Prejudice Taught

I love looking at babies’ pint-sized feet. Not only are they adorable, but when I have one of those teensies in my hands, I often find myself thinking about how those little soles (and souls) have yet to walk a step…but they will walk countless miles over the course of a lifetime. Their tiny feet are blank slates to the world that they will traverse.

 

toes

 

A new life is a blank slate in other ways, too. A baby does not pop out with a favorite football team or political party. Those opinions usually get formed in the environment in which the child is raised. So, for instance, we chose to educate our child that the Chicago White Sox is the baseball team to embrace because we are wise. Others will choose to indoctrinate their kid that it is the Chicago Cubs. (Of course, after last season, neither team has bragging rights, but let me just say one thing: 2005. Enough said.)

My point is that, while little ones certainly have their own minds and personal preferences in life (peas or carrots?), the attitudes that they develop about societal issues can be greatly influenced by what they see and hear around them.

Yes, I am aware that this is a point pretty much understood by everyone, and I’m not saying anything new. But then I wonder…if we do know this, why aren’t we more careful about the messages we send?

I remember learning that the word prejudice meant to pre-judge. It made it easy to remember back in fourth grade, and it still works pretty well. I believe that we all do this to different extents in one way or another. I know I do. If I get into the 15 items or less line at the grocery store and the person ahead of me has well beyond that number, I will immediately judge that some other inconsideration is on the horizon. And darn it if she isn’t going to pay by check…and of course only after the cashier has told her the total does she decide to actually look for the checkbook, and then she can’t find it in her purse, and then there is no pen, and then she can’t find her ID…well, my prejudice seems “justified.” I knew it, my little voice might say.

While I am a flawed pre-judger of some things, I do have a difficult time when people around me speak in a negative, discriminating way—and I may just throw the speaker of those words for a little bit of a loop by claiming to be whatever the person just spoke against. Like, for instance, back in the grocery store (such a happening place!) when the cashier made a derogatory comment about Muslims to the person ahead of me (not the check writer, this is a different day—stick with me) and, even though I am not Muslim, I said, “Uh…I’m Muslim…” only to see her jaw drop and have her stammer out an “oh, I’m sorry,” to which I suggested to her that she might want to think before she speaks. It’s a longshot, I know, but my hope is that the experience may stick with her long enough for her to reflect on her actions.

Plus, I kind of get a kick out of messing with people when they say something like that.

Which leads me to the story that is at the heart of this post and has stuck with me for a long time. Years ago I worked as a waitress to put myself through grad school, and every once in a while, the restaurant owner would bring his nine-year-old daughter to work and let her hang out with us. On one of these days, I was with the girl in the waitress station, and she told an anti-Semitic joke. I immediately said, “I don’t find that funny. I’m Jewish.” This flustered her only momentarily—then she responded, “No, you’re not.” And I again told her that I was…and she again told me that I was not. When I repeated that I WAS and asked her why she was arguing with me, she said “I know you’re not…because my dad would never hire a Jew.”

Now it was my turn to be flustered. And sad. Very, very sad.

That is prejudice taught.

And I don’t understand it.

I guess I could understand this kind of aversion if, say, you live in Nigeria and you were making sure your daughter understood how dangerous Boko Haram is or perhaps Mexico where you hate what the drug cartels have done to your city. Sometimes there is a legitimate reason to loath a wide swatch of people. Sometimes.

But because of your skin color? Your gender? Your faith? Your sexual orientation?

That’s not for me—and I will do my damndest to make sure it’s not for my kid, either. I’m a far cry from perfect, but it makes me smile when my son asks a question about some sort of discrimination he is seeing and as I answer him and tell him why it’s not right, he cuts in with, “I know, I know, Mom: God loves all people.” Message received.

We are indeed supposed to love one another…not some another…which then means I’m supposed to love the people who teach their kids to hate certain kinds of people. There’s where I really need some extra grace. Big time.

And I’m working on it, but like I say…I am far from perfect.

 

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Standing at a Crossroads

My husband and I have an unspoken list of movies that we see over and again, particularly late at night when we should be mature and get some rest, but instead we watch the last hour of Braveheart or Shawshank Redemption. It’s a codependent sickness—or gift—depending on your perspective.

One of those movies is Cast Away. I’m going to assume most of you have seen it at this point, but if you haven’t and intend to, then…what are you waiting for? The movie is 14 years old. Consider this a spoiler alert, because I am going to talk about the ending of the movie.

After four years keeping himself alive on a deserted island, in large part keeping the will to live by remembering his fiancé back home, Tom Hanks’ character, Chuck Noland, is rescued only to find that his fiancé has moved on…like marriage-with-another-guy and already-has-a-child moved on. Sometimes I want to slap Helen Hunt. All that in four years? As it turns out, she loves Chuck, but she’s not leaving her marriage.

 

map

 

Chuck now has to figure out what this new—and very different—world holds for him, and he drives off not knowing at all what that may be. Near the very end of the movie, he is standing—literally—at a crossroads. It is a wide open space from which to decide. He gets a little bit of a nudge when the beautiful woman who belongs to the last package he delivered stops and lets him know where each road leads. His smile indicates that he just may choose the same one that she heads down.

 

you are here_w dot

 

I was pretty young when I recognized that my life was meant to be lived in chapters, particularly in my work life. I realized it is just who I am. Several chapters have already been written, but now, I, too, stand at a crossroads.

This crossroads was not one I headed toward on my own, and so I can relate to Hanks’ character looking into the vast unknown and scratching his head.

I’m no longer in my 20s with my life ready to unfold…there’s been plenty of unraveling already. But…so what? What does that really mean? I love the quote that writer Connie Schultz shared about a friend of hers who was going into med school at 42. People said to her, “but you’ll be 50 by the time you are a doctor…” Her response? “I’m going to be 50 someday anyway. I may as well be 50 and a doctor.”

Time is all in how you approach it, right?

Of course, there is no promise of tomorrow.

Just last night I was looking over a tribute page on Facebook of those from my high school class who are no longer with us. Well over a dozen—and that’s just the ones that were shared on the tribute page. Lives cut short from what we assume to be an “average” life span. But no one’s life is average.

You really can’t assume you have an allotted amount of time in this world, and that’s why I get so frustrated with myself when I feel as though I am letting it slip away.

 

clock of life

 

Time is the great leveler. Some people are rich, some poor, some quick-minded, some fleet of foot. But everyone gets exactly 24 hours in a day (or 23 hours, 56 minutes, 4.0916 seconds for you literalists out there). What we do with our equal allotment is up to us.

So…which road to take? In fact, where are the roads?

The white noise that floods my head on a daily basis makes it a little challenging to figure out what my next right step is, but I am searching for the quiet in order to better hear the Answer to which path is meant for me.

If God could program my GPS, that would help, but so far he hasn’t worked that way. So far he has given me an internal compass that I need to follow. I just need to pull away from the metal interference that is jamming my reading, and perhaps then I’ll see my true north.

For each of us who face one kind of a crossroads or another, the decisions that must come from it are often not easy to make. The more you have traveled, the more baggage (both good and bad) you carry. The more baggage, the more to consider. The more to consider, the more complicated the choice. But while it is not easy, it is a choice that must be made—otherwise you will simply be left in the middle of the road scratching your head. And sooner or later, you’re going to get hit by a truck and who wants that?

And so I find myself staring at my map and figuring out my direction.

It is indeed a journey—and one I am blessed to travel—even when the path remains yet to be seen. 

 

 “…I know what I have to do now. I gotta keep breathing. Because tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide could bring?”

~Chuck Noland (Tom Hanks) in Cast Away

 

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10 Ways to Tell You Are a Member of the Sandwich Generation

As someone who is a card carrying member of the Sandwich Generation (well, not literally—there aren’t really cards…yet. But there is a secret handshake), I can tell you that it makes for interesting days. Though I’ve written before about the Sandwich Generation, if you are not familiar with the term, it’s one that describes a person who is raising a child at the same time they are caring for an aging parent. (Can you picture it? It’s like they are the bread and you are the turkey…well, that didn’t sound right. I mean whatever your preferred lunchmeat is…)

For me, it is definitely a major part of my Juggle Struggle.

For you…well, dealing with the challenges of caring for people at opposing ends of the life spectrum may or may not be the situation you are in…yet. But if you have kids and parents in your life, you just may need some examples to help you recognize what that will look like.

 

sandwich

 

Here are 10 ways to tell you are an SGer.

  1. You can easily rattle off both your kid’s and your parent’s birthdates and social security numbers, but when anyone needs yours, you have to really stop and think.
  1. When it comes to technology, you find yourself working to keep up with your kid while trying to teach your parent. The latter typically does not happen easily. You just may hear yourself repeating, “No, swipe here…no, not there, but here” a few dozen times. A day.
  1. Though you can easily put your child in a time-out or grounding, there are many days you wish you could do the same with the other end of the spectrum.
  1. You are bracing yourself for the day your kid gets his driver’s license as well as the day you have to tell your parent that it’s time to do the opposite.
  1. While of course you are a parent to your child, you walk the fine line of caring for your parent without making them feel like a child. How’s that goin’? Yeah, I thought so.
  1. You sometimes have to remind both to think before they speak. You consider adding to the cliché “out of the mouths of babes” to include “and senior citizens.”
  1. You find that you have to repeat what you say to both child and parent. For one because they aren’t listening and for the other because they are hard of hearing. (Can you guess which is which?) Actually, for the parent, often both reasons apply.
  1. Both your child and parent need your help. Both also resist it—and both for the same reason: they want to be independent.
  1. You are well aware that the issue mentioned in number 8 will have dramatically different endings. And so you deal with the emotions of caring for your child, knowing that your responsibility is to prepare him to ultimately leave home—while at the same time caring for your parent…to ultimately go “home.”
  1. Too often you forget to take care of the “turkey”—or whatever lunchmeat you chose to represent yourself. All this does is make it harder for you to take care of the entire sandwich. You know this, but you continually fall short. Something you are very used to doing. That’s okay. Love yourself anyway.

If more than a few of these apply to you, well then consider yourself accepted into Sandwich Generation membership. I’ll be happy to teach you the secret handshake.

In all seriousness, though, if you are someone who might have to face the reality that your parent may someday need caregiving, be brave enough to have the conversation now—or at least well before the time arrives. Both you and your parent will be the better for it.

 

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Living By Candlelight

I’ve always been a pyromaniac, albeit a responsible one.

From as far back as the time my sister ratted out my five-year-old self to my parents about playing with matches (and somewhat smugly watched as I got spanked for it, I might add), I have been enchanted with fire.

 

matches

 

Like the times my mom used to run into the grocery store for a few things and leave me in the car (remember when that was okay?) and I used to use the car cigarette lighter to relight the butts left in the ashtray (see maybe that’s why it stopped being okay…)

And then there were the numerous times my friend Jen and I dabbled with fire…one of my favorites being how we set a fire in the concrete storm drain outlet (that way, it couldn’t possibly get out of control…See? I told you: responsible) and enjoyed it until it had burned itself out and I was called home to dinner. While outside, I was noseblind to my smoky smell, but when I walked into my house and got a whiff of myself, I panicked and went into the bathroom to come up with a “solution” to my fiery smell…The result? The brilliant choice of spraying myself abundantly with rose-scented Glade. I sat down to dinner in a stink cloud of smoke and canned rose…My mom must have thought that she was better off not knowing because she never asked any questions about that one. Ever.

Yes, I have a few stories that illustrate my love affair with fire. Some, I will never tell. (Jen—remember that one New Year’s Eve with the pizza box?)

So it’s no surprise that the chilly days of this past weekend made me quick to want to light some candles…and it got me to thinking about the simple beauty and power of candlelight.

As soon as I lit a candle in the late afternoon gloom, the room felt different. Warmer. Cozier. Just a single candle cast a glow that made a difference.

 

candle 1

 

It brings back thoughts of songs I was raised on, like This Little Light of Mine and Pass It On. Songs that drive home the point of the power of one little light or how a spark can be the beginning of something much bigger. And, of course, with those songs, the emphasis is on sharing the love of Jesus—how our little lights should shine brightly because we have the Light within us.

 

song

 

And while this is absolutely critical to a faith-filled life, I find my thoughts rippling out further. I think about the flash of a camera—how it too is a “little light.” But while the flash is powerful, it is also brief—and it can often be blinding and disorienting to those who are near when it flashes.

But the consistent flicker of a small flame offers comfort and hope. One small light amidst the darkness can be powerful enough to help you find your way home.

 

candle 2

 

I don’t want to live by flash, but I must admit that all too often I see myself have a brief burst of “illumination” of some sort…and then it is over all too soon.

Instead…I want to live by candlelight.

I want to burn steady and consistently, and I want my actions to reflect the Light within.

I want the results of what I say and do to glow with warmth and perhaps push away some of the gloom of a melancholy day.

 

candle 3

 

A challenge of living by candlelight—to extend the metaphor further (yea!)—is that my light can be all too easily blown out by the winds of the world. Thankfully, though, that’s not the end of it because the Light is there ready to reignite when needed. The Source remains eternal.

The idea of living by candlelight is simply a reminder of the power and beauty that one little light can bring into the darkness…and that if we do choose to shine, we will make a difference, just like that candle did for me in the pall of a gray evening.

The pyromaniac in me smiles at that.

 

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Perfect Imperfection

It may be fair to say that I have a teensy bit of a tendency to be a perfectionist. It may also be fair to say that the older I get, the more I realize what a futile situation I create for myself in striving to do things perfectly.

I have, however, found one thing I am absolutely perfect at: imperfection. I’ve got it nailed. Fall short every day? Check. Lack discipline? Check. Disappoint people? Check. Miss the mark? Check. Make mistakes? Check.

I’m all over this imperfection thing.

If I would have known how perfect I could be at imperfection when I was in my 20s and 30s, I could have saved myself a whole lot of struggle.

As life turns knowledge into wisdom, I have learned that the desire for perfection is actually quite evil. It is what undercuts effort due to fear of failure. Creative sparks die in the wind of perfection. Dreams get minimized if they seem unattainable…and minimized dreams are not dreams at all, but consolation prizes.

To be clear, I’m not embracing purposefully doing things poorly, but I am embracing the idea that fearing you might do something poorly is no reason not to try. I’ve failed a lot lately, and…I’m still here. That alone speaks to the myth of perfectionism. Perhaps perfectionism is just ego wrapped up in a pretty package.

 

No longer perfect, but still serves its purpose
No longer perfect, but still serves its purpose

 

As I think about this, I am reminded of my days on my college softball team. Now there is a lesson in embracing imperfection.

To set the scene just a bit, the transition from slow pitch to fast pitch for girls’ softball happened when I began high school. That meant that until I was a freshman, the only softball I had ever played was slow pitch. When I went to the orientation meeting for my high school team, I was so put off by the coach that I decided I didn’t even want to try out for the team…so I never learned to play fast pitch. (By the way—deciding to let the coach’s personality be the reason I didn’t try out was a stupid, short-sighted decision on my part. Ah, youth…)

Fast forward to college. Some girls from the school’s softball team were encouraging me to try out for the coming season’s team. I told them that I had no experience with fast pitch, but they said it didn’t matter—that no one would be cut from tryouts because they simply needed enough girls to form a team and let the university fulfill its Division I status. No risk in that, right? So I decided to go to tryouts…where there had to be at least one hundred girls attempting to make the team. So much for no cuts.

 

mitt

 

As long as I was there, I thought, what the heck? I’ll give it a shot. Thankfully, my old abilities came back to me, and my fielding skills were pretty tight. But next was batting…

Since tryouts were in late winter, they were indoors. This meant that the batting portion of the tryouts was a pitching machine firing out whiffle softballs…and…I crushed them. I mean…I impressed myself. Piece of cake, I thought. Maybe this fast pitch wasn’t so hard after all.

And then spring came.

My first at bat in the lovely outdoors went something like this: I stood in the batter’s box and waited for the pitcher to throw the ball…only she already had. It was so fast, I barely computed its whizzing by me. And whizzing by me. And whizzing by me. I would try to swing and be so behind the pitch it was laughable—except to my coach. He looked at me with a “please tell me you aren’t seriously this bad/how did you get on the team/there is no way I can remediate you at this point” look on his face.

I did, however, achieve perfection that season—a perfect .000 for my batting average. The coach did use me as a utility player when he needed one, but if my memory serves me correctly, I struck out every time at bat. Every. Time.

 

bat 2

 

At tryouts, I had no idea how poor of a fast pitch batter I would be. I had no idea how quickly I was barreling toward gaping imperfection. I had no idea how humbling it would be to go from a worthy player to one who pretty much accidentally made the team.

But I survived, and so did the team. And we had a whole lot of fun that season.

And I would do it all over again.

Of course, back then, I didn’t have the perspective of this lesson of imperfection. I just had the frustration of sucking at batting. But it was an important piece of the puzzle that would help me to eventually realize that I would have rather been on the team and struggled than not have been on the team at all.

Being perfect at imperfection is freeing. It takes the pressure off. It opens up possibilities because you know that if you strike out, you’ll live to play another day. And who doesn’t want to play another day?

In fact…I think a brand new game is starting…

 

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Reclaiming the Other F Word

“Oh, you’re one of those…” is a phrase I hear more often than I would ever expect to in this day and age. See, I’m a hyphenator. I chose to hyphenate my last name when I got married, and according to the kinds of responses I sometimes get, that makes me “difficult.”

That’s right—I wanted to keep my family name along with taking my husband’s last name. Pretty crazy, I know. But I never thought that that choice would carry with it a judgment for some people—and a negative one at that.

While women may have “come a long way, baby,” we still have a lot further to go. As I was thinking about this today, I decided to YouTube the old Virginia Slims commercial that made that phrase so popular. Ironically, the expression that came to symbolize women’s progress is merely trying to capitalize on making women want to smoke feminine cigarettes and be sexy while doing it. Progress indeed.

In my lifetime, I’ve learned that I better be careful in calling myself a feminist. That in doing so, it made me “anti-male” and bitchy. Though there may be a small contingent of women who call themselves feminists and claim that women are the superior gender, all I ever wanted was equality—as most feminists do. The only “anti” I am is anti-discrimination. If men were making less than women, having laws telling them what they can and can’t do with their bodies, being restricted from education in parts of the world, or dealing with the pervasiveness of sexual assault, I would be against that, too.

I am so happy to see the movement toward taking away the negative connotations of the word feminism and reclaiming it as the movement toward gender equality.

Emma Watson—the woman who brought the amazing Hermoine Granger to life—spoke so eloquently on this to the United Nations (that’s right, the U.N., baby!) As the U.N. Women Goodwill Ambassador, she is launching a campaign called HeForShe where the goal is to empower both women and men to be who they are and to be treated equally. Simply put, she’s awesome.

The video is over 12 minutes, but…if you’ve got the time, it’s definitely worth a listen.

 

 

Another campaign that strives to empower young women is Always’ Like a Girl campaign. If you haven’t seen the video, check it out:

 

 

It shows the subtle—or not so subtle—undercutting of gender that happens without thought…and how young girls and boys can get the message that “like a girl” means “less than.”

I experienced a real life demonstration of how this message gets absorbed by young women over the summer. Every year we go to a beautiful place in the Northwoods of Wisconsin where we see other vacationing families every year. Because I only get a glimpse of these folks annually, it is fun to see how the kids grow from year to year. But this past summer disturbed me a great deal. Girls who had only last year been happy to take to the softball field in a boys vs girls game and give it their best effort were now acting incapable and flighty. One girl let a ball roll right by her and said she didn’t want to break a nail…seriously. And, much to my dismay, that kind of behavior was consistent throughout the week.

What had happened in a year? Somehow they got the message that being strong and athletic was not feminine or desirable. It broke my heart because I knew that it had only been the previous summer that they were embracing their strength—and now they were not only downplaying it, but denying it.

When I see homecoming photos posted on Facebook of lovely groups of young women—all wearing pretty much the exact same barely mid-thigh dress, give or take the color—I realize how strong the pressure must be to meet society’s current expectations of the popular woman. Good luck trying to find a dress for that age that strays from the “standard”—and the question arises as to whether it is a case of supply and demand or demand and supply. What’s available in stores “teaches” us what we should look like.

In 2014, the fact that girls are getting the message that it is their fault if they get raped because they were drunk should be inconceivable—but it’s not. So strong is that attitude that the White House has launched a campaign to fight against it:

 

 

We’ve got to not only raise our girls to stand strong but raise our boys to embrace that strength and respect it.

Anything less isn’t right. It just isn’t.

People should be paid equally for the same work. People should have sovereignty over their bodies. People should have the opportunity to be educated. People shouldn’t have to worry about being sexually assaulted. People should be respected for who they are and what they do. People should be encouraged to reach their potential. People should be loved, accepted, and valued for who they are—not what they look like.

Replacing the word “women” with “people” makes it really hard to deny, doesn’t it?

That’s the true heart of feminism. That’s what we need to reclaim. That’s what both women and men—what humanity—should strive for. Anything less is just fear trying to keep others down. And we’re better than that, don’t you think?

Well, we should be.

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