Broken City

They called from Spain. They had been watching TV and the first question that spilled from their lips was: “What the hell is going on in St. Louis?”

My city is broken.

It didn’t break when Michael Brown fell lifeless to the asphalt. It didn’t break when the first rock shattered the store-front window. It didn’t break with the first canister of tear gas fired into an angry crowd.

It has been broken for a very long time.

Nobody seemed to notice although it’s painfully obvious, like a fractured radius sticking out through the skin. In nearly every chain restaurant, the patrons are white, the servers are black. White people stay in our hotels; brown people clean them. In a city where less than 30% of its citizens are white, over 94% of the police force is.

A few months ago, the garage door opener was swiped from my car, so I called the local police station to report it. I’m not even kidding, three minutes later there was an officer at the door to take my statement. Three minutes. St. Louis has statistically one of the highest crime rates in the country but where I live, the cops apparently have quite a bit a free time.

Of course, I don’t live in the ghetto anymore. All the brown people in my neighborhood live in my house. Most St. Louisans shrug off the crime stats when out of town friends and relatives bring it up. It’s no big deal, we say. Everyone knows where the bad areas are, we say. We don’t go to those areas.

Those areas.

Where all those black people live.

That’s the part we don’t say. We don’t say it out loud or someone might notice how racist we are.

And boy are we ever. As soon as the Michael Brown story broke, black people bemoaned another unarmed young man shot down like a dog in the streets; white people started lining up to defend the cop. Exactly zero of these people knew what had really happened yet everyone had already decided that all policemen are violent gestapo bullies or that gangster thug probably deserved it.

I don’t blame anyone’s reaction. It is a symptom of our brokenness.

My city has been broken for a long time and now everyone in the whole world knows it.

It doesn’t really matter why Michael Brown got shot. It doesn’t matter if the cop was justified in pulling the trigger. It doesn’t matter if the courts review all the details of this case and deliver a ruling with perfect justice. And it will continue to not matter until the next Michael Brown is born with just as much chance of ending up an accountant or a lawyer as ending up in prison or dying violently.

50 years have passed since the Civil Right Act but we have still systematically and intentionally stacked the deck against young black men. I know, many of them overcome the odds and become very successful. But you know what’s better than overcoming the odds? Not being set up to fail in the first place.

Americans don’t like to talk about racism or our less than virtuous past. Maybe if we ignore it, it won’t be real. Maybe if we pretend it’s all good, it will give minorities the space they need to get over it. Sure.

I heard a man speak about giving a seminar on the death penalty to a group of Germans. One German lady told him that they do not have the death penalty in Germany. With their history, they could never have a State sponsored system of executing people. The speaker went on to ask us to imagine if Germany did have a death penalty. And to imagine if they executed a disproportionate number of Jews. Would that not make everyone really uncomfortable?

We are a country that once owned people. My home state of Missouri entered this fair union as a slave state. The great grandparents of the protesters in Ferguson were kept in chains and counted as less than human (3/5 of a human to be exact). Should it not make us profoundly uncomfortable to see a white police force and a white mayor as authorities over a black city? Should it not disturb us that a disproportionate number of black people are locked up in our prisons? Maybe these things are not inherently problematic in and of themselves, but with our history…maybe they are.

Racism exists, prevalently; the wounds of slavery, lynchings and segregation are real and unhealed. That is where we are.

That doesn’t mean we must stay here.

Healing can happen. It begins with forgiveness, asking and giving. It begins with honestly acknowledging our past. It begins when we stand up for justice - not fairness, but real, biblical Justice: being a voice for those who have none.

Healing can happen. Someday my city won’t be broken anymore.

Won’t that be a great day?

Jesús Salvador Sánchez

For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who shows no partiality and accepts no bribes.  He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the foreigner residing among you, giving them food and clothing. And you are to love those who are foreigners, for you yourselves were foreigners in Egypt. – Deuteronomy 10:17-19

 

 

He came one day, sneaking across the border. Not much more than a toddler, he could still feel the fear in his parents. The tiny desert town where he was born had become a place of violence so they had fled. In the middle of the night they had run, just ahead of the murder squads. Undocumented and alone, they had walked for weeks, seeking out the hidden trails only animals and criminals used. Finally they crossed the river and entered the country they hoped would be a refuge.

 

He came with practically nothing. His father worked in construction so he got a job where the boss didn’t mind that he was an immigrant. But always, they were outsiders. Strangers in a strange land.

 

An illegal.

 

Fleeing his violent homeland.

 

Do you know this child?

 

You should. You’ve heard this story a million times. Every year at Christmas we talk about shepherds and wise men, about a bad king and the flight to Egypt. Every year we hear it and somehow every year fail to realize that right there in the Greatest Story Ever Told, the hero is an illegal alien.

 

Good thing for the Sunday school story books nobody caught Jesus at the border, stuffed him in a warehouse then sent him back home to take his chances with Herod’s goons.

 

Whenever I hear decent God-fearing people talk about shipping all those illegals back where they came from, or tell jokes about wearing a border-patrol hat to get a better spot in line at Walmart, it makes me crazy. The Inerrant Word of God specifically prohibits mistreating foreigners (or sojourners or aliens, depending on your translation) and even commands the people not to harvest all the food they grow so widows and – hey look at that! – foreigners will have something to eat. It goes even further and tells people to use part of their tithe so the priests, poor, and aliens can eat until satisfied.

 

Geez, that just sounds like a handout. Good thing this is one of those issues the Bible only mentions once so we can gloss right over it. No? It’s in there 18 different times? Huh. It’s almost like it’s important to God that we treat immigrants well and help them out. Weird.

 

To those who say we should take care of our own and stop all these horrible poor people from using up our resources, I say we have a God who rains bread in the wilderness and make water gush out of dusty old rocks. There is always enough.

 

To those who fear people because they are different, I say perfect love chucks that nonsense right out the window.

 

And I will say this too: racist Christians are not Christians.

 

Not.

 

At all.

 

My sister-in-law and her family just moved to Spain from Nicaragua to find work. She and her husband have been out of a job for months now, unable to find anything, so they went to live with a relative in Spain. They left knowing they would not be getting office jobs like they used to have. Ivette will use her college degree in business administration to clean people’s dirty houses. And what was everyone’s main piece of advice to her as they sent her off? Prepare yourself for discrimination.

 

How terribly sad.

 

How terribly unlike the way things should be.

 

My voice is very small and hardly anyone will read this, but I want it on record that I am for immigrants. I will love them and defend their cause because God does those things too.

 

There are children at the border of my country, running from the violence in their homelands, looking for refuge.

 

Just like Jesus.

 

A Whole Year

It’s been nearly a whole year since we suddenly became a family of five.

I think I can state with some confidence that through all the joys, heartache, triumphs and disasters – this right here is the grumpiest I’ve ever been in my life.

Just when I’m at home though.

I don’t quite get it; I’m extremely pleasant at work. I occasionally feel a mild annoyance towards people who can’t fill out a form correctly and subsequently make my job more time consuming and difficult. But even that doesn’t really phase me. I just get on with my day, smiling and sociable, and then I go home.

That’s when the grumpy starts.

Maybe it’s all the noise.

The baby will sometimes overflow with effervescent spirit and it must be expressed in the form of shouts. It’s kind of cute by itself. But he’s shouting while the TV is on and someone’s practicing the guitar while someone else is banging on our snare-less drum set. The sonic barrage is no better on the first floor where someone has an iphone playing music as loud as the speaker can go. There is no escape.

Maybe it’s the dirt.

Somehow I didn’t realize that “clean the bathroom” translates to “wipe down the sink top and toilet seat and call it a day.” Yeah, uh, no. In other news, sweet lord, the bathtub is BROWN! Soap scum is really hard to get off when it is left to frolic for two months (by the way, a good way to remove it is to spray on a mix of warm white vinegar and blue dawn dishsoap, let sit for two hours, then dust on a little baking soda and scrub with all the rage in your heart). And really, why should I ever, EVER, need to say the words “do not leave dirty diapers open on the CHAIR”? Oh but I have said them. Twice.

Maybe is the constant need for help.

I use the word “need” really quite loosely. Subtraction can often be accomplished using a calculator and the bug spray is in the linen closet right where, coincidentally, it ALWAYS IS. Also, my help is not needed to find that one thing in the fridge when I am in the living room and you currently have your head, hands and eyeballs right there in the kitchen. I messed up my back last weekend (I thought it might be gardening related, but looking back it may have something to do with ripping apart cardboard boxes with my bare hands while growling “hulk smash”) and while I was lying flat, totally incapacitated, a young person comes in asking if I would come to the kitchen and show them how to use the toaster. Really? The toaster? The most remedial of all the home appliances? It’s really too bad I’m such a grouch; I missed a golden opportunity to sing the Toast song (“take a piece of bread/put it in the slot/push down the lever and the wires get hot/you get toast/YEAH TOAST”).

You probably already figured this out for yourself: I’m a bitch.

This is not to say that they aren’t really good kids. They are kind and respectful and an invaluable help with the baby. They’ve never gotten in trouble at school or with the police. So I should really count my blessings. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure the next time I pull out a pot to start dinner and find that someone has lovingly burned food onto the bottom of and put away without washing, I. Will. Lose. My. Mind.

Sigh.

I’ve been following the coverage of the humanitarian crisis on our border as thousands of kids are trying to escape the violence they were born into. I tell my husband how much I wish I was down there, doing something. Anything. All those frightened little kids.

He gently reminds me of the two kids from Central America snatched out of poverty a year ago. Right here in the chaos of our house is my tiny part in saving the world. It’s not enough, but it’s not nothing either.

Maybe I should try to yell at them a little less.

So do you ever want to throttle your kids or are you just, like, a way better person than I am?

I Hope

Troy is growing up really fast.

Like really fast.

It’s kind of hard on mommy.

The weirdest thing isn’t that I no longer have a baby, the weird part is that suddenly there is this little boy living in my house. Who are you? Who will you be?

Like every parent, I have so many hopes and dreams for my little one. Obviously, he’s going to be the most awesomest, successful person ever. I can just tell.

I hope he’s funny.

I hope he can make the people around him feel happier and more comfortable because of his uncanny ability to crack just the right joke at the right moment. I hope that when he sees the world, with all its beauty and terror, tragedy and triumph, joy and injustice – he can appreciate how it is all just a little bit ridiculous. He’s got a great laugh; I hope he uses it well and often.

I hope he is kind.

You can teach children to be respectful and well mannered (for the most part). But there is something more, something innate, that makes you seek out ways to help, that pulls you towards the outcast. I will try to show him never to be scared of people for being different. I hope he has it in him to stand up for the picked on and be gentle with the helpless.

I hope he remembers where he comes from.

He is a child of two worlds. He will mostly live here in the States, in material wealth, but I hope he will stay connected to the cultural and relational wealth of his father’s homeland. I hope he never feels entitled to the latest and greatest gadgets but has some sense of appreciation for Daily Bread. I hope he will understand that American consumerism isn’t normal or healthy and will care more for people than for things.

I hope a thousand, thousand things for him. But at the same time, it’s so hard to imagine what he’ll actually turn out to be. I know he’ll be amazing. Just like how I couldn’t picture what he would look like while I was pregnant and he turned out to be the cutest baby ever to breathe air upon this planet (objectively speaking).

And from the little bits of his personality that are already poking through, I think I’m really going to like this new little boy in my life. Last night he slept with Eli and me. He woke up sometime in the middle of night apparently in great need of snuggles. He would sit himself up and then fling his whole self into giant hugs for mommy and daddy. And he gave us kisses. I’ve been teaching him to give kisses on command, but this was the first time he ever volunteered a smooch.

This mommy’s heart is so very happy. 

Accentuate the Positive

Living with a whole bunch of kids can be challenging at times. Being confronted with the unshakable belief that spinach will induce vomiting (except when surrounded by a protective layer of Subway sandwich…) can make you go slightly crazy. And of course, in my household there are the occasional clashes of culture that transform me from a fairly normal person into a shouting lunatic (“for the fifth time, FLUSH your goddam toilet paper!”) Add a now mobile baby into that mix and…well…pray for me.

But I am not here to dwell upon the negative!

Nope, I am here to talk about why having a three pack of kiddos is awesome. And by awesome, I mean a wonderful opportunity to work through some of my neuroses.

I no longer have milk-related anxiety. I used to live in a constant battle with milk. Is it still good? Has it gone slightly off but probably won’t poison me? Should I go for the gallon and let it spoil silently in the fridge or buy the quart and pay enormously more per teaspoon? The questions haunted me. But no more my friends! No more! No matter how much milk I buy, it’s gone by the end of the week. I no longer wonder how long ago I bought this jug – the answer is always “last Saturday.”

My skinny pants no longer haunt me either. Have you ever gone through your closet and had that inevitable pile of clothing that has inexplicably shrunk in the dryer or something (*ahem*)? I hate getting rid of them since I have every intention of fitting into my skinny clothes again. But it’s kind of depressing to hold on to clothes that don’t fit. I know they’re there, in the back of the closet, mocking my pudge. But no more! I have solved this problem with secret option #3: hand them down. They are out of mocking range yet still technically in the house and available if I randomly drop a couple dress sizes and need to Indian-giver them back.

He fights crime when he's not busy eating
garbage off the floor.

Since I am no longer whelmed by my former stresses, I am free to develop new quirks that help me be a better person. For instance, I am a much more diligent housekeeper these days. I used to vacuum on a fairly regular basis (once a year is still regular right?). Now I run the hoover ALL THE TIME because every little speck on the carpet is either going into the belly of the vacuum or the belly of the baby! When it’s old cheerios on the floor, I don’t really care which belly that is, but when we’re talking fly carcasses, turns out I have some pretty strong opinions. Speaking of which, is anyone else experiencing an old testament-style plague of flies? I’m strongly considering coating my house in cayenne pepper. (That will make for a good dinner invitation: Hey guys! Come on over! Don’t touch your eyes!)

So there you go! Having kids is great.

On a side note, I asked my husband what he liked best about having three kids. He said he loves spending time together as a family. And he sincerely meant it.

Whatever, dude. You just stay over there being like a way WAY nicer person than I am. 

What random thing do YOU like best about having kids?

Woman-y Things

When my husband and I were dating, Nicaraguan culture didn’t quite know what to do with me. Here I was, clearly a lady-girl, yet I had more in common with the men than with my own gender. I had an employment history, an education, I could drive, and I had absolutely no idea how to sweep the floor with a towel/stick apparatus. I was also 26 with not one single child. I did my best to learn woman-y things like cooking Nicaraguan cuisine, laundering clothes by hand and straightening hair. And although I did, in fact, become proficient in all such feminine pursuits, by that time I had already been accepted into the world of men, and there I stayed.

Going back to visit proved very different.

Now I had a baby to take care of. And the baby was very disoriented by the sudden, sharp, change in climate, routine and people. Clearly objecting to all these strange new people holding him, all he wanted was Mommy.

And that’s when I fully entered into the world of a Nicaraguan woman. Apparently, men go off and do fun things; women stay in the sweltering house and work really hard.

Case in point, we went out to the country to visit Eli’s grandma. As you might remember for my previous horrifying trips to La Mina, I kind of hate the country. Eli stuck me in his grandma’s windowless house in 100 degree heat (no air conditioning, not even a fan, people!) and gallivanted off in the hills with his brothers. While he ate fruit from the trees and enjoyed himself, I had my hands full of a hot, grumpy baby who very quickly developed a high fever.

As Troy snoozed fitfully on my chest in a hammock strung across the living room, I had a lot of time to ponder gender roles in the world. I watched Eli’s aunts toil silently, preparing food, scrubbing clothes, wetting the dirt in the front yard so it could be swept bare. You never see men helping with these endless, backbreaking chores. Eli is nearly the only male in his whole family who even knows how to cook (his dad learned late in life after his wife passed away).

Sure, women and men are made different and are supposed to have different functions. I have upper body strength suitable for hauling around my little chunky monkey, not chopping down trees. If there’s a tree that needs chopping, I’m calling in a dude. So I’m not saying that men and women should be and do the same things.

Grandma's House

But.

Dear lord how on earth did we get here?! The injustice felt even more oppressive than the relentless heat.

The day before, one of my brothers-in-law complained about the new domestic violence law in Nicaragua. It’s called something like The Protection of Women from Domestic Abuse Act and means a man who beats his woman automatically goes to jail even if she doesn’t want to press charges. His main objection was that it only applies to men. What about women who beat their men? How is that fair?

I pointed out that my husband could probably fend off my puny, ineffectual fists without the help of law enforcement but he was still grumpy about the inequality of the new rules. Maybe the law isn’t fair and just as it should be. But somebody needs to look out for all the women who are already at a cultural disadvantage. Their lives are hard enough without giving any man an inch of space to abuse them.

In any case, I am grateful to be back in the States in my own culture that is flawed in different ways. And I am glad that it didn’t take Troy very long to adjust to all the new faces and embrace his big Nica family. Maybe he also thought that after 50 consecutive hours of quality time, we really needed to see other people. 

Good Dads

The other night, I heard several Spanish exclamations by my husband emanating from our bedroom. The next thing I see is husband running down the hall with a diaper in hand, gagging. Then husband running down the hall with a naked baby. Then husband running back to our room with a wet naked baby.

Clearly, there was a poo incident of some magnitude.

And after I stopped laughing hysterically (but supportively!) I thought about what a great dad Eli is. He does it all – from diapers to peek-a-boo to coating the baby liberally with squash (probably some of the food goes inside the baby too). Whenever Troy is in daycare and hears Daddy’s voice he stops whatever he’s doing and gets happy.

Papa Bear and Baby Bear

If you think about it, any time a guy is a great dad, it’s kind of impressive.

Last year, our church had a lovely Mother’s Day service. As you can probably picture, they passed out carnations to the mothers and had a hooray-for-moms themed sermon. A month later, for Father’s Day, our church had…a regular old service. Right at the end they crow-barred in a prayer for all the dads. Eli turned to me and said, “Wow. Mother’s Day is a LOT more important here than Father’s Day.”

You bet your ass it is. I was in labor for over twenty hours to eject our son from my body into this world. Twenty hours, dude. Twenty.

Mothers are heroes.

But today, I would like to make it known that a good dad is, by far, cooler and more awesome than even a great mom.

Why?

Because fathers choose whether or not to love their kids.

The moment I came down with pregnancy, I was blessed (?) with an abundance of some very muscular hormones. These hormones took over my life, erased my memory, and turned me into a giant incubator who hated potatoes. They also triggered a lifelong bond of love. There’s a reason the very first moment I saw my son – all squashy and slimy and gross – I thought he was the most beautiful thing that has ever existed, ever. Oh yes, hormones.

Women have a pretty powerful biological, evolutionary, spiritual, or whatever you call it, need to love their kids. It’s kind of important for the species to continue. Otherwise, we probably would leave them out in the yard when they just. wont. stop. crying.

Guys don’t really have those hormones.

Dude hormones are more for fighting off barbarian hordes (or being barbarian hordes) and bringing down a wildebeest for dinner.

My point is not that I am super bad at science. My point is that falling in love with a tiny, helpless, mystery-fluid-spewer is not written into male DNA.  Men make a choice.

Being a parent is hard. I feel really fortunate to have stuff like instinct and hormones to propel me along the path to Good Motherhood. I am totally content to know, deep in my bones, that my child is the best one that has ever walked, crawled, or rolled upon the face of the earth – just like you other mothers know that about your kid!

And that is why I am totally in awe of all the great dads out there that every day, without chemical help, make the choice to love their kids and to treat them with kindness.

Dads are rad!

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