Author Archives: jtagliere

2017 Undiscovered Voices Fellowship

It’s not your imagination: it has been a while since I last posted! I have a great excuse, however: Last August, I was honored to learn that I had won the 2017 Undiscovered Voices Fellowship, sponsored by the Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland.

As the purpose of this year-long fellowship is for me to complete a “publishable” manuscript (what that actually means remains to be seen) by next summer, I have been spending less time on social media and submissions, and more time writing and taking advantage of the outstanding workshops available to me through the generosity of this fellowship.

So while you will be seeing less of me here, it’s for a very good reason, as I’m sure you’ll agree. You can still find me on my other, less time-intensive social media outlets, in case you start to miss me too much. I’ll update here, as I’m able, and perhaps even share a snippet or two of the work in progress. Wish me luck!

Click here to read my interview with the Writer’s Center about the fellowship. 🙂

 

 

Own This Brick

Well, you’re here, so you must be interested in knowing what I have to say about the #TakeAKnee-national anthem issue. I’ll try to make it worth your time.

First, a little background: If you had asked me to define patriotism, at different stages of my life, I might have given different answers. When I was a little girl, for example, it was all about the flag and the anthem. Some of that came about due to the influences of the Boy and Girl Scouts of America organizations. My siblings and I were taught from an early age to revere and respect Old Glory: the proper way to display it; how to fold it; never, ever to let it touch the ground; to remove your hat in its presence; how to properly retire worn or damaged ones (only in approved retirement ceremonies—I can count 6 flags I have disposed of in such a fashion in my adult life, FYI).

My siblings and I all participated in numerous flag ceremonies, and though I can’t speak for anyone else, I always felt an overwhelming sense of pride and awe and deep humility at participating.

That sense of pride and awe was augmented in later years by a growing sense of profound gratitude to our veterans; many members of my family have served our country faithfully and honorably, and more than one has died serving. As I grew older and learned more about their service, and the sacrifices our military men and women and their families make every single day, my determination to respect and honor our flag, as an extension of them, grew ever deeper.

To this day, I display the flag regularly at my home. Veterans Day, Memorial Day, 9/11, Flag Day—there are always flags displayed here. I stand for the national anthem and sing every single word (though I’ll confess, I didn’t know about the last verse until this week; if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you might want to click that link, because you won’t hear that sung at an NFL game).

When I see a folded flag handed to a fallen service member’s family, or hear “Taps” played beside a flag-draped coffin, it never fails to move me to humbled, grateful tears. I’m angry when I see people not remove their hats during the anthem. It distresses me when I see them talk over it, or not put their hands over their hearts. It’s not how I was raised, and it is not how I raised my children. We’ve made several pilgrimages to the National Museum of American History to see the original Star Spangled Banner, and taking them to Fort McHenry to see where the anthem was written was a highlight of one of our recent summers.

I share these things with you not because I’m trying to gain street cred with the anti-#TakeAKnee crowd; I share this with you because, if you’re one of them, I want you to know that I understand what the flag means to you. It means the same to me.

But now, if you’ll indulge me, a little more background of a completely different nature:

I could go on, but I hope, if you’re not a black person and you’ve read this far, (because my assumption is that if you’re black, you sure as shit don’t need me telling you any of this) that you are seeing a pretty blatant, systemic, and appalling pattern of inequality. If you’re white and you’ve read this far, and you’re still not seeing it, just stop reading now and go back to your Breitbart page. You’re probably a lost cause and the rest of this piece will just piss you off.

For the rest of you, I’ll continue:

Enter Colin Kaepernick. I didn’t even know who he was when he first started sitting during the anthem about a year and a half ago; when I heard about it, my initial reaction was “What a jerk! How dare he disrespect the flag like that?” (I’m sure some of you out there can relate to that response at this very moment.) Beyond the initial hubbub, I didn’t pay much attention after that. He was just one athlete, not disrupting the game, protesting some black thing or other—who knew? Like many of you (white) folks, I tuned him out and kept watching my beloved football.

But he kept sitting, and I started paying attention. Some folks—specifically, former Seahawks player and Green Beret Nate Boyer, among others—thought it was too disrespectful and encouraged him to kneel instead:

“We sorta came to a middle ground where he would take a knee alongside his teammates,” Boyer says. “Soldiers take a knee in front of a fallen brother’s grave, you know, to show respect. When we’re on a patrol, you know, and we go into a security halt, we take a knee, and we pull security.”

(https://www.cbssports.com/nfl/news/heres-how-nate-boyer-got-colin-kaepernick-to-go-from-sitting-to-kneeling/)

Interesting, huh? That Kaepernick took the advice of a former GREEN BERET on how to make his protest more respectful of veterans? Just putting that out there for folks to think about.

So, now on his knees, Kaepernick kept up his lonely practice during the anthem; the kerfuffle around it grew over the ensuing months, but, clearly, some folks still weren’t paying much attention, because:

  • Samuel DuBose, a black man pulled over for a traffic stop, was shot and killed by police; charges against the officer were dismissed (though with prejudice)
  • Sylville Smith, a black man pulled over for a traffic stop, was shot and killed by police; charges against the officer were dismissed (though there’s a LOT more to this story; you should read it)
  • Philando Castile, a black man pulled over for a traffic stop, was shot and killed by police; charges against the officer were dismissed

…and this:

  • Every black member of the 2016 University of Pennsylvania freshman class was apparently added to a racist social media group called “Mud Men.” The anonymous group’s creators then proceeded to announce an event called Daily Lynching for Nov. 17, 2016.
  • Nooses, a common hate symbol associated with our country’s terrible history of lynching, were found at the National Museum of African American History in D.C.; outside the Brooklyn Public Library and the Brooklyn Museum; near a D.C. elementary school and outside a condo in Montgomery County, MD, to name just a few
  • Richard Collins III, a newly commissioned U.S. Army second lieutenant, was stabbed to death at a Maryland bus stop by Sean Christopher Urbanski, member of a Facebook group called “Alt-Reich,” which “spews hatred toward minorities ‘and especially African-Americans,’ University of Maryland Police Chief David Mitchell said.” (http://www.cnn.com/2017/05/22/us/university-of-maryland-stabbing/index.html)
  • CHARLOTTESVILLE It’s a pretty big topic, so I’ll just leave that there for you to explore on your own. (Fun fact: As much public outcry as Charlottesville received in the media, there were only 49,900,000 results for that search on Google; The Talk got more—wonder why)
  • The United Nations issued a rare warning over ‘alarming’ racism in the U.S. (http://www.aljazeera.com/news/2017/08/issues-rare-warning-alarming-racism-170823225952827.html)

I could go on and on and on with the list of hateful, racist incidents that have happened in this country just since Colin Kaepernick first took a stand over a year ago, but—and here’s the point I’m trying to make—if I have to go on, if I have to point out more and more instances of black Americans being marginalized, penalized, brutalized, because you’re still not convinced that this protest is not about the flag or the anthem but rather is to bring attention to the real, systemic, appalling injustices being done to our fellow Americans of color, if you’re still not seeing it, then you will NEVER understand, and you, in fact, by not seeing it, are part of the problem, like it or not. You may not be an overt racist, but you are for damned sure, an enabler of racism, at minimum.

If you’ve been following my posts on Twitter and Facebook, then you’ve been seeing a lot of support for the #TakeAKnee movement. That decision was not made lightly or without consideration on my part. I love my country. I love my flag. I love my national anthem. I am grateful every single damned day to the veterans who have served, sacrificed, fought, and died under that flag, and the idea of causing them one IOTA of pain by having them believe this protest is about THEM, is a disrespect to THEM, is anyone somehow spitting on them, is one of the most painful misconceptions surrounding this entire movement.

There’s an old saying that goes, “God whispers in our souls and speaks to our hearts. Sometimes when we don’t have time to listen, He has to throw a brick at us.” Right now, like many Americans, maybe you’re feeling like Kaepernick and the NFL and the NBA and the MLB and Stevie Wonder and Eddie Vedder and Dale Earnhardt, Jr. are throwing bricks right at your face, and those bricks fucking hurt.

I understand, I do. I understand that maybe a lot of people in this country wish with all their hearts we could all go back to standing together again, proudly pretending under the flag and anthem of our United States that those hallowed symbols mean the same to everyone else as they have meant to so many others, myself included, their whole lives.

But we, America, have been failing people of color in this country for generations, and it is time for us to stop pretending and start uniting around fixing that. A piece of fabric, no matter how hallowed, or a song, no matter how revered, is not a person. It’s not a country. There are real people in this country, with real problems. They have tried everything to get our attention—violent protests, peaceful protests, sit-ins, walkouts, boycotts, you name it (just ask The Daily Show’s Trevor Noah: “When Is The Right Time For Black People To Protest?”), and somehow, we’re still not listening. How is that even possible, that we could be so blind and deaf to each other?

So they threw a brick, and they knelt during something we have always held dear. And it hurts. It’s painful. It “denigrates our traditions” and “our historic belief system.” It “disrespects our core values.” It’s “offensive.” I get it.

But you know what’s more offensive? Forcing people to practice someone else’s belief system. You want to stand? Stand. No one is stopping you. They want to kneel? Let them kneel. It’s their right, and their exercising of that right takes nothing away from your right to exercise yours.

For most of my life, when I have looked up at the flag, when I have listened to the national anthem, I have felt nothing but pride, love, gratitude and respect that I had the great good fortune to be born an American, and all the rights and benefits and privileges that that birthright affords me—just because I was born lucky.

But I also had the great good fortune to be born white, and therefore, I enjoy all the rights and benefits and privileges that that affords me, again, just because I was born “lucky.” This is an important point here, so please forgive the shouty caps, but: EQUALITY SHOULD NEVER COME AS A RESULT OF LUCK.

We may say in this country that “All Men Are Created Equal,” but it’s for damned sure that from the moment of their creation, Americans of color sure as hell are not treated as equal.

If they were, if things like I posted earlier in this piece did not happen every single day to black Americans in every city, in every county, in every state of our entire country, no one would feel compelled to protest. Black Americans would all be able to stand proud, in awe, in gratitude, in respect of how good their country has been to them. But, unlike for white Americans, that is simply not the case for far too many. Their experiences under our flag have been vastly different than those of white Americans, and those experiences continue to present a dauntingly, dishearteningly formidable barrier to their attainment of all the good that our country could do for them, but historically, has not.

As a child, I didn’t see that. As a young adult, I began to see it, but didn’t yet understand it. Now, in my middle age, I’m trying my hardest to open my eyes wide and see that brick for what it is, to recognize it, to name it, to own it, no matter how it hurts, no matter how it shatters the rose-colored glasses I’d viewed my country—or myself—with up until now.

Maybe you feel like, because you’re not overtly racist in your everyday life, that that’s enough; that passive, complacent non-engagement will somehow magically make things better for any blacks who are still somehow feeling angry or frightened or oppressed in this day and age (go figure!) rather than just feeling grateful that they’re being “allowed” to make money or that they’re not being “shot in the head.” But that’s not enough, not when people are being incarcerated, are being brutalized, are being denied their votes, are, in point of fact, being shot down in the streets, in ways that white people can never fully imagine.

We, white America, we created this #TakeAKnee brick, by not listening, by not understanding, by living on in blissful, willful ignorance of the suffering of people of color around us every day. We own this brick. If it hurts, now that it’s hitting us, we deserve it. We can either take that brick and use it as the foundation of renewed efforts to try to build something better for EVERYONE in this country, or we can hurl it right back at the protesters and keep on revering something that only applies to some Americans and leaves all others scrabbling in the dust we leave behind. We can choose to call them ungrateful, traitors, garbage, vilify them for exercising their constitutionally-protected right to free speech—all because they are trying to open our eyes to their pain, a pain that we, in our ignorance, in our complacency, in our failure to hear and to help, perpetuate. OR we can choose to listen.

I know what I feel called to do, what I choose to do. I love my country. I love my flag. I love my national anthem. I respect in every possible way our veterans and their service. When they play the anthem, I will still stand, hand over my heart. My eyes will still fill with tears when I hear “Taps” play, and I will still bow my head and remember with gratitude the honor and sacrifice of all the men and women who served and sacrificed under that flag so that I could live free. I will do these things not out of blind allegiance, not out of stubborn, fossilized patriotic sentiment, and not out of willful ignorance of what those people kneeling are trying to tell me or as a slam that my patriotism is somehow more authentic and sincere than theirs. I will stand because I still love my country, because I still respect the better angels of our nature and our history, and because yes, for me, those symbols still represent the most important American principle of all: that ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL. I will stand FOR the right for ALL Americans to kneel, to protest, to stand, to sit, to sing, to be silent, however they choose to exercise their right to work toward that principle becoming a reality for every American. That is my choice. Kneel beside me, or stand beside me, I respect your choice and your freedom, no greater or less than mine, to express it.

But then, to my brothers and sisters who choose to kneel with respect and with humility, with quiet, dignified desperation, who are pleading for us to hear the cries of need coming from black communities all over this country, to them, I will extend my hand and tell them, “I see you. I hear you. I am with you. How can I help?”

Please, don’t call the kneelers garbage. Don’t call them traitors. Don’t imply that your love of country is somehow greater than anyone else’s, or that your need to revere our country’s symbols is greater than another’s need to try help others enjoy the same opportunities and privileges you experience, things they are systemically denied because of the virulent racism still poisoning our country. Their kneeling takes nothing away from your standing; it only gives a voice to the voiceless, and it’s time for us all to listen.

We are all Americans, flawed and struggling and imperfect. As Americans, we have the right to speak out against true injustice, against true inequality, and what’s more, as human beings, we have the obligation—that’s one of the things this country was founded upon, and it’s one of the principles generations of Americans have fought and died to defend. So don’t spit on people who are exercising those rights to try to make this country a better place for all.

It’s not about the flag. It’s not about the anthem. It’s not about veterans. If you still think it is, after reading this whole long, damned piece, then I respect your right to disagree, to be pissed, to nurture your hurt in your determination to see it that way. But, with respect, it’s simply not—it’s a brick, and now that it’s got your attention, it’s time for us to take that brick and use it to build something better for everyone (and it won’t be a goddamned wall, either), something worth flying a flag over.

That’s all I have to say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Color Blind” At The Bookends Review

Sending out a brief message of heartfelt gratitude today to The Bookends Review for publishing my first flash fiction story ever, “Color Blind.” Caveats: 1. ) No animals were harmed in the writing of this piece (although, please, let that serve as a trigger warning for all you animal lovers out there); 2.) Caribbean blue is a color; Paris green is a poison. Good to know. Here’s to trying new things!

(Uh, unless you’re talking about poisons…)

To read the piece, please visit: http://thebookendsreview.com/2017/07/31/color-blind/

 

 

 

 

All I Need To Know About Life I Just Learned From Wonder Woman

I went and saw Wonder Woman last night with my husband, our two teenaged sons, and our college-bound daughter. It wasn’t my first superhero movie; we’ve seen enough of those that one might even call me a bit jaded about the genre (except for Groot; I love Groot). But one would be wrong to call me jaded today, now that I’ve seen this movie.

I loved it—no, I reveled in it, in ways I never expected and will probably never be able to fully explain, particularly to men who already don’t get it. For days, I’ve been seeing stories about the movie’s impact, particularly on women and girl viewers; it’s a game-changer, but hard to express in words, because the impact is so visceral—or at least, it was to me.

So instead of an explanation that would likely fall far short of any sort of clarity, I’m going with this list of life lessons—and some lighter-hearted observations—I took away from the movie (it’ll make more sense to you if you see the movie first). I find them to be significant, and seeing them up there on the big screen was not only monumental, but also a reminder that other people thought so, too.

Oh, and if you’re worried about spoilers–just go see the damned movie!

  1. Listen to your sister. We women spend far too much time tearing each other down, ignoring not only the wisdom, the life experiences, the different perspectives each one of us brings to the world, but also the shared life experiences we all have in common, no matter who we are. If we spent more time listening to the women around us, hearing their stories—not just our mothers and sisters, but every woman—just imagine how much we could learn from each other, and how powerful we could become.

 

  1. Dress to fight. This isn’t about literally fighting, for most of us—this is about loving the body you are given. Love its curves, love its strength, love its softness, love all the amazing things it can do. Dress in a way that makes you feel good about you, because nobody else’s opinion matters. Addendum: Edna Mode may have been mistaken about capes.

 

  1. A woman doesn’t “need” a man, any more than a man “needs” a woman. If you’re a man reading this, don’t get your jock strap in a bunch yet; just hear me out: Women are smart, women are competent, and women are strong. Virtually all the things women used to believe they “needed” a man to do for them or on their behalf (provide for their household financially, teach their children*, heal them, provide spiritual guidance, vote for them, fight for them, rescue them,  govern them—well, that one’s another post altogether) they can do for themselves now. It may unnerve some men to think about it, but researchers say they’re even getting closer to a woman not even needing a man to reproduce.

By the same token, however, and I hope that this relaxes that pinching jockstrap a bit, a man doesn’t really “need” a woman, either. Thanks to the enlightenment of the past few decades, we know men can do virtually everything we used to think they “needed” a woman to do: cook, clean, sew, raise babies (and not just in some Mr. Mom doofus kind of way),  teach our children*, nurse, grocery shop, do laundry. So yeah, a man doesn’t need a woman, and a woman doesn’t need a man, except…

 

  1. A human needs a human. Just because we’re strong, competent, and smart, doesn’t mean that we can function in this world alone. We need others, need those strong, enduring, steadfast relationships that we can count on every minute of every day—whether it’s a man or a woman, a parent, a spouse, or a best friend. While we can do many things for ourselves, without the aid or assistance of any particular man or woman, we are not designed to be alone, so a woman needs a man, a man needs a man, a woman needs a woman, and a man needs a woman. We need each other.
  2. If you’re a man reading this, try not to be one of these.

    If you’re a woman reading this, never hesitate to make your voice heard, especially  if you are the only woman in any room, ever, that looks like this:

 

  1. If you have the chance to change the world for the better, leap that chasm, climb that tower, launch that boat, cross that ocean, toss that goddamned tank.
  2. Don’t grab the only gas mask. Put others, particularly the weak, the poor, and the vulnerable, ahead of yourself.

 

8. Demand Truth in all things, especially from yourself.

9. Learn to speak a foreign language.

  1. We all, every one of us, have more power inside us than we know. Whenever possible, use it to do good in the world. Temper justice with mercy.

Well, that’s about it for now; I tried to be as succinct as possible. If you haven’t seen the movie yet, go. If you have kids, take them, too, and talk to them afterwards, both the boys and the girls, about what they saw, what they thought, and how they think the world around them should be. They are, after all, our future.  Lastly, I will leave you with a prediction: Cuff bracelets are going to be HUGE this year:

Lynda Carter, you’ll always be my first superhero.

*Funny how, for a long time, only men could be teachers; then, for a while, teaching was considered women’s work. A great example of how arbitrary perceptions can be.

 

Inside the Ring

You may notice my ring—the chunky, silver peace symbol against a field of black I often wear on my right ring finger—and, given today’s climate, you may think you know something about me. Once, its symbolism may have conjured thoughts of “hippies” or “peaceniks,” but today, more likely, it conjures an image of a “snowflake,” or perhaps even a “libtard.” Maybe you look at my ring and think, “What a liberal, running out and buying a peace ring, of all things. Hippy freak.”

 

Well, as they often are, looks can be deceiving. You see, this ring I wear so often, it’s not even mine—well, it wasn’t originally. I inherited it from my mother, when she passed away in 1996. Was she a hippy or a peacenik in her day? Probably so—I mean, the ring was originally hers, after all, and she was a raging liberal in her later years. She had it for a very long time, as evidenced by family pictures that have come to mean so much to me now, twenty years after her death; so yes, it’s likely she was an original hippy freak.

The first picture in which the ring appears made us both “famous,” at least in our local community. I was four years old, and Mom had decided to take me ice skating for the first time. As you can see from the image, it was not something I took to willingly. A photographer for our local newspaper, The Rockford Register Star, saw my mother smiling and laughing, and me, wailing and fussing, and thought it was a cute human interest pic (sadist).

Notice the ring. More than forty years have passed since that picture was taken, and the hand wearing that ring is long gone, but still, sometimes, when I look at her ring on my finger now, I can almost feel her hands holding me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She died before any of my children were born, and that was a source of great pain for me in those early years of motherhood. I longed to have the support and advice and connection with her and my children that most of my friends enjoyed with their mothers, who were all still living. That my kids would grow up never knowing who she had been hurt me terribly, and so began my perpetual campaign to teach them all about her, to let them know her through me.

Sometime early in my daughter’s life, I decided that I wanted to recreate the ice skating picture with her that I’d had with my mother (hopefully with a bit less trauma), so when she turned 4, we headed to the skating rink for her first time. I asked my husband to take a picture of us.

Notice the ring on my finger (and notice the smile on her face, so unlike her mother). On my dresser now, years later, the pictures, one of me and my mother and her ring, and the other of me and my daughter and the same ring, are a concrete, tangible link from one precious life, one precious love, to the other.

I wanted to repeat the experience with my older son when he turned four, but we could never get him to be still on dry land, let alone on ice. We didn’t make it to the ice rink with him until he was around seven, and although I made sure to wear my mother’s ring and forego a glove on that hand, the opportunity for a picture never arose. But I know it happened, and I know that each time I reached down and helped my son back to his feet, I saw the ring on my hand, and felt my mother there with us.

When my youngest son turned four, he desperately wanted skating lessons, so I willingly obliged. This time, it was just the two of us at the rink. He was so excited and happy to be on the ice that I didn’t want to stop him with a picture; I let him zip around to his heart’s content, and in the joy of watching him, I completely forgot. It wasn’t until our next lesson that I remembered and asked another mom in the group to take a picture when the lesson ended.

Notice the ring.

Look through our family pictures for the last two decades, and you will likely see that ring on my hand in most of them. I have other rings, prettier, daintier rings, of course; beautiful, delicate confections that my husband has lovingly chosen for me. When I dress up for date night or a wedding or what have you, I choose one of those, and my mother’s ring stays at home on my ring stand.  But still, most ordinary days, my mother’s big, solid, chunky peace symbol winds up on my finger. Its weight grounds me somehow; the knowledge that she walked this earth with it wrapped around her own finger makes me feel she is nearby, no matter where I am. Wearing it brings me peace and comfort and often, fortitude, in difficult situations.

I wish I’d had a camera with me last week, when we traveled to the Virgin Islands on spring break with our kids. As I always do, I wore my mother’s ring during the flights, which are difficult for me, and though I wasn’t planning on doing so, I slipped the ring on as we left to go snorkeling for the first time.

I was terrified. Something about no bottom I could touch with my feet, no poolside I could grab with my hands, filled me with silly horror. But my youngest son wanted to swim with the sea turtles, so there I was, taking a catamaran to Turtle Cove, quaking in my life vest and flippers. I rubbed my mother’s ring repeatedly, looking for calm and trying not to cry as I climbed down the ladder. I so wanted to do this for my two sons and my husband, to not let being afraid stop me from living.

Credit: https://www.emaze.com/@ACWZWWRO/Presentation-Name

After a few minutes in the water (and with the help of a pink pool noodle one of our guides tossed me), I began to relax. Then came the moment when our guide told us to look down, there were turtles right below us. I stuck my face in the water and searched all around beneath me—there. There they were. Two enormous turtles, gliding ever so slowly across the bottom. As I waved my hands gently in front of me to keep myself from drifting away from them, a flash of silvery light caught my eye. It was my mother’s ring.

I remembered, then, how when my siblings and I were kids, she had told us she’d always wanted to be a marine biologist (she became an English teacher instead, better with words than with math). I remembered, also, taking her to the dolphin show at the zoo the summer before she died, and how tightly she’d gripped my hand when the dolphin leaped above the water’s surface. I remembered her trembling at their power and beauty, remember how her eyes shone as she looked at me and squeezed my hand even tighter.

She would’ve loved this, I thought as I floated above the turtles. How I wish she could be here.

Then I remembered—she was.

I looked down at the turtles beneath me and went completely still. I moved my hand, moved my mother’s ring, before my face, so that it looked as if my hand were touching the turtles’ shells, as if, linked by her silvery ring, our hands, together, were gliding across their backs.

As I write this now, the only piece of jewelry I’m wearing is her ring. When I hit the Enter key or move the mouse, the ring glints in the morning light coming through my office window.

Notice my ring. Yes, it’s a peace symbol, a call sign for hippies, peaceniks, and snowflakes alike. Yes, it’s big and it’s clunky, not delicate or expensive or particularly feminine. But for me, wearing my mother’s ring has never been about what’s on the outside—it’s always been about all that it has held inside.