On being political and believing women

“Stay angry, little Meg,” Mrs Whatsit whispered. “You will need all your anger now.” -- Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time

Things I want to write about: the way the sun hits the leaves in the afternoon right now, the way the shadows deepen and the nights are cool even as I'm still comfortable in a skirt and sandals while I'm teaching. I wear socks in the house at night now.

I want to write about going out for dinner last night with three people I am lucky to work with and luckier to call my friends, about how we treated ourselves to a restaurant with an absolutely gorgeous view of Puget Sound, the Tacoma skyline, and Mount Rainier. The sky was clear, the sunset soft and lovely over the water. We drank good wine and laughed a lot.

I want to write about the way my kids are bursting to tell me things about their day, still, and about how I know how lucky I am, and how very aware I am of time passing. The years are short. I'm grateful for my children's backseat chatter on the way to Tae Kwon Do and soccer practice, even if it's a rambling story that includes sentences like, "And then he showed me this cat picture, and it was really funny, but I can't really explain it so I guess you have to be there." Middle school stories. I want to write about the way I find my son every morning after breakfast: curled up on his bed reading under a fleece blanket, feet tucked under his bum, one arm clutching a stuffed animal.

And I could. I could just write about these things, and keep this blog pleasant and "not political." But I have a "getting political" tag, and most of those entries have been written since November 2016, even though I've been writing in this little corner of the internet for over ten years now.

A year or so ago, I posted this:

I'm tired of men silencing women. I'm tired of men who say, "Let's move on," when a woman's opinion makes them uncomfortable. I'm tired of men who think they can take up as much space as they want, especially when that space includes a woman's body. I'm tired of men mansplaining motherhood to me. I'm tired of the toxic garbage fires in our government who protect and promote sexual predators while they somehow think they get to claim "morality" and "values." I'm SUPER TIRED of Christians protecting and promoting sexual predators and white supremacists as long as they get the votes they want. I'm tired of men who spend more time nursing their feelings than speaking out and standing up against the status quo.

And I upset someone to the point where we no longer speak; he thought I was picking on men and said, "It goes both ways." (What?) We haven't really spoken since the day after I wrote this. And I am absolutely fine with that. I am perfectly okay with not having a relationship with someone who reads that, immediately centers himself in it, and focuses on his hurt feelings instead of trying to listen. This is a person who, more than once, suggested we just "move on" when I expressed an opinion he didn't want to hear. When he didn't control the narrative.

I am tired of men silencing women.

If you don't want to be political on social media, fine. Share pictures of your kids, your cats, your bathroom remodels. But be political somewhere. Call your representatives, write letters, wave signs, show up at offices, show up at protests, VOTE, help get others registered to vote, engage in dialogue. Somewhere. Read more. Do something. Because when you claim to not be political, you're frankly resting in your own privilege, and we simply do not have time for that. And if you do, if you're that safe, if your life can continue comfortably no matter what the government looks like, then use your power and your privilege and your voice to elevate those on the margins, those who aren't heard, who don't have a place at the table. (I mean, take a good look at that table. Who's not there?) Those of us in that position owe a debt, and we need to pay it. It's long past time to interrupt the narrative and disrupt the status quo. That's not going to happen if men continue to control the narrative and women are told not to speak.

Last night a friend reminded me of a quote from Eve Ensler, from this piece she wrote several years ago but is still horribly relevant:

I am over the passivity of good men. Where the hell are you?

You live with us, make love with us, father us, befriend us, brother us, get nurtured and mothered and eternally supported by us, so why aren’t you standing with us? Why aren’t you driven to the point of madness and action by the rape and humiliation of us?

I'm raising a daughter in Trump's America and I am sick over this every single day and I will not be quiet about it. I am raising a daughter who will likely have fewer rights than I have had and I will not be quiet about it. I've had my babies, and I'm seriously considering having my tubes tied, which seems ridiculous, but I don't think I'd have a lot of options should I wind up pregnant after a rape. This isn't hyperbole. Do you even know how many of my friends have expressed this exact sentiment in the last two years, much less this week? I had no idea, until I said it out loud. The America we live in does not value women and it does not care if women are harassed, assaulted, raped; it only cares if a rape results in a pregnancy a woman doesn't want to carry. Every single one of us knows someone who was raped or assaulted. And if you don't know it, there's a reason. Look at what we do to women who try to come forward. Most of us don't, because we know it won't matter.

I. Am. Tired. Of. Men. Silencing. Women. And I am tired of their complicity and complacency when we need them to be, yes, driven to the point of madness and action for us.

I'm tired of writing the same things.

November 12, 2016: 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.

November 16, 2016: 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.

November 11, 2017: I look at the predatory white supremacist rapist monster sitting in the oval office and I think about people who will vote for him again in a few years and I think about how I do not want any of those people anywhere near my life or my family or my students or my stories. What a mirror we held up to ourselves almost exactly one year ago, and what an ugly reflection. We have to do better. We have so much work to do.

I'm so tired of writing the same fucking thing here. I'm not saying anything new. I'm so sick of it, so disheartened.

Since the last time I posted, someone I once respected used the term "witch hunt" to refer to women coming forward with stories of sexual assault, sexual harassment, or predatory behavior by men. Anyone holding that opinion, by the way, is cordially invited to show themselves out. I can't stop you from reading my blog, I know that, but please go away anyhow. Unfollow. Unfriend. You don't want to read anything I have to say.

*

I am married to a man I love and we are raising a boy, and we absolutely must raise a different sort of man than this America expects him to be. This doesn't happen by trusting that because we vote the right way, or because we love him enough, or because we go to church, or because he is a "good kid" raised with quality role models in his life he will somehow transcend the toxic masculinity embedded in the very fabric of our country.

I don't want anyone near my life who isn't willing to wrestle with that statement.

I'm terrified because I do not know how to do this work well enough, and I don't have the answers, but dammit, this shit needs to change.

Complacency terrifies me. It also makes me angry. I'm really angry these days.

And I'm just tired.

I'm tired. Of men. Silencing. Women.

In case I haven't been clear: I believe women. I believe Dr. Ford. And I believe that most of America believes Dr. Ford, no matter what they say about Kavanaugh's "character." I just don't believe that most of America cares. At least not the America that elected a sexual predator to the highest office in the land. In this America, Brock Turners become Brett Kavanaughs. It's hard to be hopeful.

And in case I haven't been clear: I don't really want anyone near my life who doesn't believe women. And people who are too privileged to be political do not deserve access to my stories.

Everything a heart can hold

I think this is the longest I've ever gone without writing here in over a decade. I've written my stories in other places this summer...

...but I'm back now. It feels like time: the first real weekend I've had since school started. Has it only been two weeks? Was it only two weeks ago that we took the light rail to Seattle and the ferry to Bainbridge Island on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend? Was it only two weeks ago that we swam in Colman Pool at the edge of Puget Sound in West Seattle? That seems like another season already. We always say summer passes too quickly, but as a teacher, I'm always ready to go back to school, ready for the structure, for the natural rhythm of the seasons.

Our summer travels seem like they happened so long ago. Less than a week after we returned home from Minnesota, we drove to Montana to spend a few days in Bozeman and then headed for Glacier National Park. For the past several summers, this has been essential: I don't care what else we do as long as my heart can return to its roots and I can breathe the air south of Bozeman, or at a campsite in Apgar. These are the places that feed my soul and bring it home.

I wrote in my journal all summer, trying to capture the "hard kernels of memory" one of my best college professors spoke about on our May Seminar in Europe the summer I fell in love with Matt. I have a journal full of those. These are my hard kernels of memory from Montana:

5 p.m. Back at Zocalo, post swim. Kids with my mom, Matt at a brewery he wanted to check out. The sky darkened while we swam but only now decided to release spatters of rain. These sudden summer storms never show up in the weather forecast, it seems, but I love them. Thunder and lightning are muted in the Pacific Northwest--the thunder doesn't shake, lightning doesn't split the sky.

I bought Tin Man, Poems Across the Big Sky II, and Lowell Jaeger's latest collection: Earth-Blood and Starshine.

Now the rain pounds the streets. It's the sweetest music. The door to the coffee shop is open, the air steamy.

*

We visited my grandmother yesterday. She is significantly more frail than she was last time I saw her, but when she hugged me good-bye she gripped me tight. She had a plate of half-eaten pizza next to her chair and accepted one of my mother's cookies. Drank two cups of coffee. When one of her young caregivers stopped by to check on her she beamed, even though when he asked her how she was feeling she said, "Lousy, like always." But this is not a woman who will slip away this week, even though I know she has just wanted to go and be with Jesus since I don't know how long ago. Feels like half my life or more.

But I still don't think I'll see her again in this life.

"You'll always be my precious," she said into my ear -- she's said these words to me for my entire life. "I love you so much."

*

Leaving Bozeman is easier when we're heading to Glacier. Cold Smoke coffee on the way out of town. Lunch at MacKenzie River Pizza in Missoula, a stop at Rosauer's in Kalispell. Pulling into the park past 6:30. Run down to the lake. Breathe deeply. I miss the air as much as anything. Dinner at Eddie's: Huckleberry Reisling and trout almondine. Back to the KOA for the night -- tucked the kids into bunks and sat out under the porch light, drinking beer with my husband and reading A Gentleman in Moscow. Thursday: Up early to secure a campsite. I walked into Apgar while Matt set up camp, ordered a coffee and a hot water for the fancy instant oatmeal with turmeric and coconut. I scooped the steaming spoonfuls at a table just outside the Cedar Tree.

We made sandwiches at the campsite, skipped the long line for the shuttle to Logan Pass, and drove the Going-to-the-Sun road. Hot sun over snow on the trail to the Hidden Lake overlook -- Matt and Zannah went all the way, but Isaac and I turned back, slipping over the slush on the way down, sliding snowballs down the backs of each other's shirts, shrieking and laughing.

Spotted: moose, bighorn sheep, mountain goats. No bears this time. (My dad found bear scat in their yard not long ago. I said, "I want to see a bear this trip." He said, "Well, then, slather yourself with honey and wait.")

Lake McDonald was colder this year after such massive snow-melt, but I swam anyway. Until I was too numb to keep swimming. Dinner at the campsite: hot dogs, potato salad, baked beans, S'mores, Huckleberry Honey Ale. And then my sleeping pad deflated in the night. I don't know if that woke me or if my stomach did. I was violently sick in the camp bathroom, hoping I didn't wake anyone even as I could hear a man snoring raucously somewhere out in the darkness. I couldn't sleep after that, feeling every rock on the ground, but I felt better in the morning. I ate one of Matt's pancakes and sipped coffee, slowly. After hiking John's Lake Loop we played in the lake all afternoon, renting kayaks and a paddle board. I tried to nap in our tent after my night of fractured sleep, but the trapped afternoon heat turned it into a sauna. I found refuge in the lake instead, and slept much more peacefully the second night.

The rest of the summer was exactly what I wanted: afternoons spent in my backyard while my kids rode bikes or played with the hose or the Slip 'n Slide. I read books on the patio and sipped iced tea. We slathered ourselves with sunscreen and spent hours at the splash park. We grilled salmon and sweet corn and ate outside. I've never craved travel during the summer months; unless we're driving to Montana, I want to stay exactly where we are. I love the way time slows down. I love the languid afternoons. I love noticing the way the water catches the light as the sprinkler rises over the lawn and my son kicks through the arc of water as he pumps his legs on our backyard swingset. My children whine about being bored and I say, "This is a privilege of childhood. Figure it out. No, you may not play on the iPad." They play board games until they're screaming at each other. They bike to the elementary school playground. They play in the water. (When I am cranky, it almost always works to put me in water.) My children grow tall and tan.

*

I went back to school early this year. When I discovered that my carpets had been shampooed the first week in August, I couldn't resist the urge to spend a sweaty afternoon setting up and cleaning several weeks before my students returned. I scrubbed desks and touched up walls I wasn't technically allowed to paint in the first place, but since our old, moldy school that's literally sinking into its foundations will be torn down and rebuilt in the next three years no one has bothered to scold me. And despite the mold, and the relentless ant problem, and the uneven sidewalks and the old carpets that never really get clean no matter how many times they're shampooed, I love my classroom so much. It's home, too. The kids spent hours with me there in August, as they do every year. They expect this; they are Teacher's Kids. They know their way around my high school in summer. They know the dark hallways and damp carpets. They see the chaos of registration when they hunker down in the corner of the cafeteria with their books and movies and games.

I do better when I can reclaim my space and spend some quiet hours planning there before the frenetic last week of August. Especially this year. My heart was thoroughly battered last June for reasons I can't even write about here, and on top of that the class of 2018 had the nerve to up and graduate and leave me after I taught them all for at least two years. I said to Carol, the IB Diploma Program coordinator/person who actually keeps our school running and who is essentially my mom at school, "I'm quitting this stupid job. I'm going to apply at COSTCO this summer. I need a job that I don't have to emotionally invest in. Teaching just ruins my life." I probably stomped my foot, too. She didn't even look up from what she was doing; she just flapped her hand at me and said, "You'd make a job at Costco emotionally demanding too, so you might as well just stay here."

So I'm back. And it's home.

*

My grandmother died the week before school started, early in the morning on a day I was helping to lead professional development for our school and our two feeder middle schools. I learned about it as I was getting ready to head out the door. I was expecting it; even so, I went back into the bathroom and cried quietly, so I didn't wake my sleeping family. Within the hour I was standing in front of a crowd of teachers with a microphone, trying to compartmentalize and, I think, mostly succeeding. I took a few breaks to walk around campus alone, blinking back tears. I couldn't even articulate what I was feeling. Families are complicated, and I have a lot of complicated feelings. But in the end, love transcends that.

My grandpa died ten years ago; four years before that, I heard his voice for the last time before his vocal chords were removed, the result of throat cancer. Your fingerprints are all over my life, I wrote to him. It occurs to me that this is true for my grandmother as well.

The parallels are eerie; my grandfather died over Labor Day weekend. My grandmother died almost exactly ten years later, within two days. Both times, I taught my first classes of the year for three days before hopping a late-night flight to Great Falls, in time to make a Saturday morning funeral. One week ago, I drove home from school, threw clothes into a suitcase, and went for a jog to clear my head. Soaked in a lavender-scented bath. Went out for dinner with my family. They dropped me off at the airport and somehow I'd checked my luggage and made it through security in ten minutes. I spent an hour sipping a glass of wine and reading a novel before boarding a late-night flight to Montana, where I slept for four hours in a hotel near the airport. In the morning, my brother and sister and nephew and mother piled into one car, and I drove with my dad through quiet morning on a road I've known since birth. We saw antelope in the fields along the Chester road. I wrote this when Suzannah was just over a year old, when we drove north to visit my grandparents:

There really is no sky like the Montana sky, even in other wide-open states. I can't explain it. The drive between Fort Benton and Chester is like breathing deeply for the first time -- your lungs expand and fill with air you didn't know you could hold.

"Wow," Matt kept saying. "This is just...huge." But it's really a struggle to find a word to attach to it. The evening sun lit the fields against the distant Highwood Mountains. We braked for pheasants, for a new spotted fawn. I lost track of time, my age, of what car I was even driving. I just kept breathing, clinging to the thought that at least some things never really change.

My grandmother was buried next to my grandfather. I'd last seen my grandfather alive in August that year, kissed his bruised arms and scrawled notes on the little pad he kept with him before driving west on highway 2 into the late summer heat. By the time I returned for his funeral a few weeks later, the weather had turned; clouds gathered over the Bears Paw mountains and rain spattered the roads. The sky at the gravesite last weekend was hazy, the air hot and slightly smoky. All of August, we've choked on smoke from wildfires as we continue to incinerate our planet.

But when I stepped out of the car with my dad at the church in Gildford, the first thing I did was take a breath: I could still smell the scent of harvest on the hi-line. And that smell, woven into my very DNA, is home.

And now I'm back in Washington, doing what I do, taking my kids to school and Tae Kwon Do and soccer. Zannah is in jazz band. She's almost as tall as I am. The kids compete in their first Tae Kwon Do tournament next month. Life rolls on. My 2018 seniors visit; I get to have lunch with them, or they burst into my classroom before they head to college. And my heart bursts in some way basically all day long, every day. This is life. This is the life I am senselessly privileged to have.

Tonight I'm home with my family. We let the kids stay up too late on Fridays, but Friday is Family Movie Night on normal school weeks. We put on pajamas as soon as we can, and we eat fun things (either takeout or whatever looks good and easy at Trader Joe's), and we watch something, who even cares what, and everyone is silly, and we fall asleep knowing that tomorrow we have a soccer game but we do not have to set an alarm, and we'll have time to make pancakes and Matt and I will sip extra cups of coffee, hoping to read on the couch but knowing the kids will fill up the house with their noise.

Here's a thing I think I am sort of good at, at this point in my life: noticing and appreciating moments that fill me with peace, even if they are not peaceful moments. Like the sound of my kids practicing their Tae Kwon Do on an ordinary afternoon. Like my daughter's trumpet practice, or the sight of my son reading in his room, the way he still tucks his feet under his bum while he hunches over his book. Like the view of the mountains in Montana, the familiar dip in a road I haven't traveled in years. The way the landscape changes as I see it from the airplane, even though I am an anxious flyer: from the sheared golden stubble in the square fields that give way to wilder landscapes, the rivers that wind through the prairies and then the mountains. Last weekend I was somehow bumped into first class for the short flight between Great Falls and Seattle, and I sipped wine from a real glass and started a new book. I looked out the window at the landscape of my life, at the prairie, the rivers, the mountains. And I could breathe.