Launching

Here we are, all locked up and alone again. Plus ça change. This time, however, we are in a cute small town in the US and the election has come and gone. France is shut down again except for schools. Thanksgiving is mostly cancelled and if I’m not careful I could Zoom my soul right out of my body. I miss writing my posts. I miss the discipline and the walks looking for images. We are back in the land of vast spaces, loud trucks and dry mountains.

Mt. Eddy with friends and dogs. All the distance.

In January I signed up for a new endeavor and have been hard at work learning many amazing things. It is almost time to launch. Starting December 1, I will be posting one delightful thing to do (off-screen) every day until the end of this 2020. Here in the US people complain about the year, as though an arbitrary date will end this epoch. I do not expect January 1, 2021 to bring any miracles but I still have stories to tell and it’s going to be a dark month for many. I am lonely here and miss my other languages terribly. It is cold and we are all masking up. So, in order to distract myself, I have concocted a new project: 31 days of self-care or self-ridicule or self-indulgence coming your way! So stay tuned for new and exciting posts. You can also follow me on IG @healeydelight if you are so inclined.

Leaving my cocoon

A cool wind is blowing through my big bedroom door/windows all the way across the apartment to the other big door/windows on the front side. I am inordinately fond of this white bedroom, my little balcony, our fourth floor views and a plain small kitchen straight out of every Truffaut movie. But now it is time to transition again from resident to traveler and I am finding it much harder than usual.

A yoga teacher’s move.

We have lived in this apartment since last fall but, because of confinement, I have lived or resided or been squeezed into this apartment like no other place I have lived. I walked hundreds of kilometers in my one kilometer radius and my son and I have sat on every corner of the floor, on all the various furnitures for probably more hours than an average year in our lives. We are go-outers normally. Not so domestic. Every since he was a tiny imp, I have ridden all around town with him rather than sit on a couch. But not this year.

We got a little snailish.

Did you know that cocooning was a term invented by the futurist and marketer Faith Popcorn in 1987 and has been quite popular in France. Le cocooning was very in fashion this spring of 2020. When I came to Toulouse I was broken-hearted, bereft, and planning a year where more of my life would be spent doing the things I love. Here in this apartment I have filled many notebooks, cried online with my writing friends, taught and practiced yoga with people from all over the world and seen my son grow from child to young man. Our dynamic has shifted to a place where we both look out for each other. He wants me to have fun and he nags me a tiny bit when I say I’m going to go running and then I dither. When we first arrived here, I was the only nagger.

The corner of my bedroom where I have sat for many an intense online session.

Here in this apartment I have had long meandering conversations with people I love dearly. I have listened to my mother’s stories about the war years in Germany, I have commiserated with some broken-hearted friends, and I have discovered a whole group of new and lovely Zoom colleagues/friends/peers/people I now love.

In March, I finally got my nerve up to come out of my social cocoon, to go meet strangers, to go dancing more, to try new things late at night. And then confinement and my physical cocoon became a government mandate. A few more months without really seeing new people. And now it is time to step out of this home, to step out of the fall/winter of my heart and soul, and to get back on the proverbial dance floor. But I am reluctant. I am procrastinating. I am dragging my feet.

Gardel was from Toulouse and I finally went to see his statue. I love the little people in his hand like the Little Prince in Saint-Exupéry’s hand all the way across town near another park.

I have packed up most of my things and gotten rid of the pants with holes and the socks that no longer fit my larger child. Tonight I am going to a different place and many adventures await. The future in the US scares me. Classrooms and masks and breathing and counting are not something I look forward to with much joy. My French cocoon has served me well but there is no room to dance in this apartment. I have scrubbed the little heel marks off of the wall where I did so many handstands and I have scrubbed the little wheel marks off of the wall where my son parked his skateboard. It is time to say goodbye and pull back into the larger stream.

The Garonne is also my friend.

And so, sitting here with one last pile of laundry to do and a few more notebooks to sort, I think of how hard it is for all of us to leave the spaces of safety and recommence our lives. The future is not pretty but it is also not homogenous nor small. I hope to step back into it like I step onto a crowded dance floor in Buenos Aires, with a supportive hand on my back, with a slight nod from the other dancers, with excitement and great, great patience, and a fullness of breath and listening to the music to remind me that the first step, even just the stillness of the first breath together, is the dance itself.

Deserving

In February my son and I were in Paris for his birthday. Walking across the Place de la République, I stopped below the monument to the Republic, a seated woman. The sun shone on her massive female clothed form and I thought, we do need monuments to democracy. It’s an accomplishment. I explained to my son the military nature of Paris’ wide boulevards. They cannot be blocked by regular people with just cobblestones any more but he suggested an overturned bus might work. Every single day since March, I have been contemplating democracy here and in the United States. These two countries have a long shared history, from inspiring talks on liberty to abetting each other in the trade of enslaved bodies and so, so many contradictions abound. My US friends want to know what the difference really is. Why are people in the US doing terrible things to each other and not stopping a pandemic whereas life here is relatively peaceful and, at least for now, the worst of Covid seems to have passed? I wonder and wonder. I watch the women biking to work in skirts, I read the congratulatory signs from the government on being good citizens, I get nausea accidentally seeing footage of US bodies throwing other US bodies violently to the ground and worse and yet I don’t know what the answer truly is.

When I was 14 and lived in Germany I loved these Coke gummies, forbidden and weirdly American and not American. Here they are dissolving in the rain on a Toulouse sidewalk. Sugar and slavery and diabetes in Africa and all that money in Atlanta and I do like the semiotics of a disintegrating Coca Cola.

I mull and mull and get all mulloney and mullookey and think of all the vast generalizations I have heard over the years. This morning my 31 year old stepson wrote me from New York that he blames the current state of affairs on unbridled capitalism. I wrote back that the US is one huge embodiment of unintegrated trauma and we didn’t find an answer. Why, the French people ask, why did they vote for him? Why wouldn’t they wear masks? Why aren’t they taking care of sick people? Why? I don’t have a lot of answers but one little thing keeps pulling my attention.

Cute little doggie picture but what I want you to notice is the vast, vast public space with benches and no cars. All over Toulouse people and their children and doggies can hang out in these car-free spaces.

Deserving. When a Black person gets accosted by the police, I often hear white people say something that begins with, well, he should or should not have ______ fill in the blank. Newspaper accounts of Black or Latinx people being arrested or worse almost always seem to include a little justifying paragraph at the end. He had a hammer in his pocket, he looked dangerous, he somehow someway deserved something. And this is the mindset that I don’t see as often here. Bad things happen in France but somehow, maybe Catholicism instead of Protestantism, I hear much, much less about deserving. In the US I feel like people are much too comfortable with the idea that people somehow should or do get what is coming to them. We can witness injustice and recast it in our minds so it is some kind of justified situation even in the most horrific circumstances. I have found myself doing this and I have heard close friends and family (all white) do the same. This is part of our culture. She shouldn’t have been walking there, they should have known better, he could have known that would happen, well, well, well… you know it was bound to happen. When we accept the most incongruous and devastating and tenuous relationships between cause and effect, we are not ready to build a new society, we find a way to escape our complicity. We are so used to this that we do not stop and say: the police should never kill people, rapists should never ever rape people, arrests should never ever take place like that.

Midday and mid-week at the airport. Some flights are going but everything is shut down but the bare minimum.

The other side of the deserving coin that also bothers me is the positive and capitalistic part. How much do I deserve to earn? Don’t I deserve a car and a house and granite countertops? I am a good person and these are my just rewards. I get to have them if I want to because they are somehow my right. The mega church version of Christianity that preaches this in the US is so, so far removed from the Jesus of my childhood Sunday school who threw the money lenders out of the church and embraced poverty. In France if you make a lot of money you pay a lot more in taxes. You can work as hard as you would like but you still have to respect labor laws, tax laws, contract laws and you don’t necessarily deserve anything more than your neighbor. I asked a successful businessman here who had grown up poor and he bristled at the notion. No, he said, it is much more complicated than that. I don’t necessarily deserve anything he said, I didn’t work harder than other people, I have been lucky and I have been helped. Even with teenagers in my classroom in the US, I struggled with this notion of deserving. Somehow we believe that the rich deserve their big houses and the poor deserve their moldy trailer. I believe this at times, I can’t help myself. I don’t want to, but I forget to check because I get caught up in our cultural discourse. If someone here has a lot of money French people grouse about how their family probably had money and they should redistribute it, pay more taxes, not get to keep land from long ago, etc. How many of us are willing to say that openly and candidly about anyone who seems to have a lot of money? No one, but no one, DESERVES to be a billionaire. It should be a crime said my 14 year old son.

This cracks me up, I would love to know the story. It’s on a huge esplanade, more massive space for people to sit on benches, go running, let their kids ride bikes, have picnics and no cars at all.

What does anyone really deserve? In French when you get a salary you « win » it rather than « earn » it. The French do talk about people meriting certain things, usually negative, but in my day to day interactions, I don’t see the constant competition for deserving either good or bad treatment. We all buy the same baguettes, walk the same sidewalks, take the same buses, pay the same prices for medical treatments, sign the exact same lease documents (the national government has a standard legal form), and wait the same amount of time for the very slow wheels of French bureaucracy to turn.

Maybe if we step out of the cycle of deserving, of personal identity as rationale for cause and effect which are often not cause and effect, maybe then we can critically analyze the country we in the US are trying to make and/or preserve. If we think the billionaires deserve their money and the young Black man deserves police violence then we are stuck, unable to actually see the real cause and effect, unable to question the history that led us to such a place. It is time to ask the much more critical questions of who profits? What systems started this? Where are the laws? Who wrote the laws?

If we think about loving each other simply as a practice and not because of any kind of deserving, maybe we can make progress and find our better connections. What do I deserve? Nothing. Everything. I think I would rather ask the question, what do I desire? What am I willing to fight for? Who can I help? How much discomfort can I tolerate?

What do you desire? Here’s a sexy apricot smashed on the sidewalk.

2023

It looks like the European borders may well be shut to Americans and for a while. I have had such freedom to travel in my life that this announcement feels disheartening or frightening but it is absolutely not something I can control or even plan for. Perhaps we shall return next summer, perhaps not.

Did you lose your chicken? Have you lost your nerve?

In 2023 Airbus plans to be more or less back to normal.  No one in the US seems to be talking like this, with such a faraway date, but I believe French businessmen (I’ve only spoken with men), doubly conservative in their expectations.  People are just going to have to hold on for a few years and I too shall need a longer plan. Or no plan. It might go like this: quit a job, move, shift things around, buy more yoga ropes.  But it definitely doesn’t go like this: make a detailed plan, count on reality being what I have known before, or get my hopes up for some kind of ‘return’ to whatever life used to be. Masks on, housing prices down, terrible unemployment, almost no planes in the sky.

And the bigger picture, the longer view, the good spiritual training of always and incessantly being in liminality.  Neither this nor that. My students and I will not sing together this fall, we will do something else. I have no idea what it will look like but I know I will show up to teach them everything I can in the way that feels like it could help them the most.  

The Toulouse airport is deserted and for the first time I noticed this floating chair. Yup, the furniture is heading into the ether, we might just have to sit on the floor.

I have played the American game of life. Buy a house, have a child, save for retirement, find a steady job and you win! I remember being in my early thirties and going on retreat with a bunch of middle-aged women who had very complicated lives with many problems. I was slack jawed. I said to them, ‘but at your age, you have everything, life is simple and sweet and you can just enjoy it, how can your lives be so complicated?’ And they laughed and laughed and invited me to teach yoga at their gym.

My happy ending is over, smashed against the concrete pylons of bad government and newly robust white people narcissism, and I am not unhappy to steer through a sea of change.  I’ve got litotes and tautologies and thanks to Wole Soyinka and Bayo Akomolafe and Henri Bergson and Lydia Davis, I’ve got some other ways to think about time and space. I do not know when I will do what.  We are all flying through completely new concepts of time and I am thankful for all the poetry, the dancing, all the asanas and all the challenging people I have known. This is not my first bounce but surely it’s the most collective one.

Everyone asking me when I will be back, what I will do, where I will teach.  Always, always with the future plan. When and where will be TBD and TBA from here on out.  Fuck the agenda. I do not know. One day I will look back on these roller coaster years and laugh at what I thought I used to know.

If wearing me a mask makes me a sheep, then count me in! Sheep are sweet and they stick together.

The patriarchy made the women in my family nervous.  Plan, plan, plan. Preserve the peaches and write up the calendar and ally with the power just in case and so my generation has drifted out to sea, looking for a new compass, one without a phallus at its center.  I am looking forward to pulling that needle out of my arm, the dark vein of all of those survivors. What are you going to do? When are you going to decide? What’s your future plan? Moments after I walked off the dais after giving the graduation speech at my university, literally not yet off the ramp and onto the grass, I remember a male professor in regalia asking me what I was going to do with my life.  It was my 25th birthday and it was a great day there in the California sun and although I didn’t have the courage to tell him to fuck off, I said the polite version. Life was golden in that very moment and why did I need to be grilled about the future? What are you going to do with that degree, young lady? No more future heroin, no more planning OxyContin, no more rolling on that fuel of future fear. I’ll never get there anyhow when the here and now is so enjoyable.

I think back to sitting in the dust with Pakeo in Tanzania.  Will it rain? We need rain. The animals are looking for water.  The sun was going down and a dark wall ambled across the horizon. It will rain, he said, or it won’t.  From here on out I want to be like that, embody so many men I have known who could sit and watch the fire just waiting for the drops to actually fall, or not.  I think of my son’s stalwart sixth grade teacher, backpacking, snow, we just go on, we can do this, our feet will be cold and our food unappetizing but we can do this.  It will all work out, or it won’t. This constant talk of nervous planning, of forecasting all eventualities, of creating flow charts of the mind and destiny, is a massive and feeble illusion of power that we foist upon our girls most of all.  If you do this and do that then you will get this and get that – is not true, maybe never was.

The feminist graffiti in Toulouse is great, and polite in that these are just papers glued up. My body, my choices, shut up!

Abhijata said we simply cannot prepare for everything.  We do not control the world. But what we can do is be ready.  Fold your hands, sit very tall, prepare your center for the waves and the work to come.  We can be strong and grounded and awake and take exquisite care of those around us and ourselves.  This does not mean we have to spin into imaginings of this future, this black sauce that they were so sure would save me, the infinite calculations of the 3 am mind. Drawing up all eventualities does not bring succor.  My grandmother was not ready for death. Some of the most ‘prepared’ people I know, go bags at the door, are not ready for their world to be shaken. Plans upon plans and lots of projecting math and what it it’s true that we as a culture have just made time up as a grid against which we can pile our coins?

What if the future is only there to give the illusion of something called growth.  Tomorrow I shall have more than I had yesterday. Such a malady. A sickness of more and tomorrow.  I am in it up to my neck and I want out. This is my chance.

Call me up in 2023 and I’ll tell you my plans.  Until then it’s going to be all improvised, all the time.

My Grandmother

I remember our last conversation on a winter morning.  I was in my stuffy classroom at the high school in Ashland Oregon and she was in bed in her small apartment in Bad Krozingen, Germany.  It was March and she had decided to die that January. She was running out of money, had been a little sick in the winter and just decided she was done.  But her extremely healthy body and mind did not agree. She took to her bed and didn’t die. My mother and aunt flew to Germany and she still didn’t die. She stopped eating and then she stopped drinking and then she still didn’t die for three more weeks.  They say this is physically impossible but this is what my cousin and mother explained to me. This grandmother who went to Tibet for her 80th birthday and bitterly complained about having to shit on the side of the road, wasn’t as prepared for death as she thought.  

The church in Moissac. I am sure my grandmother was here once. She loved churches. My friend and I sat outside in the heat and talked to two little boys from Bulgaria in their highly functional French.

So they got her on the phone in those last terrible weeks and when it rang I excused myself, left my students in French class and went outside my classroom door.  It was a dark morning and I was freezing in my teaching dress. I spoke German to my YaYa and I told her I loved her and that it was okay to go. Du darfst jetzt gehen.  My teeth were chattering and I told her all the things my mother had said to say, to help her go. YaYa’s voice was feeble and she didn’t have much to say but I could tell she was miserable and also very happy to talk to me.  I didn’t make it to Germany even though I had a ticket booked for spring break in March. She had died by then and I didn’t know how to manage the trip as a single mother with a little child. Years later I read in our union contract that 5 days bereavement leave are allowed for grandparents.  I didn’t know then and nobody told me and I regret not getting to Germany to pay my respects.

I didn’t tell people at work about my personal life.  I lose all power when I need to ask authorities and institutions for special favors or special treatment.  I could easily have taken time off of work to go see her but I was so afraid of losing my job, of my fragile tenuous life falling apart.  The saddest thing is that she was afraid too. She was afraid of dying. A whole life of anxiety and worry had not prepared her for death.   According to my mother she was terrified, terrified of going into the next phase alone, at the end she didn’t really want to die even though she had made her mind up.  So much trauma and flight and fear in her life. So much fear that she passed on to all of us and that we take all our new age practices and psychology and love to try to vanquish.  We none of us wanted to grow up and be so anxious.

A very old bridge that I couldn’t walk over in Muret.

My grandmother and I had so many arguments about her fears which I, feminist and West Coast US person, thought were ridiculous.  She, refugee, bride at 20 to a man approved of by her family, feeling broke much of her later life, argued back.

I remember parking her car after midnight in a tiny village in France where there was, supposedly, no parking.  And it was Sunday. I was sure we were safe. Look at all the shutters bolted against the night, any police that live in this village are fast asleep.  She was sure a disaster, a towed car, an embarrassing incident with the police were imminent.

I firmly believed that we could talk or charm our way out of anything.  She firmly believed that disrespecting social norms could lead to terrible suffering.  I couldn’t explain why I believed what I did. She didn’t want to hear my stories of interactions with Parisian police that had often ended up oddly flirtatious and innocuous.  Her fears struck me as ridiculous. I wanted her to know that we had power, that we could speak French and smile and even if we got a ticket, it was something we could afford. I think she wanted me to respect the fact that in her life she also had evidence that in a few years one could lose everything, that borders could shift, that invading armies could walk right into your living room and eat your potatoes, take your furniture, take you if you were a woman.

Lying on mountain rocks. Always take time to touch the stones, she reminded me.

We sat in the car in that little sleeping village in France in the middle of the night and got so angry with each other.  I was driving so I had the last word and we left the car there but neither of us slept well that night, in that small dark village, because we were so upset with each other.

She would have had much to say about the state of the world today.  I paraded around the world with my white American entitlement and she challenged me to question its solidity, its durability, its certainty.  We didn’t have good tools for challenging each others’ world views but we learned so much from each other.

I miss my grandmother so much.  I miss her soft skin and her way of calling me Kimberlienchen and her wise counsel and her insistence on things being as lovely as possible even if it always made life so much more complicated.

Being Seen

I have been thinking a lot more about privilege since my last post and also thinking about how much I love it here and what comes next. This morning riding my cute bike (thanks City of Toulouse) back from the quickest most pain free waxing with ripe tomatoes in my basket and two crispy tiny baguettes, I passed the happy boules players back out in force, inhaled deeply under the sweet blossoming linden trees and rode along the clearly marked bike route and thought about returning to the US. Life here is delightful right now, a bubble of greenery, happy people out socializing, delicious food available again, people just sitting outside at cafes doing nothing whatsoever but enjoying the clouds moving and the delights of seeing people walk by.

An astonishing lizard we saw on a walk in the countryside.

When I first came to Toulouse I wanted to disappear, or at least not appear. My heart was broken, my confidence in my appearance shattered by cruelty to which I was too vulnerable and all of my desires were to turn inward. There is privilege there. When I want to I can disappear, I can wear coats and shoes that look like the other ladies in my neighborhood, keep my face stern and gaze aloof and no one will look at me. I wandered around like this most of the winter. The other day I was with a very chic friend who is not white and two little boys stared and stared. We weren’t carrying toys or doing anything remarkable and yet her appearance as other than white seemed to cause a very intense examination by these children. As a white woman of a certain age, I can mostly choose when I want to be seen. If I put on makeup or brush my hair out or wear bright colors and tight clothes then I am flying the ‘look at me’ flag, my choice here in this mostly white neighborhood.

Every time I unlock this little room to get out my city bike the old smells remind me so strongly of my grandmother’s garage and I think of her and that tiny concrete box she trusted me to drive her car into, now surely overgrown and unused.

When I talk with women who are feeling low or unsure about their projects much of the discourse is about being seen. About choosing to be seen. About having the courage to be seen. Some are terrified of being seen and some are worried about no longer being seen if they start behaving differently than they have so far. But, but, we are the mistresses of our own visioning in a way. When they talk about being seen they don’t really mean literally, they mean that somehow on a deeper level they will be recognized for who or what they really are.

If you don’t look like the majority of the women in the media (my IG suggested posts are 99% white people, why?) then you don’t get to adjust the dial of seen/not seen. You are both simultaneously always seen (as belonging to some category) and completely unseen (as an individual). As a child I did not like public comments on my appearance but rare are the times now when an adult will comment on my skin or hair, because I am white. My son marvels at how content the French seem to be at being homogenous, wearing the same colors, driving the same cars, not standing out in any way. But this is a double-edged sword for those who can’t disappear in the French blue.

These hipster barbers were happy to have their picture taken. They are all wearing what used to be the standard blue uniform for French laborers.

I don’t know what this feels like for men but women in the cultures where I live are trained from an early age to attract the gaze and to measure its worth and intent. In tango if I want to dance I have to get someone to look at me, to lock eyes with me in a cabeceo, these are skills that involve attire, body language, eye movements and positioning. So I want a potential partner to first see me, to make eye contact, but then also, as humans we are all always yearning to be ‘seen’ on a deeper level, to be known for who we are.

As a teacher, I have spent decades being stared at. School is boring. Often I am the only moving object in a neon-lit room with uncomfortable chairs where students are trapped for 90 minute blocks. I have given speeches in front of large groups, under spotlights and been on TV. This kind of being seen is easy for me, a performative moment. But being seen as vulnerable, lost, weak, pale, out of sync, is not my preference. I lived with a photographer who did not delight in taking pictures of me. I wanted to be seen differently. My child is entering the teenage era, the terrible time when we suddenly realize that people are looking at us, judging us, labeling us. Here in France he is content to stand out because I think he still feels invisible, unseen and unrecognized as a stranger here.

The Pic du Midi is right there. Weekend in the Pyrenees with no mountains to be seen!

Before I left my little town I wrote down a list of pros and cons about the place to keep that in mind for the future. I didn’t write about being seen. I didn’t realize how exhausting and yet also how ego-stoking it has been to be such a public persona for the last 12 years. When I ride my bike through town people wave at me (I can’t always see them), students often enter my classroom proclaiming that they ‘saw’ me somewhere, and parents remember me better than I remember them after more than a 1,000 students taught in this town. Here in this large French town I am recognized by a few, very few people, but mostly I am just another anonymous individual going about my business.

I have enjoyed not having an audience for my life here in France. It has been freeing and relaxing to live here and to rarely explain myself. My differences are not visible from the outside, especially if I don’t speak and so here again I can choose to be in or to be out, to be seen or to pass by unnoticed and this is an incredible privilege available to me in most of Europe and the United States. White people so often get so much more control over their own narratives and also just look like they belong to the ‘universal’ or primary narrative all around us. Perhaps even being able to complain about not being seen is itself a great privilege.

The view from over here.

My White Privilege

I thought today I would take some time to explain shifts in perspective.  I have always been interested in paradigm changes that upset the arbitrary.  Sometimes these have come from hard conversations with friends who pointed out my assumptions or ignorance, sometimes these come from just watching people out working in the world, many times these have come from historical research using original documents and many times these have come from the extreme privilege I have to travel and see things from a different angle.  My students have also explained and demonstrated so many things to me: from being more aware of gendered language, to reframing discussions about consent and body image to going vegan to sharpening my ability to see class and race to educating about trans and fluid gender struggles to explaining how hard it is to be masculine to calling me out on my classroom responses. The list is very long and I still have so much to learn.  Let me say this again, I still have so much to learn but I hear the call to talk about whiteness and so here is what I can say today.

I am a single mother with no partner, I have a job that is barely a middle-class wage, I do not have a car, I have lost many things in my life and I have struggled.  

However, today I would like to point out how thanks to my immense white privilege, many of these hard times can be reframed.  It is so easy for white people to have the knee jerk reaction of well, I suffered too, my life hasn’t been easy, I didn’t get everything I wanted.  I know this well. I have suffered. Things have been and continue to be hard but here are a few reframings to consider.

  1. I graduated from college with student loan debt and had to work most of my undergraduate years.  I didn’t get to do anything fancy, had no car and lived cheap. BUT I came from a family whose white privilege meant we were conversant with how to get into college, how to get financial aid, and yes, some relatives eventually gifted me the money to pay off my loans.  As a white person, I knew I could appeal financial aid and residency decisions and that the various people in charge at the university would listen to me. I was able to make noise, go where I wanted and pick the college of my choice because I had a lot of social capital to do so. I was easily able to persevere through the jobs and the financial troubles to excel at school and finish.  I knew how the system worked because of my family and how many of them had attended and worked at institutions of higher education in positions of power. When I didn’t have money I could go stay with my cousins or eat dinner with my friends who did have money or complain to my godparents. I was surrounded by people who had some resources, financial or strategic.
It’s not just getting into college that’s hard but staying there – especially when you don’t feel welcome and you have fewer resources. This is just one example of some statistics.

2. I have raised a child all by myself and it has been very lonely.  BUT never, ever, ever as a white person did I have to worry about the state intervening, about the neighbors calling social services if I yelled at my son in the driveway or that in court I would have a disadvantage because of my skin color.  I never felt unsafe or worried that I would actually lose my child because of my bad parenting moments.

Here is just one example but these statistics are repeated all over the US.

3.  The obvious one.  I do not like having encounters with the police.  They pull me over plenty. I have had arguments with them.  However, in all of my years of poor driving, I have only gotten one actual speeding ticket.  When I totaled two cars because I ran a stop sign at age 16, I was never cited. The judge took one look at my white freckled face with the big bruises, said, I guess you’ve learned your lesson young lady and dismissed me.  I looked ‘innocent’ because I was white. The second time I totaled two cars (this one maybe not entirely my fault), the police were so worried about me out in the cold that they gave me a ride home in a squad car and waited to make sure I would be okay.  I know they treated me like this because I am white. Since I drive crappy cars at odd times of the night, I have often been pulled over for the most ridiculous reasons like not signaling within the right number of feet or pulling into the far lane after exiting a gas station.  But every single time they have just given me a warning and I went home. I smiled at the officer and played the game and was done. I am pretty sure that at 2 am in West Eugene they weren’t expecting me to be a grumpy white lady and that things would have turned out very differently if I hadn’t been white.

4. I have a small boring house that I can only just afford and I’m never going to be able to remodel it or probably move to a bigger place.  It is not very cute and it looks just like all of the other houses on the street. Most of my friends have much nicer houses. BUT I was able to buy a house in the US because I have inherited money and been gifted money from my relatives who in turn inherited or were gifted money from their relatives and so on down the line.  We have capital because our grandparents and great-grandparents were white, were landowners, were able to escape global conflicts because of connections, were able to make money grow into more money. If my ancestors in the US had been enslaved people, this accretion of capital could never have happened because zero doesn’t grow into a house down-payment no matter how many generations.

5. I was abandoned by my father and have carried this loss with me all of my life.  It has hurt and it was traumatic. This is one of my core wounds. BUT he left because he needed to or wanted to.  As a white man, he was not taken away from us to be incarcerated or killed by a militarized police force. He just up and left because of his own personal demons, not because of the demons of the race relations of the United States.  My personal story is just a personal story, it is not because of the color of his skin that we lost him, it is not because of an institutional system that targets men like him. He was an addict and an alcoholic but because he was white, this did not lead to him being incarcerated or killed.

6. My dear stepson died at age 14.  It was terrible. I still miss him. BUT his cause of death was entirely natural, it was something that could not possibly have been prevented.  While he lay in a coma in the ICU another boy was also dying that same day, innocent victim of a drive-by shooting in the inner-city neighborhoods of Rochester, NY where decades of poverty and terrible policing have led to more and more violence.  My stepson’s race had absolutely nothing to do with his death. It was a tragedy but an individual one. The other boy’s death was statistically highly connected to the color of his skin, ultimately preventable, not something that ever, ever had to happen in a humane world.

7. I am in France now and I feel like an ungainly slob going into the very fancy boutiques.  I feel like the salesladies are giving my hips the stink eye and I simply cannot afford 50 euro lace panties.  BUT I can go in any store here or in the US and even if I feel a little out of place, because I am white, I will not be followed or made to feel like I should leave.  I can pretty much walk into any fancy place in the world, even in scruffy clothes, and because I am white I will not be asked to leave even if I really, really don’t belong.  I can go sit in a big city hotel lobby if my feet are tired or wander into conventions or conferences without a name badge pretty easily. I am not rich but I am white and so I have a ticket to most events.

8. So here I am in France and I have gotten terribly lazy about my accent and people often ask me where I am from, sometimes even when I don’t speak because I probably smile too much.  It’s annoying BUT never, ever do they assume they know something about my kind of people or my way of being in the world because I come from another place. As a white woman, I don’t have any particular characteristics attached to my identity.  People don’t ask where I am from because of the color of my skin and when they find out where I am from they just believe it because I am white. I don’t have to justify where I was born or my parentage. It’s a light conversation usually that doesn’t put me in a racial box.  When a non-white friend says they are from Indiana or wherever, people interrogate them because they have to be ‘from’ somewhere else. My mother is not American but because I am white, I get to be ‘from’ wherever I say.

This is a short and incomplete list but I want to explain how, although my life has been hard because I am a human being on this earth, these hardships have not been compounded by the color of my skin. My hardships are my own story and not due to my race.  Of course I have much to say about how the patriarchy has slammed many doors shut in my face but not because of my race, not because of my race, not because of the way I look. People are afraid of me because I say sharp things but not because of my skin tone, not because of my hair, not because of my race.  There are many things I didn’t get to have in this lifetime but the reason is never, ever because of the pigment of my skin, because of society’s ideas about my ethnic group, or because of my family’s history with the institutionalized racism of the United States.

Please, please point out anything you think I missed. I’d like to come up with more examples.  My son and I are preparing our return to the US and of course I have mixed feelings about this but it seems like now more than ever it is time for educators like me to do the hard, hard work and to show up.

I pass by this monument most days and this is what it feels like to be white. The proverbial troops are on my side, I can be calm, I am mostly protected and safe. « I was calm/safe. The 32nd (some army division) was there. » I find this rather touching language for a huge military monument but it’s true, mostly we are safe.

Passionate Incertitude

All four of my grandparents died in different countries. All four of them died in different countries than where they spent their childhood. My grandfathers were great travelers and adventurers, trekking through jungles, flying small planes over North Africa, setting up new homes in Big Sur, California and Tanzania. I did not know my grandfathers well but my grandmothers were also firm believers in the magic and power of place. My maternal grandmother lost her country and her childhood home. A border was moved and names and language changed. When she took us back there decades later she knelt in the wheat fields and kissed the soil. This is the place my mother was born and the only other place I’ve been where pine forests and dunes dance to the sea, just like Oregon where I grew up. Echoes of ancestral breezes and berries and mushroom hunting.

My paternal grandmother grew up in the US-occupied Philippines with a snake they kept in the attic, only let out at night to roam the house and eat the rats. She loved her adopted Hudson River Valley so much that she wrote a book about the place and its lore. All four of them chose places to live in because of a strong feeling for the place, for its beauty, for its history. And none of them were from the places where they eventually made their homes, far, far away from any visible roots.

The Pyrenees in the mist.

I was so influenced by all of this that my only published book is about people who traveled to find themselves. And now, sitting in the town made rich by Airbus, I hear stories of planes that cannot be delivered or stored because there simply is no room and the sky is empty of travel. The borders will still be closed but starting on Monday we can travel around France.

When I wrote my book I bemoaned the demystifying of the world. We no longer need paper maps or stamps to send letters to hotels in a foreign language or traveler’s checks. One phone and I can see anywhere I am in the world. But now, I wonder, travel may change. Perhaps the world will become more mysterious as we long for it, as we reconsider air travel and displacement.

The storks I saw in the fields near my Swiss godparents’ home are the same storks that we saw in the middle of the winter in Tanzania. I love that flour here still comes in simple paper bags with no extra text.

Some people find their place in the world and dig in, make it a home forever, and embrace the pleasures they have created in their material surroundings. I don’t think I will ever be that person. La bougeotte. Restlessness. The great joys of being from somewhere else. A non-committal relationship with objects.

Yesterday I talked with a friend who is ready for a change. This town has become too easy. And in the fall I will go back to a town and a job completely changed from when I left. I remember leaving my job, husband and first house in New York. I was on the plane flying across the country to a completely unknown life. I had my little baby on my lap and my kitty cat at my feet and I thought, yep, I feel like myself again. Goodbye matching living room furniture, goodbye car, goodbye pots and pans.

Baby climbing options.

We can come home to ourselves while moving about the world. I am looking forward to continuing this initiation home through all of the places I have had the immense luxury and privilege to inhabit.

Some little French stories

When I read the news or look at Facebook I fear that returning to the US will put us on the wrong side of history. Heading out of the pot and into the proverbial inferno. It’s terrifying and confusing from this vantage point so I thought today I would share some little moments from my notebooks from this year. Here are times when we were with people and humanity was a simple pleasure.

Last fall we went to an Olympique Marseille soccer game with 65,000 mostly shirtless fans who chanted and threw smoke bombs onto the field. It was intense and exciting. Afterwards my son ran in the night, in the rain, and I followed him to cram ourselves into the metro with everyone else.  We came out to a small dark street on a hill full of parked cars, carrying our little light blue plastic soccer flags with the other fans going home. A drunk man or a crazy man yelled at us: You are fake Marseillais, chui vrai moai, faux Marseillais vous. In my head this man without hair, missing some teeth, is following me in the night of my soul: everyone else knows, you are fake, a fake writer, a person who is just floating in the world.

This is a tractor garage I saw on a recent walk in the country. I like to think the other side is all windows and a modernist house. Perspective is everything.

I stood on a cobbled street with my bony friend and her young son and to my surprise she began crying.  We walked to the park and I tasted a little red and yellow fruit that I had never eaten before. I rest astounded at all the things my friend knows about the animal world, about nature and she wants to learn more.  Once again, she is in love, or maybe not, with someone who thinks they are always right. I want her to be the smart one in the house.

Looking at this, it’s hard to fathom that the French don’t have their own word for whimsy.

At the Velo Toulouse station a clergyman wearing a black bike helmet types in his number to get a bike and ride off.  I am sitting in front of a plaque commemorating the pre-Enlightenment thinkers who lived and were killed in Toulouse. The little free electric bus for getting around downtown comes down the street. Today I heard that empathy was first proposed as an art historical term.

The man of my dreams. He makes baguettes.

Last night my son asked me what superpower I would want and I said to be in someone else’s head and to see the world. He said I couldn’t have that one because that was the superpower he was going to choose. And we talked about how it would be so interesting to be in their head, looking out through their eyes, but still being ourselves. He surprised me by saying something like: that would be the ultimate empathy. But then, a few moments later, he explained that what he really wants is to be in someone else’s head the moment they are decapitated by a guillotine.

The Garonne, the mighty river of Toulouse.

An encounter in the library. She walks right up to me.   »I’m Danish. I don’t like Toulouse.  It’s too Spanish here,«  she says to me in excellent French, pale blue eyes unblinking. And then with no facial expression at all she walks on and heads out into the pouring rain.

On the ski bus coming back from Saint-Lary I wanted to write a sentence: I admire the optimism of artisanal soap makers.  I love the math of snowboarding. Slope plus speed plus objects moving in a certain direction and their likelihood of collision.

I walked into a beautiful church I had never visited before.  I don’t know why. The organist was playing, practicing, and I was moved by all these centuries of other peoples’ faith.  How lovely. My hair was wet, my coat was long and warm, my face and head hurt a little from falling yesterday, and my throat tightened.

A weekend away and I am discussing spirituality and cohousing in French on comfortable couches with thoughtful people until almost midnight after a day of good adventures and intense natural beauty.  Five of us. All single, all weighing the fragile balance of contentment in our chosen states. Single people get together and talk. They spend a lot of time with other people. We talked about love.  Such a nice topic of conversation. And then they all needed to smoke so we went outside and stood around a small white table. A few stars twinkled beyond the high foggy clouds and we asked each other humane questions about fear and living with animals and who does the cooking.

This is a brand new restaurant that seems to have been created during confinement and now does takeout as that is all that is allowed. The question is, was that the original name or did recent events inspire it?

One day we came home in the afternoon to find two very drunk men lying in our small street.  One was mostly on the sidewalk, the curb as a pillow for his large blond and ruddy head. The other man sat and swayed on a box in the middle of the street before eventually lying down with some of his butt hanging out.  They sprawled on the asphalt, inert and hot. We leaned out of our fourth floor window several times, waiting for a scene, for anger, for honking. The first car drove up. A woman in a Volkswagen. She assessed the situation and then simply backed out the narrow curving street.  No yelling, no upset. The men were there for hours, eventually moving out of the middle of the street and we never heard any rage. It was a day of partying and drinking and there they were.

A good croissant.  An unexpected conversation.  A vast beamed meditation hall. I love that this cafe is so generous with water.  The regular barista, a trans fellow, is not here. Twelve small globular pendant lamps in black and white metal hang over all the little tables.  We can all see our work very well. There is so much light that my hand casts two shadows. Bohemian Rhapsody on the stereo and I have to smile. Mama, I just killed a man. I am back in my classroom, teaching Camus, laughing with my students.

Sitting here on this gray bed listening to the rain falling on the stone courtyard might be the moment that changes it all.  In my life there have been a few Eureka moments but mostly an accretion, a lot of little experiences that pushed my bark to a certain muddy overgrown fork of the river and yet I am also the river.  There is no unchanging life.

The Long View

When it came, we didn’t believe it would affect us if we followed the rules and then we were wrong and they told us that we were all in danger. Two days later, Friday the 13th of March was the marker of the beginning of us being affected. Somewhere along the line we forgot to be afraid of everything. We touched light switches and we started sleeping very well. The dead grey vines leafed out and covered the entire old white stone house in lush green. In the end, we realized we no longer knew what an end was. We had stopped counting days and started noticing the light in the evenings and the temperature of our skin. In the end there was no end and the grief and mourning that had arisen became our companion and whispered sweet stories of old love and grandmothers as confused and beautiful young women of only twenty.

I was sitting on the balcony in the sun and my son brought me a small pancake on a saucer with small cutlery and maple syrup.

I feel haunted. For the last decade or so I have taught Toni Morrison’s Beloved every February which always gives me an excellent opportunity to talk about history as haunting and haunting as history. Someone mentioned haunting the other day and I began to think about my own past being present in this moment. I lived in France for some years in my early twenties and here I am again and sometimes I don’t know what time is any more.

I have expounded that here in France people are generally reasonable and cooperative about the various restrictions because this is not their first curtailment of liberty. Not by a long shot. Other times of trouble in France have lasted 5 years or 10 or wait, 100 years! Taking the long view on times of not getting what you want can definitely help put the last few months and the next year or two in perspective.

For your own safety, no more freedoms for you! I saw a lot of these on my walk this morning.

French people are not saints. They smoke cigarettes with blue paper masks dangling on their chins, they forget how much space a meter is, they complain bitterly about Neoliberalism and the Macorona virus and they are suspicious of many of the government’s plans and also quite worried about the economic future. However, their responses seem quite resigned and Gallic shruggy compared to the lunacy I see in the news about the US. I feel like the long view helps. This is not their first rodeo as we might say. Things are going to be bad for a while and then they are going to be better and in the meantime there is wine to drink and boules to play (they are back!) and little pleasures to enjoy.

The mayor of Toulouse sent us all reusable washable masks with a nice long letter signed, as we wait for more serene tomorrows…

But then I got to thinking. What if I took the long view on my own life, on my own hauntings and history? It took me 3.5 years to get pregnant. That was a very long time because every month involved a mourning. Over 40 disappointments and despairs. It took me 5 years to do graduate school and then when I got my current job they said “back to the coal mines of pedagogical nonsense!” and I had to go back to night school for 2 more years. It took me 7 years to move away from a place I never enjoyed and leave its dire weather and record-breaking sprawl. I have loved people who are gone forever and I have lived in places that will never be what they once were. Now I am facing a year or maybe two of strange and uncertain working conditions, a social life that may be neither social nor alive, and some child-rearing that will involve entirely new challenges. During those terrible patience- challenging times of my past many delightful things occurred as well. As my son observed recently, it wasn’t always winter when there was war, it wasn’t always dark and cold. Suffering went on and flowers bloomed and people fell in love and books got written and people laughed in soft snow and the history was always quite complicated even when we look back on dark years or difficult periods.

So I lived in a cold place and my marriage was a disaster but because of that place I know this incredible inspiring being, an ubersmart lawyer who brings joy to New York in his confinement caftan. I would not want a life where I didn’t know Antonio even though I could say those were 7 bad years.

And what if now were a time to take the long view and think of our own families and where they have been and when they were hungry or hopeless? Epigenetics has started to convince us that their traumas are ours too. Life now for many of us seems easier than anything our grandmothers might have known. In our own families we can trace peaks and valleys of comfort and success and utter hopelessness. Did anyone ever really know for sure what the future would hold? Is our sense of a stable world really a modern illusion? How much are we willing to pay to know what tomorrow will hold?

I have never slept as well as I have during these surprising uncertain times. Perhaps my body knows something more about the rhythms of what might look like disaster but is only part of the creaking and cracking of yet another mythology.

I think of my brother and I kayaking out in a warm bay in the Caribbean a decade ago. He had his son between his legs in a little plastic boat and I had mine. The boys were so young and lulled to sleepiness by the quiet air, the rocking kayaks, the warmth of being in a boat with your competent parent paddling along the shoreline. In moments the sky turned black, the winds howled and the waves grew. In the storm my kayak hit my brother’s and my sleeping little nephew was doused with salty water. My old lifeguard training kicked in and I gave up on the boat and surfed through the waves to shore with my son and scooped up my nephew and reassured them onshore. My brother is a wise surfer and he swam out and rescued kayaks and paddles. We were all okay and had a good story to tell. Enjoy your nap in the bottom of the boat, it is so delightful to sleep well. Keep your metaphorical life jacket on because the waves are bound to come.

I don’t think there will be a revolution but the protests have started again. The gilets jaunes have yellow facemasks and are marching a meter apart.