We all need a tribe

 Each of us, we want to and need to belong...to be a part of something; a group, a team, some gathering that we wear the colors and know the history.

In my work with folks with cross-disabilities and the amazing group of self-advocates with whom I am fortunate to advocate, an initial effort was a PhotoVoice Project we called, "LIVING TOGETHER IS AN ART."  

One part of the effort was for persons to identify their social capital, individuals and groups, who, outside of family, they connected to and joined in, their posse.  

The number one answer: Steelers Nation.  It's true.  Anyone from here, Yinzers all,  has a color-palette of black and gold and organizes one's autumn calendar with the Steelers schedule. 

We need to belong.

In my elementary school days on St. Patrick's Day it seemed everyone wore green.  I did until the year Mary McGregor (any guess to her lineage?) approached me and said, "Why are you wearing green?!!?  Your last name is Snyder. That's German. You're not Irish."  I'm not sure if she also approached the Fancella kid or the Witenski classmate, yet, for whatever reason she zeroed-in on me.

I went home from school that day crestfallen.  

Ever observant, my mum asked me what happened in school. When I told her my encounter with perhaps Freeport's youngest member of the IRA, mum said, "O, you're plenty Irish."

She then told me that my dad's grandmother, Fammie, came directly from Ireland, had red hair and even had that great Irish brogue.  Later, I named my first car, a stick-shift, red Dodge Colt, Fammie, in her honor.

The point of this little tale is before we make our first action to seek out and circle and then exclude who we feel doesn't belong, let us make our first action to always be to welcome and include. No one, no matter what age, ever likes to be told "you're not" or "you don't belong."

On this St. Patrick's Day, I, with my freckles and in memory of Fammie, will raise a pint to Ireland!  

All in!

Thanks, Pat!

 

I always feel the connected energy in gatherings when the names of the ancestors are raised and to each name all in gathered chorus respond,  "Presente!

All of us, yet definitely we who are engaged in the labor of social justice, must always know and re-member (as in bring them in) and thank all those who toiled in a time we struggle to believe ever happened, so shocking is what their efforts overcame for us all.

That said, I was saddened at the news of the passing of Pat Schroeder, elected member from Colorado of the US House of Representatives and feminist trailblazer. 

Not that we have yet to make glass-ceiling breaking inroads, yet we have made increases. Shroeder was in office during a time when she had to battle for a woman's restroom to be installed in the halls of power, helped pass the 1978 Pregnancy Discrimination Act which barred employers from discriminating against women because they were pregnant and denying them maternity benefits; and, as she was being blatantly questioned to whether she could be both a mother and a legislator she famously responded, "I have a brain and a uterus and I use both."

As I listened to the NPR reporter tell of Schroeder's career, her great verbal retorts, her courage and efforts that moved society every forward, I said aloud, "Thanks, Pat."

In not just the 31 days of Women's History Month, may we always learn and tell the stories of yes, the ancestors in our own lineages, yet, also those of women whose tales and lived experiences are as yet unknown to us.

I broke the gender barrier in the South Buffalo Little League. I did this in large part because my three older brothers played catch and "21" with me quite regularly. My mother loved me for who I am and realized early on I was most comfortable in blue jeans and sweatshirts not dresses and bows and bought me packs of ball cards and rubber balls that I could throw against the garage. My father encouraged and took me to sign-ups.

On my Little League team, the T-Birds, I was good. I played third and pitched.  

One particular contest, I was on the mound throwing a good game. My parents and one of my brothers, who cheered, "Throw smoke, Sally!" were in attendance. At one point, another parent watching me pitch exclaimed, "Wow, that boy can sure pitch!"  At which point my father walked over to the man and said, "The pitcher is my daughter and you're right, yes, she can."

Neighborhood Games

 

The recent days of sunshine and warming weather call the neighborhood kids out to play. There are games that seem to be played by children across the generations. One of those is kickball. 

As I walked around the park, the  game was about to begin and the kids were choosing sides....sigh...one of the first "how do you measure up" lessons in life. 

A few of the kids promptly sat down. Most likely having been through this selection process many times before they knew they were not going to be an early pick and as one said, "Might as well get comfy." 

I spent many a spring and summer playing kickball with the neighborhood gang.  

Reflecting, there were lessons learned such as in rule-making and claiming the power so to do: "Three fouls and you're out. I called it!"  

There were lessons in strategy: "Kick it to Lisa, she won't catch it."

And, sadly, there were lessons in clue-less, competitive cruelty: "Yinz have to take Scott, cause we had him yesterday and it's your turn."  

Could it be we learned these lessons too well and have carried them into communities and congregations deciding in ways blatant and more nuanced who we want in, who we choose to invite, include and involve, who we discard, who we never give a second look.

Some may roll their eyes and say, it was just a kids kickball game, you've gone way off with this one.

Perhaps. 

Yet, I am reminded of this line from the film MY GIRL as Vada, when asked what she knows of heaven. responds, "In heaven when you play sports there's no teams, so nobody gets picked last."