In light of recent events…

Photo of our wedding by ? (family)

While perusing the Climate March posts on Twitter yesterday, I came across this:

I was proud and grateful to participate in the People's Climate March today! #LaudatoSi #ClimateMarch #NotAPaidProtestor #Mercy4Earth pic.twitter.com/Es8puAgpcU

— KimberlyAnnClare (@bonaventure99) April 30, 2017

Tonight, I played with words from the creator of one of the signs:

Blue Brick Texture By Beckas

Recrafted Words By Me

This is one of the signs hubs and I made for last weeks March for Science in Salem, Oregon…

And also used for the Climate March in Portland today. #RecycleResistance 

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After sitting with these words, put together in this way, an unexpected poem emerged.

“Not Silence”

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I hear the voices of people of color crying out to us white folks to get our people together and I absolutely want to make this happen.

Based on personal experience, to accomplish the task, we run across many issues with reaching white Americans founded in Fundamentalist religions.

I grew up in this white Fundamental Christian world, in a state white folks colonized with the goal of founding a white utopia.

I know these folks, have lived among them my entire life, and still try on occasion to reach out to them and bring them forward. But mostly I am at a loss.

How do we change the mind set of people that have a belief system not based in facts and logic? People that literally believe the Earth is ~6000 years old and/or climate change is a hoax. Those that lack, or don’t exercise their critical thinking skills.

How do we change the mindset of someone who verbally abuses and/or gaslights you whenever you try? When sometimes all you physically can do is run away from the interaction that trips all the triggers of abuse you grew up with.

How do we teach people who are uncomfortable with self-introspection, to take the time to critically examine and reflect on their own words and actions? And to reflect on the behaviors of people they consider leaders?

How do we white folk actually accomplish the great task of changing the mindset of our close-minded brethren? Is it even possible when they suspect any source that does not align with their belief system, as elite propaganda??

And most importantly, how do we hold white folks living in denial accountable, when they don’t even believe reality?

Maybe we don’t…

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The dogmas of the quiet past, are inadequate to the stormy present.

We must disentrall ourselves, and then we shall save our country.

Abraham Lincoln — 12.01.1862

One of my goals for my 48th year on this planet is to reconsider and reflect on all the things our society, and myself in particular, consider “normal.”

The election of Trump has a lot of us wanting to make sure things we consider horrific don’t become “normalized.”

But what about all the other things that are part of our “normal” society already that should never have been “normalized”?

I remember reading somewhere that some people come into our lives to help us relive and/or work past traumas.

I believe this to be true.

This poem is not all it seems…

Yet it IS…

The Kingdom of God is in your midst…

Jesus calls for those with more to give to those with less.  He warns that doing otherwise is not in accordance with God’s love.

Strangely enough, the shirt came to me. As if it were always meant to be mine. It was a brand new, green plaid flannel. It came into my life at a time when I was beginning a journey of self discovery. When I think of myself during this time I am always wearing that comfortable green flannel shirt. It still hangs in my closet today, waiting for the next journey.

The shirt showed up one day on the coat rack at work. I figured someone would be back to claim it. I watched and waited. Three weeks later when it was still there, it became mine. Every weekend my shirt and I would head out to the woods. Away from all the temptations that modern life offers. Parties, men, even money had left me feeling empty. I love the solitude of camping alone. I spent hours walking through the woods, my shirt offering warmth and protection. The turmoil that had always been a constant is quieter here, suppressed by the overwhelming sense of life greater than mine. The smell of pine trees, earth and water never cease to calm and refresh me. Every evening I build a fire. The fire and my shirt warm me as I ponder my life. Out here I do not feel alone or afraid.  Feelings that have been with me through a husband and numerous lovers. Each weekend I come closer to the  knowledge that true happiness and strength come from inside.

Now there is no pull from my former life. I move to the woods. A rustic old cabin on the banks of Canyon Creek becomes home. It is nestled at the base of the Cascades in northern Washington. No longer do I spend my evenings in search of a new high or a face that could love me. Now I am truly alone. I have never been so at peace.  Each day I walk my dog for hours. My flannel offers its protection against the elements as I walk and  reflect on the past. Every morning I sit on my balcony and drink my coffee. The balcony faces east overlooking the creek. The sunrises are beautiful here. The air is so fresh. My flannel is over my shoulders to keep out the morning chill. There is no more peaceful time of day. As the sun warms my face, I realize, I am free. No one defines me; no drug binds me.  I am in love with life.  Every night the sound of the creek lulls me to sleep. I have never slept so well. The rushing water seems to drive all worries and fears out of my head. It is dark here at night. The darkness makes me feel safe, comfortable with my surroundings. If loneliness does occasionally creep in, I just put on that now worn flannel and I am comforted.

There is a new life growing inside me. A whirlwind affair with a deceiver has left me alone again. But not alone as before. I drag that old flannel out of the closet and wrap it around my body.  My old friend again offers me comfort. On my bed I cry, endless days of tears. A close call with miscarriage makes me realize how much I love this little new life already. The sun starts to shine again. Now on my walks I ponder the future. I know myself so well now, surely I am strong enough.  There is plenty of love and space in my heart for this child. Maturity has taken root in my soul this past year. Gone are the times of my life I wouldn’t want to raise a child in. Having never expected to be a mother, I am now surprisingly filled with maternal love. A love like no other. When fear gets the better of me, I reach for that soft flannel. It offers me strength for this new journey.

Life is a long journey. As each new road begins, I look back at what is behind. Now bringing with me the lessons hard learned and my old friend. The embrace of an old friend, warm and comforting. Those are the images in my mind as I put on that worn flannel shirt.  Soft and faded, even ripped in places. Yet still durable enough for the journey.

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Note: This was originally written in 1999 as a WR121 assignment.  My son was 2 at the time.

Now he is 19 and has recently moved on to continue his journey.  And that old green flannel still hangs in the closet…

In case you didn’t know that Oregon was originally set-up to be a “White Utopia,” start by reading this: Oregon was Founded as a Racist Utopia

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When I was a little girl looking up at my beloved, but very racist (and sexist) Grandfather, I prayed that those attitudes, that I found so flawed at my tender age, would die out with his generation. After he died I wrote these words about him in my journal to express my conflicting feelings for this man I did love.

He loved rocks and god.
He took care of his family.
Gave freely to needy strangers.
Outside looking in.
Upstanding citizen.

So why does he hate you so?
The color of your skin, the length of your hair?
Weren’t you born of the same god as he, as me?

Reach out my hand now, his face is so cold, pale, and dead.
No lies to tell about you.
Look at me, I see you.
Different eyes, why?
What did he see?
I hope I never see!

His Jesus had long hair?
Why don’t I see?
As he saw.
Just the color of your skin,
The length of your hair?
Do you see me?
Did he?

– Journal entry from January 24, 2000

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Even though I loved my grandfather very much, sadly he was my first experience with racism and sexism. I also credit him with my first experiences of a loving (albeit dysfunctional) family and introducing me to a love of rocks and minerals, which I carry with me to this day. In many ways he was everything you think a grandfather should be; he loved us, taught us lots of stuff, and best of all (if you are a kid) he took us to do many fun things, including many rock and mineral hunting trips. It’s safe to say that I pretty much idolized this man when I was a child. But he also left me traumatized in many ways, and his constant hatred of “others” was one of them.

Grandpa used to read the paper every night and was very vocal about how he felt about the n*$$ers, immigrants, and long hairs. I remember questioning him about the long hair thing, “but Grandpa, Jesus had long hair,” which was really all I had any evidence for back then, well before the internet as we know it today. He would explain that Jesus grew up in a time before scissors and barber shops. I was younger than 10 at the time, so he won that round and I don’t recall ever challenging him again.

Over the years, as many teenagers and their grandparents do, we grew apart and when I did see him, I still didn’t feel enough personal power to “rock the boat.”

Sadly he died before I ever got to tell him where he could shove his racist and sexist ideology.

Sometimes we’re around folks so that we get clear examples of who we never want to become.

— deray mckesson (@deray) August 14, 2015

I remember asking my Grandma how she could be married to a man like him, again when I was a preteen, and she said I would understand when I grew up.

No Grandma, I still don’t understand and I hope I never will!!!

As I look around at the world today I am aghast to see that these same racist (and sexist) attitudes that I abhorred as a child, are still just as prevalent as Grandpa ranting over the nightly paper about how it was all “their” fault, meaning either black, brown, hippie, or pretty much anyone he considered to be “other.” From my Facebook* feed alone, much of which stems from the same area my grandfather lived in and I grew up in, I now know there is much work yet to be done in changing these antiquated and uneducated beliefs.

Thankfully I am no longer that confused, scared little girl who couldn’t wrap her mind around hating others because of their skin color, outer appearance, and/or gender. In her place is a grown woman, who has found her voice, and isn’t afraid to use it to call out such bigoted, sexist behavior!

*If you are currently friends with me on FaceBook and we grew up together, then count yourself among the lucky few who have managed to not piss me off with racist and/or sexist attitudes!! Thank you!