Power of the Group

For some time, I've been feeling a shift. It happens to all of us during the truly adult years. (I say truly because let's be real; 18 years old is not an adult. Call me when you've got more bills than fingers.)

It's the shift prompted by the jolt-out-of-bed realization: "Who I am is not working for me anymore." Who I am after a childhood raised with Jim and Ruth and toting along best friends like Cathleen and Naomi. Even Dara and Debbie. And who I am after pleasing, placating and preening friends and associates for three decades. I felt I had to and if they ever saw a bubble of anger or a spritz of honesty well. . . I'd be left in the dust.

I surmise some of it is from being an only child but know that this mode also worked for me for a LONG time. It helped with my career eventually, and certainly got me to a place where I was presented with amazing choices about my future. But now? I know what I want. And I know that saying "no" to something means saying "yes" to something else. And it's just fucking time to take off the helmet, gloves and knee pads and get in the ring; of life, honesty, self, future. Fight for that stuff because it matters.

Naturally, old habits die hard so, next time you see me, you will not see 22-inch biceps and the evaporation of traditionally female physical features. No. I'm still the same person, but the evolution is nigh.

What's tremendously cool about this evolution was watching it unfold in my Group Counseling class last semester. A motley crew of classmates, some fathers, some single ready to mingle and other married and wading in the water. On the surface, we had made judgements about each other; being human this is unavoidable. But toward the fifth week and session of the class well, something shifted. In me.

I spoke up. I told T that he came across as cocky and perhaps that's why his anger spikes.

I told J that he was an ideal boyfriend, so feel good about dating and know that you've got the stuff it takes to be bold.

I told S that I felt I couldn't get close to her because she was showing me a self that she wanted me to see, not her real self.

Now, listen. . . honesty has it's place. I am not about to walk into work and raise a pitchfork and proclaim that a colleague's manner of speaking to me fills me with rage because of how condescending they are. (Shit, maybe I will.)

But there is absolutely nothing like being able to truly be yourself. To shed the skin of preoccupation with others' reactions and know that the honesty you give to others is precisely the fuel for a catharsis. Group counseling is intense(ly rewarding).

I had drinks with my group mates last night. The camaraderie we felt in those 16 weeks was present over beers and burgers too. There's a safety with the group, and a real love that percolates for them. For the first time, maybe ever, I got to really see someone. And that kind of naked experience, with tears and emotions literally at your fingertips, soft and delicate to hold. . . well, it changes you. On a cellular level.

This post is dedicated to my group. I was already picking away at what the next version of myself might feel like. You gave me courage and showed me a bit more how to love myself. I'm glad we can clink glasses and hug each other even outside of the perfect circle. Cheers.

Silver Spoon

Photo courtesy of http://www.whitneydafoe.com/projects/americanmap/

Fortunately, most of my graduate coursework is uncomfortable. Growth is happening. It's less the skills gained and more the introspection that causes the most resistance, and thus reward.

This week, my class got up from their desks, cleared out the middle of the classroom and stood in a line. (Our professor asked us to do this; no anarchy here.) We were prompted to hold hands which caused eyes to dart and palms to sweat. There wasn't an acoustic guitar around. No danger of kumbaya.

Instead we began down the path of privilege. You may not feel privileged. After all, you have bills to pay, mouths to feed and have to work to get that done. But have you ever considered it a privilege to work? I think this past year has taught us a thing or two about gratitude in that regard. I'm reminded of it everyday watching struggle come in and out of my office. And yes, I still drag my boots into the office some days. . . lamenting and tired. No one is immune. Just recognize.

The instructions from the professor were simple. She read statements based on privilege. You took a step forward or back depending on your truth. Starting with our hands held they were soon much too far to reach.

- If your family owned their home, step forward.
- If your family taught you police were to be feared, step back.
- If your family had more than 50 books in the house, step forward.
- If either of your parents did not graduate from college, step back. (High school too.)
- If you are a man, step forward.

And it goes on.

I stepped forward a lot. So much I was out of the classroom, down the hall and near the stairs. Looking back didn't feel bad; but it felt important. To acknowledge and recognize. Privilege. I am privileged because of how hard my parents worked, yes, and because I have worked hard too. But I'm also white. I'm heterosexual.

You see? I was born with these things. Out of the womb I was already hundreds of steps ahead.

Past that, my parents were teachers. Chicago Public Schools. There's no inheritance or gold bars in our family. Their hard work laid a path, instead of a kind of brambled future, able to be traversed but dangerous, murky. . . obstructed by forces of nature. For me, the point and the purpose is simple acknowledgement to start. Of our privilege. Honest acceptance of that truth, and then, with hope, of our role in helping the others take steps forward. And yes, we have a role. America may be the landscape of individualism but even from my mountain top, where I could otherwise stay and swing in the breeze, it's my responsibility to hike down to sea level and start trimming the thicket.

To be the one who challenge a loved one not to slur ("When you're around me, it's not ok to say that."), or the woman who stands up to a man who is standing in front of another woman's self-respect. . . it's terrifying. I'm just considering, as I write this, what it might mean if we puffed our chests up a bit and gave an ounce. That adds up to tons of oppression removed.

Consider it; as I consider my own journey.

Can I Do This

It's hard to describe precisely the confluence of emotions I felt stepping into the classroom. A girl had just thrown a fit just outside the door, throwing expletives like darts at two female security guards. I'm guessing they're ladies because touching can't be interpreted. The girl storms away and I'm beckoned to enter.

I walked past old circus performers, night walkers and junkies to get here. At 10 a.m. Fully freakish in front of Uptown Baptist. I remarked at the crater in the street that would soon swallow my ankle and leave me limping for days.

Maybe I should have stopped there.

It's a sea of obstinance in the art room. Palpable anger and apathy. Seniors are sprinkled among juniors, visiting eighth-graders and a row of kids with CP in wheelchairs. I'm there to talk about how to get a job, and how my agency can help you. No one cares, but more than that, there are whispers of violence. Yard sticks are swung and scissors are sharpened. Defiance is omnipresent. And the teacher? Sitting atop his desk, sullen, sulking even. . . alone and content to watch it unfold.

I got scared. Then I got angry. Then I became complacent and shrugged. I couldn't do much with this group. It wasn't my classroom. But what if it was? How would I handle it? Send RaShawn to the principal's office. An empty threat, only effective if the call to a parent goes answered, assuming there are parents in his life.

My message was one of hope. One that would lay a brick toward self-sufficiency, but their ears were clogged with incidents and obstacles far more prescient, more violent. I can't blame them. I can't blame anyone.

I just want to help fix it. I just want to feel like I can. I want to shake loose whatever semblance of motivation might still be chirping inside, bleak and near ash but still aglow. Seeing this sea of apathy and dismay, different than what one might expect from teens so close to graduation. . . I had to pause and think about the truth. They have a lot to be angry about. Now what?

Compulsion

There's a passage in "Letters to a Young Poet," a Rilke favorite, that lauds the experience of passion. That if you are passionate about writing, you must write. Absolutely must. As essential as air.

I love to write, but I don't have this zeal. I do find inspiration and my brain churns with ideas. It's a never ending scroll up there but little makes it to here or elsewhere. And so it is. I've often wanted a microchip that would store these thoughts, sort them, see what I think of most often. Something tells me racism and crime are at the top. Unrelated in my head but related in my purview. Of the four young men I met with today, three had convictions, two were felonies. They are coming to us, to me, in earnest but the truth is there is little to be done. If it can't be expunged, well, life gets shitty quick.

I'm passionate about approaching this issue strategically. About fighting for them, taking on the statistics and turning them on their head. I met with my advisor yesterday, talked about my pondering a teaching certificate, or a Ph.D. I want to be in the thick of it and get dirty, then pull back and pull strings.

I've taken to listening to rap. I've always liked it but not like this. It helps crack the code for motivations, inspirations and a way in to make change. Misogynistic? Truth. Cutting and violent? Indeed. But it's a narrative to explore.

I struggle with how to best apply this passion, for empowering young people, where the most good can be done. I think there's little else I can do but pick and prod and poke around down every hallway that opens until I make progress I can live with. I'm antsy about it, but this education takes time. This, my friends, is something I must do.