I Wear My Own Pants, Thank You

 When I graduated high school, I was named co-Salutatorian. I had been working toward being Valedictorian since 9th grade, but with people like the Paul Twins lurking about, Salutatorian was the highest I could get. 

After the pomp and circumstance of graduation, I was shocked by the number of people who expressed shock at me being named that. Literally, people came up to me and said, "I didn't realize you were smart!" 

In my mind, I feel like "nerd" is written all over me, but from feedback, this just isn't the case. 

In college, I dated a guy who demonstrated several red flag behaviors. One was that he appeared almost disgusted by me in heels (which puts me at about 6'1" to his 5'10"). Another was that he was really weird about me being smarter than him. I likely wasn't smarter than him, but he absolutely communicated this idea that he felt personally affronted or personally victimized when I would score higher than him or understand a concept better than him. He was smarter than me 9/10 times, but that tenth time, yikes. 

Specifically, I remember a time when we both wrote a paper for a Bible class. He asked me my subject, I told him, I asked him his, and he told me. His was so high-brow that I literally had no idea what he was writing about. I was writing about biblical spit. He thought it was adorable (read: not intelligent). My professor ADORED my paper. I'm told that he still talks about it in every single New Testament course that he teaches. It burned my (then ex) boyfriend to his core. 

In a conversation about it, he told me that he didn't understand why my prof would like mine so much better than his because mine was "so...so..." [didn't finish his sentence that would have finished in "dumb"]. 

Microaggressions. 

Later in life, I would be told that it was offensive to people when I would use big words or try to explain a concept that I knew a lot about. 

Later in life, I would be told that I was more likeable if I would be quiet and giggle when appropriate. 

Later in life, I would be told that it would be better if the representative could talk to the man of the house because I wouldn't be able to understand. 

I could tell dozens of these stories. 

I'm caught in this dichotomy of perception. Either I am perceived as being too adorable to be intelligent or I'm so intelligent than I am no longer lady-like. That it's an affront to my fellow men. 

I've never heard these types of comments said to my male counterparts. I can imagine that maybe some might say, "Wow! You're smart AND athletic!" or "Wow! You're even smarter than I realized!" But not shock that they were intelligent at all. 

Maybe, "I haven't heard of anyone doing that topic!" or "We went really different routes with our ideas, but yours is really creative!" But not that it wasn't intelligent enough to be considered. 

A man would never be told that he should be quiet and giggle. He'd seem insane. 

A man would never be told not to use smaller words because he was being offensive with his intelligence. 

I listen to the news and I hear outrageous attacks on women in politics, and I also see men in politics saying absolutely bananas things. And then I hear people making heinous comments about, primarily, the women. I can't help but think to myself that if they were men, their "sins" of being outspoken and opinionated would be forgiven and their voices could be heard. 

It happens in classrooms.

in relationships.

in hospitals.

in politics.

We all hear through implicit bias. It's worth questioning that bias before you open your mouth. 

29 is weird

Another year has come and is now gone. And now there are 12 months before I leave my 20s. 

I feel like I just graduated college, and yet, I am an actual, no-doubt-about it-adult. 

This year brought a lot of weird. I rang 2020 in the near year with some good buddies from college!! We played board games and stayed up late. 

My birthday was spent wonderfully with my parents and husband in a neighboring city, just walking around in the fresh air. 

My job was extremely difficult. Living with my parents was awesome. 

One day in March, my boss told us all to take our laptops home just in case. I took it home as a joke. I literally never went back to that office, except to clean it out in July. 

My extremely difficult job got even more difficult, except that I got to sleep more without a commute. 

COVID was a weird combination of the introvert wet dream and an anxious person's worst nightmare. You simultaneously have never been happier in any situation in life, and yet, it's for a horrible reason that plagues you awake and asleep. 

But, of course, we passed through all the COVID phases: anxiety, bread-making, doomsday groceries, Tiger King, and then all the other 15 phases that have now all become one clump of a psychedelic dream. 

During all this, we found and bought a house. It's at the top of a hill a few miles away from my childhood home. It overlooks all of Tulsa and has garden beds for days. It's nice to have some office space, but we also miss nightly games and The Mentalist with my parents. 

Don't worry. We still go over for games every Friday (and also go over any time a small person is there). 

I got accepted for a PhD program, and miraculously, I was offered a Graduate Assistantship position. Even more miraculously, my husband and I were able to figure out a financial plan that allowed me to leave my job and take the job. He had, by that point, started his new full time job working as a therapist. The kids he substitute taught were very sad to see him leave, but COVID happened pretty simultaneously, so the timing literally could not have been better. 

I left my job in July, cleaning out my office like a bandit--the ghost town campus was a really creepy experience. 

My mom and I took a very safe little trip up to Branson at the close of summer--lots of masks, airbnb, lots of distancing. We shopped carefully (we went in the middle of the week and avoided all the crowds), we kayaked, we ate good food. It was very fun. 

I started my PhD in August. I read so many books. It was the best. The people I work for are so kind. They tell me nice things even when I'm just doing what's expected of me in my job. 

We had a college student live with us for a while in November, which was nice. I also got COVID in November, which was stupid. My mom, dad, and brother also got COVID. Luckily, our college student, my husband, and my brother's wife/kids managed not to get it! It took me about 2 months to 100% recover, but I no longer have to take breaks going up the stairs, so that's nice. 

We closed out the year with a trip to Arkansas to see our favorite neighbor and my favorite admissions counselor buddy get married. I did lots of hair and lots of bossing around. It snowed a bunch, so we made snow boots work with wedding attire. We were thrilled to see them happy and together, after a long and international separation. 

Probably other things happened, but 2020 really all smooshes together once my memory hits March. 

Life is weird. I feel guilty enjoying this time when so many are having the worst year of their lives, but I do. The American life was designed for extroverts. I have worked extroverted jobs my entire professional career (which is close to a decade at this point). Now, I get to be home with my husband and just do my dang job without having to be near other people all the stupid time. Do you know how much I save in gasoline and emotional energy? 

Julius and I wake up, have breakfast together, read books or play outside, then do our jobs/school until it's well dark. The nights finish out with games/puzzles/cooking shows. My dog follows me around every second of that routine. Then we all go to bed. Rinse and repeat. I will miss this period of my life terribly when it ends. Cubby will miss it more. 

Grief Tomatoes

 It's the deadliest year since 1918, and the toll continues to rise. It's difficult, surrounded by death, not to think about the dead. 

Summer 2019 hit us blow by blow. Neighbor and neighbor, grandmother then grandmother, unborn nephew rounding out the season. 

We hardly had time to recalibrate before the next assault to normalcy. 

The first two deaths were heralded by the celebration of growing things. That's what I remember most. In our little cottage at the top of the cliff, we were surrounded by neighbors who watched my husband's garden grow. 

Miss Jo would text me pictures of our sunflowers from her front window; she reported to me nearly every day with their outrageous height you could see from the end of the block. 10 inch heads of pure sunshine on 12 foot stalks. We sat on our driveway harvesting their seeds as we watched the ambulance at their home for the 3rd time that week. We stayed sitting until the paramedics came out, and we asked about her status when they did. Her oxygen levels were failing. It wouldn't be long. 

Robert next door was such a private man. He and his wife slid in and out of their life on Gunter as deer in the morning. They remained in utter stealth until the tomato garden bloomed beside their front entryway that second summer. Robert told us of the gardens he would plant in his youth. He began to stay longer and longer on his way in and out, telling us more about his youth, travels, family, and, when we would ask, his health. He had seemed to be gaining strength until his fall. It was as though the breaking of bone unleashed all the cancer cells back into his body. Rather than ambulances, it was the parade of visiting family's cars who signaled us to the end. 

We kept gardening. 

We gardened as the family came and went, saying their goodbyes to our friend, their uncle/father/cousin/brother. We gardened and didn't know what to say to them, if anything. It was them who talked to us, though. Each family, without fail, wanted to tell us what a wonderful garden we had. They talked about what a wonderful garden Robert used to have. They commented on what a crop of tomatoes we had in store. Robert loved tomatoes. 

There is a comfort in growing things, a balm for grief I can't explain. I have seen the hope a sunflower brings a dying woman. I have seen peace replace sorrow in the faces of bereaved as they let the vines of a tomato plant transport them back in time. 

Growing things bring color and expectation. Growing things bring distraction and demand attention. Growing things remind us that the future brings fruit we can only dream toward right now. 

We brought Miss Jo's widower sunflowers, not knowing what else to do. We brought Robert's widow our lily and a bag of our first harvest. She wrapped herself around me and cried. 

Sometimes, when you don't know how to grieve with someone, all you can do is share what you know of their joy and hope it plants a seed. 

My Phone is Off, and You Don't Need Me: A PhD Student Life

 Since 2014, I have been "on." 

What felt like every second of every day, I was checking my email, my texts, my work app texts. While this was partly self-imposed due to a paranoia that I would miss something, it was also very much expected that I would respond. That paranoia was confirmed, as those who did not respond immediately were chastised. Everywhere I looked, everywhere I went, I was surrounded by eyes and expectations. 

Being a salaried employee is wonderful and so secure, but it can go down a big hill on a little tractor so fast. There's a sense of ownership that comes alongside a steady paycheck that is inhuman. 

I even answered emails on my honeymoon. I answer emails at 1am in my bed. I answer phone calls in dead sleep two hours before the workday starts. I am dependable. 

I tried to create boundaries in my life, but after a certain point, where life begins and where work begins becomes so convoluted that you lose where you are in the world, outside of your worth to the system as a whole. 

My husband, in his kindness, allowed me to put trust in an opportunity. I left my job. The release was not immediate. Halfway through my graduate assistant orientation for my PhD program, I felt a sudden surge of joy when a meeting ran long: I work 20 hours a week. When those 20 hours conclude, c'est le fin. Time taken in one place is deducted in another. 

My mornings since the beginning of August have been spent drinking coffee with my husband in the soft sun of the morning. We cook lunches together before parting for our separate office spaces upstairs. Though it will soon be dark when we conclude our work projects, we will have been able to spend the best part of the day and the best parts of ourselves with one another--not the war-warn exhausted shells we have been able to give over at the end of the days. 

There is such joy in the freedom to learn. I can give of myself freely, but I am at no one's beck and call. I am not so naive to deny that a PhD might very well be brutal, but I will not deny the intensity of the freedom, the joy, the release that I have been granted so graciously. 

Nurturing Orchids

Before she left our work and moved to Germany, a friend entrusted her desk orchid to me. It is purple-speckled, lovely, and the sister to my own dual-colored orchid.  

When she gave it to me, I didn't know that I would also join her in leaving our workplace just a few weeks later. Her orchid moved from my desk to my piano at home to the garage when it dropped its flowers and was unpresentable for staging to the floor of a sunroom when it came to Tulsa months later, then, finally, to my new kitchen's terrarium window. 

Orchids are fickle friends. When loved well, they are generous, abundant in their blooms. Three ice cubes a week and gentle sun are what they want. Too much or too little, and they wither and fall to pieces. 

My own orchid gave us 12 blooms this early summer until an ant infestation led to de-soiling, re-potting, and a heavy rinse. The leaves have all dried and fallen, and only 2 blooms remain. 

Tabitha's plant has only remained in our family out of determination--it has been brown and gray for months with no sign of life. Still, each week, three ice cubes are added in with hope. 

Almost a year later, it has regrown a full four huge leaves and is nubbing out for re-growth of a stem. Buds and flowers will follow. 

My orchid will survive with the same determination, but its speed of growth and vibrancy is what drew the predators. What we thought was so strong was being eaten alive below the surface. At this stage, the plant we had taken for dead is the stronger and healthier by far. 

We don't know the roots for the blossoms. Assumptions of strength are mere assumptions and not determinations. All that we can do is be patient, remain consistent with encouragement to grow, and act to protect when enemies make themselves known. 

Policies and People: How to be a Good White Person?

Once, for a job, I had to tell a transgender person that the policy of the place where I worked was to live by their birth gender. 

I said this after talking to this person for an hour. 

I said this after a year of knowing about this person but never having spoken to this person before. 

I said this even though this person did not disclose being transgender to me. 

I said this because I was told to say it. 

I still feel ashamed. That's not what love looks like. 

You see, there are people and there are policies. You can have a policy, but you can't treat people like policies. I did not know them. By speaking out against them, I betrayed their trust, I made them feel afraid and defensive, and I demonstrated judgment. And I just don't think that's what Jesus would have done. 

Jesus led through relationships. He created change through relationships. He opened doors for difficult or awkward conversation through, you guessed it, relationships. 

By having that conversation, I did not communicate love or understanding. What I communicated was that a group of people had been talking about them behind their backs and had sent me as a spokesperson. I, a stranger, knew one of the most personal qualities about them. And, by speaking out against that quality without a relationship first, I nearly guaranteed myself that I would never have a relationship with them. I saw the pain in their eyes. 

I feel that same shame now. Navigating people and policies is so difficult, especially when you have close relationships on all sides of the spectrum. 

I have not been in any way hidden about my sentiments toward our current leader. Those sentiments have not shifted toward the positive in the past four years. In fact, his behavior, his tweets, and his constant fire-poking toward increased hatred and violence have only pushed me further into the political sphere when I once was not in any way interested. I have seen the impact on all ages, as his language use and behaviors validated voices of hate and made them socially acceptable. 

Hear me, these sentiments were already alive and well, but they had not previously been given an allowance to be communicated aloud without condemnation. The impact was immediate--I saw it wash over my small town, and I see it here in my larger city. I see the influence of those behaviors on the day to day of his people. 

Voting for him on a one or two policy ballot is irresponsible and dangerous, as the effects of his humanity are widening the gap of our country. It actually does matter who a person is in their real lives, especially when they broadcast a constant spew of hate and violence speak in such a non-stop, public way. Yeah, guys, his twitter really does matter. You may believe in God using unholy people for holy purposes. He is not creating holy outcomes. Not at all. 

This weekend, he has chosen to come to visit Tulsa, Oklahoma for the largest indoor even since the beginning of the pandemic. It is the 99th anniversary of the Tulsa Race Massacre, and tomorrow is Juneteenth (Freedom Day). Many Republicans (and family members) have claimed that this date selection was done in ignorance. His tweets suggest otherwise. 

This decision caused another tense internal debate between policies and people. This rally is in the midst of a second wave of virus reports, this rally is on an extremely important African American holiday, this rally is in the midst of race/police brutality protests all over the nation. My policy, as an introvert and someone who wants to be socially responsible, is to avoid large public gatherings. However, my humanity calls for action. I cannot be another Millenial to claim I care and allow that only go so far as to post online about it. But how do I prevent him from using a peaceful protest somehow in his favor? How do I avoid the violence which may be incited by his trigger-happy behaviors and the equally trigger-happy behaviors of his aggressive followers and white supremacists? How do I show up without somehow making the equally heinous Millenial mistake of acting only long enough to get the photo op or make something very much not about me, about me? How can I speak out without drawing attention to me and not the issue? How do I be an ally? How do I be a good white person? 

After a week of massive backlash, he moved his rally date to the day after Juneteenth. 

I told myself that it was only that which made me worked up enough to entertain the idea of attending a protest. But I don't think I could live with myself if I stand on the wrong side of humanity on this one. Remaining silent is to be complicit. It's to communicate that his behaviors, his lies, his location choice, his calculated language use as it relates to race and riots, and his presence in my city during a pandemic, national crisis, and grim anniversary, is acceptable. It is not acceptable. 

The policy is free speech. But that policy is being abused and manipulated to allow a stampede of the people. It flies in the face of our African American groups here, to the families of victims of Greenwood, and even of the health and safety of his followers. 

My sentiments have marked me as an extremist to many members of my family. In conversations, I immediately alienate myself. But Jesus threw tables in the temple. He cracked a whip, in fact. There are times when righteous anger is appropriate. I would rather alienate myself on behalf of humanity than disgrace myself with defending the degeneration occurring now with ideals of single-ballot issues. How is it less pro-life to defend the full lifecycle than it is merely to defend birth rates? I cannot reconcile it. 

We are still navigating the safest road to take, but safe is also not Jesus. Justice is Jesus. Truth is Jesus. Standing beside the oppressed is Jesus. Resisting evil is Jesus. So we will shut our mouths and put on masks and stand alongside our brothers and sisters in solidarity and, with hope, peace. We will listen to the stories of both joy and pain. And we will be there as a physical demonstration that balance and justice are necessary for trust. We are going because we don't know what else to do and it is no longer an option for us to sit back and watch from our place of privilege. 

28 is Pretty Great

Since my last post, a good portion of my life has changed.

Year 27 really started off slow, but it ended the last 6 months like dynamite.
During this year, I:

• Traveled to Arizona to visit my grandparents and family 
• Took a total of 18 credit hours of graduate credit
• Taught 12 hours of university English 
• Cut off 18 inches of hair
• Traveled to Arizona for the wedding of a best friend
• Worked a full-time job at two different universities.
• Traveled to Point Blank, Texas to enjoy one final year of Odomfesting at the Odom Lake House 
• Planted a ridiculous amount of plants with my crazy, gardening husband
• Very suddenly, changed jobs from one university, where I had been working as a senior assistant director of admissions, to another university, where I am working as a Student Success Coach 
• Very suddenly listed our beloved Cliffhouse 
• Faced the death of a dear friend and neighbor, Robert Barnett
• Faced the death of my grandmother, Daisy Marie 
• Faced the death of my grandmother, Ruth, one week later
• Faced the death of another dear friend and neighbor, Miss Jo Stephens 
• Faced the death of my unborn nephew, Philip
• Moved in with my parents
• Sold our Cliffhouse
• Saw my husband graduate with his Master's in Counselling 

It was a weird year. When the year began, I told my husband that I found myself pre-grieving. I didn't know why, but my heart told me it would be a painful one, and it was. I said goodbye forever to four beautiful people. I said goodbye to a family home of memories in Texas. I said goodbye to the home and garden we had poured ourselves into in Arkansas. I said goodbye to a team and a university that I had given everything to for roughly the past decade. I said goodbye to Siloam. I said goodbye to many friends and neighbors who I moved away from and who moved away from me. I grieved. I grieved a lot. 

I am so thankful for the time I had been able to share with those who died. I am equally thankful to be closer now to my family. I missed them. I am thankful to share space with my parents (even if it makes me realize just how much clutter we own) and play games and watch The Mentalist and be silly. I am thankful for my new job and for the new job that Julius will be starting soon. I am thankful that, somehow, we were able to harvest every plant Julius had planted before we sold the house. We got an offer, transplanted to pots, had the first frost that killed everything, and then closed on Cliffhouse. It was amazing. 

It's been a really exhausting half-year. But we move forward and hope for good and plant good seeds, maybe even in our own garden soon.