The Downside of Being Involved With a Preening Peacock

The year is 1851. A young woman lifts her cumbersome skirt and its various paraphernalia and steps off the train. She searches for a face she has only seen once in a grainy photograph. Once spotted, she visibly deflates. The paunchy, preening peacock is loudly talking to a group of men who are less than interested in what he has to say by the looks on their faces. The woman steps aside and observes this interaction between her soon-to-be husband and the group he is speaking to. 

 

I keep thinking about this time in history which, for many women, was a time of little choice as to what they would like to do with their life or who they would like to spend it with. I find myself in an untenable situation where a paunchy, preening peacock is in charge of a financial situation that I am attached to. I have no say, I am expected to smile and nod my head, all the while knowing that we are losing money due to this man’s incompetence. My mind is keenly focused on all those intelligent women who found themselves attached to a preening peacock...at least I know my arrangement will end soon. 

 

 

Self Awareness is a Bitch

 “Patterns driven by old hurt don’t go away easily. Building self-awareness is half the battle...you have to chip away at them with your intention so you can let the new you take the lead.”

~Yung Pueblo

 

I have figured out that one of my biggest triggers is not being seen. We all have these leftover childhood wounds that trigger us and, to live a more peaceful existence, we must figure them out. Without an understanding of why you are feeling what you’re feeling it (whatever “it” is for you),will continue to arise and drive your response...I know this from personal experience. 

 

I ran errands last week; one was to our local meat market. I took my number when I entered the store and waited at the counter for my turn. There were two people working behind the counter; one was on the phone, and one was taking the most tedious order I have ever seen from a very elderly woman. The woman hung up the phone and immediately started talking to another customer who had walked up after me. She then started waiting on this woman. I was so hurt that I had been overlooked that my lower lip started to quiver. Immediately I knew that the severity of my emotions did not match the situation. Read that again: The severity of the emotion does not match the situation. That’s always a sure sign a button is being pushed. I walked closer to the woman behind the counter and asked if they were using the number system today. Startled, she said I am so sorry, yes, we are, and began to move to help me instead of the woman who had entered after me. To my surprise I said, “No worries. Go ahead and finish with her.” That, my friends, is a win for psychotherapy! When I was younger my response would have been a hot (probably nasty) mess. 

 

What are your triggers? Your buttons? Are you aware of them? I have too much time on my hands and would love to hear what you’re working on. 

Cousins

 

My family lost the last of these bright, hopeful faces yesterday.  

Each of their lives snuffed out much earlier 

than necessary due to drugs. 

Notice they are all boys. 

I have not lost a female relative 

to drugs yet. 

I can’t stop thinking why? 

Why the men succumb to life’s pressures and the women persevere?

 

Is it that our parents’ parented the boys differently?

Is it toxic masculinity? 

Is it despair that comes with growing up in our

little Midwest town? 

A town which I still inexplicably love.

Yet, for the underprivileged, it is a town that feels

like a deep pit of hopelessness. 

Anxiety and despair await around each corner. 

It’s good to be in the middle class in our little town. 

Even better to be in the ruling class, but that’s not my people.

Yet, the women grow up in this same town with these 

same socioeconomic factors at play...

and here the women stand weeping yet another loss.

 

 I got reacquainted with my 

cousin Ace when my dad was in the hospital. 

After my dad’s death Ace stood by my sister and I as we 

battled my dad’s widow and her watchdog. 

“You ok babe?” 

“You need anything cuz?”

“Need me to go with you?”

 

To our children I say, “break this cycle.” 

Teach your boys to talk about their feelings. 

Teach them to ask for help. 

And above all love them the same way you love your girls.

 

I don’t have any answers, but maybe this is a place to start. 

 

Another Year of Reflecting on Mother's Day

                    This year I am teary as usual about Mother’s Day, but it’s different now.

I am focused not on the pain inflicted by my mother, but on the gift of healing

that was given to me through raising and loving another human being.

I remember vividly having a migraine when Jayne was around nine months old. 

She was colicky and wouldn’t stop crying, there was no comfort to be found that day.

 

I was losing it. 

 

I felt such rage at the pain the loud noise emanating from my child was causing my head.

I felt frustrated at not being able to make it stop. I wanted to lash out at my nine-month-old; 

my instinct was to shake her in anger. 

 

Instead, I placed her, screaming, tears flowing down her chubby cheeks, into her crib and walked away. I locked myself in the bathroom. I sat on our tiny bathroom floor and screamed into a towel, I gasped to catch my breath, I cried uncontrollably, 

I was horrified at the violent instincts I felt that day.

 

I loved my baby, what the fuck was wrong with me?

 

Years later my therapist (I’ve had three invaluable therapists over the years)

tells me that there was nothing “wrong” with me.

 I was parenting as I had been parented. 

When I went into the bathroom that day,

 I began to break the cycle of abuse. 

 

The gratitude I feel to Jayne for coming into my life and, unwittingly, helping

me to break this cycle, to heal my own inner child, is boundless.

Raising Jayne has helped to heal my mother wounds. 

Now that Jayne is an adult, I have learned to accept her for who she is, 

not who I expect/want her to be.

 

If you had a mother that was more fit for wire monkeys than 

human babies, know that you are not alone. 

Send that momma love for the hard situation she was put in,

 because I know now my momma did the best she could. 

I’m just glad I figured out how to do better. 

“People fear what they don’t understand…”~Andrew Smith

 

I knew very few people of color growing up in Missouri. The University of Missouri has an extensive census archive which says that in the 1970’s my county was 97 percent white. 

97 percent white…let that sink in.  

 

My little hometown on the Big Muddy was steeped in racism.

 

 To this day you can find Confederate flags flying high around Missouri. 

I wonder if these people wish the Civil War had gone the other way 

(40% of Missouri fought for the Confederacy). 

 If not, do these people think about the symbol that this flag represents…slavery. 

How that feels to their black friends. 

Do they have any black friends?

 

Being able to put yourself in another person’s shoes and then to think about how your actions and beliefs affect that person has always resonated with me. 

How would I feel if I were a black person in our white-centric world?

 

My hometown had Aunt Jemimah syrup. 

My hometown had black lawn jockeys. 

 I remember seeing a kid who wore a 

hobo costume for Halloween one year with blackface. 

No one thought the costume was wrong, except for maybe the 

3% of blacks not enjoying being compared to a hobo.  

Was this meant to imply blacks were homeless? Jobless? 

 

Inexplicably I still love my hometown and I hope that the #BLM movement might instill 

a deeper consideration around race for those who are racist and not aware of it. 

 

Being open to seeing, and addressing, our own ugliness is the only way to make a change. 

For those of you who will actually consider what I wrote without dismissing

me since “you’re sure you’re not racist” check out 

So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Olua. 

 

If we get real with ourselves we all have a prejudice to something and

 when we know better, we can do better. 

 

Day 25

This is an unprecedented time for the world. 

Over ten thousand dead in our country 

alone in just weeks. 

For twenty-five days Pete and I have (mostly) been at home. 

We walk, grocery shop (as little as possible), and wait. 

Yet, I’m grateful to have a partner that I enjoy spending time with. 

Our walking miles have now topped 55. 

We live near a trail system that connects to a wilderness area, 

so there are a lot of miles to cover. 

However, the trail traffic has increased tenfold since this crisis began 

so we are mostly walking on our neighborhood streets to keep our distance. 

There is plenty of room in our neighborhood.

 Big houses with big yards and wide empty streets.

This is not the case for everyone. 

Cities teaming with people.

Narrow, crowded streets.

This is a dark and scary time, yet this will pass. 

Everything does.

I’m on an emotional rollercoaster. 

Sometimes I’m despondent thinking of all the inequalities in the world.

I lay sleepless thinking of the “essential” workers. 

The hospital workers. The grocery workers. The migrant farm workers.  

Those in India lacking the very soap and water needed to wash their hands.

The single adult struggling with no job and depression…alone. 

Then I remind myself to pray. 

To see the good that I have in my life. 

To see the good that still exist in the world. 

This is a dark and scary time, yet this will pass.

Everything does. 

A Calm Mind is a Creative Mind

On Wednesday something special happened in my class.

 It was a small, sweet moment that I want to share.

Just after lunch we meditate each day. 

This routine was set up at the beginning of the year. 

Students have the choice to either: 

follow their breath, count silently to themselves, or to pray. 

After meditation is DEAR time (Drop Everything And Read).

Older students will sometimes come in to read with the younger kids at this time. 

When kids who have not been in my class come in at DEAR time they sit at the 

kidney table by the door and watch our meditation. 

On Wednesday four of my students from last year came in to read with us. 

One is a Buddhist.

One is a Muslim.

One is the son of a Baptist Minister.

One is not religious.

My former students came in and, without a word from me, 

scattered themselves on the floor amongst my current students. 

One sat next to me ready to assist me. 

I set the timer and the gong sounded to start our three minutes of meditation. 

After three minutes another gong sounded to indicate our time was up. 

The whole room was silent after the second gong. 

A big intake of breath and a sigh out. 

Then, in unison, our mantra:

May I be happy

May I be safe

May I be loved

Often teaching first grade is a bit chaotic and moments such as these slip past me. 

I’m glad I recognized this one.