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| ISSUE NO. 668 |
| A 40TH BIRTHDAY STORY . . . My paternal grandmother died in 2006, shortly before she turned 88. But everyone in the family will have you know that she's still forever 29 - a joke that still somehow reverberates because she never wanted to claim her real age. She worked in the New Jersey Department of Education's Office of Equal Opportunity into her 80's, yet lived in a society that prized youth in women. I am proud of all that she accomplished in her 87 full years. My 89-year-old maternal grandmother left me a voicemail on my birthday, and it ended with, "Once this day is over you'll feel much better about it." I understand why she said this. She’s relayed the stories of her 40th many times … a day where she felt an overwhelming sadness because her life looked very different from what the world told her it 'should' be. 49 years later I look at her life and am so grateful for all that she continues to teach me. Perhaps the greatest gift that I can give my two grandmothers is my own experience of turning 40. When I look back at my 30's I see a very insular time - marked by starting two small businesses and birthing two big babies. I see a time marked by survival and severe exhaustion. But if I am honest, I also tap into feelings of resentment, helplessness and hopelessness, brought about by a new understanding of systems and structures of oppression, and further fueled by my own isolation and inaction. I recall the feelings in my body as I processed events in my world (trying to shepherd two small children in a culture that vastly undervalues caregiving, while also building two small business) and our world (for example, the weight of the 2016 election, the #MeToo movement, the nominations to the supreme court, the murder of George Floyd, continued attacks on LGBTQ rights, stripping away of reproductive rights, book bans, an ongoing pandemic, and a proliferation of mass shootings in the places we live our everyday lives likes schools, grocery stores, places of worship, movie theaters, and bowling alleys). I see trauma and pain and suffering - even among the people who supposedly 'have it all’. I see hurt people hurting people. I see a lot of pretending we are all okay. And we are not okay. We are a deeply wounded people, and the collective weight of the last decade left me buckling under the feeling that it was my job to fix all the problems in the world. But as I crossed the threshold to 40, I gained new clarity. I do not have to carry this load alone. None of us do. The systems and structures of oppression use their power to make us feel isolated, so we won't feel empowered by the small, possible things we can do. Once I realized that what binds us is larger than what drives us apart...it spurred some action. And that action brought about deeper feelings in the depths of my body than I've ever felt before. I have let myself feel real grief and sadness in past years, but for the first time in a long time I felt the undeniable richness of beauty, joy, gratitude, and true love. The leaves not only look beautiful these past few weeks, but I ache with the energy in them - blazing vibrantly when they are most full of life, right before they fade away for another winter. My body moves with music - not just a dance, but rhythms beat in time with my heart as tears stream down my face. Every child's laugh holds the promise of the future - a chance for another generation to get it right. I don’t fear my 40’s. I’ve earned each and every decade and all the lessons held within. I can't think of a greater belated 40th birthday gift to give to my grandmothers, whose rich lives helped birth me into this world and whose legacy I honor with my life's work. Because of them we can get it right. In the coming weeks, we're looking forward to sharing personal and professional ways we can use our power, and empower one another. All together now, Tay (+ Dor)
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tidbits...resources on anti-racism, environmentalism and food culture AKA stuff we're reading / listening to / watching / noticing / thinking about / captivated by this Tuesday . . . |
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