Random Rants, tutto e niente

People of St Pete: Dawn Wilder

Joyful! That’s the word that comes to mind when I think of the moment captured in this picture (below) of me and Dawn Wilder (my “People of St Pete” person for the May issue of Green Bench Monthly). Just before this hug, she shared some of the positive feedback she has gotten since the issue came out. And she isn’t the only one! Barb and Carl (from the March and April issues) also enjoyed their time in the spotlight. This news makes me HAPPY! So many fantastic people never get their day in the sun (or spotlight). I’m glad I can make it happen for some.

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Interviewing Dawn for this piece was a blast. She is such a warm and funny person. I could have easily written twice as much. Some interesting things just couldn’t get squeezed into the word limit. For example, rain, shine, or blistering heat, she biked to work for two years after her divorce until she could save money for a car. She’s part Native American. Reading to the kids in her son’s grade school class is the favorite part of her week. She can do seven (seven!!!) pull-ups! She speaks nearly fluent French. She’s run marathons. And she loves red wine.

Check out the rest of the story in the May issue of Green Bench Monthly at People of St Pete: Dawn Wilder

History, Random Rants, tutto e niente

Race in America: Am I Still a Teacher? Or Should I Just Shut-Up?

Last night I watched Hari Kondabolu’s Netflix special. His comedy is both smart and very funny. His parents emigrated from India before he was born and a lot of his comedy addresses ideas about race and culture. One of the things he talks about on stage is how some “white people” don’t like to be labeled as a racial category (“white people”). To many whites, it’s the “other” people that need descriptors—black people , Indian people, Mexican people …. White is the default, the so-called norm. But as Hari points out, the notion of race as a biological divider is a made-up thing (even though the resulting racism is very real). And even the idea of who belongs in which category has changed over the years as groups once considered NOT white (Italian, Irish, and Jewish people for example) have been welcomed into the “white race.”

He does this in a very funny way, but it’s also a great mini-history lesson on race in America. Except for the being funny part, his observations mirror the introduction lecture I gave when I taught a course called “American Diversity: Contested Visions of the American Experience.” This class examined how ideas about race (and gender) were constructed in the U.S. and how those shifting ideas affected (and continue to affect) us. As I watched (and laughed),  I even thought to myself: “I should just play this special in class. They’d probably pay more attention.” Then I remembered I don’t teach anymore. So while I was laughing at Hari’s take on race issues, I also realized that I was feeling a bit discombobulated.

This feeling had begun to bubble to the surface earlier in the week when Childish Gambino’s video “This is America” premiered. Like Hari’s routines, Donald Glover’s inspired melding of history and the present immediately filled my mind with ideas about how it could be incorporated into a class. And those ideas intermingled with thoughts I had the week earlier when Kanye made his ridiculous slavery as a “choice” comments. And all of that is layered over the Trump & Team’s repeating examples of racism, xenophobia, and misogyny. My TEACHER brain is overloaded with ideas.

But, reality check. it’s been over a year since I’ve been in front of a class. And I have struggled with questions of identity and purpose since I left. If I don’t have a classroom, am I still a teacher? Do still want to be a teacher? Can I be of service outside of the classroom? Truthfully, in some ways it’s been a relief to NOT be in the classroom especially in Trump’s America. For one, I no longer have to try and censure or tone down my personal opinions. (On that front, I’m sure some of my former students would question that I even tried. I did! But I wasn’t always successful.) But at the same time, I hope that I did some good. You can’t fix something if you don’t address it. Speaking honestly and openly about race issues was often a heavy weight, especially as a middle-age white woman. But I think I got better every year at navigating the responsibility. I think I may have done some good.

For some students (both students of color and “white” students), it was the first time that they explored how the category of race was built in America. Many had never been exposed to the reality that the label is not an unchanging “natural” one. As Hari points out in his show, it has shifted and changed over time. Those with the power endeavored to make “race” do (or mean) what they wanted while those subjected to the negative effects of this effort resisted and acted to try and shape their experience. Understanding the depth and breadth of both its construction and the simultaneous resistance can be both exhausting and empowering. Being a part of that uncovering—for lack of a better term—was fulfilling.

But, should exposing the roots of racial construction and how it continues to affect our world today be about my fulfillment? Is thinking that my voice is needed part of the problem? As a white woman, is stepping away from the front actually the responsible thing? I don’t want to be part of the “white feminism” problem. I don’t want to speak over the voices that have lived experience. (I don’t want to be associated with the “women’s edit” of “This is America.” Not everything is about white women!!) But I also know that sometimes white ears only hear white voices. So I’m thinking and reading and educating myself. And wondering, is being an ally and a supportive (not leading) voice for things I believe in the answer? How do I best do good? And, if I’m being honest, I also wonder what can I do to FEEL like I’m doing good?

So I guess all my questions come down to one: How can I do good, and feel good, from the back? How can I “flip the classroom” if I don’t have a class?!

I haven’t completely figured that out yet, but I’m working on it.

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Random Rants, tutto e niente

Less Guns. Guns that Shoot Less.

Like a lot of people, I’ve been thinking a lot about guns lately.

Thinking and feeling impotent.

I want to believe we can do better. Find a path that leads to less.

Less blood. Less death. Less heartache. Less shame.

I’ve contacted my legislators. I’ve marched for Our Lives.

Surely, I hope, that will make a difference.

But I’ve also marched for women and Black Lives. I’ve stood up for Dreamers and trans* rights and Love is Love is Love (so bake the damn cake).

And those paths still seem cluttered with obstacles.

Actually, sometimes they feel like they’re turning to quicksand.

Sinking, sucking, suffocating hope.

But, still I’ve been thinking a lot about guns.

I wish for less guns and guns that shoot less (in case you weren’t sure what I’ve been thinking).

They say only “good guys” with guns can protect us so if I wish for less guns and guns that shoot less then I must want the “bad guys” to win. I must be a feminazi cop-hating communist fascist bitch who hates freedom and wants to rip up the Constitution.

And in some respects they are right. I can be a bitch.

The rest seems a bit hyperbolic.

I hate all things Nazi. Ditto for fascism. But I don’t hate all cops. I’ll plead guilty to thinking communism has SOME merits. But the US Constitution is a pretty damn good foundation to build (keep building) “a more perfect union” so I’m for amending not destroying. And that whole “good guy” with a gun thing—really? Are we in a 1940s gangster movie?

And I am a FEMINIST. No apologies for that.

But I’m also not entirely what “they” think I am.

One of my first jobs was working at a gun club. I’ve lived in houses with guns. I’ve fired guns. (I liked it. But it scared me too.) I’ve owned guns.

But, still I’ve been thinking a lot about guns.

Less guns. Guns that shoot less.

And wondering why the “good guys” don’t want the same? How are less guns and guns that shoot less bad?

I think that maybe they have can’t see the Forest for the Trees.

They are so focused on those damn trees, they can’t see the forest is burning. And they don’t understand that burning down the forest will also destroy the trees.

So, I’ve been thinking a lot about saving the forest.

And less guns. And guns that shoot less.

Random Rants, tutto e niente

Spontaneous Combustion: Making Myself Visible    

I submitted an essay for publication today. Not a big deal, right? I’m a writer. I’ve written all kinds of stuff over the years and some people have read some of my stuff. But still … when I clicked that deceptively benign submit button, a hot flash consumed my whole body. Not literally, of course. I wasn’t actually turned into a pile of ash, a victim of the mysterious “spontaneous combustion” phenomenon stamped into my fearful subconscious via the back-page comic book ads of my youth. (Funny, even back then, I preferred the weird back page stuff to the comic content. I guess I never was a Marvel gal.)  No. I still exist in corporeal form.  No ash. Just sweaty.

But for a minute or so, I felt as if I was on fire. It’s always this way. Whether it’s an essay for publication or a query to an editor, or a blog post for this site, my body always reminds me that my mind is overwhelmed by a sense of something that I can’t quite name. I’m a writer so I should be able to come up with the perfect word, but shame is the closest I can get.

So, if it is shame (or shame adjacent) then what is it that I’m ashamed of? The answer to that question makes little logical sense. The best I can come up with is that I feel both unworthy (so ashamed of thinking I am) and boastful (so ashamed of going public with my work). Simultaneous opposing shame spirals. Fun times!

I look back at my childhood and see its genesis. I loved to learn new stuff and read and write and get good grades. Not to brag but I was a bit precocious. But by about the fifth grade, I realized two things. First, smart girls weren’t the ones holding hands with a boy at recess. And second, I kinda wanted to be one of those girls holding hands. And it only got worse from there. In my mind, smart girls didn’t get picked for the pom-pom squad or get invited to the best slumber parties or get asked to be a member of a secret sorority. I was convinced that if I just wasn’t so outwardly brainy, my life would change. I’d be popular. Life would be perfect. But I also wasn’t willing to completely sacrifice my GPA. So, I tried to be smart without looking smart. Predictably, the results were mediocre. Socially and academically.

This attitude followed me to college with worse results. College drop-out worse.

Thankfully, age brought some wisdom and by my 30s, I started to reclaim and reembrace my inner geek. I returned to school and did well. But in the back of mind I worried. But now, my shame had shifted. Who was I to think that I had something worthy to offer? I had wasted my opportunity. I was in my 40s now. Invisible. Someone younger and more confident was always ready to step to the front of the line.

And I was letting them.

But age can be an awesome thing. As I moved further into my 40s, I grew impatient. Was I really invisible or was I hiding? I wrote a book about a woman who felt suffocated by the 19th century societal assumptions and laws limiting women. She felt unheard. Invisible. Giving voice to her struggle strengthened my own voice. Maybe I am invisible to some but I still have things to say. And they can listen, or not, but they can’t shut me up.

So, (long story short), that desire gave birth to another book, then a novel (still under construction), this blog, and those dreaded submission buttons.

Flaunt it! That’s what I tell myself.

BUT still … the naysayer, my inner monologue, lives. Telling me I’m a no talent hack before it reminds me that nobody likes a smart girl. No one’s listening so why bother? You’re invisible! I’m looking forward to the day that I defeat it. It would be a relief if the voices in my head cheered instead of jeered. Until then, I claim victory every time I decide to hit the SUBMIT button. Knowing the fire makes me visible, even as I feel it consume me.

Haiku & Other Poetry, History, Random Rants, tutto e niente

Poem in your Pocket

Today is National Poem in Your Pocket Day. I love the idea! I don’t write poetry (except for the occasional silly haiku) but I’m often inspired by other people’s work. So I’m sharing a poem by a poet I just discovered: Genevieve Taggard. Ms. Magazine did a piece on her last week. In it, Julie Enszer notes that Taggard (who was born in 1894) was “fierce feminist” and her writing, like the poem The Quiet Woman, sometimes “exposes the physical and sexual degradations that women endure as well as offering visions of feminist futures.” I’m carrying this piece in my pocket today. It reminds me of the universality of women’s experiences across space and time.  It moved me.

The Quiet Woman

I will defy you down until my death
With cold body, indrawn breath;
Terrible and cruel I will move with you
Like a surly tiger. If you knew
Why I am shaken, if fond you could see
All the caged arrogance in me,
You would not lean so boyishly, so bold,
To kiss my body, quivering and cold.