by Rev. Missy Ashton, ADF

Let me tell you a story.

There once was a young girl in North India named Gotamī, called Kisā Gotamī by her family, because she was so lean and thin. Her family was very poor, and fortune favored her with a wealthy husband. After many years of ridicule at her inability to bear a child, she brought to term a beautiful baby boy. When he was only three, the boy fell ill and died in the night. Kisā Gotamī was inconsolable, so much so that she would not let them take his body from her for last rites. She insisted physicians and healers be brought to her to bring her son back, but none were able to do so. Finally, someone suggested she go and see the Buddha at the monastery who was a great healer as well as a great teacher. 

She took her son’s body and laid it at the feet of the Buddha, pleading with him to give her back her precious son. The Buddha told her he would be happy to do so if she would only bring him a pinch of mustard seeds from the house of a family who has known no loss. The woman left her son in the Buddha’s gentle care and went door to door, asking each family if they have experienced loss. Each family shared their own story with her, because every family had a tale of woe to tell. By the time she reached the end of the village, though she had not found a single family who was spared the pain of loss, Kisā Gotamī found within herself the ability to begin accepting the death of her son and take the first steps on the path to healing. 

I share this tale with you as an example of the importance of dialogue, of sharing stories, and most importantly, of listening to others. Creating safe space for people to share, even and especially when their emotions rise up during the retelling, is an important part of building the relationships we need to change our culture. Active listening leads to greater understanding. It adds to perspective and improves our ability to feel empathy with those around us. From the vantage point of true connection, we can readily feel compassion as their stories flood our own senses, reminding us of our own losses. We may not be able to understand exactly what someone is going through, but we can relate to the need to find healing in the face of traumatic and heart-wrenching events in our lives. 

Moving through the world with compassion is a simple. Compassion derives from the Latin, com, together, and pati, to suffer, meaning “to suffer together.” When we give our undivided attention to those around us and learn to suffer with them, putting aside our desire to problem-solve as well as any judgments that arise, we connect with them on a heart-level that serves to help us all to heal together. 

by Axel Yantosca, MAGpie Seer and Secretary

Kindreds all, 
Grant me the strength to continue when all seems lost, 
The Grace to accept that which I cannot change, 
And the compassion to still love others amid a sea of chaos.

Today I did things. I finally felt accomplished. I found myself down to my last pair of clean underwear, the towels and sheets far overdue for a cleaning, and so I had to venture out into the vast unknown to the laundromat to remedy this before starting my hellishly long-hour work week. Also, my groceries were near depleted and I knew that in my outing I must also acquire the nourishments. Then there was the issue of my last pair of jeans that had finally gotten a pesky, unrepairable hole and my work boots that were so worn down I could no longer wear them for a few hours without my feet eliciting so much pain that I was glad no one could see me wince in pair because of the now-mandated PPE facemasks from work. So, I added those items to the list. These last two to-do-list items were not easy feats. 

Grocery stores have remained open during this crisis and so had the laundromat. But clothing stores and places one could obtain steel toe shoes for women? No such luck, these types of establishments aren’t really essential, even if in this moment to me they desperately were. I could order these items online to be shipped to me, praying to the Kindreds that when they arrived in a few weeks that they would fit properly. But what would I wear to work tomorrow? I had plenty of leggings, athletic pants, sweats and whatnot, but all of these pants were strictly forbidden and my somewhat sexist management people have made it clear just how inappropriate they are for the workplace. I was so lost and feeling defeated.

Then I saw it. Drive thru pants from Kohls. I had bought pants there before and so I knew what brand and size I could reasonably get away with without trying them on. I could order then online, pay for them online and I would get an email about picking them up. Then I would drive to the store wait in a designated parking spot, the lady would scan my email barcode through the window and deposit the item into my trunk without ever coming into contact with anyone. I cried tears of joy, I would not be wearing ripped pants to work. I would not be getting written up or sent home because I lacked the ability to obtain properly fitting appropriate work pants. 

My last stop was the boot conundrum. Usually we have a steel toe boot truck that comes to work once a month. I get a stipend from work every year to buy a new pair of steel toed shoes. I was cleared to do so after April 28. The boot truck announced they would no longer be coming over to campus on April 20. No May boot truck. No boots for me; I was about 20 days off from qualifying for the last truck at the beginning of the month. My options now are as stands: Order shoes over the phone that I have never tried on, wait for them to ship, and pray that they aren’t worse than the pair I currently have. Do nothing and wait for the pandemic to subside enough for the boot truck to resume. Or go to Walmart and try on whatever options I have to quell my immediate suffering. 

I opted for Walmart. My options were a pitiful three types of shoes. I found one I liked that fit okay for really cheap. We will see how they hold up to 12 hour, 10 miles a day shifts. I longingly gazed at the men’s selection; all twenty types of steel toes wishing men’s shoes went down to a size 5 so I could at least have the option of men’s shoes. But alas, I had to settle for not ideal, knowing that this small sacrifice was so small compared to the horrors people on the front lines were facing. 

I returned home and I wept. In an apartment that was a cage for my ever-increasing depression, I had felt trapped. Too tired to accomplish any Pinterest-inspired quarantine goals, barely able to function normally. Dishes often sat in the sink for far too long, vacuuming was a distant memory, any hope of “being creative” and using this downtime to “be productive” were just pipe dreams and wishful thinking. 

Today, was different. I didn’t accomplish everything I wanted to do, but it was the things I needed and it was the things that in this moment I felt like I could tackle. Sometimes we have to remind ourselves that this world is evolving and the changes are bound to knock us off our best and that’s okay. As for today, I am grateful for drive-thru pants. 

​I had not been back to the place of my birth in about five years. I had not seen my old friends for almost a decade. When I moved to beautiful Colorado to start my life over, I had given little consideration to the place of my upbringing. Even now that part of my life seems more distant in my memory that it was altogether almost forgotten. My heart is heavy under the weight of the lessons I learned upon returning to my return.

My brother’s wedding was a beautiful affair. It was well planned and joyful and full of hospitality and good will. I have never seen him happier than on that day. The days I spent with my family were indeed the highlight of my trip. In truth, the wedding was only part of my reasons for taking the journey home. The other half was to reacquaint myself with my friends from childhood and college that I had not seen in quite some time.

I am saddened by my journey here because it was a slow process to realize that sometimes you outgrow friendships. One friend I met with was more interested in selling me a fitness lifestyle than reconnecting with me. I could barely get a word in edgewise. I feel like I missed an opportunity to share all the good things happening in my life. 

With other friends, there was a moment where I sat and looked out at someone who had been essential to my very existence and realized they were a stranger to me now. I don’t think they had changed much. Older yes, more life experience sure, but overall their views hadn’t grown, their perspectives unexamined, never being forced to leave the cocoon of privilege we all grew up in. The difference between the two of us was that I could not live in ignorance because I was now the “other.” 

“Well, I’ve always called you boo. That’s your nickname. I’ll call you that instead.”
“I’m just preprogrammed to call you Alicia. It’s just been that way for so long its hard to change it now.”

Because I am so indifferent about pronouns, I thought that it would bother me less to hear my old legal name being used currently. After all, I put up with it in professional and medical situations. But it actually hurt so much more than I ever imagined to hear people that I used to care very deeply about dig their heels in on such a simple change. Even after taking the energy to explain being a non-binary person and what it meant to me and how it fits in with my identity. Even after explaining that it was important to me. At a certain point, I feel like there are some things you shouldn’t have to ask from my friends.

I spent hours of my time trying to explain that feminism is about equal rights, that the term “special snowflake” and “safe space” are terms being used by political dishonest groups to infantilize large groups of their opposition and demean and obfuscate valid points, arguments and factual information that does not suit the right-wing agenda. I just wanted these people I loved to understand that they are confronted with bias every day and to think critically about where it is coming from and how just randomly spouting back unsubstantiated facts can be really harmful to the friend sitting right in front of your face. At a certain point, saying that you love people for who they are is not enough to call yourself an ally. I should not have to spend all my energy explaining to you why you’re being unintentionally shitty. All this time you have known how I identify and you didn’t ask me for clarification and you didn’t do independent research so that you wouldn’t have to burden me with your reactions. 

I am so happy that you can afford to be unpolitical, and privileged enough to not need to do research about anything you hear, and blessed to be able to walk on this planet without worrying about losing your job, housing, healthcare or other opportunities because you are a cis-white American individual. Equality dies when lackadaisical allies do the orthopraxic dance and ceremonial flag waving without any substance or real content. Call me by my Name, or does your support only matter in June when you come into my space, and march with my people, to celebrate our victories and progress. Call me by my Name, or is your ally-ship only matter when you get to adorn yourself in rainbows and tell your more conservative friends that you are “so supportive of your LGBT friend.” Call me by my Name, or is your comfort and your habits more important than my mental health. Call me by my Name. It is such a simple request. Call me by my Name. 

So here we are; you on your side, waving this ignorant flag of acceptance and love and friendship and sunshine, and I on my side, wondering why you can’t hear me screaming over the sound of a flag waving in the breeze.