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“You’re such a good boy,” Jazz Jennings’s mother always said.
“No, Mama. Good GIRL,” returned Jazz, a transgender child who would grow up to write a picture book about her path to girlhood.
Until that book, I Am Jazz, appeared on the Girls of Summer reading list, I had not thought about introducing the transgender experience to my three-year-old daughter. She’s got quite a girl-power library, but this particular narrative of individuality and self-acceptance was not represented. Realizing the omission, I jumped at the chance to read her a book that presented the complexity of gender identity simply enough for a preschooler to understand.
Turns out, it’s still not that simple. I read the book without considering how my daughter might receive its revelations; how it might complicate messages I had sent her about gender. I didn’t anticipate the confusion that the line, “I have a girl brain but a boy body,” would spark for a child whose playroom is conscientiously engineered to defy gender stereotypes. A hammer for every tiara. Blocks before dolls. A counter comment every time she declares blue is for boys.
What is a “girl brain,” to a child raised to reject gender categorization of toys and ambitions? The book talks of pink and princess gowns as signs of Jazz’s inner girl–reinforcing narrow ideas of femininity, even as it spoke to Jazz’s authentic experience. I Am Jazz raised more questions than it answered for my daughter and for me. I didn’t know what to make of it.
I’ve always wanted to share an inclusive roster of books with my daughter to enlarge her heart and her world. What I’m learning now is that the process will expand mine as well. I had picked up the book to prime my daughter to be kind and accepting of a range of human experiences. I put it down craving a greater measure of understanding myself.
So I read Redefining Realness, by Janet Mock, an advocate for trans women’s rights, to gain a more nuanced sense of trans experiences than a picture book could deliver. And, girl, did I get an education. I have not read a more truthful, urgent and brave story. I learned that the line, “I have a girl brain but a boy body,” represents many journeys, all too frequently sharing an undercurrent of shame, terror, and isolation. My daughter is too young to be introduced to those truths, but our discussions of I Am Jazz and other children’s books on similar topics will be informed and enhanced by what I’ve learned.
As a parent, I will never have all of the answers, but I’m convinced that it’s my job to continue seeking them in the pages of good books. On this topic, I Am Jazz and Redefining Realness were great places to start. This was originally published on Book Riot. You can read my Redefining Realness review here.
A career change inspired “The Crossroads of Should and Must,” Elle Luna’s manifesto for passionate living. Part pep talk, part illustrated guide, the book is all heart. It offers a remedy for discontent and unachieved potential to people who feel their talents are being stifled by others’ expectations.
I’ve read unapologetic calls to “just do you” many times before, but Luna’s use of drawings presents the idea in a fresh and memorable way. She offers no tedious footnotes, lengthy citations, or voluminous appendices to support her claims, only the wisdom of her journey from corporate designer to independent artist. This feels sufficient.
Not convinced? Here’s a glimpse of her call to authentic living in eight great quotes:
“Should is how other people want us to live our lives…Must is who we are, what we believe, and what we do when we are alone with our truest, most authentic sel[ves]. It’s that which calls to us most deeply.”
“Our prison is constructed from a lifetime of Shoulds, the world of choices we’ve unwittingly agreed to, the walls that alienate us from our truest, most authentic selves. Should is the doorkeeper to Must. And just as you create your prison, you can set yourself free.”
“All too often, we feel that we are not living the fullness of our lives because we are not expressing the fullness of our gifts.”
“It is constant effort and hard work—and inexplicably life-affirming—to honor who you are, what you believe, and why you are here.”
“It turns out that the more intimate we are with what we want, the more self-aware we will be about how we spend our time.”
“To choose Must is the greatest thing you can do with your life because this congruent, rooted way of living shines through everything that you do.”
“When you follow Must every day, you impact not only what you create for your work, but also who you become in your life. This is how your work and your life become one and the same. When you choose Must, what you create is yourself.”
“How long will you wait to honor who you are?”
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In her compendium of propaganda against black women, “The Sisters Are Alright,” Tamara Winfrey Harris exposes America’s historical and ongoing contempt for “the sisters.” She identifies stereotype after devastating stereotype, from whitewashed beauty standards to angry-black-woman clichés, and calls for recognition of the diversity and humanity of black women.
Although billed as a pep talk, Harris’s collection of panicked headlines, cruel criticism, and biased studies assailing black women makes for tough reading. On more than one occasion, I thought, It’s a wonder any of us survive.
And that’s the point. Most black women are not thriving, because we are doubly burdened with racial and gender discrimination. When we show up in the real world, we are too often seen through a thick veil of negative stereotypes. This limits our educational and employment opportunities, threatens our health, and makes it difficult to solicit and receive help.
Harris describes the brutal, sometimes deadly, consequences. Witness the frightened Detroit homeowner who shot teenager Renisha McBride in the face when she knocked on his door to seek assistance after a car accident.
But Harris didn’t write this book to enlighten people who discriminate against black women. Her goal is to bolster our self-esteem so that we can better navigate the toxic landscape. She peppers the book with positive messages called Moments in Alright. These vignettes highlight positive notes about black women, such as business ownership and educational attainment progress, and anecdotes about us excelling and helping one another. The nuggets offer little relief, though, set as they are against a backdrop of grim stereotypes.
It’s often said that it takes five expressions of praise to balance out a single criticism, and in this instance I craved more detailed stories of black women overcoming adversity, more insight into the self-talk that helps us flourish, and more explanation of how we’ve come to know we are alright, even when media coverage and social customs suggest the opposite.
For me, the book was not uplifting. But it offered something more valuable: honest and unapologetic insight. It is a fine example of how to consume media thoughtfully–one writer’s conscientious rejection of the tired notions and labels society tries to pin on black women. It’s a tough job. I’m glad she did it.
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Sarah Scarbrough exudes passion and pragmatism. She’s internal program director for the Richmond City Justice Center in Virginia (formerly the Richmond City Jail), and she’s serious about giving offenders another chance. To help these most disadvantaged, dismissed members of our society, Scarbrough takes a holistic approach in partnership with other agencies and the community at large.
I saw Scarbrough in action in February, when I participated in an event designed to help volunteers and philanthropists understand the connection between incarceration and homelessness.
At the Justice Center, our group heard inmates describe the effectiveness of Scarbrough’s rehabilitation program and lament their prospects for continuing progress after being released. The average number of incarcerations is 7.7 among the men and women in the RCJC Program that Scarbrough oversees.
“Somebody could have the utmost motivation while in jail, in the program, but if they’re released and they are homeless, or they don’t have the proper preparation to be released, they’re going to revert back to the old ways,” Scarbrough says.
Continue reading “Sarah Scarbrough: Putting Offender Recovery and Reentry Research Into Practice”I love this elegant story of kindness and cruelty. In just 32 pages, it distills the essence of human conflict–a persistent refusal to see the humanity in others and extend simple warmth and care.
Set among school children, “Each Kindness” is told from the perspective of Chloe, a young girl who refuses to accept small gestures of friendship from Maya, the new girl. Maya wears spring shoes in the snow and plays alone, snubbed by classmates who laugh and name her “Never New” for her hand-me-down wardrobe. Despite her absolute rejection in the schoolyard, Maya continually reaches out, extending a glance, a smile, some jacks, a ball–ever optimistic that one day her affection will be returned. Alas, it is not, and we last see her jumping rope around the whole school yard alone, never stopping, never looking up. Heartbreaking.
On the next page, Maya is absent from school and the girls’ teacher Ms. Albert gives a lesson in kindness. Chloe is moved when the teacher drops a small stone into a bowl of water, observes the ripples and says: “This is what kindness does. Each little thing we do goes out, like a ripple, into the world.” But Chloe can’t think of a single kindness to share when it is her turn to drop a pebble into the bowl.
Later, she resolves to be kind and make the world better by simply returning Maya’s smile. But her realization comes too late. Maya’s absences from school pile up and Ms. Albert announces that her family had to move away. Chloe sits by a pond and considers each kindness she had never shown.
I threw small stones into it, over and over.
Watching the way the water rippled out and away.
Out and away.
Like each kindness — done and not done.
Like every girl somewhere —
holding a small gift out to someone
and that someone turning away from it.
The economy of Woodson’s prose and the solemnity of E.B. Lewis’s illustration combine to powerful effect. Together, they remind us that sometimes we learn valuable lessons too late, with real consequences for the people we spurn.
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It’s hard for domestic violence victims to see a path to safety, let alone travel it. They have to survive the violence itself, overcome the guilt, shame and alienation it causes, and risk death or injury to escape. They have to secure shelter, food and clothing and navigate a mire of legal proceedings to distance themselves from their abusers. Often with few resources and little hope.
When we think of someone escaping abuse, the red tape of protective orders, divorce, custody, name changes or emancipations aren’t the obstacles that spring to mind. Yet legal services are among the most powerful tools to get—and stay—out of a violent relationship for the long term, says Heather Bellino, executive director of the Texas Advocacy Project. They are crucial to giving victims the space and security they need to forge new, better lives for themselves and their children.
Bellino leads a non-profit law firm that provides these services free of charge to the people who need them most. And she’s on a mission to raise community awareness of the legal side of survival so that victims know where to turn and their supporters are better informed to assist. I toured her office and interviewed her to help spread the word.
Continue reading “Heather Bellino: Ending Domestic Violence”“Crazy Love” by Leslie Morgan Steiner is a personal history of abuse with a social mission of redemption. Steiner recounts a series of harrowing milestones in a relationship gone wrong, illuminating why she and so many others stay with violent partners—and how friends, family, bystanders can help.
Addressing the reader directly, she writes: “If I were brave enough the first time I met you, I’d try to share what torture it is to fall in love with a good man who cannot leave a violent past behind. I’d tell you why I stayed for years, and how I finally confronted someone whose love I valued almost more than my own life. Then maybe the next time you came across a woman in an abusive relationship, instead of asking why anyone stays with a man who beats her, you’d have the empathy and courage to help her on her way.”
By that measure, “Crazy Love” succeeds. Steiner’s straightforward account of four years of abuse would make even the hardest-hearted person more aware of the emotional, physical and financial risks of severing ties with an abuser. And that understanding might spur readers’ responses when lives are on the line.
I know I won’t soon forget the attacks Steiner described. The cold muzzle of a fully loaded Colt .45 bruising her temple. Bits of onion and meat smacking her face and her hands on the steering wheel, remnants of a Big Mac thrown in protest of her driving. Hands choking her as he mouthed the words “I…own…you.”
Beyond the blows and humiliations, I’ll remember Steiner’s loyalty beyond reason and the failure of so many friends, family members and institutions to intervene. It took years of “experiments” in both fighting back and submitting for her to conclude that nothing she did made him hit her and nothing she did (short of leaving) made him stop. I’ll remember how her desperate calls for help were denied by a busy signal at the domestic violence hotline and the prescription for tranquilizers her therapist proffered instead of an evacuation plan.
This account of violent episode after violent episode educates the reader about warning signs and legal remedies, but Steiner’s character–her unique pedigree and persona–instruct as well. I was challenged by her account because she wasn’t particularly likable. Her poor-little-rich-girl tales of self loathing, drug abuse, and anorexia didn’t resonate. I found it hard to care about a character so attached to appearances and her Waspy Ivy League heritage.
When she first meets Conor, her soon-to-be abuser and husband on the subway, she tries to impress the stranger with references to her “high-powered father” and weekend jaunts to Vail. Later, she makes statements like, “my grandfather was the only Harvard senior in the class of 1929 who owned two sports cars.” She takes money from her trust fund to buy her own engagement ring because she doesn’t want the “diamond chip in a cheap gold setting” he’s likely to buy.
My negative reaction to her on the page prompted me to consider the barriers to empathy (and help) that victims of domestic violence encounter in real life. Personality, privilege, poverty [how about adding this, or even more — ?] and so many other factors color our responses to victims. Yet a victim is a victim is a victim, regardless of outsiders’ assessments of their resources or personal failings. And Steiner wasn’t a character. She was a person in desperate need of help.
In this way, “Crazy Love” reminded me that even when it looks like someone has the financial or other resources to leave a bad situation, the victim must be lacking other resources–the conviction, knowledge or support [also confidence?] to break free. Someone can be obnoxious and worthy of help. Someone can be well-connected and in need of support. And our sympathy and intervention shouldn’t be reserved for more perfect victims–people who fit our preconceived ideas about need, suffering, worthiness.
This riveting account of a years-long journey to acknowledge and end an abusive relationship bravely answers the question: Why would a woman stay with a man who hurts and threatens her? It leaves readers to ponder a crucial related question: How can we build the empathy, insight and courage required to help, rather than judge, victims of such violence.
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It’s a joy to look back at the evolution of Zora’s parties as captured on this blog. On her second birthday, just two short years ago, I declared myself a lover, not a planner, and outlined all the reasons why I didn’t “go all Martha Stewart on the occasion.” Still, I hinted that bigger things might be in store the following year. Turns out, I kept her third birthday party super simple, but went all out for a sendoff on the eve of our move to Austin. Fast-forward to Zora’s 4th birthday last month, and we’re now bonafide party animals.
We invited new schoolmates, neighbors and friends over to our place to celebrate Zora’s big day. I designed the backyard party around the ABCs–animals, books and crafts, that is–and sought the help of Austin’s finest to pull it all off. They didn’t disappoint.
Continue reading “Zora’s 4th Birthday Party”This sensory novel explores heartbreak and home as protagonist Ingrid Palamede navigates a torturous landscape where brawn, swagger and grapes rule. Lush with quirky characters and vivid scenes, “Valley Fever” takes us into the hearts of a close-knit community, a lovably flawed family and a spirited heroine.
Ingrid has no place of her own to seek refuge when her boyfriend dumps her after she’s moved in. She turns first to her sister in L.A., then heads north to her childhood home in Fresno to forget Howard’s character flaws (“his stupid flat stomach” and “the idiot way he brought [her] coffee in bed”). In the city she loves to hate, Ingrid mourns her relationship, pens a genocide comedy and slowly recognizes that her parents are grappling with heartbreaks of their own.
The dialogue is appealingly droll and author Katherine Taylor, thankfully, doesn’t spend much time parsing Ingrid’s interior life in the aftermath of the breakup. There are grapes to pick, after all, and we’re quickly immersed in action on the farm. Ingrid’s dad is a great farmer who has 20,000 acres at risk, hurt by his aversion to business and reliance upon antiquated gentlemen’s agreements. Her mother plays solitaire in worn hotel slippers and “doesn’t even care for the people she likes.” Her godfather Felix, known for his ruthlessness and criminal company (her father excluded), warns: “You think you’ve got more than two friends, you’re fooling yourself.”
Ingrid stumbles, but never shrivels, in the 100-degree heat. It’s a testament to Taylor’s skill in describing the Fresno landscape that Ingrid’s hard-knock education in pricing and negotiations is as memorable for the vineyard backdrop as for Ingrid’s personal development.
Taylor masterfully builds a story to be savored by grounding the enormity of the Palamede family’s challenges in the steady rhythms of daily life. Her research shows in spot-on depictions of the tastes that enliven the community: The hot sweetness of end-grapes picked right from the vine. The perfect bite of prosciutto cured from almond-fed pigs. Vodka poured over table grapes by valley farmers hesitant to drink anything but California wine. In Taylor’s account, even betrayal captures the senses. It tastes like cold-poached Alaskan salmon and smells like cigars and grease.
This is a lovely quick read–well-imagined and well-written. Pair with an old Mondavi, Ingrid’s drink of choice.
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