Nine years ago, I sat on a dark rooftop with an uncertain and frustrated team. Frustrated by the four walls that seemed to be hemming them in, with having to stay still and contained. Uncertain of the rules about movement: where could they and couldn't they go that was helpful or safe or even allowed?
Uncertain what to do with the physical reminders of a country that had been changed by things outside of its control. Uncertain what the immediate future looked like, let alone the future future. Frustrated by confusion from the ones who were "supposed" to be in charge and by an ever fluid stream of information.
Frustrated by words that they used to know being combined in new ways that they only half understood. Frustrated with too much time spent in too close quarters and with things that weren't going according to their plans.
Frustrated by new rules and expectations -- and by not being sure of where to find more toilet paper if they needed it. Inundated by information about hand washing and hand sanitizer and new tricks to keep germs at bay.
Uncertain what to do with this unfamiliar sickness that hovered on the edge of everything. What should they be worried about? Should they even be worried? How worried?
Frustrated with themselves and each other for overreacting, under-reacting, ignoring the rules, or bring too strict.
Frustrated with adults who didn't seem to see them, didn't seem to see the ways that they were trying or triumphing or struggling. Staying up too late working to make sense of all of it and waking up too early for another long day of not knowing.
Uncertain what to do with emotions and reactions that seemed to rear up suddenly and without their consent. Frustrated to find even familiar feelings so much stronger or weaker than they should have been.
Tired of pretending like all of this chaos and unfamiliar was okay. Tired of pretending like they were okay. Cut off from many of their normal coping skills. Missing their people. Dropped suddenly into a world that seemed to be putting no effort into matching their expectations.
Stay inside. Listen to your leaders. Don't be a jerk to other humans.
We sat there, under a bright blanket of stars, and watched as clouds rolled towards the Dominican. And, we stumbled towards the phrase that would become so familiar to late Haiti nights, would become such an instinctive part of these high school teams.
"I love you guys, and I'm proud of you. Nothing about this is simple. What you're doing is really, really hard."
We sat on warm, rough concrete, and, we talked about brains. The last argument was about wearing shoes, but we chose instead to talk about brains. We chose to hold space. We chose to let it be hard.
And, the more that we talked, the more that they melted, bits of the tension and frustration and shame slipping off of their fifteen and sixteen year old shoulders. It didn't make it better, but it helped it to make sense.
Human brains, we discussed, are wildly effective sorters and boxers. We love neatly labeled categories and organization systems that make sense to our own internal world. New things are okay. New things get their own box or get examined until we decide that they fit into a familiar space after all.
But, too many new things, and the entire system can start to seem like it's falling apart. Brains don't like it when the system doesn't work. But, brains are also not particularly good at instant response.
The sorting (and all sorts of other things) might come to a screeching halt as we run around looking for a sharpie and a stack of empty boxes.
We might ignore the new things and tuck them up onto a high shelf somewhere, out of sight and out of mind -- until the shelf gets bumped (by something as simple as an adult asking you to put on a pair of shoes), and they all come tumbling back down on our heads.
We might scream and shove and force the new things into old boxes, and then find ourselves with arms full of old "stuff" that has been displaced by the New.
It's a mess. It feels like a mess. And, even if we keep the garage door shut, so that no one else can see the ways that we are struggling, the New is still there.
---
It has been nine years since that particular group of kids sat in that particular circle, but it feels like the conversation still applies. The last few weeks and months, there has been a lot of New.
There are things that you were hoping for, planning for, dreaming of, that suddenly aren't. Things that you never expected suddenly are.
Some of us have frozen. Some of us are ignoring it and then yelling in frustration at whoever came in and bumped the shelf. Some of us have found ourselves fighting old battles on top of these new ones. Some of us are carefully (or not so carefully) pulling out the boxes that we labeled during the last "thing," and realizing that not all of the New is as new as it might appear.
Even without social distancing, you are scattered too far for me to ever gather you onto a single roof. Some of you are in middle school or high school. Some of you are adults, doing your thing out in the world. Some of you are going to work. Some of you are staying home.
Wherever you are, and whatever you are doing today,
"I love you. I'm proud of you. What you're doing is really, really hard."
When nothing seems to be happening the way that it should...
When it doesn't seem to matter how many times you've sat under those same stars and heard Jessica say those same words...
When the waiting is making you want to climb the walls...
When you're frozen or yelling or fighting...
When you don't remember how it was that you sank, defeated, to a Portland sidewalk and then stood back up, together, determined to try again...
When the New is overwhelming, and you are standing waist deep in the mess of your garage...
Pull out your mental sharpie, and let's label this first box together. Big, bold letters, so that you can see it from across the room.
"I love you. I'm proud of you. What you're doing is really, really hard."
Uncertain what to do with the physical reminders of a country that had been changed by things outside of its control. Uncertain what the immediate future looked like, let alone the future future. Frustrated by confusion from the ones who were "supposed" to be in charge and by an ever fluid stream of information.
Frustrated by words that they used to know being combined in new ways that they only half understood. Frustrated with too much time spent in too close quarters and with things that weren't going according to their plans.
Frustrated by new rules and expectations -- and by not being sure of where to find more toilet paper if they needed it. Inundated by information about hand washing and hand sanitizer and new tricks to keep germs at bay.
Uncertain what to do with this unfamiliar sickness that hovered on the edge of everything. What should they be worried about? Should they even be worried? How worried?
Frustrated with themselves and each other for overreacting, under-reacting, ignoring the rules, or bring too strict.
Frustrated with adults who didn't seem to see them, didn't seem to see the ways that they were trying or triumphing or struggling. Staying up too late working to make sense of all of it and waking up too early for another long day of not knowing.
Uncertain what to do with emotions and reactions that seemed to rear up suddenly and without their consent. Frustrated to find even familiar feelings so much stronger or weaker than they should have been.
Tired of pretending like all of this chaos and unfamiliar was okay. Tired of pretending like they were okay. Cut off from many of their normal coping skills. Missing their people. Dropped suddenly into a world that seemed to be putting no effort into matching their expectations.
Stay inside. Listen to your leaders. Don't be a jerk to other humans.
We sat there, under a bright blanket of stars, and watched as clouds rolled towards the Dominican. And, we stumbled towards the phrase that would become so familiar to late Haiti nights, would become such an instinctive part of these high school teams.
"I love you guys, and I'm proud of you. Nothing about this is simple. What you're doing is really, really hard."
We sat on warm, rough concrete, and, we talked about brains. The last argument was about wearing shoes, but we chose instead to talk about brains. We chose to hold space. We chose to let it be hard.
And, the more that we talked, the more that they melted, bits of the tension and frustration and shame slipping off of their fifteen and sixteen year old shoulders. It didn't make it better, but it helped it to make sense.
Human brains, we discussed, are wildly effective sorters and boxers. We love neatly labeled categories and organization systems that make sense to our own internal world. New things are okay. New things get their own box or get examined until we decide that they fit into a familiar space after all.
But, too many new things, and the entire system can start to seem like it's falling apart. Brains don't like it when the system doesn't work. But, brains are also not particularly good at instant response.
The sorting (and all sorts of other things) might come to a screeching halt as we run around looking for a sharpie and a stack of empty boxes.
We might ignore the new things and tuck them up onto a high shelf somewhere, out of sight and out of mind -- until the shelf gets bumped (by something as simple as an adult asking you to put on a pair of shoes), and they all come tumbling back down on our heads.
We might scream and shove and force the new things into old boxes, and then find ourselves with arms full of old "stuff" that has been displaced by the New.
It's a mess. It feels like a mess. And, even if we keep the garage door shut, so that no one else can see the ways that we are struggling, the New is still there.
---
It has been nine years since that particular group of kids sat in that particular circle, but it feels like the conversation still applies. The last few weeks and months, there has been a lot of New.
There are things that you were hoping for, planning for, dreaming of, that suddenly aren't. Things that you never expected suddenly are.
Some of us have frozen. Some of us are ignoring it and then yelling in frustration at whoever came in and bumped the shelf. Some of us have found ourselves fighting old battles on top of these new ones. Some of us are carefully (or not so carefully) pulling out the boxes that we labeled during the last "thing," and realizing that not all of the New is as new as it might appear.
Even without social distancing, you are scattered too far for me to ever gather you onto a single roof. Some of you are in middle school or high school. Some of you are adults, doing your thing out in the world. Some of you are going to work. Some of you are staying home.
Wherever you are, and whatever you are doing today,
"I love you. I'm proud of you. What you're doing is really, really hard."
When nothing seems to be happening the way that it should...
When you can't conjure up how it felt to be that brave, bold little middle schooler who stood in a dark field and let themselves be knighted...
When the waiting is making you want to climb the walls...
When you're frozen or yelling or fighting...
When you don't remember how it was that you sank, defeated, to a Portland sidewalk and then stood back up, together, determined to try again...
When the New is overwhelming, and you are standing waist deep in the mess of your garage...
Pull out your mental sharpie, and let's label this first box together. Big, bold letters, so that you can see it from across the room.
"I love you. I'm proud of you. What you're doing is really, really hard."
