Red

She dressed in RED so she could stand out. 

She wanted to be noticed. 

But not too noticed. 

She wanted to feel a woman’s gaze on her skin. 

She wanted to be wanted.

But not needed. Never needed.

She enjoyed the beginning of relationships. 

When feelings were fresh and raw and full of potential.

But she didn’t know what to do when shit got real. 

When touch wasn’t simply electric anymore but also vulnerable. 

When chemistry became connection.

This terrified her. 

So she started and ended love affairs. 

Over and over and over again.

But she felt alone. 

Always alone.

She craved the connection that terrified her and desired the intimacy that made her want to flee. 

She wanted to be seen and understood. 

Desired and loved. 

Needed and wanted. 

For her complexities and her simplicity. 

Her sexiness and her sassiness. 

Her kindness and her edge.

But she also wanted to remain a mystery. 

Unknown. 

Untouchable.

How will she go toward the very things that terrify her? 

How will she break the habits that make her feel safe and protected but keep her from connection? How will she break down the very walls that have allowed her to (barely) survive in her constructed castle?

She puts on her RED dress. 

Walks out the door. 

Steps across the threshold.

She tries to fly. 

To soar in love.

But she is not ready. 

To share control. 

To grow. 

To accept that she has to change. 

To let go of her pain.

So she walks back into the house.

Alone.

Maybe next time.

Gabriel (fiction)

Gabriel was missing. I looked for him in all of his usual places. By the back door of the diner where the cook gave him free fries (yes, angels can eat), by the pond where he fed the ducks, by the theatre where he would watch matinees, and by the bakery where they made his favorite donuts. 

But he was nowhere to be found.

Scotland is somewhat dreary this time of year, and I wonder if he is in his feels again. He gets that way sometimes. Unable to pull himself out of the emotional muck. He often thinks about humanity and the direction it is going. And he is worried.

I float over to the Edinburgh cemetery and spy Gabriel’s blue coat. He is looking out past the gravesites to the adjoining lake. I land near him and wait a moment before speaking. He tends to feel more comfortable when social interactions begin with silence.

“Care to share your thoughts?” I tentatively ask.

He tells me of his worries. But he also tells me that today, he has hope. That, he believes, humans still have kindness, compassion, and empathy. That there are enough good people to wait out the destruction created by those who are cruel. That the loving beings will clean up the mess and help everyone start anew.

He knows this to be true and has finally found peace. It is time for him to go.

He then kisses my forehead and disappears into the air. Nodding to me as he goes. And passing the baton.

Tree House

Loving myself enough to stop sacrificing my heart for someone else’s benefit

Moving away from believing that the sole purpose of my existence is to serve someone else’s needs

Letting go of needing everyone’s validation

Banishing the fear that if I limit who has access to my heart that I will end up alone 

Climbing away from those who continue to do me harm [and] 

Leaving some people on the ground

Giving what I can, but keeping what I need to thrive

Possessing the courage and confidence to know when to compromise and when to walk away

Growing healthy connections that build my strong base

Embracing that healthy love requires two-way grace 

Sharing my sacred heart truths ONLY with those who are worthy

Finding safety and acceptance in the treehouse that is my heart

Scapegoating to Thriving

I have been a scapegoat (too many times)

Blamed/shamed for every problem as a distraction from other people’s growth

Used as a pawn in other people’s desperate need for power and control

Cut to shreds

A familiar role:

Cowering and deferring

Waiting for permission to share the truth

Prioritizing other people’s opinions and needs over my own

A form of codependency:

Enforcing my feelings of not mattering

Protecting (hiding) parts of myself

Sacrificing my devalued needs

Turn down the part:

Time to stop protecting the people who cause me harm

Have the courage to speak up when I feel hurt

Remember that my needs matter

Take a new path:

Assess other people’s motives

Advocate for myself

Trust my instincts

Thrive

State Teachers of the Year vs. White Supremacy (i.e., Pilot Light vs. Firecracker: A False Binary)

(Edited 1/14/2022)

It has been two years since I chose to kneel in support of Black Lives Matter on the football field of the National Championship Football Game in New Orleans. I was being honored with the rest of the 2019 State Teacher of the Year Cohort with President Trump and the First Lady only yards away. My protest partner, Jess Davis (2020 Minnesota State Teacher of the Year), kneeled in solidarity at her home in Minneapolis.

The organization that was supposed to have our backs distanced themselves from the protest, "The Council of Chief State School Officers [CCSSO] appreciates the opportunity for outstanding teachers to be recognized on the national stage," the statement read. "The decision by an individual State Teacher of the Year was not coordinated by the National Teacher of the Year program or CCSSO” (ABC News).

This is not the first time that our mentor program demonstrated their distaste for overt advocacy.

In May of 2019, our National Cohort of State Teachers of the Year was crammed into a Washington, DC, hotel conference room to kick off the first day of “Washington Week.” A former National Teacher of the Year gave us the following directive as part of a “lesson” on complacency: “Every fight is not your fight. Pace yourself. You don't change the world in a few days. It's better to be a pilot light than a firecracker.” (The italicized portion was taken from this 2013 interview with John Lewis.) 

This lesson on complacency was their fourth effort to shut us down and was meant to dampen the fire of the few of us who had been planning a Teach-In at our Nation’s Capital. This was supposed to be a nonpartisan event with teachers, journalists, and legislators from both sides of the aisle. After being taught at a National Teacher of the Year Program induction on how to lift our voices and share our stories, a group of us created an opportunity for State Teachers of the Year to share stories about their students and their schools. Over half of our cohort signed up.

A week before the event, our mentoring agency unexpectedly shifted from support to sabotage. They held the belief that only a few voices should be heard during “Washington Week” and that they were the ONLY ones who had the right to choose whose voices and which messages could/should be heard and how those messages should be delivered. 

Their multiple attempts at sabotage succeeded in dwindling our numbers, but there were still a few of us who had the support of state leaders and were committed to speaking up for our students.

I have always been inspired by the courageous advocacy of the 2018 National Teacher of the Year, Mandy Manning. From wearing advocacy pins and sharing letters written by her refugee and immigrant students with President Trump, to co-founding Teachers Against Child Detention, to helping to organize the Teach-In for Freedom, and everything in-between, I have seen firsthand the powerful impact that her efforts have had on countless people. Like Manning, we, too, knew that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to advocate for our students on a national stage. Many of us felt that it was not appropriate (or necessary) to have other people share our stories (i.e., a cisgender, heterosexual educator sharing MY experience of being a gender nonconforming lesbian is ineffective [at best]). 

The inspiration for the pilot lesson was from an interview that Krista Tippett did with Congressperson John Lewis as part of the On Being Project. He told her (while laughing) that “You don’t change the world, the society, in a few days. And it’s better. It is better to be a pilot light than to be a firecracker.” Lewis also talked about how as advocates, we have to be patient and that it can be a “long haul.” 

But this is where the either/or fallacy that our facilitator set up was ineffective. She failed to acknowledge that as one of the “big six” of the Civil Rights Movement, that Lewis has been both a firecracker AND a pilot light. Among other things, “He led the first Selma march on what became known as Bloody Sunday” (On Being Project, 2013). It is dangerous to use someone’s else’s quote as a way to support your own or someone else’s agenda- in an effort to control others. Especially when it is taken out of context. 

And when you listen to the entire interview, Lewis later reflected on the fact that he wished he could do more, “But you must do all that you can do while you occupy this space during your time. And sometimes I feel that I’m not doing enough to try to inspire another generation of people to find a way to get in the way. To make trouble, good trouble[;] I just make a little noise” (On Being Project, 2013).

While this misleading lesson had the intended effect of causing fear in some folks in the audience, it did not work on all of us. It did not dampen our fire, instead, it lit our fuse.

The next day, while touring the National Museum of the American Indian, I received a call from Illhan Omar’s Chief of Staff. Congressperson Omar’s office had been sponsoring our Teach-In, but they received a call from another Congressperson (who was affiliated with our mentor organization) and were persuaded to cancel the Teach-In. 

This was devastating news and several other people “dropped out.” I don’t blame them. We had no idea what our options were at this point and not everyone had the support of their home states in the ways that I did. It seemed like it was over. 

Two of us remained and we were not ready to give up quite yet: Jessica Dueñas, 2019 Kentucky State Teacher of the Year, and I had slipped out the back door of the Smithsonian while the rest of our 2019 Cohort got on some buses to go visit with the current administration: Donald Trump, Mike Pence and Betsy DeVos. While sitting in the National Mall, Jessica and I explained our situation to some staff members at American Federation of Teachers. As a member of their union, they offered me support and options. We had already decided to boycott the White House visit, but they helped us  schedule a Press Conference and Press Call for the next day as a way to replace the previously scheduled teach-in.

After talking to my students and members of multiple communities, I chose not to meet President Trump and his administration. I could not, in good conscience, implicitly support people who hate my students and who do not support my Rainbow community (LGBTQIAP2S+). Our mentor organization tried to talk me out of my decision, but their logical fallacies and put- downs were ineffective at getting me to change my mind. I knew in my heart what needed to be done and I wanted to model boundary setting for my students. 

It was never my intention to advertise my White House protest, which is why the Teach-In (and then the Press Conference) were scheduled on a completely different day. I did not want to take away from the celebration of the 2019 National Teacher of the Year or from all of the State Teachers of the Year who were excited to take part in this opportunity. But when journalists heard about the press conference and realized that Jessica and I were not planning on attending the White House visit, then the story broke - in a big way.

Our choice to reject a visit to the White House and stand up for historically marginalized and oppressed youth caused some folks to communicate their rage (and exhibit their prejudice) through direct messages, emails, voice mails, death threats, letters and social media comments. 

But our actions also inspired a lot of people to communicate their pride and support in exactly the same forums (minus the death threats). 

Jessica and I were able to talk about our decision to boycott the visit during our Press Conference and during countless interviews. We were also able to explain our perspective on an episode of Democracy Now. Were we firecrackers? Probably. But, more importantly, we were able to light our OWN fuses with our OWN pilot lights because we have dedicated our lives to doing this work.

I had similar responses to my choice to kneel: lots of support, and lots of hate. But I never expected the organization that had encouraged us to share our stories in the first place to turn their backs on me for doing just that. 

There are a myriad of ineffective and harmful strategies that some people employ to silence advocates. People who don’t take the time to understand the complicated nuances of advocacy work, and instead choose to spread misinformation, misperceptions, unfounded accusations, and ungrounded assumptions are causing harm. And folks who attempt to manipulate others by creating false narratives and inventing logical fallacies are being controlling and abusive. Taking the time to find out the truth, and investing energy into discovering the intentions behind the actions of advocates is an effective way to avoid these pitfalls. And it is the only way to move away from characteristics that are firmly rooted in white supremacy.

I want people to be wary of those who use rhetoric and logical fallacies to try to control a message (and the way it is delivered). Since “We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly” (Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.) then other people’s fights ARE our fights. We don’t need permission to advocate for others (and ourselves). Keeping Equity 2.0 at the forefront benefits everyone. And we can all do our part to help change the world with even one moment. 

Whether an act of advocacy is subtle or overt, it all matters.

I disagree that it is better to be a pilot light than a firecracker.  Not even John Lewis truly believed that. This false binary does harm because we need both and everything in-between in order to fight supremacy and oppression. And claiming that advocates are only one thing while not recognizing their complexity is attempting to control them with [misinterpreted] and shame-based rhetoric. It is ineffective and short-sighted. 

And deciding what is “appropriate” advocacy and what is not is the kind of white supremacy gatekeeping that does direct harm.

We need pilot lights AND firecrackers to achieve Equity 2.0. And I am proud to be associated with everyone else who has done, is doing, and will continue to do this work.

Advocacy In Action

As an equity consultant, I often get asked by people who experience some type of privilege: “but what can I do to help?” 

Here it is, folks. Concrete, timely, and relevant opportunities for us to continue to stand up for historically marginalized and oppressed people. A chance for us to continue to apply everything we have been learning in our book clubs and social media posts to what is happening in our real lives. 

I know that it can be daunting and scary. We might make some people mad which could make us feel rejected and uncomfortable and we might even become their new target which could make our lives more difficult. But we need to quit expecting marginalized folks to be the only people who are standing up for themselves. If any true change is to occur, everyone who experiences some type of privilege needs to start jumping into the ring more and be willing to take some risks.

Since the word “advocate” comes from the latin word “advocare,” which means “add a voice,” advocacy can only be demonstrated through our public words and actions. We need to keep moving beyond the posts and the conversations and continue to put ourselves on the front lines. We need to take some of the heat off of the folks who are already doing this work.

Educators are just some of the folks who have been taking a public beating when they advocate for equity. There are a lot of ways that you can support their work and here are a few timely examples.

The 2020 Minnesota State Teacher of the Year, Qorhso Hassan, read the book Something Happened In Our Town: A Child’s Story About Racial Injustice, to her fourth grade students at Echo Park Elementary in Burnsville, Minnesota, on October 29th, 2020. This is a book that “follows two families — one [w]hite, one Black — as they discuss a police shooting of a Black man in their community. The story aims to answer children's questions about such traumatic events, and to help children identify and counter racial injustice in their own lives.” It is important to keep in mind that Burnsville is only miles from where George Floyd was murdered; these are students who have been directly exposed to the topics discussed in the book. 

A parent complained to the Minnesota Police and Peace Officers Association who then wrote a public response to Minnesota Governor Tim Walz requesting that the book be removed from the list of state-provided resources. As reported in The Pioneer Press (10/30/20), “‘The book in question won multiple awards and was authored by psychologists seeking to help children process a difficult set of issues,’ spokespeople for the [MN] Education and Health departments said in a statement Friday. ‘It presents several complete conversations, as voiced by different characters, that many kids have likely heard in different parts of their lives.’”

This could have been an opportunity for the Minnesota Police and Peace Officers Association to partner with Hassan and to build more bridges instead of trying to silence her anti-racist teaching.

Hassan is planning on continuing to teach Something Happened In Our Town: A Child’s Story About Racial Injustice, and the principles of racial justice and racial identity. 

“When I speak about not just attracting, but retaining teachers of color- this is it. Our school district has this foundation of diversity, equity, and cultural proficiency, but they will not support a Black and anti-racist teacher who is using tools that are culturally inclusive,” Hassan said. “Young black kids know that they are Black and know the connotations of being black in America before they start school.” She wants to know why she is being ostracized, attacked, devalued, and disrespected. She deserves support from her district and to not feel tokenized for amplifying marginalized voices. 

In addition to not feeling supported by her district, Hassan is also surprised that the local union president sent an email of support to the members, but has yet to publicly stand behind her. The union’s Social Justice Committee, however, is supporting a protest organized by Dakota County United Educators’ Union to support Hassan.

To support Hassan, here is what we can do: contact District 196’s School Board and superintendent, Mary Kreger, of District 196 and tell them we support Ms. Hassan and that we demand that the district shows her support as well. And, if you are in MN, you can attend a protest today at 4:30 PM at 3455 153rd Street West, Rosemount, MN to let the Superintendent and School Board know that they need to back their pledge for diversity and equity with their actual actions by openly and enthusiastically supporting Qorsho as a Black, Muslim, Somali-American, anti-racist teacher. 

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In Sullivan County, Pennsylvania, school librarians put up a display in the high school library featuring “flags,quotes, and books” to educate students and staff members about LGBTQ+ folx. As school board member, Timothy Nitcznski, said "’If you're going to go down that road, I feel that we should have KKK month, or I feel that we should have white supremacy month,’ … Nitcznski disagreed with what he referred to as the ‘rainbow in the library.’” 

Comparing LGBTQ+ identities to people who choose to belong to hate groups is beyond misinformed. It is xenophobic, homophobic, transphobic, and causes harm. 

Fortunately, Superintendent, Patti Cross, and Board President, Kimberly Phillips, are proposing that their “school board members take sensitivity and diversity training.” We can reach out to them and let them know we agree with their stance. And we can let School Board member, Timothy Nitcznski, know that we do not agree with his prejudicial and discriminatory words (via the Superintendent: crospatr@sulcosd.k12.pa.us).

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In Burlington, Wisconsin, Melissa Statz taught her fourth grade students about the police shooting of Jacob Blake in Kenosha and that Black Lives Matter. Statz was attacked and harassed by thousands of community members, parents, and school board members. And while the Superintendent, Stephen Plank, initially communicated neutrality, he grew from the experience and later said, “‘I see how my perspective was offensive and understand that there is no neutrality when pursuing equity,’ Plank said in the letter. ‘The fact that we even need to specifically say that Black Lives Matter to affirm the importance of human beings is to say that we as a nation have not done a good job of regarding Black and brown people as valuable members of our society historically or currently.’”

We can show support by emailing  Superintendent Plank and informing him that he did the right thing by supporting his teacher, and that we also believe that Black Lives Matter. 

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These are just a few examples of the daily battles educators are facing when they try to stand up for themselves and for their students. This is why so many marginalized educators have resigned and continue to resign from K-12 teaching, because it is exhausting to do this work on our own. We need everyone who cares about supporting historically marginalized and oppressed human to put their thoughts of advocacy into action.

[What’s in] A Name

“Deewart.”

“Deewart.”

My 8th grade face starts burning. I feel the heat start at the base of my neck and creep up until my ears are on fire. I look straight ahead. Trying to learn about DNA or genes or plants or something science-y. The teacher either does not hear the teasing or thinks that ignoring it will make it go away. I have this same hope, but it only makes it get louder, more frequent, and more insistent.

These boys used to be my best friends. These athletic, popular boys who played with me during recess for the previous seven years. These boys who are dating my female friends and have been banned from hanging out with me. These boys who are now jealous because their girlfriends sometimes cancel plans to hang out with me. These boys who used to affectionately and respectfully call me by my middle name, “Dee.” And even “D-man.” These boys who allowed me to be in their group even though I was a girl. And these boys who treated me like “one of the boys.” These boys who used to make me feel like I belonged somewhere. 

But these boys aren’t affectionate and respectful anymore. Now they are my tormentors. Calling me names and making fun of me as I flee down the hallway. And I have become easy fodder. Awkwardly trying to look feminine. Informed by my mother that I can’t be a tomboy anymore (perhaps she was worried about my safety in this small, rural town). Regardless of the intention, I now have to be girly. And I am suddenly shy and scared and insecure and full of self-doubt. 

Gone is my confidence and ease of being; my self-security and playfulness. All of it erased by makeup, uncomfortable clothes, nail polish, curly, long, blonde, permed hair, and my feminine facade. Dresses have replaced pants and insecurity has replaced courage. With every application of lipstick, I find my sense of self melting away.

Seven years later, I chopped off most of my hair during a J-term in Ireland. The preceding day I had visited the Cliffs of Moher and admitted to myself that I was not heterosexual. The next thing I did was rid myself of my unwanted feminine, long hair. I replaced my uncomfortable contacts with my glasses. And I started the process of re-incorporating clothes that felt better on my skin.

The biblical character Samson lost his strength when his hair was cut, but I reclaimed mine with every lock of hair that fell to the ground. I sat up straighter. Looked in the mirror. And smiled.

And, now, I never let my hair get to a length that dampens my power. I wear clothes that feel “right.” And I support other human beings in whatever gender expression feels right to them, whatever pronouns they want to be called by, and whatever names are theirs. 

I have reclaimed the middle initial that used to torment me. And building relationships with healthy humans has caused me to FINALLY feel like I belong.

Pretty

When I was in 8th grade, my dad and I were in the car on the way to a sleepover and I asked him if I was pretty. He told me, “You will be. Someday.” 

When I was younger, I didn’t pay attention to the differences between the other girls and me. I gravitated toward the humans who wanted to do what I wanted to do. I guess I mostly played with boys, but there were a few girls who wanted to make radio shows with me, play Adventure People, throw a football, and talk about feelings. But I never noticed that we looked different from each other. That never mattered to me. But, as 8th graders - when we were thrown into the high school - my mom decided that my masculine presenting days had to come to an end (little did she know). All of a sudden, I became both aware and ashamed of my looks. 

I got to get my long hair cut in 5th grade because I finally took my mom up on her daily threat to cut all my hair off if I didn’t quit squirming when she was braiding it (she gave up on letting my long locks be free when I would come home with a tangled mess after roughhousing all day). I finally said, “OK.” This put her in an awkward position because she had to make a choice that she didn’t want to in order be consistent with her threat to “teach me a lesson.” I was never happier about anything then I was about cutting all of my hair off. In middle school I wore collar shirts under sweaters and sported my short hair. I got teased, but I felt like myself. But when I arrived in high school, as a “girl,” the jig was up and I was not allowed to have short hair anymore.

When 9th grade arrived, I was not allowed to leave the house without lipstick. No joke. By my senior year, I was fully feminine presenting. I wore girly clothes, painted my nails, wore makeup, and had long blonde, curly hair. I felt like I was in feminine drag. I tried really hard to be what other people wanted and needed me to be, but I never stopped feeling unseen, unaccepted, lonely, and miserable. 

What my dad should have said (therapy has taught me to re-do these moments with what I would have said to myself), was that a lot of different factors go into beauty. That my heart was big, my brain was curious, and my intentions were kind. And that I was more than just pretty- I was beautiful.

And this is what I make sure that my students know. That their strengths and vulnerabilities are beautiful. I help them build their self-esteem since it is so connected to how we function in this world. How we talk to ourselves. How we allow others to treat us. It took me a long time to learn all of that, but now that I am aware and refuse to ever be codependent again, I am starting to build healthy and sustainable relationships. 

I went back in time and told my 8th grade self that she is kind, sensitive, caring, and empathetic. And that she is, indeed, beautiful.

Dollhouse

My journey to becoming an adult was not easy. As a gender non-conforming child, I stuck out in my small town. And my family did not approve. I learned at a young age that if I was not being myself, then I was depressed and not good for anyone. I grew up in a family that expected me to look, act, and behave how they thought I was “supposed” to.

My parents chose my clothes, my hair style, my food, and even what toys I was allowed to play with. Except, I did get to play with my brother’s Hot Wheels on Fall Feast morning, which made it my favorite day of the year!

I was never disrespectful or mean, but I am a highly sensitive human and I have always felt things very strongly. And I am also a critical thinker and a questioner: so if something doesn’t make sense, I want to talk more about it. But I was consistently and severely punished for having thoughts, feelings, and ideas that differed from those of my family. 

But getting punished just made me want to fight harder to be myself. To feel like I mattered. Because being silent didn’t feel right. And I wanted to help other people feel like they mattered, too.

Staring with my Adventure People.

The only thing I loved that wasn’t boyish was my dollhouse. Not a typical dollhouse, but a house my dad made as a direct replica of the house we lived in. I detested dolls, but my Adventure People had the sweetest digs around. What I loved to the most was to decorate. My favorite task was to rearrange the furniture. To change the location of beds, couches, chairs, and rugs. I liked to position things in ways that made sense to me. In ways that made the rooms feel “right.” I just really wanted my Adventure People to feel comfortable.

The master bedroom had a striped blue and white rug that used to be in the baby’s room, but I thought it would look better with the solid maroon wallpaper of the master suite than the yellow speckled paint surrounding the crib. So I moved it. 

I checked in with my dollhouse daily. Were the inhabitants comfortable? Was the furniture in the right spots? Did everyone feel OK in their environment? I didn’t have anyone doing this for me in my world, so I wanted to at least make my Adventure People happy. I was forced to wear dresses and tights on Sundays, had a horrid pink room with lots of flowers and a white lace bedspread, and was not allowed to have Matchbox cars or Hotwheels because they were too masculine. And no one asked me if I felt OK or asked me what I needed.

I spent a lot of time alone. My oldest brother hung out in his room and wanted nothing to do with me, my mom talked on the phone or attended meetings, and my dad was often at work. I sometimes hung out with friends in my neighborhood, but when they weren’t available, I played by myself. I snuck some play time with my brother’s trucks (when no one was looking) and had them move the sand by the lake, attached my Adventure People’s boats to fishing wire so they could ride down the creek, and climbed all the crooked trees in my yard.

But Sundays were different. After horrible dress-wearing-church time - I changed into my real clothes, ate Kentucky Fried Chicken for lunch, and watched Vikings Football Games with my dad. This was the highlight of my week. I tried to learn everything I could about the game so that I could have smart conversations with my dad. What were the players’ names? What did they do? What did that matter?

During half-time, my father and I would play catch. I practiced all week so that I could make the most of my time with him. I wanted to catch and throw like a pro so he would be proud. And I wanted to be good enough so he wouldn’t ever stop playing with me.

But Sundays always ended too soon. Monday would inevitably come and then I felt alone again.  That is until I got home from school, opened the doors to my dollhouse, and put the purple couch in the sitting room. There. That felt better.

It took me another 30 years to realize that I watched football to make my dad happy. As a teacher and a previous stepparent, I learned that it is more impactful when we take the time to understand what makes our kids happy- that we need to take an interest in their passions. I had spent my entire childhood trying to make my family happy, but they showed very little interest in doing that same thing for me.

I also realized that I moved the furniture to feel some sort of control in my environment. I still do. Whenever I am having overwhelming feelings that I am trying to process, I move things around in my house. It always makes me feel better.

I got divorced at the beginning of the Pandemic and have lived alone ever since. I think I have moved almost every single piece of furniture to a different spot (and sometimes back again) throughout this ordeal. I frequently check in with myself to see how I am doing. I make sure my wants and needs are attended to. I am selective about which people I let into my heart. As a result of all these efforts, I have now created an environment for myself that feels “right” and is consistently, emotionally safe. And as overwhelming as a Pandemic can feel - for the first time since I can remember - I have been experiencing frequent moments of contentedness and feeling like I matter.

But, hold on. I think the kitty condo would look better in my study…

Strings

You feed off of insecurity and despair

Devour sensitivity and low self-esteem

And feel strength only when others feel weak

You poke at flesh

Looking for places where you can manipulate

Tie hidden strings to control what you think is yours

What happens when the puppet wakes up?

Learns that vulnerability makes her whole?

And that her heart is not made of wood?

Cuts the strings?

Melts the tethering cord?

And leaves the theatre?

This might cause you to starve

Having lost the pain that feeds you

Being forced to migrate

Unto your next victim

This puppet does not need to be liked by her master any longer

She will not be isolated by her own silence

Will not be tortured for stolen moments of solace

And will never again be punished for the feelings that rain from her painted eyes

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Lever

I am the rat who keeps pulling the lever

Even though the results are inconsistent

I feel hungrier with every pull

But I still keep hoping that this time something good will happen

Even though the last 100 times it didn’t

But there was that one time it did

So I pull and pull and pull and pull

And pull

And pull and pull

Trying to please the lever is my greatest obsession

But I am lonely, scared, and sad

And trapped within my addicted mind

If I pull the lever with too much enthusiasm

Scalding hot oil will burn my face

And sharp needles will poke me in the eyes

If I don’t pull the lever at all

Then I have no chance of receiving affection

And am left alone in my cage of silence

But if I pull with the “correct” amount of effort

Then I might get a piece of crusted over cheese

But usually, I just hear the vacant sound of air rushing down the chute

Accepting scraps 

Thinking this is all I deserve

Learning that my actions have zero impact on the results

One day, I will stop

Cease to pull this lever of chance

And switch cages

Somewhere inside me I know that LOVE is not kind gestures followed by cruelty

Intermittent care is worse than starvation

And being kept alive only to feel unworthy is no way to live

But today - I will pull

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Words

“Piece of shit”

Words that have played on an endless loop in my mind.

Words that still have the power to hurt- even decades later

“Idiot”

Words used to injure me

Words meant to protect the speaker

Words that never should have been spoken

“Parasite- you just take from this family and don’t give anything back”

Words that have had to be dissected, re-evaluated, and disempowered

Words that have had to be discredited

Words that have faded, but have never disappeared

“You don’t deserve anything”  

Words that are wrong

Words that were said by someone who never really knew me

Words that were spoken out of a rage and hatred that existed before I was born

“You will never amount to anything and will screw up your life”

Words with stripped meanings

Words that will be archived 

Words that are replaced with new ones

“I hope you get what you deserve when I am 6 feet under”

Words that must to be relieved of their power

Words that will never be heard by this listener. Ever. Again. 

—————————————————————————————-

Twisted

You got my mind twisted

Twirling around until I don’t know what is acceptable,

What is destructive, 

What is good,

And what is fatal.

Your power is my harmful, 

And my healthy is your weak.

I attempt to turn your toxins into flowers,

Your punches into opportunities,

And your venom into elixir.

And you twist my questioning into battles,

My empathy into daggers,

And my feelings into waste.

My open-minded soul- just about gets me killed.

But I am learning how to fight for my self-worth,

Shed a lifetime of insecurity for clarity,

Filter out the garbage,

And never accept abuse again.

But do not wait for a thank you card from me,

Because I learned these truths in reaction to your sideways spewing shit,

In spite of your “good” intentions, 

And without any of your support.

And even though you are not a human who is worthy of MY love,

I will shed some compassion when I disintegrate your power cord to my heart.

———————————————————————————

Time Machine

If I could, I would go back 

To when you were babies

To when you still thought the world was safe and good and kind

To when you still felt hope.

And I would gather you in my arms and bring you to safety.

Bring you to a warm and compassionate home

A home with consistency

A home where your voice matters

A home where your growth is supported and your self expression is paramount.

But I don’t have a time machine

All I have is this classroom

So I will make this place a temporary home

For 90 minutes a day, you will be heard

For 90 minutes a day, you will be safe

For 90 minutes a day, you will be warm

For 90 minutes a day, you will be loved

And when these 90 minutes add up and up and up, someday, you might convince yourselves 

that you deserve to be treated with respect every minute of every day

And then, maybe then, you will start to expect it, no, demand it- when you finally get to choose

Because you can’t choose the family you came from

But you can choose the family you end up with

And I will choose you until you get to choose for yourself