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It’s a small world, after all. | #30in30 #WriteLikeCrazy.

Watch globally; connect locally…

My local baristas know me by name and drink. Medium or large iced coffee, depending on the day. Black. Extra pump of classic. I like to think I don’t need the caffeine, it’s just nice to have. Ahem.

“Tom” asks which size I prefer today. Definitely the large. He is immediately curious.

“Busy day today?” he inquires.

“Nah. Well, no busier than usual. But I was up until 2 a.m. watching the rover land on Mars!”

And with that exchange, a middle-aged white man exclaims from his seat across the café. I turn to be sure he is reacting to my announcement, and indeed he is. Hovering over his laptop, he beckons, halfway hiding the grin on his face.

I laugh, strolling over to him, coffee in hand. He tells me about his night – the sleeping kids, the sleeping wife. Reading under covers, so as not to disturb her. Falling asleep in his makeshift tent and jerking awake around 1 wondering why.

Realization dawns! Mars! Of course he powers up his computer and logs on.

He, like I, experienced the entry and landing of Mars Curiosity with the happy pairing of NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s live stream  and Twitter. We take turns spreading the good news: science is great! NASA is so cool! Did you see the pictures? I love Twitter! What a great way to experience space adventures, etc.

As I turn to leave, he stops me. “Don’t forget your excuse for today!” I’d seen the post early this morning but had indeed already forgotten it:

From outer space to a local coffee shop in just a matter of hours.

It’s a small world, after all.

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Taking Up Space | #30in30 #WriteLikeCrazy.

I loved Flo Jo.

Growing up, I loved her because she was a sprinter, and so was I. She was fast and beautiful. Commentators exchanged countless words over her attire, hair and ornate nails. They left me wondering why jewelry and make up were so controversial.

Raging debates on appearances aside, the proof was in the pudding.

Years later, seeing Flo Jo again sparked a deeper sense of appreciation. (Thanks, Tara). I loved her then and perhaps more now, because she was unabashedly herself. Or at least, she represented herself the way she chose and did so unapologetically.

There’s so much power in that.

I spent my youth as a shrinking violet. Even as an adult, I entered rooms with my head down, eyes lowered. Hiding. Striving for invisibility. I didn’t want to take up too much space, or be noticed at all really.

Except that’s not completely true. I waged an ongoing internal battle. In middle school, I was the stereotypical nerd; adorned with requisite thick glasses, good grades, questionable fashion choices, and uncertain body image. Yet, still I tried out (and made) the cheerleading team. High school wasn’t much different. Shy, and often soft-spoken, I still had great fun snapping my hair along with 20 other members of our somewhat exclusive dance team, dressed in fishnets, boots, and short sequin dresses.

Grad school found me maintaining the balancing act. How does one prove she belongs in rooms with men who dominate conversations, while nursing the sinking feeling the imposter (me) may be found out any minute?  It’s tiring really, being a shrinking violet.

In recent years I’ve claimed victory over that internal battle. I speak up and invite others to join me. I enter rooms with poise; sometimes even with a hint of drama. I wear colors or accessories that pop, just because they’re cheerful.

Flo Jo got criticized, in essence, for being too loud. And off she ran with her gold anyway. To that I think three things:

  • She is an Olympic gold medalist. You can talk about her fashion choices all day and night, but you can’t erase her spot in sport history. (For another example see Williams, Serena).
  • She was not afraid to take up space, to cause a stir, to be noticed. She centered herself – detractors, marginalizers, and silencers be damned.
  • It’s really not about you. It’s about her, and how she chose to represent herself. And that’s absolutely awesome.
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We Wear the Mask | #30in30 #WriteLikeCrazy.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
~Paul Lawrence Dunbar

I sit down with two other women present for the two-day workshop. We are instructional coaches – former classroom teachers – in Orlando for professional development in literacy. Our conversation drifts to “the kid.” Who was the kid? The one who was the pivotal in your career? Lillian tells of two, beginning with ‘Eric.’

That kid was always grumpy. On edge. He was likely to pick a fight or get in trouble for some reason or another. It wasn’t long before I discovered he simply couldn’t read very well.

She explains to us how she won him over through small, daily successes. She was blown away by how sweet this boy was, hidden underneath an angry, defensive exterior.

Then she tells us of ‘John.’

John was a bit more outspoken in his dislike of the school environment. Not only vocal, but also physically violent at times. He required restraints if triggered. Educators who provide special education services would recognize his EBD label.

One day was particularly bad. He began shouting. Raging. I had to grab him and bodily place him in the time out space. He demanded to get out but he couldn’t.

A plank stood between him and freedom, with the teacher’s body pressed against it. Just in case. When yelling didn’t work, he threw himself again and again against the door, determined to force it open through sheer will.

I, on the other side, barely 100 pounds, I mean look at me even now, body against the door, praying it remained shut until he calmed down. Items sailed over the top of the door. Shoes, socks, pants. He was stripping, maybe this could buy his freedom. When that didn’t work, suddenly it was splat, splat against the wall. You can imagine what he was throwing (feces). But that kid is the reason I went back to school for a master’s degree. In the end, it was all a mask.

He, just like Eric, was wearing a mask. Neither one of them could read. Here they were – middle and high schoolers – angry they couldn’t read and scared to be found out.

Many classroom teachers can pinpoint students who were angry, or otherwise picked fights with the other students for the express purpose of getting thrown out of class. Trouble was their mask, hiding their inability to read.

These masks, along with zero tolerance policies, and cultural disconnects between students and school, contribute to the school to prison pipeline. How can we discover these masks earlier? When will we develop policies and curricula that make it safe for students to discard their masks? Can we create a system that alleviates the need for masks at all?

I remain hopeful, but hope, in and of itself, is not a strategy.

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Humane Treatment for All | #30in30 #WriteLikeCrazy.

I begin with a declaration. I never believed it radical in nature, but I’m coming to the realization that it might be.

People are not disposable.
People deserve to be treated humanely.

And by people, I mean all people, not just a select few. Not just those who have (thus far) avoided the label criminal; but everyone.

We sometimes view the world in dichotomies. We place things at one end of a continuum or the other. We see something as black or white, not that troublesome gray. We prefer simplicity instead of nuance and complexity. We favor “or” rather than embrace “and.”

But here’s the thing: people who engage in criminal behavior, are still people. The mere fact that they are human, means they still deserve humane treatment.

But what about {insert the most violent, heinous crime ever committed and ask if the victim was treated humanely}? Statements like that become the marker by which all people who have engaged in criminal behavior are measured. Leaving aside the stats that more than half of all prisoners are non-violent offenders, my response is still yes, violent offenders deserve humane treatment, too. That means, no, it’s not okay that prisoners in Texas boil to death due to lack of air conditioning, for instance.  No, it’s not “their fault” that inmates in Philadelphia are denied medical treatment, and are sometimes forced to endure pain and suffering for months at a time.  And no, women who give birth in custody should not be shackled while doing so.

In the coming weeks and months, I plan to unpack my thinking about this and related issues. I’m sure some disagree with my declaration, but therein lies my challenge. I’m up to it.

People are not disposable. People deserve to be treated humanely. And by people, I mean all people, not just a select few.

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Tell Your Story. | #30in30 #WriteLikeCrazy.

I tweeted this out of frustration surrounding the coverage (and lack thereof) of Olympic gold medalist Gabby Douglas. It isn’t the first moment to inspire this response, yet I’ve only recently begun to affirm this for myself.

For years, I had connected storytelling to a sort of pathology. The stories that truly needed telling were riddled with pain and misery. The only important stories showed tremendous triumph over tragedy, rags to riches, or some variation that X was hard and I overcame it.

I never experienced my life in those terms; therefore, I didn’t have a “story.” There was nothing particularly grueling about my life – a smattering of speed bumps – so there was nothing to tell.  But your life, however you experience it, is your story, and it’s worth telling. And not just for your own sake.

Each person’s story adds a new layer to our collective understanding. It offers nuance and possibility. The differences from one life to another remind us there is no single story of women. There is no single story of Black people. There is no single story of southerners. Nor is there a single story of Buddhists. My story, with its myriad chapters, stands at the intersection of these and fathomless other circles of life.

Just to be clear, the benefits of sharing your story are not simply reserved for everyone else. Powerful allies known as affirmation and self-reflection, come to you in the telling. Even (and I know this from experience), when the only person you’re telling is yourself. Your story is your victory. Claim it.

—

Today’s post is my first entry in the #30in30 challenge. I aim to write 30 posts over the next 30 days. In July, I deemed August a month for writing, and it seems the universe agrees. Tayari’s #WRITELIKECRAZY encouraged me to develop concrete goals. Initially they were comfortable, easily manageable goals. #30in30 pushes me outside my boundaries (posting everyday!?). But lately, I’ve found it invigorating to be a little uncomfortable.

Join us. I’m positive you have a story to tell, too.

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Activating the activist

I want to begin by suggesting that whoever you are, wherever you are, whether you are a student, an academic, whether you are a worker, a person involved in your church, whether you are an artist…there are always ways to gear your work towards progressive, radical transformation.
      ~Angela Davis – The Prison Industrial Complex (1999)

I’ve been reading, curating and sharing resources about mass incarceration. I plan to do some writing about it as a way to work through what I’m learning. To think through barriers and imagine solutions.

In so doing, I lend my voice to the modern abolitionists: freedom fighters speaking and teaching about mass incarceration and its myriad, interconnected issues. At one point I curated a list of digital resources and my occasional musings, on my Tumblr here. As I think through things more deeply, or at least more fully, I plan to share here.

I am tempted to disparage my own efforts. They seem meaningless in the face of such a massive system. What, really, can sprinkling ideas through social media accomplish? What, really, might a few tentative words contribute?

But on the other hand, you have to start somewhere, yes?  And in a silent room, even a whisper can garner attention, to say nothing of a full-throated response. So I hereby take my voice off mute, as I gear my work toward progressive, radical transformation.

Said June Jordan in Some of Us Did Not Die, “we have choices, and capitulation is only one of them.” Speaking up, speaking back, is another.

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An Alpha, #3.

An Alpha,
#3.

That’s how he always signed his missives. Something I’d managed to forget until I stumbled across one. I was in the midst of searching for something completely unrelated in my box of “treasured stuff,” when there it was. His elaborate signature. I wept at the shock of feeling I honestly didn’t know was still present over a decade later. I wept for had been. For what could have been. Most of all, I wept for him.

An age ago, he was my boyfriend. Me, 21; a junior in college. He, a couple of years my senior; a graduate student in psychology. He was warm and loving and thoughtful. He’d fix me lunches: homemade sandwiches, heated and sliced down the middle. He was also organized. Everything had to be exactly where it had to be and no.where.else.

One might reasonably guess him to be an athlete. Slim and toned. Tall. Six feet to my five four. He was “high yella” with hazel-green eyes and a disarming smile. His skin betrayed a heritage he’d just as soon ignore. Who wants to look in the mirror only to be reminded his ancestors were raped? He volunteered with African-themed youth programs. Wanted to do more of that. Planned to develop and implement his own curriculum. Maybe create an organization.

We were together until we weren’t. A few months? Maybe up to a year. I loved him (I can admit it now), but there was always something. I didn’t have the language to articulate how I felt. Usually he was sunshine. But at times he’d be haloed by clouds. After weeks of joy, we were suddenly weighed down by a heaviness I couldn’t name. I felt it, but I couldn’t exactly see it.

This is difficult. I’m trying to share a tongue twister with my mouth full of peanut butter. Words, thoughts, memories mushed. Stuck together. Stalactites in the roof of my mouth. I’ll keep trying.

I knew I couldn’t help him with it. Hell, I didn’t even know what “it” was. He acknowledged it was something. Wished he could explain. Wished I could help. It was an abstract painting in a poorly lit room. We both wondered, what was that? What did it mean? Just a blur of confusing colors splattered on a canvas.

And it was over. And I graduated. Moved back home to Atlanta. He wrote letters from time to time. Signed in his distinctive way…

—

I returned one weekend and reached out to him. A laughing voice invited me to dinner. The conversation was all smiles, except for his comparison to his brother. Light-hearted jokes, until the admission of overspending to impress his mother. He said he was happy. Or trying to be. He’d suffered a recent heartache. The new girlfriend had complained about the clouds, the heaviness. It remained nameless. I’m working on it. I see it’s really a problem. Still no words for what “it” was. I assumed “it” was feeling as though he were not enough. Always competing. Always wishing he were richer. Darker. Something.

He was weeks away from finishing his degree. Over dinner, we discussed his next steps. Maybe he’d come to Atlanta. Maybe we’d reconcile.

Maybe.

He seemed somehow different that night. Needy? Open? Please don’t leave. If only you understood. I wish I could explain. Just stay. Yet somehow the same. Still warm. I’ll run your bath water for you. Still distractingly meticulous. I don’t want this to hang here. I’ll fold it and move it there.

He cooked breakfast before I departed in the morning. He had insisted. I thought I’d see him again soon. He was weeks away from finishing his degree. Maybe he’d come to Atlanta. Maybe we’d reconcile.

—

His frat brother called. Do you know K? I frowned at the complete ridiculousness of the question. Of course. I was just with him two days ago. Irritated with this beginning, I neglected to register concern about the call.

He’s dead. They said it was suicide. Gunshot wound to the head.

I stammered a response before I hung up. Spent the next several days in shock. Couldn’t sleep alone. Confused. Muddled. Peanut butter for brains. Tears.

I wish I knew what transpired in the intervening hours. He died the day I saw him last. He was weeks away from finishing his degree. Maybe he’d come to Atlanta. Maybe we’d reconcile.

—

I write this because I didn’t know. I didn’t have patience for what I didn’t understand. I couldn’t explain. I didn’t have the language. I just knew it was something. I don’t know what, if anything, I could have done differently. Not the last day of his life, nor the year before. But maybe, by contributing my remembrances, it may trigger someone to wonder. To dig deeper. To recognize. To seek help.

I am Nicole D. Collier, and I have #NoShame.


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I am a Renaissance Soul

The Renaissance Soul: Life Design for People with Too Many Passions to Pick Just OneThe Renaissance Soul: Life Design for People with Too Many Passions to Pick Just One by Margaret Lobenstine

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I enjoyed rediscovering this book. A friend (Ratogi) suggested it years ago when I was having a bit of a professional identity crisis. I bought it right away, but I didn’t get very far for some reason. I held on to it the past six years, never giving it a second thought. As of late, I’ve found myself at a professional crossroads (again) and without intending to, I stumbled across this book on my shelf. I flipped to the introduction and recognized myself in the first few lines:

  • Do you feel a pang of envy when you hear someone say, “I’ve always known exactly what I wanted to do ever since I was a kid?”
  • Do you get down on yourself for being a “jack-of-all trades, master of none” because you are fascinated by many subjects but have never become an expert in any of them?
  • Or are you an expert in one or more areas but feel trapped by other people’s expectations that you will stay in your current field for the rest of your life?

And on it went. Right from the start, Lobenstine identifies key traits that makes one a renaissance soul, and I found them to be a welcomed affirmation of self.

Lobenstine has written a practical book, chock full of specific steps renaissance souls can employ in designing a satisfying life. I read the book rather quickly, refusing to get bogged down in some of the longish sections, and ignoring those which were obvious or irrelevant (the chapter dedicated to undergraduates, for instance). She has lots of exercises, some of which I’d figured out on my own over the years, and others which will be great additions to my repertoire of strategies.

I recommend this book for anyone who has wildly divergent or ever-evolving interests, and yet feels unsure of how to proceed in life without starting over or sacrificing self.

View all my reviews

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Cultivating Inner Discipline

People often remark how disciplined I seem as if I woke up one morning and it just happened. It didn’t. And truth be told, I’m not equally disciplined in all areas of my life (who is?).  Like everyone else, I am a work in progress.

No Victory is Too Small
Being disciplined is the result of daily effort – but not Herculean effort. For me, the smaller, the better.

I take baby steps. I may not accomplish everything I want today, but I can be accomplished today. I can move forward today. I do this by finding the one, small, specific item I know I can do. I set my self up for success by making sure I have the time allotted to accomplish whatever that small, specific thing is. With a clear understanding of the task, I go for it.

Keep Moving Forward
Spending time and energy lamenting what you aren’t doing, doesn’t magically cultivate inner discipline. In fact, I find it to be a deterrent. Beating myself up (known as self-slander in Buddhism) is a sure-fire way to sabotage my forward motion. An oft-heard retort: “But you can’t move forward without self-criticism.”  No, you can’t move forward without taking a step forward.

You can, however, be reflective and honest, without being negative to yourself. After that honest reflection, you can decide on a small action, take that small step, and praise yourself for a job well done.

Praise is Karma, Too
We can devote plenty of time and effort to complain about what we aren’t doing, but for some strange reason we can’t spare a high five for our accomplishments. Especially something we view as small. We equate small with inconsequential. We shouldn’t.

If you think you’re too small to make a difference, try sleeping in a room with a mosquito. ~African Proverb

It’s so easy to recognize the significance of small steps when babies take them. But suddenly they “don’t count” when we expect we should have mastered self-discipline {or insert topic here} by now. The inner you is starting from the beginning! We don’t yell at the toddler taking her first steps, “that doesn’t count!” We say “yay!” We give smiles and hugs. We are full of congratulations. We offer encouragement for the baby to continue because she’s doing something right! She’s on the right path. When you’re taking your small step, so are you!

People often characterize karma as negative. It’s something bad that happens in response to our bad deeds. This is inaccurate. Karma simply means action. To that end, every thought, word, and deed count. What kinds of actions are you accumulating? Your negative self-talk? It counts. Those baby steps? They count, too. Every action is of consequence.

Where Are You Now?
Cultivating inner discipline means starting from where you are and taking a step. And then doing it again. And again. There’s no need to lament last week or yesterday. Don’t be overwhelmed about next week, or even tomorrow. Start from the current moment. Move forward today.  And that small step you’re planning?

Congratulations in advance!

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Stream of Consciousness Sunday: Clearing.

Are you a people person? Do you feel energized or drained around people?

#SOCsundayI’m an introvert. This means I get energized (or re-energized) when I have alone time. Solitude. But this does not mean I’m not a people person, because I am. I’m a teacher and I love it. I’m a spiritual coach and I love that. I like hanging with friends when our schedules and locations coincide. But there comes a time when I get overloaded and it becomes too much.

When I can take a whole day to myself, I do. I spend the day alone exercising, reading, running errands, playing on the internet, basking in the sun, and catnapping. I call it self-care.

When I can’t take a day, I steal away as I can. Case in point. This week has been busy for me. I’ve had meetings and home visits and gatherings and just nonstop “with peopleness.” Today I reached my limit. The cacophony of noises, voices, music didn’t help matters. Although I was “on duty,” during a slow period, I was able to secret myself away in my car for about 20 minutes. It was all I needed to refresh and finish the rest of my shift in high spirits. Twenty minutes seems to be the magic number.

When I feel the overload of other people’s energy, I clear it in nature. I sit in the sun for about 20 minutes, or walk (or play) in thick green grass if any is around. I nap by the ocean or, favorite of all, sit in its salty waters. I like people just fine, but whenever I can, I also love to be with just me.


This was my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

  • Set a timer and write for 5 minutes.
  • Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
  • Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.
  • Add the Stream of Consciousness Sunday badge to your post.
  • Link up your post below.
  • Visit your fellow bloggers and show some love.