And one day, it happened. I mean, I know it didn’t happen in a single day, but it certainly felt that sudden. It was a combination of moments–seeing a picture of my face and noticing my eyes had changed, brushing my hair out one morning and finding fine, white streaks, catching a glance of my hands as I typed a note and seeing memories of my mother’s callused and lined palms. Somewhere in the chaos of having a full and lived life, time tipped the scales and I am no longer a young woman. There was panic, initially. I went out and bought a box of hair dye, only to find that it does not work the same on the faded white streaks. I bought face cream for the first time in my life. I felt the tug of hypocrisy as I tried to hide the wear and tear of life while being simultaneously appalled by actresses who have obviously had their lips ‘re-plumped’. Maybe I was one of those women….maybe I would spend the rest of my life trying to look 30. I could…
But, even quicker than I would’ve imagined, a calmness overtook me. I realized that I had this legitimacy that I had not yet been able to claim. I had the body, face, and mind of a wise-woman. I have been around this place long enough to feel confident in my beliefs, thoughts, and even outbursts. I realized that I felt more like I had ‘arrived’, as opposed to feeling like I was leaving. Instead of feeling as though time was running out, it was replaced with this knowledge that life would have more meaning and mindfulness from this point on.
I know myself better than I ever have. I have forgiven myself for many of my weaknesses and replaced it with understanding and preparedness. Yeah, there will always be the mental health, the dark days and manic nights. But, the shame has dissipated so much. This is just me. Truth be told, a lot of the early adulthood anxieties have been replaced by other worries and there is still plenty to keep me up at night. But, I have never been better at being me. And I realized that I want to work hard at embracing that.
But, I’m keeping the face cream. It feels so nice…

-K

~Before you read on, you should know that I am not the sister with the magical poetry skills.  I would most likely come in third in line.  This will be pretty clear when our dear Summer writes her first poem post.   I am way better known around these parts for my ‘ramblings’.  But, I was inspired by our sister in arms, Ani D.  And, what the hell…this whole thing is an exercise in using our voices without the habits of self-editing.  This is how we get stronger, this is how we use our powers for good.  Well, how was that for a breathy disclaimer?~

You had it good.

 

Jobs were plenty,

worked hard for the average ‘man’,

left one parent to nurture,

and paid money that held value.

 

Classes were small,

taught, not managed,

rich with arts,

and safe and weapon free.

 

Leaders were honest,

added ideas, not bank accounts,

worked for the people,

and believed in ethics and compasses.

 

Wars had names,

approached with cautious horror,

had beginnings and ends,

not weapons of mass deception.

 

People were connected,

looked out for their neighbors.

People were just like you,

and Everyone was your neighbor.

 

It was easy for you.

Easy FOR you.

 

So, before you let the sand slip through your fingers and onto the next.

Count your blessings and clean up your mess.

-K

My Facebook feed was its usual erratic self today—about 50/50 either supporting the students planning to walk out in protest of congress’ inaction on gun violence or seeming offended and upset by political engagement in youth (and threats to their gun rights).  The more vocal I become online, the more separation I see from me and the latter.  Much of the negativity comes from people from my childhood.  You see, I grew up in a small town in Wyoming, fed and nurtured by the coal industry.  Like many other blue-collar jobs, coal has suffered significantly in the last few decades. I can truly understand the fear and defensiveness that springs from this sort of economic uncertainty.  So, I say this as a disclaimer of honesty in what I am about to write.  I know and love people who voted for Donald J Trump–the ultimate protest to togetherness and acceptance.  I can connect the dots and peer into their universes for short (painful) periods of time.  I have empathy for their struggling families and their feelings of isolation and abandonment.

And I have to believe that is what fuels some of the most vile, hateful things that I see every day on social media.  They are products of their culture. There is no room for them in their echo chambers to explore new ideas or consider other truths.  I have to believe this, because the alternative is that a lot of my classmates, friends, and family are actually spiteful, racist, sexist, and homophobic people that I tolerate through my silence, apathy and ‘friendship.’  That would make me complicit.

I was an oppositional little shit from a very young age.  I questioned everything, and I credit my father somewhat for this.  A liberal, hippie coal miner himself, I was never allowed to accept the status quo.  If I saw something wrong, I needed up speak up.  Because of this questioning, I allowed myself to travel further outside of my world.  Not just geographically, but in my spirit.  I faced my ‘others’ head on, made myself be uncomfortable and tested my hard-fought truths.  I met and loved LGBTQI people, I immersed myself in cultures that weren’t white, I challenged patriarchy and found my own absolute strength.  I have talked with drug-addicted mothers, kids with felonies, homeless men, war refugees, and I cherish every ounce of growth they have afforded me.  And, the surprising truth that has hit me the hardest is that we are not all that different.  I have seen pieces of me in everyone I have ever known.

And perhaps that is the problem.  When I see a mom point a finger at a high school student who has recently survived a school shooting and call them a “libtard” or a “spoiled brat”, I think the real issue is denial.  She refuses to let herself see that this child is not that different from her own child.  The child’s mother is not that different from herself.  For people like her, trapped in a void of self-fulfilling prophecies, it may take a tragedy to finally open herself to the possibility that we are not all that different.  I wish it didn’t take a tragedy, I wish we could come to terms with our connections before every mother has to lose a child.  More and more, I see the real difference between liberal and conservative, democrat and republican, is the ability to see connections.  Once you have really accepted that we all have similar wants, needs, hopes, and dreams, you have to allow yourself the painful process of realizing your own faults and short-comings.  You have to own every choice that you make as it impacts everything—nothing works in isolation.  Your words matter, your actions matter, your beliefs and Facebook posts matter.  It is a lot of goddamn responsibility and I understand the instinct to recoil.

But, understanding it does not mean I tolerate it.  I am appalled, disappointed, and instinctively protective today as I watch people passive aggressively telling children they have no right to their thoughts and opinions.  I see through your “walk up, not out” bullshit as I did when you told the football players to protest in a different way.  If you feel the need to tell someone how, why, or when they should protest, you are more than likely part of the problem.

I see you, I understand where you’re coming from.  But, it is time for your truth to grow. #ENOUGH

-K