Why it’s essential (to allow yourself and others the space) to not be okay right now
What if we don’t have to keep going? What if we can be reach other's respites? What if this "feelings stuff" is also what the resistance is made of?
In Week 2 of the semester, I do something with my college freshmen called coffee conferences. Thanks to the generosity of the Office of Campus Life, I take all my students out for coffee in groups of three.
I’m fully aware of what I’m doing.
I’m both trying to connect with them as human beings, before any anxiety about assignments or grades really seeps in. And I’m trying to make myself available to them to ask questions about the course that they may not feel comfortable asking in front of everyone or later on once the pace of the course ramps up.
This semester we started with a high/lows icebreaker question for the semester, and I told them I would share, as well. And with each of the four groups, I told them that teaching this class was such a high, because I love and care about disability justice so much. But my low is the actions of this administration and the way those actions could affect disabled people. They make me scared, and I told them that I would be lying if I said that I hadn't been fundamentally distracted nearly everyday since the semester started.
I wondered if I was over-sharing. Was it too much? I thought it might be a bit too much that I showed up as a full person that early on in the course.
The more I shared, though, I saw groups of students making eye contact with me and nodding along. It seemed like my sharing made space for several of them to admit they were lonely away from home, they were distracted and frightened, too, and many of them said they were also struggling to concentrate in class.
But then this week, Week 3 of the semester arrived, and suddenly I didn’t just feel distracted, I felt physically unwell in my body. I felt out of sorts, out of control, and more than anything, I really didn’t feel comfortable talking about these experiences that I didn’t understand.
But I went to the doctor, I talked with friends and family, and I tried to be kind to myself. When I came into work yesterday and a colleague asked me how I was doing, I immediately replied, “Fine…” and then I decided to take a chance.
“Actually, it’s been a really hard week,” I stammered. “I don’t know, but I think I may be dealing with some anxiety. I’m not sure where it’s coming from, but I’d be lying if I said I was fine.”
Thankfully my colleague met me with such kindness and grace, and as we talked together, we were able to acknowledge and affirm that the things that are going on at the highest level in this government are targeting marginalized people and it’s not okay.
It’s okay not to feel okay.
After that conversation, I got to talk to another colleague, in whom I confided that I was feeling tremendous conflict inside: my daughter (who has as terminal disease) turned eleven yesterday, and all I wanted was to scream and celebrate that miracle from the rooftops, but deep down, I feel so, so scared that I also want to punch someone and cry. You see, I don’t know if the things she needs to continue to grow well in this world, things like Medicaid and nursing and school accommodations, will be there for her after these four long years ahead.
As I stood to leave this colleague’s office, she respectfully volunteered that maybe what I was feeling was grief. The kind of grief I felt 8-12 years ago when this administration first started hacking at my daughter’s Medicaid and healthcare, or the kind of grief we’ve all felt the last 4-5 years as we struggled through the isolation and even survivor’s guilt of COVID.
A day later a friend gently raised the question of whether there was something my body knew about this time of year that my mind had forgotten. And I found some more compassion for myself. Last year on Lucia’s birthday, we all had COVID. The year prior, Lucia was in the hospital, getting a new intestinal tube placed, because she could no longer feed through her stomach safely. Lucia’s life is an incredible miracle in the face of all that trauma and suffering, but it is suffering and trauma nonetheless.
So in the midst of these people showing up to validate my own grief and trauma, it suddenly hit me that not giving up may sometimes be the same thing as stumbling around, anxious and wounded. And that to be okay in the face of the horrible injustices being attempted by this administration, is actually no way to be.
And if we put our heads down, we pretend we’re okay, and we turn our eyes from the injustice that is being attempted, isn’t that precisely what they’re counting on? So isn’t it an act of resistance to boldly declare that being human means that this misogyny, this bigotry, this xenophobia, this ableism, is profoundly affecting me on an emotional, physical, and spiritual level, and that I resent it with every ounce of my being?
So what if we don’t keep going, per say?
What if instead, we do this thing, like my colleagues did for me, where we engage each other’s feelings with reverence and care, and in our bold humanity, we become each other’s respites in this time of incredible pain and need?
I know not everybody has a workplace like this, where people name feelings, treat each other like humans, and even love and care and hug each other. (For the record, I think the Holy Spirit has infiltrated my colleagues, and I am so here for it!)
But where can you show up for yourself and for others and let your humanity hang out as another act of resistance for others to see?
The birthday girl and her dad. My photo.
Last night when a student left my office, she blurted out something like, “I was talking with one of the other students and we just can’t believe how lucky we got. Like everyone says that writing sem is so terrible, and yet we got so lucky with you!”
Gulp, tear. Oof.
What a boon to my soul to hear that a student feels lucky to be in a class on disability justice at a time when a lawsuit is raging against Section 504.
So don’t let anyone gaslight you that there’s nothing to fear. Instead, find those people who respond to your fear with compassion, your feelings with validation, who remind you that having a heart and a mind and a body in this current world is the only thing that matters, and also a raging liability.
But there’s also no other way to be. And ironically, my remaining hope is in that very humanity that I have to believe God has put in all of us. That because we all bleed, we all break, and we all fail, maybe somehow, we can find a way to get back into this together.
But if we can’t, I will still not let go of the best parts of my own humanity.
I will go down, caring and bleeding and a person, because it’s the best I’ve got to be.
P.S. Please click on this link from the National Down Syndrome society to learn about the lawsuit that 17 states are bringing against Section 504 and how you can make a difference by calling your Attorney General if you’re from Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Louisiana, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, South Carolina, South Dakota, Texas, Utah, and West Virginia. Calls are more effective than emails or petitions, so please take the time to call if you can! Sending an email still counts.
But here’s a quick script for your phone call, "I care about people with disabilities and I want you to back out of 'Texas vs. Becerra,' because I support 504." Feel free to add any stories of disabled folks, especially kids you know, who benefit from supports in school!
P.P.S. Another awesome birthday gift to Lucia would be if you call your members of Congress to ask them to oppose proposed cuts to Medicaid should they come through Congress or an executive order. You can follow the directions from my previous post about how to contact your member of Congress.
P.P.P.S. Thank you!