Friday, February 6, 2015

intentionality & the lost art of apologizing

You're playing with a sharp pocket knife when it slips from your hand and lands point down in your friend's foot. You didn't mean it. You were just playing around, but somehow that doesn't ease the pain or staunch the blood. 

Why are words different? Why do people assume that their intentions are relevant when their words cause pain or offense? If the pen is mightier than the sword aren't words something to be used with care?

There is, and has been for some time, a lot of backlash against what's wrongly labeled being politically correct, and I will acknowledge  it might seem there's a mine field of offense just waiting to explode at any step. That's a different conversation. I'm talking about direct personal insult (though I course there is overlap).

The remedy when your tongue slips instead of your knife is not 'I was just joking' - which places blame for the offense on the offended party's lack of humour. The remedy is a simple formula each one of is should have learned in childhood.

I am sorry I X
I realize it was wrong because Y
I will do Z to make sure it doesn't happen again. 

That is the simple and dying art of apology. You will notice the formula does not include spots for either blame or explanation. In business we call it crisis communications. In the rest of life I call it's called taking responsibility for yourself. 

Monday, January 26, 2015

Kristiana is my child

CREDIT: KRISTIANA COIGNARD, COURTESY OF HEATHER ROBERTSON via thinkprogress.org
Isn't this girl beautiful? I think she's beautiful. She looks a little sad, but like she's trying to smile for her aunt who is taking this picture. She thinks, maybe on an unacknowledged level, that peace is a concept worth supporting. She has the glowing skin of youth. 

This is Kristiana Coignard, and until January 22, 2015* she lived in a small Texas town. That location is not really important, though we reassure ourselves with tragedies that happen 'over there.' Kristiana could have lived anywhere. A big city, either coast, Canada, my home town. As of today Kristiana doesnt live anywhere. This morning Kristiana walked into a police station and was shot 4 times by 3 grown men. 

We don't know much else. We know Kristiana lost her mom when she was 4. We know her aunt raised her and her grandmother loved her. We know she was young when she was diagnosed with mental illness. We know she was young when she died. What little I've told you I know from a much fuller story on ThinkProgress.Org. More details will eventually surface, and regardless of what those details are the men who killed this beautiful girl will return to their fully-armed work. Of that much I am certain. 

It seems like months since there hasn't been an extra-judicial police killing in the American news. For the most part those tragedies have been black men murdered by white policemen. Here in Jamaica black men are murdered by black police men and it barely makes the news (but boy did we know about Miss Universe!). There's more to all of it - more to the race conversation, more to discussions of weapon access and power and who has it and how to make them responsible for how they use it, and much much more to the mental health conversation. There is also more to people's fatigue with doing something about it. 

When I read about Kristiana today on twitter I felt nauseated. I still feel kind of shaky.  

I was 16 - a year younger than Kristiana - when I was first diagnosed with depression; it has waxed and waned throughout my adulthood. There have been days or weeks or months when I'm not sure that anything I know is true. 

My son NL* was first diagnosed with mental illness when he was 12. He has worked hard to find a variety of ways of coping with his diagnoses. He has a life and a plan and big goals. He's an intelligent and articulate advocate for himself. He's responsible for his own care and honest with his doctor. Sometimes his coping methods work well, and other times he has set backs and has to try something new. Twice it has been bad enough that he attempted suicide.

This past autumn NL had his first mental health related interaction with the police. He said something online to someone he thought he could trust but couldn't, and in the middle of the night the police came into his home, ransacked the place, took his medical marijuana (see coping methods & supportive doctor, above), and arrested him. And no, I don't believe there is a difference between arrest and "protective custody." 

For someone with anxiety, during midterms in his first semester of college, a night spent in Psychiatric Emergency is not helpful. Sitting bolt upright in a chair worried what the wandering, muttering, sometimes snoring other patients might do if you fall asleep is not helpful. Being taken from your home into the autumn night in your gym shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops is not helpful. Being left without cab fare home is not helpful, and having to take the bus in those same shorts, T-shirt and flip flops is not helpful. In the morning when the Psychiatrist - who doesn't work nights - asks 4 questions and says the whole thing was a travesty it's only slightly less unhelpful. Returning home to boxes dumped of their contents, shelves emptied, and a terrified cat is a perfect recipe for triggering more symptoms. 

NL is also beautiful. Like Kristiana has has bright eyes and a sly smile and hope for a peaceful, just world. Like Kristiana he has a family who cherishes him. NL could easily be Kristiana, and from 5,370 kilometres away that thought leaves me cold. 

We are failing people with mental health diagnoses, and more and more of those people are our children. Someday, somehow, something has to change. More children like Kristiana shouldn't have to die. More young men like NL should be able to ask for help when they need it and receive ACTUAL help, not interactions that make things so much worse. Kristiana was not nobody's child - she was everybody's child. Kristiana was my child. 

*Date corrected Jan. 27 based on new news reports.
*Thanks NL for once again letting me tell his story.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

lacuna

I have been too long out of the academic world; my mind is no longer as attuned as it was to the theories and structures of silence. What I know, or think I know, is that silences - despite the best efforts of theorists - are uninterpretable.


There is a term in manuscripts for a missing portion of text or an unfilled space - it's referred to as a lacuna. It's a beautiful word for a gap; the Latin root is the same as that for 'lake,' a body of water that for me invokes memories of childhood and peace. Of course there are theorists who will spend whole books trying to measure this missing, trying to fill it in, wondering if it is there on purpose, by accident, or worn away through the abuses of time.

In the Psalms of David, there's another word "Selah." If I remember my Bible lessons correctly, "Selah" is somewhat like "amen" but more of an invitation to pause - to sit a moment in silence and let what preceded sink in - than an affirmation of what was said.

I tend to panic in silence - to imagine the worst. Not in the silence of a quiet evening at home, but in the silence of unanswered questions; of unmeasurable canyons. I fear the unknown and want the missing blanks filled in. I think the sea bottom is close enough to put my feet down, then realize I am out of my depth. Yes, I am a strong and joyful swimmer - but panic doesn't come from reality. Panic comes from not knowing.

I would prefer the other kind of emptiness - not the void but the luftpause, to  borrow the musical term. Here you may breath - you will be stronger after. Or, here you may breath, much more is coming. Come up from the music for air.

There are gaps and spaces. Missing words and invocations to breathe. The problem with silence is you can't know what kind it is until it's over. You can't know how long it will last until it is done. You can't know where the bottom is until your feet hit sand. Words themselves have endless play; silences stand unmoving.

Sunday, January 4, 2015

welcome to 2015, the year of stretching

You know that feeling - the one you get in exercise class warm-ups or cool downs, or with certain yoga poses. That feeling of stretching, of being as long and lean and extended as your body can be. Of reaching out and up, expanding in the best way, fully alive from your toes to your finger tips to the top of your head. You are tall. You are invincible. You are alert, and yet you are comfortable.

Some people can inspire that feeling as well. But you're still the one who has to do the reaching, the stretching, the being fully alive, awake and you. You are the one who has to determine not to shrink back when the external operator is no longer there to inspire you.

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

the golden updraft

There are times in life when I feel dissociated from the reality around me. I have a surreal experience that echoes as 'is this really my life?' It is a question that I always experience as wonder. I know what I am experiencing is accurate, and yet ... 

As I write this I am sitting in Miami International Airport mid-way in a long day of travel between my temporary home of Kingston Jamaica and my excursion destination of Bridgetown, Barbados. This is my unrecognizable life. 

How did an awkward teenager turned frumpy housewife from northern British Columbia end up here? Was I always destined to be here, or did I make it happen? Is the answer somewhere in between? I know this was long the life I dreamed of - even as a teenager in the hinterland I dreamt of being cosmopolitan, a jet-setter. It's the adventure I always wanted, but the leap from then to know is mind-bending. 


As Sidney Poitier says in his autobiography The Measure of a Man
Daydreams were guaranteed to please. They had it all over facts & reality when it came to getting groundwork done and foundations laid. However, daydreams were burdened with what in years to come would be revealed as their major weakness. Every ounce of the hard grueling work necessary in the conversion from promises made to dreams fulfilled was the sole responsibility of the dreamer.
I can, with neither false vanity not false modesty, say I've done the work. I earned the education. I put in the hours of work at jobs that varied between an expression of myself and just paying the bills. I did without when doing without was necessary, and I did with when it was possible. I went with the flow, and then I swam against it. I am also clear I haven't arrived - maybe there is no arriving. Maybe each summit reveals a new peak ahead. But in this moment, life is surreal and perfect.

It's also unequivocally true that I have had the great privilege not just of being allowed to dream but of being allowed to believe in my dreams. My sisters and I were encouraged to test and develop talents in various fields - sports, school, the arts - and so to learn about ourselves. We were encouraged to learn about and visit other places and people. And, we lived in a culture and society that said in myriad ways 'the white middle-class will inherit the earth' - it was the water we swam in. 

I see the street children in Kingston and I know they too dream. But I wonder if it ever occurs to them that they are worthy of their dreams, that they have as much right to do the hard work that has dreams come true as anyone. In an environment of constant lack and need, how do dreams grow?
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