Archive | June, 2017

No Justice, No Sleep

25 Jun

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program of random writing about Oaxaca/Kentucky cultural exchanges to remind you that BLACK LIVES MATTER. And to ask all of my fellow white friends and family and beloved strangers reading this, what are we going to do about it?

Because, seriously, y’all. How are you sleeping at night? I am feeling the trauma from all the way down here in southern Mexico, and wondering how that can not be the case for everyone else. I mean, aren’t you fed up with case after case after case of men, women, and children being killed for… for being black. What else can you call it, whether you’re a sociologist or just a human being observing our society? Look at the data! Look at all of these people’s beautiful faces, each one with a family missing them, each one who was making an impact in the world in their way before they were so cruelly and pointlessly interrupted.

How many more? How many more people have to die senselessly, just for being black, before all of us white people -at least the ones who say we are not racist- can wake up and stand up? How many more? How many more examples and cases do you need, when killers go free, before you can admit that our whole system is racist? Before we can talk about all the ways in which we implicitly and explicitly devalue black lives, individually and systemically?

How many more people need to get shot IN FRONT OF THEIR BABIES before it hits home? How many more BABIES, how many kids need to be murdered before we cry enough to get mad and do something? How many more pleas for justice do we need from small children who are living with this constant trauma every day before we all get together behind the already strong leadership of black folks in our country fighting this and back them up?

Those of us (white folks) out there saying, “But I’m not racist! I have black friends!”: What would the world look like if instead, we really put ourselves in someone else’s shoes? What if all the people being affected by this mass slaughter (when it’s not mass incarceration or other forms of mass oppression and destruction)- were your brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and mothers and fathers and yes, our sweet, sweet babies? What if you looked at your 17 year old headed out the door in his hoody and felt panic, the same panic that clutches at you every time he walks out the door, because he could be the next Trayvon Martin? Or what if you’re that mom that you didn’t want to be, that’s too strict, that has never let your kid play with even water guns, that barely lets your kid out of the house, because what if he’s the next 12 year old Tamir Rice?


Tamir Rice

How can you think about these babies, how can you hear that sweet four year old begging her mommy not to scream so she doesn’t get “shooted” too, and not be heartbroken, devastated, and questioning humanity? How can you not be motivated to action, thinking about these and all the other children who deserve so much more than this?

How many more black folks have to get killed- and their killers without penalty or remorse, without a shred of justice- before we (white people) react collectively? How many more Terrence Crutchers, shot for not lying down on the ground? How many more Walter Scotts, shot while running away from an officer? How many more Eric Garners, killed by excessive force for suspicion of selling loose cigarettes? How many more Philando Castiles, who did everything right and still got killed in front of his four year old? (And the four year old’s Mommy was then ARRESTED and taken away. Can you imagine? What would it take to picture your white four year old daughter/niece/friend’s kid in her place? This case especially destroyed part of my soul, looking into the eyes of my sweet four year old at the time.) How many more deaths like Charleena Lyles, pregnant, shot in front of her children, despite police being aware that she was dealing with mental health issues? HOW MANY MORE before we can quit making excuses for each and every case, before we can quit looking for reasons to blame the victim, before we look at the whole picture and realize that our whole system is built on racism?

Realizing that racism is everywhere doesn’t make you a bad person, dearly beloveds. On the contrary, we have to realize it, admit it, in order to refuse to accept it. Even realizing that something that you personally do/say/believe is racist potentially makes you a better person, because then you can change it (but only if you change it- growth and learning is everything). We cannot be “color blind” and all one “human race,” because that is not the society that we live in. It’s unfortunate, but it’s true. How can you be colorblind after you listen to this little girl’s words?  

If you can watch that little girl speak, if you can look at all of these cases, stare into the faces of their family members, imagine the loss, let yourself feel even a portion of the trauma, of what it means for you, your family, your children to be seen as more expendable than the rest of society, if you can do all that and still somehow convince yourself that we’re not currently living in the next major civil rights movement, and that it is all of our human duty to speak out and work against this, toward a better world… then I don’t know who you are or if you are capable of empathy at all.


None of what I’m writing is new or prolific or eloquent or anything else impressive.  So many other folks have said all this so much better than I. But I feel helpless and desperate and I want all of us white folks to be talking about it. I feel so sick about it, and then I think, “Shit! I’m a white woman! How much worse would I feel if I were black and dealing with all this?” And to many of you reading this, I’m already preaching to the choir. Hopefully my Black/African-American friends aren’t even reading this, because you don’t need this information. You already know all this and so much more. And I haven’t even mentioned all the other racism that goes along with this. The constant threat of being killed is the worst of it, but on top of that there are a million other ways that Black folks experience discrimination, in big and small ways, constantly, every single day.

I feel the need to write this in my blog because we all- all of us white folks who are not part of Steve Bannon’s and Jeff Session’s agendas- need to be speaking up all the time. We have to get over our own egos and quit trying to prove that “I’m not racist.” Just because you don’t have a swastika on your forehead, just because you don’t have a confederate flag flying does not make you anti-racist. Not actively lynching someone doesn’t make us less complicit in the crime if we’re not doing anything to stop it. I don’t have all the answers to stop it, either. But there are answers, and folks in the Black Lives Matter Movement are coming up with lots of proactive answers, but they’re not being heard. We white people need to be supporting them, backing them up, doing our part, putting ourselves on the line (without trying to take over). But that’s not enough, either. We white folks also have to keep talking to our fellow white folks, especially friends and family, and bringing them over to our side- the side of collectively crying for these sweet babies until we are ready to do something, bringing us all to action, instead of just having black friends or not being blatantly discriminatory. In many places there are even organizations specifically for white folks to participate in anti-racist actions, such as SURJ- Showing Up for Racial Justice. There’s so much to do! So much to read, so many folks to get to know and collaborate with to make our world a more just place. Let’s stand together and show we mean it when we say that Black Lives Matter.

(And please, please, my fellow white folks- don’t be shy! Feel free to ask me why I say Black lives matter instead of “All of matter”! I’m happy to discuss. xoxoxo)


Win/Win Kid Birthday Tricks, from a Still-Novice Non-Expert

19 Jun

Conan and I have officially been parents for half of a decade now! In other words, it was Lucia’s 5th birthday this week. Granted, we still don’t have much (any?) parenting wisdom, per se. And yet, we not only survived this birthday, it seems that we totally rocked it, despite the extra chaos on top of our normal mayhem this month. Here are our parenting hacks for birthday time, this time around. They might not work for you, and they might not even work for us again next time, but you’ve got to celebrate your victories.

Trick #1: Be Proactive. Talk them into the party of your dreams, not theirs.

Sure, it sounds mean, but if you ask them what they want to do for their birthday it’s destined to end in disappointment, unless you can actually produce unicorns and rocket-ship trips to space. If you have the means for that sort of thing, you’re reading the wrong list of tips right now. I, however, needed to get proactive.

Remembering a time my dad took me and a friend to Mammoth Cave for my birthday, I tried to talk Lucia into having some kind of adventure with a friend or two instead of a party. That was an instant negative, though, since a cake and a piñata are her number one birthday obsessions. For once, though, I outsmarted my little one and talked her out of a big Mexican-style party where you have to invite everyone you’ve ever met and give out five courses of party favors in addition to the meal, the cake and the multiple piñatas. We just couldn’t do it this year, not economically and not time-wise. So I cleverly talked her into having TWO parties instead this year- two very small parties. But that means TWO PARTIES, people, what’s not to love for a five year old?

I sent a cake to her school on her actual birthday, and then we had a teeny tiny, closest-family-only “party” at home on the weekend- complete with pasta (her favorite food), another cake, and just one piñata. Her papa even splurged on a giant bag of the decent candy for the piñata instead of like 5 pieces of good candy mixed in with the cheap-ass suckers we normally fill it with. It was a win-win situation for everybody.


Trick #2: Take advantage of all of your unique available resources.

If you have a cousin who works at Chuck E. Cheese and wants to give you a discount, go for it. If your best friend is a chef and will make an epic birthday cake for your kid, make that your billing point for their birthday gig.

For us it helped immensely that the birthday celebration at her school is awesome. It is a serious ceremony involving crowns and capes and classmate “angels” and a red carpet and everything. The teacher gives a hand-made gift (a really cool, small hand bag, in this case), and the other kids give the birthday kid a drawing each, which they then sew into a little book of sorts. It was so cute and so cool; she was thrilled. And all it required on our part was buying the cake and getting it there.


Headed to school in a princess dress made by her aunt who’s an awesome seamstress. 



Who wouldn’t be thrilled with this kind of celebration? 

Trick #3: Don’t let Mother Nature ruin your plans. Pray profusely to the universe, and clearly explain to the heavens that your kid will be emotionally destroyed for hours on end if the weather doesn’t cooperate.

In other words, you gotta think on your feet! Our little hiccup that could’ve been a two day tear-fest came when tropical storm number two of this year cancelled classes the day before her birthday. Conan was off work that day and was in charge of getting the cake to school, since it would be impossible for the babysitter to carry the cake along with the two kids on the walk to the bus stop, on the bus, transferring it then to the carpool where there are 6 children flopping around the car. Luckily the weather calmed and we worked things out just fine. Meanwhile, I had a minor panic attack and invented three ridiculously far-fetched schemes and plans to call in favors to make the cake at school happen, tropical storm or not.

Trick #4: Perspective is everything. Use all relevant comparisons from books and videos to sell your options.

I meant to make her a cake or cupcakes for our home party, since I like to bake for their birthdays when I can. But when we talked about what she’d like me to make, she never really decided on what she wanted, and recipe-searching time escaped me this year. (This month is kicking my butt, in case you can’t tell.) So instead we let her have the excitement of going to a bakery and picking out her own cake, just like Daniel Tiger. And then she got to go to another bakery and pick out another cake, just like Daniel Tiger again! It’s a wonderful life for 5 year old Lucia, folks, let me tell you. And for us, even buying 2 cakes, one and a half roasted chickens, two kilos of tortillas, and paper plates for us and our five guests was about eighty thousand times cheaper and easier than last year, when we completely lost our little parent minds and had big birthday parties for both of our children. (Yes, you read that right- we only had five guests to our house for this year’s “party.”) Cheaper, easier, and Lucia was just as pleased about it all.


Cake #2: Just as thrilling as cake #1

She did have a brief moment of doubt at one point in the planning stages, however, when she had the sudden epiphany that fewer guests would mean fewer presents. “But Mommy, they don’t bring you presents at school. Only the teacher gives you a present.” She informed me with a suspicious tone, her eyes wide and worried. It’s almost a legit concern, too, because we tend to not give a lot of presents, and we rarely buy her stuff she doesn’t need except for birthdays and Christmas. (Don’t worry, though, this child is far from deprived; her numerous grandparents make sure both of these kids have ample toys and clothing.) I assured her, though, that she would end up with several presents anyway, including gifts from multiple grandparents. That appeased her sufficiently.


Pleased with herself and her new bag

Trick #5: Give them “presents” that you were going to give them anyway. Everything’s amazing when it’s wrapped in pretty paper! 

Yes, I am totally that super mean mom who gives kids socks and underwear as presents. Only this year I talked her Abuela into giving that as a gift! I would put a bow on her morning Cheerios without thinking twice about it. Attitude is everything, after all.


In this picture we are using the Cheerios box as storage for another present, but I’m not above giving them Cheerios as a present. 

She got plenty of other non-necessary presents, too, so don’t worry. She received a couple of new stuffed animals from aunts, a really cool jewelry-painting set that I bought with money her Nonna sent for her, and the coolest books ever from National Geographic- one about space, one about dinosaurs, and one about animals. Her Gamma sent those, after I asked her to look for a cool dinosaur book, since we hadn’t been able to find anything interesting and age-appropriate at the library here. Books here are not accessible and they’re insanely expensive. These books would have cost thousands of pesos here (according to Conan’s family), if you could even find them somewhere in the first place. I feel so incredibly privileged to have so much access to quality books for me and my children. But I digress, as usual.


Everyone was impressed by the books.

I also pulled off a double win because I managed to clean out my office and give Lucia perfect presents for free. I had a couple of things sitting around my office for the past almost-three years, resources that an ex-coworker had given me that Lucia was way too young for. One is a phonics game- Zoo ABC Bingo!- and the other a book of poems for kids. So, like the crafty, thrifty mommy that I am, I wrapped it all up and gave it as a birthday gift. (Grown-up Lucia, if you’re reading this someday, just remember that money spent has no correlation to love and thought put into giving.)

Also in the realm of “attitude is everything,” you can talk up all the advantages of your plan vs anything they’ve had in the past or seen at their friend’s house. Like better quality candy, as I already mentioned.



Serious Birthday Business

We broke the piñata with two of her little cousins and the neighbor kids across the street, so the amount of candy that both of my kids got ahold of wasn’t of epic, diabetes-producing proportions after all. I let them overdose on candy the day of the party and then the next day they took a decent portion of it to Lucia’s neighborhood bestie who’s been sick all week and couldn’t help break the piñata. Another parenting win: sharing and getting more candy out of our house.


A piñata wouldn’t be a piñata without some help from your friends. 


So obviously we’ve learned a lot in these five years. Apparently the half-decade mark is a moment in which you finally have more than just the basic survival skills as a parent. It seems that we may have a couple of parenting tricks up our sleeves now, at long last. Now if I could just get the recipe to make my kids go to sleep when I want, or to leave me alone in the bathroom, then I would declare myself a super parent. Maybe by our next half-decade? Or perhaps never. Sigh. You gotta take your victories when and where you can, folks, which might be the most important thing I’ve learned in these five years of parenting.

Blue-Gown Daydreams

4 Jun

There’s nothing like being naked under a half-open blue robe, laid out in a hallway with a bunch of helpless sick and injured folks, to make you feel like the exact opposite of WonderWoman. I kept pondering to myself, “Julia, you’re not sick or injured. Why would you choose to come here?”

Then I forcefully pushed those pesky rational thoughts out of my little head and daydreamed about glorious sex without the risk of making more babies. Oh yeah, that’s why I’m here. Goals and dreams. Keep your eyes on the prize.

Plus I was there on principle. I mean, the insurance company takes money out of every paycheck, so I have every right to this. Just as compellingly, it would have cost more than a month’s pay to get the surgery done privately. When I asked a private doctor whom I trust if I was crazy for going to IMSS, my insurance company, for this surgery, he assured me that I wasn’t. IMSS is the Mexican Institute of Social Security, and it provides health insurance to a large portion of folks who have formal jobs. In many ways, it is much better than in the US because many more people are covered, and aside from whatever monthly cut they take out, there are no other, extra costs. It gave me 12 weeks paid maternity leave, which is 12 weeks more than what I got in the states. The main downside is that it is a giant institution that sees you and treats you as just another number in the system. It is slower than molasses in January, stressful, dehumanizing, often inadequate or just plain wrong.

But still, a free surgery is a free surgery. “The same doctors who work in IMSS also work in the private sector,” my doctor reminded me. “It’s perfectly safe. The only thing that might be bad is how big of a scar they leave you. It’s kind of the luck of the draw, depending on the doctor. He might leave you a tiny scar or he might leave you looking like you had a C-Section.”

“Good thing I wasn’t dreaming of a career in pornography,” I told my husband, because sure enough, the doctor left me a giant scar. It’s longer than my friend’s C-Section scar, as a matter of fact. It kind of looks like a kindergartener who cut their own bangs, except on my pubic region instead of my forehead. Luckily, I’m not concerned about the aesthetic of it. I think scars are just visual reminders of a life lived, a show of how bad ass and interesting someone is. On another level, though, the excessive size of my scar makes me feel expendable and dehumanized. The surgeon couldn’t be bothered to take care with me (or anyone else, I’m sure). My body is so unimportant and inconsequential to him that he cut what must be the maximum possible, for what? Just because he can? To make the surgery part as easy as possible for him?

The gynecologist didn’t even acknowledge me when he came into the room, or at any point before I passed out. I didn’t even realize that I was going to be knocked out for the surgery, since I signed up for local anesthetic. I had to fight to have anything explained to me, and I neglected to realize that I needed that part explained. I just can’t imagine treating people like that, and it makes me sick to my stomach thinking about all the people these doctors and nurses are in charge of who aren’t getting quality and humanized care.

It’s not just this doctor, either; it’s the whole system. I mean, this is the insurance company that thousands (millions, I think) of people are paying into, and the best they can do is beds in the hallway? There are some overcrowded rooms as well, and I suppose I can be grateful that I was the only one in the surgical room while my surgery was happening (as far as I know). But geez.

And heavens forbid you are there without a family member. One poor guy was brought in by his coworkers, who called family members immediately, but no one had arrived yet when a nurse came by with a tray of food for him. “You don’t have family here?” She asked him and everyone else around, incredulously, about 8 times. I wanted to scream at her by the 5th time. She couldn’t figure out what to do with his breakfast. She asked him to sit up, but he couldn’t sit up on his own. Then she tried to get the wheelchair attendant to sit him up, but for some reason they aborted that mission as well. Finally, after being assured yet again that he was all by his lonesome, helpless, vulnerable, defenseless self, she carefully balanced the tray on top of his chest and walked away. He was totally unable to eat anything from the tray at that angle. And it couldn’t have been comfortable. But there you have it. The nurse officially did her job of delivering the breakfast tray to the patient. Eventually the wheelchair attendant took pity on the man and removed the stupid tray from his chest. I closed my eyes some more and continued to daydream about a better universe.

Hopefully you’re also not a child in need of emergency services at my insurance company. A small, tough girl with her chin up walked past me into a room at one point. She must have been about 4 or 5- my daughter’s age. Of course she wasn’t stoked about giving a blood sample or whatever needle-related thing they were doing to her in there. But the nurses had zero tact or style about calming or convincing her. Instead they used various threats and near-impossible deals, none of which helped anybody achieve their goals. They even brought in one of the security guards to scare her into submission. Bless her, it did not pacify her in the slightest. She just cried out more for her mama, who I think was nearby, but who I got the impression wasn’t allowed to be with her or touch her or something? I couldn’t see anything, so it was purely aural clues that painted the painful picture for me. At one point they told her if she was quiet and cooperative that her mommy could come and be with her, but how the hell do you expect her to calm down without her calming person in the first place? It reminded me of the clueless (or purposely mean?) nurse when Lucia had to be hospitalized for an asthma attack; the nurse thought they were going to be able to stick a tube in her arm with me out of the room, leaving her all alone. Yeah, being alone with strangers who seem to want to hurt you is always great for small children. They calm right down and obey. Gosh, even using sarcasm to deal with the situation doesn’t make it less distressing. I know that kids are going to scream and cry over pain and new situations, but it seems like the hospital tactics just escalate the fear and pain for kids. It was pretty disheartening, to say the least. (Also, my dear, dear friends, please don’t threaten your kids that a police officer is going to come and get them for not obeying you. UGH! Have some compassion for these lovely, little human beings, please! Imagine how terrifying that must be!)

Also on this grand adventure, I learned that soap and toilet paper are luxuries far beyond what one deserves in this insurance hospital. Not one bathroom of the three that I visited while there was stocked with soap (or toilet paper). I was sharing my outrage and disgust about it with my mother-in-law, Paulina, who matter-of-factly said you have to bring your own soap to a hospital. However, I remain stubbornly indignant about it because a) Nobody tells you that; b) It’s totally impractical to expect you to carry it around the hospital with you. What are you going to do? Tie it to your gown? it’s not like you have your own bathroom to put your soap in; and c) This is BAD public health policy! It’s supposed to be a hospital, a beacon of health and wellbeing, not a hotbed of reckless germ-spreading!

By the time they wheeled me on my hallway hospital bed back towards surgery, I’d had a nap and managed to psyche myself up despite all the circumstances. Eyes on the prize. No more never-ending months of pregnancy (seriously, both times I’ve been pregnant for more like 10 months- and twice is enough for me!). No more diapers as soon as this little one is all the way potty trained. No more painful/tedious/expensive forms of birth control. No potential need for abortion. (Okay 99-point-something sure.) You got this! Let’s do it!

The anesthesiologist seemed like a nice enough person, except she left my butt completely hanging out while she was putting that bizarre stuff into my back. I get it. They’ve seen it all, blah blah blah. But are you not allowed any shred of modesty, any tiny sense of privacy or autonomy over your body? There was no need for my ass to be uncovered. There was a cover for my use that was just being used inadequately. It was unnecessary and inconsiderate, and I felt too vulnerable to say anything about it. (You don’t want to piss off the anesthesiologist, right?)

The last thing I remember before the surgery, after the doctor came in and ignored me, was the anesthesiologist asking me if my legs felt tingly yet. And then I was down for the count. Nobody told me that I was going to be asleep for the surgery, though. I thought that because I was getting an epidural, it would be like getting a C-section. I wouldn’t feel anything below my waist but I could be awake and aware. (Isn’t that how it happens? Something like that?) Nope. Nothing of the sort. The first time I woke up I felt drunk/high and totally giddy. “This is great!” I think I told the nurses. They asked me if I drank wine. “Sometimes,” I said. They must have taken me for a raging wino because they proceeded to ask me how many cups it took to make me feel like this. “A lot?” They asked. If only they knew what a light weight I am! But my mind was too cloudy to explain. I got it together to ask if the surgery was already over. And I demanded to know how in the world anyone could give birth on this epidural business! Nobody would answer me. I went back under.

At some point I woke up again in the hallway right outside of the surgery area to the gynecologist giving me my instructions for care. I mumbled in response, trying to reaffirm and think of relevant questions. “So everything will be like normal in 7 days?” Yes, he assured me. (Umm, that was not true for me, by the way.) He also promised someone would come around with written instructions before I left. He left the very important paper that would be my paycheck for my week off of work in my hands, and I carefully laid it on my belly and passed back out.

When I woke up again, still in the surgery hallway, I could feel the pain in my abdomen and I did not feel giddy. I asked for some water. The nurse told me it would be just a little longer. He’d already let the hallway nurses know I was ready to return to my spot in the hallway, but they were really busy, he explained. I asked several more times for water and received nothing. Finally he said he would send my family member for some food and drink. I was too wiped out to tell him that I didn’t want any food. I just wanted water. I felt like a camel after months in the desert. Finally they brought me some orange juice and yogurt that they’d sent Conan off to buy. Apparently they didn’t ask him to buy water, which was my lone request and hope for life in that moment. I was feeling very nauseous and I asked if I could have anti-vomiting medicine like they’d given me before surgery. He said no; they’d already given that to me before surgery. I drank a little orange juice and almost immediately threw it up.

Then they let Conan come back, because supposedly I was ready to be sent home. Basically, the anesthesia had worn off and my legs were working fine. That makes you ready for home. The nurse realized I wasn’t really okay. I kept throwing up and could barely walk from the nausea. But he didn’t know what to do, because I understood from Conan that they were short on beds. The nurse checked in with the anesthesiologist and assured us that I was sick from the pain meds and not the epidural. They’d given me morphine or something equivalent. I had forgotten to try to negotiate over pain meds, which never, ever sit well with me. “You can stay here and wait for it to wear off,” the nurse explained, “but we’ll have to put the tube back in your arm and change back into the hospital gown.” (I’d already gotten other clothes on to leave, with Conan’s help, in between vomiting.) He told me technically he couldn’t let me leave without eating something. I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat for a long time. I ate a couple bites of yogurt and threw it up. Mission accomplished. He then said I could wait out the effects of the meds there or somewhere else; “It doesn’t really make a difference.” So of course I opted to get the hell out of there.

We were in Huatulco, about two and a half hours from home. There was no way I was gonna stomach that journey, though, in the state I was in. I am so, so grateful that we had the money to go get a hotel room. I can’t imagine having stayed longer in that hellhole. Already Conan had been sitting out in the waiting room from 7am to 5pm and had picked up some stomach problems from some dodgy street food meanwhile. (We’d had to arrive at 7, although my surgery hadn’t happened till about noon.) I am also eternally grateful that my mother-in-law was staying with my kids and didn’t mind staying an extra night. I couldn’t even hold down water until sometime in the middle of the night; I can’t imagine how I would have survived a bus ride like that.

Although I’m complaining about this very specific problem with IMSS in Mexico, I realize that many of these things aren’t unique to my insurance company or to Mexico. You can get rude doctors and nurses anywhere. Overcrowded hospitals happen. Planned surgeries, folks have told me, are a big, routine, impersonal business most everywhere. It’s also easy for people to treat children and helpless adults as less-than-human in any setting. It doesn’t make it okay, though. And when the whole system is designed to dehumanize us all, and we’re the ones paying for it? It’s time for an insurance uprising, in my humble opinion. And after the health revolution? There will be soap in every bathroom, dammit! Soap, humane treatment, and health justice for all. Amen.