Grief Season: Might and Right

 To everything there is a season, and right now, a lot of us are finding ourselves in a season of grief.

Grief that the American people voted for a rapist, felon, liar. Grief that America fell for an angry man's taunts and lies, siding with power plays instead of truth. Grief that women and people of color and LGBTQIA+ are losing ground. Grief that a man who threatens to end democracy (this is not hyperbole, and the receipts are there) is now in charge of democracy.

He says he can "grab them by the pussy" (I will NEVER get over that) and that immigrants are "eating the dogs, eating the cats" and that if "beautiful Christians" vote for him, they'll "never need to vote again."

And that's old news, and so over the top that it feels unbelievable, and yet America chose this version of our future. When he won the first time, I thought "surely this is a mistake, a fluke of the electoral college, because most Americans do NOT want this!" But now, people voted this in, fair and square, and my grief is fourfold. America knows who he is, and they voted for him anyway.

***

When I was a girl, my parents disciplined* me through spankings. I remember one spanking in particular: the humiliation of being told to lay myself over my father's legs as he sat on the edge of the bed, and him pulling down my pants to hit my exposed bottom. I remember sobbing, more from the humiliation and rage of it than the pain, and saying "It's not fair! You're big, and I'm little, and it's not fair!" as one large hand repeatedly smacked me and the other held me down.

What was also unfair is that some of my spankings were for things I did not do: I was innocent of the crimes of which I was accused. But justice, fairness, and size didn't matter. In my house, might made right.

And that, to this day, is my biggest fear: that it is someone's power, not their truth or justice, that determines outcomes. It's my fear that those in charge get to distort natural laws of truth in their own favor, and redefine what is fair.

* "To discipline" is "to teach." What those spankings taught me was that the world was unfair, and that I could not trust the adults in my life. Those spanking did not make me want to be a better person, so I don't think that they were "discipline" at all. I never learned the intended lessons.

I feel like that again right now: the humiliation of being a part of a system designed not to make me grow into my own power of integrity, but a system designed to make me obey. I feel vulnerable and angry, humiliated and powerless.

And before someone says so: of course I know that I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm "just" a woman, but I am white, middle class, straight, in a blue bubble. I know that I'm lucky, just as I knew that I was lucky as a girl that my father didn't break my bones when he spanked me... but that it was still wrong. Not as wrong as some other things, but still wrong.

I feel grief and rage and pain, and still know how it could be worse.

***

When I was in cancer treatment I went to an online support group at YSC (Young Survival Coalition, for breast cancer survivors under the age of 40). One day a verbal fight broke out amongst the members, because a stage 1 woman was deeply grieving her diagnosis, and other people jumped in to say "you're so lucky! there are stage IV women here, you have nothing to complain about!" and I will never forget what happened next. One of those stage IV women chimed in; she was someone I admired, and her journey was awful (and she later died of the disease). 

She said, "Cut it out. This is not the Suffering Olympics, and there are no gold medals. We all take it differently, and who are we to judge each others' pain?! You have no idea what someone's mental health is, and the fear is real for all of us - we've seen stage IV women survive, and stage 0 women die. So cut it out! Suffering is suffering, and we ALL deserve our tears. Support each other!"

I have never forgotten her lesson. It doesn't mean that you get to have a pity party at the expense of someone else, but there is enough space for all of our grief. Sometimes I am one of the lucky ones with fewer problems; sometimes I am one of the unlucky ones who seem at greatest risk.

But every time, I think we are all allowed our grief, and in our grief, we can connect with each other.

Black and Brown women have it worse. LGBTQIA+ women have it worse. Women with poor mental health have it worse. Women in red states have it worse. Low income women have it worse. I know that, and I am trying to think of new ways to support those groups. I'm grieving, but I don't forget those women. I've been trying to support those groups in tangible ways for a long time, try to let my life serve to live these values that I hold so dear, about loving my neighbors and standing up for oppressed people and never, ever being a bystander.

All of those things are true, and also, I feel so wounded right now that I am breathless, the wind knocked out of me. I'm trying to catch my breath, gather my strength, and figure out what I need to do next.

And I don't want to participate in the Suffering Olympics. I want to give whatever I have to support other women, to acknowledge my privilege but allow my grief, and the grief of every person I meet. I want to give space to help people to be seen. If someone is hurting deeply, I want to stand up for them, even in my grief. There is space for all of us, and if we work together, we can hold each other up despite our injuries and pain.

***

I went to a workshop more than a dozen years ago where the facilitator gave the attendees an analogy. He said that it wasn't enough to be glass half full, that we needed to imagine that we were a teacup under a waterfall, and that the waterfall would keep our teacup so full that it would overflow into the saucer. He said to make sure we stayed under the waterfall enough to keep our teacup full, so that we would have a never ending supply of water in the saucer to give to anyone who needed it. I love this image: when we are filled, we have SO MUCH MORE TO GIVE.

Right now, I feel like there is a dirty puddle at the bottom of my teacup. I try to share that muddy water with my students, with the people in my pathway, but I am aware of how low my reserves are, and how close to breaking I have felt this week, and how my gifts are smaller than usual because I am so drained. When I feel like that, I am crabby, and I don't give the best of myself - I'm at danger of inflicting damage on others, rather than healing. I'm quicker to take offense, more likely to misinterpret, less likely to think before responding. I'm weary, and like every tired toddler, I'm more prone to tantrums when I need a nap.

My plan is to take that nap. Not a hibernation, but a true nap. I will try to refuel myself with the things that give me strength: gathering with my closest friends, reading poetry, listening to music, being in nature, eating soothing food, gentle exercise, more introvert time to read, crochet, make jewelry. I am gathering my strength. I will use this time to summon strength for myself, and for others.

***

Soon, I hope, I will feel strong enough to take more initiative, to help in new ways, to be a light in the world that is bright enough to share my light with others. Because one thing I know for sure is this: power gives the power to tell lies without penalty, but might does NOT make right. What is right, good, and true is a natural law, not manmade, and no amount of justifying or rule-changing can make it any other way.

Might is power, but it is not right.

I'm thinking about women who have come before me and made change in the world. I'm thinking of the influence of great authors like Mary Oliver or Maya Angelou who inspired us to be better; I'm thinking of activists like Angela Davis and Gloria Steinem who showed us new ways to gain our power; I'm thinking of trailblazers like Marie Curie or Amelia Earhart or Shirley Chisholm.

Shirley Chisholm never got to be President, but she showed us that we could do more than before.

Maya Angelou never got to see a world with racial justice, but she saw improvements.

Gloria Steinem is 90 years old and still fighting to end the gender pay gap and violence against women, but some of her work means that I can be a single divorced mother with my own mortgage, credit cards, and job.

The women who first fought for women's suffrage died before it came into being, (and they did it wrong too, because they left out too many women (people of color) in their efforts, and Black women couldn't vote for far too many years after white women gained that ability). 

Might pushed them down, but it still wasn't right, and the truth continued to break through. Eventually, justice started to catch up.

Sometimes might wins for a while. I got the spanking, Abigail Adams couldn't convince her founding father husband to "remember the ladies," and the gender pay gap continues, and it's much, much worse for Black and Brown women to this day.

But I do not believe that it makes right, and I don't believe that it will prevail.

Might is just... might. Strength is not leadership, nor goodness, nor intelligence. It's just power, and it's not right, even when it's pretending to be.

I'm still grieving. I have no idea how I'm going to edge the moral arc of the universe towards justice just yet. I walked in the rain and gray skies today, grateful that the weather reflected my mood, grateful for the damp cold seeping through my clothes and making me feel, even if that feel was an aching in my middle aged bones, because it's better than being numb, and I'm still feeling pretty numb.

But I know that after this season of grief, I will rise again. I will find ways to fight for what I believe in my soul is right. I will speak up for myself, and for anyone in harm's way, and I won't be a bystander.

I'm suffering, and I'm not getting any medals for that suffering. Waves of grief pass over my body, and sometimes I want to go into the fetal position; sometimes I want to scream. I'm trying not to do either.

We're in fight or flight now, but I'm going to tend and befriend, because fight or flight was never my style anyway.

I'm going to look for waterfalls to fill my cup, and I'm going to gather that strength and power and use it to help myself and anyone who I can. Shakespeare's line, "Though she be but little, she is fierce" is resonating. I'm one of the little people, but I am not without my own power, and as soon as I can get off the floor, I'm going to see if I can be a light.

So many mixed metaphors - light and Olympics, teacups and waterfalls and muddy puddles. My brain is a muddy mess like that right now. Let me just catch my breath a bit more, but I'll find a way towards clear water: I'm seeking waterfalls.

Let me know where you find waterfalls, and where you know ways to halt the destruction of those who believe that might makes right.