by Irene Daniel
There has been much talk lately about income inequality, greed, welfare and the role of government in our capitalist system. I hear a lot of statistics being thrown around. I hear people of varying perspectives quote scripture of one kind or another. This being America, the Bible is looked upon by many as God's word, and is to be revered without question, lest one's sense of morality be suspect. However, these words, whatever their source, mean nothing if they cannot be applied to what people in the here and now are experiencing. How do we apply scripture to real life?
So I thought I'd tell you my story; about poverty, despair and hope, and see what spiritual applications we can find. My parents were divorced in 1962, and in the early 1960s in a predominantly Mexican-Catholic community, this was somewhat taboo. What made it more difficult for my family was the fact that our standard of living took a huge nose-dive after my parents' separation. My father had a good union copper mining job and we enjoyed a nice standard of living when they were still together. Although we were not wealthy, we were just about as well-off as most of our friends and neighbors. Post-divorce, however, was another story.
My father, for whatever reasons -- depression, disability, neglect? -- failed to adequately provide for us by paying his child support on time, or at all. We used to call the child-support checks the "maybe checks." because maybe they'd come, and maybe they wouldn't. Mostly, they didn't.
So, my mother went to work. However, being physically and, I now realize mentally, disabled and crippled with an arthritic right hand, it was impossible for her to keep up with full-time work and caring for her children. She tried baby-sitting and cooking for people, but it was still not enough. We had to go on welfare.
Before there were food stamps, there were USDA surplus commodities that were distributed to families on government assistance. There were big tubs of peanut-butter, canned meat (which we gave or bargained away because even our feral house cat wouldn't eat it), rice, beans, flour and other -- mostly canned, staples. I was always so embarrassed when my mother would send me to pick them up on my bike, which was a Christmas gift from one of the local service organizations, as our family was identified as one of the needy ones in our community. I really felt like a hand-me-down Rose. I remember hoping that my friends wouldn't see me, as they rode by in cars driven by their parents. In this respect, I was very much like my mother.
My mother really hated being dependent upon anyone for anything ever, but she had to feed and care for 3 children by herself and the task was simply beyond her human capacity. My mother didn't really fit into any pattern of life not of her own making, and I finally understand why. But she was always up at dawn and worked hard every day, all day, taking care of us: getting us up in the morning, preparing our meals, washing our clothes, shopping, cleaning and taking care of the yard.
Of course, we helped her all we could, and she was a demanding task master around the house. And we all had jobs. My brothers both started working at the age of 10, in order to bring money into the house for essentials, like groceries and utilities. I began my career at age 13, working as a clerical assistant in our local hospital and high school. We were all self-supporting at a very young age.
Some of theses jobs were working for local small business, but many of them were the result of government programs such as HeadStart and Neighborhood Youth Corps. Yes, government created these jobs to serve the needs of our community by paying young people to do work that needed doing in our community, but was unaffordable to local providers of public services; like hospitals and schools. These jobs also brought in needed income to families like ours, constantly on the brink of financial disaster.
When I hear people talk about poor people as if they are scamming the government, I wonder if those lamenting the laziness of the low income family actually know what it is like to live hand to mouth like we did. I doubt it. And when I hear Newt Gingrich say that school boys should be paid to clean the school to lower costs and "teach them a work ethic," I think of my brother, who had just such a job -- thanks to the Job Corps. Those funds made it possible for my brother to make money to bring home so that my mother could pay the light bill. Moreover, our town didn't need to take the job of school janitor away from a working father in our community. Our high school janitor also drove the school bus and was the father of our classmates. Why put him out of a job?
Another great benefit of the Great Society enjoyed by the Town of Florence was that, with more people having more money in their pockets, the local economy thrived. Our little cow town supported 3 small grocery stories, several gas stations, local restaurants, 2 drug stories, a car dealership, a department store, a five-and-dime and a big lumber yard that was always busy, among others. And, being the County Seat, it was a bustling community. Those were the days when money flowed from government programs to the pockets of the neediest among us. The only problem with Job Corps was that there weren't enough jobs to go around to all the other kids whose families also needed the income, as well as the valuable work experience and "work ethic." I wonder how old Newt Gingrich was when he assumed full responsibility for his own, as well as a family's, expenses. I'll bet he was older than 10, or even 13.
Saving the best for last, the greatest benefit of the Great Society, and the most sustaining still, is the honor of being given the benefit of the doubt when it comes to evaluating one's character. I still remember watching the speech in which LBJ declared a 'war on poverty.' Here was somebody, and not just anybody, but the President of the United States of America, declaring as evil the conditions that kept me and my family in a state of shame and constant angst. It was as though he reached into our living room and said, "I care about what happens to you. I believe that you are better than your current state and I'm going to give you a chance to prove it to me." Wow! I can still remember how we literally danced around the TV because we no longer felt cast off and forgotten. We were valuable. To people who didn't even know us. We mattered enough for the President of the United States to make fighting poverty by creating greater opportunity for those living below the poverty line a legislative and executive priority.
A few years later, I remember Martin Luther King, Jr. announcing the Poor People's Campaign, which planned another march on Washington for the summer of 1968. I remember how hopeful and empowered I felt given all the attention and priority given to people like me, little girls growing up in the middle of nowhere, feeling abandoned and afraid every day. I followed the story and the movement, all the way to what became it's bitter end.
After the assassination of Martin Luther King in April, 1968, the positive energy of the movement really took a hit, but it was still alive. Then, after the assassination of Robert Kennedy in June, it was as though all of whatever air was left in that balloon vanished, along with many of our dreams for peace and prosperity for all. It was as though the heart and soul of the movement had been stabbed and was bleeding to death before our very sad eyes.
When the march finally happened, it was more of a lament than a movement. It rained on a deflated tent city, and the power and energy that had propelled the message forward seemed now forever lost. And then the country elected Richard Nixon and I knew, in my adolescent heart, that a light had gone out in America.
Words of encouragement to disadvantaged youth were replaced by demands for law and order, and evolved to the demonization of the welfare queen by Ronald Reagan. I have always been so grateful that I had a real President who really cared about me when I was a child living in poverty through no fault of my own. I shudder to think about those children growing up in poverty post-Great Society; who are not told that they are valuable, are not told that their country will create opportunities for them where only darkness existed before, and are not valued and cheered-on, as I was in my youth. Instead, they are stopped-and-frisked, shot, assumed to be filled with darkness, and left to their own devices.
It made a huge difference in my life to be valued by my elected government when I was a very sad and angry little girl. The energy of my anger was channeled into work and study, all the way to UCLA Law School. As a result of the opportunities availed to me by The Great Society, my fear and anger were transformed into compassion and eternal gratitude. That is the real victory.
What can we expect of adults, who have been told their entire lives by people who look down on them in presumptuous ignorance, that they are worthless? LBJ and Sargent Shriver were cheerleaders for the poor, for me, for my mother, for my brothers. And for their enduring confidence and love for me, and people like me, they will live forever through the work we do to further their commitment to bringing light to lives darkened by disaster and poverty.
(Next week: Part Two -- My Education)
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Thursday, January 30, 2014
The Gentleman, the Scholar and the Thug: Can you tell the difference?
by Irene Daniel
Okay, so a Congressman, a professional football player and the President of the United States walk into a bar. And the sign said, "No Thugs Served." Who would be served in this bar?
So it's not the funniest joke you've ever heard. In fact, it's not really funny at all, is it? But I wonder what we really mean when we use the word "thug." Richard Sherman, defensive corner-back for the Seattle Seahawks, said last week that "thug" is the new "n-word." He offered this insight after being called a thug for his post-game, testosterone-laden winner's rant just moments after making the play of the game, qualifying his team for a Super Bowl match-up with the Denver Broncos.
I don't think Sherman's retractors, or the media, were ready for the non-testosterone laden Sherman, who earned a Bachelor's Degree in Communications from Stanford University, and is currently pursuing a Master's Degree. This Richard Sherman presented himself at the press conference to be the gentleman and scholar that he is, as he explained his comments and used the example of hockey players abandoning their puck to punch each other in the face. Nobody called them thugs. And yet Sherman, who did not threaten anyone with violence, used no offensive language (unless, of course, you're a wide receiver named Crabtree), but proclaimed himself the champion that he certainly was in that moment with great enthusiasm, was called a thug hundreds of times for his post-game conduct.
President Obama has also endured and endured and endured being called a thug, and described in condescending, insulting and just plain racist terms for the better part of a decade now. And yet, as in his State of the Union Address on Tuesday night, he has never responded in like terms, nor has he taken the haters to task, as many of his supporters wish that he would. He has always taken the high road, refusing to get baited into an ugly back-and-forth that belongs more in the 18th century than it does the 21st. I marvel at his patience and emotional control.
Most successful African-American men will tell you that, at some point in their upbringing, they were told that they must not call attention to themselves in any way that could be construed as violent, criminal or suspect. They are taught, as young boys, not to shout, run, make gestures or faces, or do anything that might be construed as aggressive. The reason that they are taught these things is so that they will not get themselves into trouble by causing alarm in white people, for white people are still mostly in control of who gets jobs and who goes to jail. I think this training is evident in the President's behavior, as well as that of most African-American men I know. African-American men, as well as Latinos, have learned this lesson well. If you don't believe me, ask a successful dark-skinned male about their experiences and, if they are honest with you, they will tell you all about this unwritten, but well-known, rule of their world.
So, what is a thug? My old Webster's defines it as "a brutal hoodlum; gangster, etc." I've also heard it defined as "a violent person, especially a criminal." I've never known President Obama to do or say anything "brutal" or "violent" or "criminal." Richard Sherman's comments could not accurately be described as any of those things. So why are they called thugs?
Let's contrast their conduct and words with, say Congressman Michael Grimm, who threatened the very life of a NY1 reporter by throwing him "over this f*#$king balcony," referring to the 3rd floor balcony of the U.S. Capitol Building. Additionally, the Congressman got right into the face of Reporter Michael Scotto and further threatened to tear him in half, "like a boy." These threats sound both brutal and violent to me. Moreover, getting in someone's face like that and threatening bodily injury is in fact a crime called assault. Physical contact is not necessary for an assault; only that the victim be placed in a position of force or fear.
Several months ago, there was a riot in Huntington Beach. You may not have heard about it because the rioters were young white men. They looted and destroyed property in Huntington Beach, obvious criminal behavior. Where was the national outcry denouncing this white male conduct as thuggery? If the double-standard wasn't already obvious to you, perhaps these simple comparisons can serve to enlighten.
I have long believed that, at some point in history, white privilege will no longer serve as an advantage, but may very well become something of a disadvantage for white males. We are getting closer to that tipping point every day. This disadvantage will not stem from the long-held resentments of women and people of color; although who could blame us? No. This disadvantage to the long-privileged white male will stem from a society which has, for hundreds of years, expected little from him in terms of actual merit. The deck has been stacked in his favor for centuries and generations and, as Robert Frost wrote, ". . . way leads onto way."
Women and people of color have had to learn the "end-run" around privileged white males in order to succeed in a world created by and for the success of white men for generations. The time is upon us when this is no longer necessary because we don't need to please only white men in order to get what we want. We have our own kind in places of power now -- government, board rooms, business owners. Accordingly, we don't need to tap dance anymore.
What this also means is that, while it's not level yet, the playing field is no longer designed exclusively by and for white males. That means that competition is much more fierce and outcomes less guaranteed for pale males. And since white males have not had to compete outside of their own comfort zones, they are woefully unaccustomed thereto. Having been given a pass for so long, they are not able to keep up with those of us who have made the Dean's List while holding down a full-time job and caring for small children and/or elderly relatives.
I don't hate white men, so please save your energy for something other than name-calling. I have observed their competency and/or ignorance up close for 40 years, and I am constantly astonished at how very little white males know about anything that doesn't directly concern or interest them, like Civil Rights, for example. And yet, their mediocrity can land them in the White House, George W. Bush, a case in point. A dark-skinned half-white man, like President Obama, has to be nearly perfect in all respects, and yet he gets called a thug.
Every time we see an example such as those that I have shared here, the long-term consequences of white male privilege become more visible to those who haven't had to think about it; and more and more painfully obvious to those of us who have had to navigate the dark side of white privilege for generations.
So, do you know how to tell the difference between a gentleman, a scholar and a thug?
Okay, so a Congressman, a professional football player and the President of the United States walk into a bar. And the sign said, "No Thugs Served." Who would be served in this bar?
So it's not the funniest joke you've ever heard. In fact, it's not really funny at all, is it? But I wonder what we really mean when we use the word "thug." Richard Sherman, defensive corner-back for the Seattle Seahawks, said last week that "thug" is the new "n-word." He offered this insight after being called a thug for his post-game, testosterone-laden winner's rant just moments after making the play of the game, qualifying his team for a Super Bowl match-up with the Denver Broncos.
I don't think Sherman's retractors, or the media, were ready for the non-testosterone laden Sherman, who earned a Bachelor's Degree in Communications from Stanford University, and is currently pursuing a Master's Degree. This Richard Sherman presented himself at the press conference to be the gentleman and scholar that he is, as he explained his comments and used the example of hockey players abandoning their puck to punch each other in the face. Nobody called them thugs. And yet Sherman, who did not threaten anyone with violence, used no offensive language (unless, of course, you're a wide receiver named Crabtree), but proclaimed himself the champion that he certainly was in that moment with great enthusiasm, was called a thug hundreds of times for his post-game conduct.
President Obama has also endured and endured and endured being called a thug, and described in condescending, insulting and just plain racist terms for the better part of a decade now. And yet, as in his State of the Union Address on Tuesday night, he has never responded in like terms, nor has he taken the haters to task, as many of his supporters wish that he would. He has always taken the high road, refusing to get baited into an ugly back-and-forth that belongs more in the 18th century than it does the 21st. I marvel at his patience and emotional control.
Most successful African-American men will tell you that, at some point in their upbringing, they were told that they must not call attention to themselves in any way that could be construed as violent, criminal or suspect. They are taught, as young boys, not to shout, run, make gestures or faces, or do anything that might be construed as aggressive. The reason that they are taught these things is so that they will not get themselves into trouble by causing alarm in white people, for white people are still mostly in control of who gets jobs and who goes to jail. I think this training is evident in the President's behavior, as well as that of most African-American men I know. African-American men, as well as Latinos, have learned this lesson well. If you don't believe me, ask a successful dark-skinned male about their experiences and, if they are honest with you, they will tell you all about this unwritten, but well-known, rule of their world.
So, what is a thug? My old Webster's defines it as "a brutal hoodlum; gangster, etc." I've also heard it defined as "a violent person, especially a criminal." I've never known President Obama to do or say anything "brutal" or "violent" or "criminal." Richard Sherman's comments could not accurately be described as any of those things. So why are they called thugs?
Let's contrast their conduct and words with, say Congressman Michael Grimm, who threatened the very life of a NY1 reporter by throwing him "over this f*#$king balcony," referring to the 3rd floor balcony of the U.S. Capitol Building. Additionally, the Congressman got right into the face of Reporter Michael Scotto and further threatened to tear him in half, "like a boy." These threats sound both brutal and violent to me. Moreover, getting in someone's face like that and threatening bodily injury is in fact a crime called assault. Physical contact is not necessary for an assault; only that the victim be placed in a position of force or fear.
Several months ago, there was a riot in Huntington Beach. You may not have heard about it because the rioters were young white men. They looted and destroyed property in Huntington Beach, obvious criminal behavior. Where was the national outcry denouncing this white male conduct as thuggery? If the double-standard wasn't already obvious to you, perhaps these simple comparisons can serve to enlighten.
I have long believed that, at some point in history, white privilege will no longer serve as an advantage, but may very well become something of a disadvantage for white males. We are getting closer to that tipping point every day. This disadvantage will not stem from the long-held resentments of women and people of color; although who could blame us? No. This disadvantage to the long-privileged white male will stem from a society which has, for hundreds of years, expected little from him in terms of actual merit. The deck has been stacked in his favor for centuries and generations and, as Robert Frost wrote, ". . . way leads onto way."
Women and people of color have had to learn the "end-run" around privileged white males in order to succeed in a world created by and for the success of white men for generations. The time is upon us when this is no longer necessary because we don't need to please only white men in order to get what we want. We have our own kind in places of power now -- government, board rooms, business owners. Accordingly, we don't need to tap dance anymore.
What this also means is that, while it's not level yet, the playing field is no longer designed exclusively by and for white males. That means that competition is much more fierce and outcomes less guaranteed for pale males. And since white males have not had to compete outside of their own comfort zones, they are woefully unaccustomed thereto. Having been given a pass for so long, they are not able to keep up with those of us who have made the Dean's List while holding down a full-time job and caring for small children and/or elderly relatives.
I don't hate white men, so please save your energy for something other than name-calling. I have observed their competency and/or ignorance up close for 40 years, and I am constantly astonished at how very little white males know about anything that doesn't directly concern or interest them, like Civil Rights, for example. And yet, their mediocrity can land them in the White House, George W. Bush, a case in point. A dark-skinned half-white man, like President Obama, has to be nearly perfect in all respects, and yet he gets called a thug.
Every time we see an example such as those that I have shared here, the long-term consequences of white male privilege become more visible to those who haven't had to think about it; and more and more painfully obvious to those of us who have had to navigate the dark side of white privilege for generations.
So, do you know how to tell the difference between a gentleman, a scholar and a thug?
Thursday, January 23, 2014
The id Post: How We Decide: A Personal Story of Choice
The id Post: How We Decide: A Personal Story of Choice: by Irene Daniel About 34 years ago, I made the most profound and challenging decision of my entire life. I was pregnant, unmarried, emo...
How We Decide: A Personal Story of Choice
by Irene Daniel
When I picked up the phone to cancel my appointment, my voice was breaking and I almost burst into tears. I was barely able to say the words, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep my appointment today,” as I spoke through muffled sobs. I will never forget the response I received from the woman on the other end of the line. I could actually hear the compassionate and knowing smile in her voice. Yes, she understood and wished me and my baby well, from everyone at Planned Parenthood. She also reminded me that they would always be available for any present and future needs I may have, and invited me to call anytime I needed them.
Fortunately for me, I have never again needed or used the services of Planned Parenthood. I have no idea who the women were who talked to me on the phone, but I do know that they made a lasting impression on me, and the memory of their professionalism and compassion sustains me still.
I share this story because I think it is important for women who have had abortions, or even thought about having one, to honor ourselves and one another by releasing us all from any sense of shame for exercising our legal choices, regardless of whatever choice is made. I think it is also important for Americans to understand that being pro-choice is not about promoting sex with no consequences. Many women have conceived while using some method of birth control. Other than abstinence, no method is fool-proof.
But even if a pregnancy is the result of carelessness, the consequences are visited most profoundly, directly, immediately and eternally upon the woman, for an act of both partners. Accordingly, it should forever be her right to choose what is appropriate for her own physical person. Our bodies are the first and most sacred of all that we will ever own. I share this story as an example of one fortunate woman who, at a very confusing time in her life, was surrounded by people, especially her mate, who never questioned this very basic fact of life.
I am glad I changed my mind. But you see, it was my choice, my decision to take all the emotional risks necessary to become a mother. And those in my life who loved me, supported me in my leap of faith. It was through the process of decision-making that I discovered who I really was in that moment; for all decision-making is a process. And when we deny these choices, these intimate decisions that are rightfully our own to anyone, then we deny them this very important and infinitely personal journey of self-discovery. This denial is the most un-American thing we can do. It is unbelievable to me that these sacred choices are now the topic of political fodder once again! How did we get here? This is something I thought that we could all take for granted by the time I became a grandmother. And yet, here we are again.
I was blessed to deliver a healthy, beautiful son, who is still the first delight of my life. I have shared this story with him for several reasons. First, I would not want him to hear this story from anyone else because it is not a secret and I am not ashamed of exercising my legal right to choose. I don’t want him to be afraid or ashamed of any part of his life, or how it came to be. He knows he wasn’t planned, but he was not an accident either. He was wanted and welcomed and loved every day of his life.
But the most important reason I tell my son this story, is to honor his father and his courageous, yet empowering surrender. I want him to be proud of his father, who has always wanted him, and assumed most of the responsibilities of raising him as I pursued my education. I want him to know of this personal example in his own life, of how to respect and honor women.
I asked permission from my son and his father before posting this story. It is their story and their privacy too. Even though Bob and I are long since parted, I am glad for all that he brought to my life, most especially our son, our beautiful baby, who we chose to bring into this world together. For all of our ups and downs and learning curves, we will always be family. And that is a very good thing.
I chose to have a family. I chose to open my heart. I chose to take this risk and take on the responsibility of parenthood. I am not a perfect parent. Who is? But, parenthood was something I chose, not something imposed upon me by fate, or by a society still largely governed by men. Men who, unlike Bob, cannot see past themselves enough to respect the women of this country to make the choices they see fit regarding the most personal and profound aspects of our lives.
I will always support Planned Parenthood because I will always be grateful to this organization for being supportive and compassionate at a time when I needed it most. And I will always be grateful that I was afforded a legal choice that was respected by those close to me, as well as my community. I want my granddaughters to have this same choice. I hope they don’t have to fight for it still, when they become grandmothers.
About 34 years ago, I
made the most profound and challenging decision of my entire life. I was
pregnant, unmarried, emotionally immature and unprepared, Catholic and
confused. I was enrolled in a local
community college, but had not yet earned my college and law degrees. Even
though I was on the pill and in a committed relationship with my baby’s father
(who I’ll call Bob), our love was still fresh and new, and relatively untested.
I wasn’t sure if I could rely upon Bob to be there for me or our child.
I was very lucky in that Bob and I discussed this matter
very openly and honestly. He wanted the baby, and said he would be there as a
father, regardless of the long-term status of our union. What he said next I
realize now is one of the greatest examples of respect that I’ve ever experienced.
He told me that, even though he wanted this baby, he would defer to me to make
the final decision because it was I who had to carry and deliver the child, as
well as assume a lifetime of responsibilities, limitations and physical and
emotional changes that he did not have to experience. I will always respect and
love this man as a true friend for being so far ahead of his time, and for honoring
me with such human decency and respect.
After much talking, crying, praying and contemplation, I
made my choice. I called Planned Parenthood and made an appointment to
terminate my unplanned pregnancy. Even though I felt emotionally and morally
conflicted at times, I was not certain that I could provide my child with all
the things that I didn’t get, and that contributed to the family dysfunction
that I had lived in all of my life. I did not want to share generations of
dysfunction with this new being, and didn’t think I had anything else to offer
to a child. I didn’t want my baby to have the kind of childhood that I had had,
and since I did not know at the time how to see past it, I thought the most
responsible thing to do was to save this child from the abandonment and abuse
that I had suffered, and that seemed to me, almost inevitable. This is why I
was on the pill at the time, a fact that I felt justified the therapeutic
abortion.
In talking to the people at Planned Parenthood, I never
experienced any kind of pressure to choose one way or another. There was only a
profound professionalism and compassionate tone that made me feel safe and
unashamed. This was a very empowering experience for me.
When
the day came, however, I found that this was really not the right choice for
me, in this particular circumstance; and not out of guilt or shame, but rather
because of what I had learned in the process of examining all my choices. I had
to have enough emotional courage to admit that I was not alone. I knew I would
need help, and this would invite emotional intimacy with others, especially my
baby; and that maybe it was time to open my heart, which especially at that
time, was very closed and cold.
Moreover,
I realized that, since Bob had confessed his unwillingness to impose something
so permanent upon me, perhaps I should consider his wishes more carefully, and
give them more weight than my insecurities and dysfunctional history. By going
through this very personal, emotional, and life-changing process, I learned a
lot about myself, and especially about my partner. In so doing, I came to
realize that my fears for this child needn’t become reality; and that we could
create a new reality for our new family.When I picked up the phone to cancel my appointment, my voice was breaking and I almost burst into tears. I was barely able to say the words, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep my appointment today,” as I spoke through muffled sobs. I will never forget the response I received from the woman on the other end of the line. I could actually hear the compassionate and knowing smile in her voice. Yes, she understood and wished me and my baby well, from everyone at Planned Parenthood. She also reminded me that they would always be available for any present and future needs I may have, and invited me to call anytime I needed them.
Fortunately for me, I have never again needed or used the services of Planned Parenthood. I have no idea who the women were who talked to me on the phone, but I do know that they made a lasting impression on me, and the memory of their professionalism and compassion sustains me still.
I share this story because I think it is important for women who have had abortions, or even thought about having one, to honor ourselves and one another by releasing us all from any sense of shame for exercising our legal choices, regardless of whatever choice is made. I think it is also important for Americans to understand that being pro-choice is not about promoting sex with no consequences. Many women have conceived while using some method of birth control. Other than abstinence, no method is fool-proof.
But even if a pregnancy is the result of carelessness, the consequences are visited most profoundly, directly, immediately and eternally upon the woman, for an act of both partners. Accordingly, it should forever be her right to choose what is appropriate for her own physical person. Our bodies are the first and most sacred of all that we will ever own. I share this story as an example of one fortunate woman who, at a very confusing time in her life, was surrounded by people, especially her mate, who never questioned this very basic fact of life.
I am glad I changed my mind. But you see, it was my choice, my decision to take all the emotional risks necessary to become a mother. And those in my life who loved me, supported me in my leap of faith. It was through the process of decision-making that I discovered who I really was in that moment; for all decision-making is a process. And when we deny these choices, these intimate decisions that are rightfully our own to anyone, then we deny them this very important and infinitely personal journey of self-discovery. This denial is the most un-American thing we can do. It is unbelievable to me that these sacred choices are now the topic of political fodder once again! How did we get here? This is something I thought that we could all take for granted by the time I became a grandmother. And yet, here we are again.
I was blessed to deliver a healthy, beautiful son, who is still the first delight of my life. I have shared this story with him for several reasons. First, I would not want him to hear this story from anyone else because it is not a secret and I am not ashamed of exercising my legal right to choose. I don’t want him to be afraid or ashamed of any part of his life, or how it came to be. He knows he wasn’t planned, but he was not an accident either. He was wanted and welcomed and loved every day of his life.
But the most important reason I tell my son this story, is to honor his father and his courageous, yet empowering surrender. I want him to be proud of his father, who has always wanted him, and assumed most of the responsibilities of raising him as I pursued my education. I want him to know of this personal example in his own life, of how to respect and honor women.
I asked permission from my son and his father before posting this story. It is their story and their privacy too. Even though Bob and I are long since parted, I am glad for all that he brought to my life, most especially our son, our beautiful baby, who we chose to bring into this world together. For all of our ups and downs and learning curves, we will always be family. And that is a very good thing.
I chose to have a family. I chose to open my heart. I chose to take this risk and take on the responsibility of parenthood. I am not a perfect parent. Who is? But, parenthood was something I chose, not something imposed upon me by fate, or by a society still largely governed by men. Men who, unlike Bob, cannot see past themselves enough to respect the women of this country to make the choices they see fit regarding the most personal and profound aspects of our lives.
I will always support Planned Parenthood because I will always be grateful to this organization for being supportive and compassionate at a time when I needed it most. And I will always be grateful that I was afforded a legal choice that was respected by those close to me, as well as my community. I want my granddaughters to have this same choice. I hope they don’t have to fight for it still, when they become grandmothers.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
The id Post: Back to the Real World: A New Cycle Begins
The id Post: Back to the Real World: A New Cycle Begins: by Irene Daniel I'm back. I've been sick lately. The entire Christmas holiday fortnight was spent coughing and hacking, sneezing, ...
Back to the Real World: A New Cycle Begins
by Irene Daniel
I'm back. I've been sick lately. The entire Christmas holiday fortnight was spent coughing and hacking, sneezing, sweating, freezing, going through boxes and boxes of Kleenex and, well, you get the picture. Perhaps you suffered a similar fate. I heard there was something awful going around.
It was difficult to articulate a complete sentence, much less a blog post. I mean, this thing really took me out completely. As I was disabled from serious writing or serious anything, for that matter, I read a lot and watched, probably, too much TV. At least some of the time I was watching historical documentaries and docudramas, being the historian that I am. And I learned a lot of things I didn't know before.
The History Channel was running a series on the history of mankind, making a valiant effort to connect the dots between historic events and eras. Parts of it were pretty good, but when it got to the part about the New World, it was pretty much a rehash of white revisionist history; glorifying Christopher Columbus and praising European conquest, while treating the exploitation of the indigenous as something of an unfortunate footnote. They finally got around to Civil Rights in the last 16 minutes (4 of which were commercials) of a 6 hour series. A speed-bump in the history of the white historian, it seems.
In its blind worship of the innovations of the industrial age, it almost completely ignored the abuses and exploitation of immigrants and nonwhites in order to build cities, railroads, mines and factories. It did mention the plight of the Irish immigrant working on the railroads, risking life and limb for less than $1 per day. What about the slaves? What about the other immigrants -- Chinese, Mexican, Italian? What about the exploitation of the Native populations already established on this continent? They did mention that one life was lost per every one mile of track, as well as how unfortunate it was that the indigenous populations inhabiting the western hemisphere was an inconvenient truth; an impediment to progress. And then they moved on to hail speed and greed. And I wonder: Do they hire writers and researchers who are not white and male? The finished products on the History Channel suggest that they do not. What a shame. What are they waiting for?
What I did learn was that the history of the human race largely involves becoming more efficient at killing each other. While many wars were fought over territory, wealth and sometimes principle, most seemed to have been fought by one group of people violently trying to convince and convert another group of people of the superiority of their own benevolent god. Cheery stuff, huh? No wonder I suffer from off the charts anxiety.
I also found myself watching a lot of shows on the Military Channel, which I think is mostly excellent. I learned much more about Hitler and his extraordinarily odd and revolting sexual habits than I ever wanted to know; although it explains quite a lot about how warped he was. His brutal childhood further explains the origin of his unremitting rage. Their programming on WWI gave an excellent perspective on how his rise to power was created at the signing of the Treaty of Versailles.
I learned about how the brothers Dulles created the idea of "American Exceptionalism," which fed manifest destiny fantasy; as well as the seeds of the military-industrial complex. This, in turn, became the fuel for unprecedented corporate power; which will be our Titanic if we don't do something soon to return power to the people. Or maybe empowering the masses will actually be a first here in our oligarchic America. But only if we are brave enough to seize our moment, our nation, our future.
More than anything, I learned to once again be in awe of the miracle of humanity. Look at how we keep brutalizing each other, and yet, we come back stronger each time. And, as the Duck Dynasty dust-up kept popping up over the holidays, I wondered about why we make the choices that we do. Why do we choose to see the worst in other people? People who don't look like us, or think like us, or talk like us? Why do we choose to see them as "the other." And especially, why are we so afraid of each other?
I wondered at how people can read the same Bible; and some will see love and some will see "the other." And then I realized that the difference is really whether you read with the eyes of love or whether you read with the eyes of fear. And this is true of all things, I have found; at least for me.
When I see with fear, I create a rationale for separation from what scares me. And when I am brave enough to see with love, I realize that there is no separation -- from God (whatever that means to you), or from one another.
Because I am human, I don't always see with the eyes of love. I'm good, but I'm not that good. However, when I do, I lose my fear. I might be annoyed still, but I'm no longer afraid of "the other." There is no us and them. There is only US.
That's what I learned on my Christmas vacation.
I'm back. I've been sick lately. The entire Christmas holiday fortnight was spent coughing and hacking, sneezing, sweating, freezing, going through boxes and boxes of Kleenex and, well, you get the picture. Perhaps you suffered a similar fate. I heard there was something awful going around.
It was difficult to articulate a complete sentence, much less a blog post. I mean, this thing really took me out completely. As I was disabled from serious writing or serious anything, for that matter, I read a lot and watched, probably, too much TV. At least some of the time I was watching historical documentaries and docudramas, being the historian that I am. And I learned a lot of things I didn't know before.
The History Channel was running a series on the history of mankind, making a valiant effort to connect the dots between historic events and eras. Parts of it were pretty good, but when it got to the part about the New World, it was pretty much a rehash of white revisionist history; glorifying Christopher Columbus and praising European conquest, while treating the exploitation of the indigenous as something of an unfortunate footnote. They finally got around to Civil Rights in the last 16 minutes (4 of which were commercials) of a 6 hour series. A speed-bump in the history of the white historian, it seems.
In its blind worship of the innovations of the industrial age, it almost completely ignored the abuses and exploitation of immigrants and nonwhites in order to build cities, railroads, mines and factories. It did mention the plight of the Irish immigrant working on the railroads, risking life and limb for less than $1 per day. What about the slaves? What about the other immigrants -- Chinese, Mexican, Italian? What about the exploitation of the Native populations already established on this continent? They did mention that one life was lost per every one mile of track, as well as how unfortunate it was that the indigenous populations inhabiting the western hemisphere was an inconvenient truth; an impediment to progress. And then they moved on to hail speed and greed. And I wonder: Do they hire writers and researchers who are not white and male? The finished products on the History Channel suggest that they do not. What a shame. What are they waiting for?
What I did learn was that the history of the human race largely involves becoming more efficient at killing each other. While many wars were fought over territory, wealth and sometimes principle, most seemed to have been fought by one group of people violently trying to convince and convert another group of people of the superiority of their own benevolent god. Cheery stuff, huh? No wonder I suffer from off the charts anxiety.
I also found myself watching a lot of shows on the Military Channel, which I think is mostly excellent. I learned much more about Hitler and his extraordinarily odd and revolting sexual habits than I ever wanted to know; although it explains quite a lot about how warped he was. His brutal childhood further explains the origin of his unremitting rage. Their programming on WWI gave an excellent perspective on how his rise to power was created at the signing of the Treaty of Versailles.
I learned about how the brothers Dulles created the idea of "American Exceptionalism," which fed manifest destiny fantasy; as well as the seeds of the military-industrial complex. This, in turn, became the fuel for unprecedented corporate power; which will be our Titanic if we don't do something soon to return power to the people. Or maybe empowering the masses will actually be a first here in our oligarchic America. But only if we are brave enough to seize our moment, our nation, our future.
More than anything, I learned to once again be in awe of the miracle of humanity. Look at how we keep brutalizing each other, and yet, we come back stronger each time. And, as the Duck Dynasty dust-up kept popping up over the holidays, I wondered about why we make the choices that we do. Why do we choose to see the worst in other people? People who don't look like us, or think like us, or talk like us? Why do we choose to see them as "the other." And especially, why are we so afraid of each other?
I wondered at how people can read the same Bible; and some will see love and some will see "the other." And then I realized that the difference is really whether you read with the eyes of love or whether you read with the eyes of fear. And this is true of all things, I have found; at least for me.
When I see with fear, I create a rationale for separation from what scares me. And when I am brave enough to see with love, I realize that there is no separation -- from God (whatever that means to you), or from one another.
Because I am human, I don't always see with the eyes of love. I'm good, but I'm not that good. However, when I do, I lose my fear. I might be annoyed still, but I'm no longer afraid of "the other." There is no us and them. There is only US.
That's what I learned on my Christmas vacation.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
The id Post: What a Difference a Year Makes, Or Not: 194 More D...
The id Post: What a Difference a Year Makes, Or Not: 194 More D...: by Irene Daniel Another year has come and gone and another chunk of our future with it; up in the smoke of guns and insanity. What a deadl...
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