The id Post: Happy Thanksgiving, the Celebration of the America...

The id Post: Happy Thanksgiving, the Celebration of the America...: by Irene Daniel I love Thanksgiving. It's my favorite holiday because it is about good food to be shared with family and friends. It i...

Happy Thanksgiving, the Celebration of the American Hearth

by Irene Daniel

I love Thanksgiving. It's my favorite holiday because it is about good food to be shared with family and friends. It is, for me, an authentic celebration of the American hearth, a gathering around. And as we gather around, we eat, drink and laugh and love. It's just the best. Plus, my house gets to smell like my mom's special stuffing. And then, there's pumpkin pie. No gifts, no financial meltdowns. Just food and love. What could be better than that?

On this Thanksgiving Eve, as I prepare my home and my bird for tomorrow's buttery and delicious meal, my mind and heart drift elsewhere from time to time. I remember and I dream, for I still have an American Dream that remains unfulfilled -- my novel. And I am thinking of a special friend who is very ill tonight; he doesn't want to live anymore.

I know that feeling, all too well. Perhaps too many of us do. And that is why this year, I am especially grateful for my somewhat restored mental health. And that's no joke. I can't say that I'm almost back to my old self again because I don't want to go back to my old self. My old self was very ill and didn't know how to ask for help, and so became sicker and sicker; delving into a darkness that often hangs over those of us who suffer from chronic depression and anxiety. I basically broke down after my mother died, barely able to care for myself and my dog. Some days, that was the best I could do. Some days, it's still like that, albeit less often and somewhat less severe.

Every year my gratitude list is topped by my son, Daniel James Boise, followed closely by my grandson, Brody Atticus Boise (named after Atticus Finch -- how cool is that?), my husband Ken Johnson, our granddaughter, Nikki, my BFF Rhonda, and our dog, Maggie. And then there's everybody else I love. And then there is all that I have accomplished in my life -- my education and legal career, as well as my budding writing career.

But when I am in my darkness, I cannot even see all this light and joy in my life, much less appreciate it. Instead of feeling loved and connected, I feel unwanted and undeserving of love and kindness. I remember feeling that everyone I knew would be better off without me because I just never felt like I belonged here. Sometimes I still don't, but I know now that those are just thoughts and feelings and thoughts about my feelings. They are not real, but I am. I am real. And I am human, just like everybody else.

I did not learn these things this past year by myself. I have been on antidepressant medication for some time, and it took over six months to find the right one, the one that worked for me. I am neither proud nor ashamed of that fact. It is hard for me to confront my demons, and years of responding to them with panic and denial only aggravated and enlarged them. I didn't just want to die, I felt already dead and just wanted to escape the pain and harshness of what I believed to be a very cruel and dangerous world. It was only by talking it out with my therapist, with whom it took time and courage to establish trust, that I could permit myself to feel safe enough to deal with all this darkness. And I learned that my darkness is only one side of my humanity, and that it did not grow to such gargantuan proportions all by itself overnight, but was comprised largely of half a century of untreated PTSD and personal insecurities.

Mostly, my demons consisted of decades of guilt, regret and feeling like I was always doing it wrong, whatever "it" was at the time. And when I made mistakes, as we all do, I fed my demons with their denial, as if making mistakes and poor choices wasn't allowed to be a part of my human experience. I realized that I was mostly running away from myself, and that I could stop doing that whenever I wanted to. And when I allowed myself to see who I was in the eyes of those who loved and respected me, it was like a whole new world opened up.

For when that darkness is lifted, if even for only a moment or two, or an hour or two, I am able to see and appreciate the beauty and light of love that has always been with me. In those moments I am a gleaming success story because I love and am loved. And then I realize that this love is greater and stronger than my shortcomings and transgressions; and that I don't need to carry my mistakes around with me, or to wear them for all to see and comment upon. I deserve love and respect, just like everybody else. And I let go of judgment, of myself, and especially of others.

For now I realize that no one deserves to be remembered only by their worst mistake. Nobody is all one thing -- good or bad. We are all a strange, yet uniquely similar, mix of many things; many things that we all need help to face and to share. In so doing, we open ourselves up to others, and we let them in because being alone we lack the strength to keep our demons at bay.

I have found that, in letting my guard down, I let compassion in; compassion for myself and others. How much easier it is to face myself and my life, especially my many foibles and their ungracious consequences, when I am not alone. I hope my friend learns these things too, in his own way. And even more important, I hope that we can, as Americans, learn to deal with mental and emotional health issues in a more dignified manner than we have thus far. It is too great a waste of American talent if we do not, and soon.

On this Thanksgiving, 2013, I know that I am not alone, that I have never been alone, and that I will never be truly alone; for I have loved and I am loved. And it is that love, whether in my home today or only in my memory, that sustains me now. And for that, I am grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, all of my friends. Your love and faith in me has my heart overflowing with gratitude. May you all be richly blessed with all the things that matter most.

The id Post: As the World Stopped: Four Days in November

The id Post: As the World Stopped: Four Days in November: by Irene Daniel Tomorrow marks the 50 th anniversary of one of the most memorable week-ends of my entire life: the assassination of Pr...

As the World Stopped: Four Days in November

by Irene Daniel

Tomorrow marks the 50^th anniversary of one of the most memorable week-ends of my entire life: the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. It was the beginning of an awareness in me, and a love for history that has sustained me for half a century.

I was in 2^nd grade and had come home for lunch at 11:30 a.m., MST. My mother always watched As the World Turns, which came on at that time. I don’t remember what my mom made me for lunch, probably a tuna sandwich or a bowl of Campbell’s soup. But I will never forget the images laid out before my eyes as my family camped out in front of our TV for four days in November, in 1963.

I remember the bulletin coming on the TV, with just a voice over; and the look of astonished horror on my mother’s face. We were frozen in time. And then the official bulletin; we watched Walter Cronkite read live before our eyes: President Kennedy was dead.

My brothers came home for lunch too, and none of us went back to school after lunch because we were all crying so hard. Fridays were usually pretty happy days for us, but not this Friday. The next three days I remember the news coverage being constant and we would watch until we couldn’t stand it anymore. Then, my mother would turn the TV on again, and we would gather around the new American family hearth – the television. As Americans, we have experienced this national collective grief far too often; but that was the very first time.

This atmosphere of extreme and sudden grief was important for me in another, and very personal, way. I remember watching Caroline and thinking, “I lost my Daddy too.” Although my father hadn’t died, but was merely divorced from my mother, the dynamics of our relationships with him changed forever after the divorce. Our house burned down on Christmas night, 1961, and my brothers and I moved away with our mother; away from the only world we'd known. And all that I knew at the time was that my Daddy, the center of my universe, was no longer available to play with me, and to love me.

Divorce, especially for a Catholic family, was still something of a disgrace in those days, and I felt lonely and confused; unable to navigate the mix of emotions produced by the unusual facts of my young life. The overwhelming grief that engulfed our nation provided me with a catalyst for pent up emotions that I did not know how to express. I cried and cried. I cried for Caroline. And I cried for me. Only such a tremendous showing of shock and disbelief could provide an adequate outlet for a grief as large as mine.

And yet, in the midst of all of this utter sadness, I was also bedazzled and awed by all the pomp, dignity and patriotic splendor on display for all the world to see. We are Americans, and we are a special and noble lot. The entire world came to Washington, D.C., to pay respects and to witness the grandeur of our American display of State Ceremony. The world seemed to stop for those four days in November. It seemed that there was absolutely nothing in the entire universe that was of greater importance than to honor our fallen American President Kennedy, our eternal American Prince.

I came away from that from that week-end knowing two things that I didn’t know before, two things that have sustained me in tough times these past fifty years. First, I learned that two hearts can understand the same grief, like Caroline and me. None of us are immune from devastating loss. Whether you were growing up in the White House or in a small Mexican-American family home in the desert southwest, losing your Daddy is tough.

And I learned that my country truly must be the greatest on earth. The awe-inspiring display of military and patriotic grandeur still takes my breath away when I watch footage thereof. I don’t think we’ve ever experienced anything like that state funeral in my lifetime. I know I will never live a moment like that again.

When I watch the footage of little John, Jr. saluting his father's flag-draped casket as it rolled by, I remember hearing my mother give out a little cry, a shriek of unspeakable loss as she cried into a bath towel. And it rained all week-end, as though the universe was acknowledging the gaping hole in our southwestern American hearts, responding with a gray and weeping sky.

I remember and I appreciate my life-long love of history and politics. I think it all started during those four days in November, when the world stopped.

The id Post: When a Sentence Begins with “I’m not a Racist,” Wh...

The id Post: When a Sentence Begins with “I’m not a Racist,” Wh...: by Irene Daniel   Richie Incognito says that he’s not racist, and as far as his intentions go, I give him the benefit of the doubt. He, ...

When a Sentence Begins with “I’m not a Racist,” What Does this Really Mean?

by Irene Daniel

 

Richie Incognito says that he’s not racist, and as far as his intentions go, I give him the benefit of the doubt. He, like most people when asked point blank, probably does not harbor an intentional malice or bias against those that he perceives as different from himself. Most of us would say the same thing about ourselves. However, the truth is, that we are all, me included – and sometimes especially so – biased in some manner or another.

Perhaps from a learned response, or from our own personal experiences, we process this information, and it becomes a third, and invisible, eye. I know that this fact is no less true of me than any other person, and yes, I am aware of my biases and how they evolve into social blind spots. And that is why I find myself not so much angry with Incognito, as I am curious about his world view.

Many of my friends accuse me of a bias against white men, and this is a bias to which I must honestly admit; although it is not one of malice. Rather, my wariness of white males is one born of my many negative experiences with a society dominated by white heterosexual males; one that I found detrimental to just about all persons who are not all three of those things. For that reason, I find their perspectives largely lacking in insight and, therefore, less credible. Far from being a character flaw, it is merely the logical extension of living in a world socially engineered for their success by people like them. They learn what they need to know in order to succeed in a world where the top of the food chain is reserved by and for other white males. They don't know what they don't know, mostly because knowledge of "the other" is largely not required of them. The institutionalized and overt messages of white superiority have dominated our culture to such an extent that we are all affected by it, whether that message was intentional or the subliminal consequence of centuries of indoctrination.

 

In fact, I have often found myself astonished at how very little white males know about Civil Rights -- even educated ones, even liberal ones. For example, a dear white male conservative friend of mine, who is now of retirement age, possesses a J.D. from UCLA, has clerked for a United States Supreme Court Justice, and has served as an officer in the U.S. Navy. From such an impressive list of accomplishments and experience, one would not expect such a person to be ignorant of American racial history. However, a few years ago we were discussing the movie, 'The Help,' in which he revealed to me that, until he saw that movie he had no idea how prevalent and malicious was the example of white supremacy in the south in 1963. Really? He clerked for Supreme Court Justice, and he didn't know how bad racism was in the south prior to the Civil Rights Movement before seeing a movie? If he could achieve so much, knowing so little about what made my success possible, what state of unknowing must the rest the American white male population be suffering? And 'The Help' was much more fantasy than historical fiction, for it did not even begin to reveal the extent of the constant terrorist activity of the KKK right in the middle of the setting of the story, i.e., Jackson, MS. This story was milk-toast compared to the real thing, and this is what opened his eyes to the cruelty of racism? Wow, is about all I could say to that cheery news.

 

I am not trying to justify my bias here, for I realize that there is a difference between being discerning and being dismissive; and I am often dismissive to those who don’t see the world my way. And for that dismissiveness, I apologize. In being honest about my bias, perhaps my readers will be encouraged to do the same. For it is only in honesty and unconditional love that we can safely discard our defenses from one another, and hopefully create a dialogue in which we can examine and discuss our biases without fear or need for venom. I know why my viewpoint makes sense to me. Do you know why yours makes sense to you?

 

We know that in professional sports, what makes sense is winning. Sports is a physically objective measure of skill, and because of this I believe that many sports have lead the way in accepting nonwhite players who could accomplish the number one objective – putting points on the board. However rocky along the way, most people don’t judge anyone’s athletic ability these days based upon the color of their skin or other immutable characteristics. Statistics speak for themselves.

And with sports we also get athletic locker rooms, which can be hotbeds of backwards thinking, given the youthful and often socially naïve players in a testosterone-laden environment. This is especially true if there is no effective leadership to educate and refine the crudeness, recognizing the potential for things to get out of hand. Incognito wants us to think that he is a product of his environment, and I suppose to some extent that's true. 

However, the use of the “N” word is pretty universally thought to be a word based in negative connotation. That it is still used in certain environments, e.g., hip-hop and, apparently, professional sports locker rooms is, in my opinion, unfortunate. While I understand young African-Americans who want to recapture a word that brought fear and shame upon their ancestors, I just wish everyone would stay away from it – especially white people.

 

Because it is impossible to replicate the degree of human degradation experienced by slaves, it is impossible for any of us in present day to truly understand how it felt to be called that word every day, instead of your name. Unless you’re black and lived prior to the Civil Rights Movement, you have no idea of the pain of that word. It would be a good idea for white conservatives to stop comparing anything to slavery for this very reason. It creates a very unattractive image for those of us who know better, and reinforces yet another negative stereotype about white ignorance and insensitivity that we all need to get past, instead of having this barrier to unity reinforced.

 

When nonwhites hear these comments, it only reinforces a negative stereotype about how very little white people know about any American history outside of a revisionist historian's Manifest Destiny dreams. In other words, they know little or nothing about how the Mexicans taught the Europeans how to cowboy in the first place; about Los San Patricios, Irish-American immigrants who fought for Mexico during the Mexican -- American War of 1846-48, because the Mexicans treated them better; how our nation's very impressive Capitol City was built by slaves; as well as the extent of the medieval cruelty imposed upon slaves in the 19th century American south, methods that would have given even Queen Isabela's Inquisition pause.

 

But back to today's NFL; the evidence suggests that not all NFL locker rooms allow the free use of that word, or other kinds of bullying behavior. Shaun King, former Tampa Bay quarterback said that this atmosphere is not prevalent in the NFL and is unique to the Miami Dolphins and to Richie Incognito. On Monday night's ESPN coverage, Trent Dilfer commented that, ". . . there are certain lines you do not cross and they were crossed." Steve Young argued that bullying is not necessary to create great football players or winning teams. He went on to say that, "Bill Walsh got rid of hazing," and further offered that neither Coach Walsh nor his teammates, like Ronnie Lott, would have put up with that kind of conduct. And these gentlemen played decades ago.

 

So, who is responsible for creating a hostile work environment? For that is clearly what it became for Jonathan Martin. He, like many victims of bullying, don’t want to appear weak and thus subject themselves to further ridicule, so they put up with it and put up with it until they simply cannot any longer. And then they seem to erupt in an emotional explosion. Many of us who have been bullied are familiar with this pattern.

So the question we come to is this: where was the leadership in Miami Dolphins’ locker room? Who is responsible for creating an atmosphere so wrought with racism and emotional abuse?  Why did Richie Incognito feel so main-stream in his conduct?

 

Now, quite frankly, I think any grown man, no matter what color he is, should know better than to use that word; much less in a bullying manner, much less even when it is a white man delivering those words to a black man. Failing that instruction in common decency, NFL locker rooms are union workplaces, where union rules should dominate – or at least instruct a particular code of conduct – thus commanding management to provide a safe working environment, free from discrimination of any kind. This obviously did not happen.

So, back to Richie: is he a racist? Or is he a victim of his environment? Every single American receives lessons in Manifest Destiny, even to this day, albeit subliminally. To this day, little black girls still choose white dolls as more beautiful than black baby dolls. We have all been fed the influence of a false white superiority, and we are just beginning to wake up from the nightmare of the overall and long-lasting effects of our original sin of slavery. Many white people are unaware that, what they call Manifest Destiny, others call the American Holocaust. It has been reported that when Hitler was planning the Nazi extermination of the Jews, he studied Andrew Jackson's cruelty to Native Americans and African Americans, slave or free, as an example to follow.

 

Until we can own up to the real American history, instead of the constant “whitewashing” by white revisionists who can only see America as God’s gift to white people, we cannot truly deal with our racial woes, and thus it will be harder to heal them. Eventually, this will be bad news for white people, for they will very soon be an American minority; and if they are unwilling to honestly relinquish an unearned advantage over others, it may be necessary to accomplish true American equality in ways that may be unnecessarily humiliating for them.

I don’t think that Incognito is maliciously racist. I think that he is ignorantly malicious, and racism is just something that was a convenient tool in this particular instance. I think that he is probably not the sharpest knife in the drawer and is more follower than leader, except when it comes to making someone else feel small. Because it is in making others feel small that he sees himself as a champion. How sad for him. Racism hurts white people too, when the unintended consequences of the unjust humiliation of "the other" are revealed for what they are: the tactics of an insecure coward.

 

That is an indictment not only of Richie Incognito, but of those who permitted him to verbally and emotionally brutalize his teammate in a professional workplace, albeit an NFL locker room. Where were the grown-ups in the room?


The most profound words of the day on Monday came from Steve Ross, the owner of the Miami Dolphins. During the press conference on Monday, he was visibly shaken and seemed lost; unable to figure this out by himself. And it is that wisdom, knowing that the largeness of this social cancer is beyond any one of us to handle alone, that we must all embrace. For there is not just one right answer to our chronic and dynamic racial woes here in the land of the free. Like it or not, we need each other to figure this thing out.


With a downcast and 'deer in the headlights' look, Steve Ross said, "We all need to look at ourselves." Isn't that the truth?

 

The id Post: My Halloween Haunting: Memories and Dreams

The id Post: My Halloween Haunting: Memories and Dreams: by Irene Daniel I was all ready a day early last week, to post my blog about the testimony of Secretary of Health and Human Services, Kath...

My Halloween Haunting: Memories and Dreams

by Irene Daniel

I was all ready a day early last week, to post my blog about the testimony of Secretary of Health and Human Services, Kathleen Sebelius before a committee of the House of Representatives. I had it drafted and all it needed was final proofing; a piece about the condescending and sexist tone of the questions and/or rants of the conservative members of the committee in addressing the Secretary. I thought she did a pretty good job of putting up with them. And then a number of obstacles, mostly technical, intervened.

I've been riding the bus more lately, as I want to do more to reduce my carbon footprint. I used to hate taking public transportation because it reminded me of being poor and living without; but now I recognize this insecurity for what it is: my ego telling me that I am not enough. And my latest transformation has convinced me that my ego is not my amigo, and so, I try to choose higher now; relegating my super-sized ego to the back seat instead of the driver's seat of my life. It sneaks up on me though. It is a constant battle.

Last week I was taking a ride on the red line, when I noticed a little old Mexican lady who looked so much like my mother that it gave me pause. I first noticed her on the platform, a short, white-haired lady, who was accompanied by a younger woman. A daughter? Granddaughter?

It was crowded and there were no seats. I watched her enter the train and grab onto a pole to steady herself for the ride. I was about to get up and offer her my seat, when the Mexican man sitting next to me got up and said, "Senora," and motioned for her to take his seat -- right next to me. We greeted one another in Spanish and talked about how cute the puppy was that the Mexican man was carrying in a little blue pouch.

It really took my breath away. She was so real and alive and she looked like my departed mother. I wanted to reach over and just hold her. I wanted to stroke her white hair and feel her head on my chest. A few stops later, the man who had surrendered his seat found an empty one in front of us and facing sideways. He and the woman began chatting about dogs in rapid Spanish, as she petted the black and white puppy. I closed my eyes and I could hear my mother chatting with her comadres, her sweet laughter piercing through at times. I opened them again and the woman smiled up at me. My heart completely melted and I wished that I could somehow communicate how happy I was that she had sat down beside me. It was a bittersweet happiness.

Earlier in the day, I had seen a young dark-skinned man who looked like my brother Gilbert, who died in October of 1988. He was young and thin and was reading with the same intensity that Gilbert had. He was very focused upon his task, reading and working on his laptop. I thought about all the dreams that Gilbert had, for himself and for others. He was a natural teacher, and still one of the best that I was so fortunate to have had. In many ways, his tutelage prepared me for college and law school better than any other. I wish I had told him that when he was alive.

By the time I got home, I felt heavy and sad. Somehow, I lacked the inspiration and focus needed to complete my Sebelius piece. I couldn't get that sweet Mexican lady out of my head. I thought about my family and about Halloween, the gateway to the Daniel family holiday season. I remembered trick-or-treating all over our small town. I swear we went to every house. I remember so many things that seemed so small and insignificant at the time, but now run through my mind, both comforting and haunting me.

Mostly I realized, as we all do, that it is too late to say "thank you" or "good job" or "I love you." I cannot go back and appreciate fully what was once taken for granted, or even unwanted. I can, however -- and must, move forward now. And I know that it is not too late to appreciate fully what and who is in my life right now.

And it's the small things I appreciate the most these days: walking my dog Maggie, picking flowers with my granddaughter, sharing a laugh with my husband, preparing meals, lighting the first fire of the season, playing Monopoly or Scrabble with the people I love, watching the sun go down or taking in a full moon. Life is precious.

It is this message that I need most to share because it is the one I most need to remember.