I didn't understand the strength I gained from the support of my elderly cat until after he passed.
We picked him up from a no-kill shelter in October of 2010. He was giant, orange, front declawed, and listed as very gentle. I think the listing said his age was 2+ - meaning that he had arrived at the shelter as an adult, and they had no idea how old he was. They said that he had been found wandering near a barn in the middle of the winter and been surrendered by the family that discovered him because he made a terrible barn cat, but they couldn't keep him in the house due to allergies.
Based on that information, Dorian sat at the shelter for six months waiting for a family. The woman who helped us said that in that time, no one but us had come to see him. I think a part of him always knew that we were his special family and that he waited at that shelter so long because he belonged with us.
He hid under the bed for the first couple days, but as he adjusted, he took up snuggling us while we sat on the couch. He was never happier than when he could sit between Rebecca and me.
The first time it snowed, he sat in the window, stared outside, and cried. We knew that he must have spent too much time out in the cold after he was abandoned. We closed the blinds and tucked him into a blanket.
The first time we moved him, we didn't consider his abandonment issues because he was doing so well. But as the furniture moved out of our apartment, his anxiety grew. I ended up sitting on the floor with him in an empty bedroom, trying to convince him that he was, indeed, going with us. He was inconsolable.
Each time we moved, we got a little bit better at moving him - and he grew a bit more trusting that we were his forever family. By the time we moved to #fixerupperdetroit, he clearly knew that his home was with us, wherever that was.
And though he was initially very skeptical when we brought home another cat - he had enjoyed undivided attention for three years at that point - the fact that he preferred to be transported in the same carrier as Cesar was proof that he loved having another cat around.
The house feels very empty now, without him. He followed our work crews around and was often a little trip hazard as he stood behind people. He greeted us at the door whenever possible, and even tried to learn Rebecca's erratic schedule so that he'd be ready when she came home. His affection toward strangers seemed so characteristic of him that it wasn't until after he passed that I realized that he hadn't been nearly so outgoing when we first brought him home.
And I wondered what changed. Is it that he became the host with the most? Was it that he drew so much courage from belonging to a family? Was it that he was trying to protect us?
Some people would say that he was just a cat, but those people don't understand. Rebecca and I often spent more time with Dorian than we did with each other these last few years due to our conflicting work schedules. He was a constant to come home to. He was unconditionally loving and comforting. A few months after we got him, I realized that one of my anxiety management techniques was to pretend I was holding him (or to hold him if he was around). He always purred when I picked him up.
In the last few months, he lost a lot of weight and his health declined. He insisted on doing the stairs at #fixerupperdetroit in spite of his clearly aching joints. We took him to the veterinarian, who told us that he was likely much older than we originally thought and that there was probably little we could do. Late a few Sundays ago, his condition worsened, and on the following Monday, it became apparent that he was suffering. He still tried to follow me around the house, but he could only take a few steps at a time. Rebecca and I did the only thing we had left to do for him, which was to take him to the veterinarian to be euthanized.
It was the first time Rebecca and I have ever had to make such a decision, either individually or separately. I know it was the right decision, but that doesn't make it easier to live without him. His presence in our home made me safe and brave all at once. While we love our other cat, he has a very different personality, and in his own grief can't really comfort us.
We got a kitten a few weeks ago who has many of the qualities we loved so much about Dorian. I'm sure, though, no matter how hard we look, that we won't find another cat who will both tuck us in at night and greet us at the door.
They broke the mold after Dorian.
Two women seeking equality in a state where some couples are more equal than others.
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Showing posts with label MI love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label MI love. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Friday, June 3, 2016
My Secret to Sanity in #owneroccupieDetroit: Meet Rufino and His Team
For almost the last year, I've been wanting to put up a post about Labra Design+Build, the business that has stood with us through #househuntersdetroit (even after the first house fell through), the land bank postering, and now, #owneroccupiedetroit.
Rebecca has known the owner, Rufino, since childhood and had been watching photos come through social media of all the beautiful work he'd been doing, so when we started looking for a home, she knew he would be a great fit.
You can visit their website to see Rufino Labra's portfolio or learn more about the work they do, so I won't spend too much time elaborating there.
Instead, let me tell you about
Cesar has been hiding in our bed under the covers for entire days. Rufino has helped me figure out which rooms are safest for the cats while certain tasks are being completed and on more than one occasion has helped me secure them in that space when I couldn't do it alone and Rebecca was working. (Dorian has repaid him by getting incredibly underfoot.) Most members of the team have let the cats be out around the house as much as possible and will even chat with Dorian or pet him if he asks. I've never worked with a construction team before, but I'm pretty sure none of this is in the job description.
issues problems. If you are considering a home renovation or new home construction, I hope that you will consider working with them. Detroit and the surrounding area need more small businesses that do such quality work, and we'd love to see the Labra family grow.
Rebecca has known the owner, Rufino, since childhood and had been watching photos come through social media of all the beautiful work he'd been doing, so when we started looking for a home, she knew he would be a great fit.
You can visit their website to see Rufino Labra's portfolio or learn more about the work they do, so I won't spend too much time elaborating there.
Instead, let me tell you about
the ways that Rufino and his team have gone above and beyond
during the arduous #fixerupperdetroit process, to the point that I don't think we could have done this with any other team.![]() |
Most of Rufino's team, minus Rufino, who was on the phone. Top left: Abe. Bottom left: Eric. Top right: Marty. Bottom right: Big Rufino - Rufino's dad! |
1. Showing up to the home inspections and asking thoughtful questions.
We were very blessed to work with a great home inspector, Matt Bezanson, (who now has a blog you can visit!), and that was an education in itself. Buying an old home, especially one in Detroit, especially one that's been vacant and neglected, comes with a lot more challenges than a newer construction. Rufino listened to what Matt had to say and considered it when setting up our construction proposal. We could tell that he would prioritize structural safety and quality work. That's of utmost importance in Detroit, where much of the previous work may have been patched poorly or done by non-professionals to save money.2. Advising us on home-buying decisions
A few days before closing, we still didn't know if the heating system worked, a major concern given that it was December in Michigan! While the seller insisted that it did, they never brought the house up to room temperature to prove it. When we brought out R&R Mechanical to inspect it, we were told that the boiler probably worked but there was no way to know without a cleaning, something we couldn't have done until we took possession, and something the seller refused to do. Rufino took the time to talk through the implications with me and help me decide whether closing was a good idea.3. Reviewing documents from the Detroit Land Bank Authority
Most of you have already read about our horror story of having been postered with a notice threatening to seize our home. You can read my Open Letter to Detroit Land Bank Authority here. These kinds of things don't happen in the suburbs, and I'm sure Rufino had never had to negotiate this kind of nightmare before. He looked over the documents and considered the timeline in the rehab agreement. In fact, I think he was more amenable to the terms than we were. I don't know how we would have survived those weeks without a contractor who cared on our side. We ultimately did get a resolution without a lawsuit being filed or signing the rehab agreement, mostly thanks to Craig Fahle, who does public relations for the land bank.4. Setting up the home for us to occupy it and keeping us posted along the way.
Our construction team has a lot more to consider now that we're living in the home: will their work disrupt our normal activities? Will our cats escape while the team is going in and out? Will the fumes from their products jeopardize our health? In all cases, Rufino has made an effort to make it possible for us to live as normally as possible while not having a kitchen or laundry. By the time we moved in, we had a working bathroom, refrigerator, and laundry sink. When I asked him to set up the microwave, also, he did so promptly and in a space that was convenient for us (and inconvenient for his team).5. Befriending our cats
Unlike us, the cats don't understand that the house is going to be really beautiful when it's done - and they don't really care. What they have noticed is that there are people they don't know here. All the time. Dorian has decided to supervise them all to make sure they do good work for us.![]() |
Dorian surveys his kingdom from a high vantage point. |
6. Visiting Architectural Salvage Warehouse of Detroit
When we needed another radiator for the kitchen and I discovered a salvage warehouse rumored to have them for a reasonable price, Rufino met me there to see if we could find one and keep the heating budget lower to free up funds for something else. After some Googling about the different between water and steam radiators and sifting through the collection of doors, we emerged triumphant with not only a $90 radiator (that probably would have cost hundreds elsewhere), but a pocket door. We had hoped to find a 1920s lavatory sink to no avail, though the new one Rufino found and ordered is perfection.In summary:
Many of you know that I'm a perfectionist workaholic, and that I'm not good at staying calm. While Rebecca has tried to keep me from being too anxious or overburdening Rufino, I recognize that this project has been fraught with challenges, including my temperament. Labra Design+Build has drastically exceeded our expectations not only in their quality of work, but in their encouraging, respectful nature and resourceful responses toSunday, May 22, 2016
Reflections on Suffering: #carrythatweight
A while back, not sure how long, I read about a performance art piece entitled Mattress Performance or #carrythatweight. I won't go into great detail explaining it, but I encourage you to visit the link above to learn more. For purposes of this post, here is what you need to know:
The artist, Emma Sulkowicz, suffered a horrible trauma. Her case wasn't handled well, and she was left to pick up the pieces of her life and make meaning. As a senior at Columbia University, she decided to make her thesis an outward representation of her journey through her pain. Thus, Mattress Performance (Carry that Weight) began.
Essentially, Emma carried a mattress like the one at the site of the original trauma, as a physical representation of her inward burden. She committed to carrying it under specific parameters until there was justice for her. While she had to carry it,
There is little magic in sharing the burden. But there is comfort. There is fellowship.
The artist, Emma Sulkowicz, suffered a horrible trauma. Her case wasn't handled well, and she was left to pick up the pieces of her life and make meaning. As a senior at Columbia University, she decided to make her thesis an outward representation of her journey through her pain. Thus, Mattress Performance (Carry that Weight) began.
Essentially, Emma carried a mattress like the one at the site of the original trauma, as a physical representation of her inward burden. She committed to carrying it under specific parameters until there was justice for her. While she had to carry it,
She didn't have to carry it by herself.
If someone came along and offered assistance or support, she accepted it. The mattress weighed the same amount, but her burden was shared.So it is in life.
Our pain, our trauma, our suffering exists, and it has its corresponding weight. I wish there were a magic way to make it disappear, but I don't think there is this side of heaven.There is little magic in sharing the burden. But there is comfort. There is fellowship.
There is hope
within the darkest winter of the soul.
Friday, April 22, 2016
Earth Day Highlight: Architectural Salvage Warehouse of Detroit
I mentioned a while back that Labra Design+Build and I took a field trip to find a radiator. What I didn't sufficiently emphasize is the awesome work the place we visited does!
Architectural Salvage Warehouse is a non-profit that saves pieces, large and small, of buildings that will be demolished, so that instead of being land-filled they can be re-purposed. Did you know that a huge amount of landfill use is from construction, not household waste? Have you considered that new construction also typically requires the mining and processing of a lot of resources? So efficiently and safely salvaging what we can out of properties before they are demolished is an important part of saving the planet.
Not only does Architectural Salvage Warehouse protect the environment by allowing construction companies and individual consumers to re-use items, the money from their purchase helps to finance training in salvage techniques for youth and adults looking to get specialized training in construction and recycling. This technical training is a needed boost for the building trades and an example of on-the-job training that's very needed to help students avoid crushing student debt!
As if that isn't sufficient, the prices at Architectural Salvage Warehouse are significantly lower than buying new, which helps families stay on budget. We were able to find a radiator for our boiler system that was a fraction of the cost of a new one, or even a used one elsewhere. We also found a pocket door in great condition. While you may not always be able to find what you need, I recommend starting here first and then moving to other salvage options, and then finally end at a typical hardware store if necessary.
Another Earth Day consideration: If you're considering whether to build or buy a home, seriously think about whether you could buy a previously occupied home and renovate it instead of buying a new house. You don't have to go to the lengths that we have on #fixerupperdetroit ! There are many great homes that are move-in ready that could reduce landfill waste, blight, and consumption of new materials. If you decide that a new construction is the right choice for your family, you can still purchase salvaged materials to cut back on consumption and waste.
Architectural Salvage Warehouse is a non-profit that saves pieces, large and small, of buildings that will be demolished, so that instead of being land-filled they can be re-purposed. Did you know that a huge amount of landfill use is from construction, not household waste? Have you considered that new construction also typically requires the mining and processing of a lot of resources? So efficiently and safely salvaging what we can out of properties before they are demolished is an important part of saving the planet.
Not only does Architectural Salvage Warehouse protect the environment by allowing construction companies and individual consumers to re-use items, the money from their purchase helps to finance training in salvage techniques for youth and adults looking to get specialized training in construction and recycling. This technical training is a needed boost for the building trades and an example of on-the-job training that's very needed to help students avoid crushing student debt!
As if that isn't sufficient, the prices at Architectural Salvage Warehouse are significantly lower than buying new, which helps families stay on budget. We were able to find a radiator for our boiler system that was a fraction of the cost of a new one, or even a used one elsewhere. We also found a pocket door in great condition. While you may not always be able to find what you need, I recommend starting here first and then moving to other salvage options, and then finally end at a typical hardware store if necessary.
Another Earth Day consideration: If you're considering whether to build or buy a home, seriously think about whether you could buy a previously occupied home and renovate it instead of buying a new house. You don't have to go to the lengths that we have on #fixerupperdetroit ! There are many great homes that are move-in ready that could reduce landfill waste, blight, and consumption of new materials. If you decide that a new construction is the right choice for your family, you can still purchase salvaged materials to cut back on consumption and waste.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
MI Love: Chosen Family
This posts is one of the drafts I've mentioned in past entries. I've considered the concept of chosen family for years. It's a messy idea without a clear definition, at least in my case. Most of the time, I just know who's going to be added, sometimes within the first few weeks of meeting someone. Sometimes, I guess wrong, and that hurts. But usually, finding a kindred spirit (to steal from Anne of Green Gables) is a great joy and comfort.
Signs someone might be chosen family:
1. You can call when stuff is bad
These are people who are allowed to see you in your jammies, or when your house is an absolute mess, or when all you can do is sit on the floor and sob. No judgment. No hesitation. They just show up.
They may clear some dishes while you work up the gumption to tell them what happened. They might just sit on the floor with you.
2. You can call when stuff is good
When you have good news, you know they won't rain on your parade, downplay accomplishments, try to "one-up" you, or be a joy kill when you're basking.
3. They can keep a secret
These people know that the slip of a lip could sink a ship, and they'll honor requests for confidentiality.
4. You could talk for hours
You know that thing where you look up and realize it's been two hours and you thought ten minutes had gone by? That's super likely to happy with chosen family. Plan accordingly.
5. They see you
They know something is wrong or exciting or frightening whether or not you've actually said it. Half the time, they know what you're thinking about it before you've said anything. And then . . .
6. They speak truth to you
Whether is sassing you because you need to hear it or simply sharing a story about what they've learned from a similar experience, these are people who tell you like it is. No agenda, no cliches. Sometimes you don't want to hear it. Sometimes it might not be quite right. But it is true for them and it's honest and open.
Signs someone might be chosen family:
1. You can call when stuff is bad
These are people who are allowed to see you in your jammies, or when your house is an absolute mess, or when all you can do is sit on the floor and sob. No judgment. No hesitation. They just show up.
They may clear some dishes while you work up the gumption to tell them what happened. They might just sit on the floor with you.
2. You can call when stuff is good
When you have good news, you know they won't rain on your parade, downplay accomplishments, try to "one-up" you, or be a joy kill when you're basking.
3. They can keep a secret
These people know that the slip of a lip could sink a ship, and they'll honor requests for confidentiality.
4. You could talk for hours
You know that thing where you look up and realize it's been two hours and you thought ten minutes had gone by? That's super likely to happy with chosen family. Plan accordingly.
5. They see you
They know something is wrong or exciting or frightening whether or not you've actually said it. Half the time, they know what you're thinking about it before you've said anything. And then . . .
6. They speak truth to you
Whether is sassing you because you need to hear it or simply sharing a story about what they've learned from a similar experience, these are people who tell you like it is. No agenda, no cliches. Sometimes you don't want to hear it. Sometimes it might not be quite right. But it is true for them and it's honest and open.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Confessions: I'm Thankful that My Wife is Working Today (for surprising reasons)
I'm thankful that Rebecca is working today.
Not because I wanted to spend the day without her - I wish that I could spend this holiday and every holiday with my beloved helpmate.
Not because of the holiday pay, though I believe she will be paid a little extra.
Not because I approve of the kinds of shifts they've been forcing her to work - today is only 13 hours, but she averages 80 hours a week on rotations like this and has worked shifts as long as 28 hours this month.
I'm thankful that she is working in the ICU today because I can't imagine a more challenging holiday than having a loved one in intensive care, fighting to survive. I can't imagine having to discuss whether to intubate or resuscitate a loved one on a holiday like this. And I know that Rebecca will be as compassionate as possible. I know that she will explain to them gently, answer their questions, and keep patients as comfortable and dignified as possible. She will, today as all days, put the family in family medicine.
I would want that if a loved one or I were in the hospital, especially on a holiday like today. I take comfort in knowing that staff at a major metropolitan hospital - staff such as my wife and her colleagues - is there to care for the families struggling through illnesses.
She is away from her family. So are the other residents, nurses, attendings, mid-level providers, custodians, cooks, cafeteria workers, social workers, paramedics, and so many others. If you are not in the hospital and don't have a healthcare worker family member on the list, it's easy to forget the sacrifices they are making to care for people. It's easy to take it for granted. It's easy to sit down at a table in front of a home-cooked meal and forget that those at the hospital are lucky to get enough of a break to make it down to eat cafeteria food. It's easy to pat a full tummy and lay down for a nap while healthcare workers fight to stay awake near the end of a long shift.
I am thankful that my wife is working today, because it means we live in a place where we can count on medical care. I am thankful that other families will have compassionate providers to help them.
Even if I miss her.
Not because I wanted to spend the day without her - I wish that I could spend this holiday and every holiday with my beloved helpmate.
Not because of the holiday pay, though I believe she will be paid a little extra.
Not because I approve of the kinds of shifts they've been forcing her to work - today is only 13 hours, but she averages 80 hours a week on rotations like this and has worked shifts as long as 28 hours this month.
I'm thankful that she is working in the ICU today because I can't imagine a more challenging holiday than having a loved one in intensive care, fighting to survive. I can't imagine having to discuss whether to intubate or resuscitate a loved one on a holiday like this. And I know that Rebecca will be as compassionate as possible. I know that she will explain to them gently, answer their questions, and keep patients as comfortable and dignified as possible. She will, today as all days, put the family in family medicine.
I would want that if a loved one or I were in the hospital, especially on a holiday like today. I take comfort in knowing that staff at a major metropolitan hospital - staff such as my wife and her colleagues - is there to care for the families struggling through illnesses.
She is away from her family. So are the other residents, nurses, attendings, mid-level providers, custodians, cooks, cafeteria workers, social workers, paramedics, and so many others. If you are not in the hospital and don't have a healthcare worker family member on the list, it's easy to forget the sacrifices they are making to care for people. It's easy to take it for granted. It's easy to sit down at a table in front of a home-cooked meal and forget that those at the hospital are lucky to get enough of a break to make it down to eat cafeteria food. It's easy to pat a full tummy and lay down for a nap while healthcare workers fight to stay awake near the end of a long shift.
I am thankful that my wife is working today, because it means we live in a place where we can count on medical care. I am thankful that other families will have compassionate providers to help them.
Even if I miss her.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Confessions: Sometimes I Don't Feel Married
As most of you have gathered, Rebecca is on an inpatient rotation this month - she's working 80 hours a week, with only 4 (yes, just 4) days off the whole month. I've lost count of how many 28 hour shifts she's working, but several, including one that's probably a violation of residency rule restrictions. She's helping families and saving lives in the ICU, and finding it important and fulfilling to bring her family med perspective to such critical situations. But I know that she is also exhausted. Not as exhausted as she was from trauma surgery, and more fulfilled than when she was on radiology, but exhausted just the same. Helping families make life-or-death decisions, managing end-of-life care, and the administrative tasks that come with such a role can be a lot.
And so this month is a lot for her. We're also moving. I'm in a bit of a transitional time at work. The holidays are coming. We're still working on buying the house (I turned in more documents to the bank this morning! :)). On months like this, when she works so much and life gets so busy, things shift.
I get into a mode of semi-singledom. I have tried to train myself to plan social engagements, to go out to eat by myself, to attend church alone (although I only walk through the doors alone, and then my chosen family is there), to plan meals and housework and laundry differently.
I doubt this has anything to do with us being a same sex couple, really, although the length of time we went without a legally recognized marriage took its toll and may affect me forever on this front. I think it's just part of being a DO wife, or any kind of doctor's wife, though I should write sometime about DO wife life specifically.
I think most of us, as medwives, learn to be alone without being lonely, because if we can't learn to be alone, we just can't BE. That's the cost of loving someone, marrying someone, supporting someone that works nights, weekends, overnights, 30 hour call, etc to keep your spouse, your mother, your child safe and cared for in the hospital. That's the cost of watching my helpmate glow with satisfaction because a family finally got the support they needed, or flush with anger that someone wasn't treated as a human being. But some days, usually about this point in the rotation (most rotations are about a month, so I'm about halfway through), it's hard to really feel married.
If I'm honest, some nights when she is working, I sleep on the couch because it doesn't feel like there is simply too much space there. The cats are more likely to tuck themselves into the bend of my knees or the crook of my arm there and stay snuggled for long periods, as if they know that I am trying not to feel the emptiness next to me that should be my helpmate's warm body.
And I don't feel married in that schmoopy way romantic comedies paint love and marriage. I still feel that I am a helpmate, charged with supporting another human being, but the ways in which I love her are different. It may be as simple as boxing leftover lentils into a lunch-sized, microwave-safe container, and then not getting upset if she forgets to grab them on her way out the door at 6 am. It may be bringing a cat to snuggle her in bed when she sleeps during the day and I'm getting work done. Some days, it means directly asking if there's something I want her to do, instead of hoping she'll think of it, because I know that she's too tired and she can't think of it.
I don't know. Maybe feeling married isn't a thing. I see friends post about their husbands on facebook and maybe it's the social media halo or maybe healthy hetero relationships are different or maybe I'm just doing this wrong.
But some days, right now, I don't feel married. I'm grateful to see my helpmate realize her calling and love people like Jesus would. But it's not a fairy tale. It's not a romantic comedy.
It's messy, and it's hard, but that's how real love is.
And so this month is a lot for her. We're also moving. I'm in a bit of a transitional time at work. The holidays are coming. We're still working on buying the house (I turned in more documents to the bank this morning! :)). On months like this, when she works so much and life gets so busy, things shift.
I get into a mode of semi-singledom. I have tried to train myself to plan social engagements, to go out to eat by myself, to attend church alone (although I only walk through the doors alone, and then my chosen family is there), to plan meals and housework and laundry differently.
I doubt this has anything to do with us being a same sex couple, really, although the length of time we went without a legally recognized marriage took its toll and may affect me forever on this front. I think it's just part of being a DO wife, or any kind of doctor's wife, though I should write sometime about DO wife life specifically.
I think most of us, as medwives, learn to be alone without being lonely, because if we can't learn to be alone, we just can't BE. That's the cost of loving someone, marrying someone, supporting someone that works nights, weekends, overnights, 30 hour call, etc to keep your spouse, your mother, your child safe and cared for in the hospital. That's the cost of watching my helpmate glow with satisfaction because a family finally got the support they needed, or flush with anger that someone wasn't treated as a human being. But some days, usually about this point in the rotation (most rotations are about a month, so I'm about halfway through), it's hard to really feel married.
If I'm honest, some nights when she is working, I sleep on the couch because it doesn't feel like there is simply too much space there. The cats are more likely to tuck themselves into the bend of my knees or the crook of my arm there and stay snuggled for long periods, as if they know that I am trying not to feel the emptiness next to me that should be my helpmate's warm body.
And I don't feel married in that schmoopy way romantic comedies paint love and marriage. I still feel that I am a helpmate, charged with supporting another human being, but the ways in which I love her are different. It may be as simple as boxing leftover lentils into a lunch-sized, microwave-safe container, and then not getting upset if she forgets to grab them on her way out the door at 6 am. It may be bringing a cat to snuggle her in bed when she sleeps during the day and I'm getting work done. Some days, it means directly asking if there's something I want her to do, instead of hoping she'll think of it, because I know that she's too tired and she can't think of it.
I don't know. Maybe feeling married isn't a thing. I see friends post about their husbands on facebook and maybe it's the social media halo or maybe healthy hetero relationships are different or maybe I'm just doing this wrong.
But some days, right now, I don't feel married. I'm grateful to see my helpmate realize her calling and love people like Jesus would. But it's not a fairy tale. It's not a romantic comedy.
It's messy, and it's hard, but that's how real love is.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Confessions: I Fell Apart Today - Good Thing Rebecca is My Glue
It's been a while since a MI Gay Day post. It's time for another. Today's gay agenda:
6 am-ish - I barely remember, but I think Rebecca kissed me goodbye before leaving for the hospital
7:30 am - I got up, made huevos rancheros and coffee, got dressed, threw on moisturizer and blush, and snuggled my kitties
9:00 am - Called our mortgage agent to check in about our close date and having our credit reports checked. Ended up leaving a voicemail.
9:15 am - Called a leasing office about an apartment. Printed documents to help them verify our income.
10:30 am - Arrived to said leasing office to view apartments. Saw a few units, found one that would work, filled out an application, asked a LOT of questions. Drove home.
1:00 pm - Got home, microwaved something out of the freezer for lunch because I don't want to have to move frozen items. Checked e-mail, got a message asking me to work tomorrow, sent a volley of messages requesting more specifics
2:00 pm - Dropped off a form at our current leasing office, went to the pharmacy, got my flu champ (didn't flinch or fuss), got a call from the mortgage agent letting me know that we're on track to close on time and that having our credit pulled shouldn't be an issue (BEST news all day)
4:00 pm - Came home, was gearing up to make a bunch of phone calls to get the new apartment set when the new leasing office called to let me know that the unit fell through.
I had a meltdown. I lost it. I kept it together enough to stay coherent on the phone, but the leasing agent knew I was having a hard time. They found something else to put on hold for us - it's at a higher price point, which is less than ideal, but I told them to hang onto it for us for now. Once I hung up, I sobbed. Uncontrollably. The kind of sob where you don't make a sound because your face is frozen because you could barely handle the situation and now somehow it is worse and you just don't know how this is going to be okay.
4:35 pm - Rebecca texted to say she was out of work early and headed up. Thank goodness. I sent another message about the work situation I still hadn't heard about.
5:00 pm - Rebecca arrived home. I had another meltdown where I told her how overwhelmed and alone I felt. I explained what happened with the apartments and the new unit and the phone calls and the work situation I still hadn't heard back about. She started going through the to-do list, filled out her part of the rental application, pulled up the floorplan of the backup apartment, reassured me that we could make it work, and asked me what else she could do.
5:45 pm - I started dinner, more things out of the freezer, because if there's any part of a to-do list I CAN get through this week, it's emptying the fridge and freezer of most items, and somehow it's comforting to use things up and save on the grocery budget when I'm feeling vulnerable financially.
7:00 pm - A friend messaged to let me know that she can come help me start packing tomorrow. That's such a relief, as I'm not great at packing and will procrastinate. Anyone else who wants to come help will be hugged about 15 times and fed brownies, coffee, and pantry food. Also baked French toast or huevos rancheros if you're into that.
7:30 pm - After Rebecca agreed, I called someone else about the work situation I still hadn't heard on. She started looking into it, and it became apparent that I wasn't the only one out of the loop, which was both frustrating and comforting.
8:00 pm - I started a batch of homemade brownies, because brownies make any day better and I wanted to finish up some things from the pantry.
9:00 pm - Brownies came out of the oven, the roommies best friend stopped by for dessert, and I got an e-mail canceling the short-notice shift for tomorrow in recognition of the fact that it's a short shift.
10:00 pm - I settled into the couch, got my writing for the day started, and tried to make a list of all the things about the new apartment that will be better than the current one. Silver linings club. And let myself smile radiantly about the news that we're on track to close. And that Rebecca and I are going to have a house. And that somehow this amazing woman knew how broken I am, and where all my cracks are, and (presumably) how many more times I would fall apart, and signed up to put me back together and tell me it will be okay and love me unconditionally.
I'm crying again just thinking about it, but I know we'll be okay, because my brilliant helpmate said so.
6 am-ish - I barely remember, but I think Rebecca kissed me goodbye before leaving for the hospital
7:30 am - I got up, made huevos rancheros and coffee, got dressed, threw on moisturizer and blush, and snuggled my kitties
9:00 am - Called our mortgage agent to check in about our close date and having our credit reports checked. Ended up leaving a voicemail.
9:15 am - Called a leasing office about an apartment. Printed documents to help them verify our income.
10:30 am - Arrived to said leasing office to view apartments. Saw a few units, found one that would work, filled out an application, asked a LOT of questions. Drove home.
1:00 pm - Got home, microwaved something out of the freezer for lunch because I don't want to have to move frozen items. Checked e-mail, got a message asking me to work tomorrow, sent a volley of messages requesting more specifics
2:00 pm - Dropped off a form at our current leasing office, went to the pharmacy, got my flu champ (didn't flinch or fuss), got a call from the mortgage agent letting me know that we're on track to close on time and that having our credit pulled shouldn't be an issue (BEST news all day)
4:00 pm - Came home, was gearing up to make a bunch of phone calls to get the new apartment set when the new leasing office called to let me know that the unit fell through.
I had a meltdown. I lost it. I kept it together enough to stay coherent on the phone, but the leasing agent knew I was having a hard time. They found something else to put on hold for us - it's at a higher price point, which is less than ideal, but I told them to hang onto it for us for now. Once I hung up, I sobbed. Uncontrollably. The kind of sob where you don't make a sound because your face is frozen because you could barely handle the situation and now somehow it is worse and you just don't know how this is going to be okay.
4:35 pm - Rebecca texted to say she was out of work early and headed up. Thank goodness. I sent another message about the work situation I still hadn't heard about.
5:00 pm - Rebecca arrived home. I had another meltdown where I told her how overwhelmed and alone I felt. I explained what happened with the apartments and the new unit and the phone calls and the work situation I still hadn't heard back about. She started going through the to-do list, filled out her part of the rental application, pulled up the floorplan of the backup apartment, reassured me that we could make it work, and asked me what else she could do.
5:45 pm - I started dinner, more things out of the freezer, because if there's any part of a to-do list I CAN get through this week, it's emptying the fridge and freezer of most items, and somehow it's comforting to use things up and save on the grocery budget when I'm feeling vulnerable financially.
7:00 pm - A friend messaged to let me know that she can come help me start packing tomorrow. That's such a relief, as I'm not great at packing and will procrastinate. Anyone else who wants to come help will be hugged about 15 times and fed brownies, coffee, and pantry food. Also baked French toast or huevos rancheros if you're into that.
7:30 pm - After Rebecca agreed, I called someone else about the work situation I still hadn't heard on. She started looking into it, and it became apparent that I wasn't the only one out of the loop, which was both frustrating and comforting.
8:00 pm - I started a batch of homemade brownies, because brownies make any day better and I wanted to finish up some things from the pantry.
9:00 pm - Brownies came out of the oven, the roommies best friend stopped by for dessert, and I got an e-mail canceling the short-notice shift for tomorrow in recognition of the fact that it's a short shift.
10:00 pm - I settled into the couch, got my writing for the day started, and tried to make a list of all the things about the new apartment that will be better than the current one. Silver linings club. And let myself smile radiantly about the news that we're on track to close. And that Rebecca and I are going to have a house. And that somehow this amazing woman knew how broken I am, and where all my cracks are, and (presumably) how many more times I would fall apart, and signed up to put me back together and tell me it will be okay and love me unconditionally.
I'm crying again just thinking about it, but I know we'll be okay, because my brilliant helpmate said so.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
MI Love: Greenacres - All the neighbors will stop by
I mentioned yesterday that we had a meeting with our contractor (Rufino Labra of Labra Design Build, who should really get his own MI Love post at some point, but for now you can visit his website to see his portfolio) to figure out if we can afford to fix the house.
I arrived to our house early and sat on the porch to wait for the realtor - and I decided to wave at cars as they drove past. Most waved back. Some called out hello. Rebecca laughed at me, but I'm pretty sure waving was the right thing to do.
We had a productive meeting; I love watching Fino's problem-solving process. We're still waiting on a couple items from the inspection, but we tentatively have a plan in place to get the house livable, though it will be a few years before it's restored to its former glory. (How long? Part of that depends how many of you volunteer to spend a few Saturdays helping with projects.)
And then our next door neighbor came home as we were leaving and stopped to chat; he said once we close and move in, all the neighbors will stop by to say hello. He acknowledged that high insurance prices are an issue and that there are other challenges, but he also said he wouldn't want to live anywhere else, and after every single visit to Greenacres, we can see why.
Now we have to close.
I arrived to our house early and sat on the porch to wait for the realtor - and I decided to wave at cars as they drove past. Most waved back. Some called out hello. Rebecca laughed at me, but I'm pretty sure waving was the right thing to do.
We had a productive meeting; I love watching Fino's problem-solving process. We're still waiting on a couple items from the inspection, but we tentatively have a plan in place to get the house livable, though it will be a few years before it's restored to its former glory. (How long? Part of that depends how many of you volunteer to spend a few Saturdays helping with projects.)
And then our next door neighbor came home as we were leaving and stopped to chat; he said once we close and move in, all the neighbors will stop by to say hello. He acknowledged that high insurance prices are an issue and that there are other challenges, but he also said he wouldn't want to live anywhere else, and after every single visit to Greenacres, we can see why.
Now we have to close.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
NO sexy "justs" for fixing Detroit: Justice isn't simple & nothing less will do
A few months ago, I posted an article about master plans to revitalize Detroit and concerns about some of them (particularly ones that assume that all homeowners will leave certain neighborhoods - or be pushed out of them). I don't think I could find it now, but the article surprised me less than one of the comments:
"Detroit just needs more community gardens. Then they'll be okay." (Emphasis mine)
No.
Detroit doesn't just need one thing. Community gardens aren't just a thing that can be placed throughout the city as a savior. They are wonderful, and I love them and the people I know who organize them, but they are not enough and they are not simple. No one I know who runs one would argue that. And other than maybe John Hantz, none of them have achieved the mythical financial prosperity promised from them. Not to mention the number of areas of the city where the soil is toxic and remediation would be very resource intensive, the fact that the city has yet to do rezoning to allow even small-scale animal farming (and by the time you get to rezoning, it's definitely not a "just" with the state of city council), or the fact that most people want to pay the same price for sustainably, locally, ethically farmed food as they pay at Walmart --->
Let me repeat: Detroit doesn't just need one thing. They don't just need more downtown development. They don't just need more hipsters or gay people or artists or whatever (read: affluent White people) to gentrify the neighborhoods. The don't just need a Whole Foods, or new stadium, or light rail. I'm not saying these things won't help at all, but these are sexy, cosmetic fixes, none of which individually, and even all of which collectively, will not save the city.
What the city needs is justice. Justice to compensate residents for the redlining, racism, real estate speculation and exploitation, corruption, and other abominations. Justice so that all children in the city receive a quality education and have an empowered local school board that acts in their best interests. Justice such that municipal employees, including police, fire, and teachers, receive living wages, justice so that all neighborhoods are well-covered by these services, justice such that corporate real estate holders pay their share of taxes and utility bills, justice in ending "pay to play" corruption in city contracts. This isn't an exhaustive list, but I hope you see my point.
Justice will work, not because it is a sexy, cosmetic, quick-fix just, but because it is hard and it is the reset that city residents both need and deserve.
And the city can do it, because Detroit hustles harder.
community gardens as the monolithic/unitary/simple savior of the city are a non-starter.
That's been evident to people involved in the city for years, but those recently joining the party/conversation often don't know the complexities - and don't want to be bothered with solutions that would involve giving up their own privilege. Don't mistake me. We should support community gardens as much as possible. I do. I've already purchased my community-supported agriculture share for next summer from a family-run farm in the city. But they alone cannot rescue the city, and we shouldn't ask them to. It is not a just.Let me repeat: Detroit doesn't just need one thing. They don't just need more downtown development. They don't just need more hipsters or gay people or artists or whatever (read: affluent White people) to gentrify the neighborhoods. The don't just need a Whole Foods, or new stadium, or light rail. I'm not saying these things won't help at all, but these are sexy, cosmetic fixes, none of which individually, and even all of which collectively, will not save the city.
What the city needs is justice. Justice to compensate residents for the redlining, racism, real estate speculation and exploitation, corruption, and other abominations. Justice so that all children in the city receive a quality education and have an empowered local school board that acts in their best interests. Justice such that municipal employees, including police, fire, and teachers, receive living wages, justice so that all neighborhoods are well-covered by these services, justice such that corporate real estate holders pay their share of taxes and utility bills, justice in ending "pay to play" corruption in city contracts. This isn't an exhaustive list, but I hope you see my point.
Justice will work, not because it is a sexy, cosmetic, quick-fix just, but because it is hard and it is the reset that city residents both need and deserve.
And the city can do it, because Detroit hustles harder.
Monday, September 28, 2015
Announcement/Confessions: A Big Move
Some of you saw that I re-posted MI Love: Detroit last night with a note that a big announcement is coming.
The TL;DR version is that Rebecca and I are trying to buy a house in Detroit.
We haven't closed yet. We spent the summer with an offer accepted on a lovely German Tudor in the University District only to have it fall through a few weeks ago. Since then, we've been looking at other houses, running numbers, asking each other what's a want and what's a need, and questioning decisions left and right.
Yesterday, our realtor managed to get us into five homes in three different neighborhoods. My in-laws came out to help. And we think we may have found a solid option.
You were promised confessions, and so here they are.
1. We've been working on this since springtime, and I didn't tell you.
A few of you knew, if I've seen you in person or via Facebook chat. I wanted to share our stories, but this journey has made me feel vulnerable in ways I didn't expect. I was afraid of telling what would turn into "five dollar stories" (ones with no real plot or resolution) before I knew the end. I was afraid that too many opinions would muddy my thoughts more than they already were. I was afraid that telling you about disappointments would make me sound ungrateful, when in reality the fact that we're buying a house feels like one of the biggest privileges in the entire world. And on that note . . .
2. I'm gloriously happy and tremendously terrified all at once.
Some of you know that I've wanted to live in the city for years - probably since 2008 or so (these excerpts from our dream jar back that up).
But somewhere along the line, maybe around the time I joined the Club of People to Whom the Unimaginable is Now Imaginable, it started seeming like dreams don't come true. And some don't. But some do if we fight for them. Someone once said something like, "Our biggest fear isn't that we're weak, it's that we're powerful beyond our wildest dreams." The fact that a long-term dream is coming true, that Rebecca and I have been able to make decisions to do this, has filled my heart with joy but also with additional fear - what else can I accomplish after this? what will that struggle look like? what if this doesn't go well? For as hard as the purchase of the house has turned out to be, it's probably the easy part, right?
3. I'm afraid of being seen as a White Savior -
Or coming to think of myself that way. I'm not a hero. I'm not a savior. In a lot of ways, it might be easier to buy a house and spend the rest of my life in a mostly White suburb, but I'm moving to Detroit at least partly for selfish reasons - because I've wanted to for years, because I love the neighborhoods, because the houses are more likely to have sleeping porches and studies and charm, because I'm afraid of being ordinary and of living my life wondering. Those reasons don't deserve accolades. I'm not going to fix or save the city. I'll settle for being part of any number of the initiatives already going on - Georgia St, Faith Farm, Central Detroit Christian CDC, Youthville, the Children's Center, Wayne State, U of D Mercy, Cabrini Clinic, and so many others I don't have time to mention. I'm not moving to a deserted neighborhood to engage in permaculture off the grid (though people do and infinity props to them). I'm not trying to graduate from Detroit Public Schools. I'm not trying to hold onto a house I'm underwater on when my pension has been cut and my house hasn't been re-appraised. Like I said, I'm filled with joy, but I'm not brave.
There's so much more to say, but this is enough for now. I'll try to share more when I know more, and maybe I'll fill you in on the details of this story, now that the plot arc has become slightly clearer (perhaps). Thanks to all who have known and kept this to yourselves, who have encouraged and advised us, who have prayed and sent good vibes. You inspire me.
The TL;DR version is that Rebecca and I are trying to buy a house in Detroit.
We haven't closed yet. We spent the summer with an offer accepted on a lovely German Tudor in the University District only to have it fall through a few weeks ago. Since then, we've been looking at other houses, running numbers, asking each other what's a want and what's a need, and questioning decisions left and right.
Yesterday, our realtor managed to get us into five homes in three different neighborhoods. My in-laws came out to help. And we think we may have found a solid option.
You were promised confessions, and so here they are.
1. We've been working on this since springtime, and I didn't tell you.
A few of you knew, if I've seen you in person or via Facebook chat. I wanted to share our stories, but this journey has made me feel vulnerable in ways I didn't expect. I was afraid of telling what would turn into "five dollar stories" (ones with no real plot or resolution) before I knew the end. I was afraid that too many opinions would muddy my thoughts more than they already were. I was afraid that telling you about disappointments would make me sound ungrateful, when in reality the fact that we're buying a house feels like one of the biggest privileges in the entire world. And on that note . . .
2. I'm gloriously happy and tremendously terrified all at once.
Some of you know that I've wanted to live in the city for years - probably since 2008 or so (these excerpts from our dream jar back that up).
![]() |
These notes are on slips of paper contained in our marriage "dream jar," where we put ideas for things we want to do in our lifetime. I think I started mine in 2008 or so; I'm not sure when Rebecca started hers. Edit: here's how to make a dream jar. |
3. I'm afraid of being seen as a White Savior -
Or coming to think of myself that way. I'm not a hero. I'm not a savior. In a lot of ways, it might be easier to buy a house and spend the rest of my life in a mostly White suburb, but I'm moving to Detroit at least partly for selfish reasons - because I've wanted to for years, because I love the neighborhoods, because the houses are more likely to have sleeping porches and studies and charm, because I'm afraid of being ordinary and of living my life wondering. Those reasons don't deserve accolades. I'm not going to fix or save the city. I'll settle for being part of any number of the initiatives already going on - Georgia St, Faith Farm, Central Detroit Christian CDC, Youthville, the Children's Center, Wayne State, U of D Mercy, Cabrini Clinic, and so many others I don't have time to mention. I'm not moving to a deserted neighborhood to engage in permaculture off the grid (though people do and infinity props to them). I'm not trying to graduate from Detroit Public Schools. I'm not trying to hold onto a house I'm underwater on when my pension has been cut and my house hasn't been re-appraised. Like I said, I'm filled with joy, but I'm not brave.
There's so much more to say, but this is enough for now. I'll try to share more when I know more, and maybe I'll fill you in on the details of this story, now that the plot arc has become slightly clearer (perhaps). Thanks to all who have known and kept this to yourselves, who have encouraged and advised us, who have prayed and sent good vibes. You inspire me.
Friday, September 18, 2015
The Day I Found My Helpmate: 6 Years and a Lifetime Ago
A cotton, coral-colored maxi dress hangs in my closet. I don't wear it much, but I have kept it because it has been affectionately dubbed "the first time dress."
It's the dress I wore the night Rebecca asked me to go with her to medical school, and the night we admitted we were in love, and the night we first kissed. There was no ring, no grand gesture (though coming out is grand enough, as those of you who have done it know), no flight of doves or scatter or rose petals or champagne. I wrote about this last year in http://committinginthemitten.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-last-five-years-minute-and-eternity.html .
This year . . . six years . . . feels different. Maybe because this year, our relationship is fully legally recognized nationwide (except, sort of, in Rowan County, Kentucky - looking at you, Kim Davis). I both can and can't believe it has taken six years for the country to realize what Rebecca and I knew that night: that she is my helpmate.
We struggled to figure out what to call each other. Girlfriend never really worked. Intended? Betrothed? Partner? Partner was closest, and we used it for a long time. After our legal wedding, we started saying wife - I should tell you about people's reactions to that some other time.
But wife still felt like we were appropriating a straight institution that we didn't really believe in as it stands in U.S. culture right now. And people's reactions made it clear that it didn't share our mission.
And I couldn't tell you when, but at some point, I started thinking about the term "helpmate." This word stems from the Adam/Eve story in the Bible, when God creates a suitable helper for Adam. Rebecca and I realized years ago, and I think are realizing more every day, that we are each other's suitable helper. Our relationship is missional. Even before we were a romantic couple, we had goals set (some of you remember the now very defunct Detroit Goat Farm project - I'm ever grateful for the people we met through that).
And maybe, readers, that's why it hurts when I hear people trying to make our relationship all about sex. Or when I hear marriage defined as one man and one woman (typically with a biological restriction based on procreation, as though that is the only way to have a family or be missional). Or even when people say that it doesn't matter who we love or what gender they are, we should be able to get married - because Rebecca and I aren't just lovers.
For the last six years, we've had the joy and struggle of being helpmates. And I continue to believe that a certain segment of society wants to cheapen or invalidate that because they don't support our mission or because they don't know us, rather than because of Scripture. Or put another way, maybe because they're afraid to think about what marriage means if it's not wedding+paperwork+man+woman=matrimony.
Admitting that what we have might be closer to Biblical marriage in many ways than the above equation or a house in the suburbs with a picket fence, 2.5 kids, dog, and middle class income is uncomfortable.
So let me share two recent quotes from Rebecca that have been a reminder of why I love her and of why our marriage is so very important to me (and worth the fight to protect):
After I asked her if we should do something as a favor for a friend, when said thing might be hugely inconvenient:
"Is it what [our friend] really needs right now to be supported?" (It was, and we did it.)
After I told her about a public hearing 45 minutes away (well, more in rush hour) to improve air quality that I thought we should attend to show support for friends and children living in the affected area:
"Yeah, I'm free that night. We should go. I'll get the word out."
Yep. Helpmate.
It's the dress I wore the night Rebecca asked me to go with her to medical school, and the night we admitted we were in love, and the night we first kissed. There was no ring, no grand gesture (though coming out is grand enough, as those of you who have done it know), no flight of doves or scatter or rose petals or champagne. I wrote about this last year in http://committinginthemitten.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-last-five-years-minute-and-eternity.html .
This year . . . six years . . . feels different. Maybe because this year, our relationship is fully legally recognized nationwide (except, sort of, in Rowan County, Kentucky - looking at you, Kim Davis). I both can and can't believe it has taken six years for the country to realize what Rebecca and I knew that night: that she is my helpmate.
We struggled to figure out what to call each other. Girlfriend never really worked. Intended? Betrothed? Partner? Partner was closest, and we used it for a long time. After our legal wedding, we started saying wife - I should tell you about people's reactions to that some other time.
But wife still felt like we were appropriating a straight institution that we didn't really believe in as it stands in U.S. culture right now. And people's reactions made it clear that it didn't share our mission.
And I couldn't tell you when, but at some point, I started thinking about the term "helpmate." This word stems from the Adam/Eve story in the Bible, when God creates a suitable helper for Adam. Rebecca and I realized years ago, and I think are realizing more every day, that we are each other's suitable helper. Our relationship is missional. Even before we were a romantic couple, we had goals set (some of you remember the now very defunct Detroit Goat Farm project - I'm ever grateful for the people we met through that).
And maybe, readers, that's why it hurts when I hear people trying to make our relationship all about sex. Or when I hear marriage defined as one man and one woman (typically with a biological restriction based on procreation, as though that is the only way to have a family or be missional). Or even when people say that it doesn't matter who we love or what gender they are, we should be able to get married - because Rebecca and I aren't just lovers.
For the last six years, we've had the joy and struggle of being helpmates. And I continue to believe that a certain segment of society wants to cheapen or invalidate that because they don't support our mission or because they don't know us, rather than because of Scripture. Or put another way, maybe because they're afraid to think about what marriage means if it's not wedding+paperwork+man+woman=matrimony.
Admitting that what we have might be closer to Biblical marriage in many ways than the above equation or a house in the suburbs with a picket fence, 2.5 kids, dog, and middle class income is uncomfortable.
So let me share two recent quotes from Rebecca that have been a reminder of why I love her and of why our marriage is so very important to me (and worth the fight to protect):
After I asked her if we should do something as a favor for a friend, when said thing might be hugely inconvenient:
"Is it what [our friend] really needs right now to be supported?" (It was, and we did it.)
After I told her about a public hearing 45 minutes away (well, more in rush hour) to improve air quality that I thought we should attend to show support for friends and children living in the affected area:
"Yeah, I'm free that night. We should go. I'll get the word out."
Yep. Helpmate.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Loving unconditionally: loving when you don't understand
I am risk averse in the small things. I don't gamble. I don't drink and drive. I allow extra time between appointments to avoid tardiness. I don't leave my drink unattended at bars (or if I'm honest, coffee shops).
And yet, I don't know that I can say that I am risk averse in the big ones. Coming out was an enormous risk. Tying myself to a med school applicant was an enormous risk. Returning to classroom teaching in any capacity, after the experience I had, was a great risk, as I explain in Love and Risk: Choosing Love When it Hurts.
Writing my blog is a great risk, as I share my heart and story with you (see post Your questions, my answers). There's still a post on self-censorship languishing in my drafts while I debate whether to share it with the world.
Love is risk. Loving unconditionally means sometimes loving when you don't understand. When you don't have all the facts. When things could hurt. When they could end. I'm sure I have hedged in love sometimes. We all have. Maybe more than I should. Maybe less.
But I don't think Jesus or any other people I try to emulate hedged in love. Ever. Didn't He say that "greater love has no one than this, that they lay down their lives for their friends"?
Apostle Paul says he was poured out as a drink offering. Poured out. Drastic picture there. Am I being poured out? Am I investing everything I have in the actualization of the human family?
Maybe a trickle, right now. Maybe a little faster some days. I hope, by the end, that it will be a cascade.
Will you pour out with me?
Maybe a trickle, right now. Maybe a little faster some days. I hope, by the end, that it will be a cascade.
Will you pour out with me?
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
The Best Weatherperson I Know: Ron Hilliard, America's Meteorologist
I know some of my posts lately have been on the heavy side. Life is heavy, but not everything is falling apart. I want to share something I’ve been treasuring lately.
In recent weeks, a very bright spot for me has been watching a friend from back in college pursue his dreams, incrementally but relentlessly. I met Ron Hilliard in a multicultural group and then had the joy of seeing him when we were both studying abroad in Mexico. We've been in and out of touch, but most of the times I've seen him over the last ten years, something has been evident:
He wants to be a meteorologist.
Whether it was studying science, improving his Spanish, working for a local cable station, or attending Specs Howard, his life has persisted in that trend. He has kept his eyes on the prize. And although I have not seen the day-to-day reality, I get the feeling it’s been hard for him, some days very hard. But he persisted in the joy of his goal and of helping others in ways he’s uniquely gifted to.

His story has been on my mind for a while, perhaps because it gives me so much hope for the rest of us. This has taken a long time, and he's done a lot of things that aren't glamorous, and that road might not be over, but it's progress. Couldn't we all keep a story like that in our hearts for a cold day?
I hope you will join me in viewing this show and supporting a native Michigander as he embarks on this journey. You can like his pages on social media and share his work with others.
Funny Or Die Presents America’s Next Weatherman premieres on TBS Saturday, August 8 at 11 p.m. ET/PT. Rated TV-14-DL.
Saturday, August 1, 2015
Confessions: I Can't Handle Regular Public School Teaching, SO In Defense of: K-12 Teachers and Teaching
Teachers and educational policy have been in the news quite frequently lately. I'm sure I see more of it than the average person because I have so many friends who are teachers, but the rest of you must be hearing too about the impending teacher shortage, shrinking wages and benefits, and often deplorable working conditions. Some of you have already spoken about your concerns about Common Core.
Some of you may still believe that teachers unions are deeply problematic - and I'm not claiming they're perfect. Some of you may believe that teachers are overpaid, that their summer breaks justify near-poverty wages, that charter schools should continue paying hourly wages instead of salaries and finding loopholes to deny benefits.
I can't do it. I've gotten feedback from many people at this point that I'm a gifted teacher, and I've been fortunate to go through quite a bit of rigorous training, between my BAs, MA, and employer-based training. I've been educating people for more than 15 years now in some capacity or another, with ages ranging from 3 to grad school.
And I can't handle public school teaching. I think about returning, about finding an alternative path to certification, about getting my hands into an urban classroom. My heart hurts to admit that, as there were parts of public education I deeply love, and part of me will always miss it.
But I like clean facilities. I like bathroom breaks. I like manageable class sizes that don't make my throat raw and ears hurt from ambient noise. I like enough space for all my students, having supplies, making my own schedule. I like some autonomy as long as I keep getting results and act as a professional. I like generally being paid what I'm worth. I hate being micromanaged. And every time I think about returning to full-time work in a public school, I know that I will face these problems. Especially in the schools that are currently hiring (because the shortages will stay in high-need, high-poverty districts).
I don't see any end in sight to these working conditions - in fact, I expect they'll get worse before they get better. I haven't ruled out a return - I'm monitoring the situation and hope someday I'll feel safe applying for positions. I found deep joy in forming relationships with my students - still do. But as I've written before, teaching and loving involve a great risk, and I can't separate the two and still do the good work I take pride in. So I wait. I hope. I pray.
In the meantime, I support pay raises and contracts for teachers (maybe not tenure for life, but at least multi-year agreements with their districts). I support funding to public schools that reduces instead of exacerbating disparities. I encourage proper working conditions and staffing levels for support staff, too.
I have utmost respect for teachers. I wouldn't be who I am without them. I don't blame them for leaving the field in record numbers for a variety of reasons. I will re-assert, though, that I cannot rejoin their ranks right now in the capacity that I feel would do the most good. So I'm doing the second-most good and defending those who do what I can't.
I hope my readers will do the same.
Some of you may still believe that teachers unions are deeply problematic - and I'm not claiming they're perfect. Some of you may believe that teachers are overpaid, that their summer breaks justify near-poverty wages, that charter schools should continue paying hourly wages instead of salaries and finding loopholes to deny benefits.
I flat out disagree. And here's why:
I can't do it. I've gotten feedback from many people at this point that I'm a gifted teacher, and I've been fortunate to go through quite a bit of rigorous training, between my BAs, MA, and employer-based training. I've been educating people for more than 15 years now in some capacity or another, with ages ranging from 3 to grad school.
And I can't handle public school teaching. I think about returning, about finding an alternative path to certification, about getting my hands into an urban classroom. My heart hurts to admit that, as there were parts of public education I deeply love, and part of me will always miss it.
But I like clean facilities. I like bathroom breaks. I like manageable class sizes that don't make my throat raw and ears hurt from ambient noise. I like enough space for all my students, having supplies, making my own schedule. I like some autonomy as long as I keep getting results and act as a professional. I like generally being paid what I'm worth. I hate being micromanaged. And every time I think about returning to full-time work in a public school, I know that I will face these problems. Especially in the schools that are currently hiring (because the shortages will stay in high-need, high-poverty districts).
I don't see any end in sight to these working conditions - in fact, I expect they'll get worse before they get better. I haven't ruled out a return - I'm monitoring the situation and hope someday I'll feel safe applying for positions. I found deep joy in forming relationships with my students - still do. But as I've written before, teaching and loving involve a great risk, and I can't separate the two and still do the good work I take pride in. So I wait. I hope. I pray.
In the meantime, I support pay raises and contracts for teachers (maybe not tenure for life, but at least multi-year agreements with their districts). I support funding to public schools that reduces instead of exacerbating disparities. I encourage proper working conditions and staffing levels for support staff, too.
I have utmost respect for teachers. I wouldn't be who I am without them. I don't blame them for leaving the field in record numbers for a variety of reasons. I will re-assert, though, that I cannot rejoin their ranks right now in the capacity that I feel would do the most good. So I'm doing the second-most good and defending those who do what I can't.
I hope my readers will do the same.
Friday, June 26, 2015
MI Love and MI Joy: Marriage Equality and I Don't Know How to Feel
I don't have to tell you the news - it's been around the world twice already.
But I will, because I can't stop smiling, like pretty much with a dopey-faced grin (and this from someone whose resting face is a smize).
The Supreme Court ruled that I am a person. That I have rights. That my marriage is legal. That my commitment means something. That the state I love, the one in which I grew up, the one in which I live now, will recognize my commitment.
For those of you wondering exactly what this means, I'm not completely sure yet how it will all shake out, but a few clarifications.
Today, I choose to focus on love, joy and equality. And I will share with you a verse that is on my heart:
The fruit of the Holy Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and self control. ~ Galatians 5:22
But I will, because I can't stop smiling, like pretty much with a dopey-faced grin (and this from someone whose resting face is a smize).
The Supreme Court ruled that I am a person. That I have rights. That my marriage is legal. That my commitment means something. That the state I love, the one in which I grew up, the one in which I live now, will recognize my commitment.
For those of you wondering exactly what this means, I'm not completely sure yet how it will all shake out, but a few clarifications.
- Rebecca and I already have a legal marriage certificate, so we don't have to get married again - we'll likely just need to present the California certificate to the Michigan Secretary of State.
- Although I do not have to get married again, I will accept gifts of champagne, cake, luxury sheets and towels, cash, check, and chocolate covered strawberries.
- My taxes, both state and federal, can now be filed as "married!" (For 2014, federal was married but state was single.)
- In terms of changing other documentation with the state of Michigan, I will probably have to wait a few weeks while they retrain Secretary of State employees on the policies that now represent equality and inclusion to a much greater degree.
Today, I choose to focus on love, joy and equality. And I will share with you a verse that is on my heart:
The fruit of the Holy Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and self control. ~ Galatians 5:22
Saturday, June 20, 2015
MI Love: Detroit (childhood edition)
I was blessed to have a mostly happy childhood - we lived in a safe middle class suburb, attended adequate schools, and were never truly short money for necessities. We had many family trips to the zoo, to my grandparents' property Up North, and to visit family in other states.
That said, I think one of my favorite childhood memories is the first time I remember visiting Detroit. My mother worked alternating weekends as a nurse, so my dad was responsible for us then and normally arranged his schedule so that we could be his first priority. One weekend, he absolutely had to go into the office to do work for a few hours on a Saturday. It's the only time I remember that happening. Since there would be no one else there, he took us with him, making sure to bring books and games. I couldn't tell you now how old I was exactly, but I must have been in elementary school.
We weren't terribly upset to have to go the office with him - it was so cool to us that he had access to the parking garage and so many access codes into the building (our dad must be so important!), and we probably would have spent half the morning curled up someplace reading anyway.
But he felt badly, I could tell, because he took us to some of his haunts later, downtown, where we had never been. We had deep dish pizza and then baklava in Greektown (maybe my first time having either), rode the People Mover (yes, pretty useless, but it was my first time on any kind of transit), and then visited Hart Plaza. There was nothing going on there that weekend - I think it was the middle of the winter and pretty desolate, actually - but my dad told us that things happened there, and I remember a sense of importance for that place.
Every time I go to Greektown or past Hart Plaza, I think of that quiet day and of the feeling a born and raised suburbanite had seeing a place where so much history had passed. Hart Plaza and the Riverwalk are much busier now - all of downtown is, in fact. I've had the fortune to come in and out Detroit enough to see foot traffic increase, buildings fill in, rental prices rise - not overnight, not magically, not perfectly. And I hope that many of the people coming in now can still sense the wonder of a place where much has happened, but where things were dormant for a little while and you had to really look to see the beauty. So many people stayed and never stopped seeing it. Some are moving back now. Some are moving from other places, drawn by what I saw that day and so many other aspects of the city.
And I guess that feeling - whatever it was - is the reason that the ruin porn has never overtaken me. Even before I had worked in the city, made friends in the city, I knew in my heart that the naysayers, the ones who insist that Detroit is dangerous, that no one should go there or live there, that it's done or doesn't deserve an art museum or a bailout or anything, they don't know, haven't seen, haven't felt what I have felt. I hope they will one day.
That said, I think one of my favorite childhood memories is the first time I remember visiting Detroit. My mother worked alternating weekends as a nurse, so my dad was responsible for us then and normally arranged his schedule so that we could be his first priority. One weekend, he absolutely had to go into the office to do work for a few hours on a Saturday. It's the only time I remember that happening. Since there would be no one else there, he took us with him, making sure to bring books and games. I couldn't tell you now how old I was exactly, but I must have been in elementary school.
We weren't terribly upset to have to go the office with him - it was so cool to us that he had access to the parking garage and so many access codes into the building (our dad must be so important!), and we probably would have spent half the morning curled up someplace reading anyway.
But he felt badly, I could tell, because he took us to some of his haunts later, downtown, where we had never been. We had deep dish pizza and then baklava in Greektown (maybe my first time having either), rode the People Mover (yes, pretty useless, but it was my first time on any kind of transit), and then visited Hart Plaza. There was nothing going on there that weekend - I think it was the middle of the winter and pretty desolate, actually - but my dad told us that things happened there, and I remember a sense of importance for that place.
Every time I go to Greektown or past Hart Plaza, I think of that quiet day and of the feeling a born and raised suburbanite had seeing a place where so much history had passed. Hart Plaza and the Riverwalk are much busier now - all of downtown is, in fact. I've had the fortune to come in and out Detroit enough to see foot traffic increase, buildings fill in, rental prices rise - not overnight, not magically, not perfectly. And I hope that many of the people coming in now can still sense the wonder of a place where much has happened, but where things were dormant for a little while and you had to really look to see the beauty. So many people stayed and never stopped seeing it. Some are moving back now. Some are moving from other places, drawn by what I saw that day and so many other aspects of the city.
And I guess that feeling - whatever it was - is the reason that the ruin porn has never overtaken me. Even before I had worked in the city, made friends in the city, I knew in my heart that the naysayers, the ones who insist that Detroit is dangerous, that no one should go there or live there, that it's done or doesn't deserve an art museum or a bailout or anything, they don't know, haven't seen, haven't felt what I have felt. I hope they will one day.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
MI Gay Day: On My Marriage, or as some people call it My "Gay Marriage"
I've been married for more than three years now, if you count from our spiritual covenant wedding, not our civil one (then it's just about a year and a half). I'm starting to accept that Rebecca and I don't really count as newlyweds anymore. I'm starting to accept that in some ways, we committed young - after all, I have friends who are single, friends who just got married, and sadly, friends who are now divorced. It seems a lot of sitcom plots are centered around people older than we who are still looking for love.
A lot of people seem to think that the "gay lifestyle" is somehow glamorous, or hedonistic, or promiscuous, or that we use a lot of drugs, or . . . I don't know. As most of you have seen from the MI gay day posts, our life isn't really that glamorous for the most part.
I think some other people may run the opposite way in terms of stereotypes, though. I think they think that our marriage is somehow perfect, that because we're of the same gender, we completely understand each other all the time and couldn't possibly fight or struggle to keep a commitment as big as marriage together. Our life isn't really that perfect for the most part, either.
Today is a pretty good example of the mundane nature of our relationship, so here's a fairly brief MI gay day rundown:
I woke up about 10 am, the perfect time for fabulous gay brunch (yes, we did popularize brunch, so I'm claiming that - you're welcome) and caught up on some e-mail while waiting for Rebecca to wake. She was sleeping on the couch, not because of marital trouble, but because she has some kind of bronchitis or viral pneumonia or something that causes her to have really loud gay hacking fits. The hacking fits are not gay, only her, and sleeping on the couch so I can sleep well is the kind of selfless, loving thing that no one normally gets accolades for. So props to her.
We make gay breakfast - gay eggs (although I doubt the chickens were gay), gay bacon (also doubtful on the pigs), and gay Southern greens (maybe gay, since the idea was stolen from Rose's Fine Food, which seems pretty rainbow to me). I get gay overwhelmed because our gay kitchen is covered with gay dirty dishes because we're both working a LOT right now and no one has time to clean it and there's nowhere to put anything and my gay brunch is getting cold, and as discussed, gay brunch is an important part of my culture. I rant about this problem. Rebecca tries to calm me. She eventually succeeds, and I get the food plated and sit down on our gay IKEA couch (Rebecca assembled this herself after finding it on Craigslist, which seems stereotypically lesbian enough) to eat my breakfast. I'm getting pretty good at poaching eggs.
We snuggle on the couch for a bit and flip through Zillow and some renovation ideas, which some people refer to as a lesbian activity. <<Insert moving van joke here.>> And then a gay friend calls to ask us to meet for gay late lunch. This friend really is gay. For sure. And she's a sweetheart I haven't seen in a while, so we meet up for lunch and board games. Yes, a board game (7 Wonders, if you were curious). Super glamorous. We had a lovely time.
Upon returning to our gay apartment, Rebecca was wiped, so I settled her on the couch and dealt with at least the worst of the dish situation and made her promise, hard core, cross her gay heart, to do laundry tomorrow while I'm at work. I heated up some leftovers for dinner and we watched Alex & Emma, which I suppose as a romantic comedy might have been a bigger point of contention in some straight marriages (there, see, I managed to assign a useful label to heterosexual marriages, "othering" them maybe a little - how you like me now?).
And then Rebecca was still exhausted, so I tucked her into bed, lotioned her face so she'd stop ashing (because I will NOT let her go to work ashing - it's not respectable), rubbed organic vapor rub on her chest, brought her cough syrup, and hit her back with cupped hands as though she were a kid with cystic fibrosis. And then I convinced our older cat Dorian to stay with her for a bit so I could write you all this post. Again, super glamorous. Super subversive. Lots of tearing at the fabric of traditional marriage going on today, folks.
But that's love, really. That's modern marriage. I don't regret committing young - it's meant that I get to share more of my life with my helpmate. I don't really feel the need for my life to always be glamorous, and my everyday tasks are rarely that subversive. Maybe that's why, even after three years, it feels weird when someone refers to "gay marriage," as though it's somehow different for us. Because in the end, I think it's all about choosing love.
A lot of people seem to think that the "gay lifestyle" is somehow glamorous, or hedonistic, or promiscuous, or that we use a lot of drugs, or . . . I don't know. As most of you have seen from the MI gay day posts, our life isn't really that glamorous for the most part.
I think some other people may run the opposite way in terms of stereotypes, though. I think they think that our marriage is somehow perfect, that because we're of the same gender, we completely understand each other all the time and couldn't possibly fight or struggle to keep a commitment as big as marriage together. Our life isn't really that perfect for the most part, either.
Today is a pretty good example of the mundane nature of our relationship, so here's a fairly brief MI gay day rundown:
I woke up about 10 am, the perfect time for fabulous gay brunch (yes, we did popularize brunch, so I'm claiming that - you're welcome) and caught up on some e-mail while waiting for Rebecca to wake. She was sleeping on the couch, not because of marital trouble, but because she has some kind of bronchitis or viral pneumonia or something that causes her to have really loud gay hacking fits. The hacking fits are not gay, only her, and sleeping on the couch so I can sleep well is the kind of selfless, loving thing that no one normally gets accolades for. So props to her.
We make gay breakfast - gay eggs (although I doubt the chickens were gay), gay bacon (also doubtful on the pigs), and gay Southern greens (maybe gay, since the idea was stolen from Rose's Fine Food, which seems pretty rainbow to me). I get gay overwhelmed because our gay kitchen is covered with gay dirty dishes because we're both working a LOT right now and no one has time to clean it and there's nowhere to put anything and my gay brunch is getting cold, and as discussed, gay brunch is an important part of my culture. I rant about this problem. Rebecca tries to calm me. She eventually succeeds, and I get the food plated and sit down on our gay IKEA couch (Rebecca assembled this herself after finding it on Craigslist, which seems stereotypically lesbian enough) to eat my breakfast. I'm getting pretty good at poaching eggs.
We snuggle on the couch for a bit and flip through Zillow and some renovation ideas, which some people refer to as a lesbian activity. <<Insert moving van joke here.>> And then a gay friend calls to ask us to meet for gay late lunch. This friend really is gay. For sure. And she's a sweetheart I haven't seen in a while, so we meet up for lunch and board games. Yes, a board game (7 Wonders, if you were curious). Super glamorous. We had a lovely time.
Upon returning to our gay apartment, Rebecca was wiped, so I settled her on the couch and dealt with at least the worst of the dish situation and made her promise, hard core, cross her gay heart, to do laundry tomorrow while I'm at work. I heated up some leftovers for dinner and we watched Alex & Emma, which I suppose as a romantic comedy might have been a bigger point of contention in some straight marriages (there, see, I managed to assign a useful label to heterosexual marriages, "othering" them maybe a little - how you like me now?).
And then Rebecca was still exhausted, so I tucked her into bed, lotioned her face so she'd stop ashing (because I will NOT let her go to work ashing - it's not respectable), rubbed organic vapor rub on her chest, brought her cough syrup, and hit her back with cupped hands as though she were a kid with cystic fibrosis. And then I convinced our older cat Dorian to stay with her for a bit so I could write you all this post. Again, super glamorous. Super subversive. Lots of tearing at the fabric of traditional marriage going on today, folks.
But that's love, really. That's modern marriage. I don't regret committing young - it's meant that I get to share more of my life with my helpmate. I don't really feel the need for my life to always be glamorous, and my everyday tasks are rarely that subversive. Maybe that's why, even after three years, it feels weird when someone refers to "gay marriage," as though it's somehow different for us. Because in the end, I think it's all about choosing love.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
MI Love: Detroit (also known as "how I'm Jonah")
It's been far too long since my last MI love post. I'm hoping to get out a few more of these in coming weeks. This post contains an extended allusion to the Book of Jonah in the Christian Old Testament. Feel free to check out. It's weird but pretty convicting.
______
I am Jonah. I have been called to Detroit, as he was called to Ninevah, and I have run, only to be swallowed up and re-sent. I completed summer fellowships there twice, once in 2007 and once in 2009, and I felt drawn to Detroit Public Schools (DPS), to bilingual education, to finding a way to cut back on the number of toner shaking dance prayers (Dear God, Please let this toner cartridge be sufficient to finish my copy job so that my students can meet their learning objectives. Amen.), to get more DPS students into college, to see them fed nutritious meals, and so much more. I started my student teaching at an elementary school in Detroit a bright-eyed idealist, thinking that the district emergency financial manager, Robert Bobb, would figure something out. I believed that the round of school closures would stem the hemorrhagic tide of funds and stabilize the remaining schools.
I suffered panic attacks, crying spells, exhaustion, and depression that fall, partially due to an underlying health issue, but very much exacerbated by the daily reality with my children. I had to leave. I thought I was leaving forever, destined to stay in the safe, comfortable suburbs (Tarshish, in the Jonah metaphor). I applied to teach for Kaplan Test Prep, imagining small classes, resources, motivated families.
And then the great fish got me the first time. Upon arriving to the informational interview, I discovered that Kaplan was running a contract in Detroit Public Schools, and they were looking for ACT instructors. I remember thinking, "Well played, God. In a recession, You knew I didn't have other options." And I taught at Western International High three days a week for four months, until it was time to move for grad school. It was still staggering, but I worked with educators who showed me why they stayed. Some of my students cared. (Some didn't.) And I loved the joy of the classroom, though I think I started realizing by then that my role would not be as a full time classroom teacher.
I moved for grad school - by this time, Rebecca and I were together and she was in med school. My MA is more preparation to teach at a university language center than for a K-12 public education setting. In fact, I've never finished my teaching certificate, though I think about it sometimes. My initial plan in my MA was to either teach abroad or at a university, with the thought of working at a refugee development center in the back of my head.
But I graduated into the same recession, again/still. Together, we had chosen Henry Ford Wyandotte for Rebecca's base hospital, with the thought that I would work at Wayne State or U of M. Neither panned out.
I spent that summer as an Americorps volunteer in southwest Detroit (again). This time, I ended up working with an organization affiliated with the Education Achievement Authority (EAA) as the EAA took over a DPS building that had been identified as failing. I also applied, at that point, to start doing test prep again, this time for GRE, and I began preparing an application for Ph.D. programs in higher education administration.
I was running to Tarshish again. After the recession, the Ph.D. I'd chosen was hedging my bets. I had the perfect essay, but the truth is that I wanted insurance against unemployment, possibly a chance to gain power and prestige (with mostly good intentions), a formal process to follow. I missed East Lansing and academia. Wyandotte was hard on us, for many reasons (those of you who read regularly may have started sequencing this timeline).
So I was accepted, and we left, really without great indication that it was right for me. I wasn't funded until shortly before school started, and even then, not fully. We loved being back at our church in Lansing, but my work wasn't right for me, and Rebecca missed the Henry Ford system. As I took my classes and met people in my program who were amazing, dedicated, brilliant, and with so much experience, more experience than I had, more passion for their research, I was glad that I knew them, but I knew I didn't belong, at least not yet.
It was devastating. I had seen myself as an academic and craved the legitimacy and stability I thought my degree would confer. For financial and insurance reasons, I ended up staying in my program, needing to keep up my GPA, after we had concluded that we'd be relocating to the Detroit area so that Rebecca could do her residency at Ford.
I feel like that semester was bathed in tears of uncertainty, fear, questions, but also knowledge that I was moving closer to what I'm meant to. I spent the summer teaching partnerships at universities as much as possible, including one with pre-public health students who, make no mistake, are going to change the world once they finish grad school. I'm a little bit in awe of their commitment and ambition, and of the fact that the help I offered in test prep strategies will someday be a tiny period in one little chapter of their amazing life stories.
I spent a good chunk of this past school year in a United Way partnership while Rebecca works out of Henry Ford in Harbortown and the New Center. We're still figuring out what we'll do long term, but I'm beginning to accept that my call might not be what I thought and that my five year plan might not be as useful as I thought.
And while we refer fondly to a dream of moving to Montreal, where our family would be legally recognized, Rebecca could be faculty at McGill, our children could go on walking field trips throughout the city, and I could be educational staff at the biodome (hey, it's a dream, it doesn't actually have to be feasible), we can see that's too far off to plan for. It might be Tarshish, or it might be the next place after Ninevah.
Detroit is not an easy place. But there's a sense of belonging there, that we are all neighbors, that we're in it together to have a blessed day, we hope more blessed because we're all making do and making better. That's not a place to run from. I don't know how I fit in. I don't know how I bless people who in most cases have been a bigger blessing to so many than I can fathom. But I'm called to something, and I'm done marking time, saying I'll do it when I have my life together or Rebecca's residency is over or when I'm finally sure I'm never going back to grad school. I want my hands and feet to be dirty, like Jesus' must have been. I'm done running from my calling and ready to run into Jesus' arms.
Will you join me?
______
I am Jonah. I have been called to Detroit, as he was called to Ninevah, and I have run, only to be swallowed up and re-sent. I completed summer fellowships there twice, once in 2007 and once in 2009, and I felt drawn to Detroit Public Schools (DPS), to bilingual education, to finding a way to cut back on the number of toner shaking dance prayers (Dear God, Please let this toner cartridge be sufficient to finish my copy job so that my students can meet their learning objectives. Amen.), to get more DPS students into college, to see them fed nutritious meals, and so much more. I started my student teaching at an elementary school in Detroit a bright-eyed idealist, thinking that the district emergency financial manager, Robert Bobb, would figure something out. I believed that the round of school closures would stem the hemorrhagic tide of funds and stabilize the remaining schools.
I suffered panic attacks, crying spells, exhaustion, and depression that fall, partially due to an underlying health issue, but very much exacerbated by the daily reality with my children. I had to leave. I thought I was leaving forever, destined to stay in the safe, comfortable suburbs (Tarshish, in the Jonah metaphor). I applied to teach for Kaplan Test Prep, imagining small classes, resources, motivated families.
And then the great fish got me the first time. Upon arriving to the informational interview, I discovered that Kaplan was running a contract in Detroit Public Schools, and they were looking for ACT instructors. I remember thinking, "Well played, God. In a recession, You knew I didn't have other options." And I taught at Western International High three days a week for four months, until it was time to move for grad school. It was still staggering, but I worked with educators who showed me why they stayed. Some of my students cared. (Some didn't.) And I loved the joy of the classroom, though I think I started realizing by then that my role would not be as a full time classroom teacher.
I moved for grad school - by this time, Rebecca and I were together and she was in med school. My MA is more preparation to teach at a university language center than for a K-12 public education setting. In fact, I've never finished my teaching certificate, though I think about it sometimes. My initial plan in my MA was to either teach abroad or at a university, with the thought of working at a refugee development center in the back of my head.
But I graduated into the same recession, again/still. Together, we had chosen Henry Ford Wyandotte for Rebecca's base hospital, with the thought that I would work at Wayne State or U of M. Neither panned out.
I spent that summer as an Americorps volunteer in southwest Detroit (again). This time, I ended up working with an organization affiliated with the Education Achievement Authority (EAA) as the EAA took over a DPS building that had been identified as failing. I also applied, at that point, to start doing test prep again, this time for GRE, and I began preparing an application for Ph.D. programs in higher education administration.
I was running to Tarshish again. After the recession, the Ph.D. I'd chosen was hedging my bets. I had the perfect essay, but the truth is that I wanted insurance against unemployment, possibly a chance to gain power and prestige (with mostly good intentions), a formal process to follow. I missed East Lansing and academia. Wyandotte was hard on us, for many reasons (those of you who read regularly may have started sequencing this timeline).
So I was accepted, and we left, really without great indication that it was right for me. I wasn't funded until shortly before school started, and even then, not fully. We loved being back at our church in Lansing, but my work wasn't right for me, and Rebecca missed the Henry Ford system. As I took my classes and met people in my program who were amazing, dedicated, brilliant, and with so much experience, more experience than I had, more passion for their research, I was glad that I knew them, but I knew I didn't belong, at least not yet.
It was devastating. I had seen myself as an academic and craved the legitimacy and stability I thought my degree would confer. For financial and insurance reasons, I ended up staying in my program, needing to keep up my GPA, after we had concluded that we'd be relocating to the Detroit area so that Rebecca could do her residency at Ford.
I feel like that semester was bathed in tears of uncertainty, fear, questions, but also knowledge that I was moving closer to what I'm meant to. I spent the summer teaching partnerships at universities as much as possible, including one with pre-public health students who, make no mistake, are going to change the world once they finish grad school. I'm a little bit in awe of their commitment and ambition, and of the fact that the help I offered in test prep strategies will someday be a tiny period in one little chapter of their amazing life stories.
I spent a good chunk of this past school year in a United Way partnership while Rebecca works out of Henry Ford in Harbortown and the New Center. We're still figuring out what we'll do long term, but I'm beginning to accept that my call might not be what I thought and that my five year plan might not be as useful as I thought.
And while we refer fondly to a dream of moving to Montreal, where our family would be legally recognized, Rebecca could be faculty at McGill, our children could go on walking field trips throughout the city, and I could be educational staff at the biodome (hey, it's a dream, it doesn't actually have to be feasible), we can see that's too far off to plan for. It might be Tarshish, or it might be the next place after Ninevah.
Detroit is not an easy place. But there's a sense of belonging there, that we are all neighbors, that we're in it together to have a blessed day, we hope more blessed because we're all making do and making better. That's not a place to run from. I don't know how I fit in. I don't know how I bless people who in most cases have been a bigger blessing to so many than I can fathom. But I'm called to something, and I'm done marking time, saying I'll do it when I have my life together or Rebecca's residency is over or when I'm finally sure I'm never going back to grad school. I want my hands and feet to be dirty, like Jesus' must have been. I'm done running from my calling and ready to run into Jesus' arms.
Will you join me?
Labels:
gay agenda,
human rights,
joy,
lifestyle,
MI love,
travels
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
MI Love/Hate: Winter
I have been a very bad blogger lately. Or really, I just haven't. I apologize to any readers who might have been saddened by my lack of posts. I've been working pretty crazy hours trying to get all of my students ready for their upcoming ACT (plus a couple preparing for the GRE). The last several days have been prioritizing/survival mode.
But I have a moment now, and I want to share with you something that probably won't surprise most of the Michiganders.
I have a love/hate relationship with winter. As someone with a pretty significant case of Seasonal Affective Disorder (where shorter days and lack of sunlight cause mood changes), fall and winter are seasons I dread. However, this year I'm taking a vitamin D supplement, and it has really helped with that. Feeling better in that area has allowed me to reflect on my other feelings about winter.
I love falling snow - if I don't have to be out in it, or even if I'm not going very far in the car. I love the fat, lazy snowflakes, and even the clustered, chunky ones that seems to coat the air with their heaviness. I even love the snow showers and dustings - lately I've found a certain amount of pleasure in my gut feelings about what type of snow we'll have and how much. I find it zen to stare off into them and appreciate how they will cover the greyness and muck in a blanket of soft purity, at least for a few hours. I like the cooler nights where I can sleep with a mountain of blankets and a cat behind my knees without overheating. Sometimes I even like the days that are cool or cold but sunny; something about the juxtaposition pleases me.
And then there are days. I hate driving in snow. Michiganders should know better how to manage slippery roads. They just don't, and Detroit drivers aren't great to begin with (although many of you will say that Boston or DC is worse, those places have reasonable mass transit that offers an alternative, and as such are disqualified). I hate the muck that comes when we haven't had new snow to cover it, and the ice that causes so many of us to slip awkwardly. I hate the days when the wind sears or the temperatures are so low that no matter how well I dress for the weather, the air burns my nose, throat, and lungs. I hate the gloominess, being stuck inside so much, and worrying that my checks will be reduced because of snow cancellations.
In the end, I am mostly thankful for winter. It reminds me that I have strength, and it gives me something to look forward to. In a month or so, my spring bulbs will (hopefully) start to poke their ways out of my patio pots, the sun will come out more often, and the air will freshen up. It will be April before I know it, a time to scheme to visit the Horticultural Gardens at MSU, the Detroit Zoo, even just the tiny park up the street from my apartment. Soon, and very soon, it will be time for asparagus and spring greens, followed by strawberries and then a whole host of other fruits and vegetables. And maybe even an announcement that my marriage does count, after all, in the state my heart belongs to.
But I have a moment now, and I want to share with you something that probably won't surprise most of the Michiganders.
I have a love/hate relationship with winter. As someone with a pretty significant case of Seasonal Affective Disorder (where shorter days and lack of sunlight cause mood changes), fall and winter are seasons I dread. However, this year I'm taking a vitamin D supplement, and it has really helped with that. Feeling better in that area has allowed me to reflect on my other feelings about winter.
I love falling snow - if I don't have to be out in it, or even if I'm not going very far in the car. I love the fat, lazy snowflakes, and even the clustered, chunky ones that seems to coat the air with their heaviness. I even love the snow showers and dustings - lately I've found a certain amount of pleasure in my gut feelings about what type of snow we'll have and how much. I find it zen to stare off into them and appreciate how they will cover the greyness and muck in a blanket of soft purity, at least for a few hours. I like the cooler nights where I can sleep with a mountain of blankets and a cat behind my knees without overheating. Sometimes I even like the days that are cool or cold but sunny; something about the juxtaposition pleases me.
And then there are days. I hate driving in snow. Michiganders should know better how to manage slippery roads. They just don't, and Detroit drivers aren't great to begin with (although many of you will say that Boston or DC is worse, those places have reasonable mass transit that offers an alternative, and as such are disqualified). I hate the muck that comes when we haven't had new snow to cover it, and the ice that causes so many of us to slip awkwardly. I hate the days when the wind sears or the temperatures are so low that no matter how well I dress for the weather, the air burns my nose, throat, and lungs. I hate the gloominess, being stuck inside so much, and worrying that my checks will be reduced because of snow cancellations.
In the end, I am mostly thankful for winter. It reminds me that I have strength, and it gives me something to look forward to. In a month or so, my spring bulbs will (hopefully) start to poke their ways out of my patio pots, the sun will come out more often, and the air will freshen up. It will be April before I know it, a time to scheme to visit the Horticultural Gardens at MSU, the Detroit Zoo, even just the tiny park up the street from my apartment. Soon, and very soon, it will be time for asparagus and spring greens, followed by strawberries and then a whole host of other fruits and vegetables. And maybe even an announcement that my marriage does count, after all, in the state my heart belongs to.
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