Big Girl Things.

My last day at work was May 25, 2016. 
This isn't the way my life was supposed to go in the first place.  My undergrad years had a Pre-Med focus; everything I did and every choice I made for 4 years of college was laced wth a hint of future plans.  I was extremely focused and dare I say stubborn, refusing to give up on the academic curriculum that did a number on my spirit.  Not surprisingly, though I graduated successfully with my 4-year degree, I was not accepted into medical school, and began working where I could find a job and feel any hint of interest or passion for my work: helping kids living in a psychiatric residential treatment facility.  
I spent a year there before moving on to the job that challenged me and gave me security for nearly 5 years: being a case manager at a Community Mental Health Center.  Though trying to avoid cliches, I will say that I learned an immense amount about myself and gained experience across settings which I never foresaw. Some would say I found "my niche".  First, a bit of background. Essentially, my job was to carry a caseload of 20-25 kids and teens, and to hold sessions with these kids and/or their families on a weekly basis, with the goal of practicing skills the kids could use to improve different areas of their life, as outlined by their clinical therapist.  Community Psychiatrict Support & Treatment is the technical term for it.  The job entailed me traveling around my city, visiting elementary, middle, and high schools on a daily basis during the school year, and picking up my clients at home/daycare/etc during the summer months.  The Center I worked for serves 5 different counties, so for over 2 years, I also carried an outreach assignment and had a caseload in a neighboring county, to which I would travel one day out of the work week.  
I am grateful for the exposure to the public education system I experienced while doing this work.  It was eye-opening and stretching to see how schools function on a daily basis, and my respect for educators and schools is extremely high as a result of this gain in perspective.  I've even been toying with the idea of becoming a middle school science teacher myself (down the road) because of the connections I've made in the education world.  I've also learned that middle schoolers are my favorite people on the planet, as my caseload was, on average throughout my 5 years, heavily middle school-aged kids.  I've grown in my ability to help families in crisis, be it emotional, educational, or financial, by connecting them with resources in the community that can help.  I've led and facilitated psychosocial rehabilitation groups for kids and teens who need work on social and emotional regulation skills.  
So, why did I leave? 
In addition to my professional work, I've spent the last 6 years since graduating from college growing my soul and my person.  I am not married or have children [ a story for a different time ;) ], and choose rather to spend my time and energy developing my broad interest of investing in people from different walks of life.  I also like to keep up with my passion for the arts, including music, theatre, and writing.  I've carried around this feeling of "do more with your life" for as long as I can remember.
Sometime last fall (2015), something shifted inside of me that told me it was time to move on.  Throughout the next several months, I gained confidence in this conviction and began searching for answers as I tried to outline what this change would look like.  I decided that my February mission trip to Nicaragua would be a mile marker, along with the upcoming end of the school year, since my job was so closely linked to the school district schedule.
I wish it were as simple as saying that I just felt like I needed a change, but then everything everything in my external world started shifting too, including things with my family who is out-of-state.  It turned out that I needed to take an extended trip to Arizona to help my mom with some legal business, as well as try to get more information on her chronic health conditions.  My youngest sister had her elementary school graduation and 12th birthday coming up, my middle sister was moving into a new house, and my high school best friend was getting married.  I took these things as requests for my presence in my family's life.  Again, this is a story for another time, and I'm barely scratching the surface here, but there is a great amount of healing that needs to be done within my family and I have grown in my sense of responsibility in that area.  
In all, I felt a general sense of release.  At least, a sense of permission to start letting go and moving on.  I live pretty strategically and do my best to listen to the divine plan and direction for my life, rather than make impulsive decisions.  
I turned in my letter of resignation on the last Monday in April.  

Any frustration I had felt with my job in the previous years wasn't the driving motivation for this change, but I can't say the frustration never existed.  Some of my close friends will tell you that they feel like I was ready to leave my job 2 years ago.  I think I always knew that when I accepted this job, it wasn't as a permanent fixture in my life, but rather a stepping stone.  I've learned through trial and error that my personality is not one which will let me define myself by my career or job.  I've learned that I'm okay with not working the same job for 40 years, in fact, that I could never be happy doing that.  I've learned that my soul yearns for constant renewal and challenges, and that sometimes a big, scary leap of faith is necessary in order to put myself in the position where I can accept the next best thing that comes my way.  
The day I walked away from my job was emotional and scary.  I experienced my first mini-panic attack in almost a year, but I fought back. I felt the pain of the change and the nervousness of standing on the edge, but I also felt the peace and sense of hope that came with boldly staring down the abyss in front of me that held my future.  

Love Your Neighbor

A Story That Needs to be Told.

 

Part I: Saturday

November 28, 2015.

It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  Many Americans get extended time with family over this long holiday weekend; eating leftovers, watching movies and football games inside tucked away from the cold, maybe bonding with cousins or little nieces and nephews, or spending special time with Grandma or Grandpa.  On this Saturday, some were already traveling back to their Monday-Friday lives, maybe on planes or in cars with loved ones.

In Salina, Kansas, it was Laundry Love Saturday at Quick & Clean Laundromat on the West end of town.  Thanksgiving brought with it a severe ice storm this year; there were some power outages, many traffic accidents, and wind-chill temperatures that we were not prepared for. 

It was a small red car that drove up to the laundromat that afternoon, shortly after I arrived, carefully making my way across the still-frozen sidewalk and parking lot.  I was bouncing with excitement at the privilege of spending a few minutes saying hello to my friends; I work a second job on Saturdays, and hadn’t gotten to participate in 4^th Saturday Laundry Love in about a year.

Out of the small red car walked two young men, one shorter than the other, both wearing thin hoodies and jeans.  I noticed the shorter young man’s shoes first, as I watched him make his way through the icy parking lot.  They adequately covered his feet, but didn’t look like something I’d want to wear in snow and ice.

While I was talking to a friend, Debbie came and got me.  She had started to offer quarters to the young man, but he didn’t speak English, so she came and got me so I could talk to him in his native Spanish.  I explained what Debbie was trying to offer; a few quarters to pay for your load, something we offer to everyone we see in the laundromat today.  He gratefully, but hesitantly, accepted, and he and his friend moved their laundry into the more spacious machines so they wouldn’t have to cram it into regular-sized washers.  They were washing mostly bedding, their thick, soft blankets that I recognized as being sold in Mexican stores or outdoor markets in the Southern United States.  I had the feeling that maybe the two hadn’t been here long.

I began talking to the young man, whose name, I learned, was Carlos. Carlos had been in Salina for three weeks.  He moved here from Texas, for work, he told me.  “Oh”, I said, “what kind of work?” and he told me, “Restaurant business…I work at Pancho’s.”

I love Pancho’s, so I enthusiastically kept talking to him, and found out that he was working night shift.  His friend who was with him turned out to be his cousin, Emmanuel.  Emmanuel was working two jobs at fast food places.  Emmanuel had been in Salina for about 6 months already, so he knew a bit more about the lay of the land. 

“Wow, you moved here during the worst weather,” I told Carlos, “this must be very different for you.” He told me yes, it was, especially because he had to walk to work every night.  He and Emmanuel worked opposite and overlapping shifts, and Emmanuel was rarely available to give him rides to work. “Oh my goodness”, I said, “Did you walk to work the other night when the ice was falling?”

“Yes,” he said, “and yesterday I fell twice in the morning while I was walking back home”.

I remembered while I was sitting there talking to him, what it was like my first winter in Kansas.  I’m originally from the desert southwest in Arizona, so my heart went out to him because I knew how harsh the change can be.

“Well do you have a coat, are you keeping warm enough?”

He said the hooded sweatshirt on his back was all he had, but he had one other long sleeved shirt on under it. 

“What about shoes? Are these the shoes you walk in?”

He nodded yes.  I could see the struggle and stress his eyes.

“You’re going to get sick! Are you feeling sick already?”

“It’s starting a little bit…”

I said, “Oh, no.  Let me go talk to my friend.  We’ll have some clothes and stuff for you.”

So I went to Debbie and I believe my exact words were, “Red alert, red alert….” I told her what I knew (I had already gotten shoe and shirt sized from Carlos).

So next, I found out where they lived, and got Emmanuel’s phone number.  We couldn’t stop thinking about these two young men, and I went straight home and threw a pile together of my own stuff out of my house that I thought might be useful to them: jars of peanut butter from my pantry, a couple long-sleeved sweatshirts, a pair of gloves, a face mask.  I stopped by K-Mart and bought three bags of ice melt; two for them and one for me.

I met Debbie and her husband at the boys’ apartment later that evening.  Debbie’s husband went in with me and Debbie stayed with their baby granddaughter in the car.  The apartment was the size of my living room.  I couldn’t see the bathroom, but I’m pretty sure there was no kitchen.  There was a hotplate on the ground, and a full-sized mattress on the floor.

The coat we brought for Carlos fit well, and he opened his backpack from Debbie: socks, hand warmers for his coat pockets.  The pair of running shoes we brought him fit.  I explained to him how to use the ice melt; their parking lot at their apartment complex was in as bad shape as I feared.  He walked out with us to the car to thank Debbie, and he gave her a hug.  We said our goodbyes and got in our cars to leave.

I watched Debbie drive away, and I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t think about anything other than how Carlos was sitting by himself in that tiny apartment, with nothing to do, no one to talk to until Emmanuel came home.  I thought about how he probably had no idea how to walk in the snow and ice to avoid falling, how he might not think to pack an extra pair of socks in case his feet got wet walking in the snow, about how the ice storm from the other day was literally the first time these boys had experienced this type of weather.  I thought about how I was once new to Kansas winters, and how scary and foreign it was. 

And I thought about the language barrier on top of all that.  Yes, people can learn English if they move here, but that’s not the point.  The point is, what must it feel like to be alienated from your family, working a night shift at a fast food place, walking to work in ice and snow, in a new world where you can’t even understand what the person in line in front of you at the grocery store is saying?

So I got back out of my car and knocked on the apartment door again.  He answered it still wearing the coat we just gave him. And we walked around the parking lot together and I taught Carlos how to throw down the ice melt.  And when I left, I fought back tears and told him, “Stay encouraged, it’s all gonna be okay.”

Part II: Sunday

I had texted Emmanuel the night before when I got back from dropping things off to his cousin.  Sunday morning came and I was looking at the forecast, knowing there was more ice and snow coming that week.  Through text message, I asked Emmanuel if they had ice scrapers for the car.  He told me no, they hadn’t been able to get any yet.  How they managed during that ice storm, I don’t know, I told myself.

After church, I was on a mission: find these guys some ice scrapers.  Of course, everyone in town was on the same mission for themselves and their families because our recent storm had told us that winter was hitting early.  So I had to go three different places before I found any ice scrapers, and of course they were big, fancy, and not the dollar-store kind.  I kept telling myself, these guys deserve something that’s going to work well.  And I kept thinking, “What else can they do to outsmart the weather?”

I thought of tarps.  Tarps, so they can cover the windshield when ice is in the forecast overnight, genius, Gilda! So I picked up three of those: two for them, and one for me.  I liked how in shopping for my own winter-prep items, I could make sure someone else was taken care of as well. 

I went home and packed up the pile I had thrown together the night before; the sweatshirts, peanut butter, long-sleeved shirts out of my closet, the extra coat I only ever wore when I had to shovel snow.  This time when I visited the apartment, both boys were there, and I explained to them how to use the ice scrapers and what I thought the tarps could be helpful for, and how I hoped the sweatshirts could be useful.  I also got Emmanuel’s shoe size so we could try to find him a pair of winter shoes, as the running shoes he wore were worn through.  Both boys were so thankful, yet still seemed hesitant.  But you could feel the trust between us.

I texted Debbie about every detail from that day.  She wanted to know more.  What did they have? What else did they need? Did I think they could use (item A, B, C)?  I tried my best to answer her questions and help brainstorm about how else we could help.

Monday came and went and all I could think about was those two boys.  How do people in their situation get help, I asked myself.  How do they go to the doctor if they get sick? How do they set up utilities in their apartment? All things I had little control over, yes.  I couldn’t sweep in and save these boys from anything, I knew.  But the desire was there to just try and make life easier for them.

Part III: Tuesday

On Tuesdays, I usually work at my second job in the evenings.  I met Debbie at the Salina Shares building late that afternoon and helped her pull random stuff that we thought the boys could use.  We found a little wooden nightstand that had been in our building for too long without finding a home.  A couple odd-end pots we thought were good for the hotplate; macaroni and cheese; some fleece sheets for the bed; bars of soap and washcloths; a pair of boots for Emmanuel.  We drove it over and left it at their front door, secluded from the rest of the apartment complex by a second door and a little hallway, after texting back and forth with Emmanuel and realizing they weren’t home, but we weren’t going to be able to go back that week.

We got a text from Emmanuel the next day saying they had received everything and that the boots fit, and that they were very thankful.  They were so sorry to have bothered us for so much. The thing was, they had never asked us for anything in the first place.

Part IV: Two Weeks Later

On the third Tuesday of December, I texted Emmanuel to invite the boys to Laundry Love at Speedy Wash on Iron Avenue.  He texted back, “Thank you…but we’ve actually moved back to Texas..thank you again for everything, we were so lucky to meet you ladies.”

I stared at my phone for a few seconds, re-reading the text.  Yes, they really left, my brain registered.  Yes, we really spent all that time worrying about them and finding them stuff, and now they’re gone. 

I’m not going to lie and say I wasn’t disappointed.  But mostly, I wondered, “Was life just too hard here for them? Did they not have enough help? Did they feel totally unconnected, and up the creek without a paddle? How did other people treat them while they were here? What made them decide to leave so quickly?”

And then I realized that none of this mattered.  What mattered was that we were obedient to the still, small voice in our heads and hearts that told us, “Clothe your neighbor.  Feed your neighbor.” What mattered was that we were willing to connect, willing to put our vulnerability right next to theirs, and step alongside some complete strangers on their journey, trusting that our paths intersected for a reason. 

For me, it was life-altering.  I had never felt that much of a sense of urgency for complete strangers, never felt so involved in someone’s story.  Maybe it was the fact that I could communicate with them and offer that connection.  Maybe it was that both of these boys could have been my younger brothers, and I felt a sense of responsibility.  Maybe I wanted to experience a little bit of what Debbie did so often, in the earlier days of Salina Shares, when she was getting stopped in her tracks by all these immediate needs, with no plan, no funding, and nothing but the compassion in her heart to guide her decisions. 

I’m thankful for that cold November day.  It, along with the days that followed, reminded me that I’m part of a huge human Family.  And no wind chill can take that warm feeling away.

 

 

Hiatus

November 3, 2014 was the last time I wrote on this blog.

My heart and mind are full of stories from all the experiences I've lived since then.  Stories of heartbreak, loss, unforeseen change, plans and dreams shattered...
...but I've also got stories of hard work, perseverance, resilience, triumph, and hope.

I am excited to share these stories with you. Part of me feels awkward sending readers back to this blog, because I know that some of my older posts may not reflect who I am today. .. but I guess that's just proof of the journey.

I'm hoping to start updating this blog, with the possibility of transitioning to my own website sometime this year.  I want to become more of an "official" writer, and follow my heart and dreams in this area of my life as well. 

Let's get to it.

Paparazzi

Media Week.

For one week, I cut seven forms of media from my life. This was difficult for me, but mainly because I ALREADY do not have a Smartphone, do not have internet at home, and do not have cable at home. Those are the three big ones, so what else do I cut out?

The seven I chose were: texting (ouch!), Facebook, Pinterest/Twitter, radio, television (meaning my Gilmore Girls DVD’s), and all extra Internet browsing.

(I was inspired by the book “7” by Jen Hatmaker)

All in all, and I’ve gone through this week twice now, I love the real connections it gives me with people. When I do a Media Fast, it forces me to pick up the phone and call people. I know it may sound prehistoric, but it so soothing to my soul to pick up the phone just to chat. Remember middle school, when you couldn’t go an evening without talking to your best friend on the phone, catching up about your days, planning what to wear the next day, working on your homework together over the phone? Well, I do, and I’m glad I grew up in the decade I did. So, this last week, my friend Maggie was also doing the fast. And she and I exchanged calls and voicemails EVERY SINGLE DAY OF THE WEEK. It reminded me of middle school, and it was so awesome!

Can I be honest for a second?

I have a really hard time with Facebook. I don’t have a smartphone, so sometimes I feel left out, like I don’t get to post as often as others do, and I don’t get to post as many pictures, so I don’t get as many “likes”. People “like” posts with pictures; it’s just what we do. So when my posts don’t include pictures, I know they don’t “draw the eye”, and I know people scroll past my posts without reading them, and I know people aren’t interested. And that kinda sucks.

Or how about everyone posting pictures of their awesome trips and vacations, or their new cars, or purses, or new babies, or their recent half-marathon? How do these make me feel when I haven’t had a vacation in a while, have driven the same car for 30 years, can’t run a mile to save my life, or had my babies 20 years ago, before I could share their every milestone moment instantly? They make me feel left out, like I somehow don’t fit in, like I’m missing something.

It’s a sometimes difficult, really raw, at times confusing place to be: knowing I don’t fit into the norm, but refusing to do the things to place myself there. Knowing that I don’t have something that 90% of the country has, but knowing in my heart that I never want to have it. Knowing that I will always be missing something, because I can’t change society, or technology, AND that I'm not willing to partake of said technology....

I write this as an insecure, vulnerable person. But the thing is, I’m not the only one out there. At least I’m one of the Insecure who purposefully puts distance between myself and the Pressure of Facebook, and I’m not sitting at home, living through other people, posting attention-seeking statuses, coveting what others have or experience, begging someone, ANYONE to take an interest in me.

But there are such people out there. Impressionable people--kids, teens, young adults.

So what message are we sending to these people, when we tell them, "Get with the times" or "you really need to get a new phone", and just what are we allowing technology to become?

These thoughts may not make sense to everybody, but I'm just sharing here......

Nothing to Give

The assignment this week: focus on possessions, giving away 7 items a day for a week straight (I was inspired by the book “7” by Jen Hatmaker).

I really hate this week.

I actually spent most of the week worrying about how to complete the task, thinking to myself, “I have nothing to give.”

In trying to write about it, some memories came out instead:

Once when I was about 9 years old, my dad said we were loading up his truck with all of our old toys, clothes, books, and stuff.  We then drove an hour down the road to some remote little pueblo outside of Mexicali, Baja California, Mexico.  It was December, shortly before Christmas, and we parked the truck in the middle of the road and called out to the people in their houses.  They ran next door to grab their friends, and soon, my younger sister and I were handing our well-loved Barbies to little girls who were very excited to receive them.  I remember one older gentleman asking my dad specifically for a ball cap that I believe was actually a children’s size, but it fit him, so it didn’t matter.

I never looked at a dirt-road, lean-to neighborhood the same way again.
We visited our neighboring border towns quite often, especially since my grandmother lived in one of them, so I did a lot of looking out the window, wondering about people’s lives, asking hard questions, and worrying.  Yes, between the ages of 9 and 14.

I don’t think my dad took us down there that December morning to make us worry incessantly for the rest of our lives.  But I do believe this memory has remained with me for so long because the event stirred something deep inside of me.

Another, earlier, memory is from California, when I was probably about 7 years old. I’ve mentioned before that we were a migrant agricultural family of sorts.  We spent about half the year in Yuma, Arizona, and the rest of the time in Salinas, California.

From what I remember about Salinas, it was a bigger city than Yuma.  There were more freeway on-ramps, and we seemed to use them a lot to get around town.  Because of the nature of my parents’ work, we always had boxes and boxes of fresh or packaged produce and vegetables (they got sent home with the workers sometimes).

So one day, my dad decided we were taking some produce in the car with us.  I remember sitting in the backseat, holding bags of baby carrots in my lap.  Upon reaching one of the stoplights at an on-ramp/overpass/underpass, my dad rolled down the window and began to hand out the bags of vegetables to the man who was standing on the corner holding a cardboard sign.

When my dad reached back to me, I handed him only one of the bags of baby carrots.  My dad corrected me and asked for the other bag as well, and I reluctantly gave it to him. “All yours, buddy,” he said cheerfully to the man.

“Esta pensando en todos los demas,” my mom said to my dad with quiet, marked realization.

“She’s thinking of all the others.”

I remember knowing, just KNOWING, that I had seen other men like this one, and that they were hungry too, and now I had nothing left to give to any of them.

We went along our way that day, but I remember being a little confused and maybe even a little
angry. Why hadn’t we saved some vegetables (there was celery, too) for other men? Why couldn’t we share more, why couldn’t we help everyone?

I think one of the many lessons my dad was trying to teach me that day was that even when I get this crazy overwhelming feeling, be it guilt, or worry, or panic, or sorrow, it can never cancel out the good deed I am doing right then and there, right in that moment.  And to never let the fear of not being able to fix the whole problem, keep me from taking a stab at the need right in front of me.

To always give what you can, even if it’s a humble bag of vegetables. To never become blind to my blessings, and to always keep unwrapping and rearranging life’s little “extras” and presents, until I find a way to use them to bless somebody else.

Even when the last bag of baby carrots is gone, there is never nothing to give.

Nothing to Wear

“Ughhhhhrhrhghghghg!!! What am I gonna WEAR?!”

“I wore that same blouse last week, I can’t wear it again.”

“Is this dress too spring-y, or can I pull it off with tights and boots? Are these boots too winter-y?”

“No, those are always my go-to nice dressy pants.  I seriously don’t have another pair?!”

These are just a few of the many thinking errors that plague my brain as I stand in front of my (full) closet, saying, “I have nothing to wear.”
And the sad part? I’m not even stressing about what to wear to work, or to a birthday party, or a formal occasion.

I’m stressing about what to wear to church.

CHURCH, of all places.  The place I’m supposed to feel safe and accepted.  And here I am, acting like I’m about to hit the runway at a fashion show, judged for the way my clothes flatter my body.

Now hold it right there, because I don’t think the people in my congregation are out to get me, or shame me for my lack of trendiness. But, in a setting where so many strive to look their best, I do see lots of trends and “fashion”.

I find it interesting that we can’t all just wear plain jeans and plain t-shirts to church.  And the people who do, why are those individuals seen as “casual” or “young” or “relaxed” or, my favorite, “more MODERN”?
Why do we categorize people according to what they wear?  We all do it. Those in heels and fancy coats are labeled “girly” or “conservative” or “traditional”.
(Yes, I think this is definitely an area that women have more experience and trouble with.)

I’ve been on two mission trips to foreign countries thus far: Bolivia and Grenada.  Each of these countries had their own unique customs, including dress.  But I didn’t feel pressured to look or dress a certain way, and I didn’t see anything other than God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit be the focus of their gathering.  Not once in either of these two countries did someone greet me with, “Oh, you look so cute today!”
It’s just interesting to me that this is the first thing out of our mouths so often here in our privileged society.

I suppose it’s nice and considered good manners to acknowledge when someone puts a little extra time into their appearance that morning, and I’m not saying it doesn’t feel good when I do get a compliment.
But do I wish I didn’t care? Yeah, I do.  I wish I could wear my black t-shirt, jeans, and running shoes to church every week, and not have a care in the world.  

I can’t help but think of all these countries out there, some whose names we don’t even know, where there are small churches in the jungle somewhere, where attendees worship and dance around barefoot, in the same clothes they’ve worn all week, their neighbor not knowing any different because they’re wearing their only set of clothes as well.  I want to be that free.

Twice now this year, I’ve challenged myself to wear only 7 items of clothing, for a week straight. (I was inspired by the book “7” by Jen Hatmaker)

 I narrowed it down to: a black t-shirt, one pair of jeans, one pair of running shoes, a set of workout shorts and t-shirt, and pajamas.

I’ve learned that people don’t pay nearly as much attention as I think they do, at church, work, or anywhere else, but I’ve also learned that dress still matters to me.  I’ve figured out that when I have a “spare coat closet” holding all my dresses, both casual and formal, plus any out-of-season cardigans or sweaters; and also a coat closet in my living room holding my actual coats and hoodies----this may mean I have too much.  
I’ve never considered myself to have a clothing problem, but when I think about the children in my city who wear the same pair of jeans for weeks on end without washing them, I feel my contribution to the injustice.  We see obvious needs like food and shelter, but do we stop to think about the insecurity being developed inside the child who wears the same outfits on repeat each week, while watching their classmate Little Suzy wear a brand-new outfit or pair of shoes once a week?* When did the gap grow so large? (And why do Suzy’s parents feel the need to buy her so many new things all the time?)

If I do research on the countries printed on the tags of my clothing, what would I find out? As Jen Hatmaker has paraphrased from a different author, “Am I wearing someone else’s despair?”  What is the story of the person who slaved away to create my dress?

I do buy 99.9% of my clothing second-hand, so I try really hard not to feed the machine.

But if I can find a way to eloquently state that the image we create for ourselves has very little to do with our clothing, and much more with the way we give and show love to others, then maybe someone out there will quit spending thousands of dollars a year on clothes and put it towards a more worthy cause.

Because I don’t care what anybody says, we are not contributing to ourselves or our wellbeing by putting expensive clothes on our bodies. We’re just making it okay for the commercial industry to tell us what we need in order to be accepted.** Let’s all realize that we have bigger fish to fry.










*Of course, I am for teaching our kids that even if they do wear the same outfit on repeat, they still have worth.  But are insecurity, and comparison, and anxiety real things? Yes, they are. Are kids blind to privilege and brand-name clothing? No, they're not.
** Yes, some of this is difficult or awkward for me to think and say, as someone who has ventured into the modeling industry in the past.

Nothing to Eat

“There’s nothing to eat!”

I knew Daddy had a temper, but I had never expected to see it flare at those words. 

“What did you just say? See this pantry full of food? There’s stuff in the fridge, too.  Don’t you EVER say something like that to me again, do you understand?”

I was a teenager who was usually respectful and put-together, but for some reason, that day, I felt whiny and demanding.

I don’t know what had triggered my whining.  I don’t even remember exactly when this happened.  I think it was sometime during my sophomore year of high school, about 4 years into my sports-playing, and just as long since I had started to become exposed to the habits and convenient food of my friends at school.  We were a Hispanic family living in Arizona, and I was the first of two who were born in the United States.  There was a lot of learning and adjusting to do.

That whiny day, I saw something in my father’s eyes that told me I didn’t even know the half of it.  I was smart; I was sensitive.  And I knew that I had struck a chord.  Perhaps that day I was in the mood for a frozen chicken breast, or canned chicken noodle soup, or I was pouty because there were no Honey Buns.  But my parents never, ever let us go actually hungry, and in my teenage angst, I wasn’t even aware of or grateful for that fact.

I never even thought about what my parents sacrificed to make sure we had our carne asada, our beans and rice, and our corn tortillas.  I still don’t know.

I wasn’t even thankful for the aromas that fill a kitchen when your mom is hand-chopping onions and tomatoes for guacamole, or when your Nana is pulverizing and blending red chiles for sauce.

I never thought about how many families go hungry.  No, I’m not talking about Ethiopia or some other foreign country, although that is an epidemic of its own.  I’m talking about the people we work with, go to school with, and make eye contact with daily through our respective windshields.

How many dads in Chicago won’t eat tonight because they’re making sure their babies have bread and milk?  How many grandmas in New York are walking blocks and blocks to the market to get tonight’s dinner for their grandbabies, whose mother passed away, a victim of illness or murder, and left them to her, with a limited income and minimal resources?

And yet we whine when we can’t have our soymilk, or gluten-free bread, or quinoa.

This is isn't just me making crazy stories up in my head.  We need to start putting faces to these stories, because they do exist.  Every human life is a story, and we tend to make our food choices so quickly and abruptly, as if we can’t possibly affect our neighbor.  We spend our dollar without recognizing its power, and we are so skewed in our thinking that we don’t even recognize privilege in our lives, even as we are drowning in it.

Did you know that your morning McDonald’s coffee or pop is a luxury?  There is someone out there who can’t afford to spend that $1.08 because she has to keep the lights on at home, so she muddles through the morning fogginess from sleep deprivation, and makes it through her day without a caffeine fix.  Oh yeah, she worked a double –shift last night, too.

Do you know how many parents argue and cry because they can’t do anything special for their daughter on her 12^th birthday? How much they would love to take her out to the buffet for some fried chicken and mac and cheese, but they just can’t? And we fling around lunch dates, everyday occurrences, and don’t even bat an eye.  Half the time we’re rude to the wait staff too. 

I get really mad and worked up about our entitled, self-indulging ways, but I’m not just all talk.

Twice now this year, I’ve challenged myself to eat simply for a week straight.  Seven foods and nothing more.  I narrowed it down to beans, rice, lentils, oatmeal, apples, eggs, and barley.  That’s it.  No butter.  No hot sauce.  I wanted to know what it felt like. ( I was inspired by the book "7" by Jen Hatmaker)

Do you realize how often we eat “what tastes good”? How much “fun food” we keep around the house?  Could you, could we narrow it down to just survival?  Why are we so obsessed?
Let me get something straight.  I make less than $30,000 a year.  I am a single gal, and I pay all my own bills.  I already eat simply.  I don’t exactly get to sip on a pumpkin-spice latte every day. 

But yet, I know I am privileged. 

It really is all about perspective.  And fresh perspective?  It can really flip your life upside-down.