Why are all the Black kids sitting together in the cafeteria?

Ever since my kids were little one of my favorite after school questions was “who did you sit with at lunch?” When my son Max went to high school I noticed that despite having Black friends, he never mentioned eating with them. When asked why, he said he didn’t know but that they all sat together. I was baffled. What had changed in high school? Was it because he was attending a private school? Was it a racist place? Had we made a mistake?

I mentioned my concern to a Black friend who had attended the same school as Max. He said it was the same in the 90’s and explained that it was due to shared experiences. Many of the Black kids took public transportation to school and came from non-parochial elementary schools. They felt more comfortable together. He didn’t seem concerned, so I let it go. 

Flash forward to the first antiracist conversation group I hosted last summer. The discussion got heated when the topic of lunch room sorting surfaced. There was much surmising as so why some of us witnessed segregated seating in our various school experiences and some of us didn’t. We fumbled our way through dialogue about how much of it had to do with certain locations and ages being more racist than others. None of us felt like we could speak to what was going on, and there was much frustration. 

Jump to today. I’ve just read the book Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by Beverly Daniel Tatum. She explains the role of personal identity development and how in adolescence most of us struggle with questions about who we are and how we fit into the world. For those of us who see our race as the standard, racial identity isn’t on our radar, but for those of us who are beginning to understand our race as perceived as a deviation of the norm, perhaps due to experiencing various micro and macro aggressions, seeking out peers who understand and can reflect understanding of our experience back to us is of vital importance, hence the separate cafeteria seating. 

This theory also explains why students of different races may congregate readily in elementary cafeterias and may choose not to as they enter the stages of self- exploration and identity development in high school. In addition, it explains why not all Black students feel the need to self-sort, as adolescents vary in both experience and timing of identity development. 

I’d like now to come back to the idea of white people not necessarily having to consider race as part of our personal identity development. Why would we? We see ourselves reflected back to us positively everywhere we look: on TV, in the movies and in leadership positions from the classroom to the capitol. We are the norm and we have been for as long as we can remember.

Though many white people don’t choose to reflect upon being white, I believe the murder of George Floyd and the ensuing BLM movements and resistance to these movements during the critical pause of the pandemic and under the exclusionary rhetoric of Donald Trump have caused many of us to feel the need to explore what it means to be white and our role in current events. 

Like the Black kids sitting together in the cafeteria, we too need to come together to share our experiences of racial development. We need to share our stories of coming into racial awareness, of the discomfort and the fuck-ups, of the guilt, fear and frustration. We need to gather with other people interested in developing white identity, one not based on assumed normalcy or felt superiority, but rather one based on reality, cognizant of the current system of racism set up for our advantage.

We need to gather with other white people who are further along in the process and acting as change-agents, who can accept where we are and compassionately offer guidance for us in noticing our blind spots and taking steps toward dismantling personal and cultural racism. 

We need to strive toward techno-colored vision— toward appreciating the uniqueness of each person we encounter, regardless of race, while at the same time recognizing the role race plays in our all our experiences. We need to strive for equality for all, with focus on our own liberation from patterns of socialization that lead to the oppression of self and others. 

We need to create a world in which school isn’t felt to be a racialized space, where Blacks aren’t feeling the need to segregate, a world in which asking “why are all the Black kids sitting together in the cafeteria?” is a question of the past.

the still, small voice of love

Holy shit. She’s done it again. 

I sat down to prepare for a sophomore conversation call, one in which a guide from the high school meets with my husband, myself and our soon-to-be a Junior son to reflect upon the first half of high school and make goals for the second half. I, of course, had my journal in one hand and a list of questions to contemplate in the other. My son, lounging in front of the TV, had his phone in one hand and a video game controller in the other. I sighed, let him be, and picked up my dinging phone alerting me that new grades had been posted. I don’t always click, but it being so close to the end of the semester and minutes before the reflection call, I did. It wasn’t the course grades that caught my attention, it was the “effort grades”. 

B effort! 

That lit me up. We’d been home for 8 weeks and school has pretty much been his only obligation! I immediately blasted out a text to him saying that I was feeling disgusted and that I’d prefer lower course grades and A effort to this average display of attention. I followed that up with a tattle call to my husband. It wasn’t until I was in the middle of texting a friend to ask if was I being/expecting too much that I snapped back into real time and space and admitted to myself that I had the answers within, and the yuckiness I was feeling and wanting to discharge was in direct relation to the real conflict at hand: the pressure I was putting on him was the same pressure I’ve been trying so desperately to shake off myself. I was literally planting the same voice in his head that I’ve been trying my damnedest to quiet. 

Do more!

Do better!

Prove yourself! 

I deleted the text and opened the zoom call. Our talented guide started our conversation with this poem-prayer by Henri Nouwen:

Many voices ask for our attention. There is a voice that says, “Prove that you are a good person.” Another voice says, “You’d better be ashamed of yourself.” There also is a voice that says, “Nobody really cares about you,” and one that says, “Be sure to become successful, popular, and powerful.” But underneath all these often very noisy voices is a still, small voice that says, “You are my Beloved, my favor rests on you.” That’s the voice we need most of all to hear. To hear that voice, however, requires special effort; it requires solitude, silence, and a strong determination to listen.

I really appreciate when the universe puts me in my place so quickly and decisively with her magic ways. (I hear you!) And I recommit myself to solitude, silence and a strong determination to listen — to both gentle and not-so-gentle reminders (this one was gentle, thank you) and to my kids when I pause long enough to ask them questions of the “are you okay with this feedback?” sort.

Scrabble squabbles

I was making soup Saturday afternoon when my phone dinged with a text from the depths of the basement. 

My soon-to-be 16 year old asked anyone want to play pitch?

Yes! I responded, psyched for the invitation from the handsome basement troll, ready in 15 minutes!

We played cards, followed by family dinner, community dishes (our dishwasher broke), a prohibition-style game of beer pong and then scrabble, said teenager still in the mix, still upstairs away from his lair. 

About 30 minutes into the game, he declared he’d had enough. He said he was not having fun anymore and began to put his tiles back in the bag. 

No! I screamed. Can’t quit. Only 15 more minutes -you can do it!

I’m done he responded. 

You can’t quit, I told him. Or no phone tonight. Or i-pad. (I’d show him who had the power.) 

His pleasant demeanor transformed before my eyes. His self-awareness and sovereignty (interpreted by me in that moment as defiance and perhaps if I’d dug a bit deeper- rejection) lit my fuse. 

He grew big. I grew bigger. We finished the game. 

Was it the same as before he declared he was done? 

No. 

Was it fun? 

No. 

Did I go to bed proud of myself? 

No.

If I could press redo, would I?

Yes.

I’d say: 

I get it honey, family time in teenage time is triple what it is in tender mom time. Thanks so much for the card game invitation, doing the dishes and playing two more games. I realize that is a lot of time and energy.  

I also know that your little brother and I are having a blast right now. You hanging out with us means so much. You’ll be able to drive next week, which will provide you more opportunity to be away from the house (post Covid-19 of course), and I feel sad knowing our opportunity for time together diminishes every day, despite it being a normal, natural and vital part of your growing up. 

Could you possibly take a little break, grab a snack and come back so we can finish? I’d love for you to demonstrate to your little brother that even if you’re losing or bored you can still finish a commitment you started, especially when quitting affects others. That said, I trust you to know what’s best for you, and if you’re at the end of your rope, I honor that. 

——————————————————————————————

This morning I scrolled through my audible library looking for someone to read to me while I vacuumed. I knew exactly what I needed. In Nonviolent Communication, Marshall Rosenberg reminded me of the following:

Punishment is costly in terms of goodwill. The more we are seen as agents of punishment, the harder it is for others to respond compassionately to our needs. The following questions help us to see why we are unlikely to get what we need using punishment to change people’s behavior. 

  1. What do I want this person to do that is different from what he or she is doing? (And why do I want them to do it? What are my needs?)
  2. What do I want this person’s reasons to be for doing what I am requesting?

When I address this second question, I see that my use of punishment and reward (access to electronics) interferes with Max’s ability to do things motivated by a desire to enrich his life or that of his family. I see that I am acting out of alignment with everything I am trying to reteach myself about living my truest life. 

I personally don’t want to act out of fear of punishment or rejection, nor do I want any of the humans I am guiding to either. In my haste (and hurt?) I robbed both of us of an opportunity to speak to our needs and our feelings and to practice acting in alignment with them. 

Luckily (?), I think we’ll get plenty more opportunities to practice in the next few weeks. Luckily, he’s turning 16 and not 18. Luckily, I am well versed in the art of apology.

a solstice celebration

I was listening to a friend this morning as she tried to find the word to describe how she felt about my family’s willingness to participate in our annual Winter Solstice celebration. It wasn’t jealousy, she said, because she was really happy for us, but maybe there was a bit of envy there because she couldn’t imagine even asking her husband to play in such present, reflective and non-traditional ways. 

I realize I’m really lucky. I also realize and celebrate how hard I’ve worked to create this reality, as my family’s openness and my willingness to ask for what I wanted wasn’t always the case.

I travel back in time, not to a prior Solstice, but closer to Spring Equinox, to Easter morning a big handful of years back. We had plans with extended family that afternoon, but I was really craving some quality nuclear family time before we headed out. I did my typical thing, polling each member of the family as to what they’d like to do. Answers varied from play with my Easter Bunny toys to watch TV. If we’d have been a more religious family, we’d at least had time sitting together in the pew of a church, but we didn’t have that glue. I tried to rally my husband for support. I tried cajoling my kids with the promise of maple syrup if we could all just dress and get to a restaurant for brunch. I was met with resistance from every side. 

I resigned myself to a typical Sunday morning routine with everyone doing their own thing at home. Bitterly, and full of self-pity I transferred the clean clothes from the washer to the dryer pushed the door shut. The latch didn’t catch, and it swung open. Not even aware of my mounting loneliness, hurt and rage, I kicked the door with my foot. It felt so good. I kicked it again, this time harder. It felt even better. One more time I stretched my bent knee back to get ample torque and let my bare foot fly. With all the commotion I was making, I’d roused curiosity and the stomping and pitter-patter of nearing footsteps could be heard. I was bawling at this point. The dryer was left in a V-shape and could only later be closed with three big strands of duck tape. The kids were staring at me in horror. 

What was WRONG with me my husband asked?

At the time, I hadn’t a clue, but with a whole lot of reflection (and paid therapeutic support) my situation became clearer to me. Nothing was wrong with me, but I wasn’t living a life in alignment with my values of connection, spirituality and quality family time, and I didn’t yet have the vision or skills to create it. I didn’t believe I deserved or had the power to create the rich family-life I wanted. And perhaps most crucially, I hadn’t the voice and confidence to express to my life-partner what I wanted to create.

My therapist helped me to see that if I wanted my life to be different than the one in which I was currently experiencing, then I needed to behave differently, either by creating powerful moments for connection on my own or by sharing explicitly with my husband what I wanted for our family and clearly making requests for us to do it together. It wasn’t fair to anyone if I was being ambiguous or passive-aggressive. She was my cheerleader, encouraging me in good ol’ Mary Oliver fashion to fight for the precious life I wanted to live, encouraging me to live boldly and deliberately. I was scared out of my mind. What if I asked in no uncertain terms for the kind of quality time and support I wanted and got denied?  What if I shared with my spouse the life I wanted to build and he wasn’t on board? 

Then you have very valuable information, she explained. 

Gulp. 

Flash forward through piles of journals.
Flash forward through loads of e-mailed attempts at conversation.
Flash forward through the awkward and jerky starts and stops of novice face-to-face, all-masks-off conversation.
Flash forward to participation in a Mindful Communications course and role playing with a classmate over the phone.
Flash forward to prayer and practice and failures and start-overs and redos and apologies and self-inflicted time-outs.
Flash forward to the important learning that I will be just fine should I have to create the life I want to live on my own.
Flash forward through the tearful and snot-filled vulnerability of meaningful, transparent and difficult heart-to-heart conversation.
Flash forward to now.

Now I can share confidently with all my men:

Guys, I love you so much. Nothing means more to me than to create really rich and meaningful experiences. This year for our annual Solstice celebration I have invited someone I really respect to do some soul work with us before the sun sets. You need to be home with an open mind and ready for action by 2:00. And because our time sleeping together in one room playing “olden days” means so much to me, I’ll pay anyone who makes it all the way until sunrise $20. Lastly, please come to our gathering with an activity, game or conversation starter to share. 

And guess what. 

When we were tucking ourselves in for the night and one of the boys asked, is it just me or has mom gotten her way all day? my incredibility supportive and very handsome husband replied yes, and that’s okay


A visit to my mother, from the Great Mother

Dear sweet child,

You won’t remember this vision when you wake. You’ll only feel the echo of my message, but please trust this echo, and revisit it often as you grow.

I want you to know that you are god. Holiness lives and breathes through you. There is nothing you can do to stop god from being you. You can only dim or brighten her light. You’ll know the vibrancy of this light by the signs your body gives you, so it is of upmost importance that you learn all you can about this body— about the parts you can see and the parts you can’t.

Let the body be your compass.

Make friends with the breath, the heartbeat and the pulses that respond to your surroundings. Discover the ways your body prefers to move. Know your belly and what it desires as fuel for your play.

Play with your body.

Give great care to each and every one of the body’s portals to the outside world. Pay close attention to where your body gives and receives energy; observe how it excites and how it recoils. Learn what depletes the body too. Know which environments, situations and conversations stoke the body’s fires and which dim the light.

Take exquisite care.

Know also, sweet child, that God is nature. Be in nature. Observe carefully, learn from the patterns of her plants and animals. Listen to the water and to the stones. Know in your bones that you too are nature. Study your seasons and cycles well. See your patterns. Feel your feelings.

Feel your nature.

Finally, sweet baby of mine, know that just as you are god, all other creatures on the planet are too, in various shades of dimness and brightness. Pay most attention to your light, protecting it and caring for it while letting others tend to theirs. Do not confuse your light with the light of others. Do not give permission to others to control your light.

You are the keeper of your light.
You are the keeper of your light.
You are the keeper of your light.

Sweetest dreams to you, my love. I am here.

Always.

Art credit — Priyanka Rawat Sharma

Silence is golden and the purple jeep

I haven’t written about me and Middle in awhile. If I’m going to flip my lid, he’s usually the one to witness the outburst. A former me may have said he’s usually the one to cause the outburst, but poco a poco this old dog is learning new tricks. I pile brag upon brag sharing that earlier this week, after receiving news that left me deflated, defeated and a little mad, I was driving to the designated pick up spot after school and could tell from 100 yards away that Mr. Middle was in a state. I glanced at my phone, accidentally left in do-not-disturb mode and saw that I’d missed a number of calls and a couple of texts asking where I was. Whoopsie, communication failure in the I’ll be 20 minutes late department. I’m not sure how the message wires got crossed, but boy was he bent out of shape. And so was I.

However…

Instead of pretending like I wasn’t, or pretending like I couldn’t tell that he was and going on with my normal “how was your day?” routine, instead of silently scolding myself for not communicating well or scolding him out loud for not listening, I simply let us both be mad. We drove a few miles in complete silence.

And it was fine.

We made our way without a word until a big purple jeep pulled out in front of us. A big purple jeep with a giant peace sign and plates that read NAMASTE. The sighting was enough to pull Mr. Middle out of his funk. He came to life urging me to speed up, wanting to see who was driving the vehicle, which of course I did because who doesn’t want to take a peek at the person driving a lovefest-mobile?

Without a word, our quarrel was over. Our partnership re-established.

I have a feeling that for this “pays to be quiet” lesson to really take hold, I may have to practice it a time or twenty.

Summer invocation

Attention is the rarest and purist form of generosity. — Simone Weil

Today is the last day of non-summer break for me. Tomorrow afternoon the house will once again be full of boys. I feel the urge as I do every year to create lists: goals, expectations, screen-time rules, guidelines for sharing communal space… but I’m being pulled to approach this summer a little differently.

This summer I want to help the boys (and myself) be really aware of our energy and our attention. Where we put our attention grows. I want us all to increase our awareness of both where we are directing our attention and how our energy feels when our attention is shining in different places. Are we antsy? needing to move? to rest? to be outside? to be in water? to create? How is our energy affecting others? How is the energy of others affecting us?

I am realizing that more than I want my babes to be rule followers and contract honorers, I want them to be in touch with their ever-changing needs and desires and tuned into their relationship with their environment. I want them to understand the importance of attention and the power we can harness by placing our attention on purpose.

For little bits each day I want to focus my attention upon each one of them so fiercely the generosity is palpable.

On repeat?

I shamed Mr. Middle. Again. The distance between episodes is growing fatter (thank you teachers and guides), but the echoes of my voice and the pain it caused are still reverberating in my chest.

You drank all the almond milk??!
I only buy so much,
now I want my special treat,
and it’s GONE!!!

Who was this screeching?

The growing loneliness in my heart space that needed soothing?
The feelings of inadequacy rising just below my skin?
The charge from an earlier encounter?
The eating disorder that surfaced when I was about his age?

Luckily his father called me out on my outburst breaking me out of my trance. Thank you. (And fuck you too, I thought at the moment).

I softened. I returned. I used more words. I apologized.

Though it sucks, I know this endless cycle of failure, reflection and recovery builds my resiliency and capacity to be a better human, and I know that if I continue to play with presence and attention, maybe it will build that of my boys too.

A friend shared this Hawaiian poem, Ho’oponopono, with me just this week. I may tattoo it on my palm.

I am sorry.
Please forgive me.
Thank you.
I love you.

Yirah: magic fear

Earlier this week we had a friend over who had recently watched the documentary series Inner Worlds, Outer Worlds. Her multiple references to the program over dinner inspired us to snuggle up between the ancient crackling fire and the modern flat screen TV to watch part one. Full-bellied and sipping cups of tea, the boys took it in with a mixture of perplexity and boredom until the violin scene. In this scene the camera showed a violin being played before a tray of sand and the sand responding to the frequency of the music by forming beautiful geometric patterns– familiar to anyone who’s seen a mandala or indigenous pattern on a piece of art. All of a sudden Gus was jumping up and down, covering his eyes and begging for it to stop.

I don’t like magic! Magic is scary! Shut it off!

At the time, I thought it was super cute and interesting, especially coming from the boy who still believes in Santa and begs to watch any scary movie his brothers may be watching. The next day the scene was still at the forefront of my mind and worthy of a mention to a close friend. Today I’m seeing the relationship between Gus’s reaction to the magic moment in the movie and my reaction to seeing and feeling magic in my life.

Often I feel chills as I realize the power of sending a wish, making a vision board and more recently creating my first altar of intention. The tingles come when I sense the universe is responding to a question I have posed or a request I have made. When I ask to learn something and the lesson-opportunity shows up quickly, or when I have a flash of insight and the lesson gets reinforced by a story in my newsfeed or a book recommended by a stranger, I feel connection to the universe. I sense the role I play in co-creating and conversing with her. Lots of times this whooshing feeling of connection feels empowering, supportive and delightfully playful, but other times I respond like Gus.

I don’t like magic! Magic is scary! Shut it off!

And then I do what humans do. I eat it, social-media distract it or busy it away until I feel I’ve landed back in my comfort zone (albeit a bit numbed and detached). Eventually, I am ready to crawl back out, so I make the wish, set the intention and the cycle begins again.

Awareness is the first step to change right?

I am hoping with awareness of my fear cycles I can begin to shorten the time I spend in the disconnected zone. Besides awareness, another catalyst for change is looking at things from a different perspective. As someone who has dealt with anxiety since my teenage years, I welcome a better understanding of fear. Recently I’ve been reminded of a long-forgotten interpretation of fear that is helping me to reframe my anxiety both around the sacred and the mundane, which I’m finding more and more to be one in the same.

According to Rabbi Alan Lew, the Old Testament speaks of two different kinds of fear.

Pachad: an overreactive, imagined and projected fear that sees danger and threats; the panicky lizard-brain fear for survival that often includes unconscious thoughts such as rejection could destroy me or I could combust if I step out of my comfort zone

and

Yirah – the fear that overcomes us when we suddenly find ourselves in possession of more energy than we’re used to, when we’re taking up more space than we’re used to and when we feel that we are in the presence of the sacred

I am betting that both 9-year-old Gus and myself are experiencing moments of the yirah type fear. We can sense that the sacred is being made known. This is weird and scary, so we want to stop.

But it’s also exciting.

Perhaps being able to more specifically name the fear as well appreciate that humans have been experiencing it for time unknown can help us ride the sensation of awe and connection with a little more trust.

And joy.

So many sorrowful questions

My current reading circle is reading Omaha native Roxane Gay’s Hunger, A Memoir of (My) Body. The book is an uncomfortable read. Roxane tells the story of building her own cage, a body weighing 577 pounds. She created this structure, she explains, as a way to feel safe, a way to avoid a desiring male gaze. She did this in response to being gang raped by a group of boys from her suburban middle school at age 12. Continue reading So many sorrowful questions