Radical Authenticity: Giving Up On “Having It All”

Radical Authenticity: Giving Up On “Having It All”

Why I am absolutely done leaning in to a superficial existence of a woman.

As of late, I often find myself letting go of loose acquaintances. It doesn’t bother me. I hold strong and often divisive opinions, my circle is small, I value my time and my privacy.

But why? Because I’ve made choices.

I’ve made the choice to whittle down the number of “friends” in my circle. Friends who remain are those are are unapologetically themselves and understand that friendship, to me, is chosen family. It’s a promise of radical acceptance, of an intimacy usually not found at brunches or on shopping trips. It’s knowing I can show up on someone’s doorstep in tears or disassociating and be taken in. It’s losing the fear of showing the chaos and whirlwind that is life.

We’ve held each other through crises, celebrated joys, danced naked under the moonlight, swam under the stars. We choose to be each other’s people over and over again. Because at this age, while kids are growing and the people I love are, like myself, learning just who we are and what we’ll settle for, the act of friendship is a continuous choice.

I’ve given up on the superficial. I don’t want to keep up with appearances. I don’t want to pretend to not care and not feel to make myself more palatable. I don’t want to spend time with people who want me to be palatable. There is no more room or time for pretense.

I’ve made the choice to be loud. It’s something about “activism” that bothers me–so many people think of themselves as “activists” as if it’s a coat you can put on and remove. It’s an embedded part of my identity and that means calling out harm as I see it. This makes me wildly unpopular, especially to those who use a “woke” appearance and performative allyship for popularity.

I’ve made the choice to sit in my own discomfort and not fear uncomfortable conversations or situations. Discomfort in this sense leads to better understanding of ourselves and the world around us. It makes us better people.

I’ve made the choice to reject toxic positivity, the need to pretend we’re fine, or that positive thinking is a magical elixir. Instead, I’ve embraced admitting failure and pain, understanding how it’s okay to show we aren’t okay, and to radically accept ourselves wholly broken and fractured and free and beautiful and imperfect always growing and repairing and learning and standing firm in our personhood.

I’ve made the choice to choose comfort and radical body acceptance, to prioritize my health, both mental and physical. To enforce boundaries and teach them to my children. To recognize and acknowledge the beauty of all those that I love.

The friend who stops to care for dying animals on the side of the road and can make even the simplest things so beautiful. The friend who is so strong and resilient in the face of trauma and pain and still chooses to give love and live in kindness. The friend with a servant heart who spends her time helping other women and families better their own lives because she doesn’t want anyone to feel like they’re alone. The friend who lives her life in bliss with her family, spending time learning songs in different languages to sing with her child. The friend who, when I fell out of love, took care of me and showed me that love can be simple and lasting. Friends who know every secret, who celebrate just making it through the day.

It’s difficult as an adult and as a parent to make friends. To let people in. It’s even more difficult to do so while trying to seem perfect, or normal, or like someone who fits nicely into boxes. None of us do, but so many of us pretend to. If I show up with my hair tangled and tied up in a loose dress with no bra or makeup, that’s just who I am and I don’t want to be anyplace or around anyone who doesn’t welcome that.

Anyone who knows me as a writer knows I’m horrible at endings, no good at wrapping things up. Nothing ever feels finished. This sure as hell isn’t. But I’ve held on too long, even in its brevity, it’s time to let it go.

In the end, I want to be fully and entirely seen and felt and heard. I’ve chosen to live with radical authenticity. Weird and wild and free from the expectations placed on me as a woman, as a mother, as a human, as a friend, and as a lover.

To the women who see me and hear me….

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

Strong women, wild and free, may we cherish our lives together.

Discovering Relations: A Story

*This has been written over the course of two years. I am choosing to publish it now, unfinished. Stories and relations are rarely linear and there is no way to singularly describe or contain this experience. Throughout the next few months there may be pieces here and there regarding different parts of this experience.

Every few days I go back to the beginning. The first words I ever said to my biological mother were not meant for her. I had it all planned out–I would find out her identity and mail her a letter, leaving the ball in her court and avoiding all confrontation and all possibilities for immediate rejection. But, plans always fail. So I find myself back at the beginning, reading those messages over and over again, still in complete disbelief that after so long and so much searching, I found her.

When I went to write this…this thing that has been in my head for the 8 months or so, I discovered that I had started to write about my adoption and my feelings about possibly finding my birth family over a year ago. So much has changed.

It’s hard to decide exactly what order to go in. Do I start with my life? My adoption? My search? Or the finding? None of these points are locked in time nor do they fit in any chronology. My life is stretched out before and behind me, my adoption an ever-present part of me, my search constant, my finding still (and probably always) in progress.

But I know that I go back, every time, to those first messages. After waiting weeks for Ancestry results, I matched with two sisters. I was either their first cousin or their great niece. I found them on Facebook; neither seemed as though they were very active. They had a niece. She seemed actived on Facebook. She was interested in really cool things. She was in the field I was studying. She seemed open and responsive. She might know something about my story. So I did what we do these days, I sent a stranger a message.

“Hello, this may seem strange, but I think we may be related. I was adopted and have been doing some DNA research. I have reached out to some people through Ancestry, but I know people tend to not check those regularly…so of course I began looking up those connections on social media. It appears I may be first cousins with, or a great niece of a T** and L***. I was born in ****** in 1988. I am just trying to find out some basic information (medical history, possible siblings, etc). I completely understand if you have no desire to respond, I am just trying to be thorough. Thank you.”

Simple enough. Before I sent her the message, I sent one of my close friends, Suzy, her name. She was going to come over and sit with my while I tried to make sense of these results. While I was waiting for a response, Suzy and I looked at pictures, knowing that I was related in some way, just not knowing how. She looked at a picture of her, similar to one I had taken with Suzy recently. Hands on hips, leaning forward with a snarky smile. “That’s you!” she said. I laughed it off. Another picture, this time her profile, “OMG! The resemblance!” I tried not to get my hopes up.

You see, I have been passively and actively searching since the day I turned 18. I found free adoption registries where I’d post my information and go through hundreds of posts of people searching for someone in Indiana. I’d give it up for awhile, sometimes for months–sometimes years, and then repeat the process. My dad bought himself a DNA kit when they first came out to trace his own ancestry which piqued my interest, but I didn’t want to try yet, it was too early. Then 23 & Me became a thing and I decided to do it, not just to find my family, but to take advantage of the company’s genetic medical testing. As someone with no medical history, that end justified the cost. Even then, all I could find were distant cousins and none of them had any idea of who I was. Similarly, my state had decided to unseal closed adoption records, so after that DNA test I decided to file with the state for access to my information–but the wait was long, 4-6 months. Ancestry came later, it was on sale, and a last ditch “at least I tried” to bide my time while I waited for information from the state. Needless to say, I was use to dead ends and poor results. I was already amazed that I had found TWO people I was definitely related to from my birthplace…that was enough and better than I’d gotten before.

So then there was this fateful Friday morning. I had spent the week watching the Ancestry website, telling me my results would be available within 12-16 hours that Thursday night. I had given my students digital modules to complete so I wouldn’t have to go to campus. I had a friend coming just in case. Now, there was a woman with a resemblance and I had a complete lack of forethought and just sent her a message.

My phone made a noise, she had seen the message. There were little dots to indicate she was typing, then they disappeared, then they came back.

And then she said the words that confirmed that she knew something about who I was.

“Hi Caitlyn. Wow. Did your mom ever work for a lawyer named John W***?”

It was the pièce de résistance. Adoption search experts will tell you not to give out every detail of information in your search. There are people out there who have done so and were manipulated by people pretending to be their family. So one detail I always held onto was the name of the attorney that arranged our private adoption.

I immediately sent a screen shot to Suzy. She sent me this back.

• 

There’s no mystery where this goes. The woman I messaged on Facebook is my mother. Within a matter of minutes it was confirmed that yes, she had arranged a private adoption through that attorney and yes, the child that she adopted out was me.

Before the end of the day, I knew the answer to almost every question I could concieve of asking. I knew our similarities did not end at physical resemblance–hell, they only just began there. I knew I had an older sister. I knew why I was given up. But what I didn’t know was the profound impact finding out about myself would have on me.

There’s another Blog!

Did you know I also have an academic blog?

It started as my senior capstone project (the intersection of identity theory and online activism), and has turned into a place for reflection and feedback as I make my way through graduate school.

So what does that mean?

It means that it discusses everything from instructor identity, first year writing, pedagogy, rhetorical & composition theory, and everything else that has to do with getting my MA (and eventual PhD) in Rhetoric and Composition.

Follow me @ thelazyacademicblog.wordpress.com.

I don’t talk about depression.

I’m not good at blogging for the sake of it. I just *sigh* I need to talk about this. WE need to talk about this. For every self-sabotaging, hidden maniac…WE need to have this talk.

Mental illness is “in” right now. People are very quick to assign normal stress and anxiousness as diagnosis. I may get shit for saying this, but I think it’s hurting more than it’s helping. This is not one of those things.

I have seen some sort of counselor off and on since I requested to talk to one in middle school when I was feeling particularly angsty and vulnerable. I have, since adolescence, suffered from depression. It ebbs and flows.

Sometimes it’s like an old lover, just passing through my mind, just enough to incite a chill. Sometimes, it’s consuming, like I’m physically weighted down. I imagine small anchors hanging from every limb.

Now, I have what many consider is high functioning depression. I have a stressful life that includes a lot of hard work, commuting, and leaving my children for days at a time. I keep going and going and going. I can’t lay in bed all day, I have shit to get done or the world literally stops turning. So my depression punishes me for living, for not taking dark days, for making myself get out of bed. And during the periods of time in which it becomes the center of my life, it amplifies every single other “dysfunction” that I have.

Mild ice-pick headaches manifest as migraines-forcing me to stay in bed. My anxiety intensifies so I start picking at the skin around and under my nails.  I can’t stop my mind from running and running and running when I lay in bed at night or in the morning, so I go from twisting my hair to scratching my scalp until I break skin. The hand washing is a compulsion I feel that I have the most control over, until I’ve gotten up from laying in bed several times to wash because I can’t keep them from feeling dirty. Or I can’t function without shaking in class because I missed my chance to go wash. I have always had a problem with self-sabotage, so when the depression weighs down I take good things in my life and see how much I can fuck them up.

It’s a constant battle, and every time I don’t give in and hide from the world I am punished for my resistance.

So why am I writing this? Because my depression is telling me not to work, to stay in bed, to quit school, and to just generally fuck things up even more than the already are. Because I don’t dump my personal problems all over Facebook, I don’t bring up relationship insecurities, or a 15 year friendship on hiatus, or the constant pit in my stomach–like something bad is about to happen and no matter what I do I can’t stop it or fix it–but I don’t have any idea what it will be or when it will happen.

There are so. many. people. out there, in your world, in your feed, who are fighting tooth and nail, every single day, just to make it. Just to show up and put on a brave face. And they don’t want your sympathy, or your pity, or for you to know about their panic attacks and crying spells in the bathroom, and they sure as hell don’t want a semi colon tattoo– because this doesn’t define them, and they don’t want it to.

They just want to breathe without the feeling of that weight on their chest.

We just want you to know that we’re here, and we struggle, and we don’t want to broadcast it–but depression and mental illness are not just a quiet sad girl, dressed in black, nor are they just those who proclaim it and use it as their soap box to stand on.

They are eyes heavy and thick with a well that they cannot allow to gush. They have it seemingly together while their lives dissolve around them. They are a blazer and a sunny disposition.

And we deserve space here, too.

Fear of Failure

I’m sitting here at my desk listening to Milky Chance. It’s a beautiful fall day, and I have taken the day off to fill out grad school applications. My accomplishments so far? I’ve slept past noon. I’ve cried. Talked to a friend. Edited some more of a short story for another friend. Ate. Stared into space. Sat with my dad and compared versions of “Hallelujah” (Rufus Wainwright FOR LIFEEEEEE).

I’ve been waiting for this; I’ve been preparing for this and planning for this. I should be checking boxes and drafting my personal statements. Instead, I have decided that instead of three schools…only two. Or maybe just one and if I get rejected I take a year, try to find a better job and save money, and go from there. So I haven’t really decided anything.

Oh, George Ezra, why can’t you sing to me what to do with my life.

Seriously, what is wrong with me? I have talked about NOTHING but grad school for years. There are no other plans. No employer is going to care about my research. Why can’t I do this?

Because I’m scared. I’m terrified. I’m shaking in my goddamn britches. What if everything I’ve worked for is for nothing? What if I’m not good enough? What if I don’t make the cut?

The “what if’s” flood my being. They overwhelm and suffocate me. They are me. Because I fear.

Fear has such a strange, strong power. It whispers your demise. It shouts your insecurities. It constantly begs for you to hold back. “Stop,” it wails. “You can’t, you aren’t strong enough. You can’t handle the rejection.”

It has this power because the stakes are high. It has this power because we build things up to the point that failure would be devastating.

But we must push back. We must build ourselves up to survive our possible defeat. We have to find our center.

There is no conclusion to this, because I’m still trying to get there. Just know, whatever you’re trying to get through, trying to achieve—it’s just as scary for everyone else, too.

A Reorientation of Life

It’s like ripping off an old bandage. One of those that’s been stuck on the back of your ankle for so long you forgot about it. It managed to hang on through showers until it became sticky and covered with dirt around the edges. It peels off in a sludge, leaving remnants of glue and residue. And no matter how hard you scrub, or rub it with alcohol, the residue stubbornly resists—dead set on just slowly fading away on its own.

Or maybe it’s more like a death. Not some sudden car-crash disaster. No, it’s a slow death from a terminal disease. You expect it, you know it’s coming, so you start playing out the stages of grief in your head, thinking that this will make things easier. It’s not until you’re sitting on a bed in the middle of a room surrounded by everything you own in boxes that you realize what’s happened. No matter how much it NEEDED to happen, no matter how much the suffering needed to end, you’ve lost what you oriented your life around. It’s funny, in its own sick way, that a bad marriage ending in divorce could be so rightly described as death from a terminal illness. When someone dies in those instances people like to say things like “at least she’s no longer suffering,” or “she’s in a better place now.” The problem is, that no matter how awful the marriage was, there is always suffering in the healing process, there is always a period of mourning, no matter how brief, that shocks us as we search and wait for that “better place.”

I didn’t expect it, that’s for damn sure. I didn’t expect to cry over what I had wanted for so long. Now, of course, I had (and still have) unyielding guilt about the dissolution of my family, and the “broken home” that my children will now call their own. But, along with all that messy, messy guilt also comes the knowledge that I did that right thing for them, as well as myself, and probably their father.

I had spent the past few years in a constant state of limbo, trying simultaneously to break free and to save the marriage. I knew I was unhappy, I knew that there were problems I couldn’t solve, and I knew I had to think about the safety and happiness of my children. At the same time, I longed for a change. I wanted him to want me, I wanted him to find me attractive, to want to be near me, to care about my friends, my likes, my interests….anything. But I couldn’t lose the baby weight, I couldn’t change my beliefs, and I couldn’t bleach my hair enough to fix us, because our problems were never that superficial.

There was a very definite period of “where do I go from here?” I had formed an identity that was so involved with anything and everything I had to do to maintain some type of peace in my marriage and for my family, the answers to questions about myself, from the mundane to the deep, intrinsic stuff, were a mystery to me. How could I separate the wife & mother version of myself, from the independent version of myself?

I had to go a little off the deep end—and that’s okay. I needed to get out, I needed to be wild. Hell, I even needed to shirk a little bit of responsibility. Along the way, I discovered what I loved about myself, and what I hated. What could stay, and what had to go. What needed tamed and refined.

This isn’t going to be one of those “I’m never changing who I am” empowerment posts. Because that shit isn’t empowering. Change is good, change is growth. Change is fucking inevitable. The only things certain in life are not just death and taxes, change is certain. It’s like that Woody Allen quote about a shark, but removing the mush. A relationship is not like a shark, life is like a shark—and if it doesn’t keep moving forward it dies.

I’ve said it before, and I really do mean it, even in the midst of the chaos that is my senior year, and grad school application time, and “do all the projects” time….there is a settling in my life now. I’m slowly making changes that will separate me from the woman I thought I was supposed to be. I’m refocused on my future. I’m making new traditions with my children and my friends. I’m finally understanding what this newfound freedom is and how to use it.

Taco Tuesdays with the boys.

Good times with Marisa

Family bonding with Lacey

Taking every trip I can

Surrounding myself with amazing people

Really amazing people

Unbelievably amazing people

I’ve jumped from relationship to relationship since I was fourteen, continually dedicating my energy towards one person or another, always thinking that an “other” was so imperative to my survival. So, I have ever-so-selfishly centered myself in my own universe. There is no answering to anyone but myself and my children. I’m free to enjoy life with no-strings and no ties that bind. And for the first time ever, I can see the miracle in that.

An open letter to rapist Brock Turner’s father

*Disclaimer: If you are unfamiliar with the story, you can catch up here.

Photograph: Dan Honda/AP

Dear Dan Turner,

                You don’t know me, much like how your son, Brock, didn’t know the unconscious woman he raped. I understand how disappointing it may be to have these charges brought against your son, how much you must be wallowing in denial over the convictions, how smug you must feel about his slap on the wrist. I know how you must have sat in disbelief when Brock was arrested, “not my son, not my boy- he wouldn’t,” or the possible “some bitch wants to get him in trouble.” I know, because I have boys, and I know, that as feminist as I am, I would never want to believe that my children are capable of something as vile and abhorrent as rape.

                I know you don’t know what it’s like to be a woman or a rape victim, and I’m going to guess that’s a reality you would never even begin to conceive or empathize with. But I would ask, if humanly possible, for you to step outside of yourself and your little world where your son can’t enjoy his steak anymore and put yourself in the shoes of someone else, someone you may be able to relate to better—the victim’s father.

                You see, this man is also in turmoil over this case. This man, the father of two girls, has always worried about their safety and vulnerability, always hoped and prayed that no one would ever violate one of his princesses. Unfortunately, he has the monumental displeasure of looking at his daughter with full knowledge of the details of the assault. Picturing his daughter unconscious, legs splayed, being violated behind a dumpster. He had the displeasure of sitting through your sons trial, having to listen to your high-dollar, hand-picked attorney attack his little girl’s character, morals, judgement, and story.  He had to sit there, helplessly, while his daughter’s life was picked through and exposed in an effort to justify your son being caught penetrating her unconscious body. He has wished that he could have been there to stop it, or to run after your son as he fled in cowardice. Can you imagine? You speak of your son’s loss of appetite, his depression, his sullen demeanor– with zero regard to what the victim is going through emotionally and physically. Her father has to deal with that. The depression, the shame (because we live in a society that shames rape victims—you should know, your attorney did it), the body dysmorphia, the issues with trust and intimacy. Your son has 3 months in jail and the requirement to register as a sex offender, and you’re UPSET about that sacrifice? His daughter has a lifetime of trauma to recover from. How long will it take your Ivy League, All-American boy to get a new girlfriend or hook up at another party? How long will it be before the victim can have sex again with her boyfriend without associating intimacy with this assault, or be able to look in a mirror and not see herself as dirty and used? Which one is worse?

                Now, you want Brock to go to schools “educating” on the dangers of drinking and promiscuity? Because those are the things that led him to rape? Why doesn’t he go to schools to talk about consent, instead? What it is, what it isn’t, and how not having consent can ruin lives. Alcohol didn’t rape a girl, your son was sober enough to run (unlike the victim), and this had nothing to do with promiscuity—aside from the fact he couldn’t find someone conscious to try to be promiscuous with. Your son, Brock Turner, violated another human being with his genitals. Maybe THAT is what he should be talking about. Or how about how “barely conscious” or “not un-conscious yet” does not mean “yes.” I’d love to sit down at a pep-rally and hear from a rapist about how too drunk to stand up or speak clearly is too drunk to fuck. Because that is culpability, that is responsibility, and that is where the lesson is. Brock, your son, assumed he could do what he wanted with someone else’s body without their permission. And you, Mr. Turner, are culpable, too. You have allowed your son to exist in a world where the rules don’t apply to him, you have deemed him too good to face the consequences of his actions, and sadly, a judge went along with it. A young, educated, affluent white man gets a slap on the wrist. I have to ask what do you think would have happened if your son was black and poor? Would you be writing statements about how he doesn’t steal your snacks anymore? Or would you be defending yourself from an outraged public, accusing you of raising a rapist and a thug?  But I digress, I don’t expect you to even acknowledge your privilege exists, let alone understand it or think about it.

                I know it’s really sad, and I’m sure you have a lot of feelings that are confusing and distressing, but nowhere does that give you the right to ask for compassion for Brock and his now, less than grand, outlook. He raped a woman. His life SHOULD change. He SHOULD have to face the consequences. You choose to go to trial and to have your attorney force a victim to further engulf herself in the trauma of her assault. You choose to try to blame her, shame her, demean her, and vilify her. Shame on you—any sympathy I may have ever had for you went out the window with your victim blaming and your son’s short sentence.

                Here is the difference between you and me: should one of my sons commit rape—however outside of his character—and be convicted of said rape, I would want him to be sentenced appropriately. I would want him to confess, to show remorse, to get down on his goddamned hands and knees and beg the victim for forgiveness from the very depths of his soul. Because rape isn’t just a physical, sexual, drunken accident of a crime. Rape is intrinsically invasive and emotionally damaging. It is the theft of personhood and autonomy. Of course, I love my son, but as a young man and adult, he will be culpable for his own actions. If he gets in trouble for a PI or a minor offense, mommy may bail him out. But not for this, not for sexual assault, not for the trauma he may cause another person. Now, hopefully, the likelihood of this happening is nonexistent. Like so many other women, I have been sexually assaulted. And like so many other women, I never reported it. This fact, however, has a tremendous impact on how I’m raising my children. My two boys learn about consent every single day. They know that if they do not want somebody touching them, even somebody they love trying to give them a hug, then they have every right to say no. Their body is THEIRS and no one has a right to it. They know that if they want to touch or hug someone (even their sister and cousins) and that person says “no,” or “get off,” or “don’t touch me,” then they have NO right to touch them and better back off. My sons are being taught, every single day, that girls are powerful and strong and smart just like they are, and that girls should be listened to and respected just like they want to be. When their sister is changing clothes and wants privacy, leave her alone. She has to do the same for them. My kids will never be taught to assume that their gender, their abilities, their education, their good standing in society, or any other characteristics will make it okay for them to take from someone else what they want or keep them from the consequences of their actions.

                So please, spare us the statements and the appeals for sympathy. Stop posting about your son’s poor state. We’ve had enough excuses. We’ve had enough of your damning “20 minutes of action,” when what your son did was the culmination of ideas that told him he could take what wasn’t his and would still be okay. If you, or Brock, cannot own up to the depravity of his actions, then please, for the sake of everyone else, shut up.

Sincerely,

I’m so tired of seeing this happen.

Stand against Fear

When you’re a writer, you tend to see things a little differently, at least I’d like to think so. I want to know how our story is going to be told. How will this age be remembered?

If I can say one thing for sure, the United States will not be seen as heroic, or brave, or moral. We will be vilified-labeled as cowards. In a time when it is more important than ever that we remain the home of the brave, we find ourselves recoiling in fear. We let politicians lie and feed that fear to such a terrifying extent. We hate out of fear. We commit violence out of fear. We allow our politicians talk of breaching dangerous territory– to label people like the Nazi’s did, to close down peaceful places of worship, to place people in camps–it’s all fascism. We are turning away families, mothers and daughters, women and children–all VICTIMS of terrorism. We are allowing our fear to play right into the hands of the very people we are afraid of. They want us to hate Muslims, they want us to shut our doors and close our hearts. Every family we send back is a family that will most likely die.

I speak only for myself- but I’m terrified for very different reasons. I’m terrified of what we have become. This mentality is cyclical, it never ends where it began. When we, as a collective, allow ourselves to dictate who gets to live and die out of a place of fear we lose our humanity. Today it’s every refugee we refuse, tomorrow it’s every Muslim American in an internment camp, joined next by POC, the non-religious, anyone who dares exercise their rights or expect justice and equality that isn’t a White Christian.

Fear can drive good men to do evil things. Fear can destroy our humanity and integrity. Fear can turn us into monsters.

Let me tell you something about these refugees everyone is so scared of. They are brave. They are fierce and courageous. They come from cities and towns and villages that have been reduced to rubble by the same terrorists causing us to shake in our boots. They have only three choices; join them, resist and die (taking their entire families with them), or flee. They fled to save their lives, they fled to save their children. They lose their children on capsizing boats. They get separated from their families by smugglers. They risk it all for the chance to do something we take for granted every single day; to live.

(Yes, this is a dead child–drowned after falling off a boat of refugees. The same age as my own son.)

Every single day Syrians faced attacks as brutal and fatal as what we witnessed in Paris last week. Except they weren’t removed from it; watching it on their televisions screens. They’ve seen their neighbors, brothers, and sisters killed. They’ve woken up to their homes being blown up and raided. They have lived it. They deserve peace.

The facts remain. We armed ISIS, we created this mess. There are over 1.5 billion practicing Muslims in the world, the extremist factions (the terrorists) compose LESS than 1% of that total. It is easier to get a VISA to get into the United States than it is to be granted asylum here as a refugee. Refugees are screened by the U.N. and the FBI and it takes an average of three years to get here. ISIS wants us to deny asylum to the refugees (there goes that notion of them slipping a few in just in case). All of the attackers in Paris were Europeans (not Syrian refugees). There are more terrorist attacks pulled off by American Christian Extremists and White Supremacists in the United States than any other type of terror attack. Since 9/11, the United States have welcomed over 85k refugees from the Middle East and none have been linked to any terrorist attacks or organizations in any way, shape, or form. It simply isn’t happening. We are letting fear dictate how we value the lives of other human beings- exactly what terrorists want- that’s why they are called TERRORists.

What confounds me the most is that this fearful anti-refugee rhetoric is coming from a slew of Christians. I remember, back in my believing days, wearing my good ole’ What Would Jesus Do bracelet. Why? Because as a Christian, I was supposed to emulate the life of Christ as much as I could through my actions. I was supposed to love others as Christ loved me. So when I see a Christian saying “they can’t come here,” “we have to protect ourselves,” or my personal favorite “they need to go back and fight isis,” (because families with children and no access to any weapons or military or ANYTHING are so equipped to fight) I can’t help but think that this is an absolute counter to how Christ (who was also a Middle Eastern refugee BTW) would behave. (Sorry folks, this gets a little Scripture heavy for a hot minute).

Matthew 5: 3-10

³ “Blessed are the poor in spirit,
    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
⁴ Blessed are those who mourn,
    for they will be comforted.
⁵ Blessed are the meek,
    for they will inherit the earth.
⁶ Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
    for they will be filled.
⁷ Blessed are the merciful,
    for they will be shown mercy.
⁸ Blessed are the pure in heart,
    for they will see God.
⁹ Blessed are the peacemakers,
    for they will be called children of God.
¹⁰ Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

What a great opportunity to show mercy and make peace- rather than hate and intolerance.

⁴² Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you.

Give when asked-straight from the mouth of Christ.

Even if someone wants to go so far as to blame all Muslims and call them enemies….

³ “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor^[i] and hate your enemy.’ ⁴⁴ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, ⁴⁵ that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. ⁴⁶ If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? ⁴⁷ And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? ⁴⁸ Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.

The story of the good Samaritan- how Christ instructs his followers to love their neighbors. Luke 10: 29-37

²⁹ But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” ³⁰ In reply Jesus said: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. ³¹ A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. ³² So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. ³³ But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. ³⁴ He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. ³⁵ The next day he took out two denarii^[c] and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’³⁶ “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”³⁷ The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.” Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

Then there is my personal favorite when it comes to how you should treat people… Matthew 25: 41-45

⁴¹ “Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. ⁴² For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, ⁴³ I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’ ⁴⁴ “They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’ ⁴⁵ “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’

In the end, we are all people, some better off than others–but all still flesh and blood. We cannot let fear rob us of our humanity. We have to stand up. If we want to be the home of the brave we have to BE brave. If we want to be the beacon of freedom and light that stands for hope and opportunity we have to be willing to open our doors. More than that, we have to remember that we CANNOT rewrite history–we are a nation of immigrants, unless you are 100% Native American, you are here because someone in your lineage was brave, they sought a better world. And to that same effect, how we respond to this crisis now will absolutely be written into our history. Do we want to be seen as a fascist society comparable to the Third Reich? So full of fear and hate that we turned away the most vulnerable and the most destitute. Because that is where we are heading. We are becoming London in V for Vendetta.

I know it’s been said over and over and over again, but there is a reason it is inscribed on the Statue of Liberty:

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

 

Standing with Atticus

I can remember when I first sat down to read To Kill A Mockingbird. I was a freshman in high school, a mere fourteen years old. It was supposed to be an assignment for my Honors English class and we were only supposed to read a certain number of chapters at a time. It was a Saturday afternoon- by Sunday night I had finished it.

Atticus Finch became the idol of empathy, equality, kindness and justice I wanted to base my life on.

“Scout,” said Atticus, “nigger-lover is just one of those terms that don’t mean anything—like snot-nose. It’s hard to explain—ignorant, trashy people use it when they think somebody’s favoring Negroes over and above themselves. It’s slipped into usage with some people like ourselves, when they want a common, ugly term to label somebody.”

“You aren’t really a nigger-lover, then, are you?”

“I certainly am. I do my best to love everybody… I’m hard put, sometimes—baby, it’s never an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name. It just shows you how poor that person is, it doesn’t hurt you.”

Atticus was a symbol of what humanity is at its best. While his relationship with Scout sometimes seemed cold and hyper-formal, I think it was important for him to be seen outside of the idolized father role. He wasn’t this man because Scout perceived him that way, he simply WAS that way.

“First of all,” he said, “if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view […] until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

I know my mom and I have a thing, sometimes, when something horrible is going on in the world, or we feel that no one has the courage to say what really needs to be said- we say, “We need an Atticus.” It’s true, we need more people like Atticus Finch and less paid, ignorant, talking heads. We need wisdom and compassion and empathy.

“This time we aren’t fighting the Yankees, we’re fighting our friends. But remember this, no matter how bitter things get, they’re still our friends and this is still our home.”

“Jem, see if you can stand in Bob Ewell’s shoes a minute. I destroyed his last shred of credibility at that trial, if he had any to begin with. The man had to have some kind of comeback, his kind always does. So if spitting in my face and threatening me saved Mayella Ewell one extra beating, that’s something I’ll gladly take. He had to take it out on somebody and I’d rather it be me than that houseful of children out there. You understand?”

“I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.”

So that brings us to now: Go Set A Watchman has been released and there is an upheaval at how this piece paints Atticus.

I have not read this work, and I’m not sure if I ever will…and here is why: I am a writer, I know the process, and I truly do not believe Harper Lee ever had any intentions of releasing the book- the Atticus in that story is not the character she wanted him to be.

Go Set a Watchman was written before To Kill A Mockingbird. Anyone who has written, and I mean really written, knows that some of their best characters and themes are re-used and built from old ones that we tried and didn’t work. I have about 7 short stories and a few more unfinished pieces sitting in my desk right now. I have one in particular, I love the overall story/theme, I want to keep the main plot, the character is good- but the girl has got some issues…she needs work. I may develop her further in a different story…similar to the last but change some events for her sake. I could say the same with other characters from other stories I have- they aren’t what I want them to be. Maybe I could put them in a different situation? Maybe I could make their kids older or younger? Maybe keep the kids the same but for the story to really be the statement I want the main character needs to be changed.

Writing is a process. Maybe the Atticus in Go Set A Watchman was a character that needed work. By the time she completed TKAM he was a character that would withstand the test of time and culture.

Of course, there have been questions about the legalities of the release of Go Set A Watchman, questions concerning Lee’s mental state and health, and her comprehension about the publication. Was she pressured or coerced into it? Was she convinced that it was a good idea? We don’t know now, and I don’t know if we ever will. All I can say is that she published To Kill A Mockingbird as her sole work- and for decades she stood by it as her legacy. She could have published Go Set a Watchman at any point in time in the past 50 years, when she was completely and verifiably lucid. There are two different Atticus characters because the first run was not what she wanted… or he would have been the same in the book she choose to publish in 1960.

All of this being said. I stand by the Atticus I know. I stand by THAT Atticus being the man that Harper Lee wanted to give us. We need characters like him and we need his legacy to inspire further generations.

“but before I can live with other folks I’ve got to live with myself.” Atticus Finch

Love is Love!!!! Marriage Equality Wins!

When I woke up this morning, I was rolling in personal turmoil. My life is a mess right now. I had originally intended to make this post a commentary on the notion of bisexuality being a phase (because I am SO goddamn sick of hearing it). And then it happened. Twenty minutes after I woke up this morning the SCOTUS released their ruling on marriage equality.

What a beautifully worded statement from the Court and Justice Kennedy. For those of you who don’t follow all of these cases, Justice Kennedy has played an incredibly important role in the court this week, and acted as the swing vote for marriage equality.

My stomach has churned in recent weeks over this case. This case where the future of so many people rested in the hands of these 9 people. I’m usually extremely dissatisfied with the state of this country. This oligarchy (that’s a post for a different time). As much as I love to hear RBG go off, the thought of having to read her dissent on this case while bigots all across the country celebrated the marginalization and oppression of an entire community of Americans made me sick to my stomach.

Instead, thank goodness, I opened my Facebook to this…

LOVE WINS!!!

I’ve spent the remainder of the day crying over news stories and photos. I’m extremely proud of my country right now. I’m proud that we are moving past the archaic and outdated ways of thinking and we are FINALLY granting everyone the allowances and rights guaranteed by marriage.

Unfortunately, there is still work to do. Some states are passing laws stating that marriages can only be officiated by members of the Clergy (making it more difficult for same-sex partners to find someone willing to marry them). In Texas, there are already clerks refusing to issue licenses to same-sex couples (because apparently the highest court in the states ain’t gon’ make them go ‘gainst Jesus, or ya’ know, do their duty as government employees). Our unity and tenacity over this issue still needs to be going strong, because it is far from over.

As a bisexual woman (which is NOT a phase, thank you very much). The chances of me wishing to enter into a same sex union are 50/50. Right now I’m pretty much adverse to marriage, in my case, in general. But who knows what the future holds.

I know people are dying to hear my story *rolls eyes* so I figured I’d incorporate it a little bit here. I have always, as long as I can remember, been attracted to boys and girls. I never thought my attraction to women was wrong, in a way I felt as if it were a more special, more sacred type of feeling. There is no way to describe the relationship dynamics and how they differ, they’re just different. Both have led to absolute pure bliss, both have led to heartbreak. I have cried over girls just as I have over boys. Why have most of my relationships been hetero male/female? I don’t have a good answer. The relationships I’ve had with women, no one really ever knew about. I wasn’t necessarily out when they happened. I’m still not sure if I’m 100% out, I think I’m transparent and open about my sexuality, but there are still some people in my life that I haven’t sat down and said it to explicitly.  I just haven’t found it necessary.

But this isn’t about me. This is about the couples all across the country who don’t have to worry about entering a state where their marriage is unrecognized. It’s about their ability to be recognized as a spouse and next of kin as their lover lay ill in the hospital. This is about recognizing, in every state and at every level that love is love, and marriage is a government institution, and the rights of it are for all of us

Today, in the midst of all the ugliness that we see in this world everyday, love won- and that is something to celebrate!