Yes, Love your Neighbor, but do it Out Loud

“To the kind yet silent white women who choose to pretend it’s not happening. The ones that offer prayers and hugs and casseroles in the background but say nothing out loud. There is a problem.”

I am a southern girl through and through on some things. By that I mean when it comes to comforting people – food is my go-to solution. Death in the family? Casserole and pie. New baby? Casserole and pie. Tough times? Casserole and pie. New to the neighborhood? Casserole and pie. Food and service are my love languages. There was a time in my life when I had 12 casserole dishes. I’m not kidding. I’ve downgraded to 4 and sometimes I worry I might need more than that. Knowing me well, when I asked what message my Latina bestie would like to tell people after the shooting in El Paso happened, her message above struck a chord.

 Casserole and pie. I'm your girl. 

If I’m being honest, I’m a little scared to post this – for two reasons. The first one, and less important, is that since I’ve become a (mildly) louder online voice and said what I really think about things like white privilege, kneeling, gay pride, and lately, immigrant rights and white supremacy, I’ve gotten some hate from ardent Trump supporters. I’ve been called a moron, an idiot, a libtard. I’ve had to report to Twitter several times for people asking me for my home address, where I work, and other personal information. I NEVER post anything about my kids on Twitter for this reason. Every single one of these people were strangers. And all of them, I repeat, ALL OF THEM, touted their love for Jesus and Christianity on their page. Some even sent me bible verses. That’s another post. But just to frame it - if I, a white woman living in a very privileged bubble for my entire life, am mildly frightened to say what I really think – imagine how people of color feel.

Second, and most important, I don’t want to get this wrong. I’ve tossed the idea of writing this around with my Latina friends for awhile now. I’ve asked for their advice, their input, if it’s even ok if I write it. All them resoundingly said I should. So, it is with their blessing (and editing) that I post it. I firmly believe the time is past for white people to hold the microphone. But I also know that sometimes, our voices are magnified and listened to. If I do anything with the privilege I did not earn and do not deserve, I want to use it to get the message out that more people of color, more minorities, more LGBTQ, more people who aren’t part of the traditional, white, patriarchal structure of this nation SHOULD be listened to. So that’s part of what I'm trying to say - Shut up, listen, and use what you have to amplify others.

Sit with my opening line for a moment. We white women are often the first to show up with kind words, casseroles, school supplies, immediate care when it’s needed. We are care givers. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, we SHOULD do that. Those things are needed. But we shouldn’t stop there. I’ve spent the last several years of my life shutting up and listening. I’ve had hard conversations with friends of color. I’ve intentionally gone to spaces where LGBTQ people were leading. I’ve followed black women, transgender, Hispanic, LGBTQ, Senators, & Representatives online. I’ve joined the Facebook group called “Be The Bridge” led by Latasha Morrison where the rule is if you’re white - you can’t post or comment for three months. It’s been 2 years and I still don’t feel like I know enough to comment. I’ve listened. I’ve learned. I shut up for a minute and realized how much I didn’t know. It’s been transformative to say the least, and it is a journey I will be on for the rest of my life. You know why? Because I’m not a minority. I never have been. And even if I someday am, that doesn’t change the history of this country. White people have had the floor for a very long time. It’s time to be quiet and listen to others. And sometimes for some people, that’s hard. When you’re used to privilege, equality feels a lot like oppression. But it’s not – I PROMISE YOU. I think it’s this fear that is driving the hate in our country. The fear of losing power. It is tearing our country apart and I wish people would just stop and see how much our neighbors, Americans and those who desire to be Americans, are being targeted and made “other”, in an effort to divide us.

My first of many to come Pride Parades. #freemomhugs makes for an awesome day hugging awesome people. 

What’s happening at our border and underneath the veil of ICE is horrific. I have friends here in Katy that are an extension of my family. Just in the last year, we considered going to join a peaceful protest against a migrant facility going up here in Houston. Because of the timing, we would have to take our kids with us. My kids? Not a problem. Her brown kids…. I got scared. First, I said bring their birth certificates. Then I thought about what I just said. WHAT THE F? They are American born children and I just got worried we might need their birth certificates! Honestly, as much as we wanted to, we decided not to go. We do know it can happen. They’ve seen it before. We drove to Brownsville together one summer to visit their family and go to the beach. Going through the border patrol stop on the way back, they reminded us to put away our phones. I didn’t understand why. They explained because if we have our phones out and are texting, they might think we are texting an illegal or a “mule” that is going around the check point on foot. Then, once we stopped, Border Patrol asked about their teenage son in the back seat – BECAUSE HE WAS ASLEEP. He’s a teenager. Teenagers sleep. But the thought was he might have been running across the border all night. Are you freaking kidding me? We passed without major incident, but it was eye opening. These are things I never thought of. All this and we never left the USA. We drove from Houston to Brownsville and back.

So yes, when a white supremacist guy drives from DFW to El Paso to shoot “brown people” I take it personally. That is my family he’s targeting. And it’s not just this family. I have known so many incredible Mexican Americans. When I was a senior in college, I wrote an essay about the family of my friend Gina Martinez. Gina and I have known each other since childhood. We grew up together, I was an attendant in her Quinceanera.  Her grandfather worked with my family for decades. We called him “Mr. Garci” because when we were little, we couldn’t say Garcia. I interviewed Gina’s uncle, and Mr. Garcia’s oldest son, Raul, for a term paper in an immigration class I was taking. Hearing the story of the Garcia family changed my life. In short, Mr. & Mrs. Garcia were in the process of legal entry to the US. Before they could receive their official papers, they were forced to cross the Rio Grande because of political back fall in Mexico when Raul was just a child. It was sheer terror waiting for their official papers, but eventually they received them. They worked as migrant farm workers until they made their way to Brownwood – my hometown. Mr. Garcia cut lawns during the day and cleaned buildings at night. Mrs. Garcia raised their 7 children, kept other people’s children, and cooked amazing delicious food. All 7 of their children are US citizens, completed their education, and grew up to have families and careers.

Mr. & Mrs. Garcia had trouble becoming citizens. They knew more about US History than most of us, with Mrs. Garcia helping Mr. Garcia study for the exam. He was so nervous when he took the citizenship test, he would forget the answers in English. Raul told me about time and again driving his dad to take the test and watching him come out with tears in his eyes when he didn’t pass. Watching Until 1984 - when something changed. My dad ran for mayor of Brownwood. Mr. Garcia wanted to be able to vote for him. He took and passed the citizenship test. In his very first election, his very first vote, he voted for my dad. I can’t write that without tears. There is no finer family that I know of – and their story started out as so many we are still hearing today.  There is nothing stronger than the spirit of two people giving everything for the future of their family.

I have many stories I could tell you. Stories from my teenage years of sitting in my friend’s backyard on weekends with his entire family, aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers & sisters. We helped his mom make tamales and chips. We were always welcome. My friends here that invited us to join them last year on Christmas Eve. We had just gone through a divorce, but we were having Christmas together with our boys because we thought it was important. They invited us to join because they knew it was a hard year for us. Instead of a sad year looking at what used to be, we were invited to be family. My children learned songs in Spanish and participated in La Posada and had a pinata with their “cousins”. I can’t write that without tearing up either. In our time of need, our Mexican friends made us family. They have always made us family. It was an uncle’s first Christmas with family in 10 years. He had accidentally overstayed his Visa once, and it had taken 10 years and lots of family money to restore his right to visit the US. This was not just any Christmas, it was a very special Christmas to their family and without hesitation, they included us.

I tell you this because when our President uses words like “invaders”, “rapists”, “infestations”, “killers”, “a drain on society“– he is talking about my family. What if he were using those words to describe white women? Or the white men shooting up Walmart? Would you feel the same?

Make no mistake, Hispanics ARE being targeted by the current administration. I am not advocating for open borders, and neither would any of the families mentioned above. We all know that border security is a necessity. What we are protesting is the use of words that dehumanize an entire culture and the forcible separation of families. Comprehensive immigration reform is needed. Even Republican senators like Ted Cruz (if you know me, you know I am not a Tec Cruz fan, so if I’m citing him as an example I mean it) have tried to pass legislation to fund more judges to clear the backlog of asylum cases, provide more funds, training, and materials to Border Patrol, and improve detention centers so that families can stay together. He was resoundingly shot down by Republicans. They wouldn’t even put it to a vote. There are solutions that are in the best interest both of those coming to this country and those living here. We are supposed to be the land of opportunity and contrary to what our President says, I have never met a Hispanic that didn’t seek to make me feel like one of the family.

Words have power. When you have people already flirting with racism and misogyny and you put someone in power that feeds that flame, it is not a surprise that there has been an uptick in violence and crime recently. They feel legitimized and validated. And because words have power that is why, as white women especially, it is so important that we don’t just offer casseroles and prayers when we see other families suffering. Yes, we should do those things. Yes, there is no such thing as other people’s children. We are mothers and natural care givers. But we must also use our words. We need to use them in public spaces, and we need to use them at home with our families and we need use them in letters and phone calls to our law makers and in protests and with our votes.

The time for only casseroles and thoughts and prayers has passed. Do those things. Care for your neighbor. But stand with them and fight with them and call out racism with them. In this most important time in our country, do not be silent. Don’t watch and love the movie CoCo and then refuse to speak out. You don’t get to do that anymore. Either you are fighting with your neighbor, or you are complicit in the racism being targeted against them.

I’ve always admired the Mexican culture. What I know of them, what I’ve seen growing up, is a culture so beautiful and strong in family. I love their language, their holidays, their food, their music, their amazing sense of community. They have never once made me feel like an outsider. I have always been welcomed. I believe it is our time to make sure that they, and all the lovely cultures and lifestyles in our country, also feel welcomed. We can fight for common sense immigration reform and not lose our sense of humanity. We can understand that borders need to be protected and know that separating children from their families is wrong. We can refuse to legitimize an administration that seeks to turn us against one another. We know better. I believe in my heart that we do. The world is made up of one thing – human beings. We have all grown up under our own experiences. We all see the world differently. But we are all part of the world.

What is an American? An American is someone who lives here. An American is someone who loves this country. An American is someone that comes here in search of a better life. An American is all of us. There is not a skin color associated with American. There never has been and there never will be. We are stronger together and THAT is makes America great. Of course, we can improve and learn and grow and change. That is true of any country and the beautiful thing about the USA is that our Constitution was written with the ability for Amendments. We are literally built to change as we grow.

We don’t need to be made great again. Historically, things haven’t always been great for everyone here. But we can be great and will be great going forward – if we can remember that an American means all of us, one big family, and we aren’t defined by color. 

“We may have our differences, but nothing is more important than family.” 

– Miguel, from Coco

Depression: Periscope Living

I had dinner the other night with a friend that is relatively new to this depression life. Not new to living with depression, but new to understanding it, claiming it, working on it. Its always interesting to hear someone’s take on anything new. In any situation, a pair of fresh eyes can open up a whole new perspective. She had recently started taking anti-depressants, and she said they were helping.

“But I noticed something,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“Well, since I got on the medication, it’s like I’m looking at life through a periscope. In the circle in the middle is normal life. I can see it, participate in in it, and understand the difference between depression and what, in my mind anyway, everyone else was feeling and doing. I can stay there for a while. But I must keep my eyes on the circle. Because just beyond it is the cloud. I can see it too, in my peripheral vision. It’s always there, waiting for me to lose focus on the circle and rush back in.”

“Wow,” I said, sitting back. “That is maybe the most accurate description I’ve ever heard of what depression is like.”

“Does that ever go away?” she asked. “Like, after I’ve been on it awhile, is it easier to stay focused on the periscope view? Or is the fog always there?”

I thought about it. I wanted to lie to her. Tell her it does get easier, more effortless. Some days it feels more effortless. Some days it feels really hard. Some days the fog obscures the circle.

“Not in my experience,” I said. “I’m sorry. I wish I could say it does. Anti-depressants don’t make the depression go away, at least not for me. It just makes me more able to recognize it. It clears up the fog, to follow your analogy. I can tell the difference now, and I am better at keeping the fog outside the circle. But it’s always there, and I have to work all the time to keep it outside my view. If I slip, it comes rushing back in and you have to clear it out again.”

“Well,” she said with a note of irony, “That’s fucking exhausting.”

Yes. It is.

I don’t tell you this so you’ll feel sorry for me, or for her, or anyone you know that deals with depression. I don’t want you to think I’m being dramatic or looking for attention. If I have your attention, I’d rather it be for my writing or something I’ve accomplished, not because you feel sorry for me. Depression is not who I am. But it is something I live with. It colors my normal. It always has. I can look back, now that I’ve been through (and continue to do) a lot of therapy and have found a medication that works for me, and see that I probably should have been aware of it all the way back into childhood. It wasn’t something talked about or known about back then. That’s why I write this. Because it’s Mental Health Awareness month and being aware begins with being honest. I have depression. Millions of us do.

Sometimes I have no reason for being down. I’ve always been prone to bouts of emotion. I was told as a child I would grow out of it, but I never did. I internalized that for many years. I thought I just wasn’t growing up like I should, or I was too emotional, or broken, doing it wrong somehow. Sometimes staying in the “normal” periscope takes everything I have. I’m putting on a happy face, for myself and others. Then when it all collapses people are shocked, disappointed, and disbelieving that it has been that hard for that long. Because we don’t talk about it. That isn't to say that people with depression don’t have real reasons for their emotions. We do. We have life’s ups and downs just like everyone else. We have hard marriages, job struggles, insecurities – all the things everyone else in the world deals with. Some of our darker times may come from very real things. But most likely, even when those things happen, we’re better at hiding it. We’re masters at hiding what’s bothering us or that things are hard. We often can’t explain just then why it's hard. How do you explain something you don’t have words for? The fear of being a broken record sometimes keeps us from sharing. No one wants to be the one who always has drama. There have been many times I said nothing, or said I was “fine”, because I’ve already talked about what’s going on. I often feel it must be exhausting to be in my life. From talking to others who battle, I know that’s a common feeling.

So yeah, it’s fucking hard. Sometimes harder than others. Some days it's not as hard. But I’ve come to realize that much of what makes me, well, me, comes from the truth that it isn’t always easy to be me. I have a great sense of empathy. A little more patience when people are struggling. A higher tuned antenna to notice when something is not right. That’s also exhausting by the way, being an empath. We tend to take on others pain and want to fix it. That’s another blog post and another layer of boundary therapy. But I’ve come to learn with age and a crap load of counseling that there isn’t a mistake in the way I was made. The world needs all kinds of people, and those of us who struggle with the “every day” are sometimes the ones that keep the extraordinary alive. We are the ones who never grow out of a good song, the written word, keep our imaginations, keep the colors alive. We write the books and sing the songs and dance the dance and paint the canvas. We love love, and joy, and happiness, and tend to over-celebrate them when they come around. But can you really over-celebrate love? Shouldn’t someone remind the world to be in love with love?

That creativity, that beauty, comes with a price. No one asked us if we wanted depression. And thank the Higher Powers for modern medicine that helps us discern the difference between the fog and the periscope. But I bet if you ask us, any of us, we wouldn’t change the creativity and beauty for the “everyday”. It’s what we know. I always seem to quote Glennon Doyle when I write, because more than any other public figure I follow, she gets it. One of my favorite quotes of hers is “People ask me why I cry so often. I say its for the same reason I laugh so often. I’m paying attention.”

I would not give you back my depression if it meant I would also lose my love of writing. My hard-won honesty that does not have time for bullshit. The way I can tell if someone is hurting. The absolute euphoria that comes from sharing something I created with the world and knowing it helped someone. The way I feel when I love. I wouldn’t trade the highs just to get rid of the lows. I would wager none of us would. We are the creatives. We paint the world and you need us. In some of my darkest times I have produced the words I am the most proud of.

But it’s also nice to be understood. To be given a little extra grace on hard days. To have the freedom to say “I’m going through a rough patch” without fear of labeling or stigmatizing ourselves. And without trying to be fixed. We’re not broken. So that’s why I write this. So, you’ll maybe know a little bit more what it’s like day to day. And for you, reader, that also lives with depression, know you’re not alone. Do the work. Find a therapist, take meds if it helps, and be honest with people who love you. We live in a world that is ever changing and becoming more accepting every day. Don’t lose hope, reach out for the tools available.

It’s fucking exhausting.

I just love saying that because it is the best way to describe it. Sometimes my brain and emotions and heart literally JUST NEED A BREAK. When that happens, I’m learning the best ways for me to cope. I’m learning them all over again because this journey doesn’t end. You will have different things that help at different times in your path. But we can do it. I know that we can.

Periscope living is not for the weak, that’s why I know how very strong we really are.  

Explore. Dream. Discover

              

Three times in my life I threw off the bowlines and jumped on a plane. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve flown other times. But these times, these were trips everyone told me not to take. Trips that scared the begeezus out of many people close to me. Some freaked, others cheered, some shook their heads, some got irrationally angry. It was not easy to silence all those exterior voices and do what I wanted - what I knew I needed in that time.

It is never easy to do that, and I’ve decided it never will be.

 I’m not going to let that stop me anymore.

Those three trips stand out as three of the most freeing, authentic, soul singing moments in my memory.

               First, when I was in college, I flew to LA to stay with a friend. I sat outside their house and listened to the breeze and soaked up the California sun and wrote and wrote and wrote. I drove the Pacific Highway. I went to the beach. I loved it. I wanted to live there. I had no aspirations of being an actress or a famous singer. Maybe I’d sing in a bar here or there or do a karaoke night. Or just write songs and work a day job. I just wanted to be there, to have an adventure, to do something different before the reality of life started. But I didn’t. I would’ve had to go it alone and I was too scared. It’s always been a great regret of mine that I didn’t take that risk when I was young and able to. I wish I’d packed my car and couch surfed until I got my feet under me. I wish I’d thrown off the bow lines. I didn’t, but that trip marks the first time I stepped out in that way, at least initially. Despite everyone and everything around me telling me not to, I went. I’ve never been sorry.

               Second, just after college, I flew to Norway to visit friends and my boyfriend at the time. I got the cheapest plane ticket I could find, which involved not 1, not 2, but 3 plane changes. My luggage got lost somewhere between Chicago and Sweden and I lived in borrowed clothes for half the week I was there. It was magical. I saw the fjords, played in the snow, shopped Karl Johann under twinkling Christmas lights, had an epic New Year’s with friends, spent time with someone I cared about deeply, and got to see a different part of the world. Even the grocery store is an adventure when you’re in another country. I’ve loved Norway ever since. Everything about it. Food, people, language, weather (even the snow), philosophy, holidays – all of it. I didn’t move to Norway. I’ve always wished I’d thrown off the bowlines and at least given it a chance. I listened to those around me and let fear stop me. Things didn’t work out, but I’ve always wished I’d tried harder. But for that moment, despite everyone and everything around me telling me not to, I went. I’ve never been sorry.

               Two months ago, I jumped a plane to London. People who didn’t know me during the California and Norway trips lost their minds. Those who’ve been around longer either shook their head in resignation or cheered me on, but they didn’t try to talk me out of it. Not even my parents - I think even they’ve resigned themselves to the fact that sometimes, I need to do these things. It was everything I thought it would be. I mastered the tube, I ate some of the most delicious food. I pretended I was Julia Roberts and stayed in Nottinghill. I sang the song from my favorite childhood Angela Lansbury movie, Bed knobs & Broomsticks, while walking down Portobello Road. I saw Buckingham, waved hi to William and Kate as I passed Kensington Palace. I had a quiet moment watching children play and laugh on the Princess Diana Memorial Playground and thought there was no better way to honor everyone’s princess. I indulged my inner history nerd and did a Jack the Ripper tour and spent a day in the Tower of London. I got a bird’s eye view from the London Eye. I walked Westminster Abbey and got teary eyed in Poet’s Corner, silently thanking Lord Byron, Shakespeare, and so many others for the words that got me through AP English and the angst of high school. They were among the first that taught me to love poetry. I spent quiet moments in my tiny English garden behind my tiny Nottinghill flat, and walked down the street to make new friends and watch football in the local pub. I tried Sunday roast and bubble and squeak. It was a pilgrimage. It was solace. It was an adventure. For a moment, I threw off the bowlines. I’ll never be sorry.

               I’m not saying I need to escape my life regularly. That’s not the point of hopping a plane, at least not for me. The world is a big place. I’m fascinated by it. People all over live differently than you and me. America, and even Texas, is not the center of the world. The way we live is not the only way to live. The way I worship or eat or commute or talk or think – is not the only way to do those things. It’s important to me to see the world. It’s something I’ve denied myself for a long time. It’s something I plan to show my children when they get just a bit older, because Mama don’t play when it comes to exploring and you better be able to keep up.

It’s a big reason why I work and why I want to be financially sound. So I can give them these opportunities, so they can see parts of the world, both in the US and across the many ponds that separate us. It’s easy to stereotype, it’s easy to be afraid, it’s easy to misunderstand that which we do not know and have not seen. Everywhere I’ve met nice people, helpful people, people just as excited to meet someone from Texas as I am to meet someone from Lebanon working and living in London. I want my boys to see that too, and to know early on that it’s ok to go against the grain, whatever that looks like for them, if they know it’s what they need.

It’s not always convenient or the smartest thing financially to do. But if it’s important to you, you’ll find a way. Whether it be hopping a plane or camping out under a sky down the road, or even as simple as a cup of afternoon tea in a different café than Starbucks, take some time to be alone in your head and figure out what it is that sets your soul on fire. Knowing that, and honoring it, at least for me, makes me a better person in my every day life. Feeding my soul and my heart is something I let go of for a long time. It took me until 41 to realize that throwing off the bowlines can be a good thing. If you do it right, you’ll never be sorry.

The knowledge I hold the closest is that these three times represent when I most listened to myself. It’s hard to drown out the voices of others, especially when they are coming from well-meaning people that love you. But the truth is only you know you. And if you don’t know you….well, explore, dream, and discover yourself. No one else cares about your dreams as much as you do. Shouldn’t you know what those dreams are?

My niece made a video of my trip to London for me with a special surprise - a well wish from my favorite Todrick Hall!! 

Happy Trails 😊