life and write

Google Crisis Map

Google Crisis Map

After the Oklahoma tornado, I watched, read, listened, as the story was still brewing. The cameras panned moments just after winds slowed, to capture the spread of people’s lives scattered for yards, the voices of reporters, victims in disbelief as they stumbled over words. I sat and listened carefully, thoughtfully. I called my mother, talked with my husband, watched my children as they slept last night.

I reflected on how the earth knows no bounds, how the wind can drape a wall of dark and debris, drop its spinning breath among the soil and structure, and how as humans we are present in that narrative. We live among weather, among flood, fire, hurricane, blizzard, tsunami, drought, heavy rain, tornado. In extreme weather conditions, we are often reminded how vulnerable we are as humans on this earth.

My family was reminded of that recently when last year after a series of severe storms and wind, the tree in our front yard fell on our roof. I was home alone and as water poured into the house, I ran to seek safety holding my then newborn baby of two weeks in my arms. It was like nothing I had ever experienced, it all happened so fast. We were somewhat helpless as the winds were still violently stirring outside, but I worried that tree would collapse on us inside. We had nowhere to go. We were lucky, blessed, our house tattered but not broken, our bodies safe and intact. I am thinking about those today who are not.

2012

Last night I needed to process this most recent tragedy before speaking, before acting. And like with many of the world’s weather tragedies, I wanted to do my part to engage with efforts to support those in need. As I watched the images, read and listened to the stories, I did an exercise of collecting words to try to digest the news as it unfolded.

need
find
broken
dream
flatten
rise
intention
stay
worry
dark
light
path
water
story
word
spirit
time
bend
calm
perfect
warm
moist
air
cold
dry
scene
tower
wide
give

Writing always seems to help me think, slow down, reflect.

Words and Deeds
In these upending, vulnerable moments, many of us wonder about, pray for those affected. And like with any of our other recent weather related tragedies, many of us will contact a charity we trust working in the area that we can support. Do your research, all charities are not the same. And while I do not endorse any one charity, here are a few organizations to consider:

United Way of Central Oklahoma
DonorsChoose.org
The Red Cross (Central and Western Oklahoma region)
The Salvation Army

While walking to work I couldn’t help but notice the campus grounds empty. This morning the skies were gray, but the temperature felt warm for an Ohio winter. It would be easy to just dig my head into my walk and not pay attention to the calm of campus, the bare trees; the quiet lonely hum. On any given day it might be easy to ignore the laughter I heard rumbling across the street. But today, it wasn’t that easy.

In the distance, there were children, the echoing laughter, a small bubbling crowd of puffy purple, pink, orange, and blue coats, the bounce and awkward sway of tiny legs and feet wandering through tunnels and buildings, in and around the tall trees. I stopped for a moment to listen, as the tears in my eyes began to form and fall at the sound of those children, their joy, laughter, and excitement. I grabbed a tissue to wipe the corners of my eyes, and imagined the floods of sadness still pooling in Newtown, Connecticut. In the depth of this tragedy, such pain, I was so pleased to hear this morning sound like children, like hope.

Listen yet again…to the rapid heartbeats, to the panic, to the loss of life. Be it in a small town, a rural narrative or an inner city, an urban narrative. Every shot of fire initiates violence, contemplates one similar singular narrative—death. Listen to another news story, countless captioned words running across the screen. Even with the sound turned down, the miles in between, the tears are already etched in our ears. We know what pain sounds like: an aching louder than any bit of news report unfolding.

This most recent innocent loss of life to gun violence asks: are we now empty, desensitized, distant, cold, dismissive? Is this just one more incident of violence? Or are we paused, speechless, tearful, empathetic—reflective? Just months, weeks, hours ago I wept as the shaking voices of victims told us of death sketched at the end of a barrel in Chardon, Ohio, in Sanford and Jacksonville, Florida, in Chicago, Illinois, in Aurora, Colorado, in Oak Creek, Wisconsin, in Clackamas, Oregon. I wept as I read statistics about gun violence in the United States. I pause now at the news of Newtown, Connecticut. Pause while I wipe my tears, hug my young children, my tissue still moist from news of violence mourned a few nights ago, a few days ago, a few hours ago. This gun violence seems an ongoing blur, yet each life impacted from that violence matters.

While children all over this country rest their heads among the twinkling lights of candles, of pine, of bulbs hanging just out of reach, there seems this accompanying notion that our children are also just out of our reach. A father reflecting after the Newtown tragedy, seemed to say this, as he tried to describe what it was like walking toward this unforgiving narrative playing over and over again before us, between us, among us.

I imagine children; our little ones as they walk out the door, as we walk away from them, leave them among their peers, their tiny waving hands; their hugs around our knees, around our necks. No parent can ever imagine, should ever have to imagine parting at the foot of the classroom, in the doorway at home, in the parking lot at school, might mean goodbye forever.

This kind of violence is unacceptable on every human level, not fathomable, not the price any child, any innocent human being should pay for these curling metal flaws we call instruments, tools, we feel compelled to keep carelessly in our lives. Guns are, were created for one purpose—to end life—to silence. No matter how much we stir, color this narrative, dance around these news stories of violence; attempt not to look or to listen, every note of fire contemplates the end of life. Every note of fire sounds like death.

I encourage us to sound, look, act more like love.

“Beautiful Distractions in 21st Century Learning”

When we think of potential distractions in a typical K-12 classroom, we might envision: students passing notes, staring out the window, doodling, whispering side conversations, or, heaven forbid, texting. What if we could design learning environments as experiences with built-in intentional distractions, allowing a complex and dynamic learning process? In this kind of learning environment, we would embrace, even engage distraction: a choir of inquiry, a beautiful collision of difference (in opinion, perspective, experience), or a flexible lab for hands-on, interactive problem solving. What if engaging distraction is learning?

 
http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/Dionne-Custer-Edwards-Beautiful


(still) photo credit: Christian Long

There are so few times that I can grab the hand of my seven-year-old and hold on. He is getting older, wiser, and more independent. He is engaged in the world in ways that encourages him to peel away from me, stand on his own, challenge me gently with his blooming ideas.

I can however, often count on the vulnerable space between his long arms around my waist after a long day, around my shoulders, around my heart. I hope hugs will always be allowed between mothers and sons.

And no matter how old he gets, I hope we can continue to share in those precious, important moments, to hang out. This morning was exactly that kind of opportunity. I wanted to take him with me to vote. So as my oldest crawled out of bed and found his way through the earliest parts of his day, I invited him to join me. He smiled widely, then reminded me, “Mom, I’m not 18, I can’t vote.” I smiled, then said, “that’s o.k., you can help me.” He agreed.

So this morning, as I stood in line to cast my ballot, instead of offering my dangling arm for my son to cross, slide his fingers in the cusp of my grip, follow me towards the future—I found myself looking for the pale of his open hand, the sort of his swinging arm, the uncertainty of his stride, his head held high. We were there to vote, and engage with all that comes along with that responsibility. I walked him through the process step by step. And as we stood there waiting, I searched for thoughts of my son’s future, his rambling dreams, what I wish for him, what he doesn’t yet know to wish for himself.

Today when I voted, I was reminded that I spoke not only for myself but for my sons, with my sons, with the sons and daughters I’ve never met, the ones I’ll never meet, the narrative of their lives unfolding and uncertain.

Then finally inside the open wings of that voting machine, my son and I stood together, as we read each of the choices, and I carefully pressed my finger against the touch screen. We listened to the tapping ticker of the ballot box, watched the stitched mark across the curling tally, held hands without saying a word–voted.

The arms of wind curl along highways, coasts
and city. Between tall buildings, below
gray sky, those cold wet arms reach inside
our urban lives, shut down ordinary days,
airplane, train commute, work, school. We pack
non-perishable food, batteries, family,
drive, walk beyond winds, debris shifting,
water pooling, a battle where traces of winter masquerade
as tropical rage, where darkness unfolds
in our homes, in our fields, in our otherwise ordinary lives.

First drafts are often as vulnerable, as unpredictable as this autumn weather. Please be safe.

Pardon me while I nerd out for a moment. A few weeks ago I caught an interview with neuroscientist David Eagleman. I had no idea who he was and as I listened to the radio interview on NPR, was pleasantly surprised that some of his thoughts on creativity as a scientist and my thinking on creativity as an arts educator, aligned quite a bit. Not only is he a brilliant scientific mind, he is also a creative writer of nonfiction and fiction. Some of his works include: Wednesday is Indigo Blue: Discovering the Brain of Synesthesia, Sum: Forty Takes from the Afterlives, and Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain.

Image credit: getyourbreakthrough.com

Aside from the interesting titles of his written works, it was actually the NPR Fresh Air interview that got me interested in Eagleman’s ideas. As an arts educator and writer, I am inspired by Eagleman’s flexible scientific sensibilities. I appreciate the creative space he engages in scientific research and writing. Those who like to think of science as void of creativity should hear Eagleman speak. He researches, writes, and plays in the murky, messy space between science and art. And after listening to bits of his interview with Terry Gross, I wanted to hear more from him, read more of his work.

In the interview, Eagleman talked about “the possibility space”, a flexible, creative space seeking potential narratives through inquiry and exploration. Paraphrasing, Eagleman talked about science “as having a tolerance for multiple hypotheses”, and science as exploring those hypotheses to uncover a narrative or many narratives. For Eagleman, science is flexible and capable of rendering myriad ideas worth exploring.

That is creative thinking. Not just in the creative arts fields where we would expect; but in academia in the science laboratories of the Baylor College of Medicine, where David Eagleman directs the Laboratory for Perception and Action.

Curious about his work? Follow David Eagleman on Twitter @davideagleman

Good morning creative(s). What will you write today? Don’t have a clue? Me either. Try this: Write down every word you come across in the first half hour of your morning: look on the cereal box, listen for juicy bits from the morning news, verbal or written, it all counts. Don’t spend too much time doing this. Be quick and easy, especially if you have to get to work. Now see what you can do with all or some of those words sometime today—add your own. Don’t forget to share—would love to hear what you come up with.

This busy morning is a beautiful switch: clouds, cool rain, and the first day of school. Their slow steps and anxious chatter miss summer already.

(right, switch, beautiful, busy, rain, sharp, slow, easy, cool)

In poignant, peaceful, creative, dynamic conversations with friends near and far, colleagues, family, strangers….

Some of us have asked out loud, asked ourselves what do we do now, in this moment in our lives when many of us for one reason or another are emotionally, psychologically, physically, socially, politically vulnerable? When today’s news and current events are gripping, at times unbelievable. What do we do when our tongues are naked and our thoughts are bound by our pasts, when we’re heavily wrapped in the sensitive, the difficult to discuss human condition?

I imagine we can start with what many of us are already trying to do–talk to each other, sincerely, honestly, openly. We can look at each other, in and through the wrinkled brows, the distant eyes, the difference, the confusion, the busy of our days. We can open our mouths, even when what we have to say is difficult to hear out loud, even when our eyes well up with tears, even when our anger warms our cheeks, when we’d rather grit our teeth, when we don’t know what to say. We can relax. We can breathe. We can think before we speak, start with a smile, a grin, with eye contact, with hello. We can erase the silence that’s so easy to swell in. We can begin at the beginning.

Then what do we do next? For those of us without children, we can continue to raise ourselves, our awareness, our care. We can read, listen, write, create, think, imagine, do. For those of us with children, around children, we can read, listen, write, create, think, imagine, do. We can raise our children to contribute a narrative greater than the one we have imagined for ourselves. Those little ones, those innocent questions, those hopeful tongues will write their own possibilities etched over our past and present mistakes. We can give our children our beautiful failures and watch them live new legacies, take risks that we only dream of, risks our histories could not fathom. This morning, like many mornings I sat on the edge of my children’s beds. I traced their profiles with my index finger, kissed their warm cheeks and foreheads, drew their sleepy innocence, curiosity, hopefulness, into my reflection. We all start out as children. Then what?

So again I wonder out loud, what do we do now? As we continue to talk, think, change, stay the same, in our workplaces, at the dinner table, in the hallways at school, in our social settings, online, in and around the world. What will we do next? Today, everyday, we have a choice don’t we? I imagine we can’t accept doing what we perceive as right if it replaces, negates what is human, what is kind; if it steps on someone’s justice, if it swallows someone’s life. But we can walk in our action, with courage, and promise to leave this nation, this world a brighter note than the one playing in our ears right now.

I can hear it, can you?

The questions which one asks oneself begin, at least, to illuminate the world, and become one’s key to the experience of others.–James Baldwin

I felt compelled to share this experience I’ve been holding on to for the past 18 months. I haven’t talked much about it since it happened, but in this emotional moment in our nation, where so many of us are reminded of our history and tensions, I realized sharing it might add to the complexity of these conversations many of us are having in our private spaces. The following incident reminded me of how complicated my skin color really is in our cultural public space. And as much as we’d like to think we live in post-racial times, my own personal and continual experiences have shown me otherwise.

I don’t know how we “fix” bias and profiling, or “fix” acting violently, skeptically, prejudicially on race, ethnicity, origin, sexual orientation/preference, or perception. But I do know how sharing our narratives is important, how talking about these issues is necessary, how using our vote and our voice is imperative, and that strategic (but nonviolent) action is critical to change.

I’d like to imagine, fantasize, or even make excuses that the following incident was isolated. But I’ve been living in my skin for 37 years and unfortunately my experiences know better. In sharing this story, all that I ask is that we think about how we look at each other, think about there must be more to a person than just our outward or initial perception, think before we speak, before we act carelessly.

Finally, the lasting thing I do remember about the other person in this story was that he was a father. We are both parents. And that common bond, that respect I had for him as another parent was more thought and consideration than he ever gave me.

October 2010—On a beautiful cool autumn day I left work conscious of a recent robbery in the area, conscious of a potential suspect on the loose, and in a hurry to pick up my two young boys from school. I left work approximately around 5:07pm. Walking towards the parking garage I passed a security officer watching the area, and as I approached the garage, I passed several police cars and a barricade. Watching over my shoulders I entered the parking garage and passed yet another police officer. My assumption was they were there to keep us safe. I thought nothing odd about them doing their job. As a matter of fact, I felt comfort in their presence (there was of course a robbery suspect on the loose).

I passed security and several officers in uniform with guns in their holsters, and no one stopped or approached me. I walked four flights of stairs up to the 5th level and got into my vehicle, a four-door BMW SUV. I drove down the first ramp to exit and immediately saw a young man with dark sunglasses turn around and approach me with a large shotgun rifle. My heart was beating, my hands were moist; I subtlety looked around for an escape. There was no one else around, and at this point I had to make some quick decisions, as I had no description of the robbery suspect and no idea the intentions of this man with the rifle. I tried not to panic. I was scared because I had no idea who this guy was, but my mind was fixed on getting out of this situation while my eyes were fixated on the large rifle he had strapped across his chest, resting parallel to his waist. At the time, the gun wasn’t pointed directly at me but it also wasn’t pointed down at the ground. It was a terrifying moment.

As the young man approached, I realized (or was forced to assume) he was a police officer (though he never identified himself as such), and I immediately removed my sunglasses and asked him kindly not to point his weapon at me. I told him it was scary (and I still had no confirmation he was an actual law enforcement officer). He replied sarcastically, “I’m not pointing my gun at you.” I reiterated that the gun scared me and again asked him to consider my position. At this point, he still hadn’t identified himself as an officer. The burden was on me to assume as much. He proceeded to detain me and ask me several questions. He asked to see the shirt I was wearing. He asked me what color it was. I answered the questions but also told him I needed to get my children and that I did nothing wrong. I asked him why he was asking me all of these questions. Ignoring me, he asked my name, he asked where I worked, he asked what my job entailed, and he asked me what I did that day. I told him that I was working that day; that I worked for the university, that I’m an educator, and that I work with children. I reiterated that I was a mother of two children—then he cut me off responding, “so what, I have children too.” I told him I was educated and again reiterated that I was an employee of the university. He responded, “Some of the best criminals are educated.” I told him I wasn’t a criminal and hadn’t done anything wrong.

I felt as though I was pleading with this man to see me for more than just a profile. I wanted this man to see me as a human being. I asked him what he wanted from me and expressed repeatedly that I did nothing wrong. He refused to give me more information on why he was detaining me. He asked for my ID. He asked me my date of birth. By this time, several minutes had elapsed and I told him that I needed to pick up my children. He said that I wasn’t going anywhere and that I fit the description of the robbery suspect. He said, “She was black, had sunglasses, and had on a curly wig.” He said that I fit that description. But after seeing a picture of the suspect later on the news, the only similarity I had with the image and description of that person was that my skin was black. There were no other descriptive qualities that were even remotely similar.

Though the officer kept his sunglasses on, at the beginning of this interaction, as to be totally transparent, I had removed my sunglasses immediately. This simple act of removing my sunglasses was a part of the unspoken rules, “the code”, understood by many people of color, especially males when encountering the police. As a person of color there is this unspoken rule that even if you’re innocent, have done nothing wrong, ensuring your personal safety lies in making sure that a police officer you encounter feels comfortable with your otherness. Often the burden of making police officers or others in authority feel comfortable with your otherness is on that person of color standing there, your word against that officer’s word, your life potentially lying in the balance. And me, as a person of color, black, that unspoken rule filters into many more parts of my life, where the expectation is I assume the role of making others feel comfortable with my otherness, culture, language, hair, etc. This is an act performed daily by thousands of people of color in the public space. It is conscious and exhausting.

I remember telling the officer repeatedly that I worked for the university and that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I told him I was scared in this moment as he held his gun before me, as we were face to face in an isolated part of the garage. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking about making it out of this situation alive. The officer continued to detain me in this isolated space and verbally harass me, smearing me with questions, jabs of sarcasm, and reminders of his ability to detain me in that isolated space just because he could, and there was the obvious reminder that he had a weapon. I asked him if he wanted to search my car. I asked him if he wanted to search my person. I reminded him I was a mother of young children. He didn’t want me to speak up for myself as he verbally harassed me with cruel comments about how I fit the description of the robbery suspect and that he didn’t know that I wasn’t the actual suspect. I told him I understood that, but unless he had more than just the color of my skin, he had no right to detain me. I reminded him, I had done nothing wrong. I was just coming from work.

But my pleas were ignored. He called in a description of my vehicle (though the suspect got away on foot) and continued to hold me there. The time seemed so slow, minute by minute, all I could think about were my children and them wondering where I was. I pleaded with the officer that I needed to go get my children and I was adamant that I did nothing wrong. He said, typically when someone is talking this much they are trying to distract his attention—implying that I was hiding something. I told him I had nothing to hide and reminded him that he could search my vehicle if he wanted to. He told me not to get out of the vehicle. I told him he was scaring me and I didn’t know what was going on. He replied, “put yourself in my shoes.” I replied to him, “Put yourself in my shoes; you have a gun.”

I told him I understood that he needed to do his job but I expressed to him that he did not have to harass me, or talk to me in a disrespectful way. I asked him if I could call my husband because I needed to get my children. After at least 20 long minutes, he finally “allowed” me to call. I asked him for his name and badge number and shortly after, he said I was free to go.

It was over, but the memories of that day have left scars that remind me I am always walking in my otherness in the public space, especially when encountering law enforcement. And being a married professional woman in her thirties with young children, driving a luxury car, carrying a designer handbag, hair and make-up in place, impeccably dressed, and an articulate tongue did not exempt me from racial profiling, and did not strengthen the perception of my integrity that day.

So as I try to raise my boys in this most recent reminder of present day racial tensions, especially with some law enforcement and others that may only look first at their skin color, I am carefully crafting what to tell my boys as I raise them to be safe in their own skin. If their mother can be racially profiled covered in culture’s status adornments and degrees, and that still didn’t make a difference in perception, these boys as brown males have a heavy burden to bear that as a mother, with tears, prayers, and only the best of intentions, wishes I could carry for them.

I understand our human interactions are complex and it is not always about race. But my experiences have shown me, race or not, it is very much about perception, and I’d like us to look at each other differently, as humans, as complex beings. In this time of fear and skepticism, color and tension; accepting, respecting someone’s humanity seems the very least we can do (for now).

As a footnote, with the support of my employer, I was able to speak face to face with the Chief of Police. He did take this incident seriously and visited me in person at work to listen to my side of the story, and to formally apologize. He was not defensive, and did share with me his plans for corrective action of this officer. My hope is that we work to prevent incidents like this and other such encounters before they lead to careless mistakes and leave permanent scars.

The challenge of social justice is to evoke a sense of community that we need to make our nation a better place, just as we make it a safer place–Marian Wright Edelman, Children’s Defense Fund

Foot Soldiers: Melissa Harris-Perry pays tribute to those standing up for Trayvon Martin, and gives an adaptation of Children’s Defense Fund founder Marian Wright Edelman’s prayer for the world’s children.

http://video.msnbc.msn.com/melissa-harris-perry/46849119

I was moved by these words, by these images of youths from around the world who deserve to live freely, safely, and covered in love.

The black and blurry headlines ache as ink bleeds over our eyes and ears. The latest headlines of injustice and tragedy offer little to grieving parents, family, and friends; but the stir from those printed or spoken words gather a memorial and speak for the silenced. These stories of innocent loss of life remind me that we are human. And as adults we were all once children.

When the headlines ache with the echos of gun shots, children lying still on the other end, I think of mothers and fathers that bleed from those dark holes, those empty black notes where a child once sang. Last week I heard gun shots far away in the deserts of Afghanistan; I heard gun shots silence the early morning in France, I heard gun shots in Florida, just south of my own children’s smiles. That pain both near and far sounded like life knotted up in a slow thin stitch, death’s ragged thread piercing the soft souls of children. In my dreams, in my belly, I have paused, holding on to the bright gleam of my own child, in disbelief, in grief, in outrage at another mother’s pain.

When fire stills the breath of a child, their butterfly wings crumble and tear. Where is the sun that reflects the colorful stains in those delicate wings? Where are the petals that give those wings rest, time to sway back and forth, to breathe just a tiny piece of this beautiful life? Where are the tears that drown out the blast of firearms used carelessly to wipe away life from once smiling faces? When can we instead silence the fire, and celebrate, honor those innocent beautiful wings in flight?

I am weary of what’s behind bold headlines that press their cold limp rhetoric between women’s legs, inside women’s minds. There are no dark secrets we women keep (well maybe there are a few). Life lives in and through our creviced charm, and there are no words, legislation, or debate that can change the brilliant mystery ringing in our wombs. Yes, we can cultivate life inside of our bodies if we choose, but if we don’t, we can choose with or without social orders and legislation. The colors of those choices are ours to paint; the pain and vivid maroon are ours to bear. Oh voices behind the headlines, I wish we could let you borrow our paint palette for just one month, you would see the lines are not black and white.

As women, we can utter ourselves timing, patience, practice, or reservation. Oh politics, don’t you think those that can carry life (whether they do or not) in their bellies have sense enough to color inside or outside their own lines, speak for themselves, do what is best for their health in love and in logic?

I wonder about those dark suits and even darker tendencies inside smoke-filled offices worried about writing women’s narratives, their destinies, their choices, their health. Creating life is a mystery isn’t it? As women, we too are in reverence of the ability, the responsibility—which is why we can and should choose throughout our lives our own narratives without legislation, pen, or debate. If there are concerns for women’s natural abilities to create faces, love, and languages, or better yet, discussion and action on women’s health, I would then ask you voices beyond the magnificent headlines, what are your quotes, dark suits, and letterpress to contribute to that discussion, action, and creation—love, resources, time, or just chatter?

In the morning this gray day in our pockets will break the backs of someone already bending over and under for a piece of comfort in the lush of our great nation. Someone’s struggling tongue can’t translate their pain in a call for balance, their woes swallowed up in headlines, loud demagogues bickering.

And just across the street, two steps from a box on the corner, someone somewhere is busy balancing bills, juggling workloads, living from paycheck to paycheck or living with no paycheck. While words and politics swim in dizzying rhetoric, someone somewhere steps over suffering with dirt on their feet. Someone’s sunken shoulders will rise in the morning and again scrape loose change together for a loaf of bread and some hope. Last night, someone sighed of relief that the heat blowing in through the window was warmer than the water to bathe in. Today someone will sit with the pile of bills, worry as the checks dry up like breast milk did six months ago. Hungry mouths don’t feed simply on legislative drama; they are hungry for food, shelter, survival, and security. When hunger speaks by vote, by stance, by violence, I hope someone is listening. I hope someone is listening.

On some weekends my family is busy at the sight of dawn, rushing from place to place, errands, appointments, and family activities. But some weekends we rest, my husband and I try to “sleep late” (remember we have kids), whisper to each other, hoping if we don’t get up too soon the kids will sleep, stay in their beds for just a little while longer so we can stay in the closeness for just a little while longer, read, watch, and discuss the news of the day, the change unfolding around us.

It might not seem that sweet, that romantic for a couple to lie in bed, reflecting on rhetorical rants, perspectives on politics, world view, socio-economics, sports, and entertainment; but it is this lovely ritual we have that I believe keeps us close to what each other is thinking, what each other believes in. Sure it’s not holding hands (though our mornings are not without affection), but it is holding each other’s thoughts, perspectives, and dreams for ourselves, for our children, for the world we live in. It is our way to stay close to each other and close to the change in the world.

My two-year-old is surprisingly patient when he knows we our reading or watching the “news” (it’s cute he knows to call it that), we are stirring inside, caught up in the debate, sometimes with each other, sometimes with the commentators who don’t hear us and who (if they did) probably wouldn’t care. But we are engaged anyway–engaged with each other, engaged with the happenings of the world. We live in an age where we could go online and join an anonymous conversation in social networks, but I admit, at times, social networking can’t compare to the comedy, furry, and passionate speak we keep just between us. Lying next to each other sharing breakfast, the papers, television, good morning and hugs from our sons, seems much sweeter, more simple, comfortable, more personal than just sitting in front of a computer screen or a smartphone (though to be honest they are nearby charged and ready).

Yes, it is this Saturday or Sunday ritual that keep us stitched up in each other’s thoughts about what is happening to our days and how we are living those days informed, sometimes frustrated about the happenings of the world around us, sometimes in perfect peace with ourselves. We talk about our vote, our voice or contribution to the community and the country we live in. As we watch, muse over the passing of the boiling world around us, listen to how we live in and out of its tangled narrative, I remember we have our own narrative to contribute to justice, to humanity. We have our own children to raise to be wise, respectful, careful, courageous citizens. We are reminded that we do not live in this world alone and the distance between us does get smaller and smaller each passing day. We are reminded why we decided to have children in the first place, and reflect on how they have changed us and how we hope to raise them to change the world in some meaningful way. We worry just a bit (I sometimes worry a lot), about each other, about our children, about humanity. Then we sit back and listen, learn, debate, lament, or celebrate the time we have together, in this space, with these words, as we learn a little bit more about each other one headline, one topic, one televised segment at a time.

I’ve been thinking about our culture of silence. There is some sort of sick dance in codes of silence, looking the other way. As I listen to the unraveling allegations around the Penn State scandal, I realize that this alleged perversion is only one story. I know that there are thousands of vulnerable children suffering everyday at the hands of adults who are predatory, abusive, manipulative, neglectful, and/or cruel. I imagine most of those stories often go silenced as well. Some of it is to protect the minor child, but some of it is our society’s discomfort with imagining and dealing with real human suffering. There seems this disconnect between the empathy for basic human suffering and the emotional or psychological discomfort with breaking a code of silence.

What does it mean that we live in a society where we can’t protect our children, our most vulnerable in order to protect or adhere to a code of silence? Does our society not want to believe that this kind of abuse happens to children everyday–that this kind of abuse has plagued our society for decades? This is not a new issue. We have to talk about it, we have to deal with it. Where is silence getting us?

I imagine we should think about those moments when we have silenced our tongues to injustice (not wanting to get involved). As we’ve seen with this developing alleged scandal at Penn State, silence can lead to tragedy. But beyond this incident, where else in this country, in the world, are children excepted to endure unspeakable pain and be kept silent in order to please, pacify, or bring pleasure to adults? This is not simply about the alleged Penn State scandal, this is about vulnerable children all over this country, all over the world.

This kind of tragedy seems a ripe (albeit unpleasant) moment for an important dialogue that our society must take on. We can not afford to look the other way. We can no longer entertain silence because it’s easier than speaking up about injustice. We can no longer just think that whispering something in someone’s ear is enough. Somehow, the revelations of the Penn State tragedy have uncovered that even saying something about injustice may not be enough. When will the adults of our society feel accountable, compelled to do something, take real action to protect children, all children so that they may grow up safe, healthy, and secure?

My heart and mind reflects on all of those suffering, surviving, and recovering from any childhood abuse; may our culture, our society, find our way out of the silence.

Last night a gust of warm weather storm swept cracks of lightening into swirling threads—it cautioned the north then swept the south with speckles of rain and wind, crawling into the crevices of porch corners, tumbling over bricks, under roofs, and in between open windows. The buds bloomed slowly in the bright day but the wicked night was full of gusts and swirls. The hiss of wind lifts away the window ledge, fans the shutters, and claps against the glass. My son poked his head inside our room at 3am; then curled up beside me where he felt warm and safe.

The morning after, 700 miles away, the storm had a different name. Streets lie vacant, of objects, of life, as if nature could erase neighborhoods overnight, draw them up from their roots, and leave only memories gathered up in rubble and soot. It’s a wonder how far and how close 700 miles away feels after a storm.