On Learning and Privilege

In my professional life, I work at a college. Okay, not just a college, "the" college: Harvard. All implications, assumptions and connotations about prestige aside, for me, it has been the place where I have worked for twenty-five years. And I'm not saying "it's just a job." Though getting up and commuting an hour and a half each way definitely qualifies as a grind, Harvard IS Harvard and I am not going to say otherwise. But that's not my point today.

I work in an environment where every day, I am with others engaged in the business of education. Yet. Yet for me, most of my education was never in a school. I went to college and grad school and as I have documented here before (see previous post from June), I was a terrible student. No, really. Like: when I went to the guidance counselor at high school about applying to colleges, he said that I should only try the state schools, and even then, might need to do some additional work to get in. When I get in to the University of New Hampshire, did I learn my lesson and buckle down? Absolutely not. I was there to live, to experience, to write and to begin to figure out who I was. My grades reflected exactly who I was at that time. Flash forward my application for grad school. The wonderfully kind, former Dean and founder of the Writing Program at Emerson College called me up to say that they would accept me but that I would have to get grades up or I couldn't stay. He saw something in me, I guess, and Goddess bless Jim Randall wherever his final rest took him. I promised him I would. Certainly, it helped that I was doing the work that most held my heart: writing and thinking about writing. I kept my word to Jim and in my first semester accomplished something I had never experienced in my life: straight As.

But this ISN'T about getting good grades; this is me claiming what education means, and why I am so very grateful for what I have learned inside and outside of schools.

It's no secret to anyone who knows me or reads this blog that I am a progressive liberal, and that the current toxic political climate breaks me open every day.   Every day, new attacks are lobbed against the most vulnerable, most marginalized, in the name of an imagined Nationalist hysteria of victimization. Dark history repeats itself -- the one we said "never again" to  -- and still, the insanity continues. And those who care about the value of education...this value of knowing history... cry out: how can this be?

My faith tradition -- Unitarian Universalist -- claims as its first Principle: The inherent worth and dignity of all people. ALL people.  On social media, UU friends struggle. Yes, inherent worth and dignity, no matter what, even in uncivil times. "When they go low, we go high", Michelle Obama said. I remind myself of this.

This morning, I led one of the summer worship services at my church. In the sermon titled: A Wide-Eyed Theology, I put into words what I have been carrying in my heart for months. The challenge I have always understood -- grades notwithstanding -- is that it is my duty to learn more and to take what I have learned to create a better world, however I can.  If you believe in inherent worth, then what you must offer is love and a listening open heart. The Unitarian Universalist Association has been focused on owning what we  -- an organization that has benefited from white supremacy -- must do to change this history and trajectory. All these ideas were brewing as I wrote my sermon. Below is a portion:
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I think about white privilege a lot. I think about marginalized people a lot. The blessing for me being in the role that I am at Harvard Divinity School is that I meet students constantly who are going through, have lived through, have grown up with, and have been limited by factors that I have not personally experienced. So what I do is listen. I told a friend once that I want to get a shirt someday that says: TELL ME YOUR STORY SO I CAN UNDERSTAND.  

It’s a shirt I want to wear every day, forever, because we DON’T understand. We think we do and we believe we have good intentions. And maybe we do…but it’s not enough.   

Because here’s the thing: part of how “we are” includes a tendency to think that we “GET it.” You know what I mean. I’ve read Ta-Nehisi Coates. I wear rainbow pins. I know the difference between a hijab and a burka and I know there are a bunch of other head things that get worn. So I get it. Got it. Good. 

Do I get it? Do I? HELL no.  

I *want* to, though. I do. I want to arrive at that place of perfect clarity and understanding. Yes, I do but actually? 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.  

It’s a trap and it’s so easy to fall into it. Even for denominations. Because when you think you’re “there”, you stop looking and listening. You stop questioning where your actions come from – whether a place of honest effort – or a place of privilege. Is that what brought things to a head at the UUA last year? I don’t know. I don’t know but I CAN say that we damn well better learn from it. Because there is so much work for us to do. Always. We ARE called to build that beautiful city. ALL of us.  

For me, it’s simple: I plan to spend the rest of my life assuming I don’t – know- anything, that I just need to listen and learn.  For the rest of my life. 

I believe that as a non-person of color, if we aren’t outraged about both our history and our every day in America now, then we are using our privilege and are complicit. Period. 

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And I am grateful. I am grateful that somehow, through my academic bumbling, I was able to spend enough time to make some progress and use the craft of writing to find out what I think and string some sentences together. The bigger gratitude is to life: for putting me in places where I can meet the people and hear the stories. 

This blog post is incomplete: I recognize that. Each sentence branches out but will need to wait for future growth. 

For now, friends, if you have ever told me your story: THANK YOU. From the bottom of my heart: keep telling me. 

The encore for the day? Listen. Listen to the people and take the stories to heart. OPEN heart. When you hear and feel it, you will know what to do. Offer the world love. 

Peace. 

On the Joys of High School Reunions. Really.

I went to my high school reunion this past weekend -- my 40th high school reunion. Class of 1978. One thing you should know about my hometown in New Hampshire. Our school has the distinction of having the "oldest, active high school alumni association" in the country. It's a big deal. Every year on the second Saturday in June, there is a parade in the morning with many of the five-year and ten-year classes entering floats that fit that year's theme. There are local bands, civic groups, weird little cars with clowns, Sometimes, mascots for the Sox or Pats come. Other years, it's Clydesdale horses and Miss New Hampshire .Something like fifty units participate in the parade.  Like I said: it's a BIG deal. The riders on the floats throw candy to the kids lining the streets. In the middle of the day, the alumni association has a lunch and business meeting with any alumnus who wants to come, and later throughout the day and night, many of the classes - especially the five and ten-year reunion groups -- gather around town to catch up. They do this every year.

When I was growing up, I lived on the street where the floats lined up before the start of the parade. I always got up early to go check them all out, trying to guess which class would win for best float. I loved it every year,  so of course that also meant that I took it for granted.  In the 60s and 70s, my hometown was a mill town with several industries. It wasn't huge but it was considered a city in rural New Hampshire. There were paper and flock companies, a foundry, all places that were big employers. We had a lively downtown, main street culture. Then it changed. Factories began closing, and businesses left town. By the  late 80s, what had been a thriving community fell on its knees. I had moved out of state for college but each time I went back, I saw rapid changes. 

But back to reunions. When I talk about our this, people are usually amazed, to put it mildly. Actually, what I usually see is a mixture of disbelief and dread. First, there is disbelief that any school or town is so *obsessed* with this tradition and then the deeper, gut-level reaction comes. I see a kind of twitchy, anxious look on their faces, which means they are imagining how it would feel to go back and voluntarily spend time with the kids they went to school with. 

And I am the first person to say: I get it. 

If you are thinking that because my hometown had charming -- and yes, they ARE charming -- annual rituals that this somehow protected us from the crap that being a teenager anywhere, any time brings, then you are dead wrong. BELIEVE me when I tell you that for me, for lots of us, the teenaged, high school years were a special kind of hell. Was I bullied? Absolutely. Was I an "in kid", part of a clique? No. Everyone has their own version of this but mine was along the lines of: awkward, overweight, unmotivated teen who liked to write stories and sing but that was about it. So my grades weren't stellar and for reasons I won't belabor, I wasn't being pushed to try harder. And I didn't. 

The first reunion for my class was the five-year in 1983. I didn't go. Though I had managed to get myself into a state school and graduate, I didn't feel like I could go back because I hadn't done anything. In 1988, it was our ten-year mark. That year, I had just gotten a graduate degree in creative writing and I had lost a lot of weight. So that year, I went.  I went but it was ONLY because I thought that what I had done had made me "good enough" to go. Think about this for a minute.

I went to the gathering, having had a stiff Scotch before I even left the house, but I didn't stay for very long.  At one point, they gave out awards, like: who had come the greatest distance to get there, who had the most kids, etc. I found myself being given the award for being the "most educated" in our class that night, but only because my master's degree was an MFA, a three-year degree, and the others there with a Masters had earned an MA, a two-year degree. It was the perfect irony.

And after that, I just...couldn't get myself to go back. Our 20th, 25th, 30th, 35th... The reunions came and went and though I knew each time,  an eager group was building floats and getting together at night, I couldn't do it. Even after Facebook appeared, which showed it to me, I still felt like since. I wasn't a jock, an honors student, a cool kid -- I wasn't *anything* -- I didn't belong. 

In 2017, the parade theme for 2018 was announced: Broadway. It seemed like a great theme and knowing already that our class has a amazing amount of talent and creativity, I guessed that this would absolutely fire them up. I also decided one year ago that I was going to go; I called and made a room reservation right then. Because 2017 also had brought me my own personal challenges, I had already been rethinking how I saw myself in relationship to everyone. Revisiting my feelings about high school became a natural part of the process.

So, cut to the chase: Alumni Day 2018. Did I go? I did. Was it good? EVEN BETTER than I was hoping.

I got up on Friday and as I was driving into the truck yard where the group was gathering to finish up our float, for one second I thought: WHAT the hell am I doing? These people don't know me. What if no one talks to me? Yes, I was anxious. But I parked. Immediately, I was given a hug by someone who said she'd know me anywhere. From there, it only got better. Yes, there were butterflies all night. Classmates who routinely came to reunions said that this year was the first year where they had a hard time recognizing each other. So we introduced each other. What have you been doing? Where do you live? Do you have kids?

The next morning, our float full of about forty of us sailed through the town. We threw candy and waved, and when it was over, we dismantled it. A group of about a dozen of us went out to lunch and sat out on a patio by the river, making connections about who was where, who wasn't with us, who'd had surgery recently. Guys shared stories about their heart episodes. We discussed the appeal of living in a one-level house to be ready for "later". We shared stories comfortably, making connections and trying to remember who knew what when. Later that night, we had our official class party. It was easy, fun. We wore nametags, to be able to jump into the conversations.

I shared the suite I'd reserved with a classmate who I hadn't seen since graduation, though we'd reconnected on Facebook. It was the perfect opportunity to spend time with her. We both felt like at our age, the *crap* of our youth...just didn't matter anymore. We didn't discount it, and both remembered clearly how hard it was at times. But now, with  perspective, there is also, a letting go. If I hadn't gone, I wouldn't have known this truth.

A couple of other observations struck me. First, the fact that my hometown does this at all is amazing. I had no idea how rare it is. To have an alumni association to dedicated is incredible. The town is on the upswing now and doing better but  with miles to go before it's truly "thriving". That it has this tradition which allows for a timeless, and to me, kind of transcendent joy year after year, is remarkable. I use the word transcendent deliberately. Among my classmates who I talked to over the weekend were people who worked in jobs that ranged from doctors, lawyers, CPAs, nurses, teachers, landscapers ,to shift workers in the local gun factory, retirees, and store clerks. We talked about how we *were* and how happy we were to be together doing this crazy float-building thing. To transcend is to rise above.  Whatever BS we felt when we were 16, we rose above. It doesn't matter anymore. Perhaps it never did, but now, we know it.

And if you are wondering how that float of ours turned out? Well, it just so happens that we took first prize and carried that trophy with us the entire length of the parade.

And what to do for an encore? My soft advice to you is this: Go. Go to the reunion. I say it softly because I know it's hard. Push your heart to get out there and challenge your fearful assumptions. There may be community waiting for you, conversations to have, and new/old friends to make. But you won't know until you try.

The Beatles said it best: All You Need is Love.

Indeed.

In Praise of Celebrating Small Occasions

I have a friend who celebrates small occasions. It's not that she ignores big occasions, but as part of her professional life, she has learned that sometimes celebrating small occasions can be the more powerful tool.

She is an interfaith chaplain in an urban hospital, which means that not only is she versed in the rituals of multiple faith traditions but she has become aware of the life -- and death -- traditions of people from all over the world. She believes in the power of art and tangible items to help us honor and hold the power of each moment.  And I have benefited from this practice of hers, too.

For example, in February, she gave me a mug with a W on it. My name doesn't begin with a W but as I looked at this beautiful ceramic mug, with it's twining flowers and vines, she explained that she wanted me to know that she knew I was experiencing a mark in time. She was aware that I was holding it heavily and that the W stood for "Wonder Woman". She told me she was proud of me for my strength in the previous year. I was moved to tears, by the beauty of the gift and the loving gesture behind it.

I am a believer in this practice, too. My friend is a giver of cards, a remember-er of occasions. I rarely quote the Bible but one verse that has always been a powerful one for me comes from the book of Isaiah. Isaish 43:1, which in the English Standard Version is translated as:  "I have called you by name, you are mine."

This idea that something bigger than us -- for which you can use the word "God", if you like -- knows us that well and is calling us by name is a powerful idea. To be known so well that the smallest of moments can be held up and honored can go beyond language. For me, at least. 

SO today, I celebrate. And YOU are part of this celebration too. Last week was the anniversary of this blog. ONE YEAR of blogging. I know there are much more prolific bloggers than I but this is a mark of time I couldn't imagine reaching. 

One day at a time, as they say in AA. One post at a time.

So friends, thank you for listening and reading. I have appreciated the feedback you've given me. Go find some delicious cake or cookies, whatever strikes your fancy. Pour a cup of something hot and raise your glass. Cheers to one year...and onto the next. 

Salut!

On Knowing Gratitude

As I write this, I am sitting in front my fireplace, three layers clothes on and a comforter around my shoulders. There has been no power in my house for the last 26 hours due to a storm that has blasted the northeast all day yesterday and this morning, an unprecedented storm of wind and rain. A Bomb Cyclone, Bombogensis. That’s the word they’re using now. Historic flooding, hurricane-force winds. Our mayor announced that Quincy – which I understand is getting quite a bit of media attention including the Weather Channel – hasn’t seen anything like this since the Blizzard of ’78. Go us!

This morning, I attempted to leave my neighborhood but quickly had to abandon the idea. The high tides had been magnified by a full moon yesterday and didn’t exit, as they normally do. Marshes behind my and my neighbor’s yards were unlike anything I’d ever seen. Not just the usual look -- plumes of phragmites and and weeds, waving and rustling above pockets of water – but had filled up and became a flowing river, movement pushed by wind. The main road out of my peninsula neighborhood was cut off. I tried the other back-road way, only to find that the low-lying section of road had gushing water pouring over what had been street. Even my sturdy Honda CRV would have been swamped. I turned back.  We are an island. 

I write often about gratitude. You may be wondering: why now?

As I write this, I am sitting in front of the fireplace, as I said, many layers of clothes & comforter and now, in fact, I have a dog on my lap. Success, they said, is where luck meets preparation.  This morning, I saw houses that were islands, surrounded by water. I can’t begin to even guess how much damage is out there. But, my house is dry. Through some miracle of placement, just high enough above the worst of it, I dodged it. I am in the flood plain but somehow, missed it.

And I was ready to do what I could. A stash of wood, C batteries for the radio, flashlights and candles out.

SO my gratitude is for all of it. I am grateful that my basement is dry and that I know how to keep a good fire going.

The other piece which is always, always in my consciousness, is how many people in the world live so meagerly *all the time*, without hope of improvement, ever. SO many, torn by war and poverty, right now, in situations far more dire and terrifying than mine. Me? I have first-world problems. Dear God. When news of Syria comes on, I force myself to listen to ever detail, NOT turn it off because that is the definition of privilege. I sit in my car to charge my cell phone? That is NOT a problem; that’s a luxury.

When the power returns, as it surely will, it will feel luxurious. I will wash in hot water. I will take the dog for a walk, not feeling like I must stay to feed the fire. I will do laundry and bake bread in my oven. I will post this because the wi-fi will be back.

Yes, I am a lucky, lucky sister, and I know it.

Your encore for the day? Count your blessings. Do it.

Be grateful.

Peace.

A Remembrance of My Uncle

Last Friday, my Uncle Robert would have turned 93. He didn't make it to that birthday, passing away on January 20th. My uncle had a full life, no doubt. Two complete careers, a lover of opera, a booming voice and a devoted friend -- all are just part of who he was. He was also a cataloger of history. To understand the "then" of it, for many years, he traveled to see the "now." He and my late aunt traveled all over the world - England, Poland, Russia, Germany -- and with each stop, gained perspective on each location, each culture, each person.

Today, the blog contains reflections of him that I wrote for his memorial service.

And the encore for this is short and sweet, friends. No matter how long it is, life is too short. Be the loyal person, the one who stays in touch when you say you will. Sometimes it's a nuisance. It's a hassle to buy stamps, send cards, and make phone calls - especially in our era of incessant texting. There is nothing inherently wrong with texting. But life. Life is lived in the words and the connections. Be the connection.

Your encore for the day? Tell the people you love that you love them.

Robert Harold MacPherson:

I am Leslie MacPherson, daughter of Wallace MacPherson who was one of Robert’s younger brothers.  I didn’t see much of my uncles growing up. I knew I had two uncles, one older than my Dad and one younger, both Universalist ministers, one active in parish work and the other, who had moved onto a new career. Because of geographical distances, we only saw each other occasionally. In my mid-twenties, I decided that I wanted to change that and get to know them for myself. 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 blood. I decided that I wanted to know these men as family.

And so, I did. I took trips to Richmond where my uncle – Rev. Dave – served a church and to Asheville to get to know Uncle Robert better. The funny thing is that Uncle Robert didn’t want me to call him Robert. For all his formality, and the Boston accent that never quite left him, when we corresponded, he wanted me to call him Uncle Bobo. Which yes, I really did.

Each of you has your perspective on who he was. Here’s what I can tell you; He loved the Red Sox and was passionate about politics. He stayed on top of what was happening locally, nationally and back here in New England. He was as eager to ask me what I thought about national elections as he was to hear what the mayors in his hometown of Somerville, MA were doing. Side note: He was thrilled when I sent him an article last March about the current mayor who had declared Somerville a sanctuary city and when the Attorney General announced he would be taking away funding from these cities, the mayor announced: “Come and get me.”

https://www.boston.com/news/local-news/2017/03/29/come-and-get-me-somerville-mayor-says-to-sheriff-calling-for-arrest-of-sanctuary-city-leaders

I LOVED sharing that article with him. 

During one trip to Asheville, I asked him why he had left the ministry and gone into speech pathology. I’m there were multiple reasons, but what he said was that he still considered himself a minister. He’d left the parish but not the work. He defined ministry broadly.

It was a bit of a miracle for my family that he’d gone into that field. In 1993, my mother was diagnosed with throat cancer. She lost her voicebox to surgery and my family was thrown into a world of unknowns. I can’t even begin to express how grateful we all were when Uncle Robert mailed two state-of-the-art electro-larynx devices to my parents. HE was the calm presence who understood it all and could patiently explain to my mother and father how to use them to produce sound. He was their angel.

This past year, I have had my own trials. Without going into details, I will simply say that Uncle Robert has been one of my lifelines. At 92, he stayed connected to me, emailing me and calling me every week for months.   We would talk about the Red Sox and Elizabeth Warren, the state of the world, and what my kids were up to. He kept me upbeat, because that’s who he was. Yes, he was so smart, but he was also relentlessly positive. In a world besieged by heartbreak, Uncle Robert ended every conversation with “Let’s look at the bright side, shall we? What else is there?”

And indeed, what else IS there?

I will hold these words in memory, and I will be grateful for the time with him that I was given. 

Peace.