What I've Noticed: A Covid Blessing

December: 2020 ~ Corona virus is raging. I know. This isn't news.

As I write this, 1.54 MILLION people have died worldwide, 282,000 of which were in the US.  Vaccines are coming and amazingly, they seem to be able do the thing we want them to do --  which is to work. But vaccines coming are not the same as vaccines here and of course, there's more to it than that.  We need everyone to agree to get one. We also need to stay smart the whole time those vaccines go to work.  While this future is not a mirage, it's also not yet here. We still got weeks and months to go with all this, all the virtual classes, virtual dinners, virtual religious gatherings, virtual...everything. 

I'm tired of COVID. Talking about it, working around it, fearing it. Just sick of it. I almost didn't start this entry.  Honestly, more of this???

But I realized something today, and it nudged me.

In the last few weeks and months, people have offered the phrase "Covid blessing" in conversation. I have heard it said as gratitude for time not spent commuting, for time not having to travel for business, for not having to spend excessive time and money on clothes. Much of the commonality here is a sense of found time, which for some has been a surprising delight after many years of facing employment expectations in a prescribed -- or at least routine -- way. Everything changed and the world opened up, rather than closed. 

As someone who commuted between 3-4 hours each day, I understand that response, but I can't call it a covid blessing. Though grateful for less time commuting, I know this was a shift, but for me not a terrifying plummet into unemployment which it has been for so many. 

People have written about what they've done: baking, gardening, crafting, running, reading. For some, it sounds like self-sufficiency; for others, a necessary escape. Both sound valid. I hope when the "after" time comes -- whatever that means -- those things don't fall away.  I've always seen them as vital and nourishing. But even this is what I think of as life, not a special blessing. 

Recently, a group I was talking with (Zoom meeting, of course) began to talk about attendance for virtual religious services.  We realized that while not quite all the "regulars" were attending, almost as many were, and more importantly, those who were seem more engaged than in recent memory.  Also, people from all around the country were joining services because they could. Numbers have stayed solid. Some organizations are gaining. It' seemed surprising, given what virtual gatherings are. 

Virtual gatherings on first glance are something-not. They are not in person, so therefore, not real. Less than. And if you are someone who periodically sees the words: Connection to wifi is unstable floating on your screen. well, Zoom meetings can go from just "different" to ungodly stressful. How quickly can you type in the chat: I'm about to lose wifi. If I disconnect, I will get back as quickly as I can. (?)

But here's the thing. At a fairly intimate meeting last week, during which some very personal information was shared -- and tears were shed -- someone observed that even using Zoom as our connector, the feelings were as real and honest as they could ever be "in person".  The truth is: we ARE in person. We are just using technology to relay our humanness. 

I have had many virtual meetings, gatherings, and services in the last months. What struck me today was that we've had new people attending our church, and I am getting to know them better and more quickly than I probably would in a non-Covid time. There may be multiple reasons why this is true; certainly, people who are showing up want to show up. They are making a choice to be engaged. But at the very heart of it is something incredibly simply: we are literally seeing each other. 

In a normal week, no matter where I sit in a group, I am only seeing the faces of a few people. Even in a round-table setting, I am closer to some than others. In a Zoom meeting, it is a level playing field. Face forward, we are with each other. We are seeing each other. 

Yes, I know. Some stay off camera. Me, too. I like wearing sweats to church and when I do, it's an off-camera presence. 

But I feel like there is something so basic, so wonderful about just seeing everyone. Simultaneously.  Though I know there is nuance of body language that gets missed, I also think for some, there is also a comfort and safety of being virtual. And that, to me, really IS a covid blessing. 

The last ten months has given us a new perspective. What happens a year from now, who knows?  Whatever good we've gotten from this weird, awful time should not be abandoned. My hope and my prayer is the way forward takes the best of whatever blessings we've received and keep them going. 

I probably won't see you in person any time soon. And though it's a shame -- I really, really miss hugs --  I also know that I can see you. When my wifi cooperates, I can see your face and hear your voice and be with you. And for that, I will be blessed.

Peace

On Family

 Last Friday morning, I took a flight down to Richmond, Virginia. My 92-year-old uncle, the last of that generation of MacPhersons, had passed away, and we were coming together to honor his life. This is still the time of Covid, of course, so it meant the service would be virtual.  Wearing a mask and doing extra handwashing was nothing, if it meant I could be with my people in grief. 

My people. My family. As a kid, I didn't spend time with extended family. My grandparents were dead and I only knew a couple of cousins vaguely. Later in life, I heard about families who had reunions.  Family reunions: groups of related people who met joyfully in groups, sometimes wearing matching t-shirts, sharing stories and playing games. It sounded as amazing to me as it was unimaginable. 

In my twenties, I began reaching out to these people I didn't really know. To my delight, what I discovered was that they were there. They were as happy to get to know me as I was them. It felt then -- and now -- miraculous.  When I heard stories from them, what I got was my history. I discovered that one of my grandmother's cared deeply about documenting family history and had made up beautiful photo albums, all lovingly annotated with dates and locations. My heart sang with joy. Someone else had taken the time to answer questions I had, years before I'd asked them -- someone who was connected to me, even though we'd never met. 

I have now taken on the role of family historian. To me, that means that I am happy to tell stories to the curious. To put the pieces together. Knowing more about the past is lovely but what my cousins and I have come to understand is that we don't live there. Our place is here, now.  

On Saturday night, my cousin and I sat on her couch, opening sympathy cards together.  The task seemed overwhelming, but she put them in a bag and suggested we take turns, drawing them out and reading them out loud to each other. We did that for hours. Some made us laugh; others made us cry. This is our now. 

Below is the eulogy I wrote for her Dad, my beloved uncle. 

Peace.

Rev David H MacPherson: A Life Well Lived ~ in Memoriam

The last time I spoke to my Uncle David was on the night of his birthday: September 23^rd, two days before he died. We talked for an hour and a half, which was a longer-than-usual phone call for us. I sang him Happy Birthday all the way through, and during the conversation, we laughed -- and we cried --which was pretty normal.  At one point, he told me he was ready to die. I knew this already because he’d been saying it for years. We’d heard it before.  This time, though, he told how good he felt knowing we were all okay and in good places in our lives. Dianna had a great job and was with Greg, who was a fantastic guy. Erin was flourishing in a career that she loved, and Ian was home from serving the country and had recently been using some of the tools he’d given him. These were some woodworking tools of my Grandfather’s and it gave Uncle David a deep joy to know that Ian was cherishing these tools that had been in his father’s hands and his own.

“I’m so grateful for everything I was given…where and when I grew up and with the family I had,” he said.

If you ever talked to Uncle David, you probably heard him say some of this, too.

He grew up on Charnwood Road in Somerville, Massachusetts, the youngest of the three MacPherson boys.  They lived in a two-family house that his uncle Carlton had built.  His father, Harold, was a master plumber who had served and gotten hit with mustard gas in France during the First World War and his mother, Doris, was the one who held down the home. I’m sorry I never got to know them.  Over the years, I heard stories from Uncle David, his brother Robert, and my Dad, Wally. I am one of the few people now who can accurately report that the MacPherson house in the 1930s and 40s was clearly a raucous place to be.  I heard all three of them tell me the same jokes that their father told them.  He was clearly a character. They had two cats – Pat and Mike – that they loved but also seemed to need to tease by walking them around on two legs. They each got their favorite dessert on their birthday – which for Uncle David was a maple-frosted cake. My Dad told me about antics that featured him and Uncle David -- both pranksters at heart – ganging all their youthful energy up on Robert, who was the straight man of the group.  They short-sheeted his bed, moved his things leading him to believe he’d lost them, and made excessive noise when he was trying to study.  This lasted as long as they could get away with it, which was usually about when their mother found out and then sound of her yelling “HAROLD!!!” could be heard down the block.  Interestingly enough, my grandfather, seemed to have taken the side of Uncle David and my Dad. They had their family dynamics set.

Uncle David’s childhood was pretty idyllic, by his account. They had Sunday dinners with the family after church. They listened to the Lone Ranger, Fibber McGee and Molly, and The Shadow on the radio.  They took trips to historic sites and they visited the family in Falmouth Mass, where they could all go target shooting.

It was also a life that was centered around the West Somerville Universalist Church. Every summer they went to Ferry Beach, the Universalist camp in Maine. It’s clear that so much of his grounding came from those days and those people. I was lucky enough to know one of them. Alice Harrison – Rev DOCTOR Alice Harrison – offered religious education for teenagers both at Ferry Beach and at her church in Lynn MA where she was their first female RE director. I got to know her when I moved to Boston and started attending First and Second Church. She was a force to be reckoned with, and she actively encouraged Universalist youth to consider ministry. The day I met her, I was speaking to the minister, introducing myself when she overheard me and came right up, excitedly telling me she knew my dad, my uncles, my grandparents and that she was so glad that my uncles had gone into ministry. 

His youth seems to have been one which was full of love and of being held. He was held by family and held by the church community.  And I think you can see how this translated into his life’s work.

In this last conversation, we talked – of course – about my late aunt, his beloved Dottie. They met in high school and as Uncle David said: “That was it. She was the one.” I went to Richmond for a visit in the 1980s and when I got back, told my Dad how amazingly affectionate they were, especially for a couple that had been together for so many years. He told me: “That’s how they’ve always been, since the minute he met her.” And so, it was.

Uncle David also told me a story about some nights when after visiting Dottie, he had missed the last streetcar and had to walk home. I‘d heard this from my Dad too. I’m not sure about Uncle Robert but I know for a fact that both my Dad and Uncle David on more than one occasion ended up walking MILES just to get home after spending a night out late, visiting their romances. But the detail I hadn’t heard until September 23^rd was that when entering the house, they sometimes discovered that their dad was asleep with the door to the bedroom open. This was tricky because, as they well knew, their dad slept with a gun under the bed. Apparently, they’d developed an art to --in limbo-style fashion—slink their way in, low…past their parents bedroom door.

After graduating high school, he went to college at Tufts, that famous Universalist School, conveniently: right up the road.  Tufts led to Crane Theological School which took him into his life in ministry.

When Uncle Robert died two years ago, in his eulogy I recounted not having seen much of my uncles when I was little, and how in my 20s, I decided to reach out.  At the time, I was considering a career in ministry and since my lineage was as a MacPherson – literally: son of a parson – it meant that it was in my family’s blood. I decided that I wanted to know these men as family and from then on, developed special bonds with them both.

Though I never got ordained, I feel as called as I ever was and as engaged in ministry as I ever wanted –and much of this is because of this man we’re saying goodbye to.  I am who I am because of my family, all my people. He and I saw so much of the world the same way and we spoke the same language.  He just got me.

When we last spoke, he told me that he had been thinking about sermons again and that he had three more sermons he wanted to write. “After all those years of ministry, I finally know what I should be saying,” he said. I laughed at this and told him to write them – that I would find a place for him to get out the word. When I’ve told people this story, they ask me if he told me what they were going to be about. He didn’t. We can guess -- but even if we don’t know the words, we know what would have behind them.

Some people leave bigger holes than others. He leaves behind a chasm. Thank you for loving me, Uncle David. I promise I will keep up the work of putting love in the world -- and creating heaven on earth.

 

 

Picking Blueberries during Coronavirus

I picked blueberries yesterday. There's a farm just south of me, a place I like because of what they grow and how they grow it. It was hot but not miserably so, with an occasional breeze that felt *so good*.  I knew it would be a good day to pick, especially since this year, berries seem to be bursting on branches and canes. I wanted to put some in the freezer and turn some into jam.

I got to the farm around noon. There were cars but not a crowd. I wondered about the protocols for social distancing but saw that everything was laid out well. I was able to pick up my 2-quart cardboard basket easily, spritz on hand sanitizer and head out to the fields.

As soon as I got to the rows of blueberry bushes, I confirmed what I'd seen around: the branches were loaded. It was easy to choose a row and fill my basket with the beautiful berries.

I was "in the zone", picking, lost in my own thoughts, when I heard a small child whining. I realized that a mother with a toddler and a baby were one row over. The mom was trying to keep the baby in a stroller moving and explain to the toddler what to pick. The toddler wasn't having it. She wanted a drink. She wanted to eat. She was hot. She did not want to pick blueberries. The mother, exasperated, left the field and went off to find the girl lunch.

Over the next hour, I picked but also: I noticed.

In the entire time I was there, with the exception of one young couple, everyone coming to pick blueberries was a mother with one or more kids. There were two dads, but all the rest were mothers with children, from infants to probably 10 or 11.

I heard all the moms say the same thing to their children, almost verbatim: you pick only the BLUE ones. Not the green ones and not the purple ones. JUST the blue ones. Those are ripe and they're the good ones. It was obvious that this advice wasn't being strictly heeded.

I noticed that there were also groups of moms. They had come in pairs with their kids and I don't think it's a stretch to observe that they were coming to give the kids something to do but it seems like they came to talk.

I overheard moms checking information with each other. What are our options for school? What do you know about online programs? What are you doing for daycare? Have you been to a park yet and what was that like??  You could hear the anxiety in their voices.

I also observed that the farm had a teenager hired to patrol the blueberry patch, confirming that masks were being worn by all, including kids old enough not to yank it off immediately. He had an interesting and friendly approach. I was impressed. If he saw a group without masks, he would start by apologizing that he had to ask but...they really DID need to wear their masks, even the little one. I don't know if later in the day, parents reacted unpleasantly, but what I saw was surprise but not hostility. Masks were put back on.

I also saw moms who'd just had it. When one of their kids did something -- unseen by me -- I heard the reaction. "No, you do NOT DO THAT" "WHAT are you doing??" "I don't BELIEVE YOU."  The veneer that they had entered the farm with cracked open. The exhaustion, the frustration came spilling out. Whatever the child had done, I didn't know. I am a parent myself and in fact, over the years, have brought my own kids to this farm and to these blueberry bushes. I am no stranger to parental stress. But this felt different. I know I can't say exactly what was behind it but it sounded to me like the moms who had hit the wall. I wanted to go up to them and hug them deeply.

By the time I was leaving, I realized I wanted to write about what I'd overheard. Because all I could think about was that in spite of demographic shifts, here I was seeing moms doing the childcare. And just to be clear: there is NOTHING wrong with moms taking kids blueberry picking. As a reminder to anyone who doesn't already know, I am out to smash the patriarchy, not men.

But moreover: this is the toll that the pandemic is taking on the mental health of parents. I don't know what alternatives we have but for parents to be primary caretakers AND homeschool monitors -- with careers and outside employment -- with fall coming, meaning more of the same for the foreseeable future, makes this a terrifying and soul-crushing moment. Even in the best of circumstances -- whatever that means-- parenthood is not for the faint of heart. This is just beyond anything. It would be unimaginable, except that it's not.

What I am thinking about now is that when "this" is over, when kids are able to go back to the scenarios where they are outside the home for hours during the day, I want every coronavirus parent to get a freaking medal. More than that, I want all of them to be congratulated for surviving and get hugs and ice cream and cake and champagne and cola and a parade with all the applause in the world, a standing ovation, whatever it is that makes them feel celebrated.  My only wish is that I could pull this off.

As a side note, I want to say that I was able to do this because of my privilege. To choose when to go and pick fruit, to be able to have the money to afford to do so, is because I live a privileged live. Farm work is back breaking work, and migrant workers -- the ones who have little stability but do the MOST tiring, tedious, sometimes hazardous tasks -- suffer abuse daily. Unless it's egregious, we don't hear about it and in our consumer culture, we want what we want when we want it, we don't pay attention. Cesar Chavez was a hero of mine. I am no saint but I want to be honest with myself about this point.

So, know that if you are the parent, I am in awe of you. I don't know how you are doing it.

When a woman I know has a baby, I often tell her my story of post-partum depression. I do this and say: if you start to feel this way, reach out. To me or someone.

This is the way I feel now; it still feels like a rollercoaster. With school reopening (in some form), we are about to take another huge plunge down the track. Talk to someone if you need to. Talk to me. Reach out. I know the paper signs -- WE'RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER -- are everywhere, maybe to the point of invisibility, but it's still true. It's true when we remind each other that it is. We ARE all in this together.

Holding you all in love.

Peace.

 

On May 19th

I'm holding my Dad in my heart. He died 18 years ago today. Eighteen years feels like a lifetime ago, or maybe yesterday. Time is always weird though now, more so. Eighteen years ago, May 19th happened to be the Sunday after Mother's Day. My first baby had just turned one that March. Although he doesn't remember it, he knew my Dad. I have photos of him with my Dad -- radiating love the way he did, absolutely, unfailingly, even when it didn't make sense.

This baby -- now 19 -- told me he dreams about my Dad. And I do, too.  Dreams blur like watercolors, melting night-colors into the reality we call day. Wait. Was he there? Was it real?

When I began this blog, it was dedicated to him. I keep wondering what he would make of this current world. Mostly I am glad he isn't here to see it, particularly the politics. When he died, he had been sober for 28 years. He was an AA guy and he loved the program. I know it doesn't work for everyone but it did for him.  He had a drinking history with physical violence, something that those who knew him later when he was a therapist at a VA, might never have believed. When he met you, you began as his best friend. You had to convince him otherwise. AA transformed him.

But that's the thing about transformations.  Something becomes something else. That's the point. We are all transforming all the time, though we don't always realize it.

When talking about the dream, my son described the age that he thought my Dad was. "He'd be 94, if he was alive now," I said -- and realized that even when he died in his 70s, he never looked past his 60s, the decade-bridge I will cross this year. He never looked old; he's eternally young.

My Dad -- like his father and two brothers -- was a teller of jokes. Immature, silly, often inappropriate jokes. I like to think I take after him. My brother, too. In so many ways, both my brother and I walk our Dad's path.

This upside-down world we inhabit now calls us -- calls me, at least -- to ponder these points. I woke up thinking about May 19, the fixed attention of dates. I think about my parents frequently; really, today isn't exceptional, except that it is.

And honestly, I do wish my Dad was here. I could use his wisdom, his unshakable belief that I can do great things. I have navigated parenthood without either of my parents. I aim to channel their strength, to take what each gave me and let my children know that they have great inner light and they are stronger than they know.

Actually, I know exactly what Dad would say if he was here. We would talk on the phone every day because after my Mom died, that's what we did.  We would compare what we were hearing in the news, talk about how we were feeling, and what we're doing to cope. We would use colorful language, and when the conversation was ending, even with terrible possibilities still out there, Dad would say: "But I'm not going to drink over it. Keep hanging by your thumbs."

And that's the best advice I got for you today. Whoever you are missing, whatever feels lost. Keep hanging by your thumbs.

Peace

Life in a Time of Corona Virus

Thinking about this moment of weirdness, of corona virus, I've thought about writing. I started something last week, but then, tiredness overcame me and I didn't get anywhere.  This morning - though actually, it was 2 pm -- I began again and realized something about this blog. I tend to process life's events after-the-fact. If you are someone who makes sense or meaning out of things, certainly, it's a logical way to go. But now,  in this moment, well...our "after" is a long way away. We are in the midst, and I need to readjust my lens.

The wave hits me; it's dread. I know dread. We're old friends. Someone told me a couple of days ago that now, I need to disinfect all my groceries and it set me off. 

"WHAT?! NOW I need to disinfect my FOOD???" I exploded.

Immediately, I thought: Screw that. I'm done. I'm not cleaning my damn groceries.

But of course, I gave in. Now, I'm wiping down my groceries.

This is about control, something we think we have, but rarely do. And the thing about this phase, for lack of a better word, is that what's throwing us off is the rapidly changing scenario. The best analogy I can compare it to is when I delivered my second child who came so quickly that there was no time for an epidural. There were waves of pain that I didn't expect, couldn't control, and it was terrifying. There had been a plan or at least, a basic idea, but life threw that out of the window.

And the thing about this moment?  I don't know what I am terrified about and I really, really resent that. We are living in this time where every person I know if doing as much as they can to be rational, considerate, helpful and honestly: creative...for which I am just in awe. And yet, there are these waves of dread.

When I think about getting sick, I am not afraid for myself. I worry about others, especially the phenomenal, superhuman heroes: the doctors, nurses, chaplains...and all those who are working on the front line of life.

For those who grew up in dysfunctional families, the abnormal is normal. This feels all too familiar.

We have an administration that takes dysfunction to new lows.  I'm not going to say any more than that. I am skipping most of the news because it serves no purpose except to hit me in the gut and I don't need that.

My favorite novel is Love in a Time of Cholera by Nobel prize winner author Gabriel Garcia Marquez. There are many reasons to love it but for me, someone who believes in perseverance against all odds, it is glorious. It literally IS about a man who loves deeply in a time of cholera an endures greatly to be with his love. As we say where I work: That'll preach.

I mention it because it feels resonant. I hold to the sense of what always draws me back to his glorious prose: that sense of wonder and joy after enduring.

SO, we are in the midst, friends. Our "new normal", as some say. There are waves that hit us, then break.

I am still here and I hope you are, too. Holding us all up in love.

Peace.

On Belonging

Over the last few weeks, I have experienced moments of transcendence at work. Yes, really. If you've been reading my blog -- or if you know me -- you know that I love my job. I am not Pollyanna about it. It's work and I know it -- and it's work I am grateful to be able to do. But in the last month, I have experienced moments which have taken my breath away to the point where I want to write to the Universe and say: Thank You. For all the paths I could have taken, this meandering, fuzzy-lensed one got me this place where I have been able to connect with humans meaningfully and do something that's made me say: This is what I was born to do.

There were many delightful moments, too much to document here, so I will offer two details:

1. I was blessed to be the organizer for The HDS Film Festival, and in the process, combined my love of connecting people with eye-opening films, conversations and future collaborations. My stand-out day was Friday, Feb 7th, when we showed Gay Chorus: Deep South and the Oscar-nominated film: Honeyland.  The Director of Gay Chorus -- David Charles Rodrigues -- was able to join us for a lunch conversation as well as the scrreening and I was literally brought to tears when people who'd wanted to see the film were able to finally see it. Google the film if you want to know more about i and I encourage you to see it, if you get the chance.

2. On Wednesdays, we have a Noon Service, each hosted by a different group. Sometimes denominational, sometimes not, these services are occasions to experience "worship" (or not) as others live it.  (As an aside I will throw out the observation that what we have come to understand is that when you experience this, it can be both enlightening AND strengthing of your own beliefs -- not diminishing.) On the Wednesday after the film festival, I was part of the host group which was HDS Staff Members. We'd chosen a theme of "belonging", as a way to connect ourselves to the larger questions at the University -- who belongs? What does it take to feel like you belong? I offered a short reflection which follows. I volunteered myself for this because it is something I think and write about regularly, though I'd never had the chance to speak about it at HDS.

Below are some of my deepest truths.  I hope you find resonance.

Peace

BELONGING ~
Thirty years ago this summer, I went to a writers conference –and in the world of writing conferences, this one is a pretty famous. That August, I went to Bread Loaf. Set on the edge of the gorgeous campus of Middlebury College in Vermont, Bread Loaf is a ten-day opportunity for writers, editors, publishers, and agents to come together and do what we do – write, edit, brainstorm – as well as well as the real goal, which is schmoozing. I was 29 at the time, had just gotten an MFA in writing, and felt like I was part of something. I was stepping up. One unique detail about Bread Loaf is that there is a tiered hierarchy, among those who are accepted. There are three levels of attendees: those who are given full scholarships (usually those who have had some publishing success already) those who are given partial scholarships (writers with great potential but at Bread Loaf, must work off their scholarships, usually in the dining room waiting tables or working in the kitchen) and then there are the rest, who pay full freight to go. 

I was...in that last category. 

So there I was. And it was on the second or third day there -- everyone was still sizing each other up --when I was walking towards the “Barn,” where I was staying. I noticed a middle-aged man coming towards me on the path. We were just about to cross each other when he stopped, pointed to me and asked: “Hey are you someone?” I choked out a laugh, shook my head, and assured him that I was NOT. You can argue that I should have stood up tall and announced that of COURSE I was...and if a similar event happened now, I probably would. But. 

I have thought about that moment over the years. The desire, of course, was to be someone, someone with a certain amount of fame, part of that elite group. I knew that I did not belong to that club. I look back on it now, both appalled and unsurprised. It was a total set-up. But the thing about Bread Loaf – and I am absolutely serious when I say this – it really IS an honor to be invited to go, even if you pay. It didn’t believe it then, though.

When we have Orientation here at HDS each fall, something the Dean of Students makes a point of saying to each incoming class is: You belong here. The first time I heard former Dean, Maritza Hernandez, say it several years ago, I just about fell over at its beautiful truth . “We didn’t make a mistake accepting you,” she said. “You may think that everyone else belongs but you’re the exception. It’s not true.” 

Like many of you, I think about privilege a lot. I think about marginalized people a lot. I know I am unbelievably lucky in my job. One of the many blessings of my position is that I get to know students and hear their stories. I meet some who have lived through circumstances, have grown up with situations, and have been limited by factors that I haven’t experienced and couldn’t imagine. 

Feeling like you belong takes trust. Trust is earned. Each of us knows what it’s like to feel like you can’t trust or don’t belong. And the country, the world? It’s so, so much. 

But. Sometimes, change does happen. Last November, Bread Loaf announced that it was ending its Wait Scholars Program, which is what that tiered system was called. The New York Times reported that the conference was “changing its aid offerings after attendees raised concerns ranging from sexual harassment to racism to cutting into the seminars they came for in the first place.” 

A Wait Scholar from 2016 had written a blistering piece that finally, FINALLY, got the dinosaur to move. The following year, the assistant director, the conference’s -former director and the poet Michael Collier met with the waiters. One waiter said “All of us wept as we told stories of our working-class backgrounds and stories of racism and sexism and how this experience brought up those issues.” 

Of course, it did. 

Someday I’m going to get a shirt with the words emblazed on it: TELL ME YOUR STORY SO I CAN UNDERSTAND. To me, part of belonging means being seen and being heard. Each time someone tells me their story, where they come from, what they hope for, I know that I am being trusted with a connection. 

I want to put it out there publicly, wear it on a shirt, because I know I DON’T understand. I have no idea what it means to be a person of color today, no idea what it means to be a Native American today, NO idea what it is to be Muslim, a trans person, an undocumented person – an anyone. Anyone, except myself, really. And just being in this place where I am trusted with your stories is an honor. 

If I don’t know your story, tell me. Tell me your story, so I’ll understand. What brought you here? What are you going to do next? What’s your cat like? Can you cook? Most importantly, what kind of M & Ms do you like?

Life can be heartbreaking. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I promise you, when you stop by my desk for some M & Ms and tea, you are somebody. You belong.