Posts Tagged ‘gender norms’

a social life

I’ve been thinking about friendship a lot lately. Partially because I finally joined the 21st century, Instagram, and am therefore bombarded with images of happy cliques; and, partially because I’ve just moved 3,000 miles away from the place I have called home for the past 15 years. It’s gotten me to this too real place of acceptance and clarity.

In your 20’s everyone is your friend: people from high school, pals from college, work colleagues, friends of friends. You take em all. It’s like a decade of fishing where you don’t throw any back.

Then, in your 30’s you start pruning. Weeding out the emotional vampires and the “all drama all the time” crew. Some of it happens naturally–an illness in the family forces some friends to step up and others to show their true colors. Marriage, kids–some fall away naturally. You switch jobs/careers/partners and you find yourself with fewer and fewer friends. Which is actually pretty great–you spend more time with the people you genuinely love and who genuinely love you.

So, you’re chugging along, happily, with your perfect little crew of good friends. Then, all of a sudden, you make this giant life-change. And, it’s the right thing and everyone supports you but distance. Distance, man. It’s real. Time differences and work schedules, bedtimes and familial obligations and just life. Life in a new place happens. You have to restart your career and re-acclimate your kid. You have to find (or maintain) that inner circle all over again. But, how?

There are a trillion articles about making friends in your thirties. My problem isn’t making friends it’s maintaining friendships. How does one find the time as an adult? How do you prioritize friends over family or over self-care or over laziness and fatigue? How do you balance it all? This isn’t one of those, “how can we have it all” questions. This is just a very real query: how does one find the time and energy to be social in your late thirties–with a partner and a kid and a house and a career?

Where are all those extra hours the enviable #girlsquads on instagram seem to have?

 

hello, again (written in a fury whilst battling pneumonia)

So, it’s been nearly two years. Here’s what happened…

I moved across the country and got swept up in excitement and planning–packing and unpacking, organizing and searching and life was hectic for a good long while. I started a new job and moved into a new house. My daughter started at one school. Then moved to another one. We traveled a bit, my back issues returned. I hit some health road blocks and made a bunch of changes in my life. Trump got elected and it drained all hope from my body. I fell into a very real depression and went on medication for the first time in my life–to treat my mental and emotional state. And, then, there were a million other things in-between.

So, here I am. Devastated and still reeling about the state of our country and our political landscape. Losing my mind over having a daughter and feeling so scared for her future every day.

I almost started blogging again but didn’t really know how to address the way I was feeling. I didn’t feel that I could accurately articulate the sorrow and fear and lack of hope. I still don’t feel qualified to discuss the state of our world and the myriad ways in which people are affected by our current leaders. But, needless to say, it is a horrifying time to be anything but a rich, white, Christian, cisgender, heterosexual man.

There are plenty of great websites with links to all of the things you can do to be a part of the revolution. Whether it’s time, money or power you can part with–there are many ways to get involved. I have found that feeling like I’m doing something (whether I am or not is a trickier conversation) has been the only thing to get me out of bed. I have joined and contributed and volunteered and written letters and made calls and marched through streets. It’s never enough. But, it’s something.

I am living in a privileged bubble out here in small town, California. We are not all so lucky. This man is ruining lives, endangering communities, and undoing so much of what has been done to embolden and empower folks who have been disenfranchised, abused and silenced.

So, I go to work. I teach middle school now. And, I talk about race and class and gender and sexuality and politics. I talk about the power of language and what it means to be an ally. I assign books by women and people of color. I discuss the need for windows and mirrors in literature. Books should be a reflection of ourselves, our lives and experiences and realities. They should also be a window into the realities of others–folks who don’t look, live or exist as we do.

I start GSA and Ally clubs, bring LGBTQI training to our staff and push for changes to our handbooks to ensure the safety and security of ALL students. I take my kids to environmental film festivals and put up signs on my door that piss off the Trump-voter parents in my class. I keep my political viewpoints to myself but make it known that I am against bullying of any kind at any level. I tell my students that they are powerful, that they can change the world. I read I am Malala aloud and explain that it is up to them to find and fight against injustice. To speak up and speak out.

My daughter doesn’t know words like, “asshole, racist, imbecile, narcissist, bigot, chauvinist, etc.” What she does know is, “bully and stinker.” Those are the worst words in her vocabulary. But, if you heard her refer to Trump as a, “Stinkin, stinker, bully, potty, poo, pee-pee-head, meanie” you would think she had just uttered the most obscene profanity known to womankind. Her face gets scrunched up and serious and her body tightens, her fists pump in the air and she is mad. She’s actually mad. She hates this man. She hears NPR in the morning and listens to us talk in the evening. She picks up on conversations and nuances and body language. And, we talk to her about him. We tell her in words she’ll understand. He is a bully–to all people, everywhere. He is not smart. He doesn’t care about our planet and he’s not a nice person.

I am not in Trump country. But I’m not not in Trump country. I’m in 50/50 land. So, it’s been a divisive year in an already divided community. And, striking the balance between respecting differing belief systems while still holding folks accountable for what they are ACTUALLY advocating for is difficult…and, incredibly important. Particularly as a teacher and a parent and a woman and…a freaking human. So, I do my best. There are some days when I completely fail. And, others where I am so proud of myself for the thing I said or didn’t say or the conversation I had with my students.

I am out of the denial stage, the intense anger has faded, depression is on the mend and so I’m left with (un)acceptance. I accept that it’s real but refuse to accept the reality.

Short story: I’m back.

don’t forget the rice crispy treats

My mom was not talented in the culinary arts. It’s a miracle I can boil water, really. Aside from her being a terrible chef, my father refused to cook and I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen to do any experimenting on my own.

There were three staple items my mom could get on the table if push came to shove: grilled cheese sandwiches with canned tomato soup; scrambled eggs with cream cheese; mashed potato pancakes with melted parmesan. The cheese theme is clear, right? I’m starting to see where my dairy obsession comes from. The sandwich was always burnt, always. The sound of her running a butter knife over the crispy bits and the ping of the charred toast hitting the tin sink, along with that acidic, dark musty smell of burnt bread and butter on the cast iron pan–smells like home. She would make the tomato soup with milk and it would get that skin on top–you know the way that happens when you overheat milk or let it sit too long? The potato pancakes were her leftover creation. We always had steamed veggies and baked potatoes in the fridge. So, she’d cut up the veggies, mash the potatoes and grate some cheese over the flattened balls, throw them in the oven and it was heavenly. My brothers would smother them in ketchup but I liked them plain or with a little sour cream.

Yes, we ate very well in our household.

For a while I was trying to eat gluten-free, upon my doctor’s recommendation (I will never do that again–I was absolutely miserable for a month) and in an effort to make myself some gluten and sugar-free desserts I experimented with rice crispies (or, rather the health food version of those). Which I don’t recommend.

Anyhow, I tried adding peanut butter and unsweetened chocolate and honey and coconut oil and all sorts of shit. And, really all I wanted was rice crispy treats. Nothing compares, let’s be honest.

Turns out they are the most ridiculously simple dessert to make. Like, hilariously easy. How had I forgotten the 3 steps? Melt butter and marshies in pot, pour cereal in, empty pot onto greased pan. Voila! A miracle dessert. Really, I’ll be making these every week from now on.

Rice crispy treats were the one thing my mom could “bake.” Every bakesale, every holiday event, anytime there was a mandatory contribution in school or at a sporting event, or for the community theater or my sister’s dance troupe, we brought rice crispy treats. Every. Single. Time.

It didn’t even occur to me that it might appear as some sort of cop out. Kind of a slap in the face to the moms who brought handmade, “chocolate, peanut butter, caramel crunch bars.” Or, that it might have been a source of embarrassment for my mother. A kind of admission of maternal failure to be unable to do the most basic of motherly duties: bake. Nowadays moms, dads, parentals, can show up to a bake sale and say, “I suck at baking. I’ll help with the cleanup.” And, I don’t think anyone would bat an eye. There might even be some sympathetic nods and confessions of having used the pre-boxed mix for brownies. But, back then and in our small little section of the world, it was not done. Every mom baked. Not every parent. Every mom. Oh yeah, it was nice and gendered back then. Who are we kidding? It mostly still is.

So, we made a lot of rice crispy treats. And, my mom showed up with our plastic-wrapped desserts and proudly placed them on the bake sale table, handing over our one aluminum pan to the downcast eyes of some volunteer, PTA, supermom. She’d give us a half-smile and place them amongst the m&m, chocolate chip cookies, and the perfect chocolate, pecan fudge squares, the beautiful coconut-cream layer cakes and vanilla cupcakes with rainbow sprinkles. They always looked so sad next to everything else. But, those suckers sold. I tell you what, we always went home with an empty pan–much to my chagrin.

And, every time my mom would look down proudly at that empty tin and say, “We did it.” As if she’d just discovered the Higgs boson.

I didn’t know that this could, or should, have been a source of embarrassment for me. In fact, it was one of the only things I felt confident my mother could actually participate in–like a normal mom. Her ability to show up every time with a handmade dessert, to participate, to contribute–that felt so normal to me. It made me feel like we were actually part of something. One of them. You know, one of the normals–not outsiders, for once. We’d all crowd into the minivan, screaming and pushing, calling dibs on the front seat and then fighting over it anyway and one of us would call out, “Mom, don’t forget the rice crispy treats!” and off we would ride. Believing that the minivan and the slogan t-shirts, the hand-me-down sneakers and thrifted jeans, and most importantly the rice crispy treats, were some symbol of normalcy. Believing that we might actually be fitting in.

work // present

As I lay stretched out on my rainbow yoga mat, staring at the beautifully shaped ass of my 22-year-old colleague I couldn’t help but have a twinge of nostalgia. For being able to dress however I wanted. For dying my hair and piercing my body parts. For eating anything and everything and suffering no metabolic consequences. Am I old? Or, am I just around too many young people?

Being a teacher sort of ages you. “Ages” isn’t quite the right term. It places you in a professional stratosphere that automatically gives you respect and power–which, feels like something that comes with “age.” Spending your days with little kids doesn’t make you feel old. It makes you feel young, playful, energetic, silly. Yes, you are exhausted by the end of the day in a way that your tiny-human counterparts are not. But, you feel young at heart. And, for the first ten or so years, you are younger than the parents of your students. Which contributes to a second level of power and prestige.

When you work with millennials and listen to their conversations–sometimes beautifully thoughtful and thought-provoking about gender and class; sometimes absurd, about sick dance parties and hilarious hookups; and sometimes offensive, “it’s just that I really thought my parents were going to keep paying my phone bill until I was, like, at least 25″–it gets you thinking about your own world. The small little bubble that you live in–filled with parenting tips and toddler tantrums, meal-planning and grocery lists, bills and savings accounts. Versus the little bubble that they live in–hookups and trash-talking, parent-drama and student loans, friendships ending and new relationships blooming. Certainly there are similarities in our lives–sometimes I come in and Glynis tells me that we are twins, wearing cuffed boyfriend jeans and oversized sweaters. Other times I come in with aches and pains, marriage woes and mom-struggles, angst over why we can’t afford to buy a damn house and we just feel decades apart. Our priorities, our goals, our relationship to the world around us. We are looking at the same sky but seeing very differently shaped clouds.

I read an article a few years ago about how much the people around you impact your life. Sounds obvious. But, this article claimed that we were not only affected by our friends and family but also by their friends and families. That, in fact, we were being shaped by people 3 steps removed from our circle. And, not just affected in an emotional sense but in many ways we are being molded by others: the way we eat, the music we listen to, our outlook on the world, our daily emotional state–whether we are prone to anger or calm, taking deep breaths or becoming anxious. This frightened me at the time. I was teaching with a nasty human who was angry at the world and angry at herself. She seethed with animosity and jealousy, rage and fear. “Oh my god,” I thought. “I am going to become like her.” I’ll start eating snickers bars for lunch and listening to Michael Buble! The horrror!

Of course, it isn’t so simple. We don’t just emulate the people around us, we are affected in subtler but deeper ways than I think we can even pinpoint. I’m not sure how Patricia affected me. Is it her fault that I am more defensive than I used to be? Can I attribute my fear of being alone to Danielle who bought a dog so she would never have to sleep solo? Did Rachel make me a better friend? Did Sara make me more courageous? Is Julie the reason I can stand up for myself? Can I thank Adam for my sense of humor? We are shaped by our circumstances, we are shaped by our families (whether we want to be or not), we are shaped by our choices and our education and our neighborhoods. But where do we end, and the exterior influences that shape us begin?

children’s books

I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say I hate Goodnight, Moon. I realize it’s an unpopular stance. I know it’s a classic. It’s gotta be the top-gifted childrens book of all time (we got at least five copies in the first year of our daughter’s life). But, why?! It’s so weird. And creepy. Who is that old lady whispering, “hush” anyhow? This post about the book completely slayed me.

Here are two similar books that I prefer: Buenas Noches, California & Time for Bed

I am always looking for children’s books with a diversity of characters (you know, not just white male leads) both because they better reflect the world we live in and because I have a daughter and I don’t want her reading books where the hero is always a boy.

That said, there are a lot of great books out there (not all of which meet the aforementioned criteria) but that have beautiful illustrations, important social/moral lessons and/or are fun and hilarious:

Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus & Knuffle Bunny by Mo Willems

Hilarious, great characters, fun pictures. The author lives in our neighborhood so it is particularly fun to walk around and find the various places pictured in the books.

Eloise by Kay Thompson

Excellent voice, wonderful vocabulary, silly. My daughter demands to stand on her head, like Eloise, after every read.

It’s Okay to be Different & The Peace Book by Todd Parr

Important messages about moral and ethical responsibility and acceptance of all people.

Iggy Peck, Architect & Rosie Revere, Engineer by Andrea Beaty

Kids being intelligent and creative in ways that are not typically written about. It’s fun, it’s witty and it rhymes. Iggy Peck has a slightly better story arc but Rosie has better rhymes and a girl lead to boot.

Oh, the Places You’ll Go & The Lorax by Dr. Seuss

There are a ton of Seuss books that my daughter loves to read. The Foot book, Oh, the Thinks you can Think, Hop on Pop, Oh, Say can you Say. But, these two have great messages. One about adventuring and exploration. The other about sustainability and the importance of respecting our environment.

Sheila Rae the Brave & Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes

Great female leads. One is about a girl who learns that bravery can mean many things and that fear can find it’s way into one’s life no matter how brave we feel. The other is about a girl dealing with bullying and learning to be proud of who she is regardless of what others think.

Swimmy be Leo Lionni

This one’s all about a fish who doesn’t fit in. He shows that being different is okay, great even.  He also proves that when communities unite they can face any enemy.

The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats

Beautiful, lyrical. It’s got great imagery, fantastic illustrations and Peter, the lead character shows up in a ton of other fabulous books by the same author.

The Very Hungry CaterpillarBrown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you See by Eric Carle

These ones are for young kids. Although, truthfully, I think we read both aloud when I taught first grade in Harlem. They’re great for pattern recognition and prediction. I love Eric Carle’s illustrations. The books are fun too but the illustrations are the real draw for me.

Thunder Cake & Thank You, Mr. Falker by Patricia Polacco

These are great books. They’re a bit more advanced than any of the other recommendations but they’re really wonderful and worth getting and putting in your library for future use if your kid is still young. Polaco is a truly beautiful writer. And, these books have wonderful lessons about bravery and love and about gratitude.

Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge by Mem Fox

Another incredibly beautifully written book. And, one that is also a bit more advanced than the others on the list. It’s a gorgeous story about friendship with some incredible descriptions of memory.

And, many more. But, these are some of my top faves.

marriage

It took five years for my boyfriend to convince me that marriage might be an okay thing.

I had never pictured myself getting married. I hate white dresses. Not a big fan of dresses in general. I want nothing to do with diamonds and the whole idea of being engaged definitely did (and does) not appeal to me. He, on the other hand, had always envisioned getting married.

About a year into our relationship I told him that if he proposed I would break up with him. Sounds dramatic but, really, I just hated the idea of being surprised by such a huge question and then being put on the spot to make such a huge decision. This is not to say that I don’t understand the draw of the proposal for some people. I think it can be incredibly romantic and sweet and it makes some folks really, really happy.

For me, I’d prefer to be the one proposing. Scratch that, what I would really prefer is a conversation. You know, “Do you want to get married? Is that interesting/appealing to you?” Something like that.

Marriage ain’t no joke. It’s what “bwings us togeder today…dat bwessed awangment, dat dweam wifin a dweam…” Sorry. Couldn’t help it. The Princess Bride clergyman will never be outdone.

I was saying…marriage…it’s a (theoretically) serious commitment by TWO (usually) people. As in, this is not something to be entered into alone. You should really talk about that shit before you make the decision to do it.

I mean, I think that when people propose they’re pretty confident in their partners’ answer. And, for others, there has even been a conversation about it — probably a sort of vague, roundabout one.

We can’t really remember how it all went down. We were sitting in our living room. It was a Saturday or a Sunday and we’d just finished a late brunch at home (huevos rancheros, maybe?) We were sipping bloody mary’s and one of us brought it up. Which one? We can’t remember. Not because we were drunk. Just because, well, it doesn’t really matter.

“You wanna get married?” someone asked.

“Hmm. I don’t know, do you?” the other responded.

“I mean, sure. Yeah, that sounds pretty good. Great even. I mean, I really love you. I think that’s why you get married,” someone said.

“Shit. Okay, yeah. YEAH! This is awesome. I’m in. I really love you, too,” the other replied.

“Right. And, we’ve talked about the commitment part. It’s us. For good. Or, at least for a good long time.”

“Yeah, and our lives are already totally entangled. I mean, we bought a turntable and a t.v. together. We’ll have to talk about who gets what in the divorce.”

The next day we went to Tiffany’s and picked out simple gold bands. He paid for mine and I paid for his. If you’ve ever been to Tiffany’s (which we hadn’t) it’s a whole experience. I mean, they don’t mess around. We figured we’d splurge on the rings and bequeath them to our offspring. It may be the only thing of value they inherit.

A classic gold ring. I’m not sure there’s a better heirloom to pass down. I got a gold band (years later) from my great uncle after he passed away. It was engraved October, 1910. Exactly 99 years before we were married.

“When’s the big day?” Adam, the sweet, mild-mannered Tiffany’s employee inquired.

“Oh, we’re getting married. We’re not having a wedding. We’re just doing the whole, you know, marriage part. Skipping the rest,” we responded.

“I see,” he said. We regretted it immediately. Couldn’t we have come up with some wonderful lie? The poor guy didn’t know what to talk about. Clearly, his entire conversational repertoire was reliant upon people having, like, real weddings!

“Are you pregnant?” my principal asked upon my return to work. “Is that why you snuck off and got married last week?”

“Nope. Not allowed to ask that, Eileen. But, nope. Not pregnant. Just married,” I responded.

“But. What about the wedding? What about your families?” she continued. “Won’t they be mad?”

As it turned out there were a few people in our lives who were a bit sad. Not mad, just bummed to miss the moment. You know, that beautiful ‘I do’ moment. But, they got over it and we threw a party a year later. No fuss, no stress, just a big celebration so everyone could come together and eat and drink and dance.

It was perfect. For us.

Life as a first grade teacher

“You should really wear makeup, Miss. My mama wears makeup and she’s real pretty. She don’t look like you.”

“Well, Xavier, women don’t actually have to wear makeup. It’s not a law. Not all women want to,” I explain. “It’s okay to make your own choices as a person.”

“But, you look tired. You look prettier if you put makeup on.”

“I appreciate your opinion, sweetie. But, it isn’t very nice to tell someone that they need to put makeup on to be pretty. I don’t tell you that you have to dress a certain way to look handsome. You look like a kind and intelligent human no matter what you’re wearing.”

“I got style, Miss.”

“You certainly do, Xavier. I agree. But, I would be able to notice your charm even if you didn’t have ‘style’ to speak of.”

“Dance skills too. You seen ’em. I can do all Michael Jackson’s moves.”

“Yes, I know you can,” I say.

“And, why you got boy hair? My mama says only boys have short hair,” he continues.

“Well, I can tell you that I do not identify as a boy. And, I have short hair. What do you make of that? We call that a conundrum.”

“I don’t know about no cone drum but you do look like a boy. I mean, you’re nice and all, and I know you a girl but you don’t look like no girl.”

“Hmmm, yes, well I can see why that might feel confusing for you.”