All grief, anyone's grief...is the weight of a sleeping child

I'm curled up on the love seat in the family room. My children are tucked into bed; both of them desperately needed baths tonight, but by the time we got home, it was long past bedtime. All through dinner I said, "I don't care what time it is when we get home. You two stink. You are showering." Suzannah rolled her eyes and said, "Okay, Mom." Isaac just grinned.

We left for Seattle straight from Suzannah's soccer game; she changed in the back seat, peeling off her cleats and sweaty socks and shimmying into jeans and a fresh shirt on the way to the Elliott Bay Book Company. (For the record, soccer cleats at the end of a season do not smell wonderful, especially in the confined space of a car.) I had a half-hour alone in the cafe to write while Matt read with Isaac and ran around the corner for a bag of coffee beans; I picked up a few very necessary books; we went to dinner. No one was grumpy. No one threw a tantrum. I made a few bitter comments about the fact that my children reek to high heaven after Matt said, "It's going to be late when we get home...how about they shower tomorrow?" because I washed and changed all the sheets in this house this morning, and now they all want to slide their stankin' little unwashed bodies over those sheets. But by the time we actually made it home, full of our favorite dinners and pie at our new favorite pie place, I didn't really want to deal with bathing tired children, either. We tucked our tired, grubby, stinking children into bed, and they went to sleep immediately.

My children are no longer babies, but every single night I tip-toe into their rooms after they fall asleep to kiss their soft cheeks and, yes, reassure myself that they're still breathing. Something about watching them sleep shatters me a bit. (In Fugitive Pieces, Anne Michaels wrote, "All grief, anyone's grief...is the weight of a sleeping child.")

And now I'm watching Pieces of April. It's one of my absolute favorite movies. I watched it years ago when it first came out and loved it, and then about five years ago I found it at Easy Street Records for about four dollars. I watch it every year around Thanksgiving at least twice. Usually, we watch it the night before Thanksgiving while Matt bakes pies; this year I'm enjoying my first viewing a little early while Matt cleans his desk in the next room (a significant undertaking). I imagine we'll watch it again together next week. Matt isn't a big fan of watching movies again and again, the way I am, but every year we watch Pieces of April and Love Actually together.

The plot is simple: April is an estranged daughter living in an tenement apartment in New York City who decides to host Thanksgiving dinner for her family, possibly the last one, as her mother has advanced breast cancer. The entire movie focuses on the process of her preparing for them (April needs to rely on the help of her neighbors to finish the dinner on time), alternating with scenes of her family traveling from suburbia. We learn about the family from both perspectives, bit by bit, and it is fierce and funny and heartbreaking. The ending leaves me in tears every single time.

But the real theme of the movie, stated by April herself as she tries to explain Thanksgiving to her immigrant neighbors, is this: Once, there was this day...this one day when...everyone realized they needed each other.

My children slumber on, and I can't stop crying.

This world.

A Necessary Discomfort

It's been one week. One week ago, I spent the entire day in a state of horror, pasting on a smile when I had to interact with kids and their parents, dissolving in tears in the bathroom (where I encountered other teachers doing the same) or in my car. Since then, I've been despondent, and I've been angry, and I've tried to take care of myself and my family and ground myself in the beautiful present. And then I wake up and say, "Nope, I'm still angry." Last night I could not fall asleep, which is becoming my new normal, unless I take Tylenol PM. I swung between fury and terror. I've had horrible dreams about keeping my children safe. And my children will be among the "safe"; they are white, raised by two white, straight, "Christian" parents. (Is it any wonder that I put "Christian" in quotes? I'm really struggling with that one.) No one has threatened to come after them, although I absolutely worry about raising a daughter in a world in which our Commander-in-Chief objectifies women ("Not a 10!") and normalizes tearing them down and assaulting them. Again, this isn't new, and women know this, but when a man can scream about a woman's pussy as she's out for a jog or taking her kids through a drive-thru and happens to have an "I'm With Her" bumper sticker on her car, he's not just being vulgar; he's quoting our elected leader.

We're not worried about our family being torn apart or sent away, but so many people have real, legitimate fears about keeping their own children safe. So many children are facing cruelty and bullying, and yes, yes, that has always been true, but now it is normalized by the highest elected office. That is the difference. Do not dare dismiss these fears and this outrage. And do not speak to me about how people weren't protesting like this when Obama was elected, as if those who didn't vote for him somehow displayed more decorum. Most of the things people were afraid of a.) didn't happen and b.) weren't things he ever said he'd do anyway. (My favorite, favorite Facebook post from the fall of 2008, which I noted for all of posterity because this is just amazing, y'all: "Enjoy hunting season, guys. It's likely going to be the last one before Obama comes for our guns." Incidentally, I believe that was from the same person who called me a "libtard." Anyway, I blocked him years ago, because there is just no point in trying to engage in conversation with some people. I can only imagine what his Facebook looks like now. And I'd put money on him having more guns now than he did in 2008.) Right now, I am afraid of the things our president-elect has actually said he would do. And it looks like he's lining up the right people for it.

And I'm embarrassed for feeling shocked. I shouldn't be. This is the reality that human beings in our country face every single day, and they're not shocked, because it is reality. I am a privileged white woman in a blue state. My Facebook feed is full of like-minded folks; I have never been in the practice of unfriending or blocking those who disagree with me, but when people make me clutch my head and roll my eyes too much, I do unfollow them, because I need my eyes for reading stacks of student papers. So my "reality" was a privileged one. I really believed we were better than this.

So I've been reading things that make me uncomfortable and yes, sometimes defensive (because I have good intentions and a good heart, right?), because we don't have time for White Fragility.

I've been following Marlon James on Facebook since reading A Brief History of Seven Killings in June, which is a work of brilliance and literary genius. His Facebook does not tell me everything will be all right and I'm precious for fighting for the light and we need to stay positive. He says things like this:

Also this. Honestly, I couldn’t give two shakes of a rat’s ass about empathizing with the struggle of the white working class. This privileging of white mainstream pain over everybody else’s, is tired bullshit (and not new either), the implication being that only white America has a working class, or more accurately, only white people work. This is nothing new— after all it’s where the attack on welfare and the bootstrapping of black folk come from. Everybody else’s struggle is their fault but for the white working class, shit is rigged. What about the black working class? Remember how entire communities were decimated by the 2008 mortgage crisis? How about the Latino/Hispanic working class that's supposedly stealing that sugar cane plantation job, but not working, at the same time? And while you think every Asian has three degrees and a silicon valley job, maybe next time take a look at who’s cleaning up your hotel room. Now if you’re saying we’re not pandering to the white working class vote, then you have a point. But call it what it is.

This is the kind of thing I need to read, and it is up to me to seek it out if I really want to be better and do better. And I do.

So I'm a work in progress. I guess I start with my own students. I posted this tonight:

Stories are how we SEE each other; if we don't value stories, we do not value our humanity. At the heart of everything we teach, we need to show kids that their lives matter. Many of my students receive the message, loud and clear, that their lives don't matter and their voices won't be heard. This week, they've articulated that. And this week, they're going to work on telling their own stories. It's scary for a lot of them, and it's hard work, but I believe it's important work that we're doing together -- speaking our truth, and learning to see each other. And to see the "other." Writing IS an act of social justice.

So here's to listening, and learning, and outrage. I will not normalize racism, sexism, misogyny, and xenophobia, and I will not stay quiet in the name of "unity." It's not enough, but it's a place to start.

Anger, and trying to figure out how to use it

I'm angry and restless and trying to channel it somewhere.

I should not be shocked about what is happening across the country. I don't think I am. I love my country; don't you dare accuse me of not loving my country because I am angry. But this country is not a safe place for many of its people and it never has been. When a woman is out for a jog and a man hollers out the window that he wants to grab her by the pussy, it's not that it's a frightening, invasive thing to say, although it is: it's that he's quoting our president-elect. When hate speech is scrawled across our children's school bathrooms, across our citizens' cars, when reports of these incidents are pouring in by the thousands, when many of us know someone who personally encountered this in the last couple of days, when our friends are afraid, we need to do a better job of believing them and listening and acting. It's not that these things didn't happen before; of course they did, and many of us didn't have to think about it. Now we hear, "I can finally say that in public!"

The first time I heard Nadia Bolz-Weber speak, she said we need our conservative brothers and sisters, and I agree with her. I don't believe every conservative is a racist, a sexist, or a homophobe. However, I am completely out of patience with conservatives who spend more time announcing that they're not racist and complaining that it's not fair to label them as such than actively speaking out against it.

I'm trying to learn how to be better at this myself. I want to do more than fasten a safety pin to my shirt. I love the intention and the symbolism, but it has to carry more than that, or it's just another way for white people to feel good about themselves. I want to have thick enough skin to learn from people who call me out on my white privilege and obvious blind spots. It's not easy but it is important work that I have to do. Because, like, we don't have time to nurse white people's hurt feelings when lives and safety are literally on the line.

*

Facebook friending and unfriending is an interesting thing. I remember a conversation I had with a conservative friend four years ago; she was dismayed that she had been unfriended by someone because of "politics." It never would have occurred to me to unfriend her, as we disagreed on many things but were still good friends. She thought the unfriending was "immature." I didn't know the circumstances or the other person, but I told her I was sorry that had happened. I see the issue a little differently now. I read an article today that summed it up pretty well: I don't unfriend people over politics, because that's ridiculous. I believe in trying to understand each other; we don't learn or practice empathy if we never experience perspectives other than our own. This is one of my core beliefs, and it is why I am not automatically unfriending anyone who disagrees with me or doesn't share my perspective.

However, I cannot agree to disagree about discriminating against women, LGBTQ folks, people of color, Muslims, immigrants, and refugees, especially if you're not someone I will likely ever engage in real dialogue, meet for coffee, or see ever again. If we politely disagree and engage in respectful dialogue but one of your friends jumps in and calls me a "libtard," and you don't say anything, I don't need to be your friend on Facebook. If you deny the real and pervasive existence of racism, xenophobia, misogyny, and sexism or dismiss it as a "liberal exaggeration," you deny my humanity, you deny my daughter's humanity, you deny my students' humanity, you deny my friends' humanity, and just because we have some mutual high school friends is not reason enough to want to stay "friends." And that is not about my maturity. If your entire Facebook is photoshopped memes and "Share if you agree!" then I probably unfollowed/unfriended/blocked you a long time ago. (My personal favorite: "You voted for Obama twice and now you're going to vote for Hillary? Well, you're an asshole! Share if you agree!" That, by the way, was posted by a staunch Christian. I'm sure I'll miss our respectful dialogue, but I'll cope.)

Day Three: Doing Things

For the past three days I've felt lower than I have in a very long time, as many of us have. After my frenzied early-morning cleaning on Wednesday, I've found it tough to care about basics like eating. I haven't cooked anything since Monday. My family is subsisting on pizza and whatever we can pull out of the freezer. Yesterday afternoon I came home from conferences, takeout in hand. I was short with the kids, who were fighting with each other and probably picking up on my own feelings. I banished them to different parts of the house before sinking into the couch. I slept numbly for a couple of hours. Isaac played quietly in the family room, and Suzannah curled up in the chair next to me. She read until I got up.

Today was better. Last night I went to bed around midnight, but I slept for seven hours. It's a start.

The kids were cheerful this morning. Suzannah curled up in her usual spot to read after breakfast (she does this every morning, including weekends) and Isaac busied himself with toys. I poured a giant mug of coffee and graded the papers I couldn't concentrate on in my free moments during conferences. Grading papers is not the favorite chore of any teacher, obviously, but something about it soothed me today. Just seeing my kids' names, and the way some of them draw little smiley faces at the top of the rubric. Reading their earnest, sometimes awkward, often thoughtful writing. I think about all the conversations I've had with them and with their parents over the past few days. My kids are working hard in a really tough class, and some of the kids that would have had a fit over not getting an A last year are recognizing that sometimes, B's happen. One boy, completely unprompted, spoke about having a growth mindset, about how if his GPA was the only thing he cared about he wouldn't have done full IB but the payoff in learning and college preparation is worth so much more. This same student goes out of his way to introduce himself to new students in class. Like, he walks over and shakes their hands, and somehow it just works. He approaches kids who makes other kids uncomfortable. He approaches the kids who seem unapproachable. He approaches the kid who comes back after a suspension from fighting and draws him into a group.

I could not be more proud of these kids, and I could not be more proud to work where I do. Yes, this is the community in which I want to raise my children, absolutely. These are the kids I want them to learn from. To those of you who have all of your opinions about public schools and think you need to share them with me: you probably need to do a better job of reading your audience. And know that this week, more than ever, I am so grateful to be exactly where I'm at, so proud of the people I work with, and absolutely determined to show up and work my hardest for these kids. And I am proud to raise my children among them.

A night of okayish sleep, combined with a renewed commitment to show up for these students, makes grading their papers a little less painful. Today, I am seeing it as one more way to connect with them. Yes, babies, I'm gonna ask you to develop this idea a little more, or rework this frightful sentence that doesn't make any sense, or suggest that you proofread or read the assignment a little more carefully, but you can also be sure that I won't pass up an opportunity to draw my own smiley face somewhere on your paper or write a jubilant "yes!" in the margin.

It wasn't a bad way to start the day.

"What are we doing today, Mommy?" Isaac asked eventually.

"Everything," I replied.

We went to get his hair cut. I've been meaning to get that done for about two weeks.

We went looking for rain boots for Suzannah and me. We were unsuccessful at the first store, but I bought a completely unnecessary pair of shoes for myself. I never buy unnecessary shoes; I hate shoes. I think other people look really cute in all kinds of them but I just do not give a damn about them for myself. I would go barefoot all the time if I could. But I bought myself a new pair of shoes. Is this what retail therapy is like?

We went to Bath & Body Works and I bought a candle that was not strictly necessary except that I love and adore candles in the fall and winter and this was half-price. I bought a bunch of festive hand soap. I bought body wash that promises to make me smell like a snowflake.

Suzannah knocked over an entire display of lotion. It cascaded to the floor with spectacular sound and fury and I wanted to die.

"Oops," she said.

But then three teenage girls nearby rushed over to help her pick it all up. This is my community, friends. There are good people here.

We went to Target and I bought Ninja Turtle bubble bath for Isaac, a winter coat for Suzannah, and cleaning supplies for me.

We drove to Tacoma and met Kyanne for lunch at the Rosewood Cafe. I ordered clam chowder (their soup is always perfect on Fridays) and a turkey sandwich, even though I rarely eat grains and not very long ago I was a vegetarian. Most of the time I still want to be, especially when I eat out, but this week is ridiculous so whatever. I also ordered a glass of pinot grigio, because. Because. It was all delicious. Afterwards, we walked a few blocks to a store where we bought a few whimsical Christmas presents for my nephews. The afternoon was so beautiful -- cloudy, but so warm, warm enough not to need a jacket. More and more leaves have fallen over the sidewalks, but the trees lining the streets still burst with orange and red branches. Puget Sound shimmered down the hill, beyond the trees.

On the way home, we stopped by Fred Meyer and found our rain boots. Suzannah's are a lovely shade of mauve, because those are the ones that fit her. She can't wear kids' boots anymore, but there aren't many women's boots in her size, either. I had more choices, and I let the kids vote, so mine have ducks all over them. Her soccer coach says I'm going to need good boots for tomorrow's away game, because we're playing at a field that is apparently the muddiest field in the state of Washington.

Back at the house, I changed into running clothes and the kids donned their bike helmets and we headed for the school playground. We stopped by their friends' house on the way, so I collected a couple of extra boys. The kids played and I ran on the little gravel track until it started to get dark. The last few days have felt so heavy; I just needed to move and breathe and listen to my children laugh. I ran for fifteen minutes longer than I planned, and I felt better than I have all week.

This evening, my son asked, "What will Hillary do now?"

And I said, "Well, she has spent her whole life working to help people, so she will keep doing that, even if she's not the president. Just like President Obama and Michelle Obama. They've spent their whole lives helping people, so they'll find ways to keep doing that."

My kids nodded thoughtfully, and we talked about how very important it is for us to work hard and to be kind. I've been reading all kinds of things about "How to talk to your kids after the election" (because my own frame of mind has been pretty rough this week and I'm not sure I trust myself to do this well) and the things that stand out are these: Make sure they feel safe and protected. Tell them that while we honor the outcome of the election, we will not support bigotry. My kids and I talk a lot about this: we stand with our Muslim, black, Latinx, gay, transgender, immigrant, and disabled friends and their families. (When Isaac asks a question about what gay means, Suzannah steps in, reminds him of the time we went to a friend's wedding when he married his partner, and doesn't he remember that? And he says, "Oh! Yeah!") We talk about being good friends, and about making sure people feel safe. We talk about being good friends to people who might seem lonely or afraid. We talk about why they might feel that way.

And I have to say that right now, I am deeply grateful to live where we do. My children attend school in a diverse district, and we don't see a lot of Trump signs in our neighborhood. My daughter and her classmates feel safe expressing themselves. (She's apparently less safe at church, where an older man felt he had the right to tell her that "Hillary will be in prison by November 8." I wasn't present. And it's not okay to say that to someone else's child. That, I promise you, will not happen again.)

A few weeks ago, a well-meaning friend thought that maybe I should consider living somewhere "safer." He comes at this from a perspective vastly different from my own, and I try to remember this and appreciate that he seems to be speaking out of love and concern. But the places he suggested as "safe" are are basically entirely white, and I have come to distrust those places. Yes, my children would be perfectly fine and, I suppose, "safe"; they are white, and raised by white, Christian ("Christian"?), straight parents. But the red places on the maps terrify me. One friend had her car vandalized because of her bumper sticker; others report having men shout lewd things at them about baby-killing and N***** loving. But that's to be expected at this point; Salon tweeted a reminder that our first black president must hand over the office to a man openly celebrated by the fucking KKK. (Every once in awhile I get a little side-eye about the language on my blog, usually from a "Christian." Getting a little side-eye from a "Christian" who defends a man who talks openly about grabbing a woman's pussy is...interesting.) My point is that for all of the issues in my own community, I certainly feel no draw to leave it.

I'm still so afraid, and given to despair. The number of incidents in which kids are targeted at school across the country is skyrocketing in the days following the election BECAUSE WE FUCKING ELECTED A PRESIDENT WHO NORMALIZES THIS, and if this doesn't shake you to the core of your soul, then please, please unfollow and unfriend me right. now.

But I'm surrounded by so much goodness, and that's worth showing up for. We roll up our sleeves and we keep working. I'm still not ready to cook dinner, but I'm not going to stay on the couch.

Pray for my godless, progressive soul

Franklin Graham - great guy, that one - wrote, "Christians went to the polls, and God showed up."

This Christian went to the polls too, so, I mean, I'm not really sure how to take that. There's a lot to unpack there. Of course, I am absolutely sure that Franklin Graham doesn't think I count as a Christian. I am one of the "godless progressives."

(I wonder if I should have a T-shirt made. I'd also obviously need to add "Nasty Woman." What else? What other warning labels should I carry?)

I really wanted to ask my pastor if I was still allowed to come to church, or if I just need way more church, or what. Probably I go to the wrong kind of church. I definitely understand the meaning of Christian quite differently. Tsk. Such gaps in my faith education.

Stages of grief, or...something.

My eyes are scratchy from crying hard last night and intermittently all day long today. From sleeping for only a few fitful hours before I gave up at three o'clock this morning. My head hurts. My heart hurts. I'm so tired, and I should have been in bed a long time ago because tomorrow I need to be back at school an hour earlier than usual, but I can't sleep. I've never been a good sleeper when I'm upset, ever.

I spent the day at school for conferences, and my children had to come with me because they don't have school. Teachers' kids are used to this sort of thing, and actually, I kind of love looking up from my table in the library, parents and teenagers milling around, and seeing my own kids sprawled in the back reading or coloring or watching a DVD on their little portable player. They're so comfortable there, and I took comfort in having them close today. I also just ached. My children. My God. What kind of world are we giving them? My colleague rightly pointed out that our daughters are likely to have fewer freedoms than their mothers and grandmothers. Teaching The Handmaid's Tale seems appropriate right now, but while it's a book I love by one of my favorite writers, I just feel so exhausted and sad when I think about the conversations we're going to have. So many kids talked about it today when they stopped by my table. They get it. They get it. I'm so proud of them.

And speaking of students, listening to some of them talk about what they have to do just to get to school every day just humbles me. They're so matter-of-fact; they do what they need to do. They have to be grown in ways I never did as a teenager. Some of them are probably more grown than I am now.

Knowing that many of them are afraid breaks my heart. Breaks. my. fucking. heart.

And I will respect the privacy and the hearts and souls of my former students who bare those beautiful hearts and souls on Facebook even though I want to share all of their posts here, but please know that their worries and fears are real. They're not exaggerations. And I am afraid for them, too. And I'm more proud of them than I can express for speaking their truth, because they are what is right about this country. They are why I continue to serve public education with passion in a country that shows nothing but contempt for its teachers. And America's hatred of teachers will get worse before it gets better, that much has already been made clear. But my wise and wonderful friend Becca said this morning, "We get up. We go to school. We teach the children. It's what we do."

Today, the parents of a girl I taught last year stopped by my table. I don't teach their daughter anymore, but they wanted to say hello. Before they left, her father touched my arm and said, "You're where you belong. You make a difference you don't even realize." I tried not to tear up, but I couldn't help it: I cried. Of course, today, I cried. I believe they said this to many deserving teachers today, and I am so profoundly grateful. There are good people in the world, in my world. I'm afraid of a lot of people right now, but I have to believe there is more than this, or I couldn't go on.

So I took a lot of bathroom breaks today, just to get myself together. I ran into lots of other teachers doing the very same thing. We stood outside together to breathe. We found each other for hugs, for quick bursts of tears before we went back to our kids and their parents. I work with the very best of the best, and I am clinging to that solidarity. I work with people who love fiercely and tirelessly and who will not stop working for what is good and right even when it feels hopeless, because we teachers have a fierce and unkillable hope burning in our souls. It is the only way we press on. (Dear Colleagues, sometimes you have no idea how desperately I wish I could join you for Happy Hour when I'm at soccer practice or whatever, but please know that I am still so grateful for your camaraderie and solidarity, for your friendship and compassion and inspiration. Sometimes I don't know how to tell you that. It matters, and I love you.)

So anyway, hey, white people! Hey white folks who are surrounded only by other white folks who are writing well-intentioned things about unity or whatever! Do you spend your one wild and precious life with kids who are genuinely terrified that our new president will send them away? No? Then with all due respect, please stop, at least for a little while, realize that you are perfectly fine but not everyone is, and let people grieve. Wildly, desperately, deeply. Look, I believe we all need each other, I really do believe that, but I am also reeling with the realization that there are an awful lot of people who seem to think this country actually just belongs to white folks. And who cheerfully elected a president who trivializes sexual assault, among other things. A man who speaks about women in incredibly degrading and dehumanizing terms. And his supporters do not care, and there are a lot of them. What the actual fuck? So I'm not sure how to reconcile that yet. I don't know what "unity" looks like. Yesterday morning my daughter and I talked about how exciting it was to vote for Hillary. And I might as well tell you all right now that I was excited to vote for Hillary. I didn't "hold my nose and vote." I think the narrative people have created around her is sexist and absurd and built on lies spun by white men. I also know that if you believe that narrative and you're reading this, well, there's nothing I can do to change your mind and, quite frankly, you're probably not going to change mine (especially with a "Share if you agree!"). I was proud to support her yesterday and I am proud today and if you want, I can tell you why I decided I would be behind her all the way back in the winter of 2000 when I was a junior at Concordia College and realizing that what I believed deep in my soul took me far from where I was raised, which was tricky territory to navigate. But today, well, here we are. Now we just get more of the revolting fuckery that half our country is fine to excuse. How do I navigate this territory?

And I mean, I will figure it out. Because Matt and I are doing our damndest to raise a different sort of man, and we are raising a fierce and strong woman. And they both have good men and women in their lives who are the opposite of everything this new leader unapologetically embodies. It's just that it's pretty horrific when I have to acknowledge that we're apparently surrounded by people who have no problem excusing that horrific behavior, and bafflingly, those people also seem to think they have "values" and "morals." Do not speak to me of values and morals. Ever. Is it any wonder I spent hours last night feeling sick to my stomach?

I am going to get up and go to school again. I'm going to dig in. I'm going to raise my children, I'm going to teach these kids as well as I can. I'm going to find hope again: in my colleagues and in our kids. I do believe this, I think. But let people grieve this loss, because it is a loss. Let people be afraid without dismissing or placating them. Even if it's all right for you, it might very well be not all right for someone less privileged and less safe.

The sun did rise, but the morning is gray. I've been awake since three o'clock this morning. Not, like, half-dozing and restlessly trying to sleep, but wide awake. Up. The only positive thing that can come from this is that I am going to come home to furiously clean bathrooms after conferences today.

This isn't okay.

My friend Tara said it best: I thought I was afraid for what it would mean to have him in charge of this country but what I've realized I'm really afraid of is being surrounded by people who think like him.

I think we've been in denial about how many there are.

I remember crying the night Obama was elected, weeping through his speech, and feeling so hopeful. This morning I'm crying because I feel like we've rammed ourselves into frenzied reverse.

All evening, Suzannah begged for election updates.

When I finally tucked her into bed, she asked for extra kisses. She never does that. She usually complains that I kiss her too much.

I hugged her close and whispered, "No matter who wins the election, remember that there are good people in the world doing good things, and we will fight with those people. We're going to keep fighting for the light, kiddo." She relaxed a bit, and smiled.

And then I walked into the kitchen and burst into tears. (I'm still crying as I type this. Crying and shaking. The day was so warm--too warm, eerily warm for November. I'm freezing right now. I can't get warm enough.)

Matt wrapped me in a huge hug. I told him that nothing, nothing, is more terrifying than white men who are afraid of sharing. He agreed with me. I made an excellent choice when I married him and he is reinforcing that tonight.

"We're raising a daughter," I sobbed. "For that matter, we're raising a son."

How are we here? How is this who we are?

We will not overlook, rationalize, normalize, or excuse misogyny, racism, sexism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia, bullying, and hatred. We are raising our children to be better than that.

I can't write any more tonight.

Another Saturday

I finished A Lowcountry Heart this morning and I am utterly bereft.

We woke to rain, and we watched our girl play soccer in it. For over an hour-and-a-half, through warm-ups and a game, the girls played while I huddled under my umbrella. Suzannah's ponytail was slick with water, her cheeks pink. I couldn't feel my toes through my soaked running shoes. Isaac and one of the other little brothers spent most of the game kicking an empty can around the skate park next to the soccer field, and jumping wildly in giant puddles. He was more drenched than his sister. In the car he peeled off his raincoat to reveal a soaked shirt, and his rain boots came off with an unpleasant squelch.

The girls won 8-0 today.

Back at home Matt made perfect grilled cheese sandwiches and I heated tomato soup. Afterwards, I curled up on the couch for a quick nap, something I usually try to save for Sunday, but the sound of rain on the roof was too alluring. The kids took warm baths but as I write this, my son is back outside on his bike, with his boots, in the rain, while Matt cleans the gutters. Suzannah has been reading, reading, reading. I'm starting a new book, too: The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead, which I already think you should read.

The rain is relentless. It hits the ground with so much force that the street seems to move, to ripple under the water. The water froths at the edge of the driveway, gushes noisily from the downspouts. The sun will return this week, and I will find it beautiful, but these afternoons are the ones I love the best: rain-darkened and gusty. I didn't go for a run today, though Matt did. I ate my grilled cheese and pulled a quilt around my shoulders. I reread Pat Conroy's 2001 Citadel speech and wept.

We won't cook at home tonight; we'll slide into a booth somewhere else. The kids will do their best to annoy each other, and Matt and I will be exasperated. We will make half-hearted threats. We'll smile at each other while the kids complain that someone's foot is too close to the other one's side underneath the table. Or we'll roll our eyes. Or both. I can see these moments play out because so many Saturday evenings play out exactly this way, and I love every single silly moment.

Reading, grieving, anxiety, love

It is a spectacularly beautiful autumn day in the Pacific Northwest. The morning was crisp and sunny, with a bite to the air. I wrapped myself in a hoodie and cheerfully flung wide the door to my classroom, propping it open.

"But it's cold," my students cried, the delicate flowers that they are. I smiled and reminded them that I am from Montana and a day like this in November is golden and lovely and meant for enjoying, and I was sorry that I am made of tougher stuff than they are. By the end of the day the sun was just a little lower, but warmer. I left school as soon as I could and managed to squeeze in one of my head-clearing runs before collecting my children at school. This is one of the most perfect times of year to run outside when it's not raining. The air is smoky and sweet, the sidewalks full of soft piles of leaves, still damp, not quite turned to brittle crunchiness. That will come later this month.

This afternoon at soccer practice I sat comfortably on the sidelines for the first time in a few weeks -- the practices have been damp and drizzly lately -- and read A Lowcountry Heart: Reflections on a Writing Life, a collection of Pat Conroy's blog entries, letters, interviews, speeches, and articles. Ron mailed it to me and it arrived in the mail yesterday, the best gift from one of the best men in my life. I am utterly heartbroken that these words are the last of Conroy's that I will read but so grateful that someone else shares this love with me. I sat at the edge of the soccer field and read and read, falling in love again with things I've already seen (I've read everything on his blog, but it is such a joy to have it all between two hard covers, especially since I share his distaste for the word blog), and falling in love with things I've somehow missed. No one else on this earth can remind me in quite the same way why I am an English teacher and remind me how fiercely I love it, and how fiercely I love my kids, these kids, exactly where we are. No one else can remind me in the same way how desperately in love I am with perfectly crafted sentences, a love that drives me to write my own clumsy attempts. I was a voracious reader before I fell in love with The Prince of Tides at the age on fifteen on a roadtrip to Minnesota, but encountering Pat Conroy opened up a wider love for the power of language and books than any writer has before or since.

I cannot read his work without tears streaming down my face, and I cannot read his work without laughing out loud. Years ago I said that one thing I wanted in this life was to meet him and tell him exactly what he has meant to me. I've met a number of writers I have loved and admired but I am grieving the loss of the one I loved above all others. Back in February -- have I written this already? I think I have -- I read his announcement that he was battling pancreatic cancer while sitting in our hotel room in Portland, Oregon. That afternoon I went to Powell's and bought a signed hardcover copy of Beach Music, which I read for the first time in my dorm room during my freshmen year at Concordia, as well as a new copy of The Water is Wide (my battered paperback is tucked in my old bedroom at my parents' house and I need all of his books with me) and a hardcover first edition of My Losing Season, which I loved much more than is reasonable for a girl who doesn't care about basketball or the Citadel but who found herself caring very much when Pat Conroy wrote about it. And then I walked to a coffee shop up the street and wrote him a long letter. A young woman sat nearby and asked me, after awhile, what I was writing. I told her, and we talked about books and writers and the IB program (she was an IB grad!) for a long time. We exchanged book lists.

Pat Conroy died three weeks later, and I never sent the letter.

*

I'm off Facebook for awhile, at least until this election is over. I'm anxious enough without the relentless noise of social media. I really am terrified that Trump will win. And I am terrified that people I love, people I respect, will reveal that they voted for him. I really do not want to know. I've never felt like this before; in every other election of my life I've disagreed with plenty of people (I hail from a mightily red state, after all) but I always felt like I could at least try to understand their perspective and appreciate where they were coming from. I can't do that this time. I cannot in any way condone voting for someone who is an unapologetic racist, a bully, a xenophobe, a misogynist. I do not want to raise my children in a world that normalizes that behavior in a leader. I think about how anxious I was four years ago, but my word, after the horrifying Al Smith dinner this year I went back and watched the Al Smith dinners from both 2012 and 2008, laughed with appreciative nostalgia, and realized just how ugly year is. John McCain and Mitt Romney possessed a fundamental decency that Donald Trump just does not, nevermind everything else about him that is just monstrous. And watching people rush to excuse that is revolting to me. (I read a comment on a friend's page that went something like, "Donald Trump could stab a baby on live TV and his supporters would still be all, 'But e-maaaaaails!'")

I read what I wrote on election day four years ago and it all still applies now, every word, except now I look at Mitt Romney almost fondly. Oh, 2012 self, if only you knew what we were in for next.

In 2012 I was not disciplined enough to not read Facebook around the election. (I don't think I was nearly so afraid of losing friends.) Now, though, it feels absolutely necessary. I love Facebook for a lot of reasons but every single time I step away I recognize an almost immediate and significant improvement in my general mental health.

I'm teaching Margaret Atwood in my junior classes right now. This feels appropriate.

I can imagine what Pat Conroy would write about all of this. I wish he were here to do it.

(Please just let everything be okay.)