By Your Scars

There’s a classic story about a father teaching his son a lesson about anger and the permanent damage we can do with our words. It’s called “The Fence”. You probably know it but in case you don’t, here it is:

There was boy who had a bad temper, struggling to control his hurtful words and actions. 

His father gave the boy a bag of nails and told him every time he lost his temper, he must hammer a nail into their wood fence. 

The first day, the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. Over the next few weeks, 

he discovered that it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence. 

As he learned to control his anger, the number of nails hammered daily gradually dwindled down. 

Finally the day came when the boy didn't lose his temper at all. 

His dad now had him remove one nail for each day that he controlled his temper. 

It took months, one by one, removing a nail for each day but finally all of the nails were gone.  

The father took his son by the hand, led him to the fence and said, "You have done well. But look at the holes in the fence. They fence will never be the same. When you say things in anger, they leave a scar, just like this one. You can put a knife in a man and draw it out. 

It won't matter how many time you say "I'm sorry", the wound is still there.

-Anonymous 

 

This story of course has a great lesson about the long term impact we can have when we are reckless with our words and actions. Even if we feel bad, apologize, and are forgiven, some scars will always remain. 

But this story also provides a metaphor with the damaged fence representing a damaged person. And while we should definitely be careful with one another, the scars we bear become who we are. They are our stories and what makes us unique. We don't see each other as polished pieces of wood, each alike and flawless. We fit together with our friends, chosen family, and partners by the way they see and tend to our scars.  The way they make space for our heartaches, hold our pain, and look straight in the eye of our adversity and don't look away. 

I know you have your scars. 

I know the places it hurts. 

I don't wish those parts of you away. 

I know you by your scars. 

Things that are true

One of my career highlights is writing a book on conflict with a good friend of mine. We have spent years diving into the research and human behavior involved in conflict. And despite the, what we think are excellent strategies for engaging in and resolving conflict, we still find ourselves in the midst of emotion-fueled confusion with other humans at times. How can we be so good at this yet still stumble our way through it? For starters, we are all human. We are social beings with complex thoughts and feelings and we are all uniquely different which inherently means we will sometimes disagree. 

Last week at work, I found myself in a fairly tense conversation with someone who works in the grounds department responsible for the property my building is on. We both made several attempts to explain our perspective but they simply didn't align. I finally threw my hands up and calmly said, "we are both saying things that are true." I was simply asking for a truce. What you're saying is right. And what I'm saying is right too. We just hadn't yet discovered the overlap of those truths where the mystery of the situation existed. 

My colleagues who overheard the discussion have brought up my peace offering statement multiple times, "We are both saying things that are true." It was such a powerful pause to allow us to see we are not against each other, we simply haven't figured out how to make space for both truths. And I've started to think about where this conundrum exists in other parts of my life or the broader society. 

You can love your country and want better for it. 

You can believe science and still be confused by it. 

You can support our leaders and still be frustrated by their decisions. 

Masks can be uncomfortable and keep people safe and healthy. 

School can be essential but also risky. 

You can be faithful to your religion and let someone else live by theirs.

You can speak your truth and respect the truth of others. 

The remarkable outcome of speaking these truths together, at the same time, and making room for both (or many) is that the emotional intensity of defending your perspective falls away. When there isn’t a risk of not being seen, it’s easier to pause and see the perspectives you were previously overlooking. In any situation there is not just one but many things that are true. 

Someone Else: A reflection on loving a racist

(Image credit: PM Notes) 

I remember growing up and hearing my Grandpa say the n-word often. I knew it was a "bad word" but as a child I understood it as a bad word just like "shit", "fuck", or "bitch". Adults could say it but children couldn't. I didn't understand why it was bad or wrong. And I grew up with the implicit understanding that it was ok to get angry. Especially for men. Especially for white men. And when white men were angry they could say the n-word. 

I didn't understand the presence and performance of white supremacy, racism, and toxic masculinity in my upbringing until I was in my 20's. And it hit me hard. This post isn't about the answer or helping you figure out how to handle this in your life. This is merely my story and reflections. 

My Grandpa loved Notre Dame football, he traveled to Ireland regularly to study his ancestry, he walked several miles every day, he loved hanging in the pool, he played the harmonica, he had a deep voice that carried, and he loved beagles. All of these passions shaped my identity and show up in my day-to-day life. I loved him. Without question. He brought so much joy to our family. He contributed so much to who I am and who my family is as a collective group. 

There wasn't a single moment in which I realized he was racist. It came in waves of shock, questioning, shame, guilt, confusion, and feeling distraught. How could someone I love so dearly believe something so toxic, violent, and harmful? And a genuine question of what that says about me. If I believe so strongly in the worth of Black people, being anti-racist, fighting for social justice, and dismantling systems that perpetuate racial inequities, how could I be so blind to someone in my family who embodied the exact opposite of what I believe? Fundamental character flaw? Unconscious complacency? Am I just like him? Am I a fraud? 

My experience is not unique, I'm sure. I imagine there are many people facing familial ties that clash with their belief that Black lives matter and white privilege and white fragility exist. I'm sure like me, many people struggle in that situation. Both in how to address it in those relationships but also in how to process what that means about our own character. In the relationship with others, there are really only 3 (albeit simplified) options here: 

Ignore it. 

Cut this person out of your life. 

Confront them. 

Unfortunately for me, my grandpa is dead and has been for over a decade. I'm left with only being able to reflect on the above questions, confront the implicit bias in my family that still exists with other members, and to carefully explore where this explicit and implicit racism exists in my blood and seeps into my life. 

I'm embarrassed to admit that for many years I ignored the implicit and sometimes even the explicit racism that existed in my family. It was easier and I genuinely didn't understand how harmful it was. I didn’t recognize that ignoring it was part of my white privilege. And absolutely complicit in contributing to systems that continue to harm Black people. About 10 years ago I abandoned that approach of ignoring it. And cutting people out of my life isn't my style. So I started confronting racism as it surfaced in words and actions among my family members. But in order to do that I first had to confront how it showed up in my own words and actions. 

This wasn't easy. It was and is still exhausting, embarrassing, confusing, and at times overwhelming. I stumble and make mistakes. And it's hard to always see the implicit racism and microaggressions that I commit. Unlearning words and thoughts that have be habit for decades requires a lot of paying attention, reflecting, correcting, and not being afraid to continually make mistakes. I feel ashamed for the years I didn’t know better and for the years that felt like an acceptable excuse.  It’s hard to forgive myself. 

And I still can't come to terms with my Grandpa's view. The only understanding that I've gained is that racism runs deep. Through generations, ideologies, and is perpetuated by people within those systems who look away. I don't know that I've changed anyone else’s thinking. But I do know that with the people in my family whom I've confronted, our relationships are more authentic and I am more skilled at naming racism as it exists. My behaviors have changed. My words and thoughts have changed. And I understand a lot more about who I am, letting go of what I accepted as a child, and am raising my children with a different set of implicit and explicit values. 

I still shake my head in disgust and my heart breaks to know someone I loved so deeply carried a hate I can't fathom. I can only be vigilant in living my values and recognizing I have a chance to be someone different than who my Grandpa was. Despite my exposure and the intergenerational transmission, I can actively name and push back against the racism as it shows up in my life. Loving him will always feel complicated but for as many things as he and I have in common, greater is my opportunity, power, and commitment to be someone else. 

You don’t see me

Do you really SEE the people in your life? Do you let people see YOU? 

Thinking back to my years of being single and having several short, mostly unsatisfying relationships, I’ve often thought, how did that not work out? I’m awesome, other people seem to think that person is awesome, surely we couldn’t be anything but awesome together! 

I was reckless and careless - with myself and others. There was one man in particular that I had a physical relationship with but nothing more. We agreed it wasn’t going anywhere but I toggled between apathy and heartache. I knew I had feelings for him but I also knew I could never be with him. And that felt really confusing. Despite the significant amount of time together and our strong physical connection, he couldn’t see ME. He was respectful and polite and took me on nice dates but no matter how much time we spent together, there was always an indescribable distance between us. I never felt like myself around him and sometimes it felt like that was because I didn't want him to see me and other times it felt like he was never even going to try. Our relationship was purely physical, he didn't need or want to see me. And ultimately, this is why our "relationship" ended. Why was I trusting my body with someone that either didn't care enough to try and see me fully for who I was -or- that I didn't trust to let fully see me? Unfortunately for him, this revelation came at an inconvenient time - on Valentine's Day, mid-thrust after a lovely date. It was over. Right then and I pushed him off and told him he had to leave. I simply said, "I can't do this. You don't see me." I knew in that moment and this moment now that all of it had to do with issues within myself I had to work on, right down to the decision to "date" someone who didn't bother to see me. 

This was an unfortunate pattern for me. I had a very calculated way of doling out vulnerability - I could be physically vulnerable with someone but closed off my emotions. Or the opposite, I could have a deep emotional/intellectual connection but couldn’t also be physically intimate. Failed relationship after failed relationship. That is until I met my husband. I broke all of my rules and I let him see me. Physically naked, mentally naked, emotionally naked. He was it, he actually saw ME. Because I let him. And he didn’t look the other way or try to change me. It was so new and so wonderful for me to just simply be seen. But it also felt like a giant scary risk. If someone could fully see ME, they could fully leave ME. 13 years later, that risk is still there, at any moment he could decide that I am too much, too flawed, too broken, too messy. And walk away. That risk has always been there and always will be. But if I hadn't let him see me, I would've been equally unsatisfied as I was in all my other relationships. The gamble wasn't any less, I just decided by not putting it all on the table I was actually losing more.

So I started practicing this more in my life. With friendships, with work partnerships, and even with strangers. I show up as me, fully, wholly, imperfectly ME. There are still relationships that don't work, that have that same marked distance and feel disingenuous. But when I stopped calculating vulnerability and just showed up as me, when it didn't work, I knew it wasn't because I wasn't showing up. Sometimes it means they didn't show up, or didn't try, or didn't need me in their life, or we just weren't the right fit. But it became a lot easier to find the right moment to part ways and simply say, "You don't see me". But definitively not because I didn't allow them to.