Wednesday, 11 February 2015
Monday, 9 February 2015
Socks and Charitable Intentions
I just got done sorting and pairing up over 50 pairs of socks for various household members and there are still three loads of laundry left and a basket of onlys still to find their sole mate. When I need a pick me up, my husband buys me new socks.
There is nothing like a fresh pair of socks, clean and soft.
Still, I have panic attacks when asked to take my shoes off at people's houses. Oh dear God please don't laugh at my socks or shame me.
You see, when I was a kid socks didn't really matter in the way that priorities stacked up. There were other things to buy or tend to and socks were just socks and sometimes they had holes, never matched, and were likely stained or actually dirty with mud. We didn't have to take our shoes off in our house so the floors got dirty and socks picked that up. Laundry wasn't sorted at our house, it just got done and without fabric soften or stain sticks or anything fancy. Socks showed that.
It was another unspoken signal that we were poor. Please don't make me take off my shoes. This had nothing on the "free lunch" line though. That's worth a whole 'nother post.
Just a bit ago, our state senator Joni Earnst made a comment about how she had to wear bread bags on her shoes when it rained or was muddy to keep them nice. Yeah, ok. People exclaimed that the claim was pure and utter bullshit. That she was making it up. People outright mocked her. There were explosions of memes, articles, blog posts, just mocking.
I do not agree with her politics but every single time someone cracked another joke, it stabbed me in the raw wound that was my childhood. We were not the poorest, in fact, our family treaded the waters on unemployment and breadwinner returning to college and special needs medical bills quite well. We lived on the right side of River Street, we shopped second hand stores, and we had full bellies even if it was crappy 1980's food (I'm talking to you Velveta). We didn't have the funds for multiple Swatch watches or Gap clothes or ESPRIT bags or Easton loafers or Limited Express jeans hot off the rack. I didn't get to go on class trips to Paris or even play a sport if it cost too much money or time that I needed to watch my brother and sister. I worked as a babysitter and then at McDonalds. I sometimes worked 20 hours a week and took more if I could. At one point I had three part time jobs.
I wore grocery store bags over my shoes on rainy days, inside my boots too sometimes. I freak the hell out if I even think about purchasing a pair of shoes over $25. I stockpile socks. I can't stand the feel of wet or cold on my feet and for a good chunk of my teenage years I refused to wear socks at all, just slip on ballet flats. Not matter the weather, and you bet my feet were both cold and wet. Teen angst and rebellion was not my friend.
Joni has a right to talk about growing up poor. So do I. We both worked hard to achieve stability in our own homes. That's something that is difficult to do and heavily weighted in our favour in our society (rural white Midwest, sorry everyone but white privilege is real). It doesn't mean that we don't carry the scars of humiliation from the era when food stamps looked like monopoly money and not some discreet EBT card and poverty was a lot more obvious at the grocery store and in schools. Generics we bought were white labeled with black or grey text.
Don't forget socks and shoes.
When I worked retail, we were trained to evaluate customers based on profiling. Look at their shoes. Nice shoes, high brand? They have money. Look at their jewelery too. Poor people, potential shoplifters? They will give away their class by these details. I kid you not. We were class profiling and each time they pointed out a detail I cringed. I knew my second hand shoes or my Walmart knockoffs were giving me away too.
I still have anxiety about this kind of judging when I go into a new situation. I always buy new socks. Bright crazy socks. Holiday themed. Fuzzy. Handmade. Wool. You name it. I love socks. My students on campus can't help but notice my garish, often unmatching socks.
Seriously though, thinks about this next time anyone makes a bread bag joke or comment. Maybe it is outside your frame of reference, and be a hundred times grateful that it is, but it is what some folks lived and it isn't something to be mocked.
I am going a step further here. You know what? It's winter and here in America it's either cold or wet or both outside. No matter where you live there are homeless folks. For every joke you may have made or even listened to without speaking up? Buy a pair of socks and get them to a homeless shelter. Be so very grateful that your feet are warm and dry and do not take that for granted. In this historical era, it only takes one major life event to tip the balance and you and your family could be in line at the soup kitchen, hungry and cold, relying on charity or faith to get by.
Go get those socks. Change your Amazon Smile to a local charity. Do something that puts good out into the world instead of shame, humiliation, and degradation.
You won't regret it.
There is nothing like a fresh pair of socks, clean and soft.
Still, I have panic attacks when asked to take my shoes off at people's houses. Oh dear God please don't laugh at my socks or shame me.
You see, when I was a kid socks didn't really matter in the way that priorities stacked up. There were other things to buy or tend to and socks were just socks and sometimes they had holes, never matched, and were likely stained or actually dirty with mud. We didn't have to take our shoes off in our house so the floors got dirty and socks picked that up. Laundry wasn't sorted at our house, it just got done and without fabric soften or stain sticks or anything fancy. Socks showed that.
It was another unspoken signal that we were poor. Please don't make me take off my shoes. This had nothing on the "free lunch" line though. That's worth a whole 'nother post.
Just a bit ago, our state senator Joni Earnst made a comment about how she had to wear bread bags on her shoes when it rained or was muddy to keep them nice. Yeah, ok. People exclaimed that the claim was pure and utter bullshit. That she was making it up. People outright mocked her. There were explosions of memes, articles, blog posts, just mocking.
I do not agree with her politics but every single time someone cracked another joke, it stabbed me in the raw wound that was my childhood. We were not the poorest, in fact, our family treaded the waters on unemployment and breadwinner returning to college and special needs medical bills quite well. We lived on the right side of River Street, we shopped second hand stores, and we had full bellies even if it was crappy 1980's food (I'm talking to you Velveta). We didn't have the funds for multiple Swatch watches or Gap clothes or ESPRIT bags or Easton loafers or Limited Express jeans hot off the rack. I didn't get to go on class trips to Paris or even play a sport if it cost too much money or time that I needed to watch my brother and sister. I worked as a babysitter and then at McDonalds. I sometimes worked 20 hours a week and took more if I could. At one point I had three part time jobs.
I wore grocery store bags over my shoes on rainy days, inside my boots too sometimes. I freak the hell out if I even think about purchasing a pair of shoes over $25. I stockpile socks. I can't stand the feel of wet or cold on my feet and for a good chunk of my teenage years I refused to wear socks at all, just slip on ballet flats. Not matter the weather, and you bet my feet were both cold and wet. Teen angst and rebellion was not my friend.
Joni has a right to talk about growing up poor. So do I. We both worked hard to achieve stability in our own homes. That's something that is difficult to do and heavily weighted in our favour in our society (rural white Midwest, sorry everyone but white privilege is real). It doesn't mean that we don't carry the scars of humiliation from the era when food stamps looked like monopoly money and not some discreet EBT card and poverty was a lot more obvious at the grocery store and in schools. Generics we bought were white labeled with black or grey text.
Don't forget socks and shoes.
When I worked retail, we were trained to evaluate customers based on profiling. Look at their shoes. Nice shoes, high brand? They have money. Look at their jewelery too. Poor people, potential shoplifters? They will give away their class by these details. I kid you not. We were class profiling and each time they pointed out a detail I cringed. I knew my second hand shoes or my Walmart knockoffs were giving me away too.
I still have anxiety about this kind of judging when I go into a new situation. I always buy new socks. Bright crazy socks. Holiday themed. Fuzzy. Handmade. Wool. You name it. I love socks. My students on campus can't help but notice my garish, often unmatching socks.
Seriously though, thinks about this next time anyone makes a bread bag joke or comment. Maybe it is outside your frame of reference, and be a hundred times grateful that it is, but it is what some folks lived and it isn't something to be mocked.
I am going a step further here. You know what? It's winter and here in America it's either cold or wet or both outside. No matter where you live there are homeless folks. For every joke you may have made or even listened to without speaking up? Buy a pair of socks and get them to a homeless shelter. Be so very grateful that your feet are warm and dry and do not take that for granted. In this historical era, it only takes one major life event to tip the balance and you and your family could be in line at the soup kitchen, hungry and cold, relying on charity or faith to get by.
Go get those socks. Change your Amazon Smile to a local charity. Do something that puts good out into the world instead of shame, humiliation, and degradation.
You won't regret it.
Saturday, 7 February 2015
Insecurities
Nervous energy fuels a scrubbing hand pretty darn well, but there are the in between moments that I can't do anything. These are the thoughts that pester me:
I feel like I don't measure up.
I'm not a good enough writer.
I am terrible at photography.
My kids hate me. Probably because I don't read to them enough.
My husband doesn't even notice me. Unless I don't come down to make breakfast.
My family shrinks every year because I can't fit in and it's easier to just cut me off.
Or else they just think I am full of hippie bullshit and still talk to me but only because it's funny later to regale others with how awful they think I am.
My housekeeping skills? Nada. Just don't talk to me about this. (sobs)
And so on.......
Then I get publication notices for my writing and photography. I get invited to conferences. I travel. The kids tell me that this is the best day ever! People ask me to teach them homesteading stuff. The kids and my husband rave about my cooking to strangers.
I wonder if folks actually see me. See the wounded and fragile person. See my insecurities.
Sometimes someone sends me a hateful awful email or message, someone who knows my vulnerabilities and can speak directly to those wounds. I write pretty openly, so they are not hard to find. That cruelty, even from strangers crumples me.
It doesn't stop me from writing my experience. Well, not anymore at least. The cycle has one more piece though, someone else sends me something uplifting- telling me that something they read led them to ask questions, make changes, try something....and it was life changing for the better! Then I realise that I need to remember to tell people in my own life how much I value, cherish, and adore them, how much they impact me and my life.
I can get back up and into the world again. I know that life is not an even paved road with sweet surfaces and I am not running with perfect shoes. No, my life is running barefooted through pastures, walking the streets of Prague until my boots actually fall apart, climbing mountains, kissing children, breathing in sunshine, and sometimes trudging through rain, or snow drifts, or getting drenched in an ice storm to be a good shepherdess. I chose my own path and it rocky, hard, sharp, and wonderful.
I try and keep it real. Sometimes, that's all we can do.
Wednesday, 4 February 2015
Class Room Struggles
I am a professor. I know my material and chosen subjects. I have a near photographic and encyclopedic knowledge of the things I have chosen to learn about, history and architecture. I'm not saying that I know everything or even very much about either of them (considering how vast both are), but what I have learned I retain to an interesting degree which is why you want me on your Trivial Pursuit team. You really do.
Math and technical and coding and garble garble garble.....I really struggle to retail the details and to remember them in context. Photography is only a small part composition and artistic eye (which I can do) and the rest is math and equipment settings. Sure I can click over to auto and then just be really frustrated later when the camera did not do what I wanted......or I can actually learn how to use my camera.
It is hard. Harder than learning business calculus, which I spent hours with a tutor and more hours in the college math lab pushing myself to learn it and maybe pass the class. I did. With a B+.
Strange thing is that I feel more energetic with this challenge and I very much feel I am on the right track. Half the issue is learning the lingo, which I can store in the language and history part of my brain (the part that works!). The rest is practise and patience. I make a point to read the assigned chapters twice, once the day after class they are assigned and once in the hour before the class where the topic is discussed. Squished in the middle is a combination of researching the assignment, doing the assignment, and finding related youtube videos (because I am a visual learner too).
Then, I make a list of questions to ask. I "reverse" highlight, something I learned in college: I only highlight the parts of the text that I do NOT understand, write my questions in the margin and then ASK about these in class. That's what the professor is there for too, not just a crowd control manager, not just an assignment grader, no....an expert in the subject you are teaching yourself. The instructor helps you find resources and frames the subject matter with a textbook and lesson plan, but it is really up to the student to figure out the rest and ask questions.
One of the real problems I see in American education is the student's expectation to be hand fed all the information and then gifted the grade for paying the tuition. I will not ever be that kind of student. I do not waste my time or others sitting in a classroom for a subject I do not care to learn. I am paying for it? I will make it worth my time and get the full value product. I will ask questions.
This is the shift that has to happen on the student side and I am not sure how else to encourage it, other than teaching the students who walk into my classrooms that I am a resource and they can ask questions and that they are the ones in control of their education.
Being a student is hard. Discouraging. Humiliating at times. Goodness. I turned in an assignment I thought I had done right only to find out that the flash was actually engaged in 3 of the 6 photos. I was completely freaked out when I discovered the mistake, too late.
It is one class, one assignment, and I learned from it. I may bomb this week's grade, but it is not the entire term. It still feels horrible. I forgot what it was like to be on this side of it. The struggle is real.
Math and technical and coding and garble garble garble.....I really struggle to retail the details and to remember them in context. Photography is only a small part composition and artistic eye (which I can do) and the rest is math and equipment settings. Sure I can click over to auto and then just be really frustrated later when the camera did not do what I wanted......or I can actually learn how to use my camera.
It is hard. Harder than learning business calculus, which I spent hours with a tutor and more hours in the college math lab pushing myself to learn it and maybe pass the class. I did. With a B+.
Strange thing is that I feel more energetic with this challenge and I very much feel I am on the right track. Half the issue is learning the lingo, which I can store in the language and history part of my brain (the part that works!). The rest is practise and patience. I make a point to read the assigned chapters twice, once the day after class they are assigned and once in the hour before the class where the topic is discussed. Squished in the middle is a combination of researching the assignment, doing the assignment, and finding related youtube videos (because I am a visual learner too).
Then, I make a list of questions to ask. I "reverse" highlight, something I learned in college: I only highlight the parts of the text that I do NOT understand, write my questions in the margin and then ASK about these in class. That's what the professor is there for too, not just a crowd control manager, not just an assignment grader, no....an expert in the subject you are teaching yourself. The instructor helps you find resources and frames the subject matter with a textbook and lesson plan, but it is really up to the student to figure out the rest and ask questions.
One of the real problems I see in American education is the student's expectation to be hand fed all the information and then gifted the grade for paying the tuition. I will not ever be that kind of student. I do not waste my time or others sitting in a classroom for a subject I do not care to learn. I am paying for it? I will make it worth my time and get the full value product. I will ask questions.
This is the shift that has to happen on the student side and I am not sure how else to encourage it, other than teaching the students who walk into my classrooms that I am a resource and they can ask questions and that they are the ones in control of their education.
Being a student is hard. Discouraging. Humiliating at times. Goodness. I turned in an assignment I thought I had done right only to find out that the flash was actually engaged in 3 of the 6 photos. I was completely freaked out when I discovered the mistake, too late.
It is one class, one assignment, and I learned from it. I may bomb this week's grade, but it is not the entire term. It still feels horrible. I forgot what it was like to be on this side of it. The struggle is real.
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