Month: September 2016

Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

Story time.

I got my driver’s license when I was 17. It was quite exciting to be able to drive my fellow cheerleaders and myself to get food after school and stuff. So, one day, I decided to get something to eat. I was running late, and speeding. I see a police officer…oh shit. I quickly turn down a few streets and hope to lose him. He catches up to me, pulls me over and comes to my window. I apologize and explain that I was a cheerleader and I was running late and I was SO sorry for speeding. He gave me a warning and before he walked back to his car said, “Hey. And a little piece of advice. If you see an officer, don’t try to run from them. We’ll always find you, and it’ll just make us mad.” I was embarrassed and said thank you.

Fast forward a year. At this point I am 18 and living in Grand Rapids. I have now been pulled over more that 15 times. (Seriously. I was pulled over 3 times in one week once) The only ticket I had ever received was a fix-it ticket for my plate being expired. I was driving around with my friends and I see the lights of a police car light up. On this occasion, I had most definitely done nothing wrong. He came to the window and proceeds to ask us what we are doing/where we are going. I am internally freaking out. My friend sitting next to me says, “Excuse me officer, what’s your badge number? You are pulling us over for ‘looking suspicious’? I would like to report you for harassment. We have complied, and answered all your questions. You pulled us over because she has pink hair, I have a mohawk, and we’re all teenagers.” After muttering some irritation, he told us to stay out of trouble and to go on our way.

So many stories. I have so many examples of being pulled over. I’ve been respectful, and I’ve been an asshole. I’ve been at fault, and I’ve been pulled over because the officer is just being a dick. I’ve had my proper paperwork, and I’ve had to search endlessly in a car full of junk and trash only to find I don’t have it with me. My car has broke down, ran out of gas, and I’ve had multiple tires blow out. So many stories.

You know what story I don’t have? One where I was shot. None of my stories end with someone thinking I had a gun and shooting me. When I unbuckled to climb over to search for my purse in the back seat, still alive. When I grabbed something out of my glove compartment, still alive. When I sassed the officer because he pulled me over for 5 over ths speed limit, down a hill, and got shitty with me, still alive. When the old couple slammed on their brakes because they thought they saw a stop sign and I slammed into them, still alive. When I got out of the car to see if they were ok, and my plates were expired, and my mom saw and came running down the street to see if we were ok…all still alive.

Stop telling me people are being shot because they broke the law. That they are being KILLED because they didn’t comply. Being a bad driver, having a broken down car, even being an asshole, is not punishable by death. It is absolutely asinine that people are suggesting that these people deserve it because they “could have” been a threat. I have never ONCE had a gun pulled on me. And I have never felt if I moved a certain way in the car, it would cost me my life. Why? Because I’m such an amazing driver and respectful human? Not always! Sometimes I’m an absolute terrible driver. And sometimes I’m a jerk to the officer because I’m irritated he pulled me over. I have never had a gun pulled on me because I am white. I look non-threatening because I am a white female.

I want you to stop what you’re doing and just think. Think about that time you drove home drunk. Think about that time you were an asshole to the cop. Think about the time you saw the cop car and cut down a street hoping they wouldn’t pull you over. Think about any youthful decision you made involving the law. Aren’t you glad it didn’t end with being shot? Aren’t you so thankful that you feel so safe in life, that even breaking the law doesn’t make you fear death?

Now, think about that time you were completely compliant. Did you reach in your purse for you license? Your glove compartment for your registration? When you were pulled over for speeding, did you feel the need to show your hands until the officer got to the window? Did you feel that your life was in danger if you moved at all?

What many of you think, is that #blacklivesmatter is about letting people get away with breaking the law. People honestly think that the reason these lives are lost is because they must be doing something suspicious or wrong. But here’s the thing, if a black person gets pulled over and is an asshole to the cop, they should get the same consequences as me. A stern lecture and a citation. Because our officers do deserve respect and I was breaking the law. They do not deserve a bullet in the back.

#Blacklivesmatter. People should be allowed to walk suspiciously, wear hoodies, have their cars break down, get pulled over for traffic violations, and even talk back and be assholes, without the threat of dying.

All I’m asking is for others out there to try to comprehend what that must be like. What it feels like to be at a store and feel that all eyes are watching you constantly. To not be able to be oblivious to your surroundings. What it must feel like to have a constant anxiety in your stomach that someone thinks you’re up to something. Purely based on how you look.

I do not think that the officers are making it up. I do feel that they think they are threatened. But why do they feel that way? This is what #blacklivesmatter is about. Changing people’s first response. We need to ask ourselves why these officers feel that their life is in danger when they see somebody with dark skin. We CANNOT change this until we chose to see it.

Last thing. I know so many that have preached loudly against #blacklivesmatter. You have you already taken the “racism doesn’t exist” or “I’m colorblind” or the “They deserve it. Maybe if they didn’t break the law” stance. Maybe just now you have realized you were wrong, it’s ok. You are allowed to change your mind. You are allowed to tell the world that you had a realization and see how blatant the inequality is. I will never, ever, belittle or demean somebody for changing their stance on something if it means lives will be saved. Let go of your pride, help save lives.

I wasn’t shot, and they shouldn’t be either.

I Get it Now

My family is comically large. We have it all going on. Siblings, half siblings, adopted, step, etc. Growing up this way, none of the labels mattered. It was just “my brother” or “my sister”. Many would look at the complexity of our family and just be happy we didn’t try to complicate it more. I won’t bore you with a list, because today I’m just focusing on my little sister Kaylene.

Kaylene and I hated each other growing up. We also absolutely loved each other. I felt like she got away with everything, and I’m sure she felt like I was mean and picked on her. Just your basic love/hate sibling stuff. But there was one detail, that until recently, I didn’t realize played such a large roll in our relationship. I was from a broken home, she wasn’t.

I have 3 daughters close in age. It mimics my family dynamic growing up. My sister Lynda and I would go to our dads every other weekend. My sister Kaylene stayed home with my mom and step dad. With my girls, my eldest 2 only see their dad a couple times per year. My youngest daughter goes to her dad’s every other week.

See, I knew my pain. My older sister and I would feel torn and left out. We only saw our dad twice a month. I would get so mad at Kaylene. She has her mom and dad ALL THE TIME. What does she have to complain about? She should be happy! So ungrateful. She has no idea the emotional stress that would cause us! She would whine about how unfair it was that we got to go to Cedar Point with our dad. She would get jealous if our dad sent us a letter, and she didn’t get mail. She would pester to hear about all the fun stuff we built with legos or which video games we played. I would just tell her it was none of her business. I would get angry and purposely not tell her things so Lynda and I could have inside jokes and stories. She just didn’t get it. We would have given up every single toy, video game, vacation, and letter to have what she had. I loved my step dad. A ton. But only kids from broken homes can truly understand how torn you feel. How you can love both parents and feel happy at both houses and still feel like somehow you’re not whole.

“But Nadia! I never get to go to Las Vegas! Can’t I just go and see your dad’s house sometime? I want to see his dogs!”

“No Genevieve. It’s OUR dad. You get to see your dad all the time. Las Vegas is our special time with him! And Ziggy and Pepper probably wouldn’t like you because they only like certain people. ”

My heart broke. For both of them. Nadia is so mean to Genevieve. Not because Nadia is a mean kid, but because she is hurt. She is jealous. She is trying so hard to make herself feel like she has something special, when in fact, she is terribly jealous of her baby sister. She has anger that her dad has missed the majority of her childhood, while Genevieve has her dad and stepmom involved in almost every event. She is hurt, so she is choosing to take it out on Genevieve. And my poor little Genevieve doesn’t understand. She just feels left out. She feels alone. All her siblings (on both sides) have someone. She wants to feel connected and is purposely being excluded.

Genevieve came to me a couple weeks ago. She gave me a bracelet that was half a heart that said “Big Sis” on it. I asked her why she was giving it to me. She originally bought it for a one of her sisters at her dad’s house. She told me both her sisters told her to give it to someone else. So she tried to give it to her sisters here. Neither wanted it and told her to just wear it herself or put it on a stuffed animal. She then said to me, “When I’m a grown up, can you be my sister? Because then you can wear it.” I put it on, gave her a big hug and told her I loved it.

Then I cried. A lot. Siblings are mean to each other. That’s nothing new. They get sassy, bossy, and sometimes they’re just little assholes to each other. But this is more than that.

I talked to my older kids about it. I told them they need to be kind to her. That she’s only 6 and needs to feel love from her sister’s. To try to remember being that age. Try to remember how it felt to feel excluded by older kids. To try to remember how it felt to want them to think you were cool or funny. Just try to be compassionate.

I am so sorry Kaylene. I have always loved you, but I never realized the pain you went through because of us. I always felt that my home was broken, but yours was not. And I was jealous of that. So jealous. Jealous to the point of anger. I did not realize that we were your home. That every other weekend, your home was broke too. Because your sisters left and had a whole different life and home. I see now that mom and dad weren’t “favoring” you. They were protecting a little kid from a mean bully of a sister. They weren’t letting you get away with stuff, they just understood that you were acting out because, honestly, your sister Bethy was kind of an asshole who liked to push your buttons.

When I see Genevieve, with hurt and loneliness in her eyes, I can finally understand why you didn’t feel like the “lucky one” who had both her parents. You felt like the forgotten one who was pushed aside. And while my actions as a child are completely understandable and probably expected, it doesn’t take away from the fact that it hurt you. I’m sorry.

Love you baby sis.

One More Lesson from my Grandpa

My grandpa died last week. I have received very kind words, support, condolences, and love from everyone I see. It usually goes the same way. 

“Were you close?” They ask. 

“Yes we were.” I respond.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Cue hug, encouraging comment and subject change. 

They always ask if we were close. You don’t get that question as much when it’s your dad or brother dying. But when it’s a grandparent, I guess there are people who don’t have very much involvement or relationship. In my family, it would be a near impossible feat to not maintain some sort of relationship.

As with any loss, I have been doing a lot of thinking and reminiscing. I have spent the week thinking about my relationship with my grandpa. See, I’m one of the first grandkids. Number 5 actually. There are 32 of us. And 15 (plus two on the way) great grand kids. That’s a lot. So my experience with my grandparents is completely different than what my younger cousins have had. 

I would tell my kids all the time, “The Papa Watts I had was NOT the same Papa Watts you have. He may be physically the same man, but he was a completely different person when I was a kid.” See, I had a grandpa who was still working. A grandpa who still had teenagers and kids of his own in the house. I can still feel the cold tile floor under my feet as I run up to him. He would give me a hug and I could smell the coffee and cigarettes on him. If it were a Sunday afternoon, he would be yelling to “Shut that damn door. Were yout born in a barn?” He would try to adjust a bent hanger that was hooked to the back of the TV in the living room. Trying to get some sort reception on whatever football game was going on. Yelling at us to go outside and to be quiet so he could hear.The other adults didn’t seemed upset about him yelling. So even though it was scary, I knew it was ok. 

My grandma would be doing something in the kitchen. I honestly can’t recall a single moment in my childhood where she was sitting. She would be cleaning, cooking, baking, or refilling coffee for the grown ups. She was the approachable one. My grandpa was kind of scary and loud and always seemed tired and angry. He would tell the occasional joke, or hold the babies, but for the most part, he wanted the kids to make themselves scarce. 

Then, he retired. I was just entering adolescence and we moved from Grand Rapids into my grandparents old house. His retirement, coupled with him finding his faith changed him. I was able to see him become more gentle, loving, and involved. I remember him getting irritated about all the people constantly in and out of the house. Too many visitors and kids. And my grandma said, “What do you think has been going on here for the last 40 years”. This made me laugh. For the first time, I think my grandpa realized all that my grandma had been doing. He slowly started to soften and slow down. 

I remember watching him walk around their house, holding my cousin Seth and pointing to every picture on the wall and tell Seth who was in each one. He would walk him around outside and point at the birds and trees. I don’t remember him doing this with any of the older cousins. 

Over the years I watched him become closer to us grandkids and the great grandkids. I could sit an talk with him and my grandma and enjoy the conversation. He didn’t seem nearly as annoyed with the kids running in and out or eating all the cookies. He was kinder. 

I am glad I got both versions. So many times in our young adulthood, we are trying to define ourselves. We are trying so hard to figure out who we are, what we want, and where we’re going. We do this with the assumption that once we figure it out, we can sit content in our self discovery. But we will NEVER find that contentment. Because we never stop changing. And hopefully we are changing into better versions of ourselves. Kinder, gentler, versions of ourselves.

Love you Grandpa. You have loved and inspired so many people. Even after death I find you teaching me life lessons.