Hidden Figures and the Light

Part of being divorced is that your child(ren) cannot share every holiday with you. This year, I enjoyed Thanksgiving with my son, but it was not my turn for Christmas. So, when you cannot celebrate Christmas with your whole family, you do what you can. For me, this year, that has meant focusing on my writing. I did come up for air today, however, to worship, fellowship, and remember.

In worship this morning, I was reluctant at first. It's hard to be without your child on a holiday, especially Christmas. My church family was loving and understanding, and after a few minutes of feeling the care of this family of faith, I was singing, joyfully. Every element reminded me that no matter how dark things feel, the light will always shine brighter. Always.

After church, I was delighted to share a Christmas feast with dear friends from church who welcomed me and several other friends to their home. This couple is so full of love, in a way that brings people together. We shared conversation. We were honest, in ways rarely done among people who have just met. It was beautiful. Lunch felt like communion, like the Kingdom of God breaking forth among us.

After lunch, I saw Hidden Figures. This is a must see. I laughed. I cried. I remembered. I dreamed. I hoped.

Though I am now a historian and minister, in a previous life, I was an engineer. I lived, breathed, ate, and slept mathematics. I used to do extra self-assigned math homework for fun. While other kids were at football games or sleepovers, I was reviewing Trigonometry or practicing my Differential Equations. I carried engineering paper like most people carry chapstick. I still do extra math homework for fun, because I enjoy it.

Hidden Figures tells the story of Katherine Goble Johnson, one of the finest mathematicians (called "computers") in the history of NASA. Her parents advocated for her to have appropriate education for her mathematical brilliance. Through hard work and a supportive family, Katherine belonged to a team of Black female computers, resourcing the space program. 

As a former engineer, I savored the chalkboards filled with equations, the pencils always in hand, the constant desire to fix things yourself because you can. It took me back to late nights in the study lounge of my college dorm, frantically trying to solve my Physics homework. Did you know that throughout my undergraduate degree, I created a poster of math formulas? As I completed each class, I'd add "must know" formulas such that by the time I graduated, that poster was a gal's best friend. People would want to study in my room just so they could be near the poster. I am so disappointed that I did not keep it. 

As one of the only women in a large engineering program, I appreciated the way the movie depicted women's second class citizenship. I remember professors addressing "gentlemen" or "you guys" even though there were women in the room. I remember people assuming I was incompetent at programming and computer hardware, just because I was female. I remember the satisfaction of finishing my lab project first, and correctly. 

There were two white women on faculty in my department, but they primarily focused on their research labs. The professors who were taking initiative to encourage minority students were Black faculty, and that's where I found my home.

Dr. Kendall Harris coordinated summer engineering camps for teenagers, which I attended twice. Once I was a college student, Dr. Harris, whom I now affectionately call "Uncle Doc," hired me as a camp counselor for four years. Engineering camp is one of my fondest memories of college. These camps were particularly designed to promote minority interest in STEM programs. The kids visited research labs, worked on team projects, and even visited companies to see real-life applications of what they had been learning. My favorite was the tour of Six Flags, where we learned from the engineers who designed the rides. We walked the track, and they taught us about electromagnetic propulsion and how to calculate which seat on the ride would feel the most Gs. For that week of camp, everyone was a future engineer. Everyone's ideas were important and encouraged. There was no place for "but I'm ___" because we were too busy designing the future.

I didn't realize at the time what an impression engineering camp had made on my life. 

Watching Hidden Figures brought back these memories in a wonderful way, reminding me of my past, and connecting it with my future.

The movie honestly depicts the third and fourth class citizenship of Black women. Though they have the same credentials as other employees, they were relegated to a satellite campus with substandard facilities and inferior compensation. Throughout the movie, there are opportunities to better understand how systemic prejudice, not just individual acts of bigotry, operate. There are scenes of dialogue that expose stereotyping, entire story lines necessary to convey the extent of prejudice against people of color, and witty one-liners that resist oppression. My favorite at the moment is one by Katherine herself, in conversation with a man who doubted her employment with NASA: "Yes, they let women do some things at NASA, Mr. Johnson. And it's not because we wear skirts...it's because we wear glasses."

Throughout the movie, there are women who resist oppression in search of true equality and freedom. They know what they are made of. They know what they are capable of. They know what they deserve. And not only are they excellent on the job day in and day out, but they are even preparing for the future from their own vision and insight, proving that they were brighter than the leading minds at NASA. Bricks without straw, and they kept on building, higher and better.

My engineering days are behind me, and I am now a professional historian of race and gender. I think that my engineering background, particularly my experiences being mentored by Dr. Harris, has a lot to do with why my historical interests center around the Civil Rights Movement and the religious leadership of women.

In my line of work, I often have conversations with well-meaning people who believe that because they do not commit personal acts of bigotry, that those prejudices no longer operate in our society. The fact that you can opt out of awareness of prejudice demonstrates your privilege. If you are in the groups against which prejudice is directed, you cannot opt out. You have to navigate the system and somehow find ways to still be true to yourself. Sometimes that means that you take the risk of speaking truth to power. 

I am white, and I grew up in a middle-class family in which both parents earned graduate-level degrees. I have privilege. I am also a woman who has experienced marginalization in both the engineering and religious fields. I am also a divorced mother. I experience prejudice against me fairly regularly. As a white person, I could isolate myself in white circles and turn a blind eye to what the rest of the world faces. As a woman, I have realized that I will never be equal until all other forms of prejudice are eradicated: racism, sexism, classism, homophobia, xenophobia, ageism, etc. Unless we are all free, none of us are free.

Hidden Figures beautifully painted the complex landscape of prejudice in America, a land which prides itself on freedom but does not deliver. Certainly it did not address everything, but if you're watching carefully, you can learn a lot more than you might think. These women had to be excellent to be taken seriously, in a way men do not experience. As parents and spouses, these women relied on supportive families to share in household responsibilities, which continues to be a difficult balance for working mothers. As people of color, they had to fight for their right to education and necessary resources to do their jobs, including things most white people would take for granted. 

Prejudice is not just committed person-to-person. It is also, and mostly, committed by systems. It is deeply enmeshed in our cultures, our language, and our traditions. It is so present that we do not realize how much we engage in prejudicial acts.

Stereotypes thrive unless personal experience exposes the inaccuracy of our prejudices. Reconciliation cannot happen until we see and treat every single person as made just as much in the image of God as we are. It means change, especially for the comfortable, but it is necessary and righteous.

I have been feeling the weight of this present darkness, and Hidden Figures reminded me of the light, which is always brighter. Always.

This Christmas, give your family the gift of seeing Hidden Figures. Talk about it together. Reflect on ways that you may be complicit with prejudice against women and people of color, and talk about what changes you will make to see and treat each person as made in the image of God. 

Lord, in your mercy, may there be peace on earth, and may we love each other as you love us.

      

[Uncle Doc and Me, 1998]   [Uncle Doc and Me, 2015]

Fiercely

I realize that Amy Schumer is a problematic figure. I am not endorsing her or relating to her uncritically. Rather, I am saying that in the course of reading her book, The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo, I figured out how to tell a piece of my story. 

Like Amy, I often find myself lying awake at night thinking about things from twenty or twenty-five years ago, wondering why did I say that to him, why did I buckle under that pressure, why didn’t I trust that good advice? For example, there was a friend I had in elementary school who was only ever super nice to me. He wasn’t popular, but he didn’t care. He was his own person, and he was wonderful. Every day during reading time, he would get to class early so he could put my book on my desk before I got to the room. He made me a lanyard one summer and mailed it to me (getting mail was a big deal). And even after we went to different junior high schools, any time I needed to talk, he would stop what he was doing and take my call. And I was not kind to him most of the time. I said mean things so the popular kids would notice me. Why did I do that? Why couldn’t I see through those dynamics and value real friendship where I found it? I never really got to apologize to him, even though we reconnected briefly in college. In sixth grade, we won the most likely to succeed award, and we both have PhDs and families now. I was foolish not to maintain that friendship. Stephen, I’m deeply sorry, I’m so glad that you’re happy, and I hope you can forgive me for not being the kind of friend to you that you always were to me.

And like Amy, my childhood was somewhat interrupted. My parents are happily married, but there were some rough years when I was younger. When we’re little, we think of our parents as infallible. When we learn that they aren’t, it’s disillusioning. My aunt recently said that I never really saw myself as a kid, even when I was one. To some extent she’s right. Yes, I played with dolls, and I rode my bike around the block. But I also trained as a figure skater, which gets really serious really fast. I did extra math homework over holiday breaks. And I started taking college classes when I was 12, enrolling in college at 14. That aged me.

And because of that, and because of the habits that I had to develop to get there, I was always a little different from my peers. I starred in musicals at church. I was in honors math and language arts classes. I won Bible Drill competitions (Google it). I earned dozens of skating medals. But I was also hella insecure. I was desperate to fit in, to belong. The kids at church had stay-at-home moms who drove them to play dates. The kids at skating lived near each other, across town from me. The kids at school lived near each other, across town the other way.

I remember spending a lot of my childhood alone. I was a latchkey kid. I’ve been responsible for my own rides, schedule, meals, and homework since I was 12. At the time, I felt very sophisticated, like I was ahead of the curve. But now, I realize there was so much more childhood to be had, that I never got to have.

And like many young women, I was just different enough to become prey. I was so blinded by desperation that I allowed dangerous people into my life. Predators look for people who are insecure and lonely. I also think some predators look for women who are driven and capable, and then try to conquer them, like some weird kind of trophy. They lure you into a false sense of security and dependency on them, and then they use it to control you and hurt you. And you don’t have a point of reference to realize that it’s not okay.

Amy has a chapter called “The Worst Night of My Life” that hit a little too close to home for me. She tells about her relationship with Dan, how she got suckered into a relationship with him, even thinking she was the one taking the lead, how even in the worst of it, she made excuses and thought that it would get better, and how it’s so hard to see a way out.

I have wanted to write about those times in my life, but I haven’t known how.

If you went to high school, college, seminary, or graduate school with me, then you know I’ve faced more than my fair share of abuse. A preschool teacher. A junior high boyfriend. A security guard at the skating rink. A high school teacher. My college boyfriend. My seminary relationship.

I’ve been spit on, shoved into walls, yelled at, trapped in rooms, targeted online by older men, stalked, threatened, molested in my sleep (twice), and raped. All by people I knew and thought I could trust.

I changed all of the names, but here are some stories.

Karl used to instant message me, especially later in the evening. He’d be that caring adult who was always there to listen, but then he’d say things that felt inappropriate. He’d say I shouldn’t come to school looking so cute. He’d tell sexual jokes. He’d want me to meet him after school after everyone else had gone home.

John was so nice to me when we started dating. He made an effort, made me feel really special. And then there was so much arguing. Somehow he’d always blame me for whatever the issue was. He got mean, and the dynamic turned to what I would do to deserve him. It was all about him, and my needs didn’t matter. During a mission trip, I told him that his interactions with another girl were making me uncomfortable, and he screamed at me as he shoved me into a wall because I couldn’t get it through my head how much he loved me. He raped me not long after that. Then it got to where he had time for me to make dinner and clean his apartment, but not time to actually spend together. He wouldn’t let me go into his closet at all, which I now realize was because it was full of porn. He hid his drinking from me, too. There was a point where he had dodged my calls for so long that I had to call him at work to get a hold of him at all, and he broke up with me over the phone. After being together for three years, most of which he treated me like crap, he dumped me over the phone. I later found out he'd been cheating during the last six months of our relationship.

Roy was supposed to be different. He’d had a troubled childhood, so he was misunderstood and recovering just like me. He would take calls from his parents for hours during our time together and tell me I wasn't good at being in a family if I couldn't understand that. If I wanted time to work on my projects, he’d call me a selfish bitch, yell at me, refuse to let me have privacy, spit on me, push me into walls, and throw things at me (just next to me to create terror but no bruises). If I locked myself in a room to get away from him, he would break in. He checked up on every little thing I did and everyone I talked to. He followed me around, even when I went to work. He put down the things that I was interested in, insulted my skills at my job, and held me hostage in angry silence, refusing to talk but not letting me leave the room. He yelled at me about how much he loved and supported me, and how lucky I was that he believed in me even though I wasn't very good at much. He'd spend all night in a drunken porn binge and then blame me for not being available to him. His pornography addiction was so severe that he was using on every single media device available to him, even at church. I thought we could work together to help his addiction, but he kept relapsing, worse every time. I thought we could talk it out, but argument after argument left me weary, exhausted, and content with survival. I learned to live in the box that he made for me, because life was hell if I didn’t. If I stood up for myself, he would quote scripture at me, like a weapon. When I would contest what he said, he would yell over me, repeating the same phrases over and over, even threatening to kill himself if I left him. Then one night, he tried to force himself on me, so I locked myself in another room to get away from him, after which he beat down the door and chased me around the house with scissors until the police arrived.

How could this happen? How could it happen so much? I’m smart. Really smart. I’m observant. I’m strong. Why did I fall for it time and again? Or, as my dad once asked me, “How did he trick you?”

I was so lonely, so afraid that I wouldn’t find where I belonged, that I tolerated destructive partners, just to have one. And they knew that and used it against me. They studied my weaknesses and insecurities, and when I started to think for myself or stand up for myself, they knew just how to strike. Amy said it well: “When you are an abuse victim, your logic and instinct can become warped. [After I was raped], I ended up comforting him for hurting me, even though it should have been the other way around…..I wanted to comfort him and make him feel like we were in this together.”

In those moments, I sensed things were more painful than other people’s lives seemed to be, but we could get through it, right? We can give and take. God wants us to forgive each other. It’s probably my fault, anyway. I absorbed it, all of it, in my Type A quest for growth and wisdom. I had no idea until much later that it was abuse. I still can’t point to the moment when it clicked for me. I remember friends trying to help me see the abuse. I remember knowing I needed to call the police. I remembering being scared. And I remember being determined to break free.

Getting out was a matter of survival. It really was that bad.

I have been to hell and back, and I’m still here, standing stronger than ever. I know who I am, and I am proud to be me. I am not afraid to be alone, so I don’t tolerate toxic people. And that makes me lousy prey. As Amy says: “He said he loved me, but every step of the way he’d hurt and sabotage me. I realized later he put me down so much because he was probably terrified that I’d realize he was nothing and leave him. Which is exactly what I did.”

Thirty damn years. Please don’t wait as long as I did to get out. Trust your gut. If you sense that things are toxic or unsafe, you're probably right. Get somewhere safe. Get help. Surround yourself with affirming people. It will be hard but not impossible, and I promise you'll find yourself again. And you will love yourself fiercely.

As Amy says, “I’m telling this story because I’m a strong-ass woman, not someone most people picture when they think ‘abused woman.’ But it can happen to anyone. When you’re in love with a man who hurts you, it’s a special kind of hell, yet one that so many women have experienced. You’re not alone if it’s happening to you, and you’re not exempt if it hasn’t happened to you yet. I found my way out and will never be back there again. I got out. Get out.”

Letters

I taught at Baylor for three years before coming to MTS, and I have had the privilege of teaching thousands of students. My last year at Baylor, I had a very special class. Rather than the usual 60, my class had 21. These students were pursuing various majors, but they were in a leadership residential community, meaning they lived in the same residence hall and participated in many events and classes together. And, because of this, they would be in my Scriptures course in the Fall AND my Church History course in the Spring. We would be together all year.

Our section of Scriptures and History focused on social justice issues, and I arranged the course to encourage the students to think critically about social justice and religion, to begin to find their voices around issues that are important to them, and to integrate these with what they were learning in their other courses, particularly the courses in their majors. This means that we talked about difficult things most of the time. This means that we were vulnerable often. This means that we engaged disagreement with a shared commitment to learning. We got tight, and fast.

Telling them that I was leaving Baylor to move to Memphis was incredibly difficult, even though it was the right move for me.

Before I left, they planned a beautiful surprise for me. They gave me a box filled with letters they had written about our year together, about what they had learned about themselves, and about how much we mean to each other.

I didn't read the letters then, because it was so precious, so wonderful, so loving that I felt like I needed more time to be ready for such a gift.

I read the letters today, upon finishing my first year at MTS. Some were long, while others were brief. Some were funny, and some made me cry. One did both (you know who you are, dear one!). I could hear my students' voices as I read their letters, and my heart filled with joy. I just sat there for a while, reading and rereading, thanking God for the opportunity to be a teacher, thanking God for my students and for their big dreams, and treasuring memories of conversations and cupcakes. (If part of my spirit remains in Waco, it lives at The Olive Branch.)

With more than ten years in ministry and almost five as a professor, I have been blessed beyond measure to walk with students, parishioners, and families, to hear their stories and dreams, and to play a small part in helping them get to where they are going. I love when they stay in touch, when they invite me to celebrate in their accomplishments and share in their sorrows just because we know we love each other.

Dear ones, I am always here for you. And I am always proud of you.

Deep Edges

My Papa Stanley has bought me every pair of skates I have ever owned. Until now.

I have been wearing the same pair of skates since 2005. When Papa bought me those, he got me top of the line custom Harlicks, so that as I moved into upper level double and possibly triple jumps, my skates would carry me through. After he passed away in June, 2009, my skates became a way to still be with him, to still feel his love for me.

But now those skates are worn down. They are held together in duct tape in some places.

So this year, I ordered new skates. On the one hand, I am eager to skate in them. I can't wait to see where my skating can go with the right gear to support me. I've been teetering on the brink of several jumps, and I feel like my body is ready to progress. On the other hand, it feels like burying Papa all over again.

I am keeping the last pair of skates he bought me, the skates that have carried me these past eleven years. I will always keep them. Wearing them as I coach my little students, they will be cozy and familiar. And as I help little skaters find their feet underneath them, my Papa will be helping me find mine.

There's something beautiful about being the first one on the ice, making that first mark across the surface, especially early in the morning when inches of fog rise from the ice surface. There's something hauntingly precious about holding your edge right before a take-off, that moment that feels like an eternity of remembering your greatest falls and your most triumphant landings. And the solace of being in a spin, of letting go of your thoughts and just enjoying the air against your skin and the power of your body to create momentum.

And now a new chapter is starting. Maybe a new pair of skates doesn't seem like enough to mark a new chapter, but skaters will understand.

I imagine that the first time I take the ice in my new skates will be emotional in many ways. I imagine it will take me longer to break them in than I realize, that it will hurt more than I remember, and that I will feel more vulnerable than is comfortable.

But I can't move forward unless I take that first step. And as we coaches tell all of our students who are scared to take their first steps....you can do it, one step at a time.

Walking Away

I have been blessed lately by rich conversation with some very wise people: pastors, advocates, professors, friends, and all-around great people.

We've been talking about the difficult journey of realizing who you are, accepting who you are, and daring to be who you are even when others aren't okay with it. And most of these conversations have inevitably circled around the question: "From what have you had to walk away?"

For me, that started when I sensed I was called to ministry. There were many in my life who could not accept me being called as a woman. For a time, I tried to help them understand, but many refused to see me as anything but wrong.

Then I began my career of studying gender and race. There were some people in my life who might have been okay with me being ordained, but couldn't handle me pointing out systemic prejudice and suggesting that we should work toward reconciliation and justice.

Then I dared to be a single mother with a career. Stay married and convince yourself you're happy, they said. It's probably not as bad as you think, they said. Instead of juggling motherhood and career, just stay home, they said. There were some who said I could have a career after my kid was grown. Wait until then, they said.

And now here I am, in my dream job, in a city I love, mother to the best kid in the world. None of it happened the way I thought it would happen. I am not the same person now that I was when I started this journey.

I never would have gotten here if I had let naysayers stop me at all the places they could have. I had to dare to be myself, against the grain. There were times, and still are, when it feels impossible. But day by day, and sometimes minute by minute, I have to be me.

As I have walked away from toxic people, toxic environments, and toxic ways of thinking, I have found such freedom to be myself. I have found my voice as a preacher. I have found a new way of living in community, a new way of seeing relationship, a new way of existing in the world. I have embraced things that bring life and given myself permission to walk away from things that bring death. 

But isn't that the audacity of hope? To see beyond what exists to what could be? To endure present suffering with confidence in progress and a better tomorrow? To speak truth to power? To move toward that which brings life?

It is hard to walk away from people who love you only if you become who they want you to be. It is hard to walk away from places that nurtured you that no longer have room for you. I still grieve these losses. But if I hadn't walked away, I would have been a compartmentalized, half-alive version of myself at best. I never would have found my voice. Sometimes love means walking away.

May we know deep in our bones that the God who has called us will sustain us as we are faithful to that call. May we have the courage to stay if needed, the courage to walk away if needed, and the wisdom to know the difference. May we have the courage to be ourselves, and to embrace this as truly good.

"I Can Do It" but Should I?

I've spent a lot of time thinking about gender inequity in the workplace, particularly in church work and higher education.

Why aren't women paid the same? Are women asked to do the same amount of work as men? Why are women such reliable lay volunteers but excluded from top leadership, or in the case of higher education, why are the most reliable staff often women, but the top leadership are almost always men?

While this is still an ongoing wondering for me, I do have some ideas. Please keep in mind that these are all general tendencies, and that I am in no way trying to speak for all women or all men or all churches or all educational institutions. These are just general observations, to which I'm sure there are nuances. (And the reason I had to write that at all is because I know there will be men who read this and want to quickly correct me for how non-sexist they personally are, without even taking the time to think about how they benefit from the system by being male or how their complicity with these systems does perpetrate sexism.)

Women are incredibly competent. We are good organizers, good with people, and willing to work hard to acquire new skills. We are ideal employees!

We are also very good jugglers, because we have had to be. (This was the most unsatisfying punchline of a rom com ever, in I Don't Know How She Does It.) We are constantly juggling to-do lists, long-range plans, short-range plans, grocery lists, menus, drop-offs, pick-ups, health care needs and frequencies, car repair needs and frequencies, budgets, organizing strategies, physical fitness for the family, sports and activities for the family, whose birthday is when and what gift to give, upcoming travel plans, what to wear in the family photo and who/where/when to take it, etc. And that's just our personal life, what some scholars have called "emotional labor." Even if there is a partner to help with the execution of household and family responsibilities, women tend to be the ones who manage this work, keeping track of what needs to be done and when, and delegating the responsibility. We still hold it, even if others help us do it.

And, we are juggling in parallel at work. We are thinking about committees, reports, newsletters, events, networking relationships, upcoming hires, upcoming presentations, class prep, professional development, conferences, association membership and leadership, etc. And even those women who are lucky enough to have a staff to help them are having to keep track of everything to appropriately delegate the right tasks to the people who can best execute them. We hold it all.

And on top of that, women tend to volunteer for things much more often than men. Whether it's to demonstrate competency, lean in with ambition, or a sense of obligation to help others whenever in need, women tend to volunteer for way more than men do.

In higher education, this means women spend more time advising, counseling, serving on committees, assisting with other departmental efforts, etc, which takes a lot of time and often interferes with having sufficient time for things that directly lead to promotion - namely, teaching and publication. So, the system of university evaluation and promotion systemically disadvantages those who are more engaged in service, which typically means women and minorities, the very folks already facing disadvantage in the field.

In church life, this means women spend more time on pastoral care visits, answering phones or returning calls, sending cards, offering mid-week Bible studies, sitting on committees, or having planning conversations. They are the backbone of the work, but very little in the limelight. And because of expectations that pastors serve their congregations, and the prejudice against women pastors, it is very difficult for women pastors to say no or to set boundaries on their time.

Serving professions (teaching, ministry, social work, etc) attract people who care about others and want to make the world a better place through service. These fields attract a lot of women. And women tend to be among the most competent in all of these fields, and more.

But these are the same fields that tend to exploit the labor of women, letting them put in extra hours without bonus pay or promotion, letting them sign up for lots of extra service opportunities but not factoring that in their evaluations, expecting them to produce results but not guiding them in how to budget their time so that they can succeed on the career ladder.

I'm so tired of the quick-and-thoughtless response that women are choosing to raise families, which is why they aren't seeking career mobility. What that means is that women are still expected to do most if not all of the work of raising a family, even if they work full-time, but men now want to take half or more of the credit.

And what's worse, when men do volunteer for something, it's so rare that a big deal is made about it. How many times have you heard moms at school compliment a particular dad for helping, but not expect similar gratitude for their consistent above-and-beyond helping? He did it once, which is so rare and precious, so we must throw him a parade, but never mind that we rise to the occasion on top of our regular jobs day in and day out!

Just yesterday, a colleague and I were trying to visualize the life of some of the men we know professionally. Wake up and put on clothes you did not wash, eat a breakfast you did not cook made from groceries you did not purchase and put away, drive to work at a leisurely pace without the hubbub of children's drop-offs, work until you feel done for the day, drive home at a leisurely pace without the hubbub of children's pick-ups or errands, rest a bit in a comfortable chair before you eat a meal you didn't cook made from groceries you did not purchase and put away, read or watch television leisurely until you were ready to go to bed, and then repeat. We could not imagine it. Even when our children are staying elsewhere for a night, we are still juggling laundry, errands, menus, lists, tidying, health, and relationships. We don't get up when we want. We don't go to bed when we want. We often leave work before we feel done for the day. And when we do get home, we start an hours-long shift of caretaking, cooking, cleaning, and prepping for the next day. I'm lucky if I get 30 minutes of leisure time before I go to bed. But the men we were thinking of often post loving dad pics on Facebook, which is perhaps the only 30 seconds they spent with their kid all day. Most of their time is about themselves, yet they get credit for being an invested parent. Mom, on the other hand, is doing most of the work at work and most of the work at home, and it's "normal" so we take it for granted.

I doubt that most institutions mean to exploit the labor of women. I suspect that a problem is posed, a woman volunteers to help or has already demonstrated capability to solve the problem, and she is tasked. Women are doing more work, for less pay, and then going home and putting in another full-time job's worth of a shift to care for their families. Even if they have a staff at work and a supportive/responsible partner at home, women tend to carry the burdens.

It's a vicious cycle. If I say no to something I know I am capable of doing, I feel guilty, like I'm not being a responsible member of my community. But there are some things that I just don't have the resources to do. I don't have the time or emotional energy to take on every project that needs doing. Others have much more time than I do, they just aren't volunteering. Others know how to do the task just as well as I do, or even better, they just aren't volunteering.

And in the faculty/staff meeting, inevitably, the leader will ask for volunteers, there may be an awkward silence, and odds are a woman will fill it by volunteering herself. We are used to juggling a million responsibilities, so what's one more? We can get it done.

But is this ultimately helping us, making us look more like members of the team, and demonstrating our well-rounded capability? Or, is this keeping us in a hamster wheel, so bogged down in the things that others weren't willing to do, that we undermine our own career progress?

I'm not saying women shouldn't invest where they feel capable and able to help. Each woman should get to determine such things for herself. I'm saying that some environments recognize women as super jugglers and systemically take advantage of them, whether those environments realize they're doing this or not. I'm also saying some women don't realize when it's happening to them, and think that eventually their hard work will be recognized, but ultimately end up getting passed over for promotion by a man.

It's a complex problem that will require careful reflection by all involved. There's not one solution. The answers likely depend on the specific context. Some employers are being very careful to ensure that service counts for promotion. Some employers encourage their junior staff/faculty to judiciously limit their involvement so that their time can be devoted to developing new courses and publishing. And some employers insist on offering supplemental pay, revised job titles, or promotions for those who truly exceed their job descriptions. Some employers keep tally of who has volunteered for what and require those whose numbers are lagging to pull their weight.

But it is a problem. Even if women get to the executive table, which is still incredibly difficult, the table isn't set up for fairness. Men reap higher dividends even when women make bigger investments. The playing field is not level. And until the systems that perpetuate uneven expectations and uneven rewards for women are redeemed, we will have tokenism at best.

The Nerve

Tonight I saw a breathtaking performance of Frederick Douglass: The Making of an American Prophet at the National Civil Rights Museum. The music, the acting, the writing, and the dancing were hauntingly beautiful.

You may guess that the performance included historically accurate language and power dynamics. Dr. Noelle Trent was right that we must face the past, even if it makes us uncomfortable, so that we can learn from it and move forward. As a scholar of Black religious history and of the Civil Rights Movement, I am familiar with these historical narratives such that I am rarely surprised by their depiction. Moved yes, surprised no.

But tonight, I was caught off guard. There were numerous scenes where the slave owner beat his slaves, spoke to them with dehumanizing words, and tried to break their spirits. He would rape slaves, then sell their children away from their mothers "for both his pleasure and his profit." Haunting.

A nerve was hit tonight. Something resonated for me, something familiar. There is a way about people like that.  I don't know the word for it. Entitlement? Brutality? I know it when I see it. They are the people who see you for what you can do for them, not as a person. They are the people who carry themselves like they are gods unto themselves, accountable to no one for their actions. Have you encountered people like that?

I remember being berated by words meant to hurt me, meant to break my spirit. I remember being isolated from support systems, being bullied, being insulted for the things that I valued. And why? Because I was acting like I was somebody, not somebody's. Because I dared assert my personhood in the image of God.

All along, I suspected that God meant things to be different. And when I finally said that out loud - what Frederick Douglass would call "praying with my legs" - it felt like LIFE. It felt warm, like blood coursing through my veins, like beautiful music on my tongue. It felt like dancing, like the wind in freshly trimmed hair, like the freshest most decadent bread ever eaten.

Even now, I have these little moments where I tap into that, where I give myself permission to feel joy again. In brutality, it's not safe to feel joy or hope. Those are expensive. Survival is enough.

But in freedom, there is dancing and singing and LIFE.

The performance tonight brought those feelings back to me, both reminiscences of brutality and celebration of new life.

Frederick Douglass's critique of Christianity, that it perpetrates brutality against other humans and dares call that God's will, is spot on. You cannot preach a revival with your Bible in your left hand while whipping slaves with your right. You cannot preach the love of Jesus as you tear babies from their mothers, whom you have raped. You cannot promote a politic of domination and brutality and call that Christian freedom.

That quality I can't quite describe is still extremely prevalent in Plantation South. It manifests itself in things like opposition to women's health care, police brutality against Black people, and domestic violence. That same air of entitlement to dominate others still dares blame its brutality on God. As Rev. Dr. Prathia Hall often said, "The living God is not a bigot!"

If you vote based on your spiritual identity, you have every right to do so. But please think carefully about what is really happening. When politicians throw around words like "freedom" and "rights" and "Christian" while executing people, disregarding Black lives, tolerating rape and then blaming women for it and its consequences, criminalizing poverty, limiting access to health care and social services, and doing absolutely nothing to protect innocent people from gun violence by terrorists or police, rest assured they are not talking about the God of the Bible. They are talking about a white male privilege world where women and minorities are to be kept in their place by any means necessary. They are talking about greed, not justice. They are talking about evil, not love.

Tonight, a nerve was struck. Through Douglass's prophetic leadership and strength of spirit that could not be broken, I remembered a piece of my journey. I witnessed a glimpse into the journeys of others who have faced brutality far worse than I will ever know. But I also witnessed a glimpse of hope - even joy - that cannot be overcome. I witnessed a powerful reminder that often the margins have a better grasp of the revolution of the gospel than the center. I witnessed a room full of strangers merge into one heartbeat, one rhythm, one song.

Lord, in your mercy, let there be justice, let there be love, let there be true freedom. Lord, in your mercy, let all churches proclaim in word and deed that Black Lives Matter. Lord, in your mercy, let male dominance over women end, that we may truly be one in Christ. Lord, in your mercy, bring peace where there is discord, justice where there is injustice, and hope and joy where there is sorrow. Lord, hear our prayer.

Talking With Kids About Things That Matter

I often hear parents say that they wish they knew how to talk to their kids about things like racism, sexism, heterosexism, etc., as if there was some elite skill set one must have to facilitate a conversation about inequity.

It's much easier than you might think, and I want to explore that in hopes that you would feel empowered to talk to your kids about things that matter.

Kids have an innate sense of justice. "She took my ball, and that's not fair." "It was supposed to be my turn to be line leader, he broke the rules." "I was talking, but that person didn't listen because I'm small." And so on.

That's a great place to start. Kids want to feel heard. Even if as the parent you need to make a choice different from what they're saying, they want to know that you saw that they faced something unfair, that you heard them, and that they matter.

So goes the world. Every great social justice movement in our history has involved voices from the margins speaking truth about their experiences of being marginalized by those in the center. And before real change can happen, those voices must be heard and understood. Even, and especially, when what those on the margins are saying makes us uncomfortable. Once the injustice is understood, groups can work together to eradicate not just individual instances of bigotry, but also systemic perpetuation of injustice.

In kid language, instead of just asking Johnny to remember that it's your turn to be line leader, you can evaluate the system to protect the turn of whoever is the line leader from others who might want to take that turn inappropriately, and recognizing if the current system keeps some children from ever getting a turn. Or, instead of asking Susie to give the ball back, you can make sure that the system promotes sharing, taking turns, and ways to communicate kindly about it. Or, instead of just excusing the inconsiderate behavior of that grown up who devalued your child's voice because he is small, creating cultural norms that when someone is talking, others show respect for that person by listening.

Those kinds of conversations can emerge throughout the day very naturally. Mundane things you probably already ask your kids like "How was school today?" "Who did you play with today?" and "What did you most and least enjoy about your day?" can lead to transformational conversations with your child about how they are feeling and what they are learning. They will tell you when things are bothering them, and then you get to be a part of helping them think through the situation, identifying the dynamics, and strategizing solutions.

One of my favorite such conversations with my son happened when he asked why I didn't like him to watch a particular superhero television show. I told him that I thought it was too violent, and that I wished that they could use their words instead of their weapons. He said, "But, Mommy. The superheroes do use their words, but sometimes the bad guys don't listen." (My kid is really sharp!) So we talked about what we do when we are using our words, but others don't listen. We talked about allies who can help us find peace and reconciliation when talking to the person directly doesn't work. We talked about why good people make bad choices, and that "bad guys" may not be the best language for talking about other people. We talked about ways we can protect ourselves when others seek to harm us. It felt like the most natural conversation in the world, even though it was pretty remarkable.

If all of that still feels daunting, then take a deep breath, remind yourself that you are a wonderful parent, and think about this idea. One of the best ways I recommend you start talking to your kids about things that matter is through books. If you don't already have books about civil rights, women's rights, environmentalism, your faith tradition, or biographies of heroes and sheroes, then pick some up. There are many MANY M-A-N-Y choices for diversity / inclusivity / spirituality / environmentalism / etc in children's literature. And if talking about actual historical people feels too scary / real for you at this point, there are plenty of examples of those same dynamics with animal instead of human characters. Choose some that resonate with you, and read them with your kids. And then read them again. Maybe the first time, you just read it and there is no conversation. That's okay. Keep them in the rotation. Let the seeds grow. 

Eventually, your kids will ask you questions. They will want to know why Jazz Jennings was teased by other children at school (homophobia), why Rosa Parks was thrown off the bus for going in the front door (racism), or why people thought Amelia Earheart couldn't fly all by herself (sexism). And that is a wonderful opportunity for you to talk about those issues with your kids. 

And if they don't bring it up, then try some interactive reading. "Why do you think that the bus driver said that?" "What do you think that she will do next?" "Do you think that his behavior was good or bad?"

At school and in communities of faith, your children are no doubt hearing things like, "use your words" and "let's share so that all of our friends can play." They understand those ideas. And they'll want to know why those in the book weren't following those basic rules of human civility. This lets you talk about fear, ignorance, greed, power, and other things that lead us to make bad choices. You can talk with your kids about love versus hate, and what those ideas look like in human behavior. You can ask them to help you identify who was being wise and who was not, who was acting with love and who was not, who was being a friend and who was not. 

This gives them an invaluable toolkit for critical thinking. When they are out in the world, they'll be able to recognize when people might be using words like "liberty" or "justice," when in fact their actions model the opposite. They'll be able to tell when people are misappropriating sacred texts for their own selfish agendas. They'll be able to identify when they make assumptions that may not be fair, and how it makes them feel when others do so about them. They'll build empathy, courage of conviction, and a vocabulary for talking about things that matter.

It is one of the most important gifts you can give your child. It feels scary because you recognize how important it is. Maybe you are afraid you won't know what to say, or that you'll confuse your kids, or that you are still figuring some of it out for yourself and don't feel ready. Your kids don't need you to be an expert. They need you to be honest and available. Be yourself. If they ask a question you can't answer, it's okay to say, "I don't know. Let's find out together."

I encourage you to read books about things that matter at least once a week. Brad Meltzer has a great series of I Am books featuring a wide variety of historical figures (Abraham Lincoln, Albert Einstein, Jackie Robinson, Lucille Ball, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Jr., Amelia Earheart, etc). There are dozens of books about the civil rights movement, many written by children of the activists. There are hundreds of children's biographies of people like Malala Yousafzai, Harriet Tubman, Malcolm X, and others. There are books about different kinds of families: families with two homes, families with two mommies or two daddies, families with only one parent, families that live with many generations, families that live apart from each other, adoptive families, foster families, multiracial families, multifaith families. There are books about every religion under the sun, and many exceptional books about how people of different faiths can work together in their communities. Find what speaks to you and start there. Add to your collection over time. Be purposeful about letting your home library demonstrate inclusivity and diversity. 

And before you know it, your kids will be reading to their kids from the books you have chosen, and those little seeds will have deep roots and vibrant blossoms of things like love, nonviolence, taking care of the earth and each other, and honoring the humanity of each person.

Thanks for reading all the way to the bottom of this one! Please be in touch if you would like recommendations of books or if you want to share success stories from your great conversations with your kids about things that matter!

Skatemance

So, there's this guy.

He's been in my life for several years, but not in that way. I just thought of him as Stanley's hockey coach, who was often available to babysit, and who had an intuitive sense of offering helpful and thoughtful gestures.

Shortly after I moved to Memphis, I visited Texas with the high honor of marrying my best friend to her love. While I was in town, he asked if we could meet up to catch up. Sure! And it was there that I saw something surprising, something I had never seen before. 

As I shared this with a small trusted circle, I learned that many of them had suspected his affections for a while. They encouraged me to see where it might go. 

Several months later...

While I was happy before, in that I felt really comfortable with my life and loved my family, my job, my church, and was not feeling anything lacking, I have not been this happy in a really long time. Once Michael entered the picture, everything was just better, brighter, happier. 

For the first time in my life, I have a partner, a wonderful partner who is supportive, hilarious, creative, kind, and generous. When we're together, we laugh, we talk about things we've read, we dance, we think, we cook, and we embrace the magic of the little moments that make the difference between existence and really living. 

It's like the last scene of The Cutting Edge, when they finally skate their long program perfectly, but they're mostly smiling because they've found the real prize - each other. 

What happens when a figure skater falls in love with a hockey player? #skatemance