I grew up in a town without race. Over the course of my four years in high school there were a total of two students who were not white. In my graduating class there were 120 students one of them was not white. The other not white student graduated years before me.

Race, difference and tolerance were never discussed at school. They were hardly touched on at home. Except for those times when my dad would lament “I’m not prejudice accept when it comes to Indians.” (A side note here, my dad did develop a deep regret for his ignorance of First Nations people in his later years. He expressed remorse and worked for forgiveness (which came easily from others but I don’t think so much from himself) for his prejudice. )

I grew up white. In a white town. With little exposure. Expect for the box in the living room that perpetuated racial myths and stereotypes with ridiculous inaccuracy.

This lack of exposure lead me to grow up rather naive. I actually believed we were all equal. I thought we had made progress. I thought for sure folks were not walking around judging others by their skin color. Cause in my brain this made absolutely no sense what so ever. I really could not wrap my mind around the idea that a persons intent, behavior, level of deviance or criminal intent could all be wrapped up in skin color.

In my naive mind it was like assuming cause someone had an apple they hated oranges. The leap was that hard for my small town mind.

Yet as my word expanded I was more and more shocked. My sheltered world began crumbling piece by piece. The first was with an Uncle who let me know I best buy a house quickly before “the Asians bought them all and made it impossible for me to get what was rightfully mine.”  I was stunned in to silence.  A silence I continued to witness around me whenever there was blatant disregard for the humanity of a race other then ones own. I was confused that such injustices (small or big) were silently being swept under the carpet with such apathy and disregard for the humanity in us all.

In my late twenties I moved to a foreign country. I will never forget the moment I stood in a busy marketplace and noticed I was the only white person around. Throughout my year, I was pointed at. I was cursed at. I was called a name or two.  It was humbling. I was never in danger. And truth be told my white privilege even followed me to this foreign country. My safety was never once jeopardized. In truth more of my interactions were in total fascination at my english and my white skin.

I now again live in a foreign to me country. The state I live in is by far the most colorful culture rich place I have lived. My boys hear a wide range of different languages and encounter a rainbow of skin colors. But with that has come the noticing as well that all is far from equal around us.  Along with the division of race, I see a stark division of class lines. Lines not visible to the eye but clearly noticeable to the heart, outline my every outing.

I mostly feel overwhelmed with confusion. I mostly feel small to issues bigger then my single self. Yet, as the case of Trayvon Martin spreads throughout my Facebook feed I am stunned out of any sort of silence. Friends I barely know such as Erika Davis – Pitre beg of me to examine once again what it means to be human. What it means to share humanity with others.  This was the beginning :

Thank you everyone for your thoughtful responses here about the Trayvon Martin case.
I just spent most of the night thinking about this case and wondering what I could do to help raise awareness of what I see as a serious problem across the nation, the assumed criminality of black males.
Granted, it doesn’t always end in physical death or physical incarceration but it does leave many of us in the black community in a psychological prison of self doubt, anxiety and I feel that it leads to a kind of spiritual death of personal freedom.
So you will have to forgive my impatience with my continual need to explain to folks who don’t have to think about this situation often, of how it feels to be Black in America.
It may not be as bad as it was 60 years ago but it is still bad.
Bad enough for a teenaged boy to wind up shot to death because he looked like a “criminal” and because it appears that he did what I taught my own children to do if they were confronted by a stranger that was following them: run, scream and fight like hell!
And to those of you that question the racial aspect of this story, I have a couple of questions for you:
What have you taught your own kids to do if they are being followed by a stranger?
What would have to happen for you to believe that this incident happened because Trayvon Martin was a black teenager at the “wrong” place at the “wrong” time?
What would acknowledging this as a racist incident do? Why the denial of that?
I really want to understand this.
I hope that you will answer my questions.
And please keep this story on your wall! Many things are happening in this case because of all of the media attention! -Erika Davis-Pitre

She asked me some hard questions and I don’t know that my answers are any where near complete yet. And then Jeff Sabo added his voice to it all with The White Man’s Burden, a deeply moving piece. Then Flo Glascon asked me so many more meaningful questions with her piece Shoot First, Apologize Later?

It is clear the issues this small town girl thought were long gone still fill large pieces of our world. It is clear there are many more questions to be asked more conversation to be had. What is clearest of it all though is that stunned silence and carpet sweeping apathy are not options. This is our shared humanity as living beings. This is not okay to ignore. It is not enough to hide with in feelings of smallness. One question, one answer, one conversation, one human being to another. It’s time to make real the feeling, the knowing that it is simply ridiculous to judge a person by their skin, race, gender, their sexual preference or any thing other then their shared humanity.

I beg of you to unfold your own knowledge and carefully examine it for the leaks that keep you silent. Ask yourself the questions Erika and Flo ask. Ask your neighbors. Talk to the store clerk. Only once we see through the sorts of eyes that only witness are shared humanity will the whole world be as safe of those of us born in to this privileged white skin.

Really? These two in one post? Where’s the connection? Aside from doing both back to back in the same weekend there is more.

For the car negotiating, I was excited. You see our current dealership, who we lease a vehicle from, sent as a letter. In the letter they stated that quality vehicles like ours where in high demand and short supply and as a result they would like to offer us a highly competitive deal, with such lofty promises one has to at least consider a switch in vehicles.

I decided this was a chance to really research some vehicles. To take a look around me, read up on reviews, consider what I truly wanted in a vehicle. Then armed with all of this information head in to the dealership an informed customer and get me a highly competitive deal.

Due to the fact that I have made it to 39 without directly dealing with car salesmen, I may have been a little naive when I walked through the doors. I thought, from the letter, that I was in the power position. That I had some negotiating prowess. Then I met the bad cop before I met the good cop and my courage wavered.

After being informed on what was owing on my lease as the first words spoken I sensed this was turning away from the letter of intention. I reminded the gentleman quickly that he had in fact enticed me to visit him. Enter good cop, all smiles and enthusiasm and I was lured right back in to the trap.

I won’t bore you with the details of my car inspection, my heart strings pulling, my absolute plunge in to the depths of the dealerships ploys. Leave it to say they had my keys and offered to up my payment $250.00 a month after I gave them $5,000 for vehicle that was a year older then mine and being sold for what I owed on the lease.

Outraged all I could muster was to stand and declare “I’m done give me my keys.” When insulted yet again by the finance man, I repeated my request with more urgency. You see if this did not end soon I was either going to spew insults of highly offensive levels at this man or let him see my cry. And I was holding tight to whatever dignity I felt I had left.

The icing on the cake had to be when hours later the manager called my husband, not me. He said to him, “We know your wife was upset, how about you and I sit down and talk numbers.” There were insults hurled at this point and customers lost to the dealership with increased certainty.

My first “thing I’ve never done before” fail. I was angry in a ridiculous way.

Aerial Yoga was the next morning. I loved it. I pushed to the edges of my vulnerability and fell forward. I released fear and embraced courage. All in a safe place created by the instructor and my fellow community of classmates.

During the closing moments. Where I was completely cocooned with in my silken swing, the instructor said these words, “and sometimes when we feel vulnerable we get angry.”

Nail on head. I was so angry at the dealership because I felt vulnerable. And not in a safe sort of way. I was happy to be vulnerable in aerial yoga, to the point of hanging upside down with nothing but my feet holding me in place. I was vulnerably relying on complete strangers to spot me while I got half way in to my first every head stand. The whole time feeling a sense of safety and peace.

In the dealership I was unexpectedly sent spiraling in to a vulnerable place and it was completely unsafe to be there. My vulnerability was actually being used against me to force me in to a decision or deal that was clearly not in my best interest.

Two completely different experiences with vulnerability. Along with two experiences feeling completely out of control. Inevitably, two unique experiences in which to learn and grow from.

The biggest growth for me comes in noticing my own vulnerability. When I am comforted with unexpected feelings of vulnerability in places that feel less then safe I get mad. I get really mad. I want to yell and blame and scream. And then I want to change. I want to stop being open. I want to hide. I want to make sure there is no way in HELL that anyone will every make me feel like this again. I will shut down the part of me the gives and trusts and then those fuckers will never get at me again.

In stark contrast, when I do something I have never done before and I put it all out there in to a safe space, I want more. The high of pushing past vulnerability in to new places of self knowing and strength is the ultimate high. It is the place where my wildest dreams are right there in front of me. It is when I know I can do it, all of it, anything!

So how does one marry the two in to their being in the world?

First by knowing this is what happens. By reminding myself in the moment that I am mad and vulnerable and scared and choosing when it is worth it. It wasn’t worth it at the dealership. It was at Aerial Yoga.

Secondly, by having soft, safe arms to fall in to. I knew my husbands arms were wide open and accepting. They were what I would fall in to. Where I would weep until I found my way back.

Thirdly, by trusting myself. That voice inside of me that speaks only to me. Trusting it knows me best of all and listening. Really listening to that voice over all the clutter of outside opinions.

Finally, by setting up the sort of space in my life where I can get vulnerable and survive. So the moments of vulnerability that lead to anger are ridiculously less then the moments of vulnerability that lead to that high I mentioned earlier.

 

 

 

For the halfway mark of my personal challenge to complete 40 new things prior to turning 40, I did it up big. I went to Vegas with 6 extremely awesome ladies. I checked six brand new to me things off my list. I am not going to get in to the detail of each one cause you know the saying “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” And cause there was an overall theme that emerged from my trip that is way more juicy then any of the details of my six new to me activities.

Before leaving Heather from Eclectic Reality shared an article from the Onion (read here) that truly set that tone of our entire weekend. We were there to Validate the Shit out of each other and we took this task very seriously.

I have spent a more time then I would ever care to add up looking out in to the world for validation. Not in the right sort of way. More in the like me like me I will say and do whatever it takes kind of way. It has left me empty inside and completely disconnected from any sense of who I truly am. This weekend in Vegas was not that sort of validation.

We all showed up just as we were and fell in to the loving arms of others on the same journey ready to support each other. Support us in being who we are. There were no rules about what to say, how to be, what was acceptable. There was no in group. There was no judgement. Raw unadulterated loving of the pure and unconditional sort.  We loved each other as a our past selves, our now selves and our future selves.

It was transformative. It was a network of support that gave me freedom to be. To be me. To be the me that lives in the deepest recesses of my soul. Not only to be her but to love her, laugh with her and let her shine her brightest. I unleashed the sort of courage that pushes me to the very edges of my own comfort zone in order to blast out in to the world sparklier then I ever have been before.

Vegas with is glitz, glamor, party all night attitude was the perfect place to validate the shit out of each other. To celebrate our soft, our edgy, our real, our frustration, our bliss, our individually fabulously unique girl, woman, mother selves.

To conclude now, I must retract my earlier comment that, “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” cause I brought all that love and validating home and it is making me rock my everyday life with a whole lot more sparkle.