“We saw the lightning and that was the guns; and then we heard the thunder and that was the big guns; and then we heard the rain falling and that was the blood falling; and when we came to get in the crops, it was dead men that we reaped.”
Do you know that feeling that you get when you finish an amazing book but you realize that it still has a strong grip on your heart? I had it after finishing Jesmyn Ward’s brilliant, bold, and searing memoir, Men We Reaped (2013).
I read Ward’s Salvage the Bones (2011) a couple of years ago and thought that it was really special, so I eagerly looked forward to Men We Reaped. After reading the last stunning page, I’m convinced more than ever that Ward is someone to read—to talk about, to teach, etc.—because she offers valuable insights into what it's like being a Black American, and specific to her subject, a Black American in the South. In addition, Ward has something truly valuable to tell us about being human: how we love, grieve, misunderstand, comfort, judge, care, hurt.... You have to read this book. Men We Reaped tells Ward’s story of growing up in Mississippi interspersed with chapters which focus on the lives of five men whom Ward loved and lost between 2000-2004. The last man Ward focuses on is the first to die chronologically, and also Ward’s greatest loss, her brother, Joshua. An elegiac book, Men We Reaped pays tribute to these men—to the physical and emotional qualities which made them them—and to the community they’ve left behind. But what I also appreciated about this book is that this isn’t just an important read on how black men are oppressed, denied, and limited, but how black women face their own challenges in raising their children and trying to keep their families together and safe. Ward’s childhood is, like most childhood’s, affected very much by the relationship between her parents. Ward’s mother kicked her father out of the house for the last time after she realized that he was cheating on her again with his much younger lover. At that time Ward and her brother, Joshua, were “Both of us on the cusp of adulthood, and this is how my brother and I understood what it meant to be a woman: working, dour, full of worry: What it meant to be a man: resentful, angry, wanting life to be everything but what it was.” A wealthy white employer of her mother’s pays for Ward’s private school tuition. This, coupled with Ward’s hard work, leads to Ward going to Stanford and the University of Michigan. Her brother Joshua “had lesser models and lesser choices, and like many young men his age, he felt that school was not feasible for him.” He ends up selling crack for a while, which Ward says is not uncommon for men in their community. Later, he’s killed by a white drunk driver, who only gets sentenced to five years for killing her brother. This is a book about love and overwhelming grief, but it’s also a book about the black southern woman’s experience, the black southern male’s experience, and how those experiences are affected by also growing up poor. Though Ward ends up attending school on the West Coast and then in Michigan, she has an abiding love for Mississippi which leads her to return home repeatedly throughout her adulthood. The place, and the past, have holds on her. Ward is clear that while she has left Mississippi at times, she has not been unaffected by growing up a black woman in the South, by the “great darkness bearing down on our lives” which “no one acknowledges.” I was spellbound by the beauty of Ward’s writing and devastated by the sadness and horror of her losses. If you haven’t read her work before, pick up this book, or Salvage the Bones, both of which are gorgeous and wrenching reads. Her next book, an anthology called The Fire This Time, is already on my to-read list.
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Less than three weeks in. Gulp. But if there’s one thing that I can feel good about--insofar as this whole political situation is concerned--it's that so many of my friends and family members are fired up. (And also, side note: do you feel like you've started talking to some people that you "knew" but didn't "know," as a result of this experience? I love how so many people have been lifting me up and I hope that I've been paying it forward.) A romance author whom I follow—Sarah MacLean, author of the fabulous A Scot in the Dark--tweeted on February 7th about the “silver lining” we can appreciate these days: “an informed electorate.” Yes. It’s one of those things that I’m both proud and mildly ashamed of. I should have done more in the past. It should not have taken a man who is both an imbecile and the ultimate reality-show mastermind to show me the error of my ways. And I’m sorry to the people who have been lifting the heavy weight for much longer than the rest of us. Thanks for hanging in there and fighting the good fight before the Trumpocalypse sent so many of the rest of us into a panic. I’ve written before about my particular journey to political awareness and how I’m trying to move from just writing about my beliefs in Facebook posts, blog posts and the like, to putting them into action. First, I'm trying to think about how I can move my writing efforts from a personal focus to an external. In other words, I'm trying to think more about what I hope to accomplish with my political related posts. (This woman--Jessica Shuck Christensen gestures to herself--can complain left and right, and it's easy for me to get stuck in that "complaining" phase without moving it into something productive.) Second, as others have said, while I still believe that a heck of a lot can be done through the written word, it’s also time that I, and so many others, start “putting our money where our mouth is" (i.e. donating to worthy causes), and/or volunteering to make a difference, and/or talking with someone we know who holds a different belief that we do, etc., etc. Words matter, but actions do too. My goals throughout this process are not only to resist and stand up for what I believe in (two huge motivations), but also to try to put some more goodness into the world. I always heard growing up that it’s not enough to complain about a problem—I need to try to offer a solution, too. One of my recent efforts to spread positivity was to sign up for Adopt A US Soldier. When I was in fifth grade, our social studies teacher at Heritage Elementary made us write letters to U.S. soldiers. I had an amazing soldier pen pal whose name was Kristy. Kristy wrote long letters in cursive on small sheets of lined notebook paper, and she sent me rocks from Bosnia because she knew that I collected rocks. How awesome and amazing does she sound?! I still have the rocks, mixed in with my others, although I lost contact with Kristy. I have such fond memories of that pen pal experience, so I was intrigued when a friend of mine recently posted on Facebook about how she had signed up for Adopt A US Soldier. She encouraged others to volunteer as well. I eventually went to the Adopt A US Soldier website, completed some contact information, and about a week or so later received an email with a soldier’s name, address, hobbies, and a comment. The soldier that I was assigned said “Thanks so much for all you do it is great for morale.” Think on that for a moment. I wrote one letter to the soldier on Wednesday, and I need to send this week’s later today or Friday. With Adopt A US Soldier you commit to one letter or care package per week. I hope to send a care package at some point in the near future—maybe with some Girl Scout cookies since I bought several boxes and people tend to like those (if we’re allowed to send a box—I have to check the rules). Now, according to the list of the soldier's hobbies listed in the email, it doesn’t seem like I have that much in common with the particular soldier I’ve been assigned. And I’m not sure how regularly the soldier will be able to respond to me. I’m also not sure if this person will enjoy hearing the day-to-day details of a stay-at-home-mom / aspiring writer with a “sophomoric” sense of humor (thank you, unnamed—and also beloved—Centre C. professor!). But I do know that this is something small that I can do that won’t require a lot of time or money and that might make a positive difference in someone’s life. I also know that while I don’t always agree with the decisions that are made by whichever commander-in-chief is commanding, I do support our troops and I value the many sacrifices that they have made to protect our freedom. (If you are a servicemember or have been one, or you are a family member of a servicemember, thank you SO very much!). I’m also excited about the opportunity to show a little love to someone far from home. It's a little bit of goodness that we can send out into the world. I'm trying to get my act together when it comes to being more active, even though I recognize that my efforts are very small (particularly when compared to what so many of you are doing.) I’d love to hear more about how you’re trying to make a difference. Your efforts are inspiring. Xoxo, Jessica
When I heard that Kristan Higgins’ new book was coming out on January 31st, I decided—in the tradition of Tom Haverford and Donna Meagle—to treat myself. As others have noted, Higgins’ books are a mixture of romance, women’s fiction, and dramedy, and On Second Thought is no exception. I had many of the feelings when I read this book, and I was so satisfied and happy with the HEA (Happily Ever After, in romance-speak).
Like her last fabulous book,If You Only Knew, On Second Thought is told from two different perspectives: a set of sisters. Kate is a 39-year old first-time newlywed whose husband, Nathan, dies in a freak accident after they’ve only been married for 96 days. Ainsley is Kate’s half-sister, and she’s dumped by her boyfriend of 11 years after Nathan’s death convinces him that he needs to “live large.” Both set of circumstances force the two sisters together in a way that they’ve never been before and their relationship sweetly evolves throughout the book. Higgins is a wonderful writer and I love that she often focuses on sisterhood, one of the most wonderful and sometimes complicated relationships in human existence. I also love that her female protagonists are strong, independent, and dynamic, and that, though they get their HEA, sometimes—actually a lot of times—it doesn’t look like they expected. If you enjoy less explicit romance novels, you have an additional incentive to check out Higgins' books. The romantic factor is high in her books, though she doesn’t include the sex scenes themselves. The narrators just sufficiently hint that something really fun took place. If you’re looking for a heart-stirring, rich book that reminds you what’s special about romantic love and sisterhood, read On Second Thought. Perfect If You: Want to read a sweet, sweet story about all kinds of love. Check Out: If You Only Knew (in my opinion, an even better Higgins’ read). If you’re in the mood to read romance, women’s fiction, and dramedy, you should also consider Susan Elizabeth Phillips (try First Star I See Tonight) and Marisa de los Santos’ The Precious One.
You’re about to learn a lot about me in this post. For so many years, I described myself as a “worrier.” I would often say that I had “an overly guilty conscience,” and then I would laugh a self-deprecating laugh and invite other people to laugh with me. There was this story I loved to tell about how when I was in kindergarten, my mom came to my room to say that she had thrown my Double Bubble Gum away. I was so upset that I thought damnit, and then I was so upset over just thinking the word that I couldn’t get over it. I had thought a bad word. Why had I done that? What did that mean about me? It burrowed under my skin and I couldn’t let it go. It was such a big deal to me that my parents made me visit the wonderful Mrs. Curry, guidance counselor at Heritage Elementary, who assured me that there was nothing wrong with what I had done. On another occasion, also around that time period, I walked by myself down our lane with my middle finger sticking out—pointing toward the gravel road—and I felt like I had to go to my parents in the middle of the night to tell them what I had done. On another, one of my family members promised me $5.00 if I didn’t tell my parents that they had driven to a drive-thru liquor store with me in the car, and I said I wouldn’t but immediately told my mom as soon as I saw her. I don’t think that I thought I was being a tattle-tale so much as I felt like I had to tell my parents because something bad had happened. I could go on. I hated being late and having everyone stare at me. I hated it when people were mad at me; I wanted them to like me again right away. I hated it when I felt like I had disappointed my parents. I nearly always wanted my feelings to be validated. Maybe all of these things seem normal to you, and perhaps on their own they were. But my problem was that I ruminated over these incidents. I wanted to analyze them over and over again, to dissect them, to examine my motivations and what those particular thoughts (or sometimes actions) meant about me as a person. After I started going to see a therapist about a year and a half ago, I stopped using words like “overly guilty conscience” to describe this side of my personality. Thanks to my therapist, I started using the word “obsessive.” Most people are probably familiar with the diagnosis of OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder). Sometimes we even use it as a joke. As in: “Look at how I have to have all of my canned good labels facing a certain way. I’m so OCD!” (I’m definitely including myself in this camp, fyi. I’ve made so many jokes about mental illnesses over the years and/or used diagnoses lightly). In my postpartum life I have had some compulsive tendencies (including occasionally saying prayers when I was particularly worried about something and/or excessively washing my hands because I was scared about contamination and/or germs), but most of my problems have been in the obsessive category. Guys and gals, it’s a great irony of my life that over-analyzing things is what makes me OBSESSIVE (in terms of my diagnosis) and also a great ENGLISH LITERATURE STUDENT. “Professor, of course I would love to pick apart every single word in this famous author’s paragraph. I could do close readings for days!” But it turns out that being obsessive is not very fun in the real world, particularly if you are obsessive about one of the most important things that many people feel they will ever do: raising a child. Everything about the way that I feel about my son Sam is big. Big love. Big happiness. Big adoration. Big Laughs. Big Hugs. Sometimes—actually, a lot of the time, pre-medication,--big stress. Big frustration. Big anger. Big resentment, specifically in those sleep deprived days when I felt like I couldn’t even think straight because of how exhausted I was. I can only speak with certainty about my own feelings—and sometimes I am even confused about those haha—but one of the biggest problems for me has been my guilt about why I have postpartum anxiety and depression. Why I get so stressed. Why I have mean thoughts sometimes. Why I can’t be like other moms, especially the ones that I like to call Baby Whisperers. At one of my baby showers, a mom passed on this bit of advice to me: “Enjoy those night-time feedings.” I remembered that piece of the advice when I was feeding Sam through an intense tube configuration that we had devised (Sam couldn’t latch and wasn’t ready to take a bottle) in the middle of the night, and I thought, WTF?! I should say that I am very jelly of Baby Whisperers—of your bountiful patience and calm. Your grace. Your ability to look as if you aren’t stressed by anything and everything when you are in a different environment. I know that it’s not so simple as that. I know that you have bad moments and bad days too. But I am the mom who always looks stressed the hell out when I’m in any kind of different environment, or when I’m thrown for any kind of loop. It turns out that there’s A LOT that you can worry and/or obsess about when you have a child. And when you’re obsessive, you often catastrophize. Some people might see poop on a changing table and think, I’m going to clean that off with a wipe. No biggie. But a lot of times something like that is more stressful for me. There have been times when I see a brown speck on a changing table—which might be poop or might be something completely different—I think, it’s poop, and then, what if he gets E.coli. Now imagine thinking like this in regards to everything that you could worry about when you are a parent. It sounds fun, right? Imagine trying to explain this to another person, too. Obsessive thinking is such a cluster*. I know that what I’m thinking isn’t rational, but it feels rational to me. There have been times when I’ve tried to explain my fear to my husband and he literally can’t understand what I'm worrying about or why I’m worrying about it because it’s such a cognitive leap for him. And it's tough to share these feelings too because I'm so defensive about my love of motherhood. I don't want anyone to think that having postpartum anxiety or depression means that I don't love my son. My son is the best thing to happen to us. He is my biggest achievement. A miraculous being that we brought into the world. Admitting my feelings often felt (and to some degree, still does) like in some way I was saying that motherhood wasn't amazing, or that my son wasn't amazing. Before I got on medication much of my day was tied up in an endless string of worries about things that could possibly happen or things that had happened hours before, or even days before. It was exhausting and draining, and I felt like a horrible mom and a horrible wife. I say this not to get sympathy (and also not to get judged ;) ) but to tell you what it’s like to be an obsessive person with postpartum anxiety and depression. I still loved being a mom and I still loved my son very much, but there were many, many days when I felt despair, despite the fact that I was still getting out of bed every morning and being relatively cheerful. And the fact is that my postpartum anxiety and depression were very unpredictable. I might have been feeling very “down” for a couple of hours, but then something small would happen and I’d be buoyant and happy again, perplexed as to why and how I could have felt so bad only hours before. This was a big part of the reason why I waited until my son was sixteen months old before I started medication. There were some “bad days,” but there were good ones too, and I hated the thought of being someone who was on medication. I’ve had friends who have been on medication before, but it always seemed scary to me. My extended family has a history of substance abuse, and I think that some of us were suspicious of anything that could possibly become addictive or be misused. Besides that, some of my family members had expressed their contempt and disapproval of therapy twelve years ago when my dad died, and I was nervous about what they would say if they knew that motherhood had turned me into someone I didn’t feel like I knew most days. That was the worst part for me. Motherhood is already supposed to be something that completely upends and changes your life. Imagine—or perhaps you know for yourself—how very scary, upsetting, and disturbing it can be when you don’t recognize your mental self any more, either. I missed the old me. The one who could do things casually. Who didn’t have to weigh every single parental decision like it was the biggest decision in the world. Therapy was such a great decision to make for myself. I worried about going (haha—are you surprised?), but the therapist was very understanding and she helped me understand my thinking patterns better. I have vocabulary to use now. I catastrophize. I generalize. I should avoid “what if” questions, because that’s my obsessiveness talking. My obsessiveness is quite the Chatty Cathy. And for me, medication was also a really great decision. This was a decision that I didn’t make lightly, but it has helped me avoid excessive rumination and it has lessened my anxiety. I worried so much about what some of my family members would think about me being in therapy and taking medication that I waited until Christmas 2016 to tell them (over a year after I started therapy). But to my surprise, the people that I worried about the most were among the most supportive. I am much happier now, and I feel much more stable. I can concentrate more on spending time with my son, and focus less on the things that happened in the past and/or are outside of my control. I feel like I’m a better mom and a better wife because I took care of myself. I’m still trying to figure out the right balance between being a helicopter mom and being too lax—it’s tough if you have anxiety about being both ;). But I’m getting a lot better. And I figure that I’m always going to be more of a high-strung mom, someone who doesn’t quite look blissful and at ease all the time, because medication aside, I don’t seem to be wired that way. But I’m starting to be more accepting of myself. I’ll write more posts about postpartum anxiety and depression in the future; not because it’s fun, but because I think it’s necessary. We’re all aware of the stigmas surrounding mental health, but I don’t think that we talk a lot about postpartum conditions and they’re more common than a lot of us think. When my problems felt particularly difficult, I found little information online to help me and I didn’t have any friends who had experienced what I was going through (that I knew of). From what I know, motherhood is a big, wonderful, messy experience, and it is even more difficult if you’re dealing with a chemical imbalance that affects how you feel about your own parenting. I’m obviously not a medical professional, but if you think that there’s a chance that you might have postpartum anxiety or depression, try doing a little research into it. You might start here. If you have someone in your life that you can talk to, talk to them. I woke my husband up on one of his days off work to tell him my worries and fears, and he ended up soothing me and comforting me greatly. I promised him for better or worse, in sickness and in health, but I never foresaw that I would have this particular kind of sickness. Still, this experience has shown me even more than before that he is an amazing partner and friend. And finally, consider finding a therapist. As much as I appreciated having my husband to confide in, I knew that I didn’t need to make him my therapist. It can be really, really tough to think about confiding so much of your scraped, raw insides to a complete stranger, but it has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I repeat, I’m not a medical professional, but I’m also here if you need some encouragement. It can be tough being a mom, as you know. But you’re doing a really great job. |
About me.Give me that HEA, please.
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