Remember to Breathe

I went to yoga this morning. It was hard. We held poses longer than I have ever held them before.  I could feel the sweat running off my body and dropping onto my mat.  Just when my quivering muscles didn’t think they could hold anymore, the reminder to breathe would come from the instructor.  She reminded us that our bodies are stronger than our minds.  She reminded us that through our deep breaths we could hold our bodies in challenging poses longer than our minds could believe. She was right.   Yoga, I’m am learning, is not only about what you do on your mat, but what you take from your mat out into the world.

Tonight at church our gospel was from Matthew.

Matthew 13:24-30,36-43

Jesus put before the crowd another parable: “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field; but while everybody was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, ‘Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where, then, did these weeds come from?’ He answered, ‘An enemy has done this.’ The slaves said to him, ‘Then do you want us to go and gather them?’ But he replied, ‘No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.’”

Then he left the crowds and went into the house. And his disciples approached him, saying, “Explain to us the parable of the weeds of the field.” He answered, “The one who sows the good seed is the Son of Man; the field is the world, and the good seed are the children of the kingdom; the weeds are the children of the evil one, and the enemy who sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the end of the age, and the reapers are angels. Just as the weeds are collected and burned up with fire, so will it be at the end of the age. The Son of Man will send his angels, and they will collect out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, and they will throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Let anyone with ears listen!”

During the homily, the priest went on to share how he mowed over his wife’s daisies because he thought they were weeds.  He made the point, that if he had given them time, they would have developed into beautiful flowers for all to enjoy.  He connected his learning to the Gospel.  He said that, through this parable, Jesus instructs the crowd and his disciples to be patient.  They are not to rush into uprooting the weeds because some of those weeds might actually be beautiful flowers.

At this point, I start thinking about the state of our country and of our world, and I can feel my anxiety breathing (really, a lack of breathing) begin.  Panic sets in.  What the heck is this man talking about?!  I feel a sense of urgency to deal with many painful issues that our human brothers and sisters are suffering.  There are issues of immigration, of race and racism and white privilege, and genocide and, and…..so many others that must be confronted and resolved.  I am really having to think about my breathing, of leaning into whatever this man is talking about in an attempt to make sense of it.

Then, somehow, my brain puts itself in the other camp….the camp that says that laws are black and white and must be followed, the camp that fights passionately for the lives of the unborn, the camp that believes that all undocumented people in our country should be deported. These people believe that their opinions (and the reasons behind them) are as just as I believe mine to be.

I then think of  the interview I heard this morning on NPR with David Joy.  http://www.npr.org/2017/07/23/538825520/digging-in-the-trash-how-poor-southerners-are-seen

He talks about his people and how they are viewed in our country.   The host, Lulu García-Navarro brings up one his quotes, “you write in your essay - and I'm quoting here - "I'm tired of an America where all the folks I've ever loved are dismissed as trash, where people are reduced to something subhuman simply because of where they live."  Joy goes onto describe the plight of the poor in Appalachia.  It is a moving interview.  Though, he doesn’t agree with the conclusions of the author, he does bring up  J.D. Vance’s Hillybilly Elegy.  This is the second time this book has come up with this week, which tells me that I need to read it. Joy ends the interview by saying,  “I think that art should illuminate some aspect of the human condition. And so I think that when people want to understand this region and they want to understand an issue, I think you should always turn to the artists. And I think that you should read broadly, and I think that you should read things that make you uncomfortable. And I think you should experience things that are outside of your norm because all of those things challenge us. And they force us to ask hard questions. And the minute you start to ask hard questions, I think you start to understand the world in a more enlightening fashion.”   

And, then the sermon started to make sense.  In order to hear one another, we need to lean into difficult conversations.  As Joy, says we need to move into discomfort and ask hard questions.  Then, and here is the most difficult part, we need to witness the humanity in the person sharing.  We are all human and we all want to be heard.  Many times we need to sit in discomfort and listen to another’s perspective and allow ours to be challenged.  Our lived experience is not the only one out there.  We should not make snap judgements without considering the other’s point of view. So many of us are reacting these days.  Every time I read the comments on pretty much any article, I come away disheartened.  So many of us are entrenched in our points of view that our knee jerk reaction is to attack.  If you attack me and my point of view you can bet that I will not give a rat’s ass about yours.  It goes both ways.  

I am a shades of gray kind of gal.  For me, I think it comes from growing up in two worlds.  This is why I am pro-choice.  This is why I believe in immigration reform.  I hear people’s stories and I understand that there is more than one narrative out there.  Right and wrong are not always black and white.

So, I believe that what today’s gospel was really asking of us was to breathe; to breathe during difficult situations that our minds tell us we cannot handle.  We can handle them.  I have been having these conversations at home.  You might need to disclose that you are in an emotional place when you enter into a difficult discussion.  Your conversation partner might be in his/her head.  Realizing this and talking about where each one is at,  is part of the discomfort, but unless you do this, you will not hear one another.  Might I be sharing from personal experience?!   We might not come to a conclusion that is mutually agreeable.  Yet, having opened our hearts to someone and allowing someone to open his/heart to us might bring us one baby step closer in that direction.  

Is there a lot of crappy stuff going on out there? Hell yes!  Are there weeds that will not turn into flowers?  Sadly, yes.  This is not a kumbaya message where we I think we should all hold hands and invite the world to sing together and share a Coke.  However, I do believe that Jesus was inviting us to stop, breathe deeply, and get to know one another before we judge too quickly.  Without doing this, there is no hope for change.

Change

In the last few years I have been doing a lot or reading and learning about issues of race and racism in our country.  I have worked on my own racial autobiography, which I continue to develop as my learning progresses.  I have been wanting a space to share my thoughts and my learning, as well as the application of these in my fifth grade classroom and my life.  Changing up the blog to write about all of this seemed like the natural thing to do.

I just finished reading the book, Let Justice Roll Down, by John M. Perkins.  I am now working on the book, Do All Lives Matter, by John M. Perkins and Wayne Gordon.  I already knew that issues of race and racism were interconnected with my Christian faith.  However, these books really explain that biblical connection between faith and eradicating racism.

To start this off, I thought I'd share part of my initial racial autobiography.  Here goes:

September 1, 2015

I was born in the Panama Canal Zone in 1971, a beautiful baby, the product of my two parents; a combination of many races and cultures.  My mother, Isabel, is Panamanian.  My dad, Bill, is from the United States. So what does this mean?

I can trace back my racial lineage to Spain by way of my maternal grandmother,  Livina Águila.  Once upon a time there was a contingent of Spanish Catholic missionaries that arrived in Cañazas, in the Province of Veraguas.  One of these missionaries was not so devout and thus the Águila branch of the family was born.  I understand there must have been a large number of Spanish that settled and populated this area because when my grandmother first went to the big city of Panama she was surprised by the racial diversity.  Apparently the population of Cañazas was fair skinned and had light colored eyes.  I have her hazel eyes.  So does my son, Samuel.

My paternal grandfather, Concepción (Concho) Ramos, was a self-described “mestizo” from Penonomé in the Province of Coclé.  He was born in 1896 when Panama was still considered part of Colombia.  He would tell my mom that he was part “Indio” and part “Cholo.”  He had very tight curly hair and dark brown skin.  He only finished elementary school, but was a carpenter and a master builder.  I visited one the churches he built and still have the dresser he made for me when I was born.  If only he had been afforded more educational opportunities, I wonder what he could have done? 

My maternal grandmother’s (Lola Stuewe) family came from German stock.  My paternal grandfather, Herbert Beatty, had British and Scottish blood.  Think Outlander by Diana Gabaldon.  Both my paternal grandparents while of different European cultural backgrounds were white. They struggled financially and sacrificed a lot to put their four children through college when they themselves did not have college educations.  My grandparents helped my dad with his undergrad degree in anthropology.  After finishing a stint in the military, getting married and becoming a father, my dad decided that he had better use the GI Bill for a degree that would be more financially rewarding than this one.  So, he went to law school. 

My mom grew up in Panama City, the “lighter skinned” of two sisters.  This was an issue that affected my Tía Minita throughout her life.  She had other struggles, but my mom’s lighter (not white, mind you) but lighter skin, was always an issue.  Minita was always referred to as the dark one and Isabel was the light one.   

I will digress for a moment to point out here that when I was in elementary school my idea of a beautiful girl was a blond with blue eyes.  I remember being in Texas with my dad’s family and being given the choice of two dolls:  the blond or the brunette.  I chose the blonde, named her Mary and she still lives with my parents.   My daughter is blondish and has blue eyes.  She epitomizes my early ideals of beauty, yet my girl doesn’t see it, which just blows my mind.  Physically, this child is everything I dreamt I could/should be.   She sees faults – but that digs deeper into what our society is doing to all of our girls. 

So, my parents were married in October 3 of 1970.  As I said earlier I was born on February 2, 1971.   I was not a preemie.  Yes, I figured this out at an early age and it was a topic NOT to be discussed at our house.  Though as I got older I did hear the story about Mami throwing her engagement ring down during a fight with her fiance, my dad.  She threw it inside the car and not outside the window. The ring could be recovered!  I am cognizant of the fact that if my parents had not married, my life would be so different.  My mom would probably have stayed in Panama.  Would she have married another American, or married at all?  Would I have learned English?  Where would I have gone to school? Would I have gone to college? Would I still live there now?

I wanted to be white growing up.  I noticed the financial advantages that came with that.  Though my Beatty grandparents struggled financially, as a child I was already able to see the fruit of their sacrifices in their children.  My dad and his siblings were all college educated and my uncles all had good jobs.   My Ramos grandparents lived in a humble home in a humble part of town.  I noticed this.  As a child, I attached this to color. At one point in my childhood  I remember not wanting contact with my abuelito because I thought his darkness was contagious.

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My children consider themselves white.  They are white.  Their dad is white, of Irish German descent.  That they have only recently started appreciating their own ethnic background. This is because we talk about it now.  When I had three kids in diapers my life was about survival, and in order to get through the day I had to let go a little bit of who I am.  It took more than I had in me to speak Spanish to them.   I own the responsibility in this loss, but I am trying to rectify it.  My kids fight me though.  English is easier.

When I worked on my first resume,  I started to really acknowledge and appreciate the stuff that makes me uniquely me.  I landed on this path because of my history.   I have Livina’s eyes and Lola’s nose.  There’s a hint of Concho Ramos curl in my hair.  ”  All of my grandparents were incredibly hard workers.  Had they not been, I would not be here.