"This Is What Democracy Looks Like!"

Saturday, January 21st, 2017

8:20am

My First Snap of the Day

I drove to the Metro stop closest to me, hoping that I was far away enough from DC to get a parking spot. I got a parking spot as well as a seat on the train. The first thing I noticed were all the pink hats with cat ears (henceforth referred to as p-hats). Actually, the first thing I noticed were all the white women wearing pink p-hats. I was the lone brown girl on the train going to the Women's March on Washington. 

I felt completely out of place. I could feel myself losing the initial excitement I'd originally felt when I first decided I was going to the march. On November 8th, I went to bed feeling sick. I'd been following FiveThirtyEight.com for the past few weeks, feeling pretty confident that Hillary Clinton was going to win and become the first woman President of the United States, like everyone else. But as I kept reloading the electoral map and seeing red, I got nauseous, my body and soul seemingly splitting from one another, and at about 12:30am, I made myself go to bed. I woke up at about 3:20am, believing with all my heart that this close race was going to take a few days - that all the votes would be counted, that Hillary Clinton wouldn't concede even if HWSNBN (short for "He Who Shall Not Be Named," aka Voldemort) surpassed her in electoral votes. And at 3:20am, there was still no declared winner. I slept fitfully until 5:30am. I looked at my phone and saw that HWSNBN was declared the winner of the 2016 presidential election. 

I died inside more than a little that day. I dressed for work in the deepest black I owned, a dress that fits like a burlap sack and the thickest tights to protect myself from reality. I cried on the way to work, and when I got there, I could see that many of my colleagues were fighting back tears as well. Ironically, many of us were attending a mental health first aid training that day, and the consensus was that WE needed the mental health first aid. (Hello!) We were expected to be fully present during this training, meaning no cell phones. NO CELL PHONES on the day of the apocalypse, really? I sat through the training, which was actually a really good distraction, then went home to cry. That night and over the next couple of days, I saw a "Million Woman March" with different state delegations popping up on my Facebook newsfeed. I could see that there were several iterations of this march idea over the next few days, with more than a few debates taking place in the event posts, until it morphed into the Women's March on Washington, co-chaired by Linda Sarsour, who I was familiar with as a returning commentator on several MSNBC broadcasts. When I saw Linda Sarsour, someone who'd gained my respect over the past year, I was in. I took time to research Carmen Perez and Tamika Mallory as well, and that's when I knew that this march was going to be historic in nature, and I had to be part of it.  

Let me be clear. I saw the initial chaos around the march. I knew that women of color, especially black women, were concerned that our voices weren't being represented. Even worse, white women were booking flights and hotels with no idea how to actually plan a rally/protest - possibly because they didn't have much to protest before this? - and women of color were like, oh hell no. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. Again, let me be clear, I only committed to this march when a Palestinian, a Chicana, and an African-American joined with Bob Bland, a white woman, to co-chair the march. That's when it became MY march, too. 

So when I got on that metro and rode for about five stops before I saw a black woman get on with Women's March paraphernalia, I was very guarded. I looked down at my phone. I pretended to myself that I was just riding the metro that morning to get somewhere else - that I wasn't going to this march with all these white women with their pink p-hats...no. This march wasn't for me. 

This older white woman sat down next to me, and somehow, I found myself talking with her, because she exuded this excitement, and I think I found it intriguing that this woman who was clearly in her 60's pulled out her phone and then pulled up the WMW app that I'd been secretly looking at. Soon, I was giving her tips on how not to get separated from her friend who was sitting across from her. Then, I saw a Latinx family with a little girl, who was trying to make sure the little one didn't get squished on the train, which was packed like overstuffed luggage. One of the young white women sitting near me moved into a corner between me and her friend to let the little girl sit down, and that's when I saw her sign.

"And to all the little girls who are watching this, never doubt that you are valuable and powerful and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world to pursue and achieve your own dreams. - Hillary Clinton" 

Photo Credit: M. Mfume

And that was when I dropped my guard. I fought back serious tears, remembering why I decided to go to the march in the first place. 

By the time I got to the station where I was meeting my (black) friend and her (white) husband, there were all kinds of women waiting in line for the bathroom with me at the Starbucks on the corner. Our other friend who was supposed to come (a black man) texted us that he was running late and the trains were full of "a sea of white people dressed in pink and/or HRC paraphernalia," and he couldn't get on the train, so we started walking. The closer we got to the Capitol and the meeting spot for the rally preceding the march, the less I thought about these white women in pink. My friends and I found ourselves walking with hundreds of thousands of people, when someone started chanting, "This is what democracy looks like!" and others responded, "This is what democracy looks like!" "Tell me what democracy looks like!" "This is what democracy looks like!" "We are what democracy looks like!" "We are what democracy looks like!"

Me, giving in to the energy of the day

I saw white men and women chanting "Black Lives Matter!" with me and my friends. I saw white women, young and old, wearing Black Lives Matter t-shirts and buttons and carrying signs saying, "Respect Women of Color." My eyes were opened. This WAS my march, too. This fight that has been a part of my life as an educator and activist for the past twenty years gained soldiers who may not look like me, but who now understand what I have understood for a long time - we cannot take our bodies, our very lives, for granted in the face of tyranny.

To those white women in the pink p-hats, I'd like to say: maybe this is your first time at a march. Maybe this is the first time you've heard messages from women of color about racism, about the undocumented and immigrant experience, about police brutality. Thank you for listening. Remember the Women's March on Washington - and fight with your brothers and sisters of different races, orientations, ethnicities, faiths, gender identities and socioeconomic class - because, together, WE are what democracy looks like.

Selma is Now (On the commemoration of MLK, Jr.'s birthday and the 50th anniversary of the Selma protests)

My First Visit to the MLK. Jr. Memorial, July 2014

"One day, when the glory comes, it will be ours, it will be ours"

 - "Glory" by John Legend and Common

Yesterday afternoon, I went to see the movie "Selma," starring David Oyelowo and featuring Oprah Winfrey. The film was directed by an African-American woman, Ava DuVernay, of whom I'd heard because of a friend who works in the film industry. As a director, she is a relative newcomer to mainstream Hollywood, and while I have not seen her previous films, I understand the impact she's had on my friend, who is still working to achieve success in such a tough field, and I can appreciate how her integrity and work ethic as a filmmaker have led to where she is now, with Selma.

I speak of Ava DuVernay because, if you look at her IMDB, you can see that she's worked for many years in the film industry as a publicist, editor, writer and director. Selma is only her third feature film, and most may never have heard of her before this film, but as an African-American woman, she directed this film with such nuance that I think only an African-American woman could. As I watched the movie, I reflected on snippets of her interviews about "Selma," and I connected with Ms. DuVernay's voice in this film. "Selma" is about Martin Luther King, Jr., the struggle to bring the Voting Rights Act to pass, and the violence that protesters during the Civil Rights era suffered, but it was also about a man and the women who worked alongside him, women who stood at the front lines yet never received the same accolades or recognition as MLK, Jr., women and girls who were beaten and killed, not only because of their race, but because they were brave (and crazy) enough to raise their voices to demand justice and equal rights.

Scene from "Selma"

As I watched Selma, I could not help but realize that, while this had happened in the 1960's, it still resonates too strongly with the issues people of color face today. In one scene, the protesters got down on both knees and put their hands behind their heads. It made me think of the protests that have been occurring in recent months. The "Hands Up, Don't Shoot" gesture, demonstrating the gesture eyewitnesses have said that unarmed teen Michael Brown made as he was being shot by police officer Darren Wilson in Ferguson, Missouri in August of last year, flashed in my mind while watching the film. In that scene, 1965 and 2014 abruptly came together as one single moment, my heart and mind confused, angry, tired, and fearful all at once.

Howard University Protest

Watching the film, I appreciated all of the work of the activists who truly endured suffering during the Civil Rights era, but one question kept coming up in my mind, soul, and spirit: "WHY are we still struggling today?" Why are Black and Brown people in the United States still dealing with not only violence and injustice at the hands of those who are supposed to protect and serve, but even the Voting Rights Act - one of the most effective pieces of legislation to come out of the Civil Rights era - being tampered with by the Supreme Court and the states? Why are we still having to protest and organize over, not just equal access to voting, but the right to simply walk down the street without fear of being murdered for being Black?

Scene from "Selma"

Ferguson Protest

And as I watched, emotions churned within me, and I asked myself, "What am I doing, and what can I do, to contribute to this work?" I left the theater angry, sad, amazed, and proud. There was so much that the activists of the Civil Rights era did right, but the movement was literally assassinated by the murders of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X, de facto segregation, poverty and unemployment, pouring drugs into urban communities, educational inequality, so on and so forth.

Ferguson Protest

A few weeks ago, I was forced to make this blog and my Twitter account private and block someone from my Facebook and LinkedIn accounts because I was being harassed for expressing my views on recent events. To make matters worse, this person is a retired police officer. I was afraid of what might happen to me and that I might possibly not get the help that I needed if the harassment progressed from social media to a physical confrontation. The fear is what caused me to stop talking about Ferguson, Eric Garner, police brutality, and social inequality. The fear of what might happen to me or my family caused me to lose my voice. 

Scene from "Selma"

While I am not against police, I am against police brutality and the excessive use of force. While I am not racist, I am against institutional racism and systemic inequality. While I do not hate men, I am most definitely a feminist. This morning, waking up with "Selma" and the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday on my mind, I knew what I could do, and what I would do. 

I will use my voice again, and I will not let fear stop me from using my voice. 

Thank you, Martin Luther King, Jr. And thank you to the women in the struggle - I speak your names:

The Four Little Girls killed in Birmingham: 
Addie Mae Collins
Cynthia Wesley
Carole Robertson
Denise McNair

The Women in Selma:
Diane Nash
Annie Lee Cooper
Amelia Boynton Robinson
Viola Liuzzo
Coretta Scott King

And thank you, Ava DuVernay, for giving a woman's voice to this inspiring film.

"When the war is done, when it's all said and done, we'll cry 'Glory, Oh, Glory'" 

- "Glory" by John Legend and Common

Why I Won't Change for You

Courtesy of  www.ynaija.com

I seem to find myself in some kind of conflict with someone more often than I think most people do. I'm just putting it out there. Typically, if one finds oneself in the amount of tense situations that I have found myself in, people will be prone to think, and ask, "What are you doing to cause this?" or "If this is happening so much to you, don't you think you're the problem?" And, of course, I'm the first person to ask myself, "What am I doing wrong?" But when I reflect on the situations that have caused conflict, I can't think of anything wrong that I am doing, especially because I am being my genuine self.  When I ask for a specific answer to the question, "What am I doing wrong?" (and yes, I have asked this), I never get a specific answer.

The other day, I had a very unnecessary clash with someone who has access to my work calendar.  Every time I am unavailable, I block the time off in red so that no one schedules anything for me. I noticed that, even as I was moving meetings out of that time, more meetings were being scheduled, despite the fact that I had left a note within that time frame that said, "PLEASE DO NOT SCHEDULE APPOINTMENTS". I approached the person and asked, "Did you see the red area that said, 'Please do not schedule appointments'?" And the response was, "No, I didn't see it. I didn't know you didn't want me to schedule appointments."  And my response was, "It says 'Please do not schedule appointments'", in the same tone of voice I use all the time, except for when I am presenting or making a joke, which is really the only time I raise my voice.  Well, from that point on, I was accused of "arguing" and was told that I was not clear enough, although every time I block something in red, everyone knows that means "hands off" that time on my schedule, and again, I had written on my calendar a specific note not to schedule anything. This continued, and could have continued all day, because this person believed that they were being victimized and attacked by me and interrupted me every time I tried to express myself, so I left the room.

The following day, we had the obligatory meeting to make sure that we were all okay and would be able to work together.  In that meeting, I explained that I was merely asking a question and trying to clarify the situation. The person took the opportunity to tell me that I was being rude and mean.  I said, "In what way? I was asking a question." Well, the person didn't like my tone of voice. I explained that this is the way that I speak. And, in addition to several personal judgments about me and all of the things "on my plate", I was told: "WELL, YOU NEED TO CHANGE!" 

I once had an exchange with a student I was supervising who also didn't like my tone of voice. Whatever we were talking about, I was being serious, not laughing or joking. He said I was being aggressive and getting angry. And I said, "I'm actually not angry at all. I'm just not laughing or joking because this is a serious conversation." He said I was being aggressive, and I said, "No, I'm being assertive and you are uncomfortable with that. You're the one whose face is turning red, and who is starting to raise your voice. I have not changed my tone in this entire conversation."  I don't know if that student ever learned anything from that conversation, but I learned that, if you are a woman, and especially a woman of color, your very voice can be a source of discomfort for those with privilege.

A few months ago, I had an exchange with someone with whom I try to have as very little contact as possible. The person said, "You don't let me be a man". While he didn't offer any explanation for this, I continue to ask myself what he meant. Since I purposely avoid contact with him as much as humanly possible, I am left to believe that my mere presence threatens his masculinity.  

My voice is not high-pitched.  There's no "lilt" at the end that makes it sound as if I'm unsure of what I'm speaking about. I also try to communicate as directly as possible. Nowhere in these situations did I judge anyone, tell anyone what they were doing was wrong, or accuse anyone of being or doing something to harm me. I am careful in my communication with others to stay away from accusations. I learned about "I-statements" a long time ago, and I use them as often as possible, or I ask questions to make sure we are on the same page. However, in all of these situations, I was accused of attacking, being aggressive or combative.  

The truth is, I am very aware of my tendency to persist in seeking clarification and truth. I am also very aware that my questions cause discomfort because people have to reflect on their actions. While I am the first person to ask myself and others for feedback on what I am doing wrong, I notice that others would rather take the easy road and place blame on everyone else but themselves. And on many occasions when I have been passive-aggressively disregarded or disrespected and decided to directly confront people about it, the very act of telling someone how I feel causes the person to say I'm being mean, or victimizing them in some way. Then, instead of being the one who is hurt, I have suddenly been labeled the aggressor.

There is a perception that I am strong.  Often, I think this gives people license to push and prod at me in passive aggressive ways (because they're too scared to be direct). It's as if I don't have feelings, that I don't hurt. However, I am just as sensitive, if not more sensitive, than anyone I know.  

Being in charge of a women's leadership group gives me direct contact to many young women who are learning to find their voice. It puts me in a position to demonstrate direct communication, rather than the indirect or passive communication style that has placed women in subordinate positions in society. Even men will say, "I can't read your mind", to a woman, but when she speaks her mind, he thinks she's too aggressive, or - here comes the F-word....FEMINIST (oh, the horror!). The point is, we can't please everyone all of the time, but we can speak our minds and express ourselves so that we can move forward without constantly wondering if we were clear in communicating our intentions and desires.

There are young people, men and women, who are coming to me with their pain. It is stuck within them, deep in crevices they didn't even know they had, holding them back from all that they could potentially be. And because I use my voice, my authenticity, my confidence and strength, and yes, my vulnerability, to show them that IT IS OKAY to speak their minds, and to STOP APOLOGIZING for their presence in the spaces they occupy, they are learning to dig deep into those crevices and unearth that pain, so that they can move freely in this world, and BE WHO THEY WERE CREATED TO BE.

So, if you like me or don't, I WON'T CHANGE FOR YOU. If my mere presence makes you uncomfortable or makes you feel like less than, THAT'S YOUR PROBLEM. If you can't relate to my voice - that voice that is the amalgam of Brooklyn, Nuyorican, Spanglish, Brown, Activism, and LOVE - I will not apologize.  I am just sorry that you refuse to relate, because you are the one who is missing out.  

I am always changing, always reflecting, always growing, always learning.  But I do so on my own terms, not to satisfy someone else's comfort level or help them maintain their privilege.  To the young people I love with my whole heart - when you find your voice, don't let anyone try to take it away from you. Don't change for anyone but YOU.

Issues (We ALL Have Them)

Courtesy of goodmenproject.com

There's a lot that I do really well.  The people I interact with on a daily basis see it, point it out, and sometimes get sick of it.  The energy and passion with which I live practically every aspect of my life wears me out sometimes.  I'm happy with who I am and how I live my life, for the most part. 

The area where I find myself not as successful is in romantic relationships. I don't seem to be able to connect well with men romantically, though I do connect very well with men as a friend. There are a few men in my life who I would consider to be very good friends, men with whom I have no problem communicating, and who seem to be open to communicating with me. One of these men holds the title of "Best Guy Friend", and he and I have a very easy, open, loving, funny and sarcastic communication style. I don't have to hide anything from him, and I don't feel judged by him, and I would dare to say he feels the same way. When I have one on one time with the male students where I work, it is the same - easy, open, nonjudgmental - and they seem to have no problem opening up to me and being vulnerable and even crying at times. I have held many a young man in my arms as he's cried and just let out his pain. (These are the times when I'm most grateful for my assignment.) I have a communication style that is very direct and straightforward, which often works well with the other gender in platonic relationships.

I can easily point out my flaws when it comes to developing a romantic relationship. I am so afraid of getting hurt that I often put up this protective shield that can push men away. I have a sharp tongue, and I'm not afraid to use it. Additionally, whereas I am warm in most of my interactions with others, I can be distant with potential mates. And let's not even talk about trust. I try to be trusting, but I've been lied to and betrayed enough to know that trust really does have to be built. But honestly, most of these flaws do not present themselves without some kind of action that sends up red flags in my mind. The point is, I know that I am not perfect, so I cannot expect perfection, and I know what kinds of "issues" I bring to the table and where they come from.

There was a three-week period last month where I was told by two different men, "You have deep-seated issues with men." The first time I heard it, I could understand why that person mentioned it. We were in a situation where he had done something so wrong to me that I could have pursued actions that would have led to life-changing consequences for him. He was in a position to lose a lot, but was trying to hold on for dear life by telling me what he thought was wrong with me to deflect what he had done. He had previously heard about some of my romantic relationship concerns, and thought this could be a good time to bring up an area where I was most vulnerable, because he was very vulnerable.

The second time I heard it, though, I started to wonder. Do I have "deep-seated" issues with men? Having heard this twice in three weeks, I had to ask myself if I was the reason why I was having issues with these two men. However, the second time I heard it, it was from someone with whom I'd been in a romantic relationship. We had just had a conversation where I made it clear that I was moving on, and that included dating again. After receiving that information, he spent a lot of time telling me where my future relationships with men would fail, and that my "deep-seated issues" wouldn't allow me to have a healthy, long-term relationship with another man. At first, I was scared that he was right. But then I realized that this is what someone says when they are afraid of losing you. Just like an emotional abuser will tell you that no one will love you the way he or she does, he was telling me that any of my future relationships would fail because of ME. 

I'm divorced. I already know what one failed relationship looks like. And yes, it is part of the reason why I'm afraid to fully open up, because I don't want to fail again. But this guy, this one who told me my issues were the reason my relationships would fail, has issues that would take years upon years of psychotherapy, or a miracle from God, to heal. His way of dealing with emotions is to ignore them. His way of dealing with me is to hurt me and push me away. So, while I'm fully aware that we all do have issues, I realized that some people are willing to be honest and up front about what theirs are, while others are far too happy to project theirs on to me.

The first man was angry with me and blamed me for "not letting him be a man", when in reality he had put himself in a position to lose his personality to a woman he chose to be with, someone who did not want him to have any other "single, beautiful women" in his life (quotes are his words). The second man was angry at me and blamed me for our unhealthy relationship, when in reality his lack of self-love and his own unwillingness to grow and face his personal demons had caused him to reject the love of the very person he's claimed to love since we met thirty years ago.  

In the days following those two incidents when I was told that I have "deep-seated issues" with men, I reflected and came to the realization that I don't have deep-seated issues with men. I have issues with men who have issues. And the main issue that I have with men who have issues is that they choose not to deal with them. While I have taken the time to seek help regarding my issues stemming from the death of my father and my divorce, these men have not even admitted their issues (the first did when he realized his livelihood was being threatened; the second, who knows if he ever will).  Not only have they not come to terms with their issues, but they blamed me for what was missing in their lives. They made me the recipient of their feelings of loss or rejection, and proceeded to take actions that would cause me to feel rejected. For a minute I did feel that way.  However, since there is absolutely nothing I could do to change their lives and the way they choose to live them, I have removed myself from those situations and removed those people from my life, and I've come to the realization that I lack nothing. I am whole and complete as I am, and I am not responsible for the way others choose to live.  

As a society, we haven't provided a space for men to come to terms with the feelings of loss and rejection they may be living with. We haven't said to men that it's okay to talk, to cry, to express emotions, or to even identify the myriad of emotions there are to experience.  We have told little boys that "boys don't cry", and that when they are hurt, they need to "suck it up". We even have derogatory names for boys and men that cry and share their emotions. How many times have you heard a little boy called a sissy if he cried, or told that he "hits like a girl" if he's not good at sports? Boys and men walk around carrying within themselves pain that turns into anger; anger that lashes out in violent ways sometimes. Anger that stems from a loss of a sense of power that then leads some of them to seek that power by violating a woman's body, or by ending the lives of innocent people. Without a space to express every aspect of themselves, men will continue to have deep-seated issues. You'll just never know it until you are the recipient of their pain. 

"Protons & Electrons!" (Or is it Neutrons?)

Source: www.blurtit.com

Last week was an amalgam of emotions.

Wait.  The last YEAR has been one of the most emotional of my life.  That statement might be a tad dramatic, but that's how I feel right now.  I think of years in terms of academic years, and this academic year is drawing to a close.  My reaction to that news?  GOOD RIDDANCE, 2011-12 academic year.  Don't let the door hit you where the good Lord split you.  You ain't got to go home, but you got to get the heck up outta here.  You get the point.

But as the academic year comes to an end, something put a smile on my face and filled my heart to the overflowing.  The students from the classes of 2010 and 2011 decided to converge back to our campus for an unofficial alumni weekend.  It was as if the universe knew what I needed and gave it to me in the form of about 10-15 young men and women with whom I had developed personal relationships that fulfilled me, probably more than I had ever helped them in my profession as a counselor and academic advisor.  I hosted a gathering for them at my apartment, and one of the young women decided we should play a game called Protons and Electrons.  She kept mistaking electrons for neutrons, and after a quick physics lesson from several of her former classmates, we started the game.  The most common proton - or positive comment - was that everyone was happy to be back on campus spending time with their college friends.  The electrons varied. Most of them had to do with a job, whether it was the reality check given at their jobs about how the "real world" functions, or not having a job.  There was a cynicism that had crept into these young people's lives - and these were the ones who wanted to (and still want to) change the world.

At one point, I realized that what they had learned after one or two years post-undergrad, I was really learning now, after almost twenty years working in education.  It's not that I never saw these things.  It's not that I hadn't had terrible experiences in my various jobs.  Believe me, I've had my share.  It's just that this past academic year had such an effect on me that others have mentioned that I've changed, and not necessarily for the better.

Things have changed.  I don't know if it's me, or the students I work with now.  I've been working for the same program for five years.  This was a dream job for me, and I truly loved it until this year.  Yes, I'd started a Ph.D. program.  Yes, I was already coordinating a women's leadership program in addition to my actual counseling/academic advising job.  Yes, half way through the year we lost a staff member who was badly hurt.  And yes, our director had to take time off for educational purposes.  But I'm not sure it was any of those things that made a difference.  In my mind, the biggest difference was the kind of students we now serve.

Case in point.  (Disclaimer: I do really care about my students, sometimes to a fault.)  One of my students came to see me last week, and when I asked about her classes, she said that she knew she wouldn't get a very good grade point average; in fact, she knew she was going to fail at least one class.  I asked if there was any way she could pull off the minimum grade that would keep her in good standing, and she said it wasn't possible because she'd missed every class since the mid-point of the semester.  She had a 3.0 grade point average coming into this semester, and after we estimated and calculated her grades for this semester, I showed her that she would be well below the minimum g.p.a. and could potentially be put on academic probation.  Again, she had a 3.0 g.p.a. in her first semester, which is great, especially at our college.  Since she is interested in the medical field, I asked her what she thought she would need in order to get into med school.  She imagined she would need a 3.7 grade point average, so we calculated how many perfect semesters she would need.  FIVE.  Five semesters of no less than a 4.0 g.p.a.  I gave her that piece of paper to take with her so that she could ponder how ONE semester of letting her academics go will affect the majority of her college career, and her life-long goals.

This year, helping students transition to college became less of a dream job and more emotionally draining.  Along with the personal issues that I had to deal with, including several losses in my family, this work that I'd always enjoyed getting up to do every morning became a chore.  I'd lost my passion and was definitely burned out.  This academic year, for sure, was my ELECTRON.

Last Friday, the women's leadership program I coordinate and advise had its final recognition ceremony.  It was, as always, a beautiful event, with the participants sharing their experiences of the program in a transparent and emotional manner.  As I stood to give an address to the group that was gathered, I mechanically went through the speech I had written, but felt there was more to share.  At that moment, I shared how the organization was now five years old, and how when my nephew was five, I took him to school.  His class would line up in the cafeteria to go to their classroom, and as I moved to take him directly to the cafeteria, he said, "I can go by myself."  I watched as he walked down the hall away from me, and walked confidently towards the cafeteria, and I cried.  I cried because he didn't need me in that moment.

I told the group that this year, the program seemed like my five year old nephew, walking confidently away from me while I stood there mourning how much it didn't need me any more.  And while I am still here, and still find it difficult to let go, I know that one day it will finally move away from me confidently, but I will still be watching it, just as I'd watched my little nephew walk towards his independence.

I only realized it then, in that moment, that the pain I'd experienced with my five year old "baby" - this program - was part of the growth process of an organization and those who run it.  It was my own growth moment; realizing that I could let go and trust that the legacy I'd helped build would continue, especially as the women gave their testimonies about what the program meant to them.  At the end of such a difficult year,  I'd found my PROTON.

Somehow, I couldn't reach this perspective without the alumni sharing their "electrons" and "protons".  Their love, their hugs, their words of comfort and support, opened my heart enough to see what felt like an "electron" in my life as a "proton".  

And if you know me, you know I'm not much of a "neutron" woman.

Yes, I Am C.A.T.T.Y. (and proud of it!)

I just got back home from a very energizing evening, so energizing that, even though I would be normally be getting ready for bed at this time, I feel like writing. What did I do this evening that energized me?  I spent the past four hours chatting with a woman, a sociology professor that teaches at the college where I work.  

Last Thursday, I had lunch with another woman who is the President of the Chamber of Commerce in the county where I work.  I'd met her at a luncheon for an alumna of the college, and the following semester she did a workshop on advocacy for the young women's leadership program I coordinate.  Since then, she's been a big supporter of my women's program.  

At church yesterday, a woman that I've known for the past seven years through our small group came and sat next to me.  We hugged and talked during the announcements and offering.  

What were the topics of conversation with these women?  Well, the woman at church and I were talking about the classes we would be taking this semester.  She's a mother of two with a busy husband whom she sells real estate with, while writing for a newspaper and writing lessons for the church small group curriculum, who is also pursuing a Master's degree in Social Work.  I'm not married and I don't have children, but on top of my job, I run a women's leadership program that takes up a lot of my time.  I also take time to go to New York City as often as possible to help care for my elderly mother.  I run my household by myself, try to get to the gym a few times a week, and now I am starting a doctoral program in Higher Education.  I hadn't seen this woman in over two months.  Could we have caught up on church gossip?  I'm sure.  However, we were more interested in talking about how we were planning on balancing our busy lives with the expectations of graduate classes.

The President of the Chamber of Commerce and I talked about fear.  I told her that I would be starting school in about a week, and that I was scared.  She told me that for the past eight years since she's been President, she's woken up scared, telling herself, "I'm going to my new job."  She said, "For eight years, I've been calling this my 'new' job!"  And she told me something that will stay with me for the rest of my life: "If you aren't scared, you're complacent.  It's good to be scared.  People who are scared are people who take risks."

The sociology professor and I had dinner with her son and his friends, then sat down with coffee and talked about pedagogy (a fancy word for "teaching").  We discussed a strategy I'd learned in my master's level counseling program, and talked about ways she could use it with her students.  We brainstormed a few more ideas, then talked about the process of connecting with others, and finally we talked about power and strength.  I told her about my journey toward embracing my power, and how for some people, my power could be intimidating or overwhelming.  Her words: "You are the Presence of Health (or the Divine, or God), and sick people will either be drawn to you because they want to be healed, or they will want to destroy you because you expose their illness."  Deep, right?

While the television networks are showing us images of women fighting each other and exposing either their thongs or their Spanx on so-called "reality shows", REAL women are having REAL conversations.  While society would have us believe that women are catty (as in spiteful or vindictive), I am having conversations with strong, amazing women who are supportive of my strength, as opposed to competing with me to see who's stronger.  

Women and men both say that women are catty.  They say it without thought, as though it is a given.  Every time I hear that comment, I say, "I beg to differ."  I have seen the difference that confidence and support make in my own life as well as the lives of the young women I work with.  I don't see anything catty about the women I encounter.  However, if you still think I'm catty, or that the women you work with, or go to church with, or network with are catty, then I'll agree, as long as you know that we are:

C - Confident and strong

A - Aware of who we are 

T - Tenacious and persistent

T - Tantalizing (We're women, how can we not be?)

Y - Young at heart, in mind, and in spirit

So go ahead, call me C.A.T.T.Y.  I'm proud of who I am, and of the women I know who aren't afraid to be C.A.T.T.Y. too!