Month: March 2024

Scenes from a holy week

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Several times in my life, like this year, my birthday has occurred during Holy Week. Some of those years, I had been perhaps more devout and was observing a Lenten fast — from sweets, from junk food, or even — gasp! — from caffeine. Not this year, I’m a tad less devout than I have been in other seasons of my life. I’m currently in the come as you are phase. Perhaps I’m a little disenchanted with the ‘religious’ parts of faith

Having my birthday fall during Holy Week in some years has felt like a bummer — how can I celebrate me, after all, if Christ is hanging on the cross? Especially if you literally own lyrics like “It was my sin that held Him there,” for goodness sake. This year though having my birthday fall during Holy Week has felt like a screen play that has unfolded scene by scene.

It started last Saturday when my husband and I joined his brother and our sister-in-law for a birthday lunch at a local restaurant. My brother-in-law’s birthday is the day after mine, so for the last few years, we have celebrated together. We had a fabulous meal and exchanged gifts, and caught up on the details of life. While it was a celebration — the waiter even brought mini fireworks to our table top! –the tone was a little heavier than usual as the four of us at the table are all watching a parent make decisions and take action against a cancer diagnosis. This year’s conversation was a bit less about the birthday boy and the birthday girl, and a bit more focused on the heavy weight we all are carrying. Nevertheless, love was shared and laughs were had.

It’s a snapshot of life — four adults around a table sharing reality over delicious food.

The week was full of scenes like this. My husband and I sat in a coffee shop over beautiful lattes a couple days later, wearing thrift shop finds and discussing our plans for a trip we might take next year. We walked around an old oval dirt track holding our coats around us, bracing ourselves against a cold wind, chatting about our need to stay active, to keep talking, to keep finding ways to connect with our family and enjoy our life together.

The next day, I parked the car and ran into the library, returning some books and grabbing another so I’d have plenty to read over the long week with no students. Then, I drove to my parents’ home, through the rain and construction, so that I could help my mom into my car, buckle her seat belt, and accompany her to a medical appointment, drive her back home, help with dinner, vacuum the floors, schedule some appointments, and watch an episode or two of Jeopardy.

I can see each of these moments as though I am rewinding through the events of the week, analyzing the plot and trying to find some thematic thread.

As far as weeks go, it was rich with family connection — a long phone call with my sister where I got so lost in conversation that I forgot about the cookies I had in the oven; a warm bowl of chili with my brother, mother, and stepfather where we talked about photography, family life, and other mundane topics; a driveway conversation with my other brother that was heavy with responsibility, decision-making, and love for our parents; and phone calls with my father-in-law, a daughter, a son, and my dear ninety-two year old godmother.

She’s living in an assisted living facility, and when I called she was in her room coloring, “warming up” for the craft she would do with other residents in a few moments. Even though she didn’t want to be late, just like always, the goodbyes lingered:

“I love you and thank you for the call.”

“I love you, too! Have fun doing crafts.”

“Ok, and have a happy birthday.”

“I will! I hope I can see you soon,”

“Ok, my dear. I love you.”

“I love you, too, dear.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Neither one of us wanting to be the one to hang up.

For some reason, each of these exchanges seem richer this year. It could be the fact that I am getting older — my fortieth high school reunion is this year, after all. It could be that the health realities of our older family members are causing me to take stock. It could be just that I am finally moving a little more slowly, taking in the richness that my life has afforded me.

I was sitting in church on Good Friday, trying to examine how I feel about this traditional observance in my current state. I’m singing the hymns, listening to the last words of Jesus, and smiling at the curly-headed toddler sitting next to me who is up past his bedtime and fluctuating between giggles and shrieks. I habitually reach to straighten my necklace, the necklace that I rarely take off, and it hits me that I’ve been wearing a version of this necklace on and off for fifty-eight years.

The gold heart charm was a gift at my baptism; it has my birthdate engraved on the back and my first initial engraved on the front. The butterfly was a gift when I earned my Master’s degree. I’m wondering, in the middle of this Good Friday service, why my mind has been drawn to this piece that never leaves my neck. Perhaps I’m realizing how loved I’ve been (in spite of human frailty, error, and circumstance) for my whole life; perhaps I’m noting the significance of the butterfly as a symbol of my insufferable belief in transformation; perhaps because my birthday falls during Holy Week, I’m acknowledging — again — that my whole life has been an object lesson in the power of grace to restore a life.

The toddler has been carried out of the service to spend the duration with his mother in the nursery, and the altar is being stripped as we sing the last song.

“How deep the Father’s love for us, how vast beyond all measure…His dying breath has brought me life…His wounds have paid my ransom.”

And it’s not the somberness or guilt that I often felt as a child on Good Friday. I don’t feel ashamed that Jesus died for my sins. No. I feel relieved, thankful…free.

And in that freedom, I lean into Saturday. I sleep in, do yoga, then make a pot of soup. I work on a puzzle and watch basketball and mindless television.

Sunday — Easter — I find myself in church again, surrounded by folks who have become family over these last few years. The pastor stands, says “Christ is risen!” and the congregants reply, enthusiastically, “He is risen indeed!” We sing, recite the creed, and listen to the reading of the Gospel.

I see Mary in the tomb, looking for Jesus, presuming she is speaking to the gardener, until He speaks her name, “Mary,” and she instantly knows that He is her risen Lord.

The sermon begins, and our pastor asserts that in our cynical culture, we have all become like Thomas, demanding proof that the resurrection is real, and I find myself longing for something — not exactly proof, I don’t think I need that, but I would love some kind of confirmation that these weekly services still have meaning, that they still matter, that my presence here still matters. And just then, the pastor says to the congregation — to me — “I have very good news for you, Jesus still calls you by name.” And I am reminded that He has always known me, from my birth to my baptism to my devout days to my come as you are days. He speaks my name, and I immediately recognize Him.

And I think I’ve found the theme. My whole life has been rich with connection, relationship, and meaning, even when I haven’t believed that to be true. I can see the evidence, my friends.

Christ is risen; He is risen indeed. Alleluia.

For a pair of shoes

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

I’d been watching the girls’ basketball team all season — from the first game of their first season ever, where very few showed any evidence of having played the game before, where one girl received a “traveling” call for carrying the ball football-style while running down the court, where our players froze in place as the other team stole the ball, where the referees pulled our girls aside to teach them the rules in the middle of the game. From that game forward, I had been encouraging the girls, both on the court and in the hallways, letting them know I was seeing their progress. They were not only learning the game –the skills, the rules, and the strategies — they were also building confidence, stamina, and resiliency.

Many on the team were girls I had had the previous year in my reading intervention class. They had been freshmen– freshmen who had spent most of middle school on Covid lock-down, freshmen who had missed some social development experiences, freshmen who had very little capacity to manage challenge, difficulty, or conflict. So when I saw them during that first game, barely hitting double digits on the score board, I wondered if they would make it the whole season. Could they take the losses they would certainly face? Could they [and their coach] see this for what it was — a building year. Could these young women show up every day, practice the basic skills of basketball, and arrive at the end of the season better for it?

Only time would tell.

But here I stood at the end of the season, watching this same group of girls prepare for one of the last games. As the other team was rolling into the building, our girls were practicing an inbounding strategy while the coach called cues from the sideline. The girl with the ball slapped it loudly, and the four on the floor quickly shifted to their new positions to receive the thrown in ball. I stood on the sidelines, recording the scene on my phone, grinning with pride.

I was there to sell concessions, so I was in a little room at the corner of the gym with one eye on the game and one eye on my concession window, when I noticed that one of the players, the center, was shuffle-jogging down the court. I had noticed that she wasn’t a very fast runner earlier in the season, but I had assumed it was as fast as she could move given that she was about 5’10” and probably close to 200 pounds or that she simply didn’t have the stamina to run up and down the court for an entire game. Being the first season, the team only had about ten team members total, and typically only six or seven of them were eligible to play on any given day. Whoever showed up typically played all four quarters — that’s a lot of running for anyone, even those who are are in top physical shape.

But for some reason on this day when I noticed her shuffle jogging, my eyes moved toward the floor and I noticed that her shoes appeared to be untied. When I looked a little closer, it appeared that they were not actually untied, but in a permanently knotted state of floppiness. She could neither tie nor untie them., so the laces flopped as she ran, and the shoes, a pair of high tops that appeared to have seen some days on and off the court, seemed to be of little support in her efforts to improve her pace.

Is this the pair of shoes she’s been wearing all season? Why didn’t I notice this before?

Now look, every day at my school I see need. I see students who need food, who need new clothing, who need a haircut, personal hygiene supplies, pens, pencils, or even a water bottle, but this pair of shoes got to me.

This girl, who against all odds shows up for school every day, goes to basketball practice every day, has a C average, and dares to put herself in front of an audience of classmates, teachers, and parents, has been doing so inside sneaker head culture where the shoes on your feet can be linked to your status, your belongingness, or your ridicule. (It would take another whole post to examine the complexity of sneaker head culture within the context of high poverty neighborhoods, so let me just say that yes, a student may have brand new Jordans and still experience housing insecurity or food insecurity. It is what it is.)

This girl, despite her classmates’ comments and/or ridicule, has enough grit and determination to continue to show up on the court in these beat up kicks for the entirety of the season. That should tell you something about her.

So, I’m standing, watching the game from the concession stand, a game in which an adult in the stands got in an insult contest with one of our sophomores that escalated into a fist fight that DID NOT disrupt the game play — nope, our girls kept right on playing as security officers wrangled a punching mass of bodies out of the gym–a game in which they were down by double digits, came back to tie and go into overtime, a game where they lost by two points at the buzzer, and I’m taking in the wonder of these young ladies who could barely bounce a ball at the beginning of the season, who were making eye contact and passing, who were boxing out under the boards, and I’m understanding the impact of it all on their development — their ability to overcome difficulty, their ability to stay the course, their ability to trust themselves in difficult times.

I was overwhelmed.

A couple weeks later, after the season had ended and track season was getting started, the same group of girls was walking down the hallway, headed to practice.

“Ya’all on the track team?” I asked.

“Yes, of course!” they replied.

“Excellent!” I said.

“Are you going to come to our meets?”

“Definitely!”

And during this quick exchange, I noticed that all of the girls had on the same shoes they had worn to run up and down the basketball court all season — including that beat up pair of high tops.

And something inside me snapped.

A few minutes later I saw the track coach, “Hey,” I said discreetly, ‘I notice that K’s shoes are not really appropriate for track. I’d be happy to anonymously fund a new pair for her. Is there a way to make that happen?”

“I’ll figure out a way,” she said.

A few days later, I mentioned the situation to our athletic director. “I don’t know how many students you have that could use running shoes or spikes for track, but if I gathered a few hundred dollars, could you put it to use?”

“I would love that,” she replied. “Let me take a little inventory and see how many pair of shoes we need.”

So here I am telling this story, friends, because this is what I know how to do. I know how to tell you that having athletics is transformational for all kids — but for my students, who have experienced poverty and trauma beyond what I can imagine, who have every reason to give up hope for a brighter future for themselves, sports can offer an opportunity to practice navigating low stakes wins and losses and build the muscle they need to weather bigger wins and losses outside of sports. For my students, the power of athletics is essential.

My school is doing what it can to build programs. Two years ago, the only sports we offered were boys’ basketball, football, and cheerleading. Last year we added track. This year we added girls’ volleyball and basketball. In the fall, we hope to have a cross country team.

Teachers show up to coach, to run a clock, and to sell concessions because we see the impact of these programs on the educational engagement and morale of our students. If they aren’t passing classes, they don’t get to play, so they get more invested in their classes. When they are invested in their classes, they learn more, their grades improve, and they have more opportunity for their future.

It’s not hard to connect the dots between athletic programs and successful adulthood. We’ve known this for decades. All students should have access to programs that lead to a hopeful future, and they should have everything they need to participate in such programs.

So I’m asking, friends. I’m asking you for help — again. If you love sports, if you love kids, if you have an insufferable belief in transformation, please consider joining me in building an Athletic Shoes Fund for my students. Funds will be used to provide athletic shoes for students like K who cannot otherwise purchase their own.

Email me at krathje66@gmail.com for details on how to give or simply send a check with “DLA Athletic Shoes Fund” in the memo line to Detroit Leadership Academy 5845 Auburn Street, Detroit, MI 48228.

And if this isn’t your project to give to, I hope you’ll keep cheering us on as I keep on sharing our stories.

Unlearning

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

Much of the work of my adult life has been unlearning the internalized messages I have picked up inadvertently. Messages about my identity, about how the world works, about the value of others, and even about my faith are regularly being viewed under a microscope to see if they hold up to scrutiny.

The first time I remember doing this was in the counselor’s office in the mid 80s where I was being treated for an eating disorder. Regularly in my sessions, my therapist would ask me questions that would confuse me. Why did I need to lose weight? Why did I believe I would be more attractive if I was thinner?

Why would he ask me such questions when the answers seemed obvious. Throughout my whole twenty year life, I had learned to believe that thin was better than fat, that I’d better watch my weight, that “those fat people over there” were disgusting, probably lazy, and not worth as much as “we” thinner people. I was ever anxious that I, in my body, which was just a tad larger than those of my friends and my sister, was ounces away from losing my status as one of “us” and becoming one of “them”.

In fact, in my freshman year of college, like many overwhelmed, depressed, and floundering college students, I did put on ten or fifteen pounds, and people I barely new — dorm mates and classmates — repeated the refrain I’d heard at home, I’d better be careful. I should get my weight under control. Did I really want to eat that dessert?

I believed their messages, and in fear and trembling, I overcorrected. I began a regimented way of life that escalated into anorexia nervosa. I lost all the weight I’d gained my freshmen year plus another 20 or so pounds over the summer before transferring to a much smaller school in the fall.

There, my excessively thin body soon gained its reward. That very fall, I was selected for the Homecoming court. I’m guessing I was selected solely based on my appearance because no one could have known the real me. When I wasn’t studying in the library, I was secretly writing down every food I ate, calculating calories, and sneaking to step on the industrial scale in cafeteria where I worked to make sure the number continued to go down — the only way I knew to measure my value.

I felt so out of place on the stage being crowned in one of the most ironic moments of my life. My cohort was apparently applauding my external worth, while I was trembling on the inside — afraid of being revealed as an imposter, knowing that what they saw was artificial, a fragile facade concealing a very broken interior.

That was close to 40 years ago, so you might think I have completely unlearned that lie. That might be true if everyone in the culture I live in had learned it, too. Alas, they have not. Messaging about the connection between thinness and beauty persists today. It has lost some of its power what with the greater diversity of representation of women in the media, the elevation of body positive messaging (if you are willing to look for it), and the shift in the fashion industry toward inclusivity, but the message remains among us — thin is better than fat, especially for women who live under continuous pressure to present themselves in flawless well-toned bodies despite genetics, health, or circumstance.

So, my unlearning continues. When I hear my mind say, You’ve put on a couple of pounds; you’d better be careful. I ask myself questions that I started hearing from my therapist years ago: Why are those pounds bad? What will change about you if you decide to keep them rather than lose them? Why are you connecting those pounds to your value as a person?

Why indeed.

What is true about my body is that it is strong — it has carried my children, it has finished half marathons, it has communicated with me when I have overworked, it has kept going when my mind has refused to rest. It is strong and beautiful and resilient. It has value at any size. Period.

Do you see how it works? It takes awareness, diligence, and intentionality to unlearn the messages we carry with us all the time, often unknowingly.

My students and I just started reading Born a Crime by Trevor Noah, a memoir of the comedian’s life growing up in South Africa during Apartheid. Before we read the book, we start with learning about unconscious bias — the beliefs that we have that shape the way we view the world. We talk about bias against people of other races of course, but we also talk about gender bias, religious bias, disability bias, and even weight bias.

The very nature of unconscious bias is that we don’t know that we have it. That’s why I was confused when my therapist asked me questions that challenged my unconscious bias– my beliefs were so ingrained, I accepted them as fact — didn’t everyone feel this way? didn’t everyone know that being overweight was bad?

So as my students and I learn about unconscious bias, I have them take the Harvard Implicit Associations Test. This is an ongoing study that gathers data from participants regarding their bias around a variety of topics. It takes about 10 minutes per topic such as race, age, weapons, or weight. The participant clicks on images in response to the directions, and the speed of the response reveals the participants’ unconscious associations. It’s fascinating.

Now, I will admit that this is uncomfortable work. In all my years of teaching students of color, I have been working to unlearn the racist beliefs that permeate our culture — the not always subtle implication that Black people are poor and dangerous and not as smart as white people. I know that these statements are untrue. I have countless examples of students, coworkers, and friends of color who are wealthy and brilliant and successful and generous and kind, and yet my unconscious bias still sometimes reveals itself. I don’t like when this happens.

Let me give you an example. I was venting to my instructional coach one day. She is a brilliant educator who, like me, is committed to educational equity. She has taught in Detroit Schools for thirteen years and has risen through the ranks because of her commitment to excellence and her undeniable ability to support other educators in instructional design and implementation. Also, she is Black. It had been a difficult school day and the halls were loud and unruly, and I said, “Man, it is zoo-y in here today.”

She replied, “Well, I wouldn’t use the word zoo-y.” She was matter of fact, not accusatory, not incriminating. She just said it, and gave me a beat to process.

“Oh, wow,” I said out loud. “I never considered that using that word implies that our students are animals. Yikes. I won’t say that again. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Even typing the words right now, I have an ache in my chest. How could I have used such language when I work so hard to push against racist ideas?

My coach happened to be in my classroom a few weeks ago when I shared this example with my students. I said, “If we really want to uncover our unconscious bias, we have to give the people around us permission to point it out to us. It was brave of my colleague to say something to me. She did not know how I would react.”

“Wait, why is zoo-y a bad word,” one of my students asked.

My colleague stepped in, “For many generations, white people used language that made Black people seem like animals so that they could justify the way they treated them — with slavery, with separate bathrooms and water fountains, with unequal schooling, you name it. To say that the school feels zoo-y implies that you are animals. And, you are not.”

All eyes on her. Silence. Reprogramming in process. A moment of unlearning. Priceless.

I continued, “Maybe you have heard me say something that revealed my unconscious bias in this class. I am giving you permission right now to let me know when that happens. It is the only way I can bring these beliefs to my consciousness, put them under a microscope, and reveal them for what they are. That’s the only way I can hope to change.”

A few days later, one student, my boldest, most confident rising star, interrupted me when I was explaining the term “white privilege” and how I have benefitted from it. I’m not sure what I said, to be honest, but she challenged my delivery and said, “I wouldn’t say it like that again.” It takes a lot of courage for an 18 year old girl to challenge her teacher in the middle of a lesson, so I stopped, heard what she had to say, thanked her for her courage, and practiced rephrasing my thoughts.

It was an uncomfortable moment for me, to be sure, but I am hopeful that it was a moment of agency for her. Perhaps she, too, will start on a lifelong journey of unlearning the things she has picked up about herself, her world, and the ways that she can operate within it.

The alternative is staying where we are, holding fast to every lie we have ever believed, which for me has felt like a trap. The unlearning, although at times uncomfortable, is liberating. In fact, it’s a transformation.

Be transformed by the renewing of your mind

Romans 12:2