Us and Them

I have, on rare occasions, had the experience of those I know speaking disparagingly about “those people”. As I am a white, cis-gendered female(born female, identify female) and a US born citizen there is literally an ENTIRE WORLD out there of ‘other’ to whom my friends, or family, or facebook friends could be referring. Most presently this Other has manifested itself as: “black people” or more accurately, “not the nice black people, I like them, but the black people who commit crimes, you know: see Chris Rock, you feel me?” (even if your racist self doesn’t say it, I know what you’re talking about, you feel me?), and “transgendered people”. [On that last point, I dedicated 2 years of my life to writing about the development of understanding how the world around you is changing if this bathroom legislation is making you uncomfortable. Please, please, please, please, message me for a 100% confidential, nonjudgmental, supportive yet gently challenging, but open minded conversation if you’d like to talk out your discomfort.]

However, during my morning ritual of breakfast, coffee and the news, something caught my eye, and I’m going to focus on a specific other today, apart from the above. I came across this article: Twin blasts target police in Pakistan's northwest and stared at it dumbfounded. In terms of death toll, it’s the smallest one of my morning perusal. The Daesh (ISIL) suicide bombs in Baghdad have claimed over 70 lives this year, including 38 on Tuesday alone. Sri Lanka’s monsoon season has hit a section of the island country horrifically this week and potentially buried 200-300 families. One woman was interviewed and dazedly informed the reporter that all nine of her children were currently unaccounted for.  And in terms of big deals, one of the Nigerian girls kidnapped by Boko Harem has been found: the news is so new they haven’t even written an article about it, but it’s such a big deal that my breath caught in my throat when I read it.

So why the Pakistani policeman? One dead, ten injured in twin explosions. I know why, but I also know, that if I am to be fully honest here, I’m going to upset someone. I suppose, that was your disclaimer.

It is so easy to characterize anyone and anything outside of our comfort zone or even just country or outside of those that look like us, as the “Other”. I see it happen every day on social media, on the walls of those I know and love. This becomes a very difficult battle for me, someone who has done years and years of research on how to encourage those to see things from multiple perspectives, to encourage empathy, and to help others check their privilege. The last tends to be the hardest because having privilege doesn’t mean you had it easier, it just means you were dealt better cards – it doesn’t mean you necessarily got a chance to play all of them, put in the most simplified terms possible. But, that’s hard, and it requires you to look outside yourself, your life, and your family – and some people just aren’t interested.

Here is where it gets murky. Anyone who knows me, knows how much respect I have for law enforcement of all kinds. My father is a combat veteran, my brother, and former navy. We’d be here all night if I listed off all the Law Enforcement Officers (LEOs) in my family,  and I have had many a LEO save me a time or two in compromising situations with students/when someone tried to break into my apartment/when I was in car accidents, etc. Those who know me very well know that I have filled out applications for police departments and the FBI on multiple occasions, but never submitted them. In the same vein, I am also highly critical of LEOs who abuse their power, are racist bigots, or are down right dirty. How can we glorify the good ones if we don’t take the bad ones to task? This isn’t about a blue wall – it’s about making sure that everyone is doing their job, so that anyone going out will be the type of officer/agent/LEO we want responding to a call.

I’ve gone far afield, let’s bring it back.  The summation is, the ones that I see unquestioningly supporting LEOs, are also the ones that I often see unquestioningly believing the stereotypes of the Other. I won’t go into all of them (this is already far too longwinded), but specifically let’s look at Pakistan. I’ve seen facebook friends (and family members, hello!) who talk about Blue Lives Matter, disparagingly talk about bombing the shit out of those who our troops are fighting. If they were in charge we’d have Stalin-style scorched earth the entirety of “every damn ‘Stan out there” and brought our troops home (Note, the US is not waging any sort of war in Pakistan, for the record – as far as I am aware of 20 minutes ago).

But out of all those Others there is a family today, just like a family in the US, grieving for their fallen officer. He was a victim of a terrorist attack. He was likely married, likely with children. I couldn’t find his name.  He went to work that day and he’ll never go home. He was killed in the line of duty, doing his job like so many of our fallen brothers and sisters. We are so much more similar than we are different. I worry for all my LEO family members and friends – for what you deal with every day. The Other has police officers too. They put on their uniforms, kiss their families good bye and go to work. They have good and bad men and women on their force, and they deal with people who have made bad choices and they deal with plain bad people – like every other LEO around the world.

Except this one, for his watch has ended.  Maybe in his honor, the next time you think of “Them” you can maybe think of “Us”.

Shipped off to Boston

I still have my morning alarm set to Dropkick Murphy's Shipping off to Boston, which to tell you the truth has gotten a little old - but it was exciting during the process of moving to be sure.

I have been living in Boston 2 weeks and 2 days exactly. The move went more smoothly than it had any right to in most of the important ways. The truck never broke down, nor was it decapitated (thank you, Reddit), we spent a night in my home town, where I had not been for 3 years and I had no idea how much I needed that. The trip through the east side of NY and into MA was beautiful, and we hit almost no traffic. When we arrived at our apartment there was a truck WITH ramp sized parking spot less than 4 meters from the front door, and our hired movers (Bellhop Movers, check 'em out y'all) were fantastic, stayed way past their booked time, and were careful and never complained. We had friends bring us pizza and beer and I was able to set the bed up to allow us the ability to sleep in comfort that first night. There was walking and exploring and unpacking that happened over the next few days, and then a sad goodbye as Nick left to return to Chicago. Interesting fact: it was his very first solo flight, and he survived quite well.

I haven't lived by myself in almost 4 years exactly and though I lived alone for 5 years prior to that, there have been some challenges upon reentry. Living alone is a test of your ability to tell your imagination to shut the ever-living hell up because the creaking sounds in the apartment are NOT a murderer. Our building was built in the 1920s - it creaks more than not. At this time I have an estimated amount of 5 serial killers, 2 murderers, and 12 boogeymen living with me. They show no signs of attack yet, but my imagination tells me that they like to pace the floors at night just to fuck with me.

I'm learning about commuting for work and have become a successful navigator of Boston's T system. Despite that proficiency I am currently still in the midst of the Great Grocery Hunt of 2015. Finding what amounts to a 'typical' grocery store to me that isn't all organic or a million dollars a trip is proving to be somewhat of a challenge. I have sunk to the level of asking random strangers unloading grocery bags from their cars where they shopped. Not having a car is making this very difficult, but we shall prevail! I have a bike!

Speaking of bikes, I have found my current nemesis and it is the bike room in the basement of my building. I am terrified of it. Petrified, panic-stricken, scared stiff. It is dark, smells like the sewer, and if you thought I had a large amount of imaginary criminals living in my apartment, their lair is that cave in which I am supposed to store my two-wheeled means of transportation. I have yet to visit it alone. Again, we shall prevail, but it may require a friend's hand to hold. Any volunteers?

My two weeks at work have been exciting, engaging, and educational. I have learned so much and it just feels like drops in the proverbial bucket compared to what I don't know. The most important thing I have learned out of all of the tidbits I could share is that my new institution makes me happy. I enjoy the people that I am working with and thus far feel quite supported. This work is going to be challenging, but that is a good thing in my eyes. I like working hard, and I like to think that the work that I put in is meaningful. I have that feeling, and have had it right from the start. I know I already like it there, and I think there is potential for me to feel quite at home in this new office and role. It's been two weeks - we'll check in a couple of months from now.

I am struggling a little health-wise which has presented some challenges, but I think much of it is due to the lock down mode that I was operating under for about 2 and a half weeks leading up to the move and during the beginnings of the transition. My migraines have been out of control and I've had a few flare ups of the chronic condition that I have. Despite all of this, I'm settling in well.

My plan for this weekend is to get some boxes unpacked, and then go visit some friends in New Hampshire on Monday on my day off of work. The apartment needs a lot of work - other than the kitchen which Nick did a fantastic job on before he left. I told my supervisor facetiously this week that my life was, "in shambles" and she very accurately responded, "no, not shambles. Your life is in boxes."

A little bit at time we are working to change that, and working to make this home. Nick will make his move in a little over a month, and that process can really take off. Home has always been a conceptual idea to me rather than one definitive place. It is where I feel accepted, where I feel understood, where I find my people, where I feel happy. There is an apartment on State St, a pair of people in Naperville, an Indian Reservation in NY, where ever my twin is to be found, a village in Nepal, a street in Berlin, a place on the Cape, a house in Florida - all definitions of home. Hopefully soon this new city can earn a place amongst those hallowed ranks. I'm so excited for the adventure.

Indiana Is Not A Sinking Ship

And we shouldn't abandon it as such. I have received quite a few emails recently from organizations to which I am a member asking for my input regarding upcoming events that are potentially scheduled to be held in Indiana. Anyone who knows me, knows that I identify as as a cis-gender white female, but in front of all of that I identify as an ally to the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, asexual, intersexed, pansexual, queer, questioning, and sexuality or gender-nonconforming, communities and individuals. I'm a giant fabulous supporter of the whole damn rainbow.

Nothing hurts my heart more than to hear that there are those who believe themselves more worthy of something over another person (protip: if you think you deserve a right, and that someone else doesn't  then you think your life is 'better' or 'correct' over theirs). I'm not really sure how the logic of "if this person can do this thing (dress this way, use this bathroom, have sex this way, love this person), it infringes on my rights" even computes - but then again I am a robot and I tend to reject idiocy as a reasoning.

To avoid my waxing eloquent for endless pages about why everyone it is so important to be an ally and understand that sharing privilege does not give you less I will attempt to concisely put below my responses to my professional organizations, and to anyone who has asked me to sign a petition to keep said events out of Indiana. Should you want to read endless pages, I direct you to my master's thesis on ally development - it's at the Eastern Illinois University online library. I challenge you not to fall asleep reading it. I shall attempt brevity and a vastly more interesting response below:

----------------------------------------------

Dear [Organization or Person]

I am providing feedback as solicited from the email on Friday. My response to the idea of moving [EVENT or MEETING]  is similar to the reason why I did not sign one of the petitions floating around there about moving [OTHER EVENT]. I don’t have enough information on the financial impact it would have on the membership in the form of canceled deposits and guarantees to hotels, hosting institutions, etc. Money cannot be the only factor, of course, but we are a dues paying organization (some of which are paid by members in Indiana), and it is irresponsible to not take it into consideration. If this will be a potentially burdensome change, I wonder if we cannot think of some better way to show our support to ALL of our members – including those that live inside the borders of Indiana.

It would take additional time and effort – and would be something that I would be happy to be a part of - but if we do not decide to move the [EVENT] perhaps research could be done to ensure that every vendor with whom we work has non-discrimination written into their company policies and a list could be complied of businesses in the neighborhoods that actively put themselves forward as accepting all customers regardless of any identities.

I can’t help but wonder if all of this “stay out of Indiana” petitioning isn't focusing on the wrong things. We have professionals, even LGBT professionals that live in Indiana. As much as I want to ensure my money is being spent in a responsible manner, I do not want them to feel abandoned.

Thank you for your time in reading my thoughts, I wish you and everyone luck with this challenging decision.

---------------------------------------------

At the end of the day, it isn't about the money, it's about the membership. We, those of us who don't live in Indiana (or any of the other states who have laws like this - you don't stand alone in this shameful decision, IN), have the privilege of walking away, of choosing not to visit or spend our money there. Or, we can do what we as allies are sworn to do - not abandon our brethren. We can be informed consumers, we can research WHERE we will spend our money and find the businesses that provide non-discriminatory service. This was not a blanket decision of the entire state, just one that effects those who live and visit. We can stand tall, cloaked in our protective privilege and say "this is enough". It's really hard to do that while shouting across the border. 

My values have steered me away from many a thing (RIP Chick fil A sauce) but it isn't a thing we are fleeing from, it is our friends and colleagues who need our help. Indiana is not hopeless; it is not sinking. Join me in my research! Identify worthy industries and businesses - it isn't even that hard - they are making themselves very well known. Lastly, get back in the boat and grab a bucket. Bailing out the waves of intolerance gets harder with the less people who are there to help. We cannot give up our allyship because we don't like the fight. Now is the time to dig in our heels, and stand as the example. To my friends in Indiana, I hope to see you at my conferences, I hope to provide worthy money to those who provide services to all, and most of all I look forward to the day when we can see this overturned. The more of us in the fight, the closer that day gets. 

--

Miranda Ambuske-Perry

Ally

What it means to be a US Veteran today (A Family Story)

My father is an extremely proud US Veteran of Foreign Wars (Viet Nam, Da Nang, 70-71). I was born after his service, so one might wonder what I know of what it means to be a veteran. After certain extremely tense and painful experiences recently, I feel so moved to write down not only what I have seen, but what my family and I have experienced as the relatives of a hero, from the beginning. This is our story, but so many have one like it.

-  As the wife of a veteran it means means celebrating your husband's return in 1971, only to have his (alleged) exposure to Agent Orange strike him down shortly after with terminally diagnosed cancer.

- As the first two children of that veteran means living with years of cancer treatments, hospitalizations and an incredibly ill Daddy.

-Being a veteran, fuck that terminal diagnose - years of experimental treatments later and you beat the "99% fatal" odds.

-Being that veteran means that the experimental treatments become standard, and the experiments ravaged upon your dying body are refined, taking Lymphoma from "99%" fatal to almost "99%" treatable. Even when you're not trying, you give back.

- As the later in life daughter of a veteran it meant having to explain why an entire room in our house was themed "USA". Everything from the paint on the walls to the curtains to the throw pillows to the decorative books on the (navy blue) trunk were themed "America".

- Being a veteran, life is never easy, and it this case it means the experimental Lymphoma treatments come back for their revenge in the form of unknowingly permanently damaged arteries. It means a perfectly healthy looking man will now undergo a quintuple heart bypass. It also means that the government still acknowledges no culpability that Agent Orange is at the bottom of all of this, so hopefully this veteran has VERY good insurance.

- As the family, this means life is once again uprooted as this veteran almost dies again. It also means that this family discovers how wonderful their friends and neighbors are who step up to take care of the youngest daughter, provide food and shelter for her when needed, and help in any way they can.

- Still no acknowledgment, thank you, or apology from the government, and CERTAINLY no financial assistance. Not that a veteran would ever ask.

- As a veteran, you survive the quintuple heart bypass, only to be diagnosed with two different cancers over the next 8 years. You survive those as well as a strong, proud, American veteran.

- As the later in life daughter you begin to do research, and  realize that the headaches and migraines that plague you on a weekly/daily basis have been correlated to the offspring of AO exposed Viet Nam veterans. All of this, however, is ALLEGED. No Agent Orange to see here.

- As a veteran, you finally retire from your job, and begin to live your dream life with your wife in Florida, surrounded by other veterans who can nod at each other every day and say, "I know".

- As a veteran, your dream life is derailed as more of these allegedly associated medical conditions begin to wreck havoc on your ability to do anything, and your bypasses begin to fail. The system put in place to serve you, however, is overloaded and underfunded - so the necessary tests are not ordered or performed. There is literally, "no room at the inn".

- As a veteran, your doctors stop calling you back, your appointments are months apart, and they begin cutting down on your desperately needed pain medication - often all without speaking to you.

- As a veteran, the only time you get necessary treatments is when you collapse and have to be taken to the emergency room via an ambulance - and ONLY if you go to a non VA hospital.

- As the veteran you sink deeper and deeper into a dark place as your pain becomes worse and worse with no end in sight.

- As the family of a veteran, you become desperate, one daughter goes straight to the top and communicates with the office of the Vice President of the United States, the other daughter appeals to social media and inundates the VA with dozens of emails from concerned parties.

- As the VA, fearing a media storm, you acquiesce and arrange treatments to happen as soon as is possible. The family begins to wonder what happens to the veterans who do not have people to respond like this.

- The family remains optimistic, but counts down the days until this veteran can remove himself from VA treatments and get away from the care that was allegedly designed to honor and treat such a hero who has given so much for his country. The care that has almost killed him.

- As a veteran, you hobble out each day and ensure that your well loved American flag is hanging straight, isn't frayed, and is still in honorable condition. Because you are a veteran, and you love the country that you have served. That honor is strong and unwavering, despite being forgotten, despite being looked over, despite your country not honoring you.


A veteran is a man or woman who has given their all in the form of commitment, honor, or even their lives. They do, however, grow older, or sadder, or struggle, but are trained to endure. When told "we have no appointments for you" their responses are often, "Thank you, sir. I will call again tomorrow."

There is no greater tragedy, no Sisyphean story more heartbreaking than a man or woman who put everything on the line be turned away or forgotten by the government that they volunteered to serve. I write this to raise awareness, I write this to pour out my hurt and sadness that the man who taught me to love this country is being betrayed by it like so many others.

At the moment my family and I need no further help in the form of letters or phone calls, but if you are reading this, I will keep you in the loop should the VA renege on their promises again. As the family of a veteran you feel heartbreak for those that never returned as well as heartbreak to watch the sacrifices your loved one has made come to nothing. If you know a veteran keep them in your thoughts, and please reach out. They are veterans - they will not ask for help, they have been trained not to. We must step in where their training and government is failing them. We must be their support, their champions.

Thank you Brothers and Sisters, it is your turn to rest. We will take this watch.

So It Goes

How do you say "today is a bad day. A worst day."? Do you just say those words? Do you use that vocabulary when your exhaustion shows and you've been told for the fifth time that you look like hell?

What if they start noticing that ponytail days mean one of two things: I was in a rush, or I just couldn't do it today.

What about when you lose something, everything, for the tenth time, and it's painful to think that you just have to look again, because it's probably in the purse you checked four times already? How do you explain the feeling of despair that you get when you find it, because honestly, you already looked there.

Today I am a shade, a shadow of myself. Today everything is painful.
Not outwardly however, because life, in all of its trenchant ironies deems that only the effect should be seen, not the cause.

How do you say that I have given my very best, and it hasn't been enough.

Probably with the same Sisyphean effort that goes into the words that follow the above declarations:

"I will try again tomorrow."

Immer Geändert. On Judaism and Memory

Who knows why things stick with us, while others fade away. The inexorable plodding of each and every day may seem lingering, but you look back and suddenly the years have flown by like the pages of a book, blown over by the wind.

I'm feeling sentimental. For those who don't understand me, the real me, that means I'm having one of my rare moments where I am feeling particularly emotive about everything around me. If I turned over enough rocks in my brain I'd likely be able to pin point all of the triggers that brought on this state of being, but despite knowing that some of those triggers exist in the present, there is one in particular that is a memory from the past.

The memories started surfacing on Sunday, when I walked with N to the neighborhood bookstore. If I spent twenty dollars, I would get a free canvas bag, and I've never been one to turn down a bag or a book. Wandering the store, the book I had thought I was going to purchase wasn't in stock, and I was feeling a bit desperate about the whole affair - I really wanted to find a book that would walk out the door with me in a new bag. Sometimes books find you when you least expect it, and one finally caught my eye. After paging through it briefly I knew two things - 1) it was priced way over the twenty dollars I needed to spend, and 2) this book was going home with me, and I would keep it forever.

A bit dramatic for a book that I had paged through for all of five minutes, but there you have it. This is the book I bought:

When I was a child I had interest verging on obsession with everything that I could read regarding the Holocaust. Among all the other books I voraciously consumed, I read Anne Frank's diary over and over. World War II was my favorite time period to study in history, though the politics and troop movements and famous battles were not my primary focus. I wanted to know everything I could about the Nazi's attempt to exterminate an entire ethnoreligious group from the face of this earth. Eventually I moved on to other interests, but I would always find my way back to this hideous time in human history. It took me years to realize that my continuing exploration had a subconscious question driving my interest. I was trying to understand the one question that had no simple answer, "why?" Why did this happen? Why did people let this happen? How in the HELL did this happen? 

Those answers were not to come, at least not in a satisfactory manner, and my pursuit of these questions only continued into college as continued my studies in learning German - a concentration which led to a wealth of options in electives. I studied Yiddish, Yiddish literature, Jewish history, themes of gender and sexuality in Jewish folklore, the list goes on. Finally, my studies took me overseas, and I landed in Berlin, at a school smack in the middle of the old Jewish quarter. I began to wonder if here, standing where it all began, I would finally find the answers. Across the street from my school is the heavily guarded Alte Synagoge and scattered among the cobbles of the sidewalk were Stolpersteine, in English, stumbling stones - the brass inserts in front of every house where it is known that a Jewish person who perished in the Holocaust used to live. The stones tell you their name, their date of birth, deportation date, and if known, their date and location of death. They would say something like, Deportiert 1942, Ermordet in Auschwitz, Deported 1942, Murdered in Auschwitz. The very ground I walked on served as an everyday reminder of the questions I wanted answered.

My life and studies in Europe took me to Amsterdam where I walked through the Secret Annex in which Anne and her family hid all those years. Onward also to Jewish cemeteries in Berlin - the few that had survived, and to Wandsee, a gorgeous lakeside estate with vistas overlooking the water from it's location nestled in a stand of trees. It is now a museum, as on January 20th, 1942, a meeting of government officials created "The Final Solution to the Jewish Problem". The document developed at that meeting outlined the deportation of all European Jews to Eastern Europe with the ultimate purpose of extermination. The meeting lasted 90 minutes. 

My education in Europe began it's climax with a viewing of Schindler's List - which oddly enough, I had never seen, and directly after that a trip to Poland and to Auschwitz. While not very eloquently, I have previously written about that trip so I will not detail my experience in this, what is already an overly verbose post. What I will say, is better said in German, Ich bin immer verändert - I am forever changed. 

I can now give you educated and well thought out responses to many of those somewhat subconscious questions that plaugued me all of those years of study. I can wax eloquent regarding the part of the scapegoat that the Jewish people have played throughout all of history. I can explain in detail the pervasive nature of not only the insidious dynamics at work, but also the dangerous group think that turned ordinary neighbors into enemies and murderers. I can even interpret the designs and plans of The Final Solution and, with no positive connotation, marvel at its lethal efficiency. 

The trove of knowledge I have surrounding the Nazi's attempt at exterminating the Jews from the face of the earth has allowed me to answer all of the questions but one, "why?" My only conclusion is that there are no words that exist in any language suitable to answer that question. There are only the emotions that came with each visit I made to every new location. It was only my imagination, but I pictured the spirits of those who inhabited those places, staring, looking, whispering, "Remember, remember." 

I will always remember. I will always educate. It may seem strange that a gentile such as myself walks around with the entire history of a people to whom I do not belong inside of my head, but it was gentiles like me who did not, would not, decided not to step in. I do not bear the guilt, but instead walk with the understanding - to paraphrase Santayana - that if we do not learn and do not educate, we risk repeating the horrors of the past. 

The things that I am passionate about may seem odd - but I'm an odd sort of person. I am looking forward to reading this new book of mine in small bites - a page here and there in no particular order. allowing the emotions that flow from the pages to overtake me for a small amount of time. If you have the opportunity, watch the movie, if you have the privilege, walk the places I have been fortunate enough to see with my own eyes. Sie wird für immer geändert. 

Bacon Jam and Smokey Peat

Sometimes, you just need to be with you. I've discovered I can't be completely static - and cooking fulfills my need to complete or produce... something. Tonight was a solo night, with my favorite show, my favorite video game and my favorite pasttime - cooking.

Bacon Jam:

I made a double batch, so it took twice as long - and it was accompanied by the smokiest of delciousness out there - Laphroigh Quarter Cask

1lb of bacon

3 to 4 cloves of garlic

1 medium sized onion

1/4 cup apple cider vineger

1/2 cup packed brown sugar

1/2 cup coffee

Yes - you read that correctly - coffee. I keep leftover and stale beans for this purpose. You can flex maple sugar or burbon into or in place of the brown sugar to create your own spin. Burbon can also be consumed.

Take your bacon and brown it, just the edges. As soon as it shows those signs pull the bacon off of the  pan and onto some sort of paper towel - remove the fat while keeping a tablespoon in the pan.

Crush the cloves of garlic with the flat of your blade, then chop.

Chop the onions and then heat the one remaining tablespoon of bacon fat over medium heat. Saute the garlic and onions until translucent, then add the brown sugar, the vinegar and the coffee and heat to boiling. Reduce heat and cut the bacon into 1 inch pieces, then add to the mixture. Sip your drink of choice as you have some work and a bit of a wait ahead of you.

Simmer for at least an hour and a half.

It will reduce, and it will be glorious. Can it, mash it, stick it in a stew.... (points if you get that reference), but mostly spread it on everything and ANYTHING. 

I've used it in combination with brie, fig preserves and french bread, tonight. It has also been fabulous with brie and arugula on grilled cheese - but please, take your pick, and accompanying drink, and enjoy.

Where do we go from here?

The marathon is quickly approaching.

There, I said it. It is swiftly and inexorably approaching, much like it did last year, and much like it will do each year from here on out. I have my golden ticket, my winning lotto number, my entrance fee paid. I get the bombardment of emails greeting me with a cheerful and ego inflating "Attention Athletes!" The long-miler weekend is happening soon - twenty miles. I remember that run. It was the best run, performance-wise, that I have ever completed. Twenty got me hyped, somewhat misleadingly, for 26.2. In the springtime it was time to pull out the running shoes again as I had only been sporadically running during the winter months. I was out of shape but looked forward to the experience of reaching for a lofty goal and achieving it. I wanted to better my somewhat disastrous time by not being hideously ill the day of the race. I wanted to make everyone proud again. I wanted to make myself proud again...


The marathon is quickly approaching, and will pass by without me. This race will be run by others, but not by me.

There, I said it. The truth I've been avoiding. I'm not running this year. I'm somewhat hopefully deferring my slot for the next go-round, paying the entrance fee again, and looking with concern and anxiety to next October. If I was feeling polite I would tell you that I was disappointed in myself, if I was being honest I would tell you that I was crushed. I would tell you that I am dreading the expo, the flow of tourists and runners coming into the city, the signs, the preparations of those around me, the day before, and most of all the day of. I have friends running, and I've spent the last month and a half, and another month to go, preparing myself to get out of bed on that day, and cheer them on with every ounce of passion that I received the year before. This will be a bitter acrid pill to swallow.

My frustration is laid at the feet of no one but myself, but if we're being honest - and it seems that we are - the anger and frustration and self-flagellation isn't entirely fair. The truth is that I fight an invisible disease everyday, one I don't feel comfortable enough to discuss or name with the internet, and that disease has contributed, or rather destroyed, my ability to train this year. I don't talk about it, I don't want to, but it's there and it hurts. I can't lay all the blame there, but I have to portion blame where appropriate to avoid the tidal wave of anger and guilt I feel when I stare at my running shoes and think, "remember what you used to do? Where you used to be? Now you are no where."

This isn't a plea for sympathy. It is a confession, a whispered revelation, a silent 'help me'. Most importantly it is getting this off my chest so that I can look at the more important question at hand: "where do we go from here?"

That answer just might be found in the laces of my running shoes, the encouragement of friends, and the simple but profound statement of "Onward". I know that I am not any less of a person for not running this year, but believing that statement is a little trickier. Much like the battle I fight everyday, I will work harder at that belief, at cutting myself a break.

I am a marathoner now and always, and no illness or sense of despair can take that away from me. On October 12th, I will still be a marathoner - and so will so many of those around me. I am so proud of you all, I know what you've gone through and this is your year, not mine - enjoy every single moment.

See you on Congress Parkway in 2015.

Things I wish I could say to the Parents of my Freshman

Hello,

First, thank you for the trust you have placed in me, and in our institution. You have provided us with the faith that we will do right by your child. Without stating it I also understand that [most of] you are placing the trust that we will shelter them, keep them safe, keep them healthy and even happy.

Did you ever truly consider how tall an order that is? I reflect back upon my young life, prior to full time work, grad school, college, and know for a fact that was an order that couldn't have been fulfilled by my own parents at all times. Sometimes I stayed up too late (reading, I was a nerd), didn't do my homework, sobbed over breakups, and even watched heartbroken as my family stability crumbled around me due to life threatening illnesses of one kind or another.

I have come to understand over my career in higher education that the wild eyed fear that exists in a parent's eyes as they drop their student off that first day is the terror of the unknown, of not being sure that the lessons have been heard, of worrying that your 18 or so years of parenting will not have been enough to prepare them for this upcoming trial.

And so, you turn to me: the adult in the room. However, a huge thank you to the kind few who look at me and mistake me for a student on move in day - bless your souls. My supervisor always likes to reassure parents on this particular day that "Your students have heard your lessons", and some of them have. Some will actively attempt to dump all that information out the minute your car pulls off, while others will valiantly cling to their convictions at times to the detriment of the acceptance of new ideas, people, or paths. Your student may surprise you at where they fall along this spectrum.

The only constant that can be expected is that they are going to make mistakes. Sometimes they will be little mistakes, like sleeping through class, and other times they will be big mistakes that they may be too ashamed to ever tell you about. That, my dear parents, is often where I come in. I get to see your students at their worst - that's my job. When they violate policies, they meet with me. I get to see them combative, angry, frustrated, sad, clueless, arrogant, manipulative, rude, scared, terrified. What makes me enjoy my job is my ability to see the good in the child that you raised, and to see their actions as mistakes. I always tell them, "this moment may be a defining one, but it doesn't have to define you".

I wish I could write this letter to new parents - and maybe some day I will, but the moments that I see them at their worst is when I get to tease out the type of parenting style with which they were raised. Did you solve all their problems? Did they get everything they ever wanted? Have you always risen up and defended their every action? If the answer to any of those questions is yes, they are about to get a very rude, "welcome to the world" when they sit down in my office. I had a girl burst into tears once when I told her that I couldn't get her a single room:

"No?" she asked, incredulously.
"You don't hear that very often.... do you?" I replied, one eyebrow cocked skyward.
"No..... my mother never tells me no." she stated shakily.
"....Welcome to the rest of your life."

I spent ten minutes after that getting her to stop crying.

The point of that little anecdote is that for better or for worse, you are their parents/guardians, and your style will come out in how they respond to an authority figure, how they treat their roommate, and how they deal with stress. This letter is coming to you too late, Freshman Parents, for me to provide pointers and bits of advice on how to best prepare them, however. That will be for another day. What we're focused on here now is what you can do in the moment, what you can do when you're worried, when they scare you, when they won't call, when you are angry at me. What do you do?

My Freshman Parent How-To, Some Hard Truths and Caring Pointers:

1. If you want to talk to school officials about your student, learn about FERPA, and talk with your student about signing a form. This is, however, your student's choice. If they don't want me talking to you, I won't. I don't care who pays the bills. Take that up with them.

2. I don't care what you think, getting involved in your student's disagreements with their roommate is always a bad idea. You can support your student, but please, don't intervene. We've got roommate meditations for that.

3. Have a conversation with your student about the nature of the internet. The things they write, post, blog, snap, tweet, whatever, are a part of public domain - and those words thrown out their about "Imma beat the shiiiiit outa mah roomie!1!" are not private, and can be considered violations of our electronic harassment policy.

4. I understand - this is your child, your baby. Your most precious part of life. I watch over 1750 precious individuals every day, and that doesn't make any of them less special, it just means that I'm not going to individually bend the rules or provide special treatment to the one that you consider 'yours'.

5. If they don't call after 24 hours it doesn't mean they are dead in the ditch, it likely means they are still sleeping. If you ask us to check on them - we will, but depending on protocol we may not update you on their condition. Protip: if we see them during this wellness check, I guarantee, we do ask them to CALL THEIR MOTHER.

6. Some schools will call you if your student is admitted to the hospital - some won't. Often times the ones that do, do so as a courtesy, not as an obligation. So, when your cherub is transported to the hospital for alcohol poisoning (or regular old illness), you might not find out. This is where open communication with your student comes in. Talk about situations like this before they happen - it will cause your student so much less anxiety in the moment and I'll have a lot less tear-filled "don't tell my parents!!!" to deal with.

7. Speaking of open conversation: Sex, Drugs, Booze, and everything else under the sun. That's what your student may run into. Contrary to popular media, not all of them will get into everything, but the ones who have had the opportunity to reflect upon the effects, and why they might or might not want to use or do X, Y and Z are a lot more likely to be responsible about it. Trust me. This is one time to steer the conversation away from abstinence, and towards intelligent decision making.

8. Speaking of sex: Talk to your female AND male students about sexual assault. Talk about consent, and how important it is, and that silence does NOT. MEAN. YES. You may not want to think about them having sex, but you need to make sure they know that sexual assault happens, that you want to be able to have open conversations about their experiences should they so choose. There is nothing more heartbreaking than to sit with a sexual assault survior and have them say, "My parents can never know. They will never understand."

9. Student Conduct (Judicial) Process - you should be asking about this. Basically - what happens when your student makes one of those mistakes mentioned above? Do you get notified? Whom do they meet with? (Me!) What are plausible outcomes in typical situations?

10. Know the campus climate - the Clery Act was signed into law in 1990 and it requires all campuses to publish an annual report about the criminal activity that has happened in the year-to-date. This will help you know what is going on around campus.

11. Strongly encourage your student to at least know the resources available to them on campus, specifically the location of and how to utilize any health services, counseling center, and any sexual assault crisis services. Hopefully this knowledge will be as useless and unnecessary as the stuff they crammed in for last weeks geology exam - but it will be indispensable if they need it.

12. Talk to your student about how to respond to authority figures - specifically in confrontational situations. As I always say - volume never solved any argument. There is always an outlet for complaints if they don't like how situations are handled, they should utilize a proper form of complaint.

13. No matter how much you wish it - sometimes they aren't ready to be away at school. Returning home may seem like a setback, but it actually might be a step in the right direction. They're already beating themselves up - give them a hug, let them know it will be okay, and that after they spend a few days licking their wounds you expect to talk about a game plan.

14. When they come home on break, don't comment on the new hair color, piercing or even a new tattoo. They are, like it or not, an adult now, choosing to do what they wish to their body. You have hopefully taught them that their body is their own, they should respect it, and let no one else disrespect it. This is the current method of expressing themselves - with hope it won't be too permanent (credit for this one goes to my supervisor).

15. I'm here to be your partner, not your adversary. We may not agree, but I want what is best for both the community and your student. Sometimes it may seem like those two are in conflict, but at the end of the day, I promise you - I do care for your student. So much so, that I will make sure they see that their actions have consequences, and will hold them to those consequences.

16. Encourage your student to read our policies and procedures. It's not a bad idea for you to do so either - but it really shouldn't be just you reading and spouting the information back to your student.


I'm sure I will think of more, but this is getting long enough already. At the end of the day, I care for your student. I want them to succeed. At times they can be their own worst enemy, and while I won't fix things for them, I will give them the opportunity to fix things for themselves. It's up to them to decide what they want. That's the scary part - giving them the choice. Some will spurn the hand that is offered, while others will use it to lift themselves out of what might be the most difficult part of their lives thus far. We'll provide the roof, the food (sometimes) and even the resources. I always hope that the happiness, the friendships, and the endlessly fun college memories will follow.

When those memories are not so fun, though, I'll be here.

Your trust is well placed - but really in the end, you aren't placing that trust in me. I think we both know that you're placing your trust in them, your student. It's just really scary to admit it.

--
A Student Conduct Officer who cares deeply for the child you are sending my way

True Confessions: Student Conduct Doubts

There are times that I wonder about the 'point' of the work that I do. I wonder about the quantifiable effect that I'm having upon the students that I'm meeting with. I look at the severity of their infractions and ponder how much time I spend constructing the valid conversations, the critical questions, and most of all the empathetic open-mindedness with which I approach each interaction.

What does it matter? We don't work in a world where thank yous come in droves, where our students typically excel, and where they write notes filled with words of gratitude for the leadership they have witnessed and learned through our relationship. Many times my measure of success is meeting with a student once - and then never seeing them again.

The doubts creep in at times - are they rolling their eyes at the inconvenience of  the meeting they are required to schedule? "It was just drinking, man!" Do they find my attempts to connect and understand authentic, or do I just look like I'm trying too hard?

Reflections of this ilk are what descend on the tough days - the ones where I know my words are falling on deaf ears, where I finally sign that termination letter that I've been dreading, where the mental instability of a student saps the remaining energy that I possess in the space of a half an hour meeting.

The doubt, however, is always held back by a few thoughts, inspired by the quotes of others, and just in case you need a reminder today, here is what inspires me:


We don't get to determine what constitutes a crisis to our students. A hangnail to one may be the straw that breaks the back of another. It is not our place to put their crisis into global perspective, it is our place to help them understand where that crisis falls in the grand scheme of their own life, and assist them in learning that while the choice they made may be a defining moment in their life, the current crisis that exists does not have to define the rest of the long road ahead.


"My job is to believe in other people's children" - Dr. Roper at the ASCA 2011 keynote

We have to believe they can succeed. Even the difficult ones, the ones we don't like, the students who give us reason to despair. We must believe and have faith, because just maybe at that point there is no one else who believes in them - even themselves. Looking at a student and saying, "I believe you can do better" may change nothing - but it could change everything. That is why I do this work.

Blogger Replies to Affronted Working Mother! ClickBait!

To start, the source of my ire is this particular article, I'd recommend perusing it prior to continuing, but I summarize briefly, so your choice:

http://www.thenewportbuzz.com/working-mom-pens-open-letter-to-gwyneth-paltrow-and-absolutely-destroys-her/235550/

There are so many things wrong with this I can hardly stand it.

The dramatic reader-grabbing title just grates on me, I could barely force myself to click on such click-bait feculence (I'm lookin' at you, Christian Winthrop, article author). Once reading the article, the only entitlement that jumped off the page of me was that of the original letter writer. We spend so much time as women wallowing in feelings of inadequacy, that when someone else admits either their own ignorance or challenges some will leap forth and jump on that offered sore spot and tear it to pieces like the vicious harpies every one of us has inside.

The statement that so offended this working mother was this:

“I think it’s different when you have an office job, because it’s routine and, you know, you can do all the stuff in the morning and then you come home in the evening. When you’re shooting a movie, they’re like, ‘We need you to go to Wisconsin for two weeks,’ and then you work 14 hours a day and that part of it is very difficult." - Gwyneth Paltrow, TV interview regarding her divorce

The writer then begins to scathingly pick apart all she deems absurdest in the above quote, which based upon her reply seems to boil down to, "You don't know me! You've got money you crazy bitch! Your life is golden!" .....to paraphrase.

I get why the author of this open letter, that Gwynny Paltrow will likely never read or care about, would be so frustrated by that statement. It seems that Ms. Paltrow is saying that in her opinion, her job as a movie star is harder than working a 9 to 5. My question to this highly affronted mother is - did you ever stop to think about why Ms. Paltrow feels that way? Did you ever spare a spot of empathy to think about the tough time that this actress may be going through with her marriage falling apart and feeling like a failure as a mother for being away from her children? Or did you just consider the bed of money that you clearly feel that Ms. Paltrow sleeps upon to be comfort enough to ease those pains, soothe those wounds? While "ripping her apart" you have committed the same sin of assumption that has so angered you in the first place. You are correct - Ms. Paltrow doesn't understand your life, or your struggles, or your daily challenges with your bank account. On the same accord - you do not understand hers. That's the part you missed.

I'm not going to go into all of the imaginative thoughts that went through my head for why Ms. Paltrow said what she did, or why I only look upon those comments with empathy. That would take all day and none of that would convince you of your strongly held entitled opinion that "I've got it worse". What I will say, however, is that your opinion of movie stars appears to be culled from the pages of those glossy magazines that attract the eye from the aisles of the supermarket checkout line, and not from any direct contact.

Why not try a little empathy instead of affronted irritation? The difference between Ms. Paltrow and you, or myself, is that when you and I make assumptions about other people they are not blasted across the six o'clock news for sheer enjoyment of those who take delight in breaking others down. I know for a fact that 70% of the people in my life don't understand the job or the work I do, and I filter their comments about my particular line of employment through a filter of "they don't understand, all is well. I know the truth." While a bitter pill to swallow at times, I derive my satisfaction from that, as opposed to frothing at the mouth and wielding barbs of sarcasm.

We as women face so much in this world of ours, the last thing we need is to throw one more obstacle in the path of our sisters. Your letter, while witty, to me was just sad. You showed no empathy, and more than a little jealousy - exactly the opposite of what I think you were trying to convey. I won't pretend to know how hard your life is, but instead will wish you well and I hope you have a better day. Maybe writing that letter to a superstar actress made you feel better, I just wish you had found a better outlet for that irritation. Your vitriolic response is why we write hilarious and hyperbolic emails to best friends and why they invented the feature that allows us to make our blog posts, private.

Be well, my sister. The same to you, Gwyn Paltrow,

“There is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women."
-Madeleine Albright

The Greek World Looking In - A Former GDI's Perspective

This rather lengthy piece was inspired by many occurrences over the past few days, but mostly by the nature with which I see others in student affairs react to the world of Greek Life. TL;DR - We're all on the same side, y'all. 

My undergraduate career took place at a 4 year, public, extremely urban institution. We didn't have a football team, we had more students living off campus than we did on - and most of those commuted, and one thing we certainly didn't have was a strong presence of Greek Life. When I was in undergrad I had all the incredibly stereotypical notions of what Greek Life was about, why I would never have rushed a sorority, and most of all: how dumb it was to pay for your friends. I scared all those in my social circle by adding  ΔΦA to my AIM (dating myself) profile my Freshman year - I had to assure all of my horrified friends that no, I was not drinking the Kool Aid, I had been inducted into the German Honors Society. Cue the collective sigh of relief. 

My first year of graduate school meant big changes in my environment - I transition to a state school in the middle of nowhere and spent the next two years somewhat bemusedly appreciating the life that a majority of my friends had called 'college'. Greeks were EVERYWHERE. Our housing department had graduate assistants in what was called Greek Court - on campus houses for lucky fraternities and sororities. Becoming friends with some of those GAs afforded me the ability to look into an unfamiliar world. Visiting their apartments which were nestled cozily at the juncture between two houses, during break times meant that we got to watch TV in the Great Rooms of the houses. There was SO much to look at - hallways filled with portraits of the members, paddles as far as the eye could see, banners, plaques, trophies for unknown awards - I had a lot of questions. 

On top of all of this, nothing prepared me for the experience of Greek Week. The entire campus came alive with the competitions that each group had been practicing and training for since winter break. I finally understood the torn up fields and occasionally uprooted tree - practice for Tugs had been in full swing under the cover of night. My students that were walking back to the halls as I was leaving the library late at night looking exhausted and carrying bags with them had been practicing and putting together costumes for Airband. The occasional sprained ankle or mysterious bruises were a direct result of pyramids practice. As the building I worked in shook with the thundering concussion of cannon fire, I was the only one who reacted. Our secretary laughed at my concern, "Tugs, honey - they'll be firing it off at the start and finish of each one all week."

I took my ignorance into my own hands during my second year. My multicultural counseling class assigned each person to pick a demographic with which they were uncomfortable, and find a way to immerse oneself in that culture. As I sat there, convinced there was not one group on this earth with which I would find myself uncomfortable, the back of my mind whispered, "Greeeeeeeekssssss". After a day of ignoring it, I finally threw my hands in the air, and trudged over to Greek Court to speak with the Greek Life Coordinator. After a short conversation he encouraged me to seek an immersive experience not just with any Greek Life, but with the fraternities and sororities of the National Pan-Hellenic Council (NPHC) - the historically black fraternities and sororities on campus. Before I knew it, there I was, sitting in on an NPHC executive board meeting, slightly wild-eyed and extremely uneasy with how uneasy I was feeling. They accepted me - and my awkwardness - with a graciousness and humor that I wasn't expecting. They offered themselves and their organizations up for any questions I might have. The entire project ended up being one of the best experiences that I had in Grad School. 

Between that, my thesis advisor Dr. Charles Eberly - affectionately known by every Sigma Phi Epsilon brother on earth as 'Doc', and the daily experiences on my campus, my opinions and paradigms about Greek Life were fleshed out. I saw leadership where I once saw sheep, I perceived the potential for lifelong bonds where I once saw blind devotion, and most importantly I saw those who made mistakes and created a poor name for their organization as outliers - no longer the norm. I began to see the philanthropy work, the difficult jobs faced by executive board members, the pride and at times loving exasperation that advisors had for their students.

There has been quite a bit in the media lately regarding hazing and/or poor choices made by brothers or sisters. Compounding this is how these groups are portrayed in not only the reporting of these events, but in every Hollywood or prime time television depiction. Zac Efron’s got a movie coming out guys! His fraternity lives next to a family with a new born baby – expect hijinks and idiotic tomfoolery! No one will go to class! Enough alcohol to fell a football team! Parties large enough to cost the equivalent of a year of tuition at the Pretend University where this Pretend Fraternity is chartered!

My colleagues in Greek Life have their work cut out for them. I may battle the, “Come on, it’s COLLEGE” argument on a daily basis in conduct – but they fight an image that has been reinforced as a party environment far past and beyond any other group or experience out there. I respect both the care they have for their students, but also their unwavering dedication to help these organizations show the world just how fantastic ‘going Greek’ can be. In that I stand with them as a stalwart ally, pushing those around me to question the stereotypes in which they believe; to look for the good behavior, instead of seeking out news of the bad. For every chapter caught up in a hazing scandal, there are hundreds more who practice what they preach and uphold the tenants upon which they were founded.

Not every organization is headed in the right direction, and some make mistakes; that is why we have strong advisors and colleagues in Greek Life. We, being those who do not work with Greeks need to be sure we are not cutting the legs out from under our coworkers with dismissive opinions about Greek Life and those who do that work. We are – after all, brothers and sisters in this great world of student affairs. Work together, not against – and for the love of Mike, its Fraternity, not Frat.

Do you have thoughts on Greek Life? I’d love to hear them. 

Kids these days

When my friends and I get together at times the conversations will turn to things that have happened at my work. While I'm always respectful of privacy, there are certain stories just begging to be told under the heading of, "This is what the kids are doing these days...."

So, for your amusement, a short  and non comprehensive list of what the kids around me, are doing these days:
Disclaimer: Urban Dictionary and Google at your own peril

1. Smoking alcohol (this one is really creative and odd, all at once)
2. Soaking tampons in alcohol and putting them in places that God didn't intend. 
3. Confusing the hell out of me by crushing and lining their adderall to snort - it looks just like coke. Come on.
4. Fanny packs are coming back! This time with speakers - and they are called Jammy packs.
5. Neknominate - the Youtube drinking game that at last count has killed 5 students
6. New marijuana blunts that leave no roaches behind! [Translation: no evidence left but ashes]


That's what the hooligans are doing these days.

Nightmares

Trigger warning for sexual assault.


Last night I had a horrifying dream. I was reasonably prepared to have vivid images in my head as I slept because I had gone to bed early, done some form of physical activity that day, taken some meletonin to help me get to sleep, and was going to get a solid and very much needed 10 hours. All of that in my world is a recipe for my trademark realistic dreams. When they are good dreams I have to do all I can not to smash my phone against the wall when my alarm goes off - Tropical beach? Yes, please. Magical flying super powers? Hell yes! Benedict Cumberbatch? Thank you, more please.

However, they aren't always nice dreams and unfortunately when they are bad ones they are just as, if not more, realistic.

Last night in my dream I was sexually assaulted by someone I know. While that in and of itself should be enough to be ranked as top tier nightmare, the worst part of the dream was yet to come.  That, time-wise, played a relatively small part - he took me by surprise, it happened swiftly, and it became a fight once dream-me got over my shock of what was happening. 

He was enraged at my reaction and after a swift but violent fight that followed I escaped and he began chasing me. We were in a relatively public place that was, as it turned out, packed with people that I know. It turned into one of those clawing fighting biting trying to get away moving through mud kind of dreams. As I passed these people that I knew I was sobbing, trying to explain what happened as he was trying to drag me backwards, intent on retribution. They stared at me with blank faces and patronizing glances - "Why are you being so dramatic, why are you causing a scene? What are you talking about? Him? He's a nice guy! You slept with him? Lucky!"  On top of all of that because this wasn't reality, once I eluded my attacker I could still hear him, both speaking to me, "You're worthless, you wanted it" and speaking to other people, "What a bitch - I give her some and she has the gall to say she didn't want it?" And so on, for the majority of the rest of my dream.

Waking up meant an escape from the situation, but the memory of the crushing feelings of despair, shame, and anger at those around me whom I thought I could trust, remained - along with the realization that this will probably be one of the most realistic dreams that I ever have. Every day survivors of sexual assault face this type of disbelief, lack of support and shaming that I experienced in dream-form. Their responses, their actions, the fight they did or did not put up, how they were dressed, the prior relationship they had with their attacker all will be laid bare to be picked over like a carcass on the side of the road. They will be charged as guilty of wanting it until all signs point to a struggle, a protest, of fitting into a 10 item checklist of "how victims should react". Often it is only then that they have even the hope of being taken seriously, of having their needs met, of being told, "it wasn't your fault." 

I, as someone who has assisted with sexual assault investigations in the past, am not saying that every report must be immediately taken at face value with no further inquiry - rights extend to both the survivor and the accused. But we need to start checking our biases and disbelief, especially if we are not the investigator. We must learn to offer nonjudgmental, non-accusatory support. Anything else will compound and exacerbate an already unimaginable pain.

The end of my story, my dream, is that I woke up. I had the opportunity to wake up from the simulacrum of a nightmare that so many others must live everyday without hope of an alarm clock to bring them out. I have the luxury of leaving this experience behind, because truly - it didn't really exist for me.  I'll be reflecting on this dream for a long time and I think we all need to reflect on how we feed into victim blaming and rape culture every day. It isn't fun to think about, but to live the reality - of which I only experienced in the world of a dream - is hell. We must spend time thinking about how we as bystanders, family, and friends can serve as supporters - not contributing monsters to the nightmare that some live day in, day out, waking and asleep. We have to do better.

The Agony and the Education, Apologies and Gratitude

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." - J.R.R. Tolkien


It is two weeks and a day from the marathon. I'm feeling unprepared because I haven't been able to run this week at all. Work has been stressful, and I've been working late - late enough to make running not an option or at least enough to be exhausting. Thankfully there are not a lot of duty days left between now and the big day.

I really still haven't faced the reality that I'm actually going to be running a marathon. It has been a long journey to get to this point and I think I expected to feel like a different person. The Miranda of February wasn't a Miranda that could run a marathon, but the Miranda that is sitting here on the couch doesn't feel any different. I still struggle with getting out to go and work out, and the challenges of running are still present.

I've learned a lot though. I've figured out what shoe size I wear -  a surprisingly mysterious number. I've learned that it is possible to have a toe that is all blisters, and then get more blisters on top of the original ones. I know what an iliotibial bands are, and that mine are constant complainers and are extremely high maintenance. I've gotten an idea of how often I need to re-energize on long runs, and I don't care what Nick thinks - vanilla bean Gu is freaking delicious. I've been inspired and humbled by the runners that I see on the lakefront every week, when a 60 year old woman, 80-ish year old man, 300lb person is there every Saturday running mile after mile it is hard to make excuses. For that matter I've decided that running is 90% mental. If you make the decision to get up and go, the battle is nearly won. It's the choice to make that first step out of bed and into your running clothes that is the hardest one of them all.  Most of all I've realized that first step is still hard and will likely always be hard, but I've also realized that once I make it I can accomplish more than I ever thought possible. One week ago today I ran 20 miles. 8 months ago I never would have believed that possible.

This journey hasn't been without sacrifice and it hasn't been my all my own. I owe so much to so many - both thank yous, and apologies. I'm sorry that throughout this arduous training I've drifted away from almost everyone in my social circle. I'm sorry that I'm not making my Autumn trip to Boston and will be missing so very much this year. I'm missing the wedding that I've been looking forward to for over 3 years now and I wish it was remotely possible to attend. I haven't and won't get to see one of my very best friends this year, and I miss him. I'm sorry to my body - you weren't ready and I've pushed you to the limit, you've held up so well, two more weeks - hang in there. I'm sorry to my husband, without whom I wouldn't have have the confidence to get this far. He's helped patch up my toes, rubbed out knots, cooked mounds of pasta, and wiped away so many tears. His own injury has slowed him down but not done anything to stem the tide of unwavering support. He's had confidence since the beginning, even when I had doubts.

I have so much gratitude that I might burst with it. I'm so grateful for my experience with Team in Training - I wouldn't have been able to train for this run without them. I can't thank enough to everyone who has donated to my my fundraiser - your support has been overwhelming and so appreciated. I'm planning a fun way to say thank you officially after the race. I'm thankful for everyone who has offered me advice, words of wisdom and reassuring words. I'm thankful beyond words that I've had such a support network from my athletics Alma Mater. Due to one special person, I've had fears put to rest, injuries treated and further ones prevented. I would not be here without you.

There are things to do and more miles to run before the big day, but pervasively, the reality of that this journey is nearing it's end is starting to enter my consciousness. I am simultaneously anxiously awaiting and fearing that day, both due to the magnitude of it but also because it marks the end of a really long and life-altering odyssey, and I don't fully know what is on the other side - hopefully a finish line. For now, however, I'm going to stay here in this moment and trust that these past 8 months have prepared me to take on this trial that I never could have imagined.


"The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start"
- John Bingham