Voices

We all hear voices. There are voices that encourage us, tear us down, remind us where we parked the car, and debate whether to eat that piece of late night chocolate cake or choose a tall glass of water instead. We all hear voices. But, how many of us listen to them? How many times to we need to hear them before we believe them?

On Sunday, we had our first snow storm of the season. It wasn’t a major storm, only left about 1/2 an inch on the ground. But, given the unpredictable weather here in the Northeast, there was snow, then rain, then snow. Outside was like a winter wonderland, if said wonderland was a thick sheet of oil on wax paper.

My husband was outside scraping the car windshields and pushing the shovel on the driveway to clear off the layer of snow. He and my girls were getting ready to go to the movies, so he was working quickly. He set his own car radio to his favorite hip-hop station and closed the door. The music was loud enough to hear it, but not quite loud enough drown out the sound of my old car engine humming and wheezing as if the cold triggered some sort of automobile asthma.

“Jorge. Jorge.” Jorge looked up at our house and saw an empty window. He heard a woman’s voice call his name, and figured if it was me, I’d just come outside to speak with him. “Jorge. Jorge.” He looked towards my next door neighbor’s house. Our neighbor is 9 months pregnant. He thought maybe something was wrong, but with the two cars in their driveway, he was confident no one was calling him from their house. Jorge returned to dragging the shovel along the ice covered driveway. Tsksaappshkkkksh. Scrreeeppphsskkkksh. Scraappshkkkk. He fell into a groove scraping the snow back and forth across the wide part of our driveway. Shovel hits the pavement, walk across the driveway, toss the little fold of snow onto the grass, turn around and repeat.

“Jorge. Jorge.”

“Okay, I heard that,” Jorge thinks to himself. He put down the shovel and walked around the side of our house. Maybe our neighbor who lives behind our house was calling him. Jorge looked over at their elevated back porch. No one there.

At this point, Jorge had been outside for more than 8 minutes, and it was time to get the girls and leave for the movies. He placed the shovel against the side of our house, turned off the cars, and stood up to admire his great driveway work. Hands on his hips, chest out, head held high — Jorge had that  “I-Am-The-King-Of-My-Driveway” feeling.

“Jorge. Jorge.”

Jorge walked to the end of our driveway, looking to the left and to the right. He had heard the voice this time, but now he was listening.

“Jorge. Help!”

Across the street, through the thick wooden slats of the newly constructed ramp, Jorge saw a pink long sleeve waving at him.

“Jorge. I can’t get up. Please help me.”

Jorge leaped across the street to find Margaret, an older woman in her 80s, who recently had surgery, lying flat on her back at the bottom of the slippery ramp. His heart began to beat frantically. “I came outside to place sand on the ramp, and I fell. I can’t get up,” Margaret said with both an urgency and relief.

After helping Margaret, offering to call an ambulance or a family member,  shoveling her driveway, defrosting her car, and sanding her ramp, Jorge came back into the house.

Liza, I heard her,” Jorge said visibly shaken as he re-told his story.She had been lying like that in the cold for at least 5 minutes. I heard her. I know I heard her. But, I ignored her. I don’t know if I ignored her or the voice, but I definitely heard my name called a few times. Imagine if I went inside and never came back out? Imagine if I never was outside to begin with, and no one helped her? I heard her voice, and I didn’t listen to it.”

****

I went to the grocery store this evening just to pick up a few quick items. Butter. Bread. Cheese. Nothing special. I fit these items in my arms, forgoing the gray plastic basket with the thick black handle. I find the grocery store experience to be hit-or-miss. Sometimes, the store is filled with friendly people — people who make passing conversation while selecting fruit in the produce aisle, a kind person with a shopping cart full of groceries who lets you go ahead if you only have a small basket, or a cashier who smiles, looks you in the eye, and says, “Hello!” Then, there are the times when people aren’t so friendly. Those are the times when people park their shopping carts in the middle of the already skinny aisle, or when you are coming out of an aisle and a person is steamrolling their cart perpendicular to you, or a cashier who can’t muster out a “Do you have your Stop & Shop card” without attitude.

Today was one of the “unfriendly” days. Even in the 15 minutes I was in the store, I already felt anxious and annoyed. In the line, I placed my items on the belt but didn’t bother to separate my items from the person in front of me with the plastic “don’t-even-come-near-my-food” bar (despite the fact that you could have laid a small child end-to-end between her items and mine). I was annoyed. I wanted to get out of there. I already had my Stop & Shop card and my debit card ready to go.

I could feel someone enter into the line behind me. Since the grocery store rules of engagement were already set at “don’t mess with me”, I just kept looking straight ahead. “Miss?” Eyes focused, straight ahead, counting the items until it was my turn. “Excuse me.” I didn’t recognize the voice, so I kept looking ahead. Phew! Almost done with the woman in front of me.

“Ma’am, excuse me, could you please help me?”

I turned around quickly and glanced slightly above my own eye level. At 5’3″, just about everyone is taller than I am, so I naturally look up whenever I anticipate eye contact. No one.

I quickly gazed down. Behind a gray basket piled high with food was a man with a black eye patch over his left eye. He appeared unsteady in his wheelchair as he balanced the overflowing food.

“Ma’am, I was wondering if you could help me unload the items onto the belt. It’s too heavy and far for me to reach.”

“Sir, yes. I’d be happy to help. Is there any particular order you want these in — boxes first? Cans first? Produce?” Did I sound like I was overcompensating in an attempt to relieve my embarrassment?

“No, if you could help me get them on the belt I can ask the person bagging them to stack it evenly.”

I began to unload boxes of stuffing, packages of ground beef, multiple cans of vegetables, and a rather heavy Jennie-O turkey onto the belt. “Looks like you’re cooking up a feast!” I say with a smile. “It’s like a Thanksgiving meal!”

“There’s a lot to be thankful for, ma’am. There is no sense in realizing that only once a year!” he said with a smile. My eyes moved from his teeth to his brown eye, and then over to his eye patch – a familiar and comforting object in my world.

I looked at him, in his eye, and returned the smile. “You’ve got that right,” I said.

“Thanks for your help, ma’am. God bless.”

“You’re welcome, Sir. Enjoy all that cooking!”

I finished paying, grabbed my bags, thanked the cashier and the young man who put the items into my reusable shopping bag, and left.

***
In 24 hours, situations could have turned out differently if we didn’t listen to voices. We heard the voices. I know my husband and I can both admit to that. But, neither one of us listened to them. What was it like for Margaret to see my husband — just barely across the street — and have him ignore her cry for help? Had he gone inside, she would have been alone. Cold. Scared. Frustrated. What was it like for the man in line to try and get my attention at least 3 times? Did he feel angry? Upset? Invisible? I heard him. I certainly did. But, I didn’t listen to him.

When do we ignore voices? Which voices do we choose to listen to? Which voices do we choose to hear? How many times have we left someone feeling alone, cold, scared and frustrated? How many times have we left someone feeling angry, upset and invisible simply because we chose not to hear or listen to them?

What do we risk by searching for those voices that we hear, by listening a bit closer to see if they are cries for help, assistance, or just connection? What do we gain?

Embracing New Languages

Just wanted to track back to a fantastic post over at Anti-Racist Parent about learning new languages.

For years now, I’ve been telling myself that I’d brush up on my Spanish and actually learn enough Tagalog (not just the swear words that I know!), but just haven’t done it. Well, it’s at the point where my older child can out-Tagalog me, and my younger one is catching up to my Spanish quickly!

It’s an interesting perspective to embrace learning a new language as a way to work towards anti-racism. If we learn other languages, does it give us a new appreciation for how difficult it is to learn English? For the beauty and sounds of cultures other than our own?

My older child is just learning to read. And, on a long car ride the other day, she passed the time by reading a Grade 1 Reader out loud. As she sounded out words, I tried to tell her some of the “rules” of the English language — like what certain letters sounded like when put together, etc. But, no sooner did she just understand what those combinations were, a new word that completely didn’t follow those rules came up. I saw my child getting very frustrated, and I found myself getting impatient, too.

How the heck is someone supposed to learn this stuff??? I know we all did – eventually. But, for goodness sake! Imagine having to learn English, work full time, take care of children, have people get impatient with you when you are actually trying to practice, and worry about getting it all wrong?

As an anti-racist and a child of immigrants, I’ve never uttered the words, “You’re in America.. speak English!” But, how often do we English speakers ever learn another language? Geographically, we sort of don’t need to. I can drive thousands of miles and still expect that everyone will speak the same language as I do. And, if they don’t, I can expect to be “right” … because… I’m… in… America. But, is that right? In a country built upon the backs of immigrants, how can we continue to exist as an English-only hierarchy – especially when so few people actually use proper English?

I grew up in a multilingual house (yes, somehow I still only picked up the swear words), and so the beauty of languages have always felt like home to me. I rarely have trouble understanding even the thickest of accents — be they Asian, Nigerian, Spanish, or even Southern. My ears pick up the subtle lack of “F” sounds in Pilipino. I can easily distinguish a Nigerian accent from an accent spoken by someone from Ghana. Yet, I can barely utter any of their native tongues.


So, my question really goes back to: Do we have to learn the languages or simply expose ourselves to the beauty of other languages?

Handpicking Religion

crossOver my lifetime, religion and faith have taken on a few different incarnations, if you will. When I was younger, like many in the suburban Boston area, I went to church with my family – every Sunday, we all piled into the family van, and depending on the time of the Mass we wore either a nice skirt/shirt (10am Mass) or a pair of jeans/sweater (Noon Mass). In the early years, Church was a great time for families to get together. Our church used to host a “coffee and donuts” gathering after Mass, and I vividly remember running around with my brothers, donating $.25 for a chocolate frosted donut with sprinkles, and hearing my parents laugh and tell stories with others from Church. They would wait down in the gathering hall while the children made their way over to Sunday School classes in the upstairs classrooms.

Soon, the coffee and donuts routine ended, and I got to the age when I would drive myself to religious education classes.

When I got to college, I no longer went to Church. After Saturday nights and early mornings recovering from hangovers of the college-variety, the last thing I wanted to do was go to Church. Scrambled eggs, hash browns, orange juice, coffee and bagels with my also hungover friends soon replaced singing, Communion, and gospels.

In my senior year, I remember going to Church just prior to the Easter break. I’m not sure why I went – likely peer pressure of some sort (or Catholic guilt). I ran into a friend of mine at the back of the college chapel and said, “Hi, Lina! Gotta love church, huh?” in my sarcastic “oh-you-gotta-be-here-too?” tone of voice. Lina caught me off guard and said, “I am filled with love and joy today! I’m fantastic! Jesus Christ has Risen! It’s an awesome day!” The childlike excitement in her eyes, from a woman who I considered academically brilliant, surprised me.

Huh? What the hell was that?, I thought. Seriously? Is she serious? That much joy over a story in the Bible?

pewI proceeded to an empty space in a pew, went through the Catholic Calesthenics of up-down-kneel-sit-stand-sit-kneel, and quietly listened to the readings and homily. But Lina’s excitement was stuck in my brain. How could someone be this excited about religion? About the day before Easter??

Graduate school wasn’t much different. I went to school in New York City where it was easy to be both surrounded by vibrant religious communities and disheartened by the poverty, cruelty, and human violence. I had gone to a religious service at a charismatic Christian church one Sunday with a friend of mine, and we spent well over 2 hours enveloped by singing, worship and praise, joyous and fervent prayer, Amens and Yes Jesus shouts. At the end of the service, we walked out the door and watched church members embracing wishing others to “Have a Blessed Day.” But, not more than a few feet from the church, we then saw two individuals cursing up a storm as they fought for a parking spot. A few feet from them was a homeless woman — who I would see there for the next 2 years. Not far from her, a group of young boys exchanged a verbal tennis match of profanity and insults about someone’s Mama.

Needless to say, my Amen feeling left my body pretty quickly, and reality set in.

Throughout the next few years, as a result of living in NYC and working in a number of diverse colleges, I struggled with my Catholic upbringing of how my faith viewed gay relationships and marriages. I believe that love is love. That families are families. During this time in my life, my close circle of friends were majority gay couples, and I listened to their life pasts, presents and futures. I listened to their stories of faith, families, acceptance and denial. I struggled with understanding how my own faith discriminated against their lives, against them.

After leaving NYC, I began working at a Quaker school. And, while very few people there were actually Quakers, the philosophy drove everything we did there. Each week, I participated in Meeting for Worship and that was completely different from anything I had ever known. Silence. We entered in silence. Sat in silence. Listened in silence. And, the elders ended with a handshake. There was no priest guiding the service. No reader telling me about the Bible. No holy hands delivering Communion. It was me and God.

People often ask me what impact faith had on me when my daughter was diagnosed with cancer.

My daughter was 2-years old, and I had just started working at a Catholic college. While my practice of faith was pretty sporadic, I still believed in a Greater power (be it She or He). But, when she was diagnosed, I struggled. I was mad. Pissed! What kind of God would do this to a child? What kind of God brings an innocent child so close to death?

When others found out about my daughter, I received hugs/cards/emails all with the phrases “We’re praying for you” or “Trust that God will guide you” or “God will be with you.” Really?, I thought. Because this feels awfully f-in lonely. My family members wanted to pray over me for strength, invoke God during church, or offer up community prayer circles for my daughter. I found this just pissed me off. But, I never said anything because I knew the religious piece served a different purpose: it helped to comfort those people. Heck, if praying makes it easier for YOU, then go for it. If praying makes you feel like you’re doing something, then go for it. But, for me – nope. Not here. Not now. Not while my child is wearing a paper thin gown with an IV hooked up to poisonous chemicals being delivered by a nurse who is in a full body armor to protect herself.

I didn’t pray to God. But, I did wish for hope.

But, of course, years of Sunday school weren’t lost on me. In the quietest hours of the morning, when I would sneak into my daughter’s room — just to make sure she was still alive — I would kneel by her bedside and pray. I prayed that God wouldn’t take her from me. I prayed that God wouldn’t let her suffer more than she had to. I prayed that God would give me strength to both protect her and to let the baby growing inside of me be cancer free.

But, most of all, I prayed that God would let me switch places. I prayed that God would put the cancer into my body and spare hers. I prayed that God would just give her a break, let me wake up from this nightmare, and that all would be just a bad dream.

Then, morning would break and we’d be back into our routine. Daily shots for my daughter. Anti-nausea medication just after breakfast. Nurses visits to flush her port-a-cath where she received chemotherapy. And, religion and God would be forgotten until the next wee hours of the morning.

A few years have passed since our daily cancer trips, and now our lives resume normalcy for a few months at a time. And, religion has found its way back.

Every Sunday, the girls and I go to Church. Catholic Church. It gives me peace. I leave Church each Sunday and am happier. I’m renewed. I feel closer to my children when we are there, and I feel even closer after we leave. I find joy when I see them make the sign of the Cross on their chests — sometimes they get it right, usually they get it wrong and poke themselves in the ears and belly buttons. During the car ride, they complain that Church is going to be boring and they don’t like having to be so quiet. Then, we arrive and sneak into a pew behind their friends, and they are all smiles again.

This year, my husband and I decided not to buy the children more than 2 presents. He’s doing it because buying so much stuff is wasteful and materialistic. I’m doing it because I want the girls to know the meaning of Christmas.

But, what is the meaning?

hpdjesusDo I believe the meaning is the Birth of Jesus Christ? Do I believe the meaning is family, friends and giving thanks? Is the meaning chocolate waffles, candy canes, and wishes? Is the meaning that we give more than we receive on this day?

When I read the story of the Nativity to my children, I tend to emphasize the “Look what nice people did to help out a family”  — just like nice people helped our family when you were sick — than the “Jesus Christ was born today” story. Will this change? Develop? Will the kids want more from the story? Less?

All of this has been coming to mind in the recent news about Rick Warren giving the opening prayer at Obama’s Inauguration. I find so much of the commentary – from both sides of the “wings” — fascinating. Will our view of religion and the religious change? Is the goal to change the minds of religious conservatives or just to get the conversation going?

Is there a difference between “I disagree with you” and “I disagree with your life and identity?”

Can religion be fluid? Is it wrong to handpick religion?

Happy Merry Solstice/Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanza/Dec 25th. Work is slow right now, so hopefully I can catch up on some blog posts!

Feeling Triggered

“To Loosen The Mind” has been my outlet to discuss issues of race, and lately it has included my insight into issues of cancer. And, like any major event or experience, there are ebbs and flows.

I never anticipated that I’d sit down to watch TV for one of my favorite shows “Jon and Kate Plus 8” and feel so triggered. Naturally, this episode was all about kids with cancer. Trigger? oh yeah!

This time, just a few years ago, my daughter was experiencing one of the worst reactions to her chemotherapy. We were in the hospital just prior to Christmas, and all we wanted good old Santa Claus to bring was the ability to come home from the hospital. If I remember correctly, we came home on December 23rd late at night.

One part of the episode tonight was when Kate finished giving out presents at the big Holiday party, then she had to go to individual rooms to deliver gifts to children who weren’t well enough to be around others. Mine was one of those kids. We even ended up having to change rooms during her chemotherapy treatment that December because she got so sick that the doctors worried any new germs would absolutely just destroy her already shattered immune system.

As I watched the episode, I heard my own voice (and that of many of our cancer friends) repeated on the show. “We are so thankful for this diagnosis because it has given a new meaning to our lives” or “Each day is a new blessing” or “We just learned not to take anything for granted.”

Certainly, my family learned all of those things as well. One of the most important lessons for me personally, though, was the lesson of friendship. During this time in our lives, some friendships were strengthened, some were discovered, and some were lost. Rather, some were disposed of quickly!

Given that each day was considered “lucky”, I found myself not being able to waste time on anyone who just sucked the life out of me. I had put up with a few casual friends for a long time, but when TIME was my own enemy, I realized that I didn’t need other people stealing what I needed most. I no longer had time to soothe egos, to be angry for the sake of being angry, nor entertain folks who couldn’t operate the same moral compass I needed. Gone were friends who embraced materialism over good ole’ fashioned love. Gone were friends who were egotistic, self-centered, and who needed constant affirmation. I began to finally see the importance of time and examine what I was doing with the little time I had.

Watching the episode tonight reminded me of the “time factor.” I felt like turning it off, thinking “Why am I watching this 30 minute show? Could I be doing something else with my time? After all, any good home video of mine from that experience would be much more interesting!” But, I’ve avoided home videos of those years of turmoil, prayers, anxiety, and hope.

And, on the eve of the day when a good friend of mine begins his own course of chemotherapy (after already watching his own 2 year old battle cancer), I am reminded once again of not only the importance of love, life and family, but also of the importance of surrounding yourself with what makes you happy.

During this holiday season, some of us will find this time of year difficult, some of us find it joyous. Let’s keep in mind that blessings and challenges take shape in lots of ways. From the To Loosen family to yours, may you choose that which makes you happy.

Dolls – and the Office to prove it

the-officeI love the show “The Office.” Love it. Live for it. It’s the 30 minutes in the week when I know, for sure, that I’m gonna hurt from laughing.

When I bring up that my favorite show is “The Office,” I get two reactions: 1) “I LOVE THAT SHOW, TOO!” or 2) “Oh, god, that show makes me so uncomfortable. I can’t watch it!” I think that the characters are so real to life that it’s just hysterical. And, unfortunately, I can match up every single Office character with someone I have worked with in my professional career. Maybe that’s why it’s so funny — because it wasn’t funny when they were real people in my life.

The show this week was no exception to the uncomfortably hilarious diversity conversation. This week, Dwight had the brilliant forsight to purchase all of the “Unicorn Princess” dolls in the local stores and charge “those lazy parents” upwards of $200 for the dolls. As with just about every new kid craze, these dolls were ridiculous. They were pretty princesses, dressed in shimmery pink dresses, with a long white horn coming out of the forehead. I joke not.

Throughout the show, anxious white fathers come in, give the secret nod,princess-unicorn-300x192 and get their dolls after exchanging a wad of cash. Toby, the poor fool of an HR guy, goes to buy the last doll from Dwight. He ends up paying $400 for the doll, the camera pans to his delighted face as he holds the precious box in his hands, and then his expression quickly turns sour as he discovers he has just bought the Black Unicorn Princess. Yes, folks, the Black Unicorn Princess.

I get asked a lot about dolls, given that I have two little girls. My husband and I have a practice of only buying dolls with brown skin (and, ideally, ones with a waist larger than my ring-size). Everywhere my kids go, they are surrounded by white dolls. They see white characters — whom they idolize — on television. They listen to young white girls singing on Radio Disney. And, conversely, they see far too many shows with young brown girls as the “mean kids” or the “dumb girls” or the “bratty teens.”

Purchasing power is on my side. The brown dolls … they always seem to be on clearance. That helps me out. But, in the neighborhood and city in which I live, whites are the minority. Yet, the brown dolls are always the one on clearance. White dolls dominate the shelves on the toy racks. On a recent trip to North Carolina for a speaking engagement, I nearly lost my mind when I walked into a store and found shelves and shelves of beautiful Black dolls — angels, princesses, books with Black characters, and a Black Nativity scene. My host had accompanied me into the store and couldn’t believe my shock.

“You don’t understand,” I said. “I never see Black dolls — in so many numbers — in a store. The multicultural dolls are usually hidden in a corner with red tags on their boxes.”

“Honey, this is North Carolina. There are plenty of Black dolls down here. I think it’s time for you to relocate!” said my host.

Thankful for the luxury of internet shopping, I avoid most of the big toy and book stores these days and give my money to smaller companies who have made multicultural options their business plan. I know this makes my white relatives uncomfortable – we’ve had some great discussions about how my actions aren’t to exclude white merchandise. After all, my kids are surrounded by it. Their dolls at school, their books at their library, their favorite characters on television, and the stars of their favorite movies are all white. They have plenty of exposure to white culture. Believe me.

And, if you haven’t seen this experiment re-done, check out the impact of racial preferencing and messaging in young kids:

What I do is actively look to INCLUDE multicultural images in their lives. It’s so easy to exclude these for many reasons; in my area, the most powerful reason is that multicultural resources are not readily accessible.

What am I looking for next? Waiting for the Ken, Ben and Baby doll sets to hit the shelves, though sadly even in Massachusetts, I’m sure this will be a while before this happens.

Inexpensive Multicultural Gifts

If you’re anything like me right now, you’re budget is feelin’ it.

books
I haven’t bought traditional toys for Christmas in a really long time — years, I would say. I’ve mostly been buying books as gifts for people. And, even then, we’re moving into much more environmental consciousness and moving away from print books. So, while I now buy less books for adults, I do still tend to buy books for the children on my holiday shopping list. I think that kids still really like the tactile feel of books, enjoy looking at the pictures on paper (rather than on the computer screen or downloaded copies on an iPod), and caretakers can easily pack them for a car ride.

If you’re looking for some great gifts for kids, and want to do some educational exposure on the side, here are some of my favorite books to give and to read.

Note: While I could certainly use the kick-back income, I get nothing from these folks in terms of financial compensation, so this is truly a financially unbiased list (but, hey, if any of you are the authors of this book, a comment or shout-out would be well appreciated!).

Hyperion and Jump At the Sun (JATS) books

Good for ages 2-6. I bought nearly every one of the “classic fairytale” books. My family already owned the ones with all white characters and I was thrilled to know the same stories were being told with Black characters, too. I love them because we can mix up the same stories with different racial characters being shown. My kids have visions of princes and princesses being BOTH Black and White. The books are inexpensive – $3.50 for most of the paperback JATS classic fairy tale books.

Hyperion’s Motown Series (use the same link as above)

Adorable. Simply put. These are good board books as gifts for infants/parents. They just take the words from popular Motown songs but show a range of diversity in the pictures of the babies that are being shown. It’s rare to find a board book that features a range of skin colors, and this is one of those rare gems. These are about $7 each.

Teaching For Change books (www.teachingforchange.org)

Just note: the website is http://www.teachingforchange.org but my hotlink goes to their webstore.


Africa is Not a Country by Margy Burns Knight is what you expect. This probably would have been a good 39 page read for Palin…. good purchase for 2+ years old.

Amazing Grace and Boundless Grace by Mary Hoffman is read in my house at least 1x a week at the request of my kids. It’s a cute story of Grace, a go-gettin’ little gal, who follows her dreams. She’s raised by her Mom and Grandmother in the first book but then travels to Africa in the second book to be with her dad.

I Love My Hair by Natasha Tarplay is one that I like to pick at least once every few weeks. I have stick straight hair. My 5 year old daughter has curly, curly, curly hair. So, it’s hard for her to relate to me when it comes time to brush, condition, braid, re-condition, etc. hair. She loves this book, though, because she “has hair like the girl.” One of my favorites.

Keep Your Ear on the Ball by Genevive Petrillo and Lea Lyon is another one of my favorites. And, in a list that’s dominated here by topics mostly related to girl characters, this is a boy-centered one. My daughter, who is partially blind, loves this because she likes that the boy does everything the other kids do. Seriously great book.

And Tango Makes Three by Peter Parnell is a book we haven’t purchased yet but I’ve read it in the store. It’s a beautiful story about 2 male penguins who take care of an abandoned egg and raise the chick. For people who aren’t quite comfortable yet discussing gay families, this is a nice introduction to the idea that “parents” aren’t just opposite sex parents.

Grace for President by Kelly Dipuccio is a great book that really focuses on the gender piece of politics. And, Grace is Black. But, what people (and I) love about the book is that Grace-being-Black is never addressed. She’s just Grace. A girl. Who wants to run for President. My girls love this book.

Lola in the Library by Anne Mcquinn is another great book that just simply is about a little girl in a library. Lola is Black. But, the story is about her experience in the library. Another favorite one in my house.

Those are just a few suggestions from my own library (okay, and one that I just read in the store!). I know there are adoptive parents who read this blog, single parents, same sex parents, etc. PLEASE leave a comment about other resources, books, toys, etc. that you have given/will give/received that were both wallet-friendly as well as diversity/education focused!

A Day without Race

I know.. I know… I’m obsessed with talking about race and diversity. Well, that’s not entirely true. The times when I’m NOT obsessed with talking about race and diversity are the days when I have to think cancer.

I’ve written a few times about how I feel when my life leaves the realm of race and entres into the world of cancer. My family has been wrecked with cancer — many have survived; others have not. I’m as active in the cancer world as I am in the race world. And, while I blog about the connections between racism and disability issues, the issues of cancer and race rarely cross paths for me.

So, pardon my detour from blogging about race today — it’s a blog post about cancer. But, it fits into the “to loosen the mind” philosophy in that the intellectual and emotional rationalizations about cancer do force me to think of things differently and reflect on ways to stay flexible in my thinking.

Posts for a different time are how my family was treated when my kid was diagnosed with cancer. Feel free to catch up on some of those!

No, this one is for me. I’m considered a pre-vivor — someone who is genetically dispositioned to develop cancer at a far more likely rate than the rest of the general population. And, while I’ve escaped it’s ugly claws for now — my sisters have not been so lucky — I can’t help but think of it as ticking time bomb. I always get this way before an doctor’s appointment: sleepless, anxious, trying to tell myself not to worry, but endlessly worrying.

Let’s just put it out there — cancer sucks. I’ve tried to loosen my mind around this one. But, the truth is, it just plain sucks. I know that I’ve become a better, stronger person because of what we’ve gone through having a child with cancer. And, trust me, I’m thankful for the way that has changed my life for the better. I embrace each day. I realize the gift of waking up and hearing my child’s voice every morning (believe me, there were mornings where I would be just hope and pray that she was healthy enough to wake up). Material things are unimportant. Time with my family has replaced time to myself.

It’s usually after an extended visit with lots of cancer families do I realize cancer trumps race, for me. When we’re all sharing stories of struggle, survival, sadness, anxiety, and frustration, we are there as cancer parents or patients. We aren’t Black cancer parents/patients, gay cancer parents/patients, single cancer parents/patients. We are just parents. We are just patients. We joke about things like textures of wigs or ethnic acceptance of baldness, but in the end, the root that binds us is our cancer experiences — our desire to survive.

picture-11Decembers always bring up anxiety about cancer, too. It was the month when my oldest sister had her mastectomy at age 37. One year later, my other sister had her mastectomy at age 35. I’m next. It’s obviously not this December, but next? The one after that? Will my daughters have to choose their Decembers, too? When your own body is your enemy, what choice do you have?

So, indulge me this one night as I lay awake anxious for my appointment tomorrow. God knows we’ve been through enough. I’m sure the pregnancy induced Reeses Peanut Butter Sundae isn’t helping matters, either.