Teaching Disconnected

I read an article in the Journal of Higher Education today (Pettit, "A Side Effect of the Covid-19 Pandemic? Reading Got a Lot Harder", 2020) and realized that I’m not alone in my distracted procrastination.   A professor of history from University of Connecticut was interviewed about his experience and he aptly called this the “Nailed It semester”!  Of course this is a reference to the Netflix show where people try to replicate a baking masterpiece and ultimately fail (Pettit, 2020).  I, for one, love scrolling through the “fails” and belly laughing at disastrous creations that began with such hope and confidence while smugly thinking to myself that I would never do anything that bad.

Scroll ahead to March, 2020.  On March 13^th (seriously, Friday the 13^th?) faculty learned our students would not be returning after Spring Break and we would move our classes online.  Being someone that smugly relies on my confidence in certain matters, I didn’t fret.  “I’ve taught online classes before” I told myself; “I’ve built online courses in Blackboard” I thought reassuringly; and “I’m fairly proficient in Zoom and other technology” I reminded myself.   Bottom line, this is all true, and as it turned out none of that really challenged me.  But something else did.

Myers Briggs tells me I’m an ENFP – Extraverted, Intuitive, Feeling, Perceiving.   While I’m not one to totally buy into personality tests, in this environment of isolation and social distancing I’ve learned that the “E” I’ve always thought was the weakest part of my Myers Brigg designation has turned out to be more accurate than previously thought.   I thrive and re-energize when I’m around people!  Spending up to 5 hours a day on Zoom just doesn’t do it.  It’s like tuning into a really bad episode of The Office where the off-colored jokes of Michael Scott are no longer bumbled at inopportune times, and Pam and Jim have forgotten how to play pranks on Dwight.  I just sit at my desk, all alone, watching the faces of my colleagues and/or students in a box mute and unmute themselves while I critically examine the paleness of my wrinkled skin and the frizz of my hair that surely wasn’t there when I looked in the mirror earlier that day.  

All of this is exhausting and is taking a toll on how fully engaged I can be in teaching, making learning fun, finding creative solutions, and being a supportive teacher.  Like other faculty interviewed in the Journal of Higher Education article, I have found it hard to read and process content (Pettit, 2020).  Yesterday I was reviewing a chapter in a text book as preparation for class and in doing so the phrase “is this font smaller than it used to be?” circled and re-circled in my mind.  It was so distracting, not to mention annoying!  After checking that my glasses didn’t need to be cleaned, I closed the book and decided the best thing to do is wing it and rely on my intuition (thank you Myers Briggs for the “intuitive” designation) and past experience teaching this section.  After all, I told myself, if I’m feeling this way what are the chances that the students are feeling the same thing?  If I were a betting person, I’d bank on that!

Truthfully, there have been some amazing classes where students were fully engaged, conversations flowed, learning occurred, and I got my extravert energy restored.  There have also been moments, and dare I say whole classes, that the Netflix producers would have some great content for the special higher education Nailed It episode. 

Maybe I’m being too hard on myself and this is grief rearing its head as I long for the for in-person connection of my students and colleagues.  The spontaneous visits from students that keep me afloat, the classroom energy of “aha” moments, and brainstorming that results in amazing projects are what I miss the most.  I’d much rather be nailing it in the true sense of the phrase than anticipating when I will need a nap.

#IAmHer

Curly Chaos and Other Funny Things repres­­­­ents the light at the end of a very dark and long tunnel and the return of a joyful, funny, curious, and independent girl.  Each of us is born with a spirit that is uniquely ours.   In the presence of young children, we immediately feel and observe who they are and the potential of who they can become.   In the best of situations, that child’s spirit is nurtured and allowed to flourish.   I am one of those children who was in the best of situations.  Despite the usual trials and tribulations of growing up and making my way through middle and high school I maintained my joyful, funny, curious, and independent nature.   I connected easily with others and had a cadre of friends every step of the way.   I recognized early on that I had an intuitive ability to feel others’ pain and sorrow, and I understood the injustice some kids were subjected too through teasing, bullying, and exclusion. All of this affected me deeply.  This is why I chose to major in sociology when I went to college.  At the end of my four years I wanted to have a bachelor’s degree that allowed me to help people.   That was 1979.

I headed off to Plymouth State College excited to meet new friends, stretch my independent wings, and even go to class to expand my academic horizons.  To be honest, my first semester could have been focused on academic horizons a bit more, but social horizons were much more appealing to me.  I quickly made friends, started to understand the college culture, and go to parties.  A lot of parties.  They were at apartments, dorm rooms, and fraternity houses.  I also learned quickly that even though the drinking age had recently increased to 21, younger students were still able to get into the local bars.  My curious nature got the best of me and I spent a good amount of time exploring all these social scenes and had plenty of friends who joined me.

Plymouth State had been named the #1 party school in the nation and it was clear to me that the student body was bound and determined to maintain that badge of honor.   The party culture of that era was in full force and effect where binge drinking was the norm, easy access to “black beauty” speed was not unusual, and experimentation with mushrooms, LSD, and Quaaludes part of the cultural phenomenon.   I was 18.

That first semester was a blur of trying to fit in, wanting to experience everything, and complaining about 8 a.m. classes.   I had a great time, met really good friends, and was treated respectfully by young men who had ample opportunity to take advantage of me, but did not.  In high school I had experimented with drinking and smoking pot.  I didn’t like pot, but did acquire a taste for Busch and Miller beer.  I don’t recall ever drinking to excess then, except one time on a class trip, but college was a different story.  I was on my own and most of those around me were testing their limits and bragging rights for who partied the hardest permeated our lives.

In February of 1980 I turned 19 years old.  I had one semester under my belt and while my GPA wasn’t all it should have been, it was enough for me to return for my second semester and refocus.  I felt like I had found my way and could hit my stride both in academics and socially all the while maintaining a reasonable balance between the two.  The party scene was still front and center, but at least I had found my own group of friends and we were more discriminating with our social calendar.  In March, some time around St. Patrick’s Day,  we learned of a blowout party that was starting in the afternoon and would probably go through the evening. It was a party hosted by some Tau Kappa Epsilon (TKE) fraternity brothers in a large house located off campus in a nearby town. TKE had lost its charter from the college and was no longer recognized a Greek organization and therefore, did not have a house on campus.  They didn’t let this faze them and maintained their identity as a fraternity. They were popular young men known for pushing the envelope, big partiers, and handsome. The typical bad boy stereotype. I was not immune to being starry eyed by their persona.  They were good looking, popular, upper classmen and way out of my league.

 

I went to the party with friends and I remember feeling really nervous and excited.  There were a lot of people there, some outside milling about by a keg, others inside the house in the kitchen.  There were two houses on the property, close to each other, connected by a wide dirt driveway and people were going between the two houses. When we got there, we went in the kitchen with our six packs of beer and each opened one to drink.  I recall going outside and talking to people and trying to get my bearings on who was there and how to act, which I’m pretty sure did not meet the standard of cool I was hoping to portray.   I may have accepted a beer from the outside keg.  It was still light outside and this is where my memory begins to fail me.  I think someone put a Quaalude in my beer.

The next piece of that night I remember was when it was dark outside. I fell or slipped in the dirt driveway and since it was still winter my jeans got wet.  One of the TKE brothers who I had known from the Fall semester helped me up and told me he could get me a new pair of pants if I wanted.  I remember thinking that he offered this because he liked me.  Wow! One of these very popular boys actually likes me.  I followed him upstairs where he brought me to the bedroom where he was going to get me a pair of pants.  When I followed him into the room he told me not to go in there, but I was already inside the room and there were other people in the room too.  He told me not to look over at the bed, but I did. There were a group of boys standing around watching another boy have sex with someone.  I was quickly rushed out of the room and as I left I noticed a few other boys standing outside the door.   I asked my him what was going on and he told me that the girl in the bedroom liked to have sex with multiple boys.  It was her thing.  There were boys outside the door waiting their turn.  I later learned this is what was called a “train”, in other words gang rape.

Somewhere outside of that bedroom, but I’m not sure where, I put on the pair of jeans that were given to me.  I was introduced to some of the other fraternity brothers.   They were laughing and drinking.  One of them, a tall, athletic, and light-brown haired boy, asked me something that I still cannot remember, but over the years have tried to piece together what it could have been.  Whatever it was resulted in him bringing me into a large closet and where he began groping me, and asking me to perform sex acts.  My memory is fuzzy and I think I refused, or perhaps I was just too out of it and was too much of a bother, and that may be why he led me into a bedroom and told me I should lay down and then left.  I remember being so grateful that I was alone and laying down, my head was spinning.   I may have dozed off, but I don’t know for sure.  Eventually two other fraternity brothers came back into the room and one was introduced and I was told he was a really nice guy.  I was left alone with the “really nice guy” who raped me.   I know his name, and I’m pretty sure I know where he lives today.

I don’t remember how I got downstairs and outside after that, but I do remember a girlfriend of mine asking if I were okay and me telling her everything was fine.  She commented on the pants I was wearing and asked where mine were and I told her I didn’t know.

How I got back to my dorm room is a mystery.  As a matter of fact, I don’t even remember who drove to the party.  It could have been me.  I woke up and my roommate wasn’t in the room and I didn't know where she was, maybe still at the party?  I just laid there trying to sleep, feeling confused, sick, and afraid.  What had happened? 

Later that day the fraternity brother who initially brought me upstairs to get a dry pair of pants stopped by my dorm room to bring me my pants.  I thanked him for stopping by and before he left and with a concerned look on his face he asked if I remembered all that happened the night before.  I pretended I did, making light about how messed up I must have been -- ha ha, it was such a wild party.  He remained serious, beating around the bush about what he really wanted to ask me, which to this day I believe was an attempt to figure out if I remembered what his fraternity did to me.  I avoided that.  He did ask me directly if I was a virgin, and I just sat there embarrassed to tell him that I was (or had been).  He left me with the offer to let him know if I needed anything.

As horrendous as this experience was, I didn’t tell a soul what happened.  I laughed and shrugged off inquiries, continued to go to parties, do horrible in school, and put on the air that everything was fine.  But it wasn’t.   The joyful, funny, curious, and independent girl had stepped onto a path that extinguished much of her spark.  I made it through college with a GPA enough to graduate.  There were some highlights along the way, funny stories that still remain, strong friendships, and accomplishments.   There was no way to name what had happened to me and sadly, this probably happened to other women at every single party.   Sexual assault and harassment had not yet been added to Title IX and the societal norm was acceptance of this type of behavior and was steeped in believing that women who experienced sexual assault had done something to provoke it.  What I did was go to a party nervous and excited to be part of this college experience.

It wasn’t until 1991 that I had words to describe what had happened to me.  There was a Time magazine issue about Date Rape.  It was then that I came to truly understand that someone other than a stranger behind the bushes could rape you.  I finally had a name for what had happened.  Three therapists later, over twenty years in the sexual assault movement, studying and researching the affects of trauma, and the benefit of being in my older years, I can say that my spark is shining bright again.  I made it through the dark tunnel to emerge on the other side stronger, fiercer, and sure of who I am and what I deserve.  The road to get here was not always pretty, but it was mine.   To this day there are just a few people to whom I’ve told my story and I see this blog post as one of the last steps in my 38-year journey.   I’ve carried a lot of shame and guilt for a very long time and truthfully, I’m not sure I will ever be able to shed all of it, but I’m very close.

This last week I’ve listened and watched the news while women of my generation, actually all generations, share very similar experiences to mine.  The familiarity of their stories has been painful and triggering.  We are all telling the truth.   I’ve tried to reframe and reset my focus to acknowledge that much progress has been made in the sexual assault movement since 1980, and it has.  However, that progress is no consolation to the power plays, diminishing and pandering language, and abhorrent tactics the current president and republican senators and others have used to support Brett Kavanaugh.  Being nice to the victim with empty sincerity saying you believe “something” happened and expressing how powerfully moved you are by her courage while siding with a man who aggressively avoided responding to allegations is a strategy to silence the truth.  Kavanaugh successfully placed blame on others by hiding behind divisive politics and his male whiteness - a tried and true strategy that is indicative of the lengths powerful men will go to protect their own place in the power structure.  The disingenuous indignance of how these senators spoke to Dr. Blasey Ford is despicable.  Let's call it what is, they put on sheep’s clothing so we will forget they are really wolves.  But hear this, I’m not fooled, I see them for what they are and are doing, and mounting numbers of women and men are not fooled either.

I have no choice but to remain fierce and stand my ground.   There are armies of women just like me, we will not stop fighting and we will not be silenced.  The reckoning is here.

 

Hello Community, Nice to Meet You.

I’m naturally drawn to community and the many definitions that one simple and complex word represents.  I easily identify with many communities, enjoy reflecting on where my affiliation in them intersect, sometimes collide, and how this tapestry makes me who I am.  It really is pretty cool to take the time and soak in the multiple layers of life that naturally swirl around me and contemplate a deeper understanding.  If my usual state of community curiosity is a stroll on the beach periodically dipping my toes in the water, this week was body surfing on a perfect summer day and catching every. single. wave.

So, many of my community affiliations intersected this week.  You see, the UNE Rural Health Immersion packed up a van of 10 students from osteopathic medicine, pharmacy, social work, and dental medicine drove them 250 miles off campus into Washington County, a region of the state that is near and dear to me.   My heart was beating thinking about them looking out the window at the vastness of Route 9, hoping they were seeing the beauty of landscape, the peeks of water, rolling hills, blueberry barrens scattered with boulders, rundown structures, and not thinking to themselves “what the heck was I thinking” as they saw markers for territories instead of towns.  Here it was, my professional life was taking a road trip right into the middle of a very special part of my personal life.   I so wanted them to love Washington County, felt like I had to protect it, and at the same time I let that piece of being from “away” creep in and realized this was an incredible opportunity of immersion for me as well, a new type of journey into a community I love, this time with my professional hat on.  What happened next was magic.

Not every student is a good fit for a rural immersion and that is why they self-select.  It takes someone curious, open, compassionate, innovative, and willing to listen.   Most of all it takes strength of character.  A tall order for anyone in any situation.  They met these expectations and to say I was puffed up with pride would be an understatement. Each of these students is enrolled in incredibly rigorous academic programs, and this was their one week of “time off”.  They chose to use it to learn more, to immerse themselves in a transformative experience with their peers from other professions in a community they knew nothing about.  Its true that some of them grew up in rural communities themselves, but others were more familiar with the likes of Los Angeles, Miami, and Manhattan, a far cry from Calais, Lubec, and Eastport.  Through the long days, many miles on the road, they remained inquisitive, humorous, and appeared to developed what I hope to be friendships that will stand the test of time, both with their peers and faculty.   This is what interprofessional education looks like in real time, why we do it, and why we need to keep doing it.  It is what will make the health care system better in the future.  One student said to me that it felt like we were on a family vacation!  A family of future health professionals.

But here’s where I think the magic really happened, in each candid and generous conversation in the community.   I have been blessed with years of friendships with my Eastport clan, and feel grounded, loved, and connected.   What this opportunity did was push me outside of my circle of friends and put a different pair of lenses in my glasses that let me see this community more deeply.  I admired the amount of time afforded the students which we learned mirrored the time given to patients, and this was not lost on anyone.   In a world where health care can be an assembly line, to see how rural care providers took the time to listen was inspiring.  Part of this is necessity because lack of resources leaves no other alternative than for social workers, doctors, dentists, pharmacists and others to fill many roles.  It’s compelling to hear that a surgeon, turned primary care physician, now retired has found himself as lead substance abuse doctor in the region.  Or the nurse practitioner scheduled for a follow-up with a patient finds herself spending more time doing a mental health check with the patient then the follow-up.  And there is the dental hygienist that started a program to teach elementary school students how to brush their teeth because of the lack of fluoride and parental guidance for dental care.  The list goes on.   This community makes it happen and when you ask them why its because this is where they live, these are their family, friends, and community members.  They see each other regularly at spaghetti suppers, town meetings, the grocery store.  They coach sports, start knitting circles, and they look out for each other.  They understand each other.  They are in it together, in ways that seem to be lost in other places.  Their skill, education, abilities, and drive could get them jobs anywhere, but the choose here.

It went further than that when we met with community members outside of health care.  First was our trip to Raye’s Mustard Mill.  Originally thought of a nice diversion from all the health care talk, but there it was in front of us again … a history of community.  The rich history of the mill, the family, the pictures on the wall, and the dialogue that it generated were fun to watch.  There is science in the mustard seed after all. We then moved onto Quoddy Bay Lobster, a much touted (by me) experience, where we got a glimpse into the lobstering industry, its challenges and joys, what its like to be a lobsterman’s wife and raise a family, and how to grow a business.  Lobstering is a complicated, political, and dangerous job and I know I walked away with a new appreciation and admiration of that business on Sea Street down the path from my Eastport house.  One of the highlights was looking at the faces of students look at the three pound lobster wriggling in front of them.

To be honest, my community organizing heart was most excited to have connected and worked with my good friends to organize a panel of community members to meet with students and faculty.   I know I am loved, but truth be told on those nights I got home after long days of being on the road to get emails from them knowing they were helping made me want to cry.  (Super shout out to Tessa Ftorek and Kevin Raye).  The quick and willing replies were only overshadowed by meeting new friends in person (Judy Clendenning).   There was also the phone call to Sara Griffin in the parking lot of Monica’s Chocolates when she told me she would make time for a Quoddy Bay Lobster tour, cater our lunch, AND be on our community panel that almost made me fall out of my car.  And there were my phone calls with Chris Gardner where without question he agreed to take 2 hours out of his busy schedule to meet with students and reserved the conference room for us. Just to note, he’s the Executive Director of the Port Authority.  I. Can’t. Even.  All of this even before the lively conversation with students that  ended our day in Eastport.  And that conversation? It was lively, candid, honest, and real.  Students and faculty asked questions.   Community asked questions.  We all learned from and with each other.  Biggest take away … you make what you want.   Eastport wants to thrive and it will. 

It’s not that I don’t feel connected to my community in Southern Maine.  I absolutely do. I LOVE my job.  I love my Southern Maine clan of friends, my family, the beauty of the area.  I live an absolutely blessed life.   What happened this week is my heart grew a little bit more.   I’m more connected to Washington County, and most of all Eastport.   I'm more immersed in UNE and can’t wait to see these 10 students on campus again and work with faculty on other projects.   What this experience taught me is it is possible to be more connected no matter where you are.  That is what I want.  That is what I will make happen.

#metoo And The Rumbling In My Bones

 They’re falling like flies.  It’s been a long time coming and each and every one of those perpetrators deserves what is coming to him.   The collective disclosures from those victimized have created an epic story about money and power and the insidious sexist culture we live in.  The plot line includes money, fame, sex, politics, and secrecy. It has captured our attention the same way headlines on celebrity tabloids do when we are standing in line at the grocery store.

These recent events lead to the resurrection of the #metoo movement and became a vehicle whereby celebrities courageously disclosed their own #metoo experiences. This in turn empowered regular everyday women to add their experiences of sexual violence to those of the rich and famous by using the hashtag.  Facebook and Twitter were flooded.  The snowball was rolling and notorious perpetrators became rolled into it as it barrelled down a steep mountain.  With the increasing speed these sexual predators realized there was no way to slither their way out and eventually acquiesced to the inevitable - being ousted, fired, and forced into resignation from positions that previously bestowed upon them the designation of beloved public figures.

As the demise of these men became front and center, women celebrated the long awaited justice and the freedom that comes with it.  Facebook and Twitter ads linked women and their allies to websites where they could proudly buy women power themed stickers, t-shirts, mugs, and jewelry. Who knew that bringing down powerful men could create a niche business?  There are times I wonder if there are people who think this is the first time high profile sexual violence has flooded the media. 

Something about all of this unsettles me.  My head tells me I should be thrilled about a movement that raises awareness and has resulted in sex offenders, who for so long were able to garner the social, monetary, and political clout to justify and hide their criminal behavior, to be held accountable.  My heart and gut are rumbling, which may be a warning to not put too much stock in this.  Honestly, I feel awful about this rumbling.  I want to be joyous and celebrate these victories.  Heaven knows I’ve rushed to Amazon to buy my feminist gear and restate my allegiance to equality.

I need to unpack what is so unsettling, hence this blog.  Its true that I have been sitting with this for a while, but with the announcement naming the Silence Breakers as Time’s Person of the Year the rumbling got deeper and I knew it was important to work this out.  I’m guessing what I have to say may not be popular, or be considered a buzz kill, and I’ll accept that criticism.  To put things in context:

• Let’s not forget all of the Silence Breakers who over the past several decades paved the path for others to come forward.  Without the faceless survivors that never made the news as heroes, it wouldn’t be possible for others to carry the torch today.

• It isn’t any more courageous to speak out about Harvey Weinstein, Matt Lauer, Al Franken, or Donald Trump than it is about your shift leader at the local Applebees or Walmart, but when have those disclosures caused such a stir as what we are seeing today?  Think about it.  Is the horror of sexual violence against any of these women any less difficult than it is for those that have captured our attention today?  To me, it shouldn’t matter who the victims are, we should be outraged that this happens at all. 

Let’s not forget the army of women who for decades dedicated their lives to achieving equality and ending men’s violence against women.  Groundbreaking federal and state laws have been passed, countless marches have been organized, media campaigns have been implemented, advocates have bore witness to thousands of survivor stories, and prevention programs have infiltrated schools.  All of this has required deep reservoirs of courage and perseverance not to mention the character to withstand criticism and name calling.

• Let’s be careful to not glorify men who have stepped up to do and say what’s right.  Case in point, Billy Bush’s recent New YorkTimes Op-ed.  It’s true that cultural norms can make it difficult to step outside of the box, but we have to question why so many good men have been complicit bystanders while armies of women have been tireless in raising issues about men’s criminal behavior.

Sexual violence is about complex inequality perpetuated through societal structures that ensure the seat of power remains in the hands of a those with privilege. That privilege is based on race, class, and gender.  Simply put (sort of), sexual violence is one of many tools used to disempower women and other vulnerable populations from acquiring equal access to resources, money, housing, safety, jobs, education … just to name a few. Sexual violence doesn’t exist in a vacuum; it exists as part of an intricate system of disempowerment.

 So what does all of this have to do with #metoo, Harvey Weinstein, the Silence Breakers and the rumbling in my gut?  Here’s what I’ve come to so far, and I reserve the right to reassess at a later date.  These recent events and the attention they’ve achieved represents only a tiny step forward, in part, because of decades of work that paved the way for this moment to occur.  It’s great to celebrate the victories, but just because the mostly white and famous have come forward to ignite this excitement doesn’t mean our work is done.  I’ve done this work for too long to be naïve about what this progress means. It means we MUST NOT let the excitement of this bandwagon cloud what else we have to do. The rumbling in my gut and the unsettling in my bones tells me we have to remain resolute and not squander this opportunity to address the root causes that allow this type of violence to occur. Please know I more and more people to join the brave #metoo revolution, get a tattoo of Rosie the Riveter, wear a pussy hat, be a nasty woman, but mostly my hope is we will follow Elizabeth Warren’s lead and keep persisting.   

Welcome to the marathon.

Outsmarting the Dementors

What do you do?  I really mean it.  What do you do when you have become numb to the violence, hatred, loss, and sadness?

I wrote that sentence two days ago.  The day that the deadliest mass shooting in American history took place. Upon hearing about it I couldn’t muster up what can only be described as appropriate emotions.  You know, sadness, rage, fear and the like.  Instead I felt a deadness, like a dementor from Harry Potter took my soul.   This worries me because I’m sane enough to know that I don’t live at Hogwarts and Azkaban and it’s dementors are not anywhere near Maine.  I hope.  Kidding aside, I am worried and not just for myself.  The incessant violence and the aftermath that has become the norm is stripping me of reality and the inability to experience the depth of pain that surrounds me.   Let me explain. 

Grieving does not occur in media clips.  It is a process that is messy, long, winding, and unique to each individual.  It is not just those first hours of shock and grief.  That is only the beginning of a complex story that is impossible to encapsulate in a time limited interview, Facebook post, or news article.  It doesn’t end once the fascination of the observers has lapsed.  But here’s the thing, we don’t have to wait long for the next fascination to appear since traumatic events seem to be coming at us with increasing regularity.  Its almost like we have permission to file the last one away and move onto the next series of news clips, posts, and stories.  It is the movie reel of our lives, the soundtrack, and what is predictably around the corner.  This assures that the true story of grief and the impact of violence is never really told, and for me felt.

Excuse my bluntness, but gone are the days of the Oklahoma City Bombing and Columbine, those horrific events that stopped us in our tracks and made us weep. I ask you, how can I be writing these words?  What could make someone, anyone, especially me, long for a day that senseless acts would evoke the “appropriate” emotions.  I recall the deep contemplation and hope that the lives lost were not in vain.  There are photos embedded in my memory of heroic acts and humanity.  I recall thinking that the brain trust of this nation could figure out what needed to be done, to back track through the web of personal and societal constructs that lead to these losses and answer the question of why, and then plot out a plan to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.  Naïve, maybe.  Hopeful, yes.  

That didn’t happen.  I’m not a scientist, but I do think that the neurotransmitters of our brains have been irreparably harmed with each violent event that has occurred; 9/11, Sandy Hook, Virgina Tech, Boston Marathon, Paris, London, Orlando, San Bernadino, Vegas, shootings that resurfaced longstanding racism that we thought was dormant, shootings steeped in sexism and heterosexism, shootings, shootings, shootings.   And then you layer on top of that natural disasters that uncover even more social, racial, and economic injustice.   It. Is. All. Too. Much. When I’m honest with myself, which is often, I know deep down that I’ve gone from connection to disconnection.  How else could I make my coffee and pick out what to wear while listening to a news story about the rising death toll at a country music concert?

What I am writing isn’t new or groundbreaking.  I’m certainly not alone in my distress and I’m 100% positive that each of you reading this blog has experienced some of what I have just described.  So, back to my initial question: “what do you do when you have become numb to the violence, hatred, loss, and sadness?”  I’m not really sure, but what I can tell you is that in the past two days I have searched for a piece of myself that I feel has been lost, or better yet taken away.  I could share what I think have become clichés and say I’ve counted my blessings, reminded myself that even though it seems like our world is unsafe and the likelihood of this happening to me or my loved ones is minimal, or I’ve committed to take action by calling my legislators.  There was a day I thought those were not clichés and would make a difference, but now the hope of these strategies has worn thin and I’m up against finding ways to preserve the soul of my humanity.

I think what I need right now is to embrace the small piece of introversion I possess and counter-intuitively disconnect to reconnect.  I plan on nesting in my new home, laying my head up against my puppy’s chest, admiring the softness of my cat’s tummy, peering into the sparkling eyes of my husband, and watching the leaves fall against the bright blue Maine sky.   As much as this evokes guilt that I’m not doing enough, I believe this is the only way to keep the dementors at bay.

Mirror. Mirror.

Looking in the mirror, or possibly at my reflection in a window as I inadvertently catch a glance, poses a challenge. What I see makes me want to turn away and this raises important questions.  Do I call upon my positive nature and see the glass as half full to reconcile my distress?  Should I use this discomfort, literally and figuratively, as a way to redefine who I think I am within the realities of fibromyalgia, age, and life?  How do I rise above real or perceived physical limitations?

 Recently, I found myself pining to be someone other than who I am on a morning walk while on a business trip in D.C.   Heading to the metro to catch a train on a fresh sunny morning a woman ran past me, earbuds in, running attire impeccably highlighting her level of fitness, with an effortless gait that propelled her down the street.   I thought about how freeing it must be to move at that pace, heart rate elevated, lungs distributing oxygen to muscles, and experiencing a detoxifying sweat.   I thought about what it must feel like to have a body that looked and moved like hers.  I also pined for that feeling I knew she would have once she got back home, as her heart rate slowed, hydrating with a cold swig of water, and then falling into a comfy chair to take in the bliss of endorphins.

Truth be told, I never was a runner (although I tried mighty hard to be), so the pining to be the gazelle-like woman was ironic, if not hysterical.  I am sure “gazelle” has never been a term used to describe me, even at my height of fitness! I reconciled my desire to be a runner well before age or fibro caught up to me, nonetheless the deep green envy of this woman was palpable and made me yearn for my former self.   I was able to shake it off as I stepped onto the down escalator to the platform, paying particular attention to the pain in my feet and knees, taking care to distribute the weight of my laptop bag and purse in a way that didn’t strain my shoulders and neck, and saving face by choosing to stand instead of sit while waiting for the train.

 Once on the platform I relaxed into my usual people watching habits and marveled at the unique differences of those who waited with me.   I considered how each of those bodies held stories I would never know, just as I was carrying my own stories not visible to them.  Perhaps they also took extra care to position their bags as they descended the escalator.  I stood concocting stories about my fellow metro riders when I spotted a young woman (who I deemed to be a college student) who joined the waiting game.  She possessed a confidence I admired, she was short in stature, lean and muscularly compact at the same time.  She was wearing athletic black shorts and a tank that was the embodiment of assuredness and left no question of her commitment to fitness.  I recognized this because she possessed similarities to several of my lifelong friends who also emanate these qualities and something I once did as well.  I felt a surge of grief.  I looked closer and saw she had a number marked on her hand, an indication she had just competed in a race or other athletic event, and a justification of the shameless hamstring stretches she performed in public.  And just like that, the envy creeped back in, and just like that I worked at pushing it away so I could move on with my day.

The train arrived and I boarded.  Four stops later I was delivered to my destination and walked up the hill to my meeting.  The promised breakfast was a disappointing choice of Frosted Flakes or Fruit Loops (no kidding).   I cursed my decision to forgo breakfast on my own and apprehensively picked up one of the pre-packaged cereals of my youth knowing the consumption of carbs and milk would result in guilt worthy of the locale of the meeting … The Catholic University of America.  With the shameful breakfast in hand, I joined my social work colleagues and vowed to embrace their powerful presence of compassion.  We spoke of ending oppression, elevating vulnerable populations, and challenging and confronting injustice (a day in the work of a social worker)! But still, I couldn’t shake the envy or guilt, and this brings me shame.   When I looked in the mirror during my bathroom break, I felt self-loathing, and returned to my table.

I’m still figuring it out.  There’s a socially-constructed ideal of beauty and fitness I have internalized that is complex and multi-layered.  I know this.  I’ve been the chubby middle-schooler, athletic teenager, overweight college student, super-fit twenty-something, in-between-thirty-five-year old, over-stressed forty-year-old, and defiant fifty and closer to sixty year-old.  When I think of all of these outward versions of myself, I know that the deep-down-inside Cyndi has never changed.   I am not unique with my body-image struggles, and at the same time they are unique to me.  I am thankful for the age, experience, and wisdom that helps me navigate them.  Truth be told, I never knew I possessed such vanity, and the reality of that is hard to shake.  I want the pain to end, and not just the pain of negative self-regard, but the actual pain that pulses through my body.  I want age to reverse itself.  I want my belt to stop pressing into my belly.  Most of all, I don’t want this to hold as much importance as it does.   I’m working on being as kind to myself as I strive to be to others.

Yellow

It was a January and without a plan we brought an 8-month old yellow lab into our lives.  It started with an overheard phone call at the Animal Refuge League as we were signing out from our weekly volunteer duties in the cat room.  The one-sided conversation we were privy to included words like young, yellow, lab, pure bred, rescued.   Each of these words caused my ears to perk up because I knew this was my chance to get Steve to make good on his promise that we get a dog.   He agreed and before you knew it we hopped into my 1997 Honda Civic and hauled ass to Raymond, Maine before someone else claimed her, or Steve changed his mind.

When we first saw her she was lying on the floor next to an arm chair.  Her eyes were sad, but if you looked closely you could see a sparkle just wanting to shine.  We listened and learned from her rescuer that she was very smart and would learn quickly.  That day we had no idea how totally unprepared we were for the nearly 15-year journey she would take us on.

Initially, she pushed our patience to the brink with her wild spirit and energy.  How that happened took on many variations, including incessant leash biting, trash diving, and mitten thievery.  She even took to running around the neighborhood looking for doors left open so she could visit an unsuspecting neighbor, and possibly find something good to eat.  There were epic incidents, including the blueberry pie incident, the turkey-poop fiasco, and the Cinco de Mayo scare.  It became clear that she had little interest in wooing us with good behavior, only with her free spirit wildness.

Everything about her was joyous and exhilarating and it was impossible to bridle her energy.  We kept thinking she would be calmer at 5, then 8, maybe 10, perhaps 12, most likely 14.   Her energy and zest never wavered.  Nearly 15 years old and still ready to play, interested in trotting down the driveway with her leash in her mouth, even interested in a game of catch and retrieve with a tennis ball.  Such a spectacular being.  

Throughout her life there would be early mornings when I’d wake up, dragging myself out of bed, sad, or mad, lethargic or depressed; and then, I would look at her.  She would peer up from her bed, smile with her sparkling eyes and wag her tail.  Ready for the day, always.  Ready to love me and make me laugh, always.  Teaching me that everything will be okay.   It will all be okay. 

She was also eager to spread the same joy to anyone who would pay attention.  A working girl she would roam the office looking for someone to play with, to entertain, to comfort, or annoy.   She turned non-dog people into dog lovers; neat as a pin people into someone who didn’t mind a swatch of yellow fur on their black pants.   She entertained at meetings by rummaging through open bags, begging for treats, and finally laying under the table so not to miss a word or an opportunity for some attention.

Phoebe’s life was well documented.  I loved to take pictures that captured her personality and spirit.  She was such an agile athlete, standing tall and lean and a pleasure to watch do all the things Labrador Retrievers are bred to do - swim, run, retrieve, console, love, play, provide companionship, and of course eat.  She had her favorite places to sit, and it never got old to see her laying in the sunlight streaming in through the front door.  There are still memories of her everywhere we turn which is verification of her “great dog” status.

Like all great dogs, the last lesson she taught us was how to find the courage needed to show love in the most profound way. It was excruciating to watch the effects of age on her physical being, and even more difficult to see that in spite of her pain how much she wanted to make us happy.   On her last day, we went outside and enjoyed a gentle May day and shared a rotisserie chicken.  The vet arrived at our house and in the most compassionate way possible we said goodbye.  In true Phoebe style, she wagged her tail until the very end.

For the last year, I have held back on the emotions associated with losing such a loving companion and teacher.  In many ways I have become adept at preventing true sadness to reveal itself.   So finally, as the year anniversary of her death approaches, I decided to open and finish the journal entry I started to write just days after she left us.  The moment I opened it up, it was as if she were looking up at me with those sparkly mischievous eyes letting me know everything is going to be okay.