glass house

A beautiful house stands on a hill. 

It's light and bright inside, with tall beams, gorgeous fixtures, and all kinds of charm. It's both haven and home to a precious few, though a handful of visitors have passed through its doors. 

The road to this house is clear, and its view is breathtaking and unobstructed. All eyes are on this house because it's commanding and impossible to miss. It has inhabited this hill for generations. 

Though it's filled with both promise and possibility, nearly everyone around resides in its shadow. The house seems solid, secure, and destined to endure. Except it's not. Bit by bit, its foundation is crumbling. 

He hung a mirror in this house a while back. He found the stud, hammered in a nail, and placed the mirror high on the wall just above eye level. Perfect, he thought as he stood back and admired his refection. Then he turned off the light without another thought. 

She'd always seen the house on the hill but never ventured inside or beyond. Until the day she climbed the hill. It took longer than expected, and when she finally reached the house, she struggled to steady and catch her breath. Even on the inside, she struggled to see. 

Until the day she found a stool. 

To see the horizon and herself, she pulled out the stool then put it away so he wouldn't trip. Over and again, she pulled out then put away the stool. Until she spoke up. 

"Might we lower this mirror a bit," she asked, "so we may both enjoy the view and see ourselves more clearly?"

"But this is how it goes," he explained. 

So she pulled out her stool, put it away, and the mirror remained. Until years later when she tried again. 

"What if we—" 

"No," he interrupted. "This is how it's always been."

So little changed and the mirror remained. Until the day she forgot to tuck away her stool and he stumbled over it. 

His indifference shifted to irritation. He resented the inconvenience and her high maintenance. So each of their voices grew louder in the precarious house atop the hill. And the mirror remained. 

Until the day she lowered it herself. 

Her reflection was radiant, like nothing she'd seen before. And he was incredulous. "I can barely see above my belly button!" 

She spoke of collaboration and compromise. "If you'll just look from my perspective," she pleaded. But he refused. Accused. He felt undermined by her overcorrection, and he told her so. 

"This is my house, and I am its humble servant," he shouted. "This is where a mirror belongs," he continued then moved the mirror just beyond her reach—back where it began. 

But she could never unsee what she had seen. 

And he—no longer needing to flex or to bend—held his head high and his shoulders back. Perfect, he thought. Then looked into his own eyes before he turned off the light. 

belonging

Almost daily, I hear about how human beings are social creatures wired for connection. That team and tribe are in our DNA. That community is essential to survival. That relationships are critical for well-being. 

We ache for meaning and want to belong to something bigger than ourselves. Many would argue that we need to. I know I need to. 

But I’ve been thinking a lot about something someone said to me. It went like this:

“This is who we are. And if you’re not this, then I’m not sure you belong here.” 

Wait, what about community, connection, teamwork, well-being, survival…? I want to belong, but I’m not that. I’m not that at all, actually. So I have no place here?

Is belonging conditional?

I think the Colony and country club down the street would say so. I know intimately that many of my neighbors believe so. I also know of political parties, social clubs, sports teams, workplaces, churches, synagogues, colleges, universities… that agree. Of course. They all have requirements for who’s in and who’s out. 

I’m not sure if I can count the number of times in my life I’ve heard that I might be better suited elsewhere because of how I look, believe, or behave. “If you’re not this, that, and the other,” they say, “you don’t belong.” 

OK, so what are the alternatives? Isolation? Conformity?

How many years did I stuff, starve, straighten, and silence myself in order to fit in? How much energy have I expended trying to be someone that I’m not? How much heartache have I endured trying NOT to be seen or heard for who I am? How much time have I wasted trying to cultivate other people’s strengths in myself? 

But what about community, connection, teamwork, well-being, survival…? 

“Isolation or conformity? I’ll take neither for $500, Bob.” 

In the name of belonging, we’ve erected walls and signs and turned so many brothers into enemies—or worse, into ourselves. 

“If you’re not with us, you’re against us,” we say. So our clubs, communities, workplaces, teams, social networks, systems, churches, schools, families, and news outlets are vanilla. The people on the inside all look and sound the same. 

But the universe is crying out. The trees are weeping; the walls are crumbling; the people are revolting. And Mother Nature has put her foot down. 

Although so many contemporary signposts proclaim otherwise, we’re connected. And whether we choose to accept it or not, everything belongs. We’re neither designed nor optimized to look, believe, and behave the same. And contrary to what some may believe, the people around us weren’t put here solely as mirrors to reflect ourselves.   

I’m certain there’s another way. It’s marked by a sign that proudly declares that you are welcome. “Please come as you are,” it says, “because you belong.” 

Everyone belongs somewhere.

blocked

“What would happen if you let yourself feel angry?” A dear friend asked as we walked the beach late last Spring. 

I left off with Privilege then left for vacation. Next up: Supremacy. 

I started taking notes and outlining nearly two months ago. But since then even the whispers have diminished, and this all-consuming piece has grown stubborn and still. 

I’ve had many more conversations, made my case, and found ample evidence to support it. But each time I’ve sat down to write—nothing. 

The more I’ve researched and recalled, the angrier I’ve become. For too much of this summer, I’ve been pissed. 

I’ve been mad about an injustice—about the scars of condescension and exploitation, then the sting of self-congratulations. About systemic racism and unseen biases. About microaggressions, entitlement, and privilege. About food deserts, indifference, and inequity. About destructive words spoken over me and too many others. About two terrible choices and a grumpy old man in a red baseball cap who yells at me each time he sees me run by…

I’ve been stuck in the past—choking on negativity and resentment. And they’ve been insidious, creeping into my thoughts, actions, speech, visions, and dreams. I’ve lost sleep, gotten madder still—and accomplished absolutely nothing along the way.  

“We white people have work to do,” someone explained to me recently. 

Perhaps. But I think we all do.

Some of us must stand up and fight. Others must sit down and protest. Still others must find courage to walk away and may need to get mad as hell first.

But my anger is no longer serving me nor anyone else. I’m pissed that I bought in and believed. But I still have work to do, so I can’t stew here any longer. 

Thank you but it’s time for me to move on.  

privilege

I heard them before I saw them.

His once-clean-cut sandy hair had grown shaggy over his ears. But his winning smile still looked the same. He wore a light-weight jacket zipped up all the way. We exchanged hellos then embraced.

“Show them your thing!” His partner exclaimed after a few minutes of pleasantries. He didn’t appear to share her enthusiasm. Instead he blushed, backed away, and cowered.

“Come on, babe. Show’em your thing!” She encouraged. He giggled but seemed uncomfortable. Obviously, our curiosity was piqued.

“Yeah, babe, show us your thing!!” We joined in and volleyed friendly banter.

“I’m going to come find it,” I laughed. “I’m going to cry,” I teased. “Please, I want to see,” I pleaded.

Our hunger to uncover this thing he was withholding mounted. And he grew ruddy and cryptic. “You definitely don’t want to see it,” he tried.

Nevertheless, we persisted. And eventually, he relented.

He unzipped his jacket to disclose a brand-new holster cradling an empty pistol. Taken aback, I too relented. This definitely was not the thing I was expecting.

Why? I wondered then asked aloud.

He shared his excitement about the new purchase and said something about self-defense. He spoke about the threat of cougars on state trails. Then said something else about our open-carry state.

What the hell? I wondered but kept that to myself as he continued.

It certainly wasn’t lost on me that while the world was on edge over unarmed American men and women murdered while standing up for their 1st, 4th, and 8th amendment rights—this charming, blue-eyed, sandy-haired man was exercising his 2nd amendment right just because.

He traveled by car and ferry with ease, interacted with a cop on the way, and hugged my entire family with a gun strapped to his body.

~

Last month, a young coach sent an apology email to a community of parents and players for careless Facebook posts he wrote in the heat of the moment during the climax of nearby riots.

“Just shoot them,” he posted and punctuated with expletives. From the comfort of his living room, he exercised his 1st amendment right.

“I apologize…” he relented that Sunday afternoon. “This doesn’t reflect…” he continued, then went back to work Monday morning.

~

He smirked as he shared stories from his reckless youth. Not once but twice he was pulled over for driving 40+ miles over the speed limit. Each time he drove away with a warning.

He followed these incredible tales with another about the complications that come with breaking traffic laws across state lines. Once he was held responsible. So he leveraged his position and his family’s resources to hire an attorney.

They had to pay a fine.

~

Seated beside my partner, best friend, lover, and lifetime companion, I was undone by Dave Chapelle’s 8:46. I sat speechless and sobbed into the quiet of the family room when it was over.

In the gravity of the aftermath, I turned and looked into the steady eyes I’ve looked into on most days for the last 25 years.

“We have so much to talk about,” I began.

• I talked about police training and greater accountability. In true form, he weighed both sides and explained how little I know about police training.
• He questioned if it would still have been considered racism if the cop had been Asian or black. I was incredulous that we’d strayed so far from the point.
• I affirmed everything I knew to be true from the piece we just watched. He was moved but also smelled hints of “bullshit.”
• He looked spent, clearly exhausted by our late-night conversation. I returned to tears over how much work we have left to do. 
• I bristled as my thoughts turned to our kids. He wondered if I might be overreacting…

Although we tried, neither of us could find much common ground to stand on. I searched his eyes for the light of understanding but found just a flicker of empathy. With the lights and TV off, the family room looked dark.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t feel the way you feel because I’ve never been through what you’ve been through.”

~

What a privilege.

perspective

The day after I wrote my last post—after the stirred pot, the late night, the hot tears—I had to shift gears and simmer. To compartmentalize and turn my focus to a writing deadline.

This was a sunny afternoon. I sat under an umbrella on my back porch, drinking a tall glass of water with lime. I watched the grass. The walnut tree. The trampoline. In between thoughts, I watched the bounty in my baby garden dance in the breeze. So much green. A neighbor walked past and smiled. Then another. Across the street an eagle touched down in the nature preserve, then took off and soared. I soaked in the hot sun beating down on my legs, took a sip of cool water, opened up my laptop, and began to write.  

“The days are getting longer. The sun is shining brighter, and we’re beginning to see more smiling faces…”

The following day, I received feedback on my piece from someone I respect immensely. “If I got this—with everything going on in the world right now—I’d think the client was out of touch… It’s too happy.” She went on. 

In my long and detailed follow-up response, I defended my position and called her out for letting her personal biases color her professional judgment. But then again, don’t we all? I backpedaled, hit delete, and instead sent a simpler response, “OK, I’ll rework it.”

After I let go of my bruised ego, reread her perspective, and returned to the page, a different and better narrative unfolded: a pivot from happy to hopeful. Our collective final product was stronger than my initial draft. “And yet, the sun still shines,” I concluded.

But I left the project wondering how two people could see the same day so differently. And then there was that comment.

If I choose to bask in the sun—to mine for the good and the possible, even amid the terrible—does this make me out of touch? If I prefer to discriminate in decisions about what I consume and with whom I spend my time, is this such a bad thing? Am I really missing out if I’ve opted out of a system engineered to pickpocket my attention; manufactured to curate my experience; architected to tell me who I am and what to think; and rigged to keep too many so small? I’m not so sure.

I think our positions and consumption inform the world we see and experience, not necessarily the one that is. You see, the sun always shines. This is not an issue of ignorance. It’s a fact.

But from where we sit, day appears to become night before the dawn returns. And oftentimes clouds come. The lowest, darkest, and most persistent can easily consume. Even when they relent, they promise to return. They obscure perspectives and cloud judgment until there’s nothing else to see but gray and gloom. And then the wind comes. Then rain. Then lightning. Then thunder.

And then?

• We fume. We fight. We fear. 
• We deny and go to sleep. 
• We watch and wait to see.
• We take control and march. 

We can mindlessly check out, numb ourselves, refuse to engage, and give up. Or not.

Alternatively, to see clearly—to affect change and do something, as so many keep preaching about these days—we may first need to modify our consumption. To have the courage to explore how we got here. To either change our position or leverage it to come alongside those who can’t.

Then perhaps we can use the fiercest storms to reconsider, to revise, to remember, to become better...

Either way, the sun still shines.  

token black mom speaks

It’s interesting to be the only black woman many of the people in my community know. Or perhaps the only one a handful feel comfortable enough to text.

But tokenism isn’t new to me. I’ve often been the only one. Or I’ve been one of few for most of my life. But this week, this old-familiar role has taken a turn and churned. I’ve been on the receiving end of many ill-timed texts from well-meaning white mothers reaching out.

I haven’t yet responded because in each circumstance, these messages have caught me off guard. And further, what can I say? Perhaps I’ve left most of these messages unread because I’m not sure the senders will like my response.

You see, I have little sympathy for your fear. I have no words to soothe your concerns. And forgive me, but right now I have minimal interest in wiping away the tears you’ve shed because you just got the memo that racism is real.

Real racism.

Just because it’s on your radar at the moment, this violence and overt racism isn’t new. George Floyd isn’t the first, and sadly, he won’t be the last. But before you cast stones, post, or hit send once more, please first consider the insidious and very real daily assaults the media and social outlets will never spotlight.

• Consider your own side comments and averted glances.
• Consider the way you patronize with your assumptions. 
• Consider the way you hire, promote, and compensate your employees. 
• Consider the way you judge those who look or think differently than you. 
• Consider the thousands of thoughts you think before you’ve had time to filter them. 
• Consider the ways you have ignored and excluded. 
• Consider the company you keep.
• Consider the way your child’s flippant use of the n-word might affect their “friend.”
• Consider how your guest’s drunken remarks might impact the one black girl in the room. 
• Consider your biases against my son. 
• Consider why neither my husband nor daughter have received your sympathy.
• Consider why such egregious behavior is required for you to consider my feelings. 

I could go on.

A text—really?

In my opinion, mudslinging via social media is too easy. So is texting. And it’s an inappropriate medium for an actual conversation.

Although you may feel better because you’ve expressed your solidarity via text with your one black acquaintance, your courageous and carefully crafted message pokes at deep wounds and stirs fury. This may not have been your intention, but I thought you should know. You’ve also sidestepped a fucking impossible conversation with the bridge you’ve erected. This conversation you’ve averted bears the weight, pain, blood, and tears of generations.

Your text message may absolve you of your emotions in the moment, but tonight it leaves me to shoulder a lifetime of burdens. Honestly, I find this behavior both thoughtful and careless.

Black like me.

I would never assume the model on a magazine cover encompasses the depth, diversity, and complexity of white people. Yet so many have conflated a collective trauma with the assumption that all black people are having a universal experience.

You’ve based your perception of me and what I might be thinking on the sensational stories and stereotypes perpetuated in the media. You’ve incorrectly assumed—because of my skin color—that I’m following, fretting, and fuming as you are. You assume you know my politics. And you have the audacity to suggest that one dimension of my person predicates my attention, actions, feelings, beliefs, and my vote.

But black isn’t monochromatic. And contrary to what you may have assumed, I don’t represent all black people. I can hardly speak for the individual experiences of an entire race. So please, do us both a favor: unpack this box and let me out.

Yes, my skin is dark. Yes, people constantly make snap judgments about me because of it. And yes, more than once, I’ve been approached or stopped by suspicious but kind police officers on account of it.

It’s true that I must work twice as hard for less. It's true that my children must tread lightly in ways some of their lighter or darker friends may never experience. And it's true that we've each been on the receiving end of insufferable ignorance and heart-rending comments in our communities, churches, schools, workplaces, with friends, and in our own family.

But I don’t need your pity. And I certainly don’t need you to march on my behalf. 

A different narrative.

I could be angry. I could be fearful. And maybe I should be. But there’s too much to feel angry about. And there’s too much to fear. Sometimes I feel sad, but I can’t stay there long. Because the anger, violence, sadness, fear, and resentment I’m apparently entitled to don’t serve me. And if I let them, they would paralyze me. So thank you for your messages and concern, but respectfully, I will not perpetuate this bullshit. And I won’t be joining you as you march down this road.

The many lives that have been stolen deserve better. Damn straight, black lives matter. Every life does. So I choose love.

Yes, there are a handful of terrible people in the world who do shitty things. But in my experience, these are exceptions, not the rule. Most of the people I’ve encountered in this lifetime are loving and kind, and they’re doing their best. Yes, racism sucks and it’s real. But so is love. I choose love.

Since you’ve asked, I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. 

I’ll tell you that I am a black woman and so much more. I love my life. I love my family. And I encounter awe-inspiring beauty daily. I’m grateful to the mothers who loved before me. I’m grateful for the mothers who stand beside me. I’m grateful for the path that brought me here and for the compassion, empathy, ethic, and perspective it has gifted me. And I’m honored to be a black mother in America.

Finally, to you who have suggested that it must be so hard to be the mother of a black son, I say hell no. It is one of the greatest joys of my life, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.