Humbled Part II

Hello again! As promised, here is Part II of my blog from last week (simply scroll down to see Part I). Twice now, I’ve written about how I have answered the “how are you feeling” question at a particular, significant moment in my life. The first was shortly after Larry and I got married. I was happy! You can read that blog here: http://dancingdissidentdaughters.blogspot.com/2015/08/happy.html. The second was back in May while I was in my last month of pregnancy. I was grateful! You can read that blog here: http://dancingdissidentdaughters.blogspot.com/2016/05/grateful.html.

Even though it is now almost 3 months after we have welcomed LJ into our lives, I am still (thankfully! side note: never forget to ask about mom!) getting the “how are YOU feeling question?” And even though I generally just tell people that I’m good but tired, really I just feel humbled. And while I could go on and on with examples on why I feel this way, I’ll just give you a list of 5. I’ve got to hammer this out before LJ wakes up again anyway…

5. I’ve been humbled by the amount of visitors and support that we have received over the last couple of months. We received so many gifts for the little man that I’ll probably have to donate some and I never imagined that so many people would travel near and far to meet someone who only eats, poops and sleeps. Hell, Larry’s parents were at the hospital before I was even done pushing! My mother (who has NEVER flown on her own) booked a flight immediately and met her fear of flying alone face to face in order to meet her new grandson. Friends and relatives who have never even been to our house, made the trip to meet our new handsome prince. Most of these visitors had the misfortune opportunity to see me in some pretty vulnerable states- unshowered, body parts hanging out, etc. One of Larry’s best friends first met LJ on the night we brought him home and she walked into me bawling uncontrollably. I think that experience was humbling for both of us.

4. I’ve been humbled by what matters and that definitely does not include material possessions or outwardly appearances. One of these aforementioned material possessions includes our house. We bought our house and shortly after got engaged. Thus, any extra income we had went to saving for our wedding and not to our house. Shortly after we were married, I got pregnant so again, any extra income was not going to the house but rather to baby furniture, etc. We’ve still got some ridiculously ugly curtains up from the previous owners and in general, just don’t have a house that has every room put together. Prior to LJ, I would have been slightly embarrassed for some of my friends to visit our house as it pales in comparison to those of some of my other, more established friends. However, after LJ was born, I invited all of those more established friends with houses that are way more put together than ours right on over. Heck, sometimes I’d even let them wander the house themselves for the first time while trying to find me in the nursery with LJ. They were able to see our messy bedroom with hideous goat curtains still hanging from the previous owners and other dark, messy corners of our house uncensored and at their leisure. Oh well! I didn’t care at the time and low and behold, I haven’t lost any friends over it! As for outwardly appearances, the best example I can give for this involves the above picture taken at a wedding this past weekend. Prior to LJ, I probably would have bought a new dress for the wedding along with matching jewelry and shoes. However, this time around, I packed three dresses to choose from. Two of them were fairly nice but I ultimately ended up picking the one that was folded up in my gym bag because it had easy access for nursing and was the most comfortable. By no means am I saying that one should not care about her/his appearance. I acknowledge that looking one’s best often makes us feel better. And three months from now, I will probably resume buying new dresses for special occasions. But right now, it’s just not important.

3. Speaking of appearances, I’ve been humbled in another way regarding outwardly appearances. Despite everyone saying I looked “so tiny,” I gained about 50 pounds during my pregnancy. I still have about 25 pounds of that to lose. Yes, I know that the most important thing is that I have a healthy son and that I am healthy enough to feed him nature’s best love potion. I also know that I have been fortunate enough to spend the last 12 weeks snuggling with him and that working out has been way less of a priority for me. However, at some point, I am going to have to fit back into my military uniforms and not too far off in the distant future, I am going to have to pass a physical fitness test and meet the Army’s weight requirements. I’ve never had to lose this much weight and it is daunting and it.is.hard. It is not impossible but certainly more difficult squeezing in workouts these days. It’s also more difficult for my husband to have the time and energy to always cook nutritious meals every night like he had in the past. Yes, we still eat relatively healthy but let’s be honest, sometimes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because you forgot to take something out for dinner or takeout is just easier. I’d like to think that prior to LJ I looked at everyone with a nonjudgmental eye (that slightly heavier woman running on the side of the road or that person who finishes last in a Crossfit class), but these days it is even more so.

2. I’ve been humbled by what I simply just don’t know. While I was pregnant, I read numerous books on caring for a newborn, parenting, etc. That’s the kind of person I am- if I’m going to do something, I’m going to read the latest research and get “recommendations” and “reviews” from the “experts.” I can remember feeling cocky after I closed the last chapter of “The Happiest Baby on the Block” thinking this mothering thing was going to be easy! I had the Five S’s down so my baby would never cry! Little did I know that LJ would hate to be swaddled (he sleeps much better with his hands by his face) which blew the first S to smithereens! While he likes to bounce, he hates his swing, making the fourth S and the swing sitting in our living room less useful and while he loves to suck on the breast, he won’t take a pacifier which defeats some of the fifth S. My fellow Mom readers will know exactly what I’m talking about but for everyone else, let’s just say everything I read beforehand was not as magical as the vignettes in all of my books made it sound. I still don’t know everything, but I’ve resorted more to just going with my own instincts along with helpful advice from friends here and there and it’s been a lot better.

1. But most of all, I’ve been humbled that I’ve been blessed with two important men in my life. I think a lot of people forget about dad in the beginning. Much of the focus is on baby and mom, especially one that is exclusively breastfeeding because they are bonded and connected not only emotionally but simply because life the first couple of months revolves around the breast. However, I’ve been blessed with a husband who tries to be involved and help as much as he can. It’s a given that he’s involved emotionally and helps as much as he can with LJ so I won’t go too much into that but I’ve been humbled by some of the ways in which he has helped and made a difference in my sanity. I remember back during the first couple of weeks when I had to use a nipple shield for a short time. Larry was better at remembering it prior to a feeding than I was and often he’d be the one to actually put it on correctly. One may imagine a lesser man who would want nothing to do with a breast lest it be sexual. He also cooks, cleans, and does laundry better than I do and (I think) he does it because he wants to do it to help out not because I make him do it. I have repeatedly said that I don’t know how single mothers do it. At any rate, together, we have been blessed with LJ and I will end this blog by saying I am humbled to have been chosen to be his mother.

Humbled Part I

Hello, friends! My turn here on the old blog spot. I don't think I have posted since May. I've neglected my duties for what I consider a very good reason (see the picture!) but you can determine that for yourself. I had an awesome post in mind in which I was going to write about how humbled I am feeling (hence the title of this blog) after the birth of my son, LJ. However, as happens often nowadays, I've failed to accomplish this among many other things on my "to do" list. For now, I'm just going to post a link to an article that sums up much of what I am feeling these days. I rejoiced after reading it this week knowing that I wasn't alone in some of my feelings/experiences. Hopefully some of our readers can also relate. And I'm hoping to get around to writing Humbled Part II in the next week or so. Until then, I'll just leave this right here:


http://www.pregnantchicken.com/pregnant-chicken-blog/what-ive-learned-so-far-10-week-edition

Betwixt and Between: Denison to Vanderbilt

One of my college professors posted this article on Facebook the other day:

http://auntiebellum.org/mag/coding-white-trash-in-academia/

I loved this article because I resonated with it SO MUCH. It describes living in two different worlds and feeling as though you do not belong in either. Let me explain, and please hear me out and note my nuances; I think that both worlds are uniquely beautiful AND difficult in different ways. 

I grew up in Denison, a small town in western Iowa with a population of approximately 7,000. Now, let me be clear- Denison is NOT a suburb. It wasn’t as though I lived in this cute little town on the outskirts of a city. No, the nearest “city” was either Omaha or Sioux City, and both of those were an hour and half away. Denison was its own small island.

What was it like growing up here? I can remember when McDonald’s first came to Denison, and it was a BIG deal. It felt like we were finally becoming a real city! And then, a couple of years later, Burger King showed up, and it felt like we were living the high life.

There wasn’t a whole lot to do for teenagers. Some of my friends DID live on farms, and I can remember living into the ultimate hick stereotype as we attempted to go “cow tipping.” Many people would engage in underage drinking on gravel roads and the countryside as a way of passing the time and finding adventure. Thankfully, I was pretty involved in sports, so that took up a significant amount of my energy. It also took up a LOT of the town’s time and investment. I can remember feeling as though the whole world hinged on whether or not the varsity made it to the state tournament in a given sport. Indeed, the most effective way to feel as though you were “somebody” and “worthy” in Denison was to be notable in sports.

Main Street in Denison

There weren’t many professional jobs in town. The majority of the economy was based on the three packing plants; in fact, my own father worked for Farmland. He was the “inventory control manager.” I would surmise that my family grew up “lower middle class.” We always had enough to eat, and we were able to participate in sports, go to movies, go out eat occasionally, etc. However, my dad DID work 3 jobs, my sisters and I shared everything, and there wasn’t enough for us to have much extra or anything nice. The second that we graduated from high school, all of the Dissident Daaughters were cut off from any financial assistance from our parents. We had to figure it out ourselves.

I’m not sure if my perspective is a bit jaded in hindsight, but the town felt like it had a negative attitude. For example, it was (and still is) incredibly racist. We had a significant influx of Hispanic immigration that began when I was in middle school. I’m too embarrassed to even TYPE some of the comments that people made about this phenomenon. We’re not talking about subtle and implicit racist comments; we are talking about very explicit and hateful remarks. Additionally, it felt as though everyone was competing with one another all the time. It appeared that parents were continually living vicariously through their children and basing their own self-worth on their children’s success- particularly through sports. I’m certain this phenomenon happens in cities as well, but it seemed as though it were magnified in the small town of Denison because it was the ONLY avenue for parents to obtain any type of positive affirmation.

Now, don’t get me wrong- there were also many beautiful aspects of growing up in Denison. Because the town was so small, many of us had an incredible amount of freedom- even at a young age. I can remember staying home alone with my sister starting around 7-8 years old. We had the freedom during the summer to use our imaginations; we devised our own games and fun through our own creativity. We would go to the library, grocery store, and swimming pool all by ourselves. We learned how to make Kool-Aid and macaroni and cheese. Sometimes Most of the time, it felt as though we essentially raised ourselves. I am forever grateful that this freedom instilled in me a sense of imagination and responsibility that I cherish to this day.

So let’s fast forward several years. I graduate from Simpson College, and I apply to 3 different schools for my Master’s Degree. I can still vividly remember that incredible day in February when I received a phone call from the admissions director at Vanderbilt Divinity School. She called to tell me that I was not only accepted into the divinity school, they were going to give me a FULL RIDE with a STIPEND for their three year Master of Divinity program. Vanderbilt….was going to pay for me to go to their school. I can still remember trembling as I hung up the phone with the admissions director; I had just received a full ride to one of the most prestigious schools in the country.

The Vanderbilt Logo

Naturally, going to Vanderbilt was a culture shock. Vanderbilt is located in the heart of Nashville, Tennessee. So not only did I have to adjust to the culture of a prestigious university, I also had my first experience of southern living. I felt like such a fish out of water when I arrived, and although I learned to adapt in my 3 years there, I never felt like I truly fit into this environment. Indeed, I even graduated near the top of my class, but intellectual prowess was not enough to make up for the cultural gap between myself and the school.

Everyone dressed sooo nice at Vanderbilt. In Iowa, when we go to football games, we wear our Hawkeye or Cyclone sweatshirts. If we’re feeling really crazy, we may even add some black or gold beads to our outfits. However, at SEC football games, the women wear sundresses and the men wear slacks/ties. At that point in my life, I don’t think that I even OWNED a sundress, much less wore one to a football game. I could not believe the amount of nice clothes the women owned and how effortlessly they seemed to put them together.

Students at Vandy DID tend to have significant privilege and affluence; very few of them needed to work. Instead, they had the luxury of spending time with their studies, extracurricular activities, and pursuing key internships. I worked in an office that helped coordinate internships, and I remember feeling shocked at how many students could afford to have unpaid internships. In fact, one of my responsibilities was to help organize a summer internship program in Washington DC. This was a very competitive program at Vanderbilt. Students would have an internship in Washington DC with various non-profit agencies and congressional offices, and they would be exposed to Vanderbilt’s vast networking resources. Students had to pay to have this internship- on top of the expense of living in DC- and they would not be paid for a single cent of their work. I could not fathom how many students could afford to do this. When I was an undergraduate student, I worked 2-3 jobs every summer, and I literally would not have had enough to eat if I did not do so.

This internship program in DC always hired a staff member to be on site during the summers and help supervise the students. They usually wanted a graduate student to have this short-term position- someone that was young, unattached, familiar with working with students, etc. It seemed like I would be a great candidate for this position. However, when I went into the interview for this position, I still remember the exact moment that I realized just HOW out of place I was in this environment. The interviewers asked me what type of connections I already had in Washington DC and how I would use those connections to help the students. I felt deep shame and embarrassment when I heard this question. Of course I didn’t have any connections in our nation’s capital- I had moved from Iowa to Tennessee, and I was only 24 years old!!! However, that didn’t matter. There were other graduate students at Vandy that were my age that DID have those connections. Despite the fact that we were the same age at the same school, these other graduate students clearly had experiences, resources, and connections that I did not. Needless to say, I did NOT get the job.

There was another experience at Vandy that was also
incredibly shame filled. I was talking with some

Seriously, the campus is gorgeous. And check
out the Nashville skyline behind the university...

of my work supervisors about one of our programs, and I said a word that was not considered politically correct. I didn’t know at the time that it wasn’t considered politically correct. I…simply didn’t know. Maybe I was stupid, maybe it was my hick upbringing, I don’t know. For whatever reason, I said this word that was not politically correct, and I was completely shamed for it. Both of my supervisors – instead of gently educating me with the more befitting language- jumped all over me about my use of this word. They questioned my sensitivity to others, my ability to work with their program, etc. all because I had said the wrong word. Again, I felt incredible guilt and shame when this occurred. I have always, always been incredibly sensitive, and I am very concerned with how my words affect others. To hear my supervisors deride me for my word choice was incredibly painful. I felt stupid, and I felt like a bad person.

During my last year of Vandy, my car decided to break down in every way possible. The catalytic converter blew up, the timing belt was done-zo, and a couple of other things exploded. When it was all said and done, I had managed to rack up $3000 worth of car maintenance in approximately one week. Now, I WAS receiving that small stipend from Vandy, and I did have a graduate assistantship on campus. And those thankfully covered my living expenses, but it was not enough for a $3000 car payment. So I did the only thing I could- I got yet another job. I got a job as a pizza delivery driver. Here I was- a year from receiving my Master’s degree from Vanderbilt University- and I was having to work almost 40 hours a week on TOP of going to school full time. And one of those jobs was as a pizza delivery driver. I had to put up with delivering to dangerous Nashville neighborhoods, people assuming I was stupid because I worked in food service, and with men continually hitting on me. How the hell was I this close to my degree and having to put up with this shit?

Welcome to living betwixt and between. An Iowa transplant at Vanderbilt.

When I finally graduated from my 3-year program at Vanderbilt, I had a choice of where I wanted to go next. I could have stayed in Nashville and worked as a chaplain in their hospital system, or I could go back to Iowa and work in Des Moines. I was offered a position in both places. A part of me felt like I “should” stay in Nashville. I mean, let’s be real- Nashville has some of THE best health care in the United States; Vanderbilt Medical Center is one of the top 10 hospitals in the country. I would have been a part of a team that was delivering cutting edge care to patients. From a professional perspective, staying in Nashville would have been the more advantageous choice.

But I couldn’t do it anymore. I just couldn’t keep living like this- feeling like I was trying SO HARD to adapt to a place that was never going to completely fit or feel right. And once I accepted the position in Des Moines at Iowa Methodist Medical Center, I felt such an incredible sense of relief. It was as though the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders. I was coming home.

And so- I’ve actually lived in Des Moines ever since I moved back from Nashville in 2012. As many of you know, I’ve since completed my chaplain residency position at Methodist hospital, and I now work full time as a bereavement coordinator for UnityPoint Hospice. I also teach as an adjunct instructor for Simpson College. If you read the original article I posted, the author describes how difficult it is for him to feel as though he fully belongs in either world. I still feel that way, although living in Des Moines and working for hospice/Simpson has been the best way for me to balance my “hick” upbringing and my academic leanings.

Yup. I totally did that. Kinda of low, even for me.

There IS a part of me that is still trashy. Reframe it if you want- call it “authentic,” say I’m “down to earth,” or whichever adjective gives you the most comfort. I’m strong and intelligent, and I could use a different word if I desired. Right now, however, I’m going to go ahead and call myself a bit white trash. Here’s a good example. Fellow Dissident Daughter, Molly, got married in the Virgin Islands last May. I didn’t have the time or desire to buy a garment bag before we flew out, so instead, I concocted my own garment bag to transport my dress. Get this- I literally taped two garbage bags together WITH DUCT TAPE for my handmade garment bag. Adds a bit of a literal layer to my self-proclamation of “trashy,” doesn’t it?

Here’s another example. I totally go into Starbucks on a regular basis without wearing a bra while wearing ratty gym clothes. Now, for some of my Midwestern readers, this won’t seem that trashy, because this occurrence isn’t THAT atypical for Midwesterners (I’m sure some of my Midwestern readers often do this themselves!) But you would NOT do that in Nashville. You just wouldn’t. In fact, I rarely saw people out in any type of gym clothes, much less ratty gym clothes without a bra. You would get some pretty pointed stares and whispers if you did this. But I LIKE being able to do this in Des Moines. I like not having to put on airs. I like feeling comfortable. I dress up enough for work and have to be “on” enough during the weekdays that I like letting myself go on the weekends. I like…having some time to be trashy.

And yet- despite my innate ‘trashiness’- I definitely do not fit into the world of Denison anymore. I still LOVE sports, but I could not live in a world where the rise of the sun depends on the success of the high school varsity team. And KNOW that this next part sounds elitist- believe I’m more than aware- but I could not go back to a town where the majority of the population is uneducated. There are definitely some people in the town that have undergraduate and even graduate level educations, but this number is growing smaller as job opportunities decrease. I find myself automatically correcting people’s grammar as they talk, and I also myself frustrated by the narrow experience they bring to the table. It’s particularly aggravating when this narrow experience manifests itself as explicit hatred against minorities. Again, before some of you go after me with pitchforks, I’m not saying that everyone in the town is uneducated, nor am I saying that they have no valuable experience. Believe me, I’m not that much of an elitist liberal (and in fact, I find myself increasingly irritated with elitist liberal worldviews). I’m saying that I have had different type of experience than many of the people in the town, and this does not provide much ground for deep connection.

And so I stay in Des Moines where I try and balance both worlds. I do the occasional trashy thing as I noted above, but I am also deeply satisfied by the intellectual stimulation I receive. On the one hand, I work in hospice where I meet an incredibley diverse number of people and hear amazing stories. And on the other hand, I work for Simpson, and I challenge students to question, analyze, and think deeper about life’s most difficult issues. Moreover, I’m very fortunate that I have a decent number of friends that resonate with the struggle I just described. For example, one of my friends grew up as a farmer’s daughter in southern Iowa. She went to college, lived in the Dominican Republic for a couple of years for the Peace Corps, and she just graduated law school. Connection is a beautiful thing, and I love that I have found others that oscillate between the worlds I described.

In the end, I firmly want readers to know that there isn’t one world that is better than the other. Places like Denison and Vanderbilt BOTH have their unique beauty and challenges. Honestly, I think my sincerest wish is that the two worlds would have more bridges between them and that they could talk and learn from one another. I’m thankful that I have had both in my life, and I’m grateful I’ve found a place where I can try to combine (what I think is the best) of both of them.

Where do YOU find yourself betwixt and between? And how do you balance it?

No.

Hey ya’ll. Seems like it’s been forever since I last posted on our page with all of the adventuring I’ve been doing this summer. School got out June 3 for me and I’ve been running around ever since then. I went to Mexico, Boston and Iowa within the course of 7weeks.  I got to swim with dolphins, eat some authentic Mexican food, meet my adorable baby nephew LJ, see some family and friends in Iowa and now I’m currently writing this post at my two week Annual Training for the  National Guard in Smyrna, TN. All in all I have had a great summer and have nothing to complain about. The trips were very refreshing and much needed after a year of teaching and what will soon be another one.

Now, I don’t know what it is about traveling, but traveling always opens and reopens new and old perspectives as well as makes me uber reflective.  I could go on and on about all of the ideas I thought about and new insights I gained while traveling, such as what the next steps I plan to take are after I decide to be finished with teaching or about the recent empathetic conversations I was able to have with a couple of die-hard republicans while not wanting to blow their heads off or my own. Although I would love to tell you about those two revelations, that’s not what I’m writing this blog post about.

One of the main things I thought about during my travels and perhaps might have been even a little bit shameful about was my relationships and interactions with men. Now, when I say relationships and interactions with men, I am not referencing the amount of men I have slept with. I think it’s actually very stupid when women (or men) beat themselves up about a stupid number because at the end of the day that’s all it fucking is, a number. You never know someone’s circumstances or why their “number” is as high or low as it is and quite frankly it shouldn’t matter because that number has nothing to do with who anyone is as a person. Okay rant over on that.

So anyway what I mean when I said I’ve thought about my interactions and relationships a lot with men is I’ve been very reflective of why and how I interact with men who maybe just aren’t looking to be friends with me; whether that means they’re interested in me on another level or vice versa. I would like to talk about the term “obligation” for a little bit. Obligation can be defined as the act of binding oneself to certain things which arises out of a sense of duty, results from custom, law, etc. For example, I am obligated to drill one weekend a month with the Tennessee National Guard because I signed a contract saying I would fulfill that duty. I am obligated to teach at the same high school for at least two years because I made that commitment with Teach for America. I am NOT obligated, however, to do things (whatever they may be) for or with a man because I feel guilty or conscious of their feelings.

“No.” The two letter word that I’ve always had trouble saying. The two letter word that never ends with just two letters because as a woman if I say “no” I immediately need to justify why I’m saying no. I need to have a reason because how stupid would I be to not want to sleep with a man, talk with a man, do a favor for a man, etc. There’s always gotta be a reason why I don’t want to do those things. The mere fact that I may be uncomfortable or just not that into you is never justification enough.

“Hey Kristen, lemme stay over at your place tonight.” “Well no because the house is really messy and I have to get up really early in the morning.”

(Sorry for the vulgarity of the next one)

Dude and I are sitting on my couch cuddling and pulls down his pants, I immediately know what he is looking for. He asks if I can give him head for a little bit. Without blinking an eye (even though I want to) I do it because I invited him over. How dare I say “no” to that notion when I could have implied it prior to or gotten his hopes up.

I’ve had sex with a man before, not because I wanted to or even implied that I wanted to, but because I had already had sex with him before and I felt that I was obligated to again for that reason. Oh I was probably being a tease (God forbid I hurt his feelings or ego). If I say no, well he’s already staying over here anyway and I’ll have to deal with the constant trying and asking so I may as well just get it over with.

I’ve said no, but let down the boundaries I’ve set all because a man wouldn’t stop bugging me, poking me and asking me the same thing over and over again. He asked me to listen to him and have a brief conversation and I said no, but then finally caved in because I knew he wouldn’t go away if I didn’t. I didn’t want to go and talk with him, but I did anyway because his incessant badgering worked as planned (Men are good at being super persistent). I couldn’t leave the conversation even though I was exhausted because he was in a bad state and needed someone to talk to and comfort him. Because that’s my job (insert sarcastic tone).

I’ve never actually told anyone this other than my friend Jennie before, but I really do have trouble saying “no” primarily to the male gender. Call me weak, insecure or whatever you want to, but saying “no” is hard. I’ve always known this about myself and perhaps maybe this is just a broad characteristic of women, but like I said before I’ve been wondering why this is so hard and why I feel so guilty using the two letter word. Am I afraid that I won’t be liked if I tell someone no? Is it sometimes just easier to give in and not say no to avoid complaining and bitching? Am I afraid to hurt a man’s feelings? Yes. Yes. And yes. All of the above.

Now, don't get me wrong, I have used the word plenty of times before and am not just sitting over here saying yes like a little submissive princess. I guess what I really spent my summer thinking about is why saying this two letter word is so fucking hard for me. I know I mentioned the reasons above but this summer has been extremely uncomfortable for me because I’ve been in my head a lot. You’re weak, you’re a slut, you’re insecure are all thoughts that have stemmed from this stupid idea of the difficulty of using the word no. Now, don’t get me wrong, a lot of times within uncomfortable thoughts or situations come beauty. Because I have done a lot of reflecting on this, I have made it a point from here on out to not justify myself when I do use the word no. I’ve made it a point to actually use the word no instead of “Well maybe this isn’t a good idea” or another ambiguous phrase that could be up for interpretation. I’ve attempted to set clear boundaries and not take them down even when nagging or temptation is involved. I try and remove myself from a situation I foresee coming to avoid any feelings of negative vulnerability.

I think I’ve always known this about myself, but haven’t thought about it in depth until now because thinking about it stings a little bit and makes me feel vulnerable. My summer travels brought these thoughts out in me and I’m glad that I was forced to think about it because I am now aware of it and the steps I need to take to regain the ability to say no whenever and wherever. I recognize that I am an individual obligated to nobody but myself. I will fight to not compromise who I am and what I believe in efforts to protect a man’s feelings. And I sure as hell will try, try and try to be heard loud and clear even when it is difficult to do so. I am a woman. I am strong. I will not hide behind feelings of fear, guilt or false obligation. I will say “no.”

Strip Clubs and Politics

Well that title ought to provoke some interest! Sorry to disappoint,  but it is not going to be as salacious as you might think. Recently, I overheard a conversation that I can't get out of my head. The conversation involved a question posed to a father regarding his daughter. If you could choose, would you rather your daughter worked as a stripper or at a fast food restaurant? Unbelievably to me, the father, a man with at least a bachelor's degree, stated he would choose stripper because you can't live off the wages from a fast food, minimum wage job. It took every ounce of this asshole ' s being to not come at the man like a spider monkey. I don't like strip clubs. It's not that I'm jealous of the beautiful women or concerned my husband secretly wants one of them. No, my dislike of them comes from the fact that they hurt women. I've heard people say that it is empowering, that they are taking advantage of men's desires, and all the other arguments we tell ourselves to justify their existence. All of these arguments provide nice soundbites and alleviate the conscience. The problem is that the arguments are dead wrong. Here is what happens to a woman who is employed as a stripper. First, she makes a large amount of money without any real marketable skills that can be translated to a different industry outside of the sex industry. This sounds good...making a lot of money without a lot of effort. However, her lifestyle quickly grows and she becomes used to making more money than what her transferable skills can support. So, she in essence, becomes stuck. Leaving will necessarily mean a loss in wages. I know you might be thinking suck it up cupcake but how many of us could take even a 10K paycut much less the larger one faced by these women? So, the women become stuck in the sex industry. The options, then, if one  wants to leave, are limited. Often, the women who want to leave get sucked into other illegal activity such as drugs, sex trafficking or other illicit activities that can provide comparable wages without any real skills. 

I can't believe anyone would choose this cage (no pun intended) for their daughter. I know the father probably didn't think about it as intensely as I have but the sad fact remains that money, no matter how it is acquired, is often the commodity that is valued above all else. It can lead to absurd results wherein a father would rather his daughter be trapped in the sex trade instead of flipping burgers at The Sonic. I also think that the conversation illustrates another issue that has been bothering me of late and it is the politics half of this post. How often do we all, including myself, hold opinions that we have not examined or questioned. Unexamined opinions lack validity and credibility and yet, we become attached to these opinions and defend them, not with facts, but with personal attacks or worse by stating some vague rhetoric that lets us off the hook. It's a mental shortcut and it's  As Americans, we are entitled to hold and state these opinions. I don't think, however, we are entitled to ignorance. Our freedoms come with great responsibility. I'm not asking you to turn every game of "would you rather" into a dissertation. In my defense, the conversation that sparked this post was not a result of this whimsical game, and instead, was sparked by a discussion on the state of the economy.  What I am asking is that you look beyond the rhetoric or the quick justifications before your opinion becomes solidified and entrenched but especially before you try to convince someone else of its truth.

"Maybe, Maybe Not"

I have grown to love and appreciate parables...humans have evolved communicating through storytelling, the art of the narrative. Parables have the capacity to communicate messages more powerfully than cold, factual statements. Narratives also allow our minds to connect more readily and powerfully to ideas, morals, beliefs and emotions. There are two parables I've heard where I could almost physically feel my mind shift after hearing them...I'd like to share one of them with you today. It is a Chinese proverb commonly titled, "Maybe". There are different renditions, all comparable in premise and intimation. You can view and listen to a version HERE and/or read the version below:

"There once was a poor old country farmer. One year, the weather was very good, and his crops grew stronger, taller and greener than ever before. In the tea house, in the evening, his friends and neighbors said how lucky he was. The farmer just nodded and said, "Maybe".

One night, the very night before he was to start the harvest, a herd of wild horses came stampeding down from the hills and trampled all his crops. In the tea house that evening, his friends and neighbors all commiserated with him. They said how unlucky he was. The farmer just nodded. He said, "Maybe".

The next day, the farmer's son went out early in the morning and roped three of the wild horses, worth as much as three years of harvest. In the tea house that evening, his friends and his neighbors said how lucky he was. The farmer just nodded and said, "Maybe".

The next day, when the farmer's son was breaking one of the horses, he was thrown, breaking his leg. In the tea house that evening, his friends and neighbors all commiserated and said how unlucky he was. The farmer just nodded and said, "Maybe".

A month later, the emperor declared war and his army marched through the village, conscripting all the young men. When the soldier came to the farmer's house looking for his son, he saw his broken leg and knew he couldn't be taken. In the tea house, in the evening, his friends, his neighbors, all said how lucky he was. The farmer just nodded and said, "Maybe".

If you go online and search for this parable, there are a number of different interpretations. That's the great thing about narratives...they speak to where you're at in your life when you hear them, within the bounds of the storyline. What this story said to me was that there is no way of knowing that any specific event is "good" or "bad". The consequences of moments and events have yet to unfold, sometimes years into the future and sometimes not even in our lifetimes.

Thinking about this, I realized that labeling events as one or the other was an impossible and futile endeavor. I also realized that some of the events, moments and circumstances in my life that might be labeled "bad" are some of the events, moments and circumstances that have made me a better person, made me more "me", made me more loving, empathetic, compassionate, honest and open. So are they "bad"? I've taken to using the words "uncomfortable", "frustrating" and "challenging" because for me, they are more accurate.

Too, using those words removes the threat and fear from situations...labeling something as "bad" immediately triggers a negative, judgmental, fearful reaction. As someone who has struggled with anxiety, this is a HUGE cognitive shift and in fact, began to help me manage and remove some of my anxious moments. I have been able to view events and circumstances as things that exist and that I have feelings about. I allow myself to feel the feelings and when I remember what I have taken from this parable, I am also able to remind myself that there is no way of knowing what will come in the future and I cannot and do not want to pass judgment on the "goodness" or "badness" of a circumstance as it exists and what it will bring in my life. This has lightened my load considerably.

Internalizing the messages I hear in this parable has freed me in some ways. And of course I have moments when I am better and worse at remembering what this story has shown me. That said, I go back to it frequently and share it with many in conversation, which is why I wanted to share it with you, our dear blog family. I think one could teach a course based on this narrative, as I only have time to scratch the surface in this blog and there are many messages and take aways packed in its simplicity. What do you hear? What speaks to you when you hear/read this proverb?

Adversity is not a Detour...It's the Path

Once again, I don't have a lot to give at the moment. I returned from a two-week intensive training course at Fort Mccoy, Wisconsin on Saturday. Two weeks sounds like a walk in the park compared to my year-long deployment overseas but I found myself in Royal Asshole mode upon my return home. For those that aren't familiar with a Royal  Asshole, on a scale of 0 to douchebag, this person isn't even on the scale. Yesh, it was that bad. 

I can't really pinpoint why this Royal Ahole emerged upon my return. Maybe it was because the kids were acting out, which causes me some guilt about being gone. Maybe it was because my husband had to leave the following Monday and, of course, Fathers' Day was jammed in between there. Maybe it was because I epically failed to even meet the minimum standard for the father of my two children on Father's Day. (I mean, really? You couldn't even pull off a card, Jill? Are you effin kidding me?) Maybe it was because I also had a 20th class reunion to plan and attend the following weekend (when did I get old btw). Maybe it was because I'm hopefully having eye surgery the week after next. Maybe I'm just a straight up legit asshole, I really don't know, but I'm sure that last one is at least a little true. Whatever the reason, I just found myself stuck on Bitch Mode. I'm still about 50% there if I'm honest with myself. These are not fun times, no matter how long or short the absence.  Everyone is off schedule, things are not where I left them, the kids are wise enough to employ manipulation tactics 101 when one of us is gone, and well, I always feel a bit like a stranger when returning home. It's jarring to go from planning a war in some undisclosed location, talking about the range of a Howitzer and what a SCUD missile does, to being, well, mom and wife. It's not a transition I have perfected by any means and it's fucking hard. I don't want to do the fucking laundry. I just planned a damn war for pete's sake, my brain screams.

Adjusting and readjusting to life after any sort of absence is actually really difficult. John and I continue to throw fuel on that fire with reckless abandon. Last summer, we didn't see each other for six weeks. This summer, it's a mere three weeks so you think it would be easy. John will leave for four months at some point after October and I have more training in Arkansas and Colorado on the horizon as well.  No absence is easy, no matter what the absence is for or how long it is.  But, no matter what, no matter how big of a bitch I am or how much money John blows while he is living large while I'm gone, we have continued to make it work. Sometimes I think of how much we have been tested and tried from the day we were married. We were married four months and I left for six months. I was deployed for a year, his business imploded, we lived apart for basically an entire additional year when i worked in Des Moines and he lived in Nebraska. We have moved more than most people move in a lifetime in the past five years in order to keep each other happy and through it all, even though it got ugly, we stuck it out. To me, that is a sign of strength. Sometimes I get weepy over how much we have survived. I'm tearing up as I write this. I think how much easier it "should have" been. But then I think to myself that if things had been easy, if we never had to be apart, we would never know how strong we were.  Is strength never letting someone go or is it letting them go and having them return to you, time and time again, no matter how big of an asshole you can be? I'm learning it's the latter. We give, we take, but we don't control. We let go, we take a risk in pursuing a dream, but we always come home, whatever state that may be at the time. We argue, we fight, but we don't give up.  Love isnt controlling. Love is freeing. I think many people confuse love with control. True love wants each person to become the best version of their self, not keep someone in shackles. I'm learning to accept that sometimes life's greatest gifts come wrapped in adversity. My marriage has revealed itself, especially in the early years, as a source of adversity but in the end, it is truly one of the greatest gifts I have been given because it has revealed itself to me as true love, something I would not have dreamt possible ten years ago. Thanks for putting up with this asshole, John. Love always, Your Soulmate (sorry you're stuck with this asshole).