Pocket Sized

“Ooff,” I muttered, rubbing my head. I batted away the pink fluff that hung over my face and called for Yelpi. Where was she anyway? “Yelp….” I trailed off mid-yell. I had found Yelpi alright. Except something was up. Either Yelpi was really, really big… or I was really, really small. Either way, our experiment seemed to have gone exponentially wrong.

Maybe I should give you some background, to keep you from being completely lost. Yelpi is my best friend. I met her in second grade. She had braces on her legs to help her walk, and she wore glasses. My family has a rule about being kind to other people—especially people who might be left out or lonely—and this girl looked like she was going to need a friend. So, I introduced myself, “I’m Persephone. But you can call me Persi. Everyone does.”

I don’t know if I expected her to be shy or what. But I definitely didn’t expect her to laugh. At my NAME. I mean, your name’s your mark in the world, you know? I was going to be mad. But there was something amazing about her laugh that made me feel… good. Peaceful. “Persi,” she said, still giggling. “Well, my name’s Yolanda. But, maybe you should call me Yelpi or something.”

If Yelpi had been anyone else, I would have lectured her on how my name marked me as something special. Persephone was the daughter of two Greek gods, after all. And she was the bringer of Spring—new life, rebirth… The way I figured it, my name made me kind of a big deal. But right away I knew two things about Yelpi: 1) she already knew this stuff about the Greek gods without me telling her, and 2) she was going to treat me like I was sort of a big deal no matter what my name was. That’s just the kind of person she is.

Turns out I was right. Yelpi was the smartest kid I’d ever met. She was always reading something. She loved stories about far off places. And she read book after book about science—lightning, grasshoppers, chemistry. Yelpi was unapologetically a nerd. Even in the second grade. And she was also the most amazing person ever. I totally didn’t need to feel sorry for her. The braces on her legs slowed her down a little. And she kind of bounced when she walked. But it didn’t matter. She’d take on any challenge, even if it took her ten times more effort than most of the kids. Like the time we had to run a mile in PE. Coach was gonna give Yelpi a pass on that. But she insisted that she could do it. It took her the whole PE class—45 minutes!—to go the whole mile. But she never gave up. Kids respect that kind of stuff. So, one by one, as kids finished running their mile, they went back to walk with Yelpi. Coach acted like it was a big deal that we all “supported Yelpi”—whatever that means. We were just being her friend. Adults can get so weird about stuff.

Anyway, basically from the day we met, Yelpi & I have been inseparable. My mom says we’re attached at the hip. That’s silly. I mean, how could we even get around to play aliens bodysnatchers or to look for fairies in the backyard if we were attached at the hip? See? Adults = weird. But, if we actually were attached at the hip, we’d probably get in a lot less trouble. And for sure I wouldn’t be three inches tall right now.

Oh, man… I got ahead of myself again. Okay, okay. Remember how I said Yelpi is a total science nerd? Well, she got me into science, too. And our favorite thing to do on a Saturday is to look up experiments and preform them in my room. Usually, we just go to a few science websites for kids and find experiments there. But today Yelpi showed up at my house with a dusty old book that she’d found in a big steamer trunk in her attic. Bet you want to know how she even got up into the attic with those braces on her legs? I knew you were paying attention. She got them off a few months ago. Over the summer. She still bounces when she walks, but she’s gotten a lot faster. And, honestly, I spend so much time with Yelpi that I bounce when I walk, too. It’s kind of just a habit. But it is more fun to walk like that. You should try it.

So, Yelpi has this strange, big book that she’s all excited over. It’s got old, loopy script handwriting in it instead of printed words. It looks like someone spent a lot of time putting together all kinds of potions—potions for love, for curing illnesses, for getting rich. Now, Yelpi and I are in fourth grade. I don’t give a fig about love, at least not the kind of love that makes Aiden Smith always try to kiss me on the playground. And Yelpi and I are real lucky that we don’t know anyone that’s sick. So, we figured we’d try to get rich. Seemed like a reasonable way to spend our Saturday afternoon.

We gathered all kinds of stuff for the potion. Some of the stuff we had to kind of guess on—neither of us could exactly get our hands on an eye of newt or on a fragment of turtle shell stewed in sage. Maybe it was our improvising that was the problem. Because by late Saturday afternoon, we were no richer. But I certainly was smaller. 45 inches smaller, to be exact.

 

We Do Not Have to Live Like This

I haven’t talked to Jane about the shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. How do you tell a 7 year old, who loves school above all else, that 17 people went in to school one morning and never came back out? How will she ever feel safe again, once she knows the truth? I don’t feel safe. I am terrified. I feel a physical pang when I drop her off at school in the morning. I stop the ‘what ifs’ in my head, because who can live like that?

But none of us should be living like this.

I’m not one to shy away from discussing difficult topics with Jane. Racism? We talk about it. She’s appalled by it. White supremacy? She knows what it is & thinks it’s gross. Homophobia? Yeah, she thinks that’s just dumb. But gun violence? I guess that’s where our privilege really shows… we haven’t talked about it because it could directly effect her. America’s love of guns could cost my child her life. I don’t know how to broach that. Yet people of color talk to their children often & from a young age about America’s racism that could one day end their lives for no reason at all. So, yes, white privilege is wrapped up in all this, too. But really, isn’t it always.

I don’t believe we have to quietly accept racism. And I don’t believe we have to accept the status quo on guns. When I found out that Atlanta Public Schools will do active shooter drills, I immediately felt relief. Knowing how to respond could increase Jane’s chances of survival. Then that sunk in: I am concerned about increasing my child’s chances of survival AT SCHOOL. Shit. Then the second wave of realization hit: Jane will learn that if she isn’t in her classroom, she must hide. On her own. The doors will be locked. She can’t get back in. She just has to do her best to stay alive.

SHE IS SEVEN.

We have created a war zone. Here. In America. We are our own enemy. On any given day, our children might die at their own school. And we refuse to stop it. We just try to navigate around it. That is some bullshit right there.

When I posted on Facebook that, during active shooter protocol, classroom doors are locked an aren’t to be reopened until the all clear is given, I got a lot of pushback. Not from gun activists. From teachers. They said they would never leave a child out to die on their own. They would let them in.

I don’t doubt that, at all. Teachers have sacrificed their lives to save their students. But teachers aren’t soldiers. They shouldn’t have to EVER make the decision to open that door or not. The orders are given for a reason. Opening the door might save the one student, or it might end the lives of 20 others. Teachers are not combat trained, for God’s sake. How could they ever make that call effectively? Better yet, WHY SHOULD THEY HAVE TO?

We do not have to live like this.

And, to be clear, homeschooling isn’t the answer to the threat of being gunned down in school. America’s love affair with guns cannot cost us our public education system. We cannot abandon our children’s futures to the NRA. We did not allow 9/11 to stop us from traveling, living, and rebuilding. We didn’t all move to rural America in response to terrorism in one of America’s greatest cities. Make no mistake: the NRA is a terrorist organization. Abandoning public education means the terrorists win. That wasn’t an option after 9/11. It isn’t an option now.

Tonight, I will talk to Jane about the Parkland shooting. I’ll read articles about talking to kids about gun violence. I’ll pray about it. Then I’ll start the conversation. But I’ll be damned if I will resign myself to this being her normal. I will fight back with every breath I have. And, if I know my kid at all, she’ll insist on being right by my side.

Speak up. Stand up. Fight back.

We do not have to live like this.

 

 

Photo credit: Photo by Jerry Kiesewetter on Unsplash

A Control Freak Gets Sober: A Short Case Study

I walked in, freshly pressed in a white shirt, crisp jeans and my beloved cowboy boots. My hair, pulled up in a clip, projected a no-nonsense image. Or, at least, I hoped it did. I wanted to be at the top of my game for this meeting. I pulled back one of the folding chairs, smiled at the people already seated at the table. And then it began: “Good evening. This is the regular meeting of Sobrenity. I am _______, and I am an alcoholic.”

This is how a control freak like me manages the unknown of attending her first AA meeting, at which they will most likely strongly suggest that she admit she is wildly out of control.

My futile attempts to control the AA meeting “situation” began earlier that day: I ran out to the bookstore to procure my copy of Alcoholics Anonymous (aka The Big Book) before the meeting. I wanted (no, needed) to be prepared for this next phase of my journey. I believe I even read the first chapter or so. Like I was going to a book club meeting. “Control what you can” was my motto. Obviously, that was going well.

Turns out, I didn’t need the book at the meeting. It was an open-discussion meeting, which meant anyone could attend, alcoholic or not. Cool. Then I could fly under the radar. They did a moment of silence for the sick & suffering alcoholic (that’s me!), followed by the Serenity Prayer. Which I had heard a million times before but couldn’t remember for the life of me. They were all chanting as if they were part of some secret society. Wait.. yeah. They kind of were.

Next came something about experience, strength and hope. It’s all a blur. And I didn’t have any experience, strength or hope for MYSELF at the moment, much less some to share. Then they got to the line that told me I was okay there, at least for the time being: The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking. Check! This is where I belonged.

Someone read, “How It Works,” which, cleverly, describes how the program of Alcoholics Anonymous works. Three tidbits from “How It Works” stuck with me:

1) Rarely have we seen a person fail who has throughly followed our path.
I am not really into failure even now, and certainly was against failure as an active alcoholic who had something to prove. So, good… no failing here.

2) We admitted that we were powerless over alcohol — that our lives had become unmanageable. You’d think for a control freak that admitting that she was powerless over alcohol would be wrenching. But I already knew I was powerless (I often have to come to things on my own. Thank GOD, I had come to this realization before someone mentioned it to me, and I had to spend the next several months of my life trying to prove them wrong). I’d done the whole deal where I said I’d only have 2 beers, then I’d wake up in my bed with no recollection of having gotten there. And, if my life was unmanageable, then it wasn’t really my fault, right? How could I be faulted for something that, by its very nature, I couldn’t manage? Time to invite a Higher Power to clean up my mess (btw: this is NOT how things work. Everyone is required to clean up his or her own mess. Think of the HP as a power source; you still have to vacuum)

3) We are not saints. The point is that we are willing to grow along spiritual lines. As for not being a saint, I am a good little Christian girl who happens to be a lesbian. In the church I grew up in, that not only knocked me out of the saint category, it landed me right in the going-straight-to-hell-in-a-handbasket category. So growing along spiritual lines without much outside help was something I did for years (albeit clumsily and sometimes drunkenly). Now I had a church that I totally dug (who of course knew nothing about my problematic drinking–or that I had once served communion drunk), and I had these AA folks to instruct me on spiritual growth. I’d probably BE a saint in a few months with all this help (I totally did NOT get humility yet, obviously).

With the finer points of “How It Works” swirling about in my brain, I sat patiently as people shared their experience, strength and hope. But, honestly, I couldn’t connect their stories to my life. I spent so much time hiding what was really going on with me that I couldn’t open myself up enough to see the similarities. I wondered when I would feel connected. I wanted to be the valedictorian of AA and to do that I needed to be accepted by the group, connected, respected (spoiler: I never felt connected to AA. Perhaps because this was my approach. Holy ego.)

At the end of the meeting, I felt deflated. I didn’t feel changed. I wanted to be able to sit down with someone and talk it out. Not talk about the program or how I was going to work through the steps. I wanted to talk my addiction through until I was better. Right then.

Instead, I went home and took out my Big Book. I tried to start reading the text, but I got bored, overwhelmed, twitchy. So I flipped back to the stories in the back of the book and started reading. They broke past all my defenses, and I saw myself in each of them. I also saw hope. I read until I couldn’t focus anymore. And the next day I read more. It seems so natural now that those stories saved my life. Stories have power. And those stories carried me through my first days, pointing out my character defects (ahem… control freak) in a way that didn’t make me bristle and run for the hills. I share my story because I owe my sobriety to people who were willing to share theirs.