Picking Up and Laying Down

I don't think I will ever forget this conversation I had with my husband when I was in my final trimester of my first pregnancy.  We were at our home, probably eating a slow-paced meal or reading books or one of the other leisurely activities we enjoyed Before Kids.  My husband gazed at the ever-growing basketball under my shirt and said, "Do you know, when I go to work sometimes I forget we're having a baby?"  He said it in a voice of bemused wonder, so casual.  And inside my hormone-fueled, aching body, my blood boiled.

My son was almost born fatherless.

I entertained the thought of murdering my husband for a moment before deciding instead to yell at him.  (I'm not sure he ever got used to Pregnant Rachel.  He never could seem to tell what would make me angry, make me cry, or what I would shrug off or ignore.)  "It must be nice to walk out the door and completely forget about this baby," I shouted.  "It must be nice to get busy with something and have it just fall out of your head.  It must be nice to focus on something else, anything else, because the evidence of this kid's impending birth is not sitting on your bladder."

My husband had the privilege of forgetting what was going on inside my body.  I did not.  Even before I took the test that confirmed we were having a baby, my body was under assault.  I was exhausted, nauseous, flatulent, clumsy, then ravenously hungry, constipated, achy, emotional, and sometimes I was terrified, manically cleaning, wishing I could undo what was happening and go back to my old life.  I never got a break from my experience, from my feelings, from the
knowledge that my life was changing and would never be the same.

Now, let's all agree on one thing:  when a man and woman who love each other get pregnant and have a beautiful baby that they raise together, this is a good thing.  Although pregnancy is not fun in many ways, the outcome is amazing.  It's why I did it again, why I would do it again tomorrow if I could.  But there are many experiences and feelings that are not great, that we would love to be able to put an end-date on.  Like racism.  I'll bet black people in America, if they were told that yes, your lives are hard right now, and this is a difficult thing you all are going through, but in nine months you will be able to shed the burden of hundreds of years of judgment and oppression and experience true equality in every area of life...well, I'll bet they would take a collective deep breath and get through the next nine months.

Except there is no expiration date.  Muslims will still be Muslims next year, provided they don't get murdered by ignorant nationalist jerks.  Black men will still look like scary big dudes to people who see a threat where there isn't one.  Mexicans (and really, all people of Latin descent, whose skin is just a shade too brown) will still get told to go back where they came from, even if here is where they came from.  The others, the minorities, the different looking will never get a break from discrimination, which can be as simple as being followed around a convenience store or being placed in remedial classes at school, all the way to being shot while standing unarmed next to their broken down car.  I get why people are angry.

And, while I mourn with those who mourn, and I long to see change in our country, I cannot deny that I get the privilege daily to decide how much to care.  I can choose to pick up my grief, to offer words of comfort and compassion, to walk with protesters and write a blog post and rant at whoever will listen that This is not right.  Or I can sit with my kids and read Pete the Cat and sigh about how messy their rooms are and feel disappointed that I have to drink water because someone else drank my Coke and get excited about a new episode of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.  I can look around at all that I have:  a house, three healthy children, a good husband, enough money to keep the lights on and food on the table, a big yard to play in, schools where my kids are learning and thriving.  I can see a police car and only feel worried if my speedometer says I'm going too fast, I can let my kids run around the playground and ride their bikes and my biggest concern is that they'll be kind to others.  The people in government and starring in movies and advertising shampoo look like me.  I don't feel judged at my bank or when I apply for jobs or when I walk in somewhere unfamiliar.

In many ways, the world is a safe place for me.  Does that mean that it's a safe place for everyone?  Absolutely not.  In fact, my own experiences as a vulnerable child tell me that this world is not a good place to be isolated and defenseless.  It is only the powerful and the privileged who will thrive here.  My white skin and my suburban address cushion me from the harsh experiences of the larger world.  I don't have to think about it if I don't want to.  I can shut my door and forget about all of it.

So, people who look like me, people who have this privilege of ignoring the experiences and hardships of others, what choice will you make today?  How will you choose to see the world tomorrow?  What are you going to do about the outcry across our country that there is not freedom and justice for all?

It is time to pick up the burden.  It is time to care about our brothers and sisters who are dying while we go to Target and soccer practice and remodel our kitchens.  It is time to change the system from the inside out, and it is time that we all feel uncomfortable about what is happening in our streets.

It is time to mourn.