I read this, and it took my breath away.

Not to beat a dead horse, but if you’ve been reading this for a while (all two of you!), then you know how I feel about people making a joke out of ADHD. Even so, it’s hard not to assign blame to myself for this. No matter how many ways it’s confirmed, no matter how many different tests show that I really do have this thing, it’s still hard not to feel like this is a moral failing.

It’s still too easy to despise myself.

A few days ago, I came across an article on this website. A parent was asking for help navigating her son’s school environment, and trying to get the cooperation of his teachers. The writer, Sue Whitney, gave a helpful and very detailed response. The first part that caught my attention was this:

When they say, “He . . .  

  • doesn’t pay attention,
  • forgets,
  • interrupts,
  • daydreams,
  • wanders off task,
  • drives the teacher to drink,
  • doesn’t show his work on math problems,
  • is disorganized,
  • etc.”
    You say, “That is part of his disability.

See more at: http://www.wrightslaw.com/heath/dont.care.iep.htm#sthash.WBipQdqZ.dpuf

So there I am. I don’t pay attention…I forget things (or remember too much, sometimes)…I interrupt-dear Lord, do I interrupt. Off task? Check. Disorganized? Check. I don’t *think* I drive my supervisor or colleagues to drink, but you never know…

My current job is a huge struggle for me in that I am too detailed, too easily distracted, not fast enough. I get bogged down in the details and everything takes me so much longer than it takes those around me. I work with people who can hold long conversations with the people around them and still get more done in their day than I ever can, even if I buckle down, sit far away from everybody, and try to shut out everything around me.

I feel the limits of my brain quite acutely in this setting.

When it comes up in my performance evaluations, as it so often does, we talk about me trying harder, about ways that I might be able to work more efficiently. I know that my brain is part of the problem, but it never occurs to me to think of it as anything other than something that I am at fault for. Surely this is something I can “fix”.
But the writer of the response then said something else. Something that stopped me in my tracks. She was responding to the parent’s report that her son was sent home each day with a behavior chart that inevitably had multiple “sad face” stickers on it. Whitney responded in this way:

How do they think that makes him feel? Do they think the sad face stickers are going to change his disability? Does the kid in the wheelchair get sad faces on her chart for not walking well? If they gave the kid in the wheelchair sad face stickers do they think it would change the way she walks?

(emphasis mine)

A disability. A real disability, that I can’t simply change by trying harder. I don’t say this to suggest that medication and modifying behaviors and the like are not necessary. I am not saying that there is nothing I can do, or that I just “can’t help myself”. I am just saying that I am always going to struggle, that my brain does not work so well sometimes.

Someone who uses a wheelchair because their legs do not work the same way as other people is not, to my knowledge, ever accused of moral failure, of not “trying hard enough”. Can I give myself that same grace? And how do I advocate for myself in the workplace when so many people, myself included, don’t take ADHD seriously?

I don’t have the answer to these questions. I only know that these words were a gift to me, a compelling reminder that my struggles are real, even if invisible.

(The article referenced in this post is from http://www.wrightslaw.com/heath/dont.care.iep.htm)

– See more at: http://www.wrightslaw.com/heath/dont.care.iep.htm#sthash.WBipQdqZ.dpuf

What if everything you’ve ever been told is wrong?

The churning I am experiencing means that everything I have to say will not fit neatly into a single blog entry. But let me start by saying this:

It’s not about what you think it’s about. Or rather, it’s not that simple. If nothing else, remember that. There is so much going on beneath the surface.

I have so much to say and it pains me so much to say it and it is going to take me a while. But let’s start with this phrase: “Implicit Bias”.

Got a minute? Take one of these tests. Or a few of them. Then ask yourself how you came to believe the things that you believe. The things that you don’t even *know* you believe.

This mess we’re in came from somewhere. We want to believe that we woke up one day with our enlightened, post-racial selves and that we are not carrying the baggage of our nation’s history. And why can’t people just get over it?
A poem by June Jordan, called “Jim Crow: The Sequel” is haunting me these days. It was written roughly in the Clinton era, and I think I came across it in an issue of Essence magazine. Here’s an excerpt:

But for two hundred years this crazy
land the law and the bullets behind the law
continued to affirm the gospel of
God-given White supremacy.
For two hundred years the law and the
bullets behind the law, and the money and
the politics behind the bullets behind the
law affirmed the gospel of
God-given White supremacy/
God-given male-White supremacy.

And neither the Emancipation Proclamation
nor the Civil War nor one constitutional
amendment after another nor one Civil Rights
legislation after another could bring about a
yielding of the followers of that gospel
to the beauty of our human face.

I know that the phrase “white supremacy” will upset some people, but please know that I am not talking about someone with a Klan hood in their closet. In fact, I am not talking about individuals at all. And I think that before I can go further, I will need to define a few things, will need to explain why I label myself a “recovering racist”. As disorganized as my rants may be, I would be so grateful if some of you would be willing to see through that and to join me as I continue to wrestle with these issues.

Of leather belts and broken cutting boards: Why I don’t believe in spanking

***trigger warning***

(This started out as a comment on a Facebook post that shared this article about the difference between black and white styles of parenting. But then I found myself seven or eight paragraphs into it without being anywhere near done, so I decided that this might as well be a blog post…)

I am glad that the article points out the difference in the “why” here. Sooo intrigued by the idea of permissive parenting as white privilege…profound and absolutely true. I get “those looks” when I am out with my black godson in public…it seems that I might be a leeeeeeeettttttttttttllllllllllleeeeeeeeeee tiny bit overly permissive…but I get that children of color, and particularly black children, need to be raised differently. I “get it” enough that I never try to tell them that the police are their “friend”. I know that they can’t afford for me to teach them that lesson.

(My godson was in his second year of Head Start – so maybe four years old?-and he was telling me about a policeman who had visited his class (in what was likely a “policemen are your friends!” and/or teachable moment about safety type of thing) and the first words out of his mouth were, “He didn’t do nothing to us, though”.

Four. years. old. This is the world a black boy’s parents have to raise them in. And Mona ([Cecil] Elijah’s momma) and I disagree sharply about spanking, but I have to admit that he is a really good little boy and I struggle sometimes with how much the threat of physical punishment has shaped that (in a positive way).

BUT I also subbed in a classroom yesterday where a five-year-old, two weeks into her kindergarten career, punched another child in the nose. Children are taught in school that hitting is not okay, that we shouldn’t put our hands on each other in hurtful ways–but then purportedly go home to quite the opposite message. A neighbor of a friend has a girl of maybe 14 watching her younger cousins, third and fourth grade. She was walking around the street yesterday, in broad daylight, with a man’s leather belt, threatening (half in jest, but there was a seriousness underneath it) to handle them if they didn’t get it together.

I was mortified the other day to hear that 75% of Americans think spanking is okay. (This study from 2013 shows the numbers to be even higher.) This was presented as sort of a side note on NPR, and I don’t know if there was any differentiation between “open hand on bottom” and the myriad of other ways that children are disciplined. But it’s not okay to me, and it never will be. I know of a child who was punched in the eye, but because he was pre-verbal, there was no way of proving it. I feel the same way about physical punishment of children that I do about any other form of violence (war, guns, football itself): Those who live by the sword” (or the switch, or the leather belt) “will die by the sword”.

And here’s the thing: I KNOW that this all comes from my own scars. I clearly remember two spankings (white folks’ verbiage?!) I received as a child. I suppose there were more, but maybe not…who knows. One was my mother in a rage, cursing (which I never heard her do) and hitting my bare bottom (it was summer, and I was running around the neighborhood in a bathing suit) with one of my father’s leather belts. This was followed by her telling me to leave the house and not return.

I can’t remember if I was 7 or 8 at the time, but I was either going into or just out of second grade.

The other spanking I remember is from my father, only because it was done reluctantly (my mother had delegated it, since whatever I had done she deemed to have needed a heavier hand). I remember that one because he did it reluctantly. It might have been the only time he ever spanked me. And he did it without being in the rage I saw him in whenever he beat my brother.

I believe that I am scarred emotionally by my own limited memories of being the recipient of that belt, but much worse was what I witnessed in terms of my father’s behavior towards my brother. (My brother who, like me, was adopted. I never saw my oldest brother, their biological child, get hit, but granted, I was six years younger. Maybe he experienced it when he was smaller. I’ve never asked him.)

What I remember of my father, in contrast to his reluctant and almost gentle spanking in my case, was his rage when he beat (and I use the word “beat” because to me, it was more than spanking) my brother. I remember my brother being on the roof of the garage and my father dragging him down (his own parents were there, and I have a vague sense of feeling like he was more angry that my brother was acting up in front of them). I remember walking into the kitchen and seeing a wooden cutting board, broken in half and bloody. My brother, who has a “tough guy” exterior and has been in all kinds of situations in his life, told me not too long ago that he was never in his life as terrified of anything as when there was a bad snowstorm and he had to call our father for help with his paper route. He was maybe 12 at the time. He is 48 years old and he still remembers this as clearly as if it were yesterday.

Part of the difference in our case is that we were not having these experiences in the context of any knowledge or certainty that we were loved. We knew that we were what people in our community called “lucky” to have been adopted. My parents “got” my brother when he was about a year old, after another failed placement. No idea what happened there; I just knew that his bronzed baby shoe was much bigger than mine and my oldest brother’s. What I have learned from my brother, and only in the last dozen years or so, was that when he was younger and misbehaved, my mother would sit him down in the back porch and tell him that they were going to send him back. My father would come home from work, and apparently would join her in shaming him. “We’re going to send you back wearing only a diaper, the way that you were given to us”.

It’s safe to say that both my brother and I came into this family with attachment issues, something that wasn’t talked about in those days. With that said, I am still bewildered by the fact that my parents passed whatever constituted a home study in those days, and wonder often if they ever would have been approved in this day and age. But I digress…

In my early twenties, I would watch young black mothers (on the ferry or the train going into the city) interact with their children. What I saw was something I couldn’t fathom. They would be so harsh and strict with their children, but at the same time, I could tell that they loved them. Five minutes after a scolding, they would smile or laugh at something the child did. I could not reconcile this in my mind. Would I feel differently if I had been spanked as a child by people whose love I was certain of, by parents who didn’t have the threat of “sending me back” to hold over my head? I don’t know.

And I read these words as well, and they resonated with me:

The pernicious, toxic and inescapable lifelong effect of being disciplined physically – either to the point of abuse, or to the point that the distinction between acceptable and unacceptable blurs in your mind – is that you almost have to say you turned out fine, just to redeem the fact of being who you are. That you “turned out fine” is the only way to make sense of having once felt total terror or uncontrollable shaking rage at the sight of one (or both) of the two people expected to care most for you in the world. The thought that you might have ended up relatively OK or perhaps even better without all that fear is almost unbearable: the suffering only doubles if you admit that it truly had no purpose.

The thing I always say is that I (almost) can understand physical punishment if it is separated from rage. But I don’t believe it ever is. I think it’s a rare thing for parents to lash out at their children in a calm manner. with perhaps the exception of Michelle Duggaroh wait. And again, maybe it’s different for children who have some level of confidence that they are loved by their parents-but the above quote seems to prove otherwise (although I don’t know for certain that the author is actually a biological child of his parents).

AND I cannot say this often enough: I get that I don’t know what it is to be raising a black child in this society. But this doesn’t mean that I think that a belt, or a switch, or anything else used against a child (I respect, to some extent, a parent’s right to use an open hand on a bottom, but that’s as far as I can take it), is okay, no matter what color you are. (<—-the recovering racist in me shudders at the use of this phrase, as I know it’s not that simple…but then, in some ways, it really is. I could take this further and talk about the generational PTSD that people of color are dealing with, but like the author of the original article that started this rant, I still don’t think it’s okay.)

A thing people sometimes say to me when they don’t agree with my views on something is “You are just seeing this through your own scars”. Yes I am. That’s because those scars (in my case, more emotional than physical) are still there. I was spanked. And it wasn’t okay.

Apparently 75% of Americans disagree with me. But I’m okay with that. It doesn’t mean that I will ever stop speaking out against what I consider to be child abuse, pure and simple.

A football player’s actions have sparked a heated debate in this case…but lots of kids are living this on a daily basis, and that’s barely in the news. I am speaking out, not because I want this to be about me, but because I need to let it be known that some of us do NOT think it’s okay. Not for any parent, at any time, famous or not.

I don’t know what it’s like to be black in this society, but I certainly know what it’s like to carry the scars of childhood abuse. And I hope that this somehow gives me, white as I am, some credibility in speaking about the subject.

The blog entry I wrote while avoiding schoolwork…

Hi.

(forgive the ridiculously long space…trying to see if I can psych out RSSGraffiti. Still here? Good, thanks!)

It’s been a crappy week. Unfortunately, it’s been a crappy week that immediately followed a very large paycheck, thanks to both overtime and my quarterly bonus. I have been shopping almost non-stop. Oh, and birthdays. Two birthdays this weekend…how to bank up the sleep ahead of time?

A shopping addiction is even more of a joke in our society than ADHD is…but I can assure you that it’s no laughing matter. I’m obsessed…it’s never enough. I truly fear that I am going to become one of those people who carries around one of those creepy life-life dolls, just so that I have a little girl to dress as I please.

One thing that sucks. I still want a baby. I want someone that belongs to me. My therapist tells me that this is an adoptee thing…maybe she’s right. But it doesn’t make the ache any less real.

I’m supposed to be doing schoolwork…did I mention that? Truth be told, although I am loath to admit it, I am feeling more than a little bit manic.

I should be cleaning the house.

I need to do something with my pictures. I need my walls to be covered with them, rather than just having them piled up in boxes. I need more of those magnetic photo holder ropes to put in different places. Oh wait, I could make my own.

I should go through the hand-me-downs and get stuff ready for the people I will see at party #2. They are all over the place.

The last seven days’ worth of shopping vomit is all over my floor, in different bags, unsorted. There is stuff for party #1 in there…I need to figure that out before tomorrow.

I need to bank some sleep because birthday parties, and human interaction in general, are exhausting.

I REALLY need to do laundry. I am out of underwear. And I have a LOT of underwear.

My sink is full of dirty dishes and the clean dishwasher needs to be emptied.

I don’t write enough. Not just blogging, but writing for myself, journaling, saying the things that don’t get said on Facebook or via my blog. If I don’t do this, I will not have the full story when I look back on these days. I almost bought (!) a new notebook at Target yesterday…it was a pretty raspberry color, and petite…and only $1.99 (but I can stop anytime I want, really!). But I didn’t buy it, because I already have notebooks, and I need to pick up the ones I have and utilize them. I need to, but I won’t.

I am also really bad at emailing my friends. Staying connected when people are so far away. I have friends who are hurting, and I am not tending to that hurt. I need to do that. And laundry. And presents.

So much to read online about how badly this country sucks.

So much war everywhere. So much destruction. Guns are stupid. War is stupid. Hating each other is stupid. Racism is exceedingly, monumentally stupid and yet so many people don’t understand how deep it goes and how very much work we still have to do.

And I am behind on my schoolwork. I am officially a full-time student as of July 1st. Ahead of schedule because I tested out of my first course, but stuck…behind…paralyzed. I can’t fail at this. But I might. And I need a paper calendar to get myself in order, but which kind? Not another store…but how else can I find one?

But I just started the laundry, before even finishing this. And my course is open in my other browser, so I just need to go there and start.

And what I must always remember: God is bigger than all of this bullshit. He will have the final say, will have us beating swords into plowshares, and there will come a time when people will not hate, when (mostly various shades of brown) children will not be bombed and shot and idiots on the Internet will not say that those children deserved to be killed.

That day seems a long way off…but I know it’s coming. And it’s something to hold on to, weary though we all may be.

And now, the homework. Thanks for reading, if you’ve gotten this far through today’s rant. I am thankful for you, as well! (Unless you are that annoying spam-bot leaving comments…not so thankful then.)

The ones who don’t know

(This is part of my ongoing effort to blog, even if it’s bad blogging. Because bad blogging is better than no blogging at all, right? Maybe?! Also, I need a tag for these – #nottrying? #phoningitin? #badblogger?)

In light of recent news, I am reminded that there are two groups of people in my life…the ones who know about me, and the ones who don’t.

I’m not ashamed of where I’ve been and what I’ve been through. On the contrary, I tend to wear it as a badge of honour (<<—-bad spelling habit picked up working for an international company). But it’s just a different world, a different experience, when I am interacting with people who “know” or “don’t know”.

It’s always been a “thing”. For so many years, it was a point of shame. Such an odd thing, though, because I always thought it was so much of what makes me “me”. How strange to have to hide one of the most integral parts of who you are…because it’s embarrassing? because people won’t look at you the same way? because nobody can know that you have had this inside of yourself?

I’m not easily embarrassed (well, allegedly I’m not), but I do hate the idea of people looking at me and labeling any and all behavior (<<—-Americanized spelling, but I was tempted) as evidence that I am what they now know me to be.

And now? Today?

I am reminded that there is a whole new batch of people in my life who are in that “don’t know” column. And I am suddenly reminded of what that means.

If they knew, they would be cautious with their words.

If they knew, they might feel like this was a good time to give me a lecture.

If they knew, they would try to bond with me over it all, just as people tried to bond with me on September 11th, spilling out all of their own thoughts and trying to work out their own drama across the gaping scar of my own experience.

In September 2001, I had just been back to New York to visit less than three weeks earlier, but I hadn’t lived there for more than a year and a half. It didn’t matter to people, though. They knew that I had lived there. They knew I had walked those streets, and they wanted to know what it felt like to have walked them.

 

It will be the same way now, if people know. They will want me to interpret, to translate what they can’t understand. They will tell me that once, for a very brief period of time, they visited New York too, or thought about it. They will try to fathom it, try to get me to help them understand what it’s like, why someone might make this choice.

But here’s the thing. I can’t even begin to tell you why this or that person made this “choice”. To be honest, I really don’t like you calling it a “choice”, or a “decision”, or a “selfish act”. Because you don’t know what it is if you haven’t been there. You can’t say that you understand the magnitude of those towers collapsing like dominoes when you have only seen them in pictures and you don’t know someone who’s inside of them as they fall. You don’t know what it’s like to have walked through that place on a daily basis, to have worked there, *lived* there. You think you know New York. You don’t. 

If they knew, I might be more or less subject to their judgment. They might ask me to explain, or to justify, or to make them feel better about themselves, or to apologize for the actions of all of those like me, past, present, and future.

But when they don’t know my story, they don’t know me. And yes, I suppose there is a place for boundaries and conventions and building up trust over time and in small parts, but at the same time, I am me. I have been to that place, and while my experience there will never be the same as anybody else’s, there are things that I know for having been there. This is why someone I’ve met “in person” maybe twice in my life is someone who feels like a friend I’ve known forever. This is why I am trying so hard to embrace the discipline of blogging, because there is so much left for me to say, and the story isn’t going to tell itself.

 

pierre22