lifeinliminality

[lifeinliminality]

I wrote this poem in memory of the Pulse Nightclub victims. I wish things were different now, but we are still in an endless cycle if violence because we refuse to regulate firearms in this country.

Free

Last night, I whispered your names in the dark.

I wanted to taste them on my tongue, along with my tears

I never knew you

But I’ve hugged you, when you sobbed backstage in my high school drama room

I’ve danced with you

I’ve sung with you

I’ve laughed with you

I’ve celebrated with you

I’ve looked into your eyes when you’ve confessed, “I feel like a wounded animal.”

We are all wounded animals—trapped and bleating

Bleeding out our dreams; our hopes; our future.

Yearning to be Free.

We pay a heavy price to live in the Land of the Free—our lives weighed down by grief and guilt.

And now your souls float unfettered—

Free

But at what cost?

Our humanity.

We see your faces

We hear your names

We know your stories

But this history does not remember kindly.

It chews you up and spits you out—bones in a pile,

In the guise of Freedom.

“God go with you,” I whispered in the dark

But God was always there, with salty lips from tears unceasing

Watching Creation murder itself into oblivion,

In the name of Freedom.

[lifeinliminality]

BC/AD

I want to tell this story. I think it is important to tell, especially in this moment—when collectively we are straining against the changes wrought by a global pandemic.

Maybe I should start by saying that sometimes stories are something you’ve been working on in your life for years. You’ve crafted and cultivated it. Nurtured and pruned it to your liking. But this story was thrust upon me. This story began in an instant and I could do nothing but see it play out, catch up to its lightning speed pace, and hold on for dear life.

This story began on January 13, 2018 at approximately 11:30pm. It began with a sleeping child on a gurney in a hospital emergency room with his worried parents and a hesitant ER doctor.

While holding my sleeping child, I was given the worst news you could imagine: “He has blasts in his blood. When a child has these blasts it points to leukemia or lymphoma. We’ll be admitting your son tonight.” Cancer. Six letters that spell something life changing.

I remember a teacher once describing the difference between B.C. and A.D. when referring to dates in a history book. When I was a child, I used to think about it as “Before Christ” and “After Death” (meaning Christ’s death). I always thought it was such a strange and monumental way to mark time. Now, it doesn’t seem so strange. Our lives are literally divided into B.C., “Before Cancer” and A.D. “After Diagnosis.” But I’m getting ahead of myself.

For all we knew, our son was a healthy and happy almost three year old. He was a younger brother and would soon become a big brother—just two months prior to this night we had discovered we were pregnant with our third child. He liked Paw Patrol and playing soccer and other sports. An old soul from birth, our middle child both impressed and challenged my husband and I with his iron-strong will.

He had gotten a cold shortly before Christmas. But unlike before, he didn’t bounce back to his normal effervescent self. He got pale, was emotional, lost his appetite and after we spent the night of January 12th up every hour with him moaning, my husband decided to take him to the pediatric urgent care. I had to go to work that afternoon. I run a community wide children’s program in Montclair, New Jersey. My husband said he’d take both boys to the urgent care if he still wasn’t better after his afternoon nap. I met them there that evening after the event, in time to hold my son down while they fished around for a vein from which to draw blood. I hate getting blood drawn. When I was a child, I’d had to be held down because my younger brother was sick and they wanted to make sure I was okay. It traumatized me. But more than having my blood drawn, I hated having to be the one holding my child down for this. Little did I know that this would become a routine part of our existence.

While I waited with our middle son for the blood results, the other two hit up Smashburger in the strip mall next door. It was dinner time now and we were anticipating a rush once we left the urgent care to get our kids fed and ready for bed. Instead, the doctor came in and asked if there was someone local who could take care of our older son while we went to the pediatric emergency room. She was very specific: take him to [redacted for privacy]; no, you cannot go home and eat dinner with your children first. And don’t Google anything. I remember how strange that comment was—mostly because I didn’t even know what I would Google. She hadn’t told us anything about the blood results, only that we needed to go immediately to the Pediatric ER and that she’d called ahead.

We called our pastor, and his wife came over to stay with my oldest until my sister could get out to us from Long Island City.

My husband and I spent the 20-minute car ride to the emergency room trying to distract our two year old with his favorite song at the time: I’m Still Standing from the movie SING! An Elton John classic. It instantly became our mantra in the days ahead.

So there we were, the ER doctor just left the room after dropping the cancer bombshell us. I instantly started weeping, as did my husband. It was completely surreal. An orderly came in to wheel us up to the fifth floor of the hospital. We gathered our things. I was on the gurney with our still sleeping boy. It was after midnight now. January 14th. I don’t think I fully processed that leukemia was cancer until I saw the sign “Pediatric Hematology/Oncology” painted over the door we entered on the fifth floor. It was a waking nightmare.

We were 23 days in the hospital after his initial diagnosis. The first few days were a whirl of tests, surgeries and a steady rotation of doctors, nurses, and specialists. There was paperwork to sign: releasing the doctors and hospital of liability if something happened to our child when he was under sedation for a port placement, spinal tap, and chemo infusions. There was a social worker, a nutritionist, and a flurry of texts from family members and friends as we slowly put the word out.

Around day seven we got another bombshell—type 1 diabetes. Yep. We got a “two-fer.” So not only were we learning all we could about acute lymphoblastic leukemia and fielding calls, texts, and emails from family, friends, and friends of friends who knew someone with leukemia, but we were learning how to take blood glucose readings through “finger sticks,” calculate insulin to carbohydrate ratios, and give manual insulin injections to our son. Our son lost 9 pounds—which on a tiny toddler body renders a child gaunt. He started to associate finger sticks and shots with eating, so naturally, he stopped wanting to eat. They had to put an NG tube in—a tube that goes up the nose, down the back of the throat and esophagus directly into the stomach, so that we could give him Pediasure if he didn’t eat. He caught a cold somewhere around week two, which meant isolating him to his hospital room. He rarely smiled, he mostly slept and cried about taking the few oral medications he had to take daily. By the time of discharge, he could barely walk. His muscles had atrophied from being in bed for so long. Our once very active child couldn’t even climb the stairs at home or get up from a sitting position without assistance.

The day after we were discharged we were right back in the outpatient clinic at the hospital wrapping up the first of five cycles of what is called Frontline Treatment. Each cycle, outside of that first month is 60 days. But it isn’t necessarily a straight 60 days through. Continuing treatment is tied to how a child’s blood counts (red and white blood cells, platelets, and immune cells) are doing. If they are too low, they won’t continue treatment. If they are dangerously low, you’ll be spending a full day in the clinic getting a blood or platelet transfusion. Some cycles require weekly visits to clinic, some daily. Some cycles had four day hospital admittances. It was a tsunami of information and so many appointments to keep track of, along with his diabetic appointments and my OB appointments. And when we weren’t at clinic we were at home. Our son could no longer be in his daycare. We had to forego his friends’ birthday parties and play dates. It took our boy 11 months to finish Frontline Treatment.

The isolation felt overpowering at times. The parts of life we had to give up, the ways we had to change our routines to protect his fragile immune system. We were in survival mode and mostly just trying to get through each day. He hit remission in May 2018. But while he had no detectable cancer cells in his blood, it didn’t mean there weren’t any—and we would have to complete three more years of treatment.

Fast forward to March 2020. Our son has been in what is called “long-term maintenance” for a little over two years (meaning 14 months more until we are off of treatment). He’s been thriving: back at school, managing his meds well, his endocrinology team has been very happy with how we’ve managed his diabetes amidst chemotherapy and steroid treatments . . .

We’d been increasingly worried about what we were hearing in the news about a novel virus: COVID-19. We pulled our middle child out of school a couple of days before the state stepped in and mandated stay in place orders. Suddenly, the whole world was navigating a BC/AD moment: Before Coronavirus/After Disease. Everyone’s lives were instantly changed; families were having to adjust their routines for a huge unknown. Gloves and masks and disinfectant: a norm in our lives for two years now, were becoming household staples.

During our son’s frontline treatment we did not have to follow recent practices to the extreme, but since the stay in place orders, so many of our friends and family have been reaching out. “So this is what this was like.” Yes. Yes, this is a lot like what we have navigated since our son was diagnosed with leukemia. It’s hard, right?

It is hard. And the collective grief that we are all processing as a result of losing jobs, daily routines, a sense of control, and even loved ones can be overwhelming at times. But always, always amidst the darkness, there is light. There is joy and gratitude that can be cultivated and expressed. There are acts of selflessness and generosity to be witnessed and to perform. This is the “brutiful” gift of a situation like this. And really, this is an opportunity to pause and take stock of what is essential to our human existence and to a life well lived.

Nobody asked for this. Nobody wants it. But we find ourselves in the midst of it anyway. What we do and how we hold space in this time is what will matter moving forward. It will be part of our story. That is all I can offer you. In these BC/AD moments, there isn’t a simple solution or even a lot of answers. But I do know this, we will make it through. Life moving forward will not be the same. It can’t be. But we will find our new normal. My hope? That the new normal will mean that we seek and cultivate community more. That we realize we have all been helped by others and that we NEED others to make it through this life. That we have more generosity and compassion for one another because we are more aware that we’ve all been through some shit. Selah.

[lifeinliminality]

Free

Last night, I whispered your names in the dark.

I wanted to taste them on my tongue, along with my tears

I never knew you

But I’ve hugged you, when you sobbed backstage in my high school drama room

I’ve danced with you

I’ve sung with you

I’ve laughed with you

I’ve celebrated with you

I’ve looked into your eyes when you’ve confessed, “I feel like a wounded animal.”

We are all wounded animals—trapped and bleating

Bleeding out our dreams; our hopes; our future.

Yearning to be Free.

We pay a heavy price to live in the Land of the Free—our lives weighed down by grief and guilt.

And now your souls float unfettered—

Free

But at what cost?

Our humanity.

We see your faces

We hear your names

We know your stories

But this history does not remember kindly.

It chews you up and spits you out—bones in a pile,

In the guise of Freedom.

“God go with you,” I whispered in the dark

But God was always there, with salty lips from tears unceasing

Watching Creation murder itself into oblivion,

In the name of Freedom.

[lifeinliminality]

A Mother’s Day Acrostic

To my sons on Mother’s Day (2018)

Joyful, Ongoing, Exhausting Love

Demanding All: Victories, Insecurities, Strength.

Standing Amidst Many Unexpected Events Like

Jetties Amidst Mother Earth’s Storms

Living, Ever Vested In

Assuring Safe Harbor; Ever Robed [in]

Careful, Acknowledged, Existential Love And Nurturing

We All Invite Solace; All Need Emotional Nourishment.

[lifeinliminality]

Letter to my Congressional Reps

On days like today, we see and hear the outpouring of "thoughts and prayers" for the victims of yet another mass shooting. But as our representatives, your words become more and more hollow when comprehensive reform is not passed to help protect us-- the citizens you are meant to represent. The 2nd amendment is treated as a sacred cow in this country. And arguments that we can't "take away people's rights," are often used. But surely, common sense reform could both protect gun owners' rights and all Americans' right to LIFE! Why, for instance, should military grade assault rifles be available to the public? Or high capacity magazines? Or armor piercing bullets? Why would you vote down measures to prevent the mentally ill from having guns? Or for all those seeking gun ownership to be subject to background checks? In Congress now, are bills that would only help domestic terrorists do more damage in these situations (HR 367 and use of concealed carry permits across state lines). These resolutions would not help to mitigate loss of life, but increase it. You all know the definition of insanity-- we are living it in America as gun deaths and mass shootings claim thousands of lives every year. It's despicable and what's worse-- we have the ability to make it better and yet, Congress chooses not to, time and again. As a citizen, I am sick and tired of reading about these attacks, watching my children participate in active shooter drills, and have thoughts of "what if it happens today" always lurking in the back of my mind when I participate in public gatherings such as carnivals, concerts, and the like. Stop making excuses and enact common sense gun reform.

[lifeinliminality]

The Silent Majority

The “Silent Majority” was a term popularized by Richard Nixon on November 3, 1969, in a campaign speech. He used it as an appeal to those who were quiet about the Vietnam War—those who didn’t openly protest it. It was an appeal to the status quo-ers, the don’t-rock-the boat-ers. Their voices, he said, were being silenced by the vocal minority– so elect me.

Nixon’s silent majority comprised mostly blue collar white Americans who weren’t particularly politically active. Columnist Kenneth Crawford described them this way, “Nixon’s forgotten men…are comfortable, housed, clad, and fed, who constitute the middle stratum of society. But they aspire to more and feel menaced by those who have less.” That was almost 50 years ago. Since then, the term has been used by President Reagan, Mayors Giuliani and Bloomberg, and even Prime Minister David Cameron during the Scottish Referendum. Most recently we have heard it from none other than President-elect Donald Trump. Trump often appealed to the “silent majority” during his campaign. And on November 8th, our country discovered that, far from being silenced by a vocal minority, the “Silent Majority” should be so called because they CHOSE silence in the face of evil.

Interestingly enough, before Nixon used this term to gain the presidency, it was used by New York Representative Churchill C. Camberleng in a speech to Congress. The House of Representatives had effectively dismissed a bill without really examining its content. He said, “Whenever majorities trample upon the rights of minorities—when men are denied even the privilege of having their causes of complaint examined into—when measures, which they deem for their relief, are rejected by the despotism of a silent majority at a second reading—when such become the rules of our legislation, the Congress of this Union will no longer justly represent a republican people.”

That was 1831. 

And here we are, nearly 200 years later, with a Congress that no longer justly represents the Republic, by denying a Supreme Court nomination, by gerrymandering districts, by denying climate change and its effects, by disproportionately weaponizing society and turning its back when 33,000 people a year are killed by gun violence, by legislating women’s bodies, by privatizing prisons, by failing to prosecute CEOs of big banks, by legitimizing a demagogue.

In the 19th Century, “silent majority” was a euphemism for the dead. My fear, is that President Trump and the ideals he espouses will too soon add to this silent majority. I wish it weren’t so, but this administration has already claimed its first victim. Rest in peace, Hussain Saeed Alnahdi.

[lifeinliminality]

Their Eyes Are Watching

Processing the deaths of more black men. Working on a new piece. 

Their Eyes Are Watching 

You accuse me of always following the rules. 

Never straying from the status quo.

"You toe the line", you say, with a hint of derision. 

But I am a woman and I MUST toe the line, lest I be called a bitch or a whore or a cunt.

"It's okay," you say.

But your privilege garners you the freedom to survive your disregard. 

Small things to you. Inconsequential. 

Death to a black man. Shame to a white woman.

And all the while our white sons watch, learning.

That is why I get mad. That is why I ask you to stop. 

This is my plea and my prayer: Our sons' small steps out of bounds now could be a bullet in a black man tomorrow.

Do not mistake defiance as dreams and recalcitrance as risk-taking. 

Ripples make waves.

My friends in the struggle, do not tell my boys, "It's okay,"

When they barge to the front of the line or leave without responding to your words.

They may be young, but we are never too young to learn respect.

They have no right. 

Only responsibility: to me, to us,

To the future.

[lifeinliminality]

Free

Last night, I whispered your names in the dark.

I wanted to taste them on my tongue, along with my tears

I never knew you

But I’ve hugged you, when you sobbed backstage in my high school drama room

I’ve danced with you

I’ve sung with you

I’ve laughed with you

I’ve celebrated with you

I’ve looked into your eyes when you’ve confessed, “I feel like a wounded animal.”

We are all wounded animals—trapped and bleating

Bleeding out our dreams; our hopes; our future.

Yearning to be Free.

We pay a heavy price to live in the Land of the Free—our lives weighed down by grief and guilt.

And now your souls float unfettered—

Free

But at what cost?

Our humanity.

We see your faces

We hear your names

We know your stories

But this history does not remember kindly.

It chews you up and spits you out—bones in a pile,

In the guise of Freedom.

“God go with you,” I whispered in the dark

But God was always there, with salty lips from tears unceasing

Watching Creation murder itself into oblivion,

In the name of Freedom.

[lifeinliminality]

[lifeinliminality]

HBD Voicemail

You've reached Lauren and I'm unavailable right now. It's my birthday and my husband and I are treating me to 48 hours away from my kids. For you non-parents, that's like calling in sick to binge watch Orange is the New Black from the comfort of your bed while eating your favorite foods and washing it down with a nice red. If you need me-- too bad. I'm going to be painting the town (New Orleans, to be exact) and except for pumping breastmilk 4 times a day and finding a CVS to buy an ice pack since TSA threw mine away ("you can only have this if you have breastmilk you need to keep frozen."--"why would I have breastmilk now?! I just left my kid...") I will be footloose and fancy free, stuffing myself with beignets and southern hospitality. And watching one of the world's best sports teams play. #ThanksAbby I will get to pee by myself. I may even sleep in until 7:30a and heaven help me, I've bought a book to read on the plane. (What's that? Why yes, I'm flying solo. And it feels luxurious!) I get 48 hours to indulge in hearing myself think and not having to worry about feeding, bathing, or dressing tiny human beings. I'm wearing makeup. And Lipstick! And cute clothes! To my husband, a huge thank you and a huger PEACE OUT! Beeeeeeeeeep!

[lifeinliminality]

“If our society really wanted to solve the problem, we could; it’s just that it would require everybody saying, ‘this is important; this is significant.’ And, that we don’t just pay attention to these communities when a CVS burns, and we don’t just pay attention when a young man gets shot or has his spine snapped, but we’re paying attention all the time because we consider those kids our kids.” —President Obama on the situation in Baltimore

[lifeinliminality]

Acceptance speeches from the 2015 Academy Awards. 

Featuring:Patricia Arquette (Boyhood), John Legend (Selma), Alejandro González Iñárritu (Birdman), Julianne Moore (Still Alice), Eddie Redmayne (The Theory Of Everything), Graham Moore (The Imitation Game), and Laura Poitras (CitizenFour).

[lifeinliminality]

Having my 3yo drive his toy monster truck around on my back for 14 seconds is as close as I get to having a “spa day”.

[lifeinliminality]

[lifeinliminality]

An Open Letter to my Unpigmented, Christian Friends

Dear Friends,

I know we are all reeling from the recent decision by a grand jury not to indict Darren Wilson and of the ensuing aftermath. We are processing things in different ways and turning to social media to discuss our thoughts and frustrations. I noticed that a lot of you posted NFL player Benjamin Watson’s personal and faith-centered response to Ferguson— a post I read in the aftermath and was equally moved by.

However, it strikes me that as people of privilege and as people of faith, merely posting his response and concluding, as he did, that the events of Ferguson are the result of sin, and leaving it there, is leaving the work incomplete.

It’s like if Jesus had said to the leper, “I’m sorry you have leprosy, this world is a sinful place. Have a nice day.”

It is not enough to acknowledge sin is at the root of Mr. Watson’s and Ferguson’s pain. We must act. Jesus calls us to suffer with those who suffer, to be a voice to the voiceless (and perhaps in this instance to listen and accept the angry cries of a disenfranchised people). We must work together to change the systems of injustice that perpetuate the circumstances which led to Michael Brown’s death (and Tamir Rice’s, Trayvon Martin’s, Eric Garner’s… The list goes on and on).

Gospel work is messy and it’s hard. And, as the dominant culture, we don’t have to “see” or “live” what the non-dominant cultures do every. single. day. It’s easy to equate Racism with Sin. It’s harder to turn inward and confront racism in our own lives— the myriad of microaggressions we see played out and the ones, hidden and not so hidden, that we perpetrate.

I pray for my family and I pray for you that God would make known to you those areas of your heart that need grace— that part of you that automatically goes on guard when you see a black man approaching as you walk down the sidewalk; that part of you that says, “I have black friends, I’m not ‘a racist.’” I pray God would give us the eyes and ears to see and hear others and their stories. That God would grant us opportunities to build bridges and to offer and to receive healing and forgiveness NOW— not just in the life to come. Because we pray in church every Sunday, “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” That’s today, my friends.

Love,

Lauren

[lifeinliminality]

Numbers don't lie.

A lot of people in the coming days will say, “It’s not about race,” or, “The media is trying to make it about race.”

But look at the data from Missouri’s state government: Black residents of Ferguson are twice as likely to be stopped and/or searched as white residents, and they are far more likely to be arrested. But searches of black residents are much less likely to discover contraband than searches of white residents.

Around the country, when compared to white men, African American men are much more likely to be shot by police. They are more likely to be arrested. They are more likely to be convicted. And for the same crime, African American men will on average serve 20% more time in prison than a white man. 

We don’t have a race problem when it comes to policing in the U.S.? The data strongly indicate otherwise.

[lifeinliminality]

This is huge. Today, President Obama himself has come out in favor of a number of clear, specific, and firm net neutrality rules that will keep the internet free and open. We couldn’t be more thrilled. Give yourselves credit for this one. Tumblr users have been out in front of this issue all year. 130,000 of you called Congress in a single day. You showed Washington and the FCC what democracy looks like—it looks like the internet. You made your voice heard, and the president was listening. The specifics: Obama has called for the reclassification of broadband service providers under Title II, which means the FCC can hold them to the same sensible rules that telephone companies are regulated through. This means—and this is directly from the president—that there can be no blocking, no throttling, no paid prioritization, and that the rules will cover mobile, too. To sum it up in a couple words: Fuck yeah. One last thing: we’re almost at the finish line, but we’re not quite there yet. It’s vitally important that the FCC, in light of the president’s announcement, act to issue these rules (and not any of the weaker, riskier proposals that are in consideration) during their December meeting. We need immediate action. In the meantime, our policy team will be taking your concerns directly to the FCC, and you can keep updated on any further actions you can take by following themediafix and fight4future. 

We’re almost there, guys. Let’s it bring it home.