I am a huge fan of Nicolle Wallace and watch her show “Deadline Whitehouse” on a daily basis. She’s smart and honest and a former republican. One of the things I respect her for most lately is that each day she ends her show with a segment called, “Lives Well Lived.” In the segment she talks about two people who lost their lives to coronavirus. Each day she tells stories about people’s lives and how they will be missed. Each day she gets choked up and frequently I can tell she’s crying. Each day I cry with her…because she remembers the humanity of what is happening with this pandemic…and I remember too.

Last week Michelle Obama opened up in a podcast about experiencing a low-grade depression because of the pandemic and racial injustice and the hypocrisy of the current administration. She’s another woman I respect deeply. Nicolle Wallace was immediately supportive of Michelle Obama and admitted that she also is experiencing depression.

Both of these women understand the need for honesty now more than ever. They model the strength of vulnerability and the power of honesty…and they are willing to put themselves out there to the world even though they know they will be criticized and possibly mocked…they do it anyway because they know that we need them. That makes them heroes in my book.

I am also depressed for the same reasons…and others. I worry about my family and friends, of course, but there is so much more. I worry about the children in Lebanon, and worldwide, who are starving…children are going hungry in this country…children are suffering and dying from starvation, the pandemic, lack of medical resources, lack of clean water…basic necessities…no one should be starving in this world. Black and brown children should not be experiencing these hardships at a higher rate because of the color of their skin or systemic inequities that increase their vulnerability.

My depression is influenced by physical pain as well. The constant presence of pain exhausts and wears me down. I am sadder without all the people I depend on being physically present in my life. I miss hugging people and being with them face to face talking. And I worry about my grandchildren and how they will be impacted long-term from in-home learning and lack of social interaction. I worry about my grandson who wants to play in the NBA but can’t even play for his middle school team right now.

Depression is sneaky though. It generally takes weeks, or even months, before I realize I feel depressed. Now I don’t think I am particularly slow or clueless, but depression just creeps up on me. It comes on so slowly that I don’t recognize it until it’s been there long enough that I can look back and see the pattern…the pattern…that’s the thing.

My awareness of my depression goes something like this…
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing”
“Wanna do something?”
“I don’t know”
“You ok?”
“I don’t know”
“Something wrong?”
“I don’t know”
“Wanna sit outside?”
“I don’t know”
“Anything wrong?”
“No”
“Are you in pain?
“Yes”
“Worse than usual?”
“I don’t know”
“You depressed?”
“I don’t know”
“Seems like it”
Hmm…don’t know, don’t know, don’t know….

As you can tell, I’m a lot of fun when I feel depressed. I become plagued by indecision and everything becomes difficult…including recognizing and identifying my own emotional state.

I don’t really like talking about things that cannot be resolved…well, I do generally like to talk, but I also like resolution. Depression is not resolved, it’s managed. Chronic pain isn’t resolved, it’s managed. The state of the country will not be resolved any time soon and it isn’t managed either and neither is the pandemic…who knows when or if it will be managed…it feels like a freefall, personally and globally. Seems like that’s a learning curve for me…managing…tolerating (when I can’t manage)…managing…tolerating…
so much managing.

So here’s the thing…I am not overly sensitive, I am not just moody, and I am not mentally ill. I am a deeply feeling person in a messy and fucked up world (thanks to Glennon Doyle for that explanation…minus the f word…which seems fitting most of the time lately). It often feels like a criticism when I am called “sensitive” as if nothing going on in the world or my life is anything to have any feelings about and the only reason I do is because I am plagued by sensitivity.

Sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself in this messy world. I have tried to focus on one thing as a solution…let myself deal with one issue at a time…but then I see a starving baby elephant on tv and I send money…the ocean is a mess and sea turtles are dying so I send money…the LGBTQ+ community faces bigotry and hatred so I send money…people of color have experienced oppression, bigotry, and hatred for hundreds and hundreds of years…so I donate money…children are dying…and I send money. I know that sending donations is not the answer for everything but being one person, who is depressed and unsure what to do, it’s a beginning. And it’s better than nothing.
Buddha said that we are what we think and that with our thoughts we create the world. On days like this I am creating a world of endless pain and suffering…it’s all I see. Who would be happy about that? All I know is that I created this spin cycle I am in and I CAN change it…with the cooperation of my mind…that’s the tricky part…reeling my mind back from the edge of the cliff…back to my life as it is this day, in this moment…just this moment…if I am willing.

With my thoughts I create the story of my life and my circumstances…I create the world that I see and experience. The story is my perception of reality at this moment. That story is shaped by everything I have seen, done, or heard in my life. Still I ask myself if my depression is an appropriate response to what’s currently happening in my life and the world…hmmm…there’s a pandemic, someone dies of coronavirus every 80 seconds in this country, there’s racial injustice, I have intense physical pain, an ongoing recovery from surgery, another surgery on the horizon, so many doctors appointments, family stresses caused by the pandemic…I suppose the list could go on but, what the list says to me is that it is a normal response to feel depressed at this time…depressing things are happening. That doesn’t mean that I want to stay stuck in this place but I’m not sure that I am stuck…yet. What this does mean is that I am willing to sit with my sadness and feel it fully…because it must be felt…and deserves to be felt. If that sounds unappealing to anyone else that is reading this and depressed, I feel you…it’s unappealing to me too.

So here’s the thing…I know that what I refuse to feel does not just miraculously disappear. Pain demands to be felt…now or eventually. I have found that pain requires a lot more therapy if I avoid it. Pain ignored is pain smoldering. I don’t want to spontaneously combust, so I invite my depression in for tea…or wine, depending on the day. I make space for my depression and I to be present together. I become curious about my pain and depression. I approach both with compassion and vulnerability…and I am patient. No guest for tea wants to be rushed…tea (and wine) are sipped not chugged…both are better with time to breathe.

With the ease of a leisurely afternoon tea with a friend, I begin to recognize patterns my depression creates in my life…some helpful…some not so much. Feeling deeply, part pattern and part just me, is something I value. The ability to sit with someone else in pain without trying to fix them makes me a good friend, mom, teacher, and wife. To feel and care deeply in a messy world allows me to see and interact from a place of vulnerability. I can feel another’s pain when I can feel my own. I cannot accept in another what I reject in myself.

So that’s the thing…depression, right now, is an appropriate response to the circumstances in the world and my life. It’s appropriate as long as it allows me to feel more deeply and to remain present with the pain and depression in myself and others. It’s appropriate as long as it softens me, and I grow in compassion. It’s appropriate as long as it allows me to see my story with new vision and perspective. It’s necessary if it encourages me to continuously edit and update the story I tell myself and others.
With our thoughts we create the world…let’s create one full of new openness, curiosity, vulnerability, and eagerness to deeply listen to the story’s others tell themselves. Compassion first…let’s help each other through this.

A week or so ago I asked my wife if she was angry with me and her response was “Are you done being mean to me?” Being mean to her? Me? I believe in compassion first…how could I be mean?…It didn’t take long to recognize…CRAP!…I was mean…I was irritable and short-tempered. I needed help but wouldn’t take it…always trying to do everything by myself….needing something and accepting nothing. So fucking stubborn…Me? You bet.

These days I’m agitated but not sure why…anxious with no reason…irritability is my go to emotion. None of that feels good…and so I feel frustrated and restless. I hurt so bad…my whole body. The pain feels deep inside my bones. I get anxious about getting up from a chair. Nervous as to whether I will be able to take a step after I stand up…how long will I have to wait to attempt a step…what kind of assistance will i need? Is a crutch enough or do I need my walker? Would I allow someone to help me…or to even offer their help?

This is the daily, hourly, moment by moment dilemma of chronic pain…my dilemma. It wears me down and tears me up. I get so tired…so tired of trying…so tired of hurting. Tempted to just stay in bed away from the world…but then that isn’t really a life, is it? Maybe it is for some people…some people need to do that and I get it…I don’t need that…not now anyway.

Now, lest you think I have no excuses for my Bitchy behavior, alas I have many…the pandemic, foot surgery, 4 months of not walking, fear of getting sick, frustration at the restrictions on my life, frustration in general, exhaustion, recent falls, my fucked up elbow, back pain, neck pain, shoulder pain, knee pain, hip pain, foot pain, migraines…Just looking at the list I feel irritable, overwhelmed…angry.

And I feel afraid…afraid of the pain now and afraid of pain to come…anticipatory fear…what will happen to me? I fear I won’t be able to take care of myself and that I’ll be dependent on other people for everything…simple things like getting out of bed, taking a shower, putting on a sock. Afraid of needing so much when I don’t want to need at all. When I need I feel so vulnerable…so open and exposed…raw and prickly. I have all of the assistance I need and that causes me to bristle…become irritated or angry…because this is not how I want things to be…why don’t things just go the way I want so things could be easy? Why am I not in charge of everything? And why am I always fighting what is? Pushing back against a reality that isn’t of my choosing. I don’t like it and so it should not exist.

There’s emotional pain as well…chronic emotional pain. I feel so angry at myself when I’m mean. I am not sure anyone, generally speaking, would describe me as “mean” but I sure can be. I hate that. And it’s always with the people I love the most in the world. It’s true though isn’t it? A husband or wife has a bad day at work, comes home and is mean to his or her spouse. That spouse then yells at the kids and the kids then kick the dog…I heard that at some child abuse training over 20 years ago…all that pent up frustration and anger has to go somewhere. Where? What do I do with all that energy? And that’s what it is, right? Hot, fiery, anger and chest smashing frustration. It hurts to breathe.

I have so much sadness…I hurt someone I love deeply…someone who has done everything for me…I allow my fear to take hold of me and lead me down the path to bitchdom, where I am Queen. I try and bury the feelings and instead they fester, build up, break through and explode on the people I love…maybe I could warn them when they need to duck and cover…maybe they should just run.

I feel sad and instead of talking about my feelings, or even acknowledging them, I snap at the first person to ask me anything…I spend a good amount of time apologizing these days. I should just lead every conversation or interaction with a warning: “Proceed with Caution…I’m sorry to inform you that I’m about to be a bitch…not sure exactly when so proceed with caution…and again I really am sorry.”

Chronic pain is unpredictable. I have pain every day but the intensity varies with the weather, time of day, how much I’ve done that day, my mood. These are factors that influence how I feel and how I interact with the world each day. Pain is my constant uninvited and invisible companion. Maybe I need to invite it in and see what happens…I have invited it before. Sat down and had a cup of tea with it…to help me understand myself. There was a lot of anger. I don’t like anger. And I don’t like tea enough to change that.

Someone came up with the idea of using spoons as a measure of chronic pain each day. I thought it was strange so I googled it read about it. It was started by a woman who was at a luncheon and she was trying to describe her chronic pain to someone. She gathered up all the spoons at her table and used them to explain. You begin the day with a certain number of spoons and everything you do uses up the spoons. So say I start the day with 10 spoons, it may take 9 of them for me to shower and get dressed, whereas someone without chronic pain may only use 1 spoon. After a shower I would move through my day with only 1 spoon…trying to figure out how to do what I need to do with 1 spoon…I’m already frustrated just reading about it.

So here’s a question, how you determine how many spoons you start a day with? Do I just pick a number? And I get using the spoons as a prop at a luncheon but otherwise why spoons? I’m sure other silverware was available…Why not use a different metaphor? Maybe a knife? Then I could cut out the pain…no, that puts me in a position of hurting myself. Let’s see…bandaids…that would work for covering up and not dealing with pain, although I would never do that…lol. Cookies? That way you could eat them throughout the day…probably not a good idea. M&M’s? Like when you potty train a child and give them an M&M for going in the potty…you could use the different colors to represent specific pain…again too much eating.

So here’s the thing…I know the spoons are not the issue. I don’t need to answer all these ridiculous questions to use the metaphor or not use it…I am in pain and I have limited energy, strength, resources, and desire to get things done each day. I hate that but it is my reality. It is also my reality that I need help every day to get through the day. And it is my reality that people get tired of helping and just want me to be “well” and do what they think I should be able to do. This reality was shaped by the end of a 15 year relationship because she was” tired of waiting” for me to get well. Well guess what!? I’m tired of waiting for me to get well too! And here’s the kicker…I’m not going to be “well”…at least not the “in good health, free or recovered from illness” “well.” I am in good health…heart, lungs, blood pressure, brain, eyes, ears…no problems. Chronic pain is not like a cold that runs its course and then is done. My pain doesn’t have a “done” button…it goes on and on.

So maybe counting spoons is just a way to stay sane…or feel hopeful when I so frequently feel hopeless. And maybe spoons are the way to give voice to invisible illness…I may look and act fine, but it is an act. It’s me trying my hardest to be “normal” but I am not like you. I am always in pain…every step, every movement hurts me. Perhaps spoons provide a way to talk about a difficult topic…a topic I assume other people get tired of…I know I do. Maybe spoons open up all kinds of doors…to allow for all kind of movement within me…because even pain is not fixed and solid. It’ll move if I allow it…maybe spoons can help with that.

Maybe, maybe, maybe…maybe all of this helps me to remember compassion first…even with myself…maybe especially with myself. Compassion for the pain and for the fantastic job I am doing handling it…because I am handling it. I am still here, talking and moving…deserving of compassion…the same compassion that I would offer another I offer myself…and you yourself.

And here’s the thing…Compassion First will change the world.

June is Pride month… It’s different this year because the celebration was virtual…it was nice…just not the same…on a computer watching from home…it was less crowded and not as hot. I used to go to Pride and revel in the opportunity to be with “my people.” I went to Pride in 1993 for the first time. I was newly out and I was amazed by the celebration. Things were a lot different in the 90’s…much scarier being gay. So imagine going to a place where you could hold hands or kiss in public…it was amazing! I know it may sound mundane but when you live in fear daily that someone might find out you’re gay and fire you, take away your housing, physically hurt you or who knows what else, this celebration was unbelievable! A day without fear…a day with people like me…and celebrating who we are…who I am. Gay people were definitely not feeling the love in the 90’s.

The Stonewall riots in 1969 were the beginning of a revolution for gay people. The beginning of a National Coming Out. Gay people fought back against police brutality for the first time…fought back to be treated with respect…to be treated as human beings. That was the beginning of a long battle that continues today…this past week the Supreme Court ruled that you cannot fire someone because they are a LGBTQ+ person…that is way overdue.

I was 32 when I came out in 1993…do we even still have National Coming Out Day on October 11th? I don’t even know anymore, although I know that coming out remains very difficult, challenging, and risky. Sometimes it feels like everyone has an opinion about being gay…and they think everyone cares about their opinion…but we don’t. I was not sure that I would see gay marriage legalized in my lifetime. It was not only legalized but but the ruling came on my birthday, June 26, 2015! We celebrated…and went to the clerk of the court and got ourselves married!

I was so excited when came out…excited because I finally made sense to myself…like all the puzzle pieces came together and it was beautiful and amazing…and I wanted to share the news! A friend said that I didn’t “come out” so much as I “blew the closet up.”

At the time I was a therapist on the staff of an Evangelical Free church. When I told the Pastor and Assistant Pastor my great news, they were NOT excited for me. I was immediately fired from the staff and told they could no longer recommend me as a therapist for anyone…prior to this I had counseled members of each of their families. Both of these men were my friends. They took the key to my office and told me I would have to make an appointment to pick up my belongings. In a meeting, the Pastor told me that I “hated men” because of my divorce and that he “knew I was a lesbian” because of how I dressed and my haircut…no stereotypes there. Then I was outed to the whole congregation and thrown out of the church…they had a different name for it, but that’s effectively what it was. I was told I could remain in the church if I agreed to be celibate or went to Conversion Therapy. And if I ever came to church with a girlfriend I would be “flaunting” the relationship. With such excellent choices, I left the church. And I left angry…angry at the church and angry at God…these were supposed to be God’s people and they threw me out. After that I pretty much gave the church and God the finger and went on with my life.

I had been a member of the church for about 7 years. I had taken care of people’s children, taught Sunday school, planned and led summer bible school, led women’s retreats, and held a position of Deaconess within the church. I had also counseled many individuals and families in the church and ran a sexual abuse support group. When people found out I was a gay that became the only thing they saw about me…I liked women…I slept with a woman…that was really the thing…I committed the unforgivable sin of sleeping with a woman. They kicked me out. “To officially exclude someone from participation in sacraments and services of the Christian Church.” I was excommunicated.

I was a single mother with 3 children ages 4, 5 1/2 and 6 1/2 and I had just lost my income…so much for caring for the poor, the widows, and the children. What was worse was that I lost all my friends…friends of 7 years. One told me she just wanted me to be happy and didn’t care if I was gay. Shortly after that conversation she told me she could not support me being gay…she said it with tears in her eyes…and I understood…follow the leaders or suffer the consequences. My best friend at the time told me she was angry that I was “choosing” to be gay. I asked her when she chose to be straight…and that was the end of the conversation and the friendship.

We influence people every day whether we know it or not. The things we do and the things we say matter. We make blanket statements and judgments without understanding the impact of our words and actions. The leaders of that church made me an outcast and the whole congregation followed along…like a sheep that runs off a cliff and the whole herd follows.

So here’s the thing it’s been 27 years since this happened and it is still such a painful memory and difficult to write about. The people in that church tore my life apart without a second thought…I lost everything…and I was devastated. It took me YEARS to be able (or willing) to step into a church, no matter how accepting they claim to be. It also took years for me to open myself to the spirituality within me…I had shut it down…I had taken an important piece of who I am and shoved it in a dark corner of my soul. I had in effect shut my soul down.

So here’s the other thing…I love happy endings. When a movie or a story is done I want it all wrapped up in a happy little bow. I have been trying for thee past 30 minutes or so to find a way to put a neat little bow on the end of this story…but there isn’t one. This is a story that experienced a great trauma and it doesn’t fit neatly anywhere….So for now this is it.

Do remember Compassion First…for everyone…not just people who look and think and live like we do. Everyone deserves compassion first. Compassion first would have changed my whole story….hmmm.

My wife asked me what my thoughts were about turning 60 tomorrow. Here’s the thing, I don’t have any. I have thought about my birthday but not about the 60 at all. So let me see…hmmm…thoughts on turning 60 tomorrow…I have these thoughts because I am 59 and 364 days old…man, tomorrow is going to be different…Lol. I don’t think so.

I will say that 60 is the first age I have hit that sounds kind of old to me…but I am nowhere near old. I told my wife that I don’t feel old…and she laughed. From her perspective I seem old because of all the problems with my body. I have had problems with my joints and arthritis since I was in my 20’s. My body feels like I’m 90 but my mind, my insides, all the stuff that makes me me, that all feels about 40.

All the baggage we have around age is funny because it’s just a made up construct created in order to categorize and label people. We love tidy little categories…I know I do…it really helps me feel in control…and aging is way out of my control…as are most things. With the numbers we decide when you’re old enough to drink, when you can get a license, when you could run for office, when you’re an adult, when you can join AARP, and when you can retire…just to name a few. It is hard to imagine what our world would be like without ages…that would take some re-imagining.

Turning 60 has made me more aware of my own mortality…and I am NOT a fan of that. Although I’m okay with living to 120…it seems unlikely. Knowing that I have less years of my life left than years I’ve lived…I feel very aware of that. I realize no one knows when they’ll die or how much time they have left but I think this is just different…it feels different. It’s a feeling I have not had before so I guess, this is what I’m feeling about turning 60…a bit afraid of death.

And thinking…thoughts on turning 60…I understand more and more the very little control I have over anything. I like control. I like routine. I like knowing what to expect. I got some wrong DNA or I’m on the wrong planet because that is not this world. This world is messy and scary and beautiful and confusing. It’s maddening, frustrating, vibrant, and amazing. It’s a miracle to be born a human being on planet earth…and I am grateful.

So here’s the thing…my thoughts on turning 60 are…to sit with my fear and always be grateful…same as yesterday and tomorrow.

Hate is defined as “Feeling intense or passionate dislike for someone; feelings of anger or disgust; to detest, abhor, loathe; strong aversion or intense dislike; implies an emotional aversion often coupled with malice (intention or desire to do evil, ill will).”

I have felt hate before…hate directed toward me. As a gay woman I have been exposed to passionate dislike, strong aversion, loathing, disgust, desire to do evil. I have walked down the street and had someone scream in my face “Goddamn dyke” as they passed me. I have been called every gay slur imaginable. I have ridden a bus with a man who had “kill a fag” written on his jeans. I have had my life threatened, been told I will burn in hell, and had my tire slashed with a razor blade. I was kicked out of a church because I’m gay…I’m pretty sure they had a strong aversion to me as well.

I have been chased by a car full of college aged men…not boys, men…they went after me because I had a rainbow sticker on my car. They called me all kinds of names and followed me long enough that I drove to the nearest police station. They were after me and I felt pursued by them as a game or almost a sport. “Pursue and kill for sport”; “search determinedly for someone”…you know what that is? Being hunted…that’s exactly how I felt…I was being hunted. It’s not the only time I have felt that way.

When the massacre at Pulse Nightclub in Orlando happened 4 years ago I felt hunted. Someone went into a gay nightclub, specifically a gay nightclub, and killed gay people. 49 people were killed and 58 were injured. It was “Latin Night” so many of the victims were Hispanic. A “hate crime” is one “typically involving violence, motivated by prejudice on the basis of race, gender, religion, sexual orientation, or other grounds.” Seems like this fits the definition perfectly. The people in that club were hunted and killed.

After that mass shooting, I felt vulnerable like I never have before. I was afraid of everything. When would the next shooting be? The next time of singling out and executing gay people for no other reason than they are gay? I believed that there were people in my community just waiting for an opportunity to gun me down because I am married to a woman…nothing else…just because I love a woman. I felt hunted. I felt my fear of death around every corner.

I do not pretend to know what people of color have been through in this country. Certainly they have been hunted…gunned down in church, killed by police officers, shot in the back running away from conflict, lynched, killed while sleeping in their own bed…and there’s more…so much more…I know the list is long, the list is brutal, and the list is painful…that isn’t a strong enough word…the list is devastating. My own experience of feeling hunted, pales in comparison and yet I was traumatized, and changed, by those events.

Traumatic events we witness or experience firsthand, can lead us to a place of imagining…if we allow it. John Lennon was led to write the song “Imagine” in response to the traumas of the Vietnam war. When we imagine, we consider other people…other situations that were similar to ours, or worse. Imagining brings the seeds of empathy and compassion to the light of day. Empathy allows us to understand, as much as we can, what someone else has experienced. Remember the saying, “walk a mile in my shoes?” That’s empathy. Compassion allows our hearts to break because of the suffering of another. It moves us to do something. We are moved to action when we see a hurricane hit New Orleans, a mass shooting in a school, or a hungry person on the corner. Empathy and compassion make us human…gives us the ability to care deeply, to cry for another, or to imagine ourselves in someone else’s circumstances.

I have not experienced tragedy like people of color have in this country…not even close. I have experienced traumas and tragedies of my own. Those events have shaped me and have led me to where I am today…brokenhearted and unsure what to do next. I have been imagining…imagining coping with so much loss…imagining a new way of being in this country…imagining all people really being equal…regardless of the color of their skin, regardless of their gender identity, regardless of who they love, regardless of their religious beliefs or non-beliefs, regardless of their economic status, or their mental or physical abilities. Can you see it? Can you just imagine?

So here’s the thing…how big are our imaginations? How big is our capacity to feel for someone else? To set aside our own ideas and beliefs and simply walk in another’s shoes? So much is going on in our world right now…a pandemic, police brutality, the murder of innocent black men, unemployment skyrocketing, hundreds of thousands of Americans dead from coronavirus, voter suppression already impacting the coming election, and so much grief…I can feel it everywhere. There are so many shoes to try on and walk for awhile…so many opportunities to be moved, to act, to be changed.

This is a turning point for the United States…a tipping point. A tipping point where we can allow compassion and empathy to guide us…guide us to be moved, to change, to cry, to break…these are the things that will help us re-imagine our country. Just imagine.

We name all kinds of things for all kinds of reasons. I named my children because of their name’s meaning: gift/God beholds, loved/God has given, and mighty in Spirit. I have named 4 cars: Winnie, Sophie, Clare, and Ruth…all names that mean something to me. My dog’s name is Abby, after Abby Wambach (love her). Besides children and cars we name boats, streets, cities, parks, schools, etc. We name these things with names that mean something to us and/or other people.

Naming something is kind of a big deal. Sometimes a name, that made sense when it was given, doesn’t fit anymore and we need to change it…update it. So here’s the elephant in our country (or one of them) the “White House”…I suppose I could really stop here because a needed name change should be obvious…but I won’t. Until 1901 the term “Executive Manson” was used to refer to the President’s residence. In 1901 Theodore Roosevelt officially changed the name to the “White House.” President Roosevelt believed that the name “White House” would clearly distinguish the President’s residence from any other residence.

When the Declaration of Independence and Constitution were drafted it was by white, male, wealthy, property owners. The rights and equality they envisioned was for white, male, wealthy, property owners…not convinced? Consider this, women could not vote until 1920 , after the passage of the 19th Amendment. The Equal Rights Amendment has yet to be passed. In 1870 the 14th Amendment declaring that the “right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.” Although this was passed in the 1800’s, it took the passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965 before black people in the south actually registered to vote. The 14th Amendment was interpreted specifically so that it did not apply to Native Americans…the people native to this country could not vote and were not even citizens of this country until 136 years after the Constitution was ratified…136 years! Does that all not seem appallingly backwards?! The Constitution had to be AMENDED to allow women and black people the right to vote and Native Americans had to wait until 1924 before they could become citizens of their own country…let all that sink in for a minute….

Now I don’t think the name “White House” ever made sense because, who would live in the “White House”?…Well, white people of course. And who would be represented? Well, white people of course. But representation and equality is not the sole right of white, male, wealthy, property owners…although it still does seem that way. White men in the “White House” made sure white people had the best housing, the best property, the best jobs, the best schools, the best everything…and if those men didn’t have it they took it, just ask the surviving Native Americans and ancestors of Africans brought here as slaves.

I think the name “White House” needs to be changed…urgently. The very name suggests the same segregation as “whites only” water fountains. It seems blatantly racist and we all ignore it. Now I’m not sure what it should be changed to…I heard one politician call it the “People’s House” and that makes more sense. The President in that house is elected by the people and for the people…not just people who agree with him, and not just people he likes or who flatter him or stroke his ego. The leader in that “White House” represents all the people of this country.

Currently, the White House is surrounded by a huge fence, clearly designed to keep people out. It’s a message to peaceful protesters, tens of thousands of whom are black and brown, that they have no place in that house. And if the protesters get too close, or the President wants a photo-op, you will be tear gassed and shot at with rubber bullets. This President wants to engage the US military against THE PEOPLE! Seems safe to say he’s only representing a small portion of this country right now…it’s sad it’s even a small portion.

When President Obama was in the “White House” (that seems especially ironic) he worked to make it the “People’s House.” He worked to represent ALL the people regardless of what you look like, where you live, where you come from, what language you speak, where you work, how able you are, what you believe…the list could go on and on because he tried…it wasn’t perfection but the intention was inclusive…it was the closest we have come to non-discrimination…in my opinion…might have been closer if the Senate hadn’t fought everything positive he tried to do (that’s a discussion for another blog).

So here’s the thing…let’s take back the “White House” by naming it the “People’s House.” The house where all the people are represented equally. That may not be a pressing issue for a lot of people but it is to me…just the name of that house shouts the occupants intention of representing white people only…or white people as a priority. Former Vice President Biden has a hill to climb this election year. As a white man he must show that he will represent all the people. So far he has. He has spoken out against police brutality, he has visited the Floyd family and offered comfort, he has spoken to the nation sharing his empathy and concern…all this stands in contrast to the current resident of the “White House.” One of the ways he can demonstrate his commitment to all the people is by selecting a black woman to be his running mate…Kamala Harris. Bridge the growing divides in this country by embracing our diversity with this intelligent, experienced Senator from California. We are an aspirational country. Let’s strive once again to reach those aspirations…let’s rename the “White House” to the “People’s House”…for the people, by the people.

And remember Compassion First…especially now when emotions are running high, and justifiably so. Let’s build connections not divisions.