Martin Luther King Is Not a Weapon

Martin Luther King is not a weapon to be wielded against the people he fought to protect.

If you think Martin Luther King, Jr. would not have been sympathetic to the rioters, it means the only MLK speech you have read is “I Have a Dream.” Read any other speech.

MLK was not some peace-loving hippy sitting in a drum circle singing kumbaya. He was the leader of an army who taught his soldiers to take punches instead of start fights. He chose nonviolent civil disobedience in part because he believed white Americans could not turn away from the sight of the police brutally attacking people who didn’t fight back.

Part of the strategy of nonviolent direct action during the Civil Rights Movement was to break the law. MLK went to jail 29 times. One of his most famous pieces of writing, “The Letter from Birmingham Jail,” was written from jail.

He wrote “The Letter from Birmingham Jail” in response to white people who were basically saying, “That is not the right way to protest.”

The whole point of nonviolent civil disobedience is to create so much tension that it is impossible to ignore the injustices causing the unrest. Disruption is the point!

From “The Letter from Birmingham Jail:” “You deplore the demonstrations taking place in Birmingham. But your statement, I am sorry to say, fails to express a similar concern for the conditions that brought about the demonstrations.”

I understand feeling outrage for rioting and looting. Where is your outrage for the rest?

Post-Parkland

This semester, one of my students took his own life. He was in my 1st period, a class with 35 students.

I only had him for four weeks before he committed suicide. After such a short time, I couldn't have known him well enough to recognize what was going through his mind. But I've still struggled with an insistent nagging that I should have known, and I've spent the rest of this semester in a state of analytical paranoia, scouring the journals and essays of my remaining 92 students for signs of suicide and depression.

A couple of weeks ago, a mother of one of the girls in that same class called to yell at me. My daughter is struggling with depression. Why didn't you notice? Why didn't you do something? How could you be so insensitive?

Missed it again.

Last night, I dreamed that I was shot by a school shooter.

That probably feels like a cruel non sequitur, but I don't mean it to be. I have spent the past four years of my teaching career pretending that I live in a world where school shootings are not a thing. How else could you go to work every day? But the week my student took his own life and the week a troubled teen in Parkland, FL took the lives of seventeen innocent students? That was the same week.

I can't get it out of my mind, those two intertwining tragedies.

As much as we wish for a magic formula to identify potential school shooters, researchers who study these incidents say that shooters do not follow a consistent profile. Despite the impassioned anti-bullying pleas on social media, the truth is that bullying has been a factor in some cases, but not all. Diagnosable mental health issues like schizophrenia have been a factor in some cases, but not all. Loners...some but not all. Prior criminal records...some but not all.

So what can we say about the profile of a school shooter? In nearly every case: White. Male. Has displayed signs of suicide and/or depression. Has hinted at his plans to friends, on social media, or in class assignments.

Post-Parkland, the pressure as a teacher to identify and rescue feels so much heavier. Meanwhile, my class sizes keep getting bigger and bigger. Does 35 sound like a reasonable class size to you? Good, because next year you should expect 36. And you might be asked to carry a gun.

North Carolina teacher to student allotment 1:29.
NC counselor to student ratio 1:400
NC school psychologist to student ratio 1: 2100.

When you choose to be a teacher, you go into it knowing the job is more than just teaching lessons and grading papers, but how many balls can one person keep in the air at one time?

My narrative nonfiction example

My students are working on an assignment in which they have to interview someone and then use that interview as the basis for their own narrative nonfiction piece. They were having a hard time with the assignment, so I wrote my own example.

RECURSIVE DREAM

1/19/17 (Distracting myself from thinking about the inauguration by worrying about other things instead)

Do y'all remember that horrible viral video that was going around a couple years ago where the school resource officer was called into a classroom to remove a stubborn student, and he ended up throwing her across the room? And afterward, how there were a bunch of people commenting about the girl's home life and criticizing the teacher for not being more aware of the girl's personal problems because if the dang teacher had just called home he would have known to handle the situation more sensitively and it all could have been avoided? Thinking about that today...

In just the past couple of weeks, I've had students uncharacteristically come into class, put their head down, and refuse to work. I've had students disappear from school for a few days with no explanation. I have a senior that I've begged to stay after school with me to bring up his grade, and he never shows. I have a student that I know is functionally illiterate and scared to death that his peers will figure it out, and I'm plagued by the fact that there is so little I can do. I have a student with 20+ absences and a baby at home who just got suspended for who knows what. I worry about every single one of them every single day. But I have 75 students.

As a teacher, there's a constant nagging worry that the time you choose to nurture your personal life or your family life rather than making sacrifices for your students - that's the time it will turn out that you've neglected a student who really needed you. There's this constant pressure as a teacher to save every single child who passes through your classroom. But you can't. You just can't.

The SRO behaved badly, the teacher didn't handle the situation exactly right, but also...it's really complicated.

11/11/2016

I told my mom last night, "On Wednesday, I cried. Today, I'm angry. I guess I just have to keep working through all of the stages of grief, but eventually, I'll get to acceptance."

And my mom, in a moment of blunt, poignant honesty, said, "Mmhmm...because we're white."

All I wanted from this election was for Americans to proclaim once and for all through our beautiful, precious democratic system: "We reject racism. We do not support it in any way. We do not even tolerate it."

I absolutely believe that the majority of you that voted for Trump are not racists. But "Make America Great Again" was a package deal, and you cast your vote, intentionally or not, for the entire package. Despite the fact that racism was part of the package, was even the way the package was introduced from the start of the campaign, you did not reject it.

A lot of us are afraid for what will happen next. As my mom so bluntly pointed out, many of us will be able to ride it out without much consequence. Many others will not. Even if you did not intend to vote for racism, those that did heard the message loud and clear: In America, we tolerate racism.

If you truly, absolutely did not intend to cast a vote for an America that tolerates racism, stop telling me to quit whining or to accept defeat graciously, and start loudly declaring, "We reject racism. We do not support it in any way. We do not even tolerate it." And then prove to me, and to those who really need to hear it, that those words are true. Please, prove me wrong.

11/9/2016

Dear Trump Supporters,

Today, I stood in front of 70 minority students who were looking to me for answers, and I said, "We are not going to talk about the election today."

They said, "I am so angry," and I said, "We're not going to talk about it."

They said, "I'm scared," and I said, "We're not going to talk about it."

They said, "How can I possibly do any work today?" and I said, "We just keep working. And we're not going to talk about it."

I did not know what to tell them. I felt their anger and their fear and their grief, and I had no words. But now, to you, I have words.

Throughout this election, you have insisted that it is not about race, it's about the economy; it's not about race, it's about protecting our values; it's not about race, it's about change.

My husband and I often tell our children that it doesn't matter what you meant to say if it's not what your audience heard. So let me tell you what your audience heard. Let me tell you exactly what you told my students of color, the children of color in my church family, the people of color that I am so lucky to call friends.

"Racism is fine."

"Misogyny is tolerable."

"We don't want you here."

I keep seeing messages on Facebook trying to remind us that now is a time to set aside our differences, to put the election behind us, to unite. I hope that we, as a country, can move past this. I hope, that we as Americans, can heal. But today...Today, I will not forgive you.

One Thing They Don't Tell You

One thing they don't tell you when you're studying to become a teacher is that one of your students will be arrested and charged with first degree murder, and when you find out, all you can think is, “Him? No. That can’t be right. He was a sweet kid. Always hung out in my class during lunch.” But you look it up, and it’s true.

And a few months later one of your students will be arrested for throwing bricks off an overpass, which is hilarious, but not really, because he was a bright kid, and now he's in jail too, and his life is ruined, and there’s nothing you can do.

And they don't tell you that one of your students will die in a tragic car accident - two years after surviving cancer, three days before receiving his diploma - and you’ll cry on the way to school, but you’ll put on a brave face before walking into the building because being a teacher means pulling it together for the students that need you.

Being a teacher means spending your whole Christmas break worried about a student who always wanted to join the military until he found out that he can't join the military because his parents brought him to this country illegally when he was a baby, and he is so upset that he skipped class and sat in your room during your planning period, saying nothing for ninety minutes because Latino men don't cry.

Being a teacher means holding your student while she weeps after her grandma died, and you cry a little too because she's sad, but also because when she broke down in math class and they asked her what she needed, she said you.

One thing they tell you when you’re studying to be a teacher is not to let your students hug you, no touching, a pat on the back is fine, a side hug if you need to, but not a true hug with both arms, it’s asking for trouble. But being a teacher means letting your students hug you anyway on the last day of school because they love you and you love them.

We Thank Thee O God for a Prophet

A few years ago, I texted my grandma during conference, "I'm singing 'We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet' and thinking of you!"

My grandma texted back, "My favorite song! I'm so thankful for a prophet!"

She's a convert to the Church and has told me that prophets were one of the main reasons she decided to be baptized. It didn't make sense to her that there would be prophets in ancient times but not modern times. Why would God speak to people then but not now?

It seems like a testimony of a prophet has been under attack a lot lately. Maybe it's just that I'm older now and more aware of it, but it seems like every few months I get on Facebook and discover yet another reason the Church is being scrutinized or attacked for something some General Authority, past or present, said or did.

It seems like so many people are finding more and more reasons to say, "They were wrong about that, and they're wrong about this, and they're wrong about this, and now I'm not sure I can believe anything they say. And I have a testimony of some things, but I don't want to follow the prophet. And I want to be a Mormon, but I want to do it my way, not theirs."

I find this such a hard line to walk because for me, it boils down to this: Either there are prophets, or there is nothing. Either God speaks to people now just as he did then, or he doesn't exist at all. Either God has a plan for me, a purpose beyond this life, and has prepared a way for me to receive direction and understanding about that plan, or none of it is true.

I have had too many sacred experiences that confirm for me the existence of God. And so I believe in prophets.

And yet, I don't believe that prophets are perfect men. I don't believe in papal infallibility. I think mistakes have been made in the past. And once you admit that mistakes have been made, it opens up the flood gates of doubt...If they were wrong about that, what else are they wrong about?

This week, I have been mourning with those that mourn. For some reason, today has been especially hard to the point that I have been slightly on the verge of tears all morning. I think it may be because I went to a Relief Society meeting last night where several women opened up about the struggles they've had to endure and continue to endure with their mental health, and I left the meeting wondering, as I've often wondered before, why has my life been so easy?

Why have I had to struggle so little when so many people have lifelong challenges to endure? Why do some of us get off so easy? Shouldn't the challenges and struggles be more evenly distributed? It isn't fair.

I think often about the challenges that my children may have to face in the future. I wonder what burdens they will have to bear in their lives. I worry about this line in the sand that has been drawn: Do you follow the prophet? And I am sad for the sacrifices they may have to make if the answer is yes.

I mourn this line in the sand.

And so I have been mourning with those that mourn, walking around on the verge of tears, reminding myself...God speaks to prophets now just as he did then. And also, we believe all that God has revealed, all that He does now reveal, and we believe that He will yet reveal many great and important things pertaining to the kingdom of God.

Dear Lawn-mowing Men, Is It Really That Hard to Cover Up? (A Parody)

Dear Lawn-mowing Men,

Okay, I'm just going to say what everyone's thinking.

What's with all the controversy about shirtless lawn-mowing?

I mean, seriously.

Is it really that hard to cover up?

Here's the deal: Strangers don't want to see your areola. (Yeah, that's it.)

I don't get what part of that is offensive.

Look, I get it. I've mowed the lawn, so I totally understand that covering up can be a pain. At first, it's fine, but once the temperature hits 90 degrees, the sweat starts dripping down your back, pooling between your butt cheeks, and the whole lawn-mowing thing becomes a chore.

I've been there. I get it.

I've mowed the lawn in the spring, summer, and fall; in North Carolina's heat, up and down Kentucky's hills; while dying from allergies. One time, I even borrowed my parents' lawnmower so I could mow the tiny yard of the house I rented in college because my neighbors had begun ostracizing me and my roommates.

But, I still managed to keep my naked nipples covered while pushing the mower around the yard.

Really, is it that big of a deal?

I totally get the importance of normalizing lawn-mowing and spreading awareness that we are keeping our lawns healthy. Which, of course, is more important than anything.

I totally feel you. And I'm with ya.

But let's stop pretending that you're fighting a stigma that doesn't exist. Around here, when you tell someone you mow your lawn, you get compliments and praise. It's not California, where you really shouldn't have a lawn at all because you're in the middle of the worst drought in 1200 years.

Here, things are completely different.

And, if anything, there's unfair stigma on people who don't mow their lawns.

The truth is, unless you're Hugh Jackman, I don't want to see your naked boobs.

That doesn't mean I'm sexualizing lawn-mowing. It means that a naked male chest, to most people in our culture, is a sexual thing.

(Sorry. It's true. Whether there's a kid attached to it or not.) 

And, at least in my opinion, unless you have a perfectly sculpted chest and magnificent six pack, no amount of lawn-mowing is going to change the fact that the chest is still considered a 'naked part' in our society.

Yes, you are doing your household chores. Yes, it's hot. Yes, it's natural.

But you know what?

Your urine is a great fertilizer, but I don't see you flashin' your penis around.

Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm ignorant. Maybe you're just trying to prove a point, and I just don't get it. We all mow our lawns our own way, and I love that. I really do think it's a beautiful thing that all lawns are different.

So, for what it's worth, this is just my own truth: I would really appreciate not seeing your naked parts. (Again, unless you're Hugh Jackman. Then by all means, mow your lawn without a shirt. Or even better, mow my lawn without a shirt. Everyone else, I'm sorry.)

So, go ahead.

Mow the lawn at the park, at the mall, in front of the church. Or hire someone. (I have.) Xeriscape your lawn, for all I care. (Seriously, you go bro.)

But don't hate me because I don't want to see your naked chest.

Sincerely,

A Fellow Lawn-Mower Who Just Doesn't Get It

(See the original breastfeeding post here.) 

A Room with a View revisited (with a bonus scene from my novel)

I read A Room with a View for the dozenth time this weekend and have been thinking again about why I love it so and why other people do not love it so much.

I think one problem many people have with the book is Forster's writing style. At times, Forster is explicitly straightforward, speaking directly to the reader: "It is obvious for the reader to conclude, 'She loves young Emerson.' A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious." Other times, Forster is oblique. For example, near the beginning of the book Lucy and George witness a murder, and it changes everything. It's the whole reason George breaks out of his depression, falls in love with Lucy, and pursues her. But the entire murder is described in four sentences. The first time I read the book, I missed it. I thought Lucy had seen a fight - not a murder. So then when they started talking about the dying man and the murderer, I was like, "Wait. What?" And I had to go back and reread those four sentences.

Same with one of the most pivotal scenes in the book: when Lucy falls into the violets and George kisses her.  This is the entire description of their kiss:

"George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her."

That's it. The entire description of the moment that haunts Lucy (and presumably George) through the rest of the book. She has dreams about it. She blushes anytime anyone mentions violets. And yet, in the scene, we don't get a single detail of how she's feeling in the moment. No racing hearts. No quickening pulses. No electricity.

I read A Room with a View once with a book club, and the biggest complaint about it from my friends was that they didn't feel like there was any chemistry between Lucy and George. I think that conclusion is entirely due to the way Forster writes and how much it contrasts with the emotional detail we're used to in modern day writing. Think of that tome Twilight and its bare bones plot padded with excruciating detail of every thought Bella ever has about being near Edward or being confused by Edward or wanting to kiss or touch Edward. Page after page of descriptions of them not touching. Or think of the fifth Harry Potter book and the endless descriptions of teenage angst that made me want to stab myself in the eyes.

In contrast, Forster doesn't explicitly tell us what the two characters are thinking. Instead, we are expected to fill in the gaps with what we've observed and what we've imagined.

I loved Twilight. Despite its terrible cliched prose, I basked in the excruciatingly detailed descriptions of them not touching. And yet it's the violets that get my heart racing. In my mind, it's the ultimate romantic scene...

"At the same moment, the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end....Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man. But he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone."

Re-reading this yesterday, I realized that I had put this scene in my own novel. It was inadvertent, but it's there - apparently at this point so much a part of my subconscious that when I tried to imagine the perfect romantic moment where a girl is kissed by a boy she kind of has a crush on but is in a bit of a muddle about, I put them on a natural terrace and created a still, quiet mood and the girl has a look on her face that gives the boy a reason to gather his courage and then...

He paused, looking straight at her, and Emma realized something was about to happen, something she wasn’t sure she wanted to face.

A shimmering silence enveloped them, a fragile stillness like a glass blanket. Emma was afraid to breath as Will bent hesitantly toward her, his eyes opened wide, staring straight into hers. At the last second, she closed her eyes and met his lips. A roar like a rushing waterfall filled her ears, a sound so loud that several seconds passed before she heard the chant in her head: I'm kissing Will. I'm kissing Will. I'm kissing Will. And then conscious thought broke through, and the chant turned into a shout that surged over the raging in her ears: I'm kissing Will! 

“Thomas!” she cried, breaking free from the kiss but still unconsciously clinging to Will. His eyes snapped open, and he looked at her with a mixture of surprise and eager expectation on his flushed face. 

“Thomas,” she said again. “Thomas. I'm dating Thomas.”

The perfect scene. The perfect view. Those glorious muddles. Without a doubt, my favorite book.

A Post from the Conscious Shopper (Have you missed me?)

I had an epiphany as I was walking to the boys' school one afternoon last week. Purely out of laziness, we have only walked to or from school a handful of times this school year, but that afternoon the sun poked out from behind the gloomy grey clouds and began to call my name. A few minutes later, with my body preoccupied by the rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other, my mind slipped into deep thoughts. And then I realized: "This is why I haven't felt like writing!"

Let me share some of the thoughts I had last week. I came across a blog post about ways parents make raising kids harder than it should be (for example, giant birthday parties), and while I agree completely with her point, I have a bone to pick with the part where she talks about buying organic. She says something like (and I'm completely paraphrasing from memory), "I get that eating organic food is best for our health, but do we really need organic everything? Organic diaper bags? Do we really need the bags we store our poopy diapers in to be organic? Are we eating them later?"

Okay, yes, it's funny. But it so completely misses the point! And it's a "missing the point" kind of statement that I hear all the time. Health is one reason to choose organic products, but it's not the only reason. In fact, the science is still out on whether or not organic food is actually healthier than non-organic. You can find studies to support either side. Personally, I think it's logical to assume that if we use chemicals on our crops with the specific intent to kill other living creatures, it can't be very good for our own bodies.

But health is not the only reason to choose organic!

I put that in big, bold font just in case that's the only sentence you read in this entire blog post.

Back in 2009 (four years ago!), I wrote a post called "Seven Reasons to Eat Organic," and since I'm lazy (see first paragraph above), I'm just going to quote myself here:

1. Organics protect soil quality. Years of monocropping and intensive use of synthetic fertilizers depletes soil quality and leads to massive topsoil erosion. On the other hand, sustainable farming methods generally used by organic farmers - such as rotating crops, planting cover crops, and composting - protect and replenish the nutrients in soil.

2. Organics protect water quality. Chemical fertilizer run off causes algae overgrowth, leading to huge ocean "dead zones" (areas where the water on the ocean floor has so little oxygen that marine life can no longer survive there). Scientists estimate that there are now 400 dead zones in the ocean, covering a combined area half the size of California. Additionally, chemical pesticides and intensive livestock farming contribute to water pollution.

3. Organics promote biodiversity. Industrial farming focuses on a handful of crops, choosing the varieties that are hardiest and stand up to shipping rather than those that taste best. Many organic farmers, on the other hand, grow a variety of plants, including heirloom varieties with interesting colors, textures, and tastes.

4. Organics support small farmers. Although more and more large, industrial-type farms are becoming certified organic, most organic farms are still small-scale, independently owned, and family run. Keep in mind that not all farmers that use organic farming techniques are certified organic. Becoming certified is a cost many struggling small farmers can't afford. So ask your local farmers about their methods for pest control and fertilization, focusing more on sustainability and less on certification.

Another reason, which I did not include in my original post: Organic farming is less harmful to the people who work the farms and the people who live around the farms.

I have to admit that not much of what I buy these days is organic. Over the past few years, our health insurance premiums have gone up, our taxes have gone up, and our kids have gotten bigger, and that has meant tightening the budget more and more. Organics are expensive - I admit it. I buy organic when I can, and when I can't, I focus on other ways to be green and don't beat myself up about it. But I'm aware of why buying organic is an important goal to have, and for me, it has very little to do with my own personal health.

Organic farming is part of living sustainably, of protecting and cherishing this planet that we live on, and of respecting the people who grow our food.

Desperately Seeking Pretty

When I met Michael, I was 22 years old and had never had a boyfriend. I had been on a respectable number of dates, but I had never been kissed. I didn't go to prom or any other high school dance, and no boy I liked had ever liked me back.

My mother, who is a lovely person inside and out, talked a lot about her weight and was constantly on a diet. So were most of the girls I knew. So were their sisters, mothers, aunts, and grandmothers.

My older sister, who always had a knack for doing hair and make-up and following fashion trends, knew that the best way to get under my skin was to remind me of my physical faults. She'd say, Your butt jiggles when you walk. Your ears are too big. Your nose is too big. Why did you wear that?

When Michael and I were dating, I told him, "I only want boys. I don't want any daughters. I would screw them up."

At the time, I felt screwed up.

I had no doubt that I was smart; not only had I been told over and over since I was a little girl how smart I was, I had a thousand examples in my memory store of life experiences that proved to me that I was smart. I didn't wonder if I was talented: I played the violin and was learning the guitar. I had a pleasant alto voice. I was a kick-butt writer. I sucked at sports, but that was no bother since I didn't like them anyway. And besides, I was this close to mastering the headstand in my yoga practice. I didn't doubt my inner beauty: I was kind to others. I was reliable. I was a hard-worker. I felt a lot of empathy for other people's suffering, and I tried to be a charitable person.

But if you had asked if I thought I was pretty? No, I did not. I had exactly zero examples in my memory store of life experiences that told me I was pretty. I was 22 years old and had never had a boyfriend. I had never been kissed. I didn't go to prom or any other high school dance, and no boy I liked had ever liked me back. Girls who were prettier - and thinner - than I was were on diets, and I had been told over and over since I was a little girl exactly what was wrong with my appearance.

All culminating in this: When Michael and I met, I had serious issues with food, I was on a downward spiral toward depression, and I had been seeing a therapist once a week.

Ever since this Dove ad came out, I have come across blog post after blog post saying, "No, no, no, Dove. You're getting it wrong. 'You're more beautiful than you think' is a nice message, but the real message should be, 'It doesn't matter if you're beautiful at all.' We shouldn't be teaching our daughters to even care about beauty because it's not important."

Well, you know what? Screw that.

Beauty may not be THE MOST IMPORTANT but it's laughable to say that it's not important at all.

I wish someone in my childhood had made it their mission to let me know how beautiful I was. I wish they had drilled it into my head. I wish that the grown women in my life had embraced their aging beauty and flaunted it confidently and had said, "I may not have the beauty of a 20-year-old anymore, but I do have the beauty of a 40-year-old." I wish that the girls and women around me had found confidence in their personal brand of beauty and that they'd expressed that confidence so loudly that I would have heard it over the cacophony of television ads and magazine ads full of fake women selling a beauty standard that I will never be able to reach. I hope that I am lucky enough to have a husband who tells me when I'm 82 that I'm beautiful just like he told me when I was 22.

If I had a daughter, I would say to her over and over again: You are pretty just the way you are. You are pretty just the way you are. Of course, I would praise her when she does well in school. I would cheer from the sidelines when she sings in the choir or plays in the band or scores a goal on the basketball team. I would teach her that she is strong and resilient and courageous, that beauty is subjective and youth is fleeting. But I would not hesitate to tell her that she is pretty -  not to fulfill some personal agenda but for the same reason I tell my sons that they are handsome: because I look at them and see beauty and the words come spilling out. And I would pray that when she is 15 years old with an awkward body and a pimply face, crushing on boys who don't appreciate and living in a culture that upholds an impossible standard of beauty, she would be able to look in the mirror with fists full of all the times I told her she was pretty and at the very least be able to say to herself, "You are more beautiful than you think."

**********

Postscript:
I wrote this post in May, but I was too scared to publish it. I don't know why I'm publishing it now when the conversation on that particular subject has ended except that re-reading it five months later, I still feel THIS PASSIONATE about it. 

Before ending up with what's here, I wrote a dozen mental rough drafts, but it wasn't until I decided to make it personal that the post finally flowed the way I wanted it to. At the same time - my early twenties were not the happiest time of my life, and I'd rather not talk about it.

After reading the rough draft of the post, Michael asked, "Did your parents really never tell you that you were pretty?" The truth is that I'm sure they did and I didn't hear it, just like if I had a daughter, she wouldn't hear it either. Unfortunately, that's the nature of girls. But that doesn't mean we should stop saying it.

My sister is a wonderful person. I was as cruel to her as a child as she was to me, and I think we've both gotten past it.

A Testimony

Many years ago I read a novel about an unconventional Jewish woman who moves into a neighborhood of orthodox Jews and stirs things up. As a reader, I was supposed to side with the protagonist, criticizing her neighbors for their old-fashioned, backward ways. Instead I found myself sympathizing with the orthodox Jews.

I too am part of a religion that is oft misunderstood by outsiders, and what right do I have, knowing as little as I do of Judaism, to criticize their deeply held beliefs simply because I don't understand them? I felt like it was inappropriate for the author to express her discontent with her religion by writing a novel for anyone to read. Rather than dealing with her issues with Judaism among Jews, she was airing out her dirty laundry for the whole world to see.

Yesterday, I published a post about Mormon women and education. I wrote it on Sunday, but I waited to publish it because I was feeling a bit like that Jewish author - airing out my dirty laundry on the Internet.

We Mormons are not a perfect people. We have flaws. I think it's important to admit and address those flaws...among ourselves. I think it's less advantageous to wave those flaws like flags in front of the whole world because someone on the outside looking in can never have the perspective to understand. I don't want my non-Mormon friends to read about Mormon women and go, "So backwards! So old-fashioned! What is wrong with you people?"

And so I find myself in this awkward position of wanting to express myself on certain subjects in the best way I know how - through writing - and also wanting to avoid giving outsiders the wrong idea.

This post is my solution. An addendum to every rant I ever write about Mormon culture, as if to say, This drives me crazy, but...

I still believe.

There are aspects of Mormon culture that drive me bonkers. There are also parts that I love to pieces. Like how highly we value education and hard work. Like how much we love and cherish our families. Like the fact that you can't grow up in the church without getting over your fear of public speaking, and the fact that by the time you get married, you will have done the YMCA approximately 80 billion times. I love the unity of shared experience I feel in a room of Mormon women, and I love that Mormon men will unabashedly blubber when they talk about the Savior and/or their wives.

But none of that would matter if it weren't for the simple truth of my faith. I believe I am a daughter of a Heavenly Father who loves me and has a plan for me. I believe that Jesus Christ is my Savior and Exemplar. I believe that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God and that Thomas S. Monson is our living prophet on the earth today. I believe that the Book of Mormon is the word of God.

These things are the pillars of my faith, and when I doubt or feel discouraged with the church, I come back to these basics, and I find again and again every time that I still believe.

Forgive My Rant

If I could get Mormon women to stop saying one thing, it would be all the variations on the following:

"Even though I always planned to stay home with my kids, I went ahead and got an education because you never know what might happen (i.e. my husband might die or leave me, and I'll be forced to get a job)."

On the surface, that statement seems completely innocuous, and I'm sure the women who say it don't mean anything by it. Preparing for an unplanned future is always a good idea, right? That's one of the bedrocks of Mormon culture.

But when I hear that statement, I can't help but think of the underlying implication: Educating girls is not important. If we could somehow solve that pesky little problem of men dying or leaving their wives, there would be no reason to educate girls at all.

That type of backward thinking was used as an excuse by men for thousands of years, so when I hear it come out of the mouths of women, my skin starts to crawl. And when I hear it come out of the mouths of teenage girls, who are already devaluing their education, I want to shake their parents and leaders.

This is what I would like to hear instead:

I am educated because I am a smart and capable woman, and whether I choose to stay home or work full time or work part time or volunteer my time, the world needs and deserves my fully-developed talents.

--or this--

I am educated because I believe in the power of knowledge and I understand the importance of an educated society.

--or this--

I am educated because I am a daughter of God. I understand my divine nature, and I know my individual worth.

Saying that you only need an education in case you lose your man, devalues girls and devalues education. And just like preparing for an unplanned future, education is a bedrock of Mormon culture. We are taught: "Seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom, seek learning even by study and also by faith." (D&C 88:118). That command applies to men and women, boys and girls. One of the Young Women's values is knowledge. Elder Russell M. Nelson said in an address to youth, "In the Church, obtaining an education and getting knowledge are a religious responsibility...Knowledge brings power; purity brings power; love brings power. We want you to have the power to become all that the Lord wants you to become."

So my dear sisters in the gospel, please stop downplaying your education. You are educated because you're worth it.


*An addendum: This drives me crazy, but...I still believe.

Distance

One day while talking to my mom about Cole's temper, I mentioned how I'd been trying to help him by telling him about the temper I had as a kid. My mom said, "You had a temper when you were a kid? I don't remember that."

When I told my sisters what my mom had said, they laughed really hard.


Recently, I was looking back through the archives on this blog, and I came across this picture of Rylan from the time we went roller skating as a family. That day is not high on our list of good family memories. In fact, thanks to a couple of complainers who shall remain nameless, it was a pretty miserable experience, and I may have declared as we left the roller rink that I was never taking the kids roller skating again. (Or was that the time we went bowling...)

This wasn't the first time I've looked at that photo since the day it was taken, but it was the first time I've looked at it and thought something besides, "That was such a rotten afternoon." Apparently the bad memories have faded enough over time that I could finally look at this picture and see how adorable Rylan is in it.

When it comes to our children, it seems like we are hard-wired to remember the good and forget the bad - given enough distance. Enough time passes, and we forget the pain of childbirth, the sleepless days and nights of infancy, and the terrible tantrums of toddlerhood. Instead, our minds hone in on the little pockets of joy and magnify them until that's all we see.

It's an amazing mind trick, and one I am very grateful for.

Two weekends ago, the Peters Family Band headed downtown for our annual bug-eating experience. Bugfest is a tradition we've enjoyed ever since moving to Raleigh, but this year because our kids' morning routine was interrupted or because they were in a grumpy mood or simply because one of them is seven, it was one of the worst days we've had in a long time.

I imagine that for awhile, I'll look at those pictures and remember first the complaining and the grumbling and the fighting and how by 3:00 that day, I had checked out as a parent because I was simply exhausted. But in time, all of that will fade, and I'll remember the fun we had daring each other to eat bugs and how scared Rylan was to go through the giant blow-up caterpillar but how he did it in the end.

And someday, one of my kids will say to me on the phone, "Your grandson is driving us crazy. We try to take him somewhere fun and all he does is complain. I remember acting just like that as a kid."

And I'll say, "You complained a lot when you were a kid? I don't remember that."

I've Said My Peace and Counted to Three

 I'm about to get all political. My apologies...

I read this story on Facebook yesterday. It's making the rounds, getting like after like. It made me so irritated that I dreamed about it last night and woke up talking about it first thing this morning:

"Recently, while I was working in the flower beds in the front yard, my neighbors stopped to chat as they returned home from walking their dog. During our friendly conversation, I asked their little girl what she wanted to be when she grows up. She said she wanted to be President some day. Both of her parents, liberal Democrats, were standing there, so I asked her, "If you were President what would be the first thing you would do?" She replied... "I'd give food and houses to all the homeless people." Her parents beamed with pride! "Wow...what a worthy goal!" I said. "But you don't have to wait until you're President to do that!" I told her. "What do you mean?" she replied. So I told her, "You can come over to my house and mow the lawn, pull weeds, and trim my hedge, and I'll pay you $50. Then you can go over to the grocery store where the homeless guy hangs out and give him the $50 to use toward food and a new house." She thought that over for a few seconds, then she looked me straight in the eye and asked, "Why doesn't the homeless guy come over and do the work, and you can just pay him the $50?" I said, "Welcome to the Republican Party." Her parents aren't speaking to me anymore."

Today, I opened up Facebook to post a reply, but I felt like I was personally attacking a friend, who is actually very nice. So I'm posting it here instead.

My original reply:

This story reveals a sad lack of understanding about the homeless. Here in North Carolina, for example, about 20% of homeless people have a mental disability (some sources put it much higher at 30-40%), and 20% are children. 30-40% have a serious substance abuse problem. The small number of employable adults that are left are not on the streets because they WANT to be, but it's not super easy to go from homeless to employed when you may not have had a place to sleep the night before, or food to eat, or a shower, or presentable clothing, especially during a recession when jobs are scarce for everyone. If this story were about employable adults who are mooching off the system because they are lazy, I might be like, "Good point." But centering the story around the homeless shows a lack of knowledge, understanding, and a serious lack of compassion that makes me really really sad.

You can stop reading now if you want. The rest of this post is more of my thoughts on this subject, and I tell you what, I have an opinion!

If you feel like reading on, let's consider the suggested scenario of inviting the homeless guy over to your house to do some work in your yard so you can pay him $50. I live in a house downtown, so I occasionally do have homeless or poverty-stricken men come to my door, sometimes simply begging but often asking to mow my lawn in exchange for money. The first time it happened, the thought that went through my mind was sadly not, "Awesome! I'm so glad he's at least trying to work." My thought was, "My kids!!!!" And I very quickly turned him down and shut the door. I felt incredibly guilty about it, but I also felt that it was the right thing to do. Three years later, after discussing the scenario with my more experienced neighbors, my answer is, "The Salvation Army is just down the street. Here's how you get there."

But let's say you're more charitable than I am, and you actually would invite a strange man to work in your yard for $50. Now what can he do with that money? Hopefully, you were generous and gave him food and water, so all he has to worry about is shelter. He can't afford to stay at any of the hotels downtown. He could take public transportation out to the suburbs to a cheaper hotel, but then again, we're saying that the government shouldn't help the poor, so no public transportation. Anyway, he's trying to get out of his homeless situation, so he would rather save his $50. If he's lucky, he'll get a bed at the Raleigh Rescue Mission. More likely, he'll have to find a place to huddle down outside where he'll be warm or comfortable enough but won't be chased off by a cop. He's gotten very little sleep, hasn't been able to shower or shave, and his clothes are filthy (not to mention that he likely has a mental disorder or substance abuse problem - see statistics above), but I'm sure if he can find enough people who will let him mow their lawns (and doesn't get robbed - remember, he doesn't have an address, so he can't open a bank account), he'll be able to get out of his situation soon enough.

Of course if you're more like me and would rather not have a stranger mowing your lawn while you and your kids are in the house, you could always give your $50 to an organization that helps the homeless - providing shelter, food, clothing, and even drug recovery services. I really think this is a great idea. I really do. If you actually do it. But times are tough, the kids have soccer and music lessons, food prices keep going up, and if you live out in the suburbs or out in the country, it's pretty easy to forget that the homeless even exist. I know how it goes; I've been there. I also know how hard it can be for a non-profit to provide services when they're relying on the charity of others, especially during a recession.

Personally, I would rather do the work, make the 50 bucks, and let the government use some of what I've earned to set up safety nets so people don't become homeless in the first place and to collaborate with community organizations to help people transition out of homelessness. I don't believe people who are able to work should get to sit on their butts living off my hard-earned dollars, and I definitely don't think the welfare system is perfect. But getting people out of poverty - and especially homelessness - is more complicated than simply stating, "They need to get a job!"

Perspective

Last night as I was updating our budget spreadsheet, I got into one of those moods. The kind that begins with the thought, "Everyone else..." and ends in futile self-pity. This time around, the running theme was my kids:

Everyone else's kids get to play soccer and take swim lessons and take music lessons. Why is it so hard for us to find a way to afford it?

Everyone else's kids get to go to preschool. Where do they get the money for that?

Everyone else's kids get to wear nice clothes. Why do all of my kids' clothes have to come from the thrift store?

You get the picture...


This morning after dropping off the other four Peters at their respective Tuesday locations, I pulled up to a red light at a very busy intersection and spotted a tiny little boy across the street with his thumbs in the air and his arms waving frantically as if he were trying to flag down a car.

I switched lanes, crossed the street, and pulled up to the curb.

"My mommy is not home," he said, his voice quivering.

"Okay," I said, taking a quick breath. "Okay. I'm going to help you. Can you show me where your house is?"

He directed me to a tiny box of a house a short way down the street. Two cars were parked in the driveway, but when we knocked, no one answered.

I steered the boy past the broken glass littering the walkway that led to his house. He was barefoot and stunk like poop. "I'm going to take you to the police station, okay?" I said, strapping him into Rylan's carseat.

"Mmhm," he nodded, folding his arms in his lap. Except for that very first moment when he'd told me he was home alone, he was calm and quiet the whole time he was with me, never crying or complaining, never asking what was going on or where we were going. When I asked him a question, his replies were quick and to the point, but otherwise, he remained so silent, I could have forgotten he was there.


At the police station, I turned him over to an officer, and as I watched him walk away, never once glancing back at me, my chest filled with emotion. Not with affection for this boy I'd just met. Not with anger at his neglectful parents, whose story I don't know. But with heartbreaking sadness that a boy like him could exist and that there was so very little I could do.

I hope with all my heart that he had been taking a nap, and his mom, who'd been listening to the baby cry for an hour straight, had stepped out of the house for just a moment to walk the baby up and down the street, never imagining that her five-year-old would wake up and wonder where she was and would then run down the street desperate for someone to tell him where to find his mother.

I hope that's what happened, though I doubt it's so.

As I drove home, I thought about rushing to my boys' school, gathering them all up, and holding them so, so tightly. And as I stepped into my house, the tears still pooling in my eyes, I thought, "Erin Peters, you are a fool."

My kids are so lucky.

Pink Is Not A Girl Color

year ago around Rylan's 3rd birthday, we headed to Target to buy some boots. At that time, Rylan only ever wore boots (being fond of the easy on and off quality), and since he'd outgrown his last pair, my sister gave him some birthday money with the instructions to spend it on boots.

At Target, my car-obsessed, sword-loving, all-boy child stood between the display of red Spiderman boots and pink Disney Princess boots...and went for the pink. As Rylan, with the beautiful naivete of a three-year-old, hugged the pink boots to his chest, his brothers began to snicker, and I turned on them with a warning look: "If Rylan wants the princess boots, he can get the princess boots, and you are not going to say a word."

A few Sundays later, Rylan somehow convinced Michael to let him wear the princess boots to church. That day, at least ten people came up to me and said, "What's up with Rylan's boots?" I recounted the story with a shrug and a laugh, ignoring the silent judging looks on their faces that said, "I would never..."

But the reaction at church among friends was nothing compared to the looks we got from strangers. Every time Rylan wore those boots out in public, someone would comment on my "daughter." The kid would be wearing a navy blue coat, navy blue hat, and navy blue mittens, but because he had pink boots on his feet...must be a girl.

Eventually, Rylan picked up on the social stigma against boys and pink. I don't know if people made comments to his face or if he simply noticed on his own, but one day he came to me and announced that he wanted to give his princess boots away. To his friend, a girl, whose favorite color is pink.

Today at lunch, Rylan said to me, "Dora wears pink. That must mean she likes pink."

I said, "That's probably true. Do you like pink?"

He answered emphatically, "No." And then his face grew thoughtful for a second, and he added a little hesitantly, "I mean, I like pink, but I don't wear it. It's okay for boys to like pink because it's a pretty color, but it's not okay to wear it. That's what my teacher told me."

I responded with a heavy sigh, sad that other people and their pointless prejudices talked my little boy out of something he enjoyed.

When I bought those pink boots, I wasn't trying to make a statement about stereotypes or to teach my children some sort of feminist lesson. I was simply trying to let Rylan be Rylan - to let him like what he wants to like regardless of what other people say he should like. That's a quality I hope my kids have throughout their lives, a confidence I want to develop in them.

But the experience has made me think a lot about boys and girls and colors and stereotypes and nature versus nurture. I've told my boys thousands of times, "There are no such things as girl colors. There are no such things as girl shows. There are no such things as girl toys." I've protected my boys from many of those stereotypes as long as I could, but the truth is that despite my feminist mantras, there are lines that I would not let my boys cross.

I believe that boys and girls, men and women, are different. Physically different, obviously, but different in other ways as well. But how much of those differences are nature and how much are nurture, I do not know. And which ones we should hold on to and which ones we should fight to get rid of, I do not know either. But this I do believe:

Pink is not a girl color.

Thanks Giving

Late one night, I lay with Michael's arm tucking me tight in bed while my boys slept soundly down the hall, and I thought to myself, "I could not be happier." And then, being the pessimist realist that I am, in my next thought I acknowledged how fragile that happiness is and what tenuous threads tie the people that I love to me.

So with that fragility in mind, I wanted to take a minute to share some gratitude for the people I love.



I've been meaning for awhile now to write a post about my siblings and how truly awesome they are. I am amazed at what great grown-ups they turned out to be. (They must have phenomenal parents.)

Miriam is the best person in the world. You might think you know someone better, but you would be wrong. There is no one else as caring, giving, and open-hearted as she is. Kellie and Josh can back me up on that.

Kellie is so likable. If she were in a Miss America competition, she'd be Miss Congeniality for sure (and I hope she reads that as the complement it's meant to be). I've never met anyone who doesn't love to be around her, and I think they'd all agree with me when I say that she deserves every bit of happiness life can give her.

Josh is such a good father. Who saw that coming?

And did I mention that I have phenomenal parents?



I've never been the type of person to have a ton of friends, but boy, the friends I've had have been the best.

Ada, I took you for granted, and you were a real trooper to put up with me. I was lucky to have you as my best friend in high school.

Leigh, teenage me thought you were the coolest person she'd ever met. You were the Rayanne Graff to my Angela Chase. (If only there was a Jordan Catalano in that metaphor...) You're still cooler than me.

Kati, I will never get used to calling you Kate, but either way, you're still awesome. You're the reason I had a social life in college. My mom can't thank you enough.

Robyn, my very first memory of you is this time we drove down to Nashville for a church dance, and you had to pee really bad but you were wearing some body shaping undergarment that made peeing complicated. I laughed sooooo hard and knew right then that you were a person I wanted to know better. (And I hope you forgive me for sharing that story on the internet.)

Melissa, you are the best friend I've ever had, and I miss you all the time. Couldn't you guys move to Raleigh? It's much warmer here. (Just sayin')

And to all the other friends I've had in the six different states I've lived in up to now, and especially to those of you here in Raleigh, thank you for taking the time to get to know me 'cause heaven knows, I'm not the easiest person to get to know.


Recently, I was telling a friend about the time our apartment was broken into, and she said, "Wait, your car was broken into, one of your apartments burned down, and you had an apartment that was broken into?"

I said, "And Michael totaled one of our cars. And our van was crashed into in the parking lot by some drunk in the middle of the night. And we had a slow water leak that completely ruined our kitchen..."

It's true that we have had quite a few crazy experiences in our marriage, many of them financially burdensome. But overall, I would still say that I have led a pretty charmed life. I've never gone hungry, I've always had a good solid roof over my head and a warm bed to sleep in, and none of my loved ones have died of anything but old age (though that one time in college, Emily, you came way too close for comfort, and I still hold that against you. :)

I could not be more lucky, and I could not be happier.

Bicycle Love

This post is my entry for the touring bicycle giveaway over at Lovely Bicycle.


A family of bikers
Until a year ago, I hadn't been on a bike since just before my fourteenth birthday when my family moved from a bike-riding-paradise of a neighborhood in Indiana to a two-lane-deathtrap of a highway in Kentucky.

Before that, my childhood had revolved around bikes. We biked from one friend's house to another, from one end of the neighborhood to another, or sometimes just around and around the neighborhood, going nowhere in an adrenaline-pumped loop. We dared each other to do tricks - down dirt hills in nearby construction sites or off the steep front porch steps of the big oft-empty house that sat in the middle of the neighborhood. I remember one afternoon when a friend attempted to master the "ghost rider," a trick that involved getting the bike going super fast and then leaping off so that the bike kept going to the end of the street.

I remember some days riding solitary around the neighborhood. I'd pump my legs as hard as I could until they burned, and then I'd push myself to ride just a little farther, just a little faster. I can remember many summer nights when I watched the sunset from my bicycle and then dropped it in the driveway to catch up with my friends for a game of tag in the dark.

During my childhood, my bike was everything, but for the past 20 years, it's been little more than nostalgia. So when my five-year-old asked me one day last year if we could start going bike-riding together on Saturdays, I replied, "Yes, of course!" and then immediately launched into a mental cheerleading routine - cartwheels, spread eagles, goofy grins - picturing many upcoming years of sharing my childhood love with one of my own children.

What happened was a little different than the idyllic image in my head.

Since we live downtown in a city, Eli and I drove to a nearby greenway at the suggestion of a biking friend. All started out well - we pedaled along the path with big grins on our faces, and I zipped back in time, once again becoming that 10-year-old girl who could lose all her cares on a bicycle.

Eli had a slightly different perspective. The path was hillier than I had expected - tough on skinny five-year-old legs pedaling a 16-inch bike. Several times, he had to get off and grudgingly walk his bike up the hill. "It's okay to walk," I told him. "If you ever feel like a hill is too steep to go up or down, don't be ashamed to get off and walk it."

And then we hit a huge, steep hill with a sharp turn halfway down. It was a little daunting even for me, so I feathered the handbrakes all the way down and then looked back to see how the little guy was faring. He started hesitantly down the hill and then changed his mind - he would walk this one. Except that now he had taken his feet off of the pedals, i.e. his coaster brakes, his sole method for slowing down on this monster of a hill.

I watched in horror as gravity took over. The bike and Eli zoomed down the hill, flopped to the side on the turn, and then skid the rest of the way, slamming into the back wheel of my own bike as I stood there in a stupor, too scared to move.

Letting loose a banshee cry, I scrambled to him, dropped to my knees, and began the injury check: eye - bruised, knees - skinned, elbows - skinned, thumb - skinned. Head looks fine. No broken bones. Okay, we can handle this.


Brave boy and his battle wounds
As soon as he realized he had survived the crash, Eli calmed down and like a trooper, got back on his bike and rode the 3/4 of a mile back to the car. At home, I dressed his wounds, wondering what I would have done if he'd been seriously injured on that empty greenway far from the street. My idyllic childhood memories had been shattered. This biking stuff was scary business. How could my mom have ever let us wander off on a bike on our own? How on earth did she not have a heart attack every time our feet touched the pedals?

I was ready to pack the bikes back into the shed, thinking maybe we could save family bike rides for a few years down the road...like when the kids are in their twenties.

But Eli had other plans. The very next weekend, still boasting a black eye and skinned up knees, he said, "Mom? Do you think we can go for a bike ride today?"

I recognized the gleam in his eye and knew he had fallen hard. This is how bicycle love begins.


Ready for a ride with the three-year-old