Apparently, I did have something to say.... Thanks JC

I’m sitting here at 6:30 in the morning eating a granola bar drinking out of my Top Finisher mug (yes, I save it for Saturdays and I might wash it for Sunday…). I’ve been thinking about JC’s last post. Not because I’m wringing my hands for her or anything. JC is badass and that’s why I love her. No check that. I love her for a handful of reasons. I respect her because she’s badass.
But whatever. It’s early and I am rambling. I’m thinking about her post because words are what I do. I think about the way we label our world and the social work that does. Naming is an act of agency (of taking an active role in controlling something). This is why (for those of you who don’t understand the use the N word among the Black Community or Queer among the uh, Queer Community) groups reconstitute horrible and oppressive names to use among themselves. You take that name, change it and own it.
Even my use of capital C in the above is social work. I am (whether or not my grammar is right) making these communities entities of their own. They are distinct and importantly marked by the use of capitals. This is markedly different that a lower case c community which indicates a general community that happens to be Black or Queer. Its awesome social work those words are doing if you think about it.
You can think I’m full of shit if you want. You can say you still don’t understand the use of these words. People in these communities still chose not to use them. That’s on you. Full of shit or not; I’ve got ten years of college and a co authored book that said I’ve got at least a little street cred. Or um…sidewalk cred? Hallway cred? What kind of cred to academics get? I dunno.
One of the things I’ve spend a lot of time doing is looking at the social dynamics between people when they talk. Not only how they position themselves by using words but how they position others. What kind of social work is going on when a college professor says that she can’t tell her students how to reflect on the weekly readings? She needs a discussion of the readings, but their reflections are their reflections and valuable as such. She’s giving up a lot of her power, huh? She’s not dictating their thinking. Wow. That is democratic (not in the government way, but rather the Dewey schools way) and the power differential has been decreased. Wow. Awesome professor. But really, she’s still dictating the format (less democratic) and in Freire would say that because the professor has given the opportunity to reflect in a way meaningful to them she maintains her power as an oppressor. The professor in question gave them the right to reflect freely. When you give power, you maintain it. Kind of like when your parents let you stay up to watch a movie. You gain a right, but your parents still have the power over you.

It’s possible, that all the words that have hurt me personally have never been spoken. What has hurt me more than anything has been the failure to communicate.

Mean words, I can deal with. I can even fight back with mean words. Is this propensity to fight back dysfunctional? Yeah, maybe. But it’s my dysfunction and I’ve named it and you all know what social work that does. The moral of the story here is that you don’t want to fight with your words with me. Really you don’t. Maybe it’s a gift. Maybe it’s a curse. But I’ve learned that street smarts and book smarts are a lethal combination. And this combination means that you can bring your mean words.

My in-laws are passive aggressive. They don’t use mean words. I don’t know how to deal with that. I am totally lost. Instead, they don’t bother to call their son to ask how his shingles feel when you tell them he’s still working and not sleeping. They don’t ask what kind of new puppy we got when we tell them we added to our family. They don’t call or send a card when they’re told their daughter in law just became Dr. Daughter in Law.

How do you respond to that kind of deafening silence? It doesn’t even provide you with a chance to use your words to stand strong. It’s maddening.

It’s no secret that outside of my parents my family situation is complex to say the least. WM and I have been disowned several times and it looks as though this last time will stick (think fellow discourse analysts about the way I’ve named brother Chuck, Al and Dre sisters JC and Staci and my girl K who defies traditional naming-what social work am I doing?). However, WM in her efforts to keep a clean conscience with elderly parents called this fall to make sure that they were alive. She never wants to feel as though any of this bullshit can be on her. For years, I’ve told her that however she needs to deal with her parents is on her. I support her fully. After all. I don’t know what its like to have your parents not want you. No lie. I’m glad she’s not trying to go down to that house that backs up to Parsons Ave for Christmas. Because the family is dangerous and I insist on going. And man. I fucking hate that house.

Their conversation lasted no more than 2 minutes. A basic, “I’m ok, are you two ok.” My mom confessed this conversation to me recently. I knew how it would go. Polite and awkward. I knew there would be no question of how their granddaughter was. I knew that there wouldn’t any kind words or even any inquiries. I am not even worth naming. Logically, I know this isn’t about me. I have 2 parents who are nothing short of amazing. Who gave everything they have to let me shine. They ran from the crime and violence and fuckedupedness (yeah it’s a word…I can make them up it’s a bonus of being Dr. Err) of my family and gave me every not only every opportunity but never let me forget who I was. My mom has had to deal with the fact that her parents ain’t right. They don’t love her in any kind of way parents are supposed to love children. Even mama birds fight and protect their babies. Her parents aren’t wired as tight as house wrens. And she’s had to live 57 years with that reality. I got no problems.

Except that lack of words burned like hell. And it pissed me off that it burned. I called this woman a whore. And my mom let it go. She let it go when I began calling them by their first names in my late teens. She understands this process of naming. And then I realized that although I know a whole lotta words….for these people who won’t take the effort to use words for me….I can’t think of words bad enough to name them.