How to Heal a Hangover
I am no stranger to grief. But for those who believe in democracy, rule of law, compassion, and the truth, knowing that this many people in our country don’t, is daunting. I understand better why our schools are failing, our roads are pot-holed, why we are sliding backwards into the post-war fifties mentality of pull up the ladder, not in my neighborhood, women should behave, Black people and immigrants should shut up or leave. My mission remains to teach, to love, to show compassion and empathy and hope. Since we just moved, I am putting away various papers and found the book the students from a very wealthy and White school made for me after I covered a maternity leave. They said I had shown them how to be kind without condescension, how to laugh at and accept mistakes, how to ask yourself the hard questions about something you are reading or writing.
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Embracing Imperfection
I’m not a therapist and I don’t play one on TV, but I believe perfectionism in writing and life can cause pain and anxiety resulting in the avoidance of anything with the potential to fail. And, I would argue that anything worth doing has the potential to go wrong, the wheels fall off the bus, the wedding is cancelled, the publisher says no, the soufflé collapses, the world does not find you adorable, deserving, or brilliant. I have been fired, twice divorced, rejected, humiliated, and disappointed. When I was in therapy decades ago, describing my latest heartbreak and tragic failure, the therapist said, “You were disappointed.” This statement made me want to stand and stomp my feet on her Oriental carpet. I didn’t want to be disappointed.
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Safe Spaces
When I returned to graduate school in the late nineties to obtain a high school English certificate, I had been teaching in various college settings for over a decade. My demographics ranged from a class of Haitian immigrants, mainly men, who were trying to pass a basic English exam to continue their free education through the City University of New York, to unemployed Londoners of various ages and professions to the largely White, wealthy students at Southern Methodist University in Dallas. The class that introduced me to the pitfalls and triumphs of being allowed to have honest conversations, or to at least listen…
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