Guest Post: The Tale of Three Wishes

The Tale of Three Wishes:
A Baccalaureate Speech 
by Samantha Thompson

Once upon a time, a long time ago, when my cheeks were far chubbier and I was about three feet shorter, my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Gromer, gathered us around to read a story - and stories were my favorite. The class grew quiet as Mrs. Gromer's voice began to bring the words to life -

A woodcutter is granted three wishes. He rushes home to his wife. While eating their meager soup, she wishes she had a sausage. And a sausage appears! Angry at this waste of a wish, the woodcutter wishes the sausage would stick to her nose. And it does! They pull and prod and tug, but no use. They must use their third and final wish to return their life to what it was before.

The class erupted in moans of disapproval. “What a ridiculous story!” I thought, "If I could wish for anything, I'd FIRST wish for more wishes! Then I’d wish to be a ballerina."

Fast forward to the summer after I completed second grade, in the chilly ice cream shop on the corner of our street. My dad told me something I just couldn't believe - we were moving. Moving away from Bloomington, Indiana; away from my school and my neighborhood with the creek where we’d catch crawdads; away from my best friend; away from my home. It was the first time I had ever seen my dad cry, making me cry big crocodile tears. Deep down in my heart I wished; I wished that we didn’t have to move away from everything I loved. It seemed like a fair wish to make, but it didn’t come true, and we moved to Louisville, Kentucky, where I started third grade at Christian Academy, so no, I am not, in fact, a lifer to many people's surprise.

My third grade year quickly flew by, and I joined the Southeast softball league. Full of athleticism, style and poise...

...my coach, Kelly Brown, wisely positioned me in right field where no balls were hit - ever. Oh, but I wanted to play infield! That’s where the action was. I wished and wished that I’d turn into a superstar first baseman. That wish didn’t come true either, but after hours and hours of practice with my dad, Coach Brown gave me a chance, and for that I am grateful.

In fourth grade I got a little lackadaisical in Bible memorization, and consequently failed three Bible tests. You could call it a bad case of 4th grade-itis. 

I had made it my life’s wish to keep up with Katie Amin academically (impossible, I know, but wishes are supposed to be magical) but now I was facing an impending C and possible loss of Graeters ice cream. I wished Mrs. Webb would give me extra credit, or give me a do-over, or something! There was nothing wrong in wishing for an honor roll certificate, after all. But wish as I might, that C stuck, and I had to spend the next seven years learning how to study, pay attention, and actually memorize those Bible verses.

In middle school, my wishes turned into prayers. Although now I know that God isn’t some sort of fairy Godparent, I believed then that if I disguised my wishes as prayers, it would have some extra oomph.  

Dear God, please let me pass this test. Dear God, please let me hit a home run even though I didn’t practice all week. Dear God, please let me get an A on this monster of a paper for Mrs. Rogers. 

Now I just wish that no poor child would be sentenced to the complete awkwardness that is middle school.

On to Freshman year - I wish I had paid attention while reading Animal Farm. Sorry, Mr. Rice.

Sophomore year - I wish art class was all day instead of just one period.

Junior year - I wish I hadn't used passive voice in that paper for Mrs. Case.

Senior year - I really wish I didn’t have to stand up here and give this speech. 

But now, as we come to the end of all we’ve ever known, and the beginning of our future, there are so many things I want to wish. And yet I know that sometimes the real magic happens when our wishes don't come true.

I wish I could hold on to the people that have become so dear to me through the years upon years at CAL. But I know that God will scatter us into the world to meet new people, love all people, and share just some of the lesson we learned here. 

I wish things would never have to change. But I know that God can be the change through us, and that every new experience or person we encounter along the way will bring us closer to Him.

I wish all our dreams would come true. But I know the plans God has for us will be even better than we could ask or imagine, so I pray that we keep our hearts and our passions open to His call, wherever it may lead.

And finally, as we take on this next stage of our lives, I wish for more wishes, and that you all will keep wishing, too.

Firsts and Lasts: Thoughts on winning the teacher lottery

Tomorrow is my daughter's last day of high school. It's a bit mind-jolting because I still remember her first day of kindergarten so vividly. She waited to board that big yellow bus with her best friend, Jillian (they are still the best of friends, despite moving states away from each other in third grade, and are planning a mission trip together this summer), clutching roses for her teacher. Mrs. Gromer, who stood all of 4'6" tall, and who through movement, dance, story and song made learning the best kind of fun.

First day of Kindergarten. I swear this just happened yesterday.
YESTERDAY.

From the beginning, relationships proved centerpiece to learning. In first grade we needed to arrive at school 15 minutes early so Sam could hug no fewer than 11 teachers and staff members, culminating with her beloved teacher, Mrs. White, who didn't bat an eye when Sam stood, jiggled and swayed while doing her seat work.

Phonics gave her fits in 2nd grade, as it became apparent she had difficulty with auditory processing. Mrs. Spurlock encouraged my visual learner to improve her reading by illustrating the sounds. "Don't worry, she loves stories. When it clicks, it'll click big."

It clicked in third grade with books by Lemony Snicket and encouragement from Mrs. Antle. "She's definitely an out of the box thinker," confirmed her teacher.

In fact, let's PAINT the box
and turn it into a Viking ship!
KUNA 2016

She was a little nervous about Mrs.Webb for fourth, as she had heard rumors she was tough. And she was tough, the best sort of tough - the kind of tough that taught her artsy brain how to study and organize, while at the same time nourishing her love of stories and missions. Fifth grade sparked a delight in music with Mrs. Cabal, who sang her class through the curriculum.

Middle school was awash in challenging, encouraging teachers who helped grow her up in wisdom, stature and favor with God and man. Homeroom with Mrs. Crawford, who encouraged her interest in Spanish, Hispanic culture, and breakfast treats. Mrs. MacDonald, who taught my skinny, lanky girl to play the giant double bass like a boss. And what joy when the school changed the scheduling to allow students to take both art AND orchestra. Art with Mrs. Davis EVERY DAY? Please and thank you!

Her high school teachers continued to nurture her creativity, passion, and desire for class t-shirts that were on point (thanks, Mrs. Wiley). Hanging out int the art room until past midnight with Mrs. Cusick, ostensibly finishing her AP portfolio; arguing the nuances of history and government with Mr. Ashcraft; discovering the perverse pleasure of rewriting again and again until the essay sparked with je ne sais quoi with Mrs. Hubbard, Mrs. Case and Mr. Rice. She even survived AP biology and honors calculus thanks to the patient, precise guidance of teachers like Mrs. Sitlinger, Mrs. Riley, Mr. Neyhardt and Mrs. Wilson.

T-shirt logo for the spiritual retreat conference,
the designing of which took considerable priority
over mundane issues like homework.

Mid-way through junior year I needed something from her locker. "I don't use my locker," she said, as if I had suggested something ridiculous. Rather, she camped out in J-Hubb's room like some sort of miniature graduate assistant.

It is these teachers who challenged her, respected her ideas, treated her like a friend, that clarified what she wanted in a college - a place where professors and students dialogue complex issues over dinner. That's what she had come to know, come to love. It is not lost on me that Sam won the teacher lottery, and for that I am forever grateful.

"When you study great teachers...you will learn much more from their caring and hard work than from their style." - William Glasser

"...The great teacher inspires." - William Arthur Ward

Senior Awards

Last night was my daughter's senior awards ceremony. This event, along with senior softball night last week, marks the beginning of a whirlwind of events commemorating the end of LIFE AS WE KNOW IT and the beginning of THE FUTURE.

I love the recognition of hard work and talent at these award ceremonies. Many of these seniors I knew in elementary school. Many came to talk to me about big feelings or difficult circumstances or friendship dilemmas, so it was especially thrilling to hear their names called for outstanding achievement in academics, the arts, athletics; to applaud for scholarship offers and special commendations. I'm so proud of their effort, thrilled for their giftedness, excited for this next leg of their journey.

But I always find myself a bit conflicted at these awards nights. I find myself thinking of the awards we don't give, the categories that are missing. What about her? I wondered. Do they know how polite she is? She ALWAYS says please and excuse me and she ALWAYS writes thank you notes. For everything. Who does that anymore? Why isn't there a So Polite award? And him. Do they know how friendly he is? Anytime a kid is feeling down and needs a pick-me-up, I know he'll give him a smile. Why isn't there a So Friendly award? And her. She is so brave. She's terrified of public speaking, for good reason, but she stood in front of her peers last month and told her story to the entire class. Why isn't there a So Brave award? And him. He doesn't abide bullying in any form. Anyone acts mean to anyone in his presence better stand down. Why isn't there a So Compassionate award? And that kid. He drives teachers crazy arguing, but it's because he wants to delve deeper into the material, to consider every angle and explore every nuance. Maybe we need a But What About...? award.

These awards ceremonies are already HOURS LONG, so I know that's not tenable. But I think it all the same.

The skills we award are just a small sliver of what's most important. The fastest earns medals and  rightly so, but the uncoordinated kid who guts it out giving everything he has to finish wins with perseverance. The smartest earns scholarships and honor rolls, rightly so, but the child with learning differences who studies late into the night to eek out a C wins at determination. 

I see you, Samantha Thompson!
Second grade hugging award!

Seniors, I am proud of you. I am proud of your awards and your scholarships and your commendations, but I am even prouder of your character, your heart, your passion. I see you - I see your bravery and your determination and your humor and your creativity and your argumentativeness. I see your kindness and your generosity and your mercy. You are valuable and worthy and bursting with talent. Continue being exactly who God created you to be. Outstanding!

I Am a Fool

This is the first time I've publicly told this story. It's a difficult story to relive.

When I was a newby counselor a teenager who was loosely connected with the church through Young Life came to talk to me. His girlfriend had just broken up with him, and he was distraught. After some minutes of conversation I knew we needed to work through a suicide risk assessment:

• Are you thinking of hurting yourself? "Sometimes. I don't want to hurt anymore."
• How long/often have you thought of not hurting anymore? "Just since the breakup. And once freshman year when I was getting bullied. Not everyday. Just sometimes. I'm just so mad! Why'd she leave me?"
• Do you have a plan to hurt yourself? "Not really. My dad has some decorative swords that are really cool, but that might hurt. I'd probably use a gun. It'd be fast."
• Now my stomach is in knots but I'm trying to stay calm and supportive. Do you have access to a gun? "Sure. We have guns in the house."

I had a bad, bad feeling. I wrote a suicide contract, and he signed it and agreed not to hurt himself or others. He agreed to call me if he started thinking of hurting himself. He agreed to let me call his dad to pick him up. He did not want to go to the hospital and he was adamant against me calling the police. "I'm not going to do anything. I promise. I feel better just talking it out. I'll call you if I start to feel bad again."

I had a quick but serious conversation with his dad. His dad assured me he'd watch him, that he'd call a psychiatrist in the morning, that he had the guns put away.

We talked several times on the phone during the next week. He was doing better, he said. Getting over the girl. "Don't worry. I'm fine."

One week after our last conversation, after a Friday night football game during which he and the girl had an argument, he shot himself.

My boss and I offered crisis counseling to his Young Life group. We supported his dad through the funeral and its aftermath.

And I decided that so long as I had children in my home I would never, ever have a gun.

I have been called an "absolute fool" for supporting research into determining effective ways to reduce gun violence. I have been told to walk around "bad" parts of town and "see what happens". (I am not sure if my Christian brothers and sisters who are gun advocates are trying to wish me harm, but the fact is I used to work as a referral therapist for child protective services, and spent a considerable amount of time in "bad" parts of town, always unarmed.) I have been told to move to other countries where they have gun control and "see how I like it". (I am sure that I would like it fine. Other countries have their own issues, of course, but they also have far less gun violence. But that's not where God has called me to live just now. I try to bloom where I am planted.)

I understand the fear and paranoia behind this pro-gun defensiveness. Fear can easily hijack all rational thought. But the truth is, for every one self-defense shooting there are 22 accidental or suicidal or domestic violence shootings (Kellerman, Journal of Trauma, Injury, Infection and Critical Care; US Centers of Disease Control and Prevention.) Combat veterans belie the NRA mantra about "good guys" with guns; arguing that without serious discipline and training (see below), good guys would have absolutely no idea what to do in an active shooter situation. Gun violence, rather, is often the result of opportunistic and impulsive rage directed toward someone the shooter knows, and women and children are disproportionately the victims. When children successfully commit suicide, it is most likely via a gun in their home or their friend's home. The greater threat, the greater fear, is having an unsecured gun in one's home.

I also understand the second amendment. I am not "anti-gun". But I believe it is crucial for us as Americans, us as parents, us as world citizens to effectively define and implement the term "well-regulated militia." Well-regulated means disciplined. Disciplined indicates a high level of training, control, accountability and safety. 

Maybe I am an absolute fool. But God uses the foolish things of this world to shame the wise, and I pray that is the case with me. And isn't it time we move beyond character assassinations and partisan, binary thinking? Isn't it time to dig deep and do the hard work of researching just how to implement well-regulated ways to protect our children?

I don't believe this is the job of the left or the right, of the president or of Congress - they are all too entrenched with gun lobby money. This is the job of moms and dads being just foolish enough to believe that we can change the world for our children. 

Hoodlums of History

In sixth grade I got a D in social studies. Mostly because I was a brat, copping an attitude to hide my insecurities. “Who cares about what people did 150 years ago in Russia?” Eye roll. Cutting off my nose to spite my face, though, because secretly I found the stories of the serfs and their emancipation fascinating. I think my teacher suspected. She gave me a journal and a book. Anne Frank, Diary of a Young Girl. She also slipped me newspaper accounts and letters from that same time period. Some from the pro-German point of view, some from the Resistance. I fell for it hook, line and sinker.

By eighth grade I had unwittingly won several history awards. I had also come to the realization that history often depended upon the viewpoint of the historian. And to that point, so did current events. It has long been fascinating to me that many of the heroes we now revere were once upon a time branded as hoodlums, criminals, traitors, even terrorists.

Nelson Mandela was connected with the South African communist party. He was also convicted of terrorism in 1963. At his trial he freely admitted that he planned sabotage against the apartheid government. “I planned it as a result of a calm and sober assessment of the political situation.” The Reagan administration followed the lead of the South African government in naming the African National Congress a terrorist group. Eventually the U.S. did pass economic sanctions against the apartheid regime, which played a role in its demise, but as late as 2008 the Nobel Peace Prize winner was on the U.S. terrorism watch list, which required Mandela to get special State Department clearance to visit. “It’s frankly a rather embarrassing matter,” Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice said at the time.

From 1957 until his assassination Martin Luther King Jr. was under constant surveillance by the FBI. The state treated MLK as a threat to peace, and many newspaper accounts branded him a dangerous agitator and an enemy to the United States. In 1999 the family of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. won a civil trial that found U.S. government agencies guilty of the wrongful death of King. Although adamantly nonviolent, using the definition of terrorism as “the unauthorized use of intimidation in the pursuit of political aims”, it seems clear King’s preaching, resisting and lawbreaking would have earned him the label. “Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.”

After his family was murdered, Geronimo fought against the U.S. army for 28 years, from 1858 to 1886. Often his small band was outnumbered 10 to 1. He and his 24 men ultimately surrendered to an army force of 5,000 soldiers and thousands of civilians. He and the members of his band were convicted as terrorists and sentenced to prison at Fort Marion, Florida. Geronimo was later released and became a national celebrity. His name rings as a clarion cry for freedom fighters even today. “There is one God looking down on us all. We are all the children of one God. The sun, the darkness, the winds are all listening to what we have to say.”

Harriet Tubman stole property worth millions across the United States and inspired others to follow in her path. Although she never advocated violence, she carried a revolver and was not afraid to use it. She also aided abolitionist John Brown and supported his goals of armed resistance. She helped him recruit men for his armed slave revolt in which he attempted to seize a United States arsenal at Harper’s Ferry. Brown was convicted of treason and hanged. Tubman praised him, writing, “He done more in dying than 100 men would in living.”

The legitimate government of the American colonies in the 1770’s was Great Britain. The Patriot movement was treasonous - a capital offense. George Washington led thousands into violence against Great Britain with the purpose of intimidating Great Britain into conceding to American demands. “The time is near at hand which must determine whether Americans are to be free men or slaves.”

Jesus called for an entirely new government - one “not of this world”. Although he spoke of nonviolence (beating swords into plowshares), he also single-handedly wrecked the commercial center of the Jewish temple and announced his plan to destroy the temple before rebuilding it under his command. Roman and Jewish leaders took his threats seriously and had him executed. “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

Men and women throughout history have been impelled to break the laws of corrupt and discriminatory regimes in pursuit of their natural, God-given right to life, liberty and justice. In every season those dispossessed of power and oppressed of their rights to freedom must determine if they are willing to push against the status quo in their long walk to freedom. And while they may be dismissed as hoodlums, criminals, hate mongers in the moment by their oppressors, the moral arc of the universe bends toward revealing the truth of their heroic fight. On whose side of history will you stand?

The Meanest Generation

On Thursday, June 18, the day after the shootings at Emanuel AME church, I attended a seminar with Malcolm Smith titled "The Meanest Generation: Teaching Empathy and Compassion to Defeat Bullying." Teaching empathy and reducing bullying is a big part of my job as an elementary guidance counselor, and I was excited to hear what the director of Courage to Care had to say.

The date of the seminar is significant because Dr. Smith is  on a crisis team that responds to mass shootings, and has done considerable research on school shooters. So while he was in Louisville for this conference, he had been on the phone all night with the crisis care first responders. And when he spoke with us, a roomful of Kentucky educators, at 8:30 the next morning, his exhortation that we STOP THE HATE by instilling compassion in our students reached fever pitch.

He shared his own story of being victimized by bullies - of being moved from a caring, one-room schoolhouse in walking distance of his ranch to a consolidated school 90 minutes away as a sophomore and being beaten and bloodied by the school's seniors while teachers shrugged it off as a rite of passage. He shared his story of being labeled as a special education kid (because he had given up) and of the merciless teasing the SPED kids endured. He shared his story of the one friend who believed in him, stood up for him, and, unbeknownst to him, completed the application and wrote the essay that got him into college. Where he became a special education teacher and then a professor of education so that kids under his influence would never endure what he had endured.

We discussed the definition of bullying:
1. Intent to harm.
2. Interferes with one's civil rights. (We discussed this in the context of the right to an education free from fear, but there was additional post-seminar discussion about what characterizes civil rights in America.)
3. Imbalance of power.

This is the same definition of bullying we use at our school. Understanding the definition - knowing what is and is not bullying - helps us to know how to discipline. Is the kid sitting next to you who WON'T STOP making faces and annoying noises bullying you or is he socially immature?* Are the girls who won't let you play at recess unless you wear a particular brand of headband bullying you or are they just being fashion-conscious girly-girls?**

The imbalance of power element drew a lot of discussion. The power may be real or perceived, and may involve gender, culture, race, social class, etcetera.

The seminar and discussions meshed beautifully with the connection, compassion, safety and discipline (teaching not punishment) that we continue to refine and attempt to implement at school.

But it also tagged into conversations and articles and tweets and Facebook posts that have popped up over the last week and a half. What is free speech versus hate speech? Is the Confederate flag a symbol of heritage or hate? Are we "speaking the truth in love" or are we intolerant bigots? The definition of bullying provides a good benchmark in answering those questions.

(Full disclosure, I believe the Confederate flags as symbols fit all three criteria and as such should hang in a museum where we learn, contemplate and repent of our racist history rather than on public, government grounds. I also believe that people should have the freedom to wear, display, fly the flag on their own persons or private property, and I encourage them to do so prominently so I know with whom I'm dealing.)

Dr. Smith reiterated that victim safety must be paramount and outlined a four-step process for disciplining bullies, one that we also use in our school. Before returning to class, activity, etcetera
1. The student must take responsibility for his/her behavior and explain why it was wrong.
2. The student must be able to discuss and/or act out alternative behaviors that he/she could have used.
3. The student must try to understand the victim's point of view and feelings (empathy).
4. The student must atone or make amends. Saying "Sorry" isn't enough.

What if we, in our adult dealings and interactions and laws and decisions and Facebook posts did the same?

*the annoying face-making kid is socially immature, not bullying, because there is no intent nor is there a power imbalance.
**the headband clique is bullying because there is intent to exclude, interference of an emotionally safe educational environment, and a social/class power imbalance

True but also False

I was always that weird kid who preferred essay questions to multiple choice or true-false. Essays provided an opportunity to synthesize and analyze the information; to expound and explain. (Also, if I didn't really know the answer, I was also pretty good at writing my way around the question and hopefully earning a few points for effort.)

True/false questions kind of make me twitch. Because exceptions. And unless the question is worded precisely (and let's face it, question writers, especially, it seems, in math, tend to write ambiguous questions), then the most accurate answer might mostly be true but also sometimes false.

There is a narrative pushing around social media and certain news sites in response to recent events along the lines of "Come on, parents! This is the problem - parents today refuse to be parents and teach their children respect for authority or hold them accountable for their actions."

Which is true - one of great and moral mandates for parents is to teach their children respect and responsibility.

But also false. So false it makes my stomach hurt.

I had a conversation this weekend with a woman whose friend is struggling with her 13-year-old daughter. Struggling to the point of wondering if her only option is to call the police in order to have her child committed. Her daughter needs some intense and specialized therapy for a brutal combination of anxiety and ADHD and puberty. They have tried everything, are trying everything. But intense and specialized therapy, supports for both the mom and the daughter, are expensive and not available in her community. They family struggles to get by. They don't have the money for a three-hour-round trip to the nearest treatment facility that charges $120.00 an hour (not including the psychiatric appointments - that's extra) for therapy that will take months if not years.

Her school doesn't have the funding to help - the school psychologist is underpaid and overworked.

Her church doesn't know how to help - they are not equipped. Really they just want her to obey the Bible. At least the "be good" parts.

Some children easily learn to respect authority and to take responsibility. My firstborn was a breeze. (Mostly. She did still go through the threes. And the thirteens. But mostly.) I'd like to take all the credit and crow right along with the "blame the parent" narrative that if I can raise a respectful and responsible child, EVERYONE should be able to do so.

That would be a tiny part true. My husband and I had a bit to do with her upbringing. But it would also be so, so false. Because SO MUCH MORE went into shaping her life and her choices: Healthy, neurotypical, born into a safe and loving home, solidly middle class with no worries about where her next meal is coming from, health insurance that allows doctor visits and medicine and mental health services as needed, great friends and schools and communities who encourage and support her, extracurricular activities to build her interests and talents, NO TRAUMA.

I don't speak for all parents, by any means, but I'm going to anyway. Some children and some situations eschew the parents' ability to "just teach them respect." Trauma, fear, poverty, racism, family dysfunction, community dysfunction, lack of resources, etcetera upend any notion of "just teach them respect." Those proclamations make those of us who managed to raise respectful, responsible children feel better, of course, but it doesn't change anything for those in need of support. It doesn't help. Most parents really are doing their best with the resources that they have available. Some aren't, of course, that's just the nature of living in a free society. But even if a parent is doing a horrible job, pointing our fingers doesn't help that child.

What if we supported each other instead of shaking fingers? What if the next time we meet a mouthy, defiant, disobedient, aggressive, anxious child we avoid clucking our disapproval and instead offer our love? What if we followed the words of Rich Mullins:
"My friends ain't the way I wish they were
They are just the way they are
And I will be my brother's keeper
Not the one who judges him
I won't despise him for his weakness
I won't regard him for his strength
I won't take away his freedom
I will help him learn to stand
And I will ~ I will be my brother's keeper."

Until We Know

When I was a young, newly married counselor (sans children) I gave a workshop on parenting. My information was solid, well-researched, scientifically and Biblically integrated. Good stuff, right? Except I had NO IDEA what I was talking about. None. I knew, but I didn't KNOW. I didn't understand. We don't know what we don't know until we know. And now I know. Yeesh.

Sorry, workshop participants. Hope that parenting thing worked out for you. Bless my heart.

When my daughter was born, her pediatrician came to the hospital (on a Saturday), examined her, then chatted with us for nearly an hour. He was informed, educational and calming. At one point he asked about our decision to breastfeed, and I admitted to having some difficulty. He listened, nodded, and said, "I've read the research, my wife nursed our two, and I could tell you exactly what the La Leche League guidelines say to do. But practically speaking I have no idea. I'll call in the lactation consultant. She's read the research, attended the workshops AND nursed six of her own."

He knew what he didn't know. So he called someone who knew.

I've been pulled over by the police exactly four times in my life, all for actually breaking the law (three times for speeding, once for driving without lights - long story.) Each time it was nervous-making. Each time I struggled to remember what I was supposed to do. Each time I was allowed to stay in my car while the officer asked me a couple of questions and then sent me on my way with a gentle warning to slow down/turn on the lights, sweetheart.

I know what it's like to be a white female, pulled over by the cops in a relatively affluent part of town, entirely deserving of a ticket, but grateful to get off scot-free.

I have NO IDEA what it's like to be pulled over for driving while black. None. I have no idea what it's like to integrate 200 plus years of slavery then 100 plus years of brutally enforced segregation and oppression into a relationship with the current fractured justice system. So I have no idea what I would do, nor what people of color should or should not do. I'm reading and listening, trying to learn, trying to empathize. But I just don't know.

So when I hear or read white people proclaim about what people of color should or should not have done when confronted by police, or how they should or should not protest injustice in communities of color, my head starts to twitch. Because while their advice may be true, they just do not know. Bless our hearts, we don't know. Let the leaders of color speak to what people of color should do. Because THEY KNOW. And let us who are white listen and learn, seek justice and love mercy.

If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him - James 1:5

One Good Thing

I was getting ready to read Mufaro's Beautiful Daughters with a group of upper elementary school girls when one said, "I hate Africa."

Wait, what? You've never even BEEN to Africa. You're like, nine years old. How can you HATE an entire continent? That's what I thought in half-a-quick second. What I said was, "Oh? Why?"

"It's just so poor and the people don't have enough to eat or clean water to drink or anywhere to live, and it's just so sad."

Ah ha. Our school has been raising money for a water system for a school in Uganda, so there had been much talk and videos and pictures of the unclean water sources and the poverty in the area around this Ugandan school. "There is poverty in parts of Africa," I said. (I could have perhaps discoursed on the negative influences of colonialism and tribalism and classism, but I refrained.) "But there's also a lot of beauty and strength and the kind of wealth that really matters. What would you tell me if I said I hated North America because it was so cold?"

They laughed. "It's only cold in winter, Mrs. Thompson. And only in parts of North America. Places like Florida are hardly ever cold." They grinned because of course you can't judge an entire continent based on one season in the northern reaches.*

But isn't that how we tend to operate? I grew up in Indiana. My dad went to both Indiana University and Purdue University, so that rivalry never got too heated in our house. But somehow I learned that I should despise Kentucky. I'm sure my parents never taught me to despise Kentucky, but there were enough jokes and disdain in my surrounding culture that this antipathy was understood. Implicit. And then, as I watched the Hoosiers win National Championships and went to college at IU it became easy to look for the UK negatives that reinforced my worldview.

Of course, then I moved to Kentucky and met in-real-life UK fans who didn't seem especially crazy and who I even trusted to teach and befriend my children. And my daughter wanted to tour the campus and started talking about all the UK scholarships for which she was eligible. And I need to live by this idea of "one good thing", right?

So I will say that Lexington is beautiful, and that the UK global studies program with the living-learning dorms seems especially strong academically, and that their basketball team is incredibly talented and well coached. I mean, they are undefeated and bidding for the national championship. That's a big deal. The last team that went undefeated in the regular season and then won the national was ... oh, right ... Indiana!

The typo on this makes me nuts. But Gene Wilder in this role is one good thing.

One night, many months ago, my son asked me what a gangster was. I told him it was a type of criminal. He said, "I'm not a gangster!" I was puzzled. "Of course you're not, why...?"

Seems some friends told him he had to be the gangster in the game they were playing. He had brown skin, so naturally he needed to be the gangster.

Let that sink in just a minute.

These are all great friends who love him. Who would say that they aren't the least bit racist. I am sure that their parents did not explicitly teach their children that people with brown skin are gangsters. But there are enough jokes and disdain and media influences in the surrounding culture that this idea was unwittingly communicated to my son's friends. Who communicated it to him.

If the only thing you know about predominantly African-American neighborhoods is black-on-black crime, if the only thing you know about #blacklivesmatter is rioting, if you just in general despise Obama, if you worry that the end of the world (or this country or your faith) as you know it is coming to an end because of XYZ reason, then please take some time to explore other viewpoints. You may not always agree, but at least find one good thing.

One Good Thing.

*The girls' homework assignment was to research one good thing about Africa. The next week they shared about elephants and the Serengeti and the Nile River and Victoria Falls and the first mathematical calculator and the cradle of civilization and the diversity of language and the resilience, strength and beauty of people like Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu and Mufaro's daughters. "Africa is so beautiful and smart," one said. So many good things.

"No, it's not!" "Yes, it is!" "Is NOT!" "Is SO!"

A firestorm continued this week in the Christian circles I orbit, both online and in real life. Franklin Graham, son of Billy Graham and president of Samaritan's Purse, issued a "Listen up and submit to authority and you won't get shot. Respect authority, it's as simple as that - Romans 13:1" post on Facebook. To which Sojourner's replied, "People of color have been submitting for centuries and are still being unjustly shot, imprisoned, fined and harassed - Jeremiah 22:13. There's more to this issue than a simple command to submit."

To which the cries of "Division! Division! You're creating division!" erupted on both sides of the debate. Shouts of "race is no longer an issue" countered with "yes, it is!" "No, it's not!" "Yes, it is!" "No, it's not!" "Yes, it is!" Name calling flamed. Apparently you're a right-wing racist if you agree with Graham and a race-baiting libtard if you agree with Sojourners. (Note to self - don't read the comments! For the love of maintaining a single shred of hope of human decency, don't read the comments.)

On whatever side you fall on this*, there is clearly division among the followers of Christ, which was the subject of my Bible study this morning.

*Full disclosure: Up until several years ago, I fell just inside the "right-wing racist" camp of "We're a post-racial society; don't make these issues about color; if people take individual responsibility and show respect they'll be treated fairly; study and work hard and you'll succeed." When writing my first novel I had immersed myself in research on the Civil Rights movement, including my own family's role in that movement, so clearly we were far beyond the days of the illegality of interracial friendships. I had nothing but respect and admiration for law enforcement, especially since the three times in my life I'd been pulled over for speeding I got off with a smile and a warning. I did waver in that camp on occasion because I worked for Child Protective Services and with Big Brothers Big Sisters, so I saw that racism did rear its head every now and then, and clearly not everyone had equal access to justice. But that couldn't be the result of institutionalized racism, could it? Sure, there were racist nut jobs still roaming around, and the number of racial hate groups had risen dramatically since Obama's election, but that was no longer accepted nor condoned. Sin prowls, but we were alert.

Then, in preparation for our adoption, I began reading and researching issues surrounding transracial parenting and I got involved with a transracial adoption group and I heard the stories of adult adoptees and other people of color. And my thought process on the amount of racial injustice still present and accepted in our society began to waver even closer to that dividing line. Still, having a transracial family in the 2010s was accepted. We were warmly embraced by our community and my son was and is loved as a child of God, a child to whom God gifted a gorgeous amount of melanin.

I work as a school counselor, so I know that many children face mean comments and exclusion and taunts based on physical appearance. Our school works diligently on teaching empathy and respect, on being an upstander and loving others. Despite these efforts, meanness still persists - both intentionally and as a result of immaturity. My son has faced taunts about his skin color and hair style (dreadlocks). He has been singled out for chastisement in a group of squirrely (otherwise all white) boys and followed in stores (until the clerk realized I was his mother), but by the same token he has taunted others about their racial features and he has a tendency toward mischief. I work daily to teach him to respect and love all God's differences in external appearance, to cherish uniqueness while understanding we are all God's children, and to make amends to those he hurt. At the same time I empathize with his hurts and try to give him the tools to stand up for his unique identity.

Then Trayvon. And Ferguson. And Tamir Rice. And John Crawford. And Kendric McDade. And...and...and...and those in my transracial communities saying, "Yes, this happens. The last fifty years of progress have not erased the previous three hundred plus years of legal and institutionalized racism. Expect it. Teach your son. Give him the tools to get home alive. But also demand change. Stand up and say, 'No More!' Ask your white community to hear our cries for justice." As above, when writing my first novel I had immersed myself in research on the Civil Rights movement, including my own family's role in that movement. Much of what I heard in the "submit" side of the conversation sounded tragically familiar to segregationalist sermons preached in 1957. We still have far to go.

*So, still full-disclosure, I suppose I have moved into the camp of "race-baiting libtards". That is, I believe race is still an issue. I believe we have more to overcome. I believe my white, middle-class existence has offered me advantages and shielded me from much of what others in different circumstances experience. People are still treated unfairly due to their race, from micro aggressions and implicit bias to wage gaps despite education to the school to prison pipeline to discrimination in law enforcement to racial incarceration. There is racial injustice embedded in the very fabric of our society. "Respect and submit" alone will not cure these ills.

I don't know what to say about the cries of division. Because there is a divide. Both sides on this claim Romans 16:17, "But I warn you brothers to watch out for those who cause divisions and put obstacles in your way that are contrary to the teaching you have learned." The teaching we have learned includes both commands to respect authority and demands to seek justice, defend the oppressed.

My hope is that the Church (and those outside the church, but the Church is the community with which I'm connected) can all move away from "is not!" "is so!" and toward empathy. Can we hear others' stories and read the research with the goal of trying to understand, even if we may not agree? Can we be pro law enforcement, agreeing on the goal of respecting those who protect and serve? Can we ALSO be pro systematic reform, agreeing that the previous 300 years of institutionalized racism and bias hasn't been entirely eliminated in these last 50? Can we both respect the law AND ask the law to respect the citizens?

I will teach my son to respect the police. I will teach him the ten rules to follow if he is ever stopped. Can I also ask you to pray that he not be stopped simply because he fits a "profile"; that the system treat him, and all others like him, with true justice? Because I want him to respect authority. And I want authority to respect him.

Get Home Safely - Ten Rules of Survival if Stopped by the Police

A Conversation with my Black Son

Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life

Paul and I are in the midst of reading Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis. I had the good fortune to meet Mr. Curtis at a writer's conference in Indianapolis in 2001. I had JUST, as in days before, talked about revisions on a manuscript I'd submitted to Holt with the woman who would ultimately be my editor for Jericho Walls. So I was at the same time flying high with possibilities yet paralyzed with fear because I had NO IDEA what I was doing or how to pull off these rewrites. Mr. Curtis was a voice of encouragement and calm. In my copy of Bud, Not Buddy he inscribed, "Dear Kristi, Congratulations and Keep Writing!"

So Bud, Not Buddy is near and dear to my heart. I read it to Sam when she was young - seven, probably. For her, it was a fun book with glimpses of the realities of the Great Depression. But, trigger warning, it has some TOUGH themes for kids from hard places. Bud is an orphan. The book opens with Bud in an abusive foster home. He escapes and decides to look for his father, making the trek from Flint to Grand Rapids, Michigan during the racial and economic unrest of the 1930's. So don't read this book unless you're ready to have some deep conversations about death, first parents, abandonment, racism and classism. But if you are, I've co-opted a few of Bud's Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life.

Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life #1:
Use stories as a springboard to deep conversations. You may not think your child has questions or is internalizing opinions from the wider culture about race, religion, class, death, but he does and he is. Studies show that children begin to form concepts and to classify others around age 3. Stories provide  a context to discuss those concepts and classifications. Talking about Bud's quest to find family, his relationships with those he meets on the way, complicated interactions with law enforcement, and the interracial dynamics of the band allows us to more fully explore those complex topics in our own real life.

Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life #2:
Use stories to expand your own reality. We tend to cluster in homogenized groups, so those around us reinforce our own preconceived ideas or beliefs. Stories open a door to think critically about those beliefs, to consider the rationale behind other ideas. Bud, Not Buddy brings to light different ideas about unionizing, about responding to racial injustice, about interacting with police, about poverty, about family.

Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life #3:
Use stories to build empathy. On needs only to read a few twitter feeds to realize that we live in a divisive world where those expressing different viewpoints or marginalized realities are at best misunderstood and at worst publicly derided. We struggle to hold space for those who think, live, believe differently. Studies show that literary fiction improves the reader's ability to understand and care about others' experiences, to walk in someone else's shoes.

Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life #4:
Use stories to build empathy. Bud faces trials and traumas in his short life, so much that he says "my eyes don't cry no more." But he keeps moving forward. He holds tight to the stories his momma used to tell him, and the love with which she told them. He escapes those who seek to do him harm, and he connects with those who try to help him. In this life we will have trouble, but take heart...

Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life #5:
Use stories to help your very active child fall asleep at bedtime when Daylight Savings Time means that it's still light outside. Enough said.

The Fish Who Lived

Last year my teenage daughter bought her younger brother a Betta fish for his birthday. It was the perfect gift. My son was going through some difficult transitions at school at the time, which were triggering all sorts of past trauma. The fish, named Captain America for his reddish, blueish scales and heroic demeanor, formed a sort of living, healing connection. And also the fish tank had a nightlight. To ward away monsters.

Fish = love. Fish love.

Then the fish died. Er...I mean...took a nap. Because death triggers all sorts of trauma-related issues that we were not prepared to add to our already stressed situation. So I zoomed the sleeping fish to the pet store and got a replacement reddish, blueish fish along with about a gazillion water testing and treatment products to ensure the most optimal environment for Captain II. Crisis averted.

Until that fish also promptly died.

Seriously! "I cannot handle dead fish right now!" I calmly explained hysterically yelled to the pet store worker. We decided to move Captain America III (the neighborhood pet store was out of reddish blueish Betta fish, so we had to cast our nets wider) out of the filtered, lit, decorated tank into what was essentially a large vase with a few rocks. "It's like a vacation condo," I told my son. And, "Yes, he does look a little smaller. But it's probably just because his tank is a little smaller."

Captain III eventually moved from the vase to the fish tank (thoroughly cleaned and redecorated. We determined there was something wrong with the gravel in the original setup) and now to a tank with a built in vacuum that Grandma gave him for Christmas. Captain III celebrates his one-year anniversary with us this weekend. Just yesterday my son said, "Wow, I already had another birthday. Captain's lived a long time. I didn't think fish lived that long." He has no idea.

Captain III has seen my son through more transitions this year - from changing schools to the death of our old dog, Scout, to just this month a tragedy in the family of his beloved teacher necessitating a substitute for several weeks as well as the sudden illness of an indestructible friend.

Just this morning, as we fed Captain III a couple of Betta bites I marveled at the healing that has transpired this year, and how he has managed these current triggers with a sense of confidence that hints at a growing knowledge that no matter what happens in this world, he is loved.

So I nudged an extra Betta bite into the tank and thanked God for his healing power shown to us most graciously through the fish who lived.

The Rally Cry for Respect

In these last months there has been a great hue and cry about the importance of showing respect, especially to law enforcement officers. I am in 100% agreement with this injunction. Law enforcement officers deserve our respect and admiration for a myriad of reasons. So do teachers and cashiers and pharmacists (my sister could tell you some stories! Whew!)

I’ve loved the two football teams for which my son has played, and one reason is because several of the volunteer coaches are police officers. Several times a shift has run late and they’ve come to practice in their uniforms. My son has the uncanny ability to suss out the power dynamic in a situation faster than any kid I’ve ever met. (And the hubris to step into any perceived power gap and take the reins of control for himself.) But when a large, muscular football coach in full police gear commands this bitty baller to drop and give ten, it’s clear who holds the power. There is no other response than, “Yes, sir!”

My kid being told to "guard the corner and stop getting sucked in!"
Both the coach and the chain crew are law enforcement officers. 

This builds respect. Because it also builds relationship. And here’s where I see the mandate that “people should teach their kids respect” breaking down. 

‘Cuz, y’all, can I just get a witness that it’s a daily, consistent, difficult battle teaching my child respect, and I’m living in a comfortable, fair, middle class world and surrounded by dozens of people supporting me in that effort - from his law enforcement football coaches to his teacher and classmates to his friends and my friends and family members to the high-fiving security guards at church. We’re working the program and he still gets mouthy and defiant and doesn’t always listen to directive.

But what of those parents who can’t or won’t teach this respect by reason of generational poverty, addictions, crime, abuse, injustice or fear? 

According to Bruce Perry, MD, PhD, Senior Fellow of the ChildTrauma Academy, “We know that our biology predisposes us to mirror the actions of those we see around us... These facts are wonderful when what we are considering repeating is loving and nurturing, but they are frankly terrifying when we think about the violence and the increasing number of simulations of violence that surround us and our children.” He continues, “The mirroring systems of our social brains make behaviors contagious. And again, this is wonderful when what you are practicing is sports or piano or kindness, but not so great when what’s being repeated is impulsive, aggressive responses to threat.”

So what are we to do? Are we to shake our heads at the Michael Browns of the world and tsk, tsk their fate because, well, they should have learned respect.

How are they to learn?

This seems a pivotal moment for those of us carrying the banner of respect - a moment either to make a different or to shake our heads. What if all those believers who shout, “Yes! People should learn respect!” step in to mentor youth? To model and teach respect?

Organizations like: Big Brothers Big Sisters, Every1Reads, (seriously, y'all, teachers are on the front line in this directive), Kentucky Refugee Ministries, Uspiritus, Orphan Care Alliance,  Boys' and Girls' Club, Portland Promise Center, just to name a few that come immediately to mind, are all desperate for volunteers and financing. They could all benefit from our desire that children learn respect. Respect comes from relationship. Who better to build those relationships than believers? Who better to stand in the gap for oppressed and downtrodden youth? Who better to build bridges and create relationships for “such a time as this”?

This is too big a moment to just talk the talk and lament the state of society today. If we want children to learn respect, then we need to show the way.

Stories

In fifth grade I attended a very small, very homogenous, very conservative school. The bookmobile came once a week for library time. We were allowed to check out a maximum of ten books if we thought we could read them all. I could and I did. One week I put Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume on my stack. I wasn’t especially excited about this particular book - it seemed to be about boys younger than I - but by that time in the school year the selection was running a bit thin.

Once at the checkout counter I was told, rather apologetically by the bookmobile librarian, that I wasn’t allowed to check out Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. “Not allowed?” I studied the book, feeling both anxious and incensed.

“Sorry,” she said. “School policy. Nothing by Judy Blume.”

Well. I checked with my teacher who assured me that was, in fact, the school policy. “Some of Blume's books explore themes and topics contrary to our values,” he explained.

That weekend I made my way to the public library downtown, where I checked out Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and, because I was feeling uncharacteristically rebellious, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.

The story of Peter and Fudge helped me understand and cope with my own sibling relationships. The story of Margaret helped me understand and cope with growing up, helped me explore my faith - what I believed and why.

It was my first realization of the power of story, how story can connect us to one another and to great universal truths, but also how stories different from our own can incite a fear great enough to censor those stories. Because I was an inherently anxious child, it was books that helped me walk through that fear into a realization that I didn’t have to tremor away from all that was different. Through stories I could understand and respect those differences. Through stories I could fight that fear.

In sixth grade I transferred to a public school and was placed in the classroom of a teacher who read prolifically and encouraged us to do the same. There was no banning of books in her classroom, just wise guidance toward the right book at the right developmental time. She introduced me to Mildred Taylor’s Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, to Anne Frank, to Tolkien, to The Great Gilly Hopkins, to Shel Silverstein. There was world out there filled with conflicts and adventures, faith and doubt, injustice and redemption. I soaked in the stories of girls like Margaret who were a lot like me, growing up white and middle class in the suburbs, but also of girls like Cassie Logan, who grew up with dignity in a place of injustice.

We need each other’s stories. In a world where it is so easy to take sides - Republican versus Democrat, Christian versus Muslim, liberal versus conservative, straight versus gay, police officer versus black male - we need to hear each other, to listen, to empathize. We may not agree, but we can understand. People want to know they matter. Stories walk us through the fear of all that is different and into a respect for those people. Because they do matter. Their stories matter.

Indiegogo recently launched a We Need Diverse Books Campaign. Kimberly Brubaker Bradley, who is a brilliant writer and also a good friend (I recently walked into a fifth grade classroom that was reading one of her books aloud and began gushing Oh! Wow! I KNOW her so enthusiastically that those fifth graders now believe her to have celebrity status ranking right up there with a Disney XD star) wrote a blog on Jacqueline Woodson and Daniel Handler's watermelon joke that created impetus behind why We Need Diverse Books.

Because once we understand someone’s story, we can begin to move past fear toward respect, reconciliation, redemption.

Soar

Eaglets learn to fly by observing their parents. It isn't instinctive. They watch closely until, sometime between two and four months of age, they lose their baby down and grow their flight feathers.

Not all eaglets are eager to leave the warmth and safety of the nest. For those reluctant babies, the parent eagles tempt the young by flying with choice bits of food just out of reach. The parents engage the eaglets' curiosity - and hunger - encouraging them to spread their wings and fly.

I doubt the mama eagle gets all emotional and sappy about this process. I don't know much about reading the facial expressions and body cues of raptors, but somehow this look does not convey, "Oh, I can't believe my baby's all grown up and flying. Sniff, sniff, cry, cry."

Rather, I'm interpreting this as, "Girl, get your tail feathers out the house! Seriously! Thinkin' I'm the maid and the cook and the chauffeur all the time. Nuh unh!"

Today, in one small sense, my baby girl left the nest. Her flight feathers are in. She's been watching and practicing. We've been eagerly preparing for this day - tempting her curiosity (and hunger). "Once you get your license you can go to your friend's…the movies…the store…drive yourself home from practice… whenever you like, but right now I'm busy so you need to wait."

I have been EXCITED about this rite of passage because in many ways life just got easier. The 70 minute round trip plus one hour wait time I endured on Monday evening so she could catch pitching lessons for a friend? No more. The text on Tuesday at 4:50 that the practice that was meant to end at 5:30 is over so could you pick me up NOW (when we live 20 minutes away)? Done. The how to get your brother to Rock Creek and you to English Station at the same time? Not a problem!

So, yes, we've been encouraging this. But there was still a clutch in my heart when, after successfully passing her driver's test, she dropped me off at home and drove away, alone, to school.

I hope we've been good teachers - that what she's learned from observing us will carry her through the challenges of navigating tight merges and road construction and crazy drivers.

I hope home will always be a safe place to land, but not so safe that it stifles her curiosity or desire to explore what's around the next bend. (And I hope she takes that bend at a slow, steady speed on dry pavement, easing into the turn.)

I hope she soars.

But it's still hard to watch her drive away.

This Subaru commercial nailed it. "Daddy, okay!"