Running Scared

Found here

I am sleeping in a small bedroom, on a soft bed with a quilt over me. It seems to be a cabin out in the country somewhere. I'm not sure where, and I think I'm alone in the house. I wake up suddenly aware of some noise, someone prowling around outside under my bedroom window. I slowly slip out of the bed, trying not to make a sound. As I get closer to the window I can see a shadowy form tinkering with the screen, removing it. It won't take much to break in. It's such an old place with old fashioned, brittle wooden window sashes and locks. I've got to get out of here, quick! Maybe through the livingroom door at the front of the house. If I can sneak out the door and run to my car, I can get away without the guy at my window seeing me.

Trying to conceal my heavy breathing by holding my hand over my mouth, I run quickly to the livingroom. I only have on my bathrobe. It's a good thing I have on something half way presentable so when I dash down the street or into the car, I will be decent.
What's this? Someone is shining a flashlight in through the livingroom window's sheer curtains, trying to see inside. I'm afraid to move. It looks like only one person is there but I'm not sure. He begins to rattle the doorknob. I turn to run back to the bedroom but I hear the window in there slowly sliding open. Should I go back to the livingroom? There aren't any other rooms in the house except the bathroom and the door doesn't have a lock. I back up to the wall. The rattling of the front doorknob intensifies. The man outside is pushing his weight against the door. I hear it creak and groan as he fidgets with the door hardware and leans against it.

There is the sound of footsteps coming from my bedroom into the hall. The wooden floors do not mute the sounds of his shoes--clip, clip, clip. He is walking slowly and deliberately toward the livingroom. Should I try to hide behind the couch? No. It is under the window and he will see me. There are no long curtains to hide in, no table for me to crouch under. The man in the hall is almost to the livingroom now. I press my back against the wall as if it will pull me into the siding. There is the sound of splintering wood as the front door yields under the force wielded against it by the man on the porch. A blinding light shines into my eyes as the flashlight is slowly raised and pointed at my face. I can hear loud breathing behind me.

There is no place to hide, nowhere to go. I can't escape this and I think I'm about to die. I am panic stricken.

Scary, isn't it? This is the dream I had one year ago on the first night I attended Camp Good Grief as a counselor. I woke up out of breath with my heart racing. My jaws were tense and I was gripping the blankets up around my neck for all I was worth.

A simple nightmare, right?

Why do you think I had that dream while I was getting ready to lead a group of young boys through a weekend to resolve their losses? Most likely because I had not yet resolved my own. It had been six months since my father had died and for many reasons I had not been able to concentrate on grieving. My job, my responsibility for my mother who was languishing across the country, my own shock. Plus the fact that I never got to say goodbye. Daddy had donated his body to science and I never saw my him after he died. I had just been carrying on, relatively unmoved and amazingly composed.

Now I was going to have to face grief coming and going. There was no place to go, nowhere to escape to. I would be hearing about the boys' sadness, numbness, grief, emptiness. And mine was going to be tapped and drained.

It was an oddly predictive dream that immediately resonated with me. Over the next three days I entered into the experience of the boys: hearing their stories of loss, questioning why, memorializing the dead. My own healing began. My dreams had known.

Tomorrow I am going back to Camp Good Grief as the therapist for the weekend. I hope to see "my" little boys again this year. Six of the nine from last year are slated to be in my group. We formed a bond. They asked about my pain and I witnessed theirs. This year however, I am not trapped. I go freely, feeling ready and much more settled in my heart. No more looking over my shoulder and no more running scared.

I'll make more...

One of my students is doing her practicum in an inner city drug abuse recovery clinic. Everything about the place is depressing: stark buildings, ill pregnant women, smoke-filled institutional green rooms. It's a ramshackle building sitting at the edge of a vacant lot. There are lots of vacant lots in this particular city--it's a place with a dying economy. 60% of the city inhabitants are dependent on public assistance.

All the women have lost parental rights to their children because of their drug abuse. Some have turned a blind eye while their children were abused. Others were so busy cruising for drugs that they neglected their children. Some were cooking meth in their kitchens while their babies crawled around on squallid floors littered with unsheathed, contaminated syringes and needles. Breathing fumes of meth gives almost all children some sort of respiratory problem.
Did you know that it takes between $50,000 - 100,000 to rehabilitate and clean the environment of a house that has been a meth lab? All the workers who do this work wear white space suits with gas masks. And yet the babies who are removed from these homes have no protection.

So my student was telling me today about her experiences down in the clinic with these women. The apathy is palpable: vacant eyes stare back from the gaunt faces of these women. Some are in their early 20s and have already had 3-4 children removed from them. There appears to be nothing for them to live for: relationships are unattainable. Family members have abandoned them. They are emotionally and socially isolated from all but their dealers.
The shocking thing is that some of these women still have to pay child support for the children whom they don't get to see or hear about any more. It is their debt to society to help support them.

When she heard that, my student drew back in surprise. "It doesn't seem fair that you don't even get to see your babies!" The 24-year old mother of four children standing before her said flatly, "It's all right. I'll make more." She was about to lose her five-month-old baby and that's just how it was to be.

"I'll make more." As if having another child would make her forget the four little ones whom she will never see again. These nameless, faceless "more" babies she mentioned were for the purpose of getting back at "The Man." Not for the sake of bringing little, precious lives into the world to cherish and nurture.

All throughout my 30s I yearned for children. Pretty hard to have during those years as a single woman. I wasn't a hippie, and my morals prevented me from procreating with someone other than a husband or using sperm from an anonymous donor.
One day at the hospital I was recovering a post-angiogram patient in the outpatient unit. He was dozing but had on his TV to a PBS channel. It was a program that followed a first-time mother through childbirth. I remember standing at the side of his bed, up by his pillow where I could get a good angle on the TV screen--watching the woman go into labor. And all through the "Push! Push!" I was fine. But when the baby's head crowned and the baby slipped out, I burst into tears. It was such a beautiful miracle and the woman was so thrilled to have a lovely child. I desperately wanted a husband and children. But life was not to be the way I had planned.

"I'll make more."

Because my own arms have been empty for so many years, the woman's words make me almost ill. I've been preoccupied with the horror of her attitude all day.

One day in Heaven, there will be many, many children there without parents. I am banking on the fact that the love of God will, over the eons of eternity, love these "more" children into the likeness of God Himself. For now, we can only try to be God's hands, feet, and heart to these little ones, and to the women who are so hurt that they can only think of their children as the currency of vengeance.

This is an enneagram. I used to think that this was some sort of Satanic pentogram so never took any interest in it. Students and colleagues mentioned them but my mind was turned off and nothing ever registered. Anyone who began to talk about it would only prompt me to inwardly say, "Oh, that" and I'd shut my mind.

Last week one of my students who happens to be a Protestant chaplain in a psychiatric hospital, gave a classroom presentation about how he uses the enneagram in his work. This time I listened and learned something.

The enneagram comes from the time of Pythagoras. It was believed that Sufis used the principles of the diagram to tell people cryptically what kind of idiot they were--something that most of us don't need help with! But there is historical evidence that this symbol was used in South America and was passed along to Claudio Naranjo, who was instrumental in making it popular in recent years. It does in fact, come from mystical components of Judiasm, Buddhism, Taoism, Christianity, and Islam. Christians have recognized the seven deadly sins in seven of the points, and have added two more. These seven deadly sins correspond in some way to the strengths and weaknesses associated with personality characteristics. If you have ever taken the Myers-Briggs Temperament Inventory (MBTI), you will quickly see that the findings of this instrument help describe your personal tendencies.

You can read more about the enneagram here. But you might also wish to take a simple, free test here. It's rather fun and interesting. I have taken the test twice and have had minor changes with each result. The test site recommends that you take the test several times and take an average of your results, or see if they change over time.

What do you come out as?

I am Helpful (86%)

Calm (74%)

Perfectionistic (62%)

If you want to know what this means, take the test yourself!

Immunity

Now here's some news I just heard tonight for the first time--even though it made a limited number of headlines two years ago. Sam and I were channel surfing tonight and came across the movie, Deliver us From Evil, a documentary about sexual abuse in the Catholic church. It chronicled a massive cover-up by church officials at every level of the hierarchy in regards to the approximately 100,000 children who have been sexually molested by priests. Well over 500 priests in the Los Angeles diocese have been accused of molestation. However, Cardinal Mahoney has not put forth the effort to investigate these priests or bring justice and closure to the hundreds of victims.

The movie, which was featured at the Sundance Film Festival, showed a psychologist who works with pedophile priests, who stated that 10% of the graduates from St. John's seminary are pedophiles. If 10% of Harvard graduates were pedophiles, something would be done to correct that--or Harvard would be closed down. But not the Church.

The same psychologist pointed out that a number of priests enter seminary at a point when their sexual knowledge and identity are not fully developed. Because of their vow of celibacy they believe that any sexual contact is sinful. It doesn't matter what the sexual contact is--it's all the same and all bad. Having sex with a woman, groping someone, or fondling a child--it's all in the "bad" category with little differentiation. Because many of these young priests have arrested sexual development they seek out someone for intimacy who is at their same delayed level of development--someone younger than the age of majority. This doesn't seem as bad somehow in the beginning--it's just two boys having contact. But it is very, very bad as they become habituated to this behavior. Only about 20% of the molestations ever get reported. Reported, not convicted. Which means that about 80% of molestation victims never tell anyone, tell the right people, or do tell and are told to keep quiet.

The clincher in this movie for me was the final statement that rolled before the credits: President Bush issued immunity to the pope so he could not be tried in connection with a sex abuse case. Apparently, when the abuse crisis hit the church, Cardinal Ratzinger was given the assignment to head a taskforce to deal with child abuse allegations leveled against priests. He was subsequently involved in a conspiracy to protect a known pedophile priest who is now a fugitive. By his actions, he assisted the priest to avoid prosecution. Ratzinger states that the Church's handling of cases related to child sexual abuse are subject to "pontifical secret." His behavior is hideous in terms of the blatant belief that he is above the law and can get away with it. But perhaps more vexing is our own president's decision to grant him immunity. What message does this send American citizens about the moral fiber of this country? About turning a blind eye when to do so works in your best interest? Who is advocating for the safety of children if the Church and even our president doesn't hold abusers accountable? The laws to protect children that we try to put through congress are a travesty if our own president lets an entire system continue to abuse children. Yes, the argument has been made by the Bush attorneys that for them to prosecute the head of the Catholic church would cause political intrusion into a religious organization--something protected by the Constitution.

I am incensed.

The film makes the observation that the way sexual abuse has been shoved under the rug by church authorities is yet one more way that abuse survivors are revictimized. A very thin veneer of piety covers the ugly truths that celibacy does not work and that powerful organizations are more important than the people whom they purportedly serve. And the victims wonder what God, church, and faith have to offer them if this is what they encounter in God's name. Sobering.

Clearing Out

Tonight I'm going to bed with my heart surging and singing. Because today I spent 8 hours cleaning the garage. Yes, it made me very happy. And yes, it was an absolute mess.

We moved here a year and a half ago after living in the Pacific Northwest for nearly two years, and after living in our Indiana house for exactly one year. Because we'd moved rather suddenly from Indiana, things had gotten chucked into boxes. Those boxes got stacked in our garage in Washington. Then, when we moved here, they were added to and stacked in this garage. Because we're in a small rental house, many more boxes of things have been stored in the garage.
Then when I moved Mother out here, her boxes joined ours along with a couple chairs, my great-grandfather's chest of drawers, a bookcase and table. Everything has been hurriedly pushed into the center of the garage floor which, I might add, has been covered with dust bunnies and leaves that have blown in under the door. We have hundreds of spiders--nasty black and brown ones--that have spun miles of webs up against the walls and under the shelves. They all got swept away today.

Today I went through everything except two boxes: a box that came with Sam from California when he married me (full of old receipts and goodness knows what else), and a box of cable wires, phone parts, and unidentifiable computer parts. As soon as Sam decides what to do with all of that, our garage will be completely packed properly and I will know where everything is. At long last!
Mother's boxes and things are all on one workshelf, covered with a blanket. Her antique chair is wrapped up and the table is protected.

I had no idea how therapeutic it would be for me to clean out the garage. I know that when people feel out of control of parts of their lives, that they do well to manage and straighten up what they can. Not that I can identify anything that is pressing my "control" buttons right now. But it is true that if I'm angry at Sam, I start a cleaning frenzy until everything in my surroundings is in order. At least I can control my surroundings. And by the time things are cleaned, he either ambushes me (he knows that frenetic cleaning in the middle of the week signifies upset on my part) until everything comes out, or I have had time to think through how I want to discuss things. He tells me that while I'm cleaning I hold my mouth funny and he knows immediately that I'm on the war path, even when I try to hold my mouth normally--whatever that is--and not clomp through the house. He always knows. And he usually makes me laugh about it.

Today, I just wanted to clean things up. There is beauty in order. It was drizzling outside most of the day and the cool, moist air wafted through the garage as I sent swirls of dust out into the rain. A whole carfull of "stuff" got taken over to the thrift store. Nice tax write off and good way to make space. I found things in boxes that I had forgotten all about: a little dish from Dublin, Ireland; a series of clay pots made by my friend, Nathan; a letter I'd sent Sam while we were dating. And tons of recyclable paper and cardboard. The trash bins are nearly overflowing. Perhaps what was really wonderful was that not once did I think about or concern myself with school: no grading of papers, reading reports, writing lectures or working on projects. I don't remember when I had a day like today--just me, the dust, and the hope that everything would be predictable and pleasant in that uninviting space.

I suppose this is what God does in our hearts--haul out the useless stuff, scrub the dirty places, make space for Himself. If it took me eight hours to clean a double car garage and storage room, think of how long it takes to clean and renew the human heart. As He clears away the junk, we find emotions and thoughts that have gotten lost on our journey. There is real delight in connecting with those things again.

As I go to bed tired but satisfied, I'm reminded that it is God who does the work--both to will and to do of His good pleasure. Have at it, Lord. My heart has lots of stuff that needs to go.

Happy, Happy Home!

When we were kids, we loved to sing in church. The children's classes all had songs that were age appropriate. One of them was:

With Jesus in the family,

Happy, happy home,

Happy, happy home,

Happy, happy home.

With Jesus in the family,

Happy, happy home.

Happy, happy home.

You can guess the developmental stage of the children who sang this. (I think we would have been about 2-4 years old). It just happened to be one of my youngest brother's favorite songs. He would belt it out in the car on the way to church and then walk through the house singing it after church. I'm sure it delighted my parents to no end to hear their three-year-old singing so enthusiastically.

When it was time to go to church, we would all get dressed up in our good clothes--special shoes, socks, pants, dresses, and what-have-you--because we only wore our best clothes to church. Then out the door we'd go, pile into the car and drive the six miles off to church with Gerald singing at the top of his lungs.

One day, Mother was in the grocery store shopping and Lenora, the children's class teacher just happened to be shopping there. Somewhere in the course of conversation Lenora told Mother that Gerald had shared some surprising information with her. He had fairly danced into the church classroom and went right up to Lenora.

"Look!" he squealed. "I have on my happy home hoos" pointing to his shoes, "and my happy home hocks!"

Lenora followed his pointing finger down to his freshly polished little black shoes. He squatted down and pulled up one pant leg so she could see his black socks.

"See?"

She nodded, tickled by his excitement.

"I only wear my happy home hocks and happy home hoos to church. Only today." He looked satisfied with himself and as quickly as he had run to her, he turned and sat down in one of the chairs in a semi-circle.

And yes, they sang his song that day.

So whenever I am getting ready for church and I reach for my shoes, I hear his little cheerful voice singing "With Jesus in the family, happy, happy home!" and I put on my hoos and hocks with a grin on my face.

Two DVDs

This is one of the most powerful movies I've seen in my life. It is the story of a woman, Angela Shelton, who is a writer and film maker, and who decides to film herself making contact with every Angela Shelton in America.
She is able to meet quite a number of women with her name--Black and White. It is a novel idea, and part of the interest in this story is waiting to see what each Angela Shelton will look like and what her life circumstances are. Each woman tells something about her personal story. We find that a large percentage of Angela Sheltons in America have been sexually abused, raped, or abused by an intimate partner. We hear Angela (the author) say throughout the beginning of the film that she has also been sexually abused by her father.

When she goes to her home town to meet another Angela Shelton, she finds that this woman tracks sexual predators and knows of her father. This is the catalyst she needs to go meet him, but not after she bolsters her courage by meeting with her (abused and abusive) step-sister and step-brother. Then she is filmed sitting on the steps of her father's home, asking him why he abused her. His responses are startling. She remains dignified and composed in his presence--something that few women could do.

Angela Shelton comes full circle in this movie--able to obtain closure and move on, especially with the knowledge that she is not the only Angela Shelton with this experience.

I showed this to my Child Abuse and Family Violence class last week. It is a 96-minute film, so part way through I stopped the DVD and said we could take a break. No one moved. Finally someone shook their head, no. We kept on.

This DVD can be obtained here for $19.95. Viewers are left deeply moved and motivated, but not in despair.

I got an email last week from one of my students in the Child Abuse class:

Dear Barbara,

Thank you for showing that video.

I will never forget it for the rest of my life.

It was powerful."

Dawn

The second film is produced by Edward Blackoff, a Hollywood film maker. You can go here to see the trailer for the film, The Tragedy of Incest. My students felt that while this DVD was shocking (recovering incarcerated pedophiles were interviewed), it provided outstanding documentation of the Catch-22 that sexual predators face. Where does one go for treatment if therapists are mandated to report them? No place is safe: prison, home, community, family. For those who work with people, this DVD is very helpful and interesting.

Now you know what we are going to process in Child Abuse class today.

Dancing to the Family Music

Found here

I love this picture that I came across while reading adoption blogs. This little girl is taking on a pose that speaks an international language: "Look at me! I like what I have on and it's fun to look pretty and dolled up. Do you like it as much as I do?"

I used to be a little, flirtatious girly girl when I was little. Mother used to make us cute little dresses with crinolines in them. Yes, they scratched our legs, but it was fun to prance around while everyone oohed and ahhhed about how cute I was.

It's been awhile...

The other day I was driving through traffic and it suddenly came to me that I don't like how I've been looking lately. Oh yes, my weight continues to be problematic. But there's more. Today while watching an Oprah episode (so much for working from home) and looking at the way the women dressed, I had a wave of nostalgia. There was a time when I took great care about how I dressed and presented myself. It was during the last couple years of grad school and I was putting my best foot forward. Suddenly I had surgery, got married, and inherited financial and stepchild responsibilities. And the words of Dr. Oz to a show participant resonated with me: "You've been under real stress taking care of everyone else and you haven't taken care of yourself."

I've thought this before, but I've not experientially gotten it before today. It's easy to point to step-children and tell myself that I'm taking on much more than I need to. Or that I'm caretaking people too much, or investing my money in everyone else but me. But it's more. (Warning: this may sound like a harrangue so you may wish to stop reading here).

Some years ago I went on a lifestyle/diet change and lost 35 lbs. It made a world of difference in how I felt physically and emotionally. While the weight was dropping off, I realized one day that I had never felt entitled to looking pretty, sexy, or well dressed. This has never been a priority in my family, even though respectability has been a cherished value. I don't ever recall being told by either parent that I was attractive, or that I was a good catch. I was often told that there were no men good enough for me, but those comments did not encourage or give me any feedback about how I looked or what I could attain because of my charm, intelligence, or beauty. The feeling I got was one of futility: No one is good enough so why get my expectations up that there will be anyone for me?

There was never any conversation about what my parents hoped for me, or the kind of man I would marry. Marriage was never mentioned in reference to me, so I thought it was for everyone else but not me. My siblings made fun of me and how I looked: my body, my clothes, my demeanor. It never dawned on me that others might not share their views.

Several men lost interest in me after they met my parents or siblings. So I thought that it made no difference how I looked or behaved. This idea meshed well with the lifestyle of the farm families among whom we lived. Our neighbors wore jeans and floppy, old work shirts with sneakers or sensible shoes. People in that rural community who weren't farmers dressed very presentably but simply for the most part.

Now I live in Southern California and there is a lot more emphasis on dress, hair, weight, make up. I'm a professor who is the director of clinical training for my department and liaison to community agencies who collaborate with us in providing clinical placements for our students. Every time I go out on a site visit, I scrutinize the clothes in my closet sadly. Most everything is so sensible and frumpy that I can hardly stand to be seen in it. The image of Stepdaughter #1's wrinkled nose and raised eyebrows when she looks at me comes to mind. Stepdaughter #2's comment, "This, you should only wear when you work in the yard," and Stepdaughter #3's remark, "You need to have a makeover" resounds in my head. As I joked to one friend, very little about my appearance represents what I want to project.

I used to be a devoted clothes shopper. It was fun and a very real reprieve from writing a dissertation. Especially when I had the Mall of America and two outlet malls to shop in. Now Sam and I are puffy, well-fed, middle-aged people who are comfortable with each other and caught up in careers and family life. Both of us are considerably heavier than when we got married. So although I've griped about my weight and wardrobe before, I've not taken the time to think about the assumptions that underlie my current emotional circumstances. Do I think about others' needs more than mine? Yes. My assumption is that it's easier to meet theirs than mine. I do for others because it gives me great satisfaction and joy. I think it's my nature. Do I put more money into the family than me? Of course. Most mothers (and some step-mothers) do.

Is this level of self-abnegation and neglect warranted?

No.

Am I still dancing to my "family music?"

Yes.

The little girl in the picture above is pretty delighted about looking pretty and feeling good in her darling little dress. It's time for me to pay attention to my appearance in a new way. I love my job, my life, and my husband who often tells me, "Thank God, I married a beautiful woman!" My students admire me and colleagues enjoy me. Community members look up to me and ask my advice. I would like to know that I am dressed appropriately: up to date, bright colors, nicely put together outfits. I want to be as un-self-conscious in liking me as the little girl in the picture.

I think it will take some time, but I'm going to.

Regret

A student has made a formal complaint against me because I failed her last quarter. How dare I grade her down after she started to write the only major assignment the night before it was due? How could I "criticize" her writing as being inferior ("comparison to other students") or assert that her research design was methodological soup (phenomenological in-depth interviews, focus groups using an action research approach and grounded theory on top of that, plus comparison groups using a snowball sample. Good grief)? And how dare I accuse her of reading email and surfing the web in class? Even though her eyes were following something across the computer screen most of the time and her "note taking" appeared to have no relevance to what was being discussed in class.

It is a long, tangled story. She was going to have to wait an entire year to take the course again, thus falling behind her graduation target date. As a redemptive measure, I offered to teach an overload this quarter by offering the course again--as an independent study class. She enrolled but when she saw that the requirements would hold her accountable and force her to do the work she should have done last quarter, she braced for battle.

I got called in to my Chair's office and had to provide a written response with supporting documents. Of course, I had her support. But then I had to face off with the angry student, listen to her, and try to work out some compromise. Or not, and refer her on to the Dean to make a formal grievance at a higher level. The Chair assured me that this student didn't have a leg to stand on, but intimated that she hoped we could work things out without sending her up the ladder.

I'm not sure how or why this happened, but I completely caved in and capitulated to the student's wishes. There is something about having someone accuse, posture, and insist, with a smattering of "poor me" and "you're so unfair" --that knocks me sideways. After several minutes of hearing her accusations of how insensitive I was to her in class, and how she asked early in the class for exceptions, etc., etc., I began to second-guess myself. Not a lot about her comments resonated with me, but they did intimidate me on a very deep emotional level. I did not have it in me to say, "It's unfortunate that you earned an F on your paper last quarter. How do you propose to complete the assignments this quarter in a timely manner?" Or when she said she didn't have enough time to devote to the requirements this quarter, say "Maybe you should consider whether or not you should be signing up for a four-credit course if you can't devote the required time to it," or, "You will need to decide if you can do the work required in a doctoral course or not." Even, "Oh well..." would have been at least a response that pointed out that her request was unreasonable. I can respond to every single complaint and assertion she made--in hindsight. But at the time, I was filled with dread that perhaps she was right. I must be a heartless, partial, inexperienced, punitive teacher with excessive authority issues and who knows what else.
I asked her, very evenly, "What is it that you want?"
She told me in a rush of words.
"Well then, do it."
I turned to the computer, wrote down everything we discussed, printed it off and handed it to her.

I had lost patience and was fed up with the whole process--annoyed that I felt cowed into a corner by someone who was the most undeserving of grace at that moment. Fearful that the allegations I've heard from undifferentiated people in the past about my directness or academic standards, are unreasonable and cause pain. And I caved.

There are many reasons why. There have been many stressors lately: I've been sick and am not 100%. Mother's 195/98 blood pressure that elicited a panicked phone call moments before, only to find out that she hasn't been taking her medication. Exhaustion from helping another family member all weekend. My concerns that I'm really not doctoral education material. Acting as the liaison and quality assurance person for all of our students doing field work (this includes site visits to about 30 places each year--clear from Ventura, to San Diego and as far East as Indio). Putting together a medical family therapy certificate and trying to get it through the university red tape. Administering a $50,000 grant that I haven't enjoyed. Supervising therapy students working in doctor's offices. Teaching six classes this quarter--three of them brand new to me. Having my office books in boxes and working out of a small, chaotic space for two months while my new office is vacated.
But more personally, I have a long history in my family of facing serious consequences if I disagreed, pointed out problems, or challenged the status quo. There have been three times when I was essentially disowned by one or more family members because of choices I made or things I said--in sincerity and with good motives. The ensuing accusations have been outrageous: very painful and difficult to resolve. I've never had anyone else even hint in their behavior or words that these accusations can be correct. But they hurt and I don't want to feel that hostility leveled against me again. So I say nothing and fade into the background in order to avoid being wounded again.
It's true what the Bible says: "The anger of man does not work the righteousness of God." So I am justified in not flying back at people when they are unreasonable. But I feel as though my legs have been shot out from under me and I can't respond in a wise, firm, and calm way to those who use emotional means to intimidate.

It's easy to let things get to oneself, easy to become worn down with all the cares and stresses in life. At those times it's hard to hold the line. The student fairly danced out of my office with her new plan (new to me, but what she wanted all along). This was followed by me being fired as the chair of her dissertation committee. Amazing. She will be hard pressed to get other faculty to serve on her committee.
Her determination paid off, but the outcome is not in her best interest.

In retrospect, I know I made the wrong decision. This is someone who has consistently tried to slide by a number of academic requirements already. She has a reputation. Unfortunately, she won this battle. Perhaps. It all depends on how she writes her remedial paper (which other faculty members will be weighing in on gradewise, I assure you).

I don't recall ever feeling like I've hit a brick wall this hard. I was so determined to hold this student's feet to the fire, and when I reached inside for the wherewithal to make it happen, there was nothing. Humbled, annoyed, and hopefully wiser, I can look back on this with some insight. It is not a good thing to become overwhelmed with "life stuff." Being tired, sick, or anxious about non-academic issues can make it almost impossible to make good decisions or do good work. I must also resolve some hidden hurts. Additionally, students do not have to like me or agree with me to get the best educational experience that I can offer.

There are times in life when situational challenges converge and threaten to paralyze a person. It is then that the mundane things like predictable meals, self-discipline, enough sleep, reflection, recreation, faith, and self-care, make a big difference. Perhaps this is one reason that while on earth, Jesus often headed for the hills to get away and to pray His way through issues, to find strength to keep doing what He was here for. It seems to be one of those Kingdom-of-Heaven-rules: invest in God in quiet time, slow yourself down, give everything over to God, pray for wisdom, and do less--so you can do more.

This is why I've been so quiet lately. I've been busy beating myself up and wringing my hands about how to manage issues in my life that are tough to deal with. Perhaps an early morning conversation with God about family history and my needs for the new day will enhance inner healing and strengthen the inner core of resolve. I hope so.

Black History Month

Today I sat across from a client who told me the following story:
A well-known lecturer visited her school to give a seminar on some topic of his. The room began to fill up with about 40 students and teachers while the host and speaker chatted together in the front row. When it was time for the meeting to start, the host teacher walked to the podium and surveyed the room thoughtfully for a moment. She noticed that a number of people sat in a group in the front seats, and that about five Black teachers and students sat in a row at the back of the room against the wall.
"Come on up and sit here," she addressed the group of Black attendees. "You don't need to sit in the back anymore."

It was deathly silent. She looked around, smiled apologetically and said, "I hope no one is offended by that comment. It's just that you don't need to sit clear back there."

People of color were deeply offended, especially since this occurred right after a Martin Luther King celebration the day before. Making reference to civil rights struggles are not funny to a people whose blood was once spilled in the streets for no good reason. My client was shocked by the comment that had been made, and cited numerous other ways that she experiences marginalization every day. Another teacher frequently quotes White students in her class, but never repeats comments of Black or Hispanic students. Emails to White students are warm and humorous, but are cryptic and abrupt to Black students. And this teacher has the power to flunk her students. So it is no surprise that this client feels hypervigilant and sometimes sick to her stomach with anxiety in this teacher's class.
"Barbara, why does this still happen? It's at such a subtle level that no one can really attack the problem. Because if you do, you look like you're splitting hairs. But in the context of all the inequality and things like nooses that have been found hanging on the doors and in the lockers of upwardly mobile Blacks, this is frightening. It's making me ill."
I was impressed that a student her age could so clearly explain her response and articulate what was happening. But then, she has had years of watching this happen, receiving it, and thinking about what it is. I have not.
As I told her, I am White and I have White Privilege. I don't get questioned about my motives or intentions. I don't get stopped when I'm driving my car just because I'm in the "wrong" neighborhood. No one discriminates against me because of my race or ethnicity. I am recognized readily in classroom settings and my comments are not subject to scrutiny, nor are they marveled over skeptically with a "how did you know that?" People don't cross over to the other side of the street when they see me coming. I don't have the legacy of knowing that my family tree cannot be traced because my great grandparents were sold down the river.
I felt terrible about what Kimberly was experiencing. It may not sound like much to a White person, but a it would if it came in a reasonably steady stream and provoked one's anxiety.
We talked for awhile about my client's feelings of impotence and frustration. We discussed how she might decide if she should confront the teacher, or speak to an ombudsman, or the school principal. There is clear risk in each of these actions--risk that I may not be aware of because I would not have negative responses should I approach any of these people. But she very well could.

It was interesting for me to reflect on my experience as I helped Kimberly clarify what had happened and how she was affected by it. I felt a rush of shame that someone like me had offended her. I couldn't make up for it but I wanted to somehow. Yet this is the way life is. I can't protect her, only empower her to advocate for herself, think about her options, and move toward life experiences that fulfill and value her for who she is. At the same time, I feel some annoyance that life has to be so complicated and that people have to watch everything they say. That we have to worry about saying or doing something that is politically incorrect. Our country didn't used to be so pluralistic--it was all White, Protestant, hard-working, patriarchal, English-speaking, family-oriented, heterosexual. Now, everything is different and we must view reality through the eyes of many other kinds of people than how we used to.

I remember living in Hattiesburg Mississippi during the civil rights era--1961 - 1964. Even though I was a sheltered little girl, there was an awareness that the world was not a safe or pleasant place. We went to a Sears store one time in Jackson--my older sister, brother, parents, and me. As we were shopping, my sister saw a drinking fountain and helped herself to a good, long drink. She was too young to be able to read the "Colored" sign that hung over the fountain where she was drinking. A pipe came from the wall and split into two directions: left to the "Colored Fountain" and right to the "Whites Only" fountain.
We all stood by while Dana got her drink.

A store clerk--a man of about 35 or so--rushed over to us. "Don't let her drink out of that fountain!" he fairly shouted in a panic. "It's the Colored Fountain!"
My very Northern father quietly said, "But it comes from the same source as the White Fountain, so what's the difference?" Daddy studied the man with a bit of challenge in the way he held his head.
"Get out of here!" the man demanded. "We don't need your kind in here! N--lovers!"
Daddy demured.
"Get out! You will not get service in here." He stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at us. I was scared to death and started crying.
I don't remember more than that, except that it was awful. Daddy was livid and Mother was indignant. They sputtered all the way home in the car. And as an adult I'm incensed at the humiliation and unnecessary segregation and pain that was leveled at Blacks during those very dark years. But I didn't do it. My people did--and that makes me feel silenced sometimes when called upon to respond to things that are happening. I either want to apologize for centuries of anti-Black behavior, or ignore that it exists altogether.

Discrimination still happens, only at a very different level. In defense of the teacher who made the comment at the beginning of this post, she makes terrible verbal blunders on a regular basis. I know this because I know her. She often says things without thinking about the implications of her words. She doesn't filter what comes out of her mouth very well. But she doesn't have a malicious bone in her body. In fact, she feels that she is a champion for diversity. She talks a lot about power differentials due to gender, race, socioeconomic status, etc. But it is hard for her to put it into practice all the time. She has no idea of how she has put the Black community off by what seemed to be a humorous comment.

As we reflect on Black History Month events, perhaps it is useful to think about our own individual journeys in terms of embracing people who are different than we are. All of us bring life experiences to the table: events in which we were harmed or had a negative reaction to a person of color. Or when we were resentful that we have had to move over and make space for someone who previously was not invited to the table. It is hard sometimes to learn new table etiquette and converse in culturally sensitive ways. However if we were all the same, life would be pallid at best and intolerably boring at worst.

I hope my young student finds grace as she begins to openly address these issues that look very different from her perspective.