Grateful, for the pains of “grown”, even in the waning days of the 32nd March…

In 1990, I was a 16 year old sass mouth, a sophomore in high school with a bad attitude towards my mother, and an acerbic tongue. I wanted to be grown. I considered myself to be quite grown, in fact…I didn’t really think my Mom was even very smart, no matter how often she proved me wrong on that front.

The summer preceding my sophomore year of high school, I considered myself so grown that I proposed moving out and living in a “Main Street” apartment in my tiny hometown of Harlowton, Montana. Of course, I was a bit emboldened in this harebrained scheme.

My cousin Jo and I had devised this master plan; we would each contribute to the rent by working additional hours at our respective after school jobs. We would only have friends over at the apartment on weekend nights. We would NOT have parties. We would keep it clean. We would have dinner and daily check in’s at Sherry’s house (my momma, but in our proposal…Sherry). And, we would provide a key to Sherry, so that she could enter our apartment at any time.

This was 1990…there were no cellphones, no internet, no personal computers….we wouldn’t NEED to make phone calls, and if we did..we would make those calls from Sherry’s as well. We proposed this plan, with a budget for food and rent, to my mom, and Jo’s dad (my Momma’s first cousin).

In the years that have passed since that sit down over the kitchen table, I have often wondered…what was my mom thinking, listening to our “proposal”? I can only imagine the humor with which she entertained this summit of adulting.

At the conclusion of what in my 16 year old brain felt befitting of a pitch in a corporate boardroom seen only in movies…Sherry and Rick said they would think it over, and let us know in a few days. Of course, it didn’t take a few days for them to render the verdict. I remember something about financially irresponsible, and safety concerns, and…something about legality. Ha.

I don’t remember exactly the timeline, but I do know by the fall of 1990, we were moving into what would be the house that my mom would die in the following spring. I was not living in an apartment, adhering to rules agreed on in a negotiation, or living the independent life that I dreamed of in my charming “Main Street” apartment.

Instead, I found myself in a mostly unfinished basement, cold concrete floors, no window to sneak out, and a set of stairs that entered the garage, or steep up to the back door and kitchen. It wasn’t what I wanted, and I was odious in my displeasure. I was displeased with my mother, I was displeased with my “lot” in life…there was very little that I found much joy in.

If I could go back and tell my 16 year old self to chill the fuck out…would I? I don’t know. But, I do know that if only I had known how unplanned, unpredictable and untethered my life would become on the drop of a dime on that fateful March morning…I might have not spent so many hours making sure my mom knew just how miserable her life choices were making me. I was so very angry at my life, and the way my Mother wouldn’t let me grow up.

The morning my mom died, 32 years ago, I was angry. I was angry at her BEFORE my feet hit the cold of the floor of that shitty basement room. I was angry at her as I walked up every step of the steep stairs to enter the shitty tiny kitchen. I was angry at her as I realized that someone was still in the bathroom that Saturday morning, when all I needed was to pee. I was angry. I was so very angry. Right up until I was absolutely, heartbreakingly, uncontrollably sad.

Upon the realization that something was wrong, discovering my mother dead in that shitty, small bathroom my anger turned into despair.

Heartbreak.

Ache.

Devastation.

For all my anger…she was the person I loved most in the whole world. She was my anchor, my rock, my safe haven. I could be angry at her, because I knew…she would love me ANYWAYS. I could sass her, even when I knew she was angry at me, because eventually…she wouldn’t be. I knew that somewhere in the dance of child and parent, she would look at me, with a look of chagrin, perplexed at how she had given birth to a version of herself in so many ways…and she would lay down her anger, and remind me how fully beloved I was.

When I think about all the ways I wanted to be grown at 16…burying my mother was not on the list. There is something to be said about the growing pains of grief and death and loss.

In the 32 years of growing between the day of her death, and today…I have learned so much more than I thought I could know. I have loved, and lost. I have experienced beautiful sunrises in far away places. I have slept in and slept over. I have sometimes cut my losses, and other times…held the cards close. But, in all of that growing…I realize my lessons would have been very different if Sherry had been around.

I hold on to the things she said that I remember. I think about how she was quick to laugh, and how she always wore sunglasses when driving. I think of how her hands were always cold, but her lips pressed to my temple or forehead…warm. She was a force of nature, and my whole planet shifted when her light left.

Sherry Smart was one of a kind. She was kind. She was loving. She was funny. She was sharp. She loved deeply. She was truly the best parts of what a mother should be, even in her flaws and faults. I don’t know all that I wish I did know about her. I certainly don’t know all of her secrets and intricacies. I only know the things a child knows, and felt, and learned from her presence.

I have long thought about how much of my Momma, and of Sherry, I missed out on knowing. I realize now, in her death, she missed out on so much of the knowing as well. I wish she could know that I am not so angry anymore. That I still have a sass mouth. That I still get excited about the little things. I find joy in so much. I wish I knew how to make her brownies. I see her face in the mirror every morning, and every evening…she lives in the lines around my eyes and set of my sharp chin. I wish she knew of the ways I have worked to make my corner of the world better. I wish she knew that I am generally well regarded, and respected in my profession. I wish she knew of how much I love the ocean, and running. I wish she knew me better.

And, I wish she knew how much I love her. I wish she knew that I can never listen to Elton John’s “Levon” and not see myself tracing the fingers over the dust jacket in her living room listening to her singing from the kitchen. And that in my pretty apartment…sometimes I break the rules and have friends over on weeknights, but she would be so proud of how well I learned from her to keep it clean.

And so, as I mark the calendar at 32 years since the day of her death…I will turn my face to the sunshine, I will feel her in the quiet before I rise, and I will be forever grateful that she was mine before the world showed me what it meant to be grown.

“Levon wears his war wound like a crown
He calls his child Jesus
‘Cause he likes the name
And he sends him to the finest school in town

Levon, Levon likes his money
He makes a lot, they say
Spends his days counting
In a garage by the motorway

He was born a pauper to a pawn on a Christmas Day
When the New York Times said, “God is dead
And the war’s begun”
Oh, Alvin Tostig has a son today

And he shall be Levon
And he shall be a good man
And he shall be Levon
In tradition with the family plan
And he shall be Levon
And he shall be a good man
He shall be Levon…”

Gratitude, for bathroom selfies…and spreading the faith…

From the time I was very small, I was low-key obsessed with bathrooms. When I was a little girl, every place that I would go, I wanted to see the bathroom. From my memories, it became a bit of a joke for my mother, her chagrin, when I would ask, turned into a “Yes, Sister, you can go find the bathroom…” because she knew that I would keep asking until I could.

I can’t tell you why, I don’t really know, but I do know I was fascinated by the sinks, and the soap, and what might be on the walls. One of my favorite bathrooms was at the Wendy’s we would occasionally get to go in to eat at, the “newsprint” on the walls could keep me occupied for hours…often getting me into trouble.

One of the fanciest bathrooms that I had ever been in up until Tuesday was at a home in the middle of nowhere Montana. One day, I think I was about 8 years old, I was with my Grandpa Don, my momma’s dad, and we stopped to visit his friends, Alberta and her sister Marguerite, at their home. The Bair residence was a palace compared to anything within a hundred mile radius, and probably farther at that point…and as my Grandpa and Alberta were discussing something like the price of wool, or the spring rains, I made it clear I needed to use the bathroom. I don’t remember how long I was in there, but I do remember the shiny faucets and the pretty soap I didn’t dare touch.

I can’t name the why for me, I just know I have long been curious…and my curiosity almost always included a trip to the bathroom. As an adult, I have been slow to the trend of the “bathroom selfie”…but, on Tuesday…not only did I purposely use a bathroom simply just to SEE it, but I also took a bathroom selfie…unapologetically. For the love of all things…it’s not every day one gets the opportunity to take a bathroom selfie in the White House. Yes, that house…the one where the President lives…and history happens, everyday.

Monday, March 20th was a long work day for me, lots of high stakes meetings with people in positions with titles…not just my regular day. I was headed into a meeting with our school based team to “pre-work” the meeting we would be hosting in the afternoon. Stepping into the library, I looked down at my phone to a message from the incoming director of Social Studies for the District, “Do you have a minute?”

I really didn’t, but when Raymond Hamilton calls…I make time. So, the conversation went something like this…”Amy Collins, do you want to go to the White House tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good…I put your name on the list. You should get an email by 4:30 with details.”

“Okay.”

And, I went into my meeting, thinking I was going to have a chance to go to the White House for a tour, and focused on the business ahead of me. At the conclusion of my work day, I headed home to go out for a run. Again, my phone started ringing…

“Amy Collins, check your email. You should have something, and you need to respond to confirm your attendance.”

“Okay….”

So, I checked my email on my phone, which I NEVER do…not for work anyways…and there was a very explicit email, with an abundance of information, including a “formal invitation”. I read the email, realized this was not just a tour, and thought…Holy Shit. After confirming my attendance per the link, I focused on getting changed, and headed out for my run.

Washington, D.C. is an absolutely beautiful place to be in the spring, and right now we are experiencing peak bloom of the cherry blossoms. I headed down to the Tidal Basin, knowing that I would have to run past lots of tourists, but wanting to enjoy my town in all it’s beauty. About 2 miles into my run, a text popped up on my wrist from Raymond Hamilton. I was waiting to cross a busy street, so pulled my phone out to look at the message. What I saw in the screenshot literally buckled my knees.

Raymond shared with me a screenshot with a headline and a photo…details about the ceremony to take place…and in the photo, I saw the Bryan Stevenson, founder and director of the Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama. The very thought of being in the same room with Bryan Stevenson was enough to take my breath away. I truly couldn’t focus for the rest of my run, with absolute excitement about what I might get to see.

After a movie-like montage including FaceTiming my favorite fashion stylist, a pile of too big dresses, and nopes, on my bed…I finally settled on a Target skirt, and an Amazon body suit, with a shrug sweater to cover my shoulders…I went to bed on Monday thinking…how is this even real?

Tuesday morning, I dressed with most of my would be White House outfit, paired with my leather Converse sneakers, and denim jacket, and headed to work. I popped into my Principal’s office on my way to morning duty, and told her…I would need to leave the building early that day. After expressing her concern, asking if everything was okay…I told her, I was going to the White House that afternoon. Our shared joy, and her excitement for me, simply elevated the cloud I was already on.

After leaving work early, getting home, changing shoes and jackets, adding some kleenex and a mask, some chapstick and my keys to a borrowed clutch purse, I headed to the Metro, because I’m a city girl. Walking into the White House on Tuesday afternoon, after being Covid tested, and having to present my identification 3 times, and be screened for weapons…I couldn’t stop smiling. I just could not believe what was happening.

Being in the White House is an assault on the senses in the best way…beautiful music playing, nearly every corner I turned another portrait, a piece, something to be seen, and the flowers…absolutely stunning. Not to mention…looking OUT the windows at familiar vistas, that were somehow so unfamiliar from behind those panes…it was surreal.

As I was entering, there were two women in front of me, and one of them turned to ask me if this was my first time at the White House. Of course, I just mentioned that aside from the “velvet ropes tour” from when I was a 16 year old visitor to D.C., yes, this was really my first experience at the People’s House. This woman, Diane, would turn out to be an example of true kind and kismet through the remainder of my experience.

Along every passage, members of the President’s staff were kind, gracious, welcoming…until I finally entered the room where the ceremony was to take place. Greeted by a member of the staff, I was asked if I was with the National Endowment for the Arts or Humanities…and I replied, neither…I was attending as a representative of the Public Schools of D.C. I was escorted over to be seated in an area just to the left of the podium where the President would be speaking. And, standing there was Diane, who invited me to sit next to her. I took my seat, and was soaking in the beauty of the room, the bustle of activity, and watching people come in, find seats, shake hands, hugs…I watched Atlanta Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms come in, file past me, and take a seat a few rows behind me. The Deputy Director of the Department of Homeland Security was seated off my right shoulder in the row behind me. And a wife of a member of Congress was eating candy out of her purse directly in front of me. The whole thing was absolutely surreal.

After every seat was filled in a room that certainly isn’t big, and the wings were filled with people standing, guests were asked to take their seats. I can’t even tell you…as I listened to “Ladies and Gentleman, the Vice President of the United States, and her husband…” and in strode Vice President Harris and her husband…I had tears. After the honorees were introduced and seated, it was “Hail to the Chief”, and in came President Joseph R. Biden, with the stunning and real, Dr. Jill Biden on his arm.

The next 40ish or so minutes, I worked to be very present, trying to keep my phone down, and not watch what was happening from behind the screen, but to really soak in what I was witnessing.

President Biden was gracious and funny; at one point, stumbling over the correct pronunciation of the last name of one of the honorees, and making a joke about how she could in return refer to him as “Mr. Bidden”, eliciting laughter from the assembled crowd. Seeing the smiles and genuine joy from THE Gladys Knight, hugs shared between “VEEP” star Julia Louis Dreyfus and President Biden, watching the Boss, Bruce Springsteen laugh from his seat, all while being surrounded by the beauty of this room…it was surreal. Watching the care and kindness of the staff in making sure every honoree ascended and descended from the small stage safely, the warm hugs and heartfelt applause from the guests and their families, the joy and awe of the people in the room…I will never forget how that felt.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, President Biden extended an invitation to the honorees and guests to partake in some fellowship, urging us to stay and instead of “keep the faith”, to follow his Grandfather’s words of wisdom, and to “spread the faith”. As we all made our way out of the room, I said to Raymond…”Do you think WE will get to go, too?” He laughed and said we were sure going to try…we didn’t have to sneak past any sentinels. We were invited directly down the hallway, welcomed warmly as guests. (I have to admit, I absolutely felt like a party crasher in my Target skirt.)

Every room connected, stunning artwork on the walls, fireplaces and beautiful rugs, window seats and velvet couches…and people laughing, drinking white wine, eating offered hors devours from silver trays…like a scene from a movie. For the next hour and more, I met and talked to several people, who I thanked for the ways they had impacted me, congratulated them on their awards, and in some cases…shared hugs and caught a quick pic.

After a brief interaction with Elaine from Seinfeld…the stunning and gracious Julia Louis Dreyfus, I took a quick family picture for her. (Talk about…what???) I met and visited with author Colson Whitehead’s family, talking about reading with his 9 year old son, who’s smile might be the only one that I saw bigger than my own that afternoon.

At one point, I had stepped back into the grand hallway to have a quick group picture and conversation with the small group from DCPS, and I saw Karine Jean-Pierre, President Biden’s Press Secretary, moving towards the stairs to leave. After asking for a brief minute, I thanked her for the ways she was giving voice to women, we talked about her book that I had read this winter, and shared a hug and a selfie. Oh my goodness…when I tell you…I was beside myself.

By this time, I felt as if I was truly having an out of body experience. But there was one person who I really wanted to have a chance to congratulate, and thank…and that was Bryan Stevenson. So, I went back to find him. When I approached the area that he was in, I noticed my new friend Diane. She made eye contact with me, pointed at Mr. Stevenson, and gestured for me to come over. My new friend Diane said, “Bryan, I want you to meet Amy Collins, she’s a teacher here in D.C.”.

The next several minutes were a blur, my friend Raymond capturing me from one angle, my new friend Diane recording and taking photos from another, and in front of me….Bryan Stevenson, and a whole conversation about education, teaching, justice, and an agreement to reach out so that we could collaborate. (What. The. Actual. Fuck.)

I am not sure how many times I thanked Bryan Stevenson, but when he said…no, thank you, and I could see that he meant it. Oooof. I am tearing up, just thinking about it.

There are moments in my life that I will want to flash in front of me when I am departing this world…and that moment, with one of my heroes….someone who I deeply respect, and admire…I will want that moment to pass thru my memory.

After saying goodbye to my new friend, Diane…with plans to go have a beer (they weren’t serving beer at the White House), I finally decided…maybe it was time to leave the party. I joked to my friend Raymond, do you think they will dim the lights eventually and kick us out? But, it felt like it was time. Almost like that moment when you realize….it probably can’t get better, so best to put the pin in it, and say goodnight, Gracie.

As I moved through the grand hall, past the Marine Corps band, still filling the halls with another beautiful version of an Elton John song…I thought…this is my life. I continue to be reminded…for a girl who grew up in dysfunction and poverty, the only college graduate in my family, and an orphan at that…I belong to this life. And, I’m going to continue to spread the joy, as best I can.

And, just for good measure, on my way out….I stopped and used the bathroom again.

Gratitude for Peanut Butter and Jelly…

Today, I really wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Like, I just kept thinking…I want that feeling of gooey peanut butter, on just the right softness of bread, with a healthy dose of raspberry or strawberry jam. I could imagine myself making it, and sinking my teeth into it. And, at work…I was busy trying to get so many things done with my hair on fire, because honestly…my job keeps me absolutely swamped on most days, and today was no different.

For much of my growing up, peanut butter and jelly was my food of choice, even if it wasn’t what was being prepared. I grew up in a house where the rule was pretty simple…you eat what was on the table. If you didn’t like it, you ate it. If you were hungry after it was served, you fixed yourself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

In Sherry’s house, you didn’t turn away what had been prepared, and you certainly didn’t say…I don’t want this. She never denied me the ability to fix myself a sandwich, but I can hear her voice…”I’m not a short order cook. You don’t like it? Make yourself a sandwich.” Food was about sustenance in my house. It wasn’t about how it might taste…and it’s not that my mom was a bad cook…it just certainly wasn’t her love language. (Now baking…that’s a different story. If you have had Sherry’s brownies or chocolate chip cookies, you know what I am talking about.)

Perhaps the most trouble I ever was in, up to the point where I was flat out earning my trouble was when I was in the 2nd grade. At that time, at 530 Bench Boulevard…we were living in the house I thought was the biggest, grandest house…with apple trees in the yard, and some “pasture” that included a mule and horse, along with a milk cow or two at any given time.

In the downstairs of our house, lived my cousin Shirley Kay and her daughter. I don’t remember how long Shirley Kay lived here, in the two-ish years we lived there; but I do remember one day, after playing, Shirley invited me to stay for dinner. I ran upstairs to ask my mom if I could eat dinner with Shirley and her daughter, Tura. My mom’s parting words to me were, “…eat what’s on your plate, and SAY THANK YOU!” as I ran downstairs to continue playing…when Shirley called us to the table, we went to sit down, and there in front of me was a plate. I don’t remember a single thing on the plate except for the presence of a food I truly hated. Cooked peas…a mooshy, green scooping of cooked peas.

I took one look at the plate, stood up and said, “I don’t eat peas, I am going to go home.” I turned, and headed home. It made perfect sense to me if I wasn’t going to eat, I should just “go home”. So, upstairs I went. I walked into the kitchen to find my mom and my older brother sitting at their regular spots, eating something my mom had prepared for supper. My Mom asked how supper was…before I could answer, I heard my cousin Shirley’s voice behind me…explaining to my mom that I had declined, I had left, and that I had been rude. I will never forget my Mom’s face. Mid bite…”she did what?”…

Sherry Smart rose up from that table, put a cool hand on my shoulder, and guided me back downstairs, where no matter my protests, my pleas, my gagging, my tears…I ate every pea on the table. The ones on the plate originally offered me, and every other one as well. It felt like an eternity of tears, and coughs, and pleading with my Mom to punish me ANY OTHER way than to eat that awful, horrid mush. After I had successfully choked my way through the peas…I was marched back upstairs for a toothbrushing and bed.

I learned two very valuable lessons that night. One, I never accepted a dinner invitation without asking what was going to be consumed, and two…my mom didn’t mess when it came to polite and respectful. (I still absolutely detest cooked peas. Still. Always, ever.)

So, it was the PB&J for me. It was that sandwich I knew I could fix if I didn’t like what my Momma had prepared, it became my food of choice. School lunch choice. Afterschool snack. Dinner. Shit, toasted bread with PB&J has many times been breakfast for me. There is something about a peanut butter sandwich that is survival. I knew, as I always have…that I would live, I could survive, if I had a peanut butter sandwich.

Today, when it hit me I wanted a PB&J…I feel like it came in the chaos of my day, when I wanted to tap out, and just be done with the day. I wanted my bed, and a sandwich, and maybe, just maybe…a hug.

It’s March. March, 2023…holy shit. I am barreling towards the 32nd anniversary of Sherry’s death. And, since I was 16…I have been surviving. I learned early…I had to survive. And survival sometimes felt like PB&J. I became so accustomed to survival I didn’t know what to do except survive.

I am not an expert in psychology…even if I taught beginning psychology for 9 or so years…I am not an expert in much of anything except for maybe survival. Don’t be extreme, I’m not talking wilderness or tent camping…I’m talking about how one’s heart and brain survive in the midst of pain and chaos.

How do you survive trauma, and loss, and pain, and rejection, and absolute grief…you fix yourself a sandwich. You take care of it yourself. You carry your own shit. You just do.

So, for a really long time, I have perfected surviving, but I want more now. I don’t want to simply survive. I am ready for the part of my life where I am thriving. In the most frightening way, I am starting to dive into the difference between survive and thrive. I don’t want to simply self protect, and make it through the hard. I don’t want to just fix myself a sandwich…I don’t want to be fine. I am ready to be really fucking amazing. I am ready for this part of my life where I feel deeply like I am truly in touch with what I need, and what I want, and being willing to say…I need.

I want.

I accept.

I am living a life that is about thriving now.

I am guessing I will have some more thoughts, but for now, I’m kind of hungry…and I want more than a peanut butter sandwich.