Thoughts at home…
Sort of having this vision of the sixteen acres of my parents’ home becoming a retreat/healing center (as my father works to complete the sauna he started years ago). A place for intentional community for people of many faiths.
This is some sort of variation of a pipe dream to start a school or to start an organic farm we bring up now and then.
I find this deep respect for my family as they are spending chunks of their retirement tending to our property as well as volunteering for a Christian mission group that works to bring Syrian refugees to the US/Canada. As liberal urbanite who seems to be surrounded by lots of fellow Trump-bashers seemingly “woke” folks, I can kind of think “well duh” but I forget all of the fraught biased politics surrounding this as they live in the middle Trump country (1)
Driving home I see a truck that says TUMP 2020 in 10 ft tall letters sitting across from an elementary school where I used to shadow ESL classes. I remember meeting kids from Mexico…China..Thailand…etc. Sort of makes me think the Latino children I worked with at least had each other and their communities to fall back on emotionally when the hate speech started to spew from the mouth of the ‘most high,’ but these kids are alone, maybe the only one of their countrymen in that town and having to see that propaganda every day on their walk to school.
(1) Ryan Dueck, “I’m Sorry, Christian, but you Don’t Get To Make That Move” https://ryandueck.com/2015/09/16/im-sorry-christian-but-you-dont-get-to-make-that-move/
football and crybabies
My friend reads my blog and sends me a wonderful meditation by a Lakota grandmother but I do not play it at the dinner table. Shortly before our family prayer, I hear my father saying to my uncle and brother “I don’t get why people are such babies these days, wanting to be so politically correct, crying about how the name of the football team is the Redskins, give me a break.”
I keep a lot of thoughts in my head. It takes me some time to process things I find, and I am already conditioned to keep my mouth quiet. Maybe why I’ve turned to writing as a means to expression, as what I usually want to say is not understood, or received well, by the people around me. It’s a gift and a curse, sometimes, I’m sure.
So I’m silently replying … “Maybe they are ‘crybabies’ because of genocide..then suffered centuries of conquest, relocation, boarding schools, etc. etc. and peoples and now have to be reminded of it by it everytime they see the logo that perpetuates stereotypes (1)…not to mention it harms the brains of men, maybe even men who have DNA of their descendants with concussions (2-3)…and not to mention the ones at said sporting events refusing to stand for the anthem in act of protest and to stand in solidarity with opressed peoples.(3)”
But then again, what would a girl like me really know about football.
(3) Antonia Moore, Vice, “Footballs War on the Minds of Black Men” https://sports.vice.com/en_us/article/eze4gj/footballs-war-on-the-minds-of-black-men
(4) Edmund DeMarche, CNN, “Kaepernick Participates in Unthanksgiving Day on Alcatraz” http://www.foxnews.com/us/2017/11/24/kaepernick-participates-in-unthanksgiving-day-on-alcatraz.html
social consciousness and the children and the generations and the going on
Question: Does our social consciousness shift as we age to find “belonging” within the political consciousness of our peers the current trends of politics? (My dad going from sweat lodge builder to a more conservative view on ‘political correctness’?)
Question: Or do those remaining bits of what was not understood or manifested by the previous generation pass on to their children – like me, now caught up in my own research and my own life-playing out in some spirit lotus wrapped up in healing ‘whiteness’ as an identity and how it can be healed in order to seek more expansion and freedom for all peoples. Are we the ones left trying to sort out the parts of us we left behind in previous generations?
We played a game at the dinner table that my mother and I made with creative self-reflection questions and the first one my grandfather picks up.
“It’s a helluva a place,” he says.
Today I’m talking to my mother about my previous school year as a teacher in urban DC, fraught with all kinds of things I can’t even begin to explain in a simple post. My mother was a teacher and so was I.
I show her the slideshow I made for a project I did with a colleague in the music-biz to try and get statues erected in DC of local women and people of color who made an impact on the city’s history. She’s editing my work. I’m showing her the slides of a local DC artist who played with folk musicians of the 60s and participated in the Civil Rights movement. “You spelled Pete Siger wrong…It’s Pete Seeger.” I know mom, I know. Typos are inevitable.
Then I show her videos from the poetry slam I attended of my old students, Latino kids who wrote poems of unity, dreaming, how hard their parents paved the way for their world of success. One of my best friends from my old school coached the team and wrote the culminating poem. I helped her edit it.
The kids stand up and say “Unity, we stand for a better tomorrow, but now you tell me no more dreamers?”- these children descendants of a generation of immigrants denied access to opportunities before the DREAM Act and DACA. The stuff the Puppet and his minions are working to overturn. Now the bilingual children of the ancestors are on stage shouting out what their parents are still denied from saying in the public space.
Note from self: Remember this isn’t the conditioning of your white savior complex or need to prove your worthiness shown through your dedication to the children of color over other children because that is still a manifestation of racism. This is trust that individuals will free themselves as individuals communities will free themselves as communities and this is the healing of our century that we all must take part in as a whole. I have called you to participate.
We watch old home movies of my grandparents on my father’s side. My father’s baba, who didn’t really speak English at all but he and my uncle remember telling them to eat. Standing next to beautiful flowers in her garden. Chickens running around the backyard in front of the outhouse. Always wore a babushka and a dress, they said. It’s all that they’ve remembered, they said.
I sit to wonder. What the ancestors have asked us to carry on. What they have asked us to change. What they have asked us to heal. What they are watching us be.