by Karen Van Fossan, for the North Dakota Peace Coalition
Statement made to the press on January 27, 2011
I have spent nearly ten years of my life speaking, writing, protesting, organizing, even singing and dancing for an end to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
I could quote statistics:
* 20% of Americans who die from suicide each year are veterans.
* More than 4,000 troops have died in these wars.
* There is documentation of more than 100,000 civilian deaths in Iraq -- a country we were told we were liberating.
* The cost of these wars now totals more than $1 billion for North Dakota taxpayers alone.
These statistics are not new information. The cry for peace is not a new movement. It occurs to me this morning that I have nothing new to add.
So I'll tell you what others have said.
Jeff Skjelver of Rugby, ND, says this: "When the North Dakota Peace Resolution was previously introduced 4 years ago, I was deployed for my second time to the Al Anbar province in western Iraq. It was clearly obvious to me by then that our presence in Iraq was not to the benefit of the people of the United States, nor to the people of Iraq. Iraq had no involvement in the attacks of September 11, 2001. Weapons of mass destruction were not in Iraq. The people of Iraq did not hate us for our freedoms. Nothing we were told by our leaders about why we had to attack and invade Iraq turned out to be true. In short, the contractors, and those working for contractors, were and have been the only beneficiaries of the US invasion and occupation of Iraq."
A 12-year-old student from Mandan, ND, grapples with a world at war: "I wonder if the world will ever be peaceful...No war in the world? How can people imagine that? I know I can't."
A 12-year-old North Dakota girl cannot imagine peace in our time.
Her peers in Afghanistan, from the Afghanistan Youth Peace Volunteers, would like us to imagine just that. They have asked U.S. and allied forces to leave their country, so they may pursue their own work for sustainable peace.
In this spirit, SCR 4015 not only calls for an end to these wars and occupations -- it holds up nonviolent alternatives that work.
From building schools for children to reestablishing agriculture to preventing violence against women, these alternative programs make a difference -- supporting people to use their own wisdom to solve their own struggles.
My grandfather, a veteran of bloody battles in WWII, tried to explain to me once why he became a proponent of peace. He paused -- and then he said: "I don't like to kill anybody."
Who does?
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Thursday, December 16, 2010
My Favorite Angels
© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
There is a story of angels I long to tell you.
I could begin with Matthew Shepard,
a young guy looking to meet another young guy
or two.
I could begin with Fred Phelps,
a civil-rights attorney, turned God-Hates-Fags
pastor.
Or maybe Romaine Patterson,
just a girl from Wyoming, she says,
who found herself – or put herself –
at the center of debate
about the most publicized
anti-gay hate crime
in our history.
But I am going to begin 10,000 years ago,
when bison and
prairie dogs could see themselves for miles,
when all of our ancestors
were indigenous,
and theater wasn't theater.
It was life.
People gathered,
as some do today,
at the heart of their communities,
to make art with their bodies
to make prayers with their bodies.
And so –
when Matthew Shepard
was tied to a rancher's fence,
and Rev. Fred Phelps and his followers
stood outside the funeral
to tell the world that Matthew was
rotting in hell
for being gay –
Romaine Patterson had 10,000 years
of history
whispering at her feet,
whether she knew it or not.
As the trial of one of Matthew's murderers approached,
Rev. Phelps and his group were expected
once again,
brandishing their usual signs about God
and fags,
along with special signs about Matthew.
Romaine met with her friends.
How to protect Matthew's family?
How to honor the memory of their beloved?
They gathered together plumbing supplies and long swaths of fabric.
They cut and stitched, measured and sewed.
They turned themselves into angels,
meditative angels,
who didn't go to war with Rev. Phelps and his associates,
waging battles of good versus evil,
each side claiming the good.
Instead, they made a circle.
They surrounded Phelps and his group,
bringing silence to the moment –
facing outward,
with their hearts toward Matthew's family.
Together,
wing to wing --
they reclaimed Matthew's story,
rewriting
Phelps's metaphor of Hell.
Romaine, with her supporters,
transformed the living moment,
through an embodied act of theater in the round.
Their action had – and has –
no given name.
There is a story of angels I long to tell you.
I could begin with Matthew Shepard,
a young guy looking to meet another young guy
or two.
I could begin with Fred Phelps,
a civil-rights attorney, turned God-Hates-Fags
pastor.
Or maybe Romaine Patterson,
just a girl from Wyoming, she says,
who found herself – or put herself –
at the center of debate
about the most publicized
anti-gay hate crime
in our history.
But I am going to begin 10,000 years ago,
when bison and
prairie dogs could see themselves for miles,
when all of our ancestors
were indigenous,
and theater wasn't theater.
It was life.
People gathered,
as some do today,
at the heart of their communities,
to make art with their bodies
to make prayers with their bodies.
And so –
when Matthew Shepard
was tied to a rancher's fence,
and Rev. Fred Phelps and his followers
stood outside the funeral
to tell the world that Matthew was
rotting in hell
for being gay –
Romaine Patterson had 10,000 years
of history
whispering at her feet,
whether she knew it or not.
As the trial of one of Matthew's murderers approached,
Rev. Phelps and his group were expected
once again,
brandishing their usual signs about God
and fags,
along with special signs about Matthew.
Romaine met with her friends.
How to protect Matthew's family?
How to honor the memory of their beloved?
They gathered together plumbing supplies and long swaths of fabric.
They cut and stitched, measured and sewed.
They turned themselves into angels,
meditative angels,
who didn't go to war with Rev. Phelps and his associates,
waging battles of good versus evil,
each side claiming the good.
Instead, they made a circle.
They surrounded Phelps and his group,
bringing silence to the moment –
facing outward,
with their hearts toward Matthew's family.
Together,
wing to wing --
they reclaimed Matthew's story,
rewriting
Phelps's metaphor of Hell.
Romaine, with her supporters,
transformed the living moment,
through an embodied act of theater in the round.
Their action had – and has –
no given name.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Transgender Day of Remembrance
© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
I have read in Time magazine about man make-up. I have seen the man purse, proudly worn. I know women who feel sexy in a nice, snug pair of men's jeans. Gender-bending seems to have inspired our mainstream sense of fashion, if not our deeper sense of who we are. And still, transgendered people – those who cross gender lines by cross-dressing, cross-identifying, or reassigning their biological sex – have reason to watch their backs.
Transgender Day of Remembrance is a day, or sometimes a week, to mourn and remember those who have been killed because of anti-transgender hatred or prejudice. The first commemoration was held in 1999 to honor Rita Hester, a transgender woman who was stabbed to death in the Boston area on November 28, 1998.
In commemoration of Transgender Day of Remembrance, there are stories I want to tell, hundreds and hundreds of stories. These are just a few that I have learned...
Azra lived and died in Izmir,
one of Turkey's largest cities,
along the Aegean Sea.
She was a founding
member, the first member,
of the Black Pink Triangle LGBTT Association,
which works for
Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transvestite, and Transgender
rights.
Turkish officials,
including the Minister of the Interior
and the Governor of Izmir,
tried to close Black Pink down.
They claimed:
Black Pink violates
public morality
and Turkey's family structure.
They took Black Pink to court.
But the Turkish judge replied:
“Like other citizens,
lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgender people
have a right to create
associations.
This case is dismissed.”
With Azra's help,
Black Pink won the right to agitate.
But that same week,
Azra was shot
and killed, probably by a serial killer,
known for murdering women.
At a vigil in her name –
and the names of
other loved ones –
people wore
pictures of Azra
on their hearts.
The County Prosecutor's Office said:
“On Sunday, September 12,
at approximately 5 a.m.,
Victoria Carmen White, 28,
of Newark,
was fatally shot at a private residence
located at 159 Jacoby Street
in Maplewood.
Information released immediately following
the shooting identified the victim
as James White.”
Long Island Channel 12 reported:
“The family of a woman
killed in Maplewood
believes her murder may have been
a hate crime.
Investigators say they are searching for two men
White and her cousin had met
earlier at an Irvington night club.
Relatives now wonder if the men she met
reacted violently
after somehow learning
Victoria was a transgender
woman.”
A friend named “Hortense” said:
“Are you sure that police spokesperson got her facts correct?
From what I understand,
Carmen didn't go out with her two cousins
and was home on the couch asleep when they returned home.
Her cousins brought those thugs up in the house.
Carmen didn't date that element of man.”
A friend named Alanna Carter said:
“I've never met a more radiant
soul.”
I have read in Time magazine about man make-up. I have seen the man purse, proudly worn. I know women who feel sexy in a nice, snug pair of men's jeans. Gender-bending seems to have inspired our mainstream sense of fashion, if not our deeper sense of who we are. And still, transgendered people – those who cross gender lines by cross-dressing, cross-identifying, or reassigning their biological sex – have reason to watch their backs.
Transgender Day of Remembrance is a day, or sometimes a week, to mourn and remember those who have been killed because of anti-transgender hatred or prejudice. The first commemoration was held in 1999 to honor Rita Hester, a transgender woman who was stabbed to death in the Boston area on November 28, 1998.
In commemoration of Transgender Day of Remembrance, there are stories I want to tell, hundreds and hundreds of stories. These are just a few that I have learned...
AZRA
Izmir, Turkey
Izmir, Turkey
Azra lived and died in Izmir,
one of Turkey's largest cities,
along the Aegean Sea.
She was a founding
member, the first member,
of the Black Pink Triangle LGBTT Association,
which works for
Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transvestite, and Transgender
rights.
Turkish officials,
including the Minister of the Interior
and the Governor of Izmir,
tried to close Black Pink down.
They claimed:
Black Pink violates
public morality
and Turkey's family structure.
They took Black Pink to court.
But the Turkish judge replied:
“Like other citizens,
lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgender people
have a right to create
associations.
This case is dismissed.”
With Azra's help,
Black Pink won the right to agitate.
But that same week,
Azra was shot
and killed, probably by a serial killer,
known for murdering women.
At a vigil in her name –
and the names of
other loved ones –
people wore
pictures of Azra
on their hearts.
BRENDA
Rome, Italy
Rome, Italy
In the city of the Sistine Chapel,
the Vatican,
the Tiber River, the Colosseum,
Brenda made her living
on the streets.
Maybe she intended it,
or maybe she didn't intend it –
but she found herself
at the center of a scandal.
Piero Marrazzo,
former governor of the Lazio region,
was rumored –
or maybe known –
to seek the services
of transsexual women
in Brenda's line of work.
There was media attention.
There were accusations.
There were illicit videos,
revealed.
In the midst of this,
Brenda died in a fire
in her apartment.
Authorities found
a couple of packed
bags
in Brenda's home.
the Vatican,
the Tiber River, the Colosseum,
Brenda made her living
on the streets.
Maybe she intended it,
or maybe she didn't intend it –
but she found herself
at the center of a scandal.
Piero Marrazzo,
former governor of the Lazio region,
was rumored –
or maybe known –
to seek the services
of transsexual women
in Brenda's line of work.
There was media attention.
There were accusations.
There were illicit videos,
revealed.
In the midst of this,
Brenda died in a fire
in her apartment.
Authorities found
a couple of packed
bags
in Brenda's home.
The County Prosecutor's Office said:
“On Sunday, September 12,
at approximately 5 a.m.,
Victoria Carmen White, 28,
of Newark,
was fatally shot at a private residence
located at 159 Jacoby Street
in Maplewood.
Information released immediately following
the shooting identified the victim
as James White.”
Long Island Channel 12 reported:
“The family of a woman
killed in Maplewood
believes her murder may have been
a hate crime.
Investigators say they are searching for two men
White and her cousin had met
earlier at an Irvington night club.
Relatives now wonder if the men she met
reacted violently
after somehow learning
Victoria was a transgender
woman.”
A friend named “Hortense” said:
“Are you sure that police spokesperson got her facts correct?
From what I understand,
Carmen didn't go out with her two cousins
and was home on the couch asleep when they returned home.
Her cousins brought those thugs up in the house.
Carmen didn't date that element of man.”
A friend named Alanna Carter said:
“I've never met a more radiant
soul.”
She was found in
the Kalimalang River.
Her body was not
in one piece.
No one
alive
seems to know
her name.
.......
the Kalimalang River.
Her body was not
in one piece.
No one
alive
seems to know
her name.
.......
In honor of Transgender Day of Remembrance, there are also poems I long to make, write, scream, sing, demand. Here is the first.
(If you're a regular reader of this blog, you may have seen it before in an earlier form.)
It is...
Dedicated to my transgender friends, relatives, and students
who are very much alive.
Dedicated to the people around the world
who are commemorating Transgender Day of Remembrance this week.
Dedicated to the 150 transgender people
who were murdered in the United States this year.
Dedicated to Roy Antonio Jones III,
a 16-month-old baby who was beaten and choked to death
for acting like a girl.
Dedicated to Azra from Turkey, Brenda from Italy, Victoria Carmen from New Jersey.
Dedicated to the unidentified transgender woman
whose body was found, in pieces, in the Kalimalang River.
Also, this is dedicated to you.
STRANGERS
by Karen Van Fossan
There was a woman
whose name I have never known.
The syllables of her name
might have been sharp against my tongue,
had I ever tried to pronounce them,
which I did not.
The woman was not my friend.
Her sisters were not my friends,
nor her brothers, nor her fathers, nor the mothers of her heart.
I never washed my clothes
knee-deep
in the Kalimalang River
with her.
I never heard her humming
as she combed her tangled hair.
I never knew her favorite things,
the nightmares that made her
gasp for light,
the person or the people
who put her torso,
then her legs,
then her head inside the river.
If I could walk from my river
to hers,
from the mud of my Missouri
to the mud of her Kalimalang,
I would find the pieces of her.
And I would hold the pieces of her.
To each and every piece,
I would
whisper,
It is all right.
There was a woman
whose name I have never known.
The syllables of her name
might have been sharp against my tongue.
And yet, I miss her.
whose name I have never known.
The syllables of her name
might have been sharp against my tongue,
had I ever tried to pronounce them,
which I did not.
The woman was not my friend.
Her sisters were not my friends,
nor her brothers, nor her fathers, nor the mothers of her heart.
I never washed my clothes
knee-deep
in the Kalimalang River
with her.
I never heard her humming
as she combed her tangled hair.
I never knew her favorite things,
the nightmares that made her
gasp for light,
the person or the people
who put her torso,
then her legs,
then her head inside the river.
If I could walk from my river
to hers,
from the mud of my Missouri
to the mud of her Kalimalang,
I would find the pieces of her.
And I would hold the pieces of her.
To each and every piece,
I would
whisper,
It is all right.
There was a woman
whose name I have never known.
The syllables of her name
might have been sharp against my tongue.
And yet, I miss her.
.......
May we remember those who deserve to be remembered.
May we find a more just and loving future.
Peace to you,
Karen
Friday, November 5, 2010
Top Ten Reasons I'm a Pagan
© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
In honor of Lunar Samhain (Halloween on the Lunar Calendar), I have made a short list of the top ten reasons why I practice earth-based spirituality, otherwise known as paganism. According to Samhain traditions, this is the new year, a good time for letting go, cleaning up, making plans, and maybe even making lists. So here's mine...
Top Ten Reasons I'm a Pagan
10) The earth is cool.
9) The stars are cool.
8) The sun is cool.
7) The moon is cool.
6) The dark is cool.
5) The dirt is cool.
4) The ocean is cool.
3) We are cool.
2) Life is cool.
1) Freedom of religion is really cool.
In honor of Lunar Samhain (Halloween on the Lunar Calendar), I have made a short list of the top ten reasons why I practice earth-based spirituality, otherwise known as paganism. According to Samhain traditions, this is the new year, a good time for letting go, cleaning up, making plans, and maybe even making lists. So here's mine...
Top Ten Reasons I'm a Pagan
10) The earth is cool.
9) The stars are cool.
8) The sun is cool.
7) The moon is cool.
6) The dark is cool.
5) The dirt is cool.
4) The ocean is cool.
3) We are cool.
2) Life is cool.
1) Freedom of religion is really cool.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Home Is Where...
© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
It used to be, back when my dad worked as a minister, his pad of yellow paper was never hard to find. He scribbled down his Sunday sermons just about every Saturday night of my youth.
Today, finding his yellow paper took some doing. But here it is – a page of it anyway. And a pen from PNC Bank, which must have, like his insurance business, sprung up after I moved to North Dakota. The yellow pad was hiding. No, not hiding. Waiting. Taking a rest. Under a stack of catalogs for cars and parts of cars.
When David, my younger brother, was three years old or so, the church ladies asked him, “What does your daddy do?”
Without hesitation, David declared – “Work on cars.”
This gave the United Methodist Women's Group no end of joy in the retelling. And, though I've never been a United Methodist Woman, I take some joy in recounting it myself.
Anyway, here I am, in United Methodist country. The middle of Illinois. I would know it with a blindfold and both hands – with piece of yellow paper – tied behind my back.
The cicadas seem to eat the air itself in this place. The birds sing wet songs, songs that sound like water, like there's nectar in their throats. The green things elbow each other, entwine each other, dance, out-do, reaching for the ever-heavy sun.
I wonder, am I of this place, where people squeeze the produce in ways no one seems to dream of in North Dakota?
As soon as I return here, my fingers itch for a pen, a scrap of empty paper, a story of my own to add to the stories I used to hear – the tales of stolen watermelons, long red fingernails, the black dog of death, the pig who squealed.
Inside that house, through two sets of doors, there is, as my dad puts it, “a living room of stuff.”
Grandma and Grandpa's stuff. The storytellers' stuff.
Today, and then tomorrow, I will wade through that stuff, making minute decisions of great weight. A bag of Grandma's shoes. A humidifier. A wheel chair. The touch-me, singing reindeer that could only have come from Uncle Darrell and Aunt Suzanne.
How many pairs of Grandma's shoes – Grandpa's hankies, knick-knacks, long-forgotten photographs – will travel on the train with me to the quieter, dryer place I now call home?
Home is where the heart is, they say.
And sometimes – home is where there's yellow paper.
It used to be, back when my dad worked as a minister, his pad of yellow paper was never hard to find. He scribbled down his Sunday sermons just about every Saturday night of my youth.
Today, finding his yellow paper took some doing. But here it is – a page of it anyway. And a pen from PNC Bank, which must have, like his insurance business, sprung up after I moved to North Dakota. The yellow pad was hiding. No, not hiding. Waiting. Taking a rest. Under a stack of catalogs for cars and parts of cars.
When David, my younger brother, was three years old or so, the church ladies asked him, “What does your daddy do?”
Without hesitation, David declared – “Work on cars.”
This gave the United Methodist Women's Group no end of joy in the retelling. And, though I've never been a United Methodist Woman, I take some joy in recounting it myself.
Anyway, here I am, in United Methodist country. The middle of Illinois. I would know it with a blindfold and both hands – with piece of yellow paper – tied behind my back.
The cicadas seem to eat the air itself in this place. The birds sing wet songs, songs that sound like water, like there's nectar in their throats. The green things elbow each other, entwine each other, dance, out-do, reaching for the ever-heavy sun.
I wonder, am I of this place, where people squeeze the produce in ways no one seems to dream of in North Dakota?
As soon as I return here, my fingers itch for a pen, a scrap of empty paper, a story of my own to add to the stories I used to hear – the tales of stolen watermelons, long red fingernails, the black dog of death, the pig who squealed.
Inside that house, through two sets of doors, there is, as my dad puts it, “a living room of stuff.”
Grandma and Grandpa's stuff. The storytellers' stuff.
Today, and then tomorrow, I will wade through that stuff, making minute decisions of great weight. A bag of Grandma's shoes. A humidifier. A wheel chair. The touch-me, singing reindeer that could only have come from Uncle Darrell and Aunt Suzanne.
How many pairs of Grandma's shoes – Grandpa's hankies, knick-knacks, long-forgotten photographs – will travel on the train with me to the quieter, dryer place I now call home?
Home is where the heart is, they say.
And sometimes – home is where there's yellow paper.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Two Mommies
© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
When I was a little girl, but not so little anymore, I saved my parents thousands of dollars in childcare expenses. Being about five years older than my brother, I was, by force of destiny, the babysitter. Each day after school until 5:14 p.m. (or so), and then all day in the summers, I had two lives in my hands.
When the neighbor boys picked on Davy, I was on it. When Davy wanted to go see a friend, I gave the final OK. I did my best to make sure he was fed, loved, and sometimes entertained.
And it was tough to let this go. From 5:14 onward, not to mention weekends, I found myself suddenly kicked off duty. When my brother made a misstep, I sometimes forgot my parents were home, and I rushed to correct him. My mom developed a catch-phrase for these tricky situations. “Karen,” she would say, “he doesn't need two mommies.”
Being the substitute mommy got my goat. Couldn't I clean a skinned knee, or give sound counsel when my brother had to tell our dad he'd broken the kitchen light? I'm sure my mom wanted to give both David and me a reprieve; Mom could be his mom, and I didn't have to.
Even today, motherhood isn't so easy, especially when two mommies are involved. I was horrified to read these party platforms from the Texas GOP:
Homosexuality tears at the fabric of society, contributes to the breakdown of the family unit, and leads to the spread of dangerous, communicable diseases.
Homosexuality must not be presented as an acceptable 'alternative' lifestyle in our public education and policy, nor should 'family' be redefined to include homosexual 'couples.'
We oppose the recognition of and granting of benefits to people who represent themselves as domestic partners without being legally married.
What's more, the Texas GOP has specifically declared that gays should not have custody of children. Luckily, I suppose, I don't live in Texas.
But here's what I've experienced in North Dakota:
When I first moved to the Peace Garden State, I was barred from being a foster parent simply by virtue of my relationship. When the rules finally changed, Kris and I contacted two foster care agencies. One hadn't heard of the rule change, but promised to call back – and never did. The other, after a grueling 7-month application process, needed more evidence that our 15-year relationship was stable.
In the meantime, I'm proud to say, we got adopted. Our unofficial, honorary, off-the-books daughter has claimed us as her own. This child has been through more hell in her short lifetime than a girl her age should be able to imagine. But what a blessing she is! She reminds me so much of my grandma, I sometimes have to wonder where this good-natured spitfire actually came from. Though she lives with us only on occasional weekends, she has a safe and secure place here, with her name on her bedroom door, two loving (honorary) parents, and a bevy of ornery creatures to adore her.
I am proud to say, after proving the stability of our commitment, Kris and I are now the first same-sex couple to be licensed as foster parents in this region.
I'm also proud to say that my mother taught me plenty about being a mom, how to listen, how to nurture, how take interest.
Today, she agrees – some kids do need two mommies.
Anyway, mine does.
**************
Newsflash (and it's good news!):
The U.S. Department of Labor has just clarified the definition of 'son and daughter' under the Family and Medical Leave Act (FMLA). This change ensures that any employee who parents a child has the right to receive family leave -- regardless of the legal or biological relationship. As Hilda Solis, Secretary of Labor puts it, "No one who loves and nurtures a child day-in and day-out should be unable to care for that child when he or she falls ill...All families, including LGBT families, are [now] protected by the FMLA."
This is good news for moms, dads, grandparents, beloved aunts and uncles -- and especially our kids.
When I was a little girl, but not so little anymore, I saved my parents thousands of dollars in childcare expenses. Being about five years older than my brother, I was, by force of destiny, the babysitter. Each day after school until 5:14 p.m. (or so), and then all day in the summers, I had two lives in my hands.
When the neighbor boys picked on Davy, I was on it. When Davy wanted to go see a friend, I gave the final OK. I did my best to make sure he was fed, loved, and sometimes entertained.
And it was tough to let this go. From 5:14 onward, not to mention weekends, I found myself suddenly kicked off duty. When my brother made a misstep, I sometimes forgot my parents were home, and I rushed to correct him. My mom developed a catch-phrase for these tricky situations. “Karen,” she would say, “he doesn't need two mommies.”
Being the substitute mommy got my goat. Couldn't I clean a skinned knee, or give sound counsel when my brother had to tell our dad he'd broken the kitchen light? I'm sure my mom wanted to give both David and me a reprieve; Mom could be his mom, and I didn't have to.
Even today, motherhood isn't so easy, especially when two mommies are involved. I was horrified to read these party platforms from the Texas GOP:
Homosexuality tears at the fabric of society, contributes to the breakdown of the family unit, and leads to the spread of dangerous, communicable diseases.
Homosexuality must not be presented as an acceptable 'alternative' lifestyle in our public education and policy, nor should 'family' be redefined to include homosexual 'couples.'
We oppose the recognition of and granting of benefits to people who represent themselves as domestic partners without being legally married.
What's more, the Texas GOP has specifically declared that gays should not have custody of children. Luckily, I suppose, I don't live in Texas.
But here's what I've experienced in North Dakota:
When I first moved to the Peace Garden State, I was barred from being a foster parent simply by virtue of my relationship. When the rules finally changed, Kris and I contacted two foster care agencies. One hadn't heard of the rule change, but promised to call back – and never did. The other, after a grueling 7-month application process, needed more evidence that our 15-year relationship was stable.
In the meantime, I'm proud to say, we got adopted. Our unofficial, honorary, off-the-books daughter has claimed us as her own. This child has been through more hell in her short lifetime than a girl her age should be able to imagine. But what a blessing she is! She reminds me so much of my grandma, I sometimes have to wonder where this good-natured spitfire actually came from. Though she lives with us only on occasional weekends, she has a safe and secure place here, with her name on her bedroom door, two loving (honorary) parents, and a bevy of ornery creatures to adore her.
I am proud to say, after proving the stability of our commitment, Kris and I are now the first same-sex couple to be licensed as foster parents in this region.
I'm also proud to say that my mother taught me plenty about being a mom, how to listen, how to nurture, how take interest.
Today, she agrees – some kids do need two mommies.
Anyway, mine does.
**************
Newsflash (and it's good news!):
The U.S. Department of Labor has just clarified the definition of 'son and daughter' under the Family and Medical Leave Act (FMLA). This change ensures that any employee who parents a child has the right to receive family leave -- regardless of the legal or biological relationship. As Hilda Solis, Secretary of Labor puts it, "No one who loves and nurtures a child day-in and day-out should be unable to care for that child when he or she falls ill...All families, including LGBT families, are [now] protected by the FMLA."
This is good news for moms, dads, grandparents, beloved aunts and uncles -- and especially our kids.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Authentic Community: Left, Right, and Center
© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
True Confession Number One:
My father appears to have turned Republican.
True Confession Number Two:
In 2004, my brother argued that John McCain might make a good president.
Final True Confession:
I feel hurt and angered by many of the platforms and practices of today's Republican party.
Should our family shy away from discussing politics? If that's the only way to prevent heartburn at holiday meals – certainly. But what if we could discuss such things authentically? What if our communities could do the same?
To answer this question in my own life, I am inspired by the practice of Authentic Movement, as put forth by Mary Starks Whitehouse, Janet Adler, and Joan Chodorow. In the practice of Authentic Movement, we have three distinct phases.
First, there is a Mover and a Witness. The Mover essentially moves, in any way she or he sees fit. The Witness simply witnesses, sees, offers a presence. Second, the Mover and Witness switch. Witness becomes Mover; Mover becomes Witness. And finally, they speak about their experiences – and only their own experiences.
This third part is the part I'd like to emphasize. Let's say my Authentic Movement partner had raised her arm during her movement time. If I wanted to speak about this experience – I would not say, “Why do you always raise your arm?” or “Arm raisers are evil,” or “Isn't that like a Republican/Democrat/liberal/right-winger?”
I might say, “When I saw you raise your arm, I felt afraid,” or “When I saw you raise your arm, I worried that something bad was going to happen,” or “When I saw you raise your arm, I got angry enough that I wanted to raise mine.”
So, when my friend Don expresses his personal joy that Barack Obama was elected – even though I was never a big Barack Obama enthusiast, I can honor Don's celebration. Or at least I can be willing to hear it – because Don is speaking for himself. We do not steal each other's voices by speaking with our own.
I'd like to see our community overflowing with full, diverse voices – where we do not mute ourselves, but take responsibility for our speech. It's not that we must silence ourselves on the controversial issues of our time, but that we can speak authentically when we speak.
Fifty million years ago – or so – I attended a workshop on conflict resolution through the Conflict Resolution Center at UND. At the time, I was surprised to learn that compromise is not the preferred method of managing conflicts. In a compromise, we look at our opposing goals. I give up a little something, you give up a little something, we attempt to meet in the middle, and possibly neither of us is satisfied.
In the conflict resolution approach, we look at deeper needs, and find ways we might be able to meet those needs expansively, through consensus. It could be, in the end, you get all that you wanted, or I get all that I wanted, or we change what we wanted. But the conflict is resolved if we've managed to meet the needs that brought us to the conflict.
For instance, it used to be that I wanted something that my partner didn't want. My goal was to move to the east and join an intentional community. Kris's desire was to stay here in Bismarck. Had we simply compromised, we might have chosen a spot in the geographic middle of these places – somewhere like Detroit.
What did I need? Community. What did Kris need? Community.
It has taken us years to manage this conflict, but we are able to do so, as long as we look at what is needed, rather than what goal – or position – can be bartered or achieved. It's not that we both deserve a certain outcome to this argument. What's important is that our needs are valued in the relationship. I believe the same is true in families and even this community.
The question I hope we can ask ourselves is, “What is needed in this community of ours?” When we take responsibility to speak from our own experience and voice our authenticity, we help create a culture where authenticity is nurtured – and we are all more likely to get what we need.
So – some examples of authentic speech.
Instead of saying, “That's stupider than stupid!” – we might say, “I didn't like that.”
Instead of saying, “This is the most boring blog I ever read in my life!” – we might say, “I wanted to feel inspired, but I didn't.”
Instead of saying, “George Bush is an evil, low-life scum bag!” – we might say, “I am outraged at the former president, and I would like to see him held accountable.”
Instead of saying, “Did you see those Mexicans? They should be sent home!” – we might say, “When I see footage of immigrants at the border, I feel scared there won't be enough resources to go around.”
If we can do this, if we can further invite authenticity into our speech, our expression, our means of resolving conflicts – we aren't just welcoming discussion at family dinners, we are more fully welcoming ourselves.
True Confession Number One:
My father appears to have turned Republican.
True Confession Number Two:
In 2004, my brother argued that John McCain might make a good president.
Final True Confession:
I feel hurt and angered by many of the platforms and practices of today's Republican party.
Should our family shy away from discussing politics? If that's the only way to prevent heartburn at holiday meals – certainly. But what if we could discuss such things authentically? What if our communities could do the same?
To answer this question in my own life, I am inspired by the practice of Authentic Movement, as put forth by Mary Starks Whitehouse, Janet Adler, and Joan Chodorow. In the practice of Authentic Movement, we have three distinct phases.
First, there is a Mover and a Witness. The Mover essentially moves, in any way she or he sees fit. The Witness simply witnesses, sees, offers a presence. Second, the Mover and Witness switch. Witness becomes Mover; Mover becomes Witness. And finally, they speak about their experiences – and only their own experiences.
This third part is the part I'd like to emphasize. Let's say my Authentic Movement partner had raised her arm during her movement time. If I wanted to speak about this experience – I would not say, “Why do you always raise your arm?” or “Arm raisers are evil,” or “Isn't that like a Republican/Democrat/liberal/right-winger?”
I might say, “When I saw you raise your arm, I felt afraid,” or “When I saw you raise your arm, I worried that something bad was going to happen,” or “When I saw you raise your arm, I got angry enough that I wanted to raise mine.”
So, when my friend Don expresses his personal joy that Barack Obama was elected – even though I was never a big Barack Obama enthusiast, I can honor Don's celebration. Or at least I can be willing to hear it – because Don is speaking for himself. We do not steal each other's voices by speaking with our own.
I'd like to see our community overflowing with full, diverse voices – where we do not mute ourselves, but take responsibility for our speech. It's not that we must silence ourselves on the controversial issues of our time, but that we can speak authentically when we speak.
Fifty million years ago – or so – I attended a workshop on conflict resolution through the Conflict Resolution Center at UND. At the time, I was surprised to learn that compromise is not the preferred method of managing conflicts. In a compromise, we look at our opposing goals. I give up a little something, you give up a little something, we attempt to meet in the middle, and possibly neither of us is satisfied.
In the conflict resolution approach, we look at deeper needs, and find ways we might be able to meet those needs expansively, through consensus. It could be, in the end, you get all that you wanted, or I get all that I wanted, or we change what we wanted. But the conflict is resolved if we've managed to meet the needs that brought us to the conflict.
For instance, it used to be that I wanted something that my partner didn't want. My goal was to move to the east and join an intentional community. Kris's desire was to stay here in Bismarck. Had we simply compromised, we might have chosen a spot in the geographic middle of these places – somewhere like Detroit.
What did I need? Community. What did Kris need? Community.
It has taken us years to manage this conflict, but we are able to do so, as long as we look at what is needed, rather than what goal – or position – can be bartered or achieved. It's not that we both deserve a certain outcome to this argument. What's important is that our needs are valued in the relationship. I believe the same is true in families and even this community.
The question I hope we can ask ourselves is, “What is needed in this community of ours?” When we take responsibility to speak from our own experience and voice our authenticity, we help create a culture where authenticity is nurtured – and we are all more likely to get what we need.
So – some examples of authentic speech.
Instead of saying, “That's stupider than stupid!” – we might say, “I didn't like that.”
Instead of saying, “This is the most boring blog I ever read in my life!” – we might say, “I wanted to feel inspired, but I didn't.”
Instead of saying, “George Bush is an evil, low-life scum bag!” – we might say, “I am outraged at the former president, and I would like to see him held accountable.”
Instead of saying, “Did you see those Mexicans? They should be sent home!” – we might say, “When I see footage of immigrants at the border, I feel scared there won't be enough resources to go around.”
If we can do this, if we can further invite authenticity into our speech, our expression, our means of resolving conflicts – we aren't just welcoming discussion at family dinners, we are more fully welcoming ourselves.
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