Entering 2107

 (If you received this blog by email, you might want to visit the actual site. The pictures work much better there. 

Just click on the title “Entering 2017”)

Not a bad view to welcome the new year, eh? We just got back from a trip to Oregon, welcoming the new year on the coast, and then moving on to Portland for the biennial National Multicultural Conference and Summit (NMCCS), a gathering of (mostly) psychologists—about 800 of them this year—who are interested in multicultural issues. I had originally waffled about whether to attend this conference, but after the election, I knew I needed to be there. Given the state of the nation, it was the perfect way to return from the coastal retreat to the cultural fray.

            

The time at the coast was, predictably, relaxing and rejuvenating. We were welcomed by a rainbow, proof that we were at the right place. Then for three days, we bundled up for cold walks on the beach, ate good food in small local restaurants (which were pretty quiet, once the New Year’s partying was over), took multiple redundant photos of Haystack Rock and some of the beach as it changed colors, and conversed with gulls accustomed to handouts. 

                                    
 

We slept with the window open and the ceiling fan on so we could hear and smell the ocean during the night.

And then, re-entry. NMCCS is something of a haven for people who are committed to diversity work. I think it’s the only place I regularly hang out where I am, along with other white people, in the numerical minority for days. My queer identity is a part of the “multicultural” programming, but the (relative) invisibility of this identity means that my whiteness marks me as an outsider, for a change. An important position to experience occasionally—more often than I typically do.

The beauty of this space is that people collectively assume that those around them are firmly invested in issues of diversity and work against oppression, so it’s never necessary to defend or explain a position that honors these issues as central (rather than peripheral) to how we do psychology and how we function in the world. As a result. it’s a remarkably non-judgmental gathering. People generally trust the good intentions of others, grant space for “mistakes,” and honor growth rather than perfection in understanding the experiences and perspectives that folks bring with them.

I always learn here, and I always feel challenged in realizing what I didn’t know. This year, it had an added impact for me: it was one of several recent experiences that have left me in a reflective mood about my own place in the world—appropriate for a new year. More on that later.

So, let me take you on a quick tour of my time at the conference and some of the insights I gleaned while I was there. I was very aware from the start of the vigilance that folks who gathered for this event are feeling in the wake of November’s election, with frequent references to the incoming administration and the mixture of anger and anxiety that its ascendance evokes. Both the pre-conference reception and the opening plenary began by describing this conference as a place of safety, where “all of your complex identities” are welcome, a place to “enjoy feeling brave,” to “renew your strength, encourage, and be encouraged.” It seemed clear to me that other folks came to this conference guided by an impulse similar to mine: to join with a like-minded community in nourishing energy for the challenges ahead. Sprinkled among these comments were summons to “carry the water, even when it’s not popular” and “speak up anyway.” These words of encouragement reminded me of a Martina McBride song, “Anyway,” which suddenly seems totally suited to this moment in history. Excerpts:

Anyway

You can spend your whole life building
Something from nothin'
One storm can come and blow it all away
Build it anyway

You can chase a dream
That seems so out of reach
And you know it might not never come your way
Dream it anyway

…..

This world's gone crazy
It's hard to believe
That tomorrow will be better than today
Believe it anyway

…..

You can pour your soul out singing
A song you believe in
That tomorrow they'll forget you ever sang
Sing it anyway
Yeah, sing it anyway

I sing
I dream
I love
Anyway

If feeling beseiged, these people were also inspired and inspiring. “Don’t let anyone take away your power,” one speaker urged, “the struggle is as important as the outcome.” More than once, I heard the presidential campaign and election described as a backlash—and this framed as good news: Those who resist diversity wouldn’t work so hard to stifle, deny, and discredit it if they weren’t frightened by how far we’ve come, what a force we can be for change. An empowering perspective that certainly inspires me to more action!

So, besides these general messages, what else did I learn? I’ll just mention a few sessions to suggest the flavor of the conference.

In one session, elders from several indigenous groups discussed their experiences with colonization. Most of the material they discussed was familiar to me from previous events and workshops I’ve attended. But drenched in two hours of references to colonization, this information took on a new quality that changed my gut sense of indigenous experiences, erasing any impulse to exoticize and leaving only the reality of systemic, persistent, to-the-bone deep marginalization. And remarkable resilience. 

Another workshop examined the roles of allies to marginalized groups, couched in terms of using the word “ally” as a verb rather than a noun: to be an ally is to take action, not just to invoke supportive rhetoric or adopt symbolism that carries no commitment to actually do anything.  One woman suggesting the term “accomplices” as a replacement for “allies” because it implies active engagement, even in the face of resistance. This was a challenging discussion for me. I agree with this position, and my agreement is another element in my personal reflections.

And then there was a session on aging. First, we shared hopes and fears about aging. Predictably, the fears were mostly about physical and cognitive decline and about social isolation. The hopes were mostly about remaining vibrant, presumably until the very moment of death. One African American woman who grew up in the rural South, living in a multi-generational home told us that aging and death had never carried any particular stigma because in her world, both were so integrated into life. Her comments led us to the topic of ‘good’ dying (and the book Being Mortal by Atul Gawande. I recommend it highly). From there, we shifted to the ageism implicit in the concept of “super aging,” and from there, we were off on a conversation about daily microaggressions, those well-intended words and acts that are meant to be kind, but are actually patronizing, even infantilizing. I’ve written about this plenty of times here, so I won’t go on about it.

I left the conference feeling inspired by the community and the political power I’d just experienced. Then, the night we got home, I awoke around midnight to a feeling that something was missing in my life. I went back to sleep easily, and just before I woke up the next morning, I had a dream that left me feeling alone and lost, aimless. After a long talk with my partner and some reflective walks, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m hunting for something I used to have and now don’t. I have to find out what it is, and the answer is almost certainly related to this conference (OK, and maybe the beach). I joked with my partner, “Maybe it’s just a dog.” But honestly, I think it’s something more, some sense of purpose. Just what it will look like isn’t clear. But I’ve been here before, and I know a few things about my process at this juncture—words like patience, openness, exploration come to mind. I know I can’t force it, but I also know I have to be actively engaged in the search.

I’m confident I’ll find it, whatever it is. Meanwhile, the process itself brings a sense of meaning that feels good. As the woman at NMCCS said, the struggle is as important as the outcome.

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2017. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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May Day!

Yesterday was May 1, a celebratory day for a variety of reasons in many countries around the world. So, it should come as no particular surprise that yesterday was a certifiably remarkable day here as well. I’m not talking here about the international labor movement, Maypoles, or rituals of pagan origin (well, maybe that last one, sort of). I’m actually talking about an amazing day of celebrations signaling the stunning progress of LGBTQ rights.

First, as many of you know, yesterday was the day when civil unions became legal in Colorado. The event featured parties of all sorts around the state, with some—like Boulder’s—beginning Monday evening, well before the magical midnight moment and extending on into the bleary-eyed hours of May 1. Although my partner and I didn’t get “unionized” (or, as someone said, “civilized”), we went anyway to witness this momentous beginning, as did scores of other folks who weren’t entering into unions. Out Boulder, who coordinated the party, managed to turn a gaggle of people gathered into a functionally bland room into a joyful community festival—lots of cake decorated with rainbow flags, lots of munchies, lots of excited chatter, lots of roses, lots of dancing to tunes set up by a local DJ. And lots of people. Couples, of course, and also whole families, groups of friends, whole “wedding” parties who came to celebrate this moment in the lives of folks they love. All in this big, beige room in the county clerk’s office building.

I didn’t get to actually see anyone go through the interview and sign the document registering their relationship as “real” before the law. But a friend who did said it gave her goose bumps. I believe it. When same-sex marriage became legal in Massachusetts, where we were living at the time, I blogged from the courthouse in Northampton and had the same experience. The officials performing these administrative formalities were anything but perfunctory as they welcomed each couple. In fact, they were so happy, so gentle and respectful toward the couples who came in that it brought tears to my eyes. That moment is hard to describe, the moment when you get to be present as relationships that have been largely invisible and totally discounted, sometimes for decades, are finally acknowledged as authentic in the eyes of the state.

After welcoming May 1 at this midnight gala, I then spent a piece of the afternoon at a middle school assembly—which, perhaps surprisingly (it was middle school, after all), continued the same theme. Here’s the story: A few years ago, the librarian at Manhattan Middle School decided she needed to be more active as an ally to LGBT folks—especially LGBTQ kids. So she devised some strategies to get LGBT-themed books to kids without their needing to check them out (and thereby reveal what might be seen as forbidden curiosity). Gradually, she also began to do other things—speaking gigs, working with Boulder Valley Safe Schools Coalition, and founding an allies club. That club, which started as a small group of kids, now has over 100 members.

For the past two years, the club has organized a diversity assembly focusing on LGBT issues. This year, the theme was taken from Gandhi: “Be the change.” The assembly included brief, one-sentence testimonials from several club members (“I’m an ally because …”), music from two local LGBTQ-affiliated choruses, and a rap performance by the allies club based on a video about Gandhi. The event wrapped up with lots of incredible food and chat time with the performers, some of the kids, some school personnel, and audience members, who included the superintendent of the Boulder Valley School District, several school board members and staff, and assorted community activists.

Afterward, driving home, I was thinking about the day and the pace of change it represented. I grew up before Stonewall—which is to say, before the contemporary LGBTQ-rights movement was even launched. I hid out for decades out of fear, some of it realistic and some goblin-generated. Then things began to change—slowly, it seemed, frustratingly slowly. Yet now, here I am, living in a world where same-sex couples are granted the legal rights and responsibilities of marriage and where middle school kids (that’s middle school kids!) take visible, active, and vociferous stands on behalf of LGBTQ rights. And they do it with the active support of allies who include librarians, teachers, and school superintendents. All within my adult lifetime. Not, it turns out, so slow at all. And I get to witness all of this, all on one lovely day in May.

Out Boulder’s ED said it so well in her comments at the civil unions celebration: There’s still a long way to go, a lot of work to be done. Much more than just full marriage rights. There’s work to be done on trans* issues, work on divisions within our own community, work on the lingering (and recently increasing) incidence of HIV/AIDS, work on poverty and poor health care, on bullying, on immigration rights and parenting rights, on lingering discrimination in employment and housing, on the high rates of smoking and alcohol abuse in our communities. There’s plenty left to do. But this May Day, it was time to dance with a DJ, rap with Gandhi, and eat cake with rainbow icing.

As I write this, I find myself regretting that I don’t have any pictures of these great events to share with you. So to make up for it, let me share some photos of yesterday’s other big event: our May Day snowstorm! 

Here's the view outside my bedroom window this morning

        

         

followed by scenes in my yard and bunny prints outside the coffee shop window .

      

         

                              

Snow in April—even tons of snow—was a bit unusual, but still tolerable. But May? Boulder got a foot of snow on Wednesday, obliterating the former 6-inch record for the date.

I figure it was Nature’s way of celebrating May Day and all the glorious joy it held.