Is Anybody Out There? Or, Keeping it Real

As 2015 comes to a close, I feel compelled to look back with gratitude and reverence at the year that was. But I'm having a hard time doing that. It's not that I didn't have many wonderful moments this year: I've seen my step kids blossom into their lives here in the US and my relationship with them grow and deepen. I am a more confident and patient parent. I am more forgiving of myself for taking care of my own needs as well as that of my family.

I am also grateful for and excited by what I've accomplished creatively this year. I pushed myself to the limits to restart my visual arts practice, and successfully created my first installation in twenty years as well as participating in a juried exhibition for the first time ever.

And then there are the basic trappings of life--a loving husband, a good job that pays well and doesn't stress me out, a lovely house, good health, and knowing that our basic needs are taken care of and then some.

But, as much as I try to heed the wise words of those who remind me how important it is to be positive, and grateful for all that I have, I am struggling to keep that perspective. Objectively I can feel that way but depression--a demon that has lurked at the edges my entire life--is very effective at dragging healthy perspective down into a hole where it can no longer fully function.

It's a combination of factors. One is the increasingly crushing financial pressure exerted on Bay Area middle-class families like mine. Raising children here on non-profit salaries without the privilege and fortune to receive supplementary financial support is quickly becoming impossible. Especially with three children. And, having missed the window to buy property here, we are now only one nice landlord away from being priced out of the area altogether. Sure, we could fit all five of us into a two-bedroom apartment; many families are forced to do that. But it hardly seems worth it.

And then there's the fact that my search to find other parents like me, or any resources for parents like me, has yielded precisely nothing. My online searches for advice and support for step parents just didn't fit my situation. I am not a step parent of American kids who live with me part-time and spend the rest of the time with their other parent. I am not a step parent of American kids, period. I am a full-time parent of my stepchildren who are still in the process of acculturating. I am the wife of an immigrant who is also still in the acculturation process, which, as you can imagine, is not that easy given all of the deep social flaws of our society. Each of us in our own way has courage and sacrifice embedded into the piece of our family that we hold up.

So I seek solace or recognition and see resources and supports out there for all kinds of family configurations and parenting situations, but not mine. The community that I've built here over the last twenty years largely falls into two camps: no children or young children. So my family frequently falls outside of the spectrum of activities and social opportunities available. The fact that I have no immediate family in the Bay Area, which I hardly noticed when I was younger, now feels like a gaping hole. Chosen family has become a poor substitute for the real deal.

Ultimately, the balance still absolutely leans towards the positive. I'll probably write another blog post about that. But this year has sometimes been so hard, and so lonely. As I focus my hopes for 2016, the word that comes to me is relief. Let the next turn around the sun offer me, and my family, some relief.

Call it like you see it (or yes, Virginia, there is racism in Berkeley)

This morning my husband and I got an email from the principal of Berkeley High School, which two of my stepkids attend, saying that a "racist and hateful" message was found on one of the computers in the school library. The message, which used the N word several times and referenced the KKK and threatened a "public lynching," was discovered at 12:30pm but the email was sent out about ten hours later.

This morning, a significant portion of the Berkeley High student body (probably over 1000 students), led by its Black Student Union, walked out of school. They gathered on the steps of Berkeley's historic City Hall building and then marched to the UC Berkeley campus, assembling at Sproul Plaza, a historic site of student protest.

I work in downtown Berkeley and arrived after the students had gathered at City Hall. I texted my stepson to see if he was there (he was), listened to speakers for a while, then headed to the office, but continued to follow the protest for the rest of the day on social media.

I made the mistake of looking at some of the comments on the coverage of the walkout--it shouldn't surprise me to see people asking why the students are making "such a big deal out of nothing" or that it was a prank or a hoax so therefore, again, just an opportunity for people to play victim, or have a chance to cut class.

These comments go right to the heart of the issue--that unless you have been on the receiving end of having your safety and life threatened simply because you exist, as people in oppressed and targeted communities have, you 1) have no idea what it's like and 2) have absolutely NO RIGHT to say "it's nothing" or play it off as a joke or a prank.

I finally had the chance to see a short routine by local comedian W. Kamau Bell recently, in which he addressed the incident at the Elmwood Cafe, a popular spot in one of Berkeley's most upper-class neighborhoods. He was meeting his wife (who is white) at the cafe and as he approached her table an employee at the cafe rapped on the window from inside and told him to "scram." I had heard about the incident, and how it poked a hole, however small, in Berkeley's collective insistence that racism doesn't happen here. He laid out an analogy for what happened next that I really appreciated. When he confronted the employee and pointed out that what she had done was racist, she replied "I don't really think it was racist." So here's the analogy: you're eating a piece of pizza, and someone comes up to you and says "that's not actually a piece of pizza you're eating."

Just to be 1000% clear: racism=pizza. When you find out that someone has hacked into a computer at school and threatened to lynch you it does not matter if it's a prank or a hoax or anything. The act has served its purpose: to terrorize. My personal experience with this is feeling the pervasive sense of physical threat that women hold in a society that fails to disrupt rape culture and cycles of domestic violence. Fear is not "rational," so there are certainly times that my perception of threat may or may not have coincided with the actual threat level. But that is absolutely beside the point. When you feel under threat, you are, because the psychic damage has been done. And a threat made as a "prank" in a society whose systems are built upon using fear to subjugate and oppress African Americans needs to be taken seriously, regardless of whether it's carried out.

I'm currently reading Between the World and Me--it took me months to get it from the Berkeley Public Library because there was such a long waiting list. I take this as a good sign that there's so much interest, because this book needs to be read by...well, everyone. Ta-Nehisi Coates' explanation of the continuous threat of the destruction of black bodies and the deep personal and collective fear that results was illuminating to me: I already had a sense of it but he described it in a way that really brought it home.

So this is the country that my stepkids now live in. As I followed the protests today, I felt overwhelmed with two very strong conflicting emotions. One, pride for the students for refusing to accept this act at their school and for refusing to accept the administration's slow response. Two, sadness and shame that this incident even happened, in Berkeley, in 2015. And those two competing feelings sum up how I feel as a white parent with three black stepchildren who immigrated from a country where they were not pegged as "black" to place where they most definitely are. Here, they have opportunities and freedoms that they wouldn't have necessarily have had, but they are also now black children in America. Even in Berkeley.

Even though I know this, I still have skirted around the edges of this conversation, mostly because of the shame I feel. But it's time to get over it--because it's not about me--and talk openly about the racism in our country, and community, directly with my stepkids.

Year One

I spent several days over the holidays gathering all of my family's photographs from the last year, starting December 27, 2013, when my stepchildren arrived in the U.S. This has been an arduous task, involving pulling scores of selfies from three cell phones, a digital camera, multiple clouds and photostreams to tell the visual story of their first year here--and my first year as a full time parent.

Immediate things stand out, like how much they've grown. My stepson is now taller than me and my stepdaughter is gaining on me by the day. And the pictures chronicle all that has happened: they have gone through a year of school; celebrated their birthdays and numerous holidays for the first time; traveled to Los Angeles, Lake Tahoe, the Russian River, New York and Connecticut; played soccer and music and performed in dance concerts; learned how to swim and ski; made friends; and learned English.

As I review the photographs, my own narrative of this year unfolds alongside them. Recently, I found a sketchbook in which I had written "parenting promises" I made as part of a ritual I held right before the children arrived. Here are a few:

1) Being fair and judicious;
2) Having patience;
3) Not taking things personally;
4) Keeping it real when it has to be kept real;
5) Discovering what they care about as individuals and nurturing that.

Looking back, I would say that I generally have upheld these promises. There were moments when I so desperately wanted to be alone that I fantasized about running out of the house and never coming back. I struggled with the demands of my job and a long commute, which meant that my time with the kids was often very limited. I lost my patience and temper a few times, times that I'm not particularly proud of. And I was very hard on myself--drowning in guilt when I felt like I wasn't committing the way I should.

I have learned that parenting is a process that unfolds day by day--it's not a linear narrative. But in reflecting on this past year, I think back to the beginning and realized how much I have changed. I feel more even, more patient, more able to detach when I shouldn't take it personally...essentially more able to fulfill those promises on a deeper level.

When I tell people that a year ago my three stepchildren arrived from another country to live with me and my husband, they are often astounded. They can't imagine how they'd handle it. And my first reaction always is to tell them how good the kids are. This is true--they are wonderful kids (much of which I attribute to my husband's genes--and parenting) and I feel blessed and honored to witness their growth. They are thriving. All I can do is continue to walk alongside, letting our relationship unfold.  

My Bad, and other instances of English comprehension

The ongoing struggle to keep multiple balls in the air--parenthood, job, creative practice--has resulted in another time lapse, but the unexpected gift of a break in employment has made me more determined to keep writing and making.

So, yesterday afternoon, my stepchildren and I played Monopoly. As we bought and sold property, forked over taxes, went to jail and collected rent, I listened to the conversation that flowed easily and quickly--in English, a language that the kids did not speak less than a year ago. As an educator, I had put so much thought into how to manage the transition from speaking French to English at home. But the transition had happened without management; it was the kids who decided, who had gotten to the point where their grammar, listening comprehension, vocabulary, and use of idiom was so proficient that it simply made sense.

I remember the murky anticipatory moments prior to their arrival late last year, when I tried to imagine what path their adjustment process would take. I had a dream in which my stepson spoke to me in perfect English--and woke up overcome with emotion because I couldn't imagine that day--I had never heard him speak a single word of my native language. It seemed to abstract and far away. 

Being the kind of person to employ internet research in search of some control over uncontrollable situations, I googled "length of time to learn English" and got dozens of wildly different answers. Lesson learned: each English language learner is different and I was forced to accept that I wouldn't know until it happened.

The kids started school in English ten days after they arrived in the United States. While they each had other francophone students in their classes, they were essentially forced to learn in English from day one. I couldn't imagine how hard it must of been to walk into a new school in a new country and culture surrounded by a foreign language. But they had at least some experience: schooling in Niger is in French, a language that most children don't learn until they begin their formal education.

As they began to learn, the educator--and English speaker--in me fretted about the best way to support their language acquisition. And I feared that they'd fall behind in school due to the gap in understanding they were experiencing because of a migration that had, after all, come about because of me. I worried that they wouldn't learn fast enough and would struggle in school for years. I emailed their teachers daily to ask which kinds of books they should be reading and in which language and when I should switch from speaking French at home to English.

I remember when they learned the basic greetings and what an accomplishment it was to say "nice to meet you". I remember when they began to put basic sentences together, when out of nowhere they started using complex grammar and tease each other in English. I don't remember when I started speaking to them in my regular, slurred and hurried pace but I know I did because it was clear they understood everything.

In less than a year, my stepchildren are proficient in English, reading almost at grade level and able to navigate easily in an English-speaking world. I am in awe of their intelligence, perseverance, and drive. I also see that, by speaking English together, our relationship is deepening. As much as I love the French language, I have always felt that speaking it removed a piece of my personality--I appreciate how pliable and versatile English is. And I'm grateful to now share this language with my children.

Mother's Day

This morning, after eating breakfast in bed (I'm a bit maladroit with poached eggs served on a tray for the record), I came downstairs to find a card on the dining room table. Hallmark has all kinds of family situations covered: the card started with "there are women who love you as if they brought you here themselves..." and it goes on from there. Each of the kids had written a note inside, in English. Their messages, along with thanking me, all contained an apology for anything they had done to make me mad. Of course my immediate reaction was to worry if they are afraid of me or if I'm not patient enough with them, but I have learned not to take these things at face value. When I asked my husband about it he said that's totally cultural, the most important thing for them is to not make their parents upset. Therefore I took it as a sign that they really do see me as a parent.

So we celebrated Mother's Day by spending the day together, at the house we all share that truly feels like ours now. The kids played in the yard and we made some art and I attempted to learn how to cornrow so that I can braid my stepdaughters' hair like my mother had done mine. I thought about how much my mother had done for me, and how I had not been sure that I would possess the same instincts.

But it's reciprocal. When we have days like this, where our schedule is open and we have time to just be together, the effect on the kids is clear: they are happy, more energetic, more talkative, and so am I.

In the last year I have cultivated a gratitude practice, which has helped me see how much I have to feel grateful for. Now I feel even more grateful, and the voice in my head says, THIS is the return. My fear of being a parent centered around anticipating the sacrifice and loss of freedom, but even then I knew that I'd receive something I couldn't yet imagine.

I remember several years ago telling my therapist that I had adjusted to the idea of parenthood and he turned around and asked me, "what about the idea of being a mother?" That distinction was too much: I broke down in tears, unable to go there. I'm still not totally there, for many reasons: one, the kids have a mother and I accord great importance to that fact. Second, I don't know what the difference is but am sure that it's not a sharp line. It's simply a path that I sense that I'm on.

Thank you to my mother, grandmother, sister, aunts, cousins, and friends...for taking that path too.