Hair

I have a hair appointment next week. I will pay far too much for a skilled stylist to color my hair. Then later I will pay again for another person to keep it short. She will make sure that it looks natural. As if it were always short, always framed my face and always lifted slightly off my forehead. But there is nothing natural about my hair.

I am conflicted about this process.  The women who do my hair with such skill have been doing it for years. I listen to their lives and they listen to mine. I've been with them through marriages and divorces, cancer deaths, addiction recovery, knee replacements and a child with downs syndrome.  They have listened to me raise four children to adulthood, with all the joys and sorrows that has brought. We are tied together in a unique bond, stylist and stylee.

But so much money, so much time and energy going into hair? My rational brain tells me this is ridiculous. Hair has no significance unless we give it. And yet I give it freely. I don't wear makeup, do my nails or pluck my eyebrows. But I still invest in my hair. Because when I look in the mirror, I have no rational brain. It's pure emotion. Hair that's behaving gives me confidence. Hair that lies too flat or sticks out in the wrong places or shows too much grey, destroys it.

Sometimes I wonder if a hijab wouldn't be better. There's never a bad hair day, and it makes a nice, hands-free cell phone holder. I've seen many women talking on phones held in place by hijabs. Plus, revealing less, you would have to find your confidence from within.

This is what people miss about muslim women. The confidence. It's the covering that throws them off because we assume that no one would cover themselves voluntarily. They must be forced by men. But it's not that simple. A muslim woman doesn't put on a headscarf or hijab for a man. She does it for her God. And for herself. It identifies her as part of her culture, a group that gives her life meaning and keeps her safe. In other words, it gives her confidence.

This is what Donald Trump missed when he saw Ghazala Khan stand beside her husband on the DNC stage. He got distracted by the headscarf and missed the confidence. It's been interesting to see the consequences of his attack on her. The hashtag fury of accomplished women, demanding to be heard. If Donald had asked, I could have told him he was stepping into a hornet's nest. Never mess with muslim women. They are some of the toughest people on the planet.

Once, I taught my adult ESL class wearing a headscarf. I'd been to the dermatologist and planned to go back to class after, but I didn't plan on the hideous bandage on my head. I grabbed a scarf from my car and voila!

"Teacher! You look so nice!" said my students. They were so excited. All those trips to the hairdresser, and it was covering my hair that made me beautiful to them. Maybe I looked more confident, too.

Safer?

Never!
(Received this in the mail post-Orlando.) 

 It's not uncommon for me to bring current events into my ESL classroom. They're all adults, and it's empowering for them to be able to voice opinions about their new country in their new language.

After Orlando, I wanted to talk with my students about it. But how? Most of them come from religious backgrounds that prohibit homosexuality. Their reaction to the subject tends to be about the same as a seven-year-old boy who hears the word "underpants". There is whispering and giggling.

I decided to approach it from the issue of guns. I asked the basic question that America is facing. Do more guns make America safer?

Many of these students have extensive experience with guns. They have seen chaos and bloodshed on a scale Americans can't imagine. After discussion, they unanimously expressed support for strict gun control. "Only the government needs guns. To protect us." Black Lives Matter would have squirmed to hear the naive trust these new black and brown Americans have in our institutions.

Then someone asked, "Teacher, can't the president do something?"

"Remember when we studied government? All laws have to come from Congress. And Congress won't do anything."

Their trust crumbled, just a little.

The House Democrats tried. They sat. They spoke. They shouted...Nothing.

Our representative, Eric Paulsen, who passes himself off as moderate because he never voices an opinion, voted to do nothing.

So it was ironic that the next week, the NRA sent a membership solicitation warning me that I am under attack. Especially by the "freedom-hating Hollywood elite." These moustache-twirling evildoers are plotting to take my guns. And my children's! How could they? Only the NRA can save me. Putting an NRA member sticker on my car will send tremors of fear through local politicians. Just $25 buys me this super power for one year. Or, if I'm a bargain shopper, I can get three years for $70 or even five years for $100. There are some nifty member gifts, too.

It's the NRA who keeps telling us that more guns = more safety. But we haven't heard much from them this week, when Philando Castile's gun made a police officer nervous enough to kill him.

It's easy to fault the cop for being nervous. It must mean he's racist. Black = bad must be at work in his soul. Like so many before him, he saw black. He killed black.

Dallas reminds us that police officers have a right to be nervous. Police are some of the first to say that the more guns = more safety formula doesn't work for them. It puts their lives at risk.

But this can't continue. 

     More guns

  Nervous cops 

+  Black is bad 

       More death 

"Teacher, can't the president do something?" 

"No." I said. "All laws have to come from Congress. And Congress won't do anything. But you can. When you vote, think about guns." 

Independence Day

It's Independence Day. A day to celebrate freedom. Americans live and breathe liberty. Independence permeates our red, white and blue souls.

My students, most not citizens yet, have become infected by it. Last week I put the First Amendment on the board. If you need a refresher, it includes freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, freedom of the press, and freedom to petition. I asked them to discuss which was most important to them.

(Bear in mind that a typical conversation with a student might go like this: "Teacher, I no coming tomorrow. My wife she have appointment.")

I was astonished at the level of discourse. One group began to discuss gender roles and the rights of women in their respective countries. Another group talked about freedom of the press and freedom of speech.  A student pointed out that what people do is more important than what they say. A third conversation revolved around elections and term limits. Students wondered if they could be free without the right to vote for their leaders.

While I reveled my students' achievements in their new language, I was mindful that there are many in America who believe that freedom is finite.  If we give immigrants a share in our freedom, they reason, who knows what they'll do? They certainly won't appreciate it. They may even use it against us. America First! Immigrants never!

I have some good news for those people. Freedom is precious to your immigrants. They know what life is like without it. And they ask whatever god they worship to bless America.

Farmer's Market

It seems like every time I'm wearing a t-shirt that announces my advocacy for gay rights (I have quite a collection), I run into my Baptist neighbors. They're wonderful people who may very well support gay rights themselves, but we don't discuss it, and I'm left to wonder what they think of me.

Last Saturday, I went to the Farmer's Market. The first of the year. My expectations for produce were low, since it's still early in the growing season, but I headed out to see what could be harvested. I was wearing one of those t-shirts—the gay ones—though I'd thought momentarily about changing, given the possibility that I would run into one of my adult ESL students, who snigger every time the subject of same-sex marriage comes up.

Sure enough, while waiting to cross the street to the market, I stood behind a woman whose t-shirt bore the names of local mega-churches and organizations that had tried so hard to make sure no gay couple would ever wed legally in Minnesota. I know, because I worked hard to help defeat them. Across the street, Jehovah's Witnesses stood on the sidewalk, over-dressed for vegetables. They would have been happy to answer any questions I may have had about my eternal damnation. Inside the market, Somali families carried bags of food that they couldn't touch until sundown because it was Ramadan.

This was one day before the carnage in Orlando. In the aftermath, people who worship guns—for having, not hunting—have claimed once again that only more guns will make us safe. But if all of us who wear our conflicting identities so publicly, backed up our differences with weapons, going to the farmer's market would be as dangerous as going to a movie theater. Or an elementary school. Or a community center. Or a Bible study. Or a nightclub.