Racism

About six years ago I heard the CDC statistic that African American children are three times as likely as white children to die from accidental drowning. I asked myself why, started doing some research, and learned a history that started in making sure slaves couldn't escape via the rivers, traveled through segregated public swimming pools where separate was not equal, and continued its journey through the correlation of minority populations with low income and therefore limited access to swimming facilities. Add to the lack of swimming access a resulting natural fear of the water passed down through generations. It was the first time I saw structural, systematic, institutionalized racism and it literally killed children. 

I had been the typical southern conservative white girl. I figured affirmative action had done its job, I thought people cried racism because they wanted something without working for it. I believed in equality for everyone, I just thought we were already there, or at least we would be if people would stop dragging the past into the present.

But once I learned that statistic all I could see we're drowned children. Mothers and fathers crumpled next to a small casket. I cannot accept a world in which I ignore that centuries of oppression continues to kill children.

And so when mothers and fathers who are crying next to caskets of dark skinned boys tell me that this reminds them of something from those days when nooses hung publicly because everyone assumed that of course the black boy was wrong, I'm going to listen. I will listen when friends and neighbors and people all over an entire country join in to say, "We are him, because we know what it feels like to have eyes follow us around the store, to have women cross the street to avoid encountering us, to have police officers stop and frisk us just in case. We know what it feels like to be suspicious to people whose history and culture has told them that our dark skin holds dark motives."

I can appreciate a legal system that at least states that people are only found guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, but listening to those who tell me of the centuries of reasons why so many people doubt that their children are good and worthy of life breaks my heart. This is not the world I want to leave to future generations.

I believe that we have to acknowledge that racism still exists in order to move past it. While I always want to be aware of my "privilege" and the fact that I need to listen more than I speak on this issue, I also want to be someone whose not afraid to speak and to remind others to listen. I hope this little bit of my heart shared here encourages someone to listen intentionally to those who are hurt and troubled by things you think are overblown, exaggerated, or pointless.

-originally posted as a facebook status tonight. 

What I'm Into: Summer Edition

I am enjoying "summer" mode. I still have various things that I need to accomplish for my collection of jobs, but I am SO enjoying a break from classes and the accompanying non-stop to-do list of reading and writing.

Reading

If you haven't been reading Charles Martin and you like novels, you need to start reading his books.  His newest is Unwritten and lovely.

I am a couple chapters in to At Home on the Range by Margaret Yardley Potter. It's an old book that's been recently re-published. It's a narrative-style cookbook and it's hilarious, along with being really interesting from a food history perspective.

I finally got around to making a goodreads account. I've been obsessively rating books and adding books to my "to read" list for the past couple of days. We'll see if I actually keep up with it. I've never been very good at keeping lists of what I read.

Nicole's bookshelf: currently-reading

Southern Fried Sushi

by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

Dirt: The Quirks, Habits, and Passions of Keeping House

by Mindy Lewis

The Rest of Her Life

by Laura Moriarty

There Are No Children Here: The Story of Two Boys Growing Up in the Other America

by Alex Kotlowitz

At Home on the Range

by Margaret Yardley Potter

On the Dining Table
. . is my sewing machine

I went and scouted a thrift store to see if I could find some old vintages sheets to up-cycle into clothes. I spent one entire Saturday crafting a shirt. It's got errors galore and made me wish for a serger to finish up the inside seams, but I am happy with my effort.

My first attempt at sewing a shirt

I drew a pattern based on a current shirt I own. I thought I had done a pretty good job in drawing the pattern after reading up on it quite a bit, but I had not accounted adequately for the amount of stretch in my current shirt vs. the fabric I was using, so, first attempt was rather snug. Ripped out the seams and added a long vertical panel going up both sides and down the insides of the arms.  If someone is examining the seams of my shirt they will notice that it seems a bit odd to have that, especially on the sleeves, but since it matches on both sides, it's not really that bad. If I use the pattern again I'll sew the collar together and to the front/back of the shirt first and then add the sleeves last, as it got a little oddly shaped the way I did it this time. Thankfully I was able to fix it by just folding the collar a bit and tacking it down.  I added a few buttons to the collar, and voila,  vintage floral shirt! I love the vintage patterns that are so in right now, but have a hard time finding clothing that fits me in that style. This works. The sheet cost me $2.

Second sewing project - also a $2 sheet from a thrift store. This is a circle skirt - so it's just a doughnut of fabric with a waistband sewn in.  I kind of love it. I'm trying to decide where it's public debut should be - I have a couple of options  coming up in the next couple of weeks.

The snaps I used to fasten the waist are also quite vintage - check out those prices!  The 30 pack in the picture is marked 35 cents. Today, you can get a 30 pack of snaps from Jo-Ann Fabrics for $3.49. I inherited these snaps along with some wooden spools of thread in an old wooden sewing chest that was given to me n Chicago.

Elsewhere

I took one of my much-loved train trips.  

I haven't been very adventurous in the kitchen, so nothing exciting to report there.  I tend to rotate through tomato sandwiches, chips and guac, egg salad, zucchini "burgers" on pita, and baked potatoes fairly often. Living in a place with no a/c makes turning on the oven about the last thing I want to do in the summer. I need to figure out some yummy salads I can make at home. 

In the land of Television, I had been excited about a new season of MasterChef, but it seems to have devolved into the mess of overly produced drama full of selfish bickering that characterizes reality TV.  So, that's been scratched from the watch list. 

I've never been into music enough to really recommend anything, but I will say that I enjoyed having the "Brenda Lee" station on Pandora as my soundtrack to work the other day. If you're ever in the mood for sing-along old-school country and rock, that station is a winner. 

So, my summer has been reading and sewing and generally enjoying not having a paper constantly due.  One more year of grad school coming up and then it's on to rest of my life.   I think enjoying what is likely to be my last summer "off" is a lovely way to spend this year. :) 

Traveling with Neighbors

Sitting in the Lounge car, looking up.

I spent a few days travelling my favorite way - by train.  I traveled out to Chicago to visit friends and celebrate the graduation of couple of the kids that I worked with during my years there.  I so enjoyed the chance to visit and see everyone!  The train trip was fabulous as well. I updated with this as my facebook status:

People I had convos with on the train: a world traveler on his way home from a six month vacation, a mom going to visit her navy-chaplain daughter, a small town dad visiting his daughter in the big city, a film maker who told tales of train hopping in his college days, a social activists who worked to end the death penalty in her youth, and a grandmother who beamed with joy telling me about her job helping special education kids on the school bus.

I always like to ask people why they take the train instead of a plane. I rarely get the "afraid of flying" answer. It is most often something about a relaxed pace, the views of the country you can't see any other way, and the fact that the remoteness of the path usually means a day of no cell or wifi service where you have nothing better to do than watch the scenery roll by as you get to know a neighbor.

Most railroad stations I've been in immediately beg you to feel nostalgic. Philadelphia's 30th Street Station is no exception. The long wooden pew-like benches fill the waiting area for the trains and the overhead signs are black with white letters that flip into place to announce the incoming and outgoing trains and track numbers. The fast clicking sound echoes off the high ceilings and marble every few minutes.

There's something that appeals to my nomadic heart to have memories of long conversations with strangers as we sat in chairs that swayed as the train clicked along, drinking glasses of wine. Sometimes the conversations are nothing important: reminiscing about television shows of our childhood or sharing tales of favorite vacations. Sometimes, they get more serious. After a few hours one asks me, "Are you happy?" and I can tell he really wants to know. Later, he shares more about his past, about the reasons he is not. There is much time, but not enough to solve these big problems. I silently pray for a wise answers and a way to love my neighbor. The backdrop to our conversations a constantly-changing panorama of rivers and mountains, fields and barns, small towns and big cities. Introvert that I am, I love these long conversations. No one on a long-distance train is ever in a hurry, and something about that "there is no where else to be" mentality keeps my social fear of being a "bother" at bay.

Even when I wasn't talking: there were conversations to overhear.  Like, the one among a mixed-group of men - aged 19 to much older. The oldest wearing a shiny red jacket, ripped at the seams, with the Marine logo and "Vietnam" on the back. He walked with pained effort, gripping the seats as he strove for balance. A younger man, probably in his 30s, stood up and offered this man his seat and then introduced himself as an Afghanistan vet.  Another guy came along - he was currently in the navy. The youngest and the only one not in the service, wanted nothing more than to be a pilot and peppered the men with questions. The Vietnam vet was on his way home from visiting the Vietnam Memorial - he went to touch the names of his fallen brothers. He told stories that you could tell had been told many times, and he even repeated a few during that train ride, but the younger men never shushed him or walked away.  My mind whirled with the implications of war on the lives of these men and the rest of the world, the sadness and loss in their stories only solidifying my beliefs regarding non-violence. But, this was a beautiful moment of respect and dignity and honor.

The return trip had some interesting juxtapositions.  I transferred trains in D.C.  I got off my overnight train with my fellow slow-paced travelers and walked on to a short regional train filled with D.C. Power suits. Though, my seat mate was still chatty. After the two hour ride up to Philly I switched to the local commuter train to get back to my town. No one talked on this train. Eyes forward, ear-buds in, no conversation. We're all tired and going home and it's been a long day. No one cared to know about their neighbor and there wasn't time anyway.

If you are ever travelling across the country and can spare a couple days on at least one end of the journey to slow down, I highly encourage you to take a train trip. This was my first summer train trip and I suggest going during longer daylight hours if at all possible - more time to see. I booked a sleeper car once years ago, and that was nice, but unnecessary. The coach seats lean back and a leg rest pops out. Bring a blanket and a pillow with you and all is well. The tracks will rock you to sleep a midst the company of newly-found neighbors.

Assumptions: (Two) Very Short Stories

One of Those Doors: A Very Short Story