Honesty Makes My Head Hurt

Wow. I am not a newbie, but this article kind of makes my head hurt. JA, its author, is not wrong. There are series I have stuck with because they started well or I was told just get through the first one or two and then it picks up. Of course, I pick up so many books secondhand because I contribute to the creation of so many books - my own and my authors'.

The thing is, a person still has to be discovered, talked about, and passed around the first time. The first book in the series. The first series in the repertoire. If you don't support your local author, they'll think they need to try something else to get your support, and won't write the next book in the series (they always have a sequel in their heads. They know what their characters are doing after THE END. Trust me.) because they think you're not interested. They want to please you. But when you give your support to authors who literally admit that they could turn out shit and outsell the great American novel these days, you're not helping. When you support your friend because they're your friend but you don't read what they write and you have NO IDEA how bad it is, you aren't helping. If you want better, then you need to help be part of that. It's possible, but it's hard work.




Phyl Campbell is Author, Mother, Dreamer, and Dr. Pepper Addict. And you can bet she's procrastinating on writing what she's actually supposed to be writing -- RIGHT NOW.

The Man at the Door

I saw him out of the corner of my eye as I set my purchases on the counter.

He was standing by the door, and when he notices me noticing, he smiles at me.

He was a good-looking guy. Nice build. Nice smile.

And I could feel him checking me out as I was checking out my groceries.

I'm sure he was a nice guy.

I'm sure his mama raised him right.

But my gut told me something was wrong.

So I chatted with the clerk. 

And I bagged my items -- really slowly.

But he was still standing there.

He wasn’t waiting for anyone else. Only for me.

I should have been flattered.

He was a nice-looking boy.

The kind that holds doors open for women

Not the kind that kicks cats when women aren’t looking.

But looks can be deceiving

I didn’t know him

And my gut told me something was wrong.

A million and one thoughts went through the head

Of the girl I had been taught to be, the feminist I knew I was,

And the person who was just minding her own business at the grocery store.

The me that was all of these and none of these and more

Kept waiting for the guy to move.

In a perfect world, I would know

All he wanted was a thank you and a smile

Some acknowledgement that one human being recognized another

And was grateful.

But in the world that I know

A smile is sometimes mistaken for an invitation

A smile can twist quickly into a sneer -- a show of power and contempt

Contempt for me, contempt for humanity

Contempt for my right to be

So I found my voice and I nearly yelled, “What are you doing?”

And waited for his answer.

I wanted everyone in the store to hear, to witness.

“I’m just holding the door for you,” he said.

His eyebrows raised in innocence. Smile fixed on his face.

Another day this could have been the start of a beautiful fairy tale.

But it was also one flipped switch from my death in a horror film.

“I do not need a man to hold the door for me,” I said.

“You need to move. You need to leave me alone,” I said to this stranger to me.

Did he call me a bitch under his breath?

Someone did.

It was not only a thousand voices inside my head

Telling me to get in the kitchen and make that nice man a sandwich.

Give him my number. Marry him.

I didn’t ask him to hold the door.

We didn’t meet by chance

Didn’t approach the door at the same time

He stood there. Like a stalker

And I don’t know him

Don’t want to

And here’s the thing

If I was rude, I missed the guy of a lifetime. That’s on me.

But if his motives were pure, someone else will notice

Because maybe nice guys finish last, but they do finish.

However, if my gut was right

And he was looking for payback

Or to follow me out to my car

To take away my agency

Or worse

Then this was a fairy tale

And I am my own hero

Slaying dragons with my hands full of groceries

And winning.

Written for performance at Gusa by Victoria March 9, 2017

2nd Thursday Nights Open Mic 7-9PM

Gusa by Victoria

252 W Philadelphia

York PA 17401

The Man at the Door was written in response to a man misappropriating a woman's text rant, turning it into a meme, and calling her a feminazi. I could have ignored the online mansplaining, but when a group of women didn't, and attacked the woman and her agency, I needed to re-frame the conversation. 

Visit Author Mother Dreamer Phyl Campbell on Facebook, this blog, or her website.

AMUSing Thoughts for International Women's Day

Wednesday, March 8 is International Women's Day, so it's the perfect time for me to remind everyone of some wonderful books to empower feminists everywhere. Sure, I wrote them. But sometimes empowerment starts with encouraging others to support and empower YOU. This is one of those posts.

First, I'm Not Writing a Book Today empowers everyone to write. An illustrated free verse poem features image after image of children dreaming, doing, and creating. I wrote I'm Not Writing a Book Today in response to the parents of my young authors who apologized to me that their writers weren't chained to their desks all summer. But I chose illustrations to reach an even younger audience. I was reading at three years old and writing as soon as I could hold a pencil. So why not other young people? And when I read I'm Not Writing a Book Today, whether to toddlers or retirees, my audience GETS it. I'm Not Writing a Book Today has become a mantra for so many people doing so many things. And if you haven't experienced it for yourself, your parents, or your kids, you really need to.

Martha's Chickens and the Pirates was the first children's book I was able to publish -- even if it wasn't one of the first ones I'd written or even finished. It is a story I wrote to honor my pioneering grandmother -- the sweet bad ass woman who endeavored to keep the peace even if she had to talk dirty to do it sometimes. In addition to the obvious ways Martha dominates the decisions made by characters in the book, I worked with the illustrator especially to make sure that genders were represented equally. And on International Woman's Day, maybe that's not equal. But as a mother with a son, I needed to see both. I needed people who talked about animals that didn't and I needed people to try new things and to be brave even though being brave means different things to different people. So if you are feeling brave, need to feel brave, or need a change in your life, pick up a copy of Martha's Chickens and the Pirates.

For the adult crowd, #25 Reasons Why Charlie Should Never Read Jane's Books to Jane is a hard anti-comedy to beat. In the traditional understanding that women are from Venus and men are from Mars, each vignette highlights ways that two people who love each other very much can still lack basic communication skills or mutual understanding. The idea behind the story and the hashtag was to have a response to the popular fanfic FSOG. A lot of people argued that FSOG liberated women by exposing sexual fantasies. Others felt the lurid sex imprisoned women. I objected to the novel because it took an angst-filled teen drama series that I liked (Twilight), took away the mythological beings that made it so great, and replaced fairly extensive character development with S&M. It wasn't original, but some marketer picked it up because sex sells. How many of the same people boycotting Beauty and the Beast helped rocket FSOG into a bestselling book and movie? Not the book's fault, or the author's. Still, I wanted to provide an alternative. I think male and female feminists want more out of their relationships. #25 Reasons gives readers more.

Finally, of the books I want to talk about today, last but by no means least, is A Muse Meant. Samm is the girl-next-door heroine we all want in our lives. Her dreams, her magic, and even her insecurities drive the plot of this coming-of-age story for middle grade readers. The best part is all the things she doesn't realize she's doing. Girls are so often taught to feel insecure -- in the things they are told and the things adults assume they know. So for Samm to be continuously empowered instead -- this was as challenging to write (and re-write) as it was for Samm to experience. Did I get it right?

So in summary, go check out the following on Amazon:
I'm Not Writing a Book Today
Martha's Chickens and the Pirates
#25 Reasons Why Charlie Should Never Read Jane's Books to Jane
A Muse Meant


Phyl Campbell is Author, Mother, Dreamer. Check out her website www.phylcampbell.com

Website Overhaul

A loving person sat me down very carefully and told me my website was too busy. This was months ago.

And they were SO right! I just didn't know how to FIX it.

It took me a long time  to clear my brain-space to figure out how I wanted to capture the last decade of my writing life (and some things predate THAT!).

So what I have now is by no means PERFECT, but it is BETTER.

I've made better use of the menu levels and I've updated a lot of links that I should have realized (but didn't) were dead. (Yes, I saw dead links. And they didn't know they were dead. Take that, M. Night!)

This is a weird transition for me in figuring out what Phyl Campbell Press will look like in the coming months. Will it be absorbed into Creative York on terms acceptable to me, as I hope? Will I keep it separate, as may be better for me and the baby -- er, business -- I have built?

Speaking of Creative York, absolutely go check out my classes on their page(s).

Check out Rustic Cup, too!  The owner is a wonderful soul who is getting me to think even bigger and bolder. We haven't solved all the world's problems yet, but I think we're closing in!  ;)

Parenting Conversations (and more) as Nonlinear Fiction

I have written a few pieces now on nonlinear writing. And after a great meeting yesterday at Creative York, I came up with one more analogy.

Before I reveal that, I want to say that I write about nonlinear writing because most people hear the word “linear” assume something like “linear equations.” This causes some people to revert to feelings of abject horror from algebra class, and the bad feeling -- the feeling that ears must be covered by hands and feet must run for safety as fast as possible -- ensues.

I often feel awkward talking to people whose background is visual artistry because drawing, creating, and visual arts are not things I feel I do well. I don’t feel I can draw a reasonable stick figure with a stencil. I can produce something that I like and ruin it with one ill-timed swipe of a marker. I don’t have the control over my mouse required for advanced computer graphic art -- or beginner art beyond basic Paint or copy and paste functions, if I’m being totally forthcoming. And I generally am (totally forthcoming, full of TMI, and/or honest to a fault).  

I’m trying to remind myself that other people feel as inadequate about their ability to string sentences together as I am about creating an image. And yet we Facebook, email, text, and talk. And I try to put that in context with people when and where I interview.

Most people who talk -- see what I did there? -- are great storytellers. And there’s a very small baby-step between storytelling and writing. And I hope I did a good job conveying all that yesterday.

I think I did, because as I explained the community building games of Flash Fiction After Dark and the Four Favorites Game, the education director I met with got an even bigger smile on her face. “I could do that,” she said. “That could make me think positively of myself as a writer. And I’m not one.” (I’m paraphrasing, as I did not tape-record the session, but I think I’ve captured her feeling and intent.)

Here's another look at one sample of the FFAD game:

Anyway, I’m getting off track -- something that often happens to nonlinear writers and thinkers. I explained nonlinear writing as the kind that happens when you write what you are most passionate about, like a fight scene, and then write about what happens after the fight or what builds up to the fight.

And that got me to thinking that a lot of bloggers write in nonlinear fashion. Something about the day’s events or the topic du jour produces a stronger feeling, emotion, or reaction than other events of the day. Sometimes it’s a holiday -- like Columbus Day becoming Indigenous Peoples Day -- which unless people talk about it, will go ignored by most people. A federal and no-school holiday. Woo hoo! Unless no school means no free lunch or being home alone because parents have to work. But there I go getting off track again. How very nonlinear of me.

Perhaps the best description I have of nonlinear fiction is when a person’s kid comes home and responds to the question “how was school?” with “OK” or "Fine" OR “Nothing” OR a barrage of hard to follow commentary. Most parents try to suss out the important parts of the day -- and anything they need to be worrying about -- in patterns of nonlinear genius. The children usually fail to appreciate the Herculean efforts of those parents.

And when parents write about any of those experiences, it is typically in nonlinear fashion.

And we read it. We *get* it. And it's awesome.

Phyl Campbell is Author, Mother, Dreamer. She writes and conducts workshops on a variety of topics: Education, Women/Feminism/Equality, Book Reviews, and Writing. Her books are available on Amazon. If you'd like to see her speak at an upcoming function, contact her via her website or Facebook page.

Open House at Ann Peden (ICYMI)

If you were unable to make the Open House at Ann Peden, you missed out. I know, I can't be all over the country at once. And people are busy.

So here's a video of one of the creative writing games I play, called Flash Fiction After Dark. (I was nervous and called the game the Four Favorites game, because I have been playing FF with audiences longer than FFAD. My bad.) But the cool thing about this game is the leveled playing field between talented, experienced writers, people who struggle stringing two words together, and the ability of the game host to string all of that together into one whole performance. (And cheese. I think the willingness to be totally cheesy helps a lot. I don't have a problem being cheesy. For everyone else, BYOB -- if you're of age and have a safe way home!

If you want to see how cheesy you can get with your group, call Ann to set up a party for you and your friends. http://www.annpedenjewelry.com/ 706-769-2656

I also have a new survey for people in the area who might be interested in signing up for a class or for private consultation.

Venue for Writing Class!!

I'm so pleased to announce that my

 Make A Book! 

class will be held at the 

ANN PEDEN JEWELRY and ARTIST MARKETPLACE 

in Watkinsville, GA.

Ann truly understands the need for artists to be creative while someone else handles the business end of things. I feel like a HUGE weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

First class will be Tuesday, June 14, from 9-12. 

Here are samples of books from last year:

And a link to all the titles available on Amazon.

I also have a new pamphlet/brochure. You can see it here:

Phyl Campbell

A Muse Meant ... Some Shameless Plugging

Some people number their chapters. I'm among the camp that names mine. And so I thought on the day I was able to HOLD my novel -- A Muse Meant -- in my hot little hands, that I would share these chapter names with you. And unashamedly, I hope that I pique your interest so you just HAVE to go buy my book on Amazon.

The Lame Field Trip

Future-Shroom and Fear

For Your Muse, Meant

Lies and Omissions

Penalty Sick

The Vacant Lot

Returning a Goon

Safe Place

The Dead Man in the Yearbook

Poor Mrs. Darling

The Big Game

A Most Unusual Diner

PDA in the Library

Reverse Psychology

Critical Urgency

Not Amused

Mrs. Darling Returns

A Goon Named Greg

Defeating Paradox

No Ordinary Animals

Goon Trap

Big Goon Battle

Pink Elephants

No Holding Back

I hope your interest is piqued! My book is available on Amazon. Get it! If you want your copy signed, be sure to let me know! And if you know someone who would be interested in my publishing workshop, let me know or tell them to contact me. I am working to have a place to hold classes, but also teach via Skype and Google Hangouts!! 

Phyl Campbell is Author, Mother, Dreamer. Right now, she's in over her head with

 book projects whose (author-self-imposed) deadlines passed by. She waved, and only cried a little. But sometimes the Mother and Dreamer get in the way of the Author, and the Author has to catch up. Check out her author page on Amazon. 

Other articles of interest:
Finding Pink Elephants
A Muse Meant
Quick and Dirty Publishing Guide

Observations and Junk Mail

Some people are not very observant. It probably means they carry less stress than I do. I remember being a freshman in college and talking to an advisor (a non-academic advisor, as it happened) about how to find out what was going on around campus by reading the sidewalks and bulletin boards. I confessed that I probably read 70 billboard flyers a day. I’m sure she was skeptical. Later in the week, she saw me reading flyers in the union. “Ohmigod,” she said. “You really do. You really do read all those.”

And the weird thing is, I could read all those flyers and sidewalk chalk signs and still miss important events that I would have wanted to attend on campus. It seemed I always saw flyers for great shows the week AFTER they were actually playing. Great speakers, same thing. I did a lot. Saw a lot. Participated in a lot. Still, I feel like I missed out on a lot MORE. Things I promised myself I would do during freshman orientation I never did in my four and a half years on campus. I never saw a movie in the Union Theater. I never cross-dressed and attended the showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show in the Greek Theatre on Halloween night. I didn’t attend a single football game – which is probably not that much of a loss. I lose interest in sports when they aren’t being played by clumsy six year olds.

Fast forward nearly two decades, three states, and too many cities to count, and I find myself needing to be observant again. I did some (precious little) research on my new town while still in my old one. And then after I’d arranged what belongings I wasn’t keeping stored in boxes, I set out to find more friends and do more things. After finding a few groups via Facebook, I went to another old haunt, meetup.com, and found a few more groups to join. Two have proven very valuable. And when I tell others about them, I realize that there are people who don’t know about sites like Meetup. And then I realized that a site like Meetup could be a way for my single friends to get out and meet people without the stress of online dating.  But then I realized I couldn’t say that tactfully. I can think it, but it’s impolite to say unless the conversation works around that way naturally. Which of course now it won’t.

So I’m two months in a new place --- starting the third. And really I think I’m doing rather well. But then it hits me that some of the things I researched early on I still haven’t checked out yet. So that’s on next week’s agenda, having decided to leave this week open because of the school event that’s happening Friday.

Still haven’t decided what of that is trying to pace myself and what is fear of rejection and all that creeps in when I’m trying to busy myself with other things. And I wonder to what extent other people deal with the feeling that they’re missing out on something wonderful. Sometimes I get glimpses from others on Facebook. Sometimes I just have to guess.

And then my junk mail puts things into a weird kind of perspective for me. Three years ago, when my husband and I put our home on the market, this one realtor started to send us info cards and calendars and things in order to get our business – either to allow him to sell our house or to use him in picking out our new house. We didn’t ever use him. We sold our house and rented and now we have moved out of state and are renting again. We got a postcard from that realtor with the change of address sticker. I thought that would be the end of it.

Nope. In the mail today was another postcard – this time with our correct out of state address. And I wonder if I should email or call him to get taken off his mailing list. I actually waste time worrying about what this piece of my junk mail is costing HIM. Who does that? That question is rhetorical, of course. Though if someone wants to throw me a bone and tell me they worry about other people to this mind-numbing extent… Or tell me that it would literally cost this guy more to take my name off his mailing list than to keep sending me junk mail. I should toss it in the recycle bin without a second thought. But it will sit on my table for a week, and I will stress about it. 

You would think that we have moved out of state and they would stop sending us ads...

A photo posted by Phyl Campbell (@phylc_author) on May 2, 2016 at 9:58pm PDT

And then along came a spider...

And as I wrote that last bit, I had to stop and swipe off a spider that was crawling up my arm. Now I don’t see it anywhere. I usually don’t kill spiders because they eat gnats and things. But I killed a brown recluse in my bathroom over the weekend because they are poisonous and I killed a wolf spider yesterday because it was moving too fast for me to see what it was, then was hiding on top of the light on my ceiling fan. I should have realized it wasn’t a recluse because recluses don’t spin webs.

And then I saw it. And of course my phone is dead because I was playing Candy Crush Jelly Saga while trying to get stations on my TV – I REALLY wanted to watch Lucifer – then remembered it’s done for the season. The point is, my pictures of the spider on my wall and ceiling aren’t very good. Is it a recluse or not? I simply can’t tell. 

It has a few less than eight legs – that’s probably my fault for swiping too hard instead of flicking or blowing it off like I know I’m supposed to. And it very patiently moved around a bit – even waited for me to get a stepladder and put the portable charger on my phone to try to get a better image of it. Of course it did. 

This is a brown recluse. Bigger butt than a wolf spider. Image courtesy of Terra.

It’s a wolf spider, but the cat eye is very difficult to see on this one, and it’s colored more recluse-like than wolf-spider-like. And with less than eight legs, it’s walking much more slowly – like a recluse.

If it will get off my ceiling and walk across the panels, I will knock it off to a box lid and release it outside. If it gets any closer to my bed, it’s going to be a goner – it’s already been on my arm and we both know how I reacted to that. Come down, stupid spider. I don’t want to kill you. It hardly seems fair to throw you out into the rain, but you could be very comfy on or under my porch.

 

Excuse me.

[muffled shuffling, a brief struggle, a door slam]

There. Much better. Spider and a plastic tub lib are outside on the porch. Yes, the spider could crawl right back in any number of cracks – especially the large one under the door. But perhaps it will think of the legs its already lost and value its life enough to stay outside.

And I won’t tell you how many times I got sidetracked in the course of writing this post. (If you believe that, you obviously don’t know me.) Let’s see – the fight with the TV that got 33 channels yesterday and 0 today, no matter what I do/did with the antenna. I was hungry, so I got a snack. I had a bill in the afternoon mail, so I made sure it was paid. It was. I checked my email – dealt with a notice from the PTA and a request to go over a cover letter for a relative of a former student. I got further distracted by a couple of articles about the Target boycott – which I do not support, BTW. A text conversation with my sister and a PM conversation with another writer. I forgot I was working on this post until the fellow writer said something to make me remember it. Then the spider on my arm. Skulking on my arm. Walking like a recluse would – slow and deliberate. And I could take and process all of that in the time it took me to realize it wasn’t my hair and raise my arm to knock the spider off. Then try to find it. Turn on all the lights. Don’t see it. Go back to writing and all of the above. Then see it on the wall, heading toward the ceiling.

Is it observant to notice the spider? Weird to let it live? Without some of its legs, should I have put it out of its misery? What is misery to a spider? Am I observant to have seen it again? What if it was a different spider? What if, in some weird kind of universe with spider solidarity, it was attacking me for killing the other spiders? What if ALL the household spiders decide to make me a target? More importantly -- why haven’t I internalized yet that I am thousands of times bigger than spiders are? It’s ridiculous to be bothered by the things – I don’t freak out in the same way when a fly lands on me. But logic fails me when it comes to spiders, especially close to bedtime.

One more thing to worry about. Despite the absolute lack of good worrying does, I do quite a bit of it.

One more pointless observation.   

No, I Don't Wish We Could Go Back to the Days...

People and nostalgia are funny. And not always in a good way.

I've seen several memes wishing we could return to the days where kids played Cowboys and Indians.

And then there was the horrible holiday photo of the female family members tied up with Christmas lights and with their mouths taped shut while the guys rejoiced and held up a sign saying "Peace on Earth."

THEY say kids these days have no respect. And generally, THEY are the same people demanding for others to say "Merry CHRISTmas," not "Happy Holidays."

So who has no respect?

Back in the day, we thought it was perfectly OK for a white kid to paint his face black and be Chubby Checker. I'm sure there have been days where people with darker skin tones wished they could white wash to get a better job, to protect their kids from police brutality, to get better housing. Not permanently, because the goal is to be accepted as is. But on the days when some things just needed to go right and didn't.

Back in the day -- a day before my day -- people owned people. We've gotten past that, but not very far past. Because workers in our most trusted professions -- teachers and nurses -- fear losing their jobs to outsourcing. They fear going to the bathroom or taking a sick day. These people care for our sick and educate our children, and their employers (up to and including lawmakers) defend corporations and add difficulties to the lives of these individuals that we could not function without. And what does the average person do about it? Nothing.

If American women stood in solidarity with each other the way women have in Africa and Norway and every other civilized (and some not) country on this planet, we could achieve the goal of gender equality in weeks rather than lifetimes. But we don't. People have nostalgia for "Leave it to Beaver," failing to appreciate that June Cleaver was a paid actress (Barbara Billingsley) who had two young boys at home or school while she was on set with "The Beaver." And we take two steps back for every inch forward.

Back in the day we sat Indian style and had one or two pages about the Trail of Tears in our history books. We used brown paper grocery bags to mimic buckskin clothing and we designed tee-pees. Maybe we painted our faces and whooped a lot. Today we still have our young people dress up as Pilgrims and Natives for Thanksgiving feasts. We don't talk about what Columbus and other explorers and settlers did to indigenous people in the US until our children are much older. We neglect the whole truth.

We lie.

And then we wonder why young people do not respect us?

We talk to our children about racism and being colorblind, but we haven't stopped telling racist jokes and laughing at caricatures. We haven't stopped trying to explain why black kids deserve to be shot by cops, but affluenza is a legitimate legal defense, and white young (and not so young) men who go on killing sprees live to stand trial. We accept the bull crap that it is a difference of opinion that is the reason so many people fear Muslims that Muslim kids are afraid to be in public American schools. I know, because I'm friends with their parents or their friends' parents. It's not something being made up to garner sympathy. And it's ridiculous.

And sexism? I could go on for days. People act like boys have no self control and they shame and police what girls and women wear.

Then they call out the sissies (like me) who complain that the choir sings way too many love songs. Back in my day, it was "Silhouettes in the Shade" and "Going to the Chapel." Today, it's Bieber's "Mistletoe" and the revived old song about Cindy with the refrain "Get along home/Cindy,Cindy/I'll marry you someday." It's every Disney movie (and the vast majority of popular films, period) with a major section devoted to the handsome prince as love interest. It's the women's roles that are still lacking. It's how when Jennifer Lawrence openly discusses how much less she made than her male co-stars in a film -- people criticize HER because she made an exorbitant sum in the first place. It's the presidential candidate who's on the record saying if his daughter wasn't his daughter, he might be dating her. Sure, it's just a joke. So were the girls tied up in holiday lights. I'm not laughing.

Anyone else see a pattern?

It is about respect. It is about being KIND and COMPASSIONATE to others. And people who want respect not giving it.

I didn't create this. These are someone else's words. But I agree with these words.

I feel confident most of the people posting these memes or making these curriculum choices aren't bad people. Maybe not even racist people. But they do, some of them, want to keep Muslims out. They do want to limit immigration. They want to make it harder for people to be here and be successful here. Often in direct opposition to their own histories of immigration and success.

Still, I know they wouldn't ever say "I wish we could go back to the days when black people had no rights." I feel confident they would never say "I wish we could have another Trail of Tears for those uppity Indians" or "we should round up all the Japanese again -- don't like those squinty eyes." (Sorry, George.)

But that's where backwards takes us. Pining for those terrible good old days is asking a lot of people to go back to being bugs on the windshield of life. And I'm very happy not to be a bug, thank you very much. Those jokes -- those memes that are just meant to be funny -- those songs -- they make a pattern. They drop an anchor toward something in the past and our entire boat starts moving backward and sinking.

People should very much want to move forward. To create, to innovate, to work together towards common goals. To respect differences of opinion. To be kind.

Ribbing on our friends is one thing. Our friends can rib right back. And we get to decide if there is a limit to that. We get to say. And our kids are watching us so they will know.

However, if the way we treat others -- those who can do nothing to us -- our subordinates at work, our students, our teachers, our janitors, our caretakers, our (dare I say it) food service providers -- makes our kids stop respecting us, then we deserve their vitriol.

I want to keep my Apple products by the son of a Syrian refugee (Steve Jobs), my Dave Matthews Band music (he's from South Africa), my Sammy Sosa baseball (Dominican Republic), even my memories of Back to the Future (Michael J. Fox lived his first 18 years in Canada, don'tcha know?). Eek! Those are all male examples!  And I want to know and be influenced by Malala, and Leymah Gbowee, and Stana Katic, and Sandra Oh. And I want to be influenced by my good friends who aren't famous (yet) They're from the US -- and Mexico, Eritrea, Nepal, Peru, Malaysia, Egypt, and the Middle East. Their children are raising the bar for the rest of their classmates in all sorts of ways. I want to see more people working hard like that. Working smart like that. 

And I want my kid to respect me. So I know I have to earn it.



Phyl Campbell is Author, Mother, Dreamer. She writes on a variety of topics: Education, Women/Feminism/Equality, Book Reviews, and Writing. Her books are available on Amazon. If you'd like to see her speak at an upcoming function, contact her through her website or Facebook page.

To Show Solidarity? Be a Friend.

To some, wearing the hajib as a non-Muslim is a sign of solidarity. To others, it is a sign of misappropriation. Some women wear the hajib as part of their Muslim faith. Others do not. If not forced by another person to don the hajib, then the hajib seems to be a garment of personal choice.

Muslims are being attacked in the United States because of the actions of extremist terrorists. And many people are afraid. Not everyone is afraid that every Muslim is a terrorist. However, some people are afraid of offending Muslim people because, surrounded by non-Muslim people, they do not know how to show a Muslim person that they are a friend. Wearing the hajib makes a rather bold statement. I’m not going to put down anyone who chooses this path.

When I was teaching English as a Second Language as part of my commitment to Americorps, I took to wearing colorful kerchiefs. I chose to cover my head for speed (I’m not a morning person), for vanity (because I won’t dye my grey hair, nor am I happy about the inevitable), and for fun. My colorful kerchiefs, with peace signs, cherries, flowers, and butterflies, kept my hair out of my face and brightened my rather dull wardrobe. I am not my kerchiefs and my kerchiefs are not me, but my kerchiefs did set me apart from the other teachers. And I was asked if it was a religious thing. This gave me an opening to ask my Muslim students about their head coverings.

Had I not been teaching that class, I would not have met many wonderful people of all faiths. Now that I am not teaching the ESL class, I feel comfortable meeting my students as friends for breakfasts or lunches or other informal get togethers. I still get some funny looks when the friend I am waiting to meet does not appear to speak the same language I do, wears a hajib, or is in some other way different from me. 

But this isn’t about me. Attacks on Muslims who are not terrorists do not attack me. So I don't need to don a hajib to show solidarity. I agree with noorulannshalid who said “It’s much more constructive to actually give Muslim women a platform- sit down with us, talk to us, listen and observe. Don’t speak on our behalf or play dress up and then write [an article about it].” But others, like unveiledthought, appreciate any sign of solidarity, and see no harm in non-Muslims wearing the hajib. Neither woman is the appointed spokeswoman for all other women – Muslim or otherwise. But both bring valid points to the table of the conversation.

How should we show solidarity to our sisters when we aren’t Muslim and don’t know any Muslims? We post our solidarity on Facebook and comment on blogs, but those voices can be fairly faceless. (It is, however, a good way to present ideas to people who are reading, but afraid to speak out. Maybe something we write will inspire whatever freedom someone else needs to express their own agency.) We can talk to our friends. But if all our friends look like us, then maybe we don’t learn very much. Some of us have the opportunity, skills, or experience to work or socialize with someone who is different from us. We can learn a lot from those friendships. Other people wear the hajib as a flag – “Hey! Notice me! In a sea of hate, I would be your friend!” I can’t hate on a person willing to do that.

Hopefully, if you are one who is offended by cultural appropriation (which means you likely lean left enough to know what those words mean), you will engage the hajib-wearer positively. Befriend them. Once they know YOU, they will have a better understanding about why you feel wearing the garment is misplaced. Then they can make a decision about their attire that includes their concern for your friendship.

It is extremely awkward to approach a group of people and request friendship and a greater appreciation for other cultures. You might look for a college or an adult education center where you might volunteer. This would give you more opportunities to engage with others and learn their stories.

In the meantime, I think the best thing EVERYONE can do is be themselves (the nice version) and be a friend. Go public places with your friends in hajib and show that hajib and non-hajib wearers alike can be friends. Talk about the things you have in common – crazy family members, a love of reading, pets, disgust with traffic. Be visible being YOU with your friend as two people (or a group of people) who are different, and comfortable being different. I think that is the way to show the Great American Melting Pot – turned mosaic – that brings so many people here.

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For further reading on the hajib:

http://katv.com/news/local/conway-woman-vows-to-wear-hijab-to-support-muslim-women-in-america

http://unveiledthought.com/2015/02/28/is-it-offensive-for-non-muslim-women-to-wear-a-hijab/

https://noorulannshahid.wordpress.com/2014/02/02/why-i-co-created-the-notohijabappropriation-hashtag-in-response-to-world-hijab-day/

Phyl Campbell is Author, Mother, Dreamer. She writes on a variety of topics: Education, Women/Feminism/Equality, Book Reviews, and Writing. Her books are available on Amazon. If you'd like to see her speak at an upcoming function, contact her through her website or Facebook page.