Daughters of Color

In light of recent events, primarily the Olympics now being held. It has drawn my two Daughter's attention, who are People Of Color (POC). The first topic of discussion in our home, was Simone Biles. It was her ability to think for herself under immense pressure. Pressure many may not understand, nor may encounter at such a young age or at all in their lives.

The difficulty to make a clear-cut decision on such a notable international stage as the Olympics, is at the very least horrifying for anyone. Now add in the fact she is a woman of color. Let me give you some insight. I've been a professional in three sports. The criticism some women may face, those who are unsupported can be great (I understand much of that). Yet, even if you have great support of family and friends, there's still this cultural pull that you some how, amazingly without any effort of your own attained a high level in athletics. And that you owe everyone else who didn't get there any and every anticipated performance scheduled.

What Simone Biles diplomatically and graciously expressed was that she is a great athlete who is also human. That she is not owned. No one owns her. She owes none of us her life nor limb.

So, as my two daughters grappled with this idea. My oldest mostly, wondering was it acceptable. Which over a few dinners she realized that self-preservation is the most logical decision. That your health and well-being should never be sold. Because when it is, the world will be void of who you could've been, especially if you decided to acquiesce the critics.

Thank you Simone for refreshing and giving US a clearer view of self-care and preservation for all, yet especially young women. Young women were watching and it mattered. ---Jody-Lynn Reicher

Comments

It Follows Me...

One may wonder what would inspire someone to work hard labor voluntarily. For me it’s the love of many things. It’s the passion that won’t be broken. Because there are so many aspects to such service for me, that it may seem beyond comprehension. I’d compare it to my youthful desire to enter the military as a young child. Then for a multitude of reasons only to follow through thirteen years later at age eighteen entering the Marines. There were things that followed me throughout my life. Sometimes they were questions of how I ever gave up my over decade’s life dream to become a New Jersey State Trooper. My childhood desire to never wed—to never have any serious relationships with another human being. I desired only service in military and law enforcement nearly my whole childhood. Too the extent that even one of my Marine Corps superiors expressed to me last July, “I never thought you’d ever get married. It just wasn’t who you were. You were always a loner.” I replied, “Yeah. I know.

Sledging the Hammer

"You could have a steam trainIf you'd just lay down your tracks..."---Peter Gabriel's 'Sledgehammer' lyrics. This is not the tune that lay in my mind this morning as I reminisced about yesterday's volunteers to help on trail crew. However, as I looked up the proper definition of sledging that song popped up. I say sledging, which is my own take on swinging a hammer that we call a "Double Jack". The Single Jack is six pounds. I know that because our regular crew of five including me and one staff supervisor are handling Harriman State Park Trails, and have to carry about four of those, two shaping hammers, along with a hoist, belay bag with heavy equipment, first aid kit, double Jack, three 18lb rock bars, a lopper, three buckets, three eye to eyes, two burlap straps, two green wrapping straps, two pick Mattox, a roe hoe or two, a bar for either the two ton or one ton hoist, the feathers with pegs for splitting rocks that we drill... s

Death in the Distant Future...

Death in the Distant Future… Or at least that is what its supposed to be. We don’t suppose people should die at a certain age. We will witness suffering; but we know it gets better. So, we’ve been told. Or so, we have hope that it will. There are instances of mass tragedy. Sometimes we call that war—maybe insanity—perhaps terrorism… We have names for it, that type of death. Then there are the terminals. Things we think we can control—once we know the enemy within. Or things we follow, pray for, aim for. We hold hands for it. Or we choose to suffer with the suffering because it matters. And it doesn’t matter how it matters. Then there is some form of Universal Order. A tainted weird line of fate. Perhaps mathematically calculated in everyone’s existence. No matter how great, how menial a life on earth may appear there’s a geometric wave—a pattern. We can involve other mathematical ideologies—Fibonacci, perhaps. And each of our lives are formulas. Formulas appearing misundersto

Writing Reality

Search This Blog