All Kinds of Creative Solace

Beatrice entered her school's talent show to share her artwork. It's wasn't a judged talent show, and yet that doesn't matter. Out of the few hundred kids in her middle school, less than a dozen individuals (plus their school choir) participated in the virtual talent show. Bea submitted a short video with her showing some of her favorite art pieces from the past year. There were also other singers and musicians and voice actors and artists and film editors and more who entered. Bryce entered her school's talent show and shared her artwork as well. 

When I was 12 and my sister 10, we helped our mom break into the house of our first step-father, who was mentally ill and abusive, while he was at work. We had already gotten out of the house, but there were still too many personal things we didn't want to leave behind. In less than a day, he had changed the locks on the house, so the only way we could get in was to break in. We broke the bathroom window on the side of the house and then laid a towel over the bottom edge of the windowsill. The only person who could fit through the window was my sister. We were all scared out of our minds, with visions of him waiting quietly inside with a gun. The same gun he pointed at my mom multiple times. We got our things and got out, with no sign of him anywhere. 

Quite a juxtaposition from then to now. We're grateful that we've been safe and well and have been able to provide a stable and loving family environment for our girls. And while I did grow up in a less than stable environment, I wasn't without my creative side that my mom encouraged. I was always an avid reader (so was Amy growing up -- and we still are). We've instilled these positive habits in the girls as well; Bryce is more the avid reader overall and Bea loves her graphic novels. I also drew a lot when I was the girls' age, and was writing short stories then, too. Bea is also interested in writing her own stories in the form of graphic novels. Both girls are drawing and painting and experimenting will all kinds of art, and we continue to support them both. 

Even though the girls are back to in-person school again (5 days a week for Bryce and 2 days a week for Beatrice), we've all been fortunate to continue to be active and to nurture our creative sides over the past year of pandemic. We also know that there has been an exponential increase in stress, fatigue and depression throughout the pandemic, with many families socially isolated from family and friends. There have been too many people out of work, struggling financially to keep their families sheltered and food on the table. Domestic violence has been on the rise globally during the past year. There are families who have struggled with illness and mental health problems. And there are those who have split up for many of the reasons above.

Even when we're beyond this pandemic, the psychological and emotional impacts will be felt for years to come. Creating safe and healthy environments for our children is certainly the best intention for most parents, even when there are factors beyond our control. Leaning in on faith, on counseling, on mental health services, on the support of other family and friends are critical. Getting out of dangerous situations when there is no other alternative for safety is also critical. Through it all, encouraging our children to have a growth mindset, even in the face of extreme circumstances, can lead to all kinds of creative solace. 

A Second to Go South

"In the desert, you can remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain..."

–America, A Horse with No Name

It was the stars I remember the most. The nights were dark and the sky clear, with little to no external lighting around us save our camper's strip of outside LED's. The night sky sparkled like a diamond-encrusted ocean.

We took our family to the desert for spring break near Joshua Tree National Forest, and out of all the fun things we did, looking up at the twinkling stars before going to bed was the most relaxing for me. Of feeling safe and content. Of endless positive possibilities. Not a care in the world. "'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain."

But that was an illusion, because there are still those who are everywhere giving out pain of all kinds. Too many broken people with guns willing to take lives. 600 mass shootings in 2020 and 147 so far in 2021. 

I grew up in a law enforcement family; I grew up with guns. I never like them much, though. When I was 8 years old, I took my Red Ryder BB gun to what used to be called Little Forrest where I grew up, a small grove of Central Valley oak trees where we used to go as kids. I shot at a black bird and hit its wing, maiming it, and then I cried. 

Four years later my mom married my police officer step-father. Early in their relationship he hunted deer and dove, something I had no interest in. A year later, a man broke into our home carrying a large Bowie knife and was right outside our bedroom doors. I posted the story way back in 2012. My mom and dad woke up and my dad chased him out of the house and down the street. My mom then asked me to take my dad's gun to him. I carried it like a dead rat out to the street. My family has been gun owners for a long time, and it was clear early on I was never going to be comfortable with them.

And that's fine. Today, however, our children could be shot in their own schools (now that they're back to in-person school). We could be shot just going to the store. Or anywhere for that matter. And if our children were black, they could be shot just because they were black. Or Latino. Or Asian. Or any race other than being white. 

For those who are lawful gun owners who have had proper safety training, thank you. I do not want your guns taken away from you, but unfortunately you do not make me or my family feel any safer. Because when any of our lives go south, which can happen without warning, with a flash of anger after one drink too many, and/or when suffering from depression, and/or other mental disorders manifest, and/or when struggling with addiction, and/or when so many other problems can compromise safety, gun safety grays out and lives are at risk. 

Also, citizens armed to the teeth standing in front of state capitals or our nation's capital do not make me feel safer. White supremacist military and law enforcement do not make me feel safer. Permitted guns buried deep in your purses or under your car seat. Guns locked away in a safe buried deep in our closet do not make me feel safer.

I don't know how much gun reform will help in the long run, if it ever passes, like universal background checks. No matter what though, our families can practice safety skills every single day. We can also think about the why of the safety skills we practice, how can we prevent dangerous behavior before we're forced to protect ourselves. Back in 2019 I shared that one of the Kidpower instructors I admire (besides my wife, of course) inspired me with this analogy:

When we're literally on fire, we're taught to -- Stop, Drop and Roll -- to extinguish the fire.

But why are we on fire in the first place? What happened to cause the fire? What things can we do to prevent these fires in the future? To make ourselves safer? To make our families safer? To make our communities safer?

In light of the continued mass shootings of late, we need to keep our fears in check and work hard to be aware and prevent these tragedies from happening in the first place, including:

• Practice skills for taking charge of your safety and your family's everyday
• Learn and practice the safety plan at your school/business
• Practice speaking up about safety to those with power to act
• Practice overcoming the “Bystander Effect" and empowering yourself and others to take action
• Help strengthen a positive social climate in your community

These being just a few of the Kidpower Safety tips for individuals and families. 

With these safety tips, I long for the peaceful stillness of the desert's starry night we experienced on our spring break. Of feeling safe and content. Of endless positive possibilities. Not a care in the world. But this illusion of gun safety today is heartbreaking, because no how matter responsible people think they are with guns, they do not make my family feel any safer. It only takes a second to go south. 

One Volley After Another

"Every day we're standing
In a time capsule
Racing down a river from the past
Every day we're standing
In a wind tunnel
Facing down the future coming fast..."

–Rush, Turn the Page

I wasn't surprised that the sight brought a tear. That's not unusual for me, to experience a moving momentary emotional surge. Like, all the time. 

I had been taking our dog Jenny for a walk. It was a beautiful spring day. Cool and sunny. On the cusp of what my wife Amy and I called a hot-cold day; too warm in the sun to wear a sweatshirt and too cold in the shade not to. I was headed to one of two walks we've been doing during the past year of the pandemic. This one would take us through the lower facilities campus of UC Santa Cruz, and then around Antonelli Pond, back along the railroad tracks to home again. 

As I walked through the always empty parking of the lower campus, I looked up and noticed something I hadn't seen for nearly one year: the tennis court nets were back up. Now, that may like seem like much of anything, but to us, it was everything just a year earlier. 

There are two tennis courts on the lower university campus that used to be open to the public. First come, first serve courts, each one self-contained by tall fencing and fenced doors that shut. This is where we found a fun family activity shortly after the lock-down last year, the newest normal for us then. By no means are we tennis players, but it was a physical activity we are really enjoyed together. Otherwise known as chase the balls for those of you, who like us, can't play very well. This included our youngest Bryce whining a little about chasing the balls, even refusing to chase the balls, with an occasional strong volley between us all. Bryce was actually pretty good with her volleys, and her older sister Beatrice is not too far behind. Plus, our dog Jenny could be with us, enclosed in the court with us, and either find a patch of shade to lay down in, or bark at other dogs passing by with their owners. 

But those days were short-lived, when even these courts were locked up due to covid, nets removed. Amy kept telling me that she was going to break into the courts so we could play, which we never did. There were other courts elsewhere near us that were open, but they weren't the same as the self-contained courts where we could hammer the balls back and forth without fear of hitting innocent bystanders. That never prevented our girls from hitting the balls over the tall perimeter fencing into the weeds, some lost forever. 

So, when I saw the tennis court nets up again, and the fenced doors were unlocked with "social distancing" signs on them, I teared up. It wasn't just because we could play again together as a family; it was because the world was finally opening up again. Incrementally and inconsistently, but still opening up. The pandemic isn't over either, and millions and millions more people still need to be vaccinated (and I hope those who refuse to change their minds), while the newest normal continues to evolve. 

The future keeps whacking us away from the past, one volley after another, sending our present time capsules over the fence and into the weeds. I'm just glad we get to keep playing. 

This Holiest of Days

And on the holiest of Christian days, I'm still full of unreconcilable rage. This being the day that celebrates Jesus rising from the dead to bring salvation to the world, which I grew up believing in. As my wife Amy and I hiked together Easter morning with our dog Jenny in the lead, I found joy in their company and nature. 

We had just returned from a wonderful family camping vacation near Joshua Tree National Park. Amy and I were also in the middle of our latest meditations on getting unstuck. It was then on our hike when I shared some of what had been weighing heavily on my heart -- and the fact that all I could think about was George Floyd, Eugene Goodman and my dad.

And me. 

We're all fathers. Fathers with daughters. Fathers who, no matter the mistakes we've made in life, or the obstacles we've overcome, want nothing more than the best for our daughters (and sons), for them to be safe and well. But that's where most of the similarities end. Eugene Goodman is a police officer. My dad was a police officer. I am the son of a police officer. George Floyd was killed by a police officer. Eugene Goodman is black. George Floyd was black. I am white. My dad was white. 

When I was a sophomore in high school, my mom and dad were leaving my high school's varsity football game (I played junior varsity) and witnessed a teenager harassing one of the school administrators. Later they would find out he was high on PCP, but in that moment, my dad tried to deescalate the situation. The teenager had a knife, cut my dad's arm and then stuck it deep into my dad's upper thigh. 

Anyone in law enforcement or with family in law enforcement knows that when an officer is in distress, every available officer gets there to help. Which is what happened when my dad was stabbed. They arrested the teenager and my dad eventually recovered. 

That teenager was Latino. And while I wouldn't call my dad an anti-racist -- he certainly wasn't without prejudice -- he did check in on the kid who stabbed him. That same teenager was in and out of prison until his early 20's, and the last time he went into prison, he was stabbed and killed by another inmate. According to my mom, prior to young man's death, my dad tried to get him drug rehabilitation help and more. I never knew that back then, not until years later, just like I didn't know really how much my dad led with empathy as a police officer. How the bad guys and girls, as well as the good guys and girls, really liked my dad. Respected him as a police officer. A 32-year veteran of the force who told me he only had to pull his gun one time during his tenure, and he never fired it while on duty. 

My dad and mom both passed away in 2012. Growing up, I was the most liberal in our family compared to my sister and three step-sisters. Only just slightly left-center back then, but still the most liberal. As a retired police officer, I'm not exactly sure how my dad would've responded to the unnecessary deaths of unarmed young black men and women by police officers in the past few years. How he would've responded to the social protests and #BlackLivesMatter and the violence that erupted across cities in 2020 after George Floyd was killed. 

I do remember talking with him about the beating of Rodney King and the riots that followed. He was quite vocal about the destruction the riots caused, the people and good officers put in harm's way, and he thankfully agreed that the excessive force used against Rodney King was egregious. And he wasn't surprised when the officers were acquitted either. I don't remember whether or not he agreed with that verdict, or whether he empathized with the why of the riots. I hope it was the latter.

However, one thing I will never forget, is the Capitol Insurrection on January 6, 2021. I will never forget the why and the lie of it. How my heart breaks every time I think about how the hate-power surged and the continuing lack of accountability since (even with the hundreds arrested). I will never forget those who participated in it and those who supported it onsite and from afar. The white hate and the Confederate flags and the racial slurs and the noose and the police officer being beaten with a flagpole flying the America flag. Our violent American history again retching itself upon us. The perpetual safety problem for so many. 

I will also never forget one black police officer -- Eugene Goodman -- who faced 400 years of angry white supremacy and power patriarchy to protect those who worked in the Capitol. I really want to believe my dad would've stood with Officer Goodman and the other officers protecting the Capitol.

Which brings me full circle back to this Easter and my unreconcilable rage since January 6. We've been listening to the audio book Four Hundred Souls: A Community History of African America 1619-2019, and the painful truth of our violent racist history that's been kept from us since the founding of this country continues to fuel my rage. A rage that seeps into our family conversational ether. A rage our daughters struggle to understand why, after all the love and empathy and Kidpower my wife and I practice at home, I despise those who've perpetuated racist hate for generations, however subtle or blatant. Why I hold onto holding those accountable who have denied and continue to deny women and people of color the same inalienable rights that white men have guaranteed themselves for hundreds of years. 

When I think about the Jesus in my childhood heart, He was anti-racist. He led with eyes of love and empathy regardless of who you were. He worked hard to end inequities for all people; everlasting love is possible through Him. My God, Jesus was literally a person of color, but that same salvation ideal He brought to the world has been withheld from so many generations of women and all people of color by my own white legacy. That is what I cannot reconcile -- for our daughters, our communities, our nation. 

Even hearing Martin Luther King Jr.'s well-versed words, "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that," cannot console me today, this holiest of days. And yet I know my rage cannot be sustained; my rage cannot make a difference; my rage will not quell the darkness. 

So, please don't send your nice thoughts or prayers. Just know that we are all simultaneously part of the problem and the solution in America. I implore you to be part of the solution.