1.21.2024

Book Report: Know My Name by Chanel Miller

 

It is January and I am ready to declare this memoir my “book of the year” for 2024.

Chanel Miller writes the story of her assault, court journey, and accidental (and anonymous) Buzzfeed fame after being Emily Doe in Stanford’s rape case involving Brock Turner. I will mention that Brock is a swimmer, not because he deserves the accolade of being speedy in the water but because the media’s coverage of this case in 2015 likely means that you, dear reader, are more likely to recall the events of the case if I mention his swimming than if I don’t. Chanel’s courage, truth, and nuanced understanding of the world shine like a lighthouse beacon from every page, but don’t get me wrong: this is not an “I made it and so can you” inspirational story. This is closer to “I can’t believe this shit, can you?” realism with rawness and solidarity for unnamed victims across the world, along with their families and friends (so, all of us).

Everything about the book is clearly intentional, from the font sizing and kintsugi on the cover to her acknowledgments at the end. Chanel comes to the book with an understanding of triggers and consent, walking the reader through tricky topics with compassion for the ways those topics may flare up in readers’ bodies. But she doesn’t shy away from ideas or even words which may cause discomfort, using that discomfort deliberately throughout the book to bolster any victims and to call in any non-victims. If you have not suffered assault, congratulations on bearing instead the uncomfy feelings of knowing it exists. And if you have suffered assault, congratulations on finding the balm that is Chanel’s writing.

Chanel chooses viscerally cozy imagery when dreaming about her future and builds such neat (tidy, yes, see also: cool) analogies from seemingly mundane life experiences. She’s right—emotional healing is like learning to hold a gallon of milk. Chanel employs hilarious imagery when describing miserably unfathomable court questions: “Ns and Os painted across hairy stomachs, NONONONONONO, doing the wave.” Chanel is such a person throughout this memoir, unafraid of the title of victim but also unafraid to be full of her self. She does not perfectionize her thoughts, actions, feelings, for the benefit of anyone, including herself. Chanel is Chanel; know her.

In fact, I think that’s what I loved most about the book: reading a modern memoir where someone has so clearly flown to the depths of their self, understood what is there, and come back to enlighten us as to how that is done but without prescribing platitudes is just…rare. I think every memoir is a self-help book, at least for that author’s self. The trick is that the author’s written down help of self is more helpful and therefore valuable than the average self-help book. Don’t tell me what to do; rather, tell me what you did and allow me the space to follow.

I will be purchasing a copy of this memoir. Five stars.

 

(As a helpful note: Chanel’s victim statement is printed at the back of the book. I googled the statement and read the Buzzfeed edition but would have liked to stay within the book for that content.)

10.11.2023

For 10 Years

Last year around our anniversary, Melody had just come out to me as transgender and I was awaiting my fairly definite diagnosis of MS. We took extended family photos on the eve of our anniversary, with our wedding photographer ðŸ¥¹, immortalizing the wildest time in our years together thus far.

I remember telling Mel one morning in the shower, "I of course want us to support each other, but right now I think it makes sense if I worry about my body and you worry about your body, independently, instead." Oxygen-mask mentality, you know?


Today life feels a lil more relaxed, a lil less disruptive. We aren't 100% settled (who is?), but we aren't still wondering whether we must inevitably split over huge pieces of news that rock our worlds individually and collectively.


It's just one year later, and I can see some light at the end of this tunnel. A silhouetted image against that light reveals two scenes: one of me caring for Mel and Mel's body, and one of her caring for me and my body. The image is stunning and honest and true. It is the truth of where we must go.


As it turns out, we cannot just each worry about our own selves and bodies, not within the context of this marriage and this family. Our relationship was built on mutual respect and understanding, strengths that led us both to enjoy relatively early independence within our marriage. Now we understand our selves and our bodies mutually, acknowledging that interdependence is also strength (or STRANK!, as Brooks would say ðŸ˜‚). (Football is life, but football is also death.)


Ten years ago (!!) we bound these two bodies together by marriage. Then, we spent nine years trying to keep them distinct and discrete, coming together at times to connect and connect deeply, but only if we each stood to benefit individually. Oxygen-mask mentality.


In one year, we have married like complementary flavors placed in the fridge for a few hours to "marry." We have married like two pieces of rope, spliced and rejoined together seamlessly. Married! We have married each other in such a way that we are both changed, renewed, totaling more than the sum of our individual parts, a chemical reaction (as opposed to physical reaction, yes, seventh grade science) where something new is formed. 


We still leave the door open for things between us to change if they must. We still choose each other explicitly and often, and I think we manage to keep appropriate boundaries of self. But this year I have been absolutely struck by the magnificence of caring for each other in such a way that I do NOT always know where Mel ends and where I begin. And we're just at the start!


Love generates through and between us both by virtue of deliberate and consensual joining, relaxing, marrying. This I could not have conceived of before last year. And I gotta say: it is one hell of a way to marry. 10/10, would recommend.


I love you, Melody Facer.

9.11.2023

Tikkun Olam: Repairers of Creation


This weekend I watched Won't You Be My Neighbor, a documentary about Fred Rogers. When he was asked to come out of retirement for a video message after 9/11, he said:


"No matter what our particular job, especially in our world today, we all are called to be 'tikkun olam,' repairers of creation. Thank you for whatever you do, wherever you are, to bring joy and light and hope and faith and pardon and love to your neighbor and to yourself."


Last night I broke a glass dish. It was my left hand's fault, the one still recovering from my MS relapse last year. My hand slipped, the bowl fell, and glass scattered across my kitchen floor as I said, "Shit." 


I thought about Fred's injunction to be tikkun olam, a repairer of creation. I didn't really want to attempt to repair that glass bowl. I could neither repair nor eat the avocado that I'd been smashing into the bowl. I may never fully repair my left hand. In a quick moment of almost-bedtime defeat, I thought, "Why bother repairing?"


Michelle Thorley (@florafamiliar) shared about repair on Instagram this weekend. She wrote:


"To create can be exciting and rewarding. To break can be satisfying and final. But to repair--that is long and often difficult."


I thought again of Fred Rogers and his injunction for us all to be tikkun olam, repairers of creation.


Michelle's post was a clue! Fred and Michelle both argue not merely for the repair of immediately personal issues, though there is value there. They argue instead for societal, systemic, interpersonal repair.


But here's the thing: I've been learning the skills I need to help enact societal repair, and it's also super personal. I (and you) cannot repair creation without acknowledging that repair is needed, without seeing where it requires mending, without watching closely for cracks and chips. And where better to practice noticing cracks in creation than within my own self? If I truly desire to be a repairer of creation, I must first shatter open, myself, to the brokenness of the world on both large and small scales. I have to experience disrepair.


I will remain unable to comprehend the world's brokenness until I claim my being part of it. I both require repair and owe repair. We all do. 


Today is 9/11. In 2001 the attack on the twin towers shattered our collective understanding of safety. The news coverage shattered most Americans' positive or even neutral perceptions of Islam and its adherents. It shattered relationships between nations and individuals. Death itself shattered the heart of anyone who lost a loved one to the tragedy.


Repair of these wounds is tikkun olam: repair of all creation. And despite 9/11 being over 20 years ago, some of those wounds are still wide open, still awaiting their healing and repair.


In the great Jewish tradition of interpreting, reimagining, and reinterpreting scripture, one modern interpretation of tikkun olam theorizes that the Creator left a bit of the world unfinished, waiting and ready to be repaired (improved upon) by its inhabitants. Human action, rather than the hand of divinity, will therefore be the primary driver behind the world's final completion and perfection. Our role as repairers of creation is not just superfluous to existing creation; rather, it is the completion of creation.


Today I cried remembering the large-scale tragedy of September 11, 2001. Today I also cried remembering the small-scale tragedy of my clumsy left hand. They were the same tears. And they were tikkun olam, at least for me, as I cried them. 

7.30.2023

*"He couldn't fit a whole woman in his head."

Tonight I spent an hour or so in the same room as a dude in this outfit, name tag and all. We chatted in a group setting, made eye or conversational contact at least three times.


After a bit, I moved to another part of the party. When I came back, I decided to put on my sweatshirt and I sat one seat over from where I had been since my old spot was now taken. I still had my name tag on, as pictured.



When that same dude left just a little bit later, he said goodbye to the room, and I joined the crowd in saying goodbye to him, to which he replied, "Oh but we didn't meet!" He pieced together quickly that we had met, or maybe he didn't; I don't know. He was gone quickly and it was hard to tell. I don't need to know.


Now. I'm not here to throw shade on this particular dude cuz he seemed lovely in a bunch of ways. 

But I do wanna point out two things that this FEELS like for me:


:: Apparently my clothes are me and I am my clothes and what I wear is the most memorable thing about me.


:: The ideas and jokes I contributed in our earlier conversation were not significant, at least not enough for this dude to bother remembering me or connecting with me over them in a meaningful way.


Again. No shade to this dude. We're unlikely to cross paths again anytime soon, and not all of us can fit everyone we meet in our brain.* But let's zoom this out a bit.


I could spend the rest of my evening or weekend or life letting it be the story that I am forgettable outside of my clothes, but I don't think that's true. I think it's more likely that these thoughts and feelings are a misdirected attempt to solve a problem that exists fully outside of me.


I haven't seen the Barbie movie yet but that felt like a Ken moment for me. From what I understand of the movie, Ken(s) in Barbie's world are dispensable, unnecessary, eye candy.


And I'm just here to note for me and for you, should you also be suffering in this world made for men, that I am none of those things. I am here to stay and here to say what needs said. 


Again (again!), no shade to that dude or to that party dynamic (it was lovely!) or to any of the specific players in this scene. But TONS OF SHADE PLEASE to the patriarchy that tells us we can just go ahead and forget the women we meet unless they are there to serve and serve well. The patriarchy doesn't serve me--I'm braver and more worthy than it would have me believe--and it doesn't serve him/them/you--anyone who might never get to know my bravery or worth despite having a chance to do so. And that's not about me; I want every person to feel like their bravery and worth and words are memorable. No matter what they might be wearing.


6.06.2023

Grow grow baby

I love watching things grow.

Plants are my latest thrill, every new leaf is like a shot of straight dopamine.

Rising dough.

My kefir!

My child. There is no greater feeling than seeing him develop new skills, words, ideas.

A bead of water as it runs down the window, collecting friends.

Our garden, which I do experience in a way that feels separate from my indoor plants.

A playlist of eternally good songs.

Relationships, individually and in general.

My hair!

Mel's hair!

Brooks' hair!

Our bank account (oop).

Hell, even mold is fascinating to watch grow.

I am trying to grow myself, perpetually asking "where should I focus next?" to reach maturity. But for someone who loves watching things grow, I harbor some hesitation in my belief that we (humans) will and must always grow. Isn't there an end of the line?

What I WANT to believe is the opposite: I have all the time of many universes to experience it all, to grow into and through and beyond further light and knowledge and whatever comes after that. I do not need to grow small now, leaving room for growth later without accidentally running out.

There is no end to growth. Grow, grow, baby.

7.05.2020

Wading

To "wade" is to walk through a substance which impedes free motion or offers resistance to movement.

From Old English wadan meaning "move onward."


My top goal for 2020 centered around growing my faith through questions—not necessarily by finding direct answers, but by inviting and pondering and sitting with all the questions, and then furthering my relationship with divinity despite them. I promised myself that I would go down the rabbit holes regarding church history and doctrine and culture, and I got ready to wade through deep waters. As a girl who’s never learned to swim, this seemed a little scary (what if I lose my footing?), but I also felt an inextricable pull toward the work of building my faith in this way.


Now it’s July, and my wading in the last month has been more through the deep waters of anti-racism than those of religion. I spent a few days wondering if I was getting sidetracked, but my heart said, “Keep going,” and my gut said, “This matters,” and my brain had already intellectualized this issue since college (my lack of emotion on issues of race is problematic; now I know), so onward I plowed. The waters shifted, and I’m choosing not to fight the tide. I have a testimony that: this is an important direction for me to go.

But even as I go more in the direction I feel sent, I also feel resistance. I'm still wading, and wading implies impeded movement. The odd thing about these anti-racism waters is just...how familiar they feel. Those deep religious waters, which sometimes had me treading for a minute, gave me valuable experience. These anti-racism waters are also deep and also liable to make me tread, but now I have a little practice and a little muscle for it. When I come across a perspective or an idea that makes me flinch, I investigate why instead of looking away. When I feel resistance inside myself for what I’m discovering, I slacken my grip and try to understand the other side. And when I suddenly re-realize how badly I’m doing at all of this, I recommit because it’s worth continuing.

And *shrug* if that isn’t what I came into 2020 swinging at to begin with...

I’m not great at any of this (hello I’m prideful and angsty), but I’m growing important skills and I know it. Ultimately, I feel that all of this wading—this resistance-laden learning—takes me in the direction I care about most: toward Jesus. It’s worth the work of wading and of occasionally treading water, even as a non-swimmer, to get where I’m going. Would Jesus listen carefully to silenced voices? Would Jesus seek for the truth, even when it’s ugly? Would he do everything in his power to teach a better way? Would he stand firmly against racism? Resounding yes. And so with him I go.

I once sang a spiritual in school choir that says, “Wade in the water, children. God’s gonna trouble the water.” It references the New Testament story where Jesus heals a man at the pool of Bethesda. Troubled water sounds like bad news, but at this pool it meant miraculous healing for whomever jumped in. I see a parallel to this modern antiracism movement: God’s troubling our racist waters in such a way that we can’t miss it, and if we jump in we can experience healing. These troubled waters might look deep and scary, but I’ve been wading them for a bit now. And I gotta say: there is healing to be found in this pool. Please, dive on in! Goodness knows our country needs this healing. You need it, too.

Now real quick, go check those definitions at the top again. See the second one? The origin (in part) of the word “wade” includes moving onward. Onward in a new direction would be a great idea to start doing this July.

God’s gonna trouble the water. And that’s exactly why we should wade on through it.





POP QUIZ: 
T/F   Harriett Tubman sang this song along the Underground Railroad to teach freedom seekers how to throw off their enslavers.

Answer: False. Harriet used two songs to send signals as part of her underground work, but this wasn't one of them. Her messages were communicated by changing the tempo of the songs she sang to declare "safe" vs "not safe."

"I prayed to Got to make me strong and able to fight, and that's what I've always prayed for ever since." --Harriet Tubman

5.27.2020

Day 50/100

Today is the midway point on my #100dayproject! An honest assessment: I'm losing some of my steam for sure. But also...I'm cool with that.

Just a couple weeks ago I mentioned how the main value of these 100 days will likely be the historical value of daily thoughts filtered through COVID as the world adjusts to "our new normal." If I still believe that (and I do), then I should clue you in that--for all intents and purposes--my new normal is already here. I see my family and Joe's family regularly on Sundays. It's summertime so my job is out of session. And my mental health is no longer swinging wildly like it was at the end of March. Hooray! COVID is definitely still relevant, but it's no longer controlling my life.

Since I have already achieved my main 100-day goal in these first 50 days, I'll need something else to keep me going for the next 50. Alternatively, I'll need to slow my posting to not-necessarily-every-day and switch to posting what I find to be actually valuable. I'm thinking I'll choose the second one? But I need a day to voice that and see how it feels before I decide officially. I'm not one to give up easily, but I am one to give up when it makes sense. (And a 50 day project is still pretty cool.)

Friendly COVID reminder to anyone who needs to hear it: You can start a project anytime! You can drop a project anytime! You can accept a challenge, and you can take a rest! You don't have to do both. (You are welcome to do both if it suits you.) You could be someone new on the other end! You could be infinitely more of your wonderful self on the other end. You can feel like it's already the end. You can feel like it'll never end! It's all allowed. You are allowed. You are enough.