Tag: lgbtq

Can We All just Get Along?

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

Years ago, I took my five year old son to a playgroup. It was our first time at this particular group, meeting at the hilltop home of the founding member, and we were over an hour late. All the regular members of the group were already there, the moms gathered on the back porch watching their toddlers play in the sand strip that ran along the side of the house.

There were only two kids my son’s age there—the founding member’s son and the girl from next door. The boy and girl, friends since birth, were playing house in a plastic playhouse with pink French windows and a blue shingle roof. After observing them a moment from behind me, my son joined the kids in the playhouse. Five minutes later he and the other boy were in the yard sparring with sticks, then pretending the sticks were guns and shooting at the little girl.

My heart went out to her as she tried in vain to encourage her neighbor to come back into the playhouse and continue their game. And I did intervene several times, reminding my son how it felt to be left out and insisting that he find a game that included her, until finally they all agreed to play with the train set inside and went in.

I stayed out on the porch and had a somewhat stilted conversation with the other moms amid them chiding their children for eating sand, or throwing it, or both. A few minutes passed and the little girl came out of the house crying. The boys were making fun of her for being a girl, taunting her for liking dolls and playing house, claiming that girls and boys couldn’t ever be friends since ‘boys were cool and girls drool,’ so she wasn’t allowed to play with them anymore.

My son’s introduction to the new playgroup wasn’t going well, and I went into the house to confront him. He was happily hiding with the other boy in a tent-like structure they’d built on the living room floor. I called both boys to come out and face me. After my son vehemently insisted that the other boy had said the little girl couldn’t play, I told them both to sit down, hoping to enlighten them.

I again reminded both of them how it feels to be left out. Then I explained that in the grown up world girls and boys play together all the time.

‘In fact, my very best friend is your dad,’ I told my son and his new friend, and the little girl standing beside me. ‘He’s my favorite playmate. We can always find something to do together that both of us like. He’s my BFF for life!’ And since he was a boy and I was a girl, the boys were obviously wrong thinking that girls and boys couldn’t be friends. The two of them sat there thinking about what I’d just said, asked, “Really?” followed by “Wow,” and they finally invited the little girl back in and included her in their game. She got to be Princess Leia.

Listening from the back porch to my exchange with the kids, the women confronted me the moment I took my place on the concrete steps outside. They all wanted to know if I’d lied to the children about my relationship with my husband. Did I really possess the friendship I touted? Was he my first choice to play with, talk to, expose my innermost self to? I insisted he was. My husband was my closest friend, or at the very least it’s what we strove for. Wasn’t marriage about sharing yourselves inside and out?

Their answer turned out to be universally ‘NO.’ Out of the eleven women there, not one said their spouses were among their top three friends. All felt that, especially as they got older, they were drawing away from their husbands and moving towards other women for emotional support. They considered their girl friends their closest friends, those they shared their most intimate thoughts and feelings. All agreed that only women fully understood women, or wanted to, making it natural, normal, even healthy that they gravitated to like kind. Then they used our kid’s interaction earlier as an example of how males and females “naturally segregate” to back up their position.

Nature verses nurture is an ongoing debate over how much stereotypical behavior in boys and girls is genetically instilled or environmentally gleaned. Unarguably, gender has genetic differences in our physicality and our brain function. Boys and girls generally play together without reserve until around the first grade. The sexes begin to separate between 5 and 7 yrs old, around the same time we develop the brain power to assimilate within our environment, and begin to copy behavior of those around us. Eleven out of twelve moms at that playgroup chose to congregate almost exclusively with their own sex, modeling division between men and women to their kids.

Regardless that so many women today think most men are idiots, their utility is not limited to their earning capacity—making 20% more than a woman does—or their reproductive organs. Men are generally more linear, quantitative than qualitative, objectifying than identifying, competitive vs cooperative. While their brute strength is no longer required to bring down the mastodon [since we can all buy better steaks on Amazon], men offer lessons in living a more fulfilling life by being a bit more self-focused instead of solely maternal.

Most of humanity’s existence, men have taken the top tier—been the king of the castle, the final word in the household—because they could. Physical prowess won the battle of the sexes until recently. With the advent of technology, the reign of men is coming to an end.

Surrounding ourselves with like kind—women defaulting to women for a safe harbor—will not level the playing field or bridge the divide between the sexes. Women must learn to step up, stand our ground, not acquiesce to a man’s request simply because he made one. Men must step down from their throne atop the social order, even if they feel no ground, and embrace women’s emotional intelligence, our capacity for caring—for our children, and for them. No longer the sole bread-winner, men must offer more of what women do each other, become more maternal—beyond self—and more emotionally aware and available because with everything given something is owed, regardless of gender.

Our greatest hurtle to the union of humanity is not racial, religious, socioeconomic, cultural or political. The biggest chasm between us is our gender. Before men and women can actualize ourselves as equals, we must see ourselves as one people—the human race—each with our own gifts for the other.

The Tragedy in Comedy

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

Why are some jokes universally funny to large swaths of people?

For my husband’s birthday, I took him and our two adult kids to a comedy show last weekend. There were around 30 people in the club that easily held 100 or more. The headliner was a Black guy, and I’m identifying his race with purpose. He’d won the distinction of ‘Winner of the Seattle International Comedy Competition,’ or so the stamp on his sales page said. Yet the club was two thirds empty, and after the show I could see why.

Standup comedy is likely one of the hardest forms of entertainment, so I give the comedian a lot of grace when they aren’t funny, often chuckling, along with equally gracious attendees, to help support the performer. The lineup at this club last weekend made it particularly hard to laugh at their routines.

The three warm up acts, in order, were a Black trans woman, a White man with cerebral palsy, and a gay Black woman who was so stoned, by her admission on stage, she kept laughing at her own ‘jokes.’ All three barely got even polite chuckles from the small crowd, including me. They bombed. Hard. And here’s why…

The first Black comedian up there started out by grabbing her crotch and telling the audience of mostly upwardly mobile White and Black couples that her “Big titties, and THIS,” meaning her pussy, were what made her special, valuable as a Black woman in America. Then she goes on to slam anyone who isn’t woke enough to not only respect, but vocally support the trans community. “Ya all so racist you won’t stand up for these Black titties?” She didn’t seem to understand that being at least 300 pounds, with her pants falling below the crack in her ass, and crass in the extreme—meaning to be offensive—wasn’t funny. It’s also likely why she seemed to feel her value was in her choice to become transgender, and not what she contributes to humanity. Instead of humor—delivering a moment of lightness to people’s lives—she radiated resentment, hate.

The White comic with cerebral palsy was hard to understand with his speech impediment, but what I did get was all his ‘jokes’ were about his disability. “Everyone thinks I’m drunk,” was his opening line. “But I’m not.” (It would have been funnier if he’d said he was.) He went on to tell the audience he’d had cerebral palsy since infancy, and how people in public avoid him because he walks funny and holds his body weird. It wasn’t physical comedy. He was clearly disabled. He described how people look away, like the reality of him will infect them. It was supposed to land funny, but really, it was just tragic.

The last comedian was stoned out of her mind, and beyond her: “everyone disses me because I’m a gay Black woman,” started laughing before finishing most of her ‘jokes.’

The headliner was considerably better than the warm up acts. His funniest bit was noting how tall he was, and how annoyed he gets with everyone always asking him to get stuff off top shelves in markets, and he’d like to turn that around and ask shorter people to please get him that item off the bottom shelf. But even he used racism way too often as his ‘jokes’ that came off more as bitter, angry commentary than something funny.

What is a joke?

My daughter says I suck at sarcasm, and it’s true. I think it’s fundamentally mean-spirited.

My father-in-law used to spout cruel ‘jokes’ about his wife constantly, little jabs of a knife—‘Oh, she hates to cook, which is good for all of us,’—death of intimacy by a thousand cuts.

There are private jokes—humorous shared experiences that are periodically recalled together.

But what is universally funny? Why did the tall and short joke land so well that the entire audience burst into laughter for the first time that evening?

Tall or short, we can all relate. Race doesn’t matter. Gender doesn’t either. Sexual preference isn’t part of the joke. The things that generally divide us didn’t exist in his story. It was just funny. Now every time I see a tall guy in the market I’ll smile with the memory of that joke. So will a lot of the audience. The comic spread a moment of lightness with that joke. You can call him out for being ‘tallest,’ or making fun of short people (which he didn’t, just people shorter than his 6’5”). But really? That’s a bit too woke, don’t ya think.

It is the comedian’s job on stage to get their audience to laugh—gift them that moment of lightness. Sometimes humor can be controversial, challenge us to view things differently, but only if we’re not offended, or bored. And attacking the audience for being racist, sexist, transphobic, isn’t funny. Especially to an audience of mostly young professionals in tech, medicine, or management, regardless of their race or sexual orientation.

If the cerebral palsy guy had tapped into the universal feeling of being ignored—on the outside looking in, which most of us have felt (and many frequently); or the trans woman had surfaced what it feels like to be judged by our gender—male or female—those types of jokes would likely have landed a laugh. There’s lightness in laughing at ourselves. Not so much when we’re called out for “All White people” think this or that about Blacks, and “all straight people are overtly or secretly homophobic.”

While I’ll agree we are all born sexist, racist—fundamentally afraid of ‘the other’—I didn’t spend $50 a ticket to be berated that humans (with the exception of the ‘comedians’) are flawed.

Black, White, Asian, Latino, gay, trans, straight, young and old, we all share FEELINGS in common, as being alive means FEELING. Good, bad, happy, sad…etc., humans all feel the SAME THINGS to varying degrees, our feelings evoked by stimuli/input. Universal humor taps into our sameness, feelings we all share, even when pointing out our differences. Social awkwardness, handling rejection, tripping over our own feet are embarrassing moments we’ve all experience, and can easily be woven with commentary on racism:

Saw this stunner coming out of Starbucks yesterday so I put on my cool, ya know, casually glancing her way, then when she noticed me I flashed her my signature grin (and he does, comically). And I’m thinking I’m all hot shit cuz I got her attention, and that’s when I tripped on a cracked sidewalk and almost face-wiped.

I popped back up feeling like a fuckin idiot and catch her smiling before she turned away. Then this old guy sitting on the bench in front of Starbucks says outta nowhere, “Tragic, really. Another clear case of systemic bias.”

“What’d you say man?!” I’m like seriously pissed assuming he meant because I’m Black and she was White.

He looked at me deadpan. “Sidewalks have a long history of discrimination against dudes flagrantly struttin their stuff.”

😉

An Inconvenient Truth About Men and Women

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

“You are so beautiful, my baby. Once you slim down boys will notice and you’ll get as many dates as you want,” my mother promised me in her kitchen when I was 16, her response to my crying to her how lonely I felt with no one asking me out. “I guarantee you, you’ll have your pick of boys if you just lose weight.” She assured me that afternoon that thin was in, and if I wanted to be I would have to capitulate to the social standards of Los Angeles in the late 20th century.

I mistakenly believed her that day.

Indeed, heroin thin was in in the 60s — 90s, when actresses like Audrey Hepburn and supermodels like Twiggy were the iconic images of feminine beauty. And thin still is in, even today. Especially in L.A. In fact, thin as a beauty standard goes back to the ancient Greeks, with marble statues of athletic but slender women. (Plump [not fat] was in for a very elite group and only for a short while in history as a display of wealth, in contrast to most of the starving population.)

Weeks after my mother’s guarantee I’d be popular and have all the dates I wanted with my pick of boys if I got thin, I was in the high school gym and a senior was giving out Black Beauties with promises it was a miracle drug for weight loss. She got the little black capsules from her mother’s medicine cabinet and was hoping the girls she turned on to the amphetamine would pay for more. She turned out to be right.

Took me about 6 months, on Beauties almost daily, until I lost the extra weight I’d carried since early childhood. I got pretty my senior year in high school. I was socially acceptably thin. My mother was so proud. I’d come into the kitchen in the afternoons after school and she’d gush over how ‘shapely’ I looked in those jeans or that cami or fitted T. She was clueless I was on pharms, stolen from a classmate’s mother.

Boys at school, men at my work, and when I was out and about started to notice me. And for a bit, it felt empowering finally being an object of desire. Flirting was fun on campus, especially with boys who’d ignored me before. And to my mother’s point, I did get asked out occasionally.

Even pudgy, I’d not considered dating high school boys since the 9th grade. Male puberty had most all of them thinking through their ‘little head’ 24/7, and I wanted so much more than being another notch on some teen boy’s bedpost. Grown men were more mature, I assured myself.

Turns out, most are not.

Not then. Not now.

Being objectified for my body got old quick. The more dates I had, the more I realized the ‘men’ had asked me out for one reason only — to get laid. During most ‘dates,’ I basically had to interview the guys as they never asked me anything, or even turned my questions around. It was all about them all the time. After the date, they expected to come back to my place, or go to theirs and fuck. ‘Make love.’ ‘Get intimate.’ These colloquialisms are lies. There is nothing ‘intimate’ about fucking a stranger. And to achieve our highest attainment — love — requires more like hundreds of dates.

By the time I turned 30 the canonical line among most single working women I knew or met was: “Men want a mother in the form of a whore.” And for the most part, I had to agree. It seemed most heterosexual men I went out with, or even ended up dating a while ultimately wanted a woman who would listen to them, admire them, adore them, and have sex at their will. They had little to no interest in my mind — what I thought about or what mattered to me. And none had any interest in learning from me, but were always happy to spout their knowledge and wisdom.

From fourteen till I married at 37, I literally dated hundreds of men, so my sample size is not tiny, especially if you add in the thousands of women I’ve listened to over the years recounting their dating history. And quite frankly, their marriages haven’t turned out much different.

I get it. I do. Men have been on top of the social order from our beginnings. Might equals right, so men made the rules, wrote the bibles, set up the laws, and subjugated women because, well, they could (and still do with the 6 male members of our Supreme Court). Move forward from bringing home the mastodon to bringing home a salary — men have also been burdened with being the providers, so I understand why most men felt it was their God-given right to rule the roost they provided for.

The problem is, the world I grew up in is changing, while most men are not. Women were given equal rights under the law with The Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) in 1972, but we were not, and are still not seen as social equals to men. Back in the 80s, if we worked, which most of us did by then, we were teachers, nurses, admin, therapists, or careers in the Arts, as was mine as a graphic designer. I, personally, made half the salary of the man in the cubical next to me. And even today, women make roughly 22% less than men doing the exact same job. And even worse, a quarter of the way into this new millennium, my 22 yr old daughter, and most all of her girlfriends still have the exact same issues with men I did when I was single.

At her college graduation in June, my beautiful baby bemoaned the fact that she didn’t have a boyfriend like most of her girlfriends had acquired during their years on campus.

“Do you like Del’s boyfriend?” I asked her.

“No. He’s a dick. He doesn’t listen to a word she says. All he wants her for is free sex.”

“What do you think of Jenny’s guy?”

“OMG. He’s so cringe! He spends more time with his guy friends than her, except when he comes over drunk to get laid.”

“And what about Nik’s boyfriend? She’s been dating him since her Sophomore year.”

“He’s Muslim, so he doesn’t want sex before marriage, though they do everything else. But he treats her like a possession — at his beck and call, and he’s all over her in public to make sure everyone knows she’s his.”

Like her female peers, my daughter dated guys she met on campus and online throughout her college years. None worked out beyond the first date, and most never even made it that far. A few text exchanges made it clear the guy was looking for a hookup. My daughter is not. Nor does she want to model her friends “just to have a boyfriend.”

“I’m a social pariah since I haven’t had sex yet, Mom,” my daughter assured me at her graduation dinner. “But I want so much more than what my friends have settled for.”

Ah, from the mouths of babes…

Dating, in a short or long-term relationship, or married, most women I know or have met along the way seemingly want more from most men than they’re getting. As men are no longer the sole provider for most households, some women, like my daughter, (and 60+ yr old wives driving the current divorce rate) are demanding more. Sadly, so many of her peers are still role-modeling ancient times to the early 1970s when there was no such thing as equal rights, accepting selfish, disrespectful behavior from their boyfriends so they can be in — show their peers to their parents that they are socially acceptably desired. Women are groomed from birth to be physically desirable.

Equal rights does not stop at equal pay. Money is not the end all that will move society to treat each other equitably. Truth is, it really is up to women to create a more equitable society.

  1. Women must learn to value our minds over our physicality.
  2. Women want equality — to get paid the same in the workplace, and treated equally in public and private relationships. WE want the change, not men who’ve sat on top of the social order for eons. Women have to create the change we want, beginning with our self-perception. We have to fight to be heard and recognized for our knowledge and achievements. We must demand compromise instead of simply giving [in]. It’s hard to do for most of us, often impossible for many women to put self before others. Women are groomed from birth to be maternal.
  3. Even today, most of childhood parenting is still done by the mom. Let’s teach our daughters, and even our sons out of the womb that humanity is one race, and we are better when we work together. Mom and Dad, reject the gender hierarchy established at the dawn of the human race that has been playing out through the generations like a genetic disease. Teach our kids to respect, consider, and communicate with each other regardless of race, age, or gender. Then perhaps our daughter’s daughter’s daughter will never know the oh so very lonely chasm inherent in the gender divide of yesteryear and today. Instead, our great-great-great-grandchildren will get to experience the deep intimate connection that can only be achieved with true equality.

On Raising a Modern Man

by jcafesin, posted in education, Emapthic, Emotional Intelligence, Family, family life, parenting, parents, racism, sexism

My 21-year-old daughter decided to give me an assessment of my parenting of both her and her brother on her visit home from college at the end of summer break. Among my many crimes, I was cheap, though my college senior has never paid a bill in her life, not for her education since we float those bills, not her phone, not her car, which I gave her mine when she needed one, not even car insurance. Every birthday she received piles of presents that she actually wanted, (not clothes, like my mom gave me), usually well over a grand. And let me be clear, we are squarely middle-class, and at times throughout their formative years, we struggled to make the bills.

Spoiled brat? Maybe. But both my husband and I felt our kids should focus on academics and socialization, and use their meager part-time job earnings for fun. Adulting would come after college, along with the pressure of earning enough to pay their bills.

We sat at Caliente’s eating chips and waiting for our meals as she continued to list my failures. I gave unsolicited advice when we spoke, and she just wanted to rant. I tell people when and why I’m disappointed in their behavior, like customer service reps who show no desire to help, but no one cares what you have to say, Mother. I was violent sometimes when I got angry.

Did I ever hit you, or even spank you? Throw anything at you? I asked her, trying to be patient, listen carefully and address her complaints.

No, of course not.

Have you ever been afraid I’ll strike you? Or hurt you physically, ever?

No. I know you’ll never hit me, or throw anything at me, or hurt me like that. But when you yell, or cuss, or throw your napkin down on your plate when you’re angry, it’s really aggressive, so those times you’ve been emotionally violent. My daughter is on the medical track, to become a doctor, with a minor in psychology.

Wow. I’m sorry I made you feel that way. Do you feel like I’m aggressive a lot? She was completely undermining my self-image. One of my best bits is I am non-violent in the extreme. I’ve preached to both my kids that violence is unacceptable other than in self-defense when in imminent danger.

No. Most of the time you’re pretty chill, except when you and Dad are at it, then you trigger quicker.

We went round about over aggressive vs violent, then she finally moved on to the coup de grace.

You raised your son like a girl, she said as the waiter put our meals in front of us, then retreated. You did, Mom. You taught him to share his feelings, and he does. Too much, for a guy. You made sure to point out sexism in social norms, movies, in politics, and business, and how often men think with their ‘little head.’ You raised your son to think like a woman, and it hasn’t helped him any.

I sat there chewing my first [and last] bite of the three Street Tacos on my plate. I chewed until it was basically mush in my mouth to swallow it because my throat had constricted with my daughter’s harsh critique. To her point, our son battles depression and has since his first year in middle school. But until my daughter called me out right then, I hadn’t considered raising him to be empathetic, more aware of his own feelings and how he affects the world around him as a ‘girl’ thing.

I raised you both the same, I told her, fighting the tears now welling in my eyes.

I know, she said with the confidence of a professor. That’s the problem. Beyond logistics, most boys don’t learn to communicate. They’re taught to compete, which is why boys make friends through sports.

We enrolled your brother in baseball, soccer, Boy Scouts, taekwondo—

Yeah. But he liked talking to his teammates more than playing the game. You made his life totally harder because he doesn’t fit into his gender. And he’s not gay. So, you really screwed him up —

I’m done, I said. You’ve spent the entire day beating me up. And I’m done. I threw my napkin on my plate. Oh, shit, that was aggressive, I said to my daughter, then got up, paid the lunch bill, and came back to where she still sat, staring down at her Carne Asada. I could not stop the tears from streaming down my face when I told her to take the car, and that I’d walk to get mine at the shop, but I didn’t want to be with her anymore right then. Then I walked away. I’d never, ever, walked away from either of my children.

I got maybe 100 yards, out of the mainstream and melted down, sank to my knees against a shop wall. It took me a good five minutes to stop hysterically crying before I was able to walk to the repair place and deal with the mechanic. I got my car and drove out to the lake, walked to the end of the pier and sat on the bench, sucking in the wet air to catch my breath, and reasonably, calmly, assess my daughter’s many assertions.

I’m cheap. Hmm, she didn’t use the word ‘cheap.’ She said, you’ve been tight with money. Too tight. A politically correct way to say ‘cheap.’ Since my daughter doesn’t have a clue about the cost of even her current lifestyle, I discounted her assertion I was cheap with her lack of actual knowledge.

I was violent. As I explained to my daughter over our brief lunch, the word ‘violent’ means “using physical force intended to hurt, damage, or kill someone or something,” a la Google, as I asked her to look it up over chips and salsa. I abhor violence. Growing up, my 6’3”, 230-pound dad used to hit me when he encountered my resistance. My father was violent. I’ll cop to being aggressive when I’m angry. Maybe too aggressive, and I will work on backing that off.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a first step towards calm over anger, reason over rage.

I raised my son like a girl because I taught him the same lessons that I taught to my daughter…

I sat on that bench staring out at the lake until almost sunset thinking about her assertion. I realized I was shaking, I assumed from the chilly night approaching, until I got in my car and turned on the heater but didn’t stop. I was trembling with outrage.

I got home half an hour later. My daughter was in her room, very upset, my son assured me, though he didn’t know exactly why. She’d only told him we’d had a fight and I left. I went to her room and asked her to meet me in my office, a private space a quarter acre from the house, so we could talk. She came in a bit after me.

I love you, I began when we were seated. I love you, I repeated, locking my eyes on hers hoping to transfer the intensity of love I feel for her. I want the best for you, and for you to be the best of you.

I love you too, she said. And I’m so sorry for this afternoon. You are my best friend, and I’m sorry I hurt you.

I get it. Me too, for leaving. I’m sorry that hurt you. I needed space to think about all the stuff you said to me. I’m ready to talk to you about that now. And I may get aggressive because I am so hurt by so much of what you said, but I won’t ever be violent. I smiled to ease the tension.

She did too. I know, she conceded. I’m sorry I said that. I know it’s not true.

OK. Thanks. I took a breath but kept my eyes on hers. First, when you start paying for your education, your car, your insurance, your phone, and all your other expenses that we pay for, only then will you have the knowledge to assess if I am cheap.

I didn’t say you were cheap, Mom —

Yeah. Ya did. And I’m not going to sit here playing word games with you. You know what I mean. I felt my heart racing. A typical passive/aggressive play my husband, her father, engages in when we’re in conflict is grammar-nazi, nitpicking every word I use to derail the dialog.

I’m sorry, Mom. I know how hard you’ve worked to make sure we got taken care of through college. I’m really sorry I said that. And she started crying.

And so did I, seeing her hurt, and knowing I still had a hard lesson to teach. My talented, beautiful daughter, I began. I love you, I repeated, to remind myself how much I did amid the outrage I felt towards her right then. You accused me of raising my son like a girl. And out of all the things you said to me today, this cuts the deepest. Have you said this to your brother — that I raised him like a girl?

She looked down, said No, but I didn’t believe her. Then she looked at me and said, I don’t remember saying it to him. I don’t think I did, anyway…

If you’ve told your brother I raised him like a girl, you’ve diminished the best of him. The best of any human — man or woman. He is kind. Truly kind, not just words but actions, volunteering at the food bank, and working in nonprofit. Your brother is compassionate. He really cares about how people feel, knows how to listen, and empathize. He examines his feelings and has the grace, and humility to look for and admit his culpability, and then take responsibility for his screw-ups. And I get your brother may have a harder life being different from most men his age. But I refused to raise my son as most boys are still raised — to reflect their father’s bravado from our caveman days.

I felt my heart race and heard myself getting louder and faster with my delivery. I stopped speaking and took a deep breath. My daughter sat in my high-backed leather office chair, her hands clasped in her lap, looking rather small, way younger than her almost 22 years.

I love you, I repeated, to give her ground.

I love you too, my daughter said, tears streaming down her face.

You’ve admitted I raised both of you the same. And I meant to. I worked hard to treat you equally, and respect you both as individuals. I gave you the same messaging, not as male or female, but as people. I raised you both not to reflect your dad and I, but to be better than us — smarter, more connected inside yourself, and more responsive to the world you touch. Not boy/girl, or sexist norms passed through generations, but to meet our compassionate, creative potential regardless of gender — be the best of what we are. I fixed my eyes on my daughter’s, trying to impart to her what I know to be true.

Children can stop racism, when they are taught to understand instead of hate.

Children can stop sexism, when parents teach their kids that their value lies in their actions, not their gender.

Children can stop the greedy few from controlling the many by implementing laws for an equitable society, and sustainable stewardship of this planet.

Tears now streaming down both our faces, I stared at my daughter.

No pressure there, she said with a half-smile.

I smiled too. Between theory and the need to change the direction of our current reality is the grand fucking canyon. An audible sigh escaped me. Sorry, kid. You were born owing the gen before you to contribute to the living and the lives that follow yours. It comes with the privilege of being Human.

I get it, Mom. And I said things I didn’t mean today. And I’m sorry.

I know. Me too. For all the times I’ve failed you, I’m so sorry. I get you’re mad at me for something, but I’m thinking it ain’t most of what you said today. So, let’s explore what you’re feeling, and drill down on what you’re really upset about…