I have decided to write one response per month to the the Reader's Write section of the Sun Magazine as a writing practice. The topic for the June 1 deadline (publication in December) is "The Office." As I will be sending this for possible publication, any feedback (typos/weird sentences/unclear passages, etc.) you might have is 100% welcome! Thank you!
The first time I walked into the office I now work in I was 18 years old, nervous, and intensely conscious of my whiteness. I was interviewing for my first work-study job and the assistant who greeted me, a pretty, sweet-faced Latina, regarded me cautiously. I noticed her nameplate, which read Mari Ortiz, and blushed, having written down “Maudy” when my potential supervisor had told me on the phone who to check in with when I arrived. Two other women and a man were in the office when I arrived, all people of color, and though they all acknowledged me, there were no introductions or warm greetings, as I’d experienced at my other interviews, with, predictably, white people. In my head, I refused to draw the conclusions that my racism pointed me to, but their presence in my mind set me on edge, wondering if these people could read the bias in my anxious demeanor.
My University was organized in residential colleges, and I was a student at the predominately white college next to the predominately non-white college where I was seeking a job that could help me pay for my education. When Afia came to lead me back to her office for my interview, I became even more aware of being white. She had sun-lightened, torso-length dreds that were the color of coffee with a touch of cream and her “black” skin was any beautiful word for brown but black. I pleaded my brain to give me the right words to land this gig. I suddenly wanted this job so badly my chest squeezed up in anticipation.
To my surprise, Afia offered me the job on the spot and within an hour I was put to work making posters for some upcoming events in the “production room,” a large open area between the front office and my supervisor’s office. In the coming weeks and months, as I became immersed in the life and culture of that very inclusive, very activist college community, everything I thought I’d be when I came to college fell away. Whatever ill-formed ideas I had about possible career paths -- medicine? psychology? anthropology? -- became laser focused on studying privilege, power, and oppression. I became conscious of my development as a white person and what that meant in the real world. I strove to build bridges across difference, sometimes awkwardly, but with love and connection as inner directives, it seemed to work decently.
To the many people of color (and white allies) who befriended me during these formative years, who shared their lives and experiences with me in that job, I owe millions. People who have been discriminated against by people who look like me took the risky leap of faith that I, as a white person, could be a part of the forward march of equality and justice rather than another blind participant in the system of white supremacy our nation is founded on. I am humbled by such undeserved trust, such faith that compassion will ultimately unite us, and I wouldn’t be who I am today without their willingness to challenge and support me.
In the fifteen years since I first walked into that office, I have attended Mari’s wedding, celebrated the births of her two children, graduated, taught middle school where I somehow helped lots of kids get to grade level in reading and math, lived in Mexico, fostered my friendship with Mari, and grown into a professional dedicated to changing the world, or at least my part of it.
More than anything else, I’ve come to understand that the most important thing to know about work is not about the job at all; it’s about how we interact with others to get good work done, how we include others and make them feel that their lives matter.
The production room has since been divided into three cubical offices, and I work in the middle one. Mari, who is now my supervisor, walks past my office multiple times a day, throwing out a “Good morning” or “Hi, babe” as she passes. I look out the very same window I looked out that first day, making posters, on the very same plum trees, which flower at this time of year. Going to work is like coming home to myself everyday.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Who I've taken myself to be, and who I really am
My life has been so, so full these last four weeks. My body feels on the edge of revolting at the lack of sleep and unrelenting pace of events to be at, events to manage, events to perform at. No matter how much I try to remind myself that I am a human being and not a human doing, I have run myself into exhaustion from doing too much.
And yet, last Saturday afternoon, as soon as I walked into the social hall at Inner Light to begin prep for the night's annual concert, my choir people began stopping when they saw me and telling me how beautiful I looked, how radiant, and full of life. I had bought a fierce new dress for the concert and blown out my hair, but I didn't have make-up on yet and dark circles lay beneath my eyes, betraying my lack of sleep, so I was a little confused. But the compliments didn't stop coming. After I came out of the ladies room with make-up on, one fellow choir member whispered as she hugged me, "I have never seen you look more beautiful than right now." Inwardly I chuckled sarcastically and thought, "I wonder if she'd still say that if she really knew what kind of person I am."
Apparently, I'm the kind of person who accidentally gets drunk two nights before her annual church choir concert and has to miss the Friday night concert part of the musical celebration weekend because her head hurts too much to be around loud noise. I'm the kind of person whose throat was still raw from the overuse of alcohol Thursday night. It seems I'm the kind of person who lacks the most basic integrity and sense not too drink so close to such an important weekend. Clearly, I'm the kind of person who felt like crap about herself when all these choir members were telling her how pretty she looked.
Later, I climbed on the risers with my choir, feeling pissed at myself, a bit nervous that I hadn't studied the songs long enough, or embodied their messages deeply enough, or drank enough throat coat tea to smooth out the notes just right.
And then, I went on to sing my heart out.
From the first notes of the first song (No Other Choice), my raging mind went silent, and like I'd been born with the lyrics running through my veins instead of blood, I nailed every note. I relaxed, remembered that I wasn't only performing, but ministering, music. Despite the previous two days, I was here now and all I could do was surrender to the music and let it have it's way with me.
A few times I got pulled back into my self-consciousness, and I'd glance out at my lovely supporters: my mom, Christina, Juan, I'd look for Megan, my college roommate, and her mom, Robin, though I never found them in the crowd, I felt buoyed by their presence "out there." I wondered how my non-church people were doing with all this God-celebrating music. But for the most part, my only anchor to the moment was my intense focus on Valerie Joi's passionate and inspired directing. She was like Aladdin coaxing the genie out of the lamp, bringing forth through the choir that which was already there with some simple hand movements and an expressive face. It was too big to describe. Prayerful, playful, transformative, fun. All just approximations.
After the concert, when my fingers and toes still tingled from all the musical energy that had exited from them, my friend LeTa embraced me and rocked me and told me that I looked absolutely gorgeous, to keep doing whatever I was doing because it was working. And just like that, my mind started up again, and I wanted to scream: "NO! I'm an imposter! I fucked up and I'm not a pretty person inside and stop telling me that!" But I smiled as genuinely as I could, told myself to accept her compliment graciously, and thanked her.
And she was just the first. Too many people to count told me some variation of "You're so beautiful tonight." Each time, another opportunity to hate on myself seized by some inner traitor bent on my destruction.
Later, over drinks with some of my favorite people, I focused on talking about how much fun I'd had singing, I didn't mention how transformed I felt up there, how entirely un-me it feels when I sing, I didn't dare talk about being filled up by some unnameable presence that does all the work for me. I minimized all those things that had made the concert so perfect for me, nor did I even know then that it had been a little life raft holding me safe above the tigers of my mind. I assumed they wouldn't understand all that, that they'd think I was just some silly New Age chick. So, I shifted the conversation to other, safer topics, and my mind quieted enough for me to really enjoy being with these four wonderful women. I recognized that they were all honoring me, and for a time, I let myself feel like that was an ok thing to do. Thank God for the love of women. That, and singing.
Tonight, the choir gathered in a circle and spent the evening sharing our insights from our concert experience. I listened as one after another choir member remarked on some aspect of a life transformed, or told about friends or family members who'd come and been deeply moved by our ministry. There were tears of gratitude, love, and joy. There was laughter and celebration. As they spoke, my heart sank. Except for singing on pulpit, I'd been pre-occupied and self-absorbed all night and had, apparently, missed out on something they all had access to. My friends and family who came didn't talk about how much love they felt from us or how moved they were. They all basically said it was a great show and fun to see me in it, but nothing life-changing like I was hearing from others. I felt so disappointed in myself.
And then it hit me. Something higher in me stepped on the brakes of my mind-fucking and I heard a voice ask, "Who do you take yourself to be, Mandie? Just who do really think you are?" Then, I saw my experience of the concert in stark, lovely clarity. People were telling me how beautiful I was before the concert, not only after. Each person, an emissary recruited by that something Bigger to jolt me out of hating myself so I could start enjoying the perfection of the weekend. Yes, it had begun without me, but I was still an important and valued part of that weekend, and had a rightful place in it, no matter what my choices had been a couple nights ago. All those people had obeyed some inner directive to reflect to me the nature of who I am. A beautiful human being. No less than that. Saturday, I had denied each one of those angels to myself. But when I sang, I did truly feel radiant, unfettered by all the lies I have taken myself to be.
On Saturday night, I sang out more than my heart. I sang out my self-loathing, I sang out my tiredness, I sang out my anxiety, I sang out my worry, I sang out all the shit that gets in the way of seeing myself as I really am. And even though I just as quickly reclaimed the lies of who I have taken myself to be after I stopped singing that night, THIS night, I got it.
The theme of our concert was "The Choice is Now." I am so grateful that every moment is another "now." And now, this NOW, I choose not to take myself to be the irresponsible, out of alignment, stupid girl I thought I was. If who I really am is what it feels like when I sing, why not dedicate myself to figuring out how to inhabit that gorgeous, stunning, radiant being more regularly?
And yet, last Saturday afternoon, as soon as I walked into the social hall at Inner Light to begin prep for the night's annual concert, my choir people began stopping when they saw me and telling me how beautiful I looked, how radiant, and full of life. I had bought a fierce new dress for the concert and blown out my hair, but I didn't have make-up on yet and dark circles lay beneath my eyes, betraying my lack of sleep, so I was a little confused. But the compliments didn't stop coming. After I came out of the ladies room with make-up on, one fellow choir member whispered as she hugged me, "I have never seen you look more beautiful than right now." Inwardly I chuckled sarcastically and thought, "I wonder if she'd still say that if she really knew what kind of person I am."
Apparently, I'm the kind of person who accidentally gets drunk two nights before her annual church choir concert and has to miss the Friday night concert part of the musical celebration weekend because her head hurts too much to be around loud noise. I'm the kind of person whose throat was still raw from the overuse of alcohol Thursday night. It seems I'm the kind of person who lacks the most basic integrity and sense not too drink so close to such an important weekend. Clearly, I'm the kind of person who felt like crap about herself when all these choir members were telling her how pretty she looked.
Later, I climbed on the risers with my choir, feeling pissed at myself, a bit nervous that I hadn't studied the songs long enough, or embodied their messages deeply enough, or drank enough throat coat tea to smooth out the notes just right.
And then, I went on to sing my heart out.
From the first notes of the first song (No Other Choice), my raging mind went silent, and like I'd been born with the lyrics running through my veins instead of blood, I nailed every note. I relaxed, remembered that I wasn't only performing, but ministering, music. Despite the previous two days, I was here now and all I could do was surrender to the music and let it have it's way with me.
A few times I got pulled back into my self-consciousness, and I'd glance out at my lovely supporters: my mom, Christina, Juan, I'd look for Megan, my college roommate, and her mom, Robin, though I never found them in the crowd, I felt buoyed by their presence "out there." I wondered how my non-church people were doing with all this God-celebrating music. But for the most part, my only anchor to the moment was my intense focus on Valerie Joi's passionate and inspired directing. She was like Aladdin coaxing the genie out of the lamp, bringing forth through the choir that which was already there with some simple hand movements and an expressive face. It was too big to describe. Prayerful, playful, transformative, fun. All just approximations.
After the concert, when my fingers and toes still tingled from all the musical energy that had exited from them, my friend LeTa embraced me and rocked me and told me that I looked absolutely gorgeous, to keep doing whatever I was doing because it was working. And just like that, my mind started up again, and I wanted to scream: "NO! I'm an imposter! I fucked up and I'm not a pretty person inside and stop telling me that!" But I smiled as genuinely as I could, told myself to accept her compliment graciously, and thanked her.
And she was just the first. Too many people to count told me some variation of "You're so beautiful tonight." Each time, another opportunity to hate on myself seized by some inner traitor bent on my destruction.
Later, over drinks with some of my favorite people, I focused on talking about how much fun I'd had singing, I didn't mention how transformed I felt up there, how entirely un-me it feels when I sing, I didn't dare talk about being filled up by some unnameable presence that does all the work for me. I minimized all those things that had made the concert so perfect for me, nor did I even know then that it had been a little life raft holding me safe above the tigers of my mind. I assumed they wouldn't understand all that, that they'd think I was just some silly New Age chick. So, I shifted the conversation to other, safer topics, and my mind quieted enough for me to really enjoy being with these four wonderful women. I recognized that they were all honoring me, and for a time, I let myself feel like that was an ok thing to do. Thank God for the love of women. That, and singing.
Tonight, the choir gathered in a circle and spent the evening sharing our insights from our concert experience. I listened as one after another choir member remarked on some aspect of a life transformed, or told about friends or family members who'd come and been deeply moved by our ministry. There were tears of gratitude, love, and joy. There was laughter and celebration. As they spoke, my heart sank. Except for singing on pulpit, I'd been pre-occupied and self-absorbed all night and had, apparently, missed out on something they all had access to. My friends and family who came didn't talk about how much love they felt from us or how moved they were. They all basically said it was a great show and fun to see me in it, but nothing life-changing like I was hearing from others. I felt so disappointed in myself.
And then it hit me. Something higher in me stepped on the brakes of my mind-fucking and I heard a voice ask, "Who do you take yourself to be, Mandie? Just who do really think you are?" Then, I saw my experience of the concert in stark, lovely clarity. People were telling me how beautiful I was before the concert, not only after. Each person, an emissary recruited by that something Bigger to jolt me out of hating myself so I could start enjoying the perfection of the weekend. Yes, it had begun without me, but I was still an important and valued part of that weekend, and had a rightful place in it, no matter what my choices had been a couple nights ago. All those people had obeyed some inner directive to reflect to me the nature of who I am. A beautiful human being. No less than that. Saturday, I had denied each one of those angels to myself. But when I sang, I did truly feel radiant, unfettered by all the lies I have taken myself to be.
On Saturday night, I sang out more than my heart. I sang out my self-loathing, I sang out my tiredness, I sang out my anxiety, I sang out my worry, I sang out all the shit that gets in the way of seeing myself as I really am. And even though I just as quickly reclaimed the lies of who I have taken myself to be after I stopped singing that night, THIS night, I got it.
The theme of our concert was "The Choice is Now." I am so grateful that every moment is another "now." And now, this NOW, I choose not to take myself to be the irresponsible, out of alignment, stupid girl I thought I was. If who I really am is what it feels like when I sing, why not dedicate myself to figuring out how to inhabit that gorgeous, stunning, radiant being more regularly?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)