Speak Truth to Power

I have used this phrase many times over the years. It means to speak the truth to those in power. To open their eyes to injustice and wrongs. It was originally used by the Quakers in 1950’s to speak against fascism and totalitarianism. It is fitting this term comes to mind as we enter into a weekend in my community dedicated to raising awareness, acceptance and understanding for our friends and family who are LGBTQ.

To express the importance of “speaking truth to power” I have to share part of my family history. In 2005 I became a mother. I met the most beautiful baby boy, my son, Thomas Efrain James Monahan. He was named after my father, Thomas. We kept his birth name, Efrain,  to honor his birth mother.  We wanted to bless him with the name of our dear friend, and his Godfather, James (Jim). And last but not least his sir name is his father, Paul’s,  Monahan. My son’s name carries the strength and legacy of  men whom  his father and I know to be honorable, loving, kind, smart and who speak truth to power. His name represents men who have fought for the rights of those who were unable to speak for themselves.  His name represents men who looked past social norms to do what was right, not what was easy.  His name represents men who embrace “all men are created equal with liberty and justice for all”. No matter the color, race, ethnicity or sexual orientation his name represents men who “speak truth to power”.

This weekend my son, my step-daughter and I will “speak our truth to power” and wear our “FREE MOM, SISTER & BROTHER HUGS” shirts at the 2019 Pride Festival in Golden Valley, MN. We will not tell anyone who they should love.  We will simply speak our truth to power and offer free hugs for those who have been rejected by family, friends and loved ones because they are simply being their self. All people deserve to be happy. All people deserve to be respected. All people deserve to be seen as equal. All people deserve to be loved in all ways, always.

It is in speaking my truth to power that I am becoming my parents. 

On Eagle's Wings

One of my mother's favorite songs of all time is On Eagles Wings.  I have heard this hymn more times than I can count but each time it takes me to the familiar place of being 10 years old standing in the aisle after mass and humming the chorus to myself while I wait for my mother to finish talking to the other mothers that have congregated in the aisle. Fast forward about 27 years and I am now the mother.  I am the one who loves the song and hopes it is part of mass every now and again.  As I was leaving mass with my husband and son my son started humming the chorus to this familiar tune while we were walking out to our car.  It made me smile, but it also made me think.  These are the traditions and things we hope our children pick up and remember as they become adults.  These are the kinds of things we hope they will cherish 27 years from now when they are the parents.  These are the words I hope my children will always keep close to them, especially in times of great need.

And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.


For I do believe he will raise us up.  That he will make each of us shine like the sun.  And that he does hold each of us in the palm of his hand.

It is in this belief that I am truly like my Mother.

Ugly

To the average person living next to the next average person "ugly" may seem like a very easy way to describe superficial features. Fat. Big eyes. Flat nose. Short. Wrong clothes. Wrong hair. Wrong color.  But all of those things can be changed, can be made beautiful, even without a fairy Godmother.  As a child I couldn't wait to grow up to be blonde haired and blue eyed, I always figured once that happened, my transformation would be complete and then I would be beautiful.  Being Asian was ugly to me.  Who would want brown slanted eyes, a flat nose, and dark, straight hair when they could have blonde wavy hair and blue eyes, maybe green?  Who would want to be short and stalky, when they could be tall, leggy, and thin.  

As a teenager I did everything I could to change my hair color, my eye color, my height (wearing 6" heels, no surgery was involved).  I wanted to be the least amount of Korean I could possibly be.  I wanted to be someone else.  I wanted to be beautiful.  Despite all my protesting against being Korean, and failed attempts at being a blonde, blue eyed, tall, thin, leggy model, my mother's unwavering echo was always in the back of my mind.  "You are beautiful when you let the people on the outside, see what is on the inside.  Let your light shine and you will bring beauty to the world".  

Being the moody, selfish, eye rolling, heavy sighing, annoyed teenager that I was, I rolled my eyes, made a deep sigh, crossed my arms in annoyance and put my headphones back on and ignored my mother.  I mean really, what did she know?  I'm pretty sure she was never a teenager and if she were, teenagers back in the "olden days" didn't have the same issues we had to deal with.  We had it much harder.    

Fast forward to the present and I now stand on the opposite side of the equation.  I am the Mom, and find that as a parent helping your children make the world believe they are beautiful is virtually impossible to achieve. That being said my job is to never stop trying to make them believe in the best parts about themselves.  Our children are each very different.  Our oldest has thick brown hair, brown eyes, and is thin.  She has an infectious laugh and is warm and loving.  She finds great joy in spending time with her Grandparents and being surrounded by family.    Our middle daughter has straight, thin brown hair, she is shorter, and every ounce of her is the definition of "petite".  She has an extremely quick wit,  like her Father, and is smarter than most adults.  She is daring and bold in her own quiet and unassuming way.  She is a lot of "POW" wrapped up on one tiny little peanut.  Our youngest daughter is has blonde, wavy hair, blue eyes and the gift of height.  She is honest and fearless and has a strong sense of self.  She is our creative writer and artist - often making costumes for her brother, which he loves.  Our son is tall, thin, with big brown eyes and creamy brown skin.  He is funny and has a tender soul.  He is unselfish and kind.  He loves his sisters more than anything on the face of the earth and feels lost without them.  

This summer our children went from accepting their physical appearances, talents, and capabilities to questioning them.  They all hit the age of wanting to know why they ended up with the short end of the "genetic" stick.  Thomas would say, "I hate being brown.  My skin is ugly".  To which the girls would say, "Don't say that I LOVE YOUR BROWN SKIN!  IT'S Beautiful".  Our oldest daughter started to compare her intellect to those around her.  Our middle daughter is afraid of upsetting anyone and fears sharing her feelings in complete truth.  Our youngest daughter wishes she had tan skin and straighter hair and that she were smarter.

Anyone who is a parent will understand when I say it is the most painful thing in the world to hear your child criticize themselves.  To parents our children are the most beautiful, treasured gift we have and are beautiful in every way possible.  After listening my kids criticize themselves a couple of times I decided we needed to talk about "beautiful, smart, capable" and what that means as well as "UGLY, stupid, dumb" and what that means.  Luckily for me the book (and the movie) "The Help", helped.  There is a place in the book (and movie) when the one of the characters reflects back on her youth and how she was seen as being "ugly" and out of place because she wanted an education, because she had career goals and didn't just want to play bridge and have babies.  She tells her maid Constantine that no boys wanted to ask her to the dance to which Constantine responds "Ugly live up on the inside.  Ugly be a hurtful, mean person.  Every day you’re not dead in the ground, when you wake up in the morning, you’re gonna have to make some decisions. Got to ask yourself this question: “Am I gonna believe all them bad things them fools say about me today?” You hear me? “Am I gonna believe all them bad things them fools say about me today? You hear me?”  

For our children sometimes we need to help them tell themselves that they need to stop listening to the internal talk.  That the person we see on the outside is physical and will change over time. That being book smart doesn't make you better than anyone, or being unable to draw or sing doesn't make you less worthy or untalented. We have to remind them that physical beauty can, and will, change.  That smart and intelligent people are smart and intelligent in different ways.  Artists might not be able to do calculus but we need them to make beautiful paintings and statues.  That doctors might not be able to paint a sunrise but we need them to take care of our sick.  That true beauty, comes from a place deep down inside a person.  It is part of who someone is from the time they are born until the time they die.  It is what makes someone beautiful.  Helping our children understand that their worth is far beyond what we see on the outside is one of the most important things parents, and adults, can do for their children.  

In this way I am most like my parents.  

STEP-mom

I read this in an article on CNN while recently reading up on how to deal with teenagers - despite the fact that I was a difficult one - I am somewhat clueless in how to deal with our own.  The article talked about the pitfalls of step-parenting and I thought the first two paragraphs were right on the money, so I thought I would share them.  

"As far as hard jobs go, it's up there with air-traffic controller and crane operator. Stepmothers preside over a minefield of hidden hurts, half-concealed traditions and occasional tugs-of-war. Want the job?

It's been said that parenting is the toughest job in the world. Wrong. It's the second toughest: Stepparenting wins hands down. Right now, approximately half of all Americans live in a stepfamily, which means that every day, millions of women are subject to the taunt -- sometimes mournful, often angry --"You're not my mother!" (R.Rogers, Things A Step Mother Should Never Say, 2008).

I have been very blessed with the three girls that came into my life when I met their father.  I have been lucky enough to never have been on the receiving end of the dreaded "you're not my mother" statement.  I'm sure like all children and parents there is a certain amount of resentment and frustration that they feel with me and for me, especially when I am pointing out the fact that it is Sunday at 8:00p.m. and their homework, which they have had for the entire weekend, is still not done.  

Blending a family, I have discovered, is not to dissimilar from brain surgery.  You have to prepare, you have to know there will be things you didn't plan on or account for.  You have to be able to think on your toes and you have to be surrounded by people who will help.  You also have to realize that the slightest zig, when you should have zagged can be fatal.

When my husband and I decided we were going to blend our families and try to make things work we were very nervous.  We didn't know how the kids would react to each other, to each of us, and we didn't want to add to the stress and strain they already felt trying to navigate between two households, with two different sets of rules.  Early on my husband and I both decided that we would not let the kids from our respective previous marriages call us "mom" or "dad".  Both my son and his daughters had a "mother" and a "father".  Neither had died and both were still very involved in the kids lives.  Out of respect for their parents and for the children we instead opted to being referred to as a "parent" and letting the kids call us by our first names.

To some who are divorced, or not divorced, it may seem odd to be a parent, to be acting as the parental unit in charge of the well being of this gaggle of kids, and yet not want to be referred to such terms of position and endearment as "Mom" or "Dad".  Yet, I have found this has made the transition to our blended world easier.  It has helped keep the children from feeling as if one might replace the other.  And it has helped us have good conversations about their "parents".

I guess in the end my point is if you are a "STEP-parent" it doesn't mean you are any less of a parent, but your position in that child's life may take time to reveal itself.  You cannot force children to love or trust you.  You cannot demand they love you the way they love their parents.  Divorce is hardest on kids.  And although what a child calls their Father, or Mother's, new partner may seem trivial, it isn't.  Some can make it work, but many struggle.  It is a selfish and a huge mistake to let your children use titles like "Mom and Dad" in relationship to any step-parent if it in any way makes them uncomfortable or uneasy.  It is confusing to them at best, even if they are older children.  To be a good parent, Step or otherwise, means putting your children's needs first.  It is in this way, small though it may seem, that I am very much like my parents.

Table It

Fall is always a busy time in our house. Between birthdays, holidays, school activities and more birthdays its a miracle I can get everyone fed and off to the next activity, let alone carve out time to sit down around the table and enjoy our meals together as a family.  Amazingly meals are the one thing the kids seem to make sure we have time for.  Everything about mealtime is like watching a well choreographed dance.

I cook whatever is on the menu for the evening. Thomas and Lindsey Lou set the table. Lindsey Lou usually sets the plates and the cups. Thomas does the silverware in the most haphazard way, then Lindsey goes back around straightening it. Thomas places a napkin on each plate and then yells for Niki to come pour the milk. Once the food is ready all 4 kids run to the table, making a brief pit stop at the bathroom to wash their hands. Usually 2 out of the 4 make it and when I ask if everyone has washed their hands two answer "yes" and two generally say "oooops. Be right back". Once everyone has found their seat my husband joins us and we begin with our prayer.  We make the sign of the cross and say our table blessing - sometimes it's Catholic and sometimes it's Lutheran, either way all the children say it loud and clear.

It is what follows our prayers that has become central to our family and one of my favorite ways to spend time together. While everyone is is dishing up food and determining if they like or dislike what we are having the conversation starts. "Guess what we did at school today?" "Did you know ..." "We got to go to the ...... On our field trip today".  No matter how many times these exchanges happen I never get tired of them. After the all updates have been said the conversation usually turns to something silly. "Dad would you rather eat a pinecone or eggplant?" "Do you think Grandpa would really wear a speedo? And wouldn't that be gross?" "Did you know grandma was a hippy?, what's a hippy?"  The resulting conversation that this line of questioning usually leads to  lots of laughter.  I don't mean giggling, but snort your milk through your nose, give yourself a belly ache, doubled over in pain kind of laughter that normally ends with Thomas telling us a story about how something farted and grossed someone out. It will never cease to amaze me how many times boys can insert legitimate comments about darts into a conversation, astonishing.

Recently my mother in law came over to share an early dinner and to visit with our family.  I had made spaghetti with meatballs.  We had hit the conversation point of our dinner where the kids were talking about my Father, who walks with a cane, and how he compared to Yoda.  Apparently they think he is pretty much a master Jedi.  My husband was serving himself some spaghetti and a meatball jumped up and rolled onto the floor.  Without missing a beat the kids and I sang at the top of our lungs "ON TOP OF SPAGHETTI, ALL COVERED WITH CHEESE, I LOST MY POOR MEATBALL WHEN SOMEBODY SNEEZED (HAAAACHOOO)  IT ROLLED OF THE TABLE AND ONTO THE FLOOR ... " At this point my husband was astonished by our inability to sing in tune and the fact that we all sang the same silly song with reckless abandonment and laughter.  We continued on "...AND THEN MY POOR MEATBALL ROLLED STRAIGHT OUT THE DOOR.  IT ROLLED DOWN THE SIDEWALK AND UNDER A BUSH, AND THEN MY POOR MEATBALL WAS NOTHING BUT MUSH"

At this point my husband and mother in law were ready for the ear piercing "joyful noise" to stop; however, we finished the song and then erupted into laughter.  Then our youngest daughter said, "How do you know that song?"  I said, "oh it's been around for years" and our eldest daughter said, "Man I'm amazed they would teach kids these days something so old", to which I responded, "the classics never grow old" (insert teenage eye roll and sigh here).

Over the next week many of us will gather together to share a Thanksgiving meal.  Don't let the opportunity to make your own meatball memories pass you by.  Revel in the stories that everyone has heard one hundred thousand times, play that extra round of "chase the ace", take the time to sing the silly song that pops into your head.  Meal times around the table are the central nervous system of the family opportunities like Thanksgiving help us to strengthen the fibers that bind us to one another.  Who knew that the meatball song would be part of the soundtrack of our life for yet another generation.  

I Want To Hold Your Hand

In my youth, which seems like a lifetime ago, I used to chide my father for not being "more romantic with my mother and showing her he REALLY loved her".  I don't recall any grossly overdone flower bouquets, or chandeliers of diamonds, or seeing he and Mom jetting off to some exotic all inclusive resort by themselves (or with us for that matter).  I thought, what a dud.  Dad must have been one smooth dude when he was younger, cause all he does now is hunt, camp, fish, and help with our various school and extra curricular activities - NOT romantic at all and this is certainly not any way to show you love someone.  Shows you how vast my knowledge of romance and love was at 10 or 12 years old.

For me romance and love were interchangeable and both were like the end of the Cinderella story.  It was about the glass slipper, the royal ball, the horse drawn carriage, and my very own prince charming.  I asked my Mom once if she thought she got the short end of the stick.  She just smiled, as she always does, and started to tell me about all the ways Dad was romantic (and yes these are all G rated).  Mom told me that love is represented by the little things only your spouse knows about you that continue to keep the romance alive and prove they love you.

Your Father isn't a showy guy, and I don't need all that stuff, it's just stuff.  But I know your Father loves me because I see it there when he chooses my favorite place to eat when we go out to dinner.  It is in knowing I like to sleep in so he lets me sleep in every weekend and keeps you kids occupied until I wake up on my own.  It is in engaging in activities with you girls and making time to do things together as a family.  It is in the occasional peck on the back of the neck (ewwwww, please stop there mom before you burn my inner ears to death!).  And it is in the way your Father thanks me for every meal I puts on the table.  He always says, "Terri that was great.  You are an excellent cook!".  Honestly, not a meal Mom makes goes by without Dad saying that.  In response to my Mother's altruistic description of love and romance I rolled my eyes, sighed and thought, he has brain washed her into believing this is romance, this is love UGH.

On December 23rd 2010 I married the most remarkable man.  He is kind.  He is loving.  He is smart, ever so smart.  He is honorable.  He is courageous.  He is an amazing father.  He is a good man, one of the best, I have ever known.  Each night since that day I have had the honor of falling asleep next to him.  And every night I lay my head on his arm.  Snuggle up next to him (he is always a good source of heat and I am alway cold), and I tuck my right hand under my pillow and find his waiting for me.  Our fingers interlock together and we hold each others hand. This is how we have fallen asleep every night we've been married.  This is what I miss the most when he travels and this is just one of the many ways,  that has nothing to do with flowers, diamonds, royal balls, etc. etc, that prove his love in a very romantic way.  It is in discovering that true love and romance exist in the the most ordinary things in life that I am truly like my parents.

Strangers In The Night (And Day)

When you get married the second, third, fourth, fifth - well really any time after the first you will find yourself in the unique position of being the 2nd wife, or at least not the first.  If there are children his first wife will always be a part of your life.  Being the second wife to my husband there is part of me that wants to throw a temper tantrum when I don't get my way, and yes, you read this right  - tantrum.  A full blow on the floor, screaming, kicking, red face, fists flying tantrum.  Luckily for me, and for my husband, that side of my brain actually did grow up and it tells me to breathe, un-clench my fist, and to use my inside voice.

It is then, and only then, that I remember his ex-wife is a variable in our new life together.  She is someone whose opinion does count, she has a place in our family, and at the end of the day she may be a complete stranger.  About 3 months after my husband and I got engaged he was set to travel.  Normally we would have the kids one night a week and every other weekend.  On the occasion he travels over a weekend we would normally have his children his ex-wife has put her foot down and said "NO".   At first I was taken aback.  Am I not responsible?  She doesn't like me?  How dare she ...!  etc.  etc.  It was my own personal pity party.  Then something she said to my husband shocked me back into reality.  She said, "I am not going to leave my children with a complete stranger!"  She had other choice things to say but that is irrelevant to my point.  It was this single statement that made me realize that while I was not a stranger to the girls, not a stranger to their teachers, or many of their friends, I had never interacted or really even seen her.  She was right.  I was in fact a complete stranger.

Having been truly humbled by her statement I extended an invite to her to come see the house, meet my son, meet me, to get to know each other better.  I thought with my husband out of town this would be a perfect opportunity as they would not have to deal with the awkwardness of being face to face.  While I did not have high hopes we would become best friends, I had hoped we could become acquaintances who could talk when necessary to create stability and consistency between our two homes for the kids.  I thought this was a brilliant idea.  I was excited to be able to help build a bridge for our girls and create harmony where strife had only existed before.  After sending my husbands ex-wife a note inviting over I was certain the olive branch I extended would be accepted.  I was crushed when my offer was declined. I kept trying and keep trying.

It would be so easy to spit fire and venom.  It would be easy to make things difficult, but where would that leave me?  What kind of example would it send to my children?  I may not like some of the parts of being a second wife but the reality of it is I can never replace, nor would I ever want to replace, the girls mother.  I realize I am important to the girls but their mother is their mother and until she decides to not be a stranger I will remain as such.

For all of you 2nd wives out there who are dealing with a first wife, be patient, be slow to anger - quick to forgive, and remember you are a perfect stranger to this person who is entrusting the most precious piece of her heart to you. She may be his ex-wife but she will be the mother of his children for life.