Juxtaposition and Grief

My favorite word is juxtaposition. Perhaps you find it odd that I'd have a favorite word, but words are my thing, so I should have a favorite. I love to write it in cursive (try it out...you'll see, but you must use a lowercase j). More importantly, I love to admire the power of juxtaposition in literature and life. In my mind, juxtaposition is my non-science version of Newton's third law...every action has an equal and opposite reaction. When it comes to food, it's peanut butter and jelly; it's prosciutto and cantaloupe; it's cheddar and apple pie. On Sesame Street, it's Bert and Ernie. In home decor it's lime green paired with plum. In life it's day and night, light and darkness, joy and sadness. When items are juxtaposed the differences between them are highlighted, deepening the understanding of each. And, that is where I am right now. I am in a state of juxtaposition at the moment, and my emotions are ebbing and flowing between anger and sorrow.

My father died on Sunday. It was a shock that I knew was coming. It was a phone call I had braced myself for years ago, and in recent years, every time one of my Aunts called me or a text came through from them, my heart would sink. Though, when I got the call that my father had passed, my brain was ready; my heart was not.

If you know me well, you know my relationship with my father has been one full of juxtaposition. We had a relationship of high-highs and low-lows. I'm 36 years old. For the first 18 years he was a reliable, consistent force in my life; for the second 18 years he was inconsistent and absent. He made choices that changed our lives forever, and like people do in all circumstances, my Mom, Jim, Nora and I adapted and adjusted in order to survive. The 19-year-old version of me was full of passionate anger that was quieted (a bit) when I fully embraced Jesus. I told people how I felt without guarding my words or softening the blow. The dynamics of my extended family changed, guilt was served up regularly by those who told me how much my dad loves us. My favorite was when people told me I didn't know how hard it was for him. For him, huh? Come visit us in Grandma Miller's basement and we'll talk about tough times. Though I trust that it was difficult for him, he demonstrated this fatherly love by running away and finding refuge from the storm...New York, Texas, Arkansas. Meanwhile, Jim, Nora and I weathered the storm with support from Kevin, The Millers and friends, neighbors and family along the way. That's not to say we didn't all try to reach out to one another. We did, for years. Sometimes reciprocally, sometimes one-sided, sometimes often, sometimes occasionally. I believed him when he said he loved us and missed us, but those words were always juxtaposed by absence...highlighting the disconnect between words and actions.

I am not writing to tarnish James T. Nagle's character. In fact, I believe that he was a good man in so many elements of his life. For the early, essential years of my life, I learned from him. He demonstrated a solid work ethic and I saw the importance of friendship and family through his relationships. He was a passionate man who embraced The Fighting Irish and taught me to cheer for "The go-go White Sox...and whoever plays the Cubs." He was a whirlwind in the kitchen creating wonderful meals while leaving legendary messes in his wake. I remember so many moments with fondness and joy: frequent trips to Williams Bay, boat rides on Lake Geneva, Trips to Minocqua and Cable WI, intentionally loud and poor singing at mass, Bruce Springsteen's “Born in the USA” on the record player, slow-pitch softball games, Notre Dame blue and gold games, Sunday supper at Grammie and Papa's, long car trips with "Life is a Highway" blaring with windows down. Life was good for so, SO long...and that is precisely why it hurt so badly when everything changed. This was likely when I felt the power of juxtaposition most strongly in my life.

I don't expect anyone to know how I feel right now because I can't even explain it myself. I am deeply sad to know that my dad is gone, yet heavily conflicted about my grief. I have always loved my father. Always. And I trust that he loved us deeply. Yet, here I am, a bit over a year since our last phone conversation, feeling the emotions of an estranged daughter. I am angry that my children don't have a relationship with him and that Connor questions why he never came back home. "He just left you guys?" Yes. He just left. Though, strangely, I am comforted that he found a new life and had his wife and new friends close to love him through his health battles. There are no right or wrong ways to grieve. It is deeply personal, so I think whatever I'm feeling has to be "normal," right? Today, my grief is mixed with anger over abandonment and deep sorrow for the loss of a man who I know was good to me in so many instances. I know some will read this and question how I could "say such a thing" or criticize me for various reasons, but here is what I am asking...I am not asking you to understand my feelings, I am asking you to respect them. My sadness isn't the same as Jim's or Nora's, though we've all lost our father. Our dad left us 18 years ago, and our father died Sunday. Consider, the contrast between Dad and Father.

My Aunts have lost their brother, my cousins have lost their uncle, his wife is now a widow, his friends have lost a friend. I don't know what they're feeling, but I do know my heart is hurting for everyone who has loved my dad. Every single person. He was 58 years old, and now he is gone. That is tragedy enough. So if you see me at his service and I'm not sitting in the front pews dutifully mourning for all to watch, understand that I have spent the last 18 years on the perimeter of his life. It seems contradictory and in poor taste that I would take a front row seat as he is laid to rest.

Home, Sweet Homestead

In the past year, our lives have changed in countless ways, and we owe it all to a boxy brown house on a modest parcel of land, "south of the river" in Grundy County. We're just two kids from the suburbs who've slowly, but steadily made our way west, and I am certain that we wouldn't change a thing. As a child, teen, young wife, I never had a grand plan of what my grown up home would look like, but I'm certain I never could have envisioned what we have now. Our home is modest, needs updating and will be in various stages of renovation forever, and I'm completely comfortable with that. It has a wood-burning stove that has a tendency to run HOT, and it's surrounded by a cringe-worthy rock walled fireplace. The bathrooms are quirky, and nearly every fixture and cabinet is slightly off center or askew. The laundry "room" is an itty, bitty closet, and the house featured wallpaper in nearly every room. The light fixtures, switch plates and wood paneling, complete with deer grazing and geese flying, are an overt homage to the 80's. The kids' bedrooms have funky, yet lovely wood planked ceilings that you'd have to see to appreciate. The best part is that despite these quirks and oddities, this house makes my heart swell with happiness because it quickly became our home...full of love, comfort and hope.

Kevin and I spent our first year of marriage in a one-bedroom, ground-level apartment in Alsip, soaking up movies and Thursday pizza nights with friends; we had no yard to speak of, and friends gained entry by hopping the balcony railing. We then moved to a two-bedroom townhouse in Manhattan which featured nearby walking trails and the best daycare center I could dream of; this is the place we brought our babies home to, so a part of my heart still lives on Shannon Drive. Many nights were spent on that 10 x 10 patio pondering our inevitable move to Morris. In 2013 we took the risk and rented the cutest, little Georgian style house on Washington St. in Morris; I adored the character of the old wooden built-in cabinets and beautiful staircase. There was a tiny sliver of a yard that allowed room enough for our raised-bed garden, but the lack of yard didn't bother me one bit because the adorable front porch was where our memories were made while porch sitting on spring, summer and fall nights. All of these places had their own charm, though I think Kevin would say that the townhouse was far from his favorite. All of these places helped define certain chapters of our lives and helped us become the people and parents we are now. When we decided it was time to see what country living was all about to say I was apprehensive was an understatement, but in true Sarah Bogard fashion, when we visited this boxy brown house on a snowy February day, I was smitten. I married my first love, bought the first wedding dress I tried on, bought the first townhouse we looked at, rented the first rental we visited and bought the very first, and only house we looked at.

Today, we celebrate a year in the house we hope to spend the rest of our days in, and this house is almost less about the house and more about the land. The plot is tiny in relation to our neighbors, but massive in the lives of these former suburban kids. Ask Connor what his favorite part of this house is, and his answer will always be "the yard" because this yard has given him the freedom to roam, to climb, to dig and to explore. He has a few favorite climbing trees, a "secret" digging spot that anyone can find, a basketball hoop and all the space a boy needs to kick a soccer ball. Faith is not exactly a nature lover, but she definitely can appreciate the sunsets (and sunrises as she waits for the bus), the tire swing and cuddles from her barn cats. The kids aren't the only ones enjoying the elbow room and big sky. In fact, I'm willing to wager that Kevin and I have found a satisfaction here that we didn't know we were missing. We're all finding joy in the mundane and ordinary like we've never done before. Connor can find his in the climbing trees; Faith's can be found while nuzzling up to her favorite cat; Kevin's joy often comes while riding the tractor or mower; Mine comes from a basket of subtly colored eggs.

I think we've learned more in the past year that we've ever learned.

On gardening...When we first starting tilling the space for our garden last spring, one neighbor shook her head in doubt and implied that we were biting off more that we could chew...turns out we made it work pretty well, thank you very much. We were overrun by Swiss chard, volunteer butternut squash, hundreds of cherry tomatoes and pepper plants that refused to die until after the 3rd hard frost. I think it's fair to say we figured it out. Heck, two kids from Midlothian and Posen even grew corn!

On chickens...We've managed to keep eight hens alive, protected and productive for a few days over a year. We bought eight chicks because the internet promised we'd lose a chick or two along the way. Well, all eight of those girls seem to be thriving. Along the way, I've learned how to help a chick with "pasty butt" (yes, that's a thing). Kevin and I (mostly Kevin) have turned a dirty, old dog run/chicken coop into one we can be proud of. And, because we're crazy, we've just moved eight more chicks out to the coop to get to know the hens...because if eight hens is working, we might as well have double that, right?

On barn cats...I'm allergic to cats, but I adore our three barn cats who definitely earn their dinner by keeping the vermin (and occasional finches) at bay. They're sweet, lovable and always ready to pounce on the next tiny, living creature that crosses their path. Faith has adopted these cats and cares for them daily. It's an odd thing, keeping barn cats. They stay close to the house, but love to trek back along the tree line for adventures, and are always back home for dinner.

On Jack...Puppies are so hard. He's sweet, energetic and beginning to listen well. He's slowly losing a few bad puppy habits, only for him to remind us that he's only 7 months old by eating a shoelace, a blanket or a boot. Kevin has caved and allowed Jack to sleep in our bed; I am not a fan, but Jack's sweet brown eyes convince me it's okay, night after night.

On mowing...One day I'll ask Kevin to write a Guest Post about mowing the lawn; he'll likely turn me down, but he knows mowing a lot better than I do. His lines are straight and crisp. Mine wave and bend. He always knows what he's doing, and he has never gotten the mower stuck in the neighbor's corn field, like I may have done. What I know most about mowing is that Kevin can't wait for the grass to start growing again. I think it clears his mind and is good for his soul.

On projects...They will never, ever end. As long as Kevin has a chain saw, there will be a tree to be cut down. As long as there is wallpaper in this house, we'll need to peel it bit by bit. For every lovely textured ceiling, there will be drywall work ahead. A new set of chicks means at least one more nesting box. The garden will be bigger this year, and that means new fencing. The list could go on and on and on.

I have no doubt that we've still got a ton of learning yet to do, but in a year's time I'm pretty amazed at how far we've come. This simple life makes me happier than I can explain, and I wouldn't trade this boxy brown house for anything.

Pause. Breathe. Love (resist).

I live in America, and Donald J. Trump is my president, whether I like it or not (and, for the record, I do not). However, many Americans do like President Trump, and though I am perplexed disagree, I still respect them because several of those supporters are my neighbors, colleagues and friends. Fortunately, America is a country based upon basic freedoms and principles, and our right to free speech and disagreement with the establishment is literally at the top of the list. So here I am exercising that right, wondering why our political discussions have become so venomous and full of hate.

Undeniably, the clamor has risen since President Trump’s inauguration. There are countless Americans making noise on every side of the issues. The Right is happy and triumphant that Washington D.C. is getting “shaken up” while criticizing liberals for criticizing Trump. The Left is now head-scratching because conservatives have forgotten how they’ve criticized former President Obama for the past eight years, but now we’re supposed to give Trump a chance?

We’re a mess, and everyone is weighing in...so I am too. Politics aren’t my “thing” because they’re divisive, unkind, complicated, and heavy, yet that’s why I’m writing today. When I think about why I write, I know I write for my children to know who I am and what I stand for; it’s as simple as that. My words are my legacy to them.

So, before I get to it, may I take a minute to introduce myself? Most of you know me, and likely know where I stand. However, I’ll begin with an explanation of who I am NOT, especially since many conservatives on social media have decided to brand Liberals and left-leaning people like me in the following ways.

I am not a Special Snowflake.

Perhaps you think that’s a term reserved for those “lazy, misguided” millennials who won’t get a job and can’t handle criticism; however, it’s become very right-wing to consider liberals delicate, soft and in need of “safe spaces” to handle our feelings. Don’t worry; I won’t melt.

I am not a Libtard.

This is simply an unfortunate and discriminatory portmanteau which further emphasizes the President’s lack of compassion for those with disabilities. It’s a despicable word full of hate. Pair those who willingly use “Libtard” with Betsy DeVos and her understanding of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act, and you can begin to paint a despicable picture of overt injustice in America.

I am not a Feminazi.

The moment a woman starts talking about her right to basic freedoms, she is suddenly considered radical and extreme. How dare a woman talk about her right to equal pay for equal work, and honestly, shouldn’t every woman discuss her uterus privately? It makes people uncomfortable when we think we own it. Finally, ladies, please, please put your breasts away; don’t you know they’re sex objects. Stop feeding your baby with them -- disgusting.

I am not a Union Thug.

I’m a proud union member who believes there is a lot to be gained from a Union philosophy of “we’re all in this together” to protect the rights of those involved. Remember those Feminazi’s fighting for equal pay for equal work? Well, my Union grants me the right to be paid the same as the men who teach down the hall from me. Since I’m a pretty big fan of equity, I’m a pretty big fan of my ability to say that I am a proud union worker. Thug? Not so much.

If you know me, you know those labels don’t suit me. There is one label however, that I don’t take issue with, one that I don’t find insulting, so feel free to call me a Bleeding Heart Liberal whenever you’d like. I am proudly compassionate towards those who are downtrodden, suffering and facing injustice; I consider that kindness, while others consider it weakness. I will never apologize for seeking humanity before I seek party lines, race, religion, socioeconomic status or ethnicity. I refuse to care whether my critics believe that my strong sense of compassion and willingness to see the good in others is a flaw. I know that most conservatives say Bleeding Heart with a note of condescension, and that’s okay because I’ll gladly fall on the side of mercy, empathy and grace.

Now that we’ve gotten the name calling out of the way, I’ll gladly tell you who I AM.

I am a LEO wife...if you’re unfamiliar, a LEO is a law enforcement officer. My husband serves our community with dedication and passion that I admire and respect. Consequently, I worry every time he goes to work. Every.single.time. It doesn’t matter that he’s not on the road or in a squad every day; he and his counterparts are still always in danger because the world is broken and law enforcement officers have been demonized in ways I can’t fathom. I stand by the men and women in blue in a way that many will never understand. The tricky part is that when people only see me as a Liberal, they make the assumption that I’m anti-cop. As President Trump would say, “Wrong.” My heart breaks everytime I hear of an officer ambushed or killed in the line of duty. When I hear of those tragedies, I pray for the families of those lost and their LEO brothers and sisters, and I cry for the lives lost. What is this world coming to that the “good guys” are now the targets?

However, I still have room in my heart for those who die at the hands of police when they are unarmed or the force unwarranted. In fact, on the day of President Trump’s inauguration, one of my former students was shot in the back and killed in Chicago by an off-duty police officer. Insert all of the cliche comments you hear on the news...he was such a good kid, how could this have happened, what is the world coming to? The difference was that this time, I was able to put a face to the body under the sheet. That night I cried for Joshua Jones, the unnamed officer who killed him and for my husband and every law enforcement officer I know because they live and work in such a hostile climate. My bleeding heart always has room for compassion for everyone.

I am a mother. My children have married parents paired with the privilege of a home where our income is steady and their needs are met. I take pride in my ability to provide for them, and though we’ve had moments where we’ve struggled, we are making it through with the grace of God and our American bootstraps. I don’t helicopter because my daughter is Type-A enough to handle things, and my son will likely be a better grown up if we stand on the perimeter and let him figure it out. My kids do their own projects (but sometimes I might push ‘em along because it is taking soooo long), and I let them turn in work that is rough around the edges as long is it’s their best effort. I preach love, kindness and forgiveness; offering all in heavy doses while asking for plenty myself. We pray nightly and ask God’s blessing upon us, our nation and our world. Weird, right? I don’t over-parent my kids, I tell them to be kind and we have a steady relationship with God. But I’m a liberal?! Many think I’m supposed to hover over those precious snowflakes, and hand them unearned trophies before we head to our protest march. Nah, we’ll just keep loving our neighbors, tending our chickens and being “the resistance” from over here.

I am a teacher. My students are diverse and their home situations vary from routine stability to unimaginable disarray. They are white, black, hispanic, biracial, Muslim, Catholic, Christian, Atheist, areligious, republicans, democrats, gay, lesbian, poor, not-so-poor, college-bound, workforce-bound, military-bound, undocumented immigrants, US citizens… However, when they walk into my room they’re all “my kids.” I don’t see them for their labels, though educational bureaucracy often forces me to examine them that way. As an educator, my job is two-fold: teach the material, but also teach them to be good humans. Together we learn about literature and writing while we develop a strong work ethic, all while establishing a classroom culture built upon diversity and respect. When I sit back and think about the fact that I have 9th and 12th graders discussing and debating current events while using academic language, I become so proud of where we’ve come. Yes, you’ve read that right. In my classroom undocumented immigrants and staunch “build the wall” proponents can have an opinion-based conversation supported by facts with their emotions relatively in check. Youth group leaders are able to have conversations with their gay peers about transgender rights. White and Black students discuss current events without batting an eye. They are polite, passionate and poised. I’ve taught them to listen before they respond, and though sometimes it takes a moment or two to gather the proper phrasing or to calm their raw responses, they nearly always impress me.

“I hear what you are saying, but disagree with you because…”

“I understand your point, but if you look at it from my perspective…”

If it can happen in Room 147, why can’t it happen in the real world? Why are keyboard warriors so hell bent on screaming their message and insults so loudly that political conversations aren’t worth having? Sean Spicer should take a few lessons from my freshmen and perhaps his press briefings would feel less combative. This year’s classroom mantra: Pause. Breathe. Love.

I am an American. That makes me a multi-faceted part of this amazing melting pot. I am a card-carrying liberal gun owner in the heart of a deep red county in a blue state. I paid my own way through college,  worked two jobs, and took out loans which I am still paying on today. I hold a Master's degree and am a teacher by choice, and not out of June-July-August convenience; I believe in the potential of the students who sit in my classrooms. I live an hour away from where I grew up, but I drive back daily to teach in the community that raised me. My chickens make me happier than I like to admit, and there is an indescribable joy when I watch my garden yield its harvest. There is no one way to define or label me, and when we try to apply labels, we all fail.

We are living in a world of conflict where we are so blinded by our resounding need to be right that we forget that the people ideas we are so vehemently opposed to are held by our neighbors, friends and family. I do know that my anti-hate inspirational quotes will do little to change minds as others post their xenophobic, homophobic, racist memes. I know that this blog will be posted long after my initial shock and disbelief hit on Election Day. As I post this, my slack-jawed, stomach-turning outrage has begun to be shaped into purposeful, intentional resistance to a man and a party who does not represent the majority of the people they are meant to serve.

I won’t name call, I won’t see the world through a single lens and I won’t keep quiet. I promise that I will not keep quiet. I don't know what that will look like, but I do know I will protest through love; I will continue to allow my liberal heart to bleed all over the place while showing everyone who knows me the value of kindness, compassion and understanding.

“If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” ~Desmond Tutu