In These Times

ALL Lives Matter.

I am not a racist.

The pigmentation in my skin does not make me one.

I am a human, as are you and all the others of various pigmentations around this globe.

Human.

Not a color in a crayon box. Not a race. Not a racist.

I am not blind to what is happening. It breaks my heart.

But I am not going to erase years of progress with the single act of a terrible human being – and all the acts of the cowards who merely videoed that act instead of stopping it.

The media has declared me a racist because I am “white.”

The media wants to divide us and make us angry and make us activists. Us versus them. They want me to believe deep in my heart I am racist merely because I was born “privileged” and “white.” (I'm merely the latter.) But saying that implies that there aren’t any people of other “colors” who are born into privilege? Isn’t that racist to imply that couldn’t happen based on the fact that they’re not white?

I’ve seen a lot of African Americans who are very well off – some are even quite wealthy. They’ve earned it. They’re privileged and so are their children. They are more than worthy of what they have. Many of the people I attended college with who are other ethnicities are well-educated and earning way more than me.

Does this make them “white” now? Since only “white” people can be privileged?

I am not racist deep in my heart. I love people. Just people. I don’t care what they look like, who they are, what their ancestry is. I might disagree with their actions or attitudes, but that’s not who they are as a person, and their pigmentation does not affect that.

I am not a slave owner. 

I am not and will not be mean to a person based on their “coloring.” 

I do not believe in paying people more or less than what their skills and talents are worth, especially not based on their race.

Despite what the media wants us to believe, we have made great strides against racism. Look around. It is a fair to say that the world has a plethora of "people of different pigmentations" working, living, and educating together. There are still places that have issues, but those are neighborhood issues. (See Chicago and Memorial Day Weekend.) The wrong acts of one person do not equal the sum of the rest of the population’s beliefs.

Go home. Gather your family. Pray for peace. Love your neighbor MORE than yourself. And stop telling me who I am. 

God made you and me who we are. And only He knows our hearts. 

Thoughts on Mother's Day

My kids are always asking me if I loved them more when they were little.

I love looking at their photos and talking about how sweet they were and sharing memories of funny or poignant moments with them.

I remember first teeth and them learning to walk and the way they marveled at just about anything new and exciting. They loved being outside and had a cute way of pronouncing things. I loved watching them learn to read and write and draw. I loved making things with them and celebrating countless birthdays, half-birthdays, and holidays with them. Easter eggs and Christmas visits to New York to see the Macy's Santa with the deli breath. "Picnics in the Park" on the Eve of Christmas Eve. Early morning trips to Chincoteague in the summer and the fall and the beginning of a brand new year. Singing children's songs and then '80s songs at the tops of our lungs. Knowing all the words to the Veggie Tales, especially the end theme song from QWERTY.

Career goals: Fashion designer, hotel designer/owner, architect, marine biologist, inventor.

I remember how earnest they were about certain things and how they tried very hard to understand a complex grown-up world with the simple mind of a child. How they tried to share their thoughts on politics or movie stars or books they read.

It's as though now they see that child as someone else instead of a younger and smaller version of themselves.

How could I love that child any more than I love the grown (or growing) version I see at present?

Perhaps the past really is a foreign country...and those little people in the photos and memories are merely the residents, long gone as the years progress.

No, dear children, I couldn't possibly love that little-person version of you more than I love you now...for you are that little person now a bit bigger. And I love that bigger person even more today than I did yesterday.

If I Take the Time

A memory:

When Ethan was five years old, he gave me a crumpled napkin that I assumed he wanted me to throw away.

I laughed and told him to throw it out.

He insisted that I open it that it was "a gift," he said.

I did and saw this inside.

"It's my love!" he said with a big smile.

And afterwards I realized that I nearly missed it in my haste to toss out what I thought was trash.

Sometimes we need to slowdown and enjoy these precious moments.