"Racially motivated"

I've gotten two emails this morning from our school district.  One from each of my kids' schools, both on the same topic - spurred by multiple and separate incidents.  None of which directly involve my girls, this time.

"Racially motivated" is how the schools describe them.  At the middle school, there is derogatory language being thrown about freely in the hallways - sometimes aimed directly at a child, other times free to anyone within earshot.  "Some students feel unsafe and unwelcome".  Sticks and stones though, right? The high school says there was a physical altercation with direct evidence that it was based on race.  I'll have to wait until our family dinner table conversation this evening to hear more about that one, I suppose.

"Predominately Caucasian" would be a gross understatement when describing our tiny dot on the map.  Before this year, I could count the number of kids, outside of my home, who would check a box other than "white" on one hand.  This year, I'd say there were at least 5 at the 5th-6th grade band concert.  Eva, Sofia, and I were actually surprised at the number of families that more closely resembled ours in the audience.  I would say I am sad but hopeful that this marks the beginning of a shift in our immediate environment.

Is this influx of flavor the cause of the panic that must have incited the recent uptick in "racially motivated" incidents?  Is it the current occupant of the White House and his incessant fire starting?  Is it the schools' newfound realization that they cannot just allow the "kids will be kids" dismissal anymore?  Are parents really supporting the type of language and aggression that cannot be hidden by their children at home?

I don't know. 

Is this "racially motivated" harassment really new, though?  No.

"Burnt chocolate chip"

"Not the brown one!"

"So-and-so isn't allowed to come to our house.  Her parents said no."

"Do you even speak English?"

"Your mom shouldn't make you eat that (chile rellenos), it's weird." 

It goes on and on.  Since my girls started school, I have had meeting after meeting with teachers (not all going the way you'd hope they would), back and forth emails with administrators (increasingly positive and willing to listen and help), cornered parents at class parties, cornered children at class parties, dealt with people at the crosswalks. and removed my children from sports teams.  I have dried the stains left by heartbreak, explained bigotry to little minds too open to understand the concept, and reminded three pre-teen desperate for acceptance young ladies that there is beauty in everyone - but a little extra in them.  Because of course that's what a mama does.  Every mama wants her children to feel safe and wanted.  Unfortunately, not all kids are granted the luxury of feeling it in every space they occupy.

I grew up in a diverse area, surrounded by every flavor of person I could imagine.  And, while it was completely normal to me, I now see it as a luxury.  Now, through the eyes of my girls, I see that differences are so much more glaring when they are in the minority. 

"One of these things is not like the other...one of these things doesn't belong".  A song that plays in my head every time I can pick my kid out from a mile away and in the dark when I have to pick her up from a school event.  And, yes, she is not like the other... but she sure as hell always belongs.

2019 begins in 25 days.  2019.  And parent emails from schools still start with "Racially motivated".  Something as simple as some pigment and an accent is still enough to make an entitled child make another child unsure of safety and welcome.  20 fucking 19. 

It starts at home, people.  Clean up your messes before they leave a stain on my daughters.

Unfinished, four years and two months apart

I found this in a spot I used to write a lifetime or three ago, and I could've felt the words this morning just the same:

I want to write.

I want to love.

I want to show the girls the possibilities of a life well lived.

I want to become the women I admire most.

I want to chase down every fleeting fantasy I ever let go because of fear or doubt or indecision.

I want to give comfort and friendship and all the right things.

But most days I barely make it past coffee before wanting to give up.

The steps that follow the front door seem impossibly trying.

Most days, the ocean of energy it takes to feign indifference is dry before I'm dressed for work.

So I don't write anymore.  Nothing worth reading at least.

I don't love anymore.  

My example of how to keep putting one uninspired foot in front of the other is the only example  I offer the girls these days.

Those women I admire get further and further away every day that I'm stuck in the past.

And, the few who tried to stay see now that I have nothing to offer them worth holding onto.

So there is only this.  Deafening silence.  Walls unscaled.  Bridges burned.  And wounds unhealed.

This isn't living, and I know that.  Waiting for a reason to try


And this morning's unfinished attempt:

It's quiet this morning.  A peaceful quiet.  The kind that comes after the choice I wasn't sure of.  The kind of quiet that doesn't really hurt too much.  The dog has been let out and fed his breakfast.  I've had the first cup of slightly bitter coffee and we've retired back to bed for his post-yogurt and egg nap.  But the lonely isn't as harsh this Sunday morning.  Maybe I'm just finally used to the acceptance of it.  Maybe the paw resting on my belly- the closest I've come to being the little spoon in recent memory- is comfort enough.   Maybe I really have finally been rendered empty.  Truthfully, I hope so.

Two different mornings, four years and five inches apart.  One day maybe I'll finish something again.

Last night I told my daughters that there's nothing they could do that would make sexual assault their fault.

Last night, around the table where they used to draw smiling stick figures and yellow balls spitting out sunlight, I told my daughters that it doesn't matter if they've been drinking.

Beneath the stain from the peach puree Maya flung to the ceiling from her highchair a decade ago, I said it didn't matter what they were (or were not) wearing.

It doesn't matter if they're on a date.

Or if they really like(d) the person.

Into three sets of big brown eyes, I said it doesn't even matter if they thought maybe they wanted the person to touch them but then changed their mind.

Doesn't matter if they're two or sixty.

Or if it's a man, a woman, or a child.

Or if it's a relative, a boyfriend, a girlfriend, or a stranger.

If he's the most popular or powerful or scariest.  If she's important or well known or rich.

The moment they say "no" it's over.  End of story.

Anything after the no is assault, I told them. 

Anything after the no is wrong.  The other person's wrong.  Not theirs.  Never ever theirs.

And I will believe you, I told them.  I will always believe you.  Believe in you.

I read one report of a child who didn't tell her mother because her mother always said she would kill anyone who hurt her baby.  That little girl was so afraid her mother would go to jail for killing the man who hurt her that she stayed quiet.  That one got to me.  I told this story to my girls last night at the table where all important decisions are made. 
"You would do that, mama.  I know it."  
"I would want to, mija.  For sure.  But how about this.  I promise I would handle it in whatever way is best for you.  Whatever way you would want me to."
I bargained with my children about how I would handle the worst possible situation that would come across that table.  These aren't the kinds of conversations anyone can prepare you for. 

Last night I sat the three most important choices I ever made down at the table where we gather to eat or to laugh or to whoop each other's behinds at Uno and I did my best to ensure that they don't walk my path.  That's really the number one thing I've always tried to teach them:  please don't follow me,  you're so much better than that.

Guilt is a powerful thing and blame is a heavy burden.  Neither is something you grow out of either.  It isn't something you eventually shed and forget about.  Thinking your pain is of your own doing will change the entire way you move through the world until you cannot take one more step.

No more skipping or dancing or flying.  No more light.

The only thing more powerful than shedding unwanted weight from your shoulders is knowing it was never yours to carry.

Like every parent, I don't ever want to experience the pain of someone hurting my child.  But the idea of my child hurting and not reporting that suffering to the person entrusted to protect them?  That would be my ultimate failure.

Last night, around the table where I slowly watched their legs grow long enough for their feet to touch the floor, I told my daughters that there's nothing they could do to make sexual assault their fault.

All the while, fingers crossed that at tables around the world, boys were being reminded that no means no.  And hesitation means no.  And really anything other than yes means no.