NOTE: As I approach my 70th birthday, I’ll reprise a milestone post here each day until the end of May. Today – from April 29, 2007.
That’s me with my older son, Josh, in Muir Woods outside San Francisco — pretty many years ago. I don’t know if you can tell but I’m pregnant with his brother. Happy to join the virtual shower although despite my adoration of and respect for both Liz and Catherine, I’m from the generation that put their babies to sleep on their stomachs and so may sound a little old-fashioned*.
1. Don’t do anything that doesn’t feel right no matter whose advice it is.
2. Trust yourself.
3. Remember that everybody makes mistakes and anyway a child is not a product, she is a person. You’ve heard that kids are resilient. They are. Do your best with love and if you don’t dwell on your mistakes neither will they.
4. You can’t turn a child into someone. You can only help them become the best somebody they already are.
5. Don’t be afraid to say no. Parents who don’t set limits and help their kids learn self-discipline are selfish. It’s easier but it’s not right.
6. No experience is wasted on a child. Maybe they’re too young to remember, but if it happened, it had an impact. So share as much of what you love as you can – music, museums, trips to Timbuktu or Target — poetry, cooking, washing the car.
7. No child ever went to college in diapers.
8. Listen to experienced people you respect, preschool teachers, friends, even, God forbid, your mother. Experience really is a great teacher. Then, though, think it through and then do what you think is right.
9. Everything is not equally important. Pick your fights and win them. 10. Leave time to just be. Lessons are great but quiet time is where imagination and a sense of self emerges.
10. LISTEN to your kids. They are smart and interesting and wise and if you respect them you have a far better chance of having them respect you.
NOTE: As I approach my 70th birthday, I’ll reprise a milestone post here each day until the end of May. Today – from August 2, 2014.
In 2006, I was working with David Aylward and the National Strategies firm. He doesn’t know this but there’s a story (If you know me you know there’s almost always a story.) We had a client who wanted to reach parents. David hired me to help and I had this big idea about making a parent website to promote them.
David sort of said “What about these blogs I keep hearing about? Would that be better?” I knew so little about blogging that I had to go look it up online. I found a story about this little conference in San Jose called BlogHer, meeting for only its second year. David and I convinced our client that I should attend this mysterious event and off I went along with fliers for our product and real curiosity about who these women were and what they were up to.
Here is what I received – from BlogHer 2006 and every one since:
3. More fun than a barrel of groovy blogger women knew they could deliver. And – here’s the reason I’m writing this post at all:
4. Another decade at least of being part of and participating in the new parts of the world – online and on screens, instead of watching from the bleachers.
Lots of boomer women have joined me and the other early birds each year and I am certain they feel the same way (I’ve asked several and besides they’ve written about it.) At a time when many of our friends are settling into a more and more peer-centered life, we have the gift of having broadened, rather than narrowed, our world and hearing the voices of women we never would have known about, much less known for real. So David, thank you for the gift of my entry into this universe and for the imagination and vision that opened your mind to its possibilities. It’s a beautiful place to hang out and I’ll always remember who sent me through the door.
NOTE: As I approach my 70th birthday, I’ll reprise a milestone post here each day until the end of May. This one appeared on BlogHer on January 19, 2011
“So Dan,” says I, “What would you think if the woman you wanted to marry decided to keep her name?”
“Well mom,” says he, “I don’t think I’d want to marry a woman who didn’t want to keep her name.”
He was around ten then (he’s 30 now), in the car with us, listening to his dad tease me, as he has for years, that he “wouldn’t have let me” have his name if I did want it. Not a serious discussion of male oppression exactly, but humor teaches lessons too.
Someone asked me how we raised feminist sons. I don’t have a checklist. And if I were to respond seriously, I’d start with something really corny: teach them to respect people – all people. The elevator man. The bus driver. Their best friend’s mom. The guy at the candy counter. Their friends. Their parents’ friends. Their baby sitter. They were Manhattan kids, but they were raised to think of the feelings of every person they met. Of course, that meant all women, too. That was an advantage.
Oh, and we respected the two of them right back.
In the families they knew, most of the moms worked as hard as the dads. Since moms at home were an exception, they were used to two-income families. The daughters of these moms, the girls they went to school with, wouldn’t put up with much nonsense, either. That also helped.
We preferred offering choices over fiats. Most boys go through a Playboy phase. Call it curiosity. When the magazines began to stack up behind the old-fashioned radiator in our bathroom, we didn’t seize them. We talked about what it must have been like for the women in the pictures and how their parents might feel. I may have said (of course I said) that it offended me, but if they wanted to keep buying Playboy, they’d have to pay for it from their allowance and keep them all put away. Eventually the fever broke and the magazines disappeared.
I also changed the endings of a lot of stories I read to them when they were really little. No princess was given by her father to the guy who solved the riddle or won the quest in our versions. (I also had to change stories like Mr. Poppers Penguins because of terrible racial stereotypes, by the way) We read Harriet the Spy and Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great as well as Encyclopedia Brown and Superfudge.
Also, back then when it was new, we listened to Free to Be, You and Me until the tape wore out. When we did come across unpleasant images of women on TV or at a movie, we talked about them.Those movie moments were also “teachable moments.” As any parent knows, those scenes can enable a dialogue that might otherwise be impossible, whether it’s about smoking and drugs, bullies, sex, or the partnership between women and men. They’re always popping up; not just in entertainment but also on the street, with family and friends, and in easy conversations. We made the most of those, too.
I’ve sort of written things down here as I thought of them and now as I reread this, I realize how much I’ve focused on image and media. I guess that’s because those sorts of opportunities were overt and therefore highly productive tools.
The modeling that went on at home was also critical of course. We were nowhere near as exemplary as couples are now in their parenting and household equity. It was the 70’s and 80s. Even so, we were very aware of the issues we needed to pass on and both worked to do it. (For a more contemporary look , try The Feminist Breeder, who, in a consciously egalitarian marriage, describes her own thoughts on raising feminist boys. or Penguin Unearthed as she offers her own perspective.)
Our boys, from when they were little, learned to cook, iron (that was our babysitter, not us), do their laundry and clean the kitchen. They made their beds (mostly) and helped out at our parties. Each has always had close friends who were girls, and later, women. They still do.
As I conclude though, I return too to the concept of respect. If you are steeped in a respect for all people – not as a political habit but a deep, personal value, it’s a lot tougher to use your maleness to seize control of a household, a family or a workplace.
Finally, beyond all the values and logistical and modeling issues lies a fundamental fact. A child who is well-loved and respected is far more likely to accept the values we choose to pass on, and that underlies everything else.
Interesting how the media is characterizing this premeditated act of terror against Planned Parenthood as committed by a “calm and crazy” person whereas the attacks in Paris, including Charlie Hebdo (another workplace targeted for political reasons), were carried out by terrorists who were only characterized as “calm”. The media’s attempt to make the string of fatal attacks against clinics isolated attacks by insane individuals, whereas the string of fatal vigilante attacks by Muslim extremists are considered political acts of terror, is because the media fears being seen as taking sides in the abortion debate.
Then read this:
Here’s the first post I read about this topic – also from Christina Page. Thank you Christina for reminding us all of the importance of words!
The media needs to change this language immediately. They are referring to him as a shooter. He is a terrorist. This language needs to be corrected from the inception (I think behind the scenes so as to not make that the issue). If they start naturally referring to him that way, that’s what we want and that’s what it will be. All of the messengers should just not sway from this language. Terror was understood right from the start in Paris, this is the very same. One officer killed, four officers shot and 4 civilians.
It’s gratifying to hear so many establishment pundits, right and left, advocating the conscious use of the word “terrorist” but if it weren’t for the advocacy from women like Christina and others, who knows how much longer it would have taken to get them to do it?
The sun has set upon Shabbat; now we need a Saturday post. Today is the 28th; Monday is the last day of November and also of NABLPOMO. I’ve managed every day except one Shabbat that I forgot to set up in advance, and have been glad, each day, of the commitment.
It’s so easy to let things go; just look at my very embarrassing WordPress chart: gaping holes all over the place. June is a little better than the rest because we were traveling and my blog is always lively when we’re on the road, but basically it’s a portrait of an undisciplined writer.
Then November rolled around, and with it the opportunity to accept an external structure. I made a promise; it wasn’t a case of writing when I felt like it. I would write every single day.
I love the process, once the idea comes. Of course with most posts I am certain what I’m posting sucks, no matter how often I edit it. Usually, when I read it later, it’s better than I’d thought. Always there’s room to improve, sometimes there’s also real potential. My favorite posts for the month:
Author Ta-Nahesi Coates, whose amazing Between the World and Me has informed (and transformed) much of my perspective on our country today, described his own labors toward writing, and writing “breakthroughs,” here. It has been very helpful to me this month and, I suspect, will continue to be.
The only way to write something is to face down that blank page. Whatever comes out can be altered and edited and re-thought or even rejected. But if it isn’t there, it isn’t there. Every day there’s a decision: shall I make myself sit down here or not? It’s awesome and scary and frustrating which is why the opportunity to pledge a steady month of writing is so valuable. Now I have to figure out how to keep going.
The first version of this post appeared in August of last year, just 15 months ago. (Ironically, Ferguson is only 2 hours from Colombia, MO, home of the University of Missouri. ) Much of that year’s BlogHer had dealt with intersectionality; Ferguson demonstrated how much I didn’t know and how much I could learn from listening to friends of color both on Facebook and on their blogs.
Well – the posts connected to what’s been happening at Yale and U. Missouri illustrate that all the more. I’m going to leave that earlier post but just so it’s clear what I mean, here one from a professor that circulated in the past week.
Listen, I need you to understand what I’m about to say. This is what I taught the students at Morehouse last week.
2015 is not what we thought it was. The deadliest hate crime against Black folk in the past 75 years happened THIS YEAR in Charleston.
More unarmed Black folk have been killed by police THIS YEAR than were lynched in any year since 1923.
Never, in the history of modern America, have we seen Black students in elementary, middle, and high school handcuffed and assaulted by police IN SCHOOL like we have seen this year.
Black students, who pay tuition are leaving the University of Missouri campus right now because of active death threats against their lives.
If you EVER wondered who you would be or what you would do if you lived during the Civil Rights Movement, stop. You are living in that time, RIGHT NOW. Shaun King
One of the bloggers I admire most is Kelly Wickham, who writes Mocha Momma. I “met” her online 7 years ago because she was a reading specialist and, as the parent of a dyslexic child, I was so grateful for the committed, loving, determined way she wrote about her work. I kind of stalked her in comments until we met at BlogHer in 2007. (Actually I also stalked her after that, too, but at least by then she knew who I was.)
She writes, with honesty and rage, about race. About family, and love, and education and whatever else occurs to her, but also about race. I’ve learned a lot from her, including how much I didn’t know. As the years have passed, and more women of color have joined BlogHer and Kelly’s Facebook feed, I’ve learned from others, too. The BlogHer community grew and widened, and with it the gut understanding of the whole community. On our blogs we tell the truth, and the different truths shared by the bloggers who are now a part of my life have been an immeasurable gift.
Of course it is beyond wrong that, in 2014, we still have to seek diversity, to go out of our way to learn lessons we should have learned long ago, and that those most in pain still experience so much that we haven’t figured out how to learn.
The trouble is that there hasn’t been nearly enough intersection between us and those experiencing the harshest emotions that emerge in response to American racism.
I remember once talking with author Vertamae Smart-Grosvenor, who said to me “Don’t you see, we black mothers must be lionesses to protect our sons.” I thought of her statement often as I was raising my own.
I remember a colleague describing to me, when we were both pregnant, her fear of the first time someone called her not-yet-born child a “n*$%#&r” – of what she would say to him, what she would do.
But despite having African-American colleagues and friends, I’m not sure I ever, until these past days, completely heard the depth of anger and despair that lives within so many.
It’s not that I didn’t know; most people I know care about and have seen plenty of racial injustice and have worked, in our own ways, to change it. But that’s different from opening someone else’s door and walking in. It’s on fire in there. And it should be.
Listen to these:
Everyone can’t stand up the moment something pisses the off and we’re all different in how we react. Some people shut down because they don’t even know where to start. Some people just need a nudge to be emboldened to speak. Some people need to know they’re needed before they speak.
Well if you need that nudge, here it is. If you’re afraid because you don’t want to say the wrong thing, push past that fear. Because right now, your silence about the continued devaluation of Black lives is wrong. Your lack of acknowledgement is not ok. If you need tips before speaking out here’s 3: don’t blame the person who was killed. Don’t say you’re color-blind. Acknowledge the racism at play.
Speaking up when it matters is usually when it’s also the hardest. When your voice shakes, that’s when you’re standing in truth. But that’s usually when it is most needed. And when you do it, someone else might be encouraged to do the same. Do not be silent. Awesomely Luvvie
I am outraged but I do not know what to do with my outrage that might be productive, that might move this world forward toward a place where black lives matter, and where black parents no longer need to have “the talk” with their children about how not to be killed by police and where anger over a lifetime of wrongs is not judged, but understood and supported. Roxanne Gay
Black bodies matter. Black bodies matter. Black bodies matter. Say it with me: Black bodies matter. This isn’t a question. This isn’t a euphemism. This isn’t an analogy. This is a fact. Black cis and trans boys, girls, men, and women and non-binary folks, they all matter. Until that fact becomes a universal truth due to the precise liberty and justice the Constitution of this country promises, I won’t stop fighting and neither should you. Jenn M. Jackson
But it wasn’t what I could see and hear as Ferguson residents fled and were pursued into residential areas that gave me chills. It was what I couldn’t see. Because behind the walls of those smoke-shrouded homes were parents comforting their frightened children. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there. They could have been me. They could have been my children.Kymberli Barney for Mom 2.0
This is what I need, dear friend.
I need to know that you are not merely worried about this most tragic of worst case scenarios befalling my son; I need to know that you are out there changing the ethos that puts it in place. That you see this as something that unites us as mothers, friends and human beings.
My son needs me, as much as yours needs you. Sadly, my son needs me more. He needs someone to have his back, when it seems that the police, the men he’d wave to with excitement as a little boy, see him as a being worthy only of prison or death.
This is where the story gets tricky. This is where our son paced up and down the stairs—in his under shirt, gym shorts and crew socks—telling us about the police who came to our door and handcuffed our son and pulled him outside. “Why?” It was the only question I could come up with — “why?”
His hands ran over his face and found each other behind his head. I knew this look too. The one of lost words—of previous trauma—of discouragement.
“I don’t know. There’s some robberies in the area? I guess? And they saw me here—I don’t know. They thought it was me. They thought it was me and wouldn’t listen. They didn’t believe me that this was my house.”
He shook his head and looked at me. “It didn’t even matter that I had a key, moms.” Elora Nicole
For each of these there are dozens and dozens more. No more to say.
And it’s hard to hold a candle In the cold November rain — Guns N’ Roses
We’re on our way now- committed to NaBloPoMo*: the pledge to post every day in the month of November. Needing the discipline of a public pledge, I’ve taken it on. November: the month when my second son and first daughter-in-law arrived on the planet, when I first saw Africa, when the hero of my youth died in Dallas; the month of Kristallnacht and the fall of the Berlin Wall, Sherman’s burning of Atlanta and the launch of Queen Elizabeth’s record-setting reign. So much has happened in this month that ends with our beloved Thanksgiving.
There’s plenty to talk about: a Presidential election that’s precisely a year away, an unprecedented assault on women’s rights, faith, grief, the vagaries of our popular culture, families, grandparents, holidays, admired friends, books, music, movies and the world in general. Oh, and the wonderful work of the women whom I’ve joined on this adventure. You can find them all here.
*National Blog Posting Month
Very seldom do I notice my age. But as I have read the outpouring of grief and rage (which I share) over the Michael Brown grand jury verdict, I am deeply aware of the decades I lived before most of these friends, and other writers who are otherwisestrangers, were born. Things they learned about, but I lived through.
With deep sadness and disgust, I watched Robert McCullough in his starched white shirt and dark suit with his half-glasses perched on his nose like a college professor and knew what he would say. His endless prologue foretold what was coming with an ego and naked self-interest that was dreadful to see. But it wasn’t a surprise. I expected nothing else.
It’s really terrible to witness, and share, the heartbreak described by so many I love. Read this post by Kelly Wickham that expands on that, or this by Rita Arens. Or go back and hit the #ferguson and #blacklivesmatter hashtags one more time if you can bear it. A Greek chorus of agony.
I am by no means connecting this weariness of mine with reasons to stop taking action and writing and reaching out and making noise. No. I’m just thinking about how different it feels when you’ve sat in front of black and white TVs and listened on transistor radios the first times you learned of each desperately painful incident of even the past half century. We know we will keep working, trying. Even so, how hard it is to feel shock or surprise or anything other than a bone-chilling validation of the presence of those ugly creatures of hate and injustice that still hide between the stars and stripes that represent our country.
R- L from top R: BlogHer co-founder Lisa Stone, SheKnows’ Philippe Guelton and Samantha Skey, and BlogHer co-founders Jory Des Jardins and Elisa Camahort Page
BlogHer has merged with SheKnows, as Lisa Stone and and AdAge announced this morning. Since 2006 the wonder that is BlogHer has been a central part of my life. On this NABLOPOMO day 3, here’s why*:
In 2006, I was working with David Aylward and the National Strategies firm. He doesn’t know this but there’s a story (If you know me you know there’s almost always a story.) We had a client who wanted to reach parents. David hired me to help and I had this big idea about making a parent website to promote them. Well. David sort of said “What about these blogs I keep hearing about? Would that be better?” I knew so little about blogging that I had to go look it up online. I found a story about this little conference in San Jose called BlogHer, meeting for only its second year. David and I convinced our client that I should attend this mysterious event and off I went along with fliers for our product and real curiosity about who these women were and what they were up to.
Here is what I received – from BlogHer 2006 and every one since:
3. More fun than a barrel of groovy blogger women knew they could deliver. And – here’s the reason I’m writing this post at all:
4. Another decade at least of being part of and participating in the new parts of the world – online and on screens, instead of watching from the bleachers.
Lots of boomer women have joined me and the other early birds each year and I am certain they feel the same way (I’ve asked several and besides they’ve written about it.) At a time when many of our friends are settling into a more and more peer-centered life, we have the gift of having broadened, rather than narrowed, our world and hearing the voices of women we never would have known about, much less known for real. So David, thank you for the gift of my entry into this universe and for the imagination and vision that opened your mind to its possibilities. It’s a beautiful place to hang out and I’ll always remember who sent me through the door.
Well here we are again! A post a day, all month. Last time I tried this was 7 (seven!) years ago. Then, as now, Sabbath observance meant that I couldn’t post on Saturdays or Friday nights so I scheduled weekend posts in advance. After today I will do so again — but for this, the first day, I’ll just declare my presence as the sabbath departs.
It’s exciting to be part of Nablopomo again. May we all celebrate one another’s adventures, observations and ideas. Oh and a sad farewell to Daylight Savings Time!
NOTE: As I approach my 70th birthday, I’ll reprise a milestone post here each day until the end of May. Today – from April 29, 2007.
