my life story (Page 2)

When Bran and I discussed some of the idea of white people working with other white people about our antiracism work, a question I wanted to ask her (and very well may in a future post) is maybe it’s not that white people shouldn’t have those spaces, but that Black people should have more spaces without white people? I was reminded of a story I’ve heard over the years in our family about disappointing and harmful attitudes about creating safe spaces for Black people. I asked my father to tell it to me again. Here’s what he said:
In the late sixties and early seventies, Wellesley College, the prestigious all-women’s institution in the Boston area, had roughly thirty African-American students out of a student body of about 1200 undergraduates.  In an act of solidarity, those students banded together to demand that the college’s administration should provide them with a student center of their own. At that time, many of the college’s white students used the college’s elegant and spacious student center, from which the black students felt alienated. White students also had access to three gracious social clubs, akin to sororities. Black students had no place to congregate just by themselves, no place to prepare the food they might want to eat or to listen to the music they might want to hear or to entertain black male guests or just to be together without having to think about justifying their own presence in the wider college world.
So the black students decided to organize to bring pressure on the college administration to designate one of the college’s social clubs as a black cultural center.  At that time the college administration and many undergraduate students opposed that proposal, often on the grounds that the college was a single community which did not set aside facilities for “special interest groups.”  The administration argued that the student body should be one body, defined by what was then regarded as progressive social values such as “integration.”
Nevertheless, and against much social pressure, the black students organized to demand that one of the social clubs be set aside for them.  The administration and the majority of the student body opposed them.  Black students found support from only a handful of faculty and from the College’s Chaplaincy, sparked at that time by a Black Episcopal Chaplain.  The black student group, which took the name Ethos, eventually voted unanimously to picket the college President’s office and to call in the Boston area press.  At that point, the administration relented, and made one social club available to Ethos.
Along the way, many of the black students paid a large personal price in terms of friendships and collegial relationships with other students and with faculty members.  Many black students found themselves shunned by other (white) students and by a virtually all-white faculty.  It was a wrenching time for these black students, most of whom had never “protested” in this way, most of whom wanted nothing more than to do their academic work, to have a few friends of their own choosing, and to graduate to promising futures.  But very few of them, in retrospect, ever regretted the fact that they had chosen to band together in solidarity and to claim a meaningful space of their own at that prestigious, upper-middle-class white women’s institution of higher learning.
Fast forward to about a year later.  By that time, Ethos has not only become a thriving cultural and social center for black students, the group had created its own choir, which, from time to time, sang its own traditional and contemporary black music on Sundays in the College’s Chapel.  That Chapel at the time had become a center for worship and preaching that lifted up the vision of Jesus as a champion of liberation of the oppressed.
On one Sunday in particular, the Rev. Jesse Jackson had been invited to preach.  Members of the Ethos Choir practiced eagerly in anticipation of the visit from this then nationally known black progressive leader.  When Jackson arrived on campus, however, he mainly kept to himself and socialized with the entourage of supporters that he had brought with him.  Jackson made no serious effort to talk with Ethos members to hear their concerns or to learn about their struggles at the college.
So it happened that during his sermon Jackson advanced the idea that blacks needed to engage white society on its own terms and to take over positions of power on their own in the wider society.  As a contrast, he pointed from the pulpit in the direction of Ethos’ new social center and said words to this effect:  “we have to get out of a ghetto mentality and get out of our segregated communities like that little house over there — and claim power of our own.”  While there very well might have been validity in Jesse Jackson’s larger point as far as the society as a whole was concerned, his words had the effect of devastating the hearts and minds of the small number of black students who had fought so hard for a place of their own in their wider campus world at that time.  He ended up giving a — probably valid — sermon on black aspirations in America, but it turned out, due to his failure to keep his ear to the ground and to listen to the voices of the college’s own black students, to be a disaster for the black students themselves who had struggled so hard for a place of their own in that all-white setting.  At the time, the one black administrator at Wellesley College was heard to observe to a few friends:  “not everything that glistens black is black.”

Like everyone I know, the reality that Tr*mp may continue to encourage violence, that COVID-19 will continue to rage, that people will have to risk their lives if they want to vote, that Biden/Harris might not change things all that much and… and… and…
…the list is too, too long and massive to do it justice.

I am scared. Some of that fear has to do with my children, some has to do with feelings of helplessness, but most of it has to do with all of the people whose lives are directly at risk. I say “directly at risk” because I believe the system of racial capitalism and white supremacy is killing all of us in different ways. But Black, Latinx, Indigenous, and all people of color, plus LGBTQ people, immigrants, refugees, asylum seekers, disabled people… this list also goes on… have already faced violence in this country. All poor people, even those who are white and even those who are Tr*mp supporters, are being killed directly by the current systems and can expect to have harder lives in the coming years. No healthcare, poverty, underfunded schools, the criminalization of everyday life… All of it.

On twitter, I’ve seen many Black and Indigenous people (white people, too) talking about having plans for surviving these times. Plans include staying away from the Internet, or sticking to joyful content.

As a white woman from a background of socioeconomic privilege, sharing photos of joyful moments risks seeming oblivious to what’s going on. As I sit here, I’ve decided that letting the pain and despair I’m feeling on behalf of all of us overwhelm me doesn’t help anyone. For this moment, I’m thinking that being of service might sometimes mean sharing small joys. What I want is for everyone to have joys like this (I mean the kinds of joys you want). Everyone deserves to be so lucky. And those of us who already are so lucky need to keep working to make sure the luck is shared.

From the mountains of Maine: this morning there were lovely tiny snowflakes over the garden I tried to capture (I can’t see them in the photo). A cast iron stove warming the room. (Not seen: butternut squash roasting, piles of papers finally sorted, a cup of Earl Grey tea with a splash of heavy cream, a full bird feeder with frequent Goldfinch and Pine Siskin visitors.)
cast iron stove with fire inside next to stacks of cut wood
view of mountains, leafless trees, garden of soil, blue sky with grey clouds

This week I am up in the mountains of Maine all by myself. No children, no parents, no pets. Just me. For many reasons, and the worldwide crises (googling “crisis plural”) is definitely among them, I may post a lot of small posts on this here web log. Just a head’s up, especially for those of you who get my posts by email!
Here’s where I am (heart emoji x a thousand):

24 years ago today (tonight) I was wondering how I’d gotten drunk and high again after telling myself I was going to quit. In fact, I had quit drinking! for three months! It’s just that I celebrated how easy it was to quit by drinking a lot of vodka lemonades and getting stoned. (It made sense at the time?)

24 years ago, I didn’t know I was allergic to alcohol. I didn’t know my brain worked in some very specific mixed up ways. First, putting alcohol into my system sets off a phenomenon of craving that I can’t resist. I don’t just want more. It feels like I *need* more. I MUST have more! It’s an allergic reaction (abnormal reaction) beyond my control. (Just like people allergic to peanuts have a reaction they can’t control.) This inability to control how much I drink leads to all the kinds of ugliness that getting too wasted can bring (to put it mildly).

The second way my brain is mixed up is that I’m not able to hold on to the truth that I can’t drink alcohol safely. There’s a gap there that never goes away if I rely entirely on education, intellect, or personal will power. If I TRY with all of my might to remember that drinking alcohol leads to bad, bad consequences, I’ll eventually forget and I’ll drink again.

As a part of a community of people with the same problem, I used what is commonly known as a “twelve step program” to clear away the wreckage of my past and start growing spiritually. Through that work, I found freedom. Life still has its ups and downs, of course, but I’m able to hold on to the truth that I can’t drink alcohol safely. That truth stays in my brain because I’ve developed a spiritual life, a connection to a power greater than myself. I call it god, but that’s really a shortcut for “whatever is just beyond human understanding” so what it actually *is* changes all the time.

Living a life without alcohol and drugs is my normal now. It’s simply not an issue. Because I need to keep enlarging my spiritual life, I stay connected to that fellowship of recovering alcoholics. I share my experience, strength, and hope with other people with substance use disorder. I mentor people who want to know “how I did it,” in the same way I was mentored over the last 24 years. The people who remind me what it was like give me so many gifts! And I get to say, hey, it doesn’t have to be a struggle to live without drugs and alcohol. 🙂

The other day I was talking with my daughters about being in long-term recovery, how I was trying to remember what it was like to hear someone say they were sober for as long as I’ve been now. I think early on I would’ve both been awestruck and also terrified and horrified. There’s a reason we talk about taking things one day at a time. If I would’ve tried to commit to never drinking again, I surely would’ve lost it. I was able to take it one day at a time (sometimes 10 minutes at a time) and not drink. As the time free from alcohol began adding up, I was able to work on my spiritual life and find a way to know peace.

24 years ago tomorrow was my first 24 hours on the journey of recovery. It’s a good life.

How do I title these posts that are essentially train-of-thought? Today I’m writing the title based on some thoughts I had in the last couple hours and I’ll see what comes up as I write.

Ah-ha! My groceries are being delivered. I can see the helper bringing bags to the porch as I sit outside “working” (writing this post at the moment) in the sunshine. I love (and can currently afford) to tip really well. I am so grateful for the risks she just took for me!

If I was someone who bought stock, I’d buy stock in the company that sells computer domes. I love mine so much and I have been telling everyone about them. We’re all so tired of being on all these video calls, but if we can at least sit outside to do it? Tah-dah!

Topic change! On the bird feeder so far Ive seen one chickadee, one goldfinch, and many appearances of house and chipping sparrows. I haven’t walked with intentional birdwatching as the focus since I posted last. But I do know there’s a starling pair (I assume? though I only ever see one at a time) with babies in the gutter of our neighbor’s house. WOW. Those parents work hard!

Changing topic again! Talking with a White friend about the concept of White supremacy culture today was lovely. We were on a call for topics not obviously related to racism, but I shared with her how what I’ve learned about White supremacy culture has me stretching my concept of “how things are done.” Time, especially, as it loses and morphs meanings in this pandemic.

Relationships with BIPOC have had challenges for me and for my (very few, as is typical for so many of us White people) BIPOC friends. For me, anti-racism is sometimes just doing things differently than I have “always done them,” following the lead of other cultures, and learning as I go. I’m grateful to have a couple friendships deep enough to process the miscommunications and biases together when they come up.

I won’t speak for my friend and our private conversation, but she and I have also worked on finding the courage to speak honestly about racism. She comes from a much more conservative framework, and I’m grateful we’ve practice saying what we’re really thinking from a loving and non-judgmental place.

Listening is a bigger part of bird-watching than I knew until I started it. Now I hear bird calls and songs (I’m still not clear on how those differ) all the time. Some I now easily recognize. Most blend into each other like they used to always do. (I knew I’d find analogies or metaphors or teaching moments in bird watching and the rest of my life! Listening, hearing differently, is a big part of my anti-racism work.)

I’m tempted now to stop typing because this is getting long and I don’t want people to associate LONG READ with what I write, but I do want to get out a few more thoughts.

I’m not sure if I’ve written on here before about the fact that I have an autoimmune disorder? Well, I do. It’s most likely rheumatoid arthritis (that’s what I call it for the shorthand) or possibly psoriatic arthritis. Both diseases have similar prognoses and treatments, so which one it is doesn’t really matter. We caught it early, so I’m lucky.

But, living with this disease has been challenging on many levels. This past week I had what I now recognize as a “flare.” I think it was the worst one I’ve had (though my brain tends to minimize/forget previous pain so I can’t be sure). I was close to tears on and off throughout the day for a two or three days. If I stopped moving, starting to move again was excruciating (words fail). I was weak in ways I’ve never experienced — holding my coffee mug made my arm tired? Anyway, my rheumatologist is wonderful and accessible via the patient portal. I’ve started a short burst of prednisone and found relief almost immediately (within the first day).

The medications I take regularly to treat this disease impact my immune system. It’s not that I don’t have an immune system, my doctor assures me, but there is a pathway that isn’t there at the moment. A different pathway will be knocked out and the current pathway will be back up when I change medications in a week or so as part of our years-long exploration of what treats these symptoms best. (I did take Tr*mp’s favorite, Plaquenil (hydroxychloroquine), for a while but it didn’t resolve my issues.)

During this pandemic, having an even slightly compromised immune system adds to my daily awareness that we all need to look out for each other. You don’t know who might be high risk, so we need to assume everyone is. You don’t know for sure that you don’t have COVID-19 (so many are asymptomatic) so if you care about people other than yourself, you need to wear a mask. Please.