Being A Model: Trust The Choice

Every day we make choices: what to wear, what to eat, to sleep in or not, coffee or tea, Dancing with the Stars or Daredevil...

There are some choices that are a bigger deal. The small ones certainly add up. I mean, in aggregate, the small choices are important. They point to the kind of person you actively choose to be every day. They point to the motivating forces, the principles behind actions. And other people see that.

Your life partner sees that. In fact, you probably became life partners because of those very principles, if not consciously, certainly at a subconscious level. Your partner was like, "Damn. Those are the kind of values I like!" and so you got married, or moved in, or whatever.

Your kids see those daily choices. Unlike your partner, your kids didn't get a choice for you as a parent. They got stuck with you as part of the package. So for better or worse, they look at you, every day, and see your choices. They see your reactions and your principles, lived out, second by second. And it's sinking in.

I am a systems thinker. I never look at something in isolation. I can't. It isn't possible for me. When I look at something, I see its causes and effects. I see its influences - the confluence of factors that allowed it to become. I see its wake, the pieces it leaves behind, the ripples that run through time and space.

Because of this, I take my life choices very seriously. Like, stupidly seriously. I never do something without careful consideration. Granted, that careful consideration may be the length of a few moments, or I may have been thinking about something for years and years before having the opportunity of a given choice.

My point is, I do everything with purpose. I do everything for a reason. I know every action I take and choice I make impacts the people around me. I know that. A good example of this is me taking forever to drive a car. Whenever you get behind the wheel, everyone in your vicinity, their lives, are all in your hands. That is why I never text. I never drive after drinking. I always signal and check my blind spot, because I feel responsible for every life around me. That is the kind of thing I see every second of my life - that I actively push down so I function like a normal human being.

Of course, this is a burden. It is an incredible burden. And it is frustrating when someone doesn't understand. It is frustrating when someone gives me advice because they think I have not considered the impact my choices make.

Please, for your own safety, never make that mistake. Know, I have thought about the range of impacts. I have come up with a thousand scenarios. I wrote them down. I compared pros and cons. I went through a self-assessment. I wrote several journal entries, and I talked to at least three close people, at least one of whom goes fractal when thinking.

It is possible I missed something. I am human. I make mistakes. I do miss things. This is why I need editors. But giving me advice about what to do is the opposite of helpful...

For example:
X: You should get a job at [insert random company here].
A: Well, right now I'm focusing on my book launch.
X: They're hiring. I know someone.
(Struggle not to roll eyes or laugh in face)
A: Seeing as I can't afford a babysitter, can't bring Kiddo to work, and I need to work on this book launch until at least June 15, I'm not going to apply right now.
X: Don't you think you should get a job?
(Bites tongue)
A: The current labor market relies on referrals. Companies don't want someone under qualified because they don't want to train. They don't want someone over qualified, because that person will jump ship at the earliest convenience. I have applied to jobs that I am perfect for, and not gotten an interview.
X: Maybe you should broaden your search.
(Nods and fixes smile to face)
A: Right. I'll do that.
(Walks away)

Believe me when I say I have thought carefully about how much our loans are costing our family, how me not working strains our situation. Believe me when I say I have gone through a thousand options for moves, jobs, life directions, and whole life plans. That is, as I stated above, what I do.

The tricky part is this: Trust me. I am focusing on something right now that is worth my time. I control all the factors of this book launch. I have direct control on the product I put out. I have direct control on the effort I put into marketing this book. I have direct control over the website design. I have direct control over how many people receive information about this book, my beloved THRIVE.

This book can help a lot of people. I know that. My beta readers have told me as much. I know what I'm doing. Know, I have to do this. I choose leaving a legacy. I choose trying my hardest to accomplish my life goals. I choose to show Kiddo what is possible in life. This is who I am. This is who I will always be: a purposeful writer, a voice. I can be nothing else.

The minute I start trying something else, focusing on something else, is the minute I've given up my purpose, my calling. In that moment, I have chosen a life of misery and despair. That is not the model I want Kiddo to have. Those are not the values I want for him. I am not that person.

It is a hard choice, but it is mine. Mine and no one else's. Trust my ability. Trust my vision. I know exactly what I'm doing, and I have a reason for everything I do. This is not some self-absorbed, self-indulgent act. It is much, much, much more.

Raising A Gentleman (Part 2): Dangerous Boys

WARNING: This post contains content regarding rape and violence that may disturb readers. Names have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty.

“James, you pretend to rape her,” said Jack, pointing from James to me. My whole body tensed.

“Huh?” James looked at Jack in confusion. Then he shook his head. “Nu-uh.”

“Just hold her down. Pin her arms to her side and pretend to rape her,” said Jack in irritation to James. It was Jack's game. Someone was supposed to be a police officer or spy. I can't remember which. Someone else was supposed to be some criminal master mind, some kind of mafia boss, except this was not any cops and robbers game I ever played. I was uncomfortable. Still, Jack was my next door neighbor. My family went to his house for dinner. His parents seemed nice. They did short term foster care placements. By all accounts they were upstanding citizens. They seemed to be a good family.

Except for Jack.

“Come on!” he spat, his foot tapping the broken cement sidewalk. Jack was the aggressive one. He asserted his dominance without caring what other people thought or wanted. But we did want to play. Even though I was introverted I needed to get out of my own head. I wanted to be with people for a little while, people I knew. We wanted to be outside. It was north of sixty degrees, the grass was green, and the sun was shining. We wanted to belong. No one else was out. No other kids were living on the street at that time. We were kids. What else were we supposed to do?

“I don't want to,” mumbled James.

“I don't want to either,” I mumbled, feeling the strength of numbers. I felt the danger of the suggestion – the idea of a boy holding me down, against any surface, in any position. Any way I pictured it, it made me uncomfortable. But I didn't know what rape was. I was only eight years old.

Jack rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Fine!” he snapped. “Just kiss her on the cheek and we can move on!” This was hard enough. This was awkward enough. Whatever rape was, this tiny peck was meant to stand in for it. To compound the strangeness, Jack knew James had a crush on me. Some perverse part of his eleven year old self knew the whole exercise was awkward for this seven year old boy and he wanted to make him uncomfortable. He wanted to make me uncomfortable. He wanted to both give James an opportunity with his crush even while relishing in the pain it would cause us both.

James flushed, leaned in, and kissed my cheek. My face a mask, I withstood the indignity. Jack grinned impishly.

“Okay, let's go!” Jack spun on his heels and took off running, James following quickly in an effort to avoid what just happened. I hesitated, giving them a head start, because of course, I wasn't sure how I felt about the situation myself.

Because I didn't know, I didn't tell anyone. I'm not sure Jack or James ever did either. If they did, they probably never said anything about that particular exchange. They probably never mentioned the fact that Jack, an eleven year old boy, ordered James, a seven year old boy, to pretend to rape me, an eight year old girl, in the course of play.

When I share this story, my husband tells me this is abnormal. Little boys don't play this way. Relaying the story makes his knuckles whiten and his jaw clench. His eyes water in a combination of frustration, anger, and disgust. He repeats himself.

"That is not normal, Alexis. Not normal."

But this was my experience. This kind of experience has marked my understanding of boys and men.

I can pull out a long list of times I have been hurt by both boys and men throughout my life because of my sex. It is extensive. It is disturbing. It is upsetting. It shouldn't be true, but it is.

So now, you wonder, why did she want to have a boy? Because I did. I absolutely wanted to have a boy. I wanted to have a boy so badly it hurt.

Because for me, raising a son would be redemptive. It would be an opportunity for me to raise a boy into a man who was compassionate - who saw all people around him as his equals - as human beings. I could raise an ally, as opposed to a predator. I could raise a gentleman.

And then there was the other side - the reason I didn't want to have a girl.

I didn't want to have a girl because I knew I couldn't protect her. I knew that no matter what I did, I couldn't save her from the realities of the world. At some point, I knew she would be stalked or harassed. I knew she would be offered a drugged drink. I knew someone would call her "bitch" or "slut" or ignore her very considered and valuable opinion just because she had a uterus and breasts.

I know if I had been pregnant with a girl I would have cried. I would have cried so hard, and long, and been so depressed, I don't know what I would have done. Because of boys like Jack. Because the world is so dangerous for women even still. Because men - and women - still don't admit the danger, and still blame women for it, even though the danger is perpetrated by boys and men.

And we raised them. Mothers and fathers raised these dangerous boys. We raised hecklers, abusers, and rapists. We raised them. We raised them because we didn't think about the shows they were watching. We raised them because we didn't tell them about our experiences of misogynist violence and how it affected our entire lives. We raised them because we didn't filter their music and movies. We raised them that way because we just laughed off their hitting the girl they liked because, "Ha, ha! Boys will be boys!"

I plan to tell Kiddo my story. My whole story. I plan to explain what happened to me and what effects it had. I plan to talk with him about what other boys do and say in his peer group. I plan to talk to him about how he interacts with girls. I plan to filter his music, movies, books, and shows. And if something contains questionable content, I plan to unpack it and answer his questions.

It's never too early to have these conversations. I know this because I knew boys - little boys - who were predators. I knew boys like Jack, who made it seem like this behavior was alright, even when it so obviously wasn't. I know if I wait, there could be consequences, the kind that ripple across people's lives. And I can't allow that. I won't leave my son's treatment of other people up to chance. I plan to raise a gentleman, a compassionate ally, a defender of people no matter their type. That is something that requires intention, and hopefully, a community of like-minded people committed to the same.

We can't have boys like Jack running around the world. Such boys do not turn into good men, and we're lying to ourselves if we think they can. Boys like Jack shouldn't be normal. They shouldn't even exist.

Raising White: Recognizing Privilege and Becoming an Ally

You might not know this about me, but I'm white. Like pasty super white. My husband is impossibly whiter than me. And our kid?

Kiddo glows.

I love our son. He is a sweet boy and I hope he grows up to be a wonderful human being. That is why I have to reconcile myself to the fact that I have to work to make him recognize how white he is.

Somehow, against every male disregard for bodily care I've encountered, I have to convince him to use sunblock. Now it's easy because he thinks it's a game and it's an excuse to get attention from Mommy. So it works - although the added treat of going outside doesn't hurt.

Of course, getting him to wear sunblock is one thing. One minor thing in the course of life when compared to the fact that he is white. HE is WHITE.

A white boy, who will hopefully grow into a white man. I gave birth to a potential white man.

Some people will ignore the issue. White moms will ignore the issue. White dads will ignore the issue, as though it doesn't bear talking about. It isn't a thing. Except of course, it is. Being white is definitely a thing.

I like Louis C.K.'s bit about being white. He says not that white people are better than other people, but that being white is absolutely better because it comes with the privilege package. The privilege package means white people can pretty much go anywhere and do whatever we want. We are part of the dominant culture of America. Institutions function under WASP rules. The more WASP you are, the better things are for you. The more WASP you are, the more likely doors will open for you, even if you get caught doing something really, really, bad.

So how, as a parent, do I show Kiddo this privilege? How as a parent do I help him to realize where he fits in this crazy social hierarchy? How as a parent do I show him how he can be an ally? A respectful, compassionate, educated ally?

Well, first, I think Sesame Street is a good start. Seriously. Sesame Street is my new favorite show. It's got families of all different iterations. It's got kids of all different iterations. It's got different cultures represented. Everything in that show emphasizes diversity without coming right out and saying that.

Except for the preponderance of white actors doing the word of the day thing it's perfect, but I think we can chalk that up to Hollywood's failure and not Sesame Street as an enterprise.

So after Sesame Street? Well, I'm sending Kiddo to public school, despite people like Scott Walker or Andrew Cuomo or laws like No Child Left Behind.

Why? Because public school is awesome.

Public school is one of the places where different classes, ethnicities, and family structures can be discovered. Exposure is one of the best ways to understand diversity. Exposure is one of the best ways for people to feel comfortable and embrace difference. It was definitely part of my education, even though no curriculum was involved.

And along those lines, I'm taking Kiddo to cultural festivals. As soon as he's old enough, we're going to volunteer at different organizations that address social justice gaps in society. With any luck, we'll live in a diverse city. If not a diverse city, I hope we will have a home in a location surrounded by people who do NOT look like us.

I am convinced this is the best way for Kiddo to learn about his privilege and to respect the diversity and beauty of American pluralism. I feel it is my responsibility as a parent to make sure he is not isolated in a bubble of whiteness in some suburban ranch home, working on his white male entitlement.

Children are our future. That is true. But nurture helps to shape them. As parents we have to ask ourselves, what kind of future are we raising?