Now She Is Six

My Pumpkinpie had a birthday - and now she is six.

Oh. my. How did that happen, exactly?

I held her on my lap last night and told her I was proud of her, proud of how she was growing up and becoming a big kid, would love to see who she would become as she grew, but that I would miss my little Pumpkinpie, too.

She would miss being small, too, she said. She would miss fitting in my arms and my lap, miss being lucky and as well-looked after as she understands that young kids are.

She would learn new things, be able to do more, be proud of her accomplishments, I told her. There is a lot to be look forward to, as well. She will get good at things that are difficult or impossible now, make new friends, experience those wonderful chest-expanding moments of taking a risk and having it turn out past your expectations.

I am in awe that my wee bundle of a babe could have grown so much, into a lean, leggedy child with no hint of toddler left in her small freckled cheeks, and a little sad, a little wistful about it, too, no doubt about it. It's becoming real to me that she will grow up into a big girl, a teenager, a young woman of her own one day, and while I know that is right and good and what I want for her, while I know that it is my job to help her on her way and shepherd her out the door to the rest of her life... well, it still gives me a little catch in the vicinity of my heart to think of.

But as I convince her that she will grow and it will be good, that leaving her young childhood behind is not the end of wondrous moments, I know one thing is true.

She will still be mine for a little while longer - and she will be amazing.
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That's Better

Didn't mean to leave my downer of a post up for so long - I hate greeting people with a negative, though truly, if I look back on my last several posts, I'm not a bundle of fun these days, it seems. We've had a niiiice stomach flu, though, and ugh, I'm sick of vomit now, and are gearing up for Miss Pumpkinpie's birthday and so on, so yeah, I left it.

But this morning, I saw something and thought, that's better. So I'm pushing the darkness down the page with a little subway note that made me happy about people again.

When I got on the subway this morning to go to work, it was unusually crowded for early on Saturday. A young man picked his bag up off the seat next to him to let me sit, and I did. As we rode, I noticed pretty quickly the scene being played out in the car.

In a corner seat sat another young man, and beside/in front of him sat an older man, ranting. All around that pair and sprinkled along the car were a group of teens that were clearly friends and traveling together, but sitting where they found space. As the older man ranted, the younger man appeared impassive, even seemed to be listening politely with occasional tiny nods. The others were cracking up, watching their friend cornered by someone he didn't know and who was clearly a bit off.

The older man stopped talking at one point and looked down, away from the man in the corner, who then let a little silent chuckle escape, joining in his friends' amusement at his predicament for a moment. The man turned back to him, resuming his tirade, and his face snapped back into polite listening mode.

It was increasingly clear that this had been going on for a while, and that this young man in the corner was treating this older, obviously strange man with a strong measure of respect and patience.

We expect teenagers to be the opposite, to mock someone like this, based on all that we hear about bullies and group dynamics among teens. We expect rudeness, especially from someone who is with a large group of friends, who would give him fine herd backup. We expect attitude, especially from a young man of his outward appearance, a young black man with big diamonds in his ears and hip hop spilling from the phone in his lap.

But that was not what I saw this morning at all.

How nice to have your faith in people restored by a teenager.
How hopeful for the future.
Thanks, kid.
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Head Like a Hole

My head is full of crap right now. Dark, stewing, rotten crap. It's full of people's hate, of people's pain, of people just too often being less than I wish they were, of really, the world, or what the world seems like to me right now.

Maybe it's partly the weather. Maybe it's just reading too much depressing stuff in one day. Maybe it's the way Pumpkinpie is tossing out challenges and nitpicking and pushing the boundaries of listening a little too often and I'm annoyed a little too often and I'm feeling the edges of her childhood approaching and don't want to parent this way, annoyed so often, and want to have the time to sit with her, be with her, share treasures with her, talk with her about so many things. Maybe it's the way I don't find time for things like exercise the way I want to, the fact that I am tired of the monthly ebb and flow of my waistline and skin's health. (Really, is there any biological reason for the bloat and pimples? To scare men away from not wasting their sperm during the point of lowest fertility, or something like that? Because ARGH) Maybe it's too much togetherness with too many people and too many demands intruding on the weekend that I had been looking forward to as a long weekend to spend with my kids and no, that didn't happen, not at all. Maybe it's that my day off this weekend is quickly filling with obligations, crowding out the want-tos with the really-shoulds yet again.

I don't know. I just know that I am tired, and feeling beaten, like this is not the place I want to be, not the world or the household I want Pumpkinpie to remember growing up in. It's not the way I want to remember these years, either, or not remember them as they slip by entirely in a haze of checklists and calendars and feeling like shit for not living up to what I want, for not being able to change the world and make it all better, somehow. A better place, with better people, better protection for our children, better values to help guide them, better parents not letting their children ruin things for other people's children, better meals, better together time, better-organized bedtimes. I want better, and I want more. More time, more patience, more tolerance, more teaching, more time for stories, more love.

And failing that, I want to crawl into a hole and make it all go away. The problem is, I have to take my head with me. And I learned last night, up for hours unable to stop my brain, that that's the trick. I never have insomnia. I'm lucky, I know. But I just could not stop thinking about all of this, writing sad and angry posts in my head, worrying and gnawing and holding back tears of anger and pain for the suffering of people I know and people I will never know. This isn't me, and I hate it, and I don't know how to banish and get back to who I usually know as me. I'm usually the optimist, with a head full of good, a heart full of love for the good people, the truly wonderful people that I know.

It just seems right now that I've traded my usual rose-coloured glasses for blue ones.

Missippi Legacy

I was going to write about Constance McMillan the other week. I was going to write about how her school's refusal to allow her to attend her school's prom with her girlfriend reminded me of segregation days in the south. Of how the parents were advised by the school board that they could host a private prom party instead, and exclude her legally, as the school would get sued (which may have made some people stop and think that oh yeah, human rights, but no). I was going to write about how she brought to mind tiny ruby Bridges, just trying to go to school and get an education while housewives in starched shirtdresses picketed with signs and screamed at her through faces twisted and misshapen with their hatred.

But my life has gotten hectic, and meanwhile, life in Itawamba County, Mississippi has gone forward, as it does, and added another chapter to this story.

It seems that Constance, as well as a couple of other students from the school (two of them with learning disabilities, according to Constance), was told that oh, okay, you can come to the private prom, then. She and her date dressed, arrived... and found themselves with a mere five other students, victims of a bait and switch, while the rest of the school was away at another party, a different private prom thrown for them by their parents. (She tells The Advocate about it, here.)

I can't imagine the humiliation, the cheek-burning rage, the crushing disappointment among those seven kids. Especially after fighting and thinking you had won, to be the victims of what can only be described as a mean prank pulled on you by the whole town. Wow. What a message.

If one person had stood up and said this was wrong and tipped off the students involved, this could have been different. If one student had said you know, I like Constance. or this isn't right, this could have been different. If one school administrator, one teacher, one guidance counselor, for goodness's sake, had quietly gone to those students and told them that they were sorry, but they might want to skip this and that they didn't support this thing, this could have been different. And what about the parents?

What about the parents? I don't necessarily expect a teenager to have the gumption to stand up to the whole town, and god knows Constance seemed to have enough for all of them. But the parents? Did not one single adult think this was a horrible thing to do? Did not one of them think to tell her what was up and spare her that humiliation? Did not one of them think that this was a teachable moment and at risk of being branded an awful parent, tell their child that they would not be permitted to attend an event that supported hatred and bigotry in this way? Instead, they arranged, covered up, and paid for this? What were they thinking?

Because now, they have left their children a legacy. They have taught them that bigotry is okay, that hurting someone deeply is fine, maybe even funny, if you are having a good time uninterrupted. That if you are different, you don't belong, and it's alright to brutally exclude someone who isn't quite like you. That if any other children are feeling that they might be a tiny bit different, they'd better hide it and toe the line until they are old enough to leave town, because we don't want your kind around here. That it's okay if you don't want to play with that different child, mommy and daddy will take care of that for you so you don't have to develop any open-mindedness, tolerance, or coping skills.

They have left that town the legacy of a generation who will receive that message loud and clear - don't you dare be different, and go ahead and screw over those who are. It's alright to be mean. We don't want to let go of our prejudices. They have stamped their town forever with the mark of a bunch of bigots.

Constance, meanwhile, has turned out to be the very embodiment of class. It is reported that she said the one good thing that came out of this was that the small clutch of students lured to the fake prom at least didn't have to worry about people making fun of them at their own prom. Can you imagine? Can you imagine growing up in a place where you knew that this was a distinct possibility, that you would have a Carrie moment where you would be mocked at your own prom? What does that suggest about the rest of their lives growing up there? I shudder to think, really. For her to come forth with such equanimity, without outward condemnation, is amazing. That she is merely a teenager and displaying such grace makes her a candidate for greatness, in my book. I hope she can carry on as she has begun.

Shame on you, people of Itawamba, for writing this ugly chapter in your town's history, and for making this what you teach your children. I only hope some of them will grow up to be as disgusted by this as I am.

And Constance, you will likely never see this, but I hope you know that there are people - lots of people - who are proud of you and ache for the hurt you were caused. You are wished love and acceptance and a great future ahead in places where people let others fly high.