Why Using My Perspective as a Woman Has Helped me Understand Racial Oppression A Little Bit Better

I have struggled over the past several years with how to engage in the 'conversation' about racial oppression in the United States. I don't identify fully with any side of this conversation - my spirit was birthed and resides in white wrapping, but that same spirit was shaped in Kenya where I was raised both by my white parents and the black village I grew up. I did not first learn the ways of one skin color, and then learn the ways of another - I learned them both at the same time.

My hope in writing today is to share with you just a bit about how my process has gone, in the hopes that it helps you along yours. This is written with white people (specifically men) in mind, and I recognize it may offend, though that is not my intent. I also recognize I have much to learn, and that despite my best intentions, I may say something here that would be hurtful to a person of color. Should I do that, though I will do my absolute best not to, please know that was never my intent, and I am committed to continuing to learn.

For women, if this triggers something for you, please know I believe healing is possible. Whatever experiences of oppression you have had as a woman are entirely outside of our best design as humanity, and you are not alone.

*********

I was recently in a group where I was asked to do an exercise on discrimination; one of the questions asked me to write a list of people groups I grew up fearing or being uncomfortable around. I sat still for a while, genuinely searching for an answer and trying to objectively and honestly run through the list of possible suspects. The first answer that came to my mind initially surprised me, and then wasn't a surprise at all: men.

I first became aware that men viewed women as objects when I was about 6; in Maasai culture, it was common for fathers and grooms to conduct the transaction of a daughter becoming a bride. Promises were made years in advance, as men staked their claims to girls who would one day become slightly older girls old enough to bear children. I don't know the number of times I stood silently by as a little girl, listening to men ask my father for me as one of their future brides. I do remember my father said no 100% of the time, and for this I am grateful.

I also remember, at the age of 9, realizing most of my age mates were beginning to prepare for the start of their menstrual cycles, and their subsequent need to be ready to become the brides they had been 'traded' as. I remember finding my refuge in books, spending hours hiding inside from the realities that faced me because of my gender when I walked out the door.

When I was in late elementary school, we returned to the US for a year. I was struck by the use of the female form to sell products ranging from cars to cigarettes to sunscreen. I realized the female form had power - but that power wasn't because the female body was valued for it's strength or intrinsic worth - instead the female body was a tool to be used for other people's benefit and pleasure. It was also, therefore, a mighty tool for manipulation.

I realized I happened to be put in one of those female bodies for my spirit and soul to do their work on this earth. I began to understand my greatest limitations actually had very little to do with me, and had already been predetermined by how others labeled my form.

When I was in middle school, I listened as some of my agemates recounted stories of abuse. I realized I was an outlier, not because of anything I had done, but because I had been lucky. And I realized I wasn't guaranteed to remain an outlier - that sexual abuse may one day become a part of my story. So far it's not part of my own personal story, for which I grateful, but I live every day with the reality that one day it might be. And I know the chance is higher for that to be a part of my daughter's story than it is my son's.

When I was in early high school, I began to perfect the "don't mess with me" face I used towards men who looked too long, or scanned up and down too many times. I also began to perfect my, "I'm not a threat" face for men in power who fear others strength. Sometimes, both are needed simultaneously.

I also sought to fight against the script that Evangelical Western Christianity had given me: that my body was intended for the Lord and for my husband, but not really for me. My 16 year old self tried to find a place for me to enjoy being in my own body and have some control over how it was viewed by others. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I failed. I learned that my body could be turned against me as a weapon if I trusted others with it, and I learned that even if I saw myself as valuable, I wasn't always perceived that way. In fact, as far as broader society was concerned, my self-narrative was secondary to the female form-narrative.

When I was in college, living in the United States indefinitely for the first time in my life, I was thrust into the throes of what is a co-ed college dorm, and was overwhelmed by the gender, racial, and socio-economic milieu. I met and married my husband quickly, and I know a part of that was because I knew I'd found a good man I always wanted in my corner of the ring. I'm so glad I did. He has been a tender partner in healing many of the wounds I picked up along the way as a result of being a woman.

In my late teens/early twenties, I also began to experience the onslaught of unsolicited feedback a woman in American can expect simply for stepping out of her home. Whether it was through advertising, the media, or social interactions, I received a lot of feedback on what it meant to be a woman, and a lot of feedback for my particular take on the role. Runs around campus were marked by how many catcalls I received - not because I'm particularly worth calling at, but simply because I had the audacity to show an interest in the health of my form. Comments were made about my appearance, my body, and even my food intake, "are you going to eat that whole burrito? That's hot. I love girls who can eat."

I began to recognize that to enjoy my own form, simply by dressing it in a way that made me feel beautiful, or decorating it with simple things like earrings or mascara, somehow sent a signal that I considered my body an art piece I had put on public display, apparently with a comment box. And the comments rolled in, unwanted, but each one leaving an impression.

As I entered pregnancy, childbirth, and mothering, I realized how many systems were stacked against me. Maintaining a career was harder, caring for a young child in public was isolating, and once again, advertising and the media quickly intervened to let me know what my role was as a mother, and how frequently I was failing.

As I've navigated through young motherhood, and am emerging into young-middle motherhood, I've found I have a bit more time on my hands - time to go out for drinks with friends, curl my hair, and go to the gym. It turns out my comment box is still fully operational. I was most recently (ie - 3 weeks ago) approached by a man at my front door, after he had completed the grocery delivery I'd placed online:

"you seem really fun," He said, glancing at my legs in shorts that suddenly felt too short. "Want to hang out sometime?"
"Oh, thanks," I said (because I didn't want to let my frustration show; I didn't know how he'd respond if I told him how wildly inappropriate it was for him to be hitting on me in the doorway of my home, while my son sat on the couch inches away. My husband wasn't home, and I didn't want to anger the man leaning possessively against my door frame), "but I'm married and have two kids." (men respond better when I'm already possessed by someone else, better than if I honestly say 'I didn't ask for your attention. I simply ordered milk online.')
"That's ok," he responded, looking directly at me, "I'm not looking for anything serious."

I've never felt more relieved when my husband came home than I did that day, even though I knew the reality was, I wasn't in any real danger. It was just a man who felt entitled to presenting his interest in me after a milk delivery. But it was an event smack in the middle of the backdrop of my life - where I've experienced dozens, probably hundreds, of micro-aggressions that have assured me I am not as safe as those who weren't born into the gender I was. Whether it's cat calls, being followed around a store, being called "sweetheart" and "honey" by men older than my father when I'm at a bar, or being unable to concentrate on the conversation with one of my girl friends because the man sitting directly behind her keeps eying all  of me...each interaction becomes a part of the canvas that sets part of the backdrop for every day of my life. That's how, I think, micro aggressions work. They slowly corrode and shape like a steady stream of single drops of water in a cave.

But the unjust treatment I've experienced as a woman isn't just about my physical form or 'how fun I seem", it's also about who I am. I can't count the times I've been laughed at, discredited, or held as exceptional when I've offered to do things like change a tire, take apart an appliance to fix it, or lead a group. I've been, on more than a few occasions, described as stubborn, opinionated, pushy, dominant, and intimidating by both men and women. But when I watch men engage in the same ways I do, they are described in the way I see myself: strong, leaders, confident, visionaries, full of ideas.

There isn't really a conclusion to this story, because it's still ongoing. I still wouldn't walk downtown at night by myself, and I still lock the doors as soon as I get in the car at the shopping center. I still am aware of every man around me, and know I'll have more moments where I pretend to get a phone call to avoid interacting with a man who's been eying me as I walk through Target or Trader Joes. I'll still pretend to ignore the lewd comments directed at me or other women when I take the bus. I'll still inwardly cringe every time I hear a crass word for one of my body parts used as insult. I will still see the way some men look at women when that woman isn't watching. She might not be, but other women see it, and so even if we don't always see it when it's directed at us, we sense the gaze on us. And yes, it makes us feel unsafe.

I'll continue to navigate what it means to be the woman I'm created me to be - strong, confident, full of ideas and passion, a leader - but I know to do it well, I have to remain aware of the gender constructs that still (many times unintentionally) remain. I know I will need to have a lot of grace and patience as so many people, men and women alike (myself included), try to navigate the understanding of these constructs and the way forward to healthier ones.

I'll keep having hard conversations with my daughter, and with my son - but they'll be different when it comes to my daughter. I'll tell her to walk a certain way, to have a strong handshake, to take care of her appearance, and to look people in the eye, "if you don't send a message that you respect your body, other people won't think  they have to respect your body either. Send a message that you respect you body, and that you expect others to do the same." That's not just about her body, it's about everything that is her - body, spirit, soul, and dreams.

I'm already teaching her to use her 'no' and to use it loudly when she feels scared. I'm already telling her that secrets that make her feel scared or hurt should never be secrets, no matter what anyone says. I'm already teaching her that she is strong, capable, brave, and important - no matter what anyone else says. I'm already teaching her that what she believes of herself is more important than any message she'll receive from anywhere else. I'm teaching carefully, doing everything I can to protect her innocence and optimism and trust of the goodness of the world, but knowing she will need a different type of internal strength to be true to who she was created to be.

And it is through this lens, as a woman, as a mother of a daughter, that I have been able to understand a bit more, and have my eyes more opened to seeing the racial injustices that occur around me everyday. I've started to see the change in facial expression on the cashier's face based on the color of the person she is serving. I've started to see the way mothers reach out to hold their children's hands more around some skin colors than they do around others. I've started to see the realities of the color map that could be laid on top of my cities geographical map, and I've become more aware of where I live in it - in the middle of my own color.

And I've become more aware of my own responses to other people, and had to come face to face with some of my own ingrained responses to people based on their skin color - even though in my head and heart I consciously hold no animosity or fear towards anyone based on anything external. Somewhere, along the way, I picked habits up, and now, it is my job to discover them and undo what needs undone.

I know this has been lengthy, but there is nothing brief about the complexities of oppression of any people group - whether it be based on gender, skin color, economic status, or sexual orientation.

My hope in sharing this, as a middle class white woman living in a safe white neighborhood, is to begin lending my voice to this conversation. Perhaps gender discrimination is more accessible for you than racial discrimination, for whatever reason. Perhaps hearing a bit of my experience as a woman, especially if you know me but didn't know this part, will help you begin to see other significant parts of other people's stories that you didn't realize you didn't know. Perhaps, if you feel some increased understanding of the reality of discomfort and threat to safety I live with as a woman, you'll have a framework for beginning to understand the threats and oppression that people of color live with. Again, I'm not saying my experience as a woman is the same as a person of color - they are different, but the lens of one helped me better understand the other, and perhaps it can help you, too.

Or, perhaps it simply helps you better understand gender discrimination a bit better - that would be valuable, too.

We all have a story with racial discrimination, because it is a part of our culture, whether we acknowledge it or not. Once we do acknowledge it, we can begin to see our part in it, and importantly, decide what part we will play in it going forward.

And, if I may gently suggest a hard thought: indecision is not a part of reconciliation and justice. Indecision is simply the decision to continue playing the same role you've been playing. And maybe that's a pretty decent role - but I know I wanted to be sure I hadn't settled on 'decent' if I was capable of more.

If the news of this week, and the years past, have caused you grief - keep grieving, but don't let your grief turn to indefinite paralyzation. You can withdraw to grieve, reflect, and even to recover. But my prayer is that you can find the perspective shift that you need to begin learning about the realities that make the truth we want to believe ring hollow: "one nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all."

For once we learn the realities, we have a better chance of bringing about the good we so desperately want to be, and need to be, true.

Today, when it was hard...

Today, I read a beautiful blog written on Huff Post titled "Instead I Held You." It really is a sweet and gentle reminder to stop and savor the sweet moments with our little ones. But, as a mother of an almost 5 year old and 6 1/2 year old, my little ones aren't falling asleep in my arms too often any more, and I don't need the reminder to stop cleaning as they fall asleep in my arms, because it happens so rarely I recognize it as a treasure.

But, as my kids have gotten older, and necessarily branch away from me so they can become their own independent and capable selves, I realize the sentiment holds, but it goes maybe like this...

Today, my patience had worn thin because I hadn't had nearly as much alone time as I needed, or time to just rest, or read a book, or sit and not think for a minute. And in the middle of all that, you'd had a bad day too. So...

Today, when you walked in the door from school, dropped your backpack in the middle of the kitchen, and said, "I'm hungry. Where's my snack?" I didn't first tell you to put away your things and change your tone. I bent down, kissed you on the top of the head, and said I was glad to see you. You grunted, but you didn't pull away from my kiss, and I noticed.

Today, when you were angry because I turned off the TV so you could help me set the table, I didn't send you to your room on time out. I listened to your anger, and waited until you were calm enough to hear me say it's important to work as a team. You were still mad, but you took the dishes and slowly set the table. I simply said thank you. I noticed you kept coming back to the kitchen to 'not help', even after you were done setting the table.

Today, when you slammed your door after shouting that you hated me, I took deep breaths, and continued making your dinner. When you came out a few minutes later, I stopped what I was doing, turned and faced you, kneeling down to your level, and looking into your eyes, simply said, "I know you don't hate me, but when you use those words, it hurts my heart. I still love you." I let you walk away without forcing an apology, because I knew you heard me. And when you walked in and kissed my stomach, because that's how high you come now, and then quickly walked away, I knew you were sorry.

Today, when you kept speaking rudely to our guests and me, breaking family rules, and rolling your eyes at me, I didn't take away your toys or TV time. I gently asked you to come into your room with me, then I sat on the floor and asked if you wanted to sit with me. Turns out that's all you wanted. Just a few quiet minutes with me. We just sat there and took some deep breaths together. Sometimes company is hard on all of us.

Today, when your daddy and I were fighting, and you came in and started interrupting with an urgent need for string cheese right after dinner, I didn't yell at you. I stopped, looked at your dad with knowing eyes, and asked if it bothered you when we fought. You said yes. Your dad put his arm around me and I leaned in, even though we were mad, so you could see we were ok. I told you that we still loved each other, and sometimes you fight. And sometimes, when you fight, if you do it with love, you actually love each other more at the end. We asked if you wanted to watch us work through what we were arguing about. You did. So we argued as maturely as we could, hoping to teach you that conflict happens, and we have a choice how we engage with it. Later, I heard you fight with your sister; you were kind even though you were angry.

Today, when you told me I looked fat, I didn't tell you that it was a mean thing to say. I smiled, I told you I loved my body, and that I hoped you grew up to love yours, too. I told you that it doesn't matter what size your body is as long as you are taking care of it - eating healthy, exercising, making safe choices, and doing things that bring you joy. I also told you that in many places in the world, fat is a compliment - so hold your ideas loosely, and ask questions like "huh, I wonder why we do that/think that" before you jump in with both feet.

Today, when you came in to my room at 6:30am and told me you didn't want to go to school, I didn't say you had to. I asked why. When you explained it was, I quote,"unreasonable to expect me to sit still for 5 days, and then what, only get two days off? It's too much", I agreed and told you that you could stay home. As I was on the phone with the school office, telling them you were absent due to a mental health day, I smiled as I watched you building a playground out of scrap wood for the chickens.

Today, when your young boy eyes fell on the bikini clad bronze woman on the front of the magazine at the check out line, I didn't shoo you away or tell you stop. I asked what you were thinking. When you said you wondered why she was in her underwear, I sighed, and did my best to help you understand. To somehow help you learn about respecting bodies, yours and hers, and to also respect that it was her choice to be on the magazine in her bikini underwear. Then, I directed your sisters eyes to the magazine and asked you both if you thought she looked like a real woman, or if you thought they'd maybe changed the picture. You both said they'd changed the picture. I agreed, and said real bodies are beautiful and don't need photoshopped slimming.

Today, when you woke me up at 2am saying you were hungry, I didn't send you back to bed, I got up with you and we had a secret bowl of cheerios in our pajamas with just the little light over the stove to illuminate our faces. I was tired, but I want you to know when you're 16 years old that I'll have a 2am bowl of cheerios with you when something is on your mind, or you just need me to sit with you in the dark.

Today, when you said you just needed a Mommy Day, I didn't explain that sometimes I need to work and you'd just have to play by yourself this morning. I turned on my out of office and we went to get pedicures. Your fancy toes looked amazing, and I noticed when you played quietly for hours after we got home so I could get work done.

Today, when you told your sister she had to give you one of her toys or you would kick her, I didn't scold you hard and say you were violent. I pulled you to the side, and told you that when we only give someone two bad choices, we use our power to take away their power. Two bad choices isn't much of a choice. Then I gave you a second try, and you told your sister you'd like to play with her toys, could you trade for a bit?

Today, when you refused to get your shoes on when it was time to go, I didn't yell or storm you out to the car bare foot. I asked what was wrong, when you said it was my fault, I thought about your week and then asked you if it felt too busy. You said yes, and that you wished everyone in the world would just disappear except you and me. I understood and felt the same way. We cancelled our plans for the next day and spent it watching TV and snuggling instead.

Today, when you screamed at me that I was out of control, because let's be honest, I was borderline out of control as I was so tired and frustrated, I somehow found a deep breath, lowered my voice, and said you were right. I asked you for a time out for my sake, explaining that time outs are breaks to help us be our best, and I was sure I needed one. You gave me one, and after I'd calmed down, I apologized and asked your forgiveness. Hard as I try, I can't seem to make the right choice every time, but I promise to always ask your forgiveness.

Today, when it was hard, I got one piece of it closer to right. I don't always, even usually, but today I did. Today, when it was hard - for you, or for me, I tried to remember that we're in this together and I tried to show you that I love you. And I could tell you were trying, too.

Parenting: Higher Expectations, Less Failing

Early on in motherhood, I had this sneaking suspicion my son was actually much more capable than I was told he was. I also really didn’t want to raise a child who thought he wasn’t capable, so I figured the best way around that was to just treat him as if he were.  This attitude towards parenting is entirely different than overt and excessive praise, extreme statements such as “you’re the best at eating baby cereal!” and engaging my child in a host of extracurricular activities so he can develop his ‘full potential.’

An attitude of capability is instead one that says “ I believe you can, even if you don’t and can’t yet, and I’ll keep believing that you can until you prove otherwise.” It’s an attitude that starts from a position of ‘yes’ or an excited/hopeful ‘maybe!’ rather than a position of  scared/uncomfortable ‘maybe’ or ‘no’.

I’m not the ‘vivid memory’ type, but I distinctly remember a moment where I chose to engage with a ‘yes’ attitude: I was standing in line at a WellsFargo in Pasadena, CA when my son was about 14 months old. I had a piece of trash in my hand, and the garbage can was on the other side of the large room; I handed the piece of trash to my son and said, in a tone of voice as if I were talking to an adult, “can you please go throw this away? The garbage can is across the room, to the left of the coffee stand. It’s black and has a hole in the top.” He took the trash and began toddling away.

A woman looked at me, eyebrows raised, and said in a fairly condescending tone, “don’t you think that’s a bit much?” Now, in my retrospective version of this scene, I say “I just want to say thank you so much for using your ‘no’ attitude with me and my parenting. I feel super supported in young motherhood right now. Not that I need your support, I mean, I totally know what I’m doing. This little fellow came out with a manual.” But I didn’t say any of that. I watched my son toddle confidently away from me, and simply said, “Maybe. We’ll see.”

My vivid memory stops there. I like to think he made it to the garbage can without any assistance, but the point is, it didn’t actually matter. What mattered is I believed maybe he could and he trusted my belief. I gave him a chance to try, and whatever happened next I do know I told him thank you, and that he did such a good job. "Thank you for trying, thank you for helping me, thank you for being brave and walking across this great big room full of strangers, thank you for exploring, and for trusting me when I said “try.”" 

Having higher expectations of our children does not mean asking them to do things children shouldn’t be expected to do like mediate parental conflict, walk themselves to the bus before they are ready, grasp the painful realities of conflict and injustice that permeate our world, or whatever else they clearly aren’t ready to do. Having higher expectation means we let our children show us what they are ready to do before we jump to ‘no’. Higher expectation means we don’t draw the limit of their capabilities without asking for their participation in the process. Higher expectation means choosing to absorb some of the fall-out so they can miss the mark and recognize they have room to grow.

If our children are raised with a ‘no’ mentality ascribed to them, they will have a ‘no’ mindset towards themselves. Even more seriously, if they are raised in an environment where missing the mark is considered a failure, they will be afraid to try, and will assume there is one right way to do something. When there is only one right way to do something, our children stop being curious.

As a gentle aside, I would suggest many of us as adults have concluded there is one right way to do many things, and are subsequently void of curiosity. And I would also suggest an absence of curiosity quickly morphs into fear – and unfortunately, the fear is what our children pick up on most quickly, and embrace as their own, even though it feels such a stranger in their ready-to-explore-and-risk little beings. An absorbed ‘no’ mindset results in these self-conclusions: I am not good enough, the risk is bigger than my potential to recover from or overcome it, someone has the right answer and it’s not me, and so I am so afraid.

Our children will fail, they’ll fail big. How do I know? Well, mine already have, and even more so – I have. I’ve failed huge, fails that take years to begin healing into change and growth. My intent in writing this chapter is not to suggest failures are only opportunities. While I believe just about anything can be redeemed, I also know that sometimes failure just looks like, smells like, tastes like, and feels like failure. Full stop.

But, our children don’t need help recognizing their failures. The world, starting at a very, very young age, has already started labeling their missing the mark as ‘failures full stop.’ You know this is true, because the world has done it to you and me, too (and if we’re honest, sometimes we’re ‘the world’ in this scenario).

But from us, from their parents, our children don’t need help recognizing failure; they need opportunities to try and not succeed. And not succeeding must not be defined as failure, but instead embraced as learning and applauded as courageous curiosity. They need to fall, literally and figuratively. They need to fight, to hurt others (hopefully not too literally) and to be hurt. They need to pour their own milk and cover the floor with it (you can make that as analogous as you want).

And then, absolutely then, they need to be scooped up, told they did well not in spite of missing the mark, but because they tried. They must be taught how to look back and see where micro-goals were met, even when the macro-goals remained elusive. When my babies were little, up until they were about 4, many of our post-injury or post-conflict hugs ended with me setting them on their feet, and with arms still supporting their weight, whispering in their ear, “strong feet, brave heart.”

We have to engage in the world with strong feet and brave heart – to be steady, and know who we are, to have enough confidence in what we know to be true of ourselves that when we fall we know our brave heart will remind our feet just how strong they are. And when our brave hearts quake at the prospects looming ahead, our strong feet will, out of sheer habit, begin walking just in the direction we need to go.

This mindset doesn’t begin in adolescence, or even grade school – it begins in infancy and takes root in toddler years, and I promise it begins to bloom right before your very eyes by the time they are 2.5-3. It’s subtle, like an early spring bloom still hidden by wet leaves from the past fall, but it begins to happen.

Now that my kids are a bit older, we’ve begun to shift a bit towards the next step in this lesson: defining success and accepting our short-comings with intentionality. My son came home from KG the other day and announced, “sometimes kids say mean things to me.” The conversation continued like this:

Me: “yeah? That stinks. What do they say?”

Kai: “they said my drawing was bad.”

Me: “Huh…what did you think of your drawing?”
Kai: “It was bad.”

Me: “Oh. Does it bother you it was bad?” (note – I opted out of the conversation on who defines ‘good’ and ‘bad’, especially when it comes to kg art)

Kai: “No. Not really. I don’t like drawing.”

Me: “Ok. Well, it makes sense to me that if you don’t like drawing, you probably didn’t spent much time on it, right?”
Kai: “yeah”

Me: “if you didn’t spend much time on it, do you think it should be good?”

Kai: “no.”

Me: “well, maybe it’s ok to not have a good drawing. In fact, maybe it’s ok to do a bad drawing, especially if you don’t like drawing. Are there other things you like doing and are good at?”

Kai: “yeah, I’m really good in PE. I usually win the games”

Me: “that’s awesome. Maybe next time the kids say your drawing is bad, you could just shrug and let them know you know, and that it’s ok with you because it’s not something you want to spend a lot of time on. And maybe someday you will want to spend a lot of time on it, but for today, it’s ok to not be good at drawing. I’m not good at physics, or at high jump – I don’t like those things, and so I don’t spend much time on them.”

Kai: “yeah, ok. That’s fine.”

And so we push towards this lesson more and more – you take part in deciding which goals you want to pursue, that you should set high expectations for yourself, and it will take hard work to meet them. 

Step one of the lesson: I am worth a ‘yes’. 

Step two: Missing the mark means I tried, and that’s so good. 

Step three: I get to choose what the goal is, and I choose how hard I work to get there. 

Step four: Step two is super important.

I’m not entirely sure what the next steps will be, but I’m pretty sure they have something to do with recognizing some expectations are determined by others and somewhat non-negotiable. For example: you simply should not get in a car with someone you don’t know. This is non-negotiable. You simply should not steal, or kill people, or say things that undermine the value of another human being. These are non-negotiable. But, at the same time, you get to choose if you make these expectations your own, or if you simply choose to follow the expectations out of fear, or ignore the expectations and endure the consequences of not meeting these expectations.

At this stage in the game, as my kids venture into the broader world and I’m no longer with them, I hope they have learned how to be curious with expectations – to weigh them for their intrinsic and extrinsic value, and intentionally align themselves with expectations of value while discarding all the rest. I surely won’t be able to teach them what their relationship should be to each and every expectation that comes their way from society, others, or even themselves. I’m still figuring out to do with the ones that come my way every day. But I can teach them their engagement with expectation is in fact a relationship, and they have a voice in it.

And I hope, when they come up against these expectations everyday, whether it’s an expectation to look a certain way, or say a certain unkind thing, or look the other way when injustice occurs, or to give up trying out for basketball because someone said they aren’t any good, or to pursue a certain career or life-style that puts a damper on their spirit, I hope deep in their beings, a little voice rises up, reminding them to have higher expectations but less failing as it assuredly whispers, “strong feet, brave heart.”