Category: Inside Lane

I’d like to know where we got the idea that a woman’s value is directly tied to her modesty, virginity, and chastity. I mean, I know where we got the idea–there was a time when it was important for men to sell their daughters off to high bidders because something-something-economics and this-is-how-we-do, and the buyers only wanted girls they could poke holes in themselves (which is its own sadness), so fathers (and mothers) worked to keep their daughters covered up from would be hole-pokers, thus keeping the girl’s fiscal value in tact.

But it’s 2016, and we’ve still got these memes going around, garnering likes, and praise, and emoticons for love and delight wherein girls are told that no one will find them valuable unless they are pure for their wedding night.

Right now, there’s one picking up steam, with a father comparing his daughter’s body and value to an iPad. Asking her to cover her modesty (i.e., any flesh meat that a man might find alluring) and protect her chastity like she does the fragile workings of her tablet.

I dropped my son’s tablet face down on tile, last week. The screen shattered and was useless after that. Is that really the message you want to send your daughter? Oh, you’ve been immodest and/or had sex. Been nice knowing you. You’re tainted now, and I’ll never love you again. Well, I’ll still love you, but I’ll love you less because you’re dirty now.* No one else will love you, or want you. Well, maybe someone will, but you will need to feel very grateful to him because he’s been willing to take on your damaged goods.

I mean…

 

Being a girl is like being trapped in a game of pac-man. You’re stuck in an endless maze of tasks to perform, and as you go about your business, you’ve got all these ghosts of ideology chasing after you. You turn left, trying to go on about your day, and there’s someone telling you your skirt is too short, and you’re a whore. You turn right, and there’s someone in your face about how you need to try harder to be attractive because no one likes an ugly woman.

You might get a bump up now and then, and you can vanquish those ghosts, but it is temporary, and pretty soon they are back to chasing you while you’re trying to shop for groceries, or feed your baby, or get a promotion at work. Your lipstick is too red. You don’t do enough with your hair. You don’t smile enough. You’re a flirt. Worse, you’re a tease. Worse, you’re a slut. You’re a prude. You’re too manly. You’re too soft.**

You can be a presidential candidate, and those ghosts are still chasing you. You didn’t stay home with your kids. You didn’t keep your husband on a leash. You didn’t leave your husband when he strayed. You spend too much on your appearance. Your appearance still isn’t pleasing. If you’d been a better wife, your husband wouldn’t have cheated, which means you are a terrible woman.

Little girls are headed to school every day, just trying to get through social studies and art, being chased by ghosts. You’re a pretty princess. Don’t enjoy being a pretty princess because that means you are egotistical. Look fancy. Don’t look so fancy that the boys like you. Be nice to boys. Don’t smile too much, or the boys will think you like them. Smile more, you need to smile. Don’t lead boys on. Be pretty. Be virginal.

It is endless.

I’m going to tell you a secret: I have never met a woman whose value as a human being decreased when she had sex.

I have never met a woman, looked at her and thought, “Well, she looks like someone who has had a hole poked in her, so she’s clearly trash. I can’t have coffee with her.”

I have never looked at a girl and thought, “Oh, she was going to be so successful in life…too bad she slept with that boy. Now she’s useless.”

Because–and I know this will shock some people–women don’t use their hymens to do math, learn medicine, write code, paint, bake bread, raise children, build foreign policy, engineer roads, become astronauts, or any other thing.

If you want your daughter to feel and be valuable, protect her brain. Enlarge her world through education. Read to her from books about science, and poetry. Take her to museums, and landmarks. Talk to her like she is more than a vagina. Because when you build her brain, you build her self confidence, you build her self esteem, and you build in her a desire for better, and more.

And when your daughter sees herself as someone with the potential for success, when she sees herself as a worthwhile being, with your guidance to get through those pac-man days, she will be able to make better choices about what does, and does not go into her body, whether that involve boys, or drugs, or carrot sticks, and pie.

One more thing: Let’s stop comparing girls to inanimate objects. Girls aren’t iPads, or chewing gum, or earrings, or priceless works of art. Girls are human beings. Girls, like boys, have complicated thoughts, feelings, and desires. You can’t tell a girl she is like a piece of gum, or a canvas, or a machine because she isn’t. She is a living, breathing, THINKING person and rather than telling her, “Never do this, or you’ve ruined your life,” start teaching her to reason her way through situations.

Sex does not equal ruin. Not knowing how to get past a problem can equal ruin.

I’ve got a new meme for you.

A girl bought an iPad, when her father saw it, He asked her “What was the 1st thing you did when you bought it?
“I put an anti-scratch sticker on the screen and bought a cover for the iPad” she replied.

“Did someone force you to do so?”

“No”

“Don’t you think it’s an insult to the manufacturer?”

“No dad! In fact they even recommend using a cover for the iPad”

“Did you cover it because it was cheap & ugly?”

“Actually, I covered it because I didn’t want it to get damage and decrease in value.”

“When you put the cover on, didn’t it reduce the iPad’s beauty?”

“You are such a weirdo, Dad. I think it looks better and it is worth it for the protection it gives my iPad.”

The father looked lovingly at his daughter and said, “I really like the Think Geek sticker. You are one smart cookie. Speaking of cookies, I baked some while you were at school today. Want one?”

“Yeah! Thanks, Dad! Hey, can I show you what I built in robotics?”

 

*If that is the message you want to send your child, please get help.

**I haven’t even touched on how girls are told to wad up their own desires in balls of angst, or how girls are told that sex is dirty, but are then expected to be freaks in the sheets the moment a ring goes on the finger. You’re told to subsume your desires for decades, and to hide what makes you attractive, then in the blink of an eye you’re supposed to flip a switch and become the Mayflower Madam behind closed doors, and bake cookies the next morning.

 

(In which I address the daughter I never had, with the advice I always wanted to give.)

Dear Imaginary Daughter,

 Remember when we were trying on bathing suits, and lamenting that it was the actual worst? Not because of us—we are perfect–but because the lighting in fitting rooms is terrible, sizing is so crazy, and cuts can be deceiving, and how weird it looks to try on a swimsuit with your underpants all wadded up in there. Also, remember how exhausted we were after the workout we got? Whew! It was nice to stop sucking in our stomachs, and just sit down and have a burger. Ultimately, we had a great time because we enjoy each other’s company, but man…trying on swimwear can be demoralizing and tiring.

I was thinking about that when you told me that boy had asked you out.

Dating is a lot like trying on swimsuits.

 Now, before I really dive into this, let me remind you that I know you and I are different people. You aren’t mini-me. I mean, you’re fortunate to have gotten my good looks, sparkling wit, and sense of style, but you are your own person, and you have your own life to live. I can only speak to you from my experience, and from the shared experiences of your many loving Aunties. For me, when I started dating, my end goal was really just to get to know people, and enjoy companionship. I knew I didn’t want to be married young. I had big plans, and none of those plans included tying myself down to one person until I was at least 28-years-old—an arbitrary age I pulled out of my fantastic backside.

I told the boys I dated that I was not going to sleep with them (because I didn’t want to be pregnant and ruin my big plans, or riddled with crotch rots and make my big plans itchy), I was not going to fall in love with them (because I’d read Romeo & Juliet and figured teenagers were too stupid to manage real romance), and I was going to date other people (because—and you might not want to know this—I was boy crazy. I loved ALL the boys. All of them. I wanted all of them. Like Pokemon. Why have just one, when I could have twenty-one?) This approach worked well for me because I ended up dating a lot of really good guys, and some of them are still friends today. There were only a few knuckleheads in the bunch.

 As great as the boys I dated were, there was still always some kind of drama (mostly because of me—I’m dramatic), some kind of heartbreak, and some kind of something riding up in the back because it just wasn’t quite the right fit. And that’s how I get back to swimsuit shopping.

 Like trying on swimsuits, dating plays an important part in making a commitment. Dating helps you figure out who you are in the context of romance, and helps you refine your wishlist against reality. It’s like how I loved that monokini, and thought it was the cutest thing on the rack—it was in my size, so I could have just bought it, but after trying it on, I could see that even though I loved it, and it looked cute on me, it wasn’t properly lined, so once it was wet everyone at the pool was going to get an eyeful of all the things I was trying to cover. I could still appreciate how cute the design was, and love looking at it, but I knew it wasn’t for me.

 Dating helps you to understand the part passion plays against long-term compatibility. That red one-piece you love-love-loved (and we bought) is going to be perfect for a season, but it isn’t a high quality garment, so it isn’t going to wear well for long. It’s going to unravel at the seams. You can enjoy it while it lasts, and you can have really great memories of how seriously gorgeous it was on you, but once it’s gone, baby, it’s gone. We can try to stitch it back up, but it’s never going to be exactly right again. Some relationships—some friendships will be that way. Some relationships are meant to be, but they aren’t meant to last. That’s okay. You enjoy them, revel in the thrill of them, and write some terrible poetry when they end. Later, you can enjoy the memory, and also have a good laugh about how terrible the poetry is.

 We also both tried on a couple of suits that were amazing, but were just out of our budget. Sometimes, for whatever reason, relationships cost too much. Maybe they are geographically unaffordable, or morally questionable*, or emotionally hazardous, but we can look at them and say, “This would be really cute to wear to the beach, but the buyer’s remorse would be so great, I couldn’t even enjoy being seen in it.”

 I think we are both woman enough to admit that sometimes the suit is great, but we are the problem. We won’t talk about that, though. We’ll just leave it at: We are wise enough to know that we all have issues we need to work on, and it is up to us to be brave enough, and compassionate enough to say, “I understand this isn’t working for you, and while I have enjoyed every second, I don’t own you, and I wish you well.”

 Something else to consider is the difference between a fitting room, and the beach. The fitting room isn’t reality. The beach is reality. The beach is where you really find out just exactly how weird your tan-lines are going to be, how much sand is going to make it into your person, and what’s going to happen when the sea gets rough with the top of your two-piece (hint: never wear a bandeau top into the ocean—or attempt a dive in one. Or wear one at all. They make your boobs look like stress balls.) No matter what goes on in the fitting room—the place where you are dating your swimsuit and deciding whether, or not to take it home—you aren’t going to learn what that swimsuit is really like until it is on you, in public. And you aren’t going to know what you really look like in that suit until you quit sucking in your stomach, and you sit down to eat a burger while you’re wearing it.

 We are our best selves, or are pretending to be our best selves when we are dating. You have to keep that in mind. If your date isn’t treating you well while you’re still in the fitting-room stage of your relationship, he (or she—whatever floats your boat) isn’t going to treat you better once the tags are off. That’s a fact, sweet pea. Don’t leave the fitting room with something that doesn’t work there—because it’s only going to look worse once you get it home. And what in the world will make you sadder, or make your life more in-the-moment-awful than an ill-fitting swimsuit? Only an ill-fitting relationship.

 One last thing: We try on swimwear while wearing our underpants to protect our bits from any genetic material that might have been left in the swimsuit by the last person to try it on. And stores want us leaving on our underpants so that we don’t sludge up the suit ourselves. It is my opinion that unless you are pretty sure you’d like to have this suit long-term, you should keep your pants on. It is my opinion that unless you are pretty sure you’d like to have the relationship long term, you should keep your pants on—not because of any moral compunctions, but because you have big plans, and you don’t need to get pregnant, or have a prescription written.

 That said, if you do try on a suit without your underwear, be sure the suit has one of those sanitary strips in the crotch. In plain English, use protection! Use more than one form! And talk to me about it because I’ll be honest about a) the best protection to use—your health is more important to me than your virginity, b) the best combinations of protection to use—because they all fail, and you need backup, and c) whether I think this is a smart decision. And I’ll say it as lovingly as I did when I suggested we go on over to Dillard’s to see if there was a suit you might like more than the one we almost bought at Macy’s. Because I love you, and I’ve lived a little longer than you have, and I would be a bad mother if I didn’t try to point you in the direction of something better. (And you can always call an Auntie. I’ve made sure to surround you with smart, loving Aunties. Talk to one of us.)

 What I’m trying to say is that I fully support you dating, and dating many, many people. Dating is trial and error. Dating is fun, and exciting, and also painful, and awful. I’m going to be here for you through all of it.

 Now, about that boy. I’d like to meet him first.

 *Stay out of those. Stay out of those because you end up hurting more people than you can ever heal.

 

(In which I address the daughter I never had, with the advice I always wanted to give.)

Dear Imaginary Daughter,

You know I think you are just right. Your father, your grandparents, your brother, and I all think you are just right. We are correct in our thinking, and I know this because I grew you. Because I grew you, and because I’ve been someone’s daughter, I am pretty sure you are already disregarding my words. Don’t.

Imaginary Daughter, there is a world out there, and it is full of people who are going to tell you that something is wrong with you. Those people are generally going to belong to one of three groups:

1. People who are trying to sell you something.
2. People who have bought something, and have buyers remorse.
3. People who legitimately don’t like you.

I want to talk to you about those groups.

Group one is an entire industry–an economic behemoth that can only survive if it can convince a majority of people that happiness, acceptance, or a better life can be purchased with toothpaste, or veneers, or a certain kind of bra, or the right shape of silicone to sit in that bra, or having your internal organs mutilated, or starving yourself, or cutting up your face, or having the right shoes, yoga pants, and membership to the right gym.

Those people are paid to prey on your insecurities, so you will buy things to support their companies. Some people get paid to make you feel insecure. Their whole jobs are looking for ways to make you feel less-than, so they can convince you to buy their products in order to feel whole. You didn’t know your hair was too thin? Now you do! Buy this volumizer! (I’ve fallen for that one–I keep falling for that one.)

Group two can be anyone. Group two might even include some of your friends. When we buy into the idea that we aren’t good enough, we start to scrutinize people who seem to be happy with themselves. We want to know why they think they are so special, when we know that we are all kinds of messy. We wish we felt special, and we get angry that those other people are having such a good time being themselves.

Then, we start acting all kinds of foolish, trying to take those happy people down a few notches because…well…there’s no good reason other than that we just don’t think they ought to be so high and mighty. That’s having buyer’s remorse about our own value. We’ve bought into the idea that something is wrong with us, and we want to sell the same package to the happy people so that we can all be on a level playing field.

Frankly, it’s none of our business what other people think of themselves, unless we have an opportunity to build someone up when she, or he is down. The only thing you need to be to have value as a human being is human. The only thing you need to have in order to have self worth is a self.

Which brings me to the last group because there will be people who just don’t like the self you present to the world. Memorize these words, “It is okay if there are people who don’t like me.”

Listen, kid, all of us rub someone the wrong way. That’s life.

When I was a toddler, I was bitten in the face by a Cocker Spaniel. I thought the dog was a Poodle, and I’ve hated Poodles ever since. No Poodle has ever done me wrong, but I don’t care. I hate Poodles. I hate their watery little eyes, and their yappy barks, and their weird fur. I hate them. I hate them because I thought one bit me.

I feel fine about Cocker Spaniels, though.

You might be someone’s Poodle. You’ve never done anything to that person, but something about you reminds them of something awful that happened and because of that, they will hate your guts and all the casings. That is okay. It is unfortunate, but it is okay.

In the same way, you’re going to run into some Poodles of your own. That is also okay. You aren’t required to like everyone you meet. I just require that you treat people with kindness and respect.

I hate Poodles, but I would never hurt one. I’ve been known to pet some of the small ones, and I’ve even admired the beauty of the Standard sized ones. I haven’t let my misguided fear and hatred of the breed lead me to abuse, or hurt them.

You be kind to the Poodles in your life, and understand that when you are the Poodle, it’s got nothing to do with you.

If you spend your time trying to make people like you, you’ll spend a lot of time chasing your tail. Group A is only interested in your money. Group B is only interested in your hurt. Group C isn’t interested in you at all. Don’t waste your time trying to please those people by trying to change yourself to be attractive to them.

Be kind, be respectful, and be strong. Get to know yourself, and what you like. Cultivate your interests. You’ll attract friends who like the same things, or who just want to be around someone as nifty as you are. Those friends will make up a whole other family for you–your chosen tribe.

You and your tribe will build each other up, and when you need a nudge in the right direction, you’ll be able to keep one another on track through kindness, love, and generosity. (Because, Imaginary Daughter, there will also be times when you are wrong-o. There will be times when you make huge mistakes. Having the right friends, who know and love you, will make all the difference in those times.)

So…When I say you are just right, when Daddy says it, when Thor says it, when your grandparents say it, we all mean it, and we are all correct. And we are the voices you should be listening to because no one is paying us. I’ve smelled your feet and I still think you are exactly what you ought to be.

Now, go take a bath. Your feet stink.

I love you.

 

 

 

(In which I address the daughter I never had, with the advice I always wanted to give.)

Dear Imaginary Daughter,

Let’s just get this out there: having your period sucks. It does. I’m not going to sugar coat it. While it is an important thing to have because it tells you that your insides are working properly, and you are biologically eligible to catch a baby, it is messy, aggravating, and can lead to some of life’s most embarrassing moments.

People will tell you that you shouldn’t talk about your period publicly. I’ll tell you that you shouldn’t go into graphic detail about it*, but mentioning you’re surfing the crimson wave shouldn’t send people running to the hills out of squeamishness and sensitivity–half the population is, at any given time, wearing the red badge of courage in her pants.

The worst is when you realize you are wearing the red badge of courage ON your pants. It’s going to happen, Imaginary Daughter. It happens to everyone.

Here’s a story. You know I have some inappropriate laughter issues, and that once I get started on a laughing jag, it’s hard to stop. There was this time I got a stuffed Stimpy toy at a church Christmas party, and if you squeezed it, it farted. I laughed so hard, I went into bat squeaks and could not stop laughing the whole night. People thought I was insane. No. It was just one of those laughing jags.

I went into one of those laughing jags in 10th grade. Something struck me funny in an art class, and I got the giggles and couldn’t stop laughing. My teacher asked what was so funny, and all I could do was shrug and shake my head, and try to keep quiet. When she turned around, there was a dark red patch on the back of her light blue trousers, slowly spreading. The horror was enough to kill the giggles, and then the realization that she was going to go to the restroom, and she was going to see she’d bled through her clothes, and she was going to think that was what I’d been laughing at. I sat there staring.

I was 15, so not the woman I am today. Today, I would have found a way to take her aside and tell her that her fecundity was showing, and also be sure she understood that I wasn’t laughing at how shark week had taken her by surprise. At 15, I just quit laughing, put my head down and never spoke to her again for the rest of the school year. She returned the favor. I’m sure she still thinks I was an awful, immature, evil twit-child.

This is important: We don’t laugh when we see that people are bleeding through their clothes. We are gentle with them, and we help them if we can. If you see something, say something. Preferably, close up to the ear, where you and your Sister are the only ones alerted to the fact that Little Red Riding hood is making her way through the forest.

Never be afraid to ask for a tampon, or a pad. That’s something else that is bound to happen. One day, you’re going to be out and about, and you’re going to need a layer of something between Aunt Flo and your good jeans. There is no shame in needing a feminine hygiene product.

You know, Imaginary Daughter, with all the advertising for tampons and pads, and the knowledge that once a month les anglais sont arrivés for all us girls, you’d think people would be less mincing about them, but before you can get the second syllable out of Playtex, you’ve got women AND men picking up their skirts like they’ve seen a mouse. Don’t be those people. If you need one, ask for one. If you see a lady scrabbling at the tampon dispenser in the bathroom, offer her one.

Along with the mess and mortification of your period will come the possibility of pain and emotional suffering. You will probably have cramps. Most women do. They vary from mildly uncomfortable to dear-god-why-won’t-someone-just-rip-this-murderous-organ-out-of-me?

Make a fist. Let it out. Make a fist. Let it out. Concentrate on your palm and insides of your fingers, and make a fist. Let it out. Cramps feel like someone has put your uterus on like a glove, and is making a fist and letting it out. Now and then, when they will take a punch at your ovaries, or your abdomen, or your colon from inside. Cramps are like your uterus has gone Hulk and is smashing your lower innards. Bad cramps are like Iron Man has put on the Hulkbuster suit and gone to war with your Hulk Uterus. In any case, cramps hurt.

The word “cramps” is nothing like the feeling of “cramps”.

While you are fighting through actual physical pain, you may think back to a few days prior, when you saw that commercial with puppies and you started to cry. Or, when I said your hair looked nice, and you wanted to know why I hated you. Or, when that boy you like asked out Suvaynah instead, and you thought you would die. That’s called premenstrual syndrome.

Some people like to use PMS as a reason to keep women out of the White House. I like to explain that at least women can chart a cycle to see when they are more likely to want to send drones in to carpet bomb countries, thus preparing themselves for preventing those eventualities, whereas men have no such built-in mechanism to explain their sudden, violent mood swings. (Yes, Sweetie. Men have emotional mood swings too. They just can’t see it in their pants once a month, so they like to pretend they aren’t also jerked around by their hormones. They are very “pics, or it didn’t happen” about their own levels of estrogen and testosterone.)

Here are some of the things you can look forward to with PMS:

• Acne
• Swollen or tender breasts
• Feeling tired
• Trouble sleeping
• Upset stomach, diarrhea, constipation, and/or bloating
• Headache or backache
• Appetite changes or food cravings
• Joint or muscle pain
• Trouble with concentration or memory
• Tension, irritability, mood swings, or crying spells
• Anxiety or depression

Doctors say, “Take ibuprofin.” I say, “If men had PMS, we’d have a cure.”

What I want you to know is that PMS and cramps are real. They aren’t pretend, or made up. Some people may try to tell you that you are imagining things, or that you are blowing your pain out of proportion, or try to make you feel like a wuss, or say that’s why you are the “weaker sex”. Those people are wrong, and should be forced to fight your Uterus to the death–while your Uterus is wearing the Hulkbuster suit.

If you hurt, we’ll go to the doctor and make sure everything is normal–too much pain can be an indication that something is wrong, and we’ll get it fixed. If you are sad, we’ll have some chocolate ice cream because chocolate really does help. It does. I don’t even like chocolate, and it helps.

Imaginary Daughter, having your period is going to be the worst part of being a woman. Once a month, you are going to be tethered to the ladies room. If you’re trying to have a baby, then your period can break your heart. At best, it’s an unholy bat signal that your body is in good shape. At worst, it is a physically painful, emotionally draining, exhausting few days out of your life.

But here’s the thing: There are eleven-thousand and seventy really great things about being a woman, and probably the biggest, best thing is 100% related to the worst.

Now, stop scowling at me and rolling your eyes. I’m finished talking. I’ll just shout these euphemisms at you as you slink out of the room, cringing away at how embarrassing and gross your mother is.

I love you!

Crimson Curse

CSI: My Pants

On the Rag

Ragtime Gal

Lady Time

The Red Fairy

Antietam

Vampire Bait

Angry Badger

The Bleedies

Cotton Tail

Dragontime

Girl Flu

Flying Your Colors

In the House of the Moon

Lignonberry Week

What? I still love you! Come back! I have ice cream!

*Here’s a graphic detail for you: Your period is not like cutting your finger. You don’t get a tidy liquid pouring into your maxi pad, like you see on the commercials. You might also get clotting. Don’t let that scare you–you are normal. That’s normal. Don’t think you are dying–I promise you aren’t dying. Yes, I thought I was dying. It was the 80s. We didn’t have an internet. You have an internet. We’ll read this WebMD article together, so you can learn more.

 

 

A few months back, when I was still working in direct contact with the public as a banker, I had a woman come sit down at my desk. She was wearing a shirt with the logo of my elementary-aged son’s school district on it, and she told me proudly that she worked for one of his neighboring elementary schools.

I like talking to people who enjoy their jobs, so I started asking questions, and she was happy to answer. Pretty soon, she was happily telling me how awful it was to have to work with a school full of minorities. She went from how weird and bad the children smelled, to how weird and unwieldy their names were. And I stared.

In my mind’s eye, I could see all these little children, lined up in her care, while she sniffed at them, and curled her lip at their names–sweet boys and girls, who had done nothing to her, other than show up to school. I imagined my son among them.

My son has a very normal, blase name, and he generally smells like soap, but sometimes like wet dog. I pictured his kindergarten face, all eager nerves, worried and excited, scared, but hopeful because I had promised him school was a place where he would learn all kinds of exciting new things. He would learn math, which would help him build robots. He would learn to read, which would mean he could study for a driver’s test and learn to drive a car. He would learn science, which would mean he could learn chemical compounds that would make explosions. And he would make friends, and even though some days he might rather stay home, school was going to be a good place, and he could trust the grown-ups there.

I worried about him, of course, but I never worried that anyone would look at him and discriminate against him based on his appearance. That never even occurred to me. That’s White Privilege. It never even crossed my mind that a member of his school’s staff would look at him and wrinkle her nose because he’s a little white boy. Of course he belongs.

The woman at my desk took my silence for approval, and she got animated about how disturbed she was by these minorities who were taking over the school and our city, and started ticking off fingers about how horrible immigrants were, and how these weird immigrant religions meant weird immigrant accommodations, and I felt the heat rising in my body, and knew that my chest, neck and cheeks were turning red.

She was talking about children aged five- to eleven-years-old. Children. Babies. And she was talking about them like they were dogs.

Those children have just as much right to an education, to THAT education as my son does. Their parents pay the same taxes I do. Their parents moved to this city for the schools just like I did. Those mothers and fathers probably had the exact same conversations my husband and I did as we considered our finances, and decided what changes, and cuts we could make in order for this school district to be a possibility for our son. That woman wouldn’t have said boo to our child for the sole fact that he is white.

I said as much as I could and still remain professional, ended our conversation, and bid the woman a nice day. I was firm, and clear that I did not agree with her, but still had to shake her hand before she left because that was my job. Then I sat there, stewing in the filth she’d carried into my office. I was one part livid, one part mortified, and two parts Alabama Ugly. So, when I got home, after I’d had a few more hours to think about it and cool down, and consult with my wiser Lady Friends (and get all het up again), I wrote the school district.

You know I’m not perfect. I make a lot of mistakes on a daily basis. I don’t pretend I’m a saint. I’m not. If I’ve learned anything about my own privilege and about my own accidental racism and bigotry, it’s been through making mistakes, and being fortunate enough to be called out on them. It is a blessing to be told when your dress is caught in the waistband of your pantyhose, and it is a blessing to be told when you are showing your ass as a human being.

I had my metaphorical dress caught in my pantyhose for a lot of my life. I am thankful to the people who took me aside and told me. And keep telling me.

I was incredibly relieved when the school district responded to me, and–is proud the right word? Proud that they took swift, and appropriate action? Should I be proud that they did the right thing? I’m not proud of the restaurant manager, when he comps my meal after I find a bug in my soup because that’s just the right thing to do. Still, I was proud of the administrators who took me seriously, and moved to right the wrong.

Honestly, I’d been afraid they wouldn’t care. I was elated that they had.

It breaks my heart to think that any child might go home from school, that eager nervousness turned to confused shame because of something an authority figure has said to make them feel less-than. My heart breaks for the mothers who have to dry those tears, and watch their children try to contort themselves into the shapes these ignorant grown-ups have told them are the right ones.

A friend of mine put another school situation so eloquently, so I give you her words: I so despair of bright copper penny girls who are pummeled into thinking they are stupid by systems that just. don’t. work. It’s like those penny squish-ers at tourist places. For 26 cents you can ruin a penny, when a penny was perfectly fine in the first place.

Guard your bright copper pennies, Parents. And help guard their peers. All the children are our children. All of them.