Drowning In White Privilege

It hit me again today, as I read the morning paper, how surrounded I am.

Surrounded by something most right wing commentators would deny even exists.

My oldest daughter is nearly fifteen.
She is on holidays, so she sleeps in late in a bed with clean sheets.
She doesn't lock her bedroom door at night because she knows she is safe inside and outside.
She pins quotes from academics and literary giants on her boards, together with color palettes and ideas for a new bedroom.
She has friends who tell her she is beautiful and worthy.
She gets told every day that she is loved, sometimes more than once.
She wears clothes that make her feel good in her body.
She has parents who set boundaries and limits and walk with her through all of her choices so she doesn't feel alone.

She's never run away from home.
Never been in legitimate fear for her life.
She's never been placed in care because her circumstances weren't safe.
She's never had to look for a decent place to crash for the night because she had no where else to go.
She's never had her face on the cover of the Winnipeg Free Press.

She's safe and sound.
White and privileged.
Middle class.
Indulged and encouraged.

And she wasn't found wrapped in a tarp floating in the Red River this week like 15 year old Tina Fontaine.

When I looked at Hannah this morning I was overwhelmed by how different her one shot at life was, compared to the one Tina got.
I was overwhelmed with the way I had everything in my arsenal as a mom to give her everything she's needed for her chance to be.
Money, safety, doctors appointments, school, support....
....but I'm white, you see.  She is too.  So is her dad.

Tina wasn't.
She was a 15 year old First Nations child, disposed of in a dirty, filthy river.

May I never  drown so much in my white privilege that I can't come up for air long and often enough to see those fighting to stay afloat around me.

ABC's, 123's, and Mental Health Education

So much has been written and published today about mental illness and suicide since the news of Robin William's tragic death broke yesterday.  In times like this I find myself "peering in" as the words appear.  I read them gingerly and cautiously with fear close behind.

I am afraid, in these days, that those who mean well and wish to offer their form of healing to those who are in despair will lead them further to the cliff's edge.  I've seen this, even today.  Perhaps you have too.  There are the posts and articles about the steps that only the Bible can offer for healing  mental illness.  They read as if to say, "If only Robin Williams had known God, this wouldn't have happened."

I don't know how to address all of this.  I do know that for many years now, I think I have had a pretty good idea of what will make a difference in combating the pain and isolation of mental illness.  It can happen by bringing the dark dogs of depression and other disorders out from the dark and dusty corners, wiping the cobwebs off of them, and placing them into the light.   Naming them.  Holding them up.  Looking at them from all corners and from all angles.  But the key to this exposure is being sure it happens early and often.

When I was a young girl, I spent hours thwarted by bouts of anxiety.  I didn't have a name for it.  All I knew is that when the weather got bad in the winter months I'd spend chunks of my school day looking out the classroom window consumed with fear.  Fear of blizzards, of icy roads, of drifting snow and bad driving conditions.  My dad worked on the road and I wanted him to make it home.  When the snowflakes started my stomach would get tight and my mind consumed.  The fear took up so much space in my heart and mind there wasn't any room left for anything else.  If I tried to turn off the fear and worry I felt I was being disloyal and betraying my role as the keeper of fear.  If I worried, and it consumed me, I was doing my "job" to make sure my dad would make it home at the end of the day.  Seeing other kids excited about the snow or enjoying the coming of a blizzard irritated me.  I felt isolated and old.  I had a job to do, and that job was to worry.  There was no time for fun or games.  If I left my post, who knew what the outcome would be?

When I think of that young girl now, I feel sadness and compassion.  If only I'd had a name for what I was living through then.  If only I could have had someone take that anxiety and put it up on a shelf and studied it with me - helped me to see that my only real job as a child was to "be"... not to worry, not to ensure the safety of others, not to stop the weather if only I prayed or wished or hoped hard enough...

When I spend time in school now, as a parent volunteering or as a substitute teacher, I see the dark dogs lapping at the feet of children nearly every time.  They are nipping at heels and tugging on leashes, and so many of the children I see are powerless to stop and silence them.  No one has given them names for what they're feeling.  No one has illuminated the dark space around them so that they can see their reality for what it is.  No one has said, "This isn't who you are and you don't need to live like this.  Let me support you in helping to find a better way."  I can't think of a more fitting place to do this than in the elementary school classroom.

If mental illness was part of every child's elementary school education, we would be shocked at the reduction of stigma in our communities.   We'd be able to give those things that are held in secret a name.  They wouldn't look as scary and wouldn't need to be as hidden and covered if we knew their names and could call them out.  We'd give children the gift of having a vocabulary to explore their feelings and challenges.  Things aren't as intimidating when you know their name.

If I'd had a name for what I experienced as a child, I'd have had power to control it.  To call it out.  I'd have been able to tell fear and worry and anxiety they were not who I was and were definitely not my job.  I'd have been able to shine a light on the dark places.  I'd have been lighter and laughed more.  I'd have spent more time making snow angels and less time begging God to stop the blizzard.

The Province of Ontario is on the right track with this.  They've started implementing mental health education in all schools and are working to develop mental health literacy among all students in the province.  This is a step in the right direction - one that Manitoba's department of education could learn from.   But there needs to be more.

I want to see more mental health professionals working within the early years, middle years, and senior years of all schools.  This is particularly important in the early years - before stigma has a chance to solidify and settle on young hearts and minds.  I want to see more accessibility to counselling services within schools in the early and middle years.  Having counsellors available one or two days a cycle, or not accessible at all isn't enough.  I want to see Guidance Counsellors having actual legitimate training in techniques and interventions to help students cope.  I want to see classroom teachers incorporating mental health literacy into their classrooms and giving their students the names and terms they need to describe what is nipping at their heels.

I want to see every child who is dogged with depression, anxiety, or another form of mental illness have the voice and the words to point to it and to say, "This isn't me.  This doesn't define me.  I am bigger and stronger, and with support, I will be OK."  Imagine how the world would change if children understood this.  Imagine how the shame and need to conceal would melt away.  Imagine those children as adults, having years of practice, skills, and language at their disposal to fight whatever they struggled with.

Let's work to end the power of mental illness by empowering our children to believe and know that with support, there is hope.

Monday With Lucie

A million years ago I used to be a teenager who loved to babysit.  There were two little girls who were on my "favorites" list.  The older of the sisters had ginger hair and freckles, while her little sister had dark hair and brown eyes.  Until they moved away, I got to watch those two little girls grow up, and I loved it.

Now I have a teenager of my own who babysits.  That older sister that I used to look after?  She has two girls of her own and just happens to live not too far from me.  Now my daughter babysits for her.  

Hannah fell in love with little Lucie the moment she met her.  She met her when she was drinking a bottle and was just learning to sit up.  Now she's two and she is precocious, adorable, observant, and full of silliness and chatter!  She also has a new baby sister at home, so the girls and I thought it would be fun to give her mom a break and have a day with Lucie.

We played...

...and built things.

We met some tiny new friends...

... and we snoozed away the afternoon with a soother and a stuffy under each arm.

And we danced.  We swung our arms from side to side and did the toddler shuffle while bouncing up and down.  We still remember how it's done.

I was the lucky one who got to lay down beside Lucie at nap time.  We chatted quietly until her eyes got heavy and breathing got slow.  I loved listening to her breathe and suck her pink soother.  I watched  her chubby hands gripping the necks of her stuffies and her little chest go up and down with each deep breath.

When she woke up the chatter began in earnest.  There was so much to say and so much to see!  I think those conversations used to exhaust me, but now they gave me life.   As I was making supper, my own three girls were playing and chatting with sweet Lucie.   I got to stand at my stove and just listen.  It sounded beautiful.  I could really hear what she was saying and take the time to savour the sound of her voice and her belly laughs.  And for a moment, Lucie faded into the background and the questions in my head became louder...

Did I laugh loud and often enough when my girls laughed?
Did I spend too much time getting them to play on their own when they only wanted a companion?
Did I stop and savour their words, their blossoming vocabulary, and the sound of their footsteps following me from one room to another?

I hope so.
Oh, I hope so.

I wish I could do it again... just for a day...

A Monday with two year old Hannah.  We'd sit and read book after book after book because she'd never tire of them.  Then we'd do it all over again.

A Monday with two year old Ellie.  We'd walk to the playground and I'd push her on the swing and hold her hand as she goes up the big big slide.

A Monday with two year old Sasha.  We'd color deliberately and carefully, just the way she likes to.  Page after page.

There'd be no hurry and I'd savour it all.

For now, I've got my days with fourteen year old Hannah and eleven year old Ellie and nine year old Sasha.  We do the things that need to be done and go for bike-rides and sit side by side on the porch, each with our own book.

My Monday with Lucie reminded me that the good stuff happens on any given Monday, of any given week.

I hope I see it and hear it - all of it - more fully.  Even the slamming doors and eye-rolls and exasperated frustration.  That is the good stuff too.

It tells a story of its own.
I don't want to be in too big a hurry to turn the pages too quickly.

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For (Or Perhaps They Haven't Found Me?)

I've often heard it said that "looking for work is a job in and of itself".  I think there are parts of that statement that ring true.  It takes effort, it takes diligence, and it's not a lot of fun.

I feel like I've spent the last year looking for work.  Last year at about this time I began my quest in earnest.  I wanted to venture out from teaching and look for a job that more closely matched my current area of study.  I perused job search engines, networked, and applied for a lot of jobs.  It was kind of fun at the beginning.  The world was my oyster and the sky was the limit.  I was sure there was going to be something that matched my skill-set and would give me great experience to combine with my master's studies.

It took a long time.

Finally, this past January I found what I hoped would be the perfect job.  It was half time, it provided me with clinical experience, and I believed in the work I'd be doing.   I breathed a huge sigh of relief that my job of searching for a job was over.  I quit checking my job matches on the search engines, I stopped checking the "Careers" section of the Free Press, and I was grateful my hunt for work was over.

Just over three months later, that search began again, in earnest.   It came along with disillusionment, sadness, cynicism, and heaviness.

I've been at it again for nearly three months.  It's no more fun this time around than it was the last time.

Anyone who has looked for work for a significant amount of time can probably relate to the varying emotions you go through when you think you've found yet another "perfect job".  After awhile, it doesn't even have to that close to perfect to fit the bill.   First there's the excitement of seeing something that piques your interest that you know you can do.  You're sure the job is meant just for you!  Anticipation builds as you picture yourself in the job.  You find out as much as you can about it, search your friends list for possible connections that can get your foot in the door, and begin the process of fine-tuning your letter and cv to fit the position.  After you spend hours perfecting both and securing references, you submit it feeling optimistic and confident, sure you'll get an interview.

You wait.  And wait.
And you don't.

It doesn't take long for rejection to hit like a  good old knock upside the head.  This is only amplified by the fact that you may have told people close to you about the great job you're SURE you're going to get an interview for, and out of kindness and curiosity they check in to see what the status is on the job.  Then you get to tell them you've been rejected.  Again.

It's a cycle that keeps repeating itself over and over.

Two weeks ago as I was about to hit "send" on my application to another one of those perfect jobs, I told Mike I didn't think I could keep doing this.  If this one doesn't come through, I don't think I can do this again.  

It didn't come through.
But this last week I did it again... because I have to.

After enough rejections you begin to look at that finely polished cv and the letter that highlights all of your strengths and you begin to doubt it all.  It almost reads like something you've made up, after awhile.  If it was true, you'd get the interview, you tell yourself.  You start to re-read it with a healthy dose of scepticism.   You talk yourself into it and write that next letter with a somewhat forced hand - as if you're trying to convince not only the potential employer but yourself that what you've written is true.

All I need is the interview, you think.  And so you do it again and again.

Maybe this next one will be "the one".
One of them just has to be.
Right?

Unconventional Wine Review

We were in church last Sunday evening.  It had been a few weeks since we had sat in the hard, upright wooden pew.  (Doesn't that sound inviting?  It's the truth though, our faith community meets in a very old, very beautiful Anglican church with the most upright backs on the pews.  There is no slouching, as slouching is not even possible!)

We sang and we sat and we stood and we passed the peace.  When we got up to take our place in the circle for communion, the familiar words rang out.  "Behold who you are.  Become what you receive."  They get me every single time.

Mike was playing violin, so the girls and I stood in our circle together, facing other parts of our community and took the piece of sweet spelt bread, then the pottery goblet in our hands and drank the (real) red wine.  It was just as it is any other Sunday night.

As soon as we got back to our hard, upright pew, Sasha leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, "I loved that.  It was SO good."  I squeezed her shoulder and agreed, yes, it was so good.

She was talking about the wine, you see.  We're hoping she won't become a lush, as our 9 year old really loves the taste of the communion wine at st. ben's.  To be fair, it is good.  It's sweet and rich and lingers long after you've swallowed.  Quite honestly, it's delicious.  And obviously, Sasha agrees.

That's how I want "it" to be and to remain for her.  Delicious.

"It" being shared faith experience.  Communion.  The body of Christ.

I want it to be free of expectation and hoop-jumping.
Void of regulation and exclusion.
Not about what she can't do and who she can't be.

I want it to be full of flavour.
Flavour on her tongue, yes, but flavours in her circle.
Heavy with differing expressions and the freedom to chase and pursue them.
Beautiful in variation and always delicious.
(It's the delicious part that will draw her back.)

I can't imagine better words to hear than "I loved that.  It was SO good."
May the wine draw her back again and again.

Just a Crack...

I have not been writing as much as I used to.  The word slow-down started when I began my job in January.  Suddenly, it seemed, there was no time for words.  I used to have space in my day and in my mind where words would take hold.   I didn't even have to try.  After I started working more, the spaces in my days and in my mind were taken over with "to do" lists and my client's stories.  So many stories.  It was almost impossible for me to write because the words of their stories took center stage.  

I missed the space for my words to find their place.

At the end of April it seemed there would be lots of time for words again.  My job was gone.  Suddenly the stories stopped.  Someone had pressed "stop" and "eject" without my permission.  Things came to a drastic, painful, all-consuming end, and I wasn't ready.  There were words in my mind and on my screen then.  Seventeen pages of words that described my experience with toxicity and confusion, and stories of others living in fear and repression.  I shared those stories and I waited.

Suddenly, I had lots of time again.

Sometimes the thing you need to do most is the very thing you oppose and push away with every morsel of your being.  It's often like this for me.  When I feel the most alone and am filled with sadness, I have an overwhelming desire to shut the blinds, lock the doors, and burrow myself into my bed, only coming out when I must.  When I have the most words to write, are the times I often feel paralysed to even open my computer.  The more I obey the feelings that isolate me, the more impossible it is to move forward.

Finally, this week, I heard stories again.  I saw people.  I heard phrases and expressions that gave way to my imagination.  The beginnings of blog posts appeared in my mind as my head lay on my pillow at night.  My consumption with the abrupt ending to the job I loved was shifting into the background.  It's still in the picture.  I can still see it in every view and every scene.  But it's no longer always in the foreground.

And so, I'll begin again.

I'll begin because it's good for me.
Because I have things to say.
Because I feel more alive when I do.
Because there are voices and stories all around me that need to be told.
Because I must.

This is my attempt at cracking the blinds open a little and letting some light in.
Perhaps,  I may even have a little light to let out.
I know there is darkness to let out;  I'll have to be ok with exposing that too.

I do know one thing.
You can't move forward unless you begin.  Again.

Pride

Today was a beautiful day for Pride.  The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and according to local media, there were record numbers of people out to show their support and celebrate the LGBTQ community in Manitoba.

The first Pride parade in Winnipeg was held in 1987.  There were 250 people in attendance.  Today, over 10,000 people came out.  What a story numbers can sometimes tell.

After last year's fight for anti-bullying legistlation which included the provision for each publically funded educational institution to have the right to have a Gay-Straight Alliance, it was rewarding to see the numbers of high school students proudly walking behind their banners.

I love the fact that the Pride parade brings out the best in people.   People are free to express themselves exactly as they want to.  They are free to express their affection for their partners and their friends in the way that they choose.  There is music and dancing, and young and old.

I was thrilled to see faith represented in a few different expressions in this year's parade.  There were several denominations marching proudly behind banners...

.... including my Alma matter - the Mennonites.  It was a proud moment!

This might have been my favorite slogan of the parade.

There was a large contingent of CBC staff out in the parade, including a big crew from DNTO.

People sometimes ask me why this is important to me.  Why we'd bring our girls out to an event like this.  Ellie and Sasha would tell you they go because it's fun.  I'd tell you that it's because there are still countries in the world in which being gay can result in a jail sentence, a beating, or death.  It's because in Canada, over half of homeless youth identify as LGBTQ, and likely found themselves in that position because they were afraid, conflicted, and unaccepted.  It's because my own personal research this year led me to discover that suicide rates among those in the church who identify as LGBTQ are substantially higher than those who do not.

I'd tell you that I support people to love who they choose, and I value them exactly as they are.

For the record, I think God does too.

Today was a great reason to celebrate.