Things I'm Thinking About

Category: Things that are Important to Me (Page 1 of 2)

A Plastic Lid

Walking along the beach the other day, I saw a plastic lid from a coffee cup washing into the ocean with a wave. I grabbed it and carried it with me until I found a trash can. Such a small thing, keeping one lid out of the ocean, but I couldn’t just walk past it. It was right in front of me.

I’m trying to stop using plastic. It’s so convenient, and so hard not to use. Everything comes packaged and wrapped and bagged. It takes work to put down the bottle, the jug, the bag or the clamshell and find another way to purchase and carry items I need. The challenge to find ways to store food and other items at home is real after living for so long with ziplock bags and plastic wrap. I’m terrible about remembering to bring my own water bottle or grocery bags.

So much plastic has been discarded, though–especially in the ocean–that huge plastic trash islands cover swaths of the ocean surface, some as big as the state of Texas. Most plastic production is for packaging and single-use items. Eventually, plastic breaks down into smaller and smaller bits and fibers, and is eaten by marine life, getting into fish and plants and animals and water and people.

I can’t keep doing it.

It’s starting to be important to me to use less plastic–not simply as an intellectual agreement, but as a motivation to change my habits.  I can’t single-handedly reverse what’s happening, but I’m aligning myself with the earth against over-consumption and our collective madness for all things disposable. I want to stop for my peace of mind, even if it doesn’t make a difference and if no one else does it. I feel more whole and grounded when I’m acting with an awareness of the big picture. It’s slower, it can be tedious, but it’s satisfying to be more intentional and thoughtful about what I buy and how it impacts the earth.

Of course, there are less altruistic, green-hearted moments when I’m alone in the grocery aisle. I wonder if my stand against plastic means much. The plastic is already there, lined up on the shelves. One more jug won’t matter, and the popcorn seems fresher when it’s sealed up in it’s own thick container. Sometimes I’m in a hurry. Or tired. Or thirsty, and the bottled water is cold in the cooler at the checkout line. I probably won’t make the critical difference.

I know, the logic goes that if customers stop using one thing and ask for another, eventually companies will respond to keep sales up.  As I’m writing this, I remember that I have seen that happen with other things. It’s real.

Organic foods are a good example. In the past 10 years, my local grocery store  has added a whole section of organic produce, dairy products, and canned goods–everything from flour, sugar and spices to dog food. There is not only an organic version, there is a generic organic option. Humanely farmed, grass-fed and uncured meats are a prominent part of the meat department. Even giants like Costco and Walmart offer a wide selection of organically grown foods and health, beauty and cleaning products free of harmful chemicals. Green products, like toilet paper made with recycled paper and compostable plates and utensils, are readily available. Critics say the labels don’t mean as much as we think, but at the least, producers are responding to customers’ growing preference for sustainably produced food and household products.

I’ve also seen a difference since 2007, when our city banned single use plastic bags, the light-weight, grocery-store kind known as T-shirt bags. The state banned them in 2015, eliminating more than half of the plastic bag litter along the state’s beaches after only one year. I have suffered no shortage of plastic bags since then–almost everything still comes in a bag, and bread bags work just as well to clean up after the dog as grocery bags. Just recently, another large source of litter, plastic straws, has been restricted and banned in some cities and states. One step at a time, plastic is being used less through legislation. Plastics are less readily available because of the law, and at the same time, it is making me more mindful of what I am using, and encouraging me to find more ways to stop using plastic.

It’s becoming more common for businesses to use compostable lids and produce bags instead of plastic ones. I was happy to discover compostable produce bags at Trader Joe’s. They work exactly the same, but they eventually decompose. To avoid bag use altogether, I started putting my produce on the conveyor belt loose. My lettuce, carrots, apples and eggplants don’t seem to mind. If something does need to be bagged, like food from the bulk bins or something fragile or small–tomatoes or mushrooms, for instance–I have reusable mesh bags that work well. They’ve been easy to use, and now that I’m getting in the habit of bringing them to the store, I actually prefer them.

There’s so much plastic to think about: detergent bottles, cheese wrappers, dog food bags, meat trays, shampoo bottles–the list is overwhelming. It is everywhere, every day. I can’t let that cause me to give up. One lid kept from washing into the surf, one step at a time, and by doing what is right in front of me, I’m trying to stop using plastic. I love walking on the beach and swimming in the ocean too much to ignore it.

You Can Always Come Home

The day a child moves away from home is always emotional. It’s exciting to be going to college, a new living space or off on an adventure. It’s a little sad, too, especially for the mama staying behind, to say good-bye to a little nestling as they spread their wings and leave home.

They will be back, I know.  Once they move out, though, they don’t live with us the same way again. When they return, it feels more like a visit. Even if they move back for a longer period, there is a different dynamic. They have lived on their own and don’t want to be treated like a child.

When they leave, I’m not sentimental  about the space they vacated. Either a sibling moves in, claiming the better room, or the room is repurposed, maybe becoming an office or guest room. The rooms and furniture get shuffled around, and personal belongings that don’t go with the one moving out are boxed up and stored in the garage.

This might sound a little harsh, but I’m not trying to kick them out or keep them away–I sometimes wish they could stay here forever. I started doing it this way when the first few moved out, because it was necessary to shift and shuffle in order to use our space better. Now that we’re down to just three in the house, we have a new development: extra room.

It doesn’t stay empty for long, though. Opportunities to share our extra space come up often–friends visiting or in town on business, grandparents coming for a football game or graduation,  aunts and uncles and cousins here for holidays or just passing through–to name a few.

My favorite times are when the house is full with all my babies home, tucked into bed warm and safe, all of us together. I want them to know that no matter how far away they go, this is their home. They always have a place here–it just may not be the same place every time. Sometimes, it might be on the couch.

I hope the love of the family embraces and restores them when they come home, no matter which room they set down their suitcase and nestle into bed.

Stories We’re In

“Love, no one cares about the stories they’re not in.” Matt Nathanson

Sometimes we enter a story, stumbling into it without realizing it will become a story we care about. There’s a choice at the beginning, but it leads to unexpected places. A door opens, we walk into a new place, and suddenly our story changes.

Our youngest boy was 12 and wanted to play football. We had put him off for a few years, not wanting him to get hurt, but decided to let him try it. There was a Pop Warner team in Berkeley, so we went to the open sign-up event without knowing much about the program. After we talked to one of the coaches and he addressed our fears about safety, we joined the team. It was one of those unmarked doors that leads to a place that undoes and remakes your heart.

Our son was one of two white boys on the team, the rest mostly African-American. We joined their families at practice, parent meetings and games. This is a football community focused on keeping their boys off the street and out of trouble, giving them good role models and providing the skills and exposure that might give them a shot at going to college with a sports scholarship. Our son was there to play for fun. He will have the opportunity to go to college without a sports scholarship. He isn’t in much danger of getting into a gang, or of encountering violence the same way many of his teammates are.

Out on the field, though, he became one of them, and in the stands we became part of the parents’ group. We came to the field from a different place, but once there, we were part of the football family. We loved it. We saw a genuine care for the kids, the community coming around the kids to protect them and lift them up. Joining them, we were invited into this caring: the anxiety of an uncertain future, the fear of losing a child to violence or jail, the pain of being ignored or treated with suspicion with no explanation except for racial bias and the fierce belief that they can make a better life. There is an openness, hope and positivity in the face of hardship in that community that is contagious.

I began to see my own white community from the other side. When our team from a more urban setting went to play the richer and less-diverse suburban teams, the way the players and parents looked at us and treated us seemed so obvious and ignorant. I’ve been on the other side.  I know the feeling– the unease and apprehension when the tough-looking team from the bad part of town shows up, the brave posturing to hide the fear. Seeing it from the other side, though, was hurtful. Now these were my kids.

I know their names and their families. I drive them to games, I cheer for them when they succeed and encourage them to keep going when they fail, just like their parents do for my son. Can’t the people from the other team see that our players are kids like their kids–the same age, the same size, the same goofy sense of humor, the same love of video games and junk food, the same insecurities about hair and acne and crushes, the same dreams for a future? No, because our kids are scary.

One time in particular, the racism was overt–the name-calling, the trash-talking, the accusations. Our kids and coaches were maligned, our parents not trusted to do the usual volunteer jobs, like moving the chains to measure first downs. There were threats of calling the police. Assumptions were made, stereotypes were believed, cultural differences were misconstrued.

My husband and I were shocked and confused and angry. We were scared for our kids. We were saddened that our boys now had one more reason to believe they wouldn’t be treated fairly. How could this possibly be happening? It was not right.

The other parents were angry, but not surprised. One of them said to us, “This is what happens when you let your son play with black kids.”

It was a holy moment. We had the privilege of being included in their community, of suffering what they suffer, of seeing in a new, profound way what we had heard about but could never really understand. Their story became my story, and I haven’t been able to forget it.

Vinegar and Milk

“Why does it smell like vinegar?” I asked Tim. “And why are those people carrying jugs of milk?” It was our first protest. My son and I came out on the third or fourth night of protests in Berkeley and Oakland after the Ferguson policeman who killed Michael Brown, an unarmed black teenager, was not indicted by a Grand Jury.

We rode the bus from our house to downtown Berkeley, nervous. After finding only a very small crowd at the Berkeley Police Station, where the march was supposed to start that night, we followed the route we thought the protesters were taking. Hurrying down University Avenue, eerily empty of traffic, we were afraid we had missed it. We finally caught up to the crowd near the freeway.

They were bunched there nose-to-nose with officers in a police line, a physical barrier to keep protesters from stopping traffic on the freeway. After lingering and chanting slogans, the loud but peaceful group moved on, Tim and I with them, and found a different route to a frontage road. We stopped traffic on busy San Pablo Avenue, we brought a passenger train to a horn-blowing standstill at an intersection, we piled onto  a chain link fence and pulled it down and we scrambled up onto the freeway, blocking traffic in both directions. It was a feeling of power, with cars and trucks honking in support, and the police looking on from a distance.

I use the word “we” loosely, because I wasn’t out front pushing through barriers and laying down on train tracks. I was trailing along, ready to turn around if it felt too risky, trying to decide if I was willing to cross the line from protest to civil disobedience. When we heard a rumor in the crowd that the police were putting on their gas masks, I told Tim I couldn’t stay. Scrambling back down the embankment, I scratched my ankle on the barbed wire from the fence. We made our way back, passing a steady flow of new marchers joining the group.

The next day, back in my sunny, care-free life, my scratched ankle reminded me that the experience had been very real.

I joined the group not just as an observer. I felt a kinship with my fellow protestors. We were a diverse group–young adults, parents with small children, teens, old folks using canes–and a beautiful mix of black, brown and white skin. We called out together for justice, demanding that the world notice that the monster of racism still rages, and not just in some deep, dark back-woods, but in our everyday lives, even in our justice system.

I also saw angry young men and women of color shouting at the police, their desire to strike back at the system that treats them with fear, distrust and disrespect thumping just below the surface. Everyday, they feel backed into a corner in our culture; they are told they are scary, bad, too much or not enough in ways sometimes subtle, sometimes direct, always destructive. Tonight though, they were anonymous and safe, in this large group on the world stage, to throw insults and curses at uniformed officers, the same ones who usually represent a threat to them.

“They’re not bad kids,” Tim reminds me. I know. I don’t feel afraid or angry. As tears run down my face, I feel helpless. I love them. I wish I could reach out to them. They are kids just like my kids. They are my kids’ friends and teammates and classmates. They are my daughter’s husband and his family. They are my grandchildren. They are my family.

I joined the protest because I want to be a part of this moment in history, I want to contribute to the momentum of the march toward justice. Black lives matter,  yet they are often treated as if they are worth less than white lives, as if they don’t matter at all. It felt scary to be out in the street, tip-toeing over lines into civil disobedience, but I want to stand with my community.

I am a witness to the injustice.

I learned later that vinegar-soaked bandanas to cover my mouth and nose and milk to rinse my eyes are protest-proven protection from tear gas. Good information for my next time out.

Two Very Different Men

As I go about my daily business around town, I recognize people who are regulars, selling Street Spirit newspapers or asking for money or food. I often chat with them, buy a paper, sometimes bring them a cup of coffee or a roll from the bakery.

For a while, there was a sweet African-American woman who sat by the curb on an upturned bucket in front of my bank. I talked with her several times, hearing about her children and grandchildren. I knew her life had been difficult. She was positive and funny, though, keeping a good attitude despite the uncertainties, and trying to make a better life for her family.

One day several years ago, after dropping the kids off at school, I went to the bank on my way home. As I walked in, I greeted her and noticed a man, unshaven and wearing khakis and a wind-breaker, sitting in the open door of a car parked in the street behind where she was sitting. He was talking to her.

When I came out, he was still there. I overheard bits of what he was saying as I walked by. He kept up a steady stream of disparaging words, calling her names–lazy, worthless, stupid. I paused and listened, hoping it would stop. It didn’t, and impulsively, I turned around, walked back and said, “Why don’t you leave her alone?” I started to go to my car, but the man’s angry words continued to pour out. He turned them on me, calling me back.

I can’t remember exactly what he said–it was a barrage of violent, hateful, ugly insults and threats that came crashing down on me and my friend. I stood next to her, put my arm around her as if to shield her from the words, and spoke close to her ear. “Don’t listen to him. It’s not true.” She just nodded.

As the onslaught continued, I appealed to the security guard outside the bank for help. He refused, saying it wasn’t bank business. At some point, the man said he had a gun in his trunk. I took the threat seriously and went inside the bank for help. A bank employee called the police and handed me the phone.

When I went back out, the man had moved to the middle of the sidewalk, and the homeless woman was trying to get back to selling her papers. The man focused on me, attacking me in every conceivable way. I have never heard such words–the hate and ugliness that poured out of his mouth was astonishing and numbing. I could not leave, though. I was determined to keep this verbally abusive man there until the police arrived.

Another man, who had been sitting at the cafe next to the bank, got up and walked over to stand with me as I took the verbal blows. I was responding as little as possible, engaging just enough to keep the angry man from getting in his car and driving away. His breath smelled like coffee as he leaned in to hiss his arrogant, denigrating account of me and my life. My supporter said nothing to me or to my assailant. Simply standing next to me, listening to everything, seeing it all, he was my witness.

The man from the cafe is the one I remember the most and the least from the day. I can’t remember what he looked like, only that he was holding a clipboard. His presence, though, was like an anchor in a storm. This was really happening. I wasn’t crazy. I needed to stand and do this. Just by staying next to me he gave me strength. I can’t believe I withstood the encounter, looking back. I cry just thinking about it. Adrenaline and anger pulled me into the fray, but having someone stand with me kept me from losing my head or my courage.

Two Berkeley police officers finally arrived on bikes. One of them took the man a short distance away, hand-cuffed him and questioned him. The other policeman stayed with us, getting the story from each person separately. He asked me if the hand-cuffed man had ever touched me–or if he had only talked to me. No, he had not touched me, I told him, only hammered me with words and sprayed me with spit and rancor.

We have to let him go, the officer told me. Freedom of speech, no matter how offensive, is protected by law. The threat of a gun in the trunk was not true. There was officially nothing they could charge him with, not even illegal parking. I was shocked and disappointed. No one should be allowed to do that.

The police officer agreed and told me, as a fellow citizen, he appreciated that I had stepped in to stop the tirade. Most people just walk by, he told me, afraid to get involved. It makes a difference, he said. The woman from the nearby flower stand told me she was glad I stopped him, too–he had been going for a long time before I got there. My friend on the upturned bucket didn’t really say anything. Maybe she was used to this kind of thing. I don’t know.

The man who stood by me talked to the police, said good-bye and disappeared. I didn’t get his name, and I don’t think I’d recognize him if I saw him again; he was beside me, but my face was turned away from him, engaged with the ugly man.

When I don’t know how to help someone in their battle, or how to engage with the pain others are experiencing, I think about that good man. He didn’t jump in or take over, he didn’t give me advice. He just stood by me.

I can do that.

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