Month: August 2020

Published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette, 8/19/2020

When I was a sophomore in college, I got a job waiting tables at a rib joint near my apartment. It was the first time I worked closely with Black people and poor people. Or, maybe I had worked with poor people but didn’t realize it because I thought of myself that way, too.

That year and the following summer, I worked long hours between the restaurant and my on-campus job so that I could bank enough money to support myself during my junior year when I planned to study abroad in Europe.

I was excited about my upcoming travels and was talking about them one day with the dishwasher, a young Black man, who I knew lived in public housing. He said, “Whoa, Jackie, you’re gonna go on a plane?” He said this in a way that told me flying was something he never expected to experience.

That conversation opened my inexperienced eyes to the differences among those around me. It sparked my curiosity to learn more about people, where they come from, and how they’ve had different experiences than I. I began this journey more than 30 years ago and I plan to keep learning.

That said, I still find myself saying awkward things, sometimes even offending people unintentionally. I know I have used microaggressions without intending to. For example, in the past I’ve described a person of color as “articulate” and later learned that this is not acceptable because it conveys my white surprise upon coming across a person of color who speaks well.

It’s mortifying when I realize that I’ve said something stupid, but I try to get over myself and apologize, knowing that my embarrassment is insignificant compared to the injury I’ve caused. I pledge to do better and make fewer mistakes as I continue to learn.

I had a new-learning experience after reading about Steve Locke, a professor at Massachusetts College of Art and Design, who in 2015 was detained by police in Jamaica Plain because they thought he fit the description of someone who attempted a break-in. Steve Locke is Black.

Professor Locke wrote a blog post that went viral and resurfaces from time to time after similar incidents make the news. In his account, Locke wrote about his intense fear as the police questioned him in the street. He described how grateful he was that an older Black woman stayed nearby the whole time, bearing witness to the scene.

Here’s what made me pause; the officers wanted to bring the white female victim to the scene to see if she could identify him. Professor Locke said he was not guilty and provided an alibi, but that didn’t matter because the police needed the word of the white woman to clear him. It dawned on me then that we are socialized to believe white people over people of color. I just hadn’t thought about it before even though it seems so obvious.

I write about this as the U.S. seems to be on the verge of creating deep and lasting change. There is momentum to build an equitable and just society, but we have to come to terms with the roots of racism in our country and how that racism exacerbates inequality and access to things like housing and education.

As a white person who advocates for social justice, it’s on me to do the work of understanding my privilege and the role it plays in systemic racism. It’s up to me to recognize that microaggressions are real and harmful and that if I choose not to speak up when I see racial injustice, it’s just as bad as the injustice itself. I’ve been learning this at my own pace over years but it’s critical to work on it now.

The movement needs white people to get up to speed quickly (seriously, these issues have been around for 400 years – so it’s kind of high time) so we can collectively take advantage of this moment to make the change that’s needed. This sense of urgency can lead some activists to be impatient with those who have good intentions and a desire to be an ally, but who sometimes say and do things that are harmful to people of color.

As I’ve described above, I’ve made these mistakes and they’re part of learning how to be an ally. We don’t know what we’ve done wrong until we’ve crossed a boundary.

I understand the urgency of the moment, but I have no patience for the “call out” culture that’s been emerging among some white activists. Calling someone out on Facebook for using the wrong word or expressing an uninformed opinion is not helpful. Shaming someone when they have good intentions but make a mistake does not encourage them to do better. In fact, this tactic often backfires and instead of helping people learn, it shames them into silence and the movement begins to splinter.

When I know someone has good intentions but they make a mistake, I try to take them aside and talk about the issues and offer another perspective. It doesn’t have to take long, it demonstrates respect, and it builds trust.

Calling someone in rather than calling them out is worth it. We need all the allies we can get in the fight for change.

Published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette, 7/28/2020

Just about two months ago, my mother walked unaided into the emergency department of a hospital in Rhode Island while my brother watched from his car. Because of the pandemic, he was not allowed to accompany her into the hospital. She had no idea why she was there.

My mom has advanced dementia from Alzheimer’s disease. She also has a number of other medical diagnoses: rheumatoid arthritis, high blood pressure, anemia and other related complications.

Despite all these issues, my mom had been living pretty happily at an assisted living facility. Within the past year she moved to their memory care unit where she interacted well with her peers and was active and engaged with staff. She walked around on her own without the aid of a walker and she was adamant that she was not going to use one.

At her assisted living, Mom was known for her sunny disposition, sarcastic wit and willingness to help anyone who needed it. My family has felt lucky that she has had this quality of life for the past several years and we’re grateful to the staff at her residence as well as her primary care physician.

Not that there haven’t been difficult times. Mom has had her share of hospital visits over the past five years, and because of her Alzheimer’s disease, my siblings and I would take turns spending the day at her bedside when these occurred.

She isn’t able to serve as an accurate reporter of her condition, so we’d take on that role. Having us there also cut down on her confusion, which meant she’d call out for help from the staff less often. It’s a system that worked well for everyone.

So, when she was sent to the hospital in May because she was dealing with a medical issue, we weren’t ready for the quick deterioration that followed. None of us was allowed to go see her and while we tried to be in regular contact with the hospital staff, it often seemed like the history and information we gave them was not being used or passed to the next shift.

When my mom ended up at a skilled nursing facility for rehab, the communication problems worsened. My siblings and I tried to stay on top of what was happening with her treatment and tried to assess when she might be able to return to her assisted living, but we often felt like we weren’t getting the whole story of what was happening. When we’d talk to my mom, she was confused and angry. Her declining moods got worse. She’d ask when we were going to come get her and we’d fib and tell her we’d be there soon. Not being able to see her in person was so hard.

After 40 days at the nursing home, she was sent back to the hospital with a fever and infection. The staff didn’t know she was able to walk and assumed she couldn’t. Because she was verbally combative, they gave her tranquilizers to keep her from disrupting other patients. When we’d call to talk to her, her speech was slurred and she’d fall asleep during the call. By the end of two weeks in the hospital my mom had regressed even further and was barely eating.

On July 13, the visitation policy in Rhode Island changed and I was finally able to visit my mom. I was the first member of my family to see my mom’s face in two months.

Her first words to me were, “Why can’t you just let me die? I just want to die.” My heart broke. We ended up having a bittersweet visit. She told me she loved me and all of the family. I’m not sure she knew exactly who I was. She fell asleep after half an hour.

I can’t fully blame the hospital or nursing home for my mom’s decline. The U.S. health care system is in a terrible state; nurses and CNAs are asked to take on more than they can handle and it’s not fair to them. But I’m sure if we had been with my mom, things would not have gotten so bad.

The rules preventing visitation are also reasonable and intended to protect a vulnerable population from getting coronavirus. It makes complete sense but that doesn’t make it any less devastating for families who can’t see their loved ones.

I hesitated to write this deeply personal account but I consulted with my siblings and they agreed to share our story. It’s important to talk about the secondary effects of this pandemic because they are far-reaching.

For some families, this prolonged period of instability has exacerbated mental health challenges. Others have lost their jobs and are struggling to put food on the table and keep the lights on. There are reports of a higher incidence of domestic violence due to the stress of lost wages and everyone being stuck at home together.

For my family, the fallout from the pandemic will likely mean that we will have to say goodbye to my mother sooner than we had anticipated. My mom won’t die from COVID19 but she will probably die sooner because of it.

Published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette, 5/20/2020

Students tell me a lot about their lives and struggles. They talk about their anxiety and depression, their financial struggles, uninvolved parents, and overinvolved parents. I’ve heard accounts of physical and sexual abuse, drug addiction, chronic illness, homelessness and hospitalizations.

During this pandemic I’ve heard about sick parents and siblings, parents who are working in hospitals, and parents who have lost their jobs. At least one of my students had COVID-19 this semester and a few students have experienced the death of a parent.

Students who struggled to stay organized when they were on campus found that they struggled even more once they went home and had to figure out how to do schoolwork from their bedrooms. One of my students was taking care of his nephews, letting them use his tablet and laptop during the day, and saving his own work for nighttime or trying to do it on his phone. Some students who moved home and ended up working in essential jobs were trying to get their school work done on the side, making it very difficult to “attend classes” remotely (most classes were not held in real time but some were).

Part of my job is knowing how to respond to these students and connect them to the right resources while also helping them to plan their path forward to graduation. I speak words of reassurance to so many students in the course of a week. I listen carefully so they feel heard. I echo back to them the struggles they are going through and validate their feelings, assuring them that they are not alone. I absorb a bit of sadness from each of them and doing this via phone and Zoom meetings is somehow more exhausting than meeting with them in person. By the end of the week, I’m toast.

There is a name for this phenomenon. It’s called compassion fatigue or secondary traumatic stress. It happens to therapists and social workers who work with victims of abuse, violent crime, war, or disaster. You might not think of these students’ challenges as trauma, but I certainly do.

I am not alone in this work. I have many colleagues at UMass who work as academic advisors. Advisors help students make progress toward their degrees, they talk about opportunities like study abroad, scholarships and internships. They also serve a role similar to mine, listening when students tell them what is going on in their lives — the good, the bad, and the distressing.

We’ve all just come through the most challenging and unsettling semester any of us has ever experienced and now my advisor colleagues are preparing to advise new college students. They’ll help them understand their college requirements, choose classes for the fall and reassure them that they will be successful whether we are online or in person. All of us are trying to figure out how to continue our work remotely this summer and I’m guessing my colleagues are also feeling pretty burned out.

Unlike therapists and social workers, advisors and undergraduate deans don’t have supervision specific to our own emotional health. We certainly talk to each other and provide support but I’m not sure that’s enough.

I know it’s not only my colleagues and me who struggle with compassion fatigue. Anyone in a helping role might find themselves in this predicament. So, what can we do about it? According to Rogers Behavioral Health, we have to build “compassion resilience” by making sure we take care of ourselves as much (and before) we care for others. This may sound easy but it’s not.

Treating ourselves with the same compassion we reserve for others takes practice. One of the first steps is to recognize when we are having feelings of sadness, distress, or overwhelm. We have to make the decision to stop and acknowledge those emotions so we have the opportunity to pivot and take care of ourselves. This will help build resilience rather than dive into the abyss and end up feeling hopeless and ineffective.

Jen Metzger, adjustment counselor at Easthampton High School, has been doing a wonderful job of sharing resources with students and families that focus on dealing with stress during this pandemic.

The compassion resilience toolkit is one of those and it’s worth a look: compassionresiliencetoolkit.org/staying-resilient-during-covid-19/.