Intersectionality. Defined.

 

Today the media declared Joe Biden the winner of the 2020 presidential election.

I didn't know how to feel. I was thrilled, in awe. I was sad that it came down to this. That 70 million people had voted for hatred, for white supremacy. 

I had been invited — several times via text — to a rally this afternoon. I didn't plan to go, but after Biden's win was announced via mainstream media an hour before the rally, I decided to attend. I was rejuvenated, energized, excited. I had to celebrate with like-minded people. And so I went, and had the most incredible experience.

I've never seen so many people from so many walks of life come together for a single movement. This wasn't about women, or Blacks, or homeless people, or Natives...this was about ALL of us. Together. Signs demanding change to address climate change. To require paid sick leave. To create policies to acknowledge that Black lives matter. To allow women to control their own bodies. 

THIS was the embodiment of intersectionalist activism: When every cause becomes my own cause. We are all on the same page, speaking out for the most vulnerable among us, those without a voice, without the means to advocate for themselves. 

I saw Blacks and whites bumping elbows, friends greeting friends, people dancing in the streets. I can't think of another election that created this much jubilation among its supporters. A Native American tribe of dancers danced in front of the marchers, all speeches translated into sign language and Spanish.

A woman wearing a "pussy hat" from women's marches. 

I have been to dozens of protests and rallies and marches this year, and years prior. None felt like this one. The sense of community, that it was always welcome to speak to your neighbor, no matter their color or religion, the spontaneous dancing, the jubilation. 

Thrilling.  

Trump's supporters may see it differently, but they have no idea. They've been blinded by his rhetoric and glamour. He has spoken lies, and they chose not to hear the "mistruths." This is not just any old victory, this is as if the people of Germany had the ability to vote Hitler out and did so. Bells rang in Paris, people took to the streets in Belfast, Ireland, fireworks went off in England. This isn't just Democrats supporting this win, it's the world, relieved that Trump will leave office. The world feels a little safer now. 

Hate crimes increased exponentially since Trump took office. His rhetoric inflamed hatred, divisiveness, racism, xenophobia and misogyny. His policies only benefited white men with money. As Paul Wellstone said, "When we all do better, we all do better." Under Trump, no one did better,  unless you were white, male, and privileged, and most definitely a family member. 

With Trump as president, it felt like the people against the government. And while I know Biden will not be the savior we need, he won't be the Satan we had. Perhaps now we can move forward. Together. 

The "unapologetic Muslim women." (per their t-shirts)

Anti-Racist in Training

Sign at the George Floyd Memorial, August 2020

I’ll begin with a parable by David Foster Wallace, as told in a commencement address in 2005:

There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, “What the hell is water?”

This allegory, first spoken by David Foster Wallace at a commencement address in 2005, was referring to the important realities that exist all around us that are the hardest to see and talk about, that in the seemingly mundane work of “adulting,” we are choosing to make our lives important…or not important.

I would like to use the allegory to make a different statement:

All Americans are racists.

Someone first said this to me earlier this year as I attended the first of many rallies and protests in Minneapolis after the murder of George Floyd. I was taken aback and asked this person for an explanation. His short explanation? “We’re all swimming in the water.”

Our government was built on a basis of racism. When the founding fathers wrote “All men are created equal” they didn’t take “men” to mean all human beings, they truly meant all White men — women were not included in this statement, nor were Blacks or Native Americans. Women were not considered intelligent or unemotional enough to know what was best for them. The second were considered property, not capable of managing their own lives or living without a master. The third, Native Americans, were not included as belonging to the country because it was their country we would slowly annex to create our own over the next 100 years.

All subsequent systems were built out of this belief that White men were at the top of a racial and gender hierarchy. The banking system, justice system, healthcare system, the wrestling of state rights vs federal rights, all of it. It is all around us; so much so that as a White woman walking through this world, I never saw it.

“Oh yes,” you say, “But we’ve come so far, that’s ancient history now!”

Is it really?

In 2018, Wells Fargo was fined $3 billion for opening false accounts on behalf of its customers, taking out credit in their names falsely to “boost” reported earnings. While that was the action they were fined for, multiple cities across the United States have also sued Wells Fargo repeatedly for predatory lending practices, stating that Wells Fargo pushes BIPOC borrowers to take out riskier or more expensive loans than they should, costing many of them homeownership opportunities. Just this year the Trump administration stripped the Office of Fair Lending and Equal Opportunity of their enforcement actions, making them impotent. Moving forward, if someone believes a bank is not being fair to them on the basis of gender, race, religion or other status, there is no longer an office with any power that can help them. 

Today, the United States comprises 5% of the global population but 25% of the world’s incarcerated population. Why is that? Do we really have that many criminals here in the “land of the free?” Do you know the difference between a White and a Black drug addict? A White drug addict goes to treatment — a Black drug addict goes to jail. When those White addicts end their treatment, they mostly go back about their lives, to their jobs, families and communities, while the Blacks who serve their sentence have lost some if not all of those things while they were away, and have lost the right to vote for their rest of their lives (in most states).

In 2018, when 65% of Florida voters emphatically voted “yes” to restore voting rights to convicted felons who had served their time, 33% of adult Black men seemingly had their voices restored to them. I say “seemingly” because even now, in 2020, the roll-out of this law has been stymied by a new wrinkle that now states that those felons must pay all fees and fines related to their convictions. The voice of the poor Black man is not yet being heard.  

In the United States, a Black baby is twice as likely to die by its first birthday as a White baby. Research published in 2018 determined that the reason for this gap isn’t the unhealthy behavior of Black mothers, which has been considered the underlying cause for 30 years. Instead, it points to the gap in access to healthcare for Black and White mothers, institutional racism and the increased stress that Black mothers suffer living in a racist society.

We are swimming in the water. And suddenly I see it all around me.

As Angela Davis says in Ava DuVernay’s stunning documentary, 13^th, “It is not enough to be a non-racist. We must become actively anti-racist.”

I am working on becoming anti-racist. It is not enough to quietly walk through this world, accepting my guaranteed freedom while they are being denied to others in my own country.

I am starting where I believe I can make the most difference — here in my own city. I am taking my lead from the voices of Black, Indigenous, People of Color (BIPOC) communities who have been telling us for years what they need to be safe, to feel the same security I feel as I move about this world. In their neighborhoods the police are a menace, harassing them and brutalizing them for decades, robbing many of their freedoms for low-level crimes that lawmakers wrote years ago for misleading purposes.

I no longer want to live in two Americas, one built for people who look like me and one built for those who don’t. I hope you’ll join me in this change.

A Pilgrimage

I've now been down to 38th & Chicago many times now since May 25th, the last day of George Floyd's life.

It feels important to do. I don't know how to feel every time I go, which is why I go often.

The community has blocked off the intersection by a block in every direction — no police in sight, citizens can manage this themselves, thank you very much. Depending on which direction you enter it from, your car could be stopped by pieces of art, by concrete blocks, or by cars parked sideways across the intersection, music blasting from the stereo.

At each entrance you'll find volunteers at a tent, handing out masks and spraying hand sanitizer on each visitor. We are in the midst of a pandemic, after all.

Today, I visited with my husband and both girls and we first visited the "#SayTheirNames Cemetery," an art installation a block away, in a green space that was previously empty. This art was created by two Penn State students and is made of tombstones of every Black person who lost their lives at the hands of the police. It is devastatingly large and not complete. While there I emailed one of the artists (per their sign) and gave a couple of names to add to it, the most recent killing happening just this past Friday.

"#SayTheirNames" Cemetery, 37th & Park Ave, Mpls

From there, we walked the half-block to 38th & Chicago. You don't need the signs at each entrance reminding you that you're entering a sacred place, and to be respectful of brown and black people who may be in mourning. You don't need that reminder, you can feel it.

The street is covered with the names of Blacks who lost their lives at the hands of the police and have not received justice. The names stretch across faded yellow dotted lines that used to direct cars along the streets which are now only traveled by foot. An oblivious person was walking over the names and someone else asked him to move off of them and walk alongside. It was the respectful thing to do.

We came to the corner where George lost his life. The place on the street where he died has been painted, his body filled in with blue paint, wings unfolding from his shoulders as he ascends to heaven. The area where he died is marked off by red velvet rope and entirely lined with flowers upon flowers upon flowers, signs and letters to George strewn among the decaying flora.

Around the corner is the beautiful blue mural that was painted just a couple of days after his death. Marissa and I were visiting while the artists were painting it. I have visited here when the flowers were so thick on the sidewalk that visitors had to take to the street. Now, the decaying and dead flowers from three weeks ago have been removed and a new layer of fresh flowers lain down by visitors, though everyone respectfully keeps their distance and gazes upon it from afar.

This particular piece of art hurt my heart the most. These are George's final words. All of them.

Tents are set up throughout by various groups. I purchased t-shirts from black business owners who are raising money to re-build their barber shop and the salon next door which were both damaged in the ensuing riots. There was a tent set up in the parking lot of the Speedway to register people to vote, one of few ways that people in these neighborhoods can take back their power.

The previous day I was in this same area, working the "Recall Freeman" tent to collect signatures to recall Hennepin County DA Mike Freeman, who was waiting for "more evidence" before charging the officers with George Floyd's death. The only evidence he could have been waiting for was that exonerating the police officers, as the public had already seen the overwhelming evidence of their guilt.

The center of the intersection has a large sculpture of a black fist raised up to the sky, surrounded by flowers and art. Art upon art upon art upon art. The street was filled with the original graffiti after his death, of people writing "murder," and "f12," and "say his name" directly on the pavement. And then this was supplanted by statues, murals, other art that overtook the graffiti.

Stunning art of George Floyd made up the protest signs his death inspired.

Black grief is not quiet. It is loud. It is sometimes profane. It is undeniable. It is contagious.

Each time I visit, I see something new. I talk to people and nod and pay respect to people who, outside of this sacred space, I may not have felt comfortable approaching. I've had conversations with people all of creeds and colors in this space and we are all there together, with a singular mission: to honor George Floyd's life, and to ensure that his death was not in vain, that his will be the one that will change our society forever.

From "Stay Well" to "Stay Safe"

A crowd gathers at 38th and Chicago where George Floyd was murdered, watching artists create a mural to honor his memory.

On Monday of this week a black man named George Floyd was pinned to the ground and a white police officer knelt on his neck with his full weight, asphyxiating him until he died. A crowd of people gathered and cried mercy on his behalf to deaf ears.

George had been accused of forging a $20 bill at a local grocery store. He was unarmed, was already in handcuffs and had been placed in the back of the squad car. He was then removed from the vehicle, placed on the ground and the officer placed his knee on his neck for nearly 9 minutes. George stopped moving at 3 minutes in. The officer didn't remove his weight from George's neck until after the ambulance showed up and the gurney rolled out.

The gross abuse of power was captured in a 10-minute video shot by a 17-year-old girl on the scene. I cannot imagine the horror she experienced as she watched a man lose his life through the lens of her phone.

We are on night three of what we expect to be protests and riots. The first night was bricks through car windshields, some minor damage. The next night an apartment complex under construction was burnt to the ground, as was the local Target and AutoZone. Other businesses were broken into and looted. Last night the 3rd Precinct building of the MPD was set on fire, along with a host of other businesses. Violence is spreading to St. Paul and the suburbs, and solidarity in other cities is resulting in protests in Los Angeles, Denver, New York and more. 

At first I was angry and frustrated why communities respond to injustice by looting and hurting business owners who live in their neighborhoods. But then I read a few things that made so much sense to me, this one makes it the easiest to understand:

"A riot is the language of the unheard." — Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. 

This was first said in a speech on April 4, 1967 called "The Other America" given at Stanford University. He paraphrased this and used it in many interviews until his death exactly one year from when he first spoke them.

His full speech can be found here. It is disheartening that it is just as relevant today as it was when it was first delivered 53 years ago.

I read about the work of MPD150, which did a comprehensive study of the history of the Minneapolis Police Department over the past 150 years. Its roots in racism are deep, and its culture has not strayed far from those roots. Their comprehensive report, released in 2017, makes a powerful case for defunding the police department and diverting those dollars to community organizations that can help reduce poverty, address mental health and drug dependency and other issues that will make communities safer, thus reducing the need for police patrolling.

I also perused this sobering dataview produced by the Star Tribune of every death after a physical confrontation with police across Minnesota. They documented the race of the victim, of the officers, whether or not weapons were involved, and the final result of justice, be it charges or a conviction. It doesn't take long to see why George Floyd's unnecessary death is the final straw. 

Finally, I began learning from the Hampton Institute, a think tank in D.C. providing analyses on a variety of subjects affecting the working class. And they had this to say about the events in Minneapolis:

This event and the fallout has been the only talk of our home for a couple of days. The girls and I have talked about our society, white privilege, the history of oppression and what it would take to fix it all.  Today Marissa and I visited the corner where George was murdered to pay our respects and be with others who feel this loss upon more loss. We don't have answers. But blacks in this country have waited too long to no longer be oppressed, to not be killed for driving while black, jogging while black, shopping while black. 

I am using my voice to call our officials, speak out on social media, and support the fight for justice and the end of inequality. I'll be supporting local organizations as well which are working to fight for change by donating to Communities Against Police Brutality, Minneapolis FreedomFund, MPD150 and others.

Please, educate yourself by following the links in this article. Here's a listing of other resources:

"The Warmth of Other Suns," Isabel Wilkerson
"The New Jim Crow," Michelle Alexander
"I'm Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness," Austin Channing Brown
"The Hate You Give," Angie Thomas
"Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City," Matthew Desmond
"13th," and "When They See Us," documentaries by Ave DuVernay

Not. One. More.

Standing Up For Each Other

I believe that it is important that we teach our children how to participate in this American experiment called democracy. I'm not going to get into politics except to say that no matter your position, for democracy to work, we have to participate.

So when I heard that a women's march was being organized for the day after Trump's inauguration, I suspected that it would be big. The march wasn't about reproductive rights, or racism, or gender equality, it was about all of those things -- that women's rights are human rights.

Only Lindsey was interested in coming with me. Marissa was worried that people were going to get  hurt; she didn't want to come near it.

After hearing Marissa's concern, and seeing pictures of this sign at the march in California, Marissa's hesitation gave me pause.

"I'm gonna see you nice white ladies at the next #Black Lives Matter march, right?"

This sign was created by Amir Talai, a Persian American actor in California. He has been involved in the Black Lives Matter movement for the past few years; he talks about why he wrote this in this interview by Fusion.

Living in Minneapolis, I've had lots of opportunities to get involved in various demonstrations and protests. Yet I never stepped forward before, nor would I have had my children attend, either.

I had to ask myself, "Why?" The struggles for equal rights is real for people of color -- why haven't I joined them before? It's not that I don't care or haven't considered participating; I have friends who are very involved and they frequently have invited me to join them at various rallies and gatherings.

The answer was easy: I did not feel safe at those gatherings. And not for the reasons you may think.

Let me tell you the story of another march.

This past November, Black Lives Matter organized a march involving Minneapolis Public Schools. Students were invited to take part by leaving their classrooms near the end of the day and gathering in downtown Minneapolis in a route approved in advance by the city. The children of friends and acquaintances took part in this, leaving Southwest High School and walking down the street with signs and banners, then made their way to downtown Minneapolis to join the students from other MPS schools.

Once near the US Bank stadium, on the previously approved march route, police pepper-sprayed the crowd. These are high schoolers, kids from 14 to 18 years of age. My friend's 14-year-old daughter was traumatized by the experience, her eyes swollen shut, her emotions raw from the chaos and fear of the incident.

The media did not cover the peaceful gathering, the police "protection" which turned into violence against the students. It was just another protest by another disgruntled niche of our diverse society.

Need you ask, it was mostly students of color who participated in this march. Their Caucasian counterparts did not join them. If they had, I suspect the police response would have been very different.

In thinking about these two organized demonstrations, I felt safe taking part in a march of what turned out to be nearly 100,000 people, and did not feel safe in a group of 100 people.

This realization told me so much about myself and about our society. I cannot begin to understand to the frustration that people of color feel at being squelched when they protest their treatment. But I can try to relate. And I can stand up for them any way I can, with my voice, my calls to lawmakers and my vote.

What Hasn't Changed

This week's cover of Time Magazine struck me.

I don't believe that the civil rights leaders of the 1960's would have imagined seeing scenes like this 50 years after their own struggle lead to what they believed to be true change.

I do not pretend to understand what it means to be oppressed in our society. I can tell you what it means to be misunderstood.

I went to college at St. Cloud State in St. Cloud, Minnesota. At the time the nickname for this city of 50,000 was "White Cloud." I can't speak to the racial make up of the city itself, but I can tell you that the campus was around 85% Caucasian, 10% international students and 5% African American. Racial tensions were high -- I am not sure why it was more of a powderhorn than anywhere else, but it was. Maybe it was the lack of diversity, but at the time the racial make up didn't look much different than most other cities of comparable size in Minnesota, and other cities didn't seem to have the problems St. Cloud had.

There was the case of the white student beaten by two black students to within an inch of his life. Another incident outside a bar resulted in the opposite result. And then there was the case of the black male student charged with raping a white female student.

That one shook up campus for some time, because sadly there was the typical argument as to whether it was rape or consensual sex. I honestly do not remember the outcome of the trial, but I remember the media coverage and the unsettled feeling on campus while it was going on.

During this time, I lived in an apartment house several blocks off campus. While campus itself was well-lit, city streets the lights were few and far between and the alleys seemed ominous. At least that's how it felt to walk those streets by myself, a white woman, coming home from the campus library at midnight. (And yes, I really did -- I worked the late shift, closed it down at midnight and walked home after.)

One evening, I was walking home from the library and following the advice of all those tips and tricks that had been published in the school paper about safety.

• Be aware of your surroundings. 
• Walk confidently, looking in front of and around you, not at the ground. 
• Walk closer to the street side of the sidewalk, so someone can't grab you from the alley.
• If someone grabs you, yell something specific for others to do, like "Call 911!" instead of just "Help!" 

My spine stiffened when I saw a figure approaching me. The person was backlit by the street light behind him so I couldn't see his face, but I could clearly tell it was a man -- tall, broad-shouldered. The hairs on the back of my neck pricked up and my shoulders tensed. Would he grab me? Would he try to drag me down an alley? The honest, terrible truth of it is that I thought, "What if he's black?" because I thought that would increase my chances of being attacked.

We walked closer to each other, and I could see the tension in his shoulders as well. Was he about to make his move? Was I about to have my life go in a direction I never intended?

We finally got close enough to see each other. He was a black man, a student I assume, with a backpack stuffed with his studies, papers spilling out of hastily closed zippers, a book under his arm.

We looked each other in the eye, quickly nodded, looked down and kept walking our separate ways.

I realized as I passed him...he was just as scared of I as I was of him.

After all, it was only he and I on this street. I could scream, trip myself to provide bruises for the police and claim that he did it. The state of race relations on campus at that time meant that I would be believed and he would not.

Perhaps he had the same thought that I had when we passed, "Is she about to make her move? Is my life about to go in a direction I never intended?"

For a moment, I understood. We are all human beings. We all have fears. We are all individuals -- our race is not responsible for an individual's actions.

A Magical Evening

I've been volunteering for a nonprofit called "Children's Lightouse of Minnesota" for nearly two years. This is something I've done in my "free" time, whatever that is.

Children's Lighthouse's mission is to build the first-ever children's hospice in the Midwest. The mission and the need is incredible. There are over 9,000 children living in Minnesota with life-limiting conditions, of which 700 will die every year. The needs of children in these situations is so different from that of adults. They have siblings who wish to be with them, large extended families who become involved in their care, and, after their passing, a different kind of grief for the families to work through.

Unfortunately, the US healthcare system does not value comfort and care in these situations, and there is currently no reimbursement model for children's hospice care. Therefore, there are only 3 children's hospices in the United States, all of which are on the coasts.

That's not why I'm writing this post.

The Home Plate II event for Children's Lighthouse, Hyatt Regency in downtown Minneapolis

A representation of the home and the children it will serve.

I'm writing this because I have come to believe that you get from the universe what you give to the universe.

The executive director of Children's Lighthouse, Katie Lindenfelser, is the most amazing person you will ever meet. She exudes peace. She has a grace and a patience in her manner that makes you take pause. She comes from humble roots, but has somehow managed to make connections with some very wealthy and connected individuals. From Nita Killebrew, the widow of Harmon Killebrew, Twins legend, to the well-known local DJ who volunteers his time to emcee the event, to many others, she has a way of personally connecting people to the mission.

When she talks about the mission, people open up about their own loss, losses that they may have kept quiet about for years. I sat at a table with couples who had not known each other prior to the evening. Throughout the conversation we learned that three of the couples at the table had lost a child, ranging in age from 45 days old to 3 and a half years old. They exchanged hugs and names and vowed to stay in touch. One person at the table is a pediatric hospice nurse who moved here from California, where one of the three hospices is. She is currently not employed but is supporting this hospice because she knows the need and the value. Another is a Medicare reimbursement specialist who is interested in volunteering her time to help CLM figure out how to get reimbursed for its care.

Things just fall together for this organization.

They had an incredibly successful fundraising event. They raised more than $80,000 during one portion of the evening, much less other revenue sources from the evening. It's a fraction of the millions they need to raise to build the home, but with the connections in the room, they will be able to get there.

I am not capturing how amazing this is.

Architectural drawing of the home in its planned location.

This is amazing because the organization has only one employee, Katie, the executive director. Everyone else is volunteering their time. No one has to do this, but everyone chooses to. That's how powerful this mission is, and how much of an inspiration Katie is.

When she was first introduced at the beginning of the evening she got a standing ovation, just for being who she is. The energy and love of that moment is something words cannot capture. Tears came to her eyes, she was so moved by the gesture.

I am honored to know her and to be a part of this incredible organization.

P.S. If you'd like to learn more about Children's Lighthouse, go to their website, www.childrenslighthousemn.org. And yes, the website was built and is maintained by volunteers. Other nonprofits are jealous.

We Are Newtown

I have a friend who lives in Newtown, CT. She used to be my client years ago; we've kept up with each other on Facebook since that time.

Life has been strange for them. They have been incredibly saddened by the day's events, by the tremendous loss that 26 families in their town of 21,000 people suddenly suffered on December 14. They have been touched by the amazing generosity of strangers who have paid for ice cream, coffee, for life's little things to try to soften the blow of losing the big things.

In the days shortly after the shooting, she likened their first outing to walking in a post-apocalyptic world. There were people around but they didn't speak to each other. They could only share glances before the shock and pain showing in the other person's eyes made them look away. Inconsequential chit chat seemed irrelevant, so no one spoke because no one could put words to the grief they all felt.

There have been calls for gun control. Calls for more guns. Calls for better mental health screening. Of the pieces I've read in the wake of this tragedy, these are the ones that I believe are worth a wider audience.

Why the Sandy Hook Shooting Feels so Close

Perspective is everything, and social media and instant news have reduced the amount of space and time between tragic events and our learning of them. This is a must read, as we as a nation consider what to do in the wake of this tragedy.

Is anyone else disgusted by the fact that on December 15th, the day after the shooting, a Wikipedia entry for "Sandy Hook" and "Adam Lanza" were both started?

This is What 6 Looks Like

Why does this particular loss hurt so much? There have been many other shootings, many lives lost senselessly. But the victims were kindergarteners. This writer does a wonderful job of explaining why -- because we all know what 6 looks like.

I Am Adam Lanza's Mother

This post chronicles a mother's challenges in dealing with the mental health of her son. She is left managing him as best she can with no answers and very little help. I've heard this story before -- from Dylan Klebold's mom, Jeffrey Dahmer's mom, and others. This highlights the need for better mental health care in this country, one child at a time.

How the NRA Lobbied Congress to Suppress Firearm Studies

In 2012 the government spent $64.2MM researching how to reduce and prevent traffic deaths. This same year, the government spent $0 on studying how to prevent firearm deaths. With the Sandy Hook shooting, as of right now it appears that more Americans will be killed by firearms than traffic accidents.

Attack on Chinese children the same day

On December 14, the same day as the Sandy Hook shooting, a "madman" entered a school in China and brutally knived 22 children. While the injuries were gruesome, all 22 children survived the attack.

Not that the US wants to become a Communist country and ban outright the owning of firearms by private citizens, but I found the coincidence of these two events happening on the same day in two countries on opposite sides of the world -- with completely different outcomes -- more than a little startling.

Someone's Child

Yes, I'll be bold enough to put my own post in this group. This was one of my first thoughts when I heard of the shooting -- the shooter is someone's child, who is deserving of our sympathies as well.

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Radiothon

This morning I volunteered to work the phone bank at the KS95 for Kids radiothon*. This radiothon benefits my employer, Gillette Children's Specialty Healthcare, and Children's Cancer Research Fund.

It was 4:55 a.m. in the empty, dark and quiet mall. I got on the elevator to get to the volunteer check-in room, and saw another person walking towards the elevators as well, so I held the door. Who else is in the mall at this hour, anyways, besides other people volunteering for the radiothon?

The man got in, took one look at me and said, "Jenny?"

I have to be honest, I didn't recognize him at first. He wasn't from any of the organizations I knew involved with the radiothon, but he clearly knew me. Turns out he and I worked together nearly 7 years ago at my former place of employment. He had only worked there for a year before life took him in a different direction and he had to leave the job, but he still remembered me and eventually I remembered him.

We talked about what we'd been doing in the years between -- jobs, kids, moving, trips. The last time we had seen each other my kids were ages 1 and 3 and he didn't yet have children. He has two boys now, ages 3 and 5.

Nothing like a conversation like that to make you realize how quickly your kids are growing up.

I asked him how he came to volunteer his time at the radiothon, knowing that we had lots of corporate sponsors whose employees volunteer at the phone bank. But he was doing this on his own because his older son is seen at Gillette. He was just diagnosed with muscular dystrophy a year and a half ago, and they've been incredibly grateful for their care at Gillette.

I said I was sorry for his diagnosis, but he waved it off. "He's just a normal kid, like anybody else." He went on to tell me stories of how easy-going he is, how he loves to play with his friends, loves swimming in the lake close to their house and has embraced kindergarten.

We kept talking, and later on came back to his son's diagnosis. I asked how they discovered he had MD, and he said that his wife noticed that their son seemed to struggle in comparison to other kids to do "normal kid things," like climb the monkey bars or run around the playground. They had taken him to their pediatrician a few times and finally, when the differences became more pronounced, the doctor ordered a few tests. That's when the diagnosis of muscular dystrophy came back.

Then he told me something that made my heart jump into my throat. The average life expectancy for a child with his type of muscular dystrophy is 25 years. His muscles will deterioriate with age. They know that as he grows his mobility will decrease, he will eventually need a wheelchair and this disease will eventually result in his death.

They already know they are going to outlive their son.

He said that his wife's parents are having a really hard time with the diagnosis, and even a year and a half later they struggle to believe that this beautiful little boy, so bright and fun, will not live long into adulthood.

But really, he said, what are we going to do, mope around and waste the time we do have with him? No, he said, we're going to live every day to the fullest, give him every life experience we can and love him for as long as we have him.

And then he told me not to cry, but it was too late.

*I feel compelled to remind my readers that I write this blog from my own personal perspective and not on behalf of my employer or any of Gillette's partners.

An Ad That Says What I Would Never Dare

I have to thank Blue Cross Blue Shield for their most recent public message ads.


I was in a seminar earlier this week and we were discussing the new ads. There happened to be a BCBS employee in the seminar and she shared how controversial those ads have been. Comments on their YouTube channel are mostly in the negative, telling them that they don't like the ads, they are hurtful, rude, etc.

These same ads have more views and hits than any of their previous public health messages, so they aren't backing down. They've struck a chord, and I think it's a good one.

Here's the thing, folks: For the first time in American history, the generation being raised today is expected to have a lower life expectancy than the generation raising them. We've made incredible advances in medicine, are curing cancers at higher rates than ever before, and know what chemicals can cause cancer and have regulated the most harmful ones out of our food and environment.

We have incredible health screening and know more today about what to look for in blood tests, MRIs, or whatever screening a doctor orders to get to the root of a health problem.

But because 1 in 3 children and adolescents are considered overweight, all those advances won't matter.

Listen to the American Heart Association, the American Diabetes Association, American Cancer Society or any of these incredible nonprofits who have been working diligently to fund research for their various causes. They all have one criteria in common that will impact people's chances of getting the disease they are working so hard to eradicate. That one criteria is weight.

People who are overweight are at higher risk for heart disease, diabetes, cancer, disorders of the endocrine, gastrointestinal system, you name it, the risks are higher.

Yet people are offended if a doctor mentions his or her weight during a regular check-up. Advocacy groups like the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance work on behalf of overweight people to gain acceptance in society, to be accepted for who they are and how they look. I'm all for not discriminating based on a person's weight, but that doesn't mean the person has to accept that weight as his or her fate.

What does this mean to the next generation? All I know is that the worst loss a person can suffer is the loss of a child. Our children are supposed to live beyond us, and a great many of us will be burying our children because of this epidemic.

Thank you, BCBS, for bringing this to our attention. Now let's get to work.

Inspired to Run My Best

This past weekend our family participated in Children Cancer Research Fund's 10th annual Time to Fly. This is a run/walk event with something for everyone: a 10k run, a 5k run, a 5k walk and a 1k kid's fun run. Lindsey decided she wanted to sleep in Saturday after her tiring week at Camp Kici Yapi, so Marissa, Wayne and I went to Harriet Island in St. Paul while Lindsey stayed home with a babysitter.

The temperature was already 88 degrees when Wayne's 10k began at 7:30 am, and it only got hotter from there. By the time my 5k run began at 8:30 it was 91 degrees with 66% humidity. Whew.

Yet despite the heat, I ran my fastest 5k ever. Why, you ask? Because every time I thought of stopping I saw these little signs that were along the entire route.

In honor of children fighting for their lives, or in memory of those who had already lost their battles. Just before the 1-mile mark I spotted the sign that our family had sponsored, honoring Annika, our Duluth friend, who recently fought back leukemia for the second time in her 6 years here on earth.

Every time I got winded or felt my knee tighten up, I looked at those signs and thought about the hardships those children had faced or were facing. The needle pricks, blood draws, chemotherapy, exhaustion, nausea, radiation. They have faced more challenges than most people ever will their entire lives. A little 5k was nothing compared to what they had gone through.

So I completed the 5k in 34 minutes and 16 seconds, only stopping to walk once at the water stop. Wayne and Marissa missed seeing me finish because they didn't expect me for at least 5 more minutes.

I also learned that I can see well enough to run even with tears brimming in my eyes.

Showing Support for Pride

As I stated in an earlier post, I participated in Pride this past weekend, to show my support for the LGBT community in working to defeat the marriage amendment that is being brought to Minnesotans this November.

Some of you knew that I was doing more than just showing up and cheering on the parade, I was dancing!

I took part in a flash mob that occurred about half an hour before the parade was set to begin. This was coordinated with the Twin Cities Pride organizers -- since the street was already closed off and there was a sound system in the area, they had given us the green light. Which makes the cop car clearing the street in the middle of the dance all the more frustrating. But regardless, we danced through the interruption and had an awesome time.

Lindsey and I then stayed for the parade, which was one of the longest parades I've ever stood through. Yes, we didn't find seats, we stood the entire 2 1/2 hours. We did manage to get under shade, though, and Lindsey was the only child in about a half a block, so all the candy, treats and goodies were tossed her way, with no competition to retrieve them. She came away with quite a loot!


The Saloon float was accompanied by confetti tossed from the roof of their building.

 It was great to see all the floats and supporters. Many significant corporations including General Mills, Target, Best Buy, Macy's and others, not to mention just about every DFL candidate around. I shook the hand or got a high-five from Chris Coleman, St. Paul City mayor, R.T. Rybak, Minneapolis city mayor, Keith Ellison, District 5 representative in the US House of Representatives, Al Franken, US senator, and just missed shaking the hand of Amy Klobuchar, US senator. Obama had quite a presence as well, though he wasn't there in person. Not unless you count the cardboard cut-out, of course.

Loads of churches, and some interesting ones this year. There were the expected episcopal churches and unitarian churches who have welcomed gays for years. And then were was the Catholics for Marriage Equality group, just ahead of "J Pride," Jews who support gay rights, followed by the Mormon church.

I almost took some photos but decided to spend my time enjoying the parade, not wrestling others for a decent view. So instead I'll quote some of the best signs I saw:

We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.   -- Elie Wiesel, holocaust survivor, author and humanitarian.

Sorry we're late -- held up by Mormon church parade participant

Closets are for CLOTHES. Lots, and lots of fabulous clothes. -- held by a gay rights supporter

The message is lost a bit without the visuals, but you get the idea.

After the parade was over Lindsey and I stayed downtown to get lunch and avoid the press of the crowd heading out. We got a table right away at Rock Bottom Brewery, enjoyed a relaxing lunch and then took a pedicab to get back to the car, which I had conveniently parked behind a green dumpster along one of the streets neighboring Loring Park (there are three of them), even though I didn't remember the name of the street I parked on. Well planned. Our cabbie was awesome, he stopped several times and got directions on where the green dumpster was and dropped us off right at the car. He earned himself a super nice tip, especially for winning the race to the top of a hill against another pedicab driver who also had a fare.


Not us, but for those who don't know what a pedicab is.


We had a great time and Lindsey got to see how many people support families of all walks of life. I'll plan to be back again in 2013, hopefully to celebrate the defeat of the marriage amendment.

How Planned Parenthood Created an Army

Graph from Planned Parenthood 2009-2010 annual report (link below)

 What an interesting couple of days this has been in the world of fundraising.

If you hadn't heard, Susan G Komen announced on Jan 31st that, due to a new policy they implemented, they have cut funding to Planned Parenthood that pays for breast exams and screenings, to the tune of $680,000. Their new policy was that they cannot fund organizations that are under federal investigation. Guess what, Planned Parenthood is pretty much ALWAYS under investigation, thanks to one of the services they provide to their clients.

Within 24 hours, Planned Parenthood sent an email out to their supporters, asking for their assistance to fill this sudden and unplanned-for gap in funding, so they can continue to provide breast cancer screening to low-income women.

The public's first response was surprise: You mean Planned Parenthood doesn't just abort babies?

Once we all were educated that Planned Parenthood provides many more services than abortion, the collective public became outraged. How could Komen, the leader and most well-known breast cancer brand in the world, choose to cut funding to those who can least afford it? Doesn't this go against Komen's mission?

This blogger did a better job of summarizing what happened than I can; read more of it at the Nonprofit Marketing Guide blog.

The backlash in social media has been immediate and loud. Shame on Komen -- support Planned Parenthood!

Within 24 hours Planned Parenthood had an army of advocates speaking out on their behalf on the social media spectrum, standing up for them and making their voices heard. Within 24 hours after Planned Parenthood's cry for help, the $680,000 gap caused by Komen's decision had almost completely filled by supporters who became donors. I suspect Planned Parenthood has a whole lot of brand new donors who have never given to them before.

The word from Komen's camp?

Silence.

Finally after 2 days had passed, Komen's PR machine began to churn, with Facebook notes, tweets and a push via traditional media to make their voice heard on their change in policy. But at this point 75% of all social media buzz was against Komen and for Planned Parenthood; they have some work to do.

Here's the best part.

I began wondering, "Hmmm...what does $680,000 mean to Planned Parenthood anyway? How big of a gap IS this?"

The answer: Not very.

Planned Parenthood's latest annual report indicates that they receive hundreds of millions of dollars in charitable income, through individual donations, grants, program service revenue and other sources. Their net assets on their most recently filed 990 are $103 million, with gross receipts of $130 million.

Let's see...$680,000 into $130 million...that's .5% of all of their funding. Yes, that's a decimal point in front of that number. That's less than 1% of their total funding.

Wow. All this, over a dollar amount that they probably could've replaced just by asking some of their other sources for a couple more bucks.

But look at what they've done. They've brought over new advocates and supporters to their cause. They've educated the public as a whole as to their mission and how they fulfill it.

I am sure that the long-term impact is that Komen will never fund Planned Parenthood again. If I were Planned Parenthood I would say that that's no big loss, considering the amount of supporters they've gained in this debacle. And Komen is already under attack and has lost walkers and donors, just as they are ramping up in their marketing for the 3-day walks which take place all over the U.S. all summer long.

Ouch.

Well played, Planned Parenthood, well played.

*NOTE: As a disclaimer, I must remind readers that these views are my own and not that of my employer, former employer, husband, dog, great-aunt's second cousin once removed. Just me. Thanks.

Are We Teaching Hate?

My youngest daughter came home from school with a book about Martin Luther King Jr recently. Very appropriate, considering that a couple of weeks ago we celebrated his birthday.

I began reading the book to her and got a bit disturbed.

Segregation of schools. Segregation of services. Unequal access to transportation, stores, jobs. Black people being severely beaten and sprayed with water from a fire hydrant, just for wanting equal rights.

Yes, it all happened, in the all too recent past. Yes, it was a terrible time. And we should never forget that we in this country, the land of the "free," did those things as recently as one generation removed from me.

But it never even occurred to my daughter until I began reading this book to her that people with different color skin could be treated differently. She was confused by the term "black."

"Do you mean brown people, Mommy?" she asked. "Because I've never seen someone with black skin. And what about people who are dark peach or light tan? What are they?"

"They" defy classification. We all do, don't we? Let's start treating differently the people who grew up with an Italian heritage but turned out to actually be French but who are actually more Croatian than either of those heritages, shall we? Because that would be my family.

I am all for teaching history lest we repeat it. But now, when diversity is so deeply ingrained in our children, are we doing ourselves a disservice by teaching that it wasn't always this way? Will my daughter look at her classmates whose skin is darker than hers and think of them differently, when she never did up to this point?

The other element that's changing is that "diversity" today is not about who is black and who is white. It is about who is Hispanic, or Muslim, or Indian or Chinese. It is about population growth in a multitude of ethnicities that most of us probably don't even know. Did you know that people of the Karen culture are the largest growing population in the Twin Cities? (Karen is pronounced Ka-REHN and is a certain culture of people who are immigrating here from Burma and Thailand.) The Twin Cities is home to the largest population of people of this culture outside of Southeast Asia. Check out their supporting organization, Karen Organization of Minnesota. What an amazing people. And guess what -- they came to this country to escape many of the same persecutions we did in the 1960's against a certain class of people as well. Ironic, huh?

So I'm not sure what to make of this. I agree that we should pass on the teachings of Martin Luther King Jr. He was an incredible leader who transformed our nation. I'm just not sure that age 6 is the right time to teach that hate ran so deeply in this country at one time.

One Letter of Gratitude

I have the honor of being the guest blogger for a friend of mine, Missy Durant, who recently published her first book, What Matters...Gratitude.

I first met Missy through our daughters, who are the best of friends. I got to know her more personally as our daughters have grown and am humbled and amazed that so much wisdom and positivity can reside in a single person.

Missy's book chronicles her journey of writing a letter of gratitude to 50 people in 50 days. Those letters changed her life, changed her perspective on life and ignited a zeal for the things that matter most in life and began a revolution of gratitude.

She asked me to write an answer to the following question: "If I could only write one letter of gratitude to someone, who would it be and why?"

My answer is, as always, rather personal. If you want to read my response, you'll have to visit Missy's blog, What Matters the Book.

Maybe it will inspire you to write your own letter to someone who means a lot to you.

Chloe's Fight: Worth Running For

Some of my friends were looking for a race to do together this fall. For fun, you know. Because some people do that. Not usually people I know, but I must've fallen in with the wrong crowd.

Anyway...one of my friends knows a board member of a nonprofit called Chloe's Fight. At the same time, my friend Anita's sister has been deeply involved in organizing Chloe's Fight's first 5k fundraising event. This was destined to be the run for us, so we all signed up.

The ladies -- husbands and children roaming elsewhere.

A little about Chloe's Fight: It is a nonprofit created by Phillip and Erica Barnes to honor their daughter Chloe, who died at age 2 from complications from metachromatic leukodystrophy, or MLD. MLD makes the myelin sheath covering the nerves in the brain slowly degenerate, resulting in loss of gross motors skills to loss of mental capacity, and is usually fatal.

All proceeds from the run will be directed to one of two research projects, one of which is being conducted at the University of Minnesota.

In speaking to Anita's sister, they had only 100 runners signed up until the week before the run, when 300 more people signed up. They ultimately ended up with 500 runners and raised more than $16,000 that day.

The best part? Anita was there, donating her artistic talents to solicit more revenue at the event. She did henna art and glitter tattoos for the kids.

So after completing the 5k in record time (for me, that is), I cut in line in front of a whole bunch of kids to get henna.

Actually, Anita had a break in her littlest customers so I could take my turn.

Anita does amazing work, all free hand. One of her goals in life is to go to India and study with experts in the art of henna. I'm sure some day she'll get there.

Oh yeah, my "record" time? I completed the race in 33 minutes and 34 seconds, or a pace of 10:49. Running usually causes extreme pain in my left knee (one of the reasons why skating is my sport). My knee will miraculously stop aching the minute I stop running: I take that as a sign that I shouldn't run. My knee didn't start aching until the 2 1/2 mile mark, so it was the fastest 5k I've done.

It was an incredible day, filled with friendship, beautiful weather, a good run and a great cause.

Blog Rewind: March of Dimes walk

First, a huge thank you to everyone who donated to my walk for March of Dimes. Last year I raised nearly $1,000, but it had been a stretch last year and I didn't think I could reach it again, so I lowered my goal to $750.

Once again, I was humbled by people's charity. Bit by bit, dollar by dollar, I raised $822 for my walk. Just 24 hours before the walk I was still $200 short of my goal. I made a last-minute plea on my Facebook page, and was surprised and honored by:

• The jr. high friend who donated, even though we haven't seen each other in 30 years. (She moved from my hometown before graduation.)
• A former co-worker of mine who works in another city who donated, even though I no longer work for the company and we hadn't met in person. Ever.
• The relative who donated for the first time.
• Three former neighbors, two of whom moved to other states years ago, who donated.

Of these, only one would have been possible if it hadn't been for a social media network that kept us connected. A huge thank you to everyone who gave to my walk, especially my sister and mother-in-law, both of whom give so generously every year. I couldn't have done it without you.

This year I hadn't planned to actually walk: I thought I would be in sunny California, cheering my husband on as he ran the Big Sur Marathon. But alas, that trip was not to be, so I was able to continue my volunteer committee duties by showing up on the day of the walk to do whatever the staff told me to do.

Despite having been moved back a week to the first Sunday in May, walk day managed to be cold and miserable. It was 34 degrees when I left the house with a sustained 16 mph wind. I deeply regret not going back in right away to get my snowpants. I found out later that meterologists were actually using the term "windchill" for that day because of the effect of the gusting wind, which also managed to blow over one of our tents. I froze until I was numb, at which point I didn't mind the cold because I couldn't feel my ass. Happy May Day.

The volunteer committee showed up at 6:30 a.m. for an 11 a.m. walk. It seemed a little ridiculous to me, especially considering we'd had an event company come out the day before and put up the tents. Really, what could we do that would take up five and a half hours? But I dutifully showed up, fully expecting to spend long minutes in my car, keeping warm.

The first time I got to look at my watch it was nearly 9:00, at which point I did have to go to my car to log on to the laptop, write some tweets and a Facebook status update, then respond or retweet any Twitter mentions. (Greek, right?) I warmed up some, which I deeply regretted the minute I stepped back out to continue with set up, because the cold seemed even more bitter. Finally I called Wayne and asked him to come down and bring my snowpants, which I finally got around 11 o'clock. It wasn't until I had those on that I finally warmed up. Seriously, people.

Families began arriving around 10 o'clock, and I became truly amazed at these family's committment. They came in droves, pushing strollers, pulling wagons, with little ones bundled to the tip tops of their heads. Despite the miserable weather, we had close to the 4,000 expected walkers show up, and raised the $1 million the chapter was hoping to raise.

Many were families personally touched by the mission, wearing t-shirts in memory of their babies born prematurely who hadn't survived, or with pre-schoolers who wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for extraordinary care that they received after being born too soon. It was so touching to see their dedication and see their little ones, walking right along their moms and dads for the cause.

I have no pictures of my own from the day - I was too busy to take any, and my fingers too frozen to operate the camera, anyway. But it was great to experience the walk as a volunteer. I plan to be back again next year to volunteer.