Memorial Day is considered the official start of summer, and usually kicks off a series of camping trips, barbecues, and family gatherings that roll on till September. And despite the notoriously wet weather that normally greets us on this end-of-May holiday, I'm usually down with the slip-n-slide, burgers on the grill mindset.
Sure, we all know that Memorial Day is officially meant for remembering those dear souls who have passed before us, especially those who gave their lives in service to our country. We hang our flags and visit the cemeteries and maybe tell a few stories about our fallen heroes. These are important acts too.
But this year feels very different to me. Because I'm in the middle of watching the Ken Burns documentary series on the Vietnam War, and it is rocking my world. As a little girl just beginning to figure out life during those war years, I found it very difficult to piece together the tidbits of information I slowly accumulated about this terrible conflict on the other side of the world that was threatening to tear apart the fabric of my simple life. Like most other girls my age, I sent away for a stainless steel POW bracelet and wore it on my arm till it fell off one day while I was swimming and I saw many a protest on the familiar campus at nearby University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, where my eyes just barely could peek out at the bottom of the car window as we drove past.
Now I understand why. Even as a seasoned adult, I'm just beginning to understand what a truly complicated, frustrating, one-of-a-kind rat trap that war turned out to be. I have a certain amount of compassion and understanding for all the political players and military honchos who just did not understand what they were up against. I can easily wrap my head around the thinking of the voices of protest who demanded that we, as a country, make love not war, though I can see now that in their intense frustration, protesters sometimes went too far in their violence and aggressive postures.
And while I feel frustration and anger for the motivations of the North Vietnamese who determined to convert their country to communism at any cost, my heart breaks over and over again for the people of Vietnam who simply tried to live their lives in the midst of a literal war zone. Since I've been lucky enough to visit that country three times while my third-born daughter was living and teaching English there, I feel a personal connection to the gentle people and the now-familiar places that feature so prominently in the story of the war, and suffered such profound loss.
But as the 17-hour series unfolds, one message comes through loud and clear to me: the vast majority of the young men - boys, really - who put their boots on the ground in Vietnam and tried to do the job they were sent to do are heroes. When I hear the full story, I realize that many of the atrocities they reportedly committed - that haunted my nightmares as a child - are much more complicated and nuanced than simply American soldiers gone rogue. There is ample evidence that most of the U.S. Soldiers did what they could to make the best out of an absolutely awful situation, and they gave their lives with great courage and selflessness.
And so on this Memorial Day, I lift up the lives of the 58,318 American soldiers who died in the terrible mess of the Vietnam War, and thank them with all my heart for their service.
The history of the human race is written with countless struggles of persecuted people against their oppressors. Race, along with gender and religion, has been a classic dividing line and for millennia, judging people according to the color of their skin was considered simply to be the way the world worked.
Though change has burbled up in different places at different times, here in the United States, a nation founded on the idea of freedom, we have struggled mightily with the concept of race.
In the mid-1800s, abolitionists raised their voices to demand change in the nation's attitudes toward slavery.
The American Civil War was fought in the 1860s at great cost of human life to bring that system of degradation and dehumanization to and end.
During the 1960s, a new wave of civil rights swept over the country, attempting to wipe away the ugly vestiges of slavery that still lingered in the form of Jim Crow laws, segregation, suppressed voting rights, and ugly discrimination.
I remember those days.
The calm, measured tones of Martin Luther King Jr. And his beautiful leadership of nonviolent protest.
The dignity of artists of the day - Sidney Poitier, Maya Angelou, Jimi Hendrix, Jacob Lawrence, Berry Gordy Jr. - who showed us the rich treasures of black contributions to our culture
And I remember the violence of race riots and street wars that swept the country, including my own Detroit, as black tempers boiled over in frustrations at the slow progress Americans made in recognizing and respecting our black brothers and sisters.
I never understood those terms, black and white. Aren't we all just different shades of brown?
I'm very thankful that my mother raised me to value people of all colors. When I was four or five, I remember telling her that I didn't understand how people could think skin color mattered, because it's just the outside layer of our bodies. If everyone is the same on the inside, how could their color make any difference?
"Yes. You're right," she told me. "We're all the same."
And I've always been grateful for that.
Amidst the terrible chaos of the sixties, I often thought, Surely America is finally learning her lesson. By the time I'm grown up, we will all live in love.
And I must point out that things did get better. As much as we still find ourselves today walking the edge of the sharp blade of racism, I can cite one simple example of just how far we have come: Until 1967, interracial marriage was literally against the law. And for as long as two decades after that, even though I lived near one major college campus and attended another, and then worked in the heart of a major city, I did not know a since interracial couple nor did I see them anywhere in the world. Nowadays, mixed race couples show up routinely in everyday life and barely even register in our awareness. In some ways, we have learned to live together.
But sadly, maddeningly, horrifically, racial violence continues. And that is unacceptable.
Why? I ask myself, over and over, with each new name added to the list of dead black men, needlessly killed at the hands of whites.
Why can't we learn this simple lesson to judge our brothers and sisters not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character?
I daresay no one knows why it's taking us so long.
Yes, we need to improve our social systems to prevent the outrageous acts of police violence against black citizens, to correct imbalanced sentencing practices, to call out our leaders - especially our president - who shamelessly expose their racist attitudes.
We need to vote carefully, use our power as citizens to speak out, and hold our institutions accountable to building a fair and equitable society for people of all colors.
But I am convinced that the truest, deepest answer to our problem is profoundly simple.
In our day-to-day interactions, we with the palest skin have a special responsibility to treat all our brothers and sisters with
Compassion.
Empathy.
Acceptance.
Equality
Respect.
Love.
We are all everyday people, and it's high time that as a nation, we started acting like it.
These past few days, I've been riding the George Floyd/Black Lives Matter wave on social media.
Acknowledging our black brothers' and sisters' reality.
Advocating for love and compassion.
Actively speaking my truth.
Encouraging others to speak theirs.
As a part of that well-intended surge of positive energy, this morning, I posted the image shown above - "Silence is not an option." - with my own caption:
Say what's on your mind. Say what's on your heart. Speak your truth. Quote beautiful quotes. Repost, retweet, repeat. Because now is an important time for our great national conversation on race, brotherhood, and peace among the people to move forward and we need to hear each voice. We need to hear your voice. So please. Speak up.
I didn't think it was a bad post. Reading it back even now, I can see my good intentions and positive vibes.
But in my very next scroll, I came acrossanother post, headed up by the now-familiar solid black square and these words, posted by Jen Gotch, an Instagram influencer, business leader, and passionate advocate and author on mental health, especially her own life-long struggles with depression and bi-polar disorder.
I imagine for many it is clear that I wholeheartedly do not feel equipped in any way to navigate what is happening. Normally, when I feel overwhelmed and confused, I retreat. I think, I read, I listen and I hope to learn. I hope to gain certainty, so that I can participate with confidence and conviction. So that I can participate without inadvertently hurting others with my words or my ignorance. So I took some time over the past few days to do just that and quickly realized that the learning I would need to accomplish to get to a comfort level that would make me feel prepared to participate in any way would take more than a weekend, more than a month, it would take the rest of my life and even then it wouldn?T be enough. I was also prioritizing my need to not feel publicly shamed or embarrassed if I got any of it wrong. What I think now is that the act of retreating to gain a comfort level on a subject such as this is in and of itself a symptom of my privilege. I am so sorry if my absence on this issue hurt you or caused you to wonder for even a split second whether or not I cared. In an effort to get it right, I feel that got it wrong. So I am working to become a better ally and friend and I am prepared to participate with the best intentions no matter my level of discomfort. When I get it wrong again, because I know I inadvertently will (I might have even done so here), I will do so knowing that I got it wrong trying, which I realize now is more important than not trying at all.
I read the whole caption in once big gulp, and then I quickly flipped through the comments.
In the blink of an eye, my mindset shifted.
Here's a woman who puts herself out into public space, who painstakingly details her daily pain and anguish - as well as her road maps for recovery - for others to learn from, who advocates for the hurting and broken people of this world every day of her life.
But when she candidly reveals that she needs a bit of time to process the overwhelming syok that all of us have felt in these last few days of police brutality, public protests, and racial tension, when she apologizes for taking that time to listen, to learn - to think, for goodness sake - probably half of her commenters chided her for her privilege, her lack of sensitivity to her black readers' reality, her apparent decision to waste her platform by not immediately taking a more articulate stand.
What in the name of love are we doing to one another?
With my brain engulfed in flames of passion, I fired off a comment of my own:
Jen, anyone who knows you knows your heart of compassion, of thoughtfulness, of love. Take the time you need to work through this issue in your own head and heart, and when you're ready to weigh in, I look forward to hearing what you have to say,.
In the meantime, look, I get it, people. In this time of great passion and desire to deepen connection with and show much-deserved respect to our black brothers and sisters, we want immediate action. Some of us are ready to jump in to that conversation fast, and feel a deep frustration with those who need to take more time to listen, to learn, to consider what to say. I get how to some, that may feel like betrayal. Like cowardice. Like racism. But I ask that you also consider this: more than ever we must recognize and take responsibility for the power of our words and use them carefully. And if we decide to judge and shame those who want more time to listen and learn before they speak, well, then we may have just missed the point of this moment altogether.
And while my sudden burst of tiny typing mostly burned off the original rush of frustration, I'm still a bit upset with myself.
These days - on top of countless other days just like them, stretching back over the entirety of my life and then centuries back through the history of our nation and the human race - are painful and difficult for everyone. Of course, the victims of this abuse and torment are our black brothers and sisters, and their anguish comes first. But the rest of us are witnesses to their terror, and our ever-expanding awareness of systemic racism and the social evils that these episodes reveal cause real pain and grief for all decent human beings.
Grief takes time. Just because someone isn't ready to speak out today doesn't mean they will remain silent forever. And in any case, it's not my job, nor is it anyone else's job, to push someone to speak before they are ready.
Looking at it with fresh eyes, my morning post now strikes me as rude and disrespectful. I'm sorry for using my need for urgency to put pressure and implicit judgment on others.
So please, people, let me encourage all of us as I remind myself:
Let's remember what this moment and this movement are all about.
Let's offer our compassion and support to our black brothers and sisters.
Let's respect their journey and recognize their pain.
Let's remember that until all are free, none of us are free.
Let's give to all people the space to listen, to learn, to grow.
Let's give each and every one of us unending streams of mercy and grace.
Right on schedule, the sparkling sunshiny days of April and early May have given way to a classic Pacific Northwest start on summer.
After weeks of beautiful spring weather and even a chance to work on my first sunburn of the year, fog and misty rain have rolled in with the beautiful big blossoms of the season.
Roses
delphinium
foxglove
peonies
and rhododendrons galore
are bursting into bloom this weekr, and while they love the cool weather and lush humidity, their delicate petals are easily crushed by rain. So there's that to worry about. But over the years, I've dealt with many a rain-induced calamity and learned this lesson well.
I enjoy what my garden has to offer, moment by moment, and remind myself that nothing - not even a fabulous hedge of brilliant rhodies - will last forever.
It's been quite a few years since the day that this bride and groom who once topped my husband's parents' wedding cake stood upon my own, and while no marriage is ever bulletproof, at this point, ours has definitely beaten the odds.
In honor of this special day, here are a few observations about what has helped us stay together:
Compatible values.
My husband and I have different interests, different energies, different personality traits. On the Ennegram scale, he's a hardcore 1 and I'm a total 2; in Meyers-Briggs speak, he comes out as an ITSJ and I'm an INFJ; two types with similar letters that are ideologically many miles apart. When we meet strangers, there's often a bit of head-scratching that goes on as people struggle to connect the dots between his orderly, man-of-few-words, no-nonsense personality, and my Ke$sha/Mrs. Weasely vibes. It's true, we are very different people. But what holds us together, what forms the solid core of our union, is that we agree on what's most important in life. Kindness. Respect. Honesty. Curiosity. Hard work. Selflessness. Love.
Let each other grow.
I have a friend who jokes that her husband courted her under the false pretense that he was a sporty, outdoorsy kind of guy, and then once the ink was dry on the marriage certificate, he totally shattered that illusion by permanently parking himself on the couch. It's a funny story to which many married people can relate; there's definitely some truth about the ways that we relax into marriage. But over the years, we also change. My husband is a very different person than he was when we were dating, and sometimes that frustrates me. But spoilers - I've changed at least as much as he has. Probably more. And it's our willingness to let each other reinvent ourselves that has allowed each of us - and our marriage - to grow.
Roll with the punches.
Yeah, yeah, we all know that the traditional wedding vows lay out some serious warnings of life's potential for problems: "For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health." I thought I knew what I was doing when I agreed to all that. And I did, to the best of my twenty-five-year-old understanding of life. But dude, I had NO idea about some of the curve balls and challenges that were coming our way, and honestly, I'm sure it's better that I didn't. What's more important is that we knew to expect some troubles so when the troubles showed up, we fairly quickly got over our shock and just started figuring out how to deal.
It's a threesome.
Okay, look. This is either going to sound obvious or totally preposterous, depending your own point of view, but trusting in God is the best ace up our marital sleeve. I'm serious. If married people believe that God brought them together and built up their lives together for a reason and a purpose, then it's a whole lot easier to get over the proverbial dirty socks on the floor. Whenever I'm annoyed with my husband - who by the way has never, ever thrown a single dirty sock on the floor and almost certainly never will - God has a way of reminding me, "Sure, you have a legitimate grievance but then again, you haven't had to change a single light bulb or battery in the last three decades. What's that worth to you?" He's the ultimate good-faith negotiator who keeps both my husband and me at our best when we need it most and without him, we would certainly fall short.
* * * * *
And a final thought that may be the most important one of all. In our first few years of marriage, we actually did struggle with that classic marital conundrum - should the toothpaste tube be squeezed from the bottom or the middle? After debating the issue with all the rational firepower we each could muster and still not coming to a meeting of the minds, we resolved the problem once and for all by buying ourselves our own tubes of toothpaste.
That's a small price to pay for a lifetime of staying together.
"If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude."
-Maya Angelou
Welcome to the hardest working room in my house.
Not only does the laundry room do battle against a dozen loads of laundry a week, but this is the main thoroughfare to the garage, and the pets' dining area.
Well, I should say that my two previous dogs took all their meals here but not Gracie. She is a wild woman who must dine outside. It's not so much her table manners that cause the problem. She literally eats every bite of her food without so much as dropping a crumb because, you know, crumbs are delicious.
And though she drinks like a thirsty camel, she doesn't splash around too badly. No, the problem comes when my beautifully feathered Irish Setter lifts her head from the drinking bowl, and water streams in cascades and rivulets from her lips to her chest and on a good day, all the way down to her belly. She's earned the nickname, Niagara Falls, and it suits her well.
But wait. Back to my point.
The thing about this room is that despite the constant wear and tear, I've done very little in the way of updates or some much needed renovations.
Oh, the walls have been painted a few times. They are still my white of choice, Behr's Bleached Linen.
We've run through a few washers and driers over the years. These seemingly small Bosch units run plenty big super-sized loads even though the machines maintain sleeker profiles than the typical American brands. Love.
And maybe ten years ago, I hung my second-born's monochrome circle art and three wood shelves along the main wall, which definitely bumped up the style factor.
This $20 bought me a whole lot of happiness.
I also sprung for a bitty little mirror with a round wooden peg which I inexplicably love. My purse hangs there and every time I pick it up or drop it off, that mirror sparks a new round of joy in my heart.
See the item on the white board that says "laundry room floor"? Yeah. That's been there for years.
But otherwise, the laundry room carries on much the same as it always has. And it has become somewhat of a battered affair.
Natural birch peg railings came from Crate and Barrel back in the day. I think I may have bought them before we moved from Chicago.
Hanging baskets were a catalog purchase from the babyhood days. The larger one, which now holds my daughters' slip ons, used to house a stash of my favorite catalogs back in the day. Oh, the memories of the hours I used to spend quietly window shopping through catalogs while my babies took their afternoon naps. What an extravagant use of my precious time.
And that white board is a relic of the homeschooling era, when it was taken down off the wall and carted around the house for endless purposes, most of which had nothing to do with me. Now it mostly stays fastened to the wall, covered in lists of appointments, project notes, and the ubiquitous to-dos.
The dish to the right of the faucet is the cats' watering hole - usually there are a couple more dishes on the counter holding the dregs of one of their wet food feasts. However, Gracie makes a daily habit of jumping up and grabbing the dishes, carrying them off in her teeth to her spot on the couch where she carefully licks out every molecule of cat food. It's cute but very annoying.
I gotta be honest though - this room has been worn to a frazzle. The sink bears the scars of three decades of painting projects cleaned up here, the old Formica counter tops belong in a mid-century museum, and the floors - well, they have died an undignified death.
It's time - no, it's a decade beyond time - for me to get some work done here. The money has been set aside for a reasonable renovation and I've got a pretty good idea of what I want.
So why don't I just pull the trigger and give this room some love?
I can't say for sure.
Maybe it's these crazy, uncertain times.
Maybe I have attachment issues.
Maybe I secretly love that almond Formica.
Whatever the reason, I recently opened my eyes to find that my resistance to change has led this room to devolve to a messy, cluttered, and ugly space. I'd let the room languish. And a few weeks ago, I decided to fight back.
What do you do with wet dish towels that are waiting to join a load of laundry? My system is to hang them on the side of the washer so they can dry as they bide their time, a solution that is practical but not all that cute.
So I've dedicated myself to a new laundry room attitude. I cleaned out the cupboards so that my supplies no longer have to jostle for space. I restyled the shelves to my satisfaction. Bought a few new towels. Added a happy plant. Cleaned up the clutter on the peg racks.
And probably most importantly, I've been on top of my cleaning routine - sweeping the floor daily, staying on top of getting the clean laundry put away, wiping down the counter pretty much every time I walk by, And I'm finding, much to my surprise, that even with her obvious bumps and bruises, there's still some life in this old girl.
Someday, I will indeed get a new counter - running the entire length of the wall, fingers crossed - and a new floor that is not 80s vinyl. Maybe I'll even ditch the unsightly but incredibly functional plastic laundry baskets.
Gracie says she's not here to critique the decor - she's just hoping to steal some more cat food.
For now, I'll just keep wiping up the cat hair, acknowledging my resistance to change, and waiting for my laundry room's time to come.
You can't make them out in this photo, but beneath the glossy surface of chocolate icing stand three fluffy layers of decadently rich chocolate cake. And if that doesn't say happy birthday, I don't know what does.
Happy birthday to my first-born daughter. Today was her big day, and along with all of our usual ceremony and tradition, we found a way to celebrate Covid-style.
Though she lives nearby - when traffic is clear, just a fifteen minute shot down the expressway - we have kept our social distance these past few months. We text pretty much every day, and made a few six-feet-apart rendezvous for some drop-off and pick-up situations, but as far as actual visits go, we have not hung out since this all began.
But we both decided, she and I, that because we have all been very careful in protecting ourselves from infection, we all felt confident in our health and decided to give this visit a go.
And it was lovely. She rolled in around noon, and we went right to work in the kitchen. Taking turns, we pulled together a triple layer chocolate cake, a deep dish of homemade lasagne, caesar salad right down to the homemade croutons and anchovy dressing, and a loaf of garlic-rosemary bread.
In the midst of all that, we also fit in my usual walk with Gracie, plenty of texting with Younger Sister 2, and a considerable amount of tomfoolery with Younger Sisters 3 and 4.
We then ate dinner
opened presents
collapsed in the family room
eventually revived ourselves for cake and ice cream
and then collapsed again.
In other words, it was a simple and homespun day of birthday fun.
And though Covid forced us to keep the day simple, it also reminded us of what matters most.
