My
arms are just so heavy and so tired.
My back is really starting to hurt; kicking is becoming more and more
difficult. I’m doing what you are
supposed to do if finding yourself caught in a rip tide. I am keeping my eye on the shore and swimming
parallel to it. I have not once
forgotten and tried to swim directly to shore.
How long before I am out of this ripe tide?? It seems like I have been swimming for such a
long time. I want to give up and just
let the rip tide carry me to sea. But
then I think of my daughter. I HAVE to
keep fighting. She needs me. I gather a little more strength and try to
focus on my stroke and my breathing as opposed to how strong and how wide this
rip tide is.
A few days
ago I bought essential oil of lavender and almond oil as a carrier. I am hoping it will help for the intense
anxiety I have been experiencing lately.
Without any warning or cause I have been able to identify, my heart
begins to race. My breathing becomes
short and fast. My hands tremble and I
am instantaneously anxious. It is
somewhat frightening, not because I am afraid I am dying or any such
thing. I find the suddenness of it
disturbing. I find it distressing
because I don’t know the cause. If I
did, I could and would be able to learn how to help myself.
Maybe I
shouldn’t be surprised. Natalia’s
birthday just passed. My daughter has
completed the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder treatments/sessions. But she is experiencing what is called
“complicated grief”. I have been
working with the grief counselor to find ways I can help. Like any parent, I would do anything, anything
to relieve her suffering.
My best
friend, who is 87, is beginning to decline.
She lives in New York. I live in
North Carolina. I call her and she gets
frustrated that she can’t get her words out.
I tell her it doesn’t matter; I can do the talking. It only matters that I let her know I am
thinking of her. Not only do I not want
to lose her, which I might. She doesn’t
have to die, but I sense the day is coming when she is essentially gone.
My favorite
aunt is now in the care of Hospice.
There are SO
many people, children and elderly, whom I feel like I want to encourage and
with whom I want to spend a little time.
Our friends have a daughter who is autistic. Beth is pleased that I would like to get
together with her and her daughter. The
number of elderly friends who are having health problems is increasing almost
each week. I think of my mom and how
much it meant to her if people bothered with her. And it just takes so little to boost the
elderly up. I need to find the time to
do that.
I am
extremely concerned about the indiscriminate hate for Muslims. It feels like a series of tornadoes AND several
hurricanes are bearing down on my country.
It seems to me that the tornadoes are at least an EF 3 already. And very sadly, it also seems to me that these
tornadoes of fear and distrust could easily become EF 4’s or EF 5’s. One of the hurricanes, Hurricane Hate, to me appears
to have recently gone from a category 3 to a category 4. It gained strength because lots of “new air”,
or new voices of hostility and hatred joined together, fed off each other. Once enough strength was attained, the system
of hatred began to spin ever faster, picking up wind speed from being fed by
the atmosphere of insecurity and little or no push back (pressure). I wonder if the resistance that does exist is
wide-spread enough to weaken the growing storm.
I don’t think so because the energy of the other hurricane, Hurricane
Ignorance, is accelerating at an alarming rate.
Each of these types of hurricanes, in and of themselves, is often catastrophic. But their combined power is unyielding and entirely
devastating.
I don’t say any of this lightly. But we are the country whose history includes
the period in which Joe McCarthy went too long without being challenged for his
baseless accusations against other Americans.
We are the country that interned Japanese Americans in “War Relocation
Camps” in 1942. We’ve proven that we can
be motivated by fear and hatred to either actively participate in or passively
accept the denigration of a group of our citizens. We are the country that killed Native
Americans, took their land and subjected them to forced relocation. We have an historic trail rightly called the
“Trail of Tears”. We are the country that
accepted the enslavement of Blacks and when that enslavement was no longer
allowable by law, passed other laws which denied what our Declaration of
Independence called a “self-evident” truth that “all men are created equal”. These laws specifically denied such
truth. They made it evident that some
men considered themselves as created superior to others. So, we do have incidents and periods of our
history that should serve to
keep us always on “storm watch”
status, if not “storm warning” status.
How is it that these present times have not made us realize we are beyond
the “watch” stage and that we have been issued a “warning”?
At
the same time I attempt to focus on the physical tasks of moving through the
water, I try to mentally fight as well.
I remember that there have been increasing periods of easier swimming,
times when the waves have not been so high and forceful. Yes, it is true that every time I begin to
hope that the rough waters will become calm long enough for us to catch our
breath, there is a significant set back, a reversal. Without warning the waves kick up and knock
us backward. BUT, just last week when my
daughter called, so obviously in pain and crying, she admitted she might need
medication. She was more than willing to
let me call the doctor. We were able to
go that day. I have to hang on to see if
it helps. And that takes time, at least
a few weeks. I can’t give up now. I keep my eyes on the shore. I imagine I see her there waiting for me and needing
to talk. I imagine my stroke is becoming
stronger.
It was my
turn to host book group last Thursday. Naazneen
joined us a number of months ago. She is
from India and she is Muslim. She does
not often wear her sari, but she has the last two months. Last month it was for Ramadan. We ate the snacks Lynette provided while
Naazneen ate the omelet sandwich she had brought to eat after sundown. She could eat at 8:03 PM. Her sari was green and cream colored. It was beautiful. We
liked being able to learn from her and share with her.
Last
Thursday she wore another sari, an utterly beautiful light fuchsia print. Her colorful bracelets on both wrists were
perfect and particularly stunning against her skin. Her parents are visiting from India and she
said she was enjoying getting back to another part of who she is by wearing her
saris. We had read the book “The Life of Pi” by Yann Martel. Towards the end of the book a number of
Indian foods were mentioned. Naazneen
wanted to introduce us to some Indian foods by bringing some of the foods mentioned
in the book: sambar, a vegetable soup;
idli, a lentil and rice cookie-sized cake; completely flattened “sheets” of
mango that were sweet; and three chutneys,
tomato, watermelon (spicy), and coconut-garlic made with yogurt. What a treat!! We were hoping Naazneen’s mother could come
to book group so we could meet her. But
she goes to prayers on Thursday nights.
I say that I want to host either a brunch or a luncheon before she and
Naazneen’s father return to India. We
will be able to thank her personally for the food that she prepared for
Naazneen to bring to us. The idea is
well received.
The main
character of the book, a native of India, was Hindu, Muslim, and Christian. Naazneen so related to the book because she
is Muslim, which represents a minority religion in the predominantly Hindu
country of India. But she attended
Catholic schools because they were the best.
She and her husband, whose marriage was arranged, have lived in the
United States for 12 years. I asked her
if, based on those 12 years, she felt the hatred towards, and discriminations
against Muslims were getting any worse in our country. She did not think she could answer that. Why?
Because there had been riots in India, during which the homes of Muslims
were burned. After their marriage, her
husband’s family home in India was burned, which meant that her father-in-law
and unmarried sister-in-law came to the states to live with Naazneen and her
husband. Ultimately they returned to
India because her father-in-law is a human rights activist, quite well-known in
his country. He felt the need to return. I ask myself as we are sharing thoughts about
the book; asking for the opinion of the others, “What is it? What is it that makes many in our country say
“They’re coming here trying to kill us”?
They are busy raising their children, getting dinner ready, doing all the
same things that we do in our daily lives.
I am thankful that Naazneen was willing to
join our group. She sometimes has a
unique perspective that adds substance and interest to our discussions. This is true not only because she is Muslim,
not only because her marriage, as an arrangement would terrify us, but because
she is a psychologist. She has knowledge
of and explanations for human behavior that we do not. I am thankful that she does not judge us
based on people like Terry Jones who burned the Koran, the book that for
Naazneen is holy. I am thankful she does
not judge us based on the radical, incendiary actions of many in the public
eye. She doesn’t condemn us because of
the radical, and thankfully, what I hope are still minority voices that rail
against her religion.
That is
particularly impressive given what she has been through with some. Lynette encourages her to tell the story of
her initial hesitancy to join our group.
She and Lynette met in Curves, a gym for women. They eventually discovered several things;
one, they both very much enjoyed reading, and two, Naazneen used to belong to a
book group when she lived in New York but had not found one here. Lynette invites her to join us. Knowing that Naazneen is Muslim, Lynette does
want her to know that most of the women in our group are the wives of ministers;
in fact I am the only one who is not.
She explains to Naazneen that shared religious beliefs are not a
“requirement” for our group; it just so happened that when I started the group
I knew all three of those women enjoyed books as much as I. Lynette did think it might make Naazneen more
comfortable, knowing that up front.
Naazneen, having gotten to know Lynette, decides to check us out.
She in
essence held her breath, hoping we were different from the Christian woman with
whom she had contact upon moving here.
That woman and Naazneen saw each other when they picked up their 3 year
old daughters from preschool. At some
point they see each other at a soccer game that their older children are
involved in. The woman approaches
Naazneen. One of her first “get to know
you” questions was to ask Naazneen about her status with respect to being in
our country; was she here legally or illegally?
Being surprised and somewhat offended, Naazneen explains that she is, in
fact, here legally; her husband works for GE.
It is supposed that Naazneen‘s legal status renders her acceptable
because the woman continues to chat.
Naazneen is cautious, but reminds herself that her younger daughter and
the daughter of this woman really seem to take to one another. A military jet flies overhead. “That is the sound of freedom”, the woman
declares to Naazneen. (At this point in
Naazneen’s narrative I inwardly gag but outwardly roll by eyes and not so
quietly sigh.) Naazneen is careful NOT
to respond to this “freedom” statement. However,
she really wants to tell this woman that in many parts of the world that sound
represents anything but freedom.
She survives
the soccer game, only to have to see this woman several times more on different
occasions. Eventually the woman inquires
of Naazneen when she is planning on joining the church (the Baptist church
where Naazneen’s daughter attends preschool).
Naazneen explains that she has no plans whatsoever to join the
church. Naazneen is well aware that this
is not the expected and anticipated response.
She therefore decides to cut to the chase; she asks the woman if that
will in any way affect the friendship of their two small girls. She is told that they can be friends, but
will not be allowed to be close. On
hearing this, I gasp loudly, without at first realizing it. Naazneen is appreciative; she says how
different we are. If only, if only, the
story ended there.
Naazneen’s
development has a swimming pool belonging to the homeowner’s association. One of their neighbors is a 10year old
African-American boy. He is kind to
Naazneen’s girls, now ages 4 and 6. They
like it if he takes a few minutes and splashes them in the pool. He evidently splashes long and hard; that is
the best and most fun type of splash.
While having lunch one day this summer at Chick-fil-A (Yes, the one that
a few months ago became an important arena for political commentary.), Naazneen’s older daughter mentions just how
fun it is when the boy splashes them and that he is nice to them. The younger daughter responds that she does
not like him at all. Naazneen, taken
completely by surprise, asks her daughter why she would say such a thing. What about the boy had she decided she no
longer liked? The response? Her little friend (Carly, I believe) said
that white people are nicer than black people.
WHAT?? Naazneen takes her
daughter’s arm and asks her what color her own skin is. But the little girl explains what she sees as
very obvious to her mommy; her skin is light brown, not even dark brown! Knowing Carly’s mother, Naazneen knows the
source of such a statement. She will
discuss with her husband the need to find another pre-school for this
year.
During the
pre-school year, this same little daughter had begged her mother to take her to
get her hair cut. Naazneen, at this
lunch outing, now finds out the real reason for the hair cut; there had been
comments about her hair being “different”.
For sure, absolutely for sure, there must be a discussion about another
pre-school. But Naazneen rushes on to
tell us that she really felt the teachers at the pre-school had done a very
good job trying to make all the children know they were special. If they had been aware of such comments, they
would never have allowed them to stand unchallenged.
As I’m looking at the shore, I
try not to think of the world beyond that shore. I am unsuccessful. I think of this little Carly, who at the age
of 3 had been taught that white people are nicer than black people. I think of her mother who basically equates
military jets, American military jets, with freedom. I thought freedom meant lack of constraints,
free will, and self-determination? How
does this woman see freedom in the future for African-American kids? If they are seen, when compared to Caucasian
children, to be deficient in any way whatsoever, how does she not see
their freedom endangered? Does she want
freedom spread across the world because we have military might while failing at
home to live in such a way on a daily basis that shows we believe all
are created equally? I can only draw the
conclusion that she must see “equal” in terms of being white, belonging to the
Christian faith, and attending the same church as she. On the one hand that is so abhorrent to me
that I almost do not want to return to shore, even if I could get there right
now. Again, I see my daughter. I see her living without my encouragement in
such a culture. I want to do what I can
to change that culture, but I am just a little nobody…
Then
I remember that I have seen times when one voice can change a room. I remember that some, like Martin Luther
King, began as one voice. Returning to
shore might give me the opportunity to
be one voice in a room; a voice that encourages seeing others as we see our
friends and family; a voice that discourages and, if necessary, challenges
broad, negative descriptions of those who simply look different from ourselves
and/or live differently than we do. I
won’t change the opinion of people like Carly’s mother. But there might be others, less rigid, for
whom I might at least plant a seed of doubt about those arrogant, hateful,
offensive voices.
I
remember how proud I was of my daughter one day at the Y. As I met her in the hall, she was chatting
with a woman who obviously had some position of respect at the Y. Immediately after that woman leaving, a young
Hispanic woman approached. She was
carrying towels to the laundry area.
Trista greeted the woman in Spanish and turned to introduce her to me. Someone else called to Trista but the woman
and I continued to converse. She was learning
English, but it was hard. A few minutes
later, as we were leaving, I realized something. I had seen no difference whatsoever in how
Trista had treated the woman of authority and the woman doing laundry. I was just so extremely pleased and proud. (My normal rule is not to talk about my child
in a bragging way. Forgive me the
exception here. The story illustrates my
point beautifully, I think.)
I
decide life is heavy right now. I try to
remind myself that I can only keep trying.
I think about when I might be on my death bed and looking back on my
life. I think it will be important to me
how I responded to the things of life. I
won’t regret being an encouragement to someone.
I also won’t regret having lived judging people only on what each is as
an individual. I won’t regret standing
up for that.
I
will keep swimming until I am finally out of this particular riptide; this same
riptide of grief that we have experienced for a few years. They told us we would never recover; we could
only expect to assimilate the loss of a child into our lives. We were told that repeatedly. But nothing prepared me for the ferocity of
the riptide, one that is, at times, made so much more difficult and painful to
me personally, as I look around and see the magnitude of the approaching
tornadoes and hurricanes. That is so
frightening. But I remind myself to keep
my eyes on that shore and to keep swimming.
Once I reach shore, I might be able to encourage others as they struggle
to get out of whatever their life’s riptide might be. I lift my arm for that next stroke and keep
kicking as best I can right now.
