The sunset in Portland was extraordinary tonight: clear and cold and quiet. It had me thinking (pardon the cheese) about the sunset of 2010 that just occurred, and the sunrise of 2011 that is just beginning. This year I have so many patterns to leave behind, and so much to build. My world is starting to get bigger again, after shrinking and changing fundamentally in the last year. There was a stillness in the sunset tonight that reminded me that beauty doesn't have to explode in front of me to be real; in fact, the beauty that comes with quiet can bring with it a profound peace. Forgiveness is also stealthy. This change of year slipped into my house, sat down, and told me to go outside and look at the moon. I'd forgotten that there is a whole world outside to help me right-size all the pieces of life that can feel so overwhelming.
It's good to be back in Portland for a couple of weeks. What a gift to live here.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Altitude sickness
I had a short conversation with a friend and classmate today about the level of identity overload caused by being a member of an oppressed group at this particular institution of higher education we're attending. We're both in an intensive graduate program at a pretty prestigious university. It's the quintessential ivory tower, and the air is seriously thin up here sometimes.
I watched her eyes well up as we stood in the rain outside the train station with people jostling past us, and felt my heart contract. Her experience here is so different from mine: her identities make it impossible for her to "pass" in the way I can choose to, however painful passing may be.
As her umbrella bobbed away into the crowd, I turned and made my way down into the subway, shaking my head. There's so little space here for acknowledging the impact of existing as an individual at an institution that was built without people of color, or queer people, or immigrants, or women, or working-class people in mind. If you belong to one--or several--of these groups, each day is an exercise in invisibility. Each day means walking through the small interactions and routines and nothings of life with the fear that the entire day will pass without you really being seen or really being heard by another human being. You routinely encounter people to whom you are a novelty, and there's zero assurance that your day will include a required reading or conversation in which you find yourself represented--accurately, or at all.
That's exhausting.
And some days--in the rain, on the sidewalk, amidst the crowd--it all becomes too much. In that moment, I'd wanted to hug her and to simultaneously smash oppression into tiny, incidental bits.
Instead, I settled on some empathic listening and a kiss on the cheek. It seemed the only thing to do.
I watched her eyes well up as we stood in the rain outside the train station with people jostling past us, and felt my heart contract. Her experience here is so different from mine: her identities make it impossible for her to "pass" in the way I can choose to, however painful passing may be.
As her umbrella bobbed away into the crowd, I turned and made my way down into the subway, shaking my head. There's so little space here for acknowledging the impact of existing as an individual at an institution that was built without people of color, or queer people, or immigrants, or women, or working-class people in mind. If you belong to one--or several--of these groups, each day is an exercise in invisibility. Each day means walking through the small interactions and routines and nothings of life with the fear that the entire day will pass without you really being seen or really being heard by another human being. You routinely encounter people to whom you are a novelty, and there's zero assurance that your day will include a required reading or conversation in which you find yourself represented--accurately, or at all.
That's exhausting.
And some days--in the rain, on the sidewalk, amidst the crowd--it all becomes too much. In that moment, I'd wanted to hug her and to simultaneously smash oppression into tiny, incidental bits.
Instead, I settled on some empathic listening and a kiss on the cheek. It seemed the only thing to do.
Getting precise
One of my professors said the following in her lecture today:
“Part of the task is to get really precise about what we mean. If we aren’t precise, we have no hope of moving the dial.” (S. Jones, 11-9-10)
Her statement was about prevention programming, and how it's important as practitioners and researchers to be very clear about what we're trying to change, and under what circumstances, and for whom. It raises great questions about the viability of research and practice across identity groups.
But it made me think about this blog.
That was anti-climactic, I know.
I want to be precise about this space, and "musings on words and life" is perhaps a tad...broad. Everything everywhere is about words and life: how I name who I am, what I choose to spend my daily word allowance on, if I'm a good tipper because I think that's important (which I do). These are all musings on words and life.
What I'm really interested in, though, is this idea of precision. I would like to use this as a place to name my experiences so precisely that they become useful to other people. It's the eternal paradox of good poetry, right? The more specific you are, the more universal your message becomes. (I told you I'd tell you things you already know.)
So it might just end up that I'm precise about a lot of different things here. We'll see how it goes.
“Part of the task is to get really precise about what we mean. If we aren’t precise, we have no hope of moving the dial.” (S. Jones, 11-9-10)
Her statement was about prevention programming, and how it's important as practitioners and researchers to be very clear about what we're trying to change, and under what circumstances, and for whom. It raises great questions about the viability of research and practice across identity groups.
But it made me think about this blog.
That was anti-climactic, I know.
I want to be precise about this space, and "musings on words and life" is perhaps a tad...broad. Everything everywhere is about words and life: how I name who I am, what I choose to spend my daily word allowance on, if I'm a good tipper because I think that's important (which I do). These are all musings on words and life.
What I'm really interested in, though, is this idea of precision. I would like to use this as a place to name my experiences so precisely that they become useful to other people. It's the eternal paradox of good poetry, right? The more specific you are, the more universal your message becomes. (I told you I'd tell you things you already know.)
So it might just end up that I'm precise about a lot of different things here. We'll see how it goes.
Monday, November 8, 2010
How about right now?
I am so grateful to Dan Savage and the It Gets Better Project. It's been sweet and sad and lovely to watch the videos mount up, providing myriad images of queer people who survived adolescence. I've watched and wept and giggled and blushed and put my hands over my heart in appreciation.
But I feel like there's something missing.
I don't know about you all, but when I was 13, 14, 15--right through high school--my ability to project myself into the future and imagine better times was pretty limited. It wasn't that I wasn't intellectually or emotionally capable, but developmentally I just wasn't there. In watching all of these videos, I wonder how many young people out there are like I was then: things that are bad now are BAD NOW. The light, however bright, sometimes didn't find its way into my tunnel.
I've been thinking about this a lot.
I asked some teacher friends of mine about it--smart folks I am lucky enough to be in graduate school alongside--and I've gotten a lot of agreement. Now, I don't have any studies to back these thoughts up with at this point--just the practical experience of some folks familiar with adolescent development.
So, how about we focus on some "here and now" messages alongside the (important and beautiful) messages that "it gets better"? Here's a humble start:
If you or a friend is experiencing harassment in school, you have the right to report it to someone you trust. Now. You may be helping out others by reporting it.
If you or a friend is feeling suicidal, call The Trevor Project. Get online. Reach out to someone you trust. Be a bridge to someone who has the skills and training to get someone out of danger. You don't have to handle it on your own.
It does get better, but it also doesn't have to get that bad in the first place. There are far-flung communities who want you to survive and thrive right now.
You have so much power to change your experience of school, and to make the world better, even if you don't think so.
Just being your true self is a gorgeous act of courage.
Well, here I am.
So, I hopped on the blog train again. I did this for a little while when I was in a short-lived MFA program, and it seemed like my second attempt at graduate school (this time an Ed.M) was the perfect time to restart the ultimate procrastination past time.
Also, blogger has pretty templates.
My hope is that this will be more than just narcissistic meandering; at worst, I'll write things you already know. At best, I'll make your world a little bigger. Let's hope it's the latter.
Join me?
Also, blogger has pretty templates.
My hope is that this will be more than just narcissistic meandering; at worst, I'll write things you already know. At best, I'll make your world a little bigger. Let's hope it's the latter.
Join me?
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