Catching my Balance

I've written a couple posts lately about preparing for my nest to empty: sadness about losing my children to their own lives and my nostalgia as I think back on my children's young lives.

And here it is, Christmas. I always have a tough time getting into the Christmas spirit. I rarely even feel like putting up a tree, and I almost never buy gifts until just a few days before Christmas. And the real meaning of Christmas always seems to elude me, too.

This year, the prospect of Christmas was rather bittersweet. My husband has been working second shift, six days a week, for the past month; we rarely see him. My kids have been busy with their own work schedules as well. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day would be the first time in months when we could all be together. I longed for this, yet I knew it would be the last one with all my kids living at home. From next year on, at least one of my kids would be visiting, not living here and being part of my everyday life.

Several years ago, I spent Christmas Eve waiting for biopsy results, wondering if it was the last Christmas Eve my family would have me with them. Last night, I cried all through the beautiful candlelight "Silent Night" as I wondered if it was the last Christmas Eve my family would be intact. I thought how grateful I would be for even a few hours of having my entire family together on Christmas.

Yeah, well, so much for that.

Son #2 has a girlfriend. They've been together over a year, and I really like her--but (you knew there was a "but" coming, didn't you?) they aren't married, he is still 17, and I needed him for one more Christmas. So guess where he decided to spend his Christmas Day? You got it--not with us.

Although all of us wanted him here with us today, in an effort to be kind and respectful of the relationship he has with his girlfriend, I agreed that he could go with her family to visit relatives in Illinois today. Every time I said, "We'd like you here with us, too," he would respond with, "I'll be home by 5. You'll still have me half of the day." (No, coming home at 5 does not leave us with half the day.). I held off Christmas dinner so he could be with us--and when I texted him to ask him to let me know what time he would be home so I could start getting dinner things together, he replied that he would be late tonight and that we should just eat without him.

After a rather lengthy exchange that included me telling me how sad I was and him announcing that he was just as much part of A's family as ours (what? seriously, dude? I birthed you! grrr), I simply broke down. I am not ready for my babies to be gone. I so needed to have all my family together for a few hours, with my husband and the children we made and raised together. Instead of having even so much as a dinner to gather my family to my bosom and soak in their presence, I was already letting them go before I'd even started to say goodbye.

Is that what parenting is? When they were little, the kids would start to walk, and there I would be, chasing behind them, trying to protect them and catch them and watch them. The child takes a step. Mommy is right behind, ready to reach out to steady him as he tries to catch his balance. I think I'm still doing that. My arms are reaching out to steady my child, only it seems that I'm really trying to steady myself as I try to catch my balance. Knowing that kids are supposed to grow up and leave their parents' home doesn't make it any easier when I'm the parent who's having a hard time letting go. I find myself wanting to say, "Wait, I'm not ready for you to go just yet!" Again and again and again.

What Is Wrong with Us?

When there is a mass shooting, I normally (yes, I realize how horrifying it is that this happens so much that I can actually use the word "normally" here) immerse myself in the news. If I'm home, I park myself in front of CNN, and I constantly check news sites, Facebook, Twitter, etc. for new information. This was especially the case in the two Milwaukee-area shootings this year. I want to understand how and why, I want to know who the victims are, I want to know about the acts of heroism.

Not this time.

This is just too much. I was out the way to the pet store with a friend at lunch time when we heard the news about the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School. We were caught up in the silliness of our fish-shopping adventure and the grand pet store we found, and I just figured I would get caught up on this when I got back to work.

I got back to my office, loaded CNN on my computer, and froze. There was a video of a child--A CHILD!!!--being interviewed. I logged off and couldn't bear to look at the news again until this morning.

I hate that children have to be interviewed by the police to help their investigation, but I certainly understand the need to do so. They are dealing with enough trauma that will undoubtedly shape their tender brains, and a police interview that asks them to relive something so horrific surely can't help. But it is necessary.

A media interview, though? What kind of media do we have that this is seen as appropriate? I don't care if the parents do give permission. The parents aren't thinking too clearly right now. They probably had some moments of wondering if their children were even alive. I would not assume they are of sound mind at the moment. I find it insensitive enough when Olympic athletes who miss the gold medal by just a hair are interviewed while they still haven't gotten off the field about how they feel. (Really? We can't guess how they feel? We can't wait 15 minutes for them to figure out how they feel and how they want to talk about it?) But this is just too much. The act of asking and interviewing is adding more to the set of experiences these children now have to process.

I just can't bring myself to visit a website or look at an article that might give a news organization the impression that this kind of information is what I want to see.

Thinking about this, though, has hammered even further home to me just who the victims were. And I am still trying to figure out how to process this. My kids are quite a bit older and I am past the stage of needing to protect my babies every moment of the day. I can't imagine the fear and heartache felt by the parent of every young child today.

I've seen images that will haunt me--Jesus holding a child on his lap, the child's arms thrown around him and tears on his cheeks. Santa sitting in his sleigh, now-unneeded gifts spilling out of his sleigh while Santa sobs into his hands. Countless candles and broken hearts. Facebook posts from my friends who have lost children themselves. We are all trying to understand how it happened and how we will go on. We all want to ensure that this will never happen again.

We see renewed attention to gun control. For the record, I want gun control. However, I don't think it will make a bit of difference. There is something wrong with a society that produces individuals who contain the urge to do something so horrific to so many people--especially to children. If not a gun, it could have been a bomb. Or gas in a ventilation system. Or poison in the food. If it isn't a gun, it will be something else. Fighting for gun control is something that helps us feel more in control, like there's something we can actually do to prevent this from happening in the future. But I don't think it is the answer, because there will always be other weapons.

What is wrong with our society that produces people who want to use weapons against other people? And what is wrong with a society that thinks it is okay to traumatize children by interviewing them on the national news? Seriously, what is wrong with us?

Final stress

For years, I've experienced the stress of final exams. From my life as a student (writing, studying, reviewing, testing) to my life as a faculty member (grading, grading, grading, grading, dealing with emails from panicked and desperate students, grading, grading,...), I simply felt like I was immersed in different sections of the same morass. Now I experience it in a whole new way. Although I don't have the stress of those doing the academic work of finals, I do have the stress of supporting those who do. My mantra is this: No one is at their best right now.

One part of my job is primary this week: managing the testing services for students with accessibility accommodations. Many of those students work with us due to physical disabilities, learning challenges, or mental health struggles. In some students, final exam stress becomes particularly acute. I confess to moments of frustration with some of the situations I face: students who forget to schedule a testing appointment, students who keep rescheduling testing appointments, students who forget testing appointments, faculty who forget to drop off exams and have to be chased down, staff in non-academic offices on campus who somehow manage to forget that we a) are in final exam week, and b) are not available for brief tours or casually chatting in the way we might be at another time of the semester.

In my role, I often hear how complicated our students' lives are. My campus serves a quite diverse population, and my heart aches for someone just about every day. Even when things are going well, the juggling required by a single mom who is working and going to school boggles my mind. And it's important not to dismiss the challenges faced by a fairly typical young adult who is living away from home for the first time and trying to navigate early adulthood.

I am surrounded by the stress of others and feel drained every single day this week. I know it's normal, and I know it will pass. Perspective helps, but sometimes it is hard to see past the immediacy of caring for those who walk into my office each day.

Recently, I've been spending some time reading a marriage website with discussion forums. People anonymously share intimate details of their lives. I've been reading about couples in marriage counseling with issues that go beyond what many would tolerate. Two women are in the process of leaving abusive husbands. And then on the news I saw there was yet another mass shooting in the country.

With all that is going on in so many people's lives, I am awestruck at the courage it takes just to show up at school or work some days. So many of us carry invisible baggage with us everywhere we go. When I have a student raising her voice because she can't figure out how to get caught up on work she's behind on, or a student crying because a relative is experiencing a serious illness, or a faculty member who is worn down by all the time and energy that goes into support just one or two high-maintenance students, I need to stay mindful of the accomplishment of their simply being present, to struggle another day and try to keep moving forward in some way.

Some days, for some folks, just showing up really does deserve a gold star.

St. Who?

When I was young, I heard about St. Nick and the practice of getting little gifts on the night of December 5. I just always thought this was something done in German and Scandinavian countries.

Imagine my surprise, then, when my family moved to Wisconsin. My children were 9, 6, and 6. The younger two still believed in Santa at the time. I went to work the morning of December 6, oblivious to the fact that my children were going to school and facing friends who'd had a visit from Santa the night before.

I heard several of my students talking about St. Nick, and one of them came to show me the necklace she'd gotten. "St. Nick?" I said. "Do your families celebrate that? How interesting." And then more students gathered around. "Well, yeah, everyone does. Why, don't you?" I began to wonder what my kids were experiencing at school.

After they got home, the twins went running around the house, looking for stockings. "Everyone else got something from Santa last night! Where did he leave our stuff?" And there I sat, their stunned mother, wondering how I was going to explain this one. I don't like to the kids, but when they were little, I would bend the truth as much as I could without lying.

I asked them to tell me what the other children had said. Then I said, "Well, you didn't get anything from St. Nick yet, and I think I can guess why. I wonder if Santa knew that this would be a new tradition for us and didn't want us to feel confused when we woke up this morning. So perhaps he let you learn about St. Nick's from the other kids and school, and maybe he figured he could bring something for you tonight, when you would understand." They seemed a bit anxious, but it settled them down.

As soon as my husband got home from work, I headed to Walgreens--where I saw huge "Get your St. Nick's gifts" signs. Seriously, how had I missed those? I got little candy and some Christmas items for the kids, and that night, St. Nick came to our house.

He left a note: "Dear M---, B----, and B--, I usually stop by Wisconsin homes on December 5, but I didn't want to confuse you since I knew you were new to this tradition. So I came by tonight. Merry Christmas!"

The next morning, the kids woke up, relieved that Santa hadn't forgotten them. I don't think they were quite as relieved as I was, though.

And even after eleven years, I still have no idea what makes an appropriate St. Nick's gift. Sigh.

Semi Christmas

When I was a little girl, I thought semi trucks decorated themselves for Christmas.

I rarely saw semis, especially at night, because they stuck to the highways and we never went anywhere on the highway at night. Except for once a year. Christmas Eve.

Every Christmas Eve, we traveled to my grandparents' farm a little over an hour away from where we lived. Tables were loaded with food, the aunts and uncles played pinochle while the cousins all ran around in the upstairs bedrooms, and we sang Stille Nacht in German around the aluminum Christmas tree.

After our gifts (each cousin got a $5 bill, which really adds up when there are 25 of you), my family would pile back into the car and head home. In the dark, I pressed my face to the window to look for Rudolph. Even though my mom said they were planes, I was frequently convinced that I was really seeing Rudolph's nose blinking in the sky. I was sure that was the year I would finally see Santa.

And that was the only time I saw semis at night. At no other time of the year did I see them with all their lights around the perimeter of the back. So every Christmas Eve, I saw the decorated trucks and wished we could decorate our car with lights around the back. I don't remember how old I was when I finally saw a night-time semi at a time other than Christmas Eve, but I do remember asking my mom why the truck driver hadn't taken the lights down yet.

Now that I'm an adult, I see semis at night, all year round. And every time, I think of Christmas. And today, on the way home from work, on the interstate and surrounded by semis all lit up with red lights, I was pretty sure I saw Rudolph up in the sky, too.

Nostalgia

As anyone who’s looked at my blog lately knows, I've been feeling a bit melancholy and nostalgic. Much in my life is in flux. The most transformative experience in my life—becoming a mother—is heading into a new phase as my babies all prepare to fly away from the nest I built for them.

Part of my nostalgia is because I am grieving. I’m taking hold of my most treasured mama moments and grabbing onto them to help me further etch them into my heart.

• I have many memories of my oldest son, because every experience with him was brand new. I remember nursing him, and I remember rocking him and singing to him one night when he just wouldn't sleep. But my most treasured memory with him was when he was ten years old and fell asleep on my lap while we were watching TV. I remember thinking, “Oh, this is nice. I don’t remember the last time he fell asleep on me.” And then I realized that this would most likely be the last time he ever fell asleep on me. A few years later, when my son was in high school, he fell asleep with his head on my lap when he was sick. I was so grateful to experience that moment. Is it wrong when  a mom is glad when her kids are just a little bit sick because they want her around to take care of them? He is working on a certificate that will prepare him to pursue an engineering degree. At 20, he still lives at home—but as his friends move out on their own and his siblings are getting ready to leave, he is talking about moving out as well and I don't expect him to be here much longer.
• With my younger son, I most remember when we lived in the St. Louis area. We had a split-level house, with a deck facing east, toward a farm field. Every morning, I would get up at 5, brew coffee, and then go sit on the deck to watch the sunrise, with me wrapped in a blanket and drinking my coffee. At some point, my early-rising son started to join me. Every morning, he and I would be bundled up together, cuddling and watching the birth of the day. This child nearly died at birth, and then again when he was ten days old. Both times, I felt God’s hand holding him through the crisis. Every morning as the sun rose, I thought about how my son almost didn't live, and I was so grateful to have him there on my lap. He is wrapping up his senior year in high school and preparing to enter the Air Force. Once again, I will wear the burden of worrying about him, wondering if he will still be alive when I wake up in the morning.
• I don’t have as many specific moments with my daughter—probably because there are so very many of them. We are very close, and we are better friends than I ever hoped we could be. Mostly, I think about our monthly chocolate shopping outings on the first day of her period. That has become such a treasured outing. She isn't sure where she will go to college, but she is working hard and getting ready to move out and forward. She is a strong young woman with an incredible sense of social justice, but I’m not quite ready for her to go. Her departure will probably be the hardest for me to bear.

Part of my nostalgia has also been about reminding myself of who I was before I had children. I need to latch on to those pillars of my life if I am to keep from falling apart when my babies leave. I've been thinking more about the things that shaped me in high school and college, and I've been spending more time and effort tending to my marriage. I need all those things to be stronger as I head into this new phase. It’s sort of like pregnancy and labor pains, in that I’m preparing for the birthing of my children into adulthood.

I’m remembering my pregnancies, filled with excitement about the future and wonder about the new lives I was carrying. I’m drawing on that now, as I think about the wonderful young adults my children have become and the journey of life that is still ahead of them. I treasure the fact that I get to witness this new phase of my children’s lives. But that isn't going to keep me from wanting to hold onto my babies for just a little bit longer.

Heartscape

I have no artistic talent. When I was a child, everything I attempted to draw had the same backdrop: gently rolling hills, a round yellow ball of sun with yellow lines spoking out from it, and one cloud. The central image would vary. It was usually a tree with some flowers at the base, although sometimes it would be a princess. When I was feeling especially creative, I would draw a castle with a flag flying from each of the four turrets. But always, the rolling hills were the backdrop against which all else was drawn. Always.

Yesterday, I headed home to northwestern Illinois for what will probably be the last Thanksgiving at the home of my youth. My parents have bought a house in the UP (Upper Peninsula of Michigan) so they can be closer to their cabin, and although they may buy a small home in town so they can stay closer to friends and family, their plan is to sell the house they built and have lived in for thirty-five years. With the exception of four Thanksgivings (one while I was finishing up my master’s thesis, one when I was on pregnancy bedrest and could barely even travel to my own living room , one a couple years later when we went to Chicago to try the holiday with my husband’s family, and one when my sister-in-law was pregnant and two of my children had a virus that can be dangerous for pregnant women to encounter), I have spent Thanksgiving Day with my family of origin. We always do Easter with my in-laws, and we always do Thanksgiving with my family.

I really needed this Thanksgiving. My children will no longer live with me by this time next year. My older son is looking to move into an apartment with some friends, my daughter will be away at college and will come to us for the holiday as a visitor, and my other son will be doing whatever the government requires of its military personnel. Not only would yesterday be the last Thanksgiving in the home I grew up, it would be the last Thanksgiving with the family I've raised while they are still part of my household. My heart was aching, even while it was full.

The foods at my mom's Thanksgiving table are familiar, of course, and even though my siblings and their families bring contributions to the banquet, we always have scalloped corn, green bean casserole, turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, Mom’s stuffing, and apple and pumpkin pies. Always. And there is always a walk in the afternoon to help grown-ups walk off the meal-induced lethargy and to help children and dogs work off some of the energy that has accumulated while being inside and attempting to behave. Always.

And that “always” is what I've valued most about Thanksgiving. Every year, whether I've traveled from far enough away that I needed to pack and stay for several days or from a short enough distance that it is just a day trip, I've gone home for the day. Although I always think of the home I've made with my husband and children as my home, my parents’ home has deeper roots in my heart , and, with a small handful of exceptions, the fourth Thursday in November always pulls me back home. Home is stability. It is comfort. It is constancy. It is the backdrop of my heart and life.

As we got off the fast-paced highways and traveled along Illinois Route 75, I glanced at the landscape around me as I always do. I saw the rolling hills—the same ones that were the backdrop of my childhood drawings—and I knew I was home. And my heart was glad.

Vacation Days

I'm sitting here on a day off, sipping my coffee and enjoying the dense fog from inside my house (and, thankfully, not from inside my car). I guess that's a good start to a vacation day, but I've realized that I will never fully "get" vacation days.

I was a college teacher for twenty-four years, and before that I was a student. I had wonderful, long breaks, but I never had a vacation day. Every year, I had a month in December/January, three months in the summer (even when I taught summer classes, I had more days off than on), and a week in the spring. The rhythms of my life were driven by my profession. Even when I had a part-time administrative appointment and had work to do during those times, I had plenty of down time. Now, to be fair, I always worked during those breaks. The difference was that it was unscheduled time when I could do my work from home and in my jammies rather than have to go be in front of a classroom or grade papers. (Trust me, the actual teaching is the smallest part of a teacher's job.) I frequently used this time to get caught up on real life things that had been set aside during very intense work seasons. The experience of the last two weeks of the semester and then final exam week is not for sissies.

When Wisconsin politics went crazy and my paycheck as a state employee was being affected, I began to contemplate what life would be like if I changed jobs. One of my biggest worries was how I would manage going from having good chunks of time each a year of unscheduled time to only two weeks.

I was very fortunate to find a job that was still in higher education and that gives a quite large amount of vacation time. Between my four weeks of vacation, the week we have off between Christmas and New Year's, and the various holidays throughout the year, it amounts to just over six weeks. Last year, I ended up losing half my vacation days because I didn't use them.

My colleagues would be puzzled when I would say I didn't know how to think in terms of vacation days, that it was outside my experience--but that's what it was. I can tell when I need a day off for mental health recuperation or for a personal issue that needs to be attended to--but I'm not especially good at taking them. My institution is full of one-person departments, and although I have staff who can pick up certain responsibilities while I'm gone, there is much that only I do--so when I take a day off, I usually have to make special arrangements for getting certain tasks done. Today was a no-brainer. We have no classes today, and very few students will be around--so today I not only have a day off, I also didn't have to do much advance preparation for being away today. I feel giddy!

When I was teaching, I would usually have one or two days during the year when I called in sick when I needed a mental health day. For me, stress manifests itself physically, so it wasn't far from the truth--but I always felt guilty about doing this. I would  email my students to let them know class was canceled, but many of them would show up for class anyway. And it meant that I wasn't available in my office for them to talk to, either. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Taking a day off was something that was guilt-ridden and therefore not particularly pleasurable for me.

I'm worried that I won't use all my vacation days again this year. Our financial situation doesn't allow us to take an actual vacation, or even to take a day off and go anywhere local that charges admission. I need to learn to attend to my self and know that it's okay to just be home and do nothing. Taking a day to recharge--even in the middle of the week--is not only okay, it's expected. Two weeks ago, I was talking with my supervisor about a couple stresses I was feeling at work, and she very gently said, "You know, it's okay for you to take time for yourself." Oh, yeah, I guess I can do that. I forgot.

So here I am, home when many of my colleagues are at work, having a completely guilt-free day off. Maybe I'll get used to it some day, but twenty-four years of a habit is going to take me a while to break.

Breaking the Silence

I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a couple years now. Every time I’ve gotten closer to it, I’ve chickened out. I will hurt people I love. It will define how people identify me. It will piss some people off. And mostly, I don’t really have a point…just some rambling related to one experience I had years ago. For some reason, though, I feel like the time has come, so here goes….

Twenty-five years ago, I was raped.

I never told my parents. I didn’t tell my friends until years later. I never told the cops. In fact, it took several days for me to even be able to say it to myself.

I had been drinking and hitting on a couple guys at a party and bragging about being on the pill and bemoaning the lack of a boyfriend. Not one of my finest moments, for sure. I passed out, and when I woke up, one of the guys was inside me. I was screaming. Then I passed out again, only to wake up in the morning to the same thing. While he was in the shower, I found my purse and drove myself home, despite the fact that I was still under the influence of alcohol. At home (I still lived with my parents), I stumbled up the stairs and cried myself to sleep in my bedroom with the girly pink walls.

There are things I can be grateful for. It was not my first sexual experience, so it didn’t take something physical away from me that I’d been saving for someone. Because I was so drunk and passed out, I barely even experienced my own rape. Truly, it could’ve been worse.

I dealt with it in a way that makes no sense to me and truly no longer even matters. I found a way to feel like I was in control of something, and then I manipulated things to get the guy fired from his job. Although it wasn’t all he deserved for what he did, it was enough to help me feel better.

So I can tell myself that it was okay, that it wasn’t as bad a rape as it could’ve been, that I could’ve had it worse, and that I deserved it. Even now, I have to own the fact that my own behavior set the stage for the guy to do this to me. That doesn’t mean I think it’s my fault, but I know about guys and I know how much temptation I was dumping on him. I wanted him to make a pass at me. So that’s on me. But he shouldn’t have taken me without my consent. Twice.

Years passed. I told some friends in college, when it seemed relevant. I really didn’t think of myself as a rape victim or rape survivor most of the time. I’d done some other stupid things that seemed to be a bigger part of my identity at the time. Still, for several years, I thought about the experience at some point every day. It was part of my subconscious even when I wasn’t actively thinking about it.

When I met my husband, I told him. Eventually, I went to graduate school, married, and had children, and my identity was overwhelmed by whole new sets of experiences. At one point, I realized I hadn’t thought about being raped for years. As much as possible, I was over it.

But during the past year, I’ve begun thinking about it again. Perhaps it’s because I have a teenage daughter who is preparing to go to college herself. Or maybe it’s because I now work at a women’s college and am simply more tuned in to issues of women and powerlessness. Maybe it’s because I am approaching the age of 50 and have begun to reflect on my life’s experiences and the many things that shaped me into who I am now. So I’ve been thinking about it.

I’m not completely sure why I’m breaking the silence now. In part, it’s because too many of us keep silent. For several years in my life, I was quite close to three women. Every single one of us had experienced some form of being sexually violated—by a neighbor, a relative, a family friend—and not a single one of us told an adult, not for years. Even now, only one of us has been to counseling to deal with the experience.

I have to wonder how many other women have experienced some kind of sexual assault or sexual powerlessness. How many wounded women are walking around us and working with us every day? How does a shared experience that is never discussed affect us? And how different would it be if it were okay to talk about it? How differently would I be able to support other women if it were okay to talk about this?

Too often, we don’t yet know how to talk about it. I do know that there are a lot of women who will be angry at me for saying that I set the stage for this to happen. Slut Walkers will want to walk right over me. But that doesn’t change the fact that I wish I had behaved differently and that I had dressed more respectfully of myself. The value of me is in more than my breasts, yet I dressed to draw a man’s attention to them that night. I didn’t invite the act, but I did invite the interest. Yes, men need to control themselves—no means no, and lack of consciousness means no, no matter what the woman has done or how she has dressed or acted. But had the young woman I was had more self confidence in her worth aside from her breasts, I doubt this would’ve happened. But it did happen, and I healed alone. And it needs to be okay for women to share their feelings about their experiences, even if it upsets other women. Even one voice telling me I am wrong to feel what I feel is another violation of my sense of self and the choices I have as a woman.

We have done so much to destigmatize mental illness and domestic violence. But what are we doing to make it easier for young women to find support for experiences of sexual violation? Posting a rape hotline number or a website on a flyer isn’t enough. Asking them to talk to a total stranger after they’ve already experienced a violation isn’t enough. A piece in the NewYork Times a year ago reported that out of every five women, one has experienced rape or attempted rape—that is 1.3 million American women every year.

If this were to happen to me now, I know absolutely that I would seek and find good support and understanding. But at the age of 22, I had no one. I didn’t tell anyone at all until I had worked through most of it myself—but if I had known even one grown-up woman in my life who I’d known had been raped, I would’ve gone to her. But because it’s still so hard to talk about, even to say, “This happened to me,” I doubt that most women in my life now would know they would find an understanding heart in me.

I don’t know what the answer is. Maybe there isn’t one. This has been the experience of women for eons, right? And men will be men with their own issues of sex and power.  I doubt that we can put an end to rape, but we can at least make it simpler to surround rape victims with the love and support needed to help them become survivors.

So, for what it’s worth, after twenty-five years, I’ve just broken my silence. One more voice to say to other women, “You aren’t alone. I do understand. You can heal.” Because truly, we can heal.  The greatest thing I’ve seen about women is our ability to work together to support and nurture. I’m willing to do my part now.

The Consequence of Raising Children: They Grow Up

Having twins, everyone says, is double the trouble, double the fun. True--but it is also double the joy, double the sorrow. My babies, the ones who kept me sleep deprived throughout 1995, when I was also trying to keep up with their 3-year-old brother, will turn 18 next month.

Every day brings a new college recruitment letter for my daughter. My son is waiting for me to track down some medical records so he can go forward with his military enlistment process. Next year, the holidays will be so different, and it has hit me that this might be the last Thanksgiving, the last Christmas, when we are all together. Next year, my daughter will be starting the process where she transitions from coming home to visiting home to visiting parents. And my son will answer to the military's need for him, not to his mother's.

How did time get so far away from me? I have finally figured out what kind of mother I want to be, and I have run out of time to become her. I want a chance to make up for all my parenting mistakes and make sure my kids are fully equipped for what comes next. My guess is that they are far more ready than I realize. They certainly are more ready than their mother is.

The fact (I hope) that their older brother will be sticking around for a while helps me some, but I find that I am grieving and raw as I try to steel myself for the inevitable consequence of raising children.  I am excited for my kids, but I had no idea it would be as hard as it is--and it is still months away for me.

Please bear with me, world, as I try to figure out how to do this without crying a gallon of tears every day. I know I will be okay, eventually. My kids are going to be wonderful adults, and I know they will always be my babies. But for a little while yet, their mama is going to be just a little sad.

Sighs from the Unemployment Carousel

After several years of watching my husband ride the unemployment carousel, you'd think I would be used to it by now. I don't remember what year it started--2007? 2009? And I have lost track of how many jobs he's had. Between the effect of the economy on the shipping industry, a few unfortunate mistakes, and the reality of approaching the age of 50, it has been hard for my husband to find a job and keep a job.

Chronic unemployment leaves scars, even on spouses. When my husband lost yet another job early this week, it occurred to me that I might never recover. He had been at this last job for three months, and I had just started to feel hopeful about our future for the first time in years. I was daydreaming again, thinking about doing some household projects that cost a little money, and generally feeling fairly content. But it hadn't been enough time to build up my reserves. When I saw his number on my phone at a time he would've been at work, I found myself hoping someone had died because I just couldn't bear it again. It was the most despair I'd felt in some time; not only did my husband lose a job, but I had experienced the anguish of finally feeling hopeful again, only to have that hope demolished. Each time, it gets harder to learn to hope again.

He has already had a couple interviews and has a follow-up interview next week. But I don't have it in me to be a supportive wife. I don't want to know the name of the company, and I don't really want to talk about it--even though it is what he needs to do. It feels like putting myself in the line of fire and volunteering to have any glimmer of hope attacked. I just can't do it.

I'm sighing again, trying to resign myself to difficulties and emotional transition. Again and again and again.

Why I Can't Read *Fifty Shades of Gray*

My first time hearing about Fifty Shades of Gray was when a friend asked me if I liked S&M books--so no matter what else I ever learn about it, that's how I will think of it. And that's why I can't read it.th
I have nothing against S&M. As long as no one is hurt and everyone consents, the great range of human sexual behavior is worth exploring and celebrating. But whenever I hear people talk about this book, I think of a student named Christina.

Years ago, she showed up in my developmental writing class. Although she was only nineteen years old, she seemed to carry a great many more years on her. She left home at fourteen to escape a stepfather who was too interested in her. By nineteen, she referred to herself as "retired from the entertainment industry." Translation: she had been a stripper, lap dancer, and occasional hooker.

When I knew her, Christina lived with a man in his forties. One day she came in wearing an expensive leather jacket, saying that her guy had bought it for her because she was good at the mall. When I asked her what that meant, she said it was because she looked hot and other guys looked her over but she didn't look back.

At the end of class one morning, she gathered up her materials and announced that she was headed home because her live-in guy would be gone. A student and I both commented on how nice it is to have some time home alone. She then said (in front of our class and the students coming in for the following class) that she wouldn't be alone because her boyfriend was coming over. She explained that she needed the boyfriend because her live-in wouldn't spank her, and she couldn't help it that she was kinky and needed that to enjoy herself.

At nineteen, this young woman had a poor sense of her value in the world and had been jaded by previous sexual encounters. How can a nineteen-year-old have such specific sexual needs already?

When my friend first told me about the Shades of Gray books and that the guy needed S&M, all I could think about was the young woman who was rewarded for being good at the mall and who felt a need to be spanked.

If she had ever seemed happy, I probably would have forgotten her as anything more than a story about what a student said after class one day. But she never seemed happy. Her career goal was to have a corner office with a big plant. And the entire four and a half months. I knew her, she never ever smiled. Ever.

Every time I think about reading this book about a man with specific sexual needs, I find myself thinking about Christina Who Never Smiled. And it makes me incredibly sad to think about all the broken women we have in our world. And then I just can't bring myself to care about a male character who wants to have sex with an innocent young woman.

Lessons from Food Poisoning

I recently spent a full week suffering from food poisoning. Here is what I learned:

• Don't eat raw cookie dough.
• Gatorade really can keep you hydrated.
• Always buy 2-ply toilet paper.

A Year of Blessing

One year and three days ago, I made a decision that changed my life. I decided to apply for a job that would take me away from the classroom.

As someone who cherishes anniversaries as occasions to reflect and ruminate, I've naturally been spending time in my mind with all that has passed in my professional life since I made this choice. Interestingly, the changes have been ones that have been so natural that it's hard to start to articulate what those changes have been and how different my work life is now.

What I find myself thinking about the most is the actual process of making the decision. I loved teaching. At times I was a weak teacher, frustrated by the piles of papers or overwhelmed by other pieces of my life. But when I was "on," I was a great teacher. I loved composition studies. I loved coming up with assignment ideas and learning activities and thinking of how all the pieces of the class would work together in accomplishing the course goals. I loved my colleagues. I loved my campus. At times, I am still stunned that I found the courage to leave and that it ever even occurred to me that leaving was a possibility. Why would someone leave a job and people she loves?

I am reminded, frequently, of why I went into education in the first place. It was never about the academics for me. Not ever, even though  I loved that, too. Rather, it was about making a difference. I remember very distinctly sitting in the relatively new student lounge at Highland Community College in Freeport, Illinois. That year, I had found that a lot of new college students would approach me as an older sister, asking for advice about things from relationships to coursework to picking a major. I remember that the sunlight was streaming in through the windows, casting an orange glow over the lounge, and I thought, "This. This is what I want to do. I want to make a difference in people's lives."

The only skill I thought I had was writing; therefore, writing--and the teaching of writing--was the tool I would use to accomplish my purpose in life. It was the instrument of my future.

So I went to college, preparing to be a middle school English teacher and then shifting toward teaching college composition. Yet I always felt different from my colleagues. I was interested in student development and understanding how their learning of college writing strategies intersected with the other aspects of their development. I sometimes would hear my colleagues say things like, "That's the job of student services," or "Why would I worry about that when we have counselors?" or "But what about the purity of the discipline itself? Instead of worrying about why students are struggling, let's blame them for being bad students." (Okay, no one actually said that last one in my presence. Exactly.) I always felt like I was in a parallel job, that my professional life was completely different from that of my colleagues--even in cases where on the surface, things looked the same.

When I sent my application in one year ago, I thought I would just be getting a spruce-up of my life with some re-energizing. I had no idea that I was about to enter the world where I finally get to do what I really, really wanted to do when I grew up: make a difference. I have never been one to make friends easily, yet I did so where I am. I am surrounded by women, with all the nurturing and mood swings and emotional nuances that inhabit every cell in my soul. I am part of midwifing other women from wherever they were to the women they are meant to be next. I have cried at work and held others while they've cried. I hug every single day--sometimes those I barely know and sometimes those I care about deeply.

The school's mission is to transform the world my educating women. To my great joy and blessing, it has transformed me as well.

In the Mind of Jerry Sandusky

People are saying he’s a monster. I don’t completely agree, although he has done monstrous things that damage people’s lives.

We ask ourselves how he couldn’t know the effect he was having and, if he did, we ask ourselves why he continued doing it. Those are good questions, and we can never know the answers. These questions have been on my mind for several years, and I have a few thoughts that are far from being answers—but they are on my mind a great deal right now.

I want for us to understand how this happens. At what point does something like this begin, and how on earth can we interfere with the process once it starts? I admit a certain amount of compassion for the Jerry Sandusky’s of the world. I can’t imagine that someone lives this live without having experienced a major snafu in his own development. I wonder how much a person can really admit to himself about what he’s doing, and I wonder what that does to someone’s sense of soul and life to be so constantly deluding himself.

I keep thinking about what leads to the first instance of something as horrific as child sexual abuse. I’ve spent time with friends and family members who are all too familiar with child sexual abuse. I’ve known people who have been survivors as well as those who crossed those boundaries and engaged in sexual behavior (or behavior that is potentially sexual) with people they shouldn’t have.

One person I know always referred to himself as a late bloomer, not really aware or interested sexually until late middle school. At that time, he realized he was interested in the guys rather than the girls. Now, for most of us, middle school is a time when we can practice what it means to be romantic and sexual. We might flirt, talk with our friends about our crushes, enjoy daydreaming about that first kiss, and so on. And we are constantly surrounded by it at school. We see others learning the dance of romance, and our relationship skills develop right alongside all the other things we are learning to navigate as future adults.

So imagine someone who realizes that there is a different attraction. If he is surrounded by heterosexual conversation and activity and if it isn’t okay to talk about his real love interests at home or with friends, then perhaps this part of his self becomes stunted and delayed. Maybe it takes him years to come to terms with his sexual orientation. And by the time this happens, his relationship self can only then go back to where he was in middle school, when it all started. And his attraction picks up just where it left off—with middle school aged boys. Or maybe a woman grows up in a very sheltered home. By the time she is out on her own and finally allows herself to begin thinking about having romantic relationships, her attraction is to those who are high school age, just as she was when she first had a romantic interest in anyone.

Imagine someone who had an inappropriate or unhealthy introduction to sexual desire—maybe it involved pain or betrayal or happened at a too-young age. For many of us, when there is pain, we try to heal. And, sadly, sometimes we do this by repeating the behavior until it turns out right. Illogical, but true. But I’ve seen it happen far too many times. One of my long-time-ago friends had this thing for bad boys. She dated guys who’d been in jail, guys who did drugs, guys who somehow were always living life on the edge. Every single time, she got hurt. The logical response would be for her to say, “Oops. Bad choice. I better try something different next time.” Instead, she would think, “Wow. Not again. I’m such a failure because I could make pattern xyz work. In order to prove myself worthy, I need to tackle xyz again until I figure out how to do it right.” And that’s exactly what she did, again and again and again. One effort resulted in a 15-year marriage that ended in divorce. And the last time I talked with her, she called me, drunk on appletinis, to cry about how she was such a failure with guys after the first post-divorce bad boy dumped her. It is hard to break a habit, even a bad one.

From all accounts I’ve read, Jerry Sandusky’s perception was that he was in a relationship with each of the boys he assaulted. It sounds sick to us from the outside to think that a 60-something man would actually think he was in a real relationship with a young teen. But if his mind was stuck in a constant rewind of his own young teen years, then from his perspective, he was just trying to pick up where he left off—and when it didn’t work, he got stuck in the cycle of constant do-overs.

Perhaps in the case of person who has molested multiple children, each time it is an attempt to tap into a purity he has been missing for so long. Each time is an attempt to recreate something that had gone wrong and hope for a better ending this time around.

It’s hard to admit that we’ve done something wrong—and each time, it gets harder and harder. The darker the image, the harder it is to truly see what is staring at us in the mirror. Serial attempts at getting it right, each leading to seeing pain and distrust in the young person’s eyes…how many of us would have the courage to shake ourselves free of this obsession, the obsession to finally get it right? Each time we dig the hole, it gets harder and harder to climb out of. And denial is a powerful thing.

Somehow, somewhere, Jerry Sandusky started something wrong. Did it start with someone doing something wrong to him? Did it begin with a repressed homosexual desire in his own youth? Was he molested at some point?

It certainly is easier to draw black and white lines all over the place. We name someone a monster or predator, because it makes him “other” and allows us to feel disconnected from this person who has caused so much horrific pain. But people are complex creatures, and there’s a lot more grey area. Did he set out with the goal of causing pain to boys? Or did he set out with the goal of trying to connect with boys to have the relationships he craved in his life?

People say he’s a predator. But in some way, aren’t we all? In our quest for relationships and an effort to feel healed and whole, we do many things that can seem predatory. The man who calls a woman to ask for a date. The woman who parks her car next to her co-worker so they can just “happen” to run into each other after work.  The girl who texts a boy she likes.  The human who sees another soul—one that reminds him of his inner self, the one that needs to heal—and tries to help that other soul see a connection. The woman who finds herself alone with a person and yearns for her first kiss and takes it from someone she feels is more than a friend—even though the person has not yet crossed into the age of adulthood.

We need to work harder at understanding how these things happen so we can work on healing and making it stop. Are the courageous Sandusky survivors being provided with counseling, to help be sure they have healthy development? Are there others who try to tell us in some way that they have an attraction that crosses boundaries in an unhealthy way, and do we have systems in place to protect children as well as to protect these individuals from themselves?

I feel great compassion and heartache for those who have survived child sexual abuse. That does not mean that I am not able to also feel compassion for Sandusky and for others who have done these monstrous things to children and teenagers.  Compassion for all starts with trying to understand the perpetrators, from their own point of view. Only when we speak their language can we begin to talk them down off the ledge and prevent them from damaging so many other lives.

How I Imagined a Date with a Dead President

Growing older is full of surprises. I never, ever know where my mind will go, and I'm not always sure what to do once it gets there.

As my parents prepare for a big relocation, my mom is slowly purging their house of things they no longer need or use. Last Sunday, we were all sent to the basement to peruse a table of goodies my mom had for us to hopefully take home. I brought home a 48-page book about America, written in 1943 by a man whose son was being sent overseas as part of World War II. His son had been surprised by how little his fellow soldiers knew about why America was so great. Hmm. Maybe the Greatest Generation was, well, kind of like the rest of us.

Most of the book contains information about the presidents. Reading the cause of death for many of them is interesting. George Washington died of laryngitis, John Adams of old age, Thomas Jefferson of intestinal trouble. A few presidents down the list, we found that John Tyler died of a bilious attack. I don't even know what that is. The book also includes a copy of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, a list of facts about all 48 states, and plenty of information on military and service support organizations.

I've always been fascinated to read about history as seen by those in history. We were in the middle of a war, and the write-up of then-president FDR was full of patriotic support and vigor. George Washington was the only president deemed worthy of his very own page in the book.

I am approaching the age of 50. Since my early childhood, I have seen this book and other similar ones, all providing pictures of the presidents. They've always looked like old men to me--men of a different age than me in both chronology and era. Today, for the first time, I found myself looking at them as, well, men. I found myself thinking how distinguished some of them look and wondering what it would be like to sit across from them at a table while talking and drinking coffee. Um, what? A couple of them were quite good looking, and I even began to wonder what they would look like in modern clothes and hair styles and how I'm pretty sure I would have let Ulysses S. Grant take me on a date if neither of us were married.

Seriously, is this what it means to be my age? I look at this fascinating little slice of American history and end up daydreaming about a date with a dead president?

Healing ≠ Forgetting

The recall election was two weeks ago. Scott Walker is still governor, we may or may not have more balance of power in the state government, and higher education is still taking hits in terms of budget, quality, and elected officials thinking they know what learning is and how it is best facilitated and evaluated.

Nonetheless, I feel I have done a lot of healing since the recall. Granted, it's easy for me. Now that I am no longer a state employee, I'm not feeling as personally oppressed as I was for a good chunk of 2011. My paycheck does not give me monthly reminders of Act 10, and I am not surrounded by co-workers who are angry, depressed, and overwhelmed by feelings of powerlessness. So for me, healing is a different beast than it is for so many of my friends.

When we are cut, we bleed. Then we heal. Healing never means we go back to the way it was, though. Sometimes we have visible scars. Even when we don't, healing does not erase the experience of having had the injury and the pain. But healing means that we have moved on to a new version of ourselves.

I am relieved that recall season is over. With the continual emphasis on public unions at the expense of the many other pieces of Act 10 and the processes used to implement it, along with the complete lack of a Democratic platform that said anything other than "get rid of Walker" or "restore bargaining rights," defeat was inevitable. Now that the recall vote is over, I fee like I can get on with my life. I am again starting to pay attention to national politics, I'm able to think more intently about specific issues in the state, and I just feel like the burdens of anxiety and waiting have been lifted.

I'm incredibly frustrated by the fact that people are still name-calling and mocking each other. I'm tired of seeing extreme conservatives referred to as "right-wing nut jobs." They are simply passionate about the views with which we disagree. To many of them, those of us who are equally passionate about our ideas are "damn liberals." Seriously, people, try to find some common ground. We have to live and work with each other, so try to find some way to connect. As I stood in the voting line in Waukesha, knowing that most of the people around me would be voting differently than me, I still tried to chat with my neighbors about how it felt to be standing in a grade school in line again and which shows people wanted to see at Summerfest. I have even stopped flipping off every "I Stand with Scott Walker" bumper sticker I see. (Yes, I really did this. For months. But only at a level lower than my car window so no one but me would actually see it.) Healing a breach takes effort, but it is worth it.

The fact that I am doing well post-recall does NOT, however, mean that I have forgotten. I still remember how I felt when I checked my phone during a break at a workshop to see that Walker had put the national guard on alert because of the bomb he was about to drop on February 11, 2011. I will never forget how every Friday, I felt like one of my rights was being threatened.

I look at many of my friends and former colleagues and people I've gotten to know through social media. I think many of them are more healed than they realize as well. They have gotten more involved in their local communities and in taking up the banner to advocate for very specific issues. They have changed and are trying to make their communities and workplaces better places to be. They are new versions of themselves, healed from the immediate injuries done by Walker and the Fitzgerald brothers but able to move forward. Even though we move on with our individual and collective lives and are healed, we will never forget. We already make a difference, even if it's hard to see right now.

The Irrevocable

When I was in 5^th grade, I took clarinet lessons at school. I have two distinct memories: the taste of a clarinet reed and the words “do over.” Every time I messed up, I could try it again—and again and again until I got it right. And I’ve lost count of how many other things I’ve been able to do over. You can re-take college classes. You can revise writing. You can edit blog posts, even after they’re posted. You can repeat your driving test. You can un-do a thousand stitches of knitting and re-knit the yarn. With these things, once you have the new and improved version, the original effort mostly fades away.

Sometimes, though, do-overs aren’t so easy. There are some things we can never erase, things we cannot revoke from our histories, as much as we wish we could.

I have sadly watched a situation lately that breaks my heart, and it’s all because someone was trying to have a fresh start. A big and public mistake came back to haunt this person. All the old feelings bubbled back up. And in some ways, it felt like no progress had been made. 

The key is to learn from each experience. Reflect on what went wrong, and try to see it from multiple points of view. Make the kinds of changes that can help prevent recurrences. When life hurts, don't waste the lesson. Grieve. Reflect. Learn. Change. Because there are no do-overs in the stuff that really matters.

Getting Back in the Groove

I'm trying to encourage myself here, because I don't have the energy to be angry again. I feel heavy-hearted and soul-weary, and I just need some things to hang onto here.

• A new governor would not be able to change everything back to the way it was--not without good attention to process and building collaboration. I get the feeling that too many people were seeing the recall election as the immediate and magical antidote to Walker's changes. We have a constitution and laws, and making changes the right way should take time. So what we'd clung to was probably a pipe dream anyway.
• The election didn't change the state, but this whole experience changed many of us. I have never seen so many people vote before. I felt inspired and overwhelmed to participate in voting today. I know many people who will never again do politics the way they used to. Look at how many people channeled their protest energy, anger, and frustration into more involvement in their communities. They are running for office, supporting candidates differently, having different kinds of conversations. We are changed, and we are better than we were.
• It is up to us to begin healing. Yes, we are hurting. Yes, we want to lash out, especially at those who are playing the ninny-ninny-boo-boo game. Each of us must be the change we wish to see. It is up to us to reach out, to build bridges, and move forward in a spirit of collaboration with our neighbors and coworkers. We learned to work with others of us, despite the many differences between us. Surely we can look for ways to remember the humanity in our opponents and ourselves.

We didn't Recall Walker, but we can remember to recall our passion, our dedication, our new commitment and burning fire to make our part of the world a good and shining place. We are not the same people we were sixteen months ago. We are better. We are stronger.

Let's allow ourselves to mourn for a few days. Watch inspirational videos. Cry when you hear the bagpipes. Fondly remember living in the Rotunda. Look at your collection of protest signs. wonder what on earth this world is coming to. And then gather yourself together with the friends you've built. Find a way to dust yourself off. Let yourself move forward. And know that you are the heart of Wisconsin.

Leave College Time Alone

As we get ready to vote in the recall election on Tuesday, the accusations and speculations are flying fast and furious. The candidates are accused of manipulating numbers, misrepresenting the things they've done well, being either unclear about they  would do differently or digging their heels into what they've done that led to this whole mess in the first place.

I think Scott Walker is a bad governor. He operates on the "it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission" principle, and then forgets about the whole "asking forgiveness" part. He tramples on process to do what he wants to do. He pits the citizens of Wisconsin against each other, as though taxpayers and public employees are completely different populations. Regardless of Tuesday's outcome, he has damaged this state in ways we may never recover from.

People are holding a magnifying glass to Walker's entire life, including his time as a student at Marquette University.We've already heard about dirty campaigning for a student government position. I've heard rumors of academic dishonesty through my academic circles. And now this morning, I'm reading an article that claims that Walker fathered a child while in college.

We are pointing back at his time as a young adult and saying, "Look! He hasn't changed at all. He lied/cheated/abandoned back then, so we can't trust him at all now."

And that's where I have some problems with all this. I've spent a lot of years with college students--first being one and then, for the past 24 years, working with them. And now I have two 20-year-olds and two 17-year-olds living in my home. I think it's fair to say that I have a lot of experience with young people. Not to put too fine a point on it, young adults do dumb things. Being stupid and making bad choices are part of the developmental process of becoming an adult, no less than the way a toddler takes a few steps and falls down while learning to walk.

I cringe to think of how some of my young adult decisions could be used against me now. There are things I'm ashamed of and things that hurt me. It's true that those experiences shaped me, just as Scott Walker's college experiences surely shaped him. But I think it's completely unfair to claim that those young adult experiences and choices represent who someone is 25 years later.

Indeed, this is a critical time in the recall--but these are cheap shots and they don't speak well of us. I want him out of that office, too. His "divide and conquer" strategy caused problem in my home, with my Republican husband and me arguing heatedly about politics for the first time in our marriage. I had to leave a state job I loved because my family couldn't handle the hit to our income. There's part of me that wants to do whatever it takes to get Walker supporters to change their minds--but I just don't think this is the right way.

Process Does Matter

Being married to a conservative Republican, I live every day with comments about the recall--people just didn't get their way, unions are the ones behind the protests and recall, Walker is making a good difference, etc. Between my husband's comments and Facebook posts, as well as the ever-present Fox News, I've heard it all and have mostly learned to tune it out.

Today, my 17-year-old son asked me to remind him what the recall was about. I told him what some people (i.e., his dad) think, and then I told him what I think.

For me, it truly isn't about collective bargaining. Rather, the collective bargaining decisions represented what was, to me, a much deeper and more serious problem: the lack of decent process. At no point did I feel like Scott Walker was giving even a pretense of listening to anyone. Listening to others doesn't mean you have to agree with them. It does mean, however, that you should work hard at understanding their concerns and developing a sense of shared goals--and then working together on figuring out the best way to get there. If he had truly given a chance for people's voices to be heard and addressed, I would not be in support of this recall. What I object to is being silenced and invisible to an administration.

It isn't about unions. It isn't about the fact that when I was a public employee, I was about to have an extra $300 taken away from each paycheck at a time when my husband had been in the unemployment cyclone off and on for two years already. It isn't about what got decided or what the votes were. It is about the fact that too many people who lived in this state were ignored and denigrated. It is about the fact that rights that were established over a period of decades were eradicated with glee. It is about the fact that just one of those jobs that were promised would've made a huge difference to my family. It is about the fact that my elected representatives weren't decent enough to do what they felt needed doing without a modicum of kindness and respect for the people who would have to live with the results of their decisions.

So Scott Walker, if you had made the same decisions but had been decent and humane about it, you wouldn't be where you are right now. Process really does matter.

From the Voice of a Sister

I am frequently amazed at how I will encounter something right after I've been thinking about it. Just yesterday I was thinking about sisterhood and the women religious with whom I work. Today, I found this prayer that recognizes the women on whose work we continue to build and live.


A Prayer for the Times

My favorite part is the beginning:

Dear God, creator of women in your own image,born of a woman in the midst of a world half women,carried by women to mission fields around the globe, made known by women to all the children of the earth,give to the women of our timethe strength to persevere,the courage to speak out,the faith to believe in you beyondall systems and institutionsso that your face on earth may be seen in all its beauty,so that men and women become whole,so that the church may be converted to your willin everything and in all ways.

Amen, Sister.

Walking the Labyrinth

When you're walking the labyrinth, all you can focus on is what is directly in front of you. Thinking about the path you've walked or  about how much longer you have until you get to the end will just make you dizzy. So you put down one foot at a time and focus on the experience at hand, aware that you are on a journey without dwelling on the past or future. And then, suddenly, you find yourself in the middle. And you're centered.

Sisters

I’m not one to discuss my faith and spirituality much. Sometime it is because words cannot begin to capture my thoughts, feelings, and experiences. More often, though, it is because the simple act of speaking or writing about these things will push people away. I’m a bridge builder and connector, and knowingly doing something that would separate me from others is not something I do.

Yet connectedness is the very thing that is compelling me to write now. My own religious background is pretty vanilla. My current religious affiliation is Methodist, which is a state I married into. As a junior high school student, I was confirmed Presbyterian. When I was a young child, we went to what I like to think of as a New Age/hippy church. I was baptized EUB. Religion to me is an institution, a set of beliefs and practices perpetuated by a hierarchical structure inhabited by very human individuals. I have never had the feeling that a religious institution is telling me what to think or believe, although I do understand why many people feel that way. Religion is not the same as faith, although quite frequently the two intersect in my life.

The most meaningful experiences for me are the ones in which I feel part of the brotherhood and sisterhood of humanity, believing that we are all children in the process of learning and growing, turning our faces toward our shared spiritual being. Faith for me is about my internal barometer’s response to what happens around me. It is the part of me that yearns for the connection of something greater than myself and my world, and it is the part that feels called by that greater something. It is an awareness that I matter and that I am connected to something that matters even more than I do.

I have now finished my first academic year at a Catholic women's college. It has been a nine-month-long culture shock. By choice, I have attended several masses at work, the most recent being the Baccalaureate Mass this past Friday evening. Being in a worship service with colleagues is a unique experience. We have all the usual stresses of higher education—end-of-semester grading/testing/crying, students desperate to improve a grade, various offices continuing to offer their regular services amidst all the end-of-semester-ness around them, and so on.  Yet Friday night, there we were. We’d been able to set aside the gritty details of our individual jobs and gather. I sat with my boss. We sang together and prayed together.  We wept together. We hugged each other. For that one hour, we were connected to each other and to the world beyond ourselves in a way I’ve never before experienced in a workplace. It was a reminder that our work is for a larger purpose. It is, indeed, a blessing, to be where I can use the strength I find in my faith to add to my work rather than feel I’m supposed to suppress or hide that part of who I am.

Four of the five people sitting closest to me were Sisters, the nuns with Ph.D.’s who serve on the faculty and administration. At that moment, I could feel in my heart that we were all sisters, together.

Does It Really Matter Who I Vote For?

I am frustrated by state politics, and this time it isn't by Walker or his cronies. I'm frustrated by my own side!

Specifically, I'm referring to the four Democratic candidates for governor. I'm not learning enough about what they would do--and how--once in office. All I see is posts and fliers about un-doing what Walker did. I see nothing about process at all.

• Kathleen Falk. Her supporters have come by my house twice already, I admire how she stepped into the fray early and came out with a clear statement of something she believed in (restore union rights). Unfortunately, that  struck me wrong. As a non-unionized public employee until late summer last year, I worked hard to focus on the other things Walker was doing that were bad for Wisconsin. The Troubles of 2011 were not just about unions, and anytime we let people think union rights were the center of the issue, we push away anyone who's had bad experiences with unions and we diminish the many other ways we have suffered. The fact that this was  her first statement out of the gate told me to be wary. Seeing her supporters out in the community makes me a bit nervous as well. As appearances go, it is politics as usual.
• Doug Lafollette. I'm not seeing much from him, although what I do see is entirely on Facebook through a couple private groups I'm part of. He posts links to his website but is not pushing himself. I like the approach, and I like what he says he values--although if I'm having to do all the work to find out what he stands for, I doubt he's going to fare well with all the voters who won't bother to click on a link or two.
• Tom Barrett. I've gotten some emails from his campaign, but I'm not hearing anything I didn't hear when he ran in 2010, with not enough about the fact that the landscape is very different from what it was two years ago. He seemed reluctant to get into this race, and I think that will put off a lot of voters.
• Kathleen Vinehout. Who? Well, I know who she is, but I've seen absolutely nothing from her campaign yet. I have no idea what she stands for.

From what I've seen from all of these folks, I agree with everything they want to do, even though I may disagree a bit with priorities. What I really want to know, though, is about process. How will they do things? My biggest beef with Walker hasn't been with what he's done but with how he's done it. (Although I disagree with all he has done, his goals didnt disenfranchise me; his lack of communication and respect did.) What will these candidates do that is respectful of the people of Wisconsin who voted for Walker and may still support him? How will they respond to the concerns that led to Walker's election in the first place? How will they go about trying to re-instate rights without having it all just seem an act of political revenge?

If all they do is get into office and start changing things to the way they think things should be without being respectful and valuing process, they're no better than Walker is.

I know I will vote for whichever Democrat wins the primary. I do hope I have a reason to care which one that is, and I'm hoping there is more to the platform than simply not being Walker.

When My Son Becomes a Soldier

For his whole life, my younger son has wanted to go into the military. Now that he is at the end of his junior year in high school, I find that I am paying more attention to military news, wondering what it is like for the mothers of the soldiers I read about and imagining how I would react if military personnel came to my front door. Even more than my concerns about him not coming home, I worry about what he will be when he comes home.   How can a person survive a war mentally intact?

Nicholas D. Kristof writes an op-ed in The New York Times that I find very distressing. He writes about the high number of suicides among our veterans. He acknowledges that the VA is working hard "chipping away at a warrior culture" that devalues mental health care. He prepares to end his piece by saying,

We refurbish tanks after time in combat, but don't much help men and women exorcise the demons of war. Presidents commit troops to distant battlefields, but don't commit enough dollars to veterans' services afterward. We enlist soldiers to protect us, but when they come home we don't protect them.

When my son comes home...if he comes home...what damage will have been done to him? Soldiers can experience prolonged boredom and prolonged adrenaline rushes. They witness horrors that no one can fully prepare for. They risk--their health, their friends, their lives--constantly. Is it possible that anyone can return to civilian life unchanged?

I worry, too, about what must change within a person in order to kill other people. In the news today was a story about American soldiers who posed for photographs with dead Afghan insurgents. Yes, sitting in our cozy living rooms where we are not in imminent danger, it is horrifying. Is there no dignity? No respect? How can these soldiers do such a thing?

I don't see how it is possible to kill without de-humanizing the opponent. The act of pulling the trigger against another person surely requires soldiers to think of that person as other or less than themselves. Unless we are fully aware of what it is like to be in that situation, how can we begin to understand or to judge the actions of people who are there? I can't begin to speculate whether the dehumanizing is what allows soldiers to pull the trigger in the first place or it is what happens after the first kill. Maybe it's a little bit of both.

When I was young, I was at my friend's house for the afternoon. Her teenage sister was supposed to babysit, but she was on the phone with her friend for a long time (back in the day when phones had cords and people were tethered to the phone while talking). My friend whispered to me, "I have to show you something." We creeped upstairs, and she opened the hall closet. On the lowest shelf, behind the blankets and suitcases, there were two shoeboxes. She pulled them out and proceeded to lay photographs in front of me. Her dad had been in the Korean war, and these were his war pictures. There were lots of dead bodies, and lots of soldiers standing around smiling about their conquests. Two pictures stood out the most to me, and the images are seared into my brain forever. One was her dad standing, cigarette dangling out of his smiling mouth, holding up two heads of dead Koreans. The other was him standing on top of a heap of heads--and by "heap," I mean a pile that was as tall as her dad. 

They were horrifying pictures. They shaped my views of war and soldiers in ways I've only recently begun to recognize. But when I listened to this story on the radio and later when I read the article, these pictures were what came to mind. The greater the horror of war, the greater the need to de-humanize the enemy so you can do the horrible things you need to do.

Even when soldiers don't give up their lives, they surely are affected for the rest of their lives. Two photographs that I saw forty years ago are burned into my mind and heart. How much worse is it for those who see, smell, and hear the real thing? When we send soldiers into war, do we really know what we are asking of them? And aren't we perhaps too quick to condemn actions that we don't understand?

It isn't that I think what these soldiers did was right; I just think it is understandable from a certain point of view. 

How devastating war is, in so many ways. The photographs and suicides are just symptoms of being a soldier. If we are going to ask them to do what they do, then we need to acknowledge that they have to transform themselves from the people they were into soldiers--and we must have more compassion for the entirety of the results of that transformation. We owe them at least that much.

Meaningful Work and the 23-Year Journey

For more than two decades (23 years and one week, to be precise), my professional identity was college writing teacher. Even during a period with a part-time administrative appointment, my core professional identity was teacher.

When I accepted my current administrative position, I found myself grieving over the loss of that identity. I was no longer what I had been for nearly half my life. One day I was in the car with my son. He made a minor grammatical error as he spoke, and then he said, "Ha! You can't correct me any more because you aren't an English teacher now!" After I sat in stunned silence, I burst into tears. I loved my job, and I loved being an English teacher, and stepping away from that was so very hard.

As much as I came to love my new job and the people with whom I work, I missed my old job. I missed people I'd befriended over my ten years at my previous campus. I missed the familiarity of my life--two classes per day surrounded by plenty of unscheduled time to use for grading, planning, and community building (aka, talking with colleagues and students). I knew the rhythms of the day, the week, and the semester. I loved knowing my job and knowing what to expect. When people asked me if I missed my job, the answer was "yes"--despite the fact that I loved my new job.

Two months ago, one of my colleagues asked me not if I missed my old job but if I missed teaching.

Imagine my shock when I realized that the answer was "no."

What I had found most meaningful in my previous job was neither the subject nor the classroom; it was the interactions with individual students at moments of decision-making and transformation. When I came home from work and was asked about my day, I did not talk about helping students understand what a thesis is or a student's excitement at finding the perfect source for a research paper; instead, I responded with stories about students trying to decide on a major, struggling with parental pressures, and working through relationship issues. Those were the things I loved most about teaching, and those are the things I get to do every single day where I am now.

It is quite disconcerting to realize that I don't miss what I had loved for more than twenty years. I feel so blessed to have discovered what it is I find meaningful and important about my professional activities. Had this job not happened, I would have managed to be happy for another twenty years doing what I'd been doing. And I would have missed the chance to make a difference in a way that matters to me more than I could have known.

We Are the Champions

Dear Wisconsin,

Here we are, just about one year after it all changed. One year ago today, most of us were still enjoying the afterglow of the Superbowl and wearing our newly-purchased Superbowl sweatshirts. We were unified in joy at watching our beloved football players achieve their goal.

On February 11, I drove from Waukesha to Wausau to a workshop on supporting college students who face challenges in reading and writing. It was an incredibly cold day, so cold, in fact, that the doors on the campus vehicle I'd planned to drive were frozen shut. So there I was, at five in the morning, rearranging my personal vehicle situation so I could go to my workshop. I knew that I wouldn't return until sometime early in the evening.

I remember that the drive was beautiful. Throughout the state, I saw prairie grasses and bushes covered with ice crystals. The rising sun made everything sparkle so beautifully. I remember feeling very content.

During a break in my workshop, I checked my phone for the news. I saw that Scott Walker had put the National Guard on alert, saying that public employees would be so upset by his Budget Repair Bill that they might cause problems.

And so it began.

Since then, my activity level has ebbed and flowed. Sometimes I protested; more often I didn't. Sometimes I immersed myself in social media and tried to shape the discourse; other times I stepped back while I tried to figure out what I was thinking and feeling.

I have watched many maintain a level of passion and commitment that awes me. It was easy to be part of the movement when there were tens of thousands at the capitol, raising our shared voices in a cry that gives me chills even now: "This is what democracy looks like!" It was easy to march with the bagpipes and be inspired by the celebrities.

And then we went home, to do the real work of democracy, from collecting signatures to communicating information to simply continuing to show up at work despite feelings of oppression.That wasn't so easy, but it was equally important.

But here we are, nearly one year after the protests began, and I  have seen the landscape transformed. People have joined together. A million recall signatures. Friendships I have watched form across differences of age, race, and lifestyle center around a shared commitment to making a change.

I have been transformed as well. I was bringing home less each paycheck than I had ten years earlier for doing the same job, and my family just couldn't afford the hit it would take. I ended up leaving the public sector after than twenty years to take a position in a private institution. My professional life is completely different now. I carry with me the feelings of oppression and anger directed toward public employees by some of my neighbors as well as former students. (Side note: When I wanted to have a fair salary, I was told that it was taxpayer money, not really mine. Yet when Scott Walker hires a criminal defense team using his own money, it's his money. Pick one, folks.)

I will never again take voting for granted. I will never again sign my name to let someone be on the ballot unless I truly support that person. (Yup, I signed Rep. Kramer's papers after shaking his hand and thinking what a nice guy he was to stand at my front door and talk to me. And then he never responded to my emails at all.) I will never again think my voice doesn't matter. I will carry the memory of watching the news on my computer when the Wisconsin 14 voted with their feet and left the state; I jumped up and shouted in excitement! I will always remember that one of the best days of my life was the day I took my daughter to Madison and passed the torch of justice to the next generation. We marched in the snow and cold, we sat in the capitol and felt the vibrations of democracy through the marble we sat on, we worked on our protest signs together, and we saw that we were connected to thousands and thousands of others who were there. 

I mostly continue to carry the sense of community I have watched and participated in. This sustained shared effort is inspiring. 

And you know what? This is way better than winning the Superbowl. This wasn't a bunch of well-paid guys on a field with coaches who had us cheering them on. This was US! We are still here. And we are the champions. No matter what happens with the elections, we have earned our self-respect, our passion, our commitment, and our pride. I just need to be sure to get a sweatshirt.

Community of Mourners

As the associate dean at my former campus, Phil was the one who hired me and who worked with me as I navigated my professional life as someone who'd left a tenured position and become and adjunct faculty member. He was the least boss-like yet most effective boss I've ever had. He always made me feel like the campus was lucky to have me, although the reverse was more true.

My last real conversation with Phil was the day I told him I'd accepted a job offer at another school. It was the only time in ten years I saw him speechless. His response was kind, supportive, and encouraging--exactly what I needed as I plunged headfirst into a new professional life.

~~~~~~~~~

The death of a colleague collides our worlds.

At work, we live in our professional worlds. Sure, there is some blurring of boundaries as we discuss our personal lives, schedule meetings around the fact that we have to relieve a spouse in graduate school of parenting duties or get a cavity filled, and see the wear and tear of life on our colleagues' faces.

In academia, the professional is personal for many of us. Scholarship and teaching are extensions of our earlier selves when we were students. Our research and writing focus our academic interests and come home with us. We engage in our intellectual work in our jammies and in the shower, not just at work. The point, I guess, is that for academics, the boundaries between personal and professional are already a bit fuzzy, just because of the nature of our work.

When a colleague dies, though, the remaining barriers are shattered for a brief time. Phil died recently; yesterday I attended his funeral service on campus. He'd been sick for a couple months, and his death sent the campus (and my friends and former colleagues) reeling.

Because I now work somewhere else, I won't experience the loss of Phil on a daily basis as so many of my friends will. I feel a bit outside the community of mourners. For several days after his death, I was incredibly sad and I cried a great deal--but I am not the one who will have to live with the loss when the spring semester begins and Phil is not there. My friends will. By the time the funeral arrived, my sadness over his death was overshadowed by my sadness for my friends who will need to live and work without him. My tears, by now, are for them.

At the funeral service, I saw grief in my friends' eyes. Man and woman alike, they cried. They shared stories--not about Phil's professionalism, but about his humanity and the way he touched their lives.

In the end, it is not the work we do but the way in which live our lives that leaves a legacy. It is right that those we spend time with cry over their loss. It means we lived well. We made a difference. And when the people we leave behind mourn and grieve together, the circle that has been left empty is at least, somehow, complete.