Things That Matter to Me, Part III: Pages

One thing that I have learned about myself while contemplating these posts is that more “things” matter to me than I previously realized. It has actually been a bit difficult to narrow my most important possessions down to a few posts. At first, I was not going to include anything that was generic and/or replaceable (like my iPad, which I absolutely love), but some things that are not particularly unique matter to me because of the circumstances under which I came to receive them, or the extent to which I have appreciated them. Books definitely fall into that category, and I have a lot of them. Although I have moved almost entirely to eBooks over the past decade, I still have a small library tucked away in a storage unit in Memphis. I love my books, but I hate moving them (for obvious reasons). Since I tend to move fairly often, there are only a few books that I take with me.

The Big One

As my high school graduation approached in the spring of 1999, my parents told me that they wanted to get me a special gift to remember the event and asked me if there was anything in particular that I wanted. I thought about it awhile and finally decided that there was only one thing that I really wanted: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I think I even requested the specific edition that I later received - The Yale Shakespeare: The Complete Works. 

Although I have been tempted as I am a prolific highlighter and margin-note taker, I have kept the pages of this magnificent book exactly as they were printed. I took every Shakespeare course offered at the University of Tennessee, but I always bought trade paperbacks for my courses to avoid marking up my Yale (and carrying it to class). I kept those too, of course. As there appears to be a Shakespearean gene in my family, I also inherited a full selection of paperback Shakespeares after my paternal grandfather passed away. And then when eBay was first starting out (before they had minimums on the auctions), I paid around $25 (including shipping) for a one-hundred-year-old set of 12 hardcover volumes with beautiful full-color illustrations. Unfortunately, they were desperately in need of re-covering when I bought them, and they are still in the same shape. Re-covering antique books is not cheap, so it’s a “down the road” project. 

So, yeah, I have a lot of Shakespeare books, but the Yale is by far my favorite. I love the weight of it, and the silky smooth pages. I like the type, the spacing, the editorial notations. It is a beautiful book, and one of my favorite things.

The Bible

After my friend Christian Soronen died, her mother gave me one of Christian’s bibles. It has a beautiful, black, leather-bound cover, with Christian’s name written on the inscription page. Like all of Christian’s books, it looks new (she never wrote in books and handled them carefully). There are several reasons why this bible is important to me, but they are private. I also do not feel comfortable sharing a photo of it at this time, but I had to include it in the list.

The Passports

Passports are like journals, records of where life has taken you. I love that they are “official”, genuine and authentic records. I love what they symbolize: your freedom to pass through the world. When I had to renew my passport a few years ago, I almost wept because I had to send the old one back. (Thankfully, they actually return them to you, voided with a hole stabbed through the center, but otherwise intact.) 

Notice the holes!

I love that the gold-embossed lettering on my dark blue passport says “United States of America,” because I am very proud of where I came from, and always cognizant of what I represent when I visit other cultures. 

Note to Self: Wash your hair before taking your next passport selfie.

I don’t think my reasons for loving my passport requires further explanation than that.

The Journals

I have been a prolific keeper of journals since I was old enough to write. I have a navy blue diary with a broken brass lock that I started filling with short sentences scribbled in giant letters when I was four or five years old. Over the past thirty-five years, I have filled dozens and dozens of spiral notebooks, computer hard drives, and colorful bound journals with thoughts, experiences, travels, and memories. When I need to write, I will write on anything with anything, so many of my journals are disorganized and cluttered, stuffed with index cards and post-it notes. I have journals that I started in 2002 and completed last year. The only consistency is that I always put the date in the top right corner of the page (one day, I really hope I take the time to put everything in order, but it’s pretty unlikely that will ever happen). At any given time, the bottom drawer of my nightstand is filled with 8-12 journals with at least a few pages remaining to be filled.

When I was younger - especially during my teenage years - I used to write at the beginning of the journal that, if something happened to me, the journal was to be given unread to a certain person (usually one of my dear friends Christine, Anne, or Nancy) who would then decide what to do with it. Obviously, at the time, my main concern was my parents reading something embarrassing or angry or mean. (I don’t really include those warnings anymore. My parents know that I keep journals and I do not think they have any desire to read them.)

I do not know why I keep journals. I know why I write - it is how I process my thoughts, and I thoroughly enjoy writing. It would be impossible for me to stop writing. But why do I keep everything I write? It’s not like they are keeping a historical record of anything. Typically, I write more about my thoughts and ideas than events. I have no desire to publish them or even let another soul read them in my lifetime. The only conclusion I have come to is that they represent my survival. It is no secret that I have dealt with some pretty significant challenges in my life (as well as rather insignificant challenges that seemed more serious at the time). I think that I preserve this record of my life, in part, to remind myself of what I have overcome. And then there are things that I simply want to remember.

My journals are also significant because of what they exclude. I write a good deal about sadness, depression, and difficulties. For me, writing is part of the process of overcoming those things. There have been some periods of my life, however, where I did not write with any sort of regularity. These voids represent very dark times in my life; the times that I did not feel compelled to write are the times that I was not myself. I wrote very little during my marriage.

Besides my dogs (which really should not be classified as “possessions,” these journals are my most important possessions. In a fire, they would be the first things I grabbed (again, after the dogs). On a deserted island, just give me something to write with.

What Does It All Mean?

There are many other things that matter to me, from pieces of furniture and articles of clothing to unique items I’ve collected over the course of my travels or inherited from a beloved relative. There is an original, black and white, wallet-size photograph of my mother in her late teens/early twenties that I absolutely adore. There is music of course, like my six-disc Johnny Cash collection, or the set of previously unreleased Nirvana recordings that I could not stop listening to for months. There are tickets to museums, movies and music festivals, certificates, diplomas, licenses, awards, personal correspondence, and the old key to my grandmother’s house, which was my favorite place on earth. The little ring I wear every day that my brother bought for me when I was visiting him in California. And there is art. Lots and lots of art, from framed originals to prints and photographs. 

I attach more meaning to things than I realized, and I think that may be why I have hesitated to let go of a lot of the “stuff” that I have accumulated over the years. So how do I detach enough from the things to declutter my life without bringing in Marie Kondo? I think, perhaps, the first step is to stop hanging on to things that I think “might be” significant to me one day. Either an item is significant or it is not. As Kondo says, if an item is significant, find a place of honor for it in your home. Otherwise, she argues, what is the point of keeping it? I agree with her, for the most part, but there are some things that matter to us simply because they exist, and not because we want to display them, show them to our friends, or write a blog post about them. 

I think it’s okay to keep those things too. Just get rid of the rest. 

Things That Matter to Me, Part II: Four Pieces of Jewelry

I do not wear jewelry very often simply because I’m so active and it gets in the way or gets lost or broken. For my second post in the “Possessions That Matter” series, however, I will write about four pieces of jewelry that I love and why.

The Gold Bracelet

I inherited this bracelet from my paternal grandmother Avis, with whom I had a very close relationship. I had never seen her wear the bracelet. My aunt decided that I should have it. I remember when I pulled it out of the little blue velvet bag, my first impression was that it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It is hard to capture its beauty in a photograph - you have to feel its weightlessness and pliability to really appreciate it. 

I do not know where it came from, although I am certain that my grandfather bought it for my grandmother as she never would have purchased something like that for herself. They had the most beautiful relationship, loving each other passionately until they left this earth. So the bracelet also carries with it the love that they shared. I have only worn it once that I can recall - at my wedding in Paris.

The Turquoise Bracelet

I received this bracelet as a gift from my boyfriend at the time. After his grandmother passed away, he and his mother selected this bracelet for me to have. I had never met his grandmother, but I loved his mother. It meant so much to me not only that they wanted me to have it, but that they wanted me to keep it even after our relationship ended. I’m really glad that they did, because it is something that I actually wear. I love its delicacy and its provenance. He remains a good friend, so when I look at it now, I am reminded of kindness and the friendship that can come even from the most chaotic of relationships (which it certainly was). And I think of his sweet mother.

The Watch

My parents surprised me with this gorgeous watch upon my graduation from law school. I knew nothing about watches, and I certainly did not know how much I would need one as a young prosecutor. They put thought into this gift, choosing to get me the stainless steel version because it was less flashy (and because I love steel). I love its “timeless” style, simplicity, and how cool and comfortable it feels against my skin. More than that, it matters because it reminds me of my parents’ endless support for my ambitions in life.

The Wedding Band

The wedding band holds a different kind of importance to me. For a long time, it reminded me of the symbolic promise that I made and had every intention of keeping. After my husband left me, it symbolized hope that we would be able to work things out. When I eventually accepted that was not going to happen, I removed it from my finger and wore it on a chain around my neck. When I was finally ready to let go of him emotionally when I was in India, I decided that I would throw it in the Seine in Paris on my way home. But when I got there, I couldn’t do it. I cannot explain why. It really wasn’t any sort of attachment to him; it was just this feeling that it wasn’t the right thing to do at that moment. So, I stopped wearing it on my neck, but I held on to it for some reason.

Several years later, when I was living on Saipan, I became very close with one of the young survivors of abuse that I worked with. After her case was closed, she and her cousin would come over to my house to paint or watch movies and play with the dogs. Over the time that I knew her, I got to see her overcome what happened to her. Like so many of the survivors I have worked with, she became an inspiration to me. 

Shortly before the time came for me to return to the mainland, the girl told me that the hardest thing for her to move past was the fact that, until he abused her, her abuser had been “a good uncle.” She had adored him, which made what he did to her so much greater of a betrayal.

Having not suffered from the kind of abuse that the girl had suffered from, there was not a lot about her experience that I could relate to personally. But I understood betrayal. A few days before I left the island, I handed her a chain necklace with a ring hanging on it. I told her that it was my wedding band, and I wanted her to have it for three reasons. One, to remind her that she is not alone in feeling betrayed by someone she loved. Two, because the shape of the ring itself reminds us that, no matter what happens in our lives, we must keep going. And three, to remind her that she mattered to me and that I would always hold her close to my heart.

The ring is one of my favorite possessions because I gave it away.

Things That Matter to Me, Part I: A Shopping Bag

 To commemorate four decades on this earth, I’m going to post some of my favorite possessions and the stories behind them. I typically don’t put a lot of stock in “stuff” because, as my late Aunt Nina used to say, “It’s just a thing.”

Also, i just moved into a new apartment and I feel overwhelmed with all the stuff I’ve accumulated. I need to purge some of it. So I thought it might be fun and useful to see and share what things really do matter to me.

I got this free shopping bag at a store in Kerala, India in 2012. I love it because of its authenticity. I have never found a good way to display it because I don’t like the idea of framing it.

My White Fragility

I’m almost finished reading Robin DeAngelo’s White Fragility, which is the #1 bestselling book on Amazon right now as we are in the midst of the police brutality protests following the brutal murder of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis police. White Fragility is an important book that I hope will become required reading in high schools. Having worked in employment discrimination law and even conducted trainings on race discrimination, I had already heard many of the things that DeAngelo teaches. Hearing something, or even learning it, however, does not equate to practicing it.

If you know me, you undoubtedly know that I am a progressive, left-wing democrat. I do not tolerate hatred of any group and I have been outspoken in my support of the #BlackLivesMatter movement. I have close friends of many different colors and nationalities. Although I’m not certain, I think I was in high school the first time I joined the NAACP. I would never intentionally discriminate against someone on the basis of race or any other immutable characteristic.

Despite all of those things, I realized that a lot of the times when DeAngelo described someone who has taken advantage of the benefit of white privilege, failed to question their own biases and prejudices, and used “white fragility” to their advantage, she was describing me. I have no doubt that my friends – regardless of skin color - would say that I am not racist. But in reality I think that what they would mean is, “compared to most white people born and raised in the South, you aren’t racist.” While that may be true, it does not excuse my own behavior. 

It does not excuse my racism.

I am writing this for two reasons. First, I want to communicate to every person of color who I have ever interacted with (or ignored) that I am truly sorry for any offensive behavior and inexcusable ignorance, and that I am always open to discussing with you anything that I have done that you felt was racist or simply not racially sensitive. The sad truth is that my actions may have been more memorable to you than they were to me. I want to listen and remember. I want to learn to be better. I want to stop being fragile.

Second, I want to communicate to white people who see me as progressive that I am not immune from this, and neither are you. If I can look at my own behavior and see racism, then you can too. And you should. You need to. If we do not do this, nothing will change. Racism will continue to dominate every American institution. White people will continue to exercise the privileges afforded them by virtue of their skin color at the expense of people of color. Cops will keep killing black people.

We all want to distance ourselves from the racist cop who murdered George Floyd. I read that one of the police officers who was charged with aiding and abetting in Floyd’s murder is claiming that he “did everything he could” to stop the killing because he said things like, “maybe we should turn him on his side.” Even he wants to distance himself. It’s easier for those of us who were not there, who have never been witness to police brutality directed at people of color, to distance ourselves from the murder. But it is not good enough to say, “I would never kneel on a black man’s neck until he died, so I’m not racist” or “I would never kill someone so I’m not racist.”

The man who killed George Floyd was in his mid-forties. He had some eighteen prior complaints against him in as many years on the police force. Do you think that he only acted violently at work? That he reserved his racist beliefs for moments where he had a black man completely under his control? Of course not. It would not be possible for someone to hide such hatred. According to one study, the average American knows around 600 people. How many of the 600 people in Derek Chauvin’s life knew that he was racist and a police officer? How many of them confronted him? Reported him? When people say, “White Silence is Violence,” this is what they mean. Chauvin’s 600 may not have known he was capable of murder, but many of them had to know that he was racist and in a position where he could act on his racism.

Do you know anyone like that? Think hard. What are you going to do about it?

When I was a young prosecutor, I asked a white police officer prior to a hearing why he had pulled over the African-American defendant. We were alone in the hallway when he shrugged and said, “What do you want me to say?” Taken aback, I responded, “The truth.” The cop asked to look at the citation again “to refresh his memory.” I declined. “It’s not on there,” I said. The I asked him flat out if he pulled the guy over because he was black. He asked to see the citation again. I told him to get out of my sight and never to bring me another case. I dismissed the case and told the defense attorney why. I may have even reported it to his supervisor, but I honestly cannot recall (I reported a lot of officers for various reasons, mostly for missing court, so this is not something that would have stood out). What I know for certain is that I did not follow up. I did nothing to ensure that the police officer, who was not only racist, but willing to lie under oath, never made another arrest. I certainly could have. Instead, I felt proud of myself for berating him and moved on to the next case. God only knows what that man has done since then. I don't even remember his name.

Please, resist the urge to say that I did more than “most people” would have done in those circumstances. I do not judge my own morality by the morals of others. What I did was not good enough. What if that cop was Derek Chauvin? Would the fact that I had called him out privately have stopped him from killing George Floyd? Of course not. Getting him permanently assigned to desk duty might have. Getting him fired definitely would have. We have to stop patting ourselves on the back simply because we don’t do what the really racist bad guys do. It is not good enough just to refrain from using racially derogatory language. It is not good enough to post articles on social media about police brutality. It is not good enough to not vote for bigots, have black friends, hire black people, or even march for justice. Of course, we should do all of those things, but we also need to do the important work of examining ourselves. We need to see not only our own prejudices, but also our own complacency.

We have to acknowledge not only that we have passively benefited from white privilege, but also that we have actively taken advantage of it. We have to admit that doing so was racist. We have to admit that our racism, whatever form it took, contributed to the systemic inequality in America. We have to admit that, deep down, we knew that it would.

Facing the reality of our own racist actions is not easy. It takes a lot of work. Some years ago, when I was coaching mock trial, I asked one of my black students how she was going to do her hair for the competition. Her eyes widened and she responded that she was going to wear it natural, like she always did. When I suggested that she pull it back to stay out of her face and “look more professional,” she accused me of singling her out. I denied this and said that I had told many of the other girls to pull their hair back to make it less distracting, and some of the other girls acknowledged this. The student said she would think about it and eventually agreed to wear a headband. Of course, she did not really have a choice. I was the coach.

A couple years later, I read an article about black women’s hair and almost immediately realized that what I had done was very, very wrong. I reached out to the student, who was now in college, and apologized (she was very gracious), and I moved on having learned an important lesson. I have told this story to many people over the years, often for the purpose of helping people realize how ignorance of black culture can lead to unintentional discrimination. As I read White Fragility and thought back to this incident, however, I realized that there was nothing unintentional about my actions. I did not need to understand the historical significance of hair in African-American culture to know that it was inappropriate for me to tell this young woman that her hairstyle was unprofessional. In fact, as I re-analyzed the situation, I remembered that I had actually consulted with another adult on the best way to broach the subject with the young woman. I knew better.

This is not a confessional or a ploy to relieve myself of “white guilt” and I do not care for opinions on the morality of what I did (I am leaving out a lot of relevant details for the very purpose of avoiding that discussion – please just assume that I am correct in my assessment that I did the wrong thing in this situation). I am telling this story because I want other white people to read it and think about situations in their own lives where they have perpetuated racism. I want to encourage you to analyze not only what you did or said, but what you were thinking when you did it. If you want to discuss it publicly, you are welcome to do so here, but right now I ask only that you think about it and acknowledge it in your heart. Take the first step.

Buy it on Amazon

Dog Grief

Reflecting on the past three and a half months, I have learned some things about grieving the loss of a beloved dog:

1. Three months is not enough time to prepare for the loss.
2. Three months is not enough time to "get over" the loss, either.
3. I have zero regrets about a single dollar I spent to get those three months after his diagnosis. I would have done the same thing even if I had known in advance that I would only be able to buy three months. I never think about the money I spent as if I could have spent it on something else. No regrets there. (On the other hand, I think I would regret not trying everything that I tried, but that is only me in my circumstances. If Cash had been older or in more pain or if I did not have the resources I had at the time to try everything, I would have made different decisions. No judgment here.)
4. Besides the passage of time, I have not found anything that helps alleviate the horrible grief associated with losing an animal that you spent more time with than any other thing or person in your entire life. 
5. You can avoid hearing other people's ridiculously inappropriate opinions on euthanasia if you simply say that your dog "died of [cancer]" rather than referring to "putting him down" or anything like that. Euthanasia is not something that people can understand until they have been put in that horrible position with their own pet. My dog died of cancer. 
6. I struggle a lot with the fact that I had to make the decision to put Cash to sleep. I wanted nothing more than the cancer to stop his heart so that I would not have to make that decision.
7. You do not need anyone else to tell you when is the "right time" to let your dog die. You know your dog, so you will know when he has reached the limit of what he can handle. There may be other factors that influence your decision. That is okay. You don't owe anyone an explanation.
8. Your grief is compounded by watching your other pet(s) grieve and being unable to offer them any explanation or comfort for their loss.
9. For me, memorializing Cash's life by burying his body and marking the grave was a cathartic experience. I think it helped me begin to start healing.
10. I have not found anything else that helps.
11. Looking at pictures and videos does not help.
12. Getting another dog (even a puppy) does not help. In some ways, it makes it harder.
13. Getting another dog may help your other pet(s) who are grieving.
14. Do not get a young puppy if your other dog is older or just less energetic than a young puppy. The annoyance to your other dog probably negates however much the puppy helped.
15. Every now and then, when I'm alone with Tub, I pet her and tell her that I still miss him too. I think it helps her to hear it. I know it helps me to say it out loud.