The first thing people say to me when we meet is how I look like someone they know or have met before. This is a good quality to have when you are a journalist, simply because people will tell you things they might not tell any other stranger.
Lately though, I see myself that way. Like someone I used to know. Things have changed and it is hard to keep up with my thoughts anymore.
I listened to this guy talking loudly in my direction about his account on Tinder, directly to me about having all kinds of fruity alcohol for girls to come over and spend time at his house and only having responsibility every other weekend. All I could think about was the safety of my kid. She'd been invited to a pool party, a surprise birthday party for her friend. When I arrived to drop her off, the mom offered me a beer.
I made the choice to stay because I don't know their drinking habits well enough to know how responsible they would be with my daughter. I knew the guy who was talking to me was the birthday girl's dad and that he had recently divorced from her mom, who was there with her new boyfriend. This is drama in the making. So I stayed.
I stayed because people who drink at a child's birthday party at a pool is a safety issue. I know that guy was trying to use his charm and drop all kinds of hints but . . . everything felt wrong. These people were not my crowd. It feels weird to say that because I have always felt that all people are my crowd but they are not.
It feels elitist to say I do things differently and I don't know why I felt they weren't putting the kids first.
It isn't only things like that, though. Not long after I finished my degree, one of my friends accused me of looking down on her because she wasn't as educated as I am. I was trying to offer her resources trying to steer the dysfunction of her family that exploded in my kitchen on a sunny Sunday after church, back to a healthier situation for all of them. I thought about it later and I realized that she would never understand where I came from, that I had to work hard and sacrifice relationships and sleep and sanity to achieve what I achieved. That I spent so many bleary nights wondering if my coffee intake was going to cause me a heart attack even if the stress from worrying about it didn't.
I schlucked through two of the most damaging lessons about love I could have gone through. But I still try to keep my heart open though my hope occasionally wanes. Then I suffered professionally what many people take as a politically left leaning bent about women in leadership in the federal government.
And I have come to know that others may never truly understand how truly tired I am of forging a path through life. But I have to keep moving forward, even though I desperately want to find a place to rest. I have to keep moving forward because there is a small person who needs to learn that though she will suffer heartache, there is a way to overcome it. Needs someone to help her navigate the slough of emotions that she will have to sort as she meets life's challenges. Someone to teach her how to assess consequences for her life choices and balance whether the possible outcomes are worth what you have to give up to acheive them. Someone to fill in the rest of the phrase when she asks out loud, "What if I fail?" By adding, "What if you succeed?"
It isn't enough to buy her art lessons when she says she wants to be an artist, I have to expose her to the many things in the world that inspire the greatness she sees in herself that will get worn by time and torn by circumstances. Then turn all of that into something that connects with the soul of others who will identify with her vision of life. The will recognize something in her art that teaches her that on the outside, some of us may stand out, but on the inside we are all connected somehow. That the thing that people recognize in her is that little thing that makes them the same. That she will never look in the mirror and not recognize herself.
There is a lot of work to do, there is no time to rest.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
The Coffee Club
My second job was as a dishwasher at a country café in a small, small Wyoming town. The woman who owned the place was that wonderful combination of country and girl. The kind of woman who can rope and tie a calf for branding in less than 8 seconds but also cries at Olympic Pairs Figure Skating.
She was older and her husband bought her the café because she retired from working the farm. The Senior Center was attached to the café and every day at noon there were a hoard of elderly country folks who would file in and commune over mass prepared meatloaf and potatoes and gross pudding deserts. (I hate pudding from a can.) For some of those people this was the only balanced meal they would get each day.
In the main café at breakfast, people would bring their unsuspecting friends in to try the "short stack" of pancakes. When the server would start to tell them the pancake is the size of a large pizza plate, their friend would shake their head in a knowing way. The price didn't suggest anything unusual but when the pancake was brought out, the unsuspecting friend's eyes would be the size of the pancake. Then realizing they'd ordered two was always a special treat.
The leftovers were scraped into a bucket and fed to the owner's dog later in the day. Any other dog would just look fat and happy but this was a working dog, he needed the extra calories. Table scraps were a necessity.
Of all the things I hated washing, I hated washing silverware the most. There was a lot of it. Even at home, to this day, I wash silverware first just to get it over with.
I never truly appreciated that place until now. I loved it when I was there but just now is the impact of what happened every day making sense.
In the morning, every morning, the owner would unlock the door but leave the lights off. My mom would be prepping for the day in the kitchen and the light from the kitchen provided just enough light to see the tables. They would trickle in one by one. They would sit quietly in the dark and drink coffee.
Most of them were farmers or ranchers. They would gather around the table, the server would bring them a cup of coffee and the unspoken conversation would commence. Every once in a while someone's wife would want to come along, just to see where they went every day. Those days were never as peaceful. Women have to fill the silence. I believe the term that was used to describe their chatter was "hen clucking". The wives just didn't get it.
Toward the end of an hour someone would grab the cup of dice and they would roll to see who was paying for everyone's coffee then they would get up and head off to start which ever chore starts their farming day. The owner would turn on the lights and the café was open.
Later in the morning they were all back around the same table only this time they would talk about their day. This time they might order breakfast. This time they told stories. My favorite was the one they called "the fisherman". He had retired some time before and spent most of his days fishing. He had a full set of false uppers he refused to glue in. When he told his big fish stories his teeth would bobble up and down in his mouth. It was awesome. Every one of those men aspired to be an old fisherman so this man was revered.
Over stories of broken fences and tractors, agreements were made, barns raised, help disbursed. It is where farm commerce happened with a knowing glance and a hand shake. This was a time when people gave their word and it meant something.
I look back at the last few years this venue has been largely silent and realize how much "hen clucking" has distracted me from an important part of the day. The part of the day you don't have to fill with noise. I realize that we all have to have some moments of silence. Maybe to gain some perspective, maybe to reflect. Maybe just to clear our heads. I have been so ambitious that I have forgotten the meaning of Ranch Hand coffee. So this morning in honor of the old fisherman and the farmers and the ranchers, I sit in my kitchen, with the glow of the lamp from the living room peeking around the corner and I am sipping my coffee in silence. Any minute an alarm will go off, the lights will come on and the responsibilities that color the day can begin. Until then I plan not to think. To let there be silence in my head.
She was older and her husband bought her the café because she retired from working the farm. The Senior Center was attached to the café and every day at noon there were a hoard of elderly country folks who would file in and commune over mass prepared meatloaf and potatoes and gross pudding deserts. (I hate pudding from a can.) For some of those people this was the only balanced meal they would get each day.
In the main café at breakfast, people would bring their unsuspecting friends in to try the "short stack" of pancakes. When the server would start to tell them the pancake is the size of a large pizza plate, their friend would shake their head in a knowing way. The price didn't suggest anything unusual but when the pancake was brought out, the unsuspecting friend's eyes would be the size of the pancake. Then realizing they'd ordered two was always a special treat.
The leftovers were scraped into a bucket and fed to the owner's dog later in the day. Any other dog would just look fat and happy but this was a working dog, he needed the extra calories. Table scraps were a necessity.
Of all the things I hated washing, I hated washing silverware the most. There was a lot of it. Even at home, to this day, I wash silverware first just to get it over with.
I never truly appreciated that place until now. I loved it when I was there but just now is the impact of what happened every day making sense.
In the morning, every morning, the owner would unlock the door but leave the lights off. My mom would be prepping for the day in the kitchen and the light from the kitchen provided just enough light to see the tables. They would trickle in one by one. They would sit quietly in the dark and drink coffee.
Most of them were farmers or ranchers. They would gather around the table, the server would bring them a cup of coffee and the unspoken conversation would commence. Every once in a while someone's wife would want to come along, just to see where they went every day. Those days were never as peaceful. Women have to fill the silence. I believe the term that was used to describe their chatter was "hen clucking". The wives just didn't get it.
Toward the end of an hour someone would grab the cup of dice and they would roll to see who was paying for everyone's coffee then they would get up and head off to start which ever chore starts their farming day. The owner would turn on the lights and the café was open.
Later in the morning they were all back around the same table only this time they would talk about their day. This time they might order breakfast. This time they told stories. My favorite was the one they called "the fisherman". He had retired some time before and spent most of his days fishing. He had a full set of false uppers he refused to glue in. When he told his big fish stories his teeth would bobble up and down in his mouth. It was awesome. Every one of those men aspired to be an old fisherman so this man was revered.
Over stories of broken fences and tractors, agreements were made, barns raised, help disbursed. It is where farm commerce happened with a knowing glance and a hand shake. This was a time when people gave their word and it meant something.
I look back at the last few years this venue has been largely silent and realize how much "hen clucking" has distracted me from an important part of the day. The part of the day you don't have to fill with noise. I realize that we all have to have some moments of silence. Maybe to gain some perspective, maybe to reflect. Maybe just to clear our heads. I have been so ambitious that I have forgotten the meaning of Ranch Hand coffee. So this morning in honor of the old fisherman and the farmers and the ranchers, I sit in my kitchen, with the glow of the lamp from the living room peeking around the corner and I am sipping my coffee in silence. Any minute an alarm will go off, the lights will come on and the responsibilities that color the day can begin. Until then I plan not to think. To let there be silence in my head.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
One more week starting today.
I haven't been good about updating this blog. But in one week from today I will attend my last class for my master's program. Then I will carve out the time to write for leisure. I've missed you my friends. Soon . . . soon. First up, First Grade - Final Grade.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Proud as punch. Whatever that means.
Xyla's daycare classroom has taken up writing down little snippets of what happens with our children's day. You get some information from the informal parent/teacher conference twice a year but it isn't enough to give you a clear picture about your child's behavior from day to day. As a way to keep parents informed, the teachers in our classroom will write down something fun or awesome, sometimes mundane, sometimes if they had a really sucky day. This is more than you would get from other day cares of the same size. Generally there is so much going on that they can't tell you which kid is yours let alone what your kid did today.
And they point to the lesson plan or the meal plan but you know that what is written there usually never really happens. You have no idea how much they have eaten because there are 11 other kids who will take any opportunity to wear their food for a laugh. I know it has to be exhausting. That's why I appreciate that they take the time to do it. As often as you take the little card, they fill up another one.
Y'all. I don't mean to brag but I have to tell you, as I have already told her, how proud I am of her. Of course most days I get cards with mundane items like - Xyla played in the tar pit for half an hour. She really liked it and said she liked putting the dinosaurs in the "tar". But then at least once a week I also see ones that say, "Xyla was a good friend today. She saw one of her friends crying and gave them a hug and told them it was going to be ok."
The one I got today. It damn near made me cry. I am . . . I can't even tell you how proud. Today her card read, "Xyla was a good friend today. Her and her friend were practicing writing letters. When her friend got frustrated, Xyla encouraged her friend to keep trying and complimented them on how well they were doing."
My kid is showing positive leadership skills.
Every day I go to bed wondering if I have been too hard on her for telling her to stop crying over the fact that her bubble gum didn't make the bubble she wanted it to. That was yesterday. The last few weeks she has become very emotional over every little thing that goes wrong. And by wrong I don't mean on the scale of "I bit my toungue and it really, really hurts" but more like "my donut is facing the wrong direction and I am going to cry until it magically turns around" or "mommy, I can't whistle".
Of course we have all had those days. Those days where with every little thing that goes wrong even something like getting your donut turned wrong just sends you over the tearful waterfall. She has been having a lot of them lately. I wonder if she has been feeling my stress over losing a good friend to retirement. I wonder if she is just really missing her daddy, whom she loves very much. I wonder what is going on in her mind. And I do the best I can to help her see that no one blows bubbles right the first time. No one, even mommy, is perfect at tying shoes. But the only way we get good at anything is to keep trying until we get it right.
But what I know is that with a report like this from her school that I have been doing one thing right. That is how to show compassion and care about others. It is not an easy thing to do. She knows that most of the kids in her class are now younger than her. She knows that the only way they have to communicate is to cry, loudly until whatever is wrong is fixed. She knows that I expect her to help herself. I give her comfort, I help her focus on what is important, I help her see that crying doesn't make anything happen. That just because a problem doesn't get solved the first time that you shouldn't give up. That you can try different things to solve it, or you can try the same thing a little differently and get the result you were looking for.
I have a lot to learn from her.
And they point to the lesson plan or the meal plan but you know that what is written there usually never really happens. You have no idea how much they have eaten because there are 11 other kids who will take any opportunity to wear their food for a laugh. I know it has to be exhausting. That's why I appreciate that they take the time to do it. As often as you take the little card, they fill up another one.
Y'all. I don't mean to brag but I have to tell you, as I have already told her, how proud I am of her. Of course most days I get cards with mundane items like - Xyla played in the tar pit for half an hour. She really liked it and said she liked putting the dinosaurs in the "tar". But then at least once a week I also see ones that say, "Xyla was a good friend today. She saw one of her friends crying and gave them a hug and told them it was going to be ok."
The one I got today. It damn near made me cry. I am . . . I can't even tell you how proud. Today her card read, "Xyla was a good friend today. Her and her friend were practicing writing letters. When her friend got frustrated, Xyla encouraged her friend to keep trying and complimented them on how well they were doing."
My kid is showing positive leadership skills.
Every day I go to bed wondering if I have been too hard on her for telling her to stop crying over the fact that her bubble gum didn't make the bubble she wanted it to. That was yesterday. The last few weeks she has become very emotional over every little thing that goes wrong. And by wrong I don't mean on the scale of "I bit my toungue and it really, really hurts" but more like "my donut is facing the wrong direction and I am going to cry until it magically turns around" or "mommy, I can't whistle".
Of course we have all had those days. Those days where with every little thing that goes wrong even something like getting your donut turned wrong just sends you over the tearful waterfall. She has been having a lot of them lately. I wonder if she has been feeling my stress over losing a good friend to retirement. I wonder if she is just really missing her daddy, whom she loves very much. I wonder what is going on in her mind. And I do the best I can to help her see that no one blows bubbles right the first time. No one, even mommy, is perfect at tying shoes. But the only way we get good at anything is to keep trying until we get it right.
But what I know is that with a report like this from her school that I have been doing one thing right. That is how to show compassion and care about others. It is not an easy thing to do. She knows that most of the kids in her class are now younger than her. She knows that the only way they have to communicate is to cry, loudly until whatever is wrong is fixed. She knows that I expect her to help herself. I give her comfort, I help her focus on what is important, I help her see that crying doesn't make anything happen. That just because a problem doesn't get solved the first time that you shouldn't give up. That you can try different things to solve it, or you can try the same thing a little differently and get the result you were looking for.
I have a lot to learn from her.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
A whole new year.
I haven't published in a while. Life has kind of . . . overwhelmed me. Part of the reason I haven't written much is because half of things I can't talk about. By that I mean that anything I say regarding the topic of why we left Oklahoma and why that situation continues to be a struggle - are ongoing. Nothing has been resolved and it leaves me with a sick feeling in my stomach not to be able to explain what is going on. I feel like my story could help someone else. Especially since I have researched it to death and have things to share.
Those who know me are laughing right now because . . . I LIKE to share. I am afraid that if I divulge what is going on while I am in the midst of it, my emotions can be used against me and I have worked very hard to be objective in the matter. Fear not, though because I have been writing things down in my notebook and I will start going over them retroactively as soon as what has been the major source of my anxiety for the last 5 years passes.
That said, I want to apologize to those of you who feel left in the dark in the meantime.
A tiny nugget for thought. I have been accepted to and will start class on Jan 9 in a Native American Studies program at Montana State University. I panicked some of my friend when I announced this a few weeks ago. I want everyone to know that I am not moving to Montana. I am taking the course online. A person from Utah taking a proprietary course from a Montana University - I am sure they will be bragging about it at some point. I don't mind.
Those who know me are laughing right now because . . . I LIKE to share. I am afraid that if I divulge what is going on while I am in the midst of it, my emotions can be used against me and I have worked very hard to be objective in the matter. Fear not, though because I have been writing things down in my notebook and I will start going over them retroactively as soon as what has been the major source of my anxiety for the last 5 years passes.
That said, I want to apologize to those of you who feel left in the dark in the meantime.
A tiny nugget for thought. I have been accepted to and will start class on Jan 9 in a Native American Studies program at Montana State University. I panicked some of my friend when I announced this a few weeks ago. I want everyone to know that I am not moving to Montana. I am taking the course online. A person from Utah taking a proprietary course from a Montana University - I am sure they will be bragging about it at some point. I don't mind.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
The one in which I teach her about temptation.
I like to indulge this little girl every so often. The occasion of her birthday brings all manner of candy from people who don't realize that we try really hard to keep candy out of the conversation. Because it is her birthday candy I have to let her eat some.
Last night, I am cooking dinner. She says she wants a piece of her candy. I tell her that she can only eat it after she has some dinner. She says she wants to take a particular piece of candy out to the living room and put it on the table and she promises she won't eat it until after dinner.
I drop down on my knees. I tell her what she is talking about doing is called temptation. I tell her that she is talking about tempting herself to disobey what I told her. I tell her that she can take it to the living room and place it on the table but that she is not to open or eat it until after dinner. I had been promising her a fruit popsicle all day (for after dinner). I tell her, "if you leave it on the table until after dinner you may have the piece of candy and the popsicle." Her eyes light up. I tell her that if I come into the living room and she has opened or is eating the candy that I will take the candy away and she will also have to give up the popsicle and still have to eat dinner. I ask her if she understands. She says yes.
I tell her, you may take the candy to the living room now. She holds the candy in her hand and peels out around the corner to the living room. With small children I knew this could go either way. I was going to wait two minutes then come out to the living room to see how she had fared. I was really hoping that she would put it on the table and leave it. It surprised me when mere seconds later she comes back around the corner and hands me the piece of candy and says she wants to put it away for now but would like to eat it after dinner.
I am so proud of this girl. Best Mother's Day gift ever.
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