Stupid Games, Stupid Prizes

Earlier this week, I discovered a secret that Hope had been hiding for a couple of weeks. I’d all but told her that I knew the secret ahead of the confirmation.

I love my daughter, but the art of deception and concealment are not her strong suits. In fact, Hope has rarely lied to me; if anything she often shares a little too much with me. I chalk that up to her not having too many friends her age, and the closeness of our relationship.

Anyhoo, I knew or at least was strongly suspicious about  the thing she’d tried to conceal for a couple of weeks.

The actual thing she did was super stupid and a totally dumb, yet age appropriate thing. We’d already had a chat about it a few months ago, but here we are 3.5 months later revisiting the issue.

Cover Art (8)

What totally sent me over was the series of bold-faced lies that were told in a sad attempt to avoid detection.

Bless Hope’s heart. I have repeatedly told her that her mom is smarter than the average bear.

I do not do lies. I especially don’t do lies with bad liars.

And Hope is a horrible liar. It’s just not in her make up. I had point blank asked questions and had given her 3 opportunities to fess up, but instead she decided to lie.

Alright girl…whatevs.

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via Giphy

So, after I confirmed what I knew to be true, I left her a note for when she got home from work to let her know that she was busted. I told her that the stupid issue had been attended to and that she had really stepped in IT, primarily due to the lying. And then I went to bed and slept soundly.

The next morning, I get an apology via text. I read it, but didn’t respond. I was still angry, so I only spoke when necessary and waited until we were in the car headed to visit my parents to really get into the discussion.

Parents of adolescents know: the car is sacred space and prime for important chats with kids.

There we were, on 95S talking about the stupid thing, the lies and what the consequences of both things  should be. I put the task to figure out what an appropriate consequence should be on Hope.

She was baffled by this task.

Hell, I was baffled by this task, which is low key why I put it on her.  

And then I dropped it, because I didn’t want it to ruin the day.

We visited with Grammy and Grandpa, had a delicious lunch and headed downtown to join some BLM protesters who have taken over the grounds of a monument to Robert E. Lee. The statue is slated to come down sometime soon, as are other confederate statues across the city. In fact, one was removed less than 24 hours after our visit. #goodriddance

After we had returned from our trip, I raised the issue of consequences again. Hope did not come up with many ideas, so I tossed a few out. We agreed on a couple of scenarios and I dropped it. In all, the consequences were minor compared to what my parents did for less, but I think they will hit her where she feels the impact of her poor decisions.  I also told her that the next infraction would have stiffer penalties.

She swears she learned her lesson, but the reality is that there will be other stupid things. Hope is 19,a little immature, vulnerable to some bad influences, and eager to have connection with folks her own age—sometimes too eager.

And with stupid games, come stupid prizes. That is just a part of life, right?

Right.

We’re fine. Hope is fine, and we’ve endured another stupid first, and the stupid prizes that go with it.


Dolla Dolla Bills

A couple of years ago, Hope, Grammy and I were having dinner at a cute restaurant in Basel. It was the most expensive dinner we had on a two-week vacation to Paris and Basel. You’re thinking, “Really??? What did you have?”  

Two burgers, one steak, one dessert and two glasses of champagne. The damage was close to $200 US. It was outrageous. Burgers for $35!!! Which is why I just went ahead and got the steak—it was $38. On the walk back to our flat, I decided that this Swiss dinner was going to be my new currency benchmark.  

The mortgage is 6 Swiss dinners.  

Hope’s new sneakers were half of a Swiss dinner.  

Her college tuition was…well you get the point.  

This week, Hope finally understood the joke my mom and I thought was so funny about my currency reference.  

Yesterday Hope turned 19; sadly, I had to work all day. After I wrapped up, we went to get Korean takeout and hit up one of Hope’s favorite little Korean import store which carries all the latest KPop cds. Delighted to spend her own money, Hope purchased 3 new cds.  

This is where things got interesting, and Hope and I started really talking about money. 

Since Hope started working, she has put money into a savings account. She’s a bit overwhelmed by the influx of cash, and it’s a bit of a delight to see her contemplate purchases.  

Hope has largely been oblivious to the cost of things. To some degree I protected her a bit. She had some really difficult and impoverished years. I wanted her to know that we were stable and comfortable; actually, I didn’t want her to know, I wanted her to believe we were stable and comfortable.  

I ended up with a kid who at times came off as spoiled. She didn’t necessarily ask for a lot, but she didn’t take care of her things either. She would just ask for replacements, and it annoyed the hell out of me. I usually said no or delayed the replacement until such time as I thought she had earned a replacement.  I thought she would learn to appreciate her things; most of the times, it seemed she didn’t. 

Enter “Working Hope.”  

Working Hope counts her pennies. She actually has 2 separate savings accounts. She studies her pay stub. She estimates her take home. She’s money conscious.  

She’s treated herself to a few things, but really hasn’t spent much. The cds were the largest single purchase, and she fretted over the expenditure. I reminded her that she could afford the cds, it was her birthday, and that we all deserved the occasional treat. She grinned and said, “I’ll take these” to the cashier.  

On the drive home, I asked Hope, “So how many hours of work was your purchase?” 

“Huh?” 

“How many hours did you have to work to get your cds?” 

“Oh.” She started trying to calculate the hours in her head but offered up a guess. It wasn’t close.  I told her to pull out her calculator to figure it out. In the end, she determined that the cds represented two days worth of work. She was surprised.  

I discouraged her from regretting the purchase; instead I encouraged her to consider the value of her hard work and consider that as she makes purchases. I don’t want her to fret over money, but I do what her to respect it.  

Hope started asking me about the household bills and about what it takes to maintain our lives.  

I told her to clear her calculator and start over.  

Then I told her the rounded figures for the mortgage, the car, insurance, cell phones, internet and TV, condo fees, electric, monthly donations, grocery bill, personal care and maintenance expense, medical insurance and expenses, and a few other things.  

The amount was sizeable, and I hadn’t even included my student loans, credit card, savings and investment contributions and “play” money.  

She sighed and said, well, there are adults who work where I work. I wondered how do they afford these things? I told her that there are lots of people who can’t afford those things.  

We went on to have an interesting discussion about money, income and income inequality, and why I have been pushy about education. Education doesn’t solve all problems, but it certainly can position you to better deal with some of life’s problems.  

She had a mini meltdown and asked if she would ever afford to move out on her own. I told her that yes, eventually she would be able to afford to live independently. I don’t  think she believed me, but time will prove me right.  

This seems to be Hope’s coming of age year which is crazy because pandemic, social justice protests, murder hornets, Saharan sandstorms, cicadas, elections…etc, etc. *This* is the year that is when things are seemingly coming into focus for Hope.  

I hope to keep talking to her about money. I’m hoping that in addition to the other lessons she seems to be learning that she will also learn the value of her time—it’s the most precious commodity we have. I hope she also learns to be discerning about her financial choices and continues to develop good financial habits.  

One thing that is coming clear to me in all this is that Hope is starting to really see her own future and what the possibilities look like. It’s kind of like watching an alien see and consider earth. She’s surprised, full of wonder and confusion, while also curious and dreaming.  

Thinking about Hope imagining living independently makes me smile. I’m proud of her. She’s come so very far in 6 years. I hardly know how to process what I’m seeing with her.  

I just know that I’m proud of her, more so every day.  


I’m Proud of Her

As I mentioned in a previous post, Hope is working two jobs this summer. Once it became clear that summer school wasn’t going to happen, I made it clear that Hope had to get a job. I remember that she sat right down on the couch that morning and filled out nearly 10 applications.

She had a job within 48 hours, and within two weeks she had a second job.

Honestly, I was surprised. In previous years, Hope had applied for jobs and never had any luck. I would repeatedly ask her if she needed help filling out applications. She didn’t. I asked her to call to follow up. I told her she might have to really put forth more effort, be eager, be hungry for the job.

It never worked out, and honestly, I doubted her. Worse, I made sure that she knew I didn’t quite believe she put in all the effort she did.

I have since apologized to my daughter because I was so absurdly wrong and I made things hard for her. Her penchant for laying around in her pjs in a messy room reeked of laziness to me. I felt like she had a lack of drive. I rode her about her schoolwork, her grades, her room and her inability to find a job.

And I sit around and wonder why she struggles so much with depression.

Now, I do want Hope to work hard; I want her to have a strong work ethic. I want her to understand what it takes to make it in this world and to be able to support yourself and have nice things. In the last 4 months, Hope has had a front row seat at watching me work. Why my work isn’t physical, the number of zoom meetings I have a day can be exhausting, and I don’t get a lot of work actually “done” on those days. Occasionally she pops out of her room to join me for tea and coffee, to ask how many meetings I have for the day or to ask when I get to stop working. One night last week I was working until 9pm.

What I’ve learned in these last few weeks of Hope’s employment is that Hope has a strong work ethic. She probably has always had a strong work ethic. She works differently from me; it doesn’t look the same and my own biases around what it should look like made me believe my daughter wasn’t trying.

Gosh, I have so many regrets.

Hope has taught me some valuable lessons about understanding her. I know she has always struggled with school, but I understand that she was working hard to keep up. I realize that despite her social anxiety she puts herself out there a lot to try to connect with people. I realize just how kind she is; her second week of working she was recognized for how many compliments from customers she received. I have begged her to use tools to help keep her ADHD in check; I see now that they didn’t click for her until she figured out the best tools for her.

Hope will be a sophomore in college in just 2 months, and I feel like I’m seeing her as a real young adult for the first time. I would like to think I taught her loads, but I am conscious of the ways in which I made things more difficult for her. That makes me incredibly sad and angry with myself.

I tell Hope I’m proud of her every day.

And every day she asks me why I keep telling her.

I tell her that I have always been proud of her, but she has shown me that she is so much more than I thought she was in this moment. She’s juggling jobs. She picks up groceries. She’s proud of her savings. She puts gas in the car, and she offers to run other errands. We talk about science and politics and history and trap music and she’s knows all the things. I’m actually starting to feel old around her.

She just needed this opportunity to prove herself to herself.  

These months at home, I see my daughter through new eyes. I know she will be ok.

Hope’s college is planning to resume in-person classes this fall. I never thought I’d say that I hope they change their mind so that she can stay a little longer. Of course, I’m worried about COVID-19; I worry that with such a tiny campus (700 students) that one case can easily create a major outbreak, especially with the dorms. Add to that the school is in a town with another university where the leadership believes that COVID-19 is a hoax, and you’ve got one worried mom.

But the real reason I wouldn’t mind a few more months with my daughter is because I know that I will miss her terribly when she goes back. When I think of her returning to school, I get those early empty nest feelings all over again. I also don’t want to lose watching her mature into this formidable young woman right before my eyes. I’m super conscious that when she returns to campus, the times I see her after that will make it seem like she’s really changing so much faster. I want to see it in real time and up close.

But I know that’s not how these things work. She might be here, she might not. She may keep working; she might not. It’s really all a crap shoot right now and I don’t have control over any of it. I’m just going to have to ride the wave and see what happens.

What I do know is that Hope is really blossoming into this really cool person—she was already cool, but this is different. I’m starting to see glimpses of her future. It’s not perfect, but it is good. I think I can worry less. I think I my parenting can really switch to coaching. I know I can believe her and really believe in her.

I’m so very proud of her, and I’m glad and appreciative of the grace Hope has shown me over the years. I’m realizing that I got a lot more grace that I ever realized.


On the Fly

I’m struggling to find time to write these days. I’m still working like a madwoman. Today was a 12 hour day. Evenings and weekends, I’m totally vegging.

Hope has not one but TWO jobs. She’s tired and thriving. I’m really proud of her; her transformation from human sloth to working woman is kinda head spinning. She was recognized for her stellar performance after just two weeks at her first job. She was a bit overwhelmed by the amount of her first paycheck; fortunately she has created her own savings plan. She also has picked up a few groceries and filled the had tank–unasked!!! (I did reimburse her.) Hope has always been a good kid, but watching her these last few months has honestly been the most delightful.

Hope being out at work also means that I have some of the home alone time I crave. I have treasured my time with Hope during the pandemic, but we could stand some time apart. Of course, that’s complicated too. With the ongoing unrest and law enforcement continuing to use excessive force even with all of the heightened scrutiny, I worry about her getting to and from work safely. And well, there’s still a pandemic going on. 🙄🙄🙄

Unironically, I’m realizing that if she ever goes back to college, I might have to go through empty nest feelings again. Her college is planning on opening as usual; I’m not convinced that they will though. I guess we’ll see.

I’m crocheting another blanket. I’m currently watching The Great on Hulu (It’s just ok. I like my historical dramas to have a bit more accuracy.) I spend a lot of time on my patio in my zero gravity chair; it’s my favorite place from spring until fall (I have been known to put on my goose down and plop on the patio in the dead of winter). I’m trying to hold on a few weeks until my summer vacation. I’m kinda bitter that the pandemic means no beach this year.

I’m better this week, but I’m really tired. But I’m better. And Hope is doing so very well that it gives me hope that everything will be ok.


The Hardest Time

I am a researcher and diversity professional.

The last few weeks have been the most difficult of my career. All day, every weekday and some weekends I’ve been on calls, zooms, chats, and other modes of communication talking about strategies for change in the wake of the murder of George Floyd.

I’ve watched my blood pressure rise, and this week I broke out in hives and have a twitch in my right eye. I sleep like the dead and still wake up tired. My office calendar suggests that I have blocks of free time throughout the day, but it’s a lie. I don’t get much done on my to do list; I return calls, take on the fly meetings and dole out advice. It’s been almost 3 weeks at this pace, and while I feel like I’m making a difference, I know I can’t sustain this pace.

And that’s just at work. Hope and I have had several conversations about Black liberation, about police brutality and over-policing, about our hopes and our fears. I take great solace in how thoughtful Hope is about these things and how strongly she feels about justice. We watched Mr. Floyd’s funeral in Minneapolis last week together and talked about this moment in history.

Not even a pandemic can protect us from racism.

Through these weeks though, I hardly have had time to deal with my personal emotions around police brutality, the protests and racism. I took last Friday off, and plan to take a day or so next week, but I know it’s not enough.

I’m physically and emotionally exhausted. And just when I think folks can’t be anymore stupid, they prove me wrong.

I’ve been trying to practice self-care. I continue to walk a few miles in the morning. I allow myself to eat whatever I want (within reason). I have a bed-time. I allow myself to self-medicate when necessary. My social media feeds are a blend of social justice content, general news, and dog accounts, lots and lots of dog accounts. I mean, lots of dog accounts—like probably 10 more than you’re thinking.

I’ve allowed professional colleagues to see my struggle publicly, by allowing some of my normally private posts to be open for all to see. It was liberating because I stopped caring what they thought of me. This is an epic collision of personal and professional, and I wanted people to know that, to see it, to know that some folks aren’t good allies. Even in those moments I was teaching—so I was still caring.

I just hope my vulnerability was worth it.

In the grand scheme of things, I’m ok. Hope is ok. These are challenging times. They make me sad and angry, but they also give me hope. I don’t want Hope to be my age saying I remember the protests of 2020 as people take to the streets protesting the same thing. I I hope this flurry of activity leads to change. I’m a realist, but I’m still hopeful.

I’m hoping everyone is doing ok during this challenging time. Tell me what you’re feeling in the comments.

#BlackLivesMatter


Checking In

Hope and I are just in a state of overwhelming grief, sadness, and rage. The events of the last week–the weaponization of White tears against the Black birdwatcher Christian Cooper and the murder of George Floyd by four police officers–are physically and emotionally heartwrenching.

I’m not able to pull together my thoughts in a truly coherent way and spellcheck is definitely of a mind that I should not try this right now. I desperately want to say something, to make meaning of it–not just for my readers, but for me and for Hope. The truth is I’m kind of lost at the moment.

For the first time in her time with me, Hope woke up in hysterics after a bad dream. The dream? She dreamed that she was being chased by police with batons in the air and their guns drawn. She dreamed that this happened on her wedding day. It took more than an hour to get her settled down.

I couldn’t say, “Oh honey, it’s just a dream. That will never happen!” I do not feel like I could say that because I don’t believe it to be true. I just gathered her in my arms and told her I knew what she was feeling, and that I’m so sorry that I can’t protect her from one of the “few bad apple” cops. That is not the message I want her to get, but I also can’t lie to her.

I know that her heart hurts and so does mine. I’m not sure when we will feel better. We fret over the violence at some protests, but then we see police acting badly *at the protests.* We know despite our grandest hopes that this will happen again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

I don’t know what to do with that or say about it right now, so I’ll say this:

As a reader of this blog, I challenge you to do what you can to end White Supremacy and police terrorism (it’s also brutal, but my daughter was terrified).

Don’t ask your BIPOC pals/family for a to-do list to affect change. That requires emotional labor. Google is effing free–seriously, look up:

How to not be racist?

How to be an antiracist?

I promise you tons of amazing things will pop up. You will find the answers to your questions with minimal collateral damage to the BIPOC around you. Don’t make them do the heavy lift of educating you–you can do that; the resources are legit at your fingertips.

If you are a blue lives matter person, I believe in good community policing (with some caveats), but real talk, there is a problem with policing in this country. In fact #throwthewholecriminaljusticesystemout and start anew. Besides, blue life, revered and respected is a career choice; black life, maligned and marginalized is not a career choice, it is a happenstance of birth. These things are not responses to the other. Stop it.

My Christian peeps, if your church wasn’t talking about preserving Black life with a heavy dash of liberation theology this morning or over the last week–Why? The Holy Homeboy missed given y’all a message about how justice oriented Jesus was? He was about liberation before it was cool. Ponder that along with whether your church’s adoption messaging is louder and larger than its family preservation ministry.

Finally, if you work with Black folks, this might be a good time to tiptoe through the emotional tulips. Don’t get tight when the video on Zoom is set to the avatar picture. Keep meetings short; minimal small talk. Yes, it’s ok to check on them, but see above if this is your follow up, “Juanita this is so sad, do you know where I can learn more about the inherent racism in the US criminal justice system?” Sir, ma’am, them, stop, pull out your phone and ask Google Assist or Siri to find you something to read. Be patient with us.

Finally, to my fellow BIPOC, I’m holding you in my heart. This is a sad time, but all of our ancestors have experienced more and worse. We can continue to fight for equality. EArlier in the week, Hope told me a quote she found online.

They better be glad we just want equality and not revenge.

Take care of yourselves; I’ll be back with more in a few days.


Gainfully Employed

Hope is experiencing another first! She got her first job this week! 

I had hoped that she would work and maybe take a class or two at the local community college, Well, the bureaucracy at the community college made taking a class unable to happen, so we pivoted. Hope buckled down and put in applications at numerous places in our local area. She got a couple of quick ‘no’s’ and then poof, she had a few interviews lined up. 

I launched ABM’s Interview Boot Camp, where we practiced interviewing a dozen or so times. I’m always amazed at how poised she can be when she really sets her mind to it. It’s always so reassuring to me that she will be ok. 

Within 24 hours of filling out a bunch of applications, she had a job at a local fast food restaurant. In the current economic environment, I really didn’t think she would find a job, much less so quickly. I’ve chalked this up to the universe wanting Hope to really have this experience for now.

I helped her fill out the tax forms and other paperwork. I measured her for her uniform so she could get something that fit. I soothed her anxiety about another new experience. 

And then, she went off to start her first 8 hour shift.

I’m so proud of her. 

New experiences still cause a lot of anxiety for Hope. She catastrophizes a lot; not quite as much as she used to, but still quite a lot. She is improving though, and I see evidence of her developing coping skills. 

During the interview boot camp, I found myself laying out her options–go to the interview, do well, get the job. Go to the interview, do well, but don’t get the job. Go to the interview, don’t do well, but somehow still get the job. Go to the interview, don’t do well, and don’t get the job. In none of the scenarios will you get hurt or your future fall apart. It’s just an interview. Just do your best. 

When she got ready for her first day, it was another pep talk. Go, learn a lot, embrace the training, you can do this. Watch and learn and remember that there’s a team of people, none of you want to fail, so you’ll work together. 

I find myself often making her stop and consider the “bad” first time experiences since we’ve been a family. Oh, there have absolutely been missteps and some failures, but they weren’t the end of the world. I remind her that if she has to think hard to come up with a list because the number is relatively low, then you’ve probably got a good ratio and that somehow things will be ok, even if they aren’t perfect. 

Today is day three of being gainfully employed, and she says she likes it. I think she also likes the idea of having a job and knowing that that will lead to greater independence. I’ve asked her what she thinks she’ll spend her income on; she said she will put most of it in savings. She still has 2 more interviews for jobs that pay more, but I think she will be content if those don’t work out.

I’m super proud of her. It’s really such a privilege to watch her come into adulthood and stretch. With each new thing, she faces her fears and realizes that she will be OK. She remembers that I’ll be there to support her. 

Hope is a really a cool human; I love being her mom.


Pandemic Chronicles, v. 4

So, Hope and I are back to our Pandemic Normal. I’m finally feeling fully recovered and Hope has finished her first year of college (amazeballs). Now we’re trying to chart out our summer.

Due to a variety of absurd reasons, Hope was unable to register for the first session of summer school (she’s nearly 19 but they still wanted a form from a legal guardian). So, we had to do a hard pivot—it is time for Hope to find a job. I told her that she needed to find creative ways of volunteering if she couldn’t find a paying job. I was ready for her to consider doing UberEats and/or do shopping for some of the older residents in our building. She spent yesterday morning hunting for and putting in applications at grocery stores and fast food places.

Honestly, given how trash the economy is, I didn’t think that she would really find a job. I realized on my morning walk this morning that the universe has other plans for Hope for the summer. In a single day she was able to set up a couple of interviews for this week, one of which has already sent her the onboarding information. Clearly, schoolwork isn’t what was supposed to happen this summer.

I’m excited for Hope and this new experience she’s going to have this summer.

Our relationship has changed so much these last two months, and honestly, the relationship we have now is kinda what I’ve been chasing all these years. We have our own inside jokes. We have deep philosophical conversations. With both of us at home, Hope is able to get a much better sense of how I hard I work, and I think she is much more understanding of why I get pissed when she’s particularly lazy or entitled. I get to see her habits and how she works; I can see better what coping mechanisms really work for her and what things she probably still needs to work on. I think we both have a lot more patience with one another; there’s just a lot more grace and a lot more understanding.

In many ways, I’m grateful for this time with her even if I did wish she would just spontaneously clean the kitchen without me asking her.

And me? Well, I’m learning to crochet. I’ve resumes my exercise efforts. I can’t handle a lot of intensity these days, so I make up for that with more workout time. I’m reminded that I have a gym membership for when the weather is bad, and cold isn’t bad weather. I still would rather bundle up and go walk a couple of miles. I bake bread a few days a week because it’s so yummy, and I enjoy cooking a real dinner for us a few days a week. (By the way since it’s become so hard to get bread flour at the store, I now get it from a local bakery and it’s AMAZING!) I have started a daily habit of trying to find beauty when I take my multiple walks throughout the day. I try to post the pictures on my private social media accounts.

I’ve zeroed in on my skin routine; during a recent video call with my sister, my brother in law even commented on my skin. I’m transition to more natural deodorants because this seems like as good a time as any to do that—when I’m around just 1 other person! LOL. I get enough sleep each night which has radically changed my outlook on a lot of things. It’s really amazing how tired we all are when the world is “open.” I’m increasingly convinced that we’re all just overstimulated. I luxuriate on the weekend because after I make the grocery run, I can chill. I bought a zero-gravity chair and Yappy and I hit the balcony when the weather is nice. It’s nice to be rested.

Yappy is also doing well. He gets way too many treats and is gaining weight. I worry about how anxious he will be when I finally return to the office, but for now, he seems incredibly content to have his pack all in one place. He seems to be at his happiest when we take a walk as a family in the evenings. It’s a delight to watch him, and it’s comforting to cuddle with him.

Yappy & I enjoying the morning sun on the patio! And yes, that is a side eye.

In all, Hope and I are doing better than ok these days. We are still wary of the world opening back up, fully aware of the dangers that await but also relishing in this special time together. I’m realizing that if Hope doesn’t boomerang home, this might actually be the last substantial period of time when we live together. I think of that often, and I let it guide my engagements with her. It’s not that I want her to boomerang home; I hope she is able to take flight. But if she does come back I want to be sure that we have a new baseline of what our life can be like with a mother and her adult daughter living together.

Of course, that’s in the middle of a pandemic, but I still hope it will create a reference point for whatever might be necessary in the future.

But for now, Hope and I are enjoying each other and getting a window into each other’s lives in ways we didn’t pre-pandemic.


Mourning Ahmaud Arbery

On the day Ahmaud Arbery took his last run, 911 calls shine new ...

I refuse to watch the video of the murder of Ahmaud Arbery. I made a conscientious decision a few years ago to stop watching such videos. There is a part of me that wants to bear witness, but the reality is that I cannot take it. I simply cannot.

After years of watching Black men, women and children murdered by White folks has left me with a bit of a shattered heart.

How many more times am I supposed to duct tape it back together only to have it shattered again?

If you’ve been under a rock or just consumed by news of COVID-19 and nothing else, Ahmaud Arbery, a 25 year old Black man was shot to death by two White men while he was out jogging in a Georgia neighborhood back in February. Two men chased down Ahmaud in a truck, alleging that he was a burglary suspect and that they were attempting a citizen’s arrest. Never mind that reports indicated there had not been a burglary in the neighborhood since New Year’s. They chased him down the street, and with another neighbor in another car, boxed him in, confronted him and demanded that he stop. He allegedly fought back, and he was shot dead with a shotgun.

I can’t imagine the fear he must have felt when he realized the truck was following him, when the yelling started, when he realized he couldn’t run to safety, that he would have to fight for his life, and the moment when he breathed his last breath.

I walk Yappy just about every morning. We usually walk 1-2 miles. We walk in all of the seasons (unless it’s pouring as Yappy generally does not do rain!). I walk through 2-3 neighborhoods regularly. I try to let Yappy be my ambassador because the silly dog will happily greet just about anyone. Not that long ago, we ran into an White neighbor who noted that I “didn’t live around here.” His tone was clear. I replied that I lived nearby, but that I’d been walking Yappy on that street for 5 years, it’s odd he hadn’t seen us before. I made a point to wave at another neighbor who I see often on my walks. I avoided that block for a week afterward; I got the picture that I didn’t belong.

Thankfully, he opted not to hop in his Volvo and chase us down the street. He could have.

And hey, there’s new construction going up across the street. I walk by the home nearly every day. Have I checked it out? Sure. Did it ever occur to me that I could be seen as a burglar, be chased and murdered for checking out the new house? No.

When the video of Amhaud’s lynching went viral my heart sank. I didn’t need to see it. My heart broke for Ahmaud’s family, knowing that their son’s and brother’s last few moments were being consumed around the world. I found myself feeling despair.

This keeps happening, and we go through the paces again and again.

Black person is murdered for FILL IN THE BLANK while minding their own gotdamn business.

No arrest is made, and initial police reports are that it was justified.

Magical videos appear showing that the murder is not justified.

Character assassination of Black person begins along with the common refrain, “If Black person had just FILL IN THE BLANK, they would not have been shot.” (For Ahmaud it was a juvie record)

Arrest is made without incident. Sometimes there’s even a stop for food on the way to the jailhouse.

White murderer is rarely indicted by the grand jury.

Farce of a trial is had, typically resulting in a not guilty verdict.

And then we start it over again; unless some rando person decided not to wait and just gunned down another Black person who was FILL IN THE BLANK while minding their own gotdamn business.

Are you exhausted? I know I am.

And we can’t even march in the streets right now. Yes, we can call, email, text and share all kinds of information, but the desire to march in the streets and put our anger and our grief on display can’t happen because of the pandemic—which by the way we are disproportionately dying from as well.

It is traumatizing. Not just hearing about and watching someone else’s death, but also worrying about what I might be doing while minding my own gotdamn business that will get me killed. It is traumatizing and exhausting in a way that you can feel in the very marrow of your bones and in the soles of your feet. You just want to find a panic room and stay there, where it’s safe. But we know that’s not realistic—pandemic related stay at home orders notwithstanding. This persistent emotional trauma shortens our life, as if we needed anything else to worry about since we know that the healthcare system can be trash towards us.

Last week, I just spazzed out. I was emotionally spent. I’m still dealing with a lot of emotional stuff having to do with being sick and not being able to see my family and worrying about Hope’s future with the pandemic looming over her undergraduate plans. Work has not stopped churning, and unreasonable expectations of productivity persist. And then when I sift through social media, there are folks who expect Black folks to do the emotional labor of helping *them* through this difficult time.

I am weary, just weary.

It’s enough to just make me want to stay in bed forever. I tapped out a couple of days ago. I masked up and went stress shopping at the local market. Cake, ice cream, snacks, margarita mix, one lonely pack of baby spinach and a bunch of overpriced meat to put in the freezer. All told I spent a $100, and then I just sat in my car. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t.

I still haven’t cried, and I need to so badly.

Hope knows how emotional I can be; she sometimes teases me about it. She knows when not to tease me; she’s constantly checking in to make sure I’m ok.

She’s still worried about me being sick. She still doesn’t understand how hard I work sometimes (we do not share the same work ethic; we are very different in that respect), but she does know the depression that covers me when a murder like Ahmaud’s happens.

The mourning is real. I wear it like a bathrobe. I sit with it. I try to bury myself in it. The sadness. The grief. The struggle to remember that #notall White folks are dangerous, that I had loving White people in my life who are dear friends and colleagues. I know it’s not everyone, but I also know that so many folks will stay silent about these injustices. Silence is complicity. If you are my friend, you say you care about me then you need to speak up and get your people together. Please don’t ask me what you should do—I BEEN TOLD YOU. Be an antiracist and get to getting your people together. Dassit.

There is so much despair, the despair about what will become of us as a people, and me and Hope as individuals—what will become of us? Are we safe? Should I keep walking my dog in the mornings? Even in the nice neighborhood across the way? Is there anyway I can figure out how to prevent something like this from happening other than to stay hidden in my house, like I’m on some underground railroad?

I can tell you that I didn’t survive the last few weeks of being sick for this shit.

When White folk ask me why I’m so consumed by race all the time I usually respond how could I not be? At every turn this society is quick to remind me that my and my family’s melanted skin can be a problem.

I am so very tired.

None of this is ok.

My faith in the justice system is limited. My belief that Ahmaud’s family will see real justice is limited. My belief that I am safe on my morning walk is non-existent. I know that even with a cute dog, walking down the street to get some exercise is threatening.

And there is nothing I can really do to change that.

It’s really just too much.


2300 Days

According to The Google, I’ve been Hope’s mother for 2,300 days today, counting from the day of placement.

It seems kind of surreal when I count the days.

It is 13% of my life.

It is exactly 1/3rd of Hope’s life.

Motherhood for me has been a challenging blessing. Hope was an amazing kid in need of a permanent home, and I came to motherhood on the tail end of a doctoral program and after the recovery of a major health event. I have no regrets, but I do sometimes wonder what it would have been like had I given myself more time to finish my program and fully emotionally recovered from the health scare. As the Tootsie Roll owl used to say, “The world may never know.”

What would’ve been is neither here nor there.

Hope were and continue to be a good match, and I look forward to seeing how we continue to evolve in this relationship.

Just yesterday, I finally demanded that we organize all of Hope’s college stuff because the chaos in her room was driving me crazy. I am allowing the housekeepers to come back this week because although I’m good at housekeeping, I crave the good scrub down the place gets ever 2 weeks from professionals. When Hope is home and the room is a mess, the housekeepers ask to avoid her room—for what I’m paying I need the WHOLE house to get the full treatment, so it was past time for us to get Hope’s room together for their arrival this week.

There are some thing that Hope brought with her when she moved in. A lot of the clothes have long since been given away, but things like cards, pictures, blankets and stuffed animals have a permanent in our home. I will always make space for those things.

Well, yesterday, Hope announced that she was ready to get rid of most of the blankets and stuffed animals. Many of them where acquired through adoption fairs when she was foster care. Basically she would be taken to these fairs in hopes of meeting a future forever family. It didn’t work for her, but she would be given these parting gifts—cozy blankets and stuffed animals. When she moved here, she was very attached to these items, so I got shelves for her to store and display them.

So when she said they could now be given away, I was floored. I stopped what I was doing, looked at Hope and asked was she sure.

She was. She said she was just simply ready to let much of it go.

She bagged up some things that we will take to the local veterinarian. We’ll send one small quilt to my sister for her kids. She kept a few things but announced that she would probably get rid of those things too. I encouraged her to consider a few mementos, you know for her future presidential library. She laughed.

Letting go of these things is really a big deal for Hope, and for me. It seems to be a signal that there really has been some healing over these 2,300 days. There’s also room for new life, new memories. Hope talks about her life a lot; her stories are different now. The way she talks about things is different. Sure she is a bit more mature, but she’s also a bit more realistic about all of the parts of her journey. I can tell she’s really been working hard at healing.

I’m glad to have been with her for these 2,300 days on her journey. I’m glad to see her blossoming. I’m glad that she seems happy. I’m glad she’s finding her way.

I’m honored that Hope made me a mother. I love her so much. I’m so proud of her. She’s amazing.

I look forward to the next 2,300 days. So much will happy during these next 6 years, and I’m excited for both of us.

**This post is dedicated to Hope’s birth mother. We do not have a relationship with her, but I think of her often and hope a reunion is in the cards for Hope one day.**


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