Privilege, for Flint

N. sat, her examination gown open to the back, legs dangling over the edge of the table, while the nurse prepared her questionnaire.  She'd asked the questions a thousand times before.  We'd answered them eleven times before, and now we answered in unison, like participants in a responsive reading.

Does your child live in, or regularly visit, an older home or other place built before 1978 with peeling or damaged paint?
-no.

Does your child live in, or regularly visit, an older home or other place built before 1978 that is being or was renovated within the last 12 months?  A day care center, preschool, and the home of a babysitter or a relative?
-no.

And there, like ghosts in the room, were the children I'd seen on the news, recently, the children whose lives of bottled water were being chronicled in blogs and on my Facebook feed.

Has your family/child ever lived outside the United States or recently traveled to a foreign country?
-no.

Does your child have a brother/sister, housemate/playmate being followed or treated for lead poisoning?
-no.

A study done by the CDC shows that black children are more than twice as likely to be at risk than white children.

Has your child ever taken any traditional home remedies?
-no.

Does your child frequently come in contact with an adult whose job or hobby involves exposure to lead?
-no.

I looked at my beautiful, healthy, smart daughter perched up there on the table, and thought about the children who would never have a chance.  Who would face cognitive impairment. Fewer opportunities. A life of struggle.

"Does your child live in Flint, Michigan?" I asked, to no one in particular, interrupting the litany.

The silence was thick; I had called out the whiteness in the room, and it stood there now, an elephant of privilege.

Finally, the nurse shook her head.  "That's a sad situation," she replied, as if that were enough.

Here are a few ways you can do something right now.  But we can't just throw money at the problem of environmental racism, which happens not just in Flint, but all over the country.  It's time we did better by all of our kids.

The Power of a Story

Today, my daughter turns five.

In her Montessori classroom, there are no cupcakes, no balloons, no party favors.  Instead, they will tell the story of her life.

The Earth goes around the sun, tra-la-la ...
The Earth goes around the sun, tra-la-la ...

Her classmates will gather in a circle around a candle "which represents the sun," and she will walk in a circle around it, holding a globe, once for each year of her life, while her classmates sing.

Around and around and around and around ...
The Earth goes around the sun, tra-la-la ...

After each turn around the sun, one of us will show the class a photo of her at that age, and remember something about her: how she took such good care of her first doll, how she loved her first tutu and was dancing from ealy on, how much fun she had playing with hula hoops at her first friend party, how she discovered her love of reading.  The story will begin with her birth, and continue until she reaches her current year.

A long time ago, Mommy and Daddy were very happy together (or: because they had [sibling]) ...

But they knew that someone very special was missing from their lives ...
(child says: "me!")

I love this ceremony, because it honors the power of our stories, the importance of giving children narrative roots that empower them to find their place in the world, to determine their futures. Even her classmates who were adopted as older children (there are some in my daughter's school) tell their stories, with as much information as they have.

The Earth goes around the sun, tra-la-la ...

It requires children to listen to one another, to learn about one another, to appreciate each other as unique individuals. It helps them to see people as people: multidimensional, growth-minded, incomplete.

Around and around and around and around ...

I wish that we were all so fortunate, that we took time to tell each other our life stories once each year, to look both backward and forward, to know each other in more than just three dimensions.  Perhaps it just takes too long now to circle the sun.  Or perhaps we are too afraid of the power we might discover in the retelling?