Today, and yesterday, and really this whole week has spun me like a top. I’m dizzy and confused, and somewhat self pitying wondering why mama had to say there would be days like this, and why there are sometimes just so damn many strung together.
There will be no silver lining in this piece, no positive ending about the lessons of life. I know they are in there somewhere, but today, in this moment, I just want to write about the suck and commiserate with those that are going through their own suck as well. Complaining can be cleansing if we can just be allowed to wallow for a moment. I’ll be tougher tomorrow. I’ll keep on keeping on next week. But today, right now, I’m acknowledging that bad hours, days, weeks happen when you’re a human trying to do the right thing. And, oh ya, I know that many people have it much worse, and I always acknowledge that. But no one likes cleaning dog poop out of a vacuum, ok? No one.
First of all, every damn piece of structure keeps just falling down in my house. Ok, not every structure. It was like one thing, but the timing, you know? The curtain rod just fell down while I was involved in cleaning up a more cerebral mess over email with work. I was just sitting there in one of those moments of anger and worry and stress, kind of frozen, and the damn curtain rod decided to plummet into the tub, drawing me from my trance with it’s loud “clang” noise. The vacuum went through dog crap again the other day because my dogs have feet made of sugar and can’t walk outside in the rain to poop when they have to. One of them also knocked the hot chocolate off the table and broke a coffee cup. The tree skirt is tied up in a knot and the laundry is now like four days out and there will be no catching up on it. Ever. Forever. I will just be doing laundry until I die. I might have to do it while I am a ghost as well. We’ll see.
A major error occurred with payroll that I take responsibility for not catching as the employee, but I won’t even for a minute entertain taking all of the responsibility. Because you know, the payroll employee that messed it up in the first place and also didn’t catch it for five months has some responsibility too, even though they so nonchalantly tried to awaken my inner beast this morning by trying to pass the buck cleanly to me. I’ll take some of the change, sure, but that fuck up is clearly yours friend, and a simple apology for the error and consequent extra money I will be out for the next couple months seems appropriate instead of the shoulder shrug and reminder to check my paystubs more closely.
My exercise program is going great though. It’s the one where you exercise more, eat better, and still gain weight. So, at least I’m good at that.
My kids are cool too. I mean, mostly. One is twelve and a half and I think that’s all I really need to say about that.
I just opened a package that had a gift in it and the gift is completely broken. I mean, torn to shreds inside the packaging. Someone gave it to a pack of rabid dogs for maybe ten minutes, scooped it up off the ground, placed it in the box, taped it up, and sent it to me. The thought of going to the store to return the item is making me itch. And twitch. Shopping in general is a major panic attack evoking event. Add in the joy of the holidays, and I prefer to stay out of an actual store for the entirety of December. But I’ll have to go soon to return the rabid-dog eaten gift and get a different one.
I just have to sort this all out, and I’m going to be crabby while I do it. Go find your spoonful of sugar somewhere else. This bitch is tired and out of patience.
In the words of lyrical sage Monica, “Just one of them days, that a girl goes through, when I’m angry inside, don’t want to take it out on you, just one of them days…”
I came across this post one evening not long ago, while scrolling through posts and pictures. I read it once over, quickly, as one does when they are just wasting time trying to fall asleep. My finger began to swipe up naturally, but caught for a moment with enough time for me to read through the post once more.
It didn’t surprise me, didn’t give me any reason to pause and wonder about the accuracy in the statements. I just knew that all of it made sense to me and the life I’ve lived and the shoes I’ve walked in. I don’t know a single woman that never moved more quickly or glanced more frequently to preserve her own safety. And if I do, forgive me for the assumption, and I will gladly revise my statement to say: I hardly know any women that this post doesn’t apply to.
In reading the words, my mind found itself stuck in several memories, from the time my body took on a womanly form until present day. Most prominently, I thought about my time in college and the late evening classes that I recall clearly doing every single one of the tactics mentioned. I remember news reports of serial rapists frequenting areas around the school. I remember the near empty parking structure where I would hold my keys between my fingers as a makeshift weapon in case I had to strike an attacker with something sharp. I can’t tell you where I learned such a behavior. Somewhere in a young girl’s timeline, she just learns that there could be a day where fighting back is the only option she has. In the parking structure, I could hear the echoes of other people, and without knowing who they were or where they were headed, the imagined images of them in my mind were full of malice. I walked swiftly and surely to get to my car before they got to me. I did what I was supposed to when I arrived at my car: glanced around it, and even underneath, looked over my shoulders, looked everywhere, quickly opened the car, jumped in, and hastily closed and locked the door.
Around the same time, or somewhere within the vicinity of a few years, I remember various reports of women getting pulled over by police officers late at night, and then being assaulted by the officer. There was a resolution of mind that even those that were meant to help, maybe would not, and would possibly instead harm. More fear. More intimidation. More anger that I had to always be alert to the potential of certain men.
***
When I was only sixteen or seventeen, a friend and I sat outside of the Dairy Queen, eating ice cream. An obviously intoxicated man pulled up in his truck, stepped outside, leaving the truck running with the headlights on. He walked in front of the headlights, dropped his pants, grabbed his penis and looked directly at us. We ran into the Dairy Queen laughing at what happened. They were the uncomfortable laughs of young women learning that in matters of sex, things could be down right weird.
When I was twenty one, and walking down the street, a maybe thirteen year old boy ran past and slapped me on the ass as his friends cheered him. I called him a “little shit” or something like that, but grinned at my own friends. Harmless, after all, right?
When I was twelve, a boy in my middle school Social Studies class made a joke about my breasts (or really lack thereof at the time.) I laughed. Because what was I supposed to do? So I laughed and inside I shrunk just a little bit more.
As I developed into womanhood there were many moments like these. Some are more serious than others. Some are more influential than others. Some words stuck in my brain, rattling around forgotten until moments when they sprung up again, reminding me that some words are never really forgotten. Some actions stuck around as well, like the ones mentioned above. What seems harmless, or non threatening, or like boys being boys becomes wearisome after a while to a young woman. It becomes irritating, until at some point, the woman realizes she doesn’t have to put up with that crap.
And then she learns that she has to fear walking in the world. She is instructed to carry her keys with the pointy ends sticking out between her fingers. She is told to check and recheck and stay alert as she walks … anywhere. And she grows up, and believes that her place in the world is not as secure as a mans, that she is vulnerable. Of course she meets wonderful men that are good and kind and decent. She learns to trust them, deciphering which men are good and which men are not. The good men are great, but this isn’t about them. They should be good. Rewards won’t be given for men that don’t assault women, because the constant should be that men don’t assault women.
But the bad ones. The ones that maybe learned from a very young age that they could speak to girls and women as if they are a joke, that learned they could touch girls or women in any way they found fun, that grew up to expose themselves or hideout in parking garages looking for their next victim, these guys learned that their sex was superior and therefore more powerful. They learned somewhere and somehow that aggression towards women is acceptable.
I am hopeful though. Our society is in the process of unlearning these lessons, and unlearning bad behavior takes a lot of time. It takes a lot of us women, telling our stories, talking about how it seemed normal to feel devalued, and how we aren’t willing for that to feel normal anymore.
Marriage. Isn’t. Perfect. I share nice thoughts and comments about my husband from time to time, when the feeling strikes me or when I feel compelled to remind him and everyone that I am thankful for him. These are love notes that for me, as a writer, are one of the ways that I can show affection and care. Because the truth is, I’m not always affectionate or sweet or caring in all of my moments as a wife, or as a mom, or as a friend. I can be difficult… I can be aloof, insensitive, craving alone time because I’ve met my limit for physical or emotional intimacy. I can be moody, sarcastic, cold. There are days that I protect my fragile inner voice with harsh outer words, eye rolls and shrugs. I am not the perfect partner. My partner is not the perfect partner either. I don’t know if there really could be such a thing, because humans just really aren’t perfect in any way.
My husband and I do a thousand small things that annoy each other. Our reactions to those peccadillos range on any given day depending on the external factors that we’ve faced out in the world, or the kids, or the dogs, or the hormones, or the lack of sleep, or the whatevers. There are also a thousand pieces of an everyday puzzle that determine how we greet the small annoyances that we exchange back and forth. Some days we can laugh about it. Other days, I can’t fathom a cleaned dish touching the counter top, and he can’t understand why I left the refrigerator door open … again! And on these days perhaps our voices grow louder than they would on a different day, when less stress has swept through our household. On these days, maybe we argue about nothing for a while, until we don’t want to argue anymore, when on other days I would simply put away the glass that is touching the countertop without a word said, and he would close the refrigerator door once again.
(I realize that dishes and doors aren’t very big issues and it would be easy to rebut my message here, countering that actual marriage issues leave much heavier emotional scars and warrant much larger reactions. This is true. We’ve had our share of challenges that carry heavier weight, but for the most part, we are lucky (maybe not all luck) to always come back to the same page. If you don’t, I a million percent have no judgement on your relationship. It is yours to figure out.)
So, when I say something nice publicly about my relationship or my husband, I absolutely mean it 1000 percent. It is the way I can do a nice thing. It’s part of my love language or whatever they call it. It doesn’t mean that I have a perfect relationship, and it doesn’t mean that marriage is or should be easy.
I find myself this morning, again, with something nice to say. I have to admit that where I am cold or standoffish, or stubborn, or moody, there is a balance usually from my partner in the form of patience, understanding, and support. And often, we switch roles to keep this balance in check. Sometimes he feels low, not himself, not easily able to give as he usually does. In these moments, I take my turn as the patient one, when I can. It’s much more natural for him, but in our nineteen years together, I’ve figured out that I need to put effort into that role as well.
Here is what I really wanted to say: I write because that’s all I know to do. But, for me, it’s the coffee in the morning.
Every morning, when my husband gets ready very early for work, he says goodbye to my half asleep, nonsensical-in-the-morning ass, kisses my forehead and leaves a full thermos of coffee next to the bed for me. He puts it in the cup that will stay hot, adds the creamer the way I like it, and leaves for work. He’s making his coffee anyway, so he does mine right alongside his, but the point is, he doesn’t have to. He does it only because he knows I love it, and that it helps me start my day when I finally get up the hour after he leaves. He leaves the coffee regardless of if we are getting along great, or I’ve been moody all week, or if we’ve had an argument the night before. It’s his way of showing care and affection. It’s a little thing that reminds me that this guy is in the fight of life with me every day.
I was thinking about this all when I took my first sips of hot coffee this morning without having to leave my bed. And I felt the need to say something nice about it. But I know that sometimes, from the outside it doesn’t seem real when all that is told is the good stuff. I guess I kind of feel that the bad stuff wraps itself into the good stuff though. We don’t usually get to appreciation and mutual respect without having gone through some shit together too. As humans, we don’t usually learn to love deeply without also learning what hurt feelings, resentment, and disappointment feel like too. We are precarious beings, and our relationships may be even more so. Our connections take work. My husband is my family. He is the one I turn to first whenever there is trouble in my world. He’s also the one that could hurt me the easiest, and every day we trust each other not to.
And all of this long winded explanation about non perfect marriages is really just so I can say: “thank you for the coffee this morning. It really makes my day.”
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have a full head of silver hair now. Just kidding, I know you’ve noticed, and honestly, I’ve pretty much blasted it from outer space with hair growing updates, so really, unless you were purposefully avoiding my messages and posts (possible, I know), you’ve seen that my non-pigmented hair has been given full range to flourish all over my head. Writing about it has eluded me a little bit, so I’ve waited for the right inspiration. Today, fully enveloped in the luxury of laziness of Summer Break, I found that inspiration after watching an episode of “The Simpsons” with my boys:
It was the one where Marge notices her grey hair, and visits her salon, only to learn that her stylist has been covering up her grey steak for years with a potent concoction of blue hair dye. I chuckled at the cheeky way the writers implied that society has encouraged the use of harsh chemicals in the name of beauty over the other option of letting one’s hair simply be. I smiled when the characters mentioned the boldness of certain women that decide to forgo such standards on a personal quest to love oneself the way they are. Marge feels empowered during this segment to embrace her grey hair as well and she comes home to her family to show off her new silver quaff. Lisa, of course supports Marge’s choice to be her authentic self and claims the hair color as a nod to women’s empowerment. Bart, (in similar fashion to my own boy children) is a little confused, but mostly uninterested in hair color and doesn’t have much to add. Homer racks his brain for the right words to say, falling short, but with decent intent.
As the episode unfolds, we watch Marge go through her daily tasks, meeting women along the way that offer words of encouragement such as, “you’re so brave” and “I could never do that.” At this point, I couldn’t stop watching the episode, silently nodding along with the dialogue, understanding exactly the inner conflict taking place within Marge.
Brave? What? Brave. Hmmmm. Interesting. This is of course supposed to be a compliment, and it is always said in the tone of compliment, and with the intention of positivity. I don’t actually think that anyone who has told me this meant any ill will, or really perceived exactly the message they were really sending to me. My first reaction has always been that “brave” is used to define actions by those that do something with the possibility of harm to their own self. They do it anyway, because it is the right thing to do. So, “brave” doesn’t seem like quite the right word for not dying my hair. But, as I’ve heard this a few times now, from lovely women that are friends, colleagues, advocates, and more, I have thought deeper on the matter. I realized that “brave” is a reference to defying societal standards. What they mean is that they think I am brave to show what I actually look like to a world that really doesn’t care about my feelings as a woman in her forties. They mean, they think that it is brave for me to possibly risk connections and friendships and relationships because I chose to show the natural color of my hair.
Again, hmmmm. Interesting. When I really understand what is being said, it’s a bit cringe worthy if I’m honest. The deeper side of it is that people feel that I am risking acceptance in a society that values aesthetics. They are a little bit worried for me if you think about it, and that feels kind of crappy. It’s similar to when I tell a person I just met (I emphasize the just met part here, because if you are my friend, you know we can joke about the ups and downs of my job. I mean, I have to joke about it to survive it some days, but I don’t want a perfect stranger telling me horrible they think my life pursuits are) what I do for a living and it goes a little like this:
Person: “So, what do you do?”
Me: “Oh, I’m a teacher.”
Person (looking either mildly irritated or genuinely interested depending on their varied political ideologies): What do you teach?
Me: Middle School English.
Person: (Several options here…. These are the most common):
“Oh, wow. Bless you. You must be a saint.” – OR-
“Oh god. Why?” – OR-
“Oof, that sounds rough.” -OR-
“Yikes. But at least you get summers off.”
So, in that same way, when I tell people that I teach middle school, and their immediate reaction is awkwardly complimenting me on doing a job that sounds terrible to them, one that they tell me they could NEVER do, I also feel that way when a woman exclaims how brave I am to walk around showing the actual hair that grows out of my head. As if walking around this way, provokes some kind of world war between my self esteem and the disapproval of society at large.
I wish I could claim that not dying my hair was that important, or that big of a statement. I wish I could tell you that I am some kind of female empowerment agent that is giving a big “f” you to the establishment. I mean, if that’s what I seem like I’m doing, super cool! It’s not by design or effort, but I’m here for that too. The truth though, is that I’ve had grey hair coming in since I was in my early 20s. It’s hereditary. Our hair loses pigment early on in my line. I dyed my hair from 14 years old and on because it was fun and I liked to. I had tons of looks, and colors and did it mostly because I enjoyed changing it up. It wasn’t until I was in my 30s when the grey became really persistent and much more widespread that the salon trips started to feel like another chore. That’s also when I had less free time, because of mothering kids, and having to cover grey hair up every three to four weeks wasn’t really on the top of my list. I had to buy the spray for in between salon visits, and really the whole hair color thing was just not much fun anymore at all.
The catalyst to me calling it quits happened when I had to miss a hair appointment and the roots were really coming in. I started to notice a social media presence of women of all ages letting go of the dye in trade for their natural sparkle. I noticed the #silversisters community, as well as the #grombre posts, and I really just started to get… curious.
That is really what started it. A curiosity. Could I grow long, silver hair, and if so, would I like it? Would I feel older, uncomfortable, or would I blossom in confidence and wisdom? What would my husband think? And my kids? And the hundred kids at school that are going through an awkward stage of life too? What would my friends think, and the other women at school, sports, etc?
It turned out that the old saying is true: People don’t spend half as much time thinking about you as you think they do. Most of my friends were curious too. I think a lot of people wanted to watch what happened and were mostly curious as well. I can only think of a handful of comments that weren’t totally supportive, and even those commenters changed their commentary pretty soon as well. My husband, knowing who I really am anyway, was unphased. He never gave me any reason to question myself, and I know that having a supportive partner has made the process easier. Now, he tells me that he thinks it’s pretty punk rock, and that’s a big compliment in his book, so I’ll take that. My kids maybe were annoyed at first when they had to explain to their friends that I wasn’t dying my hair anymore. Other than that, their dad has taught them well, and they know that critiquing a woman’s choices when it comes to style, doesn’t usually work out in the end anyway. (I think maybe, just maybe there are moments they think it’s a little cool that their mom is the silver haired one.) The countless women that are strangers that approach me with a kind comment really are the best. And yes, some of them tell me I’m brave without realizing what that truly implies. But, that’s ok, because I know their intention is really to just say, “hey sister, that’s a cool thing you’ve got going on. Maybe it’s not for me, but it’s for you, and that’s all good.” And so the curiosity that was, has turned to acceptance of what is, and for now, that feels perfect. If that changes, such is life.
Which brings me back to Marge, and The Simpsons episode. At the end, Marge misses her blue hair, and she misses how people engage with her when she has blue hair. She decides to go back to the hair color because it makes her happy that way. I almost felt disappointed with that ending (but I realize, the producers are not rebranding Marge for the rest of time), but I actually didn’t mind it in the end. I think beauty, and choices about appearance are really for everyone to decide for themselves. If certain hair products or colors, or styles, make you feel good about yourself, I’m all for it. If dying feels right and authentic, I am no one to judge. I still like feeling pretty. I still want to look good in an outfit. I work on makeup and put on earrings and do other things besides dying my hair. For me, walking around with silver hair feels right for me. But, I’m here to say to all the ladies, “hey sister, that’s a cool thing you’ve got going on. Maybe it’s not for me, but it’s for you, and that’s all good.”
The best compliment ever given to me by an administrative supervisor at work went something like this: “you know Rachael, teaching is an art, and you are an artist.”
This is a bit of a brag maybe, but really, most of us in the profession know this to be true. Impactful teaching is an art form. It wasn’t so much that this was new information that I felt humbled and stunned by the words of praise. It was more that in this recognition I felt seen and respected for the variables I met with in my work and the way in which I handled them.
An artist sees their work with fresh eyes each time they come upon it. They observe. They change. They feel the balance or imbalance. They perceive the changes that need to be made. They sit with the work, revising, intuitively adding or subtracting, giving or taking. They become one with the art. To some end, there is a blur where the artist leaves off and the art begins. In the orchestrated chaos of a classroom, this can also be true.
As a teacher, the art moves all around you: in lessons, discussion, pain, failure, success, triumph, trauma, setbacks and breakthroughs. I have danced this dance. I have painted this scene. I have sung this song. I have captured the still life, and flung paint against the canvas in abstract frustration. I have created art.
In this process, for eighteen years in a very diverse selection of educational settings, I have collected memories. Some have stayed with me, sharp and clear as the day they happened, some fading into the background of the collective experience that guides my intuition in this profession. The memories are stories within themselves of my life intertwining, connecting, diverging with other lives; with people that have educated me, while I sought to educate them.
My work in this life so far is a composite of the stories I keep. I have started the process of unraveling them from my mind and trying to find an order and rhythm to them. I am working on expressing them in writing, a recollection of the moments that have defined my career so far. This is therapy of sorts as I find myself sinking, grasping in a profession that is sometimes thankless and often exhausting. My spirit is tired, but it’s not ready for rest. It is in search of refreshment, and so the memories keep coming to me at night, as I lay in bed waiting for sleep. I am dreaming them, thinking them, and piecing them together, trying to hear their messages and the lessons left to learn.
This is why I have started to write them down, and why I aim to collect many of them into a final composition. I have just started this journey, but I think there is something here. Here is the first in a long list of memories, beginning back eighteen years ago, when I first learned that some kids have to run from their homes, and sometimes that means leaving their homework behind:
Priorities
She slept at the residential facility with other teenage girls, on a single cot, with starched sheets and pillows. Every morning, she rode thirty minutes on the school bus, just like all of the other students at the school. They came from far away to the little school on top of the hill; nestled in a safe spot, removed from the chaos of their lives. Backpacks on their backs, weighted down not from books and packed lunches, but from trauma baggage that they carried to and fro, not sure of where to leave it, or how to. Inside the school: two rooms with padded walls for bad days, teachers with special credentials and years of grit, projectors and pencils, specialists, psychologists, and me. I was twenty two, and just landed a full time job after a degree in English left me wondering how employable I actually would ever be. The official title was “Teaching Assistant”. The unofficial titles were something more like: escort to the bathroom, verifier of bad news, carrier of paraphernalia on the way to the office, whipping post, hugger, receiverof verbal lashings and physical thrashings, carer of feelings.
She slept at the residential facility with the other teenage girls until she went back home to sleep in the apartment with the mother that needed more care than her. One morning at school, she yelled and kicked and screamed and wept. I walked with her to the room meant for calming down. Sometimes she felt better after hitting the pads on the walls. Maybe she would sit down to rest after a little while and the blanket of exhaustion would calm the fire inside.
But her rage jumped out of her body in shrieks and screams instead. Her deep brown eyes held on to mine with intensity as she stood inches from my face. Homework would have to wait. Finding safety from her home had to be the priority the night before. I held her in a sharp hug as she coughed her tears free.
This bike makes me cry. Generally, I am non sentimental. I laugh inappropriately in movies when things are supposed to be sad, but come across as cheesy instead. I don’t cry in public, I save very few objects from the past, I don’t want to hug everyone I see, and sometimes, my introspective nature is read as cold. But, on occasion, my freaking exercise bike makes me cry. The perfect storm contributing to these eye sweats usually combines a big effort, a well timed song, and the instructor imparting just the right amount of truth serum at just the right time. When this hits, I am in a full blown, panting, ugly cry. It is the cry I need, it is the cry I want, and it breaks and then mends my heart in the best possible way.
Peloton, I didn’t really know you until last year. To be honest, I really didn’t want to know you. Maybe I even felt a bit nervous to know you and really, what was the kool aid you were sending out to get so many people to buy your product? And do you have to wear those shoes to ride your bike? Maybe I was curious, but really, I didn’t think we would ever be such good friends. I misjudged you for sure, but really, I think what I’ve learned is that I misjudged myself. I didn’t know I could care or love the experience, the bike, the community, the passion for well-being both physically and mentally. I didn’t understand that the bike, and more importantly the instructors and people involved with the product could be so much more.
So, when at the height of a global pandemic, wherein physical contact and group gathering was put on hold, a group of friends started riding their Pelotons and hashtagging their successes and sharing the experiences, I decided to have a second look. Perhaps out of pure FOMO, I decided to jump on board with the Peloton app and the stationary bike I already had. They coined themselves #PeloBabes and I found myself in a community of support while quarantining in my home. I’m an anti-social, social person, and this was exactly what I needed. We sent texts, lots of texts in the beginning, encouraging, supporting, commiserating. We chatted about what we were doing on the bike, and off. It was therapeutic. It was community. I think it kept my head above water several times when I felt the tide of frustration or loneliness creeping in. As the year went on, and we were able to see each other in person more often, the texts became less often, but still now there will be the occasional ding inviting everyone to join in a milestone ride, or reminding about a new artist series coming up.
After a year, I bought the Peloton bike myself, saving up to make sure that I would make good on my investment and finally deciding that I would since I had great success with the app for so long. I submitted to the clip on shoes and though it took me longer than usual to adjust to clipping out of them, I can happily report that now, I actually love my Peloton shoes.
Today, I rode with Olivia Amato to the Justin Bieber Artist Series ride. Oh Justin Bieber, you’re such a cutie, and I think you are a talented artist, but it was by all accounts, a strange pick for me today. I’m a forty year old, mom of two, and I just don’t listen to a whole lot of Bieber these days. (To be fair, maybe I should start.) So, I just wasn’t expecting that today would be the day that inspired me to write a love song to Peloton, partially influenced by the music I rode to. It was a random pick as I scrolled the artist series list and something made me think that it would just be fun. I knew today wasn’t a PR day. I knew it was a day I just needed to have some fun on the bike, to get back into a routine after a hectic week with only a couple of rides, and a full week off on vacation the week prior. And it was fun, and it was hard too. I did what I could, didn’t really keep up with the instructor today, but had fun and pushed myself to get back to where I know I can go.
Then the cadence changed a bit, we slowed as the song transitioned and “Holy” started playing. I pushed and pulled and listened to the words, and listened to the instructor and heard Justin Bieber and Chance The Rapper take it to a whole different level. Maybe a minute into the song, I just felt the tide of emotion push its way out from my chest and then out through my eyes, and I was in it. I was in the cry that is brought forth from this bike sometimes. I was in the cry that tells me that I am proud of myself, that this thing is so much bigger than just me, that tells me that music is a spiritual experience, that tells me that our connection between physical and spiritual is real in whatever way you understand it, that tells me that I am worth this emotion, that tells me that community is important and worth working for and investing in, that tells me showing up for myself and letting my heart feel whatever I’ve trapped inside is good for me, that cleanses me and refreshes me and reminds me that being able to move my body in this way is a privilege and that gratitude should show up even when times are challenging. I was in it. I was vulnerable. The bike made me cry again. Thank you Peloton, for the tears and the muscles, and the perspective. Thank you artists for allowing your music to guide us in our workouts. Thank you to my riding friends for showing me something new and being a supportive group of women! Thank you to the strangers on the leaderboard that send high fives. This bike is more than steel. It is community, and I am here for it.
Last night I was able to sit outside, enjoying a warm spring evening. It was made even better because the reason for my outside sitting was to watch my oldest son play baseball. Perched on the bleachers, me and many other parents looked on as our kids played a great game on a beautiful night. It’s been a long time since we felt this part of our normal routines. It is a happy glimpse into getting back some of the parts of our lives that were put on hold while we battled (and still do) a pandemic that needed our serious attention and consequently, our inaction.
At almost 12, this is my oldest son’s last year to play in his local little league. His heart is at home on those ball fields and I am so glad he has this chance to play again. His heart. He has the biggest heart for many things, but for this game especially. My son is one of the smallest kids in his age group. He always has been. He will likely be a classic “late bloomer” just like both of his parents. The kid is all legs and arms right now and you can see the stretch that will come at some point, but even so, being the small guy around age 12 isn’t always the easiest thing. He handles this issue with humor, and with a sense of confidence that puts me in awe some days. And he holds his own, walking in the middle of all of his much taller friends, jostling around between them, laughing, talking, striking cool guy poses. The group of boys he plays ball with and holds friendships with are his guys and they have his back, even if they all spend a fair amount of time razzing each other. They are loyal friends and again, I watch with awe sometimes, because my oldest son has always found his way easily through social interaction, and building friendships. He is easy going, open, accepting, and secure. I so admire that.
But, when they get out on the baseball field, the game is ON! This kind hearted creature lets out his inner competitor something fierce. Last night I watched my boy pitch four innings, and it was a great showing. He ended the game with a walk off run, tagged first base, pumped his fist in the air the way he does when he can’t contain it anymore, flung off his helmet and jumped into the air to celebrate. He does love to win. He loves to compete. He had a very good game last night. Of course it is so fun to watch those types of games.
More impressive though are the games when it doesn’t go that way. When he’s on the pitchers mound and he’s hit a funk and maybe the bases are loaded and he has to try to pitch his way out of it, or two kids just hit home runs off of him. Because that’s baseball, and sometimes it goes that way. It’s nice when it goes the winning way, but that’s not going to happen every time. The best show of a person is how they handle adversity, and when these young men do that, while playing this game, it really is something to be proud of. When I watch my boy get beaten down on that field and still walk out on the field the next inning, those are the moments, I know that this is more than a game. He is learning how to keep his chin up when the going gets tough.
After winning games and losing games, one thing remains for my boy. He has so much heart. He shows it in so many ways, but especially out on the ball field. He works to the end, he doesn’t give up, and when his team gets that win, or that amazing play, or he gets that third strike out, it is clear that to him, the bad moments are worth it to get to the good ones. He has a competitor’s heart, but more importantly, and what I know will serve him well in this life, is that he is a good sport. Here’s to sports and good sports and getting to watch them play.
My youngest son’s favorite color is pink. He wears pink clothes, pink socks, asks for shoes with pink on them, has soft, fluffy pink pillows and blankets on his bed. He has heard from little boys and little girls alike, that pink is not a color he should love so much. Despite the less judgmental society we’ve all been hard at work building, there are still those that don’t believe that my son should walk around wearing his favorite color. Luckily however, we are fortunate that for the most part, those that surround our lives, let him be who he is.
We had a special day together today, just me and him. We went to the zoo in the morning and because it’s been some time since we visited a store in the zoo, I told him he could get a little something today. In the store, we looked through t-shirts, noting that the pink t-shirts that he liked had the slender cut that is more marketed to little girls. We moved along, browsing until we saw the pink baseball hats sitting up on a higher shelf.
“Can I get that hat?” he asked. The hat is a pale pink with a cute logo and probably designed for women, but he loved it and I told him that could be his thing.
“Can you get one too, so we can match?” He asked next. Having an older son that is almost twelve and teaching middle school for a living gives me a front row seat to how uncool I am on most days. I’m totally fine with that, but I know that the days when my child asks me to match with him in public are very numbered. So, of course, I bought a matching hat for me as well.
As we left the store, we found a seat so we could remove the tags and size our new hats. We put them on immediately and finished our trip around the zoo. My son held my hand as we chatted and wore our matching hats. I’ve never been more proud to wear a pink hat.
The funny part for me is that I never liked the color pink as a little girl. I went so far as to not wear pink (with exclusion to the 90s and several hot pink items) and to say that I didn’t like the color. For me, I remember it felt as if girls were supposed to like the color by some unwritten rule. The rebellious apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, it seems.
It’s only in the last few years that I’ve warmed to the color and started to like it and even wear it. I have pink shoes now and a pink water bottle and I love them! I think my son has influenced that. I also no longer feel like a little kid wearing a color that defines my gender, especially since my son has so clearly denounced that the color pink identifies a gender.
He is the first to tell anyone that it is only a color, that his eyes like it, that it is bright and friendly and makes him feel happy. He doesn’t understand why there is a girl’s section in some stores that looks bright and happy with unicorns and all manner of fantasy that he so enjoys, while the boys department looks (in his opinion) to be dim, drab and boring. He wears necklaces that sparkle as well and finds iridescent designs on clothing and shoes inviting. He wants a pink streak in his hair, and occasionally asks for his nails to be painted. He knows what he likes and he is this brave little soul that does what he wants.
And I love his persistence with it and his attitude. It’s not easy to be who we really are in this life and in this world, so if my son can so unapologetically express himself, the least I can do is be the one right next to him holding his hand. That’s my job as his mom. To sit with him as he is who he is. And for his whole life, I can promise him that, and I will wear whatever matching hat he asks me to.
On the surface, I was pretty happy to turn 40 this last month. All my friends are 40, it’s a cool round number inviting in a new decade, and it feels like a life milestone. I have some awesome people in my life that made the day and even week of my birthday so special. Hands down, best birthday yet.
Underneath, there were nerves and my old frenemy Anxiety lurking around, waiting for inopportune moments to show up and ruin the party. For months before the big day, I critiqued many of my life choices to this point and created a mental to-do list to achieve before my birthday rolled around. It was self sabotage, not an unfamiliar concept for me, rooted in insecurity that frankly, I feel I am just too old for. There were deadlines and daydreams of what I would get a handle on in my life. All of it, exhausting.
In hindsight, (the best way to actually know what the hell was going on in my brain at the time), I know I was really desperate to find some control in a year that kicked all of our asses. 2020 left a mark on all of us, and for those of us that are parents, and teachers, or other service professions, it was especially daunting as we also attempted to shoulder the hurt for others that we love and wanted to keep safe.
So, in the end 40 came and went, and I haven’t figured it all out yet. But, I really have to acknowledge that even in the drudgery of day to day, and even when it seems like we are standing still, or up to our knees in muck, walking at a snail’s pace, there is change that sneaks up to surprise us. I am changed. I’ve changed. The small tasks and efforts that I have set five or ten minutes aside for, have created something new for me.
I am a 40 year old . . . surgin’…. surging. I don’t know who I think I am. Obviously that ‘g’ is essential there, but you see what I’m doing with that title. Always trying to be cute. And I can’t let it go, sorry, not sorry. Anyway, I’m doing this for example. Maybe five people read what I have to say, but that’s fine for now. I need to do this as I venture out and ask people to ask me to write for them. I worked on my photography business as well this year. I took photos of people and families and proved to myself mostly (because the rest of you told me to do it for a long time already) that I am creative and worth it. I grew my hair out to it’s natural silver goddess state for crying out loud! I own my freaking natural hair. And I like it, and I don’t apologize for it. It doesn’t make me a hero and it doesn’t make me brave. I get those comments sometimes. What it does make me, in my view, is authentic to myself. It’s what I wanted to do and I did it.
I’m doing the things. I’m doing the work. For me and for my family and for my vision of what I want. Creativity doesn’t go away when you don’t make time for it. It just suffocates inside. I’m finally letting mine out for some fresh air. Cheers to 40, and to the next decade and all of the surprises still to come. Cheers to creative minds and spirits and surgin’ forward when it’s much easier to stay quiet. Cheers to wild hearts and souls that find a way.
It makes me angry. The persistence of the dust and the grime and the constant war that must be waged against the filth, makes me angry. While I am scrubbing or wiping, or organizing, I am mad at the inanimate surfaces all around me. Sometimes I curse them and tell them off while they are being cleaned.
“Oh, you think you can just hold on to this stain. Nope. You are going to get clean, you asshole.”
And then the toilet doesn’t even say anything back. It just sits there, wide open, mocking me, reminding me in it’s taunting way that my male offspring can’t find the giant opening of the toilet bowl, but can spray down every square inch of wall space and floor tile in a five foot radius.
And then it is clean and everything is done, and I pull out my earbuds and stop listening to Rage Against the Machine long enough to admire my work, and I look around and it’s so damn clean and great. I am happy for forty five seconds at least. I take a look at my sweaty ass in the bathroom mirror and get into the shower to clean the last bits of me that are left unclean before daydreaming about sitting in my bed and doing nothing for a little while. And then, as if there is a beacon sounding over the top of the clean spaces, my children descend, or the dogs do, and then I am yelling Rage Against the Machine songs, except they aren’t really the songs, it is just the rage and everyone hides from me until the next cleaning day.
Rachael Coughlin 