Tag Archives: humanity

I’m Not Your Mother

Posted on by under parenting

“Hi Mom,” said the pediatric dentist to me while my daughter was in the dentist chair.

Earlier the dental hygienist had said the same thing (“Hi Mom”) and I thought she was talking to someone else.

“Hi, my name is Leanne, not mom, nice to meet you,” I said as I reached out my hand and smiled at the dentist.

Why do adults-who-work-with-children lean over to talk to a child and politely and invitingly ask their name but then often look at the child’s parent and not bother with a standard greeting such as, “Hi I am __name__, what’s your name? Nice to meet you.”

This conversation (with “Hi Mom” or similar directed at me) has happened to me, in the time that I’ve been a parent, with all sorts of people who work with children. People at my daughter’s school, at camps she goes to, and some of the medical professionals she sees (not all of them – thankfully her primary doctor is always professional and polite and simply fantastic) often just call me “Mom.” It irks me.

I don’t need anyone to remember my name. I’m most definitely not anyone’s mom beyond my daughter.

Consider other social circumstances:

  1. At a work or other organizational meeting, if people don’t know each other’s names, then people don’t look at each other and say, “Hi, guy in blue shirt, what do you think of this?” The people in a meeting usually introduce themselves first.
  2. In a social setting, someone doesn’t look at me and say, “Hi, woman with glasses, how are you doing?”
  3. When I go to see a doctor or dentist, they usually reference a chart to find my name if they don’t remember me. Or they say, “Hi I’m _name_” and I reply with “Hi, I’m Leanne.” Humanizing.
  4. When I go to a doctor or dentist appointment with another adult, to support my friend or my wife, then the doctor or dentist usually introduces her/himself and asks my name.
  5. And so on.

So why is it that I’m no longer a person with a name when I’m with my daughter? My daughter pointed out to me, “she was just saying that you are A Mom.” Well, sure, but we don’t call other people by the name of their assumed/actual relationship with the person in the chair. The dentist, for example, wouldn’t say, “Hi Wife” to me if it was my spouse in the chair.

I wish people who work with kids would always humanize the parent they see, not just label the parent as merely mom or dad or another label. It’s the small courtesies that stick in memory. We do more than just pay the bills and make sure our kids show up. We’re parents and we’re human and we have names and we appreciate what all of these people do for our kids.

Who’s the bully?

Posted on by under storytelling

I stopped work early today to pick up my daughter who, this morning, mentioned she was really tired. I thought it’d help her to come home early and get some downtime. I got on MUNI to head towards the stop near her school. In the subway, downtown, the streetcar lurched and screeched and screamed in a sudden fast stop. I was standing, holding on, and I fell, flew forward down the aisle, caught myself on my knees and hands. It happened in seconds. I saw a woman, sitting, fall forward and hit her head on a pole.

The man who had been standing next to me did nothing, watched me as I got up and caught his eye, turned away from me. The elderly ladies sitting in seats exclaimed, “are you OK? would you like my seat? Do you need help?” I felt bruised and scraped and slightly embarrassed as I picked myself up, grabbed my bag of computer and gadgets and regained my position on the streetcar. I was fine. My knees ached, I could feel the scraped skin, my hands burning from the landing, and I’m just waiting for 3 more stops to pass so I can get off this bully of a streetcar.

I grew up in the country, in a beautiful house on beautiful land with beautiful views, at the top of a hill with a 1/4 mile long gravel driveway from the local highway up to our house. Early every morning, as a child, I would walk/run down the gravel driveway, with its curves, past the clump of trees where my imagination claimed tigers and lions lived, to meet the school bus down on the local country highway. I rode the bus for an hour to get to school. Sometimes I would fall while running down the last hill, rocks scraping into my knees, above my knee socks, below my skirt or dress hem. I’d get onto the school bus with bleeding knees, some kids would point and laugh at me, and the ever gracious kind bus driver, Nancy, would hand me bandaids.

Today on MUNI, with my knees aching and feeling scraped after falling and flying down the aisle, the memory of the gravel driveway and running for the school bus felt fresh, along with the memory of the kids making fun of me. There were a lot of bullies in my elementary and jr high and high school years. In elementary school, for a year or two I had pointy toed saddle shoes and kicked-in-the-shins anyone who made fun of me or my friends.  Was I a bully too? Or was I protecting myself? What’s really the difference? Aren’t some bullies acting out of reactionary self-loathing?

Recently I felt bullied on Twitter, reminded of the gravel grinding into the skin of my knees, when a friend wrote vitriol and curses to me and my wife. She’s since removed the curses that she directed at me and my wife.

My wife, Moya Watson, has written and spoken a lot about, and helped create media about, bullying online and offline and within one’s self. The way she listens and hears the stories and experiences of others, expresses, her own and other’s experiences, and weaves all of the humanity, is a luminescent beauty.

Last night I went to a splendiforous dinner party at Firehouse 8 where the entreaty at the start of dinner, once everyone was seated, was to leave our inner critics at the door. That can be a self-bully, that inner critic. The one who can say  you’re not ____ enough.

So this city, these friends, that friend, those people, the damn streetcar, your own self, we it all have bullies within and around us. The trick for me right now, the attention, is to be aware and conscious of the full drama of humanity, also, within and around, with love and kindness on the flip side of anger bullying criticism.

Invasive Invigorating Wandering

Posted on by under happiness, san francisco, storytelling

A man in a dark suit and tie, carrying a briefcase, ran by us on the sidewalk. “It’s all in his head,” said the young man walking next to me on Fillmore St, “what is he running to? It must be something invisible, we all make stuff up and rush rush rush.” I chuckled and smiled at him.

This morning I walked from Presidio Heights, down to Pacific Heights, through Japantown and the Western Addition, down to the Lower Haight and further down hill to the Mission. It’s my grandma’s birthday today. I took a long walk to give myself time to remember her and appreciate the things I learned from her and the non-material gifts she gave to me. She was born in 1912 and died in 2009.

At the halfway point, I stopped at La Boulange at Pine/Fillmore for treats to eat on my walk. I felt like I was mostly alone on my urban hike. When this young man (who I’ll call Kurt since he reminded me of Kurt on Glee) started talking to me, it felt invasive.

When people try to talk to me on an airplane trip, I do my best to put on my earbuds and excuse myself. But not when I’m walking or on a bus. I’ll talk with just about anyone on the street or on a bus unless I’m in the midst of, like today, a particular thinking or meditating or reminiscing project in my mind.

I walked a bit slower than “Kurt” because I didn’t really want to chat, I wanted to walk and sniff out thoughts and memories from my mind, but then there was a crosswalk with traffic and I caught up and we both waited and smiled at each other.

As we both continued to walk, he walked faster than me, then he turned around and said, “be careful, that metal on the sidewalk is slippery.”

Another crosswalk with traffic where we both stood and waited for the light to change.

“It’s so cold here in San Francisco,” he said, and we picked up a conversation.

I told him about the hot weather in San Francisco in September and October and how my wife got sunburnt in early October in 2008 when we were married out by Ocean Beach. It had rained the day before, and in the rush to get our dresses on and hair done and ready to go, we forgot to put sunscreen on her back. She doesn’t usually wear a backless dress.

He said he’d been living here a week, to go to an art school, and was disappointed in the school and thinking of moving to New York, where at least he could get married if he wanted to someday, and there might be more or better opportunities to be a bohemian. He wanted to go to London and asked if I’d ever been to London. Yes, I said. “How old are you?” He asked. “40,” I said. “No way,” he said, “I’m 20.”

We exchanged names, I told him he’d do a lot in his life in the next 20 years before he turned 40, and we said goodbye as he turned a corner and I continued on Fillmore St.

I felt invigorated by the interstitial conversation during my walk, the many possibilities and hopefulness of being 20, and the friendliness of a stranger.

My grandma’s gifts were that she believed in me, gave me confidence, support, love, compassion, without any criticism or shame or blame or guilt. She was a devout Christian. She was a scientist (chemist) and a high school math teacher. She always was glad to see me and she always showed up. She was a maker and made a lot of things – knitting, crocheting, sewing, baking, cooking, gardening. I miss being able to tell her about my daughter, who wants to be a scientist, and who loves to knit and sew and cook and garden. It’s almost as though my daughter takes after her great-grandmother (even though they share no genes).

Harriet in 1943

My grandma in 1943, long before I knew her. I love this photo of her and her big bright smile.

One of my first memories of her is of a trip I took to California in the 1970′s (on an airplane! My first airplane ride!) to visit her and my grandpa. They had a swimming pool and a lemon tree and a croquet set in their backyard. I thought California was magical because we could make lemonade every night from fresh lemons picked off of a tree (lemons, as far as I knew, didn’t grow in Oregon where I grew up, and most lemon juice came in a plastic container shaped like a lemon).

The Magical Backyard Swimming Pool in California, sometime in the 1970's

The Magical Backyard Swimming Pool in California, 1970's (plus a ping pong table!)

Happy 99th birthday, Grandma! I know you’re in a beautiful place and I keep you always in my heart and memories.