Not My Story To Tell

I was on a run this week listening to the podcast Armchair Expert with guest Jamil Zaki. 

Zaki is a professor of psychology at Stanford, Director of the Stanford Social Neuroscience Laboratory, and author of The War For Kindness: Building Empathy in a Fractured World. I was rounding mile three when I had to stop in my tracks to rewind. 

Zaki said:

Another tool in the empathy toolkit is storytelling. Whether it’s immersion in novels, or plays, acting is a really powerful sort of performance-enhancing drug for empathy it turns out. [...] You embody other lives, you enter other minds in various ways. So any engagement in a narrative art can be a really powerful road to empathy for ourselves and for others. And there’s these fascinating studies where [...] it’s like a clinical trial, except where instead of a drug you prescribe someone a novel or you prescribe them a film. It turns out there’s these little boosts in empathy especially when we engage with art whose protagonists are different from ourselves. So if a White-American reads a novel where a protagonist is Muslim-American, there Islamaphobia will decrease a little bit.  

This was fresh on my mind when we read the picture book Sulwe a few days later, written by Lupita Nyong'o and illustrated by Vashti Harrison. Sulwe is a beautiful young black girl, distressed about her dark skin. Her family has lighter shades of brown skin, but Sulwe’s is “the color of midnight.” After a loving, but ineffective, talk with her mother, Sulwe is visited in her dream by a star that tells her the story of two sisters, Day and Night, and their own revelations about the power of appreciating, loving and embracing the skin you’re in. 

I stewed over this incredible book for a while, trying to contrive some plight-of-the-redhead experience to share that relates to Sulwe’s story. 

But, I stopped, because Sulwe’s is not my story to tell. 

If I have learned nothing else from the past year, it’s that my job is to listen to and absorb the black experience I’m being told. And...to offer the same opportunity to my kids. 

They need to know sometimes the story isn’t ours. Sometimes, we just have to stop and listen.

#sulwe

#empathy

#jamilzaki

Chatting With Peter's Mom

 I’ve been over it the last few weeks. 

We’re almost a year into this Covid-arrangement that I never agreed to, and I’m over “silver-lining” things. 

We’ve done the puzzles and the playground. We’ve done the art projects and legos and the spontaneous adventures. I’ve bootstrapped as many days as I can and I am spent. 

It’s cold. It rained for 800 days. I’m probably vitamin D deficient. My endorphins from running in the freezing cold aren’t holding me over anymore.

So, now, we’re on to the watching-Mickey-Mouse-Clubhouse-cuddled-under-the-blankets phase. We’re on to the mommy-reading-her-phone-while-the-kids-eat-cookies-in-the-pantry phase. We’re on to the creating-errands-to-run-so-they’re-buckled-in-the-car phase.

I wish I felt as nonchalant about it as I’m letting on, but I’m feeling both uninspired and super guilty about it. I need to be grateful, I need to present, I need to put on some pants that actually have zippers and pockets.

This week Beckett and I read The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats. Peter, this iconic little boy that ventures into the beautiful snowy city in his red snowsuit. Peter, the first-ever black protagonist in a picture book, reminded me of something I needed this week. 

I NEED TO SIT AND CHAT WITH PETER’S MOM.

And, if I could, we would complain and laugh and compare notes about our wonderful, precious, hilarious, incorrigible children that just can’t seem help themselves:

• I wish mine could just entertain himself like that. Look at Peter making tracks. My kid would have been back inside five times already...

• Uh oh, he wants to snowball fight with those big kids. I can just see him thinking about it… You’re right, he’ll be fine.

• Should we go get eyes on them or do you think they’re okay? No? Cool.

• Oh my God, he brought a snowball in the house. No he did not.

So, I guess the antidote I need is some connection here. We’re not supposed to do this parenting thing in a bubble. 

But I can’t be the only one feeling stuck in mediocre parenting. 

I can’t be the only one feeling uninspired. 

I can’t be the only mom wondering if the kids will be alright if we just let them explore by themselves like Peter a little bit in the snow.

#thesnowyday

#ezrajackkeats

Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places

Let me just begin by saying Valentine’s Day is dumb. 

Fortunately, Nathan and I are in total agreement on this. We have only celebrated it once in twelve years, and that was only because my sister-in-law kindly offered us childcare so we could have our first date-night after Beckett was born. So, technically, we were just celebrating a night away from burp cloths and stinky diapers. And if I’m being honest, it looked a lot more like me anxiously checking my phone under the table than it did gazing at Nathan lovingly over filet mignon. 

I’m not saying you shouldn’t go out and enjoy each other’s company at a fancy restaurant if you can safely swing it.. Buy each other gifts, if that’s going to brighten your day. Eat some cherry-filled chocolates, or accidentally eat the gross maple-filled one when you misread the guide. We all need something to enjoy right now.

But, I’m not going to act like that’s celebrating love.  

Matt de la Peña seems to know that, too. 

In his picture book Love, illustrated by Loren Long, de la Peña creates a montage for our children of the ordinarily extraordinary way of love. He inspires an observant eye to see love in all those everyday things we do that bring us together. From playing in the sprinklers on hot days with your neighbors to waking up in your mom’s arms after a bad dream. From fishing with your grandpa to crowding around the man strumming his guitar in the subway. 

He describes love to our children in a way that teaches them that love is actually the millions of moments that people show us we’re not alone in life. 

So, I’ll celebrate love when I notice Nathan plugged in my Airpods that were out of battery because he knows I’ll want them later for my run. Or, when Beckett describes me as “snuggly” in an assignment for class. Or, when Oliver runs up and hugs my leg while I’m cooking dinner. I’ll celebrate love when I see my future niece’s ultrasound or Beckett has to immediately share his new Lego creation with his cousins. I’ll celebrate when a package arrives from my father-in-law full of books and science kits for the boys.

Thanks Matt de la Peña for showing our kids to look for love in those places, too.

 

#mattdelapeña

#valentinesday

Cookie Makers and Basketball Stars

Beckett is not super interested in sports. He doesn’t have any “going pro” dreams. Despite being an active and social kid, he’s not interested in joining any teams, at least for today.

He does, however, want to be a cookie maker when he grows up, which I am here for. A Youtube cookie maker, to be exact, because you know, if you’re not attempting to be a basic celebrity apparently it doesn’t count.

He watched a how-to-decorate-a-Grinch-cookie on Youtube before Christmas, and now that’s his dream. He dismissed his initial dream of becoming president, because you need to go to college first, and moving away from home is unappealing to him. We’ll check back on that later...

That was on my mind this week when we read Salt In His Shoes, written by Deloris and Roslyn M. Jordan and illustrated by the phenomenal Kadir Nelson. This book is about the young #23 himself, Michael Jordan, who is being bullied on the basketball court for being too short. He came home one day lamenting to his mom about losing the game because he was not tall enough to get past another player. He asked her how to grow taller.

She smirked, and then advised him to put salt in his shoes every night.

She said, “In order for this to work, the most important things you have to do are be patient and listen to what I tell you, and say your prayers every night.”

Deloris Jordan knew the secret that I forget at least fourteen times a day...that parenting is like 95% letting go of my agenda for their lives and like 5% reminding them to let go of their own agenda.

The books and music and legos and dye-free organic food and chemical-free cleaning products probably all matter. At the end of the day, though, I can’t make him grow taller or make him pay attention in class or make him brave enough to go to college.

Mrs. Jordan knew the other important secret, though. As much as it helps to feel like we’re doing something that benefits lives we have to give our own plans over to whomever or whatever our higher power may be. And, like Mrs. Jordan, teach them to do the same.

#morethanasinglestory
#kadirnelson
#saltinhisshoes

Data Collection

 

“Hola, Beckett. I miss you. How are you?”

Those were the first words I heard when Beckett logged on to his school-issued Chromebook last week for his mid-year assessment. 

I immediately felt this relief from tension I had not noticed I was carrying. 

Poor kid with this high strung teacher mom. 

I had been so worried for him about this test. Beckett has had seven days of face-to-face school. He has a super loud baby brother that distracts him from his sight words. He’s a six-year-old learning in Spanish without classmates or unifix cubes or monkey bars.

So this test quickly brought up some old resentments I had from my time as a public school teacher. Why does the state think test results are reliable with limited face-to-face time, social isolation and heavily-compromised teaching practices from virtual learning? Why do they think test results are valid through Google Meet from their parent’s office or the least-loud corner of the kid’s house? 

That had been so heavy on my mind as we read The Big Test by Julie Danneberg this week. It chronicles the challenge of teacher, Mrs. Sarah Jane Hartwell, as she prepares her students for their end-of-grade standardized test. She was feeling “really, really good” about her student’s readiness. But during test preparation, her students, one by one, develop fears that ruin their recess and anxieties that make them want to escape to the nurse’s office. Realizing what was happening, she surprises them with a celebration to prepare their hearts, as well. She realizes the most important part of their test preparation is that they also feel “really, really good.”

So, when I heard those first eight words: “Hola, Beckett. I miss you. How are you?” I was  immediately reminded that even though she is collecting the data that she’s mandated to collect, she knows the data that matters. I seriously needed that reminder, too. 

This year, she has to test them through that computer screen with timers they can’t see and measures they don’t understand, because the state told her so. 

What’s most important though, is that she makes her students feel good, really, really good. She reminded me of the data that matters.

#juliedanneberg #standardizedtesting

If It Fits

We were driving down the road last weekend and saw a group of women leaving the beach. Dressed in winter gear, hats with poms and fur-lined hoods on down coats — they were probably on some girl’s winter get-away, bailing on a walk for hot coffee and paperbacks after discovering the brutal beach wind. 

I was unfazed until I heard my six-year-old say, “Maybe I can marry one of those girls back there.” It was all I could do not to spit-take my coffee from laughter. “Buddy, you’ve got a long time before you need to think about marrying someone.” 

“I know,” he said, “But I want to keep an eye out so I’ll know when the time comes.” 

As we drifted into silence and my smirk faded, I realized he’s got a plan for his life already, and it matches what he sees his dad and I doing. Which is sweet, if that’s what he wants and needs. My fear, though, is that he thinks there is a story he has to follow. 

Then it hit me, of course he thinks there’s one story...Despite our best pre-Covid efforts, our world is now curbside pick-up and squares on a computer screen. His family is all he sees.

In light of the world’s brokenness and desperate need for unity, I can’t help but wonder about the harm caused by our kid’s limited exposure right now to the many vibrant walks of life out there. 

This was on my mind when we read Alma and How She Got her Name, Juana Martinez Neal’s Caldecott Honor. Neal tells the story of a little girl named Alma Sofia Esperanza Jose Pura Candela. Alma complains to her daddy that her name never fits on her paper. He responds by saying, “Let me tell you the story of your name. Then you decide if it fits.” He tells her about her namesakes, of complex lives filled with books, dreams of travel, faith, art and activism. She sees herself in each of them, and it inspires her to create her own story.

So for today, we’ll read them lots of books and tell them lots of stories... Then, when Covid allows, we’ll incorporate our communities and travel back in. Like Alma’s daddy, we’ll offer them lots of stories, so when their time comes, they can decide for themselves if it fits.

#juanamartinezneal

#almaandhowshegothername

We Don't Need Raincoats

When I was a teacher I would cringe on rainy days when that one sassy student pranced in with their umbrella. Yet, the umbrella never ceased to make an appearance, and it was always brought by the Ramona Quimby of the class. 

Those things were cumbersome, held up the class every time, and were undoubtedly left somewhere during the day, their absence only discovered when the kid needed it most. 

Raincoats, please, people. 

Naturally, my own boys both love umbrellas. In fact, they think any percentage of rain is enough to carry that ridiculous contraption with them.

But, this past week, thanks to Amy June Bates, I’ve had a change of heart towards umbrellas.

This change of heart came when Beckett and I read her beautiful picture book, The Big Umbrella, about a personified red umbrella. The umbrella is kind and welcoming and loves to help. The umbrella is spacious and nondiscriminatory in its ability to provide shelter. It covers the ballerinas and the basketball players, the human and the four-legged, the children and the elderly, those in wheelchairs and those walking on two feet. Everyone is covered by this umbrella.

I love this concept because it illustrated to Beckett, though perhaps just in allegory, that we don’t just need raincoats, because raincoats only cover one person. 

In an interview about this book, Amy June Bates said, “I wish I could have an image of the last page that included all the different faces of everyone [under the umbrella]. Because we all belong there.”

The Big Umbrella rightfully showed my little white boy, and reminded me, that our first job is to make sure that no one is getting rained on. I can’t help but wonder whether the events of this last week..hell, this last year...might have been different if we had just all been taught a long, long time ago to make sure that no one was left out in the rain. 

Wait...were we taught that?

I know that I am going to miss the mark on a lot of things as a parent. But, my boys are going to know that they don’t just need raincoats. They need to open their umbrellas.

#amyjunebates

#storybooksbythesea

Bates quote from: https://twowritingteachers.org/2018/02/19/a-conversation-with-amy-june-bates-juniper-bates/

Interview by Stacey Shubitz