if i hired a nutritionist today...

I stumbled across a facebook ‘memory’ from 2012 of an email i sent to a prospective Dietician. it was painful to read (as are most posts, values and ideologies from season’s past) mostly because it was written from a very disordered and unhealthy lens through which i food, my body and the world.

i am still in touch with this Dietician, Sumner Brooks. She saved my life and continues to do her work in a way that is aligned with how i navigate and conduct myself in my kitchen and in my heart. i thank the benevolence of this world for our paths to cross.

though i am not on “the other side” of disordered thoughts about food and my body, i have certainly evolved in my world view and would write a very different email today. this blog post is that new email.

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the breakdown:

It’s important to me that I learn to fuel my body responsibly for my activity level while still being able to eat very clean. To me, this means not eating anything with added sugar, starch and ingredients I cannot pronounce. 

It’s important to me that I honor my body’s hunger and satiety cues while also understanding eating is meant to be pleasurable and sometimes wanting more food outweighs whether or not I physically need it.

I have access to and enjoy eating a wide variety of foods, some are more processed than others.

Concerning myself with “rejecting ingredients I cannot pronounce” is both classist and ableist. I prefer not to concern myself with such criteria.

As a personal trainer, I am ADAMANT that I “walk the walk” in terms of my own health and wellbeing so I can be of more service to my industry.

As a human being who’s paid as a Movement Teacher, I value autonomy in myself and my students. My body, my health and my lived experience are not advertisements, inspiration or accountability markers for anyone else’s life journey. The only way I can be of service to my industry is to actively resist, reject and repair all parts of it rooted in racism, anti-Blackness and anti-fatness. 

I am passionate about what I do, because it’s who I am.

Passion for what i do for money fluctuates regularly and I am not my streams of income.

And though, deep down, I’m very uncomfortable at the physical size I am now, I chose “sports nutrition” as an objective as apposed to “losing weight” because I trust weight loss will be inevitable if I am educated and fearless about the other aspects. 

I’d like you to know I am uncomfortable in my physical body most of the time, but not all the time. This is in part because I have been a lot thinner in my life and I feel like a failure for having been unable to maintain the body I had when I was suffering with an eating disorder. I recognize this thought loop reflects my own fat-phobia, shaped by anti-fat culture and I’m committed to dismantling that as well.

though i wish it weren’t true, i understand that weight loss is not always an outcome of making necessary or minor adjustments in lifestyle. In my case, it may never be.

I’m grateful that my body is able to physically do what I ask of it everyday and I want to treat it with the same love and respect I’d give my own child (if I had a child, haha!)

I’m grateful for my ability to articulate my thoughts, feelings and concerns. My hope is you receive my words and hear my desire for personal freedom as ultimately it’s essential to collective liberation. I do not need help losing weight, I need guidance for how to respond appropriately and lovingly to my body’s cues as I am largely disconnected from them.

Most interestingly, I am a flawed, dynamic, silly, serious and introspective woman. I excel in arranging words of the English language in clever and creative ways. I am nourished by togetherness and satisfied by solitude. It’s not easy to make me laugh but when i find something really, really funny, it’s an entertaining and orgasmic sight. i value consistency and my favorite genres of literature and media are True Crime, Ethical Dilemma, Psychological Thriller...and Weekend at Bernie’s. Also, my Dad is dead.

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notes - nuances - nourishment:

1. weight loss and the desire to lose weight is not inherently problematic nor is it indicative of an eating disorder. while only you know when your desire to be of a smaller shape and size is born from an unhealthy relationship to body, food, etc., anti-fatness rooted in anti-Blackness is a real stain on American life and affects us all, even when we don’t recognize it. Fearing the Black Body by, Sabrina Strings outlines this history beautifully.

2. my comment about “walking the walk” as a Personal Trainer and claiming ‘I am what I do’ is late-stage capitalist rhetoric and, when adopted as truth, (particularly in the #GirlBoss world) can be very harmful to ourselves and each other. Eula Biss explains this and so much more in her book, Having and Being Had. This book is not an examination of diet culture per se, but gives a broader context for the ways capitalism lives and thrives in crevices unknown to us.

3. for me, believing that weight loss is an inevitable outcome of making any number of food and lifestyle tweaks has been more psychologically damaging than the act of trying to lose weight. A big part of my personal recovery has been understanding the science of Health at Every Size. Dr. Lindo Bacon is a pioneer in this field and their work is highly backed and respected.

4. These are a few more wildly insightful, healing and helpful resources: podcast about The Obesity Epidemic; Maintenance Phase— a podcast debunking the junk science behind health fads, wellness scams and nonsensical nutrition advice; Sonya Renee Taylor’s interview with Brene Brown + Sonya’s book, The Body is Not an Apology; the book, What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk About Fat is very important for those of us in non-marginalized bodies.
   

xo,

erica jac

"have fun at that empty space".

“Have fun at that ‘empty space’”, my phone reads at 6:45am. Though leaving my phone in the living room overnight has been a personal house rule since 2008, I bring it in to bed with me when I wake up. I probably shouldn’t do this, I know I shouldn’t. But truthfully, as a single thirty-something gal aggressively resistant to any semblance of an IG Influencer’s bullshit morning ritual, I doom scroll first thing. It’s a loneliness’s breakfast of champions.

“Have fun at that ‘empty space’”, these words are like the tiny sharp nail scissors tucked away in the purse of a popular girl who’s just murdered a classmate for stealing her boyfriend.

“Have fun at that ‘empty space’”, the text is from a former Yoga student. She’s talking about the beautiful brand new space I’ve just started renting to teach physical movement classes and whatever-the-fuck-else classes I want to teach…the space I don’t yet know what to call other than “The Space”. And she’s sarcastically telling me to have fun in it because she’s still upset with me about reporting a mutual friend and former student to the health department for opening an enclosed studio while still on lockdown seven months ago. “Have fun at that ‘empty space’”, or, good luck getting people to come to your classes. You will never again have overflowing attendance now that you’re a total tattling cunt. You are nobody. Or something like that. In any case, if she was trying to hurt my feelings, it worked.

In a capitalist ecosystem, there’s an omen of an empty room: that a semi-vacant venue, a poorly-attended workshop, an un-liked social media post and an unfrequented brick & mortar business is a moral failing, a scourge on the part of the host, teacher, owner or performer. Americans, particularly in affluent communities, are taught this the moment we start inviting classmates to our birthday parties, when we compare turnout to other gatherings, when we access our social status in our friend group, if it’s large enough to be considered a group at all. We learn about exile before even recognizing or appreciating the sweetness of inclusion, thus learning we can weaponize displacement by wishing its merciless embarrassment upon each other as revenge.

The fitness industry, particularly Group Fitness, reinforces and heightens this by insisting that oversized classes held in medium size spaces not only symbolize community, intimacy and solidarity but also suggests exclusivity and social status of students and in many ways, the popularity of and demand for the teacher.

Over a decade of teaching at-capacity classes certainly has brought indescribable joy, significant healing and confidence to my life for so many reasons, but it has also fashioned neural pathways for self-doubt, a skewed perception of collective intimacy and a f*cked body image…complements of diet and anti-fatness culture. While it’s true group fitness attendance has a lot to do with convenient time slots, studios and gyms make a point to reward good teachers with prime time slots so, again, how could my worth not be tied to class size? And how could class size not be even a small reflection of my worth?

Having said that, I so badly miss my fifty-person classes. And when it’s not popularity, it’s truly the alchemy of such a large body of people ready to sweat and groove that I long for, lust after and can’t wait to build back…which is why “Have fun at that ‘empty space’” hurts me when really it should excite me.

Any entrepreneur will tell you renting a commercial space is a big risk. And doing it in a way that holds integrity in a global pandemic and keeps others safe is inconvenient at worst, and humbling at best. Though living in integrity does not guarantee fifty people in a room, I’m wise enough by now to know that living from my heart will rarely be “up and to the right” as the world around me defines “up and to the right”; bigger, better, more popular, more well- known, more sought-after, more lucrative, more successful, etc. etc. I also know that building a replica of what used to be or always was is not growth, rather survival, denial and a cheap 25 cent version of a true desire for unity.

I’ll be having fun in that empty space, where possibility, imagination, innovation and movement in all its forms have been waiting for me all this time.

And by the way, it’s not a space…it’s an entire building. And you can come move with me there.

xo,

erica jac

Eating Disorder Awareness Week: Eleven Lessons I've Learned in Recovery

me, looking mighty troubled over an apple…because for a long time, I was indeed troubled by apples.

1. Food is not medicine. 

ponder, investigate, pray on that as needed.

2. Fat people have eating disorders, and they often go undiagnosed and untreated 

3. Trans people, Queer people, Black people, Cis men and folks of all ages have eating disorders. 

4. “Health at Every Size” means no matter the size, weight and shape of your body, you are entitled to be properly cared for and accommodated socially, medically and systemically.

5. ‘Calories In, Calories Out’ is junk science 

6. weight loss is not a guaranteed outcome of healing trauma. Im sorry if someone told you that. 

7. Although eating disorders in and of themselves are not about food, they are rooted in fat phobia, which rooted in anti-Blackness, which has its origins in 1609, which informs the ways we still malnourish marginalized communities through racist urban planning and inhuman food distribution practices, rendering poor people hungry and rich people hoarding.

8. The diet industry, rebranded “the Wellness industry”, is a for-profit distraction manufacturing company. 

9. Exercise makes you hungry 

10. Dr. Oz is an actual conman 

11. Your bad habits will kill you,

but your wellness won’t save you.

---

healing isn’t linear

health isn’t linear

i still struggle in some way each day

but i have a vast tool box and im grateful for how far I’ve come.

if you’ve not experienced an eating disorder, this is a good week to listen.

if you have, i see you

I’m walking with you

and I’m rooting for your freedom.

xo,

erica jac

*Check out the Resources and Revolutionaries page for more exploration

An Apology from my Mother...That She Didn't Write

DISCLAIMER:

After breaking contact with my mother in November 2019 and spending hours and hours processing our relationship in therapy, I have written the apology I deserve from her, the apology she is incapable and unwilling to give to me.

I have chosen to share this letter on my blog, not to hurt or publicly shame anyone, but to honor myself, my story and my experience in my corner of the internet.

I will likely never receive the apology my mother owes me (and she does owe me one. Several, actually) so I wrote it myself.

And for the record, this writing exercise is one of the most cathartic an healing ones I’ve ever done.

Dear Erica,

 Thank you for your patience in waiting for this letter. You’ve waited so, so long.

I’m ready to take the opportunity to make a thorough and sincere apology both in word and action.

 First, I’m sorry i delivered a book to your door without first even reading it or considering its ideologies may not align with your values or complement any self-exploration you’ve been doing this past year we have not spoken.

 I realize that giving someone, especially my daughter, a self-help book is both an insult and a lazy attempt at getting to know you or asking what matters most to you in this season of your life.

 The truth is, I’ve painted a picture of who you are in my mind that suits my needs and supports the narrative I’ve created that you are the broken one; forever needing therapy to find out who you are. 

I’ve made you out to be a lost woman, a lonely woman, a woman who longs for a partner and a family and doesn’t know who she is. 

I’ve turned you into a weakling who just can’t let go of her childhood and I’ve used your body size and weight to further my belief that you’re just unhappy with yourself, when really I have always projected my own fat-phobic ideology onto you.

I’ve created this image of you so I don’t have to take a hard look at myself. If you are the broken one, I can be the cheerleading mom who passively supports your journey but doesn’t have to make any changes or sacrifices in my own life or in our relationship. 

Short of going to therapy myself, I don’t know how to let go of this story I’ve made up about you. Most days it feels too big a risk.

 Next, I want to apologize for the vicious words I said to you in your therapist’s office last Thanksgiving. 

I can barely bring myself to recount what i said but i will.

I’m sorry I called you a liar. I’m sorry I accused you of lying about being sexually abused by your stepbrother, my husband’s son...for three years of your life.

 I know you are not lying because although you did not tell me when it was happening, you did tell me about the abuse a few years ago and i believed you then.

But more than that, I know you are not lying because I knew it was happening all those years ago and I didn’t do anything to stop it. 

 I may say I just thought you two were smoking pot or something but I know better. I knew leaving my 13, 14 and 15 year old daughter alone in the living room late a night and in a hotel room in Palm Springs with a 20, 21 and 22 year old 6 foot 5 man was harmful, irresponsible and negligent. 

I know this was child abuse. 

I know this would have been grounds for Child Protective Services taking you from me, had you told another adult.

I also recognize my pattern of abuse in leaving you with unsafe people throughout your childhood, one of whom willfully burned you to the 3rd degree by refusing to put sunscreen on your extremely fair skin after you asked her nicely several times. 

My eyes fill with tears when i imagine how painful it was for your little seven year-old body; how you screamed in agony when your dad gave you a cold shower — the water like needles to your blistered skin; the sting of the vinegar and solarcaine he rubbed on you as gently as possible. 

Her name was Carol. 

I will never forgive myself for leaving you with her.

I want to also acknowledge that when we ran into her several years later, I greeted her like she was an old friend.

That must have been so painful for you watching your mother embrace a child abuser, your abuser. 

You must have felt so abandoned and unsafe.

You must have felt like your emotional and physical safety wasn’t even a thought to me. 

You must have felt like you didn’t matter to me.

I betrayed you.

Before continuing my apology for other things i said to you in therapy last year, I’d like to acknowledge the role I played in my stepson’s abuse;

not only was he sexually abusing you, but I actively tried to win his favor during that time.

I felt uncomfortable that he didn’t like me—that his own mother portrayed me as trash to him. 

I wanted him to like me and show him i was worthy of his love and his father’s love.

I did this at all costs— I even accused you of flirting with him so I didn’t have to be responsible for watching out for your safety. 

I sexualized and adultified you.

Though i was not cognizant that that’s what I was doing, I now see the very real consequences of turning children into adults so that their safety becomes their own responsibility rather than their parents’. 

After you told me about the abuse a few years ago, I hugged you and thanked you for telling me.

I also made the conscious choice to continue going to your stepbrother’s house for holidays and maintain a relationship with him...to this very day.

This is in part because I don’t want to lose my husband or create strain in my marriage and partly because your stepbrother is good with computers and i need him to help me where I am technologically inept. 

I easily feel out of control and defeated when I don’t understand parts of the world around me and such people who excel in certain areas bring me comfort, even if it’s at the expense of my child’s feelings, her humanity, and my own integrity and moral compass. 

Much like the way I greeted Carol all those years ago, my relationship with your stepbrother is an utter atrocity and I do not blame you for finally removing yourself completely from my toxic choices.

 I’d like to return to the other hurtful

things I said to you in therapy:

I’m sorry I told you that if it was up to me, I would not have come to comfort you the night that your dad died. 

I wish I could tell you I said that out of anger. But I meant it. 

I recognize my acute lack of empathy, mixed with steadfast resentment and innate defiance results in my not doing the most basic of human functions, including rushing to my daughter’s side to wrap my arms around her in her moments of unspeakable shock, devastation and grief. I was ready to leave you broken and hysterical on the locker room floor of 24 Hour Fitness on that cold February night, until John stepped in and drove me to you.

I’m sorry I told you I never trusted you, as a result of a letter you wrote to me when you were 18 years old, at the behest of your father (your other abusive parent). 

When I set aside my commitment to believing you’re a liar so I don’t have to be held accountable for your stepbrother’s abuse, I absolutely recognize that that letter was written under extreme duress and the threat of your car being taken away.

I know deep down that that car was a safety net for you and a way to find autonomy in a relationship that demanded your entire personhood. 

Were I to remove my utter selfishness and desire for self preservation, I would in fact commend you on doing everything you could to protect yourself and survive, knowing that really neither of your parents were safe.

Erica, I’m sorry that I scoffed at you at the end of the therapy session when you told me you love me. I said, “your ‘I love you’ means nothing to me.“

Unfortunately you knew this sentence all too well. I cannot count how many times I uttered those words to you in your childhood. 

You used to tell me you love me when I was really angry and I rejected it because I felt it was your way of manipulating me.

I now realize it was your way of self regulating, reaching out to feel safe again after your primary guardian on this earth had been screaming in your face for minutes on end, and often for the most frivolous reasons. 

 I’m sorry for all the years I rejected you.

I rejected your love for me.

I rejected your crying out.

I gaslit you.

I made everything your fault.

I weaponized your personality when it reminded me of your father, I dehumanized you.

I was cold and heartless and without any remorse for the damage it was causing you. 

 The truth is, you have more love in your left thumb than I have in my entire body. You are warm and kind and people love you because they know they can trust you. You are a safe harbor for the wounded, because your own wounds only deepen your capacity to really be there for people. 

I admire this so much about you, that often I resent you.

 Erica, I understand why you never trusted me— why you hid school papers from me, why you often lied about small and trivial things. 

I can only imagine how confusing it was and how conflicted you must have felt when I would betray your trust over and over, while insisting i was a safe person to talk to.

I always used to tell you I can’t read your mind, that it’s your responsibility to speak up and tell me how you feel. Deep down I knew that wasn’t your nature, that your trust was to be earned, and that most of your childhood was spent in deep contemplation, trying to figure out how you could feel safe and who you could trust from one moment to the next. 

 Erica I know that I’ve tried to convince you I am someone who doesn’t care what people think of me. But this is not true. I care so much about what people think that I shy away from relationships of any substance or depth.

I’ve told you in the past I was never someone who wanted close friends because I didn’t want that responsibility. Being seen for who I really am and being held accountable is a responsibility I don’t know if I’m capable of.

I don’t know who I am without a man in my life, and you do. You have more of a sense of self than I ever could, that’s why you’re able to write the apology that you deserve. 

That’s why you’re able to identify your value, and make no exceptions for anyone.

Part of why I don’t let myself reflect on what your stepbrother did to you is because I’m terrified of what it will do to my relationship with John. I can’t see a way to keep my marriage and repair the harm I’ve caused you. Perhaps if I am willing to see a therapist myself, I might be able to learn how.. but that will be my work, a choice only I can make.

Erica, I have never earned your trust. 

I’ve taken your love and ability to forgive for granted for far too long. 

I understand you will need to sever ties with me forever if I am unwilling to do my own work of self reflection and repair the harm in active, tangible ways, starting with hand writing this exact apology, WORD. FOR. WORD. signing my name to it and sending it back to you. 

I understand that act alone will not guarantee a relationship with you.

I also understand you will need to send this letter to all the women in your family— that bridging the 3,000 mile gap between your aunts and cousins’ idea of where you come from and where you really come from will be a crucial step into reclaiming the fullness of you; to be wholly seen, unequivocally understood and most importantly, undoubtedly believed.

Erica, I can see how my most recent versions of an apology lack both specificity and true accountability. 

I can see my attempt in glossing over an apology by saying I don’t really remember what’s happened and expect you to just accept some flowers, a self help book and a text message is an unacceptable and sloppy amends. 

 Erica, I want to thank you for your generosity in funding a therapy session for us last year, in addition to your regularly scheduled one that week.

Those sessions aren’t cheap and I appreciate not only the emotional gesture, but the financial one.

 As hard as it is, and as much as I want to be a victim of that 50 minutes with you and your therapist, I recognize that I have a choice: I can look at that session as an last ditch effort to stand in my righteousness... or an important beginning in the work that I need to do, the work you’ve been doing for years and years. 

I am so proud of you.

I want to show you that I want you in my life. And I want to earn my place in yours.

Lastly, I want you to know this apology will feel next to impossible to write myself.

In fact, I may very well throw it in the trash or put it down and shove it between piles and piles of paper on my dining room table or the trunk of my car. I will also convince myself this letter must have been dictated by a therapist or someone other than you.

But deep down, I will know that’s a lie.

Your gift with words and your ability to articulate your feelings so clearly is nothing short of God given magic, your magic. I will do my best to not take that from you this time. 

I am ready and willing to look at myself, you, and our relationship with new eyes and I will get whatever help is needed to do that… because contrary to what I’ve said to you for decades, your ‘I love you’ means everything to me.

Love,

Mom 

An Amended Eulogy

In my father’s wallet is a faded sticker

That once read, “it’s a girl!”

and next to that faded sticker was a multi-sleeve wallet insert for several photos l

of me

My father would always be reminded of my identity, before he could show proof of his own.

I think he preferred it that way. 

I will never, ever doubt the love this man felt for me and I believe my father never loved anyone as much as he loved me. 

It was mostly a comforting love

often a complicated love

and at times—hard times—a consuming, inconvenient, and repelling love. 

I didn’t know how to tell the truth about my father fourteen years ago, but now, right now, I’m ready to give the eulogy true to me today, and fair to us forever...

several hours before a heart attack would grip and release him to the ether, i spoke to my dad on the phone. 

He called me from his hotel room to say good night and to tell me how proud he was of me and how much he loved me. 

It took every ounce to return the sentiment because, well, there was so much pain, so much heartache and so much exhaustion. 

I was tired of being his wife — there was NEVER any sexual abuse — 

but i was tired of trying to fulfill a roll no child should ever be assigned to their lonely parent. 

i was tired of being a twenty year old woman sleeping on a twin size bed

when my dad was the Western Regional Manager of a water bed and furniture manufacturing company

I was tired of having a bed named after me that wasn’t mine to sleep in

i was tired of convincing him i loved him

i was tired of being guilted and psychologically abused 

for decades

i was tired of waiting for the father i knew, the father i loved, to come back to me

I was tired of being his. 

The thing about chronic pain, is it robs you of your will to live.

it lies to you— it tells you there is no life here

no color

no joy

no hope

no love

and my father was in so much pain.

The medical community calls the condition “Dystonia”, but you tell me what it’s called when a 56 year-old man tries to stand up straight one day but is instead pulled into a hunch,

literally dragged to a bow

compressed into submission

as though his abdominal muscles are saying

you will comply, brother

you will obey, son

you will heed to me, Larry. 

They call it “Dystonia”.

I call it death. 

I call it the end. 

And that’s the song I was listening to

when he called that night;

“The End”, by The Doors.

eleven minutes and forty three seconds

of a call,

a surrender to death. 

i was listening to that song on repeat

when my father said,

“i love you, Panshky. i can’t wait to come home tomorrow and hug you.” 

But it wasn’t Dystonia that killed him

and it wasn’t just a heart attack;

my father died lonely

and long-long-longing

longing for a do-over with Anne

a second time around with Janet 

another shot with Bobbi 

one more kiss from Merrill 

one last walk with Tina

and, yes

a better chance with Sharon, a fairer time with my mother. 

My father told a good story.

a born-narrator with the steel-trap memory of an elephant,

he told me about Woodstock

as though he were still dancing in the mud

and the time he slid through the plate glass door

as though shards were still biting through skin.

He told me about the day I was born

as though he was still witnessing a miracle,

as though he was still so overcome with the ache of loving someone so much,

as though he just finished crying, “I’m sooo happyyyy” thirty two times on the phone to his mother. 

“Like butter”, he said

“those sharp surgical scissors sliced through your cord like butter.”

I loved going places with my dad.

I loved when he took me to the zoo

and I’d yell, “get dressed, monkeys! your tushies are out and you don’t have any clothes on you!”

I loved when he took me to 

Ports ‘O Call and we ate churros

(i called them “cheerios”)

I loved when he took me to the glass blower and I got to pick a special piece

each time

and i loved launching model rockets 

he built. 

“5...4...3...2...1 ignition, BLASTOFF!”

I loved hearing him say on a work call,

“buddy i gotta call you back; erica just walked in and i wanna spend time with her” 

Every. Time. 

I loved him laying in bed with me for hours

telling me made-up stories

teaching me long division, tracing his finger  in the air

talking through my fears

sharing my joys

I loved feeling his soft, pudgy hand

over my forehead 

as i vomited 

and peed on his feet

I loved holding his hand as we crossed the street 

even as a grown woman

I loved confiding in him

when i was thinking of having sex

with this high school loser

I loved seeing him in the front row

of every talentless talent show

every recital 

every play

every speech contest 

every graduation

giant Panasonic video camera affixed to his shoulder 

it was hard to remember these things I loved 

when he’d pick me up drunk in high school 

or when he threatened to leave me and never come back in middle school 

or when he said, “you’re just like your mother”

or when he put his hands on me and left a bruise for not wanting to go to a BBQ with him 

or when he called me fat

or when he’d scream at cashiers, and condescend customer service reps over the phone just to be mean

it was hard to remember the good

when he made feel so bad. 

i wonder, had he lived longer,

would i ever even remember the good

or would caring for a chronically ill, depressed, damned, devastated and disheartened dad slowly erode moments and entire years of,

“this is my dad, whom I love with my whole heart. in him i am well pleased.”

As you know,

relationships are as complex

as those who are blessed to be in them

our relationship was no different. 

If eulogies are meant to highlight only the good and spare the nuance,

keep the sun and hide the rain

take the best and leave the rest, 

then i don’t want any part of it

take this mic away

disperse and go home 

I like my eulogies like I like life;

overflowing with conflict

beaming with meaningful moments

draped in doom

in celebration of love and it’s convoluted nature 

and above all, true. 

just as my dad descended deeper into the pits of despair and defeat,

he was dealt a heaping dose of mercy

mercy, mercy, mercy and peace

for this i am so grateful 

his love for me is and will always be

a sticker to leather that never peels

and an ache in my belly that never heals

and a song in my heart he always sang:

🎶 A tiny turned up nose

Two cheeks just like a rose

I love you from head to toe

That little girl of mine. 

You climb up on my knee

You are so good to me

To me you’ll always be

That little girl of mine. 

No one will ever know

Just what you’re coming has meant

You’re all the world to me

Your something Heaven has sent

Two eyes that shine so bright

Two lips that kiss good night

Two arms to hold me tight

That little girl of mine🎶

Daddy,

I love you.

I remember you. 

I honor the fullness of you

and every iteration of your time spent here with me. 

I love you today,

I loved you yesterday,

and i will love you forever.

the fight for non-binary means taking a side

If the purpose of a blog post is to start a conversation no one wanted to have with you in the first place, I’ve got the perfect topic to not talk about!

I’ve seen a graphic floating around the internet; a seemingly reasonable and woke sentiment, wrapped in self-preservation and privilege.

At first, and not surprisingly, I took an ounce of comfort and resolve at the thought of having all my own ideologies confirmed without having to fit into a box. One of the clearest, most overdue desires to be heightened by this pandemic, election and racial uprising is the deconstruction of the binary, particularly when speaking of gender, sexual orientation, political parties, etc.

However…graphics like this are a perfect example of what Dr. Martin Luther King referenced in his Letter from Birmingham Jail:

“I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to ‘order’ than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice [...]”

— Dr. Martin Luther King

Obviously over these last eight months, we are in frantic search of meaning; an explanation or probable pattern in such uncertain and deeply chaotic times. As such, the cult and social construct of white supremacy as well as white wellness culture, is notably skilled in taking acutely complex and nuanced sentiment and rigging them to suit the love & light, peace be with all beings rhetoric. We’re brilliant with that.

While this meme appears to expose complexity, it’s actually a desperate attempt to cling to the middle ground; a safe haven where we get to reject accountability and ownership over our deeply held ideology. Of course, our mind, heart and values are subject to change as we evolve and are presented with new information, but when we find ways to conveniently nuzzle in the middle of issues around basic human rights and the state of the planet on which we ALL reside, we exhibit the very privilege, violence and straight up white asshole fuckery that has silenced and gaslit BIPOC and folks in the LGTBQIA+ community for generations.

I pinged these thoughts about the meme off my best friend and she said this:

“this meme gives people permission to cherry pick for individualism and self-preservation as you said, under the guise of banishing the binary, which is truly a gut shot to the progressive movement. The reason we have created political parties is because people need structure in order to comprehend complex things, if people decide to take on the understanding of the nuance and complexities of human nature while maintaining empathy for the collective good, THEN they can have permission to let go of the binary structuralism of our political system. But to do it as a way of serving yourself and what you think is best for you, is not helpful, nor woke, nor open minded... it’s flagrant disregard for our community as a collective.

What we are seeing is people attempting to preserve their ego at the expense of truly having empathy for this world by finding narratives that fit their individualism best.”

— emily peet-saint-lukes

To choose a political party, especially these days, feels incongruent with progress, at least for me. And no doubt, the democratic party —of which I’ve mainly aligned myself with feels moot, outdated, complicated and fraudulent

Let us not slip on our own pile of horse shit. Either we go all the way or there is no more way. Either we make our staunch and perhaps controversial views known or we fade into the background completely.

Social media is not built for the middle. It is not accommodating to complexity, nuance or multi-dimensional thought, through post or meme. We are literally reduced to tiny squares and a limited number of characters. The best we can do is use those tiny squares and allotted characters to make bold statements about where we stand; to not be afraid of losing people or making folks uncomfortable. There is a difference between causing harm and offending someone. Learn the difference, then post how you really feel.

hoofbeats

“If you hear hoofbeats in Central Park, think horses, not zebras”

This phrase is as complex as it is painfully simple. 

As human beings have the unique capacity to think in the abstract, to utilize imagination and construct sensational story through consciousness, one might argue “zebras”—the idea there is a more vast, sophisticated and fantastical explanation for everything— are what give life and color to this world. 

By contrast, one might argue that “horses” —the over-simplified, more obvious conclusion, grounds us and keeps us from wandering into the deep weeds of over-thought, sometimes problematic why’s and outcomes. 

In recent years, I might have assumed there is one right answer; I either look at the world and draw conclusions through an outlandish wonder-full ‘zebra’ lens, or a more boring, simple, anti-climactic horse lens.

Like most of us, I was raised in a binary; a “this/that”, “black/white” “good/bad” “boy/girl”, conceptualization of the world.

Of course, binary is not only useful but absolutely crucial to the development of a human. It is a GOOD idea to treat people with respect; if I don’t pay my taxes, I’m going to have a BAD problem, etc. 

Obviously, it’s important not to throw the binary out with the bathwater, especially in our current climate of dismantling systems of oppression constructed through the binary lens. There is nuance. There are zebras.

I think about our current global pandemic— a virus. A simple predictable virus made more complex and deadly due to capitalism, systemic racism and an upcoming election. If anything, this pandemic shows us, in real time, just how poorly assembled our society is and how ill-equip we are to care for each other in tangible, sustainable and ethical ways. Perhaps many of us have realized for the first time or finally acknowledged that we do not lack resources, but rather dwell in a faulty racist, sexist, classist distribution system. 

If you’re like me, you understand the simple and very explainable nature of a virus. Viruses happen and viruses spread because that’s how they work. As a species we have evolved to ward off many viruses and some are more serious than others. Viruses in and of themselves do not discriminate. They are not self-aware, they do not have a conscious mind. They do not punish bad people nor do they spare the good ones. They are not like humans. 

When a virus sweeps through communities, humans ideally respond by isolating it, studying it and developing a medicine to keep it from further harming or killing us.

This, I would argue, is the “hoofbeats to horses” ideology. 

However, if you are operating from a “hoofbeats to zebras” mentality, you might believe a virus to be a conspiracy unleashed by one person or a group of people, in an attempt to overthrow, derail, incapacitate and/or destroy a person, a nation, or an entire planet. In that case, you need a culprit and a pretty out there explanation for such tyranny. You would also need a vivd albeit lazy imagination. 

The Q-Anon conspiracy is an example of toxic and dangerous “hoofbeats to zebras” mentality; the conviction that a cabal of Satan-worshiping pedophiles is running a global child sex-trafficking ring and plotting against President Donald Trump, who is battling against the cabal is not only laughable, but unbelievably dangerous. 

Now, a little nuance…

While the above example is no doubt built on completely unsubstantiated evidence, it would be equally as ignorant and irresponsible to assume there is no corruption or complexity of any kind at play, especially in the wake of a global economic and health crisis. 

“Hoofbeats to horses” has the capacity to keep us in just as much ignorance and disillusionment as “hoofbeats to zebras”. Both lenses have a shadow. 

As I mentioned earlier, COVID-19 isn’t just a virus we can treat and prevent. Or maybe it would be if capitalism, the illusion of patriarchy and the cult that is white supremacy ceased to exist. There ARE “zebras” present indeed. But these zebras assume personal responsibility and admit to complicity in systems of oppression, rather than foisting blame on Satan-worshiping, child trafficking celebrities. 

There are layers upon layers to this horse/zebra analogy, as well as countless more boring, benign and personal interpretations. This phrase applies to the experience of illness, grief, the woes and frustrations of meal planning, raising a family and strange sounds in the night. But there is a common throughline—a thread and universal truth that ties them together: discernment and a sense of personal responsibility. 

Each of us play a role in the ongoing creation and necessary destruction of the world, however boring or eventful; uninteresting or bizarre. 

Were this phrase to be re-configured in favor of honoring the nuance and intricacy of what it means to be human, it may go something like this:

“If you hear hoofbeats in Central Park, it doesn’t matter what animal it is, get your shit together and figure it out amongst your fellow Zookeepers.”

baskets

baskets. everywhere. 

No, you don’t understand,(or maybe you do)

A door-knocker and welcome mat in the shape of a basket

little baskets line the entryway

and three paintings

side by side

of baskets.

house plants planted

Throw blankets thrown

unmailed mail

two cats nestled

In baskets. 

A tiskit a taskit

nine fucking picnic baskets 

strewn across a kitchen beam 

A basket for forks

one for spoons

Baskets for eggs

All the eggs were in one basket okay?

it was like walking in the midst 

of tragedy, boredom and panic

through the mind of a basket case. 

Then,

the Christmas tree

Decorated with nothing

but baskets.

It was April.

Do I need to tell you

About the guest room filled with baskets?

Wall to wall

ceiling to floor

Baskets that lived a good life

But could no longer carry the load

Why was I even there?

And who was the sloppy boy stroking my hair

stinking of booze and slurring his words

I roll over staring wide eyed at

A basket

I want to go home

All evidence to the contrary,

this night

was no picnic. 

what it's like leaving a cult

Nov. 2019:

“It feels like I’m joining a cult”, I sobbed. “I’m on thin ice at work, I’m alienating my friends and yoga students, I don’t know how to navigate conversations with my mother and I don’t know how to read books or watch tv shows without noticing various racist and problematic rhetoric. I feel like I’m joining something I’m not sure I’m supposed to. Even though I know systemic racism and white supremacy is real, it feels like antiracism is a cult.”

Tina held her gaze on my face and took a breath.

“Erica, I’d like to offer that you are not joining a cult… but leaving one. Whiteness and all its damaging dangerous outcomes are a cult you were born into; the false belief that you could distance yourself from racism by being kind; that electing Obama twice meant we resided in a post-racial country; that anyone can achieve the American Dream; and believing that this country started out as fair and equitable declaration of democracy only to be ruined and “trumped” by power-hungry racists. This is what you are walking away from. Where white supremacy and racism are destructive, antiracism and divesting from whiteness is disruptive. You do not weep as you walk toward a cult, you lament as you leave one. And leaving this cult is a process.”

(I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep on saying it; if you are white, PLEASE hire and work with an Antiracism Coach / Educator.)

Oct. 2020:

I was sitting at a friend’s kitchen table this week, sipping from my $40 water-bottle, resting my feet atop her plushy Golden Retriever when she passed her phone to me. On her screen was an email from a friend requesting that she at least watch minutes 11:30 - 13:30 of a 2017 video where trump denounces white supremacy and condemns the neo-nazi groups who marched in Charlottesville.

My friend also showed me a text from her white friend— a non trump-supporting republican woman who expressed her frustration with being characterized as “heartless” or “racist” etc. and wondered when she would be heard; when she’d have a chance to either explain herself or see these kinds of conversations accurately represented in various media; i.e. podcasts.

Since the trump/biden debate last week, there’s been a scrambling search from right wing conservatives and neo-trump supporters for evidence that, indeed, our president does not support racism, that he is not a racist. It’s like when an 8 year-old holds up a card during a poorly executed magic trick exclaiming, “see! look! i didn’t cheat! im a magician see look see!”

I mean, if we have to go in search of footage that confirms the leader of our country doesn’t support nazis, that proves nothing except how low our standards for leadership and honor have fallen. However I’d argue that a land stolen from its Native people by way of broken treaty, rape, pillage, plunder never really had standards for leadership and honor in the first place. But I digress…

I had a moment, at that kitchen table, where I asked myself, “am i wrong about trump?” “How can such ‘nice’, educated, thoughtful and intelligent people vote for him not just out of allegiance to the GOP but many former anti-trump folks align with him as early as several weeks or days ago?” (including a family member I am close to, which is a real bummer).

The empath that is me, wants to understand all sides and hear people, especially since i have a burning, innate, fundamental need to be understood, to the exclusion of almost everything else.

Part of divesting from whiteness, white supremacy and covertly defending racism is to take constant inventory of how I’m upholding oppression— an example of this is doubting that donald trump is a racist; that he is misunderstood; that his words are purposefully taken out of context and mangled by media etc. etc. 

I divest from upholding oppression by remembering that racism and white supremacy didn’t start with trump and it didn’t start with MSNBC. It didn’t even start in 1776 or 1690. 

I divest from white supremacy when i reject everything straight white able-bodied men say about trump. 

I divest from white supremacy when i reject everything straight white able-bodied men say about pretty much anything.

I divest from it when i acknowledge that joe biden is the problem, both systemically and historically and that, once again, we don’t have a good choice to make. 

We cling to our whiteness and privilege when we’re more concerned about how we’re portrayed and perceived by our peers than the lives of Black people who’ve been and continue to be characterized as beasts, thugs, thieves, criminals and addicts.

I think about the white woman’s text and how her desires to be understood are valid...and unequivocally irrelevant. 

Straight white women, (hi hello, me!), don’t have a good deal any way we slice it; even when we follow the rules, we’ll always be second to men; when we are antiracist, we will come second to Black womxn, folks of color, members of the LGBTQIA+ community and disabled folks.

We’ll never be at the top of the hierarchy.

Collective liberation will have to look like sacrifice on top of sacrifice on our part, but it won’t be the kind of sacrifice we’re used to; where our desires, womanhood and aspirations are under attack and placed on the back burner in favor of raising the children, roasting the chicken or faking an orgasm to let our partner off the hook during oral. No, it will be a daily sacrifice that doesn’t require us to betray ourselves in exchange for patriarchal protection. We were never protected anyway. 

Straight white women like me will be able to cultivate agency, our ability to be employed and honor without leaving ourselves behind or retaining an innate need to be centered or coddled.

I don’t know when any of this will come to fruition— I doubt it will happen in my lifetime but here’s one thing I know with every fibre of my being:

As long as there are straight white men in positions of power, humanity will be disposable and unreachable. 

As long as straight white men hold power, my mother will gladly break bread with the man who sexually abused and assaulted me and call me a liar.

As long as straight white men hold power, I will lose my mother, I’ve already lost her. 

As long as straight white men hold power, my white friend will lean in my ear with great resolve and whisper, “I love watching Black people and white people being friendly to each other. We’ve some so far.”

As long as straight white men hold power, i will second guess what i know to be true about where we came from, about racism, about the monster of a man in the White House, about myself. 

As long as straight white men hold power, my “no” will mean “yes” depending on what i was wearing and how pretty, poor or educated i am. 

As long as straight white men hold power,

women will believe it their right to tell me what to do with my body, to demand laws that support their perceived right.

As long as straight white men hold power,

my identity, my personage, will be reduced to, “filthy little liberal” or “democratic bleeding heart”

and the opposition will be reduced to racists, savages and nut jobs, as…the opposition.

It is impossible. It is impossible. It is impossible for straight white men to find redemption in positions of power. 

Healing, atonement amends and reckoning are not born from tufted chairs, ill-fitted suits, big houses and debate platforms. They are not cultivated from podiums, pedestals or pulpits.

So there is no doubt. There can’t be any doubt about our current president needing to go. It doesn’t matter how much video evidence there is of him denouncing white supremacists, because we live in a white supremacist cult, where white supremacy worries itself with perception of political affiliation. It insists we at least watch minutes 11:30 - 13:30. White supremacy searches for any evidence of its own innocence and most importantly, white supremacy makes room for more than just white people; it invites Black police officers, Black congress members, Biracial social media influencers, Native American trump supporters and multi-racial preachers to the table.

Kamala Harris, for all her flaws, her professional error and probable personal blunder, is our first step to removing straight white men from a position of power.

And for anyone convinced donald trump has a strong hold on “race relations” in America, at minute 14:57 a reporter asks, “what do you think needs to be done to overcome the racial divides in this country?”

trump responds: “well I really think jobs —I think if we continue to create jobs, substantially more than 1 million…I think if we continue to create jobs at levels that I’m creating jobs I think that’s gonna have a tremendous impact, positive effect on..”

Reporter interjects: “and how do you think more jobs will impact the racial divide?”

trump: “because they’re gonna make a lot of money, people are gonna be working and making a lot more money than they ever thought possible.”

And that’s just it—

White supremacy births capitalism and convinces us, promises us that money solves our problems, re-wires our minds, opens our hearts and closes out hate. 

If you have money, you know deep down that’s not true. In fact, often times wealth leaves us in search of our humanity. The more money we have, the more afraid of losing it we are.

Because money isn’t everything; because money isn’t enough.

Money doesn’t ask us to love anyone— not even ourselves. It doesn’t demand real justice or reconciliation. Money isn’t the thing that takes us where we need to go— it is a detour.

We buy our fancy houses in safe neighborhoods, we stockpile our herbs and drive big cars and so far, none of that has saved us.

At some point we will be done waiting for the cult leader that is white supremacy to deliver on that promise and realize the only way out and our only salvation is kindness and care. 

I’ll leave you with a Cree Indian Proverb:

Only When the Last Tree Is Cut Down, the Last Fish Eaten, and the Last Stream Poisoned, You Will Realize That You Cannot Eat Money. 

four years ago, i voted for trump.

photo by: Luke Stackpoole

My fellow Americans,

My name is Erica Jacobs. I am a cis, white, straight affluent woman born, raised and still residing in Southern California.

I come from a family of divorce and my parents shared custody of me as they were each  able to live close to each other. 

My mother had a lot of financial help from her well-off Jewish parents as she kinda bounced around in secretarial positions until she found her passion for Personal Training and a new husband who made a good living. 

My dad made a good living as the Regional Manager of a waterbed and furniture manufacturing company. (He was friends with the Sit & Sleep “freeee!” guy). 

I attended school in a small, very well resourced district; mostly white students, only a handful of Black students and several non-Black POC. 

As a child of the 90’s, our parents and teachers taught us Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks ended racism and that we should be nice to everyone equally, but omitted the gentrification in our own town. 

Our parents and teachers told us how important college is, but never mentioned student debt (because that didn’t exist for their’ generation.)

We were scared, (or D.A.R.E.’d)  into not doing drugs by police officers who visited our school, but weren’t made aware of how drugs were used to pacify and destroy Native American communities or how the “war on drugs” fuels the School to Prison Pipeline in Black and poor communities. 

We were never told to get involved as citizens, as participants in the ongoing creation —and necessary destruction— of the world. (Although at one point we did have a school compost bin.)

We were shown sex education programs that portrayed straight, white couples having a baby. We were taught about condoms, but not consent; pubic hair but not pleasure. Girls couldn’t dress like a whore (i.e. spaghetti straps) and boys could’t dress like thugs (we all know what that means).

We were taught that rape is when a woman says no only by kicking and screaming for help, but not that any kind of ‘no’ or more importantly, the absence of a “hell yes!” is also sexual assault. 

We pledged allegiance to the flag of a country stolen from Native Americans, but read books about an exceptional rapport between Indians and Pilgrims. 

In fact, this happened one Thanksgiving:

Problematic Thanksgiving ‘93: me and dad dressed as pilgrims

Problematic Thanksgiving ‘93

Problematic Thanksgiving ‘93 + George Lucas look-alike.

We built dioramas of teepees and California Missions. We drew life size portraits of presidents past and glorified their achievements without any comprehensive understanding of how their decisions positively impacted some and annihilated others.

My father died suddenly when I was twenty and I inherited his wealth. 

My money has grown more during a global health and economic crisis than any other time. I am richer, because banks receive favor over actual people. 

I lived 32 years as a nice white woman before understanding the privileges of that identity bestowed unto me until 18 months ago; before recognizing the role I play in upholding systemic racism and white supremacy. But once I saw, I couldn’t unsee.

These last 7 months in particular have show me, in real time, these systems at work, and the fervent denial of these systems by people I care about. 

Four years ago, I called my white friend to “confirm” that our vote wouldn’t make a difference, that it doesn’t matter, that we didn’t have a good choice to make anyway. 

My white friend let us both off the hook for voting, so we didn’t vote. 

Four years ago I watched my Jewish Bronx-bred mother vote for trump because, “erica, he’s a New Yorker! That’s how we talk! And that Hillary...she’s a crook!”

Four years ago, I was a nice white yoga teacher who once spoke of racism to my class as a past issue. I made the fitness space safe and comfy for people who look like me. 

and on..and on..and on...

Four years ago, I voted for trump by not voting at all. 

And that choice didn’t affect me—not in the slightest. It didn’t affect me any more than the War on Drugs, or the school to prison pipeline or redlining or whether or not abortion clinics stay open. 

But it damn well affected poor people, people of color (particularly Black and Indigenous folks), folks in the LGBTQIA+ community, especially Trans folks, the elderly and the disabled. 

It seems that white, cis, straight members of my generation have cultivated a nasty habit of speaking false rhetoric over an alleged rigged political system as an excuse to not exercise our right to vote.

If “Millennial” was a math equation, it would look like:

Residual Hippie rebellion of the 1960’s + participation trophies = a good excuse to not give a shit about how government or community works.

It’s not entirely our fault, however. Michelle Obama makes an excellent point on this episode of her podcast (36:20sec in) about how Government does not and has never had a marketing budget—there’s no structure for advertising and communicating effectively what exactly Government does and who it serves when run well. Michelle goes on to say most young folks know more about the cereal we are eating and the car we drive than we do about what Government actually does for us.

Yet…of all the learning, internal dismantling and observing I’ve done these last 7 months, both the present and history truly do suggest a total abuse of power by so many leaders; such cruelty, injustice and blatant racism, giving way to sexism, misogyny and homophobia. It’s also clear to me that where capitalism thrives, an earnest democracy cannot. A capitalist society demands a system of crime and punishment; cheap labor and maximum profit; haves and the have-nots. A democracy relies on hearing and responding to the cry of its people…everyone. everyone. everyone. Both cannot co-exist.

Capitalism jams the “you can have it all” hyberbole down our throat. The more we have, the more we want, until we have everything. When there’s nothing left to want, we are left with a despair that often results in depression, anxiety, a hunger for power or any validation of self worth..because your toys won’t save you and they definitely won’t love you. Hell, you might even resort to running for President to reclaim your sense of value.

All this to say…

There are inherent flaws in our system because the system wasn’t built with the care of humanity in mind. We’ve inherited a cancerous course of action with tiny blips of right-doing and decent leaders here and there. We cannot vote in a cure for the cancer on Nov. 3rd, but we can stop the bleeding from the fresh four year-old gunshot wound to the most vulnerable and marginalized among us.

Now is not the time to be cute or resistant or make a statement or use your privilege to claim the system is rigged anyway. As I said, the whole thing IS rigged; from the acquisition of the soil we sleep on to our access to kale, our inhumane, racist distribution system provides us with choices to go Keto, Vegan and Whole 30, and renders poor people and people of color without adequate nutrition or any food at all. 

*I literally have the privilege (thanks to Diet Culture —which stems from anti-Blackness— to voluntarily remove nutrients and add them back in at my leisure.

It’s. All. Rigged. And we still have to vote.

photo by: Tiffany Tertipes

“but we’re not JUST electing a President...”

Voting isn’t solely for electing the President, but all the officials he will then elect and all our local governments. We must educate ourselves on and understand the trickle down effect.

A vote for Biden means a vote to bring more people of color and Black voices into the government who will help hold the President accountable. Let me be clear: It’s not that Biden will do the just and equitable work of Antiracism on his own accord (cuz, you know, straight, white man), but we will hold him accountable to elect people who will.

The more sound, equity-driven and humanity-minded leaders and Govt. officials Biden will certainly be pressured to elect will give everyone access to keeping our government and the powers that be accountable. Should I say accountable one more time? Accountable.

As white people, we’ve signed more petitions, listened to more Black voices and hopefully examined our origins, both personal and national, in the last 4 months than any other time. 

We will keep getting better and better showing up in real tangible ways to cultivate the humanity that was not bestowed onto us by our ancestors. 

Lastly, in the early 90’s during the Crack Baby epidemic —which has been debunked numerous times—Hillary Clinton spoke of the Black community as a people who must be “brought to heel”. Heel. Like a dog. 

Imagine a country where we change one letter in that word. Imagine the difference between the country we live in currently and one where we have collective agency to replace an “e” with an “a”. 

So like I said, 

four years ago, I voted for trump by not voting at all. 

I will not make that mistake again. 

Q is right about some stuff...but of course, they're totally wrong

These past seven months of global life have been a whirlwind of trauma, fear, scarcity and a level of thrill that leaves our nation and us as a species looking for answers, an explanation or a timeline for when this nightmare will end. 

And it has been a nightmare..particularly for folks that do not share the same economic, racial, geographical or educational privilege white folks like myself hold. 

To be clear, I have been able to watch this unfold around me, rather than experience it toppling down onto me.

Human beings are unique in that our collective trauma inherently knocks at the door of our personal trauma. While it’s possible to experience a personal crisis without linking it to global matters, it’s impossible to experience a global crisis without acknowledging the internal crisis we have walked through.

And if you are reading this, you have walked through great trauma and crisis.

If you’re like me, trauma is accompanied by the frantic search for clarity, meaning explanation and truth, however subjective and nuanced.

For many folks in the present, clarity looks like acknowledging the ways the news media spins and twists things to suit a particular narrative. This is true for Fox, it is true for MSN, it is true for Us Weekly. 

That’s how capitalism works; you take something that exists in the open and you capitalize on it by re-assembling it to appeal to your target audience. (This explains why I own nineteen overpriced water bottles by various brands.)

It’s important to understand that just because this is how the news works, it doesn’t mean the story they cover isn’t true in and of itself. 

It’s reckless, dangerous inaccurate and frankly lazy to call all of it a lie, to call all of it fake news. 

As I’ve been on my own journey of understanding the teachings, message and ultimate cry of Q-Anon, there are basic facts and principles that are correct. 

It is true that human / child sex trafficking exists. No one disputes that. This is why there are at least a dozen well-known organizations dedicated to the rescue and rehabilitation of trafficked victims and the fervent prosecution of traffickers. 

But even those organizations most likely need reform because in examining human trafficking in 25 nations throughout the world, each country has its own environmental factors that create a unique set of anti-trafficking issues and obstacles. 

For example, in India you can’t address the issue of trafficking without also discussing the caste system. 

In the US you can’t properly address the post-trafficking experience of victims without mentioning the hot button issue of immigration.

We also must reform the way domestic abuse is addressed, rectified and prevented (which is the most common form of child abuse and the most fertile ground for trafficking). We also must look at our persistent failure to house people, as well as our foster care system which often and wantonly neglects children of color and those in an economic downfall. 

I’d also like to point out (and this is something I didn’t know until I conducted actual research I payed to access) that, research on human trafficking frames in print media revealed that portrayals of human trafficking were for the most part oversimplified and inaccurate in terms of human trafficking being portrayed as innocent white female victims needing to be rescued from nefarious traffickers.

Depictions of human trafficking in movies, documentaries, and television episodes in the United States have followed a rescue narrative, where innocent victims are saved from harmful predators. Additionally, traffickers are commonly portrayed in the media as part of larger organized crime rings, despite empirical evidence to the contrary. Incorrect framing of human trafficking in the popular media may lead policymakers and legislators to adopt less helpful anti-trafficking responses, particularly responses focused on criminal justice system solutions.

Also, the ways in which we collect data and stats on trafficked persons are flawed, as many people are counted as victims who are indeed not. (We’ve seen this with COVID counts, etc.)

I’m NOT minimizing the horrifying reality of human trafficking / child sex trafficking. Quite the opposite. It’s a very serious problem and we must focus on building an immigration policy that protects such victims. President Trump has not build that, nor has anyone before him. His blatant history with rape and dehumanizing treatment of women throughout the decades would suggest he is not as interested in saving peoples’ lives as he is winning for the sake of winning. But time will tell and for the sake of children and older victims, I hope Q is right. I’m rooting for an immigration policy that protects victims, and doesn’t name people of color as inherent animals.

I’m for a policy and system that adequately assists those fleeing abuse and terror in their own country. (Although, the reason other countries abuse their people is largely due to years and years of America pillaging and stripping their land of resources.)

Q is also correct in that there are very wealthy people that sit at the top of the food chain and have a lot of influence over policy and national ongoings, that mainstream media is owned by a small group of very wealthy people who have an agenda. It has been this way since the beginning. Unfortunately, our  president has blurred the lines and muddied the difference between mainstream news and journalism. 

Good journalism is an art form. It is often dangerous and requires a skillset cultivated over years of practice and adherence to rigid regulations. Good journalism is ritualistic and ruthless in the pursuit of truth. 

It is also true the government hides things from its people, from us. 

Obviously a certain amount of secrecy is necessary and vital so as to not to incite panic and frenzy on the daily, but we also know the government is an institution made up of white, cis, heterosexual men, who do not make decisions in everyone’s highest good. 

Both of these things are true. 

It is correct that there are people who come to this country to cause harm. As a free nation, our soil has always been appealing to those who will use any means necessary to survive, and yes, that includes violence and the dehumanization of others. 

We must also remember that as Americans we are thriving on stolen land and when we look back even just a few decades, but certainly a couple centuries, we see that our country has rendered many other nations poverty-stricken and vulnerable to corruption. 

All of this is complex and nuanced. This it not a “good guy / bad guy” issue. In fact, a documentary about ICE is coming out and I suspect it will force us to remember that although someone’s job description literally tears families apart and causes all sorts of destruction, these folks have families too. And some ICE agents are immigrants themselves, or their parents are. Talk about complexity, paradox and nuance!

I can see how and why Q-Anon has moved to mainstream and I can also see how and why it tugs at many and calls many folks, even unlikely believers in. Though Q-Anon is relatively new, similar movements’ origins date back to the mid 1970’s during a widespread notion of “The Satanic Panic”, where owners of a daycare center in Manhattan Beach, Ca., 2.4 miles / 6 hours from my house. (LA traffic joke) were accused of performing satanic rituals per one of the children who attended. This case was widely covered and has been well documented.

Q, and conspiracy cults in general, functions as a maladaptive coping mechanism. Under circumstances of social change, upheaval or crisis, conspiracy theories serve to grasp a rapidly unfolding situation that has a bearing on one’s life but is beyond individual control.

It charms the parts of us that need to feel a part of something bigger than ourselves…particularly in the wake of tragedy and hardship. We want to feel like we’re making a difference, that we’ve discovered or tapped into something no one, ourselves included, were privy to. Such movements also provoke our innate desire for a more colorful, giant, earth-shattering “Law & Order: SVU” explanation, where in reality, the truth is so often really mundane and straight forward. 

Let me say that one more time…the truth is so often really mundane and straight forward. 

Let us not forget that now more than EVER before, how important it is to feel a sense of belonging and togetherness as we’ve literally been separated from each other. If we can’t be physically together, intellectual intimacy is king.

If you’re reading this, chances are you are not of the Q-Anon conspiracy, so, like, why am I even writing this? I have no idea. No one’s reading this, I’m talking to myself.

The truth is, the bones of this post originate in an email I sent to a former yoga student the other day. She is of the Q cult AND a self-proclaimed spiritual guru. Maybe I’ll do another post about the correlation of Q and woo woo love & light people, because this movement certainly did NOT start as a voice for that demographic.

I guess I wanted to map out for myself what this is, try to make sense out if it. Were it any other time, any other cult, I might be able to look on, pick up some information here and there and keep walking. But this is different. This cult is dangerous and wide-spreading and I’m so afraid of what it’s done and is doing, causing such harm to the BIPOC community, our earth, humanity.

The truth is, I don’t know what to do or where put this totally bananas time we’re living through. I know that my feelings are big, my privilege is real and my experience is valid…and so is yours.

Resources, Sources and Citations:

Väyrynen R. (2005) Illegal Immigration, Human Trafficking and Organized Crime. In: Borjas G.J., Crisp J. (eds) Poverty, International Migration and Asylum. Studies in Development Economics and Policy. Palgrave Macmillan, London. https://doi.org/10.1057/9780230522534_7

Van Prooijen and Douglas, 2017, power of conspiracy and cults

FREE Google Scholar article on Human Trafficking and the Media

This is a really helpful podcast that lays out child sex trafficking 

Google Scholar is a really fantastic way to conduct real research  

"World Travelers" (a poem)

I think I pack light,

I don’t.

I say I’m an easy traveler,

I’m not.

If I could squeeze

my insecurities,

pained sensuality,

confusion about unconditional love

into that 3oz. bottle,

 would you fly with me?

I’ll happily

x-ray my belongings.

Everything is on this table,

for you to see.

I have nothing to hide.

I will remove my shoes,

necklace,

watch.

I will show you,

my dislike for dog hair,

 my fear you will cheat

on me.

My jealous streak.

I can scan that, too.

I want you to see

everything.

 I am afraid,

you want to check your bags,

underneath,

where I can’t see them.

Where dark, deceptive worlds dwell—

deep pockets of infidelity,

hidden zippers of contingent love,

duct taped, beat up boxes

of unresolved issues.

I don’t pack light.

I am an uneasy traveler,

and, but, also,

I am easy to love.

 I know what to do,

should the contents of our commitment,

shift during flight.

Come fly with me.

 Let us keep our baggage close.

Let it not out of our sight.

Because...

hope waits for no one,

in Lost Luggage.

"Try Another Door" a poem

photo credit: Farida Davletshina

I am a dollhouse.

Mulberry wine paneling,

smooth, brown shingles,

crisp, white shutters.

Modest mailbox on my manicured lawn,

White picket fence,

porch swing.

I don’t open from the front…

Try another door.

Ready, set, turn me around.

Do my outsides match my insides?

Spoiled, sour, stale

milk.

Cruddy, crazed, crushed

cookware.

Broken, busted, baby

dolls.

Jagged spider web mouths

hover over a chandelier.

Chipped, checkered floor,

now an ugly grey…

Try another door.

Smelly, soggy, stained

bedding.

Cracked, crooked, coarse

canopy.

Dusty, dingy, dirty

bedposts.

No one

wants to sleep here.

No one

wants to be here.

Try another door.

Dilapidated, damaged, decayed

figurines.

next to a

Slanted, severed, smashed

cradle.

Watery, wilting, wasting

wallpaper

behind

Dense, damned, destroyed

Bookcases.

Try another door.

Empty wooden rocking horse

calls out,

for one last ride.

Who did this to me?

How did I get here?   

Compartmentalized,

boxed,

broken,

dark

It’s hot in here.

Please

someone

open a…

Someone…

try…

another…

"words find me"

words found me in what we call

a “difficult childhood”,

unshielded from:

life is bleak

lonely

and brief

love sometimes looks a lot like hate

monsters do exist

that bandaids are just that.

words befriend me

and say,

‘this way! over here! i wanna show you something!’

my eyes squint at first

then widen when i see it

and i say,

‘wow! i never saw that before!’

i think im treading just fine,

then words swim to me from underneath,

place their hands on my belly,

keep me afloat,

help me make sense of

what is confusing and troubling

sad and upsetting

dark and weird.

Okay,

I’m gonna go for a swim.

should anyone ask ‘what does she do?’

while im away,

just say,

she’s a buoyant healer, held up by her words—a kind mermaid who doesn’t mind getting her hair wet.

*art by SOOSH

4 tips for creative writing…or any writing

TELL THE TRUTH, AND TELL IT FAST-

Have you ever spent so much time editing a photo on your phone, drafting a text or writing a story/blog post that you’ve completely forgotten the point and lose direction and/or interest? Same.

Typically, what we want to say takes a lot longer to draft than what we actually want someone to hear, because we're busy scrutinizing things that don't make a ding-dong-dang difference if the story is shit and doesn't go anywhere.

If I’m writing with a specific audience in mind, I’ll start with a small bullet point list called, “what I need you to hear”. We both know our reader will take what resonates, make their own meaning and hear what they want from our words, but making a sort “wish list” of your intended message will help to stay focused and free of unnecessary filler words and ramblings.  

 WRITE WHAT MATTERS TO YOU IN THE MOMENT-

If you've ever met me, even for 30 seconds when I sampled your cheese at the deli counter at Whole Foods, you'd know I have a lot of feelings about a lot of things all the time. But when it comes to writing those feelings and ideas down, when I'm truly moved, I MUST take action and perhaps so should you. You're a writer. You're always going to write, no matter what...but when you feel particularly inspired, take advantage of that in the moment (even if you have to pull over into the parking lot of a random high school, and write a poem that was exploding out of you...do it!)

TAKE NOTES ALL. THE. TIME.-

This one complements the above tip. If you cannot sit down and complete a piece in the moment, THAT'S FINE! Keep a notebook and a pen handy (i.e. an iPhone with a Notes section) and write down the image, word, phrase, etc. as it pops into your head. DO NOT assume you will remember it later. YOU WON'T. Write it down. AND THEN put the whole thing together ASAP, as the idea, feeling, inspiration is fresh in your mind.

EASY DOES IT ON THE DESCRIPTION -

Don’t get me wrong; adjectives are the shit, and that timeless tip, “show, don’t tell” serves us as writers.

AND / HOWEVER… give your readers credit; it's a scientific fact that what we don't see, we will make up and what our mind isn't shown, it will fill in the blanks. This makes for an incredible reading experience; allowing our audience to fill in some blanks, to step into our shoes, with room to wiggle around and find themselves in our words. It's a gift we give to our audience. Overly describing what a character looks like takes a little agency away from our readers.

**Some Extra Personal Touches that Make Me Feel Better as a Creative Writer**

1. OILS- Duh. If you thought I wasn't gonna list essential oils as a way I enhance my creativity and overall being as a writer and human, you don't know me at all, and we should see a counselor. Here are the 3 main oils I use when I sit down to write:

* Focus Blend: This includes Patchouli, Sandalwood, Frankincense, Lime, Ylang Ylang and Roman Chamomile. All intended to keep me focused and engaged so I don't OH! SHINY PENNY!

*Clary Sage: The Oil of Clarity and Vision. I rub a drop of this oil over my chest and a drop between my eyebrows (seat of intuition/6th Chakra) for more clarity...and...vision. Yea.

*Wild Orange: The Oil of Abundance. This oil is associated with the 2nd Chakra, which governs creative energy, pleasure and enjoyment. (All necessities in my writing and thriving process)

*Because of FDA rules and blah blah blah, I can't tell you the brand of oils I use and trust, but if you want to learn more, let me know by COMMENTING BELOW. ;-)

2. BRUSHED TEETH: Morning is usually my peak time to write and I refuse to create anything unless my mouth feels clean. A clean mouth makes a clean voice makes a clean writing piece. Trust me.

3. MY GLASSES: Because I can't see without them and they are amazing.

Happy Writing!

A Huge Mistake I Made at an Anti-Racism Workshop

Last month I organized a workshop Led by my Anti-Racism Coach, Tina Strawn.

The workshop itself went very well! Tina has developed a unique and very necessary opportunity for white women to look at our role in systemic racism and white supremacy through the lens of Yogic philosophy. 

I need to tell you about the days leading up to the workshop and where I, as a white woman, made some huge mistakes, which in turn harmed Tina and the work she and BIPOC share with the world.

I started talking about and advertising this workshop four weeks prior— posting about it on my social media platforms, and sharing in person with friends and Yoga students. 

I knew this event wasn’t going to spark the same level of excitement as a spiritual retreat in Costa Rica or a Tupperware party, but I thought at the very least ten people in my life were open, willing and ready to step into a space of self-reflection.

When Tina told me three people signed up a week before the workshop, I was elated and felt even more hopeful more would join. 

Not to mention, my white friend and yoga student had offered up her home to host the workshop and she was going to be in attendance, too.

During this time, my posts and ongoing conversations, upheld the importance of this work and maintained an honest, unmistakable description of the subject matter

...that is, until I panicked.

Two days before the workshop, two things happened:

1. My friend and host of the workshop broke her pelvis in a horse accident but still offered up her home.

2. Two out of the three people canceled, and since the ticket was non-refundable, I thought it a good idea to donate those two tickets for anyone who’d want to come.

I got desperate.

Not thinking about Tina’s feelings or the impact offering free tickets to this type of event would have, I scrambled to text people and even announced on social media (in BIG, OBNOXIOUS text) that I had two free tickets available and that if your weekend plans fell through, to come to an Anti-Racism & Yoga workshop because, after all, it’s free.

I also did not consider that offering tickets for free allowed for a lesser amount of accountability (or none at all)  from white people in anti-racism. 

This also gave problematic, resistant, argumentative and overtly racist people free access to a space that must be safe for Tina as a Black woman.

I also realized that offering the workshop for free suggests that money is the barrier to such a workshop when the real barrier is disinterest and apathy.

One of my “catchy” posts the day of the Anti-Racism workshop read: “Sunday plans fall through? Birthday party get canceled? Great! Come to an Anti-Racism & Yoga workshop this afternoon!”

I ignored what I’ve come to learn, which is that Anti-Racism is not something you do when plans fall through, you’re bored or need a way to fill your time. As a result of desperation, panic and just bad marketing, I put Tina in a compromised position and centered my needs over her safety. 

Even though the workshop itself went well, my marketing desperation is an example of devaluing Anti-Racism work and causing harm to people of color, particularly Black women who lead conversations with white people on race, power and privilege.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner! (Hint: White Supremacy)

In the previous post, I shared about my first ever Anti-Racism event, “Let it Start with Me: Anti-Racism + Yoga Workshop” led by my Anti-Racism Coach, Tina Strawn.

In this post, I’d like to share my second Anti-Racism event I organized and was a part of!

Since Tina was in LA for a couple of weeks, I wanted to make sure to spend time with her AND I really wanted to introduce her to some of my friends, as she has become such a significant person in my life.

Tina and I discussed doing a MLK inspired dinner, where we’d gather a group, eat and discuss King’s Letter From a Birmingham Jail.

As a white woman, raised colorblind, believing we are all the same and, of course, “not racist”, I thought it a great idea to invite Tina to have a meal with my white friends.  And I assumed that since my best friend’s parents happily opened their home to a party of twelve and offered to cook for the occasion, that this was evidence of the important people in my life taking a first step on an Anti-Racism journey. 

I would soon see this is not the case.

“Martin Luther King with a side of Pallela is not Anti-Racism work.”

Tina brought her two cousins, and I invited one of my Black friends, making four Black people and eight white people. And when four Black people walked into a kitchen of eight white people, it became clear what Tina and so many Black people mean by predominantly white spaces not being safe.

A distinct tension fills room, a tension that sounds like a very high pitched “hi! hello! nice to meet you!” I could now see how us white people want so badly to ignore race and play it cool. But we’re not cool. We’re awkward and confronted and, turns out, we’re not fooling anyone.

After we finished eating, it felt like a good time to pass out copies of MLK’s Letter From a Birmingham Jail and start a discussion.

It’s important to note, many of the quotes and memes posted on social media on MLK day come from this particular letter, except King’s words are misrepresented in a way that elevates “good white people” and negates what Dr. King is saying— which is, that good, white, non-racist people are more dangerous than the KKK.

This is what we discussed at dinner, and this is where whiteness is thrust into the spotlight.

Whiteness looks like an emotional reaction to talking about racism and imagining what it must have been like for Black people in the past, because after all, racism is a past mistake. 

Whiteness sounds like, “I know I’m not doing anything to perpetuate racism but I’m not doing anything to help. Where should I start?”

Or

“I can’t believe people online can be so mean and racist. I would never say things like that.”

Or

“I just can’t believe this is over the color of our skin. We’re all the same!”

Whiteness also shows up at events where good white people feel they’ve done a great deed by coming to events that center Black history, but take no further action afterward. 

These are examples of how whiteness showed up at dinner. 

Whiteness, however well intended, has a draining and dehumanizing effect on BIPOC. White people crying about racism asserts the white supremacist power dynamic; one where we are fragile and sorry and ashamed and confronted, leaving no room for Black people to be truly heard, and no room for anti-racist inspired action because we’re too busy crying. 

I acknowledged this was the first time almost all the white people at the table had ever engaged in a discussion about race, racism and white supremacy. 

I acknowledged that I too was a white woman living thirty-two years convinced I’m not part of the problem, that my warm heart and spiritual practices exempt me from considering the impact my whiteness has on Black, Indigenous people of color.

I learned that this was not a safe space for the four Black people at the table and I believed Tina’s cousin when he shared that talking to white people is typically very draining.

I have been on an Anti-Racism journey for the last seven months, working with an Anti-Racism Coach and learning how to dismantle systemic racism and white supremacy by looking at the ways I personally uphold them as a white woman. 

While there are many ways to start on an Anti-Racism journey, the book “White Fragility” was a key resource for me, as it gave me a new and necessary vocabulary for what it really means to be white. This book alone is not indicative of Anti-Racism work but it’s a very helpful start. 

Both Coach Tina, as well as every book I’ve read, podcast I listen to and every Black mentor I follow on social media insist us white people are going to fuck up and make mistakes on this path— something I dread because I never want to let anyone down or hurt people of color, but I have made a lifelong commitment to divest from whiteness and show up for BIPOC in real, helpful and even risky ways. 

At the end of the day, I’d rather make mistakes on an Anti-Racism path than continue being harmful on a not-racist path. 

when all your white friends want to talk about are the riots

I received a text today from a dear white friend, very concerned about the riots. Let’s just jump in to it!

Here is my response, as a white woman who has been on an Antiracism journey for the last 11 months…

“We are not being asked to justify horrendous acts of violence on the streets. 

We are not being asked to sit idly by as horses are killed and shop owners are physically and mentally destroyed.

We are not being asked to weigh in on how much is too much and we are not being asked to predict the outcome.

We are being asked to turn our eyes and ears to Black voices. 

We are being asked to stay focused and vigilant about unpacking hundreds of years of internalized racism. 

We are being asked to declare out loud that Black lives matter and we won’t back down from our own internal AND external work until all systems of oppression come all the way down, and Black lives matter to this country, it’s people and the globe. 

We cannot do this when the media keeps distracting us with footage of riots. 

I know, I know this has become a blood bath. I know that innocent (meaning non-directly antagonistic) people are being mamed and destroyed on many levels. 

I know that many of the looters are instigators and agitators who have no real eye for the movement. I also know that many of them are Black folks.

We have never been here before. Black lives mattering has never happened in the history of this country. 

We don’t know what it would look like if it did. 

I have listened to and spoken with so many Black folks not just in the last few days but in the last year and they have asked me to stay focused.

They have asked me to look the other way on the riots and mind my own business and refrain from forming my own opinion on whether the riots are right or wrong; that such thoughts are distracting and inherently racist.

They have asked me to put my body on the line for them and they have asked me to listen. 

There are many Black folks who are vehemently against the protests and riots. As they have every right to be. The same is true for Black folks who desperately want to see this toxic thing burn to the ground by any means necessary.

That is a discussion for the Black community. Not for us.

I know this stance is divisive and the whole thing is truly unfathomable..but so is the idea that Black lives matter. 

As a white women, I’ve never been required to listen to Black people. To take their words to heart in a personal feet-to-the-ground way. By looking the other way on the riots and instead staying focused on antiracism work, I am correcting my habit of only listening to white people. 

I invite you to not take sides on the riots and instead start reading books by Black authors and listening to Black owned podcasts and paying Black women to educate us, and I’ll keep doing the same!

Action Item:

If you want to SUPPORT BIRTH EQUITY AND BLACK OWNED BUSINESSES: DO THIS: URGENT SUPPORT NEEDED: Roots Community Birth Center in Minneapolis, owned by black midwife Rebecca Polston, is in need of urgent support. Rebecca was forced to abandon her birth center due to the protest and fires near her business. Funds are needed to purchase hotel suites for clinic, delivery and postpartum support. There are only seven black-owned birth centers in the United States, please help keep this one open.

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MAKE A CASH DONATION: Venmo @projectmotherpath

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#amplifymelanatedvoices #supportblackbusiness #blackwomenbusinessowners