Prioritzing Empathy

     I like everyone else in the United States and even around the world am once again being forced to puzzle out the motivations and accessibility of another senseless shooting spree. One now heralded as the worst in modern U.S. history as if this was a competition to attain the most carnage and the biggest headlines. And I cry and gnash my teeth and pray for the victims and their friends and family. But something else nudges me inside screaming at me that I need to do more than pray. That I must put my faith and my human decency into change. So I sign petitions for Everytown U.S. and Moms Demand Action, and I call my Congressional representative to not vote for the two awful gun bills that would allow more carnage and more innocent blood to be shed. But it still feel inadequate, a cup of water on a forest fire that is consuming our national culture as we divide into camps of: "you aren't taking my fricking guns", and "guns are evil" sides. And while I believe the truth lies in the middle, that we should not take your hand guns, but no one needs to have an automatic weapon. Even if you are a hunter, that's just ridiculous excess like using a weed whacker to slice watermelon. But I'm not going to go further on that line of thought. No one's listen anyway.
     Instead where I will go is to ask how we got here in the first place. Where the knee jerk reaction of a psychotic break, depression, or anger is to take a bunch of people down with you. Or to garner fame from a vile act of terror. Or the more chilling problem of children bringing guns to school because some one bullied them or they didn't feel the teacher gave them a fair grade. When did it become okay to answer our problems with violence? Why are we all so angry? Because we are. Look at social media. The Facebook posts and tweets that get the most attention are the bitchy ones. I've bought into it. And sometimes I agree its nice to vent about typical crazy parenting stuff. But I see it escalate into an outlet for people to vent over little trivial things like parking or being a place to bully others and make them feel inadequate in such angry language it scares me.
     There are days when I get on Facebook and have to quickly get off because of the negative energy swarming up from the page like angry bees buzzing in my brain making me angry too. There are also days when I get jealous and upset and covet my friend's lives as I see their vacation pictures and home remodels, etc. And I know I'm not the only one. We feed on the negative. Internet trolls leave nasty comments just because they can. Friends judge and take digs at their friend's parenting skills or politic. It's a cesspool. And I have to ask where is the empathy?
     Yes, EMPATHY. It feels like a forgotten word. Or something to be slapped on a mug or a t-shirt like Yes, I have empathy or even Fuck Empathy as there are a lot of negative slogans out there.
      But it's a word and a movement that needs to make a come back and soon. But how? This is where I struggle to put words to action. But I know we are capable of something.
     I recently subbed for a 4th grade class and had a wonderful and thoughtful discussion about racial segregation and prejudice that brought tears to my eyes. Kids were listening to each other, voicing their own frustrations. I loved every second of it because I could feel the empathy in the room. And I told the kids I was tearing up because I could feel both the student's perspective from the article on the Little Rock Nine: the fear and anger and hurt of being hated for the color of my skin when all I wanted was a chance to learn; and I could feel from the parent's perspective of how dare someone hurt my baby and call her names and hate her for what she looks like. She's a beautiful human being, and if they would shut their ignorant mouths and lead with their hearts they might finally see that.
     This is how I try to live (I'm human so I'm not perfect and sometimes my emotions overwhelm my rational sense) but I always try to ask myself "How would I feel if someone said that, did that, etc. to me or someone I loved?" It's the old walk a mile in someone else's shoes adage. It's how I raise my sons even when the tough question to my 10 year old is how would you feel if brother treated you the way you treated him just now.
     So how do we teach empathy because it's learned, it's not something you're born with. Babies are extremely selfish little sociopaths. But I feel in our everyone is a winner attitude that we have accidentally shifted the social mindset to "Yes, I am special. I am the only one who counts. Praise me and adore me." And then our kids plummet into depression, tantrums, and panic attacks when they don't get the praise they think they deserve. The praise they have been conditioned to accept as their right. Like they are the center of the world instead of being one of many in the world. But what happened to "Go Team". Doing something for the good of the whole? I see people dismissing this as socialist ideology as if were a bad thing to do something to make sure everyone was good and taken care of. Which honestly blows my mind. If it doesn't take away from my happiness might even add to it to see someone else happy too, why is that a bad thing?
     Now where do we begin? Can we teach empathy in schools? I see character education at my son's school but is it enough? And I wonder if we need more lessons on listening to each other. I once did a program with the La Jolla Playhouse called the Kids and Cops program. It was brilliant. An actor from the company and a local police officer came to my class once a week and opened a dialogue through the medium of drama. We played improve games and learned how to write monologues while building a relationship and voicing some honest and brutal opinions and misconceptions between the students and the police. Both sides listened to each other. Honest communication and understanding began to happen. Could this be something to try in schools? An hour a week of drama lessons that fostered conversations and taught the kids to listen and see each other as someone worthy of love and being heard. It would take time away from math and formal language arts lessons but what are we producing in schools? Someone who can figure out word problems or decent human beings who will add to society.
     Then I begin to think about society and the lack of community. Maybe the problem isn't just gun violence and mental health issues, though that is certainly a big part of it. But the national disconnect. I have no local store where I see the same people. I live in a big cookie cutter suburban housing development where I have to drive ten minutes to a store. When my dad lived in both London and Birmingham, he could walk to the store and new the worker's names and family life. My dad also knew his neighbors even in a giant city like London because the urban planning was more intimate and within reach. There was a community pub, store, restaurant, and housing all in walking distance. I know one direct neighbor and a handful of other people in my development. Maybe if our cities were planned better, more intimately or we had more community functions: knitting groups, dance class, bingo, we wouldn't feel so depressed and lonely and angry. Maybe that's Pollyannaing it, I honestly don't know the answer. I am only grasping at straws but feeling desperate that we must act now to change the way our country is going. To end the anger and animosity and quickfire reaction to violent behavior. Maybe someone smarter than I knows a way. I will follow. Just show me the light. And maybe everyone needs to look around them and smile at a stranger today, compliment someone, honestly ask how their day is going and listen to the answer, hug your kids, your friends, your spouse, etc. Let's light the world with love and find our empathy and share it.

Rage Cleaning

     My house is far from spotless and the thought of what it would look like under a black light makes me queasy, especially since I have two boys who are a little too loose and free with their bodily fluids. Yet, I have had friends defensively say to me that their houses are not show places, so don’t judge as if I in contrast my house were sanctimoniously clean. As if I were setting a standard from which to judge other houses as inferior.

     Honestly, I don’t care if my friends or family have cluttered houses. I will wade through piles of paper and knee-high toys for a cup of coffee and a good conversation with a friend anytime. If only they saw the untidy mess in my brain, they would know I am a hot mess of disorderly thoughts, a psychological hoarder. As for my house, the papers and toys and other crap is just shoved under the bed or the back of a cupboard or a drawer because I can’t handle looking at it. And because I am a Rage Cleaner.

     As the piles of dirty laundry and sock trails grow, the dirty dishes pile up and the counters glisten with sticky residue, I attack sponge in hand to fix the only thing I seem to have control over. I scrub till that damn, fricking counter sparkles because it is illegal and frowned upon to sponge my youngest son’s mouth out so he doesn’t whine and snap at everything I even say, even hello to him. I throw the laundry into the washer because I can’t throw out the computer my oldest son plays video games on as he shouts, “This video is almost done,” as I remind him to vacuum the floor for the fifth time.

     And before anyone misjudges me. Like that would happen on social media. Hahaha! My kids do chores. They vacuum and dust and empty the dish washer and trash and pick up etc. But they leave a slug trail of whine behind them, their lower lips protruding, eyes puppy-wide with the look of the down-trodden. And that makes me clean harder as I silently scream my energy into getting the damn ring out of the toilet bowl, my 80’s pop blasting in the background to keep me going.

     Sometimes when the week has been especially hellish with dragging kids to soccer, Cub Scouts, Back to School night, and more I rage organize. Yanking open the cabinets where I’ve shoved away the crap I didn’t want to look at piled on the island, I grab a large plastic trash bag or a large Amazon box for Goodwill and purge all my angst out. I ask if the old blender sitting behind the Vitamix brings me joy and since the 7-year-old behind me is begging for the new drone he saw on a Nick Jr. commercial it goes in the box along with my unheard response to his plea. While the ten paper-wrapped straws from Taco Bell, the six lids that don’t match any of the water bottles my kids haven’t lost, and the mysterious petrified food item from the back of the cabinet gets tossed in the trash bag.

     These rage cleaning episodes help me not commit acts of violence on something that can’t handle the weight of my frustrations. I see it as therapeutic. I make myself anew, clean the bitter-tasting resentment from my soul. When I look upon my kitchen island, no longer cluttered with coffee rings, Legos, reusable shopping bags, and crumpled school notices, I feel happy and accomplished. For a few minutes, I had control over something in my life. I didn’t have to rely on someone else or wait futilely for something else to be done first. I saw a problem, and I fixed it. That gunky kitchen sink was my bitch, submitting to my will and my power.

     So yes, my house has moments of tidiness. But not from an overwhelming desire to clean. I actually despise cleaning. But I hate the buildup of negative energy that seeps under my skin making me into an angry cat, all hissed words and exposed claws. It needs to go somewhere so it might as well be into removing the caked-on residue on the kitchen stove.

My Nighttime Tribe

My Nighttime Tribe

I see my tribe, in their nighttime hive

Finally come alive

As restless head

Succumb to sheets and beds

Eyes rubbed raw from the nightly fight

Half-yawned protests as eyes shutter tight

Mom and dad hang up responsibilities

Flip the switch on their duality

And aim to please

Themselves

Slinking into the coveted spots on the couch

Man and wife, he and she, relax and slouch

Into their own skins

T.V.s turned to stations

Lacking abbreviations

With junior in their communications

Beer tops pop and bubble, bubble,

There is nothing to fix or

Can I trouble

you for another drink,

No need to calculate or think.

I can sink

Into oblivion for an hour or two

These precious hours I accrue

At the end of a mother’s day

When I can shuffle off the role I play

The me I must delay

Until night lights dim and lighten my load

I slip back into me mode

Where I have choice and a voice

To myself

Not shrill or cooed or stuck on repeat

Just me, the one my husband would like to meet

Snugged on the couch or between the sheets

The me I used to be when we were just we

The one I hide in my back pocket till it’s just

Him and me

Or me and he alone with our own notions

Our own books and minds and emotions

Yes, my tribe comes alive in the night

As parents awaken themselves at the sight

Of children’s head tucked in beds snug and tight.

The Ghosted Friendship

     I read all the same memes and inspiration quotes as everyone else about how some people come into our lives for a season, serve a purpose, and then fade out. Their time is done, their dime is spent, the ride is over. And I get it. Some friendships don't last a lifetime. We are not meant to ride off into the sunset with everyone.
     But just because I understand the sentiment and practicalities of it doesn't mean the emotions are not hard. We tangle ourselves into our friendships when we open ourselves up.There is a vulnerability of being real with people.  Some of the heart strings wind and knot together. Significant memories are formed especially during major life moments. These people stand next to you through births, marriages, deaths, and so much more. They may be there in your children's first birthday party photos or a hundred other places filling photo albums and smart phone storage space. They may have been there holding your hand as your found yourself or did something new and noteworthy. So unraveling a history takes time and a few severed arteries. There is blood loss and the pain of regrowth as we scab over and move onto the next someone meant to walk that part of our path with us.
     Yet, sometimes I feel haunted. It's the awkward presence, the cold prickling of the skin when you know you have to see them in a familiar setting be it at a school pick up or birthday parties. Polite manners demand that you at least acknowledge the other person. But an pregnant pause, the dead corpse of what once was stands between you fetid and rotting making stock phrases about the weather even harder to get out. The memories hover unseen, the someone that I used to know, standing in contrast to this familiar stranger. Sometimes the unresolved feelings surface, an emotional heartburn. Anger, pain, resentment, and feelings of unworthiness follow too like pall bearers of the dead relationship.
     It's easy to say its okay. That these things happen. Because they do. Friendships die, sometimes quietly sometimes in a hacked-off, blood drenched Frank Miller kind of way. But just like grieving a real death, we cycle through the feelings of anger, depression, denial, and acceptance. And just like a real death, it doesn't move in a smooth circular pattern but more like the lines of a heart monitor, jagged in peaks and valleys of okay and not okay.

    

 Sometimes we are friends forever

     Sometimes its for a day

 some friends are meant to fade

 and slowly drift away.

But whether its forever

 or merely just a season

 Each friend adds to our lives

each friendship has a reason.

A Mother's Notes from a Tightrope

A Mother’s Notes from a Tightrope

 

One foot across and one foot back, the rope begins to swap.

Trembling, threatening underneath my nerves begin to fray.

If I reach forward and help him out will he ever learn to be?

An independent man able to handle his responsibilities.

Can I stay still and watch him fall and slam into mistakes?

It stabs within my mother’s heart with every fall he takes.

The tightrope pings and sings for me to finally pick a side.

Forwards of backwards, will I be a hindrance or a guide?

From down below I hear my peers, the motherhood brigade.

Shouting cheers or their own fears, my thoughts to dissuade.

I shut them out and watch my boy balancing along with me.

But which do I see, my baby or the man he’ll grow to be?

Do I run and pick him up and remember when he forgets?

To do his homework, clean his room, and fed all the pets.

Or am I too shrill and colder still when I rant and rave?

At all his neglected errors and mistakes, he’s ever made.

So I balance upon the tightrope, with a mother’s careful pace

And hope my own mistakes don’t land us on our face.