I Need A Drink
I wrote this post a long time ago. A really long time ago – my son was still four years old. It’s been sitting on my desktop doing nothing. But today I was scrolling twitter and my feed looks like it’s emotionally unstable – hate, death, love, terror, relaxation, black lives matter, blue lives matter, all lives matter, tasteful jokes, offensive jokes, babies, Paris, marriage, Pokémon meme on Trumps head, Trump, Trump, Trump, exotic travel, celebrity news, jokes, Trump, Trump, potty training. It’s all over the place.
So, I decided to re-visit I need a drink. Surprisingly, or maybe not surprisingly, I didn’t have to alter it very much, which leaves me pretty pessimistic – a feeling that isn’t really my thing.
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Some days are easier than others. When it’s a really rough one, I take out the double wide and walk the long route through our neighborhood to pick up my oldest from school. The long route has a Starbucks on it. If it’s hot, I’ll buy an ice tea and take my time walking down our main street, sucking slowly on a refreshing drink that someone else made for me, looking into shop window displays of stores I wouldn’t dare go in with three young children.
That’s my re-boot.
Today is testing my patience. I have decided to leave for school pick up early and take my hard day route. My son has been acting up and my daughter is wearing me out. So, I strap my two little monsters into the double wide and start pushing … talking randomly about trees and bugs and dogs and neighbors.
I felt like a broken record today. I’ve said stop, no, and cut that out more times than I care to admit. Eventually that made me realize we needed a change in scenery. I tell the kids we’re going to walk to school to pick up their big sister. My son and daughter climb into to the stroller enthusiastically. They love walks. Why didn’t I just take a four hour walk this morning?
Not three blocks from the house, the banter begins.
“She’s looking at me!”
“Stop touching me”
“Close the shade.”
“Juice! Juice!”
“Hey! You touched the fabric on my side.”
Inevitable pinching of legs and kicking of feet ensues from both of my little angels.
“Stop it!” I say through clenched teeth.
It continues.
“No means NO!”
Patience Elizabeth. Patience!
I close my eyes and breathe slowly, imagining how great an ice tea will taste trickling down my throat.
“I want to push the button!”
“No me!”
“I want to do it!”
I push the cross walk button, Starbucks in site. I squeeze through the door, make my way past all the tables,
“Excuse me,”
“Pardon me,”
“Sorry, could I just get to the register,”
“Excuse us!”
“Shhh kids, we’re in a restaurant.”
Is Starbucks a restaurant?
An uneventful order, I meander from the register to the bar to pick up my drink with the intent of walking out the door as soon as the barista hands it to me.
There are two kinds of Starbucks people. The kind who move their protruding leg over a smidgen so that I can get my double wide stroller around the table and the kind who just watch me struggle as I spill my drink on my child’s head trying to open the door and negotiate my obscenely wide stroller through the threshold. It is what it is. Some people are into the kid thing and some aren’t. I get it.
This day, I’ve successfully walked from the register to the bar, picked up my drink and head for the door. My son is still whining about his baby sister touching him and he doesn’t like it. He slaps her knee. She pulls his hair. He starts to cry. She starts to cry. They are both crying. We are a crying, flapping, double-wide stroller meandering, drama filled, I-just-want-an-ice-tea-damn-it scene.
I stop, bend down and calmly explain to my 4-year-old son it is never okay to hit. That stop means stop.
He is not very receptive.
For heavens sakes, “PLEASE … JUST … STOP!”
Drink in hand, I look up toward the exit with my Venti, no sugar added, ice tea, to escape. I wish I had asked for the sugar.
A warm, welcoming, neighborhood police man stands kindly, holding the door open, waiting for me to exit.
“You’ve got quite a lot going on there!” he says to me nicely with a chuckle, waiting for me to pass through the door, making sure I don’t struggle. His chivalry helps me comfortably exit onto the sidewalk so that I can enjoy what I have been craving.
“Yeah! Thank you!” I’m appreciative. He has spared me the extremely awkward open the door hurdle, the last step between me and my drink.
But I have to admit this. When I looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, my heart started beating harder. I became even more conscientious of my scene. My eyes started tearing. It happened because I love my son and for the first time in my life the words listen, stop, and no were not just a normal lesson we teach our kids, they were much more powerful. The word no and stop meant something else entirely when I saw the police officer.
I pushed my stroller onto the side walk. I put my drink down and I walked around the front of the stroller and kneeled down to face my son. I held his little face in my hands and looked at him eye to eye. I hugged him. I said calmly and lovingly with tears in my eyes, “You have to learn this. You have to learn that stop means stop. You have to learn that no means no. You have to listen. This is important. This is so very important.”
“Okay Mommy,” he whispered.
He didn’t make an obnoxious peep the rest of the way to school.
I’m not suggesting he will always and forever listen to me when I say stop and no. He absolutely won’t. But a little seed has been planted – in me. Something that will grow and develop, something that will make me even more conscientious, more focused. Even more aware.
My mom never teared over a conversation like this with me when I was little. Maybe it’s because I was a super mature four-year-old who always listened – but probably not. I’m certain, without a doubt, my mother was not afraid that one day I could grow up and get shot.
This isn’t a discipline your kids issue. This isn’t a respect authority post. This is more. This is society. This is our national divide. This is years of hatred and fear and segregation and racism and acceptance.
There have been so many moments recently that have made me see this country differently. Moments that have made me want to learn more and see more and share more than ever before. For me, it started with the death of Travon Martin and has continued through a long list of black casualties until today. The #blacklivesmatter movement has made me listen more acutely. Authors like D Watkins (The Beast Side) and Ta-Nehisi Coates (Between the World and Me) have made me stand up and truly listen.
Our country’s reaction to this movement is coming to the surface in a way that is polarizing, extreme and terrifying. It has come to surface in a way that makes me feel like people are picking sides. As if you have to choose a side between a good, friendly neighborhood police officer and my child.
I hear the noise, the fear, and the insecurity on both sides. I hear the stories and the backlash. I watch the media blow issues out of proportion constantly. It’s mostly noise. It’s like you have to pick a team and one of them has to win and the other has to loose. But the thing is, we can demand that the unnecessary killing stops and still support the men and women in uniform who are doing their job every day. We can love, respect and support our friends and family who are officers and still recognize that there are some bad apples among them. I expect the justice system to protect my child the same way I expect to be protected myself. I can ask for training and education and tolerance, without diminishing the hard work, sacrifice and courage it takes for someone to dedicate their profession to my safety and the safety of those around me.
Aren’t the vast majority of us on the same team? Isn’t this problem just a few bad apples? Why are we protecting a few bad apples? Why are we digging in our heels, so incredibly hard, defending the officers who commit heinous acts? Instead we should be supporting the thousands and thousands of good, just, officers who put their lives on the line every day. Supporting them with training and education and resources to do their jobs safely, securely, and humanely. There needs to be a way to weed out those who don’t deserve a badge. When has education and appropriate resources hurt someone?
I fear, the actual change that needs to happen is a long way off. We have not successfully bridged the gap. Black people are still being shot and politicians are repeating the same lines they always do.
And until that day comes, until actual change takes place, until black people aren’t being killed in routine traffic stops, I am without a doubt completely terrified that one of my children could be harmed one day because someone characterizes them by the color of their skin. I’m terrified that someone won’t take the time to listen to what they are trying to say. I’m terrified that they will be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I am certain there will come a day when one of them may act like a shit – because we all have had a day like that. A day where we run a stop sign, or jaywalk, or drive around with a broken tail light. And when that day comes, they deserve to keep on living. White America does it every day.
I wasn’t born knowing how to raise a strong, proud, independent, confident, secure, black man in the United States. I am not a black man. But, I will do everything in my power to protect my kids and teach them right from wrong using love, tolerance and kindness.
Not all of us get to make mistakes in this short life.
I think we all could benefit from taking the long route for a glass of ice tea once in a while.
I was with your story from “I need a drink…”. As I read on , you captivated me and simultaneously gave me a chill. Your point of view has never been part of my day to day awareness, however much I recognize it in the people around me. The demographics in Towson reflects several biases…racists, homophobes, and right wing uber conservatives of all skin tones. But by far , the blending of Black, White, Indian, Chinese or Peruvian neighbors and fellow shoppers hasn’t shown a dark side. We’re comfortable and interactive as a community. I shudder to contemplate what you will face as the parent of these precious children if more people don’t learn “love, tolerance, and kindness”.
The lyrics from an old song in the musical “South Pacific” tells us ‘You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught ‘ to hate….it isn’t born in us.
Thank you so very much! I’m so so happy that you are keeping up with these posts. I am also glad to hear that your neighborhood has become more multicultural. I learned a lot from my experience living in Baltimore. I do believe that people are and continue to come together more and more in many ways throughout our nation. However, the lives we live(d) as white people in Baltimore (and throughout the nation) are far more “comfortable and interactive” for us than all its other citizens – it’s easy to ignore the difficulties if you don’t want to see them … that is what prompted the post. For far too long I did and said nothing. I lived my life seemingly unaffected. Now…#IfISeeSomethingSaySomething. -Love you <3
Magnificent. Your voice is special. Keep writing.
Thank you very much! I plan to!
Beautifully stated Lizzy!! Many of us get too comfortable and forget what often just a generation before us suffered so we wouldn’t!! Absolutely love this!!!