Rise from the Ashes...

Often, when a tragedy such as the massacre in Newtown, Connecticut happens, I hear the statement, “things like this don’t happen here.”  I have been pondering this declaration for quite sometime because the truth is, events such as mass shootings don’t happen anywhere... until they do.  There is a subtle, or perhaps not so subtle  message, which states the tragedy is somehow more devastating because “our community isn’t violent.”  I’ve thought carefully about this blog post before sitting down to write it because I’m concerned my perspective might be misconstrued as insensitive.  Certainly, when the media imposes itself on a community in the midst of a crisis, people do not spend time scripting how they will respond to a reporter’s questions.  The greater likelihood is that people are speaking from their gut.  In my opinion, herein lies the problem.  If you listen closely, these moments are when we hear raw, unfiltered truth.  Thoughts shaped by institutions designed to rank the value of lives.  

Like all of you, I remain heartbroken by the senseless violence which took the lives of so many people, most of whom were young children.  This could have easily been my sister’s classroom.  She teaches at an elementary school on the East coast and without a doubt, she too would have protected the students at all cost.  I have a 6 month old nephew; so now, more then ever, I can relate to that gut-wrenching ache at the idea of losing a child.  I am not ambivalent to the anguish caused by this massacre or any of the other recent massacres. In fact, I feel just the opposite.  I believe we should ALL be outraged by ALL the incidents of violence resulting in lost lives, regardless of where they take place.  Yet sadly, the only ones we mourn nationally, and internationally are the lives lost by what we deem unexpected acts of violence.  The ones which occur in places where, “things like this don’t happen.”  

Throughout my career I have worked in communities where young people often risk their lives walking out the front door of their home.  I can tell you the names and describe the smiles of children who had to be escorted to school by groups of parents  in an effort to momentarily halt the flurry of bullets fired off during a drug war, children who were literally beaten to death because their self expression didn’t fit someone’s idea of normal, children whose lives were lost by drive-by shootings, children who were awakened in the middle of the night by gun shots, only to find the bodies on their front lawn, and children whose heads were stomped on against the hard concrete in the middle of the night.  None of these stories made national news, in fact, most of them didn’t make the local news.  These examples are only the ones with whom I have a personal connection.  There are thousands more whose stories are never told, and whose lives are only mourned by the few who knew them.  

Violence takes the lives of people all over the world, in poor urban neighborhoods, in countries ravaged by war, in oppressive political regimes.  In fact, on the very day the mass shooting occurred in Connecticut, a man in China used a knife to attack 22 children as they entered school.  Although these children did not lose their lives, in recent years, more than 20 children have died from similar attacks.  I didn’t know about this until a Tibetan friend shared the news story.  It did not receive major world coverage.

I do not mean to minimize the tragedy of the 26 people who lost their lives in Newtown, Connecticut.  Rather, I am asking you to consider increasing the value of the many other lives lost to violence, to the same worth as those receiving national attention.  How much value we put on a life dictates how we allocate the resources to support it.  This shows up in the way we respond to where tragedies occur, in the quality of schools, and in the way we talk about a community.  It is in the subtlety of what we imply with our words and our actions, where the truth is revealed.  To me...  “things like this don’t happen here,” sounds remarkably similar to  “we are not like those people who are violent; we are different.”  Yet, it isn’t until we collectively crumble at the loss of all lives that we will ever be able rise from the ashes and build pillars designed to support all our children, not just a privileged few.

fluke1    [flook] noun 3. either half of the triangular tail of a whale.

During a training I recently attended, I sat soberly listening, as a colleague described in vivid detail what it's like to face so many encounters of racism  on a daily basis, that most days, he loses count. He went on to explain that he really started noticing this when he hit puberty. His voice deepened, shoulders broadened, and he went from a cute little boy to a black man.  From that moment on his days became an exercise in dodging the never ending hostilities of fear and hate.  I’ve read about racism, I’ve witnessed racism,  I’ve stood up against racism and yet this time I truly reflected on the impact of being treated as a criminal, a second-class citizen, and  as a savage not just once in a while, but every day, all day, year after year.  My colleague talked about how numb he’d grown over the years, as though his body intuitively went into self preservation. It wasn’t until he was given the opportunity to speak his truth, that it seemed like he allowed himself to acknowledge how much pain he stuffs away just to make it through his days.  

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this small glimpse into his reality because it reminds me how much I don’t know.

Not long after, I sat with a parent who shared with me she’d been ordered to be deported. Days before Christmas she will get a final decision from the court of appeals. In the meantime, as the moments of each day slip away, her 3 children come closer to the possibility they will lose their mother because she was born on the wrong side of a river. Before I spoke with her I only knew her son as a sweet, light hearted, kind, thoughtful boy, who always wears a smile.  Already at such a young age, he’s learned to wear a mask.  

On a daily basis we float around like whales swimming in the depths of the ocean, occasionally lifting our tails above the surface just enough to be seen.  But the truth is, who we are as beings, the weight of what we carry in this world remains hidden.  It can be easy to forget how much we don’t know about others, and instead get lost in the small details we see....judging others for being “angry assholes,” or assuming a smile means someone isn’t in pain.  

I am fortunate, or maybe the more appropriate word is privileged, my smile almost always means I am truly happy.  I can choose to indulge in my privilege and exist in a world where I don’t have to think about the color of my skin or my citizenship status, but that isn’t the kind of person I want to be.  Instead, I work hard to think about inequities every day because there are people who have no other choice.  I do my best to move slowly and take time to be curious.  It is only when we are brave enough to ask, will we get closer to understanding.

Simplicity

An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break.      ~Chinese Proverb

Every new year’s eve for more than 15 years I have a ritual of finding a quiet place to sit with my journal and think about what I most want to practice in the upcoming year.  First I read my journal entry from the previous year and reflect on my aspirations, assess whether I accomplished my goals and whether I lived my life according to my intentions.  I then write about my hopes and dreams for the upcoming year. Often these entries become a list of goals I want to accomplish, places I want to explore, lessons I want to learn, problems I want to climb, races I want to run, etc..   However, this year I decided to only focus on slowing down and simplifying my life.  I am fortunate to feel passionate about many things, but this sometimes means the things that most bring my joy and peace in this world can look more like a “to do” list, rather than an opportunity to meander throughout my days... wake up, run, climb, write, take photos, cook, and read.  Instead, I wanted to create time to get lost amidst these passions rather than check them off my list.  However, despite my best intentions, the first half of my year became a balancing act of too much to do.  Each time I stopped to take an inventory of what I could take off my plate I came to the same conclusion: there is nothing I could stop doing or nothing I was willing to stop doing; therefore I decided to embrace the fullness of my days, rather than be burdened by them, ( at least this is what I attempted.)

As winter faded into spring this year, my preparations for my trip to Tibet collided with end of the semester grading for the class I teach at Metro State, scheduling time to visit my new nephew on D.C., wrapping up the school year with cityWILD, and student commencement ceremonies.  Not quite the simplicity I had in mind on New Year’s eve.  Yet, I kept reminding myself to breathe because I would soon be in perhaps the most spiritual place on earth. 

I have been home from Tibet for nearly two months and have sat down to reflect numerous times, yet each time I struggle to find words that capture what I feel. I have concluded, these words don’t exist.  How do I convey what it felt like to walk into our home-stay, which was the home of a Tibetan Monk and his mother, as he welcomed us with a joyous laughter that comes from a place so deep within, I have yet to visit, and she greeted us with a smile surrounded by wrinkles from a road map of the stories she could tell. How do I convey that the Tibetans' voices greeting me throughout the day sounded like a gentle lullaby, or how a peacefulness washed over me each morning when we arrived at the orphanage as the boys chanted Buddhist mantras, or the stillness I felt sitting around the fire inside a nomadic tent drinking butter tea-with nothing else in the world distracting me, or the ache I felt as our guide, who became like family, described crossing the Himalayan mountains alone at 15 and then again at 18 in order to get an education in India, or how for the first time in my life I felt god/buddha/allah while sitting between two Tibetan monks outside a cave at the top of a mountain, where one of them had meditated for 3 years and the other was still there meditating after 3.5 years?

How do I convey being overcome with the playfulness of a child while playing frisbee in a muddy field, under a canopy of rain with 40 orphaned boys learning to be monks, or the despair I felt listening to the monk, whose home we were staying in, describe being bullied by Chinese government officials, to support a government, which is actively trying to abolish his culture, language, and people, or the inspiration I felt as another guide and dear friend shared his plans to build a school in his village to educate nomadic children, or the overwhelming feeling of being one, while sitting inside a monastery crowded with Tibetans listening to monks chant the most transcendental sounds, or the desperation I felt driving past the concrete governmental homes built to cage the nomadic people?

The first week after my return I avoided all socializing. Despite having transitioned home from faraway places, with vastly different cultures, on numerous occasions, I wasn’t prepared to return home from Tibet.  I had no idea how profound my experience in Tibet would be; in fact, I believe I only have a partial understanding of how transformative my time there will continue to become.

Ordinarily I turn to writing as a way to process my thoughts and feelings and on multiple occasions I sat down to write about my trip. Yet, each time I was unsuccessful.  As the days turned into weeks, and then months, I recognized I was avoiding my own reflection.  The idea of trying to capture the depth of what I feel and putting these feelings into words has been paralyzing me.  Before I knew this trip was a possibility, I committed to seeing the Himalayas during my 40th year, but I had no idea this intention would culminate into the most meaningful and poetic lesson in simplicity.  

However, this lesson in simplicity isn’t just about moving through life slowly or about reducing consumerism, it is also about the simple, yet profound reminder of our impact on the world.  The Chinese government is methodically and intentionally trying to eradicate the Tibetan culture; and although injustice happens throughout the world, most, if not all, of these oppressed cultures have formal allies-governments who are coming to their aid.  This isn’t true for the Tibetan people.  China has so much economic power, countries, including the U.S., aren’t unwilling to hold China accountable for the atrocities they commit.  So while many people sleep walk through life, blindly purchasing products made in China, living in insular places, which perpetuate the illusion that the injustices in the world have no bearing on their lives, or that their lives have no bearing on the injustices in this world, the most peaceful, spiritual, kind, and enlightened people are systematically being abolished We must wake up.  It’s that simple.

Turning 40 has inspired me to stray from my usual focus on social justice and revel in reflection.  In the months leading up to my birthday I didn’t feel anxiety about entering a new decade.  Most days I simply feel grateful for the richness of my life.  It always feels like a privilege to wake up to another day.  However, on the eve of my birthday, I felt an overwhelming desire to find meaning in this milestone.  Serendipitously, in my first two weeks of being 40 I found tremendous meaning in the most unexpected places.  In the last couple of weeks I broke bread to celebrate this occasion with friends who’ve become my family in Colorado, my courageous partner interviewed before a panel of fire and police chiefs in order to follow his dream of becoming a fire fighter, I spent the weekend in beautiful Telluride surrounded by astonishing athletes, photographers, artists, and film makers and then continued the road trip through the Black Canyon,  another shooting took place in the community where I work, this time wounding two people and killing two young men (one of whom was a friend of a cityWILD student,)  I co-led a climbing course for 7th graders in Buena Vista, one my dearest friends in the world bravely underwent a bilateral mastectomy, my sister gave birth to a baby boy, I spent a weekend with my nephew, sister, brother-in-law, and my parents, and in two short weeks I will leave for a 3 week journey to Tibet.   I have found so much meaning in these experiences, I struggle with where to begin.

As I grow older, the depth of what I feel intensifies. I feel an urgency to love as fully as I can so the people closest to my heart never go a moment without knowing how much they mean to me.  I am more often moved to tears by the vulnerability of others and their courage to take risks, I am acutely aware of the fragility of life and what a short time we have together, I spend more time being mindful, I am more careful with the earth, I am more intentional,  I am more dedicated to being creative, and I am more determined to live my days with kindness, compassion, and grace.  In these brief weeks I have intimately encountered the tenderness of life and time and time again, the meaning for me, is undoubtedly about connection.  

As I bare witness to David’s tenacity to pursue fire fighting and the vulnerability that comes with taking this risk, I feel a widening expanse within, that repeatedly softens me.  Watching films at MountainFilm that documented both the human capacity to go unimaginably beyond our limits and the critical need for all of us to show up and care about each other fills me with an outpouring of hope and inspiration.  These emotions exponentially intensified on my climbing course when the students bravely stepped off the rock’s edge to rappel into uncertainty.  I stood with each of them moments before they walked  backwards off the rock, voice cracking, bodies shaking, resisting the urge to safely hike back down, and my eyes filled with tears by their willingness to trust themselves and the adults there to guide them.   A few hours later while listening to a cityWILD student, who has left the gang life behind, talk about losing another “homeboy,” I wondered if this young person will ever know how deeply I am in awe by this measure of strength and whether I will find the words to convey my sentiment.  

As cliche as it may sound, I regularly think about how I am not promised another day and this motivates me to express my feelings just in case I am not given the opportunity again.  When I found out one of my longest standing and closest friends was diagnosed with breast cancer, I was reminded nothing is as important as spending time with the people I love. This also resonates with me as David will soon embark on his first fire fighting venture.  Although I know he will take great care to be safe, I can’t help but think about all the things he can’t control in the midst of a wildfire.

I am writing this on the plane, flying home from meeting my nephew for the 1st time.  The weight of responsibility I feel holding him in my arms, to make sure he grows up in a kind and just world is indescribable.  I think the only way this will be possible is to be gentle with each other and to always remember our lives are interconnected.  My sister’s transition into motherhood has deepened my connection with her.  I can’t explain it, except to perhaps wonder if she has awakened an innate bond over the ability to create life.  What I do know is that she is now more beautiful than ever.  While hugging my mom good-bye as I returned to Denver, her eyes filled with tears and I quickly said, “don’t be sad.”  But the truth is, these words were a feeble attempt to hide the inadequacy I felt to share my gratitude for our time together and for the unconditional love I feel both for and from my family.  

While in Tibet I will be charged with the responsibility of teaching global citizenship to 6 high school students in the shadow of China’s occupation.  This is where I expected to find meaning as I turned 40.  Yet life has a way of reminding me that we don’t have to make grand gestures to find meaning, it is all around me in the connections I make with the people I love most in the world.

letting go

Shortly after I graduated with my Bachelor’s degree in social work, I volunteered to run an open gym for youth once per week on the eastside of Kalamazoo, MI.  During my time there, I developed longstanding relationships with the youth and their families. In fact, many of them, who’ve become amazing adults, are still a part of my life.  The more involved with this program I became, the more time I spent in similar neighborhoods throughout Kalamazoo.  I grew comfortable spending time in communities mostly made up of African American families. I walked into corner stores, most of my white friends were afraid to drive by, with confidence and ease. People began to recognize me in these communities, which only reinforced my comfort level.  However, one day while driving home from the northside, I passed a store called the Polar Bear.  This store was surrounded by vacant lots and had an infamous reputation for being “dangerous.”  For reasons I can no longer recall, I decided to stop and get something to drink.  Immediately upon walking inside, I felt a cold, suspicious stare from the African American couple behind the counter and I remember thinking, as vividly as it was yesterday, “they just don’t know who I am, they don’t get I am not racist like other white people.”  Nearly 20 years later and thankfully, much further along in my understanding of white privilege and racism, I am almost embarrassed to admit this.  Yet, it wasn’t until many years after this occurred, when I would look back upon that moment and realize how far I’ve come and how much distance in my journey I have yet to travel.  

While sitting in an anti-racism training in Denver  in 2006, one of the facilitators summarized the common practice of white people who work in African American and Latino communities, believing they are “the good ones.” They think working towards social justice somehow makes them exempt from being racist or exempt from the benefits of privilege.  As I heard this, I was transported back to the moment, standing in the Polar Bear feeling the discomfort of being scrutinized for being white and I realized this is exactly what I believed.  I thought, “if they only knew the kind of person I was, they would be more welcoming of me in their store.”  I had such little understanding of the privileges I carry in the world and how they impact others.  I didn’t understand being an ally and an anti-racist doesn’t erase my privilege, nor does it change the fact I am vulnerable to being racist because I am socialized to be so on a daily basis.

I have been reflecting on privilege more than usual lately: white privilege and economic privilege to be exact; particularly in the wake of a fatal shooting near the office where I work and the shooting of Trayvon Martin. During the candle light vigil, while I was standing on the corner where the 19 year old was killed in broad daylight, these thoughts hit me like a sucker punch to my stomach.  As I listened to community leaders and the victim’s father speak, along with many others, I felt invisible, insignificant, and was so painfully aware of my privilege.  I was overwhelmed with anger, for my ability to leave and go back to my peaceful, quiet, paradise surrounded by the mountains knowing no one else on that corner could escape this reality. I was pissed off at all the white, privileged, people who never enter these communities; people who believe what happens here has no bearing on their lives and that there is no connection between their lives and the lives of the children standing on the corner, eyes already filled with despair. Yet, for me it became so crystal clear: violence is a consequence of the privileges the rest of us enjoy.  

As I looked into the tearful eyes of a community who lost yet another one of its young people, the lack of access to safety, education, food,  justice, and to nearly everything most of us take for granted was palpable. I realized the neighborhood I was standing in, like so many similar to it, is the reciprocal, empty, vacuum of the plentiful resources I enjoy.  In that moment, I got it, clearer than it has ever been.  I got that until we all understand how poverty, oppression, violence, and racism are directly related to how little we let go of the privileges that perpetuate our power, we will forever maintain the grave disparities in this world. 

“The good we secure for ourselves is precarious and uncertain until it is secured for all of us and incorporated into our common life.”             ~Jane Addams