A COVID Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is my daughter’s favorite holiday. As a military family, we were rarely able to travel home to spend the day with family, so we recreated our home by inviting other military families and soldiers to share our table. These friends became what we lovingly refer to as our Army family. They are by far the best byproduct of my husband’s 26-year Army career and the number one reason my daughter relishes Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving looked a little different for us this year. Instead of a table for 25, we enjoyed a prime rib dinner for three. We will enjoy turkey together on another day. As with the rest of the world, our Thanksgiving tradition is just one of many things that has been impacted by COVID. While COVID has been hard on everyone, it comes with extra challenges for my daughter. 

For those who may not know my story, my daughter has a rare, chronic, progressive brain disease, moyamoya (MM). It causes narrowing of the arteries in her brain which chokes off necessary blood supply. Symptoms can include strokes, transient ischemic attacks (TIAs), seizures, headaches, tremors, movement disorders, anxiety, depression, cognitive issues and fatigue. In and of itself, her disease does not make her more prone to catch COVID, but it does place her at higher risk for complications. Because she has developed secondary impacts to her adrenal glands and thyroid from her MM, her risk for complication is further magnified. Just prior to the pandemic, she caught the stomach flu and ended up hospitalized for four days. 

What has the pandemic looked like for my daughter and many other chronically ill Americans? 

Hypervigilance around masking, social distancing and hygiene. Strict protocols and limitations around all in-person interactions including trips to stores, pharmacies and doctor’s offices. She and those who love her have to remain in constant risk evaluation mode. Is X social distancing or are they posting pictures on social media that show otherwise? Does Y advocate for wearing masks or do they bemoan them? Is a trip to the store necessary? Can anyone else go? Are people wearing masks walking into the store? How many people are inside the store? Can I manage my symptoms virtually from home? Do I need to delay my annual MRI/MRA to check for progression? Should I delay testing my cortisol levels? Can we afford the risk of sending my son to school in person? 

Increased anxiety around medical supply chain disruptions. As a patient with adrenal insufficiency, she does not produce cortisol, a hormone that is necessary to survive. Without her daily replacement medication, hydrocortisone, her body will eventually go into an adrenal crisis, the number one cause of death in adrenal insufficient patients. Hydrocortisone is used to treat inflammation, autoimmune diseases and other medical conditions in addition to adrenal insufficiency. With the onset of COVID, one supplier stopped producing the medication creating a shortage in the marketplace. This placed her and many other patients in harm’s way while the pharmacies sorted out how to prioritize the medication for those who needed it critically. The realization that her life depended on the ability to get a medication in short supply was sobering. 

To complicate matters, as people delayed non-urgent medical appointments, prescription demand slowed. Pharmacies stopped placing daily medication orders. Shippers started reducing staff, and shipments started taking longer to get to pharmacies. Insurance regulations, however, did not change. You are only allowed to fill prescriptions within a certain window of when your prescription ends. Pharmacies will not order before the insurance approves the medication. This has led to multiple instances of gaps between one prescription ending and the refill arriving. 

Neurofatigue took on new meaning when it came to having to parent 24/7 without the breaks that in-person school provided. Stepping into the role of teacher’s assistant has escalated the problem. Her exhaustion levels are extreme. Cognitively, it is amplifying memory and processing challenges. Her neurologist decided to prescribe home health care support, but after conferring with her neuroendocrine doctor, became more concerned about the risk of bringing the virus into her home. Ultimately, he has added an additional medication used by patients with MS to combat neurofatigue. 

These are just a few of her daily challenges. By far the hardest thing she has had to deal with during this pandemic are her feelings about the people who do not believe COVID presents a problem. Those who deny the need to wear masks; who argue against social distancing measures; who point to 98 percent survivability statistics to justify their views;  who argue that a two percent death rate is an acceptable loss, so they can continue to feel normal. It is hard not to see herself in those comments as the sacrificial lamb to another person’s comfort. 

I believe in my heart that if people put faces to the numbers, these arguments would die a quick death. I am asking you to please read the virtual booklet below. It was created by two moyamoya patients and their families to raise awareness by sharing patient stories. Each of these individuals is at higher risk for complications. Each of these patients deserves our protection. 

https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.flipsnack.com%2Ffacesofmoyamoyadisease%2Ffaces-of-moyamoya-disease%2Ffull-view.html%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR2slU7G8Z2OeT5ouoElLP8F1scW_ZUrFozPnJ3KFFICRttgsyOh3xESHBQ&h=AT0SYHTHSUV86-P18cFf9ILpBhkoiVVIucBLja9U5Lh3L49ChAuCRIsowuBguA5DHKFo9ZUsrVZzenogjexrIJSOSdP-2FhVj6agS4_cb8C75C6YEVx4QXp1ORXPA7DirQ&__tn__=-UK-R&c[0]=AT02LQG5lnUAu62wT4WZ1oo9m-E-a9nSrz4ET5XAPrOF6F1kTY71IA0STSqHZwbaaUakZApgBIyL-Qaihxortoc4oq99RUONdN_qjvdzULi3KTJTs-F_bzX-TU-8eGVRZdhvD-hwROd34_g7RWKLbUUuEGw 

Giving up my big Thanksgiving this year was hard. Wearing a mask sucks. Not being able to visit regularly with friends and family pisses me off. I am tired of social distancing, but I know it would be far worse to live with my guilt should a choice I made result in a forever consequence for someone else.

The day after - a call to reconcile

I voted.

I am a fiscal conservative who is socially liberal. I believe in a strong military defense, but I expect Congress to be judicious in sending soldiers into harm’s way. I believe there is a fine line between necessary public safety legislation and government overregulation. I do not fit neatly under any political party’s platform. I have voted Republican and Democratic and found myself drawn to the occasional Libertarian. I am a swing voter

For through the Spirit we eagerly await by faith the righteousness for which we hope. For in Christ Jesus neither circumcision nor uncircumcision has any value. The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love. Galatians 5:5-6

The lead-up to this election has been the most divisive in my lifetime. Life and death issues have caused people to take sides. Disinformation has fueled partisan divide. People cast their votes this election to act on what they view as moral imperatives—racism, abortion, capital punishment, women’s rights, gay rights, immigration. Others were  driven to vote based on their view of how to protect their loved ones in the world –  people who believe access to guns is critical to self-defense and reducing violence, and others who believe that easy access to guns fuels crime and violence; people who believe a strong defense deters wars and others who believe a strong defense encourages wars; people who believe expanding social security programs enables dependence and others who believe expanding social security programs is foundational to independence; people who believe the government has a responsibility to ensure affordable medical care for all Americans; people who believe government interference in the medical system will dilute medical care and limit access.

We hope to see our votes shape the world we want to see.

Accept the one whose faith is weak, without quarreling over disputable matters.  One person’s faith allows them to eat anything, but another, whose faith is weak, eats only vegetables. The one who eats everything must not treat with contempt the one who does not, and the one who does not eat everything must not judge the one who does, for God has accepted them. Who are you to judge someone else’s servant? Romans 14: 2-4 

We will soon learn if our individual votes delivered our presidential candidate. Inevitably, some are going to be disappointed, dismayed and discouraged. Some will look to those who voted differently and think, “How could they?” Some will be drawn to anger, frustration and judgment; others to finger pointing, name calling and further division. Most will feel righteous in their response, but Jesus did not cloak us in judgment; he robed us in grace.  

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. 2 Corinthians 5:17-19 

On May 10, 1994, Nelson Mandela invited his white jailer to attend his inauguration as an honored guest. He understood that to heal his country from the wounds of apartheid, he first had to reconcile his country. Regardless of which candidate takes office in January, individually we can all make a difference in healing our country. Jesus called us to forgiveness, not revenge. He understood it is only through reconciliation that people’s choices are made clear.

The Gathering Table

This is how everyone will recognize you are my disciples – when they see the love you have for each other. John 13: 34-35

October 12 was Thanksgiving in Canada. Next month we celebrate Thanksgiving in the United States, the following month, Christmas. As a military family, we have moved seventeen times, lived in eight states and one foreign country. We spent the majority of holidays away from family, but we rarely spent our holidays alone. Our table was filled by neighbors, soldiers who had no place to go, army friends who became family, and friends of our children who would finish their family meals and then join us for a second helping. Our door was and is always open, our table always full. 

Our guests have spanned various ages, nationalities, religions, sexual orientations and political parties. They included soldiers, business owners, housewives, students, government workers, teachers, pastors, artists, bankers, retail workers and entertainers. Over the years, we have developed a diverse and broad set of friends. 

When Facebook first hit the scene, it was ideal for connecting with out-of-town friends and family. My “friend” group grew rapidly as I found friends I had lost touch with from high school, old neighbors, past coworkers and extended family. The ability to share pictures, chat, post videos and comment on each other’s posts in real time allowed us to connect in a way that letters were simply unable to. 

As Facebook’s popularity took off and they exponentially expanded their user group, the “virtual neighborhood” became a hunting ground for data scientists, marketing specialists and campaign managers. The flavor of conversations changed. Politics took hold. With the filter of in-person conversation lifted, the Facebook debate was born. Suddenly virtual connection was not as enticing as it once was. 

Today I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook. Having a daughter with a rare disease, this platform has enabled unprecedented access to other families around the world who are dealing with this same disease, an emotional support network and an easy avenue to raise awareness for my daughter’s moyamoya disease. As a writer, it has provided me with a medium to share my work with a large group of people. In the midst of a pandemic and an election year, however, Facebook has been feeding disinformation, conspiracy theories, politicization, divisiveness and separation. It has become a window into a side of people, I have at times wished I could unsee. 

 For it is not an enemy who taunts me— then I could bear it; it is not an adversary who deals insolently with me— then I could hide from him. But it is you, a man, my equal, my companion, my familiar friend. Psalm 55:12-14

In a world consumed by a pandemic, politics and social media grandstanding, it is far easier to find a justification for anger than love, but we are called to do better. Social media is not real life. Real life is the kindness we show each other when our worlds are falling apart. It is the conversations we hold over a meal with a glass of wine. It is the favors we trade; the work we share and the fun we engage in. It is arguing and making up. It is forgiving and being forgiven. Real life is the sum of our engagements with each other, not the summary view of each other’s social media page. 

When the pandemic ends, we will be looking to gather again. This year has left many of us questioning our friendships, our family, our gathering tables. Social media is not real life. We should not allow a funhouse carnival view from our Facebook feed to empty our tables.

People like me

People like you. May you reap what you sow.

A “friend of a friend” responded to me on Facebook in a way that has become all too familiar across social media platforms. Instead of dialoguing on the merits of their own viewpoint, they pivot to a personal attack.

People like me...

I am a Christian.

I am the granddaughter of an Army combat engineer who served his country for more than four decades, including two World Wars and the Korean War. I am the daughter of a career Army Infantry officer who deployed twice to Vietnam and once to Iran. I am the spouse of an Army Signal officer who spent multiple tours in combat zones defending our country after a plane barely missed his office in the 9/11 Pentagon attack.  I am the mom of two daughters and the “gigi” of four grandchildren. I am a cybersecurity professional who has made a career supporting the Department of Defense in protecting our country’s networks. My family has sacrificed much defending another person’s right to be ugly to me on social media.

I have lived in eight states and one foreign country. I have traveled to another 23 states and five countries. This has exposed me to a multitude of people from a variety of backgrounds and shaped my tolerance for political viewpoints that do not align with my own. I have seen firsthand that my problems are not the same as my neighbors’ problems. I try and understand that their needs and drivers can be very different from my own. I believe diversity in people and opinion should inspire us, not divide us. 

I have voted Republican and Democratic. I have spoken for and against the current president, as I have for our previous presidents. I stand by my principles, not by a political party. 

I am a person who seeks to spread harmony in this world, but I am finding it harder and harder to do so against a backdrop of an injustice that cries out for revolutionary change. I have seen disparity in how my black friends are treated in our world compared to my white friends. I have seen the harm caused to them by unchecked racism. I cannot turn a blind eye to injustice to keep the peace, but I  will not foster further division by repaying hatred with hatred. 

As a Christian, I am called to love my neighbor as myself. Even if that neighbor and I are very different; even if that neighbor is unkind to me; even if that neighbor sows hatred.

I hope someday to reap what I sow—understanding, grace, love, equality and peace.

A lesson from Vietnam

My dad served in the Vietnam War. It was not a “popular” war. Many Americans believed we fought for the wrong side. Our military was ill-prepared for guerilla warfare, which resulted in high rates of injuries and death. Drafts were necessary to fill the ranks, but coerced soldiers did not make committed soldiers. Long deployments, resentful soldiers, and brutal conditions led to lack of discipline. This environment became an accelerant for angry men. Brutal attacks on civilians stained the entire military. When my dad returned home, despite his honorable service, his uniform was met with scorn, derision, and disrespect. These combined experiences fueled years of heavy drinking. It took two rounds of rehab, before he was able to conquer his demons and overcome the damage from that painful period in his life.

My husband served in the war on terrorism. He deployed twice – once to Afghanistan and once to Iraq. He returned home from these deployments carrying the weight of battlefield experiences we still do not discuss. While most Americans supported the initial foray into Afghanistan, the move into Iraq was less popular. As casualties rose, calls against the war increased. Despite rising disapproval, my husband returned from his deployments to praise, parties, and overwhelming gratitude. Strangers regularly walked up to him in the street to shake his hand and thank him for his service. Businesses offered discounts and free services as a token of their appreciation. Sometime between Vietnam and the war on terrorism, our country learned to separate the soldier from the system waging war. My husband did not have to carry the added weight of a disapproving nation.

We are in desperate need of bringing this same understanding to the men and women who comprise our police force. Our anger and dissatisfaction with the criminal justice system’s militarization of our police force is justified. Our demands for change must continue, but we need to save our condemnation for the policemen who earned it and point our anger and demands towards the system that created and enabled these men to do harm.  

It’s here we feel the depth of your sacrifice.  And here we see a piece of our larger American story.  Our Founders -- in their genius -- gave us a task.  They set out to make a more perfect union.  And so it falls to every generation to carry on that work.  To keep moving forward.  To overcome a sometimes-painful past.  To keep striving for our ideals.

And one of the most painful chapters in our history was Vietnam -- most particularly, how we treated our troops who served there.  You were often blamed for a war you didn’t start, when you should have been commended for serving your country with valor. You were sometimes blamed for misdeeds of a few, when the honorable service of the many should have been praised.  You came home and sometimes were denigrated, when you should have been celebrated. (President Obama, May 28, 2012)

We cannot ignore the horrible atrocities we have seen committed against Black men and women at the hands of policemen. We owe their victims justice and systemic change. But we also cannot turn a blind eye to the many policemen and women who show heroism, valor, and a selfless disregard for their own personal safety. These men and women deserve recognition. They deserve gratitude. Vietnam taught us what happens when we choose a principle over people. The war on terrorism taught us we can choose people and principle. We do not have to choose between disavowing the institution and the people doing right within that institution. We can defend policemen and women and still push for police reform.  We can support the Black Lives Matter movement and still support the men and women in blue.

Let us learn from our mistakes; let us keep moving forward; let us strive for our ideals but let us stop doing it at the expense of good people. Inequity cannot be righted by contributing to further inequity. 

The Scarlet Letter

The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread. Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her teachers—stern and wild ones—and they had made her strong but taught her much amiss.  – Nathaniel Hawthorne

I published my first blog, A Skinny Girl’s Quest to Get Healthy, in 2010. It was a way to create a community of accountability partners and motivate myself to work out. I like writing. I do not like to exercise. Starting my blog worked incredibly well to kickstart my first long-term journey to get healthy. A few years later, when my work location moved from a five-minute to an hour-long commute, I found it challenging to maintain a regular exercise schedule, and I began to falter. When my daughter was diagnosed with moyamoya disease four years ago, my efforts at working out stopped altogether. In those rare moments I had to myself, I found myself on the couch watching Lifetime Movies and researching the next doctor, the next medical treatment, the next hope. I had no time or energy for exercise. Self-care went out the window.

I lost my father almost a year ago. He became a lesson for what happens when we do not place a value on exercise in our lives. It began with a knee injury. He went from walking several miles a day to inactivity. By the time he was diagnosed with cancer, he had lost most of his strength and was only able to walk short distances. Inactivity prior to his diagnosis left him with few physical reserves. He moved quickly from walking slowly to a wheelchair, from being independent to dependent. His last year was spent confined to a lazy boy recliner. By the time he passed, I knew I had to start moving again. I knew I had to prioritize my own health. But recognizing what I ought to do and doing it were two different things. It took eight months, a pandemic, and an accountability partner to motivate me to do the right thing.

Life presents us with these types of situations. We know what we ought/need to do, but doing it is hard, uncomfortable, or has potential for pain. A friend cites black advantage; instead of leaning into the conversation, we change the subject. The politician we support is crossing ethical and moral lines; instead of demanding accountability, we keep silent. Our minister is preaching that love is not love; instead of walking out, we stay seated.

Some days we are better at meeting these moments. Some days we avoid these moments and some days we fail miserably at our response to them. In a world where our lives are on 24-hour display across social media feeds, however, these failed moments can define us.

Recently a video went viral of a woman in Central Park who was asked to leash her dog by a black man. Instead of respecting the request, she argued with the man and then called the police. That five-minute failure has forever branded the woman with the scarlet letter “R.” She has been publicly shamed, had her dog taken away by the group she adopted it from, lost her job, and has most recently been charged with false reporting. Even the victim has said he is unwilling to participate in her prosecution.

Social media has fostered an environment where we feel compelled to quickly brand each other right or wrong, deserving, or undeserving, good or bad, racist or anti-racist, Trumper or anti-Trumper, one of us or one of them. We shame, we point, we “righteously” expose. But shame and accusation rarely serve to change a person’s point of view or make the world a better place.

Will our viral condemnation move this woman’s heart from hate to love? Will this societal reaction deter future racist behavior? Perhaps... Or perhaps our “righteous response” will push her and others further into the corner of hate. 

You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things. Romans 2:1 NIV

It is easy to sit on our pedestals and think, I would never... But we all fall on a spectrum between good, bad, and human. EVERYONE fails at some point in their lifetime. When failure finds us, we can only pray that we have someone standing on the opposite side of that moment offering accountability, respect, and dignity, not just a mob of angry people building an insurmountable wall of shame.

Jesus has shown us that everyone deserves grace.

Revolution

Value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests, but to interests of others. Philippians 2:3-4 

More than 125,000 deaths have been attributed to COVID-19 over a four-month period in the United States alone. Medical research supports that wearing a mask reduces transmission. Reducing transmission saves lives. Wearing a face mask poses zero health consequences for the majority of people and only minor problems for the minority of people. Why is this a debate?  

Absentee ballots have been an accepted and reliable form of voting for decades. Our military has voted by mail for years. Many of our current politicians protesting the use of mail-in ballots today, have, in fact, mailed in their votes. In the midst of a pandemic, mail-in ballots provide a much safer voting option for our neighbor. Why is this a debate?  

With the advent of social media grandstanding, We the People have given ourselves over to We the Party. We have attached ourselves to political camps and lost sight of the people and principles behind the issues we originally joined those political camps to help. We have bought hook, line, and sinker into the Us versus Them narrative, so much so that we have sacrificed individual ideals for a collective agenda.  

We blame the news media for manipulating information, but we react to it. We point to social media for distributing bad information, but we share it. We denounce politicians for driving negative campaigns, but we reward them with our vote. At some point we must acknowledge that the real problem is not the news media, social media, or even the politicians. The problem is the people feeding those institutions. The problem is us.  

Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you have a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them together in perfect unity. Colossians 3:13-14 

How do we find our way back to We the People in a society that is being told 24/7 it is us against them? Instead of attacking each other, we need to listen to each other. Instead of judging each other, we need to start asking what we can do to help each other. Jesus did not start a revolution by dividing people; he started it by inviting people – inviting people to change, inviting people to put their neighbors before themselves, inviting people to a communal table where the least of us is equal to the best of us in God’s eyes. God asks us to be revolutionary in defense of our neighbors, but he has shown us revolution does not always have to look like war.

Gone with the Wind

I first read Margaret Mitchell’s book Gone with the Wind in my teens. The southern novel drew me in. I was enthralled by the romance, seduced by the imperfect characters, captivated by the tension and the struggle. If you had asked me in my early twenties, which books made my favorites’ list, Gone with the Wind would have risen to the top. 

Thirty years later, I see the book very differently. Instead of a love story, I see a slave story. Instead of heroism, I see racism. Instead of resilience, I see human frailty. Where I used to see right, I have grown to see wrong.  

          Do the best you can until you know better. Then do better. – Maya Angelou 

There has been an outcry this week against the decision by Pepsi-Co, the company that owns the Aunt Jemima brand, to change the name and rebrand these products. People are sharing pictures of Nancy Green, the first model who was selected to be the face of the Aunt Jemima brand. The terms “too far” and “erasing history” are being tossed around.  

Quick research reveals that the original Aunt Jemima pancake mix was created by two white men who owned a failing flour mill. To sell more flour, they created a different product—a pre-mixed pancake mix. Sales did not raise enough capital for them to stay afloat, so they sold their company to another white man, Randolph Truett Davis. He refined the product further.  

In 1890, he hired Nancy Green as a model to portray the face of Aunt Jemima. She proved to be a popular “face” for the brand; she did not start the company nor inspire the product. While her story as a successful black model deserves recognition, it misaligns as a black empowerment story tied to Aunt Jemima—a fictional character inspired by a white-sided view of the “mammy” in slave culture.  

To read more on this, please refer to this link: https://www.ferris.edu/jimcrow/mammies/ 

While those who grew up eating Aunt Jemima pancakes, reading novels that glorified the confederacy, and attending schools named after confederate generals, understandably hold some level of nostalgia for these memories, this is not an acceptable excuse to keep defending a narrative that harms others. Romanticizing a history of brutality and inhumanity has only served the people who wished to perpetuate that inhumanity. 

Aunt Jemima branding merits a museum; it does not deserve a place on our grocery shelves. Robert E Lee’s story needs to be relegated to history books; it does not deserve to be aggrandized in a memorial statue. The history of the confederate flag should remain required teaching as it relates to racism in this country, but it should not be proudly flown over state capitals or any government institution. When we know better, we must do better.  

The Bible and BLM

“But whoever hates his brother in the darkness, walks around in the darkness, he does not know where he is going, because the darkness blinds him.” 1 John 2:11 

I was heartsick yesterday after reading comments on a Facebook post that a Methodist minister made advocating for the Black Lives Matter movement. A person responded to his post by saying “All lives matter.” When he gently pointed her back to the part of his post where he discussed why this narrative can be harmful right now, she went into a dialogue about black-on-black crime and how statistics proved that blacks already had more privilege than whites. She related that she had been treated badly in a black neighborhood growing up. She stated that despite her bad experiences, she did not feel hatred to anyone of color.  She treated blacks and other races all equally, which is why she advocated for “All lives matter.”  

It was clear by her passionate defense; she could not see the hatred she still held in her heart. She did not understand that her defense was not for all lives, but for her own life. It was evident that she believed that black gains would be her loss. The message may have used the words “All lives matter,” but what she was saying was “White lives matter.” 

“Anyone who claims to be in the light, but still hates his brother is still in the darkness.” 1John 2:9 

My grandchildren are biracial. After three generations of interracial marriages, their skin is fair, their eyes are blue, and they turn pink on a sunny day. People who do not know my family, only see white children.  

The sad and ugly truth is I felt relief when they were born. Not because, I would have loved them differently had they been born a beautiful shade of cocoa sporting deep brown eyes, but because I knew their lives would be easier and safer, if they could pass as white.  

My grandchildren should not need to “pass as white” to be afforded the same opportunities, to garner the same respect or to feel safe in this world, but the undeniable fact is being white in America, gives you a leg up.  

So, I ask you, if you are a white person who is still saying “All lives matter,” would you trade your skin with the skin of a black person?” If the answer is “No,” please reconsider your narrative. If the answer is “Yes,” please consider if you are being honest with yourself.  

“Anyone who loves his brother lives in the light and there is nothing in him to make him stumble.” 1 John 2: 10

At the heart of those answers lies an unarguable truth—being white comes with privilege. We need to stop denying that privilege exists. We need to start using it to empower our black brothers and sisters. We need to stop saying “All lives matter.” We need to start showing they matter by supporting black lives.  

Enough

Ten days into protests, there has been a shift from solidarity surrounding the events that led to George Floyd’s death to increasing calls of “Enough.” People are seeing the destruction and want it to stop. They are seeing the violence and want it to end. And they are seeing the images of fires, destroyed businesses and violent confrontations, and getting angry. How can this be ignored? 

I want the looting to end. I want the destruction to stop. I am concerned about the innocent lives and businesses caught in the middle. I feel unsettled and conflicted. I feel angry. But I am also keenly aware, if this is how I feel after only witnessing ten  days of unchecked violence, how must my black brothers and sisters feel after four hundred years of unanswered violence?

The truth is, instead of saying “enough” to racial injustice when it could have made a difference, we said “enough” to protests honoring Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray, Tamir Rice, and too many others to name. We said enough to kneeling in protest during the national anthem. We said enough to requests to remove Confederate monuments and flags that only serve as stark reminders of past oppression. We said enough to equal opportunity, affirmative action, and “reverse racism.” We said enough to “Black lives matter.”

When is enough, enough to justify civil disobedience?

We are at a pivotal point for our country and race relations. While I, too, long to end the chaos we see livestreaming across our social media feeds, I know that we need to approach resolution differently this time. Our goal cannot be simply to quiet the problem; our goal must be to address the problem and resolve it. Peace cannot continue to be attained at the expense of our black brethren.

It is more than time to say “Enough.” Enough to a justice system that disenfranchises people of color. Enough to those who enable that system through action and inaction. Enough to those who care more about suppression than de-escalation. Enough to racism in America.  

 Which side of “enough” will you stand on?

No Excuses

It happened again. Another week, another horrific news report of a senseless black death in America. Racism has been on violent display this month across the country amongst our men and women in blue. 

It is heartening to see calls from white Americans to white America demanding they take a stand—a stand against racism, neutrality, acceptance of the murder of black Americans in our country.  But to effect systemic change, we need to hear from another group. We need our men and women in blue to break ranks from their “thin blue line.” We need them to hold their own accountable. We need them to step up, not away. We need them to step in, not stand by. We need them to take ownership and start saying, “Not on my watch.” 

Three policemen stood by while another policeman knelt on a man’s neck for nearly nine minutes causing a fatal injury. They did not say a word against the action. The man told them he could not breathe. They did not step in to stop the action. The man cried for help. They ignored the man. The man passed out. They did not intervene. 

As time passes, we will hear of the good things each of these men have done for their community. But despite any good they may have done prior to taking George Floyd’s life, on that day, they chose racist assumption, excessive force, and callous inhumanity. On that day, their choices took a man’s life. That life deserves justice. Those choices merit punishment. 

But the undebatable truth is our system favors a violent policeman over black victims, and excuses over accountability. Those men should have gone straight to jail. Instead they were fired and sent home. As of this morning only one faces charges. Yet, over the last week we have seen quick arrests of the protestors who allowed emotions, frustration, and despair to overflow into violent protest. 

Why are  the men and women in blue not held to the same standard? The system continues to protect them. They continue to protect each other. The nature of their job becomes an easy deflection point for blame. We expect violence to protect us. We are surprised when that violence takes a wrong turn, because despite the nature of the job, we expect our policemen to exercise control. A daunting task? Yes. Being exposed to violence, death, and crime on an ongoing basis changes a person. Over time, these changes can feed a coldblooded view of the world. But not every policeman turns frustration into fists or a callous disregard for humanity. Racism is the magnifying glass that ignites those flames. 

I have family members and friends who wear the badge today. I know that my life is safer for their presence, but the same is not true for my black brothers and sisters. Until that simple statement gets fixed, the badge remains tarnished and the force remains complicit.

Policemen must take the lead on fixing this problem. They must take a stand against profiling and racism within their precincts. They must intervene when they witness the use of excessive force. They must stop making excuses and hold their own accountable.  They must stamp out racism within their community. They must lead the change our country cries out for

The truth we choose

Four months into the pandemic with 300,000 deaths reported worldwide (100,000 of those deaths our fellow Americans), there remain people who still believe that the coronavirus is an overblown hoax. While skepticism about the seriousness of the virus in the earliest days was understandable, to believe this theory now, you must conclude that worldwide, physicians and scientists are reporting false information. You must believe that globally, leaders are abetting a false narrative. You must believe the majority of journalists reporting the stories are lying. You must buy into the idea that rest of the world is “in on it.” Despite these leaps and the enormous amount of readily available evidence to the contrary, this theory continues to find life. Why?

At the heart of the problem are targeted campaigns led by special interest groups flooding our networks and social media platforms with disinformation in the form of new reports, articles, statistics, medical specialists, and economists. Journalism, once considered a reliable source of objective information gathering, has become tarnished by the rapid 24-hour news cycle pressuring reporters to take short cuts. Fact checking has fallen victim to getting the headline out first. Headlines have become sensationalized to fuel viral responses. Financial and political drivers have shaped stories. Bias has bled into broadcasting.

Social media magnified the issue. It was the ideal platform for those with an agenda to weaponize “fake news” and legitimize it.  It continues to thrive as the knowledge management tool of choice for special interest groups to reignite debunked theories and bring them back to life. With advancements in artificial intelligence and the development of Social Media BOTS, a viral campaign has become as easy as updating a software algorithm. With an overabundance of false, misleading, and bad journalism on ready display, good journalism has become hostage to bad journalism. Truth has fallen victim to conspiracy theories. All journalism has become suspect. Never has it been easier to dismiss data, overlook objective reporting, and lean toward a “truth” that aligns with what we want to hear versus what we need to hear.

At a time when our choices greatly impact the lives and livelihood of others, we have a responsibility to ourselves and others to change our behavior. We must stop rewarding disinformation campaigns with viral responses. We must stop choosing truth through our political lenses; we must start finding truth through a lens of objectivity. We need to pause and investigate before we share. We need to read more, research more, and dig deeper. We must vet sources and information for authenticity. We need to validate credentials, relevant experience, and proven experience. We need to balance the news we take in each day, by following multiple sources with diverse viewpoints, not just those whose views we prefer.

If we are to save lives and save the economy, we cannot afford to keep choosing our truths based on snippets and soundbites or Facebook folly. We must hold ourselves responsible to search, investigate, and find the honest and objective truth, even if that truth leads us someplace, we never expected nor wanted. 

There is no room for tolerance when it comes to racism

Proverbs 3:27-30 “Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act. Do not say to your neighbor, “Come back tomorrow and I’ll give it to you”—when you already have it with you. Do not plot harm against your neighbor, who lives trustfully near you. Do not accuse anyone for no reason when they have done you no harm.”

I am a person who has long preached tolerance and acceptance. Tolerance – for differing points of views. Acceptance – for people who come with a differing set of beliefs than I do. Understanding – that people’s actions most often stem from the unique pressures driving their daily lives. It is a belief system that has aligned well with my Christian viewpoint until this week.

This week I have found myself sickened by the news of a young black man out for a jog, accosted and subsequently killed by two people making the broadest of assumptions – a black man running equates to a criminal running. I was appalled by the fact it took two months and a released video to precipitate an arrest. Today I have a vastly different message.

There is no room for tolerance, acceptance or understanding when it comes to racism. Racism is not a viewpoint; it is a cancer. This cancer will continue to take lives if we do not eradicate every diseased cell.

Over the last fifty plus years of my life, the civil rights movement has been waging a powerful war against racism. It seemed they had made huge strides in leveling the playing field for a community of people that had previously been disenfranchised and disempowered. But like many hard-won remissions, those rewards have proven to only be temporary. As with any other type of cancer, leaving a single, tiny cell ensures regrowth. The last few years have proven that despite previous aggressive treatment this country is out of remission.

I am ashamed to admit that lulled by the movement’s successes, I moved from advocacy to complacency. I allowed myself to believe that institutionalized racism was behind us. I bought into the idea that the playing field had been leveled. I let myself believe that the racism of my grandparents’ generation was all but gone as each subsequent generation awoke further to racism’s inequities. I imagined that my grandchildren’s children would only know of institutionalized racism through a history lesson.

I allowed this complacency to bleed over into the smallest of choices. Choices to opt for silence over confrontation and harmony over conflict. A decision to let a slanted comment slide by. A choice to let a poor joke go unchecked. A call to delete an off-color email or a choice to scroll by an inappropriate meme.  I told myself that these types of comments/actions were the anomalies now. They had no power in a world where most Americans believed in equality, in fairness, in right. I was wrong.

Leaving a single, tiny cell ensures regrowth.

As John Pavlovitz so eloquently said in his recent blog posting - https://johnpavlovitz.com/

“You oppose the inhumanity, or you abide it. You condemn the violence, or you are complicit in it. You declare yourself a fierce and vocal adversary of bigotry—or you become its silent ally.”

There is no room for tolerance or understanding when it comes to racism. I was culpable. I was complicit. NO MORE.

A day in the life of my moyamoya warrior

There is much to love about May. My oldest daughter came into the world on May 6. My grandson was born on May 14. My dad, my little brother, my nephew, my cousin, my best friend’s husband and my daughter from another mother all came into the world in May. There is much to love about the month of May.

Four years ago, in May, we marked the beginning of a different type of remembrance. On May 11, 2016, my youngest daughter was diagnosed with moyamoya disease, a rare, progressive, incurable cerebrovascular disease that can ultimately lead to strokes. She had her first brain surgery May 27, 2016. We came to learn that May is recognized as Stroke Awareness Month, and in a strange twist of fate, May 6, her sister’s birthday, is recognized as Moyamoya Disease Awareness Day. Four years ago, there was not as much to love about the month of May.

If I am honest, as much as I look forward to the birthday celebrations of those people whom I hold most dear, the month of May remains bittersweet for me. Sweet—that I am blessed to have my daughter in my life to share in those celebrations. Bitter—fully understanding that her life has been indelibly changed by this disease.  For all the appreciation I feel for my daughter’s life today, I am still a Mom. As a Mom, I would erase every hardship. I would eradicate this disease from her life if I only had that power.

But the power to eradicate this disease lies with others in our medical community. One group of specialists has already risen to this challenge—the neurosurgical community that has researched and developed lifesaving surgical interventions to provide alternative routes of blood flow to brains that are dying slowly from a lack of blood supply.

The challenge, however, is that outside of the neurosurgical community, the remainder of the medical community has little to no exposure to this disease. Moyamoya is considered “rare” across the neurological community, but it is virtually unheard of across the remainder of the medical community. The brain is the organ that controls messaging to the rest of the body. When the brain is injured, the rest of the body can feel that impact in some other way. Neurosurgeons do surgeries. Neurosurgeons are not meant to manage lifelong chronic diseases that impact other systems within the body. This leaves a tremendous gap in care for moyamoya patients and is a primary driver for my ongoing efforts to raise awareness.  

As we approach my daughter’s fourth anniversary of her diagnosis and our third year supporting moyamoya awareness activities, I decided the best way to spread awareness this month was to share a day in my daughter’s life. Four years later, she has found her way back to a new normal. It is not the normal we imagined in our earliest days after diagnosis, but it is a life that still manages to bring her joy despite her physical challenges. It is a life we are incredibly grateful for.

A day in the life of my moyamoya warrior

My daughter awakens on an average day around seven AM. Mornings are not easy for her, because sleep is not easy for her. She wakes after most nights still feeling tired. On good days, she can rise, take her blood pressure (laying and standing) and take her morning medications, before she starts the rest of her day. On more challenging days, she needs her husband to bring her medications to her and take time for them to start to work before she can start moving. On bad days, the act of rising from her bed triggers a transient ischemic attack (TIA). On those days, she typically will have to spend the rest of the day in bed or on the couch.

On a good day, she will check her calendar to see what activities need to be done that day. Her calendar has become the bible that helps her stay on track. After two strokes and two brain surgeries, she has both short and long-term memory deficits. Working with occupational therapists, she has developed a system that relies on notes in her calendar and alarms on her Apple Watch to ensure that she meets her tasks each day. She has alarms set to remind her to take her medicines; alarms set to remind her of all family appointments; alarms set to remind her to eat; alarms set to remind her to take and pick her son up from school; alarms set to remind her to pick up laundry, get gas, get groceries. These tools have proven invaluable in helping her stay on track.

The calendar provides a dual purpose. Not only does it work as a visual reminder of her day. It allows her to look ahead to plan out her day physically. She does this to ensure that she does not burn out early in the day which could force her to miss a more important event later in the day. If she has multiple big events in a day, she often needs to pick and choose, knowing that her body will only cooperate for so long.

Overstimulation to her brain in the form of crowds, activities that require intense concentration, or high stress activities both good and bad, are important factors in her calculations. These types of activities can trigger headaches and brain fatigue, which also translate to downtime. Her life has become a study in balancing her wants with her abilities. Some days she manages that balance better than others. A miscalculation can result in multiple days of forced down time. Over time we have come to understand that there are times she needs to choose joy and emotional wellbeing over physical well-being. She may pay for her choices physically, but those choices bring the intangibles that still make life worth living.

On a good day, she takes her son to school (which right now means she is teaching him, too), plays with her son and helps with his homework; she walks and feeds the dog; she does laundry; she helps pick up around the house; she does arts and craft activities; she volunteers at her son’s school; she does the dishes until somewhere between 4 and 5 in the afternoon.

Late afternoon is her witching hour. It is rare she has energy left at the end of the day to cook a meal, to play a game, to get her son in his pajamas. Some evenings it is even hard for her to hold a conversation. Evening is not her friend. On the days her calendar shows an important evening event, she has learned it is wisest to leave the rest of her calendar empty. That does not guarantee she will physically make it through a dinner with friends, a date night with her husband or a family dinner gathering, but filling her calendar almost definitely assures she will not be able to make it.

On a challenging day, she puts her energy into only those things needed to care for her son. Her husband remains the rock who steps in where she leaves off. On a bad day, she has a village of loved ones (myself, her dad, her sister and in-laws) who also jump in to lend a hand. She struggles with unnecessary guilt for needing additional help. The guilt of not doing enough or being enough for friends and family has often been the impetus for making decisions to push forward on activities that ultimately set her back.

There was also a time when it was far harder for her to see the blessings in her life. As she struggled through a long period of continual bad days, it was understandably hard for her to view her life through any other lens than loss. Four years in, while I know her heart still longs for so much more, she has worked her way into a rhythm that has allowed her to move from anger to acceptance and from grief to wellbeing. Her good, challenging and bad days are evening out. Four years in, she has found her way back to a new sense of “normal.”