Tuesday, November 15, 2016

I will not be silenced


This week has been a series of emotions for me...as hatred fills the air and seeps into the very fabric of our existence through social media, news outlets, public protest, and reports of crime being committed. I am watching strangers berate each other, family attack each other, lifelong friends choosing to walk away from each other. Never have I seen this level of discord, and it is coming from all camps. There seems to be no limit to the extent of this national reaction. And make no mistake, that is exactly what this is. A reaction.

As if it isn't hard enough to be afraid for the safety of the people I love, I am also afraid to blog now. I am afraid that I will be called a cry baby. Afraid I will be called a sore loser. Afraid you will tell me I have nothing to worry about. Afraid you will bully me, with your lack of empathy that you think is appropriate but is actually the equivalent of telling me to put on my big girl pants or walk it off. Afraid you will pick up your bullhorn and go off about the DNC, the RNC, and Bernie, blaming me for how things went down, even though you have absolutely ZERO idea how I cast my ballot. Afraid you will tell me I am being dramatic, even though every single thing I just said I was afraid of has already happened to me, on Facebook, in texts, in emails, in real life. I am going to ask you to refrain if that is your impulse, have enough respect for me to not put me down because you do not understand who or what I am actually afraid of.

Let's get one thing straight. I am not afraid of Donald Trump. Not as an individual. I am not afraid that he has enough charm or intelligence to woo our nation. I am not afraid of most people that voted for him. As a rule I am seeing that a lot of people who voted red did so for one or two specific reasons, and were overall unaware or didn't consider the possible ramifications of their choice. Most people that I know who voted for him are living under the "he would never do that" umbrella when it comes to issues such as women's health and gay rights. I believe them actually...Donald Trump has bigger fish to fry than if Inga has the right to visit me in the hospital while I am unconscious because it offends someone's religious beliefs to allow her to do that, or if we fall under the same Federal protections as our heterosexual friends who are married. But, again, I am not afraid of Donald Trump.

I want to take a minute to review what I am afraid of. I am then going to explain why. My shoes have only been worn by me, and have been through every situation with me, met every person in my life, heard every story, and witnessed acts so beautiful and so horrific that the idea of taking a breath becomes a challenge. Again, if you start feeling yourself getting defensive or on the verge of reacting, either close the window or take a moment to breathe through your discomfort before you decide you are going to act on your impulse to respond without being unconditionally supportive. I am not doing this for your blessing or your approval, I am hoping that my honesty will speak for the people you do not know, and perhaps inspire just a modicum of compassion and unity.

I am afraid of religious oppression. My heritage is divided 4 ways. I am 25% Irish, 25% French, 25% Polish and 25% Lebanese. That means I have ties to both Jewish and Muslim religions, directly. I have lineage that comes from Beirut, Warsaw and also from Belfast. I have visited two of the three cities, and explored the remnants of religious persecution as it directly relates to my family. I have stood in a gas chamber, and watched the walls close between the Catholic and Protestant sides of a city at sundown. I have spoken to survivors from both cities while standing on their soil, spent time with children who had food ration cards in their homes, broken bread with humans that can never fully describe what religious divide has done to them or their nations. I am afraid of religious oppression.

I am afraid of racism. I grew up one of two white grandchildren on my mother's side. I can remember one cousin visiting my hometown and being so uncomfortable with the way she felt there that she still hasn't been back, and it has been 40 years. I remember living in Atlanta, and being in a car with my friend Reuben and listening to the cop call him a stupid n** and telling me that being seen with him would put me in jeopardy. I work at BU, and have listened on countless occasions to students be told to speak English when they are in private conversations, the very students who will get a degree in their 2nd, 3rd, or 4th language. I have been caught in a Shriner's parade, and witnessed a KKK march while in northern Georgia. I am afraid of racism.

I am afraid of stop and frisk and mass incarceration. I am in the process of writing my master's thesis for Criminal Justice and have been researching ethical and just practices for years now. I consider the feelings that are associated with broken windows policing, and stop-and-frisk and on the surface they make sense, but if you did a little deeper, you find the undercurrents that cause division. Consider the neighborhoods where these policies are enforced. My neighborhood is primarily white, upper class, and liberal so I highly doubt stop and frisk will be instituted there. Lower class and disenfranchised neighborhoods tend to house minority populations who have experienced centuries of judgement and racism. Targeting these neighborhoods widens the gap between people rather than closing it. Discrepancies in sentencing based on race and gender have been researched for years. Women are more frequently imprisoned for moral crimes, and males for violent crimes. MORAL CRIMES. That is a real thing. Drug crimes are broken down by classification, most with federally or state mandated minimum sentences. For example, in most states the mandatory minimum for 5 grams of crack is the same for 5 pounds of cocaine. That brings socioeconomic status and race into the conversation. Although black people account for only 13% of the U.S. population, they are 40% of the incarcerated population...compared to white (non hispanic) folks, who account for 64% of the U.S. population and 39% of the incarcerated demographic. I am afraid of stop and frisk and mass incarceration.

I am afraid of homophobia. I can remember the feeling I had, that day...I was 31 years old, a teacher, and I got called into the principals office. I was let go...and in the most open display of prejudice I have ever experienced, told that being gay made me unsafe for the kids. 10 years earlier I had an administrator who told me she had spoken with her lawyer about me to make sure I would be protected. That was five years before I was denied service in a restaurant, and six years before I stood in front of my state senate and was told that the fact that I could be evicted from my home for my orientation was not a problem at all. I have visited assaulted friends in hospitals and survived being sexually assaulted by someone who thought I just had never had a "real man". I was at a bar in Connecticut six months ago, and asked Inga to not be offended that I would not sit next to her, because I felt physically unsafe. I have watched friends be denied access to ICU rooms and wedding cakes because the working personnel said it did not align with their religious beliefs. I am afraid of homophobia.

I am afraid of the reversal of Roe v. Wade. Before you balk...let's get real. Abortion has only been used by a select few as "birth control", or to terminate pregnancy where no preventative measures were taken. Cases with failed contraceptives, medical issues, sexual assault, or other extraneous circumstances account for a majority of abortions nationally. Late-term abortion, as described recently, is not a reality. Abortion at 9 months is frequently referred to as a c-section. Women who have to make the decision to have an abortion are often ridiculed, misunderstood, and verbally or physically threatened at some point regarding their decision. In states like Indiana, legislation has been passed (by Vice President Elect Mike Pence) to mandate that women who receive abortion services have to pay for and hold a funeral for the unborn fetus. I imagine that for me...when I was raped at 18 years old and got pregnant. How would I have managed the aftermath of being raped, the decision that I could not live with the pregnancy, and the addition of holding a funeral emotionally? I was not put in that situation, I had a miscarriage...but I know many of you just judged me before you read the next sentence. Without cause. And for most of you, without personnel experience. I am afraid of the reversal of Roe v. Wade.

I could keep going. Environmental issues. Education issues. Infrastructure issues. Economical issues. Really there isn't enough time for either of us to go through it all, so I cherry picked a few that really hit home with me. My feelings are valid, and you cannot shame me out of them. I am not burning down buildings, or putting down the opposition. I am not criticizing people's perspectives, or attacking your post election process. I am turning my fear and grief into action, and asking people from every party to join me. I am not afraid of Donald Trump. I am afraid of the uncertainty and rage that has suddenly become dominant in a country I love, and a land that my ancestors sought to be a part of for a better life for themselves, and ultimately for me. I am willing to fight for you. Are you willing to fight for me?

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Good grief

I am not sure how emotions got such a bad rap. When being sensitive became a character flaw. When crying became a sign of weakness. When anger became a thing to fear. Or when fear turned into a liability.

Over the past year I have done a lot of work to learn how to sit with the physical sensations that precede my reactions. That has been important because I label and judge emotion, and emotion is, after all...just a series of sensations.  Butterflies, sweaty palms, racing heartbeat...could be excited or frightened to death, right? Pausing and breathing after noticing sensations allows me to assess circumstances, and determine how I want to respond. For the most part anyway...it is a practice and I am in the infancy of trying it. 

The emotion of grief is particularly challenging for me. The heaviness in my heart, the stinging behind my eyes, the knot in my stomach...they are all not comfortable for me. Yet, they are a natural process by which my body is trying to let me know that I have sadness or grief to sit with. I think that grief is one of those experiences that I try to dodge, for fear that it will smother me. I will do anything to get away from it...none of which resolve it, but rather it gets stored in my body and come out in inappropriate and inaccurate expressions. The most common ways that it releases with me is in anger or isolation.

I know that not everyone expresses uncomfortable emotions the way that I do. I have met people that shop, drink, eat, drug, cut, clean, drive, exercise, and shut down to not sit in grief. I have been under the impression that grief is a choice, and that I can therefor choose to not have any. I have been told that grief is self-pity, that it is attention seeking, and that there are others who have it "worse than" me, and so I should get a better perspective. None of that is true.

My grief currently is related to noticing a shift in my relationships. I have changed a lot, my life has changed a lot, and the result is that my friendships have changed a lot. I feel disconnected from people that I have known for a long time and am struggling to connect with new folks. I feel generally awkward and uneasy in conversation, and struggle to rectify that. It has likely been this way since my father died, although I can not be certain of that. I am sure that such a significant loss resulted in not wanting to be close to people for fear of losing them.

Ironically, that is not how I think, and not what I want. It is simply what I have always done. To avoid grief, I avoid connection, which causes grief. Sitting with it is new for me. Allowing myself to be vulnerable and ask for what I need...a hug, a coffee date, a phone call. To engage in self-compassion and be aware that I do not need to isolate when I am sad, but instead have to reach out to the people I know love me.

I am almost excited about this...the idea that I can grieve and still be in relationship. I no longer need to hide from my grief, I have the option to embrace it, and even to use it to connect with others rather than disengaging. I have the ability to be honest and open with it, and stay embodied, present, and mindful that like all other sensations, these are temporary.

Who knew? Grief can be cleansing, freeing....good.


 

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

How I met myself...

It all ended with a homework assignment. However, to explain the ending, it is only right to start at the beginning.

I have spent the past two years of my life doing research on and delving into the neurological aspects of trauma in women. I even went so far as to apply for and begin a master's program in Criminal Justice SOLELY for the opportunity to work with a Dr. who specializes in the topic. Part of the work I am doing with her involves a program that she is the lead researcher for: TIMBo (Trauma Informed Mind and Body)...a program specifically for women with trauma histories, using yoga, mindfulness, meditation and group work to create new opportunities in their lives.

My initial assignment was fairly simple...enter data from pre and post tests. Tedious? Yes. Interesting? Not really. But then I got upgraded, I was told that I had to do a literature review for a paper that my boss wants to publish on a group that was run following the Boston Marathon Bombing. She thought that would be best accomplished if I first attended a training, " TIMBo Foundations". It was a 4 day training that was focused on trauma, and I was petrified...my father had just died, Inga and I were having some challenges, school was kicking my ass...I thought being dropped into 32 hours of trauma talk would result in me being hospitalized. I was wrong.

As most of you know, I have issues. Not run of the mill issues, but real life diagnostic issues. I have spent the past 11 years working toward "embodiment" with my trauma therapist, and had gotten to the point where I could talk about feelings (as much as I could understand them) and not disassociate every time I had one. I thought I had arrived at some sort of magical place, where my trauma no longer captained my ship...and I was somewhat right. But there was more to learn, more to experience, more to become.

It all began at that first training. I was introduced to holding space for people, and to people holding space for me. I dipped my toe in the water of vulnerability, finding that I could expose my most inner self to a group of women and that they would stand not in judgment, but in compassion for the experiences I had. That left me feeling connected, TRULY connected for perhaps the first time in my adult life. I came back in awe of my experience, and then became challenged by maintaining those feelings in my day to day life. In turn, I went to the second training and then Inga went to both as well based on the changes she witnessed in me. We now had common language, common ground and began to relate to each other in new and amazing ways. I thought I was done with my training journey, I had gone the distance...adopted the language, embraced the practices, shared them with my friends and most importantly my partner. Until...

I got a text about a month ago, from a friend that is also one of the TIMBo trainers, asking me why I was not attending the 3rd and final training. I had a lot of reasons. Money being at the top of the list, but closely followed by the rationale that I would never be a facilitator and I didn't need to attend to complete the research I was meant to do for them. After a couple days of bantering, I finally agreed to go....thinking it was for them and only them.

When I walked into the final training, I was greeted by women that I knew and loved from previous trainings, but also by some humans I had heard about through Inga attending her trainings. I was intimidated, closed off, and reluctant. That changed within the first hour, and soon I was swept up in the sense of safety that these people provided FOR me. I spent the first three days caught up in the magic of identification and feeling "seen". And then came the homework assignment.

We had been asked prior to the training to send in a photo of ourselves as children. Then we had been given someone else's childhood photo on the first day of training, with strict instructions to not try to figure out who's photo we had, and to not try to determine who had ours. This pushed many many buttons for me...some obvious and some that were interesting to experience. I never bought into the whole "child within" thing, and I was not open to that type of wishy-washy feel-good hippie crap on any level. We had spent days looking at the lengths we had gone to keeping ourselves safe...the ways in which we used defense mechanisms to keep people at bay, to not be hurt, to fight demons that we all seemed to have regardless of our histories. And now, we were being asked to write a letter...to the girl in the photo we had been given, but more to ourselves. A letter explaining that we all try to keep ourselves "safe"...without details and stories that were specific, but just of the feelings and actions we had taken to protect ourselves from harm, real or imagined.

I came home and sat down with this photo, and then took out the one I had sent in. I looked into my own eyes and struggled to find words to say, and then I just started writing. I wrote for her, I wrote for me, I wrote having NO idea what was going to become of this, but I wrote the truth. The next day we handed in those photos, and my life changed. Possibly forever.

We spent time with the photos hanging on the wall, a testimony to the fact that every woman in that room had once been an innocent child. That really hit me in a way I was not expecting. I know we were all young once, but after hearing these women open up, the visual of their younger selves was almost too much to bear. Then we all had the opportunity to read the letters, initially to ourselves, but eventually out loud to the group. These intensely personal and incredibly vulnerable letters that offered the little girl in the photograph words of support and encouragement for what their life would bring them. Not the stories...not details. Just honoring the ways that they adapted to their fears, and that continuing to operate from that place of fear was not longer necessary. As people started reading, I felt myself slipping away...the walls I had built to protect myself were firmly in place. Until they crumbled. I mustered up the courage to read what someone had written to me...and magic happened.

For the first time, IN MY LIFE, I felt complete compassion for someone, and simultaneously felt entirely connected. Our circumstances, upbringings, personalities no longer mattered. She spoke to my heart, and I knew that we experienced the same fears, doubts and insecurities on a level that had been previously off limits inside myself, to myself. Then, the person who's picture I had written on read my words...to her...to ME.

I am not sure that I can describe what it is like to have someone do that. I know, with 99% confidence, that had I read my own words, it would not have been the same. I would have been focused on not screwing up, editing what felt too frightening, and protecting myself from possible rejection of my efforts. Instead, I just sat and listened. I took it all in, every word. Every word I wished for and needed to hear when I was a child. Suddenly, I loved her. Me. I loved me. I felt compassion for every time I have pushed someone away, for every time I have lashed out, for every way I chose to protect myself from loss, abandonment, rejection, judgement. I finally understood.

We have a universal condition. We ALL need to feel safe, and the ways we choose to do that may differ, but the fact remains the same. We all need connection and love, and on some level we all fight it for fear that we won't actually get it. That has not changed in me, but something significant has. I no longer judge myself for it.

I thought that was fleeting. I assumed that I would come home and just go back to business as usual. That is not what has happened. I feel a tenderness I never knew was possible, and I do not just feel it for myself. I feel it for every person I come in contact with. That does not mean that I feel good all the time. However it does mean that when I feel scared, hurt, angry, or confused, I can stop and honor myself and my responses to internal vulnerability. It does mean that when my partner, or any other person I come in contact with is struggling, I can have compassion for their internal vulnerabilities and offer love and space rather than pushing them away. It means that I have something I have never had before.

I have Sonja.


Tuesday, March 15, 2016

It has to be said...

I spend a lot of time on social media. Not the average amount in my estimation. If anything I am an over-user. Specifically on Facebook. I like to troll, scroll, learn, ask and explore. At least I did. Until the beginning of the primaries.

I like to see myself as a very non-judgmental, inclusive, open-minded person. I do not tend to use social media as a platform for my personal agenda...I share pictures of my dog, my partner, and I ask innocuous questions designed to create conversation and connect the unexpecting. Recently however, the tides have turned and I am finding myself fighting the desire to throw my hands up in the air, delete my account or at least most of the people on it, and commit to only watching Netflix until I flee the country after the election next November.

Sound dramatic? Perhaps you are right. However...

I have a number of friends who seem to be Trump supporters. I mean....life long friends. And family. MY FAMILY. I come from the most racially and sexually diverse clan that this earth was ever blessed with, and yet...et tu?

I want to remain the bigger person. The one who can see that this is a democracy, and that we all have our opinions and beliefs, and are protected to utilize free speech to express them. I was upset when friends started deleting friends, bashing each other and causing mayhem over the debates. I am not sure I can maintain that perspective.

I am a pansexual middle aged woman, who believes in racial equality, is the grand daughter of 4 immigrants, believes in the personal right to chose to be armed or have an abortion, does not think that we can blame Muslims for all of our problems, sees that opioids are just the latest drug epidemic...but are not the first or last to kill people at alarming rates. I know that I may never, in my life span, get to vote for a candidate I want because I probably will have to vote against the candidate I do not want. I know the people in my life have good hearts, kind spirits, are generous and loving humans.

And yet, they seem to be in favor of a man that more closely resembles Hitler than I am comfortable with. A man that condones and often promotes violence, advocates for racist agendas, cannot or at least has not towed a party line with any sort of conviction, has been in several failed marriages, never held office, and said in public that he would sleep with his own daughter had he not spawned her. He has yet to say anything that contains substance in terms of policy, and dodges personal responsibility for his own actions at a rate which I have previously seen only in films. His hateful rhetoric and aggressive speeches inspire the uneducated and disheartened to harm innocent people, and he has encouraged a violent response to people that protest against him...their right under the 1st amendment.

How do I maintain friendships with people that support that? I am not voicing an opinion on my choice for candidates, and most of you would be shocked to know my political perspective if I ever chose to share it. However, I have a moral obligation to myself, to my value set, to my fiancee, to my mother, to my friends, to my community and to my country to stand up AGAINST racism, bigotry, misogyny, violence and hate. I cannot ignore, deny or excuse the choice to support those qualities in a person that is asking to LEAD us, as a country, to being greater.

I feel like the kid on the schoolyard that has to choose between being silent when a hurtful joke is told, or speaking up and risking losing people I love to stand up for what is right and good. I will not be passive in the face of oppression. I will not support hate to be liked. I do not want to lose your friendships, but I will not remain reticent in this situation. It is not who I am, or who I am willing to be.