Tag Archives: love

Be the one.

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Saleha, my oldest daughter texted me, “I’m in fucking Rockville, I’m angry and nauseous.”

“Want to talk?”

She kept going.

“This lady said she was a better immigrant because she’s white and from a European country. And that I’ve been brainwashed by the media to think that what’s happening at the border is bad. And she told us that we had no idea because we’re not immigrants. I told her I was a child of an immigrant, but she told us how bad SHE had it and that whatever is happening now isn’t as bad.”

“At what point did you walk away?”

“She wouldn’t stop talking. I interrupted her at some point and said have a nice day. Next time I’m going to tell people that I hope they are capable of developing some compassion.”

Saleha is canvassing for the ACLU this summer, raising money for immigration and abortion rights. She wanted to help the best way possible in a short period of time, and she’s one of the top fundraisers on her team. She’s never done this before. She’s studying to be a biomedical engineer, and her team is filled with passionate and determined young adults who aspire to be lawyers, journalists, activists. Saleha looks white. Her black teammates don’t raise as much money. Her canvassing partner is black AND bi-sexual. That’s two strikes against him.

When she decided to do this, I knew she was going to get a very quick lesson on humanity – the good, bad and ugly. There have been a lot of good days. Like when that little kid gave her a penny for the cause, when a guy gave her his last $20, and when people filled up her water bottle on those hot humid days.

Then there are days that leave her angry and nauseous. It breaks my heart, she’s my daughter.

Hate swirls around us each day. Hate makes us angry and invites an infinite amount of negative energy into our lives. And it’s easy to give in to hate.

It’s so easy to hate the people who support the cruel treatment of children at the border. Have you ever felt helpless when your little baby has a fever? Do you hold and comfort your toddler when she wakes up with night terrors? Have you ever felt like you can’t breathe when your teenager goes missing for a few hours?

It’s so easy to hate the people who dismiss the black men and boys who are killed by cops. Have you ever listened to a black mother lecture her teenager before he leaves the house in the morning, so he won’t get killed by a cop? And feel her fear that he won’t come home from school?

It’s so easy to hate the people who think my gay, lesbian and transgender friends are immoral. Do you have friends in this community? Are they kind and respectful human beings? Have you ever been awed by their strength and grace for being proud of who they are despite the amount of hate they receive?

It’s so easy to hate the people who don’t believe women who’ve been raped. Are you a woman? Have you ever been sexually assaulted? Do you remember every single detail like it was yesterday, even if it happened 30 years ago? Wait, what? You’ve never been sexually assaulted? Hang on, you’re a man? Then fuck you.

It’s so easy to hate the racists. Have you ever avoided reading stories of white people proudly declaring their superiority as they are celebrated by leaders and politicians? Have you ever just closed your eyes and tried to wish these stories are fake?

See? It’s so easy to give in to hate. If I do, I can be just like them. Hateful. Angry.

The next day, I picked up Saleha from work. And we had our usual 10:30pm chat. The only time during the week I get to see and talk with her this summer.

“I met a really nice guy who believed the ACLU will change the world, and also a really nice and cute old lady who could only see with one eye. And at this one house, after I got a donation from this woman, her daughter gave me a big hug.  It made me want to cry. Today was infinitely better than yesterday.”

“Maybe that’s what we need to do. To be the one who makes others see that this world has good people. To help others see that there is love around us, not just hate. To be the one that makes others feel disproportionately happy with acts of kindness. To be the one that you tell your mom about at the end of the day.”

Saleha’s experience taught me that I can’t avoid the hate and there are many people who need help. She dived in with the best way she knew how to help. She’s unapologetic about her beliefs and is very outspoken about them. I hope that one day I can be as brave as her. But until then, I can be the one.

“I’m glad this is your last week of work.”

“Me too.”

Love

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It’s not enough. 

To just love is not enough to raise a happy child.

I am guided by love that allows me to feel her sadness, and to always know where to find that missing shoe. This love also allows me to offer up the last juicy shrimp in my bowl, and to know exactly how much salt to put on her eggs. Every time.

It’s not enough.

My legs and my heart, they’re a little wobbly. It’s getting harder to stand back up when I get knocked down by this growing, beautiful child. Her cold shoulder and harsh words overwhelm me, they make me weak. I should hide so she won’t have a target. Oh my love.

It’s not enough.

I am her ugly monster. The source of her anxiety, her stress, and everything that is wrong with her life. I can’t be spoken to, trusted, or treated like a loved one. But I have so much love.

It’s not enough.

Stay low, move quietly, and avoid direct contact. I need to repair the damage within and protect my fragile, cracking shell. She needs more than love.

It’s not enough.

Party!

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Start line party

The aches and pains left my body after four days, the “I did my first marathon” high still comes and goes, and I have not taken down the Marine Corps Marathon course map at my office desk. My racing journey this year was not especially pretty, as much as it was insightful. But at the start line on race day, I was at a ruckus party with 30,000 other people. 26.2 miles? Puh-leez. We all knew how many miles it REALLY took to get to the start line.

I didn’t know if I would get here, but I’m on the other side now, I did it. I persevered through hours of physical stress to achieve this huge endurance goal, and I AM mentally strong enough to lace up my shoes and do it over and over again. Alone. That start line party was my graduation.

Do over please

Did I say it wasn’t pretty? There was pain and cramping during the second part of the race and lots of excuses after. I didn’t focus on strength training, broke my foot 6 months before the race, my training time was short, blah blah blah. But wouldn’t you know it I want to run another marathon—in addition to other 2014 racing goals. But I’m hoping this next journey will be different than the one I started out with this year.

Reminders

Reminders

 In the moment

My 2013 racing journey can be summed up in the two weeks before and after the marathon. My emotional state was that of a caffeine addict deprived of her morning coffee. Every day, for two weeks. At a yoga class during savasana a few days before the race, with tears streaming down my face I apologized to my many hurting body parts. Touching my thighs, hips, and legs, and feet, I asked them to hang tough with me for a few more days. Assuming the same pose on my yoga mat a week after the marathon, I tearfully thanked them for being strong and carrying me—literally—on this journey. Then as the endorphins and chemicals balanced out in my body over the next few weeks, Sarah Lynn aka my favorite yoga instructor, repeated a mantra of hers during class—to be accepting of where we are, what we’re doing, how we’re doing it, in the moment we’re in. I finally heard her.

When my body protested with exhaustion during the months of training, and I’d take a 7:30 nap before falling asleep at 9:00, I often asked myself (and the husband) why I often feel compelled to choose the hard road. No answer ever satisfied me. At the end of a rather tumultuous racing year which included letting my body heal, I had these fleeting moments of realizing that it’s okay not to know why, or what my journey is for. Only that I choose to go on it. I have to grab those fleeting moments. Tricky stuff.

 Ohm

So yes, I will be setting goals, and working hard to achieve them. My 2014 journey is to be in the many moments I will find myself in, and be accepting of all the outcomes.  At least that’s the plan.

  • Half Ironman.
  • Marathon #2.
  • Be kind to myself (see first two goals above)
  • Show meaning of true friendship to teen daughter.
  • Lift the clouds away from anxious daughter.
  • Run away with husband more often.

And may the racing goddesses be gentler to me next year.

Overflow.

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I’ve deliberately avoided putting my fingers to the keyboard for months. Any and all threateningly powerful emotions have been very neatly put away in a box. I’m experiencing an overflow. And they are all demanding attention. Kabanga. Newtown. Boston.

Boston. Running has taken me on a journey I never knew I could or would want to take. Running allows me to be free from whatever I choose. I meditate when I run. Running taught me about pain and the meaning of being strong. Racing is when I get to be with thousands who share my joy and my pain. It’s a time to celebrate our collective journey. It is a time to contemplate and enjoy where we are, how we got there, and hopefully where we will be going next. I can’t imagine running this weekend’s race or any other race without thinking about Boston. I can’t imagine what my journey will be like this year when I run in my first marathon in October. I’ve lost something—like dropping a glove in the throng of runners at the start line. I can’t retrieve it.

Newtown. When children are killed, they become my own. And those other children who witnessed the massacre? They were mine too. For a long time I was a grieving parent mourning the loss of my child. I was a parent shielding my child from the scarring images that forever will burn in her head. Saleha said to me the night of Newtown, “Mama, please don’t imagine you were a parent of one of those kids.” I told her I couldn’t help it. She said she couldn’t help it either.

Kabanga. When I arrived, it was so different, yet so… familiar. It took me a few days to realize that I felt like I was home. The landscape, the small kampung-like houses, and the people’s wonderful hospitality and generosity. But every day at the school I was with children with bleak futures. We all did as much as we could, realizing that each evening when we left the children to go back to our safe and clean house, many would sleep in rooms filled with stench from an overflowing sewer. And wake up to armed guards, not hugs from moms and dads… But each day, we did give hugs and love. As much as we could. But. How dare we complained about a missing toilet seat in our bathroom. How dare we complained about that smell that permeated everything we wore. How dare we complained about not having anything to do. How dare we complained about ANYTHING.

Sometimes, there just aren’t answers to the sadness. Okay. Back in the box. For now.