Brain-Picking Becky

BFF’s musings and reflections on this crazy life.

Resolution: Relax

Having two children is next level in every way imaginable: the busyness, the joy, the lack of sleep, the love, the extremely fast and disorienting pace in which it all goes by. Miles sits up now. Lewis reads (he reads!). The two of them cuddle and stare deeply at one another, full of adoration. Future arguments and fist fights feel far away; I’m sure when they arrive, they will feel too soon. Despite the fact that I spend a good chunk of my day staring at dates on a calendar, moving the logistics of our lives around like a near-impossible jigsaw puzzle, I can’t believe it’s already 2020. Time has become impossible to comprehend.

The passing of a year has marked me, too. My face and neck are wrinklier, my hair longer and wilder, my nerves a bit more frayed. Yet I am also happier, more focused, more impressed and in awe of myself than ever before. There is no confidence booster like birthing a baby in the backseat of a car; I can do anything now! And somehow, in the middle of this barely-controlled chaos also known as raising two kids, I feel more at peace than ever—or perhaps just more acquiesced, which, I suppose, is a version of peace.

PC243409.ORF.jpgMy mom’s birthday recently came and went, another marker of time that continues to confuse me. She would have been 66 this past Christmas Eve. We ate pinto beans with a ham hock over cornbread, followed by cookies we’d made from her handwritten recipes. She was all around us, happy in our offerings. I like how death and birth stop time. Or rather, how they take us beyond time. Time doesn’t stop, it refuses everything except forward motion, but in death and in birth, we go beyond.

2019 was so extremely full. Beautiful and powerful and transformative, but also, A LOT. I am ready for a year of less, though of course I have no control over how much, or how little, comes my way. Perhaps it’s wiser to let go of any expectations and instead find more moments to relax even within all the muchness. Time won’t slow down, but I can.

What is Work? Why At-Home Work Matters + New Essay in MUTHA Magazine!

What is work? Why do we value one type of work and not another? What are we teaching our children about work?

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“It’s All Hard Work,” my recent essay published in MUTHA Magazine, explores the day-to-day of raising a kid, teaching, homemaking, and trying to find peace in the middle of it all, which can feel like a real challenge sometimes given how much work there is to do. And this is how I feel with a partner who does laundry, shuttles pets to the vet, drops kids off at daycare, and even cooks. Can’t imagine parenting with a partner who doesn’t contribute like this!

But the sad truth is, many people around the world still believe that at-home work is “women’s work,” despite the fact many women work outside the home. More insidiously, this line of thinking enforces the gender binary while erasing the male, transgendered, and nonbinary folk who contribute to the housework and/or stay at home with their children. It also perpetrates the false idea that gender somehow affects a person’s ability to wash a dish, fry an egg, or change a diaper.

IMG_0324Another false idea that too many people still believe: at-home work doesn’t contribute to our economy. What bullshit! People who do this at-home work are enabling other people to do their work; no one can focus in an office with unsupervised toddlers running around, no one can wear smelly clothes to a meeting, and no one can complete any kind of work without eating. If someone else is cooking for you, washing your clothes, and taking care of your kids, you’re presumably also more rested and thus able to work better, as you aren’t doing any of this extra work for yourself. Stay-at-home parents should be getting paid for their contributions; the fact that they aren’t isn’t a reflection on the person but rather on our society. 

But an even bigger reason to call bullshit on the economy argument: people DO get paid for this work! 

Enter the intersectionality of sexism and racism. Our society devalues at-home work in part because the home was historically the woman’s domain while the professional world was created for and by men, but we also devalue it because of our country’s history of slavery. Our collective definition of work, and of worth, is based on a set of systems and beliefs created and held by colonists, mainly rich white men who owned slaves and thought  \black people were not even fully human. When our founding fathers wrote our constitution and created our legal system, they were not thinking about how to protect and value all types of people and all types of work. They viewed childcare, dishwashing, housekeeping, etc, as chores that were beneath them and therefore to be completed by those who were also beneath them. To earn money for this type of work was unfathomable. Even more unfathomable was the master of the house contributing to this work.

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In our post-slavery, post-Civil Rights era, things haven’t changed all that much. Most housecleaners, nannies, dishwashers, etc are BIPOC and/or immigrants. Most are working for white people of a higher socioeconomic class. Most are paid under-the-table without any benefits or protections, some not even earning minimum wage.

I’m not saying that all white men are racist, that they’re all in a position of economic stability, that they never work in any of the jobs I mentioned above. What I am saying is that our society’s racist and sexist ideas about work are learned. They are woven into our economic, legal, and politic systems and passed down generation by generation. When I observe and listen to my four-year-old child, it’s clear that he finds at-home work to be valuable, to be worthy, to be completed by every member of our household. The idea that this work is undignified and should be relegated to women and/or BIPOC is not innate. This means that we can unlearn these ideas. We can also stop teaching them to our children. But that alone isn’t enough. We also have to try to fix the damage that’s been done.

To start: tip service workers better, including those who clean your house, wash your clothes, prepare and serve your food, and take care of your kids.

Other ways to act: support organizations that demand fair wages and protections for these workers. Present your kids with a model in which everyone contributes to at-home work. Analyze our country’s inherently sexist and racist systems and elect people who will change them. Dig deep into yourself and examine your own biases. Write about it. Talk about it. Change it.

Another idea: read my essay in MUTHA. 😉

“Parallel Planes: The Ghost of Mothers and Daughters” published in The Rumpus!

Parallel-Planes_1If I hadn’t been able to end my second pregnancy with Baby Wow, my new baby Miles wouldn’t be here with us today.

Abortion is family planning. Abortion is a life-saving procedure. Abortion is often the best choice. And this choice has nothing to do with the government or a court but everything to do with the individuals going through it.

I wanted the baby I lost. But when we learned about her lethal chromosomal disorder, continuing the pregnancy – with all its physical risks and with all the trauma it would have caused to myself, Dave, and Lew – was not the right choice.

Women’s stories have been stolen. Our truths about our bodies have been twisted into something unreal yet believed by so many people. These false narratives then go on to inform public policy and ruin lives. Meanwhile, we are told to be quiet, to hide our pregnancies, to hide our miscarriages and abortions, to even hide our periods.

No matter the reasons behind a person’s choice, it is their choice. My choice was hard, messy, emotional, traumatic, and I am grateful for it.

Thank you to The Rumpus for giving me this opportunity to share my truth.

You can read the essay here, accompanied by beautiful artwork by Clare Nauman.

Two-Kid Full / Two-Kid Tired

Ever since I was little, I knew I wanted to have two kids. It was just one of those things; I wasn’t going to be fully satisfied until it happened. And now I have them, and they’re amazing, and I am so full of love that my heart explodes a little every day.

But holy shit I am also so exhausted. Like, layers upon layers of exhausted. My head hurts. My eyes are sticky. My muscles are sore, and not from the core-strengthening and cardio my body craves, but instead from the repetitive use of the few muscles it takes to hold a 15-pound creature in the exact same position every day, to the point that my bicep now clicks and my lower back tingles. Throw in the neck aches from breastfeeding and the torturous routine of sleeping in three- to four-hour spurts, and I am wrecked. Yet I still have to perform at work. I still have the unignorable urge to write and sing and create new music. I still want (need!) to be a regular person who does things like go out with friends, have sex, and watch Netflix without passing out immediately.

I know it will change. I know it will get easier. I know I will one day look back and think of how quickly it all went by. It already feels fleeting, like time just passes through me and constantly catches me off guard.

And yes, I am very much enjoying the squishy cheeks and squeezy thighs, the sweet cuddles and easy giggles, my four-year-old’s sense of humor and his passion for dinosaurs. I am especially enjoying my two kids together – witnessing the love they already share is one the best experiences of my life, and I get to have this experience on a daily basis.

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But despite this, it also feels like I will never feel rested ever again. Like my body will always hurt, my mind will always be foggy with exhaustion, my life will always be centered around children and their needs. I am content, but also, it sucks sometimes. So just let me be in it, let me whine, let me wallow a little, or else my easily-accessed hormonal anger will flare up and I’ll say something I won’t have the energy to regret.

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P.S. I have no idea who created that hilarious and accurate meme, but if you do, please leave the source in the comments.

P.P.S. There is so much spit-up. Just so much of it.

Trusting the Process

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I wanted so badly to be done with my novel, to send my manuscript off to agents then try to forget about it until one day, that magical email from someone just dying to represent me popped up in my inbox.

Yet I stalled on emailing any agents. I blamed my delay on nerves and fear, told myself to push through it, finally sent out three queries. But then I stalled again, despite the spreadsheet of 20 other agents’ contact info sitting in my Google docs.

I kept telling myself to stop making excuses. It’s been five years already! Send it out, let it go.

Finally, I meditated on it and listened to my gut: “Don’t rush, Becky. This is your one chance to find an agent. Ask another reader for comments. Give this book all the time it wants.”

It turns out that my new reader not only caught a handful of errors (look at those post-it notes!) but also made a comment that led to an enormous breakthrough on a section I’ve never felt 100% about. I am now back to work, and it feels great.

Another breakthrough: The agents will be there when this book is ready, whenever that may be. And even then, no one may want it! But I believe in Bone Girl, I believe in the process, and I will see my book through to whatever end is in store for her.

To all my artist friends out there: enjoy your acts of creation, no matter how long they may take.

P.S. That glimpse of gorgeous artwork is brought to you by Letisia Cruz!

A Bear is Born

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Anyone who lives in New York City is bound to see a celebrity at some point.  Being incredibly unobservant, I went five years without a single sighting.  Then, within just a few months, my little section of Brooklyn was transformed from a quiet, family neighborhood into a star-studded, hipster playground.  Believe me, this part of Greenpoint was not fancy.  But because there were numerous abandoned warehouses scattered along West Avenue, a litter-filled, broken strip of pavement on the East River that boasted a frightening amount of alley cats and a gorgeous view of Manhattan, quite a few television networks moved in: Boardwalk Empire built their 1920’s New Jersey boardwalk two blocks away, Lena Dunham and her girls with great hair yet no self-esteem moved in three blocks southward, and CBS took over a warehouse down the street to film their Broadway-meets-television flop Smash.  Our peaceful corner of the world had been discovered.

Contrary to what you might imagine, this hubbub wasn’t glamorous or exciting.  In fact, it sucked.  Whereas we once always found a parking spot right outside our building, we suddenly had to park a ten-minute walk away because trailers and equipment needed the street instead.  Crew members yelled at us for walking our dogs through their set, also known as the public sidewalk, and fans hoping to catch a glimpse of so-and-so clogged the delis, whose owners jacked up the price of a Modelo six-pack from six to nine dollars (for cans, mind you, not even bottles).

But this was our home – a rent-stabilized home with a yard, no less. My husband and I and our dogs, a mixed breed named Basil and a Boxer named Bear, loved that yard.  So, in order to keep it and to swallow the neighborhood transformation a little more easily, I devised a plan to turn us into super stars.  Or, more exactly, a plan to turn Bear into a super star, fulfilling the rags-to-riches dream I felt she so deserved.

— ◊ —

A few years before this transformation began, Dave and I enjoyed a honeymoon cruise to Bermuda.  Overflowing with giddy love the night we returned home, we visited our local bar and, drunk on beer, marriage vows, and personal pinball records, ran into our neighbor, Adam, standing on the corner with two big dogs, his Rottweiler named Zeus and Sarah the Boxer.

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“Why do you have Sarah?” Dave slurred.  She belonged to another neighbor of ours, a Polish man we often saw walking on West Avenue, and we’d never seen her with anyone else.

In his typical bro manner, Adam replied, “Well, dude, I hate to lay this on you, but her owner died this morning.”

As we pet sweet, stinky Sarah, Adam explained how her owner had been an alcoholic who lived in his broken-down car in the lot behind Adam’s house.  He’d get drunk and wrestle with her, to the point that they’d both draw blood on one another, then pass out in a pile in the backseat.  Adam discovered the man’s body earlier that day because Sarah, sitting on the pavement beside the open passenger door, was barking nonstop; her owner had died from alcohol poisoning that morning and his seemingly final act was to let his dog out of the car.  This was all shocking news to us.

“She’s a good girl, but I can’t keep her,” Adam said, gesturing at his already 100-pound Rotty who was only a year old.  “I don’t know what to do, man.  I just can’t have both dogs at my place.  This breeder in New Jersey was supposed to pick her up thirty minutes ago, but now he’s not even answering his phone.”

“No, no, we know this dog!” Dave exclaimed.  “You can’t give her to a breeder.  We’ll take her for the weekend, find someone who will spay her and be good to her.  Right, honey?”

“Yes, definitely,” I replied, knowing it was a question with only one answer.  But even if I’d had a choice, I still would have agreed.  Sure, she stank, she jumped, she licked, and, to be honest, I thought she was ugly, but, as Dave said, we knew this dog.  We could take a weekend out of our lives to find her a loving home.  Plus, little Basil would go nuts over a house guest.

I should have known what I was getting into when I first saw the look on Dave’s face as he listened to Sarah’s story, but I’d never “fostered” a dog before and honestly believed it would be a two-day commitment.  By the end of the weekend, our decision to keep her came down to a moment when Dave and Basil were both looking at me with pleading eyes, and I just couldn’t say no.  I blame it on the honeymoon vibes.

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— ◊ —

My love vibes had vanished by the time the neighborhood usurpers moved in, however.  (more…)

A Message to White Progressives

We call ourselves progressive, but what are we actually doing to progress our society toward a more just and equal future?


Too many children across our country open their history textbooks to a page like the one pictured above. I understand that most parents want to protect their children’s innocence for as long as possible, but when we use language like “brought millions of workers” to teach our kids about this country’s history – about the way white people kidnapped people of color, stole them from their homes and forced them to work in brutal conditions for masters who committed horrible atrocities against them – we are not protecting our children’s innocence. We are not making them safer. We are not helping them. Instead, this language – this lie – is protecting, saving, and helping white supremacy. And in teaching these lies over and over, we have created generations of adults who don’t understand how our history connects to our present, how the fact that our country was established on the idea that white people are inherently better than everyone else means that our black and brown neighbors are still being systematically oppressed and murdered.

I’m not saying we need to share every gruesome detail with our eight-year-old kids. But we do need to tell them the truth in terms that they can process. Let’s start with “enslaved people” instead of “workers,” for example, and “stole” instead of “brought.” I understand the desire to present our children with a world full of peace and love, but instead of pretending like that’s true, let’s make it true. Right now, eight-year-old children of color are being forcefully separated from their parents. They are starving in cells where they’re held without reason. They are witnessing the violent shootings of their fathers and uncles, often committed by police officers who are supposed to be protecting them. Compared to this reality, using words like “enslaved people” and “stolen” when talking to young white children is nothing.

The fact that we recently elected such a diverse Congress filled with various races, ethnicities, religions, genders, and sexual orientations is thrilling to me. Representation matters, and voting for these candidates was huge. I do believe our children will benefit positively from growing up with this. But y’all, we have so much more to do! Voting in diverse people was step one. Now we need to demand legislation to end gerrymandering and reform our election processes – two ways in which the U.S. government currently operates against BIPOC (Black and Indigenous People of Color). We need to call the principals at our kids’ schools and review the way slavery and race relations is taught. We need to write emails to textbook publishers and explain why pages like the one above are not acceptable. In an age where so many of us are always on our phones, there’s no excuse for not regularly calling, emailing, or posting on social media about these issues.

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Original t-shirt available now at Black on Black.

We also need to recognize that while these actions are important, altering our system from within isn’t enough. In order to be true allies, we need to put our bodies and our money where our tweets are. We need to show up at Black Lives Matter protests, patron local businesses run by BIPOC, donate to their organizations, read their books, visit their art exhibits, buy their music. Don’t think of these efforts as a one-and-done situation, but rather plan out how you can incorporate this into your regular routine. Maybe Sunday brunch can be at a local, black-owned restaurant like Daleview Biscuits and Beer. Or maybe all your friends can get birthday presents from a company like Black on Black. Or maybe instead of going to the same club every Saturday, you can try a new place featuring DJs of color. Taking action doesn’t have to feel like work.

But you know what does, and probably should, feel like work? The self-analyzation that needs to come along with these external acts. Healing our country requires that we white people look honestly inside ourselves, that we dig deep to figure out what’s buried in there from our own childhoods. A good starting point is to think back to what you were taught about the discovery of our country, our founding fathers, slavery, Jim Crow, lynching, and/or the Great Migration. What did your textbooks say? Hell, I wasn’t taught about Jim Crow or the Great Migration in school, but when I think back to my elementary social studies classes, lessons on slavery were definitely brief and always ended with how Abraham Lincoln, a white man, was a savior. Lessons on our founding fathers similarly focused on their positive traits, how they were strong, smart, and brave. And the pilgrims were to be heralded as the bravest of all because they fled persecution in their homeland, found a new home, fought for it, and flourished.

Now, let’s reframe these lessons using more honest words. For example, the pilgrims didn’t just fight for their new home, they actually committed genocide, or, “the deliberate and systematic destruction of a racial, political, or cultural group” – i.e., the Native Americans. And our founding fathers may have been strong, smart, and brave in some ways, but they were also terrorists, as in, they “advocated and practiced the systematic use of terror, especially as a means of coercion.” Diving further into Merriam Webster, terror is defined as, “violent and destructive acts committed by groups in order to intimidate a population or government into granting their demands.” What was slavery if not violent and destructive acts – beatings, lynchings, rapes – committed by groups of white people in order to intimidate a population of black people into granting their demands to work the fields, cook dinner, clean the house, have sex, etc?

For many of us, this process feels wrong. It goes against everything we’ve been taught, and it feels blasphemous to think this way about George Washington, our great American hero. But we can’t let our discomfort keep us from doing the work – remember, BIPOC are still being systematically murdered because we white people don’t want to feel uncomfortable about the reality of our country’s history. Instead of running from or explaining away our feelings, we need to be in and examine them. No one is saying you owned slaves or committed genocide. We so easily get defensive and start tossing around blame instead of being in our own emotions. The wrong-doing here isn’t the act of applying the word “terrorist” to our founding fathers. What’s wrong is that we’ve been taught to worship these white men while ignoring the rest of history. We as a country have never implemented a collective practice to reconcile our past with our present, to decolonize our society, to dismantle white supremacy. In fact, we celebrate it! And because we’ve never truly addressed what our white forefathers did to the African Americans and indigenous people, much less tried to amend it, we are incapable of fully addressing and amending what is currently being done to these populations.

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Eighteen-year-old Nia Wilson died on July 22, 2018 after her throat was slashed in a hate crime.

Sure, we’ve outlawed slavery (except in prisons, which are disproportionately filled with black people working for little to no pay), we’ve granted people of color the right to vote (then created tons of obstructions to purposefully block them), we’ve passed the Civil Rights act (then did not enforce it), but these amendments have been treated as an end rather than a beginning – a measly beginning, at that. And now here we are, feeling defensive and claiming “not me,” or “I’m one of the good ones,” or “It’s not fair to lump all white people into the same category,” basically refusing to get past our own egos, insisting that our immediate reaction is more important than whatever anyone else may feel, thus blocking ourselves from truly examining how we benefit from and even contribute to white supremacy, no matter how unintentional it may be. And because so many of us white people keep getting stuck here, people of color keep getting murdered. No, I am not the one who shot Maurice E. Stallard and Vickie Lee Jones in a Kroger store while yelling racist slurs, nor am I the one who stabbed Nia Wilson to death in her car. But I am a part of a society that allows this to happen. I am a part of the race that perpetrates it. And as long as so many of us continue to deny our role, nothing will change.

It’s okay to be ignorant. It’s okay to not understand. But it’s not okay to stay like that. Our kids are watching us – all of us, including those who aren’t parents. We have the resources and the power to change things, so please, let’s do the work and make some real progress toward a better future.

Resources for Learning More and Taking Action:


Instagram Accounts to Follow:

There’s an inspiring and educational dialogue happening on Instagram about race relations, art, music, gender identity, American history, and how this all intersects. Do not follow these accounts if you have not already started on your own work. It is not okay to go into their spaces and be disrespectful or to center the discussion around yourself. This is a wonderful opportunity to listen to and learn from others. Don’t waste it.

 

Images:
1. McGraw Hill textbook via Diversity Inc.
2. Black on Black original design.
3. Nia Wilson via CNN.

Writer’s note: A previous version of this post used the word “slaves” instead of “enslaved people.” I have since learned about the phrase “enslaved people” and prefer it to “slaves,” as it demonstrates the idea that slavery was done to a person rather than the idea that a person’s identify was being a slave. However, others feel that “enslaved people” is too polished, and that it glosses over the dehumanizing experience of slavery. Yet another testament to the importance of language.