My white privilege

I rarely post anything political. Frankly, I don’t think that a social media post will change anyone’s mind and far too many people confuse fact with opinion or are simply posting with the intention to inflame, provoke and spread inaccurate information (that sadly, they may find funny.) However, equality, justice, racism and anti-racism are not political. This is about human rights and basic human decency. This is about using my voice to elevate someone else’s. This is about acknowledging and working through my discomfort to help and support someone else.

My heart is heavy. When overwhelmed with emotions, my tendency is to retreat – be silent. I have to process things and find the right words. I can’t seem to do that. My words seem hollow.

I grew up in an area that wasn’t quite the north and not quite the south. An area that may have been slightly more open minded than the traditional South but still heavily influenced by all things Southern. My very youngest years included Evelyn. She came over almost daily. She cooked and cleaned and took care of us. She made us dinner before my parents ate. She gave me a bath and tied my hair up in rags to create the perfect curls my mother wanted. She taught me to sing “Catch a Falling Star” and “How Much Is that Doggy in the Window.” I remember her playing with me, singing with me and taking care of me. And at night, Evelyn would leave our big house and take a bus to another part of town – to her own family. This was just the way it was. I was very little – I knew no different. This was my white privilege.  

When my daughter was quite young, we were talking about a good friend of our family but she couldn’t remember as we have more than one friend with that name – so I finally described her as Black and my daughter looked at me like I was crazy. What did I mean she was Black? So I dug up a picture of Kim and sat my 4-year old down and we talked about race. How impressed I was with myself that I was raising a colorblind child who saw the human-ness in someone before their race! This is how it should be I thought. I thought wrong. This was my white privilege.

When I was in junior high school, I snuck outside behind the locker rooms during a school dance to smoke some weed. A cop caught me with a pipe in my hand. He shook his head, took the joint and told me to go back to the dance. Even as he saw the bigger stash I had in my pocket. This was my white privilege.

After I graduated high school, some friends and I were driving to the beach. The music was loud, I’m certain the car was full of smoke (cigarette and otherwise) and we had a six pack of beer that we got by flashing a Heineken truck on Route 50. The windows were covered with super-elastic-bubble-plastic bubbles. I got pulled over. Four underage girls with questionable behavior and liquor in the car were let go with a warning. This was our white privilege.  

As a young professional, I had a great job with a shitty boss. A boss who verbally crossed a line more than once. After I was fired, after I hired an attorney and after I was deposed – they believed me. This was my white privilege.

As a single mother by choice, I entered parenthood on my own. A bit defiant and a lot scared, I forged ahead in the path of many a mom before me. More than once, I was given kudos for parenting on my own with many acknowledging how hard it must be and they didn’t know how I did it. More than once, a day care provider, car repair, service folks would give me discounts if I played the single mom card. This was my white privilege.

Just last week, my daughter quit her first job. She had been working for almost a year and had been talking about quitting for more than a month but decided to wait until school started. Then, her boss posted something on social media and we saw it. It was racist and the comments that followed that post showed neither remorse nor understanding for a newer and more empathetic point of view. It was her line in the sand and I let her draw it. She quit a paying job without another. That was her white privilege (and yes, I talked about this with her.)

I am almost 56 years old. I have experienced my fair share of misogyny. When I worked in retail, I had a customer offer me a detailed definition of my name, been called a cunt and received countless comments about my boobs. As a member of the executive team at a nonprofit, I’ve sat in a boardroom and listened to a colleague tell us that male member of his staff was more deserving of a raise than an unmarried woman because he needed to support his growing family (uh, that didn’t work.) As a single mother, I had a boss ask me if I could just leave my child with a neighbor when I was unable to take a last minute business trip. In each of these instances, I was able to push back or get support knowing that I would be okay. This was also my white privilege.

As a mother, I’ve had plenty of talks with my daughter about safety. About keeping herself safe. About making safe decisions. But, never, have I had to tell my child to fear being pulled over by the police or not to wear her hoodie. I have never had to tell to not stand up for herself or not to push back against an injustice. And, this too, is my white privilege.

I don’t share this with pride. I share this as an admission and acknowledgement of the work I have to do. I have benefitted from white privilege my entire life. This doesn’t mean that I didn’t encounter hardship or experience grief. It means that the color of my skin does not add to those hardships. It means I am afforded belief, admission, kudos and access to things that people of color – women of color – may not.

Though I have not nor will I be able to experience the type of fear, trepidation, judgement and injustice that people of color experience – that will not stop me from trying to understand, to learn and to empathize with a society that places greater value on white lives than black or brown lives. I do not get to be colorblind – as that tells people of color that I do not see their distinction, their culture, their unique contributions, value, and the injustices they face because of their skin color. I do not get to be colorblind to the systemic racism that permeates our lives simply because it has not affected me personally.

My late father used to say that my siblings and I were so close that you could cut one of us and all of us would bleed. That is how I feel about racism. People of color have been fighting long enough – they have marched and shouted, protested and pleaded, fought for and fought back. They’ve been cut enough. I will bleed for them now.

If you are interested in learning more about becoming anti-racist, I recommend the following:

White Fragility by Robin Diangelo

Me and white supremacy by Layla Saad

Following @Nifakaniga, @garychambersjr and @caroranwill on Instagram

Following Emmanuel Acho, Ally Project PHX on Facebook

If you’re in the Phoenix area and are interested in encouraging our young people to vote, follow Tomorrow We Vote on both Instagram and Facebook

#BlackLivesMatter

Fuck gratitude

I know I've not written often of late. There was a long gap and then my first post back was a big one (I won’t apologize for that first post back being one with significant weight.) Current events had kept me up (they still do), worried in ways I didn’t expect and I ultimately decided to share for reasons explained in the post. I wasn't been absent for any one reason. Just life. I felt my content was getting stale and I had nothing more to say. Friendship felt a narrow topic. I couldn’t keep track of code names I had given people. And, I was tired. And, lazy.

Several folks have asked me about writing again and while I would get a spark of an idea once in a while, nothing really stuck. After all, the writing was more for me – if others wanted to read it, great. If they enjoyed it, even better. It turns out, I rarely run out of things to say. No one is less surprised by that than me. So, I’m back. I may or may not be talking about the beauty of friendships – or the bullshit of them. I won’t use code names for my friends but I won’t publicly out them either. I’ll leave it up to them to admit they know me. If they have something to say, I trust they will. My friends are rarely at a loss for words. 

So, I'm going try and get at this more regularly. It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been well. What have you been up to? What have I been up to you ask? Well, I’ve decided to say “Fuck you” to gratitude – and before you get your gracious knickers in a twist, read on.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I recognize how lucky I am. I have my health, an amazing daughter and family, terrific friends and a job I don’t hate. But the relentless platitudes of gratitude, of only focusing on the positive, being grateful for every little thing and cherish every moment is bullshit. It not only pushes aside the very real range of emotions that people have every day, but tells them those emotions are wrong.

“That accident/incident sounds terrible. You should just be grateful it wasn’t much worse,” or “Well, that’s what insurance is for – you’re lucky you have it.”

You are allowed to be angry. Your anger does not negate any other feeling you may have. Anger does not mean you don’t love someone, are unable to move on or are not appreciative that things could, indeed, be worse. The fact is, sometimes you need to process that anger in order to move forward. Being angry sometimes is normal. If you are never angry – where the hell are you stuffing your emotions? Are you drinking them? Eating them? Taking it out on others? I’ve done all of that – none of it works. Being angry does not mean you are ungrateful.

“Oh look at that precious baby/darling child (who is clearly not being precious or darling), just cherish this time, it goes so fast.”

Seriously? You are allowed to be super annoyed, frustrated, at the end of your rope with your kid. Let’s face it, great kids can still sometimes be assholes. Sometimes they are too little to realize; often times they are old enough to know better. My daughter is out of the toddler phase and I can assure you that while there is much to miss about that time – I do not miss tantrums, sleepless nights and potty training nor do I look back on them with any nostalgia. I may laugh about them more often now – but time does that with many things. Parenting is hard and sometimes, we're simply exhausted and at the end of our emotional rope. Thinking your kid is sometimes an asshole does not diminish your love for your kid or how lucky you know you are to have him/her.

“You should feel lucky you have such a good job.”

You are allowed to fucking hate your job sometimes. Because frankly, sometimes my job sucks. The deadlines are unreasonable, the people are twats and the lack of resources is frustrating. Venting is okay – as long as it’s not the only thing you do. Sometimes, you need to get it out in order to become part of the solution and be a more productive team member. My venting does not mean that I don’t recognize how lucky – or grateful - I am to have my job. Just means that that sometimes, it sucks.

“People just need to be nice to one another. I mean, I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said.”

You are allowed to pissed off at the state of current affairs. You can vent, vote, protest and spew forth your views. For me personally, it helps to back it up with facts. But being told to “suck it up” or just “focus on the positive” is frankly a privilege afforded to those not affected by things that are happening. Being angry or afraid is okay and very real – those feelings aren’t diminished because things are going well for you or you choose not to engage.

“Consider yourself lucky your [insert family member] is available to help you, just ignore what s/he says,” or “Just ignore move on.”

You are allowed to be fed up with your family. Family can be frustrating as hell. I don’t have any family living near me – this is both a blessing and a curse and I can easily see both sides of that coin. I remember talking to my brother about this – we may fight, we may disagree, we may live miles apart but at the end of the day, I know my family would be there should I need it. That doesn’t mean that don’t annoy the ever-loving fuck out of me sometimes (as I’m sure I annoy them, as well.) And, I say that with the utmost love. This doesn’t mean that I am not grateful for them.

“I’m cutting all negative people out of my life. I am just going to practice gratitude every day and want to be surrounded by positivity only.”

Well aren’t you a ray of fucking sunshine. Hope you’re not indulging in any unhealthy behaviors to manage those less than positive emotions – you know, like eating too much, drinking, drugs or making otherwise poor or unhealthy choices. Hope you’re not desperately trying to control every aspect of your environment, to create a self-imposed bubble that must be exhausting to maintain. And, what a great friend you must be to only want to deal with your friends who are going through a good time. It’s easy to get everyone to ride with you in the limousine – you may have less company when you have to take the bus but you will find out who are your real friends. I’m actually a pretty optimistic person but that doesn’t mean I don’t go through bouts of trying times when I’m less than chipper. This doesn't mean I'm not a positive person and that I am not grateful for my life. My real friends know that.

“They lived a good long life,” or “It’s nature’s way or God’s way of….,” or “At least you already have one (or another) child,” or “It was just a dog/cat/horse, you’re lucky you can go get another.”

I can’t even with these. Grief is deeply personal and there is no rulebook. Grief is painful and lonely and long-lasting. It may be deeply rooted and it may appear to move through someone quickly. There is no comfort in telling a grieving parent to be grateful for a surviving child or that they can have another. Knowing a parent or grandparent lived a long and happy life does not make you grateful for the pain you may feel at their passing. And for so many, me included, our pets are family and their loss is just as devastating and unique to each animal. Grief is normal and real. It is not something we move through but learn to live with as a new normal has to be defined. Grief does not mean you were not grateful for what you had – it just means you’re in pain as you learn to live with that loss.

“Just cheer up. It’s up to you to be happy.”

Okay, just fuck that shit. It’s completely normal to have a case of the blues, to be struggling with anxiety or overwhelmed by something happening in your life or around you. It's normal to just have a bad day. For some, sadness, fear, anxiety and depression are so overwhelming that it’s hard to function. These feelings may be short-lived but for many they are lifetime struggle. A pithy platitude of, “Choose happiness,” is patronizing, dismissive and arrogant. Gratitude is not unique to happy people, it just may show itself differently in different people.

At the end of the day, it is important to appreciate what you have and be grateful for what you receive. It is a good thing to treat others with kindness for no other reason than it's the right thing to do and besides, being kind feels way better than being an asshole (most of the time.) But don’t diminish the very real feelings of someone who may be in a different place than you are. Feelings are real – whether they are the ones you are having or are familiar with or don’t understand. Anger, anxiety, frustration and fear are as real as happiness, joy, and contentment. Part of being authentic – is not only having those range of emotions but acknowledging them, learning from them, seeking help in managing them and accepting these emotions are part of you or your family and friends.

We must quit telling people to stop feeling [insert emotion] and just replace what is perceived as a negative feeling with “happiness” or “gratitude” – that is more likely your own discomfort with those emotions and not theirs. Learn to sit in your own discomfort – you don’t always have to say something or fix someone. Sometimes, just acknowledging those emotions in yourself or others is enough. Remember, privilege is thinking that because something isn’t a problem for you, it isn’t a problem for anyone. Empathy is recognizing that, being supportive and wanting things to be better for all people. Gratitude is being thankful you can help, thanking those that helped you and recognizing that privilege in the first place.

Josh Lieb once said, “Gratitude can sometimes be as annoying as whininess.”

I don't know Josh Lieb but man, I like him.

What is your secret ingredient?

It’s no secret that I love to cook. I also love to eat. I read cookbooks and watch Food Network like porn. I love to see what friends are cooking and more than a few of my recipes are tried and true favorites from family and friends.

My mom and Big Susan liked to cook. Nothing got them going more than planning the Friday night dinners before the mitzvah of one of Susan’s grandkids. Or a Jewish holiday. Or Thanksgiving. They shared menus. They prepped, peeled, sliced and basted. They set tables, taste tested and shooed many a kid out of the kitchen. At the beach, lunches often included massive bowls of tuna and egg salad while dinners included my mother’s infamous “beach chicken” – a foul concoction of chicken roasted with French dressing, onion soup mix and apricot jam. I can assure you, I am not making that.

As I was cooking for this last Passover, I really wanted to make roast chicken. But, not any roast chicken – I wanted Big Susan’s roast chicken. It looked just right – skinless, boneless chicken pieces nestled in a bed of roast onions (onions must always be on the side – one her boys does not like them!) Everything was the perfect roasty color – the seasoning just right. Years ago, I asked Big Susan for her recipe. Much like my mom, she didn’t follow one. She just did it. I watched, I tried to remember. If I took notes, I’ve long since lost them. I’ve tried to recreate and I’ve failed. This year, I asked her daughter. Her response was exactly the same as her mothers, which was of no help to me. I tried again and while it was okay, it wasn’t Big Susan’s roast chicken. I don’t even think about attempting her chicken salad.

Food brings back memories. One time – one single time – one of my sisters remarked that she liked

my stepfather’s homemade BBQ sauce and mom’s coleslaw. You can bet they made that all the time for her - long after she stopped liking it. One of my sisters likes to keep her cooking healthy and we have mocked her more than once – tofu cheesecake just isn’t the same. Once, that same sister and I made a pie that required freezer time. When taking it out, we discovered that a small, very frozen, Cornish game hen had fallen into said pie and frozen in the center. You could literally pick that frozen bird up and the whole pie came with it. Cornish game hen banana pie. We still laugh about it.

Cookbooks are my scrapbooks

Now, many of my friends are very good cooks. T makes wicked good meatballs and her hot fudge sauce is sublime. M taught me how to make sopa and is my go-to when I have questions about making biscuits. L follows a good recipe and will always share but whenever I make good Italian – I must call and tell her so that she can share with her mother – a New York Italian if ever there was one. Another friend makes this meatball thing that my daughter loves – one of those crazy three ingredient things that are always a hit. So when I bring a slow-cooker full of meatballs to a gathering – we can thank her for the recipe. Now, my dear friend N also loves to cook and we rarely plan our Jewish holiday menus without checking with each other for something new and different. Her broccoli soufflé has graced my table – and that of my sister. Her zucchini soup is a favorite (and a great way to use all that summer squash!) An old friend made a kugel every year for the holidays and it was delicious. I begged for that recipe and for years she would not share it. She finally did. I make it and like I promised – I don’t share that recipe.

My sister-in-law is a very good cook and many of her recipes have graced my table – triple-chip cookies, black bean shrimp salsa and pork tenderloin salsa verde all came from her kitchen. My sisters have also contributed to my recipe book. I so loved the meatball soup that S used to make - I learned to make it for mini-me and her turkey meatloaf is the bomb. My other sister doesn’t love to cook but she sure turns out a mean fruit crumble (strawberry-rhubarb is my fav) and her well-seasoned salmon made Mini-me a fish lover at a very young age.

Each time I use a recipe from a friend or family member, it’s a bit like spending time together. It always makes me smile and “remember when.”

This year, Mini-me has taken to baking. I taught her to make my dad’s favorite Crescent Cookies – little moon-shaped shortbread cookies with tiny bits of pecan and dusted with powdered sugar. They are melt-in-your-mouth good! While we baked – and I told her they were Grandpa Bob’s favorites, she asked questions about him and I told her stories. Some she may have heard before but she graciously listened as I waxed nostalgic.

Side story: Mini-me is not a picky eater. Never has been. But, she does have some food she absolutely dislikes and has never liked. Every one of those foods are the same foods my father disliked. They never met. She has his palate completely – including her love of dark chocolate (from a very young age), her utter disgust at cream cheese, mayonnaise, most jams/jellies and ranch dressing, her preference for not-too-sweet desserts and good ice cream. Genetics people. They are strong.

Back to cooking. Now, T’s hubby is also a good cook and I’ve started to gather some good recipes from him. A stew with sweet potatoes and peanut butter is perfect on a cold night. And the lettuce wraps from old friends still shows up on those hot summer nights. My sister’s Chinese chicken salad is the best ever and my brother does a mean rub for grilled meats and can always be counted on for a cocktail recipe. His eggnog should be illegal and his Sangria is delicious….and the Moscow Mules never suck nor do his Bloody Mary’s. Years ago (think early ‘80s), his go-to recipe was soy sauce chicken cooked in the wok. I remember being so impressed. My cousin B is also a great cook, something he inherited from his folks. The family recipe of a roast cooked rock salt will be tried in my house this year – I’m determined!

Mom & Jack's handwritten recipes

Sure, I pull recipes from online, magazines and such – but there is something special about a recipe from a friend or family member. I have recipe binders – full of clippings and copied recipes. There are some in there I’ve never tried – but they’re in my mom’s handwriting so in the binder, they will stay. I have a curated collection of cookbooks. I do periodically weed it all out but these are some of my favorite reads. Each time I try a recipe, I note the date and any important notes or changes or ideas. When I later go back to them, it’s nice to see….and remember.

All of my family and many of my friends live so far away. We rarely cook together and I want to cook with them – with you. So, I am asking you. Send me your favorite recipe – maybe it’s one that’s been in your family and maybe it’s a new one you just tried. Tell me why it’s your favorite. I promise to try and live up the expectation and hope it will be as good as yours. I want to make that recipe – it will be like spending some time together. You can send your recipes to WhoIsYourBigSusan@gmail.com.

Bon Appetit!