Watching them Grow

They grow so fast. There seems no time at all between sticky fingers, wet kisses and giggly secrets whispered in my ear to a furtive smear of lip gloss and giggles with friends, glancing up to make sure their secrets are safe. Too little space between Good Night Moon and Twilight. Not enough room between two wheels and four. And the questions, oh the questions. Questions I want to answer because I don't trust the answers to anyone else but questions that strike fear into the heart that just wants to protect her from my own hurt. How much to answer, when and why? How much of me does she need to know? All of me, or only the good parts? Fallibility seems a quality that might make a parent more approachable - but then again - maybe it just provides an excuse. So we hurtle toward adolescence at the speed of iPod's and texting and words posted on facebook, with my mother's voice sounding outside and in. She says "what are you doing? why are you doing it that way? why are you always busy? why don't you do it the way I did?" And I want to scream an answer to her that captures all that I wanted to be different, all that I try to do another way. But if I take time to argue, she'll grow another foot and I will miss it. So I pay attention, and try to be brave, and live my life out loud so she can see how it's done.

Frustration

Texting $10 to the Red Cross and watching hundreds of thousands without food

Taking lunch to a friend and feeling helpless to ease the pain

Talking to my children and having them pretend they are not listening

Trying to speak truth to power and still having security threatening the peace

Feeling like actions thoughts and words have no hope of affecting change

Except for the shift I sense within

Random Ramblings

Been a while since I've posted anything. Feeling like there should be something worthwhile to say, but not much motivated to say anything at all. How do I wrap words around something like the destruction we are seeing this week? Others are doing brilliant jobs of it, and making me cry as I read with my heart breaking. But I have no words. The pictures turn my stomach, thinking about the suffering makes me ill, and I feel small and helpless. I've sent some relief winging it's way toward those hurting souls, through organizations with feet already on the ground. Little else that I have to offer provides much relief for those in such pain.

And at the same time, my life goes on. I've encountered some bumps in my path these past couple of weeks. Bumps big enough to make me wonder about the path, question the journey, doubt myself -- and then feel guilty because really, what do I have to worry about? I have a roof over my head, food to eat, clothes to wear, knowledge of the whereabouts of those I love, and freedom to complain out loud and electronically.

I don't know how to make a difference in the face of such great suffering -- and yet at the same time, I don't know how to do anything but live the life I'm so very fortunate to have and somehow trust that by making a difference where I can, I am doing what I've been designed to do.

And we all just put one foot in front of the other...

Higher Ground

"Take a step, take a risk, speak your mind, try something new" she whispers.

"But I'm afraid. Everyone will laugh. No one will understand. I might fall or fail" I murmur with my eyes downcast and my chin lowered to my chest.

Gently she lifts my head with her delicate fingers. Peering into my eyes she assures me I am not alone, that I am strong enough.

She reaches out her hand waiting to see if I will take it. She never forces, never drags me forward -- she only offers a choice.

When I am brave enough to accept her proffered hand, she walks with me, sometimes ahead sometimes beside me and I am not alone. Sometimes we walk in the dark. Sometimes we tread through icy streams. Sometimes people do laugh, and often no one understands. I do fall and fail.

But with every step of the journey I find courage. I grow stronger. And eventually the sun dawns, lightening the dark. We stop to rest awhile on a new plateau, heaven's table land?, higher ground.

And then she whispers again.

Feeling out of place

This is another of the journal entries I wrote last year for one of my classes. The class focused on Gender Issues, and we had to read multiple articles, one of which I reference here. This entry stuck with me and has come back to my mind many times in the past year. I wrote it around the title of "feminist". But other descriptors fit the tone just as well.

Today, I found myself in a position of having been held up for challenge and even ridicule because of the theoretical and philosophical base from which I operate in my professional life, which spills over in to my personal life. The problem wasn't the challenge, those will come. The problem was being challenged behind my back without adequate (read any) opportunity to present my case. The person presenting my case for me did so without any real understanding of my thoughts, desires or goals.

And maybe it shouldn't matter so much. Maybe I should more willing to just put myself out there as who I am and not bother myself with the repercussions or the imagined consequences. I couch my political ideals, I mask my religious beliefs, I hold my thoughts about justice close to the vest. I do it for self-protection. I do it out of fear. I do it because I am terrified that if I let you really know who I am, you will reject me, because who I am seems to be so different from almost everyone I know in my waking life. I don't like exclusively evidenced-based practice - because there is no evidence that produces techniques to heal a soul. I don't like conservative, judgmental, guilt-inducing religion. I don't like right-wing politics that care more about power and prestige than helping fellow human beings. I don't like racism and classism and abuse disguised as character building. But I am afraid to be who I am and stand up and say all of that outloud. I don't know if that makes me a coward, or a fraud, or someone wise enough to walk carefully where angels fear to tread. But tonight, it leaves me feeling raw.

Insert your word into the article. Where do you hide your light?

Monday, February 23rd
Feeling Like a Fraud

In Peggy McIntosh's article, “Feeling Like a Fraud” she writes about women who feel they should apologize or minimize because they find themselves in a position of authority or expertise that somehow they feel, or at least think others believe, should be reserved for a man. She points out the dichotomy that exists between the need to alleviate a woman's feelings of being out of place in what is perceived to be a man's world and the need to acknowledge that this feeling signals something about the truly oppressive nature of the hierarchy in which she finds herself. On one hand, self-confidence and competence can be increased and mentors and role models can provide encouragement that helps women see themselves as equals in these positions of power and public life. On the other hand, paying attention to the feelings that signal something out of balance in the hierarchies of power allows for women to refuse to “play the game”. In resisting the old hierarchies and patriarchal definitions of power and building a more collaborative structure where there is room for everyone at the table, society can be transformed.
This article spoke to me in a powerful way. I have so often felt like a fraud, so often felt as if somehow I didn't deserve the position or recognition I had attained. I have apologized for being center stage. I have apologized for being top of the class. I have apologized for holding a “radical” opinion or for speaking my truth in a setting where women's voices were less than welcome. I have minimized my talents and my gifts in order to not offend anyone. And I have questioned the structures that enforce this ranking and competition, this definition of good, better and best. My brushes with the power of patriarchy have been personal and painful. I discovered very early and understood only much too late that when I aspired to any position of prestige or public forum, I became instantly recognized and targeted by the men in power positions. In a game of keep your friends close and your enemies closer, I fell victim to false mentorship in which the real goal was never to help me succeed but to ensure my failure. And for a while, tired of the pain and the battle fatigue, I walked away from the games and isolated myself, living my life and telling myself I didn't care.
But I do care. And in caring, I am finding that I face a new dichotomy and a new paradigm, and I've rediscovered the old feeling of being a fraud and an impostor. Raising my hand in class on Friday to identify as a feminist was painful for me. Am I? Absolutely. Do I want anyone to know? Absolutely not. What is that all about? It's about feeling like I'm a fraud. I unequivocally believe in the absolute equality of men and women. But I feel like a fraud in declaring myself to be a feminist because of my lack of public activism. And I'm afraid in declaring myself as a feminist, I am somehow committing to a level of activism that I am uncomfortable with. I don't know that I could stand in front of the White House and allow myself to be imprisoned and go on a hunger strike, but that is my perception of what “true” activism should look like. So identifying myself as a feminist without being willing to commit to that level of activism makes me feel like a fraud.
My daily reality is also a contributing factor in the impostor syndrome. My life is very traditional. I've been a “stay-at-home” mom since my oldest child was born. Although my husband shares many chores and we don't have a strictly gender divided structure in our home, the bulk of the work falls to me because I am not working outside of the home. We attend a fairly moderate church in a very conservative denomination. We live in the most conservative county in Texas, maybe in the United States. In many ways, I'm plugged into the traditional patriarchal structure. In those settings, I try to promote gender equality, but I do much of it quietly, behind the scenes. And sometimes, I sit back when I should say something, because conflict is uncomfortable. So when I self-identify as a feminist, my fear is that other “real” feminists are going to look at my traditional existence and my lack of public advocacy and scoff. They are going to think I'm a fraud.
So here too, the a dichotomy exists. And here too, there are two sides to the coin. On one hand, I need to push myself out of my comfort zone. I need to find more ways to make my voice heard. I need to look for role-models and mentors that can encourage me to speak out and take a stand against the oppression of women. On the other hand, I think we need to make room at the table for all women and men who believe in equality and are working toward that goal regardless of their level of public activism or their choice of lifestyle. We need to promote a definition of feminism that has room for the both the radical activist and the stay-at-home mom. The only way we have any chance at turning the patriarchal structure upside down is to embrace one another's strengths and not let ourselves be divided by the unhelpful labels that often become a part of identifying with a movement. What does a feminist look like? She looks like Alice Paul and Gloria Steinem and all of the other amazing women who have fought the fight, but she also looks like me.