It's Complicated

Hello, everyone,

Okay, I’ll warn you upfront.  This one is going to take a different tone.  I was planning on writing an update about how I’m settling into my new place in Columbus, OH (quite well, thank you), and how I’m liking my classes (a lot), and some of the things I’ve been learning and thinking about (again, a lot).  But a news story this last week is causing me to put my plans on hold.  I’m sure most of you heard about Ahmed Mohamed, the 14-year-old in Irving, Texas, who was arrested after bringing a homemade clock to school last Monday.  If not, you can read one account of it here.

The story caught fire, and immediately people took to traditional and social media to either decry the racism of the teachers, school staff, and police involved in this case or to defend their actions.  Memes were generated almost immediately (im-meme-diately?), and even President Obama reached out to Ahmed, inviting him to visit the White House.  As a nation, the US has been more hyper-aware of racial tensions in the last two years than we’ve been in decades.  Opinions vary, but they are plentiful.  It makes sense that this story would have grabbed our attention so quickly.  It involves both racism and the police, hot-button topics in recent times (dare I say “trendy”? Facebook does, though I’m not sure that’s reason enough to do anything).  

But.

Yes, you guessed there’d be a “but.”  However, before I go into that, I want to make it clear that I firmly believe that race was involved in this instance (and not only because I believe that as a fundamental part of our socially constructed identities, race is involved in everything).  Many people have addressed this far more eloquently than I can, and if you’re interested, I can point you toward those discussions.  For now, though, ask yourself this: if a white, red-headed girl named Bethany who had been part of the Irving community her whole life, and whose family was very involved in the school had brought her homemade clock to school right before the Science Fair in mid-April (so not right after September 11), would you suspect her of bringing a bomb to school?  Possibly, but probably not.  But let’s imagine Bethany did get arrested.  Maybe it would have been because there had been a bomb scare in a nearby school district and the administration was just being careful.  Maybe it would have been because her older brother was just caught dealing drugs and her family suddenly became suspect.  Maybe it would have just been an honest mistake.  But Bethany could be pretty sure that it wouldn’t have been because of her race.  Ahmed doesn’t have that luxury.  Even if race really had nothing to do with what happened in his school on Monday (and again, I don’t believe that for a hot second), the fact that anyone could suspect that his skin color might have played a role is an indication of disadvantage based on race.  You might come to a different conclusion, and if so, I’d be interested in hearing it.  From what I know right now, though, I believe this story is definitely “about race.”  

But.

There it is again: but.  You see, I get uneasy when stories like this spread so quickly.  I’m always overwhelmed by how fast any news travels these days (I’m officially three decades old now—I get to say things like “these days”).  But especially when questions of identity and culture and race and justice are concerned, I worry that we jump to quick conclusions based off of snappy soundbites, satisfied that headlines constitute whole stories.  Our media diet is as simplified as our struggles are complicated.  And I think that in the immediate rush to interpret Ahmed’s arrest as racially motivated (or not), we’re missing another equally important issue.

When I first read through the article, I found myself wondering about the teacher who reported Ahmed’s invention to the administration.  Do I think she handled it well? No.  Do I think race was involved in her assessment of the situation? Almost certainly.    

But if we turn the legitimate question of “why did she think this child might bring a bomb to school?” outward to ask another legitimate question, “why did she think any child might bring a bomb to school?” we get an equally disturbing response: because it happens.  Children bring bombs and guns and weapons to school and they kill people.  I’m not sure how old this teacher is, but she would have to have been old enough in 1999 to remember when two troubled teenagers in the suburbs outside of Denver forever stripped us of the illusion that schools are inherently safe places.  She would have staggered in shock, as we all did, when twenty first graders were shot and killed by a former student of Sandy Hook Elementary in 2012.  At the very least, she would have been aware of the dozens of shootings and other violent acts that have occurred across primary and secondary schools and college campuses in the last few years alone. 

At some point during my time teaching preschool, I was deciding whether to do a lockdown drill or an earthquake drill (we were required to do each once every three months, and I hadn’t done either that quarter).  I reasoned that I should do the lockdown drill first because it was more likely that we’d need it.  Folks, we were near a major fault line!  The chances of an earthquake should have been much higher.  Of course, my statistics could very well have been wrong, but the fact that school violence seemed not only likely, but even normal, made me furious.  And yet, it goes without saying that once it is normal, we must be as prepared as possible.

So why did Ahmed’s teacher report him?  For one thing, she was following school protocol.  The school has affirmed that she did what was required when a student brings a suspicious object to class.  In addition to whatever personal and societal reasons she had to suspect Ahmed in particular, we must not forget that she had historical and now procedural reasons to fear that a child—a child!—would come to school with a bomb.  This would have been unthinkable even fifty years ago.

Again, I don’t want to detract from the racial implications of the story.  We must ask both “Why him?” and “Why any child?” simultaneously and earnestly.  And as with any important questions, in the asking of them, many others arise: 

• What is it like to be a Muslim in Irving, Texas? 
• What is the racial makeup of Ahmed’s school?
• What kinds of supports are being put in place in schools to help children with psychological and emotional disorders before they turn to violence?
• How is racism being addressed in teacher and police training programs?
• Are there any practical suggestions for reducing gun and other violence in schools (people of all political stripes agree that kids shooting kids is a terrible thing, but are there any ideas that might actually change anything)?
• How does the media contribute to or deconstruct the fears of school violence and of racial and cultural difference?  What is the media’s role in reporting violence and in portraying difference?
• And perhaps most poignantly: When Ahmed responded on Twitter to the outpouring of encouragement by saying, “Thank you for your support! I really didn’t think people would care about a muslim boy,” why did he assume people wouldn’t care about Muslim boys?  What does his assumption say about our society?

And there are dozens more questions we could and should be asking because this is a complicated situation.  It’s important to remember that saying that “it’s complicated” doesn’t detract from the argument that Ahmed’s story is “about race.”  If anything, it should reinforce it.  Race is complicated, because people are complicated.  Like every aspect of our identities, race can’t be separated out into neat boxes and dealt with in isolation.  It is so much harder this way, but the encouraging news is that the moment we refuse easy answers, the moment we allow questions of race to spill over into other areas of life, we can finally start to have meaningful, productive conversations about it.  Please keep this conversation going.  What are your thoughts?

Have a good week,

Sarah/Mouse

That time my mom and I climbed Everest to get an ice cream cone

Hi, everyone,

Okay, I’ll admit it up front: the title of this post is perhaps the closest I’ll ever get to yellow journalism.  That being said, it is, by certain definitions, completely true.

You see, a number of years ago, my family and I were on holiday in England and we stumbled upon a small coastal town called Robin Hood’s Bay.  While we were exploring, my mom noticed an ice cream shop that was selling Choc 99s.  For those of you who have not spent much time eating ice cream in British or formerly British settings, Choc 99s are soft serve ice cream cones with a Cadbury’s Flake.  For my family at least, they are both nostalgic and delicious.  So when a chance to get one arose, we all leapt at it.  Imagine our collective disappointment when we learned that the shop had closed.  

Soon after this tragedy, we ran into a few people who seemed to be waiting for something to happen or somebody to arrive.  As you may know, the Jacksons are a curious breed, so we asked them what they were up to.  It turned out that they were waiting for friends who were about to complete a long cross-country walk called the Coast to Coast.  It began on the west coast of England and ended in Robin Hood’s Bay, in the east.  We stored that information away in some recess of our brains, and enjoyed the rest of our holiday.  

Several years later, when my mom and I were brainstorming about how we could celebrate our 30th and 60th birthdays which were to occur within a month of each other, the idea of the Coast to Coast resurfaced.  I had done several week-long hikes before and was eager to try one in country I knew was so beautiful.  Besides, we had to go back to Robin Hood’s Bay to get our Choc 99.

Now, in the States, if you wander around in the woods for a few hours, that’s a “hike.”  Not so in Britain.  It turns out that even when you walk over 200 miles over 16 days, sometimes for over 10 hours at a time, through three national parks, in weather clement and otherwise, ascending and descending the cumulative height of Everest, it’s a “walk.”  Gotta love British understatement.  

It was quite the walk.  As you can imagine, we met some incredible people.  As you can imagine, we had a lot of good talks and laughs.  As you can imagine, we went through some absolutely gorgeous scenery.  I was able to capture a little of it:

However, what’s harder to capture than the physical ups and down are the emotional ups and downs of a trek like this.  Even in normal life, we experience such a range of emotions over the course of a fortnight, but they can become a bit more intense in a setting like this.  So instead of presenting a barrage of photos here (don’t worry: they will come on Facebook later, once I’ve sorted through them all!), I present to you this photojournalistic essay, if you will, recreated in my bathroom in Spokane several weeks after the hike.  My hope is that this will convey a bit of what it felt like to be hiking across England for a few weeks.

Day 1: Excited

The adventure begins! 

Day 2: Awestruck

This place is stunningly beautiful! 

Day 3: Overwhelmed 

I’m clinging to a mossy mountain in the wind and rain because the path 

we’re supposed to be on has turned into a waterfall in the downpour.

Day 4: Content

An easier day when we could relax and enjoy the scenery.

Day 5: Exhausted

Our longest day so far and so, so hot!

Day 6: Worried

My knees are really giving me grief.  I hope I’m not doing permanent damage.  I also hope I don’t have to be airlifted out of here.

Day 7: Incredulous

There is a flock of parrots in the town where we’re staying and they 

roam the town by day and return to their owner by night.  What?!

Day 8: Nervous

The road we’re taking to our B & B is so steep and uneven that the 

driver of the Jeep has to stay in the vehicle so that it doesn’t tip over. 

[NB: Certain villages were so remote that there weren’t any 

or enough lodgings.  Once you arrived in town, the owner of the B & B 

where you were staying came to get you.]

Day 9: Embarrassed

I walked into the wrong building when trying to come back to the B & B 

after supper.  The man in the living room kept saying, “It’s my house! 

It’s my house!” but I was distracted by how the hallway looked 

so different from when we’d left.

Day 10: Asleep

We arrive in Richmond, where we are going to spend our rest day. 

I promptly have my first nap of the trip.

Day 11: Fascinated 

On our rest day, we learn about local history at various museums, 

including an exhibit about the Kearton brothers, pioneering wildlife 

photographers who used unorthodox techniques to get good shots, 

including using taxidermied animals as hides.

Day 12: Confused

Where did the path go?

Day 13: Beleaguered 

Relentless rain.  

Day 14: Pooped

So many hills! 

Day 15: Thrilled

Our B & B host gave us an alternative to the traditional English breakfast: a cheese board with over a dozen English cheeses! 

Day 16: Triumphant

We made it! 

I will likely write more about the trip in upcoming posts, but for now, one final photo from the actual hike does need to be shared: 

We did get our Choc 99, although this was several days before the end.  Our last day was 22 miles, so by the time we arrived in Robin Hood’s Bay, sure enough, the shop was closed.

I guess we’ll have to go back.

Have a great week,

Sarah/Mouse

Talking with Children About Race

Hello Everyone,

I just had my last day of preschool, and I'll write more about my three years there later, but I wanted to pass on an email I sent out today which relates my reflections about a conference I went to a while ago.  I share this with my broader community in the hope that it is helpful in some way.  Though it was intended for the parents of my students, it applies to anyone who interacts with children.

A few months ago, I attended a conference in Seattle about talking with children about race with an organization called Cultures Connecting.  This is a topic that I’ve considered in depth over my years of studying, teaching, and interacting with children, and I was thrilled for a chance to continue discussing this with people who are equally passionate about this subject.

I’d like to share a few of the strategies that came up at the conference in the hopes that they are helpful to you as you continue to raise your children to be conscientious and loving citizens of a diverse world.  But before I do, I’d like to address several questions that tend to arise when this topic comes up: 

- Why talk with children about race in the first place? Won’t calling attention to race make them racist?  It seems natural to think along these lines, but studies have shown that children are developmentally prone to forming racial preferences.  There is a widespread belief that children are colorblind and learn about racial categories as they approach adulthood. This is a sweet notion, but is simply not the case.  It’s been shown that children begin to notice racial differences by about six months of age.  [Most of the studies I refer to are discussed in a chapter of a book called Nurture Shock by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman.  See reference below.]  Since children will naturally sort people into “us” and “them” categories (known as “in-group favoritism”), it is important to help them process the conclusions they are already making, especially when these categories involve race.  Studies have also shown that putting children in diverse settings, or surrounding them with multiracial books and media, or modeling interracial friendships can all be beneficial, but alone, they are not enough; as young children make conclusions about the world, they need guidance through conversations.  In fact, when we don’t talk with children about race, we send the message that it is a taboo topic, leading to confusion, misguided conclusions and fear about race.  As Bronson and Merryman state, “during this period of our children’s lives when we imagine it’s most important to not talk about race is the very developmental period when children’s minds are forming their first conclusions about race.”

- I agree that this is important, but I don’t feel qualified to talk about this at all.  Who should talk with children about race?   Everyone.  Bronson and Merryman mention that 75% of white parents never talk with their children about race.  This is significantly more than nonwhite parents who often feel they need to teach their children about the risks of being a racial minority.  But as recent events across our country attest, racial issues are not going away, and they involve people of all races.  The wonderful thing about race is that everyone has one, so everyone is qualified to talk about it.  Of course, the more educated about these complex issues you are, the better, but you don’t have to be a racial minority or have marched in a protest to be able to have a conversation with children about them.  Begin by sharing your own experience with your child.  This will be more comfortable for you and will resonate with your child. 

- When is it appropriate to talk with children about race?  Now.  The answer is now.  While conversations about race are important with children (and adults!) of all ages, they are especially meaningful during the first five years of life.  For one thing, as I mentioned, it is during these stages that children are forming their first and most fundamental understanding of race.  But another benefit of beginning now is that as you know, preschool-aged children are more likely to voice questions and opinions that would go unasked and unstated later on in life once we’ve learned which subjects are taboo.  While it may be daunting to think of talking about race with young children, they actually often do much of the hard work by beginning the conversation.  As caretakers, it’s our responsibility to simply let these conversations happen naturally and to provide children with age-appropriate but honest responses.

- Okay, so what is an “age-appropriate” response?  Honestly, I don’t have a good answer to this question at this point, though I hope to look into it more during my PhD.  Until then, I’d say use your best judgement.  You know your child and what she is capable of understanding.  Most three-year-olds won’t be able to comprehend the nuances of the Civil Rights movement, but most are able to differentiate between skin colors and are beginning to develop a simple sense of justice: “He got three crackers! No fair!”  Use these daily occurrences as jumping-off points.  Once you start listening and watching for chances to bring up race, they will come up naturally more often than you’d expect.  

Now, I’d like to share four pieces of advice that we got from the conference to help our children have a more meaningful and compassionate understanding of race.

1.) Do your homework.  The more you know about race and racial history, the more confident you’ll be responding to your child’s questions as they arise.  Learn how race factors into our country’s educational, healthcare and judicial systems. Consider your own biases and prejudices (and everyone, everyone, has them!).  Once you understand your own ingrained perspectives you are more able to control the messages you’re giving the people around you, especially your children.

2.) Offer counter-narratives.  A counter-narrative is any story (in the form of books, television, other media or experiences) that provide a cultural perspective that is not the norm. For example, if your child watches the Disney movie, Pocahontas, check out stories from the library that portray American Indians today.  Ask your friends and acquaintances if they know people from a local tribe who would be willing to talk with your child’s class at school about their culture.  If possible, take your child to a local event on a reservation.  In other words, ensure that your child is being exposed to a variety of sources so that her definition of “Native American” isn’t shaped solely by one (rather inaccurate) film.  Counter-narratives are especially important in communities that are not racially diverse because children won’t be exposed to people of color in their daily social interactions.  Providing counter-narratives is not enough in and of itself, but this is an important piece of the puzzle.

3.) Expand the conversation.  As you look for teachable moments with your child, allow the conversation to grow and expand.  Be open to wherever your child wants to take it.  If your child asks why his doctor has brown skin, try to say something like “You noticed that the doctor has darker skin than we do.  What makes you curious about that?” rather than “Shh, honey.  Anyone can be a doctor.”  One of the most poignant stories I recall from the conference was about a young child at an elite private school near Seattle.  He raised his hand in the middle of class and said, “Black people aren’t smart.”  I imagine most adults would flinch at such a comment and would try to silence him immediately.  His teacher took the braver road, however, and asked what he meant by that.  He then told her how he’d been told that if you went to that school, you had to be very smart.  But there weren’t any black people at the school, so clearly black people weren’t smart enough to attend.  To a child who didn’t understand the insidious and complex relationship between economics, education and race, this is a very logical line of reasoning. But because the teacher allowed the conversation to continue, the whole class benefited from the resulting discussion which helped to fill in gaps the teacher hadn’t even realized were present in her students’ worldview.

4.) Be bold.  Race is not an easy topic, but it is vital.  Not talking about race tells children that it’s something that shouldn’t be addressed, which leaves them with unaddressed questions and unchecked biases.  Remember that saying something is better than saying nothing.  And remember that this should be an ongoing conversation; you don’t have to say it all or get it right in the first go.

I apologize for such a long message.  My hope is that it provides you with some encouragement to have these conversations with your child.  They might seem difficult at first, but from everything I’ve heard and read and experienced myself, they are both meaningful and essential if we are to raise our children as caring people in a richly complicated world.

If you have any questions, please feel free to email me.  I probably won’t have answers, but I can try to find someone who does! 

Take care,

Sarah

ps: The source for the book I quoted: 

Bronson, Po and Ashley Merryman.  “Why White Parents Don’t Talk About Race.” Nurture Shock: New Thinking About Children.  New York: Twelve, 2009.  45-69.  Print.

The Grass is Greener

Hello, Everyone,

When I finished my study abroad term in France during college, two of my closest friends and I decided to hike a portion of the Camino de Santiago, a network of pilgrimage trails dating back to the Middle Ages that all end in Santiago, Spain.  We chose to follow a route that took us along the coast of Northern Spain, which meant gorgeous views of both the Atlantic Ocean and the verdant green hills through which we travelled.  

Near the end of one day, after a particularly steep incline, we paused for a few minutes to look at the landscape.  Across the valley, there were a number of other hills further along the trail that were illuminated by the late afternoon light.  They were practically glowing.  I stood there transfixed, completely in awe of such splendor.  To this day, I don’t know if I’ve seen anything else in nature look more beautiful.  

And yet, as I stood there, I felt a concurrent, deep longing to be there, on those hills, in that light.  In that moment, that was all I wanted in all the world.  Nothing else mattered but being exposed to that light.  Somehow, I felt, if I could just be there, basking in that golden warmth, everything would be alright.  

As I began to imagine what that would be like, though, I remembered from previous experiences that light this intense is blinding; you can see only light surrounding you in all directions.  I began to realize that I was actually experiencing two contradictory desires.  I wanted to be in the light, but also to observe the light interact with other objects.  It was a rather frustrating paradox: seeing the way light lay on the hills made me want to be in it, but being in it would make me want to see its effects.  I could not do both simultaneously; it is impossible to see both sides of a coin at the same time.

I was reminded of these ruminations last week at church.  Over the past year or so, I have been feeling not only the rewards but also the drawbacks of living a solo life.  This in no way dominates my thoughts and it’s not a source of anxiety for me.  From what I can tell, this is a perfectly reasonable thing to consider especially given these factors: 

• I am about to move by myself to a new community yet again, leaving behind many dear friends.
• I am less than a month away from turning thirty, a milestone which prompts one to consider where she has been and where she would still like to go.
• My first very close friend had a child (my goddaughter!) this year, and I’ve seen firsthand how the deep joy of having a child has impacted her family.
• I am about to leave a job where I get to love and be loved simply and deeply by children all day long.  

Being single can be lonely sometimes, especially at church (this is a post—or several posts!—for another time), and it makes sense that I would occasionally look with a degree of longing at the lives of other people I know and consider what it might be like to be there, basking in the light of warm familial relationships.

And yet, when I was preparing to take Communion at church last week, I was given a moment of complete grace.  I sat there by myself, an empty chair on either side of me, watching as my brothers and sisters moved up to the front to take the bread and wine.  I watched as a couple who I know have been experiencing strain in their marriage nevertheless went up together, the husband touching his wife’s shoulder lightly as they broke the bread.  I watched as a child whispered something in his mother’s ear and she smiled back at him.  I watched as a family who have struggled with discipline issues with one of their children all went up, together.  

And a crazy thing began to occur.  As I looked at these people, I gradually realized they were glowing, just like those hills in Spain.  Sarah Jackson, you may be saying, you need more sleep.  You are right, of course, but that’s not what was going on.  I think I was getting a reminder of the other side of the coin.  I don’t just like to be in the light, I like to see it.  And for those few suspended moments, I didn’t want any of it for myself.  I didn’t want to be with anyone.  I didn’t want to be experiencing those things firsthand.  I just wanted to sit there and watch as life happened poignantly around me. 

These were tiny moments, unnoticeable, really, if you were in the middle of them.  No relationship issues were solved.  No life-changing words were spoken.  I’m sure none of the people involved even had the first clue that they were participating in actions I found so beautiful.  I certainly know there are many times when the small acts of love people give to me go unnoticed in the moment.  As a lifelong observer, I’ve learned that really seeing things takes time, effort, and a bit of distance.  It dawned on me last Sunday that my position right now—namely being single and without children—often provides me with that bit of distance, with those opportunities to observe and delight in moments that I would otherwise overlook because of general relational busyness.

The grass is always greener, it is said, and at times that may be true.  But every so often, we are given the chance to peek over the fence and simply enjoy the sight of a lovely yard without the distractions of having to plant or water or mow.  Every so often, we can catch a glimpse of the bigger picture precisely because we’re several paces back from it.

Have a great week,

Sarah/Mouse

Decisiooon! Decision! [Said, or preferably sung, in the style of Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof]

Hello, everyone,

One of the first things I learned when I began working at the preschool was the importance of giving children choices, especially when you’re needing them to do something they’re not wanting to do.  Consider these examples: 

• “Sophie, which cars do you want to pick up? The red ones or the black ones?”
• “Eli, you need to wear boots outside because it’s raining.  Do you want to put them on by yourself or would you like help?”
• “Allie, it’s time to have snack.  You can wash your hands and sit at the table, or you can sit on the rug until you’re ready to wash your hands and sit at the table.”

I say these kind of things all day long.  The main reason to continually give children choices is to help them feel like they have agency or control in a given situation.  Even when there is only one acceptable outcome, as in the last example, phrasing it in a way that gives a child options is empowering.  The ball is in Allie’s court, and even if she is choosing between what she considers to be two negative options, she has the power to decide which negative option is preferable to her in that moment.

In general, we all appreciate having choices.  Most of us want to be able to choose what clothes we wear, what food we eat, whom we befriend, whom we marry, whom we elect as leaders, etc.  Many people around the world have engaged in long, costly struggles to guarantee the right to determine their reality through fair elections.  Having choices is almost always a sign of privilege.  

I am so privileged that I have had more choices than I’ll ever be aware of, and so I report the following with humility and deep gratitude: I have just made the most difficult decision of my life to date.

Some of you may know that I’ve been applying for PhD programs which would begin in the fall.  My goal is to study Children’s Literature, and there were several avenues I could take to do so.  I spent the fall applying to five programs, and this spring learned that I was to choose between two very good options.  The issue is that when you’re choosing between negative options, you can ask yourself, “Which one is least bad?” and just go with the answer.  When you’re choosing between positive options, though, you have to ask yourself “Which one is most good?” partly by also asking “Which good could I most live without?”  It’s often easier for me to gear up for something negative than it is to consider missing out on something positive.  

I’ve gone back and forth for over a month now, trying to determine not only which school to choose, but how to make the decision in the first place.  There is the inevitable and glorious Pros and Cons List, the making of which is second nature to me, and I believe is always a good place to start.  

But there were two problems with relying on a pros and cons list.  The first is that there were far more pros for each program than cons; I was aware from the beginning that I was choosing between two fantastic options.  The second problem is that I could articulate which school was better for a given criterion, but it was much harder to determine which criteria were more important than others.  For example, “School A is in a location that is more appealing to me, but School B seems to have a more supportive environment within the department.”  There were so many factors to consider that I felt like I was on a seesaw, bouncing up and down depending on which factor I was considering in a given moment.

One of my friends mentioned a website called helpmydecision.com.  It has you list your options, then the various factors that will affect the decision.  You are then asked to weigh each factor on a scale of 1-10 to help distinguish which are the ones that are most meaningful.  The site then prompts you to rate each factor for each choice (School A gets a 7 for Factor 1, while School B gets a 4 for Factor 1, etc.).  When you’ve quantified everything you possibly can, you press a button and the site tells you which choice you should make based on the numbers you’ve entered.  

Of course, this is just an algorithm (or at least, I think it is—to be honest, I don’t remember exactly what an algorithm is, but I’ve heard people use the word to describe math-y, internet-y things).  And I certainly wasn’t going to base my future on that.  But I had hoped it might provide some clarity about whether I was leaning in one direction or the other.  Here were my results: 

The difference was essentially negligible! However, while this did nothing to show me which school I should attend, it was validating simply because it showed how split I was; these really were two good choices, and I really didn’t know which way to go.

So I was back on the seesaw.  At one point, a friend, in a joking attempt to be helpful, looked up the state animals for each location, and they were both the White-Tailed Deer

(though I’ve since learned that 11 of the 50 US states claim it as their state animal, which seems to diminish the value of having a state animal, in my opinion, but that’s beside the point).  I looked up the colors for each university, and they were essentially the same too.  I couldn’t even make my decision based on silly, arbitrary factors! 

In the end, the only way I could gain any headway was by talking through everything in my mind with anyone who would listen.  I cannot express how much patience I received from my family, friends, co-workers, and in some cases, even people who border on being strangers.  And ultimately, though I still felt like I was on the fence, many of these people would say, “What I hear you saying is _______.”  No one told me what my decision should be, and I knew all of them would be supportive no matter what I ended up choosing.  But I’ve learned that at times, there is so much going on in my mind and in my heart that I cannot discern any pattern or continuous direction.  I have to rely on other people to tell me what I’m telling myself.   

So what, you may ask, am I telling myself?  Where will I go in the fall?  The answer (finally!) is Ohio State University in Columbus.  I will be getting a PhD in Literature for Children and Young Adults through the Department of Teaching and Learning.  As I mentioned, there are many pros to this school, and I’d be happy to talk with you more about them if you’re interested.  However, the main draw for me was the chance to continue the textual analysis of literature for children while also considering how these texts affect real children.  I will have opportunities to nerd out about literary theory and to work with children in classrooms or other settings.  I am glad that I will be encouraged to consider the work I’ve already done as a teacher as I continue with my studies, and I am excited about the doors that this program might open in the future.  

But mostly, for just this week, I am excited to be done making the decision!  Thank you to everyone who listened to me, reflected my thoughts back to me, prayed for me, and encouraged me along this journey.  Please don’t stop!  I know I will need all the help I can get! 

Have a great week,

Sarah/Mouse

Take Up Thy Cot

Hi, Everyone,

Two nuns are walking at night in Transylvania when a vampire jumps out and begins moving toward them.  “Quick!” one nun says to the other.  “Show him your cross!”  The second sister takes a deep breath and bellows into the vampire’s face, “Get out of the way, you toothy jerk!”  This joke works best heard aloud rather than read, and in cultures where “cross” is a more regular synonym for “angry.”  I got a chuckle out of it, though.

I’ve been thinking a lot about crosses recently.  That is, perhaps, not all that surprising, since this past Friday marked the day when Christians remember Jesus’ crucifixion.  However this year, what struck me most was a comment from a documentary on Martin Luther King Jr. which I began watching recently.  The first MLK quote the filmmakers include is, “I have long since learned that being a follower of Jesus Christ means taking up the cross.”  This struck me so intensely I had to pause the film, but not because it’s such a revolutionary idea.  After all, Dr. King is drawing on centuries of Christian rhetoric—initiated by Jesus himself when he told his followers “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Matthew 16:24, NIV).  Nor was I affected by King’s words because they stirred me to some great sacrifice or noble cause.  

In fact, that was the problem.  They stirred me, but to what end?  What, I found myself asking, is my cross?  For quite some time now, I’ve craved having a cause, a fight, a destination to run toward.  I was raised with a deep sense of stewardship, and as such, I am perpetually aware that the talents, resources and circumstances I’ve been given can provide opportunities to serve other people.  What then, I keep asking myself, is my Thing?  How can I serve most fully?  How can I be of most use?  Though these questions are not new to me, they have been especially vehement recently, as I try to make vocational choices (more of that to come in another letter soon).  Whether or not this is true, it often feels like I am bumbling around from one thing to another like a bee laden with pollen but with no clue how to get back to the hive.

And so, with Dr. King’s words echoing in my conscience, I asked yet again: what burden am I made to endure?  And I suddenly thought, what if my cross is the cross of no cross?  What if my biggest struggle for now is the humbling notion that God isn’t asking me to do something exceptionally noteworthy and costly for Him?  What if I am being asked to sacrifice my sacrificial energy itself?

I recently had the opportunity to pray through the Stations of the Cross, a sequential method some Christians use to contemplate Jesus’ journey to his death through fourteen stages or “stations.”  Each station is accompanied by an image and a brief prayer pertaining to that stage.  Considering my questions regarding the cross, Station II was of especial interest to me: “Jesus bears his cross: Lord, we join you in your journey of suffering.”  I realized with shock that it did not say “Jesus bears his cross: Now go and bear yours,” but rather that we are to join Jesus in the suffering He’s already enduring.  All God asks is that we join Him, not that I find a niche market of suffering for me to endure in my own personal way.  I’m afraid my culture’s deep reverence for individualism and my own desire for uniqueness have seeped into even this corner of my faith.  

I am beginning to suspect that thinking in terms of my cross rather than Jesus’ cross is, at best, simply a form of pious navel-gazing, and at worst, downright idolatry.  While Good Friday is half of the equation, it is only half.  The cross has always been a means to an end; it has never been and never will be the final word.    

As I consider joining Jesus as he continues to bear his cross in the world, I am reminded of a frequent occurrence at my school. The children sleep on portable cots during nap time, and when they wake up, they are in charge of putting their bedding away.  The cots are relatively light, but large compared to the average three-year-old, so not all of the children can carry them by themselves.  At the beginning of the year, I would put away most of the cots while the children managed their bedding.  Over time, however, as they have gained coordination, strength and confidence, they have been able to participate more.  They love helping me carry their beds, and even though it is less efficient and more cumbersome for me to do it this way than for me to take care of it myself, I love it too.  They are perfectly aware that I am strong enough and big enough to take their cots myself, but they want to participate because they want to help and they want to be with me.  And that’s how it is with God too.  He does not need me to help Him.  I know I join Him in suffering only because of his grace in allowing me to do so.  I join Him because I want to be with Him and I know being with Him means suffering sometimes.  If the driving force isn’t relational, then my motivations reek of martyrdom. 

So what do we do?  How do we approach this call to carry crosses?  Again, I find myself seeking wisdom from my students.  While I still do help many of them carry their beds, increasingly, they are forming teams to transport the beds themselves:

chanting our teamwork song: “What’s gonna work? Teamwork!”

and then doing the “Teamwork Cheer." 

It might be difficult for me to determine what my cross is, but it is not hard to see crosses all around me: people fighting disease, relational strife, poverty, depression, loneliness and anxiety.  Perhaps if I spend less time trying to identify my one, unified, Cross-with-a-capital-C to bear, and more time responding to the varied opportunities for teamwork-style suffering that come my way, I would be closer in spirit to what Jesus and Dr. King were talking about.  After all, even Jesus’ ministry appears rather haphazard on the surface.

I realize that these questions may not be relevant for everyone.  Perhaps much of my desire to find a cross to bear comes from my own particular nature, nurture or the old familiar indeterminate combination of the two.  But for me right now, at least, I think my challenge is to look widely for chances to help others bear their crosses and to loosen my grip on any specific one.  

Unless, of course, I ever become a nun in Transylvania, in which case you’d better believe I’ll be holding onto my cross pretty tightly.

Have a good week,

Sarah/Mouse