We Can't Forget

My partner and I lived in Rwanda awhile back, and there is one story that sticks in my mind above all others. A friend I got to know in Rwanda worked with an organization called Hope for Life, which provides housing and rehabilitation to children and youth living on the streets of Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. She told me the story of a 10- or 11-year-old boy who came to their center one day seeking help. He eventually shared with the center staff that he had been living on the streets for awhile with his younger brother after their parents had died. He and his brother struggled to find food and often had to steal food to get by. But there was a period of time when even stealing food wasn’t working, and every night the boys went to bed hungry. The boy at the center described the heartbreaking moment when he held his younger brother in his arms as he died from starvation. Traumatized, grieving, and starving himself, the boy eventually stumbled across the center, where he was given a place to stay and food.

This image–of a boy holding his younger brother as the child died from starvation–will probably stick in my mind forever. To think that this was happening right in my neighborhood was heartbreaking. Dying from starvation was a reality so far from my own that it felt impossible that it was happening to this boy right in front of me, especially in such a modern, spotlessly clean city as Kigali. (If that image conflicts with your vision of an African city, you’re not alone–but do some research to learn about what African cities really look like today.)

I also will never forget the memory of taking our trash out at our apartment in Kigali. We lived in a relatively economically advantaged neighborhood, with our apartment building across the street from the large home of a former government official. Each week we would bag up our trash and plop it on the side of the street outside our gate. And each week, as soon as we emerged with trash bags in hand, a group of men and women wearing dirt-stained, tattered clothes would rush up and grab the bags. They were always so respectful of us, never snatching the bags directly from our hands but waiting until we set them down before jumping to be the first to grab the bags and take them away. We could then watch as they dragged the bags down the street, opened them up, and began sorting through what we had considered waste. They collected bottles, plastic containers, old clothes and shoes, even food scraps, sorting and organizing, seeing what they could use versus sell. 

This memory is also burned into my mind, along with the image of that boy holding his dying brother. Now back in the U.S., it’s so easy to feel detached from these realities. I live in a nice house with my partner, and we have plenty to eat. Our worries include how the stock market is doing, which brand of Tofu to buy, and how to find time to go to the doctor’s. Of course, I don’t want to minimize the very real challenges of folks living in the US: mental illness and suicide rates, rising inflation, this horrible housing market, shitty policies that impact people’s ability to get healthcare (like the recent anti-abortion and anti-trans laws), structural racism and other oppressions that impact life expectancy…. But dying of starvation and fighting over trash seem so impossible when juxtaposed with my life. 

I’m often reminded of that song in the opening credits of the TV show Weeds: “Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky.” Living a square life in little boxes made of ticky tacky is one of my biggest fears. I don’t want to be a typical housewife in a typical suburban house with a typical set of behaviors and attitudes. I don’t want to forget that poverty exists, that not everyone has the privileges that I do, that I should feel immensely grateful that all my basic needs are met.

Yet despite my fear of living this square life, I still fall into the trap of measuring my success against the stereotypical ladder of American (global?) success: go to college, get married, go to grad school, find a career, buy a house, and pop out some kids. I get so caught up in doing what society expects of me–and feeling shitty when my journey isn’t a simple, easy upward climb–and I forget that there are far greater problems in the world that should have my attention.

How do we not forget? How do we remember the injustices experienced by so many, both globally and right in our backyards, when we live in our isolated little boxes made of ticky tacky?

I believe that we have a choice to center these concerns–to find ways to remember. In fact, I think it’s our duty as privileged Americans who use up the largest percentages of the world’s resources to remember.

I’m definitely not perfect at remembering. But I try to think of that little boy and his brother when I’m eating my dinner. I try to not serve myself more food than I can eat, I try to finish everything on my plate, I try to use up everything in the fridge before it spoils. Whenever I throw something away, I think of those folks in Kigali and try to consider if I can reuse or recycle whatever it is I’m throwing away. We have to remember.

How do you remember?

The Importance of Letting Loose: How often do we just play?

It seems like the universe has been trying to tell me something recently. It just started coming at me from a ton of different directions all at once: hey girl, pay attention!!

And the message was about the importance of play.

As an adult, I don’t often think about my relationship to play. Maybe like the picture above, you think of messy children’s crafts and little kiddos running around laughing. 

But just the other day, I found myself in a yoga class where the teacher was encouraging us to use Lion’s breath, which–for those who don’t know–is where you stick your tongue out and basically roar like a lion, and to roll around on the floor like a baby to “let it all out.” (Thanks to Kathryn Budig for that lovely class!) And it was seriously so freeing to be totally silly, even just for a moment.

And then I was reading a book about doulas and about the power of giving women permission to make noises, to be loud, to take up space. It was specifically about labor (because believe it or not, even in the most intense pain of giving birth, apparently women feel self-conscious about their body noises and try to hold their body’s natural reactions back), but just thinking about having that space to fully embrace our bodies and all their awkward/silly/embarrassing noises–and how powerful that can be for women who are so often told to stay quiet…. It really shook me.

And then! I finally made it to my monthly massage (do it y’all–best thing I’ve ever done for myself), and as I was relaxing into the sweet loveliness of having my body touched, I was thinking about my own journey with massage: how it’s moved from feeling totally anxiety-inducing as my brain goes crazy thinking about how I look, how my legs are hairy, how my thighs are too fleshy, and even sometimes if my masseuse is going to take advantage of me (trauma is rough y’all) to slowly becoming an experience where I can let go and just enjoy the sensations. It’s definitely an ongoing process–my anxiety still pops up sometimes--but I’ve loved how much massage gives me permission to feel bodily pleasure in exactly how my body is right now–even when my masseuse kneads my thighs like they’re giant balls of dough, which feels amazing and also cracks me up even just writing about it.

This wonderful bombardment of messages about play and pleasure got me thinking about how many of my most cherished memories revolved around me feeling absolutely comfortable giving myself into the absolute pleasure of being playful.

For example, one of the first get-togethers my current friend group had when we were just getting established (side note: making adult friends is HARD y’all!) was meeting up at one of our neighborhood playgrounds at night. We frolicked, laughed, clambered all over the place, and just played. We were silly and goofy and wholly ourselves–and despite this moment being so simple and so long ago, it’s still one of my most vivid memories.

How freakin cool does this look?! (Source: https://www.popsugar.com/family/Coolest-Playgrounds-United-States-41591182)

Another example: I’ve also gotten really involved in partner dancing in my adult years. I’ve done a lot of salsa and contra and now have fallen in love with zouk. (Please just go look at that video and let it rock your world.) My favorite, most memorable dances by far are the ones in which I have felt completely seen and able to be myself, when I’ve given myself–and received from my partner–the permission to be playful, to just go with the flow, to be messy and explore the possibilities.

Or, just think about the best sex you’ve ever had. I bet that play, permission to be yourself, and pleasure were all front and center. It’s so delicious when you can fully be yourself and can completely give into your body’s sensations with another person–even all the silly, awkward parts. It can feel mind-blowing and so healing. Why don’t we have that more often? 

I think what makes play feel so good is how much it focuses on pleasure. In play, we are allowing ourselves to bring our full selves, to make mistakes and not be judged for them, to try out new things, and to really tune into what feels super super good.

As an adult, I think I get so caught up in my work–in needing to be professional at all times, in finding my worth solely in how much I produce–that play and pleasure are shut out. Lots of things in Western culture discourage us from playing and embracing pleasure: Capitalism tells us we must work and produce constantly to be worthy. Patriarchy tells women that we’re not deserving of pleasure and men that they can’t make mistakes. (Sexually assaulting someone is NOT a mistake though, just so we’re clear. For clarity, check out my previous post about restrictive gender norms.) White supremacy deems only certain types of bodies as beautiful and worthy. This means tapping into our bodies and finding chances to play and embrace pleasure can be really difficult.

For me, though, going on this journey towards self-acceptance through play and pleasure has been incredible for my mental health and overall well-being. And the universe is telling me to pay attention. It, too, tells me it’s worth it.

Source: https://ideas.ted.com/why-pleasure-is-important/

When was the last time you played? How do you find pleasure? 

Struggling to tap into your body? Check out this article for some ideas.

I’m Disabled: Coming In and Coming Out

When I hear the word “disabled,” my mind immediately conjures folks in wheelchairs, individuals with conditions like cerebral palsy or autism, and older folks with mobility limitations—in other words, only extremes. (Just to be clear, these are all disabilities, and these folks are wonderful and beautiful.)

And I don’t think I’m alone in picturing these extremes. Our society has stereotyped folks with disabilities for a long time, and these stereotypes are pervasive in our media, our interactions, and our mindsets.

Just the other day, I went to a movie-in-the-park series that started off with The Goonies, a childhood fav. One character, named “Sloth” is the quintessential disabled character in media. Played by a nondisabled actor who apparently underwent five hours of make-up to become his character (according to Wikipedia), “Sloth” is portrayed as slow (if the name is any indication), unintelligent, and childlike. These are the images of disabled folks that I and many others grew up with.

Even in really common, everyday language we see hints of these stereotypes. We use words like “crazy,” “dumb,” “insane,” and “stupid” literally fifty times a day and never stop to think about the historic uses and current impact of these words on people with disabilities. The pervasive use of these words continues to perpetuate stereotypes about disabled people that are super messed up. (Thanks to my friend and disability activist Jaxson Benjamin for this learning!)

Photo sources: https://wiki.ubc.ca/Ableism; https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ableism

My own process of coming into my disabilities has been lifelong. I’ve had asthma since childhood but never really considered it a disability, despite my reliance on daily medication and a rescue inhaler to exercise. Having asthma never prevented me from being an athlete and pursuing all the physical activities that are a key part of my life. It just meant it was a little harder without the aid of medication.

I only recently realized that my struggles with mental illness are categorized as a disability. This also doesn’t fit my image of disability, but it does make a bit of sense. It’s taken me some time, but I now understand that mental illness truly is a disease*, and when I’m really bad, I don’t leave bed all day, just like when I’m sick. Does my mental illness impact my ability to do everyday tasks? Yes. Do I rely on aids to help me go about my day? Yep. (Thank goodness for therapy and meds.) Is this a disability? I guess it is.

But this summer, I made my first foray into a visible disability when I got hearing aids. I first need to share with the world that I LOVE my hearing aids. My audiologist told me that I was working twice as hard to hear speech, and having this aid amplify sound has been a game changer. All the cool high school kids are saying that it’s pretty great to listen to my music or podcast without anybody else noticing (because the sound goes directly to my hearing aids, no headphones needed), and they’re not wrong. I did worry that people would treat me differently if they saw me--a healthy looking, 30-year-old--wearing hearing aids. But I vowed to myself to be open and proud about them because they’re super great. I’m the same me, just visibly disabled.

My first visible disability made me ponder why I now was okay accepting the label “disabled” when before I wasn’t. With my invisible disabilities, I could pass as non-disabled, and until now, I have been able to hide all the aids, supports, and workarounds that have become a part of my life. But now with hearing aids, I can’t hide. It’s caused a coming out of sorts, one that I am proud of and is becoming a part of me.

About 10% of the U.S. population has an invisible disability. I think we need to really reconsider how we define disability and the impact that has on folks. Why did I feel the need to hide my disabilities for so long? How has that process been intertwined with shame? What would it look like to view disability on a spectrum that encompasses a wide range of conditions? What would it look like to live in a world created for disabled people?

I don’t want to fill this article with statistics about the stigma and oppression related to disability but it’s there and it sucks. I think some of this stigma may lessen the more we begin to see disability as a spectrum. So I encourage all of us to think about:

-        Do I rely on certain aids, supports, or workarounds to go about my daily life?

-        Are there certain times when I’m unable to go through the motions of daily life? Why?

-        Do I use ableist language in my daily life and what impact does that have on society at large?

-        Do I have hidden parts of myself that I’m afraid to share with the world? Why?

-        What would it take to make me feel confident in sharing my most authentic self with the world?

All I know is that, contrary to so many stereotypes, THIS is what disability looks like. And this is only one of the MANY representations of disability in our society.

Photo cred: Elise Massicotte

I feel the urge the end with some positive disability hashtags so pardon me while I dive into this research myself and share some of the good ones out there with you…. Check them out: #DisabilityJustice #InvisibleIllness #Inclusion #DisabilityPride #DisabledAndCute

*This word comes with a lot of connotations. Mentally ill people aren’t “diseased” like “ew, gross, bad” diseased; I just mean that our mental illnesses should be treated just as seriously as physical diseases would be.