There’s a certain time of year when the sun stops staging its setting and instead slips away between the flatness of late afternoon light and evening commute darkness. Those summer and fall evenings, when lovers and families and friends drink wine out of plastic cups while sitting on porches or park benches, have slipped away as well. Coats, scarves, hats and gloves diminish the intimacy of strappy dresses, t-shirts or cotton pajamas. Sunset watching falls into the past season’s memory book and onto the a distant season’s to-do list.
Timers bring holiday lights to life, a small gift to ease the lost hours of sun. Walking home from the bus stop or a friend’s house, we step in and out of the circles of sparkling white or bright color bulbs. Dark and light, dark and light. The city people walk in the perpetual comfort of the street lights as long as they stay on public walkways and out of the darkness of undefined areas. Lights from stores, cars, homes suggest places where the people share time. At the right slice between dusk and dark, the interiors of houses and offices are as clearly lit as big screen televisions. In suburbs and small towns walkers might depend on those window views or harsh garage lights before the moon and stars accept responsibility to illuminate a path.
So we hurry from the dark, almost as much as from the cold, to the places of light where we belong, have control, feel safe. Another winter begins. Wishing you a season of good holiday experiences and memories.
I’ve been afraid of blogging ever since the election. There has been such hate between Hillary and Trump supporters. There is fear.
I had a blog ready to go about wearing a safety pin to signal that I would stand up for the vulnerable.
The essence of the piece was that others would see me as an ally regardless of who they were. I also emphasized that I had friends, high school classmates, and neighbors who voted for President-elect Trump. The election hadn’t changed my feelings for them. More than anything, I was thankful we lived in a country where we could vote.
My WordSister, Ellen, read the blog (we edit each other’s work prior to posting) and she said that it didn’t speak of the fear that people had. I reread my blog and it was true. My children who are Latinos hadn’t spoken of any fear. Yet, others around me have told me of instances where their children, both young and adult, have.
The proportion of Richfield residents who speak a language other than English at home (26.1%) is higher than the overall percentage for Minnesota (10.9%). 34.7% of students in the Richfield schools speak Spanish at home. 3.5% speak Somali. I decided to enrich my piece by asking a Latino friend to tell me how the Richfield community was feeling.
Instead of editing the blog, life happened. Both of us, especially my friend, was caught up in the planning of a funeral for the two Richfield students who were murdered by their dad. Being present and available to our children and others was paramount to the election results.
Juan Jose, Crystel, and two of their classmates helped carry the white caskets into the church. They huddled with their friends and watched Luis and his sister, Nahily’s life roll on the wide screen, which of course included all of them from preschool to eighth grade. My Latino friend worked hours on this video and cried for many more hours for the loss of these two children who she knew so well. During the service, Crystel and other RDLS and RMS students sang the Prayer of St. Francis that they had practiced all week. At the cemetery, Juan and some of his friends shoveled dirt onto the caskets. Other friends were too distraught and couldn’t bear to do it. After we returned to the church Jody and I helped serve the food that was donated. Not once during this day did I think or worry about President-elect Trump.
The following week at work, I planned a coworker’s funeral. He died alone. He had been estranged from his two children for over 20 years. His work was his family. Even so, he kept the people he had worked with for over 30 years at arm’s length. He was proud. He was private. I called the police to do a welfare check when I didn’t receive an expected call from him. They broke into his house. He had succumbed to illness. The biggest fear of his coworkers was that his body would go unclaimed. I told them that wouldn’t happen. We would claim him. We would give him a funeral. We would bury him. I contacted the medical claims examiner and asked if his children who were 24 and 26 were notified. They were. I told the claims examiner to tell the children that his work family were here for them and would do whatever was needed.
A supervisor and I met his children at his house. We led the way in, pointed to the framed photos on the wall that were them as toddlers. Talked about how his dad never forgot his children. We gave his children a tour of the plant. Showed them his office, and his tool box. Opening the box would reveal, again, their pictures as toddlers.
Together, we held a funeral and reception for their dad.
Not once during this time did I wonder or question who voted for President-elect Trump or Hillary Clinton.
Instead of a safety pin, my smile, my hello, and my service to others will let people know that I’m an ally.
I’ll be the good I want to see in the world–you can count on me to keep showing up for the hard stuff.
I laughed. “Do you want the next blog to be all about you?”
“Yes,” she said emphatically.
Writers often worry about writing about their kids online. Using them for fodder when crafting a story. Much is written about the ethical implications of mothers writing about their kids and the online privacy of children. Mothers don’t want to betray their children.
I’ve had a different experience with Antonio and Crystel, both now thirteen years old. My children want to be seen, noticed, and heard. They want to be important enough to be blog material. They would feel betrayed if I didn’t include them in my writing life.
Crystel helping me with squad maintenance checks.
From time to time, I get squeamish blogging about my children. Not because of what my kids might think but what other writers might. Mothers should protect their children, not exploit them for media attention. Sometimes, I feel tempted to add an aside to blogs and tell the reader that my children have read and approved of the story and photos. I don’t do that. Another voice emerges in my head, a much louder voice. That it’s my business what I write and readers have a choice whether or not to read my material. I won’t be silenced as I was when I was a child.
If the blog is about them, Antonio and Crystel know the contents before I even start drafting the blog. Before it’s published they’ve read the article and seen the photos. They might ask me to change a line or to take a sentence out or to use a different photo. Most often the blog is published as is with their approval.
There are benefits to having a mother who will blog about you. Last week, Crystel was finishing a class project for her Language Arts class – a 3 panel brochure – that needed to include pictures of herself when she asked, “Do you have any photos of me?”
In the trunk of squad cars there are stuffed animals for children. Crystel is picking one of her monster dolls to add for a give-away.
Antonio answered her, “Just Google yourself. I put a picture of me and my birth mom Rosa on mine.” He looked at me and explained. “That was the most recent picture I could find online.”
Crystel was positively gleeful. “You’re right.”
Crystel’s desire to be a part of my writing life isn’t limited to the WordSisters blog.
She visualizes herself sitting next to me signing copies of House of Fire, my yet to be published manuscript.
House of Fire shows that thirty years of breaking free from a cycle of silence and betrayal was not enough to prepare me for the trials of starting my own healthy family.
Jody and I have worked hard to create a home of love, safety, and joy where no one gets silenced.
Crystel’s been practicing her autograph. I’ll be so proud to have her next to me. Both of us will be seen, noticed, and heard.
Her only complaint about this blog – “It doesn’t have enough pizaaz.”
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