, I don't know a damn thing about Paul Whelan, other than what I've found by Googling. But I know there's a whole lot more to his story than the narrative that he sacrificed himself to serve our country as a Marine. A quick Google search tells me that his history is way more complicated than that simplistic narrative and involves many more countries than ours. TL;DR: he was court martialed and convicted and dishonorably discharged from the Marines. Google it. There's some shady shit going on there.

So.

Should a notorious, nefarious arms dealer be traded for a basketball player? I'm not an international negotiator and neither are you. But I do know that this guy had already served 12+ years of his sentence, and lots of countries have a huge interest in him, not just Russia. And Paul Whelan has a shady enough past to be worth a whole lot more to Russia than what we could give. Paul Whelan literally wasn't on the bargaining table.

Sure, Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. Maybe you don't think she deserves to be rescued. But if that's the case, say it out loud. Say it. "I don't believe that a Black lesbian woman's life is worth international negotiations that are way above my understanding." Say it out loud. But don't hide behind the rhetoric of "he's a marine and she hates America." Do your homework. And think critically, just a little bit.

Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. But she was going to serve time for almost a decade for carrying a legal substance -- that she has a prescription for -- in her suitcase as she travelled to her second job. Brittney Griner is just a basketball player. But she's also a woman. And she's Black. And she's a lesbian. And she doesn't make enough money at her first job, so she has to go to Russia during the off season and play there for her second job.

If anyone should have a bone to pick with America, it would probably be Brittney Griner.

But her daring our country to do better and be better doesn't mean that she hates it.

It just means that she wants it to step up.

I dare you to do better and be better, bar guys and Facebook woman. 

Step up. Do more. Be more. But, my god, please do some research, first.

If I was friends with Brittney Griner (and I'm not, but I totally would be, call me girl), my guess is that if there's anything she hates about America -- anything at all -- it would probably be the hatred and the ignorance that you so easily spew.

Photo by Michael Carruth on Unsplash

As Old as the Egg McMuffin

 "Hey, mom. Know how old you are? You're as old as the Egg McMuffin!"

Only minutes before, he'd been stunned to learn that I'm turning 50. "Fifty??!! But...that's half a century! I thought you were, like, 47!!" 

I remember when 50 sounded old. It still does. I see my aging idols on stage, and they still have it going on. But they are 50. They are old. Julie just died at 49. 50 has always been that threshold. Gateway to the elderly. There's no turning back now. I'm halfway to 100.

But I don't feel old.

Sure, sometimes my left knee does something wonky and I wonder if it remembers which way to bend. Sure, there was that week last spring when my arches seemingly forgot to arch and I immediately bought out all of the Dr. Scholl's section at Meijer. Sure, I dropped out of the Detroit 1/2 marathon this year because I was worried I wouldn't make the time cut.

But I don't feel particularly old. 

I got ID'd yesterday, buying bourbon. I ran a couple of miles over the weekend. I still understand the words coming out of my students' mouths. No cap. I kinda really want Taylor Swift tickets.  And every day, I feel my quads as I climb the stairs. I feel my vertebrae as I stretch. I feel the potential. 

I don't feel old.

Back in January, a million years ago and just yesterday, I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish this year, the year I turned 50. This was my to-do list. (Spoiler...I didn't do it all. Or even most of it...)

1. Move intentionally for 50 minutes each day. Walk? Run? Dance (like a formerly Baptist white girl)? Channel my inner Jillian Michaels? Shaun T? Billy Blanks? Jeff Galloway? Adriene Mishler? What does that 50 minutes look like and how in the hell do I make it happen? Stay tuned…

I mean...sometimes? Sometimes I did. Sometimes I didn't. I tried to get my steps in. I trained for the 1/2 marathon, and got up to 10 miles before life and COVID got in the way. But did I move intentionally every day? Probably not.

1. Get rid of 50 items of clothing. Don’t pretend that I’ll have time to sell it. I won’t. I really should just delete Mercari and Poshmark. Maybe I’ll do the hanger thing. Maybe I’ll Marie Kondo the closet. (we all know I probably won’t do that.) Maybe I’ll just get rid of stuff that isn’t comfortable. I can do that.

Girl. I totally did this. I got rid of a LOT of stuff. 3 boxes sent to ThredUp. 2 more dropped of to charity. I still have more to sort through, but I definitely got rid of some stuff.

1. Break the “Shopping High” addiction. Do. Not. Buy. Clothes (or shoes) in 2022. Do Not. (Except for bras and running shoes. But I will not buy impulsively. I will not buy online. I will not.)

I worked really hard on this. I did buy some things. I blame my job. They changed their mascot, and that led to some purchases. Also, harem pants came back into fashion. Just sayin...But I was a lot better this year. A lot more frugal. Fewer impulse buys. Fewer hopeful purchases. Fewer Facebook scams. I did buy clothes (mostly hoodies. and harem pants) but I broke the addiction. And, fwiw, I still haven't found a comfortable bra.

1. Drink 50 oz of pure water each day. Not coffee. Not tea. Not Coke Zero. Not Seltzer. Not Vodka. Not water with vodka. Just pure water. Drink it. (And then drink the other things.)

Yeah, no.

1. Write 50 blog posts. They don’t have to be good. They just have to be. Look, a list! Blog post #1 done.

I think I wrote 11.

1. Lose 50 lbs. I know, I know. Weight loss should never be a New Year’s Resolution. But I’m tired of feeling run-down and I know why I feel this way, and I need to value my own health more than I value a drink or some fries or my pride. 

There's a reason that weight loss should never be a New Year's Resolution. I only lost 5 lbs this year. But you know what? I don't feel tired and run-down and dragged out anymore. I'm not where I want to be, but I feel better about where I am. So...even though the scale hasn't really moved, I'm going to call this one a win.

1. Go to bed (on average) 50 minutes earlier S-Th. 50 minutes means more sleep, less alcohol, less mind-numbing. Rest more.

I averaged 30 minutes more sleep/night. Except, yanno, tonight. 'Cause that's how averages work.

1. Make an extra $50/week through subbing and save it for something special. Maybe take that trip, finally, with the girls. 

I did take that trip with the girls. And I did start the upper half of my sleeve. I haven't paid down debt. But I did save for something(s) special. And it was worth the extra work.

1. Make an extra $50/week through freelance and pay down debt. 

See above. Still debty.

1. Do something technology-free for 50 min/day. Meditation? Reading? Going for a walk? Put the phone down and just exist in the world.

I actually read a couple of books this year. And that was huge. To sit with a book, screens off, and just allow myself the time --guilt free-- to read. I can't wait for the next break to be able to read again. I rebuilt some of that reading stamina, and now I just need to carve out the time.

So, that was my to-do list for 2022. My 50th year (that I know of) on this planet.

I really didn't hit my target(s). But I also feel pretty okay about where I'm at.

And I'm officially as old as the Egg McMuffin, according to my son.

But --spoiler alert-- I always have been.

And the Egg McMuffin has been around for 50 years because it's a damn good sandwich. With or without the Canadian Bacon (I choose without, because, ewww, FLESH), it comes in around 300ish calories of reliable comfort food. It'll fill you up without making you regret your life choices.

And an Egg McMuffin? It's a classic. But also current. It's kind of fucking delicious. A perfect blend of crunchy and savory and salty and protein. It's satisfying. It's not going anywhere.

It has staying power.

And so do I.

Reflections re: my Mojo

 I've been asked several times in the last two weeks: "So, did you do it? Did you get your mojo back?"

If you've kept up with my writing this summer, you know that I've been trying to work on me, and reclaim my love of reading, my love of self, my love of writing, and some semblance of order in my house.

You also know that I lost a couple of weeks of productivity with COVID. And, if you follow me on the Book of Face, you know that I've also spent some time traveling for work and for play. All in all, it's been a super busy summer, full of some amazing moments and a lot of nature (and a lot of coughing). 

Here's a quick update on all of the things.

I didn't read all of the books I wanted to read. But I did read Kal Penn's You Can't Be Serious on a whim and it was amazing. I liked it as much as I liked Trevor Noah's Born a Crime. Other books were hit or miss; some I finished, some I put down after 40 pages, and some are overdue at the library as we speak.

I still have to go through all of my pants and get rid of the ones that will never fit again, get rid of the ones that dig into me and make me feel like a sausage. But everything else in my closet is cleaned out. 5 huge boxes to Thred Up and Volunteers of America. 10 pairs of shoes gone. Everything in my closet (except for the piles of pants) fits and makes me feel good about myself. I'm no longer staring at piles of clothing, mocking me for who I am now.

The rest of the house is as clean as it's going to be. Boxes of old toys, kids' art supplies, and old sports equipment are gone. The broken recliner and art cabinet are gone. The floors are mopped. That nasty space between the sink and the toilet is clean. That unopened jar of pepper jelly from 2005 has been thrown away. All of the mini-boxes of sugar corn pops and golden grahams have gone to the food pantry. The wrinkled apples are now a pie.

I didn't get my fitness level permanently nudged up on my Fitbit. It still says that my fitness is between "poor" and "fair." I had huge hopes of a summer of fitness, working my way back into running, getting my resting heartbeat lowered, and starting to feel fit again. I managed to drop my resting heartbeat about 10 beats per minute when I was camping, or on vacation. But here I am, the day before school starts again, and I'm right back up to where I was in June. But I also know that I AM more fit than I was. I can see and feel strength in my arms and shoulders. I can jog up a flight of stairs without holding on to the railing. And yesterday, I interval/ran 6 miles. 

More importantly, when I look in the mirror, I'm beginning to see my beauty again. I'm not as mad at the scale, and I'm not mad at myself anymore. Sure, I'm a big girl — and I'm a beautiful woman. Both can be true. Both are true.

So, did I get my mojo back?

I mean...kinda? I feel more like me. More like I can be me.

And I'm proud of me. I'm proud of my beautiful — albeit perpetually cluttered — home. I'm proud that I can go out and interval/run for 6 miles. I'm proud that I can go up the stairs without breaking a sweat. I'm proud that I can pick up a book and read a chapter, that I've built some stamina. I'm proud that I wrote about my journey this summer and that you wanted to read it.

Photo by Denise Johnson on Unsplash

And when I look in the mirror, I'm proud of who I see. It's taken me a long time to see her again, looking back at me.

She is a beautiful woman.

She is a work in progress.

She is me.

Trying to Get my Mojo Back, Part 3

It’s no surprise to anyone who knows me: I have body issues.

As a teen, I absorbed all of the toxic messaging of the 80’s and 90’s, with its hyper-focus on BMI, the “obesity epidemic,” and how many calories were in fats versus carbs and proteins. I remember looking around my high school classes, and realizing that there was only 1 girl heavier than me. And once I got to college, surrounded by college sorority girls, I was told that I was cute, but I was never told that I was beautiful. It was clear to me that college girls were hot. I was not. I was smart, competent, reliable, available. I was not hot.

And then…a career teaching high school has me surrounded by girls at the fetishized age. I am surrounded always by 16 year old girls, before childbirth and life and menopause destroys their abs and draws lines down their legs and wrinkles their decolletage. Surrounded by the “perfect female form” that is not even yet an adult.

In my teens and twenties, I used to define myself by the male (and female) gaze. Only if I could get that slight smile, that look up and down followed by a narrowing of the eyes and a quick jerk up with the chin —an unspoken but clearly communicated “whassup” of approval— only then did I know that I was attractive. But that kind of neediness and reliance on others was harmful —is harmful— not only to me, but also to my relationships. Needing approval from others who will always eventually desire someone else smaller, firmer, younger —it’s toxic. And it’s just fucking wrong. 

My physical attractiveness has fuckall to do with the gazes of others.

Our collective obsession with thin and fit and even curvy* has moralized weight, as if those who are thin and fit (and curvy*) are deserving of their size because they’ve worked hard for it, while the rest of us clearly are gluttonous, lazy, self-indulgent piles of lard.

But thin people aren’t more virtuous because they are thin. They don’t work harder. They don’t eat less. They don’t deserve more admiration because they won the genetic lottery. Thin people are thin because they are predisposed to being thin. They are not morally superior. And they are not more beautiful.

It’s taken me 49 years of never being thin enough —never being fit enough— and a summer of listening to the podcast Maintenance Phase and realizing how much of the toxic messaging I have absorbed in my lifetime…it’s taken me 49 years to say the quiet part out loud: What if this is the size that I am for the rest of my life? What if I am never again a size 12? How do I figure out how to look in the mirror and see a beautiful woman looking back at me?

So that’s part 3 of trying to get my mojo back: trying to remember what it’s like to feel attractive, and to finally know that I am beautiful. But instead of relying on the compliments of others, the number on the scale or the number on the back of my jeans, I want to find other ways to measure. 

Photo by Aleksander Vlad on Unsplash

I want to slowly run again, working intervals into a daily routine, moving because it feels good to move. I want to climb the stairs and feel powerful instead of winded. To feel the muscles in my thighs working, the strength in my calves, the tendons and ligaments working together in strength. 

I want to increase my lung capacity and lower my resting heart rate. I want to stretch and find flexibility instead of judgment in my movement.

But most importantly, instead of finding approval in the gazes of others, I want to find it in my own gaze. I want to look myself up and down, a slight narrowing of my eyes. A Mona Lisa smile smiling back at me. A slight nod of the chin. 

An unspoken energy vibrating in the air. 

“Whassup, girl. You look good.”

*Curvy = bigger, but still without rolls or wrinkles. Like J. Lo or Beyonce.

Trying to Get my Mojo Back, part 2

Hey, there! I'm back! 

If you wondered where I've been, I've been in my front yard taking deep breaths and a lot of naps. Although I would consider my COVID case to be mild, it still kicked my ass for about a week and a 1/2. But, I'm coughing less, I'm less out of breath, and I'm heading outside to mow the lawn here in a few. All this to say: if you are following my "get my mojo back" journey for inspiration on how to do it, getting COVID is the opposite of what you should do. 0/10 would not recommend.

So, what's my Mojo, you ask? It's just me. Finding me again. Feeling okay in my own skin. Relearning how to love the things I used to love. Relearning how to look in the mirror and see beauty. Relearning how to fill my lungs with air and feel accomplished. Trying to learn some self-acceptance.

My journey this summer to try to find myself again has 4 parts to it: Reading, Writing, Moving, and Cleaning. And my goal was to dedicate 30 days (non-contiguous) to to the journey. COVID took me out on day 18, so I've got a long way to go and not a lot of time left. 

And now I'm going to admit to my life-long struggle with cleaning.

I grew up in households where moms maintained the cleaning, and where daily and weekly kid chores were the norm. Weekly, I scoured the bathroom sink. Why? I still am not sure. Like, doesn't the toothpaste just clean it on its own? Regardless, that was one of my chores. Dusting was another. Folding the laundry and doing the dishes were also on my task lists. 

These houses were always spotless, as were the homes of my grandparents.

But here's the thing: these houses also had a cleaning lady who came in a couple of times a month for $25/hour and did the big stuff.

Photo by JESHOOTS.COM on Unsplash

I have never had a cleaning lady. And my own kids don't chore.

And so, some things in my household get done: I pay the bills, buy the groceries, cook the meals, fold the laundry, clean the toilets, wipe down the sinks, do the yardwork and gardening. Michael vacuums the carpets and sorts and washes the laundry and unplugs the shower drain on the regular. Helena waters the plants. I'm trying to convince Sam to fill the bird feeders and scoop the cat litter. The trash gets taken out and the dishwasher gets unloaded by whoever is annoyed by it at the time.

But the other stuff? The decluttering and the dusting and the mopping of floors? It just doesn't happen. Ever.

I don't have time during the school year to do this stuff. I have too much on my plate as it is. And I also don't have the money to hire a cleaning lady. It doesn't make financial sense to take on another freelance job just to pay someone to mop the floors.

So, this summer, I have 30 days to get it done.

So far, I've deep cleaned everything in the main bathroom except the floor. And I've gone through all of the stuff in the pantry and refrigerator, and thrown out outdated stuff and donated the stuff we just haven't eaten in the last year. Two huge trash bags of stuff have gone out, and I actually (temporarily) know where everything is in these 2 rooms. I still have to clean out all the kitchen drawers, where crumbs have overtaken the silverware drawer, and where paperclips and coffee grounds have invaded the "cooking implements" drawers. And I still have to mop the damn floors.

Next up, the living room and storage area. Sports equipment and art supplies for days. Everything must go.

And finally, my own bedroom closet, where I am determined to actually purge 6 sizes worth of clothes that no longer fit. 

I wish I had time to sell all the stuff, but I don't. 

I wish I had time to Marie Kondo it, but I don't.

Instead, I'm shoving clutter into trash bags, I'm mailing bags of clothes to ThredUp so I can get 20 cents back on the 1000s of dollars I've spent, and I'm wiping surfaces down with a Clorox wipe and calling it good.

My house will never stand up to the standards of my moms, but I swear it's going to be cleaner around here by the end of 30 days. 

Less stuff. Less clutter. Less dust. Less guilt.

As soon as I mop the damn floors.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 101

I've been trying to figure out exactly where and how I contracted this virus. 

I wasn't careful out in California. My goal was to make it there, enjoy every minute, and let the chips fall where they may. I purposely didn't wear a mask on the plane home (I announced) because — if I was going to catch it — if I hadn't already had it at some point in the last two years — then this next week was the perfect time to get it.

And so, here I am. Thanks, foreshadowing. You're swell.

To be clear — there were others on the plane who masked the entire time who also got it. And there were even more who were unmasked all day every day who are magically in the clear. I don't actually think it was the plane. I think it was the public bathroom in San Francisco. But it also could have been a random cough by a passerby anytime, anywhere. It could have been just simply in the air. 

Sometimes I wonder if it's all security theater.

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

Even so, I sequester myself outside from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., coming inside only to pee, get the kids out of bed, or find something to eat while I hold my breath in the kitchen. The other 12 hours I sit on my bed, watching Netflix on my computer propped up on a laundry basket, or try to sleep. It might be security theater but it also might not be and I'm still going to trust the medical professionals and science.

I don't feel particularly good, but I don't feel particularly bad. I'm vaxxed and boosted, and I'd been exposed 1000 times before in my job and in my own home, so I'm sure I've got a pretty high immunity to this asshole. Mostly, I'm just tired. Climbing the stairs makes me out of breath. My back is sore, both to touch and to move, like I got in a good workout whilst also getting sunburned. I've got a cold, but it's more annoying than horrible, making me cough at inopportune times, making me sound like a smoker, making my nose run — not enough to blow, just enough to endlessly wipe on my disgusting sleeve. 

And I feel guilty. Guilty that I wasn't careful around my mom. Guilty that I had a long, joking (unmasked) conversation with the pharmacist and my son at the counter, arguing about the metric system, before I came home with my 8 free COVID tests and immediately tested positive.

And I'm bored, but not so bored that the exhaustion fades away enough for me to get the mulch down and weed the garden. I'm bored enough to feel put out that no one can hear me in the house unless I call them on the phone, and I just need to make sure that they took the pizzas out of the oven. I'm bored enough to scroll through my email, but not bored enough to overcome the malaise and respond. I'm bored enough to pull up a crossword puzzle, but I'm too tired to actually do it.

And I know that I am so very, very lucky. I am so privileged to have an outdoor space to sit, to have had access to vaccines, to have had this week of vacation time with very little on my plate, and to have a partner who will step up and take my daughter to practice and my son to get his glasses fixed, even if he also has to ask me how big to chop the onions, as if I have an actual recipe for anything I cook. I still make the coffee for him after he goes to bed, although I am careful not to exhale.

I am one of the lucky ones. Over 1,000,000 people have died in our country alone. I have no underlying conditions. I'm healthy and relatively fit and only just pushing middle-aged. I'm vaxxed. I'm middle class in a middle class community. I'm white, with a history of health and longevity and prosperity in my genetic makeup. 

This will just be an inconvenience, and then I will get on with the rest of my life.

And so...I am annoyed. I am bored. I am not feeling 100%. 

But yet, I am totally fine.

Trying to Get My Mojo Back, part 1

Part 1: Relearning How to Read

If you've been following me at all on Facebook, you know that I've been posting about my own 30-day challenge — a challenge to get my mojo back. Merriam-Webster defines "mojo" as "a magic spell, hex, or charm; magical power." And my mojo is gone.

One magical power I used to have, a lifetime ago, is that I used to be a reader. I read voraciously as a kid — under the covers with a flashlight, sitting on the floor by the christmas lights, in a tree, in the barn, down by the river. I read any book I could get my hands on —The Narnia series, Rebecca (both Maxim's first wife, and also of Sunnybrook Farm), Little Women and Little Men, Harlequin romances with the sexy scenes Sharpied out by my Oma, The Thorn Birds, the entire Love Comes Softly series, the books in my Grandma's bathroom (next to her secret cigarettes) that would fall open to the sexy scenes if you laid them on their spines.

I used to love to read.

But then I went to college and had to resort to reading CliffsNotes to make it through the reading lists of my classes while also trying to maintain relationships and work 30 hours/week. When I did read, it was to try to connect with my future husband, to read what he loved, so that I could love the things he loved (spoiler: it didn't work). And when I became a teacher, even that reading disappeared, replaced by panicked-reading of the books I had to teach, milk creates of journals, reams of research papers and personal narratives and short fiction stories where the protagonist always dies in a car crash on the way to prom.

Two decades ago, when we were all children, I was in a book club. Sometimes I read the book; sometimes I didn't. Usually I was speed-reading the night before our book club meeting, desperately trying to finish, so that I could both drink wine and talk about the book the next night. But book club petered out, as book clubs do, when people got married, had kids, moved away, got other jobs, got other degrees.

And now I need reading glasses.

For the last decade, I've vowed to read at least 2 books every summer, at least 1 book on winter break. That's it. That's all I read. I don't even enjoy it anymore, the eye strain and the terrible metaphors and the terror of finishing a book, knowing it will be over soon and I'll never see those people again. Over the last decade, I've fallen in love with The Poet X, East of Eden,and There There; I read Holes because my son said it was the greatest book of all time, I tried to read All American Boys and got bored, and I read scores of books as I changed schools and changed grade levels and changed curriculum. But each book was a chore, a task I had to force myself to do, a job.

So, this summer, I am going to try to get my mojo back. I'm going to try to rediscover the joy of reading. I'm going to try to read because I want to, not because I have to. I'm going to try to read books I've wanted to read, books I've impulse bought, books that have been suggested to me, books with the sexy bits still intact.

So far this summer, I've read:

The Orphan Keeper — A good book, not a great one. The true story of an Indian boy, kidnapped, sold, then adopted in America, I was hooked on his story, the story of resilience of a little boy trying to navigate a system he didn't understand. And then the boy ended up in America, adopted by a well-meaning family who had no idea that the boy had a family back in India, and I wanted to keep reading...until the book skipped a decade and suddenly the boy was a man. I wanted to learn about how he survived American middle school, how he navigated high school, how he bonded (or didn't) with his adoptive family, but instead the book skipped all that, and focused on his return to India as an adult. I wanted the story of the child.

Americanah — Just go read it now. You're welcome.

Oranges are Not the Only Fruit — Love, love, love. I love this quirky little girl, her obsessed mom, her imagination, her unique perspective on the world. I wanted to read it again as soon as I put it down. I wanted to look it up on Sparknotes, afraid I was missing something brilliant, and I wanted to not care that maybe I misinterpreted something because this was the book I read and this was what I got from it.

So far this summer, I've put down and walked away from:

Funny in Farsi: A Memoir of Growing Up Iranian in America  — I wanted to love this book. It came highly recommended, and I tried, for about 40 pages. And then I realized that I was dreading the book, skimming pages, trying to finish...and that's no way to read a book. I hated the narrator, hated the way she talked about her parents, told her funny stories that, to me, felt more mocking than loving. I wanted to read her experiences like I read Amy Tan, with awe at the beauty and pain at the tension, but instead I was skimming it like Foxnews.com, just trying to get through it and make sure I don't miss something in the narrative, but hating every word on the page. Finally, I put it down and walked away.

We Want to Do More Than Survive: Abolitionist Teaching and the Pursuit of Educational Freedom — I'll come back to this one. I want to read it, and I'm learning a lot, but I don't want to think about work right now, and this book forces me to think about the students in my room, and how to be the best teacher that I can be for them. Right now, I don't want to think about the students in my room; right now I want to relearn how to love reading. Right now, I don't want to think about the enormity of my job; right now, I just want to read.

I have many more on my list this summer. I still want to read:

A Dream About Lightning Bugs: A Life of Music and Cheap Lessons. — I love Ben Folds. I've listened to his life story in music. Now I want to read it in prose.

Murder on the Red River — A student recommended this. Unlike the other recommendations I got this year (Anna Karenina?? Just, no.) this one seemed worth a shot. Plus, I really liked the student, and it's a genre I don't usually read. I'll give it a shot.

The Long Walk — I hate horror but I love Stephen King's writing, and I was promised that this one wasn't scary. I started it last summer and had to put it down when school started. I want to pick it back up again.

Firekeeper's Daughter — I bought this last Christmas as a gift to myself, and then another one was gifted to me this summer. I've been waiting for the right time to read it, a time when I won't be interrupted 100 times an hour, a time where I can just read it cover to cover, even in a single sitting if that's how I want to read it. I plan to take this one camping, when I can be off the grid, laying in a hammock or on the beach...and I can just read.

You Can't Be Serious — I read somewhere that this was a great read. I'm hoping it is.

There are another 45  "I want to read" books on my "want to read" shelf...but for now, I am trying to learn how to read for pleasure once again. I am slowly building reading stamina, slowly trying to beat back the guilt of sitting and doing nothing for hours at a time when I should be cleaning or working or paying attention to everything and everyone else in my life — and I recognize the irony of putting "Relearn how to read for pleasure" on my to-do list — but right here, right now, I just want to get my mojo back, and rediscover my love of reading and my ability to get lost in a book.

Today, I wrote.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Tomorrow, I'm going to read.

Imposter Syndrome

They see me as the expert. “Dr. Sharon Murchie is here with a writing workshop for you and she’s going to teach you how to write for college.” 20 eyes look at me resignedly…they don’t really want to be here. They are tired. They don’t really want to write. They’d rather be somewhere else. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. I am the expert of nothing in this space. And yet, here I am.

I didn’t sleep well last night. I am exhausted. I heard the rain, felt the thunder. Couldn’t get the song on auto-repeat out of my head. My fitbit says I got 4 hours and 5 minutes of sleep. How do I reach 10 kids I’ve never even met about “college writing” and get them interested in something? I wouldn’t be interested in that workshop, not then, not now. I have no idea what I’m doing in this space. I’m not even sure I know anything about how to write. I’ve always been nervous before a new school year begins —Can I hook them in? Will they think I’m funny? Will they trust me enough to go on the journey with me? Do I have what it takes?— but this is even worse. I have 3 hours to reach 10 kids.

I am an imposter.

They see me as an expert. “Dr. Sharon Murchie from Chippewa River Writing Project is here to lead Write Across America activity today.” Oh dear. I can’t get my sound enabled, my mic is a hot mess, there’s a dump truck driving down the road and the lady next door decided to choose this moment to mow her lawn. I have my doctorate in ed tech and I’ve been running zoom meetings for years and today I can’t figure out how to enable co-host, how to get the video to play with sound, and how to get my neighbor to pick more convenient times for her yard work.

I am an imposter.

I tell them I’m a runner. I have a running girl tattooed on my ankle. Just 3 years ago, I hit 1064 days on my running streak before I broke my ankle. I was heavy then. I’m heavier now. I still list “runner” on my bio, but I know that my occasional slow jogs aren’t much. I probably couldn’t run much more than a mile right now. But I stubbornly hold on to that title. I am a runner. I am a runner on back roads in the country, where no one will see me, no one will judge my form. I hear their voices in my head…”awww, look at that fat old lady trying to run.” 

I am an imposter. 

“You’re such a great mom,” they tell me. I look at them out of the corner of my eye…if only they knew. My daughter didn’t come out of her room yesterday, even though her Nana was there to visit. My son hung up on me when I called him, mad that I’d ruined his summer by following his doctor’s orders and forcing him to go to physical therapy. They don’t know how to do laundry, how to do dishes. I hide nothing from them and they know about the world…but they don’t know how to make pancakes or mow the lawn. They drop the F-bomb every third sentence, even in front of Nana, when they should know better. They argue with me about everything. They are smart and passionate and compassionate and active and they were on their phones for 14 hours yesterday.

I am an imposter.

I wonder what it would be like, to see me through their eyes, the people who think I know what I’m doing. Am I smart? Mean? Fat? Old? Cool Mom? Weird? Lazy? Driven? What do they see?

Would I like me?

I think, through their eyes, that I might be kind of bad-ass. That’s a strange thought…me as bad-ass. But I think maybe that’s what they see.

I think, through their eyes, they might see me as strong and capable. As unique. As a pretty woman who doesn’t look bad for her age. I’m sure that the first thing they see is my weight, but what if it’s not? What if the first thing they see is my heart? What if the first thing they see is my soul?

I think that, through their eyes, I might be okay. I might be an expert. I might be capable. I might not be an imposter.

I think that they might be kinder to me than I am to myself.

Our Country 'Tis of Thee

We are not a Sweet Land of Liberty. We never have been.

I want to find the will to celebrate our country, but it has been a difficult few years around here, a difficult few weeks. 

States’ rights to force birth now mean more than a woman’s bodily autonomy. 

We have more rights to own a gun than we do to own our own body. 

We’ve lost the division between church and state; we now uphold a man’s right to publicly pray to a Christian god on center field with his high school team at a public school football game under the guise of free speech. Guns and Prayers. 'Murica.

18% of the country controls 52 senate seats.

It’s hard to find things to celebrate today. 

Highland Park, celebrated home of Ferris Bueller and Kevin McAllister, tried to celebrate today, but another white guy with a gun (or 4) decided that, once again, people needed to die. A Fourth of July parade turned to chaos when 7 people were murdered and another 45 were wounded by a white guy with a gun.

Purchased legally, of course.

This was what the Founding Fathers wanted, right?

Liberty and Justice for All.

If I hear Lee Greenwood sing his anthem one more time, I might vomit. Because, until I know that I’m free — free from being murdered at a parade by yet another guy with a gun…free to take care of my own body as I see fit…free to love who I want and how I want...free from being murdered in my classroom…free to speak the truth in that classroom about the history of our country and the institutionalized racism and misogyny that continues to destroy us all…

Until I know that I am free and that we all are free — I am not proud to be an American today.

Tuesday's Thoughts and Prayers.

It's Tuesday.

I sit in meetings after work, planning the summer professional development offerings. "Restore, Reconnect, Rejuvenate." We’re attempting to create an opportunity for teachers, dragged out from the —last year— the least few years-- to try to find themselves again, to remember why they do what they do.

And then I refresh my browser and see the news. 14 children dead. 1 teacher dead.  The shooter is dead.

Another fucking school shooting. Another 18 year old with access to guns. Another disenfranchised, angry, obsessed young man. Another one.

I pour a drink and I lay down on my bed, pull the quilt over my head, even though it’s too warm for a quilt. I lay there in the dark, breathing in my own carbon dioxide, and think about trying not to think.

I go for a walk later with my daughter. We talk about the shooting. 16 dead, plus a teacher. We talk about the fight at her school today that resulted in a kid being wheeled out in a wheelchair. We talk about the kid who insists on dropping the N word as he enters the room, and the kid who is so disruptive that no one can even begin to concentrate on the worksheet. We talk about her school year, her future, the debt she will accrue in college, the relationships she hasn’t had yet. I have managed to keep her alive for 15 years and 50 weeks. 

18 dead, plus a teacher.

My son wanders down, pulls out a frozen pasta mix, puts it in the pan. He is watching some YouTuber, an obsession I will never understand. I tell him the news. Another school shooting. Fuck, he says. That sucks. He goes back to his phone, watching the latest takedown of Dr. Strange and the Multiverse. He is suddenly taller than me, his voice suddenly lower. His feet won’t stop growing. I have managed to keep him alive for 13 ½ years.

18 dead. 2 teachers. The math is fuzzy. The numbers keep climbing.

We sit down and watch a Thor movie. I can’t do reality right now. I can’t do real people. Superheroes are all I can handle, all I can emotionally lift tonight. 

It’s a senseless tragedy.

Thoughts and prayers.

I tuck my own kids into bed, knowing that —no matter how hard I love them, no matter how many tools I try to give them— their lives are at the whim of some future angry, disenfranchised young man, some guy with a sense of futility, coupled with anger at being wronged, some guy with access to guns— their lives are not in my hands. I literally can’t keep them alive.

Tomorrow, the alarm will go off and I’ll get everyone up. Make coffee, make peanut butter toast, make oatmeal. I’ll remind my son to take his band uniform to school. I’ll hug my daughter and tell her there are only 12 days of chemistry left.

19 dead plus 2 teachers. Their summer vacation would have started in 2 days.

Tomorrow, I’ll thank my partner for recognizing that I just couldn’t face anything resembling reality. Thor was as deep as I could get.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to school and try to reassure my students that they are safe. I’ll email the counselors again about that one kid who scares me, with his angry eyes and his silence. I’ll email his mom again, begging her to get him some help, begging her for reassurance that he is okay. I’ll tell him I’m proud of him, that I see that he’s trying. I’ll try to make eye contact, to see into that darkness, to try to connect.

19 dead plus 2 teachers. Many more hospitalized. Tomorrow, the numbers will probably be higher. 

It's Tuesday.

Thoughts and prayers.

Never Punch Down

 Seems like everyone has an opinion on Will Smith’s actions at the Oscars.

But I think I might be on #teamsmith.

Hear me out: Violence is never the answer. But words cause irreparable harm as well. A slap across the face stings for a bit. Words last a lifetime. Both are wrong. Both are human mistakes.

I feel like Will Smith is getting some heavy criticism for things that are inherently more about him than about his actions. If Jada had marched up there and slapped Chris Rock…would we be overwrought about her physical violence? If Patton Oswald had marched up there to defend his (late) wife’s reputation…would we be so quick to judge? How much of this backlash is because Will Smith is hot, successful, and—wait for it—Black? 

There is a whole lot of “non-violent” rhetoric coming out of the blogosphere. And I want to agree. An eye for an eye makes everyone blind. Turn the other cheek. Violence is never the answer. 

But why is bullying from the stage okay?  

Chris Rock should know better. You never punch down. You always punch up. And if taking cheap shots at Jada and Will is okay in your book, then who is off limits?

If someone had mocked my man or my kids or my mom or anyone else that I loved from the stage on national tv…are we required to just sit there and take it? Suck it up because violence is never the answer?

I find it very strange that white comedians like Amy Schumer, Kathy Griffin, and Jim Gaffigan are suddenly “triggered” by Will Smith’s violence; Jim Carrey is “sickened” and would sue for $200M if Will Smith had slapped him. These people have the right to their opinions, but it is strange that they are so physically affected by an action that was not directed at them and is literally not about them at all. Chris Rock has a history of mocking Jada Pinkett Smith from the stage in very public fashion. If this was a roast of Pinkett Smith, then she should be expecting the attack. But at the Oscars? Why does Rock get to throw shit at her? Why does he feel the need to belittle her? And why are a bunch of white people all up in arms about his right to do so?

I don’t know what I would do in that situation, and I’ll never have to know. I’m not famous. I’m not in the public eye. I’m not dealing with a very public autoimmune disorder, and neither is my partner. But even more than that—I am not Black. No one is policing my actions or expecting me to be the poster child for all white women. And I just don’t think that we have the right to police the relationship between two Black men with decades of history. We don’t get to arm-chair judge the actions of one man, in a very emotional time, who slapped—not punched, but slapped—another man across the face for insulting someone he loved. 

Will Smith could have taken Chris Rock to the floor. He didn’t. His awards speech later in the night conveyed how emotional the entire situation was. His apology the next day was not only well-written, but it was honest, it owned his actions, and it recognized his errors.

Maybe we could all just give our hand wringing a rest. There are real villains in this world destroying real lives. But at the end of the day, Chris Rock is fine after being slapped. And frankly, he deserved to be shut down. Because the harm that he causes with his words is more violent than any slap across the face that he received.

Photo by jurien huggins on Unsplash

If we really feel the need to pass judgment on this situation and insist on non-violence, then we also need to look in the mirror and reflect on what non-violence really means.

Words cause harm.

Words have consequences.

We can do better.