Category: Political thoughts

Heart ball and boundaries

I awoke Sunday morning to a Facebook scroll full of images of elegant couples captured from Saturday night’s big formal fundraiser, of which I was pleasantly unaware. This blissful ignorance made me quickly flashback to a not-so-blissful conversation with my sister three years ago, regarding said fundraiser. 

Me: I am dreading Saturday night. So much about the event makes me pissy. The face painting, the stilts donning, the leaving the house barely dressed in the middle of winter. It’s not fair men get to be warm in their tuxes, while women freeze in their gowns. Then there are the 10-top tables, the booze and the massive amount of food waste. Who needs steak AND salmon? I’m sick to my stomach thinking about it. Why can’t we just send a check?

My sister: If you dread the event so much, why on earth are you going? 

Me: Because saying no would lead to divorce. 

My sister: If that is truly the case, Katie, you’ve got much bigger issues.

Time stopped, searing the scene into memory. My gut clenched and we ended the call. Her words hung over me all day. I did have undeniable issues if I could neither muster the strength to choose me, which would mean disappointing my spouse, nor call in the peace and acceptance I needed in order to attend with him lovingly and willingly.

I’d been beating myself up pretty badly, both about about my big group social anxiety -always exacerbated by the pressure of dressing up, doing hair and make-up and worrying about tripping in high heels- and my inability to go with the flow. I know my husband wanted me to be easy, but more than that, he wanted to feel supported. He believed that attendance at these events was part of his job, and me being at his side was important. So important that he’d neglected to ask me if I wanted to attend, despite his knowledge of the apprehension I felt at this type of event. 

He couldn’t wrap his mind around what the big deal was for me, it was only a handful of hours. I couldn’t understand what the big deal was for him. I was happy to meet in a smaller group with any man, woman or couple he wanted me to meet or get to know better, but these giant events didn’t seem the place for relationship building. 

I believe it was my sister’s reflection of my sorry situation combined with Trump’s recent inauguration and the solidarity I felt with all women for whom men in suits make decisions that finally gave me the strength to say, 

Honey, I honor you and your work. 

I happily offer emotional support

and my presence in small gatherings.

But for this event, to which you RSVP’d without consulting me, 

I refuse to attend. 

I am sorry. I know that stings. 

I bless you going alone or inviting another in my place. 

This voicing of my desire, my will and my boundaries (me choosing me) caused some painful ripples in our household. It was disorienting and confusing for us both, as it often is when one partner decides she’s going to change the dance steps.

But this past Sunday morning— waking up early after a full night’s rest with a clear head, a happy belly and a memories of family moments from the night before— was SO worth the growing pains endured three years ago. And to realize that the event wasn’t even on my radar made the Facebook scroll all the more sweet. I felt empathetic joy in my heart for all those happy ball-goers raising money for a good cause, and I felt personal joy in my heart for me for my husband, continuing our growth as sovereign individuals while celebrating the beautiful partnership of support we are becoming. 

Self-sovereignty

I started binging and purging right about the time I started high school. Right about the time my world was expanding and the rules to keep me safe were getting more restrictive. As a child, I’d had very few rules about where I could go exploring solo on my bike. The world was my oyster and my curfew an empty belly, but when I started bleeding and growing breasts, the rules got much more confining. Looking back, I interpret this change in structure to the disappearance of trust, both my parents’ trust that the world was a safe place for me and my own trust that I had the skills I needed to navigate it. Freedom was pulled out from under me, and I’m pretty sure I simply handed my sovereignty away. There were new unnameable threats of which to be wary and new ways of operating to be learned. My parents’ fear was not unfounded. This was decades before #metoo, long before sex was talked about.

No matter, I knew that it was dirty. The message I got at home, from church and from Midwestern culture in general was that sex was a big no-no. Bad girls wanted it, and I so very much wanted to be a good girl. I was already a good student, so just like I picked up chemistry formulas, Spanish verb conjugations and algebraic equations, I also picked up social rules. 

Good girls are asexual, thin and co-dependent. 

I took it upon myself to stuff my budding sexuality, to strive toward thinness and to find myself a boyfriend. Before long, I’d gained twenty pounds, a nutritionist telling me what to eat, a therapist with whom I shared codified bits and pieces, and boyfriends with whom I played damsel in distress. Somehow, between all the binging and high-mileage running purges, I managed to be both class president and homecoming queen, a sure result of my strict adherence to aforementioned good girl rules. 

I continued playing out a pattern of physical and mental self-abuse, self-mistrust and deep shame throughout high school. And though I’m still shaking off its remnants today, I share here the story that sparked my healing journey, the story that sowed the seeds of self-trust, self-care and sovereignty that I tend to so mindfully today. 

 ________________

Freshman year of college I attended a women’s retreat. There, a woman came to share with us her story of escaping an abusive marriage. She told of making the decision to stop waiting for her husband to get better and instead choosing to take care of herself— right then and there. She sneaked out of the house with her children in the middle of the night to take refuge in a shelter and save her life. 

I was 19, and her story of rising up and owning her role in that story, of leaving behind everything she knew in order to choose herself sparked in me for the first time the thought that I too could choose to take care of myself. I could choose to choose me, instead of choosing to succumb to whatever force was trying to confine me, keep me stuffed and sedated, constantly eating and running. I could choose myself when making the decision to eat or not to eat an entire pizza, loaf of banana bread or batch of cookie dough. I could choose to leave behind patterns that were slowly killing me from the inside, one bite at a time. I could choose to let go of behaviors keeping me from addressing the issues behind the incessant consuming..

Typing I can choose me today seems so silly. So obvious. But at the time, the idea of choosing myself and acting in my own best interest was completely novel. Completely rebellious. And completely empowering. It was one of those time-seems-to-stop moments when I was able to watch my thinking shift in a way that allowed healing to begin. The journey certainly hasn’t been linear, but the insight that I could step out of victimhood and into agency was the impetus toward a new paradigm, one that I am continuing to grow and one that I hope for every human on the planet. 

I have agency. I have choice. I can choose me. 

I hope for the feeling of sovereignty and freedom for all humans, and I celebrate the micro-moments and micro-choices that lead us there. I celebrate that earlier this week, in the midst of severe anxiety and the deep and ancient eating-disorder urge to stuff, control and numb, I chose me. I tended to myself carefully and with love: asking for what I needed, applying boundaries and nourishing and resting the body. The issues that were behind the anxiety didn’t disappear or transform with my nap or the chopping of vegetables, but instead of compounding the issues, I brag that I minimized collateral damage, leaving more energy for examination of those issues.

In these weeks of Mercury moving in retrograde, of communication being compromised, of old patterns being brought to light and of campaigns bringing deep emotion to the surface, I celebrate the thread of learning that begins in adolescence and continues throughout a lifetime. I celebrate the self-awareness and self-reflection happening at the individual level that lead to life-promoting cultural shifts at the global level. I celebrate expanding trust and appreciation for the wisdom and autonomy of every human body.

We are each other’s destiny

I was lucky enough to lead yoga at a wilderness retreat yesterday. There, a friend read these words of poet Mary Oliver:

I would say that there exist a thousand unbreakable links between each of us and everything else, and that our dignity and our chances are one. The farthest star and the mud at our feet are a family, and there is no decency or sense honoring one thing, or a few things, and then closing the lest. The pine tree, the leopard, the Platte River, and ourselves – we are at risk together, or we are on our way to a sustainable world together. We are each other’s destiny. 

As we find ourselves in week three (and one) of the primary races, and are perhaps enjoying some extra leisure time this president’s day, it seems a perfect time 

-to pause 

-to contemplate our connectedness

-to familiarize or deepen our knowledge of the politics surrounding us

-to wise-mind our way into choosing a candidate that best represents our values

-to envision a new way of operating, one that celebrates both our connection and our sovereignty

Happy third Monday of the month, and first day of Mercury appearing to move backwards. 

May the force be with you!

365 days to go

This Sunday my aching body is begging for rest, so I’m snuggled in with the books of two wise women. When looking for a photo of Ms. Maya Angelou’s family to help me better envision a poetic scene she was painting with her words, I stumbled upon the above 1983 gem of her and the other author-activist I’m soaking up today, Ms. Gloria Steinem. Of course these two kindred-spirit warrior goddesses knew each other. In their unique voices they champion the same cause: truth and freedom.

In this specific moment in time I’m in one of the stages between being set free and being pissed off. I am feeling overwhelmed. I am anxious about what the next 365 days will hold as we prepare to choose our leader next November 3rd. Part of me wants to hunker under this blanket where it’s safe and not initiate any ripple-causing or feather-ruffling conversations. Another part of me wants to pick up a megaphone and ask tough question after tough question about patriarchy and colonialism and how and where we see these structures in our homes, schools, businesses and government. This part of me knows the discomfort required in looking at the truth of how I participate in and benefit from structures that aren’t designed for the greatest good and the most complete freedom.

In times when I flounder in aches and pains and confusion and apathy, I call to these women to show me the way to sit in discomfort, use voice to ring truth and find strength to walk the talk.

¡Viva México!

Today is Mexican Independence Day. I find it interesting that Mexico, like most of Latin America, shares a story similar to that of the United States, of having to fight a European colonizer for the ability to be a sovereign nation. A big difference between the US and Latin America, however, is that unlike in the Northern part of the Western Hemisphere where the indigenous populations were all but disappeared, in the Southern part of the globe mestizo cultures were born. These cultures, a blending of indigenous and European ways, live on in varying degrees of vibrancy depending on the region.

I also find it interesting that finally, in 2019, we in the US are acknowledging out loud that our nation was built on the back of the slave trade. Finally, our presidential candidates are bringing reparations to the conversation, and some of the populous is listening. I’d like to add to this dialogue the idea that we may owe reparations to others as well. I don’t say this to diminish the plight of African-Americans at home, but rather to shine light up on the responsibility we have for the woes of our neighbors too, especially in light of the recent Supreme Court decision to bar asylum seekers at our southern border.

I suggest we pause for a moment to reflect upon our involvement in the dire situations experienced by so many from Central America, El Salvador specifically. That we flash back to the 1970s and 1980s when the native and mestizo people were fighting for their right to land ownership, land that was taken both by the Spanish colonizers and later by US corporations. Maybe we examine the US Latin American policy, which almost exclusively backs military dictators. Maybe we acknowledge that the havoc reaped upon El Salvador —kidnappings, rapes, 75,000 deaths— was primarily the work of government forces trained by the United States. Maybe we acknowledge that the current situation in Central America was largely created by us.

Maybe we educate ourselves on the backstory of all those seeking refugee status in Mexico and the United States from Central America, and instead of building a wall to keep them out, dumping the problem on our brother to the South, we focus for a moment on how we contributed to creating the Central American chaos, on how we can retrace our steps to the origin and start to create health from there. Maybe we also acknowledge that MS-13, the terribly violent Central American gang-turned-mafia, started in Los Angeles, CA as a way for Salvadoran refugees to protect themselves from the Bloods and the Crips. Maybe we acknowledge that our policy of sending non-citizen troublemakers back to their country of origin as opposed to rehabilitating them in our own system (the system that created the problem) spread the deadly MS-13 virus from LA to San Salvador, from where like a cancer it has reached into every nook and cranny of the Americas.

I am not saying I have the answer, but I do believe that looking at how our actions have caused and contributed to the current situation could change the way we choose to move forward. We must not play ostrich and stick our heads in the sand, but examine our mistakes and learn and grow from them as a nation.

Okay, that’s it. Back to tequila, mariachis and el grito.

¡Viva Mexico!

Columbine

My family and I recently returned from Colorado, where we hiked, horsebacked and lolly-gagged our way through the mountains. On one of our adventures we came upon a field of these lovely beings, named with the Latin word for dove, Columba.

Neither this image nor the nearly universal symbol of peace comes to mind when I hear “Columbine”. Like most Americans of my generation, instead of a mountain flower, I think of a mass school shooting. Over twenty years ago, on April 20, 1999, our nation was rocked with the first bloody outcry of it’s kind, of a young white population begging for connection and belonging, begging to be truly seen. Two decades later the isolation and separation felt by those two Columbine youth is as rampant as ever, as are mass shootings.

Absolutely we need to address gun control, divisive language and the roots of white supremacy. We need to dialogue, call our representatives and march in the streets. But just as importantly, we also need to sit quietly and examine our personal responsibility in creating and participating in the current culture of our nation.

How are we, as individuals in the greater web, creating spaces of inclusion?

How are we using language of connection?

Where may we unwittingly be using language of separation and difference?

How are we inviting others to eat at our table?

How are we unconsciously telling others to keep out?

How are we cajoling our sons and daughters to speak to what hurts and desires to be seen?

How are we cajoling ourselves?

How are we supporting ourselves, both alone and in community ?

Where and how are we creating feelings of belonging?

Are our feelings of connection created with acts of inclusion or exclusion?

What are the rippling effects?

My dream is that sooner than later the Columbine flower be a national symbol of peace, belonging and the coming together of our nation to address the undercurrent of desperation felt by so many.

My pro-choice conversion

Growing up and into my early twenties I was both a good Catholic and pro-life. Though I could see lots of holes in Catholicism, I didn’t see any wiggle room in my belief that every life created deserves a chance. This was an easy belief for me to have. I grew up comfortably, in a homogenous middle-class, middle America town. I didn’t see much poverty and the only case of violation I knew personally was that of a dear friend who was raped orally, which though completely rocking (and still rocking) our worlds, didn’t have us worried about pregnancy.

Though we didn’t talk about sex or pregnancy at home, I knew what the consequences would be, and the one my teenage brain was most worried about was humiliation. I did not want to walk around town with a scarlet letter in my growing belly. I knew two girls who had teen pregnancies, one gave her baby up for adoption, and the other chose to raise her daughter with her family’s help. I said prayers of honor to both. They were the bravest women I knew. The whole world was aware they’d had pre-marital sex, yet they held their heads high and went about their business as mama-warriors. Their stories strengthened both my fear of sex and pregnancy and my pro-life stance.

Being a staunch pro-lifer, senior year in college I did an internship at a home for teens that accepted those who were pregnant and/or parenting, as they were difficult fits for foster care and the state’s juvenile detention center. My favorite part of the job was accompanying the girls on outings. One day the outing list included taking a girl of twelve to a doctor’s appointment. I wasn’t thrilled as she always smelled of urine; she was a bed wetter and an infrequent bather.

In the exam room the doctor went over the list of the girl’s medications, lithium for Bipolar Disorder among them, and then asked if there was a chance she could be pregnant. I didn’t even look up from my magazine, knowing she wasn’t in the mothering wing at the home and knowing it would be difficult for anyone to crawl in bed with her. Besides, she seemed to be the social/emotional equivalent of a preschooler.

Yes, she replied.

Do you know who the father could be? asked the doctor.

Either my uncle or my cousin, she said matter of factly.

Time stopped for me. I can remember the moment as if it were yesterday. Reality as my 21-year-old self had known up to that point was forever changed.

That moment marked my unwavering conversion to being pro-choice.

I knew deep in my bones that if she was pregnant and the decision was left to me, I would choose to abort this multi-med-absorbing embryo-of-incest. Not doing so wasn’t fair to the future baby, nor to the bed-wetting, friendless and family-less child of the state.

From one second to the next, the world became much more complex, and much less black and white, than I had ever imagined.

And continues to be so.

From those to whom much is given, much is expected…

I don’t know when I first heard a version of this quote, but it’s been present in my consciousness for as long as I can remember. It taps into existential guilt I feel about being born white, American and well-off. Not only did I grow up with plenty of food to eat, plenty of clothes to wear and live in a big house on a nice street, I was also well-aware that I had, as Dr. Suess says,

Brains in my head

And feet in my shoes,

I could steer myself 

Any direction I choose Continue reading From those to whom much is given, much is expected…

kids’ questions, mindsets and the women’s march

During dinner on day two of our Costa Rica trip the boys asked me a question that continues to boggle my brain. It came after spending an afternoon traveling to a nearby village with our new friends from New York. The family of four wanted to escape the surf culture of Tamarindo and spend a laid back afternoon in a village less affected by gringos. Hence, we cabbed it to Villa Real where we ate the midday meal in a local seafood restaurant and ambled along the town’s dirt roads taking in the flora, fauna and rudimentary architecture of the bucolic town. Upon returning and talking about the day’s adventures, the boys asked:

“Do you speak Spanish as well as Jeff does?” Continue reading kids’ questions, mindsets and the women’s march