we need to talk about Dallas – an update

There are too many fires burning. We’ve talked about that. We know that.
But this is a fire that matters. So even if you can’t lend some of your water to put it out, I simply want to remind you that it’s burning. This fire matters.

Riddle from the Middle

Listen, I get it. We’ve got a lot of stuff coming at us. The Kavanaugh hearings. I-can’t-decide-what-kind-of-storm-to-be Florence. Trump rejecting third party findings that 3,000 people died in Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria. The fact that the administration is seven weeks late in meeting its deadline to reunite families they separated at the border. It’s exhausting.

But we need to talk about Dallas again.

I did the first rundown of Botham Jean’s shooting in last Wednesday’s One Liner post. You really ought to check it out but if you’re click-averse or short on time, here it is in a nutshell.

White off duty police officer shot unarmed black neighbor inside his apartment.

Yep, that’s pretty much the gist of it. Minus the ridiculous amount of wiggle room provided the officer when it came to changing her statement. I particularly enjoyed the district attorney’s decision to release the search results…

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Revolutionary in Residence, Come See Me February 11th in Colonial Williamsburg

Colonial Williamsburg is one of those places you need to visit at least once in your life for all of the reasons Michael so eloquently states here (I love his use of language in his writing. If you don’t follow his blog, you really ought to). The fact that this man will be there, demonstrating his craft, telling his story (and therefore our collective story) is a huge gift. Not to be missed! If you can figure out a way to get down to Virginia next month, do it! You won’t be disappointed!


Beginning my Colonial Afro-Virginian Barbecue Experiment, Colonial Williamsburg Beginning my Colonial Afro-Virginian Barbecue Experiment, Colonial Williamsburg

I believe in America.  Even now when so many things feel out of place and regressive.  I am dedicated to reminding us about our story and the ways in which we have co-created a unique world without parallel in the history of humankind.  This loud proclamation of “exceptionalism” is not just a song of praise, but of criticism and critique.  I realize that this country is the only place in which I am possible, and by possible, I mean a set of circumstances so extraordinary and infuriating that its a miracle I’m here.

America is a place where living history still finds takers in the museum industry. We are young but we are aging, pushing each day further and farther away from the birth pangs of this sprawling corner of what was once merely an outpost in the Atlantic world.  We crave…

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[Short Post]Can’t Feel Accomplished for More than a Minute

Photo: Richard! You fool! Get down from there! (Seriously, I forgot to move the damn doll already! Had to throw him up there while the boys were still doing their get-up routine. Thank goodness I remembered!


The Christmas letter is written. The Christmas cards arrived yesterday afternoon (special shout out to the postal worker who left the Snapfish box out in the soaking rain!). You’d think that would signify a doneness… but you’d be wrong, Dear Reader! This is only the beginning. Now is the time for hunting down the addresses of people who have moved, creating the mail merge, getting the stamps, writing the little notes at the end of all the letters, and getting everything all stuffed and ready to go.

None of that is gonna happen tonight. I’m spent. I’ve climbed my mountain . It’s been a long day. One last thing to do today: this blog post.

Just as I was setting up to get down to business on today’s post, my husband came downstairs to remind me that Major’s birthday is in January.

So desu ne,” I replied with a sigh.

The Husband has made it fairly clear that I will not be getting away with the anti-birthday-bash coup that I pulled last year. Kids get parties. Even kids born in January. So I’ve been told. I’ve gotta look into booking a place. Just another task to add to the growing list. I’m thinkin’ bowling. That’s a good kindergarten birthday party, right? I mean, he’s never been, so… that might be awkward… or maybe awesome?

Maybe we could just take a beach vacation? Wouldn’t it be better to spend our money on that? He sorta likes the sand!

I’m going to bed.

See you Friday for Quiet Thoughts



A Nation of Neither Angels nor Demons

Photo: My very good friend is a local glass artisan. Tracy makes a lot of beautiful work, but I think I love her acorns most of all. After Grandy passed away, she presented me with this one. Teal was always Grandy’s color and whenever I see it, I think of her. I have this one placed in an Eastern-facing window so as to catch the first rays of light in the mornings. When the sunlight hits it just right, I just feel her presence. If you love this acorn, you might be interested in some of the other glasswork of The Happy Owl Glassworks. Check it out!


Ursa Minor is enjoying another 10 weeks of gymnastics thanks to the fairly accessible price and the fact that there is nothing else going on during the day on Wednesdays (he doesn’t have school). Bonus, of course, is that he absolutely loves it and he is really, really good at it. He’s athletic and flexible, he’s strong and he’s delighted by all the jumping, flying, and flipping.

The best part about gymnastics is that it is a straight hour-long class, which is amazing and rare for this age group. All I have to do is sit in the drafty waiting area with folding chairs… and the other moms.

Now, it’s been a small group. There are only 4 kids in the class. Three other moms. How bad could it be? You’d think we’d all be on the same page–this is our one hour of the day when we can be cool and maybe not say anything to other humans.

You know better, right? 2 out of the 3 other women are chatty as hell. That’s fine, but disappointing. Wednesdays are busy and just a little bit of time to sit and be quiet would be very nice. I get it, though: adult conversation is a rarity in the middle of the day. So, context: there is me, one mom who is an immigrant from Germany (not present for the events described below), another woman of color who I haven’t asked about her background and a white mom who considers herself a local (“we’ve lived in town since the 1800s”).

Ok? Ok.

Not knowing each other terribly well, we have been keeping the conversation to small talk. “How old is your kid?” or “where are you having your next birthday party?” and that sort of nonsense. Trivial shit that nobody cares about (augh… why can’t this just be quiet time?). This being our second week together, the awkwardness is starting to fall away and a comfort is starting to settle in. As the children warmed up with the teacher, the white mom asked about our town’s school choice process. She wanted to know how it goes.

I told her a bit about our crazy journey, how we had a first choice that we really loved, but that school had very few seats because of a few reasons.

She interrupted me: “Well, I heard that the thing about that school is that the Asians and the Indian kids have really infiltrated that place, so now nobody can get in.”

I wanted to tell you I was shocked, but I wasn’t. I was patient. I exchanged a look with the other mom and then sorta steadied myself and kept going. “Actually, there were a lot of siblings coming in and they get preference, and…”

The white mom didn’t challenge or reassert her idea until later as we continued talking about schools. As we went down the list of programs and specialties, the woman stated, “you know, I hear that it’s more important to get your regular kid in sports, you know? Because the Asians and the Indians, they are so smart and they take all those tutoring programs after school, so there is no way for our kids to compete, you know? So we have to stick with the sports because that’s the only place our kids can do well.” She went on to say how she has signed up her two young daughters (4 and 2) for all the sports she can come up with to try to get them competitive early “to boost their confidence, you know?”

I wanted to break it all down. I wanted to examine it all bit by bit . Who is a “regular” kid? Have you decided that your kid isn’t as capable as their potential classmates already? Have you given up already, before she has even entered kindergarten? Why would you believe those stereotypes so much as to then actively apply them to your daughters? Why use the word “infiltrate” as if they are foreign invaders?

And when you speak of “regular” kids, are you including our children, who are obviously of color, in with that group? Or are you speaking to Others about Others? Do you feel safe to say what you’ve said because we’re Other but not Asian or Indian? (Again, I am not quite sure the racial background of the other mother, but she is clearly of color.)

Here is my thing about angels and demons: this woman is a nice lady. She’s been very kind, going out of her way to compliment both my son and the other woman’s son, getting to know us, figuring out the norms (she is new to the group). She has asked questions, shared a little about herself, she has been warm and gracious. She’s loving and wonderful with her daughter. This woman isn’t a demon. I don’t know who this woman is. I know she doesn’t mean me or my children any harm. I know that her world view is “us versus them” to the point of actionable decision-making that may have serious consequences down the road.

Neither of we woman of color challenged her. We were politely silent, choosing to ignore and deflect rather than engage. I’m not proud of it. I saw the look on the other woman’s face and I knew my own thoughts and we both had made our own internal decisions to let it ride. I can’t decide if we were both chicken in that moment or if the long, steady drumbeat of a lifetime of aggressions like this one have come to lay a foundation of a permanent silence. Surely we both know that the fight against bias and ignorance (even arrogance)–that the resistance against newly reinvigorated white supremacy–must be done in the small, almost intimate, moments such as this. Maybe if one of us had been brave enough to say something, the other would have said something as well. Maybe we could have made a difference, shutting it down there and then. I should have been me. I have been begging others not to recoil and retreat in the face of the darkness, yet there I was with my polite silence. I should have been the one to tell her she was wrong. I should have been the one to tell her that in suburban schools like ours, studies show that diversity only serves to boost the academic performance of every child in the classroom. Her worldview and strong bias have negative consequences.

But what about next week? And then next 9 weeks to come? Why invite that discomfort into this weekly gathering? Why make this yet another space without safety and comfort, solace, even simple friendly fellowship?

… won’t it be uncomfortable anyway now? For the two of us? Knowing what we know?

…didn’t she, indeed, destroy the safety of the space? Did she not strain the possibility of friendly fellowship?

Like I said, I’m not proud of it. The polite silence in these moments between strangers, deciding we are bystanders when we are actually active players, is part of the reason we are where we are. Teachers must teach. Speakers must speak. There is no wisdom in the silence. Only cowardice.

And, I write all this because I admit to my cowardice. I am not perfect. I have the capacity to be brave and I did not exercise it today.

Then again, this is the gap that I think many of us are trying to bridge: we are neither angels nor are we demons and, now that it’s all out in there, we all still have to occupy the same spaces, sit across the same tables, breathe the same air. How to do so in a way that makes sense, that recognizes the fullness and gifts that we all bring, to teach lessons without preaching?

It’s a conundrum that is older than all of us. Older than this divided country, even. Fraught with lessons, victories and failures along the way. I’m sure most of that will be lost as we Americans gather at our tables. Maybe not. Maybe the delicate peace that comes with family gatherings of “mixed company” will turn into deeper accords, even some sort of understanding. Polite silence turns into civil conversation, civil conversation turns into open dialogue, open dialogue turns into changed minds.

But then again, I’m an optimist. And dammit, I still love this Republic.

Happy Thanksgiving to you American readers. May your table be bountiful, your heart full of joy. For my Dear Readers of the Commonwealth nations (of which there are quite a few), I simply wish you a Happy Thursday. 🙂 Thank you to the many of you who took the time to answer my quick 5-question survey. I am delighted and inspired, and I hope that you will be delighted by the changes that I’ll make over the winter. If you haven’t done it already, would you please consider answering a few quick questions to help me improve this blog? No typing unless you want to!

See you Friday for Quiet Thoughts.

Season of Change

Photo: Oh yes, look at all the beautiful details, the glorious color on the petals… isn’t this just a glorious photo!? 


Snow on the car, snow on the barn, snow on the grass this morning… no snow on the pavement, but you know it’s coming! Oh, Dear Reader… somebody stop the winter from coming! I’m not ready!

When I woke the boys up this morning and pulled back the curtain, the reaction was brilliantly mixed. Major, able to fully see out the window from his top bunk perch, gasped with glee as he took in the first glimpse of white. When he breathlessly announced to his brother what had happened, a groan came from the bottom bunk.

“Oh no,” Minor said. “Not the snow!

That child is my child, for sure.

Major started ticking off all of the things he would need for the day:

“I have to find my boots! I have to find my hat! And my gloves, and those snowpants. Mama, do my snowpants fit?”

No, they don’t fit. That’s why, when I got up this morning and saw the damnable snow on the ground, I got right on the internets and ordered another pair. I’m sitting here praying many prayers that his boots do actually fit. That boy needs a new coat (Nana is getting him one for Christmas) and avoiding new boots would be helpful. I know it’s too much to ask for. The child is growing entirely too fast.

With every item listed, Minor let out a grunt or a groan. “I hate boots. I hate hats. I hate gloves. I hate snowpants.”

Yes, baby. I know.

“But why? Don’t you like the snow?” Major asked as he climbed down his ladder.

“No!” Minor barked.

“Awwwwwww,” Major said in the way that children do. It was this sort of mimic of the way I would have said it, yet it still came out as almost a giggle. As if to say, “oh brother, you’re so ridiculous.”

Major practically pranced through the entire “get up, get dressed” routine. It wasn’t until we got downstairs and he got a good look at the snow that he realized we barely got a dusting. The early morning sun was enough to melt it away. I thought he would lose it, but he shrugged instead.

“It’ll be back! We’ll be sledding in no time!”

His brother and I both groaned at the thought.

I was a total baby about it this morning. Put on leggings under my jeans, a thick tunic sweater to put under my peacoat, and wrapped my hair in satin before putting on my thick knitted hat. I was dressed for January, not late November. It really wasn’t that bad out today. But the visual reminder of yes, cold days are coming, yes the warm days are at an end and, yes, snow will be here and will remain for months is… causing preemptive shivering. I can’t wait to snuggle up under my two thick blankets (Husband: “Really? Aren’t you hot under all that?”) and dream about tropical beaches. Yeah… some wonderful life owning a bookstore on a tropical island… wouldn’t that be magical?

Some things just can’t be helped. Change is in the air. I’m just gonna have to get used to it.

Speaking of which, you may have noticed that the featured image is a little more high quality than my other photos. That’s because this mama invested in a big-girl camera! Yaaaaaaaay!!! I purchased a very nice camera and stuff to go with it in the hopes that I will never put another blurry picture on this blog ever again! Furthermore, I hope that I will begin to get more active on Instagram thanks to my new toy. I’m so excited to better share the beauty of the world I know with you in this space.

The camera is just the beginning. As I told you in October, I decided to spend this winter not writing fiction in the hopes of giving my brain a bit of a rest, and also to spend some time learning and growing in other areas. I purchased a few helpful resources to help me with my fiction and I also purchased a very cool bundle of blogging courses/resources, complete with a cool mastermind group filled with weekly seminars and fellowship. I’m learning a lot and I’m excited to apply some of the knowledge that I’m gaining. I hope that you will come along on the journey with me. One of the first things I want to do with this camera is to take pictures of our Thanksgiving Day feast, and maybe even start posting some of my recipes!

That being said, I was wondering if you would do me a favor, Dear Reader. As I explore the potential of what this blog could be, I am trying to keep my focus on what I’ve already created and why you have chosen to read my blog week after week. I’ve noticed that, though my comments and “likes” don’t always reflect it, I have a pretty consistent bunch of readers who come back post after post. I would love to know who you are and what it is about my blog that you love the most. Would you be willing to take a quick 5-question survey to tell me a little bit about yourself? I don’t collect usernames or email addresses, and you don’t have to type anything (there is the opportunity write a comment at the end if you want to, but it is optional). I just want to know more about why you choose to read my words, and what I can do to make your experience better. I want to grow, but only in ways that honor the relationship I have already established with you.

Rather not do the survey? Send me an email! I actually correspond with a few of my readers and I absolutely love it! My email address is wise(dot)kay(dot)c(at)gmail.com

I’ll keep the survey up for a week just to give ample opportunity for ya’ll to find it and respond. No pressure! But it would mean so much to me, and it would really help me better reach my potential. Thank you for your help, Dear Reader. I look forward to your thoughts!

It’s a short week, but that doesn’t mean there is less to get done! Let’s make it happen, Dear Reader.

Until Wednesday, take care.

What My Kindergartner is Learning

Photo: Minor came home with this beautiful work of art today. It’s remarkable enough to put on the blog because it’s the first work of art I’ve seen from him that didn’t have a speck of yellow on it. This child has always found a way to put in yellow (or simply not do the work). I’m not a big hearts sort of girl. I prefer other shapes. But these two hearts are gonna get hung somewhere before the end of the week!


Two stories from my kindergartener today. One good, one bad. The world is always in balance. Even this world, which is full of bad news of late. Something is coming. Good will return.

I’ll start with the dark and then end with the light.

Ursa Major got off the bus today and said the following sentence:

“Today, we had a drill at school for if there is an active shooter at my school.”

What the hell do you say to your child in response to that?

They’d sent a letter about this. I didn’t object to the idea that children should learn how to seek safety in the case of emergency. However, I object to the language. I really have a problem with the fact that Major knows what an “active shooter” is. I’m not convinced that it’s age appropriate. I also don’t feel very well equipped to explain any of this to him.

The fact that my child said the term “active shooter” to me without a question or without reaction tells me that he probably doesn’t fully understand what the term means. I’m not sure if this is a mercy or if this is a problem. Here we are, with this language, this big concept, just floating in his head, with nothing concrete to anchor it, nothing for him to grasp onto. I don’t understand. Why introduce the idea at all then?

They then followed up with a bus drill in case of fire. “We got to go out the back of the bus!”

“I want you to know that it’s very unlikely that any of those bad things will happen to you. You are safe at school and you are safe on the bus. You know that, right?” I felt obligated to say this before we walked in the house. It seemed really important to reiterate. I said it for myself, too–who the hell needs this right now? I can’t really think about this, too.

My child nodded. I couldn’t really read him. He was simply quiet and nodded, gave a little “uh huh.” I can’t tell if he was dismissing me, like “yes, I know.” Or if he was contemplative, like “why would you say that?”

He seems far less upset about it than I am. What a sad, sad state of affairs. My kindergartener knows what an active shooter is.

I was a freshman at high school with Columbine happened. I remember watching those students go out of the building with their hands up on our classroom television. I can remember it so clearly: I was sitting in a science lab at the very end of the school day, backpack ready to go, twitchy as I waited for the bell to ring so I could bolt out to catch my bus home. The idea of it–a peer walking into school with a gun and the intention of mass murder–was as foreign of a concept to me then as it is to my son right now. I don’t remember fear. I remember distance, so many reasons why such a thing could never happen in my school. I went home, did my homework, went to bed and got up the next morning. I had many worries about school: being safe while in the building wasn’t one of them.

So many lifetimes ago.  I have a kindergartener now. He has used the term “active shooter” in a complete sentence. This is the world we live in.

My son surprised me again during dinner (welcome to the lighter story).

We were all enjoying too many tacos and were wrapping things up (the boys were starting to get silly). I was just about to excuse the two from the table, when Major had a moment. His eyes opened wide and he sat up full and straight. “Oh! I have to tell you something! Something about school!”

I was worried (because of the earlier story. I didn’t want him to tell Minor about it), but I told him to tell us.

“We are going to write our own storybooks!” Major announced. “They are going to be real books that we really get to write!”

We were all impressed.

“And I am writing about you, Mommy!”

Uh, ok…

“I’m writing about when you got the big cut on your skin,” Major said.

The Husband and I exchanged looks. Really? “Uh oh.”

“I told [my teacher] about how you got this big long cut on your tummy,” he said, as he pointed to his chest. He pointed to the part of his chest where I have my (still ugly, very visible) scar. “And I told her how you had all sorts of things taken out of your tummy and they are all bad.”

I smacked my head. The Husband chuckled.

Major looked at us and chuckled too, trying to be in on the joke.

“Baby, this is my chest,” I said, pointing to my scar.

Ohh, right! Your chest!”

Uh huh. “And I didn’t have a lot of stuff taken out. I had a small piece of fat called a lipoma removed. It was not a big deal.”

He chewed on that lipoma word. We’ve used it before. Matter of fact, the boys have gone around and around this surgery thing. They’ve checked up on the scar, have asked a few questions over and over… I didn’t realize how much impact it would have on them.

“I think I’m going to have to make some changes at school tomorrow.”

You think!?

I wonder what the teachers think happened to me!?

So… I’m writing a quick email after I write this post.

It is Monday. The world is still turning, the sun is still rising. The moon is, in fact, super. Surely there is meaning in this life. We’re going to find our way.

I’m grateful for your presence, Dear Reader. Let’s have a productive week.

Until Wednesday, take care.